Bartered Orgasms Pt. 02

Bartered Orgasms with Agonies of Faith (Part Two.)

About 4,200 words. No gratuitous sex and all characters are fictional with no intended similarity to persons living or dead. All characters are adult or at least 18 years old in paragraphs elucidating sex. It is an attempt to consider the implications of whoring in momentous historic episodes of social, political and economic upheaval. Protected by national and international conventions as an original work product.)

*****

Maybe it was nothing more than a whore's unfathomable anxiety. Angst always intensified the misgivings that taunted Janet Conroy's nervous system as she began a tightly orchestrated weekend of methodical whoring.

But, on the other hand, it might be something else, more like a presentiment. The strained, at times acrimonious, dialogue with her husband during the drive to the hotel had uncharacteristically unnerved her.

"White" whores were no novelty in the upper reaches of Jo'burg's fractured societies. But, as her husband, James, had assessed contemptuously 15 minutes earlier, Janet's God given erotic power transcended mere saleable sexual merchandise.

Janet Conroy had alighted from her Mercedes in the loading zone of the upscale residential hotel; and, to the extent her four-inch stiletto heels permitted, she trotted to the entry. She paused and smiled dutifully as she handed the liveried doorman $20 before passing through the glass doors that were prized as museum pieces. The doors' massive polished brass frames and cut glass spoke of artistry of another day.

Momentarily, she glanced at her daughter who was waving from the rear window of the Mercedes as it inched away from the curb. Deepening shadows of nightfall obscured her husband's grim countenance as he concentrated on the traffic.

Little did she know that she was watching the departure of her husband and baby daughter for the last time. Life in Johannesburg, too often a nerve stripping ordeal, soon would become a nightmare of social pathologies. Social pathologists would bargain with the devil for the autopsy rights.

Involuntarily, she shuddered as she watched her husband pull the Mercedes back into the traffic of Parkhurst's Fourth Street, one of Johannesburg's fabled party night venues.

Standing in the residential hotel's marbled foyer, her eyes swept appreciatively around a reception room replete with massive oak paneling, cut-glass chandeliers and gilt edged trim. Any pleasure taken from viewing the setting, however, was deceptive; for the opulence and grandeur no longer reflected a politically and socially integrated culture.

At the moment, no one in South Africa professed the "magic" required to define anything beyond crude caricatures. Of course, there were social scientists who ventured into the social quagmire, postured for two weeks and then wrote a "definitive account" of the "frightening conundrum."

Once the observing social psychologist added the historic ingredient known academically as "Apartheid," all consideration tensed. Frightening implications seized the moment and all fell silent except the muck rakers.

Janet could see the girl in the "Gifts Etcetera Boutique" staring at her. She was accustomed to the awed gaze of young women.

Even the young brunette with genetically defiant blue eyes, who enjoyed the official label of "colored," knew about Janet. As the recherche whore, the practitioner of womb wizardry who bedazzled all who watched, Janet had become a paradox of a subculture celebrity. She was too conflicted by resentment and fear to enjoy her spontaneous and unsolicited fandom.

Janet casually knew this young woman as an office temp, one of the many college aged women who worked part time in the offices of the civic center. She always twitched her ass invitingly while maintaining the artful façade of a respectable maiden with the promise of compromise.

After watching the pretentious flirts flit and flaunt, Janet and Doctor Zo, the University of Chicago social scientist who headed her agency as an independent contractor, had begun to call them "Red Thong Girls." Their inspiration stemmed from the girl's collectively wearing red thongs and flashing their asses indiscriminately.

"Young pussy everywhere like a toxic elixir but not a drop to drink," Doctor Zo had mused one afternoon as he had observed the "thong maidens'" tactic of bending from the waste, hiking their microminis and revealing their red thongs, in effect flashing their naked asses.

"Pretend panties!" Janet had added as they compared notes.

"Red Thong Girls" had invaded the hallways of all agencies. But they seemed to target Doctor Aarabbi Harper Zo's Agency for Economic Strategies. Academics of all ages and descriptions from around the globe, predominantly men, visited the agency daily. Most were economists or fiscal experts.

Trim and miniskirted with smooth skin of creamed coffee color, the girl's snapping hot eyes betrayed her intense desire to be Janet. She was a wannabe whore, a scrubbed young "respectable" emerging triumphantly from adolescence cloaked in the subversive illusions of malign grandeur.

