(I wrote this story some years ago for a competition for a tattoo website. I did not win, but they did publish it on their site. That site has now gone, so I am submitting it to Nifty. I like to write stand-alone stories, which is why, from my perspective, it has a definite end. But the site moderator added a note when he published it saying that he was looking forward to the second part. I was about to write to him and tell him there was no second part. But then I had an idea. So later I will be submitting the second part - which was also published on the tattoo website - called 'In the Company of Angels'.
If you enjoy this story - or any others - remember that you can only read them if Nifty remains online. For that they need our cash. If we all give just a little, the site won't disappear and take our stories with them).
On the Side of the Angels
Maybe it was foolish of me to walk around that part of London at night carrying my laptop. Looking back I suppose what happened next was all too predictable. As I walked along the dimly lit road and past a dark alley, an arm went around my neck. I was then pulled to the ground, kicked in the stomach so hard that I could barely breathe, and the case containing my laptop was pulled from my fingers. I was vaguely aware of two men dressed in dark clothes running off down the road with their prize. I heard a faint scream and wondered if it had come from me
What happened next was not predictable. A man was leaning over me and helping me to sit up.
"Here, I got your laptop back. Bit stupid to carry it so openly in these parts. Are you OK?"
I looked up into his face. Strange what you notice at a time like that. He had stubble around his chin as if he had not shaved that day. By contrast the top of his head had no hair at all. There was only a faint dark shadow that proved that he kept the top of his head carefully shaved. I felt a bit giddy and looked down to try to steady my spinning head as I sat on the pavement. I saw he was wearing massive steel toe capped black boots that went up his leg and disappeared into his tight jeans about 6 inches below his knees. They were neatly laced with a perfect ladder of white laces. Without doubt my saviour was a skinhead. I suppose it was just prejudice - or perhaps the result of my dizzy head and still heaving lungs - but I said
"What do you want?"
"Want? Nothing. I saw those bastards attack you and thought I could help."
He turned to walk away. I grabbed his left boot and he stopped and turned back.
"I am sorry."
He grabbed hold of my arm and helped me up. I still did not feel very steady and so I lent against him to support myself.
"Look, I really am sorry for being rude. Put it down to the fact that I am not thinking straight. It was good of you to help me"
"Just because I am a skin, you think I steal computers, rather than return them."
"I guess there is some prejudice as well. Is there some way I can show my appreciation? Would 10 pounds help?"
He laughed.
"I told you I do not want anything. I live round here and don't like to see people being robbed in my neighbourhood. And if it feeds your prejudice, I guess that I enjoyed kicking the shit out of those two. Perhaps I am just a skinhead thug. But at least I am a thug on the side of the Angels."
He then laughed again. I wondered if he was laughing at me. Perhaps the look I gave him made him feel that it was now him that was being rude.
"Tell you what, you can buy me a pint."
I let go of him and brushed at the dirt on my trousers. We headed off towards the bright and welcoming lights of a nearby pub. He went ahead of me and ordered two pints of lager at the bar. He picked them both up and indicated a couple of empty seats by the window. After we had sat, he handed me the pint. We said 'cheers' and began to drink. I had noticed as we walked to the pub that we were both about the same height and build. In the bright pub, I could see we were also about the same age - mid 20's. But there the similarities ended. He was a skinhead in big boots, tight jeans and a green bomber jacket over a white tee shirt. I was wearing an expensive and perfectly tailored blue suit with a silk tie around the collar of my crisp white cotton shirt. Thinking about it, I suppose that we were both wearing uniforms but for different armies. His was the skinhead army while mine was the army of the chartered accountant.
As I drank some more of the beer, I remembered why we had come to the pub.
"Hey, I thought I was buying you a pint."
"Forget it. You can get the next one. I've still got a bit left from my social security." He looked at me and grinned. "You're letting those pre-conceived notions show again. I do work and can afford to buy a pint for any traveler in distress that I have just rescued. Call me a Good Samaritan."
He was not about to let me forget the reason why I was here. He crossed his left boot up over his right knee. He inspected the flecks of mud around the ankle, some of which appeared to have a little blood splashed on them. He had kicked more than the shit out of my assailants. He flicked off some of the bigger lumps of blood spattered mud. He obviously liked his boots to be as clean and shiny as the top of his head.
"Tell you what you could do for me. You could clean my boots. After all it was because of you they got so messed up."
