Whatever It Takes Pt. 05 - Late Night Tuesday

After the biographical exchange, she asked me, "What did you do to end up here?"

I explained bitterly the sojourn with Arthur, how I was stupid for thinking I could control the situation, then getting drugged and gang-raped and photographed, and closing with how I was determined to do whatever it took to preserve my marriage and got out of here in one piece. Then I asked, "I want to escape, but I am scared. Can we help each other get out of here?"

A cloud came over her face as she answered, "There is no obvious way to get out of here without using violence, and we are unarmed." Then she added with vehemence, "But if I had a gun, I would shoot everybody - Patrick, Ralph, the whores, the tricks." If anyone had a reason to escape, it was Danelle. She had a problem at the airport trying to bring in some marijuana for recreational use - lots of academic degrees but not too street smart. The "authorities" gave her a choice - three months in the local prison and a prison record forever or work off at Patrick's establishment. I roughly translated her credits into approximately 200+ fucks and sucks. She had it much worse than I did.

She explained what happened. "I think I was set up on the plane by a good looking black girl who called herself Camille. She switched to sit next to me, and we talked all the way down from New York. We got separated at customs, and I lost track of her. There were lots of guards around the customs area, all big, black, and carrying guns and blackjacks. The guards were joking around so much that it was like they were high on alcohol or dope. The customs agent asked me routine questions and then told me to step into a room off the main customs area. When I started to protest, she said it was 'routine.' One of the black guards escorted me over. I was intimidated by his size. He made me nervous the way he looked me up and down; I knew he was undressing me and that he knew that I knew and didn't care."

She did not have to tell me what was coming next. It all came back to me - 'the ferret' with the wand that didn't work and the butch guard checking her breasts. It happened to her the way it did to me - only she was traveling alone and caring a little grass in here bag, two things that put her at an insurmountable disadvantage.

"They stripped me naked and began to poke and prod me. One of them stuck his fingers in me and ground them around, all the time looking in to my eyes with a big smile on his face. Then the guy in charge - sergeant or captain - pulled a bag of white powder out of his desk and said that I would be charged with possession. Before I could argue much, he told me about "the easy way, and the hard way." The easy way was to fuck the guards on duty, then and there. If I did it, then 'just maybe they would forget it this one time.' When I looked at the woman guard who was there, all she could say was 'don't worry, they are clean.' I then began to scream and ran to the door which was locked. The guards all laughed because the place was sound proof and they were the law.

They put a dirty mat on the floor and pushed me on my back. They then took me one after the other. The first guy just rammed in to me. I was so scared I just lay there, praying to God to let me survive. I felt powerless and, with almost no thought, made a decision to do whatever they said because they had power and I had none. I even went along with them and coaxed them and rocked my body with them. I was not even going to give them the excuse that I was inert and uncooperative. I even just opened my mouth when one of them couldn't wait his turn and stuck it down my throat."

She kept on with her story. I did not know what to say so remained silent.

"After the eighth guy had me, I thought it was over. But it wasn't. One of the guards had called his brother to join the party. Then four kids just out of high school came over and took turns with me. By then they had me on my hands and knees. One in front and one in the back, over and over. When I wasn't responsive, one of them flicked his cigarette lighter and brush-burned my nipples. Finally, kids stuck his dick up my ass. In three-and-a-half hours, 12 guys fucked me, some more than once. I operated on pure adrenalin and then just went through the motions. A couple of times I noticed some female guards come in, look over the action, laugh with the men, and then leave. I couldn't believe it was happening to me. I was the big time professor, on a dirty mat, fucking black men to stay alive. I was convinced they would kill me if I did not perform, so I performed like it was the greatest sex I ever had. I was so scared that it became the most important thing in my life to make those animals happy. I literally kissed their ass holes, crawled to them to get fucked, and begged for sex - on my back, legs spread, using my hands to open myself up to them like a bitch in heat.

