by Sheri Savill
“Sure, it’ll always be visible to anyone you’re fucking, anyone you let into this wet pussy of yours will see it and know what you are. So appropriate, isn’t it, Janna?” He waited.
“Answer me. You can still nod yes or no. Are you a whore?”
She writhed under his warm hands on her thighs, feeling slivers of saliva begin to slip past the corners of her mouth from behind the gag, down her chin.
“Are you?” he demanded.
She nodded.
“Shall I tattoo this hot little pussy, Janna?”
She nodded.
“Good girl.” She felt his lips pressing to her mound – gloriously soft, moist, surprisingly tender, given his proclivities – kissing all over her outer labia. She melted, writhed, moaned behind her gag, wanting his tongue on her aching clit.
His tongue flicked softly at her clit, then sucking gently, pulling the swollen flesh into his mouth, then releasing, then kissing, then flicking again … the variations sent waves of pure blissful sensation washing over her, made her body surge to the edge of release.
Oh fuck YES, I might have known ... he definitely knows what he’s doing down there … a fucking master. Jesus! I’m going to come if he keeps this up.
She was usually … disappointed in men, when it came to giving her oral. They were usually going at it way too hard. How many times had she just lay there, near-wincing with each new assault on her sensitive clit? She likened the experience to someone trying to open a door with a battering ram when really it just required a simple turn of a key that was already in the lock. Mark knew how to use the key.
Damn! He’s going to make me come in about a minute here. Oh fuck YES.
She moaned behind her gag and raised her hips off the table in desperate abandon, urgently in need of release. She knew she would come in a few more seconds. Her nipples hardened again as he reached up and flicked at one, then the other, with the pads of his fingers. She felt some of her wetness ooze from her pussy, pooling under her on the table.
Oh fuck, I’m dripping all over the goddamned table. I don’t care. God I can’t take this. Shit … I’m going to come … I’m ... I’m ... going to come SO hard.
Suddenly it all stopped. She gasped behind the gag, making low moaning sounds in desperate frustration. She rolled her hips, tried to squeeze her pelvic muscles, anything she could do – trying to will herself into coming … without his touch. After a few seconds she let her body fall, defeated, to the leather surface. No orgasm now. No orgasm until HE gave it to her, until he allowed it.
His voice was close again, so close she felt his warm breath on her cheek.
“No, not just yet, slutty girl. I have more work to do on you.”
She heard him at the side table, moving things around, then the high buzzing began again.
“Now you hold very still, Janna. I’m going to freehand this. You’re definitely going to feel it here.”
She felt his hand on her pussy, cupping the mound.
Oh FUCK. He’s going to tattoo it now? NOW?? When I need to come so badly? And I can’t see what he’s doing? I can’t speak?
She heard the buzzing noise come closer and felt the cord of the gun sliding over her thigh. Closer. It sounded like it was inches from her pussy. Mark’s gloved hand suddenly slapped at her thighs, stinging. SMACK. She yelped from behind the gag.
“Wider. Open your legs as far as you can, slut.”
She felt him push and stretch the skin at the topmost right edge of her slit, holding it in place firmly. She jerked a little, involuntarily, as she felt the tattoo needle come down on her tender flesh.
“Hold still!” he growled. “You REALLY don’t want to be moving right now with me working in this area, freehand, especially.”
The pain hit her all at once, the strangest pain she’d ever felt: a moment ago she’d been close to orgasm and now the vibration of the needle there made her pussy scream. This was a pain like no other she’d ever experienced.
“You probably can’t decide if you’re going to come or cry right now, I would imagine, Janna.” His voice sounded distant. It felt like she was in a tunnel somewhere, or watching the scene from up above, like those out-of-body experiences she’d read about. The blackness under the blindfold, the gag, all of it was so intense, the nerve endings in her skin, the contractions and surges within her that weren’t an orgasm but … something else entirely … were all she could focus on.
