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!!
“Hurting yet?” Mark asked, under his breath, never taking his eyes off her arm as he continued to work. The tip of the needle pressed in hard and steady, scra ping along her skin. The “routine” of being tattooed was already becoming evident to her: it was a continuous dragging pressure, punctuated by the rough, hard wiping motions of Mark’s other gloved hand, grasping a bloodied moistened cleansing cloth. Brief pauses for him to infuse the gun with more ink, but those were the only pauses. He kept up the pressure. Continuous pressure. Drawing in the lines, creating a bloody ink-smeared path.
She noticed that Mark occasionally smiled a little – that sexy grin – as if having some inner thought about something he found … amusing.
This sadist is actually enjoying this! Damn, what a sick, twisted