She had come into the parlor alone, in the middle of the day. I was working on an old lady who still thought she was a goth chick. When the announce bell rang from the opening door, I appraised the slim, potential customer.

Early thirties, sunglasses and headscarf which did nothing to hide her unique, sexy curves. She was memorable. I’d recognize her after a ten year separation. It was rare for a woman wearing a business suit to patronize my shop. I figured she’d leave after satisfying some curiosity, perhaps scouting for a niece or young cousin, but that was unlikely given her strait-laced manner.

She gave a nervous, “Am I interrupting?”

“No, Ma-am. I’m just touching this devil up.” I grinned.

Old lady Amaris tee-heed. “You’re the devil.”

“I’m finishing this tat, Ma-am.” Suddenly I had to explain, pointing at the classic horned and bearded face amid a swirl of lunar delights festooning the old lady’s upper arm.

The woman didn’t step closer for a look or even lean this way. She simply pressed her lips together before remarking, “I see.”

I expected the woman’s nerves to make her slink outside, never to return. Instead, she stood looking more nervous.

“You’re welcome to take a chair. I’ll be another five minutes - unless you just have a question.”

“Um, no. I’ll wait.” She sat and picked up a magazine from the u-shaped rack next to her chair. Race Relations. It was a cheesy rag about mixed-race couples, just shy of being porn. As if she couldn’t guess its contents from the tawdry cover, she opened it for a second before trading it for a random, People magazine.

“How does it look, Amaris?” I held a magnifying mirror over the refreshed tat.

“Good as new, Donatello.” She bent over the chair’s arm to fetch her handbag, a black leather pouch. “I’ve got cash.”

I grinned into the mirror and peeked over the top, to see the business woman crossing her legs and uncrossing them, as if she was ready to flee at any minute.

Amaris handed two hundred dollars to me, in twenties. “Thank you for your business, Ma-am.”

“Don’t you ‘Ma-am’ me, you old black goat.” She laughed. On her way out of my shop, Amaris nodded at the woman. “He does good work.”

When the door rang closed, a decision had to be made. I began wiping down my tools and the chair. As the woman hemmed and hawed, I washed my hands. “How can I help you?”

Finally, she stood up, less shaky than when she entered, her mind made up. “I haven’t had a tattoo before. I would like something simple, Sir. Nothing special or large. This is a lark, to prove I’m not-” She cut herself off. “I’m thinking something like a heart or diamond - or spade.”

There is was, all I needed to know. “Yes Ma-am. First timers often pick something simple, and I halve my price to welcome them into the skin-art world.” Money was only part of my compensation for welcoming fresh souls into a darker world.

“How about a cute animal, like a dolphin or panda?”

“Oh, that sound nice- but I guess I’m set on a card pip.”

“Sure, but I would warn you, red pips don’t show up that well on white skin. It’s a good choice if you feel shy about having one, however.”

“Oh,” Her decision had already been made. “I guess not a heart or diamond then.”

I had to poke the wound she was hiding. “There’s the club, Ma-am. But I can’t recommend it if you’re not religious.”

“Why’s that?” She was genuinely surprised.

“Not to go into detail, but normal card pips are based on the tarot. Before the club’s modern shape, it was a fleur de lis.

Her eyes expanded. “The lily flower.” She translated. “What’s religious about that?”

“It was coopted by heraldry in the middle ages as a sign of the Christian cross.”

Her head bobbed with understanding.

“I didn’t catch your name. I’m Donatello.” I held out my fifty year old but large black hand. It hung as steady as a rock in the air. “Tattooing is an intimate craft. I like to be on a first name basis.”

“Amanda Stevenson.” She took my hand lightly and shook.

I went with her flow. “Welcome to Don Never Tells.” I lit up the room with the contrast of my white teeth and brown lips. “So you’d like a spade.” I said confidently.

“Y-yes S- Donatello.” Her body trembled slightly.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about, Amanda, but you understand that it will hurt.”

“I understand.”

“Now were would you like to hang your first ink art?”

“Hang?”

“My expression, like on an art gallery wall.”

“Oh. My tummy, um, just below the button.”

“Innie or outie? I may need a special tool.” I told her but there was only one tool for this job. Okay, there would be another tool, but not until she had been prepared.

