I walked in ten minutes before close.
The shop was quiet. Dim lights, faint buzzing from the back, smell of antiseptic and ink. It was my first tattoo. Just a small piece under my ribs. I didn’t even tell anyone I booked it.
I work in a coffee shop, if that says anything. Fresh out of school, still trying to feel like an adult. Most days I wear oversized hoodies and keep my head down. But that night, I wore something tighter. Cropped tank, jeans that hugged my ass. Just in case the artist was cute.
He wasn’t cute.
He was dangerous.
He stepped out from the back, eyes already on me. No hello. No clipboard. Just a hard look. Tall. Thick. Covered in tattoos. Big hands. Black shirt stretched across a solid chest. Veins down his forearms. Neck ink. Calm, unreadable face.
“You here for the ribs?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He didn’t smile. Just tilted his head toward the hallway and turned around.
“Let’s go.”
That was it.
I followed before I even thought about it.
—
The back room was colder. One padded bench. Metal tray. A speaker near the floor playing something low and slow.
He pulled on gloves.
“Shirt up,” he said. “Arms loose.”
I lifted it. Hesitated. Then pulled it higher.
My stomach’s flat, tight when I’m nervous like this. My ribs showed. My tits aren’t huge, but they sit nice in a bra. I knew what I looked like. I just didn’t know if he cared.
He stepped in close.
His hand slid to my side. Warm. Big. He pressed flat to hold me steady and leaned in to place the stencil.
The second his thumb brushed the underside of my bra, I knew I was fucked.
Not because it was a big touch. It wasn’t. Just enough to feel the edge of skin. But the way my body reacted? My thighs clenched hard. My nipples were already tight under the fabric. And I could feel the heat building lower. Fast.
He didn’t pull away.
“You good?” he asked, eyes still on the stencil.
“Yeah.” It came out soft.
His hand stayed on my ribs.
“You’re breathing different now.”
I didn’t answer.
Because I was.
—
His thumb dragged lower, slow and deliberate, right along the edge of my jeans.
“You’ve been thinking about this since I touched you.”
It wasn’t a question.
I didn’t deny it.
He hooked his fingers in the waistband.
“Take your jeans off.”
I unbuttoned them, pushed them down, and stepped out. My thighs were shaking.
My panties were already damp.
He didn’t say anything about it. Just ran a knuckle over the soaked spot, then turned me toward the table.
“Bend over.”
I did.
The table was cold under my palms. I braced myself, bare from the waist down, shirt still bunched under my arms. He stepped in behind me and dragged his fingers through my folds, slow and steady.
“You’re dripping.”
He pressed two fingers inside me without warning. I gasped—loud—and tried not to fall forward.
He curled them deep. Slow. Firm. His other hand gripped my hip to hold me still.
“You ever been fingered like this?”
“No,” I said, voice breaking.
He grunted. Pulled his fingers out. I whimpered at the loss.
Then I heard his zipper.
He pressed the head of his cock between my thighs—thick and hot—but didn’t push in.
“Feel that?” he said.
I nodded, breathless.
“You’re not ready.”
“I am.”
“You’re still shaking.”
“I can take it.”
“You want me to fuck you?”
“Yes.”
“Say it right.”
“Please,” I whispered. “Please fuck me.”
He pushed in just a little. My whole body clenched.
“More.”
“Please,” I said again, desperate. “I need it. I want you inside me.”
“You want to be fucked or you want to be ruined?”
“Ruined,” I choked out. “Please ruin me.”
—
He didn’t ease in.
He grabbed my hips and slammed forward, burying himself deep in one stroke.
I gasped—loud, sharp. My hands slipped on the table. I had to grab the edge just to stay upright.
He was thick. Stretching me in a way that didn’t feel possible. Every inch hit deep. Full.
He didn’t stop to ask if I could take it. He already knew I could.
“Just like that,” he growled. “Stay right there.”
He started to move. Slow at first—pulling out almost all the way before driving back in.
Each thrust hit harder than the last. I could hear the sound of skin against skin, could feel the table shifting with every motion.
I couldn’t stay quiet.
He fucked me like I belonged to him. Like he’d been holding back from the second he touched me and now he was making up for it.
I cried out when he hit just right. My legs buckled. He caught me with one arm across my stomach and held me up while he kept going.
“You feel that?” he said, voice low and tight. “You’re soaked. Fucking dripping for me.”
I nodded, barely. My eyes were squeezed shut. I was already close. My body was too full, too sensitive. Every thrust pushed me closer.
“Say it,” he said.
“Say what?”
“Who’s fucking you.”
“You,” I gasped. “You are.”
He grunted. One hand moved up and wrapped around my throat—not choking, just holding.
I came hard. Bent over the table, biting back a scream as my body clamped down around him.
But he didn’t stop.
He kept fucking me through it, rougher now. Less rhythm. More need.
“You wanted to be ruined?”
“Yes—please—”
He drove into me, hips slamming, cock stretching me open with every thrust.
Then I felt it.
His rhythm changed. His grip tightened. He let out a deep, broken moan against the back of my neck.
He came inside me. Hard.
I felt every pulse. Every twitch. Hot and thick, filling me until I was shaking again.
He stayed there, buried deep. Breathing hard against my back.
Then he pulled out, slow and wet. I whimpered as it leaked out of me, legs barely holding me up.
He grabbed a towel. Wiped me down gently. Tossed it aside.
Then he leaned in close.
“Next time,” he murmured, “I’m going to take my time.”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.
I pulled my jeans back on, still shaking. He handed me a bottle of water without a word.
“You’ll come back to finish the tattoo.”
It wasn’t a question.
I nodded.
Still full.
Still dripping.
Already thinking about the next appointment.
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