Country Comforts

I have been a Rural Service Worker for two years. More aptly, I have survived being a Rural Service Worker for that time, and defied the odds. The life expectancy in this kind of forced labor is somewhat less than that. No, they don't all get killed. Some die from disease. I suppose that is being killed anyway if you are what in the big cities they call a sex trade worker.

Rural Service Workers are, without any cosmetic embellishment, mobile whores who service clients in areas away from cities and, to a great extent, away from towns as well.

No, we did not choose this job. The government decided that it needed to ensure the rural, largely farming communities had access to the alleged benefits of modern society, such as high-speed Internet and women. In this modern world, the introduction of this service was met with derision, and quickly dissolved into just another vote-getting service for the ailing right-wing, which depended on the arch-conservative rural and farm vote for its now tenuous survival.

No, it's not what we do by choice. As usual, the government imposed draconian sentences of women who seemed to meet physical criteria, and then offered us this option. The jails were largely half-way houses on the route to mortality. We chose to be rural whores.

We are provided with a small Japanese SUV, a set of maps, a cellular 'phone and a daily call list. The car is fitted with a transponder – somewhere – and the centre knows where we are, and heaven help us if we do not call in the second we leave the clients house or, frequently, his barn.

Out call list gives full details of the client: how to find him and, the dreaded part, what we might expect. Clients who go overboard are placed on a do not service list and interviewed. 'Overboard' more often that not means a worker is unable to work, by virtue of abuse that means another client would reject her, or she is dead!

The other thing in my SUV is a pretty elaborate medical kit which goes well beyond Band-Aids and witch hazel. And a miniaturized Bible.

Call One: Friday 0900: Parsons Farm

I am glad its mid-May and the weather probably at its best. Being naked in Mr. Wetherby's barn in mid-winter or in the blistering swelter of mid-summer does not seem to bother most clients, accustomed as they are year- round the rigors of the outdoors. But we girls suffer. But we dare not reveal that to a client. That could result in a call to the Center and demerits. Too many demerits warrant a punishment. The punishments are harsh and leave marks.

Mr. Wetherby is rated as a '5'. Clients who are '10' are tops on our list: a man who just wants to fuck and fondle. No quirks. In fact, '5' is now the lowest ranking before the client is stricken from the list or has to pay for the girl and a supervisor. Believe it or not, many will pay to abuse one of us with the supervisor watching. She'll intervene when she thinks it is getting dangerous. The trouble is, and the supervisors agree, by the time the supervisor has seen something hazardous, its too late.

Mr. Wetherby likes to tie us hanging from a beam, whip us a bit then fuck us standing. He is a 'five' because he seems like just another farmer, but is unpredictable. The risk is mine and mine alone. He watched me as I get out of the car and walk towards the barn although its still officially still spring, I am glad of our summer uniform, with the shortest of skirts and almost transparent blouse.

'Good morning, Mr. Wetherby.'

He simply jerks his thumb in the direction of the ladder.

'Up there!'

I climb the ladder, and inwardly curse the high heels on the fancy white sandals that trigger a man's hormones but are useless for farm work!

I climb the ladder and I know he is under me, gazing up at my crotch. Unless otherwise ordered, we wear white thongs. I have several spares in the car.

Its dusty up here, as one expects, surrounded by piles and piles of last year's bumper hay crop. I've been here before, servicing this '5'. I walk to the spot under the beam, taking care to avoid the gaps in the floor boards that seem to attract those heels.

'Turn around a couple of times."

It's customary: the client wants to see what he is getting.

That is almost the last thing he says. From then on his actions speak louder than his words.

I strip, quite slowly. Not a strip-tease, as these people want the titillation but not the artifice. I put my clothes on one of the hay bales and face him, wearing only my sandals.

I can see from the bulge, he will not be inclined towards a leisurely fuck. But he has things he must do.

First, he has to tie my hands in front of me, throw the rope over the beam, and pull my arms well up, tie off the rope. Then and only then does he touch me. Some clients would have had me slip out his cock and suck, but that is not Mr. Wetherby's style.

He selects a piece of rope, and starts to flog me. Not by any means an erotic experience for me, but certainly for him. The blows are not dreadful, just painful and my cries are genuine. My ass will be red, unless I can sooth the welts with witch hazel before I meet my next rural challenge.

He pulls out his cock and plays with it, although that is an entirely needless move, as he is big and hard. The man is a bull.

He fucks me upright, jerking into me, slapping my already painful ass. He takes his time, and his violence means he is moving me about with his thrusts and my hands and arms are screaming for release. I am grunting and crying.

