Tit for Tat

Carpe Diem. Roman numerals. Barcodes. Pokémon. You want a sleeve, cool---what would you like? Oh, you just want a sleeve. Just... do a sleeve. Gotcha.

No, I won't do a UV tattoo. No, I won't tattoo your dick. No, I don't accept drugs in lieu of payment.

Fourteen months into life as a tattoo artist and Jen was already eyeing up the exit. The drama wasn't worth the dosh, and Pervy Mike was far too much of a pervert. It was supposed to be a temporary gig anyway. She'd quit soon and get herself back into school. Money-wise it would be tight, but it would be doable if she stuck things out for another month.

A small spider struggled to crawl back out of her steel ash tray, and the flimsy polypropylene chair creaked beneath her sleek figure. She stared down from her balcony, perched on plastic, and listened to the distant traffic swash by. It was barely one o'clock in the morning, and she'd already exceeded her self-imposed weed allotment. So much for cutting back.

The spider crawled up the lip of the ash tray, and then slipped back inside. Nearly twenty-two years of age and she'd accomplished a lot of nothing. People younger than her had already graduated university. Started businesses, even. Married their lovers.

Smoke drooled from the corners of her mouth. At least she'd broken up with Matt---no doubt the best decision of the year so far. Rather top tier as far as decisions go. She ran a tattooed hand under the base of her skull, and combed through the roots of her dark hair.

The chair wheezed as she slouched back into it. She kicked off her flip-flops. This would be her last blunt. Her last for a while. Pinky promise. Quitting starts after this. She slid her lighter to the other end of the sun-bleached table and took a long drag. This time, next year, things would be different.

An energetic and overly rotund housefly rammed itself over and over into the ceiling lights, bouncing from one LED to the next, like a pinball, trapped in the machine.

"Jen?" Pervy Mike's voice came from behind her, snapping her from her daze.

"Yeah?"

"Where's your customer?"

"... fuck if I know. He went to the toilet, I think?"

"Well how long's he been in there?" Pervy Mike's receding hairline looked even more receedy as of late.

"I haven't exactly been timing him."

"Fuck, Jen. Fucker's probably shooting up in there, I told you something was off with this jittery little ass-shit."

Pervy Mike's eyes darted back and forth between Jen thighs. Then he marched off to the back of the shop and banged on the bathroom door, doing his best to sound threatening and authoritative.

The housefly dipped inside the head of a large floor lamp, and the buzzing amplified and ricocheted fervently, then abruptly stopped. Bells jingled from the front door, and a pair of squeaking rubber soled shoes entered.

Jen forced herself up and reapplied a warm, customer-facing smile.

"Hi," she said.

The man who turned to face her was very pleasant on the eyes, and she found her smile naturally growing wider.

"Hello," he said. "I was just looking at these, uh, designs, you have here."

His hands were neatly clasped together behind his back, as though he were surveying the grounds of his own private estate.

"Spot anything you fancy?" Jen said.

"Oh no, no. Not for me, my girlfriend is just outside---she's already got an appointment---Justine."

Jen's smile collapsed. She went behind the counter and logged into the ageing desktop computer.

"Ah, yep, Justine. Justine. Justine is... well she's with Greg, but she's booked in for... tomorrow?" Jen said, cocking her head slightly.

"We know. We just thought we'd stop by and see if you were able to do it today. Perfectly fine if not."

The man smiled. It was a dashing smile, wrapped up in the perfect amount of stubble, atop a perfect jawline.

Loud banging came from the back of the shop, as did the sounds of a scuffle. Pervy Mike's grunting and swearing reverberated down the hallway and Jen gave an awkward smile.

"Well, I think you're in luck. I do believe I am suddenly available," she said.

Jen tried to ignore Sexy Stubble Man and his Fuck-head Girlfriend as they cuddled in entrance of the tattoo shop, murmuring excitedly. She hunched over her laptop by her workstation and pouted. The tattoo design was already approved: a cartoonishly hench-looking scorpion, five inches or so in length, with oversized pincers.

Jen fed the design through the thermal printer. The murmurs stopped with a unified giggle, equal parts deep and squeaky. They then kissed multiple times---more than six times by Jen's count---before Sexy Stubble Man left, and Fuck-head Girlfriend began making her way over.

Fuck-head Girlfriend wore a simple tee and a pair of jeans displaying a sliver of midriff. But above the midriff, stretching out her t-shirt, jostling along with each step, sat two overly plump, perky tits. Jen watched them bounce, then looked away, swallowing her jealously. An unwanted thought hit her: Fuck-head Girlfriend grabbed her tiny tits and cackled in her face.

"Hey," Fuck-head Girlfriend said. "Thanks for squeezing me in on such short notice."

Jen met her eye and gave a customer smile. Now would be a great time for a cigarette. Or a blunt. Fuck-head Girlfriend donned several nose and ear piercings, and a messy drizzle of auburn hair ran down just past her shoulders.

"No prob---" a loud slam from the fire escape door cut Jen off.

Pervy Mike emerged shortly after, visibly pleased with himself. Beads of sweat ran down his balding head, and trickled down the sides of his face, like a pair of sweaty sideburns. He waltzed over to one of the black vinyl chairs and leant against it heavily.

