The Acceptance 2: Kyoko and Chloe
By LilDean.
[google-translator]
*****
Part 2…
After sharing the truth with our friends (Christy, Page, and Kyoko), Betty told me they would help me find my place in this world, ensuring I could fully connect with reality regarding my sissy antics. She held my babydick between her toes as she explained it, knowing perfectly well I wouldn’t say no. I remembered Kyoko’s grin, Page’s giggle, and Christy’s soft sigh as I rubbed my dicklette in front of Betty’s camera. It was the best orgasm I ever had.
My first stop was Kyoko’s tattoo studio, and I have to admit, it made me a little nervous.
The place was deserted when I pushed the door open. No buzzing needles, no low chatter—just the sharp scent of antiseptic hanging in the air. Fluorescent lights glared off stainless steel counters and glass cabinets filled with ink bottles. Kyoko’s portfolio lay open on her workstation, pages flipped to designs of thorny roses and snarling tigers. I traced a finger over one sketch, wondering where she’d put it if she ever inked me.
She appeared like smoke, materializing from the back room without a sound. Her combat boots thumped softly on the polished concrete as she leaned against the doorframe. Black fishnets climbed her thighs beneath ripped shorts, disappearing under a cropped band tee. Tattoos coiled up her arms like living shadows—a spiderweb at her elbow, a dagger dripping ink-blood down her forearm. Her gaze pinned me. Cold. Amused. “Nervous, little man?” she asked, voice like gravel wrapped in silk. “Betty said you’d be squirming.”
My eyes darted from the snake tattoo curling around her throat to the rose thorns peeking above her collarbone. Her half-smile didn’t reach her eyes. I swallowed hard, my pathetic dick twitching in my jeans like it remembered her laugh. The air tasted like metal and antiseptic. Heavy. Suffocating. I could smell her leather jacket from here—oily and dangerous. “Just… curious,” I managed, voice cracking. My fingers dug into my palms.
I forced myself to look at her portfolio again, at the bold lines and defiant eyes staring back from the pages. “I was thinking,” I started, then hesitated, tasting the humiliation like blood on my tongue. “Maybe… something small? On my hip? To… you know. Remind me.” I didn’t say what. She knew. Betty had told her everything. My face burned. “Something… confident.”
Kyoko’s laugh was a low scrape of sound. She pushed off the doorframe and stalked toward me, the deliberate click of her boots echoing in the sterile silence. Her shadow fell over the portfolio first, then me. She leaned down, her dark hair swinging forward, smelling of smoke and expensive shampoo. Her fingertip, tipped with chipped black polish, landed on the inside of my wrist. Her touch was electric, cold. “Confidence?” she murmured, her breath ghosting my ear. “For you? That’s not a tattoo, Liam. That’s a delusion etched in ink.” She tapped my pulse point. Hard. “Placement matters, little man. Hip’s too hidden. Too safe. Like you.”
She straightened, her eyes raking over me with undisguised contempt. “Betty already told me what you’re getting. And where?” Her lips curved, a predator’s smile. “Strip. Jeans off. Now.” There was no room for argument, just the flat command hanging in the antiseptic air. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I fumbled with my belt buckle, fingers slick with nervous sweat, the cheap metal clinking too loud in the quiet room. My gaze darted to the curtained-off tattooing area, the gleaming chair with its restraints looking less like furniture and more like an instrument.
The jeans pooled around my ankles. Cool air hit my bare legs. Kyoko didn’t move, just watched, her expression unreadable. “Everything,” she repeated, voice dangerously soft. “The boxers, too. Let’s see what we’re decorating.” Humiliation washed over me, hot and thick. I hesitated, staring at the floor where a drop of dried ink looked like spilled blood. Her sigh was impatient. “Don’t make me ask twice, little man. Betty wasn’t joking about your… limitations. Off.”
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my boxers. The worn cotton felt like a final shield. Closing my eyes, I pushed them down, stepping free. The air felt colder now, pricking my skin. I kept my eyes shut, unable to face the sterile room or her stare. My useless dicklette shriveled further, a pitiful nub against my groin. Silence stretched, thick with the scent of antiseptic and my own rising shame. Only the faint hum of a refrigerator broke it. Then, a soft click – Kyoko taking a picture with her phone.
Her low whistle cut through the quiet. “Christ. Betty wasn’t exaggerating.” She circled me slowly, combat boots scuffing the polished concrete. Her shadow fell over me, cold and imposing. I flinched when her cold fingertip brushed just above my pubic bone. “This is the canvas, little man. Right here. Where everyone can see it when you’re naked. Or bending over.” Her touch trailed down, feather-light but searing, stopping a hair’s breadth from my limp cock. “A permanent reminder. Tiny. Just like you.”
“On the table,” she commanded, jerking her chin towards the gleaming, padded chair in the corner. It looked more like a dentist’s chair than anything else, with its adjustable back and chrome armrests. “Face up. Legs spread. Arms at your sides. Don’t move.” Her voice left no room for hesitation. My bare feet felt like lead weights as I shuffled towards it, the cold floor stinging. The leather upholstery was unnervingly cool against my naked back and ass. I spread my legs as instructed, the vulnerability making my stomach clench. The overhead light was blinding, leaving nowhere to hide my shriveled dicklette or the flush creeping up my chest. Kyoko moved with practiced efficiency, snapping on latex gloves. The sharp snap echoed.
“Good boy,” she purred, but it sounded like a threat. She leaned over me, her dark hair brushing my shoulder as she adjusted the powerful lamp directly over my groin. The heat intensified the humiliation. “Now, hold still. The stencil comes first.” I felt the cold, wet swipe of a disinfectant wipe across the tender skin just above my pathetic cock. Then came the press of the stencil paper, smooth and slightly tacky. Her fingers pressed it firmly into place, right where she’d touched earlier, above the pubic bone. The position felt obscenely public, a permanent mark for anyone who saw me naked. My breath hitched.