“Innie.”

“And how small would you you like it?”

“Two and a half inches - tall?” That she asked it as a question, warned that she dared to cheat on a promise.

“That’s not as small as I imagined, from your first description.” I stared into her eyes. “Are you sure 2 and a half inches are the required size?”

I slipped up with that comment. Amanda may have guessed that I had more knowledge of her purpose here, than I ought to. It didn’t matter. My warning made her flinch. “It should, maybe, be three inches.” She cleared her throat.

“Alright.” I kept my smile warm and welcoming. “Last question. What color ink should I use?” It was the most important question.

She attempted to brush off any suspicions by openly rationalizing what was required of her. “Card spades are black, so I guess you should use the blackest ink you have.” The last bit was verbatim what I expected to hear.

“Well, you’re in for a treat. I have a special, black ink that I invented, but it’s a little thick, so I can’t use the needle gun.” I emphasized, “It’s the blackest ink you’ll get in the city.”

My confidence and increasing authority wormed its way into her. “Yes.” She admitted. “So I was told.”

“Please get in the chair.” I bowed as a way to invite passage to my primary workstation. “You understand that you’ll need to take off your jacket and pull up your blouse.”

“Yes.”

I helped to remove the jacket before hanging it on the coatrack for her. She sat in the chair and tugged the tails of her blouse to just above her belly button. It was a cute thing. Every time one of them was revealed to me, given the same portentous circumstances, my dick would harden a bit. This time was no exception, except she was more beautiful than the usual woman in her situation. I got a fine stiffy from the reveal of her naval.

“Now, I need to ensure that you understand - you are in no way obligated to let me finish. If at any time you need to leave, please do so. I’ve had several women come into for their first and quit in the middle of my work, and that’s okay. Most of them came back, after they realized that I had treated them with all the respect they deserve.” I refrained from mentioning what happened to the women who didn’t return to complete their black tat.

“I understand.” She said again, but she looked a little worried.

I like that look on a fresh woman.

I made an obvious notice of her wedding ring, a simple gold ring. But beside it, her engagement ring had been replaced with a loop of rusty wire. It was narrow though and difficult to see against the bright gold. That was the final sign for the work I was expected to perform for Amanda Stevenson. “Is Stevenson your husband’s name?”

“No.” The question made her nervous again.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry, just making talk.” I said while collecting the few items that I’d need for the job, a closed tin and a silver needle tied to a wooden handle.

“It’s my maiden name.”

“I opened the tin and showed her the dark ink within. “My own secret recipe. Hundreds of customers. No complaints.”

“The lady before, she seemed very happy with your work.”

“Yeah, she’s a grand old dame, but don’t tell her I said that. She still listens to old school Megadeath.”

Amanda laughed, nervousness depleting somewhat.

Before dipping the needle, I placed a half ruler on her belly. “Three inches will be difficult to get right without a little more work room. Would you be willing to unfasten the waistband of your pants and half unzip them?” She would also have to unbuckle the cloth belt, but that was obvious.

My request returned what her laugh had dispersed and more. “I’d rather not.”

“You don’t have to, but I’ll need to tug the front of your pants down from time to time.”

“I see. Maybe that’s how you should start. I’m not comfortable with your other suggestion.”

“I’m safer than doctors, Amanda.” I gave a hearty laugh! I’m so used to telling that lie, I often believe it myself.

She looked like a little white mouse cornered by big old cat. I almost drooled.

I dipped my silver needle into the viscous ink and tapped the handle on a corner of the tin. A single drop fell from the tip. I was ready to work my magic.

I leaned in, my face inches from Amanda’s skin as I began to carefully etched the outline of the spade. The needle glided smoothly across her belly, leaving a trail of dark ink in its wake. Amanda’s breathing quickened, her body tensing with each prick of the needle.

“Relax, Amanda. It’s going to hurt, but I promise it’s worth it,” I murmured, my eyes focused on my work.

“I’m ... trying,” she stammered, her voice barely audible.

As I worked on the stem of the spade, I was pleased by how soft and smooth her skin felt beneath the needle. I was extra careful not to leave unnecessary marks.

