Whatever It Takes Pt. 04

The video was incriminating not exculpating. There was no protest on my part - no screams, no frenzy of fingernails and fists, no traditional indications of resistance. My eyes appeared open and, although ambiguous, a third party observer could conclude that I was a full participant. That strange smile seemed painted on my face, except when I had a penis between my lips.

The read out on my laptop showed that I was less than four minutes into a 27 minute video. I threw my laptop across the room. Feeling nauseous, I ran to the bathroom and had the dry heaves over the toilet. I lost all the food I had in me, then just nothing but bile came up and keep on coming. I clung to the toilet as if my life depended on it.

The tape could be sold to tourists for a nice profit - given the lead actress (dumb little old me) was neither acting nor paid anything. Suddenly I remembered ducking into a back street store in Montego Bay while out walking with my husband, Paul. The shop had a wall of videos and two monitors running tape excerpts continuously. One monitor featured mainline movies with the usual set of established Hollywood stars. The other showed porn movies, almost all of which involved black men having sex with attractive white women, some of whom resembled/were made up as busty Hollywood notables, such as Katy Perry, Scarlett Johansson, and Jenifer Lawrence. I watched a minute or two and then remarked to Paul that those women must be "junkie sluts" to allow themselves to be used that way. Now I had the thought that maybe not all the women voluntarily consented to the sex videos. The thought of Michael and his gang fucking me in every hole on an endlessly looping video for the enjoyment of tourists sent me to the bathroom for another set of dry heaves.

Something else became clear to me. When I woke up on that bed yesterday, I was amazed at the amount of cum that was on the bed and me. Now I knew that it was the residue of multiple men, not just Michael. I had been nothing but a cum bucket for the whole group of them. I felt soiled and cheapened.

There was a note in the package with the tape and photos. It said simply that if I wanted to discuss how I could "buy" the enclosed material that I should come to the hotel bar to discuss a "business proposition." My reaction was intense fear and anger. I assumed Michael wanted money, and he thought he could pressure me. I was at a real disadvantage from a negotiating point of view. I had to get the negatives and destroy the tape, or my marriage and my 'perfect" life were over. I could not let that happen.

Whatever it took, I had to resolve this situation. I caused it by going with Michael. It was my fault! I owned this problem and had to resolve it. I was determined to regain control, pay him off, and get out of this with my life and marriage intact. But this time I had to do damage control and turn the situation around. I knew that I was at a big disadvantage, the whole deal - meeting Michael, the party, the sex, the drugs, and the digital images - was a set up for blackmail, and I was stupid enough to fall for it. I had to pay whatever was wanted to get out of this mess. I was so humiliated that with all my education and alleged "street smarts" from New York I could have been so stupid as to have allowed myself to be in the power of a bunch of black, island low lifes that must make a living preying off dumb tourists.

The note in the package said that I should meet "me" in the bar. Since it was unsigned, I assumed Michael sent it and that he was down in the bar waiting to tell me how much I had to pay to make all this go away. I knew I had to be disciplined and not allow events to overwhelm me. I put on some conservative underwear (high cut white panty briefs and a white "minimizer" bra), a white cotton shirtdress from Saks (buttoned to the neck and down the leg so far that it barely allowed me to walk) and white sandals with low heels. The intent was to absolutely communicate zero sexuality so as to keep this at a business negotiation level where I could have some advantage based on my deal experience with the bank.. I even allowed myself some optimism that I could negotiate my way out, paying some money and learning a lesson. After all, wasn't it Nietzsche who said that "whatever does not kill you, makes you stronger"? So just maybe I come out of this stronger and wiser and no worse for wear.

When I entered the bar, I was surprised to see not Michael but Patrick, the so-called host for the party in Porta Maria where the tape was made and the photos shot. I sat down with him at a corner table. He waved to Mack, the bartender, who brought over a pina colada for me and a scotch for Patrick.

