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By Lauren McAllister
My name is Jenna (not my real name). At the time of this tragically sordid tale, I was 19 years old and catastrophically – bordering on fatally – broke. Wounded gazelle on the Serengeti Plain were sitting pretty compared to me. Children in candy-constructed cottages watching witches slicing up carrots and onions for seasoning had it made compared to my tragic plight. For, to quote Bertie Wooster, “I was well and truly in the soup.”
Oh, it was my own fault. Well, that’s not totally accurate. You see, I have this friend named Betty and Betty liked to have fun and I liked to have fun with Betty. So one night, Ms. B. and I are out “having fun” and she remembers this really cool club downtown. Heck, I’d had a few Crantinis and no dinner so why the heck not go to a really cool club downtown?
I woke up the next morning naked and in bed with Betty. This was nothing new. Whenever I failed to happen upon boys of sufficient cuteness to cause a tingling in my nethers, she was more than an adequate substitute to finish off a night of too much alcohol and too little cock. Many an evening, I would lower my face down into the soft moist fruit between her legs and joyously feast upon her bounteous loins. Let’s just say that the dearth of dick, the paucity of penis and the shortage of schlong did not in anyway impede the enjoyment of our mattress mayhem.
Alas, the blistering hangover I was sporting was also nothing new. The fact that my rings, necklace and watch were missing was a little more on the novel side. Shit! Had we been robbed!
After Betty and I finished throwing up, she cheerfully informed me that we had not been the victim of some heinous crime. I had simply pawned these items to procure extra funds to gamble with.
“But I don’t gamble,” I proudly proclaimed, resting my head on the coolness of her toilet seat.
“Boy, tell me about it,” she replied and threw up again, barely missing the tip of my nose with her remarkably voluminous hurl.
I was beginning to feel a mite anxious (to go along with a lot nauseous). If I didn’t remember pawning most of my worldly goods, what else did I not recall?
Betty suggested I take a gander in my purse, while handing each of us a restorative brewski. I believe our mercy liquid was a Bavarian ale called Swinkels.
“I tried to stop you,” she declared as I pulled a rumpled drink-stained piece of paper from within.
Now, when people yell the phrase “motherfucker” it oft times is an expression of joy or delight or pleasant surprise. This was not one of those oft times. My Oedipal pronouncement was the product of seeing a $10,000 IOU with my name on it. I took a few healthy gulps of beer so I’d have something new to throw up.
Apparently, there is no sensible law or corporate policy at unlicensed gambling establishments that prohibit stupid drunken women from wagering vast amounts of money that they do not have at high-stakes tables of chance. That ought to be illegal, don’t you think?…or, well, illegaler.
Needless to say, I did not have a spare $10,000 lying around or a watch…or my earrings. While I may not possess the most astute of financial minds, it was not insurmountably difficult to assess the likelihood of me repaying this princely debt in a timely manner. I believe the word “absolutelynofuckingway” appropriately summed up my chances.
“What are you going to do?” inquired my oh-so-helpful and dyspeptic friend.
My phone rang. I did not recognize the number. At first, I considered selling the phone and changing my name to Lucia Kanardly. Looking back now of course, that would’ve been the sensible thing to do. But alas I chose an alternate course of action.
“Hello?” I timorously answered.
“Ah, hello there Ms. Ahern,” a croaky, smoke-damaged voice on the other end replied. “It was our pleasure to entertain you and your friend last night at the ‘Feelin’ Lucky Lounge’. This is just a courtesy follow-up call to see exactly when you’ll be dropping off the check, today.”
The check?! Had this loser seeing my bank account?
“I’m afraid (boy, was that the truth), I will have to consult my accountant and get back to you (that part was a complete lie).”
“Oh, of course. I completely understand. Just so’s you are aware, that if we do not hear from you within the next two hours, the club will be forced to send out a representative to help sort out any cash flow problems that may arise. It’s just a company policy, you understand?”
Well, you didn’t have to be the Dali Lama to “understand” what that meant. I reasoned that it might be in my best interest (in the most limited sense of the word) to arrange a face-to-face meeting with my unexpected creditors. “Is there a way, I could perhaps come by your office and talk to you about my account?”
