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MILKMAID
by Joy Paine

One of my readers has complained that she would enjoy my stories a lot 
more if the female
victims got sexually aroused. Well, I never said that they don't. You, 
the reader, are in control.
If you want something to happen, just imagine that it does. If you want 
to re-write the story, go
ahead. It won't hurt me if you do. I just ask one indulgence: if you 
publish any stories with re-
writes, tell your readers that changes have been made from the original.

This story is not pedophilia. The narrator can be any age you prefer. 
There are only two hints as
to her "actual" age -- she rides a bicycle, and she is a virgin. Now, I 
have known women over
forty years old who ride bicyles. Whether or not they are virgins, I 
won't say. So Steffi, like any
wise woman, should be of indeterminate age. If you conceptualize her as a 
minor, then "Honi soit
qui mal y pense". (Rough translation: "It's all in your own dirty mind".)

Chapter 1

"Just lean your bike up against the side of the house," Cathy said. 
"Nobody will monkey with it --
as you'll soon learn, this is a very friendly neighborhood."

Friendly indeed! Yes, and I was going to learn real soon what "friendly" 
meant, and how I was
going to have to be "friendly" with all of the boys (and some of the 
girls), and with any other
creep that the Boss OK'd.

Yeah, I was going to get a thorough education that afternoon, and in the 
weeks -- and the years -
- that followed.

It wasn't much consolation that there were a lot of other girls from 
school (and from other places)
in the same fix. He didn't even refer to us as his harem -- we were his 
"herd" -- no better than
animals, forced to serve -- and to service -- anybody that met the Boss's 
"standards". Which
usually meant meeting his price.

But all that came later. Right now I was rather enjoying the feeling I 
got Down There from riding
my bike over to Cathy's house. Yeah, I knew the words -- vulva and vagina 
-- and I even knew
the difference between the two. After all, we had learned them in hygiene 
class at school, but I
didn't feel comfortable with them. And I knew the gutter words, too, like 
snatch and twat, and the
c- word, but I wouldn't even think them in those days. So I just kept on 
thinking of the parts of my
body in the terms of my childhood. Just as Cathy still referred to her 
breasts as "boobies", even
though they were so well filled out that you would swear she was nursing 
a baby.

But I was going to learn the words -- and learn to use them (the words 
and the parts of the body)
-- in no time at all. After all, my teacher was a master at the art.


Chapter 2

I got the first hint that something was wrong when we walked into the 
house. I knew that Cathy
lived with her older brother, and she said that he was away on one of his 
out-of-town trips.
"Lining up meat", she said, which is about the strangest job description 
I had ever heard. So I
imagined we would be alone in the house that afternoon.

We were let into the house by Anne, obviously a maid, according to the 
outlandish costume she
had on -- an outfit that displayed everything that she had, but did it in 
a tastefully sexy manner --
who spoke with a French accent that was obviously fake.

She showed us to the bedroom, no less, where we were greeted by a very 
sinister-looking man,
flanked by four of the older boys from school. Five men in a bedroom had 
to spell trouble, and I
tried to back out, but Cathy blocked my way and Anne grabbed me by the 
ponytail, and dragged
me back into the room. I noticed that they also had rigged up a number of 
video tape recorders,
and I knew instinctively that I was cast in the starring role of whatever 
little drama they had
planned.

They wasted no time getting started. "Strip!" the man barked at me. The 
boys giggled, just like a
bunch of girls.

I wasn't having any of it. The Boss repeated the command. "Strip, or 
we'll tear your clothes off.

"Makes no difference to me," he went on. "We'll get to see your little 
bod just as well either way.
But it might make a difference to you. You see, if we have to tear your 
clothes off, the boys are
likely to get excited, and -- shall we say -- take certain liberties 
along the way.

"And perhaps more serious, you won't have anything to wear home at the 
end of the afternoon.

"Oh, don't worry -- it'll still be broad daylight when we dump you in the 
middle of the supermarket
parking lot, and there'll be lots of people around to see that you don't 
get into trouble during your
walk home, but you just might find it a little embarrassing without your 
clothes."