I did not know what to say, but I must have looked unenthusiastic at the prospect.
"You just think you are so much better than me and far too good to clean my boots. Well I have to tell you that it was you that got robbed and me that got your bag back. By the way, I was only joking about the boots. I just wanted to see your reaction. Your face was a picture." He laughed loudly.
He was right of course, I did think I was better than he was, and I did not like the way he was winning every round in our verbal dual. I decided to play him at his own game.
"You are right. You saved me from having to explain to my boss what had happened to his laptop. If the best way I can repay you is to clean your boots then I will be happy to do it." One to me, I felt. I took advantage of his silence to pick up his empty glass and to go to the bar to get refills.
When I got back I said "What is it about skinheads and boots? You worry about what they look like and yet those boots can't be very comfortable."
"You are dead wrong there mate. If you get the right size and get them properly laced they are more comfortable to wear all day than the loafers you are wearing. By the way if you are going to clean my boots, what's your name? I like to know the name of my boot boy. My name is Steve."
I suspected that he had used the term 'boot boy' to make me feel small. One back to him. "Philip" I said.
"OK Phil if you are really up for a bit of manual labour, lets get you back to my place and set you to work."
I suppose prejudice reared its head yet again. I was quite certain that he would live in some hovel or squat in a run down area. He actually took me to a smart and exclusive warehouse conversion by the river.
"What do you do to afford this?"
"Not feeling so superior now? Let's say I run my own business."
Inside, the apartment was one large room with a sleeping area on a raised platform up a flight of open stairs. There was one door going off which I guessed would lead to the bathroom. The kitchen and everything else were in separate areas of this huge room that had large picture windows, which looked over the river.
"How do you get your boots so neatly laced like that?" I asked pointing to the perfectly symmetrical ladder that went up his leg towards his knees.
"Do you want to try a pair? I will teach you how to lace them and you can find out how comfortable they are. You might also begin to understand how important it is to me to keep my boots just so." I nodded agreement. He picked up another pair of heavy black boots from behind a sofa and gave them to me.
"I bet when you get them on you wont want to take them off." He laughed again. I noticed he laughed a lot. I was beginning to like his easy natural manner. This stranger seemed far easier to be with than a lot of the people I thought of as my friends.
"You had better take that suit off. The boots are 30 hole rangers. They come up to the knee. Shit, I seem to have got blood on these jeans."
He began to unlace his boots. I removed my suit, shirt and tie until I stood in just my tee shirt, socks and Y-fronts. When he got his boots off he removed his jacket. His arms were one mass of colour. I could see eagles and snakes, butterflies and flowers, tigers and swallows all blending together in a colourful tableau. His arms were covered in tattoos from where they left the sleeves of his tee shirt down to his wrists. The colours were very sharp and distinctive. He saw me looking but did not say anything. He removed his jeans so that we both stood in tee shirt, socks and underpants. He sat down on the wooden floor and I sat opposite him. I copied him and pulled on the left boot. Over the next half- hour he showed me how to lace up the boots. Yes, it really took that long to get them tightly and neatly laced to his satisfaction. But my eyes kept returning to his tattooed arms. If you had asked me an hour before I would have said quite truthfully that tattoos always looked cheap and trashy. But his seemed to suit him. They were part of his personality and seemed to belong to him.
When we were finished he got up and offered me his hand to pull me up. I wanted to stay sitting on the floor. To my shame I realised that I had got a bit of a hard on. I was not sure why. But we grabbed hold of each others forearm - I was actually touching his tattoos! - and he pulled me up. If he saw my embarrasment he said nothing.
"How do they feel?"
"You are right. They are comfortable. They feel as if they are part of me - part of my feet and legs. I seem to feel the world through the thick soles. But I don't think I could wear them to work under my suit." It was my turn to laugh.
"Just wear them when we go for a drink." He winked at me and I was unsure whether or not he was serious or making more fun at my expense. He went to a cupboard and got out a duster, some brushes and a tin of black boot polish. He dropped them on the floor by his booted feet.
"Time for you to do some boot cleaning." I knelt in front of him and picked up the cloth. There were some small splashes of dried mud on the steel toecap. I tried to rub them off with the duster. Although most of it came off, the marks were still clearly visible.
"You will need some spit on them to get the marks off." I got ready to spit on his boots.
