Tae Only as Directed

This story takes place in the year 2029. America is a very different place. New laws have abolished personal bankruptcies and debtors' prisons have been revived. Janie, our twentysomething heroine, was about to be sentenced to just such a prison when she was tricked into signing up for a pilot program that keeps her in a kind of chemical captivity. Medicine released within her body causes debilitating nausea and other symptoms every 48 hours, unless she is administered a rescue dose of another medicine. The rescue dose is delivered through the ejaculation of the man for whom she will be a personal domestic servant, a latter-day concubine. Janie's training in the art of being a high-class, government-sanctioned sex worker continues...

***

Was it the effect of the medicine coursing through my bloodstream, or was it some hypnotic quality to Ms. Lockhart's voice? When I heard her instruct me to get up, lay back on the bed in the center of the small auditorium/lecture-theater, and start masturbating, I felt a rush of damp desire well up behind my short hairs – whose tangled, fragrant jungle was now on full display before all my fellow concubines-in-training.

Dennis, the muscular, naked black man who had just come into the room and peeled off his bathrobe, extended his massive hand to me, and I placed my dainty little hand inside his. Pulling me over to the bed, he gently pushed my butt down onto the mattress, lightly tracing his lips over one of my nipples as he did so. I shivered in an electric sort of way.

He arranged the pillows to form a small mountain of goose down and high-thread-count pillowcases up against the headboard. Then, still holding onto my hand, he let me down slowly, allowing me to sink deep into the soft pile. Kissing my fingertips one by one, he half-whispered, half-spoke in his deeply resonant, Caribbean-accented voice, "Now, little lady, work a little magic wid dese here, for us all to see."

I was positioned in such a way that I could look directly into the faces of my fellow trainees, arranged in tiers above me. I could see their boobs, as well – an impressive collection of the full range of shapes, sizes and degree of dangle. Their pussies I couldn't see, despite my advantageous viewing position, because most of them were stubbornly keeping their legs crossed.

"Janie is now going to demonstrate how to maintain herself in a high state of readiness, so as to meet her master's needs," she explained. "Janie, please proceed."

What a strange position I now found myself in! I've had my share of sexual partners, at college and during my several years of software-writing work that followed, but I've always been more or less a plain-vanilla sort of girl when it comes to sex. As I permitted each of my boyfriends, in turn, to lead me into his bedroom – and never on the first date – I let each one think it was all his idea (which, if truth be told, it rarely was). I've been happy enough with my fellow geeks and their well-wielded peckers, however clumsily they penetrated me at first: from on top, missionary-position; or from behind, doggy-style; or even, if I was feeling frisky, with me bouncing along on top in good ol' ride-em-cowgirl style. Before we got down to business, I'd been content to stiffen those dangling dongs with a little swirly-whirly tongue-action on their cockheads. If they were so good as to reciprocate, by running a string of kisses from my navel on down my wispy happy-trail to my thickly-forested garden of earthly delights, so much the better. (Yes, I am a little hairy, and was glad when the shaved-pussy look went out of fashion, after its long run that, they say, started in the 1990s.)

But this – spreading my legs like some tattooed whore in a Vegas storefront and sliding a finger (or two, or three) in and out of my dripping cunt, in front of a roomful of observers – a roomful of female observers – this, I've never come close to doing before.

My body's no longer my own, I kept telling myself. Other people are calling the shots now. If I finger-fuck myself to orgasm, it's because Ms. Lockhart tells me to. If Dennis over there comes over and points my ankles skyward, resting them on his shoulders before sinking that throbbing pleasure-pole into me up to the hilt, it won't be because I gave him the old come-hither. You're only doing what you've been told, Janie – just as, when you wrapped your lips around that lab technician's smelly little pecker this morning, you were only doing what the medication was telling you to do.

I instinctively knew that the only way I was going to survive the years of sexual servitude stretching before me was to simply relax and go with the flow. You're not going to fight it, Janie. How can you? Yes, go with the flow, I thought to myself, as I immersed a couple fingers into the gooey pool that had already begun to lubricate my inmost parts. Faster and faster went my plunging fingers. When I felt a hand caressing my right breast, I knew from its size and feel that it belonged to Dennis. When I felt another hand, a much smaller one, caressing and gently squeezing my left breast – and giving the hard little nipple a tweak – I didn't need to look over to know it was Ms. Lockhart. She seemed a little hot and bothered, did Ms. Lockhart. Well, you go, girl. If that's the way you swing, you've got just as much a right to the Big O as any of us.

To say I saw stars would be an understatement. I think it was the whole Milky Way galaxy. No sooner did I remove my dripping fingers from my snatch, then my little fantasy of Dennis lifting my ankles into the air came true. Up onto his muscled shoulders those ankles went, then I felt something soft-and-hard-at-the-same-time pressing up against my cunt-lips, and "Oh, Dennis, you're The Man, oh yes, give it to me, give it all to me, fuck, fuck, fuck!"

I'm generally not a screamer during sex, but I don't think I've ever in my life taken a dick that large. Big dick, small dick, it doesn't much matter to me – they've all got their own special magic – but this man's heavy-duty industrial tool was a novelty. The idea of getting fucked by a black man was no novelty in the secret garden of my fantasy life, but – I realized, with a sense of abandon – this was no fantasy. That thought alone inspired me to add a few decibels to my little aria of pleasure. In between the high notes, I looked around at my fellow trainees. The legs were all uncrossed up there, now. I could hear a soft opera-chorus of heavy breathing and sighs emerging from the observation gallery. I could even glimpse a few sets of fingers discretely working in and out of some soft, hair-covered caverns of flesh. They couldn't see each other doing it, as they sat, side by side. But I could see them.

When Dennis suddenly stepped up his thrusting-speed to high gear, I knew he was getting ready to make the jump into hyperspace. "Give it to me, big man!" I cried out to both him and to the universe at large. "Give it to me, it's mine, all mine!"

Where is that coming from? I'm no screamer. Fuck it – maybe I am now.

Yes, fuck it. That would be a capital idea.

To be continued...