The Tattoo [gay] [queer] [MM] [T] [anal] [light bdsm]

“Are you sure about this, Adam?” Anton asks. “Sometimes they fade, but you can’t count on it. Assume this is forever.” We’re sitting on the couch in the living room of the punk house where he’s lived for the past few years. His housemates are out of town, but signs of life are scattered everywhere. A guitar and a ukulele spoon on the loveseat, and an overflowing box of crafting supplies lies supine on the rug.

I take a deep breath. “I’m sure. Lay it on me.”

Anton rummages through some supplies. *He’s beautiful*, I think, watching him. It’s not the first time I’ve had the thought over our years of friendship. He’s a little short, and thin but muscular, with light brown skin and curly black hair he ties back in a short ponytail when doing anything requiring concentration. He’s wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off by hand. It shows off the lean muscle of his arms.

I have only the vaguest memory of meeting Anton, but my mom has told me the story many times. We met as toddlers, on the playground. I had managed to injure myself somehow and was wailing up a storm, and just as my mom approached to help, a child about my age came over and wrapped their chubby arms around me until my screaming subsided.

That was Anton’s way throughout our friendship. He was the calm one, charismatic, cool, and collected, and I clung to him like a burr, knowing he would always look out for me. Whereas I struggled growing up gay in our small hometown, he never seemed bothered by the bullying. He came out as trans when we were fifteen, and he told everyone they had two months to figure it out. After those months had passed, he cut out anyone who intentionally called him the wrong name or called him a girl. They ceased to exist for him.

“Shoulder blade, right?” he asks, and I come back to the present.

“Yeah, the design I sent you earlier,” I reply

“All right.” He gets up and stretches, exposing a hint of his abs in the process. “It’ll probably be more comfortable if you lie down. And you’re gonna have to take your shirt off.”

I turn my back to him and unbutton my red plaid shirt, lying down on my stomach. My blue jeans have a low rise and I feel a little self-conscious — I’m sure my back dimples are visible. My nipples press against the rough fabric of the couch. Anton grabs a cushion and tosses it toward me. “You can rest your head on this.”

At seventeen, what would have been our junior year of high school, Anton dropped out and left town. He and his band went on tour, playing punk houses and DIY venues. Before he left, he kissed me for the first time. “For luck,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he meant his or mine.

Anton gets the needles. “I ordered them online,” he tells me, pulling up a stool next to the couch. “They’re sterile.” He shows me the packaging; the expiration date isn’t for another few years.

“And here’s the ink,” he says, squeezing a bottle out into a mason jar. “We did the spot test earlier, so you should be good on allergies. And like I said before, since we’ve both been tested, it might be easier if I go without gloves.”

“Sounds good,” I say. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll start by draw the picture on.” He pulls up a stool next to me.

The pen’s soft tip whispers against my skin. I squirm — I’m extremely ticklish. Anton places a beige hand against my shoulder, steadying me and holding me down. I can see the focused look on his face, the frown of concentration on his brow. His breath brushes my back every time he exhales. He’s got a strand of hair in his face, and I am overcome with a desire to turn, tuck it behind his ear, and kiss him.

Finally he stops drawing. He gives my shoulder a squeeze, then gets out a needle.

The first prick doesn’t hurt as much as I expected. It’s not even as bad as getting a shot. He pushes the needle down gently, and gently it breaks the skin. He keeps going, a series of sharp jabs that resonate in my bones. I inhale sharply.

He stops. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I reply. It’s true — the aching in my body comes more from an unanticipated longing than from pain.

I don’t know if my face betrays my emotions, but I’m treated to one of Anton’s rakish grins. “Good, I’m glad. Just let me know if you want me to slow down or stop.”

He uses a wet paper towel to wipe away the blood. I shiver as the cold water touches my skin. Anton’s touch is tender but firm as he pats down the area again with a dry paper towel.

He picks up the needle again and goes on, pressing into me again and again, leaving an indelible mark on my skin. I feel relaxed, lying here. I close my eyes and focus on the pleasurable sting of the needle piercing my flesh and withdrawing.

After a minute he pauses and rotates his wrist in little circles. “The angle right now is a little hard on my hand. Are you comfortable with my finding a position that works better?”

I shrug, then wince at the pain in my shoulder. “Go for it, man.”

He gets up from the chair and straddles me on the couch, sitting directly on my ass. I start to sit up in surprise, but he pushes me back down. “Be still. I’m almost finished.” He continues his artist’s work, leaning over my body, crotch pressed against me as he jabs me over and over.

I can hardly feel the needle enter my skin anymore; my shoulder is deliciously numb. But I can still feel his hand on my back and hear his steady breathing. I knew stick and pokes take time; I had no idea they were this intimate.

After a time, he pulls away. “You’ll need to put a neutral moisturizer or A&D lotion on it a few times a day while it’s healing. Don’t let it get dry.” He gets up, leaves, and returns with coconut oil, seran wrap, and gauze, then sits back on the stool next to the couch. He uses a finger to massage the oil into my skin. I wince at the sting. Then he bandages up the shoulder.

