Missing Ink

by E J Frost

  “Do you normally wear a plug?”

  “Not unless I’m in scene.”

  “Do you have a favorite plug?”

  “I do.”

  “Tonight, after you finish work, you’ll put your favorite plug in. Tomorrow, you’ll take it out before you go to work. When you finish work and before you come over, you’ll put the plug back in. I’ll decide when it comes out, but understand you’ll be wearing it through dinner. You can remove it to relube, eliminate, and clean yourself.”

  Her lips tremble and she folds them between her teeth. That’s her nervous tell, but with those pupils of hers blown all to fuck, she’s also aroused. I stroke her throat to enjoy the satin of her skin against my fingers and so she feels my touch in that vulnerable area.

  “Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’d like a text when you wake up, just saying good morning, but there will be no consequences if you don’t. It’s purely to let me know you’re awake and are starting your day in a submissive place. The plug does carry consequences. Fail to follow the rules of the plug and the consequences are a stroke of a Delrin rod on your ass with no warm-up for each infraction. Any questions?”

  Another hard swallow before she shakes her head. “No, sir.”

  “Last thing. Before you come to dinner tomorrow, I’d like you to write me out a list of three fantasies. You can make them as cursory or as detailed as you like, because we’re going to talk them through anyway. But I’d like three.”

  “Things I’ve done before or that I’ve never done?”

  “Totally up to you, sweetheart. Don’t worry about how practical they are, or how big or small. Just three fantasies.”

  Her smile peeks through again. “That’s a fun assignment, sir.”

  “I hope so.” I like giving assignments before formal scenes, as part of the submissive “earning” the scene, but I’ll see how Brenna does with this one before I take it any further. “Anything you want to ask me before we wrap up?”

  She blinks rapidly. That’s another tell, I suspect. She’s thinking hard. Her eyes widen. “I never showed you the designs for your mermaid.”

  I chuckle and stroke her jaw with my thumb. “Bring it to dinner tomorrow and we’ll get Logan and Emily’s input. I’m confident you’ll do me proud, Brenna.”

  More rapid blinks. “You are?”

  “I am.” I’d be happy just with the design Emily showed me, so I’m not worried about liking whatever she comes up with. “I usually end scenes with a kiss. This wasn’t a scene, but I’d still like to kiss you before you go. You can say no if you don’t want a kiss today. It’s not a problem. Also, if I haven’t said it before, your safe words always work. Always. No matter what we’re doing.”

  “Oh,” she breathes. “Even during punishments?”

  “Yes. Always. We’d need to do some very long and hard negotiation before I’d feel comfortable with you giving up your safe words.”

  “Okay. Thank you, sir. That makes me feel better.”

  “Good. About that kiss?”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  I stand and draw her up against me so I can enjoy the press of her body while I’m kissing her. I take her mouth the same way I intend to take every other part of her body: a seduction, until she gives me her submission. A tease of lips. A flick of tongue to taste the lingering flavors of her mouth.

  Once she opens to me, I demand. Pressing my mouth to hers with enough pressure to bruise those pouty lips. Sucking her lower lip into my mouth and biting lightly. Sliding my tongue against the plush of her lips, the sharp edge of her teeth. She’s soft against me from the moment I take her in my arms, but as I deepen the kiss, her body melts against mine, more and more of her weight resting against my chest and thighs. I push my knee between hers and she spreads her legs as wide as her skirt allows. Letting me in.

  I shift her into my right arm so I can bend her backwards, taking more of her weight, taking the kiss even deeper. Her fingers knead at my shoulders, but she doesn’t try to wrap her arms around me. Has she been trained not to clutch at her Dom, or does she trust me enough already not to let her fall?

  I take her mouth until she’s shaking against me, panting into my mouth. When I finally lift my head, she blinks smoky, glazed eyes at me for several seconds until she comes back to herself.

  “Sir,” she whispers.

  I dip my head and take another, briefer taste of her mouth, while she pulls herself back together.

  “Good girl,” I say against her lips. “I’ve enjoyed lunch today. And I can’t wait for our scene tomorrow.”

  She nods shakily.

