Ink

She went to live with a skinny tattooist, growing ever more sexually magnetic but she denied him her , anus and mouth, forcing him to masturbate while she danced for him. O how she danced! The dragons upon her skin were her partners, her pets. Her post-cathartic vividness glowed red, green and blue, yet there were still unpainted parts. She made her pale partner fill in these spaces with other flying serpents, which he did, tapping her with a zealot’s fervor. Abraxas, Orochi, Anataboga, Xiuhcotl, Nidhug, Longwei, the brimstone killers, the sage guardians - the detonations of hell and heaven. He cunningly wove their wings, tails and talons about her flesh until even her most intimate areas were also dragon parts. One by one she fed herself to them, and they knowing she held their flames between her ribs danced for her as if leashed to her will. “Do you see me”? she asked. “My flesh is an anvil of fire.” He could not reply. He saw not a woman but a coruscate gyre, as if a female energy were escaping on serpent wings. “Beauty.” He gasped as his ****** took his breath away. She laughed out loud, threw her arms above her head stamping her feet, dancing on invisible skulls.