The lounge was a dim cavern, murmured conversations drowned by ambient chill, loud but not dance-club loud. Warm, retro styled booths and bar stools with the padding starting to split made it feel comfortably worn and faintly seedy—just the sort of place Finley liked to end his nights. On his way to the bar, he met the appreciative glances of several women with easy smirks. Tonight felt like his night; he could sense it, a subtle charge in the atmosphere that told him something exciting was waiting.

He approached the bartender, ready to order his usual, when a movement in the corner of his eye demanded his attention.

A woman was looking at him. She was alone at a corner booth, bathed in the weak glow of a flickering overhead lamp. As Finley’s eyes met hers, it seemed like the volume on the music abruptly dropped and someone turned down the colour, washing out everything except her. Finley paused, transfixed, drink acquisition forgotten.

The woman sat poised and serene, an oddly regal presence amidst the dingy surroundings. Her glossy black hair framed her high cheekbones and full, dark lips. A halter dress the colour of blood hugged her body, the fabric shimmering faintly like oil on water. But what arrested his attention was her bare left shoulder, and the intricate tattoo covering it. Even at a distance, it was mesmerizing, a complex weave of dark ink that appeared almost alive as she shifted in the dim light.

Finley shook his head and shivered, as though waking suddenly from a dream. He approached the bar, glancing back to confirm the woman was real, not some alcohol-fuelled hallucination; it had been a long night. She was still there, no longer watching him. She quietly sipped her drink, unaware of his gaze or ignoring it.

He ordered quickly, barely registering the bartender’s idle chit-chat. Drink in hand, he turned, his heart jumping when he saw the woman looking right at him again. Her eyes were dark, glinting with something he couldn’t place—interest, amusement, perhaps even challenge.

Before he realized what he was doing, Finley approached her, driven by something stronger than curiosity.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, leaning casually against the edge of her booth, projecting an ease he didn’t feel.

“Be my guest,” she said, looking him up and down as she slid further into the booth. Finley sat, pleasantly surprised at the invitation to sit next to her. Their knees almost touched, but not quite. Used to desire, he found the obvious hunger in her eyes disconcerting. But it still turned him on.

She was even more striking up close; her features sharp and elegant, her gaze penetrating. The tattoo, draping the soft curve of her shoulder and continuing down her back, seemed to writhe gently, drawing his eye like a flickering flame.

“What’s your name?” he asked, distractedly.

When she didn’t answer at once, he tore his gaze away from the mesmerizing design and realized she was watching him look at her. She plucked the cherry out of her cocktail glass and ate it, the dark flesh like a drop of blood on her lip before she licked it away.

Finley felt dizzy for a moment and realized she’d spoken and he hadn’t even noticed. “Sorry, what?”

“You can call me Cherry.”

“Oh, uh. Nice to meet you, Cherry. I’m Finley.”

Once the liquor started working on him, Finley found his groove. Cherry, intimidating as she seemed, was easy to talk to. Her laughter was warm and her banter was charming. As they warmed to each other and their bodies slid closer, magnetized by growing allure, his eyes lingered on her mysterious tattoo. It seemed to ripple gently, a trick of the shadows. For a moment, he thought it slithered, like a serpent sliding silently beneath her skin.

“You keep looking at my tattoo,” she said matter-of-factly. Finley blushed, embarrassed in a way quite unlike how he usually felt mid-seduction, but she didn’t seem offended.

“Hard not to,” Finley admitted, feeling vulnerable beneath her gaze. “It’s… really cool.”

“Really cool. Sure,” Cherry agreed softly, eyes twinkling, amused by his lack of composure. She leaned forward, graceful and deliberate. Her perfume teased his senses with an aura of unremembered spices. “People always notice it, but not everyone appreciates it. It takes a certain eye to really see the art.”

Her words lingered in his brain, heavy with hidden meaning. The strange blend of excitement and unease Cherry awoke in his body intensified. He shrugged it off, trying to keep his cool, take the lead. He’d come here to pick up, after all.

“Maybe you should show me more of it sometime,” he suggested, voice a touch less steady than he wanted.

Her dark eyes flashed with amusement. “Careful what you ask for.”