The time was set for 2 o’clock and I was not late and my tits were on magnificent display.
Johnny (that was the name he went by) was professionally sympathetic to my predicament but he did have a financial responsibility to his bent-nosed employer. To tell the truth, I was on the verge of fainting from nerves as I sat there with my boobs practically sticking up my nose. I didn’t know whether I was going to get out of this office alive or have to be carried out on two broken legs. Luckily (and again, in the most limited sense of the word) Johnny proffered a possible solution to my fiscal woes.
“I am in contact with a certain well-heeled individual,” he informed me. “Who from time to time seeks to engage young attractive women, such as yourself, to partake in various forms of playacting.”
“For their participation in these ‘make-believe scenarios’ this certain individual has been known to recompense his comely thespians upwards of $2000 a day for their whimsical involvement.”
I was sure that this elevated language was masking the basest of endeavors, but what choice did I have?
“I would suggest,” he continued, “that it might be fiscally advantageous for you to spend to a week or more in the company of this generous benefactor, which would not only settle your debt to us but give you a substantial stake with which to retrieve your losses at the tables.”
Hey buddy, I’m a drunk, not a fucking idiot. “I’ll take it,” I smiled.
The next Monday morning, at precisely 5 AM, I was picked up by a super-stretch limo. There were already two amazing looking, but incredibly nervous, girls in the car. Apparently, Sally and Jennifer had also experienced a costly downturn in their fortunes at the very same gambling emporium. The journey was pleasant enough, mostly spent consuming herculean amounts of imported champagne in an effort to somewhat calm (or drown) our frayed psyches. We were all a tad on the woozy side by the time the limo pulled up to the biggest fucking mansion I had ever seen. This place made the Beverly Hillbillies look like they were living in a hobo lean-to. Elvis would have found it oppressively ostentatious.
We were greeted by a very large and imposing fellow upon entering the south-west vestibule. Vigo instructed us to take off all our clothes and his demeanor was so serious that we all complied unquestioningly. Once we were mortifyingly naked and freezing off our toenail polish off (that Italian marble is cold!), three nurses trotted into the room and fitted each of us with a large baby diaper. No, I’m not kidding. Stunned and shivering, we were taken (with our boobs hanging out and diamond-hard nipples) to a nursery that resembled a movie set. Everything in the room was baby themed but sized to fit adults, including an enormous cot.
“From this moment on,” the head nurse instructed us, “you will not speak. When you require changing, you will ding the bell; once for urine and twice for your solid waste. Any violation of this rule will result in a spanking by me and I spank like I mean it.”
Oh my God! This was a nightmare beyond imagination. I was presented with two choices. Spend the week in the employ of the superrich, super disgusting pervo or have both my knees broken by a shady gambling syndicate. Since the diaper was slightly more comfortable than crutches, I decided to tamp down my urge to run away half-naked and screaming.
We were given a list of what we were and weren’t allowed to do (a startling majority of the noted items fell into the “weren’t” column). Besides no speaking and no toilets, there was “no feeding ourselves,” “no bathing ourselves,” and “no walking!” If we wanted to go somewhere…we had to crawl.
When our marching (or should I say crawling) orders were memorized, the sheets of paper were gathered back up and the signal was given that we were sufficiently orientated for Mr. Cook to come in and greet us. Cookie was 70 if he was a day. He was kind of a skinny thing with a tiny wisp of gray hair and chin you could’ve perched a large bird of prey on.
“Hello ladies,” he said with a wrinkly smile that reminded you of the Galactic Emperor from Star Wars. Having quickly dispensed with the pleasantries, he pulled down his sweatpants and began to pleasure himself in front of us while his staff looked on in silence. Needless to say, it was not a pretty sight. Up to this point, the oldest cock I’d ever seen in person was about 35 years old. This thing looked like something out of an ancient Egyptian Museum exhibit. He continued to whack away on it for about 10 minutes (I guess everything takes a little longer when you’re that ancient). Finally, his face started to turn Woody Woodpecker red and his neck veins began to protrude like his head was going to explode (oh, if only).
This must’ve been the signal that he was about “pop” because his butler announced, “Mr. Cook will pay one thousand dollars to the first young lady who volunteers to swallow his semen.”
