Skin Crawl

Skin Crawl

By Mantis

Prologue



Thirteenth century Japan saw much in the way of brutal punishment. It was then, and had always been the way of the land.

For the royal tattoo artist attached to Shogunate Toyokayama's court, now was the time for tears. He'd stood by her side to the very end, throughout the terrible agonizing and the debilitating fear. Now it was over. The tears came upon him suddenly, unbidden. His resolve to maintain the walls of emotional fortitude, steadfast and unshakable at first, enabling him to be a pillar of strength for her, to help bolster her courage in her time of tribulation, had finally been rocked and shattered upon the swing of the executioner's ax, the finality of her death. Now, his resolve in ruins, there was nothing left to stem the tide of sadness.

How callous he'd been to let his guard down, to allow the discovery of their lustful relationship. His wife, Toyokayama's sister, had many spies roaming the court. He knew she embraced their love - in so far as her tempestuous, divisive, and oft distrustful manner would allow - but he was also privy to her unspoken awareness that he'd grown dissatisfied with her womanly qualities; her awareness that he'd become bored with her in bed - for he had his share of spies and moles too. And he surmised it infuriated her. He should have known the time was ripe for cautious conduct.

She'd gathered her conniving ferrets and instructed them to watch, as he knew she must. Unfazed, he'd sought and found the peasant girl. He was careful at first, but through his magic (for he was also a skilled sorcerer) he'd enchanted her to such heights of lust for him, there came a point where the returns of blissful sexual indulgence began to dull his mind. Cast under his spells, with ample, swelling curves of body, and beauty born of the earth - not paint and perfume and privilege like most of the women of the court hierarchy - including his wife - she'd intoxicated him. He became nearly sedated by her lust, stupefied, witless. In such an inattentive state, gaining inroads into his affairs became hardly a challenge. Flush with information by whispers from spying hounds, and boiling with anger at his loss of carnal interest in her, his wife had seized the moment and pounced.

He alone was to blame. He knew that. And though he was not in love with the girl, at least not in any meaningful sense beyond a base craving for her, he agonized with regret knowing she had paid for his complacence with her life. It was all his fault.

How could any blame be laid at her feet when he was the one who pulled all the strings, the one who commanded her? He was the one who held position and status in the Shogun's court, thus it fell to him to protect their secret amid the whispers and rumors which permeated the halls of the palace like a shroud of mist, not her. He was the one savvy in the ways of royal intrigue, had faced on a daily basis the deceptions, the spying, the scheming and cunning manipulations for leverage which ran rampant throughout the hierarchy. Indeed, establishing his aptitude for navigating that tangled web of connivance was what had enabled him to gain a foothold within the Shogun's retinue long ago. And yet, he'd failed miserably to recognize the trap leading up to their betrayal.

Had she even known the danger she was in? He guessed not. She was merely his toy, his peasant concubine. She was a helpless lamb in the face of palace treachery. And in the end, it was her, not him, who'd been chewed up and spit out by it, even though her mortal fate was nothing more to his wife and her schemers than a cruel strike against him. Such was the utter disregard and disdain for the peasantry, used, as they so often where, as mere pawns.

He should have seen it coming. He should have protected her. You should have protected your domain... sexual or otherwise, you fool! It should have been he who manipulated and deceived in that environment; he who should have shrewdly politicked to cover his tracks and maintain the anonymity of the poor girl and the secret of their lust; not leave it to her own accord to fend for herself.

No, the fault lay squarely at his feet, he knew, and now she was gone. His peers, enmeshed as they were in the honor code of their society, might have felt compelled to embrace ritual seppuku for acting in such a dishonorable fashion as he had done. But that was not his way.

In life, apart from being the precious, caring, bright and witty woman known to family and friends - all completely irrelevant among the ruling class, if ever they'd even bothered to look - she excelled in one area of import: Beauty. But even there, she lacked grace and sophistication, especially where it mattered most to him - her lovemaking. It was only by the casting of powerful enchantments upon her that he could remedy such a foible of nature.

Now, alone behind the sliding shoji doors to his quarters, the tears streamed down his cheeks. She'd been merely a pawn in a battle waged against him by his wife, but even a pawn can topple a king when wielded with deft cunning. The tears gathered in the long, fine strands of his wispy mustache, pasting them together and making it droop heavy, lifeless, as did his soul.

Despite his sorrow, there was a ray of hope. His magic offered him a chance to regain the splendor of her company once again. If he managed to corral the immense power necessary when he'd cast his spell upon the phial of her blood, had been focused enough to make the magic yield to his will, he would know her lust for the rest of his life.

Soon, he would see.

Bukoto began to prick himself with the needles. He began to festoon his flesh with her blood ink.

***

1



Murcado's Distillery took up half the block on East Carson street between 13th and 14th. While Pittsburgh's South Side neighborhood was renowned as an area dedicated to the noble and heady pursuit of 'get yer drunk on', the name of Murcado's itself was a bit misleading. The club had been established as a venue for live music by a trio of bohemian entrepreneurs who'd felt the neighborhood was in dire need of a little less inebriation, and a little more culture. Certainly, the drinks flowed at a high rate of dispense, but the only thing being brewed inside was electronica-tinged punk rock, distilled to the purest essence of rawness by local talent who eschewed polish, and strove rather to invigorate, assaulting their audience with audacious, sonic mayhem. On weekends, Murcado's was a hot ticket.

