Madeleine

by Stephen Rawlings

  There was some kind of transport exhibition at Earls Court, and some good mid-week fixtures; the punters poured steadily through the front door, and into her see-saw sex act. Wednesday she pushed herself and her aching body, and collected thirty-seven ‘johnnies’, but not only did Bertha collect eight for rent and service and three for the other resident whores, but she claimed that there had been four complaints. It was not true of course. She’d gone out of her way to please the unprepossessing males, who’d bounced their beer bellies up and down on her bare battered body, and she’d worked her tired mound to satisfy them, clenching her vagina on their flagging penises to bring them off, feigning orgasms to polish their egos. She bit her lip as Bertha listed her failures with ill-concealed relish, and went off to reckon up her tally.

  Twenty-two more clocked up, though it had cost her dearly. Seventy-eight on the board, but one hundred and forty ‘johnnies’ in the jar. Well, not a jar actually, she needed a plastic bucket now to keep the sordid relics of the pricks that seemed to be ploughing her night and day. Still, only twenty-two to go, and on past form she’d get through them comfortably tomorrow. Well, perhaps comfortably was not the best word, she thought, pressing a warm flannel to her sore and swollen vulva, but she’d done more in a day before, and Thursdays were busy, she was told.

  She put everything she had into it, and the punters put everything they had into her. Aching and exhausted, she drove on right to the bell, uncertain how many Bertha might rule out, and determined to get free tonight. The bucket had collected thirty-nine souvenirs when ten o’clock struck, and she lay back, done in more ways than one. Five minutes later Bertha entered, smirking all over her fat raddled face.

  “Oh, hard luck, Madelaine. Just didn’t make it. Never mind, there’s always tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean, didn’t make it,” she squeaked in her fatigue and dismay, “I fucked thirty-nine of the bastards today. Even with your eight, and three for the girls, that leaves twenty-eight, and I only needed twenty-two.”

  “It’s a pity your fucking isn’t as good as your arithmetic,” Bertha said, sweetly, “but as it is your performance was so poor, seven of my valued clients demanded their money back, so you’re just one short.”

  “You bitch, you’re lying through your rotten teeth. There were never seven complaints.”

  “I’ve warned you before about speaking to me like that,” Bertha hissed, “do you want me to send Pete to go over the figures with you, and teach you some manners at the same time?”

  Totally defeated, Madeleine turned over in the bed she thought she’d escaped from at last, and sobbed herself to sleep.

  Friday morning. Bertha smiled sweetly at her over her breakfast coffee.

  “I hope you’re in a better mood than last night, and prepared to give the customers value for money. Just one more for yourself but, of course, the girls and I will expect to be paid first, and if you don’t perform better than yesterday, you’ll be putting out your cunt for little reward.”

  Madeleine kept her thoughts to herself, and went to prepare for a final barrage of pricks.

  She wrapped herself round client after client, trying to give them complete satisfaction, and yet get through the door to the next eager prick as soon as possible. She got through the eight for the rent before Bertha put her head round the door, and made a thumbs down. The bitch, she was playing games again. Four more later, and she’d made up the refund, and the three for the ‘girls’ before Bertha’s grinning face and drooping thumb signalled another failure. She let the next pass, wiping out the sweetener for ‘loss of trade’, but failed the youth who should have been her passport out of here. Panic began to rise as the clock ticked on towards two. She couldn’t bear to have to go into the evening session too. The door opened, and the filthiest man she’d ever seen shuffled in. There was no difficulty placing him, a ‘methy’ from under the arches, his smell proclaimed him a mile off. One of Bertha’s sick jokes, obviously, there was no way he could have afforded her fifty pound price tag. Bertha must have lured him in on the promise of a drink and free sex, and she’d have to make damn sure he was fucked to satisfaction, or she’d have to come again tonight, and that she couldn’t face. Better these rotten teeth and stinking breath, as he forced his mouth on hers, the urine reeking underwear he lowered to force a dirty, but surprisingly large and active, penis into her shattered vagina. She kissed him back, she raised her hips to accept him, she squeezed with her muscles, and gasped in pretended ecstasy, though her senses reeled from his overpowering breath and her stomach heaved at his stench. She brought him to noisy, battering discharge just as two struck, and Bertha looked round the door one last time, and called, “Bullseye, one hundred up.”

