TRAMP STAMP
“I want a tramp stamp.”
I feel completely out of place in this tattoo parlor, and I’m afraid that the inked girl behind the counter will burst into laughter after this confession. She’s about my age and has about my figure: mid-twenties, 5′7 and lithe, but that’s where the resemblance ends. She’s wearing tight leather pants and a tank top which exposes both her cleavage and the tattoos on her arms. Her black hair is flowing down her shoulders. I came straight from work, and I haven’t got out of my work uniform, my blonde hair is still tightly packed in a bun.
“You mean a lower back tattoo? A tattoo doesn’t make you a tramp. I’m Brandi and I’m your artist, unless of course you want Chad.”
Brandi nods towards a bare-chested muscular guy, his arms and upper body completely inked.
“No, you’re fine.” I say, feeling more secure with Brandi. “I’m Amanda.”
Brandi’s open attitude makes me feel at ease, and suddenly I burst out:
“I’m a Passenger Service Agent at the airport. Every day, all day, I wear this stupid uniform, like all the other girls. We’re all sitting behind our desks, following procedures. If my hair isn’t neatly in a bun, or if my skirt is just a bit wrinkled, I’m scolded like a small child by the supervisor. I want to, you know…” I hesitate a moment. “Get out of line. Dissent. A visible tattoo will get me fired. But a tramp stamp…” I correct myself: “A hidden tattoo will be… my secret.”
Brandi smiles: “I understand, and you are not alone. You’d be surprised if you knew how many prim ladies and soccer moms have a lower back tattoo or some ink hidden elsewhere. Hey, I’ll just show you some artwork, to get inspiration. Okay?”
Brandi fetches a number of binders with all kinds of designs and patiently gives a number of suggestions.
“Chad needs a hand,” she says. “Just see if you find something you like. Take your time, okay?”
Brandi and Chad tidy up the parlor, while I browse through the artwork. It’s difficult to choose. I open another binder, clearly an old one, marked Old Stuff from Zeke. The designs were originally stored separately in sheet protectors; but the binder is a mess with many sheets put together. I pull out some of the designs; one of them catches my eye.
The design is slightly faded, but I immediately see it is beautiful. It consists of a central lowercase A, its tail branching into an intricate tribal; a partial mirror image of the tribal to the left ends in a whirl which surrounds the A again.
I wave with the piece of paper: “Brandi, this is it. It must be. It’s the A, the first letter of my name. ”
Brandi comes over and looks puzzled: “Strange, I’ve never seen that design before. But that ain’t no problem. I can do that.”
I feel dizzy. No, not dizzy—high.
After I had chosen the design and signed the release, Brandi guided me to the back of the parlor, where no one, including Chad, would disturb us.
“It’s more convenient if you would’ve worn a t-shirt and track pants,” she said. “I just would’ve pulled up the shirt and pulled down the track pants a bit.”
Now I had to get out of my jacket, shirt and pencil skirt, before I could lie down on my belly. I felt vulnerable but Brandi made me feel at ease and started to work. It hurt! The pain seemed hardly bearable at first, but I entered some kind of trance as Brandi continued.
I do not remember how I managed to get home, and I still feel stoned. A dull pain is radiating from my back; it’s embalming me in a kind of mist. I can’t concentrate on anything; instead of cooking I order pizza but when it’s delivered I’m not hungry and I eat less than half of it.
I turn on the TV and flip though the channels. I try to watch a crime drama but the plot is too difficult to follow; I switch to Music TV. The music irritates me, but somehow I keep watching the video clips. I’m not watching the musicians but the hot girls surrounding them. They dance so seductively.
It’s unavoidable to find porn on the Internet, but I’ve never actively searched for it. But now I want it. Somehow I crave it. I start searching, first for nudity, then for hardcore sex. I ogle the cybersluts. I realize I’m still dressed when my hand is going south and finds the access to my cunt being blocked by the pencil skirt of my uniform.
Did I really use the word cunt? I, innocent Amanda the prim Passenger Service Agent? I undress and my hand moves unhindered to my cunt. Yes, innocent Amanda has a cunt and Amanda’s cunt is wet. I watch more porn while my fingers tickle my clit. I’ve felt orgasms before, but never this way.
