BLACKOUT by PARKER PROLOGUE This part of town was not what it used to be. Not like the old days. Martha Cripmore never tired of pointing this out to her husband. Every tuesday night, on the way home from the bridge club, he would take Central Avenue through town and then turn left on Ginger Street. In the early '70s, when Bert and Martha had been just out of high school, this had been a nice area. But the recession had hit hard. The mine which had employed a good many people from the town had shut down; stores had closed; people left town... All that remained along this once-popular strip was a bunch of empty lots, a couple of run down gas stations and a well-guarded and heavily barred convenience store. And, of course, the hookers. This was the red light district. Still, Bert always insisted on taking this route home from the bridge club. Every tuesday night without fail. It was quicker, he said, and avoided the highway traffic. Martha complained of course, but he always took that same route: down Central and left on Ginger. Every time. After a while, Martha came to recognize many of the hookers, having seen them regularly. Not that she knew their name or anything about them, of course. They merely became familiar to her - sort of like a landmark. Or, in this case, a well known eye-sore. The girl with the pink miniskirt; the fat black one, with the wild hair. She seemed almost to make a game of pointing them out. "Look Bert," she said on this particular trip. "There's a new girl." Bert looked over from where he was hunched, white-knuckled, over the wheel (Bert was a nervous driver). The girl his wife had pointed out was standing directly under a street light. As Martha had stated, she looked new. True, she wore the same type of cheap, tacky clothing as the other hookers - short skirt slit up the side; bright red halter top under a gold, spangled jacket with fake-buckskin fringe; plastic high heels - but on her it looked out of place. Uncomfortable. She wore the same heavy, overdone makeup as the others, but the face underneath looked too pretty - too fresh - for it. She was a strikingly beautiful girl, with thick, brown hair (teased up with too much mousse), a young looking face with large eyes, and a tight young body. Nice tits. She couldn't have been more then twenty. At the most. "Bert!" Bert wrenched his attention away from the girl as he suddenly realized that he had drifted the car into the opposite lane. Luckily, there was no oncoming traffic, and he quickly rectified his mistake. By that time, however, they had passed the girl. He glanced up at his rear-view mirror just as a car pulled up to her and the girl leaned over to talk to the occupant. Then he turned off onto Spencer Avenue, and the girl was lost from view. Martha sniffed. "That street," she concluded, shaking her head. "It's not what it used to be." Bert, however, wasn't listening, his mind on the girl; he couldn't help but wonder how she had become a whore in the first place... ***** Sandra Little ('Sandy' to her friends) was not paying attention. Living in a big city like LA required a certain amount of caution; a certain amount of awareness of what was going on. Street smarts. Sandra, however, had grown up in a small town and had only recently moved to the city in order to attend university. She was just in the middle of her first term of med school, and her mind was on other things - books; classes; tests - anything other than what it should have been on as she crossed the street at night on her way home from a long day at school. She did not have much in the way of money, and what little there was had gone to cover books and tuition. Hence, she had been forced to take up residence in a somewhat unsavoury area. Still, there always seemed to be people about, and Sandy felt fairly safe there. Still... "Hey babe," came a rough voice, breaking her out of her thoughts, "Wanna have some fun?" Startled, she looked up to see two young men leaning up against a rusted, battered car parked on the side of the road. One was white and the other black. The black man - a tall, short- haired kid wearing torn jeans and a tee-shirt - laughed and took a long swallow from a bottle. Sandy saw the label: whisky. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the smell. She was not a drinker. The other man - the white one - was short and fat, with long greasy hair. "Excuse me?" Sandy was not sure she had heard right. "Wanna have some fun," the white man - it had been him who had first spoken - repeated the statement. "Me 'n my buddy just happen to have a little time free, and..." "No thanks." Sandy dropped her eyes, embarrassed. Her brown hair slid down in front of her face, hiding the fact that she was blushing. "I don't think so." She turned to continue walking. "I don't think so," came a high, mocking voice from behind her, mimicking her words and tone. Now frightened, she started to speed up her pace, but a pair of hairy arms encircled her from behind and pulled her back. Her books went flying from her hand as she was jerked backwards. She opened her mouth to scream, but instead had the breath knocked out of her as she was slammed against the door of the car. Gasping and coughing, Sandy struggled weakly as her assailant - it was the white man - jerked open the back door and shoved her inside. His companion was already in the driver's seat, starting up the engine. The white guy followed her inside, slamming the door shut behind him. "Go," he cried. The man in the driver's seat threw the car into gear and started driving. Sandy kept struggling, flailing wildly with her arms, but the man just grabbed a handful of her thick, brown hair and jerked her down onto the floor in front of him. She opened her mouth to scream, but he slapped her viciously across the face. The young medical student stopped struggling, frozen in shock as the pain coursed through her body. She had never been struck before by anyone, and the shock was almost worse than the pain. Almost. By the time she overcame the shock, it was too late. They were out of her neighbourhood and onto the highway, heading toward the centre of the city. 'Tug' Holbrook laughed as his prize struggled ineffectually on the car floor between his thick, jean covered legs. It had been so easy! Almost too easy. Bitch. He took another long swallow from the bottle, enjoying the warm rush that spread through his chest. "Hey man," Jimmy called back from the front seat. "Save some for me." Tug laughed nastily. "The booze or the bitch?" he asked. "Both." The fat man took another drink before answering. "Don't worry Jimmy boy," he called out. "There's plenty of both." Jimmy fell silent, concentrating on the driving, and Tug turned his attention back to the girl as she looked up at him from between his legs with wide, frightened eyes. What a babe! This couldn't have worked out better if they'd planned it. He felt his cock stiffen in his jeans. He reached down, grabbed a handful of hair and jerked the girl upwards until her face was rubbing against his crotch. "Feels good, huh?" he asked roughly. The girl began to cry. "N-no... please..." Tug just smirked. Stupid bitch! He released her hair and she fell back onto the floor. With his now-free hand, he undid his pants and slipped them down along with his underwear. His thick, greasy cock hung free, long and hard against the hair-covered rolls of fat on his stomach. The girl just cringed. "C'mon," he ordered. "Give it a kiss." The girl shook her head, tears running down her face. Tug grunted at her refusal. The bitch was particular. Better loosen her up a little first. He reached down and jerked her up so that she was sitting on his lap with her back to him. She squirmed as his exposed cock rubbed up against her slacks, but could not get free. Tug was too strong. He encircled her with one thick arm, grabbed at one of her breasts through her blouse and squeezed. Hard. Writhing to break free, she moaned with pain and humiliation. (Tug loved that sound!) With his other hand, he brought the bottle around and pushed it up against her open mouth. "Swallow," he ordered. She shook her head, holding her lips tightly closed, but he ground his fingers tightly on her nipple and held it. She twisted and gurgled with the pain, but he kept twisting her nipple until she finally gave in and opened her mouth. Immediately, he released the nipple and brought the bottle up to her lips. This time, she accepted it, taking a long swallow of the alcohol as he tipped the bottle. She started gasping and coughing as the burning liquid flowed down her throat, but she opened her mouth to accept more when he brought the bottle up again - his hand was still on her breast; still teasing her nipple. This continued for a good fifteen minutes, until she had drunk down almost a third of the bottle. Not a drinker, Sandy was already feeling the effects of the alcohol when her assailant put aside the bottle in order to have both hands free. She tried to struggle when he started to rip open her blouse, but her body seemed to be losing co-ordination, losing strength. She was unused to alcohol, but not totally inexperienced: she knew she was getting drunk. The young medical student squirmed ineffectually as the fat man finished ripping open her blouse and then jerked her bra off with one twist of his beefy hand. Her breasts, large and firm, fell free and lay exposed on her chest. "Fuck man," the guy said. "Look at these jugs." He reached around and began kneading them. The black man driving the car looked back and grinned in appreciation. Blushing, Sandy tried to bring her hands up to protect herself, but the fat man just slapped them away. She squirmed, but was unable to escape as he kneaded her tits, squeezing them and rolling them around in his hands. Moaning, she gave up and lay back, resting her head against the man's shoulder. She was beginning to feel dizzy and confused as the alcohol did its work on her. She didn't even protest when he undid her slacks, hooked his fingers under the waistband of her panties and pushed downward. Within seconds, her pants were down around her ankles. Tug began to run his sweaty hands roughly up and down his victim's near-naked body. The girl was now too drunk to protest or struggle effectively; too drunk to do anything other than lay back on his lap while he fondled her tits. After a while, he ran his hands down to her pussy and began rubbing. Thoroughly drunk, the girl giggled the tried to push his hands away. "Don' do..." she slurred. "Nod..." Tug