Chapter 4 Talon
My tattoo artist held the mirror in front of me so that I could check out the recent progress on my back. I turned to see my reflection between two mirrors, the one behind me and the one he was holding.
An enormous snake curled across my lower back, twisted and bleeding as the hawk spanning my upper back held the snake in its claws. They were two predators competing for dominance over one another.
I was well aware of the irony of my chosen artwork.
Our session today was long. We were blacking out the background of the elaborate backpiece and covering some of the old tattoos that crept into my hairline.
My skin was fairly pale, and now that the artist had tattooed so much of it with solid black ink, I enjoyed how it contrasted so boldly.
I stretched my limbs and back, twisting from side to side, and cracked my knuckles.
I was sore from lying on my stomach for so long.
My body was more ink than not, tattoos covering my throat, hands, knuckles, torso, arms, and legs. I even had my ass tattooed. That had hurt, but who was I kidding? I enjoyed the pain.
I also enjoyed inflicting pain. In fact, all pain, inflicted or felt, had a way of making me horny. I loved the feeling of getting tattooed, the relentless scrape of so many little needles going in and out of my skin as the machine vibrated, and little beads of blood and ink seeped to the surface.
I was normally calm and calculated, but my recent long and particularly painful tattoo session had me buzzing, and my careful demeanor was thinner than usual. The mask was slipping, and the thing inside me was dying to get out. I stamped down the feeling, telling it, “Soon, be patient.”
The artist spread Vaseline across the freshly tattooed areas of my back and neck. He then wrapped the skin in a layer of Saran Wrap. I was all too familiar with the aftercare process for new ink, so he didn’t bother with any of that.
Unfolding and pulling a simple black T-shirt over my head, I dressed quickly before booking my next appointment, paying for the session, and tipping the artist generously for a job well done. His efficiency, professionalism, and quiet demeanor impressed me.
The artist had been tattooing me since I had arrived in Falcon City, but he never made small talk, never asked questions, just put his head down and got to work. He knew nothing about me, and I knew nothing about him, despite spending many hours together for our sessions, which I liked.
I preferred silence to meaningless chatter, the latter of which I had to endure plenty of from Ryker. As if summoned by a thought, my phone buzzed while I was exiting the tattoo shop to see a text from him.
Ryker: Change of Plans. Meet me at Rosie’s Bar tonight.
Rosie’s? The Beta Bar? Why would I meet him there?
Alphas drank at The Rusty Tap and Betas drank at Rosie’s.
We preferred to socialize within our own designations.
Beta grunts were busy little worker bees, and they got riled up easily when an alpha entered their hive.
Plus all the good “beta bunnies,” as Ryker liked to call them, hung around The Rusty Tap.
Those betas were perverse, drooling over alpha’s dicks, trying desperately to get knotted.
Ryker loved dragging those women into the restroom stall for a quickie.
He said it was like shooting fish in a barrel.
Their desperation repulsed me. Not only were my standards higher than Ryker's, but I also preferred more of a challenge.
Although I did occasionally partake of the women at The Rusty Tap, especially when I was high after a tattoo session like this.
It was a simple, easy way to feed my needs, even if I felt like disinfecting myself with bleach after sticking my dick in some restroom slut.
Ryker was up to something.
He had a penchant for trouble. In just the short time we had been here, I’d seen Cade pull him out of nearly every bar and brothel in the city. Antagonising comments, satisfied smirks, and outright insults were unavoidable for him. He liked to push people to the edge of their patience.
Ryker also talked more than anyone I had ever met, which annoyed me beyond belief. Endless yapping about anything at all, every sentence laced with never-ending profanities. No taboo topic was off-limits, and there was no such thing as “not the right place” for certain conversations.
He even talked endlessly when we screwed women together. Telling them how pretty their pussies were, asking them if they liked my tattoos or his big fat cock. He liked to tell them how good of a job they were doing, and describe just how tight their ass, mouths, or pussies were gripping his dick.
While his voice was exasperatingly bothersome, I enjoyed the way the women always glowed under his praise.
His easy, charismatic demeanor helped ease their apprehension about me.
After all, my glowing yellow eyes set me apart.
They were predatory, unmistakable, and a clear sign of my shifter nature.
My unusual appearance both intrigued and unsettled women. They loved the thrill of telling their friends they’d been with a shifter, but when fantasy met reality, most of them couldn’t handle what they’d asked for.
That’s where Ryker came in.
He was a master at pulling women into our orbit, manipulating them, saying all the right things, making them feel special.
And once they were hooked, we could bend them to our will.
They also worked harder to please us when he praised them.
They followed his instructions like good little sluts, and I had a better release because of it.
Sometimes if he was talking too much while we were both inside a woman, I would put my tattooed hands around his thick throat and squeeze.
It was the only thing I could do to make him shut up.
Plus, I would release so hard when my fingers got to wrap around his throat, or anyone’s really.
Choking freaked the betas out though, so I only did it to Ryker, who seemed to actually enjoy it.
He would always throw me a little wink when I cut off his air, and cum soon after.
I knew he had something planned for tonight that would unfold into an absolute shitshow. The night would probably end with me calling Cade to come clean up Ryker’s mess.
Normally, I would try to reason with him, convince him The Rusty Tap was a better option, and his usual beta bunnies would miss him if he didn't visit them tonight.
But that buzz was still riding me, and the thing inside wanted whatever storm was brewing.
It wanted out. It wanted mess, fuss, and chaos after being tucked away for so long.
Ryker was the perfect person to team up with when I felt like uncorking the bottle and letting out a bit of steam. I was usually so careful to keep my mask in place, but in order to do that, I had to feed the beast’s needs from time to time. Otherwise, the wolf might not be happy hiding anymore.
I texted him back.
You’re up to something. I’m in.
Meet you at 2230.