"No don't spit on them, you might dirty the laces. Get your tongue onto them." I looked up into his eyes. He seemed to mean it. Was he testing me again? I did not intend to give him another easy chance to win points at my expense.
I got down on the floor and carefully put my tongue on the steel toecap of his boot. He lifted his other foot and used his other boot to push my head down to my work. The world then somehow closed in on me. Somewhere in the distance I could hear someone saying things like 'good boy' and 'make them really clean'. But I was not really listening. I was too busy enjoying being prostrate on the floor with my tongue over his boot. It was like being intoxicated. I licked and licked until the toecap glistened with my saliva. He removed the boot from the back of my head, and bent down and pulled me up. For once, he was neither smiling nor laughing. There was a hard and determined look in his eyes. He pulled down my Y-fronts and they fell to the floor around my ankles. He said nothing as he pulled down his own briefs and stepped out of them. But he kept me standing there in front of him, immobile. Simply with his eyes. He turned me round and with a strong arm bent me over the side of his sofa. It was only as I felt the head of his cock at the entrance to my arse, that I began to protest.
"No please....I am not like that." He began to enter me and the pain was terrible. His arms came around my waist and chest in a vice like grip. I could not escape from his arms. I automatically looked down at those heavily tattooed and quite beautiful arms. He used them to pull my body back onto his cock. I gasped as I felt he was fully inside me and tears came down my cheeks. He did not fuck me for long. Very soon his body shook and I guessed he had come inside me.
When his breathing came back closer to normal he withdrew his cock and I turned to face him. He smiled at me. I could only guess that the fact I had not screamed made him think that I was happy with what he had done to me.
"I need a shower. Help yourself to a drink if you like." He went into the bathroom and left me alone. It took me a few seconds to gather my wits. I removed those heavy boots, got dressed and rushed out of his apartment. I quickly found a taxi. I did not feel truly safe until the door to my own apartment was shut behind me.
That was yesterday. I had slept little that night. I kept thinking about how I had been cruelly raped by a skinhead who said that he was on the side of the angels. During the day a picture of him kept forming in my mind and always I thought about those tattooed arms forming a vice like grip around me. And I kept wondering what else there might be under his tee shirt. My own thoughts made me shudder. He had debased and humiliated me. I hated him. I loathed him. So why then was I now standing outside his apartment waiting for him to open the door?
"Hello Phil. Has my boot boy come back to finish cleaning my boots?" He laughed. But it was definitely a good laugh. He was not laughing at me.
As I was not really sure why I was there, I tried to make a joke of it. "No. And anyway I can see that you have already cleaned them yourself." They were indeed sparkling again. "I just thought it was your turn to buy the beer."
"Do you want one here or do you want to go out?"
"I think I would like to go out, and....." I was not sure how to say it.
"You want to wear my boots."
The hesitant smile on my face gave him all the reply he needed.
"OK. But a skinhead is more than just a pair of boots. You will need to wear the whole uniform. And if you are to look the part, the hair must come off. I will have to shave it off, I am afraid. Take that as your punishment for running out on me. You had better get your clothes off."
I stopped and just stared at him. "It's OK. I will not rape you again. We both know I don't have to do that again."
I was not entirely sure what he meant by that. But at the same time, I knew he was right. The fact I was there proved I would let him take me again if he wanted to. At that point I did not fully realise that I actually wanted him to fuck me again. I wanted it badly.
I stripped completely and stood before him. I felt no embarrassment this time, even though my cock was getting hard again. He took me into a rather luxurious bathroom. I sat on the edge of the large Jacuzzi bath and he started to remove the hair from my head with electric clippers. Then he lathered my skull and removed the rest of my hair with a razor. I am not naturally a very hairy man, but what little hair I had on my chest he also shaved away. He told me to raise my arms and the hair from my armpits fell to the floor. I knew my pubic hair was also going to go. I sat back on the bath with my legs wide as the clippers and razors did there work. I liked the way he moved my now solid cock to let the razor get in all the creases. And I bent over to let him shave the hair from around my arse. I suppose that symbolically I was offering him my whole body. And by shaving me to his satisfaction, he was taking ownership of it.
When he had finished I said, "I need to come."
