Gallery Girl
She lay docile and still as the needle hummed and pierced her again and again. His hands guided it with skill and care, his mark staining her flesh and soul at once. The tribal fire tat slowly took shape. The very edge of the swirl was done in jet black and then a slightly off black for the inside made the image look like it was alive on her. Her pale flesh the perfect backdrop for it, the whole of it so vivid it was breathtaking.His mark joined the rest on her. His swirls swept down her right ass cheek and nearly touched those on her inner thigh and labia. She was well marked, each a signature of an artist. Each of them defined her as artwork. There was plenty of flesh left to go though; she had many more adventures before she was done.
As he finished the last of the inking, she wiggled her ass at him playfully. He looked at her face over her ass cheeks, the view surreal, as he was only inches from her spread lips, wet from the excitement of being marked. She winked at him and wiggled her ass again. He grinned and stood up, admiring his work as he stripped off his shirt and undid his jeans.
She spread her legs as wide as she could as he stripped down, letting her hand slide under her and her fingers find her wet lips. She ran them over her sex for a moment and then back to her new ink. The flesh was tender to the touch, she loved that feeling; knowing she was freshly made. Her juices from her pussy made her fingertips slippery as she ran them over the swirl, feeling every detail of it through her soul.
"Is it beautiful?" She asked him, eyes closed and imagining what she felt.
"Yes . . .it is." He nodded, he had to admit, this was one of the best pieces he had ever done.
She half opened her eyes and purred at him, "Then take me, make it real."
He didn't have to be asked twice, he had been staring at her naked pussy for over an hour, as it got wetter and wetter. The entire time, all he could think of was what it would feel like wrapped tight around him when he was done. He stroked his cock once, pressing the head against her wet lips and pushing forward into her.
She moaned and rubbed the new ink hard, making it hurt as he penetrated her. The needle had been fucking her for hours before his cock took over, she was so ready to cum she could barely keep from squirting as his head spread her open and violated her. As he began to pump her hard she ran her fingers over her body feeling all the different artists who had marked her; feeling all the pieces of her artwork alive and pulsating.
He fucked her hard and deep, his balls slapping against her clit, his hands grabbing her hips and pulling her back onto his cock. She cried as he fucked her in sheer joyous rapture. She wanted to be so beautiful for him . . .for them all. His cock hammered in and out of her faster and faster and she felt her own juices dripping out in a steady flow down her legs.
He began to growl and grunt, his thrusts becoming uneven as he got closer and closer to exploding. Grabbing her hair he pulled back until she rose up, back arched into his thrusting. She growled back at him, they were no longer people, they were animals rutting in the wild. He growled and slammed into her hard and she shook her head and clenched her pussy around his cock like a vice. That was too much for him; he moaned and slammed into her again, filling her with a geyser of his cum. He thrust in again and again, squishing their juices out as he shot more into her and over filled her.
She dropped down to the table, filled, and spent, unable to rise again right now. She looked back at him, sweating and panting. She could feel him in her and on her, dripping out of her and staining her skin. Sliding two fingers into herself, she pulled them back out covered with their sex and began to rub it over the new ink. She hissed at the sting of it, but didn't stop. She finished his mark, sealed it with passion. He leaned to kiss her, but she shook her head no. It wasn't about love. It was about passion.
As she dressed she knew he didn't understand. Running her hands over her flesh, the art alive with her passion, her passion alive with the art. She knew he didn't understand, but that was OK. He didn't have to. She did.
Her flesh was a gallery of passion . . .one day she would be covered completely in it and she would be nothing more then pure sex . . . pure passion. Each mark adding to the others . . . each adding to the whole . . .each of them added to her. She would be a monument to them all, she would be their sex in the flesh, the living art. She would stay pure to that. She would be passion and art and nothing more.
She finished dressing and kissed her fingertips and touched them to his lips as she turned to leave. He was confused, they usually were. They would understand one day. They would see that she was right. She was a gallery of artwork . . .still incomplete . . .but every day she came closer to completing herself . . . her art . . . her. She would be their passion.