BLACKOUT
                          by  PARKER

                            PROLOGUE

     This part of town was not what it used to be.
     Not like the old days. Martha Cripmore never tired of
pointing this out to her husband. Every tuesday night, on the way
home from the bridge club, he would take Central Avenue through
town and then turn left on Ginger Street. In the early '70s, when
Bert and Martha had been just out of high school, this had been a
nice area. But the recession had hit hard. The mine which had
employed a good many people from the town had shut down; stores
had closed; people left town... All that remained along this
once-popular strip was a bunch of empty lots, a couple of run
down gas stations and a well-guarded and heavily barred
convenience store.
     And, of course, the hookers.
      This was the red light district.
     Still, Bert always insisted on taking this route home from
the bridge club. Every tuesday night without fail. It was
quicker, he said, and avoided the highway traffic. Martha
complained of course, but he always took that same route: down
Central and left on Ginger.
      Every time.
     After a while, Martha came to recognize many of the hookers,
having seen them regularly. Not that she knew their name or
anything about them, of course. They merely became familiar to
her - sort of like a landmark. Or, in this case, a well known
eye-sore. The girl with the pink miniskirt; the fat black one,
with the wild hair. She seemed almost to make a game of pointing
them out.
     "Look Bert," she said on this particular trip. "There's a
new girl."
      Bert looked over from where he was hunched, white-knuckled,
over the wheel (Bert was a nervous driver). The girl his wife had
pointed out was standing directly under a street light. As Martha
had stated, she looked new. True, she wore the same type of
cheap, tacky clothing as the other hookers - short skirt slit up
the side; bright red halter top under a gold, spangled jacket
with fake-buckskin fringe; plastic high heels - but on her it
looked out of place. Uncomfortable. She wore the same heavy,
overdone makeup as the others, but the face underneath looked too
pretty - too fresh - for it. She was a strikingly beautiful girl,
with thick, brown hair (teased up with too much mousse), a young
looking face with large eyes, and a tight young body. Nice tits.
She couldn't have been more then twenty.
      At the most.
     "Bert!"
     Bert wrenched his attention away from the girl as he
suddenly realized that he had drifted the car into the opposite
lane. Luckily, there was no oncoming traffic, and he quickly
rectified his mistake. By that time, however, they had passed the
girl. He glanced up at his rear-view mirror just as a car pulled
up to her and the girl leaned over to talk to the occupant. Then
he turned off onto Spencer Avenue, and the girl was lost from
view.
     Martha sniffed. "That street," she concluded, shaking her
head. "It's not what it used to be."
     Bert, however, wasn't listening, his mind on the girl; he
couldn't help but wonder how she had become a whore in the first
place...

                              *****

     Sandra Little ('Sandy' to her friends) was not paying
attention. Living in a big city like LA required a certain amount
of caution; a certain amount of awareness of what was going on.
Street smarts. Sandra, however, had grown up in a small town and
had only recently moved to the city in order to attend
university. She was just in the middle of her first term of med
school, and her mind was on other things - books; classes;
tests - anything other than what it should have been on as she
crossed the street at night on her way home from a long day at
school. She did not have much in the way of money, and what
little there was had gone to cover books and tuition. Hence, she
had been forced to take up residence in a somewhat unsavoury
area. Still, there always seemed to be people about, and Sandy
felt fairly safe there.
     Still...
     "Hey babe," came a rough voice, breaking her out of her
thoughts, "Wanna have some fun?"
     Startled, she looked up to see two young men leaning up
against a rusted, battered car parked on the side of the road.
One was white and the other black. The black man - a tall, short-
haired kid wearing torn jeans and a tee-shirt - laughed and took
a long swallow from a bottle. Sandy saw the label: whisky. She
wrinkled her nose in disgust at the smell. She was not a drinker.
The other man - the white one - was short and fat, with long
greasy hair.
     "Excuse me?" Sandy was not sure she had heard right.
     "Wanna have some fun," the white man - it had been him who
had first spoken - repeated the statement. "Me 'n my buddy just
happen to have a little time free, and..."
     "No thanks." Sandy dropped her eyes, embarrassed. Her brown
hair slid down in front of her face, hiding the fact that she was
blushing. "I don't think so." She turned to continue walking.
     "I don't think so," came a high, mocking voice from behind
her, mimicking her words and tone. Now frightened, she started to
speed up her pace, but a pair of hairy arms encircled her from
behind and pulled her back. Her books went flying from her hand
as she was jerked backwards. She opened her mouth to scream, but
instead had the breath knocked out of her as she was slammed
against the door of the car. Gasping and coughing, Sandy
struggled weakly as her assailant - it was the white man - jerked
open the back door and shoved her inside. His companion was
already in the driver's seat, starting up the engine. The white
guy followed her inside, slamming the door shut behind him.
     "Go," he cried. The man in the driver's seat threw the car
into gear and started driving. Sandy kept struggling, flailing
wildly with her arms, but the man just grabbed a handful of her
thick, brown hair and jerked her down onto the floor in front of
him. She opened her mouth to scream, but he slapped her viciously
across the face. The young medical student stopped struggling,
frozen in shock as the pain coursed through her body. She had
never been struck before by anyone, and the shock was almost
worse than the pain.
     Almost.
     By the time she overcame the shock, it was too late. They
were out of her neighbourhood and onto the highway, heading
toward the centre of the city.

     'Tug' Holbrook laughed as his prize struggled ineffectually
on the car floor between his thick, jean covered legs. It had
been so easy! Almost too easy. Bitch. He took another long
swallow from the bottle, enjoying the warm rush that spread
through his chest.
     "Hey man," Jimmy called back from the front seat. "Save some
for me."
     Tug laughed nastily. "The booze or the bitch?" he asked.
     "Both."
     The fat man took another drink before answering. "Don't
worry Jimmy boy," he called out. "There's plenty of both."
     Jimmy fell silent, concentrating on the driving, and Tug
turned his attention back to the girl as she looked up at him
from between his legs with wide, frightened eyes. What a babe!
This couldn't have worked out better if they'd planned it. He
felt his cock stiffen in his jeans. He reached down, grabbed a
handful of hair and jerked the girl upwards until her face was
rubbing against his crotch.
     "Feels good, huh?" he asked roughly.
     The girl began to cry. "N-no... please..."
     Tug just smirked. Stupid bitch! He released her hair and she
fell back onto the floor. With his now-free hand, he undid his
pants and slipped them down along with his underwear. His thick,
greasy cock hung free, long and hard against the hair-covered
rolls of fat on his stomach. The girl just cringed. "C'mon," he
ordered. "Give it a kiss." The girl shook her head, tears running
down her face.
     Tug grunted at her refusal. The bitch was particular. Better
loosen her up a little first. He reached down and jerked her up
so that she was sitting on his lap with her back to him. She
squirmed as his exposed cock rubbed up against her slacks, but
could not get free. Tug was too strong. He encircled her with one
thick arm, grabbed at one of her breasts through her blouse and
squeezed. Hard. Writhing to break free, she moaned with pain and
humiliation. (Tug loved that sound!) With his other hand, he
brought the bottle around and pushed it up against her open
mouth.
     "Swallow," he ordered. She shook her head, holding her lips
tightly closed, but he ground his fingers tightly on her nipple
and held it. She twisted and gurgled with the pain, but he kept
twisting her nipple until she finally gave in and opened her
mouth. Immediately, he released the nipple and brought the bottle
up to her lips. This time, she accepted it, taking a long swallow
of the alcohol as he tipped the bottle. She started gasping and
coughing as the burning liquid flowed down her throat, but she
opened her mouth to accept more when he brought the bottle up
again - his hand was still on her breast; still teasing her
nipple.

     This continued for a good fifteen minutes, until she had
drunk down almost a third of the bottle. Not a drinker, Sandy was
already feeling the effects of the alcohol when her assailant put
aside the bottle in order to have both hands free. She tried to
struggle when he started to rip open her blouse, but her body
seemed to be losing co-ordination, losing strength. She was
unused to alcohol, but not totally inexperienced: she knew she
was getting drunk.
     The young medical student squirmed ineffectually as the fat
man finished ripping open her blouse and then jerked her bra off
with one twist of his beefy hand. Her breasts, large and firm,
fell free and lay exposed on her chest.
     "Fuck man," the guy said. "Look at these jugs." He reached
around and began kneading them.
     The black man driving the car looked back and grinned in
appreciation. Blushing, Sandy tried to bring her hands up to
protect herself, but the fat man just slapped them away. She
squirmed, but was unable to escape as he kneaded her tits,
squeezing them and rolling them around in his hands. Moaning, she
gave up and lay back, resting her head against the man's
shoulder. She was beginning to feel dizzy and confused as the
alcohol did its work on her. She didn't even protest when he
undid her slacks, hooked his fingers under the waistband of her
panties and pushed downward. Within seconds, her pants were down
around her ankles.
          Tug began to run his sweaty hands roughly up and down his
victim's near-naked body. The girl was now too drunk to protest
or struggle effectively; too drunk to do anything other than lay
back on his lap while he fondled her tits. After a while, he ran
his hands down to her pussy and began rubbing. Thoroughly drunk,
the girl giggled the tried to push his hands away.
     "Don' do..." she slurred. "Nod..."
     Tug ignored her, rubbing his chubby fingers first up and
down the outside of her pussy and then slipping them inside. The
girl twitched in pain as he did so. She was dry as a bone, but he
didn't care. His cock was about ready to burst. Shifting her body
upwards, he spread her long, slender legs with one knee, and
slowly settled her pussy down onto his rigid cock.
     Finally, it was all lined up. With one shove, he rammed his
cock into her unready pussy...

