dasflutemk2: One year ago:Looking out the window of the penthouse suite of the Abyssinia Hotel and C

dasflutemk2: One year ago:Looking out the window of the penthouse suite of the Abyssinia Hotel and Club, at the reflection of her interposed with the glittering cityspace beyond, Sharon just couldn’t believe that that was her. It was so unlike her… but she just hadn’t been able to resist. Sharon was in town for a conference – the first of her academic career as a graduate biology major, held at the recently-renamed Harold Amos University. She had entered college only days after the passage of the US government’s implementation of the BEOTCH (Black Empowerment Obtained by Throating College Hoes) Program. As such, she was now one of the few white girls in the American university system not required to spend a day every month at a BEOTCH Center run by the US Department of Empowerment, getting throat-fucked for hours by African-American men. Other girls in her position had dropped out due to social pressure, both the calls of solidarity for the BEOTCH-enrolled girls that came from white feminists, and the accusations of racism and lack of intersectionality for staying in college that came from the feminists of color. But Sharon hadn’t listened to them. It wasn’t that she was unsympathetic… but why should she let their misfortune bring her down for something she had no control over? Besides, she was a scientist. Science was based on empirical facts. Social constructs had no place in science. She had come to the conference with two of her classmates, David and Latoya, who were not only her collaborators on the project, but her two closest friends at university. Together, they had nailed their panel, the commenter – very respected in their particular field – giving high approval to their preliminary findings and saying he would be watching their career with great interest. The three had come to the Axum Lounge of the Abyssinia Hotel and Club – one of the centerpieces of the city’s new thriving African-American elite who had emerged from the effects of the national Reparations Acts – after the end of the formal conference, along with many of the other academics who had presented or attended. Networking was key, after all. And network they did. The chair of the Hudson University biological science department whisked Latoya off, while a member of the gene-mapping branch of Earth Resource Technology Services talked with David. Sharon found herself alone at the club’s bar, nursing a rose, watching herself in the bar mirror, when she saw an African-American man looking to be in his fifties, in a charcoal gray pinstripe suit and short, salt-and-pepper hair came up next to her. “Whiskey, neat, and a refill for the lady here,” he told the bartender. He turned to Sharon, smiling. “I couldn’t figure out why you weren’t in demand. So I figured, it must be a sign that it’s my chance.” He held out his hand. “My name is Trevon Freeman. I haven’t seen you here before – you must be here for all the conference goers in town?”Sharon thought that was a bit of an off way to put it, but she nodded her head, flattered at the attention from the confident older man. Sharon wasn’t ugly by a long shot, but she tended to be quiet and meek, not looking out from her work. She preferred baggy trousers and jackets with sneakers completing the work.But for the conference, Latoya – the more stylish of the two – had insisted she dress up. So Sharon had gone all out, deciding she needed to dress to impress. A red dress and pumps, black stockings, with matching black garter belt and bra beneath; her normally-tangled brown hair brushed and glossy; even eyeshadow and red lipstick to complete the ensemble. She felt different, too. David had clearly been intrigued – he had an obvious crush on her, but Sharon had casually deflected his tentative probings in the past. She wasn’t interested in someone like him, to put it mildly – he was a dear friend, but her work had to come first. Trevon, though, was different – older, suave, sophisticated. And, clearly, wealthy; he had said that he was the manager of some contractor company for the hotel. Let David talk to some middle-tier representative from ERTS and Latoya stay with the academic contact – Sharon’s attention was on Trevon. She was finishing her third glass of wine when he leaned to her ear. “So… let’s cut to the chase. How much?”