Russian Prison Tattoos Book Novels & Stories

He was trialed in the demons court and ended up in prison where he learned useful skills while still going through sexual abuse from the inmates and nurses. He told me about getting his first tattoos there. How there was just one nice nurse who'd sneak him books to read and how he read in private because he stammered when he read out. He said he didn't trust her at first thinking that she wanted to molest him too but with time he found out that she was just nice. He got out years after to resume his position with half the work already done as he planned with Hector and nexus from prison and his getting out was when he began to stalk me and the revenge on my kind was mapped out.

Marcus Kane never rang the doorbell. He always knocked three times like he was announcing he already owned the space he was about to enter. Tonight was no different. I opened the door in nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants, fresh shower steam still clinging to my skin. The tattoos across my chest and arms were still shiny from the new piece I’d gotten last weekend: a coiled snake down my ribs, black ink sharp against the scars from county fights. I’m twenty-four. Six months out of prison. My body still carries that prison hardness, thick traps, veined forearms, knuckles that never healed right.

Pronounced jaws. And the tattoos. The tattoos couldn't be ignored. Black ink decorated every part of his neck, trailing down to his back that held the mark of the Order while his chest held the one he treasured the most. Some part of the tattoo even showed as the first three buttons of his shirt were off, his black waistcoat hugging his perfect figure. Paride looked like the Angel of Death. Slowly, he placed the book with the name 'A Thousand Ways to Torture A Person While Keeping Them Awake.' and waved a hand in the air, causing a man that stood in the corner of his office walk towards the blond one, a poker expression on his face.

Kirill looks at me over his shoulder. "I will see if Max has a coloring book," he says. Then he walks out and locks the door. "Funny," I shout at the closed door. "You’re really fucking funny, Nikolaev!" I slump back into the chair and shove a handful of fries into my mouth. One million dollars. And I’m stuck in a bare cell with a sarcastic Russian warden. This was a terrible deal.

Morris also grabbed his garter headband and knotted it to the ends of the plastic bag before placing it on Tasha's head. "Do engineers really good at improvising things?" I asked while laughing. Morris stood up properly and closed the door. He took a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his own sweat. "Is Tasha heavy?" I asked and helped him brush his hair off his forehead. His forehead creased before he pushed aside some of my hair. "Are those kiss marks?" he asked. I stopped and checked myself in the side mirror. I really did have a kiss mark on the left side of my neck.

When the guards shove me through the door – naked, cum dripping down my legs – those eyes lock onto me like wolves spotting a wounded deer. “She’s not cooperating,” the leader announces from behind me. “Won’t tell us what she was doing in VIP. Thought maybe you guys could... persuade her.” The biggest prisoner stands slowly. He’s covered in scars – face, arms, hands. Prison tattoos peek out from his collar. He looks at me like I’m a meal he’s been waiting for. “How long we got?” “Until she’s ready to talk.” The leader’s voice is cold. “Use her however you want. All her holes. We’ll be back when she’s learned her lesson.”

"Don't throw water this time." Jane laughed, despite the grim situation. Then her expression turned serious as she eyed the tattooed dagger than pierced the skin of Boris' neck. There were drops of tattooed blood mingling with real blood on his collarbone. Jane remembered reading in Russian mobster lore that the pierced dagger indicated he had killed someone in prison and the blood drops indicated how many. Involuntarily, her eyes dropped to his wrists and traced the two bands circling them. Multiple incarcerations.

I cannot reveal my nature and intentions so quickly, not with eyes everywhere and danger breathing through every corner. The hateful glare from the bodybuilders makes my skin crawl, their stares like judgment and scorn personified, heavy and suffocating, their tattoos telling stories of horror, blood spilled and purple patches marking survival and brutality as their watchword, but my scars hold something deeper—redemption and liberty, a hope of getting out of here alive. One minute later, I am sent into the torturous bath of the cursed prison waters, the force of it shocking, the cold biting through my skin like claws, its grip relentless as it strips away whatever is left of comfort.

My fists slam into his ribs, but the baton blow to my shoulder weakens the hit. Through the haze of blood and pain, I note the rings tattooed on his knuckles. They probably mean a bunch of different shit, but there’s only one thing about them I need to know. He did a stint in a Russian prison, and probably a long one. Which means he knows how to scrap with the best of them. I can fight dirty if he wants me to.

He can’t spare me, no matter how compliant I am. He stands from the bed and removes every piece of clothing from his body. The tattoos expand from his chest to his stomach, down to his strong torso. Black ink against his tanned skin. There are so many things written in Russian. But one particular thing catches my eye, it’s on his left torso, big and clear, “ To forgive is to sin.” The words send shivers racing down my spine. Who on earth writes something like that on their body? Not just write, but brand it into their skin permanently.