propheteer
Virgin
- Joined
- Oct 1, 2010
- Posts
- 2
Hey all, I'm a long time literotica reader who finally tried out writing. The result is a rough first part of an overly ambitious modern fantasy sex epic. Sorry for posting without lurking or getting to know your community first, but it's been a long time since I've written creatively and am excited to see any feedback. The following work has only been self-edited, so any advice on grammar, phrasing, or more abstract ideas like theme and style is welcome.
Four years out of high school, I had dickered my way into and out of higher education enough times to make matters clear: I should just give up on the notion. I'm told some people, even some smart people, just aren't cut out for school. Those people are also called lazy bastards, and I personally am much more likely to claim to be one of those than some mysterious non-scholarly creature.
Thus it was that I translated my savings from years of part-time jobs into time, counting down the weeks and days when I would be officially broke and march down to the Marine recruiter. Or perhaps I would not march, and savor simply walking for potentially the last time. I decided to join the Marines and not go for some cushy Air Force gig because I figured if I were to give up my free will, there would be no sense in going half way. Why tease myself with the illusion of personal freedom, even if the relative safety would be decidedly non-illusory.
I concluded that this last chunk of money/time would be best spent at a beach, and I would be able to delay my doom the longest at the gloriously cheap and only slightly rank Virgina Beach, Virginia. The city was also conveniently located adjacent to several military bases, which I hoped would instantly feed and house me when my money ran out in about three weeks.
At twenty-two years old and male, my first priority was to enjoy the company of females. Failing that, I would do my best to enjoy the dubious comforts of drugs and alcohol. (Virginia Beach has absolutely the worst weed connect on the East Coast. Old hippies who complain about weed being too strong this century can't even get a buzz from it.) Countering those desires was the merciless calculator in my brain, reminding me that every time I splurged to entertain a female or purchase liquor fit for human consumption, I was subtracting minutes and hours from my last few fun days on Earth. By the time I got out of the military, I would surely be nearing thirty and incapable of ever having a good time, ever again. I was extremely miserly and forced myself to enjoy the cheap sensations of sun and sand.
I reached my breaking point one day walking down the tourist trap strip Atlantic Avenue, past its legion of lewd T-Shirt stores and run down funhouses. I realized I was bored, which was a little bit of a shock since my mood was no different from ordinary. I had simply been bored every day for my entire life up until that point. Typically I had been one to feel sorry for myself, but the pressures of dwindling time and money catapulted me through the seven stages of grief in mere seconds. I would have plenty of time to be bored in a few short weeks when I would be constantly shouted and/or shot at. I was going to spend my precious time and money on excitement, dammit, and I would find it, grab it by the throat, and either smoke it or fuck it depending on the type of excitement at hand.
Serendipitously, I found excitement through the very next store's windowpane. Inside was an absolute vision of a female, and I entered immediately. Virginia Beach, as you may have guessed by my glowing descriptions, is not a magnet for beautiful women, and this girl would score a 10 in Miami or LA. A dancer's athletic body, with modest hips and breasts that were positively curvy on her petite frame. She had curly brown hair and African American features with a light skin tone. Her eyes were tilted exotically and her mouth was wide with perfect lips. As I approached her those lips cracked into a million watt smile that caused me to grin goofily for at least five seconds before I realized my expression. I put my hastily devised plan into action.
"Hi, I'd like to buy one-" I glanced at the sign above her head; what the fuck? "One henna tattoo please."
I'm the type of guy whose thoughts are plain to read on his face, and clearly she understood exactly what was on my mind. She laughed, and the sound was not just sweet because of my relief. She was perfect. "Of course, go ahead and sit down and look through these." She handed me a binder full of flash.
By this point I had calculated that this half hour of excitement followed by inevitable rejection would also cost me an additional 12 hours worth of greenbacks. Furthermore a henna tattoo is unbelievably lame. A real tattoo would be only potentially lame, though I had never brought myself to commit to ink. Fortunately, due my recent priority adjustment, I discarded those negative thoughts for the useless life-stealers they were. Gung Ho, that was my new middle and last name.
I flipped pointlessly through the black folder. I honestly didn't care if she gave me a nude Tinkerbell hitting the world's biggest joint, which would honestly be better than most of the flash. I looked at her and smiled with regret. "I'm sorry, I didn't have anything in mind. What do you suggest?"
She laughed again. Maybe she liked me and my new attitude. "Hm, I guess I could have some fun and just freehand it. Would that be ok?"
"That sounds perfect." Just like her and her laugh. "What's your name, by the way?"
"Tonya." Kind of boring. It could definitely grow on me though. Yes, it felt more perfect by the second. I offered my hand in greeting.
"Nice to meet you Tonya, I'm James." No more Jimmy for this gung ho beast of a grown up man! She shook my hand. Her hand felt perfect. She even smelled perfect. Like... Jergens and henna ink. Huh. I recognized the early signs of intense infatuation in myself, virtually guaranteeing that I would fuck this up.
"Have a seat James." I obliged. She appraised me thoughtfully. Tonya bit her bottom lip as she concentrated, which happens to be my favorite sexy facial expression. What are the odds?
"Usually we do something on the arm, here, or here," she said touching me on the forearm and bicep in turn. I've found that for some reason females love my slightly developed arms, and I did not fail to notice her brief squeeze of my bicep. "For you, though, I'd like to do a nice piece right here," and she laid her hand on the center of my chest. I looked from her hand to her face, making that perilous eye contact. She was very nearly pouting, but had a mischievous grin at the corner of her wide mouth. "Would that be okay?"
