Whatever It Takes Pt. 06 - Wednesday

"When it hits the back of your mouth, relax your throat and try to swallow my dick. He slid it down into my mouth. When he hit my throat, I started to gag. Then he rammed his cock into my throat and mashed his groin against my face. With his cock blocking my mouth and throat and his pubic hair in my nose, I could not breathe. Each time I gagged, he stuffed more of his cock into my throat. My throat ached, and my lungs cried out for oxygen. I looked up pleading with my eyes to let me breathe. He met my gaze with a look of pure joy as my gagging throat massaged the head and front section of his prick.

Johnny then slowly removed his prick from my throat and mouth, pulling it up and out slowly to prolong his pleasure. He watched as one inch after another pulled free of my mouth. Just as his cock head came clear of my mouth, he started to cum.

Ropes of cum splattered onto my face. He used his hand to guide his spurting dick left and right across my face while I coughed and gasped for breath. He then pressed his cock onto my face and used his testicles to smear his cum all over my face I was covered in his bodily fluid, used and abused. His payback for my failure to blow him a decade earlier was almost complete.

Then he instructed me to clean him off. Still kneeling before him like a slave before a master, I used my tongue to route all the sweat, saliva, and cum from his dick to my mouth. That took almost as many minutes as he took to cum once I began to blow him.. He grunted in pleasure when I licked his balls and under them to make sure he was clean and, more importantly, satisfied with my performance. I wanted no more problems with Patrick and his cane.

Johnny dressed and left. I waited to find out who from my past would next appear. An advantage of a dream is that constraints of time and space are absent. Men from years and miles ago just appear for me to fuck or suck and then fade away to be replaced by yet again a familiar male with a hard dick and a grudge.

I was on my back looking between my spread legs when Professor Gerald Tremblay appeared. He was my Senior Advisor in graduate school. The old professor who took a young first year MBA student under his wing, helped me with his class, took me to lunch over the two years to see how I was doing, and advised me on which offer to take when it was time for me to exit into the world of work. He was in his 50s when I worked with him so now would be in his late 60s. But he died in a car accident two years after I graduated, but now he was here in my dream.

"Professor Tremblay, what are you doing here?"

"What are we both doing here?" he corrected me. "What happened to your face? How and when did you become a whore?"

I looked up at him, my eyes pleading with his, in search of some tiny spark of human feelings. But his old face looked down at my body with the eagerness and anticipation you would expect to see on a child breaking unwrapping a Christmas present.

At that particular minute, I did not feel like a person at all. I felt like a hole in the mattress. This was the worst moment of my entire life so far. But for the sake of my survival, I knew instinctively the rules of the game that had to be played. I briefly had a flash of books and movies about escapes, trying desperately to remember what was in them. Papillon and Escape from Alcatraz must have had lessons that I could use. I just could not remember. I could not concentrate.

He was naked on top of me now. I could feel his skin, the age of it. He was mauling my breasts, nipples squeezed and pinched, while he positioned his cock. I thought then that maybe his interest in me at school had not been the altruistic act that I thought. Maybe he only wanted to fuck me, but he was too timid and I too naïve to have anything sexual come of a mentoring relationship. Now he had his fuckin' chance.

I didn't understand what he wanted then, and now I can not stop him from taking what he needs. I watched him spit into his hand and lubricated his cock. He nodded and touched my raised legs gently as he penetrated me slowly. When it was in all the way, he pulled it out and rammed it in faster and deeper than before, the semen from Louis mixing with the spit on his dick to act as lubrication. "Why did you make me wait?" I heard his voice along with squelchy sounds as he went in and out. This was a different cock, smaller and older, and I was filled in a different way. To speed things up, I moved against him, pushing up on his in-stroke, backing off on his out-stroke.

I had closed my eyes and turned my head towards the wall. I was surprised when h pulled me roughly back to face him. He was making me look into his eyes. What I saw there scared me to my core.

