Part 2: the Collar

It took over a week for her to email me:

Richard has filed papers. I have nowhere to go. Please help.

I emailed back a meeting time and place, this time at a Barnes & Noble in my home city. I agreed to meet, but made no other promises.

I arrived well in advance of her, taking a seat in the coffee shop window where I could scan the parking lot. I almost did not spot her. Despite the early-June Florida heat, she was wearing a long-sleeved heavy cotton blouse. I expected this, but was still mildly disappointed.

I greeted her near the door. A flurry of emotion played across her face upon seeing me; hatred, desire, love, fear...all within seconds.

"Coffee?" I asked.

She nodded, and we went to the counter to place our orders. When hers arrived at the counter she began to reach for it with her right hand. As she did so, the blouse, which was slightly too short for her, rode up her arm, exposing three or so inches above her wrist; three inches now alive and solid with beautiful color and design. The young man behind the counter cocked his head slightly, perhaps to get a better look at the vibrant tattoo. Self-consciously, she dropped her right hand and tugged at the sleeve, attempting to hide the design. She then took the coffee with her left. I smiled to myself, but said nothing. We did not speak at all as she stared at, but did not drink her coffee. I asked if she needed a place to stay.

She said little during the late evening drive to my house, beyond explaining that her husband, Richard, wanted nothing further to do with her.

"He called me a freak," she sobbed, her left hand grasped firmly on her right wrist, subconsciously protecting her arm from view.

"You will stop that now," I gently commanded. "You are the same person as you were before we met in that cabin, only now more beautiful, more exotic, more desirable."

"To you…" she said, and although meek, she seemed relieved.

I left it at that, and continued driving. Exhausted, she fell asleep during the car ride to my house, her hand still clasping her right wrist. I had to carry her to the bedroom I had already arranged for her. She only awoke halfway, and resisted not at all, as I took her out of her jeans and blouse, and dressed her in a cream satin chemise. I tucked her into bed, admiring her beautiful face, the splash of dark honey hair, and her intricate, fully sleeved arm lying across the white comforter. The tattooed arm was completely healed and the skin was smooth and soft. She looked at peace.

At my fireplace that night I contemplatively stared into the fire, and burned the cotton blouse she wore earlier that day.

As I mentioned before, I need little sleep, and was long awake before she rose. She must have been exhausted, since she slept well over twelve hours before I heard her rise and move around inside the guest bedroom.

I waited quite some time for her to come down. After a nearly an hour I began to fry up some eggs and bacon. Hunger, the second most potent primal urge, coaxed her from the bedroom and down into the kitchen.

She entered slowly, still exploring the space, and sat down sullenly at the small table in the breakfast nook. Her hair was dark and damp from a morning shower. She was wearing the same pair of jeans as the night before, only now with a white tank-top.

She broke the silence.

"Where is my shirt?" she demanded.

"It is gone," I replied, dividing the eggs onto two plates, "but there is enough clothing for you upstairs including many tops. I believe they are all your size. I see that you found one. Besides, that shirt was much too heavy for summer."

"They are all like this," she said with scorn, tugging at the thin strap at the shoulder.

I turned to look directly at her and spoke, "That ink covering your arm is never going away. You cannot hide it the rest of your life. As I said last night, you are the same person as you were before the weekend at the lake but with one addition."

"You have been sleeved," I said, putting extra emphasis on the last word, "you will live with that and you will become proud of it. You no longer have any choice or say in the matter. You are the same person, yes, but you are wearing, and will always wear beautiful art on your skin. You are going to display that art to the world, and not conceal it in my presence."

She said nothing, but poured herself a glass of fresh orange juice from the pitcher on the table. With satisfaction, I noticed that she poured the juice using her right hand.

For the most part, I let her be that day, but watched her carefully as she moved about through the house. She did not attempt to cover or clothe her arm again that day, but spent long moments studying her own reflection when she walked by a mirror. Sometimes she would gently rub her arm while doing this, perhaps hoping that the ink on her arm would come off with that rub, or, perhaps, marveling that it would not.

She never once attempted to leave the house, but spent that night in the guest bedroom.

I decided that it was time for us to step out.

