Chapter 4 Getting a tattoo

We finally arrived in Amsterdam and parked the car somewhere far away from the city centre. I was horny beyond belief by now, after edging for so long. My butt was in a wet spot and the whole car reeked of sex. Just before we got out of the car, rain started pouring down. Welcome to the Netherlands. Dutch weather. In some other places, people might pause and take a closer look to make sure of what if they see is real? Not in Amsterdam. A bald woman in her sixties dressed in a black leather miniskirt with white thin legs poking out, and a black leather jacket over a sheer black top with her nipples clearly visible poking out. People didn’t seem to notice. We only had one small umbrella in the car. It was obvious to the both of us who were going to use that. It rained, but it still was a pleasant temperature outside. I was holding the umbrella for my mistress as the rain slowly washed away some of my juices down my legs.

The city centre was busy as always, its atmosphere vibrant with the chatter of tourists and locals alike. The rain made the wet cobblestone streets gleam faintly. A delicious wave of stroopwafel sweetness, robust coffee fragrance, and the subtle, damp musk of the canal water filled the air. We had no trouble finding the tattoo shop.

We walked arm in arm, my arm locked in hers. From the opposite direction, a group of five boys loiters near the tattoo parlour. They range in age from 12 to 16, dressed in an eclectic mix of oversized hoodies, ripped jeans, and sneakers, clearly trying to appear older and tougher than they are. The boys are loud and cocky, taking turns daring each other to go inside and ask for a tattoo. We paused nearby, catching sight of the scene. Jutta quirks an eyebrow, a bit frightened by the boys’ posturing. Having dealt with boys that age, I laughed softly, muttering under my breath, “Well, this should be interesting.” I pulled on Jutta’s arm and walked towards our goal.

As we approached, one of the boys, the apparent ringleader — tall, with a mop of messy hair — decides to put on a show. “Hey, lady!” he calls, his voice dripping with faux bravado. “What do you think? If you’re thinking about putting needles in yourself, I have just the needle for you! Me and the boys would have no problems to mark you a bit before you get home. His eyes were on Jutta, who was wearing a traditional Bavarian dirndl dress. We can even turn an old dyke like you into a cocksucking love machine, don’t we, boys?”

I felt Jutta trembling, totally freaked out. I looked at the guy in charge.

“Boys, I breathed. We are here to get a tattoo. A big one. But you have to be brave to get a tattoo. It hurts. In places that are so tiny and sensitive that are not made for ink. Like your tiny dick.” The old teacher in me was coming out. My tone half-maternal, half-playful. “Boys, a tattoo is a commitment. Start with something smaller. Like finishing your homework.”

Without another glance at the punks, I kind of pushed Jutta into the tattoo-shop, hearing the howling of cat calls outside the shop. The air rushed into Jutta’s lungs. I could feel her body relax.

“Did they bother you, ladies?” A bulky guy asked. His body seemed like an enormous billboard for the company he worked for.

“Nah, just boys, being boys”, I said. He looked at me and walked to the front door. His appearance was enough for the brave guys to find some other entertainment in town.

“What can I do for you ladies?” he asked politely as he returned behind the counter.

“We have an appointment with Alexandra”. Jutta piped up. He looked at his computer. “Ah yes, the ladies from Germany. Follow me, please.”

Like all these canal houses, they seem small from the outside, but they are deep and spacious inside. On the way, Jutta told me that under no circumstance was I to say a word and that she would do the talking. A room on the second floor announced the artist’s name on the door in a curly, highly decorated script. The room was light and bright, with a clean window on one side and crisp white walls. Only a few photos of presumably her work were on the walls. The artist herself was young, somewhere in her thirties, I guess. One of her arms was covered in ink, while the other was as virgin as ours. She had a friendly smile and that put us at ease. Somewhat anyway.

“What can I do for you ladies today?” she asked.

“We both would like to get a tattoo”, Jutta stated the obvious. I could feel she was still very tense. I caressed the upper leg of my mistress to calm her down.

Jutta retrieved some papers from her bag. “We both would like this one on the inside of our thigh, and I want this one covering her entire back. Can you do that for us?” Jutta asked, getting increasingly red from her chest to the roots of her hair.

“The kef-symbols are easy. I have done a couple of those.” Alexandra said imperturbable. Leaving no doubt she was familiar with the slave branding from Norman’s GOR books.

“Can you make it look like a branding?” Jutta asked bravely.

Alexandra laughed. “Of course. From a distance, it will look like a brand. But ... You want both the slave sign?”

Jutta nodded. “Yes, we do.” Alexandra, confused because I had kept my gaze on the floor most of the time, as Jutta did the talking.

“Oh, Ok. So what is the next one? It looks vaguely like A briar rose?” Alexandra said.

“Not far from it. It’s a variation of that rose. There a trilogy comprises trilogies that describe the life of Phèdre nó Dunaley...”

“Ah, Kushiels Dart, right?”

“You know it?” Jutta asked, surprised.

