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Chapter 8 Training
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The woman who met me in the car-park beneath ‘The Scrava’ was tall and black. Brazilian, my boss had said.
She was absolutely stunning.
She wore a full-length crimson-red velvet coat which stretched all the way down to her ankles. High, black, spiked boot heels peeped out underneath. Her hair was clipped up elegantly on top of her head, save for a few loose strands which snaked teasingly down her cheeks.
“You must be Elizabeth,” she said, her voice terse, formidable.
I nodded and smiled nervously.
Wow. Look at those eyes. How could anyone have eyes like that? Bright emerald-green hypnotic jewels. Enchanting, Bewitching. Frightening.
She scanned me, sized me up, read me. Unable to match her gaze, I pretended to be distracted by the small thud behind me of my chauffeur pulling the driver-side door closed after him. He had delivered me. To her.
Why did she stare at me like that?
“I will be your instructor,” she said finally.
Yes. The CTO had told me I was to attend an ‘induction and training’ day. Mr. Khani had booked me to perform for him ‘sometime soon’, apparently. My first booking. And I needed to be trained in preparation for it, he had said.
“Follow me,” she said curtly, spinning on her boot-heels.
I followed. This wasn’t the way we usually took, was it? Where were we going?
“You have a lot to learn,” she said over the echoing clip-clop of our heels, “but they tell me you are pretty intelligent for a whore.”
Intelligent for a whore? What was that supposed to mean?
We navigated our way down and around the deserted, barely lit corridors and myriad flights of stairs that ran underneath ‘The Scrava’. She walked with purpose, her boot-heels stomping out a resounding beat. I trotted along behind her far less assuredly in my office heels.
We came to what was evidently a security door of some kind. She took out a swipe-card, ran it through the mounted card-reader, and waited for a small ‘click’. She kicked the door open with one of her boots, and we marched onwards. The door clicked shut behind us.
Things looked different suddenly. The corridors were well-lit, furnished, carpeted, and clean. Hotel-like. Doors lined the walls at regular intervals – all numbered and swipe-card operated as far as I could make out.
We turned a corner and there it was: Door number ninety-four.
I gasped inwardly. A room with my number on it? Why?
“Your room,” she said, turning the swipe-card in her fingers and slipping it through the reader.
My room!? Why did I need a room?
She pushed the door with the outside of her boot, and it opened into one of the most lavishly decorated apartments I had ever seen: Ornate middle-eastern furnishings lined with silver and gold. Marble floor tiles, silk rugs. Intricate workmanship in the framed paintings, tapestries, mirrors. Medieval candle-stands. Urns, plants. A golden ceiling fan. A four-poster king-size bed fit for royalty.
Wow. It was unreal.
She took off her coat and handed it to me.
What the hell was she wearing!? What kind of outfit was that? A kind of whitish semi-transparent mini-dress! ...Clinging so fantastically tightly to her body, like a sexy second skin... I had never seen anything like it! Her largish breasts pressed up tantalisingly against the silky fabric… enormous thick brown nipples… and there was that dark mound between her legs...
My heart pounded. Get a grip on yourself for Christ’s sake! It’s only a dress. She’s a woman! Beautiful, yes, but still a woman. Not a man. No need to feel weak at the knees over a woman.
A few inches of silky-smooth chocolate-brown flesh separated the hem of her dress from the tops of her thigh-high boots. Lean, long, athletic legs, curved in all the right places…
I gawped at her, stunned.
“Hang my coat over there,” she ordered, pointing at an impressive hand-crafted wooden coat-stand.
Why couldn’t she hang up her coat herself?
I trotted across the room and hooked the coat neatly onto the stand, unable to dispel from my mind the fuzzy image of her sex showing through her dress.
When I turned back to face her she was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, swinging one boot playfully.
God. How could I not fancy someone as beautiful as that?
I stood before her in my sluttish office blouse and skirt and felt ridiculous. Plain. Average. Inferior.
“Strip,” she said.
I blinked at her unbelievingly. What?
“I want you naked,” she said. “NOW.”
Who did she think she was? Did she expect me to just take off my clothes and stand naked before her?
“Do you have a problem with authority?” she asked.
“No...”
“Then take off your clothes. RIGHT NOW.”
I frowned at her defiantly. Was this part of the ‘induction and training’?
“Are you going to do what I tell you or not?” she barked. “If not, you can get out of here right now and go explain your disobedience to your pimp.”
My pimp? What pimp?
“I’m not a common street whore,” I said, raising my voice. “I don’t have a pim…”
“SHUT UP!” she screamed. “YOU’RE A FUCKING WHORE. SHUT UP!”