Inside, the club was spacious, dark and smokey. Shades of purple and red predominated wherever the murky shadows could be infiltrated by the scant lighting. The neon beams reflected off the old fashioned Pittsburgh-mill-themed brick interior highlighting swirling wisps of smoke and stage fog to create a dreamy psychedelia.

On stage at that moment, the bassist for Dangling Ganglia, Mitchell Grupa, was in his glory grinding out a meticulous bass groove beneath an energetic electro-punk tune. It was not an overly complicated progression, yet it was powerful enough with a thick, fat tone, and he employed a withering, uncharacteristic funk vibe to the groove which made the music wantonly sexy. Producing such a sexy groove drove the women wild, which, in turn, caused Mitchell to become aroused. He did a sensual bump and grind against the back of his bass in time with the pounding beat, and felt the low frequency bark of the sub-woofers literally buffeting his back. The exhilaration of on-stage energy and the stirring in his loins only fed to the frenzied nature of his performance.

Tall and lanky, he stood towering above the cymbals of the drum set shirtless, the sweat generated by his staggering performance pouring out of every pore; his body a tension of cut muscles rippling beneath pale, golden skin. With his hair buzz-cut to nearly bald, except for a wispy tuft of dullish brown which sprouted from a center part atop his pate and hung thinly over the left side of his head, his black leather pants tight and skirted into calf-high commando boots, the waistline sinking dangerously low at the button clasp, Mitchell attracted the most attention on stage - much to the chagrin of the lead singer - even though he stood back and off center, close to the drums where he could best feel the rhythmic thumping of the kick drum.

His tattoos were many and colorful, extending from both shoulders and down along his arms where barely an iota of virgin skin could be seen all the way down to his finger tips. All his tattoos prescribed to the same theme: Women. It was as if his body art was a concept album dedicated to the voluptuousness of feminacy. Of course, that's the way it looked to the onlooker, but for Mitchell, it was his way of honoring those women who'd intrigued him most throughout the years - for every tattoo was a stylized caricature of the most important women in his life, each culled from photos he'd passed along to his tattoo artist as templates.

Beneath his right nipple, and down along the right side of his stomach, standing alone in a position of reverence outside the clutter of tats on his shoulders and arms, was the image of Siobhan, her rich, auburn hair depicted billowing out over her shoulders and just barely covering her nipples as it had done in real life. Siobhan was his true love, but had sadly and unceremoniously passed away from an overdose some years before.

The gig soon came to its shattering finale and ended with great fan-fair, leaving Mitchell and his band mates drained. After drinks and schmoozing, Mitchell headed for the door with a woman on each arm. As he stepped outside, his wispy tuft of hair fluttering in the cool autumn breeze, he bumped into an old Japanese man wearing a frumpy gray suit that looked much too large for him. They grumbled at each other without barely a glance, and Mitchell meandered away with his harem for an evening of debauchery. He was getting a good vibe from the brunette on his right arm, and as he cantered along the sidewalk with a swagger befitting a king, he thought it quite possible that she may yet prove herself worthy enough to be immortalized on his skin at some point.

The Japanese man continued past Murcado's in the opposite direction and headed for the pawn shop a few blocks away, a stylized wooden box tucked safely under his arm.

***

2



"Whatcha got there, Pops..." asked the pawn shop proprietor from behind a security cage mounted upon the counter. He peered down at the short Asian man over the rim of his half-lensed spectacles sitting upon the tip of his nose. He twisted a dark maduro cigar between his lips while puffing, inspecting his new customer, trying to size him up in short order. "...a set of antique chopsticks?"

"No, sir," Hatori Matsu said, ignoring the brusque, jocular mannerism of the proprietor, instead bowing repeatedly to the man, a custom engrained in him over a lifetime. "I have brought a tattoo kit of Japanese origin to sell... if you would be so kind to have a look." He placed the kit on the counter and shuddered slightly. "It's very old indeed... the instruments are traditional."

"Let's have a look-see," said the proprietor.

Hatori shuddered again, and seemed to steel himself before opening the kit for perusal. The proprietor noted this, but couldn't decide whether it was reverence for the kit... or fear. "C'mon, old timer, I haven't got all night."

Hatori popped the lid. The proprietor took stock of the contents seeing nothing familiar-looking inside after years of experience with tattoo kits. Numerous tools sat cradled in felt-lined cutouts, most looking like straight picks with splendidly designed handles of wood or ivory. Two of them were long wooden rods with needles mounted in small chassis set at right angles on the end of the rods and fastened there with ancient looking leather thongs. The shape reminded the proprietor of the cuckoo clock in the foyer of his boyhood home, and particularly the little woodpecker which zipped out from behind a closed door pecking away on the hour with its sharp beak. All of the implements had needles differing in shape and size, and some were even multi-tipped and rather cruel looking. All of them held the stain of long dried ink built up on them from many years of use.

