Whore 94

Ch.01: First Visit to 'The Scrava'

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'The Scrava' is an exclusive club for an exclusive clientele. Precise location
undisclosed. Mayfair, London, perhaps. The innumerable charms and the array of
pleasures on offer make it the venue of choice for those looking to while away a
few hours of unadulterated hedonism. Attendance is by invitation only: Those
privileged enough to receive an invitation are invariably unfathomably rich.
Much of the surrounding property is owned by the same people, as are the
majority of the businesses. They drive around in their big shiny cars. They park
where they like. They own property. They own me.

I started work as a secretary at Bowyer & Lake Technology Enterprises - a
technology investment company based in the area. I worked hard, put in the
hours, and in due time I earned my reward: The offer of promotion to Personal
Assistant (PA) to the Chief Technology Officer (CTO). I was instructed to wear
the 'usual PA uniform' in my new role, which comprised the usual professional
suit, along with the strict additional requirement that the  skirt must be worn
short (maximum length stipulated was that it should reach no more than halfway
down to my knees). I was also requested to wear high-heels and to wear my hair
loose at all times (I have long straight brown hair). Those requests probably
should have appalled me, but the increase in salary and status was too good an
opportunity to let pass.

I was, I suppose, an attractive woman. I was 25 years old, slim, about average
height. My legs were shapely and long. My breasts were a little on the small
side, but firm and pert. I  suspect part of my reason for gaining the promotion
ahead of other staff members (and some of them had been doing similar jobs for
longer than I had) was at least in part due to the way I looked. I have no
qualms about admitting that the senior people in the company liked to hire
attractive PAs. The short skirts, the heels, and the long hair were all part of
their vision of the corporate image... and if I could get paid more money just
because I looked good, well then why not?

It was during only my second month working as PA to the CTO that I first became
acquainted with 'The Scrava'. It was quite normal to sit in on my boss' meetings
over lunch (at one fancy restaurant or another) and to take notes as necessary.
That day though, around mid-morning, I received an email from my boss in which
he urged me to make sure I was looking my best, since the CEO had invited us to
lunch with him at "a special place".

We were chauffeur driven across town in one of the company Bentleys (this in
itself was not an unusual occurrence since undertaking my new role). I sat
between the two men, both well presented in important looking suits, both
slightly overweight; I remember feeling unusually shy with my legs exposed right
up to the thighs sitting between the two of them. I tried to maintain an air of
professionalism by wearing a serious, thoughtful expression on my face. I
elaborated every now and then by pretending to be interested in something going
on in the traffic outside. They mostly chatted across me (as if I wasn't there),
but at one point the CEO did speak to me directly.

"Are you looking forward to seeing what all the fuss is about then?" He asked.

"I'm not sure what you mean," I replied sweetly.

"'The Scrava' - where we're going to lunch - are you looking forward to
experiencing it?"  His eyes sparkled as he uttered the words.

"Of course," I lied, "I've heard it's a really special place". In fact I had
never heard of it.

"Oh it is", he nodded assertively. "It really is - which is why I invited you."
The way he said 'you'... Hadn't he sounded almost sinister?

"Thank you," I said quietly, and smiled politely.

We parked in what could only be a private underground car park. We left the car
and I clip-clopped in my heels behind my two seniors along various corridors and
flights of stairs until I was truly disorientated. Presently the fluorescent
corridor lighting gave way to the shadowy flickering of candle light; it was
then that I knew we had arrived at an entrance to 'The Scrava' club. More than
eight big overweight doormen wearing penguin tuxedos followed my legs with their
eyes as my seniors flashed their passes and the doors of the club opened before
us...

Trails of cigar smoke drifted airily out from within. Gentlemen's Jazz music
played over the vague rumour of voices in conversation. The air of
sophistication was palpable. I was led along the corridor as it opened out into
what reminded me of a nightclub bar-room, with alcoves surrounding a central
'dance floor' area. There was a separate bar area at the other end of the club.
Men - very important looking men - lounged about comfortably in the alcoves,
sipping from champagne glasses, laughing, chatting.

I also saw the women: Semi-naked - no - wait, some of them were actually
completely naked - trotting around in exceptionally uncomfortable looking
high-heeled sandals. They were  serving food and drinks... and they were
dancing.... gyrating, writhing, swaying, turning... wriggling their bottoms...
tens of pairs of beautiful breasts paraded around dutifully. Even the girl who
took our coats, she wore just heels and skimpy lace briefs. Her long blonde hair
fell in curls over her shoulders. Her breasts were small, the nipples shiny,
pert. She curtsied to each of my partners. Then she took my coat and curtsied to
me.

"Thank you miss", she said softly.

Then she did a very curious thing. She knelt down before me, bent over and
kissed each of my feet. Without a word she rose back to her feet, curtsied for a
second time, then turned and carried our coats away across the bar. Her hips
wriggled sexily at each step.



"She used to be your PA didn't she?" the CEO asked my boss.

My boss just beamed at me in response.

What was I to make of this? The honest truth is that at the time I made nothing
of it. I was mesmerised by the events going on all around me: Beautiful women
dancing, serving and evidently worshipping the executives - all girls with their
long hair flowing around their necks and shoulders as they writhed and twisted
and turned.

We were ushered to a vacant alcove by another astonishingly attractive girl. She
too curtsied before each of us as we took our places on the luxury cushioned
leather sofa-benches.

Before I had got settled in my seat I heard her ask the CEO meekly:

"May I dance for you sir?"

"Of course," was his reply.

She began to dance gently. She swayed her hips. Her reddish-brown hair caught
the candlelight and projected itself onto her gleaming bare nipples. Her black
panties, not quite a thong, but very slight, clung to her as she wriggled her
bottom and brushed her fingers up and down her own writhing body. She was
presently joined by another woman, who after having served us champagne,
curtsied and started to dance. Not long after that, another woman - (or girl -
she couldn't have been a day over 18) approached, curtsied and started to sway
her hips - as far as I could tell - for me personally! She looked down at my
feet as she danced, apparently hypnotised by them. She caressed her pink nipples
as she danced, ran her palms over her bottom, pushed her hair sensually out of
her face as it fell over it.

By the time I was on my second glass of champagne she was on her knees before me
kissing and licking my feet, lapping at the delicate leather straps of my
high-heels, massaging the gaps between my toes with her tongue. Her bottom was
raised higher than her head, the almost bare cheeks exposed to the rest of the
club - occasionally she wriggled her bottom as she set about her worship. I
noticed she bore a small tattoo on her left bum-cheek: Whore74. Looking around
at the other dancing girls I noticed they too were marked on the left bum-cheek.
Whore39 was currently curtseying before my boss. They were all prostitutes.
Whores. They were all numbered. Registered. Owned. Like dogs.

A second whore joined the one at me feet and they took a foot each. Her tattoo
described her as Whore68. She sucked one, then two of my toes right into her
mouth and kept them there, tonguing them with surprisingly delicate care and
attention. It was as if she really wanted to please me, to make me happy.
Occasionally I caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes when she peered up at me
from the ground. Each time that our eyes met, she would hastily divert her gaze
back to the floor. She was clearly ashamed of what she was.

"So Elizabeth, are you enjoying yourself?" my boss called out to me.

I didn't know how to answer. Two whores licking and lapping and kissing and
slurping at my feet. Reclined on a leather sofa and sipping champagne in an
exclusive club in the heart of Mayfair. Of course I was enjoying myself! But I
also felt an unnerving sense of guilt. My boss didn't wait for me to answer. He
was too busy enjoying himself with the three whores worshipping his shoes.

When the food arrived (brought over by whores of course) the girls at my feet
resumed their dance for me. Another girl (Whore80 - how many whores could there
be I wondered?) got on all fours, sideways on at my feet and a platter of food
was placed on her back. It took a while for me to realise that this whore was to
be my table for the duration of my meal! She had a red plastic ball stuffed in
her mouth secured around her head by a black leather strap (I have since learned
that this is known as a "ball-gag").She was completely naked apart from her
high-heels. She kept her back perfectly horizontal. These girls, these whores,
they must be well-trained, I thought. I tucked into my meal. My bosses did the
same, and as we ate we watched and enjoyed the dancing whores perform for us,
never seeming to tire of wriggling their bodies, of their desire to give us
pleasure.

At the end of the meal, Whore80 (my table-whore, wearing the ball-gag) stood up
and curtsied for me. Her pussy, neat and trim fluttered exposed before me. Like
all the whores here, she was beautiful, delectable. She knelt down and looked
submissively at my feet. She remained perfectly still. She seemed to be waiting
for me to say something to her.

"She'll eat your pussy if you tell her to," my boss called out. "Or you can have
her lick London off the bottom of your heels. It's up to you. She's your whore.
Use her."

I didn't know what to say or do. She's my whore? Whore80 is my whore? I had
never contemplated such a thing before. She'll eat my pussy?! I had never had
any sexual encounters with another woman before (let alone with a whore!). I had
never contemplated what it must be like to have at your disposal a slut of your
own, to instruct, to command, to tell her to do things purely for the sake of
satisfying my own whims. Imagine the power!  The feeling of superiority as
someone humiliates themselves before you and licks the soles of your shoes, or
eats your pussy, or whatever. I had worked hard to gain this promotion.  Was
this my reward - to become a member of the elite? To have girls less fortunate
than me worship my feet, adore me, allow me to use them in any way I desired?