She peeled the paper back. “Perfect,” she murmured, but her tone was mocking. She turned away, her boots clicking towards her ink station. My eyes followed her, desperate for any distraction from my exposed state. That’s when the back door opened. Kyoko called out, sharp and clear, “Chloe? Get the cobalt blue and the 3RL needle. Hurry up.” My blood turned to ice. “Chloe? Jodie’s Chloe?” Panic clawed at my throat. I tried to cover myself, but Kyoko’s voice snapped like a whip, “Arms down, Liam. Don’t move a muscle.” I froze, paralyzed, as light footsteps approached from the back room.
The air shifted, heavy with the scent of antiseptic and something softer, like vanilla lotion. Chloe emerged, carrying a sterile tray. Her sun-kissed skin looked warm against her simple white tank top, her petite frame moving with quiet efficiency. Her dark eyes, usually so bright and warm when she’d visit Jodie, my sister, flickered towards the chair – towards me. They widened almost imperceptibly. I saw the exact moment recognition hit her. A soft, startled gasp escaped her lips before she clamped them shut, her gaze darting away, fixing firmly on the tray in her hands. Her knuckles were white where she gripped it. “She sees it. She sees everything.” My useless cocklette felt like it was trying to crawl inside me.
Chloe. Jodie’s best friend since they were nine. The girl who used to build pillow forts in my parents’ basement, who blushed crimson the first time I caught her sneaking a peek at my high school yearbook photo. Petite, sun-kissed skin that always smelled faintly of coconut, eyes wide and dark like a startled fawn’s. She’d grown up orbiting our live as a quiet satellite with a crush I’d always dismissed as harmless kid stuff. Now eighteen, here she was, frozen in Kyoko’s sterile dungeon, tray trembling in her hands as her gaze skittered away from my nakedness, from the humiliating stencil stark above my pathetic cock. The vanilla scent of her lotion felt like a cruel joke against the chemical bite of the studio. “She knows”, I thought, the realization a cold knife twisting. She knows what Betty filmed, knows what Kyoko’s about to carve into my skin. That childhood crush curdled into horrified pity in the space of a heartbeat.
She forced her eyes back onto the tray, setting it down beside Kyoko with exaggerated care. The clink of glass ink bottles sounded unnaturally loud. Her lips pressed into a thin line, cheeks flushed a deep, mortified pink that spread down her neck. Kyoko didn’t look at her, busy snapping a fresh pair of gloves. “Took you long enough, newbie,” Kyoko grunted, selecting a needle cartridge with a metallic click. “Hold the lamp steady on this masterpiece.” Kyoko gestured dismissively towards my groin. Chloe flinched but obeyed, stepping closer, her shadow falling over my splayed legs. Her breath hitched again, shallow and quick. The heat from the lamp intensified, making the skin above my dicklette prickle. Her eyes, wide and liquid, flickered down once, then snapped back up to the lamp, refusing to meet my desperate, pleading stare. The silence screamed louder than any buzz.
Then, a sound cut through it. A soft, breathy exhale. Almost a laugh. Chloe’s gaze remained fixed on the lamp, her knuckles white on the handle, but a tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of her lips. It wasn’t warm. It was sharp. Surprised. Disbelieving. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper, trembling slightly but clear in the sterile silence. “Kyoko?” she murmured, her eyes darting just once, fleetingly, down to the stencil and the pitiful anatomy beneath it. “It’s… It’s even smaller than you said.” The words hung in the air, laced with a stunned kind of realization, stripping me bare far deeper than the removal of my clothes ever could.
Kyoko paused, needle cartridge hovering above my skin. A slow, predatory grin spread across her face as she turned her head slightly towards Chloe. “Told you, newbie,” she drawled, her voice thick with dark amusement. “Reality bites. Especially for little Liam here.” She tapped the stencil above my groin with a gloved fingertip. “This isn’t just small, Chloe. This is micro. Barely qualifies.” She leaned closer to Chloe, conspiratorial, her voice dropping to a low purr meant for both of us to hear. “Betty measured it cold. One point seven. Hard.” Kyoko chuckled, a dry rasp. “Pathetic, right? Makes choosing the font size for his tattoo almost too easy.”
My face burned. Humiliation wasn’t a wave anymore; it was a tsunami, drowning me. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying for the buzzing needle to start, to drown out Chloe’s presence, her pity, her shock. But then, something else happened. A traitorous heat bloomed low in my gut, completely at odds with the icy shame flooding my veins. Against my will, against every shred of dignity, I felt it. A faint, impossible stirring. A twitch. Then another. Harder. My pathetic little cocklette, nestled uselessly above the stencil, began to swell. Slowly. Tremulously. But undeniably. It was tiny, absurd, but it was there – hardening under the blinding lamp, under Kyoko’s mocking gaze, under Chloe’s wide, horrified eyes. The sheer impossibility of it, the raw exposure, was perversely electric. My breath hitched, ragged and shallow.
Kyoko’s sharp bark of laughter shattered the stunned silence. “Well, well, little man! Look at that!” Her gloved finger jabbed towards my groin, where my tiny erection strained pathetically, barely reaching the edge of the stencil area. Her dark eyes glittered with cruel delight. “Seems the humiliation gets you going, huh? Pathetic.” She snapped her gaze to Chloe, who was frozen, staring at the minuscule hardness with an expression caught between shock and morbid fascination. “Chloe. Don’t just stand there gawking like a tourist. Hold it. Between your thumb and finger. Right there at the base. Keep it steady while I line up the needle. Don’t want him jerking and ruining my work.” Kyoko’s voice was a command, cold and absolute. “Now.”
