by Sheri Savill
She flushed and looked down at her dangling bare feet. Her toenails were manicured in her favorite black nail polish.
“Oh … um …” She exhaled a breathy laugh before continuing. “I’m not sure actually … I–”
“OK, lie back, both legs and feet up … and lean back.” He tapped a tattooed hand on the leather backrest. Not impatient, exactly, but … something about his tone caught her up short. It was the tone of a man in charge, a man used to giving orders. She quickly swung her legs up onto the leather and stretched out, feeling her back and head lower a little to the padded backrest’s forty-five degree angle.
Oh yeah, just like sitting in a poolside chaise only there’s a hunky tattooed guy hovering nearby and I’m so horny I could scream.
XM radio was on, playing low in the background, set to a 90s alternative rock channel. It helped her feel more comfortable, as Mark sat on a stool at her side and angled a gooseneck work lamp over her arm while pulling on a pair of the evil matte-black latex gloves. He examined the large rounded stencil he’d made of the first large area of the design he’d drawn custom for her, holding it up and turning it slowly. The stencil would be transferred to her skin – to serve as a temporary outline in bright blue lines that would wipe off easily as he applied ink.
He looked closely at her arm, then again at the stencil in his hand, then back at her arm, and affected a … confused expression, tilting his head at her.
“Which arm are we doing again? What part of which arm?” he asked.
“Right arm, dammit – the whole arm, a full sleeve, starting at the top,” she shot back, laughing. “You’re pretty much driving me insane, you know ….”
“I am?” Mark’s eyebrow arched up. “Good, because, you know, that’s my plan.”
Cute. Definitely cute.
He carefully positioned the delicate tracing paper of the stencil so it encircled her entire upper arm area and then worked gently, smoothing over the top of the thin paper with a damp cloth so that every line, every tiny detail of his drawing transferred evenly, clearly, onto her skin. The transfer looked perfect and Mark leaned back to admire it and check it again for position, blotting off a little excess water drops here and there with a dry cloth.
“Yeah. You’re making me … nervous … for some reason.”
He leaned in so close she felt his breath on her ear. “And why is that?” he whispered. “You afraid of me or something?”
She couldn’t even look at him. She kept her head facing forward and stared down toward her feet like a nerdy schoolgirl being asked to dance.
Oh God, this man is just … unnerving as hell. What is he doing to me?
“No, um, it’s not that … exactly,” she began, “It’s more, you know, just being on this table, with you zapping me with a needle for five hours. I feel like I oughta be strapped down, like some interrogation scene in a weird movie.”
Jesus, could I BE any more idiotic?
Mark was still at her ear. She felt the blood pumping in her head, her breathing shallow, faster. A strong black latex-covered hand encircled her upper arm, the pressure an insistent, almost possessive, squeeze.
“Would you like to be interrogated? Because that could definitely be arranged, Janna.” The almost matter-of-fact way he said it made her face feel even hotter. He wasn’t kidding. Or was he?
“I– well, I guess? I don’t know–,” she said. Her pussy clenched at his voice so close to her ear. She knew she’s always gotten off on commanding male Dominant voices, especially when the guy knew how to use just his voice, his tone, to make her obedient. Wet. Some guys seemed to know about this need that submissive women had and used it to great effect; so far Mark was doing everything just right.
Damn him. I’m getting turned on just having him this close. Interrogate me? Yes. Hell yes. God what is WRONG with me? I just met him. But he just seems so right.
“Ohhh, look. Now someone’s really blushing …” Lips, a hint of stubble on her neck. She felt his hand grab a big handful of her hair near the base of her neck, using it to pull her head a little toward his, asserting control. His tongue shot out and tasted her earlobe, sending a million nerve-endings into … hot chaos. She couldn’t breathe.
“… No, Mark,” she started.
Oh right, Janna. Do one of those weak little faux-complaints. Like the heroine in a romance novel does? After she’s teased and batted her eyelashes at the hunky hero for days, and now he’s finally insane with lust and about to give her what she wants and needs and she says, ‘No! I can’t!’. So fucking corny! You know damned well you want him to dominate you in whatever way he wants. You’ve had your eye on him for a while, you planned this. Such a slut.
