The slim Slavegirl gets to work.

"We don't need to do this. I'm not a ****." It sounded false to her ears. Her voice was husky and quavered with ill suppressed need. She blushed in shame. She was a ****. And this tattoo proved it. The way it circled her sex so erotically. She liked it. So brazen and slutty. Where had that thought come from. She looked up at Roselle. Her owner. Her master. She hoped he liked what he saw. She did.

Inkling grinned as she brought the needle closer and closer. "Would master like her clit tatooed. Red? Purple? Pink? My it’s so flushed," she flicked it. Calob moaned. Her new clit was so sensitive. Incredibly so. More than she could believe. Better than her cock ever felt. All the sensitive nerves clustered so tight on such a small nub. She nodded, panting with lust. Being a **** was such a turn on.

"What my **** wants...my **** gets." Roselle observed.

Calob gave Roselle as angry a look as she could, inhaling sharply in pleasured pain, the needle pricking her sensitive mons and moved distractfully towards her utterly swollen clit. "****!?" She whimpered. Saying it felt right and so wrong. Roselle was finishing off the ritual of enslavement. Clearly he had no intention of returning to this body as a ****. He must intend for her to remain trapped in this body, enslaved with no hope of freedom. The thought made her terrified and moister. She grew unbearably aroused at the thought of her unending servitude and obeisance. Her clit throbbed with pleasure not unlike her former penis but intimately more intense.

Over the next three hours - though it seemed an eternity - Inkling completed the tattoo on Calob.

The cool kiss and hot bite of the needle traced everywhere beneath Calob's hips, running up and down the inside of her thighs, across and round her buttocks, and along her most sensitive lips. The torment was agony, especially as Inkling disappeared and returned with even more cuffs and bindings, weighing down Calob's arms and legs and hips so she could barely move.

She struggled in her chains and looked down between her generous breasts to watch Inkling at work. It was mesmerising. The brightly inked skin around her loins was raw and tender but the **** made it pleasurable. Then as the needle pricked her clit she cried out with utter abandon and came. Her first female orgasm. Her first of many over the next three hours.

Inkling weighed her body down with more chains. Trapped. Helpless. At the mercy of another weak female **** who seemed to enjoy this sexual torment. The needle played over her body, repetitive, ritualistically, amping up her arousal, moving from one erogenous zone to the next with unrelenting methodical purpose. The tattoo grew larger and larger, consuming her skin, marking her and defining her role. There was a certainty to her fate as she shuddered and moaned and gasped. It was almost teasing.

Painstakingly, slowly, pausing every so often to change needles and inks, and inks, and turning Calob not so often unto her side and back, Inkling completed the tattoo that marked all of Calob's parts as available for use and an invitation to look.

"There. How was that? All done." Inkling set aside the needle and began to gently huff, blowing cool breath across the sore, stinging warm of Calob's nether regions.

Calob nearly swooned as Inkling finished and blew upon her sweat lathered skin. She moaned and nodded. It looked incredible. Fantastic. Her lovely body was a work of art and she knew that it would always be on display now. She blushed in embarresment, horrified by how pleaded she was. Everyone would be drawn to look at her, to explore her body to discover how the tattoo interacted with her breasts, rump, loins, belly, navel, flanks, sex, back and shoulders. "Your work is lovely and... Thankyou." She breathed in gratitude.

"You will never wear clothes again," Inkling smirked. "They will want you on display to everyone."

Calob shook her head in silent denial at Inkling's declaration, but it sounded true to her ears. The thought of being naked and on display for the remainder of her life was ... Confusing. On one hand it was anathema to her male thinking. On the other it made her moist with arousal, giddy with excitement... It was music to her slavegirl ears. She wasn't a slavegirl... But she was reacting like one.

Calob bit her lip coyly as she reluctantly admired the tattoo that adorned her nethers. She concedes that it’s execution was masterful and it served to accentuate her feminine sex. The thought of displaying such erotic art made her heart hammer in her chest. “Naked?” She whispered.

She looked at Inklings naked body. Naked was the natural state of a ****. They were both slaves. Inkling accepted her status whilst Calob struggled futilely against it.

