The scribe: Ink on skin erotica

Image by the fabulous Tabitha Rayne

This sublime erotic short story about desire and ink on skin, is by Tabitha Rayne. It first appeared on her website and is read here by the author herself. 

I’ve just hitched up my skirt. I’m kneeling and the hem is at my buttocks, almost exposing them, but not quite. The familiar tingling anticipation sweeps over my flesh as I part my thighs, just a little, and lift one of the implements laid out before me. I always start with the smallest – the finest.

I hold my breath and close my eyes letting my head fall back, jaw slack, in the pose that signifies the beginning of my ritual.

I run the tip of the long fine shaft up the inside of my thigh, swirling and sweeping as I go, imagining the pattern it makes on my skin. My hand is shaking and the hairs on the back of my neck bristle in delight. If you really concentrate on your body, you can feel which nerve endings are connected. For example, if you arouse or tickle the tiny fine hairs just at the corner of your mouth, it sends a tingling sensation to the inside of your elbow – if you follow the line and sweep just there, you can trace a path all the way to the heavenly dip and peak of your sex. I defy you not to try it now. Go on, let your hand reach to the side of your mouth, go on…

The door. I hear the door open. My thighs clamp shut in shame and I’m shuffling my skirt back down when he strolls into the room.

“What’s going on here then?” He sounds like he’s being jokey but I’m so humiliated and ashamed at being caught that I can’t read his expression. I have a flashback to the same scene when I was small, only it had been my mother who’d walked in then.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she’d screamed in an explosion of fury and I’d stared at my stained skin and cried.

“Nothing,” I stammer gathering my pens and brushes to my bosom and scramble to standing.

“Come on.” He stoops low and I surrender back onto my heels. “Show me.”

He stares at me with those eyes. Those artist’s eyes that scrutinise, study, absorb and analyse. He knows my body intimately, inside and out. I’ve posed for him a hundred times and lain down for him a thousand.

He eases the pens from my grip and lays them on the floor. His fingertips are cold as he gathers my skirt and pulls it up to my resisting fists which are balled into my lap.

“Please, let me see.”

I watch the curling ink come into view as I relax my hands. Hard black scribbles both adorn and sear my flesh.

“What’s this?” he asks – with curiosity, not anger – and I feel I might tell him.

“It’s mine.”

“Your what?”

“My arousal,” I say. He slides his palms onto my thighs, tugging the fabric up further and sighs. I tremble, thinking he’s going to chastise me for marking myself so viciously.

“It’s beautiful,” he says and shuffles backwards so he’s on all fours staring at my work. He leans in and parts my knees, inhaling my dampening want. He reaches out and picks up one of my pens. A Rotring thick nib fountain pen. One of my favourites. “May I?” he asks tentatively and I am wide eyed at his request.

“Of course,” I whisper, quivering. I lean back on my palms and spread my thighs wide. He is intense as he makes the first mark. A long sweeping scroll from knee to groin. I shudder as he stops short of my thickening pussy lips. I hold my breath and indulge in the sensation of the ink drying. That’s it. That’s the nirvana I’m after. It’s such a subtle tiny triumph; you have to be in a very special place to perceive it. It’s like being licked by a tiny angel. He does the same on the other leg, slower this time so it dries while he’s still applying it, raising goose bumps in its wake and shooting a nerve tentacle of pleasure to the peak of my clitoris. The rising carries on its journey and I fill my chest with breath to meet it at the tip of my nipple before it retreats back to my pussy. He’s on to a brush now. He swirls my Japanese sable bamboo onto the wet charcoal block, round and round until it’s good and swollen with moisture. He bids me to unfurl my knees and lie back like a Vitruvian man.

He paints the soles of my feet, between my toes then over the arch and ankles. My whole being is centred in the tip of the cool fibres as he continues, swirling and caressing every dip and curve of my body. My stomach flutters as he makes his way over first one knee then the other, writing, drawing. I feel letters being teased onto me, then shapes and waves. I am losing myself in this slow careful ecstasy. At last the brush swoops over my mons, intertwining with my own curling fibres. My pussy is slick with desire now and I wish he would dip into me. I open my legs as wide as I can and tense my buttocks, forcing my entrance high. He obliges and sinks his face onto me, inhaling and breathing me in. He parts my thighs further with his forearms while a finger from each hand opens my plump ripe lips. He waits for a second or two, just watching my pussy twitch and contract in anticipation. I reach down and grab his hair, pulling him onto me, my bud, my cunt. He flattens his tongue down the whole length of my sex and I groan as he expertly points and darts into me then back to my clit where he swirls and laps and paints all the patterns he has made on my legs. Just as my inner muscles begin to convulse in that tell tale peaking, he stops and lifts his face away.

“You like to feel the ink drying, don’t you,” he says then blows gently onto me, ruffling my pelt. It is sublime. He crawls up over my body, keeping my legs thrust apart with his own meaty thighs. I can see him bulging through his trousers. I know he wants me, I know I’ve turned him on. He pulls at his zipper and his cock falls out heavily, full with want and desire. A thick feral musk fills the room as our scents meet. I reach down to pleasure him but he grabs and pins me by the wrists over my head with one of his hands. With the other, he grabs his shaft and guides it to my opening. He lets go and just hovers there, pressing lightly until my pussy can bear the teasing no longer and I lift my hips to urge him inside. He releases his tension and sinks into my hot clutching depths and I can hear us both groaning in the distance as I become that point, that tiny point where everything begins. It is minuscule and expansive at the same time and he stretches me beyond myself as he thrusts in and out, faster and stronger until I feel raw with his ramming. He slides three of his artist’s rough fingers into my mouth and mimics head until they are soaked with my saliva. He grabs my breast on the way back down and squeezes, causing me to squeal in pleasure as the shock waves travel to the desperate nub between my lips. With his fat cock buried deep inside me, he starts thrumming my clit with his three fingers, bringing me off in a flurry of heat and moisture. I breathe through each wave as they build and build until my pussy is spasming and my clit is peaking, and I’m thrashing about underneath him begging him to go on, to fuck me, give me everything. And he does. The surge comes from deep within his groin and out into me, spurting heat and wet and I clench around him, not wanting to let him go.

He collapses on top of me and we pant softly together, our hearts almost meeting through the boundary of our chests. Eventually he flops off to the side and closes his eyes, falling into a gentle twitching dose.

I sit up to look at the mess that has been made of my legs and the cloying shame of defiling myself threatens to spoil my bliss – until I see what he has drawn. On each thigh in the most exquisite design, two birds hold a delicate banner containing the most beautiful script. My breath is taken from me as I read the simple words:

I love you.


This story is also available as audio porn. Click ‘listen now’ above visit for more of Tabitha’s amazing work or head to the audio porn page for more sexy stories read aloud.

1 Comment

  • A. Pseudonym says:

    Dang, she’s got a rotring fountain pen? Those aren’t cheap. The old 600s can go for around $100 these days!

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