The Legacy of Damien Denzel

[roped_wrists]

The Legacy of Damien Denzel


This is a work of fiction.


I awaken with a start. The last thing I remember is a shadow standing over my bed holding a rag over my mouth and a sickly-sweet smell chemical smell. As soon as I come to I feel like I'm still there, fighting to stay conscious despite the overpowering fumes.

But I'm not there any more. I lay curled up in the back seat of a car. My wrists and ankles are bound with soft nylon rope and a strip of duct tape covers my mouth. The blanket from my bed is wrapped around my body like a cocoon, my head poking out one end and my feet poking out the other; lengths of rope are bound around my knees and upper-abdomen to keep the wrap tight. Terrified I sit up, bracing on my bound fists, watching streetlights pass. All I hear on the radio is —riot last night at Winchester Pen— before the radio goes silent. The hard, icy barrel of a gun presses against the underside of my chin.

"Lay down and be quiet."

"Mmmmph?!" I turn to the driver, who still wears a black ski mask. We pull up to a red light and he turns around to face me, holding the gun steady. His eyes are cold and narrowed--and somehow familiar.

"This is a stolen car. I have no problem decorating the interior with your brains." Trembling, I lay down in the seat. We start moving forward again.

I take a moment to survey the situation but with so many unanswered questions--and the chloroform still playing tricks with my mind--it's like putting together a puzzle without all the pieces. One minute I was sleeping soundly, the next I was being abducted. My family is wealthy so my kidnapper probably intends to ransom me. That means I'm worth more to him alive than dead. I run my bare toes over the lock of the door opposite my head but refrain from making a break for it. For one I probably wouldn't fare well tumbling down the road at forty-five miles per hour; for two, there are lots of rich families with daughters ripe for ransom. I'm valuable, sure, but in this situation I'm not exactly one-of-a-kind. For the time being it’s better to go along with the situation and bide my time.

I don't know where we are or how long I've been unconscious, and I don't recognize the city we leave, nor do I recognize the wooded area into which we travel. The road turns to dirt under the tires.

My kidnapper kills the engine and exits the car, rounding the bumper and pulling open the rear passenger door. "Time to go."

"Mmmmph!" I cry out into the gag as he manhandles me out of the car and slings me over his shoulder. With my hands tied behind my back it's impossible to lift my head much, but through the veil of long brown hair cascading around my face I get a feel for our location. He's toting me toward a single-story cabin situated in the center of a small, claustrophobic clearing. The woods appear thick to begin with but the moonless night has darkened them to the point of solid blackness.

I squirm helplessly as he carries me up the porch and into the cabin. The interior is pitch black but the smell of rot, mold, and cobwebs is unmistakable. He carries me upstairs, each step crackling and threatening to snap beneath every footfall.

My kidnapper lights a lantern at the top of the stairs with an orange Bic. After baking in the mid-June sun all day the attic is like an oven, and being wrapped up in the blanket is doing me no favors. The attic is empty except for an old bare mattress resting on the floor. The floor is dotted with small piles though it's too dark for me to make out what details. With a grunt he drops me off his shoulder and onto the mattress.

I curl up against the angled ceiling, trembling with fear. Sweat dribbles down my brow as I watch my captor move about the attic, silently lighting lanterns. "Mmmmph." I squirm, hoping to draw my captor's attention. It's getting hot as hell in here and a glass of water would be nice. Being held for ransom is thirsty work.

Upon finishing with the lanterns, my captor turns and pulls a knife from his belt. I swallow hard and freeze, staring up at him. "Pretty warm. Probably because there's such a hot little minx in here." He pulls off his mask and comes at me with the knife.

"Mm!" I squeal and flop onto my side. He slices the ropes around my knees and chest and unfolds the blanket, laying it across the mattress. My sleeping gear is soaked with sweat. My t-shirt, several sizes too large for me, clings to my skin and my underwear is drenched. My face goes red when I realize that the absence of a bra has made my chest visible through the thin white fabric.

