Rebecca Bond Shares the Story Behind Painted Pussycat
For the past couple of weeks I’ve been featuring a different one of the fabulous writers from the stunning Sweetmeats Press anthology, Immoral Views, and this week’s very talented author is the yummy Rebecca Bond, whose sexy story, Painted Pussycat has a lot more than just ink on the page. Welcome, Rebecca!
Mr Black of Sweetmeats fame is a fascinating chap, full of mystery and intrigue, and when I was first introduced to him by a fellow author I didn’t know what to think as he politely introduced himself before asking me to contribute to a new anthology he was producing. I’m still very new to this game so obviously I blushed from ear to ear and accepted his offer (if I remember rightly, I purchasing a rather nifty little Sh! bullet at that very moment – probably the main cause of my blushes).
So, the theme was set. Voyeurism. Oooooo, tough one for this little miss. I had an idea that had been rattling around my brain for a while, a story based solely on one woman’s love for tattoos, and so this theme finally allowed the idea to jump from my head and out onto the page. I was also thinking of the challenge for the artist who had been drafted in to illustrate Immoral Views; how on earth would he interpret my tattoo-laced words into imagery? *cue sadistic laugh*
The art of inking is something I’ve long been fascinated with. I had my first tattoo when I was only eighteen. Yes, I was a bit tipsy (Dutch courage for the pain, but also not recommended for going under the needle as it increases the bleed!) and if I remember rightly I was skiving off college for the occasion, but from the very moment I was pushed into the artist’s chair, I felt a strange sense of peace. As the needle began to pierce the skin of my back I felt the tension and stress seep from my body and that for me was enough.
What better feeling than one ultimate stress reliever coupled with another – inking and sex! I’m a fan of both so it’s an utter no-brainer – mash them up and what do you get? Well, my friends, you get Painted Pussycat; the story of one young woman’s journey through inking, from the very first prick of the needle, to the full bodied back piece applied whilst suspended on high upon a St Andrews cross on the stage in the concealed theatre in the back of Ink Majestic. May I introduce you to the young Poppy, the innocent Rexxie Belle…?
“I’ve seen the way you look at them, Poppy,” she said, her voice husky. “I’ve seen the way you look at me too.”
I looked up at her, dazed and confused, not understanding what she meant. She took my hand and led me through the salon and to a curtained doorway at the rear of the shop. I followed warily, but eager to please. We walked down a long corridor to another room. Her office.
Glancing around, I absorbed the decor – the plush furniture, soft and velvet, the bright coloured cushions that dappled the chairs, the art on the walls, abstract designs and intriguing photography hung in ornate frames. Her desk was in the centre. Dark mahogany. Smooth. Shiny.
“Why do you come here?”
I met her gaze.
“I don’t know.”
She smirked at me and came closer, circling my body like a panther stalking its prey.
“Yes you do. Admit it, Poppy, you come here because it makes you feel good.”
I nodded, what else could I do? She was right after all, I did go there because it made me feel good. It made me feel so fuckin’ good, so fuckin’ alive, so fuckin’. . .horny. She went to her desk, opening a drawer and taking out a tattoo gun. I watched, mouth agape, as she lined up the equipment. She plugged in the gun and looked up at me, a smirk on her face and a wicked gleam in her eye.
“Sit,” she said again, tapping the top of the desk with her left hand.
Gripped by fear, I shook my head. No way was I going to let Carrie loose on my skin with that needle. I didn’t even want a tattoo. Or did I? I eyed her cautiously, but soon gave in and jumped onto the desk. She pushed me gently onto my back, her fingers toying with the hem of my plain white tee before pulling it up to expose my torso.
“It’s okay, Poppy. It’s just a little tattoo, nothing to worry about.” She was delighting in this, in the power the ink had over me.
My skin prickled as she brushed her fingertips over me, goose-bumps dappling my flesh.