In a rear corner of the box sat a teardrop shaped vial made of ivory or bone and capped with a similarly shaped stopper in miniature, which likely contained ink, the proprietor surmised. In a sleeve along the inside of the lid, he could see a sheet of rice paper with a design on it. He asked Hatori to take it out and show it to him, and when the old man did, he saw that it was a drawing of a naked woman, obviously a tattoo template.

And it was astonishing to behold.

"Wow... would you look at that."

"Yes." Hatori bowed. "Quite something, is it not?"

"Damned right it is." The proprietor leaned in closer and pushed his glasses full up to his eyes. He studied the drawing in silence for a few seconds.

At the top of the drawing was an iron ring with a chain hanging down from it. There was a similar but smaller ring attached to the bottom of the chain upon which hung a wicker chair made of bamboo. It took the shape of a gilded bird cage with the front cut out for access. On the floor of the chair seat was drawn a most plush and comfortable looking cushion which slightly overhung the lip of bamboo at the opening. The detail in lines and shadow, despite being drawn only in black ink upon the now yellowing rice paper, made the cushion's buttoned pleats virtually come to life, to the point where the proprietor found himself wishing there was a real life version of the chair right there in the shop for him to rest his weary bones upon.

Lounging suggestively upon the cushion was a young, curvaceous Japanese woman in the act of disrobing an intricately patterned kimono. The collar and lapels were removed from her shoulders and draped behind her down to the base of her spine, its low plunge revealing the allure of her arched back. The billowing folds and creases of the kimono were exquisitely rendered offering a wonderful sense of movement. Her arms were still in the sleeves gathering in folds at her elbows.

She was drawn half lying, half sitting upon her right hip. The hem of her kimono swirled about her upon the cushion where only the slightest bit of fabric covered a portion of her right leg, which lay flush along the cushion beneath her; her pretty, bare foot extending out into space beyond the edge of the chair. Her left knee was fully bent and drawn up toward her stomach in a way that kept her legs mostly closed, though the pose presented the sumptuous curve of her ample buttock to full avail. Her womanhood, seen from behind, was secreted away in shadow, but there the artist did a superlative job of adding just the right hint of detail to make a man's imagination run wild with fever. Her breasts were full and perfect, shown mostly in profile, revealing perky nipples placed high above the roundly swelling mound of flesh below. They beckoned ardently to the onlooker. With apparent mastery over shadow and lighting techniques, the artist succeeded even in rendering the illusion of glistening sweat which lent a sexy sheen to her skin. It blew the proprietor's mind.

"Wow," he exclaimed, a drop of sweat dripping down his temple. "That's something else." He moved his spectacles back down upon the tip of his nose and looked at Hatori. "Your work?"

"Oh no, no. It was made many years ago," he said, bowing again. He paused to gaze at the drawing before putting it back in the sleeve. The old man wavered and became dizzy for a moment before regaining his composure. "It... it takes the breath away."

"Yeah, it does," agreed the proprietor. Inquiring about the vial, Hatori told him the ink inside would yield the best results for any artist willing to attempt the template drawing because, he suddenly blurted, it was magic.

Hatori's breath caught in his throat as he said it. He cringed inwardly, never having meant to reveal such a thing. His sudden callousness surprised him. It was as if his conscience sought a cleansing of the soul by unburdening the weight of knowledge kept sequestered all these years and passing the mantle of responsibility as overseer to the tattoo kit's secrets to someone new... anyone but him.

As a young man, he'd felt reverence for the thing; was proud of his ancestral attachment to it, descended as he was from its creator, Bukoto. He'd been intrigued by its power. He remembered how special, how honored he'd felt when it fell to his possession for safekeeping. But he'd since grown old and tired, and with a lifetime of experience came wisdom - wisdom which caused him to change his views over time. He no longer saw the sorcery born of the kit's creation as anything benevolent or wholesome, but rather as an unnatural blight upon his lineage. How he'd ever managed to resist her pull all these years, he did not know. He shuddered, thinking how close he'd come to submitting.

But he'd decided some time ago that simply relinquishing ownership of the kit itself - not its secrets, was the most prudent course of action. He bowed again, and hoped there would be no further inquiry regarding magic.

The proprietor only smiled, tickled by the old man's attempt to add mystery and intrigue to the kit, and, of course, more dollars to its sale. "Magic... sure thing, Pops."

Two days later, the kit was in the hands of Mitchell Grupa's go-to tattoo artist, Benjamin Moby. As was the pawn shop proprietor, Benjamin was thoroughly captivated by the rice paper drawing. The shop owner forwarded Hatori's suggestion about using the ink, replete with the admission of its magical nature (proffered with the broadest of grins) and the artist became very eager to reproduce this tattoo. He called Mitchell immediately, unable to think of anyone better suited to bear and display his artwork.

***

3



Upon his artist's beckoning, Mitchell met with Benjamin at his tattoo parlor.

"Would you look at this ink!" exclaimed Benjamin. He swirled the small portion he'd poured into a tiny dipping container like a wine taster. "Look at it... it's black and red and gold all at the same time. Look how the colors remain separated... they just swirl against each other instead of blending. So fucking cool, huh?"