“I’ve never been good at careful,” he shot back, regaining some of his cocky swagger.

She laughed again, a velvety sound that filled him with warmth. “Oh, good. Caution is boring.”

Cherry leaned close and he kissed her, hesitant for only a moment, and then passionately. The arousal that woke in him was instant and intense. Their surroundings disappeared, and for a little while, only their warm, entwined bodies existed.

When she pulled away, Finley ached for more. But her tattoo distracted him again. Out of the corner of his eye, he swore it seemed to move, even while Cherry was still.

He tried to focus on her face—but there it was again, a brief pulse beneath her skin, a shadow shifting. But when he looked directly, the tattoo was perfectly still.

“Something wrong?” Cherry asked softly, an edge of amusement in her voice.

“Nothing,” Finley said quickly, and reached for his drink, his throat strangely dry.

She smiled, her eyes glittering with secret delight. “It’s okay, Finley. I can tell my ink resonates with you. I’m glad. It means we have a special connection.”

Finley thought her a bit of a weirdo, but this felt like flirtation, and he could play along. He let his hand brush her thigh. “We sure do, Cherry. Should we get out of here and explore it?”

She finished her cocktail and leaned in close, her lips almost touching his. “Are you just trying to get a better look at my tattoo?”

He smiled. “You think I’ve got an ulterio—”

But then she was kissing him, heat radiating from her body. Once again, his response was instant and intense.

Cherry lived in an aging building at the edge of the city’s downtown core, hidden behind an ivy-covered iron gate. As Finley stepped inside her apartment, the noise of the street fell away, swallowed by thick velvet drapes that covered every window. He kicked off his shoes and watched as Cherry, moving with practiced ease in the dark, illuminated the space with strategically placed candles. Their soft amber glow created a sense of warmth and intimacy, even as they cast eerie shadows across the walls.

The air was thick with a sweet, smoky incense that immediately clouded Finley’s thoughts, wrapping around him like a silken veil. He left the hall and joined her in the living room, feeling strangely weightless, as though he were floating rather than walking.

“You live here alone?” he asked, his voice sounding faraway to his own ears.

“Yes,” Cherry answered softly. She was standing in the centre of the room, rotating gracefully on the thick rug like the ballerina on top of a music box. He sat on the couch and watched her, smiling, admiring her body.

“Are you dancing?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, closing her eyes. She murmured something to herself he couldn’t hear.

“Do you want me to join you?”

“Shh,” she admonished. “You ask too many questions.”

Finley chuckled and obligingly fell silent. He let his eyes roam her body, captivated by the graceful sway of her hips, the elegant line of her spine, and—when she turned away from him—the sprawling mystery of interwoven ink lines that seemed to cover every inch of her naked back.

After many rotations, Cherry paused at the centre of the room, facing away. Finley’s pulse quickened as she reached behind her neck, unclasping the dress with practiced ease. The fabric whispered softly as it slid down, peeling away from her skin like the petals of a flower unfurling. With a wriggle of her hips, it was on the floor and she was naked. His breath caught, transfixed by the spectacle.

She stood before him, her tattoo fully revealed in the flickering candlelight. Black ink swirled and twisted across her skin, rippling subtly, as though alive. The pattern was vast, intricate, and instinct with some secret meaning he longed to know. For a heartbeat, Finley believed he saw the shapes pulse beneath her flesh. A soundless voice beckoned to him. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, but the sensation lingered, making his head swim.

Cherry turned to look over her shoulder at him, and the design shifted, hinting at deeper implications. Her eyes met his, darkly amused at how deeply enthralled he was by her body and its dark design. Finley felt himself rise from the sofa, pulled toward her by a force he couldn’t name.

She turned to meet him. They collided, bodies pressing urgently together, mouths meeting with feverish desperation. Finley’s hands explored every inch of her, the heat and softness of her skin awakening an urgent stiffness in his groin. Cherry guided him down to the plush rug, guided his touch, and stoked his arousal. She was firm in her lust while his head was spinning. With practiced ease, she maneuvered him behind her, positioning herself on all fours, revealing the deep, dark sanctum below the tattooed expanse of her back. He saw nothing else.