“So, Amanda, what made you decide to get a tattoo?” I asked, trying to distract her from the discomfort.

“I ... I don’t know. Just a sudden urge, I guess,” she replied, her voice shaking slightly.

I chuckled, knowing the real reason behind her decision. “Well, I’m glad you did. Tattoos are a great way to express your inner self - the real you.”

She gulped at the notion that this one spade would tell her secret forever more.

As I began to fill in the body of the spade, Amanda let out a small gasp. “It stings a bit more than I expected,” she admitted, her fingers gripping the armrests of the chair tightly.

“I said it would,” I kept jabbing ink deep. “But it’ll be over soon. You’re doing great.”

I continued to work, carefully shading and shaping the spade. The room was filled with the soft sound of Amanda’s breathing, her little grunts, and the occasional creak of the chair as she shifted. Fifteen minutes of careful and efficient effort passed while she flinched and shifted and squeaked.

As I finished the final details, I straightened up to admire my handiwork. The spade looked like it belonged there, a sleek and shiny black shape on Amanda’s pale skin no reddened from inflammation.

“What do you think?” I asked, holding up a mirror so she could see the finished tattoo.

Amanda gasped, her eyes widening as she took in the sight of the spade. “It’s, um, a little intimidating.” she whispered, her fingers reaching to touch the new tattoo, but she pulled her hand away. “Should I worry about infection?”

“That is a possibility, Amanda, but you can get immediate treatment at a all hours medical clinic. Don’t go to E.R. You’d be wasting the time of people in greater need. But infection is highly unlikely.

“You might feel a bit sore for the next few days, but it’ll heal quickly,” I said, as I began to clean up my tools. “I put some antibacterial ointment on. That’s why it’s glistening.

“Thank you, Donatello,” Amanda replied, her voice still shaky. “It looks-”

“Professional.” I interrupted gruffly. “And a professional gets paid.” It was time to exact my price.

“Certainly.” She dug into her purse and produced a credit card.

“Sorry, Ma-am, but I’m just an old, black man whose been cheated too many times in his life. Cash only.” I surprised her. “Half off for your first tattoo will be four hundred dollars.”

As Amanda searched through her purse, her brow furrowed in confusion, I could see the panic rising in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Donatello. I don’t have n-nearly that much cash,” she stammered.

I raised an eyebrow, my smile slowly turning into a smirk. “Oh, what a shame,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well, in that case, I suppose you’ll have to find another way to pay for the work I just did.”

Amanda’s eyes darted around the room, her face flushing with embarrassment. “I- I could clean up your studio.” It would have been a reasonable offer, if my price had been one hundred dollars.

“That’s not going to cut it.” I interrupted, my voice growing sharper. I offered vague hope. “But we can work something out. After all, I’m sure you’re not just any ordinary client, are you?”

I stood my ground, my eyes boring into hers. “You see, Amanda, I know exactly why you came here for this tattoo. It’s not just some ‘sudden urge’ or fancy of peer pressure. No, no. This is a rite of passage, a symbol of your initiation into a very specific world.”

Amanda cringed in the chair, her lips parting slightly as she realized I knew more about her situation than she had let on. “How ... how did you know?” she whispered.

I chuckled, the sound low and menacing. “Oh, darling, I’ve been in this business long enough to recognize the signs. The nervous energy, the hesitation, the way you couldn’t even look me in the eye when you first came in. You’re not here for a cute little design or a symbol of rebellion. You’re here because you were commanded to show the world what you’ve become.”

I watched Amanda’s shoulders slump, the fight draining from her posture. Her eyes searched for an escape from the uncomfortable truth. But there was none. I had her right where I wanted her.

“I’ve been around the block a few times,” I began, my voice taking on a sly, knowing tone. “I’ve seen plenty of girls like you come through these doors. Girls who think they can just waltz in here and get a little ‘rebel’ tattoo without spilling their secret. But I catch them every time.”

Amanda shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her blouse.

“Don’t cover that up, Amanda.” I forbade it.

“The truth is as plain as that spade” I pressed on, my voice grew intense. “You didn’t come here for a tattoo. You came here because you’ve been remade, rewritten. You’ve been reshaped into something new, something that must wear the spade, for all to know what you’ve become.”