Why didn't I stop? Why didn't the sense of guilt make me from walking away? I am
ashamed to admit now that I did not stop. I did not walk away. Oh No. I used my
whore. I really used her. I had Whore80 saliva the soles of my shoes through her
ball-gag just as my boss had suggested. Then I instructed another whore to
remove the gag from Whore80 so that she could better serve me. The champagne
reeled in my mind. The candlelight danced with the Jazz. And the naked whores
continued to dance with the candlelight.

I tried not to look, but I couldn't help noticing my boss having his penis
sucked and slurped at by a couple of sluts. I couldn't believe I was looking at
my boss' penis! It would not be the last time. If I had known then that one day
I would be me sucking that penis and worshipping it for all it was worth with
Whore94 tattooed on my bottom, then maybe  I would have stood up there and then,
walked out and turned my back on the 'The Scrava' club  forever. But I was
intoxicated with desire. This was a one way trip to oblivion. I was on fire. I
was, I am ashamed now to admit... turned on.

Whore80's tongue slipped up my inner-thighs, wrapped round my panties and delved
into my pubic hair, on my instruction of course. I raised my skirt a little,
revealing a little more leg, giving my slut more access. On all fours before me,
back arched, arse raised in the air, head buried in my crotch, she lapped
frantically at my pussy, eager little slut, desperate to please me. This was her
purpose. This was her destiny: To please the clients of 'The Scrava', whether
male or female. To worship them. To do anything she could to make them happy. To
bow down before her superiors and obey them. I was high. I was a goddess and
these filthy little whores were worshipping my sex.

"I take it everything is to your fancy?" A loud, authoritative voice called out.
It was a middle-aged man wearing a red waistcoat over his penguin suit. He, I
would later learn, was one of the managers of the club.

"Yes, as always," the CEO answered him. He pushed the girls lapping at his cock
away roughly and rudely with his palms, as if they were nothing to him. They
seemed not to notice his brashness, resuming their dance before him. "Could you
get one of your girls to bring a switch across please? I need to discipline one
of these sluts".

The manager put his hands together obsequiously.

"Of course sir, I'll have it sent over straight away. Is there anything else I
can do for  you?"

"No, not now. Oh, well - while you're here - let me introduce you to Elizabeth".

On hearing my name mentioned, and before realising what I was doing, I put my
palm across the face of Whore80 and shoved her away from my snatch - not unlike
pushing away a dog. The whore immediately went down to my feet and lapped
vigorously between my toes.

"Hello," I greeted the manager cordially.

"Welcome to 'The Scrava'," he answered me. Then he turned to the CEO. "Fresh
meat huh?"

The CEO coughed before replying. "Yes it's her first time" he said.

"Understood," the manager replied. "Splendid. Well, please call for me should
you need anything at all". With that he sped away.

If I have a regret (and I do, I promise you), it is that at that stage I really
should have detected that something was not quite right. The manager had used
the words "fresh meat" with reference to me. We had been greeted upon entering
the club by a whore who had possibly been a previous PA to my boss. But I just
didn't make the connection. I was too busy enjoying my new privileges.

I yanked Whore80 by the hair and thrust her face back in my pussy.

"I didn't tell you to stop!" I shrieked at her.

She resumed licking my pussy feverishly, apologetically. Her tongue flicked
around deep inside me. And when I looked down in my ecstasy at her cheeks I was
fairly sure she was trying to restrain her tears. Good. Little bitch. Whore.
Slut. I was her superior. She had to obey. I wanted that to be very clear to
her.

A whore-girl brought over the switch that the CEO had requested. She did the
usual curtseying and knelt as she offered it to him. Then she stood and bent
over away from, legs perfectly straight, offering him her bottom to be spanked.

"No. Not you. You!" he ordered, indicating Whore42, who had previously been
lapping at his testicles.

The whore who had brought the switch over started to dance for him, while
Whore42 stuck her bottom out for him obediently in exactly the same manner the
other one had. The CEO conducted a few practice swishes in the air, before
starting to whip her bottom viciously with the switch.

Whoosh. Slap. Whoosh. Crack. Swoosh. Smack.

Whore42 accompanied each contact with a poorly restrained moan of pain.

Presently the CEO repositioned the whore over his lap and gave her a seemingly
endless number of palm spanks on her sore bare arse. He poked a finger inside
her arse and instructed her to lick it clean. He opened her pussy and
palm-spanked it as if he was pounding raw meat. When she started squealing with
pain he requested that she be gagged. He continued to slap her pussy-lips until
she was moaning through her gag in agony, tears rushing down her cheeks. Finally
he pushed her to her knees before him and thrust his penis straight down her
throat. It wasn't long before he groaned with climax and pumped semen deep
inside her. He made sure she didn't spill a single drop as he withdrew. He sent
her on her way, utterly humiliated. She curtsied before leaving, thanked him,
curtsied again, kissed each of his feet, curtsied for a third time and then her
shamed bum-cheeks wiggled away across the club.

One day he would spank my pussy, make me to kneel before him and swallow his
sperm exactly as I had just witnessed. And I too would curtsey and thank him and
kiss his feet. And I would be grateful. And he would do it more than once.

Meanwhile my boss, the CTO, had three whores bent over before him, their
arseholes and cunts at his disposal. He was alternatively pushing his erect
penis into one of the six available wholes presented to him. Each time he would
grab his whore by the hair and yank the back of her head towards him, to assert
his control. He would thrust as hard as he could into the hole of his choice a
few times, before withdrawing, choosing the next hole, and then thrusting again.
I could see their faces from where I was sitting and they looked resigned to
their fate. They awaited his next thrust passively, obediently. Their faces
scrunched with pain momentarily as they received him into their whore-holes.
Ultimately, my boss was ready to pour his cream all over their faces. He
arranged his sluts on their knees before him and spurt and dribbled his semen
over each of their faces in turn. They stuck their tongues out, apparently
greedily. Following the CEO's lead, he then sent the whores on their way. They
curtsied in unison, thanked him, curtsied again, took it in turns kissing each
of his feet, curtsied for a third time and then clip-clopped away, their faces
still coated with his semen.

One day my boss would fuck me like that, and I would wear his semen on my face
until my Mistress permitted me to clean it off.

But I didn't know that at the time. I had just reached a glorious orgasm
courtesy of Whore80's tongue. I straightened my skirt and glared down at my
whore. Her face glistened with my juices. She knelt before me, staring at my
feet.

"All done?" my boss called out while forcing his penis back into his pants.

"Yes", I said happily. "Thank you sir."

"My little treat," the CEO said. "And it's not the last time. You'll be a
regular here soon".

My personal whore curtsied for me, thanked me, and curtsied again. So well
trained, I thought.  She knelt down, kissed each of my feet, rose to her feet
and curtsied again. Extremely well trained. Then she strutted away, her face
glistening as the flickering candlelit club reflected in the juices on her nose
and chin.

She had been a good little table-whore, I remember thinking.

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Ch.02: First Taste of Whoredom
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I lunched at 'The Scrava' with my boss and the CEO several times after that.
Whore80 continued to serve me dutifully. She curtsied and danced at my behest.
She knelt and gazed adoringly at my feet. She worshipped my toes with her
tongue. She lapped at my pussy. She made me come. She may even have started to
enjoy my taste, my smell, I thought: Like a dog gratefully enjoys the familiar
scent of its owner after a period of absence.

With each visit I learned to deal more capably with the sense of guilt. After
all, It was hardly my fault that I had turned out to be one of the lucky ones -
not my fault that I was one of the privileged. If I were to pass up on the
opportunities presented to me, someone else would only end up enjoying them in
my place. No - I definitely shouldn't feel bad about it – indeed, on the
contrary - I should embrace the opportunity; make the most of my good fortune.

Of course, as the guilt subsided, so the sense of obligation towards my bosses
grew. When they asked me to wear my skirts even shorter, I did not hesitate in
complying. It was a small price to pay for the considerable perks I was
enjoying. I suppose it was inevitable that I would eventually have to give
something more in return than simply 'looking nice' for them. Inevitable maybe,
but I still didn't see it coming.

I was standing alone in the lift (elevator) one morning, watching the doors
begin to slide shut. Just before they met in the middle, the CEO came crashing
through the space between them. He patted himself down, panting breathlessly
from the rush, accompanied by a slight middle-aged wheeze.

"You have to wait too long for this bloody thing if you miss it on the way up,"
he remarked to no-one in particular.

He drew in a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips. Then he seemed to
see who I was.

"Oh - Hello Elizabeth, how are you today?" he asked cordially.

"Very well thank you, and you?" I responded politely.

"Not too bad, not too bad at all", he said, peering admiringly at me from his
considerable height.

The lift began its ascent. He watched me with what I perceived to be growing
intensity.

"Looking forward to going again?" he asked brightly.

I paused before answering. He could only mean one thing.

"Yes,” I replied meekly.

"Good. Me too," he nodded in agreement.

After a brief silence, he suddenly spoke again:

"Elizabeth, turn around for me will you?"

The request caught me so much by surprise that I just did it without thinking. I
turned. I felt his eyes on my bottom - covered by the shortest of skirts - my
legs reaching all the way down to the delicate straps of my high heeled sandals,
the tops of my stockings visible just below the tight hem of my skirt.

"Thank you Elizabeth," he said.

His voice projected natural authority. I had often wondered what it was that
propelled men like him into such powerful positions in life. Were they just
lucky? Was it because they are unusually tall? Or unusually overweight? The
assertiveness of their voices?

