Virtual Slavery Ch. 12

12

Lynn

As the first isolated pinpoints below hesitantly interrupted the solid darkness that I knew was the Mojave Desert, then quickly multiplied into the million glistening lights of the Los Angles Basin, I felt the now familiar tension in my stomach, the quickening of my pulse.

I had gone into the bathroom and removed my undergarments as soon as the fasten seat belt sign went out after takeoff, even though I could have waited several hours. I wanted to feel my nakedness, my bare thighs rubbing together. Again I felt the flight attendant's eyes on my legs. This time it was a man. And I must admit that when the passenger sitting next to me, an overweight lawyer in his sixties, dozed off, I reclined my seat, turned onto my side, and touched myself. Not enough to come, but keeping myself on the edge, extremely aroused, half imagining myself in that vault, attached--that is the word I used--to those bizarre structures--though I could not quite imagine how. My imagination did not go further to what would happen next. Somehow it changed in my mind lying there on the 747 speeding west, I was in the vault yet I felt the rough bark of that giant redwood to which Winston had tied me in Muir Woods. And the damp mushroom smell.

So it was almost sick with excitement that I disembarked at LAX, eagerly searching the crowd for Brad's fat form and found Jefferson's handsome form instead.

He took my carryon bag and arm and with little conversation led me through the terminal to the waiting Rolls Royce where Brad too was distant and abrupt.

We had hardly pulled away from the curb when he pointed to a plastic bag on the seat between us.

"Strip and put those on."

I found that I no longer even considered asking a question or offering a protest about the heavy traffic surrounding us.

Opening the bag, I took out a shiny black plastic shoulder bag, a tiny stretchy scrap of bright red material that pretended to be a dress, black thong panties, really nothing more than a g-string, bright red backless sandals with 4" heels, a lipstick the same shade as the dress and shoes, and a wig, straight. shoulder length, ash blond hair.

By the time I had completed the change, the Rolls Royce had moved from the airport onto the freeway and was speeding north, not south toward Brad's house

Brad leaned back and watched me wordlessly, his eyes examining my body during its interval of nakedness, though it was still all but naked once I had struggled the dress into place. It was little more than a tube, cut straight at top and bottom, extending from just above my breasts to just below the juncture of my thighs. And with a tendency to ride up.

"A mirror folds down from your right," he said, when I came to the wig.

The wig was beautifully made and fit perfectly. The hair was long, hanging down below my shoulders, When I pulled it on, the transformation was startling. I did not recognize the woman in the mirror. I sat for a moment stunned.

"The lipstick," he prompted.

I was already wearing lipstick. A darker red. I had put it on just before the landing for him. This was a brighter red, matching the shoes and dress.

I glanced down at my body. The dress was stretched skin tight over my breasts, leaving cleavage exposed, and though my nipples were just covered, they might as well not have been.

"Am I permitted to ask what is happening and where we are going?"

"No. But I don't mind telling you. Do you recall saying you are my whore? That you want to be my whore?"

Almost imperceptibly, I nodded.

"Well you are on your way. Most whores start at the top and work their way down. You are going to do the reverse. First you are going to be a cheap whore, then later I'll arrange for you to be an expensive one."

I was too shocked to speak. I hadn't expected this. But then the nature of the whole--what was the word? 'Relationship'? Hardly. 'Business'. 'Thing'. was the unexpected. Was that I had no control. Was fear. And excitement. And I was afraid. And excited.

Jefferson turned onto the Santa Monica Freeway and drove east for several minutes before taking an off ramp and heading north toward Hollywood on surface streets. I did not know exactly where we were until we came upon the glaring lights of Sunset Boulevard.

A few blocks east on Sunset, he pulled to the curb in front of a drugstore.

"You'll find money in the purse. Go in and buy some condoms. Get at least a dozen."

The Rolls always attracted attention, so all eyes on the busy sidewalk were focused when the rear door opened and I climbed out. People actually stopped in their tracks as I clip-clopped in the absurdly high heels into the store. And two or three men followed me. I don't know what they took me for: a starlet or a whore or both. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the storefront. No, of a stranger's reflection. What else could a woman who appeared in public looking like that be?