The next morning I greeted her again in the breakfast nook. She was again freshly showered, and dressed in a fresh cotton short-sleeved shirt. I looked forward to watching her shower; to seeing the hot water dance across her firm body; to seeing her clever hands work the soap into a lather and spread it across her body; and, to seeing my work on her standing defiant against that soap and water, unwashable, impervious. It would cement in my own mind what I had done to her.

"Pack some things, we are going out tonight," I informed her.

"Where-" she started to ask.

"You will see when we get there," I stated, cutting her off before she could even finish the question. "We will only be gone one night, so no need to pack very much."

I produced a garment bag from Neiman Marcus and handed it to her, "Here, change into this."

She padded upstairs, and came back down, dressed smartly in a dark sage Channel linen vest and matching pants. She looked elegant, yet casual. She kept looking at her right arm, a contrast of dark oriental wind-rows and splashes of bright color. She was obviously very aware of how exposed it was. I marveled at her smart appearance, the contrast between a conservative linen suit and the extremely public display of heavy tattooing.

"Very nice," I said approvingly, "now start packing, the car will soon be here."

In a daze, she assembled some things into an overnight bag. After only fifteen minutes or so the cab honked from the driveway.

She suddenly paused before stepping outside, her left arm crossed atop her right.

"I can't do this," she said, gripping her arm tightly, attempting to hide it, "this isn't me, this isn't who I am."

I laughed.

"Go look in the mirror again, like you did all day yesterday. This is what you are now. You have no choice now but to accept it."

I picked up her bag and mine, and she reluctantly followed me outside and into the cab.

"The airport," I instructed the driver.

The flight from Florida to Atlanta was short; hardly enough time to enjoy the first class service. I had to gently nudge her to uncross her arms on several occasions: as she walked through the terminal; as she boarded the plane; and as she took her seat. I ordered a drink for her while the plane was prepared for takeoff.

The flight attendants, if they even had feelings or opinions about the work, did not make them obvious. I was quietly glad, since what she needed most right now was to not be a spectacle, to not feel like an oddity.

We arrived in Atlanta around five in the afternoon. We took another cab to the Downtown Hilton, and went up to the Presidential Suite I had reserved. She blinked at the sumptuously appointed rooms, and flopped down on the bed, closing her eyes.

I rather enjoyed the sight of her, sprawled out across the white comforter, arms thrown above her head, but we had a schedule to keep.

"No time for that," I barked. "Check that wardrobe."

With a sigh she stood up and opened the rich, dark mahogany wardrobe. Inside, as I had instructed the concierge to do, was a black silk evening dress, incredibly expensive for such a small piece of fabric, hanging from its very slight straps. On the floor of the wardrobe were matching heels. She brushed her fingers over the lustrous garment, the silk rippling slightly at her touch.

"Now put that on, and make yourself ready," I commanded, and left the bedroom to allow her to get ready, while I changed in the living area.

It was perhaps forty-five minutes later the she emerged. It took me far less time to change, and I was sitting, patiently, in an overstuffed chair in the living room of the suite, looking out over the city. I nearly lost my all-important composure at the sight of her.

The dress was spare, stopping a good eight inches above her knees, making her already long and shapely legs appear even more astonishing. The neckline was cut low, and there was virtually no back. She twirled in place; the muscles of her as yet undecorated back flexed as she raised her arms. Her arm sheathed from shoulder to wrist in dark and intricate ink magnified her beauty and elegance.

We took a cab from the hotel to the Woodruff Arts Center. Gathering in the evening dusk was a well-dressed crowd mingling outside and entering the large columned building. We got out of the cab and made our way through the crowd and into the cavernous interior. I was dressed nicely, in a dark Armani suit, but I was scarcely noticed. The crowd parted for her. Conversations stopped in mid-sentence as she went by. Old men stared and their wives glared at them.

"They are staring at me," she said in a nervous half-whisper.

"And why shouldn't they," I said, "you are beautiful and exotic, something these people have never seen before."

She swallowed hard, but pressed on, smiling tensely back at the curious on-lookers. I bought her a whisky and water at the thoughtfully provided cash bar in the lobby. She seemed to relax.