"You are a very attractive young lady," he complemented me, making it sound
factual rather than flirtatious.

"Thank you Sir," I said, not knowing whether I should turn back around to face
him or not.

I don't know why I said the 'Sir'. It sounded funny as soon as I heard myself
say it, but there it was - too late now. A bit like when you call your teacher
'Daddy' - you just hope no-one notices. Then you speak quickly to cover it. Only
on this occasion, I did not speak. Mind you, I was fairly sure that many of my
colleagues addressed him as 'Sir'. The girls did anyway: His throng of
secretaries and personal assistants certainly always addressed him as 'Sir'.

"Well Elizabeth, we're almost there." he observed.

At the time, I took that to mean 'We're nearly at the 12th floor' - but he could
have meant... Well, he could have meant just about anything.

"It would make my day if you would just give me a quick wriggle," he said
suddenly. "- Dance, I mean. You know, like the... "He coughed, leaving the
sentence unfinished.

I could feel his eyes boring through the back of my head. My mind snapped to
attention. He wanted me to 'wriggle' for him! Could I say 'No' to the CEO? Would
that mean losing my job? Would they stop taking me to the 'The Scrava'?

"Just a little dance," he explained. "A little something for me."

Dance? Dance for him right here in the lift? He must be crazy!

"Really - or are you joking?" I checked nervously.

"I'm deadly serious," he said bluntly. "Come on - just a bit of fun. Dance for
me."

I knew I could not allow myself to refuse. I was not going to blow all future
prospects at the company for the sake of a little 'wriggle' in the lift. It
would be harmless. I just had to keep my head, give him his wriggle.

I began to sway my bottom for him.

"That's nice," he said, sounding pleased. "Keep going."

If only I had known as I started to wriggle for him that day that I would soon
be performing regularly for him. Perhaps then I would have refused. I would like
to think so, anyway. As things were, however, it would not be long before I
would not even wait to be asked - a single snap of his fingers would suffice as
a signal to start dancing. And two snaps of his fingers would signal to me that
I should stop dancing, curtsey, and kneel at his feet.

The digitised lift bell sounded and the robotic recording of a woman's voice
informed us over-optimistically that we had arrived at the 12th floor - my
floor. But the doors didn't open. Why didn't the doors open?

"Just a little more," he insisted.

I swayed my hips and wriggled my upper body for him. I could feel his eyes on my
heels, on my stockings, on my skirt, on my hair. How long did he want me to go
on for? I put my hands to my hips as I had seen the girls at The Scrava do,
accentuating my bottom.

"Bend over a bit for me", he instructed.

I obeyed without hesitation. Protests raced through my mind, but that simply
paralysed my ability to think clearly. Was he allowed to get me to dance for
him? Is this what I could expect to have to do if I wanted to continue to enjoy
the special privileges? It could be worse - I tried to convince myself - it was
just a harmless little dance wasn’t it? Wasn't it? Why then did it feel so
surreal?

I leaned forwards, sticking my bottom further out towards him, and began to
rotate my hips a little more playfully. He didn't say anything. Did he want me
to continue? I leaned forwards even more. I had to bend my knees - not like the
girls at 'The Scrava': They could bend right over and touch their feet and
continue to wriggle their bottoms, keeping their legs perfectly straight
throughout. My back was just about horizontal now, my hair falling over my face.
I was only too aware that my skirt had risen provocatively up the back of my
thighs... I was displaying myself to him, presenting myself to him. Oh God. When
will he let me stop?

"That's very good Elizabeth," he said. "You dance well. You should have been a
dancer."

I hated myself for doing so, but as I continued to twist my hips I heard myself
thanking him. And I called him 'Sir' again.

When I felt his hand on my bottom I almost leapt with fright. It had been just a
brief, smooth caress through the material of my skirt, following the curve of my
left bum-cheek. The touch had lingered too long to be anything but deliberate,
yet it had been fleeting enough to leave me with no call to confront him. Too
brief to mention. For one heart-stopping instance I had wriggled my bottom in
the palm of his hand. I gritted my teeth. I wanted to stop, I wanted him to
disappear.

I kept swaying for him, consciously straightening to a vertical position,
praying that he would not touch me again. If he did, what then? Would I
challenge him? I would have to, wouldn't I? And why weren't the lift doors
opening?

"Elizabeth," he said abruptly, stiffly. "You're an ambitious girl, aren't you?"

I eased the rocking of my shoulders, but kept moving for him.

"Yes sir, I think so anyway, Sir," I answered feebly.

"To get to the top," he went on, "you have to be prepared to lose everything.
It's all about risk. Most people are risk adverse: They go to work. They do
their jobs. They may even do them well. But they aren't going anywhere."

I had almost slowed my wriggling to a halt now. What the hell was he talking
about?

"There is no successful person on this planet who has not had to take a risk to
get to where they are today," he said. "Are you prepared to take risks
Elizabeth? Do you have what it takes to be successful?"

I stopped dancing and turned around slowly to face him. As my eyes rose to meet
his I felt overwhelmingly embarrassed.

"I, I don't know Sir," I stammered, blushing.

"Well I can tell you that you do," he said. "You took one just now. You could
have refused to dance for me, but you took a chance. You are going to be
successful, I know already."

I remember how the tone of his voice, so matter-of-fact, had vocalized and given
credence to my innermost desire to be successful. I did want to succeed, I was
sure of that. God! How it had all gone wrong.

"I don't know what to say," I said, genuinely at a loss.

"Later today I will be promoting you," he announced suddenly.

What? Promoted!? Hadn't I only recently been promoted to PA to the CTO!? Was he
serious? Another promotion? My heart skipped a beat.

"Are you... serious...?" I stuttered.

"I like people who take risks," he said. "Especially when they are as attractive
as you are Elizabeth." He smiled amiably.

Wow! Really, I mean - Wow! Another promotion! I beamed at him with a mix of
astonishment and joy.

"But first, Elizabeth, I would like you to dance a bit more for me. I don't
remember asking you to stop..." His eyebrows arched mischievously. How curious:
For one passing moment (and it was the first and last time I can remember ever
thinking it) he appeared vaguely attractive.

Desperately trying to conceal my delight, I immediately started swaying my hips
for him again, maintaining eye contact until he signaled with a twist of his
forefinger that I should turn around. I turned away from him, wriggling eagerly,
happily. Another promotion! Wow!

Without needing to be prompted I leant forwards to show off the curves of my
skirt-wrapped bottom. I wriggled it for him. I placed my hands on my hips and
rotated my shoulders. I tapped my heels, as if I were moving in time to the easy
breezy Jazz of 'The Scrava'...

All of a sudden I felt the fingers of his right hand wrap firmly around my neck.
His grip quickly tightened; his thumb pressing into the side of my throat.
Instinctively I thrashed to release myself from his grip, but he held me firmly,
masterfully.

"Keep dancing," he commanded. "I just want to hold you for a bit."

I swallowed. The grip on my neck didn't hurt particularly, but it was extremely
uncomfortable. It felt controlled, like he was restraining his true strength,
holding himself back from crushing my neck. These thoughts flooded through my
mind, causing me to panic.

"Ow. Agh! Please... Sir," I choked,” - Don't hurt me."

He snorted a laugh through his nostrils. "I'm not hurting you am I? Just dance a
bit more for me. That's all I want."

This wasn't legal, surely!? Of course it wasn't. I could sue him. You can't
treat your employees like this! It was a disgrace. But hang on - was I allowing
him do this to me? Or was I being forced? Is there even a difference? I had,
after all, started dancing for him of my own volition. I hadn't asked him to
half strangle me though, had I? But then... was I actually resisting? It saddens
be greatly to admit that I did not resist, I don't know why. I don't know why I
let him to hold me like that... And I don't know why I kept wriggling my bottom
for him... Rotating my hips...

I felt his legs rubbing up against the back of my thighs as he drew closer to me
- to steady his grip, perhaps.

"Lunch at 'The Scrava' today," he whispered suddenly, his warm breath close to
my ear. Too close. "And the promotion, of course."

I understood well. I had to take risks to get to the top. If I stopped, I would
lose everything. The promotion. The visits to 'The Scrava'. Probably my job too.
The end of any ambition I may have harboured.

I continued to writhe for him, prisoner to the grip he held around my neck. Was
it my imagination, or was he slowly increasing the pressure? I tried to dismiss
it from my mind - tried to concentrate on wriggling my bottom correctly for him,
tapping the plastic coated lift floor as I worked my heels. I felt like a
puppet. Like a doll. A doll - that was it. I was his doll. He was playing with
me.

His left hand suddenly clamped itself around my left buttock, his fingers
digging into the hem of my skirt and pulling it upwards. He kept it there and I
danced into it. I wriggled my bottom obediently in his palm.

He pushed my neck forwards, forcing me to bend further forwards; my bottom
sinking deeper into his palm. His grip on my neck was unyielding. He caressed my
bum-cheeks through the material of my skirt with his fingers. He kneaded me,
molded my bottom.

Horrified, I wondered abruptly what I would do if he started touching me...
Really touching me I mean. I would scream, I decided. I would have no choice. I
couldn't let him touch me like that. Could I? That would be abuse. Wasn't it
already abuse?

I felt his fingers inside my skirt, stroking the outline my panties around the
crack of my arse, causing my bottom to quiver shamefully at his touch.

"Good girl," he breathed heavily.