"Awesome, dude," said Mitchell. He'd told Benjamin he'd have nothing to do with just an artsy tattoo if the woman depicted had no meaning for him. It just wasn't his thing. But when he beheld the rice paper drawing, he'd changed his mind immediately. Such was the allure of the image. "Hey, you sure you can reproduce it, man? It's pretty intense."

"I can damned well try," said the eager Artisan. "We'll start with a sketch, see how it looks, and you can decide if you want to ink it in before we do anything permanent."

"Okay," said Mitchell after a brief pause. He looked down at his ink-cluttered arms, frowned, then touched the left side of his torso. "Put her on my gut to the left of Siobhan."

The sketch was made, and Mitchell checked it. His perspective for viewing it was awkward. "I don't know if you've captured the image right, dude. Do YOU think you did?"

Benjamin leaned back, folded his arms and stroked the stylish goatee at his chin, studying his sketch. "Hmmm..." He coughed. He grabbed a cigarette, lit it, buying himself time to consider whether or not to lie.

"Man, I don't want this thing clinging to me the rest of my life if you can't get it to look like the template, dude," Mitchell scoffed, sensing Benjamin's irresolution. "Don't fuck me, man. Be honest. It's hard for me to tell from my point of view."

Fuck this shit, thought Benjamin to himself. I'm doing this tattoo... no way I'm passing up on it now. Of course, he knew damned well he had not even come close to faithfully reproducing the drawing, but he was strangely driven to try, and to use that wicked looking ink. He kidded himself that once he got the ink flowing on Mitchell's skin, his talent would take over and he'd be able to please his client. So he conjured up his most flattering smile and put his hand on Mitchell's shoulder. "You know what, man? I... ahem... yeah, dude, I think I got that sucker just right." He pulled hard at his cigarette, the smoke calming him... somewhat.

"Okay, dude. Do it," said Mitchell.

And what a fateful decision it was.

It was going all wrong at first. Benjamin was sweating like a pig. It took a lot of concerted effort to stifle the swearing and cursing just begging to erupt from him so that he wouldn't make Mitchell nervous. His fancy Style-O-Matic 2000 tattoo gun just wasn't feeling right in his hand as he endeavored to recreate the sumptuous drawing on Mitchell's skin.

That was until he'd had an epiphany. Upon it, he put away his Style-O-Matic 2000 and reached for the traditional instruments in the aged tattoo kit. From the moment he put needle to flesh, it was almost as if he were not in control of his hands. From that point on, the tattoo almost seemed to draw itself.

In a great, frenzied flourish of finishing strokes, the sweat all but pouring off his brow, Benjamin Moby completed his most stunning and artistic tattoo to date.

He put the tattoo pick down, cracked his knuckles, wiped the sweat from his eyes, then drew up close so he could inspect his work.

"So, you all done, dude?" inquired the, by now, very fidgety Mitchell.

"I think so. Relax, man. Just let me check it out and make sure everything's right."

As he did, a thought replayed over and over again in his mind: How the hell did I ever manage THAT?

He was good, but not THAT good.

Not ever!

He suddenly realized he couldn't recall any details of the time he'd just spent creating that tattoo, as if only now awakening from a trance. Something helped me... controlled me. Something fucking POSSESSED ME! The thought came upon him like a gale wind ravaging the shores of his soul, buffeting him in a force of undeniable certainty. Goose bumps broke out upon the back of his neck.

He looked at the tattoo kit. An icy chill suddenly ran down his spine and he shuddered. With it came a clammy sense of unease, and strangely, he felt a dire need to be away from the musty, old kit.

Before the day was over, Benjamin would have the kit locked away in a cabinet sitting in a storage room at the back of the parlor. He didn't lay eyes on it again for many years, and when he finally did, it was only to sell it. Like Hatori, he let it go for a steal.

Mitchell, on the other hand, was ecstatic. He was astounded when he first laid eyes on his new tat, for no matter from what angle he saw it, there was simply no doubt that Benjamin had captured every essence of the template drawing. And he thought it particularly cool the way Benjamin had drew the top most iron ring piercing his nipple, anchored there to gain purchase to carry the weight of the hanging wicker chair. "That's so freaking cool, dude!"

Pictures were taken, beers were drunk, shoulders were patted and hands were shook. Then Mitchell took his leave. When he was gone, Benjamin discarded his copy of the photo...

...he burned it.

***

4



He awoke in the night, both arms itching persistently. He peered at them with drowsy eyes, but the darkness rendered any inspection pointless unless he turned the light on, which he was loathe to do. His grogginess fostered disinterest. He shrugged and lay his head back down upon the pillow. With an occasional scratch, and thoughts of the day's events running through his mind, Mitchell Grupa drifted back to sleep.

But in the light of morning, he experienced the most massive shock of his life. The tattoos eking out real estate along the skin of his arms, all those depictions of the most special women he'd known intimately, were gone. GONE!

"What the FUCK?" he cried, staring incredulously at his now pristine arms. They were normal in every way, and they'd ceased itching. There just weren't any more tattoos on them.

