Lumber Camp Play Thing

Lumber Camp Play Thing

(At the time that I began this thread, I was still in need of a female writer to play the role below. Please PM me to join. Don't simply post.)

The four local women sitting in the small town café caught sight of a 20-something woman standing across the street.

"You know who that is, don't you?" one asked. "That's the whore."

"From the lumber camp?" a second, surprised voice cut in.

"Yes."

"Slut!" a third voice piped in.

"Not anymore," the fourth woman said joining the conversation. The young woman across the street was standing at the Greyhound stand, causing the café goer to point out, "She's leaving."

"Doesn't matter. Here, somewhere else. Once a slut, always a slut."

"Good riddance."

There was a slight pause before one of the women asked, "Why's she leaving, do you think?"

"Made her fortune parting her thighs," the first woman growled. She looked to the bags surrounding the woman. "Taking her ill-gotten gains elsewhere.

Again, one of the women murmured, "Good riddance."

"Slut."

"Be gone."



At the lumber camp, Peter Gibson...

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...stood in the doorway of the log cabin...

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...that had once been both home and work space to the now departed camp whore. It seemed so quiet and drab now.

The woman, Clara, had decorated the cabin -- home to the camp's first owner-operator a hundred years earlier -- with colorful scarfs and other things hung about the cross beams and walls. Music had always been playing from an iPod through a pair of small but impressive speakers that she'd had to order through Hancock's Dry Goods in the town down in the valley.

Of course, all of that was gone now, as was so much more. Oh, she'd left a lot of things behind, from dishware to glassware to new -- and sometimes less-than-new --furniture. But everything that had made this house Clara's home was now packed in a suitcase and on a bus for ... for where ever it was that she had decided would be her new home.

Peter was concerned about the camp and it's eight long time workers. They had gotten used to the fact that when they needed some release, they had a sexy and willing woman just a hundred yards from their bunk house. Peter had sensed a building tension in just the three days since Clara's departure. And last night, one of his men had been arrested after drinking too much and getting a bit too hands on with a local woman.

Historically, the men of the lumber camp had never had a very friendly relationship with the townsfolk in the valley below them. The men were rugged, hard working individuals who liked to drink and get rowdy at times; and the town was quiet and conservative, with only the one tavern -- and even it rarely offered much comfort to the men and, when it did, offered that comfort with the local Sheriff sitting watchfully in a corner booth with readied handcuffs should there be trouble.

Peter sighed and turned to return to the camp's office building, when he stopped suddenly, surprised at the sight before him:

https://38.media.tumblr.com/c6361ec6fcbe8170f455455be8deab9b/tumblr_n9olyn8mXm1thhrwho1_500.jpg

She was incredible: tall, thin, leggy, and dressed to emphasize her womanly features. Peter was so overcome by shock -- and lust -- that it didn't occur to him why this young beauty would be walking into the lumber camp until she spoke.

"I overheard down in town a couple of days ago," she said, her accent seeming European in some way to Peter, "that you may have an opening here."

Peter just stared at the young woman, still dumbfounded. His gaze walked over her shapely form, then settled on her deep blue eyes as his brain finally absorbed the words that had entered his ears seconds earlier.

"An opening...?"

She hesitated, either because she couldn't speak the words or simply wanted the man before her to figure it out.

"Oh! An opening!" Peter replied, feeling his face flood with blood as he realized what the woman was getting at. He looked over his shoulder toward the log cabin, then back to the woman. "Yes, um ... we ... we recently ... our, um..."

He couldn't figure out how to reply to the woman. How was he supposed to say Yes, we need a camp whore to replace the last one. Would you like to interview for the job?

He looked her over one last, long time, then half turned and gestured toward the cabin. "Let's, um ... let's talk in there, shall we?"

He turned and headed for the cabin, trying to inconspicuously reach a hand down to his groin to shift his erect penis to a more comfortable and less obvious position. He stepped through the open door and moved aside, giving her room to look about.

