0 comments/ 15870 views/ 3 favorites Fuck the United Nations By: JimGrinsted For an introduction to Mollie and her brothel, please read the story Mollie Buys a Brothel. The Criminal My name is Maddie Smith-Litowski. You might remember the name from news coverage back when these events happened. It made quite a splash. I was 23 years old then. It was all pretty humiliating and I'm glad it's over. So why am I writing about it now? Partly just to tell my side of the story, but also to make some money. After all, there are a whole bunch of perverts out there who like reading about a girl getting fucked and raped. That girl was me -- I hope it gets your rocks off. I guess I need to tell you what I look like. Not that it makes any difference -- what happened would've happened no matter my appearance. But the male imagination demands a description, so just for you pervs out there I stripped naked and looked at myself in the mirror. I'm neither beautiful nor ugly. My schnoz is a little too big, and my jaw just a tad too small. It gives me a bit of an overbite. Fortunately my parents invested in braces when I was a kid, so my teeth are straight and in good shape. I have blue eyes that, insofar as they're not non-descript, might be called penetrating. My skin is clear, smooth and soft -- I never had acne issues. The best part of my face is my hair, which is thick and dirty blonde. If I primped it up nicely it would turn heads. But I'm too much of a feminist to do that. It's simple and cut too short. The rest of me -- 5'4" in bare feet -- is skinny. Not beanpole thin, mind you, but skinny enough that my teachers sometimes thought I was anorexic. That was never true -- I can eat with the best of them. "You need to gain some weight, little girl," is what my dad told me. And true enough -- an extra five or ten in the right places would've made me voluptuous. But it was never to be. My breasts are sexy as hell, if I say so myself. They're small, but perfectly formed and soft as tits. I got pert nipples and round, symmetric areolae. I never trimmed my pubic region ("bush" is likely how you pervs would call it) -- another mark of feminist sensibility. It probably doesn't need it, what not growing weedy up to my navel. It's the same color as my hair -- perhaps even lighter blonde. My butt's too small and my thighs are too thin. My waist is in perfect proportion to my hips. Everywhere my skin is clear and soft. My feet are small -- I wear size five. Even now in my late twenties, I still look like a sixteen-year-old. So now you guys probably want to skip straight to the part where I get fucked and raped. But I'm telling the story in my own time, so just stick your dick back in your pants and be patient. I grew up in an upper middle class suburb of Boston. My dad was a dentist, though I didn't see him much after the divorce. He's the 'Smith' part of my name. My mom -- the Litwicki -- was an office administrator for a large insurance company. That job was bigger than it sounds -- she had a dozen subordinates and attended the top leadership meetings. My parents each earned six figures, and between my mom's good salary and my dad's alimony, I grew up to be a spoiled brat. Of course I wanted to go to college at a private school. My parents didn't object to that. But when I told dad that I wanted to major in Global Justice with a minor in Women's Studies, he flipped out. "There's no way I'm paying tuition for that!" He kept his word, never contributing a penny for my education. I think my mom agreed with him -- she tried to talk me out of it. "There are no jobs in global justice," she argued, sensibly enough. But for all that she put up cash. Actually, she paid for all of it. So just out of adolescent selfishness I finished a silly major at an overpriced college on my mother's nickel. By the end even I thought I was pretty dumb. When I graduated I knew I had to find a job or eat humble pie. Horrors -- I might even have to move back home with Mama, which I didn't want to do. So I put together a resume, hopped Amtrak down to New York City, and started asking around at the United Nations. Unbelievably, I got a job. Yeah, I was a good student and had a good GPA, but I think I was just lucky. I knocked on the right door at the right time. "It pays $60K a year," I told my dad, lying. Actually, it only paid about $25K -- not enough to support a decent life in NYC. But I wasn't going to be living in New York. The job's location was in Povera (a very poor country on the Western Mainland). I'd be housed gratis in the capital, Putaville. So actually I could put most of the $25K in the bank. A month later I was on a plane for London. There I met my boss, a Brit named Erica Liggett. As you'll see, Erica is not one of my best friends today, but back then I liked her well enough. We both worked for the UN Special Taskforce to Combat Sexual Slavery. Erica was the leader for the Western Mainland, and while she was based in Putaville her responsibilities extended to many other countries. My job was to manage the office in Povera. "We have a special problem in Povera," Erica explained. "The country has almost no exports, and one of the biggest foreign exchange earners is Lagarde's Hotel & Spa. That's a high-end brothel that attracts a clientele from around the world." "That sounds awful." "It is," continued Erica. "But given its importance to the whole economy, it's going to be hard to shut it down. The owner is a Canadian -- her name is Mollie Grossman. Locally the property is known as Mollie's Brothel. Her husband, Jim Grinsted, helps her manage it. Maybe a hundred women work there as sex slaves, while another hundred people (mostly women) work in a support capacity." [You can read about Mollie's Brothel in the story Mollie Buys a Brothel -- ed.] "So what's our strategy?" I asked. "We'll just hound them. Get them as much bad publicity as possible. Eventually we'll force the government to shut them down." "And what'll happen to the employees?" "Anything's better than sex slavery," claimed Erica, with a conversation-stopping glance in my direction, as if I'd just committed a mortal sin by asking the question. She didn't answer my query, and I didn't ask it again. The Crime A week later we arrived in Putaville. I'd never been in a poor, tropical country before. The heat and humidity were enervating. The poverty depressing. The landscape flat, dry, dusty, and boring. The taxi from the airport -- not air conditioned -- took us through miles and miles of shanty towns. Endless unpainted lean-tos built aside open sewers, surrounded by naked, dirty, unschooled children. And here is where I'd committed myself to live for the next two years? Erica's office -- now also my office -- at least was air conditioned, albeit not very successfully. A noisy, old window unit worked overtime for as long as there was electricity. As the office had no other ventilation it became uninhabitable during the daily power outages. My desk was in a corner of a