  She staggered into the next room, and fell on the sordid bed, her shoulders and stomach heaving, but her rest was short lived. Bertha again, would the woman never let her go?

  “There’s a little ceremony all new whores have to go through, so if you want to leave today, you’d better get cracking, the girls have to be back on the job by six.”

  Wearily she followed her tormentor back to the lounge. The three girls sat around the table. In the middle stood the plastic pail she had near filled with used condoms, each knotted to retain the semen in the swollen tip, two hundred and one little rubber teats she’d had to endure the filling of, to raise the hundred needed for her ransom. With it another pail with even more of the disgusting little objects, presumably the ones that Bertha had told the girls to start saving on the day she arrived.

  “Welcome to the club,” said Carol, who seemed to have been elected mistress of ceremonies, “every new girl has to be ‘passed out’ at the end of her apprenticeship, and it’s your turn today.” She pointed to the table and the buckets of knotted rubbers. “Those are the ‘johnnies’ from everybody here, your first week. First you have to take a pin and prick the end. Not the first prick that’s been in them,” she laughed at her own weak joke.

  “You have to squeeze the spunk out through the hole into the glasses,” she indicated three tumblers at the side.” There’s well over five hundred all told, so you’d better get cracking, or you’ll be here all night.”

  Puzzled at what this might be in aid of, but anxious to do nothing to prejudice her escape from this hell hole, she sat at the table in her recently and dearly purchased, but now sweaty soiled and sordid slip, and began the painstaking process of collecting the thick seminal contents of the used rubbers. It was boring repetitive work, but she kept at it, piercing and squeezing six or seven teats a minute, driving herself to keep up her work rate, and bring nearer the time when she could get out of the brothel where she’d endured so much this last week. To the accompaniment of jeers and ribald remarks from the resident whores, she persevered, like a housewife shelling peas for a family gathering.

  It took her over an hour and a half of back aching work to drain the contents of over five hundred ‘johnnies’ and at the end of her unsavoury task, she had three tumblers, each containing about a third of a pint of thick viscous liquid.

  Carol took charge of the proceedings again. “As senior whore in this whorehouse, I declare you to be a whore through and through. Kneel up on the table.”

  Madeleine climbed up and knelt on the hard surface, facing them.

  “Now pour the first glass over your head, and spread it well on your face and hair.”

  Madeleine looked at them aghast. “You can’t make me do that,” she protested.

  “Can’t we just,” came the uncompromising reply, “you won’t get out of here until you’ve been properly anointed as a first class whore, and if you give any trouble, we can always get Pete to come and help. I’m sure he’d love to watch the proceedings.”

  Defeated again, she raised the brimming glass above her head and poured its revolting contents over her hair and face. It flowed in sticky rivulets onto her neck and shoulders.

  “Rub it well in,” Carol ordered,” make sure all your hair gets soaked, and smear yo
ur face with it. Behind your ears too.”

  No point in risking further imprisonment in the dreadful place. She’d poured it, she might as well spread it.

  “Done like a good whore should,” commented the whore of ceremonies, “now get on your back, and pour the next glass over your belly, tits and cunt.”

  She obeyed without protest now and when ordered, spread the glutinous substance over her body and rubbed it between her thighs.

  “Now sit up, and drink the last.”

  “I can’t, I can’t,” she wailed.

  “You can, and you will if you know what’s good for you,” Carol growled back, “Pete’s still in next door with Bertha. What’s more, if you spill it, or don’t get it all down, you’ll have to stay here until you’ve filled a replacement glass.”

  Heaving and choking, she put the loathsome brew to her lips, and forced it bit by bit down her nauseous throat. She stopped several times to control her rebellious belly, but, urged on by more threats, sucked and swallowed until the glass was drained, then turned and fled, to spew up the contents of her sickened stomach in the bathroom. As she leaned, retching, over the basin, Bertha spoke from behind her.

