8 comments/ 173478 views/ 44 favorites Blackmailed: Whore for a Day By: JMaxwell69 Melinda almost didn't open the email because she didn't recognize the address, motoole174@---.com, and figured it must be some sort of spam. But the fact that the subject line was so personal and yet arcane, it said "Mel, only open this if you're alone", caused her curiosity to get the better of her. When Mel opened the email her heart skipped a beat and her skin blanched and went cold. Before she could even read the note, she saw the attached picture. It was her, a younger her - eight years younger to be roughly precise, holding a martini glass containing some bright blue umbrella-topped drink off-kilter in one hand and a male exotic dancer's engorged schlong in the other. There was a saliva rope between her clearly visible face and the stripper's clean-shaven nether region. She remembered the occasion, well... not the details, but she remembered starting a girl's night out - her girlfriend's bachelorette party - and the pounding headache the next morning. That was a different time, a different life. She had been a single college student. Now she was a married woman of five years and was employed as a teacher in the local Public School system. Those were but two of the many reasons she did not particularly want to see photos of her sluttiest moments as a stupid college kid floating around in the public eye. It could ruin her professionally, and, though it was before her marriage, the full extent of her immaturity was not something she particularly wanted her husband to know about. He had married a much saner and soberer version of Melinda. This was not, after all, the revelation of a past boyfriend - her husband knew he hadn't married a virgin - but, rather, it was her getting freaky with a complete stranger in front of a room full of both friends and other strangers. She was not that same girl now. She had just turned 30, for christ's sake, and she lived a perfectly quiet, respectable, and, in some sense of the word, conservative life. While it would be a lie to deny she occasionally missed the adventures of youth, she was happy as an adult, if occasionally stressed by the responsibilities of adulthood. Melinda took a calming breath and forced herself to read the note. "Mel: If you don't want the juicier pictures in this series to go viral on the web and into the inboxes of some important people in your life, you will follow these directions to the letter. Now I know you may be inclined to say: 'Fuck this bastard. I'm going to get him.' I assure you, while I am admittedly a bastard, I am not a dumb bastard. Without getting into the details, I will tell you I have a hair-trigger set up such that my failure to defuse it will result in the pictures going out automatically. In other words, even if I can't access a computer because I am in jail, dead, or in the hospital, the pictures will go out via anonymous email and blog posts. On Saturday morning at 10am, I want you to go to the 3rd Floor of the Central Branch of the Library downtown. You will go into the stacks and pick up the book with the call number '613.81', and will leisurely flip through the book until I arrive. "When I arrive, I will ask: 'Which one do you want to try?' "You will respond by saying: 'All of them.' "That's how you'll know it's me. If any one else comes by, just keep flipping through the book. You will not have a purse or any other sort of bag with you. You will leave your cell phone at home or in your car. Tell your hubby you have something to do and you won't be back until 7 or 8 pm. Make up any excuse you want (shopping, work, whatever he'll believe). Finally, and this is of the utmost importance. Wear a dress or skirt with stockings (no pantyhose), with no pockets, and leave your panties in the car or at home. I cannot emphasize enough that complete obedience will result in you being free and easy as of 8:00pm Saturday night, but if you don't comply or try to get even afterword, you will pay a price. I'm looking forward to our date." It was signed "M. O'Toole". She recognized the pseudonym from jokes about male porn star names, Miles O'Toole, and it gave her not the slightest hint as to who might be black-mailing her. Melinda's first response was intense anger, the kind of boiling rage one develops when a very bad thing happens to one that one is completely impotent to stop. She forced herself to calm down, and to think about her options. She considered whether she might just defuse the situation by simply telling her husband and employer about her past indiscretions. The logical and rational part of her suspected she would survive it alright. Her husband might be mad for a period due to the embarrassment, but the fact that there was no infidelity and his easy-going nature meant he would get over it. She was aware that complying with her blackmailer would likely involve far greater betrayal than not telling him what a naughty slut she had once been. She was more worried about her employment situation. Even though her direct superior, Principal Werner, might be willing to write off the past as the