"Mmm-hmm." I answered without losing my cock-sucking rhythm.
I looked up at him out of the top of my eyes, and I saw the others had quietly gathered behind Vance.
I had shared the security door access code with some friends, and once past that barrier, nothing remained between them and Vance but one locked door. My trick with the wad of paper worked. The latch didn't lock when I closed the door. Instead, it freely admitted the other members of the Society, my fellow Vance-tattooed victims. Like me, they bore labels on their foreheads: HOT4COCK, FAGGOT, COCKSUCKER, CUMDUMP, COCKS4ME and MANEATER. Three others, two men and a woman, were with them.
HOT4COCK, the unofficial chairman of the Society, quietly leaned in to view my eyes for any signal to proceed. I gave him none. I was into the blowjob I was giving. It made me extremely hot to give myself to my tormentor one last time. I accelerated my cocksucking pace and Vance groaned.
"Oh, you fucking faggot... Your ass will have to wait! I'm gonna come down your neck!"
I felt the spasms in his dick as it forcefully expelled Vance's semen into my mouth. It tasted salty and sweet. He shuddered with pleasure and put his hands on my head, holding it hovering over his cock so I could tongue-bathe it clean. When I was done, he let go of my head and I looked over his shoulder at HOT4COCK and the other members of the Society.
"Now," I said.
Before Vance could realize I was talking to someone else, HOT4COCK gave FAGGOT a nod. Moving quickly, a hair faster than Vance could react, FAGGOT reached around Vance's head with a gloved hand and smothered his face in a sponge soaked in a chemical he had procured on the Black Market. Panic showed in Vance's face and he tried to get up, but I pressed all my body weight against his legs. In his alarm, he breathed deeply of the chemical fumes. He flailed, trying desperately to reach FAGGOT's hand, but other Society men held his arms back. His resistance to the fast-acting knock-out drug was short-lived and his body soon went limp. When we were convinced he wasn't just faking unconsciousness, FAGGOT withdrew the sponge from his face.
We congratulated ourselves on our success. Our tormentor was at our mercy.
We picked at the unconscious man like ravens, stripping him of his clothes and restraining him in his own tattoo studio recliner; he had ruined several people's lives in this chair and now it was time for him to pay the price.
Our three guests, Marcus, Craig and Daphne, were tattooists I had consulted before in my search for Vance and answers about how to remove my tattoo. The trio wore plenty of ink and piercings and were masters of their craft as surely as Vance was. They had heard of Vance and his crimes against their profession; they had no problem breaking the rules to punish him justly according to his misdeeds. The Society membership would pay the tattooists' fees for the job of illustrating Vance.
Exposed in his near-nakedness (we stripped him down to his underwear), Vance's existing tats were on full display. He had an admirable array of designs; strangely enough for such a man, many of these depicted God and elements of Biblical stories. His new tattoos would contrast highly with his old ones.
Three tattooists can do a lot in a short time if they're not worried about the discomfort of their client.
Before long, Vance had words inscribed on the back of his neck: RAPIST. BLACKMAILER. MISANTHROPE. All the words were true; it was tempting to add worse labels, but honesty was harsh enough. A tattooed arrow projected down toward Vance's penis from an inscription on his lower abdomen: it said CLIT. On his lower back a similar arrow pointed down at his asshole and said ENTER HERE. His neck was inscribed with plain letters that said INSERT COCK HERE; above the phrase, there was an arrow pointing up at Vance's mouth. His cheeks were branded with the male/male symbol in hot pink, a touch requested by the man Vance had labelled CUMDUMP, who also wore those symbols on his own cheeks. Everyone else deserved to leave a mark on their tormentor as well, so their derogatory names were slapped across Vance's back; he was tattooed with the same names he had bestowed on the Society membership: HOT4COCK, FAGGOT, COCKSUCKER, CUMDUMP, COCKS4ME, MANEATER and CUMSLUT. Last, Vance's forehead was inked with the simple illumination: COCKSLAVE.
With the tattooing completed, we decided as a group that Vance's long hair could easily hide the labels on his forehead and the back of his neck, so we shaved him bald. Vance looked like a different man after that.
After several hours, the work was all done. Vance stirred, slowly regaining consciousness, but we needed more time to complete our plan. FAGGOT put him under again.