She sprang up from the bed and her face was suddenly two inches from mine, eyeballing me fiercely. Green penetrating eyes. Like those of a cat. I took a frantic, instinctive step backwards.
“Down here you are a whore,” she growled. “You have been registered as a whore, and as far as I or any of your paying customers are concerned, you always have been a whore and you always will be a whore. Do you understand me?”
I straightened up, trembling.
“Yes, but there’s no need to…” I whined.
SLAP.
I hardly saw it arrive. It caught me flat across the cheek.
Bitch! She had slapped me in the face! She couldn’t do that!
“Are you going to strip for me like a good little whore, or am I going to have to slap you again?”
Adrenaline rushed through my veins. I shook almost uncontrollably. I was furious. Livid. Scared.
I glared at her.
SLAP.
I was too late to block the blow. How dare she do that! I would slap her back. Right now.
“STRIP!” she yelled at me. “I WANT YOU NAKED.”
“You can’t slap me -” I started to protest.
SLAP. SLAP.
I drew my arms up to defend my face, but clearly anticipating my defence, she grabbed both my wrists with one strong hand and dragged them effortlessly away down to my waist. With her free hand she slapped me again.
SLAP.
“Are you going to do what I tell you or not?” she barked.
SLAP.
“Well?”
SLAP.
“Yes,” I squealed, crying now, still shaking furiously, defenceless before her.
Why didn’t I kick her? Maybe I could have kicked her.
“Good girl,” she said, releasing my wrists. “Now hurry up and get naked.”
I fidgeted urgently with the buttons of my blouse. Would I really strip for her? Could I?
Why didn’t I resist? She was a woman! I couldn’t submit to a woman, could I? She wasn’t a client – wasn’t she supposed to be training me? And even if she were a client, I didn’t have to put up with that kind of aggressive behaviour, did I? I was still a human being. A whore, yes. But not an animal. She couldn’t train me like a dog. No way. I wouldn’t put up with that. I wanted some respect. I would demand it. Besides, wasn’t I supposed to be learning to perform for Mr. Khani? What did being slapped in the face by a Brazilian bitch have to do with that?
“At the end of the two weeks you will have your audition,” she said. “If you pass that, we’ll let you work here.”
Two weeks? Who said anything about two weeks!? It was supposed to be a one-day course wasn’t it?
I folded my blouse over a small chair and unclipped my bra.
“As I am your trainer, you will obey me at all times,” she said. “Are you going to obey me?”
“It depends…” I stammered. “I mean, it depends on what…”
She raised her right hand up menacingly and stepped towards me. God she was tall. Intimidating.
“Y-yes” I said hurriedly, not wanting to be hit again. Unfortunately, as I raised my arms to protect my face my bra dropped to the floor and my breasts were exposed to her. Tiny compared to hers, but pert, obedient.
“Good,” she said, eyeing my bosom. “Because if you want to succeed here, you will have to get used to doing what you are told.”
Was I going to do what I was told?
How futile to even question it. Of course I was going to obey her. Of course I would. I knew that by now. I was a whore. She was my trainer. She would train me. I would be her whore. I would obey her.
Was it a test? Was Mr. Khani watching? Maybe he was standing outside the door… or maybe I was being filmed again? Yes. Maybe he was watching and waiting... and soon he would be along to fuck his two whores; one black, one white. Was that it? Or would the CEO walk in swinging his cane and tell us to lie back on the bed and open our legs for him?
Why was I even thinking about the CEO?
I unzipped my skirt and pulled it down to my ankles. God. How embarrassing. Stripping for her. Stripping because she had told me to, because she had slapped my face. Stripping for her pleasure. Agreeing to obey her. Trembling, frightened.
Aroused? Was I aroused? No. Impossible.
“I am going to call you ‘whore’,” she said. “You will call me ‘mistress.’ Understood?”
Was this part of the training? Did I really have to call her ‘mistress’?
“Y-yes mistress” I heard myself stammer.
Was that my voice? Did I just agree to call her ‘mistress’?
I pulled down my panties and stood naked before her.
“Good, whore,” she said, watching me fixedly. She almost smiled, I think.
“In one of my pockets,” she said, pointing over at the coat-stand, you will find your uniform. Hurry up.”
I fumbled through her pockets until I found them: A flimsy black g-string. My whore-uniform.
I stepped into it and pulled it up my legs.
“Pull it high over your hips,” she barked, “and right up your cunt.”
I obeyed. I pulled my new whore-g-string right up the crack of my bottom until it tugged at my pussy lips. It barely covered my mound. Hardly worth the effort.
