CHASTE & TATTOOEDSubmitted by: Anonymous(I) ENCYCLOPEDIA
"Lydia, oh Lydia, that encyclopedia -- My name is Danielle Dean and I am 27 years old. I am a graphic illustrator and comic book artist by trade. At least I was, and I hope to get back to it soon. But there is a lot of work to be done, a lot of things to be taken care of before I can think about that again. It started several months back. I rent a little loft in Chicago, my hometown. Right near Lincoln Square, actually. I was working there one night when I felt a pain in my left forearm, like a repeating pinprick. It stung a bit, but I just rubbed it a little and chalked it up to circulation. It subsided, but in a few seconds it was back, and this time it seemed to be moving. My thought at the time: "Insect! Ick!" I immediately rolled up the sleeve of my sweatshirt to take a look. What I found was a dark marking, a small and intricate web of black lines interlaced with red and green. I rubbed it, thinking maybe it was ink or charcoal from my drawing, but it didn't smudge. I looked closer, and I noticed something that really started to freak me out: it was growing. Wherever I felt the prickling, the black mass would appear. It was moving along my arm! I whipped out my old medical encyclopedia (I'm not quite a hypochondriac but given the number of things that can go wrong with the human body I like to be armed with easy access to knowledge.) After skimming synopses of various skin conditions I came up with nothing--this was beyond at least the knowledge of the authors. I took a deep breath and reached for the phone to call my friend Linda. Linda West is a doctor at Swedish Covenant, and an old friend of mine from college days. I hoped she would be on duty and available as I called the hospital. Luckily I was right on both counts, as they quickly patched me through. "Dani," she said, "what's up?" There was a note of concern in her voice. Out of respect for her profession and the demands on her attention, I made a point of never calling her at work, so she must have thought it was urgent and perhaps medical. It was both. "Linda," I said with some relief. "I was wondering if you could see me tonight. At the hospital." "Absolutely, baby," she replied soothingly. "What's the matter?" "I've got this pain in my arm, and there's a black mark there that's getting bigger. I'm a little worried. Do you have any idea what it might be?" "Well, I wouldn't want to do a diagnosis over the phone. Could be some kind of rash, an insect bite or something. Come in immediately." "Okay," I said, crisply, trying to mask my growing concern. "Are you going to be all right, getting here?" "Yeah, I'll be fine. I should be there within a half an hour. Thanks, Linda." "No problem. It's a slow night, I'll meet you at reception." *** I hailed a cab and hopped in. The pain, although not really too bad, was unrelenting. I kept rubbing my arm, then reminding myself that if it was something like a rash I probably shouldn't irritate it. Funny thing was, there was no pain, irritation or soreness anywhere but at the spot of the moving pinprick. The mark had now more than doubled in size, spinning out into an odd web-work of intricate lines. It looked strange... not the mishmash of spotty skin or vascular inflammation one usually sees in a rash or infection. It was almost mathematical. I had to stop looking at it, it was giving me the creeps. My panic was probably exacerbated by the degree to which I care about my body. I like having a nice body and being healthy. I go to the gym, I run, I eat very well. I'm 5'6" and 110 lbs., and I plan to stay that way as long as possible. So when something goes wrong I do tend to overreact. But this was a situation that lent itself quite well to overreaction. I muttered something to the driver about this being the fastest we could go and he muttered something back about my panties being in a bunch. I let it go and proceeded to look out the window until we got there. *** "Danielle!" said Linda loudly as I stumbled in. She waved me over. "Let me take a look." She held my arm gently, guiding it under the light of the reception desk. "Strange..." she said. "What?" "Oh, I don't mean to worry you. It's just... very unfamiliar. Let's get you into an examining room." She led me up down the hall and sat me down on a hard, leathered table covered with paper, then began looking at it in earnest. "Doesn't look like any rash I've ever seen. Or infection, or... anything. Does it hurt?" "Only here," I said, pointing to the current position of the pinprick. "See, it's moving. It hurts at the spot it's growing from." Her eyes widened a little when she saw the lines forming. "How fast is it spreading?" "It's about four times the size of when I first noticed it." I looked at her, trying to quell the growing panic. "Okay," she said, taking control. "I'm going to run a blood test, and do a biopsy. We'll take a tiny sample of skin from that area." She smiled. "You'll never miss it." I didn't return the smile, and she put her hand soothingly on the back of my neck. "Sorry. Standard one-liner to set the patient at ease. You're going to be fine, Dani. We'll take care of you. I'll take care of you." Now THAT did something to set the patient at ease. I smiled as a tear ran down my cheek. I didn't realize how frightened I was growing. "We'll give you some antibiotics and anti-inflammatories, just in case. Now let's get started." She unwrapped a fresh needle and started to go to work. I wanted to hug her. I couldn't imagine going through this mystery, as seemingly innocuous as it was, without a friend behind the nametag with the two snakes on it. *** It was about forty-five minutes before she came back to see me. By this time, the black mark was about seven inches by three and had begun to move around my arm. I was feeling a little woozy from the meds, but I snapped to attention. "Well, hon," she said, sweeping her blonde hair out of the way of her glasses, "your blood work-up came back fine. No infections, no elevated T- cells