Dr. Allen's New Patient Ch. 04

After an uneventful and unfruitful evening searching for Damian, Dr. Allen reluctantly renounced that his efforts were becoming futile, resolving to return the next Sunday morning instead. He would resume his hunt for Damian then.

That Sunday morning was a crisp, bright one; at least it was at eight o'clock in the morning; scarcely a car on the street, nor a soul on the sidewalk. Dr. Allen kicked himself now, realizing he should have surmised Sunday morning would have provided a much easier backdrop to seek out Sally's guy, compared to the backdrop of an evening after a long, tiring work day.

After a couple of hours of scouring several alleyways, Dr. Allen at last located Damian's little hide-way. He knew he had found the right place by spotting the empty whiskey bottles, old wooden crates, crumpled up newspapers, cardboard boxes, and old weathered blankets with different designs on them, long-ago faded.

He also knew he had found the right place as Dr. Allen observed the sleeping man who looked around forty-something, tall and thin, lying in the alleyway. He had medium-length brown hair, which was greasy and messy, and peppered with gray around the temples. Unlike other transients, Damian was clean-shaven, except of course, for the morning stubble on his lower face and neck. As to be expected, his makeshift home reeked of urine and booze, just like Sally had described in her therapy sessions.

Dr. Allen couldn't see Damian's eyes yet because the man was still sleeping. But he could indeed imagine Sally being overwhelmed with girlish delight by this quite attractive man, especially if he had the striking green eyes she so often pointed out.

Dr. Allen was able to look beyond Damian's torn and tattered clothes and dirty appearance. He could easily see the physical charm that had been able to seize Sally. He saw it in the man currently lying asleep in front of him.

Dr. Allen eyed a few ants, roaches, and rats crawling around in the damp, cluttered alleyway. And he guessed the putrid water on the ground originated from broken water pipes inside the brick building adjacent to the alley. It wasn't exactly the perfect picture of health.

**********

Sitting at the student desk in his bedroom, Vincent looked out the window, struggling to concentrate on the work that lay in front of him. After sitting in the same position for the past few hours, he decided it had become somewhat stuffy in his room, and wondered if he should open the window to get some fresh air.

It was August, and with the humidity in recent weeks, coupled with the countless shrubbery around the house, mosquitoes and other bugs were tirelessly fluttering nearby, sometimes making their way into the house, especially when the windows were open. No, he thought, he wouldn't let the insects get in, as they would no doubt distract him further from finishing his paper. He decided to open his door instead. That should let in some fresh air from the rest of the big house.

As soon as he opened his bedroom door, Vincent smelled the agreeable aroma coming from the kitchen downstairs. However, it didn't quite smell like one of Mrs. Perry's home-cooked concoctions. "Who could be cooking at this hour?" he wondered. It was way past dinnertime, and he even recalled seeing Mrs. Perry clean up everyone's kitchen table mess that evening. He had even seen her put away all the pots and pans, and all the dishes and plates for the night.

The smell emanating from the kitchen was chicken soup or a poultry broth of some sort, and it smelled amazing. Not that Vincent could afford to take a break from working on the first draft of his thesis paper; the one he needed to email to his Graduate Studies advisor by 8 am the next morning. So, initially thinking he could go downstairs to see if he could get a bowl of the delicious-smelling soup from whoever had cooked it, he just as quickly reminded himself, "Dude, you don't need any more distractions, not until you finish that thesis draft and turn it in".

About half an hour later, Vincent felt completely stiff from sitting slouched in his chair. He got up to stretch for a few minutes, and then to make a quick trip down the hall to the bathroom. Upon walking back to his room, however, Vincent could no longer ignore the delicious chicken aroma floating upstairs from the kitchen. He decided to take a little detour downstairs and peek in at what it was that was making the whole house smell so good. He quietly reached downstairs, and found the kitchen lights turned off, as was the rest of the first floor. Vincent then flicked on the lights and immediately spotted a big pot covered with a clear lid on the stove. Sure enough, when he lifted the lid, he observed some sort of stew containing chicken, rice, and vegetables. He guessed there were a few spices and seasonings added to it as well, which put a slightly red-orange tinge to the soup. Vincent looked around the kitchen, and noticed the rest of it was as spotless as Mrs. Perry had left it a few hours earlier.

**********

After having been gone a while, Sally finally arrived back in town from weeks of being away taking care of her aunt. After she unpacked and settled back into her bedroom, she was busy trying to think of some ideas to surprise her lover with something special; something to make up for her absence, since she hadn't had the chance to tell him beforehand that she'd be gone. Sally resolved to cook him something scrumptious, and take it over to him on her next visit.

A few nights later, she put on a pretty dress since it was summertime. Since the weather was such that she didn't need to bundle up, there was some leeway as to how she could dress that evening. She would try to look especially nice for Damian. She even put on a nice little scarf with a cute floral pattern on it, to go with the pale rose-colored dress she had chosen for that evening.

Riding in the night-owl bus and looking out the open window, Sally wondered if Damian had missed her as much as she had missed him. The pot of soup ended up being quite heavy to lug around on her trek downtown that night, but no matter. It was well worth it. It was for her guy.