Chloe flinched as if struck. Her eyes, wide and dark, darted from Kyoko’s expectant glare down to my exposed groin. A tremor ran through her hand as she slowly, reluctantly, reached out. The scent of her vanilla lotion now felt cloying, mixing with the sharp tang of antiseptic. Her fingertips, warm and soft, brushed against my skin – a shocking contrast to the cold sterility of the room. Then, with agonizing slowness, her thumb and index finger closed delicately, almost reverently, around the very base of my tiny, rigid cocklette. Her touch was feather-light, yet it sent a violent jolt through me, my hips twitching involuntarily against the cool leather. She gasped, her knuckles whitening as she tightened her grip just enough to pin me down. I felt the soft pad of her thumb press firmly into the sensitive underside. Her gaze remained fixed on her hand, her cheeks flaming crimson, refusing to meet my eyes. The silence was deafening, broken only by my ragged breathing and the soft hum of the lamp.
A small, choked sound escaped her lips. Not quite a sob. Not quite a gasp. It was… a giggle. Suppressed, trembling, but unmistakable. It bubbled up again, breathy and shocked, as her fingers adjusted their grip on my minuscule erection. Her thumb rubbed almost absently against the straining skin. “Oh god,” she whispered, her voice thick with disbelief and something else – horrified amusement? “Liam… it’s… It’s so…” She trailed off, shaking her head slightly, her dark hair falling forward to obscure her expression, but the tremor in her shoulders betrayed her. That stifled giggle cut deeper than Kyoko’s mocking words. It was the sound of childhood innocence shattering, replaced by the raw, awkward reality of my humiliation, held literally in her palm. The girl who used to blush when borrowing my textbooks was now stifling laughter while holding my pathetic excuse for a dick.
Kyoko watched Chloe’s struggle with predatory satisfaction. “Focus, newbie,” she snapped, her voice sharp as the needle she loaded. “Hold it steady. Like a particularly fragile insect.” She leaned in, the powerful lamp casting harsh shadows that made the stencil stand out starkly against her flushed skin. Her gloved finger traced the outline above Chloe’s trembling grip. “This is where his reality gets inked. ‘Tiny’. Simple. Brutal.” The cold disinfectant swab followed her finger, making me flinch and Chloe jump. Her fingers tightened reflexively around my base. “See the size? Barely room for the letters. Pathetic canvas.” Kyoko’s tone was clinical, dissecting. “Now, breathe out, little man. Or don’t. Chloe’s got your… anchor.” She flicked the power switch on her machine. The sudden, high-pitched *buzzzzzzzz* sliced through the air, sharp and invasive, vibrating right into my bones.
Chloe’s fingers stayed locked around me, a warm, soft cage against the sterile cold. The buzzing needle hovered, a gleaming point of light above the stencil’s first letter. Kyoko pressed down. A hot sting, sudden and bright, pierced the skin just above my pubic bone. I gasped, tensing. Chloe’s grip tightened instantly, holding my cocklette firm, her thumb pressing into that sensitive underside spot. Her touch was the only anchor. The sting flared again, another precise puncture, followed by the wet, rhythmic *dzzzzzt-dzzzzzt* of the needle driving ink into the dermis. It burned, a hot, insistent scratch, but it was distant. Secondary. My entire awareness narrowed to Chloe’s fingers – the slight tremor in them, the impossible softness of her skin against mine, the faint, sweet scent of vanilla cutting through the chemical haze. Her knuckles were white. She was staring fixedly at Kyoko’s working hand, her breathing shallow. The needle’s bite was just punctuation to the overwhelming sensation of her holding me. Keeping me exposed, pinned under the lamp, and her gaze.
Another line of fire traced the stencil. I flinched, my hips jerking involuntarily against Chloe’s hold. Her fingers squeezed reflexively, a soft, startled sound escaping her lips – almost a whimper. The pressure sent a jolt through my tiny, straining erection. It wasn’t pain driving the reaction; it was the sheer, absurd intensity of her touch combined with the utter degradation. Kyoko paused, lifting the needle. “Hold still, Liam,” she hissed, her voice sharp over the machine’s hum. “Or this gets messy.” She dabbed away a bead of blood mixed with ink with a cold wipe. Chloe flinched at the sight, her fingers tightening again, her thumb rubbing unconsciously against the base of my cocklette. It was a small, soothing motion, maybe instinctive, but it felt like torture. My breath hitched. Her touch wasn’t gentle anymore; it was a focused pressure, keeping me rigid and immobile for Kyoko’s work. The prettiness of her fingers, the delicate bones beneath her sun-kissed skin, was a stark, cruel contrast to what they were doing, to where they were placed. The needle descended again. The sting was sharp, but my focus remained locked on the warmth of her palm against my skin, the slight dampness of her grip, the way her pinky finger brushed my thigh.
Chloe’s breath hitched audibly. She shifted her weight, her knuckles whitening as she maintained her grip, but her eyes darted between Kyoko’s precise movements and the tiny shaft held firmly in her hand. Another line of fire etched into my skin. My cocklette pulsed weakly against her fingers. A small, breathless giggle escaped Chloe, choked it back immediately. Her cheeks flushed an even deeper crimson. Kyoko glanced up, eyebrow raised. “Problem, newbie?” she asked, her tone dangerously light.
“Kyoko, I…” Chloe’s voice trembled, barely above a whisper. She swallowed hard, her gaze flicking down to her hand, then back to the tattoo artist. A nervous, almost giddy smile twitched at her lips. “It’s just… it feels… weird.” She paused, her thumb unconsciously rubbing the base again, sending another jolt through me. Her voice bubbled up, higher now, tinged with disbelief and a frantic kind of amusement. “Like… like I’m giving him a handjob? A really, really tiny one?” She let out another stifled giggle, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe the words coming out of her own mouth. “It’s… It’s vibrating!”
Kyoko lowered the buzzing machine, the sudden silence thick and heavy. A slow, predatory smirk spread across her face, sharp as the needle she held. Her dark eyes glinted with triumph as she looked directly at me, past Chloe’s trembling grip. “Oh, Liam,” she purred, her voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. “See? This is the point. This little humiliation? Chloe’s disgusted pity? My hand on the needle? That’s all it takes to get you hard. That’s your peak. Your pathetic little reality.” She leaned closer, her breath cold against my sweat-slicked forehead. “Sex? Real intimacy? Forget it. If this is what makes you throb, you’re built for mockery, not fucking. This tattoo isn’t just a reminder, little man. It’s your obituary. Written in ink right above your useless nub.” Her laugh was a dry scrape. “You’re permanently disqualified.”
