The Fate of the Virgin. Part 4.

My body, covered in scars and tattoos carved by their hands, had long ceased to be mine. The piercings on my clitoris and nipples, installed by them to mark me, were like a brand, a reminder of my fall. Every glance in the mirror—a pale face, empty eyes, tangled hair—was a blow, reminding me I had lost myself. Shame and fear became my constant companions, and their dark, sweat-glistening figures, their hoarse chuckles, their power dragged me into an abyss I couldn't escape.

Rumors spread like wildfire. At the university, classmates exchanged glances, averted their eyes, or looked at me with contempt, like dirt

under their feet. My girlfriends, with whom I once shared dreams, turned away. One, with whom I drank coffee and laughed until we cried, wrote to me: "You've sunk lower than the baseboard." Her words were like a knife plunged into my heart, sharp and cold. I wanted to explain, to tell about the blackmail, about how they broke me, but the words stuck in my throat, and her reply was icy: "You chose this yourself." Friends disappeared, their calls stopped, chats emptied. I became an outcast, whose life was put on public display like merchandise in a shop window. Their videos, where I, broken and vulnerable, moaned under their power, now circulated online, bringing them money, and me—shame that burned inside like red-hot metal.

My parents found out last. Mom called, her voice trembling with pain and anger. "How could you disgrace us like this?" she screamed, choking on tears. Dad was cold, his words cut like a blade: "You are no longer our daughter." I tried to justify myself, but they wouldn't listen, their eyes full of disgust were like a verdict.

I stood in my room, clutching the phone, feeling tears stream down my cheeks, leaving salty trails. The university sent a letter of expulsion—for inappropriate behavior. I didn't argue, I didn't fight anymore. I packed a bag, threw in some clothes, and left without looking back. My parents stood in the doorway, their faces stony, and in their gazes I saw only shame and contempt.

It was cold outside, the wind cut to the bone, and I wandered, not knowing where to go. The world I knew had collapsed. My friends, my home, my studies—everything was gone, washed away by a wave of condemnation. I was a whore in the eyes of everyone who knew me. That's what it really was, I was just afraid to admit it to myself.

The videos they posted spread like poison, tainting my reputation. I saw people whispering behind my back, how their glances, full of disgust, slid over me. I tried to find work, but everywhere I went, I was recognized. "That's the girl from the videos," they whispered behind counters, in offices, in cafes. Doors closed, and I was left on the street, clutching my bag, feeling shame and despair choke me like their belts that once tightened around my throat.

I hated myself. Every morning, looking in the mirror, I didn't see myself, but their creation—a pale face, empty eyes, tattoos all over my skin, piercings they installed to mark me. My body, covered in scars from their whips, was their canvas, their trophy. I tried to remember who I was before them, but that girl had disappeared, dissolved in pain and humiliation. I was a whore, and the whole world knew it. The thought that I had nowhere to go, that I had no home, no friends, no future, was like a knife plunged into my heart. The only place that awaited me was where it all began—with them.

They agreed to take me in, to the gym where it all started. A cramped cubbyhole in the basement became my new home. They set up a camera there for porn streams, so I could pay for my keep. But I already knew, they had made hundreds of thousands off me. My videos were very popular because no porn star would go through what they did to me.

They said I could live here, but the price was clear. Their dark figures came whenever they pleased, filling the space. They gave me food, clothes, but every piece of bread, every rag was like payment for my body, for my submission.

I cleaned their gym, mopped the floors, wiped down their equipment, feeling their eyes on me, their hoarse chuckles echoing off the walls. Sometimes they brought friends who paid for me, and I, on my knees, obeyed, wiping their boots, accepting their humiliations, feeling shame dissolve into emptiness. My body, covered in tattoos and scars, was their property, and the piercings reminded me of my place.

My will disappeared, dissolved in their power. I hated myself for obeying, for accepting their food, their roof over my head, but I had no choice. The world had turned its back on me, and I, broken, remained with them. The cubbyhole, saturated with their smell, became my world, and I—their toy, their merchandise. The shame that once burned me faded, leaving only emptiness. I was a whore, and the whole world knew it, but I belonged to them—completely, utterly, submissive to their will, dragged into an abyss where there was no light, no hope. I had nowhere else to go.

They started taking me to BDSM parties—dark, stuffy gatherings, saturated with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and smoke. These events took place in abandoned warehouses, basements of private clubs, or gloomy mansions on the outskirts of the city, where the light of dim lamps barely penetrated the smoke. They led me there on a leash, a leather collar tightening my neck, the chain jingling when they pulled it, forcing me to walk faster. My body, covered in tattoos, glistened under the dim light—patterns snaking over my thighs, buttocks, breasts, back, even my wrists, where thin lines intertwined with crimson rope scars. Piercings were everywhere: rings in my nipples, clitoris, lips, eyebrows, navel, even in my tongue, which they pierced to heighten my humiliation. Every ring, every pattern was their mark, their signature on my body.

