Whatever It Takes Pt. 05 - Late Night Tuesday

"You mother fucking sick bastard! You mother fucking sick bastard!" I repeated over and over again. He laughed and kept pulling me back onto his rod. I gritted my teeth as he held me tight at the waist, ramming me hard. He jerked into me with long, pulverizing strokes which made me bite my lips at the sensation. He withdrew to the tip and then plunged back in with a vengeance. We were both slick with sweat. I fell forward and he slid down on top of me. The pain was constant and his weight on me made it worse. I was suffering mentally and physically. Still he kept it up! Every time he smashed his prick into me, I felt as if I was impaled on some enormous, sharp stake.

Then he gripped my hips and pulled me up and back still farther, cramming the last millimeter of his cock up my asshole. I moaned as he sawed his dick in and out, pulling back slowly and then snapping my hips backwards, driving his cock into me.

After a while, he stopped with his prick all the way in me and reached under my hips to finger my cunt. He spread my lips down there and slid his fingers in, brushing my clit, no doubt to get a response out of me. I jerked and moaned but not in ecstasy but in misery and pain and embarrassment. He kept three fingers inside me from his right hand and used his left to squeeze and mash my left breast, pulling on it as he resumed thrusting into my ass.

I could hear his gasps, his obscenities, and his constant monologue.

"Elaine, the more you relax, the easier it will be for you. This is probably one of your first butt fucks ever, You'll have more before you get out of here; Randy will see to that. Some women like anal sex. It enhances sex by demonstrating the proper submission of a female to a male. Your sphincter has adjusted already. You are a natural submissive slut. Just breathe, relax, and push out as if you were taking a shit."

Every once in a while, he would pause, usually with him buried in me to the hilt. He was taking his time and dragging it out as long as possible. I felt so stretched and so tight. There was a dull pain as well. However, my body began to accommodate the unnatural intrusion. My sphincter had relaxed and no longer provided resistance. In fact, in an effort to end it more quickly, I began to squeeze down on him with whatever I could bring to bear down there. He gasped so I knew that I had begun to get to him. I would do anything to end it.

He began to stroke faster and faster, no more pauses. I felt his balls slam into my groin; I knew he was close. I looked into the mirror; my mouth was gaping open, sucking in oxygen to keep me going. I saw his face, all red and lustful, his hands mashing my tits as he headed to climax. I felt his cock spasm in my colon, an enema of sperm flooding me. Still not satisfied, he kept stroking to get out the last bit of pleasure for him and pain for me. I felt his cum dripping out over my ass cheeks. I looked over to the mirror. I could see the pain in my face. My body was compressed beneath his. My eyes closed. I felt him get off and then sensed him picking up his camera and resuming his photo shoot. Never had I felt so degraded - the photography only made it worse.

He told me to open my eyes and look at the camera then kneel up so he could get a picture of my ass with his cum still freshly dripping. Then he had me sit back, spread my legs, and elevate my ass so he could get "tits, cunt, and asshole" in the same photo. He shot several more pornographic poses, in almost all of which my cum-covered ass was featured. I thought he was finished, but there was more.

"Elaine, Randy and Jason are not going to be happy that you tried to seduce me into helping you to escape. But I don't have to tell them; it's up to you."

I looked at him warily, wondering what kind of depraved proposition he was about to make. I knew I had no choice. Whatever humiliation and pain I had to endure to make this State Department flunky happy, I would do. He only threatened my pride whereas if Randy and Jason got pissed off, they might maim or kill me.

"My dick is dirty. Clear it with your tongue."

I looked at him like he was crazy. I realized, as he did, that his dick was covered with his cum, the KY, and my shit. If I cleaned his dick, I would eat my own shit. My stomach churned. His face showed no flexibility. Reluctantly, I nodded assent. I no longer was in control of anything.

He sat on the bed, his legs spread wide. He positioned me, still naked, sweaty, and smelling of sex, kneeling between his legs. I opened my mouth and used my tongue on him, moving up and down his length. His dick had collapsed, but began to grow hard again as I licked it. I could smell myself on him; I imagined I could even taste myself. My stomach retched, but I kept at it.

