Tattoo Ch. 07: The Society

I opened my apartment door wide before I realized that I had forgotten to hide my tattoo under a hat. It was already too late. The man at the door was wide-eyed as he read the label pasted across my forehead.

He was black, about thirty, a bit stocky and very handsome. He wore the tan shirt and striped black pants of a security guard from my office. In his hands, he held a banker's box. That tracked; as I was now assigned to work from home, my manager sent my desk contents home. I was told this delivery would be coming but I didn't expect it quite so soon.

"So, the rumours were true," he said. His voice was smooth and deep.

There was no use in pretending I didn't know what rumours he was talking about. A few key players at work had seem my "CUMSLUT" forehead tattoo when I was in the office this morning. I was told that my teammates would be sworn to silence, but other gossip-mongers had seen me too. Word would circulate quickly about the rising, young professional whose career was at jeopardy because of an obscene tattoo.

I blushed fiercely. I always felt exposed when my tattoo was seen; it was my most private, inside self made manifest on my forehead in black and red ink. It had only been a week-and-a-half or so since this word was inscribed upon me. In that time, I had freely given my ass and mouth for use by many desiring men dozens of times, and though I did not volunteer to be a cumslut, I had to admit I loved the sex.

"Can I set this down somewhere?" the security officer asked.

I recovered a little poise and waved him into my apartment. I left the door open. He passed me and set the box down on the nearest useful surface, my living room coffee table. He needed my signature to confirm receipt of the box, so I quickly checked the contents. On top of my paperwork and office supplies, someone had thrown in a long, pink dildo. Very funny, of course, and very embarrassing in front of the security officer.

It begged the question: who at work had a giant, pink dildo near at hand in the office for such a joke, and why?

I signed off that I received my possessions and handed the clipboard back to the security officer. He was still staring at my tattoo, and I knew the look. I let my eyes fall to his crotch and saw that it was bulging. I sighed as I felt my own loins stirring. Why fight it? I thought. I walked past the man and closed the apartment door.

A moment later, I was back in front of him and quickly moving into his personal space. He was taller than me and I had to look up to catch his eyes. His face twitched beneath a sheen of sweat; he said nothing, but there was urgency and demand in his eyes. I fumbled a moment unbuckling his belt, but soon I had his pants open, revealing a hard, pulsing cock pushing out the front of his underwear. I dropped to my knees before him, but our eyes remained locked on each other's faces. His expression was turning to lust and he saw the same thing on mine. I caressed his dick through the fabric of his shorts, before tugging at the waistband to let out my prize. His pecker bounced at my eye level.

His dick was seven inches, cut and fragrant; his pleasant natural musk was mitigated by the fresh smell of body-wash. I put my fingers on his bare cock and began to massage it gently. The cock-helmet took on a reddish-purple hue. It was ripe for sucking.

I fell on it with a will and heard the security offer's inhalation as he was suddenly overloaded with sensations in the head of his cock. I held the base of his dick with my hand while I gave the mushroom-head a lot of attention with my teeth and tongue. I treated that cock like an ice cream cone: I licked and nipped at it before wrapping my tongue tightly around it. I felt a hint of viscosity when he expressed a few drops of pre-cum in my mouth. I savoured the salty emission as it joined with my saliva in lubricating my lover's cock for a proper blowjob.

As I worked on him, I still looked up at my unnamed lover through the top of my eyes. His eyes looked back from a helpless countenance. He was absolutely caught up in what I was doing to him. I enjoyed casting a spell like that over my lovers; I might be a cumslut, as my tattoo said, but I still cared for what and whom I was doing. I wanted them to enjoy themselves while enjoying me; that was at least half the fun. For the moment, he was as helpless to resist the pleasure rising from my stimulation as I was helpless to resist anyone who wanted to use me.

I varied my technique over his erection. I moved past the tasty head of his penis and began to slide my lips over the shaft of his organ. I let my tongue vibrate against the hard underside of his penis as I began to bob my head back and forth, taking him ever deeper in my mouth. I soon enclosed his entire dick in my mouth and my nose was in his short and curlies. His pubic hair exuded more of his natural odour; his scent was intoxicating. I deep-throated him, applying a little suction, caving my cheeks so that they mimicked the tight walls of an ass or pussy, whichever he may have preferred to imagine.

