The Abstract Tattoo – ebook



The Abstract Tattoo by L. J. Frank

Reine Sharifa is not your typical Femdom Goddess. She is of Egyptian lineage with a natural abstract tattoo above her left ankle. The meaning is symbolic of her ancestry and future. She also possesses a primitive androgynous art object resembling the tattoo that serves as a connection with her ancient past. A soon to be unemployed associate professor of Medieval history at Columbia University, Micah Zunge, experiences a sexually submissive and decidedly mystical encounter with Reine at her home in Tarrytown. It’s clear the connection between them is strong, which prompts Reine to tell him of the art object. The more she speaks of it, the more compelled they are to search out its meaning. And so, they travel to Toronto, to the place Reine calls her Sanctuary, which is housed in a partially converted barn. Its private patio, tall evergreens, stone walls and erotic bronze sculptures have Micah mesmerized. And it’s there that this unique pairing of male and female confirm the basic character of their chosen lifestyle. A sensuous tale of male surrender and female domination that includes a strap-on, flogger, cock cage, chastity, anal and oral sex, foot fetish and goddess worship.

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“Breathe!” My back arched. “Rhythm.” My thighs straddled the man’s hips. I pushed down. My ache is insatiable. The desire is unquenchable.

My eyes glanced at the erotic impressionist painting on the wall. “Breathe!” I whispered again.

“‘I’ve never, I’ve never…” He gasped. “Jesus!”

“Are you okay?”

“Oh god, who are you?” he grimaced with pleasure.

Smiling, I thought of Parvati, the goddess of relationships. Matriarchy was the answer to the divisive nature emanating from patriarchy. Me? I’m physically and spiritually an ambiguous nymph and goddess possessing an androgynous attitude. I have an exceptional clit. It’s who I am. I don’t know how to explain it other than an awareness of my two spirits. I embrace the feminine divine.

I’m also Egyptian. And I happen to be Illegitimate. My father? I once asked my mother who just smiled and said, “Reine Sharifa, you brighten my day.”

I know my voice and my heart. Schooled in biology and philosophy I appreciate the protein of my heredity. How else can I explain the two spirits within my body? An abstract art object I received at the death of a friend and the abstract tattoo that arrived with me at birth. Both are symbolic of my traits.

My body gyrated. The grip tightened. The man’s chest heaved. “Christ help me,” He gasped.

“Relax. Relax.”

Colleagues at the New York Goddess Circle grasped the tattoo’s meaning. A caring, dominant, ethical nurturing slut were phrases used to describe me. I would just grin. Measuring a person by a temperature reading is crude, amusing and familiar. I relished a throbbing cock inside my pussy. Depending on the man I could be a cock whore for him.

The eyelids of my one-night stand twitched. His breathing was quite heavy. He knew obedience. I want a man to feel his submission to me. Bliss.

When I was younger I sought affirmation. Self-confidence. I reached a point when I woke up one morning realizing I no longer needed or desired affirmation. If it came, I was gracious, otherwise, fuck it. I had already accepted my worth. My mantra was from Egyptian and Hebrew theology – I am what I am. It’s a universal saying among the ancients and becomes hypnotic if repeated. Much like everything else in life. My empathy, lust and compassion are instinctual. I care in my own way.

Beads of sweat dripped from my protruding brown nipples, dripped down over my visible stomach pouch and disappeared into an entangled, luxurious covering of my divine wetness. My heart beat more from angst than the night of desire. My bare papaya shaped breasts still hungered for the attention of a truly ravenous tongue. While my body felt the heat of the moment, my mind drifted. I tilted my head back and gazed at the ceiling for a second. Straddling the man, his thick cock wrapped in animal skin, the quiet of the hotel room was punctured by an abrupt spasm of heavy breathing. He shuttered. My suitor’s ecstasy bathed his fat, bowed shaft, now drained of its milky fluid.

Sympathetically, I looked down at his distorted face. Eyes closed, he gasped for another breath in sexual agony. I lifted my dripping femininity from him. Soft and tired, he slid out from the trickling wetness. His balding head fell back on the soft oversized pillow, eyelids closed involuntarily over large brown eyes as his chest expanded then contracted. He was semi-conscious and experiencing a form of sexual exhaustion. His fatigue was temporary. My eyes felt the sting of a forming tear. Why? I quickly wiped the saltiness away with a finger.

The sensuous pressure inside me, the rubbing against my petite cock shaped clit, the titillating feeling, satisfied the surface of my libidinous desires. It was a minute feeling. I enjoy the girth though I relish a man who knows how to use his tongue. The thicker the tongue the better. The sonorous tapestry of a cunnilingual orgasm can haunt my mind. Still, I find the arousal of the intellect imperishable. The taste buds of an orgasmic event remains a thought away. Still, I wanted something I didn’t have. Perhaps it existed only in my imagination. I wanted the emotional comfort of a partner waiting for me at home while enjoying the reality of my internal wiring and external behavior. I became a familiar woman with an insatiable sexual instinct. I like the taste of sweat.

An ache seeped into my heart. The ache was for a man who was in another part of the city. Up to this point my sexual liaisons were pragmatic and negotiated. They were unsigned provisional aphrodisiacs where the partners agree to an erotic act. And increasingly they were like the rain clouds that dissipates after its release of moisture, a dampness ensued but never enough. I enjoy diverse partners. I missed a primary partner who would greet me in my home. A deeper connection. And yet I wanted my lovers on the side. As I mature I probably have become more selfish and yet, still I love to nurture.

I moved my body down next to him for several minutes, I listened to him breathe. Eyes shut, the man’s body was still, until suddenly he turned toward me, and his mushroom head fell on the edge of my thigh. He would survive. And my extrusive phallus clit hungered for a man not in the room. In the brevity of a breath an emptiness enveloped my heart and then receded into a mist of hesitation and memory. My eyes gazed at the off-white ceiling.


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