Before I could even blink, Sally’s hand shot enthusiastically into the air as she stuck a big, wide cum-catching tongue out of her gaping maw. Cookie immediately aimed the business end of his doowanger in her direction. Some frantic huffing and puffing plus a goodly amount of maniacal chicken choking later, a tacky torrent of geriatric spunk burst forth from his Methuselah-like manhood and splattered her about the cheeks and lips. Sally smiled broadly as she wiped the cock shrapnel off her face and merrily plopped it into her mouth. While the whole event was revolting and degrading in the extreme, taking “a money shot” in the eye socket wasn’t the worst way to make a quick grand.
One of the nurses came over and licked the remainder of Sally’s face clean and played with her tits as our billionaire benefactor toddled off (he probably needed some oxygen after his strenuous performance). Following the grand departure, we were forced to drink copious amounts of imported water from nippled bottles. You didn’t have to be Archimedes to figure out where all this was headed.
Sure enough, about an hour later my bladder was swelling up like a Russian bride after the honeymoon. I held out bravely for as long as I could but eventually the physical limitations of the body won out and I was forced to let the river flow. Babies certainly know what they’re doing when they burst into tears after going pee pee. There is just no comfortable way to sit in your own squelchy urine. Ding!
The nurse, Mr. Cook and his butler all immediately traipsed into the room. I was carried to a giant changing table, my diaper was removed and Cookie’s manservant spread my legs apart to allow his boss full access to my vagina. I was wiped and dried and talcumed in short order and then The Dark Lord bent down and gave my pussy a big kiss. When his withered head popped back up from my horrified vulva, his lips and the tip of his nose were coated in baby powder. Nice look! Then nursey slapped on a new nappy and I was whisked on back to the crib. Well, that wasn’t too humiliating!
At 9 o’clock, Jennifer was taken out of the room and didn’t return until 10:30. As soon as she was returned to our deluxe baby prison, the lights were turned out. I guessed that meant it was bedtime but I was psychotically curious about what transpired in that mysterious hour and a half.
“What happened?” I whispered.
“Mr. Cook,” she whispered back, “offered me five grand if I’d let him fuck me.”
“You made $5000!?”
“7500. I got an additional $2,500 for letting his butler do me with his uniform on while he watched. Then the nurse re-diapered me and here I am.”
Jesus Christ! This place was a demented house of horrors. And, how come I didn’t get offered $7,500?
The next morning we were rousted awake ludicrously early and fed a fiber-heavy cereal for breakfast. And…the nurses played with our tits. In fact, everyone in the entire mansion played with our tits. I had dates in high school where my nipples didn’t get that much attention.
A Side Note:
Have you ever noticed that when bad guys on TV shows and movies tie up women, they never seem the least bit interested in feeling up their captives? Don’t you believe it! They’d have their hands all over your jugs before you’d even woken up from the chloroform!
Back to the Story:
Within the hour, all three of us had to be changed. Ding! Ding! Ding! The second time, it was a little less soul crushing but that isn’t saying much. I was really beginning to hate the smell of talcum powder and having my pussy kissed.
Following a fiber-filled lunch, Mr. Cook came back in and asked who would like to be spit-roasted by his bodyguard and his head nurse for $8000. I have no fucking idea how Sally gets her warm up that fast. She should be on game shows.
After removing her diaper, she was told to get on all fours. Florence Nightingale took the fore and the bodyguard aimed his shaft at her aft. Cookie played with our tits while he watched his minions fill Sally’s face with twat at one end and stuff a substantial cock into the other. Being tag-teamed like that is not nearly as easy as it looks in porno films. You need a guy in back who really knows what he’s doing or you end up having your front teeth knocked out by the lady’s pubic bone. Luckily for Little Miss Volunteer, the bodyguard had a firm grasp of her hips and she didn’t get any of her dental work loosened with his manly dick thrusting. I was impressed. Sally managed to lick the slit in between butt rammings with adequate lingual adroitness to turn Nursey’s nummy lump to butter. She had a skull-denting grip on Sal’s head and was grinding the poor girl’s nose into a paste with her maniacal pelvic heaves. Either Sally had been forced to settle previous gambling debts under similar conditions or she was just naturally a damn fine lay! Mr. Rearguard came first, pulling out quickly and spewing his jolly juice all over her shapely ass cheeks. A big squirty girlie orgasm soon followed, soaking Sal’s hair and forehead with a vibrant stream of twat tonic. All I got was a lousy 500 bucks for licking Mr. Cook’s balls while he halfheartedly stroked his joint. What did a gal have to do in this place to get profitably demeaned?
