The silver locket was a cheap thing, bought from a kiosk at the mall, but to Natalie, it was the key to everything. She’d spent the last week polishing it until it gleamed with an almost unnatural light. Now, presented as a gift: a trojan horse that would let Natalie into all the places she'd been dreaming of.
“It’s beautiful, Nat,” Jill said, leaning over Natalie’s shoulder to get a closer look. Her brown hair, tied up in a messy bun, tickled Natalie’s neck. She smelled of vanilla and the faint, lingering scent of her strawberry shampoo. Natalie's panties grew damp at the scent and the nearness and the expectation of all the things to come.
"I know. It was my grandmothers," Natalie lied as she turned and held the locket up to give Jill a better look at it. Letting it start to turn lazily on its chain.
“Look at it,” Natalie whispered, her voice dropping into a rhythmic, hypnotic cadence she’d been practicing for weeks. “See how the silver still shines after all these years? That's how you know it's real. That's how you know it's valuable. Valuable enough to keep your eyes on it closely so nothing happens to it. Just like you're doing now. It’s so pretty. Just keep your eyes on the shine. Let everything else fade away. It’s just you and the pretty, shiny locket. It’s so heavy, but it feels so good, doesn’t it? So heavy… pulling you down… down… deeper and deeper…”
Jill’s eyes, wide and brown, began to glaze over. Her posture slackened, her shoulders slumping forward. Natalie watched, mesmerized herself, as the last vestiges of her roommate’s conscious mind dissolved into a placid, receptive void.
Jill's eyes slammed closed and she stood there swaying slightly.
“Can you hear me, Jill?” Natalie asked softly.
Jill’s head bobbed in a slow, compliant nod. “Yes…”
“You are deeply hypnotized, Jill. Completely under my power. My voice is your reality. Everything I say is the absolute truth. Do you understand?”
“Good. Now, I’m going to tell you something very important, something that will become a core part of your being from this moment on. Anything that is written on your skin becomes true. It becomes an undeniable part of who you are. The words will sink into you, becoming your thoughts, your desires, your very essence. Do you understand this rule?”
Jill’s lips parted slightly. “Yes… written on me… becomes true…”
A predatory smile spread across Natalie’s face. The experiment could begin. She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a thick, black permanent marker. The sharp, chemical scent of the ink filled the air. She uncapped it, the click echoing in the silent room.
“Stay still, Jill,” she commanded.
Jill stood like a statue, a perfect, blank canvas. Natalie knelt in front of her, her heart thudding with a mixture of nervousness and exhilarating power. She decided to start with something simple, something to test the waters. With a careful hand, she wrote on the smooth skin of Jill’s left forearm: “MAID”.
As she finished the last letter, she saw a subtle shift in Jill’s posture. Her spine straightened slightly. Her hands, which had been hanging limply at her sides, folded themselves neatly in front of her. Her placid expression took on a hint of attentive servitude.
“Jill,” Natalie said, her voice firm. “The floor is dirty. Clean it.”
Without a word of question or hesitation, Jill turned, walked to the small closet by the door, and retrieved the dustpan and hand broom. She began to meticulously sweep the worn linoleum of their dorm room, her movements efficient and practiced, as if she had been doing it her whole life. It was working. It was really working.
Natalie’s breath hitched. She felt a dizzying rush, a feeling of godlike power coursing through her veins. This was just the beginning. She watched Jill clean for a few minutes, enjoying the sight, before calling her back over.
“Stand still again,” Natalie ordered.
Jill complied instantly, returning to her statue-like pose. Natalie’s eyes roamed over her friend’s body, over the simple t-shirt and pajama shorts she wore. So much blank space. So much potential. Her next idea was more daring, more charged with a dark, sexual energy. She wanted to see how far she could push this, how deeply the words could rewrite Jill’s personality.
She knelt again and, this time, wrote just above Jill’s left knee, on the soft, sensitive skin of her thigh: “SLUT”.
The moment the ink dried, the change was electric. The air around Jill seemed to thicken, to grow heavy with unspoken lust. Her breathing deepened, her lips parting slightly. A new light entered her hypnotized eyes. The maid was still there in her posture, but now she was a maid who knew exactly what she was serving.
Natalie felt a surge of confidence. She stood up and grabbed Jill’s chin, forcing her to look up. “You’re a slut, aren’t you, Jill?”
A slow, languid smile spread across Jill’s face. “Yes,” she breathed, her voice a husky purr. “I’m a slut.”
“Show me,” Natalie demanded, her own voice rough with desire. “Show me what a slut does.”
Jill sank to her knees, her movements fluid and graceful. Her hands, which had just been holding a broom, now came up to rest on Natalie’s thighs, her fingers tracing patterns through the denim of her jeans. She looked up at Natalie with an expression of utter, worshipful devotion. She leaned in and pressed her face against the crotch of Natalie’s pants, her mouth open, her tongue darting out to taste the fabric. A soft, needy moan escaped her lips.