He toyed with the flesh of my bottom as I wriggled in his hands. I hated myself
- but what could I do? What should I do? I should have demanded that he stopped,
of course. I could have done that. I may have lost my job, but so what? I could
have initiated legal proceedings. Nothing would have become of it, but at least
I would have walked away with a modicum of dignity. What dignity!? Who was I
kidding? Dignity had long been thrown out: I had started dancing for him
voluntarily after all!

A finger crept inside my panties and expertly located my exposed pussy lips. I
shuddered with horror. It was real, it was happening. His grip tightened around
my neck.

"Keep wriggling," he ordered.

Sadly, I submitted to his will. I am sure I wanted to resist, but I didn't.
Instead I wriggled pathetically onto his finger, pulling him into my pussy,
shamefully moist, almost inviting him in. I didn't scream. I didn't protest. I
writhed on him, slid myself up and down his finger, clenched it with my cunt. He
poked it deeper inside me.

When he let go of the grip on my neck, I found myself strangely wanting it back
- not because I enjoyed being held like a cheap piece of meat, but because now,
as I continued to wriggle and writhe on his finger, the sense that I was a
willing participant in my own humiliation was heightened acutely. It felt like I
was offering myself to him like a cheap slut.

He inserted a second finger inside me, causing me to moan audibly. My body
quivered and shook and trembled. I rotated wider arcs with my hips, fucking
myself worthlessly on his probing fingers.

He lifted my skirt right up over my arse, exposing the bare flesh, divided by
the line of my flimsy knickers. He pulled my panties more tightly up my arse
crack. How he must have enjoyed the sight of my bare buttocks as I wriggled
frantically on his fingers.

SPANK.

Shit! He had slapped my bum! I felt it land viciously on my right buttock. I
jolted, then immediately froze, stunned. I remained petrified, bent over before
him, two of his fingers stuffed inside my pussy.

"Don't stop! I didn't tell you to stop!" He snarled, and whacked me again.

SPANK.

I couldn't believe I was being spanked! No-one had ever spanked me before. Not
my parents. Not my teachers. I was a fully grown adult! How dare he spank me?

SPANK. SPANK SPANK SPANK.

It was starting to hurt. But he didn't seem to want to stop.

"Keep dancing!" He barked.

I forced myself to resume writhing on his fingers. Would he stop spanking me if
I danced for him?

"Faster!" he ordered. SPANK SPANK.

I moved faster: I quickly learned that although he wouldn't stop spanking me,
the faster I moved the less able he was to land a firm whack on my arse. To
minimise the pain, I had to wriggle more quickly.

His thumb started pushing at my arsehole. The flesh of my buttocks was burning.
I am deeply ashamed to admit that I wriggled obediently onto the tip of his
thumb, encouraging it to enter my arsehole. His thumb slowly penetrated me. I
eased onto it, moaning audibly, his fingers still deep inside my pussy. He had
me in a pinch. The CEO held me in a pinch! And I was writhing on it. How many
other girls had he held that? How many of his secretaries had wriggled onto his
fingers? How many of his personal assistants had taken his thumb in their
arseholes? How many whores?

SPANK.

I had forgotten about the spanking. Sliding onto his thumb had bought me a
little respite.

Holding me between his thumb and fingers like that, he was now able to steer my
butt more controllably into the path of each slap. I was utterly in his power.
Five minutes ago I had been a respectable PA to the CTO, preparing to start a
normal day's work in the office. Now I was a miserable, obedient, quivering slut
to the CEO.

SPANK SPANK.

My arse was raw. My eyes welled up with tears. I was a slut. A dirty slut. And I
was letting myself be finger-fucked like a wench, thumb-fucked like a whore.

He withdrew his fingers from my snatch, but left his thumb stuffed in my arse. I
knew what was coming even before I felt the tip of his penis prodding at my
swollen pussy lips. He pulled my panties aside. I slowed my dance expectantly.

"Open wide," he instructed.

I obeyed the command unquestioningly. Too late now. I was his fuck toy. I opened
my legs for his cock.

The first thrust was cautious, speculative, exploratory.  The second thrust was
considerably more vigorous.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

He was inside me. He was fucking my pussy. He fucked me hard. Long, masterful
strokes. How many of the other girls had he fucked? How many whores? I was sure
I was just another one in a long line of obedient bitches. Just another
meat-hole for him to stick his prick into. If only I had fully realised that -
instead of deluding myself with the notion that I was special, that he had
singled me out for my intelligence, my efficiency, my ambition.

I cried as he fucked me: Tears of shame. And pain. I struggled to balance on my
heels as he thrust deeply inside me, but I managed to hold my bottom up
receptively for him. At times it felt like he was supporting my entire weight
with the thumb still buried in my arse. It seemed that the more obedient I was,
the more I submitted my body to him, the less painful were his thrusts.

"Are you on the pill?" He asked suddenly, impatiently.

I sniffled out a feeble "Yes Sir."

"Correct answer," he said, and promptly shot his load inside me with a few final
thrusts and a grim grunt of satisfaction. I felt the warmth of his semen shoot
deep within me. He held onto my arsehole with his thumb for a while, breathing
deeply, heavily.

Then he pulled his thumb out of my arse roughly - catching his nail on my rim -
making me cry out.

"You can straighten your skirt," he said unsympathetically.

Gratefully I straightened, adjusted my knickers, pulled them out of my arse
crack. I clenched my pussy lips together - determined not to let dribbles of his
semen escape down my thighs. I arranged my skirt. Then I turned to face him. He
had just finished forcing his penis back into his pants. His face beamed with
pride.

"I can't go out with this all over me," he said, holding his sodden fingers up
my face. I knew what he wanted. I had seen the girls at 'The Scrava' do it. He
wanted me to clean his hands. With my mouth. The only orifice thus far
unscathed.

My disgrace was complete as I licked and sucked at his outstretched fingers. He
lowered his arm down to his waist, forcing me to bend over, and ultimately kneel
in order to be able to perform the duty. The tears streamed down my cheeks as I
took his thumb into my mouth and tasted my own shit. I bucked slightly, wanting
to resist, but he gripped my chin with his forefinger and rubbed his thumb along
my teeth, up my gums, across my tongue, and around the inside of my cheeks. I
knelt at his feet like that for an eternity, adoring his thumb, staring
sightlessly into his trousers, defeated. His semen was still warm inside me,
dribbling unavoidably down my inner-thighs, my buttocks livid from the spanking.

"You did well, Elizabeth," he said as he finally withdrew his thumb. "I'm proud
of you. Now don't forget, Lunch at 'The Scrava' today. And we’ll get that
promotion sorted out some time before lunch."

I blinked up at him through my tears.

"Well? Aren't you going to curtsey?" He growled.

What could I do? What could I do? Well what?

I stood up clumsily on my heels. I sniffed wretchedly. Then I curtsied. A small,
polite curtsey.

"Again." He demanded.

I had never curtsied for anyone in my life! What was I doing? Why didn't I
refuse? I curtsied again, submissively, obediently. It may have been the first
time, but it would by no means be the last. Soon I would spend most of my days
curtseying before just about anyone. I would curtsey to men. I would curtsey to
women. I would curtsey to children. I would curtsey to whores. I would even end
up curtseying to...  No - I don't want to even think about that. Not yet.

"You're going to make an excellent -” - he paused as if searching for the right
word - "Senior PA".

The metallic lift doors began to scrape open. Why hadn't they opened before? I
arranged my skirt hastily, wiped my chin on my sleeve where I had dribbled,
rubbed the tears out of my eyes. He looked beyond me expressionlessly as I tried
to catch his eyes.

"Thank you Sir," I heard myself saying. I didn't know what else to say! I just
felt obliged to say something. But why had I said that!? I should have been
appalled with myself. And with him! But he had defeated me, made me feel
worthless. I was nothing.

I muttered a nervous "Bye Sir" and clip-clopped from the lift. He didn't
respond. He didn't even look at me.

The doors shut him from my view, and the lift accelerated upwards.

-------------------------------------------------------------
Ch.04: The First Dance (She dances for her superiors)
---------------------------------------------------------

I knocked politely at the door to the CEO's private office.

No answer.

The murmur of male voices in conversation within.

I was naked but for a skimpy pair of pink silk panties and matching pink Italian
leather glamour sandals with spiked heels. They had been left on my desk earlier
that day, boxed and wrapped. The attached note had said simply 'CEO's office, 2
pm'.

I knocked again, more firmly.

The height of the heels forced my bottom out as I straightened my legs. My
breasts had never felt so bare, so exposed. They jutted out neatly, the nipples
pert, shiny.

I gulped.

It was really happening. How surreal: I was just about to give my first
performance for the CEO - the man who had raped and humiliated me. I hadn't seen
him at all since then. How was I going to react to seeing him again? Was I
really going to present my naked breasts to him and entertain him with my
dancing?

I desperately wanted to be called in so that I could get on with the dance.
Imagine being caught standing there like that in the corridor: The senior PA
stripped to her panties, knocking dutifully at the CEO's door.

The rumble of conversation persisted beyond the door. Who else was in there? Why
didn't they let me in? Should I just go ahead and enter?

"Come." The CEO's authoritative voice finally called out.

I pushed the door open hesitantly and peeked into the lavishly furnished office.
Instantly I felt three pairs of eyes on my breasts: The CEO and two other men I
hadn't seen before. They looked rich in their shiny suits; probably guests from
a city bank or something. I felt their gaze move to my pink knickers, lingering
a while there. Then to my heels. One of the men smiled and nodded
appreciatively.

