The Fate of the Virgin. Part 3.
Our meetings became regular. I started taking pills to avoid getting pregnant. The ritual of them whipping me and then fucking me simultaneously, recording everything on video, became routine. I withdrew from everyone, consumed by the situation I found myself in.
My body, exhausted and trembling, was carried from the gym to their tattoo parlor, a gloomy room saturated with the smell of ink, antiseptic, and sweat. The walls were covered with sketches—predatory animals, chains, and explicit images that made my stomach clench. In the center stood an old leather chair, worn and stained, hinting at its frequent use. Scar, Fang
and Tattooed, their coal-black skin gleaming in the lamplight, surrounded me, their masks hiding their faces, but their eyes burning with authoritative confidence.— Now you will wear our marks," said Fang, his teeth flashing in a mocking grin. "So you don't forget who you belong to.
My heart pounded, fear and shame tightening my throat, but I knew resistance was useless. They sat me in the chair, my hands, trembling from exhaustion, were tied to the armrests with rough straps, and my legs were fixed in stirrups, spread apart, exposing my vulnerability. My pale skin, covered in crimson stripes and bleeding scratches from their belts and whips, shivered under the cold air of the salon. I felt trapped, like an animal, their gazes, heavy and predatory, intensifying the feeling of helplessness. So gradually, over a year of sex with them, I got piercings and tattoos.
Over the year, they gradually added piercings, each time turning the process into a ritual full of pain and humiliation. The first were the nipple piercings. Tattooed, whose ink-covered hands moved with frightening precision, pierced my skin with a sterile needle. The pain was sharp, like a red-hot stab, and I cried out, my voice, hoarse and ragged, echoing in the salon. On each nipple, he placed a silver ring with a small black diamond, glinting in the lamplight, accentuating my paleness. The rings slightly pulled the skin, causing a constant feeling of discomfort that reminded me of their power.
Next was the clitoral piercing. It happened on another day, when the pain in my nipples had become familiar, but the new piercing was worse. Fang held my hips, his dark fingers digging into my skin, leaving crimson marks, while Tattooed prepared the needle. I tensed, muscles clenched, but his hand, cold and authoritative, held me down. The puncture was like a flash of fire, and I screamed, tears streaming down my cheeks, mixing with sweat. He inserted a small silver barbell with a black stone, which touched the sensitive skin, causing burning flashes of pain with every movement.
Gradually, they began to stretch it. The stretching started with replacing the jewelry with a piece of larger diameter.
The piercer carefully inserted a tapered tool into the piercing channel, slowly advancing it to widen the hole. After inserting the taper, new jewelry was immediately placed to prevent the channel from narrowing.
The stretching was done gradually, with intervals between increasing the jewelry size, so my tissues had time to adapt.
The ear piercings were the last—they pierced my lobes and upper cartilage, placing four rings on each ear with black beads. The pain was tolerable, but each puncture was another reminder that I was their property.
Over the year, they put fifteen tattoos on my body. They chose places I could hide from my parents, friends, and others—under long sleeves, high collars, or clothing covering my thighs and back. The tattoos were beautiful, with clean lines and deep colors, but their meaning ate away at me from the inside, intensifying the shame that burned like hot metal. However, some of them, located on more exposed areas, required special care to remain unnoticed.
The upper back had a large tattoo of a black panther entwining a naked female figure, whose contours resembled my body. The panther, with eyes burning red, symbolized their power. The tattoo covered the entire upper back but was completely hidden under high-collared clothing.
The lower back above the buttocks was covered by an image of a black snake coiling around a scarlet rose with black thorns. The snake symbolized their dominance. This tattoo was hidden under the waistband of pants or a skirt.
On my right shoulder, they did a detailed image of a black stallion rearing up, with a muscular body emphasizing their strength and a prominent member. The tattoo was vivid, with deep black and red tones.
On my left shoulder, they gave me a tattoo of a black eagle, its wings spread, its claws gripping chains symbolizing my lack of freedom.
On the right upper part of my chest, for some reason, they decided to do an image of a black dragon, its body coiling around the nipple piercing, as if it were holding the ring in its mouth.
And on the left upper part of my chest, some kind of monkey's mouth, which seemed to be biting my nipple in the piercing.
On the back of my left thigh, they tattooed a large black heart pierced by arrows. And on the right side was a large garter tattoo with a bow. If you looked closely, the bas-relief was a black cock, and the bows were its balls.
On my buttocks, they tattooed their nicknames, and symbols as if penetrating me, three rings with symbols of black men in one, which meant me.
Then they did a tattoo across the base of my neck from collarbone to collarbone with the inscription "Property of BBC," and I had to constantly wear a high collar or scarf so no one would see this shame.
