Pandora's Box Ch. 03

Continuation from Pandora's Box CH. 02

Dear Diary

It seems that I have already used the car crash analogy, but there is no better metaphor to describe my life at the moment. I had traveled down the same road for so long, got a medical degree, interned in a mid-state hospital, and worked towards an MD. Then my marriage hit a soft spot, so we decided to take a sun sea and sex holiday. It turned out that if I wanted a baby, I was banning the wrong colored pole.

You see, Caucasian males are sterile, something to do with the gene-altering stuff they put in the pandemic inoculations. It turned out sub-Saharan men weren't affected. So when my husband arranged a little extramarital activity, namely me getting banged like a whore in a shantytown brothel. All I can say is things got out of hand. That was a week ago, and my life is still tumbling out of control.

So here I am in a Tribal consummation chamber in a seedy Mombasa brothel, dressed like a whore. When I say 'Like a whore', the brothel owner has just informed me that my husband has sold me. So I suppose it would be more accurate to say as a whore. But I still can't believe it. I am numb. Even the hard slap the brothel owner gave me didn't register. Nor does the Image in the mirror. It looks like one of those wooden cut out that you stick your head through, and someone takes a photo.

The heads mine, but the rest isn't, well it is. The long blond hair, blue eyes, and a pair of D breasts stick out like bazookas over the top of an under-bust corset. And a metal band that ran around my waist supports a thin plastic-coated strap between my buttocks, which keeps the but plug in place. Also, it keeps the semen reservoir, and its attached insemination probe buried deep in my cunt. The whole lot is held in place by a plate secured by a gold-plated padlock. Even that wasn't the worst part, nor was the garter belt and stockings. The Hooker heels are the worst thing. They make me totter around like a prostitute, Image complete.

"Time to go downstairs and ern you keep Whore." Mr. White, the brothel owner, said

I stumbled around and showed him my ass cheeks in the mirror. Already the red bloom of a hand imprint spread out on my buttocks. His razed fist opens into a hand ready to slap when he sees it. I still stare him down. So now he had to use other incentives if he didn't want his top whore turned into bruised beef.

"I'm not your whore," I say. "I am Tyrone's whore. You said so."

Mr. White bights his lip, and his big black face wrinkles up into a bulldog impression. "Stay Here." He growls.

I still can't get used to the Image in the mirror, two big tits that giggle up and down whenever I move. Which is a lot on a pair of Hooker heels. And the breeding belt fits so tight I can't get a finger between, anywhere. So no way is it coming off until the padlock gets removed. That leaves the unanswered question of how I am supposed to go to the toilet. One of the many questions Tyrone, my pimp, will have to answer.

I heard him before I saw him, a great griller of a man. He stomped in like a herd of animals, slowly circling towards me as he followed the breeding rails. He even stopped at the make-shift chapel, like he was rehearsing marriage vows. Mr. White pushed him on.

And there they stood behind me while I studied them in the mirror. Mr. White in his white tuxedo, I must admit the black bow tie was a nice touch, but they couldn't disguise his gut. On the other hand, Tyrone was muscle on muscle, at least he worked out, or rather fucking all his whores made him work out. I couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before I became part of his exercise regime.

"Please, Mr. Tyrone, take your whore to the benches. Show her what happens to a disobedient whore." Tyrone looked at Mr. White, shocked. "Now, please." Mr. White's voice razed to make it a command. Tyrone grabbed me by the arm. "And no damaging of the merchandise."

Obviously, Tyrone was not used to handling white meat as he left a mark around my arm. After that, he used hand signals. He used his finger to point directions, a wave of his hand to go faster, and a tug on my hair to stop. I felt like a ponygirl with an invisible bridle around my breeding belt. And every time Tyrone wanted me to stop, Mr. White's jizz would force its way into my cunt from the insemination reservoir. I suppose it worked that way, and Hooker heels didn't help, as intended.

After flights of stairs and dowdy corridors, Tyrone yanked on my hair, and I stopped in front of a door. He pushed some buttons on a pad, and the door clicked open. He then made me go through. The smell of rotten fish, sewage, and stinky feet told me I was in a corridor connected to the slums of Mombasa. A smocking scooter going by made everything feel toxic, not that it wasn't already. And an older woman who sat in a kiosk next to the open street didn't seem to mind, as she eyed me with suspicions. Tyrone waved me on and then pointed me down the corridor.

We stopped in front of a door that looked like a shed door with the number Twelve daubed in white paint on it. Tyrone clicked it open and pushed me in. A painfully skinny older man stood in the corner, pulling on the most wort-ridden cock I had ever seen. His eyes flashed wide open when he saw me until Tyrone waved him back.