room shared with two other people -- our secretary and somebody who worked for another UN agency. They were both Poverans. My apartment was a mile away from the office in the small, UN complex. Maybe twenty ex-pats lived there, from all over the world. I had a sitting room, bedroom, bathroom, and small kitchen. There was no potable water. And no air conditioning, either, but it was situated on a small hill and thus caught the breeze. That and ceiling fans made it tolerable. The next day, with a UN car and driver, Erica showed me around town. Central Putaville was fit for a small town, a few square blocks of western-style, glass & steel buildings. The tallest building was the international hotel. The second tallest was Lagarde's Hotel & Spa, aka Mollie's Brothel, located on Rue Rene Blaen, at the edge of downtown. "That's your job," said Erica, as we drove by. "You need to collect as much dirt on them as you can." "How should I do that?" "You can start by interviewing employees. Hopefully you can find some sex slaves who will spill the beans. See if you can identify any underage children working there. Just hang around and ingratiate yourself as much as possible." I learned from my office mates that the shift change at Mollie's happened about noon each day. So I staked the place out then, hoping to catch sex slaves getting off work. Most of them wouldn't talk to me, likely intimidated by the management. Or perhaps my French wasn't yet good enough to sustain the conversation. But I did meet a woman named Hilda who seemed ready to talk. I invited her for a cup of tea. We exchanged pleasantries before I started seriously questioning her. I soon learned she was 28 years old and had worked for Lagarde's for seven years. "Do they force you to work there?" I asked. "Force? No, of course not. Actually, it's the other way round. I don't get as much work as I'd like." Hilda explained the casting system, and how she didn't always get chosen. "I'd work four or five days a week if I could. But I rarely get more than two days, and occasionally not even one. Sometimes there just aren't any customers." "Do they pay you?" She looked at me like I was an idiot. "Of course they pay me! Why do you think I do this?" I asked about how much. "I make between $100 and $150 per shift, typically. Depends on how many customers I have." She explained how the girls got paid. I already knew that my office mates only earned $4/day. So for a Poveran that was a huge amount of money. "How old were you when you started working here?" "Yeah, I'm 28 now and started here seven years ago, so that made me 21, give or take." "Were you a prostitute before?" "No! No way! I can't even really believe I'm doing it now. It just earns good money for me. I'm saving as much as I can because I won't be able to do this forever." "Do they hire a lot of younger girls, like children?" "No. Absolutely not. Ronaldo is very careful. As he says, 'one underage girl could ruin the whole business.' If there's any doubt he won't hire her." Over the next several months I talked to a lot of people from Mollie's brothel. They all said pretty much the same thing. None of them remembered ever seeing an underage girl working on the premises. I even briefly got to meet Miss Mollie herself. We just exchanged greetings, but she was very friendly. Everybody seemed to like her. "This isn't going to work," I told Erica, after a few months of effort. "I have found nothing illegal at Mollie's brothel under Poveran law. Or even under common international standards. They definitely don't employ underage women." "So we'll need to take more direct action," Erica answered. "Do you remember the anti-abortion fanatics in your country from a few years ago?" "You mean the ones that murdered doctors and stuff?" "No, not that bad. But those who'd throw stink bombs into abortion clinics that were very difficult to clean up. To get the odor out they'd have to change out all the carpets and upholstery before they could reopen." "So what are you getting at?" I asked, suspicious. "I got a friend named Jeremy who knows how to do that sort of thing. I think you should go talk to him." "Why don't you talk to him?" "Actually, I already have, indirectly," Erica said. "Problem is that he knows who I am, and if he got caught then he'd rat me out. But he's got no idea who you are. So you could give him the money and point him in the right direction, and nobody could prove anything." "I don't really want to do that." "Why? You think we should tolerate sexual slavery?" "No. But..." "But what? Nobody's gonna get hurt. Jeremy can do this early in the morning when few people are around. This is non-violent." She eventually talked me into it. My dad never thought I was too bright. But I didn't have anybody in Povera to ask advice. Erica just wore me down. A week later she gave me $500. "Give as little of this as possible to Jeremy. This is my money and I need it. I'd like at least some of it back. Make sure you bargain with him. Tell him to use the US Government Standard Bathroom Maloder. It smells like shit on steroids, and it's really hard to clean up. He knows where to buy it for cheap." I arranged to meet him two days hence. On the morning before our meeting Erica tells me "I have to go to Umashi for a couple of days. I'll be back soon." She was always traveling. Her absence made me nervous, but I thought nothing of it. I met Jeremy. He wouldn't settle for anything less than $500. So I gave him all of Erica's money. Now I hoped she'd never come back. The next morning, according to the TV, a vandal walked into the employee entrance at Mollie's brothel. He didn't get very far -- a security guard stopped him. But not before he was able to lob a grenade down the hallway. The stench filled the entire floor and seeped up to the second floor. Lagarde's Hotel and Spa had to shut down. That evening, while I was sitting in my apartment, there was a knock on the door. I opened it to two policemen and a policewoman. They made sure I had my passport, and then they cuffed me and took me downtown. The Trial Now you dickheads out there probably think this is where I'm gonna get raped, what being passed around between prisoners and guards or whatever. If you want to think that, then you'll just have to go fuck your own shit. Because I'm going to tell you what really happened rather than what you want to have happen. Actually, the prison matrons were very kind to me. Rather than locking me up in a cell, instead they put me in a small apartment, with air conditioning and a TV set. It was better than my own digs -- the only thing is the front door was locked and there were bars on the windows. I figured that it would all be taken care of as soon as Erica got back. But she didn't come home that day, or the next. I was still in jail by the weekend. At that point I realized that Erica was never coming back -- I'd been set up. So I resigned myself to spending a couple of months in jail, such as it was. By now my