Tattoo Ch. 03: Police Probe

Tattoo Ch. 03: Police Probe

All participants are over 18.


I give myself credit: it took some courage to walk into a police station filled with macho, notoriously sexist and homophobic policeman wearing a tattoo on my head that read CUMSLUT in bold red letters. The label wasn’t standing off my face by my choice; rather, an unhappy date on whom I passed out and vomited vindictively stamped me with those letters as revenge for ‘teasing him’. I was here to press a complaint against the renegade tattoo artist.

I stood before the window at reception, cap pulled down well over my forehead, as the desk sergeant took my name and the basic details of my complaint. He looked up at my covered forehead, but didn’t press the matter.

“Sit down,” he said. “An officer will be with you shortly.”

In truth, I didn’t wait long. A door opened to the offices behind reception, an officer emerged and called my name. I stood up and followed him back to an interview room.

“I’m Constable Mayhew,” the officer said as he moved to the far side of a desk in the small room. He was a thin, lithe young man and I assume he wasn’t long out of the academy. “Have a seat.”

I occupied a chair on the opposite side of the desk.

“Just so all our cards are on the table, I will tell you this is an interview room, but there are no cameras or tape recorders rolling here. The only record of our conversation will be the details I take down in my notes.”

“So, I understand you have a complaint against an unknown tattoo artist who, uh, inscribed something derogatory on your forehead.”

I blushed as I nodded.

“Let’s see it.”

I pulled off the cap. I kept my head shaved bald, so there was no hair hanging over my forehead to obscure the illuminated letters printed there.

“I see,” said Mayhew. “Who did this to you?”

I explained to him that my memory of that night was fuzzy. I recalled only a tall, powerfully built man with long, dark hair and a lot of tattoos. I described my conversation with another tattooist named Greg who recognized the tattoo style and design as belonging to a dangerous man named Vance.

“Vance, huh?” Mayhew said. “I’m going to call in one of our detectives, Masters.”

Mayhew made a quick call on his cell out in the hallway. I couldn’t hear his voice, but I couldn’t follow the discussion. He returned to the room with the man he introduced as Detective Masters.

“Nice to meet you,” Masters said. Our eyes didn’t meet; he was busy studying my forehead sign. He didn’t take a seat, but remained standing.

“So you got drunk and picked up by this guy, but you fell asleep on him and threw up in his lap, and he took his revenge by branding you with the name ‘cumslut’. You want us to find him and you’ll press charges. Is that about right?”

I confirmed it was.

“This sort of thing has happened before. I’ve seen a couple cases like it; one even mentioned the same name. Trouble is, this ‘Vance’ guy doesn’t seem to exist. No Vance works in any of the hundred or so tattoo parlours in this city. It’s not clear whether that’s his first name or his last name, but there aren’t a lot of Vances in this town. I’ve checked the ones in the phone directory and I’ve searched through Ministry of Transportation records to check on drivers’ licences. Not one of them looks like the man you described. I have to tell you, so far, my working theory is that Vance is either an alias or, more likely, he doesn’t exist; he’s just an urban legend: the mad tattooist and boogeyman, a reputation spread by other tattooists to mystify their profession. He is to tattoo artists what Sweeney Todd was to barbers.”

I was incredulous.

“Am I not living proof? What of these ‘couple cases’ you said were like mine?”

“Yeah, a couple of guys have been in over the last two years with, uh, unpleasant names tattooed on their foreheads too; you’re the third, and the second to accuse someone named ‘Vance’.”

“Well, wouldn’t you say that where there’s smoke there’s fire?”

“Maybe. Or maybe you and those other guys went and had those tattoos made because you like the attention they bring you. Maybe you were high, or maybe you were drunk. Maybe now that you’re sober, you have second thoughts and want to forget all about having that work done.”

I started to object, but Masters held up a hand. “Tell me honestly, are you gay or were you in the closet until this outed you?”

I didn’t see what difference that made. “I am bisexual, I guess, but I’m discreet about it.”

“There you go. Subconsciously, you maybe commissioned the tattoo to force yourself out of the closet. You said yourself you were under the influence when the tattoo artist put this on you. Maybe you were so drunk you asked him to do it.”

“You’re—you’re putting words in my mouth.”

“No,” said Masters, as he first, locked the door to the interview room, and second, undid his belt and opened his fly. “I’m putting my dick in your mouth.”

Masters was about six feet tall and wearing a slightly wrinkly, casual suit. He was broad-shouldered and had a full chest. Despite stereotypes about cops and their donuts, Masters was in impressive shape for a man of over forty years. He had a barrel chest. Once released, his cock sprung out of his pants; it was a good six-inches.

I should have been outraged by this harassment, and maybe a little part of me in a box deep down inside me was outraged, but the rest of my reaction was pure instinct. I had a boner, and my mouth was watering. The strange hunger grew in my arse.