Eventually, he cums. I can actually feel it in my cunt. As he withdraws, and because I am vertical, much drips out, which pleases him. He wipes his cock on my belly, and adjusts his overalls.

The rope is slackened, my wrists, now reddened, are released and I am allowed to dress. I do not put the thong back on.

On the ground, he simply pats me on the back and says something that I conclude is positive.

'Thank you, Mr. Wetherby.'

In the car, I wipe myself, almost feverishly, with the wet towelettes, and when dry put on my second thong of the day. I then press the button on the cell 'phone and simply announce my number and 'Wetherby clear'. We have codes that signal a problem. This was not a problem!

Call Two: Friday 1015: Sheepside

The cute name at the gate is an attempt at rural humor, I suppose. It is the home of a young man with bizarre tastes, and is his home and that of hundreds of purebred sheep. Sheep which occupy him night and day, to the extent he seldom goes into town, has no real social/sexual life. Sheep, and so many of them, are demanding. They get into trouble, and then there are wolves and coyotes nearby, and sometime packs of semi-feral dogs. He keeps both a rifle and a shotgun near at hand.

He is a good-looking young man, with a firm body. Despite the ever-present smell of sheep, and the abundance of lanolin from the wool, he tries to present himself as a lover. As it is, all he wants is a leisurely fuck. Providing his fucking is not accelerated or postponed by a demented ewe.

'Can we do it outside? It's a lovely day.'

Of course, Sir. For some reason, despite knowing he is Bruce Carson, I still like to call him 'Sir' He is almost respectful of me. It's a clumsy way of returning that.

His tastes are bizarre that he likes to be quite gentle, yet make it clear he has the right to humiliate me – which of course he has.

We do it under the bright green of emerging aspen leaves that shimmer in the warm breeze. Naked, I simply lay down. He does the rest, dictating the sequences.

First, it's a simple penetration: the cunt attracts him, shaved as it is. Then, the ass. He likes to do anal, but in neither hole does he cum. Then, withdrawing from my ass, I have to let him mouth-fuck me. Then back to the cunt. Depending on how excited he is that day, the cycle can be repeated. Today, he lunges into my cunt for the second time and, throwing his head back, cums, then collapses on me and we lay there, for quite a while.

Abruptly, having completed his thoughts and restoration, he pulls out and helps me to my feet. I dress, and he chats about the weather, and the price of feed. He walks me to the SUV, actually kisses me and leaves, as I go through my cleansing procedures.

I let Center know. They are a little surprised that I am ready to move on so soon. Some girls have delayed the call in just to get a break. Sometimes they are caught by a marauding supervisor. They are not seen again.

Call Three; Friday 1130: Riverhouse

This is my first lesbian call this month. Mrs. Barbara Kempt is a tall, slim and childless lady, who stays at home and runs a mini-farm which is largely a hobby. She is alone all day as her husband has denied her a car. I have seen her husband – and am glad I do not have to service him. He is a brute of a man who drives a cattle feed truck during the day and humiliates his wife by night.

Our routine is familiar. We shower together, and the process is erotic as it should be. Toweling off, we slip into bed and love each other. I could actually love and spend my life with this lady. She is so sweet. Sadly, the only tenderness and, in fact, the only orgasm she gets is from me. She will not masturbate.

I do all of the work and gladly. I go down on her sweet bush and could spend my day there. She is so responsive. She is just lovely and I cannot for the life of me understand why any man could do this kind of thing to her. Brutal fucking is not sex, nor love. She deserves so much more.

Just holding her and kissing is one of the few joys of my nasty life.

But I always wonder why I am here. The Center only takes service calls from men. The Center knows we are servicing his wife. Is this a special dispensation?

Rural Service Workers do not ask questions.

'Riverhouse clear.'

Call Four: Friday 1245: Rogers Pope and Drill

If there was any way to avoid this next call, I would. But it would be a death sentence. The Center has a zero tolerance policy about this. The only way to avoid a call is death. It's a sort of black humor thing.

Paul Rogers and his partner Kurt Villas run the pipe store and as I drive in, they see me and put up the 'Closed' sign. Farmers coming for drill bits and stuff for well digging will wait an hour in the parking lot. They see my car and know it will be about an hour, and then Rogers and Villas will be in a jovial mood.

The place is filthy as I walk in and they lock the door behind me. We chat pleasantly as I precede them, through to the back of the warehouse where there is a pile of sacks full of soft stuff. I have no idea what might be in the sacks, and they seem to be the same each time. There are marks on them, from me and previous girls. The chatting stops when we get to the sacks. I have assumed that from that point on, I am not worth the effort.

