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Introduction:

A woman in dire straits gets an offer she can't refuse... and a weekend in bodily servitude.
FINE PRINT (Part One)


(Author's note: this is in no way intended to resemble any real occurrences, or depict anyone or any companies in the real world. This is nothing more than a product of my imagination, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the real me or my own preferences. My brain gets up in the middle of the night and paints on the walls, pours everything in the refrigerator on the floor, and smiles stupidly up at me in the wee hours like it deserves a fucking Nobel Prize for it. I either write down these hijinx, or suffer reruns later.

I hoped to add a little scenic staging to an otherwise very typical tale of sordid sex, so this part [one of two] focuses more on the tragic series of events that leads to Zoe's slavery. The second part will involve primarily sex scenes, with less emphasis on the non-sex interaction. I tried to make Zoe a little bit likeable, a little bit dislikeable, a little flaky, but not entirely a dim-witted creature. I aimed for a little suspense and psychological byplay, too, although I'll freely admit this "plot" is pretty standard fare. I figure for my first attempt, it'd be wiser to dip a foot in rather than go whole-hog into everything. Not sure whether folks are more into this for the "big scenes" or the rest of the story, so it's a little mixture of both. Hope you folks enjoy it. Oh, and if you see room for improvement, send a girl some tips.]


Everything in the plane rubbed Zoe's nerves raw. The dimmed, vaguely green-tinted fluorescent lights draining all semblance of vibrancy from the cabin, the muted tones signifying buttons pushed and indicator lights flashing friendly little seatbelt warnings, even the prissy-looking, bald businessman dabbing his nose with an Airbleu logo-adorned napkin every fifteen seconds or so normally drew the mind into a hazy state. All the little sights and sounds of nighttime air travel, so benign and placid otherwise, did absolutely nothing to tranquilize the ragged fury or the deep-seated revulsion percolating just below Zoe's skin.

Oh God, she felt so ruined. So putrid. From the flight three days ago until she stumble-limped her way to the same terminal from whence she'd arrived, the sanctity of her comfort with her own body had been tested, strained, and ultimately obliterated. What should've been a high-end hostess job for a business entourage from Arizona had transformed into Hell most debaucherous, and nothing of her body or mind had been exempt from tireless violation. It'd been her hope to rise above the ranks of sexually-oriented servitude in the job arena, and now she'd gratefully welcome the odd - and comparatively innocent - grope about the short-shorts area from a Melons sports bar customer.

Leaning back in the seat and wincing at the vicious protest from various abused places on and in her body, she closed her eyes. Sleeping might not be the wisest idea, as the memories from this past weekend were still fresh enough to threaten recurrence in her dreams, and Zoe weakly resisted the urge to give in. The struggle was short, however, and inexorable weariness blanketed her in sleep.



The advertisement simply stated:

Our esteemed service seeks women of a particular
quality for a temporary position among our waitstaff.
Job entails flexibility, attention to detail for our clients,
peak physical health, experience in friendly service in
venues of gentlemen's leisure, and an aptitude for
handling and juggling a variety of clients simultaneously.
Job is three days & nights in duration, pay and benefits
well exceed any job of similar length and expectation.
We cannot stress this enough: it will be well worth your time.

Still agitated over her abrupt dismissal from Melons for making a scene with a drunken fellow and his exploratory hands, Zoe had been in a surly slump in front of the computer for over an hour, scouring online applications and typing out her name, rank, serial number 'till her fingers ached. Spotting the unobtrisive ad in the corner of the page, she perked up and read it again.
Pay? She liked pay. Income was going to be scarce soon, and collectors of rent and utilities weren't too sympathetic with folks who'd orchestrated their own joblessness. Her eyebrow raised in curiosity over "benefits." What the hell did a weekend job offer in benefits? Hell, even temp jobs weren't much on insurance outside the minimum coverage for a company's own ass.
Unwilling to devote too much hope, she unplugged her cell from the USB port and dialed the number provided beneath the description. An automated voice greeted her, politely reiterating the essence of the advertisement and offering two additional bits of information: a location and a time.
Jotting down both, she ripped the paper from her notepad and trusted the forces of chaos to keep it somewhere visible within the confines of her purse. Glancing at the clock, she started, and leapt to her feet in the realization she had one hour - one! - to get to the meeting. She made short work of selecting her only business suit (black, a blazer and a short-ish skirt meant for interviews and the odd night at the bar), hurriedly refreshed her makeup, and rushed out the door. Making a beeline for the subway, Zoe suffered the close proximity of Braxtown's great unwashed as she travelled to her destination.

