Tattoo

All participants are over 18.

I didn't wake up in horror. That came later.

It started with the nausea and the vomiting and the piercing pain behind my eyes. I took stock of myself and found my t-shirt soiled and stinking. I had vomited in my sleep. I quickly realized I had also pissed my pants. My sheets were equally dirty; I was glad I had a mattress cover underneath. I stood up with some difficulty and began peeling off the filthy clothes. I considered whether to try and save these clothes or just throw them out. For the moment, I put off the decision until the gong stopped banging in my head. I left the clothes and the sheets in a reeking pile in my laundry basket.

Before I walked away from the clothes, I noticed a piece of paper protruding from the front pocket of my pants. I pulled it out, unfolded it and read the words written on it in black ink.

"This is what happens to a tease who gives blue balls. Have fun."

I wondered what it could mean. My memory was fragmented. I had to try to remember.

I hauled my naked ass toward the shower, taking a glance at a digital clock as I passed. Three o'clock in the morning. But if it was three a.m. now, I must have slept all day and half the night. No wonder I'd wet myself. I had been really, really drunk.

I vaguely remembered a wild night out which started with just a few friends and then switched venues so many times I found myself surrounded by a whole new group of people. The drinks kept flowing just the same and these folks seemed like fun. The music had played. There was dancing. The hours passed.

And there was a hot guy putting the moves on me.

I had tried things with a few other guys at college and a handful of pick-ups at bars, but I took pains to be discreet. I was bisexual; I was out enough to get laid occasionally, but I had nine toes still in the closet.

I remembered my relief that my normal group of friends were nowhere around to see me flirting and dancing with another guy. I could only see him dimly in my mind's eye by now. He was tall and long-haired with crow's feet around his eyes that suggested he was ten or fifteen years my senior. He was well-built and looked good in leather. He promised to share some good weed if I came back to his place with him.

All of this, and to this day I can't remember his name or where he lived.

I know we got to his place. I remember sitting on his couch admiring some of the art on display in the room. There was a little workshop area in one corner of the room, but I couldn't remember what he said his trade was. The weed was enjoyed and more drinks followed. I was so wasted that the room seemed to warp and tilt around me. I seemed to remember some intimacy, some touching and kissing, a fleeting glance of an engorged penis, but my hazy memory turns to fog at that point.

I reached into the shower and turned the dial to hot. I let it run a few moments, shivering in my bathroom, as the water came up to temperature. When there was steam passing the curtain, I slipped into the shower.

I held my breath and let the water wash over my face for several seconds. When I backed out of the stream, I lathered up with body wash and scrubbed the stink off me. I kept my head shaved bald, so I didn't have to take extra time washing my hair. I leaned in and out of the spray for several minutes as I tried to recall what had happened with the handsome stranger.

I vaguely recalled fumbling with his zipper and going down on him. Then something went wrong... did I throw up in his lap? The more I tried to remember, the harder it was to hang onto the details.

I turned off the water and let the excess water run off my limbs. It dripped off my shriveled-up cock, hiding in its nest of pubic hair. When I opened the shower curtain and stepped out onto the bath mat, I glanced at the mirror and a frozen hand closed around my heart. As I realized something was neatly inscribed on my forehead, I remembered something.

My pick-up had been a tattoo artist.

I stared into the mirror and the horror set in as I tried to decode the meaning of the letters; after all, the word was backward in the reflection. It wasn't any easier deciphering the word with my aching head. At last, I could read the word, written in all-caps and in fine copperplate gothic font.

CUMSLUT.

Jesus Christ, I thought. I have CUMSLUT tattooed neatly in the centre of my forehead.

My nausea returned. I heaved into my toilet as I realized that my entire secret life was exposed by those seven letters. When I was through vomiting—I don't know what I had left in my stomach—I tried to find a way to fix the situation. Was I sure it was a tattoo and not some inscription in washable marker? I scrubbed at the word until it bled, but the noun would not be erased.

I dried up from my wash and got dressed, as if that normal act might cancel out the extraordinary circumstances. It was still very early in the morning, so I put a baseball cap on and took my laundry to my apartment building's basement laundromat. I placed my soiled sheets in one washer and my dirty clothes in another. The clink of coins preceded the sounds of the washers filling. The sound of the coins falling was harsh and grating to my ear, but it disturbed someone else as well. I turned around when I heard a man groaning himself awake. I turned and saw one of the chairs in the laundry room's darkest corner was occupied.