“It’s done?” I ask, shifting onto one side.

“Not quite,” he says teasingly. “There’s the matter of… payment.” His wicked grin is back. He gets onto the couch next to me again and kisses me just to the right of my lips. I try to kiss him back, but he pulls away, eyes dancing. Then his mouth is on my neck. His lips are soft and warm. I close my eyes, lost in the feeling of his tongue against my skin, and suddenly his hand is on my thigh. I feel the familiar tightness of my cock hardening against the fabric of my jeans.

“You handled getting a tattoo well,” he whispers into my ear. His hand moves closer to my erection. “A lot of people find it too hard to bear, but you seemed to be… enjoying it.” With this last word he places his hand directly on me, and I let out a groan.

He pauses again, just like he did when he was tattooing me. “Is this okay?” he whispers in my ear. I manage a rough, breathy “yes,” and lean toward him again for a kiss. This time, he accepts, running his hand along my stubbly cheek.

With his lips pressed against mine, his hands creep down my body, unbuckle my belt, and unbutton my jeans. He pulls them down assertively. I give a self-conscious laugh; the skin on my legs, already pale compared to the rest of my body, appears extra white in contrast to the coarse black hairs which cover it. Anton doesn’t seem to mind; he runs an affectionate hand over my thigh before unbuckling his own belt and removing his black skinny jeans.

My cock presses against his warm abs as we kiss. He places his palms on the back of my head and guides me downward. “Suck me,” he whispers into my ear. With my hands on his hips for support, I press my closed lips — wet from saliva — against his short, stout cock, opening them gradually and sucking gently as he moans with impatience. When his cock is fully in my mouth I suck harder, and now we’re both moaning. My chin hits the couch and I feel a wetness from the spit and fluids that have leaked onto the cushion. A shudder runs through him and yet another moan escapes his lips as he comes, panting. Sitting up a little, he grabs his water bottle from next to the couch, takes a big swig, and lets out a long, contended sigh. Then he looks at me. I’m lying with my head on his right thigh, blissed out. He tousles my hair. “But I’m not done with you yet. Sit up.”

Whimpering at having to detach myself from him, I obey. He grabs my shoulders and flips me around so my back is to him. He presses his chest against me, careful not to touch the healing tattoo, and bites my neck. His nipples are hard against my skin. “Lie down on your stomach,” he orders, moving to give me the space to do so.

“Okay,” I say.

“Not ‘Okay,’” he says coolly. “Say ‘Yes, sir.’”

“Yes… sir,” I concede. The word feels strange and intoxicating in my mouth.

Anton places a hand firmly on each of my asscheeks. “Now I’m going to fuck you,” he informs me. My response is an incoherent whimper of pleasure at the thought. He spreads my cheeks and kisses me.

“I — uh, I didn’t expect this, so I’m not super clean,” I stammer.

“I don’t care,” he tells me coldly, then gives my asshole a single, firm lick, his tongue flat. I shiver. He continues, licking and tonguing. Overwhelmed with sensation, I clench with pleasure. “Shh,” he says, stroking my lower back. “Try to relax.” He eats my ass with abandon and I lose myself in the feeling of his tongue against my asshole, moaning, even drooling against the couch.

My pleasure is interrupted momentarily when Anton reaches to grab something from the floor. I turn my head to see: it’s the jar of coconut oil. “I’m going to put a finger inside you now,” he purrs. “That is, if you want me to.”

“Yes,” I sob, “yes, please!”

“‘Yes, please’ what?”

“Yes, please, sir!”

“Fine, I suppose.” He dips two fingers into the oil and starts applying it to me. Then he presses a finger against my hole, pushing ever so gently until he begins to slide in.

“Shit,” I gasp. I’m so tight around him, but as he pulls out gradually I can feel him preparing a second finger. “You feel so good,” I breathe as he puts it inside me again.

“I know,” he replies simply, and in so saying curls his fingers slightly. I let out a gasp. “Do you like that?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply. “Yes, sir. Please keep going!” I move a hand toward my cock to touch myself as he touches me, but he slaps my hand away.

“None of that, now, or I’ll stop.”

I melt at the sternness in his voice. “No, please don’t stop, I’ll be good, sir, I promise!”

“I believe you,” he replies. His fingers keep fucking me, sending electricity through my body as they thrust in and out. My mind is a hazy cloud of pleasure. I can hardly think, so caught up am I in the sensation of Anton inside me and my cock rubbing roughly against the couch as I squirm. In one beautiful moment my vision goes blank as I come, dripping onto the couch. I fall forward, whimpering, as Anton’s fingers slide out of me.

“Good boy,” he says.

I lean against him in exhaustion. Idly I notice his inky handprints all over my body. Anton has left his mark.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/g2jyn7/the_tattoo_gay_queer_mm_t_anal_light_bdsm