Top level

Madame Vivienne.

"Listen carefully, Lorenzo." His voice was low, almost soft. "The second level begins with the branding. It's not a punishment."

"And what is it?"

"An honor." He looked me in the eye. "Few make it this far. Those who do bear the mark. Forever."

I heard the door open. Slow, heavy footsteps. Marcus entered and leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his gold chain glinting under the neon lights. He didn't say anything. He shouldn't have. His presence filled the room more than the light.

Behind him, another man. Thin, worn, with scarred hands and a metal briefcase that he set on the floor with a clatter. He opened the lids one by one. Inside, the needles, the vials, the latex gloves. And the papers.

The tattoo artist didn't look at me. He took the sheets and laid them out on the table next to my head, one next to the other, like playing cards.

"Look," said Madame Vivienne. "You choose the order. Not the design. That's decided."

The first sheet: I LOVE BBC. Thick, black letters, designed for a chest. The second: ONLY BBC, smaller, elongated, to be placed where the skin is tender. The third: sissy slave, in cursive, small, to be worn low, below the navel, where no one will see it until they want to see it.

“Butt first,” I said. My voice came out firmer than I expected.

"Good." Madame Vivienne released my hand. "The sacrum is the right place to start. That's where the truth lies."

The tattoo artist pulled on his gloves. The latex snapped against my wrists. Then he took a cotton ball, soaked it in antiseptic, and ran it over my sacrum. The cold made my nipples twitch, the skin tightening as if it wanted to escape from the bone.

"Breathe," he said. "If you move, I'm wrong."

The buzz of the machine filled the gym. A steady, electric sound, wedged between the neon lights and the floor, leaving no room for anything else. The first tip touched the skin above my right nipple.

The pain came after a moment. A thin, precise, searing burning. My fingers closed on the edge of the table. The paper towel creaked beneath me.

“Don’t move,” he repeated, without raising his voice.

"Stay still, Lorenzo." Madame Vivienne had come closer. Her hand found my shoulder and squeezed. "Look at me. Don't look at the needle."

I looked at her. Her gray eyes didn't move. The machine continued, and beneath me the skin opened, letter by letter. The I. Then the space. Then the L.

“It hurts,” I said.

"Of course. It's a trademark, not a design."

Marcus moved away from the wall. He didn't come toward me. He approached the table, on the other side, and stood there, looking at the work as one might look at a painting.

“How long does it take?” he asked.

"An hour for this," the tattoo artist replied. "Maybe two. The chest is broad."

"Then you have time to learn," Marcus said, looking at me. "Listen to the hum. Don't fight it. Pain is like a man: if you squeeze it, it breaks you. If you embrace it, it opens you up."

The O. The V. The E. The burning moved, widened, became one with the beating of my heart. I felt the blood pulsing beneath the freshly engraved letters, warm against the cold of the antiseptic the tattoo artist applied every so often, without stopping the machine.

Madame Vivienne never let go of my shoulder again. Her hand was firm. Every now and then she ran her thumb over my ass, gently, like a horse calming me.

"You're doing well," he said at one point. "You haven't cried."

«It's not over.»

"No." He smiled. It was the smile I'd only seen in moments when something inside me was about to change. "But the first piece is almost done."

The B. The B. The C. The tattoo artist stopped, cleaned with a cotton swab, bent down to look closely. The letters were black, swollen, shiny with plasma. My butt. It was a page.

“Done,” he said. “The first.”

I looked at myself. In the mirror. “Y LOVE BBC”

"Now the thigh," said Madame Vivienne. "The inside. Where the skin is thinnest."

The tattoo artist changed needles. The sound of the container opening, the metal clicking into place. Then he turned me around. He took my knee and bent it outward, opening me up, like opening a book.

"Hold your leg like this," he said. "If you close it, you'll ruin the writing."

My thigh was white, smooth, and hairless because they'd removed it the first week. The tattoo artist rubbed antiseptic on the inside of my thigh, near my groin, and the cold made my muscles tighten.

