This is rather an old story, so it lacks a little polish. The premise is unusal for THW — some sort of post apocalypse setting, where America has collapsed. Eleanor — renamed Kellee — has managed to get herself accepted for training by a Russian agency that provides escorts for rather hardcore clients.
I knew I was learning — slowly getting the hang of make-up, of walking in a sultry way — coping with high heels, offering my body — it was all getting easier — but I was so far behind!
Then, a summons to an interview after lunch — while all the other girls were resting. I was terrified — I was going to be rejected — thrown out — probably onto the Moscow streets, where I wouldn’t last five minutes.
I was pale, quivering, but Yevgenia, the apparent boss — at least of what I’d seen of the setup, which wasn’t much, to be honest — was smiling, almost friendly.
“Let me have a look at you. Kellee, isn’t it (My name is Eleanor, but they changed quite a few of our names to simpler, less classy sounding ones. I hated Kellee, but I’d had to get used to it)? Well you are very lovely, aren’t you, Kellee — we’re so pleased to have you working for us!”
“Now, Kellee, you might be surprised by this, but we have some work for you, already.”
What! They, of all people, must know I was the least ready of all of the group — some of the other girls, I knew now, had already been whores and strippers. All of them were more comfortable with their status, their chosen path, than me — and all of them spoke Russian, even the ones from other countries, while I was still groping for even simple words.
“But .. I .. I’m not ..” (it was so embarrassing — in college I had been articulate, forthright, outgoing — but the crash and all that had happened since had sapped my confidence, and the decision to choose this path had somehow made me tongue tied — even my hard-won education was no use in this new and different world).
“I understand, pretty; you are right — you are not most sexy girl of group. You are not at all ready to be sexy escort. You have no training in the sex yet. Of course, we know this; and, of course, this is why you are selected; certain ‘gentlemen’ like to use girls like you — innocent girls — girls without the tricks. Very pretty girls, of course, very willing girls; but not girls who are confident, not girls who know exactly what to do. Understand?”
I was trembling. I had understood. I understood all too well. They wanted me to go to guys as I was — without their training. The dim reality of — one day — having to fuck a stranger because it was my job, had suddenly come into very sharp focus indeed. I could feel my lower jaw shaking; one of my knees was quivering. I could only nod my head, mumble;
“Y .. yes .. I .. I think so”
“There is more. These men — the ones who want to use you first — they are quite cruel — they like to hurt girls — humiliate them — this will be you. They will make you feel dirty, weak, frightened. They will not be allowed to damage you — this is against policy — but you will suffer. But you will smile, be sweet even though hurt; try very hard to make men happy. Understand?”
Ice gripped my heart. I was crying, no helping it. I know now that they showed the video of this interview to the men who used me so harshly in those first few weeks — that they have got new customers for me by using it.
“Do you understand, pretty American girl? This is what you are here for. To be used for pleasure of men who can afford to pay us. Do you understand?”
The edge in the voice helped me pull myself together. This was it — it had come sooner, rather than later, that was all — and when I entered the room, I had thought they were going to let me go! So this was good, really! I was trying to convince myself.
But the picture I had had in my head, of myself as a sexy, well-dressed, sophisticated escort — perhaps especially interesting because American, perhaps valued for my conversation as much as for — well — the other.. All that vanished.
In fact I was to be valued for my lack of sophistication, treated cruelly. It was hard not to break down, to start refusing, to ask to be let go, But of course this couldn’t happen — I was in Russia, they had my papers, I had signed a three year contract, there was no way back. This was all the ‘better life’ I could aspire to. This was what I was getting. My knees were weak, but I tried to smile — a weak, desperate smile, but a smile — blink back the tears, sat up straight, nodded;
“Yes. yes, I understand. I .. I’m .. Th .. thank you.” It was the only thing I could think of to say, my voice tear stained and weak; but she didn’t care that my silly hopes were turning to ashes, just smiled at me and went on briskly;
“You’ll go for dinner tonight. Two men. Smile and look pretty — best you can. They take you to hotel room. You may resist if you like — but don’t be stupid — no biting or scratching, or you’ll be in gutter with broken teeth and fingers, and we won’t come looking. You will earn two thousand rubles.”
