The Fate of the Virgin. Part 1.
A warm breeze brushed against my skin, bringing with it the scent of blooming linden trees and freedom. I adjusted my tank top, feeling the fabric rub softly against my chest—small, neat, fitting perfectly into my slender frame. My breathing was even, but something fluttered in my chest—anticipation, a slight excitement, as if the night promised more than just hanging out with friends.
"Hey, are you coming or what?" my friend shouted from the top step, her voice cutting through the silence, and she laughed, noticing my thoughtful smile.
"Coming, don't rush me!" I replied, quickening my pace. My voice was soft, with a playful note, as if I were teasing not only her but the night itself.
"Here, try it," said one, handing me a joint. Her voice was lazy but with a slight push, as if it were part of our ritual.
"Nah, I'll pass," I answered, shaking my head. I leaned back, resting on my hands, feeling the cold concrete prickle my palms. My heart beat steadily, but something tightened in my chest—curiosity mixed with an internal boundary I didn't want to cross.
My friends exchanged glances, shrugged, and continued, passing the joint around. Their laughter grew louder, their words slower, and the air filled with a pungent, herbal aroma. I looked at the stars twinkling in the broken windows, trying to distract myself, but my body involuntarily reacted to the atmosphere: my skin tingled slightly, my breathing deepened, as if absorbing the energy of the night.
Suddenly, the silence was torn by a rough male voice, echoing off the walls.
"Hey, what are you doing here?!" someone shouted from below, and heavy footsteps thundered up the metal staircase, their sound sharp, like hammer blows.
My friends jumped up, the blanket crumpling under their feet. Someone swore, the joint fell onto the concrete, scattering tiny sparks like dying stars.
"Run!" one of them hissed, grabbing her bag. They rushed to the staircase on the other side of the floor, their sneakers clattering on the metal, their voices merging into a panicked whisper.
I wanted to run, but my legs seemed rooted to the floor. Fear gripped me, a cold wave rolling down my back. My eyes widened, catching the shadows approaching from the staircase. Two massive figures emerged from the darkness, their footsteps echoing hollowly in the empty space. They were two black men. The first was broad-shouldered, with skin gleaming in the moonlight and intricate tattoos snaking up his muscular arms like dark runes. The Tattooed One, and his gaze was heavy, appraising, as if he could see right through me. The second, slightly taller, with sharp features and teeth that flashed when he spoke, was nicknamed Fang—his smile was both threatening and mocking, like a predator that had cornered its prey.
"Is this yours?" he asked, his voice low, with a rasp that sent shivers down my spine. "Should we call the police?"
Fang grunted, crossing his arms over his chest, his teeth gleaming in the semi-darkness.
"Please, don't," escaped me, my voice trembling, my heart pounding as if it wanted to jump out. I swallowed, trying to pull myself together. My university admission was on the line. "It's not mine, I... I was just here with my friends."
"Well, if it's not yours, we can work something out," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper that seemed both soft and threatening. "You know how to settle these things. Help us relax, and you can go wherever you want."
I froze, blood rushed to my cheeks, my face flushed. Their words were veiled, but the meaning was clear—they were hinting at something intimate, that I should get on my knees before them to "calm them down." My stomach tightened, my legs still wouldn't obey, as if rooted to the cold concrete.
"No, I... I won't," I forced out, my voice weak, but something inside resisted, stubborn and firm. "I've never had a boyfriend... this is rape."
The Tattooed One grunted, exchanging a glance with Fang. They didn't move, but their presence pressed down like heavy air before a storm. I looked at them—at their broad shoulders, at the shadows playing on their faces—and felt fear mixing with something else, a hot, inexplicable impulse pulsing in my veins. My body, used to running, stood still, but inside everything was boiling, as if the night had awakened something in me I hadn't known before.
"Think carefully, girl," said Fang, his voice softer but with an underlying threat. "Your choice is voluntary. We'll just lawfully call the right people now."
I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms, leaving burning crescents. My head spun, thoughts tangled like flies in a web. I knew I should leave, that this was wrong, but fear and loneliness on the empty floor pressed harder. Something inside broke, and I, not understanding why myself, nodded, lowering my gaze. My heart beat so loudly it seemed to echo throughout the factory.
"Okay," I whispered, my voice trembling, my cheeks burning with shame and heat. "Just don't call anyone..."
"On your knees, girl," said the Tattooed One, his voice low, with a rasp that chilled me to the bone like a cold wind.