  “Stop behaving like a schoolgirl after her first blow job: you’re a time-served whore now, and you’ll stay one if you don’t shift your arse right now. The car’s waiting for you downstairs, and he’ll be off if you don’t go straight down,” then, as Madeleine made as if to try and wash off some of the spilt sperm clotting her hair, face and body. “No, you haven’t time for that. Go as you are, or you won’t go at all.”

  “What about my clothes?”

  “Well, if you want to stay another week for a suit and a pair of shoes, that’s up to you, but if you want to catch the car before it leaves, you’ll go as you are, and leave your things for Maggie.”

  Soiled, sticky and sick, she tottered to the lift. Bertha pushed her inside, and reached in to hit the button for the basement car park. As the ancient machine sank out of sight, the fat Madam watched her go with a malevolent smirk on her face. Madame R had told her one week, no more, but she’d stretched it to the limit, if not beyond, and she’d squeezed the girl dry. Five grand she’d made her earn, with her reamed out pussy and battered thighs, and she’d made sure the ‘house’ whores hadn’t missed their quotas. It was all profit, and she’d no more intention of passing any of it on to the others than fly.

  In the basement, the chauffeur took one look at her spunk soaked slip and dripping body, and deftly shook a rug over his precious upholstery. She huddled on the seat until he deposited her at the lift, which took her up to Madame Ruskova’s luxury apartment. At the door she collected herself together, straightened her shoulders, and determined to carry it off, as if she’d done no more than spend a week-end in the country, brazening out her near nudity, her soiled flesh and her near exhaustion.

  “So how did you enjoy slumming it?” Madame R greeted her.

  “Not a lot.”

  “Do I gather you’re not keen to take up a career in Bertha’s house of joy?”

  “No. I think I’ll stick to my own line of work, Thank you”

  “Very wise. How many times did you have to put out to earn my five grand, by the way?”

  “Two hundred and one, if you must know. That cow, Bertha, made me pay through the nose, or rather the cunt, every minute I was there.”

  Madame whistled, softly. “So many. You must have worked night and day to get through that many in a week.”

  Madeleine explained how she’d set up the sexual see-saw, and the price Bertha had made her pay.

  “The greedy bitch. Well I’m not surprised, and I hope you have learned your lesson.”

  “Yes, Madame,” in a low voice.

  “Well, now you know how the other half lives, you’ll understand that your best interest lies in letting me run your career for you. Unless, that is, you’ve lost your nerve, and feel you can’t hack it?”

  Madeleine was stung into a reply. “I can hack it. I didn’t turn away from Maurice Helworthy because I was frightened of what he might do to me, it was just that he knew me, and we might meet in a work situation. I can take anything the clients want to dish out,” she declared.”

  “I’m glad to hear it as you’ll be going back to see Maurice Helworthy soon enough, and no doubt he’ll add a little extra for your letting him down on the previous occasion. I want no trouble from you this time, is that understood?”

  Again a submissive, “Yes, Madame.”

  “Very well, then. You’ve had a hard time, but you’ve learned your lesson. It may take me a little while to set up a meeting with Maurice, and you can have a few days’ rest. Go home now and remove that disgusting mess from your person. I presume that they initiated you into the Sisterhood of Whores in the traditional way?” Madame grinned unexpectedly. “How many doses were there in your baptism?”

  “Over five hundred,” Madeleine shuddered anew at the thought, “They made me pour most of it over my hair and belly, and drink the rest.”

  “Well, at least Maurice won’t be that copious. Go home now, clean up, and have a few days off to recuperate. I’ll let you know when you’re to go to your missed date.”

  Glad to escape at last, Madeleine turned in her caked slip and set off for home.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Hell Worthy’

  “Well, well! If it isn’t Ms. Fines. What a charming surprise.”

