Traditional Change
Read Traditional Change Online
Authors: Alta Hensley
Traditional Change
Traditional Love, Book Three
By
Alta Hensley
©2015 by Blushing Books® and Alta Hensley
All rights reserved.
No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Hensley, Alta
Traditional Change
eBook ISBN:
978-1-62750-905-3
Cover Design by ABCD Graphics & Design
This book is intended for
adults only
. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.
Table of Contents:
Rebecca Hadley looked at the ceiling from her position in the center of the bed and imagined all of the air seeping from her lungs. She pictured her breath floating up into the faded white popcorn texture, filling the gaps and softening the lines until her heart stopped and she drifted off into darkness. The image of her ex-husband, Andrew, coming over to the apartment and finding her motionless body flattened over the bedspread didn't stir any feelings of joy or amusement, and there was no satisfaction involved with the vengeful thought, either. The truth of the matter was, he probably wouldn't care.
One year after their divorce, and Andrew had clearly moved on. Moved on with a petite blonde who had lived three doors down and had an obnoxious poodle she walked three times a day. The damn mutt would piss on Rebecca's yard each and every walk without fail. Andrew had moved on—so much so that he was now married with a baby on the way. A child he had always wanted, and one that Rebecca could never give him. Yes, he had moved on, leaving her behind, staring at her small apartment's ceiling.
Rebecca sighed heavily and dropped an arm over her eyes. The last week had been miserable, and she couldn't seem to shake the darkness dragging along behind her. Work had been oppressive in new and creative ways, testing the limits of what a woman could and should take. She had accepted a job working in the supply room of a large business office because she'd believed it would include very little interaction and a lot of quiet alone time.
She'd been completely wrong on both counts.
All day it was the same thing at work. One employee after the next would come barging in, desperate for vital equipment and frustrated that it took a minute to fetch it. Items like staples, or rubber cement, or a particular form the company used. These seemingly unexciting items could cause full grown adults to shake and cuss like toddlers with Tourette's. Most days the behavior was received with a smattering of humorous irony. The last week had been full of men and women who behaved as though they were in danger of collapsing if they didn't get a bottle of corrective paint, or a new roll of invisible tape. Normally, Rebecca's week was pretty quiet, but the last several days had seen her going home feeling exhausted, overwhelmed, and questioning whether she would even go back the next day.
It wasn't that she didn't like people, but most of the time, lately, she preferred them from a distance. In general, she found most men and women too inherently selfish, and without any practical sense of sympathy. Sure, most folks would say a kind word when they saw hurt, encourage a person when they were struggling, but that always seemed to her like some false exhibition of a societal duty. It was as though they only said things in public because they felt like they were supposed to. Like how people who were clearly angry and impatient would still say, "Hi, how are you?" when entering the supply room. They didn't care how Rebecca answered or how her day was going. That was just what they were supposed to say, regardless of how anyone felt.
Frankly, it was exhausting for her. Rebecca could handle one or two people a week who were snapping and prickly without much of an effect on her, but when the string of irritation continued without a break for days on end, enough was enough.
Back in her apartment, stretched out upon her bed and hiding under her arm, Rebecca decided that she had reached her crossroads. She didn't actually want to hurt herself, but she needed a change. She needed something to distract her from how terrible life could be sometimes. This darkness, this funk, this pathetic life she had recently created
had
to come to a stop. Enough was enough.
She lifted her arm and looked at the small tattoo on her wrist; flowers. There was no real pattern or theme to the small flowers, but her collection made her feel unique and creative. She remembered the day she got the tattoo. She remembered how carefree she had been, how willing she'd been to just live life without thinking about tomorrow. The Rebecca who got this tattoo would never lock herself away in a storage room, or lie in bed on a Friday night, thinking about her demise. She used to be take-charge, organized, focused and happy. She smiled at the memories, missing the woman she'd lost in the divorce. For the first time in a very long time, she felt good looking over the art on her wrist, and an idea hit her.
* * * * *
"You're insane," Neely announced into her phone. "Like, not even a little crazy in that fun and entertaining way people enjoy at parties," she explained. "I'm talking, needs to be under observation because you are certifiably wacko. That's the level of insanity you are describing."
Rebecca listened to her friend in silence, with a small smile blossoming in the corners of her mouth. Nothing made an idea seem better than Neely's disapproval.
"I mean," Neely huffed, not attempting to hide her irritation at all, "do you have any idea how much that would cost? Or how long it would take? I mean, really?"
"Yes," Rebecca answered simply, then returned to silence.
"But," Neely began, then snorted her frustration. "You can't be serious."
"Oh, but I am," Rebecca replied.
