Marked for Submission (2 page)

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
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 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?”

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.

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?

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.”

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 ma
de 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.