"ONLY BBC," Madame Vivienne said, reading the paper. "Whoever opens your legs will read this. They'll read it every time."

"Yes."

“Not 'yes.' 'Yes, Madame.'”

"Yes, Madame."

The machine continued. Here the pain was different: sharper, closer to the bone, and each letter seemed to pass through muscle instead of skin. The O. The N next to it. The L. Then the space, and the B again.

Marcus approached. He leaned over to look. His breath hit my thigh, hot, and I felt my body respond before I could stop it: my cock tensing inside the cage, the tip pressing against the metal, the pain mingling with desire in a way I could no longer distinguish.

"Look how excited he gets," Marcus said. Not to me. To Madame Vivienne. "He feels the needle and his cock gets hard. He was born for this."

“I know,” she replied. “That’s why he’s here.”

The B. The C. …ONLY BBC. The tattoo artist worked quickly, confidently. Every now and then he stopped, cleaned, started again. The sheet of paper beneath me was now one with my sweat. I could feel the blood pulsing beneath the freshly engraved letters, a dull heat spreading from my thigh to my groin, all the way to my cage.

“Almost,” said the tattoo artist.

“Almost,” I repeated, without meaning to.

Madame Vivienne laughed. A short, cold laugh. "Learn the right words, Lorenzo. Not mine."

The last C. The tattoo artist stepped away to change the needle. I felt the blood pulsing under my skin, I felt the pain fade into a dull heat, as if the letters were falling asleep inside me. My leg was shaking. I held it open.

Madame Vivienne leaned over me. Her face was close to mine, her platinum hair brushing my ear.

"Now you're ready for the school logo," he said. "The one on your shoulder blade."

I didn't answer. I looked at Marcus, leaning against the wall again, his arms crossed, his eyes never leaving me. I watched the tattoo artist select a new needle from his case, and on his wrist I saw a small tattoo, a symbol I didn't recognize but that I felt like I'd seen before somewhere, somewhere I couldn't remember.

"Turn around," said the tattoo artist. "On your stomach. The left shoulder blade."

I turned around. The paper towel stuck to my wet skin. My shoulder blade was cold and exposed.

"The left shoulder blade," said the tattoo artist. "That's the part you don't forget."

"The school's mark is the most important," Madame Vivienne said. Her voice came from behind, above me. "It's not a sign. It's a seal. Anyone who sees you naked recognizes it immediately. They know who you belong to."

Meanwhile, the tattoo artist had opened another sheet of paper, larger than the others, and laid it on the table next to my head. I couldn't see it well. All I saw was black, very black, and a shape that seemed to fold in on itself.

"Look at it," Madame Vivienne said. "Look at it carefully, because it's the last thing you'll see before you wear it forever."

I turned my head on the cloth. The drawing was a black cock, drawn with a realism that had nothing symbolic about it: the veins running along the side, the fold of skin under the tip, the dark shadow at the base. Around it, two open handcuffs, the shiny bracelets, the chain hanging short. Below, no writing. Just that.

“It’s big,” I said.

"That's right," she replied. "It should cover your entire shoulder blade. Whoever grabs you from behind should only see that."

"Here," he said. "A little lower. On the spine."

“As you wish,” replied the tattoo artist.

The needle's tip touched my shoulder blade. The pain was different from the others: deeper, slower, as if it were writing into bone rather than skin. My fingers closed on the edge of the table. The wood dug into my nails.

"The side dish is the worst part," he said, not pausing. "Then I fill it."

“Good,” he said. “That’s it.”

The tattoo artist paused to clean. The cotton ball ran over my shoulder blade, and the cold antiseptic made my fingers whiten on the table. Then he continued. The line ran down the spine, widening, and I felt the design growing on my skin like something no longer mine.

Big M. leaned over. I felt his warm breath on the back of my neck, and his low voice reached my ear.

"Do you feel it?" she said. "That's the sign that holds you. From now on, when someone looks at your back, they don't see Lorenzo. They see the school. They see what you've become."

