by Nikki Chase
When I first got it, I loved it. Even though the design was cutesy, I thought the inherent bad-ass quality of being tattooed would give me a little street cred before I went to college.
It also reminded me of a particularly naughty night when I’d had my first one-night stand. With a tattoo artist, no less.
Somehow, a little bit of ink made me feel powerful, like I was in control. It felt pretty bad-ass for a while.
Until my brother, in his usual non-confrontative way, gave me a little lesson.
“Peter, are you seriously doing this?” I asked incredulously. “This is so uncool.”
“If you think being uncool is a deterrent for me … think again.” Peter chuckled like he was a villain in a superhero movie. He didn’t even slow his pace as he headed straight for the tattoo parlor where I’d gotten inked the previous week.
“You can’t do this,” I protested as I scampered past the colorful display window of a toy shop to catch up to him.
“I’m going to repeat to you what my very grown-up sister told me this morning: ‘I’m an adult, and you can’t tell me what to do.’”
Okay, maybe I’d been feeling smothered by Peter’s overprotective ways. He was doing a great job at being both my mom and my dad, but what can I say? I was technically an adult, but as an eighteen-year-old, I was still technically a teenager, too.
I laughed nervously. “That seems like a rather … black-and-white way of looking at things, don’t you think?” I asked in a desperate attempt to sway his mind, even though I knew I wasn’t going to. “There’s room for compromise between adults, isn’t there?”
“Nope,” Peter cackled. “You’re new to this whole adulting thing so let me tell you something: everyone around you can do whatever they want, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“I agree completely,” I said quickly. “Lesson learned.” I put my hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Great parenting, Peter. Well done. Let’s go home now.”
Peter stopped in his tracks—had I touched a nerve?
He stared at me quietly for a few anxious seconds before he burst into laughter.
Yeah, probably not.
“This is the single highest point of my experience raising you in the past five years,” Peter said. “This is happening.”
When we entered the tattoo parlor, Luca raised a questioning eyebrow at me. To Peter, he asked, “She’s eighteen, right? I checked her ID.”
As far as I knew, he’d never talked to my brother before. But Ashbourne was a small town, and everybody knew of everybody else’s existence.
“Yeah, I’m not here to cause any trouble,” Peter said. “I just like your work, and I want the exact same tattoo you gave my sister, in the exact same spot.”
Luca’s stare flicked between Peter and me until he finally chuckled. Shaking his head, he said, “Sure.”
And so, for the next half hour, I had to sit there and watch as Luca inked Peter. There was only one tattoo table in the shop—the one Peter was sitting on was the same one I’d gotten fucked on.
My brother had crazy ideas. But I’ll have to admit this particular one worked.
Before he got a matching tattoo, I wanted to get a full sleeve or even a massive, yakuza-style piece on my entire back.
After? Just hearing the whirr of a tattoo gun reminded me of his stunt and … I mean, I didn’t want him to also match my magnificent back piece and make me hate it.
So yes, I swore off tattoos forever. I even swore off the sexy artist who’d inked me.
Peter stole both from me, but it wasn’t like I was angry at him. I was glad he’d found a friend right before I had to leave for college, and I didn’t want to ruin it for him. Since Dad’s death, Peter had sacrificed so much for me already.
Besides, it wasn’t like I was dying for another round with Luca. Yes, I liked him, but I was also leaving town for college soon. I’d told him it was just going to be a one-time thing.
At that age, though, I could’ve been persuaded to do it again, especially by someone as hot as Luca.
But now, I’m more careful. Methodical.
I don’t ever sleep with a guy more than once, and I make sure he’s not related to anyone I know. Just finding a stranger in this town would be a challenge, but there are always drifters passing through, and I’m willing to travel for the right guy.
I get up from the couch and straighten my legs. Walking across the living room, I draw the curtain aside and peer through the window.
There’s a lone form right outside. My heart skips a beat—could that be one of the junkies Luca mentioned today?
Peter never mentioned any trouble with drug users. But then again, he also insisted he was fine and told me not to come home because he was “just a little sick.”
Liar.
I lean forward until my forehead sticks against the glass, letting my shadow cover the faint reflection of my living room.
It’s Luca.
He still likes to run shirtless, I see.
He has his back to me, which means I can gawk at him to my heart’s content.
Luca treats his skin like a canvas, covering it with black, green, and red ink. He once told me every single piece was etched into his flesh either by a close friend, or by a famous tattoo artist at one of the conventions he frequented.
His tattoos seem to dance under the yellow street lights now, rippling as his body strains to maintain his steady, controlled pace.
I remember doing just this when I was a young, impressionable teenager. I’d run to the window at the sound of heavy sneakers pounding the pavement outside. On my luckier days, I’d see Luca outside, his upper body bared for me to see.
Not for the first time, I praise the god who sculpted that body into life. I’m not religious, but damn … the strong lines of his body, the ropes of muscles underneath his skin, the curve of his ass … Luca could convert a girl into a believer.
I lick my lips, wishing I could lick the salty sweat off his skin instead.
