Note - This is not properly a chapter, it's more of a vignette. If you haven't read the chapters that come before it, you won't get as much satisfaction out of it. This is erotica, not porn, and this particular chapter doesn't contain any physical sex. I like to think it contains a lot of mental sex, but that's just my opinion. I'll save you some time and tell you there's no quick stroke here. If you're still here, then please enjoy this small offering.
*
When the blue door opened Charlotte smiled at the dark figure.
"Good morning, Master," she greeted him.
"Follow me," he instructed brusquely.
Puzzled, Charlotte crawled after him. This was not in keeping with the usual routine and it puzzled her, made her nervous. She had to scramble across the polished boards to keep up with him and wasn't particularly paying attention to where they were going. When they stopped, she looked up and saw the living room had been transformed.
The furniture had been moved to the sides of the room and a large chair stood in the cleared space. It looked something like a barber's chair, except it had padded leg rests like those that might be found in a gynecologist's office. A small, heavily tattooed man was standing next to it.
"Get in," her master commanded and, dreamlike, she obeyed.
The two men strapped her into the chair, thoroughly restraining her, even to the point of securing her head with a strap. It was easily the most confined she had ever been and it made her more nervous yet. But she thought she knew what was happening and hope pounded in her chest.
"Do you still wish to bear my mark?" her master asked and Charlotte gasped in relief.
"Oh yes, Master! Very much," she responded.
She felt a gloved hand probing at her mons.
"This'll do man," the artist pronounced. "Fresh shave, nice and smooth."
"Then let's be about it," her master said. He disappeared from Charlotte's view and she heard the faint scraping of a piece of furniture being moved.
"This is the antiseptic," the artist announced.
Charlotte felt the cool alcohol on her skin followed by the rough fabric scraping away dead skin cells or any other matter that might have been left behind after her ritual bathing.
"Normally I'd use a topical for putting a tattoo here," the artist said, "but your boss says no pain-killers. So this is going to hurt. I'm going to put the stencil in place now."
She felt his hands moving against her and there was a soft tracing, such as might be made by a felt-tip pen, against her skin. She tried to visualize the design but it was hard to think about anything at all. She was both afraid and very, very happy. Charlotte had, after all, been gently prodding for this for several months. He, on the other hand, was opposed to body modification in general, and to tattooing her in particular. His arguments had been many and excellent: there was no point in marring her beauty with something so jarring, a tattoo was permanent and she was likely to regret it later in life, it would bring her unwanted attention, he was against it. She had not contested these arguments in any way and had, instead, simply begged. He had a weakness for that, as did she, so the process of wearing him down had been a pleasure.