A tone signifying her stop - and relief for her agonized nostrils - she exited the cab and climbed to the street surface on heels meant more for show than actual bipedal locomotion. Finger-combing her unruly black hair, she made use of a mirrored window long enough to glance at her face, wiping a slight smudge of eyeliner from beneath one blue-grey eye. Turning her gaze to the rest of the shops, she spotted a weather-worn sign promising "Leisure of the Highest and Most Comprehensive Quality!" Zoe jogged to the stair below the sign, took a steadying breath, and opened the door.
Inside, the room boasted a single desk, several steel chairs of the kind seen in high school auditoriums, and a single occupant standing near what must've been a very expensive marble and oak shelving unit. Stepping in, she glanced around. No photos on the walls, and a single lamp on the desk illuminated the otherwise austere shop space. With nothing else to entertain the eyes, she glanced again at the figure and smiled her best "I'm the one for the job" smile.
Zoe's relief was immense when the man in the navy business suit smiled back immediately, and warmly. Stepping forward, he met Zoe midway across the tastefully faded carpet and extended his hand. "Welcome. My name is James Prowler, co-owner of Selective Tastes, serving also as interviewer. I take it you found our online advertisement?"
Nodding, Zoe took the chair he offered and sat, setting her purse to the side as he angled a chair to face her and sat down. "I don't quite understand what I'd be doing, but the prospect of a decent pay for a short-term job holds a great bit of appeal for me. Particularly in light of my job loss today." She winced, realizing that might not be the most prudent thing to mention during an interview.
Prowler smiled again, now a little sympathetically. "I understand. The economy isn't kind to much of anyone these days. But don't worry, " he held up a hand as though to pause a rebuttal Zoe hadn't planned on making, "we're not terribly concerned with the work history of our interviewees. We're interested mostly in the qualifications listed in the ad, as the job really isn't long enough to worry overmuch about people getting burned out..."
At this, Prowler paused, reconsidering his statement before continuing, "erm.. well, we're not concerned anyone's going to quit early. It's not as though this is a permanent or long-standing position. That is, unless you decide to return or express interest in a lengthier employment arrangement after the weekend." His smile returned in full, and the momentary sense of something amiss dissipated in Zoe. "While that's possible, we do not pressure anyone to stay, and the one trial period will be more than enough to earn high recommendations for any other employer later, should you wish to use us as a reference."
Nodding her understanding, Zoe took the initiative. "I like the sound of everything thus far, Mr. Prowler. My only real question is... what is the job, exactly?"
At this, Prowler's face reflected a brief, pained expression. "I like your practicality. The job is simply... well, you did waitress, correct?"

Starting, Zoe's mind struggled to comprehend the possibility of stalkers or telepathy before recalling the Melons name tag she'd pinned to her purse that morning. Smiling, she said, "yes, I was. If that's the kind of thing I'll be doing this weekend, there's little you could say to dissuade me. There's not much I didn't have to handle carting wings and beer to the boys at Melons."
Nodding encouragement, Prowler continued. "You'd be doing something similar here. You'll be flown to our resort off the coast of Florida, and the job is essentially meeting whatever needs are expressed by the businessmen using our establishment for their monthly convening. Maid's work, mostly, although some of our clients have demonstrated peculiar and unique needs aside from that. We cater to any and all, and those in positions of service are expected to meet those needs as they... arise."
Her nod only slightly less puzzled now, Zoe stowed that information away for later. "Sounds fairly straightforward to me. I can cook rather well, and took a few courses at ASU for ethnic specialty cuisine. I'm tough to ruffle, anyway. They'll have a time of asking something I can't provide."
Prowler smiled again, nodding further approval. "I'm very, very pleased to hear that. Travel will be provided, as will accomodations within our establishment, food, virtually anything that'd be required for an extended weekend. There will also be a uniform provided by us, one that you're very welcome to keep after your tour is over. If you've not a way to get to and from the airport yourself, we will hire a means of transport for you." Glancing at the desk clock briefly, he returned his appraising gaze to Zoe. "If you wish, you are very much hired. You may provide me your home address, and I'll arrange travel to arrive at your home in the morning."
Overcome with excitement, Zoe's interview smile became less plastic and more genuine. "I'm in!" Rummaging in her purse, she extracted her Post-It notes and a pen with a chewed lid and scribbled her address down for Prowler. Standing as she handed the yellow sheet to him, she mentally readied her closing "bright and shining new employee" phrases when Prowler stopped her.
"There is one other thing, although it's really just a triviality." Withdrawing a sheet of paper from a drawer in the desk, he turned to Zoe and handed it to her. "This is our contract, which every employee must sign before beginning the job. It's standard fare," he waved his hand in dismissal, "and mostly filled with the usual employment nonsense. Insurance, et cetera. You may read it if you wish, although I'd imagine you're in quite a hurry to get home and rest up for your journey." His expression took on an indecipherable quality through the geniality, but Zoe chose to dismiss it.
Zoe scrawled her name on the line at the bottom, uninterested in the legal jargon the state and feds had cobbled together for this kind of working arrangement. All uninteresting and useless, anyway. She had to pack! Smiling and handing the contract to Prowler, she stood and extended her hand to him again, now eager to depart and prepare.
He met her hand with his own, his palm slightly damp where it'd been dry and cool before. "I shall see you again at Selective Tastes, Miss Hardak. Enjoy your flight, and please..." he drew an embossed business card from his pocket, "...give me a call if you need anything."
Nodding and pocketing the card, she left. At home, she began sorting through her clothes and packing everything tidily for travel and a weekend's stay off the coast of Florida. Humming to herself, she folded and tucked and zipped until her bag approached critical mass.