Two thousand! that was crazy! I’d never really believed the numbers they had told us in New York, but here it was — two thousand rubles!
They laughed at me, then;
“So, you like sound of money, American girl? It makes a difference! You will make good whore, yes?”
And I blushed and bowed my head while they laughed at me, feeling it was true, knowing I was going to do it — fuck strangers for money. That money did make a difference — because it felt like safety; safety which was so desperately hard to find in this new world. And somewhere, deep, I felt the first knowledge that this might be somehow OK for me, that I was not going to be as bitter about this life as I told myself I was. But just a flicker, buried deep beneath the fear — I hardly noticed it then.
So I went back to my classes that morning, and found myself trying really hard, and making a little progress, too. I held out on the other girls as long as I could, but over lunch they got it out of me. Some of the experienced girls were actually quite friendly, but the main reaction was one of disbelief — as mine had been. When they finally understood, they began to tease me, frighten me as to what these men would do to me, an upper class, weak girl, an American. It worked — I was already frightened!
But that afternoon one of the servants — an older woman, who looked after the clothes — took me shopping — spending some of my rubles, and retail therapy worked, too — I hadn’t had new, nice clothes for years.
She had me buy a gorgeous little quarter-cup bustier, and a rather revealing cocktail dress — black with little sparkles, short skirt ruched high on one side, and an exaggerated halter neck collar, that showed a great deal of cleavage.
Patent black pumps with 4” heels, and some divine silk thigh high stockings with embroidery at hem and garter, together with a ridiculously over designed, and very small black thong completed the outfit, so my minder said. I was excited by the clothes — like a silly girl, and agreed to everything our beauty team suggested, so that I ended up with only a tiny little landing strip of dark pubes, and my nipples and labia darkened to a raspberry brown with something like a stain — it took a week to fade. My hair was dressed up, with a few tendrils hanging down.
I was beginning to feel like a princess, with all the staff fussing round me, helping me look my best. I was in the dressing room, wearing only heels, stockings, bustier, thong and a little choker and cuffs set they had given me with dangling GoodGirls medallions, when the door opened, and Yevgenia came in, followed by two old and ugly men in dark, lumpy suits. One was fat and the other scrawny, and they were laughing together at some joke as they entered. But their eyes lasered in on me.
I squealed, covering my exposed nipples, the other hand covering my crotch — just as any normal girl would when strange men barge in on her when she is semi-naked.
Y smirked, and the two men laughed louder, walking directly toward me. It became clear — these were the men who were going to fuck me!
I trembled, blushed, looked down, looked up again, needing to see what they were doing. I had no idea what was expected of me. Gradually, I relaxed my arms, stood up straighter — I supposed they had a right to see me — and I didn’t want them to think I was ugly.
They were talking in Russian, but I heard one say the word ‘pretty’, and I felt satisfaction at this approval — even in such strange circumstances. I found myself smiling, a little, nervous smile, butterflies in my stomach. I remembered I should clasp my hands behind my back, and have my feet apart, and so, in an agony of self-consciousness, I made myself move, to be rewarded by smiles from Y and the dresser. I felt a glow of pride, which helped me hold my poses as they came closer, and then, of course, touched me — one with his hand on my ass, the other stroking a breast, the nipple stiff with fear. I stopped breathing. How could I let this happen? They were so casual, so confident, touching me so intimately - in front of all these others! Their hands were wrinkled — hard old skin. I didn’t know if I was going to faint or vomit as a hand slid round to cup my pussy, the other man now holding both my breasts.
My knees trembled violently. They noticed, but it only made them laugh, indulgently. They liked me being a scared innocent. Tears gathered in my eyes, and I blinked them back, desperate for any last shreds of dignity. I heard myself whimper, and bit my lip.
