Tattooed Love Box Set

Fillin’ Chet-2

He met Scott in the art museum, of all places. The guy was a tattoo artist who rented a booth at a dive in the seedier part of the city—not anywhere Chet would normally be caught dead at. Even with his bohemian spirit, he still had standards. The Lexus he drove was a gift from his father; the clothes he wore came from Abercrombie and Fitch. He knew some people might’ve pegged him as a hipster, and he even looked it up once online to see what it meant, but he didn’t like to label who he was, no matter how hipster that thought might be. As long as he didn’t turn out to be his father, Chet didn’t care what people called him.

When the museum where he worked hosted an exhibit on local tattoo artwork, he checked it out on his lunch break, not so much because he liked tattoos, but because his father did not. Personally, Chet thought they hurt, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to commit something to his skin he’d be stuck with for the rest of his life. But guys with tattoos were pretty damn hot, and Richmond was ranked as the third most tattooed city in the nation. Sometimes it seemed everybody had a tattoo except for him.

The exhibit stayed busy, and the lunchtime crowd pressed against the large prints of tattoo designs by local artists didn’t appear to be in any hurry to move aside. Chet had a half hour—he spent fifteen minutes jostling aside people so he could catch a glimpse of a few of the prints. What he saw didn’t really impress him. Some Celtic designs, a full back mural inked to resemble the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, shoulders and arms covered in images copied from photographs. Finally Chet pushed his way to the exit, shrugging his polo shirt back into place. With any luck, the museum’s cafe wouldn’t be quite so crowded, and he could still grab a bite to eat before he had to get back to work. Something on a pita, perhaps, with hummus on the side.

As he waited in the serving line, he glanced at the hand holding the tray next to his. Black ink swirled around the back of the hand, and letters spelled out something on each knuckle of the fingers. What Chet had thought at first glance was the colorful sleeve of a shirt turned out to be more tattoos. He let his gaze trace the designs—over the wrist, around the forearm, coalescing around the elbow, then higher, over the bicep. Every inch covered in ink. How long would it take to explore it? To follow the patterns with his finger or—God, he didn’t dare think it, did he? With his tongue. Did the skin taste differently? What would it look like against his own unblemished flesh?

He felt a thrill run through him and flushed. None of the guys he’d ever messed around with had more than a little ink—a cross on the bicep, a rainbow on the ankle, something like that. Nothing this vibrant or blatant. What would his mother say?

The line moved forward but the guy beside him stayed. Chet glanced up and saw piercings, amber-hazel eyes, cheekbones that could cut glass. A studded nose, perfectly heart-shaped lips enhanced by studs above and below them. This guy was nothing like anyone Chet had ever met before, but despite that—or maybe because of it—he knew he couldn’t let this moment pass away. Clearing his throat, he flashed a smile he knew was dazzling and said, “I like your tattoos.”

Those lips pulled into an easy grin. “Thanks, man. You got any ink?”

“Not yet,” Chet hedged, shaking his head. “I’ve been thinking about it, though.”

Yeah, like for two seconds, he added silently, but if it kept them talking, the little white lie would be worth it.

It was. Scott introduced himself and told Chet he’d done a few of the tattoos on display upstairs. They chatted as they stood in the serving line, and after Scott had checked out, he stood to one side, tray in hand, obviously waiting for Chet. Without being asked, Chet followed him into the dining area, the two of them snagging a seat by a window that looked out over the busy downtown traffic. Conversation sparkled between them, Scott obviously very animated when it came to his art. By the time he was finished with his sandwich, Chet realized he was falling for the heavily inked guy. Scott even had him half-convinced he needed to get inked.

Too soon, Chet realized he had to be back at work. He stood and, holding his tray, tried to think of what to say to make Scott want to see him again. The problem was, Chet didn’t know if Scott was sending off all the right signals or if he just got turned on talking about tattoos. Was it him? Or the thought of reeling in a potential new customer?

“Here.” Scott dug a business card from his back pocket and handed it to Chet. “I rent a booth there. Hit me up sometime.”

Chet fingered the card. “I’m not sure I’m ready to go under the needle just yet…”

Scott shrugged, then gave Chet such a steady stare, it unnerved him. “I’m not talking about just that. Unless you want me to spell it out—”

“No, I got it,” Chet said with a relieved laugh. He pocketed the card and held out his hand for Scott to shake. “Looking for a good time, call.”

“Definitely.” Scott set his elbow on the table, arm up as if preparing to wrestle. He gripped Chet’s hand like that and, instead of shaking it, gave it a gentle squeeze that belied his rough appearance. One finger slipped between their clasped hands to tickle Chet’s palm. “Call me.”

“I will,” Chet promised. His whole body tingled at the thought. “Definitely.”