Roselle returned, grinning widely. "You look fantastic. Come. I must show you off." She looked across at her returning master. Roselle, finding herself beaming at the compliment. Her lovely large breasted body did look incredible and she was uncomfortably proud her master appreciated it. He was so handsome. She should let him take her at least once. She yearned to know how it felt.

She shook her head to fight of the surge of desire and subservient affection. This was the bastard who had emasculated and enslaved her. Tattooed her painfully and indignantly.

Roselle was a true woman. Roselle should be the **** not the master. Grabbing her leash in a mockery of Calob’s thoughts, he marched out to a nearby fountain square. Chaining her leash to a sculpture, he wandered over to a nearby stall and sat, drinking tea, leaving her perched at the crossroads, without a stitch on her, the tattoo brazen and colourful, inviting all to look.

She knew what he was doing. Demeaning her. Her body needed sex. Her arousal was intense. Her incredibly erect nipples and dripping sex made it all the more degrading. Her body was ripe with need and there was no way to hide it. She tried to cover her nipples but touching them made it worse. She could not conceal her aching sex. Her brightly inked and tender sex was boldly highlighted. It was clear that she was a former noble not **** bred. A new ****. Freshly marked. An uncertain and bewildered thrall.

There were two problems with tugging on her chain; the first was the weight, which soon tired her spindly arms, and the second was the noise, which drew a crowd.

Calob's weak arms quickly tired which was rather humiliating she wasn't very strong in this female body.

When she lifted her gaze to look at where Roselle had been, he had gone. Another group had taken his table. That was most disconcerting - her master was no longer about. Slaves were property and property left unattended had a habit of being claimed by others. She looked about nervously. She didn't want to be stolen. She had been left alone and naked beside the fountain.

The thought played upon her new bodies **** induced sexuality. A kidnapped ****... Her sex clenched at the thought. Helpless... Her nipples grew hard as diamonds and her heart hammered. Forever lost... She bit her lip trying to curb her thoughts. Trying to deny that she wanted to be a nameless masters fuckpet. The thought made her clench her legs together. Shamed she stared at the ground and ignored her audience.

A fat trader sniggered and leered, licking his lips. A couple of dark-haired horse guards pointed and stared. A beggar without teeth cackled and touched himself. "Whoo-wee boys, we've got a show to watch!"

It was difficult to ignore, especially the beggar pleasuring himself loudly in the front. They all stand over her, even the beggar has more status. At least in a town square theft seems less likely and for some reason the attention pleases her. She was a sight. Desirable. Beautiful. Her nudity brazenly on display.

"Look at that tattoo!" She felt shame at her lowly status as proclaimed by her fresh tattoo but also... Pride. She found her hands moving to allow the crowd to look and admire Inklings masterful work. The tattoo interpolated with her bodies contours perfectly, the dragon coiling sensually about her. She widened her legs to show them it's head and tongue, its claws which seemed to press her thighs apart. A slaves vanity. When all she had was her body, and even that was owned by her master, it was good to be noticed.

"What a slut!" She coloured and nodded. She was a slut. A virgin slut. It was true. She couldn't deny it. She wanted to embrace it.

"Hey, she used to be a noblewoman!" It was true. It was almost as shameful if they'd said she used to be a man. She was a **** now. That she had been otherwise before made her thraldom all the more acute.

"Whore!" Not yet. But soon perhaps. She was a painted little strumpet. The accusation felt true. She was guilty of the charge. She nodded and bit her lip.

The tattoo burned on her skin, in the attention of all their gazes. She grew wet between her legs with the thought of each or all of them approaching her and taking her...and almost in accordance to her wishes, a shadow loomed over her and a hand reached for her.

She pulled petulantly on her chains. This was not the sexual experience that she had wanted on Acteon. But what if she was trapped like this?! The notion made her horny as fuck. She started to play with her nether lips. It felt so good. Her clit was so sensitive. Her hands shook as she **** them away. She looked up at her master. "Let's go to the vessel," she pleaded, voice shaking with barely checked need.