Jerking in realization, she stopped, nearly dropping the bag she'd been setting near the bed. How the fuck did he know my name? Shaking, she set the bag on the floor and struggled to recall the contents of the interview. He knew my last name. I didn't tell him... shit, I didn't even tell him my first name!
Now frightened, she half-jogged to the living room and toward her purse, intent on hunting down that business card and giving Mr. McCreepy a ring and a sound earful about stalking when she spotted her name tag, full name scribbled in Sharpie, still pinned at an angle to the shoulder strap. Sighing in relief and mentally chastising herself, she sprawled on the bed and promptly succumbed to unconsciousness.

***

Loud, energetic disc jokey yowling slid through Zoe's skull like a cheese grater. Poking one arm around blindly from the depths of the covers, she hunted the snooze button, then cozied her way back into the blanket nest for another five minutes of slumber. Remembering last night and her loss of job, she struggled back out and fiddled with various dials until the alarm symbol disappeared on the digital readout. Sighing, she turned to re-fluff the pillow until the rest of her memory woke, and she leapt from the bed in an uncharacteristic fit of morning energy. New job, NEW JOB!
Hop-wriggling into a pair of jeans and a KMFDM tee-shirt, she grabbed her bag and clumped down the stairs with the grace of a drunkard to the street. After fiddling with the keys, locking the door, and checking to make sure the lock was secure, she turned and stood expectantly near the curb. Ignoring the limousine parked in the parallel space nearby, she glanced about in search of the telltale blue-and-black mag-top that signalled a taxicab in this city.
Scant moments later, the patient limo driver strode toward her and removed his slightly absurd little cap. Bowing, he gestured elegantly to the sleek and elongated vehicle behind him. "I trust you are Miss Hardak? Your transportation is ready whenever you are."
Shocked, Zoe blinked owlishly at the big black polish job behind the driver, then gave the driver himself a stark expression of disbelief. "This is my ride to the airport? You're kidding me." She shook her head a little, half expecting Ashton Kutcher to apparate next to them with a Punk'd camera crew in tow.
Nodding and with a self-effacing smile, he stretched his hand toward her cumbersome bit of luggage and hefted it toward the open trunk. It said a great deal for his professionalism that he didn't grunt under the weight. "It is. This is standard fare for any Selective Tastes employee, from the executives to the maintenance men. They do nothing in halves, though I'd be surprised if they did, considering." His expression was troubled briefly before resuming bland politeness. "But you'll discover more about that during your orientation. Let's get you to your destination, then?"
Nodding away the remnants of her shock and a little grateful he'd managed to avoid the "your chariot awaits, Madame" line, she stepped into the rear of the limousine and marvelled at everything inside as they made haste to the airport. Where normally the passing scenery outside the window held her attention while travelling, the lush interior of the limo drew and re-drew her gaze.
Arrival at and airborne departure from the city's modest airport was less novel, but no less exciting. She spent the flight, the layover, and the second flight imagining what the resort would look like, whether she might sequester the liberty of exploring pools and sights during her off hours, and allowed her imagination reign as scenarios of meeting and impressing company execs into hiring her for something lucrative and respected fueled her effervescent and building anticipation.