ignored her, rubbing his chubby fingers first up and down the outside of her pussy and then slipping them inside. The girl twitched in pain as he did so. She was dry as a bone, but he didn't care. His cock was about ready to burst. Shifting her body upwards, he spread her long, slender legs with one knee, and slowly settled her pussy down onto his rigid cock. Finally, it was all lined up. With one shove, he rammed his cock into her unready pussy... The pain of the sudden rape cut through the fog of alcohol. She was being fucked. FUCKED! Sandy Little, legs spread and pussy impaled on her assailant's cock, began to struggle and squirm about on his lap, desperate to escape. The man ignored her struggles. He just grabbed her by the breasts and began jerking her up and down on his lap, fucking his cock in and out of her pussy. There was nothing she could do except go along with his movements; even to the point of using her legs to support the movements. If not, she felt like her breasts would be ripped from her body. So, she soon found herself actively fucking back against her rapist, using her own strength to push her aching pussy up and down on his cock. "That's right babe," he muttered, appreciating her assistance. He didn't last long. Within minutes, she felt him stiffen and then felt the warm surge of sperm as it boiled out of his cock and into her pussy. She shuddered with rage and disgust as he came inside her, but there was nothing she could do about it. When it was over, he shoved her off his lap and she slid back down onto the car floor. After taking a long swallow from the almost-empty bottle, he once again grabbed her hair and jerked her tear-stained face into his crotch and up against his glistening cock. Knots of sperm slid down his tool and congealed in his crotch hair. "Clean up your mess," he told her. She shook her head. No. She had never done that before. He brought his hand around and slapped her - once, twice... and then a third time - on the face. Then he leaned back, legs spread wide and grinned down at her. "Clean it," he smirked, "And we'll let you go." The words 'let you go' registered on the half-drunk and wholly frightened girl. Let her go! Shaking, Sandy leaned forward into his crotch. The alcohol made everything blurry, but she could clearly make out every vein, every ridge, every contour on his glistening member. Hesitantly, almost throwing up, she reached up and grasped the base of the cock. It twitched in her grasp, dripping cum onto her fingers. Shuddering with revulsion, she opened her mouth and began to lick at the now-soft penis, gagging at the taste and smell, but doing it nonetheless. 'Let her go' he had said. Jimmy Patterson turned off the highway and took the exit ramp into the city. From the seat behind him, he could clearly hear the loud slurping sound as the little slut sucked hungrily at his friend's cock. That was enough. Jimmy pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car. He turned just as Tug came again, his hands tightly clenched in the bitch's thick, brown hair, holding her mouth over his cock as he pumped a load of sperm down her throat. She gurgled and moaned, hands thrashing, but couldn't pull away. "OK," Jimmy said, sliding out the door. "Let's switch. I want some of that." Tug nodded in agreement. He'd had enough. He pushed the girl away and clambered out of the back seat. Jimmy grinned as the white girl, a thin trail of white cum dribbling out over her lower lip and onto her chin, looked up at him as he climbed into the back seat. This was going to be great! They did let her go in the end. The black guy had forced her to suck his cock for a while, and then, after a little more alcohol, she found herself actually necking with him in the back seat. That was just about the worst thing: lying in each other's arms in the back seat - just like girlfriend and boyfriend - lips pressed up against each other's; tongues entwined. Eventually, he had leaned back, and she had been forced to fuck him, legs straddling his thighs, riding his cock up and down until he came. Fortunately, the cum from the first rape had provided some lubrication, so it had not been too painful. By the time he came, the alcohol had pretty much overwhelmed her, and she was almost unconscious. Her last recollection before passing out was of the black man running his cum covered cock into her mouth. Sandy was still drunk when she woke up. It was dark, and she assumed that it was the same night. She found herself in an alleyway. Her blouse, the front ripped open, hung over her in tatters, but the bra was nowhere to be found. Her slacks and panties were still bunched up around her ankles, so she pulled them up. But when she tried to fasten them, she found that the front button had come off. In her drunken state, this somehow seemed utterly crushing, and she began to sob, lying there in the alley among the trashcans. After a while, she pulled herself together. At least her ordeal was over! The bastards had let her go. Struggling to her feet, she staggered down the alley looking for help. The alley seemed to go on forever, but she eventually came to what appeared to be a club or a bar of some sort. A short set of stairs led downward to a door. Behind it, she could hear music and people talking. People. Someone to help her. Almost crying with relief, she started to walk swiftly down the stairs. It proved too much for her, however, and she stumbled drunkenly, and fell up against the door. It burst open and she tumbled head over heels into the bar. Chowder Harris, the bartender and owner of the nameless little drinking establishment, looked up in fear as the door crashed inward. His first thought was the police - at any given time, there was enough prostitution, fencing and drug dealing going on in his place to fill a small jail - but he immediately dismissed the thought. He'd slipped money into the right pockets. And even the police didn't venture into this part of LA. His conclusion was quickly proved right: it was a girl. A white girl! And a real babe too; brown hair, wide blue eyes. The customers in the now-silent bar watched as the girl struggled drunkenly to her feet and staggered up against a table. One pathetic little hand clutched at the front of her torn blouse, attempting to hold it together over her large breasts, while the other hand held closed the front of her pants. This girl had run into some trouble. Harris's conclusion was the same as everyone else's: a hooker who had chosen the wrong customer. Still... Harris's instincts kicked in: there was money to be made here! Harris threw his cloth down on the bar counter and walked up to where the girl stood unsteadily, peering around the bar. "Well now," he said, voice gruff and friendly, "you look like you've had some trouble." Wordlessly, she nodded, trembling. Feigning sympathy, Harris put his arm over her exposed shoulder and steered her over to the bar. "Why don't you just sit down right here and we'll get you some help." Tears began trickling down the girl's face, but she followed without protest. Sandy couldn't stop shuddering as the black man led her over to a bar stool. She had been frightened at first - all those black faces staring at her as she crashed into the bar - but the man seemed nice. Friendly. He would help her. Shaking uncontrollably, the girl sat gingerly on an empty bar stool as the bar talk slowly started up again. Harris made certain that she was securely perched, and then walked back behind the counter. "Here you go," he said sympathetically, pouring a shot glass of whisky, "this'll make you feel better." He placed the glass in front of her. Sandy instinctively felt that something was wrong; that she shouldn't accept the drink, but she was generally unable to focus through the alcoholic haze. She had almost no previous experience with being drunk, and was completely incapable of handling herself. She felt as if all of her willpower had been sapped away, drowned in the warm numbness that suffused her body. Slowly, with the exaggerated caution of the truly drunk, the picked up the small glass and brought it to her lips. "That's it," the man encouraged her. "Just drink it all down." Sandy followed his instructions and swallowed it in one gulp. She shuddered and coughed as the fiery alcohol coursed through her body. Involuntarily, she brought the glass back down onto the counter with a large thump. "Another?" Obligingly, Harris refilled it. She didn't want any more, but still she obediently lifted the glass and again downed the alcohol. It was actually making her feel a bit better; the pain in her crotch and chest seemed to recede as her body became increasingly numb. Without realizing it, the tattered remains of her blouse slipped free of her left hand and fell open, affording Chowder Harris a clear view of her breasts between the torn strips of cloth. Staring openly at her exposed chest, he again refilled her glass. Harris was about to say something when he was suddenly pulled aside by a large, angry-looking black woman: his wife. "What are you do'n?" she asked, furious to have found her husband so friendly with some scrawny, bare-breasted white slut. In the middle of the bar! "Are you crazy?" "Listen," Harris whispered, glancing over his shoulder at the girl as she downed the third shot of whisky. "It's not what y'think. She's just some drunken whore who stumbled in. We can make some money." Somewhat mollified to learn that his interest in the bitch was only financial, his wife released his arm. Still, she wasn't quite sure about it. "The bitch's probably working," she pointed out. Miles will..." "You jokin? A white woman around here? For Miles?" Harris laughed. "That'd be news around here. I'd've heard 'bout it for sure." He was right, and his wife grunted in grudging agreement. "OK. But just you keep your hands off her." Harris nodded, happy that she'd given in. The girl was attractive, but he knew better than to get caught fooling around. His wife was a large woman, and not shy. He turned back to the girl. The additional alcohol was already affecting her, and she was swaying perceptibly on the stool. Harris couldn't help but stare at her breasts - large and firm - as they jiggled appealingly through the torn front of her blouse. The girl was no longer even trying to cover them. Strange, though; she wasn't really dressed like a whore. Too nice. Still... This was business. "That'll be ten bucks," he announced, walking up to stand directly in front of her. She looked over at him in