Misha & Misty II
"Well, boys," Misha says, "thanks for the warm-up. But we've got places to be."
She grabs my hand, her fingers lacing with mine, sticky and warm. She drags me out of the bathroom, past the thumping bass of the frat party, and into the street lamp night.
"Where are we going?" I ask, breathless, stumbling slightly in my sneakers as we hurry down the sidewalk.
"To get branded," Misha grins, squeezing my hand.
"We made a pact, remember? No more good girls. We need to wear it."
We end up at a place called 'Ink & Iron', a few blocks off campus. The neon sign buzzes with a menacing red glow, then flickers like a dying heartbeat.
Inside, the smell of antiseptic cuts through the underlying scent of tobacco and leather. Behind the counter are two girls who look like they walked straight out of a riot grrrl band poster.
One is tall, with a shaved head on the sides and a long, teal-dyed mohawk, her lip pierced multiple times. The other is shorter, curvier, with jet-black hair chopped in a jagged bob and heavy eyeliner that makes her eyes look like endless pits.
They're both decked out in ripped fishnets and band tees, looking at us with a mixture of boredom and intrigue.
"We need matching tattoos," Misha announces, throwing her card on the counter.
"Below the navel. One word. 'Tramp'."
The teal-haired girl, whose name tag says 'Vixen', raises an eyebrow.
"Bold choice for a Tuesday night."
"We're making up for lost time," Misha says, unbuttoning her jeans right there in the middle of the shop.
"You in, Misty?"
I look at the needle gun resting on the tray, then at Misha's defiant, freckled face. The fear is there, a cold knot in my stomach, but the heat from the bathroom is still burning under my skin.
I nod, pulling my own waistband down low enough to reveal the soft, pale skin just below my belly button.
"Let's do it."
The buzzing of the gun is a high-pitched whine that vibrates against my pelvic bone. It hurts—a sharp, scratching burning sensation—but I don't pull away. I watch the ink bleed into my skin, permanently marking me.
Misha holds my hand the entire time, her grip tightening every time the needle digs in. When Vixen wipes away the excess ink, the word is stark and jagged.
Tramp.
We stand up, admiring the fresh, angry red lines in the mirror. My panties are still damp from the bathroom, and the adrenaline is making my head spin. Misha looks at herself, then at Vixen and her silent partner, Raven.
The air in the shop shifts, charged with something sudden and decidedly naughty, a hint of smutty.
"What the hell?" Misha breathes out, the words barely audible before she acts.
She turns to Vixen, grabs the back of her neck, and pulls her in.
The kiss is messy, aggressive—a clash of teeth and tongues.
Vixen doesn't push away; she purrs low in her throat, her hands immediately going to Misha's waist, hauling her closer.
I stand there for a second, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped dove.
Raven looks at me, her dark eyes smouldering.
She steps closer, the scent of clove cigarettes and vanilla hitting me.
She doesn't ask; she just takes. Her hand slides up my side, under my sweater, finding my breast. Her touch is decisive, firm and totally possessive.
"You're trembling," Raven murmurs against my mouth before she kisses me.
Her lips are soft, but the kiss is demanding, tasting of spearmint and sin.
I melt into it, my hands tangling in her jagged black hair. The four of us are a tangle of limbs and breath in the middle of the tattoo shop.
Misha breaks away from Vixen long enough to look at me, her face flushed, her lipstick smeared.
"Touch her, Misty," she commands, her voice thick with lust. "Don't think. Just feel."
I don't need to be told twice. My hand finds Raven's chest, squeezing her heavy breast through the fabric of her t-shirt. She moans into my mouth, a vibration that shoots straight down to my expanding clit.
Meanwhile, Vixen has Misha backed up against the counter, her hand roughly palming Misha's small tit, pinching the nipple through the thin sweater.
"Fuck, yes," Misha hisses, her head falling back. "Harder."
The shop fills with the wet sounds of kissing and the rustle of clothes.
Pashy slurps. Pashy mwah's! Snogging; overlapping, glossy, mussy lips. Searching, searching, intertwined, fixated tongues.
Pash!
Pash!
Raven pushes me backward until I hit the leather tattoo chair. She climbs on top of me, straddling my hips. Her hand dives under the waistband of my skinny jeans, bypassing the fabric of my panties to find my dripping cunt.
Fuck! There is no room for her hand, but her fingers find my slit.
"So wet," she purrs, her fingers sliding through my folds.
"Did those frat boys do this, or is it the ink?"
"It's you," I gasp, my hips bucking against her hand.
"Ah… your fingers are so sexy, so curling… ah!"
She sinks two fingers deep inside me, coiling them upward to hit that spot that makes all the ink designs on the wall blur.
"You like that, you little tramp?"
"Yes! Yes! Fuck, yes!" I cry out, the words feeling foreign and liberating on my tongue.
Beside us, Vixen has Misha's jeans pulled down just past her hips, her panty lace shoved to the side.
She is fucking Misha with the same ruthless rhythm, their bodies slapping together.
"Look at us," Misha moans, her eyes locking onto mine.
"We're fucking disgusting. I love it."
The pleasure builds, a tight coil in my belly. Raven's thumb finds my clit, rubbing tight, strong, petite circles.
I can hear the wet squelch of her fingers pumping into me, mixing with Misha's breathless whimpers.
"I… I can't stand it," I pant, my nails digging into Raven's shoulders.
"I'm about to cum! Help! Ah… ow!"
The pressure snaps. I arch my back, a scream tearing from my throat as my pussy clamps down around Raven's fingers.
"Oohh! Oohh! Aahh!"
I gush, soaking her hand and my panties, the release violent and overwhelming.
Beside me, Misha is convulsing, her own orgasm ripping through her as Vixen whispers filthy praise in her ear.
We collapse, a heap of sweaty, satisfied bodies, the smell of sex and ink heavy in the air.
I look down at the fresh tattoo on my stomach, the word 'tramp' glistening slightly with sweat.
It doesn't look like a mistake anymore. It looks like a promise kept.
Misha reaches over, her fingers brushing against my hand, and in that touch, I feel a bond that goes deeper than blood or ink—a shared, beautiful descent into the domain of shared sexual exploration.