  “Put your arms around me and relax for a minute, then I’ll let you go.”

  I draw her back upright and hold her until she’s steady on her feet. I want her needy, but not so shaky she can’t function. She’s heading into work and I won’t do anything to undermine her business.

  I stroke her back until her trembling subsides, enjoying the warmth and soft press of her breasts against me. My cock throbs between us like a rotten tooth. Fucking her is the only relief for that ache. But I can wait. There’s such an underlying sweetness to this girl. Rushing claiming that sweetness would be a crime.

  When she’s steady and her breathing is close to normal, I kiss her forehead and release her. We make small talk as she collects her bag and I help her into her leather jacket. She pauses at the front door and looks up at me, eyes gleaming with need, but also with a touch of sass. Everything I’ve ever disliked about sammies goes right out the window with that look. Fuck, all I want to do is drag her into the basement now. I control my impulses, and my dick, and make do with kissing her breathless again before I let her leave.

  Then I switch over the soft classical music I’ve had playing through our lunch to Black Sabbath, strip down to a T-shirt and my boxers, and pummel Logan’s punching bag until I’m dripping and drained of the need to chase after Brenna, toss her onto her tattoo station, and find out if she really likes anal as much as Emily claims.

  This girl’s going to be the death of me, and we haven’t even done a scene yet.

  Chapter 3

  “It’s a religious symbol too, yannow,” the skinny skinhead on the other side of the counter grumbles as he hitches up his sagging jeans. Again. “You can’t refuse to put a religious symbol on me. That’s discrimination.”

  I point at the sign displayed on the far side of the counter, right under the punk’s nose, with the digital pencil I’m using to shade in the third of the sketches I’ve done for Mac’s mermaid. I had them ready for lunch, but since he’s given me more time to work on them, I’m adding detail. I want to wow him, and I know it’s not just pride in my work that’s driving me. I want to impress the pants off the man. I want to see it shining in those blue, blue eyes: how much he thinks of me as an artist and a submissive and a woman. He makes me feel like a pre-teen again with how desperate I am for his approval.

  Because I’m a total dumbass who needs the approval of a man she just met.

  Doesn’t stop me from adding another lacy fin to the mermaid’s tail.

  “We reserve the right to refuse any design. No racist slogans,” I tell the skinhead, just in case he can’t read the sign. “Try Shameless Studios on East Eleventh.” When the kid doesn’t leave, I say, “We’re closing in fifteen minutes, so if you want something else, you’ll need to come back tomorrow.”

  He grunts. “My bro Derrick said his only took ten.”

  I sigh. My back’s hurting from leaning on the counter. My feet are hurting from the heels I stupidly wore to lunch and then worked in for six hours. And this kid is working my last nerve with his demand for a swastika fifteen minutes before we close. He already has some ink, including M-O-V-E O-N tattooed across his knuckles in such weird, scratchy lettering that I could believe he did it himself. Since his tattoos look homemade, I’ll still have to card him before I even get him to do the questionnaire, and that will take longer than fiftee
n minutes on its own.

  “He didn’t get a swastika from here. We don’t do them. Before we can do any tattoo, you’d need to complete a questionnaire and provide ID. There’s no way we’re doing that in fifteen minutes. I’ll make an appointment for you if you want to come back tomorrow.”

  The punk pushes his lower lip out. He actually fucking pouts. A petulant neo-Nazi. “I want to speak to the manager.”

  I am the manager. The owner. The buck stops with me. But I’ve had enough of this Skinhead-Kevin.

  “Nicky,” I call to the back, where Nicky’s still yapping with his last client. They finished a good half-hour ago and have just been shooting the shit since. “Guy out here wants to speak with the manager.”

  Yeah, I’m playing into the skinhead’s sexist assumptions, but I’m seriously done. I want to close up shop, run upstairs as fast as my aching feet will carry me, put in my favorite butt plug, and sink into a bubble bath while I wait for Mac to call.