I closed my eyes as the sound of the gun filled the room, the buzz hitting my senses with startling intensity. My loins sizzled in anticipation of the first prick of the needle. Nervous excitement coursed through my veins and as Carrie prepped my exposed flesh I felt myself falling under her spell.
“You ready?” She asked as I stared up at her through hooded lids.
God, it was amazing! As soon as the needle of the gun pierced my flesh I was under, hypnotised by the way it scratched my skin. I didn’t know what she was drawing onto me and I didn’t care. All I cared about in that moment was the throbbing between my thighs. It felt so good and as Carrie lifted the gun from my skin and announced that she was finished, I was begging for more.
“Oh no, pussycat, not yet,” she purred against my ear.
Putting the gun down, she pulled off her gloves and reached for the button of my jeans. She popped it open and tugged the black denim over my hips and down my legs. I looked at her, a smile on my face. I felt lazy and languid, letting her petite hand cup my mound and her warmth seep through the fabric of my panties. Another revelation. I clearly wasn’t averse to same sex relations.
It felt so right, the way she stroked my pussy through my panties, teasing me with gentle slaps to my cunt. I was mewing for her, bucking my hips up towards her hand, begging for more of her tantalising touch.
“You’re so wet, pussycat,” she said. “This is from the ink. The tattoo is a powerful thing and should never, ever be taken lightly.”
I looked at her and nodded, “it’s beautiful. I want more.”
Her hand was gone in an instant. As were my panties. She pushed my ankles until my feet were flat on the desk and my legs were parted wide. God! It felt so good the first time she touched me like that, her tongue snaking out from between parted lips and licking the length of my slit.
I cried out in unexpected pleasure as she lapped at my cunt, like the cat that had finally got the cream. Her cute, red lips latched onto my clit and lavished the swollen bead with attention. It was better than anything I had experienced. Whether it was due to the adrenaline racing through my veins from the tattoo or because I was finally being touched by another I do not know, but the orgasm that raged through my body was far superior to anything I had ever experienced at the hands of myself.
I glanced down and met her eyes, watching as she continued to feast on my sex, writhing as she nipped and nibbled her way along one plump pussy lip and then the other. She slid a finger inside my warmth and I came again, climaxing as I had never done before.
Carrie stood, smiling as she gazed down at me.
“Here,” she said, “take my hand.”
I grabbed her hand and let her pull me from the desk. I followed her over to the full length mirror that stood in the corner of her office. She touched my skin where the tattoo now existed and whispered in my ear, “beautiful, pussycat.”
“Pussycat?” I asked as she said what appeared to be my new nickname again.
Her nails grazed across my hip and my pulse raced.
“I. . .er. . .I don’t understand.”
“Poppy, darling, I saw the potential in you as soon as you walked through our door. The way you watched your friend get her tattoo, I recognised it instantly.”
I still didn’t understand. “Recognised what?”
Carrie giggled and kissed my neck lightly, “that you are the one we’ve been waiting for. You, darling Poppy, are The Art Project.”
I gulped. I had no idea what she was talking about, but the name alone terrified me. Her hand smoothed its way down my torso and back to my pussy, cupping me before slipping a finger through my folds.
“You’re so wet. Yes, I think you will fit in at The House just fine.”
About Rebecca Bond
Bewitched by the vibrancy of city life, Rebecca Bond currently resides in London with her fiancé, The Boy. Originally from the sleepy English fenlands, she uses a combination of urban and rural inspiration to carve stories steeped in fantasy. Often found spinning her biro of an eve, Rebecca transforms the day’s grind into scribblings of mystique.
Only a year into ‘public’ writing, Rebecca’s debut publications appear in the anthologies, Uniform Behaviour, Seducing the Myth (ed. Lucy Felthouse) and Immoral Views (Sweetmeats Press). She also has short stories in a variety of erotic sub-genres published by Ravenous Romance, Noble Romance, Oysters and Chocolate, The Erotic Woman, Erotica for All and Every Night Erotica.
Further information about Rebecca’s latest releases can be found at www.missrebeccabond.co.uk
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