Toy

The back room was well-lit... not at all how she pictured a "back room" to be. She had envisioned a skanky, dim, cold hovel of a room, perhaps with a single low-wattage bulb dangling from the ceiling. But she was soothed, at least somewhat, by the simple, clean décor. The chair on which she was reclined was similar to one that could be found in any dentist's office; cream-coloured, faux leather with armrests and a head prop. At least the atmosphere provided a sense of sterility similar to that of a dentist's. The materials and tools around her seemed legitimate and in good condition - all positive signs.

The man, on the other hand, terrified her more than any dentist ever had. When she had walked through the front door, he hadn't even raised his eyes from his copy of American Rider. Instead, he continued to lean over the countertop; with his beefy arms crossed in front of him, his ripped tee displayed his prominent full-sleeve tattoos. His eyes pored over the pages while he slowly gnawed a toothpick, rolled it back and forth from one side of his mouth to the other. It wasn't until she actually began speaking that he finally dragged his eyes up from the magazine. The fact that those eyes never really pulled themselves up any higher than her breasts did little to reassure her that she was doing the right thing by coming here. Nevertheless, she had quite willingly agreed to go through with it. And here, then, she sat.

She had been hesitant, of course, to reveal the details of what she was to have done. And yet, she knew it was ludicrous to try to sugarcoat it. When she had finally said the words, provided the description, the man had almost snickered at her, and she felt her cheeks burn hotly as his eyes once again took in her breasts. She re-adjusted the purse on her shoulder more as a way of covering his view than for any other reason. He had directed her to the back room and said he would be with her shortly. She had mumbled a thank you, grateful to be away from his gaze for a few minutes, and carefully slipped her way past him to the indicated room. She needed this time to steel herself for what she was about to do.

After a few minutes of scanning the room and listening to the pounding of her own heart, the man reappeared and gave her another cursory glance, again from the neck down. She watched carefully as he silently went about his preparatory tasks; getting the ink cup ready (only one colour needed for this one), unpacking the needle, snapping on the fresh pair of pale blue latex gloves. Yes, the man was intimidating, but at least she could be certain of the safety of his procedures.

"So... um... is this going to hurt much?" she managed to squeeze the words from her tight chest.

"I can't say, little girl," he sniggered, here, at what seemed to be his own private joke, and she didn't care for his tone or this childish reference to her.

"You'll probably feel some stinging... some poking. But hey; you probably like those things, huh?"

Again he laughed under his breath, and again she felt the pounding of her heart and the accompanying embarrassment. It was part of what she'd agreed to, though. She had been told that there was to be some humiliation with this task; it was the nature of the piece of art that was to adorn her body.

She ignored his comment and sat up a little straighter in the chair. The broad length of paper covering it crinkled beneath her, underlining her discomfort. The man spoke again.

"Alright then, are we about ready? I know I am." He raised his gloved hands and wriggled his fingers, magician-like, complete with false smile. She nodded with equally false self-assuredness.

"Okey doke. You're just gonna hafta hike that skirt right up for me, now. I've got this template all ready to go so's you can see what it's gonna look like before I actually ink it."

She reached down, doing her best to seem comfortable with the fact that she was now lifting her skirt up above her panties for a complete stranger. She was thankful she'd gone with the full panties that morning.

"And I'm just going to pull those little panties of yours down a bit, so's we can get this right where you and him both want it. Right above your little pussy, isn't that where you said? Right over it?" He snickered again.

"Above it, yes." She had no desire to repeat that word "pussy" to this man.

When he peeled the stencil away, and told her to look down and check, she was taken aback. It was there. A label. She was about to have something done to her that would be, more or less, irreversible. That one word would serve, to anyone viewing it, as a symbol of all the need within her.

TOY

If she had been able to remove her eyes from the elaborately sketched letters on her mound, she would have noticed that the man had finally removed his own from her tits. He was staring, now, at her eyes. He was drinking in the realization that was so guiltily displayed in hers.

"So?

She bit her bottom lip and nodded once, still not raising her eyes. The man growled out a laugh and set himself to work.

"Alrighty then, little girl. Here we go. You best be careful not to move, now. We're working with a pretty sensitive area, here, and all."

The buzzing of the needle began and she winced before it even touched her skin. Once it did, she couldn't help but squirm, and the man instantly pulled back the tool.

"Whaddya think you're doin'?"

She didn't have much of a response; she knew she wasn't supposed to move, but she hadn't done so on purpose.

"I... I just... It wasn't my fault..."

"It wasn't your fault? Listen up little girl; if you want this done without me fuckin' it up, you need to stay completely still. You got that?"

She nodded again, feeling the embarrassing sting of his scolding and hating herself for feeling like the little girl he was labeling her as.

