I’ll just leave this right here. From a word doc I wrote.

So I have this crazy fantasy. I wanted to write it down. First, some background.

I have 1 tattoo so far. It’s a large chrysanthemum on my shoulder, goes down onto my arm and would show on my neck with a reasonable neckline. It extends about halfway down my shoulder blade. (I’m female, for the record). Gorgeously done by a well-known artist. It means a lot to me personally – instead of words to symbolize a paradigm shift in my life, I chose the chrysanthemum to represent that for me.
Personally, I think giving/receiving tattoos is the most personal thing I’ve ever encountered. WAY more personal than sex. Let me explain. On the receiving end, you’re connecting to this person for several hours as they are literally getting under your skin. They are causing you pain that you submit to willingly. You go against nature to continue sitting in that chair or lying on that table. It’s emotional, to say the least. You talk about life while you endure. On the giving end, as a non-tattoo artist artist myself, I realize what goes into every piece you create. A part of your soul (as long as the tattoo-ee is willing to respect and trust your artistic license, I most definitely do) goes into everything that comes from your brain. I know what it’s like to have someone want a copy of your work – but parting with originals is tough. I never do it myself – but every tattoo is an original, and a piece of the artist’s soul. I respect that, and treat it with utmost care. There’s a piece of my artist’s soul literally in my skin. It’s precious. We will both go to our graves and remember (ok, well, I’ll remember…the artist might not since they do so many) (But I bet if this story happened then they WOULD remember – haha).
I’m a highly sexual creature. I realize this. It’s ok – I’m human. I’m cute, not a perfect 10, but I have a gorgeous little body and a fun, caring personality. I love to connect with people, if you can’t tell. I like to be cared for and care for others.
The aftercare of a tattoo is tough and touchy if you want to keep that piece of soul looking beautiful. It’s painful, tender, and fucking itchy. Not just your skin, but your soul is raw when you look at this new piece of YOU. It’s there…forever. It’s not ON you, it IS you.
Here’s where my fantasy comes into light…I want my artist to perform the tattoo aftercare. But not just ordinary aftercare.
I want to be his last appointment for the day. I will have just gotten my second tattoo – the first session of a piece that covers half of my back, just under that chrysanthemum. He wraps it up in saran. We close up shop, get in his car and head to his apartment – a studio in the industrial part of town. We head up several floors together, arriving at his door – he leads me inside. It is sparingly furnished, but in an almost IKEA-like style. No more than what is necessary, but attractive and clean. With a tender and skilled touch that only a tattoo artist has for his own creation, I want him to take me into his arms and gently guide me to his shower (after a drink, maybe). We undress each other slowly and carefully – only one piece at a time – moving too quickly makes my skin sting. I relish the sight of his body – not a perfect 10 either! But perfect to me. Seeing the tattoos that cover his body is unreal – had we only been talking about this just hours earlier? There they are, just like he described.
He slowly peels off the saran wrap covering my new art – his new art. It feels cold as the air touches it for the first time since covering it up. He bends down, holding me close as he inspects his work. Yup, still awesome. Our bare skin is touching carefully – we are both highly aroused, and the slight brushing of our bodies is maddening. The shower is turned on, a gentle shower that won’t hurt my skin. My hair is tumbled into a bun to keep from getting wet, and he leads me to the shower, going in first, and closing the door behind us. He stands under the fall, pulling me in close and wrapping his arms around me to keep me from getting chilled. Our bodies are pressed together, his erection hard against my soft stomach, my head cradled on his shoulder as he pressed his mouth to my neck and kisses me softly, and then deeply. We are beautiful together.
Down to business. My artist gently turns me around, where my new art is just out of reach of the shower stream. With wet fingers, he gingerly touches my raw skin – I draw a sharp intake of breath as he begins to clean and care for my tattoo, water running in streams down both of our bodies. I can see the Dial Original as he reaches for it. I close my eyes because I know, from last time, that this part stings. But he does something I don’t expect…I feel his other hand reaching up between my legs. I part them slightly as he massages me gently, and slips a finger inside my cunt slowly, then then two. At the same time, he starts rubbing the Dial into my back in small, soft circles. The sensation is overwhelming – how could this combination of sensations make my head feel unattached from my body? The pleasure mixed with pain is unreal. He knows it, and continues massaging me with both hands – I’m powerless in his arms.
Gently cupping water to rinse off the Dial, he pulls his hand away from my pussy. I don’t want it to end, but we can’t stay in the shower that long. He exits first to grab the towels, and kneels down next to me, his erection bobbing, and lightly pats my ink dry. We dry off the rest of the way, and head to his bed. His bed is soft and white with an oversized cotton comforter and plush pillows. The sun is setting outside his large windows, but it’s still light inside his apartment. He turns some drum and bass on his stereo – not too loud. We crawl inside the bed, the comforter around our legs, and face each other on our sides, with our legs intertwined and faces close. We talk about little things, this and that, his apartment, totally at ease. I feel safe here – I know I’m being taken good care of. We kiss more, softly and deeply. His skin smells naturally good. We talk about his tattoos; he tells me more about each one as I trace them with my fingers. Some I even trace with my lips.
After a few minutes of relaxing, my artist reaches over to his bedside table and grabs a conveniently placed tube of Aquaphor. I brace myself, ready for the intense stinging, but also longing for it. Longing for his touch – he knows it hurts but it must be done. He’s gentle beyond belief as he turns me over so my back is facing him, tattoo up. He’s close enough that his erection is resting on my lower back. He slides a knee between my legs from behind and puts gentle pressure on my cunt, just as he begins to rub the Aquaphor into my tattoo. This time the sensation is even more mind-numbing…I never want it to end. I begin to move my hips to the rhythm of his gentle circles he’s making with his hand. And then, because you don’t want to rub your new tattoo too much, he’s done with the Aquaphor and slowly comes to a stop. I lay still and recover.
I still can’t get over the combination of pleasure and pain this person has given me. It’s amazing, and indescribable. It’s necessary to feel both to appreciate and understand the soul-giving act of giving and receiving a tattoo. We stare into each other’s eyes as we both understand – and then we fuck. We fuck gently, urgently, passionately, animalistically…we fuck. We spend the night in each other’s arms, exploring each other’s bodies throughout the night, discovering more and more as we go along. We give and take, totally unashamed in our pleasure. If I believed in heaven, this would be heaven. But this is so much better than “heaven” ever thought about being – because this is real. This connection – I never want it to end, and I want more and more tattoos – just so I can feel this connection with another human being – this unique connection that only exists between an artist and someone they tattoo. It’s beautiful, sorrowful, and satisfying all at once.
Well, that’s my dream anyway. I hope you enjoyed reading it at least 😉