“Over there,” she said, indicating a small foot-stall, “are your heels. I want you to wear them. But first, bring me the riding crop.”
The riding crop. Was that a riding crop? Must be. Square tipped. What did she need a riding crop for? To discipline me? Did she intend to treat me like some kind of pony-girl whore and crack her riding crop on my buttocks? She had better not. Or else. I wasn’t that kind of whore, and she would find out. Not me. No way.
I reached down and picked up the riding crop.
“Bring it here,” she demanded, not disguising her impatience. Was I obeying her too slowly?
I trotted to her and presented it to her politely, more mindful than ever of my nudity as I entered her proximity.
“Curtsey, whore!” she barked.
I curtsied, not thinking to question the order until I had already lowered myself politely before her.
She snatched the riding crop out of my hands.
“Curtsey again,” she demanded. “Look at my feet. Always look at my feet when you curtsey for me.”
I obeyed. Why was I curtseying for her? What made her think she was more important then me?
“Always curtsey to your superiors when they give you an order,” she said firmly. “It shows you have understood the order and that you are ready to obey it. Do you understand?”
“Yes mistress,” I nodded. Was she my superior? Did I have to accept that?
“And always curtsey after speaking,” she snapped. “Know your place. If your superiors have allowed you to speak then it is reasonable for you to curtsey and show your gratitude.”
I stared at her boots and trembled and shook. Bitch! Why was she being so strict? I had only just arrived! We had only just met. Why was I letting her dominate me so easily? Why? Were they watching? Were they filming?
“Turn,” she barked.
I turned obediently.
“YOU DIDN’T CURTSEY!” she screamed and spanked my left buttock with a single sharp stroke of the riding crop.
I flinched.
Ouch.
Bitch. Bitch. How dare she do that?
She was treating me like a dog. Worse than that. Less than that.
“I see you have been well spanked,” she observed. “I won’t beat you if you behave yourself.”
What? Who was she to think she could beat me anyway? I wouldn’t stand for that. No way.
“Turn back,” she demanded.
I turned, looked at her boots, and quickly remembered to curtsey.
“Now hurry,” she said, waving me away from her. “Put your new heels on.”
I curtsied politely, trotted back to the foot-stall and reached for the heels. High, slutty, whore-heels. Would I even be able to walk wearing heels like that? I wriggled my feet into them. They buckled tightly around my ankles. God. What a slut.
“Walk around for me,” she ordered.
I looked at the floor and performed a neat curtsey.
I strutted around for her, unable to prevent my bottom from sticking out sluttishly, unable to prevent my back arching and from pushing out my breasts, and unable to avoid swaying my hips as I tottered around uncomfortably.
“You’re making me feel horny, whore” she said. “Have you ever eaten pussy?”
God. Yes. I had, hadn’t I?
“No, mistress.” I said feebly, remembering to curtsey again.
“Then come here and eat mine RIGHT NOW.”
Could she make me do that? Surely not. She was just another whore, wasn’t she? Was she numbered? I hadn’t seen her bottom, had I? Was she a whore? Did I have to obey her?
“I thought I was being trained to perform for Mr. Khani?” I squeaked in protest.
“That’s right, whore,” she said. “You are. And Mr. Khani will want to watch you eat pussy.”
Yes. Of course. That made perfect sense. Bitch.
“No-one told me I would have to...”
“Ha!” she laughed contemptuously. “You’re a whore! What do you think whores do? Now get down on your knees and eat me!”
I knelt before her. My eyes drew level with the tops of her boots at her thighs. Her pussy awaited me just above the hem of her semi-transparent mini-dress.
God. Why had I spent most of my life on my knees since agreeing to whore for them? …Since they had numbered me and added me to their catalogue… Since the CEO had beaten my buttocks with his cane... Bastard. It was all his fault.
“If you make me come I will overlook the fact that you forgot to curtsey for me just now.”
I gulped. She folded up the hem of her dress delicately and opened her legs a little. I stared into her sex and contemplated my fate.
Did I really have to?
“Come on,” she barked, placing the tip of the riding crop under my chin. “You came here to learn, didn’t you?”
I nodded. Yes. To learn. I was here to learn. To learn to please. To perform. For Mr. Khani. My owner.
I leant forwards and directed my tongue nervously between her legs. She was perfumed, fragrant.
“Slowly…” she ordered.
The tip of my tongue met her sex. I probed deeper and tasted her. I must taste my mistress. I am her pussy-whore. That is what I do. That is what I am.
“Lick around the sides,” she instructed. “Good... Now a little faster… Kiss me… Nibble there… Learn that place… Now deeper… Faster... Keep licking, whore...”
