The Canvas
by Maxim Volk
Horrific Scribes Extremity Rating:
I can sense a fellow spooky bitch a mile away, which is why, despite his conventionally professional attire, I immediately clocked the older man as he entered the café where I work. His face was bare, his nails were scrubbed clean of any polish, and a gray suit covered him head to toe, but as he approached the register, I knew he was a fellow dark soul. I wore a black skirt with chains hanging from a spiked belt, and my jet-black tank top showed off the little bit of definition in my arms and shoulders that I had been working hard for at the gym. I knew I looked hot, and the man knew it, too, licking his lips as he looked me up and down. His eyes landed on the pentagram tattoo on my forearm.
“Who did your tattoo?” he asked. His voice dripped from his mouth like blood, dark and sultry.
“I-I did,” I stuttered, suddenly flustered at the attention. I had bought a tattoo gun online a few weeks before. This one was the first I’d attempted on myself, and I was pleased with the outcome.
The man leaned over the counter, his mouth coming within a few inches of my ear. “It’s exquisite,” he purred. I sucked air through my teeth as I felt blood rush from my head to my groin. His hand brushed over mine, and I felt him slip something under my fingertips.
“My card,” he said. “I own a tattoo parlor. I’d love for you to come work for me.”
I took a moment to regain the ability to speak. “I’m not an expert,” I admitted. “This is my first tattoo on a real person.”
“You have a gift for it,” the man said, leaning back on his side of the counter. He smiled. “An apprenticeship then. I’m sure it won’t be long before you’re ready to be on your own. I know people who have worked for twenty years and not put out a piece like that. Give me a call.” Without ordering, he turned on his heel and left the café.
I was more than a little glad that my skirt was loose enough to hide the erection underneath it. I looked down at the card. It was completely blank on either side except for a phone number.
“I’m going on break!” I called to my manager. She didn’t answer. She was about as interested in managing as I was in working behind the counter. I know that nonbinary barista is a stereotype, but I knew I was destined for better things. And that better thing was now in my hand. I could see myself as a tattoo artist. I walked out of the store and never went back.
I didn’t get the name of my new boss, but after a few texts back and forth, I was set to start my apprenticeship the next Monday. I packed up my gun and my supplies, dressed the hottest I could look, and got on the city bus to head to the location the boss had given me. It was an unassuming shop, no name in big letters and the only sign a neon “tattoo” hanging in the window. “What have I gotten myself into?” I muttered as I opened the door and stepped across the threshold. The parlor inside was dingy with no overhead lights. I wondered how anyone tattooed in there until I saw lamps next to the beds where the customers would sit. I breathed a sigh of relief: after the initial disappointment of the shop’s exterior, it looked legit enough inside.
The man stepped through the door in the back of the shop. “Ah, you came,” he said. He was less formal today, wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of shorts that revealed arms and legs covered in tattoos. They were not of anything in particular, mostly just lines and shapes, but something about them was hypnotic. He came in close to me, and I could smell cinnamon and musk. “I’m glad you made it. You have such a gift. It would be a shame to waste it. We’ll get some paperwork signed, and then I can show you around.”
I signed a lot of boring paperwork over the next hour: contracts and waivers and health code shit. When I was done, the man put his hand on my shoulder, his dark piercing eyes meeting mine. Not trying to get him into bed while I worked here was going to be difficult. “Before we get started, I need to know that you’re in this until the end.” I gulped, nodding. “Say it.”
“I’m in this until the end.”
“Good! Let me show you to your canvas.” I hoped he meant an orange or something. I didn’t feel like I was ready yet to do anything on a real person. I followed him into the back of the shop, through the door that he came out of earlier.
“I’m sorry,” I said as I followed him into the dark hallway. “I never got your name.”
“We don’t really do names here,” he said jovially. “You can call me ‘boss.’”
“Okay, boss,” I said. Every alarm bell in my head rang as I walked down a set of rickety stairs to the basement. The door closed behind me after I took the last step.
When I saw what was in the middle of the room, I turned around and grabbed the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. “It’s okay,” the boss said. “Everyone is here of their own free will.” In the middle of the room, a naked man hung from the ceiling, his limbs each attached to a chain that was pulled tight, leaving him spread-eagled. He faced downward, and his genitals hung between his legs. He was hairless from head to toe. The boss knelt next to the man. “You want to be here, right?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” the man said, the single word taking effort.
“See,” the boss said. “I want to be here. You want to be here. He wants to be here. Now, I want you to tattoo.”
“Tattoo what?”
The boss smiled. “Anything you like. I want to see what you think is your best work. I will be down in a couple hours. There’s water in the fridge. You can give him some if he’s thirsty and you’re feeling so inclined. Bathroom’s to the left. That one’s for you only. The drain on the floor’s for him.” The boss opened the door with ease and then closed it behind him. I heard him walk up the creaking steps. Once he was at the top, I turned to the man.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” I promised. I pulled out my phone to dial the police, praying that I would have bars in the basement.