confusion, eyes squinting as she tried to focus. "Wha?" "Ten bucks," he repeated. "For the drinks. You owe me ten bucks, girl." "Ten...t-ten..." Just as he had thought. "Can't pay?" Confused, the girl shook her head. Clearly, she didn't understand him, but that really wasn't important. He just needed - or wanted - an excuse. And now he had one. Feigning anger, he walked around from behind the bar and marched up to where she sat unsteadily on the bar stool. She tried to swivel her head to follow his movements, but in her drunken state, she half fell off the stool. He roughly grabbed her from her perch as she fell and dragged her to the centre of the room, right in front of the broken-down pool table. She stumbled along in his grip, barely keeping her footing, her mumbled protests ignored. "Hey!" he shouted. "Hey... everyone. Listen up!" The quiet hum of talk, which had slowly been building up since the girl's dramatic entrance into the bar, fell away as all the faces in the bar turned towards where Harris stood holding the girl. Staring... Drunk as she was, Sandy still blushed furiously at all those black faces staring at her. She wanted to cry out - to shout, to protest that this was all a mistake and she didn't belong here - but her mouth and tongue felt numb. All she could manage was an embarrassed gurgle as the bartender jerked her up against the pool table and began to speak. "This girl here owes me some money," he cried out, smirking. "And she can't pay." A few men in the crowd laughed. "Luckily," the bar owner continued, "she can still earn it." "How's that?" came a voice from the crowd, followed by a round of malicious laughter. They knew what was going on. The only women that came into a place like these were whores. One way or the other, they were all whores. Everyone there knew what good old Chowder was talking about. And no one had ever seen a white girl in this bar before. "Well," Harris drawled, enjoying the attention, "just like any other whore; on her back." He reached down with his free hand and tore away what was left of Sandy's blouse. The young student tried to bring her hands up to protect herself, but he slapped them away. The crowd stared in silence at her exposed breasts. Harris looked around. They were ready. "Fifty dollars a fuck," he proclaimed. "We'll just set her up for business right here." He grabbed her thick brown hair and pulled her backwards. Sandy, clumsy in her drunkenness, rolled back onto the pool table. While her legs were in the air, Harris grabbed her slacks and pulled them down. She started to kick and struggle, but it was too late: she was down to her panties. And those, too, were quickly ripped off. Within seconds, Sandy found herself stripped naked and lying on her back on the pool table. She tried to squirm off, but the black man kept his hand in her hair, pinning her head to the table. Grinning, Harris bent down and whispered to her: "Just be a good girl. You've done this before. Try to enjoy it." Enjoy it? Once again, Sandy's attempts to protest were sabotaged by the pervasive numbness in her face and body. She was able to do little more than mumble incoherently as the black man pulled his face away. She wanted to tell them that she *was* a good girl - not a whore. And she didn't belong here. She did'nt belong here. She was still trying to articulate this thought when the first man approached. The large black man wasted little time. He just pulled his long, hard cock free from his pants and climbed on top of her. She squirmed and struggled as he brought his beer- breath mouth down onto her lips and began exploring her mouth with his tongue. She wanted to scream, but couldn't, with his mouth covering hers. She could only moan with pain and humiliation as he started to maul her breasts while kissing her. The man misinterpreted her moans. "Feels good," he grunted, momentarily pulling his mouth from hers. "Don't it bitch." He moved one hand down, positioned his cock, and rammed it into her with one powerful jerk of his hips. The lubrication from the earlier rapes had gone, and her pussy was dried and unprepared for this latest invasion. She grunted with the pain. "Oohhhh..." The penis felt like it was burning its way into her pussy. Her cry, however, was cut off as the man brought his lips down against her mouth and began slobbering on her face and lips. His hips began pistoning back and forth. Her hands flailed uselessly at her side as he drove his cock in and out of her... Harris grinned as the girl, slender legs spread wide, satisfied her first customer on the pool table. She really was a beautiful girl; just like those girls wearing bathing suits on magazine covers. She was goin' to make him a fortune. The whole bar was watching now, and cheering and the white whore bucked and whined in lust while the black man fucked her hard. Just what the stuckup white bitch needed! Like the two men who had raped her earlier that evening, this man didn't last very long. Within minutes, he was shooting his load of warm sperm into her now lubricated pussy. Sandy tried to kick herself free - anything to get his cock out before he dumped his sperm inside her - but it was no use. She was pinned beneath him. When he was done, the man pulled away after giving her one last kiss. Sandy lay limp on the table, gasping for breath as the man's sperm trickled out of her abused pussy and down her ass crack. She had just started to turn over - trying to curl up into a fetal position - when the second man climbed onto the pool table, positioned himself between her still spread legs, and began to fuck her. It did not hurt so much this time, as her pussy had been well lubricated with the first man's sperm. The man's cock slid smoothly in and out of her unprotected pussy. In fact, in her drunken numbness, it almost began to feel good. Almost. As she lay spread on the table being fucked, a thought occurred to her: the quicker they came, the quicker they would be finished and leave her alone. In her drunken state, this seemed to be a good reason to co-operate: to get it over with as soon as possible. Get it over with as soon as possible. And so, lying naked and dripping on a pool table in a bar filled with yelling, cheering black men, Sandra Little, med student and beautiful young woman, slipped her long, slender legs around behind the man and began to fuck back at him; doing her best to make him come as quickly as possible. Harris couldn't believe it! Any doubts about the girl's occupation were discarded. What a little whore! Not that he was complaining. The crowd went wild as the girl threw her naked arms around the man's neck and kissed him hard on the mouth, all the time bucking and heaving beneath him, clearly doing her best to fuck him back. Sandy felt the man begin to stiffen inside of her. Quickly, she brought her face up and began to lick the man on the neck. Ron, one of her boyfriends from back home, had always loved that. Panting, half with lust, she licked and kissed and bit the man on the neck as he came inside of her. As with the first, he climbed quickly off and was immediately replaced by another. 'Get it over with,' she told herself, reaching up to welcome her new lover. The man seemed interested in her breasts, so she cupped her hands underneath and offered them up to him. He bent over and began biting and licking... The fifth man turned her over. Obligingly, Sandy climbed up on all fours and spread her legs, ignoring the cum as it streamed down the inside of her thighs. She wiggled her ass backwards until she felt the man's cock up against her sopping pussy and then slid back, moaning slightly as she felt it slide inside of her. Against her will, she was beginning to feel a slow, steady build-up of lust in her pussy. The man began slapping her ass as she fucked herself back against his cock. Get it over with... She finally came. It was while fucking the seventh or eighth guy. By this time, she aware of nothing except the feelings in her pussy and breasts, and the out-of-focus face hovering above her on the table. She wasn't sure how many men had fucked her - she had lost track - when she felt, through the haze of lust and alcohol, the cock slap against her lips. She had never given head before - never even considered it - but she instinctively opened her mouth and sucked it in. She was now being fucked simultaneously by two men, one from the front and one from behind. Moaning in involuntary lust, she did her best to give them as much pleasure as possible; to bring them off as quickly as she could. Get it over with... Chowder Harris's pockets were bulging with money. The girl - his own little bar whore - had exceeded his greatest expectations. She had fucked well over a dozen guys and was still going strong, now taking two at once. Even at only fifty bucks a shot, he might still clear a thousand bucks! Thoughtfully, he studied the scene on the pool table. The bitch was on her back again, taking one man in her pussy, but twisting her upper body around so she could run her cum-covered lips up and down on another man's cock. One hand held her body steady, while the other grasped the base of the cock she was working on with her mouth. Harris worked a thought around in his mind. He'd have to speak with his wife about it, but... but maybe he should keep her. Keep the girl. No one would miss her. She could clean the place during the day and fuck at night. He'd make a fortune... A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. Harris turned. It was Miles. Taylor Miles: the most powerful drug dealer and all around crime lord in the neighbourhood. He was also, although it was more of a hobby with him than a significant money making enterprise, a pimp. And a very successful one. He ran all of the girls on the strip down State Street and in the surrounding area. Including Harris's bar. "Hello Chowder." Miles was not a big man, but then he didn't need to be. The two gorillas standing behind him took care of that. And even they were really unnecessary. Miles' reputation preceded him in a very unpleasant manner. "How's tricks?" Harris swallowed. This was bad. "F-fine, Mr. Miles," he stuttered. Really bad. The drug lord nodded at the pool table where the girl was sucking back another load of cum from the cock presently jammed in her mouth. "Bit of a sideline?" he asked. "I didn't know you ran girls." W-well..." In panic, Harris began to blurt out the story, relating how the girl had suddenly appeared in his bar and then 'offered' to pay off the bar tab by fucking