After dinner (another fiber-soaked affair) things began to get a little rumbly in my tumbly (to quote Winnie the Pooh). This was the moment I’d been dreading since I first donned the diaper. I don’t how my fellow cot-mates were keeping it in but I was about to re-create the only funny scene in The Bridesmaids”. I clinched. I reverse squeezed. I thought of cool tranquil lands with turquoise waterfalls. Sigh, none of it helped because I shit a large loaf of bread and a healthy basket of dinner rolls into my tragically white and cottony apparel. It was truly horrific feeling those big lumpy poop-logs pushing themselves out of my anus with nowhere to go. They just grew and grew and grew in my diaper which got tighter and tighter. And once you start that process…there’s just no power on Earth that can stop it. Bloop. Bloop. Bloop. I began to cry. A big pipe of primo crack couldn’t have cheered me up at this instant. Luckily for me, it was soon to get much, much worse.
The first big question was, “How long do I wait?” This was only day two and my nappy was not happy. At some point I was going to have to ring that fucking bell. The smart thing of course, would have been to face the music and get it over with as quickly as possible. But no, I sat weeping in a lake of my own shit for almost 45 minutes before the staggering stench forced my hand.
Mr. Cook and his retinue soon marched into the room to answer my scatological call for excretory succor. Instead of putting me on the change table however, I was made to bend over in front of it while nursey removed my diaper, exposing my smelly and brown-stained derrière to the all and sundry.
Cookie stared into my water-filled eyes (Yes, I was still sobbing – wouldn’t you be?). “I will give you $12,000 if I can fuck you up the ass right now.”
Well, wasn’t that something to think about? I was so shocked by the proposal that I broke the number one rule of the house. “You want to fuck me up my shit-covered ass,” I queried.
“$15,000,” he countered.
Lots of things went through my mind at this juncture, very few of them pleasant. That’s when I received my epiphany. A crystal clear revelation sent down from the heavens that would be my guiding light. Cookie didn’t really want to sodomize me and turn his dick into a Fudgsicle. He was actually searching for someone who had the balls to draw a line in the sand and just say “No fucking way” regardless of the mountains of money he had at his fingertips.
“You want to stick your knob in my poo poo?” I admonished him like a grumpy kindergarten teacher. “What are you like, seven years old? Well, I’ll tell you what I would like grandpa, for you to stop being such a demented shriveled old fuck and for someone to go get me a nice cold beer.”
25 minutes later, after the spanking of my life, I was tossed out of a super-stretch limo on the side of the highway wearing only a diaper and with a five hundred dollar bill stuffed in my mouth (It was only fair, I had licked his balls).
Luckily, you don’t have to hitchhike long if you’re a good-looking woman with a pair of naked tits on display. Even if the guy thinks you’re most likely a homicidal psychopath, he’ll still pick you up cause…well, he can see your tits. My ride was nice enough, even though I had to blow him in his car to get them to agree to put me up for the night. I knew if I showed up at my place, a couple of Johnny’s “associates” would be waiting for me, expecting full payment and I only had a measly half a grand. Plus the additional $200 I received for letting my host fuck me (it was all he could get out of his ATM machine).
I now live in Edmonton, Alberta (I know, I’d never heard of it either) under an assumed name and I don’t even buy lottery tickets, no matter how big the prize is.
However, there are no regrets. No howling at the moon over my lamentable plight. For I had the laudable sense of self-worth to stand up to power and money no matter how low my circumstance. I stayed true to my heart, because no matter how rich Mr. Cook was, he could not buy my dignity and my soul (except for putting me in a diaper and having me shit myself).
And that’s why I’m living in Edmonton.
DAMN! DAMN! DAMN! DAMN! DAMN!