Take Only As Directed Ch 05

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 still in the Training Center, learning the art of being a high-class, government-sanctioned sex worker, as prospective masters look her over.

That's basically what you need to know, but read the earlier chapters if you want to know how Janie got to this point.

***

How do you learn to do the nasty?

Everybody knows the answer to that one. It's just like riding a bike. You learn by doing. Just as Lisa had, when she bent over and grasped hold of her ankles, letting Gunther replace her butt-plug with something a little more lifelike.

No surprise, there. Learning by doing is the working philosophy of the Training Center.

I was in residence there just over two weeks, before departing to service my first master. My days were full of lectures, question-and-answer sessions and video clips – not to mention the ever-present live demonstrations. Some of those I participated in. Others, I sat back and observed, my fingers gently playing over my pubic mound.

I couldn't help myself. I don't know whether it was the medicine circulated by that little pump inside me, or the repeated rescue doses I received from one swollen cock or another, but something injected into my body was making me horny as hell.

I was naked the entire two weeks, but for my high heels. We'd all grown used to walking around in them, our butt-cheeks swinging just-so as we strutted. After the first day or so, it ceased feeling kinky. It was just what we wore.

I realize I may sound like some kind of super-slut, with all this talk about walking around in stiletto heels and masturbating in odd moments. That's not really who I am. Before signing onto the program, I was just a girl who'd grown a little too fond of her credit cards, not Ms. Wham-Bam-Thanky-Mam. It's part and parcel of the transformation my fellow inmates and I were undergoing, as those mood-altering drugs coursed through our bloodstreams. With our bodies' new chemical cravings, the hunt for cum – the right kind of cum, from a man whose cock dispensed the rescue dose we needed – was never far from our minds.

Believe me, the instructors had no problem maintaining student attention in the classroom. We'd all experienced what it feels like to go too long without that milky elixir. No way were any of us putting ourselves through that agony again.

We all knew we were caught between a rock and a hard place. Hang around the Center too long and eventually, like some forlorn mutt in a pound, the powers that be would figure you didn't have the right stuff. They'd pluck you right out of there, and return you to the regular judicial system. Sure, they'd remove the implanted medicine-pump from your body and eventually you'd get back to feeling OK, but until then, you'd go through hell.

Only one thing stood between me and such a fate. He was my ticket out of there: the as-yet nameless, faceless man who would become my Master. Every waking minute, I knew he could be watching me, through some concealed digital camera or any of the one-way mirrors that were all over the place.

I'm not exaggerating when I say we were being watched all the time. Our jailors reminded us of that, frequently – although if we had any doubts, we could hear little sounds every now and again that confirmed it.

How would my new employer make contact with me, I wondered? I hadn't the foggiest. At any point, if such were his desire, he could step out of the shadows and claim me. Then, he would take me home with him, or wherever else he wished to install me: as mistress, chambermaid, pool girl – who knew? With a little luck, my bouncing buns would live slappily ever after, or at least until this infernal jail sentence was up.

I tried to imagine him as I lay in my bed at night, drifting off to sleep. Try as I might, his facial features failed to come together in my mind. I just couldn't picture him, not even in fantasy.

Except for his penis. In my imagination, his cock was a magnificent alabaster shaft, covered by throbbing veins. It had to be 3 inches wide, its mushroom-head even larger, the size of a large peach. Emerging from its thicket of dark pubic hair, its 12+ inches curved gently upward. How would I ever accommodate such a massive member? It seemed impossible. Yet, stranger things have happened in dreams. Always, in my edge-of-sleep fantasy, I would spread my legs wider and wider – impossibly wide, double-jointed wide – until that massive cock-head would press its way ever-so-slowly up my dripping canal, splitting me asunder but causing not a twinge of pain. Then, it would be wave after wave of ecstasy, until my very self was obliterated by the tsunami of his ejaculation.

I have no idea what concoction those Halliburton chemists came up with, and subsequently packed inside the prostate of every man who'd fucked one of my orifices since I stepped out of that van and shed my street clothes – but, let me tell you, it's good stuff. It messes with your mind.

The first time I met a prospective master, I didn't see him. I heard him. We'd just finished a training session that involved taking progressively bigger dildos into our throats without gagging. Latoya, Lisa and I were in a little group, laughing at how ridiculous we'd all looked, deep-throating those plastic dongs, when one of the staffers in a lab coat hurried up to me and said, "Janie, come with me now. Your presence is required." There was an urgency in her tone that made me wonder if I'd done something wrong.

Using her key-card, she ushered me through a couple sliding doors and into a tiny room that contained nothing but a black vinyl couch facing a large mirror. Then, before I had the chance to even ask what this was all about, she turned on her heel and left me, locking the door behind her.

I walked up to the mirror and peered into it. One-way glass, I was certain. Was anyone sitting silently in the darkness on the other side? There could have been a dozen silent voyeurs in there for all I knew, getting their rocks off watching my jugs jiggle.