(OOC: Ignore the inconsistencies between the images. They obviously aren't from the same cabin. Just imagine a combination of the two: cozy, but with some room for improvement.)

https://38.media.tumblr.com/5adf08bbf6112b3fa0a9099595004001/tumblr_n9qrc7hnSo1thhrwho1_500.jpg

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"It's not much," Peter apologized, "but..."

He didn't know how to say It's more than most whores have available to them, so he simply didn't say anything at all. Actually, he had no idea what kind of living quarters a prostitute would have available to them in another location. He'd never partaken of whores in a whore house, even during his Navy years overseas. So, he truly had no idea of what they were used to.

All he knew was that if he'd been offering the cabin to just some woman -- as a tenant or as his mate, if he were living here himself -- he would have been embarrassed to present the rather dingy, antiquated home.

"There's a second bed,," he told her, gesturing toward a closed door as he again felt his face explode. Clara hadn't liked to do business by day in the bed that she slept in at night, so the small room that had once been a storage space had been converted to a second bedroom. Ironically, the separate door to it from the outside faced the bunk house in which the men slept, enabling Clara to hang a scarf outside of it indicating her availability. "For business ... if you want."

He gave her a moment to look around as his mind raced with lots of questions he wanted to ask. When she finally turned to face him, the question that came out was, "So ... do you have experience at ... you know ... what you're here for?"

Daisy walked into the office with her teeth clenched. Just a desk and a ton of paperwork, and a few knickknacks that said that someone had been in the Navy. No sign of her asshole father. Of course, he had a dozen little places like this scattered around the state. It made him nearly impossible to find when he didn't want to be found, and of course, he wouldn't want to be found now.

Not that he had ever been much of a Dad, but at least he'd come through with the checks. That had been the deal he had worked out with her mom. Enough money to keep a roof over their heads and a steady supply of valium and vodka, and private schools, nannys and summer camps for Daisy, so nobody would have to actually raise her. Then she'd shown up for her third year of college to find that she wasn't enrolled. The check hadn't come, and nobody had responded to their letters, phone calls and emails.

He had just decided to stop paying. The un-fucking-believable bastard. And in case the message wasn't clear, it had come from the bursar's office, along with "There are plenty of financial aid packages that you could apply for for future semesters...."

Fuck future semesters. She was supposed to move into the dorms. She had nowhere else to go. Three days later, she was here.

She'd been in Prague for her sophmore year and had ditched the other American students to hang out with the Czechs. She'd learned a lot from them. They were wild and passionate and intelligent, and they saw things differently. They weren't puritanical like Americans were, and they saw no reason why a woman shouldn't use her body to make money. After all, beauty was valuable, men wanted sex, and it was insane to think it shouldn't have a price tag. She'd had a couple of men who paid her for sex when she was there. It was no different than any other job, really, except it was a lot more fun.

She stepped out of the office to find this guy, this lumberjack, looking at her like he wanted nothing more than to bend her over a tree stump or something and fuck her brains out. He was cute, too. She had seen the empty cabin, and she needed a place to stay.

"I overheard down in town a couple of days ago," she said, playing up the czech accent that had crept in over the past year. "that you may have an opening here."

He mumbled and stammered and she had a hard time not cracking up, but he led her to the cabin. He babbled as he showed her around, and then he explained there was a second bed for business. Like she was going to rent the room on airbnb or something. He never said a word about rent, so she figured he recognized her. Maybe dad carried a picture of her around or something.

"Thanks," she said, smiling at him, noticing the way he was looking at her.

"So ... do you have experience at ... you know ... what you're here for?"

She blinked. What the fuck was he talking about? She saw herself in the mirror then and bit back a laugh. The tiny shorts and the top and the heels. He thought she was a hooker. Or did he? Well, if he knew her name was Daisy Woodman, he'd know she was the boss's daughter. If he didn't know who she was.... Well, she had to find some way to make money. She giggled and held out her hand.

"I'm Kyla Havel," she said. "I don't think I caught your name."

He hesitated for a moment before taking her hand. Clara had never allowed any hand to reach out toward her unless it had cash in it, so he was taken aback by the polite gesture.

