The
tapestry of his life was etched in flesh, stark black lines on pale
skin slashed with scars. Each silvery trail had its mate, words of
remembrance and warning. His meditation writ by the loving marks of
many masters. An inconsistent and willful sub, he'd struggled for
dominance and paid the price. Nervous fingers caressed the newest,
still pink and overly sensitive.
"Are
you sure you want to do this now? It's going to hurt." The
artist's cautionary words were shrugged off and he settled into the
chair. The pain was, to some degree, the point.
The
ticklish job of layout was soon completed, and he studied the rough
outline now spanning his chest in the mirror. His mind seamlessly
made the transposition to read the familiar phrase. The
mirror crack'd from side to side. "The curse is come upon me."
"It's
a bit longer than the others."
"So
was the relationship." His curt retort cut short any further
questions and dark lashes fluttered shut as the needle bit into
tender flesh. Traitorous thoughts reached back to the first time in
this chair, and the quote that skimmed sinuously around and between
his vertebrae. The trick is not minding that
it hurts. A hard lesson, true, but one that
still served him well. It served as punctuation for the satiny
twisted stripes a badly wielded bullwhip had wrought.
Inky
pinpricks danced close to his recent injury, coaxing damaged nerves
to fire in sympathetic resonance, connecting present to past. The
harsh crack of well-tanned leather on untanned skin. His arousal
spiraled, adrenaline surging past synapses and connecting anus to
cock to brain. Fire surged through the planes of muscle cushioning
his spine, hot sparks of remembered agony.
The
face was lost to him, but dark, unreadable eyes remained. They had
lit, ever so briefly, when his blood started to flow. Trust misplaced
for the first time carved canyons in his soul far deeper than the
faded trails left behind would suggest.
Despite
it all, or perhaps because, the remembrance was not of pain, but
pleasure. His cock swelled under the force of the memory. Echoes of
satisfaction he chased to this day.
He'd
sworn it would never happen again, the words wrapping his spine meant
as a warning. Not six weeks later traitorous feet carried him back to
the clubs in search of something he couldn't admit.
It
didn't always end badly. At times their lust and his need dovetailed,
at least for a while. In the end, he always ended up wanting. A year
passed, then two. Self-protective urges faded, the men he played with
growing ever more demanding. His wants, delivered, and exceeded.
The
artist was just that, an artist. His only concern perfect placement
and precise lines. If he made the connection it was never mentioned.
The others admired only the contrast, stark black on creamy white.
Decoration for decoration's sake. Deeper meaning was outside their
purview. That the needle was absolution for his failings was his
private codex, the key to unlocking his truth.
The
kanji wrapping his neck didn't quite conceal the grooves left by an
ill-considered foray into breath play. A world
of hurt and pain, even still, flowers bloom. He
had sworn that would be the last time he made the trek from hospital
bed to this chair. So he'd settled down, swapping restlessness for
monogamy, to no avail.
At
first it had frightened him. Gentle touches on the marks of his
transgression. Hot hands stroking where others had bruised, bitten,
or burned. He'd been skittish, constantly second-guessing every move,
waiting for a punishment that was never delivered. Slowly, gradually,
instincts honed in dark rooms with darker souls faded.
What
he hadn't expected was the ink itself becoming an addiction.
Reminders of mistakes of a gentler nature filled the void he refused
to acknowledge. No longer words of warning, rather, souvenirs of this
new path he so carefully negotiated. A barcode in the arch of a foot
pierced by broken glass. A smiley face on his skull, proclaiming that
drunken shower sex, however enjoyable, still came at a price. A
dandelion on his shoulder blade, his past dissipating like seeds in
the breeze.
And
then, a first, a name. It wrapped the curve of his pelvis as a proud
declaration of fidelity. The only time he ever explained the
significance of his choice. The sex that followed was sweet. Tender
in a way he rarely managed to appreciate, punctuated by the residual
sting.
Perhaps
that was his mistake, the mark without a mate. Fate when tempted
rarely fails to deliver. Dulled instincts never recognized the
increasingly stormy look in formerly placid eyes.
The
needle bit deep and he clenched his teeth, a hand automatically
reaching for his chest to caress the reminder of his latest descent
into chaos.
"Too
big for a bullet," the tattooist ventured. "Mind if I ask?"
"My
lover tried to cut my heart out." He winced as a ghost of the
pain surfaced. In truth, at the time shock insulated him, so
unprepared for the assault he made no move to escape. In the halls of
memory, though, the sting is bright and sharp. The ink is black where
his blood ran red.
The
words are etched in his memory, spoken in a voice roughened by anger
and tinged with disappointment. "How could you possibly imagine
I would feel good about this?" A hard hand stroked over the name
he'd so proudly worn. His own blood concealing and distorting until
it could no longer be read. "Your stupidity broke my heart. It's
only fair I take yours."
He
must have screamed. He probably begged. He surely wept. None of that
was as clear as the feeling of falling into nothingness. With the
clarity of mind death affords he searched for a way to undo what he
had wrought, but you cannot unmake mistakes.
Wails
of despair and flashing red. Hell resolved to salvation, but not
relief. The pattern remained broken.
Deep
breath. The world slowed, stilled, resolving from blurs of color to
the familiar shop walls. Ritual complete, he rose and stretched.
Order finally restored, he ambled off to write the next leaf.