  Nicky murmurs to his client before all six-feet-three inches, two hundred-fifty-pounds of him pushes through the curtain closing his station off from the main shop. If the skinhead knew that those six-feet-three inches, two hundred-fifty-pounds will be squeezing into skin-tight sequins, lathering on MAC cosmetics, and strutting his stuff in platform heels at the “It’s Just A Cigar” Diva Review in an hour, he might not be so intimidated.

  But the skinhead doesn’t, and Nicky crosses his arms over his barrel chest and glares at the kid like he’s contemplating murder. He looks absolutely capable of it too, even to me, and I see him in drag at least once a week. Not that drag queens can’t be killer. They can. But Nicky’s actually one of the nicest people I know. His outsides just don’t match his insides, as Emily would say.

  “Uh, I guess I’ll make an appointment,” the punk mutters.

  “It’ll be with me,” Nicky growls.

  “Yeah, that’s, um, that’s fine. Tomorrow anytime.”

  “Two-thirty,” I say, adding him to the schedule with a couple of taps on the reception tablet. “Don’t be late. Nicky’s only got the one slot open tomorrow.”

  That’s not true, sadly. Almost all of Nicky’s afternoon is open, because we’ve had such a drop-off in clients. But the skinhead doesn’t know that.

  “Um, no, I won’t.”

  I write out the appointment time on one of the cards we keep under the counter, hand it to the kid and give him a big, evil smile. “Don’t forget your ID.”

  “Right,” the punk mutters, before he flees.

  Nicky leans against the counter and laughs as the front door closes on the kid’s heels. “Bet he doesn’t show, little shit. What’d you need me for? You usually cut his kind a new crapper without any back-up.”

  I shrug as I gather up my tablet and stylus. It’s not ten yet, but I’m calling it a day. “I’m not in the mood to deal with any more bullshit. You mind locking up?”

  “No problem. I’m done; we were just hanging out. You wanted to close up early, you shoulda said. What’s wrong, Bren? You okay?”

  “Yeah, everything’s fine.” And everything is. I’m actually excited about something for the first time in weeks. “I have a phone date.”

  Nicky lifts a flaming eyebrow. He had his natural eyebrows lasered and then I inked in lines of blue flames above his brown eyes. He says it’s a ton easier than covering the hair every time he puts on his “face.”

  “I thought you didn’t date. You got that club—”

  Nicky knows about Blunts. He knows I’m a sexual submissive and I know he’s super toppy in his own relationships, even though he resists the label of Dom. He lived through my crush on Ten, and then the lesser crush I had on Master Rob last year, without judgment, and he’s aware that I never met either of them outside of the club for so much as a cup of coffee.

  “This is different. He’s a friend of a friend. We had a lunch date. He has strong lips. Now we’re having a phone date,” I tell him as I clear off the counter. “I’m hoping for phone sex.”

  Nicky snorts at the Pretty In Pink reference, then narrows his eyes. “You’re hoping for phone sex. Why’s this not a done deal?”

  “Nothing’s a done deal with this guy. He took control as soon as I agreed to a date and hasn’t given it up since.” I know Mac was soft-pedalling during lunch, but I felt his dominance all the same. Hard not to when I was sitting there with my bare pussy rubbing against my skirt. “He gives me insane shivers. Ice cubes up the back canal shivers, seriously.”

  Nicky holds up a hand even as he chuckles. “TMI.”

  “He’s also old enough to be my dad—”

  “Wait, this isn’t the blue-eyed, silver fox Reena was going on about, is it? The guy with the bad fish?”

  Remembering that our other tattooist, Fareena, was at reception when Mac came in, I nod. And laugh.

  “It’s a mermaid. It’s unbelievably awful. I’ll show you pictures tomorrow.” I lean across the counter and kiss his cheek. “Have a great show.”

  “Thanks. Nighty-night. I expect tea over coffee tomorrow morning.”

  “You got it.” I wave as I scoot around the counter. I’d take my heels off now, but I haven’t vacuumed, and it’s amazing what ends up on the floors. Seriously, where do staples come from? I don’t think we even have a stapler except back in my office, and I know I don’t go flinging staples around my shop.