"Yes?" The CEO peered at me over his glasses.

I had been instructed to expect this. Apparently, the CEO liked to impress his
guests by pretending to be surprised at interruptions to his meetings.

"Hello sir," I responded as I had been told to. "I was wondering if you would
permit me to dance for you sir?"

The only other prior instruction I had been given me was that I should then
start to dance. Even as I closed the door behind me, I had started to sway my
hips. I stepped cautiously into the room, placed my hands on my hips, and
started to wriggle my body, just as I had seen the whores at 'The Scrava' do.

The CEO reclined back in his high-backed chair and lifted his feet onto the
desk. One of the guests leaned back against a wall. The other man remained
seated in a comfortable looking armchair across the office. They were positioned
such that as I turned and wriggled my body for them, no part of it was hidden
from their gaze.

I was on display. The CEO had spanked me into this. He had fucked me into this.
And there I was, gratefully dancing for him. I must have seemed so willing, so
eager to be wriggling my breasts for them, so grateful to have the opportunity
to prance around in those pink Italian heels and display myself to him...

After a few minutes they seemed to get used to me being there, since they
appeared to get back to business. They discussed loudly and proudly how
wonderful the South of France was at that time of year - a good time for
property apparently, and how they really must sell that old yacht and get a
newer model...

Meanwhile, I danced. I wriggled, paraded back and forth, turned, twisted,
pouted, ran my fingers through my hair, leaned forwards to show off the curves
of my bum.

The meeting dragged on and on. At least an hour by now. They discussed numbers
and percentages... Honestly, to this day I have no idea what it all meant. I
just kept going, doing what was required of me.

When I heard a knock on the door, I tried not to let it distract me. I turned
and kept wriggling my rear, vaguely aware of someone entering the room behind
me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the CEO's many bleached-blonde
secretaries place a pile of papers on his desk. She wore the usual micro-length
skirt and heels. I had seen her around - I think we had even greeted each other
once or twice. I had never been sure if I out-ranked her (I was the Senior PA to
the CTO, she was one of the many secretaries to the CEO). I knew now. She
clearly out-ranked me - It was I who was dancing topless in her presence,
wriggling my bottom for her.

She was so young though - not yet twenty! How could someone so young possibly be
allowed to see me dancing topless like that?

"Stay and take notes, Nicola," the CEO invited her.

She sat in a vacant chair, clicked her pen and busied herself scribbling on a
pad of paper.

I kept dancing. I brushed my fingers down the sides of my breasts, my hips, my
thighs, my bottom. I was too embarrassed to look at her, but I felt her eyes on
me. How could this girl - at least five years younger than me - be considered
senior to me!? It didn't make sense. She should be the one performing, shouldn't
she?

Nicola sat silently while the men talked. I dared a quick glance over at her
once or twice. She was staring right at me, clearly enjoying the spectacle of my
naked torso writhing for her entertainment.

"Elizabeth," the CEO said eventually, after what could only have been two hours
of continuous dancing. Why hadn't I thought of asking how long each session
would last? My legs ached terribly - those ridiculous heels were difficult
enough to walk in, let alone dance in.

"Yes sir," I answered promptly, not daring to stop dancing however much it hurt.

"I want you do dance for Nicola until we get back."

He stood up and his two guests followed him out of the room. They left Nicola
the bleached-blond secretary behind. They left me dancing for her.

I didn't want to continue - I felt utterly humiliated. But I had signed a deal.
I had accepted this. I had agreed to dance for my superiors - and evidently
Nicola was my superior, whether I liked it or not. I had to dance for her: It
was my job.

She put down her pencil and notepad and smiled at me strangely. She lent back in
her chair, put her feet up on the arms of the sofa next to her, crossed her
ankles, showing me most of her thighs.

She giggled. God - she was so young! And there I was, dancing topless for her in
a pair of skimpy pink panties.

Suddenly she snapped her fingers.

"Come on! Dance!" she demanded. "Put some enthusiasm into it!"

It is true that I had been dancing more lethargically. While that was partly due
to exhaustion, it was mostly due to the fact that I was having trouble
reconciling what was happening to me.

I wanted to refuse. But I didn't, couldn't.

I wanted my dignity back, but I suppose I was too afraid to stop - or at least
too afraid of the consequences of stopping. That would mean breaking the
agreement, wouldn't it? And if I broke the agreement... What would happen then?
I would have put myself through this humiliation for nothing... And in a way,
that would be even more humiliating. Humiliating yourself for material gain is
one thing, but humiliating yourself for nothing - that was just foolish, wasn't
it?

If I stopped now I would have been raped for nothing. I had even signed it off!
The humiliation would be tenfold. They would laugh about the girl who danced
topless for one of the CEO's secretaries - for nothing, who bent over and
allowed herself to be fucked from behind by the CEO in the lift - for nothing,
and who showed her appreciation by sucking her own arse-juice off the CEO's
thumb - for nothing.

I gritted my teeth and slowly increased the movement in my tired hips and legs.

"Turn around," Nicola said firmly. "I want to see your bum wriggling for me. And
come closer."

I obeyed each instruction, hiding my reluctance as best I could.

"More." she barked, "Move your butt more."

Again, I obeyed her request.

"Bend over more, and wriggle that bottom for me as fast as you can," she
ordered.

I had to endure it - let her have her fun. I was a dancer. I would dance for
her, but no more. I was sure of that.

I bent over as far I could without toppling over and wriggled my bottom
furiously for her.

"Good," she said. "You're starting to get the idea."

She had me shake my bum for her for what seemed an eternity. She was playing
with me. I was her plaything. Her doll. My eyes started to swell with water. I
wanted to stop wiggling my bottom for her, but the doubts persisted.

"Stop," she ordered finally.

I stopped gratefully and stood upright, facing away from her.

"That was nice," she congratulated me. "I love to see my girls wriggling their
arses for me. Now... let's give your feet a rest - you can kneel for me and
wriggle your hips from there." She pointed to the carpet at her feet.

I couldn't kneel for her, could I? That would be so... well, submissive,
wouldn't it? I was worth more than that, wasn't I?

I knelt at her feet and I looked at her ankles. God - She was so young. I
started to cry.

"Well?" she said expectantly.

I swallowed, and began to rock my shoulders for her, making my breasts rise and
fall for her entertainment.

"Put your hands on your hips," she commanded.

I obeyed. It was futile questioning her authority. I just wanted it all to be
over, to end.

I wriggled my bottom, hands on hips, my breasts protruding out towards her
sexily, submissively.

"Smile," she instructed.

No doubt she had seen my tears. I was a mess.

I smiled obediently. I had to force it - a horrible fake smile - which I held
through gritted teeth.

"You see - you're enjoying yourself," she said smugly. "You're enjoying kneeling
for me and displaying your breasts for me aren't you?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

"Aren't you?" she insisted.

I nodded, still forcing the smile.

"Don't slow down," she barked.

I sped up my swaying.

"Look," she said harshly, "I want you to say 'Yes miss' when I ask you a
question. Is that understood?"

That was going too far surely? I couldn't start calling her 'Miss' could I? She
was just an office junior! But if I refused, she would have me on my feet again
- and how long would that go on? I couldn't do that anymore: My feet were
hurting too much.

"Yes miss," I heard myself say.

It was too late anyway now. I was already kneeling at her feet, wriggling my
breasts and hips for her. What difference did calling her 'Miss' make?

"Let's try again," Nicola said, smiling horribly now. "You're enjoying kneeling
before me and doing as I tell you aren't you?"

"Yes miss," I replied shyly through the forced smile.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yes miss" I repeated more firmly.

"Now I want you to thank me for letting you rest your legs," she barked.

"Thank you for letting me rest my legs, miss" I mumbled, still wriggling for
her, still smiling, still crying.

"No," she said sharply. "I want you to thank me for letting you kneel."

It was becoming absurd. She was really twisted.

"Thank you for letting me kneel," I said resignedly.

"Good," she said. "Good girl. Good little slut."

A slut? No-one had ever called me a slut before. I wasn't going to stand for
that - no way! I was no slut! That was intolerable.

So why didn't I do something? Why didn't I say something? Why was I still
wriggling my breasts for her?

"Don't slow down," she barked before I could get my head together. "In fact -
get up again, I'm tired of having your slutty little face so close to my knees."

Oh God. She wanted me back on my heels again. I couldn't. I would refuse. I had
to refuse. Why didn't I refuse?

I rose to my feet obediently and resumed dancing for her. She was tormenting me,
enjoying treating me like a slut.

"Knickers down." She barked suddenly.

I was stunned. I dithered, almost stopped dancing altogether.

"KNICKERS DOWN. NOW!" she shrieked.

I would dress as my superiors required. I had signed up to it. I pulled the
skimpy pink silk panties down to my knees, and then, turning to face her, I
wriggled my pussy for her pleasure.

"All the way down to your ankles," Nicola insisted, pointing at my knickers.

I leaned forwards and pushed them down to my ankles, somehow managing to keep
dancing as I did so.

"That's nice, slut." she said. "Wriggle that pussy for me. I want to see that
pussy wriggle."

I obeyed. I bent my head back, arching my back, jutting my breasts out even
further, the nipples shamefully erect. I shook my hips frenetically for her,
offering her my pussy.

"I want to see your arsehole now," she demanded.

Without hesitating, I turned away from her, panties still wrapped around my
ankles, and leaned forwards. I was acting without her explicit instruction -
degrading myself almost voluntarily.