past based on her personal knowledge Melinda, this was the kind of thing that could hit the 6 o'clock news and become tangled up in politics and school board debates. If she lost her job, there would forever be that dreaded job interview question: "Why did you leave your last job?" The response to which would either be a lie or the unappealing truth: "Because amateur porn photos from a bachelorette party surfaced." In reality, she probably wouldn't even get an interview because, in this day and age, HR people websurf your name before they even call you in for an interview. After hours of vacantly thinking of nothing else even after her husband came home and tried to engage her in chit-chat as they watched some television before bed, Melinda concluded that she was not brave enough to do the rational thing. She kept taking a deep breath with the intent of spewing out her secret to her man, imploring his forgiveness, and seeking his help. But she couldn't do it, no matter how nuanced the wording she thought up. She hated herself for it, for her weakness and cowardice. But this self-loathing was not alone, it mixed with disgust that she couldn't put her finger upon. There seemed to be a deep-seated thrill in which part of her subconscious reveled. Was part of her exhilarated by the prospect of her trip on Saturday - even as she dreaded it in the forefront of her mind? She forced such questions out of her mind as ridiculous. At 2:00am, having developed her plan, Melinda drifted off for the remainder of the night. The next morning she said to her husband, "Oh, I think on Saturday I'm going to go to the outlet mall. I'll make sure I'm back in the evening, maybe 7 or 8ish." She worried that the veil of nonchalance she tried to project would falter and she would be betrayed by her own behavior. She also expected that, while out of character, Bill might decide he wanted to go along with her. "That's fine, I should probably go into the office for a few hours anyway because we are really pressed on the Latimer project, and it's hard to get work done when the whole crew is there. Have fun." Bill said. Melinda was relieved, but suppressed a sigh of relief. She would do some quick shopping with cash on Saturday morning before going downtown to the library. She would destroy the receipts and tags. She didn't have the time to go all the way out to the outlet mall in the far suburbs, but she could get things for similar prices on sale on her way. As long as she had something in hand when she returned, Bill would be none-the-wiser. Truth be told, even if she didn't have new clothes in tow, he probably wouldn't notice. Melinda was relatively frugal, and Bill never seemed to notice the minutiae of her shopping sprees. She was worried all this duplicity might give her ulcers, but her terror at the alternative far outweighed such concerns. When Saturday came, Mel had an unexpectedly easy time because Bill left early to go into the office. She was then able to follow on his heels without raising suspicions. She did some quick shopping, leaving the tags and receipts torn up in the mall parking deck trash can. She was rushed and barely paid attention to what she was buying. She was constantly looking around to make sure no one would see her that knew she and Bill such that it might get back to him where and when she did her shopping. She caught herself almost buying things that weren't her size or taste. As she drove downtown, the same concern confronted her, that someone might see her driving and tell Bill. She knew it was extremely unlikely given the high numbers of people downtown and the fact that she actually knew relatively few people in the city. It was not rational fear, but it was unshakable nonetheless. She'd never been to the main branch of the library before, but had done the research to find it and to determine where to park. She put her cell phone in her purse with the pair of panties she would put on before she went home, and shoved it under the driver's seat. The shopping bags were in the trunk where they wouldn't attract a break in of her Hyundai. Before getting out, she looked around to see that no one she knew was around. The library opened at 9:00am, but, despite the fact that she was in the neighborhood by 9:30, Melinda saw no reason to get there early. She went into a Starbucks at the base of a nearby office building and had a latte. She watched the pedestrian traffic to see if she could spot her tormentor. She logically knew there was no acceptable way to get the drop on him, even if she knew who he was, but she longed to experience some sense of being out ahead of the man who was dragging her life out of control through the muck. She needed to embrace some illusion that she was not rudderless. As the dreaded hour arrived, Melinda did go to the library, up to the third floor, and wandered through the stacks looking from the scrap of paper in her palm up to the call sign markers at the end of the shelves and back. When she got in the vicinity of the book she was looking for, she understood what a piece of crap she was dealing with. The books were all about