The needle buzzed back to life, biting into the skin above my pubic bone with renewed vigor. I squeezed my eyes shut, focusing on the burn, the sting, anything to escape the suffocating truth in her words and the impossible warmth of Chloe’s fingers still locked around my base. Kyoko worked with brutal efficiency now, the *dzzzzzt-dzzzzzt* relentless, etching the final letters of the word “Tiny” into my flesh. Each puncture felt like a branding iron, searing Kyoko’s verdict onto me. When the buzzing finally stopped again, the silence felt louder. Kyoko wiped away blood and ink with a rough, cold swipe. “Done,” she announced, stepping back. The word hung in the air, final. Chloe’s fingers instantly released their hold, jerking away as if burned. I gasped, the sudden absence of her touch leaving me feeling strangely hollow and exposed. My tiny erection, deprived of the pressure, deflated instantly, a pitiful, shriveled thing against the raw, throbbing skin of the tattoo.
Chloe stumbled back a step, bumping into the tray table, sending ink bottles rattling. She stared at her own hand, fingers slightly curled, trembling. Then, slowly, her gaze lifted. Not to Kyoko, not to the door. To me. To the freshly inked word above my groin, stark black against the inflamed red skin. Her eyes, wide and dark, traced the letters. Her initial shock, the stifled giggles, the horrified pity – it all seemed to melt away, replaced by something else. Something colder. More certain. A slow, small smile began to curve her lips. It wasn’t cruel like Kyoko’s. It was quiet. Realized. Almost… satisfied. She took a deliberate step closer to the chair again, her vanilla scent cutting through the smell of blood and antiseptic. She didn’t look away from the tattoo. Her voice, when it came, was low, clear, and utterly devoid of the girl who built pillow forts. “Kyoko’s right,” she murmured, her gaze finally lifting to meet my desperate, pleading eyes. “It fits. It finally makes sense.”
Her smile widened slightly, becoming unnervingly serene. She tilted her head, her dark hair brushing her shoulder, her eyes roaming over my nakedness, lingering on the raw tattoo and the pathetic thing below it. “All those years,” she breathed, the words soft but carrying immense weight in the quiet studio. “Watching you with Jodie, hoping you’d notice me. Thinking you were… something else. Something big.” She let out a soft, humorless puff of air. “But this? This tiny word?” Her finger pointed, not quite touching, at the freshly inked skin. “It’s not just on you, Liam. It’s like… it explains everything. The way you moved, the jokes you never made, how you always seemed… small. Even before I knew.” She shook her head slowly, the smile turning almost wistful, yet chillingly final. “I get it now. You were always like this. Hidden under clothes. This tattoo? It just shows the truth everyone else probably already knew.”
“Everyone?” The word cracked out of my dry throat, barely a whisper. My gaze snapped from Chloe’s unsettling calm to Kyoko, who was wiping her machine with a smirk on her face. My mind raced, picturing Jodie’s face, my parents, and old friends, as well as the guys I had played sports with. “Who knows? Who did you tell?” Panic choked me, the raw tattoo burning hotter than the needle. Kyoko just chuckled, a low, grating sound. “Relax, little man,” she said, snapping off her gloves. “Betty’s got standards. Selective sharing. Only the inner circle.” She gestured vaguely with her chin. “The ones who matter to your… journey.” Her eyes met mine, cold and amused. “The ones who’ll make sure you never forget your place.”
Chloe hadn’t moved. She stood close, her vanilla scent clashing violently with the metallic tang of blood and ink. Her dark eyes were fixed on my groin again, not on the fresh tattoo, but lower. On my hard, pathetic cocklette, still damp from her grip. I swallowed hard, shame flooding back. “Chloe,” I rasped, my voice thick. “Please… you can let go now.” I meant ‘stop looking’, ‘stop standing there’, ‘just go’. My hips shifted slightly, a weak attempt to twist away. “It’s… It’s over. You don’t have to…”
Her hand shot out, startlingly fast. Not to grab me again, but to press her warm palm flat against my lower belly, pinning me firmly to the leather. Her touch was gentle but immovable. Her eyes finally lifted to mine, no longer horrified or amused, but dark and strangely focused. “Let go?” she echoed, her voice soft, almost thoughtful. “But I saw the video, Liam. Betty’s video.” My breath hitched. She leaned closer, her gaze unwavering. “I saw how you leaked, how you couldn’t help it when she called you pathetic. Just like now.” Her thumb brushed the very base of my tiny shaft, sending a traitorous jolt through me. “I want to see it,” she whispered, her voice gaining a low intensity. “I want to see you dribble. Right here. While Kyoko watches. While I hold you.” Her fingers didn’t close, but her palm remained a warm, inescapable weight. “Show me the truth, Betty captured. Show me how small you really are.”
Kyoko’s laugh was a sharp bark. “Hold it, newbie! Just hold!” she snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. She snatched a fresh wipe, dabbing roughly at the raw tattoo, making me gasp. Her eyes, hard and glittering, locked onto Chloe. “Don’t stroke the worm, Chloe. That’s not the job. That’s his pathetic fantasy. Your job is to hold it steady so it doesn’t flop around like a dying fish and ruin my linework.” She leaned over the chair, her face inches from Chloe’s, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “He doesn’t get pleasure from your pretty little hand. He gets off on the humiliation of being held down. On being exposed. On knowing how utterly ridiculous he looks.” Kyoko’s gloved finger tapped the head of my straining cocklette. “See? It’s twitching just from me talking about it. Pathetic. Hold it. Keep it still. Let the reality sink into his thick skull. That’s all.”
