by Zoe Blake
Damaged Doll
Broken Doll Series Book Two
Zoe Blake
Damaged Doll, Book Two
I’m property.
Something to be passed around - used, abused, owned.
I have no power to stop him.
No choice but to submit.
But I’ve just learned why I’m trapped in this hell…
I will escape my fate.
And then they will be the ones who are sorry.
Copyright © 2018 by Zoe Blake
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the
author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design by Dark City Designs
Edited by Maggie Ryan
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
About Zoe Blake
BROKEN DOLL SERIES
DANGEROUS DADDY SERIES
DARK FANTASY
Author’s Note
Why three short novellas instead of one long book?
To be honest, this story is just too fucked up. It’s too intense, too strange… too wrong!
It is startling in its brutality, and if I were to tell Jane’s entire story in one book, I fear it would lose its impact, like watching too many horror movies or playing too many violent video games in a row… they start to lose their sting… their humanity.
Plus, in our instant gratification society, there is something deliciously and satisfyingly cruel in being forced to enjoy something one fucked up bite at a time.
XOXO
Zoe Blake
One
I can’t remember the color of my eyes.
I think they are brown, well at least, they used to be brown. Not a pretty brown, not the kind artists write songs about, eyes the color of whiskey with gold flecks. No, they were just plain brown.
Now they are blue. I do know that, a bright, unnatural soulless blue.
I remember being jealous of the girls at school who had big beautiful blue eyes… and blonde hair. Those two always seemed to go together. The ideal woman… blonde and blue-eyed with big tits. Can’t forget the big tits.
Pretty eyes. Pretty face. Pretty life.
Actually, I’m lying. I wasn’t jealous of those girls.
I hated them.
I hated them with every fiber of my being. I hated how life seemed so easy for them. If they forgot their homework, fucked up on a test or slammed into another car in the parking lot… everything was handled with a giggle and a flip of their hair.
Any boy they wanted, they got… even if that boy wasn’t theirs… even if that boy was mine.
I hated them.
I hated them and their perfect Barbie doll lives.
So different from mine. They even had pretty names like Heather, Tiffany and Lilah.
Not me. I was Jane.
Plain Jane.
Invisible Jane.
I wonder if anyone has even noticed that I died?
I bet if one of the pretty girls died, everyone would notice.
Sometimes, I imagined sneaking into their bedrooms late at night and shaving their heads. I would picture them showing up at school the next day with swollen, tear-stained faces and an ugly baseball cap pulled down low to try and cover their humiliation.
And sometimes, I imagined doing much worse.
Is that why I am here now?
Is this my karmic punishment?
Forced to live life as a doll, a thing to be used and discarded?
Forced to live a fucked up, twisted version of the life I dreamed all the pretty girls were living?
Well, fuck karma.
Two
I can’t move.
Again.
If I could cry, I would. I no longer have any concept of time, but it felt like it had taken years just to get to the point where I could move my pinky let alone somewhat control my body.
Now it is all gone.
I can’t move. Again.
I can still feel. The curse of my existence. I can still fucking feel… everything.
I won’t—I can’t—call it living. This isn’t living.
I’m trapped in a frozen painful death.
Once again, I’m surrounded by darkness: both in my own thoughts and limited reality. I know I’m in the trunk of a car. I have no idea how long I’ve been here: days, weeks, months? All I can smell is rubber and gasoline. My cheek is pressed against the hard edge of a tire. Both my legs are bent backwards so my feet are pushed against my back. A towel, grimy and stiff, has been thrown over my naked form. It itches, like a constant and maddening sensation of bugs crawling up and down my limbs, but I’m unable to brush them off or defend myself.
The only thing that is keeping me sane is the memory of killing Steve. Remembering the feel of his teeth as he tried to bite down and dislodge my fist as I forced it down his throat. How his screams were reduced to obscene gurgles as I slowly crushed his larynx, depriving him of air. Feeling the bone in his neck snap in that final moment of death.
My favorite part was watching the life drain from his eyes. I had no idea you could literally see the moment the soul left the body. The very second it became an inanimate object.
Like me.
I watched as blood flooded the white part. Then the pupils opened wide. Two black gaping holes in his head.
Sightless, unresponsive eyes.
Like mine.
His body wasn’t found for hours.
I sat there and watched as his eyes slowly clouded over. The color becoming hazy and indistinct. So much of our identity is attached to our eyes, whether we are pleased or angry, depressed or content. So often our eyes communicate more than our words. I took that from him.
And I would do it again.
Soon after the police arrived, I was tossed into my closet. After all, I was nothing. An object. A disgusting sex doll. I had no place in the world of the living.
There is a sick pleasure you get in taking a life.
