Ink

"... tattoos. I love tattoos. I don't have any because my mother would kill me... but... I love them, and love men who have them..."

"...Ongoing search continues for missing 18 year old..."

"... No, not the flaming skulls or chicks riding motorcycles kind. Artistic ones... designs... black, ink markings..."

"... Police have been searching since early last week and thus far... have yielded no results..."

"... Don't even know why I'm telling you this," She giggles. ".. It's not like I've known you forever... only a few days and yet..."

"... Abducted from her home nearly two weeks ago and vanished with barely a trace... and no sign as to her whereabouts..."

"... I feel like you know me so much better than anyone else..."

The static snow of a voice on a tape recorder, her voice, the confessional laughter. The blaring announcement over a television screen overwriting the sound, blacking out the voice. A loud buzzing sound that would strain and deepen, lengthen and shorten as it moved. He listened to one, ignored the other, and concentrated solely... on the third.

With her skin bare before him, he listened to her voice, that beautiful voice that came through in strained, half-lost tones over the crappy speaker of a handheld tape recorder. It sat next to him on the desk and she'd confessed into it without ever knowing it was there. She'd told him all of her secrets, every single florid detail of every single encounter that she'd ever had. Every desire.

If he closed his eyes he could see her. Hear her breathing in the second when he'd grabbed her, hauled her from her warm bed, and into the night. He could feel her struggle against him, her legs kicking out trying to escape him. He remembered how hard he'd gotten, how unutterably aroused that he'd been by her violence. He felt a stirring in his boxers as he thought about it now. For a moment he paused and leaned back, staring up at her beautiful skin. So white... so perfect a canvas for his debauch.

"Don't suppose anyone ever told you not to take candy from strangers..."

He watched her shudder, her blue eyes going wide as he spoke to her, directly to her, for the first time in a better part of a week. A small whimper escaped her from behind a red ball-gag and she tugged against the leather thongs that held her arms aloft, her body stretched before him. Blood trickled down from her ribs and over her thighs, it seeped forth slowly because he had yet to wipe it away. Slowly, she saw him raise the hand that held the blood-reddened cloth and she shut her eyes tightly, biting down on the ball as the intense burn of rubbing alcohol, stung the open sores on her skin.

The buzzing stopped.

She opened her eyes and sighed in relief.

That relief didn't last long. After a moment of staring at her intently, he stood from his chair, and moved closer. His eyes scoured her face, tracing over the black marker drawings that covered her forehead, cheeks and neck. He nodded sagely and then smiled, that charming voracious smile that he'd so enthralled her with before.

"... Me? I'd cover myself with them!..."

She heard her own voice as she'd cheerfully spat those words at him. She regretted them now... would regret them forever. She hadn't known then that he was recording every word that she spoke, didn't know it until now. Now. When she'd ceased to speak to him... in favor of screaming for help instead. He'd been forced to gag her, and sat listening to the recording as a replacement... as a justification.

"Yes, talk to me baby... tell me what you want."

"... there's just something about it. Something about the black ink against white flesh... I dunno... Seductive. And almost scary... and... I want that..."

He'd heard the tape a thousand times. Played it over and over again until he'd memorized passages and could recite them back. He looked her over now and grinned, pleased. Blood still trickled from her ribs, running down over her hip and sliding into the small crevice where hip turned into leg. From there it followed the natural contours of her body and ran between her legs, then down from between her thighs. She was in no danger of bleeding to death, no, this pain was too slow for that.

His eyes ate up the sight of her, this piece of artwork that he'd made. She was incredible. Voluptuous was the best word. Rounded breasts and large hips, a slightly curved belly that flattened out over the ribs. She was a Renaissance vision like Leighton's Odalisque, full and full of curves. And that was why the markings were so beautiful, so perfect on her skin. He sighed and smiled, a dark lock of tussled hair falling in his face. Wide blue eyes watched him. He reached out a hand and laid it on her waist, urging her to turn, to swing around and face the wall.

The leather bonds twisted and forced her hands to cross at the wrists when she turned about. She stood there with her breasts pressed against the wall, her eyes tightly closed. Pain, there was pain, and also there was a grudging pleasure to be had in the sensation. Her skin was raw, and where he'd marked her it was rough, scabs that would soften, fade, and then finally heal over to leave a smooth rendering of his art behind. She'd become accustomed to the sharp sunburn feeling of the needle as it traced across her flesh. So much so that she'd begun to like it... and then, finally, to love it.