Mack looked right in to my eyes as he approached the table. There was an arrogant expression on his face. I stood up so quickly that I knocked the chair over. As it crashed behind me, Patrick grabbed my arm. "Sit down," he commanded. Only his hand on my arm kept me from slapping Mack's face. Patrick leaned over and righted the chair; he pulled me in to it.

Mack laughed as he put the drink down. "Temper! Temper! You weren't that upset when last night you were sucking my dick like it was sweet candy.. Hell, you have a mouth that's as soft as a cunt. Don't be so high and mighty. Last night you were just another good bitch with a tight ass and warm mouth." Patrick quickly moved to restrain me as I tried to rise to attack Mack who just stood there with a smile on his face. Then he laughed and turned away to return to the bar.

While Patrick sipped at his scotch, I ignored the pina colada because I wanted a clear head and had a suspicion that I had been drugged - the only logical explanation for my lack of memory from the night before. Also, I felt like shit and was so nervous that I had to keep my hands folded on the table to keep them from shaking.

"Good morning, Elaine," he began. "Sleep well?" he went on with an amused smile and very cold eyes. I remembered how at the party he looked at me like a predator eyes prey.

"What the hell is going on?" I said in a too loud voice and threw the now empty envelope on the table.

"Keep the noise down. This is a business deal," he responded. We stared at each other for thirty seconds. In the end, I nodded first.

"What does Michael and/or you want?"

"Money," he responded. For the mere sum of $25,000 U.S. in cash you receive the other two copies of the tape, all the printed photographs, and the negatives. A simple business transaction. You walk away as if nothing happened. Nobody ever knows anything."

"I was raped!" I snapped. The words hung there. I felt so stupid - just to say the words made me feel guilty to have allowed it to happen.

"Elaine that is not what the evidence seems to indicate. In fact, the record will show that you enticed a man in a bar to drink with you and asked him to your room...and God alone knows what happened there. Subsequently, in a semi-dressed state you careened across the lobby, left the hotel compound, and went to a party with a bunch of people that you did not know. At the party you engaged in public foreplay even exposing your breasts for 40 plus people to see. Next you went into a bedroom with the man, and were heard to have noisy consensual sex. After that you had the man return to the party to get you additional sex partners, including Mack there following which you had sex with three additional partners, including taking on two or three of them at once and consented to being photographed and taped while having sex. Finally, in front of the driver you then went down on and fucked the original man in the car on the way back to this hotel.

"Did I miss something? Where was the 'rape'? Not only that, but the limo driver will testify that you took money from Michael - that makes you a whore. The police on this island take a dim view of off-shore prostitutes coming to Jamaica to spread disease and God knows what else to the citizens and the tourists. You could be in big trouble."

He continued, "Any jury would conclude that you had fun on the island while your husband was away on business. In fact, based on the evidence, there is the potential for you to be prosecuted for prostitution. At a minimum, even to bring it to the attention of the authorities would cause you embarrassment, not to speak of the potential loss of employment and a husband when the fact set became public." Then he smiled and looked into my eyes. He had me, and we both knew it.

"This is a simple business proposition," he continued. "If Michael does not receive the $25,000 today then he will begin the process of mass distribution so that the tape and photos will be available to every tourist that arrives on the island. In addition, just for spite, he will email selected photos with an appropriate covering email text to every executive at your bank that he can pull off the Web or from the annual report. In addition, your husband will receive at his place of employment a replica of the package you received this morning. This is not complicated, not personal, only business."

"Also," he continued, "you can pay only, I say again only, with cash. No credit cards, no checks, no promises. Cash only! That means no wire transfers - too much traceability."

My mind swam with panic. "I don't have and can not raise today $25,000 in cash. You must give me more time."

"There is no time. Today or never. What can you raise?"

"I do not know. I have an American Express card and a bank card. Both have limits on cash advances. Even asking for more than the limit could trigger a suspension or termination of my cards."

He looked at me cruelly and skeptically. "Do not take us for local island dumb blacks. This is not some back water hamlet along the Mississippi delta. We are in charge here. You are nothing more than a dumb nigger who just happens to be white. Michael said you bragged about being a banker and all the 'deals' in which you were involved. That means you have money and the means to get more. Is $25,000 too much to save your job and your reputation? Tell me again: how much cash can you raise?"