“I know of it. The woman that earned her mark with performing sado-masochistic stuff with strangers and each time she slept with someone, she earned something and she used that to pay off her artist, right?”

“More or less. It’s a bit more complicated and refined, but that’s the gest of it.”

“Works for me. And you want it on your back?” she asked me.

Jutta answered. “Yes, she does.”

“Ooooo No. No way. I will not put a tat on someone’s back without their explicit permission.” Alexandra firmly said.

Without a word, Jutta grabbed a blank sheet of paper from her bag and a fountain pen. Koen’s fountain pen, by the looks of it. She handed me the paper without instructions. I understood what I needed to do without stupid instructions, thank you. On a flat surface I wrote in my clearest handwriting: ‘I hereby give my express and freely given consent to have a tattoo done on my entire back by Alexandra from Tatooing.’ I handed it over to Alexandra.

She looked at it and sighed. “Weird”, she murmured under her breath. “Listen. Two things about that last tattoo. Yes, I can do it, but it’s a lot of work. I mean. A lot of work. There is no way we can do this now. It’s almost four in the afternoon and a tat like that will take two, perhaps three, days. The second thing you have to know it that’s very expensive. We have to think about something between...” She cited two large sums.

“Money is not the problem.” Jutta foolishly said.

“If you want, we will do the big one tomorrow. Or you can make an appointment for another time.”

Jutta said “We want. We will find a hotel somewhere around here.”

“Good,” said Alexandra. “So we begin with the kef. Who wants to go first?”

“I will.” My mistress said.

“Perhaps you would be so kind to go downstairs to our living room, have a cup of coffee or something. I prefer to be alone with the client when I am working on her body. Down the stairs, second door on the right. It will take half an hour, 45 minutes at the most.”

Like the obedient girl I was, I walked downstairs. If one would expect, the waiting room in a tattoo parlour in the heart of Amsterdam would smell like a weed plantation you are in for disappointment. This store had a zero-tolerance policy for being intoxicated by drugs or alcohol. Only two people were in the room. A bulky guy in his forties, his skin wallpapered with tattoos. And a young girl that seemed much too young to work here. 14,15 perhaps? She was serving coffee and came to sit with me.

“Are you nervous? Don’t worry, Alexandra is one of our best artists we have. The guys are all good, but a woman is different, you know? When I get my first tat, I want Alexandra to be the one that is making it. What kind of cancer do you have?” she rattled on with a mix of rude teenage behaviour and Dutch directness.

“It’s not cancer, fortunately. It’s my master that shaved me bold. I used to have pretty hair like you.”

“Ohhh my Gooooddd,” she said loudly, acting more like her age. “So you are into this kinky shit, right? We got a lot of those here.” Suddenly, she stood as if I stung her like a bee. “Wait here, don’t go away.”

“There is a reason for calling this a waiting room”, I said deadpan. Within minutes she came back holding a tank top with in front of her. In elegant letters it read: Permanent Ink, Temporary Pain, Eternal Cool and in small print, the name of the shop under it.

“Take off that wet shirt and put this one on.” She ordered.

If I had taken part in a wet T-shirt competition, the shirt could have not been more wet. I was still dripping a bit. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, the kid kneeled in front of me and rubbed with a towel my legs dry. Very businesslike, just rubbing them dry and warm. I had not realised I was that cold. Stupid, if I had looked down I would have seen my nipples making holes in my wet shirt.

“We can’t have you catching a cold”, she smiled. No braces. Not that young. “Put on this one, and you can rub yourself dry with this towel.” She giggled. “Sorry we don’t stock Tanks with Permanent Pain on them, but this will do.” Abruptly, she turned round and talked to the burly guy standing between us and thus effectively blocking his view. She might have been fourteen, but I think she’ll turn forty next year. After I changed into dry clothes, I felt a lot better. One of the tattooists came and took the guy with him, probably wondering if there was a spot on his body left that was big enough for him to work with. With my servant girl gone to the back, I was alone with my thoughts.

Although I had no tattoos, not even a small one like so many women have these days, this was not the first time I had been in a place like this. I vividly remembered going to one in Germany. Helga asked me to come with her for moral support. Master Martin was going to have her labia pierced ‘to lock her cunt up’. In Dutch labia are called lips of shame. Stupid name. There is nothing shameful about my nether lips. We ended up in a tattoo shop, way smaller than this place. The guy that owned the place didn’t look nice at all. He had greasy, unkempt hair, darting eyes that never seemed to blink, and a crooked, unsettling grin that lingered just a moment too long. I remember Helga, who felt the same vibe, holding my hand and insisting I would stay with her. We heard the men discussing how many piercings and the number of holes were needed to effectively lock her up.