***

Touchdown was without incident, and Zoe poured her gaze all over the glittering blue lakes, white sand, and palm trees sprinkled throughout the landscape. The island wasn't terribly big, but the landing strip was comfortably distanced from...
Oh.
Zoe's eyes couldn't part with the lavish, coral reef bed of a structure. Sunlight reflected on the building's exterior in curves and whorls from peanut-shaped pools all around, both on the ground floor and on balconies two levels above. The resort looked almost as though it'd grown naturally from the colorful array of life just below the surface of the water lapping at the edges of the island. Trees and plants somehow shrouded most of the building and the surrounding grounds in shade, yet left a surprising majority of the place visible. Dark pinks, aquamarines, soft black trim, and leafy greens stole her breath and put her earlier imaginings to shame. It was a cultivated oasis, rich and beautiful.
Another vehicle, this time a more mundane Jeep Cherokee, carted Zoe and her things to and through the front gate. Smiling her gratitude at the driver, she exited and made for the front door with bags in hand.
Beyond the entrance, the view astounded her all the more. The lobby housed a fountain that was a miniature of the pools outside, the subdued ambient lighting allowing more and brighter lights beneath the water to illuminate the ceiling and the rest of the room in glowing, writhing strips. Carpets, furniture, and decor all blended subtly and pleasingly, nothing outlandish or garish. Everything screamed not just money, but money spent with profound good taste at the helm. She approached the desk clerk, who alerted a bellhop to have her things brought to her room. The clerk handed her a note, and pointed toward a set of glass double doors at the rear of the lobby with a curiously sympathetic expression on her face.
Reading the note, which simply said, "orientation in the conference room to the rear, all needed materials provided," Zoe followed the pointed finger toward the doors. She struggled briefly under the surprising weight of the thing, but managed to get the right one open after some unflattering redistribution of her own weight. Behind them, Prowler stood from his seat at the long table and extended his hand in greeting. "You're early! Welcome to Selective Tastes Resort." He offered her one of his welcoming smiles. "That's actually good. It'll give us a little extra time to get you settled, and get a few things in order. Oh, and questions! I've no doubt you'll have a few once we've covered the basics." He gestured to a chair next to him, sitting down only after Zoe'd sat first.
"There are a few things we must cover, and while you may find some of them a bit surprising, rest assured our promise to compensate you for your efforts is a very modest boast." He withdrew Zoe's signed contract from a file in front of him, sliding it in front of her. "Our standard salary for one tour, consisting of three days and three nights, is a grand total of five hundred thousand dollars." Before Zoe could finish her squeak of shock, Prowler continued, "There is absolutely no taxation on this, as the tour is relatively brief, and we already allow for the IRS to receive its share in separate transactions. Entirely legal, simply balanced in such a way that you can enjoy the rewards of your work in full. You will also have a company tab at the restaurants and bars here, as well as the clothing shop on the second level. While I don't recommend getting hammered and beginning work, you seem a reasonable adult and I'm sure you know the value of practicality in the workplace."
Clearing his throat, Prowler went on. "I know that seems a little extravagant for a hostess job, but I'll have to come clean... this isn't an ordinary situation. We at Selective Tastes pride ourselves on fulfilling the whims of some very important people, and those whims can involve... shall we say, more private attentions."

Comprehension dawned on Zoe's face and warred with dismay. "Wait... this is prostitution, isn't it? You aren't just running some fancy hotel here. That's why the pay. I'm supposed to... what? Offer to change the linens and polish a few knobs?" Snorting, Zoe leaned back and regarded the man in front of her with blossoming disgust. "Looks like I've wandered into a 'too good to be true' job. I've changed my mind." Standing, she made motions signaling her desire to leave.
Shaking his head, Prowler gestured toward the seat Zoe had vacated. "Sit down, miss Hardak. There is more you need to hear, and much you need to read." He pointed to the contract. "And what you need to read is there, although you unwisely chose to ignore that before signing. Sit."
Mildly outraged but curious, she settled herself again in the chair and began reading the contract. The majority was, as Prowler had promised, jargon... but a paragraph in smaller print now caught her eye as swiftly as if it'd been typed in large, bold print.



By signing this Contract, employee agrees to meet any and all requirements for servitude pertaining to the job for which (s)he has been hired. This may include (but is not limited to) requests of a sexual nature made by clients of Selective Tastes, any and all requests of this type or any other that will not directly result in permanent maiming or death of the employee. Nature, severity, and specific details of each request may vary, but all must be treated as equal, and will be attended to willingly, unless unwillingness or the appearance thereof is essential to the nature of that request. Employee also, by signing this Contract, has agreed to strict discretion with the law, and no information will be offered to law enforcement, friends, relatives, significant others, or any entity or individual during or after the tour of employment. Penalties for this include the complete eradication of employee's legal identity, and unfortunate (albeit possible) elimination of those deemed important to employee. Selective Tastes has the wherewithal to ensure all this and more takes place, and the employee has been screened and pre-cleared on the basis of detailed and thorough personal investigation. This information will be utilized to the detriment of the employee if any of these job requisites are not met.

