Shauna's Tattoo

The moment I saw you, I knew you. On lunch break from your depressing office job somewhere nearby. There you were, searching the hallowed halls of Office Max for an organizer. Of course, I knew you were in search of a great deal more. My blackened, eternal presence is possessed of the finest radar. It senses that void, that emptiness, that unmistakable longing with pinpoint precision. And besides, you looked the part. Black, sexy dress, jet-black hair, ultra-hot black patent leather high heels; a dark angel indeed. Your tattoos signified on even higher levels. On the outside of your beautiful, muscular calf, which burst incarnate from below your lovely knee like some other-worldly diamond perched above those glorious black spikes; there, a red heart with black trim. An inscription I couldn’t make out. On the inner calf a nebula of small, scattered black shapes strewn in such an intricate and compelling pattern. Yes, it was you. You were there for a reason. You had chosen noticeable, branded legs and, my mind kindled, I was compelled to wonder if there weren’t more delicious insignias hiding a little farther toward the equator.

I spoke with you briefly at checkout. You remember. I asked and you told. The inscription read: ‘Mommy & Daddy’s Girl.’ We chatted on the way out, and you admitted to liking younger guys. Maybe not as young as I, you said by way of clarification, but of course, you’d never been hit on by an immortal before. Sometimes this job is just too easy.
“But they’re going to be pissed if I can’t come back to the office. They’re pretty strict.”
Your voice, so low and seductive. Your name, Shauna, music to my ears.
“Don’t worry about it,” I assure you. “It’ll be fine.”
You don’t know me or trust me, but you believe me. You tell them you haven’t been well all morning, and now it’s getting worse. “I really should go home for the afternoon.” To your amazement, they’re fine with it, just as I said.

Your apartment is perfect. It’s all Punk’d out, Goth’d out, maximum dark. My approval makes you giggle; raspy, throaty, divine. I have the feeling you’re already well up on the drill.
“I must confess, I’m feeling a little confused,” you say, smiling. “I would say ‘this isn’t like me’ but it sounds so stupid.”
I just watch and listen.
“Perhaps something to drink,” I suggest.
You have pretty much everything, but we settle on wine.
“Wine is perfect for romance,” I add.
“Romance,” you echo curiously.
We sit down in your small, cozy living room and it’s time for me to go to work. I can already feel your ample, solid body pressing against mine. Sipping the wine. Beautiful. You are beautiful, and I watch as you become one with the moment. So much you want to know, but it will have to wait. You understand on some level.

A strange sensation, nothing seen so much as felt. My eyes to yours. Mirrors of the soul and all. You look at me so coldly now and light your cigarette. A bigger drink of your wine and you indicate ‘refill.’ I am happy to comply.
“I’ll be right back,” you say. “And take off those clothes.”
You disappear into your bedroom and I am left with the onset of suspense that signals the real beginning of this little tête-à-tête. It never ceases to amaze me how little must actually be done in these situations. It is as though I merely plant the tiniest seed and her splendid, impeccable mind does the rest. She is so ready to come alive with Satan’s pure grace, which already resides so deeply within her subconscious, and so far, in the freshness of my recent incarnation, I find THAT to be the most beautiful thing. The fact that all this power is simply dormant there in these spectacular women. All I have to do is ‘brush them with my wings’ to awaken it.

But then comes the more complex part. In order for an encounter to succeed on every level it is crucial that I ‘suspend’ my powers once I have opened the psychic doorway. The spark of Master’s spirit has entered into her. She is alive now with new, dark possibilities and attitudes. She has experienced a quite sudden moment of enlightenment and is divinely aware of who she is and of the depth of her power. It is left to me to ‘fall back,’ suspending my own powers and allowing Jamie to operate on his own for the remainder of the encounter. In time, this exceptional woman will be able to hold her own with any demon or warlock you’d care to name, but for her initiation, she will fare much more effectively if she exercises her power over a truly mortal form. She’ll enjoy it more as well. I’ll have to remove myself from his being for the moment, and leave Jamie to his own devices. Of course, I’ll be right here, floating ‘round the room, you might say, experiencing the entire affair more or less vicariously. That doesn’t mean it’s second hand for me. It’s absolutely real, it’s just that it’s experienced in another dimension; on another plane. Master has likened this phenomenon to astral projection, in which the soul or spirit leaves the body, yet remains conscious of all that is happening to it.

