Transforming Vance

All participants are 18 or over.

*****

I walked into Vance's apartment building with wary trepidation.

The last time I'd been here, my life was completely changed. I was drugged and unconscious in his apartment when the man called Vance tattooed the word CUMSLUT across my forehead. For a while, I had little memory of that night, but I sure had made some memories since. Almost every man who laid eyes on that tattoo was inclined to fuck my face or ass without so much as asking; the consent was in my eyes, as on my forehead. My tattoo had reshaped my sexual identity; I had been turned from a bisexual with nine toes in the closet into a very gay, promiscuous, cocksucking and ass-serving whore.

This time I was here to take my life back.

Electronic security doors guarded the entrance of the building. I entered the digital code I saw Vance enter to unlock the door. I don't have a photographic memory, but I had recently been to a hypnotist, and the building address and the security code were details I was able to recover from my foggy memories of that night. I also knew my way to Vance's apartment: sixth floor, apartment six-zero-one.

As the security door closed behind me, I strode with projected confidence toward the elevator. My forehead tattoo was covered by a wool toque pulled down low over my brow. I didn't want to be stopped for a dalliance as I set out on my mission. I pressed the elevator "up" button and the doors immediately opened. I took a deep breath and went inside.

The doors closed, and as the lift rose, I studied my reflection in the polished stainless-steel walls of the elevator. I was reasonably fit and I had a handsome face. I was wearing a red t-shirt and jeans, just tight enough to show off my crotch bulge and my tight ass. My toque wasn't entirely out of place with my wardrobe; many young people wore them all-year-round these days.

The doors opened at the sixth floor on an attractive black girl in a tight black nightclub dress, ill-suited to the afternoon. She looked dishevelled and distressed. She stood back to let me out of the elevator and I slinked past her. She smelled of sex and semen. She melted into the elevator and disappeared behind its doors.

I made my way to apartment six-zero-one, preparing myself for a confrontation with the man who transformed my existence.

I took another deep breath and exhaled in a hiss before knocking at the door.

"God damn it," a voice shouted from the other side of the door. "I told you not to come back, you easy two-bit slut."

At first, I assumed he meant this for me and I faltered; after all, I had been here before and my memories of that encounter were only partially restored. Then I connected the dots: he thought he was addressing the girl who had just left this floor.

I knocked again.

"Fuck," the man shouted as he swung the door wide open. "On your bike, bitch!"

When he realized that he'd been addressing his comments to the wrong person, he spoke to me directly.

"Who are you and what the fuck do you want?"

"I came back to make up for the last time we met." I had rehearsed that line in the mirror all morning, so I didn't even stammer, flustered as I was.

Vance, looked confused at first, but then his eyes lit up. He reached out and swatted the toque off my head, revealing his artistry. I caught the hat in my hand; it was vital to my protection.

"Ah. It's you. I almost didn't recognize you sober," Vance said. "So, you found your way back to me."

His voice sounded wary. I surmised that none of his victims had ever tracked him down before. He appeared mildly uncertain of the situation. He could afford to look a little unsure because, in all other aspects, he was quite intimidating. He was very much as I remembered him, but yet, a bit more impressive. He was taller than I thought, with a mane of wild, wavy black hair. He had a three-day beard. He was dressed all in black, just as he was the last time I saw him. He was of a muscular build and his right arm was covered in ink.

"Can I come in?"

"Fuck that," Vance said, starting to close the door.

"Please... let me make amends for my behaviour the last time we met."

The gap between the door and the lock jamb widened once more.

"I remember that. You fouled yourself, pissed on my carpet and threw up on me. I was days getting the smell off the place."

"Yes, and I'm very sorry. I'd like to make it up to you and perform an apologetic act."

Vance must have just screwed that girl, but he was intrigued anyway. He opened the door wide and gestured for me to come in. I noticed that he stuck his head out into the hallway and looked both ways to ensure nobody was lurking there.

"Alright, you've got me curious. Sit down there on the couch while I go take a piss."

I sat down as directed and he left the room to relieve himself. When he was gone, I quietly snuck back to the door, opened it and placed a wad of paper from my pocket between the latch bolt and the strike. I could hear Vance's urine streaming into the toilet bowl; he had left the bathroom door open. I sat down again in the same place, taking in the details of Vance's apartment. The living area was crammed with artwork and Vance's tattoo kit. There was a reclining chair such as one would see in many tattoo parlours. I imagined myself as I must have looked splayed across that chair as Vance marked me for life.