Finley groaned with need, hands automatically settling on her hips. He hesitated only a moment, gaze locked onto the mesmerizing pattern of ink, before sliding into her. Cherry arched her back and gasped with pleasure, thrusting to meet him, every motion making her tattoo writhe. Patterns emerged and dissolved, forming images and symbols that whispered promises to Finley on a bestial level beneath human consciousness. He panted, thrusts growing more urgent, driven by a compulsion more irresistible than the mere need to fuck.

The unity of their bodies formed a ritual, and each step unveiled more intricacies within the ink, shapes pulsating and shifting, drawing him deeper into a hypnotic state. Finley felt himself dissolving. Even the throbbing pleasure in his cock faded into the background as his awareness narrowed to the illuminated canvas of Cherry’s back. He gripped her tighter, fingers digging into her hips as though trying to anchor himself in reality, but his mind slipped further away with every thrust.

“She’s just a freak you met at the bar,” he muttered to himself desperately, trying to remember where he was and what he was doing. “It’s just a weird tattoo…”

Yet deep within, the unvoice whispered that it was far more, that he must follow it into dark worlds beyond his understanding. Fear flared inside him, but pleasure erased it—his thoughts unraveled every time Cherry’s pussy squeezed around his cock. He was too far gone, too consumed by passion to resist the gravity pulling him into the orbit of nameless stars. He surrendered to the sensation, letting Cherry and her strange ink slowly drown him in their hypnotic embrace.

Finley’s gaze became fixed, no longer able to stray from the intricate forms sprawling across Cherry’s spine. What had initially seemed like subtle movement was now unmistakably alive, the dark ink spiralling and twisting before his eyes. The patterns danced before him, but unlike Cherry’s playful dance, this was a howl of chaos. He wished he could look away. The sensation of standing on the edge of a precipice, staring down into an endless abyss, deepened by the second.

He tried to focus on his thrusts, to ground himself in the physical act, but his rhythm faltered. His body felt heavy and distant, his senses dull. His movements became sluggish, driven only by fading momentum. Each breath came ragged and shallow, as though he were struggling to draw air through a thick blanket.

The insatiable darkness of her tattoo devoured even the sight of Cherry herself, and Finley couldn’t remember what she had looked like. His heartbeat rumbled in his ears, slowing, matching the poisonous, pulsing rhythm now emanating from the ink itself. Finley’s hips moved mechanically, continuing to thrust his rigid shaft into Cherry’s welcoming warmth, but even this mindless motion was slowing, like a toy winding down.

His jaw slackened, his lips parting dumbly as his eyes grew wide, reflecting only the writhing, shifting patterns. His pupils dilated, consuming his irises until his eyes were featureless black, empty mirrors reflecting only the swirling darkness of Cherry’s tattoo. He felt himself being dragged deeper, the force no longer insidious and seductive, but brutal, relentless, forcing him into a trance he could neither comprehend nor escape.

Cherry’s skin spasmed violently, tiny tendrils of darkness breaking free from their confines. She seemed not to notice, or care, and didn’t change her pace as the tendrils reached out, delicate and sinister, brushing Finley’s fingertips, encircling his wrists, caressing his abdomen, tracing cool, feather-like trails over his chest. Each touch sealed his fate further, stripping away the last remnants of his mind, of his memories, of his self.

A strange moan escaped his lips, the sound distant and alien to his ears. His arms grew limp, his numb fingers falling away from Cherry’s hips. All conscious effort faded, replaced by empty compliance as Cherry took control, rocking herself backward onto his cock with deliberate, forceful movements. The spell of her unnatural ink had reduced Finley to a passive puppet whose strings were firmly in her grasp.

She felt the shift immediately, sensing his surrender. Cherry smiled softly to herself, pumping her hips against her motionless lover, savouring the feeling of him deep inside her.

“Are you still there, baby?” she cooed.

There was no answer, no sign of recognition. Finley stared blankly ahead, utterly consumed by the mesmerizing darkness. A thin trail of drool escaped the corner of his slackened mouth, dripping silently onto Cherry’s skin. She felt the wet warmth, and her smile deepened, pleasure mingling with triumph.

