Even before the good doctor had made his diagnosis, Lizzie had known that her life would never be quite like other people’s. She did not need him to tell her. She knew only too well.
And that was how, indirectly in any case, she found herself fishing in her huge leather bag for a large bunch of keys. They were heavy, both literally and metaphorically, for they signified her new role in the business. It wasn’t her business—she wasn’t really sure who the shop belonged to, or how long it had borne its peculiar name. Who had thought of Weenies? Was it always called that, or had it once had a proper name? First the funny little deadlock at the top. Next, the longest and most important looking key turned in the lock. Finally the Yale Lock underneath.
Lizzie let herself into the dingy little shop and flicked on the light. She was desperate for a cup of tea. She didn’t drink, she didn’t smoke—unlike Stig, who chain smoked all day long and rolled some very strange cigs when there were no customers about—she didn’t really have any vices. None, at least, that she could tell anyone about. But she did like to start the day with several cups of tea. Strong. Earl Grey. With milk. Stig had told her, very seriously, that now she had been with them for six months, he had decided to trust her to open up in the mornings.
The kettle boiled and Lizzie inhaled the sweet smell of bergamot as she stirred the Earl Grey teabag around with a dirty spoon. Stig was always very particular about the equipment—she supposed he had to be—but the little kitchen at the back of the shop was less than sanitary. As Lizzie sipped her steaming tea she proceeded to wipe down the green machines with dettox and checked all the leads and plugs. Even the foot pedals had to be wiped with dettox. She knew that Ella would moan like hell if everything wasn’t set up properly. She was Stig’s sister. She was actually rather beautiful, in her own butch way, and she knew how to press all the right buttons where Lizzie was concerned. But she had a temper too. Ella would be in later—she had a customer at eleven. But until then, Lizzie had the place all to herself.
Lizzie had never seen the boy before. She wasn’t sure whether to call him a boy or a man, but as he had ID to prove he was, in fact, twenty, she could hardly turn him away. Ten years her junior, but he seemed so much younger, with his clean shaven, open face. She noticed his eyes at once. They were the most intense ice blue. She also noticed that he had two little freckles on his cupid’s bow. His tattoos were only the third thing she noticed about him. They were well done—not quite like the Illustrated Man—but certainly better than most she’d seen. They were secretly coiling up his arms and disappeared under his T-shirt sleeves, so she couldn’t really get a good look, but she could tell instinctively that they had been inked by a Master. Or maybe a Mistress—like herself. Her reputation was spreading, after all.
“I’ve heard that you do freehand artwork,” he began. His accent was interesting—not quite South West. It had a sort of London twang. She wondered what he was doing in this corner of Somerset.
“I do,” replied Lizzie pleasantly. It was exciting to have a customer who knew a little about what they actually wanted. So many of them were novices, or chavvy individuals who only wanted to choose one of the images from the transfer rack. People who had had terrible, cheap tattoos done by amateurs who didn’t know a front spring from a back spring. She put her tea down. He noticed the mug and smiled. You’re just jealous because the little voices only speak to me. Ella had bought her the mug. Ella hadn’t known at the time how apposite the gift had been.
“Who did your artwork?” she asked, not just because she was making conversation as she had been taught to do by Stig, but because she was truly fascinated by the range of images and the skill with which they had been applied. And she was feeling strangely attracted to him, which worried her, as she ... did not do men. That was how Ella had described it when she first told her about herself. Lizzie had since used the same phrase to explain herself to others. But then, Lizzie did not really fit into any of the accepted categories. She had not known at the time, for all her learning and her several degrees, that the term pansexual existed. And if she had, she probably would have laughed.
“I’m Allan,” he replied, which was not the answer to her question, neither was it the kind of name she was expecting this youth ... man to have. She knew it was Allan with a double “l” from his ID card. All the Alans she had ever known had been geeky—mathematicians or Jehovah’s Witnesses. It must be the extra “l” that made all the difference.
“But you can call me Al—and that’s the name of the man who did my tattoos too.”
“You did them yourself?”
“Not all, but the ones I could reach, yes,” Allan replied.
