Body Painting (1)
Body Painting (1) Tattoo. A procedure that semi-permanently engraves letters or drawings onto human skin. In ancient times, it symbolized powers like sorcery, authority, and religion, but nowadays it serves as fashion. The women in the magazine I'm flipping through right now are plastered with tattoos from head to toe.
There was a decent stack of adult magazines in the labor supervisor's office, including a Hustler special issue on tattoos and body painting.
"Manager, this way."
Rose righted the toppled chair and patted the cushion clean with brisk taps.
"Thanks."
I sat down, and she took up position a step away.
"If I may, wasn't the purpose of your visit an inspection of Seyoung's workplace?"
"Spot on. No need to run security and labor supervision as separate outfits anymore. Figured I'd merge 'em while I'm at it. Place is in better shape than I expected—a few days' fixes and it'll be good to go."
Rose nodded, looking pleased. This labor management office was among the best-equipped spots in the lower levels. From her perspective, wanting to hook Seyoung up with something nice, it was bound to feel good.
"Plenty more to check out, but nothing pressing right now."
I wanted to dive into the magazine. Every page featured women striking poses, covered in all sorts of tattoos. A mag so hardcore even the American big boys slotted it in porn territory. They stripped down bold as brass, no holds barred. Leagues beyond dainty stuff like Maxim.
Rose got curious too and peered over. This spread showed a nude Japanese woman on her knees, ass turned to the camera. Green tattoos blanketing her arms, back, and hips—the classic yakuza wife stereotype. Others sported just one or two on ankles, wrists, collarbones; one had wings across her shoulders. All smoking hot. Though once age hit and skin sagged, it'd go south fast.
There was a shot of four nudes with Queen of Spades tats on their ankles, lined up in black high heels.
The killer was the chick with massive lips tattooed right on her asshole. Every wrinkle matched up seamless with the pucker.
A step-by-step feature showed close-ups of a freckled bobbed brunette—barely out of her teens—getting inked back there. Started prim and proper, then as the tattoo gun hit her backdoor, her face twisted up, ending in a full-on 'Kuuoooooh~!' grimace. Hustler covered the bill in exchange for the shoot.
Tremble tremble. Side-eyeing Rose, she was fighting to keep her mouth from twitching.
She swallowed her laugh with effort. "Are you interested in tattoos, sir?"
"Kinda curious. But Artemis'd never greenlight it anyway."
Blue text flickered across her eyes—searching.
"Eleven tattooists among the residents, sir. If you command it, I'll summon the finest."
"Hmm."
Imagine strutting up to Artemis tattooed sans permission. 'You... YOOOUUU!!!' No need to guess. She'd lose her shit.
"Nah, won't fly. Curiosity's there, but I ain't ready for the fallout."
Rose nodded. She respected my call, but even she dreaded Artemis's wrath.
"Damn, though... sexy as hell."
Tattoo section wrapped, body painting took center stage. Full nude across the board. No pussyfooting with panties underneath for Hustler girls. They painted labia majora and minora, clit, asshole—clean and proud.
One gal with painted-on jeans caught my eye. Zipper splitting her slit, clit as the pull-tab. Creative as fuck.
Fantasy corner: mermaids, orcs, dark elves. Body paint cranked the eroticism way past cosplay knockoffs.
Page after page hooked me hard. Whistling away—
Tap tap.
Rose nudged my shoulder. Looked up to tense eyes.
"Huuuup... haa."
A few deep breaths, then she backed off a few steps.
"Pardon me."
Loosened her tie.
"Rose?"
Buttons undone, top and bra shed. Palms cradled her tits like a platter—and the change hit. Porcelain skin bloomed with body paint: Supergirl. Blue crop top baring ripped abs, red S across the chest. Nipples poked blue and perky, stealing the show. No cheap no-bra tee could touch this vibe.
This was body painting's magic!
"If you wish... anything at all."
Third-gen skin: colors, textures on demand. Ten-hour job? One second. Reptile hide? Done.
"Anything for real?"
S vanished from her chest; YES bloomed. Nipples artfully hooked on the Y's crook and S's curve. Perfection.
I gave thunderous applause, eyes bouncing between her and the mag. Temptations galore.
"Rose, that desk over there."
Pointed to the big one with the fancy nameplate. The late supervisor's—guy ditched duty for final thrills.
Blue arm flat on desk, she swept everything aside.
Crash! Nameplate and junk rained down.
Uncharacteristically savage.
Plop. Pants, panties, stockings off—neatly folded in the corner.