The performance was wonderful. The Atlanta Symphony with guest violinist Itzhak Perlman performing Mozart's Fifth Violin Concerto and Vivaldi's Four Seasons. More important, the public unveiling of my art was a huge success.

After dinner we took a cab to the Presidential Suite at the Downtown Hilton. The plane flight back to Florida was not until early afternoon the next day. Our suite was nearly on the top floor, and the window looked north, up Peachtree Street, into the bustle and lights of Midtown. The Woodruff Arts Center, the venue of the symphony, was visible; a large low building sitting among tall office towers.

She turned around and faced me, her left hand absently stroking her decorated arm, a habit she had picked up within the last day.

"It won't stop at this, will it?" she asked, indicating her right arm with her left hand.

I met her gaze but did not answer, and she turned to look again across the flickering lights of Midtown Atlanta. I could watch her, her face reflected in the glass as she gazed out, and could see her focus shift from the dizzying cityscape to her own reflection. She stopped stroking her right arm, and slowly held out her left. She gazed at the smooth, pale skin, and held her right arm up next to it. She then brought her right hand up and, with her fingertips, gently, almost sensually, caressed the top of her breasts, all while staring at her own reflection. I knew she was trying to imagine how she would look, and how it would feel, to have the indelible ink claiming more and more of her soft, pale skin.

She turned around again to face me, her face flushed and nipples hard beneath the sheer evening dress she was wearing.

I quickly strode to her, reaching behind her head, grasping her hair, and pulling her head back. Her lips parted and I savagely kissed her, her body melting into mine. I could taste the whisky on her lips and breath.

I pulled away, her mouth still open and anxious. "What has you so excited?" I asked.

"I…For a second…I could see myself…the colors across my chest...on both arms…feel your hands grasping me…the machine buzzing…I…" she stammered, flustered at her inability to express the emotions and desires welling up inside her.

I put a finger to her lips to silence her, and then lifted from the ground by the waist. Her arms circled my neck and shoulders as her legs wrapped around my hips, straddling me as I stood. Carrying her thus, I walked to the large white marble shower, her crotch grinding against mine with each step, her lips hungrily drinking at mine.

I set her down, and with a swift motion lifted the silk evening dress over her head. She hungrily began working my belt buckle and zipper. I tore the Egyptian cotton dress shirt open, the buttons breaking loose and ticking off the mirror and floor.

We were both quickly undressed, and I pushed her into the shower and turned on the water. The small marble and tile room, with three jets of near-scalding water, quickly filled with steam.

I grabbed the French-milled soap, and with both hands worked the bar into a slippery lather. Starting from her left arm, I slipped and slid my hands across her, soaping every inch. My hands roamed across her chest, cupping and lathering each full breast. I then moved to her right arm, soaping her arm from wrist to shoulder, admiring the firm feeling of supple muscle beneath decorated skin.

Certainly, there is no canvas more beautiful than a woman's body.

My hands roamed down, across her stomach, and paused at the downy hairs where her legs parted. My right hand tarried there, my fingers scooping up beneath her, slick with the mild but slippery soap. The bud between her legs was full and sensitive, and she sucked in her breath as my fingers flirted there.

With the shower beating hot water against my back, I lifted her and pressed her against the marble wall. I slipped a hand between her thighs and parted her legs, and rammed myself into her. She screamed lustily into my ear as her feet dangled a nine inches above the wet tile, nailed against the wall like a butterfly pinned to a board. Her legs and arms wrapped around me as I thrust into her over and over. Together we careened from one wall to the other. She screamed as she came, hot tears quickly washed away by the even hotter water.

She pushed me away and reached for the soap. With both hands she worked the bar into a lather and grabbed my rigid shaft with her right hand. She worked her hand up and down, while she gently cupped my balls with her left. The intense feeling of her busy hands, as well as the sight of her decorated arm working my member was too much. I groaned as I came, the spilled seed was lost among water and soap, and quickly washed away.

We finally arrived back from Atlanta late the next evening.

