Part 1: The Sleeve

Part I: The Sleeve

I met her on-line.

The Internet is such a wonderful innovation. I don’t think I could have met a young woman at a bar, or nightclub, or bookstore, or any other mundane setting, and eventually have her yield to me in the same fashion that she eventually did.

Of course, it did not hurt to meet her on a website devoted to people seeking less traditional kinds of relationships, a website which catered to those who followed the so-called BDSM lifestyle.

Our correspondence spanned nearly two years before we finally agreed upon a meeting. Two years of frustration, but two years well spent. Two years to feed her desires and expectations. Two years two establish her role; her place. Most importantly, it gave me two years to plan and to sketch.

She was married, although she described her relationship as strained. She would tell her husband, Richard, that she was visiting with her mother for the long Memorial Day weekend. In reality, she was meeting me at a small lakeside cabin I had rented for the weekend in central Georgia.

My instructions to her were explicit, and I expected them to be followed:

Wear Something Expendable
Approach the Cabin Door
Knock
Wait for the Count of Thirty
Open the Door
Close your Eyes
Enter
Do Not Be Late

It was at 5:02 that three timid knocks came at the cabin door. I set aside some minor annoyance at her tardiness, gathered the initial items needed for her arrival and rose from the floor where I had been lightly meditating on the task before me. I quickly took my station in an alcove near the entryway and waited.

A few moments later she entered, her eyes closed, her hands stretched out as she inched forward into the cabin. She was dressed in a sundress, and was slender, of medium height with long blond hair. Her skin was smooth, fair and unfreckled. Unlike many on the Internet, she was what she advertised, a beautiful, athletic woman in her mid-twenties. I quickly and silently moved behind her, placing the blindfold over her eyes. She inhaled sharply as her hands began to move towards her face.

“Don’t move,” I whispered, finishing the neat knot behind her head. Her hands stopped, hanging in the air. Still behind her, drawing the cuffs from my belt, I quickly flipped them over each slender wrist, binding her hands in front of her.

From behind, I reached both my arms across her shoulders and clasped her now bound wrists, leaning towards her ear, I gently whispered, “Are you mine?”

“Yes...” she nearly whimpered.

“To do with as I will?”

“Yes..” even more softly.

“No conditions?”

“No conditions,” this time with more certainty. Her utter surrender to me was discussed, documented and cemented through the course of hundreds of emails, and hours of on-line chatting.

I nodded, even though she could not see me, and grasped the cuffs by the links between her hands, pulling her sharply forward, towards the room I had set up for us. She stumbled slightly as she struggled to keep up.

The clothing went first. Cut from her body with a slender dagger. Her skin prickled with goosebumps as her nipples went red and hard. I stepped back, and languidly inspected my canvas.

“A rose on the ankle,” I observed, my voice filled with slight scorn “and a sun on the lower back.”

Silence was her answer.

“You got those to show how daring and rebellious you are.”

Again, her silence spoke as loudly as any verbal agreement.

“How ironic this will be,” I continued, “that something truly daring will not emerge from your will, but from mine.”

I circled her, my footsteps creaking on the floor, every tread causing her to half-turn, half-flinch. I had long known what I planned on doing to her, but wished to savor in the moment, for her benefit as well as mine. Completing the circle to face her again, I gave her a small shove, causing her to tumble, with a small squeak, into a waiting armchair. I quickly secured her ankles to cuffs secured to the floor, and unlocked her right wrist, securing her left to the arm of the chair by a steel ring.

I then sat beside her, and stroked her right arm soothingly, tracing my nails from her wrist to her elbow, from the elbow to the shoulder. She sighed slightly at my light touch. I examined her arm, noting a very few fine freckles, the light blue veins beneath her skin, and other details; details that would soon disappear and be hidden forever. As I stroked her forearm, I picked up a small brush, and starting from the wrist, began to paint the outlines of a design. Water, a fierce dragon, wind and cherry blossoms swirled up from her wrist towards her elbow, designs I had drawn and redrawn so many times that they flowed from my brush with ease. Painted on the surface of the skin at the moment, a simple washcloth could remove the memory of it.

