Nick didn't go home right away. He sat in his car, still sore, jeans tugged up over fresh ink, the fabric brushing raw skin like punishment. He couldn't bring himself to drive. His hands shook every time he gripped the wheel. He kept looking down at the bulge in his pants—not out of arousal, but disbelief. Tiny Clit – No Cock Here. He hadn't imagined it. It was real. It was there. Forever. His phone buzzed. Not the app this time. A private number. A message: "Good boy." Just two words—but they lit a fire in his stomach that confused the hell out of him. A second message followed. "You've earned a reward. Answer when I call." His breath caught. The phone rang immediately. He hesitated. Then answered. Her voice poured through the speaker like silk soaked in poison—smooth, sweet, dangerous. "Hello, my little clit." He didn't speak. Couldn't. "You've done well," she continued. "Better than I expected. I thought you'd break by now. But look at you—marked. Soft. Mine." His throat was dry. "Wh… who are you?" "I'm the one who sees you for what you are. And what you're becoming." There was silence. Then she added, softly, "Do you want to know your next task?" Nick swallowed hard. "I… I don't know." "You do," she purred. "Even now, your little clit is twitching. Isn't it?" He didn't respond. "I'll give you a few days," she said. "Let the ink settle. Let the shame bloom. Then I'll call again. And next time, I expect you to beg for it." The call ended. Nick sat there, phone in his lap, cock—no, clit—aching and confused. The tattoo throbbed under his jeans. He didn't cry. Didn't rage. He just stared out the windshield, as the sun dipped low and his old life finally died in silence.