Once home we settled in front of the fireplace and sipped some brandy. I sat behind her, watching her as she stared into the fire. I enjoyed watching her, her cascading hair, her firm calves and shapely feet tucked up underneath her, her steady pulse beating in her throat.

"Put your blindfold on," I instructed her firmly.

She hesitated, suddenly shaken out of her own thoughts.

"What-" she started, stopping when she saw my glare.

She hunted among the bags still packed from the Atlanta trip, and found the length of cloth. She carefully tied it around her head and across her eyes and sat, waiting patiently. I shackled her to the chair, uncertain whether bonds would be needed. She was at a delicate phase, but after this evening there would be little cause for future concern.

It took some time for me to set-up my tools, and even longer to find exactly what kind of design I wanted for her. Eventually, I found it and made a stencil. It was long, some twelve inches or so, and narrow.

I sat beside her, and pinned her long hair up. I carefully shaved the soft downy hairs on the back of her neck. I gently kissed the freshly shaved skin. She shivered slightly as goosebumps formed across her neck and arms. I noticed that her nipples became hard beneath the sheer, cream silk robe that she wore.

"Now, sit very still, and keep your head held just so," I instructed her, as I applied the paper stencil. Starting from back of her neck I circled it around her throat and again to the back of the neck, the two tails of the stencil meeting above the nape of her neck. I carefully unwound the stencil, leaving a clear purple design on her skin; a guide for my hand, holding the needle, to follow.

A look of apprehension covered her face, as I moved away. She was undoubtedly beginning to guess at what I had planned for her, but she said nothing.

I let the stencil dry as I assembled the lining machine. I dipped the lining needle in a cap of black ink and approached her. Starting from her side, several inches beneath her right ear, I triggered the machine and slowly glided it across the delicate skin of her neck. The skin there is much more sensitive than the arms, and she sucked in her breath as the needle grazed her skin. The needle and ink did their work, leaving a sharp black line in her skin, permanent and undeniable.

In this fashion I slowly circled her, extending the lines and design completely around her neck. Hot tears flowed from beneath the blindfold as she gritted her teeth. She whimpered and moaned as I worked, but her breath came fast, and her nipples remained erect. I cleaned away the blood and ink, and switched to the shading machine and shaded the design with black ink. Again I circled her, working in the midnight black ink, cleaning away blood and pigment. Finally, I selected the last color, a vibrant scarlet-red, and, circling her again, worked that color into her now tender skin.

I carefully, almost reverently cleaned away the ink from her hair, chest, neck and shoulders. Despite my care, the silk robe was utterly ruined, as stained as her newly tattooed skin. I again gently kissed the back of her neck.

I unshackled her from the chair, and left the blindfold on as I led her slowly to a mirror. The room was lit only by candles, and her hair and face glowed warmly in the flickering light. I turned her to face the mirror, let the robe fall about her ankles, and slowly untied the blindfold.

She gasped softly at the sight of the design, her right hand rising, and coming to a gentle rest on her chest just beneath the collarbone. Circling her delicate neck was an intricate Celtic knot; one strand black, the other red. My colors. Even a turtleneck could not conceal all of it.

"What is it?" she asked slowly, as her fingertips gingerly explored the edges of the design.

"Your collar," I said gravely.

"Collar?"

"Yes," I said, carefully measuring each word, "by that mark I claim you as my own possession; a possession that I will treasure and protect. From this day forward, whenever you look into a mirror you will see that mark and remember that you are mine in all ways possible."

She continued to stare at herself in the mirror. The collar inscribed around her neck fluttered slightly as she swallowed, contemplating, understanding, accepting.

I came up behind her and, grabbing her waist with one arm, pushed her upper body forward until she was bent forward at the waist, facing the mirror, both hands pushing against it for support. Subconsciously, her legs spread slightly and her hips swiveled back and up. From behind, I ran my fingertips felt along the edges of her labia, gently probing inside her. She was very, very wet. I untied the sash closing my robe. Entering her was like slipping into warm oil.

She looked into the mirror only a few feet before her eyes, her eyes meeting mine for a moment, and then focusing on the collar tattooed around her neck.

"You enjoy being inked, don't you?" I said, as I partially withdrew, teasing her as she started to get close.