I pointed to the freshly inked, three inch pip on her belly. Her eyes followed my finger. The ink was still glistening, a dark reminder of the permanent mark she now wore. The skin around it was red from the needle’s damage. I growled. “Never cover that up, Slut!”

Her hands fled the hem of her blouse, and I saw her eyes darkening with shame. Her face was as crimson as the skin around her black spade. She had no words to describe her utter horror at being so exposed.

“Now,” My breath was hot against her ear. “Tell me. Who was the first one? The one who cracked you open, who showed you the true destination of your desires?”

Amanda’s body shuddered, a visible tremor running through her. She opened her mouth, but said nothing. I could see the battle raging in her eyes - the desire to keep her secrets, pitted against an overwhelming need to confess. They always confessed to the stern but wise old black man.

“Come on, darling,” I coaxed, my voice low and seductive. “Let it out. You owe me cash or confession. I want every juicy detail.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Amanda began to speak. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but I would have understood her if I was fifty feet away.

“It was- it was at a party,” she stammered. “My husband was trying to chat up his company’s CEO. I had been drinking, and Jahn was so big, so confident. He took me to the bathroom and -- and he just did what he wanted.”

I nodded, encouraging her to continue. “Go on. Give the damn details.” I urged, my eyes locked on hers. My cock was slowly inflating within my loose trousers.

Amanda’s voice trembled, describing the event further. I could almost see it playing out, the way Jahn must have circled her, predator to prey. The bathroom was just the beginning - the moment of surrender.

“I remember walking past the kitchen,” Amanda began, her words hesitant. “I had just refilled my drink and was heading back to the living room. He stopped me, introduced himself as Jahn.”

I leaned in closer, my breath hot against her ear. “What did he say, exactly?”

Amanda’s cheeks flushed, her eyes darting around the room before finally meeting mine. “He ... he said, ‘Hello, Amanda. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you all night. You look absolutely stunning.’ I was surprised he knew my name. He must have asked my husband about me.”

I nodded, imagining the confident swagger in Jahn’s approach. The way he probably towered over her, his eyes roaming over her body like he owned it.

“What did you say to him?” I pressed on, my curiosity piqued.

“I ... I thanked him and tried to move past him, but he caught my arm. His hand was so warm, so strong. He said, ‘I’d love to talk more about your husband’s business. Perhaps we could step somewhere a bit more private?’ He nodded towards the bathroom door.”

I could feel the tension building in Amanda’s body as she relived the moment. “I didn’t think much of it at the time. I thought it was just a professional conversation.”

A cruel laugh bubbled up from my chest. “Oh, you sweet, naive little thing. You had no idea what you were walking into, did you?”

Amanda’s eyes dropped, shame written all over her face. “I- no. I didn’t.”

I leaned back, crossing my arms over my chest. “So, you followed him into the bathroom. What happened next?”

The room fell silent as Amanda gathered her thoughts. I could see the internal struggle - the desire to share, pitted against the shame of remembering such a pivotal moment in her transformation.

“Jahn closed the door behind us,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “He leaned against the sink and looked at me ... looked right through me. He said, ‘Amanda, I’ve been wanting to do this all night.’ And before I could respond, he grabbed my hips and pulled me against him.”

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued by this turn of events. “Go on,” I encouraged, my voice low and husky. “Tell me every detail.”

Amanda gulped, her chest rising and falling with each quick breath. “He was so big, so strong. He pressed his body against mine, and I could feel - everything. He whispered in my ear, ‘You want this, Amanda. You’ve been wanting it ever since you married that disappointment of a husband.’”

I could almost hear the predatory growl in Jahn’s voice, feel the way his grip would have pinned her against his pelvis. The bathroom, once a safe space, had become a courtroom with a sexual bull of a black man as judge and executioner.

“What did you do?” I asked, my voice barely contained. My cock was now fully erect, straining against my pants. “Don’t be polite. Tell it the way you felt it, raw and terrifying.”

As Amanda’s story continued, the details became increasingly explicit, painting a vivid picture of her first encounter with Jahn.

“He- he kissed me,” she stammered, her cheeks flushing with a mix of shame and arousal. “His lips were so demanding, his tongue invading my mouth before I could even think. His hands were everywhere, grabbing my ass, squeezing my breasts.”

