tattoo artist turned my skin into his canvas

Last weekend, I found myself at a typical Tampa dive bar, clinging to a cocktail and the remnants of a bad week. The crowd was buzzing, thick with the scent of cheap beer and cheaper perfume. It’s there I met Jay, a tattoo artist with a smirk that said he knew his way around more than just ink. Our small talk quickly took a nosedive into the dirty depths when he leaned close and whispered, “Ever done it in a tattoo parlor?” His confidence was as intoxicating as the drinks. Before I knew it, we were stumbling into his shop, which was closed for the night but open for mischief.The smell of antiseptic was strong, but the thrill was stronger. He pushed me against the cold, leather tattoo chair, his hands already exploring every inch of me as if he were sketching out his next masterpiece. There was something wildly arousing about being semi-nude, surrounded by the ominous buzz of tattoo machines that wouldn’t be used on skin tonight. Every touch from Jay was precise, intentional, driving me closer to the edge while the metal and ink around us seemed to echo our growing excitement.He had a way of making every touch feel like a secret, every moan a promise of more. I rode the wave of pleasure on that chair, the leather sticking to my skin, his fingers tangled in my hair pulling just enough to send waves of both pain and pleasure coursing through me. And as he moved with a rhythm that matched the pulse of neon lights flickering outside, I was lost in the sensation, in the moment, in him.Afterwards, as we lay there, the afterglow mingling with the smell of ink and lust, he traced imaginary tattoos on my skin with his fingertips, talking about what he’d ink on me if I let him. The night might have faded, but the memory of that chair, his touch, and the thrill of the taboo are etched in my mind more permanently than any tattoo could ever be.