Whatever It Takes Pt. 01

WHATEVER IT TAKES:

WORKING OUT A DEBT IN JAMAICA

Prologue

I turned to look up at Patrick when I heard him say, "Elaine, just a mere two days ago did you ever think you would be giving a blow job to man whom you hardly met - a black man who never got past eighth grade? Life can take some strange twists, can't it?"

He stared in to my eyes then reached out to pat my head. It was the kind of gesture you make to a pet, but then I felt his hand on the back of my head, pushing my face into Randy's crotch. "Do your job, Elaine. Like they taught you at Wharton, do whatever it takes to please the customer."

I put my tongue underneath the crown of his cock and slowly moved my tongue down Randy's prick. I felt him shiver at the touch of my tongue on his turgid flesh. I went all the way down to his balls and gave them a tongue bath as well. When the car lurched, I ended up with most of his balls in my mouth. He sighed audibly.

I noticed his smell. It was pungent as if he had not washed in days. My stomach flipped when I thought that his dick had sweat, piss, and the juices of other women on it. But I knew that I had to keep him happy.

"Lick it all over," he instructed me. "That's what I like. Like my cock all over then suck it down that arrogant white throat of yours."

I ran my tongue up to the tip of his prick. I then took the purple head into my mouth. I gradually took more of it in to my mouth. My tongue kept stroking as I moved down toward his balls. His hand came down on the back of my head, and the next thing I know my nose was buried in his thick, black, wiry public hair. I twisted my head, felt his cock rotate in my mouth and throat. I came up for breath, and he drove me down again. When I brought my head up next, I wiggled the tip of my tongue into the slit at the end of his dick. Then I swept the head of his pick with my tongue and tasted the beginning of his ejaculation.

I began to suck in earnest. Maintaining the suction, I bobbed my head over his lap, spreading my knees wide on the floor of the moving car to keep my balance. Up and down, up and down I went. My jaws began to ache. Once in a while my teeth nicked his sensitive flesh, and he gasped.

I could barely hear Patrick and Randy discussing the prospects for their favorite local soccer team. I knew instinctively that it was not the subject of the discussion that was important - only that they were deliberately ignoring me. All designed to communicate to the other two women and to me that we were not important - other than to give head whenever and wherever we were ordered to do so.

Finally, I got to him. His hands touched my head, and his hips began to squirm. He began to lift and push my head. His hips jammed upward in a fucking motion. My throat felt battered. To myself, I began to say over and over again, "Oh, God, cum. Please cum."

"Here it comes, Elaine. Swallow it!"

I gulped his first creamy wad. I felt it burn my throat all the way down. The following spurts were less copious and spaced further apart. I kept swallowing; the last dribbles were thin. He grabbed my hair and dragged my face off his dick. I looked at it from six inches away; it was shiny with my saliva and his cum.

"Clean it."

I licked his dick clean as it began to shrivel. I lifted my face from his prick when his grip on my hair relaxed.

Weakly, I leaned back on my heels. My jaw felt as it had been dislocated. My hair hurt from being pulled every which way, and my tit hurt from where he had pinched me early in the trip. I looked up at Randy. Sweat gleamed on his face, stained his collar. He fought to catch his breath. He reached down, under my arm pits and half-lifted, half-threw me across the limo. I ended up in a sprawl on the floor of the moving vehicle. Even with my hands bound at the wrists behind me, I quickly scrambled up so my back was against the seat opposite the two men, my tits exposed through the chain vest, and my legs akimbo as I tried to brace myself on the floor of the car. The most degrading thing was not my position, as lewd as it was, but the dregs of his cum on my chin and lips - outward signs of how used and useable I had become on this island.

As I lay there on the limo floor, I wondered to myself how this could have happened to me. I was 30 years old, a wife and mother, an MBA, an American for God's sake. What had I done wrong? What did I do to deserve this?