the customers. It was pretty thin, but... "Well," the drug dealer smiled (an unpleasant sight), "I'll tell you what I'll do." He stopped smiling abruptly. "And what you'll do." Harris nodded, willing to agree to anything that would not involve serious pain to himself. "I'll leave your bar standing. I'll leave you a hundred dollars of the money you've made from this whore's ass. I'll leave you in one piece." Harris gulped. "In return," Miles continued, "You'll give me the girl. And not try to muscle in on my business again. Ever. Sound fair?" Harris nodded, resignedly pulling the wad of money out of his pocket and handing it over. The drug lord peeled off a hundred dollars, returned it, and put the rest in his own pocket. "T-thank you," Harris said, miserable. Taylor gestured to his two goons. "Get the girl." Sandy was almost comatose, fucking from instinct and rote, when she felt the cock slide from her abused pussy without coming. Dazed, she looked up and saw two huge black men standing over her. Get it over with... Trying to smile, she reached up her hands to welcome them. As one, they grabbed her arms and jerked her to her feet. The force of their pull caused her head to snap back against the edge of the pool table. There was a brief flash of pain and then everything went dark... END PART TWO Taylor Miles had something of a philosophy regarding the training of women to be whores. A system. The basic tenet of that system was that you had to let them know where they stood. What they were. In no uncertain terms. The minute they started thinking - or remembering - that they were good for anything other than fucking and sucking and lookin' good, they were useless. Worse than useless: unprofitable. So, Taylor had a system. Of course, most of the girls who came his way were already pretty much fucked up by the time he got them. Strung out on drugs or booze... As a general rule, Taylor didn't much take with that; he wanted his girls clean and sober. They lasted longer that way, and made him more money. The drugged out whore just burned out too fast. Besides, why waste good drugs on a whore? Save the good stuff for those who could pay for it. Still, it helped at the beginning. Softened them up; sapped willpower. This new girl was a bit different. Not quite so fucked up. That asshole bartender had thought that she was a whore, but Taylor knew better. He knew whores. This little white bitch hadn't shaken her tight little ass on a street corner before or he didn't know merchandise when he saw it. Not that it mattered. That was where his philosophy came in; his system. Fuck 'em hard and fuck 'em often; let them know what they are: worthless for anything other than fucking, sucking and looking good. This new girl... she'd take a little longer - a little more effort than most of the girls who came his way, but she'd be worth it. And she'd come around in the end. They all did. Taylor had his philosophy. His system. Sandy was pretty much sober by the time she next woke up. She groaned in pain as her eyes fluttered open. The pounding in her head rang a brutal counterpoint to the steady burning in her groin and nauseated churn of her stomach. "Here now." A voice. A female voice. "Drink this. Make you feel better." Parched, Sandy opened her mouth and accepted a glass container, drinking deeply... She jerked her mouth away and sat up, sputtering violently. It was whisky. Her stomach heaved at the smell and taste, but there was nothing there to bring up. Trying to ignore the pain, she forced herself to open and focus her eyes. She was lying on the floor of what appeared to be a dingy little apartment. Crouching beside her, holding the bottle, was a black woman. The woman would have been attractive but for a hard, worn look in her face and eyes which the makeup could not quite hide. Sitting on a couch a few feet away sat a black man wearing an expensive suit. Behind the couch were two large men, also black; bodyguards by the look of it. Sandy crossed her arms in front of herself and shivered, suddenly self-conscious. Her clothes had disappeared, and she was now naked except for a dirty old tee-shirt someone had put on her while she slept. It hung loose, a few sizes too large for her, but still barely covered the upper part of her thighs. "'Bout time." This came from the man on the couch. He was obviously the leader. "Can't have my whores sleepin' all night. Should be on the street; maken' me cash." Sandy struggled through the dull throb of the hangover to understand what he was talking about. Whore? There must be some mistake... "C'mere," the man ordered. Sandy started to climb to her feet, but the black woman gave her a push just as she was getting up. Still partially intoxicated, she fell forward onto her hands and knees in front of the couch. Almost in tears, the young medical student looked up through a curtain of brown hair at the black man. Grinning, he spread his legs. "How about a little head," he suggested. "Whore." "T-there's been a m-mistake," Sandy stuttered, horrified at the suggestion. "I'm not a... a p-prostitute. I'm..." She was cut off as the man suddenly leaned forward and grasped her face in his hands. "Listen bitch," he hissed. "I don't give a fuck what you think or what you were. Last night you were spread out on a pool table having the time of your life fuckin' some brothers. From now on, you're what I say you are. And I say you're a whore." "Noo-oo," Sandy wailed, struggling in vain to free her face from the man's painful grip. Angry, the man made a gesture. One of the thugs from beside the couch came around behind her. She heard a woman's laughter coming from behind her, but was unable to turn her head to see what was happening. She was still unable to do so when she felt something cold and slippery being rubbed against the entrance to her anal passage and then inside. It felt like some kind of cream or something. "Mmmm..." She tried to cry out her objections, but the man on the couch had shifted his grip so that his hand now covered her mouth. "Mmmm..." A few moments later, she felt naked flesh against her upper legs. Before she fully realized what was going to happen, she was overwhelmed with pain as the man behind her rammed his thick cock straight up her partially lubricated asshole with one brutal shove. The pain was unbelievable; she felt as though she was being split in two. "AAaahhhhh...." She let out a long wail as the man on the couch removed his hand from her mouth. "How d'you like that whore?" he asked, laughing. "Nnooooooo.... please... please..." All pride forgotten, she begged piteously for release. "Ooohhhh... it hurts," she cried. The man behind her shifted slightly, pulled back so that only the head of his cock remained inside her anus, and then brutally shoved forward again. Sandy squealed loudly at the sharp pain of this repeated intrusion. The people in the room laughed. "That's good," the man on the couch grinned. "That's good. Just like a pig. Do it again little pig-slut." Sandy shook her head in abject refusal, still panting and groaning with pain. In response to this refusal, the man on the couch made a gesture, and the thug repeated his actions, pulling slowly back and then ramming his cock up her tight asshole. Sandy, sweating with pain, tried to remain silent and endure the pain, the humiliation, but it was too much. Shuddering, eyes wide with panic at the intrusion, she moaned and cried with pain. "Squeal," she was told, "and I'll get him to stop moving." Anything. Anything to stop the movement of the cock in her ass. "Squeee... squeee..." She started quietly, but quickly picked up volume as the man fucking her asshole slowly pulled back out. When he rammed his cock back in, her squeals took on a loud, panicked sound. Damp with sweat, she squirms and squealed for all she was worth. Everyone laughed as the white girl squealed loudly on the floor in front of them. But Sandy didn't care. All she knew was that the man raping her asshole had - finally - stopped moving, leaving his cock fully sheathed in her twitching asshole. "Squeee..." "That's good," the man on the couch repeated, still laughing. "I like that." He looked down at the girl. "Now, do you want him to pull out?" Panting, Sandy could only nod. Oh yes... "Squeee..." "Well," the man smirked. "All you have to do is ask him. Just ask him to fuck you in the cunt instead." She had no choice. She had to get his cock out of her ass. At any price. Still... could she say it? Her deliberations were interrupted as the man began moving again, slowly pulling back and then shoving forward. "Nnooo..." she screeched. "P-please... f-fuck me in... in my c-cunt... not there..." Ignoring her pleas, the man continued to ream out her asshole. "Please..." Her begging became more frantic. "Fuck me in my cunt. Please..." The man on the couch laughed. "Where do you want it little pig-slut?" "In the cunt!" She was almost yelling now. "In my cunt. Fuck me in my cunt." The man gestured, and the movement stopped. "One more thing," he said, still smirking at the tear-stained face in front of him. "From now on, whenever you're getting fucked, you squeal. Got it?" Sandy stared up in incomprehension. What? "Uhm..." "All of my girls," the man explained, "are trained to sound and act as if they like the sex. Gasping and moaning. Sluts. You squeal. That's your name here: 'Squealer'. Got it?" Sandy started to protest this latest degradation, but the man behind started moving again, so she just nodded her head. Anything to get him to stop. Immediately, the rapist pulled his cock out of her painfully stretched asshole. Sandy sagged with relief as the cock was removed. She felt as though someone had pulled a tree from her backside. Her relief, however, was short lived. Within seconds, the man had re-positioned his cock and then shoved it to the hilt inside her pussy. Sandy jerked forward in shock. The pain was still there, but nowhere near as bad as when he had been fucking her in the ass. Involuntarily, she spread her legs a little farther apart in order to relieve a bit of the pain of the intrusion as the man began to fuck her from behind. "Forgettin' something?" Sandy looked up. Oh god... "Little pig-slut." "Squeee... squeee..." The room rang with laughter as the young white girl squealed loudly as she was raped from behind. Her squeals sounded in time with the man's thrusts as her brutally fucked her cunt. Finally he came, pumping his load into her aching, abused pussy. Sandy gave one last squeal as he pulled out and then collapsed