Chapter 1

It was a Friday.

Markus remembered that it was a Friday, because they were already pretty busy days, but this Friday had broken all records.

When he’d started working at the tattoo parlor, he’d been given a choice. He could be paid by the hour, or by each individual tattoo he completed. He’d chosen an hourly rate, something he’d never regretted ... Until that Friday.

There were five unusual things about the tattoo-seeking horde who trickled in throughout the course of the day. Well, it started as a trickle - by about 3pm, it was more of a stampede.

First of all, the majority of them were first-time customers.

Getting tattooed, it’s often been said, is addictive. Few people have exactly one tattoo, and so Markus was used to return clients - people who’d liked his work on their ankle or their forearm, and maybe wanted it touched up, or wanted more work done elsewhere.

First timers weren’t uncommon, of course, but they typically made up less than a third of the shop’s business.

Not that day, however.

Secondly, and this was even more unusual, they were all women. Not just most - all. At the start of the day a few guys dropped by, but as the day went on, the only men in the store were there to gawk at the plethora of women who had poured through the door, waiting for their turn to be inked.

Markus lost track after the first few dozen, but he inked more women that day than he had in the past month combined. After noon, his hands constantly threatened to cramp up, and he made sure to eat a banana during his lunch break.

At first, he’d made small talk with the girls - they were all, it turned out, from the college just over the road. Not particularly surprising; that was how a lot of his clients found him. As the day went on, however, he ceased chatting and just focused on getting the girls inked and out the door - there were more than enough people waiting for him to know that any time spent making small-talk was time being wasted.

After all, they all knew exactly what they wanted.

That was the third unusual thing. Normally, there’d be a bit of back-and-forth; they’d ask to see the book, or inquire about what tattoos were popular at the time.

On that fateful Friday, they sat down and described - in graphic detail - the exact tattoo they wanted. Each girl wanted a different tattoo, but each of them knew exactly what they were looking for.

The fourth unusual thing took him the longest to notice - as the day went on, he realized that the majority of the girls wanted their first tattoo were blonde.

And not just blonde: bottle-blonde, specifically.

It took him a while to recognize the smell, but it seemed that all of his new customers who weren’t already blonde had bleached their hair... that day.

They had apparently woken up, bleached their hair, and then immediately come to him for a slutty tattoo.

And that was the fifth thing that all of these women had in common - they were all sluts.

This wasn’t just apparent through their choice of tattoo - although that was certainly a solid indicator. No, these women were obviously, proudly, blatantly acting like little sluts. Most of them offered sexual favors in lieu of paying for a tattoo - Markus, a proudly gay man, declined ... but he was slightly surprised to find how tempting the offer was.

He’d never been interested in women. He’d had a few girlfriends in highschool, mostly as a mask, and he’d even tried straight sex a few times during his first years in college, but it had only served to confirm what he already knew - he was gay, gay, gay as a tangerine. Gay as a male tangerine having anal intercourse with a second, also-male tangerine.

But for some reason, these bleach-blonde women were doing something to him. It wasn’t attraction, exactly - they were missing something, something that was hard to put his finger on. But on more than one occasion, the women emitted small gasps of arousal as he tattooed them, and Markus found himself getting hard at the sound.

Weirder still, after they were tattooed, as they were staring lovingly at their new ink, he found them somehow more arousing.

It didn’t make sense. He enjoyed being a tattoo artist for the art of it, not due to any fetish for tattooed people. Especially not because of a fetish for tattooed women.

Yet something about them, standing there half-naked, blonde, visibly aroused at the sight of their own tattoos ... It was doing something to him. Something he didn’t like.

And, at the same time, something that he really liked.

On more than one occasion, Markus had looked up from his tattoo gun to find the women who were next in line making out ... or doing even more than that. The men who’d been attracted by the long lines of scantily-clad blondes had quickly learned that even the crudest flirting was accepted enthusiastically, and Markus was fairly sure that the giggling couples (or, more often, trios) who asked him where the bathroom was weren’t going to be using it for its intended purpose.

