Soiled Goods

SOILED GOODS

By Velvetglove

Copyright and Disclaimer

‘Soiled Goods’ is an original work of fiction and neither events nor characters portrayed are based in reality. Any resemblance with actual persons is entirely coincidental. This is the sequel to a story entitled ‘Used Goods’.

WARNING: like its predecessor, this story is nastier and less tongue-in-cheek than my usual fiction. It contains gratuitous violence. Please do not read any further if imaginary cruelty offends or provokes you. The author utterly condemns such behaviour in real life. Story Codes are: M/f, non-consensual, heavy, humiliation, S/M, enema, modification. Copyright is asserted by the author and no reposting to other sites or commercial use whatsoever is authorised.

SOILED GOODS

Sometimes

The milk can hurt you

if you put it on your cereal

before you smell the plastic container

From ‘Dangerous Kitchen’

Frank Zappa, 1983

“Yes, I’m back !”

I thrust the red and black lace lingerie towards the snooty store manager. “I’ve returned to complain. Look, they’re soiled ! You ruined my fucking wedding anniversary.”

She looked at me in that infuriating, supercilious manner that some retail staff have, over her trendy specs and down the end of her pert button nose. You know the type. I bet we’ve all come up against the ‘my-shit-doesn’t-smell salesperson’ at some time or another.

“I’m sorry Sir, that’s impossible. We check every item we sell.”

I won’t bore you with the whole argument. I’d visited this store 72 hours earlier to buy a nice set of racy knickers and bra for my wife. Not some dirty PVC slut-wear, but classy top-of-the-range stuff. The kind of kit women actually like for themselves, not just to please their man.

Anyway, the store manager handed them to me in a cute box, I paid her in cash, and a couple of evenings later I proudly gave my gift to the missus for our 15th wedding anniversary.

I remembered the smile the manager gave as I walked out the shop.

She was smiling again now, the strobe lights glinting off her chic, brunette fringe. She was too vain to wear her glasses while out clubbing. Her hips swayed to the music as she danced, wearing a sparkly, clinging top and tight denim jeans. I sat quietly at the bar, nursing my drink and my grievance. I was still mightily pissed, although a whole six months had passed since my anniversary. I probably should have calmed down a bit but you know me. I don’t do ‘calm’. I could still remember my poor wife’s disappointed face when she took her present out of the box. But it had been important to let a few months go by, so that nobody would remember ‘that angry male customer’ once the detectives came asking questions. Anyway, it was time I could use, doing my research, working up a few ideas.

The woman’s red top left nothing about her perky little tits to the imagination. I’m a jugs man myself. I like them big and bouncy but I can’t deny that cute ones suit a certain sort of woman. And the legs were special. Long, lithe and rhythmic, her midnight blue jeans showed them off perfectly.

The club was heaving with loads of twenty-somethings, all out for a good time celebrating the start of the weekend. T G I Fuckday. The atmosphere was a happy blend of pumping music, pumped bodies and pampered faces, all smiling, shouting, singing, drinking, flirting. Nobody paid me much attention. As usual, I was just one of the older, unattached losers hanging at the bar that particular Friday night, hoping to score a hot young chick. Most of us had unkempt hair, even beards, and not a chance in hell. Only difference between me and the other guys was, I really was going to carve another notch in my leather belt that night.

She was dancing with three other women. A gaggle of bitches nearing their use-by-date, all around the 30-mark. They’d frontloaded a couple of margaritas and chicken wings in a booth before hitting the dance floor, eyeing up the male talent, but clearly considering themselves too good for the poor fucks who did actually make a move in their direction. Typical. I’d been watching them on and off for several months and I’d only ever seen one of them leave draped round a guy at the end of the night.

It was after 1 a.m., when I detected signs their outing was breaking up. As usual, my bossy target was the one who got her cell phone out to call a cab. I watched until they tipped out of the club, tottering on their heels in the rain, and then I climbed into my own car and drove off in the other direction. On the way, I jettisoned a plastic bag containing my wig, beard and a rock out of the car window, over the parapet and into the deep black river below.