Chapter 3

OK, so that did it. If I didn't strip for them, they'd make me walk home 
naked after they had
finished with me. And believe me, I was getting a pretty good idea as to 
what "finish" they had in
mind. Even though I was a virgin (which had earned me some ridicule from 
my schoolmates), I
knew one end of the sausage from the other, as the saying goes. I 
noticed, by the way, that they
didn't promise to give me my clothes back even if I did everything they 
wanted, but I tried not to
think about that. The alternative was a sure thing.

I turned my back, and started to unbutton my blouse, but the man stopped 
me. "Full front," he
barked. "And nice and slow, with lots of wiggles. Show her, Cathy."

I don't know where Cathy ever learned to strip like that, but it looked 
like a professional job. My
big brother had told me how it was at the "burlycue", as he called it -- 
where the girls took off
their clothes while the audience cheered. I remember one time he just 
about broke me up with an
imitation of the antics they went through while they were undressing.

But this time it wasn't for laughs. Cathy went through the actions off 
stage, as it were, while I had
to imitate her in front of the camera. First the shoes and stockings, 
then unbutton the school
blazer, tug it off slowly, and toss it aside. Now my hair ribbon, letting 
my hair flow about my face,
down to my shoulders. But it wasn't long enough to cover my breasts when 
I took my blouse off.

Which was next. Slowly, one button at a time, then gently tug the bottom 
out from under my skirt,
and then off the shoulders. I don't know whether they'd known I wasn't 
wearing a bra, but they
knew pretty soon, because there were no straps over my shoulders. And 
that made them sit up
and really pay attention. And start whistling, and cheering, and shouting 
"Take it off!", just like a
pack of wolves. And that was just about the hardest thing I ever did in 
my life. Jeepers! These
were boys that I was going to see tomorrow, and every day, in school, and 
I had to give them a
free show!

Chapter 4

Well, after I got the blouse off, the boys (and the man who was running 
the event) got impatient,
and they made me take off my skirt and panties together, in one movement. 
And then I had to
stand while they looked. And took pictures. They made me stand in all 
kinds of positions, some
gross, some inviting, some in imitation of famous paintings, like 
"September Morn". And of
course, each one of them had to feel me, and pinch my nipples (hard 
enough to hurt like fire,
some of them) and poke and tickle me Down There. All on camera, of 
course. And the man
they called the Boss told me that all of the boys would get prints of the 
pictures "for their
scrapbooks", so they could gloat over them and (worse yet) show them 
around school, as proof
that they had "done" me.

And now, the Boss pointed out, it wouldn't do me any good to try to 
squeal to my parents or to
the police, because the pictures were proof that I was doing everything 
willingly. After all, he
said, maybe you could fake photographs, but motion pictures on video tape 
were something
else.

And what was more (he didn't have to point it out, but he did) I would be 
so embarrassed just to
have the pictures get around to my parents and to the teachers that I 
would be willing to
"behave" just so he would keep them out of circulation.

And then he used that oily tone of voice that I was going to get to know 
so well. "Now, Sweetie,
now that you've shown us what you've got, we're going to let you show us 
what you can do with
it. But only after you beg us to fuck you," he added.

My God! To tell the truth, I had known in my heart that it was going to 
lead up to this, but hearing
him say it was like a fist in the pit of my stomach.

That's where I drew the line. And I told him so.


Chapter 5

He didn't like to have someone tell him "no", I soon found out. And found 
out again, over the next
few years. And again and again. You'd think that I'd learn after a while 
that it didn't do any good
to defy him, but he had everything all planned out so that he always had 
something worse
to demand of me, just when I thought that I had reached the very bottom 
of pain and shame.

I'm sure that he lay awake nights thinking of new things he could ask me 
to do, just to give him
an excuse to punish me. And I found out later that he used all of the 
members of his "herd" from
time to time as consultants, to suggest new outrages to inflict on the 
girls. I know this for a fact,
because he often called on me as an "idea girl".

He used to brag that he never gave an order on an "or else" basis. Every 
order was to be
obeyed, sooner or later. The only option a girl had was to obey 
immediately and eagerly, or to be
"persuaded" until she was more than eager to obey. And of course he was 
never completely
satisfied, even when she obeyed immediately. He always found something to 
complain about,
and to give him an excuse for punishment. And most of his "clients" were 
the same kind of
people, but not so bad as he was, so we came to look on the hours we 
spent serving them as a
kind of relief.