She continued to move against him, drawing out her own pleasure from his stiff, entranced body. She glanced over her shoulder as she fucked him. Finley’s youthful skin had dulled to a sickly shade of grey, drained of all vitality. His eyes, once filled with arrogance and charm, were now utterly void of life or thought. His mind was gone, erased entirely by the dark, hungry forces she carried in her body, just beneath her skin.

The woman sped up her tempo, her pliant sex toy no longer aware of the movement, and reached back between her legs to stroke herself to orgasm. Her climax rippled through her like a wave of fire, burning fiercely, then subsiding into a smoldering satisfaction. She exhaled slowly, savouring the echoes of pleasure that danced along her nerves, the brief fulfilment of having sated the darkness etched on her body. Behind her, Finley’s body had become nothing more than a husk, empty and unresponsive.

She slid free of him, turning to face the shell of a man she had claimed. He remained on his knees on the rug, arms at his sides, motionless. His cock jutted in front of him, still stiff and quivering, as though begging to return to her warmth.

She stood and stretched, then went to the bookcase and took a small, curiously figured obsidian bowl. She brought it to the motionless male form. Finley, she reminded herself; that had been his name.

“Stand,” she said. He rose to his feet.

Carefully, with practiced ease, she began the delicate task of milking his cock, holding the bowl in place and stroking in a ritualistic rhythm until his seed spattered against the obsidian. Her lips parted in a low, unearthly chant, syllables rolling off her tongue in no language that Finley would have recognized.

The tattoo across her back quivered in response, its inked tendrils pulsing softly, resonating with her incantations. It writhed subtly beneath her skin, pleasure coursing through her in tandem with the spell’s dark intent. She felt the familiar thrill, the deep satisfaction of power flowing between herself and the ink, an ancient pact fulfilled and renewed.

Once the small bowl was full, she brought it into her bedroom and set it reverently on the altar. The pearlescent fluid shimmered faintly in the reddish light of black candles. She returned to the living room, casting an assessing glance over Finley’s hollow form.

“Follow me,” she commanded softly, her voice gentle yet imbued with absolute authority.

The husk of Finley obeyed instantly, rising unsteadily to its feet, limbs moving mechanically, eyes staring blankly ahead. Its feet thumped dully against the hardwood floor as it trailed her down the hall, steps heavy and devoid of will. She led it silently past her bedroom and the altar, down a dark hallway that seemed too long for even a rambling old apartment in a dilapidated building. Shadows closed in around them, grotesque shapes cast by the bloody light of the few black candles placed intermittently along the walls.

The corridor ended in a blank wall. She pressed her palm against its smooth surface, murmuring another brief incantation. The outline of a door appeared, then swung inward silently, revealing a chamber bathed in a cold, muted light. The air was thick and stagnant, unlike the perfumed warmth of her living space. She didn’t like to come here, but it was necessary. The husk of Finley was unbothered by its surroundings.

Inside, rows of still bodies were arranged in rows like a miniature army on parade—young, beautiful, utterly drained. They stood frozen, their eyes wide and vacant, barely breathing, barely living. Each face held remnants of a story: some had the dry trails of past tears etched on their colourless cheeks; others twitched faintly, mumbling unintelligible words; others were perfectly motionless, any trace of humanity lost forever.

She guided Finley to an empty spot among them, her touch almost tender. She brushed her fingertips through his hair, kissed his unresponsive lips a final time.

“You did well,” she murmured quietly, a hint of genuine warmth in her tone. “Sleep now. You have served your purpose.”

Finley’s empty gaze remained fixed ahead, unseeing, uncomprehending. She turned gracefully, casting one last glance over the collection of lost souls, a silent chorus of lives sacrificed to her power.

As she turned to leave, her tattoo pulsed. New veins seemed to form and spread, engorged by essence freshly harvested. A deep, primal satisfaction surged through her. She gasped, and steadied herself against the chamber’s doorframe, lightheaded for a moment.

She stepped back into the corridor, and the wall sealed behind her, burying Finley’s vacant form among the forgotten others.

THE END.