sex and sexuality. This guy really wanted to try to see if he could put her off-guard with a simple humiliation from the start. She found the book, 613.81. It was a modern large-format edition of the "Kama Sutra", with full-page glossy color photos of the various sexual positions posed by svelte models. She checked her watch, and didn't pick up the book until precisely 10:00am. She flipped through the first time uneventfully in about ten minutes. On the second time through a young black man passed the end of the shelf and smiled when he saw Melinda paging through the nudey book, but kept moving when she practically buried her face in the book. It was interminable half-hour before she saw another soul, and her stomach flopped when she recognized the man. She didn't know from where at first, but she knew she had seen him. Then she remembered that he had attended a parent-teacher conference. His daughter was in Melinda's class. The girl apparently lived with her mother, who normally attended such functions, but since she had to be out of town for work, the father had been called upon to hear a progress report on the child. The two parents were divorced. She remembered her friend Vicki, another teacher, bemoaning the fact that this father, who was not hard on the eyes, was on the market since his divorce, and was rumored to make a comfortable living, was wasted on a married Melinda when there were perfectly suitable single teachers around. Vicki's words were something like "you are such a lucky dog, I hope he comes next year when his girl is in my class." This was not the first time that Vicki, sweet girl as she was, had said something catastrophically stupid. "Which one do you want to try?" The man said. It was only then that it dawned on Melinda, that this man was her blackmailer. When she saw him, she just thought she was having the most extreme bad luck of running into someone who recognized her while waiting on her blackmailer. She was trying to make sense of it as he came closer and closer. "What?" Melinda said. "That is not your line. Let's try this again. WHICH... ONE... DO... YOU... WANT... TO... TRY?" The man said slowly and carefully enunciating each individual word as if Melinda was deaf or mentally unsound. As he did so, he tapped the glossy nude photograph on the page to which Melinda held the book open. "Uhh... All of them." Melinda said feebly as her freckled skin blushed. A fair-complected natural red-head, Melinda showed her embarrassment particularly intensely in her facial hue. "That's better. Now, don't mind me, I just need to do one more check of how well you follow instructions." With that, right there in the public library, the man lifted the back of Melinda's skirt to the small of her back so that her bare pale rounded buttocks were exposed. She flushed further at the thought that she might be observed through the gaps between the books and the shelves, or on camera. However, she knew it was unlikely. She fought off an urge to attack the man like an animal. She wanted to slap him, and keep hitting and kicking him until he was down, but she couldn't do it. Instead she just watched her powerlessness grow as the man rubbed his open palm across her butt-cheeks and then gave one cheek a tight squeeze before letting go and letting the dress hemline fall back to its intended position. She had never felt so violated in all her life. "Very good. You get an 'A' in 'listens to, and follows, instructions.' Come with me. It's time to start our big adventure." He said. "Wait a minute. How do I know you aren't just going to take me into the woods and hack me to pieces?" Melinda said. "I guess you don't 'know' that, but I suspect that you don't believe it. Our limited interaction gave you no reason to suspect I'm a killer. It might not have given you reason to think I was a blackmailing bastard either, but that is a little more believable, right?" The man, who she thought was named Joe, replied. "OK, how do I know you won't get what you want and still release the photos." Melinda asked. "Oh, that one is easy. Remember the Cold War, now that you've seen my face, we can both destroy each other, and thus, if you do as I say, I have no incentive to do anything to incur your wrath. If I released the photos, you would just implicate me. Let's continue this talk while walking." Joe said. "Alright, then we should just call this a Mexican stand-off, and each go home." Melinda said. "Nice try, but our situations are not strictly analogous. I'm already divorced. My ex-wife already sees me as a dirt-bag, and thus, by extension, the daughter who lives with her probably thinks I'm a dirt-bag from all her mom's trash talk. Also, I'm not a public school teacher. I'm an independent securities trader. I'd lose a client or two, but I'd probably gain a few as well who like the idea of having a type-A personality running their mad-money portfolios. Mostly, I'd suffer an embarrassment, but would still have a job and no spouse. You, on the other hand... I don't relish anyone knowing about this, but you have far more to lose. So just do what I say for the day, and we both