At first, he’d barked at the giggling women to stop making out, to remove their hands from under each other’s skirts or tops ... but it had seemed to have no effect, and so as time went on he’d given up, focusing instead on his job.

Focusing on his job, trying not to think about his confused, semi-erect penis.

Finally, 9pm rolled around, and Markus told the rest of the queue that they’d have to return the next day (when, to his great relief, he wouldn’t be working). He ignored the offers of sex, oral sex, anal sex, group sex, rough sex, and sex that he was fairly sure was illegal, ushered the disappointed crowd out the door, and turned off the neon sign offering TATTOOS AND PIERCINGS.

After making sure that the bathrooms were empty of lingering blonde sluts and opportunistic dudes, he took advantage of an empty stall, and - to his great embarrassment - got himself off, imagining a tattooed slut kneeling at his feet, swallowing his cock, and bringing him off while he pulled on her blonde hair.

What the hell was wrong with him?

The next morning, Markus awoke surrounded by used tissues. Confused and ashamed, he’d jerked off twice more thinking about the stream of women he’d had through the tattoo parlor the day before - blonde, unabashed sluts, covered in tattoos, on their knees in front of him.

He’d started to jerk off a third time, but images of fucking these women - fucking them, like a straight guy - had muscled their way into his head, and the idea was so off-putting that he’d forced himself to stop touching himself and go to sleep.

Markus wasn’t straight. He only had one tattoo himself - seven dots, across his left wrist, the colors of the pride flag. He was gay; he was proudly gay, and always had been.

So why was he suddenly obsessed with blonde tramps who’d suddenly decided that they wanted to get inked?

In the shower, as he was deliberately refusing to touch his erection, a thought struck him.

Why had they all decided that they wanted a tattoo? And not just any tattoo, but something slutty.

College girls getting slutty tattoos was hardly an earth-shatteringly unusual event, but so many of them getting them, all at once? Wearing the same slutty outfits, sporting the same bimbo dye jobs?

He’d been so swamped by the work (and distracted by his confusing urges) that he hadn’t had time to question it, merely observe how odd it was.

Something was going on. Something had affected the women of Capital College ... and whatever it was, it had somehow affected Markus as well.

Drying himself off and pulling a shirt over his brown hair, Markus realized what he had to do - he had to find out whatever was messing with his sexuality, and he had to put a stop to it.

He had to go into campus and investigate.

A combination of good looks, connections with the gay community, and a job as a tattoo artist meant that Markus could garner an invitation to almost any event on campus. It only took a few minutes on Twitter for Markus to learn of the hottest college parties happening that weekend, and before it was even noon he’d made sure he was welcome at all of them.

Until then, he knew he had to get out of the house, else he’d find himself jerking off to the thought of blonde bimbos doing all manner of awful things to him. Awful straight things. He finished getting dressed and decided to head to the mall. Maybe he’d get something new, really make an impression at the night’s parties.

For any guys who were there, he insisted, barely even believing himself.

To his relief, the mall seemed normal. There were no throngs of slutty women, demanding to be tattooed (although it probably helped that the mall didn’t have a tattoo parlor). There were redheads, brunettes - Markus even saw a bald woman.

The world hadn’t gone mad.

Just his tattoo parlor.

As he was waiting for his cappuccino, Markus’s jaw dropped.

Two blonde sluts were walking across the food court, holding tattooed hands, wearing as little as they could without being removed by mall security.

The taller of the pair was wearing a red-and-black pleated dress, fishnet stockings, and a thin white top (which presented her hard nipples to the world).

The shorter girl was significantly wider, but her extra girth hadn’t stopped her from showing as much skin as she could. She wore a denim skirt which she’d obviously hacked away at with a pair of scissors, ensuring that it showed off her thick thighs and threatened to ride up and reveal her huge ass to the entire mall.

She wasn’t wearing any shoes or socks at all, and her generous bosom was barely contained by a checkered shirt which she’d tied around her boobs. With every step, the knot looked as if it was just about to give, and show her boobs off to anyone who was watching.