onto the leader's lap, totally exhausted. When would this nightmare end? Not now, apparently. The other bodyguard went around behind her and positioned himself, cock hard and free, ready to ream her out. She looked up in terror as she felt the head of his cock come to rest on the entrance to her asshole. The leader grinned down on her. "Where do you want it whore?" "I-in my cunt," Sandy whispered, flushing red with humiliation, but willing to do or say anything to avoid being fucked in the ass again. "F-fuck me in the cunt." He nodded and the man behind her immediately shoved his cock into her pussy. She didn't forget this time: "Squeee... squeee..." Her training as a whore began almost immediately. The cum from the two bodyguards was still cooling on her inner thighs when the man - Taylor Miles she soon learned was his name - ordered the black woman to get the 'bitch' dressed and teach her her new job. The black women dragged her unwilling student into another room in the rundown apartment to begin work. The dressing involved slipping into a miniskirt a couple sizes too small and tucking in the grimy tee-shirt in which she had woken up. The girl - Melissa - also insisted that her student wear four-inch pumps. No underwear, though. "Won't be needin' it," Melissa joked. "Anythin' that gets between you and the cock is a waste of time." Frightened, Sandy obediently got dressed. She couldn't, however, help asking some questions. "Taylor?" Melissa proved quite talkative. "He's the most important man around these parts. He runs more girls than anyone." Sandy couldn't help but shudder. Melissa seemed to take a weird kind of pride in working for the biggest pimp on the block. "But... doesn't he, like... make you..." Melissa shrugged cynically. "Could be worse. There's plenty worse out there. Taylor now, he takes care of you. Doesn't let you do no drugs or booze or anythin' like that. He like to keep you clean and pretty. Makes him more money and you last longer." "L-last longer?" Sandy didn't understand. "Taylor's got a system. He knows exactly how long a whore can work before she start's losin her looks. After that, he don't care what you do. He even lets some girls walk." Sandy had to ask. "H-how long do... do prostitutes last?" "With Taylor? A young girl like you has about ten years in her. At least." Sandy burst into tears. Ten years! This couldn't be happening to her. It just couldn't! Melissa just laughed. She'd seen so many girls react like this before... of course, most of them were pretty much down and out when Taylor got them; most didn't have as much to lose as this white bitch, obviously well educated and well brought up. Didn't matter though. When you came right down to it, Melissa thought, any woman could be trained to be a good whore. Even a stuck up white girl like the one who was presently crying her eyes out in front of her. Anyone. That was Taylor's system. The training began in earnest. The first stage, in accordance with Taylor's system, was to fuck and otherwise abuse the subject so often and in so many different ways that the sex became routine to her. Not important. So, for the first few days, Sandy was fucked over and over again countless times. By bodyguards; by customers; by kids off the street... by the end of those first days, Sandy - who had never spoken to more than two or three blacks in her entire life - had become intimately familiar with black cock. In her pussy, in her ass (which never failed to make her cry and panic), in her mouth, in her hair, in her tits... And, every time she was fucked, she was forced to squeal like a stuck pig. It was her trademark, Taylor explained. Sure enough, the name 'Squealer' was soon well known around the neighbourhood. Hot bitch, it was said. Liked black cock so much, she couldn't stop herself from squealing when she got it. After the first few days, the fucking became less frequent (down to a dozen or so times a day), and Sandy was forced to learn other things about being a whore. The right way to dress... the right way to talk... the right attitude in general. Once again, it was all a part of Taylor's system. Not that he wanted her to be the same as the other girls. Most whores were hard and cynical, and that attitude would come with time. But she had to be taught to think like a whore. The constant sex had already taken her at least part way there. It had taught her the requisite lack of respect for her own body; that it was just a piece for meat for men to fuck whenever they wished. What she needed to learn now was that although her body was worthless to herself, it wasn't worthless to her pimp. In fact, it was a valuable asset, and one which she would be required to protect. For Taylor's benefit, of course. So, Melissa taught her something about life on the streets. How to behave; how to talk to the other whores; how to spot a potentially dangerous customer. Taylor had lost whores to psychos before, and it pissed him off. Cost him money. Finally, after about a week of training, Melissa told Sandy - or 'Squealer' as she was now called - that she was ready for her 'audition'. She would finally fuck Taylor, and he would decide whether or not she was ready for the street. Sandy didn't particularly want to succeed, but Melissa made very clear to her the price of failure. The time came, and Melissa brought Sandy to Taylor's bedroom. Sandy walked slowly into the room, still unsteady on the four inch pumps. Taylor was sitting on the edge of the bed. As instructed, she smiled at him, trying to look sexy. He grinned over at her and snapped his fingers. Sandy, hating herself for her submission, but having no choice, knew what to do. Hurrying forward, she knelt down in front of him and her fingers - nails shining a newly painted red - went straight to the front of his pants. Hands trembling, she unzipped the fly and drew out her master's limp penis, which immediately began to stir to life at the cool touch of her fingers. Sandy fingered it for a few moments, coaxing it to hardness. Then she bowed her head, and with only a brief hesitation, took it in her mouth. Using her lips and tongue as she had been taught, Sandy quickly brought his big, black cock to a state of massive erection, sucking and slurping as though her life depended on it. After a while, she stood up, straddled him as he lay back on the bed, and lowered herself until she kneeled astride his thighs. The short skirt parted, exposing her naked pussy. Then, with a moan a pure, simulated lust - just as she had been taught - she lowered herself onto his erect penis, her pussy sucking in its entire length. Grinning, Taylor just lay there as she began to ride up and down in a steady rhythm, squealing in time with her own movements. Not the loud, piggy squeals she had originally been forced to put on. She was still required to do that sometimes - to the amusement of whoever was watching or participating - but a quiet, realistic squeal as Melissa had trained her. As though she was loving the sex. It was still, however, a squeal. He was pleased to note that she was using her pussy to squeeze his cock as best she could. With a sigh of pleasure, he reached up and began to fondle one of her tits. Obligingly, she leaned forward to give him easy access. Gradually the rhythm picked up. Taylor reached up a second hand and began mauling roughly at her breasts as they hung invitingly above him. Sandy gasped in pain, but quickly turned it into a grunt. Slowly, she leaned forward and brought her mouth down to his neck. Taylor slipped his hands around behind her, grabbed her ass, and began controlling her movements, forcing her to pump faster and faster until finally, groaning, he came. When she felt the warm sperm boiling over into her pussy, Sandy threw back her head and screamed with lust, simulating an orgasm. Just as she had been taught. He finished coming, and she shuddered and then relaxed on top of him. He let her lie there for a few moments and then pushed her off. "Not bad," he commented. "Not bad at all." He reached over and gave her breast an approving squeeze. Sandy winced in pain, but didn't pull away. "I think you're just about ready." Taylor leaned back against the headrest. "Go tell Melissa that I said you're ready," he ordered. "She'll take you with her tonight." Not daring to protest, Sandy clambered to her feet. She straightened her clothing, brushed her sweat-soaked hair back from her face, and walked out of the room to where she knew Melissa would be waiting. As she walked, she felt the now familiar trickle of sperm down her thigh... ***** For her first night of work, they dressed her in a skin- tight body sheath that barely covered the bottom curves of her ass. That, along with the usual pumps, was all she wore for her first night on the street. Sandy burned with humiliation when one of Taylor's men dropped them off on Ginger Street and drove away. Here she was, standing in the red light district dressed like an absolute whore. What if somebody saw her? That, of course, was the idea. On Melissa's instructions, the trembling girl was forced to parade her barely concealed body up and down the sidewalk, swinging her barely covered hips just as she had been trained. Within moments, a car pulled over. "Hey babe," came a voice from behind a partially closed window. "How much?" Melissa walked forward. "It's your lucky day," the black girl said. "Two for the price of one. You can have both of us for a hundred." The man laughed. "Good," he agreed. "Hop in." The two whores climbed into the car. "We've got a room over there." She pointed at a seedy little hotel just off Ginger Street. The man nodded and parked the car. The three of them entered the hotel and climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor, where Melissa unlocked the door and let them into the room. Once in, the black girl walked into the bathroom and closed the door. "Don't start without me," she called as the bathroom door closed. Immediately, Sandy turned to the man. "Listen mister," she said, voice shaking. "You gotta help me." After a week spent in the company of the uneducated Melissa and the various gang members, Sandy was picking up the other girl's speech patterns, making her sound more like a whore than a med student. "I'm not a whore. They kidnapped me and... and r-raped me... please mister..." The man grinned. Too late, Sandy realized her mistake as the bathroom door opened and Melissa came out, a frown on her face. "You were right," the man said. "She squealed." "Squealer," Melissa