The sight was intoxicating. Natalie felt a primal thrill, the thrill of the creator, the master. She let Jill worship her for a moment before pulling her back up. There was more to do. She wanted to erase the old Jill completely, to cover every inch of her in new definitions.
She wrote on her other thigh: “BIMBO”.
Jill’s expression shifted again. The smoky intelligence in her eyes clouded over, replaced by a vacant, bubbly emptiness. Her pout became more pronounced, her smile vapid and wide. She giggled, a high-pitched, air-headed sound that was completely alien to the studious, sarcastic girl Natalie had lived with for the past year.
“Like, oh my god,” Jill giggled, poking one of her own breasts. “These are so heavy.”
Natalie laughed, a sharp, cruel sound. The combination was perfect. A maid-slut-bimbo. But she could go deeper. She wanted to strip away every last shred of Jill’s former self, to reduce her to pure, unadulterated function.
Natalie looked at her creation. The old Jill, the girl who aced her biology exams and complained about her terrible dating life, was gone. In her place stood this… thing. A creature defined by the words scrawled across her skin. A maid who lived to serve, a slut who craved to be used, a bimbo who couldn’t think, and a cumwhore whose entire existence was a desperate, aching need. The more writing Natalie added, the more the original Jill faded, like a photograph bleached by the sun.
She decided to cover her completely. She wrote on her arms, her back, her legs. “OBEDIENT.” “SUBMISSIVE.” “PROPERTY OF NATALIE.” “TOY.” “HOLES.” Each word was a nail in the coffin of the person who used to be Jill. By the time she was done, Jill’s skin was a tapestry of black ink, a chaotic map of her new, simplified reality. She was covered from her neck to her ankles in a permanent, sharpied-on uniform of debasement. She barely looked human, more like a living, breathing fetish doll, programmed and ready for use.
She stood there, trembling, her eyes completely blank. The original Jill was now just a ghost, a faint echo in the back of a mind that had been wiped clean and redrawn. She was a blank canvas, just as Natalie had intended. A canvas for Natalie to describe, to define, to own.
Natalie looked at the permanent marker in her hand. It was good, but it wasn’t permanent enough. It could be scrubbed off, eventually. What she had created, she wanted to make eternal.
“Get dressed,” Natalie commanded, tossing Jill a tiny, tight skirt and a crop top that barely covered the words on her stomach and chest.
Jill obeyed with clumsy, eager movements. When she was dressed, she looked absurd and perfect, the inked words peeking out from under the scandalously small clothes.
“Come with me,” Natalie said, taking her by the hand.
She led Jill out of their dorm and across campus. People stared, their expressions a mixture of shock, confusion, and disgust. Jill didn’t notice. She just followed, her eyes fixed on Natalie’s back, her entire world narrowed down to the sound of her voice and the feel of her hand. She was Natalie’s property, and the words written all over her body screamed that fact to anyone who dared to look.
Natalie led her not to a classroom or a library, but to the small, dingy tattoo parlor located in a grimy alley just off campus. The bell above the door jingled as they entered, and the heavily tattooed artist looked up from his sketchbook, his eyes widening at the sight of Jill.
“What the…” he started, but Natalie held up a hand.
“She’s getting a tattoo,” Natalie said, her voice leaving no room for argument. She pointed to Jill’s lower back, right above the waistband of her skirt. “Right there. One word.”
She pulled out a piece of paper and a pen and wrote the word down, sliding it across the counter. The tattoo artist looked from the word to the covered-in-marker girl, then back at Natalie. He shrugged, a gesture of professional indifference. If the customer wanted to pay for it, who was he to judge?
He led Jill to the chair. She sat without a sound, staring blankly at the wall. Natalie stood beside her, watching as the artist prepared his gun. The buzzing sound filled the small shop, a sound of permanence, of finality.
The needle touched Jill’s skin. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t make a sound. She just sat there, a perfect, placid canvas, as the artist began to etch the word into her flesh, right above the word “PROPERTY” that Natalie had written there with the marker.
As the artist worked, Natalie leaned down and whispered in Jill’s ear. “That’s you now, Jill. Forever. Not written in ink that can fade. Carved into you. A slave. My slave.”
Jill turned her head, her eyes finding Natalie’s. There was no trace of the old girl in them, no flicker of recognition or memory. There was only the profound, unshakeable truth of the word being permanently inscribed on her body. A slow, happy smile spread across her face, a smile of pure, unadulterated purpose. The last of the old Jill was gone, replaced forever by the truth of the tattoo. She was a slave. And she had never been happier.
Thanks for reading! If you are a fan of my work, you can request a story in my Asks for SUBMISSION SUNDAY! Or please consider BUYING ME A COFFEE. Any contribution is insanely appreciated. 💖