You feel a surge of energy—as if you are consuming their soul, their life force, and getting a charge from it.
I know murderers have been accused of playing god. I disagree. There is no god in murder. There is something far more powerful.
In that very moment, as my fingers closed about his pitiful throat, it was if I was shaving the heads of all those pretty bitches.
I felt a rush of pure satisfaction.
Vindication.
Vindication for Jane.
No more was I plain and invisible Jane.
I was Jane the murderess, and I had liked it.
Three
“Fuck me, you’re filthy.”
Bright light floods my small world as John opens the trunk and whips the towel off my body. He’s Steve’s sadistic friend, and I’m still not sure if he rescued me from an eternity trapped in that closet or just represents another version of hell.
Probably hell.
He throws me over his shoulder and begins to walk away from the car. My stomach clenches when his shoulder bumps against my midsection as he climbs a set of stairs. He sits me upright on a sofa. I’m angry at myself for feeling grateful he didn’t just toss me face down into the cushions. At least this way I can see my surroundings.
I’m in a small apartm
ent. There is only the barest of furnishings. A sofa. A small wooden dining room table surrounded by metal folding chairs. Posters of women straddling motorcycles litter the walls. The only thing that looks like it wasn’t found at a garage sale or picked out of the garbage is the massive flat screen TV. The whole place reeks of stale beer and Axe body spray.
I can hear him rummaging around in the cabinets in what I can only assume is the kitchen behind me since I cannot turn my head to look.
He returns to stand before me with a bottle of Windex and a stained towel with the word Budweiser written across it.
The cold spray hits my breasts first. The stringent smell of ammonia tickles my nose. He begins to roughly rub the towel over my skin. It scratches and burns.
Laughing, John says, “Steve always was a tit man. No surprise yours are huge.”
With that, he pinches one of my nipples. A spike of pain makes me wish I could cry out.
Another cold spray hits my prone body. This time between my legs. I can feel the coarse towel against my inner thighs. Through the towel, his thick finger cruelly penetrates me and swirls in a circle.
“Gotta clean this nasty twat.”
Spray then hits my face. The cleanser stings my eyes. I cannot even blink to protect them.
“I should have been more careful putting you in the stupid trunk. Probably never going to get this fucking grease mark off your face,” mutters John as he leans over me to rub the rag over my cheek in rough circles.
After some effort, he stands upright and stares down at me.
He is just as tall as Steve was but leaner. He has indistinct hair, not blond but not brown either. His eyes are brown, like mine used to be. I don’t even know why I noticed the other features. All I am is a hole to him and all he really is to me is a cock; a cock used to punish and humiliate.
I can see the obscene swell of his cock pushing against his jeans. Memories of the first time he used me play across my mind.
“What hole you want first?” asked Steve.
“I want her mouth. Always wanted to just shove my cock down some chick’s mouth. You know. Really choke her with it,” said John enthusiastically.
Steve gestured wildly at me. “Have at it, bro!”
Oh god. No. Not again.
John climbed up on the sofa and placed his knees above my shoulders, his feet digging painfully into my ribs. Leaning down, he grasped my hair and wrenched my head up till my neck was tilted at a painful angle. Then he shoved his cock into my mouth. I gagged at the rancid sour taste as it pushed to the back of my throat. I could feel his balls as they swayed just below my chin.
“Fuck! This is fucking awesome, man,” cried out John as he started to pump my head up and down on his cock.
“Right? You don’t even miss the tongue,” agreed Steve.
“Half the time a chick’s just using her tongue to try to push you out. Man, I’m in deep. Right down her fucking throat.” He punctuated that with a few hard thrusts.
Even though I couldn’t move, I still struggled. Crying, gasping for breath, bucking my hips, twisting my head from side to side, screaming no.
Silently screaming.
John reaches out and rips the blonde wig off my head and tosses it aside.
“No point in putting hair on you. All it’s going to do is get cum in it. And I’m not going to dress you up like that pussy Steve did. I don’t give a shit what you look like or what you’re wearing. You’re just a bunch of holes to me.”
For emphasis, John slapped me across the face. My body slid sideways. My face pressed into the cushion as my cheek stung from the blow.
I was forced to lie there as I heard him open the refrigerator and pull out a beer.
I knew what was coming next.
There was nothing to do to stop it.
I laid there waiting for the humiliation to begin.
Laid there with my pretty eyes and pretty face with my perfect tits… and shaved head.
“Alright, whore, time to open up for Daddy.”
John grabbed me by the neck and flung my body onto the floor. My useless legs dragged along the rough carpet, as he positioned me between his outstretched legs. I watched helplessly as he unbuckled the belt on his jeans and pulled out his erect cock.