He was up suddenly, kicking at a pedal under the table. Janna heard an electric buzz and felt her entire upper body lowering until it was at a 30-degree angle, just vertical enough to see in front of her, a reclining posture. A gloved hand squeezed the bare skin of her right knee, then slid slowly down the front of her leg to her ankle. Another hand circled her other ankle, and for a moment she felt a strong squeeze, a firm tug, as both his gloved hands tested his hold on her ankles.
Is that a smirk on his face? Maybe he’s trying to see if I’ll stop him. I know I should, but I won’t. Jesus he’s fucking hot.
He released one ankle and reached under the table, pulling up a thick black leather strap. It was attached to the underside of table but she hadn’t seen it before.
“Can you trust me?” he asked. “I’d also like to pierce you while you’re here.”
She felt her face heat. “Pierce me?”
“Yes,” he said. “Genital piercings ... you mentioned earlier you were interested in those. I’m a licensed piercer, too. You could come back some other time and get my regular piercing girl to do it, but I’m here now, so you may as well let me do it for you while you’re on my table. Just get it all over with now. Easier. So, again, do you trust me, Janna?”
She wasn’t sure how to answer. She wanted to trust him. She liked him, sensed something about him that made her want to trust him fully. Plus she was already turned on.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
Chapter 2
He’d often thought about the intensely personal nature of the tattooing business, and how it brought things out in people. Things they sometimes tried to keep hidden. The more ink someone got on their body, the more they had to heal, maybe to hide. It was a theory he had, anyway. So far he had to admit that the theory seemed to be hit and miss, but he had plenty more time to work out the details. Plenty of time with clients in various states of undress, exposing their flesh to him, wanting him to mark them forever, for reasons only they really understood. His job, as he saw it, was to listen, to understand their vision, their idea – and give them the best artwork he could.
Tattooing someone more personal, he believed, than most visits to a doctor. There was something about being under the needle for long hours, undergoing the sometimes intense physical discomfort, at the hands of someone who is basically a totally stranger, that could make a person reveal things about themselves that they normally wouldn’t. At least, that had been his experience over the seventeen years he’d been tattooing.
He saw his job as part counselor, part artist. He figured he was a pretty good listener after all these years. He didn’t judge, he just accepted, and found that people really did have the same hopes and fears, and they really did all want pretty much the same things in life. Some people wanted tattoos for fun, or as a pretty design, or even to cover up a bad design, but a lot of others – the most interesting clients – wanted tattoos that reflected personal struggles or meaningful events in their lives. Desires. Changes. Loss. Love. Pain.
Janna Sommers. Hmm, wonder what her story is? I guess I’ll find out soon enough, because a full-sleeve tattoo is going to take me at least two full nights of work on her. Fuck she’s gorgeous. Dude, keep your mind on the art.
He could tell from something in her manner, somet
hing in her quietness, that she’d been hurt – and badly – by someone important to her. He knew because he’d been hurt too.
Kristie. He still couldn’t think of her without darkening. She’d been his submissive, his girlfriend, and she had cheated on him … what was it now? four years ago? five? The wound was still there – scarred up, inked over, to be sure – but still there. He’d learned to stop analyzing what had gone wrong and just accept reality: she’d cheated on him with some asshole who sold supplies for tattoo shop, and when confronted, she’d said it meant nothing and they tried to make it work.
But things never went back to the way they were. They couldn’t. And it wasn’t her; it was him. He couldn’t go back. Macho Mark, covered head to toe in badass ink, had been hurt. So he’d thrown himself into work and made his shop the best it could be, the priority in his life. And Workaholic Mark had no time for women anymore unless they were customers, and even then, he tended to throw them to one of the other artists in the shop rather than work on them himself.