“I don’t really trust anyone else, apart form my teacher,” he added by way of an explanation. Lizzie wondered whether he was telling the whole truth. He was very young to have mastered freehand. But then she was sure he wasn’t responsible for the upper arm work—surely he couldn’t have reached there.
“And your teacher was called ... Al?” she ventured.
“So why have you come to me?” Lizzie asked, feeling more puzzled by the minute. “Why can’t Al—your teacher, I mean—do this one for you?”
Lizzie sensed that he was embarrassed by something—but he didn’t seem the type to be embarrassed, she was sure.
“I don’t want to have to ask him,” he began hesitantly, “and even if I did, I’m not sure he’d agree.”
Lizzie found herself staring at the bottles of ink on the shelf. Monthly Red. Pretty Boy Blue. Brown Sugar. She wasn’t sure she even wanted to ask him what it was he wanted—and she wasn’t sure she should begin it when she was on her own—whatever it was. He didn’t feel dangerous. Just unusual.
“Maybe you should come back when Stig’s here,” she began.
“Is Stig a woman?” he asked, immediately.
“No,” said Lizzie, unable to believe that anyone could imagine that Stig was a woman’s name. Even a particularly ugly, dykey woman would never be called Stig.
“Then no, thanks, I want this done by a woman—and not just any woman. It has to be someone who knows what she’s doing.”
“You had better explain from the beginning,” she said as she reached for the Earl Grey teabags. She sensed it was going to be a long morning—one way or another.
“I can’t do it that close,” Lizzie said for the third time. “It’s really hard to see what I’m doing and it could be dangerous—for you, I mean.”
“How so?” asked Allan.
“You must have read the journals as well as I have,” replied Lizzie, who was by now becoming nervous about what she had been asked to do.
“The outliner could damage the sphincter.”
“Not if you use a tiny needle.”
“And I’m not sure I can do it as carefully as you want—not in that particular area.”
“I know it’s difficult,” said Al, smiling over the rim of his cup, fixing her gaze with his blue, blue eyes and sipping the hot tea she had made him. “But not impossible. Not for someone with your skill.”
“I still don’t see what you couldn’t have asked your own people to do this,” she said.
“I can’t explain it. I know it sounds silly, but I just don’t want a man poking around my arsehole with a needle,” he said plainly.
“Fair enough,” said Lizzie, who wasn’t sure how to reply. She was not sure about the etiquette of this situation. She’d done plenty of penile tattoos in the past. That was simple. Choose the design, cover the parts with cotton. Lay the customer down. Apply the gel ... but how should she even begin this one? He wanted tattoos on his arse cheeks—well, only one to be precise—but this tattoo was special and it was to end in the most private of places. How, for instance, should she have him on the table? On side with his knees drawn up to his chest? On his back? Doggy style? Lizzie decided that if he really wanted to proceed with this then she would have to be honest.
“Look, I’ll try, but I’ve never done this before,” she said. “And if it goes wrong, after you’ve signed the consent forms, I can’t take any blame. You understand?”
“And ... I’m not sure what position to put you in,” Lizzie went on.
“I’ll do whatever you think is best.”
And that was how, indirectly in any case, Lizzie found herself reaching for the Vaseline. Not to stop the transfers coming off as she moved the tip around, as she had done a thousand times, but to insert something into the anus of a man she had only just met, in order to apply this challenging tattoo.
“I’m sorry, but I have to stretch it,” she said. “It’s too dangerous to do this around the sphincter, however much you may disagree. And this is one way to make sure the needles don’t go into the muscle.”
“It’s another reason I didn’t want Al doing it for me,” he said, although what he said was slightly muffled. He was face down on the couch, on his knees, with his arse in the air. It did not seem dignified, somehow.
Lizzie had pulled the curtains around the couch and switched on the daylight lamp, but she also took the precaution of switching the Open sign around. If someone came in while she was at work, she wasn’t sure she would be able to concentrate properly. Lizzie reflected upon the diversity of working in the tattoo shop. It beat teaching English. Even though the late, great Dr. Rooksby had told her that nothing was quite as satisfying as teaching English. But then he had also told her that she would never be satisfied with anything and that her life would take a path less ordinary. It beat teaching art too. No two people the same. No two tattoos the same. And now this...