But that would not be her destiny.

“That feels nice,” she said, although her voice was edged with concern. The brush would feel similar, although not identical to my softly stroking fingertips.

I said nothing, as I picked up the outlining machine and dipped the needle into a cup of black lining ink. I firmly grasped her wrist and triggered the machine.

She jerked at the sound, but did not break my grasp.

“What are you doing?” she asked plaintively, voice cracking with fear.

“You knew you were to be tattooed,” I replied calmly.

“Yes, but I thought-”

“It is past time for thought,” I stated flatly.

“But you can’t-“

“I can, and I will.”

And with that statement I held her arm in a vice grip and again triggered the machine. I lined in the first flecks of wave and foam that were to circle her wrist, the boundary for the rest of the design. She winced through the blindfold, her face becoming ashen as the needle drove the black ink forever into her skin.

“It is too visible..” she panted, hot tears emerging from beneath the cloth covering her eyes.

“Yes,” I responded evenly, grasping her arm even more firmly, extending the line work up her inner forearm, “after two years of waiting for you, I will not be content with a little flower on your hip. Uncompromising, indelible, public, life-changing…I will settle for nothing less.”

“I can’t hide that!” she cried, feeling, but not seeing, the burn of the needle as it left an indelible black line looping up and around her forearm. “My job…my husband!” The tears flowing, her breath coming in sobs.

The sting of the needle, a delicate line tracing in a curve up, just past her elbow; the looping line of a dragon’s tail, was my only answer.

Perhaps it was shock, perhaps it was accepting the inevitable, but she said very little for the next several hours as I extended the twisting, fanciful outline to the top of her right shoulder.

I slept for a few hours; I have never needed much sleep, and watched her as she slept, still bound to the chair, her head back and mouth slightly open. I gingerly coated her arm in a light salve the night before, and the outline was slightly raised and red this morning. It would be slightly sore today, but there was more work to be done.

She eventually stirred and tried to stretch, but the shackles only allowed her to raise her arms a few inches. She awkwardly tried to push the blindfold off with her shoulder, first her right shoulder, wincing slightly as the rough cloth rubbed the fresh black lines in her skin, and then the left. She gave an exasperated sigh and then settled back into the chair.

“Is anyone there?” she shouted.

“I’m right here,” I replied softly.

She started as much as her bonds would allow and then announced, “I need to use the bathroom.”

“Understandable, you will also want breakfast.”

I unshackled her arms from the chair, and cuffed them together in front of her. I then released her legs and helped her to her feet. She stretched and winced, as she flexed muscles and limbs that had been in one position for many hours. The blindfold remained. I led her to the bathroom.

“Is this blindfold really necessary?” she asked, limping along slightly on sore, stiff legs.

“You will be able to see when it is finished and I am ready for you to see it.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, “It is not done?”

“That was only the outline,” I explained. “It still must be shaded and colored, and I intend to finish it all this weekend.”

Fortunately, I was close at hand to catch her when her knees buckled.

“The bathroom has first the sink and then the toilet, both are on the right hand side. Do not remove the blindfold. The room is utterly black. Do I need to watch you to see if you misbehave?”

She shook her head dumbly.

“Good,” I stated.

Her morning business finished, I fed her by hand and we returned to work that day, and after rest, into the next Sunday.

It was mid-Sunday afternoon that I put the shading machine down. The machine was hot to the touch from many hours of near constant use.

“It is finished,” I said, admiring the completed piece.

From the first crease of her wrist to the very top of the shoulder it extended, an uninterrupted flow of color and form. Dragons cavorted among tossing waves and windblown cherry blossoms. A chrysanthemum bloomed at the cap of her shoulder, as wind, leaves, and a dragon’s tail swirled around her elbow. The color and shading was densely applied, leaving untattooed skin only in a few places, and there only to act as a highlight.