The phone wakes me up. It’s Kirsten, the morning shift supervisor. She’s angry, because I didn’t show up. I blame my absence on a migraine attack; Kirsten buys this white lie because clearly I do not sound very lucid. She orders me to do an additional Sunday morning shift; I’m glad I’m not fired.
I do not leave my small apartment for the rest of the day. I watch porn. Every sort of porn. I stumble across a clip of a slut who superficially looks like me; blonde, medium height, slender, perky tits, and a lower back tattoo. A tramp stamp. She’s a tramp, a whore who’s fucked by a big muscular man. No, she’s not just being fucked; she’s completely dominated by this stud who forces his cock into her. I imagine it’s me being fucked this way. I watch the clip many times on end.
The next day, my shift starts at four in the morning. I’m still hazy when I sit down behind my desk and the first passengers arrive for their check-in. But I just go with the flow, and it feels good today. It feels good to be of service.
When there’s a lull in the passenger flow, I look to my colleagues. Sharon, Ashley, Erica. My thoughts wander. How would a lower back tattoo look on them? Or some other piece of ink? Do they shave their pussy? Sharon’s rack looks real nice—natural or silicon? What would it feel like to touch fake boobs?
At the end of my shift, I’m called into the supervisor’s office. Kirsten does not offer me a seat.
“Amanda, I do not know what happened. I’ve often expressed concerns about your attitude and yesterday was obviously a significant breach of procedure, but today you were suddenly very productive without leaving your desk for a sec, not even asking for a restroom break.”
“Thank you Mistress, eh, Miss,” I say.
Kirsten looks as if I’m kidding her. Then she starts to smile.
“That’s the correct employee attitude. Until yesterday anything I’d say might’ve triggered a discussion. I’m happy you’ve grown up and compliant.”
I just nod while I look down. She interprets my stance as docility while I’m just watching Kirsten’s crotch, fantasizing what it would be like to lick her clit and make her come.
“I’ll give you some extra shifts as reward. If you keep up behaving, I might even assign you easy ones. Dismissed.”
My next shift is a late one. I’m helping out a business man. His flight is overbooked but I can rebook him with an upgrade. It’s taking some time to get everything fixed, but I don’t mind. It’s my job to serve him. Each time the booking system is searching for other options gives me the opportunity to check him out again. He’s well groomed and smartly dressed. Not a nerd; his body betrays regular workouts on the treadmill. Too young to play golf.
“Anything else I can do for you sir?” I ask
He bends over and whispers in my ear: “Of course you may suck my dick anytime.”
I squirm at the thought, and answer politely: “Unfortunately I am not allowed to leave my desk during shifts. But I can take a break 30 minutes from now. Where shall we meet?”
He smirks, apparently a bit embarrassed, and leaves. I wonder why he didn’t accept my offer. I just wanted to be of service.
Andrew supervises the late shift tonight. At the end of my shift, he waves me into his office.
“I received a complaint,” he says briskly. “You made inappropriate remarks, apparently even offering sexual services.”
He looks to a complaint form: “I quote: ‘I overheard the agent while she discussed lewd acts with a customer and the locations where these might be performed.’ ”
“I,... I, you know,” I stutter. “I just want to be helpful. It’s all about customer satisfaction.”
I feel frustrated; first I offer myself and get rejected. Now the shift supervisor is angry because I did not follow procedure. Fuck procedure if that’s the best way to satisfy the customer’s needs!
“Customer satisfaction is all right but they do not really want to be satisfied this way.” He smirks. “But I do. Would you truly give me head?”
I nod. Of course I would!
I unbutton Andrew’s pants and get his cock out. I stroke it, though I hardly have to; Andrew is already fully erect in anticipation. I get down and take his cock in my mouth, slowly licking its tip.
“Oh, yes, you slut,” Andrew moans. “Show me who’s the boss.”
I know he’s right. It feels good to serve him. Andrew’s in command, my place is down, on my knees.
He squirts in my mouth. What a wonderful feeling!
“Swallow,” he commands. “Or you will get stains on your beautiful little uniform.”
Three days later I arrive at the airport for another late shift. The place is in turmoil. Sharon fills me in, pretending to know all the juicy details:
“They fired Andrew for inappropriate conduct. Meredith had to come in his office; he told her to, you know, play his flute.” Sharon blushes a little. “Meredith refused, of course. Andrew then wanted Helen in his office, but Helen was warned, so she used her phone to record the conversation. When she refused, Andrew even said that some other employees were much more accommodating and had serviced him before. She went straight to the night shift duty manager; Andrew was fired on the spot.”
