Ready For A Fresh Canvas

“I want an appointment with you.”

I didn’t look up from my book.  “I’m retired.”
 
A hand perched on a bare hip in my peripheral vision.  “That’s not what I’ve heard.”
 
I sighed, clasped the book around my finger, peered over my shades.  “I choose who I ink.”
 
A shapely eyebrow arched.  “You tell people they’re going to pay you to tattoo them?”
 
My lips quirked.  I dragged my eyes down.  I could already envision the dragon twining around the leg left bare by her sarong, his head pillowed on her smooth belly, tongue diving towards her cleft.  I lifted my gaze, enjoying the well-formed breasts and the blush darkening her cheeks.
 
“Yes, I do.”  I uncurled from the deck chair.  Her lips parted as I invaded her personal space.  “And I chose what will adorn their bodies.”  Her eyes clung to mine through the tint of her sunglasses.  “And no machines.  I tatau.  Only your skin, my ink, my hands.” 
 
Her gasp was audible. 
 
I’d found my next canvas.
 
“Nothing but slap of the rod against my hand, needles piercing your skin over and over as I make my mark on your body.  It burns, throbs, your skin will feel like it’s on fire.” 
 
She whimpered, swayed.  I smiled.  Replacing the bookmark with my finger I slid the card from my book.
 
“Be here. 8pm.”  I tucked it into her sarong and walked away.
 
My blood sang.  I had a fresh canvas.

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