Walking up one aisle and down another, I finally found the condoms on a bottom shelf. As Brad had no doubt known. I tried bending from the waist, but the dress rode up exposing my ass to the delight of two teenagers. Squatting was not much better, but I did it quickly and took my purchase to the check out, where the clerk, another young kid, smirked, "Have a good night." With all that has happened, it is not possible to say I have never been more embarrassed and humiliated. I teetered back to the Rolls as quickly as I could. Both Jefferson and Brad were amused.

Jefferson turned right off Sunset and then left onto Hollywood. I began to notice young girls standing on the sidewalk, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups of two or three, expectantly facing the oncoming headlights. My body involuntarily trembled.

We pulled into the parking lot of an old rundown two story motel, whose flickering yellow and blue neon sign proclaimed it "Dreamland Arms."

"Ask for a room and an extra set of keys."

"But.." I started to protest.

"He won't ask for any identification or credit cards. Just pay whatever he asks in cash."

A cigarette burned carpet lead to a small registration desk behind which sat a young black man, who glanced up at me from a text book he was studying. His eyes moved from my face slowly down to my feet and then back up to my breasts as I walked toward him.

"I want a room."

"Just for yourself?" His voice was soft and tired. As though at his age he had already seen too much.

"Uh. Yes."

"For how long?"

"Just the night."

"Luggage?"

"The...the airline lost it."

"You with that car out there?"

"Yes."

"$200."

I opened the shiny black purse and counted out ten twenties.

He handed me a key.

"Ahh...Could I have a second room key."

"Just by yourself...you need two keys?"

"Yes."

He turned to the board behind him. "That'll be $50 extra."

I counted it out.

"It's room 242. Up the outside stairs, along the balcony. Toward the back. Try to keep the noise down."

Back in the Rolls Brad I handed the second key to Jefferson, who went to check out the room.

As the door closed behind him, Brad unzipped his pants. "Here. I'll be your first customer." and handed me a twenty dollar bill. "Suck."

He did nothing to help me. I leaned over and buried my face in his crotch.

My head was still bobbing up and down when I heard the driver's door open.

Incredibly Brad inquired, "It all right/"

"Yes. What you would expect."

And he nonchalantly shot in my mouth. The way someone carrying on a conversation might cough or sneeze. "Don't make a mess. Lick it clean. I'll put it away. Jefferson, you want any of this" meaning me, "before we put her out?"

"No."

Carefully tucking his cock into his pants and zipping them, Brad said, "Now you have undoubtedly already figured out what is going to happen. We're going to take you back a few blocks and you are going to fulfill your lifelong dream of becoming my whore. The police pretty much leave the girls alone. The usual routine is that most of them--the customers, not the police, though probably them too--will not want anything more than what you just did: a quick blow job in their car. If they want more, take them to the room. Make them use condoms. We don't want you getting any diseases. You might be hassled about territory, by other girls or their pimps. We'll be around and take care of it."

"How long does this go on? I have meetings tomorrow. And," I glanced down at my watch, "it is already midnight in Boston." Although with fear and adrenaline I was not the least tired.

"Until I tell you to stop."

"I don't know anything about this," I pleaded near tears. "What to charge. Anything."

"Down here, whatever you can get. Most of the girls are junkies. Fifty bucks for a fuck; less for a blow job. More if you sell your ass or do something special."

"Special?"

"They'll tell you. Here," and the big automobile rolled to a stop. "Out."

And awkwardly I felt myself climbing from the seat, heard the door shut behind me. Before I could complete my turn, the white Rolls accelerated away and I was alone in the glare of an endless stream of headlights.

Two or three cars slowed as they neared me, then continued on. I felt naked. And of course I nearly was. They would see mostly skin, long legs bare to just below my pussy, bare arms and shoulders to just above my breasts, my nipples hard with fright and excitement poking through the blatant red dress.

A horn honked. Instinctively I took a step back, away from the curb and glanced around, trying to orient myself, to take in my surroundings. Pedestrians stared at me. Down at the corner, four young girls were clustered together, darting hostile stares my way. Two of them started toward me. "Hey, bitch," one of them shouted. I did not know it but I had just heard the salutation of the night.