WHATEVER IT TAKES:

WORKING OUT A DEBT IN JAMAICA

OUR ROMANTIC WEEKEND

Get the keys to the car, fill it up with gas

Go down to the bank and pull out a little cash

Forget about the yard, forget about the trash

Let's get a little sun...

Good times, good times,

It is a good time to let the good times roll,

Mile after mile, smile after smile,

Heading on down the line,

Hey, we're having good times.

Anita Cochran, Song Writer and Country Singer (1999)

My name is Elaine Beauvais Ferrell, 30 years old, married with one newborn child, aged three months. I'm an MBA from Wharton with the title of Associate Director in the Structured Finance Group of Goldman Sachs in New York. I'm almost six feet tall, weigh 165 pounds, and have green eyes. My hair is blonde and worn long. In case you are wondering about my looks, let me just say I'm good looking enough to have participated in a number of teenage beauty contests in my home area and even won a couple. All my life I have stayed in shape by working out a minimum of three times a week, even packing workout gear with me when I travel for business. My figure has matured from the beauty contest days, but I still retain a 36D, 25, 35 body. Although since my baby was born almost four months ago, my bust has swelled to a hopefully temporary 36DD.

My father ran a small hardware business, made a good living, and was a respected member of the community. We were neither poor nor rich but managed our money well. My Dad taught me to go after what I wanted and not stop for anything or anybody. He learned the hard way - ROTC out of Indiana State ('66) into Vietnam. He was wounded twice, survived the melee that was the Tet offensive, was captured and escaped from some prison run by the Viet Cong. His constant exhortation when I would get miserable was "don't let the bastards grind you down!" which is what the grunts used to tell each other when things got really bad over there. I remember once when I was really stubborn and clinging to some off-the-wall position long after it was rational to do so, he told me "never be afraid to walk - or even run - away. You run away to fight another day. If you do not die, you live. If you live, you have another chance - for revenge, success, or whatever. I learned in Vietnam that surrender was the postponement of annihilation, and sometimes that is a victory in itself." Dad tended to be more philosophical me so the best I could do was translate his comments into 'where there is life there's hope.'

Like my dad, my mother also went to Indiana State. She took Elementary Education, taught for years, took graduate courses at night while she raised the family, and eventually became a respected elementary school principal in our town. To outsiders, she appeared successful, but to my sister and I she confided that, as a small town woman in the 50s and 60s her opportunities were limited. She wanted my sister and I to never accept less than what we wanted and that our world was not my mother's world. From the time we were weaned, my mother had raised our consciousness about being female in a male world and to accept nothing less than absolute equality with men.

In combination then my mother and father, each starting from different places, raised me to believe that I was no one's inferior and that I could be whatever I wanted to be, go wherever I wanted to go, and interact as an equal with whomever I chose to interact. There were no limits except those my dad lumped under "illegal, immoral, or unethical." Certainly, I believed I was the equal of any of my male counterparts. All thorough high school, college, and graduate school and at the Federal Reserve and Citibank, I competed deliberately and successively with boys and then men.

I went to college at Northwestern, outside Chicago. I ran with the in-crowd and partied on the North Side of Chicago with lots of bright, aggressive kids. In fact, in my four years there the only people I ever spoke to that did not score at least 1450 (out of a max 1600) on their college boards were the cafeteria help and one hell of a lot of bartenders. My sorority was Chi Omega, which had a core philosophy of young women bonding for life to assist one another in a male-dominated world. We also tended to have very high grade points, graduate on average in less than four years, and end up in high income professional positions after graduation. My class nicknamed me "Barbie" - blonde and boobs was the stereotype - but my grade point was 3.8 on a 4.0 scale at a top 20 university so I resented the air head implication of the nickname.

Being a geek sorority, we were not as sexually active as the average campus sorority, but we were not nuns. Being geeks, we combined research and personal experience into what we called the "Penis Scale." According to this scale, 68% of males achieved an erection length of five inches with a base circumference at erection of four inches. This was in contrast to another penis category which we encountered mush less (only a 28% frequency) and that was the six inch length with a five inch base circumference. Finally, there was the legendary seven incher with a six inch base that reportedly had only a 4% frequency based on the reports of our sorority sisters. We dubbed these three categories: "joy-toys" (five inch), "longfellows" (six inch), and "unicorns" (the mythical seven incher).