     The pain of the sudden rape cut through the fog of alcohol.
     She was being fucked.
      FUCKED!
      Sandy Little, legs spread and pussy impaled on her
assailant's cock, began to struggle and squirm about on his lap,
desperate to escape. The man ignored her struggles. He just
grabbed her by the breasts and began jerking her up and down on
his lap, fucking his cock in and out of her pussy. There was
nothing she could do except go along with his movements; even to
the point of using her legs to support the movements. If not, she
felt like her breasts would be ripped from her body. So, she soon
found herself actively fucking back against her rapist, using her
own strength to push her aching pussy up and down on his cock.
     "That's right babe," he muttered, appreciating her
assistance.
     He didn't last long. Within minutes, she felt him stiffen
and then felt the warm surge of sperm as it boiled out of his
cock and into her pussy. She shuddered with rage and disgust as
he came inside her, but there was nothing she could do about it.
     When it was over, he shoved her off his lap and she slid
back down onto the car floor. After taking a long swallow from
the almost-empty bottle, he once again grabbed her hair and
jerked her tear-stained face into his crotch and up against his
glistening cock. Knots of sperm slid down his tool and congealed
in his crotch hair.
     "Clean up your mess," he told her.
     She shook her head.
      No. She had never done that before.
     He brought his hand around and slapped her - once, twice...
and then a third time - on the face. Then he leaned back, legs
spread wide and grinned down at her.
      "Clean it," he smirked, "And we'll let you go."
     The words 'let you go' registered on the half-drunk and
wholly frightened girl. Let her go!
      Shaking, Sandy leaned forward into his crotch. The alcohol
made everything blurry, but she could clearly make out every
vein, every ridge, every contour on his glistening member.
Hesitantly, almost throwing up, she reached up and grasped the
base of the cock. It twitched in her grasp, dripping cum onto her
fingers. Shuddering with revulsion, she opened her mouth and
began to lick at the now-soft penis, gagging at the taste and
smell, but doing it nonetheless.
     'Let her go' he had said.

     Jimmy Patterson turned off the highway and took the exit
ramp into the city. From the seat behind him, he could clearly
hear the loud slurping sound as the little slut sucked hungrily
at his friend's cock.
     That was enough.
     Jimmy pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the
car. He turned just as Tug came again, his hands tightly clenched
in the bitch's thick, brown hair, holding her mouth over his cock
as he pumped a load of sperm down her throat. She gurgled and
moaned, hands thrashing, but couldn't pull away.
     "OK," Jimmy said, sliding out the door. "Let's switch. I
want some of that."
     Tug nodded in agreement. He'd had enough. He pushed the girl
away and clambered out of the back seat. Jimmy grinned as the
white girl, a thin trail of white cum dribbling out over her
lower lip and onto her chin, looked up at him as he climbed into
the back seat.
     This was going to be great!
They did let her go in the end.
     The black guy had forced her to suck his cock for a while,
and then, after a little more alcohol, she found herself actually
necking with him in the back seat. That was just about the worst
thing: lying in each other's arms in the back seat - just like
girlfriend and boyfriend - lips pressed up against each other's;
tongues entwined. Eventually, he had leaned back, and she had
been forced to fuck him, legs straddling his thighs, riding his
cock up and down until he came. Fortunately, the cum from the
first rape had provided some lubrication, so it had not been too
painful.
     By the time he came, the alcohol had pretty much overwhelmed
her, and she was almost unconscious. Her last recollection before
passing out was of the black man running his cum covered cock
into her mouth.
     Sandy was still drunk when she woke up.
      It was dark, and she assumed that it was the same night.
      She found herself in an alleyway. Her blouse, the front
ripped open, hung over her in tatters, but the bra was nowhere to
be found. Her slacks and panties were still bunched up around her
ankles, so she pulled them up. But when she tried to fasten them,
she found that the front button had come off. In her drunken
state, this somehow seemed utterly crushing, and she began to
sob, lying there in the alley among the trashcans.
     After a while, she pulled herself together. At least her
ordeal was over! The bastards had let her go. Struggling to her
feet, she staggered down the alley looking for help. The alley
seemed to go on forever, but she eventually came to what appeared
to be a club or a bar of some sort. A short set of stairs led
downward to a door. Behind it, she could hear music and people
talking.
      People.
      Someone to help her.
     Almost crying with relief, she started to walk swiftly down
the stairs. It proved too much for her, however, and she stumbled
drunkenly, and fell up against the door. It burst open and she
tumbled head over heels into the bar.

     Chowder Harris, the bartender and owner of the nameless
little drinking establishment, looked up in fear as the door
crashed inward. His first thought was the police - at any given
time, there was enough prostitution, fencing and drug dealing
going on in his place to fill a small jail - but he immediately
dismissed the thought. He'd slipped money into the right pockets.
And even the police didn't venture into this part of LA. His
conclusion was quickly proved right: it was a girl.
      A white girl!
      And a real babe too; brown hair, wide blue eyes. The
customers in the now-silent bar watched as the girl struggled
drunkenly to her feet and staggered up against a table. One
pathetic little hand clutched at the front of her torn blouse,
attempting to hold it together over her large breasts, while the
other hand held closed the front of her pants. This girl had run
into some trouble. Harris's conclusion was the same as everyone
else's: a hooker who had chosen the wrong customer. Still...
Harris's instincts kicked in: there was money to be made here!
Harris threw his cloth down on the bar counter and walked up to
where the girl stood unsteadily, peering around the bar.
     "Well now," he said, voice gruff and friendly, "you look
like you've had some trouble." Wordlessly, she nodded, trembling.
Feigning sympathy, Harris put his arm over her exposed shoulder
and steered her over to the bar. "Why don't you just sit down
right here and we'll get you some help." Tears began trickling
down the girl's face, but she followed without protest.

     Sandy couldn't stop shuddering as the black man led her over
to a bar stool. She had been frightened at first - all those
black faces staring at her as she crashed into the bar - but the
man seemed nice. Friendly.
      He would help her.

     Shaking uncontrollably, the girl sat gingerly on an empty
bar stool as the bar talk slowly started up again. Harris made
certain that she was securely perched, and then walked back
behind the counter.
      "Here you go," he said sympathetically, pouring a shot glass
of whisky, "this'll make you feel better." He placed the glass in
front of her.
     Sandy instinctively felt that something was wrong; that she
shouldn't accept the drink, but she was generally unable to focus
through the alcoholic haze. She had almost no previous experience
with being drunk, and was completely incapable of handling
herself. She felt as if all of her willpower had been sapped
away, drowned in the warm numbness that suffused her body.
Slowly, with the exaggerated caution of the truly drunk, the
picked up the small glass and brought it to her lips.
     "That's it," the man encouraged her. "Just drink it all
down." Sandy followed his instructions and swallowed it in one
gulp. She shuddered and coughed as the fiery alcohol coursed
through her body. Involuntarily, she brought the glass back down
onto the counter with a large thump.
      "Another?"
      Obligingly, Harris refilled it. She didn't want any more,
but still she obediently lifted the glass and again downed the
alcohol. It was actually making her feel a bit better; the pain
in her crotch and chest seemed to recede as her body became
increasingly numb. Without realizing it, the tattered remains of
her blouse slipped free of her left hand and fell open, affording
Chowder Harris a clear view of her breasts between the torn
strips of cloth.

     Staring openly at her exposed chest, he again refilled her
glass. Harris was about to say something when he was suddenly
pulled aside by a large, angry-looking black woman: his wife.
     "What are you do'n?" she asked, furious to have found her
husband so friendly with some scrawny, bare-breasted white slut.
In the middle of the bar! "Are you crazy?"
     "Listen," Harris whispered, glancing over his shoulder at
the girl as she downed the third shot of whisky. "It's not what
y'think. She's just some drunken whore who stumbled in. We can
make some money."
     Somewhat mollified to learn that his interest in the bitch
was only financial, his wife released his arm. Still, she wasn't
quite sure about it. "The bitch's probably working," she pointed
out. Miles will..."
     "You jokin? A white woman around here? For Miles?" Harris
laughed. "That'd be news around here. I'd've heard 'bout it for
sure."
     He was right, and his wife grunted in grudging agreement.
"OK. But just you keep your hands off her." Harris nodded, happy
that she'd given in. The girl was attractive, but he knew better
than to get caught fooling around. His wife was a large woman,
and not shy.
     He turned back to the girl. The additional alcohol was
already affecting her, and she was swaying perceptibly on the
stool. Harris couldn't help but stare at her breasts - large and
firm - as they jiggled appealingly through the torn front of her
blouse. The girl was no longer even trying to cover them.
Strange, though; she wasn't really dressed like a whore. Too
nice. Still...
     This was business.
     "That'll be ten bucks," he announced, walking up to stand
directly in front of her. She looked over at him in confusion,
eyes squinting as she tried to focus.
     "Wha?"
     "Ten bucks," he repeated. "For the drinks. You owe me ten
bucks, girl."
     "Ten...t-ten..."
     Just as he had thought. "Can't pay?" Confused, the girl
shook her head. Clearly, she didn't understand him, but that
really wasn't important. He just needed - or wanted -  an excuse.
     And now he had one.
     Feigning anger, he walked around from behind the bar and
marched up to where she sat unsteadily on the bar stool. She
tried to swivel her head to follow his movements, but in her
drunken state, she half fell off the stool. He roughly grabbed
her from her perch as she fell and dragged her to the centre of
the room, right in front of the broken-down pool table. She
stumbled along in his grip, barely keeping her footing, her
mumbled protests ignored.
     "Hey!" he shouted. "Hey... everyone. Listen up!" The quiet
hum of talk, which had slowly been building up since the girl's
dramatic entrance into the bar, fell away as all the faces in the
bar turned towards where Harris stood holding the girl.
     Staring...

