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The woman stirred a bowl of thick amber paste.
“Henna,” explained Jason. “Margarita is going to help Maria paint your skin with the dye. The pair of them will work quicker than Maria on her own. They’re going to paint the back of your hands, your feet, your breasts.” Jason grinned. “And here,” he rubbed her lower back, the point of her coccyx.
Gemma stared at him in disbelief. Jason generally frowned upon tattoos. Permanent tattoos. Henna would be temporary, something he tolerated. She couldn’t think of a suitable defensive argument, and his triumphant bearing of his teeth told her he knew she couldn’t. He owned her body for the duration and could do as he wished, as long as he didn’t permanently mark her.
“I’ll leave you to it. I look forward to seeing you painted for me. I’ll be in my study.” Jason strolled out of the room.
Gemma huffed for a few minutes, fingering the backs of her hands, wondering if he would embarrass her with something artistically ghastly or worse still, vulgar terms like she’d seen on some subs. Then she sighed. Her worries were unnecessary. Jason, vain and self-conscious about his appearance, wouldn’t embarrass her by adorning her with slutty words. “What design?”
Maria wagged a finger. “You will see. Señor Lucas chose.”
“Great.” She scowled. Why all the secrets? He had kept the route of cruise from her, the name of the yacht, and now her secretive Dom had designed some motif for her tattoo. She’d learnt not to complain. Jason wouldn’t change his nature, not fundamentally. He liked keeping secrets so he could surprise her. “Where do you want me?”
“Lie down and relax, señora. I’ll put music on for you. We do your feet and hands first.” Maria patted the massage table and Gemma climbed up, resigned to her situation.
The women jabbered away in Spanish, laughing one minute and serious the next. Gemma felt sidelined. She missed gossiping with her female friends. Hearing their laughter made her envious. She turned her face away from them.
Maria briefly put a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. How ungracious of us to speak in Spanish.”
“Teach me a few words since I’m lying here bored.” Gemma turned her head back.
For the rest of the morning, two applicator tips drew patterns on her skin while she learnt a little Spanish to the merriment of the other women. She blushed and squeezed her eyes shut when they drew back the robe to do her breasts, ashamed at the intimacy of the stranger.
“How long will this stain remain on my skin?” Gemma asked.
“Oh, not long. The dye has not penetrated for long enough to last more than a few weeks. Probably by the end of your cruise, it will start to disappear. But the suntan will linger.”
“Suntan?”
“Yes. The pattern will show up in your suntan. Pretty, yes?”
Maria led her to the mirror, and Gemma admired their work, the delicate details on the backs of her hands and on her breasts. Twisting, she tried to see the tattoo on her back. Maria held a hand mirror to one side, enabling Gemma to catch sight of the small loops. She recognised the motif they had drawn over her skin. Jason would be pleased.
But with the clock showing noon, no time remained for her massage. Jason wanted to take her to lunch. She went to find him. Sitting at his desk, typing away, he looked up and gleefully slapped his hand on the table. “Show me.” He signalled her to come closer.
Pulling the bathrobe off her shoulders, he examined her breasts. “Brilliant!” He flicked a nipple with his finger.
“I confess I had my doubts, but, Sir, these are lovely tattoos.” Hidden in the design, obvious only to Jason and Gemma, were his initials, his stamp on her flesh. A swirl of interlinked Js and Ls ringed her nipples. The same linked letters adorned her feet, hands, and back. He had effectively given her a temporary branding.
“I love the effect, gorgeous girl.” He bent to kiss each nipple in turn.
She flushed. “I think it’s amazing. I feel ornate, like living jewellery. Thank you.” She knelt in appreciation.
“Jeez, you are so fuckable at the moment. But we should leave for lunch.” He pinched her chin. “Later, I will enjoy this body, my painted slave.”
Dressed casually in pale linen, covering their arms and legs, their expensive jewellery and watches left behind, Gemma and Jason strolled down the streets of Ceuta towards the market, accompanied by Lubinsky and Dufour. The men’s attire didn’t look too formal, no dark suits or blazers, they wore light blue jackets and faded jeans. Gemma couldn’t tell if the bulges in their jackets were due to guns. Perhaps, it was best not to know.
They dined on another ethnic African meal. Delicate flavours, unusual ingredients, and a huge variety of fish. Jason made adventurous choices, trying out several small dishes. He pointed to one.
“This you should like, Miss Meat and Three Veg,” he teased.
“What is that?”
“Fish tagine. Made with fruit and spices.”
Jason poked another plate with his fork. “Kefta. Meatballs, like yesterday. Lamb over couscous.”
Gemma frowned and kept to the salads, recognisable dishes. She prodded another dish with trepidation.