Attempt number two was only mildly better, however, and she couldn't keep herself from wriggling in frightened anticipation. He swore under his breath, put everything down, and swiveled off his stool to step to the bottom of her chair. She watched as he reached underneath it to bring up something that looked like large Velcro tabs. Without words, he undid one of them, lifted one of her feet up off the chair, and strapped the Velcro around her right ankle before she had a moment to process what he was doing.

She pulled her left away from his grasp, however, and managed to find her voice.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

He paused, motionless, his eyes blazing as the seconds ticked past. He looked up to the ceiling, mumbled something inaudible, and cleared his throat. Like slowly-devouring quicksand, his eyes wandered up from the Velcro to her chest, where they lingered too long, once again, before finding hers.

"What I'm doing is trying to make this happen as you, the customer, asked. I am trying to give you the tattoo you want, but you are doing everything in your power to fuck it up. And that ain't gonna happen on my watch, missy. Now. We either do this my way, or we part company and you go home to gaze in your mirror at a single dot of ink above that precious, bare little cunt of yours."

She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks and the goal of this trip was almost forgotten as she felt her bruised pride beneath her prickling skin. She was both disgusted and humiliated, but she remembered why she had come - and how proud her Daddy would be - and resolved to get it over with.

"Fine," she blurted, and slid her other foot down to where he stood. She watched while he wrapped it tightly, the mirror image of its partner, both now strapped to the edge of the seat. He moved closer up the chair to toss a third strap across her waist. She began to protest mildly, but one look and two words from him, "My way," silenced her.

She assumed he was done until he advanced one more step, reached behind the chair, and a fourth strap tightened its hold on her. Her mouth opened to demand why this last was needed, but his did, too, and his words poured out first.

"This one's to keep your torso still. Squirmy little things like you pretend that they can be good and calm, but we both know that ain't the truth, don't we?"

"Fine, but why is that my arms have to be under here? That's just... unnecessary, I think."

"Unnecessary, you think? Well, how about you flail or swing those arms around when the pain hits, hm? I doubt either of us wants to see the result of shit like that. Don't you agree?"

She exhaled loudly but didn't respond. He took it as consent and slipped back to his stool. His eyes roamed over her body and she felt it more than she saw it.

"Well, now. Ain't you just a picture? All strapped down, skirt up, tits heaving..."

She cut him off.

"Could we just... Could we just proceed and get this done, please..? I'm having a friend meet me here shortly to drive me home."

"Is that so? Cuz I could've sworn I saw you pull up here in your own car."

She pursed her lips, but didn't drop her defiant gaze from his taunting one. He laughed to himself.

"I coulda been mistaken, of course. Why don't we just go ahead and get this done, hm?"

The restraints gripped her tightly as the buzzing recommenced and she felt the tension return to her body. This time, however, the heat of the needle, like a hundred angry bees, seared her steadily, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She struggled to breathe with any kind of rhythm, despite the man's continually mumbled orders to do so. A small part of her was thankful for the way her body was being kept still, despite its inner resistance. A small part of her maybe even liked the whole experience.

And then it was over. The sounds ceased. It had been a mere twenty minutes of burn until she could find her steady breathing again, but she was still too hesitant to look down. He was still down there, dabbing at the specks of blood and black ink. She felt both numb and hyper-sensitive, if that were possible.

The man spoke.

"Well, then. There you have it, little girl. Good thing for those restraints, huh?"

"I guess, yeah," she shrugged beneath them. "Can we take them off now?"

"Sure. Just another minute or two..."

He reached beneath the chair and she thought she would then feel the loosening begin. Instead, he brought up a pair of scissors and calmly brought them to below her navel. He began cutting.

Her rage soared and she raised her body with all her might against her bonds. It was useless.

"What in the fuck do you think you're doing?" she screamed.

"Aw, come on, little girl! I was just cutting those panties of yours away; giving you a better look at yourself. See here? Wasn't this just what you wanted?"

She looked down at herself.

But something looked not quite right. It looked bigger than it had been on the stencil. She gasped when her eyes adjusted to the upside-downness and from her throat escaped a crumpled moan.

An extra word made it bigger. A filthy, degrading syllable to which she never would have agreed.

FUCKTOY

He watched her face collapse and drank it in. He allowed her absolute shame to drown her, and he gloried in its overflow. It washed over him, too, and his already half-hard cock stiffened solidly in his pants. His voice was a threatening whisper as he unzipped with one hand. The sky-blue latex of the other contrasted sharply with her tender and reddened skin. He shoved three fingers into her roughly; he had already seen how she'd gotten wet, despite herself, during the work.

"And goddamn if I don't love me a dirty little Daddy's fucktoy now and then."