Bad Slave? (3)


The sound of the plastic covering the table was loud in her ears.


The tattoo artist had hold of her upper arms as he pulled her forward towards the end of the table. A padded face-rest, similar to the ones found in a massage studio, was there, also wrapped  in plastic. A center hole for her face allowed her to breathe freely, but she was unprepared for the strap that circled her neck, and the other over the crown of her head that held her tightly to the device.

Her fresh clitoral piercing throbbed painfully as her pussy was pressed into the surface of the table as she lay on her belly.

Her throbbing was only slightly less noticeable than that of her racing heart.

What the fuck was going on here?

She heard them talking over her prone body. Then their hands, moving up from the nape of her neck.

“Here.” her Master’s voice was just to her right. His hand shoveled away the hair from her neck, parting it and exposing the hollow at the base of her skull. His finger came to rest right at the very top of that concave dip.

“hmmmm, challenging me today are you?” She heard the smile in the voice of the tattoo artist.

“Her hair must cover the spot adequately when you’re done.” Master spoke with confidence.

“no problem, I’ll shave this part here,”

His voice continued but she lost the thread of it…SHAVE??? What? She swallowed hard. The trembling increased until she shivered against His hand.

His fist curled tight around the hank of hair under his palm.

She gasped at the sudden pain, but the powerful pull of His ownership settled her racing heart, calming her in an instant.

She felt hands parting her hair, clipping it in place, then heard the unmistakable snick of scissors. Her heart ratcheted up a few notches.



She shivered, unable to move her head, and unwilling to move her body. She felt cool air against suddenly shortened locks.

“Now I’ll use these to get it close, then the razor to make it nice and smooth.”

She whimpered, small, but He heard it.

“Do you trust your Owner?”

“yes Master” her voice was tiny, child-like in its quiver. Her fear was palpable, yet she was not crying for release.

She heard and felt the thin headed razor trimming what felt like a big section of hair from the base of her head. A small chunk of her long locks fell softly, tickling her neck, then landed in a curled heap on the floor at the edge of her vision. She stared at that long, lost lock for a long time, before closing her eyes and giving herself completely to Him.

It wasn’t easy.

But the trust was there. Built over minutes turned to hours, hours turned to weeks, weeks turned into years. She had given Him so much of herself, her trust had never wavered. But never had she fully given him herself in completeness.

Until now.

She had wobbled a bit at times, like a six-year old on training wheels, but He had worked hard to build her in the image He desired. It was what she had always needed, wanted, craved.

The scrape of the small blade against her flesh was cold, and sounded loud in her head.



A finger slid around the spot, testing it for strays. She heard the rattle of paper.

“This is your mark, then?”

He must have nodded, for the room was silent, but the hissing hum of the tattoo machine suddenly filled the room. She knew that sound. Hadn’t she screeched her way through a small heart tat on her right tit when she was 20? She thought she would be okay.

It. Hurt. Like. Holy. Fuck.

Now she knew why her head was strapped in place, because if she had been able to, she would have leapt from the table, grabbed that fucking machine, and shoved it up the tattoo guys skinny ass!!

She gritted her teeth and growled like a woman in transition. In a way, she supposed in the last rational, thinking part of her brain,(the part not focusing on the feeling that the needle was working its way through her flesh and into her skull,) she was in transition.

Birthing into a new slave. Shedding her old persona. Being transformed, fully, as His.

But. It. Still. FUCKING. Hurt.

Like. Holy. Fuck. ing. Hell.

She gritted harder, grunting at a particularly painful section, and felt His hand caressing her lower back, her ass. His hand slipped under her skirt to caress the smooth flesh of her ass, and slip down through her slit.

Her still verrrrrry wet slit.

After 75 hours, it was done.  Okay, it was more like 75 minutes, but it sure as fuck *felt* like 75 hours.

Now she was aching, hurting, head to cunt. And yet, she had taken this for Him. In part as a punishment, for her doubt. But more, as an outward marking to forestall any further feelings of disattachment.

She was so fucking afraid of being disattached.

She was gently raised from the torture table. Some may call it a tat bench, but forevermore, to her it was a torture device. They gave her juice, and Master fed her a bit of His leftover donut. Once she was steady, she was positioned in front of the 3-paneled mirror to see his work.

A small bit of hair, certainly  not much more than an inch-and-a-half square was gone, and underneath, a yin-yang tattoo. Inside, a star, His personal symbol, and two smaller stars, one all white, the other, split.

“This is you.” He pointed to the star half black, half white. “You in your vanilla world, but also coexisting in Mine.”

She breathed in those words, deeply touched by the symbolism. Yin yang symbolism was powerful in and of itself, but now it was made even more so by His choice of design.


Always His.

special thanks to brookepuppy and her master for the inspiration for this story. puppy is *not* a bad slave (hence the question mark), but like every one of us, has struggled. As have i. As i imagine we all have, from time to time…i hope *this* story— does some justice to *theirs*… ~n~