I again led her to the bathroom, and removed the handcuffs at the doorway.

“You may now remove the blindfold and take a shower when inside the bathroom. The room will be pitch dark. When finished, hanging on the towel rack you will find a long-sleeved blouse. Put that on and button the cuffs before you come out,” I instructed her.

She did as I instructed, and emerged wearing the blouse, its sleeves slightly too long for her and extending down to the middle of her hands. She began to push the sleeves up.

“No,” I admonished her, “you will only look when I say.”

And then we had our first date, a typical movie and a dinner date. Several times I had to firmly command her to stop as she tugged at her right cuff. The hours must have dragged by for her, the as yet unseen tattoo entirely covering her arm, hidden only by a thin lair of dark blue cotton.

I bought wine at the nicest restaurant that Macon Georgia had to offer. She had several glasses, perhaps a little too quickly and was becoming quite tipsy.

The moment had arrived.

Tim, our waiter, a young man in his early twenties, probably a student at nearby Mercer University, had come by to see if we needed dessert.

“No, thank you,” I said, “but I did want you to see this, a project we have been working on all weekend.”

I turned to her; “You may roll up the sleeve now.”

Slowly she complied, carefully unbuttoning the cuff and the sleeve, and rolling it up gently, the ink still fresh and her skin tender. She gasped as she revealed it, seeing it for the first time. She held her arm up, bared to the elbow, and turned it before her in wonderment.

“It’s so beautiful..” she said slowly, her mind slowly registering just what I had done to her, unable to grasp the full implications.

“Wow,” said Tim in genuine admiration, “it sure is. How long have you been working on that?”

“Since Friday afternoon,” I informed him.

Tim visibly gulped and went on to his next table.

She continued to hold her arm up, turning it before amazed, although alcohol clouded eyes. She began to unbutton her collar, and bare her shoulder.

“That’s enough,” I said, stopping her. “We can go now, and you may get your first full look back at the cabin.”

Back at the cabin she quickly, although drunkenly undressed to her panties, trying to turn and twist her arm to see all of it. I directed her to a mirror. For a long minute she stood before it, taking in what she saw, trying to develop and integrate her new appearance. As drunk as she was it was too much.

She turned away from the mirror and faced me. She raised her right arm and I let her slap me across the face. She then fell into my arms and leaned against my chest. I grasped her about the waist, and raised her chin up with my hand and kissed her. She responded ferociously, and we both nearly toppled to the floor, smothering each other with passion.

She was already down to her panties, and I was soon out of the suit and tie I was wearing. After three days of anticipation and tension we were both immediately ready for each other. However, I wanted to take at least some time with this.

I laid back, on the floor, my penis pointing, straining for the ceiling.

“Take it,” I commanded her, “take it in your hands.”

She softly took my penis, already weeping cum, and stroked it. Her right arm flexed as her hand moved gently up and down, the shapes and colors now alive in her moving with her. Her tongue played lightly across the tip, licking away the sweet fluids that already strained for release.

I pushed her away and down to the ground and roughly entered her. She gasped and immediately came; the tension built up over three days releasing in one continuous orgasm that shook her entire body. I flipped us over, she now straddling me, bucking and riding my stiffened, straining shaft. Her breasts bounced as she moved up and down, faster and faster.

“Run your hands through your hair,” I commanded her, and she did, sitting straight upright, lifting her hair with both hands as her hips rocked back and forth, a determined look on her face.

I exploded into her as she came a second time, releasing the sexual tension I had built up over days.

She rolled off to my right and snuggled against the side of my chest, her right arm thrown across my chest. The now darkened and colorful skin of her arm contrasted starkly against my lighter, undecorated skin.

“It is wonderful,” she murmured, looking at her arm across my chest as she fell asleep.

She slipped away before dawn without saying a word, the adrenaline and the alcohol having worn off, and the growing realization that she had another life to return to.

I wondered if she could.