Kinda Dead, Actually!

The remainder of the drive was calm, even relaxed, as I rode in silence at Amy's side. I watched the city roll past, calm and quiet on the far side of the window. Loud, out there, but almost silent, from where I was seated, in Amy's passenger's seat.

When we arrived, I looked up at the multicoloured sign that read, Rainbow Illusions Parlour of Tattooing. It strikes me as a little odd, calling it parlour of tattooing and not tattoo parlour, that being a far more common parlance, so it stands out.

I get out of the car after Amy turns off the ignition, and I follow her inside. Once we enter, I notice there's a slender, young woman, with a bright, vibrant purple fauxhawk, with short-trimmed sides giving it an almost velvety kind of appearance.

Green eyes jerk up toward us when we enter, and her eyes flick between us, before deciding Amy is the one to be spoken to, and she nods. “Hey. Just looking around, or have a clear notion of what kind of tattoo you're interested in me doing?”

“I need a mark of ownership,” Amy answers, “Or, rather, he needs, a mark of ownership. I have a clear notion in mind for what I want.” The woman nods, then looks at me questioningly, then looks back at Amy before tapping a sign beside her.

Cock Slaves Must Be Nude and Accompanied by their Owner

I immediately strip nude, as the woman watches impassively, and Amy nods to me. “Good boy, faggot. Always obey rules. Whenever we go anywhere, this is what I will expect of you. If you see the sign, I don't want to have to tell you to obey it.”

“Yes, Amy,” I answer obediently, surrendering my clothes to the tattoo artist's front counter, and she nods and slides out of her chair, setting her magazine aside. She steps around the counter, blithely ignoring me, as she just approaches Amy.

“Judy NicLeóid, welcome to RIPT,” she greets, motioning toward the signboard. It strikes me that that's the reason she has it written as Parlour of Tattooing: so she can call it RIPT. It strikes me as a clever acronym, and I can appreciate the vibe.

“Amy Goodheart,” Amy replies, shaking hands with her, then motioning toward me, “and, obviously, my personal faggot. Lifelong best friend, volunteered to let me brainwash him. Prize possession, now, and want my name on him. Properly.”

“So, what do you have in mind?” Judy enquires, and Amy grabs me by the shoulder and physically turns my back to them. I offer her no resistance, allowing Amy the authority she deserves and legally has, letting her completely control my body.

“I want the words Property Of, here,” she strokes her forefinger across my back, just above my sacrum, “and then I want my signature here. He's going to be my property for life, and I'm never selling him, so I want my mark of ownership big.”

“Damn, little Mama, you fierce, huh?” the punk-y tattoo artist answers, circling around me, examining me, examining my calm and silent obedience, then looking back to Amy, “I can do that. Got a preferred font for the two words, themselves?”

“Olde English. Ideally in black, accented with silver,” Amy replies, and Judy takes my hands in hers. She bends her spine a little, lowering her head and putting her eyes on the level with mine. For a moment, she seems to be just examining me.

“All right, slut. Come on, this way,” she says, walking backwards to lead me to the tattoo table, veering around it as she does. I let her guide me onto the table on my hands and knees, then laying face-down on warm paper, as she looks to Amy.

“You mind if I sit on him?” she asks, and I glance over at Amy in time to see her shrug and gesture. Judy nods, then goes to get her tools, before coming back and settling on top of me, straddling my thighs. “All right, faggot, stay still for me, now.”

“Freeze, slut,” Amy commands, “breathing only.” From my position, I can see Judy watching as my body simply locks up, rendering me physically immobile. Judy whistles softly, prodding my body for any instinctive or reflexive reaction at all.

“Dayumn! Nice! This'll make my job so much easier for you!” Judy says cheerfully as she buckles down and gets to work. It isn't the most pleasant sensation, being repeatedly penetrated by a needle, depositing ink into my skin, but she's skilled.

Amy leans against the wall nearby, watching, occasionally humming, maintaining a position where I can maintain our eye contact. Her smile ensures I know she's satisfied with me, and my caged mind cannot be concerned, cannot grow worried.

Finally, Judy leans back away from me, and looking down at her work, then looking to Amy. “Okay. Now, Miss Goodheart, I'll get a piece of paper and lay it down on his back, and you can sign your faggot so I can make the design, then apply it.”

For a few minutes, I am alone, before Judy returns, mounting me once more. Setting with her thighs against my ass, now, as she works. It takes a while, as my body remains locked in position for her, before she's finally sliding herself off, again.

“You have an absolutely beautiful slut,” Judy says to Amy, “His skin is marvellous, a real pleasure to ink. Probably has the nicest skin I've ever worked on. What's the secret, there?” Amy grins at her and looks over at me, prioritising me, for now.

“Release,” Amy says, and my mind processes the order as freedom, before looking back to Judy, “He is milk-fed, with cocoa for treats. I consider it deeply important that my whore should have the optimal nutrition, but also he's worthy of treats.”

“I always love to see a well-owned boy,” Judy says, looking over and smiling as me as I push myself up onto my hands and knees. I turn and slide down feet first to stand up facing them, hands behind my back, not attempting to conceal anything.

“Come on back to the counter. You can pay, and your faggot can get dressed,” Judy says, motioning. Amy nods, and we go with her, back to where my clothes await. The parlour isn't exactly hopping with business, but she seems to be doing well.

Once Amy has paid, and I have redressed, Amy leads me out. Instructions on tattoo care for the next several days in hand, we're soon back on the road, headed back to the community. I slowly strip down in the car, as she's driving, to be readied.

As soon as we reach the gate, I slide my underclothes off, and lift my feet out of them one at a time. I fold them neatly, and stack my clothes on my lap. Forbidden to wear them inside the community, now, it's not as awkward as I thought, to strip.

“Good slut,” Amy praises, smiling over at me as we roll through the gate, “So proud of you. So proud I get to Own you, too. You're precious, my little sunshine slut.” My cheeks warm, and I smile as programmed, happy with my new, improved life.

I didn't know I needed this, but it's nice. I can remember that my life, before, was happy, but I wasn't able to really live out and free, like this. Now, though, I know no shame about the things I like, or about the stuff that make me Amy's property.