He roughly pushed me to my knees in front of him. I wanted to protest, but my legs gave way, and I sank onto the concrete. Grit dug into my skin, sharp pain shot through my knees, making me wince. Fang stepped closer, his shadow enveloping me, and I felt someone's hands roughly pull my tank top over my head. The fabric caught in my hair, rustling like dry leaves, and fell aside. My sneakers were yanked off next, and I heard them thud dully, disappearing into the darkness of a broken window. Cold air touched my chest, small but firm, with sensitive nipples that immediately hardened, covered in goosebumps. I instinctively covered my breasts with my hands, feeling my skin burn with shame and chill.
They surrounded me, their figures seeming enormous in the semi-darkness. The Tattooed One stood to the left, his tattoos snaking up his arms like living things, shimmering in the moonlight. Fang, on the right, smirked, his teeth gleaming like a predator ready to pounce. Their smell—pungent, animalistic—was everywhere, mixing with the scent of rust and dust, creating a suffocating atmosphere that made my head spin.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by a phone ringing. My phone, lying on the blanket, vibrated, the screen glowing in the twilight like a beacon. The Tattooed One bent down, picked it up, and shoved it into my hand, his fingers, rough and warm, brushing against mine slightly.
With trembling fingers, I tapped the screen. My friend's voice, agitated, burst into my ears as if from another world.
"Where are you? Is everything okay?" her words came quickly, panic seeping through every syllable.
"Yeah, everything's... everything's fine," I forced out, trying to keep my voice from shaking. My heart pounded, my throat tightened from the lie, and their gazes, heavy as lead, burned my skin.
"I'll just record your number. Just in case."
The Tattooed One grunted, stepping even closer, his shadow completely covering me.
I was on my knees, the concrete beneath me cold, rough, tiny grit digging into my skin, sending sharp jabs of pain that mixed with the trembling shaking my body. The Tattooed One leaned a little closer, his fingers, rough and strong, tangled in my hair, pulling slightly. I felt something warm, heavy touch my face—his cock, still soft but already beginning to swell, slid across my cheek, leaving a hot, wet trail. The skin was smooth, slightly salty, and I involuntarily shuddered when my lips accidentally brushed its base. The smell of his body—sharp, with a musky note—hit my nose, mixing with the pungent taste that lingered on my tongue. His cock slowly hardened, becoming even more massive, and I felt its warmth, its pulse, as if it were a living, separate being. My heart beat faster, my cheeks burned, and fear and a strange, inexplicable curiosity fought in my chest. He lifted his cock and placed it on my head so that his balls touched my lips.
"Take them in your mouth," he lazily ordered, and I obeyed, opening my mouth and arching so they entered my mouth.
It was my first time, and I didn't know what to do, I saw only part of the huge cock pressing against my nose and forehead, and in my mouth, this guy's scrotum.
Fang let out a low chuckle, his hand landing on my shoulder, rough but not painful. His cock, also semi-erect, slapped against my cheek—not hard, but enough to make me flinch. It was thick, meaty, with prominent veins, and each slap against my skin left a hot, pulsating trace. His breathing grew deeper, heavier, and I felt his gaze sliding over me, as if feeling every centimeter of my body.
The Tattooed One leaned closer, his fingers, rough and strong, tangled in my hair, squeezing with such force that I gasped involuntarily, my mouth opening wider.
"Don't resist," he muttered, his voice low, with a rasp that chilled me to the bone. "Open your mouth,"
It was my first oral sex, and the pain of that realization pierced me.
"Look, the slut's crying," the Tattooed One grunted and slapped my cheek with his palm, "enough, this is a valuable lesson and experience for you."
Suddenly, the Tattooed One pulled back, his hand released my hair, and he slowly pulled out his cock. I gasped convulsively, air rushed into my lungs with a wheeze, as if I'd surfaced from water. My lips burned, my chin was wet, and my throat was sore. I coughed, trying to catch my breath, but before I could recover—Fang immediately took his place. His fingers, even rougher than the Tattooed One's, grabbed my hair, yanking so sharply that I gasped.
"My turn," he said, his voice sharp, with a mocking note, and I felt his cock, just as massive, thrust into my mouth.
He was harder, his movements—faster, without that lazy confidence the Tattooed One had. My lips stretched again, saliva flowed uncontrollably, dripping down my chin and onto my chest. I gagged, my throat constricted, and tears flowed harder, blurring my eyes. I tried to look up at him, but I only saw his sharp features illuminated by the weak moonlight, and that same smile where his teeth gleamed. His grip was ironclad, each jerk on my hair sent flashes of pain across my scalp, but I couldn't resist—his strength, his rhythm were overwhelming.