And on the waistband below my navel, the inscription "Black Owned" was displayed in large letters, which closed off my path to short crop tops. The chain tattoos on my calves I covered with leg warmers.
Some tattoos and piercings required special caution, as they could be noticeable in daily life, especially with careless movements or certain clothing. The tattoo on the lower neck ("Property of BBC") was the riskiest, as it could be visible if the collar of a T-shirt or sweater slipped slightly. I always wore high-necked clothing—turtlenecks, sweaters, or scarves, even in warm weather, explaining it to my parents and friends as a love for that style or sensitivity to cold. This raised questions, especially in summer when I sweated in long sleeves and scarves, but I learned to brush it off, saying I liked the "covered-up style."
The tattoos on the inner forearms ("BBC Slut" and "Black Owned") could be visible if the sleeves of a T-shirt or sweater rode up, for example, when raising my arms or during physical activity. I avoided short sleeves, even at home, and wore hoodies or long-sleeved tops, even at the gym, claiming I was more comfortable in covered clothing. Friends sometimes joked, but I waved it off, saying I didn't want to get sunburned or that I was cold.
The nipple piercings were noticeable under tight clothing, especially without a bra, as the rings protruded slightly. I always wore padded bras to hide their outline and avoided tight tops, preferring loose T-shirts or sweaters. The clitoral piercing was less problematic as it was in an intimate area, but I avoided tight leggings or swimsuits to avoid drawing attention. The ear piercings were the easiest to hide—I wore my long hair down to cover the lobes and cartilage, or took the rings out, replacing them with small stud earrings if I was going to a family event.
Every tattoo or piercing session was agonizing. The needles pierced my skin, leaving burning, throbbing marks that burned for hours after the procedure. Tattooed worked with frightening precision, his dark hands moving confidently, and his mocking gaze watched my reactions. Fang and Scar observed, their chuckles, hoarse and guttural, echoing in the salon, while the camera recorded every puncture, every tear, every stifled moan. My body, pale and covered in marks, became their canvas, their mark, their property.
I knew these tattoos and piercings were not just decorations, but signs that bound me to them forever. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw their work—beautiful but humiliating images and inscriptions that screamed about my role. I learned to hide them from my parents, friends, and others, but every time I undressed, I saw their power over me. Shame burned inside, fear gripped every cell, but beneath it smoldered that cursed spark I hated—a feeling that flared when I touched the piercings or saw the tattoos in the mirror. This salon, these people, these marks were dragging me into an abyss from which I could no longer escape.
In the very end, I realized that stretching the clitoris had led to it losing sensitivity.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling where fluorescent lights hummed, trying to understand what was happening. My body, which they had so often stretched, beaten, filled, no longer responded as it used to. I tried to focus, to remember when it started. The clitoral piercing, placed with such pain, initially intensified every touch, making it unbearably intense. But over time, after months of their rough manipulations—pulling on the barbell, hitting, pressing—the skin around it became less sensitive. I didn't notice it right away because pain and humiliation drowned out everything else, but now, lying on the floor surrounded by their dark figures, I understood: I could no longer come.
This discovery was like a blow. My body, which they had forced to react, to adapt to their rhythm, despite shame and pain, was now deprived of that ability. I felt broken, but not just physically—it was the loss of something deeply personal, as if they had taken a part of my essence. My eyes filled with tears, hot and salty, streaming down my cheeks, mixing with sweat and saliva. I hated myself for being so affected by this loss, for even thinking about it while being their captive. But the thought that they had destroyed this part of me was unbearable. I felt empty, as if they had carved something living out of me, leaving only a shell covered in their marks.
Tattooed noticed my tears, his tattooed hands, gleaming in the lamplight, grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him.
— What's wrong, girl, not so fun anymore?" he snorted, his voice low and mocking.
I didn't answer, couldn't. My throat tightened, and shame mixed with despair burned inside. They continued, their members, dark and shiny, entering my body—anus, vagina, throat—but I no longer felt that heat which, to my shame, had accompanied their actions before. There was pain—deep, throbbing, burning—but it was lonely, without that forbidden response I so hated. My body trembled under their thrusts, muscles burned, skin covered in crimson stripes and scratches throbbed, but the clitoris remained silent, as if switched off.
I saw my reflection in the mirror on the wall: a pale face distorted by pain and tears, eyes full of despair, and a body covered in marks of their power—crimson stripes, bleeding scratches, piercings that now seemed not just marks but the cause of my loss. They continued, their hands squeezing my buttocks, pulling my hair, tugging the nipple piercings, causing sharp pain, but I felt detached, as if my body was no longer mine. Shame, fear, and a new feeling—emptiness—mixed into one unbearable storm. I hated them for what they did to me, but I hated myself even more for being so broken by this loss.
