Pandora's Box Ch. 04

Pandora's Box Ch. 4

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events and products is purely coincidental.

Continued from Pandora's box Ch. 3

So here I am, in a Mombasa Knocking shop lobby, dresses as a whore. I say dressed like a whore I mean ready for work. According to my pimp Tyrone, my husband has sold me to this shanty town brothel. So literally and figuratively, the game my husband had started over a fought- night ago while on holiday has now come full circle. MD. Pandora has been sold to a whorehouse, forced fucked, and turned into Whore Pandora.

The Knocking shop lobby is massive. Other than the viewing lounge and the reception, it must take up most of the first floor. A circular bar and enormous mirror dominate the room, while assorted furniture, some of which I don't recognize, are strategically place around. Tyrone waves me on, and I head for the bar.

On one of the loungers, the digest fattest man I have ever seen, and as a Surgeon, I have seen some obese people. This man takes the cake and probably eats it. The man has a bored-looking prostitute holding back his fat rolls as she gives him a blow job. On another lounger, a man reads a paper while a petite girl rides his crotch. Tyrone pushes me forward, and as my heels click on the floor, all eyes focus on me. The prostitute giving the blow job looks up, and a paper is folded over while a pair of dark, lustful eyes stares at me. The girl is pushed off a lap like an unwanted pet, and his grin sends shivers down my spine as he nods in satisfaction.

Still, Tyrone waves me on until I take a stool at the bar. Mr. White bumps me down a few times on its seat and flashes me one of his black tooth grins. I can feel the seaman from the breeding belt push into me as he does so. His grin widens with pleasure that I know he is secretly fucking me. Then Tyron waved at the bartender.

She is one of the most striking people I have ever seen, athletic to the point of almost being a bodybuilder. Her tits are small but perfectly formed, pointing through her breast harness, like ready to eat charisma's puddings. And her hair was bleached white. Witch against her bark oiled ebony skin makes her look like the perfect dominatrix in any brothel. Even in my brothel, there I have said it, how quickly things can change.

She, the bartender, scoots two glasses of juice over to me, and I look at them. She then sashays through the bar, slides her backside onto Mr. White's lap, and leans into me. Then she picks up a glass, runs it around my lips, and opens her mouth like a mother spoon-feeds a baby. I take a sip. It reminded me of the sunburst fruit cocktail I was given in the resort, what felt like a lifetime ago. She then tips it up, so I have to drink or let it spill.

"Two glasses should take the edge off." She said

"You from England?" I asked in response to her perfect accent.

"Africa," She replied, "Sudan." She then picked up the other glass "Bottoms up."

After I drank, she licked the dribbles of my chin and ran her breasts down my front until our nipples met. That was it. If she had been a man, I would have let her do it right there and then. But then again, after my black cock gang bang, I was now a whore in a brothel and would have to let any man or men or woman do whatever.

Mr. White's grin let me know he knew, and I hated him for that, but I bit my tongue and just smiled back cutely. Fuck Meat Protocol was now in effect. "Madam P, meet Whore Pandora. Madam P is in charge of the floor, and she tells you who to fuck how to fuck and where to fuck."

"I thought that was Tyrone's job? " I said as casually as posable.

Mr. White snaps his hand up, ready to strike.

"She's a feisty one. Once she gets her injections, I suggest we invite all the platinum members around, tie her up spread-eagled and have us a gangbang party..."

"Consummation chamber." Tyrone said with a nod.

"With all her holes stuffed," Madame P continued "that will quite literally make her shut the fuck up." Modem P's raised voice let me know the SFU part was a threat.

Tyrone and Mr. White enthusiastically nod in agreement.

"Not until she is well and truly nocked up." MR White mused

Madam P's eyes flashed wide open "it's not safe having here in here, anyway, how do you know?"

"We measure the toilet water at the resort for estragon. Room twenty-five had a triple rating." Mr. White dropped his hand and reached around Madam P to tweak my cheek. "Not only is our snow bunny here fertile, but she is in oestrus, ready for a superior black baby." Mr. White said it loud enough for everyone to hear.