“Please no,” the man said. “I am here because I want to be here. Tattoo me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I want this.”
I sighed, pulling out my supplies, a little ashamed of myself for freaking out so easily. I was supposed to like weird stuff. If this guy wanted to be suspended from the ceiling in some kind of BDSM set-up and get tattooed for hours at a time, who was I to judge? I spread out my ink, towels, and other materials on a rolling cart I found nearby and brought the tattoo gun to the man’s skin, stopping before the needle penetrated his body. What was I supposed to tattoo? I thought about starting with a word or two. Maybe some line art. I glanced down at my own tattoo. Start with something you’re good at. I pressed the needle to his skin, ready to start working on an identical pentagram. As the needle penetrated the skin, the man moaned in a combination of pain and pleasure. Was he getting off? I guessed that made sense. Why else would we be doing it here like this and not upstairs in a chair? I felt more unease in my stomach but forced it away. “If you’re going to be a freak, you have to do freak shit,” I muttered under my breath. If the man hanging from the ceiling heard me, he didn’t give any indication. I continued on with my tattoo.
I was done in less than an hour. The image was not as good as the one on my arm, but it was a start, and somehow, I didn’t think the guy cared how it looked. He had not stopped moaning the entire time. I went over to the minifridge in the corner and brought out a bottle of cold water, taking a gulp. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was. Taking pity on the man hanging from the ceiling, I brought the water over to him, trying to imagine how parched he must feel. I held the water up to his mouth. “No thank you,” he said. I shrugged.
“Ready for round two?” I asked. I didn’t wait for him to answer.
Time was immaterial in that basement. I could have been down there for two hours or for a week. I couldn’t tell. I gave the man several tattoos: a couple quotes from my favorite movies, a horned goat, some random lines, a logo for a restaurant, and more than a few errors. Midway through, I heard water go down the drain, and I realized the man was urinating. I didn’t want to know what would happen if he had to go number two. Finally, the door opened, and the boss entered the room. “You’ve been down here a long time. Doing good?” he asked. I took a step back and surveyed my work. It wasn’t good. Not at all. “Let’s see how it looks,” the boss said, and I flushed with embarrassment. He looked over the work. “It shows promise,” he said. “You’ve got some work to do before you’re ready to work on a real person, but this is a start. Come back tomorrow, same time.” I packed my things and left without a word.
That night, I slept fitfully, the images of the tattoos I gave my canvas swimming through my head, new ones joining them. I awoke exhausted but with a fresh set of ideas for what I would tattoo next. The second day of my new routine was the same, though when I entered the basement, the man’s position had changed. He was now suspended facing up. I did not bother with any pleasantries or protestations this time. I set up my things and got to work. On his pec I tattooed a falcon. Its wings were crooked. He was hard the whole time, his erection pointing straight up. On his calf, I tattooed the alphabet, practicing my writing ability with a tattoo gun. On his face, I tattooed a star and a triangle. I looked into his bright blue eyes as I worked. His pupils were dilated, and his lips quivered as I jabbed the needle over and over into his skin.
I admired his body while I worked. He was muscular and tan, a specimen that would put any gay guy at the gym to shame. I went down to his hip where I began to tattoo some runic symbols that I had looked up on my phone on the way over here. Tattooing there made him moan louder and longer, and I could hear him close to climax. I inched the gun closer to his crotch as I scrawled some nonsensical ancient language. I did not even have to touch him to push him over the edge. He sprayed his seed across his chest and torso, some of it even hitting his face. It gave me an idea. I took a pen and marked where his semen had fallen. Then I wiped it off his body and began to trace the outline of his fluids, forever marking his body with the intimate moment we had just shared.
At the end of the day, the boss came down again. “Getting better there, kiddo. Same time tomorrow?” I nodded, exhausted.
I don’t remember my journey home or going to bed that night. I did not dream, and I woke up even more tired than I had been the night before, but for some reason, I couldn’t wait to get back to the parlor.
That day, the man was facing down again. I got to work, tracing an intricate pattern with a pen on his buttocks and beginning the process of tattooing it permanently on him. I felt him orgasm once before I was even a quarter of the way done with one side of him, and I felt myself get hard. The day before, I had gotten little pleasure from the ordeal, but that day, it turned me on. “Can I touch you?” I asked. I had already been touching his skin, but I wanted, almost needed, to touch him differently.
“Keep tattooing,” he said, his voice strained, his breathing heavy. I continued my artistic endeavor, and he kept moaning, but this time I was with him, experiencing the same pleasure he was experiencing. When he climaxed again, I climaxed with him, feeling the sticky warmth across the front of my cargo pants. I paused the tattoo to catch my breath.