My captor puts away the knife, setting me somewhat at ease. As he pulls me up into a sitting position against a nearby support post I can't help but notice his face. Not just his eyes are familiar; I've seen him before somewhere. But where? He's not someone I know personally and he's too young to be one of my friends' fathers. I'd be all-too-happy to subscribe to the 'stranger' theory if I wasn't dead certain I'd seen him before. In any case--

"MMM!" Feeling a rope tightening around my neck snaps me back to reality. What the hell is going on?

"Stay put." The man stands erect and starts down the stairs. I wince as the rope grates my soft throat. It wraps around my neck and the post, keeping me upright and tethered in place. On top of that I'm bound hand and foot, sitting in a cabin miles from civilization. Where does he think I'm going to go? Helpless, I listen to my kidnapper stroll outside. The car door opens, closes, and he re-enters the cabin. He closes the door at the base of the attic stairs and I hear a deadbolt close.

"Let's get down to business," he says, holding up a small camera as he crests the top of the stairs. "Don't smile. Cry a little bit for brownie points." He brings the camera to his face.

[roped_wrists]

It's a humiliating moment--here I sit in my in a t-shirt and panties: bound, gagged, and leashed to a pole while my kidnapper eagerly photographs me. He shows me some of the pictures. My hair is a mess, clinging to my sweat-covered forehead in long hooks, and leftover mascara runs down my cheeks in thin streams. He's a terrible photographer to boot; three of the pictures are taken from such a low angle that they're just photos of the bottoms of my feet. Another one is zoomed in so far on my chest, the viewer can't even tell it's me.

He sets the camera aside and stretches. Without a word he sits on the mattress and begins rubbing my calf. "You have some really nice flesh."

It's an awkward compli--

What did he just say?

It hits me all of a sudden. I know why I recognize him. He looks exactly like someone I saw on the news about five years earlier nicknamed the Sussex Prowler, who kidnapped and raped eleven women over the course of a six month period. They finally caught him one night after pulling him over for speeding and finding a teenage girl bound and gagged in the trunk. The next day it was revealed that the Sussex Prowler's true name was Damien Denzel. Six of his eleven victims showed up at his hearing and made sure he got a twenty-year sentence.

One of his victims was Rose LaBlane, daughter of senator Rebecca LaBlane. As Damien left the courthouse and a mob of journalists swamped him, one of them asked: Why did you abduct Rose LaBlane? to which Denzel replied, Because she had some really nice flesh. That was the last thing he said to the world before going to Winchester Penitentiary; he never even revealed where he committed all of his unspeakable acts.

My kidnapper looks and awful lot like him and I start to wonder if my kidnapper is Denzel's brother. Maybe this isn't about money? But they're leveraging me against Denzel's freedom? The prospect unnerves me. If that's the case, I'm not as valuable. While I don't think the authorities are going to completely abandon me, they surely aren't going to give up Damien Denzel without a fight. Whatever the case, it's out of my hands. The photographs of me imprisoned will surely get the ball rolling.

"I want to feel your lips on me," my kidnapper growls, turning to look me in the eye.

Like a kiss? Hell no! You kidnapped me!

"I want to see what that pretty mouth is capable of. You ready to show me?"

I shake my head. There's no way in hell I'm kissing a criminal.

"Good."

Good?

My kidnapper stands up and takes off his shirt. I swallow hard. What's he doing?

He kicks off his shoes and they tumble off to the side, near one of the piles. With the light better now, I discern that it's a pair of small white ankle socks. Behind them is a pair of ripped denim short-shorts. I furrow my brow. What are all these clothes doing here? Sure enough, the floor is littered with piles of clothes--some intact, most ripped. There are shirts, shorts, jeans, skirts, socks, bras--and panties.

...Ohmigod.