growled, "You is one stupid bitch." She walked over the gave the startled girl a hard slap across the face. Sandy began to cry. "Taylor is goin' to be pissed," Melissa continued, "and when Taylor gets pissed, someone gets hurt." Sandy just kept crying. ***** Someone got hurt. Sandy spent the next three days in the apartment with the thin end of a wooden baseball bat shoved up her ass. She was not allowed to walk upright, but was instead forced to crawl around on her hands and feet, squealing like a pig and begging someone to pull out the baseball bat. Promising to do anything... No one did, of course. Instead, they just slapped her on the ass, calling on her to squeal like the pig-slut she was. The squealing only stopped when her lips were wrapped around a stiff, black cock, which happened often enough during the three days. By the end of it, she was broken. When Taylor finally pulled the bat from her anus, she shuddered in pain and crawled over to him, kissing his feet and begging him to fuck her, sell her, use her... whatever; just as long as he didn't put the bat in her ass again. Ever. That night she was back on the street. For good. Melissa stayed with her for the first week or so, but after that she was on her own. She no longer had the will to fight. And so, every night of the week, she spent several hours on the street, parading around, attracting business and then fucking it. She proved very popular, and earned a great deal of money for her pimp. Her days were spent sleeping and then hanging around Taylor's apartment 'entertaining' his friends and customers. Taylor enjoyed recounting the tale of how he found the beautiful, white med student in a bar and trained her to her new life as a whore. The customers loved the story, and usually insisted on fucking her afterwards. She slowly settled into her new life, all thought of what had gone on before - her home life, med school - slipping away. Just another whore... EPILOGUE This part of town was not what it used to be. But Bert Cripmore had no problem with that. It took him almost a week to find an excuse to be out without Martha, but he did it. The new girl proved easy to find. Driving carefully, he pulled the car over to where she leaned against the lamp in her miniskirt and tank top. "How much?" he asked, voice rough with lust. Little bitch was gorgeous! The girl leaned forward, jaws working rudely on a wad of gum. "Fifty for a blowjob; hundred for a fuck." Bert nodded and the girl got into the front seat. "Got a place over there," she said, pointing at a sleazy hotel. Bert nodded and began to drive. He looked sideways at the girl as he steered the car into the hotel parking lot. Already, the sense of freshness which had made her stand out on the strip almost a week ago was fading. She still looked young and beautiful under the overdone makeup, but her eyes were narrower than he remembered them. She was well on her way to becoming a hardened whore. Fine with him, he decided. Still... "What's your name?" he couldn't help but ask. The girl looked over, and, for a brief moment, Bert imagined that he saw something else beneath the armour - a scared little girl, terrified and trapped, looking out at him through wide, frightened eyes - but the moment passed, and then only the whore remained. "They call me Squealer," came the answer, a queer lopsided smile marring her beautiful face. "Why's that?" The girl gave a sick grin. "You'll see," she told him, opening the car door. "You'll see." THE END ================================================================= The call has gone out for Parker stories. I am reposting the only two complete ones I have. Any more will have to come from someone else, 'cause I don't have 'em. If you got 'em, post 'em, please. With no further ado: BLACKOUT By Parker The West Side Projects. Irregular clumps of grey, concrete structures surrounded by torn and twisted chain link. Each cluster of three buildings encloses a concrete playground, where the skeletal remains of slides, see-saws, parallel bars cast long shadows in the setting sun. Rusted swings sway like hunched gibbets in the wind. A stubborn drinking fountain, cracked porcelain and weed filled, still bleeds a small trickle of brackish water... "... by then, the cunt was moanin' and whinin' like a bitch in heat. Humpin' up and down on my black cock and screamin' like she didn't know if it was the best or worst thing she'd ever felt." "Shit, man..." "Best fo sure..." Laughter. The tall man looked around before continuing, enjoying the attention of his audience. "You'd think she'd never had a cock up her cunt before, the way she was carry'n on, bouncin' and squealin'..." "Like that bitch Taylor owned a couple years ago..." "Fuck, she probably hadn't," one of the listeners - a fat kid named DJ - interrupted again. "Stuck up college bitches..." "Yeah. Think their cunts are made've gold or somethin'." "Well she wasn't no fuckin' virgin," the tall man laughed. "C'n tell ya that." "Not after that party," another man called out. Bright splashes of color - promises, threats, questions, names and dates - scrawl wildly across the uniform grey in futile explosions of illiterate anarchy. The rusting, empty aerosol cans dot the weed and broken-glass fields that surround, separate and enclose the concrete deserts. Roads erode... "Hell no," the storyteller laughed. "By the time we was done with her, she'd fucked more brothers than one of Taylor's bitches on a busy night. Bitch had more cocks in her that night than a rich whore." Catcalls and jeers momentarily interrupted the story. DJ spoke up: "Then what happened?" "Ahh, not much. Tommy put one of Marcie's party dresses on the bitch, drove her a couple'a blocks n' booted her outta the car." "Fuck... on 49th?" "Yeah." The speaker grinned knowingly. "She got out OK, though. Lannie and a couple of guys porked the bitch in behind the gas station - said she barely put up a fight she was so badly fucked up - then she got a cab." The black metal door had been built for safety. For security. It remained at its post, but just barely, hanging on by a rusted hinge. The landing inside was dark, the empty light socket staring down like a blind eye. The elevator door is jammed open, and the elevator - a cruel joke even when it was new - hung a long step downward, filled with debris. Piss-soaked stairs led upward... "A cab? On 49th? Fuck off." "Yeah," the tall man laughed. "Right outta fuckin' nowhere, the only fuckin' cab on the West Side. It was Jackson, though. Word is she offered to blow him for a ride to the fuckin' campus. Said she had a talented mouth." The men all laughed. "Said the bitch was drippin' cum all the way home..." "Wooooeeee..." The third floor landing leads down a debris and graffiti hallway to an open door. A group of men - all black - are seated in a circle in a room that has been informally enlarged through the destruction of two walls. A lucky few are sitting on the holed remains of furniture; the rest are perched on crates or milk cartons. All are listening... "Had ta wipe it off the seats with a fuckin' rag." The men laughed again. Some clapped and whistled. Best story they'd heard all night. "Not bad, bro. Not bad." The men turned, still laughing. The man who had spoken walked into the room, closely followed by two or three others. "Hey Darrell," the man who had been telling the story grinned over at his friend. "Whad'ya mean 'not bad'. Fuckin' 'not bad'? Y'can't top that." Darrell grinned back. "I can." He reached the circle of men. "C'n top that by a long shot." He pulled a box over and sat down, facing the others. "OK." DJ, as usual, spoke up. "Let's hear it, bro." Darrell sniffed, leaning forward. "Listen up then. Remember 'bout three weeks ago, that blackout on the West Side?" Most of the men nodded; that particular blackout had led to a bonanza of burglary and looting. They'd all made too much money to forget it. "OK." Darrell continued his story. " Me'n few brothers were ridin' the T-Rail south, just after Burnside Station, where it goes into the tunnel..." ***** The woman looked up from her paper when the five black men got on the T-Rail at Burnside Station. Her pretty face creased for a moment in a look that was part fear and part anger (and part guilt at feeling this way), but a quick glance around the inside of the compartment revealed enough other passengers - *safe* passengers - so that trouble seemed unlikely. Still, she felt more than a little uncomfortable when she saw that the black men had taken seats between her and the other passengers. She ran a nervous hand through her blonde hair and looked back down at the newspaper; best just to ignore them. The train would be at McLellan Station soon enough, and she would be safe there. If the black men stayed on, she would get off and catch the next train. The T-Rail jerked forward, letting out a loud screech as it left Burnside Station. Picking up speed, it rounded a corner, went over Sherman Street and plunged into the mile long tunnel which ended at the next station. The woman glanced up as she rocked back and forth in her seat, still uncomfortable. Was one of the black men staring at her? She dropped her eyes downward, frightened to attract attention. In her expensive business suit and skirt, she felt like a target. Instinctively, she reached down to touch her briefcase. Still there. Her decision was made. She was definitely getting off at McLellan. There was no way she... The lights went out and the T-Rail ground to a halt. "Fuck, I remember that," DJ interrupted. "Remember that fuckin' jewellery store?" Another man spoke. "We musta scored..." "Hey." The other men fell silent. "Do you wanna hear the story, or what?" "Sure, Darrell." "Yeah. What happened?" Silence. Then a low rumble followed by the quiet hum of the fans starting up again. There was a collective sigh of relief in the compartment as the air started flowing again. A few people began to talk and there was some nervous laughter. The woman started. Was that movement beside her? She strained to see in the pitch blackness, but it was no use. Frightened, she began to get to her feet, to move across to the other end of the compartment. It would be... A large hand wrapped itself around her mouth and dragged her back down into her seat. She let out a muffled squeal and brought her own hands up to free herself, but froze when she felt a cold, metallic edge on her throat. A knife! "Jus' relax," a voice whispered to her. The knife blade dug a little deeper into her throat, not yet