My body trembled, my knees burned from the concrete grit, their smell, taste, the warmth of their bodies—all of it merged into one, pulling me into a vortex where I lost all sense of time.
The concrete under my knees no longer just cut my skin—it had turned into a red-hot grate, where every piece of grit bit into my body, sending flashes of pain that mixed with the trembling shaking me.
Fang still held me by the hair, his fingers, rough and strong, gripping the strands, tugging with each movement. His cock, massive and hot, filled my mouth, stretching my lips to the limit. Saliva flowed uncontrollably, sticky streams running down my chin, dripping onto my chest, where the cold air immediately burned my skin. I gagged, my throat constricted, and tears rolled down my cheeks, hot and salty, blurring my eyes. I looked up from below, trying to catch his gaze, but I only saw the sharp features of his face illuminated by the dim moonlight, and that same smile where his teeth gleamed, as if he were enjoying not only the moment but my confusion.
His movements became faster, sharper, and I felt his body tense, muscles trembling under his skin.
Fang slowly pulled back, his breathing heavy, satisfied. He released my hair, and I gasped convulsively, air rushed into my lungs with a wheeze, as if I'd surfaced from underwater. My throat was sore, my lips were wet, and the taste of his cum still lingered in my mouth, heavy and persistent.
"Look at me," he said, his voice low, with a rasp that chilled me to the bone.
I raised my eyes, tears still blurring them, but I saw his face—stern, with a slight smirk at the corners of his lips. Suddenly, he let out a low groan, and I felt a hot stream hit my face. It was warm, thick, running down my cheeks, my chin, dripping onto my chest. Some got into my eyes, and I squeezed them shut, feeling a sharp sting, as if someone had splashed salt water. I instinctively raised my hand, trying to wipe it away, but it was sticky, heavy, and only smeared across my skin. My cheeks burned, my eyes stung, and the smell—that same salty-musky one as Fang's taste—filled my nostrils, heightening the feeling of vulnerability.
"Not bad," the Tattooed One grunted, his voice calm but with a note of satisfaction. He took a step back, adjusting his pants as if nothing special had happened.
"For a first time, it'll do," added Fang, his teeth flashed in a grin. He bent down, picked up my phone from the floor, and tapped the screen again. "I saved your number. You never know, you might want a repeat."
I sat, unable to move, feeling the concrete under my knees burning my skin, and their cum, sticky and hot, running down my face and chest. My breathing was uneven, my throat sore, and my eyes still teared from the sting. Inside, chaos raged—shame, fear, and something else I couldn't name. I felt crushed. Their footsteps receded, but their smell, their taste, their presence still hung in the air like ghosts I couldn't banish.
I was left alone on the top floor of the abandoned factory, on my knees, with raw skin and a sticky, hot sensation still covering my face and chest. The air was cold, but it couldn't cool the heat boiling inside—a mix of shame, confusion, and something I didn't want to name.
I slowly got up, my legs trembling, my knees aching from the concrete grit embedded in my skin. My bare feet touched the cold floor, and I winced—every step on the rough concrete was like a prick that made my toes curl. The steps were cold, rusty, their edges digging into my soles, sending sharp pain up my legs. Each step echoed through my body, as if I were stepping on shards, but I forced myself to go, clinging to the railing so I wouldn't fall. The staircase seemed endless, its metal creak mixing with my uneven breathing, and a whirlwind of thoughts spun in my head from which there was no escape.
Outside, I found the spot where my sneakers and crumpled tank top lay, thrown there like useless trash. My palms, trembling and damp, rose to my face, trying to wipe away the sticky, thick mass running down my cheeks and chin. It was warm, with a sharp, salty smell that had seeped into my skin. I rubbed harder, but it only smeared, leaving a sticky feeling that seemed like it would never wash off. My throat was scratchy, sore, as if I'd swallowed sand, and the taste—bitter, musky—still lingered on my tongue, reminding me of what had just happened.
I pulled on my tank top, the fabric sticking to my damp skin, and put on my sneakers, feeling them chill my bare feet. In just my shorts and a wrinkled tank top, I headed for the staircase. I felt shattered, as if someone had turned me inside out. Shame burned hotter than the pain in my legs, but it mixed with something else—a strange, painful awareness of my own vulnerability and strength at the same time. I hated myself for staying, for what had happened, the feeling of powerlessness and anger.
My body knew to keep moving, but my mind was in turmoil—I wanted to forget that night, yet I kept replaying it over and over, like a stuck record. Shame, fear, anger, and something like a dark, forbidden curiosity were all tangled up in me, and I didn't know how to unravel them.
A few days had passed,