"A back piece?" her friend blurted. "Like, a full back tattoo? Only disturbed people want to be hurt that bad, and pay that much for something they will never be able to see with their own eyes."
Rebecca laughed at the irony. "This coming from someone who allows her husband to spank her on a regular basis? Are you actually going to bring up the word 'hurt'?" She still couldn't believe her friend practiced Domestic Discipline. Actually, she couldn't believe
many
of her friends lived the lifestyle. She tried her best not to think about the fact that her girlfriends willingly allowed their men to discipline them. It was like some weird, 1950s Twilight Zone episode, hearing them all talk. But regardless, it was their choice, and none of Rebecca's business what Neely and her husband, Caine, did behind closed doors.
Neely snorted. "Point. But still, you have got to be insane to get an entire back piece. Your entire back! It's going to hurt a hell of a lot more than a spanking."
Rebecca remained silent.
"How about your ankle?" her friend suggested. "Or maybe something on your calf?"
"My calf?" Rebecca answered, imagining the kind of tattoo that would fit on her skinny leg.
"I'm just saying!" Neely replied, as though the statement was a complete sentence.
"One of the best tattoo artists in the country lives in Seattle," Rebecca replied. "You were the one to say that when you gave me his name, remember? You said he was a friend of Caine's."
"Yes, but that was when I thought you were just going to get a small butterfly on your ankle or something. Something small to mark the end of your marriage. I didn't think you were going to color half your body! And besides, we live in Tacoma," Neely responded, somehow thinking that stating the obvious would change her friend's mind. "I suggested him when I thought we could plan a fun girl's day, and you could go in for a simple, hour-long session. Maybe you should wait and try to find someone local."
Rebecca knew Neely was trying to stall the process.
"He's less than an hour away," she argued. "It's not like I'm traveling across the country. And besides," she added, "if I'm going to do this, then I want the artist to be the best, right?"
"You're crazy," Neely said, surrendering to her friend's implacability. "You won't listen, will you?"
"I scheduled my first appointment already," Rebecca confessed.
"Well?" Neely sighed. "What's it going to be?"
"I want a bunch of flowers and ivy," Rebecca said eagerly. "Sort of like a secret garden feel. Maybe a bird in there, or something."
"What kind of bird?"
"You know, like a song bird," Rebecca answered. "Like a birdy bird."
"You're nuts," Neely reminded her.
"You keep saying that." Rebecca laughed, loving her friend for how honest she could be.
"Whatever," was the exhausted reply. "Just keep me posted, okay? Let me know if you want me to go with you."
Rebecca started to agree, but she had difficulty imagining Neely suddenly becoming encouraging. This was a process in which to spend some time on herself, and not on all the negativity that had built up in her life. "I'll be fine," she assured. "This is something I need to do by myself."
Three weeks after announcing the plan to her friend, Rebecca was seated in the waiting area of a small studio. The glass counter flanking the cash machine was laden with framed pictures of tattoos and art. There was a selection of aftercare products, some swag, and a collection of jewelry. She looked at the oversized rings, elaborate necklaces and cuff bracelets with distracted eyes. Everything overwhelmed her at this point, and all she really wanted was to do whatever it took to not think about what had to come next. The tattoo artist would come out, discuss her piece from the pictures she had sent him, draw out some ideas, and, if they still had some time, he would get some actual line work done. Rebecca held the few example drawings she had already given to the artist as an idea of what she wanted between sweating fingers, and she felt like some child waiting to be judged at an art fair.
The front counter worker had said the artist would be with her shortly, then dropped his head into a magazine and hadn't moved since. Rebecca looked him over, with his shaved head, gauged ears, and a thorough covering of tattoos, and wondered how many freaked out people this guy must see every day. The idea made her feel a little ashamed for her own emotional state, but that didn't mean she could do anything about it.
She shook her head and blinked hard, turning her attention to the space around her. The couch she occupied was black and leather, which fit nicely with the rest of the décor. Black frames hung on the wall, highlighting more drawings and photographs of tattoos, and the people who wore them. There was a poster display rack, the kind that looked like a giant book bolted to the wall, and each panel was loaded with original tattoo ideas. While Rebecca could see the talent behind each of the drawings, most were a little too dark for her. Decapitated voodoo heads with their eyes stitched closed. Vultures eating the body of a snake. The Grim Reaper playing poker with an angel. Anchors, skulls, bloody roses and half-naked pin up girls dominated the wall. Most of the images seemed twisted, if not sinister, which normally wouldn't be a problem for Rebecca except that she was already on edge. Something a little less aggressive would have been warmly received at that moment. Where were the butterflies and fairies? Half the walls in the shop were scarlet red, and the others were either a deep blue or the color of bamboo. It was a provoking combination of lust and rest, and the color combination was pressing hard against her head. She couldn't help but start to doubt her decision to come here in the first place. The outing and the drive, not to mention scheduling the appointment with an unknown artist in another city, and now coming here without any support or company—it was all outside of Rebecca's normal comfort zone.