"Everything out there is death," he said. And when I looked into his eyes I saw skeletons, walking around as if they were the living dead, just like Professor Tremblay who was plowing into me even though he died over years ago. I saw, felt, and smelled what I instinctively knew was a main street in Kingston, the capital of Jamaica. There walked the living dead -- mommy mummies leading baby corpses by the hands, zombie street vendors with flesh hanging off them, cabbies rotting to island music, and solders with shiny weapons but no bodies only bones. I had entered a dream within my dream, and it frightened me.

Patrick's voice broke the spell. "Fuck him back! Wrap your legs around him. You are a whore, a white slut, remember? Give him pleasure! Earn your keep, you miserable rich bitch!"

I gingerly moved both legs up higher to give him more access. I crossed my legs behind his old ass and pulled him into me. In response to my movements, he began to groan and moved more frantically inside me. We fell into a natural rocking motion, a rhythm that must have been pleasurable to him. All the time I was bucking my hips like a street hooker, I kept seeing the living dead on that Kingston street. Were they all dead, and I was alive or vice versa or neither?

As his thrusts became steadier and harder, he moved his face down to my neck, kissing and biting it. He hurt, and I screamed out if pain. He didn't notice nor care as he was hammering away into my pussy so hard that the mattress began to shift on the floor.

He was ready to cum. The head of his thin cock began to swell. My pussy was getting sore again. He convulsed and began to make little rocking motions, moaning as he did so. I felt his sperm as it seeped rather than shot into me. When he was done, he stood up and dressed. As he left, he said, "Elaine, take care of yourself. Remember everything out there is death."

As if from far away, I heard coins in a jar, the jangle of each coin reinforcing how little I was worth. The next man was the janitor of our building in New York. I didn't know his name, barely nodding to him when I saw him in the hallway. Once on the way to work he got on the elevator with me. He smelled of sweat, and I was afraid it would get into my clothes. I pulled myself as far away from him as I could, and from my body language and the little sniffs I took, he got the message. Now he was going to give it back to me.

As he approached, the one thing that was clear was that he looked cruel. He had Patrick's cane in his hand, and I knew he was going to use it. His large prick, bigger than any yet in this dream was out and semi-erect. He roughly rolled me onto my stomach and called someone else over. I was not surprised when Jessie, my whoredom mentor and enemy, grabbed pulled my arms above my head. "Nice to see you again, Miss Pure. Looks like your face is a little messup?" She laughed as the caning began.

"Whack!"

The pain was unbelievable. Again and again.

"Whack!"

Through the pain and confusion, I heard him keeping time with a new variation of what was becoming an old rhythm for me. On each number, the cane came down on my buttocks or the back of my thighs.

"One, two, three, four,

You are a great whore.

Five, six, seven, eight,

Time you got a black mate."

Each of the eight times the cane descended, I screamed. My brain kept repeating that 'this can not be happening.' But it was -- at least in the dream.

Finally, he was finished with the pain and now he wanted pleasure -- my pain; his pleasure. Jessie let go of my arms, and I felt my body relax. He grabbed at the hips and pulled me up onto all fours. Jessie put a hand on my chin and brought my face up to look at her. "Have fun, Miss Pure." She then smiled and walked out of my sight. My head was hanging down, my hair touched the mattress.

He pulled me back onto him. I felt his large cock head pressing at my vaginal hole. With a quick snap of his hands, it was inside me, sliding easily with the lubrication of those who had been there before. He grabbed my hips, moving them rapidly back and forth, so violently his cock came out. I screamed as he forced it back into me, making me feel as if he was stabbing me with his large, filthy cock. His dirty hands were all over my hips and buttocks, that now bled from the caning -- dirt, filth, cum and blood mixing on my butt and crotch.

Suddenly, as only in a dream, I began to fantasize that it was Paul back there, now this nameless brute of a janitor. Now it was my husband deep inside me. I believed that the hands on my hanging breasts were those of my lover and the father of my child. His sudden touch triggering a spasm through me. I arched my back and opened myself wider. My nerve endings began to crackle. I oiled his prick with my juices, and his prick swells in response. He presses in deeper. I moan and try to accommodate him more. He moves still further into me, deeper than I can ever remember.