The butt plug slipped in surprisingly easily, Lizzie thought. Now she could actually see what she was doing. His arse was beautifully clean, too, which helped. His was sparsely hairy, and because it was sandy blond hair, the shaving was much easier than usual too. Lizzie couldn’t help noticing his balls as they contracted under her touch. They were fuzzy, like a peach, and twitched a little as she worked the plug in. She applied the ametop gel to Al’s buttocks and explained that as she got closer to his anus, she would put some more on. Lizzie couldn’t quite hear his reply.
She felt her cheeks growing hot. She had positioned herself as best she could, enabling herself to apply the outliner and still work the foot pedal. Lizzie preferred to do this barefoot—it gave her more control. She could feel how much power she was using, rather than keep having to look at the voltage display. Lizzie screwed a long taper needle into the tube and applied the silicone grip. She began to create the design, starting at the base of his buttock, the top of his thigh. It was an unusual request. He had obviously been reading Bram Stoker.
Al soon gave up trying to make conversation as Lizzie worked. For one thing, his knees were beginning to ache, and she couldn’t really hear anything above the noise of the vibrations. She had begun to outline the fangs—those fangs he had wanted placed right over his anus—and he was in pain, she could tell. Lizzie smiled to herself as she reflected that the phrase kiss my arse had taken on a whole new meaning. She allowed herself to relax a little. It was going well. She had made a beautiful job of the vampiress, and working on the full breasts and erect nipples of her inky drawing had made her feel strangely aroused. She had deliberately made them look like Ella’s silky breasts. Or was it the sight of that smooth arse in the air, glistening with Vaseline? Or the jelly butt plug moving in and out with each twitch of his anus? Lizzie wasn’t really sure. She didn’t really do men, but she had discovered that she liked to see a man with something up his arse. She had that familiar ache between her legs—it was so strong now it was almost painful. But she had never felt it so strongly with a man.
“Are your knees hurting?” she asked.
“No, not my knees,” he replied breathlessly.
“You can move,” she whispered as she took her foot off the pedal.
“I need to go to the loo, anyway.”
Al climbed down gingerly. He no longer tried to cling to his dignity. Hadn’t she seen everything there was to see anyway? His balls were red and swollen and his cock was engorged. And showed no sign of shrinking. Lizzie looked away, but not before she noticed a drop of pre-cum glistening on his glans.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“There’s no need to apologise.”
“It was the vibration.”
“It’s quite usual,” said Lizzie, trying to diminish his embarrassment, however slight. Making out that it was a daily occurrence for a young man to be standing in the shop with a huge erection. That it was quite usual for her to insert butt plugs and trace designs around her customers’ periniums (or should that be perinea?) and arseholes. She tried to ignore her own arousal. She felt sure that her breathlessness and redness would give her away. But Al seemed unaware of it. And if he had noticed her nipples digging into his leg as she worked, he was too much of a gentleman to say anything.
“Would you like me to take the plug out?” asked Lizzie. “It’s not good for you to have it in for such a long time.”
“Erm, no thanks—I’ll do it myself.”
“I’ll have to add the colour next time,” she added. Al nodded and smiled apologetically.
“I’ll leave you to ... sort yourself out,” she said, almost disappointed with herself for being such a coward. For leaving when she could have stayed.
Lizzie padded to the little kitchen in her bare feet. Her body was hot and the floor felt deliciously cold on the soles of her feet. She needed a wee, but there was a more desperate urge that must be attended to first. It was ten thirty. She should really wait for Ella. Ella was great at quickie sex in the kitchen, between customers or when Stig was working on someone, their giggles drowned out by the buzzing of Stig’s machine.
But she couldn’t wait. She had to. Touch herself. Lizzie let out an involuntary groan as she unzipped her jeans and lowered them to her knees.
