paper from his jacket pocket and signals to the men what he wants. I walk over, curious what Dylan has planned for me.
Dylan shows me the paper and I’m besie ged with a myriad of emotions; longing, desire, immense love, adoration, and things I can’t even put into words.
Dylan’s simple request for my mark - Sempre a sua, meaning – always his in Portuguese, my mother’s native language.
“When did you come up with this?” I ask with tears in my eyes.
“Wh en you were sleeping on Sally and after you told me about your mother teaching you Portuguese.”
“ I absolutely love it. Where will it go? On my shoulder? On my lower back? No wait, I don’t want a tramp stamp. Where?”
Dylan chuckles at my tramp stamp remark and grabs my left hand.
“Right here,” he says as he kisses the inside of my wrist.
What an odd place for a tattoo, but, “Whatever Sir wants, Sir gets.”
“Damn straight, I do,” he says fiercely.
I lie down and make myself comfortable on a long chair while the artist preps my wrist, cleaning it and draping it. Dylan allows me to choose a color and I pick a beautiful shade of blue that matches the color of his eyes. While the man gets the ink and equipment ready, Dylan seats himself in the station next to mine and another artist approaches him and starts prepping his left wrist as well. What on earth?
“Dylan, what are you doing?” I ask.
“What does it look like? You own me as I much as I own you, so it only seems appropriate that I’m marked as well. Wouldn’t you agree?”
This man ne ver ceases to amaze me with the depth of his love for me. The best part of his decision to do this for me is that I didn’t ask it of him; he chose this for himself. I’m unable to find the words to say to him and beam at him like a teenager with a crush. I can hardly wait to see what he’s having put on his wrist.
When the tattoo begins, it’s painful; much more so than I ever imagined it would be. It feels as if hot needles are being stabbed into my wrist over and over, and all I can do is lie here and take it and do my best not to move a muscle. Ironically, it’s much like being in a scene with Dylan. I close my eyes, slow my breathing and heart rate, and immerse myself in the intense sensation. I’m being marked for my Master and though it feels sinful, it feels like the right thing to do.
I turn my head to see Dylan undergoing the same torture as myself. His eyes are fixated on me and remain unblinking. While we’re both being inked, our eyes never stray from one another. I can almost hear his lustful thoughts penetrating my brain. I love you, Dylan Young. I love you, Master , I repeat over and over, sending my telepathic message to him. I swear to everything holy that he can hear me as his expert tongue sweeps across his mouth, leaving a glistening layer of his saliva in its path, making my pussy ache to be filled with his thick cock.
The pain is exquisite and I wince and grit my teeth when a new letter is being etched into my flesh. When I do, Dylan bites his bottom lip and shifts in his seat. He’s getting aroused at my pain and I, in turn, am kindled from his reaction to it.
The needle hits another sensitive part of my wrist and I clench my jaw, trying to withhold my wanting to cry out. I close my eyes tightly, but Dylan’s voice draws me out.
“Pussycat, I give you permission to be as vociferous as necessary. I want to hear how much you’re enjoying being marked for me,” he tells me in an alluring voice.
I do love it when he uses big words. Both tattoo artists look up at us and then at each other with raised eyebrows, and I can only imagine what they must think. Not that I give a damn. My husband wants to hear me and that’s all that matters.
When the needle hit s my wrist again, I moan out softly and Dylan smirks devilishly. The hour passes slowly and my head is swimming from the powerful feeling of excitement and pain. I’m finally able to sit up when my tattoo is
Dylan shows me the paper and I’m besie ged with a myriad of emotions; longing, desire, immense love, adoration, and things I can’t even put into words.
Dylan’s simple request for my mark - Sempre a sua, meaning – always his in Portuguese, my mother’s native language.
“When did you come up with this?” I ask with tears in my eyes.
“Wh en you were sleeping on Sally and after you told me about your mother teaching you Portuguese.”
“ I absolutely love it. Where will it go? On my shoulder? On my lower back? No wait, I don’t want a tramp stamp. Where?”
Dylan chuckles at my tramp stamp remark and grabs my left hand.
“Right here,” he says as he kisses the inside of my wrist.
What an odd place for a tattoo, but, “Whatever Sir wants, Sir gets.”
“Damn straight, I do,” he says fiercely.
I lie down and make myself comfortable on a long chair while the artist preps my wrist, cleaning it and draping it. Dylan allows me to choose a color and I pick a beautiful shade of blue that matches the color of his eyes. While the man gets the ink and equipment ready, Dylan seats himself in the station next to mine and another artist approaches him and starts prepping his left wrist as well. What on earth?
“Dylan, what are you doing?” I ask.
“What does it look like? You own me as I much as I own you, so it only seems appropriate that I’m marked as well. Wouldn’t you agree?”
This man ne ver ceases to amaze me with the depth of his love for me. The best part of his decision to do this for me is that I didn’t ask it of him; he chose this for himself. I’m unable to find the words to say to him and beam at him like a teenager with a crush. I can hardly wait to see what he’s having put on his wrist.
When the tattoo begins, it’s painful; much more so than I ever imagined it would be. It feels as if hot needles are being stabbed into my wrist over and over, and all I can do is lie here and take it and do my best not to move a muscle. Ironically, it’s much like being in a scene with Dylan. I close my eyes, slow my breathing and heart rate, and immerse myself in the intense sensation. I’m being marked for my Master and though it feels sinful, it feels like the right thing to do.
I turn my head to see Dylan undergoing the same torture as myself. His eyes are fixated on me and remain unblinking. While we’re both being inked, our eyes never stray from one another. I can almost hear his lustful thoughts penetrating my brain. I love you, Dylan Young. I love you, Master , I repeat over and over, sending my telepathic message to him. I swear to everything holy that he can hear me as his expert tongue sweeps across his mouth, leaving a glistening layer of his saliva in its path, making my pussy ache to be filled with his thick cock.
The pain is exquisite and I wince and grit my teeth when a new letter is being etched into my flesh. When I do, Dylan bites his bottom lip and shifts in his seat. He’s getting aroused at my pain and I, in turn, am kindled from his reaction to it.
The needle hits another sensitive part of my wrist and I clench my jaw, trying to withhold my wanting to cry out. I close my eyes tightly, but Dylan’s voice draws me out.
“Pussycat, I give you permission to be as vociferous as necessary. I want to hear how much you’re enjoying being marked for me,” he tells me in an alluring voice.
I do love it when he uses big words. Both tattoo artists look up at us and then at each other with raised eyebrows, and I can only imagine what they must think. Not that I give a damn. My husband wants to hear me and that’s all that matters.
When the needle hit s my wrist again, I moan out softly and Dylan smirks devilishly. The hour passes slowly and my head is swimming from the powerful feeling of excitement and pain. I’m finally able to sit up when my tattoo is
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