Tyrone's grin dropped, and Madam P stiffly slid off M. White's lap. "You will need more security if you keep that," She flashed me a look. "Here."

"Toughened doors, bars on the window, no one getting in." Mr. White said casually

Madam P lent into Mr. White, like she was going to lick his ear "The words out. The Mombasa Triad have lost a mark, lifted from a shantytown street. You know anything about that?" her whisper was loud enough not to be a whisper. Mr. White's black tooth grin turned into a dentist's nightmare " Shee-it, " Madam P said with a waggle of her finger at me, "If M3 fine her here, they will gut you and gang rape us to death just for shits and giggles. Those guys are the devil incarnate. She can't be here." Madam P scolded, and Mr. White's grin dropped. "That what I thought. When you guys let your dicks do the planning, you can't think past your next pussy stop."

Mr. White's grin came back. "Any trouble put her in the hole, they won't find her."

It was strange being talked about like I wasn't here, a fully qualified surgeon treated like a lost puppy. For some reason, I thought about John, my husband, and how he must have felt trailing aft M. White and me as he led us to the slum nocking shop. Ever stranger I was stating not to care; like the same reaction when Mr. White finger fucked me in the bus.

'It must be the juice?' I almost blurted out and just managed to turn it into a giggle

"Got it." Tyrone snapped like he was in charge.

'I certainly did.' FMP was defiantly order of the day

Madam P looked from Mr. White to Tyrone and then huffed in resignation. "How do you want to do this?"

Mr. White makes his bulldog impression "Platinum customer's only, and she can work in here, give free samples. Nothing more." He said, pointing to some weird-looking furniture.

"The breeding couch." Madam P said, rolling her eyes. "For the record, this is a bad idea."

"Of cause it isn't." Tyrone hissed "She has our baby, and we make money."

"What could go wrong?" Madam P sighed. "Just don't be here when M3 decides to take their property back."

"Platinum members, Tit fuck and dry hump only...." Mr. White said, ignoring Madame P.

"I get it. Only you and five billion other men want their seed in that baby box. - I'll take care of it." She huffed, waving them away.

After we watched them leave, Madam P put a sharpened fingernail under my chin and forced me to make eye contact. "Such a shame," she sighed "you have no idea, do you?" She said with a wink and then scooped up my empty glasses and saunter back around the bar.

Of course, I couldn't help but notice her taught elongated body, muscle toned to perfection. And two buttocks divided by a tight thong that made her immaculate shaven pussy look like a castration trap waiting to happen. Everything was finished off by a pair of white spangled ankle boots. And she wiggled her ass like she knew it. 'What a whore' I thought, not that I am much better in my under-bust corset, garter belt, and stockings, not to mention the hooker heels.

She then placed my empty into a noisy machine to wash and lent in. I was surprised how erotic it was, Ebony against Ivory. When her lips went to my ear, I had never thought about a woman like that before. And wounded what reverent Tom would think, me dressed as a Whore in a Mombasa brothel, or doing it with a woman. God does move in mysterious ways. "Act like I am using small talk!" She whispered, and I smiled. "Cameras and mikes all around, so watch what you say. Should only be yes and."

"Fuck me harder," I respond, and this time I meant it.

"Good... Now. Listen carefully. You have no idea what going on...."

"Apart from being kidnaped and sold into prostitution by my husband." I complained, "And I have to find my own way out."

She made a quiet gesture with a finger onto my lips and then turned it into a bit of oral foreplay. "I bet you don't know. The global birth rate has crashed this week?" I shook my head. "It's gone from about three hundred and fifty thousand a day to just over a thousand. At this rate, fertile women, primarily white women, have become a commodity.

In my previous life as Medical Doctor, that sort of data would have made me distraught, but as a whore in a shantytown brothel, I had no idea what a commodity was. So naturally, MD Pandora said. "It's the Artificial Spike protein they put into the pandemic booster shot."

"As in computer-generated, has nothing to do with nature. Type of inoculation" She softly sighed, shaking her head.

"The very thing." I whisper, " They stick this genetically engineered molecule into billions of arms and hay presto most men and women go sterile.?"