Mitchell Grupa freaked out! He bounded into the bathroom and looked at them in the mirror. He bounded back out and looked at them again in the light of the morning sun shining through the window, stunned and overcome with anxiety at the sight of inkless arms. Disbelief grew like a fog in his mind making his thoughts muddy and unclear, and his heart began to palpitate, fear rising in him from the depths of ignorance. He then bounded to the nightstand and clutched his cigarettes, smoking one hard and fast. He smoked another, then another, constantly re-checking his arms. But his tattoos were just gone. It boggled his mind.

He stayed home, confused and unable to process what had happened to him, what his eyes where showing him, and remained a nervous wreck throughout the day. In the night, he awoke again with itching, this time across his shoulders. He tore himself out of bed and ran into the bathroom, nervous, mousy squeaks issuing from his throat. He threw the light on and whimpered when he saw that his shoulder tattoos were now also gone. His temples throbbed painfully as he became dizzy, and he broke out in a cold sweat before vomiting violently into the toilet.

All that was left were Siobhan and the new tattoo of the sultry Japanese goddess.

The following night, he was passed out cold from a day spent in a drunken stupor, to which even that could not keep him from waking with an effusion of cold dread when more itching arose beneath his right nipple. In the morning, Siobhan was no more. The tattoos of the women he'd cherished and immortalized upon his skin were now but a memory. Only the Japanese goddess, swinging in her chair and stunning in her swirling lines of black, red and gold remained upon his clammy skin. Ironically, it was the only tattoo of his with no meaning for him. It was merely art.

Mitchell Grupa was, at that point, crazed out of his mind.

At least he thought so at the time. But he came to realize he really didn't know the true meaning of craziness... until it became apparent to him that his one remaining tattoo had begun to move upon his skin during the night.

It began to ravish him. In 2D!

She - or It, or whatever it was - began venturing out of her wicker perch and crawling upon his skin seeking erogenous zones to suckle and caress. Mitchell was petrified when he first felt her move. His instincts led him to cower away from her - but how could he cower away from a part of his own body? Mostly he wanted to jump out of his skin. But even amid heart-pounding fear and slinking from odd, creepy-crawly sensations of unjustified movement upon his flesh, his libido kept returning from the front lines with reports that some very sexy things were taking place there.

When the ink moved, gliding over his skin like a sultry serpent, it had the same feeling of weight, warmth and touch as would a lover's body pressing against him. When the ink licked him, it was warm and wet upon his flesh, inherently creepy, yet undeniably scintillating. And when the ink sashayed seductively to his neck, he could smell her perfume and feel the warm rush of her breath wash over his face and into his ear, where she seemed to like to blow.

His mind and body became at war - one he couldn't run from. His mind shuddered at the thought of taking pleasure from this unfathomable demoness who had managed to preternaturally become part of him; but increasingly, his body shuddered at the thought of not doing so.

Between moments of pure disbelief, terror, panic and mental numbness came moments of lucidity, during which he couldn't help but be cautiously fascinated by her. He saw how when she fancied, for instance, his nipple, the whole of her image would move toward it crawling across his skin, her movements life-like in the utmost. As her inky, red lips would close in on it, the skin of his nipple would adopt her ink as she arrived, colors and shadows moving across it like art animation. And he would feel her. He would feel his nipple being pulled into her mouth, wetted; could see it practically disappear from the living light as it became enveloped by her red and gold painted lips. It flabbergasted him.

Sensual as she was, it was all too freaky for him. The moments of fascination were fleeting and mostly he just wanted to cringe away from her. He found that if he jumped out of bed and moved around, she would retreat to her perch and luxuriate upon her plush, amber cushion. She'd settle in there and in an instant become still and dormant, reclaiming herself as part of the tattoo Benjamin had created. It was only when he lay still and tried to relax that she became active.

And so, Mitchell had discovered a defense against her. He simply would not sleep. He spent the next few days awake and moving. Nearly out of his mind as he was, he sought no company, missed band practice, and ripped the phone cord out of the wall. He knew he must face this alone, and either rid himself of her, or die trying.

You fool, he thought to himself one sleep deprived night, the lids of his eyes heavy as anvils. She'll get to you soon enough. You can't stay awake forever. Mitchell began to weep. She's gonna have her way with you, you freak, sooner or later, and she's gonna make you cum. And when that happens, you're gonna be one fucked up son of a bitch! Might as well put a bullet in your head now. But he cringed away from the dire thought, and sobbed full on. "HOW CAN THIS BE HAPPENING?" he roared uselessly into the room. He slapped himself violently for the millionth time to stay awake, then promptly fell asleep in the chair.

"Because you've taken me on, my darling Mitchell." The voice was breathy and purely sensual.

"Huh? Who's there?" he asked in a sleepy slur.

"There's no one here but me. There'll never be anyone but me. We are alone together, my darling, as we will always be."

"Holy shit... you talk too?" he croaked. "Oh God, I'm losing it."

