Chapter 3 #4
Leo Mills: Dean is into a chatty Cathy
Leo Mills: OK now I HAVE to meet her
Sadie Stewart: …
Emily Cole: [GIF of Naked Gun forehead slapping scene]
Liaden
It’s surprising how relaxed I am for someone who’s been jabbed with needles almost solidly for three hours.
But here I am, blissed out and sorry it’s nearly time to stop for the night.
When I did my research, I saw some tattoo lovers described the feeling as ‘a nice hurt’ and ‘addictive pain’, and I couldn’t relate to that initially, but I can definitely see what they mean now I’ve experienced it for myself.
I’ve read the aftercare sheet he gave me to look over while he worked, and it seems nice and straightforward.
No sunlight or submerging it in water for three weeks.
Rub ointment into it for three days, and then switch to regular moisturiser.
No scratching, no matter how much it itches, that kind of thing.
And I made the bank transfer for my first instalment on my phone.
And I’ve also been watching Dean all evening, either in the mirror in front of me or out of the corner of my eye.
Watching him concentrate, squint, and bite his lip as he worked has been arousing as all hell, to the extent that I know I’m wet between my legs.
Competency porn is a definite kink of mine, always has been, and there’s nothing more likely to set me on fire for someone than to watch them excel in their creative metier.
It’s been hard not to writhe a little under his touch, not because of the needle, but because his gloved fingers feel so good on my skin that I want to purr.
Should I let him know it?
Hmm. Why not? Let’s see if I can make him squirm…
He carefully wipes over my new tattoo, and I can’t help letting out a soft moan.
Also, I have no wish to help it. If I don’t let him know how my body is responding to him, I can’t reasonably expect him to act on it, after all.
And I would very much like him to, although I think I’m going to be doing most of the running here, and possibly even making the first move.
I’m OK with that, as long as it’s what he wants. If not, I’ll back off immediately.
“That feels good ,” I say sleepily. I turn and rest my head on my hands as I look at him.
His eyes are looking straight into mine, and they’re a lovely, crystal clear blue, like a lake in the sunshine.
There’s a question in them. “Your touch,” I explain, “even through gloves. Even over sore skin. It feels nice.” I grin.
“You’re very gentle for someone who’s run needles all over me all night. ”
His mouth quirks, making me notice how beautifully shaped his lips are, and gives me an easy shrug.
I’m sure he’s received this compliment many times before, but I also noticed he swallowed pretty hard just then.
I don’t think that has anything to do with his throat injury, as that’s the first time I’ve noticed him doing that, so maybe he is affected by me, after all.
I sincerely hope so. It would be such a pity for this to be one-sided.
He’s quiet behind me for a few seconds, and then he hands me his phone. He’s taken a photo of my back to show me progress. Underneath, he’s added some text: Feel free to delete this photo after you’re done, but I wanted you to see what it looks like so far.
I stare. It’s beautiful. My skin is pink and angry looking, but I don’t care.
I’m mesmerised by the detailed hieroglyphs, and how he’s reproduced the roughness of the stone’s surface with the beginnings of some shading.
I feel like if I could reach that part of me to touch it, I’d feel cold, rough stone instead of flesh.
I don’t look at all like myself, and yet it’s unmistakably me. I love it. It’s intriguing.
It’s so sweet that he invited me to delete the photo. His professional ethics are clearly unimpeachable. But I rather like the thought of him having it on his phone, maybe looking at it.
Maybe enjoying it.
I smile to myself and tap some different buttons on his phone instead. Add contact . I type my number in and press save before I hand it back. When I look up, he looks stunned. He was watching what I did, and I’ve shocked him.
“It looks fantastic,” I murmur. “Text me the photo later?” A flimsy pretext, but a sufficient one.
His face relaxes a little, and he gives me a thumbs up sign.
I haven’t been this turned on by someone in…
I’m actually not sure. In fact, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that this is the most I’ve ever been aroused by another person, certainly so early on in our acquaintance.
And he managed it without touching me in any traditional erogenous zones; just deft fingertips on my back, my shoulder, the base of my neck…
The soft whisper of his breath on my skin as he worked made me shiver a couple of times.