cutting, but not far from it. "Fight'n I'll cut you 'nother mouth." The woman dropped her hands and relaxed back in her seat, almost paralysed with fear. She felt other hands, grabbing at her, touching her... One of them took hold of the shoulder strap of her purse and jerked it away from her. She almost felt relief at that; maybe once they'd robbed her they would let her go. Robbery she could handle. The hand left her mouth, but the knife remained at her throat. "Jus' sit quiet," the voice ordered softly. "Make a sound'n your dead. Got it?" The woman nodded her understanding, too frightened to speak. The hand that had been at her mouth now moved down the front of her body, slipping under the top of her blouse and cupping her breast through the bra. She stiffened in panic, but the knife kept her from moving. The hand moved from one breast to the other under her blouse, squeezing her breasts through her bra, pulling... pinching... "Nice tits, bitch." The woman squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lip, trying not to cry out. "Stand up," the voice told her. "Nice'n slow." Trembling, she obeyed, pushing herself up out of her seat and standing with her hands by her side. The knife stayed at her throat as she moved. The hand pushed her a step forward and she felt the man move around to stand directly behind her. She felt his body push close against her from behind as the hand slipped around over her shoulder and down under her blouse to resume fondling her breasts. "Good bitch." She felt warm breath at her ear as the man licked and nibbled at her earlobe. "Nice bitch." "Uh..." She let out a quiet gasp as she felt the presence of another man right in front of her. The knife pressed down for a moment in warning and she managed to control herself. The unseen figure in front of her moved closer until she felt his breath on her face. Closer... then his lips touched her's. "Mmmm..." She pressed her lips tightly together and turned her head, but a hand grabbed a fistful of her thick blonde hair and turned her head forwards. "C'mon bitch," the voice whispered in her ear. "Give m' brother a kiss." "Jeez'... I don't fuckin' believe it..." "You guys did this on a motherfuckin' T-Rail?" Darrell grinned. "It get's better..." Reluctantly, she kept her head steady and parted her lips. The man in front of her immediately pressed his face closer and slid his tongue into her mouth. She fought to keep from gagging as she felt his stubble burn her chin and hot, fetid breath invade her mouth. After a few moments, the man pulled his mouth away, giving her lips one last lick with his tongue. The woman panted, almost hyperventilating with fear, fighting back the urge to bring her hand up to wipe the man's spittle from her lips. She waited in silence for the next humiliation. She didn't have to wait long. There was a quiet snick, and she felt the cold steel of a second knife slide down her chest and under her blouse. She held her breath as it slipped under the front strap of her bra and cut it. The front of her bra fell open, exposing her breasts to the man behind her. He let out a quiet chuckle as his hand pushed away the torn remnants of her bra and directly fondled her breasts. The knife was taken away from her chest, but before she could feel any sense of relief, a hand pulled at her skirt, tugging it downwards. At first, she thought they were trying to pull it off, but it was just held tight. Then there came a quiet tearing sound. What was... "Spread your legs, bitch" whispered a voice from low down in front of her. "Or you'll be cut." With a quiet moan of fear, the woman realized what was happening. They were using a knife to cut a slit up the front and back of her grey skirt. Moving awkwardly, she obeyed, widening her stance so the knife wouldn't cut her leg. Then she stood, shivering, while the man in front of her made a long cut up the front, and then the back, of her skirt. After the second cut was made, a hand slid up the inside of her thighs up to her crotch. Her eyes watered and a tear trickled down her cheek as she felt a hand on her pussy, cupping it and rubbing. "P-please," she whispered. "Jus' relax," the voice whispered at her ear. The man gave her breast a little squeeze, tweaking the nipple. "Be a good little bitch." The blade of the second knife was slid under the waist band of her panties. With a flick, the thin elastic material was sliced and the panties pulled away. Her pussy was now exposed to the groping fingers; they rubbed up and down, playing and teasing as she squirmed helplessly, and then, inevitably, slipped inside. She let out a gasp, but it was stifled as the man in front of her brought his face against her's for a kiss. This time, she didn't try to turn away; she just parted her lips and accepted his tongue in her mouth. There was no use in fighting. "Sounds like one hot bitch..." "Sure beats your story all to hell," DJ gave the tall man a shove. The tall man just shrugged his shoulders. "Dat's a fact, jack." He grinned. "If it's true." Darrell smirked. "Oh, it's all true." "Then what happened?" "OK. While Steve was given her some tongue..." The T-Rail lurched forward. A cheer rose up from the trapped passengers, but it quickly died away as the train ground to a halt again. The woman felt the man's fingers slide out of her pussy as both her and the man behind her were thrown back onto a seat. For a brief moment she considered screaming for help, but the knife never left her throat. When the T-Rail stopped moving, she was sitting on the man's lap. She felt something... The man's cock was rubbing up against her ass. He must have taken it out of his pants, because she felt it directly against her flesh where the skirt had been cut away. She shivered at the touch of it, long and hard against her flesh. And wet. "OK bitch." The man's mouth was close up against her ear. "You wanna get outta this, you do what I say. Got it?" The woman nodded. "Good bitch. I'm take'n the knife away, but it's right here beside me." The blade left her throat; she let out a sigh. "You fuck up and I'll cut your heart out." The woman trembled at these words, but didn't cry out or try to escape. She believed him. Every word. "Now, spread your legs." She obeyed, opening her legs until her knees were spread further apart than the man's, pulling apart the long slit in her skirt. As she did so, she felt a second hand - the hand that had been holding the knife against her throat - slip around and cup her other breast. "Reach down between your legs and grab my cock." She let out a quiet moan, hesitating. "Do it," he hissed, tightening his grip on her already sore breasts. Whimpering, she reached down through the long slit in her skirt and touched his cock. It was long and rock hard where it stuck up between her thighs. Sensing what he wanted, she wrapped her fingers around it and began sliding her hand up and down, masturbating it between her thighs as if it were her own. The woman was resigned to it now, and the quicker he came, the quicker it would be over with. "Ohhh, you hot bitch." The woman felt his tongue on the side of her neck. She twisted her head away, but that only gave him more room to lick and kiss up her neck to the side of her face. "Ohhh yeah..." "This is gettin' stupid." "Yeah... you guys didn't..." "Shut up and listen." The men fell silent. One hand left her breast and dropped down to her exposed pussy. She let out a small gasp, squirming on the man's lap, but was unable to avoid his fingers and they rubbed up and down the outside of her pussylips and then slid inside. Still masturbating his cock, she fought it for as long as she could, but after a minute or two of the man's fingers exploring her pussy... and her clit... she felt herself begin to get moist. As much as she hated what was happening to her, her body couldn't help but respond. It was purely a physical reaction, but a reaction nonetheless. She prayed he wouldn't notice. "Juicin' up nicely, bitch." Her face burned with humiliation as her fingers, sticky with pre-cum, continued their work. "Just 'bout time to finish up." The man shifted his weight so that her feet reached the floor on either side of the chair. "Now, I want ya to stand up and sink your juicy cunt down on my black cock. Got it?" Again, the woman nodded. She was at the stage where she would do *anything* just to end the ordeal. Moving slowly, careful not to give the impression that she was trying to escape, she gathered her legs under her and pushed herself up off his lap. His hands tightened on her breasts, but she had no intention of doing anything stupid. She had come too far for that. Her fingers, which had been busy masturbating his cock even while she stood, stopped pumping and pulled the cock forward. She let out a small moan as she realized just how large the cock was. Still, she had no choice; as slowly and gently as she could, she let herself sink down, her fingers guiding the man's cock into her unwilling pussy. First the head slipped in... then one inch... two inches... (for the first time, she was thankful for the moisture which made this relatively painless) four inches... "Ahhh..." She let out a little cry as the man lost patience with her slow descent and used her breasts to drag her back down onto her lap. With one brutal thrust, his massive cock was buried to the hilt in her spasming pussy. "Shit. You fucked th' bitch right on the fuckin' T-Rail?" DJ looked sceptical. "Don't fuckin' believe..." Others, however: "What was she like?" "Well," Darrell answered, grinning, "I'll tell ya..." "Whew," the man sighed. "This is one tight-cunt bitch." The other men laughed softly as the woman hung her head, face burning with humiliation. "OK bitch. Start ridin'." She knew what he meant. With a quiet moan, she gathered her legs under her and began riding his cock, pushing up and down... up and down... sliding her now-sopping pussy up and down on the unwelcome intruder, unwillingly serving his pleasure. "Faster, bitch." Sweat broke out on her brow, matting her blonde hair to her forehead and trickling down her face onto her chest where the man's hands mauled her breasts, as she began to move faster and faster: up and down, riding his long, hard cock in and out of her stretched pussy. She began to pant and emit quiet grunting sounds in time with her movement as she bounced up and down on his lap like some kind of whorish puppet. After a while, the muscles in her leg started to cramp up, but she kept moving. Up... down... up... down... In... out... in... out... Against