     Drunk as she was, Sandy still blushed furiously at all those
black faces staring at her. She wanted to cry out - to shout, to
protest that this was all a mistake and she didn't belong here -
but her mouth and tongue felt numb. All she could manage was an
embarrassed gurgle as the bartender jerked her up against the
pool table and began to speak.
     "This girl here owes me some money," he cried out, smirking.
"And she can't pay."
     A few men in the crowd laughed.
     "Luckily," the bar owner continued, "she can still earn it."
     "How's that?" came a voice from the crowd, followed by a
round of malicious laughter. They knew what was going on. The
only women that came into a place like these were whores. One way
or the other, they were all whores. Everyone there knew what good
old Chowder was talking about. And no one had ever seen a white
girl in this bar before.
     "Well," Harris drawled, enjoying the attention, "just like
any other whore; on her back." He reached down with his free hand
and tore away what was left of Sandy's blouse. The young student
tried to bring her hands up to protect herself, but he slapped
them away. The crowd stared in silence at her exposed breasts.
     Harris looked around.
      They were ready.
      "Fifty dollars a fuck," he proclaimed. "We'll just set her
up for business right here." He grabbed her thick brown hair and
pulled her backwards. Sandy, clumsy in her drunkenness, rolled
back onto the pool table. While her legs were in the air, Harris
grabbed her slacks and pulled them down. She started to kick and
struggle, but it was too late: she was down to her panties. And
those, too, were quickly ripped off. Within seconds, Sandy found
herself stripped naked and lying on her back on the pool table.
She tried to squirm off, but the black man kept his hand in her
hair, pinning her head to the table.
      Grinning, Harris bent down and whispered to her: "Just be a
good girl. You've done this before. Try to enjoy it."
      Enjoy it?
      Once again, Sandy's attempts to protest were sabotaged by
the pervasive numbness in her face and body. She was able to do
little more than mumble incoherently as the black man pulled his
face away. She wanted to tell them that she *was* a good girl -
not a whore. And she didn't belong here.
     She did'nt belong here.
     She was still trying to articulate this thought when the
first man approached. The large black man wasted little time. He
just pulled his long, hard cock free from his pants and climbed
on top of her. She squirmed and struggled as he brought his beer-
breath mouth down onto her lips and began exploring her mouth
with his tongue. She wanted to scream, but couldn't, with his
mouth covering hers. She could only moan with pain and
humiliation as he started to maul her breasts while kissing her.
      The man misinterpreted her moans. "Feels good," he grunted,
momentarily pulling his mouth from hers. "Don't it bitch." He
moved one hand down, positioned his cock, and rammed it into her
with one powerful jerk of his hips. The lubrication from the
earlier rapes had gone, and her pussy was dried and unprepared
for this latest invasion. She grunted with the pain. "Oohhhh..."
The penis felt like it was burning its way into her pussy. Her
cry, however, was cut off as the man brought his lips down
against her mouth and began slobbering on her face and lips. His
hips began pistoning back and forth. Her hands flailed uselessly
at her side as he drove his cock in and out of her...

     Harris grinned as the girl, slender legs spread wide,
satisfied her first customer on the pool table. She really was a
beautiful girl; just like those girls wearing bathing suits on
magazine covers. She was goin' to make him a fortune. The whole
bar was watching now, and cheering and the white whore bucked and
whined in lust while the black man fucked her hard. Just what the
stuckup white bitch needed!

     Like the two men who had raped her earlier that evening,
this man didn't last very long. Within minutes, he was shooting
his load of warm sperm into her now lubricated pussy. Sandy tried
to kick herself free - anything to get his cock out before he
dumped his sperm inside her - but it was no use. She was pinned
beneath him. When he was done, the man pulled away after giving
her one last kiss.

     Sandy lay limp on the table, gasping for breath as the man's
sperm trickled out of her abused pussy and down her ass crack.
She had just started to turn over - trying to curl up into a
fetal position - when the second man climbed onto the pool table,
positioned himself between her still spread legs, and began to
fuck her. It did not hurt so much this time, as her pussy had
been well lubricated with the first man's sperm. The man's cock
slid smoothly in and out of her unprotected pussy. In fact, in
her drunken numbness, it almost began to feel good.
     Almost.
     As she lay spread on the table being fucked, a thought
occurred to her: the quicker they came, the quicker they would be
finished and leave her alone. In her drunken state, this seemed
to be a good reason to co-operate: to get it over with as soon as
possible.
     Get it over with as soon as possible.

     And so, lying naked and dripping on a pool table in a bar
filled with yelling, cheering black men, Sandra Little, med
student and beautiful young woman, slipped her long, slender legs
around behind the man and began to fuck back at him; doing her
best to make him come as quickly as possible.
      Harris couldn't believe it! Any doubts about the girl's
occupation were discarded. What a little whore! Not that he was
complaining. The crowd went wild as the girl threw her naked arms
around the man's neck and kissed him hard on the mouth, all the
time bucking and heaving beneath him, clearly doing her best to
fuck him back.

     Sandy felt the man begin to stiffen inside of her. Quickly,
she brought her face up and began to lick the man on the neck.
Ron, one of her boyfriends from back home, had always loved that.
Panting, half with lust, she licked and kissed and bit the man on
the neck as he came inside of her.
      As with the first, he climbed quickly off and was
immediately replaced by another. 'Get it over with,' she told
herself, reaching up to welcome her new lover. The man seemed
interested in her breasts, so she cupped her hands underneath and
offered them up to him. He bent over and began biting and
licking...

     The fifth man turned her over. Obligingly, Sandy climbed up
on all fours and spread her legs, ignoring the cum as it streamed
down the inside of her thighs. She wiggled her ass backwards
until she felt the man's cock up against her sopping pussy and
then slid back, moaning slightly as she felt it slide inside of
her. Against her will, she was beginning to feel a slow, steady
build-up of lust in her pussy. The man began slapping her ass as
she fucked herself back against his cock.
     Get it over with...

     She finally came. It was while fucking the seventh or eighth
guy. By this time, she aware of nothing except the feelings in
her pussy and breasts, and the out-of-focus face hovering above
her on the table.

     She wasn't sure how many men had fucked her - she had lost
track - when she felt, through the haze of lust and alcohol, the
cock slap against her lips. She had never given head before -
never even considered it - but she instinctively opened her mouth
and sucked it in. She was now being fucked simultaneously by two
men, one from the front and one from behind. Moaning in
involuntary lust, she did her best to give them as much pleasure
as possible; to bring them off as quickly as she could.
     Get it over with...

     Chowder Harris's pockets were bulging with money. The girl -
his own little bar whore - had exceeded his greatest
expectations. She had fucked well over a dozen guys and was still
going strong, now taking two at once. Even at only fifty bucks a
shot, he might still clear a thousand bucks! Thoughtfully, he
studied the scene on the pool table. The bitch was on her back
again, taking one man in her pussy, but twisting her upper body
around so she could run her cum-covered lips up and down on
another man's cock. One hand held her body steady, while the
other grasped the base of the cock she was working on with her
mouth.
      Harris worked a thought around in his mind. He'd have to
speak with his wife about it, but... but maybe he should keep
her. Keep the girl. No one would miss her. She could clean the
place during the day and fuck at night. He'd make a fortune...
     A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.
     Harris turned. It was Miles. Taylor Miles: the most powerful
drug dealer and all around crime lord in the neighbourhood. He
was also, although it was more of a hobby with him than a
significant money making enterprise, a pimp. And a very
successful one. He ran all of the girls on the strip down State
Street and in the surrounding area.
      Including Harris's bar.
     "Hello Chowder." Miles was not a big man, but then he didn't
need to be. The two gorillas standing behind him took care of
that. And even they were really unnecessary. Miles' reputation
preceded him in a very unpleasant manner. "How's tricks?"
     Harris swallowed. This was bad. "F-fine, Mr. Miles," he
stuttered. Really bad.
     The drug lord nodded at the pool table where the girl was
sucking back another load of cum from the cock presently jammed
in her mouth. "Bit of a sideline?" he asked. "I didn't know you
ran girls."
     W-well..." In panic, Harris began to blurt out the story,
relating how the girl had suddenly appeared in his bar and then
'offered' to pay off the bar tab by fucking the customers. It was
pretty thin, but...
     "Well," the drug dealer smiled (an unpleasant sight), "I'll
tell you what I'll do." He stopped smiling abruptly. "And what
you'll do." Harris nodded, willing to agree to anything that
would not involve serious pain to himself. "I'll leave your bar
standing. I'll leave you a hundred dollars of the money you've
made from this whore's ass. I'll leave you in one piece."
      Harris gulped.
     "In return," Miles continued, "You'll give me the girl. And
not try to muscle in on my business again. Ever. Sound fair?"
     Harris nodded, resignedly pulling the wad of money out of
his pocket and handing it over. The drug lord peeled off a
hundred dollars, returned it, and put the rest in his own pocket.
     "T-thank you," Harris said, miserable.
     Taylor gestured to his two goons. "Get the girl."