go our separate ways." "You say that, but you'll still have the pictures and 'less to lose', and may come back for more. You clearly want to publically humiliate me judging from the fact that you were trying to make me look like some sort of ogling pervert with that last task." Melinda said, letting out all the questions that had plagued her since she received the email and decided to comply. "If I were interested in publically humiliating you I would have told you to dress slutty and go to a Barnes and Noble and pick a far more risqué book than is carried by a public library. Haven't you heard, it's the internet age and no one goes to the library any more? That said, I understand why you would be reluctant to take my word, and it's impossible for me to prove I've deleted all the photos because they are digital and can be a million places at once. However, if I lie, I risk you getting so mad you call my bluff. Believe me, in my line of work I see people shoot themselves in the foot on the principle of the matter all the time. I, obviously, don't expect you to believe me, but I will say that even a bastard like me can have an ethics of sorts. I struck an implicit contract with you. You spend a day doing as I say and you are in the clear, and I intend to honor that agreement. Like it or not by showing up, you agreed to honor that agreement as well." Joe explained as they walked out of the library, and onto the sidewalk. It was a beautiful autumn morning outside with azure skies overhead. "So are we done with the '20 Questions' here, or what?" Joe asked. "I've got just one more question. Why are you doing this to me? What did I ever do to you?" Melinda asked struggling to keep her voice from cracking from sadness about the injustice of her present situation. They walked a canyon between tall office buildings at a leisurely stroll, and there was almost no one on the streets this Saturday morning to overhear Joe's soliloquy. "Ah. Well, my dear, you've probably already guessed that I'm an evil bastard, and that's about all the explanation there need be. You are looking at this all wrong. You are looking for a reason in an unreasonable world. Bad and unfair shit happens to people all the time. It doesn't have to be your fault. Haven't you read about when 'bad things happen to good people'? If you want to know, 'why you?' It's as simple as a.) you are a pretty woman, b.) the opportunity presented itself - I recognized you from back when I was bouncing at a strip club right after college, and one fortuitous night was assigned a bachelorette party in the ladies' side of the club, and c.) life is not fair, Princess, get used to it. If you're asking 'why am I am doing this', the answer is more complex. I could say I'm engaging in thrill-seeking necessitated by life in a world in which the mundane and prosaic grind a person down. Our ancestors got used to getting their tickers going by having saber-toothed tigers chasing their asses, and, in a small tribe, an aggressive SoB like me had a shot at ruling the roost. Now days, if you insist I wax philosophical on the subject, in order to imbue my life with some sense of control and exhilaration, I have to play games like this. If that explanation makes your mind rest easier than just accepting that I'm a mean son-of-a-bitch, then, by all means, run with it." Joe said. Joe ushered Melinda into a parking deck, into the stairwell, and up the stairs. When they got to the third level, they exited the stairwell, and walked, with clacking heels echoing in the empty space, down to an adjacent corner where Joe popped the locks on a shiny black BMW that was parked nose out. "Get in the front passenger seat." Joe commanded, and Melinda complied. After Melinda got in, Joe followed suit by getting into the driver's seat. They just sat in silence for a moment. Joe made no move to start the car. He just sat there looking ahead. "Look you don't have to do this." Melinda said softly. She was trying to appeal to some humanity that the man had steadfastly tried to show her did not exist. When that tack didn't work, she changed course. Speaking up louder and more confidently, she said, "I mean, you are not a complete ogre. It might be possible for you to get some sort of woman without hijacking her." Joe just smiled at the latter comment. She had broken the silence and was working through her basket of tricks to get him to engage. It was all part of the sophisticated mind-fuck he was carrying out. He wanted her to know that he was unflappable. Her insult merely amused him because it was a clear act of desperation, and he wanted her to be acting out of desperation. Besides he knew he was considered not too shabby for a middle-aged man. He worked out and had a chiseled face that at least some women found attractive, though others found a bit hard - though not ugly. Women who batted their eyes over Leonardo DiCaprio or Brad Pitt might not go for him, but a woman who like the Marlboro Man would swoon. His close-cropped brown hair might have a little salt in it and his well-muscled physique might not be as lean as it was when he was 20, but he was