Inked

Carrie sighed, making the gravy for dinner. She was **** now, as Jethro's son Bucky nursed at her teat, to escape. The last nine months had been the longest of her life. But these four men were almost religious in how they monitored her.

Betty Lou, who moonlighted as a tattoo artist, came over that night. Jethro looked at Carrie callously.

"This bitch needs to be inked," he told their accomplice. "Leave some room for my son and grandson ... but on her left asscheek, I want Clovis on the top left quadrant, and my name on the bottom left quadrant. And then on her arm. I want the name of the kids we've put in her. Dusty, Rusty, and Bucky. And ... above her pussy. I want the old southern cross."

"No ... I don't believe in that ... please, no," Carrie protested. Jethro bitch slapped her.

"How many times till you understand, bitch? You don't get to say no."