All participants are over 18.
*****
It had been a week since I woke up with 'CUMSLUT' tattooed in bold red and black letters across my forehead. Those seven days had been filled with more hot, dirty sex than I would ever have imagined possible. I had lost count of the times I'd been taken. The vagrant, the grocery clerk and the butcher, the tattooist I consulted after his branding, two cops, and the libidinous pizza delivery man, Curtis, who made good use of my ass on several occasions. I had to admit that I had enjoyed being the submissive whore of every man who laid eyes on that tattoo, but the mark had been placed on me without my knowledge or consent (yes, I was that drunk) and this wasn't a sustainable lifestyle. I was on holiday now, but in a few days, I would have to return to work, and what would HR make of the ink on my face?
To the end of having the tattoo removed, I consulted a tattooist named Greg. He told me two things of importance: first, it would take months for a laser clinic to break down the red inks in the design; second, my tattoo was a kind of trademark for a renegade tattoo artist known only as Vance. Greg doubted anyone would remove the tattoo if there was a risk of pissing Vance off. After I blew the man, I went to the police, where Constable Mayhew and Detective Masters took my complaint... and my ass and mouth. It was my first spit-roast. The policemen believed that Vance might be an urban legend rather than a flesh-and-blood man. Such was my tormentor.
Later, back at my apartment, Constable Mayhew came over and took sloppy seconds in my ass after the pizza delivery man unloaded there a few minutes before. The stated purpose of his visit was to tell me that he had made contact with another similarly-tattooed victim. The man gave Mayhew his contact information and the constable forwarded it to me. I could understand how two such victims might support each other and commiserate, but I was determined to take more decisive action against what I called 'the mark of the cumslut'.
To that end, I called and made an appointment with another tattoo parlour on the other side of town. I hoped they might not be deterred by Vance's reputation. Just maybe they could do the job faster than Greg believed possible.
As the hour of my appointment arrived, I was ready and eager to visit the parlour. I hadn't been fucked that day, so I hadn't been made to feel like a little bitch. My confidence had risen slightly and I felt hope.
On the way over, I purchased a woolen cap, like a toque, in a dollar store. I dispensed with my cap, which was inadequate to fully cover my forehead inscription. The weather wasn't cold enough to wear one of these really, but it could easily be pulled down to cover the tattoo on my forehead.
When last I visited a tattoo parlour, I was alone with the tattoo artist with whom I'd made the appointment. This time was different. I had made the appointment with Marcus, but his business partners and fellow tattoo artists, Craig and Daphne were also present.
The trio were studded with piercings and all were heavily inked. Marcus had a long full reddish-brown beard and a shaved head; he was dressed all in black and his muscular frame filled out the clothes admirably. Craig had long, wild, black hair; he was smaller than Marcus, but quite fit, and he clearly had a fetish for leather. Daphne, a blonde woman, had a bowl cut styled after the fashion of Mr. Spock on Star Trek; she liked to wear tight, revealing clothes, so I could see she had a phrase in Elvish tattooed on her right boob, opposite a Klingon inscription. Being bisexual, I thought all three were dishy in their own ways.
Still wearing my toque, I urged Marcus to see me privately, but he said his partners would offer their insight into my problem as well. I sighed and reluctantly submitted. I was grateful that there were no clients in the parlour at the time to see my shame. I quietly pulled off the woolen hat and exposed my "CUMSLUT" tattoo.
"Oh, right," said Marcus after a moment of silence. He whistled. "That's Vance's work, isn't it?"
"So I'm told. I was tattooed while I was passed out after a night of drinking, so I only have hazy recollections of a face. But others have mentioned Vance. I believe that's who's behind it. I just want it removed."
"Well, I assume you googled this before you came here. You probably know that tattoo removal can take weeks, even months. This red ink is stubborn even against laser treatment."
"Yes, I know. But it's possible, right?"
"Yes, given time."
"Can you do it?"
"No. My laser doesn't have the range offered by a laser therapy clinic. That's what you need."
"Are you sure there's nothing you can do? I've been told by another tattooist that nobody would take the job out of fear of incurring Vance's wrath."
"Nobody wants to piss Vance off. Why'd he do this to you?" Marcus asked me earnestly, but I noticed his eyes already wandering from my eyes and my forehead down to my torso and my crotch. My cock twitched in my pants and I wondered if Marcus noticed. I blushed under his scrutiny.
"I don't remember much. I was hammered from a night of drinking. He picked me up at a club; I don't even remember which one. We went back to his place and started playing around and I, uh, I went down on him and threw up. Then I passed out."
"The perfect date," Craig declared drily. He was standing beside me and I felt his eyes checking out my ass. It made me uncomfortable and aroused me at the same time.
"Are there no other alternatives? I need this tattoo gone in days, not months."
"You're out of luck. I led with the best option."
Daphne interrupted our discussion with a new line of questioning. She stood directly in front of me. She was shorter than me; I had to look down to see eye-to-eye with her.