Her groin gyrated in my face, and she held my head clamped tightly between her inner thighs. I clung to her boots to steady myself. Her arousal dripped down my chin. She oozed with it.
“Good, whore,” she moaned. “I love virgin whore-tongue on my clit.”
I lapped at her while she fucked herself on my face.
In hardly any time at all she shook violently and her body stiffened. God. My mistress was climaxing on my face! I had given her pleasure. I was a good whore. I was a good whore.
She held my face pressed into her sex for a minute or so, twitching and thrusting as I continued to lap at her and taste her orgasm.
“Well done, whore.” She said finally, releasing me. “Now, kiss my arse.”
She turned, folded her mini-dress up over her buttocks and thrust her bottom in my face.
No number. No whore-number. Not a whore. Not owned. How come? Why was I the whore?
“I want to see your whore lipstick all over my butt when I next look in the mirror.”
She wasn’t a whore. I was the whore. She was my mistress.
I kissed her buttocks. I kissed her arse. I was her arse-kissing whore, wasn’t I? I must kiss her arse… because she is more than me… I am her whore… I don’t deserve more than this… she is my mistress… I will serve her like this from now on…
“Do you know why you are kissing my arse?” she asked as I planted kiss after kiss upon her smooth shiny brown buttocks.
“Because you are my whore,” she said. “And I am your superior. That’s why. My arse is the most important thing in your life from now on. Do you understand?”
I didn’t want to reply. What could you say to something like that?
“Yes mistress” I said, and kissed her left buttock.
What a disgrace. Why did I accept it? Why?
“I want you to kiss my arsehole,” she said. “And as you kiss it I want you to realise it gives your life meaning. It is your purpose. It is the reason you were born – to worship my arsehole with your whore-lips. Now do it.”
I hesitated. I couldn’t do that. No. It would be too shameful. Too humiliating. Too submissive. I was worth more than that. Wasn’t I?
I kissed her pucker-hole.
“That’s right,” she said. “That is why you were born. Again.”
I kissed her arsehole again. Then again.
“Poke your tongue in my arsehole, little whore,” she insisted, parting her cheeks with her palms and wriggling her bottom in my face. “Taste my shit. Taste your mistress.”
I stuck my tongue out and licked at the rim.
She moaned with pleasure.
I poked my tongue into her and tasted her shit.
She wriggled her bottom into my face and gasped with pleasure.
“Lick my arse, whore.”
I bobbed my tongue in and out of her. Was this my purpose in life? No. Please no.
“You are going to lick my arse like this every day for the rest of your life,” she said.
No. It wouldn’t be like that, would it? I was only meant to be here for the day, wasn’t I? Why had she said two weeks? Why had she said my whole life?
“You will learn my taste and think about nothing else.”
No. I didn’t want that. No.
“If you cannot learn to enjoy my taste, I will dispose of you.”
Dispose of me? That was a strange thing to say. What did she mean by that?
“Do you know how to make yourself come?” she said suddenly, straightening and turning back to face me.
I nodded, embarrassed.
“Show me,” she said. “Show me how you do it. Mr Khani will want to see you do that too. Stay down there.”
I blinked up at her sadly. She wanted me to masturbate myself for her?
“Kiss my boot,” she said, lifting one leg and waving a foot across my face.
I kissed it.
She lowered it back to the floor.
“Kiss my boots and touch yourself while you do it.”
I bowed before her and pressed my lips to her boots. I reached one hand between my legs and played with myself through my panties.
“Lick them clean,” she barked. “I want you to come while licking my boots clean. And raise your bottom up, I want to see it.”
I lapped at her boots and flicked at my pussy with my finger nails. I couldn’t come like that though, could I? It was impossible. Was she crazy?
I swapped to her other boot and ran my tongue along it. Maybe if I did a good job of licking her boots clean she would overlook the bit about me coming.
“You’re the third whore today to lick my boots,” she boasted proudly. “Fucking whore-sluts, all of you.”
…I’m a whore… I lick my mistress’ boots... I wank for her while I do it… She spanks me with her riding crop… That is me… That is what I am… But I can’t come… Not like this... I just can’t…
“You’re not coming, whore,” she barked.
I looked up at her, trembling pathetically, eyes wet with tears.
“I can’t…” I sobbed wretchedly. “I…”
She stepped round me.
CRACK.
Ow. The riding crop on my left buttock.
CRACK.
“Useless whore,” she spat. “Lie back and open your legs.”
I lay back, raised my knees and opened my legs. Please don’t hurt me. Please no. I’m trying to be a good whore.
