A woman and her

A minute later, James brings in a woman leading a man on a leash. The only thing the man wears is a pink cockcage, locked tightly around his tiny dick and a set of handcuffs that keep his arms bound behind him.

“I want my pet here tattooed with the word ****, right above his useless clit, but I’m not sure about the font or how big I want it,” you hear the woman explaining to James, “Do you have any photos of your work?”

“Naturally, ma’am,” The respectful tone James uses to address the woman is so different from the mocking one he has been speaking to you in that at first you don’t realize he is the one talking. “I have an album right over here. I had a public-use **** come into my shop today, if you’d like to see what the design you pick looks like in person before inking your own pet.”

As James shows the woman various photos of his work, including images of slaves tattooed with "****" in different fonts and sizes, you can't help but feel a mixture of envy and dread. You desperately want to be marked like that - it would make you feel more owned than ever before - but the thought of being permanently branded as someone else's property is both thrilling and terrifying.

“Beautiful!” The woman exclaims, “I’d like to see what this block lettering looks like. Make sure it’s big and dark. We wouldn’t want her to forget her place.”

As James leads the woman over to you, your heart races with fear and anticipation. You can't believe that they would actually tattoo "****" on your most sensitive spot! The thought of it both excites and terrifies you. What if they really do go through with it? How will you ever survive the embarrassment and humiliation of having such a visible reminder of your status as a public-use ****?

James returns to his seat on the stool between your legs, but this time, instead of a needle he holds a buzzing tattoo gun. He doesn’t even look at you or ask you if you're okay with this. He doesn’t have to. As a public-use ****, he can do whatever he wants to you as long as you are wearing the collar.

The needle digs into the skin of your mons and you scream through the gag. It’s like a bee, stinging you again and again. A tug on your clit ring and the pain makes you shut up. James is looking at you know and his message is clear without words. Stop screaming or he’ll give you something to scream about.

You shut up, crying again, but you don’t make any more noise. As horrified as you are, you know that this is right. You are a ****. You are property. Maybe when the collar comes off, you should put it right back on, without setting the timer. Maybe you should give the rulebook to someone else.

James keeps working creating a permanent reminder of what you are. As the ink seeps in, you know as soon as you get home, there is something you need to do.

James finishes his work on you and gets the woman’s approval before starting to work on her own crying ****. They all ignore you, talking about the woman’s pet instead. Apparently, she is going to have him castrated soon, but can’t decide if she wants to leave his nipples, or have him nullified completely.

The thought of someone nullifying you has slick running down your thighs and wondering if James would do it. He’d probably make you ask first. Could you live the rest of your life without orgasms? Maybe without any pleasure at all? Thinking back to the rule you wrote in pen, you realize that even if you were nullified, you would still spend the rest of your life aroused and needy just without the ability to do anything about it. Fuck.

Eventually, the woman and her **** leave, but James keeps ignoring you to clean up and sanitize his shop.