It took me 45 seconds to break into her apartment. I had timed their cab journey on six previous occasions. She was the last stop of the four. It took between 27 and 32 minutes. I wandered from room to room. It was a typical single girl’s studio; tiny hall, decent-sized living room with an integral kitchen at one end of it, a small bedroom, separate bathroom. Carpeted, thick-walled, hushed. I pointed my torch at the framed photos and other memories pinned onto a notice board. A lifetime of snaps from baby steps to high school, vacation shots to posed groups, a few alone, most with friends. Then I put my silicone Frank Zappa mask over my head and quietly hummed one of his songs.

Where the cream is all clabbered

And the salad is frightful

Your return in the evening

Can be less than delightful.

I stood in the dark behind the door and heard footsteps, then a key turning. For a couple of seconds her wide brown eyes stared up at me in shock as I enveloped her nostrils in the drug soaked cloth. I slowly let her slide to the floor. That was the last time I planned to be gentle with her.

She was out for 15 minutes. I’d already arranged her bench seat in the kitchen. It was modern design, made of sturdy plastic, long enough for three people to sit on side by side. I removed my mask, laid her along the bench and quickly undressed her; jacket, sparkly top, boots, socks, tight jeans, bra and thong. I didn’t even pause to evaluate her nakedness. I lashed her ankles and wrists to the legs of the bench, before securing her bare waist, ribs, and throat all down with razor wire. Thin red lines of fresh blood appeared where the tight steel floss cut into her skin.

Next came the steel spider gag. I pushed it into position between her lips, gums and teeth, and tightened the strap behind her head. It was a ferocious spring-loaded, ratchet type of gag, with a widest setting of 3 ½ inches. Fucking huge ! I cranked it up until her slack, unconscious jaws wouldn’t open further. Finally I eased her head up and slipped a half-hood over it. I’d made the black leather hood myself. It covered her hair and eyes but left her nose, mouth and jaw fully exposed.

I was bursting for a piss. I’d only had a couple of beers at the club to stay sober, and after them I’d stuck to fruit juice. Fortunately, she was gradually coming round. I pegged her annoying button nose with a serrated steel peg and attached a special steel funnel to the gag. My DNA would be kept from splashing the scene. I held her hooded head still and unzipped my fly, then directed the tip of my dick into the top of the deep funnel. It worked like ammonia smelling salts, soon shocking her back to life. My golden piss frothed and bubbled and backed up. She tried to move. The exposed half of her face creased in pain. Little red blobs oozed from the wire cutting into her neck and wrists as she wriggled. I watched her throat swallowing, gulping, trying to breathe, choking. My piss gurgled up back into the funnel. She twisted her head slightly to the left and right but not enough to cause any spillage. Eventually, sadly, my bladder was empty. It took another minute before the steel urinal had drained empty down her throat.

I carefully lifted the funnel away from her face. She couldn’t speak, but the mewls of protest escaping from her distorted lips pissed me off, so to speak. So I wedged a spongy rubber ball in her mouth to silence her. She panicked, unable to breathe again. I waited 30 seconds before unclipping the peg. Her nostrils flared, sucking in oxygen. Her nose had deep red gouges in it. Then I switched on the electric hob and set the water to boil.

Now that I could turn the lights on, I took a more leisurely stroll round her haven. As usual, I wanted a few souvenirs. Things I could mail her anonymously in the years to come. Reminders of tonight. I bagged her sparkly red top for one, and a half dozen pairs of fancy knickers from her drawer. Obviously collected using her staff discount. I placed several photos in my bag too; a cute family pose of her with mom, dad and bro, a happy one at a restaurant pouting at some boyfriend. I found her diary beside her bed and took that. It would make an amusing read later and I could send her pages torn from it as postcards. Then, lo and behold, I opened her bedside drawer and there was a vibrator tucked behind a book. It was a garish pink and turquoise Rampant Rabbit, the model with plastic pearls in the shaft. It was a good size too. Built for pleasure.

It could get on your face then

It could eat your complexion

You could die from the danger

Of the dangerous kitchen.

I wandered back to the hob, humming that Zappa song again. The words were ominous. Dangerous Kitchen. She lay motionless, silent but for tortured breathing through her nose, sodden and petrified. I pulled up the matching chair to the bench seat and sat down. It was time for a chat.

“Hi.” I kept my voice deadpan, devoid of accent.

She managed to emit a sort of ‘mmm’ sound I took to mean ‘hi’.

“Bad luck. Wrong place, wrong time.”

Her covered head turned towards me, staring at blackness.