I grinned next to her ear. “And you loved every second of it, didn’t you? The way he manhandled you, treated you like a slut.”

Amanda’s eyes widened, a mix of shock and arousal flashing across her face. “No-” she whispered. “I swear! Why do you think that?”

I chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Oh, darling, I know all about the secrets women keep hidden from themselves. Continue.” I ordered.

She gulped, her voice trembling as she continued. “He pushed me against the wall, his hips grinding against mine. I could feel his- his cock, huge and hard. He said, ‘You’ve been teasing me all night, little white girl. Time for you to put out.’”

I felt my own cock twitch at her words, my pants growing tighter by the second.

Amanda’s voice dropped. “He- He lifted my skirt and spread my legs roughly. I couldn’t stop him! He was so big, so powerful. He yanked down my panties and ... and he just fucked me right there against the sink.”

I groaned, my hand moving to adjust my throbbing cock.

Amanda’s breathing quickened, her nipples visibly hardening through her blouse. “He was so big, it hurt at first. But he kept stuffing me, harder and faster. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. All I could do was feel him, huge and black inside me.”

I leaned back, a cruel smile spreading across my face. “And how did it feel, little white girl? To finally be properly fucked?”

Amanda’s eyes fluttered closed, her hips subtly grinding against the air as if reliving the moment. “It- it felt awful! Like he was breaking something I had been protecting all of my life! He was so dominant, so in control. He made me feel like his little slut, like I existed just for his pleasure.”

I nodded approvingly, my mind racing with the implications. This was just the beginning of her journey, the crack in the dam that would leave her dry and begging for more.

“What about your husband?” I asked, my voice cutting through her humiliation.

Amanda’s face contorted in a mix of shame and defiance. “He- he never found out. Maybe someone told him something, but he thought I was just drunk and flirting.”

I laughed, the sound echoing in the small room. “Oh, you poor, naive little thing. You had no idea what Jahn had done to you, did you?” I relaxed my intense gaze. “How many days was it before you found yourself in the same situation?”

Her voice took on a note of desperation, as if the words were being pulled from her against her will. “After the night with Jahn, I thought it was a one-time thing,” she began, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape. “But then - then there was Tyrone.”

“Tell me about Tyrone, Amanda. Every detail.”

Amanda’s voice trembled as she recounted her second encounter. “It was at a gym. I had started working out, to try and forget what happened with Jahn. Tyrone was a personal trainer there. He- he offered to help me with my form.”

I chuckled, but didn’t want to interrupt.

Amanda looked down, her face flushing. “He was so precise, so in control. He kept touching me, ‘correcting’ my form. I complained, but he insisted, always convincing me that his groping hands were for my own good.”

I grinned, my mind filling in the blanks. “What happened next, pretty white girl?”

Amanda’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He told me if I wanted to lodge a complaint I had to go to his office. I said yes, feeling that I could turn the tables on him, even though I knew it was a bad idea.

“We went to his office. He -- locked the door and pushed me against it.”

I felt my cock throb in anticipation. “And then?”

Amanda just whimpered for a bit. “He tore my workout clothes off. I tried to stop him, but he was too strong. He threw me over his desk, and he fucked me from behind. It was so fast, so hard. My mind was thrown into a blender!”

I grunted. “How many times did he come inside you, Amanda?”

“Twice,” she whispered, her hips grinding against the chair. “He said I was his little white slut, that I needed his black cock to make me feel alive.”

“How many times did you cum?”

She was silent, but I would not be denied. “I don’t remember how many. It was more than when Jahn raped me.”

I nodded approvingly. “And what about the next time?”

Amanda shook her head. “Please. Don’t make me say all of this. I just want to go home!”

“Four hundred dollars, please.” I held out my hand. “Cash.”

Her eyes fled mine, and she resumed her tale. “There was Darius. At a coffee shop. I’d never been to it before, not even to his neighborhood. I don’t know why I stopped for coffee. It was a hole in the wall kind of place.” She sniffed, the truth threatening to spill out.

“Next thing I knew, we were in the supply closet and- and-”

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the sudden progression. “Go on, little white girl. Don’t leave out a single detail.”

