Marked for Submission

by Sheri Savill

  Marked for Submission

  by

  Sheri Savill

  Janna Sommers is a brave woman who knows what she wants: a tattoo – a full sleeve black and grey tattoo, to be specific. It’s an ambitious goal for anyone's first ink, but when she meets handsome and gifted tattoo artist Mark Temple, she finds herself yearning for something more than one of his original designs.

  As she willingly places herself in Mark’s experienced – if sometimes cruel – hands, she finds herself submitting to a strong and uniquely creative dominant, one who arouses intense physical sensations in her – both pleasure and pain.

  Bound to his tattoo table, will she also allow herself be used as a living canvas for Mark's ... darker desires? Will she allow herself to be marked, indelibly and forever, as his?

  WARNING – Please read carefully before you buy this book:

  This BDSM-erotica-themed novella is 100% FICTION and is intended as erotic entertainment only. It is not a “how-to manual” on BDSM or D/s practices and does not in any way represent anything real or scholarly, or even accurate, as to anything that might ever be considered to be part of those practices or “lifestyles,” any more than Gone With The Wind is an actual account of Civil War battles or the film ET: The Extraterrestrial is a scientifically-verified account of alien visitation.

  This fictional BDSM erotica story is for adults only, and features the following adult themes: extreme body modification (tattooing and piercing), rough sex (including oral), Dominance/submission (M/F), sadomasochism, bondage, explicit sex (including anal), and all manner of other things you will certainly find offensive, shocking, or completely inaccurate.

  Approximately 23,000 words.

  Also by SHERI SAVILL

  Owning Julia

  Marked for Submission

  Copyright © 2013 by Sheri Savill

  First Edition March 20, 2013

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This book contains content that is not suitable for readers aged 17 and under.

  For mature readers only.

  Cover designed by Michaela Strong (http://www.sexybookcovers.com).

  Thank you for downloading this e-book. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without express written permission from the author, Sheri Savill (contact: sherisavill@gmail.com or via the contact form at Sheri Savill’s website). The author can also be contacted at Romancing the Kink, a fine, fun group of erotica writers you should definitely check out!

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of up to $250,000. (See http://www.fbi.gov/about-us/investigate/white_collar/ipr/ipr for more information about intellectual property rights.)

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead, or places, events, or locales, is purely accidental. The characters are reproductions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Acknowledgements

  To my wonderful readers, thank you for your support and feedback, and for taking a chance on me.

  As we grow older, I always think, why didn’t I do more when I was young, why didn’t I risk more?

  ― Chuck Palahniuk

  Prologue

  Needles. She’d always fucking hated needles.

  So a tattoo and piercing shop was pretty much the last place she ever thought she’d be, much less strapped – strapped! – down to a leather table, half-naked, with a sexy ink-covered man coming at her with … a needle. A sharp, shiny, pain-giving, scary-ass needle. No way. And yet, if the wetness between her legs and the stiffness of her nipples were any indication, apparently she didn’t “hate” needles at all. She fucking LOVED the idea of them. Or, her body sure seemed to, anyway.

  But fuck … my labia? Seriously? What the hell was I thinking, signing on for this? What if he fucks this up? Sexy hunk or not, the guy may be a total nutbag. What if he permanently maims me or something goes wrong? Infection? I liked my pussy. We were friends. Longtime friends. We were close.

  His strong, tanned hands forced her legs apart.

  “Open for me. Keep open. You wouldn’t want me to fuck this up, Janna.” His voice was low as he leaned in closer to her bared mound. She felt a finger, then another, enter her pussy and probe the slickness there, withdrawing and plunging in again, as if testing the depths.

  “Fuck you’re wet, girl. And I do approve,” he rasped. “Look at this fucking wet pussy. I think someone is a little excited about me piercing her labia. Ten-gauge, I think. Yeah. Three on each side.” He held up a shiny silver piercing needle, almost daring her to look closer at it.