Janna Sommers. Who the hell is she? There’s something about her. A submissiveness? Nah, you’re working too hard, dude, not enough sleep, breathing in too much incense. You can’t fucking tell which women are submissive just by the way they are with you, after only a few minutes on your table. Asshole. Just a wishful-thinking asshole.
Chapter 3
Janna found the idea of being inked, permanently altered – by a stranger , no less – to be a thrilling idea. Granted, Mark was a respected and talented artist – a design school graduate – but still – he was a stranger, a man she didn’t know at all, and would probably never know, apart from this experience. And she was giving this stranger irrevocable permission to alter her forever. She would be wearing a work of his created just for her, and it would always be there.
The thought of that excited her. She wondered if “regular” women – women who weren’t submissives – thought of it this way, almost as a branding. She felt that the ink he would put on her skin, into her skin, would always be a bond between the two of them. Crazy as that might seem. She realized that no matter where she went in life, what she did, who she met … Mark’s art, his hand, his vision, in a sense, would always be part of her. She found the idea exhilarating, and a little dangerous. Sexy. And every time she thought of it, really thought about it, she was turned on all over again and her pussy clenched.
You’ve done some crazy shit in your life, Janna, but this may be the craziest yet. Jesus, you’re actually going to let this guy strap you to a table? And ink your entire arm for hours and hours of pain? Yes, you actually are going to let him do it, aren’t you? What a slut.
Mark’s dark gaze from the end of the table mesmerized her, made her feel … instantly compliant. As if she had no real choice anymore.
His hands held both of her ankles, the pressure steady, strong, totally confident.
“OK,” she said. “Yes. I trust you.”
“Good.” A sly smile spread across his lips. “First thing is, if you want to stop at any time, you tell me ‘stop’ and it’s over. Got it?”
“All right.”
Mark pulled each ankle outward, spreading her legs, and then cinched a black leather strap over each and pulled it tight. Her ankles were now about four feet apart, actually putting her feet off the edges of the table and making her feel very … exposed. And turned on again. He moved past her and came to stand behind her at the head of the table, where she couldn’t see his face. Then he leaned down to whisper over the top of her head. The lamp glared. The heat radiated. It made her pussy wet just hearing his low, calm, voice that close.
“I’m going to bind your arms back, Janna,” he said. “To keep you … still. I don’t want you moving at all while I work on you.”
“OK,” she said, quietly.
“And, no matter what, you don’t talk unless I ask you something. Got that?”
“Yes.”
She heard a drawer open in the cabinet behind her somewhere and resisted the urge to even try to turn her head to see what he was doing. She heard a rustling and then a drawer slid shut.
“Arm up,” he commanded. He waited.
Unsure, she started to lift her right arm. He impatiently grabbed her wrist and she felt him pull her entire arm up over her head and back, even as he was careful not to disturb the set in stenciled area surrounding her upper arm.
What the fuck is he doing? Oh God, I don’t know about this.
“Give me the other one,” his voice came from behind her head, slightly above. She slowly raised her other arm and he grabbed it, roughly. She felt a thick leather cuff being pulled tightly around each wrist, and then heard a click – a metal clasp? – binding each cuffed wrist to the other above her head.
“Mark, I don’t know–”
“Quiet now,” he almost whispered. “No talking, remember? I’m in charge. You want this, you know you do. I bet your pussy is already wet, isn’t it?”
She couldn’t think. She felt him pulling her cuffed wrists back and downward, so that her upper arms were now close to her ears, her elbows bent, her wrists resting near the top of her head and back a little. The position made her breasts jut out obscenely. She glanced down, felt her face heat at the sight of her stiff nipples in the white tank top she’d worn.
Oh yeah, great planning there, Janna. You specifically wore a white tank top so he could work on your arm without you having to get undressed at all, and now you’re letting the guy cuff you and strap you to a table with your wrists behind your neck and your tits are sticking out like a slut. Yeah, good call.
“Don’t move your arms from where they are now, understand me?” he said.
She nodded.