While we were what he called "visiting girls", and still lived at home, 
we had to limit our "duty"
time to what he thought we could steal from our families without them 
getting wise. After we
became residents, of course, we had 24 "duty" hours a day. (And every day 
of the month, as he
liked to remind us.)

Every "duty" hour when we were not actually serving (read that 
"servicing") his clients was spent
in keeping our bodies in shape or in training to service them better.

But that all came later. Right now, he was determined to have me beg him 
and the boys to rape
me. Only he wanted me to use the f- word.

Chapter 6

And so my training began. The first installment of a never-ending series 
of torments. At least, it
has not ended yet, after several years (I forget how many), and if there 
is any end in sight, I
certainly can't see it.

He started out by letting the boys "get to know me". I didn't know it at 
the time, but everything
those boys (young men, actually) did to me was pretty tame stuff. He knew 
it, of course -- he
knew that I would be hurt, disgusted, scared to death by their childish 
torments, but he also knew
that their amateurish attempts left lots of room for "improvement" -- for 
a gradual build-up of
techniques, each worse than the last one.

They strapped me down, still stark naked, of course, on a framework of 
metal rods, lying on my
back with my arms and legs spread. I've gotten to know that framework 
well, during my years of
membership in his "herd" -- to know its capabilities and its flexibility 
-- how it could hold a girl's
body in every position you can imagine, leaving every possibly square 
inch of her body
accessible to whatever torments her torturer fancied.

And then, to make sure that they had full access to the most interesting 
areas, they fastened
clips (they hurt!) onto the lips Down There, and stretched them out to 
straps that fitted around my
thighs, so that my vagina was spread wide open.

Well, the boys were mostly interested in pinching and fingering all of 
the no-no places, with a
little tickling mixed in. But they also added a bit of tongue action that 
was actually pleasant --
kissing, and licking, and sucking my nipples and -- especially -- Down 
There.

And then Anne took over. She was an expert in what I came to know was 
called "erotic"
stimulation -- in no time at all, she had me wiggling and moaning, and 
begging her to continue.
But I heard the Boss remind her that her job was just to warm me up, and 
especially to get me
lubricated -- and Heaven help her if she let me slip "over the edge".

So I was a machine now -- not even an animal any more -- to be got 
lubricated and ready for
use. As a matter of fact, he often used to refer to us as his "sex 
machines".

"The orgasms come later," he warned Anne, "when they'll serve our 
purpose, not hers."

Chapter 7

"So are you ready for us now, Sweetie?" he crooned in that oily voice of 
his. And I almost said
yes, I was so eager to continue the pleasant stimulation that Anne was 
applying, even though I
had no idea in those days what they would lead to. But I knew that what 
he wanted to do was
dirty, and might lead to disease or pregnancy, and I knew that it was 
wrong, and I shook my
head.

He seemed to be happy that I refused.  "OK, we go the next step," he 
grinned at the boys, and
picked up the cane.

It was made of some sort of very flexible wood, and made a horrible 
WHOOSH! when he swept it
through the air. I knew what he had in mind, with my legs stretched apart 
like that, and I started
to beg him not to do it.

Well, he said, that's not quite what he wanted me to beg for, and he 
brought that damned cane
down on my clitoris. I've never known anything else that hurt quite that 
much, and believe me,
I've know lots of things that hurt an awful lot. So it didn't take more 
than that one stroke to
make me beg him to rape me, but he hit me a few more times until I got  
the exact words just
right (including the f-word, of course), and the tone of my voice 
sounding "like I really wanted it".

And then a couple more strokes "just for good measure".

And then he untied me, and warned me that he was going to make video 
tapes of what went on,
and he wanted me to smile all the while, and make it look as if I loved 
every minute of it. And he
made practice that silly smile until I got it right.

I almost puked when he told me what I was to do, but he just prodded me 
gently with that horrible
cane -- Down There, of course -- and I agreed that yes, it would be a 
nice thing to do for him,
and yes, I would probably be having as much fun as he would.


Chapter 8

Well, he told me what to do, and I did it, revolting though it was. I 
didn't want any more of that
cane on my clit, thank you. First I begged him, although my voice broke 
as I used the F-word for
the first time in my life, and then I took his clothes off, one by one. 
It wasn't much problem taking
off his shirt and undershirt, but when I got to his fly I broke down for 
a minute.

