Chapter 1
Megan Beaufort impatiently played with her car keys on the tiny barroom table. As
usual, Conni was late for their after-work Friday get-together. They had been meeting like
this ever since they started high school, a lifetime ago. Conni’s work was becoming more
and more demanding, it seemed. She had once explained to Megan how busy she was, without
saying what kind of work she did. When Megan asked her directly about her work, Conni had
just smiled mysteriously and warned, “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
Megan knew Conni didn’t work for the CIA or anything like that. They had both been
aiming at degrees in elementary school teaching until Megan ran out of money after the
first year, and a little later Conni just quit—with no explanation.
On Fridays Megan allowed herself one special drink—a Manhattan—which was really
more expensive than she could afford, but the Friday meetings were a special celebration
of their long friendship.
Megan was debating whether she should order another drink, which mainly involved
arguing with her conscience about treating herself to one more extravagance when she was
so broke. She had cashed her weekly paycheck this morning and given Mr. Gibson two hundred
dollars more on the repair of her car. The old dear had allowed her to take the car home
this time because she had only two hundred and forty-eight more to go. That left her with
one hundred and ninety-two bucks. Tomorrow she was going to pay Brad Simpson one hundred
and fifty, which would bring her apartment rent up-to-date.
Getting rid of Brad would be a relief. For three weeks she had been unable to pay
his aunt the Seventy-five dollar weekly rent on her apartment. She tried to explain to
Brad that her car repairs were wrecking her. He didn’t care. So they agreed that he would
allow her fifty-dollars for a blow job. But last Saturday he had darkly hinted that she
would have to do more because there was interest accruing on her balance. Megan of course
knew that “interest” was just an excuse. Megan didn’t know what he had in mind, but she
knew whatever it was, she would have to pay. She didn’t believe that Brad would dare ask
her for sex, but that possibility worried her. It was hard to say no to Brad when you were
a girl living alone.
Megan knew there were at least three guys in the bar this evening, any one of whom
would have bought her another drink if she had just shone him a smile. The trouble with
bar guys was they thought that a single drink entitled them to a feel under the table all
the way up to a girl’s crotch. And if they talked you into dinner, they expected a payback
of all-the-way sex. These days guys didn’t hear a girl when she explained it was her
policy not to do it on a first date.
Megan knew that she would not get into this kind of trouble if she wore her hair in
a strict ponytail with her reading glasses on. But when she went to a bar she liked to let
her hair down, liked to feel her honey-colored curly tresses massively framing her face
and falling in abundant waves over her shoulders and way down her back. Megan knew her
hair was her crowning glory.
Somebody sat down beside her. She turned with a smile, thinking it was Conni. But
it was Jay Turner, a really nasty scumbag.
He gave her a grin. “Hi there, Megan. What a pleasant surprise to catch up to you.
When I saw that cute little Hillman convertible out front I figured you must be inside.”
“Jay, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to give me one more week.”
“Sorry, Baby, but The Man wants his dough today.”
“I don’t have it, Jay!”
“Well,” he said, pointedly gazing down at her breasts, “I’ve told you before you
have some great assets, and you should use them.”
“That’s out, Jay,” she shot back at him. “Out! Out! Out!”
He made a placating gesture with his hands. “Okay, you don’t have to blow the roof
off. But one way or another you’re going to pay up now. A few weeks ago you borrowed two
hundred bucks to fix your car. Remember how desperate and tearful you were? Remember
promising to pay it all back on your next payday? You were so convincing, Megan, that I
went for it even against my better judgment. Remember how I warned you the interest and
charges could add up if you missed a payment? Now you owe two hundred and sixty-eight,
Megan, and I want it now.” She could see he really meant it.
She had no options. The last time they had this discussion, Jay told her if she
didn’t pay up the next time, he would hurt her—badly. She believed him. She had a much
better chance of dealing amicably with Brad Simpson tomorrow than with Jay Turner
tonight.
“Jay,” she said, giving him her best look, “I’ve got a hundred dollars. Is it okay
if I give you that and pay the rest next week?”
“My God, you can make your eyes so big and round—you look like a Spaniel. But this
time it won’t work, Baby. Give me your purse.”
“I’m not giving you my purse to paw through! Believe me, Jay, I’ve only got a
hundred. I’ll give it all to you. I’ll have to go hungry for the rest of the week.”
He sneered. “I know you’re lying, Megan. Give me your purse.”
“I swear, Jay. I swear!”
“You know, Megan, you are only in this trouble because you stick with that coffee
shop waitress job. If you got a job in a real bar, you could probably clear fifty to a
hundred bucks a night in tips.
She sneered back. “Letting guys feel me up all night. No thanks.”
