DAMAGED GOODS

By Velvetglove

Copyright and Disclaimer

‘Damaged Goods’ is an original work of fiction. Neither events nor characters portrayed are based in reality. Any resemblance with actual persons is entirely coincidental. This is the final part of the trilogy including ‘Used Goods’ and ‘Soiled Goods’.

WARNING: like its predecessors, this story 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. Copyright is asserted by the author and no reposting to other sites or commercial use whatsoever is authorised.

DAMAGED GOODS

Me and you we’re not for everyone

Me and you we’re damaged goods.

We’re antique and unacceptable

And just misunderstood.

From ‘Freaks in Love’

Bernie Taupin & Elton John

We have nothing to fear, but fear itself.

Well, kind of.

I watched her on the treadmill. It was mid-morning and the gym was quiet. In all, about ten of us were working the machines, wiping ourselves with towels, sipping water from paper cups, the place humming with that distinctive ‘oil and sweat’ aroma that only fitness centres have.

Only guys like me who work night shifts, and a few housewives or students, tend to pump iron at this time of day. Plus those doing physiotherapy who are recovering from some injury or trauma.

Her ordeal had been in the press. She’d been brave, going public to try and help the police catch the perp. And now she was being equally courageous attempting to rebuild her body and spirit while people like me studied her furtively, whispering, nudging each other, or even just imagining.

Of course, it’s impossible for an ordinary person to conceive. Unimaginable. The press had provided the basic details and rumour had supplied the rest. She’d been assaulted, that much was known. In her own home. Undoubtedly raped, and forced to commit lewd sex acts. The word in the gym was those acts included being made to blow the guy and to have anal sex with him, although that was never confirmed or denied officially. Other tittle-tattle circulated as well, like he was supposed to have marked her permanently in some way. Someone even told me he put ‘damaged’ on her, although nothing was visible as she pounded on the treadmill in her tracksuit that morning.

They haven’t caught the guy. It’s been a year now. More. The enquiry’s gone cold, so many other crimes have been committed since, the police and public have moved on. They’re not even sure whether it was the so-called ‘Cereal’ guy or not. That’s the thing that probably gnaws at her the most, I should think. First the event itself, and a flurry of sympathy, support, outrage and determination, but then the gradual drip-drip of resignation, disinterest, everyone else moving on with their lives. And the sense of injustice that the perp’s still out there. Laughing.

I sat outside in the sun, chuckling at something the waitress said when she brought my latte and Danish. The woman from the treadmill was at another table, wearing shades, baggy clothes, trying to read the newspaper. She was plucky, no doubt. The chitchat was that she’d been blindfolded throughout, so she didn’t have a clue what the guy looked like. Heck, he could even have been sitting right here with us at that moment, for all she or I knew. Damaged or not, you had to admire the spirit left in her.

A few mornings later, I was on the rowing machine and I saw her again. Her eyes looked very dark rimmed. She didn’t look good. But she was still out here exercising. Good on her. It was only later in the male changing room some guy told me he’d heard that somebody said she had recently received an anonymous envelope of photos of her ordeal, pushed through her mailbox. That must have freaked her out, I should think. I mean, not even mailed, but fucking hand-delivered ! I wonder if there were any fingerprints ? I doubt it, I’m afraid. This perp sounds pretty cute.

She was certainly cute. Or had been. In a trouser-suited, all-business kind of way. Expensive haircut, fake tan, pearls and Cartier watch. The main photo the papers had printed showed a face that oozed arrogance and toughness in equal measure; blue eyes, black hair, chiselled cheekbones, firm stare. She worked at one of the big auction houses, selling antiques to rich people with more money than sense. Even now, she had an air about her, although the sharp clothes had been replaced by baggy sweats and her hair was greasy and scrunched in a clip. I’d heard she was now back working part-time.

To be honest, I’d never been back to do anybody a second time. I kind of always felt that two visits from me would be like two appointments with the grim reaper. Overkill. My little encores of reminders were enough. I started by sending them to people in the mail from obscure little places, say when the wife and I took our two kids on a road trip. Then I used to make it more personal, by hand delivering, so they’d know I was still around. Once, memorably, I followed an ex-victim round a store and slipped a souvenir right into her shopping bag while she paid. But I’d never once been tempted to have a proper reunion.