  Time to face the music. Madame had rung the previous evening to say that Maurice Helworthy was expecting her the next day. He didn’t know who she was yet, only that there was no limit set on what she would accept. For his five thousand, he was entitled to thrash her as much as his lust desired, and her body was his to use until the morning, if he was still not satiated. This was going to be a severe trial of her endurance, and she had arrived at his door with her belly churning and her diminutive knickers wet in the crotch.

  “This puts a rather different light on things,” he observed, darkly, “I’d bought you as a present for my wife, who’s waiting for you in her sitting room on the next floor, no doubt with her knickers soaking. I had intended handing you over unmarked but, now that I know who Madame R’s mysterious prize performer is, I’m sure Zena will understand if I warm you up for her first.”

  He turned to the cabinet behind the heavy desk and drew out something long, black and gleaming that sent spasms of fear rippling through Madeleine’s belly.

  “You caused me great embarrassment when you didn’t turn up when promised. Even more than when you declined my job offer, after I’d stood out against all my male colleagues to give you the post. This little toy is Black Beauty, the pride of my collection, genuine whalebone and made by an amateur craftsman who has researched all the old techniques to produce what our Victorian forefathers regarded as the ultimate penal rod. I only have recourse to it on rare occasions. Zena’s had it once,” he confided, “when she had a little too much champagne at a wedding reception, and tried to have the Best Man in a broom cupboard. I could forgive her lust, any young woman’s hormones will start jumping between little pink bubbles and a big red prick, but the broom cupboard had no class. It just wasn’t on, and I took her straight home and cut up her arse, to remind her that there are certain standards to maintain.

  Still, enough of such reminiscences,” he said, rapping the rod on the desk to get her attention, an unnecessary gesture as she was listening to every word with the attention of a rabbit hypnotised by a poised cobra, “you’re going to get ten belters for making my present late. Take down your knickers, and bend over the desk. I’m going to cut the arse off you.”

  There was nothing for it but to obey. She was bought and paid for, and there was nothing to stop him sharing his wife’s present any way he wished. With a sinking feeling in her guts she stepped forward to the desk. That black beast was long and thick. If it was genuine whalebone, and she had no reason to doubt that, it would be very heavy and very whippy, a combination that would indeed cut
her arse and moreover leave her deeply bruised for days to come. This was going to be bad, and she still had a session with Mrs. Helworthy to look forward to afterwards.

  Trying not to look as frightened as she felt, she hoisted her skirt onto her hips, and stuck her thumbs into the waistband of her dainty briefs. She peeled them down until they rested on the tops of her thighs, then bent herself over the desk, reaching forward to grip the far edge, and cling on in mounting dread. The air on her bare buttocks brought home their vulnerability in this exposed position.

  Footsteps behind her, and then the cold touch of the rod on her bare flesh as he selected his aiming point. God. He was sizing up her crease, where the slight fullness of her taut round buttocks met the smooth columns of her thighs. It was inevitable of course that a man of his experience would know that a woman felt the rod most keenly on just that tenderest of places. She flinched from the touch and a voice, thick with lust, growled at her to stay still, or get extra.

  The air ripped behind her, and a band of sheer white flame exploded precisely where he had laid out his mark. The cut was as hard as ever she’d estimated, when she’d put him down as a squash or racquets player, and his accuracy was perfect. This was going to be every bit as bad as she’d feared, and she groaned as the after pain surged into the rising welt, gripping the desk edge a little tighter.

  Again that bowel loosening sound announcing the next hellish cut was on its way, and a gasp as it bit. Oh! No! Precisely on its predecessor. She braced her legs to hold herself steady and gritted her teeth, awaiting the next in the doleful sequence. It fell as near as made no difference to the sufferer, on the same anguished line, and bathed in a fresh flood of agony, she renewed her resolve not to give in. For she was determined to fight him to the end, not just a matter of her usual search for satisfaction, but a personal thing between them. He knew her. He knew all there was about her in her previous persona, before the island, and she needed to show him that although she backed away from the job he’d offered, it was not from lack of courage to face the big time operators and stand up to them.