“Don’t make any noise.” I said. “You’ll only make me pissed.” I ran my plastic-gloved fingers over her small breasts. Then I opened the serrated jaws of the steel peg and let them snap onto her right nipple.

She thrashed around a bit, or tried to. But she barely moved an inch.

“Shh !” I pressed my switchblade to her other boob. “Keep still.”

She managed to calm down, drool bubbling from her nostrils.

“Nod your head if you want to survive.”

It took a couple of seconds for her to digest the question. Then she manically moved her head as best she could.

I smiled down at her. Not so haughty now, was she ?

“Here’s the deal. You pass a few tests, I go away. You fail the tests …”. I fingered her cunt crudely. “Well, let’s just say you don’t want to flunk them. Okay ?”

Another, less manic, move of the head.

It was time to begin.

I learned tattooing during my three years in the Navy. Of course, my work is rough. I can’t do pretty dragons and colourful pictures. But I can carve a heart, drops of blood and teardrops, swords and knives, simple stuff like that. And I can write words.

T G I F.

Tits Get Inked First.

Her little boobs were much easier to scrawl on than big mambos are. I always use a state of the art oscillating pen that drives the needles in and out of the skin at 150 times a second. I’d chosen the most indelible, bright red ink. Sadly, I didn’t do a neat job. The 6 letters on each tit were uneven and higgledy-piggledy. But they made the point. I didn’t think she’d be going topless for a while.

I can’t stick hairy bushes. I like them either clean shaven or with just a neat little Mohican or tuft. She obviously shaved occasionally because there was stubble outside her bikini line, but her mound was generously matted with brown pubes. In other circumstances I’d have sheared her but I decided that I’d simply ink her waistline instead.

She lay still, sobbing and whimpering quietly into the ball gag.

Again, the 3 words were haphazard but clearly legible.

She wasn’t going to be going out bottomless either.

I pushed her inner thighs open and teased apart her pink labia. She was dry. In other circumstances I’d have liked to fuck her but that wasn’t on tonight’s menu. I spotted a little red bottle of Tabasco sauce in her spice rack. I dosed the Rampant Rabbit’s shaft liberally and added a dollop of cooking oil. She tried to fight as I eased the glistening tip between her cunt lips. It took a short while for the Tabasco inferno to ignite. By that time, I’d got four inches inside her and there was no way she could prevent the second four entering, until finally only the battery handle stuck out of her. I tore a bit of heavy duty tape off a roll and stuck the vibrator into place. Then I flicked the switch.

I used my mini-handycam to take a little movie. The sound and picture are both excellent quality, especially close up. I panned over her tits, with the letters S O I L E D permanently red-inked into them both, a clip chomping on her right nip, then down to DIRTY FAT BUSH tattooed into the crease of her waist. How would she explain them to a boyfriend or future husband ? The vibe was churning away inside her but, strangely, she didn’t seem to be getting turned on.

I used one of her teaspoons to scoop up a little bubbling water from the pan and dribbled some onto her tummy. She howled, or at least she would have done if she’d been able. The tiny puddle in her belly button sizzled briefly. I turned the slider control on the Rabbit right down.

“This experience could scar you for life.” I whispered into her hood.

“Ungm …”

“I’m going to pour boiling water on you.”

Her head jerked as far as it could. “Nghm …”

“But the good news is you get to choose.”

I could tell she was sobbing now, into her gag and eye mask.

I casually manhandled her tits. “How about these ? Nobody would miss them if they were burned. Or this face ?” I prodded a gloved finger against the tip of her nose. “Or how about these legs ?”

Boy, she had some things to say, if she could have spoken.

I ripped the tape holding the Rabbit inside her and pulled it out.

“Tell you what, how about we pour it inside here ? Seriously, that wouldn’t be any great loss to the world, would it ? Boiled cunt, mmm, delicious.”

I eased the ball gag out from her lips so we could communicate better. Her pink tongue was visible, flicking, trying to regenerate moisture.

“Be nice and quiet. Now, tell me, tits, or face, or legs, or cunt. Wait. Hold on. We forgot the asshole ! That’s another option of course.”

“Awym.” she replied. I think that means ‘please’.

“If you prefer, we can do the lot. There’s plenty of boiling water.”

“Mnmn.”