Even now, as he’s carefully taping clingfilm over my fresh new ink, am I imagining sensuality in the gentle, careful way he’s smoothing the tape over my skin?
Or is this business as usual for him and I’m just falling victim to wishful thinking by imagining he’s treating me with more than the levels of care and courtesy he’d show any client?
I’m so relaxed and languorous right now that I kind of forget that I’m topless as I start to sit up.
Pure absent mindedness on my part, nothing calculated.
Woops . I realise only because I see him freeze briefly, the corner of his mouth almost lifting, and then turn sharply around, facing away both from me and from the mirror that could have afforded him an illicit glimpse.
He takes his gloves off in something of a hurry, making the rubber snap in a weirdly and comically erotic way.
I can’t help feeling high spirited as I fold up my towel.
I’m not particularly shy about nudity generally, as I don’t see the point, and there’s no need to cover myself now that his back is turned.
There’s a definite thrill to being naked from the waist up just behind him.
I wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t turned away.
If he’d just had an unfettered look at my small bare breasts.
How would he have reacted? Would he have given me a hot look, and then turned away, reluctantly but like the gentleman he so clearly is?
Or would he have looked his fill, unapologetically taking what was offered, maybe even reaching out to touch me?
Just the thought of his hands on less PG places has my nipples, always so very responsive, tightening even more.
He’ll be able to see them pointing against the cotton of my t-shirt.
My body won’t lie to him; it wants him to know that I want him, and is firing off all the signals of encouragement it possibly can.
I hiss a little as the fabric brushes the edges of my raw and tender skin, just next to the tape.
“Wow, that’s…tender. But bearable,” I say thoughtfully.
Without turning, he holds another thumbs up gesture up to the side.
“Yeah, you can turn around now. I’m decent.
” Well, as decent as I’m going to get with diamond hard nips under loose white cotton, anyway.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he turns and faces me.
There’s something innocent, boyish even, about his smile, and it’s so endearing that I’m getting tingles.
His resting expression looks a little tired and drawn both times I’ve seen him, like he rarely gets sufficient sleep, but when he smiles it’s like the sun peeks out through his grey clouds and lights up his face.
Sometimes when I get horny I get a little impulsive, and right now I just want to see what would happen if I follow my instincts.
So, when I draw closer, I don’t resist the urge to lift up on my tiptoes and give him a swift, light kiss on the cheek.
His skin is so warm and smells faintly of lemons, in a body wash way rather than an aftershave way.
My pants papaya warms and flutters slightly in response to it.
I can’t help but notice he sways ever so slightly towards me, which is encouraging, but he stops and corrects it almost immediately.
“Thank you for being so gentle my first time,” I joke as I stand back, giving him full eye contact and not caring if he can see from my expression that I fancy him.
There’s a definite spark in his eyes, but, just like the sway, it’s gone just as quickly as it came.
He’s holding back. I don’t think he’s going to kiss me, but I do think he’s thinking about it.
The way he tenses and looks at my mouth for just a second too long…
yes, it’s at least on his mind, even if he won’t allow himself to act on the urge.
Obviously I don’t want to push him further than he’s comfortable, so I just bask in the knowledge that he’s not exactly averse to me.
He takes a breath and gives me a ‘you’re welcome’ smile with another thumbs up.
I wonder if he gets sick of having to rely on the same universal gestures with people who don’t know ASL - and, moreover, why he never learned BSL to at least open things up for him in this country - and I’m determined to really focus on learning more so we can talk properly. I want to know what he has to say.
He spells something for me slowly with his right hand. T-A-X-I ?
I shake my head. “I’m fine, thanks. I managed to park just a few yards away from your door.” I smile. “Must be my lucky day.”
He grabs his tablet and types something. Even bearing in mind how much he must type every day, it’s astonishing how fast he is.
Then I’ll walk you to your car. Let me just lock up .
He really is a gentleman to his bones. It’s dark out, and, while I’m not particularly worried about my personal safety at this hour in a well lit street so close to the parlour, I’m not going to turn him down. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”