Carol's Story

A fictional account of a real woman.

*

Carol walked gingerly from the adult products store to the taxi.

"That plug in your bum still bothering you?" Blaine asked when they were ensconced inside.

"Blaine!" she blurted, shifting her eyes toward the driver and punching him in the chest. Her tiny fist bounced off like a pebble against a tank.

The taxi driver was a cute redhead. She'd given them a knowing stare when they'd entered. Blaine decided to have a little fun with both women.

"I love ponytails," he told the driver, reaching forward and batting her hair.

"The rules, sir," the redhead said joining in good-naturedly. He could see how her eyes sparkled hungrily in the rear view mirror. "You mustn't touch the driver's 'air."

"Even though I love ponytails?" he groaned facetiously. "Christ, what else am I not permitted to touch.

"Pretty much everything. It's the rules, sir."

"What about her?" he asked, watching the driver in the mirror while he slid his hand up under Carol's skirt. "Can I touch her at least? She's my slut after all."

Carol's nipples were practically punching a hole in her thin top and the driver ogled them and the big cum stain still drying there. Before she could answer, they'd arrived.

"Care to join us?" Blaine asked the redhead with the ponytail while Carol paid the fare. "Ever been with another woman? We could have a lot fun."

"Another time," she answered. "My old man would kill me if I came 'ome with 'alf a day's receipts."

"Call me sometime," he said, handing her his card.

"You can count on that," she answered. Carol's eyes flashed jealously as the driver's fingers lingered on the young black's as she took his number.

"It's so easy for you isn't it Blaine?" Carol asked clutching his arm as they walked into the plush hotel lobby.

"What is?"

"Charming the pants off pretty white women."

"Her pants were off?" he teased.

"God you make me want you so badly," she groaned as they entered the lift. "I'll do it right here if you want," she said stroking his cock.

"Maybe later," he replied, pushing her hand away, making her want him all the more.

The room was sizeable yet cozy. Six fine looking black men about Blaine's age were already there, gathered around a well-stocked bar set off to the side. Carol clutched his arm even tighter. As his date, she felt safe but, being the only woman, a white woman, in a room with so many black gentlemen, she felt a little intimidated.

In the center of the room was a rounded, rectangular table covered in green felt. There were eight chairs and a stack of chips at each seat.

"A poker game?" she whispered.

"Laphroaig, neat," he told her and turned toward his friends leaving her to tend bar. It didn't take long for the others to take advantage of her.

"As long as you're up..." a very dark man said quickly, "another one of these: Jack and Coke," he said handing her his glass.

"Who's this then, Yank?" one of the men asked as Carol handed Blaine a glass with golden liquor and the man she soon learned was called Congo his darker one.

"I'm..." she started to say before Blaine put his finger to her lips.

"This is Blondie, everyone." She smiled shyly.

Blaine didn't bother introducing them to her but she quickly gathered that they referred to each other by geographical appellations: Jamaica; Bahama; Sudan; Congo...

There was a knock on the door and a couple were permitted entry. He was a true physical specimen yet his presence was overshadowed by hers.

Her skin was like dark caramel, so smooth, so inviting. The sequins on her red dress glittered like the diamond exchange. It hugged her body more closely than her own skin. Her breasts were enormous. Probably fake but impressive nonetheless. The neckline was cut so low it appeared as if an arc of darkened areola peeked out.

Her trim waistline made her tits stand out even more. Her hemline was nearly as short as Carol's. Her legs were bare and creamy, muscled yet feminine. That rounded arse was so fine, so "bubbled," every eye in the room was drawn to it, including Carol's.

Yet it was her face that had Carol slack jawed. That beautiful, smooth skin, more the colour of a deep tan than an African's. Her nose was flared in a subtle, sensuous fashion. Her eyes were the colour of her skin with liberal sprinklings of flashing gold flecks that could mesmerize a man...or a woman.

Then there were those lips. Large and full, puffy like a firm pillow, painted a shiny, startling red. Inviting lips that commanded one's attention the way an overwrought button struggling to constrain a heaving bosom does.

Those lips...those luscious, luscious lips...Carol was envious of those alluring lips with their ability to draw men's attention to her mouth.

What would it feel like to kiss those lips?

Carol wondered and shivered at her own lewd, almost unacknowledged thoughts.