The room was just a dimly lit wooden dox with a panel door next to what looked like a large entrance to a dog kennel. The opening was a semicircle at about crotch height, with an old manky mattress on the other side. The bed reminded me of the one in the nocking shop, equally as dirty and smelly.

Tyrone indicated for me to put my head through, reluctantly I complied. The hole was just wide enough for me to get through but at a squeeze. And on the other side of the plywood, the mattress smelled even worse. For a moment, I waited there, wondering what was going to happen. Nothing did. When I pulled my head out, Tyrone pointed to the door.

The next room was like a chapel, with rows of benches not unlike a church. They all faced a big curved window. Lamps lit the street enough for me to see out as cars and pedestrian's sped by like they were in a hurry to get somewhere. All of a sudden, a blond woman ran past, clutching at her torn dress.

Tyrone huffed, "Street Whore, don't know when to stop." He added.

Just as a fat black woman heaved herself up from one of the benches. The men chasing the blond woman suddenly stopped outside the window and peered in, hands against the glass.

"Can they see us?" I asked

"No worry, drunk men after tail," Tyrone said.

In the A and E. I had seen plenty of drunk men. These men weren't drunk, or at least not inebriated. However, they looked desperate, aggressive, and on the warpath. Tyrone wrapped his arm around me and pulled me behind him. I didn't resist the gesture but was shocked when he pushed the fat whore against the window. The men poured at the pane for a bit then ran off.

The fat whore looked at Tyrone as she straightened her black plastic bra and miniskirt that didn't cover anything. Then she waddled to the opening with twelve over the top of it. That's when I noticed the row of numbered openings with mattresses in front of them. The woman then ripped open the Velcro of her bra and skirt, threw them into a box next to her raised bench. She lay down and placed her feet in stirrups. To my astonishment, her feet were spread and rise simultaneously, pulling her exposed sex towards the opening. Then two bars that moved along the bench made contact with her shoulders and pushed her into the hole.

I was horrified and fascinated at the same time as the woman was pinned into the opening. I didn't need to imagine her wide-open cunt and asshole exposed to the old men in the next room. As a pair of bony hands came through and roughly mauled her tits. Then to no surprise, she started to rock back and forth as the sound of soft grunts came from the other side.

"Benches," Tyrone said, drawing my attention to the pew in front of me. "Whore, sit here, light on," he points to a red light on a pole at the back of the bench. "Whore waits till light goes green and number on board. Go to hole, take off all, put feet in and let John fuck, then come back here."

"Whore can't say no," I asked, looking at the woman with her legs up and forced into the opening. Tyrone shrugged. "What if John does more?"

"John, pay." Tyrone shrugged. "Whore work off debt or die.

"I bet you say that to all the girls?" I mocked, not entirely joking.

Tyrone looked at me then said, "You fuck one fifty maybe two hundred John a day, least to begin."

I shouldn't have been shocked; in a place like this, they quite literally treat women as fuck meat. That was the point. From now on, I was supposed to be happy only having sex with twenty to thirty men a night.

"And how much bench whore?" I asked, mimicking Tyrone's pigeon English.

"John put twenty-five shillings unless do more. All whores get half."

"One dollar twenty-five, whore, US," I said, totally unimpressed

In the old days, less than a month ago, when I was a Medical Doctor. One dollar and a quitter wouldn't get me through the door of the hospital, never mind onto a gurney with legs open. And here I was in a Mombasa brothel, starting to think I was lucky. That, of course, was the idea, all part of the conditioning.

Then Tyrone did something unexpected he softened. At one point, I thought he was going to shed a tear. Slowly he raised his hand and brushed my cheek. "You too Beautiful to be whore, do as Mr. White says."

I shook my head. "Me your whore, do as you say, not Mr. White." I couldn't believe I just said that, but for some reason, in a place like this, it felt like I didn't have a choice. Again that was it, all part of the training. Then and there, I decided to use reverse psychology. "Me Tyrone whore not Mr. White," I said, shaking my head, mimicking Tyrone.

Tyrone just stood there shaking his head, as well. "You do what Mr. White says or become bench whore."

"What you mean like this."

I sat down on the front pew in the middle of the room. Instantly a red light came on above my head, and I was eliminated by spotlights. Luckily the street was empty, only the old man we had just seen saw me. To Tyrone's horror, I waggled my tits and spread my legs as far as possible. A moment later, my light went green, and a number appeared on the board. I looked for opening number five and got up.

When Tyrone grabbed my arm, I said, "This is what you want, is it not." He looked at me. "Make me a whore, might as well get it over with, why don't you fuck me here and now. Wait, you already have. Maybe it's the turn of the guy in there." I said defiantly, pointing to the hole. "Can you take this fucking thing off?" I shrieked, pulling on the golden padlock.