doing alright. He was not blackmailing the woman because it was his only option, but rather because the other options were so spectacularly boring. Blackmailed: Whore for a Day Finally, Joe said. "You like to talk don't you? I know a remedy that will bring some peace. I remember you being quite an enthusiastic little cocksucker." With this he turned to look at Melinda and canted his body in the seat appearing to do so in order to speak with her without craning his neck. He took a couple of the strands of her red-blond hair, which was almost a shade of orange, between his fingers and smoothed its natural waves. With his other hand he unzipped his trousers and wrestled the erect shaft out of the fly of his khakis. He then swept Mel's hair over her shoulder and, putting his hand on the back of her neck, pulled her face towards his lap. Her resistance was weak at best. She knew as well as he where this was all going, well, as it turned out, not quite as well as he. Melinda took Joe's member in her mouth tentatively at first, but then, figuring that she should just get it over with, began to suck with a rhythmic bouncing motion as she used her hand to jack off the base of Joe's tool. There were not miles of it, as his pseudonym suggested, but there were plenty of inches with which Melinda could occupy herself. She was simultaneously angry, sad, and humiliated, but she only knew one way to suck cock and that was with gusto. In the finely engineered German auto with all its road sound reduction technologies, the moist and fleshy slurping and smacking noises filled the space. "Oh, girl, yeah that's it. That's a good little cocksucker." Joe moaned The car's soundproofing was not so sophisticated that Melinda couldn't hear a car pull in and park a couple slots down from Joe's BMW. When the door slammed and she heard the rhythmic clack of a pair of men's leather-soled dress shoes getting louder as they approached, she tried to sit up to avoid being caught in the act. However, Joe's hand kept her head from rising. "You don't want to do that. He's already seen me getting sucked off, but all he's seen of you is an anonymous back of the head. If you sit up he's going to be looking you square in the face. So you might as well just keep at it." Joe said to Melinda. Then he lowered the window, and spoke to the man outside. "Move it along buddy, if you stay I'm going to have to collect the price of admission." "You can't do that here." Was the deep-voiced retort, which was followed by the fading clack of leather on concrete as the man retreated. Joe closed the window and returned his attention to running his fingers through Melinda's hair as she kept bobbing her face on his meaty shaft. Soon he was beginning to tense in his hips and thighs, and he was engaging in sustained low moans. Then, not unexpectedly, he shot a glob of his thick slippery man-goo into the back of Mel's throat. Mel swallowed, and habitually continued to suck even when Joe began to wriggle displaying his discomfort as if she were trying to suck his nuts out through his urethra. Finally, Joe pushed her off as he retracted his hips. "Oh yeah. You've got skills little slut. It's time to go for a ride. That guy's definitely the type to rat us out. The cops could be here any moment." With that Joe started the car and tucked is waning unit back into his fly before driving off with tires squealing as he rounded corners of the parking deck switchbacks. Soon they were out on the streets and headed to who knows where. Joe drove out of downtown through residential areas and into an industrial landscape of warehouses, small-scale manufacturing, and wholesalers. There were also odds and ends like gas stations and a row of strip clubs that weren't allowed to be in areas zoned for retail business. Joe drove into a strip of low-slung red-brick light industrial buildings, and drove around behind one of them parking between the loading dock and a green metal door with no knob, nothing but a deadbolt. As they walked in, it was pitch dark beyond the areas illuminated by the bright sunlight filtering in through the open door. This was remedied when Joe flipped on a light. Melinda looked around. It was a sparse and odd space. The floors were bare dusty concrete, and the wall in front of her was unfinished plywood. It took a second for Melinda to put two and two together, but eventually she realized what the thin mattress on the floor along the forward wall and the three inch diameter holes crudely lined with duct tape were for. They were glory-holes. "Ready?" Joe asked as he flipped another switch, which seemed to have no noticeable effect. "Ready for what?" Melinda asked in an unnerved fashion. "To make me a little money. What else? That little switch is like the doughnut shop's 'Hot Donuts Now' sign except it's a 'Warm&Wet Mouth Now' sign. In a minute the first stiff dick is going to come through one of those holes and it'll be time for you to go to work." Joe explained. "No. No way. I'll do whatever you want to you, but I'm not going to suck a bunch of random strangers' dicks." Melinda said. "Well if it's because they