You emerge on fire from that bedroom. I am so proud of you…even as Jamie is so terrified of you; that’s what we always go through. You wear a black corset with hot red trim, exquisite, black thigh-highs held lusciously in place with black garter straps from the corset. Insane 5-inch heels; black, and sharp as daggers. Your body, a dream. Strong, pudgy thighs; baby fat on top with lots of strong muscle below. I hadn’t noticed your breasts as much. They are milk-white mountains now spilling magnificently over the cups of that divine corset, which must be a size and half too small. I am stunned by your presence. Bravo, Shauna. Now, I must describe things in the third person as they happened to the possessed initiate, Jamie Brett.

You start with a few basic orders; more wine, light your cigarette, kiss your feet, lick your shoes clean. Jamie’s in love. Then, the spirit begins to take hold.
“I have been thinking a lot lately about getting a dog. But then again, maybe I don’t need one. Or rather, maybe I already HAVE one!”
You look him over disapprovingly and the fear begins to come.
“Of course, you don’t look like a dog. I’ve never seen a dog as ugly and disgusting-looking as you.”
You walk across the small room, your phenomenal ass completely exposed below the rim of your corset. Nothing but the lacy thong-bottom beneath that. Your movements are devastating, crippling. He is frozen, watching you slink to the small table by the door where you take up the morning paper. You roll it up and smack it into your palm.
“I don’t know if I could truly do with having such a fucking ugly mutt for a dog,” you say. “But I guess we better make sure first that you ARE a dog! Now, let’s see…aha! One thing dogs are known for is drinking out of the toilet. Do YOU drink out of the toilet, little Jamie?”
He nodded.
“Mmm, but dogs also communicate by barking,” you laugh. “So, let’s hear a little doggie communication. Go ahead. Impress me.”
He’s not about to fuck around with you. He starts right in with ‘woof-woofs’ and ‘bow-wows,’ with a few whimpers thrown in for good measure. Your laughter is hoarse, foreboding, so sexy.
“Well, at least you sound like a dog. Maybe I’ll get used to your ugly mug. “OK, let’s see if you drink out of toilets. Come on.”

You lead him to the bathroom as he begins to unravel from the sight of your unspeakably hot body. With each powerful step you take, the intense weight of it presses down hard into those devilish high heels causing them to squeak. The smell of your legs, the sight of your legs, the squeak, squeak, squeak of your shoes. His cock is throbbing in ecstasy now. In the bathroom, you stand next to the toilet and point downward. You are the divine goddess.
“Let me see you drink,” you say.
He goes all the way in. He laps and laps. He hears your whiskey voice giggling. He sees your powerful legs within inches of his face.
“Well, I guess you’re a fucking dog,” you laugh. “Of course, I don’t tolerate dogs drinking from my fucking toilet, so you’ll need to learn your first housebreaking lesson.”
You jerk his head out of the toilet by the hair.
“Bad dog!” you say, smacking him hard across the face with that rolled-up newspaper. He whelps.
“I said, BAD DOG!” You slam him again. The sight of you, bent over him that way; your leg flesh quivering with each imperious shift of your body and even more deliciously each time the paper finds its mark; your tits bouncing incomprehensibly with each strong and painful blow; everything about you now has him reeling. His dick throbs harder, dribbling pre-cum. You smack it hard with the newspaper and the goo splatters. Not good.

“Look at that!” you scream. “You got fucking cum on my bathroom floor! BAD DOG!”
More hard shots with that newspaper before you grab him by the hair and rub his nose in it.
“Now lick it up! Lick it up until it’s TOTALLY SPOTLESS!”
Still clutching him by the hair, you snap his head back, looking deeply into his eyes.
“Do you have anything to say to me?” you ask.
“I-I’m sorr—“
CRRRACK! That paper, so hard across poor Jamie’s face.
“Dogs can’t talk!” you exclaim. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Now he’s not sure what to do, but he assumes it’s some sort of doggie whimpering, which he tries to launch into. Only the slightest sound passes his lips before you’ve shoved his head down into the toilet. This time, you hold it there.
“Maybe this will teach you not to talk to me like that. If you’re a fucking dog, all you do is bark and cry, got it?!”
You’re not letting him up. He needs fucking air. Reaching crisis point. He makes out your yelling, but not the words. You wait until he breaks and the water enters his lungs before jerking him out forcefully. Coughing and gagging; convulsions of the body trying to expel the water. You’re thrilled, delighted with his agony.
“You know what? I don’t even particularly like to keep a dog in the house. I think it’s far preferable to keep your ugly ass outside. That way, I don’t have to worry about cum-stains on my floor, plus the house won’t smell. Come on, you’re going outside.”

