marked for submission

Marked for Submission


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?


Please read carefully before you buy this book:

This BDSM-erotica-themed novella is 10
0% 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, shoc
king, or completely inaccurate.

Approximately 23,000


Owning Julia


Marked for Submission

Copyright © 2013 by Sheri Savill

First Edition
March 20, 2013


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

For mature readers only



Cover designed by Michaela Strong (

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: [email protected] 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!

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
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.



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


Needles. She’d always fucking

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, tann
ed 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, ab
out 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.

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.

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

“Answer me!” Mark demanded, fucking her with a few slow stro
kes 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 wr
ithe, 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

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
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 Tat
too 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
? 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 ga
me. 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?”

‘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.

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.

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.

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?

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 tattooe
d 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.”

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.

You’re making me … nervous … for some reason.”

He leaned in so close she felt his breath on her ear. “And why is
?” 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
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?

– 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
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
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
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 ma
de her want to trust him fully. Plus she was already turned on.

“Yes,” she said

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.

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, something 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.
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.

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
know, apart from this experience. And she was giving this stranger irrevocable permission to alter her
She would be wearing a work of
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,
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,
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?”


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
,” 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!

–” 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.

He worked quickly: smooth, professional, confident, his years of tattooing experience obvious in every movement he made.

Janna could already feel a heated pulsing pain in the lines he’d just finished inking even as he began pushing into a new area. She realized, with a feeling of resigned dread forming in the pit of her stomach, that the pain from this might be … cumulative and expanding, and not entirely predictable. It would evolve, and intensify. She wondered again whether she’d be able to handle it. Part of her wanted to cry already.

No, you won’t cry. You can do this. You can do this, Janna.

She turned her head from Mark and looked out into the shop, trying to focus on the grunge-era music playing in the background. She tried to focus on some of Mark’s beautiful artwork, decorating the walls, even the ceiling, of the room. She tried to think about her work, her schedule for the week, about cute furry bunnies and happy little birds singing in the forest – anything but the intense pain now radiating in an explosion of white-hot heat from her underarm area. Nothing worked.

Happy little trees
my ass! FUCK this fucking hurts!!