TAKEN by FIVE: Pt. 01 - Jenny

I pulled the letters from my school bag once again hoping to find some small detail that I must have missed. A part of me believed that if I looked them over one last time, a solution would somehow present itself. I am still amazed at how much joy or pain a few brief words in a letter can convey.

At the top of the first page was an illustration depicting the old administration building. I knew it well from the university's website. Below that, a tedious wall of text about how old and wonderful the school was. After that, the words that actually meant something: Amanda Sykes—is accepted...

Growing up dirt-poor didn't help with being accepted. Despite my looks, to my classmates—the ones that mattered anyway—I was a second-class citizen. At Vanderbilt High, wealth and social status are highly correlated. Lately, I had begun feeling like a dunce for pushing my mother to enroll me in a private school. My classmates were pretentious assholes and the expense wiped out her savings.

From time to time, some wannabe frat-boy would ask me to yet another boring house party. I had little interest in being some rich kid's plaything for the night. Acceptance to their clique beyond back room dry humping was never going to happen. I was from 'the wrong side of the tracks', and even worse, I was poor. Acceptance to the university had the potential to change everything.

Unfortunately, the second letter all but canceled out the first. Looking at the two pieces of paper brought to mind those 'Tragedy and Comedy' theater masks. This document, unlike the first, was concise: grant denied.

My mother didn't make much working nights at the hospital, yet she made enough that I didn't qualify for federal aid! Paychecks from my job at the multi-national burger-chain weren't going to cut the mustard in terms of having it my way.

All this brought me to the mall, were I stalked a display of stunning Adrianna Papell gowns. I was looking for something that would pair well with the heels I had bought with the last of my meager savings. I did my best to look like I wasn't interested. I didn't want to draw attention to myself and look like I was about to do something really stupid—which I was.

Finally, I grabbed the dress and shoved it up under the front of my hoodie. Since nobody began screaming, "STOP THIEF!" as I had imagined, I made my way towards the nearest exit. As I reached the imposing glass entry, an alarm went off.

I panicked and froze. I looked beyond the door towards freedom, snapped out of my stupor and pushed on the cold metal bar. I stuck my hands in my pockets and walked at something like a reasonable pace.

I didn't get far before a patrol car whipped around the building on squealing tires. It screeched to a stop and sat in a noxious cloud of burnt rubber. Two security guards jumped out of the little sedan. I tensed and saw evidence of a donut break on the fat one as they ran past.

***

The trip took half the day since the bus stopped on nearly every fucking block. I asked about a restroom at the gas station down the street from my destination and was appalled when the clerk handed me a five-gallon bucket. I was relieved to see a key attached to it by a length of wire. Inside the ladies' room, I removed the stolen dress from my worn-out school bag along with a hammer and a roofing nail.

The old bag was bright pink—a color I had outgrown long ago. I hated it with a passion. Well now that I am a thief, I thought with a tinge of self-loathing, I could get a new one whenever I want. I balanced the nail over the security tag and struck it with the hammer. The tag popped off with a satisfying ping!

***

I presented myself to a tall, serious man with bright, beady eyes. He reclined himself to an absurd angle and lit a cigarette. Peering at me from between several stacks of yellowing papers he said, "Kneel and tell me who you are." Seeing my confusion, he directed his gaze toward a miniature California license plate propped up on the desk. 'NEIL', it said. I told him who I was and why I was there.

Neil reasoned that if I really wanted to work at the Boobie Bungalow, I should make an appointment for an audition. His tepid response to my generous offer wasn't something I had considered. This was not how I had imagined our exchange! I was stunningly beautiful and in peak physical condition, sporting a body that caused men, and often women, to gawk inappropriately. I had only recently turned eighteen. I was WAY overqualified for this dump. I had planned to ask for a rather large advance.

"If you pass the audition, Mystique can show you around, explain how things work. You'll need to wear something more appropriate." He nodded toward the corner of the room. I hadn't noticed the woman sitting there, cross legged, in the dim, yellow light. It was obvious that despite Neil's optimism, Mystique would prefer not to show or explain anything, to anyone, ever.

I looked down at my expensive gown and back over to Mystique. She tapped on her cigarette and studied me with mild contempt. Her outfit consisted of a surprising quantity of large, ornate feathers.