Janet abhorred the type and usually avoided patronizing the lobby shops. She had done nothing to promote this perverse admiration. And she knew intuitively that the unpredictable recognition was not a manifestation of healthy respect.

Almost too late, Janet had realized that she would need condoms for the party that would begin in Doctor Zo's suite when the "knock-up roulette" ended in Colonel Bonny's domain several floors below. Such a seemingly unimportant lapse as failing to bring condoms for the night's second whoring venue had burgeoned into a threatening vortex of emotions.

"Damn James!" she mumbled as she inhaled and quickly exhaled in an effort to exhaust the tension. Her failure to pinch off her husband's habitual harangue in the first sentence should have warned her that tonight's air was different. It was more noxious than usual.

Never in her three years of becoming an exemplary whore had her husband persisted in his bitter resistance to the point of rupturing their tacitly agreed coexistence. As she prepared for her crucial weekend party, moreover, James had assaulted her intellectually with a strangely reinforced fervor. The abruptly festering conflict had distracted her at the time she needed to be concentrating on the critical aspects of her busy weekend.

She entered the shop and faced the smirking girl.

Only after she had asked for the prophylactics did Janet realize that three dozen lubricated condoms justifiably would raise an observer's brow.

"I know you," the girl said. "You're one of those doctors that does government studies."

"Yes?" Janet said, appraising the young woman critically.

"I've seen you around the office," Janet said curtly, attempting to hurry the transaction along.

Pushing the four boxes of condoms across the counter with one hand and grasping the money with the other, the clerk in the luxury residential hotel's "Gifts and Etcetera Shop" smirked as if in triumph. The neophyte obviously was struggling in her attempt to present herself to Janet as experienced and sophisticated beyond her years.

They both stared at the tastefully burlesqued condom boxes, the artistry of some advertising agency's copywriter. The girl smiled engagingly, an impressive effort to convey her adventurous interests to Janet.

"Do you have a question about my purchase?" Janet asked tonelessly.

As the girl put the money in the cash drawer, she shrugged and her smile became a challenging sigh. Janet was impressed with the girl's dramatic skills.

"Yes," the girl answered, lowering the volume on the small TV beside the merchandise scanner. "I am curious about your needing 48 condoms when you're about to be gangbanged in a 'knock-up roulette' party."

"I see," Janet said containing her apprehension, now appraising the clerk more carefully. "And why would your curiosity be so active where I am concerned?"

"I am always excited when someone makes a fortune in one night with her pussy," the clerk answered.

"So, you are interested in the pussy market," Janet said.

"I keep my eyes open," the girl said. "Colonel Bonny has some VIF's lined up for you tonight."

"VIF's?" Janet repeated, staring at the girl without disguising her contempt.

"Very important fuckers!" the girl whispered conspiratorially. "What will you do with the baby if the winner of the 'knock-up' doesn't take it?"

"How do you know so much about Colonel Bonny and what he's doing tonight?" Janet demanded in a low voice, cutting her words in sharp emphatic gutterals.

"I know many things," the girl chirped, her snapping black eyes attempting to effect a taunting though benign devilment.

"You are implying that you have talked to Colonel Bonny," Janet said, narrowing her eyes and tensing her lips in a thin line.

She was compelled to intimidate the "insolent little sham slut."

"I said 'hello' to him as he took your bang gangers to the restaurant awhile ago," the girl responded, glancing at the ornate clock in the lobby. "They should be coming out about now if they're going to be on time to start the grand opera of fucking."

"You could be too smart for your panties," Janet whispered menacingly.

"What makes you think I wear panties," the girl sneered. "I'm no common little tart from a Cape Town whore slum."

"You could have fooled me," Janet said.

Shrill giggles, a semitone above natural pitch, permeated the domed lobby. Janet swiveled and surveyed the lobby involuntarily in fear that the girl's crudity had drawn attention to them. Only one desk clerk looked up from his computer screen.

Locking eyes with the girl, Janet relaxed her weight on one leg and considered the situation critically. What was the girl's motive?

"Okay, out with it! You want something from me," Janet said cryptically. "Don't waste my time."

"I want you to help me," the girl said.