Shivering, Zoe looked up into Prowler's stern yet sympathetic eyes. "This... that's why you knew my name. You had this planned. You knew I couldn't resist that ad. You knew I'd just been fired, and why. I'm desperate, and now..." She glanced again at the contract in her hands, a stupid hope that the implications of the fine print weren't as severe as they clearly were cresting then falling within her. "And you can do this, can't you?"
Seeing her recognition of the situation, Prowler nodded solemnly. "We can. We have, and we are of the means to do so indefinitely. To violate the terms of contract would earn you very unpleasant and... permanent... repercussions, Miss Hardak. We know you are a relatively private person, so I don't believe we're in danger of being ratted out by you. Your privacy and your pride wouldn't allow for it. However, I still harbor concern as to whether you comprehend the other end of the bargain you sealed with us." Tapping the paper in front of Zoe, he pointed toward the tiny print at the bottom of the page. "Our success depends upon thorough and complete satisfaction for our clientele, and that job is now yours for a total of seventy-two hours. Your person is now the property of our company, and that person is going to be devoted to whatever is asked of it by the men enjoying their stay this weekend. They went to great expense for the pleasure, and we will..." his tone became undisguisedly threatening, "... cater to that pleasure, whatever it may be. You will not come to permanent bodily harm, nor will your life come to an end here with us, provided you do this job to the fullest extent possible."
Prowler stood, indicating a nearing to the end of the orientation. "Whatever these gentlemen from Arizona request, you will fulfill, Zoe Hardak. Your life and your liberty quite literally depend upon both that and your capacity to keep everything about us, this place, and what goes on here confidential. You may find yourself in situations and activities you find, how shall I put it? Distasteful. Your physical body and your mind will both be put through rigorous tests of fortitude, but I have no doubt you will survive it. Even more, I've not the slightest worry that you'll more than adequately appease urges our gentlemen bring to your attention." Smiling, he began moving toward the glass doors. "Your room is on the ground floor here. The clerk behind these doors will hand you the key. You'll find your uniform, which must be worn during work hours unless one or more clients prefers it not be, on the desk opposite the bed."
He opened the door, paused, and looked back at the horrified Zoe. "Oh, and do feel free to make use of the pools here, or enjoy the scenic spots during your off hours." With that, he smiled a smile that held predatory undertones she'd missed during their interview, and left.



***

Zoe wasted no time in retrieving the keycard from the clerk and rushing to her room. Once inside with the door closed (no other locks, big surprise), she sat on the bed and stared blankly at the bags left next to it.
I can't... her thoughts babbled for a bit before returning to the unsubtle threats made in the fine print of her contract. Oh fuck me, I have to. How the fuck... how many little "companies" like this exist? And why all the secrecy? Like you can't just hire a fucking hooker and be done with it? What the hell are "unusual requests?" She paused in thought, closing her eyes and working to slow her progress toward hyperventilation. Three days. I can do this. I'll be set for years if I can just get this weekend over with. Gotta remember the pay. Gotta remember I'll be fucked if I don't do this right. Looks like my choice is pretty clear. I can do this. Yeah. I can do this. And from now until the end of time, I will read and re-read every goddamned thing I ever put my name on.
Nodding and taking a few deep breaths to help calm jangled nerves, Zoe stood and walked to the desk opposite the foot of the bed. Upon it were a phone, a laminated card listing several extensions to Prowler and the front desk, and a glass tray full of complimentary mints. With a little hysterical giggle, she popped one of the chalky things into her mouth, and rattled it against the back of her teeth with her tongue as she noticed another laminated card beneath the phone codes.
Lifting it with a slightly unsteady hand, Zoe read the card:


Room 331, corridor C. Clients Stephen Whittington and Gregory Skater
*These clients prefer to share entertainment and services simultaneously.
Whittington is vanilla, however, Skater has proven rougher with his
hostesses. Paraphernalia needed will be provided by clients themselves.
**It is strongly urged that the hostess refrain from eating or drinking anything
until after these clients have been attended, for the comfort and pleasure of
both servicer and serviced. Doing otherwise increases the risk of
dissatisfaction. You have twenty minutes to don your uniform and see to
it these gentlemen remember their stay with fondness.
Remember our discussion, Zoe.
James Frances Prowler