Carol wasn't bisexual yet she enjoyed looking at the female form. On more than one drink filled occasion, she and her close friend Sarah had joked about giving up men and taking up with a woman. Then both of them had backed off wondering if the other thought they were being hit upon...wondering if they were. Now Carol was imagining kissing the most beautiful, sensual, sexual mouth she'd ever seen and it excited her.

"Who's that?!?!" Carol gasped.

"That's Pronghorn," Blaine teased. A member of the South African rugby squad, he had originally been called Springbok at their game, but somewhere along the line they had started calling him Pronghorn because...well...they just did.

"Not him," Carol whispered, elbowing his side. "Her!"

"Yank!" the woman exclaimed before Blaine had a chance to speak. Carol took notice that he was the first person in the room she acknowledged. "You finally going to give Lola what she needs this time?"

Lola had made her way to where he stood near the bar. They hugged briefly and he kissed her cheek.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Blaine asked Lola.

"Spiced rum, a splash of tonic, slice of lime."

"Blondie," he said snapping his fingers, calling her that ridiculous, sexist name, "fix Lola what she wants".

Blaine couldn't tell if Carol was pissed off that she was expected to prepare refreshments for the partygoers, but Carol obediently set about filling the café au lait beauty's order while the men shuffled over to the table.

"That yo' man's mark?" Lola asked Carol after being given her drink. Lola had gripped the neckline of Carol's camisole and pulled the stained material to her nose. In the process, her fingers had brushed against the tops of Carol's breasts.

"Yes," Carol started to say, "I mean sort of...it's complicated."

"Complicated...mmmm hmmm, it always is," Lola said, eyeing Carol suspiciously. "Mmmm, that's good," Lola complimented when she took a sip of the drink Carol had made her.

"Who yo' sluttin' fo'? That Yank the one that brung yo'?" Lola asked. Carol nodded, more than just a bit frightened.

"Yank," Lola called across to the table. "Wha' chu doin' branging yo' slut out like this?"

"She was at the hole earlier. Got her face fucked pretty good," Blaine answered and all the room heard.

"What time you going back, baby?" someone shouted.

"I think it's time for another meal, honey," said another.

Carol panicked! Suddenly she realised her face must be a mess. She pulled out her compact and opened it. Her heart was beating a mile a minute. All those young men had seen her. They all knew what a slut she was now. Shit! Even that redhead in the taxi had known. Her lipstick was smeared all over her face and there was that big cum stain decorating her blouse. Tears had actually begun to flow when Lola touched Carol's arm.

"Relax honey," Lola said dropping her ghetto bitch persona and grabbing her pocketbook. "We're outnumbered. Us girls got to stick together. Let me just touch you up a little."

Touch me up?

Carol thought and smiled. She knew her makeup needed major surgery but it was nice of Lola to pretend otherwise.

Lola seemed to have everything in that tiny bag. Foundation, powder, brushes, rouge, eye shadow, eyeliner, and most importantly, eight different shades of lipstick, jars of lip gloss, lip liner, everything.

While the guys played cards, Lola took her time with Carol. It was her lips she fussed over though. When she was finished, she brushed out the blonde hair and handed Carol the rectangular mirror she always carried.

"Oh god, they're so beautiful!" Carol exclaimed, examining her lips and mouth in the mirror. She then started practicing puckering and making inviting ovals, forgetting about Lola's other work on her face, concentrating solely on her mouth. "Thank you Lola, thank you!!"

"Is she part of the game, Yank?" Sudan asked when Carol brought another round of drinks.

"What do you mean?"

"You ante her instead of the ten quid." Carol's ears perked up.

"Why would I do that?"

"To save yourself ten pounds mate."

Everybody laughed but Carol. It started to dawn on her that Blaine might have brought her here to pimp her out to these men. Despite the distaste she might have felt about being a whore, part of her was secretly thrilled. The notion of being so desired that men would actually pay her for sexual services can be an unwelcome arousal for many women. Would they actually prostitute themselves? Of course not. Would they entertain the occasional fantasy? It's a part of them they would be reluctant to share with a man.

Worse even than selling herself is the thought that she'd have to share those earnings with a pimp. Not only was she doing something that offended her deeply but she would have to give part of that money to someone who did little but extend his hand to collect it. The thought made Carol shudder...and tingle.

She made a show of putting down another round of drinks angrily. Was she more upset about the possibility of being a whore, or that others had thought she was? Carol wasn't sure.