"No you don't. Not yet." He walked out of the bathroom and I obediently followed him. I was not sure why but it seemed quite natural that he should decide on such things as whether or not I could shoot my load. He handed me the boots from last night, together with a pair of faded blue jeans, long white socks, underpants and a tee shirt. I put them all on. The jeans were very tight. He watched me carefully lace the boots to see if I had remembered how to do it correctly. I laced them tightly around my feet and legs and in a perfect ladder. I felt a deep sense of satisfaction at his approving smile.
When I had finished he took me over to a mirror and for the first time I looked at myself. I had come into the apartment that evening as a chartered accountant (ok, in casual gear); and now I was standing there dressed as a skin. And I liked what I saw. My gaze turned to the reflection of Steve in the mirror beside me. We looked very much alike - except for his heavily tattooed arms.
"We look like twins" I said.
"Not quite. But that will come."
I realised what he meant. "No I could never have tattoos. Never."
"Never is a very long time." He laughed again. He handed me a green bomber jacket like his and we went to a pub. It was a different pub from the one the night before. We sat in a dark corner on either side of the table. I felt quite at ease with my new self and with Steve.
"Do you still want to come?"
"Yes, I think I do. I cannot get rid of this stiffy."
"That was obvious all the way here." I must have blushed. "OK get your cock out and rub it against the sole of my boot. I want your spunk on it. That is where my boot boy's spunk should go. My spunk goes in you and yours goes over my boot. Understand?"
"No I can't...."
I felt his boot in my crotch massaging my cock with the heel through the tight denim. I knew that by just doing that, he could make me come in my jeans - and that would leave a terrible stain. So I got out my cock, and under the cover of the table rubbed its throbbing length against the deep treaded sole of his boot. I tried not to make a noise as I came, but it was one of the most intense orgasms I had ever experienced.
As he lowered his boot he said quietly 'good boy' and once again I felt pleased with his praise.
"I think I need to come now. Let's go."
I realised what that meant. But I did not mind. I also realised that it was what I wanted.
When we got back to his apartment, we stripped naked. It was the first time I had seen his bare chest and I could see that the tattoos on his arms carried over his shoulders, and down his chest, ending with a swirling pattern around each nipple. Through each nipple was a large gold ring. I had never actually seen a pierced nipple before. In the flesh, as it were. I fingered them both very gently. But even so my touch still made him moan.
"I guess you think you could 'never' have a pair of these either."
The thought of having my body invaded in that way made me shudder. I shuddered even as I closed my mouth over his pierced nipple and tickled the metal and flesh with my tongue.
He pushed me to the floor and got on top of me. He pushed his tongue into my mouth. Over the next half-hour he took control of the body he had earlier taken ownership of. He made it react just as he wanted. Finally he sat back and lifted my legs over his shoulders, and entered me for a second time. This time, I guess that as I wanted it, I was less tense. Even though his cock was large - and I noticed with another of those thick gold rings through the end - it did not hurt me. He fucked me for what seemed like a deliciously long time that, even so, was far too short. Then he came inside me. After a minute or so, he pulled out his cock. He handed me a towel with which I wiped his cock before I took it in my mouth to finish the cleaning. I teased the ring through the end of his cock with my tongue which, from the groans he made, he clearly enjoyed.
The rest of the week continued like that. I would return home somewhere after midnight. I would go to work in a suit. In the evening I would dress in Steve's skinhead gear. We would go to the pub and then come home and have sex with a passion and enjoyment I did not know existed the week before. He would come up my arse or down my throat and then make me shoot over his boot - which I then had to clean.
On the third evening I thought I saw someone from my work in the pub. But as the pub was crowded and we left shortly afterwards I hoped that either I had been wrong or that he had not seen me.
I was wrong on both counts. On the Friday afternoon, my boss called me into his office. After a long preamble he told me that business was bad and that the company was overstaffed and consequently he would 'have to let me go'. I knew that was not the real reason. I had realised from the reaction of my colleagues the following morning that I had been seen the night before in my other uniform and that I was being given the push for that. Why, I thought to myself, couldn't a guy with a bald head and dressed in skinhead gear, be a good chartered accountant? It was sheer prejudice - of, I suppose, exactly the same type I had had only days before. But there was no point arguing. So I accepted the generous redundancy settlement, and left the firm for good that afternoon.
When I got round to Steve's apartment he could tell there was something wrong. As I changed into Steve's boot boy, I told him what had happened.
"Never mind. You can work for me."
While I laced the left boot I asked him what he actually did in his own business.
