Vandalized

Vanessa didn't notice anything wrong when she first woke up. She felt a little bit groggier than usual, perhaps; when she surfaced from sleep, it was with a reluctance that left her rubbing her eyes and yawning with an exaggerated sigh. A brief awareness of discomfort brushed against her mind, but she didn't think twice about it--"Must have slept funny," she mumbled to herself as she stumbled out of bed, not considering that the soreness wasn't in her back or her neck but localized quite specifically between her chubby pink thighs. Even waking up without her pajamas didn't register as anything particularly unusual, not when she had a vague memory of a sultry evening in an apartment with air conditioning that wasn't up to the task of dealing with the summer heat.

So it really wasn't until she walked past the floor-length mirror on her way to the bathroom and saw the writing all over her body that Vanessa truly began to wonder what happened to her the night before.

Once she saw herself, Vanessa's eyes popped open from the muzzy slits that had carried her halfway across her tiny one-bedroom apartment to wide, staring orbs of flabbergasted shock. It was everywhere, looping scrawls in a variety of colors and different handwriting with plenty of arrows indicating the exact portion of her anatomy the unknown writer referred to. She couldn't even take it all in at first--there was just so much of it, and so much of it was vulgar and perverted and frankly sick, that Vanessa's brain simply locked up. She didn't know how to process it. She didn't know where it came from or how it got there or why she couldn't remember anyone tracing it onto her skin.

But she knew how to get rid of it. With a roar of disgusted frustration, Vanessa marched into the bathroom and grabbed a white washcloth. She soaked it with warm water and squeezed a dollop of her favorite body wash into the fabric, then went back out into the hallway to try to scrub off the perverted graffiti that covered her skin. Vanessa had never been so grateful to be living alone in her entire life--she would have been mortified if anyone had seen her like this, even someone who was accustomed to the sight of her naked body. (Which was exactly nobody.)

But... but it must have been somebody, mustn't it? The thought haunted Vanessa, even as she scrubbed vigorously away at the words 'CUM TARGET' written on each of her ample breasts just above the bullseyes drawn around her nipples. Someone had to have seen her completely nude like this to vandalize her body so thoroughly--possibly multiple somebodies, judging by all the different handwriting involved. Vanessa didn't recognize any of it, but she didn't really expect to; she didn't know anyone who would write on her like this, especially not--

Especially not in fucking indelible fucking ink! Vanessa let out another infuriated growl, bearing down so hard with the washcloth that she scrubbed her light pink skin to a deep, blushing rose hue. It didn't help. Whatever they used wasn't coming off at all; when Vanessa flipped over the folded pad of fabric, she could see that not so much as a smear of dark color had rubbed into the white terry cloth. Which meant that until she could figure out exactly what removed this, this filth, she was stuck looking like this. She would have to go to work looking like--

Well, no. No, naturally she wouldn't. It was plainly impossible. Even if she somehow decided to abandon all her dignity, Vanessa couldn't walk into the office with 'WH' written on her right cheek and 'RE' scrawled across her left, not if she wanted to keep her job. Reluctantly, she returned to the bedroom and called the absentee line, leaving a voicemail that said she'd developed car troubles and would be delayed coming in. Then she went back into the bathroom and got the rubbing alcohol.

She tried not to look at herself while she soaked the washcloth, but it was impossible not to see everything that had been written on her. Some wag had drawn a gas gauge on her forehead, with little marks for 'FULL', '1/2 TANK', and 'EMPTY SLUT'. The needle hovered, of course, just below the empty mark. Another vandal had written 'TITS FOR USE' along her belly, with helpful arrows pointing up to clarify for the potentially confused which parts of her anatomy it referred to. Vanessa couldn't wait to wipe it all away forever and forget it ever happened.

Only she wouldn't, would she? Not so long as she still wondered who did it. Not so long as she still wondered how she so completely failed to notice someone coming into her apartment, into her bedroom while she slept and rolling her onto her back to tag her skin so thoroughly with filthy and perverted graffiti. Vanessa wouldn't sleep well again until she got to the bottom of this particular mystery, and that meant... as much as she absolutely hated to admit it... she needed to document every bit of her body's vandalization. With a reluctant, frustrated sigh, she went back into her room and grabbed her smart phone.

