Chapter 5
The instant Jack Dean was gone, I asked my five cellmates the inevitable question-who, or what, was Comstock?
They all laughed. Then, finally, one of them, Gloria, drawled, "Baby, you gotta lot to learn about Gila Flats."
"Please explain," I beseeched them. "It's simple," Kitty took over as usual. "Last year, Uncle Roy Dean decided what the town needed was outside money. Tourists. Except that who would ever go out of their way to come to a sun-baked dump like Gila Flats? Unless-"
I was hanging on her dramatic pause. Something told me that this story was going to be one of the most bizarre I'd ever heard.
"Unless Uncle Roy came up with something new to make Gila Flats more attractive to outsiders than it used to be," she continued in an almost documentary voice. "What the old tyrant dreamed up was directly tied to the federally built jail. He used the kickbacks he'd pocketed on the deal to build himself a big pink motel on the edge of town called the Comstock."
"What does that have to do with us?" I wondered aloud.
"Simple," she licked her teeth. "The Comstock's really a big pink whorehouse, and Uncle Roy keeps it stocked with poon-tang out of the jail. In other words, us."
I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe that justice could be so perverted. This was a world totally alien to my own.
"You, you seem to know so much about it, Kitty," I gasped. "Are you from Gila Flats?"
"No," she scoffed, "nobody in their right mind would be."
"Then how do you know so much?"
"Actually," she said, "I'm a newspaper reporter. Kitty Morgan from the Star-News chain. I was sent here on an undercover assignment by my editor to investigate rumors of graft and vice in Gila Flats. Unfortunately, my disguise was so effective that I was immediately arrested, and here I've been for three months since. They won't even let me near a phone so I can call my editor."
"How did you pick up all this information if you were locked up?" I wanted to know.
"At the Comstock," she confused me.
"I don't understand."
"They let us out to go there," she explained. "It's part of our sentence. Really all of it. See, after we turn so many tricks at the Comstock we're supposed to be released."
"How many?" I desperately inquired.
"Well, let me put it this way," she said. "It's kind of like the flight quota in 'Catch 22.' The more you do, the higher the magic number goes up."
"What about the rest of you?" I asked. "Who are you?"
The blonde who'd sat on my face was Brenda Fargo. She was a professional stripper who came looking for gas in Gila Flats on her way to a gig in Yuma. They'd busted her for no reason before she could get out of town, and she'd been here ever since. Two months.
Gloria and Jenny were sisters. They'd been on their way to Hollywood to try and break into show business. They'd been arrested on the highway-something about a smoking tailpipe was said. They'd already served thirty days.
With just a couple of weeks in jail, the tough-talking Sheila was a relative newcomer. It turned out she had actually committed a crime.
"You might as well know it right off," she explained, "see, I'm a hooker."
Well, she certainly seemed tough enough to be one.
"Anyway," she continued, "I was workin' my way west from Newark, where I deserted my husband and kids to become a whore, and wound up stranded in the middle of the fuckin' desert. Some goddamn truck driver dumped me there after I gave him a blow-job without collateral.
"How'd you get to Gila Flats?" I asked.
"It just happened to be nearby," she said. "When I first staggered in there I thought it was a mirage."
"Now, of course, she knows it's a nightmare," Kitty laughed.
"Did they pick you up for vagrancy?" I wondered.
"No, I gotta admit I really put my foot in it a lot more than simple vag," she chuckled. "What I did was go sit in the shade, recover from the heat, and then find the nearest alleyway and proposition the first dude I saw."
"Who happened to be named Dean, or Hatfield," I figured it out.
"Exactly. Actually, Dean."
"Tell her which Dean, Sheila," Jenny prompted.
"Uncle Roy himself," she laid it on me.
"What'd he do?" I asked, wide-eyed.
"Took me in the alley, just like a horny John, fucked the shit outta me, didn't pay me, and then arrested me for soliciting. Said he didn't want no outside competition. If I was gonna peddle my ass I'd do it at the Comstock."
Then some gap in the story occurred to me. "There's something wrong here," I said. "Something that doesn't make sense."
"You must be thinking about the other girls," Kitty picked up on my vibes.
"Yes, that's it," I recognized my concern. "What about the female prisoners who were here before you. Were they ever released? What happened to them?"