At first she'd struggled against the needle, against the ink. At first she'd looked across the room at a mirror image of herself, traced with black marker, and screamed against the gag that he'd shoved into her mouth. Later she'd ceased to struggle. Emotions roiled within her. Some part of her loved this with a sadistic pleasure that couldn't be topped. But part of her rebelled against the torture still, reminding her of her homegrown morals and religious parentage.

She couldn't lie.

She loved the burn.

Loved the sting of the needle and the sight of the blood as it welled slowly to the surface. She loved the scent of rubbing alcohol and His cologne. Day after day she watched herself in the full body mirror as he marked her, transformed her into a work of art that she both adored... and hated.

There were no limits. There were no lines drawn that told him to stop, no confining voice that told him to 'leave it bare'. Nothing. On the first day he'd started on her feet, tracing out an elaborate design that moved up her legs and thighs, that swirled around her buttocks and over her belly... up, up, and up. She thought that some parts might be sacred, but no. He marked her face too, then just as casually, shaved the hair from her crotch, and took his design there too.

Bold.

Black.

Completely and utterly... beautiful.

He had the artist's eye and great taste. The patterns were completely feminine, but drawn with a masculine hand. They were perfect, an incredible vision of artistry. And she could tell that he was proud of them. Oh-so-proud of her skin, his flesh, the canvas.

His hands, such large hands to do such delicate work, traced over her now. They flowed down the line of her back and over her buttocks. She winced and sucked in a breath as his fingers smoothed over roughened, raw skin and stroked downward. He cupped her buttocks in his palms and squeezed. She cried out around the gag and pressed her legs together. She felt him move forward, pressing his chest against her back.

"You know you like it..."

"... I dunno. I think I can handle pain pretty well. And besides... just think of what it'd look like when it was done..."

The recording still went on. Every now and again interjecting its own opinion into the non-conversation that he was having with her. His fingers smoothed up the inside of her thigh, smearing a crimson streak of blood across the white spaces that hid somewhere between each black line. He looked down and licked his lips. Bringing the cloth up, he wiped at the smear, taking it away. He heard her scream again as the alcohol stung the flesh.

"I know you love it..." He smiled. "In fact... I bet you're wet... right now."

His fingers plunged into her from behind, sliding through the crevice of her backside and into her passage. He was right. She was wet. Slippery and hot against his fingers. Her moisture eased the way and he stroked in and out of her, first with one finger, then two.. and finally three.

"I remember how you struggled." He licked his lips and pressed his body close to hers. "I remember how you kicked and tried to scream. I remember how you pleaded with me... to let you go..."

She whimpered and moved her hips against his hand.

"I remember how you looked for me. How you sat in that diner and waited for me to come... and talk to you about all the naughty things that you thought were forbidden."

"... I feel like I can tell you anything..."

"You were so easy."

She shuddered and tried to pull away. She shut her eyes against the whisper sound of his voice and the ring of truth in his words. He grasped her, digging his fingers into her cunt, holding her to him as his hand slid forward and one finger tweaked her clit. She spasmed then, her hips banging against the wall. She screamed against the ball and tears ran down her cheeks at the pain her sudden movement inflicted. He'd done this constantly over the past week. So much that her body had come to associate the pain he inflicted with the pleasure he later gave. They became one and the same.

He was the first to touch her.

And thusly... the first to mold her.

She felt him back away, his fingers leaving her, then he was there again. Only, this time it wasn't fingers that she felt prodding against the opening into her body. He'd freed his erection and placed it at the entrance. He paused there, seemingly in contemplation. She felt his wet finger tracing over her then, following the line of one of his designs as it flowed across her backside and down her leg. She whimpered. He'd never done this, never threatened, never used anything but fingers, lips, tongue.

He stabbed forward and she screamed again as he rammed himself into her.

"Still a virgin." He laughed and pressed his hips upward so that he had her pinned against the wall. "How did you make it through eighteen years... without having your cherry popped by some pawing football player baby?"

He thrust his hips upwards violently, causing her to cry out again. Pulling back, he held there at her entrance, just the mushroom head of his cock still inside her. He watched as it tugged at her vaginal lips, he asserted the slightest pressure in order to see the ridge on the underside of his head... tease at her opening.

"Such a pretty innocent." He started as he slid back into her body again. "You look so good... in black."