"Peter Gibson," he said, smiling nervously. "Camp Foreman. I run the place. Eight men, full time. If we get a big order, sometimes we'll bring in some guys from the town down below. Of course..."

He let his gaze drop to her again for just a flash. She was so incredible looking, and the obvious ease with which she wore her skimpy clothing told Peter that she knew she was so.

He continued, "Of course, once you're all settled in..."

He hesitated for a moment, feeling a slight blush fill his cheeks.

He took a firmer tone, stating bluntly, "I want you to understand that you have one hundred percent control over who ... visits you ... and how often you take visitors. If you want to restrict your clientele -- that was what Clara called'em -- to restrict your clientele to the camp, that's your choice. But ... Clara found that ... servicing to the town was ... profitable. But like I said, your call."

Peter wasn't sure what else to say at this point, and he found himself just smiling nervously to her as he struggled to keep his gaze above her breasts.

"Peter Gibson. Camp Foreman. I run the place. Eight men, full time. If we get a big order, sometimes we'll bring in some guys from the town down below. Of course... Of course, once you're all settled in..."

She nodded, smiling at his discomfort, her mind racing. He had no idea who she was. He was offering her a cabin to live in because he thought she was a whore. She knew she should be offended, but she couldn't help being turned on by the idea. Eight men to keep satisfied. Big, strong men, if she knew anything about lumberjacks. She realized her mouth was watering at the thought. Her pussy, too. And then there was the knowledge that sooner or later, Daddy would show up. She grinned.

"I want you to understand that you have one hundred percent control over who ... visits you ... and how often you take visitors. If you want to restrict your clientele -- that was what Clara called'em -- to restrict your clientele to the camp, that's your choice. But ... Clara found that ... servicing to the town was ... profitable. But like I said, your call."

"I guess we'll have to see how it goes," she said, smiling at him. She leaned towards him, her eyes hot, her hand finding his thigh. She took a deep breath and gave it a soft squeeze. He was so strong. She was going to love this. "So. Peter. How much would Clara charge?"

The beauty leaned in towards Peter and found his thigh with her hand, giving it a soft squeeze.

Peter flinched, but tried to hide his discomfort. He was foreman of the camp, and as such, he had always maintained a much different relationship with Clara than the other men had. Some of them bragged about their time in her bed; others just quietly visited, enjoyed their release, and returned to their hard lives.

Peter, however, had kept his relationship with Clara as quiet as a church mouse, and to have the potential new whore touch him in this way in full view of anyone who might be watching made the foreman nervous.

"So. Peter," she said, a knowing smile on her face. "How much would Clara charge?"

"Um..."

He didn't know how to answer that, really. In the big city, almost 60 miles away, the going rate for a simple one shot fuck these days was fifty. If you wanted more, you paid more. He'd heard one of the lumber jacks bragging once of fucking and sucking his way to four orgasms over a full night with a better than average skilled hotel hooker and spending four hundred on her.

Clara had had the advantage of being the only public whore for many miles, even though you could find some pretty loose girls working down in the village if you knew to whom to talk. But on the other hand, she'd had a limited clientele base from which to work. It all kind of evened out in the end.

"Clara ... she sort of had a variable rate, actually," he began, his nervousness obvious. "One shot was usually thirty. Less for..." His gaze set upon her mouth as he tried -- and failed -- to come up with a way to indicate oral sex. "... but more for--"

He felt his face explode just at the thought of sticking his dick in this thin, erotic creatures ass. Peter suddenly realized that he was as hard as a rock because of the conversation. He turned away for a moment, trying to be casual in his adjustment of his cock's position. He turned back and continued.

"The men won't pay much more for the basics," he said. "They just don't usually have much to offer. "But ... they're good guys, for the most part. They'll treat you nice. And if you ever need anything ... construction on the cabin ... a ride to town ... whatever ... they'll be there for you ... kinda like big brothers."

She shook her head and put a finger to his lips when his stammering started to get embarrassing.