"Nobody knows," Kitty said grimly. "But it's a cinch they're not back in their old hometowns. Chances are the co-operative ones are those girls we see living over at the Comstock. The uncooperative ones-all the girls I happened to meet while I was here-just seem to disappear. I'm betting the coyotes know where they are."
"You mean they were murdered and thrown out into the desert to be eaten?" I blurted in repulsion.
"Something like that," Kitty replied. "Now let's get fixed up-you know what happens when we're late."
"No, what happens?" I controllably whispered like a little girl saying the unthinkable.
"Uncle Roy has ways, very unique ways, of punishing 'his girls,' as he likes to call us," Kitty told me as much as I cared to know at the moment. Suddenly all I was interested in was getting to the Comstock on time so I could avoid
Uncle Roy's wrath.
When we were ready, Jack showed up again, this time accompanied by a cop I'd never seen. Handcuffing us, they marched us out of the jail and loaded us into the back of a paddy wagon. Then they drove us down the main street, maybe a half a mile.
"Okay, ladies, here we are," the cop I didn't know called into the paddy wagon as he opened the door. "We gotta big party of Air Force personnel helicoptered in from a base in Nevada. Uncle Roy wants you to treat 'em real special. You know how he loves that government money."
Even I got that one. I was already getting wise about the corrupt ways of Gila Flats.
"And listen," Jack came around the wagon and joined, "we ain't kidding on this one. There may be generals in there-maybe even one of them astronauts-and Uncle Roy wants 'em goddamn well impressed so they'll pass the word along to their friends in the Army and Navy about the kinda action we got here."
"Now let's get goin', " the other cop said sharply. If he'd had a whip, he'd have cracked it.
We were herded out of the paddy wagon and marched toward the pink monstrosity that was the Comstock. In case anybody couldn't guess, there was a great big neon sign flashing the name of Uncle Roy's creation off and on.
Inside, we were cuffed and hustled into a room full of the most bizarre clothing I'd ever seen. A little gray-haired old lady was in charge of it.
"Uncle Roy's mother," Kitty whispered in my ear. "Sometime I wonder if maybe the old bag isn't really the brains behind the whole operation."
"Come on, dears," the little old lady said, sounding for all of Kitty's suspicions like a kindly soul. "Let's get into our duds."
We were all handed something. I was given a springy bundle of black rubber. I hadn't the slightest idea what to do with it.
"What am I supposed to do with this?" I whispered to Kitty.
"The best you can," she answered. "And I'm not kidding."
So, after I was stripped, I did my best to figure out the mystery of the weird costume and tried to slip into it. The main problem, though, was that I couldn't tell which end was which of the latex garment that seemed to be the main item of apparel.
The thing seemed to be a riddle. "Why are there six holes and two slits?" I impulsively blurted, breaking the code of whispering.
"Very simple, sweetie," the old woman said. "One set of holes for your arms. Another for your legs. And then there are your breasts, of course."
"Tell her about the slits, granny," Sheila butted in.
Seemingly unperturbed, the aged woman continued. "One slit is for your head. The one closest to the openings for your breasts. Now, the final slit is self-explanatory."
"That's the nice way of saying your pussy's going to be hanging out all night," Kitty told the end of the tale. "Every fly-boy in the place will be grabbing your snatch."
"Right on," Gloria said. "I wore that thing a couple of times ago and my crotch was black and blue for a week."
"Girls!" the old lady suddenly shouted in a high-pitched voice that was as piercing as she was ancient and diminutive.
When we were all quiet, she continued in a more reasonable voice.
"It is not only my job to see that you are dressed properly," she said sternly, "but also see that you behave. And if you knew Roy Dean the way only a mother can, you'd consider it a favor to be kept in line. Now stop blabbing and get dressed so you can go meet the Air Force."
Despite her unimposing stature, Mrs. Dean could effectively throw her weight around when she wanted to. Even the gabby Kitty and Sheila shut up after the old lady's warning and started to put on their whore costumes.
When we were through changing clothes the six of us looked like the chorus line in an obscene musical comedy. Clad in a variety of lace, rubber, leather and garter belts, we still had a lot more showing than we had covered.
As for myself, my torso was encased in tight rubber. Only my head and my sexual organs were free.
My costume was a fiendish device to degrade a woman's body. It turned me into nothing but a sex object.
Squeezed through holes that were too tight, my tits ballooned in front of me. Below, my pussy lips bulged through a slit in the rubber that extended all the way between my thighs and up my ass. If somebody wanted to fuck me in either hole, they wouldn't have too much trouble.
