The Fate of the Virgin. Part 3.
Our meetings have become regular. I started taking pills to avoid getting pregnant. The ritual of whipping me and then fucking me at the same time, all recorded on a video camera, has become commonplace. I pulled away from everyone, absorbed in the situation I found myself in.
My body, exhausted and trembling, was carried from the gym to their tattoo parlor, a gloomy room filled with the smell of ink, antiseptic and sweat. The walls were covered with sketches—predatory animals, chains, and explicit images that made my stomach churn. In the center stood an old leather chair, battered and with stains that hinted at its frequent use. Scar, Fang
and Tattooed, their jet-black skin glistening in the lamplight, surrounded me, their masks hiding their faces, but their eyes glowing with imperious confidence.— You will now wear our marks,” Fang said, his teeth flashing in a mocking grin. - So that you don’t forget who you belong to.
My heart began to pound, fear and shame tightened my throat, but I knew that resistance was futile. They sat me down on a chair, my arms, trembling with fatigue, tied to the armrests with rough straps, and my legs were secured in stirrups, spreading them, exposing my vulnerability. My pale skin, covered with purple stripes and bleeding scratches from their belts and whips, trembled under the cold air of the salon. I felt trapped like an animal, their gazes, heavy and predatory, intensified the feeling of helplessness. So gradually I got piercings and tattoos over a year of sex with them.
Over the course of a year, they gradually added piercings, each time turning the process into a ritual full of pain and humiliation. The first was a nipple piercing. The tattooed man, whose inked hands moved with frightening precision, pierced my skin with a sterile needle. The pain was sharp, like a hot prick, and I screamed, my voice, hoarse and ragged, echoed in the cabin. On each nipple he placed a silver ring with a small black diamond that glinted in the lamplight, emphasizing my pallor. The rings pulled slightly on the skin, causing a constant feeling of discomfort that reminded of their power.
Next up was the clitoral piercing. This happened on another day when the nipple pain became normal, but the new piercing was worse. Fang held my hips, his dark fingers digging into my skin, leaving crimson marks as the Tattooed One prepared the needle. I tensed, my muscles clenched, but his hand, cold and domineering, held me. The sting was like a flash of fire, and I screamed, tears streaming down my cheeks, mixing with sweat. He set up a small silver barbell with a black stone that touched the sensitive skin, causing stinging flashes of pain with every movement.
Gradually they began to expand it for me. Stretching began with replacing the jewelry with a product of larger diameter.
The piercer carefully inserted the tapered tool into the piercing channel, slowly pushing it to widen the hole. After the taper was placed, a new piece of jewelry was immediately inserted to prevent narrowing of the canal.
The stretching was done gradually, with intervals between increasing the size of the jewelry, so that my fabrics had time to adapt.
The ear piercing was the last thing - they pierced the lobes and upper cartilage, installing four rings on each ear with black beads. The pain was bearable, but each prick was another reminder that I was their property.
In one year they put fifteen tattoos on my body. They chose places that I could hide from my parents, friends, and others—under long sleeves, high collars, or clothing that covered my hips and back. The tattoos were beautiful, with clean lines and deep colors, but their meaning ate away at me from the inside, adding to the shame that burned like hot metal. However, some of them, located in more open areas, required special care to remain undetected.
Upper back, there was a large tattoo of a black panther wrapped around a naked female figure whose outline resembled my body. The panther, with eyes glowing red, symbolized their power. The tattoo covered the entire upper back, but was completely hidden under high-necked clothing.
The lower part of the back above the buttocks was covered by an image of a black snake entwining a scarlet rose with black thorns. The snake symbolized their dominance. This tattoo was hidden under the waistband of trousers or a skirt.
On the right shoulder they made a detailed image of a black stallion rearing, with a muscular body emphasizing their strength and bulging dignity. The tattoo was vibrant, with deep black and red tones.
On my left shoulder they gave me a tattoo of a black eagle, whose wings were spread, and its claws clutched chains, symbolizing my unfreedom.
For some reason they decided to make an image of a black dragon on the right upper chest, whose body wriggled around the nipple piercing, as if it was holding a ring in its mouth.
And in the left upper part of my chest there is some kind of mouth of a monkey, which seemed to be biting my pierced nipple.
On the back of their left thigh they tattooed a large black heart pierced with arrows. And on the right side there was a large tattoo of a garter with a bow. If you look closely, the bas-relief was of a black penis, and the bows were his balls.
They tattooed their nicknames on their buttocks, and the symbols penetrated me, three rings with the designation of black men in one, which meant me.