"What you getting all bothered for?" Lola asked her when Carol returned to the bar. "The man was paying you a compliment, telling you you was looking good."

"They think I'm a prostitute," Carol bitched, her mouth pouting.

"Let's not get into that whole white, middle-class ethics bullshit and whether a woman is really whoring herself when she becomes a wife," Lola said. "We all whore ourselves for something at sometime. Admitting it is much less damaging on the nervous system than you think."

"Sudan," Lola called over to the table, "sound like you need a break."

"Deal me out," Sudan said, getting up and stretching before joining Carol and Lola at the bar.

"Same as always?" Sudan asked, laying a hundred pounds on the bar.

Lola slid off her stool and, taking Sudan by the hand, led him behind the bar. Taking a wide stance, she bent at the waist pressing her palms against the wall. Sudan had extracted a fine looking cock, long and thick, and was stroking it as he approached and flipped Lola's dress over her ass.

"Damn bitch," he proclaimed, giving her buttocks a slap that could be heard around the room, "you got an ass on you."

"All for you, honey," Lola told him

Carol had a clear view of the African's hard, black meat as he pulled the string of Lola's thong aside and lined himself up with her arsehole. He spit into his palm and slicked his ebony pole before pushing into her.

"Oh baby," that feels good," Lola breathed as Sudan invaded her nether hole. "That's it, fuck that arse. Push that big cock up my bum."

The black man set up a steady rhythm. Carol was amazed all that cock fit into such a tight opening. She could actually see Lola pulsing her sphincter muscle along the length of Sudan's rod as he slowly fucked gorgeous Lola's gorgeous bum.

Carol couldn't believe she was being treated to such an erotic coupling. It was much more exciting than any porn movie she'd ever seen and Lola was much prettier than any x-rated actress. Sudan smiled at Carol and pulled his cock out entirely almost as if he were performing for the white woman. Lola's arsehole gaped open allowing Carol to peer inside. Just as it started to wink closed, he reinserted and began to pound urgently at her backdoor.

"Hand me a couple of those napkins," Lola asked Carol for the second time, adding "please" to her first request.

Carol was standing mesmerized from watching what the beautiful black pair had done and now, from seeing Sudan use one of the bar towels to wipe down his gorgeous pleasure tool. It took her a moment to process Lola's appeal. With the black dick again tucked behind its fly, Carol was freed to turn her gaze to the sensational black ass with creamy cum drooling from its wrinkled brown pucker.

"Can you help me mop up, luv?" Lola asked a third time for assistance.

Grabbing a handful of napkins, Carol went to Lola.

Can the entire room hear the squishing noise my cunt is making?

she wondered as she walked around the bar.

Carol was so consumed by lust that she briefly considered squatting and licking up that creamy treat escaping Lola's bum ring. She settled for wiping up the mess, although days later, she masturbated to thoughts of what she then regretted not having done. Carol did manage a secret sniff of the African's strongly musky semen before discarding the tissues in the trash.

"Do you accept money for sex?" she asked Lola in probably the least judgmental description of prostitution in history. She was the first, and only, hooker Carol had ever met and Carol was very curious.

"It's not as bad as everyone imagines," Lola said, dazzling Carol with her smile. "I'm sure you'd have taken that black dick in your arse for free, wouldn't you?"

Carol blushed deeply and looked down, unable to maintain eye contact with this lovely, light-skinned black woman who seemingly could read her mind.

"Got yourself all juiced up watching, did you Blondie?" Lola asked with a chuckle. "So what's so bad about this?" Lola asked scattering the money across the bar. "I don't even care about it. It's a pittance, not even a tenth my normal fee. I come to this game for the fun and great sex, not the money. Looks like I might not be getting my usual attention, though."

"What do you mean?" Carol asked.

"Honey, you're the pale blonde in the room. Every one of those boys wants to get with you."

"Ten quid," Pronghorn stated as if he'd been listening to the conversation women had been having. He laid the pound sterling note in front of Blaine.

"She'll blow you for that," Blaine told him.

"Christ mate," Pronghorn complained, "you told us she just did that for free at the hole."

"You want your cock sucked or not?" Blaine replied.

"Shit, you already picked up my money. I guess I ain't getting that back no matter what, so I might as well get my knob polished. She any good?"

"She's decent."

"Blondie," Pronghorn called to Carol. "Come over here."