or anything. Cholesterol's a bit high" she said with a playful glare that implied a rebuke on my omelet habits, "but whatever this is, it doesn't seem to be a rash or an infection." "What does that leave?" I asked nervously. She leaned on a table. "I'm going to be honest with you. I have no idea. It's not a skin malignancy, I'm almost sure of that. There's no swelling or pain, and it's growing too fast." She fell silent for a second. "I want to keep you here overnight. Until we get the biopsy results in the morning. Is that okay?" I nodded glumly. "Any pain or soreness?" she said, almost seeming to hope that there would be, that it might aid her floundering diagnosis. I shook my head. The pricking at the forefront remained, but the dark lines it left behind felt fine to me. "Okay. They're setting up a room for you now. Let me take a look." I showed her my arm again. She smiled without humor. "I'm at a loss. I know that's not what you want to hear." "What I want to hear, Linda, is the truth," I said, forcing a smile. She returned it without having to force anything. Linda was a very good friend. I loved her then, for her care of me as well as her honesty. And the unspoken commitment she had made to seeing me through this oddness. "Funny," she said, almost to herself. She looked at me. "It looks so... deliberate. It almost looks like..." "Like what?" I asked. "Never mind. Come on, we'll get you settled in. I'll run by your apartment in the morning and get you some things for tomorrow." She had a key. "But you're on the late shift," I protested. "Not while you're here," she replied. "In this place." "I'll be fine," I said without conviction. In truth I would have liked it if she spent the night. I'd rather have had a shattered leg than a seemingly harmless coloration that no one could explain. And I didn't want to be left alone with it. But I wasn't a baby and I could deal with it. *** By the time I was settled in, the markings had almost wrapped my forearm in a spiral and were coming back around. The pain was still very local, and very dim. Surprisingly, I got right to sleep. The exhaustion of worry, perhaps, or the knowledge that in sleep I would not be forced to worry. *** Linda woke me around nine or so. "Hey, Dani. How'd you sleep?" I instantly heard it in her voice and saw it in her confused eyes. The mystery was about to deepen. "Okay," I said, rubbing my face. "Get the results back?" "Yeah," she said, absent-mindedly gesturing with a manila envelope. "But it looks like I didn't need them." "What do you mean?" I asked, shaking off sleep and sitting up. "What's going on?" "Well, Dani, the biopsy was rather conclusive." She looked in the folder and then looked at me. "Tattoo ink." It almost didn't register. "What?" "It's tattoo ink. The black and red and green stuff. It's tattoo pigment." "That's... that's impossible!" I protested weakly. "How... what...." I remembered something. "What did you mean when you said you didn't need the results?" She gestured at my arm. I looked at it. Nothing on earth could have prepared me for what I saw. It was the most detailed, intricate, and beautiful tattoo I had ever seen. The mark from the previous night was the tail of a serpent of some kind. It spiraled around my arm several times. I pulled up the sleeve on the gown I had slept in. The mouth of a fantastic dragon was gaping open on my shoulder. "Linda," I said, with slow, forced calm. "Why do I have a tattoo of a dragon?" She just shrugged. "Neither of us are crazy, Dani. This is real, I saw it happening last night. And I'm pretty sure you didn't nick out last night and get this thing finished." I was speechless. Somehow I had been spontaneously tattooed with extraordinary skill. "So," I said, trying to regain composure. "Now what happens?" "Well", she said, "I can arrange to have it removed. With lasers. They do it very well these days, little pain and virtually no scarring. I can pull a few favors and get you the discount rate of free." My mind was reeling. I had to find a sensible explanation, some thread of reason for this. The pain was gone. The tattoo was done. Was there any way to figure out where it had come from, or why it had happened? If it happened once, it could happen again. Would it really be worth the bother of getting it removed if it couldn't be removed, if it just came back again? "No," I said. "Not right away. I need to figure something out. I need a theory." She nodded. "I understand. Well, then I would recommend you go home, take the day off, maybe go to the library. Read something about tattoos. I know I plan to.' I nodded. I got up to get dressed. "I know this tattoo artist, he's incredibly knowledgeable. Maybe I'll go visit him," I said as I took my gown off and prepared to rummage through the bag she had brought for some clothes. "Or better yet, there was this guy I met in college. He knew about weird things..." "Good idea," she said. "Hey, when did you get that?" "Get what?" I asked, preparing to throw a T-shirt on. "That!" she said, pointing at my navel. I looked down. There was a silver ring going through my belly button. "I didn't know you got that," she said. "You never told me." I fingered it with my free hand. My belly button was pierced. "I didn't get that," I said. "I didn't have that yesterday." I looked at her, and she at me. She got up from the bed and bent down to take a look. "If I didn't know better," she said, "I'd say you got this months ago. It's fully healed. This kind of piercing takes a long time to get this way." "I wouldn't forget if I got a piercing!" I said loudly. She looked up at me. "I know." We looked at each other for a second. I continued to get dressed. "Linda, some strange things are happening to my body. I have to figure this out." "I'll do what I can," she said. I could tell from the tone that she had no idea what that would be. I didn't either, but I finished dressing and hugged her tightly. *** When I got home, I examined the ring more carefully. I turned it, pulling it through the pierced