I don't condone rape, but almost every member of the Society (myself excluded), had been raped by Vance in their unconscious slumber; if any of them had wanted to return the favour, I would have understood and called it justice, but to their credit, not one of the labelled Society membership took that advantage from the situation. I wondered if this was because we had all become conditioned to be fucked rather than to fuck, or if it was just a plain, common decency we shared and which was beyond a man like Vance.
In fact, everyone involved seemed satisfied that they had settled scores with Vance, except, strangely enough, the tattooists, who felt that Vance was a blight on their profession.
"It's not enough," Daphne said. The blonde tattoo artist wore a bowl cut with bangs, like Mr. Spock. She had several facial piercings and wore tight, revealing clothes. Her tits were inked in Elvish and Klingon phrases.
"He has to really feel what he did to you guys," Marcus agreed. He was a muscular man with a full reddish-brown beard and a shaved head. He shared Vance's penchant for black clothing. His facial piercings were nearly as extensive as Daphne's.
Craig, who favoured leather, had long, wild black hair that looked wind-blown compared to Vance's carefully-coiffed mane. He said: "Let the punishment fit the crime."
To that end, we put our heads together and worked at making a plan for Vance's final reckoning. It was true that Vance could minimize the effect of his tattoos better than most of us. Like any one of the Society, he could hide the tats by wearing a woolen toque low on his forehead and a scarf around his neck; nearly all the rest would be hidden under his clothes. The hot pink male/male symbols would be harder to hide, but could probably be covered with cosmetic make-up. He was self-employed and didn't need to worry about being fired for showing his tattoos; a few of us lost our jobs for exactly that offence. Vance wasn't married or attached to anyone, or so it seemed, and so he wouldn't lose a family over the inscriptions as some Society members had.
What Vance had not experienced, and might avoid if left to his own devices, was the same sense of violation we had experienced from the tattoo itself and from its effects on other men. I, myself, had been broken down to be a bottom boy for any man that might so much as look at me. That was what Vance needed to feel: violation and submission. He needed to be humbled.
We eventually decided it could be arranged. It was well into Saturday evening by the time, Vance's tattoos were complete. He would be coming around soon. We needed something to restrain him, but none of us thought to bring anything. On a hunch, I explored Vance's bedroom. He had a blanket box at the foot of his bed and it contained far more than bed linens: it was Vance's toybox. There were dildos and vibrators of every description. I also found what I was looking for: stainless steel handcuffs and Velcro manacles. We bound his hands behind his back with the cuffs and left enough chain between his manacled feet to allow him to walk awkwardly after the fashion of a high-risk offender.
We had come to Vance's place in two vehicles; our party was too numerous for one car. The tattooists took FAGGOT and me with them in their van, while HOT4COCK, COCKSUCKER, CUMDUMP, COCKS4ME and MANEATER put Vance in the trunk of HOT4COCK's car. CUMDUMP had suggested a destination to the group and it was unanimously agreed.
Of us all, CUMDUMP best knew where to find cock. After his tattooing, like the rest of us, he was quickly reduced to the meaning of his label, but he took his turning out to a higher level than the rest of us. He actively sought out men to take his mouth and ass, while most of the other members of the Society were more likely to submit only to men who saw their tattoo. CUMDUMP left his job in the hospitality industry to work as a professional gloryhole attendant at a swingers' club, and somehow his appetite for cum was not satisfied by his job; he hung around in gay bars and dingy nightclubs; in subway station, airport and stadium rest rooms, and even dark alleys. Cock was the centre of his life. So, when CUMDUMP recommended a place where Vance might be properly christened in his new name, COCKSLAVE, we all took note.
When we reached our destination, we all gathered at the trunk of the car and opened it up, nervous that the cargo might be awake. Vance lay in the back, still bound by cuffs and manacles, and still stripped down to his underwear. He was unconscious. The strongest of us, Marcus, the tattooist, lifted him over his wide shoulders and carried the prone Vance toward the doors.
We were at a very old tourist rest stop and gas station on the highway. It was in sorry shape, with shingles flapping in the wind and weeds growing through the jigsaw pieces of cracked pavement. Windows were cracked and dirty. The wind buffeted a hanging sign by the gas pumps that was too faded and rusted to read; it creaked noisily as it was blown to and fro. Tumbleweed would have been at home. Tourists stayed away from this dump in droves; the main clientele were truckers and travelling salesmen. The place was scheduled to be demolished, soon to be replaced by a more modern facility.