“Shit, I fucked up,” I said, looking at where my shaky hand had deviated from the pattern I had drawn.
“Keep going” was the man’s only response.
The tattoo on his buttocks was the only thing I managed to accomplish that day, but it was more intricate than anything I had ever done, and even the part I thought I botched looked okay. The door opened, and the boss entered again, sniffing the air. “Someone’s having fun down here,” he said. The air did smell like sex, and I covered myself, embarrassed. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. It happens. This process can be very erotic. You wouldn’t be the first, and you won’t be the last. Come back early tomorrow. It’s exam day.” I shuddered, imagining all the possibilities of what “exam day” meant.
I arrived the next day an hour earlier than I had been getting there. The man was facing up this time. The boss was already at the bottom of the stairs. “I want his whole body covered before you leave. Do a good job, and I think you’ll be ready to start working on some customers.” He shut the door behind him.
The first thing I did was strip naked. The connection I shared with my canvas was beyond anything I had ever experienced, and I felt our intimate hours together would be better served on an equal playing field. I surveyed the canvas. I had covered about a quarter of his body over the last three days, which made me nervous. It was going to be a long time before I was done. I started with his feet, carving every symbol and object and animal I could imagine (and some things fully unimaginable) into his flesh. Together we moaned, we cried, we sweated, we came as I worked my way up his body, oblivious to time passing. I reached his neck, and together, we climaxed again, his sixth time in as many hours and my fourth. I didn’t know how I had anything left in me, but I did. The man opened his mouth, his voice gravelly. “I love you,” he croaked, and I leaned down and kissed him. He kissed me back, and our lips wrestled. After a few moments, I broke the kiss. “Let’s finish this.” I tattooed his chin, his ears, his cheeks, his nose, and then I worked my way across his shaved skull.
As I was tattooing my final piece, another pentagram at the top of his skull, this one immaculate, better than what was on my own arm, the canvas began to shake. Another orgasm, I thought as I felt the prickling of my own member again. The shaking didn’t stop, though, and I halted my work to check on him. The man’s face was red, and his eyes were bulging. White spit trickled from his mouth. I raced to the door and pulled on it. It was locked. “Help!” I screamed. “He’s having a seizure. Help!” I pulled out my phone to call an ambulance, but it was long dead. I ran back to the man, trying desperately to unlock him from his chains so I could roll him over so that he didn’t choke on his own saliva. It was a futile attempt, so I grabbed a towel and used it to soak up the spittle. I ran back to the door, using my whole body to try to break through it. “Please help me!” I shrieked. The man’s shaking slowed to a stop, and his bladder voided onto the floor in a torrent of urine. I ran back to him, checking his pulse. Nothing. I sank to the floor, defeated.
I didn’t know how long it had been since I descended into the basement nor how long it had been since the man died, but I lay curled up in the corner, still naked, drifting in and out of consciousness. Finally, the door opened, and the boss stepped through. “Just about done down here?” he asked, surveying the body in the middle of the room as if it were just another canvas for him to judge.
“He’s dead,” I spat, not looking directly at him.
“I figured,” the boss said. “That’s what usually happens to these guys. There’s a lot of pain and pleasure mixed. A heart attack isn’t uncommon.’’ He looked at my work. “Not bad at all. A bit shaky around the pelvic area, but I figure you got a lot of movement down there.”
“These guys?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he replied nonchalantly. “It’s a fetish. Masochism unfettered. Or fettered, depending on how you look at it.” He glanced at the chains. “A few years ago, I had someone ask me if he could be chained up while I tattooed him. Paid me a lot of money to do it, so I did. He got some friends to reach out as well. Turns out they’re all in some kind of fetish message board. I’ve done a few over the years, though I’m too much of a perfectionist to really get into it. These guys don’t care how the tattoos look. Especially if half of them are going to end up in an unmarked grave a mile outside of town like this guy.” He motioned to my canvas in the middle of the room. “Don’t worry, I got a guy who will take care of this. Go home, get some rest. Come back Monday. I have a real client lined up for you. Plus, this guy’s transfer just went through, so I’ll have a check for you when you come back.”
I exited the tattoo parlor into the light of the morning. I had been in the basement for over twenty-four hours. The entire way home, I stared unblinking at nothing at all. That night, I didn’t sleep a wink. Nor the next night, nor the next. Monday morning, I arrived at the tattoo parlor early, knowing what I must do. The boss was nowhere to be found, so I climbed down the stairs, taking off item of clothing after item of clothing as I descended. I was stark naked by the time I arrived at the bottom. No one was in the center of the room. I had gotten used to seeing my canvas there, but it’s not as if that space would be empty for long. I heard the toilet flush, and the boss walked out of the door. I was standing in the middle of the room, naked and hard. The boss looked at me and smiled.
“Tattoo me,” I said. “Tattoo all of me.”