It was real — I was going to be letting these two guys do whatever they wanted with me in a few hours, and now they were feeling me over as if I was a prize horse or something, talking to each other, but ignoring me, laughing again when I quivered uncontrollably. The others looked on, calm, approving. This was what it was all about. Selling pretty girls to be sexually abused by rich lechers — what else? I had known about this from the start. But I hadn’t ever really understood how it might feel; to be here, semi naked, holding myself as prettily as I can while these strangers, these ugly old men, smelling of cigar smoke, touch me, deliberately, intimately, stroking my belly, my thighs, my ass; acting like connoisseurs. And I was letting it happen.
I was biting my lip, holding back tears, holding myself for them, trying to remain pretty, ready to die, really, at that moment, I didn’t know if I could live any more. Then I realised one of them had spoken words I understood — was speaking to me;
“Virgin?” he emphasised the question with a pinch through the thong.
I shook my head, blushing, embarrassed at this for some ridiculous reason. They laughed again, stood away. My belly fluttered again. It was over. For now; or so I thought. I closed my eyes, tried not to think, tried not to see myself through the eyes of dressers.
There was some rapid fire Russian, then Y said;
“Kelly, the gentlemen want to show you that, although they appreciate your innocence, your lack of experience, they will not tolerate disobedience or unwillingness. Any such will result in pain — for you. They want you to know this, before tonight. So you are to understand what it is to be thrashed — just a little, right now.”
Thrashed? There was a short, stunned pause as I took an age to understand what she had said, that it applied to me, then my heart lurched, horribly, and the tears were back at my eyes. But I was in their hands. I had offered myself up for this. I whimpered, very quietly, but I didn’t shout, didn’t resist, and when she said;
“Go over to the gentleman, please. Give him your hands, and then lower yourself until your pussy is on his knee — right on the end — your thighs will be spread — understand? Smile at him please!”
And I found myself complying, walking, as elegantly as I could in the high heels, over to the fat one, who had seated himself at the edge of a chair, back straight. Shakily, I offered him my hands and he took me by the wrists; trembling, I lowered myself onto his knee, until my pussy mashed onto him, my knees bent, wide apart; let him push my arms apart, up and back, so that my breasts lifted, just in front of his grinning face. My whole body was quivering. I smiled at him — a desperate, weak smile, which only made him grin the more.
I felt so fragile, so powerless, so in need of mercy. There was no anger — I wasn’t here because they had forced me — they were paying and I had pushed to get here. I smiled desperately, pleading with my eyes. Tears dripped, but I kept my face smooth. I knew I could not afford to be ugly.
The knowledge that there were so many witnesses to this burned into me, made everything more powerful, somehow more unavoidably real, more affecting.
Then I squealed, as the doubled up belt lashed my buttocks, helplessly jerking my pussy against the hard knee of the man I am facing, feeling my breasts jiggle, knowing all in the room were watching — a proud young American girl, whoring herself to fat old Russians, allowing herself to be beaten, held, humiliated. I moaned in despair, but, although I may have said; “Please — no!” in a breathy voice, there was no conviction in it. His position wasn’t strong — I could have got free, but I didn’t struggle; stayed where I was, waiting for the next one, which was harder, or just worse because I knew what was coming, and had consented nevertheless. The jerk as I reacted to the blow pushed my sex hard into his knee, made my breasts bounce in front of him — the purpose of the position, of course. It was devastatingly humiliating. It was also incredibly sexual — and I could not deny that it was so. At some level I knew that the sight of me in this position, accepting this, must be highly erotically charged; and at some level I responded to that, keeping my shoulders square, my knees spread, my ass jutting, trying to do my job. My job which was destroying me.
Then there was a third, and I bit my lip, trying not to cry — not wanting to ruin my mascara, ridiculously. I wanted to crumple up, but somehow, I found myself carefully posing, desperate not to look ugly, whatever else, ensuring my breasts jiggled nicely for the grinning man who held me.