At one point, the in charge told me to lick his boots. Hating myself, I brought my face down to the level of his dirty boots. I closed my eyes and reached out with my tongue; the leather tasted bitter but I kept slobbering over the boot, even after one of his buddies came up behind me and pressed his dick in to my ass. Since he was the third guy there that night, he slipped in without resistance. As my lips moved all over that boot, this other guy began to move in my ass. I didn't know which worse, the boot licking or the butt fucking."

I had to stop her. "I don't need to know this." In my mind, knowing that I had almost fallen in to the same trap at airport customs, I saw myself in here place, begging to be fucked to stay alive. I shivered and drank my drink down in one gulp.

"Yes, you do because you must understand the type of people with whom we are dealing here." Then she went on with her story. "When it was done, and I was slowly crawling around like a wounded animal gathering my clothing, the one in charge told me that they were 'not satisfied' and that I had not kept my part of the bargain so they were going to take me to jail. The he told me that I 'would have to fuck the guards and even the prisoners every night for a year.' That's when Patrick entered the room and 'saved' me from having to fuck my way through a year in prison. He offered me a 'deal.' If I signed up to work here for three months, the rest of the season, then I could leave without a police record. Furthermore, I would be under his protection and would live to see the United States again. What choice did I have? I signed up and became a whore." Now that the story was over, there was a vacant stare to her eyes. She sat like that for what seemed to be five minutes. While she was in that reverie, I quickly estimated that three months of resort whorehouse servicing roughly equated to sex with 800 to 900 strangers.

When she reentered this world and began to give me the wisdom of her experience. Danelle had been here long enough to understand the system. "Elaine, this set up is insidious. We are being systematically raped and exploited. The system deliberately targets physically attractive white women in their late 20s and early 30s - women like ourselves that have something to loose. We are entrapped and forced into prostitution in order to restore our lives to the way we want them. Patrick and his cohorts rely on our own determination to work whore ourselves out of the jam into which we were stupid enough to get ourselves. From an objective third party's point of view, we are here voluntarily. We are not tied down; there is no knife at our throats. Nor are we passive. We fuck back because that will get us out of here faster. We participate in our own rapes!

We act just like the Dutch women in Indonesia 'forced' into prostitution by the Japanese during World War II. They were not tied down, spread-eagled on a bed at the mercy of whatever officer or enlisted man paid for them. They had a simple choice - either submit and fuck or die. Some probably chose to die. Most chose to fuck, and they survived.

They did, and we do, whatever it takes to survive - and the use of the debt system gives us a finite goal towards which to work to end the ordeal. We ourselves determine the elapsed time we spend here - the harder we work, the more johns 'serviced,' the faster we earn our way back to the real world."

Her tone sounded detached, almost academic. Then I remembered that she was a professor - maybe to keep her sanity while consigned to fuck and suck 200+ strangers, she was planning to write a book on her experience. At the rate things were going, I could probably contribute a chapter or two.

She had a habit that enticed me. When a new man arrived, she would fix them with a stare, wave with her left hand, and, with her right, lift her shirt to show her bare breasts, often using her right hand to cup one and/or play with the nipple. The frightening thing was that she was doing it by rote, like breathing, without thinking. She had only been here two weeks, but she had adjusted and was playing the game. The thought crossed my mind that she was a survivor; I wondered if I was. Could I do whatever it took? Flash my breasts to attract strangers to have sex? I hoped I could do it. I wanted my life back.

Danelle said, "Elaine, let's try to watch each other's back. I don't trust anybody here.

We need each other. Also, there is another workout girl here by the name of Shelley Hendricks who is single and a news caster back in the States. However, she will not be much use to us. She is a short timer - due out of here this week. In fact, she is my test case. If she gets out, then Patrick is credible, and I have decided that I will function so as to not make waves and just get out when my time is up - sort of like being in prison. If Shelley does not get out, then I have to escape" - then she paused -"or commit suicide."

Ignoring her 'suicide' comment, I asked, "How will we know that she gets out?"

"What they told me is that, when a workout girl 'earns' her way out, then she gets a number to call. Somehow that call is relayed back here, and one of us is allowed to speak to her to ensure she is really on her way home. The system makes sense in a perverted way. We need some reassurance besides the 'word' of Patrick and Randy that this is not forever and that you can work your way out. That provides the incentive for us to keep going and not cause problems."