"More than okay." So I found myself shirtless, relaxing in a chair while my new all-time favorite girl touched my chest and made small talk. The weather was discussed for the customary length of time. I confessed my reticence to get a real tattoo. We sympathized over our mutual lack of a car. The henna brush was cool and tickled a little, but I exercised a small amount of self control and remained still. Blessed with genes that left me with a body and mind only little dulled by my four years of indolence, I could be proud of the muscles and more importantly limited fat my state of dress displayed. Even my pasty white skin had been a little bronzed during my previous days of vacation. I was never a ladies' man, but I could sense the pure physical attraction between us. Still, I assumed her shy looks and inability to maintain eye contact were all in my head, an imagined product of my infatuation. However, it wasn't long before Tonya steered the conversation in a more compelling direction.
"I could tell there was something special about you when you walked in."
"Why do you say that?"
"I dunno." She leaned closer, concentrating on the design forming on my chest. Her shirt was tight and though it revealed no cleavage, her breasts fell tantalizingly close to my forearm. Even through her black T-shirt they were lovely, round and soft looking. I consciously willed her to lean just a little further. "You walked in like a man with a purpose, but unsure of where you were going." She leaned back to inspect her work, and her chest moved away with the rest of her. Aaah! "Like you had just opened the most important fortune cookie of your life, you know?"
"I know exactly what you mean." Guilelessly, I revealed my thoughts from just before she came into view. Tonya grinned.
"I guess I better make this a damn good tattoo, then." She leaned forward again, and this time her breast did graze my arm. "It is probably going to be important." I realized that I had a massive erection. I adjusted my leg so that it jumped into a more concealable alignment, but Tonya's smile took on a knowing twist. She didn't seem to mind, but propriety is worth observing.
Her brush made a few quick, decisive strokes. "There!" She leaned back with an expression of utter artistic satisfaction. She caught my eye and pointed toward the full length mirror on the wall. "What do you think?" On my chest was a heraldric lion, in a rampant pose: profile, hind legs braced far apart, arms raised to attack. A popular tattoo among Scottish descendants, and while my own mutt ancestry was impossibly muddled pre-1950, I supposed I could live with being a Scot for the next 3-5 weeks. It was a classic stylized icon, great for a first tattoo in my opinion.
"Perfect." The word of the day. Behind my reflection, Tonya's perfect ass put an exclamation point on the sentiment. Perfect!
"Tonya." She turned around, and I turned to face her truly. Gung ho, I told myself. "This has just been awesome." Her expression hadn't changed since she turned, businesslike with her gorgeous smile missing in action.
"I thought, your name was James, so you could be like, the King of Scots."
"It's great, I love it. Can I see you again, when you get off work?" Not a very good segue, but my audacity was rewarded with another bright smile. My luck was unbelievable.
"Oh James, I'm sorry." Maybe not. "I live all the way out in Chesapeake, and I have to catch a ride right when I get off work." A common commute for the beach's summer jobs, but still thirty minutes or more in summer traffic. "I work again on Thursday. We could hang out that evening maybe?"
Thursday! Wait, what day was today? I counted on mental fingers. Three days from now? I would surely die. "Okay." My voice dripped with disappointment. To avoid appearing desperate, I favored her with a cheesy grin. "I'll stop by again around lunchtime, we'll figure out what to do then, okay?"
"Sounds great!" She must have had a thousand teeth. Like some beautiful, girlish shark. Just like that, my life changed completely; instead of dreading a date some weeks hence I was eagerly awaiting the coming Thursday. I walked out of the henna tattoo parlor on a cloud, turned the corner, and teetered on the brink of despair. How would I survive the next three days?
My new outlook on life didn't leave me in despair for long, but my lack of experience left me short on ideas. I realized that I would merely have to not die, and prepare in any way possible for my date with Tonya. To kill time I decided to drink an entire bottle of Thunderbird immediately and hopefully wake up with half the 72 hours already past.
-------------
"Look at the lion. That's him."
I had had enough hangovers in my day to realize that this one was relatively minor. Yes, I felt like I was weakly struggling in deep, black water. Yes, I did not really enjoy any of my current sensory input, even with closed eyelids and one ear buried in sand. However, blessedly, I was not quite yet sober.
"Wake up, stupid man."
I opened one eye. I saw a silouhette in front of a night sky. That partially explained the apparent mildness of my hangover. Invading sunlight would have crippled me. The voice was a girl's, which I would normally enjoy but could not appreciate in my current state. It hurt my unburied ear.
"You are awake." Giggling. Too much giggling. I opened my other eye and observed a second silouhette vibrating with girlish laughter. I was surrounded. I shut my eyes tight to block out the horrid noise. For some reason it did not work.
I struggled to identify the situation. I had passed out on the beach, that much was clear. But I did not recall any pair of girls, especially not any girls who knew that I was stupid. Only Tonya -
I bolted into a sitting position, sand falling from my back and hair. My brain seemed to bounce in my skull, but that wasn't important. "What day is it?"
Giggling turned into laughter. The girls doubled over and two lovely pairs of breasts in white string bikinis briefly danced before my eyes. I stood up like an old prizefighter, resting at one knee for most of a 10 second count before venturing to a full upright position. No need to hurry in my condition.
"Come with us!" The girls said in unison. It wasn't an order, but they seemed to assume that I would comply. And why wouldn't I? I saw that they wanted something from me, and I was no dummy who would miss the opportunity to get something in return.
"First tell me the current time and date." The girls didn't take me seriously before, and were still grinning. They were Asian, and cute. Japanese maybe? Their smiles revealed even, white teeth that matched their bathing suits. It was a little dark to make out their less contrasting features, but their silouhettes were of medium height and curvy.
"It's Monday."
"And now it's Tuesday."
"It was Monday a moment ago."