**********

"You good for nothing little WHORE!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, as he slapped her across the face with a force he didn't even know he possessed. It was a force Sally had never felt before from another human being. Damian had hit her so hard, that she fell back and hit the ground without warning. Trying to regain her footing, Sally reached up to hold her left cheek, which already started feeling red and swollen. She was completely taken aback by Damian's actions. Before she had time to think about it, let alone get up off the ground, Damian grabbed her by the hair with one hand, and with the other, pulled her dress open down her back. He carelessly ripped out numerous dress buttons along the way.

Damian had built up so much anger and frustration over the last weeks of not seeing Sally, that he had long ago vowed to punish her. Tonight, he would use the switch he kept in the crate next to his sleeping area. He would wield it on Sally the moment he saw her again. He also reached for an old extension cord he kept in the crate. This he would use to tie her up and teach her a lesson she would not soon forget.

As the long twig cut through Sally's delicate skin, tears rolled down her cheeks. She whimpered uncontrollably. Try as she might, Sally couldn't break her wrists free from the old extension cord Damian had used to keep her in place while he doled out her punishment.

"Please, please Damian!" she implored him. But he was now a madman, the whiskey having totally overtaken his senses and normal reasoning.

"You were talking to other men! I know it, you worthless little slut!" he accused her with a load of jealous rage in his voice.

"No, no Damian, there's no one else. I've never..." she struggled to tell him, but he wasn't listening. Damian was a crazed man whose even-keeled rationale left him as soon as he'd taken one too many swigs from his bottle of Black Label, the cheapest Johnny Walker he could get his hands on.

With every gash his switch inflicted on her back, Damian's dick grew harder and harder. And the more she screamed from the physical and psychological pain he was causing, the more his cock became a throbbing organ of blind sexual desire. He now felt a deep yearning to fuck the shit out of Sally. He was gonna fuck her silly. He was gonna fuck her senseless.

"You deserve to be punished. I'm gonna fuck the hell out of you, you dirty little cunt!"

Damian left her wrists tied to the rusty supermarket cart that overflowed with old magazines he'd accumulated over the years. Sally was crying hysterically now, her face soaking wet from tears of despair. Her lover, who had once said she was the best thing that ever happened to him, was now spewing ugly profanities and accusations at her.

"Tell me! Tell me which good for nothing bastard you were flirting with, you sneaky little whore!"

"No one Damian, no one... You're the only one, I swear..." she mustered between gasps and screams.

"Like hell I am! I know you've been fucking everything in pants, you little slut! You've been shaking your ass around town like a bitch in heat! It's everything for everybody!

That's why you were gone so long!"

Sally's dress, which Damian had already pulled open to fully expose her back for the whipping, was then pulled all the way down to the ground. Damian then yanked her white cotton panties down, and fervently shoved his fully erect, raging cock deep inside her. Sally let out a high-pitched scream upon his huge cock entering and stretching out her pussy.

Damian was completely deranged at this point, thinking only of satisfying his vengeful urge to break Sally; to break her will, to break her heart, and even to break her hips with his insatiable cock. He wanted to hurt her as much as he had been hurt by her recently, when she had abandoned him for many weeks, in favor of other men. With what seemed like only a handful of thrusts, he suddenly climaxed, and then froze for a few seconds, before finally grunting loudly into the night air.

A few minutes later, after efforts to stare up at the night sky to make sense of what he had just done, Damian fell asleep. He had used up so much energy yelling at Sally, whipping Sally, and fucking the hell out of Sally, that by the time he ejaculated, he was completely spent.

**********

Still in a state of shock as well as anguish, Sally now faced the ordeal of making the trek back home in her newly-acquired state. At this point, she looked like a zombie. She had a dead, expression-less look on her face, and she was so exhausted, she could barely walk. Now she only had one thought on her mind: getting back home, curling up into a ball, and disappearing for the night.

A little less than an hour later, it was still the middle of the night, and Sally arrived back at the boarding house. She was in quite a state, alright. Instead of feeling her usual "elated" after a visit to her lover, tonight she was a hot mess, both emotionally and physically. Her hair and face had long been soaked with tears, her eyes puffy from crying so much, and her back full of cuts still oozing blood; although her coat hid most of the havoc Damian had so mercilessly wreaked on her body that night.

When Sally opened the front door to the huge Victorian house, she absent-mindedly stepped in and shut the door behind her. Vincent was still awake upstairs in his room. He had heard someone enter the house, but assumed it was Mary, who he figured was home late from a hot date.

Sally found it a little daunting climbing up the stairs to the second floor. Her back was burning. It felt like it was on fire. When she reached the second-floor bathroom, she put her purse down on the floor, and looked for some body wipes, cotton swabs, anti-septic, and Neosporin. Near the sink, she found a hand mirror, and, holding it up to face the bathroom mirror at a specific angle over her shoulder, tried to look at her back. She gasped in terror upon seeing the slashes on her once smooth skin. The blood oozing from her cuts made her backside look like an artist's canvas which contained random brush strokes like those on a Jackson Pollock painting.