Chloe flinched at Kyoko’s words, but her hand remained firm against my belly. Her gaze never left mine, the initial shock hardening into something focused, almost analytical. The stifled giggles were gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that was far more unnerving. “Kyoko’s right,” she murmured, her voice low and steady now, devoid of its earlier tremor. Her thumb pressed deliberately against the base of my shaft, not stroking, but applying a constant, anchoring pressure. “You like this, Liam. You like me seeing you like this. Exposed. Helpless.” Her dark eyes searched mine, looking for confirmation, for the flicker of shame she knew was there. “Betty’s video… You leaked because she called you worthless. Because they all laughed. And you’re hard now because I’m here, holding you down while she brands you.” She leaned closer, her vanilla scent overwhelming. “Admit it. This is what gets you off. This humiliation. This is your truth. Tell me you agree.”
My throat tightened. Denials choked me, useless and hollow. Kyoko’s needle buzzed again, biting into the inflamed skin around the fresh tattoo, the pain a sharp counterpoint to the unbearable warmth of Chloe’s palm and the insistent pressure of her thumb. Sweat slicked my skin where it met the cold leather. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out Chloe’s probing stare, Kyoko’s satisfied smirk, the blinding lamp. But I couldn’t escape the traitorous pulse of my cocklette against Chloe’s fingers, a tiny, persistent throb that screamed agreement louder than any words. It was the ultimate betrayal – my own body confirming their verdict. A low, broken sound escaped me, half-groan, half-whimper. It was a surrender. Chloe’s thumb pressed harder in response, a silent, triumphant acknowledgment.
“Yes,” I rasped, the word scraping raw against my vocal cords. I forced my eyes open, meeting Chloe’s dark, unwavering gaze. The humiliation was a physical weight, crushing my chest. “You’re right.” The admission hung in the air, thick and toxic. “Kyoko’s right. Betty’s right.” My voice gained a shred of bitter strength, fueled by the utter desolation. “This… this exposure… the laughter… the knowing looks…” My hips twitched weakly under her restraining hand. “It… it does something. It’s twisted. Sick. But it’s the only thing that… works.” I swallowed, tasting bile. “This humiliation. It’s the only thing that makes me feel anything… down there.”
A soft, satisfied sigh escaped Chloe’s lips. Her thumb pressed one last, firm circle against the base of my cocklette before she slowly, deliberately, lifted her hand away from my belly. She didn’t step back. Instead, she turned her head, her eyes locking onto Kyoko. Kyoko had paused her wiping, her expression sharp with interest. Chloe’s voice was calm, almost serene. “He admitted it, Kyoko. Exactly like you said.” Then, her gaze flicked deliberately to the corner of the room, high up near the ceiling. My eyes followed, dread coiling cold in my gut. Tucked discreetly beside a ventilation duct was a small, dark dome. A security camera. Its tiny red light blinked steadily, unblinkingly, right at us. “And it’s recording everything.”
Kyoko’s smile was pure, predatory triumph. “Good boy,” she purred, her voice dripping honeyed venom. She discarded the wipe and stepped closer, her gloved fingers tracing the air just above my raw, throbbing tattoo. “Now, Liam. Since you finally understand… let’s give the camera something special.” Her eyes, dark and gleaming, held mine. “Let go. Let it happen. Show Chloe and the lens what Betty saw. Show us the dribble.” Her voice dropped to a commanding whisper. “Cum. Right now. For us. For the camera. Show everyone watching just how pathetic your little peak really is.”
Chloe leaned in, her vanilla scent enveloping me, her breath warm on my ear. “Do it, Liam,” she murmured, her tone unexpectedly soft, almost encouraging. Her thumb returned, not gripping, but lightly circling the very tip of my tiny, straining cocklette. “Just let it out. For me. Show me how happy it makes you to be seen like this.” Her other hand rested gently on my bare thigh, a contrast to Kyoko’s clinical command. “Smile for us. Show us you’re grateful we showed you the truth.”
Kyoko’s gloved hand pressed firmly on my hipbone, pinning me as the camera’s red light pulsed like a malevolent eye. “That’s it, little man,” she coaxed, her voice a low purr that vibrated through the chair. “No more hiding. Give us the dribble. Give the camera the proof. Show Chloe how much you needed this.” Her eyes locked onto mine, stripping away the last shred of resistance. “Say thank you. Thank us for branding your reality.”
Chloe’s thumb circled my tip, feather-light yet devastating. Her breath hit my ear, warm and insistent. “Please, Liam,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a strange blend of cruelty and awe. “Show me. Let me see it happen. Let me see you break open. For us. For everyone who’ll watch.” Her other hand slid up my thigh, possessive. “Show me how small your joy really is.”
I felt it then—a hot, helpless pressure building low in my gut, not from pleasure, but from the sheer, suffocating weight of their focus. Kyoko’s hand pressed my hip into the cold leather, Chloe’s thumb coaxed my exposed head, and the camera’s red eye pulsed above, recording my unraveling. The humiliation wasn’t sharp anymore; it was a thick, syrupy warmth, spreading through me, pulling me under. My body arched, a silent gasp tearing through me as my tiny cocklette gave one frantic, final pulse against Chloe’s skin. Not a spurt. Not even a trickle. Just a single, clear bead of fluid, pearling at the tip, glistening obscenely under the harsh lamp light. A pathetic, silent confession.
A strange, dizzy lightness washed over me. The crushing shame dissolved, replaced by a bizarre, giddy relief. My lips stretched into a wide, trembling smile, completely involuntary. “Th-thank you,” I whispered, the words thick but genuine, my eyes blurry as I looked up at Chloe, then Kyoko. “Thank you for showing me… for making me see.” Chloe’s breath hitched, her thumb still resting on the damp tip, her dark eyes wide with a mixture of fascination and something like triumph. Kyoko’s predatory smirk softened into a look of pure, cold satisfaction. She nodded slowly. “Good,” she murmured, her voice almost gentle. “That’s it. You understand now.”