Amanda’s voice grew hoarse, her words tumbling out in a rush. “He was so aggressive, so rough. He grabbed my hair and crushed me against the shelves. He said I was a dirty white bitch, that I needed a good fucking. And then he gave it to me, right there between the brooms and mops.”

Her tale filled my mind with images of Amanda being ravaged in public. “And what about the last one, Amanda? The one that made you come here for your little tattoo?”

Amanda’s face contorted in a mix of shame and arousal. “That was Malik. He was a coworker. He- he cornered me in the parking garage after work. He said I’d been flirting with him for weeks, that I wanted it. And when I tried to escape to my car, he grabbed me-”

“Say it, Amanda. How did Malik use you? Every detail.”

Amanda’s voice was barely audible. “He- he bent me over another car. He tore my underwear, and he fucked me right there. He was so big - it hurt so much. But- but it also felt so good. He kept saying I was a true black cock slut, that I would need his black cock to survive.”

As Amanda’s confession wound down, her voice grew stronger, as if the act of speaking these words was both painful and liberating.

“After Malik finished with me, he made me look at myself in a side mirror. Hand gripping my hair painfully, he forced me to see what I had become,” Amanda said, her eyes dropping in shame. “He told me I was no longer just another stupid white woman, but a true black cock slut. That I craved it, that I would never enjoy sex with my husband ever again.”

“And what did he say about this?” I pointed at the fresh tattoo I had just pierced into her belly.

Amanda’s voice trembled. “He said- he said I needed a mark, a symbol of what I was. Something permanent, so that other black men would know. He told me to go to a tattoo parlor, to get a three inch spade tattooed on my belly. He said it would be my badge of honor, proof that I was a black cock slut through and through.”

She grimaced, realizing the next horror before her. “Malik told me to go to - your studio.” Tears formed in her eyes.

“Malik knows I can be trusted, Slut. But you still haven’t paid Donatello in full yet.” I straighten fully, my trouser straining to keep me inside of them. Her eyes popped at the sight.

“Now get up and turn the open sign around. Pull the shades down, but don’t flip the lights on. There’ll be enough to see by.

Amanda stood up, her body trembling with a mix of fear and anticipation, I could see the struggle in her eyes. The realization of her situation, the weight of her confession, and the looming promise of what was to come, all swirled together in a potent cocktail of submission.

“Turn the sign around, Slut,” I growled, my voice echoing off the walls of the studio. “Pull down the shades. Now.”

Amanda hesitated for a moment, her hand reaching for the door handle before she turned back to me. “Please, Donatello, can’t we just talk about this? I’ll get you the money, just don’t-”

“Don’t what?” I cut her off, my tone dripping with malice. “Don’t fuck you?” I crossed my arms over my broad chest. I may be fat, but I’m also strong.

“You want to be fucked, Amanda. You need to be fucked. Don’t you see how the real you has been dredged out of the white sand it was buried in?”

I stepped closer, my eyes raking over her body. “Look at you, in your little business suit and your designer heels. But we both know what’s underneath, don’t we? A dirty, cum-hungry little black cock slut.”

Amanda whimpered, her hand flying to her mouth as if to stifle a cry. I could see the conflict waging within her. The remnants of her former self struggled against an urge to submit.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I can’t- I mustn’t do this.”

My hands flexed against the crooks of my elbows, itching to grab her, to claim her. But not yet.

“Turn. The. Sign. Around.” I enunciated each word lowly and dangerous.

Amanda froze deliciously long before she finally moved. Her legs shook as she walked to the door and pinched the sign between two fingers. The sound of it clicking into place seemed to echo through the studio.

She turned to me, her face a mask of fear and resignation. The thrill of her compliance energized me wholly, not just my rampant dick! It was the moment I always have trouble waiting for - the moment when a new bitch to my shop fully realizes what permanent ink is all about, how deep the needle has pierced into her mind. The anticipation is as arousing as the acts she’s about to perform.

Her face crumpled, and she let out a sob. The body suited up for business shook uncontrollably, eyes glistening.

“Ah, poor little thing,” I cooed, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “You finally realize your fate, don’t you? You’re not just a victim of circumstance; you’ve been actively choosing this path all along.”