She would take quite a few minutes to try her best not to start crying again and carefully clean up the mess on her back. The simple pink dress she had worn that night was now almost a solid blood red, and the cotton panties didn't escape the blood bath entirely either, so she ran them both under hot water with copious amounts of hand soap to help wash away the blood. Although she was surprisingly successful at restoring the dress and panties to their original pale colors, she wouldn't be that lucky with her coat, whose fabric was heavier in material. It would need more elbow grease to clean it, or she just might have to take it to the dry cleaners.

After Sally cleaned up as best as she could, she slowly made her way down the hall to her room. She opened and shut her bedroom door as quietly as possible, but Vincent still heard her. At that moment, he looked at his watch and raised an eyebrow, puzzled as to what would make a nice girl like Sally come home this late at night.

**********

"He's my man, and I'll never give him up", Sally declared fiercely.

"After what he did to you, you can still say that?" Dr. Allen questioned her, trying not to sound incredulous or judgmental.

He had reached success, finally. He had gotten Sally to explain the welts on her back. Although what he had said exactly to make Sally open up about the issue, Dr. Allen had absolutely no idea. About seven sessions into their therapy, now a while after Abby had contacted him about Sally in the first place, the cat was finally let out of the bag. All he knew was that Sally showed up that afternoon for their usual therapy session, resolved to at last share her feelings about the incident.

"It's not him, Doctor. It's the alcohol; it makes him an entirely different person. When he's not drinking, he's the sweetest man in the world", Sally informed her therapist as convincingly as she could.

Dr. Allen heaved a heavy sigh. Even though he tried to hide it, with slight aggravation, he began, "Look, Sally. I don't think you realize what you're dealing with here. He could have really hurt you, you know that? I mean, this time you got out of it without being hospitalized, but I guarantee you, this won't be the last time he strikes you. And next time, you might not be so lucky. Next time, the whipping could affect your kidneys, and next time if he's not careful..."

Sally cut him off, "Doctor, you don't know Damian. He's really a kind, calm, decent man. It's just that he has a weakness for alcohol when he feels blue, and that's partially my fault. You see, I couldn't go visit him for a few weeks because I was out of town, taking care of my aunt; she was sick. So you see? It was sort of my fault this all happened."

Dr. Allen stared at his young patient with a mixture of disbelief, concern and pity. He wanted to impart his brand of wisdom as well as caution onto Sally, but he had a feeling she wasn't hearing any of it.

He was at least thankful that she finally decided to disclose the reason for the scars on her back; finally.

Sally started up again, "Now that I know how messed up he gets drinking when I'm gone, I'll never do it again." Sally tried to convince herself, as well as her therapist, of the importance of what she just said. She finally added, "Doctor, I've never been treated so nice in my whole life by a man. Damian's all I have. He's the best I can do." Sally was now looking down at her shoes.

Dr. Allen looked down at Sally's shoes as well, and noticed the sole on her right shoe was coming apart. He'd only seen bums and bag ladies with shoes in a state of wear and tear like that. Going off on a tangent, he wondered if Sally was so poor that she could no longer afford decent shoes. The fact of the matter was that Sally had been making so many trips to go see Damian, that her shoes had begun looking more worn than usual.

Still off on his tangent, Dr. Allen then recalled what Sally wore during their previous session: dark pantyhose that had multiple runs in them.

**********

Damian finally woke up in the morning with what seemed like one of the worse hangovers he'd ever had. It was already past noon, as on Saturdays there were very few suits trekking into work in the morning. There was almost no noise on the street to wake him up early in the day.

As memories of what happened the night before flooded through his mind, Damian felt a sharp pang of guilt. Jesus! What had he done? What had he done to his little angel?!?

The shame of what he had inflicted on his sweet Sally suddenly overtook Damian like a tidal wave. Was it he who accused her of being the deceitful, lying, conniving piece of crap that was the worst he had ever seen? Was it he who took pleasure in watching her cry and whimper as his switch cut into her soft flesh? Was it he who violently fucked her from behind while nonchalantly observing the bloody welts on her small back?

Damian knew deep down that a girl like Sally was too loyal and good to even so much as look at another man, let alone flirt with one, let alone fuck one. What the hell was he thinking? Better yet, had he even been thinking at all, with all that Johnny Walker in his system that night?

As he got up to walk down the alley and find a good spot to piss in, Damian caught sight of some type of cloth on the ground. He bent down to pick it up. After focusing for a few seconds, he saw that it was a thin, airy scarf with little flowery designs on it. It was also stained with shoe prints. dirty water, and a few smatterings of blood. Damian again thought back to the night before, when Sally showed up to see him after weeks of being gone. He recalled she was a little more dressed up than usual.

Damian still had the delicate scarf in his hand as he made his way down the alley, now desperately needing to empty his bladder of all the whiskey he'd guzzled the night before. But then his left foot bumped into something heavy that sounded like metal. He looked down to see a medium-sized black pot with a heavy, see-through lid covering it. Opening the tightly-shut lid, he smelled some sort of chicken stew.