"How much did she really charge?" she said. Daddy hadn't been around much, but when he was, he was always bitching about payroll. The men had no expenses and got fat paychecks every week. Maybe they had alimony payments and shit, but none of them were poor. And if they were, they shouldn't be paying hookers, should they? In Prague she had been making 10,000 crowns, about five hundred bucks, and there was a lot more hookers and a lot less cash there. That was for a whole night, of course, but the hookers down in Eugene got fifty bucks, and the guys would have to pay for gas and a motel with them.

"You know what? Never mind what she charged. I figure eighty's about right," she said, figuring she'd meet him around fifty. Fifty would let her replace all the shit she lost when all her stuff got auctioned off because Dad sold her storage unit while she was in Europe. It would mean she could go back to school in a semester or two. "It's convenient, there's no hassle with cops, there's no filthy motel sheets. Besides, a girl doesn't want to feel like the manager's special at Safeway, you know what I mean?"

She looked around the cabin, trying to imagine what she could do with it to make it look a little less like ... like a whorehouse in a logging camp.

"How much did she really charge?" Daisy asked. Before the hesitant Peter could respond, she added, "You know what? Never mind what she charged. I figure eighty's about right."

Peter laughed at that out of reflex, not meaning to sound mean or critical. "I dunno ... the guys ... well--"

"It's convenient, there's no hassle with cops, there's no filthy motel sheets," Daisy went on. "Besides, a girl doesn't want to feel like the manager's special at Safeway, you know what I mean?"

As she turned to inspect the cabin, Peter's eyes dropped to her thin waist and firm ass cheeks and caught himself drawing in a deep breath of desire. Clara had been a beautiful woman, and naked she'd been even more erotically so. But still in her clothes -- what little there were on her, of course -- this tall, thin thing brought up feelings in Peter that he hadn't had for a woman in a long time.

"Why, um ... why don't you go ahead and get moved in," he said, lifting his eyes from her ass as she turned back to face him. "The guys will be off shift in about forty minutes. I'll talk to them ... tell'em we have a new girl in camp ... Kyla, right...?"

She seemed a bit hesitant when she confirmed that, making Peter wonder whether she'd possibly picked a name out of the air or might be using a middle name or friend's name. Of course, he couldn't have any idea that she'd given him a fake name to cover the fact that she was his boss's daughter.

"So..." he gestured her toward the cabin, but then offered his hand again before backing away and eventually turning as he said, "I'll come back over later to check up on you. And ... welcome."

Peter forced himself to pull his eyes of the long, fair skinned legs, then headed a big quicker than he normally strolled about back to his own cabin. Once inside, he checked through the shutters to ensure that Daisy had remained on the other side of the compound, then made his way to his bathroom and beat his pud until he was shooting long streams of sticky white stuff into the sink and onto the counter.

When he'd recovered from the self induced euphoria, he cleaned up and made his was to Lunch Room building, where each of the men had to clock off and return some of the company tools they used each day.

"Stick around," he told each as they wandered in. "We're having a meeting."

He'd expected resistance for the impromptu meeting, of course, so he'd filled a metal pan with ice and bottles of beer. All eight full timers were assembled, as were two of the three temps, when the third temp -- who had been doing shit work on the far side of the compound -- entered, jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward Daisy's cabin, and said with surprise, "Hey! There's a leggy chick in almost no clothes over at Clara's cabin."

Before Peter could even react to the ill timed announcement, all ten men now sitting or standing around the building rushed for the door, surging outside to see what they hoped was Clara's replacement.

Peter pushed his way through the crowd, turning to order them back inside. But they were all entranced at the woman, despite the fact that she was over 50 yards away. There were soft exclamations of appreciation, as well as crude comments that couldn't have been aired even in most R-rated movies.

"Inside!" Peter ordered. Once the men were back inside, the foreman told the men what little he knew about Kyla, then followed it with, "The good news is, we again have a woman willing to put up with the bullshit you men can dish out."

He was just playing with them, of course. He'd been honest with Daisy when he'd said that the men were okay guys. One had gotten a little rough with Clara once, but after he'd recovered from the men tuning him up, he'd apologized to her, paid for the stereo and speakers she'd enjoyed so much, and even taken over the landscaping tasks about her cabin.