At the parties, they forced me to kneel in the center of the room, hands tied behind my back with rough rope that dug into my wrists, leaving crimson marks. The floor, cold and sticky, scratched my knees, and the chain from the collar was pulled, restricting my breathing. Their friends, strangers in masks, whose eyes burned with predatory confidence, approached one after another. I was their toy, available to anyone who wanted me. A camera, always standing in the corner, recorded everything—my trembling body, covered in scars and tattoos, my empty eyes, the sticky mess of sweat and humiliation. Their hands pulled on the piercings, causing sharp pain that mixed with shame, and their hoarse chuckles echoed in my head like a verdict.

I lost count of how many men there were over the last year. Dozens? Hundreds? Faces blurred into one smudged spot, their hands, their smell, their roughness—all merged into an endless nightmare. My body, stretched by ropes, suspended from ceiling beams or chained to metal frames, was their canvas. Tattoos covered every inch of skin: on my thighs—dark patterns coiling around my legs like chains; on my chest—crude inscriptions they chose to humiliate me; on my back—intricate designs carved for hours under their chuckles; on my wrists—thin lines, reminders of the ropes that so often bound them. Piercings were everywhere: rings in my nipples and clitoris, which they pulled to increase the pain; in my lips and tongue, which hindered speech; in my eyebrows and navel, which glistened under the light, emphasizing my vulnerability. Even my ears were hung with heavy rings that stretched the lobes, adding constant discomfort.

Parties happened every weekend, sometimes more often. They took me to different places: an abandoned warehouse with rusty beams, where chains jingled when I was suspended; a private club basement where the walls were lined with black leather and the air was thick with smoke; or an old mansion where the floors creaked and mirrors reflected my exhausted body. They tied me in different ways: sometimes my arms and legs were stretched to the corners of a metal frame, sometimes I was suspended by my wrists from the ceiling, so my feet barely touched the floor and my muscles burned from the strain. Their friends, who paid for me, used my body as they wished, and the camera captured every moment—my moans, my tears, the crimson marks from ropes and hands, the sticky mess of sweat running down my skin. I was their merchandise, their toy, and every new video uploaded to porn sites brought them money—about 50,000–100,000 thousand over the year, judging by their conversations in the cubbyhole.

My body, covered in tattoos and piercings, was their masterpiece, their trophy. Every new pattern, every new ring heightened my humiliation, reminding me I belonged to them. At one party, they added piercings to my labia—three rings on each side, which jingled with movement, causing a burning pain. At another—they tattooed the inside of my thigh, a crude inscription that declared their power over me. I felt empty, as if they had burned everything out of me, leaving only a shell. My reflection in the party mirrors—a pale face distorted by exhaustion, eyes with no light left, a body covered in their marks—was their creation. The shame that once burned me became background noise, constant as breathing, and their power—the only thing holding me in this world.

I didn't notice the changes at first. Fatigue, nausea, a missed period—at first I blamed it on stress, on exhaustion, on the life they had created for me. But when my belly started to round, the truth became inevitable. I was pregnant. Who the father was, I didn't know—there were too many of them, hundreds of faces blurred into one smudged spot over the last year at their parties. I stood before the mirror in the cubbyhole, looking at my growing belly, covered in tattoos, and felt fear and shame tighten my throat. My body, already their property, now carried a new life, but even this didn't change their plans. They saw it as a new opportunity—a new video category, a new way to earn.

They made me film even when my belly became noticeable. The camera in the corner of the cubbyhole, as always, recorded everything. I knelt, hands tied behind my back with rough rope, a leather collar tightening my neck, and their dark figures surrounded me. They filmed me submitting. Videos were uploaded to porn sites, and I heard their conversations about how "pregnant content" attracted a new audience. Now, with my condition, they talked about even bigger sums, because clients paid more for the "exotic."

As my belly grew, the parties became more perverted. They took me to abandoned warehouses, private club basements, gloomy mansions where the air was thick with smoke and the smell of alcohol. They forced me to kneel, my arms and legs stretched with ropes or chained to metal frames, and the chain from the collar was pulled, restricting my breathing. The clients they invited became more brutal. Their eyes, hidden behind masks, burned with a strange, frightening interest when they saw my swollen belly, covered in tattoos, and the piercings glistening under the dim light. They paid for me, and their hands, rough and merciless, squeezed my skin, pulled on the rings in my nipples and labia, causing pain that resonated in my bones. I was their toy, their merchandise, and my belly only heightened their interest.