"I grow and sell marijuana. I need someone to keep my books. It is a big and profitable business and you may have ideas about how to make my money, shall we say, cleaner."
"But that is illegal."
"Only if you get caught, and I do not intend to. And you know I will look after you."
I wanted him to look after me. And so I agreed. My mind turned to foreign bank accounts and tax havens and all the other things my profession had taught to look out for so that I could spot the tricks that shady businesses use to make dirty money sparklingly bright. The more I thought about it the more I found the whole situation very funny. If I could not be a good bald accountant then I would make damn sure that I was the best bad accountant there was! On the side of an angel, of course.
I stayed with him that night. Steve slept in his spunk stained boots and he made me sleep with my head at his feet. A boot boy guarding his master's boots. In the morning we showered together and got dressed to go out. In the shower, Steve let me wash him and I looked at every inch of his inked flesh as I lathered him. He enjoyed it and I enjoyed it. Thoroughly.
We took a taxi to an old house a few miles away. It was in a depressed area. The local people seemed to be of many different races. I followed Steve up the path of a Victorian terraced house and he knocked on the door. The door was opened by a woman of perhaps 35. Her face lit up when she saw Steve, and he moved his face towards her and let her kiss him on each cheek. The smile went from her face when she saw me, but it returned when Steve introduced me as a friend. We went inside and sat in the kitchen while the lady (who Steve called 'Rosie') made some coffee.
"Rosie and her family come from Slovakia. She used to be a nurse, but had to leave. Her husband was killed because some neighbours decided he had gypsy blood. So she used everything she had to get her and her four children smuggled here. She would like to be a nurse again, but that seems to be too difficult for the authorities here to cope with. Even though there is a shortage of nurses, they will not recognize her qualifications. They said she could be a hospital cleaner. It is better that she works for me."
I must have looked surprised. "Yes this is one of my factories. Marijuana is quite easy to grow. Like the rest of us, all it needs is water, light and warmth. As we can hardly grow it outside, we grow it in the basement of this, and a number of other houses, using lamps. The only real problem is powering the lamps. The authorities would certainly get suspicious if we took the power from the mains. So we use generators and batteries. Rosie looks after the plants. Her eldest son - Peter - gets the fuel. And the family picks the flowers when they are ready. I sell it. Rosie has somewhere to live and money to look after her family. She takes nothing from the State so taxpayers also gain. I make enough to live well. And the people I supply can have a good, and more importantly a safe, smoke. Everyone is a winner. It is the perfect business."
"I thought all that stuff was imported."
"Not the best stuff. The people I sell to have plenty of cash and they want top quality merchandise. You probably know some of them. Many work in the city. They want to know that what they use is the best. And I supply the best and charge accordingly."
At that moment, I heard the front door bang and a teenage boy - about 16, I guessed - came in. He went straight over to Steve and hugged him while his mother spoke to him in a strange tongue. From her tone, she was not pleased with him. He must have been used to this type of welcome from his mother, as he just ignored her tirade. Steve introduced me to him and we shook hands.
"Peter, could you take Phil downstairs and show him our garden."
I followed Peter into the hall. He opened the door and we went down some stairs. At the bottom there was another door which he opened. As he pulled back a heavy curtain I could see the plants bathed in a bright yellow light. The smell was quite strong and I could hear the quiet murmur of generators in the background.
"There are 500 plants here from which we harvest from about half at any one time. We get a few people we know - refugees like us - to help pick and process the flowers. There are 2 generators. One to power the lamps and one to power the unit that scrubs the smell from the air. You should take your jacket off it is hot in here."
It was not so very hot but I removed my jacket nonetheless. I saw Peter staring at my arms and he took hold of one and examined it.
"What's the matter?"
"You have no tattoos." He managed to make that short sentence display both his disgust at my bare flesh and make it into an accusation. "Tattoos are really cool. Steve promised to get me one for my 16th birthday, and my birthday was yesterday. He is a very good man and my friend." His accent, as he became more passionate, seemed to get much thicker than it had been moments earlier. We went back upstairs. I told Steve I was impressed. Steve turned his attention to Peter.
"Have you told your mother about the birthday present you want?" From the puzzled look on her face it was clear that he had not."
"It is my decision. I am the man of the house. I do not need her permission." From the sideways look he gave his mother, it was obvious that he was not totally sure of that.