her will, her pussy began to spasm around the invading cock as her body trembled, betraying her... "You mean she liked it?" DJ again. "Always the same; white bitches love black cock. They can't fuckin' help themselves." "Thas' a fact, jack." "Straight up," Darrell agreed. "And then..." "Jeez Darrell," came a voice from in front of her. "I want some a' that." "Stop for a second, bitch." She fought back a groan of frustration as the man forced her to be still on his lap. She panted as she sat there, feeling his cock buried deep within her burning pussy... just a little more... "Bitch's mouth's free." The feeling of pleasure fled as she realized what the man had said. Her mouth? Oh, no... A hand clutched at her face, pulling her forward. "You heard'm," a voice whispered. "Open wide." The tears streamed down her at this new humiliation, but she obeyed without question, parting her lips to accept this new invasion. She just wanted to get it over with. Immediately, she felt a long, hard cock slip into her mouth. She gagged at the bitter taste of the pre-cum, but didn't pull away. With a quiet moan, she began to suck at it, bobbing her face up and down and using her tongue to... "C'mon bitch." She felt the hand tighten on her breasts. "Not done here yet." Once again, being careful not to bite down on the that was cock being fed into her mouth, she began to move, sliding her wet pussy up and down on the man's cock. In her bent over position, it seemed to penetrate even deeper, but she had no choice. Using her hands to brace herself, she began to pick up speed. And slowly, ever so slowly, the pleasure began to build again as her tight ass bounced up and down on the man's lap while her mouth sucked hungrily at the other man's cock. Faster and faster she moved, picking up speed as the feelings built towards orgasm, humping and bucking and sweating and grunting like a practised whore. Just a little more and... The T-Rail let out a loud screech and jerked forward a couple of feet. The lights flickered... The woman's feet slipped out from under her and her pussy was violently jammed down on the man's cock as she fell back onto his lap. At the same time, the man whose cock she was sucking lost his balance and fell forward, driving his cock straight down her throat. All three came at once. The man on the chair stiffened and, clutching hard at her breast, shot his cum out into her writhing pussy. The man in front pulled back slightly, ending the involuntary deep throat, but still shot his load into her mouth, filling it with his thick, salty cum. The taste sent her over the edge. Choking and sputtering cum, she twisted and writhed on the man's lap, panting and gasping in ecstasy and humiliation as waves of pleasure crashed through her sweat-soaked body. It was all she could do not to scream out loud... The lights flickered again. "Fuck!" "Move it." There was a flurry of activity around her as the man behind her pushed her off his lap and shoved her over onto a seat beside him. "Listen, bitch," the man hissed, shoving the newspaper back into her hand. "You sit quietly and get off with us at the next station." She tried to say something - to protest - but her mouth was full of cum. Grimacing, she tried to swallow as she heard the other men take their seats in front of her. She felt his knife prick her in the ribs. "Any trouble..." He didn't even bother to finish the threat. She felt him get up and move away. The lights flickered and then came back on. There was silence in the room. Each man stared at Darrell, waiting to hear what happened. Darrell just stayed silent, looking around the room with a big grin on his face. It was DJ who broke the silence. "Fuck, Darrell. What the fuck happened?" The passengers had cheered as the T-Rail began to move again. People had looked around, smiles of relief on their faces, but no one had noticed anything different. Anything wrong. And, if anyone noted that the attractive blonde in the conservative, grey business outfit on the other side of the compartment looked a little dishevelled, well... they put it down to nerves. Claustrophobia. More than one passenger looked a little worse for the wear. Still, all's well... The T-Rail eventually ground to a stop at McLellan Station. The woman lowered the paper and looked at the black men. They had stood up, and one of them flashed a knife at her. She glanced at the other passengers, but no one had seen it. No one knew anything was wrong. She got to her feet, grimacing at the cold, sticky feeling between her thighs where the man's cum had leaked out of her pussy, and began to walk towards the exit. "Excuse me, lady?" She almost fainted with relief, turning as a young man at the other side of the train called out to her. At last, someone had noticed... "You forgot your briefcase." The man gestured to where her briefcase sat at the back of the compartment. Help me you idiot! The man smiled at her and turned back to his paper. "Thanks," she muttered. One of the black men stood in the exit, preventing the door from sliding shut as she slowly walked back and picked up her briefcase. With a final glance around the compartment - no help there - she sighed and walked out onto the platform. The door slid shut and the T-Rail pulled away with a loud rumble. She stood on the platform, now surrounded by five black men. "C'mon bitch." It was the man who had raped her. The man with the knife. "And keep quiet." Meekly, broken, she followed the men out of the station... ***** The men all began talking at once: "Fuck, that was hot..." "Great story man..." "Wheeeoo..." Again, it was DJ who asked the question that everyone was thinking: "What the fuck happened to the bitch, man? Sell her to Taylor?" Darrell laughed. "Fuck no. It's not everyday a white cunt falls into your lap like that. I fuckin' kept her; she's *my* bitch now." "Fuck off!" "No way, man..." Darrell turned. "Tina," he called, "hustle your white ass in here." The men all stared at the door as the woman - Tina Swanson - entered the room, closely followed by one of Darrell's friends. Darrell watched with satisfaction as the men all gaped. Even *he* was surprised every time he saw her: all traces of the confident young career woman he had raped on the T-Rail three weeks ago had been systematically erased. In her place stood a cock-hungry bimbo. *His* cock-hungry bimbo. She was dressed in a tight, black polyester mini-skirt, just over a foot long, which barely stretched from her lower abdomen to the bottom curves of her ass. Her long, slender legs were bare all the way down to the bright red, six inch pumps. The only other item of clothing she wore was a half-cup tank top, bright pink, at least a couple sizes too small. It left her stomach and upper chest completely bare, hardly sufficing to push up her smallish breasts. Her upper body was bare, completely exposing a large tattoo on her upper chest: "DARRELL'S BITCH" it said, in big red letters, still bright and new. Her face was heavily made up, lips made thick and pouty with shiny, red lipstick and green eyes strongly outlined with eyeshadow. Each ear had been triple pierced, and three heavy, plastic hoops dangled on each side of her face. Her blonde hair, so stylishly cut the first time he had seen her, was streaked with purple and teased up in a wild, sluttish manner. Even so, someone recognized her. "Motherfucker," one of the men exclaimed. "That's no bitch; that's a fuckin lawyer. She's a fuckin' DA." Darrell grinned again. "Thas' right," he agreed. "I fuckin' knew it when I saw her on the T-Rail. She put m' brother away a year ago." He paused for a moment before adding: "'Course, don't matter, nohow." He turned back towards where the woman stood just inside the doorway. "C'mere babe." Smiling, the woman walked over to him, hips swinging in the tight miniskirt. She draped one of her bare arms over his shoulder as she came up beside him. He reached around and squeezed her ass. "Tina babe," he said, "you don' wanna go back to no stuffy courtroom, now do ya girl?" Tina pouted and shook her head uncertainly. "Whadya want?" She smiled. That was an easy one. She knew the answer. "Wanna stay with you, babe," she giggled, dropping her free hand to her crotch and lewdly gyrating her crotch towards his face. "Wanna do the 'wild thing'." Darrell grinned at her and she sighed inwardly with relief, running her tongue over her thick, pouty lips. She was getting better at this: pleasing him; acting the bimbo; being his "bitch". Surviving. Darrell turned back to the other men and got to his feet. "Y'see," he leered. "A happy ending for everyone." He turned to leave, a giggling Tina on his arm. Just as he got to the door though, he turned, pulling his blonde bimbo around until she faced the men. "Before we go," he told her, "you should say 'hi' to the brothers here. N' be nice; you won't be my bitch forever, y'know." Tina swallowed, catching his meaning. She looked slowly around the room, catching each man's eye and trying to look as sexy as possible. If there was one thing she's learned in the last few weeks, it was that her survival depended on satisfying black cock. In her mouth; in her cunt; in her ass... And there was plenty of black cock here in this room. With a small shudder - half fear, half lust - she knew that she'd eventually belong to at least some of these men. Just as she now belonged to Darrell. "Hi boys," she purred, giving her hips a little wiggle. "Hope to see ya soon." Darrell laughed... The West Side Projects. Irregular clumps of grey, concrete structures surrounded by torn and twisted chain link. The skeleton slides and gibbet swings have disappeared, their outlines swallowed up by the dark, starless night. Dim light shines out through grimy, boarded windows, revealing the presence of numerous closed, half-shadowed rooms. Babies crying... couples fighting or making love... And, in one of those rooms, Tina Swanson - Darrell's bitch - takes another load of cum up her ass, all the while humping her white ass backwards and crying out in simulated ecstasy... THE END ================================================================= As usual, all comments are welcome. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- To find out more about the anon service, send mail to help@anon.penet.fi. Due to the double-blind, any mail replies to this message will be anonymized, and an anonymous id will be allocated automatically. You have been warned. Please report any problems, inappropriate use etc. to admin@anon.penet.fi.