“Too bad.”
“My bladder is about to burst.”
“I’ll get a cup.”
“Excuse me? I’m not peeing in a cup!”
“Then pee on yourself.”
My blood is boiling. “Fine.”
He leaves the bedroom and actually returns with a damn cup. I can’t believe him!
“Okay, are you ready?”
I have just enough slack to lift up a little. Once I’m done relieving myself, he puts the cup on the nightstand.
“Can you at least wipe me?”
“It’ll air dry.” He swats me on the ass.
He better sleep with one eye open after this.
“Are you ready for your surprise?” he asks ominously.
A sense of foreboding washes over me at his tone. Whatever he has planned can’t be good.
“During my destructive years, after you ripped my heart out and stomped all over it, I became a tattoo artist for a while.” He picks a bag up from the floor.
“What’s in there?”
“Everything I need to give you a tattoo.”
“Art, you’re taking this too fucking far!”
“Trust me, this is nothing compared to what I could do.” He pulls items from the bag and positions them across the bed in a straight line.
I thrash against the handcuffs, attempting to get my hands free.
“I’m about to start, so you better stop moving. It’ll be your fault if I fuck up.”
He puts on a pair of black gloves, then sprays antiseptic on my left butt cheek before wiping the area with a napkin. Next, he draws something on my ass with a sharpie. From this angle I can’t tell what it is. I go perfectly still when I hear the buzzing sound. I don’t want to end up with a black blob on my ass.
I cringe in pain as he moves the tattoo gun along my skin. “That hurts.”
“Stop being a baby. This isn’t your first tattoo.”
“Well, it’s more painful this time.”
“I’m almost done.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
After twenty minutes, I’m on the verge of hysterics wondering what new ink Art is giving me.
“There. It’s even better than I imagined.” He puts all the materials back in the bag and takes off the gloves before snapping a picture of the tattoo with his cell phone and showing it to me.