But maybe that's what I need
, she silently decided, studying a drawing of a sparrow on a pirate ship.
Maybe I need something big and scary.
A pair of loud voices came moving up the hallway, and she looked up, startled and nervous. The worker behind the counter promptly dropped the magazine and got out of his chair.
"That was fuckin' wild," a young man said, a large white pad taped over his left shoulder. He was wearing a tight grey tank top, a pair of slim black jeans, and a pair of black combat boots. His hair was shaggy and he had a huge pair of black, thick-rimmed glasses on his face. "We went completely fuckin' sideways, and it was crazy."
Rebecca held back a giggle, because the man didn't just say the word 'crazy'. He spat out the term in three syllables, making the word sound like 'Kuh-Ray-Zee'. His exaggerated posture and tone, mixed with the over-the-top pronunciation, tickled her. The two newcomers looked her way, and she quickly went back to studying the picture of the sparrow, feeling their stares.
"Anyway," the second man said, turning to the first. "You know the drill, right? Keep that shit clean. I don't want you messing up my art."
Rebecca looked over the second man, who must have been the artist. He was much taller than the other man, and his frame was much larger. His face was highlighted by a thin layer of black hair around his mouth—unexpectedly appearing well-groomed. His eyes were a soft green, and he had a trucker's hat perched on the back of his head with the bill sticking straight up. The hat concealed most of his dark brown hair. His clothes were loose and comfortable-looking, though still not appearing sloppy. The short-sleeved black t-shirt showed that both of his arms were completely covered in tattoos. Some tattoos even covered the tops of his hands and fingers.
"
Your
art?" the first man said, and laughed.
"Yeah, Amos," the artist snapped playfully. "You just get to hold it for me."
"Whatever," the man replied, with a wave. "See you soon, all right?"
"You coming over Saturday?" the tattooist asked.
"Nope," Amos answered. "Gotta work. I don't get to just sit around and draw on people all day, then go home when I want and throw big fancy parties."
"Whatever, dick," the artist growled. "If you don't like your job, get a new one. I'll catch you later, then," he said, slapping the man on the pad and making him cringe. "So," the artist said loudly, walking over to Rebecca. "You must be next."
"Yeah," she answered uncomfortably, sticking out a hand.
The artist shook it awkwardly and grinned. "I'm Sawyer," he shared.
"Rebecca," she countered.
"Don't let this asshole be mean to you," Amos warned her before walking to the counter. "He looks tough, but in reality, he's just a softie."
"Shut up," the artist cut in. "Get out of here, and figure out a way to make Saturday."
"Yeah," Amos answered, paying the guy behind the counter.
"Come on," the tattooist said, turning to Rebecca. He then strolled casually back to the studio, without looking back to see if she was following.
The hall was brightly lit, although with both of the walls painted in the deep red tone, the light was eaten rather quickly. A few plants hung hodgepodge, and there was a miniature tree in one corner. They passed a pair of closed doors before the hallway opened into a large room in the back of the space. The walls were covered with framed art, scraps of paper, doodles and drawings. Posters and advertisements filled the spaces in between. Blues music played softly through a speaker in the corner of the room. The effect was so complete, Rebecca became instantly engulfed in nerves.
"So," the artist said, sitting at an old writing desk and gesturing to the chair in the center of the room. "Your idea has some direction, but your layout sucks."
She reeled at his blunt fashion.
"There are too many flowers, and the bird has got to go," Sawyer announced. "I have a couple of ideas, though." He twisted in his chair and leaned back, pointing at a picture pinned to the wall above his head. "That's what your layout should have been."
Rebecca searched eagerly over a collection of drawings and photographs that eclipsed the wall behind them. She found skulls, flames, birds and insects. She also saw calligraphy, watercolor and baby footprints.
"That's what you need," he said, still looking at the wall over his shoulder.
"Which one?" she asked, rising from the chair to get a better look.
Sawyer spun around and tapped a finger on a small drawing pinned on a piece of white paper. It was pinned over a few other pictures, and Rebecca had looked right over it several times.
"That's you," he declared, pulling the drawing off the wall and passing it to her. "I made that up after seeing your initial idea."
Rebecca looked at the image and lost her breath for a moment. The flowers were similar, though they were far more detailed and there were less of them. Where she had focused on drawing actual ivy branches, Sawyer used a technique that suggested branches and leaves. The bird had been removed completely, but wasn't missed. The extensive floral system she had designed had been replaced with a more compact version that spread with new curves and angles. The effect would look sexy dripping down the curves of her back.
