Chapter 40: Remade Part 1

The morning came like a slap, rough hands yanking me free from the stocks, my limbs numb and screaming as blood rushed back in. I barely registered the cold blast before they shoved the hose between my legs, forcing the nozzle deep into my pussy, the icy water gushing through me, flushing out the thick globs of cum that had crusted inside overnight. It burned, stretching my already ruined walls, then they switched to my ass, the pressure making me gasp and clench uselessly as it rinsed the mess from my bowels. Water pooled under me on the filthy floor, mixing with the remnants they couldn’t quite scour away.

They dragged me to a wooden bed, slamming my body down and chaining my arms and legs wide, spreadeagled so tight I couldn’t twitch without the metal biting into my wrists and ankles. ‘Don’t fuckin’ move if you know what’s good for you,’ one growled, his breath hot on my face before a blindfold wrapped around my eyes, plunging me into darkness. Hours blurred into the relentless buzz of tattoo guns, three of them working over my skin, the needles stabbing familiar patterns that dragged up memories of the Hells Angels marking me as their slut. They layered new ink over the old, erasing what came before, claiming me fresh for whatever hell this was. The pain was a dull roar, vibrating through my flesh, but it grounded me, reminded me who I’d become. They’d pause sometimes, stepping out for smokes or food, the air growing still except for my ragged breaths. I’d drift off in the haze of exhaustion, only to jolt awake with a spray of water hitting my face. I tilted my head back instinctively, mouth gaping wide to catch the droplets, gulping them down like it was the only mercy I’d get. Then they were gone for good that night, the shed quiet, and I lay their on the bed in chains, body throbbing, until sleep dragged me under despite the ache.

A cock woke me sometime in the dark, thick and insistent, slamming into my pussy without warning. I arched against the restraints, blind and helpless as it pounded deep, then pulled out slick and shifted to my ass, stretching the ring until it burned. Grunts filled the air, animalistic, and hot spurts flooded me before he yanked free, leaving me leaking and silent. No words, no face—just another use, another deposit in the depository I’d become.

The next day dragged them back, the buzz starting up again, needles dancing over my face, my bald scalp prickling as ink sank in, then lower to my nipples, pinching and stabbing, and between my legs where they redid my pussy and anus, the vibrations making my clit twitch despite the terror. I couldn’t see the designs, couldn’t know what fresh degradations they etched into me, but the sting told me it was thorough, permanent, and experience told me it would be obscene and lewd.

Finally, they unchained me, flipping my body prone, hiking my hips so my ass jutted up like an offering. The tattoos resumed on my back, the gun chewing through skin while one of them would pause, unzip, and rut into me from behind, his cock sloshing through the remnants in my holes, or shove it down my throat, fucking my face until he grunted and spilled across my tongue. They’d pull out, zip up, and go right back to inking, casual as if I were a urinal bolted to the bed. The three of them talked shit the whole time—yapping about last night’s game, some bitch they’d banged, the best tacos in town—like I wasn’t even there, just background noise to their banter.

They moved fast, covering my back and thighs in wide sweeps of color and script, the pain layering until my skin felt raw and alive. Then the buzzing cut off, leaving a heavy silence. I let my eyes flutter shut behind the blindfold, exhaustion pulling me down again.

Smoke hit first, acrid and sharp, then heat blooming against my ass cheek. Searing agony exploded as the iron pressed in, branding me like livestock, the sizzle of flesh filling my nose with charred meat. I screamed, raw and guttural, thrashing against the bed until my voice cracked. They laughed low, one smearing cold cream over the burn before slapping a bandage down, the relief fleeting against the throbbing pulse.

Disinfectant followed, sharp and chemical, trickling cold down my back and sides. Then a deeper pain lanced through—hot metal piercing my skin, large gauge needles punching through the flesh of my back, the backs of my thighs, calves, and arms. Rings forced in after, heavy and unyielding, tugging with every breath. It hurt like fire, worse than the tattoos, but I thought of Santos pulling my teeth and nails without a drop of mercy, and this seemed tame. I screamed freely, letting it rip out, showing them every bit of my agony—no point in playing tough when it only invited worse.

They flipped me onto my back again, yanking out my old nipple rings and clit bar, the tug sending shocks through me. New ones went in, thicker, heavier—I felt the weight pulling at my tits and hood, stretching the holes wider. Then my lips: sharp pricks through the top and bottom, rings threading in that clinked when I gasped. They stretched my nose piercing too, forcing a fat hoop through until it dangled down, brushing my upper lip like a constant reminder of my freakish state.

Barking echoed through the shed, sharp and insistent, cutting through the haze in my head, followed by Diego’s voice, low and smug. ‘Incredible, she looks like a work of art. Let her take a look.’ They unchained me from the table, my muscles screaming as they hauled me up, peeling the blindfold away. My legs wobbled like a newborn foal’s after two days locked spread out, chains digging into every joint—I staggered, grabbing at the edge of the wood to keep from face-planting on the grimy floor. They shoved me toward a cracked mirror propped against the wall, my reflection splintering back at me in jagged pieces.

I stared, forcing my eyes to take it in, playing the part they wanted: the broken girl, wide-eyed and trembling. But inside, I was steady, the numbness a shield I’d built over months in Santos’ shed. The girl gazing back wasn’t me anymore—not the petite Asian Christian from church, small tits hidden under modest dresses, fingers flying over piano keys after Sunday service, dreaming of Yale or Stanford, medicine or law, a future bright and clean. That Mei was gone, scrubbed away layer by layer. Now? A bimbo freak stared out, tits swollen with implants heaving against my ribs, ass lifted high and fake, lips plumped like overripe fruit, waist cinched tight into an hourglass that screamed ‘fucktoy.’ My forked tongue flicked out, tasting the metallic tang of fear I pretended to feel, while the labiaplasty left my pussy lips stretched and dangling, a permanent invitation.

Naked, but the ink covered me like a second skin, wrapping every inch in crude obscenity. Over my bald scalp, layers of tattoos blurred into chaos—cocks thrusting into mouths, dogs mounting women, horses with massive dicks buried deep, women splayed and screaming in ecstasy. No pretty patterns, no artist’s touch; it was raw graffiti, the kind scrawled on bathroom stalls by bored, horny men, well-inked but meaningless except for the degradation. My skin had paled in those three or four months locked away, no sun to tan it, so the colors popped harsh against the white—black lines, reds and blues bleeding into flesh like wounds that wouldn’t heal.