are strangers, I can take you out there and introduce you to them, who knows you might find out some are not strangers but rather friends and colleagues, but you don't want to renege at this point. In for a penny, in for a pound." Joe said. Melinda was crestfallen when a little prick poked through one of the holes and she knew she would have to suck it, and who knew how many other strange dicks. Through a thin mail slot up top, a twenty dollar bill was slipped. Joe took Melinda by the hand lead her over to the hole, snatched the twenty, and put a pressure on Mel's shoulders to guide her down to her knees. Barely four inches of a thin dick poked through the hole. It was probably the smallest dick she had seen attached to a full grown male. She leaned forward and took the rigid little stalk in between her lips. Her head had only bobbed three or four times when the over-excited owner of the diminutive pud gave into the thrill and his little guy puked a thin, vaguely bleachy smelling, dollop of jizm into her mouth. Before the dick withdrew another twenty was shoved through the slot, and Melinda thought this meant the guy wanted another bj. Who knew how long the guy would take on his second time? She began to lean in, when she felt Joe's hand on her shoulder. "It's a tip. That pin-dick, Eddie, is just very grateful. Be glad you don't know what an ugly son-of-a-bitch he is. I'll tell you what, though. You get to keep that. Is that the first cash you've ever earned for sucking dick? I'm not talking about nice dinners or promotions, but cash money." Joe said handing Melinda the Jackson from out of the mail slot. When she didn't take it, refusing to let him turn her from a blackmail victim into a common whore, he shoved the bill inside the neckline of her dress into her bra. The next cock was much bigger. It was probably both slightly longer and a little bit thicker than average and had a substantial upward curve to it - like a banana. It was not porn star big, but it was substantial. After a couple minutes of sucking, it was clear that this guy wasn't going to succumb quickly like Eddie. As she was sucking, Melinda felt the cool air as Joe flipped the hem of her dress up onto her lower back, and proceeded to roughly run a hand down the length of her slit. She wriggled involuntarily. "Wow, you are slut. I thought for sure your cunt was going to be bone dry and I was going to have to breach you like a rapist." Joe said, taunting Melinda about the fact that somehow she had managed to grow aroused despite the traumas that were befalling her. Melinda felt betrayed by her own body, but reasoned that it was just a conditioned response. She was in a sexual situation and responded accordingly. Like Pavlov's dog salivating to the sound of a bell. Except that this didn't wring true to her. Neither did the idea that she had gotten aroused as a self-defense maneuver knowing that she would, sooner or later, be, for all intents and purposes, raped. In the end Melinda tried not to think about it, and to ignore Joe's taunts. As she was sucking off the guy with the curved dick, Joe plowed his cock into Melinda's pussy and began to fuck her intensely. His hips slapped rhythmically on her backside and made it difficult for Melinda to maintain her concentration and her own rhythm in the blowjob she was carrying out. Her shoulders soon ached from resisting the thrust of Joe's enthusiastic member. It was not long before the curve dick retracted, while tossing a $5 bill through the slot. This would also be Melinda's to keep. Joe, having come once, was nowhere near blowing his load yet. Cock after cock, and a shower of bills - mostly Jacksons but some Lincolns, Hamiltons, and the occasional Washington or two from some cheap ass bastard - came through the wall. Melinda was surprised to find herself insulted by such dismal tips. She would admit that her jaw was aching and beginning to cramp, and it was increasingly difficult to muster the adequate saliva, all of which resulted in her performance progressively going downhill, but... a dollar?... really?. After fifteen or twenty loads, she began to feel nauseous from her tummy full of ejaculate and resolved to start withdrawing rather than swallowing. It was not always possible, and the premature ejaculators were particularly prone to surprise her with a mouthful of spunk. Some of them clearly had brimming nuts, and produced, literally, a mouthful. More often than not when she succeeded in withdrawing she got a shot of seed in the eye, the cheek, her hair, and, in one case - almost in explicably, right in her ear. As the cum began to coat the shoulders and chest of her dress - either from direct shots or drippage, she was glad that she had newly acquired clothes in the trunk of her car. She couldn't go home in the dress she was wearing. She tried to think about where she could clean up before she got home. Changing attire didn't matter if she had globs of man-goo in her hair. Joe had taken breaks from fucking Melinda. After his second round without climax, on the third go he breached her backside. While Melinda was not a stranger to anal