"Do you believe that we will get out of here?"

"Yes. I think that this system of 'temporary abduction' or 'debt workout,' whichever you want to call it, has been in place for a couple of years. Given it has continued that long, it is credible that, like a prison sentence, it comes to end. If there was no release, there would be no incentive for us to cooperate and then the system breaks down. It relies on us to participate at least passively, if not enthusiastically, in our own rapes. We need the incentive of a credible end to the ordeal to keep going. This is a system designed by a genius to be run by idiots."

Looking around, I asked, "What does this Shelley look like?"

"She is not here now. Probably upstairs going down on some tourist. You'll recognize her easily. She is a real blonde like you, shorter than we are, maybe 5'4", has boobs as large as yours and in her late 20's. By the way, be a little careful what you say around her. I think she is suffering from what the psychologists call the 'Patty Hearst syndrome.'

"What is that?" I asked.

"It is named for Patty Hearst, the little rich girl that got kidnapped, raped, and brainwashed by a terrorist group in the early 1970s. She eventually assisted in bank robberies, was captured, and got off with a light sentence because her defense was that she became psychologically dependent on her captors, even identifying with them and feeling affection for the group. This enabled her to rationalize cooperative behavior that was otherwise morally unacceptable to her, such as robbing banks, free sex, and carrying a firearm."

"How do you know that she has it?"

"Remember that I was an undergrad psych major. But it is easy to spot in her. She seems to be a strange mix of fear, awe, affection, and anger all at once. This results in her rationalizing what is happening as being her own fault. She looks to Patrick to be her savior and protector." I looked incredulous. "If you meet her, listen hard. You will understand what I am saying."

In the middle of our all-too-short conversation, a fat tourist with an island shirt open to the waist over a hairy chest with a bid gold medallion around his neck selected her and waved a pink coupon at her while gesturing towards the steps. She had flashed him when he entered, so advertising does work. She turned to me and said bitterly, "As the rock singer Bryan Adams says, 'ain't no use in complaining, when there is a job to do.'"

As she climbed the staircase, I noticed that the tourist had slipped his hand under her shorts and was cupping the cheeks of her ass, even apparently trying to stick a finger up her ass as she moved. I heard her forced laugh; she learned fast. I shuddered.

The bartender beckoned me over to the bar and handed me the phone. It was Patrick who congratulated me a job well done.

"Elaine, you are a good whore - even convinced my old buddy, Lloyd Fitzgerald that you appeared to be enjoying it."

I was confused. "Who? What are you talking about?"

"The old guy you just sucked off is a business associate of mine. Before you even finished rinsing out your mouth, he was on the phone to tell me what a great job you did. Glad you have learned to swallow. Keep up the good work!" He hung up before I could respond.

Randy was behind the bar and overheard my end of the conversation "Glad you are fitting in without any trouble," he said.

I took the drink back to my table. The raw bourbon soothed my nerves and had a downer effect that I needed badly. The crowd was heavy now - lots of comings and goings. On occasion one of the whores would do a strip show on the small stage at the back of the reception area. I kept my eyes focused on my glass.

It was not long before I was again "chosen." The man was very tall, certainly over 6 feet five inches, and had begun to have the kind of gut that out-of-shape middle aged men get. I bet he weighed 250 pounds. H was an American so I thought he might be sympathetic to my plight and at least decline out of decency to fuck me.

Once again I took the short in distance but long in implications walk up the steps to my room. As I reached the top, I turned and saw my mentor, Jessie, hold up three fingers to me. I didn't know if she meant that this was my third trick or referred to her comment that by three am there would be no difference between us.