Within moments, she was cataloguing each and every one of the bits of smut written across her body. She snapped a photo of herself from the eyes up, brushing her long dark hair back from her forehead and trying hard not to look upwards at the graffiti she knew was written there. She failed entirely--the picture showed her with her eyes rolled so far back that only the whites could be seen--but she didn't care. Nobody was ever going to see these. They were for her own benefit, a reminder of what the handwriting looked like so that if she ever happened to spot someone who scrawled out something in a similar fashion, she could compare the evidence without having to rely on her own imperfect memory.

She opened her mouth a little to help puff out her chubby cheeks, then snapped a photo from the eyes down with the 'WH' and the 'RE' plainly centered by her curving lips. Oh. Of course. That was supposed to be the 'O', wasn't it. Because she was apparently a whore. She was sure someone got quite a kick out of that little joke, especially since that particular lingual pose looked a good deal like she was preparing to--

Vanessa blinked heavily, staring at the picture as something not quite a memory flashed through her head. She recalled a sensation, something warm and thick and delightfully firm sliding back and forth against her lips... but there was no context to it, nothing to ground it to a moment, and she couldn't hold on to it for long. It just felt... it was... Vanessa shook her head violently, brushing the stray thought from her mind. Nothing like that had ever happened to her. She would remember.

Only... only that was what she thought about the writing, too, and that was clear and obvious and inescapably real, wasn't it? Vanessa would swear that nobody could have done this without her conscious awareness, even her participation although that was clearly impossible, and yet she knew that she spent an unremarkable night watching television before she went straight to bed and fell asleep. Nobody visited, nobody called--Vanessa didn't even know who would stop by, anyway. She'd only been in Sacramento for a few months, and the only person she had even a passing acquaintance with was her next-door neighbor. There certainly wasn't anyone she trusted enough to let into her home.

And yet. And yet here she was, taking a picture of her heavy, dangling breasts, trying to get them perfectly in frame so she could see the vulgar phrase 'CUM TARGET' written onto them. Vanessa could still feel the warm, soapy water drying off of her skin where she had scrubbed so ineffectually earlier, giving her the strangest sensation of deja vu for reasons she couldn't possibly articulate. How had all this happened? Had she forgotten to lock her door? Had someone come in with a chloroform-soaked rag and drugged her into limp, insensate slumber before they and their gang of, of, of hooligans scrawled their perverted filth all over her?

No. No, it couldn't be. Even as Vanessa took a photo of her bullseyed tits, catching the arrows and the graffiti on her pooched belly, she knew that couldn't be the answer. Chloroform, rohypnol, even valium had lingering physical aftereffects, and Vanessa felt fine. A bit groggy, a bit sore, but nothing like she would have felt the morning after being forcibly drugged with a high enough dose to sleep straight through something like this. There had to be some other explanation. She just hadn't found it yet, that was all.

Vanessa got down on her hands and knees, facing away from the mirror and carefully angling the phone to get a full view of her own backside. Of course they hadn't spared this particular portion of her anatomy the full childish treatment--she could read 'SLAVE HOLE IS BEST HOLE' written in a wide, looping scrawl all the way down her back, with a final arrow that ended just below her tail bone. Each of her buttocks had words written on it as well, a 'SPREAD' on the left cheek and a 'ME' on the right, and Vanessa felt a strange kind of numb dismay as she realized that her asshole was one of the places that felt ever so slightly sore.

Had she... had they....? She struggled hard to reconstruct her evening, more desperate than ever to find some shred of memory that might explain what happened to her, but it all just seemed so resolutely normal. Vanessa got home from work, she said hello to her neighbor as she walked across the little courtyard that separated the square of apartments, she went inside her own little place and kicked off her shoes. She warmed up the leftover chicken curry from last night while she checked her email, and then she--and then she--

And then she watched a TV show. And then she went to bed. That was it. That was all she needed to remember.