“How much?” she asked, laughing a bit from the wine and the confusion. His voice remained low. “My room is upstairs How much for your services? All night. No restrictions. Or do I need to clear it with your pimp?”Sharon froze. In this new light, his earlier phrasing made more sense. He… he thought she was some kind of, of escort! Sharon sputtered. “I… I, uh… I don’t have a pimp….”Trevon nodded, smiling. “So you work on your own? I can respect that – it’s a hard hustle, after all! But this should be easy for you.” He opened his wallet, pulling out a stack of hundred-dollar bills, counting that off. “Two thousand?”Two thousand dollars!? That was more than what she’d earn from her academic stipend in two months! Only… this wasn’t academic work, was it? He hadn’t sought her out because of her brain and her accomplishments, like David and Latoya. He had sought her out because… because he thought she was attractive. Sexy. Sexy enough to want to pay to have sex with. To pay to do whatever he wanted to do to her. Sharon felt a shiver run down her spine, and a moistness in her panties. She bit her lip, looking around the room. David and Latoya weren’t even visible any more. For all she knew, they had each left her behind, lured away by the representatives who hadn’t seemed to acknowledge Sharon’s own contribution to the project. She felt torn – but at the last minute, that sense of annoyance at her friends, mixed with the sense of superiority, finally tilted her to decide. Turning back to Trevon, Sharon gulped down the last of her wine, and smiled. “I can’t wait to get to know you better in private,” she said, palming the money and dropping it in her purse. The sex was, to put it mildly, incredible. He threw her onto the bed, almost ripping her expensive dress off – but keeping her heels and stockings on, even as her panties and bra joined her dress on the floor. He fucked her on all fours, doggy style, like an animal – like the girls in the porn she sometimes watched when her roommate was gone. He used her hair like a leash, pulling her head back – but still letting her look at her reflection in the window. She didn’t recognize herself – she was sensual, different, almost even elegant in her lingerie with the powerful, dark older man behind her. Inside her. Afterwards, Trevon went to the bathroom to wash up, while she lay in bed, spent completely, staring out into the city. Sharon doubted she would ever do this again, but the feeling of tonight – being paid for sex, literally wined beforehand, wearing the expensive clothes, in the expensive penthouse… her one experience as an escort would be something she would always remember. She was right on both counts. Coming out of the bathroom fully dressed, Trevon walked over to her, sitting down, petting her head for a moment. Then, he pulled a badge out of his suit’s inner pocket. Salome Services, it said. “Sharon, or whatever your real name is, I am now legally required to tell you that I am an officer – well, the owner – of Salome Services, the private contracting firm the Abyssinia uses to enforce state vice regulations on the premises. According to State General Code 33-1701, as part of the general redistribution of wealth and social rebalancing of Reparations, all prostitution is limited to Caucasian women registered as employees to a licensed African-American pimp. The Abyssinia further limits all sex workers on its premises to those employed by Salome Services. I’m afraid you have not only broken the law, but you’ve violated the legally-recognized corporate rights of Abyssinia Hotel and Club, LLC.”Sarah couldn’t believe herself. “But, but, but… but I’m not a, an escort! I’m not!”Trevon shook his head. “You were propositioned for sex. I quite clearly asked if you were a sex worker. I offered you money in exchange for sex under those established premises. You accepted them all. Now you’re lying to a contracted officer of the law. You’re in deep trouble, girl….”Tonight – one year later: Sharon – as she still thought of herself, despite her new name Shaneetta, legally changed for the duration of her ‘contract’ – sighed as she walked into the back door of the Abyssinia, the guard scanning her Department of Reparations ID barcode tattooed just above her now-bare pubic mound. If anything, Trevon – now Mr. Freeman, her pimp and legal employer as a bonded employee of Salome Services – had been understating things a year earlier. Her trouble had, indeed, been deep. Mr. Freeman had arrested Sharon then, given Salome’s position as a private security contractor – among other services – for the hotel. The next morning, she had been brought into the special Race Relations Adjustment Circuit Court, part of the separate (but equal) judicial system set up under the Reparations Acts to handle cases of racial prejudice. The military-style court judge had sentenced her guilty within a two-hour session. Under