"Ladies! The premises is free of both junk and junkies!" he said.

He looked towards the tattoo machine in Jen's hands, then towards Fuck-head Girlfriend's large chest.

"Oh! Don't use that old thing Jen---wait, let me get you our latest and greatest!"

"Eh?" Jen said, freezing in place.

Pervy Mike hurried off into the back office and returned even sweatier, clutching a lilac box with his square-tipped fingers.

"This is for esteemed customers only," he said gesturing towards Fuck-head Girlfriend with an upturned palm. His fingers were angled towards her chest. "Such as yourself."

"Oh?" said Fuck-head Girlfriend, her forehead forming little creases, "what's so great about it?"

"Yeah, what is so great about it?" Jen said.

Pervy Mike opened the lid, and offered the tattoo machine to Jen. "Everything," he said, and watched Jen keenly as she took the device.

It was unassuming. Glossy black. Not as heavy as one she normally used. Pervy Mike strolled off without another word, lilac box in tow.

"Alrighty," Jen said, her eyebrows raised. She snapped on a pair of black latex gloves and patted the tattoo chair. "Shall we get started?"

Fuck-head Girlfriend's shoes squeaked against the vinyl coated chair and her ample chest wobbled and jiggled as she got comfortable. Jen shaved and cleaned her forearm, pausing momentarily to admire the delicate, milky-smooth skin. She applied the scorpion stencil, let it dry, and fired up the new tattoo machine.

She dipped the needle into a dark ink cap and traced the lines of the Scorpion, starting with its venomous tail. The device was precise---it felt like an extension of her own hand---where had Pervy Mike nabbed this little gem? The machine hummed as ink plunged into Fuck-head Girlfriend's forearm. Its needle punctured her silky smooth skin over and over.

An unnerving shift on the edge of Jen's peripheral broke her concentration. She paused, and looked over. The scorpion tail looked different to what she'd tattooed moments before. Was it... longer?

"I think I'm okay," Fuck-head Girlfriend said. "I just didn't think it would be this painful."

Jen placated her, and the tattoo machine got back to humming, and the needle got back to changing her forever. Eight dense scorpion legs, each looking capable of squatting a half-ton or so, paired with cartoonishly massive claws, like arachnid boxing gloves, with chunks of body armour so thick bullets would probably bounce right off.

Jen lifted the needle midway through tracing a chunk of body armour---something was wrong---something was very wrong with the ink. The scorpion tail, and each of the eight scorpion legs she'd drawn had vanished, leaving only spindly remnants behind. She peered closer at the milky-smooth skin, the ink looked to be seeping deeper? Jen switched off the tattoo machine.

Fuck-head Girlfriend was twisted, contorted, and gnawing her fist. Her enviable breasts were swamped beneath her loose t-shirt, and the fabric had crumpled into her empty bra cups. She loosened up and started to full body shiver.

"Gosh, why is it so cold?" she said, shakily trying to prop herself up.

She squinted against the overhead lights, her cute pep from earlier all but drained away. Jen put a hand on her shoulder.

"Wow, you're burning up---you feel cold, you said?"

"I think I... just want to go."

Fuck-head Girlfriend pushed herself off of the chair, and her pale trembling limbs looked like they might give out at any moment. She shuffled about, like a newborn fawn.

"Uh, sure---wait, we need to cover your..." Jen hastily grabbed some adhesive film, but stopped when she saw Fuck-head Girlfriend's forearm looked completely normal. "Hey, maybe sit back down, you're a little unsteady."

Fuck-head Girlfriend ignored her and teetered towards the exit, arms sagging by her sides, head lulled to one side, like it was too heavy for her neck.

"Hey! Do you want me to call someone? Your boyfriend?" Jen said.

The Girlfriend neither answered nor turned to face her. She placed a limp, goosebumped hand on the wall to steady herself, yanked the door open, and careened off into the street.

Jen inspected the tattoo machine under a large floor lamp (the one the housefly kamikazed into earlier), and took a long, drawn-out hit from her vape pen. It was void of any brandings or markings, and sat firm in her grip, like a dark glossy dagger. She let out a billow of watermelon-flavoured smoke. What had happened to that tattoo? And what had happened to Fuckhead Girlfriend's tits?

Jen wandered towards the back office, smoke plumes trailing in her wake. She knocked on the door to Pervy Mike's office, but there was no answer. She went back to the studio, ejected the used needle cartridge, and disinfected the motor housing. Damn if the machine didn't feel good to hold, though. It really nestled into her palm just right. But, it was definitely heavier than before. Like it needed to unburden itself of something.

She popped open a blister pack, clicked a fresh cartridge into the machine's grip and turned it on. It would just be a test. Just a quick test to see where the ink went. And if breast shrinkage was involved, then, well, it wasn't like she could get any smaller.

She dipped the needle into an ink cap and then rotated her arm in search of an empty patch of skin. She poised the needle above her arm, and zig-zagged a simple line that slithered between her other tattoos, and doubled back creating a worm-like shape. The ink settled into her, all warm and gooey, and soon her legs felt warm and gooey too. Likewise between her thighs. And her nipples itched and swelled beneath her t-shirt. Eagerly poking outwards, in search of a tongue and a pair of lips. She turned the machine off and plonked it down, and warmth spread across her thighs, and over her hips and up her chest and neck. It crawled over her cheeks and lips, all hot and tingly. The worm-like shape hadn't moved or vanished. Did it look different though? Less like a worm and more like... like something that could eat a worm?