"Great job, Elaine. Keep your eyes open. That's it." Then there was the sound of a shutter closing. The bastard was getting pictures of his tongue bath. I kept going up and down the length until he was satisfied. By then he was hard again. As I knelt there in my subservient position, I knew what was coming.

"Open your mouth," he commanded. "Keep it wide open. Nice. Very nice!"

He began to thrust is and out of my open mouth. Just resting on my tongue, hitting the back of my mouth on the in-stroke. It did not take long. He began to cum.

"Keep your mouth open." I complied, and he took more pictures as he spurted into my mouth and onto my face and chin. There was less cum the second time, but it was enough. I felt covered in cum. I knew that his photos would show cum on my tongue as his dick erupted. Before I swallowed, I looked in the mirror with my mouth still open. It amazed me how little actually came out. It seemed like a quart but looked like a tablespoon.

I collapsed onto the bed while he dressed. I felt beyond used, as if I had no value as a person. For the first time in my life, I knew what depression felt like. I thought about the way he had manipulated me, managed the whole transaction as if in accordance with some plan he already had upon arrival, a fantasy structured beforehand which he had set about making real. He had directed events as if he had a script in his hand. There was about him a complete lack of spontaneity - the sodomy itself, the game of "bucking bronco", and the tongue cleaning of his sex organ. The act itself was one of degradation. To fuck a woman in the ass was to show contempt; the imagery of shit, denial of femaleness - he didn't need what was essentially female, my cunt, but settled for the hole that was asexual. It was male power and aggression, an attempt to humiliate - a successful one based on the way I felt.

"Elaine, just do your job here and work your way out of debt. If you give us any trouble after you leave here, we will ruin your life. This is a digital camera. I will download them to my hard drive. If you give us trouble, I will post them on the newsgroup alt.binaries.erotica.slutwives as well as several other well frequented Internet destinations, such as alt.sex.anal and alt.binaries.nude.blondes. They will be posted under your husband's name, giving your email address at the bank, asking every pervert in the world to email comments to you. We will also email them to have the employees of the bank worldwide. You will be a laughing stock, and the only one who will offer you a job will be Patrick"

"Also, I will advise customs that you are a suspected whore and drug smuggler, naturally enclosing a couple of these pictures so they can recognize you when you reenter the U.S. So when you try to get back in, you will be strip searched by several lesbian customs officers. They will stick their hands up every orifice you have, while their male counterparts watch from behind a one way mirror using their private video cameras to record your experience to play for their poker buddies or at the local VFW stag night. Finally, they will run you through a CAT scanner, give you a triple dose of a mint-flavored laxative, and allow you to strain over a stainless steel evidence bucket for a couple of hours. Don't try to get help or fuck with us!"

After he left, I went to the shower, made it unbearably hot, and climbed in butt first.

I ran the water as long as I could. It hurt back there so badly - but the real hurt was in my mind. I could not believe what had just happened to me, how low I had gone in so short a period of time. I was like someone in an unexpected disaster, trying to survive any way they could. I stayed in the shower with the water running as long as I could, my mind a big blank nothing and my body hurting. I felt far filthier than I ever had; the shower made no difference. I could not feel clean.

I could endure the rapes of my body, I thought, but I did not know if I could survive the rape of my spirit. I all of my past encounters with men I had never encountered the pure exchange of sex for money or favors. Almost all of that had been eradicated in the U.S. business world. Too much publicity and large law suits had made such arrangements no longer career functional for anyone. I had never been in a situation - other than maybe two minutes at a drunken frat party or during Mardi Gras in my senior year - where men regarded me merely as an inanimate, pleasure-giving vessel, a Thing. At home, I was totally the equal of men, a complex, sensitive, person with human competencies and needs. The ignorant animals in this place wanted me to relinquish and renounce that equality and become subservient to them in body and mind. So help me God, I could not let that happen or I would be lost forever.

I debated changing my clothes. In the end I did not have enough time to make a decision.

A loud series of knocks at the door signaled that it was time to go back to work. Time was money!