"Spread those cheeks, whore", she growled.

She had called me a 'whore'! Sadly, it felt strangely appropriate. I was a
whore, wasn't I? I had agreed to take of my clothes and gyrate naked for my
superiors in return for money, status... That was the lot of a whore, wasn't it?

I spread my legs apart, prised open my bum-cheeks with my fingers and wriggled
my arsehole for her.

"More." She barked.

I pulled my cheeks further apart, displaying my anal passage to her.

"You're not wriggling fast enough, bitch" she said harshly.

I wriggled my arsehole furiously for her. I was worthless, bent over before her,
knickers around my ankles, spreading my buttocks open with my fingers. Time
seemed to get stuck, the humiliation was unending.

"Next time, slut," she said, "I don't expect to have to remind you how to dance
for me."

Next time? There would be a next time? My heart sank.

I was still wriggling my arsehole for her. When would she let me stop?

"In future," she went on, "when I clap my hands together, you will pull your
panties down, turn around, bend over, spread your legs, and wriggle your
arsehole for me, just as you are now. Understood slut?"

I squealed a small "Yes miss".

"And when I clap my hands together while you are in that position, you will pull
your panties up tightly around your crotch, curtsey for me, and then kneel at my
feet. Is that understood?"

I nodded, mumbled another small "yes miss".

"Let's try that now," she said, and clapped her hands together sharply.

I released my buttocks, reached down and scooped up my panties from my ankles. I
drew them up quickly to my knees, then up around my hips. I pulled them tightly
up the crack of my bum, just as she had instructed. How shamefully obedient I
was. The tears flooded down my cheeks as I turned towards her and curtsied
politely.

What a tragedy: I had just curtsied to one of the CEO's bleached-blonde
secretaries. We all used to laugh about them strutting about like tarts in their
micro-skirts and high heels.

I knelt at her feet (actually glad to take the weight off my ankles) and gazed
resignedly at the delicate straps of her heeled sandals.

"You've stopped wriggling," she said. "I didn't tell you to stop."

Immediately I resumed writhing for her.

"Hands on your hips, whore." She ordered.

I obeyed, numb.

"That is the position you must adopt. Don't forget it. And don't stop wriggling
next time. You are a dancer - so keep dancing. If you want to smile, you can."

I didn't dare refuse. I forced a smile, desperately trying to look happy about
wiggling my naked body for her while kneeling at her feet and gazing at her
ankles.

A few hours ago I had been preparing to dance topless for the CEO. The very
thought of that had been appalling enough. But there I was instead, panties
pulled up high over my hips, kneeling before one of his secretaries; alert to
the clap of her hands so that I could stand, pull my knickers down to my ankles,
bend over, spread my legs, open my arse and wriggle it for her.

Why did I keep obeying her? I was worth more than that, surely?

"Good," Nicola congratulated me. "Very good. You're a good girl Elizabeth."

Curiously I felt glad that I was, in fact, a good girl.

"I'm going to tell the CEO you refused to dance for me," she said suddenly.

What? What!? She couldn't do that - could she?! I had obeyed her every
instruction. I had danced well for her - hadn't I? Wasn't I still dancing well
for her?

"Unless..." she added slowly, "you sit that delicious arsehole of yours down on
my middle finger and show me what an obedient slut you are."

Oh my God! Sit on her middle finger! - That wasn't in the agreement, was it?
They had said no touching, hadn't they? I couldn't humiliate myself like that.

"I..." I stammered. "I'd rather, I mean, I'd prefer not to, please, miss"

"Well, it's up to you," she said coldly.

There was a deafening silence. I was still wriggling my arsehole for her. She
would tell the CEO I had refused to dance! Oh shit - that would mean... Well
that would mean the end of everything I had been struggling so hard to build up.
Oh God.

"I was asked to dance, miss", I sniveled. "Not to do all... that."

"Life's a bitch," she said sharply. "Sit on my finger and I'll tell the CEO you
danced wonderfully for me. I just want to see you wriggle your butt on my
finger, that's all."

I stopped swaying my breasts for her. In an instant I knew I was walking out
right there and then. That was it. The end. Finito. I had had enough.

I stood up, turned away from her.

I took a step forwards. I was out of there. I was gone.

So why did I took a step backwards? And why did I lower my bottom towards her
extended middle finger?

I felt her long finger nail wrap its way around my pulled-up panties. I felt my
arsehole resist as she toyed with its puckered entrance. And then she was inside
me. She slid her middle finger straight up my butt.

I stood there, knees bent, offering her my bum, quivering, in tears. I slid my
arse up and down her finger. I remembered the CEO in the lift, how I had slid up
and down and wriggled on his thumb. It was happening again. I was allowing my
arse to be raped. Where was my dignity? Where was my pride?

"That is delicious, slut" Nicola congratulated me. "You're going to make a
wonderful whore."

I was going to make a wonderful whore? What did she mean by that? I was Senior
PA to the CTO! I was no whore. But as I slid my arse up and down her finger I
had to admit, I was pretty close to being a whore. I wasn't exactly resisting
was I? Why didn't I resist?

"Dance," she ordered.

I danced on her finger. I wriggled and writhed while her finger probed my
passage.

"Delicious," she congratulated me. "Screw yourself on my finger."

I fucked my arse compliantly on her digit.

"Are you going to dance on my finger next time, slut?" she asked.

"Yes miss," I panted.

"You will beg me for my finger next time, won't you slut?"

"Yes miss," I answered, not really caring what I was agreeing to.

She pulled her finger from my arse. God. How shameful that I yearned for it to
be put back there. I had started to enjoy it, hadn't I?

"On your knees," she commanded.

I knelt at her feet obediently. My arsehole glowed, throbbed.

"Good girl," she said. "While you're down there, give my feet a quick massage."

I looked up at her quizzically.

"A massage! Take off my heels and give my feet a massage!" she demanded.

I undid the delicate straps of her high-heeled sandals and then, tenderly, I
started to rub her feet with my fingers, kneading them in my palms. She sighed
with pleasure.

"Use your breasts," she ordered.

I peered up at her questioningly again.

"Massage my feet with your breasts, you stupid slut!" she barked.

I leaned forwards until the tip of my one of my nipples was brushing against the
top of one of her feet. Is this what she wanted? She gasped and I saw that it
was. I pressed the breast into her foot, rubbed them together, making a swirling
motion with my chest, almost prostrate before her. When she lifted her ankle, I
caressed the sole of her foot with my nipples. She moaned with pleasure.

"That's good Elizabeth..." she purred. "The CEO will be so pleased when I report
back to him."

Good. That was all I wanted. It was almost over, wasn't it? Just had to keep
going. It would be over soon.

"Use your tongue," she commanded suddenly.

Oh God. She wanted me to lick her feet! That was what whores did, wasn't it? I
was no whore - I was Senior PA to the CTO - there was no way I was going to lick
her feet!

But I was massaging them with my bare breasts. Was there really any difference?
Hadn't I already sunk as low as I could go?

"I'm not a, you know - " My voice trembled, "I'm not a whore, miss."

She snorted.

"Not yet you're not," she snapped. "Some girls don't have the choice. You should
be grateful that you do."

What did she mean? She wanted me to choose to be a whore?

I knew what I had to do. The same choice again: Submit to her, or walk away with
nothing. Less than nothing. That wasn't a choice.

I stuck out my tongue and licked gently at her toes.

I traced my tongue along her painted toe-nails. I kissed each toe. I poked my
tongue into the gaps between her toes - exactly as many a whore had done for me
at 'The Scrava'. I tasted her feet. I had never given any thought to how feet
might taste before. Now I knew. And I knew my role. I was to clean them, suck
the toes clean, massage them with my tongue. Worship them.

I find it hard to comprehend how I submitted so completely to her. She poked my
face with her feet. I continued to lap eagerly at them. I had danced on her
finger, now I was sucking her toes clean.

She stood and had me lie supine under the soles of her feet, from where I
tongued them furiously. She trod in my face, twisted her foot into it, making me
her doormat.

"You're a dirty slut," she growled, rubbing a foot into my breasts. "Now get up
and dance for me again."

I stood and started to dance for her again, the taste of her feet still with me,
my arsehole still tingling from the finger-fucking she had given it.

"You're going to make a wonderful whore, Elizabeth," she said.

She paced around me while I danced, admiring me, encouraging me with little
snaps of her fingers.

"Knees," she barked suddenly.

I sank to my knees obediently.

"Suck on this," she ordered, waving her middle finger across my face.

Oh God. I was to taste my own arse-juices again?! No, please. Not that.

I sobbed and trembled as I took her finger into my mouth. I wrapped my tongue
around it and tasted myself on it. She pushed it towards my throat and I gagged
on it. She poked it in and out of my face, fucking my mouth with her finger.

I was still kneeling there sucking obediently on her middle finger when the CEO
and his two guests returned. They walked past me as I tasted myself on that
finger. I didn't dare stop.

"I take it Elizabeth has performed to an acceptable standard?" The CEO asked.

"Yes sir," Nicola said, finally pulling her finger out of my mouth. "She is a
lovely dancer."

"Good - well that will be all for today, girls" he said.

I stood nervously. I felt their eyes on me. They seemed to be waiting for
something.

Nicola nodded at me, coughed, half raised an eyebrow. They were waiting for me
to curtsey.

I curtsied first to the CEO.

"Thank you, sir" I said politely. He had spanked me into this. He wouldn't even
look at me while I curtsied for him. Bastard.

