Image of Deceit

IMAGE OF DECEIT

         The ocean seemingly calmed for her as she waded through the surf to stand on the sun-warmed beach. A sea nymph from the depths, crowned with waist-length russet hair, her skin was the color of a moonstone. The salt water caressed her as it eddied from her flawless flesh.

         Johnson sat mesmerized, the plastic-webbed beach chair sticking to his sweating thighs like some voracious, sucking sea anemone. He watched the goddess shade her eyes with one delicate hand and scan the beach, as though looking for something. He marveled at the black bikini that barely covered the erotic parts of her magnificent body.

         His beer was warm and bitter. He tossed the can aside and clawed blindly through his ice chest for a fresh, cold brew, hesitant to take his eyes off of the girl. His pulse rate climbed when he realized she was moving in his direction. Lean, well-muscled legs carried her easily up the sandy incline.

         As she came closer, Johnson saw that her delicately-boned face was the sort which inspired poets and artists to create masterpieces. He counted himself among those who would eagerly worship at her feet.

         She stopped in front of him, blocking out the sun. His eyes were level with her ring-pierced navel. Her translucent skin was discolored just below the ring--an indefinite shape etched in seaweed-green and black by a tattoo artist's electric needle. Two pointed spires on either side of a rounded hump--like fir trees growing on opposite sides of a hill--were visible across her flat belly. The tattoo disappeared beneath the thin fabric of her bikini bottom.

         Johnson found himself saddened that such perfect, pale flesh could be desecrated so. In the same instant he realized he would kill to ease the girl's bikini down over her curvaceous hips, exposing the rest of the tattoo and her bountiful body to his hungry eyes.

         "Excuse me," the beauty said, her voice a throaty whisper, nearly lost amidst the sounds of wind and surf. "I can read your thoughts, Johnson."

         Johnson choked in surprise, a froth of beer suds spewing from between his lips. He tried to make his mind a blank slate as he wiped beer from his chin with the back of his hand.

         Jade green eyes peered down at him. "You would like to have sex with me because you think I am beautiful. My body is making you erect. It is a very good body, is it not?" she asked, cupping one heavy breast in her hand and squeezing it. A dreamy softness clouded her face. Her lips-parted smile was the most erotic thing Johnson had ever seen.

         He surveyed the beach, but there were no other witnesses to the girl's self- stimulation. They were alone save for dozens of gulls crying overhead and hyperactive sandpipers dashing in search of food through the breaking surf.

         Guessing his thoughts was no great feat, Johnson reflected. Any man who saw her would have the same spontaneous desire to possess her. She had to know that. But how had she known his name? "Have we met?" Johnson asked, standing. She was a tall girl.

         She offered her hand. "I am Fayla."

         Her hand was warm, vibrating with sexual energy. Johnson found it difficult to set her hand free from his own. She arched one perfect eyebrow. "The sex?"

         Somewhat of a computer geek, pale from too much time spent indoors and unaccustomed to beautiful women (or even homely ones for that matter), offering themselves, he thought sometimes it is best not to question. "Here?" he asked.

         "Your place is nearby. There," she said, pointing to the weathered bungalow atop a dune less than a hundred yards away.

         Again, too many questions might spoil the invitation. Taking up his chair and ice chest, Johnson nodded for the girl to precede him. Her buttocks were rounded, like twin halves of a bowling ball, firm, without even a jiggle. He had never wanted any woman more. She glanced back at him and smiled, as though she did know his every thought.

         As soon as he let her in his rented home she removed her bikini top, tossing it casually over his toaster. Ah. Fantasy breasts. A composite of every centerfold he had ever lusted over. Their sex was fevered and too fast, but Johnson still felt as though he were angel blessed, expending himself completely.

         She smelled of some coconut scented suntan lotion and sweet female perspiration, Johnson noticed as he laid his cheek against her belly, beneath the gentle slope of her breasts. He remembered the tattoo then, the partial form he had seen on the beach. Rising on his elbow he examined the full design; traced it with his fingers, making Fayla shiver. It covered her whole lower abdomen. He tried different angles but couldn't determine what the tattoo was supposed to represent. "Fayla?"

         "Mm?" she hummed, twirling her finger in his sand-colored hair.

         "I can't make out your tattoo. What's it supposed to be?"

         "You really don't know?"

         "Nope. Just black and green swirls to me."

         She sat up, her stomach muscles tightening. "Look more closely."

         Johnson strained his eyes. "I can almost see something, but the shades run together."

         Fayla drew his face toward her and kissed him. Never had he felt the passion he felt for her. She whispered against his ear, "If you can decipher my tattoo I'll be yours for as long as you live."