"And what have I become?"

“You know.” He straightened. “Or you’ll know when it’s over.”

The tattoo artist continued filling in. The black ink entered the skin in small strokes, one after another, and my shoulder blade felt heavy, as if someone had placed a hand on it and wouldn't let go. My legs trembled on the edge of the table. The cloth beneath me was now one with my sweat, and every time I breathed I felt the paper sticking and peeling from my skin.

“How much longer?” I asked. My voice came out hoarse.

"Not much," said the tattoo artist. "Just one more coat of black and then the handcuffs."

Madame Vivienne leaned over me. Her platinum hair brushed my temple. Her voice was so close I could hear it in my ear.

"When you're done," she said, "you'll look in the mirror and realize there's nothing left to decide. Your body has already chosen for you."

The needle stopped.

The buzzing stopped abruptly, and in the silence I could only hear my own breathing against the cloth, short and damp. My shoulder blade throbbed as if there were a second heart inside. The tattoo artist straightened up, took a fresh cotton ball, pressed it to my skin, and the cold antiseptic traveled up my neck to my teeth.

"Done," he said. "I'll lock the cuffs now."

I didn't see him working. I only felt the tip starting again, lighter, faster, drawing circles around his black cock, the bracelets, the chain running short down toward the plug. Each stroke pulled my skin as if someone was sewing something inside me and wouldn't stop.

“How much longer?” he asked. Not to me.

"Just a minute," said the tattoo artist. "I'm closing the outline.

Madame Vivienne's hand left the back of my neck. I felt her heels take two steps away, then stop. From there, motionless, she could see everything: my back, the needle, Big M. standing before me. She didn't say anything. There was no need.

The tattoo artist made one last pass along the chain, down toward the thorn. Then he put down the needle, took another cotton ball, cleaned the edge of the design, and dried it with a clean cloth. My skin burned beneath the black. I felt the mark weigh on my shoulder blade like a hot coin placed there by someone else.

"Finished," he said. "Don't scratch it. Don't get it wet for two days."

"Thank you," I said. My voice came out of the blanket, muffled.

The tattoo artist closed his case. The clicking of the clasps was the last sound he made. He didn't look at me, he didn't look at Madame Vivienne.

I remained on the table, my cheek on the cloth, my shoulder blade throbbing. I didn't know if I could get up. No one had told me.

Then I felt Big M.'s hand on the back of my neck. Large, warm, the same one that had measured the space in the drawing. He didn't lift me immediately. He held it there, still, as if he were reading something in my skin.

“Turn around,” he said.

I turned around. The sheet came off my belly with a wet sound. I lay on my back, my legs still spread on the edge of the table, and for the first time in an hour I saw the room from above: the wooden floor, the wall, Madame Vivienne standing by the window with an unlit cigar between two fingers, her gray eyes unmoving.

Big M looked at me. Then he looked down, between my legs, where the silver cage still held all that was left of me.

“Open up,” he said.

I didn't ask what. My hands went to my sides, and I found the small lock on the left of the cage, the one I'd learned to know over the past few weeks without ever being able to open it. My key didn't exist. His did. BIG M pulled a short, flat key from his pocket, tied to a leather ring. He inserted it into the lock without looking. A sharp turn. The metal opened with a small, almost delicate sound, and the cage fell into my hand, cold, heavier than I remembered.

The blood rushed back all at once. I felt my cock swell against the air of the room, free for the first time in days, and my skin tightened as if it had been gone too long. A dull, almost sweet ache made me close my eyes.

“Look at me,” said BIG M.

I opened my eyes. His zipper was already down. His cock sprung out, black, thick, and heavy, and the shiny head was in my face before I had time to think. He didn't put it in my mouth. He held it there, a finger's breadth from my lips, and waited.

“Do you want it?” he asked.

"Yes."

«Say it.»

"I want it."

«Say it well.»

“I want your cock in my mouth,” I said. “Master.”

