Play with her

Carissa stands awkwardly in the small office, hands hanging at her sides. She can't leave. Can't refuse what's coming.

"Carissa," you begin, "when was the last time you had sex?"

For just a moment, you see the hesitation, like she wants to tell you, "none of your business". Then it's gone, overridden by your writing on her arm. "Three months ago," she says, blushing deeply. "A man I met at a convention in Denver. Another artist. We shared a hotel room for two nights."

"Not your ex-husband? Fascinating. Tell me how it happened," you say. "All of it."

She looks like she wants to run away... but she can't. "We went to dinner. He talked about how great his work is; how impressed I should be. I drank two glasses of wine and then a double shot of bourbon. I suggested we go back to the room. He pushed me onto the bed and pulled my skirt up. It was fast. Too fast. He didn't last long. I didn't get to finish."

"Did you want to finish?"

"Yes," she says, and you watch as her jaw tightens. She didn't want to admit that. "I wanted him to keep going. To use his mouth instead - use it on me instead of just boring me with it. But I didn't ask him, I was afraid to. I pretended I was satisfied until he fell asleep."

You wait a moment, letting her mind relive that disappointment, that hunger.

"When did you last masturbate?"

She starts studying the tile floor, but then looks back up at you. She can'tstop herself from answering. "Yesterday morning," she says quietly. "Before work. In the shower."

"Give me the details, Carissa. What did you use? What were you thinking about? Was it satisfying?"

Her hands clench. "My fingers. The water was hot. I was thinking about... " She pauses, swallows hard. "...about being held down. I thought about being forced. Maybe tied up or threatened. What it would be like if they wanted me and I couldn't stop them."

"Show me," you say. "Show me where you touched yourself when you were in the shower. How did you start. Describe it for me."

She flexes her right hand. Her fingers tremble as she grasps her own throat. "Here. I like pressure here. He... the man in my fantasy... he choked me. It was intense."

"And then?"

Her hand drifts down, stopping at her chest. "Here. I pulled my robe back, exposing my nipples. I pinched..." She demonstrates, her own fingers rolling the fabric of her shirt. "Hard. I like it hard."

"Show me the right way, Carissa. You didn’t pinch through the robe, so don't show me how you pinch through your shirt. Show me what you really did."

She hesitates briefly and then nods. She unbuttons her blouse and pulls it open, exposing a lacey white bra. She unhooks it in the front and it falls open to expose her beautiful tits and surprisingly hard nipples. She starts pinching them.

You let her continue for a moment, enjoying the show. Then you ask, "Where else did your hand go?"

Her hand moves lower, and presses against her stomach briefly before coming to rest between her legs. "Here," she whispers. "I touched myself here. A lot. It was nice... but... incomplete somehow."

"Carissa. You need to show me the right way. You didn't touch your skirt in the shower, did you?"

Her face reddens and she quietly says, "no". Then she pulls her skirt all the way up to her waist and pulls her panties down until they slide to the floor around her ankles. She spreads her legs apart and her hand finds the spot she really touched in the shower.

"It was here," she says.

"Keep showing me, Carissa. Show me how it went. Show me how you like to do it."

She nods, less resistance this time. Her hand starts working her labia at first, smoothly shaven, but for a small "landing strip", then quickly homes in on her clit. She goes to work, leaning back in her chair as she does.

"Tell me about your turn-ons," you ask. "List them for me. Don't summarize them. And don't stop what your doing while you answer."

She's breathing harder now, her professional composure cracking. "Being watched," she says. "Knowing someone is seeing me when I think I'm alone." She has two fingers inside her pussy now and the chair is visibly wet from her efforts. "Being told what to do by someone who knows exactly what they want. "Older men with authority, younger men with authority. As long as there's authority. Stamina. Lots of stamina. The shock of a man's voice when he's decides to take what he wants without asking. And then he takes it like said he would."

"And the Slut Force tattoos you've been doing all day? The ones calling them my sluts, my security, my property? How do they make you feel?"

Her eyes brighten. "They make me wet," she says, and the words come out strained, as her climax approaches - her fingers are a blur now. Her breathing is labored, the words harder to get out. "...Every time I press the needle in... I imagine my own skin marked with your name. I imagine what it would be like for everyone to know exactly what I am to you."

"What would your tattoo say, Carissa? What words would you choose for yourself?"

She doesn't hesitate. The compulsion and the desire have merged now. "'Ryan Ferro's Canvas,'" she breathes. "'Ryan Ferro's Property.' Something that says I belong to you completely. That my body exists for your use only. That I can't refuse you anything or any part of me." She looks at you, finally, her eyes glassy with need and defeat and then a long moan escapes her lips as her climax finds her.

When her orgasm begins to subside, she says, "I would want something that makes it clear I'm yours to write on. Again and again."

The room feels smaller, the air thicker. She's given you the map of her body and her desires - the words she'd carve into herself if you commanded it.