The shop was smaller than he expected. Discreet. No name on the glass, just a blacked-out window and a buzzer by the door. Nick stood outside for a full minute, hands stuffed in his hoodie, heart pounding like a war drum. He could still run. Say it was a mistake. But the app had already pinged: "Arrived – Ready for Session." He stepped inside. The place smelled like antiseptic and ink. Clean. Too clean. A woman sat behind the counter—pierced lip, inked arms, and a smirk that said she already knew exactly what he was there for. "You must be the clit boy," she said without missing a beat. Nick froze. His face burned. She didn't wait for a response—just stood, grabbed a clipboard, and gestured to the back. "Room's prepped. Strip down. Face up." Her voice was casual, but laced with mockery, like she was holding back laughter. "Hope you shaved. Wouldn't want the word 'clit' getting tangled in your bush." Nick's heart pounded as he followed her, undressing one trembling piece at a time. Naked, he lay on the cold table, too ashamed to make eye contact. She didn't care. She slapped a stencil across his pelvis, then leaned in and tapped the outline with her gloved finger. "Wow. Right above your dick, huh? Not even pretending it's a cock anymore?" She chuckled. "Brutal." The tattoo machine buzzed to life. "Hold still, princess. Wouldn't want to mess up your new label." The pain was sharp—but it was nothing compared to the sound of her giggling every time she leaned in to read the text. "Tiny Clit – No Cock Here," she said, repeating it with amusement as she traced it into his skin. "God, that's so fucking pathetic. Who even lets someone do this?" Nick clenched his teeth, his body burning. Then came "SISSY SLUT" across his lower back. "That's classic," she said. "Bet you already act like one." And when she spread his cheeks to ink CUMDUMP in bold caps across both sides, she outright laughed. "I mean… this is permanent, you get that, right? This isn't Sharpie at a bachelorette party. You'll die with this on your ass." The final touch—a small black heart with an 'M'—went high on his inner thigh. She gave it a light slap when she finished. "There you go, bitch. All tagged up for your owner." She handed him the mirror, still smiling like she'd just finished a prank. Nick looked. He didn't recognize his body. He didn't feel like a man. He didn't feel like a person. The app buzzed. Task Complete. Funds Released: $15,000. And beneath it: Mistress is pleased. The artist patted his thigh. "You're welcome, sissy." Nick didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stared at the words now carved into his flesh… and realized they fit.