  I endure my throbbing feet as I click down the hallway, past the kitchen, bathroom, and tiny back office, through the security door and up the stairs to my apartment, where I can finally kick my stupid shoes into a corner. I would regret wearing them except that Mac couldn’t take his eyes off my legs. And the heat in those blue eyes . . .

  I shake myself. I will not turn into mindless goo just because the guy has freaking Brad Pitt blues. It was just a date. This is just phone sex. And whatever we do tomorrow night will be just a scene. I’ve done literally hundreds of them, so there’s no reason for my stomach to be fluttering.

  I tell myself that several times as I strip and find my favorite plug, a spiral glass monster that Rob gave me for my birthday last year and I thought meant something. It didn’t. Even though that stung for a while, it’s still my favorite plug. Thick and cold going in. So cold. And fuck, fuck, fuck, it makes me feel so full. I shudder and lick my lips as I seat the plug, then totter into the bathroom and run a bath. I love the weight as I move around. That heavy fullness. Fuck, so good. My thighs slip against each other as I get myself a Corona before sinking into the hot bubbles.

  Mac calls at quarter past. Just long enough to make me wonder if he is going to call. Not long enough for him to be playing mind-games. He said he was a straight-shooter, and I think he is.

  “How was the rest of your day, Bren?” he asks warmly after we exchange hellos.

  “Good, until the end. A skinhead showed up and badgered me to give him a swastika.”

  Mac chuckles. “You told him to fuck off.”

  “Now, that wouldn’t be very professional, would it? I just scared him a little.”

  “You threaten him? Do you have combat skills that I should know about?”

  I do, but I don’t want to scare him off.

  “I have Nicky skills. He’s six three and looks like he eats wannabe Neo-Nazis for breakfast. Skinhead scooted out with his tail between his legs.”

  Another deep chuckle, which makes me press my thighs together under the water.

  “Did you put your favorite plug in after you scared the skinhead off, bold girl?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “Describe it to me.”

  I do, omitting the part about how it was a birthday present from another Dom.

  “Good girl.” I swear his voice drops nearly an octave and makes me melt into the bathwater. “If you’re struggling with it overnight, text me. If I don’t answer in ten minutes, call me. I’m not usually a heavy sleeper, but I’ve had a glass of wine or two tonight.”

  “Where are you, sir?”

  “L
ogan’s. You didn’t think Emily would let me leave after only one meal, did you?”

  I laugh. “Of course not. Mexican?”

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “It’s Tuesday. Emily knows better than to screw with the time-honored tradition of Taco Tuesdays, even if she doesn’t eat tacos.”

  “Mmm, do you eat tacos?”

  “I eat pretty much anything that you can put hot sauce on.”

  “Next date, bold girl, we’ll go to your favorite restaurant. I want to see how hot you can go.”

  Next date? There’s going to be a next date? I rub my thighs together harder. Stop-stop-stop. Just a date. Just a scene. If we ever fucking get there, just sex. Doesn’t mean anything.

  “My favorite restaurant’s the Trattoria at the club,” I tell him. “But the chef refuses to let me incinerate my taste buds. Really, you’d think he’s a Dom or something. Anyway, if you don’t mind slumming, I’ll take you to Miss Eve’s in Bed-Stuy. Even Bebe J approved of Miss Eve’s.”

  Mac’s warm chuckle rolls over me. “Translate that for me, New York girl. Bed-Stuy? Bebe J?”

  “Sorry. Bed-Stuy is Bedford-Stuyvesant in Brooklyn. Bebe J was my Jamaican grandmother.”

  “Was. You lost her?”

  “Yeah, a while ago. Lung cancer.”

  “Sorry, bold girl. I can hear in your voice how much she meant to you. Do you have any family left?”

  “Nope, just me against the world, Master Mac.”

  He hums in his throat and changes the subject, which is good because my eyes are watering. From the booze, of course. Not because missing my gram-gram is a boulder sitting on my chest or anything.

  “I’ve been thinking about our scene tomorrow,” he says. “Logan’s playroom has every attachment point in the world. How would you feel about suspension and flogging?”

  Sign me the fuck up.

  “Sure, sounds good,” I say, trying for breezy instead of desperately needy. “Still no sex, huh?”