sex, this made her scream a little. The guy on the other side of the wall was lucky she didn't bite his cock off when the dick entered her butt. She hadn't had anal sex in a couple years, and then it had always been a very gradual process involving lots of lube and usually a finger or toy introduced to warm things up in prelude to taking a cock, a little at a time initially, in her bung. This time involve minimal lube and a very abrupt introduction of the man's tool inside her. Either because of the additional tightness, gradually rising arousal, or a sadistic streak, Joe climaxed relatively rapidly once he was in Melinda's butt. Melinda wondered if it was the latter. That is, did her pain arouse him? Melinda lost count at about 25 men she had serviced, and there were several still after that. There were huge cocks and tiny ones, but mostly commonly they were give or take 6 or 6-1/2 inches. There were the ramrod straight and those curved in all directions. She sucked circumcised and uncircumcised dicks. There were white ones and black ones, and quite a number of brown ones of ambiguous ethnicity. Mexican? Indian? Thai? American Indian? All of the above? Who knew? Disturbingly, there were clean soap-scented dicks and filthy musky lint-covered ones. Some had tufts of curly pubs that jutted through around the edge of the hole, and some had none. While most of the cum was mildly flavored if at all, occasionally she got a load that made her gag and spit. Some of the men barely put out a drop, and some seemed to yield an impossibly large volume of the white slippery goo. Finally, the line came to an end. Melinda suspected some of the men came by more than once but there were too many dicks to keep track of individual members. She didn't know if she'd be able to eat anything more substantial than pudding, and there were no steak dinners on the horizon for a day or two, but she'd gotten through it. Melinda was ecstatic when there were no more, though she had no idea what else might be in store for her. As she had been sucking the final cock, Joe had been separating his earnings, which was all in twenties, from Melinda's which ranged from dollar bills to a solitary $50. When she finished and Joe handed her the tip stack, Melinda just starred at it for a moment. Did she take it, and let him make her a whore for a day, or did she let the bastard walk off with almost twice as much cash? She decided to take it. Melinda estimated that it was probably between $300 and $500, but was not willing to count it in front of him as though she really was a common whore. She had no pockets, and had to follow the precedent and split the money between her bra and stockings. How could she show up from a shopping trip with more cash than when she left, Melinda thought? But she realized her husband was not really likely to see how much was in her wallet, and, up to a reasonable amount, was not likely to care. "Can I get cleaned up somewhere?" Melinda asked as it seemed Joe was satisfied and was about to take her back to her car. "On your own time." He said. When they exited the building, Joe got a large beach towel from the trunk. Without offering it to Melinda to clean up, he spread the towel over his passenger seat and head rest so that Melinda wouldn't drip spunk all over his car's interior. Melinda contemplated shaking her head like a big dog to see how much would fly off in droplets to various surfaces of the upscale sedan's interior. However, she decided to hold off, and not push her luck if he was about to take her back to her car. Besides, the yield would likely be minimal as much of the special sauce was by now caked in and solidified. It was a little earlier than expected, and so Melinda was afraid to ask if they were going back to the library. She didn't want to push her luck or draw attention. However, as they drove along, with Melinda exceedingly self-conscious about her cum-covered appearance being viewed by passing cars and people on the sidewalk, she became increasingly confident that they were going back toward the library. They were about five blocks from where she had left her car when he pulled over to the curb, "This is your stop." Joe said. "But my car is blocks away, and I'm all messy." Melinda complained. "I can chauffer you there, but I'm going to have to stop and pimp you out on the way to pay for my troubles. Is that what you want?" Joe asked. "Fine." Melinda said, angered at being made to engage in a jizm-soaked walk of shame over four blocks through a downtown neighborhood. She began to wipe herself off on his towel as she got out. "Hey, don't gunk up my towel or I'll have to claim the rest of my time." Joe said making clear that he was aware he was getting Melinda back earlier than he had "contracted" with her. "Sorry." Melinda said getting out, almost tragically forgetting the keys she had stowed in his console due to a lack of purse or pockets before snatching them up, and beginning to walk. She was looking for any place that had a public restroom where she could clean up. Being the weekend, most of the buildings were card-key access only. She walked three