PARKER8.TXT -- 1/3
SQUEALER
(Part 1/3)
By Parker
an210088@anon.penet.fi
WARNING: This story contains all sorts of non-consensual
intercourse, bondage, domination, humiliation and all that
kind of stuff. It is not politically correct! If you do not
want to read this sort of material, I suggest you stop now,
before it is too late. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
Copyright 1994 by me (Parker). Feel free to reproduce and
disseminate (unaltered, of course) but be discrete.
=================================================================
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!
END PART ONE
=================================================================
As usual, all comments are appreciated. I can be reached as P or Parker.
PARKER8.TXT -- 2/3
SQUEALER
(Part 2/3)
By Parker
an210088@anon.penet.fi
WARNING: This story contains all sorts of non-consensual
intercourse, bondage, domination, humiliation and all that
kind of stuff. It is not politically correct! If you do not
want to read this sort of material, I suggest you stop now,
before it is too late. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
Copyright 1994 by me (Parker). Feel free to reproduce and
disseminate (unaltered, of course) but be discrete.
=================================================================
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
=================================================================
All comments/suggestions/observations are appreciated.
I can be reached as P or Parker.
PARKER8.TXT -- 3/3
SQUEALER
(Part 3/3)
By Parker
an210088@anon.penet.fi
WARNING: This story contains all sorts of non-consensual
intercourse, bondage, domination, humiliation and all that
kind of stuff. It is not politically correct! If you do not
want to read this sort of material, I suggest you stop now,
before it is too late. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
Copyright 1994 by me (Parker). Feel free to reproduce and
disseminate (unaltered, of course) but be discrete.
=================================================================
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
=================================================================
That's all for this story. All comments are appreciated.
Review This Story || Email Author: Parker