In itself this was not entirely unusual. This was a secure building, but the homeless sometimes snuck past the security doors and found a warm place in the building to spend the night. This man wore worn, cracked loafers, a tattered pair of jeans, a well-worn plaid jacket and an old fedora. It was ironic that he was sitting in a laundry room with dirty clothes on, but I guess he didn't have anything else to change into, if he even had the change to run a laundry cycle. Beside his chair was a table with a lamp on it. He turned it on and looked up at me with boozy, red-rimmed eyes. We were probably about six feet apart. The lamplight shone up under the brim of my cap and illuminated the illumination there. He focused on me with greater effort until he could read the sign on my forehead. I looked back at him in helpless shame.

Our shared stare went unbroken for many long seconds. Then his hard-set mouth twisted into a lecherous grin. He stood up and, as casually as you would like, he unzipped his pants and pulled them down to his knees. He had no underwear on and his stiffening cock rose to attention.

"Cumslut," he said in a very simple voice. "Go down."

I blushed at the sight of this exposed stranger when he gave me his direction. I could have turned away, left the room, abandoned my washing until morning by which time the tramp would have been ushered out of the building by the manager.

Instead, I bent my knees in front of the vagrant. He cooed like a pigeon and angled his now fully erect cock toward my face. I felt hot and dirty knowing that I was about to submit to this unwashed stranger. A part of me felt sorry for him and his need and a part of me relished the novelty of the experience. All of me felt a powerful compulsion to service the man.

God knows why. His clothes were the least shabby thing about him. With his junk on display, I was satisfied to see that gnarled and misshapen as the big cock was, it did not look diseased. His iron-grey pubic hair was the biggest, thickest bush I had ever seen; it was almost a beard. He had equally hairy nuts. His protuberant belly overhung his genitals, hanging out of his sweater and casting a shadow over his throbbing knob.

"Suck," he said.

I leaned in toward the pubic beard. His scent was rank, but the musk rising off his hotspot was unmistakeably sexual and I found myself suddenly terribly aroused. I reached in and massaged his balls as I licked his dick from tip to root. The taste was salty with an earthy base. I swear he was so dirty you could see a clean spot where I had licked. I didn't stop though. I took the head of his cock in my mouth and washed my tongue around the filthy knob. I began to blow him in earnest, sawing my head back and forth over the length of his penis. The length was one challenge and he triggered my gag reflex more than once, but the real challenge was his girth. His prick was almost as big around as my mouth was wide open. I found a rhythm and added suction to my efforts. My cheeks hollowed as I went down on him.

I think it had been a while since he had enjoyed any relief because he grew excited very quickly. I was blowing him for less than five minutes before he exhaled the word "cumslut" and blasted my tonsils with a massive stream of viscous ejaculate. Pulse followed creamy pulse as he emptied his balls in my mouth. I couldn't swallow the bitter semen fast enough and the surplus ran out the sides of my mouth. He came down from his orgasm slowly and I dutifully lapped up every drop of his sperm until his cock was licked clean.

"Good," he said. He put his right hand on my forehead and traced each of the letters embossed there with his index finger. Then he gave me a hard shove and I lost my balance. When he called me a cumslut one more time, I revelled in my disgrace and I came hard in my boxers. The man didn't notice; he just pulled up his pants and sat back in the same chair as before. He turned off the lamp and within seconds he was snoring. I gathered myself up and retreated back to my apartment.

When I returned to the laundry room later that morning, the vagrant was gone. I was careful to keep my forehead covered as I made my way through the halls of my apartment building back to my rooms. I was lucky and nobody saw me.

I spent hours fretting over the tattoo and confused over my submission to the old tramp. It was a disgusting encounter, and yet my cock stirred at the memory of it. I searched online for ways to remove a tattoo, but none of the techniques available would work soon enough. Those methods were also prohibitively expensive for my current budget and most places were booking appointments weeks and months away. I was lucky that I was on vacation right now; what would I do when I returned to work? The stress of my new tattoo was exhausting and I fell asleep around noon.

When I woke up five hours later, I was no closer to a solution and just as stressed out. However, I was also hungry. I didn't have much food at my apartment and I couldn't go out to dinner wearing this tattoo on my forehead. I ordered a pizza.