Trick #3 Tuesday Evening 23:25 - 23:45 credit earned: $100 + $20 tip = $120; cumulative $320; to go $9,680

Number three was a big man from Iowa who told me to call him "Pops". He represented an IT company that sold hardware and software packages to hotels and restaurants throughout the Caribbean islands. He claimed that he had played professional football for a few years. But had to quit due to injuries He called me "Honey" and offered me whiskey from a flask he carried in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. We drank out of two water glasses. He explained that he made over $80,000 the year before - he said it in a tone that implied I should be impressed. I gulped down the whiskey and asked for more. He disapproved of me drinking it down so fast

"Do you know what they charge down here for this stuff?"

I blurted out, "Pops, I need your help." My voice sounded shrill, unconvincing even to me. I slowed down and tried to sound normal. "I owed some money so they are forcing me to work here against my will." The whole thing came out almost incoherently. The liquor was working against me now.

He cut me off. "No, Honey, forget it, no way. I have to do business down here and do not mess around in local matters. You got a problem with the management, just work it out." Looking around the room, he added, "Hell, looks like a pretty good deal to me. Let's get some use out of the bed. I only paid for a half hour."

"Please, you do not understand. I need help!"

He seemed to get angry. "And you do not understand that I do not want trouble. Last time I was here some American whore told me something similar, and we wasted 15 minutes talking about how she was held here against her will. Waste of my fuck time. Now let's get humpiong, or I go and get my money back. By the way, I am not going to pay one dollar more for this "I-am-a-prisoner-in-a-whorehouse' routine."

He had a huge, hairy body; I thought of a gorilla. Not a fat man; just a very big man. While I examined and washed his prick, it grew hard and long. Like the man, it was big--maybe eight inches erect. That itself was unique to me, but it was the girth that was unique in my limited experience. It was as thick and firm as my forearm - and I have been working out. His prick was wider than I had ever seen much less had inside me. I knew that I was about to get stuffed by the proverbial 'donkey dick.'

I put copious amounts of KY jelly in and around my vagina. He obviously enjoyed watching me lubricate myself - probably thought it was due to his size alone not the usual practice. The man even asked if he could help; I declined his assistance. Mentally I was wondering how I could handle his weight and his cock. He kept up a running conversation.

"Do they let you out of here? Can you date regular? I come through about every three weeks. Be nice to have someone to spend some time with."

"I'm a prisoner here. Can't you understand? Please, I beg you, don't make me do this!"

"Cut the shit. You just think that you cannot handle my meat in your twat. I know that it is impressive, but have no fear, in three minutes you'll have this sausage of mine buried in that cut of yours. Now fuck or I walk! I wanted you because you look like the 'good old USA' - blonde, big tits, and all. What will it be?"

It was no use talking to him, and he was right. I was impressed and scared by the size of his penis. I could not let him go downstairs and complain. I think he knew that; I think he counted on that. I was trapped. He was going to rape me - but with my cooperation and he will walk out with a clear conscience. I started to get on the bed on my back. He stopped me.

"Let me get on the bottom. It will be easier with you on top. Just make it good," he said with a smile into which I read menace. He may not have believed me about being held prisoner, but he sensed that I could not allow him to go downstairs and complain.

"Kneel on either side of my hips and ride my cock. This is the classic Cowgirl Position. Protects you from being stretched too much, too soon. Come on, climb aboard!"

I knew that I had to comply. I levered myself up, my long blonde hair flowing down over my head and sweeping his naked chest. I knelt straddling him with my thighs splayed openly on either side of his hips. I put my right hand on his penis and had an image of a fire hydrant pointing up at my KY-lubricated slit. I thought briefly of what was going to follow, and tossed my hair from side to side as I prepared mentally to continue. I held on to his organ as if afraid to let go, like someone on a trapeze with a great distance to fall.

I turned to the left and watched the process evolve in the mirror as I began to impale myself. I could see him holding the base of his cock and keeping it aimed straight up at me. He put both hands on my waist and pulled me down onto his organ. He slid in easily but only for two or three inches. "Ohhhh," was all I said as I felt him enter me. The head of his prick was large, and the initial penetration was mostly prick head. Then simultaneously he thrust his hips up and with his grip on my waist pulled me down with equal force. I felt like I was being split in two. I jerked open my eyes in fear and pain and saw his triumphant grin.