"Not anymore though." The second one laughed. They each reached out and grabbed a hand and started dragging me down the beach. "Come with us!"
On each of their backs was a tattooed yin yang, of all things. The Yin Yang Twins? I had pictured them differently.
They let go of my arms and I continued forward on my own momentum. I trudged like I was on a death march. Two and a half days left! The yin yang twins frolicked around me as I lumbered down the shoreline, their sweet laughter adding to my misery. Grains of sand periodically became dislodged from my back, causing mini avalanches.
I was slow to come to grips with my choices in the matter, but as I became more alert to my surroundings, I decided to continue. These cute young girls were, after all, scantily clad. Information is always important though.
"Where are you taking me?"
"To the mistress, she said you had to come see her."
"She's nice!" That sounded promising. I tried to think of a question that might get a more specific answer.
"To what location and for what purpose?"
"Over there!" They pointed to a large house on a bluff that jutted out from the shoreline, not too far in the distance. "And we don't know why she wants to see you!"
"Can't even guess!"
"You seem really stupid to us!"
Something about the way they acted did indeed make me feel pretty dumb. I was on the outside of whatever joke they were laughing at, and I doubted they would clue me in and spoil their fun. I stayed silent and walked towards our destination. The girls, for their part, skipped and cartwheeled around me like orbiting planets. I observed Monday's cute little bum as she skipped ahead. Not a butt or an ass, bum was the word that came to mind. The bikini bottom was quite flattering to its size and shape, and I observed the very correct 90 degree angle where bum met thigh. As this pair became more infuriating, they also got sexier.
Ere long I was on the porch of the beachhouse on the bluff, shaking and brushing the remaining sand from my body and hair. The twins bounced inside, leaving the door open. Before following them, I took a final assessment of my situation. I had no supplies or shoes, only a loose bathing suit. I had no money but a seemingly decent amount of time, something like 59 hours. Nothing else to count, I took a deep breath so I would at least have an extra supply of oxygen, then entered the house.
The interior was predictably decorated like a Asian buffet restaurant, but instead of the walls and air being saturated with grease, it was refreshingly clean. A thin line of incense smoke hung in the air, and led to the next room. It smelled like wood sprayed with some fruity additive, but everything else was authentic enough. I followed the smoke into the next room.
It was apparently the throne room, an underutilized tool in modern interior design. The floor of the room was mainly smooth multicolored stones, that upon closer observation had been raked into designs and shapes. It was lit up with walls of candles, and a red carpet split the room in half. One end was at my feet, and the other end was at the chair. In the chair, flanked by a kneeling Monday and Tuesday, sat the Mistress.
You already know what she looked like. Japanese. Austere. More mature than the twins, but with an ageless beauty. A kimono hid her figure, but her face was perfectly formed, and her hair fell long, shiny, and black. I walked forward to the midway point and stopped. Was I supposed to bow or something?
I was announced by Tuesday. "Here's the idiot from the beach, Mistress."
"James," I said.
"Who painted your henna tattoo?" she asked. Her voice was deep for a woman, but its timbre was very feminine. After my Trail of Tears and Giggling Nubile Twins, it was a relief to hear a voice that seemed incapable of giggling. Her pronunciation was perfect, but the cadence was a little alien, and there was the slightest hint of an accent.
As impressive as this Mistress was, Tonya still seemed more important. Sure, this reeked of intrigue, but did not match the epic scope of a brief conversation and mutual attraction. It sounds mundane when you actually say it, but any man would be a liar if he claimed he felt differently; your favorite girl is always the most important thing. I felt like it would be a betrayal to reveal too much, but quickly realized that I had no details to reveal.
"A beautiful girl I met on the strip."
"Summon her." That was a command. But that's what throne rooms are for, right?
"I cannot." I wasn't sure if contractions were allowed in throne rooms. I wasn't even really sure about which side of the plate a soup fork should be placed, but why take chances with etiquette. "All I know is where she will be on Thursday."
"You will tell me where."
"Perhaps." The woman merely raised an eyebrow at that. "I would know why... and what benefit there would be for me and for her."
She smiled. The mistress stood up and walked forward, then a slender hand snaked out from her robe. The nails were red and a serpent's tail wrapped around her wrist, disappearing back into the robe. Her red tipped index finger tapped on the lion. "She has a talent that she may not even be aware of."
"It's nice, but I think she knows she can draw." I realized I'd slipped and used a contraction. However, I was wearing only swim trunks, so I suppose formal English wasn't going to push me over the edge of respectability. Also, my retort came out sounding sarcastic. I pondered on when, exactly, had sarcasm become instinctive for me.
The woman just continued to smile. Thankfully, her smile still left me feeling smarter than the cruel laughter of the twins. "This one is special."
She brushed past me and walked to the door. "I will show you how special it is. Then you will help me find the girl."
I had turned around to watch her exit, a little confused. The twins suddenly appeared from behind me, each hugging an arm and propelling me forward. I was not ignorant of the position of my arms, nestled in their cleavage. I decided I liked them despite all.
"We're supposed to prepare you for the Mistress." They led me through another candlelit room with a raised cot. They propelled me towards an adjacent bathroom, but I didn't fail to notice some suspicious straps on the black leather cot. No surprise that the queen got down like that.
They shoved me into the bathroom and closed the door. "Take a shower!" they shouted through the door. They walked off giggling. What did I expect, a steamy three way shower with soapy handjobs? Well, yes. I considered requesting, but thought better of it.
I didn't know what the Mistress's plans were, but I needed to rinse off the remaining sand so I jumped in. I figured I was in no real danger here. Submitting to the straps, if it came to that, would be risky; however, these women would need to keep me relatively alive to get what they wanted. I wasn't a bondage or masochism fan by any means, but torture didn't really scare me either. My life was empty before my possibly requited crush, so the only thing that mattered was noon on Thursday. It was a little disconcerting that I found myself in some kind of post modern noir adventure, but so far it was actually a little fun.