The toilet flushed in the other room, followed by the sound of running water. Vance emerged from the bathroom and made himself a drink. He didn't offer me one. He sat in a chair opposite from me. I actually believe he was just a little nervous.

"How did you find me?" Vance asked.

I told him the honest truth. I had seen a hypnotist and recovered the lost details of his address from revisiting my memories. Vance nodded, perhaps a little impressed at the effort I had made to find him and make amends.

"So how do you propose to make up for our last meeting?" Vance asked. That was nervy, considering the heavy price he had already exacted for my failure to please him that night.

"Well, since you gave me this tattoo, I have had a lot of practice giving men pleasure... and I've heard no complaints. I believe I could please you better now than when we first met."

"So that tattoo gets you a lot of action, eh?"

"Yes, so, in a way, I owe you more than an apology; I owe you my thanks. These past few weeks have been the most sexually fulfilling period of my life. Thanks to the tattoo you gifted me, I know who I am and what I was meant to be: a cumslut and a submissive bottom. I want to prove my gratitude on your cock."

Oddly enough, though I wanted vengeance on him for tormenting me with this tattoo, every word I said was true. A part of me was so fulfilled with what I had become, I wanted to thank him in any way imaginable.

Vance laughed. "Are you offering me head or ass?"

"Anything you want."

I was not as handsome as Vance, but I was not a bad-looking man myself. I kept my head shaved because it felt more dignified than showing off my prematurely receding hairline. I was fairly fit, though nowhere near as cut as Vance. I was shorter than him too. In brief, I was just appealing enough to capture Vance's interest now just as surely as I had at Club X. The unforgiving Vance might have tried to seem disinterested, but his dick was definitely showing some enthusiasm. I could see it bulging in his tight, black pants.

"Please," I said. "Don't make me beg."

I could tell Vance liked that.

"I like to hear begging," he said.

"Please let me suck your cock. Let me get it wet and take it up my ass. Fill me with your cum."

"That sounds like a lot of effort. Why should I waste any more time on you?"

"I'm the best lay you'll ever have."

Vance laughed and set his drink down on the coffee table. He stood up and walked over to the couch where I was seated. His bulge was at my eye level. I knew what to do.

I leaned into his crotch, putting my hands on his hips for support, and began running my tongue in circles around the bulge in his black jeans. I felt the flesh below the denim hardening. I nipped at the throbbing beast concealed in his pants. Vance tolerated this for a minute or so.

"Take it out and suck it," he said.

I dutifully unbuckled his belt, popped his button and opened his fly. I deliberately yanked his pants down so he would lose his balance. He corrected himself, turning around to fall down on the couch. In this position, his back was to the apartment door... just as I intended. I repositioned myself so that I was kneeling between his legs. Vance still wore his underwear; black, of course. I tantalized the outline of his cock through the fabric for another half-minute or so before the impatient man told me to put it in my mouth.

Vance raised his hips so I could pull his underwear down. His cock emerged from a black beard of pubic hair, curving slightly upwards. With nothing left between me and the cock of the man who had led me into such sweet torment over the past few weeks, I went down on him.

I surprised Vance by taking the whole length of his shaft into my mouth and throat at a single stroke. In recent weeks, I had learned to suppress my gag reflex and I could hold my breath long enough to deep-throat for nearly a minute at a time. He moaned with pleasure as my tongue caressed the glans and the underside of his cock. I hollowed my cheeks until my mouth was as tight as my asshole. I began bobbing my head up and down over his swollen member.

"You see?" he said. "I knew all along you were a cumslut."

"Mmm-hmm." My agreement was muffled by cock-flesh. The vibration of my voice added to the stimulation of the nerves in his glans and he sighed appreciatively.

"You were an easy pick-up. You're just a cock-lusting, ass-licking, queer, fairy-faggot who wants to be used by as many other men as possible. You should thank me for labelling you for public consumption. Admit it: you love what you've become."

"Mmm-hmm." I answered without losing my cock-sucking rhythm.

I looked up at him out of the top of my eyes, and I saw the others had quietly gathered behind Vance.