Her cheeks flushed red, and her nipples tingled incessantly. She scratched one and felt her chest sink against her fingers. Her chest was softer---not by much---not by much at all, but when you're as flat-chested as Jen, even a little was a lot.

A jingle from the front door snapped her from her stupor and Pervy Mike barrelled inside, swaggering and sweating, bags filled with supplies in each hand, with patches of underarm sweat seeping around to the front of his shirt. He strolled over saying something utterly unintelligible, and flecks of at least one triple Belgian chocolate cookie flew in Jen's direction.

"What?" Jen said, unsure if this was actually happening.

"Ardat worp ahsee," he said, swallowing with some difficultly. "Really, as much as I love paying you to lollygag..." his eyes fell to the empty tattoo chair behind her. "Where's our lovely lady?"

Jen's mind raced from one elaborate lie to another. The truth would be too strange to explain. How would she even explain it?

"She kinda just... left. Abruptly. Like, five minutes ago. Saying she felt unwell, and..." Jen gave a slow-motion shrug, and pouted. "She left."

Pervy Mike stared at her.

"Well, fuck," he finally said. "Getting a tat, not for the faint of heart, eh?"

His eyes dropped to her chest, lingered, and then he bustled past, dragging the bulging bags with him like two disobedient children.

Jen perched on her balcony furniture watching the sunset, surrounded by a haze of chain smoked cigarettes. She re-examined her tattoo for the umpteenth time. There was no mistaking it, it had grown. Its tail had thickened and curled around her forearm, and its head had looped under her armpit. It no longer looked like any kind of worm at all. It looked like a small snake. Or a serpent. Additionally---remarkably---it no longer looked or felt like a fresh tattoo. There was no redness, or itchiness. Her breasts however were itchy. And swollen. And bigger.

She rolled the sleeve of her hoody down, closed her eyes, and took a long, tired drag on her cigarette, filling her lungs from top to bottom with arsenic-cadmium-bullshit. A rational person would tell someone, or show someone: hey look, this tattoo is growing up my mother-fucking arm. But, for reasons she couldn't understand, she didn't want to tell a soul.

She awoke in the night, curling fetal, arms clutched at her sides. Sweat had soaked through her oversized t-shirt, and her breathing came in rapid shallow gasps. Her ribcage coiled in on itself. Something was constricting around her torso. Moulding her. Her bones were being dragged inwards inch by inch, like braces realigning teeth. The pain was nauseating. Jen let out a whispered moan, her eyes wild and frantic in the dark. She gripped the headboard with a sweaty palm, her final inhale a dry, rasping wheeze.

Sunshine filtered in through the blinds of her balcony window, and dust motes danced across the sunbeams to the sounds of her morning alarm. She sat up gingerly, expecting pain to arc across her abdomen, and lifted her t-shirt bit by bit, exposing her tummy to the sunbeams, and expecting to see something gruesome. Three thick bands of a serpent's body was tattooed around her waist. It was patterned with dark saddles like that of a boa constrictor.

Heartbeat pounding in her ears, mouth and throat desiccated, she sputtered out a sob and placed a lone finger on the serpent tattoo, half-expecting it to flinch, but it did no such thing---it was just skin after all. Just her own tattooed skin.

After the initial shock wore off she noticed other bodily changes---like how cinched her waist had become. How it curved inwards starkly. Impossibly so. She ran her hands up and down and over her tattooed stomach.

She pulled her t-shirt off and tossed it to the end of the bed, and in doing so felt an unfamiliar wobble upon her chest. Perturbed, she looked at her tits, and then cupped them. She could actually cup her own tits. They were the size of small grapefruits, and uncomfortably tender.

A voice needled from inside her skull, its words all buttery and soft. It whispered something. A demand: feast. She closed her eyes and smiled. A seed of subservience took root.

Oh, absolutely. Oh, I can be accommodating, when asked in the right way.

The new tattoo machine was nowhere to be found. Like it'd just up and vanished from one day to the next. Jen had searched every nook and cranny of the tattoo shop---all whilst giving Greg the appearance of not searching for anything at all---and she'd found nothing but a dead mouse. There was only one place she hadn't searched as it was locked: Pervy Mike's office.

Midday rolled around and Pervy Mike still hadn't showed up. Jen fidgeted with a clicky ballpoint pen. "Where-the-fuck-is-that-pervy-sweaty-fucker?" she said to herself, clicking the pen in time with each syllable.

Gregg wiped down his tattoo station, yapping away.

"... and that's why it's sort of a grey area. But, like... like, half the time you can't even buy these games anymore, y'know? Like, where can I buy a copy of Warioland 2? Fuckin'---basically, just download the ROM. Basically."

"Right," Jen said.

"Obviously once you have the ROM, you gotta transfer it to the device---like there's no app store, innit. But yeah. Just plug in a micro SD card, drag 'n drop. Piss fuckin' easy, right. Then, depending on your device---you'll be using either Linux or Android---and if it's the former---"

"Sorry Greg, I need a smoke." Jen grabbed her phone and waltzed out of the shop and into the street.