Rogers and Villas like doubling. After a while, they change places. There is a ritual that waits until I have undressed, then one of them will produce a coin and they flip for who goes in the cunt first.

Let me be clear. This is just crude sex stuff. What I would live to avoid is the humiliation. They treat me like a piece of shit, and apart from the fact they are fucking me with vigor, I might as well not be there. I know that sounds strange, but they ignore me. They actually talk to one and other, but never to me. I am, at best, meat.

Villas loses and lies down and I straddle him, and carefully position his cock on my asshole, my love bud. Minutes before I drove in I had stopped and applied lube.

Then he pulls me down and enters me. It hurts. All savage sex hurts, but it is not crucial. Rogers, waving his big cock, kneels and positions himself. Villas hands grasp my tits and slowly, they double fuck me. This is the scary bit. When a man slips out of a very wet cunt, he just slips back in again, or I re-position him. But doubling is awkward, and either of them can get nasty if it happens. When one slips out of me, the other must stop. I think I am good at keeping things moving. They key is to make haste slowly, and keep a modicum of control.

They stop, and I change position, doggie style one enters me and I lower myself onto the other. Entry is easy as I am well lubed now in both holes. We resume the double fucking. Yes, I have to use 'we' as I must be alert to what is going on, and try to prevent those damn slipping incidents.

I know it must seem to be an hour, as the pace quickens. First Villas, then Rogers starts to move quicker. They stop talking. The grunting starts and first one shoots his load, then the other. Only a few seconds between these two. They collapse and congratulate each other. Not a word to me.

The only nice gesture is when Rogers throws me a dirty towel so I may wipe between my wet legs.

They walk in front of me when I have dressed, and open the door, reversing the 'Closed' sign and I leave. There are three pick-up trucks in the yard. The drivers cheer and make ribald comments. I assume they have wives or girlfriends who service them. I also assume no woman in her right mind, unless she was one of us whores, would even contemplate marrying either of them. I signal my clearance and the Center gives me a half hour break as they know I need to do a good clean-up.

Call Five: Friday 1415: Tavistock Farm

My last scheduled call. Sometimes, the Center will redirect us to another client who might be nearby. Otherwise, I go back to the Center, make my verbal report to the Supervisor, get checked by the nurse, then get a full 24 hours of respite. Early days in the Service proved that at best we should do no more than three 'regular' calls a day and only two 'specials'. But the demand exceeds supply. On the other hand, doing as many regular and special calls such as I have done makes it impossible for a girl to keep up the pace. A directive has made it clear that the Service must maintain quality.

Tavistock Farm is new to me, and the Center has not provided me with any background. This is a dreaded situation. I am the victim who will, if she survives, make it possible to rate a new client. A client who may be a pussycat Ten or a murderous One. I am to report the instant I have satisfied the client. A supervisor will be parked somewhere discreetly, and can be directed to my aid, but that might well be post-mortem!

The client, whose name was not provided, met me at the door. A tall, somewhat slim man and, a rarity in these rural areas, someone not born and bred here. I think he is East Indian, although not markedly so.

The farm is neat, well maintained. The house, typical for the region with thick rubble stone walls, is small but almost like a miniature stately home without the towers or minarets. Inside, it is neat, clean and minimalist from a decorator's point of view. The client leads me down the hall, and into the kitchen: a typical farm kitchen with a scrubbed pine table in the Center.

'We will do it here. Clothes off now please!'

Clients seldom say 'please'. I strip, again methodically, and had got to where I only had a thong and those sandals, when he stopped me.

'Against the table, please.'

He directed me to the corner of the table. Instinctively I opened my legs, and now had one either side of the corner. He pulled off my thong and spent about a minute fingering. All the while I could see his jeans bulging. Then he too stripped. He had a lovely body, with that hint of tan. Smooth. Lovely in fact if he were to be my lover. Instead, he was not. He was to rape me, pushing me back onto the table. He was vigorous, determined and hard. He seemed to be intent to make sure every centimeter, no – every millimeter of his shaft rammed into me. I could not help gasping with each of his strokes. His hands were savagely grasping my tits. That hurt, but I was too busy responding to those thrusts.

Normally, and what is there normal about what I do, he would have cum in a few minutes. Instead, he pounded me for what must have been an hour and came in a noisy, glad way. He stayed in me for a while, and then slowly withdrew.

'Do you wash here?'

'No Sir. I have clean-up stuff in the car.'

'You were a very good fuck. Thank you.'

'That is what the Rural Service is for, Sir.'

In the car, I reported in.

'No problems.'

'Come back here now. Fast as you can. You may see supervisor Grant behind you.'

I cleaned up and started to drive.

Why the urgency?