Caught Skinny-Dipping: Her Tattoo Artist Claims Me

The moon hung low and fat over the deserted stretch of private beach, silvering the gentle roll of the Pacific until the water looked like poured mercury. Sullivan sat on the damp sand with his knees drawn up, a half-empty bottle of cheap champagne sweating between his bare feet. He watched his wife the way a man watches a fire he knows will eventually burn the house down—fascinated, helpless, already half-hard in his shorts.

Hana was twenty-eight and built like every filthy daydream Sullivan had ever jerked off to and then felt guilty about. Long dark hair clung in wet ropes down her back. High, heavy tits that still sat proudly even without a bra. A narrow waist that flared into hips made for gripping. And right above the perfect twin globes of her ass, the tramp stamp Warrick had inked six months earlier: a pair of open, dripping lips with the words Property of curling underneath in elegant black script, the rest left blank like an invitation.

She had been restless all week. Sullivan’s soft cock and softer personality had finally worn through her patience. Tonight she simply stood up from the blanket, peeled the little white sundress over her head, and kicked her panties into the sand.

“I’m going in,” she said, voice low and throaty. “Watch me.”

Sullivan swallowed. “Hana—”

But she was already walking, completely naked, ass flexing with every step. Moonlight painted wet gleams down the cleft of her cheeks and across the smooth bare lips of her cunt. She didn’t look back. She just walked into the surf until the water kissed her thighs, then her hips, then closed over the dark patch of trimmed hair between her legs. When the first real wave slapped her, she laughed—a bright, filthy sound—and dove under.

Sullivan’s cock thickened against his thigh. He hated how much he loved this. Hana swimming naked while he sat useless on the shore like some eunuch chaperone. She surfaced farther out, water sluicing off her tits, nipples tight and dark. She floated on her back, legs lazily scissoring, giving him long, unobstructed flashes of her open pussy every time a swell lifted her.

That was when the second set of footprints appeared in the sand to Sullivan’s left.

Warrick walked like he owned the shoreline. Six-four, shoulders carved from concrete, every inch of visible skin from collarbone to wrist covered in dense blackwork—snakes, daggers, a snarling wolf, Japanese waves that flexed when he moved. He wore only board shorts low on his hips. The V-cut of muscle disappearing into the waistband looked illegal. His dark hair was still damp from a shower; the scent of cedar and ink soap drifted over on the breeze.

He stopped ten feet from Sullivan and stared straight at Hana’s floating body.

“Well fuck me,” Warrick said, voice a low gravel scrape. “Didn’t know the private beach came with floor shows.”

Sullivan’s stomach dropped. “That’s my wife.”

Warrick’s mouth curved, slow and knowing. “I know exactly who she is. I spent four hours with my hands on that ass last fall. Tramp stamp still look good, Sullivan?”

Hana had spotted them. She stood in chest-deep water, arms crossed under her tits so they spilled over, and she made no move to cover herself. Her eyes locked on Warrick the way a cat locks on a can of tuna.

“Warrick?” Her laugh was pure heat. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Cabin up the bluff. Needed air.” His gaze dragged openly down her wet body—tits, the faint outline of her ribs, the water lapping at the tops of her thighs. “Looks like you did too.”

Hana swam closer until she could stand, water running in rivulets between her breasts and down the soft plane of her belly. She didn’t even glance at her husband. “Sullivan’s been boring me to death. I needed to feel something.”

Warrick stepped into the shallows without invitation. The surf foamed around his calves. “Come all the way out and show me the piece I did.”

Sullivan’s throat closed. “Hana, maybe put something—”

She ignored him completely. She walked out of the ocean naked and gleaming, every curve shiny with salt water, cunt lips puffy and slightly parted from the cool water. She stopped three feet in front of Warrick, turned slowly, and presented her lower back.

The tramp stamp sat perfect above her ass crack, the blank Property of waiting like a signature line. Water beaded on the ink and rolled down into the cleft between her cheeks.