Whenever she walked quickly her chest jiggled, and she found herself wanting to walk quickly just to experience it. Escaping Greg for five minutes was also an added bonus. Her tits now filled out her small t-shirt, and her larger nipples were somewhat visible through the fabric, so she'd resolved to keeping her hoody on at all times until she'd sorted out her wardrobe. And bras---for the first time in her life, she needed to start buying and owning bras.

She slipped her Ray-Bans on, lit up a cigarette and wished it were a joint. The sun was out, and people were chattering and nattering and clustering around street food stalls, buying and eating lunch, and day-drinking outside pubs.

Pervy Mike had commandeered a Lime Bike, and was hurtling down the high street at high speed. He narrowly avoided both a large group of elderly German tourists and someone's barking Pomeranian dog. Jen called out over the din of the street as he came to an abrupt stop. His back was turned, and he was busy taking photo evidence of his parking. She called out again.

The Lime Bike emitted a cheerful sound and he nodded to her as it walked past.

"This app is the biggest shit-fest, I swear to Christ, man," he said, not slowing his pace. "I feel like I'm constantly switching from one shit-fest app to another shit-fest app all day every fucking day."

He cut in-front of the Pomeranian owner, and headed towards the tattoo shop.

"Mike," Jen said, stubbing out her cigarette and trying to keep up.

"The other day I cycled out of fucking range of any parking spot---but the app didn't tell me---I then had to cycle twenty minutes back to park it somewhere." He placed a meaty hand on the front door, and pushed it open, "then I had to walk---"

"Mike."

"What?"

"Can we talk?"

Mike stood there, holding the door ajar, waiting for her to speak. Jen waved her hands around irritably and looked towards the sky.

"In your office, Mike!"

Pervy Mike unlocked his office door and Jen followed him inside. He opened the dormant Macbook on his desk, plonked his keys down, and settled his perspiring bulk into the office chair. He scooted sideways towards a large fan and turned it on with the tip of his overly worn Sketchers trainer, then scooted back.

"So, what is up, Jennifer?" he said, tapping away on the Macbook, his eyes glued to the screen.

Jen closed the office door. She wanted to ask him about the tattoo machine. How had he gotten it? Where the fuck was it? But more than that, much, much more than that, she wanted to ask him if she could suck his dick.

Lick your pretty lips, and ask him.

"Mike," she said, running her tongue over her lower lip.

She walked over to him, and stood uncomfortably close. He pulled away from the screen and looked up at her, a bewildered half-smile on his face.

He exhaled sharply. "What're you..."

"Mike," she said, kneeling down, eyes level with his crotch. "I wanna suck it."

Pervy Mike's crotch answered her request by bulging beneath his grey sweatpants. He shifted as his erection ran out of room to grow within the confines of his underwear.

"What? What?" he said.

She bit her lower lip, looked up at him, her eyes pleading, and in that moment she would have begged him if he'd asked her to. She nodded.

He wriggled his sweatpants downwards, shimmying his hips from side-to-side. Then did the same with his underwear, shoving them to his ankles, and his cock sprang free. Jen moved closer, and craned her neck forwards; the head of his cock was slightly above her eye-line, and it pulsed and twitched, pointing towards the ceiling, waiting for her.

She gave a wide, toothy grin, and placed the tip of her nose against the base of his shaft and, after giving it a few short sniffs to inhale his musk, she ran her tongue along the length of it until she reached the tip. She let her tongue linger there on the head of his dick for a moment, and locked eyes with him.

She drizzled thick globs of saliva over the tip of his cock and then kissed it, delicately, making a soft smacking sound, and she licked her lips and pressed down onto it, letting his cock part her moistened lips. His swollen head slipped inside her mouth---it really was a fat cock, and it filled her mouth completely. She slid more of it inside, pushing it toward the very back of her throat, and it pulsed atop her tongue. He moaned and sunk back into his chair, and she started to bob up and down, and he whispered curse words as she sucked and bobbed and slurped. She lifted a hand to cup his balls (which were also rather fat and swollen) and she toyed with them in her grip, giving them a few playful squeezes. She found herself yearning for the contents of his cum filled balls. Yearning to drink it. Hungry for every last drop.

Give yourself a nice big cummy snack. Take it all.

She pushed more of him inside her mouth, and the tip of his dick burrowed down her throat, until her lips were almost at the base of his shaft, and his pubic hair tickled her nose. Her tongue wrapped itself around his dick, coiling around it like a snake, and then gripping it and sliding back and forth. Her lips pressed against his pubic bone and she gave his balls another squeeze. He thrusted into her face over and over, holding the back of her head in place with one hand. Her eyes watered as thick rivulets of cum squirted down her throat.

The office chair squeaked repeatedly as his hips bucked and bucked, and she swallowed reflexively, enjoying the crisp saltiness. She sucked and swallowed mouthful after mouthful, and he moaned and gasped, as he poured more tangy cum inside her, filling her up, and lining her stomach. Sensing him slowing down, she used her coiled tongue to squeeze every last drop out of him.