blocks passing only two people. However, they both clearly noticed the mess. The second sniffed and wrinkled his nose in disgust. As she got closer to the library, she realized it might be the one place that was open. Then she realized that she would have to walk past it, all the way to her car, to get a change of clothes, a black skirt and cream blouse, and then go back to get cleaned up. This added only one homeless man to the people seeing, and smelling, her. She was not about to get inside her car with the stench of cum on her clothes and in her hair. Melinda attracted a number of glances when she entered the library lobby from the ten or twelve people who were either at the circulation desk or in the adjacent "reading room", which was really an open space with chairs and study carousels. She walked hurriedly to the little hall off of which were located the restrooms. It occurred to her that the morning's humiliation of having to thumb through a photographic "Kama Sutra" was small potatoes compared to having to enter a public space looking, and smelling, worse than a low-class streetwalker. Once in the ladies room, she ran the sink and began to vigorously wash her face and hair. How would she explain arriving home with damp hair? She wondered if she shouldn't rent a motel room with towels and maybe a hairdryer with her new cash. She mustn't create a credit card record; she knew that much. She wondered if they would even rent a room without a card, but reasoned someone would with that wad of cash she had. However, because she was early, she still might get home and take a steamy cleansing shower before her husband arrived home. She, therefore, hurried. After she had gotten mostly clean, she knew she wouldn't feel truly clean until she had had a long hot shower, she took the dress off in the handicapped stall, and, looking for tell-tale signs of her illicit activities briefly as she carefully put the money in her wallet and deep in the purse she had brought with her, donned the skirt and blouse - almost forgetting to put on panties in her hurried state. She stuffed the dress into the trash can, and did one more careful look in the mirror, and running her hands around her neck and the back of her head looking for evidence she might not see but feared was present. Satisfied, she began an interminable trek back to the car and an even dreadfully slower drive back home. Going home she prayed that she would beat her husband home and would have time to put herself in order. Every light seemed to be red, and every imaginable traffic delay seemed to pour forth before her. Just as she was beginning to relax and have confidence in her story to explain the wet hair, hair-dresser visit, she noticed the black BMW in the cul-de-sac in front of her house. She tried to calm herself. BMW's are a common enough vehicle, particularly in the upper-middle class area in which she lived. If it was him, she'd kill him and bury the corpse before her husband got home. Then she almost spontaneously vomited when she noticed the garage was open and her husband's car was parked in its usual space. Maybe she could still intervene? All hope was lost when she realized Joe's car was empty. In a white-hot rage, she felt like driving right into his precious "beamer" for some manner of revenge, but she held back. Trying to calm herself, to catch her breath, and to appear normal - though she knew her face had to be flushed and her heart was beating out of her chest - she parked in the garage, nearly knocking her side rearview mirror off in her panicked state. While trying to restrain her gate, to appear normal, she walked far too rapidly into the living room to see Joe sitting across the coffee table from her husband. "Hey, hon, this is Joe Wright, and he says he knows you and you owe him twenty dollars." Melinda's husband said in a poorly concealed suspicious tone as though trying to discern fact from fiction, and a little uneasy about the stranger's presence on his doorstep. "Sorry, Mel, I must have counted wrong. I went through it again, and damned if I wasn't missing a twenty. The only thing I can figure is I gave it to you by mistake." Joe said in an apologetic tone. "Oh, no problem, Joe. Here you go." Melinda said, playing along for dear life. She cautiously dug into her purse, rather than extracting her wallet and risk having the stack of bills fall to the carpet. She dug out a $20 and handed it to him, unaware of how awkward she looked not stepping too close but rather extending her arm and leaning towards him as if trying to avoid catching an ailment from him. Blackmailed: Whore for a Day "Thank you kindly. I guess I'll be on my way now." Joe said with a bit of a shit-eating grin on his face as he looked at Melinda mischievously. "I can see myself out." Joe said, walking to the front door and exiting unceremoniously as both husband and wife stared quizzically at his retreating form going through the foyer and out the front door. "Dear, who is Joe Wright, and why did you owe him $20?" Melinda's husband asked, this time not attempting to conceal the suspicion in his tone. "Well, ...."