Page 166 of Forbidden Hockey

“Would you settle for the idea I had in mind? I was gonna get something here to match yours.” I place his hand on the lowest curve of my torso. Somewhere innocent, but also somewhere everyone can see it if he ever lets me take my shirt off in public again.

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

The bell rings when we walk in the door. Mike’s eyes land on Dirk, lighting up. “This is him? Nice, Trav.”

I scowl. Maybe if I put a fucking collar on him, people would stop looking at him like that.

“Whoa, sorry, man. We got you set up in the back,” he says.

Theresa races out, her black boots clomping, metal jewelry jangling. “Ignore him, Dirk.” She whacks Mike upside the head.

“Ow! But Trav says he wants to—” Mike shuts the fuck up when Theresa and I double team him with “we’re about to fucking murder you” glares.

“C’mon.I’llshow you what we set up for you, and keep him chained to the desk where he belongs.”

Dirk laughs, leaning into me. “She’s terrifying, but, like, with kindness.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

We walk past the row of stations, with other regulars getting work done. They wave, recognizing me, and know better than to talk to Dirk. I’ve never gotten intimate about my past with anyone here, but besides the fact that I look like the poster man for bikers everywhere, some of the people in here have pasts of their own that connect them to the old world I used to live in.

And others are UBC students, wanting to memorialize Homecoming Weekend.

Theresa takes us to a semi-private station that’s typically used when someone wants to pierce the special places of their anatomy. But all that stands between us and the rest of the parlor is a thick, black curtain. Every sound, every smell still permeates this space, offering little separation. It’ll just be me and Dirk back here. He’ll obey all my directions so prettily—always gets me hot, watching him bend, fluttering those lashes like he’s innocent, even though he’s fucking not. He knows what his blue eyes do to me, and he uses them against me.

“You should have everything you need. Holler if you don’t,” Theresa says.

“Get in the chair,” I demand when she’s gone. It comes out as if I’m on my last thread of patience, as if I’m the one who’s been edged by him all day. Didn’t expect this to affect me as much as it is, but fuck, my heart’s racing, sending all the blood to my cock. The rational side of me has left the building, and what’s left is the predator who’s usually forced to wait his turn until we’re alone. I wanna sink my teeth into him. Always. Taste his skin.

Dirk sits, the rise and fall of his chest losing the smooth rhythm it’s used to. I perch on the rolling stool—has he figured it out yet?

“What do you think so far, baby?”

“My dick is weeping, Trav. Are we gonna … here?” he says, gesturing beyond the curtain.

“I’m not gonna fuck you here, no.”

He groans, tossing his head back, then slaps a hand over his mouth, remembering that everyone can hear him. I snap on a pair of black gloves.

“Areyougonna do the tattoo?”

“Yep.” His brow pinches together. “I can’t do anything elaborate—yet—but I can do what I’ve got planned.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

The sadist in me perks the fuck up, shining through my face. There’s a lot for him to be worried about. “Smart, because there’s a good chance my free hand could slip, accidentally touch something it shouldn’t. I’m not a very professional tattoo artist.”

Everyone’s been instructed not to come back here upon penalty of death, but Dirk doesn’t know that, and it’ll up the arousal factor for this little kink of his if he thinks someone could walk in at any time.

“Let me get this straight, your plan is to brand my ass with a tattoo—personally—while sexually torturing me in the middle of a tattoo parlor?”

I shrug. “Yep. We good?”

He laughs. “We’re good. Torture away, babe.”

“Lie back.” I adjust the chair until I have him like I want him, rubbing a hand over his hard cock, still cruelly trapped in his jeans. He hisses, and I pop the button, taking the zipper down slowly. There’s a nice wet spot through his gray boxers. He helps by lifting his hips, and I shimmy his boxers and jeans down enough, exposing him to the cool air. I fondle his balls and run my gloved hand along his cock in a possessive way. “Mine. You’re all mine, baby.”

I leave him like that, hard and weeping, while I check out my setup and prepare his bare skin with some green soap. I pull out the stencil I had Theresa prep for me, transferring the purple outline where I want to put it.