Then they made a tattoo on the bottom of my neck from collarbone to collarbone with the inscription Property of BBC and I had to constantly walk around with a long collar or scarf so that no one would see this shame.
And on the belt under my navel there was the inscription Black Owned in large letters, which blocked my path to short tops. I covered the tattoo of chains on my shins with knee socks.
Some tattoos and piercings required special care, as they could be noticeable in everyday life, especially with careless movements or in certain clothes. The tattoo on the lower part of the 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 clothes - turtlenecks, sweaters or scarves, even in warm weather, explaining this to my parents and friends due to my love for this style or sensitivity to the cold. This raised questions, especially in the summer when I was sweating in long sleeves and scarves, but I learned to laugh it off, saying that I liked the “covered style.”
Tattoos on the inside of the forearms (“BBC Slut” and “Black Owned”) could be visible if the sleeves of a T-shirt or sweater were pulled up, for example when raising arms or during physical activity. I avoided short sleeves, even at home, and wore long-sleeved sweatshirts or sweatshirts, even at the gym, citing the fact that I was more comfortable in closed clothing. Friends sometimes joked, but I brushed it off, saying that I didn’t want to get sunburned or that I was cold.
Nipple piercings were visible under tight clothing, especially without a bra, as the rings stuck out slightly. I always wore thick, padded bras to hide their curves and avoided tight tops in favor of loose T-shirts or sweaters. The clitoral piercing was less problematic since it was in the intimate area, but I avoided tight leggings or swimsuits so as not to attract attention. Ear piercings were the easiest to conceal—I wore my long hair down to cover my lobes and cartilage, or removed my rings and replaced them with small stud earrings if I was going to a family event.
Every tattoo or piercing session was excruciating. The needles dug into the skin, leaving stinging, pulsating marks that burned for hours after the procedure. The tattooed man worked with frightening precision, his dark hands moving confidently, and his mocking gaze following my reactions. Fang and Scar watched, their chuckles, hoarse and guttural, echoing in the cabin as the camera recorded every prick, every tear, every muffled moan. My body, pale and covered with marks, became their canvas, their mark, their property.
I knew that these tattoos and piercings were not just decorations, but signs that tied me to them forever. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw their work—beautiful but humiliating images and writing that screamed my role. I learned to hide them from my parents, friends and others, but every time I took my clothes off, I saw their power over me. Shame burned from the inside, fear gripped every cell, but underneath it was that damned spark that I hated - the feeling that flared up when I touched a piercing or saw tattoos in the mirror. This salon, these people, these marks pulled me into an abyss from which I could no longer get out.
At the very end, I realized that the expansion of the clitoris caused it to lose sensitivity.
I lay staring at the ceiling, where the fluorescent lights were humming, and tried to understand what was happening. My body, which they had so often stretched, beaten, filled, no longer responded the way it used to. I tried to concentrate, to remember when it started. The clitoral piercing, installed with such pain, initially intensified each touch, making it unbearably intense. But over time, after months of their rough manipulations - pulling on the barbell, hitting, pressing - the skin around him became less sensitive. I didn’t notice it right away because the pain and humiliation drowned out everything else, but now, as I lay on the floor, surrounded by their dark figures, I realized: I couldn’t cum anymore.
This discovery was like a blow. My body, which they forced to react, to adapt to their rhythm, despite the shame and pain, was now deprived of this ability. I felt broken, but not just physically - it was the loss of something deeply personal, as if they had taken away part of my essence. My eyes filled with tears, hot and salty, which flowed down my cheeks, mixing with sweat and saliva. I hated myself for the fact that this loss affected me so much, for the fact that I even thought about it, being their prisoner. But the thought that they had destroyed that part of me was unbearable. I felt empty, as if they had cut out something living from me, leaving only a shell covered with their marks.
The tattooed man noticed my tears, his tattooed hands, shining in the light of the lamps, grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him.
— What, girl, isn’t it so much fun anymore? He chuckled, his voice low and mocking.
I didn’t answer, I couldn’t. My throat tightened, and shame mixed with despair burned from within. They continued, their members, dark and shiny, entered my body - into the anus, vagina, throat - but I no longer felt the heat that, to my shame, had previously accompanied their actions. The pain was there - deep, throbbing, burning - but it was lonely, without that forbidden response that I hated so much. My body trembled under their thrusts, my muscles burned, my skin, covered with purple stripes and scratches, throbbed, but my clitoris remained silent, as if it had been turned 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 with traces of their power - purple stripes, bleeding scratches, piercings that now seemed not just a mark, but the reason for my loss. They continued, their hands squeezing my buttocks, pulling my hair, pulling my 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 how this loss had broken me so much.