"Look Rosie, you know Peter has always had a thing about my tattoos. And you know how hard he worked to help us set this place up. Well..."
Rosie did no let him finish. "That was over two years ago."
"Yes I know. He pleaded for me to get him a tattoo then. I told him he could not have one until he was 16. Try to understand, Rosie, it was the only way I could stop him getting one done himself. I was afraid he would get one done in some back street using a dirty needle. He even told me he was thinking of doing one on himself. Either way it would be a mess. At least my way it will be done properly."
Rosie sighed. "Your friend does not have tattoos. Why can't Peter be sensible like him?"
"Mum, I want to be like Steve. I want tattoos like Steve." He turned to Steve. "And you promised." He emphasized the last word.
Rosie sat down heavily. She was conceding the fight to her son, as she knew Steve was right. One way or another her son would get a tattoo. Peter went over and hugged her.
"But only one. And then you must promise never even to talk about it again. At least until you are 18 and really do not need my permission." She was making it clear that he was still her boy and that it was only with her agreement that he could have his birthday present. "You know I love Steve, but I do not want you ending up covered in ink like him"
Peter promised his mother, although I was not sure that he meant it even as he said the words.
A few minutes later Steve and I left the house with Peter. Steve hailed a taxi and we all got in. The taxi took us to a shop about 10 minutes away. As Steve paid the cab fare, I looked at the shop and noticed the word 'tattoo' flashing in red neon in a corner of the darkened windows. I must have given Steve a less than friendly look as he said,
"I thought you would like to come and see how it was done. That's all. You don't have to come in if you are scared." Why did I let him score points off me so easily?
We all went in. The tattooist made Steve's flesh look quite bare. He was stripped to the waist and every inch of flesh was covered in ink, including his face and skull. I was both fascinated and repulsed by what I saw. I followed them all into a back room.
"This is Peter that I told you about."
"He does not look 18. Has he identification? I cannot tattoo him if he is under age. I would lose my license."
Steve got a roll of notes out of his pocket and peeled off several to give to the tattooist.
"Here is his identification. No one will find out you did it. But if they do and anyone said anything, you can say he showed you his passport. You were not to know that it was his father's old one as it was a foreign passport. And you know I would not cause you trouble. Nor will Peter." The tattooist pocketed Peter's identification.
Steve told Peter to remove his shirt, and sit down in what looked like an old barber's chair. Peter was beginning to look nervous.
"It is not too late to change your mind."
"No! I won't change my mind. What do you think I should have done?"
"That is all decided. After all it is my birthday present to you."
The tattooist picked up a piece of A4 paper and pinned it on the wall behind Peter. I could see that it was a design similar to Steve's own tattoos but still distinctively different. Peter tried to turn his head. But Steve told him not to look. The tattooist marked out the design on his arm in a number of different coloured felt pens. The design went all the way from his wrist up to his elbow and encircled his whole forearm. When he saw the extent of the tattoo, Peter just said 'Wow' and his eyes lit up. When the outline was finished, the tattooist put some black ink into a little cup and took hold of his needle gun. It buzzed and he made the first mark on Peter's virgin flesh. The boy's eyes (I could only think of him as a boy, even though his body was filling out and he had started shaving) were wide open. I looked at Steve.
"Doesn't it hurt?"
"I wondered how long it would take you to ask that one. I think everyone has to decide for themselves if it hurts. It does not hurt me. It is a wonderful feeling. You should try it yourself." With that he laughed. I was stopped from the necessity of trying to think of an effective reply by Peter, who said
"I think it feels a bit like having a cigarette burn on your arm, except that the pain is only there while the needle is there. This is great."
The boy was clearly enjoying this right of passage into manhood (or Stevehood?) as could be seen by the growing damp stain in his crotch. After about an hour the complex outlining and shading was all done and the tattooist put down his gun and got up and stretched. Peter looked closely with those wide eyes at his arm. And then he got up and posed in the mirror to look at himself. He moved his arm around so that he could take it all in.
"That is all for today, Peter. I think you will enjoy it more if is done over a little at a time." Peter looked disappointed but did not say anything. "And anyway he has to work on me next. You are booked in for an hour every week for the next 4 weeks. Can you find your way back here?" Peter nodded and Steve got out his role of notes and gave Peter two fifty pound notes.
"Don't tell your mother. Happy birthday."
