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From: ink_artist@yahoo.com (InkArtist)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 12 Jun 2002 21:16:04 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Part II: The Collar
Date: Thu, 13 Jun 2002 00:10:05 -0400
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Part II: 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 prepared for take-off.
       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 beauty and elegance was
magnified by her arm sheathed from shoulder to wrist in dark and
intricate ink.

       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.
       Thoughtfully, they provide a cash-bar in the lobby.  I ordered
her a whisky and water.

       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 Midtwon 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.
       "...yes...yes.." she panted, as I plunged back into her.
       "The pain, the sounds, the uncertainty," I said, in a cadence,
my hips punctuating each word.
       "Almost as much as you like being fucked," I said, as I
hammered hard into her.
       Her low moans were answer enough.  I moved faster, and raised
the moans to a scream as she came.
       I grabbed her shoulders and arched my back as I spent myself
into her.  I stood a moment, thoughtfully the canvas that was her
sweat soaked back.
       "No," I said, "it will not stop at this.."

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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