hole. The ring was unbroken. It could not be removed. I rummaged through my old tool-kit, coming up with a pair of wire cutters. I carefully tried to cut through the ring without cutting me. I ended up squeezing with all my might. The cutters were ruined, and I hadn't even made a dent in the ring. I had to lie down. Later, after a long shower, I spent some time looking at the tattoo. It was remarkable work. Whoever or whatever had done it could probably win some kind of a prize for it. I couldn't tell the style. Was it Asian in influence? I didn't know. This was disturbing. I finally ended up throwing myself into my work, just to get my mind off things. It was all I could do. I sarcastically thought that probably only Leonard Nimoy or Fox Mulder could figure this stuff out, and besides, I had a deadline to meet and bills to pay. I worked until I couldn't stay awake any longer, and crashed around 3 in the morning. The second my head hit the pillow, my phone rang. Aw, hell, I thought, planning to ignore it until I thought that it might be Linda so I grabbed it. "Hello," I said with annoyance and forced sleepiness. "Hello, tattooed and pierced girl" said a husky voice. I sat straight up. "Who is this!" "These things that are happening, they are deliberate. And there is an explanation, I promise. But that will come later. When you are ready. When you have been prepared." "Prepared for what?" I started to feel terrified and queasy and... a little curious, and... almost aroused? "You need fear nothing," said the voice. "You will not be harmed but for your reaction to these mysteries." Was it male or female? I couldn't tell. "My advice is patience." And then they hung up. Patience? Prepared? "Hello!" I squealed with futility, then put the phone down reluctantly. Strangely, this development calmed me a bit. It added the smallest amount of rhyme and reason to my ordeal. My fears had a face now, or at least a voice--a husky, androgynous, almost hypnotic voice... I tried to forget it all and turned over to sleep. *** When I awakened and heard a jingling, I discovered the next morning how much more this person, or phenomenon, was capable of doing to me in my sleep than I had originally suspected. I looked down at myself. Though I had more pressing concerns than looking for them, the first thing I noticed was that I was naked--my nightie and underwear were gone. That had barely had time to register before I noticed the rest. My body was now covered with tattoos of the type that adorned my left arm. They covered my right arm now, as well, and the tattoos on both arms were more elaborate than the original. Intricate lines were woven with both dragons, extending up to the tips of my fingers--only my palms were bare. And similar graphics snaked around both legs, up my hips almost to my armpits. My torso was still a blank canvas. And then my attention turned to what had caused the jingling. My nipples had been pierced with rings similar to the one in my belly button, and I assumed they were just as unbreakable. A thin chain connected my nipple rings, and two chains extended from the nipples to a chain mesh belt that wrapped my waist. Two chains extended up from my nipples to several metal bands that circled my neck. I had rings on all fingers, several on each, that I could not get off with any kind of pulling. I also had several bracelets on each arm that would not pass my wrist. All of my toes and my ankles were similarly adorned with rings and bracelets. I felt my face. My nose was pierced three times, one ring in the center and two studs on the sides. My eyebrows were pierced at the sides, and I could feel a barbell stud through my tongue. And the capper was that my labia had been pierced, five rings on each side, and my clit as well, one large ring hanging from the center. All of this same metal that seemed so unbreakable. I noticed other things: My pubes had been trimmed, perhaps permanently, leaving a small "Brazilian bikini wax" patch above my pussy. My legs felt smooth, with no trace of stubble, and my armpits too. In fact, when I felt myself, I did not notice any hair anywhere but for my pubic area and my head. I rushed to the bathroom to see myself in the mirror. While my face was free of the kind of tattoos that were all over my body, I did have facial tattoos--thick, black eyeliner and ruby red lips, makeup that I had never applied. And my eyes, brown from birth, were blue as lake water. I was still naked, and it seemed as though my adorner had saved the best for last. For I felt the pricking again, this time fast and insistent, and I saw patterns appearing on my breasts. Only this time, much faster, spreading like paper on fire. Intricate spirals went around and around my breasts, snaking off to my belly and back. Obviously I couldn't see what was going on behind me (although very quickly I felt it on my ass) but I watched as the tattoos covered my stomach, growing and spreading, lower and lower... I felt a gasp. Somehow I knew how it would end. I sat on the floor, legs spread, and watched the tattoos as they hit my pelvis and snaked toward the place it all had to end. The pinpricks started to slow down as they neared my pussy. I actually felt heat from my groin, and my breath grew faster. What was happening to me, to my body? Was I getting wet? Was I actually aroused? The lines spiraled in on themselves, two inches away, now one, as I actually began to sign and writhe. This could not be happening! Then finally they hit--and I began to come. Hard. The lines were all over my tender pussy, darting in and out, and my clit was on fire. Almost involuntarily, I began to rub myself and moan. I could not resist this, whatever it was. I was hot and wet and I needed this badly. I felt wave after wave of exquisitely painful orgasm wash over me as I writhed with my legs spread, helpless. I had lost control of my body. I don't know how long I lay there, five minutes, an hour... All I know is that I was lost in a torrent of unbidden pleasure and I had no notion of how to refuse it. Finally, it was over, and the tattoo was done. I was covered from head to toe, branded and pierced to the specifications of a phantom. I could not remove the tattoos nor could I break the chains. I was someone's personal freak now. Bound and marked. And that was when things started to get REALLY weird. ===== (II) MESS