"Come on, girls, let's stop stalling," Mrs. Dean snapped impatiently. "We don't want the Air Force to think we're unpatriotic in Gila Flats."
"Okay, okay, let's go," Sheila muttered. "It's nothin' I ain't done a million times anyway." When she fell in behind Mrs. Dean, the rest of us followed. Even Kitty seemed to defer to Sheila's exceptional experience in this area.
After a trip down a long corridor, we found ourselves at the closed entrance to something called "Uncle Roy's Hospitality Pen."
"What's this?" I asked no one in particular.
"Convention headquarters," Kitty mouthed off.
"Shhhh, girls," Mrs. Dean shushed us like a nanny. "They're watching movies in there."
"Air Force training films, I suppose," Sheila wise-cracked.
"Hard core porno," the old lady snapped. "Just like they always do, you mouthy-bitch." From out of nowhere she reached out and slapped Sheila. "And you know what happens around here to mouthy bitches."
Apparently Sheila thought she did, because she gulped and shut up. Kitty breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn't been similarly humiliated for her mouthiness.
"Now go in and mingle," Mrs. Dean ordered when she had our full attention. "Men always like warm bodies to play with when they're watching that triple X porno my son gets special from a brothel in Tijuana.
With that, she pulled open one of the large exit doors with the vigor of someone a third her age. Then she shooed us inside, not hesitating to kick some of our rumps, my all but bare ass included.
Only when the door banged shut did I look at the screen. A girl, not more than twelve, about the age of my own daughter, was being brutally fucked in the grainy black and white movie by a grown man. The camera technique was atrocious, but the impact was shattering.
The man's cock seemed enormous as it gouged into the girl's narrow little pussy. When the hand-held camera moved in for a jerky close-up, I had to look away.
However, if I didn't watch the screen, that meant I was forced to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness around me and notice what the audience was doing. Over a dozen men in uniform were panting, snorting, slobbering, and in some cases jacking-of f.
"Fuck that young pussy, you spik bastard," some joker called to the flickering image of the swarthy actor, misusing the young girl. "Let us see some goddamn blood."
In case you wondered, he was one of the guy beating his meat.
One of the ones who wasn't was the guy I sat down next to. I was close enough to him to see that he looked decent. Maybe he was just along for the ride.
Maybe, just maybe, I could get him alone and talk to him. Conceivably, he could be a way out of the trap of Gila Flats.
"Mind if I watch the movie with you?" I asked.
He didn't answer, looking straight ahead. Apparently he was more taken with the smut on the screen than I had anticipated. Unexpectedly rebuffed, I couldn't think of anything else to but sit and watch it too, until I came up with a new plan.
The close-up of the man's cock splitting the child's almost hairless pussy was tighter than when I had looked away in disgust. The screen was filled with adult prick and girlish cunt.
Then, when his balls jerked so violently that they wound up flexing on either side of phallic root, I knew he was going to come. I considered it a sickening prospect, yet, this time when I tried to turn away, my head was locked in place. Whether I liked it or not, something deep within me wanted to witness the celluloid image of a grown man ejaculating in a helpless little girl's abused pussy.
Right on cue, the man's cock lurched its way to the hilt in the child's twat. With his hairy nuts squashing her tender labia, he jerked and spasmed, obviously in the throes of male orgasm. Soon, the camera revealed a thick flow of milky gruel leaking out of the corners of the girl's prick-filled slit and down her slender thighs.
Then, as if that wasn't enough, the actor in the film abruptly withdrew his hard-on and finished his coming in the child's face. The innate innocence of her twelve-year-old features was abruptly blotted by the onrush of splattering adult jism.
Seeing a child with fresh cum all over her face was an experience for which I was not emotionally prepared. Then, when the little girl actually smiled, and semen dripped from her teeth, it was all too much for me again.
This time when I looked away, it was into the face of the man whom I was sitting next to. Apparently, while I had been watching the movie, he'd been watching my reaction to it.
"It makes you think, doesn't it?" he said to me somewhat cryptically.
"About where the nearest receptacle is," I rejoined. "So you can vomit."
He surprised me by laughing.
"What's wrong?" I blurted, suddenly self-conscious. "What'd I say?"
"Excuse me," he apologized. "It's just that a guy doesn't expect a whore to be so morally indignant."
"I beg your pardon," I huffed instinctively, my middle-class background exerting itself.