Together, Helga and I, followed the guys to the back. It looked more like a BDSM-playroom than a tattoo shop. A rack full of whips, ball gags and the like on the left. On the right, a St. Andrews cross with the cuffs already attached. In the middle was a gynaecological chair. Master Martin lifted Helga up and put her in the chair. With their faces so close their noses touched, he kept talking to her for a few minutes. They sealed their bond with kisses. Helga tried to outdo Master Martin, as if they were in a contest who could kiss the most passionate. I think Helga won on points. Master Martin stripped her of her panties and secured her feet in the stirrups. He ordered me to rub Helga’s clit with one hand, and use the other one on my own clittie. The guys, in the meantime, were talking about several ways to secure the locks. Four symmetric holes in each cunt lip would be ideal, was the unanimous decision. One big padlock vertical or two small ones horizontal. Four tiny ones. A chain through all the rings. As their imagination gone wild, Helga was in a dream world of her own. The guy had to wipe the moisture from her before he pierced her quickly, efficiently, and professionally. He put four big rings on both sides of her labia.

“Does it hurt?” I asked her.

“It hurts so good”, Helga moaned, clearly still horny. She looked so sexy, so submissive. To be denied access to your own vagina. To feel the weight of the locks obstructing her love cave. When the guy explained the rings could be used to make a butterfly with a few hooks to leave the clit open for punishment, I came on the spot. Consumed and ruled by lust, and only lust, I blurted: “I want that as well!” To Martin’s credit, I have to say that he tried to talk me out of it, but this ... This was stuff dreams were made of. There was no way I would leave before my lips were sealed with four holes on each side.

“Are you ready?” Alexandra’s voice snapped me out of my daydream. My mistress was one step behind her.

“Have a look”, Mistress Jutta said as she lifted her dirndl skirt.

The kef is about four cm in height, and a one and a quarter centimetre in width. A rather simple, delicate, graceful, almost floral mark in cursive script. Appearing slender, more vertical, more like a stem with floral, cursive curled loops. A rather severe, straight line staff, with two upturned, frond-like curls next to it, joined where they touch the staff on its right. It bears a distant, remote resemblance to the lower case k. The most common brand site, the favourite, is high on her left thigh, under the hip, high enough to be covered by a miniskirt.

It looked like as if it was branded in her soft flesh. I wanted to touch it. It looked like the brand was burned deep in her flesh. Her white flesh around it celebrated her mark with a bit of redness around it.

“It’s a normal body reaction.”, Alexandra said reassuringly. “When it becomes angry red, that is a sign of infection and you should see a doctor. Each skin reacts differently to the ink, and it will reseed in a few days.” She turned to me. “Shall we go upstairs?”

I was shaking a bit in the chair and lifted my miniskirt. Alexandra had by now a clear view of the rings on my lips. “Is it going to hurt?” I asked her with a small voice, all my bravado gone. “I think I’m a little scared right now.”

“It going to hurt a lot less than those rings you have over there. Don’t worry about the pain, a woman like you will hardly feel it, even might enjoy it.” I doubted that. The reason my skin was virgin was for a big part because of my irrational fear of needles.

“If you are truly scared, then now is the chance to change your mind and cancel it.” Alexandra said patiently.

Suddenly I realised my mistress was brave enough to show to the world she was not only a mistress but a slave in her heart. If she could bear this, there was simply no option to back out on this. I smiled. Bravely, I hoped.

“Make me feel it.” I said.

We found a cheap, big hotel on the outskirts of Amsterdam close to where we parked our car. “Mistress, permission to speak?” I asked when we were sitting at the dinner table. The size of the restaurant was about 20 times bigger than her own in Feuerburg. High protocol demanded I could not speak before I got permission.

“Feeling better now, slut?” Jutta asked. “What happened in there?”

“I freaked out for a moment, mistress.” I kept my eyes on the menu.

“When Alexandra came rushing down to get me, that became quite clear to me, thank you. Why did you freak out all of the sudden?”

“I am afraid of needles,” I said, not louder than a whisper.

“Speak up, girl,” Jutta said out loud. A few heads turned our way. They were looking at this old broad in black leather. An outfit more suitable for a girl than an old slut.

“I am afraid of needles, OK!” I nearly shouted. The waitress came our way, to nip the scene in the bud.

“We are truly sorry. We will keep our voices down from now on,” Jutta said quickly, a warning in her tone, before the harried server could complain. She took our orders and left.

“Tell me all about it?” That didn’t sound like a question.

“Since I was young, I am terrified of needles. Our hospital has special trained nurses who are fantastic at taking blood samples. If those nurses don’t work on the day I’m giving blood, I reschedule my appointment. Lots of these nurses say: ‘ I’m good as well. You won’t feel a thing.’ I don’t trust them. There are two or three that are great, the rest is ... Not good enough.”

“Why on earth did you agree to have a huge tattoo if you were that scared?”

I just looked at Jutta. She knew the answer to her question. She refused to admit that master Koen knew very well how I felt before he ordered me to have this tattoo. I put my hand over hers. “I can take a beating of my clit without being scared and even get a little orgasm from it. This is facing one of my biggest fears. I have to do it. Not for him. For me.”

On impulse I said: “What is your biggest fear, Mistress?”

Before I could apologise for asking such an impolite question, Jutta had already answered: “You.”

“I am your biggest fear? Why on earth would you be afraid of me?”