For an introduction to Mollie and her brothel, please read the story
Mollie Buys a Brothel.
The Criminal
My name is Maddie Smith-Litowski. You might remember the name from news coverage back when these events happened. It made quite a splash. I was 23 years old then.
It was all pretty humiliating and I'm glad it's over. So why am I writing about it now? Partly just to tell my side of the story, but also to make some money. After all, there are a whole bunch of perverts out there who like reading about a girl getting fucked and raped. That girl was me -- I hope it gets your rocks off.
I guess I need to tell you what I look like. Not that it makes any difference -- what happened would've happened no matter my appearance. But the male imagination demands a description, so just for you pervs out there I stripped naked and looked at myself in the mirror.
I'm neither beautiful nor ugly. My schnoz is a little too big, and my jaw just a tad too small. It gives me a bit of an overbite. Fortunately my parents invested in braces when I was a kid, so my teeth are straight and in good shape. I have blue eyes that, insofar as they're not non-descript, might be called penetrating. My skin is clear, smooth and soft -- I never had acne issues.
The best part of my face is my hair, which is thick and dirty blonde. If I primped it up nicely it would turn heads. But I'm too much of a feminist to do that. It's simple and cut too short.
The rest of me -- 5'4" in bare feet -- is skinny. Not beanpole thin, mind you, but skinny enough that my teachers sometimes thought I was anorexic. That was never true -- I can eat with the best of them. "You need to gain some weight, little girl," is what my dad told me. And true enough -- an extra five or ten in the right places would've made me voluptuous. But it was never to be.
My breasts are sexy as hell, if I say so myself. They're small, but perfectly formed and soft as tits. I got pert nipples and round, symmetric areolae.
I never trimmed my pubic region ("bush" is likely how you pervs would call it) -- another mark of feminist sensibility. It probably doesn't need it, what not growing weedy up to my navel. It's the same color as my hair -- perhaps even lighter blonde.
My butt's too small and my thighs are too thin. My waist is in perfect proportion to my hips. Everywhere my skin is clear and soft. My feet are small -- I wear size five. Even now in my late twenties, I still look like a sixteen-year-old.
So now you guys probably want to skip straight to the part where I get fucked and raped. But I'm telling the story in my own time, so just stick your dick back in your pants and be patient.
I grew up in an upper middle class suburb of Boston. My dad was a dentist, though I didn't see him much after the divorce. He's the 'Smith' part of my name. My mom -- the Litwicki -- was an office administrator for a large insurance company. That job was bigger than it sounds -- she had a dozen subordinates and attended the top leadership meetings. My parents each earned six figures, and between my mom's good salary and my dad's alimony, I grew up to be a spoiled brat.
Of course I wanted to go to college at a private school. My parents didn't object to that. But when I told dad that I wanted to major in Global Justice with a minor in Women's Studies, he flipped out.
"There's no way I'm paying tuition for that!" He kept his word, never contributing a penny for my education.
I think my mom agreed with him -- she tried to talk me out of it. "There are no jobs in global justice," she argued, sensibly enough. But for all that she put up cash. Actually, she paid for all of it.
So just out of adolescent selfishness I finished a silly major at an overpriced college on my mother's nickel. By the end even I thought I was pretty dumb.
When I graduated I knew I had to find a job or eat humble pie. Horrors -- I might even have to move back home with Mama, which I didn't want to do. So I put together a resume, hopped Amtrak down to New York City, and started asking around at the United Nations.
Unbelievably, I got a job. Yeah, I was a good student and had a good GPA, but I think I was just lucky. I knocked on the right door at the right time.
"It pays $60K a year," I told my dad, lying. Actually, it only paid about $25K -- not enough to support a decent life in NYC. But I wasn't going to be living in New York. The job's location was in Povera (a very poor country on the Western Mainland). I'd be housed gratis in the capital, Putaville. So actually I could put most of the $25K in the bank.
A month later I was on a plane for London. There I met my boss, a Brit named Erica Liggett. As you'll see, Erica is not one of my best friends today, but back then I liked her well enough.
We both worked for the UN Special Taskforce to Combat Sexual Slavery. Erica was the leader for the Western Mainland, and while she was based in Putaville her responsibilities extended to many other countries. My job was to manage the office in Povera.
"We have a special problem in Povera," Erica explained. "The country has almost no exports, and one of the biggest foreign exchange earners is Lagarde's Hotel & Spa. That's a high-end brothel that attracts a clientele from around the world."
"That sounds awful."
"It is," continued Erica. "But given its importance to the whole economy, it's going to be hard to shut it down. The owner is a Canadian -- her name is Mollie Grossman. Locally the property is known as
Mollie's Brothel
. Her husband, Jim Grinsted, helps her manage it. Maybe a hundred women work there as sex slaves, while another hundred people (mostly women) work in a support capacity."
[You can read about Mollie's Brothel in the story
Mollie Buys a Brothel
-- ed.]
"So what's our strategy?" I asked.
"We'll just hound them. Get them as much bad publicity as possible. Eventually we'll force the government to shut them down."
"And what'll happen to the employees?"
"Anything's better than sex slavery," claimed Erica, with a conversation-stopping glance in my direction, as if I'd just committed a mortal sin by asking the question. She didn't answer my query, and I didn't ask it again.
The Crime
A week later we arrived in Putaville. I'd never been in a poor, tropical country before. The heat and humidity were enervating. The poverty depressing. The landscape flat, dry, dusty, and boring. The taxi from the airport -- not air conditioned -- took us through miles and miles of shanty towns. Endless unpainted lean-tos built aside open sewers, surrounded by naked, dirty, unschooled children.
And here is where I'd committed myself to live for the next two years?
Erica's office -- now also my office -- at least was air conditioned, albeit not very successfully. A noisy, old window unit worked overtime for as long as there was electricity. As the office had no other ventilation it became uninhabitable during the daily power outages. My desk was in a corner of a room shared with two other people -- our secretary and somebody who worked for another UN agency. They were both Poverans.