     Sandy was almost comatose, fucking from instinct and rote,
when she felt the cock slide from her abused pussy without
coming. Dazed, she looked up and saw two huge black men standing
over her.
      Get it over with...
     Trying to smile, she reached up her hands to welcome them.
As one, they grabbed her arms and jerked her to her feet. The
force of their pull caused her head to snap back against the edge
of the pool table. There was a brief flash of pain and then
everything went dark...

                          END PART TWO


     Taylor Miles had something of a philosophy regarding the
training of women to be whores. A system. The basic tenet of that
system was that you had to let them know where they stood. What
they were. In no uncertain terms. The minute they started
thinking - or remembering - that they were good for anything
other than fucking and sucking and lookin' good, they were
useless. Worse than useless: unprofitable.
     So, Taylor had a system.
     Of course, most of the girls who came his way were already
pretty much fucked up by the time he got them. Strung out on
drugs or booze... As a general rule, Taylor didn't much take with
that; he wanted his girls clean and sober. They lasted longer
that way, and made him more money. The drugged out whore just
burned out too fast. Besides, why waste good drugs on a whore?
Save the good stuff for those who could pay for it.
      Still, it helped at the beginning. Softened them up; sapped
willpower.
     This new girl was a bit different. Not quite so fucked up.
That asshole bartender had thought that she was a whore, but
Taylor knew better. He knew whores. This little white bitch
hadn't shaken her tight little ass on a street corner before or
he didn't know merchandise when he saw it. Not that it mattered.
That was where his philosophy came in; his system. Fuck 'em hard
and fuck 'em often; let them know what they are: worthless for
anything other than fucking, sucking and looking good. This new
girl... she'd take a little longer - a little more effort than
most of the girls who came his way, but she'd be worth it.
     And she'd come around in the end. They all did.
      Taylor had his philosophy.
     His system.
           Sandy was pretty much sober by the time she next woke up.
She groaned in pain as her eyes fluttered open. The pounding in
her head rang a brutal counterpoint to the steady burning in her
groin and nauseated churn of her stomach.
     "Here now." A voice. A female voice. "Drink this. Make you
feel better." Parched, Sandy opened her mouth and accepted a
glass container, drinking deeply...
     She jerked her mouth away and sat up, sputtering violently.
It was whisky. Her stomach heaved at the smell and taste, but
there was nothing there to bring up. Trying to ignore the pain,
she forced herself to open and focus her eyes.
     She was lying on the floor of what appeared to be a dingy
little apartment. Crouching beside her, holding the bottle, was a
black woman. The woman would have been attractive but for a hard,
worn look in her face and eyes which the makeup could not quite
hide. Sitting on a couch a few feet away sat a black man wearing
an expensive suit. Behind the couch were two large men, also
black; bodyguards by the look of it. Sandy crossed her arms in
front of herself and shivered, suddenly self-conscious. Her
clothes had disappeared, and she was now naked except for a dirty
old tee-shirt someone had put on her while she slept. It hung
loose, a few sizes too large for her, but still barely covered
the upper part of her thighs.
     "'Bout time." This came from the man on the couch. He was
obviously the leader. "Can't have my whores sleepin' all night.
Should be on the street; maken' me cash."
     Sandy struggled through the dull throb of the hangover to
understand what he was talking about. Whore? There must be some
mistake...
     "C'mere," the man ordered.
     Sandy started to climb to her feet, but the black woman gave
her a push just as she was getting up. Still partially
intoxicated, she fell forward onto her hands and knees in front
of the couch. Almost in tears, the young medical student looked
up through a curtain of brown hair at the black man. Grinning, he
spread his legs.
      "How about a little head," he suggested. "Whore."
     "T-there's been a m-mistake," Sandy stuttered, horrified at
the suggestion. "I'm not a... a p-prostitute. I'm..."
     She was cut off as the man suddenly leaned forward and
grasped her face in his hands. "Listen bitch," he hissed. "I
don't give a fuck what you think or what you were. Last night you
were spread out on a pool table having the time of your life
fuckin' some brothers. From now on, you're what I say you are.
And I say you're a whore."
     "Noo-oo," Sandy wailed, struggling in vain to free her face
from the man's painful grip. Angry, the man made a gesture. One
of the thugs from beside the couch came around behind her. She
heard a woman's laughter coming from behind her, but was unable
to turn her head to see what was happening. She was still unable
to do so when she felt something cold and slippery being rubbed
against the entrance to her anal passage and then inside. It felt
like some kind of cream or something.
      "Mmmm..." She tried to cry out her objections, but the man
on the couch had shifted his grip so that his hand now covered
her mouth. "Mmmm..."
     A few moments later, she felt naked flesh against her upper
legs. Before she fully realized what was going to happen, she was
overwhelmed with pain as the man behind her rammed his thick cock
straight up her partially lubricated asshole with one brutal
shove. The pain was unbelievable; she felt as though she was
being split in two.
      "AAaahhhhh...." She let out a long wail as the man on the
couch removed his hand from her mouth.
     "How d'you like that whore?" he asked, laughing.
     "Nnooooooo.... please... please..." All pride forgotten, she
begged piteously for release. "Ooohhhh... it hurts," she cried.
The man behind her shifted slightly, pulled back so that only the
head of his cock remained inside her anus, and then brutally
shoved forward again.
     Sandy squealed loudly at the sharp pain of this repeated
intrusion. The people in the room laughed. "That's good," the man
on the couch grinned. "That's good. Just like a pig. Do it again
little pig-slut." Sandy shook her head in abject refusal, still
panting and groaning with pain. In response to this refusal, the
man on the couch made a gesture, and the thug repeated his
actions, pulling slowly back and then ramming his cock up her
tight asshole. Sandy, sweating with pain, tried to remain silent
and endure the pain, the humiliation, but it was too much.
Shuddering, eyes wide with panic at the intrusion, she moaned and
cried with pain.
      "Squeal," she was told, "and I'll get him to stop moving."
     Anything.
      Anything to stop the movement of the cock in her ass.
     "Squeee... squeee..." She started quietly, but quickly
picked up volume as the man fucking her asshole slowly pulled
back out. When he rammed his cock back in, her squeals took on a
loud, panicked sound. Damp with sweat, she squirms and squealed
for all she was worth. Everyone laughed as the white girl
squealed loudly on the floor in front of them. But Sandy didn't
care. All she knew was that the man raping her asshole had -
finally - stopped moving, leaving his cock fully sheathed in her
twitching asshole.
     "Squeee..."
     "That's good," the man on the couch repeated, still
laughing. "I like that." He looked down at the girl. "Now, do you
want him to pull out?"
      Panting, Sandy could only nod. Oh yes... "Squeee..."
     "Well," the man smirked. "All you have to do is ask him.
Just ask him to fuck you in the cunt instead." She had no choice.
She had to get his cock out of her ass. At any price. Still...
could she say it? Her deliberations were interrupted as the man
began moving again, slowly pulling back and then shoving forward.
     "Nnooo..." she screeched. "P-please... f-fuck me in... in my
c-cunt... not there..." Ignoring her pleas, the man continued to
ream out her asshole. "Please..." Her begging became more
frantic. "Fuck me in my cunt. Please..."
     The man on the couch laughed. "Where do you want it little
pig-slut?"
     "In the cunt!" She was almost yelling now. "In my cunt. Fuck
me in my cunt."
      The man gestured, and the movement stopped. "One more
thing," he said, still smirking at the tear-stained face in front
of him. "From now on, whenever you're getting fucked, you squeal.
Got it?" Sandy stared up in incomprehension.
      What?
      "Uhm..."
     "All of my girls," the man explained, "are trained to sound
and act as if they like the sex. Gasping and moaning. Sluts. You
squeal. That's your name here: 'Squealer'. Got it?"
     Sandy started to protest this latest degradation, but the
man behind started moving again, so she just nodded her head.
Anything to get him to stop.
     Immediately, the rapist pulled his cock out of her painfully
stretched asshole. Sandy sagged with relief as the cock was
removed. She felt as though someone had pulled a tree from her
backside. Her relief, however, was short lived. Within seconds,
the man had re-positioned his cock and then shoved it to the hilt
inside her pussy. Sandy jerked forward in shock. The pain was
still there, but nowhere near as bad as when he had been fucking
her in the ass. Involuntarily, she spread her legs a little
farther apart in order to relieve a bit of the pain of the
intrusion as the man began to fuck her from behind.
     "Forgettin' something?"
     Sandy looked up. Oh god...
     "Little pig-slut."
     "Squeee... squeee..."
     The room rang with laughter as the young white girl squealed
loudly as she was raped from behind. Her squeals sounded in time
with the man's thrusts as her brutally fucked her cunt. Finally
he came, pumping his load into her aching, abused pussy. Sandy
gave one last squeal as he pulled out and then collapsed onto the
leader's lap, totally exhausted.
      When would this nightmare end?
     Not now, apparently. The other bodyguard went around behind
her and positioned himself, cock hard and free, ready to ream her
out. She looked up in terror as she felt the head of his cock
come to rest on the entrance to her asshole.
     The leader grinned down on her. "Where do you want it
whore?"
     "I-in my cunt," Sandy whispered, flushing red with
humiliation, but willing to do or say anything to avoid being
fucked in the ass again. "F-fuck me in the cunt." He nodded and
the man behind her immediately shoved his cock into her pussy.
      She didn't forget this time: "Squeee... squeee..."