I looked at the lion in the bathroom's mirror. It was remarkable, now that I looked at it without the distraction of a perfect ass. Each brush stroke was carefully made, and there was space between the ink of each individual stroke. The result was striking, and the stylized figure seemed alive. The abstract pose of a rampant predator seemed to represent a real action for the first time in my eyes. Tonya was no slouch, but I didn't understand what warranted all the attention from beautiful and mysterious women. Maybe it was my new attitude, and not just the art.
I decided to leave the salty trunks hanging on the towel rack, and wrapped a clean towel around my waist instead. I would ask about fresh clothes, I thought. This seemed like the kind of place with a general purpose kimono closet. They always gave James Bond clothes. As I exited the bathroom, I saw that the Mistress was busily preparing a tray of implements and clay jars. I eyed it carefully. Thankfully, none of the items appeared sharp.
"Remove the towel and your shorts, then lay on your back. On the table."
This had a lot of chances to end badly, but I still liked the possibilities here. Some token resistance seemed warranted. "What is going on?"
"I am finishing your tattoo. It requires a ceremony. Clothing would get in the way." Well, I had always wanted a tattoo. Plus this could possibly help Tonya get some kind of opportunity. Also I would be naked in a house full of hot women. All of this together was worth becoming permanently Scottish. I followed her instructions.
As expected, she afixed the straps to my wrists and ankles. "You must remain still," she explained. Seemed a little excessive. No matter how brave you are, there's a certain amount of vulnerability associated with being strapped down with your junk out. I resolved to meet my fate stoically. After all, I had nothing better to do.
She stepped back and the silk kimono slipped off her body, and she was naked. My eyes must have been comically wide; you can drink a woman in by looking at her, and I was taking big gulps of this one. Her form was a work of art, the line from her collarbone down the swell of her breast complimenting her hips to waist ratio and smooth, womanly legs. Her skin was another work of art: the reptilian tail wrapped around her wrist led to a full torso tattoo, a splendid golden dragon coiled around her body and glaring out from her opposite shoulder. On one of her breasts, a five clawed hand clutched a brush dripping with ink.
I was still drinking when she climbed on top of me, straddling my hips. She took a warm wet cloth from her tray and began washing my chest.
"This picture is only dye. Your skin was barely changed, but so in small part was your soul." I felt heat hovering above my dick. My gaze moved from her body to her eyes, and I felt my penis growing as fast as it could, one heartbeat at a time.
She set the washcloth aside, then straightened up and looked me in the eyes. She leaned down to speak directly into my ear. Her nipples brushed against my chest, and my dick was now hard and throbbing.
"A normal tattoo can be many things beyond a picture on skin, but to tattoo one's soul is a secret art." Her mound was now resting on my dick. I felt only heat. I swallowed and looked back at her, so close and her eyes so dark.
"A tattooed soul?"
"Yes. It gives power to those who can bear it."
"What power?"
"That depends." She was now rocking ever so slightly, and her eyes were now hooded with arousal. She straightened back up, resting her now wet pussy on the base of my cock. She reached over and picked up a brush and a clay pot, which she set down next to my head. "It depends on the tattoo, and it depends on the soul." She moved forward, the hot entrance to her pussy capturing the tip of my penis. She touched the first brush stroke with the tip of her brush, and it burned even hotter. My breath caught. "We will see what lies in your soul, James."
She slipped down my shaft ever so slowly. She carefully copied the first brush stroke at that moment. I was so turned on that the pain was the only thing that stopped me from cumming immediately. The pain was intense, though, I looked down and saw the brush stroke she made glow and fade out like a dying ember, leaving a totally black mark. Her hips never stopped, moving slowly back up.
"The pain James, focus on the pain." She made the next stroke. I watched it this time. The brush opened my skin like a burning sheet of paper. Fresh, the mark glowed like molten lava before burning out. I groaned. Only about fifty more to go!
"The pleasure, James." Her hips were still moving, at the same tantalizing pace. Back and forth. Every time my focus shifted to pain or pleasure, she brought me back. "The pain."
I'd been hard enough to start with, but now my dick felt like a tower. It felt like it had grown thicker and longer inside this beautiful creature, and had for the first time in my life reached its maximum. Diamond hard, I wondered how I could live the rest of my life trying to convince tattoo artists to fuck me. This knife's edge was the sweetest sensation, even the cuts.
Three or a dozen strokes after she started, I noticed we were covered in sweat. It glistened on her curves and I felt her thighs start to slide over mine. A single drop traveled down her elegant neck and over her color bone, and became a dragon tear on its way down her hanging breast to perch on a nipple. I watched it, the suspense adding to the suspense of each stroke.
She leaned back to inspect her handiwork. I felt her pussy pull my dick upright like a parking brake, a surprisingly ordinary intercourse sensation. I looked at the tattoo, and saw that only one stroke remained: the eye. I blinked, noticing a red glow as flames seemed to lick the corners of my vision, just out of sight. "You have borne this well so far, young man." Mistress's eyes met mine as she dipped her brush for the last time, and executed a slow upstroke. "The pleasure, James."
At that moment, the drop of sweat fell. She performed the final stroke and took me to the very hilt. I exploded in every sense of the word. My entire body felt like hellfire, but I was having an out-of-body-and-inside-my-dick experience. The orgasm became my whole world, and as each ejaculation rocketed out of me I swear I felt my maxed out erection expand. Instead of petering out, the orgasm grew like a violent thermal reaction. As the flames engulfed my vision, my final sight was the Mistess's face, wracked with orgasm, shock and confusion. Each emotion grew on her face as I felt myself expand inside her one last time, then all my sensations became fire.