"I don't know," I shouted back. "Give me a day. I need to go to a bank."

"No banks. You must have a hearing problem. We want no outsiders and no paper trails. You have one - I say again one - hour. But if it is one minute more, I am leaving and will leave copies of your photographs all over the hotel on my way out with your room number scrawled on the bottom."

I flew out of the bar and asked to see the hotel manager. He offered me $10,000 as a cash advance against my American Express card and another $2,000 against an old Visa card that I still carried. That was the limit. He did not question why I wanted the cash but advised me to be careful and not to carry cash or leave it in my room. He added that I should not go outside the secure tourist enclave at Montego Bay, but, if I did, under no circumstances carry any significant amount of cash.

Next I used the ATM machine in the bank lobby. I hit my limit at $1,000 cash withdrawable on any calendar day. Finally, Paul and I had about $1,000 in cash that we brought. That gave me $15,000 in cash and took 58 minutes of the hour Patrick gave me so I raced into the bar and sat again at his table. After I sat down, I realized he was going through copies of my photographs from the day before. He looked up with his dead eyes and stared at me.

"I especially like the ones where you fuck one guy while you suck Mack off. Many women find it difficult to have sex with two men at once - the female as the meat in the sandwich so to speak. You must be a sexual animal when aroused."

"I don't remember any of that."

"You shouldn't. You took a load of rohypnol in your last drink."

When I stared at him blankly, he continued, "'Roofies'. The preferred date rape drug preferred by American fraternity houses. Based on observation, it takes effect in 30 to 45 minutes and results in drowsiness, muscle relaxation, slowing of psychomotor responses, and, most importantly, lowered inhibitions. This makes it easier to achieve sexual dominance with a side benefit of the drug inducing amnesia."

"You drugged me!" was all I could say as I searched my memory for any details from the many "roofie" stories that had appeared in the New York Times.

"Only at the end. You went with Michael to the party based on too much alcohol and an exaggerated sense of your own personal ability to control situations. A common failing of most American professional women. Now, talk to me about money. How much do you have?"

"I have $15,000. I need more time." I almost choked on the words but blurted out, "Please help me. You and Michael must be reasonable. I'll do anything," the implications of that last comment hung in the air between us.

He ignored it. "Michael has never gone below $25,000." He caught my startled expression. "You are not the first. Michael does this for a living - finding arrogant American or European professional women, seducing them, drugging them, and then blackmailing them."

"What is your role? Are you the bag man that collects the money?"

"No. I am a partner, supplying the working capital, the facilities, and collecting the cash so as not to worry about Michael double crossing me."

He continued, "Let's go see Michael. How good you are at negotiating? Maybe you can cut the deal for only $15,000. Or maybe the money plus a blow job and a good butt fuck," he chuckled as he said that.

His comment about sex almost made me come unglued. I had to get this closed and was at a disadvantage since all the negotiating leverage was with them. I dutifully followed Patrick out to the same limo with the same driver and off we went to meet Michael.

I sat at the back facing Patrick who sat across from me with his back to the driver, the reverse of the seating arrangements of Michael and me the night before. For the whole trip, he stared at me with no expression on his face. Rather than just stare back, I looked out the window. That was when I noticed that we were not going along the coastal highway toward Port Maria but southeast towards Kingston. All the warnings about the break down of law and order in Kingston came flooding into my mind.

"Where are we going?" I asked with panic in my voice.

"What difference does it make to you? You must go to Michael. You have no choice. We will be safe in this vehicle. It and I are known on the entire island of Jamaica."

I had no choice. As we neared Kingston, we hit the first army roadblock. The jeeps had machine guns on them. There were two more roadblocks in Kingston. Then we were out of the squalor of the city and still heading southeast. We went into a town called Port Morant, maybe two or three miles from the city. When we finally stopped it was at a huge walled house. We went through an open gate where two men served as security. There was a parking lot for 30 cars or so. Confusion showed on my face.