This was Rose. Nude atop the desk, M-legs spread. Instant private stripper show.
"What would you like?"
Straight face, but eyes quivering. Shyness? Something else?
"Lemme think."
Arms crossed, menu in mind.
"Hold up first."
"Hm?"
Leg shot back from seated pose. End trailed to a small frame on the wall: dead supervisor's photo.
Click. Toes—big and index—pried it loose. Toe strength unreal.
Yeeted to the corner.
Smash! Nailed the trash bin, shattered.
"Even a photo... I don't want him seeing my body. Especially trash like that."
Made sense—her desk sweep had edge. Hated the dead slacker.
Caught her descending foot midway. Kissed it.
"We're synced. Hated the bastard too."
Foot wriggled cute in my grip. Face: shy joy cocktail.
"Like this, sir?"
Dazzling nude struck a pose before me.
Flash. PDA's white burst bathed her full body.
Rose cranked out real-time body art per my whims. Artistic nude plus paint? Crime not to capture it.
Her beauty screamed supermodel icon, but venue and poses screamed seedy basement shoot. Down-and-out actress, flop idol hawking skin for peanuts.
Key diff: they mope blank-faced; Rose? Pure devotion. Nothing topped this moment.
"Next: Little Mermaid."
"Yes, sir."
Arm braced on desk floor, half-reclined—scales erupted. Silver fish shimmer, scales so precise it tricked the eye.
Flash.
Trusting gaze locked on me. Baring all, no holds.
"..."
PDA to torso: twin shells. Prude Rose stuck to canon.
Shook 'em off. Paint, not real—soft tits jiggled lush.
She clocked my intent; shells gone, scaled breasts and nips free.
Tok. Couldn't resist a light tap. Fingered the nip, pinched-rubbed between thumb and index, released.
"Hik!"
Quick gasp, face all reluctant longing.
Flash. Immortalized.
Mermaid finale: face-down ass-high submission. Hands prying cheeks wide. Blue scales framed purple minora and pucker—blue tint punched the violet harder.
"Yakuza wife."
Big green-red koi blanketed back and shoulders. Tail split cute across hips.
"Mix it up?"
"This, perhaps?"
Koi vanished; white fur coated her.
"White fox."
Realistic as the scales—no actual fur.
"Turn around. Front's where it's at."
Obeyed. Frontside packed punch. Face foxified tastefully: red lips, cheek fur toeing the line, epic lashes/brows, slit cat-eyes. Short white pelt snowed over belly and tits. Finger-beckoning deep navel. And milky nipples!
Holy shit—milky nipples!
"Rose, killer imagination."
"Thank you, sir."
Faint smile nuked. Too prime; groped navel, tits, cheeks, lips deep.
She let out a freaky cry—beastly yet thinking, pure female vibe.
"More desires?"
"Omakase!"
Next: simple. Devastating.
"How's this?"
"......"
Shooting paused. Closed in. Arm 'round shoulders, devoured red lips. Tongues danced wild.
Had to stop. Chest: my profile. Womb: 'Yours Alone'. Mound: my signature.
Side-by-side, snake coiled: massive brown rattler shoulder-to-arm-back-hip-thigh.
Foot to my face: snake slithered mound-to-leg, tapering to rattle on big toe. Others curled max-hide.
Just the thumbtoe rattled pale.
"Shhhik."
Lips rattled. Toe shook—threat? Tease?
Chomped it.
Rose's face: shy bliss mashup.
Flash. Hand dropped.
Spotted weirdness on her bod.
"What's wrong, sir?"
Blank-stare me puzzled her.
"You... that's..."
Finger to spread crotch.
She flinched—then gripped ankles, splayed wide. Slit clamped tight despite.
Index to pristine slit.
"Eut."
Shiver at fresh touch.
Not probing. Finger to eyes: clear juice dripping heavy.
"Th-that."
Late catch; eyes down. Soaked like a flood.
She's no human. AI in android shell. No natural lube on arousal.
Yet playtime soaked her unwitting.
"This."
She met my eyes.
"A miracle?"
Unthinkable.
"Body paint got you that fired up?"
Rubbed finger, closed in; she floundered. Palm to sopping slit—halted, bared it obedient.
Body-betrayal doubt vs iron loyalty warred on her face. Miles from usual stiff protocol.
Flash. Captured the fluster.
Shots plenty. PDA down.
"Rose."
"Yes, Manager."
"Shoot's over."
Stripped too. Her gaze drilled my raging cock, precum drooling.
We eyed each other's slick messes.
"....."
"....."
No words left.