“I wonder who was so ’accommodating’,” Jessica interrupts. “I bet it was that slut Izzie, you know, with the fake platinum hair.”
Sharon shakes her head: “I reckon Andrew just made that up. The pathetic jerk.”
Serving customers gives me little satisfaction and serving colleagues is clearly not an option. I miss Andrew; Kirsten is bossier but Andrew had allowed me to suck his cock.
I need a cock in my cunt. A real one; fingers and vibrators are only meager substitutes. I find a short tight-fitting dress somewhere in my closet; I once wore it at a bro’s & ho’s party about three years ago while I was still in Community College. I try this slutty dress on; it looks amazing on me. I decide to hit the road.
I go to the ‘Double Deuce’, an infamous bar I’ve heard Izzie and Jessica gossiping about. I’m lucky; several of the men are interested in me, and they offer me beer or cocktails.
One of them, Will or Bill or whatever, is more resolute; he sees that it isn’t beer but cock that I need. We go outside and he takes me behind one of the parked cars. He just pulls up my dress and fucks me right in the pussy. It feels sooo good! I finally have what I crave; my cunt is no longer empty. Just as he is close to squirting, we’re interrupted by a group of angry women. The dark haired vixen in the lead yells at me:
“You dirty whore. He’s MINE!”
“You’re fired.”
Kirsten is implacable.
“It’s not my fault,” I say. “These girls started to fight. I was just, you know, making out with a guy. So I had to go to the hospital. I couldn’t do shifts.”
“The police were here inquiring about you. They were not so sure about who started—you apparently provoked them. Passenger Service Agents are the representatives of the airport and they have to conduct themselves irreproachably. And you did not comply with that standard; you acted like a... Like a whore. You have 15 minutes to clean out your locker. Dismissed.”
I spend a whole week at home, mainly watching porn, or fantasizing about being fucked and dominated. My new favorite is a clip in which a woman dressed as a French maid is rewarded after performing her housekeeping duties by both the Master and the Lady of the Manor.
The landlady interrupts my routine of watching and masturbation; she demands me to pay the rent. I try to convince her to accept my other offerings but to no avail; as a senior citizen she’s too old for any physical service and she just needs the money for her monthly fix of legalized narcotics.
Kirsten said I acted like a whore, and it dawns on me that becoming one might resolve my problems. The advantage seems clear; men fuck me and they pay me for that too. And the working hours will not bother me; I’m used to doing graveyard shifts. So I put on my slutty dress again.
I take position at a busy street corner close and start soliciting. I’m lucky; within 10 minutes I have a customer. I get in the car; he drives into a deserted alley. He wants me to give him a blowjob, so I unzip his pants. The moment I take his cock in my mouth, I feel complete. This is what it is all about: Suck cock, serve men. He squirts, I swallow. He gives me twenty and pushes me out of the car.
The routine repeats itself several times that evening, and I end up with 80 bucks. The third one didn’t want to pay; and I couldn’t compel him to; how do you compel your Superior?
I got both money and sex, but I feel empty inside. For better or worse, Kirsten was my boss; I tried to serve her as best as I could and she expected me to serve. I preferred Andrew above Kirsten, because he would both boss and fuck me, but it was not meant to be. Now I also serve, but the service is fleeting; they cum, they pay, they leave.
A car stops.
“How much for a fuck?”
“Twenty for a blowjob. Fifty bucks all the way,” I yell back.
“All the way.” The driver opens the door.
We drive to a hotel where you can rent rooms by the hour. He pays for two hours. We go upstairs.
“Undress,” he orders. I’m undressed in five seconds; I got rid of underwear earlier that evening.
“Bend over on the bed.”
I love him. I love it to be commanded. Of course I comply. What else could I do?
“Nice little tramp stamp you got over there,” he says. I had all but forgotten about my little piece of ink.
“Spread.”
I spread my legs; his finger checks out my pussy, touching my clit, giving me shivers.
“You’re wet. You love this, don’t you? You little slut.”
“I do. Yes Master, I do. Take me!”
“I will.”
His cock slides into my cunt and he fucks me from behind. He’s my hero! Yes, take me, fuck me, control me, dominate me, reward me!
He comes, and that gives me the best orgasm I’ve ever had.