"Relax. I will explain soon enough," was all he said.

As we exited the car, I noticed the harbor in the distance. Two of the ever-present cruise ships were in town - the usual drill was for the ships to travel between islands

at night, arrive in port in the morning, disgorge tourists for six or ten hour visits, and then

depart around dinner time to cruise languidly to the next island.

The house had flower boxes on the window ledges and brightly patterned curtains. I asked Patrick where we were. His response was, "The locals call this place 'The Dolls' House.'"

The front door opened into a big room with a bar, bandstand, and dance floor - like a private club of some sort. A stairway at the back of the room led upstairs. Patrick led me through the big reception area, down a hall, to an office. He sat at his desk, and I sat in a chair facing him.

"Where is Michael?" I asked. "I want to end this as soon as possible. It is almost two in the afternoon, and I want to be back at Montego Bay by dark."

"Michael is not coming. I will handle the terms and conditions of our deal. You have $15,000 with you, yes?" I nodded and he continued. "Elaine, I like you so I am going to make you a deal. The price remains $25,000. For that amount you get the extant copies of the tape, all photos, and all negatives."

I was confused. Too much was happening too fast. The whole situation was out of my control and dissolving into chaos. "I do not have $25, 000 - just $15,000. Do you mean we cut the deal for the $15,000?"

His tone changed, no longer mildly pleasant. Now he sounded exasperated, as if speaking to a child that did not understand the obvious. "No, Elaine, listen up. The price is $25,000 - $15,000 in cash and the remainder in personal services"

"What the fuck do you mean 'person service'?" I shouted back at him. I had lost control of the negotiation. I knew it, and he knew I knew it. Probably I never had any control at all.

"Elaine, you are a beautiful woman. At the hotel you said you would 'do anything' to get control of the evidence of your - how do I say it - indiscretions of last evening. Let me explain how you are going to do that.

You are in a house of prostitution - a whore house. For the next several days, or weeks if you like, you will work here as a prostitute. You will be one of the 'dolls' for whom the house is named. When you have earned $10,000 in credits, you can leave with the tape, photos, and negatives. The deal is $25,,000 - $15,000 down in cash now and $10,000 in trade in the very near future. Now what more do you need to know?"

"You are crazy," I said with more confidence than I felt. "Some one will find me. You can not kidnap people."

"Elaine, you are naïve. No one saw you leave the hotel. One of my people has advised the hotel desk that you were taking one of those two day cruises that leave Montego Bay and go around in circles so tourists can watch sunsets, run around topless on deck, and fuck strangers that they meet on the boat. No one will look for you, and they will not find you if they did. The whole of Kingston and the surrounding area has degenerated to lawlessness, rape, and murder. The army is even scared to patrol and remains behind those roadblocks we came through. In the middle of chaos, no one will search for one blond American woman, even one as beautiful and well-educated as yourself. Furthermore, I am related to half the police on the island and pay them and their peers to stay out of my business, as well as to 'handle' any problems that arise."

"You can not get away with this."

"I have and will continue to do so. Listen to me. This is a business. Michael works for me as a "recruiter" whose job it is to seduce attractive but naive women like yourself, get them to compromise themselves, and deliver them to me. This is not a small operation - in addition to 'recruiters' I use 'spotters', like Mack the bartender at your hotel, to identify potential talent for people like Michael to recruit. You were just arrogant enough to think you were in control and that this would be a harmless adventure. Typical American hubris combined with too much education and not enough common sense got you here, across the desk from me, and totally in my power. Want a drink? You Yanks like bourbon, I believe."

I accepted the two fingers of bourbon he put in a glass and handed it to me. I had to get my nerves under control and hoped alcohol would do the trick. I sipped it slowly. It was straight and burned going down.

He continued with his monologue. "I run three houses in Jamaica that cater to tourists, expatriates, and wealthy island inhabitants. 'The Dolls' House' caters to the high end trade. Be grateful that you are not at one of the other two. There the trade is...shall we say rougher...and the things they ask of the whores much more bizarre."