Carol didn't move. The thought of actually selling her body like a common whore had her frozen with fear, lust, disgust, and desire.

"Man wants you over here," Blaine told her from his seat at the table.

It struck Carol as somewhat ludicrous that he was referring to someone who, compared to her anyway, was barely beyond pubescence as a man. Still, Carol climbed down from her stool and came to stand by Pronghorn.

He slid his hand up, between her legs, causing her to gasp and stiffen. "Spread 'em," the black man said and she widened her stance without thinking, giving him greater access to her genitals.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of Carol's pink knickers and pulled them down and off. "I call," he said laughing, and tossed the pale item onto the pile of chips where everyone could see they were soaked through at the crotch.

Jamaica won the hand and raked in the chips. He stuffed her knickers into his pocket. Carol would never see them again. That dear garment, guardian of her dignity, so recently pressed against her most tender anatomy, dampened by her ardor, were now the trophy of a young black man.

Pronghorn pushed two fingers against Carol's puffy pussy lips and slipped them in effortlessly. It felt so wonderful and Carol groaned involuntarily.

"Fucking cunt's gagging for it," he said as her slick juices covered his hand. "What the fuck's this?" Pronghorn asked as his fingers pressed against the back wall of her cunt, feeling the bulb in her rectum. Carol felt herself beginning to cum.

"She's plugged," Blaine answered disinterestedly.

Clearly Carol couldn't control herself and the men around the table were treated to the sight of such a complete slut clutching Pronghorn's shoulder for support as her pussy humped at his hand.

"Yank tells me you're a decent cocksucker. That true?" he asked, pulling his fingers from her cunt, not allowing Carol to complete her climax. She was not there for her pleasure.

Carol's eyes fluttered open. "I supposed so," she answered with an edge to her voice, angry at the interruption to her pleasure, angry that he'd describe her oral skills so mundanely.

"Don't get all uppity-white-bitch on me," Pronghorn glared, squeezing his hand tight on her pussy. Hooking his fingers inside her cunt, he dragged her across the room to the far corner.

"Take that silly fucking skirt off," Prong told her, wiping Carol's juices dripping from his fingers on the skirt as if it was a powder room towel and tugging at its zipper. "On your knees, cunt," he ordered when her skirt lay rumpled by the wall.

Carol watched him unbuckle his belt and slide it free from the loops on his slacks. He folded it in two and, reaching behind her as she knelt, delivered three stinging blows to her pale white bum. While tears streaked her cheeks, he dropped his pants around his ankles.

"You'd better do a good fucking job," he said, grabbing his floppy cock and waving it in her face. "I paid ten quid for you."

His cock was midnight black and excited Carol enormously. She cradled it with her hands and began kissing it. She stroked with both hands and it began to grow. Carol's mouth opened and joined her hands in encouraging his rapidly engorging erection.

Carol's body was tingling as it always now did when mouthing black cock. But this time there was something different, something added. It was that she was now a full-blown strumpet.

When had it happened, she wondered as she spat in her hand to slicken his cock. When was the exact moment she became, utterly and irreversibly, a whore? Carol smiled to herself as she looked back into the past and wondered with her girlfriends when they were no longer virgins. Did sucking cock count as losing one's virginity?

Now, as her hands formed a slippery pre-tunnel for her mouth, she wondered when the exact moment of her whoredom began. Was it when the money was offered? Surely not. When Blaine accepted payment for her? Probably not technically although she knew for sure then that it would happen. She knew he'd insist and she'd not protested strongly enough to prevent it for reasons not the least of which was she wanted to suck this young man's dick and she wanted to do it for money.

So, she became a whore psychologically when Blaine had taken the ten pound note, but what about physically? Was it when he pushed his fingers into her cunt? Surely by that point she was engaged in a sexual activity and money had changed hands. Or was it later, when she'd touched his cock, where she began providing sexual pleasure to him.

Perhaps it was when her lips kissed it, or when it entered her mouth. Perhaps she wouldn't officially be a hooker until that gooey cum began exploding in her mouth. Whenever the moment, the idea of being a slut like Carol had never thought she would or could was animating her now.

Carol pulled her lips over her teeth, suctioned hollows in her cheeks, and softened her tongue as Pronghorn dragged his cock back and forth across it. Decent fellatrix indeed! She sought to make her mouth as soft and exciting as her cunt. Carol wanted this to be the best blowjob she could give, the best he ever had...or ever would have.