I can't believe I am back here again, well, not exactly in a street whores knocking shop. But more like one of Mr. White's Mombasa shanty town brothels. I suppose the four-poster bed in the middle of the room is an improvement, and indeed the lack of used condoms is a bonus. Mr. White's bow tie thrusts out at me as he grins and ushers me into the room. I freeze perplexed; the massive room has pedestrian rails spieling around a bed in what can only be described as a queuing line. The strange thing is that the rails end in a chapel, with a two-yard open space around the bed. Spotlights make the mattress stand out like it is in full sun, and angled mirrors give me a three-sixty view while I wind my way around the rails.
Slowly as I spiral in towards the bed, a set of clothing becomes more visible, and the nearer I get, the less I liked them. Finally, at the chapel, I stop and look at Mr. White. I was surprised how the fat African could scrub up and the amount his expensive cut white tuxedo could cover over. He flashed his solid gold Rolex at me and waved me on. I scowled at him as he went for my arm.
"I'm not a whore!" I exclaimed
Mr. Whites's grin softened as he ran a hand over his greying, greased back hair. It seemed ever since an African tribe had won the title of being the most virial men on the planet, all Africans wanted the slicked-back look. Against Mr. White's dark flat face, the sliver white of the most advanced micro-bionic hair cream just made him look grey. It was like the man who had molested me in a street Whore knocking shop a week ago had gone white overnight. And here I was again, in another one of his brothels.
"As agreed with your husband John, you will be a whore for the night; otherwise, said video will be released." Mr. White announced like he was offering road directions.
I just stood there, mouth open in disbelief as the words 'Run like fuck.' circled around my brain. Yet again, I've let a situation not entity my own doing go too far. Still, I have to take the consequences of my husband's more than purvey game. And yet, here I am in a brothel pretending to be a whore for the night. Or at least that's what John has told me with his 'don't worry, I will be there.' For surer, he is not here, not in this room with me and a more than amorous fat African. While we stand in front of a bed with every bar and strap around it to cover every kinky need a customer might have, and even a few they don't.
If I really think about it, something has changed in me since the nocking shop. It's like an itch. I didn't know I had, has been scratched, and only Mr. White's cock can do it. Somehow my body knows John is not man enough to the deed, so maybe some of the most virile cocks in the world can. Perhaps, being tied to a bed in a Mombasa brothel is not that bad. My pussy is begging to think so.
So I let go of the rail and floated towards the garment on the bed, almost in a trance. I still didn't like what I saw, especially the black faux leather underbust corset and short PVC miniskirt. When my eyes landed on a vicious-looking chastity belt, I could not stay dry. I could already feel the moisture as I lifted up the metal belt, and my gaze went to a smaller thick dildo at the back and a larger, thinner one at the front. I look at Mr. White and wave the device at him. "What's this?" I Ask
"A breeding belt." He replied like we were discussing the weather. "Take a closer look at the bigger dildo, the one that goes up the cunt." I did. It was about eight inches long and half the thickness of an average penis and equality flexible with a slit in its top. "It's hollow," he said, "and underneath," I turn the belt over to expose what looked like a plastic pouch protruding from its base. "that's the seaman reservoir." I instantly drop the device and back up, shaking my head. "The men or man ejaculate into a funnel and fill up the reservoir. If it is one mans, growth jell can be added, keeps the jizz alive, and makes it easier to inseminate." He kept talking without missing a beat. "Of cause, ever since your husband suggested I show you around, I have been wanking like mad, got lots of my little swimmer's on ice. The thought of your big belly with Mr. White junior in it is more than enough to keep me going." He finished with a smile, another one of his black-toothed grins.
"I think I want to leave. Now."
He bowed. "You are free to go." I looked at him suspiciously. He looked back at me with genuine curiosity. "Why are you here?" he asked, splaying out his arms like he was trying to hug the room. "In a Tribal Consummation Chamber, in a Mombasa Township Brothel in Kenya?"
"You know why!" I spat
He threw back his head and Guffawed, "Please, Mr. White, put your superior black baby in my useless whore box." He squealed, feigning delight. And then his grin fell from his face as he stopped miming an orgasm. "I think your congregation of BsAmerica Cristian might have something to say after they see that video." His cheesy grin came back before he continued, "As agreed with your husband, you will be a whore for a night and wear a chastity belt." He said, nodding at the device on the bed. "That suits me fine," he continued "nothing was said about a breeding belt, and I don't want you fucked anyway. It will only be my swimmers knocking you up tonight if you are not already."
That was it. I just froze like a rabbit in oncoming headlights, unable to react. It was like the events of the last week had been unavoidable, all part of God's plan. That thought made it all seem inevitable, like I didn't have a choice. I knew I did, but for some reason, I couldn't see a way out, or maybe I didn't want one- Let me explain.