Zoe let loose a small huff of disgust and spit the remnants of the mint into a trashcan. Turning, she spotted an insubstantial pile of cloth folded squarely at the corner of the bed and lifted a piece, another burst of silently frustrated air moving the almost-not-there strips of cloth that might've - with perhaps a tripling or quadrupling of material - qualified as a bikini top and angled miniskirt. With much the same stiffness as a child told she cannot wear her favorite ludicrous ensemble to school, she swiftly shed her own clothing and put on the revealing attire. A few moments' shuffling and peering underneath the bed proved no underwear of any kind were available, and she briefly considered using her own. However, a re-reading of the card and replaying the conversation with her "employer" in her mind, she decided that less was more. That is, if she wanted to make of this a story of survival.
She turned again, this time to face the mirror, and eyed herself curiously. The lightly beige color of the outfit offset her own tan nicely, and despite the nearly nonexistent coverage, the top did show the vast majority of her tits to good advantage. Two thin triangles of cloth held together with strings, and the front strings tied together, presumably for easy removal. In another world and another situation entirely, this would be the bee's knees for a potential boyfriend's birthday surprise. Another two strings held the little skirt in place and tied at one side, leaving most of one hip and leg bare. Whatever the designer had in mind, it was rather clear that sensibility and modesty weren't a part of it.
She gave another cursory glance at the card to make note of the floor and room, and set off. In the hallway, she spotted a cart laden with various and sundry towels and men's bathroom things, and a lower shelf piled with bedclothes. She wheeled it toward the door marked 331, and with a deep breath, knocked gently just below the number.
"Who's that?" A gruff voice could be heard distinctly behind the door, and a muffled "whuff" followed by the zipper-jingling thump of a heavy bag hitting the floor.
Realizing she hadn't exactly been handed a script for this, she responded, "housekeeping." Wincing, she almost smacked her forehead. Cheesy porn flick much, Zoe?
"House... oh. Hostess? Yeah, get in here." Zoe opened the door, wheeling the cart in front of her and closing the door behind. It took her a moment before she realized two men were ogling her without even the slightest attempt to hide it. One was exceptionally tall, blonde, and the suit did little to disguise the impressive musculature of him. The other man, less impressive in height and slimmer, wore glasses and a haircut that emphasized the stark blue-black of his hair. The first looked every bit the archetypal Aryan wet dream, while his companion's slightly Hispanic heritage lent a gentler, less imposing aspect to his personage.

The second man smiled almost apologetically, while the first man strode up to Zoe with eyes directed at everything but her face. "I like the new uniforms." He leaned slightly to the side, appraising glance taking in the minimal strip of skirt barely keeping the more interesting bits from being made public. "Convenient, too. That other getup was a fuck to get through." Without preamble, he put one beef brick of a hand on her left ass cheek, squeezing roughly before letting go. "The goods are top notch, though. Hope you scream a little, pussycat." His eyes gleamed with humor now, the churlish indignation at the interruption now gone.
His friend stepped forward with an expression that said if he'd had a hat, he would've removed it before speaking. "My name's Steve. This is Greg, and we're..." He looked around, slightly embarrassed. "We share. Hopefully it'll be fun for you, too, but my friend here is a little rougher than I am." He eyed Greg for a moment, a slightly disapproving expression gracing his face while the other was still busy doing his inexpert impression of a pat-down. "I'll do what I can to keep it as enjoyable as possible for you."
Zoe nodded, about to ask what he meant when Greg interrupted her. "Whatever. Look, here's the lowdown, puss: I don't want you throwing up on me. Gag, cough, whatever you gotta do, but I'm going to do exactly what I want exactly how I like it, and I don't give one good gravy-covered shit if you like it, unlike my friend over there." His hand lifted to one breast, hefted it, and flicked the erect nipple through the cloth with two painful and rapid scrapes of his fingernail. "I speak, Steve here speaks, you obey. That's all there is to it." He snickered a little, one side of his mouth quirking upward in an unsettling grin. Leaning into her ear, he whispered, "I'm going to hurt the fuck out of you."
He leaned back and away, but his other hand found her breasts and began the pattern of lift, flick-flick, drop. "Steve, you gotta feel these. Real, too." Less apologetic but still with a slight sense of politeness, the darker and smaller of the two men approached and laid a gentler hand against one of her tits as Greg continued abusing the other. The bizarre juxtaposition of the two sensations was enough to elicit a tiny, agonized yip from Zoe, but she stood her ground and kept her hands to her sides as both men continued their exploration.
And... heaven help her, she liked this. It was too much, too soon, but the feeling of their hands on both covered and uncovered flesh felt strangely... good. Her nervousness over Greg's uncompromising attitude abated slightly, but resurfaced when he suddenly slapped the breast he'd been handling, and hard.
"Nice." Greg put his hands to work unzipping his pants, then grappling behind the zipper flap before pulling out what had to be nearly ten inches of very wide cock. He took a step back, then intoned to his companion, "hold her head still." She felt Steve's hand rest gently on the top of her head and push down slightly, and Zoe understood his meaning.
She kneeled, nude ass resting on the bottoms of her feet as Greg stepped forward, grasping his cock and aiming it imprecisely at her face. Steve's hand rested against the back of her head, and she felt his fingers curl and clasp in her hair, securing his handhold. She swallowed, then regretted doing so as she recalled her ex-boyfriend's long-ago instruction that a little saliva worked lubricating wonders when sucking a cock. She felt the hand in her hair steel itself in place, and she jerked in fear at Greg's approach.
She'd never deep-throated. Oh, fuck, and that's a lot of cock. She looked up at Greg's face, but nothing in it held hope that he'd care one way or the other how inexperienced she was, or offer any advice on how to handle it. In a fit of inspiration, she imagined in vivid detail the flavor of a hot pepper, and her brief flight of fancy was just enough to trigger a flood of saliva in her mouth. Before she could open her lips, however, several inches of Greg's member slapped her smartly across the cheek, and she cringed back as much as Steve's grip in her hair would allow. It wasn't much.