"We do a burlesque show on the off-nights," Neil offered.

***

Arms crossed, I shuffled awkwardly to the bus stop on my four-inch stilettos. The way it worked, he explained, was that I would pay the club for the privilege of dancing there. He called it a 'stage fee.' The whole thing made me feel like dirt and the steady stream of catcalls from passing cars didn't help my mood. I couldn't wait to get out of that awful neighborhood and off of those ridiculous shoes.

An especially old and decrepit car cast me in a long shadow with its one working headlamp. Loathsome comments poured from its black interior as I bent to reclaim my putrid pink knapsack from where I had hid it earlier. The occupants of such cars referred to them as 'hoopties' and it wasn't long before I heard it again. I forced myself to look ahead as it trailed behind.

"Hey girl, you're looking fine!" shouted the driver. The mating call of the common hood rat—yippee!

The car sped ahead and then stopped. Its doors protested open. Surrounded by five big thugs, I acted the part of a scared five-foot-nothing girl as they hooted colorful observations concerning my physique. I really wasn't all that scared since I was too busy thinking hard about how I was going to get out of this mess.

The biggest one reached out and grabbed me, his huge hand slid down to cover my entire ass. He squeezed my butt as if testing a package of toilet paper for its comfort and reliability. Another thug snaked in from behind, reached around and cupped my breasts. My nipples stood out firm against the smooth fabric of my gown as his rough hands caressed me up and down.

"Come on girl, I'll show you how we do it down here in the hood," said the breast man.

No thanks, bro!

"Yeah, come on girl, get in the car. Let's go for a ride!" said the ass man, now gripping me very tight.

I hugged the putrid pink backpack to my chest and imagined them tossing me into their hooptie. There might even be a write-up about my tragic disappearance in the local newspaper. Another thug lifted my gown and yanked my expensive new panties down around my ankles.

I bagged like a million fries to pay for those you MOTHERFUCKER!

"Please stop!" I pleaded and began sobbing. The ass man let go of my arm.

I spun, pushed past the breast man and ran like hell, stepping out of my panties and kicking off the heels. I ran until my lungs burned in my chest like two red-hot coals. The ass man was at least a foot taller and had little trouble keeping up with me. I pumped my arms as hard as I could and eventually managed to escape by squeezing through a gap in an old iron gate. I got away but had lost everything—shoes, panties, shitty pink backpack—everything! My new dress was ruined. I was penniless. Suddenly, I missed that shitty pink bag. Now there was nothing left to do but stop blubbering and begin the long walk home.

***

Far ahead, down in the valley, several tidy rows of BMW sedans and SUVs glittered in the early morning light. I knew then exactly how far I had left to go. The bottoms of my feet were raw and black with grime. Weary and demoralized, I decided to cut through the lot, making the remainder of my trip just a little shorter.

I discovered that the cool comfort of an air-conditioned showroom made a suitable place to unwind after walking all a night. I sat at the wheel of a shiny new four-series M Sport convertible and pretended I was touring the countryside.

I'd watched a few episodes of Top Gear from time to time and hoped to one day own such a car. Lately, it didn't seem very likely. I sipped lukewarm coffee from a tiny foam cup and imagined the wind mussing my hair. I approached a sharp curve in the narrow road and downshifted.

"Hello Miss, may I help you?" said a shrill, nasally voice.

I stomped down hard on the accelerator, drank my cool, sparkling wine and marveled at the beautiful scenery streaking by. I worried about my hair getting all mussed-up. I was busy.

"Look, Miss, this area is for customers..."

"No thanks, only looking," I countered, being quite reasonable.

"...and you aren't even wearing shoes!"

"I know!" I said.

***

"She's with me," offered a man with a deep, commanding voice.

"Oh, Mr. Masters—really?" said the annoying voiced lackey. "Anyways, as I was saying, we won't have it, I mean, it won't be ready," he droned, still eying me with considerable doubt. "You see, it only arrived..."

I turned toward this Mr. Masters. He, in turn, was looking toward the sales office. Oh my, was he gorgeous—distinguished with broad shoulders filling out an expensive looking suit quite handsomely.

"...and the shop has to..."

I followed Mr. Masters' gaze to where the lackey's boss, standing on tiptoe, was looking back. The supervisor's wave seemed to convey to anyone paying attention that Mr. Masters could have his car whenever he wanted. The supervisor then began waving both his arms, suggesting the lackey should shut the hell up if he knew what was good for him.