We decided collectively that width was more important to us than length because there was more pleasure in intercourse with something that filled the vagina rather than speared the womb. We even had a blackboard in the sorority house where every Saturday evening upon arrival home from a date or hookup the sorority members recorded which of the three, if any, they encountered that evening. I rarely had anything to contribute as my sexual activity was minimal and was serial monogamy whenever I had a relationship. Truthfully, including my husband, my total sexual experience has been with the five inch joy-toy batch. Not sure I have ever seen in the flesh a longfellow, much less a unicorn.

I graduated in 2000, worked for the Federal Reserve Bank in Chicago for three years, and then went to business school at Wharton where I majored in Finance because I wanted to go to New York and work with a large bank. Goldman hired me upon graduation from Wharton, and I have been there for four years and loved every minute of it.

My husband, Paul Ferrell, is a 37-year-old consulting engineer. He is a Vice President with Bechtel and travels worldwide. Our combined incomes with bonuses exceed $600,000 per year. We met in grad school and got married after dating for two years. He's basically a very nice guy, gentle, caring, and what attracted me to him was his intellect. He is a very smart man. His most irritating characteristic is that he sometimes does not take me seriously and often acts in an overprotective way that causes me to rebel and do stupid things. As do most people today, we engaged in premarital sex, but nothing particular kinky or out of the ordinary. Like most kids in their late teens we had sex a couple of times a week, most often with him on top in the old missionary position. Neither of us was particularly experienced. Not counting amateurish and messy middle and high school blow jobs given by me to pimpled male adolescents, I had had sex with only five or six guys before I met Paul and have been faithful to him since we began to date.

For the past three months, I have been breast feeding our daughter. In fact, if I do not feed the baby or manually pump the breasts, milk can actually leak out into - or through - my bra and onto my clothes. The lactation process has temporarily enlarged my breasts by two inches so I am a temporary 36DD. Also, the areolas around my nipples got much darker during pregnancy. The darkening allows a baby to more easily feed because the milk comes from the entire areola, not just the nipple. My aureoles are quite dark and easily visible through light clothing. My husband thinks it is quite humorous that I cause all the male heads to turn whenever I enter a room or walk down a street with "big red headlights" (his words) on the tips of my breasts.

In the meantime, whenever my breasts are sucked, squeezed, or massaged, copious amounts of milk emerge. Once during lovemaking, my milk ejected almost like a spray. My husband found the effect unsettling; he prefers routine to surprise. On rare occasion, since the birth we will sometimes pause in our lovemaking to allow him to fasten his mouth on one areola and then the other, sucking down my milk. It is a real turn on for both of us. Sometimes the whole process gets so messy that we then shower together, washing off the milk and our sex fluids at the same time.

After our daughter was born, I took three months maternity leave. That leave was up in two weeks so, given my mother was available to stay with our daughter, I decided to accompany Paul on a business trip to the Caribbean. While I am away, my mother will wean our daughter off breast feeding and over to baby formula. To facilitate the process, I stored bottle after bottle of my milk in the refrigerator. I felt like a regular cow pumping out the milk necessary to allow my mother to transition the baby from natural mother's milk to formula.

We purchased a battery-powered breast pump that allowed me to simultaneously pump both breasts into breast milk collection bottles - technology triumphs again! I even up-graded to the model that attached to the nursing bra and allowed me to pump both breasts simultaneously while keeping my hands free. Right before we left for Jamaica, I was triple processing - breast pumping while using my hands to edit a draft prospectus during an audio conference with my office. I was just glad that it was not a video conference showing my boobs pumping away to the world wide staff of Goldman.

