How Much This Was Going To Hurt

"Shirt and bra off," Blaze said.

With smooth professionalism, the tattooist had arrayed her instruments on a small dentist's tray. She scrubbed up and gloved up in a small, free-standing sink, and used her booted feet to move the stool into place and adjusted it so that the reporter's breasts were at eye-level.

Lois Lane pulled off her jacket, and her shirt. There was a queasiness in her stomach which she wasn't sure was from the booze or from what was about to happen. Her cheeks flushed as she realized that her nipples were hard and standing out...little pink eraser-tips on breasts of that graceful, half-teardrop shape. They weren't large breasts, barely a palmful, but they were well-formed and beautiful, unmarred by scar or stretch marks or moles.

"So," Blaze said as she readied the electric needle. "What do you want? I could write 'SLUT.'"

The reporter's grin was like a rictus. "I was thinking maybe a rose? To start out with."

"Hmm," the tattooist said as she wiped the nipples with an **** pad. "Well, I suppose to start...both nipples, right? Keep things balanced?"

Lois blinked. Caught in the moment, she spoke without thinking: "Both, yes."

The anticipation was almost worse than the act itself. Lois found herself holding her breath as one gloved hand grabbed her breast to hold it steady, and then the needle slid into the soft pink tissue. It was like a bee-sting...and it was indeed a sensitive spot. Almost immediately Lois felt the tears come to her eyes, as the needle carefully dragged its way through her flesh, leaving behind an indelible mark of its passing...

...and that was when she noticed the guy with the camcorder, who captured every moment as Lois Lane got her first ink.

Blaze drew the vine and leaves first, in delicate black lines like calligraphy...and then switched the ink reservoir to draw the rose-blossoms in red, and dab the leaves green. Lois bit her lip to avoid a hiss as the tattooist wiped away the blood which beaded up whenever she squeezed Lois' breasts too tightly...and Lois wished that she was drunker than she actually was when, perhaps an hour later, Blaze sat back to examine her handiwork.

"Not too bad, if I do say so myself," the tattooist said. "Just needs one last little thing. Tyrell?"

The Black man stepped forward...and Lois noted, through the pain and fuzziness, that he had his cock out.