"What's the bad news?" one of the men asked.

"It's going to cost more for her to put up with that bullshit," Peter said. There were groans and growls of disapproval, but Peter shut them down with, "Or you could go back to spanking the monkey like you have been since Clara's departure."

There was some quiet discussion, which ended in the guys agreeing that they'd give the new girl a chance. Then someone asked eagerly, "Who's first?"

Seven of the full timers turned to look directly at the eighth, "Skip" Jackson...

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Skip was looked up to for one reason or another by each and every man in the camp, even Peter and the Temps. He wasn't the oldest of the men, nor was he the most senior. But he was the strongest of them, the hardest working of them, and the meanest of them in a confrontation. And, coincidentally, he'd been the first of the men to bed Clara and even the whore before her.

It was generally agreed that if he enjoyed the camp prostitute and after her first night with him, she was still here in the morning, then life was grand.

"I have to talk over a few more things with Kyla first," Peter said as Skip was already beginning to stand up to go check out the new meat. "Why don't all of you men go get showered and changed. Cookie already has a couple of racks of ribs on the pit, so ... grab another beer, and we'll see you out there later."

Daisy could hardly believe he'd accepted her price right off the bat, but then, it was a long way to any kind of a town, and she'd seen some of the girls these backwoods yahoos thought were sexy. She grinned at him, ready to earn her first eighty bucks, looking forward to it, really, because since she'd been back in the states she'd remembered just how stupidly conservative everyone here was about sex. Either they were scared to death of it, or they were obsessed with it, but one way or another, it was such a big deal they couldn't possibly just relax and have fun. THAT would be unamerican.

She was just about to kiss him when he stood up. She knew he wanted her, the way he was looking at her, but he was sticking his hand out and talking about the other guys and ... generally acting like he couldn't get away fast enough.

"OK, Peter. I guess I'll see you later," she said, more puzzled than anything. If he was the foreman, he would have more money that the other guys. Maybe he was married, she thought, though that was usually not an obstacle. Whatever the reason, he left her there, and after pondering for a minute, she shrugged. There were eight of them. She'd keep herself busy without too much trouble.

Unpacking her backpack took a minute, and she shoved some of the furniture around to find that most of it was placed to cover patches where the flooring was broken up. She opened the windows to let some air in, and stripped down to her panties to take a quick nap. She woke up and saw a guy trudging across the dirt parking area looked over. She slipped her heels on, and a tight little top that was practically transparent, and stepped out onto the porch. She smiled and tried not to laugh at the way his eyes nearly popped out of his head. She waved, and he gave an absent-minded wave and kept staring at her until he walked right into the back of a pickup truck.

She went in and fell back on the bed, laughing, and looking up at the ceiling. She expected she'd be seeing him again. That was when she noticed the smokey smell of meat on the grill. She wondered what she was supposed to do about eating, and she slipped her shorts back on. Surely they wouldn't mind sharing with her, would they?

It would depend how she asked, she decided, but when she stepped out the front door, she saw Peter stumping towards the cabin, looking all serious, again. She leaned against the door frame, smiling.

"Smells great," she called out.

Peter was deep in thought as Daisy stepped out onto the stoop. If his eyes hadn't bugged out the first time he'd seen her, they did now: she was still -- or again, he couldn't know -- in those tight white shorts that were little more than a second skin over her buttocks and crotch; and an even sexier, smaller top through which he was sure he was seeing the brownness of her nipples.

Instantly, he was again hard. He looked away, trying to shake off his lust, then looked back with a smile just as she commented on the wafting smell of the barbeque. He looked back over his shoulder toward the Lunch Room ... and found 11 men at the doors and windows watching him and the fair skinned beauty he was approaching.

He spun in place like a mother about to chastise her naughty children, and in a flash men were heading every direction, just like those children. After a moment, the only man left in view was Skip, whose 6'6", black as night, muscular frame was unmistakable even at this distance.