She peeked through the keyhole and saw that Al was indeed busy, sorting himself out. Part of her felt awful. Part of her couldn’t resist watching, though. He had climbed back on the couch and was slightly reclined with his legs apart. Lizzie reflected that his arse cheek must be stinging as he rested upon it, but he was masturbating furiously and so hadn’t really noticed. Hadn’t noticed that his cheeks were sore. Hadn’t noticed that the kitchen door was open a tiny crack and that a red-headed girl with her jeans round her knees was watching him intently as she slid her fingers over her slippery clit.
He hasn’t taken the butt plug out, she thought as she rubbed herself harder and faster. She wanted to take her jeans and knickers off and lie down on the floor to finish herself off—but she also wanted to watch Al, so she stood in the doorway, breathlessly wanking and trying not to make a sound, lest she disturb him. It was not every day she was able to play the voyeur—and she was enjoying every second of it. The fucking dirty bastard, she heard herself whispering. With each syllable she was closer to coming, and as she watched, it was obvious that he was too.
He really had no idea that he was being watched, thought Lizzie, as she witnessed what was surely meant to be entirely private. He had positioned the mirror—used to show customers their new tattoos in places they couldn’t easily see—so that as he worked the shaft of his cock, he could see his arsehole and the butt plug that still winked in his sphincter. He bucked and thrust as he came, gasping as the creamy rivulets shot across his belly and chest. He reached for the butt plug while he still pumped semen and, grasping it firmly, removed it with some considerable pleasure.
At this, Lizzie could no longer hold her own orgasm back and, although her legs were aching and her neck was stiff, gave in to the overwhelming sensations that pulsed through her wet lips and her hard clit. She cried out as she came—although she was sure he had not heard—and quickly pulled up her knickers and jeans. Al was reaching for the roll of blue tissue she kept next to the couch. She switched the autoclave on and filled the kettle. Then she visited the tiny loo. Waiting for her engorged puss to stop twitching was an agony. But finally she was able to pee.
“Would you like a cup of tea before I put the green soap on?” she asked him as she returned from the little kitchen.
The green soap. She could see that he winced at the thought, but it had to be done. And after that, he could have a little balm applied to his poor stinging cheeks. He handed her the butt plug in a little metal kidney dish and presented his arse to be cleaned with green soap. Lizzie noticed that there was no longer any sign of tumescence in his cock. His balls hung softly in his peachy scrotum as she soaped him up. Or down.
As the kettle boiled, she heard the door open softly. Lizzie had completely forgotten that she had put the Closed sign against the glass, but whoever it was had ignored the sign anyway.
It was Ella. And she was curious to see what Lizzie had been doing all morning. Al was by this time lying on his front with his boxers demurely pulled up over his smarting arse cheeks.
“Do you mind if I show Ella?” she asked.
“Not at all,” replied Al, as the boxers were carefully slipped down. He kept his cheeks firmly together all the same.
“Nice work,” said Ella, appreciatively. She was a little envious of Lizzie’s skill, especially as Lizzie had been such a late starter, but there was no denying that this was indeed nice work. Even through the residual smears of blood and the creamy balm, she could see that this was an extraordinarily good piece of artwork.
“Thank you,” said Lizzie.
Al assured her that he would phone to make the next appointment so that she could add colour to her creation. Maybe I won’t hide in the kitchen next time, Lizzie thought to herself. She watched him through the one-way plate glass as he disappeared down the street. Maybe. She smiled as Ella kissed her and handed her a cup of Earl Grey.
Copyright © 2007 by Kim Selfridge. All rights reserved.
I live and work in the South of England. I have a Masters Degree in Psychology, and I ‘ve always loved erotic fiction. Although I have been writing since I was four ( the erotic fiction started a bit later, though) this is the first short story I have ever submitted to a competition, although I do aspire to becoming a writer one of these days – when I actually get around to writing something else.
I suppose the real reasons I| found time to enter this competition are:
a) I am fascinated by the idea of body adornment and I love tattoos, although I don’t have one myself – yet – and
b) I am totally skint and needed some money to pay for my daughters’ gymnastics classes, so I thought it was worth a try as I had a good idea as soon as I saw the brief. I have never been inside a tattoo parlour in my life – although I know a man who has – and this story is loosely based around a little tattoo shop I pass on the way to work. It really is known as Weenies – and no, I don’t know why either.