Collected by Djian
SQUEALER
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!
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...
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?"
rThe girl gave a sick grin. "You'll see," she told him, opening the car doo. "You'll see."
THE END
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