My kidnapper pulls down his pants and boxers, releasing his straining hard-on. "It's been a long time since a hot little minx sucked my dick. We're gonna fix that tonight."

Ohmigod it's him! It's Damien Denzel! I look around at the clothes littering the floor like the ghosts of women that found themselves trapped and alone in this very room. This is where he raped all those girls!

Denzel sits on the edge of the mattress with his back to me, scooping up my bound ankles and holding them against his hip with one arm and leaving my heels resting on his bare, sweaty thigh. He runs his fingernail up and down the sole of my right foot. "I'm gonna tickle these pretty feet until you suck my dick!"

He makes good on his word. Restrained to the point of immobilization, I can only sit helplessly as he digs his fingernails into the undersides of my feet. It's easy to resist at first--it's hard to have a sense of humor after realizing an escaped rapist is holding me captive miles from home--but it’s like the more I try to resist to the torture, the more effective it becomes. It's not as though he's desperate--time is completely on his side--and the knowledge that he could (and from the looks of it, will) torture me all night and delight in doing so creates a sort of eroding effect. Eventually I buckle, squealing into the gag and kicking helplessly, wiggling my feet around.

"Atta girl! Give me a good fight!"

Fighting seems futile. The ropes binding me are too tight and wet with sweat to boot. We're in the middle of the woods in a cabin that hasn't been found in five years and isn't likely to be discovered any time soon. I scream. My torturer loves it. Nobody else hears it.

Half an hour after I resolve to submit, Denzel turns around to look at me. His cock stands straight up, visibly slick with sweat, his pubic hair matted to his crotch. Torturing me has ignited a primal, animalistic lust in his eyes. "Ready to suck my dick?"

[roped_wrists]

Exhausted, I nod. His eyes light up and he tosses my feet aside, plucking the knife from his pants and slicing the rope around my neck. I fall to the mattress, my throat light red with rope burns. Denzel lifts me up by my hair until I'm kneeling upright, leaving his genitals at eye-level. The tape leaves my cheeks with a resounding 'snap'.

"Please...I--"

He grabs me by the mouth and tilts my head back. "If I wanted to hear you talk, I wouldn't have taped those pretty lips in the first place. Now shut the fuck up and suck my dick!"

I wince as he jerks my head toward his crotch. His loins reek of male muskiness and stale sweat. Fluid dribbles from the tip and his swollen balls sway between his legs like a pendulum. "Okay...okay..." I gasp.

He jerks my head again. "Do it!"

Grimacing, I lean forward and accept a rapist's penis into my mouth. Being abducted from bed in the middle of the night, bound, and gagged is bad enough. Throw in being forced to fellate a stranger and the situation escalates to worse. But knowing that the penis in my mouth belongs to a man whose sole thought is of my vagina? Knowing that the penis has been forced between the legs of (at least) eleven women?

"I'm going to rape you, girl..." Denzel growls. "I haven't fucked a bitch in five years. You know why I broke out last night? Because the blue balls got to be too much. I'm going to rape you until I've made up for all that lost time. Or until you die. I might go ahead and rape you to death."

"Mmmnnn!" Teardrops dribble down my cheek. All I can hope is that this is a fit of temporary insanity. All of Denzel's victims were found worse for the wear but alive. Surely he's just overwhelmed with sexual desire and talking crazy, right? It's like sexual arousal overload. All I need to do is keep sucking, and he'll come in my mouth. Then he'll relax a bit. He's already getting close to--

"Fuck!" He withdraws from my mouth, leaving me coughing and sputtering. "All this talk about rape is making me horny!"

"Oh God!" I squeal as he throws me to the side and picks up his knife. "Let me go!" I'm reduced to screaming now. "Let me go!"

"Hold still!" He slices away at my shirt until it falls away in tatters. He throws it off to the side and pulls my underwear down my legs.

"I'm a human being! You can't treat me like this!"