I’m lying on the bed, completely wasted, but my hero gets up and puts on his pants again.
“Please, take me with you?” I ask. No, I do not ask, I beg.
“In your dreams, you dirty slut,” he growls.
He throws some bills at me and leaves. I feel lonely and start to cry.
Even though my Master-for-an-hour has left me, he reminded me of my little secret on my lower back. I look in the mirror, trying to examine the intricate design of my lower back tattoo. It’s a pity it’s now on display for everyone but me; I want a second piece of ink on a part of my body where I can admire it too. I decide to return to the tattoo parlor.
Brandi goes crazy when I enter the parlor. She starts to hug me:
“Amanda, I’m so glad you showed up,” she says. “Chad and I went through so much trouble to find you. We even went to the airport but you were fired and no one wanted to talk about you.”
“Why? What happened?”
Brandi releases me. She’s only wearing a bra and a thong; so when she turns around, I recognize a familiar piece of ink on her back.
“I never could decide on a good design for a lower back tattoo. I’ve been searching for ages, and then you came and found it right here. So after you left, I asked Chad to tattoo me using the same design. I felt really weird while he was tattooing me. And when he was done, I behaved… erratically.” Brandi smiles and continues:
“So we phoned old Zack; it was his tattoo parlor before he retired and we took over. He was surprised; he thought he had gotten rid of those old designs. It’s not just a design; it’s a geas.”
“A what?”
“An old kind of spell. Zack got a shitload of designs from an old lady in New Orleans. He quit using them after he discovered what they really were.” Brandi points to the A in the design: “The A stands for ancilla; which means maid-servant or slave. Somehow the geas mind controls the tattooed maid-servant; so that she wants to serve.”
Suddenly I understand. I understand with complete clarity everything that happened to me.
“So you serve…” I start asking.
Brandi nods happily: “I serve Chad. I can’t imagine anything else. And who do you serve?”
“No one. I’m alone.”
Brandi hugs me. “I don’t think you’re alone anymore. Chad will be your Master too. Chad ain’t much of a talker, but he’s very dominant.”
Chad has followed our chatter from a distance, but now he comes towards us. I view him with renewed appreciation; he’s 6′2, at least 200 pounds, and everything is muscle. He utters just one sentence:
“You’re my new slut?” It’s hardly a question.
I nod: “Yes, I am, Master.”
Brandi walks to the front door and changes the ‘come in, we’re open’ sign to ‘sorry, we’re closed’. Then she helps me out of my yoga pants. Chad’s wearing a loose fitting shirt and track pants; I make sure he isn’t wearing it anymore. They say that muscular men have small dicks, but Chad is living proof this isn’t true.
He effortless lifts me and carries me to the couch where customers can wait before being inked. He throws me on my back and forces my legs up; so that my knees touch my shoulders. My pussy is exposed and I’m at his mercy.
Chad’s shaft is smooth and hairless and suddenly he is inside my wet cunt. When he squirts, I come too and the orgasm binds us together.
I moved in with Chad and Brandi—we now share the rooms above the parlor. One day, my former colleague Izzie walks in.
“Amanda! I can’t believe my eyes,” she says. “You really slipped down!”
“And loving every second of it,” I answer.
“What happened?”
I show her my tramp stamp, fully on display thanks to my new work uniform; cowboy hat, bra, thong, ankle strap shoes and nothing else. My first tattoo is surrounded by new ones; the ultimate goal is to have me covered from neck to toe.
“I’ll tell you a secret. This ain’t just a piece of ink, it’s a geas. It keeps me well under control.”
“Bull,” Izzie replies. “You’re just making that up because you do not want me to pick that design for myself.”
“I always believed you were the secret airport slut,” I tease her.
She takes the bait, chooses the geas-design, and moves in with us two weeks later.
So now Chad and Brandi do the tattooing, while Izzie and I are ‘customer service agents’. We staff the desk, help prospective customers choose a design, and keep the place generally tidy. And we’re both a kind of human billboards, displaying what the parlor has to offer.
It’s not hard work; there’s ample time for play. Chad fucks us all on a regular basis, but just as often he will just order us to fiddle and trifle a bit, because he likes to watch. But he also keeps us all in check if we get carried away too much. We have a tattoo parlor to run, and customers to satisfy.
I’m Master’s slut, and I have a tramp stamp to prove it.
I’m happy.