Ink
by Kiernan Kelly

God, I hate the rain.

It pounds against the plate glass windows at the front of the shop, a warm tropical rain that was typical for this time of year. Every late afternoon like clockwork, thick black clouds drift in from the Gulf and dump an inch or two of rain in about an hour. The temperature drops ten degrees, the streets flood, the roof leaks, and an hour later the broiling sun will return. Within twenty minutes it will be as dry as a bone and as hot and muggy as hell outside again.

That afternoon was no different than any other day. I watched the rain begin to sluice against the glass, illuminated by flashes of frequent lightning. Thunder pealed, loud enough to rattle the windows and my bones, both. The streets were deserted — not even the tourists were brave enough to be out and about in this storm. They were no doubt huddled in one of the many small cafés along the main strip, drinking lattes and bitching about the prices of the kitschy tee shirts and souvenirs they’d just bought.

I’d just turned away from the window, heading toward the back of the shop to snag a Coke from the fridge when the bell over the door jingled. Sighing, I rolled my eyes, thinking that a tourist had decided that my tattoo shop would be a wonderful place to wait out the storm. It happened all the time — they’d dash in out of the rain and spend an hour perusing the catalogs and photos of clients on the walls, asking a million questions (Question: Does it hurt? Answer: Duh. Question: Can I use your bathroom? Answer: Only if you get a tattoo, which brings us back to Question #1) and generally wasting my time.

Turning back, my face already creasing into a scowl, I saw a young man of no more than eighteen or nineteen standing nervously by the door. Tall and lanky, his tank top and cargo shorts were plastered to his lean body from the rain, along with his shoulder-length blonde hair. Rivulets of water dripped down over his tanned shoulders and arms. His wet clothes clung to him, outlining some very nicely toned abs and pecs.

Okay, skaterboy, come on in, I thought, feeling the urge to frown slip away and a smile tilt my lips. If I had to be bored by a tourist then at least I’d get in some eye-candy time in the process. He flashed a crooked, shy grin at me that was innocent and sexy at the same time, and I was suddenly very glad that the counter hid my bottom half from him. Wouldn’t do to frighten the kid off with the monster that was beginning to rear its head in the crotch of my Levi’s.

Well…perhaps monster is a bit of an exaggeration. Still, my cock at full mast was nothing to sneeze at.

“Come on in,” I said cheerfully. Cum on, cum in – whatever’s your pleasure, I continued in my head, eyeing his chiseled biceps and sinewy forearms. The kid worked out, so it seemed. I wouldn’t mind lifting him for a few reps myself, come to think of it. “What can I do to you…er…for you?”

“Um, well…I was thinking about getting a tattoo. I mean, I want to get a tattoo. Definitely. Right now,” he stammered, as if still trying to convince himself that he wanted one.

“Then you’re in luck – I just happen to have one I could part with,” I replied, chuckling. “What did you have in mind?” I asked him. I knew what I had in mind, and it only involved one painless needle — the one that was currently pressing up against the zipper of my jeans.

To read the rest of this hot twink story, read it all here at StickyPen.com. It’s one of my favorite sites, full of “words to come by for men who love men.”