As the tattooist stuck Clingfilm around Peter's arm he said "Can I stay and watch you being inked?"
"No. Get home to your mother. You know she will be worrying about you."
"Promise that you will come tomorrow and show me what you had done. I want to see it."
'Maybe' was all Steve could be persuaded to promise. Peter might argue with his mother, but he did not argue very much with Steve. He said goodbye and left.
Steve then stripped to the waist and replaced Peter in the chair.
I felt I had to say what was blindingly obvious. "That boy has a major crush on you."
"I know. But it is rather more complex than that. Peter was very frightened when he came here. He had not got a friend in the whole world or indeed anyone, apart from his mother, that he could trust. He had seen his father killed. He had been smuggled here in the back of a lorry and, until they went and formally claimed asylum, he had had to hide like a criminal. He was forced to grow up very quickly. I just did what I could to help him and his family. And if you are thinking what I think you are thinking, I can tell you there is nothing like that between us. Firstly I do not go for kids. Indeed I would kick the shit - and everything else - out of anyone who did. And secondly he has been shagging girls since he was 14. I told you he grew up fast. I just try to help him not to make too many mistakes. That is why I brought him to a good tattooist. He will have to wear that ink for the rest of his life. I want him to be proud of it."
He turned his attention to the tattooist. "I want a neck tattoo. Can you continue the design from my shoulders up my neck?"
I was appalled at the idea. "But that will show."
"I want it to show. I like people seeing my tattoos and I have always wanted my neck inked. Now stop whining and help me compose the design. You have to understand I like what I am." Was he saying that I did not like what I was?
The tattooist got out some books and I found myself going through the flashes with Steve helping him choose the coloured designs that would be combined to go onto his neck. I felt my cock rising as I looked at the photos of guys with tattoos on their necks. We chose brightly coloured floral designs with leaping panthers, curling snakes and lion's heads that we felt would blend with the inking on his arms. It was to be a collar going right around his neck. I watched in fascination as the tattooist sketched out the design in felt marker on Steve's flesh. Then he got the tattoo gun and began to mark his flesh with the outlines. It buzzed and buzzed as the marks bit into his skin. I could see the blood as the tattooist wiped the excess ink from the flesh. I still believed that it must hurt in spite of all Steve had said before. I thought he had only made his boast in order to make me feel like a wimp. But the whole time Steve had a grin on his face and massaged his bulging cock through the denim.
It took nearly 3 hours to complete and colour the work, which seamlessly joined with the designs that came up from his arms and onto his shoulders. Steve looked pleased with the work as he looked at his image in the mirror.
He paid the man and we left. The work had been carefully covered in cling film, and Steve had brought a polo neck sweater with him. We went to a pub for a drink.
"You could not keep your eyes off the tattoo gun. I thought you were going to come in your pants."
He was right, of course. I felt my resolve weakening. I was getting fascinated by the whole 'tattoo' thing. But I remained apprehensive, if not downright scared.
Eventually I said, "OK, I will have a tattoo if you want."
"No. It will not be like that. You may get inked some day. But before you do, you will need to beg me to let you get inked. It will be better like that."
I knew that I could never agree to that. ('Never' again). We both knew that if I begged Steve I would be letting Steve choose what my body would be like. I felt sure that I would end up with a body I was ashamed of.
"Look I could never get as tattooed as you ... have tattoos that show ... but I don't mind having one."
In reply he just said, "It will be good to see you beg. And you will."
We finished our drinks and went back to the apartment. Steve took off his sweater and I could see the new inking through the cling film.
"Come here and take off the film."
I went across to him and carefully removed the dressing. I could smell the tattoo! I guess it was the mixture of ink and blood, but I could smell what had been done. I even imagined that I could smell the burning flesh where the needle had dug into his skin.
I moved my mouth to his neck and slowly licked the wound. They say that the tongue is one of the most sensitive organs we have. As I passed my tongue over his neck I could feel the raised outline of the design and picture in my mind what had been done. I could feel the burning warmth. I could taste the new addition to Steve's body.
After a few minutes, during which he moaned to himself, Steve pulled away. I hoped I had not hurt him.
"You are crazy about my tattoos but still insist you can't be inked."
"You are different. It suits you. It is too permanent. It's not me." I was babbling, but Steve was not about to change the subject.