Skip stared Peter down without budging. Peter turned back to Daisy, saying, "Barbeque. We provide three squares for the men as part of their compensation. It's one of the reason they don't have a lot of cash on hand: we supply them with everything ... room and board ... even got a doctor who comes up once a month, more often if he needs."

Peter's gaze fell to Daisy's nipples for just a flash before he looked back up to finish what he'd been contemplating on the walk over to her cabin. He truly respected Kyla's willingness to service the men, and he felt she deserved what ever she could get from the men.

But he also knew that just like a professional athlete, the men -- who he knew were peeking this way from every crack and unshuttered window -- only had a couple of decades that they could do this demanding work before their bodies began to give out on them. They needed to save as much as they could in that time, and -- while Peter knew that they'd put out eighty, ninety, even a hundred dollars for an hour of pleasure with the striking woman -- he just couldn't allow it to happen. He was simply too protective of the hard working, oft-lust filled lumberjacks.

"The men and I have discussed your price in detail," he said, stretching the truth a bit -- a lot, actually. "I think that, what with me providing you room and board, just as I do the men ... that we should begin with a base price of fifty. The extras ... you can set your own price for those. But ... I think ... I think fifty is a good compromise for now."

His words might have sounded like they were leaving room for negotiation, his tone and expression weren't...

(OOC: Firing a PM at ya.)

She narrowed her eyes and looked at him. He'd cut her offer just about in half. The way the men behind him were looking at her, she was pretty sure they hadn't been trying to chisel her.

"When you left earlier, I thought we had deal," she said, not bothering to hide her annoyance. She let the czech accent get thicker. He seemed to like it. "You going to stick with fifty, or you going to come back later with lower offer?"

"I'll need vehicle to use when I want. Not be stuck here all day. And no bonus fucks for frequent flyers," she frowned at him for a moment longer, and then walked past him. A smile spread across her face as she walked towards the men. Fifty was ok. She'd figured it would be around there. She was just annoyed that Peter had pulled this delay tactic on her.

She had only taken a few steps before she got the lay of the land. Most of the men were watching her, waiting to see what would happen. Only one was looking her in the eye, smiling at her, turning to face her. She turned so she was walking straight towards him. He was a black man, really black, and at least a foot taller than she was, even in her heels. He looked like he could break her in half, and if he decided to get rough.... She swallowed, a little nervous all of a sudden. None of these guys were small. She put on a brave smile as she stopped in front of him, not quite touching him, but certainly close.

"Eat, first, yeah?" she said. "Then if boss is finish with bullshit, we have fun? Or maybe he find scabby old lady, no teeth, fuck for quarters."

"When you left earlier, I thought we had deal," Daisy said. "You going to stick with fifty, or you going to come back later with lower offer?"

"No," Peter said simply, hoping that would suffice as a response.

"I'll need vehicle to use when I want," she went on. "Not be stuck here all day. And no bonus fucks for frequent flyers."

"Of course," he responded, meaning to both. Clara had often used the supply run truck, though -- knowing how the women of the village felt about her -- she would typically drive through the village to visit the next town over -- both a larger city and a place she wasn't known -- to do her shopping or simply get away for a couple of days.

Peter hesitated before falling in behind her. He was just barely close enough to hear her address Skip. "Eat, first, yeah?" Then if boss is finish with bullshit, we have fun? Or maybe he find scabby old lady, no teeth, fuck for quarters."

He gritted his teeth a he hovered somewhere between anger and hopelessness. Kyla didn't understand who these men were -- what these men were -- nor did she understand how protective he was of them. But how could she? These men, this camp, and the work that connected them was foreign to most people, even many of the friends and family of these men who lived down in the valley or in distant lands.

Most of these men hadn't chosen this work as their preferred career: some didn't have the education or intelligence to do anything other than swing an ax or stack lumber; while others had been forced out of what some people would call civilization because of any one of a number of factors.

But they were still men, and men had yearnings and desires. Clara had fulfilled those needs for as long as she'd been able, before leaving to fulfill her own needs. And Peter had seen the effect of her departure.