“I’m not gay or bisexual,” Masters said. “I just like a free blowjob anywhere I can get one. The tattooed guys before you both gave good head. On the other hand, Mayhew here actually is bisexual; isn’t that, right, Mayhew?”

“It’s true, Detective,” Mayhew said, licking his lips.

“How’s his ass look to you?” Masters asked Mayhew.

I felt like a piece of meat being picked over by two dogs. It was a good feeling. I had no power in the situation, but somehow, I felt empowered.

“I could fuck it just fine, actually.”

“I don’t think this sissy will mind,” Masters said. Then he turned back down to me (down because he was standing in front of me with his dick at my eye-level) and asked me if I minded Mayhew buggering my ass.

Of all things to say, I told him I would like that.

Masters backed up so that he was on the far side of the desk. I leaned across to take his cock in my mouth while Mayhew came around the desk to stand behind me. He deftly unbuckled my pants and let them fall about my ankles; he yanked my underwear out of his way. I heard a wrapper tearing and the snap of a condom; he was gloving up for me, which I thought was rather considerate at the time, but realistically, it was probably about leaving making sure he didn’t leave his DNA in my arse. He spat in his hand and slicked himself up; he spat on my ass too, spreading it around with the head of his pecker before he leaned in, penetrating me in a single stroke.

I gave up a groan at the powerful sensation. I had been fucked enough in the past few days to leave my ass easy to open; I accepted Mayhew’s cock without pain. I made an ‘O’ with my mouth as Mayhew began to really pound it into me; Masters took the opportunity to insert his own dick into my gob. It tasted salty but not at all unpleasant, and I went to work on him, matching the tempo with which Mayhew tapped my ass.

I spun my tongue around the helmet of Masters’ cock for the first few minutes. Then, as I took more of his organ into my mouth, I used my tongue to pleasure the bottom of his penis while my tight, sucked-in cheeks caressed the sides of his shaft.

Masters gave out a moan and said, “Fuck, he’s good. Better than the others.”

I couldn’t see anything but Masters hairy belly, but I had the distinct feeling that Mayhew and Masters fist-bumped each other.

Meanwhile, the friction of skin against skin produced a growing warmth in my ass. Perhaps because I was getting used to anal sex, I found myself comparing Mayhew’s performance with my other ass-fucker, the nameless pizza delivery man for whom I had become a booty call. Mayhew was bigger, and reached deeper inside me than the delivery man could. He also maintained a rapid pace that put fire in my loins. My cock was as hard as it could get; it drizzled pre-cum all over the interview room desk.
To my amazement, Mayhew’s hips flexed against me even faster. He was building toward his orgasm, and as I matched Mayhew’s pace with my blowjob, Masters was close too. It was a race to see which of them would come first.

In the end, I was the first to burst. My cock pulsed against the desk’s cold veneer, spurting jizz all over the surface. I cried out in my joy.

So it was that I had my mouth open when Masters came. He growled through his orgasm. The first blast striped my face from my jaw to my forehead. The second hit my nose and flowed down into my mouth. The third string of cum went straight across my tongue and slid down my throat. The taste was as exquisite as any cream I’d ever tasted.

My orgasm set off a series of contractions in my asshole which magnified the stimulation of Mayhew’s cock. He yelled “Fuu-uuuck” and filled his condom deep up my arse. I felt his throbbing release inside me.

We all took a minute catching our breath.

Mayhew and Masters were soon buckled up, while I moved more slowly, left slightly stiff by the position I’d been folded into. I pulled my pants and underwear up and tucked my wet cock inside. I zipped my fly and straightened myself out. I asked for a towel to clean the cum off my face, and almost to my surprise, Masters provided a rag, perhaps off the janitor’s trolley in the hallway. Of course, Masters wouldn’t want to leave any residual traces to prove he screwed a civilian on the taxpayer’s dime.

“While you’re at it, wipe your splooge off that desk.”

I obeyed. The rag was quite saturated.

“Okay,” Masters said to me. “We have your complaint and we’ll look into it.”

He and Mayhew had taken down my contact details; they said they would be in touch.

I wasn’t clear if any follow-up would be about my case or for more sex, but I agreed. Then, I thanked them; I’m not sure why. Of course, I could have reported their misconduct to their superiors, but with no physical evidence to support my position, it would be my word against two of their own.

Besides, you can’t rape the willing. I may not have asked to have ‘Cumslut’ branded on my forehead, but there could be no denying that the tattoo had led me to several pleasurable encounters. I had to admit that nobody had forced me to do anything so far; I had submitted of my own free will in every instance, influenced by a strange arousal at the thought of being a fuck-toy for other men. It was as if I was compelled to bow before other men's desires.

As I left the police station, I realized I had just enough time to get home and shower the smell of sex off myself before my seven-o’clock arrived at my apartment with pizza.

The thought of being fucked again so soon after Mayhew vacated my hole started to ignite new excitement.

I wondered if this time I might learn the name of my most regular user.

There was a spring in my step as I hauled my well-used ass home.