A little ink, a little kink, and a husband who knows exactly what he’s doing.

There was something that I forgot to write about yesterday: Master’s new tattoo sleeves.

Fake tattoo sleeves, more precisely.

So it went, Master’s godson, Bryce, was at the party on Saturday, and he bought Master the most peculiar assortment of gifts — a pair of pink fluffy socks denoting being forty, and a set of four fake tattoo sleeves.

I have a weird relationship with Bryce; I get on with him and then I don’t. On the one hand, he’s not a bad guy: he’s always happy to help out, generally well-mannered and pleasant, generally thoughtful and so on. On the other hand, however, his kindness has always seemed a bit forced and inauthentic to me. Borderline transactional, even.

But about the tattoo sleeves.

Master is not tattooed, neither of us are. In fact, it was a surprise to the group that Master doesn’t have any piercings either, though it’s common knowledge to me by now. He’s talked about getting a tattoo several times, but that’s as far as that has ever gone.

For the record I have both of my ears pierced, with the cork and needle, rather than the piercing gun. Yes, the pain was intense and yes, my poor father couldn’t pull my masochistic ass off of the ceiling for about an hour afterwards. Even Master Levi suffered.

“I just got my ears done!” I told him excitedly, and before the poor man had even stirred from his sleep. I didn’t care, he had to know!

Now, earrings are to me what high heels are to some women — I adore my studs and earrings!

But back to the sleeves here.

Master pulled on one of the sleeves for the fun of it, and talk around our table turned to how well it suited him. Not that it made him look like a bad guy, but it gave him a certain edge about him.

“What do you think?” Master asks me. I shrug slightly, and everyone laughs. My words may be unspoken, yet they’re universally understood.

“If you get a tattoo sleeve, I’ll get my nostril pierced like I know you wanted,” I eventually managed. The table is silenced. Now, the ball is very firmly back in Master Levi’s court.

For much of the evening I’d almost forgotten about the sleeve; I was more focused on my chat with Daryna. Master disappeared to the bar, and a tattooed man with an intense, observant gaze walked past and caught my attention. What does he want?

I did a double take, and that was when I realised: holy shit, that’s not just any man. That’s my husband!

So I’m left scrambling to regain my composure, as though my breath wasn’t just stolen by the tattooed hottie looking in my general direction. Fortunately, Master doesn’t notice.

Perhaps he’s had more than a skinful.

The taxi back home after the party was almost in silence; we were both tired from the night we’d just had. Master did — rather drunkenly — commend the young male driver for his taste in music, though I think his compliment pretty much fell on deaf ears. I don’t think the driver was that bothered about the compliment, he just wanted to get the night over and go home.

Back at home, Master turns his attention again to me.

“So you think I should get a tattoo sleeve, then?” he asks.

“I mean, I had an opinion that was something to that effect, yes,” I reply. Master laughs.

“What would you do if I got a [tattoo] sleeve?” he continues.

“Anything you want,” I breathe. Master is taken aback.

“Tattoos really have an effect on you, don’t they?” he says thoughtfully, wrapping his hand — on his tattooed arm — around my throat. I gasp and bite my lip.

“On you? Yes,” I manage.

“I still don’t know what I’m going to do with those sleeves, though,” he ponders.

“Stick them in the drawer and keep them for roleplay,” I suggest. Master laughs out loud.

“You bad, bad girl,” he says.

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