The men had become restless, wild, even dangerous on a few occasions. But Peter knew that Daisy would tame these beasts. He could see it in the way she addressed the biggest, baddest, and most sexually aggressive of them.

Skip was no picnic, as a lumberjack, a man in general, or a lover in particular. He could get very violent when mistreated, and his incredible strength made him potentially very dangerous. Most of the men currently at the camp hadn't worked here when he'd been given his nickname, but they all feared a repeat of the event, particularly if they themselves played a part in it.

After an obnoxious, racist co-worker made a crude comment about both Skip's race and sister -- who had come to the camp to inform the giant that his mother had passed -- the man formerly known as Henry Jackson landed a fist upon the man's forehead, knocking him out. When the man awoke, he found himself at the end of a rope tied to the boat they used to herd logs in the storage areas that lined the river bank.

Sitting in the boat with a beer in one hand and the accelerator handle in the other, Henry gunned the engine as soon as the man came to, and drove up and down the river for several minutes, skipping the screaming man over the surface.

Of course, there'd never been another incident like it in the years that followed. And the man who'd bounced about at the end of the rope -- who unbelievably stayed on for another year after that -- hadn't said another derogatory word to anyone at the camp again.

Peter had worried how he would treat Clara when she'd arrived at the camp. Ironically, he'd turned out to be one of her favorite Johns. Peter hoped the same would be true for Skip and Kyla, but only time would tell.

Skip was hovering over Daisy, so tall above her that when he looked past her to the foreman, he didn't have to lean left or right to make eye contact with Peter. He could see in his boss's expression that Peter wanted him to just give her some time to meet the men before putting her to the test. Skip stepped aside, gestured her forward with a sweeping, polite wave, and said, "Food good. Mmm. Have."

His lips spread in a wide smile as he mocked what he had thought was her mocking of them with her chopping English. Just as Peter did -- and as the other men would -- Skip was intrigued by her accent. There was something especially erotic about an Eastern European accent, particularly on a woman who looked as sexy as Daisy.

Skip couldn't help but wonder whether her screams of ecstasy came out in English, Czech, or something in between. He would, of course, find out later that day: as well as satisfying his own orgasmic needs, Skip had every intention of making this thin, fragile thing scream in ecstasy.

When the big man answered her, she bit her lip to stifle a laugh. Was he doing a Tarzan impersonation, or was she overdoing the accent? It occurred to her that maybe the accent had been a mistake. It wasn't the kind of thing that she would be able to keep up all the time, especially when she was fucking. Still, she didn't think anyone would complain too much, even if they did notice.

"I'm Kyla," she said, her glance taking in the whole group. "What are your names?"

She bantered with them as they introduced themselves, leading her down to the kitchen where they loaded up plates with phenomenal amounts of ribs and sides. She took a much smaller portion. Most of these guys were twice her weight, and they were bulging with muscle. The steel-cable kind that came from laboring, not the perfect, sculpted kind that looked good and weren't much use. They were sweaty and dirty and she was shocked by how crude and direct they were. She knew she shouldn't be, but even for her it was a little much when introductions were followed by questions like "Do you shave down there?" and "Does it cost extra to nut on your face?"

"Yes, I shave down there," she said. "I keep it nice and smooth for you, yeah?"

"Nothing extra for cum on face, but in my hair, ten dollars." Washing her face wouldn't take long, but getting cum out of her hair would mean taking a shower, and keeping the next guy waiting.

She only ate a little coleslaw and a single rib, but she made sure to make a show of eating the rib. There weren't many foods better for teasing a bunch of horny guys than a sparerib, and she took full advantage, peeling the meat off with her teeth, licking and sucking sauce off her fingers, and finally sucking the bone clean. She noticed the conversation dried up while she ate, and she grinned as she wiped her hands on a paper towel.

"Delicious, yes?" she said, smiling. "I go wash up now. You come when you finish eating, ok?" She saw Skip still had a small mountain of food on his plate, and she knew she needed to at least wash her hands and face and put her makeup back on after a dinner like that.

"Rest of you," she smiled and shrugged. "I see later tonight or other night. Up to you."