Pervy Mike dragged her head off of him. Her tongue unravelled and her lips smacked together letting loose a loud popping sound as his cock was yanked free of her grip.

She closed her eyes, a satisfied smirk on her lips, and wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve. She kneeled back further, resting her butt cheeks atop her heels, and slid a hand under her zipper hoody, and placed it on her stomach, and rubbed it in a circular motion.

"That was deeelicious," she said.

Her eyes shot open and narrowed in on his dick. She licked her lips and moved towards him.

"I want more," she said.

Pervy Mike blinked heavily, the office shimmered in and out of focus, and his legs and flaccid cock grew colder. He started to shiver. Jen prowled closer, her movements unnatural.

"No..." he said, reaching for his underwear.

"I know you want to fuck me," she said, reaching for his cock, fingertips grazing his shaft.

He swatted her away, and tried to pull up his underwear. Jen pulled them back down.

"Jen, fuck off!" he said.

"Fuck me you fat pussy," she said, her voice oddly ethereal.

Pervy Mike struggled to hold her back as she climbed onto him. The office chair squealed in protest. He gripped her by the shoulders and flung her to the side, sending her stumbling, and she landed on her ass with a thud.

"Christ, Jen! Stop."

He yanked his underwear into place, then his sweatpants, and leaned back heavily into the squawking office chair.

Jen fixated on the charcoal low-pile carpet covering the office floor.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry..." she said, her cheeks flushed scarlet red. "I've not been feeling... myself, as of late."

She expected Pervy Mike to chide her. To tell her that he knew she was playing hard to get this whole time. She waited, and then looked up at him, one eye hidden behind her dark hair. He looked spooked. Like someone had just sucked out half his soul. She silently gathered herself and left, closing the door behind her.

She hurried through the studio with her arms crossed, hugging her curvy torso.

"Hey, uh, Jen..." Greg said, but she ignored him and stepped out onto the busy street. Without shades the sun was strong and blinding, and she hoped it was at least a little purifying. Someone was vaping on the other side of the street, and she instinctively reached for her own vape, but her back pockets were empty, and she came to the irritable realisation that she'd left both her vape and her cigarettes back in the studio, and not wanting to return, she strutted off down the street.

She squinted against the sun and slinked between groups of shoppers and dawdlers, and nipped into a corner shop. There was a White Monster energy drink with her name on it, and she took it from the refrigerator, cracked it open and drank a third of it on the spot, swishing the last mouthful around like it were Listerine. She placed the open can on the checkout counter.

"This and Lambert and Butler," she said.

The cashier's hand was covered in dark blue biro ink: large squares on each knuckle, each one filled in, and each one with swirling lines that shot out and criss-crossed over each other, like parasitic tentacles controlling his fingers.

He scanned the energy drink, and then the cigarettes. A large silvery glass eye stared hauntingly at her from the cigarette packaging. Smoking increases blindness, the warning said. Jen pulled out one of the cigarettes and lit it. She closed her eyes, and let the nicotine high lift her off of her feet. Why had she'd sucked Pervy Mike's dick? And then, apparently, intended to fuck hi---

"Yeah, can you not smoke in here. It's £18.20," said the doodling cashier.

Jen paid, left the shop, and leant against a postbox on the street corner. She smoked the cigarette too fast to really enjoy it. She felt like she'd chugged a pint of cum. She lit another.

"Jen!" a voice called out.

A car momentarily blocked her vision, but it looked and sounded like Stuart. It was Stuart. She gave him a wan smile, and single wave. He waited for another car to pass and jogged over. She placed the cigarette between her lips and closed her eyes and massaged her brow with thumb and forefinger.

"Please fuck off, Stuart," she muttered out of earshot.

Stuart went in for a hug. Stuart always went in for a hug.

"Woah! Holy..." he said.

She pushed him back feebly, and he gave her hips quick playful squeezes.

"What is this? Have you gotten plastic surgery? Have you?"

"No---hey, quit that," she said, brushing his hands away and taking a step back.

She dropped her half-finished cigarette to the floor and stubbed it out.

"Do you have Turkey teeth as well? Is that where you've been? Turkey? Show me your teeth. Say cheeeese!"

"What? No."

"Are you working?"

"Yeah---actually I need to get back to the shop," she said, walking backwards, avoiding Stuart's goodbye hug. And as she did so, the voice tickled her again. The same demand: feast.

"Sure, pub later? I have questions!" Stuart said.

"Jen---hey Jen!" Greg said as she re-entered the shop. "You are working today right?"

"I am," she said, walking past him.

"Co-o-o-o-l, 'cause there is a customer scheduled for like, literally any minute now."

Jen didn't break her stride and gave him a thumbs up. She tried the handle to Pervy Mike's office---it was locked. She knocked on the door.

"Mike."

More knocking. She tried the handle again, rattling it up and down.

"Mike, hey, look---I need the tattoo machine. The one you gave me. Can---"

Mike cracked open the door. His face was pale and clammy. He handed her the tattoo machine through the door crack.

"Can... can I come in? For a sec?" she said.

"Jen!" Greg called out from the shop floor.

"Coming!" she said over her shoulder. "Look, I..." She struggled to make eye contact. "I'm sorry for... what happened earlier."