"I got a black cat bone -- Where does one begin to search for answers to questions that cannot be answered? When I was a student at UIC I had done a paper on voodoo. These things that were happening to me, they were not voodoo insofar as voodoo is a religion practiced by sane people. But in the course of my research I had come across a shop on the South Side wherein voodoo was one of many disciplines serviced. It was called the Menacing Daydream, appropriately enough. There was no sign, you just had to know someone who knew someone who could tell you where it was. I hoped maybe Old Rick, the "proprietor," could at least jump-start my search for answers. The place was dark and smelled of earth and spice as I walked in for the first time in six years. I was glad it was empty. I was covered from head to toe, even wearing gloves and a turtleneck, to mask my new condition, but I still felt better talking to Old Rick one on one. Rick's eyes lit up when he saw me walk to the counter. "Danielle Dean!" he said with strange amusement in his thick Haitian accent. I had no idea how old he was, but I doubted that he was anyone's grandfather, this broad, severe, scarred man. I had heard that he had spent time in the Tonton Macoute. I had no doubt that his mere presence could have hastened cooperation with Papa Doc's initiatives. "Rick," I said, a little nervous. "You remember me." "I don forget when I get paid a veesit from pretty white college girls," he said with a guffaw. "You wear de contacts dese days. You look better wit de brown eyes, chile. So you come here for a mojo bag, or you jus wan a little 'chit chat'?" "Rick, I'm having a bit of a... a crisis. I was hoping you could maybe help me, with some information." He smiled. "Information is free. Help, I charge for. We see what we come up wit." "Have you ever heard of ... like, tattoos? I mean, spontaneous tattooing. I guess you might call it tattooing by remote. I know how it sounds, but do such things happen?" His smile weakened but did not crumble. I continued. "Not only that, Rick. What about a silvery metal that's harder than diamond?" I had had a locksmith look at my rings and bracelets. He broke an expensive carbon drill on one and scratched his head. I'd thanked him for his time and left. He spoke through his teeth, not so much a threat as a warning. "I hope you have good reason for such inquiry. Dis ting you ask of, unless you really need to hear, you better off not knowing." I was silent for a bit, then I pulled off my glove and showed him my hand. He held it gently, turning it over and clicking with his mouth, then he looked at me. "Dese tings happen most likely when you sleep?" A wave of relief rushed over me. Even if he could not help me, he knew something. This was happening. I was not crazy. "Rick," I said, a little more animated, "how can someone do things like this to you from far away? Isn't that, I don't know, magic or something?" He smiled again. "Danielle, dere is magic and dere is parlor tricks." He reached into his shirt pocket and started to pull something out, a red piece of cloth. Very quickly, I recognized that it was a bra. It took the rubbing of my nipples against the inside of my sweatshirt to make me realize it was mine. I gasped. "I apologize for de crudity of my demonstration, child," he said, handing it back. I stuffed it in my pocket. "But you see, dere are tings dat may not be widely accepted or understood, but in reality are very simple." He reached into his pocket again. "I don't need another demonstration!" I said quickly, but not quickly enough. He came out with my panties. "But den dere are tings much deeper. It's not de tattoos, child, but de ink. It's not de piercings, but de metal. Do you begin to understand?" He made no motion to hand back my undergarment. Instead, he reached under the counter and came back with a long, thick lump that looked something like a potato. "You know what dis is, right, chile?" "Yeah," I said, recognizing it from my research. "It's a John the Conqueror root, the fruit of an ipomoea jalapa. It's the voodoo version of a good luck charm. And a powerful laxative." "It works, too, at least on de first count. See, dat is de heart of voodoo. Voodoo is de only religion man has known in which your prayers are heard, and sometimes answered. Why is dat? Because we who practice see many tings udders do not. De power we draw upon, it is not unlike de powers dat are working you over. Like a knife--you can cut up an onion, or you can stab an enemy. De energy is dere to be drawn upon. But some use it... in ways I, for one, would not. For instance, to mess wit you, wit your body and your mind." He put the tuber down. "I cannot help you, Danielle Dean. Nor can I tell you anymore widout risking bote our lives. Tings will become clear to you. And dere is one ting I can promise you. Dere is a way out, but you must find it for yourself. Trust me." He smiled again, both reassuringly and carnivorously, and began to stuff my panties into a closed fist. He blew into it and opened his hand; they were gone. His smile melted away. "Go, and do not return. But do not give up." Without a word, I turned to leave. He grabbed my arm. I saw what appeared to be a business card in his hand. "Dis lady, she maybe can help. She is what you might call 'outside the system'. You see her. But she demand payment for services rendered. Now go." I walked out of the Menacing Daydream and hailed a cab, stuffing my hand back into my glove and my bra into my pocket. At first I just gave the driver my address. In the cab, I looked at the card:
I thought about it, and I handed it to the driver and told him to go to the address on the card. I might as well finish this. I had an overwhelming desire to take a nap, and I feared what I would be when I awakened from it, so I figured I should find out as much as possible as quickly as possible. *** I knocked on the door of what looked to be, and probably once was, a dilapidated warehouse. A blonde amazon of six foot something answered, a cigarette dangling from two full, squarish lips. She looked me up and down without saying anything. "You'll do," she finally pronounced, swinging open the door and waving me in. Do what? I wondered. I saw a fairly well-equipped studio with all kinds of screens and props. It was immediately obvious to me what kind of photography took place here. There were some leather outfits, very small ones, sloppily hung from racks. That was the tame stuff. Some of the props looked positively painful. A young woman, quite exquisite, was getting dressed. She looked a little embarrassed. Wordlessly, Ami waved her out and she made for the door. "You look like you've got a good body under all that," said my tall new friend. "Nice enough tits, I guess. You'll have to let me see, of course." "I beg your pardon?" I said, with mock indignance. It was clear what she thought I was, so I wasn't offended, but it seemed appropriate that I should emphatically distance myself from her perception of the nature of my visit. "Are you here to pose?" she said with some impatience. I handed her the card. "I got this from Old Rick. He thought you might be able to help me." She looked at the card, then looked at me. "So you're in a jam of some kind? Save it, I don't want to know. Well, if it's odd stuff, stuff no one would believe, I might be able to help. But I get paid up front." I looked down. "I don't have any money with me." She laughed derisively. "I don't need your money. You're a gorgeous piece of work. I reckon as I'll have to photograph you for a couple hours before I even listen to what you have to say." "I have no intention of... of modeling!" I replied to her. "That's not what I do, and it's not why I'm here!" "Look, you want my help, you do things my way. Now strip." I stood there. I wanted to leave so badly. But dammit, she seemed to know something. She was my only remaining avenue of inquiry. "The clothes come off, or you're out of here. How bad is your situation?" I opened my mouth to say something, to tell her where she could put her camera. I shifted from foot to foot. She said nothing. Steaming, I whipped my sweatshirt off. Then the gloves, then the shoes, then the socks, then the jeans. She smiled. "No underwear?" "Skip it," I snapped. "Look, I've never done this before. At least tell me what's involved, and where my ... my work here today might end up." She motioned me toward a satin-covered bed that was rather out of place in the middle of her dusty loft. "Magazines, the Internet. Doesn't matter to me, whoever pays. Listen, I like the look, the tattoos and the piercing. I can move that kind of product, but can't you get rid of some of those chains?" "No," I said firmly. "That's part of the problem." A look came over her face, as though she understood something. She knew about the kind of things that had been happening to me. I think that if she had known, she might have told me to leave while I was still dressed. But it was too late now. I was standing by the bed. She gently pushed me back on it. "Take it easy!" I protested. She sneered. "I'll take it any damn way I please. All right, I know you've never done this before. Well, the work I do is hardcore. This is not Playboy." "Um... what does that mean?" She grabbed a camera and began loading it. "What that means is, what I want is sex. Not sexy, but sex. Every copy of Hustler you ever sneaked a peak at, every awful cable movie you ever paused on while flipping, every web site you accidentally clicked on that said 'Live Show XXX'. Can you do that?" I began to gather a sheet up around me. "I'm not sure." She reached down and yanked the sheet away. "It's not too late to back out. If anyone can help you, I can. And you look like you need help. But you will only get it if you do things my way." She grabbed an unlabeled bottle of something dark and thick. "Here," she said, tossing it to me. "Take a drink. Take two." "It's a little early," I said, uncorking the bottle and sniffing the contents. It made me a little dizzy. It smelled strong and sweet and I did not recognize it. "Trust me. You drink this, you'll get through this much better." I shrugged and took a swallow. It hit me immediately--I felt very warm and woozy before it even got to my stomach. I actually giggled as I coughed. It tasted a little like wine, a little like whiskey, a little like incense. "What is this, anyway?" I got a smile out of her. "That's the good stuff. Now let's get going." I wasn't quite drunk, but I definitely had some kind of buzz. I actually felt good. I mostly forgot about my situation as she started snapping the camera. I began posing, doing what I imagined you were supposed to do if someone was taking nude pictures of you. She gave me directions, some harsh, some nice. I felt like I was in a trance, in a bizarre and not unpleasant daydream. I made blow job faces at the camera. I spread my legs and slapped my ass. I fondled my breasts, taking my own nipples to my lips. I pulled on my labia rings. Damn it, I was having fun. And I was even a little aroused. I started to forget that Ami was there as I rolled around on the bed. I felt heat from below, and I began to rub myself. I was making a mess on her nice bed, getting it all wet, but I didn't care. Strange thoughts were coursing through my mind, tangles of writhing bodies... soft, supple female flesh... hard male muscles. I imagined I was being squeezed all over. I stuck a finger in myself, two, three. I was moaning and pulsing, wishing I was getting fucked. I had a vision that I was taking it up the ass and I loved it. Without thinking about where it came from, I started playing with a long, hard metal dildo. I shoved it in me, bucking on the bed in the