The trip was eight days in Jamaica. It was a business trip for Paul, visiting the petrochemical plants on Jamaica and two nearby islands. The opportunity was great, constant sunshine, beautiful hotel, great service, and no worries since our daughter was with my mother. We would arrive on Friday night and have the weekend to ourselves. Paul would be away all week, so I would be alone most of the time including a four day stretch when Paul would be touring plants on other nearby islands.

I can remember myself thinking, "Whatever can go wrong with a deal like this? Baby is taken care of, Paul is doing his thing, and I get to rest in Paradise. Looking back, my naïve enthusiasm and false sense of confidence was the kind of thing my grandmother used to warn me against. "Man plans and God laughs" is how she put it. She was absolutely correct as the events of the next several days would prove.

THE WEEKEND: FRIDAY - Airport Nightmare; Resort Bliss

We traveled down on Friday night, leaving around six o'clock so Paul could work a full day. He traveled first class since he was on business. I traveled separately in coach, using frequent flier miles. I could have upgraded to first, but it was not worth the extra 25,000 miles for the three hour flight to Jamaica out of JFK.

On the way down, a young, black woman sat next to me.. Although I was trying to do some work on my laptop, she introduced herself as Camille and began a conversation that lasted most of the way. She was easy to talk to and asked lots of questions about where I was from and what I was going to do in Jamaica. She seemed more interesting than my spreadsheets so I closed up the laptop, and we had a long conversation. She started buying drinks, and, before I knew it, we had each bought two rounds. I told her about Paul, the baby, my career, and background. I don't normally tell people that much, but she was a good listener and seemed interested. She assumed I was traveling alone on business, and I had no reason to mention that Paul was up front in first class.

At one point, she said, "You know that you are very beautiful, don't you?"

"Camille, thank you for saying that. But I am getting old and the baby has made me fat."

She laughed, "You are fat in the boobs. Men love that. You could make a fortune as an exotic dancer."

"Boom, boom, boom," I said and shook my chest so that my 36DDs bounced. We both laughed and had a fifth and final drink.

We waved good bye as we entered customs since she was a citizen and entered the country through a different line. As she went through, I noticed that she spoke to one of the customs officers in the back and seemed to point to me which seemed strange. When she saw I was looking, she waved, and I waved back.

Since Paul traveled first class, his immigration and customs clearance was expedited. We had arranged to meet on the far side after passing though the customs area. My luggage was delayed, so I was one of the last to approach the customs clerks. There were two of them, one of whom I noticed was the one with whom I had seen Camille speaking.

Everything seemed routine, but they took a long time staring at my passport. Then they asked me to open my bag. I was starting to get irritated, after all we were down there to spend money in an economy that had no other visible means of support except tourism.

"Is there a problem? I said with the tone indicating that I was in a hurry.

The one Camille had spoken with said, "Please come with me." I looked at him hard for the first time. He was a large man, maybe 230 pounds, with a scarred face. He carried a large pistol on his black leather belt. I felt intimidated so I reverted to an authoritarian tone that instilled in me a false confidence but did not help the situation.

"Pardon me. What is the problem?"

He repeated, "Come with me." He then grabbed my arm at the elbow and led me to a room off the customs hall. The other agent followed with two suit cases.

In the room there were two female agents in uniform. The older of the two was behind a desk, almost disinterested. The younger of the two stood behind a table on which my suit case was soon opened. Then the agent who carried by bag left. I was alone with the two women, Camille's contact, and a fourth agent who wore a dirty uniform and had a pinched face, like a ferret. All were black as the ace of spades.

I repeated again, "What is the problem?" I enunciated each word slowly and clearly as if I was addressing young children with a learning disability. My tone of voice was demeaning and conveyed more confidence than I felt.

The agent behind the table was also big, like a jailer in prison. "Open them."

"I don't understand..." She cut me off by slamming a billy club on the table.

"Open them."

Startled, I just did what she said and stood in silence as she spread my possessions out on the table. The two men chuckled when she held up my thong bathing suit and waved around the pink baby doll sheer chiffon with hearts that I had purchased for the trip. I felt both intimidated and humiliated.