The tattoo was a constant reminder. She hated it, resented the constant invitation to discipline that it constituted. Or at least, that was how he treated it. Every time he exposed her pussy, and the indelible ink that marked her subservient inferiority and need to be harshly controlled, it made her squirm with a combination of anger, embarrassment, and arousal. Every time he saw the words, “punish me,” he would smile, and joke “if you insist.” And then the pain and degradation would begin again.
When he’d taken her, tearful and apprehensive, to the tattoo parlour, she’d thought that he would be marking her with the word “MINE.” That’s what he’d told her, when he’d announced a few weeks before his plans to mark his ownership on her delicate skin. While she’d hated the idea, bring claimed so irreversibly as properly, she’d accepted his decision and taken quiet pride in knowing that her tattoo would proclaim their relationship to anyone who saw it.
So, when she’d seen what the needle had actually written on her – an unequivocal, open invitation to “PUNISH ME,” – she’d sobbed and cried and raged. But It was there to stay, and she was having to learn to accept her new iteration of slave and painslut, with the constant threat of harsh punishment hanging over her, leading to a new emphasis on obedience and discipline – lest her master invoked the words on her cunt.
The invitation on her bald pussy seemed to beg for more and harder discipline, removing her voice and negating her feeble attempts at protest. She was his slave, and he had every right to punish, use, and humiliate her. And while she hated being punished, and was afraid of the pain, it made her cunt twitch and ache.
Within Reason 