"And Un-inoculated women?" She asked, shocked

"Sex with an injected man, the lipid particle carrier is conveyed in the germ protein- sperm."

"And sub-Saharan men?"

"Never injected."

"Knowing them, they will fuck anything on two legs."

"Even chickens?" I joked

"Any type of bird will do." Madam P said with a giggle.

"Doesn't matter. Sperm is the carrier, and women can't infect men." I said, saddened that the most exciting conversation I had in weeks was coming to an end.

"That just about rounds it Up BSafrica is going to get what it wants. "And you still don't get it." She whispered.

"Wait, BSafrica?" I responded almost too loudly. Madam P glanced around to make sure no one was eves dropping, and the sound of the machine was still covering us. "That's the African contingent of our Christian group," I added.

"Christian!" Madam P. Hissed. Her escaping breath made it sound flatter than it already was. "The only thing Christian about them is when they stick their black cocks into some Middle American white women." I looked at her, shocked, "Yes, sir, mam," she sighed. "You have no idea what BS stands for, do you?" I shook my head "Black Supremacy. A white extinction group ran out of our very own home town Mombasa.

My open mouth turned into a silent 'O' when she tweaked my nipples. "And how do you know that?" I said quietly, recovering from the onslaught.

She leaned in and licked my ear. "I'm CIA."

I looked at her sideways. If black cherry nipples on top of Christmas pudding breasts were the convention, it would undoubtedly make the new CIA dress code more interesting. Naturally, I looked at her suspiciously, but something about her made sense. "If you're CIA, get me the fuck out of here." I mewed.

"Cant." She said hushed

WTF I mouthed

"Do you know five thousand fertile white women go missing every month? They are kidnaped, drugged, and shipped to Mombasa in crates. End up in brothels all over Africa called seasoning camps, where they are trained to be sex slaves and then sold on as breeding stock."

It was strange how little I seem to care, in fact I was certain an itch had started down below and I had an urge to rock back and forth to scratch it. "What's in the juice?" I almost slur.

Madam P. smiles at me "It seems to work well."

I just shrug. "You want me to do. What?"

"Stay here and go undercover."

I waggle my tits. "Do they look undercover to you?"

Madam P lent in again, "We know they use one of Mr. White's Knocking shops as a staging post. We need you to find out which one."

I felt my eye lids widen. "If I stay here, the only thing I will be under is a fat smelly African's trying to pound a baby in me."

"Just lay back and think of your country." She softly sighed

"Being taken for a ride by the IRS is one thing, but letting fifty Africans a night pound me is quite another. You have to get me out!" My voice rose too much, and we got the attention of the man with the newspaper. He came over and slid onto a stool next to me.

"You two ladies seem to have your own thing going. How about I join in, and we can play swallow the snack." He said, slamming a token on the counter and pulling out his cock.

I instinctively recoiled, and Madam P put a hand on my shoulder to keep me in place. "That," she said, nodding at the token is a platinum membership coin. This is where you become a whore." I looked at her blankly. "Where do you hail from?" I shrug. "It doesn't matter. What if you were having a drink in your hometown and a man came in and showed you his cock?"

"I would slap him and leave."

"But you are not in your home town, are you?" I shake my head. "Where are you?" Madam P scolds.

Obviously, our little deviant meeting was over, and F-M-P was back, "In a Mambas Brothel." I reply in a small voice.

"You are now on the clock; you and the brothel only get paid when the client has finished with you. It's the same amount whether that's five minutes or half an hour. So what do you do?" I shrug "get it done as fast as possible and prepare for the next."

"That makes me feel cheap." The man said.

Madam P lent over the bar and ran her nail under his chin. "Welcome to the club. You think any of my girls want to be here."

"I know they don't." He said, flashing me his white porcelain veneers.

"This is Pesto," Madam P said as she waggled her nail at him, "our competition. He owns most of the slum brothels around here.

"That's a strange name?" I say.

"It's because I like to squeeze my whores out hot and sticky and full of juice."

"Come to check out the competition?" Madam P asks with more than sarcasm in her voice.

"Only one," he replied. "And God could I make a fortune with it." He huffed as his smile widened to a grin...."How about that blow job?"