the court’s decision, she had been sentenced to five years, which was commuted from prison to five years of service as an employee of Salome Services. She was dropped from her graduate biology program; after her probationary term was up, she could re-apply, but would not only be denied any government financial aid, but would be eligible for BEOTCH service. The financial aid she had already received she would need to pay back, along with damages to both Abyssinia and Salome – and the cost of the trial to the taxpayers. All of these would only come after her five years of pro-bono work for Salome… and as she would only be earning a stipend below minimum wage, and forced to pay for her stay in Salome’s corporate residential ‘dormitory’ – brothel, really – her chance at ever leaving the contract was about as likely as her ever living down the shame of destroying her life due to that one split second decision of passion. Though she worked at Salome in the Abyssinia now, Shaneetta was as far from the elegant escort that Sharon had been that evening. Instead of her lingerie and dress, she wore an utterly-tacky neon-pink fishnet bodysuit with electric-blue trimming, and a cheap pair of booty shorts to provide any sort of semblance of cover to her pussy and ass – an ass which a year of squat-and-twerk workout routines had made huge and firm. Instead of elegant pumps, she wore clear plastic heels, matching her cheap plastic hoop earrings and wrist bangles. Her makeup was the opposite of elegant, her hair – now bleached blonde – deliberately messy. That was because, instead of the classy Axum Lounge she had been in as Sharon, she was now in the what was called the ‘Kush Bar,’ and was aesthetically modeled after the Eastside Docks, the part of the city that had had a reputation for being a longtime haunt of pimps, hookers, and drug dealers in the 1980s. Whereas the Axum Lounge was intended for the crème de la crème of the new society, the Kush Bar was for those who liked to slum it – or at least the experience. It was a deliberate inversion of the crime-ridden 1980s – grungy in style but safe… and where white girls were placed in the role of the vulnerable underclass. Instead of the pretty, perfectly-coiffed waitresses of the Axum, the Kush was full of once-prosperous professional women who had been, legally or socially, demoted to topless waitresses and hookers… like her. Miss Noelle, the manager of the Kush’s ‘hospitality services,’ idly yawned as she gestured Shaneetta over. “Order just came in from room service. Get up to Room 528. Hope you took your enema this morning – they want the full cheap hooker experience.” Miss Noelle eyed the former microbiologist over. “They’ll get it.” It was a statement, not a question. Riding up the service elevator, Shaneetta tried to imagine how her life had gotten to this part, reduced to a… well, a hooker who could be summoned by hotel guests for anal sex. Walking down the hallway of the fifth floor, her cheeks still burned with shame – not that anyone could see through the makeup – as she walked past an older couple, the husband eyeing her lustily as the wife openly laughed. Arriving at 528, she swiped her ‘room service’ key, and walked in. The door to the bathroom was closed, and from the sound of it, the occupant was showering. No matter. By this point, Shaneetta knew the drill. Shucking off her booty shorts, she got on the bed, all fours and head down, and waited for the man who had rented her to come out of the shower. When the shower ended and the door opened, she was therefore surprised to hear two voices. “Holy fuck, Latoya!” came David’s voice. “When you said you had something kinky planned, I thought you meant anal!”“I did.” Shaneetta could hear the smirk in her friend’s voice. “Just not with me.” She heard them kiss. “Happy first anniversary, baby.”“I can’t believe it was a year ago we finally hooked up,” David said, as Shaneetta heard his towel drop. “Great idea to come back. We should make this a regular tradition.” “You haven’t even tried her yet,” Latoya replied playfully. “Why don’t you try her first?”Shaneetta gritted her teeth, and tried not to cry from the combined humiliation and pain. She never figured out if her former friends ever knew the identity of the hooker they had rented for the night. But then again, maybe it didn’t matter. After that night, left feeling the ghost of David’s cock in her ass all night, it was easy for her to accept that Sharon had been someone else. Shaneetta just couldn’t believe that that was her. Another great BEOTCH story by Dasflute! -- source link

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