When the delivery man arrived, I was wearing my cap again, but it was no more effective hiding my secret this time than before. He grinned widely at my discomfort, pushed his way past me and set the pizza box on my coffee table before bending me over the back of my couch. I offered no resistance but he had mercy on my one request and let me fetch a tube of lubricant from my bedroom. When I came back, he had his pecker out and was stroking it back and forth. He let me slick him up before I packed my own ass with lube. I resumed my submissive posture on the back of the sofa and he rammed his cock up my arse in a single, glorious stroke. I moaned with unfeigned delight. It wasn't just the physical pleasure that my delivery man gave me that made me sigh; I found myself once more relishing the humiliation of being frankly used by a man I wouldn't have given a second look a few days ago—for the second time today. Once again, when my partner ejaculated, my own cock tingled as if on command and erupted feebly, this time into the fabric of my sofa. That was going to leave a stain.

When he was finished with me, the delivery man keyed my phone number into his phone and told me he would text me when he needed another stress reliever. He's fucked my brains out ten times now in the weeks since that first time and I still don't know his name.

After my experiences with the vagrant and the delivery man, my existence became like a hermit's. I rarely left my apartment by daylight. I didn't answer the door but rarely. My old friends didn't understand why I had become unavailable for pub crawls and events and, with surprising speed, they forgot all about me and stopped calling. Perhaps they thought I was a snob. My parents and family called wondering why I never came around anymore. I've been putting them off. I only went out after dark, shopping for groceries at all-night supermarkets and convenience stores. My cap worked better at night under harsh fluorescent store lighting and street lamps, but night was not safe for me either. That is the time when men are most often on the hunt for their prey, whether it be pussy, face or ass.

I found that the tattoo had a strange effect on both myself and others. When a man saw the inscription on my forehead, he reached for me like low-hanging fruit. His hands would roam over my body before finding my mouth or the buttons and clasps to uncover my ass. For my part, it was as if the tattoo was an insightful declaration of my true nature. I enjoyed being conquered in the most degrading conditions.

Two nights after I was tattooed, I was shopping at the twenty-four hour grocery store down the street. The stock clerk, a stud whose name tag identified him as Rolf, had seen me before. Tonight he noticed something different. He watched me in the meat section and saw me pawing through the poor remains of frozen chicken. He came over, whipped my cap off and told me he had some meat for me. He told me to follow him into the back of the meat department where I gave him and the fat butcher long, leisurely and very wet blowjobs. The butcher was permeated with the smell of raw meat right down to his dick. The stock boy still tasted of the soured juices of a woman he'd fucked earlier in the day. They both ended up nutting on my face. Rolf fitted my cap back on my head and waved bye-bye. Both Rolf and the butcher pointed at the wet spot in my pants and laughed as I beat my retreat. I left the store with my face covered with cum and the cashier at the checkout staring at me in shock.

The next night, I went to an all-night pharmacy and bought some make-up. The cosmetics counter was closed overnight but there was a nearby monitor running a promotional video that showed me the basics of how to apply make-up. It gave me hope that I might be able to use cosmetics to hide my inviting tattoo. I made the purchase of foundation and make-up and escaped the male cashier unfucked for a change. Part of me was disappointed for some reason, but it was just as well as my ass was still aching from the poundings my delivery man had given me. When I got home, I applied the make up with some success in hiding the tattoo, but I couldn't make my forehead look real; it looked made up. This was made especially obvious by my bald head; I might have gotten away with it if I had hair to comb down over my forehead. As it was, one unthinking, casual wipe of my itchy forehead or a few beads of sweat would undo me. Short of wearing a very wide sweatband, I could not hide my label.

Part of me snobbishly wondered how I fell so low. Here I was, a university graduate, employed as an upwardly mobile office worker with a bright future in my field, helplessly pleasuring the dicks of tramps, delivery men, butchers and stock clerks.

Soon my vacation would be over and I'd be expected to return to work. I might be able to work from home for a week or so, but that would only be a temporary reprieve. The make-up wouldn't work and sweatbands and baseball caps and tuques would not comply with the office dress code. I knew that my dick of a boss, Lorne, wouldn't let me work from home forever and he was not the type to look upon my plight with compassion; he'd have me on my knees under his desk at eight o'clock Monday morning.

God damn it, my mouth is watering at the thought and I have wood.

I have learned something. Never piss off a tattoo artist and if you do, don't pass out in a heavy drunken slumber.

CUMSLUT. As it is written, so shall it be.