I don’t need to see him from the front to know he still has those glorious six-pack abs on that lean body. And I know his sweatpants hang low enough to expose the V-shaped ridge stretching from his hips down to his bulge, which no doubt is also outlined by the soft fabric.
I imagine myself on my knees, rubbing my face against his package, my cheek brushing over the soft cotton that covers the hot, hard man meat underneath. I’d worship that cock and let him toss me around, do whatever he wants to me, use whichever hole he wants.
Except, Luca’s off-limits.
Yes, my brother’s gone now, and there’s no friendship for me to potentially wreck. But, I don’t need any complications. And I don’t want him to feel like he has to step in and be Peter’s replacement, now that I’m on my own.
If it’s a warm body I need, I can get it elsewhere. I’ve just been so busy making funeral arrangements I haven’t had a chance to try.
I was planning to spend the night researching how security systems work and which companies to call in the morning, but the tingling between my legs demands my attention right now.
The past few days—no, weeks—have been rough. And I need some release.
I can’t get that from Luca. I have very … particular tastes now.
No matter how hot it was when Luca screwed eighteen-year-old me, that wouldn’t be enough to scratch this itch.
No, I need something darker. Something more dangerous. I need a bigger thrill to satisfy this craving.
I watch Luca until he disappears into the darkness. I think he might’ve turned his head around to look at me at some point, but that’s probably just my imagination.
Letting the curtain close, I walk back to the couch and make myself comfortable, sprawling back and pulling my legs up onto the cushion.
The browser on my phone displays the Google search results for “veterinary security.” That can wait.
I open a new tab and start to type the URL. As soon as I enter the letter “k,” a bunch
of drop-down options appear at the top of the screen. I tap on the top one, and a familiar page loads.
As I write my post, dark desires fill my chest thickly, almost choking me with their intensity. It only makes me hope someone will choke me for real. Just thinking about it makes my core clench. I can feel wetness leaking out of me, pooling in my panties.
I smirk as I click the “submit” button—normal verbiage for websites these days, but it takes on a new meaning here.
A chill runs down my arms.
It’s been so long since I indulged. I’ve actually been clean for a couple of years now, but I guess I don’t have what it takes to deal with my brother’s death and also keep my addiction under control.
Based on past experience, it shouldn’t take long now until I get a response from someone.
I’m not choosy. Anyone will do, as long as he’s willing to act out my fantasy.
Luca
Jesus.
When I installed the monitoring equipment at the clinic, I didn’t expect to stumble upon something like this.
This is a landmine I’m stepping on by accident. This is a nuclear bomb.
It’s not clear yet if it’s going to blow me into pieces, though. I hope it won’t.
But it’s not like I have a choice. There’s no time to think. I have to jump into action now.
I lean forward, closer to my computer screen.
There’s no mistaking it. That’s her. She has a quarter-sized birthmark at the top of her left thigh, and a dark spot at the very top of her lower lips, right on the hood of her clit.
I remember because I must’ve had my face on that pussy for a solid half hour. She tasted so sweet. Also, with her spread on my table like that, I didn’t even have to strain my neck to eat her out.
No doubt about it. That’s Sarah on the screen—her dainty feet, her long legs, her flared hips, her perky tits, and her seductive, full lips. I can’t see the part of her face above those lips, but it’s like I’m staring at Clark Kent’s dumb glasses and wondering, why the fuck haven’t people realized you’re Superman yet?
Holy fucking… is she stupid? Why would she put herself at risk like that?
As I pull away from the bright screen, my cock stirs in my boxers, despite the storm raging in my chest.
What the fuck is this?
Am I concerned for a friend’s sister? Am I lusting after an old lover? Am I exhilarated to find a kindred spirit, a fellow broken soul, a damaged, beautiful body for me to ruin?
Yes, yes, and yes.
Talk about confusing.
My heart pounds as hard as it did when I was in the middle of my run. My dick pulses to the same rhythm.
I re-read the text that accompanies the pictures Sarah’s posted.
Username: RealLifeDoll
Sarah’s pretty as a doll, but that’s not what she means here. Not on a site called “KinkChat.”
If that username leaves any doubt, the next couple of lines offer some clarification.
Description: Female Slave
Seeking: Dominant Male
Blood rushes to my cock, making it twitch and strain against cotton. Keeping the monster inside me caged was easy when Peter was still around and Sarah was living in the city. Now that he’s gone, and I find out she needs a master, my self-control is quickly eroding.
I imagine her kneeling in front of me, my fist in her hair while I fuck her face. Or maybe I’d bend her over and fuck her in the ass while she stares at her own reflection in a mirror, confronting her shame. I could also tie her up to my bed posts and repeatedly tease her to the brink of orgasm before leaving her alone, frustrated and helpless.
I can almost hear her begging me to make her come, her voice soaked with desire and desperation.
So many things I could do with a girl—no, a woman—like Sarah.
But … no. No. I can’t.
I promised Peter I’d take care of her. And I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean in that way.