circumstance made headlines -- 'Boston girl arrested for terrorism' was one. My parents sent panicked messages to me, and then hired a barrister on my behalf. His name was Gerald Mugante, a big man with an elite, British accent. "Unless you want to plead guilty, the trial will start in about six weeks." I didn't want to plead guilty, and had nothing better to do with my time. I settled in with some books that my folks had sent me. The Poveran government wanted to avoid an international incident. They were extra careful to treat me nicely. I lived well in jail. On the day of my trial I was taken by police car to the High Court. There was a scrum of media -- for their benefit the matron handcuffed me before letting me out of the car. "We can't let people think we're going easy on foreign terrorists," she explained. Those pictures -- me in cuffs walking up the steps to the High Court -- made the nightly news around the world. The atmosphere was informal. The barrister and the prosecutor shared a laugh like old friends. The clerk chatted with members of the press. When they saw me everybody settled down and at least pretended to take my case seriously. The lawyers put on their British-style wigs -- it made them look really silly. Fifteen minutes later the clerk rapped a gavel and called out "Please stand for the Right Honorable Justice Mervyn Otago." Mervyn, a short, fat man with a permanent smirk on his face, took his seat behind the bench, almost hidden by the furniture. Jeremy was the prosecution's first witness. He identified me as the evil-doer who had given him $500. A whore named Rosie said that she typically earned $300/week at Lagarde's Hotel & Spa. Since the hotel had already been closed for six weeks, and wouldn't reopen for a month more, she was down $3,600 in lost wages. That caused a stir in the courtroom -- recall the typical Poveran wage is about $18 per week. "Order," cried out Mervyn. Miss Mollie took the stand. "We employ approximately 120 people per shift, both hostesses and staff. Our daily payroll is approximately $4000, almost all of which is paid by foreign tourists. In addition, we purchase $1000 in food and supplies, mostly from local vendors. So our contribution to the Putaville economy is very significant. A nearly three-month interruption in our operation will cost the economy nearly half a million dollars!" "How much will it cost to repair the damage?" asked the prosecutor. "The chemical in the stink bomb seeps into fabrics, such as carpets. Fortunately, on the first floor we have little carpeting. So that's not a big problem. The floors and walls can just be washed down and deodorized. "However, we have a large inventory of clothes for our employees. A major portion of that is kept on the ground floor, and that has been completely ruined. We will need to spend approximately $10,000 to replace that. Further, our laundry room was severely impacted, so much of our linen inventory is also damaged." My barrister rose to crossexamine the witness. "Miss Grossman, could you please describe the primary business of Lagarde's Hotel & Spa?" "We are a brothel," answered Mollie, forthrightly. "Miss Grossman, I understand that a brothel earns a lot of money. But many would consider it to be a criminal enterprise. It corrupts the morals of our youth. It renders Poveran women unmarriageable, It violate common moral sense. Miss Grossman, are you a native of Povera?" "No. I'm Canadian." "So you are a rich Canadian who comes to our country to destroy our values. Can you understand why patriots will be upset by that?" "Perhaps," answered Mollie. "But we have scrupulously followed Poveran law. If you don't like your own laws, then that is not our problem. Besides, Miss Smith-Litwicki is also not a Poveran national." "Precisely," answered Gerald. "She has no motive to commit this crime, if crime it was. The true hero -- the man defending our national honor -- is Jeremy. Wouldn't you agree?" "I have no opinion on that." By early afternoon the prosecution rested. Barrister Mugante rose to call the first witness for the defense. "I call Miss Erica Liggett to the stand." There was no answer. He repeated, louder: "I call Miss Erica Liggett to the stand." Again, no answer. Gerald turned to the judge. "Your honor, a crucial witness is not present in court today. It is impossible for us to present our case in her absence. I request the Court to declare a mistrial, and to adjourn the case to such time as when the witness can be present." Mervyn rose from behind his bench. "Motion denied. Counsel had plenty of opportunity to make the motion in advance of the trial. This is just grandstanding." After closing arguments, the judge adjourned the trial until the next day. "I will render a verdict at ten o'clock tomorrow morning." Mervyn's Verdict: "On the main count of committing an act of terrorism, I find the defendant Not Guilty. She did not throw the stink bomb, and further, she does not appear to be a principal actor in this conspiracy. "But on the secondary count, of aiding and abetting a terrorist act, I find the defendant Guilty. "The defendant is therefore responsible for reimbursing the victims for some of the losses they have suffered. The financial losses incurred by the employees is most hurtful. The Court understands that the defendant is unable to make them entirely whole. But she is required to contribute a share, both in substance and in symbol. "Further, the defendant needs to understand that the people who work in Lagarde's Hotel & Spa, while well paid, work under difficult, dangerous, and degrading circumstances. Their lives are not to be trifled with. The defendant needs to learn some respect for others who live differently and work harder than she does. Fuck the United Nations "Therefore I sentence the defendant to work for 72 hours as a hostess at Lagarde's Hotel & Spa. She will not be paid for this work -- instead her salary will be distributed to the other employees as partial compensation for their loss. I leave it to the management to determine the circumstances of her employment, though the terms may not be harsher than those of other employees. Further, I confer upon management the authority to extend her sentence as necessary if she does not comply with the rules set forth." The Chase Mervyn may not have realized it, but he effectively sentenced me to another six weeks in jail. For until Lagarde's Hotel reopened I couldn't perform my duty. This was less pleasant than the past couple months -- it's much easier to do time when you don't know what fate awaits you. One Saturday morning, unannounced at 4am, the matrons woke me up and asked me to get dressed. I put on the only street clothes I had -- a long, ankle-length skirt, with a blouse that buttoned to the collar. Of course I wore underwear -- the old-lady kind you'd expect any feminist to wear. I was then cuffed and led out into the pre-dawn gloom. They took me to Lagarde's Hotel. I'd spent much time waiting around