Their chuckles, hoarse and guttural, echoed in the room.
— Look how she cries," said Fang, his teeth gleaming in the light. "She has nowhere to go," Scar grunted, his massive figure looming over me. "This is her place," added Tattooed, his fingers gripping a strap, preparing for a new blow.
I felt crushed, as if this room, these people, these marks had rewritten me, stealing not only my freedom but a part of my body, my soul. The clitoral piercing they had placed to enhance their control had become the cause of my loss, and this realization was worse than any pain they could inflict.
Sometimes I stood in front of the mirror, naked, and my gaze slid over my body as if reading an old book. Tattoos, piercings. My fingers involuntarily touched the scars—thin, barely noticeable lines on my thigh, chest, buttocks, and back, left by their hands that had whipped me, and I wondered how many new changes there would be in me.
My body, exhausted and trembling, became their toy, their property, their field for cruel experiments. Scar, Fang, Tattooed constantly devised new ways to increase my pain and humiliation. They introduced increasingly harsh practices, turning every meeting into a sex-torture that broke me physically and mentally. They were simply bored of fucking me the same way every time. I became boring to them; they had other girls, I saw who they were gentle and tender with. And then the weekends came, and they took it all out on me, for all their successes and failures.
The camera on the tripod was always nearby, its black eye recording every moan, every tear, every crimson mark on my pale skin covered in traces of their belts, whips, and hands. My throat was raw, between my legs throbbed a deep, burning pain, and shame and fear, mixed with that cursed spark I hated, ate away at me from the inside. They used new locations to enhance the feeling of danger and helplessness, and new practices to drag me even deeper into their abyss.
Sometimes they invited their friends and let them use me for money. I was outraged, but my attempts to protest ended in particularly rough fucking, where they brought me to such submission that I opened my mouth, accepted their urine, and wiped their boots with my tongue after they came in from the street.
My body, exhausted and trembling, was their prey, their canvas, where every blow, every penetration left marks of their power. The threat of publishing videos where I, bound and vulnerable, moaned under their thrusts, kept me in their chains, leaving not the slightest chance for escape. Crimson stripes from belts and whips covered my pale skin, between my legs throbbed a deep, burning pain, and my throat was raw from their rough invasions. Shame and fear bound me, but their dark, sweat-glistening figures, surrounding me in every new place, left no room for resistance. They conducted experiments on my body, and each new night became more cruel, dragging me into an abyss from which I no longer saw an exit.
The cold concrete of the underground garage burned my bare feet, and the acrid smell of gasoline and dampness choked me, penetrating my lungs. They hung me by my wrists and ankles from rusty metal beams, chains digging into my skin leaving crimson marks, and my muscles burned from the strain, stretched to the limit. Their dark, massive members entered my anus and vagina simultaneously, each thrust sending a deep, dull pain that resonated in my bones, mixing with the burning pulsation between my legs. The whip lashed my buttocks, leaving bleeding stripes that flared like burns, and my body swung, chains clinking, like a puppet in their hands.
Shame burned inside like hot metal, each lash of the whip and each penetration reminded me of my helplessness. My face, covered in sweat and tears, burned with humiliation, and my eyes, full of salty drops, caught my reflection in a cracked mirror on the wall—pale skin distorted by pain, and a body covered in crimson marks. I felt crushed, as if each thrust, each lash erased a piece of me, leaving only a shell subservient to their will.
My consciousness clung to remnants of dignity, but they melted like wax under their hands. I hated myself because my body, despite the pain, sometimes responded with a heat I couldn't control. This heat, this cursed spark I so despised, was their victory, their mark on me. I felt my resistance fading, dissolving in pain and humiliation, leaving only emptiness.
The stifling heat of the boiler room enveloped me like a sticky blanket, and the smell of coal and rust choked my throat. They tied me face down to a rusty pipe, its cold metal scratching the skin of my stomach, leaving burning marks. My hips were raised, my arms and legs bound with ropes that dug into my wrists, causing sharp pain. Their members, dark and shiny, filled my throat and anus, causing squelching sounds and gagging, while saliva and sweat dripped from my chin onto the dirty floor. A belt lashed my back, leaving long, crimson stripes that darkened into bruises, each blow like a red-hot rod searing my skin.
Humiliation ate away at me from the inside like acid. My body, trembling and covered in sweat, was their toy, and each thrust, each blow emphasized my helplessness. I felt my throat constrict, not just from their penetrations, but from shame that choked me stronger than any rope. My moans, hoarse and ragged, dissolved in the boiler room's heat, and tears, hot and salty, streamed down my cheeks, leaving wet trails.
My will broke under their onslaught like fragile glass. I tried to cling to thoughts of escape, of resistance, but they slipped away,