"Paul, how are you doing that?" I asked. Then with torturing slowness, he begins to slowly slide in and out, moving side to side as well. He steadily fills me with his thickening organ. My body began to writhe, behaving without consent. I forgot to breathe. My stomach is already filled with him, yet he plunges even deeper, far deeper than I ever dreamed possible. He approached the secret, ecstatic ache at my very core. My blood rushes, and I started to shiver. I can feel an orgasm coming, like the first sound of an earthquake miles beneath the surface, the rumble of an oncoming flood. My body, especially my cunt, was getting hotter and hotter, burning like a fire now.

"Paul, wait! Please wait." All of my life I have been vaguely aware of some unreachable place, and now I realize he may touch it. It frightens me, yet I began to move faster now. I cannot help myself. He was anchored still, as I used him for myself. The man I called Paul reached around and with his thumb began to massage my clit, sensing that I was about to explode.

His prick twitches, and all at once a monstrous wave his cum floods mewith cum. The pleasure too great to deny, I scream out loud and my orgasm pours on, wave after wave of ecstasy. Because I know this cannot be possible, my orgasm is endless. I snapped my head back, like a woman being hung, and screamed out loud; it was that powerful.

The man behind me groaned loudly and began to cum., the feel of his liquid in me induced in me even more spasms. It took a while for me to come down, both physically and mentally. Then, when I saw the black hands on my breasts, I knew that it was not Paul slowly withdrawing his organ from me but only the janitor. My heart was pounding and my mind racing. I lurched forward and hung my head. He spoke for the first and only time.

"Ms. Farrellr, once you go black, you never to back. You were really good. Man, you were the best!"

I was still on all fours facing away from the door. I was exhausted. Patrick and this place had broken me -- first Louis, then Johnny, then Professor Tremblay, and finally my janitor. , I wondered how many more to go?

I heard the tinkling sound of coins in a jar again. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a group of men waiting their turn. I flopped onto my back, spread my legs, and smiled like I thought I was supposed to do. This was the first man that I did not know. His cock pushed into me, and I felt it go deep. I opened my legs wider, imagining that this would help me get through them faster. I would do whatever it took to make them cum fast. As his cock came back out, I clenched my pussy muscles tight around the shaft of his cock. He gasped and moved slowly to enjoy every sensation I was offering.

I continued the squeezing around his cock as he plowed into me. I was determined to milk him dry, to squeeze the jism out of his cock. Like a seasoned hooker, I reached my face up to his and liked his neck, slowly and methodically. His skin tasted salty with sweat. He blanched when he saw my slashed face, but he kept plowing into me none the less. After not much time, he yanked his cock out of me and covered my stomach and breasts in a warm spray of seminal fluid.

The unnamed and unwashed many used me repeatedly after that. All the time I heard the coins in the jar and knew that a prick would follow. I opened my eyes and stared as a skinny old man grinned and began to take off his clothes. I closed my eyes again and felt his bony hands on my hips. He entered, moved, and then I felt his cock spurt out its hot load. Once that skinny man departed, another patron appeared. I moved my hips rapidly after he entered me; it was too much for him. I wanted to laugh as he too spurted quickly after maybe only twelve strokes into me.

Then another man took his place at the entry point to the disfigured whore on the dirty mattress, which is how I thought of myself. I gasped as I smelled him and tried to hold my breath as he climbed onto and into me. But I had to breathe every once in a while and when I did my stomach heaved with revulsion. I cried out as his sharp, crooked teeth nipped my nipple, drawing some blood. I cried out again when he repeated the operation on the tip of my other breast. I wanted him to come quickly like the others so I moved faster and faster, clutching him with my cunt muscles. But he was like a jackrabbit with a dick of steel as he matched my movements but did not cum. Humping up and down, in unison with the foul smelling man's cock, felt someone leaning over us. I looked up into Jessie's face.

"Some wholesome little wife you are, Miss Pure. Look at you! You are nothing but two bit whore. Shit, even I would not let that piece of human garbage fuck me for a thousand dollars. But he gets you for fifty cents." Then she laughed, turned her back on me slowly, and again walked away.