You toss him backwards and begin kicking the shit out of him to get him moving towards the back door.
“Stop your fucking coughing and complaining, my little Pig-Dog! You’re not going to die, though The Devil knows you deserve to. Come on, move it!”
He crawls as fast as he can, still hacking from the water inhalation.
“Shut up,” you warn.
The sharp points of your divine high heel shoes; the even sharper points of the heels themselves against his body. You move ahead of him to open the back door and he looks up at your exquisite form.
“Don’t you eyeball me, Pig-Dog!” You smack him hard with the paper, and then give him a punishing bare backhand across the face. Your face, sinfully gorgeous as he falls to the floor, cracking his head open on the doorjamb.

Your back yard is small and completely open. An alley runs behind it and there is a small empty lot before you get to the concrete wall around the neighbor’s yard on one side. On the other neighbor’s side a row of small trees is all that stands between your space and theirs. There is no place to hide here.
“You know good and well that I had no plans for bringing a dog home today, so I don’t have a proper leash for you. But you sit right here on the step while I look for something.”
You shut the door in his face. He sits there naked on your tiny back step. He sits curled up with his arms locked around his shins hoping maybe no one will notice. Just then some kids come into view from down the alley. They eye Jamie curiously, but can’t really see that he’s naked. They’re busy playing with each other and, thankfully, they move on. All around he hears doors opening and closing, screen doors slamming shut, cars starting, people talking; activity everywhere. He grips his folded legs even tighter, begging Satan to make them all go away.

That’s when you came back to the door. You remember, Shauna. You said that all you could find was this old pair of handcuffs, which you wore as part of your Punk attire from time to time. “But, guess what?” you say. “They’re regulation. These fuckers’ll hold you tight for sure. Now I’m going to go ahead and go back to work for the afternoon. There’s no point in sitting around here with your sorry ass. I don’t know what I was thinking. But first, come inside. I have something for you.”

Obediently, Jamie crawls back into the kitchen. “I wanted to leave you with something to remember me by until I get home,” you say. Then you lifted a hard knee into his mid-section, which doubled him over and sent him crashing straight to the floor. His face jammed into the linoleum with his full body weight behind it, almost snapping his neck in the whiplash. As he flips over onto his back, you drop down with your full weight, ramming your knee hard into his throat. As his body begins to flail, you snatch his head between your strong, sexy legs and apply a vicious scissor-hold with his face planted squarely up your ass. The whole time, you laugh like the wicked demoness you’ve suddenly become. Jamie’s esophagus has been crushed, and now he is being cruelly smothered, his head buried in your fragrant womanhood. He tastes the delectable brine of your cunt even as his nose eagerly glories in the coveted, musky scent between your ass cheeks as you hold him tightly, helplessly in place.

Your legs are powerful beyond his wildest imaginings and you proceed to crush his skull; nonchalantly, effortlessly, a childlike cackle ushering from your rusted throat as he suffers further. Shaking, convulsing, clutching at your giantess legs, he tries helplessly and hopelessly to free himself. Inside his poor head, he can hear his skull cracking under the pressure. You must hear it too because your laughter increases. He continues bucking and kicking for another moment or so before the pain is too much and he falls out of consciousness. As you stand up over him, you kick him repeatedly, pricking him all over with the points of those high heels until he stirs ever-so-slightly. “Get up!” you yell. The back door is open wide. “Get your ass out of here!”
He can’t manage, so you drag him by the hair out to the step where you snap the handcuffs on his wrist, locking the other end onto the piping that goes to the utility meter.
“If you break this, or in any way fuck it up before I get home, you’ll no longer be a fucking dog, you’ll be a dead duck!”
With that, you slap the piss out of him and go back inside. He watches your intense, glorious body shimmy and sway on your way in and feels like the luckiest demon in the world to be right here at this moment in time. A few people noticed Jamie during the course of the long afternoon, but not one asked if he needed help or what was going on or anything like that. The most attention they paid to him came in the form of snickering, laughing and joking. You came home from work with wet and dry dog food. You mixed it so nicely into a new pet store bowl set, which also had a receptacle for water. You never spoke to him or played with him except when you felt pissed off and wanted something to beat up and punish. He took a great deal of precious abuse from you. He remained your faithful, naked, little dog; eating his dog food, sleeping in the dirt next to that utility meter and getting his ass kicked by you on a regular basis. Your brand of humiliation was unique indeed, and he shall always treasure you for it. Eventually, of course, I was compelled to return to Jamie and it was time to move on. There are always more young women desperately in need of conversion, and more delightful and diverse situations for me to experience with them. I’ll think of you fondly, Shauna, in the eternal Darkness of The Shadows, and I'll remember how it all started, staring at your delightful calves and that hot tattoo. You may once have been Mommy & Daddy’s Girl, but from this day forward, you shall have only one Father; Satan himself. May your era be one of joy and boundless experience. Eternally yours, Marduk.