“Sign, please.”
A small clipboard was slapped onto the leather pad near my hand, and I almost giggled at the absurdity of this bureaucracy intruding on such intensity. But I dared not, and instead quickly scrawled something illegible with the pen; like an illiterate, the thought came to me, not a smart lawyer…
The clipboard was whisked away; my wrists were strapped, then my legs, just below the knees, and a cushioned frame was wedged beneath my belly, forcing my buttocks even further upward.
R had said I wouldn’t be restrained! But now, here I was, restrained anyway, fixed in place, helpless. What use was outrage to me here? Who would listen? What good would it do? I swallowed it, even while understanding that I was constantly being pushed across boundaries. R would say what he wanted, tell me what he wanted, and do what he wanted — he didn’t much care whether that involved tricking me or betraying me. He took it for granted that I would accept it. And I, in turn, was so grateful that he understood what I needed.
He was right about it being frightening though — it was terrifying not being able to move. Unable to stop myself, I tugged at the restraints, humiliating myself, blushing at their laughter.
“It really does frighten her, being restrained. It’s cute to see. Funny thing is, it turns her on too. Her puss will be wetter than ever…”
No! he couldn’t have said that, not here, not now, in front of this man I don’t know! I struggled some more, blinking back tears.
“Scream all you want, pretty. Ain’t but a little one.”
Immediately a high-pitched buzzing started, followed by an intense, but actually quite manageable pain at the top of my right buttock. I gasped, but that was all. It was happening. I would have a tramp stamp — would be marked, permanently, as a slut.
My nipples, stiff now, rubbed against the leather padding of the bench. I realised how turned on I was. The giant was going to fuck me — with R watching. He would find me wet and ready for him, however desperately I wished that he would not.
He took me while I was still strapped — that was the most notable part of the affair. For all his dick was big, he was no cocksman, used my pussy simply, in a businesslike fashion; then remarkably quickly he was jerking inside me.
And that was it — I’d been tattooed and fucked by a complete stranger, strapped down, naked, without permission; he had come inside me without a condom, while my boyfriend watched, in a grungy tattoo parlour. I felt terribly dirty, and I was crying weakly as I was released from the bench, as the aftercare instructions were given — still naked, still trying to stand attractively, feeling the giant’s come running down my leg. No-one offered me a mirror — I had no idea what my tattoo looked like.
I was dismissed to clean up. No, I was not to take my clothes with me, R said. I was passive, accepting, meekly obedient. Something had happened to me. Later I thought it was that some veil of pretence had been ripped from my eyes. The pretence being that R and I had a relationship other than my sexual service to him — a hangover from before, but delusional even then. He liked to fuck me, I encouraged him to fuck me, just as he liked it — that was it – that was how I liked it, too. Only now it was totally explicit.
There was a mirror in the small bathroom, and I looked at the tattoo; dark blue, a large, block-letter ‘R’, and the year, smaller. It was a property mark — graphically rather beautiful, in its austerity — but still, a property mark. R had had me marked as his property. I tried to get angry, but there was nothing there. I looked again. I knew that I liked it; that I was pleased — flattered even. Did I belong to him? No — not really — silly idea! Although … work aside, I might as well have belonged to him, I thought. It made me quiver. I wanted him to fuck me, right there and then. Fuck me as his marked property.
Re-entering the little studio was hard, because I was naked, and because I knew, now, that both men considered that I was, in some sense, property. It was exciting to me that R knew this — something dangerous and sexy between us. But the giant — the stranger who had fucked me while I was strapped to his bench — he didn’t deserve to see me naked.
There was no option, though — I couldn’t go to R in some pathetic cringe. And so I walked, as best I knew how, across the small room, to R’s side. My chest was heaving, betraying my intense emotions. Neither of them paid the slightest attention. R turned me, pushing my shoulder, then had me bend down, so he could see the tattoo clearly, then confirmed his approval to the giant in a calm, businesslike tone.
Immediately, then, he roughly kicked my feet apart, and thrust, direct into my ass, without niceties; hurting me, my face pushed down into the bench. He reached under me — and I understood I was to come for him, in front of the man mountain. I couldn’t have resisted if I had tried, and in fact it was a glorious, rippling orgasm of lasting power, and I could not keep silent. I wasn’t acting, but R could not have asked for more if I had been. I was demolished, panting my gratitude weakly, feeling simultaneously worthless and exalted.
He had me clean his cock for him, too, on my knees, in front of the giant, and I found myself making it as clear as possible how servile I was, leaning in to take R all the way in in one smooth movement, hands behind my back, unsure whether I was crying or panting with desire. Both, probably.
I dressed myself then in front of them, weeping a little, unable to look up.
Time to go. It seemed expected, so I found myself saying ‘Thank you’ to the tattooist, who grinned at me, almost laughing at my feeling the need to be polite, while I blushed.