Marked for Submission (3 page)

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, 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.
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.

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!!