Mrs. Czechovich busied herself with the eggs in her skillet. Breakfast was such an important meal for her eldest daughter. Erin. The bread winner in their family.
The twice widowed crone kept a weather eye on the toaster as well. It was as old as it was unreliable…and Erin’s mother had no intention of having her hard won raisin bagels scorched and ruined. No telling when such a delicacy might again be available. Still…they were raisin bagels. Maybe things were smoothing out after all. Maybe things were getting better.
“Food’s up!”
Down the hall her long legged daughter primped in front of a full length mirror that was slightly cracked and rapidly coming unglazed. Erin Frost - her late stepfather’s surname came in handy within Erin’s line of work - considered how her body came across in the tight blue jeans she was slipping on. As well as the lace bra that would only just be obscured once Erin donned the come-fuck-me top she’d chosen for today.
“Coming Momma!”
Erin placed upon her delightful feet a pair of sensible walking shoes. As sensible that is given the current mandate of four-inch heels being required for all Candidate Whores when seen in public. The girl with the incredible legs and long brown hair framing green, green eyes placed another set of stilettos with six-inch heels inside a bag she meant to schlep along.
Most important meal of the day. Erin appreciated how the leftover bacon grease (hard to find, only Erin’s business connections allowed the Czechovich clan to savor such luxury) gave her mother’s eggs their sustaining quality. The raisin bagel would have to be consumed without butter. But Erin reveled in its deliciousness just the same.
Momma beamed. “Eat up! Be strong. Remember…your appointment is at ten.”
Erin suppressed a groan as the last of the scrambled eggs disappeared from her plate. Still, the meal would serve her well throughout the day ahead; nutritional…yet not having the slightest impact on Erin’s trim appearance and alluring sexuality.
“Christ…it’s not an appointment Momma! Just like I told you the other day. I’m slated to be raped at ten. Then I have a two o’clock with my Sponsor to see about the man from New Kansas. I guess, well…he still wants to break me on the rack. Shit. Me…naked on the Bureau stream being tortured. Anywhooo…Sponsor Man says he ain’t gonna’ let it happen. Says my face and body are NOT the Bureau’s to sell off. Guess I’m a lucky girl…”
There is no record as to whether Erin’s mother sighed audibly at the intel update she had just been given. Or if the disconsolate woman prayed a prayer to gods she no longer believed in to please, please intervene and protect her gorgeous young daughter from (most) harm. Sigh. Damnable FemZed War…and its aftermath. Please God…please.
Erin - resplendent in her four inch heels, painted on jeans, slutty top and lace underthings - made her ‘appointment’ with five minutes to spare. Station Seven was a forbidding locale for Erin to enter. As well as every other pretty girl who’d survived the late War with her face in one piece and her nipples intact . Outside the door to Commander Zisk’s office she readied herself. Her rapist - one of Erin’s regulars - was a rather short man…trending to obese. The Bureaucrat suffered from back acne…and apparently considered dental hygiene an antiquated prop of pre-war feminization.
‘Here goes’ the pretty girl told herself as the voice on the other side of the door demanded that Erin haul her whore’s body inside.
What she knew was coming still caught Erin violently off guard.
Zisk was no poet. In fact when he wasn’t screaming at Erin to demean her sexually the midget bastard barely spoke at all. Their past liaisons had taught Erin that she was to obediently enter Commander Zisk’s office and then immediately be pushed savagely up against the near wall. To have whatever she might be wearing that would interfere with having her vagina penetrated yanked from her body. Painfully. On this occasion - in terms of luck - Erin broke even. On the one hand she DID bang her head against the wall at her back. As Zisk forcibly pulled down Erin’s blue jeans to her ankles and her panties to her knees. On the other, she WAS able to slip out of her heels in time so that her much shorter rapist could enter her with a minimum of discomfort.
“You’re late slut!”
Which is how the rape commenced. Which is exactly what Erin endured each Tuesday when she made her way here to Station Seven. To have her fragile body abused by the pervert who never had an icicle’s chance in Hell to fuck a female like Erin. Prior to the war.
“Sorry sir. I’ll make it up to you Commander. If…if…if it makes it any b-better I can assure you s-sir that…that this hurts! Oh, please…just a bit slower sir. Please……”
Every time. Standing up. Against the wall of Office 909 in the East Wing. At the mercy of Commander Zisk.
“Shut up whore. On your toes girl! This is going in deep slut……”
It did. And it resulted in agony.
Until the mean sonuvabitch - twenty long minutes later - finally climaxed. Which was when Erin was always slapped across the face. And given her marching orders before meeting with her Sponsor at two o’clock.