     Her training as a whore began almost immediately. The cum
from the two bodyguards was still cooling on her inner thighs
when the man - Taylor Miles she soon learned was his name -
ordered the black woman to get the 'bitch' dressed and teach her
her new job. The black women dragged her unwilling student into
another room in the rundown apartment to begin work. The dressing
involved slipping into a miniskirt a couple sizes too small and
tucking in the grimy tee-shirt in which she had woken up. The
girl - Melissa - also insisted that her student wear four-inch
pumps. No underwear, though. "Won't be needin' it," Melissa
joked. "Anythin' that gets between you and the cock is a waste of
time." Frightened, Sandy obediently got dressed. She couldn't,
however, help asking some questions.
     "Taylor?" Melissa proved quite talkative. "He's the most
important man around these parts. He runs more girls than
anyone." Sandy couldn't help but shudder. Melissa seemed to take
a weird kind of pride in working for the biggest pimp on the
block.
      "But... doesn't he, like... make you..."
     Melissa shrugged cynically. "Could be worse. There's plenty
worse out there. Taylor now, he takes care of you. Doesn't let
you do no drugs or booze or anythin' like that. He like to keep
you clean and pretty. Makes him more money and you last longer."
     "L-last longer?" Sandy didn't understand.
     "Taylor's got a system. He knows exactly how long a whore
can work before she start's losin her looks. After that, he don't
care what you do. He even lets some girls walk."
     Sandy had to ask. "H-how long do... do prostitutes last?"
     "With Taylor? A young girl like you has about ten years in
her. At least."
     Sandy burst into tears. Ten years! This couldn't be
happening to her. It just couldn't!
      Melissa just laughed. She'd seen so many girls react like
this before... of course, most of them were pretty much down and
out when Taylor got them; most didn't have as much to lose as
this white bitch, obviously well educated and well brought up.
Didn't matter though. When you came right down to it, Melissa
thought, any woman could be trained to be a good whore. Even a
stuck up white girl like the one who was presently crying her
eyes out in front of her.
      Anyone.
     That was Taylor's system.

     The training began in earnest.
      The first stage, in accordance with Taylor's system, was to
fuck and otherwise abuse the subject so often and in so many
different ways that the sex became routine to her. Not important.
So, for the first few days, Sandy was fucked over and over again
countless times. By bodyguards; by customers; by kids off the
street... by the end of those first days, Sandy - who had never
spoken to more than two or three blacks in her entire life - had
become intimately familiar with black cock. In her pussy, in her
ass (which never failed to make her cry and panic), in her mouth,
in her hair, in her tits...
      And, every time she was fucked, she was forced to squeal
like a stuck pig. It was her trademark, Taylor explained. Sure
enough, the name 'Squealer' was soon well known around the
neighbourhood.
      Hot bitch, it was said.
     Liked black cock so much, she couldn't stop herself from
squealing when she got it.

     After the first few days, the fucking became less frequent
(down to a dozen or so times a day), and Sandy was forced to
learn other things about being a whore. The right way to dress...
the right way to talk... the right attitude in general. Once
again, it was all a part of Taylor's system. Not that he wanted
her to be the same as the other girls. Most whores were hard and
cynical, and that attitude would come with time.
      But she had to be taught to think like a whore. The constant
sex had already taken her at least part way there. It had taught
her the requisite lack of respect for her own body; that it was
just a piece for meat for men to fuck whenever they wished. What
she needed to learn now was that although her body was worthless
to herself, it wasn't worthless to her pimp. In fact, it was a
valuable asset, and one which she would be required to protect.
For Taylor's benefit, of course.
     So, Melissa taught her something about life on the streets.
How to behave; how to talk to the other whores; how to spot a
potentially dangerous customer. Taylor had lost whores to psychos
before, and it pissed him off.
      Cost him money.

     Finally, after about a week of training, Melissa told
Sandy - or 'Squealer' as she was now called - that she was ready
for her 'audition'. She would finally fuck Taylor, and he would
decide whether or not she was ready for the street. Sandy didn't
particularly want to succeed, but Melissa made very clear to her
the price of failure.
     The time came, and Melissa brought Sandy to Taylor's
bedroom. Sandy walked slowly into the room, still unsteady on the
four inch pumps. Taylor was sitting on the edge of the bed. As
instructed, she smiled at him, trying to look sexy. He grinned
over at her and snapped his fingers. Sandy, hating herself for
her submission, but having no choice, knew what to do.
     Hurrying forward, she knelt down in front of him and her
fingers - nails shining a newly painted red - went straight to
the front of his pants. Hands trembling, she unzipped the fly and
drew out her master's limp penis, which immediately began to stir
to life at the cool touch of her fingers. Sandy fingered it for a
few moments, coaxing it to hardness. Then she bowed her head, and
with only a brief hesitation, took it in her mouth. Using her
lips and tongue as she had been taught, Sandy quickly brought his
big, black cock to a state of massive erection, sucking and
slurping as though her life depended on it.
     After a while, she stood up, straddled him as he lay back on
the bed, and lowered herself until she kneeled astride his
thighs. The short skirt parted, exposing her naked pussy. Then,
with a moan a pure, simulated lust - just as she had been
taught - she lowered herself onto his erect penis, her pussy
sucking in its entire length. Grinning, Taylor just lay there as
she began to ride up and down in a steady rhythm, squealing in
time with her own movements. Not the loud, piggy squeals she had
originally been forced to put on. She was still required to do
that sometimes - to the amusement of whoever was watching or
participating - but a quiet, realistic squeal as Melissa had
trained her. As though she was loving the sex.
      It was still, however, a squeal.
     He was pleased to note that she was using her pussy to
squeeze his cock as best she could. With a sigh of pleasure, he
reached up and began to fondle one of her tits. Obligingly, she
leaned forward to give him easy access.
     Gradually the rhythm picked up. Taylor reached up a second
hand and began mauling roughly at her breasts as they hung
invitingly above him. Sandy gasped in pain, but quickly turned it
into a grunt. Slowly, she leaned forward and brought her mouth
down to his neck. Taylor slipped his hands around behind her,
grabbed her ass, and began controlling her movements, forcing her
to pump faster and faster until finally, groaning, he came.
     When she felt the warm sperm boiling over into her pussy,
Sandy threw back her head and screamed with lust, simulating an
orgasm. Just as she had been taught. He finished coming, and she
shuddered and then relaxed on top of him. He let her lie there
for a few moments and then pushed her off.
     "Not bad," he commented. "Not bad at all." He reached over
and gave her breast an approving squeeze. Sandy winced in pain,
but didn't pull away. "I think you're just about ready." Taylor
leaned back against the headrest. "Go tell Melissa that I said
you're ready," he ordered. "She'll take you with her tonight."
     Not daring to protest, Sandy clambered to her feet. She
straightened her clothing, brushed her sweat-soaked hair back
from her face, and walked out of the room to where she knew
Melissa would be waiting.
     As she walked, she felt the now familiar trickle of sperm
down her thigh...

                              *****

     For her first night of work, they dressed her in a skin-
tight body sheath that barely covered the bottom curves of her
ass. That, along with the usual pumps, was all she wore for her
first night on the street. Sandy burned with humiliation when one
of Taylor's men dropped them off on Ginger Street and drove away.
Here she was, standing in the red light district dressed like an
absolute whore. What if somebody saw her?
     That, of course, was the idea. On Melissa's instructions,
the trembling girl was forced to parade her barely concealed body
up and down the sidewalk, swinging her barely covered hips just
as she had been trained. Within moments, a car pulled over.
     "Hey babe," came a voice from behind a partially closed
window. "How much?"
     Melissa walked forward. "It's your lucky day," the black
girl said. "Two for the price of one. You can have both of us for
a hundred."
     The man laughed. "Good," he agreed. "Hop in."
     The two whores climbed into the car. "We've got a room over
there." She pointed at a seedy little hotel just off Ginger
Street. The man nodded and parked the car. The three of them
entered the hotel and climbed the wooden stairs to the second
floor, where Melissa unlocked the door and let them into the
room.
     Once in, the black girl walked into the bathroom and closed
the door. "Don't start without me," she called as the bathroom
door closed.
      Immediately, Sandy turned to the man. "Listen mister," she
said, voice shaking. "You gotta help me." After a week spent in
the company of the uneducated Melissa and the various gang
members, Sandy was picking up the other girl's speech patterns,
making her sound more like a whore than a med student. "I'm not a
whore. They kidnapped me and... and r-raped me... please
mister..."
     The man grinned. Too late, Sandy realized her mistake as the
bathroom door opened and Melissa came out, a frown on her face.
"You were right," the man said. "She squealed."
     "Squealer," Melissa growled, "You is one stupid bitch." She
walked over the gave the startled girl a hard slap across the
face. Sandy began to cry. "Taylor is goin' to be pissed," Melissa
continued, "and when Taylor gets pissed, someone gets hurt."
     Sandy just kept crying.

