Tattoo Ch. 02: Mark of the Cumslut

As his cock shuddered and filled my mouth with his silver cream, I groaned with an involuntary delight. I wondered how good an idea it had been to come here. This indignity, which nevertheless gave me wood, would be a small price to pay if I could delete this brand from my forehead.

I had recently had a hook-up with a tattoo artist, which ended badly. I was very drunk at the time, but I vaguely remember going back to his place, though I don't remember now where that was. We kissed and petted for a while and I started to go down on him. I blame the unsettling effect of too much alcohol and my gag reflex for what happened next: I got sick on him. After that, I passed out. When I woke up, I was home, though I don't remember how I got there. I also had a note from the tattooist telling me this was his way of making me pay for giving him blue balls and getting sick all over his lap. When I saw my forehead in the mirror, I discovered the word 'cumslut' inked into my forehead with red lettering outlined in black.

To go out, I tried to hide the lettering by wearing a cap low on my forehead. Sometimes the shadow of the visor completely obscured the tattoo. Other times, more critical eyes made out the inscription and showed surprise or humour. Other eyes grew lusty, and over the past few days, though I made the effort to stay in as much as possible, I had been boldly taken orally or anally by tramps, pizza delivery guys and grocery store clerks.

I tried cosmetics to hide the tattoo, but even if it successfully disguised the tattoo, I couldn't make the treated area the same colour as my natural skin. Also, the make-up wasn't durable enough to stand up to my sweating forehead. I treated the area with a tattoo fading cream but I could see no immediate improvements.

So, I did some research online about tattoo removal. Laser treatments could remove tattoos in just a few sessions, but red was one of the hardest pigments for the lasers to break up and fade. The costs of the process were not pretty for a man of my means, nor could the work be done by the time I returned to work from vacation in just a few days, but those estimates were from a laser therapy clinic. The literature I read also said that some tattoo parlours have lasers and offer removal services. I reasoned that tattooists might be willing to move the sessions closer together and get the job done quicker. I checked online resources for local businesses and found there were over ninety tattoo parlours in the city. Only two advertised 'laser tattoo removal'. Visits were by appointment only. I called the first parlour and a man took down my name and told me to be there by three o'clock the next afternoon.

I wore a bandage around my head to completely hide the 'cumslut' brand on my forehead. When I arrived at the parlour, I was uncompromised by men who might have been tempted to use me if they saw the inscription above my eyes. When I entered the shop, a voice in the back called out that he would be right with me.

I looked around the parlour. There were dozens of patterns and designs on the wall ranging from the cute to the obscene. A couple of chairs and a couch created a lounge area in the shop. There were binders on a table filled with additional designs. The floor was checkered black and white tile.

When the tattooist came out, he was a lean fellow with a cap of curly brown hair. He was clean-shaven with a few facial piercings. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He had tattoos all over his neck and arms. It looked like good quality work and I assumed he designed the patterns himself. He was a living portfolio of his art.

He looked at the clock and saw it was three p.m., so he greeted me tersely. "You're the guy who needs a tattoo removed super-quick?"

"Yes," I said.

"Is that it under the bandages?"

"Yes."

"Alright." I felt ever so slightly intimidated when he crossed to the front of the shop and locked the door, but I remembered this business was by appointment only. It made sense he would be locking the door so he could give his one customer his full attention. "Let's go in the back and I'll have a look under the lights."

We walked behind the counter into his work space. Now that we were in his studio, he introduced himself as Greg. At his direction, I lay back in a reclining chair and he turned on a strong lamp. It almost felt like I was at the dentist. He peeled off the bandages and I blushed as the layers hiding my shame were quickly peeled.

When my forehead was exposed, Greg whistled.

"I think I see the problem," he said with a sympathetic smirk.

"Yes," I said, quickly glossing over the content of my tattoo and pressing him for his professional opinion. "Do you think it can be removed? How long will it take? I'm on vacation now but I'm expected back at work on Monday."

"That's only five days from now," Greg said, as he continued to examine the tattoo. "From what you said, you already know red is one of the hardest colours to remove. The black can probably be faded out in three or four sessions. The red... that might take five or six sessions. Maybe more. And they can't be hurried. The skin has to heal between treatments. Looking closely, I see that there is some deliberate-looking scarring. If we fade the pigments completely, the word 'cumslut' will still stand off your head in scar tissue. That can likely be removed by a cosmetic surgeon, but that's not for me to say."

I didn't like the sound of these delays. "Can we start now?"

Greg leaned back and surveyed me as if seeing me for the first time. I knew that look. He was reading my label and he was getting ready to open the can. The same thing happened to me as always since getting this tattoo: when a man looked at me that way, my heartrate rose and my breathing changed; I broke out in a cold sweat on my tattooed forehead; my growing erection pressed helplessly against my zipper; my ass ached in hunger and my mouth watered.

"'Cumslut'... it's making me kind of hot to think you go down on your knees for just anyone..."

Greg reached down and helped me out of the recliner and onto my feet. I didn't stay on my feet for long. Dropping to my knees, I knew very well what was expected of me. I was being used again and it made me hot too. I scrabbled at the front of his pants, freeing his erection.