apartment of the photographer... what was her name? I put things in my ass, slippery things. Where did those come from? Soon I was having orgasm after orgasm, licking my juice from my fingers and going back down to frig myself some more. It was heaven. No, it wasn't heaven, it was hell the way hell probably really is if you get past the centuries of anti-pleasure propaganda. I was an orgy unto myself. Most of the rest of the session was a blur to me. I have memories of a shower, a long and soapy shower with a double dildo. I think I ate something from a bowl on the floor. For a while, I believe, we were on the roof. I just came and came and came, with a dim awareness of clicking and flashes and approving encouragement. Then as soon as it all had started, it was over. I was sitting on a comfortable overstuffed chair with a blanket over me, and Ami was winding her film to eject it. She was silent for a while, smoking a cigarette and sipping from her bottle. My awareness was returning, of who I was and where I was and why I was there and what I had just done. It was funny that it didn't bother me much. I wondered if I would be able to handle seeing the pictures. Finally, Ami spoke. "You were amazing. Fucking awesome." I didn't quite know what to say. "It wasn't... it wasn't what I expected. It felt natural. Isn't that weird?" She waved the bottle. "This always helps." I rubbed my face and concentrated on getting back to the subject that had brought me here. "So what can you tell me about rings and tattoos?" She put the bottle down and turned serious. "Okay. I guess it's my turn to give it up for your camera, eh?" Ami got up and strode over to the window. "Ever been married, Danielle?" "No," I replied. "Well, you're engaged. You're someone's fiancée." I mulled it over. I smiled and joked wryly, "I don't remember getting proposed to." "Well, this will not be a marriage like any you've seen or heard of. And I'm sorry to say you probably don't have much choice in the matter." She turned to face me. "It's something like...a marriage of convenience. At least for your groom. This groom, he wants to come here and once he does, he'll want to stay." "Come where?" I asked. "To America?" She laughed. "Not quite. He wants to come," she waved an arm around her, "here." "To your apartment?" I was still a little foggy. To my surprise, I was feeling a little frisky, too. She sat in an even larger chair across from mine. "Come here," she said, patting her lap. "Sit." It should have seemed like a very strange request, I know, but surprisingly, it didn't. Even more surprisingly, I slowly got up and walked over to her, sitting in her lap, wrapping my arms around her neck. I was scared and confused and it seemed like the right thing to do. She stroked my cheek as I looked in her eyes. "He wants to visit our world for a while, and much like an immigrant from another country, it's a lot easier for him if he has a wife, although for different reasons and in different ways." "Our... world?" I asked. I sounded so small, like a little girl. She started stroking my side, up and down, feeling my thigh under the sheet I had wrapped around me. I barely noticed. Well, my mind barely noticed. She definitely caught my body's attention. "I used to be married, too, Danielle." She held up her let hand. I saw there was a silver band on it, much like one of mine. "I got out, but it wasn't easy. And I still have this, so you couldn't say I'm exactly free..." "You... you've been through this?" "Not exactly. I guess it's different every time, for every 'bride'." She was now feeling around under the sheet. My legs parted willingly for her. I gasped as she started to stroke me. "Help me," I asked. "Help me get out of this..." I began to moan. "Only way out is through, sugar," she replied. Then she pulled my head to hers with her free hand, and we kissed. I'd never been with a woman. Never even thought about it until this day. And now I just wanted her to take me, I wanted her to carry me to the bed and order me around. I would have done anything for her, just then. She was still stroking me, pinching my clit as she squeezed my breasts and pulled on my nipple rings with the other hand. I was breathing fast and heavy, trying to suck her tongue out of her head. Then she brought me to orgasm with soft strokes and I felt myself begin to cry. I held her as tight as I could. Ami was now a bridge for me, between the insane world of tattoos and bindings that come in the night and the world of the sane. We sat there for about ten minutes, then I wordlessly got up and got dressed. "Now what?" I asked. "I won't bring you trouble, will I?" "No," she said thoughtfully, "I can take care of myself." "Is there nothing more you can tell me?" "Well, I can tell you that your husband-to-be is not acting alone. He has accomplices, and they are very... much more like you or me than he is, I'll put it that way. I have no way of knowing who they are, and even if I did, I could not interfere. But they will come to you, soon enough. The preparations have but begun, my pet." "How did you get out of your... situation?" She lit another cigarette. "I watched and listened. The clues are there. They cannot control you forever. They cannot keep you bound forever. The things that have been done to you, these things take energy and time and preparation. That is your best line of defense." She walked to the door. "That's about all I can give you right now." I smiled and walked up to her. "It's ... well, I'm scared and confused, but it's enough, what you've done." I stood on my tiptoes and kissed her cheek. I wasn't entirely sure what all had happened here today. I had felt good here, I wanted to stay, and I knew I'd want to come back. I was even thinking about doing more pictures. She must have read my mind. "Listen, we may not see each other for a while. But if you get the chance, my door is always open to you... and my cameras are always ready." I blushed and looked away. "We'll see." "Good luck to you, Danielle Dean." *** I was in the elevator going down before it occurred to me to wonder how she knew my name. ===== (III) FLOATED