Kyoko straightened up, snapping off her gloves. She moved with swift efficiency, grabbing her phone from a nearby counter. Without hesitation, she leaned over the chair, her finger hovering over the screen. The harsh studio lights glinted off the fresh, stark black ink of “Tiny” above my groin, the skin still inflamed and raw. The tiny, glistening bead of fluid on my tip was unmistakable. She angled the phone deliberately, capturing it all – the tattoo, the humiliation, and crucially, my slack, smiling face gazing upwards in dazed submission. The shutter clicked, sharp and final. “Perfect addition,” she stated flatly, already tapping her screen.
“Wait!” The word tore from my throat, raw and desperate. My smile vanished, replaced by sheer panic. “Kyoko, no! My face! You can see my face in that!” I tried to twist away, but Chloe’s hand, still resting possessively on my thigh, pressed down firmly, anchoring me. “You can’t put that online! Please!” The thought of my exposed, humiliated expression alongside the degrading tattoo and my spent cocklette being visible to anyone with an internet connection sent a fresh wave of icy terror through me. “Delete it!”
Kyoko lowered her phone, her expression utterly bored. She tapped the screen once, then held it up for me to see. It wasn’t Instagram, Twitter, or any social feed. It was a sleek, minimalist app interface displaying a single, large digital frame. My photo filled it – the raw tattoo, the glistening tip, my dazed, smiling face. “Relax, Liam,” she sighed, her voice dripping with disdain. “I’m not posting it online. Where’s the fun in that? Random strangers?” She gestured dismissively with the phone towards the far wall of the studio, opposite the tattoo chair. “That new screen? Betty insisted. High-definition, touch-sensitive. Perfect for displaying… curated portfolios.” A cruel smile touched her lips. “Your little moment? It’s going right there. Front and center. The first thing clients see when they walk in. A permanent fixture. Consider it… an exhibit. Part of the studio’s ambiance.”
Chloe’s hand tightened slightly on my thigh, her gaze fixed on the image on Kyoko’s phone. A slow, fascinated smile spread across her face, different from before. Less shock, more… appreciation. “Ambiance,” she repeated softly, tasting the word. Her eyes flicked to the blank screen on the wall, then back to the photo. “It fits, Kyoko. It really does.” She leaned closer to me, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, yet loud enough for Kyoko to hear. “Imagine, Liam. All those people are coming in for their first tattoo. Big, tough guys. Confident girls. They’ll walk in, look up…” Her thumb traced a small circle on my skin. “…and see you. Smiling. Branded. Leaking. Right above your ‘Tiny’.” She let out a soft, breathy laugh. “It’s perfect. It sets the tone, doesn’t it? Shows them what this place is really about. Truth.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. The thought of strangers, Jodie’s friends, anyone, seeing that image was a fresh wave of horror. But one face burned brightest in my panic. “Chloe,” I choked out, twisting futilely under her hand. My eyes locked onto hers, wide and pleading. “Please. Oh please. Don’t… don’t tell Jodie.” My voice cracked, raw with desperation. “She can’t know. She can’t ever see this. Please, Chloe. I’m begging you.” The idea of my little sister seeing me like that, frozen forever in that moment of humiliated release, was worse than the public screen. It felt like the final, irreversible shredding of whatever dignity I still pretended to have in front of her.
Chloe leaned in, her dark eyes searching mine. The fascinated smile lingered on her lips, but something shifted in her gaze – a flicker of something sharp, almost possessive. She held my stare for a long, agonizing beat, the silence thick with the hum of the overhead lights and the phantom buzz of the tattoo machine. Then, slowly, deliberately, she winked. A slow, deliberate closing of one eye that felt like a physical caress and a threat rolled into one. “Relax, Liam,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a low, intimate purr. She tapped her own chest lightly with a fingertip, emphasizing the word with a subtle intensity. “I won’t tell her.” The ‘I’ hung heavy in the air, underlined, a promise that was anything but reassuring. It wasn’t a denial; it was a claim. Her secret. Her power.
Her hand finally lifted from my thigh, leaving a phantom warmth. She straightened up, smoothing her top, the movement graceful and unhurried. She glanced at Kyoko, who was still smirking at the phone screen displaying my humiliation. Chloe gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Then, without another word to the tattoo artist, she turned back to me. Her expression softened slightly, a ghost of the old, familiar Chloe surfacing – the girl who used to blush when I walked into the room. She leaned down again, her vanilla scent enveloping me one last time. Her lips brushed my cheek – a feather-light, lingering touch that sent an involuntary shiver through my spent body. It wasn’t a kiss of affection; it felt like a brand, a seal on the pact she’d just implied. “See you soon, Tiny,” she whispered, the new nickname spoken with unnerving ease, a confirmation of the new reality.
She didn’t look back. Her footsteps were soft on the polished concrete floor as she walked towards the studio door. She paused only to collect her bag from a nearby stool, slinging it over her shoulder with a fluid motion. The door chime gave a bright, cheerful tinkle as she pushed it open, the afternoon sunlight momentarily flooding the sterile space, silhouetting her petite frame before she stepped out into the world. Gone. Just like that. Leaving me pinned, exposed, and tattooed on the chair, the image of my dazed submission now destined for Kyoko’s wall screen, and Chloe’s secret – her power over me – hanging in the air like a guillotine blade.
Kyoko watched the door swing shut, her expression unreadable. Then she turned, her movements brisk and economical. She grabbed a single tissue from a dispenser on her workstation. Not a whole box. Just one flimsy, white square. She held it out towards my groin, pinched between her thumb and forefinger like she was handling something contaminated. “Here,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of the earlier venom but carrying no warmth. “Clean yourself up. The dribble’s drying.” She didn’t wait for me to take it, just dropped it onto my lower belly. It landed lightly, a stark white contrast against my flushed skin, just above the raw, black letters of “Tiny”. The tissue felt absurdly small, yet somehow perfect for the task.