And then there was nothing.
Four years out of high school, I had dickered my way into and out of higher education enough times to make matters clear: I should just give up on the notion. I'm told some people, even some smart people, just aren't cut out for school. Those people are also called lazy bastards, and I personally am much more likely to claim to be one of those than some mysterious non-scholarly creature.
Thus it was that I translated my savings from years of part-time jobs into time, counting down the weeks and days when I would be officially broke and march down to the Marine recruiter. Or perhaps I would not march, and savor simply walking for potentially the last time. I decided to join the Marines and not go for some cushy Air Force gig because I figured if I were to give up my free will, there would be no sense in going half way. Why tease myself with the illusion of personal freedom, even if the relative safety would be decidedly non-illusory.
I concluded that this last chunk of money/time would be best spent at a beach, and I would be able to delay my doom the longest at the gloriously cheap and only slightly rank Virgina Beach, Virginia. The city was also conveniently located adjacent to several military bases, which I hoped would instantly feed and house me when my money ran out in about three weeks.
At twenty-two years old and male, my first priority was to enjoy the company of females. Failing that, I would do my best to enjoy the dubious comforts of drugs and alcohol. (Virginia Beach has absolutely the worst weed connect on the East Coast. Old hippies who complain about weed being too strong this century can't even get a buzz from it.) Countering those desires was the merciless calculator in my brain, reminding me that every time I splurged to entertain a female or purchase liquor fit for human consumption, I was subtracting minutes and hours from my last few fun days on Earth. By the time I got out of the military, I would surely be nearing thirty and incapable of ever having a good time, ever again. I was extremely miserly and forced myself to enjoy the cheap sensations of sun and sand.
I reached my breaking point one day walking down the tourist trap strip Atlantic Avenue, past its legion of lewd T-Shirt stores and run down funhouses. I realized I was bored, which was a little bit of a shock since my mood was no different from ordinary. I had simply been bored every day for my entire life up until that point. Typically I had been one to feel sorry for myself, but the pressures of dwindling time and money catapulted me through the seven stages of grief in mere seconds. I would have plenty of time to be bored in a few short weeks when I would be constantly shouted and/or shot at. I was going to spend my precious time and money on excitement, dammit, and I would find it, grab it by the throat, and either smoke it or fuck it depending on the type of excitement at hand.
Serendipitously, I found excitement through the very next store's windowpane. Inside was an absolute vision of a female, and I entered immediately. Virginia Beach, as you may have guessed by my glowing descriptions, is not a magnet for beautiful women, and this girl would score a 10 in Miami or LA. A dancer's athletic body, with modest hips and breasts that were positively curvy on her petite frame. She had curly brown hair and African American features with a light skin tone. Her eyes were tilted exotically and her mouth was wide with perfect lips. As I approached her those lips cracked into a million watt smile that caused me to grin goofily for at least five seconds before I realized my expression. I put my hastily devised plan into action.
"Hi, I'd like to buy one-" I glanced at the sign above her head; what the fuck? "One henna tattoo please."
I'm the type of guy whose thoughts are plain to read on his face, and clearly she understood exactly what was on my mind. She laughed, and the sound was not just sweet because of my relief. She was perfect. "Of course, go ahead and sit down and look through these." She handed me a binder full of flash.
By this point I had calculated that this half hour of excitement followed by inevitable rejection would also cost me an additional 12 hours worth of greenbacks. Furthermore a henna tattoo is unbelievably lame. A real tattoo would be only potentially lame, though I had never brought myself to commit to ink. Fortunately, due my recent priority adjustment, I discarded those negative thoughts for the useless life-stealers they were. Gung Ho, that was my new middle and last name.
I flipped pointlessly through the black folder. I honestly didn't care if she gave me a nude Tinkerbell hitting the world's biggest joint, which would honestly be better than most of the flash. I looked at her and smiled with regret. "I'm sorry, I didn't have anything in mind. What do you suggest?"
She laughed again. Maybe she liked me and my new attitude. "Hm, I guess I could have some fun and just freehand it. Would that be ok?"
"That sounds perfect." Just like her and her laugh. "What's your name, by the way?"
"Tonya." Kind of boring. It could definitely grow on me though. Yes, it felt more perfect by the second. I offered my hand in greeting.
"Nice to meet you Tonya, I'm James." No more Jimmy for this gung ho beast of a grown up man! She shook my hand. Her hand felt perfect. She even smelled perfect. Like... Jergens and henna ink. Huh. I recognized the early signs of intense infatuation in myself, virtually guaranteeing that I would fuck this up.
"Have a seat James." I obliged. She appraised me thoughtfully. Tonya bit her bottom lip as she concentrated, which happens to be my favorite sexy facial expression. What are the odds?
"Usually we do something on the arm, here, or here," she said touching me on the forearm and bicep in turn. I've found that for some reason females love my slightly developed arms, and I did not fail to notice her brief squeeze of my bicep. "For you, though, I'd like to do a nice piece right here," and she laid her hand on the center of my chest. I looked from her hand to her face, making that perilous eye contact. She was very nearly pouting, but had a mischievous grin at the corner of her wide mouth. "Would that be okay?"
