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“So, you like them?” She asks, her black painted nails tracing down my arm as she holds my other hand.
“Of course,” I say. And why wouldn’t I?
“They’re not everyone’s favorite.”
“Their loss.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
She moves with an almost supernatural grace as her finger traces down over my palm. She is covered in patches of color and ink, tattoos in different styles and subjects, her body a journal of experiences and art.
“You know,” her voice gets quiet, her whisper almost drowned out by the noise around us, “they do more than look nice.”
Her touch traces down the tip of my finger, and up her other forearm to a traditional pin-up girl.
“Oh, um-“ what do you say to the impossible?
My eyes go wide as, to my surprise, the tattoo stirs and giggles, swatting her finger away before slowly starting to undress.
She traces up to a snake on her bicep that slithers up her shoulder, around her neck, coiling for a second as she moans and the skin turns red, before slinking down. Her grip on my arm feels tighter.
“If you’d like, I can show you what the rest do. But we’d have to go somewhere a little more…” she leans forward to whispers in my ear, and I swear her tongue flutters like the butterfly on her neck. “private.”
What do you say to the impossible? Whatelse can you say but
“Yes.”
(What are your other tattoos? Where are we meeting? What do you do when we’re alone? Do your tattoos hypnotize and enchant? Or enhance and abate? I’d love to hear what this inspires in you!)
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- 5 months ago
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