***

"You should come with me, I've got some work for you," said Mr. Masters. "You seem like you could use some income—buy yourself some shoes to go with that, um...dress." He looked me up and down with an expression full of fatherly concern—that is, if my father were a fucking wolf. This would have normally gotten my panties all wet, except I wasn't wearing any.

"What would you have me do?" I asked, crossing my legs. I sounded like an infatuated southern belle. I tended to speak in the most comical drawl around extremely handsome men. I did manage to avoid twirling a lock of my hair. Why, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers!

"Oh, just a bit of office-work. Also, I'm having a party," he said.

"How much does this office-work pay, and how late is this party going? I'll need to get home before my mom freaks out. She'll be back from the hospital in the morning and I'm already in deep shit." Plus, you probably just want to stick your fingers in my butthole, you old freakster!

"Two-hundred and that shouldn't be a problem," he said. "Your mom is in the hospital?"

"She works there. Also," I added, "I'll need a ride."

***

I would have offered to work for free had Mr. Masters bothered to mention I would be driving his new car to the marina that afternoon. Hell, I would have offered to pay him. I managed to extend the trip considerably by taking a rather circuitous route. Oh, how I wished I had a big floppy hat and a pair of oversized sunglasses!

The car was awesome, yet paled in comparison to Mr. Masters' yacht. Mr. Masters' office, perched high above everything, was nearly as big as the school cafeteria and had a near three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the entire marina! Everything looked and felt lavish, even Mr. Masters' cigars smelled expensive. My dress and I, in contrast, were unraveling.

I had never been on a yacht before, much less one so remarkable. It made my head spin. After the day's earlier events, I just wanted to lie down and curl up under a warm blanket. It was all too much. Luckily, the work was easy—simple filing and data entry.

"Here, these belong to my little princess, as does the car," said Mr. Masters handing me a small bundle. "How did you like it?"

Unfolding the tiny bundle, I discovered what looked like a girl's tennis outfit complete with a pair of miniature cotton panties.

"Uh yeah, it was freaking nice," I said examining the clothes with some trepidation. "I wish I could afford such a nice car! Your princess is very...uh, small?" I had intended to say 'lucky.' The ensemble, short-shorts and a half-top, was miniscule.

"Good, I'm glad to hear you liked it. It's her graduation present."

A sharp, ugly pang of envy leapt up from my stomach and got caught in my throat. Can I please be your little princess?

"Oh, Really?" I croaked. "I bet she'll just love it!" I doubt it, the bitch.

***

The sun dipped below the horizon and distinguished men and women began assembling from various other parts of the ship. My job was to fill their tumblers with, at the very least, two fingers of single-malt whiskey. Mr. Masters warned me if I failed to do so in a prompt and courteous manner I would receive a spanking! I thought that was pretty funny. I hoped he was only joking!

I flitted about the room in my tight little outfit with a carafe full of most likely very expensive hooch and could not help but appreciate the compliments I received. All the guests had something nice to say, either about my outfit, my beauty, or my fitness.

Someone even handed me a tumbler and, taking the decanter, poured a generous amount of whiskey into it. "Yeah, thanks, I love it—it's so smooth!" I said, lofting the glass high before taking a swig. Yuck! The stuff was terrible, like drinking liquid fire.

"So Amanda, what do you do when you're not helping John distribute booze to his patrons?" said an especially illustrious silver-haired aristocrat. I swear I had seen him on TV, like on CNN or something.

By John, I inferred he was referring to Mr. Masters. All I could think of right then was how big of a slut I felt like wearing such a tight, skimpy outfit—and how much I enjoyed it.

"I work at this private club called...uh, the BK Lounge. It's in the city, downtown. I find the work there quite...fulfilling," I lied. 'BK Lounge,' that was a good one! I shuddered at the thought of my awful fast food job.

"And what do you do there, may I ask?" he asked.

"Well, I pretty much run the place," I said, my lying mouth turned up in a tight smile.

***

I was just getting used to all the attention when she strolled in. Heads turned and conversation faltered. Wow, fame really was fleeting. The sudden loss of interest bothered me much more than it should have. I had to admit, she was beautiful—tall and thin with alabaster skin. Her long floor length gown sashayed rhythmically as she crossed the room—those hips rotating like some elaborately engineered appliance. Damn.

