Happy Valentine’s Day, addicts! For your reading pleasure we have a sinfully delicious, naughty tale by our friend Chantal. Enjoy. 🙂
by Chantal Boudreau
He wasn’t the first.
She remembered him as he was when she initially brought him home. She had found him repugnant. She had purposefully picked out the homeliest goth at the event: short, balding, pudgy, pale in a “too much time spent under office lighting” way – waxy and gray – rather than the moonlight pale of the ghostly shroud of death. His clothing hadn’t fit properly, bulging in places and pinched in others, possibly loaners and cheap either way.
She hadn’t minded any of it. If all went well, she knew she was going to make him beautiful. Her prize well won. He hadn’t failed her. She expected flaws in the beginning. All canvases started as stark, coarse and somewhat bumpy. The art was in what you made of them.
The men she always chose were there in hopes of picking up some socially-awkward goth chick, maybe one into kinky sex. They never anticipated being approached by the raven-haired beauty known by the moniker “The Tattoo Princess.” She was a gift, a treasure found, a dream come true. She was a legend.
Her name did not come only from the black lace and feather tattoos that adorned her pearly skin. She was an artisan, a practitioner of the inky arts herself, renowned for her piercing skills as well. She intimidated them, cowed them with her conviction, her presence and her unyielding sense of self.
“Come home with me.”
None of the men had ever refused her request, even if some of them appeared ready to faint at her demand. She set out the lure and they followed without question. She never had any trouble enticing them even though she frightened them.
She offered them her body, a willing sacrifice until she had transformed them enough that she would want them in return. After bedding them a few times, she lied. She told them she loved them. If this did not drive them off, she knew she had them. Their fate was sealed.
This one was no different. He had stayed.
She had waited a week after her declaration of love before telling him it was over. She wanted to make sure he was thoroughly entwined upon her hook before she reeled him in by pretending to cast him off.
“You have to go – and don’t return. I love you, but I have needs. I can’t inflict that kind of suffering upon you. I’ll find someone else I don’t care about.”
He gaped at her, lip quivering. She knew that kicked-puppy, stolen-candy look. It always preempted their offer.
“I d-don’t mind, Princess. I’ll suffer. Whatever you need, I’ll do it. Just don’t make me go.” He paused, his voice trembling. “What is it you want?”
She pressed the flat of her hand against the cool glass pane of her window, a gesture to the crows that stepped stiffly through her yard. They picked at the remains or something discarded there, scavenging from weathering bones.
“I want you to be like them…my pretty bird.”
He looked confused. They always did.
“Promise me, and I’ll show you,” she continued. “Swear it.”
He promised, so she led him downstairs to the cage, a massive construct of blackened steel that glinted in the dim light.
“That will be your lodging until I say otherwise. As long as I’m in the room, you’ll wear the mask I’ll give to you. And I’ll be using the tricks of my trade to transform you. As I said, I need this, but this is a lot to ask in exchange for my love. You still have one last chance to leave before we start this.”
He opted to stay. He didn’t care. He figured he had no life in the outside world. She offered him infinitely more, even if it might prove temporary. Even if it might prove his end.
She strapped him into the cage, pulled the charcoal feathered and beaked mask overtop his balding head and then worked his body into sweet oblivion. He couldn’t say “no,” nor did he want to.
She left him there to sleep, returning later with drugged food. Sedating him made it easier for her to work. The ones she picked never had much tolerance for pain. She began by tattooing a feathery latticework across several portions of his body. This took days, a foggy daze for him of sex and drugs, but a happy one despite the pain.
Next came the piercings. She used the tattoo as a guide for their spacing. Soon his flesh was dotted with tiny metallic balls, tiny mooring points for what was to follow. Feathers – not mere images or synthesized facsimiles but real, glossy and black. She no longer saw his pasty skin. The feathers were all that mattered.
He had now been her willing captive for weeks, thinner and more muscular for the number of times she had ridden him. With the mask, tattoos and piercings he was now entirely unrecognizable. But once she slid the split-toed boots on his feet and finished attaching the hundreds of feathers she had brought in to adorn his flesh, he took on the appearance of a giant anthropomorphic crow. There was very little left of the repulsive little man she had lured into her home. What he was now was magnificent – at least as far as she was concerned.
Her ruby lips parted into a triumphant smile. The transformation was complete and for the first time since she had brought him home, she took him with a hunger and a fervor she had never displayed before. He seemed pleasantly surprised and lay moaning blissfully on the bottom of his cage when she was done. She left him there, giggling quietly to himself at the absurdity of his situation. But he had entered into it voluntarily and his euphoric mind did not regret it.
She wondered how long she would be able to indulge herself before his new form would begin taking its toll. She had a tendency to frolic in a rough way. Skin would tear, the piercings sometimes would get infected and then there was the time she overdid the sedatives. If she was lucky, if she showed some self-control, he might last several months. Long enough to satiate her appetites for at least a short time. Long enough to use him up completely before discarding him in her fenced in yard. She eventually would.
She had done this before. After giving up trying to find the perfect lover, she went out and found the most malleable material to make one instead. The end results got better with each try. This one, in fact, was the best one yet.
And he wouldn’t be the last one, either.
Chantal Boudreau, an accountant/author/illustrator, lives in Nova Scotia, Canada. A Horror Writers Association member, she writes horror and fantasy, with multiple short stories and novels published to date. Her published tales of dark love include “The Godmother’s Curse” in
Postscripts to Darkness: Volume 5 and “Sanae’s Garden” in Chimerical World: Tales of the Seelie Court. Find out more at http://chantellyb.wordpress.com .