Still watching through the top of my eyes, I could gauge the security officer's reaction. His mouth was puckered into an "O" and his eyes had rolled up in the top of his head. He was breathing hard. I knew that I had found the keys to unlocking this man's pleasure. It seemed I had a gift for it, above and beyond my tattoo. None of my lovers in recent days had left disappointed or unfinished.

I continued to suck the nameless security officer for five minutes or so, before he gave warning of his impending ejaculation. That wasn't a record for me (I'd finished my team manager at work in three minutes flat that very morning), but it was a happy outcome.

He cried out "oh... Oh... Oooohhhh!"

His dick spasmed in my mouth and a load of cum accumulated at the top of my throat. I didn't stop stimulating the security officer right away; he had to put his hand on my head to let me know he couldn't take any more. I leaned back and opened my mouth wide, showing off his sperm in my mouth; I always did this after giving a blowjob since being branded with the 'CUMSLUT' tattoo. I swallowed it while we stared into each other's eyes. Then I leaned back in and slowly licked his dick clean of any remaining semen or saliva, careful not to overstimulate my feeder's tender cock.

When he was clean, I leaned back and watched as he tucked himself back into his pants. He regarded me on the floor: a man kneeling submissively at another man's feet, with an obvious erection, looking up with wanton eyes and a dribble of cum from lip to chin. I could tell that the security officer was contemplating a second round. He either had a tight work schedule to keep, or he just thought I sucked out all the cum he had for the time being. He buckled up his belt and straightened his uniform.

"Er, thanks," he said.

"No, thank you," I replied.

"I'll see myself out." He almost tripped over his feet in his haste for the door. It slammed behind him. I suspected he was a straight man feeling a little shame and guilt at having had his dick in a gay man's mouth.

I sighed, got up off my knees, walked over and locked the door. Too many people had seen this tattoo now, and some of them might be the wrong kind of people. It was best to keep the door locked at all times. I also thought maybe I should hang my woolen hat on the doorknob so I didn't forget to wear it, once more answering the door with the profane invitation showing on my forehead.

The encounter with the security officer was enjoyable for me, but I didn't actually come. I stripped down, grabbed a towel from the dirty laundry and went to bed. I took out some K-Y Jelly and a toy from the bedside table. Within seconds, the prostate massager was in my ass up to the hilt and set to my favourite vibration cycle. I lay spread out on the towel on the bed while the vibes in my ass stimulated me. My cock turned to wood and I slowly rubbed one out. I tugged and buggered myself for nearly half-an-hour before I erupted all over my belly. I licked up the load before falling asleep for a few hours.

When I got up, I showered and shaved while 'CUMSLUT' stared back at me from the mirror. I was reminded that I was not the only one of my kind. Constable Mayhew had given me the contact information for a man named Mike Falkengren, a fellow victim who had contact with other victims of the vindictive tattooist, Vance.

Refreshed from my rest and my shower, I felt bold enough to call that number. My goals were to learn as much as possible about how others coped with having one of these distressing tattoos, and to discover anything possible about Vance.

I punched the number into my phone and hit 'call'. It rang three times before someone answered.

"Hello?"

I greeted him, told him my name and explained that I was the person Constable Mayhew spoke to him about. That grabbed his attention. He told me that he and the others were having a meeting at his place on Wednesday. He gave me his address and I told him I would be there.

The next couple of days dragged by. I worked from home now and apart from participation in the occasional group chat (I took special care to pull my toque down over my forehead for video chats), I had no contact with anyone through the day. The isolation from my co-workers made me feel lonely, even if the odds were good that most of them knew about my tattoo by now.

I managed to get through the rest of Monday without anyone else using me, and by Wednesday afternoon, I had achieved my longest period of celibacy since before I was tattooed. I thought I would feel some contentment from this, but I was surprisingly horny; in my dreams, I spent the night fucking and sucking strange men. In reality, I abstained from showing off my tattoo in public, but only with difficulty; for the first time, I felt tempted to deliberately expose my mark to attract someone to dominate my ass and mouth.