His pinch was excruciating - the more so because of the recent caning - 
and it reminded me
clearly of the fact that I would be caned again if I didn't do what he 
wanted. Swallowing the puke
that was trying to come up my throat, I unzipped it, and peeled off his 
pants and his undershorts
in one humiliating motion. And then he made me put my hand on his Thing, 
and stroke it while it
got hard, which didn't take any time at all.

Now I had to cuddle up against him, with that revolting tool poking into 
my belly, and let him kiss
me, poking his tongue deep into my mouth, and swabbing it around against 
mine. And then he
made me do the same thing to him. This time he bit it, not enough to 
really hurt, but enough to
impress on me how much it would hurt if he really put some force into it.

He told me then that he liked to have a girl caress his nipples all the 
time he was doing her; with
her lips and tongue if they were available, and otherwise with her 
fingertips. I thought that was
pretty queer, but you can guess that I didn't tell him that. I just got 
to work, tongue on
one side, and fingers on the other, and shifting sides when he told me.

His Thing was a roaring monster by the time he told me to suck it up. 
Yeah, that's what he said --
SUCK it! Eew! It took another reminding pinch to get me to put my lips 
around it, and he warned
me that if he even felt so much as a hint of his teeth, I'd get it, but 
good.

And then the moment of truth. He made me lie down on my back and spread 
my legs painfully
wide, while he just looked at me for a couple of minutes, and then just 
kneeled between my legs.

He warned me to get my fingertips going on his nipples again, and 
reminded me that there would
be a painful punishment if I stopped even for an instant, no matter what 
the reason.

And then he pressed the end of his Thing against the slit of my vagina 
(and now I was glad about
that lubrication that Anne had arranged for me) and shoved it in.

Chapter 9

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, and said a little prayer to 
myself. I had known ever since I
understood about such things that this was the worst thing that could 
happen to a girl - they used
to call it a Fate Worse Than Death - unless she was married, which 
somehow made it all right. I
could understand part of that - if a girl got pregnant (I understood that 
much about IT in those
days), nobody would ever forgive her if she did it before she had a 
father for the baby. But our
teacher had told us that there were ways to keep from getting pregnant, 
but it was still wrong to
go all the way before you were married.

And I believed it. I found out that they were wrong about one thing, 
though - there were other
things that were worse - a lot worse - than getting pregnant, and I 
experienced most of them.
Well, maybe not most. Every time I thought that I had seen the worst 
possible, that bastard
would come up with something worse.

Anyway, worst or not, it was pretty grim - what teacher would have called 
traumatic, sure, but just
purely painful, as well. He twisted my nipples brutally "just to remind 
you what your fingers are
supposed to be doing", and then his big hands glommed onto my little 
breasts and squeezed the
daylights out of them. He stopped just before I blacked out, and let me 
recover just a moment,
and then started pushing in.

It started hurting immediately, as the tissue stretched almost to the 
breaking point.

Almost. He had had enough experience so he could judge down to the ounce 
how much force my
cherry could stand, and he knew to the width of an eyelash how far he 
could push without
breaking it. And after pushing to that magical point of almost, he would 
pull back, and let the pain
disperse itself through my body, amusing himself by squeezing my breasts 
while he regrouped
for the next push.

And now and then he would use this moment of relaxation to make another 
probing examination
of my mouth with his tongue.

Chapter 10

Well, I knew that he couldn't keep up that teasing forever. I could tell 
from the quickening of his
breathing and the urgency of his thrusts, as well as the increased agony 
as he squeezed my
breasts even harder, that it wouldn't be long now. And it wasn't.

With one last savage thrust, he literally tore his way into me. The 
blazing pain of the tearing
tissue obscured for a moment the mental anguish of the the destruction of 
all my childhood
dreams of chastity, and his cruel laugh left no doubt as to how much he 
enjoyed the moment.

The pain subsided a little after that, but my abused clit still hurt like 
fire as he rubbed back and
forth against it, and he kept up the assault on my aching breasts. (No 
danger of my spoiling his
sport by orgasming prematurely.) Until that final moment, when one last 
spasm told me in no
uncertain terms that he had spilled his venom into me.