"More than okay." So I found myself shirtless, relaxing in a chair while my new all-time favorite girl touched my chest and made small talk. The weather was discussed for the customary length of time. I confessed my reticence to get a real tattoo. We sympathized over our mutual lack of a car. The henna brush was cool and tickled a little, but I exercised a small amount of self control and remained still. Blessed with genes that left me with a body and mind only little dulled by my four years of indolence, I could be proud of the muscles and more importantly limited fat my state of dress displayed. Even my pasty white skin had been a little bronzed during my previous days of vacation. I was never a ladies' man, but I could sense the pure physical attraction between us. Still, I assumed her shy looks and inability to maintain eye contact were all in my head, an imagined product of my infatuation. However, it wasn't long before Tonya steered the conversation in a more compelling direction.
"I could tell there was something special about you when you walked in."
"Why do you say that?"
"I dunno." She leaned closer, concentrating on the design forming on my chest. Her shirt was tight and though it revealed no cleavage, her breasts fell tantalizingly close to my forearm. Even through her black T-shirt they were lovely, round and soft looking. I consciously willed her to lean just a little further. "You walked in like a man with a purpose, but unsure of where you were going." She leaned back to inspect her work, and her chest moved away with the rest of her. Aaah! "Like you had just opened the most important fortune cookie of your life, you know?"
"I know exactly what you mean." Guilelessly, I revealed my thoughts from just before she came into view. Tonya grinned.
"I guess I better make this a damn good tattoo, then." She leaned forward again, and this time her breast did graze my arm. "It is probably going to be important." I realized that I had a massive erection. I adjusted my leg so that it jumped into a more concealable alignment, but Tonya's smile took on a knowing twist. She didn't seem to mind, but propriety is worth observing.
Her brush made a few quick, decisive strokes. "There!" She leaned back with an expression of utter artistic satisfaction. She caught my eye and pointed toward the full length mirror on the wall. "What do you think?" On my chest was a heraldric lion, in a rampant pose: profile, hind legs braced far apart, arms raised to attack. A popular tattoo among Scottish descendants, and while my own mutt ancestry was impossibly muddled pre-1950, I supposed I could live with being a Scot for the next 3-5 weeks. It was a classic stylized icon, great for a first tattoo in my opinion.
"Perfect." The word of the day. Behind my reflection, Tonya's perfect ass put an exclamation point on the sentiment. Perfect!
"Tonya." She turned around, and I turned to face her truly. Gung ho, I told myself. "This has just been awesome." Her expression hadn't changed since she turned, businesslike with her gorgeous smile missing in action.
"I thought, your name was James, so you could be like, the King of Scots."
"It's great, I love it. Can I see you again, when you get off work?" Not a very good segue, but my audacity was rewarded with another bright smile. My luck was unbelievable.
"Oh James, I'm sorry." Maybe not. "I live all the way out in Chesapeake, and I have to catch a ride right when I get off work." A common commute for the beach's summer jobs, but still thirty minutes or more in summer traffic. "I work again on Thursday. We could hang out that evening maybe?"
Thursday! Wait, what day was today? I counted on mental fingers. Three days from now? I would surely die. "Okay." My voice dripped with disappointment. To avoid appearing desperate, I favored her with a cheesy grin. "I'll stop by again around lunchtime, we'll figure out what to do then, okay?"
"Sounds great!" She must have had a thousand teeth. Like some beautiful, girlish shark. Just like that, my life changed completely; instead of dreading a date some weeks hence I was eagerly awaiting the coming Thursday. I walked out of the henna tattoo parlor on a cloud, turned the corner, and teetered on the brink of despair. How would I survive the next three days?
My new outlook on life didn't leave me in despair for long, but my lack of experience left me short on ideas. I realized that I would merely have to not die, and prepare in any way possible for my date with Tonya. To kill time I decided to drink an entire bottle of Thunderbird immediately and hopefully wake up with half the 72 hours already past.
-------------
"Look at the lion. That's him."
I had had enough hangovers in my day to realize that this one was relatively minor. Yes, I felt like I was weakly struggling in deep, black water. Yes, I did not really enjoy any of my current sensory input, even with closed eyelids and one ear buried in sand. However, blessedly, I was not quite yet sober.
"Wake up, stupid man."
I opened one eye. I saw a silouhette in front of a night sky. That partially explained the apparent mildness of my hangover. Invading sunlight would have crippled me. The voice was a girl's, which I would normally enjoy but could not appreciate in my current state. It hurt my unburied ear.
"You are awake." Giggling. Too much giggling. I opened my other eye and observed a second silouhette vibrating with girlish laughter. I was surrounded. I shut my eyes tight to block out the horrid noise. For some reason it did not work.
I struggled to identify the situation. I had passed out on the beach, that much was clear. But I did not recall any pair of girls, especially not any girls who knew that I was stupid. Only Tonya -
I bolted into a sitting position, sand falling from my back and hair. My brain seemed to bounce in my skull, but that wasn't important. "What day is it?"
Giggling turned into laughter. The girls doubled over and two lovely pairs of breasts in white string bikinis briefly danced before my eyes. I stood up like an old prizefighter, resting at one knee for most of a 10 second count before venturing to a full upright position. No need to hurry in my condition.
"Come with us!" The girls said in unison. It wasn't an order, but they seemed to assume that I would comply. And why wouldn't I? I saw that they wanted something from me, and I was no dummy who would miss the opportunity to get something in return.
"First tell me the current time and date." The girls didn't take me seriously before, and were still grinning. They were Asian, and cute. Japanese maybe? Their smiles revealed even, white teeth that matched their bathing suits. It was a little dark to make out their less contrasting features, but their silouhettes were of medium height and curvy.
"It's Monday."
"And now it's Tuesday."
"It was Monday a moment ago."
"Not anymore though." The second one laughed. They each reached out and grabbed a hand and started dragging me down the beach. "Come with us!"
On each of their backs was a tattooed yin yang, of all things. The Yin Yang Twins? I had pictured them differently.