The word came out of my throat without me having prepared it. Maybe I'd learned it without BIG M. He didn't smile. He grabbed my hair with one hand, lifted my head from the towel, and opened my mouth with his thumb at the corner of my jaw, like opening a drawer that won't budge.

"Open wide," he said. "Just like I taught you."

I opened. The tip entered my tongue, salty and warm, and the flavor filled my mouth even before the weight. Then he pushed. Not quickly. Slowly, as if he wanted me to feel every inch, the fold of skin stretching beneath my lips, the grain of it running across the roof of my mouth.

My shoulder blade throbbed with every spit I swallowed. The freshly sealed mark burned against the cloth, and every time Marcus tugged on my hair to push me further down, the pain in my back and the fullness in my throat mingled.

“Like this,” he said. “All of it.”

My throat opened as it had opened these past weeks, without resistance, without gagging, and his cock slid inside me to the base. My nose pressed against the black hair of his pubic hair. I smelled his strong scent of sweat and skin, and tears welled up in my eyes not from the pain but from the fullness.

Then he pulled me back. The air rushed into my throat, my mouth full of saliva, my lips glossy. He didn't let me rest. He brought me back down.

"Still."

"Yes."

"Still."

"Yes, master."

The second time, it went deeper than the first. The third time, I felt my throat open like a door that wouldn't close. BIG M didn't move like the other men in the cafeteria. He wasn't in a hurry, he wasn't seeking his pleasure in my haste. He waited. He let me feel it. And every time he pulled me up into the air, he looked into my eyes, and I knew he was reading how much I was willing to give.

Madame Vivienne approached. Her heels slowly returned to the wood, stopping beside the table, at my head. She didn't say anything. I could only hear the rustle of her skirt and the scent of her unlit cigar, and then her hand rested lightly on my forehead, as if to steady me.

"Look at him," she said. "Don't close your eyes. I want to see you can handle what you're doing."

I didn't close my eyes. I looked BIG M up and down, his black chest heaving, the gold chain swinging around his neck, his jaw clenched. He looked back at me. His breathing changed, shorter, deeper, and for the first time since he'd entered the room, I felt something inside him give way.

“You’re almost there,” I said, with my mouth full, without taking it away.

BIG M laughed. A short, low laugh that made his stomach flutter.

“Shut up,” he said. “And suck.”

I suck. My cheeks glued to my bones, my tongue ran under his cock, and he lost his rhythm for a second, just a second, and I felt it. The hand holding my hair tightened. Madame Vivienne's thumb pressed against my forehead.

“There,” said BIG M. “Now.”

He didn't pull me out. He held me down, all the way inside, and came down my throat. The first spurt hit me straight in the back of my throat, hot, and I swallowed it without letting go, as I'd been taught, as I'd learned to do in the cafeteria in front of the cameras. The second filled my mouth. I felt the third slide down my throat even as I swallowed.

When he finished, he slowly let go of me. My head fell back onto the towel. My mouth remained open, full of saliva and semen, and a drop ran from the corner of my lips to my chin. BIG M straightened up. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, as if wiping away something that wasn't his, and zipped up his zipper without looking.

“Now you are doubly marked,” he said.

“Get up,” said BIG M.

I sat up. My head spun for a second, the blood rushing back, and I had to put my hand on the wood to keep from falling. The paper towel stuck to my thigh and tore when I moved. My legs were shaking, not from fatigue, but from something else, from the open cage that left me naked before them for the first time in days.

Marcus watched me get off the table. He didn't help me. He waited for my feet to find the floor, for my knees to hold, for my cock to hang heavy between my thighs, with nothing left to hold it. Then he lowered his eyes there, and stared for a second too long.

“You miss him already,” she said.

I didn't answer. The truth was, yes, I missed it, and not because of the weight of the metal. I missed the way it held me still. I missed knowing that something was making decisions for me even when no one was in the room.

«On your knees.»