“That was passable girl. Okies…in the Circle. On your knees. Don’t piss me off…”
Erin felt the perspired mass of the Bureaucrat’s belly draw back from her own battered body. And felt abject, crippling shame in awaiting silently the withdrawal of his craven penis from inside her aching pussy. Submissively the tall girl pulled off the top and bra that Zisk hadn’t earlier the time to strip off her body…such was the rush of his shrieking need to punish and humiliate Erin with his cock. Just twenty-five minutes prior.
She knelt with her head bowed and her eyes open for the privilege of cleansing her rapist’s penis with her mouth and hair. Inside a four foot diameter circle that had been etched into the unyielding concrete floorspace of each and every office within this headquarters of Greater Carolina, Battalion Foxtrot.
“That was passable. Just…passable.”
“Yes sir. Th-thank you Commander. I’ll…I’ll do my best - as best as a whore such as m-myself can hope to sir - to be more acceptable next Tuesday. So then…may I pretty please put you in m-my mouth now Master? I want to finish up with what th-this whore does best sir……”
Warily glancing up at her tormentor, Erin - nude, kneeling and afraid - was startled to see her rapist’s repugnant body already dressed in the sort of lard encompassing uniform that only Bureaucrats (and their pinched, infertile wives) thought of as intimidating. This was not good. Erin froze in dread terror.
“Not yet. We’ll have time for your mouth later whore. You see Erin girl…I’ve bought out your rights. Seems your former Sponsor did some fudging of the logistical books…and had his quota of slaves reduced by half. Sorry girl…you didn’t make the cut. Thus, your two o’clock has been cancelled. So now…you belong to me. So now…we do this every fucking Tuesday morning AND every fucking Thursday afternoon. For the foreseeable future. Understand whore. LOOK AT ME WHEN YOU SOB! SHOW SOME RESPECT TO YOUR NEW SPONSOR GIRL!”
It was true. Erin was weeping uncontrollably.
“Buck up slut…this old warhorse can’t be all that bad! Ha! Tell you what…do good by me Erin for say, the next two years…and just maybe I can convince that admirer you got in New Kansas to consider a different girl for his torture Stream. Would be a shame though, come to think of it. Your little body would have been a treat being subjected to some good ol’ medieval rack time inside a suitably haunted dungeon. Ha! Still…can’t waste a prime piece of postwar ass like you Erin on some hick from the Inlands. Right? RIGHT! Now get on all fours…we got all day slut. Heck…some of what I got planned for you Erin might not even hurt that much.”
Much later - as Erin trudged homeward in (actually) the six-inch heels she’d been wearing when Zisk had raped her (mercifully) for the final time since becoming his property - a mental tally of finances was being taken. True, Zisk was a Bureaucrat. Erin might be able to provide for Momma and the others given this new set of sexual constraints. But items like bacon and raisin bagels had ONLY been possible utilizing the Commissary cards once offered by her more prominent but now disgraced former Sponsor.
Erin considered her duty. And then calculated what her body could endure. What her naked body was ‘worth’. As a Candidate Whore. Erin Frost decided on the spot to freelance.
Which was why - only two blocks from the Czechovich slum - Erin engaged a trio of very rough looking lads in conversation. Adjacent to the James Page Hostel & Canteen. There were beds inside there. Narrow beds…with fairly clean sheets and a modicum of privacy. These three boys did represent a sort of threat, yes…but they also possessed a commodity to trade. Grade Beta ration vouchers. Victuals for Momma and the siblings. Erin considered that. Then considered her own value as an element of exchange.
“It’s agreed then? Right. You and you get to use my mouth. But only he gets to take me up the ass. Remember…I’m a Level 7 and my Owner will know if my pussy’s been damaged. And you boys look like you’ve got a combined set of six very nice kneecaps that are much more use to all of you than if they got busted up. Am I right? Yes! Now…boys…THIS…well, this is a little illegal. Hell…I got as much to fear from my Owner and his Flying Squad as you do! No matter…always willing to support our lads just back from the Occupation Force. Just doing my patriotic duty. Now who’s gonna’ hold a door for a lady before they rape her, hmmm? G’boy! Maybe if you got a little bit extra in one of those chit ledgers you can pound my ass too lover. Ha! Any of you handsome lads from New Kansas? Personally I have no inclination to visit such a deplorable place. Thank you, I like this top too. Tell me…when’s the last time you got to walk down inside a Rape Parlor with a girl in six-inch heels, right!?”
The trio was even rougher than Commander Zisk. But Erin was the bread winner. And Momma always came away so happy whenever she could make her eldest daughter a nice hearty breakfast before work.