Only of course it wasn't. It absolutely wasn't, because Vanessa had writing down each thigh that said, 'THIS WAY TO THE SLUT HOLE' and she sure as hell knew that she didn't write it on herself. It wasn't there the day before, it was most definitely there now, and Vanessa knew perfectly well what her own handwriting looked like even if she had somehow dropped into one of those absurd Hollywood thrillers where the protagonist was the architect of her own misfortunes all along. And besides, she couldn't have written something on her own back. Only the hackiest of screenwriters would have put that into a story.

Which meant that someone must--absolutely must--have done it to her. Someone shaved her pubic mound and wrote 'INSERT COCK HERE' onto it, just above her plump pink labia. Someone must have spread her thighs wide and pulled her legs back so they could scribble 'I GET WET WHEN I'M USED' along her perineum and the little bare space just below her buttocks. Someone did it all to her, and Vanessa didn't know who or why or how. She took the photos anyway, just in case she was missing something. It was important to document every single bit of it.

Once she was finished, she slowly, hesitantly spread her pussy lips, inspecting herself for any sign of... of... Vanessa's mind refused to let her complete that sentence. She didn't see anything, but then again she didn't quite know what she was looking for. Like her memories of the previous evening, everything seemed so resolutely normal that she doubted the possibility of any kind of unusual activity despite the clear and obvious evidence to the contrary. Still, she had to be absolutely certain. She had to dig a little deeper. It was embarrassing, it was always embarrassing, but she needed to feel her way inside and confirm.

A-always? The word nagged at Vanessa's consciousness, even as her fingers sank into her slick pussy and began to explore the deep channel that led into the recesses of her cunt. She, she didn't always. This didn't, this hadn't--there wasn't an always, there was nothing to be always about. This had never happened before. Vanessa came home every night, watched a television show, and then went to bed. That was her routine. That was her normal, everyday routine and she didn't need to question it. She didn't need to think about it. She didn't need to think about anything except for her rubbing, thrusting digits that were finally beginning to caress her throbbing clit.

But. But she had to be absolutely certain, didn't she? She had to dig a little deeper. She had to confirm the truth inside her mind. Slowly, languidly, Vanessa brought her phone up to her face and began to look through her photo album, her thrusting fingers and leaking cunt fading into the background as she stared in blank incomprehension at the pictures that she found.

It was her. It was her again and again, morning after morning, eyes rolled back in her head and her body covered in perverted graffiti. 'MASTER'S FUCK VALLEY'. 'SLUT'S UDDERS'. 'FILL THIS HOLE'. 'OWNED FUCKTOY'. 'PROPERTY OF MASTER'. 'CUM JUNKIE'. 'HYPNOTIZED WHORE'. 'COVER ME WITH JIZZ'. 'I LOVE BEING USED'. 'BREED THIS BITCH'. 'FUCK ME'. 'USE ME'. 'I DON'T NEED TO THINK ANYMORE'. So many different phrases, so many different hands writing them, so many times she must have taken these same photos and forgotten. How, how could it have... how?

It simply broke Vanessa's mind. The absolute incomprehension, the total and complete inability to accept the evidence of her own eyes forced Vanessa's consciousness back into a fugue state where only the pleasure between her legs mattered. She willingly, eagerly, cheerfully embraced her own conditioning rather than believe that she'd been reduced to a compliant needy slut night after night after night for a crowd of strangers, and her eyes went blank and glassy as she masturbated the awareness of her brainwashing away. Just like she did every morning. Just like her owners wanted her to all along.

Vanessa tapped on the latest batch of photos, automatically and unthinkingly selecting them to send to her boss at the office. She never thought about the excuses she made every morning, never wondered why they were accepted so uncritically by her co-workers. She didn't even notice that most of them lived right near her apartment. She simply came home, watched a television show, and went to bed at the end of the night.

Nobody ever asked her what show she watched. She wouldn't have been able to answer them.

At long last, after multiple orgasms that drove every last thought out of her head, Vanessa sat up. She calmly, mechanically cleaned off the writing with rubbing alcohol, leaving her skin smooth and fresh and untouched. And then, blinking herself back to awareness, she got up and went to take a long hot shower before heading in to the office for another day at work.

THE END