         Johnson instinctively knew she meant what she said. He untangled himself from her arms, walked quickly to the kitchen, and returned seconds later with a magnifying glass the diameter of an orange. He examined Fayla's tattoo with the glass.

         "Well?" She asked.

         Johnson shook his head in disgust. "It only makes the swirls larger, but no more distinct."

         "I need to go now," Fayla said, her tone flat. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

         Johnson held his palms toward her. "No! Let me think." He chewed the skin of his knuckle, shaking in frustration. "I must increase the definition somehow."

         His eyes seemed to be drawn to the desk holding his computer and printer. "Of course!" he laughed. "I should have thought of this sooner." Johnson flipped the switch of the surge protector to "on", and brought the computer, printer, and monitor to life simultaneously. "This will work. This has to work," he muttered, plugging a hand-scanner into the outlet.

         He turned to call Fayla to his side and jumped when he realized she was already standing behind him. "Stand very still. I'm going to scan your tattoo into the computer. Then I can adjust the resolution and definition..."

         Fayla melted against his thigh, the heat of her bare flesh mind-numbing. "I know," she interrupted. "You will surely solve the puzzle this way." She drew in her breath, making her belly nearly flat.

         Johnson drew the scanner over her taut skin, from hip bone to hip bone, from navel to red-haired mound. "Okay. This shouldn't take long."

         Fayla drifted back to the bed and spread herself wantonly while Johnson took a seat at the desk and began typing commands. The image crept across the monitor screen, a senseless blur. "Damn!" Johnson exploded between clenched teeth. His fingers raced over the keyboard. The tattoo image grew larger, smaller, more distinct in some areas, a smear of colors in others. He began to wonder if the tattoo was a rendering of anything specific at all, or simply a hodge-podge of lines and slashes with no true form.

         He sent the command to "print". The printer shook and jittered as it filled the page with a picture. Johnson took the paper from the printer and held it to the light. A face? Like finding shapes in the cumulus clouds of summer, the picture could be interpreted in many ways. "I don't know, Fayla," he said, turning toward her.

         She lay on her back, facing him, her knees bent and spread wide. "You give up so easily?" She was pure sensuality, whore of the ages, possessing the knowledge of how to please a man, over and over again, for time eternal.

         Johnson felt like crying.

         "Perhaps if you asked the opinion of others..."

         "Huh?"

         "Can't you speak to people with your computer?" Fayla asked.

         "You mean put your tattoo on the 'Net' and ask for help in figuring out the shape?"

         She nodded, showing tiny white teeth in a sweet smile.

         He quickly linked up with his internet service provider and sent E-mail to every participant, along with the graphic file containing Fayla's tattoo. His message was short: "The image appended to this message is a tattoo. The first person to tell me what the tattoo represents will have my undying gratitude and a crisp hundred dollar bill. Please forward to everyone you know!"

         Johnson sent the message into cyberspace, knowing hundreds of thousands, millions, of computer junkies around the world would rise to the challenge. Return messages began filling his screen almost immediately. The respondents, it seemed, had no problem at all recognizing the tattoo. Those who could still answer did so.

         Fayla moaned exultantly.

         Johnson watched as her tattoo slipped into focus. What had previously appeared to be trees growing on a hill were actually tapered ears bursting from the crown of a head, short horns evenly spaced between them. The swirling lines coalesced into a broad nose with flared nostrils and a mouth permanently torn by a centuries old sneer. What had before been Fayla's pubic triangle was now a neatly trimmed goatee.

         "Why?" he asked, watching the girl become the tattoo.

         The thing standing naked and obscene before him said, "Through your machine you '...had power to give life unto the image of the beast, that the beast should both speak, and cause that as many as would not worship the image of the beast should be killed'."

         Johnson backed away. "What are you saying?"

         "I am saying that I used you to fulfill a passage from the Bible: Revelation 13:15. Through my deception you have given me life, then spread that life throughout the world. Those who see my image on their computer screens and worship me shall live. Those who do not..." The beast shrugged.

         "What do you want from me," Johnson asked, his heart a thunderously thudding drum within his chest.

         The beast grinned, fangs gleaming, pointed a long, black-nailed finger toward its cloven hooves and hissed. "Bow before me or die."

         Johnson wanted to run, to refuse the creature. His life was at risk. Indeed, his very soul was at stake. But Fayla's image coalesced from that of the beast and, with it, the promise of more sex. All the sex he wanted. Forever. He weakened. His knees became rubbery, then bent.

         He knelt before his master.

The End