The pregnancy made everything harder. My belly, swollen and heavy, hindered movement, breathing, even kneeling was agonizing. My back muscles ached, my legs trembled from the strain, and the piercings, especially in my labia and clitoris, caused constant pain when clients pulled on them.

Returning to the gym's cubbyhole, I curled up on the sweat-soaked mattress, feeling cold sweat chill me to the bone. The cubbyhole was my refuge and my prison. They continued filming videos, even in the cubbyhole. I hated myself for obeying, for accepting their food, their roof, their power, but I had no choice.

The birth happened in the hospital, where they took me when the time came. I didn't know who the father was, and they didn't let me see the baby—he was taken away immediately, and I was left alone, with emptiness in my chest and pain in my body. Returning to the gym's cubbyhole, I felt even more broken. My body, already exhausted, now bore the marks of pregnancy: a belly, stretched and sagging, covered in new scars from their hands and tattoos they added even during the pregnancy. The piercings in my labia and clitoris, enhanced with new rings, jingled, causing constant discomfort. I was their merchandise, their toy, but now, after giving birth, they looked at me with cold calculation, like a thing that had worn out.

I looked at her, and my heart clenched. In the picture was a woman only 25, but she looked much older. My body, covered in tattoos—crude inscriptions on my chest, patterns on my thighs, back, wrists, even my neck—was worn, frayed. My skin, once tender, was now rough, scarred from ropes, whips, and their hands, with crimson and whitish marks covering every inch. My vagina, stretched and gaping from hundreds of clients, looked exhausted, with piercings in my labia—six rings, three on each side—which they added for their pleasure. My anus didn't tighten anymore, becoming another testament to my fall. My face, pale and haggard, with empty eyes that held no light, was framed by dull, tangled hair. Piercings in my eyebrows, tongue, lips, and ears stretched the skin, emphasizing my vulnerability. The contrast between these photos was like an abyss—between who I was and who they made me.

They stood over me, smirking, and one of them said: "Look at yourself, slut. You were a beauty, now—a used rag." His words cut, but I couldn't answer, the truth of his words and shame choked me like their collar. I clutched the photos, feeling tears stream down my cheeks, but they just laughed louder. They saw me not as a person, but as a thing used to its limit. My body, covered in their marks, was their masterpiece, but now that I was "worn out," their interest was fading.

A few days later they entered the cubbyhole, their faces cold, without the usual mockery.

— You're no longer needed," one of them said, throwing a tattered bag at me. "Pack your rags and get out.

I stood, stunned, feeling the floor give way beneath me. My body, still weak after childbirth, trembled, and my belly, sagging and covered in tattoos, felt alien. I tried to ask why, but the piercing in my tongue hindered me, and the words came out slurred. They laughed, and another added:

— You're a used-up slut, nobody needs you. We found fresher ones." Their words were like the final blow that shattered what was left of me.

I gathered my things—a few tattered t-shirts, a couple of dirty jeans, all I had. The cubbyhole, saturated with the smell of sweat and rust, was my only home, and now even that was taken from me. I stood on the threshold of the gym, clutching my bag, feeling the cold wind bite my skin. The world beyond the door was empty—no home, no family, no friends. I didn't know where to go, but I knew there was no way back.

I wandered the cold streets, clutching the tattered bag with my pathetic belongings. The cold wind bit my skin, covered in scars and tattoos. Fear gripped my heart—I had nowhere to go, no home, no family, no friends. In despair, I returned to the gym where they had thrown me out.

— Please, don't throw me out.

They looked at me with contempt, their hoarse chuckles cutting, but one, with a shadow of pity, said:

— Alright, can't leave you on the street.

They decided to hand me over to a pimp, an acquaintance of theirs, and led me to his den.

The pimp's room was smoky, saturated with the smell of cigarettes and cheap alcohol. Walls covered in peeling paint and the dim light of a lamp created a feeling of grime ingrained in the air. He sat at a table cluttered with bottles and papers, his eyes, cold and grasping, slid over me like used merchandise. I stood naked, head bowed, awaiting his appraisal.

— What kind of junk have they brought me?" he said, curling his lip, looking me up and down.

— She can still work," one of them replied, smirking. "Just not fresh. And she's very obedient. Go on, sit and lick our friend's boots.

The pimp came closer, his breath reeking of stale alcohol. I fell to my knees and began thoroughly licking his shoes. He stood for a while, then grabbed my hair, forcing my face up, and examined me like livestock at a market.

"Skin all scarred, tattoos like a convict's," he muttered, slapping me and bending me down to lick his shoes