I fumbled with the tissue, my fingers trembling as I dabbed clumsily at the dampness on my tip. The action felt excruciatingly intimate, even after everything, performed under Kyoko’s detached gaze. The tissue came away smeared with a tiny, clear streak. Pathetic. I crumpled it in my fist, wishing I could vanish into the leather. Kyoko was already cleaning her machine, the sharp scent of disinfectant cutting through the lingering vanilla and blood. “Get dressed,” she ordered without looking up. “You’re done.” She paused, her hand hovering over a stack of aftercare sheets. Then she added, her tone casual, almost dismissive, “Call Betty when you leave. She’s expecting your report.”
The word “report” landed like a punch. My stomach twisted. Betty knew. She’d seen the camera feed, heard every humiliating word, witnessed my… release. Pulling my jeans up over my tender skin was agony; the rough denim scraped the fresh tattoo, making me hiss. I kept my eyes down, avoiding the corner where the camera’s red light still glowed. Kyoko slid a glossy aftercare pamphlet across the counter. “Follow this. Don’t fuck it up.” Her eyes flicked pointedly to my groin. “Wouldn’t want your ‘Tiny’ to get infected. Might actually shrink further.” A cold smirk touched her lips. “Wouldn’t that be a tragedy?”
Outside, the late afternoon sun felt jarringly normal. Traffic noise, people chatting on the sidewalk – a world oblivious to the branding beneath my clothes. My phone buzzed in my pocket. One new message. Not Betty. Chloe. Just two words: ‘Smile, Tiny.’ Attached was the photo Kyoko took – my dazed face, the raw tattoo, the glistening tip, all captured in brutal HD. My breath hitched. She had it. Proof. Forever. The sidewalk seemed to tilt. I leaned against a grimy brick wall, the crumpled aftercare leaflet slippery in my sweaty hand. See you soon, her whisper echoed. What did that mean? When? Where?
My thumb hovered over Betty’s contact. ‘Call Betty when you leave. She’s expecting your report.’ Kyoko’s order rang in my ears. Report. What could I possibly say? That I’d confirmed everything? That Chloe… that I… The humiliation was a physical burn, worse than the sting of the tattoo. I pressed the dial. It rang once. Twice. My throat felt lined with sandpaper. How could I articulate this? The phone clicked. Silence. Then Betty’s voice, smooth and calm, like she was discussing the weather. “Hi, bestie!”
The sheer normalcy of her tone punched the air from my lungs. “Betty,” I choked out, leaning harder against the brick wall. The aftercare pamphlet crumpled in my fist. “Kyoko said… to call. To report.” I squeezed my eyes shut, seeing the blinking camera, Chloe’s wink, my own dazed smile frozen on Kyoko’s screen. “It… happened. Like the video. Worse.” The words tumbled out, raw and jagged. “Chloe was there. She saw. She made me… Kyoko took a picture. It’s on the screen now. The studio screen. Everyone will see it.” My voice cracked on the last word. A shaky breath. “I admitted it, Betty, what you saw in the video. I told them… the humiliation… It’s what works.”
A soft, satisfied hum vibrated down the line. “I know, bestie. I watched.” Her voice remained infuriatingly calm, almost soothing. “Kyoko streamed the feed live. Inner circle viewing party. Very exclusive.” The casualness was a knife twist. “Chloe played her part beautifully, didn’t she? That little ‘smile for me’ moment? Perfection.” She paused, letting the image of my exposure being broadcast sink in. “But the report part, Liam? That’s just for you. Verbalizing it. Cementing it. Say it again. Out loud, to me. What did you learn today?” Her tone shifted subtly, a velvet-wrapped command. “Tell me why you smiled.”
My knuckles whitened against the brick. The street noise faded into a dull roar. “I learned…” I swallowed, tasting bile. “I learned that… being exposed. Being laughed at. Being held down and… and branded. Knowing others see how pathetic I am…” My voice dropped to a raw whisper. “That’s what… gets to me. That’s what makes it… happen.” The admission scraped my throat raw. “I smiled because… because it felt right. To finally stop pretending.”
A low chuckle, warm and intimate, came through the phone. “Good boy,” Betty murmured. “So honest. And that relief you feel now? That lightness?” Her voice sharpened, a needle-point of understanding. “That’s because the burden of hiding is gone. The inner circle already knows your truth. Chloe, Kyoko, Christy, Page… and me. That’s it. No surprises. No frantic worrying about who might find out next.” The simplicity of it washed over me, a perverse kind of comfort. Only these five women knew the depths. Only they held this power. It was a cage, but a defined one.
The tension in my shoulders eased slightly against the brick wall. Knowing the circle was closed, that the exposure stopped with Chloe, Kyoko, Christy, Page, and Betty herself, felt like a reprieve. No more terrifying unknowns. My secret was contained within their knowing gazes. “Yeah,” I breathed, the word ragged but carrying a strange weightlessness. “Only you five. That’s… manageable.” It was absurd, finding solace in this, but the alternative – the world seeing that screen, Jodie knowing – was unthinkable. This felt like damage control, a twisted form of safety.
Betty’s voice softened, almost affectionate. “Exactly, bestie. Manageable. Contained. And that moment, Liam? With Chloe just holding you? No frantic stroking, no frantic effort? Just her thumb on the tip, pressing you down, and your body just… surrendering?” A pause, heavy with implication. “That was a big step. A huge step.” Her words painted the scene back into my mind: Chloe’s focused intensity, the pressure of her thumb, the suffocating weight of their combined attention, the camera’s unblinking eye. “Think about it. Previously, it involved frantic humiliation and desperate scenarios. This time? Kyoko just commanded. Chloe just held you still. And you spilled. Instantly. No friction. Just pure, exposed shame triggering release. That’s progress. That’s your body finally accepting its truth.”