They let go of my arms and I continued forward on my own momentum. I trudged like I was on a death march. Two and a half days left! The yin yang twins frolicked around me as I lumbered down the shoreline, their sweet laughter adding to my misery. Grains of sand periodically became dislodged from my back, causing mini avalanches.
I was slow to come to grips with my choices in the matter, but as I became more alert to my surroundings, I decided to continue. These cute young girls were, after all, scantily clad. Information is always important though.
"Where are you taking me?"
"To the mistress, she said you had to come see her."
"She's nice!" That sounded promising. I tried to think of a question that might get a more specific answer.
"To what location and for what purpose?"
"Over there!" They pointed to a large house on a bluff that jutted out from the shoreline, not too far in the distance. "And we don't know why she wants to see you!"
"Can't even guess!"
"You seem really stupid to us!"
Something about the way they acted did indeed make me feel pretty dumb. I was on the outside of whatever joke they were laughing at, and I doubted they would clue me in and spoil their fun. I stayed silent and walked towards our destination. The girls, for their part, skipped and cartwheeled around me like orbiting planets. I observed Monday's cute little bum as she skipped ahead. Not a butt or an ass, bum was the word that came to mind. The bikini bottom was quite flattering to its size and shape, and I observed the very correct 90 degree angle where bum met thigh. As this pair became more infuriating, they also got sexier.
Ere long I was on the porch of the beachhouse on the bluff, shaking and brushing the remaining sand from my body and hair. The twins bounced inside, leaving the door open. Before following them, I took a final assessment of my situation. I had no supplies or shoes, only a loose bathing suit. I had no money but a seemingly decent amount of time, something like 59 hours. Nothing else to count, I took a deep breath so I would at least have an extra supply of oxygen, then entered the house.
The interior was predictably decorated like a Asian buffet restaurant, but instead of the walls and air being saturated with grease, it was refreshingly clean. A thin line of incense smoke hung in the air, and led to the next room. It smelled like wood sprayed with some fruity additive, but everything else was authentic enough. I followed the smoke into the next room.
It was apparently the throne room, an underutilized tool in modern interior design. The floor of the room was mainly smooth multicolored stones, that upon closer observation had been raked into designs and shapes. It was lit up with walls of candles, and a red carpet split the room in half. One end was at my feet, and the other end was at the chair. In the chair, flanked by a kneeling Monday and Tuesday, sat the Mistress.
You already know what she looked like. Japanese. Austere. More mature than the twins, but with an ageless beauty. A kimono hid her figure, but her face was perfectly formed, and her hair fell long, shiny, and black. I walked forward to the midway point and stopped. Was I supposed to bow or something?
I was announced by Tuesday. "Here's the idiot from the beach, Mistress."
"James," I said.
"Who painted your henna tattoo?" she asked. Her voice was deep for a woman, but its timbre was very feminine. After my Trail of Tears and Giggling Nubile Twins, it was a relief to hear a voice that seemed incapable of giggling. Her pronunciation was perfect, but the cadence was a little alien, and there was the slightest hint of an accent.
As impressive as this Mistress was, Tonya still seemed more important. Sure, this reeked of intrigue, but did not match the epic scope of a brief conversation and mutual attraction. It sounds mundane when you actually say it, but any man would be a liar if he claimed he felt differently; your favorite girl is always the most important thing. I felt like it would be a betrayal to reveal too much, but quickly realized that I had no details to reveal.
"A beautiful girl I met on the strip."
"Summon her." That was a command. But that's what throne rooms are for, right?
"I cannot." I wasn't sure if contractions were allowed in throne rooms. I wasn't even really sure about which side of the plate a soup fork should be placed, but why take chances with etiquette. "All I know is where she will be on Thursday."
"You will tell me where."
"Perhaps." The woman merely raised an eyebrow at that. "I would know why... and what benefit there would be for me and for her."
She smiled. The mistress stood up and walked forward, then a slender hand snaked out from her robe. The nails were red and a serpent's tail wrapped around her wrist, disappearing back into the robe. Her red tipped index finger tapped on the lion. "She has a talent that she may not even be aware of."
"It's nice, but I think she knows she can draw." I realized I'd slipped and used a contraction. However, I was wearing only swim trunks, so I suppose formal English wasn't going to push me over the edge of respectability. Also, my retort came out sounding sarcastic. I pondered on when, exactly, had sarcasm become instinctive for me.
The woman just continued to smile. Thankfully, her smile still left me feeling smarter than the cruel laughter of the twins. "This one is special."
She brushed past me and walked to the door. "I will show you how special it is. Then you will help me find the girl."
I had turned around to watch her exit, a little confused. The twins suddenly appeared from behind me, each hugging an arm and propelling me forward. I was not ignorant of the position of my arms, nestled in their cleavage. I decided I liked them despite all.
"We're supposed to prepare you for the Mistress." They led me through another candlelit room with a raised cot. They propelled me towards an adjacent bathroom, but I didn't fail to notice some suspicious straps on the black leather cot. No surprise that the queen got down like that.
They shoved me into the bathroom and closed the door. "Take a shower!" they shouted through the door. They walked off giggling. What did I expect, a steamy three way shower with soapy handjobs? Well, yes. I considered requesting, but thought better of it.
I didn't know what the Mistress's plans were, but I needed to rinse off the remaining sand so I jumped in. I figured I was in no real danger here. Submitting to the straps, if it came to that, would be risky; however, these women would need to keep me relatively alive to get what they wanted. I wasn't a bondage or masochism fan by any means, but torture didn't really scare me either. My life was empty before my possibly requited crush, so the only thing that mattered was noon on Thursday. It was a little disconcerting that I found myself in some kind of post modern noir adventure, but so far it was actually a little fun.