                              *****

     Someone got hurt.
     Sandy spent the next three days in the apartment with the
thin end of a wooden baseball bat shoved up her ass. She was not
allowed to walk upright, but was instead forced to crawl around
on her hands and feet, squealing like a pig and begging someone
to pull out the baseball bat. Promising to do anything... No one
did, of course. Instead, they just slapped her on the ass,
calling on her to squeal like the pig-slut she was. The squealing
only stopped when her lips were wrapped around a stiff, black
cock, which happened often enough during the three days.
      By the end of it, she was broken. When Taylor finally pulled
the bat from her anus, she shuddered in pain and crawled over to
him, kissing his feet and begging him to fuck her, sell her, use
her... whatever; just as long as he didn't put the bat in her ass
again.
     Ever.
     That night she was back on the street. For good. Melissa
stayed with her for the first week or so, but after that she was
on her own. She no longer had the will to fight. And so, every
night of the week, she spent several hours on the street,
parading around, attracting business and then fucking it. She
proved very popular, and earned a great deal of money for her
pimp. Her days were spent sleeping and then hanging around
Taylor's apartment 'entertaining' his friends and customers.
Taylor enjoyed recounting the tale of how he found the beautiful,
white med student in a bar and trained her to her new life as a
whore. The customers loved the story, and usually insisted on
fucking her afterwards.
     She slowly settled into her new life, all thought of what
had gone on before - her home life, med school - slipping away.
Just another whore...

                            EPILOGUE

     This part of town was not what it used to be.
     But Bert Cripmore had no problem with that. It took him
almost a week to find an excuse to be out without Martha, but he
did it. The new girl proved easy to find. Driving carefully, he
pulled the car over to where she leaned against the lamp in her
miniskirt and tank top.
     "How much?" he asked, voice rough with lust. Little bitch
was gorgeous!
     The girl leaned forward, jaws working rudely on a wad of
gum. "Fifty for a blowjob; hundred for a fuck." Bert nodded and
the girl got into the front seat. "Got a place over there," she
said, pointing at a sleazy hotel.
      Bert nodded and began to drive.
     He looked sideways at the girl as he steered the car into
the hotel parking lot. Already, the sense of freshness which had
made her stand out on the strip almost a week ago was fading. She
still looked young and beautiful under the overdone makeup, but
her eyes were narrower than he remembered them. She was well on
her way to becoming a hardened whore.
     Fine with him, he decided.
     Still...
      "What's your name?" he couldn't help but ask.
     The girl looked over, and, for a brief moment, Bert imagined
that he saw something else beneath the armour - a scared little
girl, terrified and trapped, looking out at him through wide,
frightened eyes - but the moment passed, and then only the whore
remained.
     "They call me Squealer," came the answer, a queer lopsided
smile marring her beautiful face.
     "Why's that?"
     The girl gave a sick grin. "You'll see," she told him,
opening the car door. "You'll see."

                             THE END
=================================================================

The call has gone out for Parker stories. I am reposting the only two
complete ones I have. Any more will have to come from someone else,
'cause I don't have 'em. If you got 'em, post 'em, please.

With no further ado:





                            BLACKOUT
                            By Parker


     The West Side Projects.
     Irregular clumps of grey, concrete structures surrounded by
torn and twisted chain link. Each cluster of three buildings
encloses a concrete playground, where the skeletal remains of
slides, see-saws, parallel bars cast long shadows in the setting
sun. Rusted swings sway like hunched gibbets in the wind. A
stubborn drinking fountain, cracked porcelain and weed filled,
still bleeds a small trickle of brackish water...

     "... by then, the cunt was moanin' and whinin' like a bitch
in heat. Humpin' up and down on my black cock and screamin' like
she didn't know if it was the best or worst thing she'd ever
felt."
     "Shit, man..."
     "Best fo sure..."
     Laughter.
     The tall man looked around before continuing, enjoying the
attention of his audience. "You'd think she'd never had a cock up
her cunt before, the way she was carry'n on, bouncin' and
squealin'..."
     "Like that bitch Taylor owned a couple years ago..."
     "Fuck, she probably hadn't," one of the listeners - a fat
kid named DJ - interrupted again. "Stuck up college bitches..."
     "Yeah. Think their cunts are made've gold or somethin'."
     "Well she wasn't no fuckin' virgin," the tall man laughed.
"C'n tell ya that."
     "Not after that party," another man called out.

     Bright splashes of color - promises, threats, questions,
names and dates - scrawl wildly across the uniform grey in futile
explosions of illiterate anarchy. The rusting, empty aerosol cans
dot the weed and broken-glass fields that surround, separate and
enclose the concrete deserts.
     Roads erode...

     "Hell no," the storyteller laughed. "By the time we was done
with her, she'd fucked more brothers than one of Taylor's bitches
on a busy night. Bitch had more cocks in her that night than a
rich whore."
     Catcalls and jeers momentarily interrupted the story.
     DJ spoke up: "Then what happened?"
     "Ahh, not much. Tommy put one of Marcie's party dresses on
the bitch, drove her a couple'a blocks n' booted her outta the
car."
     "Fuck... on 49th?"
     "Yeah." The speaker grinned knowingly. "She got out OK,
though. Lannie and a couple of guys porked the bitch in behind
the gas station - said she barely put up a fight she was so badly
fucked up - then she got a cab."

     The black metal door had been built for safety.
     For security.
     It remained at its post, but just barely, hanging on by a
rusted hinge. The landing inside was dark, the empty light socket
staring down like a blind eye. The elevator door is jammed open,
and the elevator - a cruel joke even when it was new - hung a
long step downward, filled with debris.
     Piss-soaked stairs led upward...

     "A cab? On 49th? Fuck off."
     "Yeah," the tall man laughed. "Right outta fuckin' nowhere,
the only fuckin' cab on the West Side. It was Jackson, though.
Word is she offered to blow him for a ride to the fuckin' campus.
Said she had a talented mouth."
     The men all laughed.
     "Said the bitch was drippin' cum all the way home..."
     "Wooooeeee..."

     The third floor landing leads down a debris and graffiti
hallway to an open door. A group of men - all black - are seated
in a circle in a room that has been informally enlarged through
the destruction of two walls. A lucky few are sitting on the
holed remains of furniture; the rest are perched on crates or
milk cartons.
     All are listening...

     "Had ta wipe it off the seats with a fuckin' rag."
     The men laughed again. Some clapped and whistled. Best story
they'd heard all night.
     "Not bad, bro. Not bad."
     The men turned, still laughing.
     The man who had spoken walked into the room, closely
followed by two or three others.
     "Hey Darrell," the man who had been telling the story
grinned over at his friend. "Whad'ya mean 'not bad'. Fuckin' 'not
bad'? Y'can't top that."
     Darrell grinned back. "I can." He reached the circle of men.
"C'n top that by a long shot." He pulled a box over and sat down,
facing the others.
     "OK." DJ, as usual, spoke up. "Let's hear it, bro."
     Darrell sniffed, leaning forward. "Listen up then. Remember
'bout three weeks ago, that blackout on the West Side?" Most of
the men nodded; that particular blackout had led to a bonanza of
burglary and looting. They'd all made too much money to forget
it.
     "OK." Darrell continued his story. " Me'n few brothers were
ridin' the T-Rail south, just after Burnside Station, where it
goes into the tunnel..."

                              *****

     The woman looked up from her paper when the five black men
got on the T-Rail at Burnside Station. Her pretty face creased
for a moment in a look that was part fear and part anger (and
part guilt at feeling this way), but a quick glance around the
inside of the compartment revealed enough other passengers -
*safe* passengers - so that trouble seemed unlikely. Still, she
felt more than a little uncomfortable when she saw that the black
men had taken seats between her and the other passengers. She ran
a nervous hand through her blonde hair and looked back down at
the newspaper; best just to ignore them. The train would be at
McLellan Station soon enough, and she would be safe there. If the
black men stayed on, she would get off and catch the next train.
     The T-Rail jerked forward, letting out a loud screech as it
left Burnside Station. Picking up speed, it rounded a corner,
went over Sherman Street and plunged into the mile long tunnel
which ended at the next station.
     The woman glanced up as she rocked back and forth in her
seat, still uncomfortable. Was one of the black men staring at
her? She dropped her eyes downward, frightened to attract
attention. In her expensive business suit and skirt, she felt
like a target. Instinctively, she reached down to touch her
briefcase. Still there.
     Her decision was made. She was definitely getting off at
McLellan. There was no way she...
     The lights went out and the T-Rail ground to a halt.

     "Fuck, I remember that," DJ interrupted.
     "Remember that fuckin' jewellery store?" Another man spoke.
"We musta scored..."
     "Hey." The other men fell silent. "Do you wanna hear the
story, or what?"
     "Sure, Darrell."
     "Yeah. What happened?"