I turned to each of his two male guests and did the same.

Finally I turned to Nicola. She was smiling evilly.

"Thank you, miss" I said, and curtsied neatly before her.

"Dismissed," the CEO said.

I trotted to the door of the office, my pink knickers still pulled up tightly
around my crotch. At the door I spun around, remembering suddenly what I had
been instructed to do before ending a performance.

Nicola was looking at me, but the others seemed disinterested.

"Thank you for permitting me to dance for you sir," I said and curtsied to the
CEO.

He didn't even look up.

Chapter 5 Saturday Visit to 'The Scrava'
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a Saturday evening.

'The Scrava', that exclusive club for the privileged, exuded its usual magical
ambience. Puffs of cigar smoke filtered the candlelit hues emanating from
invisible alcoves. Silky Jazz sounds throbbed and hummed and snaked through the
haze... and the dancing whore-girls... their bodies gyrating and swaying...
Heavenly, divine, angelic little whore-sluts... giving themselves to us - yes,
to us, the guests, their superiors in this world... their sole purpose to
entertain, to give pleasure...

The CEO had invited me.

"Wear your most expensive heels," he had said.

My first weekend visit. A real privilege. Or so I thought.

I dined off the back of Whore80. She danced for me, petted my feet with her
lips. I drank champagne. Too much champagne, probably. She ate my pussy. Good
little whore-slut.

The club was busier than during the week: More guests, more whores. Each whore
numbered, owned. Eager to please little fuck-whores. I felt majestic. I was one
of the privileged, wasn't I?

I saw and recognised the club manager conferring with the CEO while the whores
glided around them in their heels, swaying and turning and twisting and
turning... enchanting, enticing me... hypnotizing me...

"Elizabeth," The CEO said suddenly, snapping out of my trance. He had somehow
managed to get right up close to me. How had he snuck up on my like that?

"The manager needs a favour," he said quickly. "I have told him the answer is
already 'No' - but I have at least allowed him to persuade me to ask you."

I shot a glance over at where I had seen the manager a moment ago. He was still
standing there, fidgeting anxiously.

I turned my attention back to the CEO and looked up at him blankly.

"Over there - ," he gestured vaguely across the club - "is Mr. Khani junior -
the son of the man who owns this bar. He is an extremely powerful and
influential man, mainly because of who his father is."

I nodded even though I had never heard of the man.

"Apparently he's just passing through, here for a few hours only," the CEO went
on. "He wants you to go over and dance for him."

What!? Why on earth would he want me to dance for him!? He had the pick of the
whores. They were gorgeous. They were available. He owned them! As the son of
the owner of this club he practically owned these whores, didn't he?

"Me!?" I said incredulously. "Why me?"

"As I say, I have already told him that the answer is 'No'," he said. "After all
- you only dance for me, right? You're my dancing girl."

What!? I only dance for him? Where did he get that idea from?

"I don't mind dancing for other people," I retorted, watching him raise an
eyebrow. "But - well - not here, surely? Not in public, I mean."

He smiled confidently.

"That's what I thought," he said, "and that's why I told the manager the answer
was already 'No'. I told him that you belonged to me and that was that."

What!? Belonged to him? I didn't belong to anyone! Especially not him. I did a
job for him, that was all, wasn't it? Did he really believe that I 'belonged' to
him?

"The manager tried telling me how successful other girls have become after
catching Mr. Khani's eye," he shrugged. "Actually he's right about that - some
of them are doing pretty well for themselves these days - but don't worry, I
assured him I paid you well and that you were happy dancing for me."

The man had raped me. I had thanked him. I had danced for him. I had humiliated
myself before one of his young secretaries. And now he thought I was happy to
'belong' by him! What kind of man was he? Who did he think he was?

Mr. Khani - or whatever his name was - had singled me out for Christ's sake! - I
mean, all those naked, available, sexy whore-girls to choose from and he wanted
ME to dance for him! The guy must have taken a serious fancy to me! I couldn't
fail to impress him... And who knows where it might lead... mixing it with the
super-rich... It had to be worth taking a chance for, didn't it?

"I'll do it," I heard myself announce. "I'll do it. Where is he?"

The CEO looked strangely unmoved. I had expected him to protest - to try to keep
me 'his'. Instead he just looked on impassively as the manager rushed over,
rubbing his palms together gleefully.

"Come with me Elizabeth - that is your name, isn't it?" The manager chimed.
"We'll get you kitted out."

Saying nothing - wanting to ignore the CEO like he had so often ignored me - I
trotted hurriedly behind the manager across the club.

He led me through a curtained area, past various whore-girls in various stages
of undress, through a mirrored room, along a corridor and into a changing area.
There I followed him to a peg fixed to the wall at shoulder height. Inscribed
into a small bronze label under the peg, was the number '94'. A skimpy pair of
white semi-transparent embroidered knickers hung on it.

"You'll have to make do with your own heels," the manager explained. "Yours
haven't arrived yet."

Mine hadn't arrived? What on earth did he mean by that?

"Get changed, then come and find me back at the curtain we just came through,"
he said, and scampered off.

He left me standing there looking at peg number 94. At peg number 48 a
whore-girl was shaving her legs. At peg number 70 a girl was applying make-up to
her nipples, making them shiny, perhaps.

Oh shit. What had I done? I had agreed to dance for a complete stranger - in
public, right here, right now! And for some reason I hadn't considered the fact
that I would have to dance half naked. Was I some kind of idiot? What on earth
should I do now? Was it too late to change my mind?

I slid the straps of my black evening dress over my shoulder. Oh God. Why? What
was I doing?

I peeled the dress down over my bosom, revealing my naked breasts. I checked
around. No-one seemed to be paying me any attention. No-one could know I wasn't
just another whore - this was their changing room after all.

I was just about to dress like a whore too, wasn't I? I would blend in, look
like all the others.

I would appear to be a whore. That was bad.

But I would appear to be a whore. That was also good. At least no-one would
notice me. They would just see another whore. Right?

Was I a whore? Why was I doing this? I was going to dress like a whore, make
myself up like a whore, dance like a whore. How did that make me 'not a whore'?
Hang on! I wasn't even doing this for money! Well - not in the ordinary sense
anyway... I was doing it as 'a favour', wasn't I? A favour for who? Not the CEO?
Oh Shit! What the fuck was I doing!?

I slid the dress down to my ankles and stepped out of it.

Whore48 had just shot a glance over at me hadn't she? No. I was just being
paranoid. Anyway, what did it matter what a whore thought? I could tell her to
get on her knees and eat my pussy if I wanted to, couldn't I?

How many pegs were there? I saw they numbered up to 99. Ninety-five upwards
appeared unoccupied. Below ninety-four there was usually some evidence of recent
usage: Left paper-bags, shoes, bags, panties hanging up on the peg...

I slid my panties down and reached for the pair hanging up on peg number 94. I
ran them through my fingers. They were whore-knickers, I was in no doubt.

I stepped into the panties and pulled them up around my hips. They barely
covered my mound. They tugged up my bum. Yes. Definitely whore-knickers. My
transformation was complete. I was dressed appropriately, whorishly. My breasts
were naked, on display. I was about to show them to the son of the owner of the
club.

Was I ready? Ready to dance? Was I really going to go through with this?

I hung my black evening-dress and panties up on peg number 94 and stood there
trembling. I was scared, terrified of what I was about to do, of what I was
apparently capable of doing. If I were capable of going through with this...
then what else was I be capable of? Was I capable of being a whore?

Never. No. Never. I must never be capable of doing that. It's just a dance, be
confident - I told myself - That is the only way.

I retraced the route along which I had followed the club manager, ending up as
he had directed me at the curtain. He must have been waiting for me. His eyes
poured over my breasts, up and down my legs, inspecting me. I stood before him
silently, patiently, while he nodded his head with approval.

"Good girl," he said. "Give me a turn."

Obediently I spun around for him, showing him how tightly the whore-knickers
pulled themselves up the crack of my bottom, how high they rode up my hips, how
the white semi-transparent material framed so delicately my sex.

"Lovely," he said. "Just one thing though- you can't go out there without your
number."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a felt-tip pen.

"Obviously it's just something temporary for now," he explained. "Bend over."

My jaw dropped in disbelief. He wanted to write my 'number' on my bottom! No
way!

"Look," he said - "It's only temporary. If I send you out there without it
you'll stand out a mile. You'll have every guest in the house chasing after
you!"

Shit. Oh shit. He was right. I had to look every bit the whore. Otherwise they
would see me. I needed to be invisible.

I bent over slowly, resignedly, and offered him my buttocks.

I closed my eyes when I felt his fingers on my bottom. I felt the nib of the pen
pressing into my flesh. He was careful, deliberate, slow. Too slow. What could
be taking him so long?

"Don't worry - you'll get your permanent number soon enough," he said as he
worked.

"Good, that's that done," he said with satisfaction when he was through, and he
gave my newly marked bum-cheek a congratulatory pat.

Strangely I found myself wanting to see it, to see what I looked like numbered,
marked as a whore.

"You are Whore94," he informed me. "That is your name while you wear that
number. What is your name?"

I looked at him quizzically. Did I really have to say it?

"Whore94," I obliged him.

"That's right," he said. "And while you're out there address all men with 'Sir',
all women with 'Miss'. What's your name?"

"Whore94," I responded meekly, "Sir."

"Good girl. Right, now get out there and put on a good show," he said jollily,
giving my bottom another pat.

