1. The Devil's Pact Ghost of Paris Interlude Chapter 3: The Tattoo Artist


    Date: 10/29/2016, Categories: Fantasy, Female/Female, Incest, Male/Female, Mind Control, Author: mypenname3000, Rating: 75, Source: sexstories.com

    The Devil's Pact, The Ghost of Paris Interlude by mypenname3000 Copyright 2014 Chapter Three: The Tattoo Artist Friday, September 20th, 2013 – Rex Irvine – Paris, Texas “Fuck, Rex, another beaut,” grinned bucktooth Hal as he looked at the black mamba I just tattooed coiled around his skinny arm. He was a greasy piece of shit, but his credit card always cleared, and he was in her every few weeks getting another tat to add to his collection. I glanced at the clock. Almost 9 PM. Another slow night. But as it dragged on, more drunks would wander in looking to get “tattooed up.” It sucked for my social life, but I had loans to pay and my dick of a landlord needed his pound of flesh. But I was getting some good buzz; this time next year, Spider Monkey Tattoo and Piercing would be in the black. Then my ol' lady could get off my back. Maybe. I peeled off the latex gloves, throwing them and the tattoo needle into red biohazard trash can. You couldn't be too careful. I bet half my customers had hep A or C. No way in hell was I going to get that. I flexed my thick arms, working the kinks out, and went out to the waiting area to get the next customer. There was a single man, arms as thick as a normal guys legs, his head shaved save for a three inch strip down the middle, buzzed short and dyed purple of all colors. It wasn't my place to judge; people were free to do what they wanted to their bodies. Piercings dotted his face, and he had a pair of sleeve tattoos. They were nice work, not ...
    as good a mine, but nice. “You know what you want?” I asked. He touched none of my scrap books and he didn't seem interested in all of my works of art hanging on the wall; anyone who didn't think tats weren't works of art were stuck up or stupid. Art could be found anywhere a person was moved to create it. “Yeah,” he answered, reaching into his back pocket of his stonewashed jeans. The door opened and a tall cop walked in, his steely, gray-blue eyes scanning around the lobby, his hand resting on his gun. A chill stole over me. Why was he here? I had been clean for years, just ask my parole officer. The cop's eyes fell on my customer, who swallowed, jerking his hand out of his pocket and holding it out wide. “Get out!” growled the cop. “Yes, sir,” my customer swallowed, stood up, edging around the cop, and dashed out. The customer may have had fifty pounds on the cop, but he still ran out like a bitch. What the hell was this? “You're closed for the rest of the night,” the cop barked. “Now listen here,” I said, getting heated. “You can't just come in here and bark orders. This is private—” “Be quiet and kneel before your Goddess!” “What the fuck!” Was this cop high on meth or something? The doors opened and four naked women walked in. My eyes drank in their beauty. A pair of twin redheads with nice, perky tits; an older woman in her twenties with a lithe and graceful body; and a drop-dead gorgeous young woman with platinum-blonde hair and eyes that seemed to glow like twinkling ...
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