City:
State:
At least she’s smart enough not to post her location. With the kind of pictures she’s posted, I’m sure she gets messages from all over the country anyway.
My chest burns, but not the kind I get when I really exert myself during a run. It’s blazing hot, and it makes me want to grab my computer monitor and smash it against the floor. I want to destroy those pictures—but not before I save them to my own memory. I want her nakedness for myself.
What the fuck am I thinking? What is wrong with me?
That’s not the plan. The plan is to keep an eye on her until I make sure Peter’s secret is safe.
I read on.
I’m ready to be your doll if you want me. You can tie me up, shove me down, and do anything you want to me. Push me around, and I’ll worship you. Treat me like an object that exists purely for your pleasure, and everything I am is yours.
I only have one condition. Throw me out after one use. Consider me a disposable sex toy.
Send me a message if you’re interested.
How the fuck am I supposed to just stay still and do nothing when she posts something like that on the Internet for the whole world to see? That’s a literal invitation for any random Joe not just to fuck her, but to fuck her up.
I can’t pretend my outrage has a noble cause, though, because my cock is hard as stone. It’s tenting the front of my boxers.
I want her for myself.
But that wouldn’t be right. The depths of depravity inside me … I can’t do those things to Sarah. She says she wants it now, but what if she changes her mind? What if I push her so far over the edge that I permanently damage something inside her?
Sure, maybe it’ll be fine, but what if it won’t?
If I were to inflict that kind of pain on Sarah, I wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt. Peter’s ghost would haunt me for the rest of my life.
Still, I can’t let her do this, can I? It’s dangerous. She could meet an axe murderer. Or more likely, she could meet a sadistic master who goes too far—that’s almost just as bad.
I can’t just sit by and watch while the pale paws of sedentary Internet weirdos dirty her up, can I?
I can stop Sarah. Peter would’ve wanted me to do that.
A cynical voice inside me accuses, you’re just jealous because you can’t have her all to yourself.
Well, maybe so. But this counts as taking care of Sarah, right? That was what Peter wanted. He wrote it down and everything.
Yes.
I’ll do this.
I sit upright and grab the mouse, then click the “Private Message” button.
Oh, little Sarah Ellis. Looks like you’re all grown up. If only we could play some adult games together, doll.
Sarah
I sift through my messages.
I just posted two hours ago, and I’m already getting tons of messages. But that’s not necessarily a good thing. This is the main problem with online platforms like this.
Somehow, the women always end up getting tons of abhorrently stupid messages from men who seemingly haven’t evolved much past the grunting-caveman phase. Their heys and you’re prettys are the modern equivalent of Stone Age grunts. As people often say about online dating: the odds are good, but the goods are odd.
Maybe I shouldn’t be so picky; I’ll only see the guy once, after all. But if I’m going to do this after such a long absence, I’m going to do it right.
I almost give up, but there’s just a handful of messages to go through before I can go back to the unbeatably exciting activity of researching security companies.
Next one is by someone who calls himself PuppetMaster. Interesting username.
I tap the screen to view the entire message.
I’ve been looking for someone—or rather, something—like you. An object for me to use and abuse.
Good start, but that’s basically what I said in my profile. He just had to copy some of the text and paste it into his message. It’s not super original.
And you’ve been looking for someone like me. You just don’t know it yet.
Hmm … A little cocky, are we? Depending on the guy, that can be a good thing or a bad thing. If he can’t pull it off, it falls flat, and that’s just embarrassing for everyone.
Let me guess. Nice guys have been hitting you up, asking you how your day’s been, telling you to meet up with them for a good time.
Yup. That’s just par for the course for any site like this, though.
But that’s not what you want, is it?
Nope.
Let me tell you exactly what you want.
Okay, try me.
You want someone who doesn’t care if you’ll have a good time.
I can’t deny that sounds hot.
You want someone who’s only interested in his own pleasure; that’s what really gets you going.
Yes. To me, lust is meant to be self-serving. Imagine a lover who derives no pleasure from having sex with you—not sexy, right? I want a man whose desire for me is all-consuming, to the point where he’ll hurt me to get what he wants.
But that’s not all it takes. He also needs to know my limits.
You want someone who takes his liberties with you, and all you need in return is the reassurance that you’ll be unharmed by the end of it.
Whoa. It’s like this guy read my mind.
With the exception of a few marks and bruises.
I smile. Yes. I love it when men brand me with their desire, when their craving drives them to manic possession, when they put a warning on my flesh to tell others to stay away.
Of course that’s the fantasy part of it. I’m not really going to belong to any of these guys. As dangerous as this sounds, it’s only role play, no different from when nerds dress up as superheroes.
You know you want to hit that “Reply” button, doll.
With a first message like that? I definitely do. The way he calls me “doll” makes me instantly imagine an authoritative voice talking to me—deep, baritone, and cocksure.
Wow. And I thought pickings were slim in this town. But this guy is smooth as peanut butter.
Still, it could be a canned response. Maybe he sends that same message to all the girls on the site. It is a kinky site. It’s not hard to guess what submissive women want.