outside, but had never gone in before. I was met at the employee's entrance by that fag procurer of theirs, a limp-dick named Ronaldo. "Welcome to Lagarde's Hotel & Spa," he said, smiling disingenuously. "We hope you make a lot of money for us. Unfortunately, we are all still very angry with you. But we will try hard to keep you safe." He showed me the movie that they show the perverts when they first arrive. [Described in the story Mollie Buys a Brothel -- ed.] Then he explained how the building was laid out. "You can't go into the restaurants without a guest escort. And you can't be on the 8th, 9th, or 10th floors without a guest escort. And you can't come back down here without good reason. Violating the rules will result in additional time added to your sentence. Elizabeth will be the judge." It all took about an hour. Just before 6am I was pulled through a turnstile and pushed onto an elevator. "Don't come back until Tuesday morning," were Ronaldo's parting words as the doors closed. Dawn is the time when a brothel sleeps. I had the elevator to myself. The 7th floor was labeled "Nightclub" -- I figured nobody would be up there at this hour of the morning. I could hide out there. As the elevator moved I looked around to see a placard on the wall. It was a wanted sign, complete with the mugshots (full face & profile) that the police took when I was arrested: WANTED: MISS MADDIE: Convicted terrorist wanted for vandalism of Lagarde's Hotel & Spa Unarmed and not dangerous Should be fucked on sight (on site) Rules **Money earned by Miss Maddie will be paid to the hostess of your choice. Please give your card to your chosen hostess prior to messing with Maddie. **Miss Maddie is permitted to be naked without an escort. **Otherwise the rules that apply to all hostesses also apply to Miss Maddie. Like I was gonna go around naked just to make a bunch of dickheads happy? Hell, I didn't plan on getting naked even if I did have an escort! And sure enough, the nightclub was empty. I looked for a hiding place, eventually concealing myself in a dressing room behind the stage. And there I sat for over an hour until I really needed to pee. I thought about doing it right there on the spot -- to give you pissers something to lick at -- but then I figured they'd just extend my sentence. So I left the hideout to find the ladies room. I was not discovered while looking for it, nor did anyone hear me pinkle. But on the way back to the dressing room the elevator opened and some silly whore stepped out. She took one look at me and got right back onto the elevator. I knew she'd rat me out, so I got on another elevator to go someplace else. That lift, also, had a wanted poster displayed. I figured everybody would be out looking for me soon enough. Where to go? The third floor was the gym -- that likely wouldn't be too busy at 8am. The masseuse sluts had a little office with a real door, though it didn't lock. It was empty and probably would be for at least a couple of hours. I wasn't there but fifteen minutes before I heard noises in the hallway. "Did you check the linen room, Klaus?" said a male voice. "No. Where is that?" asked Klaus. "At the end of the hallway," replied a woman. And a few seconds later, "She's not down here." "Maybe somebody got her in their room already." "No way. Gracie's the only one who's seen her. And that was just a few minutes ago." "She's gotta be around here somewhere." And then my door opened. Bitch Gracie and I froze, staring at each other. "She's in here, Mister Joe," Gracie called out to some guy in the other room. She stood in the doorway to prevent my escape. Within a minute Mr. Joe poked his head in the door, followed shortly by Mr. Klaus. "Cute little bugger, ain't she," opined Joe, with a southern twang, pushing his way past Gracie into the room. "Ja," answered the German. "It's good when the criminals are sexy." Klaus pulled the wanted poster from his pocket, checking the mugshot against my face. We all stared at each other for a minute. I was sitting behind a desk. Joe walked over, grabbed me by the shirt collar and pulled me to my feet. I started to scream, but he muzzled me with his other hand. "It sez we get to fuck you, little lady. Either you cooperate, or we get the authorities involved." "If you scream," said Gracie, "Elizabeth will lengthen your sentence by a day." Mr. Joe cautiously removed his paw to see if I'd cooperate. I chose to be quiet. Mr. Joe, as blonde, tall and ripped as you'd expect a hard-working hayseed to be, lifted me at the waist with one arm and deposited me effortlessly onto the edge of the desktop. It looked rough and it should've hurt, but it was painless. I was surprised at his gentleness. The man knew how to toss a woman around. He pushed me down so that I was lying on my back, my head on the desk, my butt resting on the edge, and my legs hanging uncomfortably over the end. Grabbing my ankles and inserting himself between my knees, he lifted the skirt up almost covering my face, exposing my underwear. I grabbed my pantie just as he pulled to remove it. "You can't take off my clothes," I insisted. "Hell I can't. Sez here I gotta fuck you, and I can't do that with your britches on." He could've won the tug of war in a fair fight, but the fight wasn't even fair. Mr. Klaus walked over, grabbed my wrists and held them above my head. Immobilizing my ankles with one hand, Joe pulled down my pantie with the other, leaving me exposed. That was embarrassing and exhilarating. Joe pulled the skirt back down. Using his left arm to lift my butt off the table, his right expertly unfastened the skirt's hook at the back. That garment followed my pantie to the floor. Standing again between my knees he intended to unbutton my blouse. I started kicking vigorously, however ineffectually. "Look little lady, if you can't keep your feets still I'm gonna have to tie you up. I don't care what you do, you're gonna get fucked. We can do that the easy way or the hard way." I still kicked just on principle, but the struggle had gone out of me. It wouldn't have hurt him even if I had landed a blow. One handed he unfastened my blouse buttons with the speed of a fashion model between runway walks. A little help from Klaus got the garment removed. I lay there wearing only my bra. But not for long. With now predictable skill he unfastened that and tossed it to the side. I had been stripped clean in less than three minutes, all without any pain, torn clothes or lost buttons. I couldn't even undress myself that fast! Amazing. I was beginning to like this guy. I still struggled. He had to hold my thighs in place to keep me down. He confined them in the crook of his elbows as he lowered his shorts. The garment fell around his ankles, revealing an erect, 9" tool ready to fuck. "You have to wear a condom," said Gracie, handing him one from her bag. Joe looked at her with a irritation, but then took the condom and put it on. How a rough rapist could be so gentle I'll never understand. He