Their chuckles, hoarse and guttural, echoed in the hall.
— Look how she’s crying,” Fang said, his teeth glinting in the lamplight. “She has nowhere to go,” Scar chuckled, his massive figure looming over me. “This is her place,” the Tattooed One added, his fingers tightening on the belt, preparing for another blow.
I felt crushed, as if this hall, these people, these marks had rewritten me, stealing not only my freedom, but also part of my body, my soul. The clitoral piercing they had installed to increase their control was the reason I lost it, and that realization was worse than any pain they could have caused.
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 flogged me, and I thought 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 came up with new ways to increase my pain and humiliation. They introduced increasingly harsh practices, turning every meeting into sexual torture, which broke me physically and mentally. They were just bored of fucking me the same way every time. I became boring for them, they had other girls, I saw with whom they were affectionate and reverent. And then the weekend would come, and they would take it out on me for all their successes and failures.
The camera on a tripod was always nearby, its black eye recording every groan, every tear, every crimson mark on my pale skin, covered with traces of their belts, whips and hands. My throat was raw, there was a deep, burning pain throbbing between my legs, and shame and fear, mixed with that damn spark that I hated, was eating me up from the inside. They used new locations to heighten the sense of danger and helplessness, and new practices to pull me deeper into their abyss.
Sometimes they invited their friends and gave me money to use me. I was outraged, but my attempts to protest ended in a particularly harsh fucking, where I was brought to submission, so that I opened my mouth, took their urine and wiped my shoes with my tongue after they came from the street.
My body, exhausted and trembling, was their prey, their canvas, where every blow, every penetration left traces of their power. The threat of publishing a video of me, tied up and vulnerable, moaning under their thrusts, kept me in their chains, not giving me the slightest chance of escape. Crimson stripes from the belt and whip covered my pale skin, a deep, burning pain throbbed between my legs, and my throat was raw from their brutal intrusions. Shame and fear constrained me, but their dark figures, shining with sweat, surrounding me in every new place, left no room for resistance. They experimented on my body, and each new night became more and more cruel, dragging me into an abyss from which I could no longer see a way out.
The cold concrete of the underground garage burned my bare feet, and the acrid smell of gasoline and dampness was choking, penetrating into my lungs. I was suspended by my wrists and ankles from rusty metal beams, the chains digging into my skin, leaving purple marks, and my muscles burning from the tension, stretched to the limit. Their dark, massive cocks entered my anus and vagina at the same time, each thrust sending a deep, dull pain that reverberated through the bones, mixing with the burning pulsation between my legs. The whip lashed across my buttocks, leaving bleeding streaks that flared up like burns, and my body swayed, clanking with the chains, like a puppet in their hands.
Shame burned from the inside like hot metal, every blow of the whip and every penetration reminded me of my helplessness. My face, covered with sweat and tears, burned with humiliation, and my eyes, full of salty drops, caught the reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall - pale skin, distorted by pain, and a body covered with purple marks. I felt crushed, as if every push, every whip was erasing a part of me, leaving only a shell, subject to their will.
My consciousness clung to the remnants of dignity, but they melted away like wax under their hands. I hated myself because my body, despite the pain, sometimes responded with heat that I could not control. That heat, that damned spark that I so despised, was their victory, their mark on me. I felt the resistance fading away, dissolving into 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 clogged my throat. I was tied face down to a rusty pipe, its cold metal scratching the skin of my stomach, leaving burning marks. My thighs were raised, my arms and legs were tied with ropes that dug into my wrists, causing sharp pain. Их члены, темные и блестящие, заполняли мое горло и анус, вызывая чавкающие звуки и рвотные позывы, пока слюна и пот текли по подбородку, капая на грязный пол. Ремень хлестал по спине, оставляя длинные, багровые полосы, которые темнели, превращаясь в синяки, каждый удар был как раскаленный прут, впивающийся в кожу.
Унижение разъедало меня изнутри, как кислота. Мое тело, дрожащее и покрытое потом, было их игрушкой, а каждый толчок, каждый удар подчеркивал мою беспомощность. Я чувствовала, как мое горло сжимается, не только от их проникновений, но и от стыда, который душил сильнее любой веревки. Мои стоны, хриплые и рваные, растворялись в жаре котельной, а слезы, горячие и соленые, текли по щекам, оставляя влажные дорожки.