In the end, I pulled my portable enema kit out of my travel bag. I had prepared a blend of sodium phosphate, and chillies steeped in mineral oil. The sodium phosphate draws fluid from the bloodstream and triggers extra cramping, the chillies set fire to the colon, and the mineral oil causes seepage from the rectum. She’d be soiling a few garments herself for a while.

First I undid the razor wire round her ankles and connected a leg spreader bar to hold them apart. Then I pulled the spreader up and back over her head, fixing it there, so her butt was presented nicely. Next I shoved a greased aluminium nozzle into her wrinkled anus. Finally, I connected the cylinder with the prepared mix to the nozzle and poured about a pint of the simmering water from the pan into the steel cylinder head.

“Awyym.”

“Shhh.” I replied. “Or I’ll give you a double dose.”

That shut her up a moment.

Until I depressed the plunger.

Give credit to her, she didn’t pass out. She might have preferred to. She sure wasn’t going to be volunteering anal sex to any guy for a while. Funnily enough, there was no obvious damage from the outside. No steam, not even much redness round her bumhole. I studied her crack with interest, giving her a couple of stinging slaps. But I could imagine the inside of her rectum was bubbling away nicely.

Of course, watching her pay her dues like this was making me hot too, so to speak. But I knew sadly I had to control myself.

While I waited ten minutes for the water to cool, I wiped down surfaces and tidied up. Then I took a pair of her knickers I’d scooped up earlier and readied them.

Not such a my-shit-doesn’t-smell store manager now !

“Okay.” I whispered into her hood. “I’m going to remove it. But you had better hold that enema inside your ass until I say. Or else.”

I unfastened the leg spreader and laid her legs down. Her body was tense, especially her abdomen and thigh muscles. Her stretched face was visibly concentrating on holding the fluid inside her. I pulled the knickers over her toes and then slowly up her legs.

“There we are.” I congratulated her, patting her mound. “Dressed to kill.”

“Mnmn.”

I put the enema kit away in my travel bag and wiped everything again.

“How are you doing there ?”

“Awym.”

“Really ? Well I’m going to sit and watch you a while. An hour or two minimum. And if you release even a drop of that fluid, then your precious cunt will be the next thing to boil. I’m heating up some cooking oil.”

While she groaned and grimaced at the onset of serious cramping, I looked in her kitchen cupboards and located what I was looking for. I placed the box of Corn Flakes on the counter and scattered Coco Pops all over her naked body. Even better, in the fridge, I found an opened plastic milk container. I sniffed it. A pungent whiff of sourness. How appropriate. I poured the lumpy yellow liquid into the spider gag, watching her throat retch.

The spider-gag had been purchased with cash from a shop in Holland three years earlier. I’d sewn the helmet out of leather stripped from a junk shop chair.  Both items had been completely sterilised and washed before tonight. I left her wearing them. They suited her. I snapped a final photo. We’d keep in touch over the years. I’d be looking out for her.

Then I silently waved goodbye.

Less than an hour later, I slipped into bed in the darkness. The green display of the alarm clock glowed 03.45. Perfect.

Her hot body snuggled into mine. “Mmm.”

I kissed her face. “Mmm … you’re lovely and warm.”

She didn’t move, and I thought my chance was gone, but then she stirred. I cuddled her, kissed her on the lips again. I never like to push my wife if she’s not in the mood. But she responded.

“All okay ?” she murmured.

I do night shifts. Seven p.m. to three a.m. Four nights a week. Dull, antisocial work but, hey, someone’s got to do it.

“Fine. Just the usual.”

I was like a rock already. She was soft. I trailed my lips gently down to her nipple, feeling it grow hard against my tongue. I was past waiting.

She sighed as I thrust into her, taking my weight on my palms. Over fifteen years married and we still had a good sex life. I could just make out her face in the gloom as I got my night vision. She was smiling up at me.

“You’re horny.”

“Mmm.”

“Like your son.”

I kept my easy rhythm, gently in and out. My mind was somewhere else. I was wondering if my friend had soiled her knickers yet.

“What’s he done now ?”

Our son is 14. Hormones gone crazy.

“You really want to know ?” Her voice sounded half-pissed, half amused.

“Hit me.”

“I walked in on him in the bathroom. He was jacking off.”

I lost my stride a moment. Then started to chuckle. “Well, I guess it’s only natural at his age.”

Her teeth were white in the dark. “Yes. But guess what ? He was using my knickers from the laundry basket to jerk into. And it wasn’t the first time.”