The Demoness In Ink slipped off her chair. When she did, Mitchell felt the tug upon his nipple lessen as the hanging chair became lighter. She began a slow, sexy crawl up his chest, rubbing her breasts and the inside of her thighs against him as she did so until her mouth was painted on his neck. Her toes became a tantalizing distraction as her left leg sprawled across his chest where she could playfully flick his right nipple with them. Mitchell startled, was just about to bolt from the chair, but her voice was soft and warm like a purr; calming. "I could keep quiet... and just make love to you if you'd prefer."

Mitchell stiffened. "No, wait." He gathered his thoughts. "Do you have a name?"

"Chiyoko. Do you like it?"

"No. And I don't like you. I want rid of you."

"Awe... such cruel sentiment for your Chiyoko," she chided him.

"You're not mine!" Mitchell began to sweat, because her toes felt very fine indeed upon the tip of his nipple. "Do you plan on haunting me for the rest of my life?" He shrunk in upon himself, dreading her answer.

"I am, after all, a tattoo, silly." Chiyoko giggled in the cute, breathy fashion of a young Japanese girl. "You know tattoos last a lifetime."

"Ever heard of laser removal? If not, don't worry, you soon will."

"That wouldn't be wise, Mitchell." She said it softly, matter-of-factly, confident he posed no threat.

"Yeah, why not?"

"Do you really think a tattoo magically possessed would not have the power to resist mere light?" She laughed. "I dare you to find laser equipment that wouldn't fizzle out and die in the face of my will."

Mitchell didn't know how to respond to that. He remained silent, concern growing in him.

"And if you try, my darling, I may become angry."

"Yeah, so what. What's a tiny Japanese girl made of ink gonna do to me?" He tried to sound hard, unperturbed; but he wasn't kidding either one of them.

"Ah, my uninitiated little puppy, you have no understanding to the ways of magic, do you?"

"Who the hell does?"

"Many. Let me ask you, do you not feel it went I caress you and lick your delicious skin?"

Not wanting to give an inch, he remained quiet again.

"Of course you do. And while I'm a caring, sensual lover, if you do things to upset me, and try my patience... I may not be so gentle as I have been." Chiyoko nuzzled her cheek against his neck. "My teeth can be exceedingly sharp at times, my Sweetness. There have been those before you who have found that quite pleasurable." She blew hot, cinnamon-fragranced breath into his ear. "But I can make it so it is NOT!" she then hissed, her tone suddenly dripping with menace. To demonstrate, she maliciously nipped his ear lobe, piercing it with her incisor and drawing a tiny speck of blood.

"OUCH!" he bellowed.

Her dominance established, she licked the blood away and writhed against him wantonly, her lust stoked to a heady froth.

Mitchell groaned. "Oh God."

He rose up out of the chair in a panic, and immediately Chiyoko removed to her perch, becoming still and dormant. He picked at her with his fingers, but felt nothing but his own skin. Ridiculously, he tried to rub her away. "Get off of me," he yelled, his fear turning to anger. He rubbed harder. "Get off of me, you witch! I'll get you off. I'll... I'll rub you out. I'll cut my fucking skin off if I have to!" He rubbed feverishly, until his body remembered that it was a lump of pure fatigue, and he slumped back down into the chair exhausted, his eyes fluttering closed.

Chiyoko was back at his neck a moment later. She began licking the heavily stubbled skin there and giggled when she saw his member begin to stir beneath his shorts before he opened his eyes.

Mitchell groaned again, this time with yearning. But when he came to his senses, fearfully aware, his member returned to flaccidity.

And as such, he continued his struggle with her. It was a struggle that would continue for days. A savage battle of wills, sleeplessness, fatigue and sexual craving. He'd left the house a few times to get some fresh air, and perhaps some moral support, but he quickly realized he was too much of a mess to face his friends or his band mates. And how would he ever explain his missing tattoos? No, he would see no one. Only the chill autumn air, and the bright sunshine offered him any solace for a time.

Chiyoko eventually seduced him. There was never any doubt in her magically conjured mind that such would be the case. In time, she knew, upon the aplomb of her ardent eroticism, he would come to crave her in equal measure, would willingly fill her with his seed again and again, relenting to her insatiable appetite for him. And would he not even grow to love her? Perhaps, though Love was of no concern for her. She would never know Love, being nothing more than the embodiment of Lust. But she knew he could love. The poor sod. Such silliness.

His actions inevitably bore her correct. Engage her in drenched kisses he did. Receive oral gratification from her he did. Fill her with his seed he did... A most intriguing thing, that! To see her small, heavenly body straddling him, painted there upon his loins, his member lost from sight beneath her outline, warmly ensconsed someplace he knew not where, some otherworldly realm of surreal womanhood defined in ink alone, yet accessible, tight and inviting - and, alas, his ejaculate never seen to materialize into the living world, proof, before his very eyes, that it truly was filling her. Bizarre! But Love her? No. He never would. She would never bear witness to his love. Despite her seductive prowess, to be rid of her was his only true desire. And that endeavor would keep him sane.

Goals. He needed that.