Моя воля ломалась под их напором, как хрупкое стекло. Я пыталась цепляться за мысль о побеге, о сопротивлении, но она ускользала, растворяясь в боли и унижении. Мое тело, предавшее меня своим жаром, было их трофеем, а я, глядя на свое отражение в ржавом металле, видела лишь сломленную тень, готовую подчиниться их воле. С каждым разом я видела, как мое тело покрывается новыми ссадинами и новыми татуировками. А их коллекция видео пополняется новым материалом со мной.
Иногда они выводили меня на природу. Холодная трава лесной поляны колола колени, а острые ветки царапали кожу, оставляя кровоточащие следы. Меня заставили встать на колени, руки связали за спиной грубой веревкой, которая впивалась в запястья, а шею стянул кожаный ошейник, цепь которого тянули, ограничивая дыхание. Их темные члены входили в мой анус, каждый толчок был медленным, но глубоким, вызывая пульсирующую боль, которая отдавалась по всему телу. Ветка, сорванная с дерева, хлестала по бедрам, оставляя тонкие, кровоточащие полосы, которые горели, как раскаленные иглы, подчеркивая мою уязвимость в этой ночной тьме.
Стыд и страх смешивались в одну невыносимую бурю, каждый удар веткой и каждое проникновение напоминали мне, что я — их добыча, загнанная в ловушку без стен. Мое тело дрожало, не только от холода, но и от осознания своей беспомощности, а слезы, стекающие по щекам, терялись в траве. Я чувствовала себя обнаженной не только телом, но и душой, как будто ночь и их взгляды вывернули меня наизнанку.
Они валяли меня в грязи, ставя ногу мне на покрасневшее влагалище, после долгого секса. Я уже воспринимала это, как что-то естественное. И не возражала, чувство досады и стыда постепенно стали испаряться.
Пыльный воздух строительного ангара, пропитанный запахом краски и металла, забивал легкие, а бетонный пол холодил кожу. Меня уложили на узкую металлическую балку, ее шершавая поверхность царапала бедра, оставляя жгучие следы. Мои руки были привязаны к концам балки, ноги свисали, дрожа от напряжения, а их члены, темные и массивные, входили в мое влагалище, посылая жгучие вспышки боли, которые смешивались с ненавистным жаром. Плеть хлестала по груди, оставляя россыпь мелких, кровоточащих отметин, а горячий воск, капающий на соски и живот, вызывал острую, жгучую боль, как раскаленные иглы, впивающиеся в кожу.
Унижение было как нож, вонзенный в сердце. Мое тело, болтающееся на балке, было их игрушкой, а каждый удар, каждое проникновение подчеркивало мою ничтожность. Мое лицо, покрытое потом и слезами, горело от стыда, а глаза, полные соленых капель, ловили отражение в мутном зеркале — бледная кожа, искаженная болью, и тело, покрытое следами их власти. Стыд душил меня, как невидимая петля, а страх, холодный и липкий, сковывал каждую клетку.
Моя воля таяла, как воск под их свечами. Я пыталась цепляться за остатки себя, но они растворялись в боли и унижении. Мое тело, предавшее меня своим жаром, было их трофеем, а я, глядя на свое отражение, видела лишь сломленную тень, готовую подчиниться их воле полностью.
Меня подвешивали за волосы, заплетенные в тугую косу, к потолочной цепи, так что ноги едва касались пола, а боль в коже головы была невыносимой, как будто волосы выдирали с корнем. Их члены входили в мой анус, растягивая меня до предела, вызывая глубокую, тупую боль, которая отдавалась в костях. Плети хлестали по ягодицам, оставляя багровые синяки, а зажимы на сосках, тянущие кожу вниз, вызывали острую, жгучую боль, смешиваясь с удушением, когда их руки сжимали мое горло, перекрывая воздух.
Стыд и отчаяние разъедали меня, как яд. Мое тело, раскачивающееся на цепях, было их игрушкой, а каждое проникновение, каждый удар подчеркивали мою беспомощность. Мое лицо, покрытое слезами и потом, горело от унижения, а глаза, полные соленых капель, ловили отражение в ржавом металле — бледная кожа, искаженная болью, и тело, покрытое следами их власти. Я чувствовала себя пустой, как будто они выжгли из меня все, оставив лишь оболочку.
Были случаи группового секса. Я ожидала увидеть знакомые фигуры, но дверь распахнулась, и я замерла.
Зал был полон — дюжина мужчин, их угольно-черные тела, блестящие от пота, окружали меня, их маски скрывали лица, но глаза горели хищной уверенностью.
