Ryan
Best boy.
“There’s an intimacy about the act of being tattooed that just can’t be avoided.
“Online, and for weeks by email, we’ve pored over versions of the design. It is rounded perfectly to the pec, and I’ve found myself sharing detailed measurements of the ‘nipple to clavicle’ kind. He’s taken me through the process of colour mixing, and he’s started to understand how precisely I expect my intentions to be met. Jade green is not celadon green and neither is it lime. He has a degree in fine art. He can match my expectation. It’s the flesh that he loves, I think. The chance to mark. His best work could be in galleries. He was recommended to me and now I wouldn’t go anywhere else.
“Putting myself in his hands has been a pleasure.
“He’s done basic linework on me before, many times now, in black, and it has been exceptional. And gradually and over many months we’ve become more ambitious. And so I’m back.
“Inevitable intimacy. He has me down to my briefs so he can check the way the last work, to my calf, has healed. And the work to the pec means that of course I remove my T, and it sits bright white in careful folds by my side. And I try to relax. Try not to think about him, or the pain, or the cock that sits visibly hard beneath the denim of his jeans. It tents as he stands. I can almost feel the discomfort as he moves, walks, sits, his cock reluctantly squashing back into a space it can no longer fit.
“We’ve flirted before. But as I lie there I need to adjust to a new question. Am I shifting the boundary today? I mean, really shifting it? Moving Ryan to a new category? It’s not impossible, as his hand cups my pec and his fingers splay to keep my skin taut, that I am. Even with his eyes screwed into concentration and the tip of his tongue licking at the edge of his lip as he follows the line of the design across my muscle, he is attractive. The buzzing of the gun focuses me rather than distracts me.
“So as I lie there, eyes to the ceiling, I just allow the inevitable to happen. Little Hunter decides to play.
“And it gradually throbs beyond the containment thin white cotton can offer. It needs the light. It needs air. I know he has caught it, from the very edge of his vision. The buzzing stops. The ceiling fan whirs. And someone soon needs to make a decision. He’s openly staring, then.
“Hypnotised.”