Just then he shuddered and came. After he got up, I looked down at my crotch and groaned in shame as I saw the thick flow of cum leaving my body and spread on my stomach and thighs. That was the last I remember of the dream except for the endless rhythm in my head—"One, two, three, four....let's fuck the dirty whore......."

When I awoke from my dream, I was naked on the floor of the shower in the fetal position. I did not remember, but only knew instinctively, that I spent a good bit of the night scrubbing myself, trying to feel clean again. There was a dull pain between my legs and in my rectum -- too many penises in places they never should have been. Oh, God how I hurt!

I struggled out of the shower and went to the mirror. Thank God my face was intact and both eyes worked. It was only a dream, no matter now powerful, only a dream.

I collapsed on the bed, still wet from the shower. I sat up, facing the mirror that ran the full length of the wall beside the bed. I spread my legs and lay back slightly so that I could see my crotch in the mirror. My vulva was red and swollen. I reached over to the night stand and grabbed the vitamin E lotion that Jessie had pointed out to me. I again rubbed the soothing balm on me and in me. It was both obscene and mesmerizing to watch in the mirror as I opened my vaginal lips and inserted two fingers covered with lotion. I did my rectum as well. The pain in my body began to abate; I knew that the pain in my mind would always be with me.

I lay back and stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it all. I covered my naked body with the sheet.

One thing was certain, although it was a dream, I was certain that I had had one of the best, if not the best, orgasms of my life. I lay there, dazed and spent, fucked hollow.

I never dream so it had to have a meaning. What were the lessons learned? They seemed to be four:

First, do not resist. These men were serious and would hurt me. They intended to use me and in the course of doing so would ignore any and all violations of my dignity and human rights. I was nothing to them but a money generating cum-bucket. That was a constant now and so long as I am here. However, in some ways that was an advantage for me -- they would damage me only if provoked because I could be a money machine if I could increase my per-day volume of fucks and sucks.

Second, it was only sex, a physical act. I would have to give that up but keep my sanity and my pride. I could not control the situation, but I did not have to let it control me. What I needed to do was fuck more and think less.

Three, escape was dangerous. Those dream scenes of the Kingston streets still lingered in my mind. If I had any thought of simply running out the front door, they were gone now.

Finally, I could achieve some degree of control with my body. I could control the pace and the nature of the act, speed it up or slow it down. It was not much, but even that modicum of control might allow me to hold on to a shred of pride.

Then I remembered something my father had told me back when I was in college. In a quiet moment late one night when we both had enough wine, I asked him how he could do what he did during the war. It was a dumb question and never should have been asked. But instead of ignoring it, he told me something that I never quite could bring myself to believe. What he said was, "There are certain times and places and conditions when much of what we think we are can be swept away. There are instances when you can take people from good schools, happy families, and cohesive communities and powerfully affect their behavior by changing the immediate details of their situation. If threatened, people will do whatever it takes to survive."

I responded, "But can those people ever function normally again when returned to their original environment?"

His answer was succinct. "Most can, even with suppressed memories. Some will never readjust and will be lost between what was and what is. Veterans hospitals are full of the latter."

I was my father's daughter. I knew that I could and would survive. My only doubt was whether I could ever be the same again, but that was a battle to be fought after I got out of here and back to my life and my family.

Yesterday, in a long night (Pt .05) that was not a dream, I had sex with -- no fucked! -- five men that I had never met and did I expect to meet them again. With all my academic degrees, experience as a banker, loved by a husband, mother of a new born daughter, 30 years of age, and I had let myself be blackmailed into acting as a whore. And it was not over yet -- not in a long shot.

Last night was a night of 'firsts' including sex for money, anal sex, cum swallowing, and sex as a physical act without emotional involvement. The last was an attempt at self deception. I was trying to separate the self, my 'soul' so to speak, from my body, and was having a hard time doing so. I could not keep separate 'Elaine the whore' from 'Elaine the wife, mother, MBA, and banking professional.' I knew that I had to keep them separate -- Elaine with the whore's body from Elaine who is me, the real Elaine.