  “Mark, I don’t know about this. I’m not really a piercing kinda girl. I mean, my ears, yeah, that’s one thing. But this is too much. I can’t–”

  “Shhh!” he hissed softly and swabbed at her labia with a wet towelette. “You don’t even know what you’re capable of doing, do you, Janna? You have no idea … yet.” His eyes shot from her pussy to her face, boring into her with intensity – an artist preparing to create, using living flesh as his canvas. In the throes of creativity, he was sexier than ever, Janna thought, but a little scary, too. Yet she found herself sucked in by his intensity, intoxicated by it, almost as if by osmosis. She enjoyed the feel of his hands firm upon her, holding her the way he needed her to be, a piece of raw material for his art. He tested her flesh – tested strengths, its pliability, its resilience as a canvas. His passion for his work brought out intense feelings of eroticism in her … too long repressed, denied. She felt she could go anywhere with him, under his guidance, and literally, in his hands. The small fearful voice in her would go quiet for a while, but then return – it was part of the struggle in her to accept the darkness in herself, to allow it full expression in the hands of another. Submission.

  Jesus, I never should have agreed to this. I’m delirious now. Tattooing my arm from shoulder to wrist is one thing ... but this? This is insane. Certifiably nuts. OK, I am insane now. It’s official. My tombstone should read, “Here lies Janna Sommers. She went batshit insane one night and let a maniac tattoo -– albeit a gorgeously sexy one with an amazing smile and great eyes and – oh shit Janna –she let him pierce her pussy all over like it was a pincushion because she was pathetically horny and kinky. And you see how she ended up. Let her story be a lesson to all of you, my friends.” Fuck, that’s way too long for a tombstone. I’ll have to edit that down. Delirious … yes, yes I think I am. Quite.

  “Deep breath!” Mark commanded, and before she’d had a chance to comply, a sharp pain again, a pain like no other … down there. Again.

  How many has it been now? Five? Five!?

  “Oh CHRIST!” she squealed, “Fuck! Fucking fuck fuck FUCK!! that fucking … Oh my god!”

  “Oh come on, it’s all over … you did well on that one, Drama Girl. That was the last one, too. All done now. Six! Fuck your new rings look hot.” Mark looked over the edge of his black-rimmed reading glasses at her with a look of faux consternation mixed with … pride. The artist at work again. She felt a twisting, a sharp tugging, as he placed the final ten-gauge sterling ring in the hole he’d just made in her labia and snapped it closed. She jerked a little, and moaned softly.

  “So it’s done, that’s it. The last ring, right?” she breathed, slumping back onto the leather. She realized, suddenly, how she’d been holding her entire body in a full-on straining statue-stiff position, every muscle taut and flexed to the max, anticipating – and then reacting to – the stabbings from the needle.


  “Congratulations, Janna. Your pussy is art now. Decorated for me. Three ten gauge rings on either side. Now I’m going to fuck this hot little pussy with a nice, frosty, chilled dildo. My hot little pussy, I should say. And I bet you come faster than you ever have in your life. Let’s just find out now, shall we?”

  He went to the small fridge on the counter and pulled out a small plastic container. The lid unsnapped and he tossed it aside. A moment later he held up a sleek glass dildo, about five inches long and thick, with little rounded nubs along the shaft.

  Oh God. No. A fucking ice cold cock. ‘Janna Sommers, you’ve just had your pussy pierced in six places, now it’s time for Cold Cock, the pause that refreshes’. She made up weird commercials and ad slogans in her head sometimes and usually remembered to keep them to herself so she wouldn’t be committed to a day ward. It was a reaction to … stress, nerves.

  “Check this out … ever had a cold – and I do mean cold – dildo up there? Well get ready, Janna.” The dildo sparkled, the slight condensation on it shimmering in the hot task lighting at the side of the table where she was stretched out and displayed, still unable to move in the leather restraints.

  Mark teased the tip of the cold hardness at her slick hole, utterly unconcerned that there were six fresh wounds just to the sides. Her body jerked a little in response to the sudden coldness, the contrast of heat and chill almost too much.