But that wasn't the worst, as I was soon to learn. He muttered something 
about the boys not
liking "sloppy seconds", and they strapped me onto that damned framework 
again. I supposed
that he was going to douche me out, but was I ever wrong!

He used a thing that looked like (and was, I learned later) one of those 
toy darts that kids shoot -
- with a rubber suction cup at the end, that sticks onto the target. 
Putting in something (I didn't
see it exactly) that kept my vagina stretched open -- all the way in -- 
he started actually sweeping
the walls with the edge of the suction cup. Like a windshield-wiper, he 
joked.

That's where I learned first hand about the G-spot that the girls used to 
talk about. But with the
rough way he was brushing it (I'm sure he did it on purpose), it was more 
irritating than pleasant.
And that was a bit of knowledge that was going to be brought back to me 
time and time again
during the years that I was a member of his "herd".

And suddenly I realized what his game was -- he was sweeping the filthy 
mess *inward*, toward
my cervix, and using the cup to force it actually through the cervix, 
into my womb!

He laughed at the dirty name I called him, and gave me the whole sadistic 
scoop. "We've had
Cathy and other friends making careful observations of your behavior over 
the past weeks," he
pointed out, "and we calculated that this was the time of the month when 
you were most likely to
take seriously what we were poking at you in fun."

He actually was trying to make me pregnant!

Chapter 11

He was deliberately trying to make me pregnant, and there wasn't a thing 
in the world I could do
about it.

Except pray. I tried that, but I'm afraid that it was too late for 
prayer, in a situation like that.

"It's actually for your own peace of mind," he went on, with that cruel 
twisted logic of his. (I don't
think he really believed it -- he was just twisting the knife.) "Just 
like breaking your cherry, so you
won't have to worry about losing it every time you take a lover. If 
you're already pregnant, you
won't worry about getting knocked up every time you get screwed.

"But it's not as bad as you think," he went on. "If you behave -- mind 
you, *IF* you behave -- we'll
fix you up with a relatively painless abortion before it gets to the 
point where everyone will know.
On the other hand, if you don't obey the rules completely, we'll just let 
Nature take its course until
you're thoroughly disgraced among your family and the neighbors, and then 
when we kidnap you
to become a resident member of our whore corps, everybody will think that 
you ran away
because of the shame.

"But in either case, we won't stop your pregnancy until your body has 
started the process of
lactation, which we can keep up after the abortion with doses of 
prolactin.

"It's important getting you into milk production" he went on. "First, 
it'll give you a sexier figure --
look at Cathy's, for example -- and second it'll make you much more 
desirable as a sex partner in
other ways, as there are lots of things a man can do to a lactating tit 
that will hurt much more
than anything he can do to an empty one. And of course he can always get 
a refreshing sip of
milk while he's making love to you."

Boy, was that ever gross! But the Boss wasn't finished yet.

"And a healthy young broad like you will be a valuable addition to our 
dairy herd," he went on.
"There's a very lucrative market among the Smart Set," he pointed out, 
"for human milk and milk
products, like cheese and yogurt." Jeepers, how revolting! Just like a 
cow!

"Plus our Leche parties, where the cocktail girls are always ready to 
supply a sip of milk, right
from the tap, as it were. Or our formal dinners, where the serving 
wenches have an unfailing
supply of milk for the coffee or tea. All the guest has to do is aim and 
squeeze.

"And of course, the girls are also available for entertainment after 
dinner," he pointed out. "Or
even before dinner is over, if they just can't wait. The other guests 
always get a kick out of
watching someone spread a girl out on the table and do her right in front 
of God and
everybody. Sometimes it develops into a real gang bang," he grinned.

"And one other little item," he went on. "Before a girl is admitted to 
our herd, she submits her milk
for judging. Sort of like a wine-tasting event, except that the judges of 
wine don't usually drink
right from the press. And instead of awarding medals, we mark the girl 
herself -- right on the
breast, which we think is the most appropriate place. Show her, Cathy," 
he prompted.

Soundlessly, Cathy exposed her breast, showing the grading, neatly 
located underneath her
breast, where the fold usually kept it hidden. The burn had completely 
healed, but my head
reeled at the thought of how painful it must have been when they branded 
her.

Chapter 12

Well, then he started giving me instructions again.