By the time I got back to reception, it was very slow. I still wore the shirtdress, or what was left of it. I was falling out of it, only two buttons held it together down the front. I was past caring that my boobs and cunt randomly emerged as I walked. I turned in my coupon to Randy who gave me a "nice job" so I knew Doug the diplomat had kept his promise and not told that I had tried to recruit him to aid in getting me out of here.

I sat at my usual table and watched the dwindling crowd - not much action. Finally, my last trick of the night came over to the table, said 'good evening' in accented English, and showed me a green ticket. I led him up the increasingly familiar walk up the steps to my room.

Trick #5 Wednesday morning 01:45-02:05 credit earned $100 + tip $100 = $200; cumulative $920; to go $9,080

Randy had told me that this client wanted it "doggie-style," a position in the sex manuals where the man enters his partner's vagina from the rear, mounting her like a male dog does to a bitch in heat. In this position, the male is dominant, and the woman vulnerable. My husband told me that men believe penetration is deeper using this position. In my married life, we had coupled a few times early on, but discontinued the position because I did not care for it. It bothered me because I could not face my husband as we made love and that made me feel unequal, even subservient to him.

This thought this was to be the usual cold, passionless, indifferent, mechanical coupling. Boy was I ever wrong.

I reached out and took two pillows from the head of the bed, placed one on top of the other, and then lowered myself on them so that they raised my hips, presenting him with an invitation. He moved behind me; I watched him in the mirror. I heard him tear the condom wrapper and watched him unroll the latex and then insert himself into it. He moved between my thighs, nudging my legs further apart with his knees. He began to run his hands over my buttocks and hips, staring at my swollen, stretched vulva.

Instead of ramming forward like a rutting bull, he started to slowly run his prick back-and-forth on the lips of my vulva. To my surprise, it was a pleasant experience. His hands lay gently on my waist. He as doing all the movement. Even though I had lubricated myself, I felt my natural lubrication begin to cut in as my body adjusted to being treated with courtesy and gentility.

"You are a beautiful woman," he said with what I now thought was a Scandinavian accent. "It will be a great pleasure to make love to it." This was far different from what I had experienced the last two days of being called a 'whore,' 'cunt' 'cum-bucket' and worse. It just felt so good to be appreciated and respected.

After a while, the lips of my vulva parted and wrapped themselves around his still slow moving prick. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the warm sensation that was beginning in the center of my body. I did not notice it when he changed his angle and began to penetrate me directly rather than just glide along my vulva lips. He still maintained his gentle pace, merging our bodies gradually. The intensity of what I was feeling began to increase, even though his tempo remained relatively constant. I tried to restrain my pleasure after all this man was a stranger and technically raping me even though he thought I was a professional hooker.

I began to feel really warm and to perspire. A warm tingling wave began to form and quickly radiated out to the rest of my body. More waves of pleasure followed, each wave higher than the last. Finally, it was a tsunami building up in me and spreading out from my vagina to my brain and my extremities. I could not resist the pleasure. I had an orgasm, not just any old orgasm but a mind-crumbling, earth shaking orgasm - it was pure bliss.

While my mind, heart, and body was off in Big-O land, my client began to move faster and go deeper. But he had not yet cum. He was slowly stroking my back, sides, and ass. Finally, he gripped my shoulders and pulled me back onto prick. That move set me off again, and I experienced a mini-orgasm and just about then he ejaculated. He withdrew gently and lay on his back beside me while I collapsed onto my stomach. We looked at each other without speaking for a minute or two.

Then he said, "You are not only beautiful but very sensual. Most professional prostitutes not orgasm. They may fake them, but you really did let go and envelop yourself in pleasure. Thank you very much for sharing."

"You are the one deserving the thanks. You have quite a way with a woman's body."

"My wife thinks so. If anything, she taught me to pleasure her and permits me to on occasion use what she taught with other women."

I clearly showed surprise at his open marriage. He sensed that and responded to my look. "My wife had a French mother who had an active sex life in and out of her marriage and taught my wife that monogamy is unnatural because ex is independent of love and marriage. That has been the understanding between us over our 15 years of marriage and three children."

He continued, "I think I should suggest to Charlotte - that is her name - that she and I return and spend time with you. If you agree, I will put forward to her the idea of a threesome. What the French call a 'ménage a trois' and the Americans a 'three-of-a-kind' or 'triplet.'

