The Rose Tattoo
by Rachel

Although this story was actually written by Katherine, but I liked it so much that I wanted ot post in on xnxx.com and me as the character, hope she will not mind..

Quietly I slipped behind the thin Chinese screen, the one slim concession to modesty offered by the proprietor of “The Needle’s Point”, an innocuous tattoo parlor on the south side of town.

Once more I asked myself what in the world I was doing there, why had I come to this particular place in the shadiest part of the city, but I already knew the answer. I wanted a tattoo. No, I needed a tattoo.

For the first time in my life I had an invitation to spend spring break on the beach in Daytona, and I couldn’t possibly show my suspiciously phallic-shaped birthmark to the world. It would be too humiliating…far too humiliating, but I didn’t want anyone to recognize me creeping into a tattoo parlor. So, I’d crept away in the wee hours of the night to this place…and here I was determined to stay until the deed was done.

And so I stood, slipping my panties off behind the faded vestige of a Chinese Mandarin while a far-from-Chinese proprietor prepared the inks and needles for my rose tattoo.

I’d chosen the rose tattoo for it’s delicate intricacy, it’s gentle blush, but I knew it’s fragile warmth would run a dim second to the muted crimson already on my face. I’d never shown my derriere to anyone before, particularly to a stranger. But I was in college now, wasn’t I? It was time to let go of the apron strings and live a little. If I wanted to wear a thong on the beach next month, then it was now or never, I told myself. I’d made up my mind!

Once more I peeked at the large, rough looking proprietor from behind the screen. This would be like going to a doctor, wouldn’t it? I mean, he sees women baring themselves every day. It’s part of his job. My pale flesh would be simply a canvas upon which to create, wouldn’t it?

I quivered, chastising myself for my cowardice. “Come on, girl…get on with it” I whispered to myself. “The sooner you step out from behind this screen, the sooner he can begin, and the sooner it’ll all be over.”

Heaving a sigh of trepidation, I tucked my panties in my purse and slipped it modestly under my coat on the seat before me. The feel of my short, silky skirt, swishing against my bare flesh felt decadent, almost sinfully evil, and I hesitated once more. Then I heard his voice.

“Are you coming?” he rumbled. “Everything’s ready. You’re the last one tonight, and I want to go home soon,” he warned. “Let’s go, okay?”

Quickly I made my way from behind the screen, fearful that I might provoke this massive Monet of body art and cause him to act heavy-handedly when I came under his needle. But the look in his eyes told me that I need not have worried. The deep brown of his gaze was gentle, seductive in a way that set my mind at rest. He was a professional. After all…wasn’t he?

My attention was immediately drawn to the fact that my practitioner had drawn the shades on the storefront while I had been undressing behind the ancient screen. This was obviously out of respect for my privacy, I assured myself…nothing more. And the sign, which had read “open” when I arrived, now faced the interior of the shop, its alter ego, “closed”, now facing the abandoned street from which I’d come. This too was both reasonable and logical, I told myself. It was late, and the shopkeeper was bound for home soon. I was to be his last customer of the night. Why shouldn’t he close the parlor?

Bolstering my faltering resolve, I stepped before the massive craftsman and asked the next question on my mind, the one that would set our progress in motion.

“What should I do now?” I asked, trying to paste a brave front over my quivering façade. “Do I lay on this table?”

The tattoo artist smiled, a disarmingly warm grin and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ll move too much on the table. You wouldn’t want to spoil your body art now, would you?” he asked.

I felt a tiny twinge in the pit of my stomach. Not on the table…well where then? I raised my eyes once more and noted that my practitioner was nodding in the direction of a large, overstuffed, leather chair stationed far off to the left and toward the back of the shop. “Over there,” he said, his voice deepening. “I have everything waiting for us.”

I swallowed noisily, an unladylike sound, and wiped my sweaty palms on the sides of my clinging skirt.