didn't try to enter me right away, instead using his cock to stroke me until I was wet. He pretended to be cruel to my breasts, but really he just found the erogenous zone. He nibbled my earlobes. I forgot to struggle. I just went with the flow. When he finally did enter it was with such stealth that I barely noticed it. But then I felt warm, virile comfort inside. I wanted more. I got more -- all nine inches of it in fact. It took a while -- longer than the striptease. That's OK -- slow cooking makes for better food. When he finally had it all inside I could barely contain myself. I wanted to hump him as fast as I could, but he wouldn't let me. This was sex in molasses, pumping in universal time. The clock just stood still. Not forever, mind you. The momentum gathered. The inertia became irresistible. Soon it only seemed slow, but we were really going at it. I fought my hands free from Klaus so that I could embrace Joe. My legs wrapped around him, pulling him closer. And then I lost control, forgetting where I was, how I got there, or what I was doing. All I knew is that great gobs of pleasure radiated from my cunt and breasts. Joe, no longer graceful, was humping hard, pumping cum out as fast as he could. I only wished he wasn't wearing a condom. Joe lay on top of me, exhausted. I stroked him gently. A better fuck I have never had. "Now it's my turn," demanded Klaus, breaking the mood. Joe neither moved nor answered. A minute later: "Hey, Joe, I'm really horny!" Joe reluctantly pulled himself off of me and retrieved his clothes, stepping aside to get dressed. Klaus marched to the gate eyeing me greedily. "You don't have a hostess," said Gracie. "You can't touch her without having a hostess." Klaus looked at her angrily. "Hey, Joe. Can I borrow Gracie for a few minutes." "Hell No," said Joe, totally pissed off. "Go get your own fuckin' hostess." Klaus stomped out of the room to go look for a hostess. Joe grinned. "Maybe he won't find anybody on this floor at this hour of the morning. Then we can go upstairs to my room before he gets back." He looked out the door to see if Klaus was at the elevator. No joy. A minute later Klaus returned with Miss Nancy in tow. She'd been working out on the elliptical machine down the hall before Klaus had shanghai'd her into service. And I could see why. Nancy was a chubby little cunt. I took to calling her Miss Piggy. Whatever -- as Klaus grabbed my ankles, now she was my whore-chaperone instead of Gracie. She made sure Klaus had a condom. I decided to make Klaus work for his pleasure. I started kicking, aiming for the groin. I missed, but it made him mad. He forced his way between my thighs. I threatened to scratch his eyeballs out. "Careful, Miss Maddie," warned Piggy. "If anybody gets hurt you're going to jail for a long time. I get fucked ten times a day without complaining. No reason why you shouldn't get your due." Joe had a suggestion. "Maybe it'd be easier for her if you two whores stripped down, too? That way Miss Maddie wouldn't be the only naked lady in the room." Klaus backed away from me, nodding agreement. We all watched as Gracie and Nancy shed their clothes. Didn't faze them a bit. Gracie was a lithe, athletic little girl. She looked good naked, even if she had been pregnant. Nancy didn't have the figure. Her breasts sagged and her butt was too big. But she had beautiful, clear skin, and apparently had never borne children. Now Joe's plan became clear. He took Miss Piggy's dress and used it to tie my left ankle to the desk leg. Then he took Gracie's dress and affixed my right ankle to the other side of the desk. Finally, he grabbed my wrists and held them immobile above my head. "Go for it," he ordered Klaus. "Let's get this over with." The bonds didn't hurt nor feel all that tight, but as I struggled to free myself I found that I couldn't. Joe knew how to hold a good woman down. I decided to let Klaus have his way with me -- not that I had any choice. There's nothing more embarrassing than being fucked by an incompetent rapist. The guy was inept, and it took him forever to get his rocks off. I was beginning to feel sorry for him. As soon as he came Joe released my hands and let me push the clown off of me. Nancy and Gracie untied my legs. Revenge I went for my clothes, but Joe wouldn't let me. "You don't need those," he said, pulling them away. "Whaddaya mean? I can't go round naked." "Sure you can. Sez right here -- 'can be naked without an escort.' And even then we'll be escorting you." "No way!" I said, angrily reaching for my duds. "Give those back to me." Joe easily held them out of reach. Gracie interjected -- "Miss Maddie, we go naked all the time. Who do you think you are -- some kind of princess or something?" By now the masseuse sluts wanted their office back. Joe passed my clothes off to them, embraced me gently around the waist and escorted me out the door. First time I ever rode an elevator in my birthday suit. (Wouldn't be the last time.) We three naked girls joined the attired fellows for a ride to the fifth floor lobby. The lobby was a busy place. A bevy of hostesses waited by the door where new customers entered. Without an escort they were required to be dressed. The girls already with customers were mostly naked, including those sitting in the coffee bar. Piggy, Gracie, and I didn't look out of place. For all that I blushed with embarrassment. I felt sorry for Piggy, who had good reason to be embarrassed, though she didn't appear to be. Gracie, meanwhile, was enjoying herself -- a born exhibitionist. Joe saw that, too. "I gotta spend some quality time with my sweetie," he said, holding her close. They turned and walked back toward the elevator, as if in love. I never saw Joe again. I think he must have checked out of the hotel later that day. Klaus laid claim to me by grabbing my butt. I decided I'd rather take my chances with other guys than be stuck with this loser for much longer. I couldn't actively resist him without getting in trouble, but I gave him the cold shoulder. He got the message -- he and Piggy wandered off somewhere. I saw him dump her (by retrieving his card). If I thought I'd have time to run, I surely was disappointed. Not even a minute passed before a thin, little man with a pencil mustache desired my services. About 45 years old, even while wearing Lagarde's uniform he still looked impeccably dressed. His hair was perfectly coiffed, his hands manicured, his mustache precisely trimmed. "My name is Mr. Pierre," he said. "And this is my friend, Miss Ruthie. I understand that you are the escaped criminal?" I nodded stupidly, while staring at his hostess. Ruthie looked very young -- perhaps she was the underaged sex-slave I'd been seeking out all those months? "May I ask you to join us for coffee?" he inquired, while taking my arm. I realized I hadn't eaten breakfast this morning. "Mr. Pierre, please sir, but I am very hungry. I've had nothing to eat today. Could you please take me to a restaurant?" I