Over time he learned about her and her story. She'd been born in feudal Japan in 1202AD. As a young woman, she'd met and fell madly in love with a man attached to the Shogun's court. Bukoto was his name and he was the royal tattoo artist. Apparently, he was also a skilled sorcerer, adept in the art of magic. Chiyoko came to understand that he'd cast a spell on her, as her lustful cravings for him went far beyond the pale of normalcy. But that didn't matter to her. What was done was done, and her life simply became the sum of efforts to ravish him continuously. "I am Lust," she'd told Mitchell without emotion, "and nothing but."

"What happened?" he'd asked.

"I was young and beautiful, he a married man of the court. He didn't love me, only lusted after me, and sought that I worship him. I didn't care, captivated and controlled by his spell, and worship him I did.

But his wife was the Shogun's sister. She found out about us, and..." She stopped a moment to scurry down his torso where she could reach his manhood with her foot and begin to rub there.

"And?"

"And I was put to death."

"That's it?" Mitchell asked coldly, not forgetting for a moment his fear and loathing of her, and how unsettling her otherworldliness was. Or, for that matter, the utter reviling she bestowed upon his beloved tattoos, selfishly smiting them without a moments hesitation or concern for his feelings. "There must be more," he contended.

"It is true." The soft, warm pad of Chiyoko's foot first rubbed vigorously along the underside of his member, then, with her toes, languidly upon its sensitive head, capturing it between them, squeezing tantalizingly before she continued; any sense of melancholy or solicitude for her own sad fate so long ago completely lacking. It confirmed to Mitchell that this was no kindly, sensitive or empathetic creature he was dealing with. She had but one aim, and that was sating her lust. Normally, that trait in a woman would intrigue Mitchell, but with his Demoness In Ink, it only worried him.

"Bukoto stole away to my death chamber the eve of my execution," she continued. "He tapped blood from my arm, and told me not to fear. He said that I would live forever in lust with him. He took my blood and... did things with it. Through rituals of magic and the casting of powerful spells, he turned my blood into ink, and set it to embody the essence of my lust for him. He would have me even after my death... when he applied my ink to his skin."

"Lust for HIM? I don't know, but your lust for me seems right up there," said Mitchell, confused.

"That's because he was mistaken. It wasn't my lust for HIM that became embodied in the ink... it was Lust, pure and simple. Sexual craving is what springs to life when my tattoo is applied to skin... any man's skin." Chiyoko crawled back up and purred against his neck, then the ink of her gorgeous face seeped up and over his cheek until a warm wetness dampened his lips. "YOUR skin, my Divine," she breathed into his mouth.

He spoke more to her, his nerves calmer now to a degree from becoming used to the situation, and more so, from the tension, fear and anxiety which consequently flooded out of him like water from a broken dam upon relenting to her in sexual surrender. It was a battle he could not win, the rout inevitable, though he soon realized he'd need to be free of those stresses if he was to keep his wits about him and find his way away from her. But to suggest that he was comfortable or smitten with her was an absolute falsehood. He feared her gravely, and when he got to thinking about the situation, really thinking about it, he could feel himself slipping off the precipice of sanity.

"Chiyoko, why did you remove my tattoos?" It was a question he'd wanted to ask her for a long time.

She erupted in anger. "You are mine!" she barked, her demeanor of enticing allure discarded without pause and replaced with stark menace, as she'd shown herself verily capable of doing when she drew blood from his ear. "And I will not have your body - our body - corrupted with the likes of any woman... especially the filthy, wanton whores you had bed before me."

"That's not fair, Chiyoko," he said hotly. "Why are you so mean?"

"This conversation bores me. Come, my Sweet, let us not waste time when we can drink of one another's trough."

"Those tattoos where special to me, Chiyoko. You don't give a shit about anyone but yourself, do you? You and your fucking lust!" He never thought he'd say that last to a woman. Times, they are a changin'. "I cannot forgive you for that." He paused to look at her. "And you know what?"

It almost tickled him when he saw her inky mouth blow on her inky fingernails and shine them on her inky chest. She yawned. "Okayyyy... what?"

"I will be rid of you some day," he declared, a glare of confident defiance fixed upon his face. "I promise you that."

She ignored him, her lust once again overwhelming her with its ravenous appetite. Her anger all but forgotten, she began to crawl across his chest and down toward his member. He watched her inky hand seep over his long shaft of quivering flesh, painting it red and black, its surface becoming a picture show of slow, steady massage. Forlorn, his head fell back against the pillow and he settled in for yet another round of her lust. A moment later, the flesh of his scrotum began to tingle with wetness as she worshiped there. "But we'll never have to worry about them again, now will we, my darling?"

He didn't answer her. Increasingly despondent, he only lay back feeling the waves of stimulation she sent coursing through his loins. He thought of his lost tattoos, and reminisced about the women they represented. Oh, Siobhan, how I miss you...

But then, as she milked the seed from his manhood, he was struck with an idea. A smile christened upon his face. "You're a jealous sort, aren't you?"

"Mmmm... my Love, you taste undeniably sweet," she said thickly, his words unheard while lost in her lust, a pearl drop of his seed dripping from the corner of her mouth.

Just as well, thought Mitchell.