"That's Natasha, she's a real beauty," said Igor in his thick accent.

Understatement of the year, I thought. Igor was John's lawyer and confidant and the largest man I had ever seen in a suit or otherwise. Thick and brutish, his words poured out slow and heavy like syrup. We had become acquainted throughout the night as I refilled his drink for the umpteenth time. He was my best customer.

"She's Russian, like me," he said and took a deep drag off his cigar.

"She is beautiful," I agreed, feeling somewhat deflated. Meet my sister, she's number four prostitute in all Kazakhstan.

"She's also very wealthy, one of the wealthiest in North Asia."

I took a drink and pondered this—beautiful and wealthy. Damn.

The lights dimmed and the music began pulsating. Natasha glided over on her ball-bearing hips and began pirouetting. The sexy, pale Russian whore gyrated in such a way—well, it was captivating. She had everybody's rapt attention.

Someone placed a hand on my back. To my surprise, it was my employer, John Masters. He motioned for me to join Natasha.

Are you fucking kidding me! I am NOT doing THAT! I pleaded with my eyes. I shook my head and waved my hands. No, no, no!

He smiled and again motioned for me to enter what was now only a slight opening in the crowd. What else could I do? I didn't want to disappoint my new boss, Mr. Masters! I gingerly stepped forward and began squirming. I was so tense! I couldn't believe this shit, everyone was staring.

Natasha responded by dancing even more seductively. I answered by swaying a bit more vigorously. I struggled to match her tempo and felt like a complete fool. Then, despite myself, I got into the rhythm and began having fun. Dancing for a mob of rowdy executives wasn't so bad after all! I could tell by their enthusiasm that they appreciated my effort.

They loved the show all right! I was enjoying it just as much—not only that, I intended to get the lion's share of attention. Natasha ramped up her efforts and somehow managed to outdo me again. Thus began my first dance-off with a beautiful Russian Madame and holy shit, it was exciting!

I thrust my hips to the euphoric bass as it pounded a steady rhythm right into my midsection. It felt incredible. Natasha pulled up her dress revealing her ass and neatly trimmed bush. She rocked her hips sinfully, caressing herself all over. I pulled up my half-shirt and flashed everybody my perfect eighteen-year-old tits.

Natasha glared at me. She yanked her dress up over her head, tossing it to the floor. The crowd went hysterical! Natasha's full, pert breasts jiggled hypnotically. Her body was amazing! Everyone started chanting, "Amanda! Amanda!"

Oh, fuck it! I pulled off my half-top and short-shorts and danced in my little cotton panties. I couldn't help it—I was lost in the moment. I ran my hands up over my glistening chest and the sensation was exhilarating! My nipples stood out proud and erect. I almost couldn't fathom the pure bliss as I tore off the panties.

We were rubbing up against each other when the music stopped—damn, what a disappointment! I stood panting and dripping, wondering what was next. Then Natasha did something completely insane—she reached down and grabbed my pussy, practically jamming her fingers into me!

Moments after the initial shock of the unsolicited groping, she kicked my legs out from under me with the ease and grace of a seasoned bully. I lay on the floor completely humiliated! Then she said some bullshit to the crowd in Russian and everybody laughed. Bitch, that was fucking rude!

Seeing my distress, Igor stepped forward and put a great arm around me. "Amanda, you did a great job out there. I mean really amazing! Don't mind her, she doesn't like competition and you gave her a run for the money. You were fantastic."

"Thanks, Igor, I appreciate it." It meant a lot to me, him saying that. I looked up to see if he was bullshitting me. As I turned, my arm bumped into something hard and unyielding.

I looked down to see the outline of an enormous cock standing out in full relief under his trousers. It seemed ready to burst through the thin material. Jesus, I couldn't imagine that monster inside me, it would destroy my virgin pussy!

"You aren't kidding are you?" I said, indicating the massive bulge.

"Happens sometimes," he shrugged.

***

Natasha slipped back into her dress and wandered off. She began studying a large painting on the other side of the room as things went back to 'normal.' So I tugged on my skimpy outfit and resumed running about filling everyone's drinks—less I be spanked, har-har.