     Silence.
     Then a low rumble followed by the quiet hum of the fans
starting up again. There was a collective sigh of relief in the
compartment as the air started flowing again. A few people began
to talk and there was some nervous laughter.
     The woman started. Was that movement beside her? She
strained to see in the pitch blackness, but it was no use.
Frightened, she began to get to her feet, to move across to the
other end of the compartment. It would be...
     A large hand wrapped itself around her mouth and dragged her
back down into her seat. She let out a muffled squeal and brought
her own hands up to free herself, but froze when she felt a cold,
metallic edge on her throat.
     A knife!
     "Jus' relax," a voice whispered to her. The knife blade dug
a little deeper into her throat, not yet cutting, but not far
from it. "Fight'n I'll cut you 'nother mouth."
     The woman dropped her hands and relaxed back in her seat,
almost paralysed with fear. She felt other hands, grabbing at
her, touching her... One of them took hold of the shoulder strap
of her purse and jerked it away from her. She almost felt relief
at that; maybe once they'd robbed her they would let her go.
     Robbery she could handle.
     The hand left her mouth, but the knife remained at her
throat.
     "Jus' sit quiet," the voice ordered softly. "Make a sound'n
your dead. Got it?"
     The woman nodded her understanding, too frightened to speak.
     The hand that had been at her mouth now moved down the front
of her body, slipping under the top of her blouse and cupping her
breast through the bra. She stiffened in panic, but the knife
kept her from moving. The hand moved from one breast to the other
under her blouse, squeezing her breasts through her bra,
pulling... pinching...
     "Nice tits, bitch."
     The woman squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lip, trying not
to cry out.
     "Stand up," the voice told her. "Nice'n slow."
     Trembling, she obeyed, pushing herself up out of her seat
and standing with her hands by her side. The knife stayed at her
throat as she moved. The hand pushed her a step forward and she
felt the man move around to stand directly behind her. She felt
his body push close against her from behind as the hand slipped
around over her shoulder and down under her blouse to resume
fondling her breasts.
     "Good bitch." She felt warm breath at her ear as the man
licked and nibbled at her earlobe. "Nice bitch."
     "Uh..."
     She let out a quiet gasp as she felt the presence of another
man right in front of her. The knife pressed down for a moment in
warning and she managed to control herself. The unseen figure in
front of her moved closer until she felt his breath on her face.
Closer... then his lips touched her's.
     "Mmmm..."
     She pressed her lips tightly together and turned her head,
but a hand grabbed a fistful of her thick blonde hair and turned
her head forwards.
     "C'mon bitch," the voice whispered in her ear. "Give m'
brother a kiss."

     "Jeez'... I don't fuckin' believe it..."
     "You guys did this on a motherfuckin' T-Rail?"
     Darrell grinned. "It get's better..."

     Reluctantly, she kept her head steady and parted her lips.
The man in front of her immediately pressed his face closer and
slid his tongue into her mouth. She fought to keep from gagging
as she felt his stubble burn her chin and hot, fetid breath
invade her mouth. After a few moments, the man pulled his mouth
away, giving her lips one last lick with his tongue.
     The woman panted, almost hyperventilating with fear,
fighting back the urge to bring her hand up to wipe the man's
spittle from her lips. She waited in silence for the next
humiliation. She didn't have to wait long. There was a quiet
snick, and she felt the cold steel of a second knife slide down
her chest and under her blouse. She held her breath as it slipped
under the front strap of her bra and cut it. The front of her bra
fell open, exposing her breasts to the man behind her. He let out
a quiet chuckle as his hand pushed away the torn remnants of her
bra and directly fondled her breasts.
     The knife was taken away from her chest, but before she
could feel any sense of relief, a hand pulled at her skirt,
tugging it downwards. At first, she thought they were trying to
pull it off, but it was just held tight. Then there came a quiet
tearing sound. What was...
     "Spread your legs, bitch" whispered a voice from low down in
front of her. "Or you'll be cut."
     With a quiet moan of fear, the woman realized what was
happening. They were using a knife to cut a slit up the front and
back of her grey skirt. Moving awkwardly, she obeyed, widening
her stance so the knife wouldn't cut her leg. Then she stood,
shivering, while the man in front of her made a long cut up the
front, and then the back, of her skirt.
     After the second cut was made, a hand slid up the inside of
her thighs up to her crotch. Her eyes watered and a tear trickled
down her cheek as she felt a hand on her pussy, cupping it and
rubbing.
     "P-please," she whispered.
     "Jus' relax," the voice whispered at her ear. The man gave
her breast a little squeeze, tweaking the nipple. "Be a good
little bitch."
     The blade of the second knife was slid under the waist band
of her panties. With a flick, the thin elastic material was
sliced and the panties pulled away. Her pussy was now exposed to
the groping fingers; they rubbed up and down, playing and teasing
as she squirmed helplessly, and then, inevitably, slipped inside.
She let out a gasp, but it was stifled as the man in front of her
brought his face against her's for a kiss. This time, she didn't
try to turn away; she just parted her lips and accepted his
tongue in her mouth.
     There was no use in fighting.

     "Sounds like one hot bitch..."
     "Sure beats your story all to hell," DJ gave the tall man a
shove.
     The tall man just shrugged his shoulders. "Dat's a fact,
jack." He grinned. "If it's true."
     Darrell smirked. "Oh, it's all true."
     "Then what happened?"
     "OK. While Steve was given her some tongue..."

     The T-Rail lurched forward. A cheer rose up from the trapped
passengers, but it quickly died away as the train ground to a
halt again.
     The woman felt the man's fingers slide out of her pussy as
both her and the man behind her were thrown back onto a seat. For
a brief moment she considered screaming for help, but the knife
never left her throat. When the T-Rail stopped moving, she was
sitting on the man's lap.
     She felt something...
     The man's cock was rubbing up against her ass. He must have
taken it out of his pants, because she felt it directly against
her flesh where the skirt had been cut away. She shivered at the
touch of it, long and hard against her flesh.
     And wet.
     "OK bitch." The man's mouth was close up against her ear.
"You wanna get outta this, you do what I say. Got it?"
     The woman nodded.
     "Good bitch. I'm take'n the knife away, but it's right here
beside me." The blade left her throat; she let out a sigh. "You
fuck up and I'll cut your heart out." The woman trembled at these
words, but didn't cry out or try to escape.
     She believed him.
     Every word.
     "Now, spread your legs."
     She obeyed, opening her legs until her knees were spread
further apart than the man's, pulling apart the long slit in her
skirt. As she did so, she felt a second hand - the hand that had
been holding the knife against her throat - slip around and cup
her other breast.
     "Reach down between your legs and grab my cock."
     She let out a quiet moan, hesitating.
     "Do it," he hissed, tightening his grip on her already sore
breasts. Whimpering, she reached down through the long slit in
her skirt and touched his cock. It was long and rock hard where
it stuck up between her thighs. Sensing what he wanted, she
wrapped her fingers around it and began sliding her hand up and
down, masturbating it between her thighs as if it were her own.
The woman was resigned to it now, and the quicker he came, the
quicker it would be over with.
     "Ohhh, you hot bitch." The woman felt his tongue on the side
of her neck. She twisted her head away, but that only gave him
more room to lick and kiss up her neck to the side of her face.
"Ohhh yeah..."

     "This is gettin' stupid."
     "Yeah... you guys didn't..."
     "Shut up and listen."
     The men fell silent.

     One hand left her breast and dropped down to her exposed
pussy. She let out a small gasp, squirming on the man's lap, but
was unable to avoid his fingers and they rubbed up and down the
outside of her pussylips and then slid inside. Still masturbating
his cock, she fought it for as long as she could, but after a
minute or two of the man's fingers exploring her pussy... and her
clit... she felt herself begin to get moist. As much as she hated
what was happening to her, her body couldn't help but respond. It
was purely a physical reaction, but a reaction nonetheless.
     She prayed he wouldn't notice.
     "Juicin' up nicely, bitch." Her face burned with humiliation
as her fingers, sticky with pre-cum, continued their work. "Just
'bout time to finish up." The man shifted his weight so that her
feet reached the floor on either side of the chair. "Now, I want
ya to stand up and sink your juicy cunt down on my black cock.
Got it?"
     Again, the woman nodded. She was at the stage where she
would do *anything* just to end the ordeal. Moving slowly,
careful not to give the impression that she was trying to escape,
she gathered her legs under her and pushed herself up off his
lap. His hands tightened on her breasts, but she had no intention
of doing anything stupid. She had come too far for that. Her
fingers, which had been busy masturbating his cock even while she
stood, stopped pumping and pulled the cock forward. She let out a
small moan as she realized just how large the cock was. Still,
she had no choice; as slowly and gently as she could, she let
herself sink down, her fingers guiding the man's cock into her
unwilling pussy. First the head slipped in... then one inch...
two inches... (for the first time, she was thankful for the
moisture which made this relatively painless) four inches...
     "Ahhh..."
     She let out a little cry as the man lost patience with her
slow descent and used her breasts to drag her back down onto her
lap. With one brutal thrust, his massive cock was buried to the
hilt in her spasming pussy.

     "Shit. You fucked th' bitch right on the fuckin' T-Rail?" DJ
looked sceptical. "Don't fuckin' believe..."
     Others, however: "What was she like?"
     "Well," Darrell answered, grinning, "I'll tell ya..."

     "Whew," the man sighed. "This is one tight-cunt bitch."
     The other men laughed softly as the woman hung her head,
face burning with humiliation.
     "OK bitch. Start ridin'."
     She knew what he meant.
     With a quiet moan, she gathered her legs under her and began
riding his cock, pushing up and down... up and down... sliding
her now-sopping pussy up and down on the unwelcome intruder,
unwillingly serving his pleasure.
     "Faster, bitch."
     Sweat broke out on her brow, matting her blonde hair to her
forehead and trickling down her face onto her chest where the
man's hands mauled her breasts, as she began to move faster and
faster: up and down, riding his long, hard cock in and out of her
stretched pussy. She began to pant and emit quiet grunting sounds
in time with her movement as she bounced up and down on his lap
like some kind of whorish puppet. After a while, the muscles in
her leg started to cramp up, but she kept moving.
     Up... down... up... down...
     In... out... in... out...
     Against her will, her pussy began to spasm around the
invading cock as her body trembled, betraying her...