After a light supper at home, I put on my toque and wore a casual jacket over my jeans and t-shirt before venturing forth for the first time in two days. I had Mike Falkengren's address on my phone, and Google maps advised me it was a thirty-minute walk. I wondered what it would be like, meeting others of my kind. That thought nearly made me laugh; it sounded as if I was describing us as a separate species rather than just men tattooed with dirty names. Were they as susceptible to the suggestion of their labels as I was to mine? I wondered how much I dared to share with the group.

After half-an-hour, I arrived at an average apartment block, much like my own. To enter the security doors, you had to buzz the apartment number. A label on the buzzer said Falkengren was apartment number three. I pressed the intercom buzzer and recognized Mike's voice from our earlier phone conversation.

"Come on in, first floor, last door on the right."

He buzzed me in. I walked down the hall toward Mike's place, my mind consumed with worry. What if they had tamer, more conventional tattoos after all? What if they rejected me from their company? Before I could reconsider the visit or even knock at the door, it opened.

Mike Falkengren identified himself and I confirmed my name. He was a somewhat lean fellow, much like myself, but he was considerably shorter. Like me, his clothes were casual and his hat was pulled down to a point just above his eyebrows. He put his hand out as if to shake hands with me, but when I took his hand, he held on to it and led me into the apartment, closing the door behind us. He took my coat and invited me into the living room with everyone else.

"But first," he said. "We need to uncover. It's an informal rule of our meetings, but we never cover up the reasons for our little brotherhood."

I was reluctant, so Mike went first. He hung his cap up on the back of the door and turned to face me in the direct light. His black and red tattoo stood off his forehead in bold letters, spelling out HOT4COCK. Mike had mentioned on the phone that he had lived with this brand for quite some time, but he was still a little embarrassed showing his tattoo to any man, even a fellow victim.

Mike led me to the living room and introduced me as CUMSLUT. I blushed but I had to admit that I was relieved to be around so many others like me. I felt a tingle of arousal at being called a cumslut in front of these strangers. Based on my conversations with Detective Masters and Constable Mayhew of the local police force, there were only two or three more like me in the city, so I was surprised that there were six people here, including Mike. Mike ushered me to a folding chair he'd set up; his couch and lounger were already occupied.

Mike reintroduced himself formally as HOT4COCK. He had worn the tattoo for almost two years. After his introduction, each man around the room introduced himself in turn; they had all had their tattoos inked in the past two years or less.

As I studied the tattoos, the existence of our little group seemed like a sick mockery of the Seven Dwarves or Santa's Reindeer. HOT4COCK, FAGGOT, COCKSUCKER, CUMDUMP, COCKS4ME, MANEATER and, now, CUMSLUT.

When they were done going around the room with introductions, the men told their stories for my benefit. Each of them came from a different walk of life: Mike, or HOT4COCK, was a handsome black tradesman; FAGGOT was a reformed con man; COCKSUCKER was a former CFO of a Fortune 500 corporation; CUMDUMP was in the hotel industry; COCKS4ME was an Asian retail entrepreneur; MANEATER was a bartender. One way or another, they crossed paths with Vance, lost time (probably as a result of imbibing a date-rape drug with their drinks), and awoke to tattooed foreheads. Most of them had also been violated as they slept.

I hadn't considered that I might have been drugged, but it explained why I slept through a night and most of a day on that occasion. Unlike the others, I didn't wake up with a well-used ass or mouth. I supposed this was probably because I threw up all over myself; I'm sure I smelled too repulsive to fuck.

Ever since, and to varying degrees, we all felt a sapping of our wills that reduced us to submissive sluts, slaves to the tattoo that attracted assertive men. We swapped stories of our hottest encounters; a few of the men expressed guilt or shame over their exploits. Some of these adventures were very erotic to hear and I felt a stirring in my pants. Some of the men shared their other non-sexual experiences as well, including beatings from gay bashers and losing their friends, spouses, families and jobs to the tattoo.

The men shared what little they knew about their abuser.

