Humiliation at Mollie's Brothel

Sure enough, she felt hot cum against the back of her gullet. He pushed her head as far down his shaft as it could go. Wave after wave of pent-up semen flooded her mouth. Mballou thought it would never end.

But it did. He cleaned his dick against her tits and then he buttoned up his shorts. He took her to the girls' showers nearby. They both stripped naked and washed up.

"Put the shorts and t-shirt back on," he ordered before they returned to the elevators. She decided she'd rather have gone around naked rather than in that insulting costume.

The Third Humiliation

Mr. Sal took Mballou up the elevator to the sixth floor. That's where the nightclub and dance contests happened. The place was already busy - three or four couples dancing, and maybe a dozen more in the audience.

Dancing is serious business at Lagarde's. They offer semi-professional instruction for their guests. Mr. Sal ordered a beer for himself and a softdrink for Mballou. She sat on his lap while he fondled her tits under her blouse.

"Do you see that 'X' on the dance floor right there?" Sal asked during a break in the music. The 'X' marked center stage, the place where dancers were most visible to the audience. It was the place where good dancers wanted to be. "I want you to stand on that 'X' and dance your heart out."

"I haven't danced since I was a child," objected Mballou.

"Get up there before somebody takes your spot."

She slid off his lap and moved to the 'X'. Her silly costume elicited giggles from the audience.

When the music started she did the only dance she knew, back from from her childhood. It was the ceremonial dance they did in her little village on special occasions. It had a lot of jumping up and down, with boys and girls moving in opposite directions.

It didn't work too well with the slow song that Maxine the DJ played. It made Mballou look uncoordinated.

Since she obviously couldn't dance to the music (only drums accompanied the ceremonial dance), Maxine tried to find music that matched the rhythm of the dance. So the second song was more successful. Mballou more or less kept the beat.

But then the inevitable happened. Her too-small shorts, taut across crotch, started to rip. Mballou felt the tear begin near her asshole. The rip kept spreading, both up her butt in the rear, and toward the front. Soon she was exposed from the waistband to waistband. The pants had completely split open.

At the end of the song she returned to her seat, only to be sent back with instructions to do a striptease on the next song. Mballou, still unaccustomed to being naked in public, didn't like that. But as her private parts were already on full display, and wearing the shorts had become painful, she'd be glad to be rid of them.

She forgot about the music and no longer bothered to dance. Her sole goal was to remove the shorts. They no longer behaved like a pair of pants, but more like some sticky goo stuck to her skin. Her efforts, ungraceful and funny, eventually paid off. She threw the garment to the floor in disgust.

"Don't forget your shirt," Mr. Sal shouted to her.

That was easy - she pulled it over her head and tossed it away. She 'danced' the rest of the song, acutely aware that she was the oldest and least attractive woman in the room.

"Put your underwear back on," ordered Mr. Sal when she sat down again. She fished the ill-fitting bra and waist-high panties out of her bag and gratefully complied. She followed him up the elevator to his room.

Mballou had never been in a guest's room before. The luxury of it astonished her - carpeting, a soft bed with a mattress, a private bathroom with running water, a toilet instead of a hole in the floor. None of these were part of her daily life.

Not much time to look around. "Lie down on the bed," he demanded. He unfastened and removed her bra. Then he pulled the panty off her legs. These he tossed onto the floor on the side of the bed closest to the wall. You wouldn't see them from the main part of the room.

He started playing with her private parts. Many of the other girls she'd seen had trimmed or even shaved bushes. Not Mballou - hers was au natural - it grew wild half way up to her navel. Per Mr. Sal's instruction, she'd cleaned it thoroughly in the shower downstairs. Or actually, Mr. Sal had cleaned it for her.

Mr. Sal moved her ankles apart and started fondling her labia and clit. He had a tube of K-Y Jelly on the bedstand and proceeded to give her a lube job.

Stripping naked and already hard, he grabbed a condom from her bag and put it on (house rules). Then he lay down on top of her to insert his dick into her hole. That happened soon enough, with Mballou grateful for the lubricant.

This isn't so bad thought Mballou as Mr. Sal pounded her. At least it's not in public. Still, she was impatient for him to finish. Eventually he did.

He cleaned his dick on her face, getting her pussy juice (and extra lube) all over her cheeks, nose and lips. She started to wipe her face with her hands. "Don't clean up," he said sharply, grabbing her wrist and moving her hand away..

Then he removed the condom and squeezed the cum onto her thighs, as if it had leaked out of her luv hole. What is he doing? she wondered.

"It's time for the trophy walk," he said, exultant.

"Trophy walk? What's that?"

"It's when I show off my fuck toy in public. Come on. Get up. Put your shoes on and let's go."

He grabbed her bag and then her wrist. She barely had time to catch her flip flops before he pulled her out the door.

The elevator opened when they reached the fifth floor lobby. He pushed her out the door first. Her face was covered with drying pussy lube. Stale cum decorated her inner thighs. Her hair was completely mussed.

She looked screwed over, fucked up, used, taken, conquered. He paraded her around the room, showing her off to guests and hostesses alike. Mballou felt like she wanted to fall through a hole in the floor.

He had about fifteen minutes left in the three hours he'd paid for. He bought himself a cuppa joe (nothing for her), and had her sit naked on this lap while he drank it. She had to keep her legs spread so to show off her degradation.

"Alright. Time's up," he said, pushing her off his lap. "You're on your own now. I'm done with you." He walked quickly to the elevator, disappearing behind the closing doors.

Epilogue

An additional indignity awaited Mballou. Sal had purposely caused her to forget her underwear. He knew she couldn't come up to his room to fetch it - girls weren't permitted in the guest rooms without an escort.

He also knew that she wasn't allowed to be naked in the lobby without an escort. That's why he'd raced to the elevator so quickly. He didn't want to be there when she realized she had no way to get dressed. Mballou would have to beg forgiveness from Elizabeth or Ronaldo. They'd surely tease her for losing her underwear. And worse, for sanitary reasons girls can only wear underwear assigned to them - they're fined if they misplace it. His little trick would cost her money.

Sal took pride in his cleverness.

He fetched her underwear from behind the bed and walked it down to the end of the hall to put it in the laundry hamper. She'd get it back tomorrow morning - assuming she showed up for work.

+++++++

Thankfully, this story is a work of fiction. It's like the old movie westerns, where in the climactic shoot-out the black-hatted cowboys are all shot and killed. But as soon as the film is in the can they all stand up, dust themselves off, and go off to act in other movies.

In the real world, Mballou's life would be ruined and we'd have a very sad, unhappy ending.

But in our tale the next morning the sun shines. Mballou gets out of bed and lives happily ever after.