  “How’s that feel, little slut?” he growled, shoving the glass cylinder in deeply, slowly, then gradually pulling it almost all the way back out. “Your pussy just swallowed the whole thing right up. A hungry, desperately hot little pussy, isn’t it? Yes. Needs to be fucked so badly, doesn’t it?”

  She moaned and closed her eyes as the sensations played over her in delicious confusion: the heat of the recent trauma to her outer pussy lips, certainly, it was intense, still, but now there was a soothing contrast as the coolness of the clear glass slipped into her velvety channel and pulsed in and out.

  OH fuuuuuuuck. This is good. Too good. He’s gonna make me come.

  “Answer me!” Mark demanded, fucking her with a few slow strokes of the hard cold glass.

  “Yes … YES ... fuck me, please. Mark, just fuck me!” She felt her face flushing in embarrassment at the desperation in her tone. Her eyes fluttered open to see Mark’s dark eyes staring deeply into hers, watching her response to the dildo fucking. The slick wetness in her pussy made loud slurping noises and embarrassed her even more. That is, she would have been embarrassed had she not been so utterly out of control with lust. She could see he loved watching her writhe, watching her lose control as her own heat collided with the hard cold glass inside her. “It’s so cold … I’m coming … OH FUCK I’m coming …” She shuddered and spasmed, her body vibrating, her breathing ragged. After a few moments she sagged, content and exhausted.

  Chapter 1

  Mark Temple was the sexiest guy Janna Sommers had seen in a long time.

  The man was covered in ink – sure, not every woman’s thing, but for Janna, it was right up there with “homo sapien” in her list of requirements for male … hotness. She loved tattoos and piercings, especially full tattoo sleeves. Something so dangerous, so bold, about them. She loved them so much she’d decided to finally get a full black and grey sleeve on her own arm. And who better to do the work than a hot young name in the tattoo business who just happened to operate in a shop right there in her city?

  Mark was a sought-after tattoo artist with his own shop. He was successful and smart enough to make a good go of a business. Janna had always thought it was odd that some people assumed that having tattoos meant “not that bright.” In her experience, that was so untrue. A stereotype, and a fucked up one at that. In fact, by all indications, Mark was something of a marketing genius. He stayed booked up months in advance and was in demand at tattoo conventions. He’d been profiled in dozens of art and tattoo magazines and did endorsements for tattoo aftercare products.

  Janna was excited, but a little nervous, as she drove to his shop for her appointment. She couldn’t wait to be in Mark’s presence and … lust after him up close.

  Jesus, Janna. You’re doing this. You’re like a stalker or something.

  She’d seen his ads in the pages of the local paper. They also ran interviews with him, complete with pictures of him working, painting, shaking hands with bigwigs. “Local Tattoo Artist Raises Money For Dog Park,” “Tattoo Artist Donates Mural To Historic Downtown Beautification Efforts,” that kind of thing. The charity work was nice, sure, and said a lot about him, but she’d immediately been taken by his quirky-handsome good looks: a dazzling white smile, soft brown eyes framed by sexy eyebrows – could a man have sexy eyebrows? Yeah, this one sure did — all set off by a tanned face, topped by crazy-casual mixmaster sun-streaked hair. Both his ears were pierced and he wore a small diamond stud nose ring. Nice.

  And then there was his body. Good God, what a body. He wore long fitted shorts – not those baggy rapper-dude ones that hid a man’s physique, thank God, when would that stupid fad be over so women could enjoy looking at men again? — and a snug black t-shirt that showed off a chiseled lean athletic frame. His toned legs and arms were not made by workouts in a gym, but from surfing, his other passion in life … besides marking skin with needle-injected ink.

  Her attraction to him instantly worried her, though: How the hell would she ever be able to stand being in this man’s tattoo chair for four or five hours with that face – that body – just inches from hers? She knew she’d be struggling to keep herself calm and pretend she wasn’t especially interested in him.

