Quincy and the tattoos

The pain in his thigh was intense, almost unbearable, but Sally accepted it. It was the price of completeness. He felt empty, emptied of his old identity, as the black ink filled the contours of his new reality. He could imagine the deep black of the ink merging with Jamal's dark skin, a visceral and permanent bond uniting them.

Quincy worked in silence for another twenty minutes, concentrating on the final details. The only thing in the room was the constant hum of the machine and Sally's labored breathing. Finally, the noise stopped. Jamal placed the instrument on the metal table with a thud.

“Done,” Quincy said, taking off his gloves.

He approached and examined his work critically, running a clean, damp cloth over Sally's swollen, red skin to remove excess ink and blood. Sally felt the cool touch of the cloth and sighed, her body relaxing after the extreme tension.

“You may stand up and look at yourself,” said Jamal. “Your master has authorized me to make a few small additions that I think complete everything better.”

Sally slid off the table, her legs slightly unsteady. She approached the full-length mirror hanging on the wall. She turned, trying to see her lower back and buttocks. It took her a moment to focus on her image through the tears induced by pain and fatigue.

There, emblazoned in bold black across his pale skin, was the name: JAMAL. The letters were solid, clumsy yet powerful, an unmistakable stamp of ownership. On the back, on his ass, was the addition of "Quincy." Beneath the crown of thorns on his buttock was a stylized drawing of a large black member, surrounded by letters spelling "BBC Only." The ink seemed to glow against the flushed skin, alive and vibrant.

Sally stared at her reflection. Her fingers trembled as she moved her hand to her back, gently touching the tattooed area. The skin was hot, swollen, painful to the touch. But beneath the pain was a feeling of fullness, of rightness. The old Sally had died on the operating table; the one looking in the mirror was a new creature, born of ink and pain.

Quincy approached from behind, placing his enormous hands on Sally's shoulders. Sally looked at the reflection of the enormous black man behind her, his bulk dominating the room.

"Now you're complete," Quincy whispered in Sally's ear. "Every time you get dressed, every time you look in the mirror, you'll see your master Jamal's name. You'll remember who this ass belongs to."

Sally lowered her eyes, staring at the floor, but a thin, almost imperceptible smile touched her red lips. "Yes, Master. I am yours forever."