And who now released me, letting me stand, relieved for a second, holding back the sobs, breathing raggedly, chest heaving, making my tits sway — only to see the thin one sitting and beckoning, his grin harder, sneering, and I knew it wasn’t over at all — maybe half-way through, if I was lucky. I could not hold back the tears any more, even as I co-operated, lowering myself onto the thin, bony knee of this fifty-something stranger, trying to smile at him as he leered at my tits, my open thighs, the tiny thong the only thing between him and my pussy.
I steadied myself, but still yelped and jerked as the belt smacked into my already sore buttocks, but I held my pose, and accepted two more, crying steadily now, but not letting my face crumple. To tell the truth, it was the humiliation, more than the pain. Whatever else happened to me, I would always know that I was a person who would allow herself to be beaten by strangers, in a sexually humiliating way, and not fight back.
Even worse, it seemed, I was prepared to thank them, at a word from Y, and promise them that I would do everything I could to please them that night.
Five minutes later, as my make-up was being repaired, I broke down, gusty sobs threatening to turn into hysteria. I just knew that I couldn’t go through with it. I sobbed out as much;
“I .. I don’t think I .. I can do this!”
The old dresser lady was calm and almost disinterested as she hauled off and slapped me a couple of times, hard. It stopped the hysterics alright, and then she pulled me up, spun me round and snicked the two cuffs together to immobilise my hands behind my back. At her signal, her two helpers grabbed my arms, and frog-marched me after her as she turned and walked from the room. I was too frightened and shocked to make much protest. We went down long corridors and many turns, during which I was passed by a few people who had obviously enjoyed the sight of a near-naked blonde being dragged along.
Just as I was beginning to calm down and consider more active resistance, we arrived at a lobby. They grabbed a cloak from a peg, draped it over me, and we were outside, walking across a Moscow backstreet — grimy and grey — the service rear of the building. I was now too frightened to resist — they ignored my urgent questions, and seemed stronger than I had thought. We marched across the street, and up a freezing alley through thin slush, where the dresser thumbed an intercom, spoke some terse Russian.
Inside, the cloak was pulled off me. There were several men in the hallway, all happy to look me over, but we weren’t stopping, marching along more corridors until we came to a lift. Inside, she turned to me;
“So far, you owe company maybe 12,000 rubles — flight, accommodation, food, clothing, training. Maybe you won’t finish training. Maybe you won’t serve clients tonight. Then you will have to pay back money. In Russia, you are nothing. Nothing cannot work — no passport, no nothing. US whore. Not even worth dogmeat. No-one will feed you, even. So, how you pay back money? You cannot. Court will grant us indenture — you know this word? Is stupid word; correct word is: slave. You slave here.
The lift door opened, into a dark corridor. Off the corridor, a large room, with many screens. A couple of guys lounging around — some kind of security camera monitoring room. They certainly preferred looking at my legs, my tits, to paying attention to their screens. I didn’t want to look at the screens myself, at first, but I had to look, had to know what she was threatening me with.
Cubicles. Girls chained in cubicles. Being fucked, sucking cocks, ass-fucked, men like rutting animals. Girls being thrashed, beaten, punched, pissed on, kicked on the floor.
“These girls not people; slaves; fuckbucket slaves. One ruble each cock, five cocks each hour, 12 hours each day. You go sleep — electric shock wake you up good! 60 cocks, 60 rubles. Take for food, sleep, clothes. 5 days each week. Takes maybe 5 years, if don’t die first. Then, five years gone, have nothing — ruined body, crazy maybe — out on street, naked.”
She waited, while it all soaked in.
“Or, you pretty, well-dressed whore — nice to customers; smile, look pretty, open cunt, open mouth, open asshole, beg for whip, give everything you have, happy to please; make money.”
I was stunned, shaking violently; my knees gave way, they let me down.
She knelt, took my face, gently, almost stroking; her voice softer now;
“You very pretty — You learning good. Will take a while, but I know you will be top girl. Also, I think you like. I think you hot slut girl. Learn to have pleasure. You choose now.”
It took a few seconds to sink in;
“Now?” my voice was pleading, frightened. Hearing myself, I realised I was beaten.