"You know I had been planning to have my crotch done today. A fully inked cock, balls and groin. But that would put me out of action for a bit. Maybe next time. Just think. During the time it takes to heal you will be gagging to be fucked. But I won't be able to do it for a while. And while I can't come, I won't let you come either. But you will find that it will be well worth the wait. You will be anticipating getting my inked rod in you for the first time."
I knew how difficult it would be waiting for and anticipating that first fuck. I did not like the idea of not being allowed to come while his tattoo healed.
"I suppose I could get a ring through my cock. At least that would put me out of action as well while your tattoo healed." As I said it, I realised that slowly I was getting sucked into Steve's world. Surely I was not like Peter who relished the passage to Stevehood?
"If you like. And I guess a ring would not permanent." One more mocking smile. Another round lost by me.
We stripped off our clothes and once again Steve used my body in the now familiar but still exquisite way.
Over the next week I thought more and more about getting a tattoo. Steve kept goading me. And everything else seemed to conspire to keep reminding me of it. Of course, I saw Steve's exquisite designs all the time. And the more I saw them the more they excited me. And I saw Peter's first tattoo when we went round to show off Steve's neck. Peter was really impressed by Steve's new work. His mother showed how much she truly loved Steve by saying very little.
"Why haven't you got inked Phil?" Peter asked. I realised then that I did not have much of an answer.
By the end of the week I really felt I must try having one. But only one.
I began to ask Steve over and over if I would let me have just one tattoo. I said it would just be for a start. Maybe I would have more later. Every time he replied with one word. "Beg."
Some of his skinhead mates came round to the apartment. They sat around showing off their latest tattoos and comparing their inked bodies. They discussed at great length what they wanted inking next. They were all in awe of Steve's neck tattoo. I could not join in their conversation. I felt like an outcast. Maybe I felt the way Peter did when his world fell apart. I was no longer part of the world of the city executive and I was not part of this world. At least I quickly realised that I was feeling sorry for myself, and that it was quite wrong to even think of comparing my 'suffering' to that of Peter and his family. But I knew that I wanted to be a fully paid up member of the gang. Of Steve's gang. Yet even as I accepted all that, I could not yet let go completely.
Eventually one of Steve's skin mates asked me why my skin was bare. Like Peter's before him, his question was an accusation. I decided that maybe if I asked in front of other people, Steve might agree to my having just one tattoo. I was wrong. Once again he just said "beg" to my request. Far from embarrassing him, I had made myself look rather foolish. And his mates loved my embarrassment. They chanted 'beg....beg...beg'. They pushed me to the floor in front of Steve so that I was kneeling with my head bowed looking at his boots. 'Beg...beg...beg'.
Thinking back, it was perhaps being humbled before his big boots that made me finally accept who I was, what I was, and what I really wanted to be.
"Steve I beg you to let me have a tattoo. I beg you to let me be inked." I could hear in my own voice that it really was me openly and honestly begging.
"That is rather better. One tattoo?" I sensed the obvious trap.
"No, as many as you want."
Steve looked at me. "'Never' did not last very long. Do you mean it?"
I did not answer straight away.
"Yes I mean it. And I want you to choose as you did for Peter. I will have anything you want. You can choose exactly what I have, where I have it, and when it is done. But please let me get inked."
"But what if I decide that you will have your face completely tattooed? I have always fancied having a boot boy with an inked face." That smile appeared again.
"Then I will have a completely tattooed face. This is the way I want it. You want me tattooed and I want you to be proud of your boot boy." I was still begging. Steve smiled and stroked my head. This angel had let me take another step towards...where?....heaven? And I knew I had crossed over a line that I could never retreat from. Even had I wanted to.
A few days later we went back to the tattoo shop. I guessed from the look they gave each other that Steve and the tattooist had discussed what I was to have done. Steve told me to take off my shirt, and to lie on my stomach on the leather covered bench that was against the wall. I did as I was told. Steve pulled himself up to sit on a filing cabinet in the corner and put his boots on the bench and in my face.
"Lick these boy."
I felt the tattooist sketch out something on the top of my back, it did not take long and the buzz quickly started. It did not hurt as I had expected. And in any case I concentrated on the boots near my mouth. In around an hour it was finished. I had no idea what had been done and I was eager to learn what the first of what I knew would be many inking sessions, meant for me. Steve led me to a mirror and I looked at the marks on my back. In stylish big black gothic letters right across my shoulder blades were the words 'Boot Boy'.