He aimed the tip toward her mouth again, and Zoe opened her lips and stuck out her tongue enough to lick the underside. Without warning, Greg's hips jutted forward and Zoe's throat convulsed warningly as the tip of his cock met the back of her throat. She gagged, jerking back just enough to cough, and one of Greg's hands went to the underside of her jaw while the other spanned the back of her head just above Steve's hair-wrapped fist.
"No time for that shit, pussycat. Steve, untie that thing and get her tits out. I want to see how hard I can make a couple of D's swing while I fuck her throat." Zoe struggled to back away, but Greg's hands held her firm. She felt Steve's fingers manipulate the little bow between her breasts, then the hint of support from the bikini top give way as it slid off. She felt him kneel behind her, his chest and groin pressed against her back both in support and restraint. His hands didn't leave her front, though, and she felt soft fingertips pluck and rub gently at her nipples. She took a longer breath, the only one allowed her before Greg's body jerked forward and her mouth and throat were stuffed with his wet, stiff flesh.
A tear slid down her cheek and Zoe struggled to breathe, but Greg took up an unforgiving rhythm of back and forth, shoving more and more of his length into her mouth and beyond, penetrating her constricting throat and stabbing her somewhere in the upper spine. With each backward pull, she could see closely the tension coiling in his thighs and groin before he stabbed her again, and she struggled for tiny gasps of fresh air between each thrust. His hands gave her no leeway to avoid it, and Zoe spent the first ten or so thrusts just learning to seep a little air in and out before he pounded his cock into her face again. Her gag reflex began to accomodate a little, but it seemed "getting used to it" was going to be out of the picture. This was a suffocating skullfuck, and Steve's body pressed against hers along with Greg's iron grip on her head kept any avenue of escape a foolish fantasy. Her nose met the hard body just above the equipment torturing her, and the stiff hair there tickled her cheeks and chin. She was drowning in cock and her own saliva, and even Steve's more pleasurable attentions to her tits weren't enough to make it less agonizing.
Steve slammed forward again, this time holding himself forward and her head forward to meet him. Zoe tried to scream, but her throat was entirely filled with his miserable dick and there was no air to be had. Her lungs strained to take in air, but the suction brought nothing but more of the huge, slick protruberance into her as Greg pressed himself against her face. She couldn't see, couldn't breathe, and... oh, God, she was wet now. The rivulets of spit that'd travelled down her chin to her chest were matched by a warm moisture between her legs.
A lifetime condensed into a few seconds before Greg backed away, his cock parting with her lips with a slick popping sound. Zoe took in panicked gasps of air, the darkness and flickering spots of light at the edges of her vision fading. Behind her, Steve stood. She felt his hands encircle her upper arms and lift her gently to a standing position, and she swallowed painfully and stumbled before becoming fully upright.
"Not bad. Thought you were going to toss your whore cookies on me for a second there, but that mouth of yours was just made to store a dick. Steve, get where I am. I'll take care of where you are."
Greg walked behind Zoe, his monster of a flesh gag bobbing and reflecting light thanks to a healthy sheen of drool with each step. His larger and tighter grip replaced Steve's on her upper arms, and she felt his cock press just underneath the hem of the useless skirt left her. Steve replaced Greg in front of her, his pants and boxers already down to his knees, and his slightly smaller penis stood eagerly against his stomach.