     "You mean she liked it?" DJ again.
     "Always the same; white bitches love black cock. They can't
fuckin' help themselves."
     "Thas' a fact, jack."
     "Straight up," Darrell agreed. "And then..."

     "Jeez Darrell," came a voice from in front of her. "I want
some a' that."
     "Stop for a second, bitch."
     She fought back a groan of frustration as the man forced her
to be still on his lap. She panted as she sat there, feeling his
cock buried deep within her burning pussy... just a little
more...
     "Bitch's mouth's free."
     The feeling of pleasure fled as she realized what the man
had said. Her mouth? Oh, no...
     A hand clutched at her face, pulling her forward. "You
heard'm," a voice whispered. "Open wide."
     The tears streamed down her at this new humiliation, but she
obeyed without question, parting her lips to accept this new
invasion. She just wanted to get it over with. Immediately, she
felt a long, hard cock slip into her mouth. She gagged at the
bitter taste of the pre-cum, but didn't pull away. With a quiet
moan, she began to suck at it, bobbing her face up and down and
using her tongue to...
     "C'mon bitch." She felt the hand tighten on her breasts.
"Not done here yet."
     Once again, being careful not to bite down on the that was
cock being fed into her mouth, she began to move, sliding her wet
pussy up and down on the man's cock. In her bent over position,
it seemed to penetrate even deeper, but she had no choice. Using
her hands to brace herself, she began to pick up speed. And
slowly, ever so slowly, the pleasure began to build again as her
tight ass bounced up and down on the man's lap while her mouth
sucked hungrily at the other man's cock. Faster and faster she
moved, picking up speed as the feelings built towards orgasm,
humping and bucking and sweating and grunting like a practised
whore. Just a little more and...
     The T-Rail let out a loud screech and jerked forward a
couple of feet. The lights flickered...
     The woman's feet slipped out from under her and her pussy
was violently jammed down on the man's cock as she fell back onto
his lap. At the same time, the man whose cock she was sucking
lost his balance and fell forward, driving his cock straight down
her throat.
     All three came at once.
     The man on the chair stiffened and, clutching hard at her
breast, shot his cum out into her writhing pussy.
     The man in front pulled back slightly, ending the
involuntary deep throat, but still shot his load into her mouth,
filling it with his thick, salty cum.
     The taste sent her over the edge. Choking and sputtering
cum, she twisted and writhed on the man's lap, panting and
gasping in ecstasy and humiliation as waves of pleasure crashed
through her sweat-soaked body. It was all she could do not to
scream out loud...
     The lights flickered again.
     "Fuck!"
     "Move it."
     There was a flurry of activity around her as the man behind
her pushed her off his lap and shoved her over onto a seat beside
him. "Listen, bitch," the man hissed, shoving the newspaper back
into her hand. "You sit quietly and get off with us at the next
station." She tried to say something - to protest - but her mouth
was full of cum. Grimacing, she tried to swallow as she heard the
other men take their seats in front of her. She felt his knife
prick her in the ribs. "Any trouble..." He didn't even bother to
finish the threat. She felt him get up and move away.
     The lights flickered and then came back on.

     There was silence in the room. Each man stared at Darrell,
waiting to hear what happened. Darrell just stayed silent,
looking around the room with a big grin on his face. It was DJ
who broke the silence.
     "Fuck, Darrell. What the fuck happened?"

     The passengers had cheered as the T-Rail began to move
again. People had looked around, smiles of relief on their faces,
but no one had noticed anything different.
     Anything wrong.
     And, if anyone noted that the attractive blonde in the
conservative, grey business outfit on the other side of the
compartment looked a little dishevelled, well... they put it down
to nerves. Claustrophobia. More than one passenger looked a
little worse for the wear.
     Still, all's well...
     The T-Rail eventually ground to a stop at McLellan Station.
     The woman lowered the paper and looked at the black men.
They had stood up, and one of them flashed a knife at her. She
glanced at the other passengers, but no one had seen it. No one
knew anything was wrong. She got to her feet, grimacing at the
cold, sticky feeling between her thighs where the man's cum had
leaked out of her pussy, and began to walk towards the exit.
     "Excuse me, lady?" She almost fainted with relief, turning
as a young man at the other side of the train called out to her.
At last, someone had noticed... "You forgot your briefcase." The
man gestured to where her briefcase sat at the back of the
compartment.
     Help me you idiot!
     The man smiled at her and turned back to his paper.
     "Thanks," she muttered. One of the black men stood in the
exit, preventing the door from sliding shut as she slowly walked
back and picked up her briefcase. With a final glance around the
compartment - no help there - she sighed and walked out onto the
platform. The door slid shut and the T-Rail pulled away with a
loud rumble.
     She stood on the platform, now surrounded by five black men.
"C'mon bitch." It was the man who had raped her.
     The man with the knife. "And keep quiet."
     Meekly, broken, she followed the men out of the station...

                              *****

     The men all began talking at once:
     "Fuck, that was hot..."
     "Great story man..."
     "Wheeeoo..."
     Again, it was DJ who asked the question that everyone was
thinking: "What the fuck happened to the bitch, man? Sell her to
Taylor?"
     Darrell laughed. "Fuck no. It's not everyday a white cunt
falls into your lap like that. I fuckin' kept her; she's *my*
bitch now."
     "Fuck off!"
     "No way, man..."
     Darrell turned. "Tina," he called, "hustle your white ass in
here."
     The men all stared at the door as the woman - Tina Swanson -
entered the room, closely followed by one of Darrell's friends.
Darrell watched with satisfaction as the men all gaped. Even *he*
was surprised every time he saw her: all traces of the confident
young career woman he had raped on the T-Rail three weeks ago had
been systematically erased.
     In her place stood a cock-hungry bimbo.
     *His* cock-hungry bimbo.
     She was dressed in a tight, black polyester mini-skirt, just
over a foot long, which barely stretched from her lower abdomen
to the bottom curves of her ass. Her long, slender legs were bare
all the way down to the bright red, six inch pumps. The only
other item of clothing she wore was a half-cup tank top, bright
pink, at least a couple sizes too small. It left her stomach and
upper chest completely bare, hardly sufficing to push up her
smallish breasts. Her upper body was bare, completely exposing a
large tattoo on her upper chest: "DARRELL'S BITCH" it said, in
big red letters, still bright and new. Her face was heavily made
up, lips made thick and pouty with shiny, red lipstick and green
eyes strongly outlined with eyeshadow. Each ear had been triple
pierced, and three heavy, plastic hoops dangled on each side of
her face. Her blonde hair, so stylishly cut the first time he had
seen her, was streaked with purple and teased up in a wild,
sluttish manner.
     Even so, someone recognized her.
     "Motherfucker," one of the men exclaimed. "That's no bitch;
that's a fuckin lawyer. She's a fuckin' DA."
     Darrell grinned again. "Thas' right," he agreed. "I fuckin'
knew it when I saw her on the T-Rail. She put m' brother away a
year ago." He paused for a moment before adding: "'Course, don't
matter, nohow." He turned back towards where the woman stood just
inside the doorway. "C'mere babe."
     Smiling, the woman walked over to him, hips swinging in the
tight miniskirt. She draped one of her bare arms over his
shoulder as she came up beside him. He reached around and
squeezed her ass.
     "Tina babe," he said, "you don' wanna go back to no stuffy
courtroom, now do ya girl?"
     Tina pouted and shook her head uncertainly.
     "Whadya want?"
     She smiled.
     That was an easy one.
     She knew the answer.
     "Wanna stay with you, babe," she giggled, dropping her free
hand to her crotch and lewdly gyrating her crotch towards his
face. "Wanna do the 'wild thing'." Darrell grinned at her and she
sighed inwardly with relief, running her tongue over her thick,
pouty lips. She was getting better at this: pleasing him; acting
the bimbo; being his "bitch".
     Surviving.
     Darrell turned back to the other men and got to his feet.
"Y'see," he leered. "A happy ending for everyone."
     He turned to leave, a giggling Tina on his arm. Just as he
got to the door though, he turned, pulling his blonde bimbo
around until she faced the men. "Before we go," he told her, "you
should say 'hi' to the brothers here. N' be nice; you won't be my
bitch forever, y'know."
     Tina swallowed, catching his meaning. She looked slowly
around the room, catching each man's eye and trying to look as
sexy as possible. If there was one thing she's learned in the
last few weeks, it was that her survival depended on satisfying
black cock. In her mouth; in her cunt; in her ass...
     And there was plenty of black cock here in this room. With a
small shudder - half fear, half lust - she knew that she'd
eventually belong to at least some of these men.
     Just as she now belonged to Darrell.
     "Hi boys," she purred, giving her hips a little wiggle.
"Hope to see ya soon."
     Darrell laughed...

     The West Side Projects.
     Irregular clumps of grey, concrete structures surrounded by
torn and twisted chain link. The skeleton slides and gibbet
swings have disappeared, their outlines swallowed up by the dark,
starless night. Dim light shines out through grimy, boarded
windows, revealing the presence of numerous closed, half-shadowed
rooms. Babies crying... couples fighting or making love...
     And, in one of those rooms, Tina Swanson - Darrell's bitch - takes
another load of cum up her ass, all the while humping her
white ass backwards and crying out in simulated ecstasy...

                             THE END
=================================================================
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