"This is a whorehouse, isn't it?" he said.
Well, yes, I had to agree that it was.
"Then I'm safe in assuming that you're a whore," he rationally concluded.
All of a sudden, in the face of his eminently logical reasoning, I actually felt like a whore. Becoming aware once again of the perverse rubber costume I was wearing certainly didn't help my opinion of myself.
In an attempt to avert my shame, I turned away. But that didn't help, I was looking again at Uncle Roy's hard-core porno.
The cum having been spent in the last one, a new film was showing. In this one the roles were reversed. A grown woman, with the hairiest cunt I'd ever seen, was breaking in a young boy.
Right now she was rubbing the head of his slim, erect cock against her huge breasts. Then she compressed the phallic stalk between her jugs and began tit-fucking him. The kid was about as old as my son.
As I watched the boy on the screen getting his young cock worked over by an older woman's heavy breasts, I thought about my son at home. Then, about the rest of my family. I convinced myself that I had to get back to them, no matter what.
I turned back to the man sitting next to me. If I was going to be cursed by a whore's identity in
Gila Flats, at least I could be clever enough to use it to get out of Gila Flats so I could return to my normal life as wife and mother.
"Do you want to fuck me?" I said to him without batting an eyelash.
"Sure," he enthusiastically answered. "You can sit on my lap while we're watching the movie. Imagine we're watching ourselves do it to each other."
Which meant, in his fantasy, that he was the boy and I was the older woman. I'd picked a lulu for my first trick.
"Okay," I agreed. "There's just one thing, though."
"Yeah?" he asked impatiently, obviously eager to get his cock inside me. Already he had reached down into my lap and was massaging the exposed bush of my snatch.
"When you leave, take me with you," I whispered urgently. "Smuggle me out."
"No way," he said. "What would I do with a broad back at the base?"
"You can just drop me off somewhere," I told him. "Where-in mid-air?" he scoffed. "We're traveling by Air Force helicopter. If General Turnbull found out I was even talking to you about this, he'd throw me in the stockade. All we need is to get caught with a hooker on our hands and our little excursions at Air Force expense to places like the Comstock are over. I don't think General Turnbull would like giving up his favorite form of R & R on account of some cheap, little whore."
His reply was humiliating. Yet even the degradation could not quash an inspired change of tactics that occurred to me when I started hearing about General Turnbull.
"Tell you what," I revised my offer. "I'll sit on your lap and fuck your balls till they're dry if you promise to introduce me to your General."
"All right," he agreed. "But after I steer you to him, you're on your own."
"Then it's a deal."
"Right," he said. "Now let's fuck while the movie's really getting hot. I saw this one the last time we were here, and the part's coming up where the kid starts to fuck that great, big hairy pussy with his skinny weenie."'
Getting out of my chair, I sat down again on his lap. Swinging a leg over each of his thighs, I faced toward the screen and watched the flickering image of a woman's pussy spreading its thick lips as far apart as they could go.
"The kid could drive his Lionel train set up that tunnel," the man I was sitting on laughed. "I hope yours is a little tighter than that, honey."
"Don't worry," I assured him. Nobody'd ever accused me of having a sloppy pussy yet.
While I watched the beginning of penetration on the screen, I felt the same thing began to happen between my splayed flanks. With a quick zip my partner had his prick out of his pants and was working it toward the widely gaping slit of my cunt.
Just as had been predicted, the young boy in the movie had difficulty getting traction for his slender hard-on within the gooey expanse of the grown woman's pussy. However, unexpectedly. The real-life man whose lap was supporting me had precisely the same problem.
It turned out that his identification with this particular film was not all fantasy. In reality, he owned a hard-on that was only about the size of the pre-teen boy in the dirty movie.
I'd been confident that my cunt was tight enough for anything. Now I was beginning to wonder.
In the movie I watched the boy's prick slip and slide in the seemingly cavernous adult twat. Below me, the grown man with the erection the size of a child's, struggled equally.
He was so pathetic. Now I understood why he hadn't been masturbating like some of the others. He was undoubtedly embarrassed to risk having his puny peter seen in public. In a macho outfit like the Air Force, public knowledge of inferior sexual equipment would probably result in constant ridicule.
At least, I gratefully decided, I wasn't in his shoes. A lot of things were going wrong for me, but at least I was proud of what I had between my legs. In fact, if anything was going to get me out of Gila Flats, it looked like my cunt was.