I looked at the lion in the bathroom's mirror. It was remarkable, now that I looked at it without the distraction of a perfect ass. Each brush stroke was carefully made, and there was space between the ink of each individual stroke. The result was striking, and the stylized figure seemed alive. The abstract pose of a rampant predator seemed to represent a real action for the first time in my eyes. Tonya was no slouch, but I didn't understand what warranted all the attention from beautiful and mysterious women. Maybe it was my new attitude, and not just the art.
I decided to leave the salty trunks hanging on the towel rack, and wrapped a clean towel around my waist instead. I would ask about fresh clothes, I thought. This seemed like the kind of place with a general purpose kimono closet. They always gave James Bond clothes. As I exited the bathroom, I saw that the Mistress was busily preparing a tray of implements and clay jars. I eyed it carefully. Thankfully, none of the items appeared sharp.
"Remove the towel and your shorts, then lay on your back. On the table."
This had a lot of chances to end badly, but I still liked the possibilities here. Some token resistance seemed warranted. "What is going on?"
"I am finishing your tattoo. It requires a ceremony. Clothing would get in the way." Well, I had always wanted a tattoo. Plus this could possibly help Tonya get some kind of opportunity. Also I would be naked in a house full of hot women. All of this together was worth becoming permanently Scottish. I followed her instructions.
As expected, she afixed the straps to my wrists and ankles. "You must remain still," she explained. Seemed a little excessive. No matter how brave you are, there's a certain amount of vulnerability associated with being strapped down with your junk out. I resolved to meet my fate stoically. After all, I had nothing better to do.
She stepped back and the silk kimono slipped off her body, and she was naked. My eyes must have been comically wide; you can drink a woman in by looking at her, and I was taking big gulps of this one. Her form was a work of art, the line from her collarbone down the swell of her breast complimenting her hips to waist ratio and smooth, womanly legs. Her skin was another work of art: the reptilian tail wrapped around her wrist led to a full torso tattoo, a splendid golden dragon coiled around her body and glaring out from her opposite shoulder. On one of her breasts, a five clawed hand clutched a brush dripping with ink.
I was still drinking when she climbed on top of me, straddling my hips. She took a warm wet cloth from her tray and began washing my chest.
"This picture is only dye. Your skin was barely changed, but so in small part was your soul." I felt heat hovering above my dick. My gaze moved from her body to her eyes, and I felt my penis growing as fast as it could, one heartbeat at a time.
She set the washcloth aside, then straightened up and looked me in the eyes. She leaned down to speak directly into my ear. Her nipples brushed against my chest, and my dick was now hard and throbbing.
"A normal tattoo can be many things beyond a picture on skin, but to tattoo one's soul is a secret art." Her mound was now resting on my dick. I felt only heat. I swallowed and looked back at her, so close and her eyes so dark.
"A tattooed soul?"
"Yes. It gives power to those who can bear it."
"What power?"
"That depends." She was now rocking ever so slightly, and her eyes were now hooded with arousal. She straightened back up, resting her now wet pussy on the base of my cock. She reached over and picked up a brush and a clay pot, which she set down next to my head. "It depends on the tattoo, and it depends on the soul." She moved forward, the hot entrance to her pussy capturing the tip of my penis. She touched the first brush stroke with the tip of her brush, and it burned even hotter. My breath caught. "We will see what lies in your soul, James."
She slipped down my shaft ever so slowly. She carefully copied the first brush stroke at that moment. I was so turned on that the pain was the only thing that stopped me from cumming immediately. The pain was intense, though, I looked down and saw the brush stroke she made glow and fade out like a dying ember, leaving a totally black mark. Her hips never stopped, moving slowly back up.
"The pain James, focus on the pain." She made the next stroke. I watched it this time. The brush opened my skin like a burning sheet of paper. Fresh, the mark glowed like molten lava before burning out. I groaned. Only about fifty more to go!
"The pleasure, James." Her hips were still moving, at the same tantalizing pace. Back and forth. Every time my focus shifted to pain or pleasure, she brought me back. "The pain."
I'd been hard enough to start with, but now my dick felt like a tower. It felt like it had grown thicker and longer inside this beautiful creature, and had for the first time in my life reached its maximum. Diamond hard, I wondered how I could live the rest of my life trying to convince tattoo artists to fuck me. This knife's edge was the sweetest sensation, even the cuts.
Three or a dozen strokes after she started, I noticed we were covered in sweat. It glistened on her curves and I felt her thighs start to slide over mine. A single drop traveled down her elegant neck and over her color bone, and became a dragon tear on its way down her hanging breast to perch on a nipple. I watched it, the suspense adding to the suspense of each stroke.
She leaned back to inspect her handiwork. I felt her pussy pull my dick upright like a parking brake, a surprisingly ordinary intercourse sensation. I looked at the tattoo, and saw that only one stroke remained: the eye. I blinked, noticing a red glow as flames seemed to lick the corners of my vision, just out of sight. "You have borne this well so far, young man." Mistress's eyes met mine as she dipped her brush for the last time, and executed a slow upstroke. "The pleasure, James."
At that moment, the drop of sweat fell. She performed the final stroke and took me to the very hilt. I exploded in every sense of the word. My entire body felt like hellfire, but I was having an out-of-body-and-inside-my-dick experience. The orgasm became my whole world, and as each ejaculation rocketed out of me I swear I felt my maxed out erection expand. Instead of petering out, the orgasm grew like a violent thermal reaction. As the flames engulfed my vision, my final sight was the Mistess's face, wracked with orgasm, shock and confusion. Each emotion grew on her face as I felt myself expand inside her one last time, then all my sensations became fire.
And then there was nothing.