I went down. The wood was cold under my knees, and my shoulder blade tugged as I bent my back, the new brand tightening like a cord under my skin. I kept my hands on my thighs, as I'd been taught, palms up, and waited.

"The name," she said softly, as if talking to herself. "Whoever chooses it, chooses it by looking at you like this." BIG M

He wiped away the dried blood around the cuffs with two short touches, then stopped on the black cock in the center of the drawing and cleaned it with a slow circle, as if to polish it.

“It burns,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

"Yes."

"Good. So you remember."

He folded the cotton one last time and placed it on the wood, next to the belt he hadn't yet picked up. He straightened and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth again, and this time the gesture lasted a second too long, as if he were removing something that had remained there and wouldn't go away.

Madame Vivienne stepped away from the window. Her heels returned to the wood, a few paces, and stopped in front of me, on the other side of the table. The tip of her shoe was a hand's breadth from my knee. She still held the unlit cigar between her index and middle fingers, and she twisted it slowly, without lighting it, like a ring twister.

“Get up,” he said.

I stood up. My knees held me this time. My cock hung heavy between my thighs, still glistening, and the air of the room on my bare skin sent shivers through my body. My shoulder blade tightened with every breath, the mark stretching like a second skin sewn over mine.

“Turn around,” she said.

I turned. I turned my back to her, and the drawing, and the blood that the cotton hadn't completely removed. I felt her gaze rest on the mark before her fingers even touched it. Then the tip of the unlit cigar brushed my shoulder blade, cold, and traced the outline of my black cock without pressing.

"This," he said, "is not a drawing. It's a contract. Whoever reads it knows who you are and what your purpose is before asking your name."

I didn't answer. There was nothing to answer. The cigar slid down the chain to the tap, paused there for a moment, then fell away.

"Clothes."

Big M handed me the leggings from the table. He didn't put them on me. He held them out to me and waited for me to take them, and I took them with both hands, like you'd take something that wasn't yours. The fabric was cold and damp from before, and when I pulled them up my legs, the fabric stuck to my skin and my still-hard cock, and I had to adjust it with my hand so it wouldn't hurt.

“The collar,” said Madame Vivienne.

I'd forgotten about it. It was still around my neck, the pink one, with the gold tag tapping against my collarbone with every breath. I touched it with two fingers, without thinking, and the buckle was still closed, and underneath was still empty, the smooth plate where nothing was written.

“Leave it,” he said. “You need it for tomorrow.

Big M picked up his belt from the table and slowly put it back into his belt loops, one eyelet at a time. He zipped up his pants and pulled up the zipper. When he was dressed again, in one piece, he returned to being the man who had entered the room, and I returned to being the one standing before him in wet leggings and a throbbing shoulder blade.

"Tomorrow," Madame Vivienne said, "you wash. Good. Hair, nails, everything. Then come to me, and we'll go from there."

"Yes."

"You'll know the name when the time comes. Not before."

"Yes."

I was left alone with BIG..

“The cage,” he said.

He held it in his hand. He had picked it up from the table while Madame was speaking, and now he placed it in front of me, the silver open, the lock on the left that I knew by heart. He didn't hand it to me. He held it between his fingers and waited.

“Do you want it back?” he asked.

I didn't know what to say. My cock hung loose, still warm from his spit, and the mere thought of feeling it lock inside the metal made my stomach clench. But the truth was different, and he read it before I spoke it.

“Yes,” I said.

«On your knees.»

I went down. The wood found my knees as before, cold, and my shoulder blade tightened. Marcus bent down with me, the cage in one hand, and with the other he took my cock, not gently, and slipped it into the metal cylinder with a matter-of-fact motion, without looking at me. The cold spread through my body. The silver closed around me like a hand that doesn't squeeze but doesn't let go.

The key went in. A sharp turn. The small, delicate sound, the one I'd come to know over the past few weeks.

Big M. straightened up. He put the key back on the leather ring and the ring in his pocket. Then he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, one last time, dryly, and looked down at me with his head tilted slightly.

“Now you are doubly marked,” he said.