"All right, puss, let's see what your other end has to offer." The cock that had made Zoe struggle for breath was now sliding between her legs, basting itself in the fluid of her own embarrassed excitement. He bent her forward with his grip on her arms, and Steve stepped forward, a hand on her head bending her farther down until his own cock slid past her lips. Greg's foot tapped impatiently at the inside of one of Zoe's ankles, and despite feeling precariously balanced, she spread her legs wider.
Again taken by surprise, Zoe felt Greg's tip slide across her slit before delving it hard inside of her. She screamed around the cock inside her mouth, and Steve pistoned forward to fit the rest of it inside. It hit the back of her throat, but with relief she realized he wasn't going to pierce the abused flesh beyond. The relief was short-lived, however, as Greg made a few more punishing piston jerks inside her unprepared pussy, then slid out... and just a short distance north.
Zoe bucked angrily, and Greg's vise grip on her arms became almost bone-crunching. His member explored briefly, pressing, entering and exiting just a little, then stretching her until she thought she'd tear. His movements were a laugh in the way of preparation before he began plunging into her ass with the same careless and vicious force he'd used in her throat.
Her screams were again muffled by Steve's only slightly gentler face-fucking, and both began a rhythm of in-out-in simultaneously. Her body jerked and shuddered, the tears now flowing freely and mingling with the rivulets of spit again coursing from lips encompassing cock. Greg's enraged pounding increased in speed, only to be matched a half-pounding later by Steve. Her pussy dripped, her anus screeched an increasingly confusing blend of pain and pleasure, and her tongue worked the underside of its now-twitching new roommate in an incomprehensible frenzy of greed. It hurt. She felt like a blow-up doll with no freedom or ability to act. She was so goddamned filthy. Humiliated. And she was about to fucking come.
Before the tyranny of conflicting sensations could bring her there, though, Greg let loose an animal grunt and hot semen flooded inside her ass. She felt his cock slide out, and even now she blushed, horrified, as she felt some of it drip out and slide down the inside of her leg. One of his meaty hands slapped the small of her back cruelly, and she dropped to her knees as Steve took a half-step back, gripped his now mouth-freed, wet cock, and shot his own stream of viscous white pleasure across her cheeks and nose.
Shaking, Zoe could only kneel and blink away the remnants of errant tears as the two men backed away, headed for the bathroom, and began to clean up in companionable silence. She stared mutely at the floor, quivering and nausea warring with the lingering sexual stirring within her. She stood, gathered the useless little strip of a top in her hand, and walked uncertainly toward the door.
"Hold up there, pussycat." Greg pointed from in front of the bathroom sink toward the table by the door. "Going to need our supplies. Just leave 'em there." With that, he turned again toward the mirror, dismissing Zoe from his focus. Steve shot her a perplexingly apologetic glance from further within the bathroom before turning away and resuming his own post-coitus maintenance.
Still shell-shocked, Zoe deposited a stack of towels, some complimentary soaps and goods from the cart, and pulled a few sanitary surface cleaning cloths from an open dispenser to clean her face and the damp spot on the floor. Tidying done as mindlessly as any drone, she packed up, wheeled the cart out the door, and followed it before closing the gateway to 331 behind her.

She shambled to her own room, unable to remember if she'd encountered anyone on her way between the other room and here. She made for the bathroom, turned on the shower, and slid to the tiled floor of the stall and let the water run over her for a very long time. She shook. She didn't cry. And horror of horrors, she found her hand between her legs, fingers stroking her still-slick clit until her whimpers echoed throughout the bathroom.
Shower done, she towelled off and again donned the slut's uniform. She sat on the edge of the bed, her peripheral vision noting a new card resting on the phone by the desk, but she did not feel the immediate urge to investigate. She stared at the floor, hands clenching the edge of the mattress, and breathed. In, out, in, out, an innocent reenactment of her earlier experiences, and a reminder that she could still breathe. Her throat ached, but was recovering.

I don't want this any more her mind cried, but she ignored it. She would do this, want or no. She had to. No options. Just the weekend. Get it done and over with.
She looked up again, staring glumly at the new laminated sentence resting on the desk. She hated this, but she would do it. Stupidity got her here, and it was her own damned fault for ignoring information that was right in front of her. She signed away her dignity, and had no one to blame but herself for being gullible enough to ignore an obvious trick. She might not enjoy it, but it would save her a... life. Yeah. Her life, anyway. She didn't enjoy this. She didn't enjoy this. She didn't enjoy this at all.
She stood and walked toward the desk, steeling herself for whatever was to come next. She ignored the little voice in her mind laughing sadistically and disbelievingly at her mantra.


(To be continued...)
6 comments

Anonymous readerReport

2014-03-22 20:03:38
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Anonymous readerReport

2014-02-28 17:08:54
VJKYlO I loved your blog article.Much thanks again. Awesome.

Anonymous readerReport

2014-01-31 07:57:51
J58cNg I really enjoy the blog post.Thanks Again. Will read on...

anonymous readerReport

2013-10-25 23:59:25
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anonymous readerReport

2012-09-28 02:13:11
Very good story, can't wait for the next part.

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