"I have been floated to a thought this hour -- I had dreams that night--hot sexual dreams. I cannot remember them, nor did I really understand them at the time. There was a lot of math involved. I can't explain it, other than to say that the sex part seemed good and the math part wasn't bad either. I awakened feeling surprisingly good, refreshed. It wasn't long before I started wondering what changes I would see in the mirror. I got my first inking when I felt a cold protrusion rubbing my inner thighs. I threw the sheet off. Once again, I was naked. I had to remember not to wear anything to bed anymore or I would soon run out of clothes. I looked at the source of the sensation. My pussy was covered by a metal plate. It extended to the top of my pubes, and curved down to my anus. I was completely covered. The rings in my labia were pulled to protrude slightly through five metal slots in the plate's surface, two rings per slot, presumably one from each side. Through the rings I saw a metal stick. The stick, about a half-inch thick, had a disk at each end that was about an inch in diameter. And in the center of the top disk was a keyhole. I was locked up. Tight. No key. This was the same metal, no doubt, that had broken the locksmith's implement. I jiggled at it, but there was no way to get it off without tearing my labia. Not an option, obviously. The phone rang and I grabbed it. It was that voice, the hypnotic androgynous one that had called me two nights before. "Access is temporarily restricted," said the voice with what sounded like amusement. "This isn't funny anymore," I said. "I don't know what this game is all about, but it's going to stop." "Oh yes," replied my new friend, "it will stop. The question is when and how." I was silent for a second. "The wedding is off," I finally set, fishing for a shock. I'm pretty sure I at least surprised him/her, because he/she was quiet for a good ten seconds. So was I. I was relishing the fact that I had had a card to play, however inconsequential it might end up being. "So you've done some homework. Very good. We knew you were smart, but even we underestimated you. Well, let me assure you that the wedding is on." "At this point, can you at least tell me more about the impending ceremony?" I tried to speak with restraint, but my fury was growing. I was not under my own control, perhaps, but I would be damned if I would give them what they wanted without a fight. The caller did not respond with words. Instead she began to hum. It was a tune I was sure I had heard, it seemed so familiar, but I could not place it. And the minute I heard it, my pussy was on fire. I let out an involuntary gasp. I felt like I was being stroked, or fucked, or... something. I started to get wet and I began to thrash around. "What... are you... doing?" I managed to whine. I couldn't help myself, I tried to jam my fingers under the plate. I needed to come. This feeling was so intense, I thought I would explode. But the plate was on tight, and it was so thick and wide that I couldn't get anywhere near my throbbing clit. The humming abated, but the feeling did not. "The ceremony will proceed as planned," he finally said, "but you will not be wearing white!" And he hung up. I lie there, halfway to orgasm, with no way to achieve it. And it didn't abate, nor did it proceed. I pushed at the plate, I fumbled at the locked rod, I rubbed my thighs. It got me nowhere. It was amazing to me that this feeling could be maintained with such precision. Finally, I lay still, taking deep breaths. I would get control of my body. It was the only way, the only course of action that lay open to me. I tried to think of other things, clear my mind, think of nothing. I tried to lie as still as possible, and I waited. Eventually, the feeling began to subside. I lay there and breathed deeply and slowly with my eyes closed. I had never meditated, but I started to do the things that I had heard about ... focusing on the sound of my breathing, clear my mind of all thoughts, lying so still that I could not feel my body. And it started to work. I felt a surge of satisfaction, of smug triumph. Whatever this hex was, I was beating it. In several minutes, the orgasm that had loomed so prominently was something like background noise ... still present, a feeling of arousal and a tingling in my barricaded sex, but little more. It was enough where I thought I could function. Now maybe I could get to work on this new development. I got up and started to get dressed... slowly at first, nervous that movement or activity might "jostle" something down there and put me back in the throes of unachievable ecstasy, but then faster as it did not come. I still wanted a good stiff fuck of some kind, but I could manage it. Finally I was dressed. I had to see Ami, although I knew she could not help. I figured I could wheedle some new clues out of her. I'm not sure why I was thinking of it, but I wondered if she would want to photograph me like this. I figured she wouldn't; tattoos, piercings and chains are fairly generic, but this new device seemed to me to be a fairly specific to something that someone might not wish photographed and published. Then I remembered I was not a slutty bimbo who wanted to be photographed spread- eagled on the Internet, and I chastised myself for entertaining the thought. How could I want such a thing, to be photographed like that again for disgustingly slick magazines that would end up with pages stuck together? I also felt a note of disappointment that Ami and I would not be able to do anything that I would get satisfaction from, not with my clit locked away. But I'm not bisexual! I thought. I don't want to mess around with her again! Do I? Focus, focus, I thought. Deal with the lock, I told myself, before I have to pee or something. Now that was a frightening thought. Dressed, I grabbed my keys and headed out the door. Before I even hit the