Until now.

Naturally, I was careful. I always am, but I took double precautions. Triple. I spent weeks doing my research, checking that she no longer had any surveillance support, special alarms, anything extra. And she didn’t. That was the thing that drew her to me. She was so fucking determined to be normal again. Undamaged. I admired her, truly I did.

Which is why I did what I did, when I did.

Only a few days before I planned for us to meet up again, she started dating. Another sign of returning normality. I first spotted the guy when he joined her during our usual latte together outside the gym. We were each sat at our separate tables, her reading the paper, me flirting with the waitress. And suddenly this guy shows up. Nice enough looking, a sort of Travolta aged 30. But more like a younger, pulp fiction Travolta, not the Saturday Night Fever version. Anyway, there was something about the dude I didn’t like. Pissed me off, the way he sat down at her table and put his hand on hers. She didn’t respond, but she didn’t take her hand away either.

A couple of evenings later, I followed them to the movie theatre. Some romantic comedy shit. Now, any guy who takes a chick to that type of flick is up to something. I didn’t trust him one bit. I had to actually work my shift that night, so I didn’t see them leave the theatre, but when I swung by her place at 3 a.m., there were no strange cars parked outside. I could feel it in my bones through, like gathering menace. It was only a matter of time.

So I pulled a sick one the following night and, having stopped in a quiet spot to put on my makeup and beard, I made my way to her small but expensive house around midnight. She owned a red BMW roadster and there was now a Toyota alongside it. I shimmied to my usual spot where I had a good view of her living room through the window. At first, I thought they had to have moved to her bedroom already, but then I spied movement and saw they were lying on the sofa, still dressed. He was on top, kissing her, and she was wriggling. It didn’t look good.

“Mmm … come on.” his voice murmured, urgently.

“Nmm … no … please ...” hers replied. She sounded desperate.

I was snooping on tiny headphones via my top-of-the-range listening probe. The lamps in her room provided a clear picture of what was happening.

“Come on, damn you !” The guy insisted, pressing his lips to her mouth.

He was fucking raping her !

Not yet, but forcing her. Date rape.

I was livid.

How dare he ?

The bullet blew his head back. Bits of lanky black hair and red gunk splattered the white wall behind. I don’t do snuff, but a painless execution is acceptable for a sufficiently evil villain, in my book.

She screamed, completely traumatised. All those months of recovery now wasted. The bullet had shattered through the window and missed her head by inches. It’s at times like this I give silent thanks for my expert training. Within seconds, lights were going on in the neighbourhood. I heard shouts, screams. I took a final look at her blood-flecked, shrieking face as she lay with his virtually headless corpse on top of her and silently made my getaway. Within 60 seconds I heard sirens and saw flashing blue lights approaching.

*** *** ***

Every hit I ever made was carefully researched and well planned. Until that night. But in order to get off the streets that were filling with police cars and good citizens coming out of their front doors, I had to nip down a side alley not more than half a mile away. It was a similar house and the hall light was on. Out of the darkness I peered through the front room window. Two faces glowed red and green in the light of the TV they were watching, unaware of the commotion outside. I knew I had an hour or so to kill.

Their names were John and Susan. Married, one kid. A baby girl asleep upstairs. They’d been watching a horror movie. How appropriate ! Kids are useful because they can be used as threats. Women don’t tend to try anything heroic when something even more precious than their own cunt is in the house. It was a night of exceptions. Instead of the kitchen, I chose their bedroom. We closed up downstairs and switched off the lights.

I tied up John on his own bedside chair, using my favourite steel twine, so it dug tight into his ankles, wrists, stomach, and throat. Then I silenced him with a red-ball strap gag I carry in my travel bag for occasions like this. I didn’t blindfold him though. I had come out that evening fully disguised and I didn’t give a shit about being seen. Heck, I wanted him to watch. There was just one bedside lamp on, giving the room a nice warm glow.