Pain. It was pain, yes. But also … pleasure. She moaned loudly and felt thick new streams of saliva running from the corners of her mouth. She knew they had to be pooling on the leather below and the embarrassment of it would have normally made her blush, but now, with everything else going on, she found herself not caring. She had bigger concerns at the moment.
“This is really going to be awesome, girl,” he murmured, “These lines show up so well on your white skin.” He worked silently, quickly.
After just a few minutes, she felt the needle stop its assault on her flesh, and then heard him move toward her head. A hand grabbed her head, lifting it, and he unclasped the gag and removed it. Her jaw relaxed and she savored the feeling of openness again. As the blindfold came off, she blinked, trying to adjust to the returning glare.
“Oh my god,” she yelped. “That fucking hurts like–”
“It’s all done. Here. Lift up a little and take a look. Came out really nice, I think. Might have to take a picture for the portfolio over on the counter.” She had no idea if he was serious or not, but she suspected he was. The thought of strange men (and women) coming in and flipping through the book looking at his work and seeing her tattooed pussy was mortifyingly hot.
He stood next to her and angled a small hand mirror so she could see her cunt, raw-looking, smeared with black ink remnants and some of her own blood. She lifted her head a little and gazed down toward her cleft.
Slut. Oh my god. it says “slut.”
Her pussy throbbed, gushed. For a second she felt like she might faint.
The word “slut” was now inked on her mound in a delicate, crisp, black script. Just four little ornately drawn letters, about half an inch tall, and just an inch wide. The letters were beautifully executed, she had to admit. And although it was a shock, and crazy … she had to admit to herself that she liked it. Besides, she rationalized, she could always grow the hair out to cover it up.
“Look at how wet you are,” Mark said, dipping a finger into her pussy, then holding it up. “Jesus. Fucking sopping wet! I think someone liked getting her pussy tattooed. It looks hot, too, Janna, you have to admit. You’re marked now. Labeled.” He was obviously pleased.
He’d said before that he thought tattoos were a symbol of personal power, and that people with tattoos, especially people with lots of them, like full sleeves, were just … stronger … like a force of nature. Invincible was the word he used. She thought his philosophical, almost rhapsodic take on it was interesting enough, but she’d never fully understood what he meant, at a core level, until this moment. Now she had crossed some threshold, and had been marked, really marked, in one of the most intimate of physical and mental experiences she’d ever had in her life. Now she understood. It was powerful. It made her different. It changed her inside: she felt truly fearless for the first time in her life. It was exhilarating.
Chapter 12
“Do you need to take a break?” Mark asked. He was at the side counter rearranging supplies and clearing some of the used items away. “I’m going to finish your arm, otherwise.”
“No, I’m fine, let’s just get it all over with. Keep going, OK?”
“You sure? Sure you don’t want some food? Hot Pocket?” He grinned at her and looked at her from over the top of his black reading glasses, waiting for an answer.
“Uhh, no thanks.” She giggled.
What the hell? Hot Pockets? Too funny. God, that smile of his. Fuck. Is he ever going to just fuck me? Or at least make me come? I can’t take much more of this.
�
�Well, this has to come off now. I need this arm. And this hand.”
He grabbed her right wrist and unbuckled the strap that held it to the side of the table, then turned her arm so the underside faced upward. The last bit of unmarked flesh was near the pale softness of her right wrist. She glanced down at the bright blue of the stenciled outline of the final part of the sleeve design and felt a huge sense of relief and achievement. This entire thing had been an ordeal, a trial by fire, but she was glad she’d committed to it, and Mark’s work was astoundingly beautiful. The detail, the level of skill … just breathtaking.
Not much more to go, thank God. I’m almost finished. If I can just hang on another few minutes. This heat in my arm. Shit, it’s like someone holding lighter next to my skin in places.
He pulled her arm toward him and scooted in close on the stool next to the table. She suddenly felt her fingers touching his chest. So close. She wanted to … touch him, but something held her back.