Denzel slices my ankles free and pulls off my panties. "Scream, you cunt! Scream!"

"Help me! Someone help me!" In the corner of my eye I see Damien pluck the socks from the floor. "HELLLLP M--UGH"

He stuffs them in my mouth and pulls a length of my shredded t-shirt between my teeth, knotting it at the back of my head to keep the socks in place. Kicking, I roll back and forth. When I roll onto my side, Denzel is taking pictures of me.

"Unnnh! Mmmmmm!"

He kicks me fully onto my back. "Spread your legs! Let's see that pretty cunt."

I clench my thighs and shake my head, glaring at him. He can tickle me all he wants but this time, I'm not budging.

He lowers the camera. "You'll be unconscious sooner or later. I'll get my pictures then." Setting the camera aside, he reaches to his cock and jerks it a few times. Milky white precum practically squirts from the tip. "But I'd rather it be sooner than later. I want my pictures of that soft cunt. So how about instead of raping you to death, I rape you unconscious?"

The attack is so swift and brutal, I don't have a chance to defend myself. As he nears, I lift my feet to kick but my bound hands leave me without any balance. He brushes my feet aside and before I can roll over, he pulls me onto my back and pins my thighs with his knee. It's obvious that he's attempting to wedge my legs open so I clench, until a fist collides with my face. Dazed and seeing stars I recoil. The blow jars me enough to faulter and his knee slips between my thighs.

His other leg is quick to follow.

"I want to hear you scream, girl!"

"MMMMM! NNNNNN!"

Denzel poises the head of his cock against my pussy and leans down on me, grabbing my naked breasts to support himself. I stare up at him, at Damien Denzel, the man on television five years prior for raping eleven women. And here I lay. He'd broken out of prison, stolen a car and kidnapped me. He needed to celebrate his freedom and chose to do so by binding me, gagging me, stripping and torturing me, forcing me to fellate him--and finally raping me.

"Unnnh!" Denzel clutches my slick breasts in a deathgrip as he shoves his cock deep inside me.

I'm vaguely aware of my surroundings when it happens. I’m distantly aware that there's an excruciating pain between my legs and it feels like my breasts are being torn from my chest. I hear myself screaming and Denzel egging me on. I see torn clothes all around me, the same as before only with the addition of a white t-shirt and panties. How many women after me will be brought to this house of horrors, and realize they're in the clutches of Damien Denzel--the man who raped eleven (excuse me, twelve) women?

Things go blurry and when they become clear again, I'm laying on my back. My legs are spread wide and Denzel is situated between my thighs, snapping pictures. Hot, sticky fluid dribbles from my pussy and between my asscheeks to the blanket in a stream.

"I'm just getting started," Denzel hisses, setting the camera aside and tying my ankles. Dazed, I watch quietly. "That was foreplay. You have a fun cunt."

"Mmmpph!" I squeal weakly as he grips me by the hair and pivots me, tossing my head near the post.

"Shut the fuck up. You'll have plenty of time to scream later. I got some pictures of your asshole while you were out." He loops rope around my throat and ties it off to the post. "It looks tight. I'm going to fuck you up the ass later. Make no mistake baby," he grabs me by the jaw and turns my gaze to him. "You got some really nice flesh. I might actually rape you to death."

With that he heads downstairs. I collapse on the mattress in the flickering lantern light, sobbing softly. My wrists, ankles, and throat are rope-burned. My nose is stuffy but the socks jammed in my mouth are loose enough to let air through. The rope around my neck is too soft and flexible for me to strangle myself. I have no means of escaping, nor any means of ending my life. All I can do is lay there, restrained and naked, waiting for Damien Denzel to rape me again.

The one source of comfort here is the blanket I slept upon a lifetime ago, but even that isn't sacred any more. It's covered in our sweat, my tears, and his ejaculate. Broken I lay helpless and alone, the twelfth chapter in the legacy of Damien Denzel.