He pulled back and slid home again and again. Slowly thrusting into her as his hands stroked over the upraised flesh where he'd tattooed her. The designs ran across her entire body and he stroked them wherever he could reach. From thigh to breast, his hands moved over her, touching belly, chest, neck. His tongue snaked out and he licked at the markings on her shoulder.

"You don't know how hard I get..." He chuckled then as he slammed back into her. ".. well, maybe you have some idea."

She moaned then, her head falling back on his shoulder. He sucked her neck, and stared at her face, so intricate... do delicate... so marked. She looked like a doll. She looked like a fantasy. Mayhap a nightmare. Some image that popped out of the deepest depths of some serial killer's mind. Only, he wasn't a serial killer.

He was an artist.

"... tattoos mean you're a bad girl. I want tattoos... lots of them... I love them..."

Her passage squeezed him tightly and he grunted as he thrust and thrust faster. His hand came up and he undid the hook that held the gag shut. It fell loose and she wasted no time in spitting it out. Wasted no time in screaming. Her voice rent the air like a hot knife through butter, leaving ripples of sound behind it. She screamed and screamed until she was hoarse... then her voice died to a moan.

He shoved her against the wall, pressing her forward and grinding her skin into the smooth tile before them. There was a constant moan now as he pounded into her, interrupted only by the squeezing of the air from her lungs with each thrust, that caused the sound to stop for a second before resuming. Violently, he took her, grasping her hips and holding himself inside of her. Pounding, pounding.

The slapping of flesh was like a whip crack in the air. Her body jolted with each thrust and he reached around, fondling her breasts, feeling the hardness of her nipples. The pain made her wet. The pleasure made her wetter. He felt her cum as it oozed in sticky drops from around his cock. He licked his lips and dipped his finger into the wetness, bringing it to his tongue and sucking. He thrust it into her mouth then, forcing her to taste herself, taste the abject and humiliating proof of her desire.

Thrust after thrust he shoved himself into her, pulling out completely once or twice in order to butt the head of his cock against her asshole.

"Yes, baby... yes... such a good fuck baby."

Her skin was on fire. Where her breasts pressed against the wall they were cool, the tile chilling her scarred flesh. But where he touched, every place that his fingers explored there was an acute, burning, fire. She loved it. She hated it. Tears of pain streamed down her face even as her body reached toward an uncontrollable climax. He thrust and thrust, pounding into her willing cunt as his fingers tiptoed over the raised markings.

He closed his eyes and pressed himself closer to her, pressed her harder against that wall. Her breathing became shallow, she couldn't seem to take in a complete breath. It was as if he thought that, by squashing his skin to hers, he could stamp the marks onto his own body. He caressed, he thrust, he stopped pulling back and held inside her instead, making small forward motions with his hips. He crammed himself into her body, nudging against her cervix with his cock. She could feel him so deep in her belly... so deep.

And it broke her.

Those small, blunt motions... they broke her.

She screamed as she orgasmed, clawing at the bonds that held her arms high above her head. Her hips bucked back and forth and she felt him tensing behind her, tensing.

Coming.

Just before he came, he withdrew.

She felt the absence of him and whimpered, wanting him back, wanting him to come inside of her. Instead he took himself in hand and squeezed, quickly beating his own flesh off. Long moments passed as she waited, waited for his fingers, his cock, his tongue...

Anything.

Nothing.

He gave her nothing.

His hand moved quickly, flashing up and down the length of his dick. His eyes remained fixed on her, roaming up and down the black designs, the marks...

Marks.

Marked.

He felt his orgasm building, felt the cum boiling in his balls, moving outward. He pumped his hand harder, pulling with near violence and thrusting his hips into his hand. He reached out his arm and laid his free palm flat against her back, heard her wince as he leaned forward, exerting pressure. His fingers dug into her skin, he held her there.

And came.

In viscous white torrents.

He came.

His semen hit her flesh, splattering across each tattoo. The sticky cum drizzled down her lower back and between the crack of her ass. He watched it, mesmerized. His mouth watering as the white invaded the black. Such an incredibly seductive sight. So incredibly seductive. He glanced up, and removed his hand from her back. He stood there staring at her, smiling.

She was a work of art.

And he had made her.

Every line, every curve, every... single... drop.

The sound of lust faded from his ears and he heard the room again. Her soft breathing, the television as it blared some obnoxious commercial... the tape recorder...

"... and bad girls always... have all the fun..."