Mike held onto the door like it were a shield.

"Is this going somewhere?" he said, his voice a rasp.

"Yes, where did you get this?" she held the tattoo machine up.

Mike closed the door and locked it.

She sucked on her lower lip, exhaled loudly and then put on her best customer smile.

Green Day was playing on the sound system, and a lanky man dressed in a navy and white blend of Reebok and Fila sat in the waiting area, scrolling on his phone. Greg was at his workstation with another customer in his tattoo chair

---an attractive customer, with large tits. The bulge of her chest was visible even beneath her baggy grey sweatshirt. There were two plump breasts sat waiting under there.

"Greg, do you have a sec?" Jen said.

"Nope, not really," he said, not looking up. "Can you assist this gentleman, please?" He gestured towards the Reebok-and-Fila-clad man in the waiting area with one latex-gloved hand.

"Greg, can-you-just-quickly-come-here," she said, beckoning him.

He stared at her intently for a moment, squinting. He gave an apology to the big titted woman in his tattoo chair, and then followed Jen further into the back of the shop. Before she'd even said anything he was already pulling a face: his eyebrows were raised as high as they could go, as though she needed the right combination of words to bring them back down.

Jen did her best to sound intimidated---slightly scared even---of the lanky sportswear man in the waiting area. She asked to swap customers.

"But he looks fine?" Greg said, looking back towards the man. "Huh, I didn't know Fila still existed... Besides, I'm all set up with this one."

"Greg, I just---I'm getting a vibe I don't like, and men have been so so shitty to me recently---obviously not you---but like, the whole break up with Matt, and, c'mon, I don't ask you for much-h-h."

"Okay, okay, fine. Whatever," he said, eyes closed, holding up his hands.

Greg walked over to the customers, smiled broadly, gave a small spiel, introduced Jen and gestured about, and soon she was poised over the woman in the tattoo chair, dagger-like tattoo machine in hand, staring at the woman's thigh. The woman had already stripped down to her underwear (a pair of lovely, pastel-pink boyshorts), and something had been mentioned about flowers, and many colours, and peacocks, and it was all supposed to start just above the knee, and then flow up her thigh, but Jen hadn't fully listened, she'd been too giddy and too infatuated by the woman's hips and chest: shapely, and full, and ripe for the taking, and the dagger-like tattoo machine in her hand was already buzzing and already needling into the woman's flesh without much of a plan at all.

Pigment bled into the woman's thigh, and it wasn't the shape of a peacock, it wasn't the shape of anything really. The woman gripped the armrests, eyes shut tight as dark tendrils crept out and along and around her thigh, slipping under her pastel-pink underwear and spreading upwards.

The woman's wide hips were the first to shrink. First a little, and then a little more. And then everything about her got all tensed and clenched: her teeth, her eyes, her hands, and buttocks, and she sputtered, and saliva shot up and landed on her face. Jen reached out with her free hand and squeezed the woman's hip; it was radiating heat, and it softened and slipped from her grasp, like snatching at a stream of melted toffee.

She lifted the woman's sweatshirt, and stole a peep. The woman's curvaceous silhouette had started to draw in on itself. Those full tits of hers, once barely concealed under the thick, loose fabric of her top, were far less impressive. Jen kept the ink flowing along the woman's leg, drawing lines without any care or thought, and watched the inky cocoon that was weaving its way along the woman's abdomen. Her milky breasts were housed in a pastel-blue bra, and Jen so desperately wanted to yank the sweatshirt all the way up to get a better view.

The woman cried out pathetically, but it was drowned out by Green Day singing loudly about American idiots, and more ink dug through her skin, piercing her flesh like barbed wire. Jen pulled the grey sweatshirt up and over the woman's chest; her breasts and a torso were covered in dark etchings, and the bra was so loose there was really no point in her wearing it. Her supple skin was hot and malleable, and her shrunken breasts caved further inwards as Jen gave one a brief squeeze.

The ink kept flowing into her, and her supple chest and kissable cheeks had all but vanished. Her pastel-pink boyshorts were no longer skin-tight, and those curvaceous hips and thick thighs of hers had been whittled down to a wisp of their former size. Grey veiny lines carved up and over her neck and face, and her breathing came in erratic, uneven gasps. Jen smiled down at the woman, finding her ink-stained appearance almost comical. She turned off the tattoo machine, pulled the woman's sweatshirt down, and rushed off to the bathroom.

Locking the bathroom door behind her, she swapped a new cartridge into the tattoo machine, and slipped her jeans down to her knees. She drew a hurried line along her mid-thigh that spiralled up and looped over itself multiple times.

The serpent tattoo had slithered down her other thigh and lay in waiting, its head angled towards her pussy. She fumbled for a cigarette. The new and hurried tattoo looked more serpent-like by the second. Her nipples itched. Her hips tingled. Warmth spread from between her thighs.

The voice hummed, louder than before, stronger. Another demand: fuck. Her reflection took a drag of her cigarette, and she watched herself smile, an unfamiliar grin. Smoke wafted from her mouth. Going back to school? Such a silly distraction. She really just needed to fuck and fuck and fuck.