stairs, I felt the heat welling up again. By the time I was at the front door of the lobby, the impending orgasm was back in full force. I almost doubled over from the intensity. I was dripping wet, ruining my panties (I thought--I would later find out that no juices made it out from the plate) and stumbling to sit and try to calm myself again. But this time, it didn't work. It only seemed to get worse. Luckily, no one was around (but I'm sure I put on a nice show for the surveillance camera), and finally I got up and somehow made it up the stairs. Once back in the apartment, I flung myself in a chair and began my calming exercises. It worked again, this time more quickly. Apparently, one of the rules was that I could not leave. Unfortunately, now I really did have to pee. I resigned myself to the mess and went into the bathroom to hover over the toilet for the inevitable spray that would surely come from all sides of the plate, and I let go. To my surprise, nothing came out. It was as though the plate itself were absorbing my fluids. Well, that would explain how I could get so aroused and not make a mess. When I was done, the phone rang again. I already knew who it was. "Okay," I said, without even saying hello, "you have established your control over me. Now what?" "That," replied the voice, "is entirely up to you." I had spent some time working things out, and I had some idea of how I stood. "I infer from your comment that something voluntary is required of me. You can control my body, but not my mind, am I right?" "You are very smart," replied the voice. "That is why you were chosen. Very good. We do control your body." As if further proof were required, I began to levitate off of the chair. I was floating several feet in the air, and I could not move from the position I was in. I figured this was to shock me, to show me something new, but I wouldn't let it rattle me. I refused to crumble. I maintained my calm. "Now, this is some kind of marriage, I am thinking," I continued. "And ultimately, what voluntary action is REQUIRED of a marriage that it be valid? Two words. Right? Am I warm?" "You most certainly are," agreed the voice with what sounded like a touch of admiration. "'I do.' As far as that does, there will be a moment when I must agree to the covenant." There was a pause, then my friend said "Bingo." "Well, here's your problem. You are only providing negative incentives. You see what I mean?" "What you mean is, at this point, what do we offer that will make those words worth your while?" "Correct. That's part of it. I also need to know something of what this marriage entails, of course." "That is something we cannot reveal, yet." "So if I say yes, will I be returned to something approximating a normal life?" The caller snickered. "Wouldn't it be better to question the alternative? Such as, how bad can things get if you say no?" "I have no doubt that they can get pretty bad. But the thing you shouldn't do is underestimate my resolve, my willingness to bear it." "But for how long, Danielle Dean? And to what depths will you succumb? My only x-factor right now is your breaking point." I gave another pause. "Let me ask you this: Is it time for me to choose yet? Has that phase begun?" "Not quite," said my caller, and then she hung up. I fell back into my chair with a thud. And I was instantly returned to the brink of orgasm, perhaps as a rebuke for insolence. I fought it again and won, though this time it took half an hour. There was a knock on my door. I felt in my bones exactly how much badness I would find when I opened it. I gingerly approached the door, asking, "Who is it?" "It's Linda," I heard, and felt a surge of relief...and terror. I opened the door. Linda was standing there, dressed as I had never seen her. I looked her up and down. She was wearing five-inch platforms covered in leather that seemed a size or two too small for her feet. Her legs were covered in fishnet stockings, leading up to a vinyl skirt that barely covered anything and actually came down low enough for me to see pubes peeking out. She had on a black leather bra, when I looked closer, I could see there were holes cut in for the nipples, but her nipples and breasts underneath appeared to be painted black. She had fingerless vinyl gloves that extended all the way up to her shoulders, and a black vinyl choker. She was even more pierced than I, and just as tattooed, but differently...more colorfully. As for her face, she was wearing heavy, trashy makeup, with about three silver rings for every one my face had. "Linda..." I stammered. I had never seen her in anything like this. The tattoos and piercings revealed, however, that she had now been fully drawn into my web somehow. She pushed me back inside with more force than I expected, and closed and locked the door behind her. Then she spoke, sounding quire scared and on the verge of tears. "Dani... I have no control..." "What happened?" I asked. "When did you..." "I don't know. I can't control my body!" "What do you mean?" I figured she was referring to inexplicable sexual responses, the kinds of thing to which I had been repeatedly subjected. "I mean I am a puppet!" she said loudly, with a note of panic. "Those people that did this to me," I said, gesturing at my defaced body, "they did this to you, too?" "No," she replied, "I did this to me. I've spent the last two days in a tattoo parlor. These tattoos, these piercings... they did not appear while I slept. I did it to myself. But someone else was pulling the switches! You see?" I felt sick. As horrid as my condition was, what was happening to my friend Linda was something much worse. "Why did you come here?" I asked with trepidation. She looked me in the eye. "I don't know yet." How could she not know? And that was when the weight of it hit me, the understanding of her predicament-- and mine. Her body, for the time being, was not hers to control ... and she would be the instrument of my humiliation. To be continued
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