He grabbed her bag and dumped the contents onto the table. Before she could
intervene he snatched up her wallet and yanked out the wad of bills. “Well, surprise,
there’s really a hundred ninety-two in here!”
“I must have counted wrong,” she lied glibly.
He stuffed the money into his pocket, then used a napkin to do calculations. This
leaves you seventy-six short. Add to that twenty for interest and charges, and a twenty
buck penalty for lying to me, you slut. That makes one hundred and sixteen dollars you
will owe me—and pay me—next week when we meet here again. Of course,” he said with a spike
of interest, “I could take this credit card I find concealed here…”
“Take it,” she shrugged indifferently, “it’s maxed out.”
He stood up and flipped the card back at her. “Okay, Baby, you understand the rules
now? We’ll meet again in one week, same time, same place. Right, Slut liar?”
“Okay, Jay,” she agreed. She watched him saunter out. Now she had only one hope to
save her neck.
When Conni arrived half an hour later, she hugged Megan with genuine affection. She
bought Megan a Manhattan as penance for being so late. They had been best friends since
grade school. Conni was a blond stunner. Her hair fell in gentle waves to her shoulders,
framing a round face with mesmerizing blue eyes and generous, sensuous lips. Her
breasts—Megan had never seen them naked—jutted alluringly against her black sweater. Her
narrow waist was the envy of every girl Megan knew. Conni was a vision that had haunted
every boy at school, especially as she was very choosey about her dates. Few boys got past
the first one, and not one of those who did was able to boast that he had laid her.
Laughing, fun-loving Conni was, deep down, an ice queen.
Conni took a deep swig of her gin tonic, then regarded Megan with a smile. “So what
have you been up to?”
Megan knew that with Conni a straightforward honesty was the best policy. “I’m in
money troubles again,” she confessed.
“Megan,” Conni said, suddenly hard and stern, “I warned you not to try to hit me
again. You’re into me for five hundred. I don’t mind that, and I’ll wait as long as
necessary to get it back. No pressure from me, you know that. Why don’t you sell that
precious car of yours?”
“You know a loan company is holding the title.”
Conni sighed. “I told you how you can solve these problems. It’s up to you if you
take my advice or not.”
“Who is this Mrs. Brown you talk about?”
She’s a really nice lady who finds better paying jobs for bright young girls like
us. She was once exactly where you are now. She got through it and now all she wants to do
is help others.”
“Jobs?”
“Yeah, jobs.”
“What kind of jobs, Conni?”
“How would I know? You have to talk to the lady yourself, Megan.”
The subject cast a pall over their get-together and they broke up early.
Conni watched her friend mincing out of the lounge. She was so unconsciously sexy.
And the worst of it was, she had no real idea of how she affected men. Conni knew it was
inevitable that Megan would hook up with some scumbag who would abuse her, She was totally
ignorant of the fact that she was a natural submissive. Conni could see it, and so did
men.
Conni sighed, genuinely concerned about her friend. But there was nothing she could
do about it. Maybe she would come across a suggestion or two in the book she was reading.
It was filled with cautionary tales about young girls who become caught up by the
traffickers in the international sex trade. It was written by a young woman named Nansci
Domokos, a convent girl who was enslaved to provide sex to guests at a Caribbean island
pleasure resort. Some strange people who called themselves Druids helped her escape. She
was now living on one of the islands of Malta in the Mediterranean.
***
Precisely at ten o’clock the next morning there was a loud knock on her door. Megan
was sitting in her little breakfast nook, brooding over a third cup of coffee. From the
jaunty knock she knew it was Brad. She tightened her housecoat around her breasts and went
to the door. Her plan was to step into the hall—keep the unpleasantness as public as
possible to control Brad’s temper. But when she opened the door, there was Brad with his
pen in one hand and his little account book in the other. And there was some pimply kid
with him. As she stepped out, they barged in. Brad yanked her inside and slammed the door.
He faced her with a fierce look.
“We’ve reached the end of the line, Megan,” he announced grimly. “My aunt is
kicking my ass, so you’ve got to settle up today. You owe one fifty in rent, and another
eighty in interest, special assessments, penalties and carry-over fees.”
Megan laughed harshly. “You expect me to pay you eighty trumped up bucks?”
“Megan, today I am not going to argue with you. I’ve brought my cousin, Jimmy, here
to help me lug your stuff out to the street right now!”
Megan was appalled. She could see that Brad really meant it.
“Wait a minute, Brad. Let’s talk about this.” She was making some rapid
calculations about fifty dollars for a blow job—a hundred for both of them? Could she jack
him up to that?
“I know what you’re thinking, Megan, but today a blow job won’t do it. The problem
is too far out now.”