used French, learned among the native Poverans. This was the first time I'd spoken to a real frog. Good practice. "Oui, Mademoiselle!" Mr. Pierre seemed to want nothing more than to make me happy. "But we need to be dressed to go to the restaurants," said Miss Ruthie. So we walked over to the clothes racks (located on every floor). Ruthie put on her underwear and selected a dress from the rack. I had no underwear, but I chose a pair of pants and a blouse -- it looked almost like street clothes. And so with a girl on each arm, Mr. Pierre escorted us in style to the lunch place on the sixth floor. "How old are you?" I asked Ruthie, while eating. "I'm nineteen." "How long have you worked here?" "This is my fifth shift. But it's the first time I've been able to work in four months, because of the vandalism." She looked at me angrily. [To learn about Ruthie's first day at Lagarde's, read the story Destiny at Mollie's Brothel -- ed] "Do you like working here?" "It's very hard, but it's not that bad once you get used to it." "What do you like about working here?" "I make lots of money and can help out my family. And guests like Mr. Pierre are very nice." She smiled at him and gave him a squeeze. "And what makes it so hard?" "I get fucked all the time," she said, looking at me like I was a complete idiot. "I sometimes get fucked four times a day. It gets old." Mr. Pierre let us eat leisurely. I got to practice my French, and I learned more about Ruthie's life. But eventually it was time to go. We stepped into the foyer in front of the elevators. "I like my girls naked." Ruthie didn't miss a beat. She grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled it off over her head. Then her bra and pantie got put back in her bag. She was as naked as when I first met her. Somehow I'd gotten it in my head that I was done being naked. "You're joking," I said. "Je ne fais pas une blague," answered Mr. Pierre, sternly. Ruthie looked at me like I was the world's worst scoundrel. "I think we need to go talk to Elizabeth," she said. And so I did strip down, leaving my perfectly good clothes on the bench in front of the elevator. Nude, with Pierre's paw on my ass, we took the elevator back to the lobby. Ruthie had a long conversation with Elizabeth at the concierge's desk, as Pierre and I stood off to the side. At the end Pierre was brought into the discussion. They parted with the only words I overheard, spoken by Elizabeth: "See you at four thirty, then?" The other two nodded. It was 12:15. When we got to Pierre's room he wanted to fuck me. Honestly, from start to finish that took about five and a half minutes. It took longer for him to put on the condom than anything else. We still had four hours to kill. Ruthie went to get some clothes to practice her striptease. We watched her for about an hour. Then he wanted to fuck her -- that took at least 15 minutes. After that we just lay around naked watching television. Shortly past four Ruthie left again to find some clothes for me. She returned with an evening gown, a floor-length, clingy thing, made of elastic, thin fabric that revealed every curve of my body. Even my nipples showed through. While skin-tight through the butt, the hem flared out allowing me freedom of movement. It definitely beat being naked. We headed for the fourth floor, known as the Club Floor. It had a game room, a smoking lounge, the Gentleman's Lounge (where women -- dressed or undressed, escorted or not -- were absolutely not allowed, and also the only place for Internet access), and a small bistro. But we went to the Library, a large room with old-fashioned furniture and big windows. It had books and magazines, easy chairs and loveseats, large tables for work or study, and nooks and crannies where one could make out like teenagers. There were about forty people present, guests and their escorts, and it immediately struck me that they were all dressed (how odd to find this odd). The women stood to one side and the men on the other. Apart from a large, wooden table, furniture had been cleared from the space between them. They applauded as we walked in. Ruthie escorted me to the middle of the room, and then she and Pierre stood along the sides with the others. They all joined in singing an obscene, French ditty, that can be roughly translated as She's a jolly good cunt. Fuck the United Nations Elizabeth stepped forward. "Hello, Maddie. To be honest, we wish you weren't here today. After all, because of you our workplace was shut down for over three months. Every lady in this room was hurt by that." The hostesses applauded in agreement, with boos aimed in my direction. "And many of our guests were inconvenienced. Miss Mollie tells me that she had over 150 cancellations, and had to refund their money. Another 40 people rescheduled. May I ask the guests present here today if any of you would have come earlier if you could have?" A smattering of hands went up. But now that you are here, we are going to ask you to entertain us. For us this is just another day in a brothel. You're not going to be asked to do anything that we don't do every day. We hope that you will understand that our hostesses work very hard and don't deserve to be deprived of their livelihoods." Another round of applause came from the hostesses. I quaked in my flip-flops. "So please lie down on the floor, with your head toward the girls and your feet toward the boys." She put a pillow on the floor where my head was to be. Befitting a library, this room was carpeted. I lay down like a lady in a coffin, making sure my dress covered my body. Elizabeth took my sandals and put them aside. "Comfy?" she asked, after the crowd had settled down. I nodded, even though I wasn't. "Good. Now show pink." I didn't know what that meant. I looked at her inquiringly. "Speak up, Maddie. You need to tell me what you mean." "I don't know what show pink means," I said quietly. "Louder. They can't hear you." I repeated myself loud enough to be heard. "Anybody want to tell her what show pink means?" A guest volunteered. "Showing pink means displaying your cunt. Up close and personal like." "Repeat what he just said, Maddie. So that we know you understand." "Showing pink means displaying my cunt, up close and personal," I said loudly, blushing deep red. "So lift your knees and spread your legs as far apart as possible, as if you were having a baby." I did that. My dress still covered my body. "Now pull your dress up over your knees." I lifted the dress to my knees. The guests crowded together to get an up-skirt view. I saw a few hard ons under the shorts. "Now pleasure yourself," Elizabeth demanded. I looked at her in shock. The mood wasn't one for pleasure, at least not for me. There was no way I'd orgasm in front of that crowd. Still, I put my hand to my crotch and tried to fake it. "Put your fingers inside." I did that. My skirt now gathered at my waist, leaving me completely exposed. No, I wasn't having an orgasm, but I felt myself get wet -- probably a good thing given what I knew was coming. Eventually they'd get tired of watching me masturbate. It took longer than I expected, but tire of it they did. "Miss Maddie, our guests come from around the world. We have selected three honored visitors to represent the human race. They will each fuck you in a different way. Our first volunteer is from Norway, Mr. Olaf." An older man stepped forward. Of average height, he had rugged, fisherman's features, a wiry build and gray hair. "Dette blir moro," he said, whatever that means. "Jeg elsker deg." ['This will be fun. I love you.' -- ed] He kneeled down between my thighs. The elastic material allowed him to pull the dress off my breasts, exposing them. He massaged them for a few seconds. Then he unfastened his waistband, letting his already hard cock pop out. Elizabeth handed him a condom. He didn't have Joe's skills, but it was hardly the worst fuck I'd had all day. He was gentle with me, entering lightly and pumping slowly. I was good and lubed by the time he really started getting down. That anybody could cum in public like that surprised me -- I found it humiliating. I did my best to hide my mood. He lay on top of me, relaxing, while the audience applauded his exertions. As he stood up I unconsciously put my clothes back together, covering myself up. "Please stand up," bade Elizabeth, when all had quieted down. I happily obeyed. "Now please take off your dress." Of course I knew that was coming, or something much like it. I did so, thinking I'd be embarrassed. But strangely, I wasn't. Being the only naked girl in the room, standing there the center of attention, somehow made me feel empowered. Though that was to prove an illusion. "Is Mr. Arnaud here?" A big, black man stepped forward. He looked like a football player. "Where are you from?" asked Elizabeth, now speaking French. "I am from Abidjan, the capital of the beautiful country of Côte d'Ivoire," he replied in that wonderful, West African accent. Then, to me he said "Vous êtes un très joli petit chienne. Je vais faire en levrette." [You're a very pretty little bitch. I'm gonna do it doggy style. -- ed] With that he picked me up one handed and carried me over to the table. First he had me bend over the table keeping my legs straight, my face down, and my ass in the air. Then he picked up my left leg and placed it so that my knee rested on the table. And same with the right. So with my face still down and my ass way up, the weight of my butt rested on my knees. These were spread apart so that my privates were accessible. All my weight was on the table, but my feet and cunt hung out over the edge. It wasn't very comfortable. Embarrassingly, he first lubed me with his fingers, applying some jelly. I'm glad he did. For though I never got to see Mr. Arnaud's cock, it must've been big. Without the oil it would've hurt. But he was also gentle, not trying to get it all in on the first go. With every thrust he dug just a little bit further. Even when I thought he couldn't possibly be bigger, there was still another half an inch that had to get in there. It took him ten minutes to max out. He grabbed my thighs so I wouldn't be pushed away. He made sure he got it all the way up to the hilt on every push. And then it got rougher. He banged me harder and harder, pushing that big cock all the way in. Then not just harder, but also faster. Had he not held on to me I would've been thrown off the table. It felt...good. I forgot about the audience, the discomfort, the friction on my knees. All I knew was this big African was deep inside of me giving me all he got. He came just before I did. As the pumping relaxed he took time to massage my tits. That put me over the top. A big wave of orgasmic ecstasy enveloped me. How embarrassing. He picked me up and carried me over to a chair, where we both collapsed in post-coital relaxation. He held me against him, half on his lap, half standing between his thighs. Applause greeted us as we both disengaged. I couldn't stand up yet. I collapsed in a nearby chair. Elizabeth let me rest for a minute. "Can you stand up now?" asked Elizabeth, solicitously. Reluctantly I rose to my feet. "Is Mr. Jiaolong here?" A small, Chinese man of indeterminate age, barely taller than I was, stepped forward. "Mr. Jiaolong is from Tientsin, China." "Nǐ shìgè hěn xìnggǎn de nǚhái," he said. "Wǒ xiǎng zài nǐ de zuǐ jì" [You're a very sexy girl. I want to cum in your mouth. -- ed.] Mr. Jiaolong sat down, spread his legs, released his already erect tool, and pointed at it, smiling. "Whatever you do, don't bite him. That will extend your sentence by two days," warned Elizabeth. That made me very nervous. I'd never given anybody a blowjob before. Wasn't sure I wanted to do that, and certainly not in public. Cautiously I got down on my knees between his legs and stared at his cock. It responded just by my breathing on it. It was pretty obvious I had no idea what I was doing. "Let me show you how to do it," said Elizabeth. Somehow she squeezed in there beside me. "First you lick it, like this." She demonstrated, making the prick jump with excitement. I followed her lead and it got even more excited. "Then you take the tip in your mouth, making sure you suck your lips in. Your lips have to cover your teeth." Mr. Jiaolong got glassy-eyed as she showed how this was done. Then I got my turn, concentrating on keeping my teeth out of the way. "Then you take it all in your mouth, sucking it up and down." Mr. Jiaolong put his hand on her head to keep her in place. But she pulled back to let me have at it. "His dick is relatively small, which is why he got chosen today." I started sucking him off. I doubt I was a pro, but it certainly got the job done. Soon I felt that hand on my head, pushing me all the way down his shaft. Soon he wanted to control the rhythm, pounding my face faster and harder. I wanted to gag with the first taste of pre-cum. But pre-cum isn't all I got. It took him a few minutes, but then globs of sticky white stuff hit the back of my gullet. I tried to pull away but the hand pushed harder, his tool still pumping away. I did manage to escape at the end, and cum got into my eyes and hair. It dripped out the side of my mouth. I looked like a whore. There wasn't any place to spit it out. Elizabeth wasn't going to let me leave the room. So I had no choice but to swallow it. Miss Ruthie came forward with some wet-wipes and helped clean me up. "Thank you Miss Maddie," announced Elizabeth. "This concludes your formal punishment. You still need to finish your sentence, but you have earned our respect and forgiveness." Gracious applause from all was directed at me. I started for my clothes, but Mr. Rodney got to me first. He also wanted to fuck me in the library. I had to ride him while he sat on a loveseat. Exit It was 5:47 am on Tuesday morning. I lay naked on a bed next to the snoring Mr. Lorenzo. Next to him reposed the whore-cum-chaperone, Miss Rose, also sound asleep. I