“Play with yourself,” she commanded.
I slid a hand down the front of my panties and ran my fingers across my mound. I tugged at my pussy-lips. I rubbed and fingered my clitoris. That was better. Maybe I could come. Like this. Maybe.
“Good,” she said. “Tell me what you are thinking about.”
I didn’t speak.
CRACK.
Bitch. On the thigh. Why was she hitting me? Bitch.
No… Not a bitch... I deserve it... I deserve to be treated like a dog... I am her whore-slut... She owns me…
“THAT IS THE WRONG ANSWER.” She screamed.
I hadn’t said anything! Why was she so angry with me? I was trying, wasn’t I?
“What are you thinking about?”
“I’m thinking about….”
CRACK. CRACK.
“YOU WILL THINK ABOUT MY ARSEHOLE,” she yelled, and then, more calmly: “Now, what are you thinking about…?”
I tried to picture her arsehole in my mind. I imagined myself poking my tongue inside it again, playing with it, tasting it.
“I’m thinking about your arsehole, mistress” I said feebly.
“I didn’t hear you, whore”
“I’m thinking about your arsehole, mistress.”
“Good. I want you to come for me. I want you to come thinking about my arsehole.”
I rubbed myself furiously.
I was wet. Really wet. And hot. So hot. Why? Why was I so turned on? She was a woman! She was treating me like a little piece of shit. And I was letting her. Thanking her. Obeying her.
“You’re not coming, whore,” she snarled, and gave my thigh a kick.
She stepped around me in her long black leather boots and crouched over my face.
“Open your legs wider,” she ordered. “Keep playing with yourself, and keep thinking about my arsehole. I am going to sit on your whore-face.”
I obeyed each request. I pictured her arsehole in my mind. It was beautiful, wasn’t it? She had let me taste it. She had let me worship it. I was a lucky slut-whore, wasn’t I?
She sat on my face.
“Tongue in my arse, whore” she ordered, half-suffocating me under the weight of her buttocks.
She cracked her riding crop across my inner-thighs.
Ow. Stop. Bitch.
I stuck my tongue into her arsehole and tasted her shit again. I could hardly breathe. But breathing wasn’t important. Giving my mistress pleasure… that is important…
She flicked the riding crop playfully across my breasts… catching the nipples… not so delicately as to be painless, but not so harsh as to distract from concentrating on tasting her arsehole…
…I started to quiver uncontrollably under her… I moaned into her buttocks…
Spank my breasts... yes… spank my nipples… please… mistress… Where is Mr. Khani’s special necklace? I want to wear it... I want to wear his clamps on my nipples and dance for him and suck his cock and drink his semen and curtsey for him and thank him…
“Think about my arsehole, whore,” she reminded me, rubbing her arse into my face.
I came. I hate to admit it, but I climaxed like that: My Brazilian mistress sitting on my face, my tongue thrashing at her anal-passage… and God… yes, I was thinking about her arsehole as I came, just as she had wanted.
…It felt… so good… to come under my mistress… so beautiful, so strong… so powerful. And I was her little fuck-toy… Her arse-licking whore-slut…
I kissed her arsehole. To thank her. To thank her for letting me lick her shit. To thank her for giving my life purpose with her arsehole.
“Okay, that’s enough, whore,” she said, lifting her rear from my face. “I think we have clarified your position here.”
Her taste lingered. Yes. My position was clear to me. Wank-girl. Arse-eater. Spank-slut.
No. Don’t think that. You are not a slut. You are Elizabeth. You are just as important as her. She is not your mistress.
I picked myself up off the floor. Why did I suddenly feel so ashamed? As if I had suddenly remembered where I was and what I was doing. Had I just masturbated myself with a woman sitting on my face and my tongue up her arse? Hadn’t she kicked me? Hadn’t she spanked me with her riding crop?
She was staring at me again.
I blushed and looked at her boots. I couldn’t look her in the eye. No way. I had just humiliated myself before her. Oh God. She would tell them. She would tell my owners what a slut I was. That I had come for her. That I had wanted to.
“Thank you, mistress,” I said, and curtsied neatly.
“Straighten my dress,” she ordered.
I curtsied again to show I had understood the order. Then I knelt at her feet and unfolded her dress back down over her bottom and over her pussy. I straightened it with a few gentle palm strokes. Beautiful dress. Beautiful brown bottom. Beautiful pussy. Beautiful mistress.
What I lucky maid I was. Was I her maid? I had hung up her coat, and now straightening her dress…
Her whore-maid. That was what I was.
“Okay, whore,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Get up. I’m going to take you on a little tour of the premises.”
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