"Tit fuck or dry-hump only." Madmen P retorted flatly.

Pesto reached out to touch my tits. Madam P pushed me forwards. "Let the John sample the merchandise. Arms down back straight, you stay like that even if he pushes a finger in your cunt or ass, any squirming will be punished." She clipped me across the top of my head. "Eyes open and always forward."

"Good." He said, "I wish I could have stuck a couple of fingers in this cunt or asshole, seen how compliant a fuck it is." He said while tugging on the padlock and then pushed two fingers against my lips.

"Open your mouth whore, the more you lick and fuck his fingers, the greater the chance of getting paid. And if you don't get paid neither does, the brothel and Tyrone won't like that. "

In that case, all I could do was comply.

"Good." He said, "I think I will take the dry hump."

"Excellent choice, sir." Madam P said automatically, "Follow me. Sir "

The furniture we stood in front of unfolded like a giant robotic caterpillar while Madam P plaid with its controls. Not until it rose and splayed out did I recognize it for what it was a fur-lined gynaecological chair.

Pasto huffed. "What in here. How about a private room?"

Madam P grinned at him. "You have a key," she purred, then came around me and tugged on my padlock. "I know you would have it off quicker than anyone could say. Let's rape a cunt and ass." She then patted the chair. "It here or not at all."

Madam P had used some sort of lube on my hands and showed me how to make a cunt; it seemed like an age I lay there on the chair while a naked African humps my hands. She also advised that if I wanted him to cum quicker, I was best to make encouraging noises and agree with whatever he said.

"God, I could make a fortune with you," He grunted, then buried his face in my tits, maybe he thought it was arousing, but it just made my breast feel like punching bags.

"Don stop," I pretended to pant. "Fuck me with that big cock."

That did the trick. Pesto picked up the pace. "You would be queen of slum land." He said while rutting me. With that, his thrusts increased, and for a moment, I thought he would cum. Then he stopped and looked at me. "Normally, we keep our whores chained up, but for you, we could make it longer."

"That nice," I said, moving my hands back and forth, desperately trying to make him ejaculate so it would be over.

He looked at me and nod. I nodded back then he went limp. I didn't know if he came, but it seemed to be over. "Be at the bench whores door at midnight. I'll send my men around to pick you up. Your new life as a kahaba duni starts tomorrow," He whispered.

What an asshole, I thought, as Pesto heaved himself off and got dressed. I could tell Madam P was thinking the same thing as she watched him and then wrote a note on a pad. He came over to her and kissed her on the cheek. I must have missed the exchange as I saw him stop at the saloon boors and unfold a piece of paper. Pesto read it and then continued with a spring in his step.

From then on, I had to find out what she had written. "What's a Kahaba duni?" I ask.

"Why?" Madam P sharply retorted.

"That what he said. If I wanted to start a new life as a Kahaba duni, I should be at the bench whore door by twelve."

Madam P rolled her eyes. "And what did you say?"

"I agreed with him. Just as you suggested, it worked."

The slap came from nowhere, and it stung lick a mother. "Stupid girl." She shouted, "I will have to tell Mr. White he will need more security. And that going on your tab."

"My Tab!" I exclaimed, "I haven't ordered anything yet."

Madam P turned on me. "You're in the Lounge, using its facilities, had two drinks and now caused Mr. White more expense. You think the bars on the windows are to keep people out. No, they are to keep stupid little whores like you in until you pay up." I instinctively turned my head in response to her raised hand. She then glowered at me and stormed off.

This was my chance. To play distraught little whore and dive under the bar for cover. The notepad wasn't had to fine, so I gently removed the top sheet as not to disturbed it and then looked for cameras. I assumed the nearest black domes were video feeds and far enough away to use the counter as cover. The steam outlet of the washer espoused the writing like invisible ink. It had three lots of two numbers above one long number. It would take a genius to figure out whose bank details they belonged to.

The real question was why a BAKS number, and not cash. The only reason to use a bank transfer was its size. That leads to the following question: Why would Pesto be happy to place a large sum of money in guess whose bank account, a supposed CIA agent?

As I said, things are never what they seem, and that, as they say, is another story.