Vance had been a tattoo artist to the rich and idle, movie stars and music personalities. Somehow, he offended his patrons; there were rumours that he tried to blackmail one of his wealthy clients. Whatever happened, he left California for greener pastures, eventually winding up in our city, apparently continuing his career as a highly-sought, much-imitated tattooist. He was apparently choosy about his clients and he evidently worked from home as he wasn't attached to any storefront tattoo parlour in town. None of us knew where he lived; even those of us who had been to Vance's place couldn't remember which city block he lived in, much less which building or apartment. Some of the men remembered which nightclub or bar they were drugged in; most of us did not, possessing only the haziest recollection of our pick-ups.

The man labelled COCKSUCKER suggested that I try hypnosis to regress in my memory back to the day I met Vance. He had tried it and recovered a few details but not enough to lead us to the man himself. Others seconded.

"Hypnosis helped me to remember as much as I do," HOT4COCK said. He gave me a business card for a local hypnotist and I put it in my pants pocket, considering it.

I noticed the man called CUMDUMP staring at me. He licked his lips.

CUMDUMP was handsome and athletic looking. At first glance, he didn't look any more likely a victim than any of us did. He was dressed casually in jeans and t-shirt. When I listened to his story, I recognized his circumstances were very similar to my own: he had been picked up by Vance in a gay bar while he was under the influence of alcohol; a suspected date-rape drug made him compliant and docile before he fell asleep. CUMDUMP claimed Vance had his way with him at both ends as he slept it off. He woke up at his home, with his tattoo imprinted on the front of his skull, dried semen on his face and a throbbing ache in his asshole.

In the days and weeks that followed, men discovered him one after another. CUMDUMP had been a confident, secure gay man looking for a stable relationship before that tattoo; afterward, he not only had no desire to resist the advances of so many men, but he began to revel in the sensual rewards of his promiscuity. He often came hard when he was being fucked; sometimes he even ejaculated while giving head. The tattoo kindled a fire in CUMDUMP and more sexual attention was the only cure. He became addicted to taking the submissive role in countless sexual encounters.

CUMDUMP was so erotically charged by his tattoo and the things that it made him do that he wanted more.

He went to a legitimate tattooist who could enhance his new brand. He said that he had tattooed his backside with handprints, one on each buttock. He had a tattoo in the centre of his lower back: a sign that said ENTER with an arrow pointing to his asshole. Later, he went back and had FUCK ME inscribed across the back of his neck in bold black letters where it could be easily read between his collar and his hairline. Across his throat, he was embossed with the words USE ME with an arrow pointing up to his mouth. His cheeks were tattooed in hot pink with the male/male symbol. He was still in the process of having a sleeve inked on his right arm; it was a very creative montage of gay men sucking and fucking in different positions. In a strange way, CUMDUMP had embraced his label and made it part of his character. The results of exposing any of these tattoos out in the open were predictable: CUMDUMP was fucked more than ever and as he became better known in the city's gay community, he was invited to be a party favour for private gatherings. Fired from his old job for his appearance, he now manned the gloryholes at one of the more risqué clubs in town.

He had a hungry look in his eye as he stared at me.

The conversation in the room tapered off as others noticed CUMDUMP's penetrative glare. A few of the men likewise quietly watched us watch each other. I was only slightly wary. When CUMDUMP rose from his chair and stood in front of me, I thought he wanted me to suck him there in front of the other men, but as it happened, he meant quite the opposite: he fell to his knees and his fingers scrabbled at the front of my pants. For all the blowjobs I had given in the past week or two, I hadn't been given head by man or woman in ages. My dick stood up in my underwear as CUMDUMP pulled my fly open. He snapped the waistband of my briefs down, quickly freeing my cock. He bent his head over it, taking the whole length in his mouth in a single stroke.

I groaned. I wasn't aware how much I missed this feeling; I was not serving, but rather I was being served. His lips were wrapped tightly around my cock as his tongue massaged me. He handled my balls gently, squeezing them and rolling them between his fingers. With his other hand, he rubbed the flesh between testicles and anus ever so lightly, playfully. I put my hands on his head to slow down his cocksucking speed; I wanted this to last a while.

I was normally wary of observers, but in this company, it seemed as natural to drop my pants and get head as it did to wear my tattoo. I didn't ignore the people sitting around CUMDUMP and I; rather, I met their lustful gazes with my own.