He was at the side of the table looking down at her. His gloved hand found the waistband of her black shorts and tugged at them roughly. Sharp, short, tugs, until they were bunched down at her mid-thigh, exposing her. As he tugged the shorts down, she inhaled sharply – excited, alert. She wore a black thong and he stood still for a moment, just staring at it, at her crotch, without blinking. The corners of his lips turned upwards slightly.
What’s that look for? Like he just thought of something diabolical. Oh man, I am so fucked.
He reached into the top drawer in a small rolling side table and pulled out a pair of orange-handled scissors.
Oh my God. He can’t be serious.
“Sorry but the thong has to go, girl,” he said.
Her breath came in shallow pants as a gloved hand palmed her pussy and squeezed briefly, then released and moved to the sides of her silky thong. He slipped a finger up under the fabric, raising it off her skin, and pushed the scissors under and snipped. He snipped the other side, fully exposing her cunt as the material fell away. He lightly traced her mound with a gloved finger, looking pensive. It occurred to her that she was like a canvas being prepped for paint – the surface had to be clear, set up for the artist before he could begin to create.
“Definitely don’t want this,” he said as he abruptly yanked the thong completely away and tossed it on the floor.
Oh fuck, I’m so wet. I know he can see how wet I am.
“Someone looks like she’s enjoying this already,” he murmured, staring into her face. “I’m going to start tattooing your arm now. Lots of work to do. And yes, I can guarantee … it’s going to hurt.”
It’s going to hurt. His words set off a strobe-like shudder, her entire body shivered briefly. Janna took a deep breath and released it slowly, realizing that she had a long night ahead of her.
“Oh. Wait.” He tilted his head slightly, studying her. Then reached out and yanked her white tank top up and over her breasts so they were fully exposed. The top bunched up in a roll over the tops of her soft mounds, framing them. “That’s better.” He stepped back a little, looking satisfied.
Janna’s mouth opened slightly, her breath coming shallow as the air hit her nipples. How they ached, wanting to be touched …
Oh my god. Oh my god.
It was really all she could think.
Chapter 4
Mark took a seat on the round leather-topped stool next to the table where Janna now lay helpless and exposed. He picked up the tattoo gun and scooted forward, rolling in close to her, and adjusted the lamp so the intense light focused right onto her upper underarm area. Her heart pounded as she became even more aware of her naked pussy, her stiff nipples jutting from their forced display. She tested the cuffs just above the top of her head and her pussy clenched again in anticipation.
“All right, Janna. I’m going to start with ink now. This area under your upper arm is first. You ready?” he asked.
She nodded and rolled her eyes hard, rightward, to try to focus close-up, as the tattoo gun suddenly buzzed to life – a high-pitched, steady, whining electric noise. Mark dipped into a thimble-sized white plastic container of black ink set in a neat row of similar containers – all filled with black ink – and grabbed her arm firmly with his other hand. She took a deep breath and held it, anticipating.
The first wave of searing heat hit her and she took in a sharp breath as endorphins flooded her system. The pain. It wasn’t so much like a needle at all, she thought. No, it was more like being scraped by the edge of a heated razor blade, and it was digging in hard now on this most delicate area of softest underarm skin. It was excruciating.
Oh God! I can’t do this! No way can I do this! I’ve got to make him stop. This was a huge mistake. What the fuck am I doing on a table half naked letting this crazy black-gloved guy scar me with a needle? Jesus!
“Oh fuck–” she started, as a new wave of pain hit and radiated outward. Hot, sharp, digging pain. She couldn’t think of anything else but pain.
Think of something else, God, please, think of something else.
“Shhh … no talking! HOLD VERY STILL or I’ll fuck up. Just breathe, now,” he said. Mark pushed firmly into her skin and steadily traced along the first blue stencil line of the design, filling it with the black liquid. She saw tiny bits of blood – her blood – begin to bubble up from the surface as he moved along the patterned lines. Blood mixed with the ink – a dark, smearing, murkiness. He alternated between gripping her arm firmly with his free hand and then using that same hand to quickly – roughly – swipe at the blood and extra ink left in the wake of the needle’s path.
