Sometimes, for example, when I drink a lot, it seems to me that I am a god. Well, or something like that. At the same time, my logic is such, the god of people created, created, and I like how I finish, decorate them, bring them to perfection. No, if you look at it, then all this is of course nonsense, but anything can happen to a drunken tattoo artist ... and in general, this is just my business, what I think about.

But that's not the point.

I think it would be Tuesday when she called me. Although she didn’t call me personally. She just needed a master who could fill her drawing. We agreed to meet. Not that it would be unpleasant for me, but I just figured a girl with such a quiet voice, probably no more than 16-17 years. And such girls usually come to our salon with the desire to fill themselves somewhere on the priest with a portrait of Gubin, Ivanushek, or at worst, Britney Spears. And you have to sit like a fool and two hours to discourage them from such a rash step. You feel at the same time, if you are a kindergarten teacher, or if you are a retired dad ...

When there was a quiet knock at the door (hell, for the second month the hands did not reach to repair the bell), I took on the fiercest possible look (let it be better scared and immediately change my mind about stuffing different garbage) and went to open.

In appearance she was no more than 18. Low, the figure is nothing, well, not a model, but everything is in place. Eyes green, red hair. Yes, the hair color immediately caught the eye. Such a red-red. "Orange," - for some reason I thought to myself.

“Are you Michael?” She asked. I wonder how I understood what she said on the telephone? The voice is quite - very quiet. Barely audible. I nodded, missed her in the corridor and led her to my room. In general, I work in "Neografik". But sometimes the hack is at home, the benefit of all the tools to carry with them is not necessary.

She sat on the sofa. I immediately piled it with a stack of different magazines, folders, just separate sketches, photos and drawings. Let the person first look at the normal drawings and then decide if he wants Zemfira to fill the ass))

To my amazement, she did not want Zemfira. Well, that is, a portrait of Zemfira. On the ass. And I wanted some sort of Celtic pattern. “No, well, we must know what other words we know, Celtic patterns, ha,” I thought, again about myself.

I got her a couple more Celtic magazines. He sat down opposite the table, began to direct some sort of order on it, looking at it in parallel with the frown. Dressed in black pants and a sweater, she could have looked like a schoolgirl. Although judging by the manner in which she held herself, so independent, quiet and calm, one would have thought that she had turned 20 years old.

Finally, she broke away from the magazines, came up to me and said that she had already chosen. The picture she liked was really nice. We decided to change it a bit. And after half an hour of my efforts, the sketch was ready.

- Is the pain normal? - I asked.

- and it will be very painful? - she slightly wrinkled nose. "Like a child," I thought.

- well, as you say, some normally carry, and some in the teeth of a pencil ...

- What for?

- And in order to endure it was easier, I have this one guy, while I scored his shoulder, I gnawed the pencil ...

She smiled. Not believed, I guess.

I pushed a chair towards her. Helped to climb it. Usually my clients are truly thrilled by this chair. It’s still pretty old, but that’s not the point, I was sold on an cheap basis by an old friend, a dentist. Consequently, the chair is self - dental. With different metal crap.

She settled down more comfortably. Zadrala sweater, under his shirt and unbuttoned his pants. Figure we decided to do below the navel.

“In principle, you better take off your sweater,” I said, “then it will still be hot in the process, but then it will be harder to take off.”

She nodded and dutifully removed.

I pulled up a chair, bent over it. The job went.

Somewhere about an hour was quiet.We talked about different nonsense a couple of times. But basically only the buzz of the typewriter could be heard.

Suddenly she slightly twitched. I looked at her? Eyes are closed, eyebrows are frowned, the lower lip is bitten. But the girl hurt. Damn, how much time does she endure like this? And did not say a word. And I, a fool, got carried away.

- you fool, it hurts you, so why are you silent?

- did not want to distract you, you were so passionate.

She smiled a little hard.

- First, not “you”, but “you”, and secondly, if it hurts, speak. Let's take a break.

I put the machine aside. There, in the lower abdomen, where the figure was already half full, the skin turned red and slightly swollen. I was fascinated, damn two. Ever so, you get carried away by the process and forget about everything. A girl with unbuttoned pants lies in my mind to go crazy. And I got into work. Yes, sometimes. I turned, took out a piece of gauze, wiped off the excess mascara from her belly. She frowned slightly. Still, pleasure is not enough. I blew on a fresh drawing.

- so less painful?

- yes, it's easier.

She looked at me for a couple of seconds and closed her eyes again.

I blew on the skin again. She smelled like some kind of perfume. The smell is slightly sweet, fresh, like a peach. I got carried away ... I blew more, and then, I do not know from what thoughts, I bent over her below, touched my lips to her stomach. Spent tongue next to the contours of the picture. He looked at her. She opened her eyes and silently looked at me. Baby

- so it does not hurt?

- no, it doesn't hurt so much ...

- can I have more?

She silently ran her hand over my shoulder, over the hand that was still on her stomach.

- Yes. Silent, barely audible voice. Not even the answer, but rather a slight sigh.

Again I bent over her, I became light, barely touching my belly to kiss her, afraid of hurting her, afraid of frightening her with her actions. My tongue slid to her navel, outlined a circle around it, climbed a little higher and stood in the hollow where the ribs end. I did not know whether to continue and was afraid to hear the refusal. “Damn, what a boy, really,” it occurred to me. I felt her hand. She rubbed my hair, cheek, higher on the temple, then returned below, and touched her chin with her fingers. I did not need to hear her answer, I already understood. I lifted her shoulders and pulled off her shirt. I got up and bent over her. She looked into my eyes. Her face is quite childish, her nose is slightly snub-nosed, her sponges are plump, and her eyes seem a bit frightened and at the same time, somewhere deep, deep in them, you see a challenge. I kissed her nose. She smiled and threw her arms around me. He touched her lips, ran his tongue over them. She opened her lips a little.

My tongue traveled down her neck, over her collarbone, down to her chest. I just pulled away. I looked at her, she looked at me from under her eyelashes. Cheeks slightly reddened, lips parted. Breast color melted milk with chocolate nipples. Two sweet mounds.

- Baby, you just have amazing breasts

She pulled me to her. Gently, but more aggressively. I blew on the nipple and it hardened like a pebble in one second. She sighed softly. I ran my tongue across the chest, around the nipple circumference. He kissed that little hard stone and took it in his mouth. She's all tensed in my arms. I began to kiss her breasts, feeling that the desire to possess her is stronger and stronger and that my heart is pounding. I covered all of her breasts with kisses, caressed her nipples, then gently stroking them, then lightly biting. I saw her like, she clung to me, stretched for me.

I freed myself from her arms, raised myself above her. He took off his shirt. She looked at me in silence, her breathing was barely audible, only her chest heaved with each inhalation and exhalation. I ran my hand over her cheek, pushed back a strand of hair from her face. She caught ...