Well shit, if he doesn’t want me touching him he shouldn’t grab my wrist and pull my whole arm INTO him like this, should he? Fuck.
“Just relax, Janna. Let your hand relax.” He was a mind reader, too, apparently. The needle was whirring along on her arm again. She took a deep breath and relaxed her hand and her palm opened. Her fingers fell limp, Her entire hand now pressed firmly, dug in flat, against his hard stomach. He smiled slyly and lifted the needle, then scooted in closer as he roughly moved her arm in still tighter to his body, and lower, so that her hand was now on his hard cock.
Holy shit. He’s hard as a rock and wants me to … know it.
He looked up from her arm for a brief moment and into her eyes.
“Stroke me with just your fingers, Janna. When I get this done I’m gonna fuck you hard,” he rasped. “Haven’t quite decided how, exactly, yet.” He sounded almost absent-minded – he was still the artist at work, making plans with one side of his brain while creating his art with the other.
Her face heated and she closed her eyes and licked her lips, trying again to ignore the stinging needle rushing along her skin sending waves of hot new pain up through her arm. She was able to move her fingers very slightly along the thick bulge under the material of his jeans. Blind groping. He was making her grope.
“Good girl, you can do it. Keep stroking me, feeling me, while I tattoo you. Careful … don’t move this arm.” He swiped at her roughly, wiping away blood and ink, and kept moving the tattoo gun along the lines of the design. “Just use the tips of your fingers. That’s it. What a slut you are, Janna, trying to stroke my cock while I tattoo you.”
The accusation embarrassed her, demeaned her, reduced her to a hand acting under his instructions, doing his bidding, but her pussy responded to the words instantly, clenching and unclenching. The wetness between her legs felt like it must be obscenely visible now. She imagined it pooling on the black leather under her thighs, her ass. When she eventually was allowed to stand up, she was sure there’d be puddles of her juices smeared everywhere and Mark would comment on it.
What the fuck is wrong with me that this gets me so hot? Him taking control, making me feel so nasty and horny? Damn him. He just knows what I want him to say. He knows what I need.
His voice was low and close under the hot lamp, but she couldn’t see him. The effect added to the weird disembodied vibe of the evening. Being under his control … and with him always close but somehow distant. She hadn’t been able to touch him at all. It was him doing things to HER. Things that built need in her, made her crazy with lust, and then held her at bay. Sheer hot torment, in every way.
Her chest heaved as new pain surged from her arm. Her cunt clenched as new moisture seeped between the folds, threatening to drip down onto the leather table and embarrass her further. She felt the clit hood piercing move as she clenched – an amazing feeling of pressure – and the urge to move even more became overpowering. She’d been hyper-aware of the piercings as she strained and writhed a little under the limited play of the straps that still bound her ankles and her left wrist. She wanted so badly to touch her clit, to make herself come. She’d been edged to the precipice so many times. She’d never needed release so badly in her life.
If he so much as breathes on my clit I’m going to come. Fuck.
Her fingers kept pressing into the fabric over his cock in rhythmic small movements, her palm closing and opening but unable to fully grasp or stroke his hard length. The awareness of it only added to her frustration. She wanted him in her, fully inside her, fucking her.
Chapter 13
It was well after midnight, and Janna’s arm tattoo – a full black and grey sleeve covering her entire right arm from shoulder to wrist – was finished at last. Mark wiped away the last of the blood and ink that had smeared on her arm as he worked, and then held her arm out, moving her hand away from his hard cock.
She felt a sense of … loss at that, but also relief at the tattooing finally being finished. Her extended arm hurt, a dull pain now – heat, but not nearly as bad as it had been. She noticed swelling starting up around the thin skin near her inner elbow. There was some dark bruising up higher, inside her upper arm, possibly from the night before. The trauma of a tattoo on soft flesh became real for her and she thought of how many hours she had endured the pain. Hours of burning torment, and the whole time she’d not been allowed to move but her cunt was hotter, more wet, than she could ever remember.