There were several times during his little speech that I almost puked, 
but I managed to keep it
under control, don't ask me how. And the worst was yet to come.

Waving his dingus in front of my eyes, he started to croon in that sickly 
sweet tone of voice
again.

"Look at the mess you've left on John Henry," he complained. "Now, we 
can't have that, can we?
No indeed, we can't. You're not finished with your lover until you've 
cleaned him off."

"But you never gave me a chance . . ."

"Now's your chance, Baby." And he left no doubt as to what he meant, as 
he pushed the
revolting thing up against my lips. "After all," he went on, "you won't 
always have any other
cleaning instruments handy, so you might as well learn to use what Nature 
gave you. And
Heaven help you if I get even so much as a touch of your teeth."

He twisted my nipples by way of warning, and I found that I could clean 
him off very nicely, thank
you.

"And now to finish cleaning you . . ."

This time it wasn't nearly so gross. He had some huge swabs -- they 
looked exactly like ear
swabs, only about an inch in diameter -- which he dipped in some liquid 
that cleaned the surface
of my vagina, and gave it a mildly bracing feeling. And a very lightly 
perfumed smell.

I thought I was ready for my next rape, (I had no doubt about what the 
other boys had in mind),
but he had to have a little more fun first.

"Report card time!" he announced. I found that this was to be a part of 
the ritual every time a
customer took me. The client would recite a list of ways in which my 
performance had been
"inadequate", and then administer whatever punishment he (or she) thought 
was appropriate.
And often this roused the customer to the point of further dalliance, of 
course. Followed
by another report card session . . .

I forget all of the things he found wrong with my performance but they 
included:

     	Not looking eager enough (and happy enough) to please ("If these
	videotapes are going to sell, you've got to be convincing. When
	we want you to look unhappy, we'll give you something to be
	really unhappy about . . .")

	Having to be told what to do to warm him up, and having to be
	told to clean him off afterward ("You ought to be woman enough
	to know these things instinctively. Anyway, you know now. And
	if you're wise, you'll ask your lover what special behavior he
	wants before you start. As a matter of fact, you're going to
	keep a journal - in your own handwriting - of what each of your
	lovers prefers. No need to identify him in the book, of course,
	except by a code that will remind you when you look him up in
            preparation for your next date with him.")

	Interrupting my stroking of his nipples a couple of times ("I
	don't care if it did itch, or if you had to move to ease the 
pain.
	You're performing for my happiness, rather than yours.")

And the punishment consisted of another caning, of course. Right in the 
same place.

Chapter 13

I don't think that I've ever got a perfect grade from one of my 
customers, no matter how hard I've
tried. And believe me, have I ever tried! OK, so some of them have 
grudgingly admitted that my
performance was "pretty good", but have grumbled that it could have been 
better (no particulars),
just so they would have an excuse for a punishment session.

Some of them seemed to like the punishment better than the sex itself, 
and every last of them
had to inflict pain along with the sex. I don't know whether it was the 
"policy of the House", or
whether it was just that the Boss catered especially to that kind of 
clientele.

Probably a little of both. Certainly the atmosphere of the "workrooms" 
was designed to arouse
any latent sadism that might be present in the customers. There was that 
restraint framework, for
instance, where they could strap a girl into any position. And there were 
whips and paddles and
other goodies hung in plain sight on the walls, where the customer could 
just reach out and grab
them. Or better yet, have me take them down from their hooks and pass 
them to the customer.
And of course, just the sight of them would often give the john ideas -- 
as if he didn't have
enough of them already!

And there were all sorts of visual aids -- pictures of girls servicing 
their customers, usually in
obvious agony. And pictures of the agony without the sex. Videotapes, 
too, where the customer
and I could sit as if in a theater, with him holding my hand (or other 
part of my body,
of course). Even popcorn, if he wanted it.

I say "he", because the majority of my lovers were men, but there were 
plenty of women, too. And
they really knew how to hurt a girl.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. For the moment, there were those 
schoolmates of mine to take
care of.