"You want money?" Janet asked, narrowing her eyes as a warning.

"Yes, but I don't want a hand out," the girl answered. "I want you to teach me how to fuck and help me get started making real money."

"I don't have time for amateurs," Janet said. "What makes you think you can be a whore?"

"My boyfriend's mother has been selling me to his friends for a long time," the girl answered defiantly. "And I like it, and I'm good at it."

Janet appraised the girl analytically. She commented categorically as she enumerated her qualities. The girl possessed a muted beauty; she was imbued with natural poise, and she could be aggressive without being brutish. Janet found herself considering the girl's request seriously.

How old was this aggressive whore candidate? She said that she was 20 years old, but Janet asked to see her ID.

"You could be 15 or 30," Janet said as she studied the government issued document. "And that's a compliment."

Deliberately pausing to consider the situation, Janet raised her business honed gaze to meet the woman's calculating stare.

"I don't mentor whores," Janet mused as she realized that the girl interested her. "But I'm going to take a chance and throw you into deep water."

"What!" the girl exclaimed. "What's deep water."

"Tonight! This weekend!" Janet answered slowly, a humorless smile teasing the girl. "I'll toss you into some deep whoring, and we'll see if you can survive."

They stared into each other's eyes, the girl incredulous but pleased and Janet doubtful but interested. Janet abruptly shifted her eyes to her watch.

"I've got to go," Janet said. She paused in a thoughtful pose before she asked, "Do you know Doctor Zo?"

The girl nodded.

"I'll be finished with Colonel Bonny's party at ten o'clock," Janet said thoughtfully. "Deliver these condoms to me at Doctor Zo's flat at 10 p.m. sharp, and bring plenty of lubricant and your own condoms."

"I wish I could go to Colonel Bonny's party," the girl said. "Captain 'Jax'

just went up."

"You know Captain 'Jax'?" Janet asked, her surprise evident.

"When he is in Jo'burg," the girl said, "he comes to the club where my boyfriend's mother is the manager, and I've fucked him a few times."

"What do you know about him?" Janet asked hesitantly.

"He's big. And he fucks good," the girl said thoughtfully. "It hurts when he's in my ass, but other than that, I like him."

"Okay! I agree he fucks good. So, you like him. But who is he?" Janet demanded in exasperation.

"All I know is they say he's from Somalia and spends a lot of his time in places like Paris and London and New York," the girl responded. "And he was interesting and talked about Paris and New York and London like he knew educated people in those places."

"How does he make his money?" Janet asked crisply, becoming irritated that she was spending time with this attractive but questionable amateur whore.

"My boy friend's mother believes that he is a pirate." The girl answered, her defenses alerting her to exercise caution.

Janet exhaled slowly, her eyes once again performing a quick whore's "instinct autopsy" on the girl. Significantly, the girl maintained eye contact and did not flinch.

"Pirates are interesting," Janet said, easily shifting to the casual voice. "But they are like angels and devils, they exist only in the movies."

"Sometimes angels and devils fuck good, too," the girl smirked, suddenly regaining a degree of her hubris.

"How much did he pay you?" Janet asked as an after-thought. "And what kind of sex was it?"

"I don't know how much he paid my boyfriend's mother," the girl answered. She was becoming uncomfortable and defensive.

"What did he do to you?" Janet insisted.

About the sex? The girl had to ponder the question. She revealed her most important limitation when she shrugged indifferently and said, "Captain 'Jax's' bloody friend made a bloody mess in my ass! I won't let them fuck my ass again until I see a hundred pounds from each of them in my hot little fist."

"They?" Janet echoed.

"It was his friend I didn't like," the fledgling whore answered, grimacing at the memory of selling sex to Captain 'Jax' and his swaggering, rough hewn friend. "His friend was bigger than Captain 'Jax,' and just looking at his ugly face scared the shit out of me."

Maybe an average intelligence with a hyperactive cunning was best for young whores. Janet made her decision about the girl with a degree of doubt. She had never been tempted to accommodate one of the insolent whore pretenders; but, at that moment Janet was in need of reinforcement, something to substitute for her marriage as a foundation. "What is your name?" Janet asked, almost as an after thought.

"They call me Emerald because I think my daddy was from Ireland," the girl said diffidently. This sudden flash of shyness irritated Janet, but she sustained her interest. At length she shrugged and handed the girl her card.