She suddenly felt vulnerable. “What are you thinking, Brad?”
He looked at her coldly as though calculating the worth of a haunch of meat. “You
strip down—all the way. We get to feel you for a while, and then we both fuck you on the
bed. For that I’ll take care of the rent and arrears, but it won’t cover the extra eighty.
There it is. What do you say, Megan?”
She was shocked, stunned. No she wasn’t. She had expected it would escalate to
this. She wanted to cry. In fact, tears did start to collect in her eyes. The last thing
she wanted them to see—especially that odious kid—was her breaking up, a ship wreck going
down, a woman with her pride in tatters like storm ripped sails. She bolted for the
bathroom.
She stared at her distraught features in the mirror and wiped up the tears
streaking down her face. How was she going to get out of this? She had always managed to
squirm out of these tight corners before. But she now had to face the stark truth. She had
exhausted all her options. There was only one way out. But she couldn’t. It was
unthinkable. Brad was trying to make her into a whore—doing it for money. She could never,
ever, bring herself that low. She could just not degrade herself like that.
Yet she had to be realistic. Yes, that was it—realistic. No, she just couldn’t do
it. Just the thought of standing naked in front of those creeps and letting them paw her,
slobber over her, and finally spreading her legs for them, made her whole body shudder
with revulsion. Her thoughts strayed to the hot little novel she was reading. Yes, she was
just like that, a slave girl of the Romans, helpless in the clutches of her cruel owner.
She was poor Queen Boudica, her English army defeated by the ruthless Roman general Julius
Caesar. She had been captured, publicly whipped, forced to watch the rape of her two
virgin daughters, and now Caesar was waiting for her to appear, naked, so he could enjoy
the final fruits of his victory. Him and his odious young adjutant, Marcus Aurelius. The
once mighty queen had been reduced to a lowly slavegirl who had no option but to surrender
her body to their vile lusts.
With lips compressed the queen removed her robe, pushed down her panties and kicked
off her slippers. Now nude and barefoot, she straightened herself, head regally high,
Still the queen in pride, she opened the door and stepped into the living room. The sight
that greeted her was a shocking display of two mighty Roman generals facing her, naked,
and their poles rising into the angled upright position of the Roman salute.
They rushed at her to stroke, squeeze, pinch, and slobber over her surrendered
body. They seemed to have a dozen hands. All that abuse she could endure, but then that
cretin Caesar stuck his fingers into her pussy. It gave her a jolt of sexual excitement.
It was so crude. However, it was Marcus Aurelius who was the most nauseating. He leaped
around her like a kid who had to go. “I gotta get into her before I blow my gasket,” he
told Caesar plaintively.
In a dizzying swirl they dragged and pushed her into the bedroom, whirled her
around, tilted and slammed her flat on her back on the bed. Before she could collect her
thoughts, Marcus Aurelius was between her legs and ramming himself into her. For half a
dozen strokes he was like a frantic jackhammer, then he made a huge gasp and collapsed on
top of her. It was all so immature, but what did the slavegirl slut expect—wine and
background music?
Keeping up her role with a regal frown, Queen Boudica then gave leave to Caesar to
suck her tits and crawl between her legs. Caesar’s performance was more refined. She
managed to maintain her regal detachment until Caesar pulled himself out. Then the tears
of shame flooded her eyes.
“Okay, you turds, you’ve had your fun. Now get out!”
“I was only in her for a couple of seconds, Brad,” Jimmy whined.
“That’s true, Megan,” Brad immediately agreed. “The poor kid really didn’t have a
fuck at all. You know how they are.”
“He had his turn. Too bad it was so quick.”
They struggled briefly, then Megan teetered onto the bed. The kid climbed on top of
her.
Brad held her wrists. The kid was licking her breasts and stroking her slit as he
maneuvered himself into position. Megan struggled futilely.
“This is rape, Brad,” she warned. “Do you hear me? Rape!”
“If you don’t shut up I’ll add another twenty for carrying charges.”
Megan knew it was no use to argue. She spread her legs to let the kid in. She
couldn’t stop herself from sobbing. This was so degrading. She had no pride left.
The kid pumped away at her—it seemed like forever, while Brad watched—before he
squirted his spunk into her.
She lay on the bed, not even bothering to cover herself. She watched them putting
on their clothes. She saw their broad smiles of satisfaction as they waved goodbye. And
the worst thing was she knew next Saturday they would be back—maybe even bringing along a
couple of friends.
She was in big, big trouble. She rolled off the bed, padded into the living room,
bereft of clothes, shorn of self-esteem—and money. She called Conni and asked her how she
could get in touch with Mrs. Brown.
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