Susan wasn’t as beautiful as my original target. But she was acceptable as a last minute substitute; 5’ 6”, E-cup, 31 years old, are the key stats. She was a honey blonde with wavy curls and golden eyes a bit like a ginger cat’s. She was still breastfeeding and her tits were swollen and veined. She was clearly terrified and kept gasping that she’d do anything so long as I didn’t hurt the baby. Plainly, not much of a negotiator, our Susan.

I sat on her face. It’s not something I do much, unless the husband or boyfriend is there. There’s something wonderfully erotic about treating some guy’s darling in such an offhand manner. Some men can eventually kind of get over witnessing their woman being fucked or whatever in their presence. But no male worth the name ever stops reliving the moment his wife’s tongue was buried up another guy’s poop chute. I smiled at John through my beard and moustache. I was wearing strong glasses too and I must have looked much uglier than I really am. He was bursting in his gag, full cheeked and eyes popping. Blood smeared his neck and wrists due to the twine tearing his skin. I winked and passed wind loudly, a real trombone solo, rich with the tang of cheeseburger.

Susan had a lot to learn about giving head. She moved her jaws too frantically and sucked too hard. I had to keep slapping her face and issuing orders. I told John he’d done a shit job training her for me. Talking of shit jobs, I then flipped her over and brutally took her anal virginity, an act John had patently omitted to carry out himself. I used a condom and decided to dump my load in the rubber up her rectum. She didn’t want to, but she swallowed the bulging condom afterwards to save her precious family.

It was time now for a permanent reminder. I had my branding iron and tattoo pen in my travel bag, as well as piercing gun, electric razor and scalpels. She sobbed and begged as I marched her through to their bathroom. She kept pleading, offering anything, thinking I was going to kill her. I made the mistake of flipping on the bathroom light for thirty seconds to see whether there were any useful bathroom items in the cabinet. There’s something more hurtful about using a person’s own possessions against them.

Her nipples were like cranberries. One looked sore. I pulled out my piercing gun and a pair of large hoops. They wouldn’t be permanent but they’d make for an amusing photo. I had a smaller pair for her cunt lips.

“Come here.” I gestured, wiping fake hair from my mouth. I was sat on the toilet seat and she was shivering naked in front of me. The light from streetlamps outside would be sufficient to work by.

“Please …”

“No pleases. You should be grateful. This is only temporary.”

She stared at the steel gun, then at her nipples. “No …”

I seized her wrist.

And at that moment, I saw flashing blue lights through the bathroom window. Three sets blinking in the darkness. A red dot appeared on my chest, then a second in my eyes. My travel bag was on the tiled floor, just out of reach.

“Freeze !” a deep voice boomed through a megaphone. I heard rotor blades hovering overhead. “Don’t move.”

There was a huge crash as the front door was rammed in.

*** *** ***

I got life.

Unsurprisingly. Several consecutive life sentences in fact.

All because I switched on a bathroom light for a moment and a nosey neighbour who was walking home glanced upwards.

So now I’m in the highest security prison in the land, in the most secure wing, in my own cell. It is 12 x 12 feet, windowless concrete. Solitary.

I’m kept apart for my own protection, they said. But I think we all know better than that !

I have a TV with religious channels and a PC with the slowest broadband left in the western world. Surf control keeps me on the straight and narrow, so I can’t even read my own stories.

But my son visits me. Once a month. My wife and daughter want nothing to do with me I’m afraid. I’m just misunderstood but they think I’m a freak, and I guess I can’t really blame them.

My son is a typical teenager. A bit of a geek, shy with girls, always spanking the monkey up in his bedroom. He’s good with computers and he loves this website. So, when he visits me, he slips me a disc and I sit at the PC at night and tap out what I remember of my adventures.

He smuggles the disc home and emails my words to this author guy who tidies up the spelling and grammar for me. My son says they polish up pretty good. Used. Soiled. Damaged.

Sadly the warders found out about the last disc and so they came in and fucked with my machine. Smashed the keys and box beyond repair.

One of them even thought it was funny to write “Damaged Goods” across the screen in black marker pen.

Funny guy, huh ?

Until he turns his back.

THE END

I have started a blog at the following address. http://velvetramblings.blogspot.com