Exploring the Erotic Encounter Passion Unleashed with a Tattoo Artist


It was Saturday night in a heaving Manchester bar, and the party was in full flow. Music blared, and the room was full of gyrating bodies, yet finding a guy was the last thing on my mind. Then, I spotted him standing by the bar in a black T-shirt and jeans.

A million miles from my usual type, he had tattoos in almost every visible spot, from the cobweb that began on his neck and circled onto his left cheek to the incomprehensible words on his sleeve, a far cry from the suited and booted, groomed men I was dating at the time.

I downed my drink and ordered another, not-so-subtly positioning myself beside him. As soon as we chatted, I knew I wanted him, but my friends called me back over.

An hour and many drinks later, I felt someone’s eyes on me: it was him. At 5 am, Michael* and I left the club hand in hand. He took me to a nearby dishevelled building with a shop on the ground floor. I thought we would get it on that night, but we ended up just chatting – Michael had work in four hours, and we spoke for so long I fell asleep on the sofa.

The following day, I woke up confused. It took me a couple of seconds to realise why I could hear the buzzing of a tattoo gun. Soon after, Michael reappeared. We glanced at each other, and we were passionately kissing within seconds.

As he pulled away, I assumed he had to go back downstairs to work, but instead, he slowly took his top and trousers off, revealing his toned, tattooed body. Every centimetre of his torso was heavily inked in delicately designed illustrations, and his arms were almost entirely covered. I’d never seen anything like it – but the novelty turned me on.

caucasian couple kissing in bed
LWA/Dann Tardif/Blend Images//Getty Images

He pulled me forward by my legs, pushed my underwear to the side, and began to go down on me – skilfully. As I cried out with pleasure, he put a hand over my mouth. “There’s someone downstairs; we have to be quiet.” The danger of the situation unleashed my riskier side. “I don’t care,” I moaned.

After a few minutes, I pulled down his boxers and guided him inside me, wrapping my legs around his waist as he thrust hard. Then he turned me over and entered me from behind. Suddenly, we heard footsteps: someone was coming upstairs.

Somehow, we made ourselves look presentable at lightning speed just as his equally heavily tattooed colleague opened the door. He could see what had happened, and I took my cue to leave, making excuses, gathering my things, and heading for the door. As I went, I took in the tattoo guns next to faux leather adjustable chairs. It was the first time I’d been in a studio – and the last.

I never saw Michael again, but I always think about our affair. Although cut short, our liaison brought out a side of me I’d long forgotten and showed me I’ve got the confidence to be daring in the bedroom – or the backroom.

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