There was a feeling inside me that was growing as we left the bar. It was like wafts of warm air carrying me along behind Ben and Jarvis, as if I were floating two feet above the ground. My skin was stretched taught like a balloon, and I was light as a feather inside, warm and full of joy and very free. My clothes were gone but Jarvis had fitted me with a pink dog collar and a leash made of red leather, and Ben held the end of my leash like a child holding the string of a balloon, as if to keep me from floating into the starry night sky.
"Do you have to go to the bathroom?" Asked Ben, and I realized that I did indeed have to go. So as Ben and Jarvis watched I squatted down in front of Tito's Bar and peed in the grass. Ben looked down impassively as Jarvis chuckled.
Tito's Bar was not in the middle of town exactly, but it was near an intersection with a few other storefronts and office buildings, and the corner was fairly well-lit. When the light changed I followed the two men across the street, happily aware that I was bare naked and covered with intimate bruises. The myriad tack punctures had stopped bleeding, but their marks covered my bottom and thighs, and also my pubic mound. Even from a distance one could discern hundreds of swollen bumps that looked like large mosquito bites. And the cheeks of both my behind and my face were still bright red from Ben's lengthy and severe hand spanking.
It must have been three in the morning, and only one car passed us as we walked down the street and into a tiny strip mall. There was only one business with any lights on: Papa Murphy's Tattoo. The sign was green and gold above the door, but a red neon heart glowed more prominently in the window, like one of those traditional tattoos a sailor might wear on their upper arm. "Sorry Mom" it read in glowing letters. I was still floating, but now I was thinking about my mom and dad.
They had always been vehemently against me ever getting a tattoo, and although I went through a rebellious phase as a teenager, by the time I was old enough to make my own decisions I had bought into the idea that my skin was better unmarred. I had come to look at tattoos as trashy rather than cool.
A little bell rang as Jarvis opened the door and Ben strode inside, me following on my lead. An older gentleman with a long, braided beard greeted us warmly. He had been waiting for us to arrive.
"We've decided on a few," announced Ben after greetings had been exchanged. He winked at Jarvis.
"We better take care of this in the back," said the bearded man.
Down a narrow hallway was a room without windows. Aside from the large chair and small sink, the room was bare and drab, very different from the main room in front which had been filled with framed pictures of colorful tattoos. The four of us could barely fit, until I was directed to sit down in the chair, which turned out to be a gynecological exam table. It had stirrups and leg rests that could be spread wide. "Can you give her the shot?" Asked Ben.
The bearded man approached with a latex strap and tied it around my upper arm. "Make a fist," he said, and a huge wave of adrenaline pumped through me, making my teeth chatter as I realized I was about to be drugged. All the same I made a fist as instructed and took the shot, which made me feel very, very good for a moment before everything went black.
----
I woke up back home, on our plush couch facing the fireplace, the same one where I had burned my entire wardrobe literally the morning before. It was broad daylight, and sunshine was streaming in through the west windows, which meant it was past noon. I didn't feel terrible, and was surprised I was not more hungover from the drugs and exhaustion, but I realized I had probably slept fifteen hours, and that not all drugs have hangovers the way alcohol does. I had to pee.
As I rose and stumbled into the bathroom I caught a glimpse of Ben and Jarvis out on the deck playing cards and smoking cigarettes. I was puzzled to see Ben with a cigarette, because I had never known him to smoke in his life! They were also drinking gin, which was odd because while Ben was a fan of single malt whiskey, I had never known him to drink gin. In fact, I had never seen Ben spending so much time with a male friend before. Suddenly Ben and Jarvis had become inseparable, which aside from everything else struck me as a fairly odd match.
I peed, then stood in front of the full length mirror on our bathroom door to see the damage. I was indeed bruised and scraped up, but it looked like the men had cleaned me, and my myriad thumbtack punctures had been covered with occlusive bandages. All except my pussy, which was exposed, and it looked like they had been fucking me in my sleep.
But then there were the tattoos.
I didn't know how to feel about them. Even after everything I had been through, and even after the strange revelations I had experienced while being spanked, these tattoos still made me very uncomfortable.
Ben and Jarvis had instructed the tattoo man to write on me, in irremovable black ink. And the first tattoo was in the center of my forehead.
In a slightly cartoony font, is said simply "Oink".
I knew what my ex-husband thought of me, and I knew what my new role in life was, but there was something about this one word that was so incredibly demeaning that I couldn't help but cringe, a pang of embarrassment running through me even there in the bathroom all by myself. I looked at my face in the mirror as it slowly turned red, and I looked at my own nipples as they puckered into stiff points, and I felt ashamed.
I'm not exactly fat, in fact my waist is tidy and well-formed, but my boobs are a little larger than they should be, and they look sort of pudgy and swollen, somehow a little wide and out of proportion, and it embarrasses me when a man sees me naked, even my husband... my former husband. Likewise my ass is downright fat, it really sticks out, and although I've been assured by many that it's very shapely, it somehow strikes me as obscene, especially when viewed from the side. It is the very definition of what folks call a "balloon but", and it is the reason I always avoid going to the beach or even wearing shorts. My whole body feels obscene to me, in a garish and corny way, almost like a short, brown-haired Jessica Rabbit. Even if I am not overweight, I still feel pudgy and inflated in all the wrong places. And my cheeks are pudgy too: chipmunk cheeks, as Ben used to call them.
And I couldn't help but stare at that word "Oink", right on my forehead where everyone could see it.
Hi everyone, here I am, just a desperate, greedy, infantile Miss Piggy, at your service... "Oink!".
You can all fuck me now, if you want to stoop so low as to fuck a pig.
Just this one word renewed my astonishment at Ben's level of disdain for me, making the tears dribble out of my eyes pathetically even as my nipples sharpened into points and my sore, sick pussy began moistening once again. How could he do this to me? And what on earth is wrong with me that I like this, somehow, or just crave it. Yes I crave it, I need it, but I do not like it. The pang of humiliation is indeed a two edged sword, and once again I can feel myself being cut by it. it hurts, but of course it leaves me feeling breathlessly aroused.
And that was jut the first tattoo. There were four.
The second one was right over the top of my sternum, where a pedant might hang if it were suspended from a choker. I knew it was so high up that it wouldn't ordinarily be concealed be my clothes unless I wore a turtleneck sweater or something, and as I was thinking about that I realized that now I didn't own a single garment that would cover it.