I made a show of picking something out of my teeth as I looked into the mirror.

Then, I gave my bazoongas an extra little jiggle, just to make sure.

Aware that I was probably being watched, I did the only thing I could do in that tiny, bare-walled room. I parked my butt-cheeks on the cold vinyl, crossed my legs and waited.

It was probably only a couple minutes, but it seemed much longer. Abruptly a ceiling speaker crackled into life. "You are Janie," declared the voice, a passionless monotone.

"Yes, er, Master."

"No need to call me Master yet. I've signed no contract. I'm just doing some window shopping. But so far, I like what I see. Be a good girl, now, and stand up. Give Daddy a closer look."

I stood up, then slowly pirouetted. I assumed one or two pornstar poses, or what I imagined to be pornstar poses. Though I knew I was a rank amateur.

"You are eager to please. I like that. Now, please, sit down again."

I sat down.

"Tell me, Janie, how old were you when you first had sex?"

"Sixteen."

"Who was the lucky man?"

"No man at all, just a kid in my school. We'd been messing around in his basement, when second base suddenly became third, and before we knew it, the crowd went wild."

"You have a way with words. Very amusing. Tell me what you like to do, sexually. What makes you wet between the legs?"

There was a time when I would have answered such a question with a wisecrack about cunning linguists and how hard they are to find, but I realized, in that moment, how much this experience was already changing me. I felt a subtle but unmistakable stirring in my nether regions. I also had the distinct impression that a damp space was forming on the vinyl cushion beneath me, merely at the resonant sound of that voice.

It had been well over a day since I'd been fucked, or otherwise ingested any of Dr. Halliburton's Patented Tonic. I was starting to feel a little queasy.

Bottom line was, I needed some.

The conversation that followed was reminiscent of one of those porno-audition videos, a series of probing questions about my sexual history. I tried my best to convey the impression of a devil-may-care party girl.

He didn't need to move on to the next stage, where he tells me to masturbate. To my surprise, I realized I was already doing it, as I spun out the overly-embellished tale of my sexual awakening.

Whether he enjoyed the sound of my fingers squishing in and out of my well-lubricated bush, I have no idea. Whatever shred of modesty I'd once had, The Training Center had confiscated it along with my clothes.

"I like your answers," said the Voice. "Now, give me a moment. Carry on as you are."

No more than a couple minutes later, the door opened and a man walked into the room. He was in his mid-forties, muscular and a little too tanned, if you know what I mean. He was dressed a little like the Hollywood stereotype of a gangster, right down to the gold chains. His thinning hair displayed a greasy sheen, perhaps aided and abetted by a little Grecian Formula.

"Stand up," my knight-in-tarnished-armor commanded.

I did.

He put a hand under my chin and looked into my eyes, as though his gaze could somehow hold me.

"Now it's time to squeeze the melons," he said with a chuckle – a real charmer, this one – before reaching out and giving my titties a hard and rather painful squeeze. Then, he put a hand on my hip and spun me around. I fell forward, breaking my fall with my outstretched arms on the sofa cushion.

He did the same for the twin globes of my ass, squeezing them hard. I'm sure he left red marks. Then, I could hear the sound of a belt buckle being unfastened, and a pair of trousers hitting the floor.

A couple unlubricated fingers roughly penetrated my pussy from behind. I spread my legs a little, to accommodate.

Then, the fingers pulled my lips apart, and I could feel an average-sized cockhead nosing around the gates. Not much of a one for foreplay, this one.

With a single hard thrust and a grunt of pleasure, he sheathed his love-sword to the hilt. I was more than a little wet by then, but he didn't seem to care. In and out he thrust, pulling almost all the way out before slamming his way back in, his balls brushing my butt cheeks on every stroke.

I just stood there, leaning over, my weight on my arms, pushing back with my butt in a vain effort to meet his irregular strokes.

We never seemed to achieve even the semblance of a common rhythm but then, with a deep groan, he jammed himself all the way in, held still for a moment, and came.

Then, without so much as a hug or even an ear-nibble, he pulled his trousers back up. "Don't call us, chickie. We'll call you." This joker was the soul of wit.

He opened the door with his key card and walked out, without even telling me his name.

"Well," I thought to myself, after collapsing back on the now-slimy vinyl cushion with a sigh. "I guess I've just been sampled."

My next thought was, "God, I hope he's not the one. Sure, I'll do whatever I have to, for whomever I have to, for as long as I have to, just to feel normal again – but this idiot would probably be just as happy with an inflatable love doll, for all the attention he paid me as a person."

Then, a disturbing thought pushed its way into my mind, as rudely as my suitor's cockhead had just tickled my cervix: "But, are you even a person any more? You're just a cunt. A cunt for lease. The man who rents out that cunt can do whatever the hell he wants with it, and your heart and mind just have to go along for the ride."

Suddenly, I felt lonely. An unexpected tear fell from my eye.

To be continued...