I became aware of a car stopped directly in front of me when its passenger side window rolled down. A voice from inside called, "You working or what?"

I glanced at the two girls. One had a nose ring. Both wore clothes similar to mine. Both had tattoos on their shoulders. I took the step to the car.

To see inside, I had to bend over. The dress rode up in back. I knew passersby could see my bare ass. Someone whistled. I reached back and tried futilely to pull the fabric down.

"I'm working."

"Good."

The driver was in his late twenties. He wore a rumbled white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and a loosened tie.

"You're new here, aren't you?"

"Yes." From behind me one of the girls shouted, "Get away from that car, bitch."

The man was looking down my dress. I leaned forward so he could see more. I was learning. "What can I do for you?"

He swallowed. "How much for a little head?"

"$40."

"Too much."

"$30 then."

He hesitated. The girls were closer. Desperately I said, "I'm good. It'll be the best you ever had. I'll take it deep."

"Deep throat?"

"All the way."

"Get in."

I practically leapt into the car, which smelled of cigarettes, and rolled the window up and pushed the door lock down.

As he pulled away, I saw the girls' contorted faces.

"You having some problem there?"

"Sort of."

He glanced at me. "They wouldn't like having competition like you around. You're the best looking thing I've ever seen on this corner. Just like you stepped out that Victoria's Secret catalog."

I had been so eager to get away from those girls that I had forgotten what was really happening. I was about to have sex with this man for money. I had seen girls working the street in various cities and sometimes felt sorry for them, particularly in winter when they were freezing in their skimpy outfits, but always I had felt superior to them. And now, incredibly, I was one of them.

I finally managed to say, "I...I have a room a few blocks down."

"That's o.k. I know a place."

He turned onto a side street, went down two blocks and turned again, and slowed, looking for a spot to park.

The neighborhood was quiet and dark, giving no indication of the bustle and lights only a few blocks away. Shadows of trees beside an almost deserted sidewalk. Small bungalows and older apartment buildings dating from Hollywood's golden days of the 1930ties.

The man said, "At last," and pulled into a space distant from street lights, although there was still enough illumination so that someone passing on the sidewalk could see what was happening in the car. Perhaps that was part of the attraction.

He reached for a sport coat on the back seat, found his wallet, held it close to his face so he could see the domination of the bills and handed me a twenty and a ten.

"I don't know what you are doing this for," he said. "But a deal is a deal. Here it is," and he swiveled his body and took out his cock. In the darkness I could see the lighter patch of flesh against his pants, no detail. "Let me see your tits," he said.

Obediently--and feeling a flash of something at my obedience--I pushed the top of my dress down.

"My god," he said, reaching out and cupping them. He squeezed and I could not believe but my body responded. You really are some kind of whore, I told myself.

The hands pulled my nipples down. My head followed. "Oh, god," he said as my lips encountered hot, slippery wet flesh.

The hands fell away from my nipples as I flicked with my tongue, tightened my lips and sucked.

His hips thrust up and now the hands were on the back of my head, pressing down. "You said...you said," he gasped. "you would take it all."

Adjusting my throat, I did not fight him, but let him slide all the way in. "Oh god. Oh god. That is so good. I've never felt anything like it. Never."

Now that he knew I would do it, his hands relaxed and let me lift my head, only to lower it again. Holding my head still, my nose buried in his public hair, I flicking my tongue. I liked it. Cocks vary, but a cock is a cock. I liked having some stranger's cock filling my mouth. I had no idea I was such a slut. Slut. Whore. Bitch. Tramp. I called myself names in my mind.

It wasn't until the first spurt of his come splashed onto the roof of my mouth that I remembered that I hadn't even thought of using a condom. I had no choice but to swallow again and again. He must have been waiting a long time. Or I was just such a great cocksucker. I hoped I was right that Aids isn't easily transmitted orally.

"God," he finally said. "You are the best. The very best. Ever." And he gave me another ten dollar bill.

Hoping to avoid the irate girls, I had him drop me off further down Hollywood Boulevard, and everything went smoothly for a while. There were still a few other girls around my new location, but they left me alone, and I was never on the street very long before getting picked up. It was gratifying to know that I could be successful at another career if I ever wanted to leave finance.