It's funny how it turned out. What if it was one of that woulder, could've, shouldn't moments. What If Tyrone had a key and he had used it. Would I have really taken off the breeding belt, undone my corset, and put on the black plastic bra and skirt? Walked over to the Gloryhole, undone the Velcro, and put my feet in the stirrups. The rest, as they say, would be history. Standing there watching the women being penetrated by an unknown but disgusting cock had its own morbid fascination. Would I really let myself be turned into a one-dollar twenty-five whore? Rite now; maybe I would.

At least I had to convince Tyrone I would. At that point, the fat whore was set loose. She dismounted, wiped between her legs, then threw the cloth in a bin. She waddled past us, adjusting her plastic bra to cover her nipples and nothing else. She then pulled the miniskirt down at the back. So when she sat down, her sex would be exposed. This was all too surreal, especially when she opened her legs as a group of men ran past.

"What's going on?" I asked, looking through the window.

Tyrone pulled me back and twisted my wrist into a pressure hold, just like the first time I was on a shantytown street.

"You good whore, be inside." He said, and with that, I was through the door before anyone could say, 'Where're the condoms, wait, there aren't any.'

"Don't damage the merchandise," I shouted while being manhandled.

When we were inside, Tyrone let go and flashed me an apologetic smile.

"What was that?" I said, shaking my arm, trying to get the circulation back.

Tyrone just shrugged then pointed in the direction he wanted me to go. As he led me to wherever we were going, I couldn't stop thinking about the whore against the window. And more importantly, how the men on the other side had reacted to her. The way people treated each other was so different it felt like I was on another planet.

As we walked through the basement, Tyrone's calm washed over me, and my thought soon turned to my next move. The best one would be to make MR. White believes his little scare-tactic had worked. Keep Tyrone near me so he could tell me what to do. Then get to the viewing room and maybe a husband so we can make an escape. And if My Husband had sold me, I would have to play fuck meat for a while until I could get free and run to the nearest Embassy.

"So, what's next," I said, playfully wiggling my ass, inspired by a pair of heels. "A fuck head down the toilet?" a quick seductive look over my shoulder told me it hadn't worked. Tyrone was not supporting a boner. "What's wrong. Not into water sports? " I quipped. Tyrone's stern look told me he was back in griller mode. Whatever was happing on the street had got to him. He just grunted and pointed to a pair of steps and a door.

As the door opened, I recognized the parquet floor, the bunny girl at the kiosk, and all the photos on the wall. It was like the circle was completed in just over an hour. Bible belt Pandora had been fucked, penetrated, and squeezed out as Whore Pandora. The really shitty thing was the bunny girl knew it. She must have seen hundreds if not thousands of girls, women go through the process. And the look of 'it's not me' on her face, for the first time, made me feel like a real whore.

Mr. White clapped lewdly almost in time to my heels clicking against the floor. Tyrone indicated for me to stand in front of Mr. White, head bowed. I complied and let Mr. White inspect me like a prize cow. He checked my mouth, teeth and pushed two fingers in mimicking a penis. He then ran his hands all over my body, making comments in Swahili as he went. The Bunny girl giggled accordingly. And in the corner of my eye, I saw Tyrone shift, stiffen. Something had changed. Maybe he cared. Then Mr. White made a show of checking out my breasts, finishing with a painful twist of my nipples. Finely he threw out his arms in a welcoming gesture to Tyrone and then vigorously shook his hand. Congratulations on his new whore.

The two men stood there talking loudly in Swahili for a moment, then Mr. White turned to me and said. "Time to put your whore to work," One small victory for me until Mr. White continued, "She owes me a lot." I wanted to say, 'wait, what.' But thought better of it, compliant fuck meat was the order of the day. Then Mr. white ushered us into the viewing room, pointedly John, my husband, wasn't there. Maybe he has sold me, or had just gone to the toilet, or was dead in a bitch. Either way, I was on my own, and Mr. White wanted me to know it.

Once through the viewing room, I was confronted by the main staircase, the ones only an hour ago I had taken my first step on, to become a whore. It's funny how life-changing events happen like that. One moment I was playing a game, and now I'm not.

Back to the car crash analogy, it was like, I was a passenger in a car racing a friend then, something happened. And now I am rolling through the air waiting for the first impact. Wondering how bad it's going to be.

All too soon I was going to find out, Tyrone placed me in front of the nocking shop entrance. They were like the swing door of an old-fashioned saloon. The smell of tobacco, cheap perfume, and sex invaded every part of my body. And here it comes. The doors swing open, and I hit the Knocking shop lounge. As always, nothing is ever what it seems.