I guess I'd misunderstood him over the caterwaul of the espresso machine. I thought he'd asked if he could draw me, and I'd blushed as I thought about undressing in front of him. He was so young. I thought he'd be disappointed.
But I said yes anyway.
I'd been wrong, I realized the first day. He didn't want to draw me at all. He wanted to draw *on* me. He started slow, inked a city skyline across my inner arm with a fine metal nib. I tried not to twitch. It almost hurt, but not quite. It was innocuous; I couldn't understand why I was so turned on.
Next meeting: A landscape, vast plains between my shoulder blades, watercolor felt-tips that were really more like brushes. His breath on my skin gave me goosebumps, and I was glad he couldn't see how my nipples hardened with each slow lick of the pen.
The last session. I wasn't prepared for the bold strokes of black. This time I couldn't hide my arousal from him as he marked me from breasts to thighs. I was embarrassingly wet, dizzy with want. He grinned, bent his head, and drew the moisture from me with his lips, his tongue. He loomed above me and I finally drew his cock deep inside. He stretched me, pinned me down, fucked his living canvas with abandon, his visions now made flesh. And then he drew the orgasm from me, sweat and ink and come staining our bodies, indelible.
[written for Alison Tyler's tattoo contest]
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