The customers were mostly easily to deal with. As Brad had said, a quick blow job in their car was the usual. After that first time, I didn't forget condoms, although the plastic taste was unpleasant. I actually found that I missed the taste of sperm when they came.

As the night continued, the men changed from those mostly married, stopping off for a quickie on their way home from work, to singles coming out after dinner.

I had sucked off three more before a paunchy middle aged man driving a new Buick had me take him to the motel, where he asked for specific details of what I had already done that evening. He was disappointed that I hadn't actually fucked and insisted on kissing me and running his tongue all over and into my mouth, which I found particularly repulsive. He gave me twenty extra dollars to stick three fingers up his smelly ass while jerking him off with my other hand, and begged me to save my used condoms from my next customers so he could return and buy them from me in a couple of hours for $100. I told him that was impossible.

Another man, older still, perhaps sixty, pointed out that I was wearing a wedding ring and asked if my husband knew what I was doing. It had never occurred to me to remove my rings. I told him my husband was away on a business trip and did not know. He said fucking another man's wife was exciting, and proceeded to do so with a vigor that belied his years.

With repetition everything becomes routine. I climbed in and out of cars, old, new, expensive, cheap, and had sex, took strangers' cocks into my hands and mouth and pussy, felt strange hands knead and squeeze and prod my tits and ass, kissed strange mouths, shared saliva, smelled good and bad breath, was stared at by thousands of eyes. My body was truly no longer my own.

"Hey bitch!"

I had just been returned from the motel by a kid who didn't look old enough to drive, when a Mexican accented male voice shouted in my ear so close it frightened me and I caught one of my heels and almost fell. A short man, with a pockmarked face, pencil thin moustache, greasy slicked back hair was glaring at me. He grabbed my arm and started shaking me.

"I've been hearing about you, bitch. What you doin here?. Think you can just come in and plant your white ass here? Who you workin for, bitch? Whoever, he in trouble. You in trouble. You work here, bitch, you work for me. Understand?"

From time to time, I had noticed the white Rolls Royce cruise by, and once it was parked silently in the motel lot when I came out after servicing a customer, but I had not seen it for a while. My relief was overwhelming when I saw Jefferson almost magically appear behind the man.

"May I have a word?"

The latino dropped my arm and reached into a pocket as he spun angrily around. The hand remained in his pocket, but he gave no sign of alarm or hesitation when he saw Jefferson. "What business is this of yours, mother fucker? This your whore?"

"A word," Jefferson repeated quietly. "To our mutual benefit." And he stepped back from the curb to the entry of a closed shop. The man followed suspiciously. I saw them talk, heads nodded, Jefferson handed the man some money, and he walked away. As he did he called to me, "You ever come back here alone, bitch, and I'll cut you a second cunt so you can make twice as much money."

When I turned, Jefferson's was walking away in the opposite direction.

Exhausted I was wondering how much longer Brad was going to make me do this, dimly recalling that I had business meetings in what must now be only a few hours. By Boston time it was nearing dawn. Fewer people were on the sidewalk. The automobile traffic had thinned slightly, although the boulevard was still busy.

A battered white van stopped in front of me. I knew the occupant must be looking me over; but for a minute or two, nothing happened, and I just stood there. Take a good look, creep, I thought. Get an eye full. Then the passenger side window rolled down, and I wearily took a step forward.

There were two men in the van, both white, young, college student age.

"How you doing, beautiful?" the driver called to me.

In order to see him, I leaned down and rested my hands on the car door. "O.K."

"Long night?"

"Long enough."

"Been busy?"

I was too tired for this. I don't recall what I was going to say. My attention was on the driver when the passenger's hard hand closed over my left wrist. Instinctively I tried to pull away, "What are you doing?" and then I saw the knife.

"Don't do anything unnatural."

I glanced around. No one on the sidewalk was within thirty or forty feet. And they were not paying any attention. I was just another street whore, part of the scenery. And what could they do, even in the unlikely event they were inclined to come to the aid of a whore? Desperately I sought some sight of Jefferson or the Rolls Royce. But they were not to be found.

"I'm going to open the door and you are going to get in the van," the man spoke deliberately.