Page 22 of The Black Lotus
After my nap I feel like a new woman, one who is officially a serial killer in her own right with three bodies to my name, not counting my mother’s. Although the detectives and news anchors haven’t figured out we are a team yet, I’m sure with the next body, whoever that may be, will point them to a killer duo. For now, they can think it’s a copycat, but once they further examine the kills, they’ll see Aster’s signature can’t be replicated. My touch is what will throw them off. I’m not worried if they figure out we’re a team; unlike Aster’s parents, they won’t catch us.
I wonder what serial killer name they’ll end up giving me.A carefree giggle fills my chest.Will they even realize I’m a girl?A couple more kills and I’m sure they’ll give us a new name. One I’ll wear secretly with pride. Sure, it’d be nice to be my own killer, but I couldn’t have gotten this far or awoken the monster inside of me without him.
My ass is planted on the table, my legs swinging as I lean back watching Aster prepare to give me my tattoo. I can’t believe he had a secret room hidden in our home. Honestly, I’m hurt that this was kept a secret for so long, but I also understand how it easily slipped his mind with all the stress of training andmaking sure I am safe. Glancing around the room, my body thrums with anticipation. His art is definitely in a league of its own, abstract and dark but screaming for someone to notice there is more to them than meets the eye. It makes me want to unveil the skeletons they hide, searching for the hidden picture lurking within.
Looking at his art makes me miss the feel of a brush in my hand as it swipes across the canvas. The feeling of creating something that makes people stop and stare. Since everything we are facing has happened so fast, I’ve closed the shop and haven’t been to a market. We can’t be sure who might be watching…waiting. Aster said it would be the perfect time for someone to strike. All it would take is one second of lowering our guards down. Maybe he’ll paint with me again like we did when I first showed him my paintings. Or maybe we can go take a sip and paint class. There are so many people who go to those and in such an intimate environment, surely no one would be stupid enough to strike.
Before we went up to the attic, I ran to our room to grab my sketch because I didn’t want to draw it again. When Aster first saw my idea, he didn’t say anything, making my heart drop thinking I’d lost my touch. But then I saw his lip twitch with amusement and I knew he liked it. I left my drawing in black and white and told him to add whatever colors he wanted, but now I regret telling him because the array he brought out has me picking at my nails anxiously as I wait. I only thought a small part would be in color, but now I’m not so sure.
“Is this going to be full color?” I ask, peering over his shoulder.
“Color brings the most pain,” he teases.
“Pain doesn’t make me scream.”
He sits on a rolling stool and reaches into the same drawer of the display cabinet he was just in, lifting a hidden compartmentand pulling out a tray with a black vibrator and watch next to it. “No, but pleasure does.”
My eyes widen, my hand twitching to grab them, but I have a feeling if I try, my colorful pleasure tray will be ripped from me.
“You remembered our first conversation?”
He places the metal sheet over his head away from my reach, my eyes desperate to follow the movement, but unable to look away from Aster’s penetrating stare. “I remember every moment. Good and bad.” I swallow, shifting as he grabs the platter of fun to hold right in front of me. “Grab the vibrator; leave the watch.”
“What if I want both?” I breathe, clutching the toy and turning it over in my hand, wondering how it works. It is shaped like a curve; the little bud would cover my clit, and the end would reach just before my butt. I’m intrigued, my pussy aching and getting wetter waiting for the vibration to begin and I’m tempted to use it before he gives me permission. Since meeting Aster, he is all the pleasure I have needed. I haven’t had the urge to touch myself. In fact, I haven’t thought once about the box of toys under my bed, but this toy has me second guessing my decision.They’re collecting dust now.
“Too bad,” Aster teases, placing the tray behind him. “Lay down.”
I obey without hesitation, clutching the little curve to my chest.
He stands, placing his cool hands on the bottom of my shirt, slowly lifting it over my head. Tracing his fingers over my lacey black bra, goosebumps erupt across my skin as he strips me naked from the waist up, my nipples pebbling from the cold air hitting them. He has me lay down, his hands sliding to the top of my jeans, and I lift my ass without him having to ask, letting him slip them off with a gentle tug. He grabs the little black bundle of joy and places it in my panties over my clit as I mindlessly bitemy lip, watching his seductive action. His fingers wrap around the black fabric, snapping the thin band and causing me to twitch as my core greedily clenches around nothing.
“Do you know where you want this?” he asks, holding up the transfer paper.
“Where is a place you can tattoo and not mess up if I move?”
He lifts an eyebrow, picking up the tattoo gun and holding it in the air to look at. “You underestimate my skills?”
“Never,” I promise, shaking my head softly as he grabs my hands and places them above my head. “What are you doing?” I ask, nervously.
“It’s a part of my process.Trustthe process.”
I relax against the cool leather table as he secures each of my wrists, and then does the same to my legs, tying me spread eagle and at his mercy. Bringing me back to the memory of the first time he bound me at his haunted house. Instead of a knife, this time he’ll mark my skin with a tattoo gun.
“Good girl.” He secures the bracelet around his wrist, then turns on the machine, the unfamiliar buzzing echoes through the room. The hairs on my arm rise, my body anticipating the sting. I close my eyes, waiting for the pain, but feel nothing. As soon as I peek an eye open, Aster brings the needle to the skin of my leg. My first reaction is to twitch, but I bite down on my bottom lip and endure the shock of his first line.
“I can’t tattoo a moving canvas, no more than you can paint one.”
“Sorry,” I whisper as I stop my wiggling, letting go of the breath I’m holding and hiss through the pain, my body feeling like it’s being stung over and over again.This feels nothing like the slice from his knife. This pain is foreign, and I’m not sure if I like it.
Soon the pain dulls, and as Aster continues to work my leg, I begin to feel almost nothing. Every now and again I’ll feel alittle prickle, but it’s like my body has adjusted to the pain. The thing that hurts the most is when he cleans the tattoo; every time he wipes I have the urge to punch him in the throat, but these restraints keep me from doing so.
People say getting tattoos are painful, but what they don’t prepare you for is the cleaning part.
Aster turns the gun off and sits back, brushing his forearm along his forehead. I go to sit up, wanting to look at it but forgetting I’m strapped down, disappointed it’s over so quickly.He didn’t even use my toy. He takes his gloves off, tossing them in the bin behind him, while his finger hovers over a button on the band.
“I thought we were done.”
“That was just the linework and shading; now the real fun begins.” He switches guns then switches around his inks, bringing the tray of colors next to him and puts on new gloves. I watch with bated breath, eager for the color to begin so this can be over.
