I wait patiently on a stool inside the shop for the tattooist to arrive. He is late to open the shop but I dont mind, when he arrives it will be worth the wait. I have already sent people ahead of me, testing his skills over the weeks and now I am prepared for the big day, no matter what happens this can only end one way.

Finally I hear the jangle of his keys as he unlocks his small shop, a modest place on French st New Orleans. I watch as the shock on his face galvanizes when he realizes I have somehow gotten in to his locked shop, the confusion brings me great pleasure as I lead his mind around like a doting puppy. Deflecting his questions, I put on a display of female charm letting my fit body and dark wild hair draw him into my net.

After we do the verbal dance, I lay back into his dark leather chair showing off my unfinished outline. I tell him I need to be filled, watching his mind dart into forbidden territory as he prepares his tools and goes about shading my symbols. As the work progresses he becomes fixated working over my body filling the veves with dark ink.

The pain is hot and satisfying, the blood rushing to the needle wounds and mixing with the ink. He is oblivious to my guttural groans as he works and the rhythm they begin to take on. I begin to feel his fascination, his obsession and eventually his panic. It fills me with a satisfying power.

He dosnt stop until the job is finished. He is unable to stop, powerless to me and when he is done, it is only because of me he can stop. He stands a shell of a man, my personal thing to use, empty of everything but what I choose. Inside me his soul hammers but i will not let him out, I will never let him out.