I had shared the security door access code with some friends, and once past that barrier, nothing remained between them and Vance but one locked door. My trick with the wad of paper worked. The latch didn't lock when I closed the door. Instead, it freely admitted the other members of the Society, my fellow Vance-tattooed victims. Like me, they bore labels on their foreheads: HOT4COCK, FAGGOT, COCKSUCKER, CUMDUMP, COCKS4ME and MANEATER. Three others, two men and a woman, were with them.

HOT4COCK, the unofficial chairman of the Society, quietly leaned in to view my eyes for any signal to proceed. I gave him none. I was into the blowjob I was giving. It made me extremely hot to give myself to my tormentor one last time. I accelerated my cocksucking pace and Vance groaned.

"Oh, you fucking faggot... Your ass will have to wait! I'm gonna come down your neck!"

I felt the spasms in his dick as it forcefully expelled Vance's semen into my mouth. It tasted salty and sweet. He shuddered with pleasure and put his hands on my head, holding it hovering over his cock so I could tongue-bathe it clean. When I was done, he let go of my head and I looked over his shoulder at HOT4COCK and the other members of the Society.

"Now," I said.

Before Vance could realize I was talking to someone else, HOT4COCK gave FAGGOT a nod. Moving quickly, a hair faster than Vance could react, FAGGOT reached around Vance's head with a gloved hand and smothered his face in a sponge soaked in a chemical he had procured on the Black Market. Panic showed in Vance's face and he tried to get up, but I pressed all my body weight against his legs. In his alarm, he breathed deeply of the chemical fumes. He flailed, trying desperately to reach FAGGOT's hand, but other Society men held his arms back. His resistance to the fast-acting knock-out drug was short-lived and his body soon went limp. When we were convinced he wasn't just faking unconsciousness, FAGGOT withdrew the sponge from his face.

We congratulated ourselves on our success. Our tormentor was at our mercy.

We picked at the unconscious man like ravens, stripping him of his clothes and restraining him in his own tattoo studio recliner; he had ruined several people's lives in this chair and now it was time for him to pay the price.

Our three guests, Marcus, Craig and Daphne, were tattooists I had consulted before in my search for Vance and answers about how to remove my tattoo. The trio wore plenty of ink and piercings and were masters of their craft as surely as Vance was. They had heard of Vance and his crimes against their profession; they had no problem breaking the rules to punish him justly according to his misdeeds. The Society membership would pay the tattooists' fees for the job of illustrating Vance.

Exposed in his near-nakedness (we stripped him down to his underwear), Vance's existing tats were on full display. He had an admirable array of designs; strangely enough for such a man, many of these depicted God and elements of Biblical stories. His new tattoos would contrast highly with his old ones.

Three tattooists can do a lot in a short time if they're not worried about the discomfort of their client.

Before long, Vance had words inscribed on the back of his neck: RAPIST. BLACKMAILER. MISANTHROPE. All the words were true; it was tempting to add worse labels, but honesty was harsh enough. A tattooed arrow projected down toward Vance's penis from an inscription on his lower abdomen: it said CLIT. On his lower back a similar arrow pointed down at his asshole and said ENTER HERE. His neck was inscribed with plain letters that said INSERT COCK HERE; above the phrase, there was an arrow pointing up at Vance's mouth. His cheeks were branded with the male/male symbol in hot pink, a touch requested by the man Vance had labelled CUMDUMP, who also wore those symbols on his own cheeks. Everyone else deserved to leave a mark on their tormentor as well, so their derogatory names were slapped across Vance's back; he was tattooed with the same names he had bestowed on the Society membership: HOT4COCK, FAGGOT, COCKSUCKER, CUMDUMP, COCKS4ME, MANEATER and CUMSLUT. Last, Vance's forehead was inked with the simple illumination: COCKSLAVE.

With the tattooing completed, we decided as a group that Vance's long hair could easily hide the labels on his forehead and the back of his neck, so we shaved him bald. Vance looked like a different man after that.

After several hours, the work was all done. Vance stirred, slowly regaining consciousness, but we needed more time to complete our plan. FAGGOT put him under again.