I knew what was coming. I groaned.

“He admitted that he’d done it before. The first time was about six months ago, when he found the box you’d hidden in the linen cupboard.” She was panting, building to her own climax. “You know … with those lovely black and red knickers you got me for our anniversary. That’s … why they were soiled. Our son did it ! I feel bad I got so mad now.”

I groaned again in ecstasy, unleashing my load.

Kinky kid, huh ?

Like father, like son !

THE END

?

Coming Soon: Mid-November 2008

“Beyond the Pestilence”

“After the Great Pestilence of 2008 and the subsequent Famine and Depression, when global Stock, Property and Commodity Markets all crashed and burned, the World’s largest Economies had each undergone different Revolutions.”

(After the Pestilence, Complete & Revised Version,

11/11/2006, Chapter One)

When I wrote Part One of ‘After the Pestilence’ in September 2005, I already had a premonition that the world’s financial markets were heading for disaster. In November 2006, when I finally posted the completed ‘Whole Story’ version, I chose 2008 as the year of collapsing markets, pestilence, famine and depression. So, now, exactly two years after my last posting, it is time to revisit the world of Stella, Brutus and their unfortunate slaves, and to look ahead to more optimistic times, beyond the pestilence …

Beyond the Pestilence

(extract from Part One)

Brutus had put on a lot of weight over the past couple of years. His hirsute expanse of belly drooped over the crotch of his ‘banana hammock’ swimming thong. He lay sprawled on a daybed in the hot sunshine, watching the four slaves fucking on the freshly mown lawn. There was the lightest breeze, wafting a scent of barbecue and cut grass.

The young men were rising and falling in tandem, their muscular buttocks following the ticking rhythm of the metronome. Below them, their wives were enthusiastically pushing their hips up to meet them, faces shining with perspiration in the oppressive humidity. Flesh slapped against flesh beating out a steady tempo.

Both couples were recent purchases, new to the harsh realities of life under the yoke of the Brute Corporation. But they were learning fast. The white pair were older, both 23 years old, while the black pair were 22 and 21 respectively. Their youth and vigour made Brutus feel all of his 53 years.

He clicked his fingers. “Switch.”

Unable to avoid slight hesitation, embarrassment and sideways glances, the two naked men dismounted, knelt and rose to their feet. Their jutting erections glistened in the sunlight. The tall, muscular black boy and the sandy haired athlete swapped places, each standing over the other’s young wife.

“You first.”

Brutus watched the handsome white kid crouch down. His name was Rob. He’d finally married his college sweetheart only 3 weeks before their arrest. Rob put his knees between Naomi’s parted thighs.

The gorgeous, copper coloured girl grunted as Rob thrust his length into her for the first time. The couples hadn’t even met each other until a few minutes earlier. Rob began pounding in time with the relentless ‘tock’, ‘tock’, of the metronome.

Brutus smiled at the grim black face of Tony, Naomi’s husband.

“You.” He barked. “Lie down on the grass, there, face up.”

Tony frowned, but obeyed, lying down parallel to Naomi and Rob. Their thrusting knees touched Tony’s skin as they fucked.

The fourth slave of the quartet was Amber, Rob’s strawberry blonde wife. She was on her back, staring up into the sky awaiting instructions.

“You.” Brutus called out, so she twisted her head to look at him. “Get up and ride his face.”

Amber quickly rose. Brutus caught her turquoise eyes making fleeting contact with her husband Rob’s. She really did have the most sensational body; a tiny waist, long legs, large firm breasts. He watched her clamber down over Tony’s head, all four bodies now making contact with each other.

“Put your ass on his nose, not your cunt !”

The white couple were side-by-side, husband fucking in the missionary position, wife grinding her bottom on a black face.

“Look at me.”

He stared into their eyes, wondering what they were thinking.

Velvetfeedback@googlemail.com

By the same Author:

The Prequels

“After the Pestilence” – a novel set in 2010, involving numerous characters and containing, as one reviewer said, ‘something for everyone’ (most of it is non-consensual and the humiliation is extreme, although the actual violence is mainly moderate).

“The Ballad of Lara and Gemma” – a Fem-domme, lesbian spin-off tale from ‘After the Pestilence’, in two parts, describing the infatuation of a Domme and her unwilling female slave (all non-consensual scenes and extreme humiliation, including scat).