She held out a hand. One of her assistants handed her a crudely fashioned iron collar, with a heavy chain;
“Now. Pretty smile and apology for trouble, promise to try best, or collar goes on and we leave you to these gentlemen — when they finished, down to doormen, they fucking too, fuck hard. Then into cubicle. Bye Bye Kellee, hello no-name fuckbucket.”
It took me about five seconds — the longest in my life, but I had no real choice. Having stared hell in the face, I knew what choice I would make — but it was hard, and I know that it showed on my face, because they got the footage from the CCTV, and the horror, the utter completeness of my defeat, the realisation of the full truth of the choice I had made, is all in my face, as, slowly, I bring myself to smile — a terrible, poignant, sad smile, but desperately sincere, even as tears are glinting in my eyes;
“Please. I .. I’m so .. so grateful that .. that you’ve offered me this choice, and .. and I .. I truly understand, and I will .. always .. always do my best for you.”
“Ok, choice made. Any trouble, you back here. Now, these gentlemen need thanks — not should be here. You thank with mouth — quickly!”
And the assistants rammed home the message by dragging me over to the nearest of the guys, who had already unzipped himself, and pushing my face onto his cock.
When we were back in the dressing room, she sent the helpers away, had me kneel on a footstool — still naked apart from bustier, stockings, heels, thong and choker.
She made me a hot chocolate, wiped my face with a warm flannel, and then, as if she had forgotten, exclaimed to herself and unlocked my wrists.
“Here drink. This is good. All girls must have breakdown — must realise truth. Those other girls — they think they are already tough, that they know what this is. But you know, and they do not. It was hard, no? But you did the right thing. We are pleased with you, little whore. You very lovely, will earn a lot of money. Good cocksucker too! This is surprise to me — dirty slut! Now, no more nonsense — this is the nearest you have to wedding, here, no? Your first night earning money! Is good, no?”
And somehow, she got me smiling. This was obviously a routine that she had done a thousand times before, but so needy was I that even this fake approval was welcome. I cried again, but softly this time, and she held my cheeks, and brushed away the tears, smiling. She leaned over, and whispered in my ear;
“Tonight, when those pigs are fucking you — if you can, you come — orgasm, you say — yes? Let them see you come, let them hear you. This is hard, no? To let pigs who hurt you, treat you bad, make you weak with pleasure, make you grateful? But it is secret of top girls. Shame, yes — pretty, educated, western girl should not have to fuck pigs. But you are whore now — you fuck dogs if I say, no?”
She waited, smiling grimly, and, nervous, I felt I had to nod: ‘yes’ — even though I was thinking I would rather die than fuck a dog.
“Good girl. So, come for me tonight, come hard, more than once, if you can. Bonus pretty necklace I will give you if they tell me about it.”
And I smiled at her, dying inside, and nodded again, crying and smiling again.
When the two helpers came back in they made a fuss of me too, kissing me, telling me how harsh the dresser was — a real bitch! — so that I found myself defending her, telling them she had done it for my own good, that she had helped me. And they giggled, and kissed me, and we got on with the preparations — making me beautiful for two ugly old strangers whom we all knew would rape and beat me later that night.
And I made myself join in with the fun, not wanting to think about that which I couldn’t change.
But the dresser’s talk about allowing, encouraging myself to come kept on surfacing itself in my mind. Could I get excited about what was going to happen? I wasn’t a virgin — I had enjoyed sex. As I had had to demonstrate that afternoon, I liked giving head. But really — those two old guys, who treated me so much like an object, who enjoyed hurting and humiliating me? How could I come for them?
I repressed the thoughts.
Five minutes later as they left me, staring at myself in the mirror, it was back again. Could that pin-up in the mirror orgasm noisily for two old men who were fucking her like a rubber sex-toy?
And that was when I realised I was feeling a little warm at my crotch. And realised, for the first time, that I was fantasising about what was going to happen this evening — that I was turning myself on. And my heart went into overdrive. I didn’t know how to deal with this. It was one thing to have made a rational decision that I had to do this to earn money, another to realise what it would involve, and another thing altogether to enjoy it!
Once again, I pushed the whole issue down.