* * * *

Chet took the plunge and called Scott a few days after they met, and they went to a midnight movie playing at the Byrd in Carytown. They sat in the back of the theater where no one could see them and, at some point, Chet stopped paying attention to the film and began to realize Scott’s hand rested high on his leg. He covered it with his own, pulling it toward him. Scott took the invitation and reached across the armrest to cup the crotch of Chet’s khakis.

At the touch, his c**k went from mild arousal to full-blown hard-on. He stared at the screen ahead, no longer comprehending the images flickering across it, and held his breath as Scott slowly unzipped his pants. Yes, he prayed, yes, yes. Fingers fumbled into his open fly, digging into his underwear, to encircle his stiffening erection.

Yes.

Then he was out in Scott’s palm, the cool air of the darkened theater and the thrill of excitement at what they were doing fanning the flames of lust igniting his veins. He gasped as Scott began to massage his d**k, and let himself slide down into the seat a little, his legs spreading farther apart. How things had managed to move so fast between them, Chet didn’t know, but he didn’t dare question it. This was exactly what he’d hoped to get from the evening.

The movie played on. At some point, Scott leaned over into Chet’s lap and kissed the weeping tip of his c**k. The tattoo artist then opened wide and took Chet’s length into his mouth. Chet felt a ball piercing in the middle of Scott’s tongue as it tickled down the slit in his d**k. With one knuckle between his teeth to keep quiet, Chet thrust up into Scott, losing himself in the sensations, the emotions, the moment, the man. Later, when Scott kissed him goodnight, Chet swore he could still taste himself on Scott’s lips.

And that had just been the beginning.

Chet kept odd hours—he went to school during the week, held down the museum job between classes, and spent his weekends copyediting for the newspaper. Scott ran his booth at Tattoo 804 six days a week from noon to eight, taking a break on Thursdays when he got paid. Things moved fast between them—less than a week after they met, they were having s*x in the back seat of Chet’s Lexus. It was much roomier than Scott’s VW Beetle, to be sure. He wasn’t quite ready to invite the guy back to his apartment yet, and maybe that was part of the reason why Scott never brought Chet back to the place he called home.

They didn’t need to, Chet reasoned. The car worked well down darkened side streets or in abandoned parking lots. A few times, he’d snuck Scott into the employee restroom at the museum for a quick fix, and there was a supply room in the back of the tattoo parlor that locked from the inside. Whenever one of them wanted to get off, he texted the other. Want 2 hook up?

Every time Chet saw the text on his cell phone, his c**k began to swell.

He didn’t want more, he told himself. He didn’t need more. Scott didn’t seem interested in taking things further, and Chet was sure as hell not going to be the one to suggest it.

* * * *

Three months later, Chet still wouldn’t necessarily call what they did dating. If he had to put a name to it, he’d call them f**k buddies. Though he had to admit, if only to himself, that he felt something more for Scott. After all, he let the guy talk him into getting a tattoo.

He felt rebellious doing it, more nervous than scared, and almost chickened out twice as he flipped through the racks of flash designs looking for the right one. Finally he told Scott, “Nothing really stands out to me. You decide.”

“Where do you want it?” Scott asked.

It was late evening—Chet had stopped by after class but the tattoo parlor was still open for another hour, so if he wanted to get off, he had to wait for Scott first. As much as Chet would’ve loved to get a tattoo somewhere obvious, like the crook of his elbow or the inside of his wrist, he didn’t have enough courage to so blatantly disobey his parents. “Maybe on my back,” he suggested. “Like partway down the middle where no one can see it unless I show them? What do you think? Will that hurt?”

“s**t,” Scott drawled with a laugh. “It’s going to hurt no matter where you put it.”

Chet winced. “How much?”

“Don’t worry—I’ll be gentle.” Scott gave him a seductive wink that sent shivers down Chet’s spine. “We’ll take it in stages, how’s that sound? Just do the outline tonight, and get you back in here for the fill later.”

The parlor was mostly empty, but Chet still stepped closer to Scott and lowered his voice to tease, “I thought I was here to get filled in the first place. If somebody would just get off already…”

Scott grinned. “What? You don’t want me to wait for you?”

* * * *

Now it was four weeks after Chet’s first tattoo. True to his word, Scott only inked in an outline of the image—what would eventually be a complicated half-moon/half-sun orb hovering just behind him was currently a series of black lines indicating the design. It’d hurt like a b***h, and Chet dreaded filling it in. Couldn’t they leave well enough alone? True, it looked silly as is—Chet caught sight of it in the mirror sometimes when he was getting into the shower and shuddered to remember the way it’d felt, as if someone were scraping into sunburnt skin. When it was finished, it would look bad-ass, Scott promised…and he’d never lied to Chet before. In the meantime, it just looked bad.