Chapter 9: Branded Property
The buzzing needle was a cold kiss against her inner lip. It wasn’t pain, not at first. It was a precise, vibrating pressure, a mechanical insect drilling ink into soft, vulnerable flesh. Puncture worked with clinical detachment, stretching Jasmine’s lip with a gloved finger. The smell of ozone and blood filled Jasmine’s nose.
Val watched, her cock still resting against Jasmine’s flushed cheek. “Hold her still,” she murmured.
Jasmine tried to obey, to be still, but her body trembled. It was the vulnerability. The absolute exposure. The needle moved to her gum line, a sharper, more insistent sting. Tears welled, blurring the halogen lights above.
It took twenty minutes. Puncture switched needles, changed ink caps from black to a harsh, chemical red. The process moved from Jasmine’s mouth to the back of her neck, the sensitive skin behind her ears, the sharp rise of her cheekbones. Words and symbols were etched into her. ‘FUTA SLUT’ in gothic script across her nape. A crude, grinning pig’s head behind her right ear. On her left cheekbone, a series of four-letter words in a tight, possessive script: ‘CUMS’, ‘FUCK’, ‘HOLES’, ‘USED’.
Puncture finally turned her attention to the larger canvas. She pushed Jasmine forward in the chair, her face now pressed into Val’s leather-clad thigh. The cold air hit the small of Jasmine’s back as her jeans and underwear were tugged down. The needle buzzed again, tracing the existing, inflamed carvings from the previous night—‘FUCK’, ‘PIG’, ‘CUM’—making them permanent, filling them with jet black ink. Then, lower, across the full, heavy curve of her right buttock, Puncture began a larger piece: a detailed, predatory eclipse, its corona a series of grasping, talon-like rays.
Jasmine bit into the leather to muffle her sounds. Each puncture was a hot spark, a brand. She felt the ink entering her, becoming part of her topography. This was the final erasure. No going back. The detective was being buried under a landslide of obscene graffiti.
When it was done, Puncture slapped a healing salve over the fresh work. It smelled of petroleum and aloe. “Don’t let it stick to your clothes. It’ll weep.”
Val finally moved. She stepped back, buckling her trousers over her now-softened cock. She circled the chair, examining the work. Her fingers, cool and dry, traced the words on Jasmine’s neck, the pig on her ear. She gripped Jasmine’s chin, turning her face side to side under the lights. The red ink in her lip, a single word—‘DRAIN’—stood out luridly against the pale pink.
“Good,” Val said, a curator approving of a restored piece. “Now it’s truth in advertising.” She released Jasmine’s face. “Get up. We’re filming another movie.”
Jasmine’s legs were weak, her body a map of fresh, stinging pain. She pulled her jeans up over the tender ink on her ass, wincing as the fabric dragged. She followed Val out of the clinical back room and into the main bay.
The atmosphere had shifted. The bike was gone. In the center of the open space, a stained velvet couch had been dragged under the giant, throbbing ceiling dildo. Industrial lights on stands hummed to life, casting a harsh, white glare. A camera on a tripod was positioned a few feet away, its red recording light a single, unblinking eye.
A few other futas lounged in the shadows, watching with idle interest. Raker sipped from a bottle of whiskey. Vesper was cleaning her nails with a switchblade.
“On the couch,” Val said, gesturing. “The camera’s rolling. Introduce yourself. Tell them what you are.”
Jasmine stood before the couch, trapped in the glare. The camera’s eye felt more invasive than Val’s gaze. She saw her reflection in the lens: her hair gone, replaced by severe cornrows; her face newly marked with vulgarities; her body trembling. The old Jasmine, the one who had walked out of the precinct, screamed in a tiny, locked room inside her skull.
But the smell of her own healing tattoos, the ache in her scalp, the memory of Val’s weight on her tongue—they were louder.
She sat on the couch. The velvet was cold and sticky in places.
She looked into the camera. A strange, giddy calm descended. This was just another performance. Another role. She’d played the tough detective. Now she would play this.
