Twice Taren asked Ian if he was sure about wearing that particular cage during the application of his adornments. Ian assured him—twice—he’d been fantasizing about this and if the pain became too much, he’d let Taren know immediately. It gave Ian such security knowing he was free to indulge himself and Taren would be ever watchful and keep him safe
A man Ian guessed to be in his early fifties was behind the counter in the waiting room. There were drawings covering the walls and catalogs of the tattoo designs and the body art offered were scattered about on low tables.
“We have an appointment with Pierre,” Taren said. “I’m Taren Murdoch.”
The man smiled and came out from behind the counter. The receptionist briefly glanced at Ian and nodded to him then extended a hand to Taren. “Welcome. I’m Pierre, one of the owners.”