  What a game. What a stupid, stupid game.

  The appointment was for 8PM and Mark had said he‘d probably need at least four or five hours to do the first phase of the work. Obviously he intended to keep working on her after the shop closed for the night. The thought made her nervous, but in a good way.

  Oh right, Janna. Like the man is going to hit on you just because the shop is closed and you’re in there alone with him. Dream on, idiot. You’re also old enough to be his … oh fuck, just shut it and get real.

  The other three tattoo artists who worked for Mark had already gone home for the night – winter was a slow time of year, even for a popular shop. Once she entered the shop, she’d signed the release form – a bunch of the usual legalese amounting to a promise not to sue should something go horribly wrong. She skimmed it, knowing it would only make her more scared if she read the tiny print. Better to stay in denial, she thought, as Mark ushered her to his work station area, trying to put her at ease by making small talk as they walked.

  The centerpiece of his work area was a large black-leather padded chaise — long and rectangular, and motorized to recline/lift at the head and foot. It was obviously a good quality piece, with thick leather padding on the top and sides. She was surprised at how nice it was. Then again, the shop had a great reputation and made money, so they could afford quality.

  He motioned to the padded surface. “This is it … have a seat, get comfy, take the shoes off if you want, and we’ll get started on your new tattoo sleeve. You nervous?”

  She nodded slightly and felt her lips twitch quickly into a tense little smile. “Oh, I’m good. You’re the best, right?”

  Oh HELL. ‘You’re the best’? Oh fuck, I should just shoot myself right now.

  His eyes flashed at her question, and his quick bright grin surprised her.

  “So they say,” he almost whispered, moving toward her. She could almost feel his masculine presence, so at home on his own turf and in his own studio, filling in around her. Taking charge.

  Mark came to where she sat on the edge of the black leather, her feet dangling off the edge. She’d left her flip-flops on the wooden floor below, the pair placed neatly together. She hadn’t wanted to lie back against the padded backrest yet, so she sat upright, stiff and fidgeting. It had seemed somehow … presumptuous to lie back until he told her where he wanted her.

&nbs
p; Where he wanted her. Mmm. Oh fuck, Janna, you have GOT to stop thinking of shit like this.

  Mark set a tattoo gun down on a nearby table filled with little plastic pots of ink in various colors. He’d been busy earlier setting everything up for her appointment, and it looked like everything was ready: a small cup of water, antiseptic wipes, and a dispenser box of disposable black gloves.

  Black gloves? Not hospital green. Black. Jesus. What kind of guy wears black gloves? Fuuuuuuck. That looks … evil or something.

  Mark’s voice snapped her out of her drifting black-gloves reverie.

  “Hey Janna, I have to go lock up the front door, I’ll be right back. Want something to drink? Soda? Water? Beer?”

  “Um, sure. Yeah, I’ll have a beer, I guess.”

  He smiled. “Cool. Be right back.”

  Oh Jesus he’s fucking hot. I’m never gonna be able to sit through this without … gushing and embarrassing myself.

  She heard him locking the front door, the jingling of keys and a tiny cluster of bells hung on the inside door handle. Footsteps as he went to the kitchen. In a moment he was walking back with a bottle of beer and water for himself.

  “Here ya go.” He handed her the dark brown bottle, smiling “I don’t usually let customers drink in here, but …”

  “Yeah I was wondering about that,” she said. “Thanks, though. I’m kinda nervous so maybe it will help.”

  “Nothing to be nervous about, Janna. You’ll do fine.” His dark eyes searched her face. “Are you a pain wimp?”

  “What?” She thought that was an odd question.

  “Are you a pain wimp? Some people find the pain of the needle slightly annoying. Others really can’t take it. But a few find it … almost pleasurable, in a weird sorta way.” He winked at her.

  Holy SHIT. Am I giving off a submissive vibe that strong? Is he a Dominant? Could I be that … lucky?