The truth of it hit me like a physical blow. She was right. It hadn’t been about touch at all. It was the sheer, unbearable focus. Chloe’s unwavering grip, Kyoko’s relentless gaze pinning me, the knowledge of the camera broadcasting my unraveling. The humiliation had been so absolute, so consuming, that my body simply obeyed, bypassing any need for physical stimulation. It was a surrender. Complete and utter capitulation to their perception of me. My tiny cocklette hadn’t pulsed with pleasure; it had spasmed with the shock of total exposure. “It felt… inevitable,” I whispered into the phone, the admission pulled from me. “Like there was no other choice. Just… let go.”
Betty’s satisfied sigh was a warm crackle in my ear. “Exactly. Inevitable. That’s the core of it, Liam. That’s the ultimate truth.” She paused, letting the weight of that word settle. “So,” her tone shifted, becoming brisk, almost businesslike, “the ‘Tiny’ brand is permanent. Your reaction is documented. The circle knows. And your body proved it understands its purpose.” Another deliberate pause, heavy with unspoken implication. “Is that it? The final step? Is the lesson learned? The box checked?”
I gripped the phone tighter, the brick scraping against my knuckles. “Is it?” The question burst out, raw with hope and fear. “Is it the last step?” My voice dropped to a desperate whisper. “Because… please, Betty. Please. I don’t want anyone else to know. Not ever. Especially not Jodie.” The image of my sister’s face, twisted in disgust or pity at seeing that screen, clawed at my insides. “The circle is enough. More than enough. Please tell me it’s over. That it stops here.” I was begging, my voice trembling. “I don’t need more… proof. I’ve shown you. I’ve shown them all. It’s real. It’s me. Isn’t that enough?”
Betty’s silence stretched, thick and deliberate. I could almost hear her smile, the slow, considering curve of her lips. “Enough?” she finally echoed, the word soft, almost musing. “Is humiliation ever really ‘enough,’ Liam? Or is it more like… hunger?” A low, soft laugh trickled down the line, sending ice through my veins. “The circle knows the truth. That’s containment. But the power of that truth? The way it shapes you? That’s… ongoing. That’s potential.” She paused, letting the implication hang, heavy and terrifying. “Think of Chloe’s wink. Her ‘I won’t tell.’ Her ‘See you soon.’ Think of Kyoko’s wall. Permanent proof, displayed. That’s not containment, bestie. That’s leverage. That’s… possibility.” Her tone shifted, velvet turning to steel. “The lesson isn’t just learned. It’s lived. Every single day. With every person who already holds it.”
My knuckles pressed harder against the rough brick, the sting grounding me against the dizzying implications. “But… how?” The question was a raw scrape. “What else is there? I gave you everything today. I admitted it. I proved it.” The desperation was thick in my throat. “Kyoko’s screen… Chloe’s photo… isn’t that living it?” The thought of walking past that studio window, knowing my branded shame was the first thing clients saw, was a fresh wave of nausea. “What more could I possibly give?”
Betty’s laugh was soft, intimate, and utterly chilling. “Oh, bestie,” she murmured, the warmth in her voice a stark contrast to the words. “Today was just… validation. Confirmation of the baseline. The raw material.” She paused, letting the silence hum with unspoken purpose. “But the potential? The artistry? That’s where the real fun begins. Think of it as… refining the reaction. Deepening the surrender.” Her voice dropped, becoming conspiratorial, laced with anticipation. “Tomorrow, Liam. It’s Page’s turn. She’s been so eager. Practicing her approach. She wants to explore… spontaneity. Public proximity. The sheer, casual power of the unexpected.” The way she said ‘public proximity’ sent a jolt of pure terror through me. “Consider it your next lesson. Page gets to teach you how deeply ingrained that smile really is.” She ended the call.
I stumbled through my apartment door, the familiar scent of home offering no comfort. The silence felt heavy, oppressive. Every nerve was raw, the phantom sting of the tattoo a constant reminder beneath my jeans. Page, I thought, clinging to the name like a lifeline. Of the inner circle, Page was… different. Not gentle, exactly, but her mockery usually carried a playful edge, a spark of genuine amusement rather than Kyoko’s surgical cruelty. She teased, she joked, she made you laugh with her, even when the joke was on you. Maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t dissect me with the same clinical precision. Maybe she’d just… let it breathe. Give me a moment to process the branding, the photo, the terrifying promise of ‘public proximity’. My hand trembled as I tossed my keys onto the counter. Please, Page. Be kind.
The buzzing of my phone shattered the fragile quiet. It wasn’t a call. It was a notification from the ‘Microscope Crew’ chat – a group Betty had silently added Chloe to minutes ago, a digital cage. My breath hitched. Kyoko had posted the photo. There it was, pinned at the top: my dazed, slack-jawed smile, the raw ‘Tiny’ stark above the glistening bead on my tip, captured in brutal high-definition. Below it, Kyoko’s caption was chillingly simple: ‘Exhibit A: Baseline Surrender. Studio Ambiance Installed.’ No emojis. Just cold, hard proof. My humiliation, curated. Christy responded first: ‘OMG the SMILE! Perfection. Pure acceptance. Can’t wait to see it LIVE.’ Then Chloe: ‘He begged me not to tell Jodie. So sweetly desperate. His secret is safe with me .’ Each message was a fresh brand on my psyche. I scrolled down, my stomach churning, dreading Page’s reaction.
My thumb hovered over the screen, paralyzed. What could I even type? An apology? A plea? Before I could decide, a new notification popped up. Not in the group chat. A private message. From Page. My pulse hammered against my ribs. I tapped it open. Her text wasn’t the barrage of mocking gifs or teasing threats I’d braced for. It was startlingly brief, almost gentle: ‘Hey, Li. Saw the pic. Saw the vid feed. Wow. Just… wow. Get some rest. Seriously. Need you fresh tomorrow. Can’t wait :)’ The words ‘Can’t wait’ were underlined with a soft sincerity, devoid of Kyoko’s ice or Chloe’s possessive edge. It felt almost… kind. A strange, unexpected warmth bloomed in my chest, mingling with the residual terror. Maybe she understood the exhaustion. Maybe she saw the shock still vibrating through me. Maybe tomorrow wouldn’t be another dissection.
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