Given that such a bacchanal would generate a tidy sum of credits plus maybe another orgasm, I heartily agreed that he broach the subject to Charlotte. I told him that late afternoon would be the best time as my schedule would be light then so we could spend relaxed time pleasuring each other.

He left a $100 tip on his way out. He was a good tipper as well as a good fucker. At least my first evening as a whore ended on an uptick.

I douched as a protection against a flaw in the rubber; then I showered but could not feel clean not matter how hot the water. I went downstairs and turned in my coupon. Only a few men at the bar, and a few whores lingering hoping to score one last trick. I had a quick nightcap, then started upstairs to sleep not fuck or suck. I passed Jessie in the hallway; she looked fresh and unused. I looked and felt like hell. She was dressed in an evening dress; I was falling out of my shirtdress. She looked like a suburban mother; I looked like a whore.

"Hello, Miss Pure, how was your night?" When I did not respond, she added, "I told you that my three am, you would be no different than me. Was I right?" It was a rhetorical question for which no answer was required. I slipped past her and went to my room.

The maid service had finished with my room. The cum-stained sheets were gone, and the bed was freshly made. I half-expected a bit of chocolate on my pillows as if this were a resort not a working space for slut hookers.

I needed something to war to bed. A quick search showed the room stocked with lots of flimsy things that were adequate for a whore to bring to life the adolescent fantasies of a teen age male, but not much to just wear to bed. Finally, I settled for a long satin halter gown that was dyed to look like cheetah. It tied at the neck, dipped low in the back, and had slits to my waist up the sides. That was the most conservative thing I could find.

I collapsed in to bed and tried to make sense of the day. As I stared up at the ceiling, I began to shake with relief. I had survived. I was still alive, not disfigured, not maimed. I survived! Furthermore, deep down inside me, I knew that I would do whatever it took to survive. If enduring continuous rape without protest was the price of survival, I would pay that price.

Then I remembered a lesson I had learned and re-learned about men. In general, to me men were always controllable. A glance, a wink, a quick feel all gave me the advantage. Even in business, crossed legs or one-too-many-buttons-undone distracted them to the point where they lost focus. The only exception was when they were really horny, testosterone was flowing, and they had their hands all over you, particularly in a private place like a bed. Then, I just tended to go with the flow. Let him do it. Let him shot his squirt of sperm. It was the stuff in a man's ball that made him crazy. When he got rid of it, then I could talk to him and regain control. Post-ejaculation I was always able to deal with a rambunctious male.

The key ploy was how and where he shot his little squirt of cum. For me, it was best with a hand job. Hand-on-dick, stroke, stroke, stroke, squirt, regain control. Sometimes it took more than that. On my back, legs spread, entry, stroke, stroke, squirt. In that process, I also learned that if I moved my hips and said things like 'that feels so good' that the squirt came faster which usually suited me just fine. Even with my husband, what he called a 'quickie' was essentially me un-engaged emotionally, just giving him his squirt of relief. Sometimes I was really in to it, and could achieve real not fake orgasms - but a good bit of the time, especially when I was older and married, it was just my way of getting rid of the testosterone overload that disrupted the normal order of things. So I learned not to make a fuss - just get on my back, move a little, and wait until my male partner has deposited his squirt of cum into me.

After all, what was the big deal? I have had sex a thousand times before and never once turned green or suffered irreversible damage. But I knew that I was fooling myself. That it would never be the same again...never be "all right." I could still smell the men, all five of them. I did not think that I could ever scrub off their smell. I was convinced that for the rest of my life whenever I would try to fall asleep that I would see, feel, and count the men on me and in me. I feared that they would never go away.

But I had to get through this, for my daughter, my husband, and, yes, even myself. Having reached the decision to survive, I rolled over to catch some sleep before the next day's ordeal. That is when I heard a low knock at the door. Before I did more than put my feet on the floor, the door opened and Danelle entered the room. She looked like hell, eyes wide, almost dilated, and wearing not much of the last outfit in which I saw her. The jersey was ripped, one breast exposed, and the shorts looked dirty.