He left the house the next day. Chiyoko remained dormant as he walked down the avenue. Just another pretty tattoo. The irony of the thought nearly amused him. Dashing about his business, he sought the lovely brunette he'd swept off her feet after his last gig. Would she truly be worthy?

***

5



As soon as the brunette tackled him on the bed, began ripping his shirt off, and planting scintillating kisses upon his lips and neck, Mitchell suffered a powerful punch to the gut. He kissed the girl hard on the mouth, ignoring the pain, sensing he just might be on the right track. He put his hands firmly on her ass cheeks, squeezing and kneading them with fervor. His hunger began rising fast, real hunger, natural hunger, and he knew his need for human intimacy had gone sorely missing while interacting with Chiyoko - even though her erotic ministrations were technically sublime. There was something real about the brunette, something that Chiyoko could never possess, being, as she was, an inky demoness from another realm.

The commotion at his stomach became frenzied, with punches and pinches and bites raining down on his skin. Despite the assault, he slipped his fingers under the waist band of the brunette's panties, where the feel of warmth and dampness between her buttocks stirred him greatly. He brought those fingers to his lips, breathing her musky scent before tasting the womanhood glistening there upon. It was like the sweet succor of morphine coursing through his veins, dulling the pain Chiyoko inflicted upon him, and bringing revitalization and vigor to his defiance against her.

Soon man and woman were naked. Their bodies rubbed and pressed against each other with strident longing. He heard Chiyoko screaming with rage as she assaulted his belly, but his interaction with the brunette seemed to nullify her ability to move fully, or, thankfully, effect his lover in any way.

"This is an abject horror!" screamed Chiyoko. "You will not get away with this, you ungrateful worm!" Abruptly then, she changed her tune. "Mitchell, my darling, please, you're hurting me. Won't you get this... HUSSY off of me? I simply won't survive her stench!" Mitchell thought he detected a whimper of dejection following the words. He smiled.

"You hear that?" he asked the brunette.

"Shut up, baby, and fuck me!" The brunette straddled him and kissed him fiercely.

Ha, thought Mitchell, no one hears her but me. Will anyone know when I defeat you, Chiyoko? He breathed in the brunette's feral scent again. I will know... that's all that matters.

When he finally entered his lover in a surge of passion, he heard the woeful bray of pain and disgust from Chiyoko echo within the walls of his skull. He lifted his head to peer down at the demonic tattoo. He saw the image of Chiyoko squirming on his skin beneath her hanging chair, the lines of her body bending and distorting, becoming unstable. It looked as if Chiyoko was caught in the funnel of a tornado, the lower portion of her body beginning to twist, as if being wrung out, stretching towards the vortex where penis and vagina danced in their ritual of lust. He saw Chiyoko's hands grasp desperately for purchase upon his nipple in an effort to arrest her descent. She screamed threateningly at him, then pleaded with him.

"Take that, you succubus bitch!" he shouted at her as he thrust himself deep inside the writhing woman atop him.

"Oh yeah, baby. Fuck me... fuck your succubus bitch," the brunette answered, spurred on by his dirty talk, wholly oblivious to the drama unfolding beneath her.

And then the whole room boomed with sound. There was the guttural yelp of the brunette as orgasm overtook her. There was the deep, prolonged moan of Mitchell himself as his release came upon him with locomotive force - spectacularly, he noted, in perfect time with his lover's climax. There was the wrenching, doleful siren of wailing issuing forth from somewhere deep inside the Demoness In Ink. He was defeating her. Defeating her with Lust! Fight fire with fire... that and a voluptuous ally in lovely shades of brunette.

And as their climax reached its apex, poor Chiyoko was suddenly sucked whole - every last bit of black, red and gold ink and all her precious accoutrements: wicker chair, chain, rings, cushion, kimono - plunging into the inferno where Manhood met Womanhood.

She was unable to escape from herself, from the inherent flaw that was inborn to her upon her creation, that which Bukoto had never foreseen as a participating result of his magic. Nor could she escape from the jaws of Lust - that which Mitchell and the Brunette had created between themselves in her presence - lust that he infuriatingly created with HER!, and not Chiyoko. He was seizing upon her flaw, the only weakness of hers he'd been able to discover, her Jealousy. He used it against her, flaunting their lust in her face, shoving it down her inky throat; the audacity of it igniting Chiyoko's ferocious jealousy until it proliferated into a raging conflagration of scorn, burning her from the inside out, scorching the ink-stained reaches of her unnatural psyche with enough intensity to consume not only her as living tattoo, but the magic that created her so long ago; where now Lust's fury only sought to devour her, to avenge her for her crimes of excess, having cheapened it oh, these many years.

And as her blood-curdling, shrill screams began to fade away into the distant recesses of his mind, Mitchell watched Chiyoko slowly evaporate into nothingness, just as the fleeting sensations of his and his lover's climax did over time, where soon nothing was left but the warm glow of intimacy.

***

Mitchell Grupa was now a tattooless man. He spent the rest of his life with the stunning brunette, Tamera Weiss, his partner in arms; his Savior. And, while she was certainly worthy beyond any doubt, he was content never to immortalize her or anyone else on his skin ever again.

The End

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