Ever since my encounter in the nocking shop, I had felt uneasy like something was missing from my life, a baby. I had been married to John for over nine years, of which six we have been trying. Yet, somehow after my encounter, everything has changed. It felt like a biological time bomb had started ticking. Here I was in the city with supposable the most virile men and was stuck in a resort while all that talent went by.
So when the call came from Mr. White asking what the godly folks back home would think as he had a video and if I didn't want it to go viral, I had to return to the knocking shop. I spent the rest of the day walking around the resort like a zombie. One minute thanking the bartender was cute, and I could make a couple of hundred dollars, the next a god-fearing wife ordering a drink. So when John came to me saying he had done a deal with the African and I had to spend a night in one of his brothels, I just jumped out of my skin. For a moment, I was Pandora the slut, who was constantly horny and wanted to get pregnant. The other minute I was the uptight everything's out to get her, Medical Doctor Pandora.
After John told me Mr. White wanted me to be a whore for a night. MD. Pandora had just screamed at him to get the next flight home, and he needed to call Reverent Tom, explain I had been molested. A video was about to be released. It took a couple of stiff drinks to calm me down so that John could explain I would spend the night dressed like a whore, with a chastity belt on, so no fucking. MD. Pandora thought it was already too late and tried not to think about the nocking shop, Slut Pandora wouldn't let her.
To calm me down, John made me talk to the Reverent. In tears, I described everything, even the fact I could be pregnant with a black baby. The Reverent was overjoyed, spouting on about how all children are welcome into the kingdom of heaven, regardless of skin color. He assured me the church and congregation would worship my child like the miracle he was. When I explained Mr. White's ultimatum and that he was really just a pimp and probably wanted to whore me out. The Reverent said I should trust in the Lord, that everything was in God's hands. And as there was no contraception, sex with whoever was to produce a baby and was not a sin. He ended up telling me it was my marital duty to obey my husband.
John just sat on the bed with a Bonner listening to me. "It will be fun, watching you prance around a brothel dressed like a whore, with all those Horney Africans after you." He said, rubbing himself through his boxers. With that Slut Pandora was back. To say we didn't leave the apartment that day was an understatement; John was like a wild thing as we practiced every position a whore might have to do.
So came the fateful evening and the limo to take us to the brothel. Mr. White's flat face leered at me throw the open door as John was usher to the front passenger's seat by the driver. At the first bump, the fat Africans hand went to my knee. I threw it off. "I'm not your Whore." I snapped, and in my mind, Slut Pandora spared her legs.
"You will be," Mr. White mumbles. "You will be."
We rode the rest of the way in silence, even the setting sun made the shanty towns and slums of Mombasa look half decent, and by the time we arrive at the brothel, night had fallen. A group of prostitutes that hung around a dim street lamp roused themselves when John got out of the car. Tight-fitting tank tops were rolled down to expose every size and color of the breasts as they bussed around him like bees trying to find nectar. After a while, Mr. White shooed them away, and when he dragged me out, a row of mobile phones suddenly eliminated our way. I could guess what the men were saying through their lewd gestures and body language.
"Looks like the new whore meets with their approval." Mr. White said loud enough so everyone could hear. He then stopped outside a glazed door, pressed some numbers on a keypad, and swung it open.
"Should we tell them she a Bauble B," John said as he went through.
Mr. White reeled at John's comment, and his face looked like something unpleasant had been stuck under his nose. He then looked around furtively, like he was trying to gauge a reaction, looking for suspicious behavior.
"What's a Bauble B?" I asked, thinking that they had yet again got my bra size wrong.
Mr. White grabbed my arm and shoved me through the door into the lobby.
"Breeding Bitch." John said through a sheepish grin. I just glowered at him.
The lobby was a complete contrast to the dull unkempt block exterior of the building and the defunct neon sign that ladled it 'lub 69' as the C didn't work. It was like stepping into another wold, polished parquet floor, spotlit photographs of scantily clad women hung on the wall like a room-sized menu. I could imagine Slut Pandora running up to her portrayal and pointing out her saggy boobs and extra-large well fucked mound. John looked at the number at the bottom of one picture and joked about having a fifty-eight with mayo and extra lube.
The bunny girl smiled at him on cue as we approached the kiosk, and Mr. White took my bag. "As we are now officially on tribal land, tribal laws prevail." He said, giving my bag to John. "Under tribal law, all the wife positions and the wife belong to the husband." My mouth fell open as John put the slip for my bag in his shirt pocket and grind at me. "Mobile phones as well. We don't want any unauthorized communication." Mr. White smiled at John. "Unfortunately, as a non-member, you will only have access to the viewing lounge." Then Mr. White totally ignored me as he waved us through a set of bauble doors. It was like I didn't matter anymore.