Which, Markus soon realized, was everyone.

He wasn’t the only one whose attention had been drawn by the duo. It was as if the President had sauntered through - conversations had stopped, and all eyes were on the two girls.

Markus was embarrassed to notice that he was hard once more.

Yet, despite his fascination with the girls, he wasn’t attracted to them, exactly. He was attracted, but ... like with the throng of similarly-clad sluts he’d had in his tattoo parlor the day before, there was something missing.

There was something not quite right.

The shorter girl’s cleavage, for example - that was a turnoff. Boobs being a turnoff to Markus was hardly new, but there was something specifically wrong about it. She was a sexy blonde slut, but ... her boobs were too big.

Her boobs were too big, she was too wide, and she just wasn’t right.

The taller girl wasn’t much better. She had the “correct” chest size (even though Markus had no idea what he meant by that, he knew it was true) but her nose was too long, her eyes were too wide apart. She was an extraordinarily attractive woman ... she just wasn’t the right attractive woman.

Despite the fact that both of them were off, Markus knew that he’d fuck either of them, given half a chance. Hell, he’d fuck both of them.

Or maybe he and a few other guys could fuck them.

Markus had never partaken in a threesome before - he’d had offers, but he preferred sexual encounters one-on-one. But for some reason, painting the two girls in cum, fucking their asses while other men fucked their throats, their pussies, or were jerked off ... there was something about the image that felt so right.

He wanted to fuck these women. No, not quite.

He didn’t want to fuck these women. He wanted to fuck the idea of them ... And, by the looks of it, he wasn’t the only one.

As the two women reached the end of the food court, Markus noticed a small group of men following them. Including, to his disappointment, the cute man who had been halfway through making his cappuccino.

Markus cried out after him, but he clearly wasn’t listening. He was totally focused on the two women ... and Markus couldn’t blame him.

He considered following after them, but when an image of himself and the barista taking turns being jerked off by the two women held far too much appeal, he decided that he’d much rather just go without his coffee.

At 6pm, Markus finally left the mall and started heading home to prepare for the party - he hadn’t caught sight of the two sluts again, but he had noticed every blonde he passed. And, as he watched people watch people, he certainly wasn’t the only one.

He knew that blonde was widely considered the most attractive of the hair colors, but even that couldn’t explain the amount of attention being given to the fair-haired women walking around the mall. On several occasions, Markus saw people stop talking mid-sentence as a blonde passed by ... regardless of how attractive they were.

That wasn’t the only factor, although it was certainly the most obvious one. Women showing more skin were also getting an inordinate amount of attention - especially if they were sporting a tattoo or two. Basically, the closer someone was to the archetype which had filled Markus’s place of work the previous day, the more attention everyone seemed to be paying them.

Including, to his great discomfort, Markus himself.

As he walked back to his one-bedroom apartment, Markus’s cock was practically aching with arousal. All he wanted to do was take a few minutes to relieve himself, picture one of those blonde bimbos splayed out in front of him, picture his hard cock buried deep inside her, watching her scream and gasp with pleasure ... But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

And then, after he did, he still didn’t feel any better. With a sigh, Markus cleaned himself up and got dressed to go to the party.

Something was definitely up, and he was going to get to the bottom of it.

As soon as he stepped into the dorm, Markus knew that he was getting closer to the source of ... of it. Of whatever was happening.

To begin with, all the women were blonde. All of them. He had passed some of the cleaning staff on the way in - two Hispanic women in their 60’s - and even they were blonde.

Blonde and horny, by the way that they were looking at him. He shuddered, shooed away the thoughts of the two old cleaners making out around his cock, and went to his first party of the night.

After the obligatory greetings to the two or three people that he vaguely knew, Markus found a quiet corner from which he could watch the party.

It quickly became clear that the campus’s tattoo obsession had continued on his day off. He recognized his own handiwork on a few of the party-goers, but even more had fresh tattoos, tattoos that should have been under plastic wrap ... but were instead being shown off as badges of honor.