“Come on baby, ” he repeated. “OK,” I said, breathlessly, haltingly. Christ. I sounded just like the girl in Paradise by the Dashboard Light. He smiled and returned to the utility table. In an eerily hot reenactment of his earlier advances towards me, he picked up a condom and tore open the wrapper, slipping the latex sheath over his cock with the easy confidence of a man who knows he’s finally won. He was looking at me the entire time, too, grinning almost maniacally; fucking me with his bloodshot blue eyes as they devoured every inch of my body. In a second, he was ready, closing the short span of empty space that still remained between us with one quick stride.
He climbed onto the table and knelt between my open legs. Scared shitless, I waited for the pain that would surely come when he finally entered me. I had only lost my virginity three months before and every time I’d had sex since then still felt like the first time for me. It was great for the guy–who doesn’t want to fuck a girl with a tight pussy?–but less than ideal for me. This was, no doubt, God punishing me for being a whore.
The shock of him plunging inside of me took my breath away. As my body expanded to accommodate him, I gasped and realized that I was actually having sex with this man. Reaching down to grab my breasts, he pushed himself deeper into me. He closed his eyes and grimaced in pleasure. I, on the other hand, had broken out into a cold sweat and begun to tremble. My breath grew short and my vision wavered. A feverish stream of thoughts beat a tattoo in my head, keeping time with his thrusts, as my overloaded mind tried to process what was going on.
“This is really happening.”
“I’m really doing this.”
“We’re really doing this.”
I fought to keep my breath steady and my heart from pounding out of my chest. This was no way for a mature woman like myself to behave; certainly not in front of this man. Who knows what he would do to me if I passed out? I sure as hell didn’t trust him and the though of being left his care while unconscious frankly terrified me. So, for the second time, I willed myself not to lose it in that nasty little room.
Propping myself up with my left arm, I swung my right around his shoulders and tried to get more control. He began to thrust harder and I moved to meet his pace. Soon, we had a nice rhythm going and I was finally beginning to enjoy myself. We moved at breakneck speed, barely able to catch a breath, definitely unable to get enough of each other. This was what I had wanted all along–hot, dirty sex with a bad boy–and it was amazing. Then, without warning, it stopped. He had thrusted right out of me, our sweat and the slippery vinyl of the tattoo bench combining to make it impossible for him to keep stable.
“Come here, baby.” He shoved his tongue roughly into my mouth, sliding me down to the end of the bench so he could fuck me while standing. We’d only just gotten our rhythm back when he slid out again. Shit. This was getting ridiculous. I shifted my weight, getting ready to try another position but by then, he had stopped completely. “I’m sorry, baby; the condom is making me go soft,” he said, as he peeled the offending piece of latex off his previously virile member. “I guess you’re just going to have to finish me off this way,” he said, gesturing to the wheeled stool next to him. As he stood there, naked except for his white gym socks, holding his half limp dick in his hand, I realized that he intended to have me sit on the stool and suck him off.
Still shaking and slightly breathless, I got up off the bench and brushed the dripping strands of hair from my sweaty face in preparation for my next task. I sat down and obediently put my mouth on his cock. I have to give him credit; it was pretty nice, as far as cocks go. Neatly manicured and pleasant enough to the taste, it certainly didn’t seem nearly as dirty as the rest of him. And, strangely enough, it was completely devoid of any ink. The man was literally covered head to toe in tattoos, but his penis was pristine. And in my mouth.
I went to my task with relish, curling my tongue around his shaft, working it back to its previously erect state. As I worked my mouth up and down, I kept my eyes locked on his, as I normally do when I’m blowing a guy. As I met the steel in his gaze, however, I began to lose my nerve. “I can’t do this,” I thought. “I’m never going to be able to get him off. He’s just so much more experienced than I am, and not just in matters of sex. I mean, shit, he’s probably killed more men than I’ve slept with. This is never going to work.” The torrent of negative thoughts assaulted me, taking me out of the moment completely.
I started jerking him off, hoping that a switch in sensations would send him over the edge. “Does that feel good?” I asked, making a desperate attempt at sounding seductive, hoping against hope for a little positive feedback. “Yeah, baby,” he groaned, pushing my head back down onto his cock. As I swallowed him, drawing him deep into to the back of my throat, he dug his nails into the skin of my back. “Do you like pain?” he asked, pressing harder. Obviously unable to speak and far beyond coherent thought at this point, I just nodded and went back to deepthroating him, praying that he would come and it would be over. It’s not that I was surprised that he was into BDSM, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a bit intrigued by the idea. But, adventurous as I was, being alone with a skinhead tattooist in a room full of sharps did not seem to be the best situation in which to explore that side of my sexuality.
I broke off and came up for air, desperately needing a break; I was beginning to tire. I looked up at him. “Why isn’t it tattooed?” I asked, unable to contain the question any longer. “I’m working my way in,” he said, with that same deadpan expression. Again; my fault for asking.
Just as I was getting ready to get back to work, he took mercy on me. Putting his hand on my shoulder, he pushed me back gently. “Let me do it, baby,” he said, as he began to stroke his cock. It’s an amazing thing watching a man jerk himself off. His hand glides effortlessly over his skin, back and forth, with intoxicating precision. He has practiced this countless times since he first entered puberty. He knows what he likes–where to touch, how to move, what amount of pressure to apply, which cadence works best for him. He will get himself off, because he knows he can. It’s as simple as that.
Within a minute and a half, he was ready to burst. “I’m there,” he said, breathlessly. Mesmerized, I missed his subtle cue and sat staring as he came, groaning, doubling over in ecstasy. Snapping back to reality, I rushed to put my mouth on his cock, doing my best to swallow every remaining drop of his spendings, like the good little slut I was. It was over.
As the orgasmic bliss wore off, so did all of his charm. He recovered himself and started to tease me. Pointing to the white drops on the floor, he asked, “who did you think I was talking to when I said ‘I’m there’?” At a loss for words, I rose from the stool and walked over to the tattoo bench where my clothing had been hastily thrown. He continued to deride me, asking why I had taken my socks off; telling me that it wasn’t “smart” to go barefoot in a tattoo shop. I laughed feebly and shoved my shirt over my head, my arms shaking with the exertion and adrenaline. In a stunned silence, I put on the rest of my clothes and picked up my bag. There was nothing left to say.
I walked with him to the front door and waited as he unlocked and opened it wide. He leaned down and gave me a short, close-mouthed peck on the lips, no doubt to avoid tasting himself. “Come back anytime, baby. I mean any time,” he said. He turned and walked back to the front desk. I had been effectively dismissed. He’d gotten what he wanted and he was clearly done with me.
Feeling slightly hollow, I stepped out onto the stoop and made the most dignified exit I could. I paused at the top of the stairs and took one last look back. There he was, the same way I had found him, sitting in that ratty old desk chair, with that same shit-eating grin on his face. Heat rose in my cheeks as my eyes met his for the last time. For just a moment, I felt what I knew he was feeling: the smugness of satisfaction. He may have gotten what he wanted, but, then again, so had I.
photo by A. Ribando