She unzipped her hoody and stripped off her t-shirt; the new tattoo had already travelled up her hourglass torso, and over her rib-cage, and had roped itself back and forth around her breasts. She ran her hands over it, and it paid her no mind. Her nipples puckered, and her breasts started to blossom like rosebuds.

Her reflection enjoyed her cigarette as her breasts steadily swelled. The sensation was a little uncomfortable, almost like getting a tattoo. She watched herself grip the edges of the basin as her tits grew fuller and fuller, and the skin of her breasts stretched and the serpent tattoo stretched with it. Jen thought of the woman in the pastel-pink boyshorts---she had no real need for such a gorgeous figure, she would squander it---Jen would put it to good use.

Her reflection ran her tongue along her lips, eyes purring, gaze locked her on her chest as it grew steadily fatter and heavier---oh so, so much heavier. The new tattoo---now another full fledged serpent---uncoiled itself from her chest, and it's thickened body sidewinded across her body, heading south. Her skin strained and stretched as her breasts continued to inflate, swelling with more surges of fat. Her knuckles turned white as her breasts grew larger and larger, sagging ever so slightly under their own weight. Her reflection blew her a kiss.

And when the discomfort looked to be subsiding, when the changes finally seemed to stop, the serpents made their move. They wriggled between the lips of her pussy, and slithered inside.

"I mean, in terms of Playstation emulation, I'd say your best bet is to pickup a Miyoo Mini Plus. Outrageous bang for buck, man," Greg said.

"Uh-huh..." Fila Man said.

Greg lifted the needle and stretched out his shoulder, and as he did so he noticed Jen wasn't at her station.

"Uh, has Jen pottered off somewhere already?" he said. "Hey! All good over there?"

Greg switched off his tattoo machine, murmured an apology to Fila Man, got up, and walked over to what was left of the pastel-pink boyshort bombshell. Her clothes were the same, her hair was the same, but the similarities ended there. A web of dark lines covered the woman's skin, all over her face, neck and legs. An inky network of interconnected tendrils. Her skin had an ashen look to it, like she'd had the very essence of life sucked out of her. Greg reeled back in disgust, as though he'd chanced upon a corpse.

Hands across his mouth, he let out a retching sound.

"Oh-my-god! Excuse me? Are-are you..."

He walked closer, reeled back a second time, then timidly reached out, and prodded the woman's limp wrist.

"Oh god!" he said turning back, facing towards the Fila Man, who was sitting in the other tattoo chair, a vacant look in his face. Greg patted down his pockets.

"Siri! Fuck!"

Fila Man leaned forwards in his chair, thumb poised over his phone. "You good bruv?"

"Where's my phone? Have you seen my phone? Siri? Siri? Siri, you fucking bitch! Siri!" He clamoured about wildly, searching through his things, then turned to the Fila Man. "Call an ambulance!"

Greg ran to the back of the shop, stumbling over himself.

"JEN!"

He floundered through the hallway, slamming into the door of Pervy Mike's office and rattling the handle up and down. He called out for Jen and Pervy Mike repeatedly, and kicked the base of the office door over and over. The toilet door further down the hallway unlocked and opened behind him.

"Greg, sweetie, come in here and smoke with me," Jen said, peeking through the crack in the door, beckoning, cigarette smoke curling out, her voice dreamlike.

Greg marched over, livid, frightened, and a little nauseous. He raised a trembling finger, ready to demand answers, and also on the verge of a panic-attack. Jen yanked him inside by the front of his shirt, shut the door, and pressed herself into him---pressed all of herself into him. Her new heavy chest melted into him, enveloping his wiry body, and flattening him against the door, and all of his anger, all of his fear dissolved away, replaced by confusion, and then unfettered lust. Spellbound, he stared down at the expanse of her chest.

Her tits were so large they wrapped around him and touched the door behind him, and blood rushed from every one of his organs and headed straight for his cock. His dick sprung into life, and an erection grew until it was painfully large, far too big for the confines of his jeans. He worked his belt like a man possessed, unzipping and unbuttoning, and wriggling his engorged cock out into the open.

He gripped her waist, digging his fingers in, and ran his hands down her sides, marvelling at the expanse of her curves, the wideness of her hips, the softness, the smoothness.

She pressed her lips to his ears and whispered, "Fuck me. Give me everything."

Something was around his dick, coiling, dragging him into her, and his dick thrummed, pulsed and twitched. He looked at her and stared into her glossy eyes as her tits bobbed against the base of his chin and flowed around his neck. His cock was harder than a diamond, yet strangely he felt weaker than ever. He was safe, nestled between a giant pair of tits, with an attractive and somewhat familiar face gazing down at him. He was horny as hell, and everything was fine. Everything was dandy. He burrowed face-first into her cleavage and inhaled deeply. But, instead of inhaling a delectable fragrance---or even just her pleasant, natural aroma---he sucked in a pungent lungful of cigarette musk, and the stench of... suffering. A sickly scent of suffering; the essence of other people, crying out, like they were trapped inside her.

He came up for air, and tried to ignore his throbbing cock. Things weren't adding up. Jen never showed interest in him, and Jen didn't look... like this. His cock touched the lips of her pussy.

"Oh my," she said, smiling down at him, his head pinned between her cleavage. "You are such a big boy, aren't you?"