"I told you, you couldn't do it," he redirected his inner hostility toward me, as if the fact I had a normal pussy were responsible for his genital deformity. "You women are all alike. I'm glad the only time I have to have anything to do with you is when the General drags me along to his whorehouses."
"So you think we're all nothing but whores," I extracted his meaning.
"That's right," he hissed. "Always teasing a man. Flashing that stuff between your legs and never coming across."
"What about the woman in the movie?" I asked,, pointing to the screen, where a new development was taking place. "She's going to let him fuck her in the ass so it'll be tighter. She looks like she's coming across."
"I think she's his mother," the man twisted things to his liking. "Mothers aren't so bad, sometimes."
From the droning quality of his voice he seemed to be slipping into a trance of some kind. Taking a chance that some kind of extraordinary childhood flashback had seized him, the actress in me began to improvise in a most bizarre role.
"Do you want to fuck Mommy in the ass?" I cooed, becoming his mother. "If the little boy in the movie is doing it, so can my little boy."
"Will you let me, really?" he gushed like a kid.
"Just promise to introduce me to the nice General," I got in my points. Then I quickly added so as not to break the trance, "Mmmmm, sonny's prick is going to feel so big in Mommy's tight ass."
Trembling with anticipation, he slipped his small cock out of my pussy and moved it back a notch to my ass. There, it went inside like a pen-knife. To each of our satisfaction, it was reasonably tight at last. There would be enough friction to make him come. I wouldn't escape without an assful of jizz, no matter how tiny his dork was.
On the screen the bogus mother and son were going at it hot and heavy now that they had discovered the constrictive nature of anal sex. The kid was ass-fucking the old lady like he'd been doing it all his life. His slim cock fit perfectly into her asshole.
Heavily stirred by this, my real-life man-child was attempting to emulate his screen idol. Plugging my rectum with all four or five inches of his hard-on, he repeatedly dragged his foreskin over the throbbing sensitivity of his cockhead.
By now the woman in the movie was having no trouble pelvically responding to her youthful sex partner. Neither was I.
When she wiggled her hips to take full advantage of the meat inside her, I automatically did the same. Once I had started, the sense-searing results made it impossible to stop. Big cocks were nice, but in my asshole a little one would do just fine.
"Oh, keep fucking me," I instinctively moaned. When I looked at the screen, astonishingly I could read the lips of the writhing woman in the silent movie saying the same thing. I really was starting to get the impression I was watching myself.
The cock in my ass and the cock on the screen pumped faster and faster within the shit-pits at their disposal. Balls squashed and churned against anal ridges.
"Come, sonny," I urged him. "Come in Mommy's ass! I want it so bad."
The youthful male loins on the screen bucked. So did the ones on which I was sitting.
The woman in the movie and I gasped at exactly the same time. The reason was that we had each just had our asshole filled with an eruption of scalding cum.
It turned out that the size of his prick had no relation to his coming capacity. Both the boy in the film and the man corn-holing me seemed to endlessly spurt their thick white gruel.
There was only so much cum that a woman's ass could hold. That limit reached, I watched the excess spunk gush from the anus on screen while the same thing happened to my own.
There, however, the similarity stopped. Because even though the projector ran out of film and the movie was over, I was still being royally fucked in the ass.
And most noticeably when the house lights abruptly came on. All eyes were on me.
The other girls from the jail had passed their bodies among the audience of horny men, but none of them had gotten herself hung up quite as conspicuously as I had. I felt like a freak.
Finally, after a pause of deadly length, a white-haired man of rigidly erect bearing broke the silence. Instantly I realized that nobody dared speak until he did.
"Introduce us to the young lady, Lieutenant Myers," he addressed the trembling owner of the cock inside my ass.
"Her, her name is Trixie," he improvised a name for me. "Trixie, this is General Turnbull."
"Well, I'm sure you can spare her," the General said. He made everything sound like an order.
The next thing I knew I was being pushed off Myers' lap.
"Come her, my child," the General beckoned with open arms, showing off the dazzling collection of ribbons and medals on his chest. "I want to get to know you better."
The words were reasonable enough, but again it was clearly an order. I decided it would be in my best interest to follow it.
"Okay, I kept up my end of the bargain. You met the General," Myers whispered softly so only I could hear just before I left to join Turnbull. "Now you're on your own. Don't blame me for what happens to you."