Greg's cock was more than I could swallow; despite my growing experience, I wasn't a deep-throater. I took the shaft in my hand and licked the head of his dick. Greg moaned with delight.

"Yeah, cumslut, suck that dick..."

I accepted the abuse easily by now. I closed my mouth over him and began to swirl my tongue around his cock-head. This continued for several minutes before I began to enclose more of his dick, vibrating my tongue against the underside of his cock. I began to slowly piston back and forth, taking as much of him in my mouth as I could before backing almost all the way off. After a few strokes, I used my hand to jack the shaft of his cock in unison with my oral efforts. After a few minutes of this, I tasted pre-cum; it mixed with my saliva and made union of mouth and cock even smoother.

"Fuck, yeah..." Greg said.

As the pace of my face-fucking increased, sweat dewed my forehead. My breaths were shallow and quick. My heart almost burst in its ribcage. Make no mistake, this was hard work.

It was strange even to me how the 'cumslut' tattoo seemed to bring this wantonness out of me. After all, no one was forcing me in these encounters (so far)... I submitted to cocks without a will or desire to resist.

"Oh, fuck, that's good, you're a great cocksucker," Greg panted.

I didn't stop to thank him. I was in the zone. I was stimulating his whole penis with mouth and hand, but now I added my left hand to the mix, massaging his balls tenderly. I felt one of his testicles pulling up and I knew Greg was approaching his climax.

As his cock shuddered and filled my mouth with his silver cream, I groaned with an involuntary delight. My own erection twitched and spasmed in sympathy with the one I was working. I didn't orgasm with my feeder, but I felt strangely satisfied. I licked the surplus cum and saliva from the tattoo artist's prick and packed it back in its pants.

Greg was still breathing hard as he came down from his orgasmic high. I let him catch his breath. I stood up to dignify myself a little.

I wondered how good an idea it had been to come here. This indignity, which nevertheless gave me wood, would be a small price to pay if I could delete this brand from my forehead.

Very much as if nothing had happened, and lately incidents like this were commonplace, I addressed Greg. "Do you think you can help me or not?"

Greg considered. "My laser will break down the black ink, no doubt, but it doesn't have the range to affect the red ink. You'd have to go to a laser therapy clinic for that. Like I said, even without the pigments, your scar tissue will be visible: your face will say 'cumslut' in scar tissue and that will probably take cosmetic surgery."

"Will you help?" I asked.

"No," Greg said after giving it very little thought.

I was crestfallen. "Why not?"

"Because there are some people you don't want to piss off."

"What do you mean?"

"The font-style and colour scheme of the tattoo is a bit of a trademark around town. The man who inks in that style is a loner named Vance. He's been known to do things like this before, to both men and women. He's said to be a bad man to get on the wrong side of. A guy erasing his work could also get on his bad side."

"You mean, you're afraid to remove my tattoo?"

Greg shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "I guess I don't like to admit it, but, yeah, I'm afraid of him."

"Have you ever met Vance?"

"Once. He wasn't a pleasant fellow."

I drew a verbal picture of the man I remembered vaguely from the night earlier in the week when I was out on a bender. Greg matched his description to my own and we were sure it was the same man.

"How do I find Vance?" I asked.

"If you're smart, you don't," Greg said. "And don't press me on it. I don't know where he works or lives and I'm not going to ask around."

I nodded and inspected myself. No cum on my face, shirt or pants. I began wrapping the bandage back on to hide my forehead.

"Maybe you should just drop it. I'm pretty sure the professional tattooists in town will refuse to help you for the same reasons I won't. He's not a man to be crossed."

I acknowledged him, but I was not well pleased with the man for refusing to help me. I made to leave.

"Hey, thanks," Greg said. "Uh, for the blowjob. Sorry I can't help you."

I nodded. As I fitted my cap over the bandages hiding my tattoo, I thought about what I had discovered. It was still possible to remove the tattoo. My vindictive tattooist is known and feared in the city. Now I even had a name: Vance. I couldn't remember from my hook-up with him if he even gave me his name, so I couldn't be perfectly sure, but this was something to go on. Perhaps, I could go to the police and have this renegade tattoo artist arrested.

I imagined how a macho policeman would act if I reported the crime and showed my evidence. There was another submissive tingling in my cock over the thought of such a humiliation and I cursed myself for it. I needed to be resolute. After all, surely a crime had been committed? This involuntary inscription on my body must constitute some kind of legal violation.

I left the tattoo parlour and walked toward the subway station and the train that would take me home. My encounter with Greg satisfied my submissive cum hunger, but it had not gotten me off.

Maybe I should go to the police, after all. My brain and my dick seemed to agree for once.

I'd have to be done by seven, because my pizza delivery guy, who had been fucking me nearly daily since he first spotted my tattoo, had texted earlier. He would be at my place waiting for me to ride his cock before he started his shift. I reflected that a part of me owed a lot of sensual pleasure to my 'cumslut' tattoo and I felt conflicted about it. My cock tingled whenever I thought about it. I was horny as Hell.

Now was as good a time as any to go to the police, I thought as I unwound the tight bandage around my forehead and discarded it in a trash can and setting my hat lightly on my forehead.

After all, seven o'clock was three hours away. Who knew what might happen?