His cock had swollen to such an extent that it would struggle to fit inside her. The tip of it held firm against her lips, and her juices dribbled down his shaft.

"I need you to push for me, sweetie, as hard as you can. Make yourself fit."

He gripped her hips and pushed into her, hard, and she moaned in his ear dramatically. He pressed harder, and the warmth of her insides tickled him. The rising wave of her breasts pressed against his cheeks. He felt her stretch to accommodate him, and he looked up at her face, at her satisfied smirk, and plunged into her as deep as he could. A gooey warmth spread over him from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, and he drowned between her cleavage.

His world became her. Her warmth and softness. Her moans. Her breasts. Suckable, fuckable, and sweet. Curves. Squeezable, caressable, and endless. He was a thrusting cock, building towards his final orgasm.

She rode his entire being, and omnipresent squeals of pleasure echoed around him. Whenever he tried to thrust his hips, or squeeze her curves, he never quite could, and she'd let out a mocking giggle---a sound unlike that of any woman. He was reduced to a mere cock, on the precipice of cumming.

And with every buck of her hips, and every bounce of her breasts---the weight of all those curves---he could sense he was travelling deeper inside her.

"When I saw your face earlier I had expected you to fight back a little. But, you were just so ready to submit, weren't you?"

Her voice drowned out everything, it was close, it was far away, it reverberated within. His physicality was intangible, and she giggled and threw her head back, and his orgasm bubbled beneath the surface. She arched her spine, and her tits slapped against her chest, and everything squeezed around him, and he dispersed inside her.

The serpents licked their lips, finishing off a satisfying snack. She pushed Greg's useless clothes away from the door with her foot, lit up a fresh cigarette, and soundlessly exited the bathroom, naked.

She pursed her lips by the keyhole of Pervy Mike's office.

"Knock knock, Mikey. Open sesame."

Rustling could be heard on the other side, followed by heavy footsteps, then fumbling with the lock.

Pervy Mike cracked open the door, one eye visible, the rest of his features hidden in the gloom. Jen watched his eye drop into her cleavage and linger there. He stood silent for a moment, clutching the door.

"Aren't you gonna invite me in?" she said, pressing her tits against the door crack.

He swallowed, closed his eyes, and opened the door. Jen slipped into the darkness of the office---it smelt like stale air and old sweat. He closed the door and she looked him over. He was standing deathly still with his eyes shut, and his chin raised, wearing nothing but boxer shorts, socks, and an erection.

"Don't you want see the results of your spunky little tattoo machine?" she said, taking a step towards him. He didn't respond, and he didn't open his eyes.

"Or perhaps," she moved closer still, "you would rather feel the results."

She brushed her massive chest against him, back and forth, back and forth. He muttered something under his breath as she did this, a weird chant of some kind. Jen pressed her chest into him, and her breasts flattened against his chest and hugged around him. She placed an ear close to his mouth, and tried to understand his mumbling prattle. 'Temptress' and 'resist' stood out from the rest, and she let out a snigger.

"Is that what you think I am? A temptress?"

He continued his monotone babbling with his fists clenched by his sides. She leaned in, brushing his neck with her lips, and letting the warmth of her breath flutter over his skin.

"And what a mighty fine job of resisting you've done."

She slipped her hand into his boxers and let her dainty fingers wrap around his cock. "Mmm... it is big. But I know you can grow bigger for me."

Pervy Mike's babbling ceased. He sucked air between gritted teeth, and his dick swelled in her grip, filling with blood until his knees grew weak, and his head felt light. He opened his eyes. The woman staring back looked a little like Jen, but her features were different: pupils so dilated her iris was but a brief glimmering rim. Glistening lips that sat like plump, velvety cushions around sharp, bright white teeth. She bit down onto her lower lip and then gave him a smile, and he recalled filling that very mouth with cum not too long ago. She ran her hands up and down his cock. Why hadn't he fucked her before? What was he so afraid of? She kissed him on the mouth, chewed his lower lip, and slid her tongue over his.

Her hands moved up and down his cock, faster and faster, and her tongue wrestled around his mouth. She sucked until he ached, until his body sagged downwards, and cuddled between her fattened tits. She ripped her lips away from his, smiled widely, fangs on full display, and lined up his cock with her pussy. He sucked on her breasts---on those thick fat nipples---and her lips spread for his dick. Her breasts squashed into his face as he sucked, bulging over and enveloping his head, and he managed to catch one last breath of air.

Sucking and sucking, he seized her waist and slid inside her until he could go no deeper. Her nipple slipped from his mouth and he tried gasping for air---but there was none---and really, why did he need to breathe? He needed to fuck. Her breasts slid over him, fat and overfilled, and her body writhed and danced as she rode him. Her ass jiggled as she slid up and down his cock, quicker and quicker and quicker. He wanted to tell her to slow down---else this wouldn't last---but he knew she didn't care.

He gave her ass one last final squeeze, and one final slap. She smelt divine. This was everything. He begged for release, to cum inside her for a second time, and she was all to happy to oblige. Her giggles echoed around him as he shot out hot, thick streaks of cum, one after another after another, and his breathless moans melded with her ethereal laughter.

A voice needled from inside her skull, its words all buttery and soft. It whispered something. A demand: feast.