"I like it," Rebecca admitted, "but you don't think I need a bird or something to offset all the flowers?"
"Your pic," Sawyer said, holding up his copy of her design, "had this bird in the middle of the flowers."
"Yeah," she said, feeling a little defensive.
"Why?" he asked, setting the drawing on his desk and snagging a pencil. "Unless the bird means something to you, it serves no purpose," he explained. "You have to look at it this way: this is a piece of art, and your back is the canvas." Sawyer drew a pair of curving lines on both sides of the picture. "If we kept your layout, the bird would look disproportionate on your back—unless we lower it to match the curve in your waist," he added. "But then the claws of the bird are all over your ass, and it doesn't look as good as you might think. Leave your ass alone."
Rebecca's mouth dropped open at the direct way he shared his ideas.
"Listen," Sawyer answered, reading her expression. "I tattoo shit on people all day. Over and over people bring me their fuckin' baby feet, infinity symbols, ladybugs and fairies, and all that crap. And, you know, I take their two hundred bucks and send them on their way. You?" he said, raising his eyebrows. "You're talking about a big ass-piece that's going to take a long time, and cost a bunch to finish. I have no intention of looking at a shitty tat for eight sessions."
Her mouth pulled closed, and she sucked on her lips while processing his statement. "Thanks," she muttered finally.
"Don't mention it," he replied easily, sitting back in his chair.
"But the flowers seem so large," she said, pointing at the pictures. "I'm sorry, but I kinda wanted smaller ones."
"We want detail. Not just blobs of color on your back. The curves," he said, leaning forward and running his fingers down her back, "of your back need to be accentuated by the flowers… all the way to the top of your ass. It's sexier that way," he explained, slicing his hand down her spine to give effect to his explanation.
Rebecca felt her cheeks and neck flush.
"Trust me," he said, leaning in closer. She could almost see herself reflected in his green eyes. "You'll thank me later if we do it this way. But you know?" he said abruptly, raising his voice and leaning back in his chair. "It's really up to you. You tell me what to do, and I ink you for life. Your call."
Rebecca paused while she gathered her thoughts. She didn't like being told what to do. It almost made her want to do the exact opposite, and yet he was the professional. She was paying him for his expertise. "I trust you." The words felt foreign coming from her lips. She couldn't actually remember telling anyone those words before. "Let's do it your way," she went on and nodded, unsure if she really meant it, but certain that she wanted to go forward before she changed her mind.
"And you like this version?" Sawyer verified, as cool and calm as ever.
"Yep," she said in a small, strained voice. Rebecca bobbed her head and stared at the paper in the artist's hand.
"Great," he responded, standing up. "The chair," he said, gesturing to the tattoo chair against the wall opposite his desk. It looked like an inclined workout bench. "It's been all cleaned and ready. I'm going to go blow this up. Take off your top, loosen your pants, and sit down with your chest against the pad."
Heat flushed again over her body as his words sank in. Before she could argue, the man was out of the room and strolling down the hall. Rebecca stood there in a daze for a moment, pulling at the front of her shirt and biting her lip. She had known this part would come. In fact, she had worn her least comfortable bra, knowing that if she was going to have to be in her underwear around a perfect stranger, she was going to look her best. Now that the time was here, however, she was suddenly getting cold feet.
Slowly, she turned her back to the door. Crossing her arms over her front, she gathered the shirt until she had it raised to her breasts.
"You give a girl a moment and she wastes it," Sawyer muttered, reentering the room.
Rebecca yipped like a small dog and spun to face him.
"Need another moment?" he offered, not bothering to look at her as he moved to the tool cart that held his ink and tattoo machines. "Or are we just going to do this?"
The moment grew heavy upon her mind as she realized that this was a major turning point in her life. She could walk away right then. There was still time to turn around and change her mind if she wanted. The moment he put the needle to her skin, though, there would be no going back. Panic welled and swirled in her nervous stomach. Rebecca knew she needed a change, but was this it? Was this the direction she wanted to go? Would this take her a down a path she was ready to travel? Or would this be a huge mistake she'd regret for the rest of her life? This wasn't some small decoration she could hide whenever she wanted. This was a life devoid of tank tops, swimsuits, camisoles, or nudity around potential lovers if it went wrong. Waves of images drove over her as she stood there, her shirt tucked up to her chest. This could be a terrible mistake, or the greatest blemish of her life.
Her resolve began to soften and the shirt started to come down. Sawyer picked up the picture of the flowers and turned to her. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked, clearly reading the fear in her eyes.
She looked up into his green eyes and stared. Was that a look of concern there? Did he care? Or was he simply annoyed that she was taking so long and costing him money?