was utterly exhausted, having danced the most of the night away, until 2:30 in the morning. Miss Rose was one hell of a dancer. They said she was the best in the brothel -- I have no doubt that's true. Mr. Lorenzo wasn't too shabby, either. For the first few hours of our party -- which started around eight -- he was much more interested in dancing than in sex. Me, I enjoy dancing, but not like those two. Mr. Lorenzo spent a couple of hours trying to teach me the Lindy Hop, which involves throwing a lady around, like over the guy's shoulder. It takes considerable skill from both dancers. Maybe Mr. Lorenzo had it, but I certainly didn't. Rose, on the other hand, could fly over his head and land on her feet with just unbelievable grace and charm. She loved doing it, and seemed to resent having to spend time giving me lessons. Mr. Lorenzo, meanwhile, was keen on my instruction, as it required much bodily contact between us. Like when he had to lift me by the crotch, or grab my tits to keep me from falling. Dancers are better with clothes. Skirts become colorful streamers and blouses accentuate the sex appeal. Mr. Lorenzo understood that, and dressed us up like cheerleaders -- short miniskirts, bare midriffs, and blouses fixed with only a single button. It'd have done the Dallas Cowgirls proud, except unlike them we wore no underwear. Rose showed full pussy on her flying trips. Even I have to admit it was just as sexy as hell. Come midnight we'd all run out of steam, and I was banged up from all the bad landings. So Lorenzo sat down with a bottle of scotch, tasking Rose and me to practice strip dancing. Rose might have found that a bit dull (I think she did it every night), but for me it was fun. We spent a lot of time over at the clothes racks selecting outfits for the next dance. Sometimes a dress, other times a skirt, occasionally a pair of pants. Then we'd have to choreograph it -- a fake fight, a lezzie encounter, or pretending to be waitresses gone wild. Maxine the DJ would play music to taste. Lorenzo got wasted, and then all he wanted was us sitting naked by his side. We didn't even get a taste of scotch, the bottle already empty. Naked, we took him to his room. He started to fuck Rose -- believe it or not I felt a pang of jealousy that he hadn't chosen me. But he fell asleep before anything happened. I was pretty sure he'd get to me after he woke up, assuming he did so pretty soon. It was 5:54 am on Tuesday morning. I thought about all the guys I'd fucked. There was Joe and Klaus. And then Pierre, followed by Olaf, Arnaud, and Jiaolong. After that, Rodney and David and Surinder. I'd love to forget Walid, but I can't. There was Mario and Natoshi and Ivan. I think that's all. There were others, of course, but they didn't fuck me. Some, like Lorenzo were too drunk. Several were too old. A few just couldn't get it up. Mr. Pedro only wanted to talk, but my Spanish wasn't up to it. So all I did was listen -- no clue what he said. Still, I fucked way more men in the last three days than I ever had before. A lot more. With most of them it was completely forgettable. I think I had two orgasms -- with Joe and Arnaud. I didn't come close to falling in love. Well, maybe with Joe it got a little bit warm. So you perverts oughta be happy now. I definitely got fucked and raped. Did you get your rocks off? If not, it sure as hell ain't my fault. I worked hard for you fucking bastards.You must be gay or something. Or maybe you need a blue pill. It was 5:59 am on Tuesday morning. I quietly rose from the bed, careful not to wake anybody. No need to get dressed since I hadn't worn any clothes coming in. Putting on my flip-flops, at six a.m. sharp I padded softly out the door. I stopped on the seventh floor and dressed in some clothes off the rack. And then I crossed the red line into the employee's elevator, bound for the ground floor. My sentence was over. Ronaldo, Elizabeth and a prison matron were waiting for me. "Congratulations," said Elizabeth, as we walked toward Ronaldo's office. "You have finished your sentence with good behavior. You are a free woman." She smiled broadly. "I have heard nothing but good things about you," said Ronaldo. "The hostesses speak very highly of you." He handed me my clothes, the outfit that Joe had stolen from me. I had to strip down one more time to put them on. There's no such thing as privacy at Lagarde's hotel, not even on the ground floor. The prison matron returned to me my personal belongings: my purse, suitcase (nicely packed), and above all, my passport. "You are welcome back any time," called Elizabeth after me, as I was escorted out the big steel door onto the street. The matron put me in a car and drove me to the airport, where I was deported on the next flight to London. Epilogue I told my mother all about it. She cried and cried and cried, which is why I told her. She expected me to cry, too. And not only that -- perhaps I suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder? Or maybe I'd been screwed for life? In fact, I actually didn't mind working at Mollie's brothel. I'm not saying it was fun, but it wasn't all that bad. Certainly not the traumatic experience that the words "fucked and raped" connote. Still, I faked it long enough to sue the United Nations for pain and suffering. They were eager to settle -- I got fifty grand out of them without even hiring a lawyer. That plus the twelve grand from my paycheck that I still had in the bank, meant that I could live at home with mama for a few months, no problem. I tried to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. After a couple of months putting up with my insufferable mother, I decided I could be a prostitute. I knew how to do that. So I took the train down to New York and signed up for an escort agency. Not the cheap kind that advertises on Backpage, but one of those elite outfits that only advertises by word of mouth. My mom cried some more, and my dad disowned me. "I don't want to see you again," he said, firmly. That lasted for about three weeks until he learned how much money I was making. Then he wanted to be my best friend. Over a couple of months I established a clientele from Chinatown -- those guys are loaded. They'd invite me to parties as their fuck toy. I'd fuck all cummers, rather like working at Lagarde's. The only difference was they paid me $2K per hour, plus I got tips. I could make $15,000 in a single evening! So I was a hooker for about four years, and then it started getting old. Or maybe I started getting old. Whatever, it was time to do something else. I'd paid my taxes like a good girl, and I lived very frugally. The result is now I've got half a million dollars in the bank. I've been staying at mom's house for the past few months, living off the interest and revenue from odd jobs, such as writing this article. It's a dull life. But now I gotta run. I have an important phone call scheduled in a few minutes. I'm gonna ask Mollie if she wants to sell her brothel.