Chapter 14

Well, those kids were an anticlimax, after the professional job the Boss 
had done on me. For one
thing, my sensibilities were pretty  much numbed by now, so the 
degradation was more or less a
matter of  routine. In fact, the Boss had to warn me (just once) that my 
performance must not
become perfunctory ("the johns aren't paying for a chunk of cold meat"), 
but must always be
characterized by one extreme or the other -- either I must be friendly, 
co-operative,
even eager, smiling warmly under the ordeal, and actually begging for 
more, as if I really liked it;
or, more often, I was to beg, and struggle, and scream, as if I were 
suffering the horrors of Hell.
More often the latter -- far more often. And that was easier, in a sense, 
because it didn't take any
acting ability at all.

But this time, he wanted the friendly approach, as if I really enjoyed 
what I was doing; or at least
as if I were being handsomely paid for servicing my young friends. And 
that did take some acting
ability. But you'd be amazed how expert an actress I became with nothing 
but that whip to help
me!

Well, the guys did show some originality, but they were so eager to get 
it off that they didn't take
time to hurt me an awful lot, and the videotapes of my performance mostly 
looked as if we were
both having a good time. Which is what they wanted, of course. When a guy 
showed the still
shots from those tapes around school, he wanted it to look like he was 
the Great Kahuna, and
not like somebody who was just lucky enough to have access to a girl he 
could torture into
submission.

They were still creative at "report card" time, though, and managed to 
find excuses to whip me
again, no matter how hard I tried. And the Boss squeegeed out my vagina 
every time, of course.
No use letting all that precious fluid, that Nature had produced for this 
very purpose, go
to waste.

And after the guys had finished, there was still Cathy to be taken care 
of. I don't think that she
really enjoyed it any more than I did, but she had learned a lot about 
acting -- learned it the hard
way, of  course, just as I was learning it -- and I'm sure that the tape 
looked
as if we were both having fun.

So when I had finished doing Cathy, the Boss had her do me, something I 
had never expected.
Of course the orgasm lost a lot of its pleasure from the fact that I was 
still starring in a video
movie, and from the fact that the boys were all watching, shouting things 
like "go, baby!" and
like that, but it was still sort of pleasant. In spite of the lingering 
pain from the whippings.

Until the Boss pointed out that sure it was nice to have the tape of me 
enjoying a Lesbian
episode, but also my contractions would help suck all of that semen into 
my womb, and increase
the chances of my becoming pregnant.

Chapter 15

Eventually, the boys went home, and the Boss said it was time to "get 
down to business". I guess
that he didn't think that what I had been doing had been "business" 
enough!

For starters, he made me start my "order book" - one page for each boy 
(and for himself, of
course) - telling in lurid detail what they had wanted, and what I had 
done for them.

That was the way I've been able to write this journal - every chance I've 
had, I've set aside a
sheet of paper, and written down a description of the episodes just as 
they happened, and
hidden them where nobody can find them. I can usually manage to get hold 
of only one sheet at
a time, and that's why each "chapter" has been so short.

(Editor's note: that stupid little broad thinks that she has been putting 
something over on me! She
doesn't know that there is a good market for writings like this, and that 
I have deliberately looked
the other way ever since I found that she had literary ambitions. Someday 
I'll let one of her
schoolmates read them to her, just to embarrass her.)

And after I had finished writing up the first day's adventures (in my own 
handwriting, as he
insisted), he handed me a preview of what the boys were going to want 
tomorrow. I didn't expect
to get much sleep that night - if I ever got home at all - knowing that I 
had all those
gross things waiting for me.

By now it was starting to get late in the afternoon, and the Boss  
finally said it was time to go
home - after I got ready. "Ready" meant first an enema ("so you won't 
have to take the butt plug
out"), and then the butt plug itself. A very special butt plug, that 
slowly and  relentlessly kept
swelling, stretching me painfully. The Boss said that it wouldn't keep on 
expanding forever - that
it would just grow until it stretched my rectum to the point where I 
could do the things that
tomorrow's customer wanted, and then it would just hold that size until I 
got used to it.

He didn't tell me what the dildo was for - just shoved it in as a matter 
of course, and told me that I
could take it out when I got home, if I wanted to, but that I must always 
be wearing it when I
showed up for "work". There was no question about my wanting to take it 
out - it was
designed for irritation, rather than for pleasure.

And there was no question about my feeling it, either - one of the boys 
had "fixed up" my bike so
that it gave the most possible vibration all the way home - and Cathy 
rode home beside me, to
make sure that I didn't get off and walk the bike.

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