"Be at Doctor Zo's flat at 10 o'clock," Janet snapped as she turned abruptly and strode toward the lifts.

"Okay! I'll be there at ten o'clock!" the girl said.

Janet paused, smoother her skirt and opened her compact to inspect her make-up once more. Then for effect, she tossed a command over her shoulder.

"And don't forget the condoms!"

LET THE TOURNAMENT BEGIN

All four of the lift carriages were in motion between floors well above the lobby as Janet touched up her make-up while waiting. In her compact mirror she watched as Colonel Bantu Boneface Mbonyum entered from the street leading an entourage of at least a dozen men and four women.

All of the powerful enigma's women, including Janet, his favored whore, called him Colonel "Bonny."

This flock of racially and culturally mixed patrons of Armani must be the "investors and contestants" in the "Knock-up Roulette" adventure. Her flash of assessment reassured her that they had "deep pockets," and that was the guiding principle. Was it not?

Colonel Bonny's warm, deceptively civilizing grin greeted her as he led the human swarm, obviously the covey of bizarre sex enthusiasts that she had contracted to service.

Towering above the group, a hard-framed man with a swarthy countenance affixed her with a laser-like stare. She inhaled and cringed involuntarily.

Now she realized that this was the girl's "other man." The towering being was the same barbaric man-mountain Captain "Jax" had forced her to service at one of the prior tag-team sex parties.

It was undeniably the unfathomable, perplexing sex party participant that she had refused to service previously. Though he had met all requirements, including an impressive wad of British pounds, she had seized his phallus at the point of penetration, squirmed out from under him and threatened to leave the lucrative affair.

Now she realized that escaping another brutal ordeal would not be possible. They obviously had paid Colonel Bonny her fee and would contribute thousands to the fishbowl pot from which she would receive an additional ten percent. Such was the bittersweet paradox on the gifted whore.

"How fortuitous, my friends," Colonel Bonny enthused, his faux gentility almost comic. "This is Janet! She's our beautiful princess of the evening, our exquisite centerpiece."

Her clients, those who were paying a mini fortune "for the use of her sex for four hours," gathered around her creating a tumult that resounded through the domed lobby.

It was as if Janet were an advertised, globally touted celebrity; however, when the general manager of the sedate, conservative residential establishment bolted from his office in obvious disapproval, the Colonel once more proved his worth as a tamer of stormy dispositions.

Colonel Bonny calmed the upheaval. With an arm companionably around the shoulders of the shaken manager, he waved his entourage into the lift that had arrived simultaneously with the manager's outburst. He enjoyed the manager's favor as an accomplished, enigmatic man of influence, a preferred lease holder.

"It is a colloquium of the most important entrepreneurs in the world," the Colonel intoned in his most syrupy professorial diction. "We are comprising foreign policy of the utmost importance this weekend."

Capitalizing on his multifaceted intellect and personality, Colonel Bonny quickly inspired the regal hotel official to appreciate his position as a host to such a globally esteemed group. Janet stood inside the lift carriage holding the door for the Colonel while studying her companions, all of whom would be inside her in some manner during the next four hours. The imposing figure of the swarthy man known as Captain "Jax" was dominant in the group, and she experienced an imperceptible twinge of fear as she remembered his phallic savagery of his associate in a previous sex event.

Colonel Bonny waved companionably as the lift door closed leaving the manager grinning as if mesmerized, so appreciative that he was fortunate enough to have such a man as Colonel Bantu Mbonyum as a friend and tenant. The manager buttoned his suit coat, smiled at the boutique clerk and strutted to his office.

Once they were all made comfortable in Colonel Bonny's spacious parlor, a combination of opulent entertainment center and modernistic living room, Colonel Bonny assumed the mantle of host, master-of-ceremonies and pit man. His disposition changed as the participants observed.

"We are about to begin an odious game," the Colonel said, "based upon a gamble that the consortium of the swimmers of the male contestants will produce one sperm that will breach Janet's body's natural defenses against impregnation.

"Our prime wagering question now has definition and simplistic clarity," Colonel Bonny said, momentarily posturing as the insufferable academic that he aspired to be. "Can Janet's body produce the necessary vaginal acid and immune responses to prevent conception?"