Их грубые руки схватили меня, втянув в центр круга. Ткань моей одежды затрещала, когда они сорвали ее, обнажая бледную кожу, все еще покрытую багровыми следами. Холодный воздух зала обжег тело, я попыталась прикрыться, но их хватка была сильнее. Они толкнули меня на колени, пол царапал кожу, а сердце колотилось, каждый удар отдавался в висках. Один из них, чья темная кожа блестела под светом ламп, схватил меня за волосы, дернув так, что голова запрокинулась.
Его член, массивный и блестящий, оказался перед моим лицом, и я подчинилась, губы, дрожащие и сухие, обхватили его. Давление в горле вызвало жжение, слюна потекла по подбородку, смешиваясь с потом, который стекал по щекам. Его рука, сжимающая волосы, задавала ритм, а стоны, хриплые и рваные, вырывались из меня, эхом отражаясь от стен. Они сменяли друг друга, их темные члены заполняли мое горло, вызывая рвотные позывы, слюна и сперма текли по подбородку, капая на грудь.
Кто-то шлепал меня по щекам, оставляя жгучие следы, кто-то дергал за волосы, заставляя голову запрокидываться. Мое горло саднило, губы онемели, а щеки горели от ударов и стыда. Камера фиксировала все — мое унижение, липкую массу на лице, дрожащее тело, окруженное их темными фигурами. Стыд жег изнутри, но под ним тлела та проклятая искра, которую я ненавидела, — жар, который вспыхивал, когда их руки сжимали меня, когда их члены заполняли мое горло.
Я чувствовала себя раздавленной, но не могла остановить это предательское чувство. Они привязали мои руки к потолочной балке, веревки впились в запястья, оставляя багровые следы. Мои ноги подняли, привязав к другой балке, так что я висела, растянутая, уязвимая, а в зеркале мелькнули татуировки на внутренней стороне бедер.
Мышцы плеч горели, а кожа между ног, все еще чувствительная, пульсировала от боли. Один из них, чья кожа была темной, как ночь, вошел в мой анус, его член растянул меня, вызывая глубокую, тупую боль, которая отдавалась в костях.
Я закричала, голос сорвался на хрип, а слезы потекли по щекам, которых давно не было. Они нашли как довести меня снова до слез.
Другой, стоя передо мной, вошел во влагалище, его резкие толчки посылали жгучие вспышки, смешиваясь с жаром, который я ненавидела. Мое тело раскачивалось, веревки впивались глубже, а их руки, грубые и горячие, сжимали ягодицы, царапая кожу до крови. Кто-то потянул за пирсинг на сосках, маленькие кольца натянули кожу, вызывая острую, пронзительную боль, которая смешалась с пульсацией между ног.
Я ахнула, но ремень, перекинутый через шею, затянулся, заглушая звук. Дыхание стало тяжелым, каждый вдох — борьбой, а мир кружился, как в лихорадочном сне. Их члены, темные и блестящие, двигались в несогласованном ритме, растягивая меня, вызывая волны боли, которые смешивались с жаром, разливавшимся по телу.
Мое отражение в зеркале — бледное лицо, искаженное болью, глаза, полные слез, тело, покрытое багровыми полосами и кровоточащими царапинами — было беспощадным. Камера фиксировала каждую деталь: липкую массу пота, крови и смазки, стекающую на пол, мое дрожащее тело, их темные фигуры, окружающие меня.
Боль была везде — в плечах, растянутых веревками, в запястьях, где веревки жгли кожу, в анусе и влагалище, растянутых их членами, в сосках, где пирсинг натягивал кожу. Удары плети сыпались на бедра и грудь, оставляя багровые полосы, которые горели, как ожоги. Кто-то потянул за пирсинг на клиторе, и я вскрикнула, но ремень на шее заглушил звук, превратив его в сдавленный хрип.
Мое тело болталось между ними, как кукла, их руки царапали кожу, сжимали ягодицы, тянули за волосы, оставляя новые следы. Стыд и страх сливались в одну бурю, но под ними горела та искра, которую я ненавидела, — жар, который я не могла подавить, который делал меня их созданием. А потом меня долго трахали, пока мое сознание не спуталось в обрывочные воспоминания и механические действия, открыть рот, принять член.
Когда они закончили, я висела, дрожащая, покрытая потом, кровью и их спермой, которая стекала по моему телу или втекала в меня
Я перестала пить противозачаточные, у меня просто на них не было денег, они все отбирали. И теперь страх забеременеть оставался даже в отключенном сознании. Я выдавливала из своего влагалища сперму на пол и слизывала под их смех.
Так прошел еще один год.