She’s the one holding the pen—not just marking skin but claiming him. Uniform straps slip off saggy tits as ink bleeds onto his collarbone, her free hand gripping his wrist hard enough to leave bruises. ‘Tell me what you want,’ she commands between kisses, voice rough from years of practice. Reversed roles: he’s tied to the chair while she decides where it goes next—thighs trembling when the tip drags down past his bellybutton or when it teases at the base of his cock before finally writing her name there in jagged letters.