“My name…” she began, her voice hoarse. She cleared it, and when she spoke again, it was clearer, lower, a parody of a sultry confidence. “My name is Jasmine. But you can call me whatever’s written on me.” She turned her head, showing the ‘FUTA SLUT’ on her neck to the lens. “I’m the Eclipse Gang’s new toy. Their pig.”
A chuckle came from the shadows. Encouragement.
The validation, perverse and toxic, flooded her. She leaned back, running her hands over her own body, over the tight fabric of her shirt stretched across her chest. “They took my badge. They gave me these instead.” She popped a button on her shirt, then another, exposing the deep cleavage, the heavy, pale flesh constrained by a simple black bra. “You like that? You like seeing a former detective… debased?”
She stood up, turning her back to the camera, looking over her shoulder. She slowly pushed her jeans down over the fresh eclipse tattoo, over the pronounced curve of her ass. “They marked me everywhere. Inside and out.” She bent over, presenting the newly inked words, the dark, swollen lines of the eclipse. She gave a slow, deliberate twerk, a jiggle that sent a bolt of pain from her fresh tattoo up her spine. She embraced it, grinding against the air, a crude, explicit dance for the unblinking eye.
Her hands wandered between her own legs as she moved, fingers pressing against herself through her underwear. A low moan escaped her, not entirely faked. The adrenaline, the shame, the sheer audacity of it was a potent drug. “I’m their fuck-pig,” she breathed into the camera, her face flushed. “I live to serve. I live to be used.”
Val stepped into the frame then. She had a small, remote control in her hand. She pressed a button. Above them, the massive ceiling dildo began to piston down with a hydraulic hiss, its veined surface glistening with synthetic lubricant.
But Val didn’t push Jasmine onto it. She unzipped her own trousers again, freeing her cock, which was already half-hard, swelling rapidly from the spectacle. She walked toward the couch, her expression one of cool ownership.
“You said you live to serve,” Val said, her voice picked up by the camera’s microphone. “Prove it.”
Jasmine understood. She turned, kneeling on the couch, her enormous chest presented. She pulled her bra down, freeing her breasts, pushing them together to create a deep, pale valley of flesh.
Val didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, guiding the thick, plum-shaped head between Jasmine’s cleavage. The skin was hot, soft. Val thrust, not gently. The motion was functional, possessive.
Jasmine gasped, then leaned into it, squeezing her tights around the invading shaft. She looked up at Val, then at the camera, a look of delirious submission on her marked face. “Yes,” she hissed. “Use me. Fuck your pig’s tits.”
The sound was wet, obscene—skin on skin, a rhythmic, slapping cadence. Jasmine’s breasts jiggled with each thrust, quickly becoming slick with pre-cum and sweat. She mewled, little high-pitched sounds of encouragement, her hands moving to cup her own breasts, to help guide, to worship the cock fucking them.
“You love it, don’t you?” Val grunted, her pace increasing.
“I love it!” Jasmine cried, the answer immediate, torn from her. “I love your cock! I love being your filthy toy!”
Val’s breathing grew ragged. She pulled out abruptly, the slick shaft glistening in the lights. She aimed it at Jasmine’s marked face. “Open. Say ‘ahh’ for the camera, pig.”
Jasmine obeyed, mouth wide, tongue out, eyes on the lens.
The first thick, hot rope hit her tongue, salty and bitter. The next splashed across her cheek, over the word ‘FUCK’ inked there. Another painted her cornrows. It kept coming, a relentless, degrading shower, coating her face, dripping onto her exposed chest. She kept her mouth open, swallowing what she could, letting the rest paint her.
When Val was spent, she tucked herself away. Jasmine remained on her knees, face and torso glazed, dripping. She was panting, her green eyes bright with a shattered, euphoric light.
Val picked up the camera, pointing it directly at Jasmine’s ruined, ecstatic face. “Tell them your new motto.”
Jasmine smiled, a wide, genuine smile that stretched the fresh ‘DRAIN’ on her lip. She leaned into the lens, her voice a happy, giddy whisper that crescendoed into a shout.
“FUCK. THE. PIGS!”
The red light on the camera winked out. The only sound was Jasmine’s ragged breathing and the soft, hydraulic retraction of the ceiling dildo back into the shadows.