I don't condone rape, but almost every member of the Society (myself excluded), had been raped by Vance in their unconscious slumber; if any of them had wanted to return the favour, I would have understood and called it justice, but to their credit, not one of the labelled Society membership took that advantage from the situation. I wondered if this was because we had all become conditioned to be fucked rather than to fuck, or if it was just a plain, common decency we shared and which was beyond a man like Vance.

In fact, everyone involved seemed satisfied that they had settled scores with Vance, except, strangely enough, the tattooists, who felt that Vance was a blight on their profession.

"It's not enough," Daphne said. The blonde tattoo artist wore a bowl cut with bangs, like Mr. Spock. She had several facial piercings and wore tight, revealing clothes. Her tits were inked in Elvish and Klingon phrases.

"He has to really feel what he did to you guys," Marcus agreed. He was a muscular man with a full reddish-brown beard and a shaved head. He shared Vance's penchant for black clothing. His facial piercings were nearly as extensive as Daphne's.

Craig, who favoured leather, had long, wild black hair that looked wind-blown compared to Vance's carefully-coiffed mane. He said: "Let the punishment fit the crime."

To that end, we put our heads together and worked at making a plan for Vance's final reckoning. It was true that Vance could minimize the effect of his tattoos better than most of us. Like any one of the Society, he could hide the tats by wearing a woolen toque low on his forehead and a scarf around his neck; nearly all the rest would be hidden under his clothes. The hot pink male/male symbols would be harder to hide, but could probably be covered with cosmetic make-up. He was self-employed and didn't need to worry about being fired for showing his tattoos; a few of us lost our jobs for exactly that offence. Vance wasn't married or attached to anyone, or so it seemed, and so he wouldn't lose a family over the inscriptions as some Society members had.

What Vance had not experienced, and might avoid if left to his own devices, was the same sense of violation we had experienced from the tattoo itself and from its effects on other men. I, myself, had been broken down to be a bottom boy for any man that might so much as look at me. That was what Vance needed to feel: violation and submission. He needed to be humbled.

We eventually decided it could be arranged. It was well into Saturday evening by the time, Vance's tattoos were complete. He would be coming around soon. We needed something to restrain him, but none of us thought to bring anything. On a hunch, I explored Vance's bedroom. He had a blanket box at the foot of his bed and it contained far more than bed linens: it was Vance's toybox. There were dildos and vibrators of every description. I also found what I was looking for: stainless steel handcuffs and Velcro manacles. We bound his hands behind his back with the cuffs and left enough chain between his manacled feet to allow him to walk awkwardly after the fashion of a high-risk offender.

We had come to Vance's place in two vehicles; our party was too numerous for one car. The tattooists took FAGGOT and me with them in their van, while HOT4COCK, COCKSUCKER, CUMDUMP, COCKS4ME and MANEATER put Vance in the trunk of HOT4COCK's car. CUMDUMP had suggested a destination to the group and it was unanimously agreed.

Of us all, CUMDUMP best knew where to find cock. After his tattooing, like the rest of us, he was quickly reduced to the meaning of his label, but he took his turning out to a higher level than the rest of us. He actively sought out men to take his mouth and ass, while most of the other members of the Society were more likely to submit only to men who saw their tattoo. CUMDUMP left his job in the hospitality industry to work as a professional gloryhole attendant at a swingers' club, and somehow his appetite for cum was not satisfied by his job; he hung around in gay bars and dingy nightclubs; in subway station, airport and stadium rest rooms, and even dark alleys. Cock was the centre of his life. So, when CUMDUMP recommended a place where Vance might be properly christened in his new name, COCKSLAVE, we all took note.

When we reached our destination, we all gathered at the trunk of the car and opened it up, nervous that the cargo might be awake. Vance lay in the back, still bound by cuffs and manacles, and still stripped down to his underwear. He was unconscious. The strongest of us, Marcus, the tattooist, lifted him over his wide shoulders and carried the prone Vance toward the doors.

We were at a very old tourist rest stop and gas station on the highway. It was in sorry shape, with shingles flapping in the wind and weeds growing through the jigsaw pieces of cracked pavement. Windows were cracked and dirty. The wind buffeted a hanging sign by the gas pumps that was too faded and rusted to read; it creaked noisily as it was blown to and fro. Tumbleweed would have been at home. Tourists stayed away from this dump in droves; the main clientele were truckers and travelling salesmen. The place was scheduled to be demolished, soon to be replaced by a more modern facility.