Knowing he was going to force it down my throat.
Knowing there was nothing I could do to prevent it.
Knowing my eternal punishment would be to silently take the abuse.
“Swallow me whole, whore.”
His thick shaft was pushed into my mouth. The skin of his cock felt hot against the cool plastic of my lips. He tasted like salt and sweat. The bulbous head was shoved in deep in one thrust. It is hard to imagine how I could have forgotten the desperate brutality of this act. The feeling of helplessness.
My inner body gagged and struggled to breathe as my outward body placidly knelt between his thighs and took the abuse. He groaned as his cock filled my unwilling mouth.
“Fuck this would be better if I could hear you choking,” he rasped as he adjusted his grip on my head.
Using both hands, he violently pulsed my head up and down his shaft. Each strike of the tip against the back of my throat sent a shock of pain down my spine.
Stop! Stop! I’m begging you! Please god hear me! I’m a person. A person! Please!
I railed in silence.
Desperately, I tried to move my arms, to fight him off, to push against his thighs to give myself a moment to breathe, to recover.
Nothing.
They hung ineffectively at my side, leaving me to my unguarded fate.
“Let’s see how long you can hold your breath, whore.”
John laughed at his own grotesque joke as he pulled my head toward his crotch, forcing his thick shaft deep into my throat.
I couldn’t breathe. My vision blurred and tilted.
John began to pump his hips as he let out a guttural moan.
I could feel hot liquid spurt straight into my stomach. I wanted to wretch as dizzying nausea rushed over me.
“That’s it, bitch. Swallow it.”
Please someone help me.
My vision went dark. Then nothing.
There was a buzzing in my ears as I came to. Cold, congealed cum dripped over my tongue. My whole body ached. Every limb felt bruised and battered. Panic gripped me the moment I tried to move and couldn’t until the horrible reality of my world crashed back in on my hazy mind.
My gaping mouth opened on a mute scream as a spasm of throbbing pain hit me between my ass cheeks.
Unable to move my head, I tried to figure out what was happening.
“Yeah, bet you like this in your ass. Don’t you, whore?”
There was another sharp spasm of pain as I felt John’s knuckles brush the underside of my ass. He was pushing something thick and hard inside me. Inside my ass.
Oh god. It hurt.
My body rocked forward as he pushed, harder and harder, till whatever it was lodged in deep. I felt stretched wide and open. Vulnerable.
“Look at how your ass just swallowed that up,” said John as he slapped my right cheek.
The momentary pain of my skin did nothing to detract from the throbbing pain in my abused asshole.
John rose. I could hear a loud clink as he threw his beer bottle into the garbage. There was a soft click and the room plunged into darkness. I could hear his footsteps recede, then the closing of a door.
I was left alone in the darkness. Again.
This time flung over the armrest of a sofa. Naked with something painfully protruding from my body. Completing my humiliation was the fact that I didn’t even know what was causing the searing ache. I remember he once tried to shove a beer bottle in me. Is that what it was? A beer bottle?
I didn’t even think it was possible for a man to be worse than Steve, but his friend John was worse, much worse.
God, I wish I could cry.
I wish I could feel the wetness of tears on my cheek. I wish I could feel the
slight tickle as they dried. Wish I could feel the brush of my own eyelashes against my fingertips as I tried to swipe the tears away. Wish I could taste the slight tang of salt against my lips.
It’s not enough to just cry. I wanted to feel myself cry. It was especially cruel that this fate would force me to feel some things but not others. Why must I feel so much pain but not the comfort of a release? The comfort of a cry? The strange comfort from hearing your own voice crack from screaming. Even the comfort of an orgasm.
I felt only pain.
Four
The sound of a toilet flushing alerted me John was awake. During the hours he slept, I laid in my discarded position, never given a moment’s respite from the pain of the object cruelly forced into my ass.
“Morning, princess,” sneered John as he bent down to stare into my unblinking eyes. “How about some breakfast?”
His arm stretched over my head. I could feel him grasp the object.
No. No. No!
He wrenched it free with a sharp tug. I cried out in anguish. For a moment I actually imagined the feel of blood trickling down my inner thigh from the trauma.
“Open up!”
Looking down, my vision was filled by the massive black dildo in his fist. The black dildo which had been lodged in my ass the entire night.
Using one hand, he grasped my cheeks, and squeezed. The movement forced my artificial mouth open even wider than usual. He shoved the dildo past my lips.
The rubber scraped along my tongue, causing the dried cum there to flake and powder. I felt his hand palm the back of my head as his right hand gripped the dildo and pushed. Putting his weight into it, he was able to force the obscenely long rubber dick down my throat.