This is just insane. Hours of horrific pain and restricted movement and now I’m totally turned on. Again. Still, I mean. Jesus. Look at him. He’s fucking gorgeous. “Local Tattoo Artist Tells Harrowing Tale: I Was Attacked By a Horny Customer.” Stop it Janna. Just stop it. You’re an embarrassment to your sex.
Mark gently turned her hand and forearm a little, admiring his work. Then he reached back to the counter and fished around in a drawer. She saw him open a tube of something and sat still as he squirted a large dollop into his gloved hands, then gently – sensuously, she thought – he began to spread it over her freshly-inked skin. He worked the cool liquid into her very slowly and carefully, taking his time. His touch was almost … loving. So different from his rough manner as he’d brusquely wiped blood and ink out of his way while he put the ink into her skin. Now that it was in her, part of her forever, he seemed … different. Janna watched him working the ointment into her skin and realized that she was, to him, his living, breathing canvas, finally filled in, finished.
A part of him was now part of her. Forever.
And if he was proud of the work, it was right that he should be: she could tell that the finished design, as rough and raw and swollen as parts of it still were, would be incredibly feminine and sexy. Unique. She loved it. She smiled at Mark, her eyes lit with delight and admiration … for him.
“Mark this is gorgeous! I mean it. It is incredible. You are just … so talented. I can’t even–” She beamed at her arm as she took in all the detail now etched into her skin.
Now if I can just get him to make me come. I’m so fucking horny. God, my cunt is aching.
Mark turned her hand over, holding it softly in his still-gloved hand – slowly inspecting the underside of her forearm where he’d just been working. His other hand smoothed over her upper arm, now a day healed and soothed by lotion. His touch was tender, even sensual. She was surprised at the change; he certainly hadn’t been especially tender during any of the tattoo sessions and, in fact, had been commanding and even rough with her – much to the delight of her still wet, needy, pussy. She wondered what this … other side to him meant, or, if it meant anything. Maybe he was just tired, distracted.
Mark reached up and removed his black reading glasses and gazed into her eyes, his hand trailing up over her shoulder, then tracing the contour of her throat. She let her head drop back onto the leather headrest and closed her eyes.
“Remember how I asked you if you could trust me when we started this?” She felt him move in close to her ear, his voice almost a whisper now. “And you�
��ve done well. But I want to take you further. If you can still trust me. Can you, Janna?”
She opened her eyes and nodded, looking into his dark eyes. Then she took a deep breath and slowly released it. Her pussy was clenching again just from having him as close to her as he was, and she wanted him to take her any way he would – take her hard, make her his.
“Good.” His lips brushed her cheek and he stood, pushing the stool away with his foot. It rolled to the side and stopped. He walked to the end of the table and released her ankles from the leather straps, then released her left wrist. She rubbed it a little and looked down at her naked body, still stretched open, vulnerable. Her nipples were still stiff, her pussy wet and achingly empty.
The tattoo on her mound had stopped hurting, at least, but everything done there was warm and tingling. Pulsing. Almost electrified. The arousal of just being near Mark, of knowing that he intended to use her in some way, again, mingled confusingly with the remnants of the physical pain. She watched Mark moving around near the table, trying not to think about her swollen clit. All sensation in her body seemed to be centered in her pussy. Everything else was distant, dialed down, muffled. She could only think of him and what he’d done to her, what he would do.
Would the clit hood piercing hurt if he fucked her? Would it move and rub her clit raw? She could feel it throbbing with no touch at all, so she knew it would be more intense when – if – Mark ever touched it. A mouth, a hand, a cock. Something.
She sat still, waiting for some indication of what he planned, what he would do with her now. She hoped it would involve her getting her brains fucked out.
Jesus Christ. “Nympho Gets Tattooed, Can’t Stop Thinking About Cock.”