A Full Chest Piece

Cocks out. Lois Lane could smell them as the unwashed men crowded in. Jerking off together, pricks pointed at her naked tits. Her cheeks burned in shame, and apprehension grew inside of her. She'd seen what Tyrell's solitary load had done to the tattoo. The reporter couldn't even guess how many men flogged their cocks in front of her.

Then they began to explode.

White ropes of jizz burst out. Lois flinched...but with her hands cuffed above her, she couldn't escape. They splattered on her small, palmable breasts...hot, sticky streaks, the smell even stronger than before, going straight to her head...and then the reporter looked down, and she saw the pale goo being sucked into her black vines and red blossoms, the jizz converted to ink.

Lois yelled through her gag as she felt a dozen needles trace outward from her nipples, over the sensitive pale skin of her breasts. Every thug finished their pathetic masturbation by wiping their dripping glans on her stiff nipples, and the jizz hung there for a moment like milk before it was swiftly absorbed and the tattoos grew even more.

No sooner had one blown his load than the next stepped forward, hand on dick, pumping away. Lois thrashed, her tits shook...but that only seemed to excite the men more. She could feel the vines and flowers scrape across her sternum as the two tattoos combined in the center of her chest, and continued to spread outward, fed by the steady splatter of jizz onto her aching, burning tits, which were red and swollen.

The reporter stared down at herself in dismay. As the rose-tattoos had grown, so too had they elaborated. Lois could see cursive words spelled out in the curling vines—SLUT, BITCH, and CUNT were the easiest to make out—and the vines and roses themselves took on a form like Celtic knotwork, and the outline of naked nymphs.

Panting through her gag, Lois let her shoulders slump and hung limp for a moment. The tattoo on her chest was now bigger than a dinner plate, all the way from her clavicles down to the bottom of her sternum.

The crowd melted away, cocks limp...and Blaze stood there. She walked forward and leaned in close, to admire the handiwork.

"Not a bad start," the tattooist said. "But it's missing a little something."

Thumb and forefinger pulled down the zipper on Blaze's jeans...and a cock fell out, unspooled really. It had to be seven inches limp...and Blaze picked it up and began to stroke it.