It was time. Time to dance. Time to be a whore.

I slid out through the curtain into 'TheScrava' proper. My God. I was a part of
the show now. I was one of them. One of the whores. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Where should I go? No-one had told me where to go! I turned back to the curtain,
feeling lost.

"Your boss will introduce you to Mr. Khani," the manager said, waving me away
from him.

I should present myself to the CEO dressed like this then? He would see me
numbered as a whore. Oh God. I couldn't face him like this, could I? I couldn't
do it. But I had no choice now, did I?

Nervously I made my first few steps over towards the alcove where I had left the
CEO. My hips swayed as I walked. I felt eyes on me from all directions. I was on
display. In public. A whore.

"Ah, Whore94!" The CEO called out when he saw me trotting towards him. "I was
starting to wonder what had happened to you!"

How did he know my number? He hadn't seen it yet - couldn't have.

I knew that if I were a whore, a real whore I mean, then I should curtsey and
start dancing for him. I also knew that if I were in his private office I would
be obliged to do the same, since I had signed up to that. But here, in public, I
was under no such obligation.

Yet I did curtsey. And I did start to dance. Why? Why did I do that? To blend in
perhaps, to remain invisible. I hoped that was the reason. What other
explanation could there be?

Two other whores danced for the CEO with me. We displayed our breasts to him, we
wriggled out bottoms, swayed our hips. I was playing whore to the man who had
spanked and raped me. What a disgrace I was.

"Very nice," he said as I wriggled my 94 for him. "I'm proud of you Elizabeth."

It felt good hearing him call me by my name. I wriggled more teasingly,
forgetting I was there, in that bar, dancing topless in public, numbered as one
of the whores.

"Unfortunately," he said in a loud voice, "You shouldn't be here dancing for me
at all - I'll introduce you to Mr. Khani junior- son of the owner of this very
club, and one of the largest investors in our company."

He stood up, moved his hand down to my bum-cheeks and held it there, guiding me
across the club like that. I shivered as I remembered the last time he had held
my buttocks in his palm. I felt myself wriggling on him as I clip-clopped
alongside him in my heels. He was delivering me to Mr. Khani.

"Look, I shouldn't tell you this," he half-whispered as he steered me along,
"but a word of advice, if I may. Mr. Khani's father is incredibly powerful -
both he and his son are well used to getting exactly what they want. Don't look
at him directly, don't speak, always curtsey before doing anything. Obey his
every command. Just act like the other whores, basically."

I thought I was just going to dance for him? That was all wasn't it?

"Come on Elizabeth," he said, apparently reading my thoughts. "You're a big girl
now. You know what 'dancing' means in a place like this.  This is not just a
run-of-the-mill strip-club where good little office boys ogle and stare before
slipping their green into your knickers. This place is for real."

He was right: I knew. Or at least I should have known. I still didn't know what
I was doing, why I was going through with it. I wasn't drunk, was I? Did I want
to do it? Was that it? Did I want to try out being a whore? Was this some kind
of bizarre self-exploration?

"These people own everything, Elizabeth," The CEO went on. "They own property,
business, land. They own the food on your table. They own the media. They own
the universities. They own people. They own all that you see here. Including
these knickers."

His palm tightened around my bum-cheeks.

"Seriously Elizabeth," he said, slowing our pace to a crawl. "Behave yourself
this evening, don't deny them anything. You have to convince yourself that they
own you for the evening. Give yourself to them. Don't resist them."

He wrapped his fingers around the material of my panties above the crack of my
bottom, clutched the material in his grip, and drew me to a standstill. He
seemed tense, anxious, suddenly.

"If you resist," his voice hardened, "they can make you disappear - you know -
disappear - forever."

His grip on my panties loosened. I was dumbstruck. They could do that? They
could make people disappear?

"Stay alive, Elizabeth," he said as we resumed our progress across the club
floor.

I was in up to my neck. Deeper than that. I was being swept along with tide. I
was drowning.

We arrived at a dimly lit alcove where a group of distinguished looking
Middle-Eastern looking men were enjoying champagne, girls, food, cocaine.

The CEO greeted Mr. Khani junior with a firm hand-shake. He was shorter than I
had expected, and certainly younger. He must have been what... eighteen? Or
maybe he just looked young for his age. He was dressed immaculately. He was
handsome too. He had picked me out personally then had he? Why me?

"So this is my new girl?" he said, admiring my body, still held in the CEO's
palm, being offered to him. He spoke with a somewhat surprising aristocratic
English accent.

I curtsied, not knowing what else to do. Then I started to dance. I wriggled in
the CEO's palm until he finally pulled his arm away and left me gyrating freely.

"I would like to express my sincere gratitude for your kind gift," Mr. Khani
said to the CEO. "Keep bringing them in."

I heard it, but I didn't hear it. I didn't want to hear it. How could I be a
'gift'? I thought I had been singled out by Mr. Khani junior himself? That was
right, wasn't it? What was all this about 'gifts'? Maybe it was just bravado,
just for show. I knew the CEO liked that kind of thing - I had first hand
experience of it, after all.

It made no difference: I was dancing for Mr. Khani junior and I was to be his
whore for the evening. But only for the evening. Just a few hours. I was certain
of that.

I turned, showing Mr. Khani my number. Whore94. I wriggled it, leaned over,
shook it some more.

When I straightened and turned back to face them, the CEO had vanished.

I had been wrapped, stamped and delivered.

The goods were being inspected.

Soon I would be opened, used.

I was one of a number of whores performing for the group of Middle-Eastern
looking men. A few of the whores were on their knees, sucking the men's cocks
and lapping at their testicles. A few had been made table-whores and were being
dined off. The rest, like me, were dancing.

I saw one of the whores on her knees get a mouthful of ejaculation. I thanked my
lucky stars that I was not a cum-drinking whore like her. Absolutely no way I
was going to swallow any Middle-Eastern semen. I was a respectable English girl!
But maybe they would try? If they tried I would have to refuse. But would I be
able to refuse? Was I or was I not a whore? How I hoped I would not have to find
out.

Mr. Khani beckoned me closer to him. Oh My God. Was this the moment I had been
dreading?

I curtsied politely, and waited for him to speak.

He didn't. He just pointed at the floor.

Oh shit. He wanted me to kneel then.

It felt strange kneeling before such a young man - a boy really - however grand
the reputation preceding him. Ashamedly, I realised my nipples were hard,
pointing up at him expectantly. Why was that? Was I enjoying being his whore? No
way. No possible way.

"I would very much like you to wear this special necklace," Mr. Khani said in
his perfect English accent.

He showed me the 'the special necklace' and I understood instantly. Yes, there
was a delicate chain collar that would be worn around the neck. But there were
also two further delicate metal chains attached... and at the end of those were
what could only be... clamps. He wanted me to wear clamps on my nipples!

I had never worn anything like that before. I had always imagined it would be
uncomfortable. Well, that was the whole point, wasn't it?

Shit. What should I do? Refuse?

Suddenly his fingers were on my nipples. I didn't resist. Why didn't I resist?
He was just a boy!

He pinched and turned each of my nipples between his finger and thumb. Then he
bade me hold my hair up while he fastened the chain around my neck. The metal
felt cold. It felt silky, sexy. No it didn't, it felt awful, horrible. It looked
real silver. He ran his fingers delicately along one of the lengths of chain
attached to the collar, and clipped it with experienced fingers in place around
my left nipple.

I gasped and almost leapt. It was so tight! Why did it have to be so tight?

"Now you will dance more beautifully," he said quietly.

I drew breath sharply when he snapped the second clamp in to place.

He spent several long seconds admiring his handiwork. I had just given my
breasts to a complete stranger! What on earth was I doing?

Although I felt his eyes on me, I did not dare return his gaze. Instead I looked
down at his feet and his expensive looking, shiny, black, patent leather shoes.

The pinching sensation seemed to intensify as he signalled for me to rise. I
curtsied. I wasn't sure if I should thank him or not. The CEO had told me not to
speak. Better not then.

With my nipples decorated by 'the special necklace', I resumed dancing for him.
I was somewhat relieved: This had to be better than drinking his semen, didn't
it? Curiously, I quickly discovered that the pinching sensation in my nipples
made me wriggle my bosom more eagerly - since the extra movement seemed to
distract from the discomfort. Was that what he had meant when he had said it
would make me dance 'more beautifully'?

I truly felt like a whore now.

I was numbered and clamped.

I was dancing obediently.

"What a delightful whore you are" Mr. Khani said, smiling. "A positively
delightful new whore."

No I wasn't! I was just a dancer. He must know, surely? He had picked me out to
dance for him, hadn't he? Hadn't he?

I didn't speak, just kept gyrating before him, swaying my shoulders, displaying
my clamped nipples to him.

He pointed at the floor at his feet again.

Was he going to remove the clamps so soon?

That would have been a welcome relief. But as I sank to my knees before him, he
unzipped his fly, fumbled briefly with the bulge in his trousers, and promptly
pulled out his erect penis.

Oh God. I looked at his shoes and trembled. He really thought I was his new
whore! Should I tell him his mistake? Explain the mix-up. There had to have been
a mix-up.

"Well, my delightful new whore," he said, pointing his erect penis at my face,
"it is time to pay your respects to your new employer."

I gawped at it, shocked. This couldn't be happening, could it? I was senior PA
to the CTO at Bowyer and Lake Technology Enterprises. Not a whore! He didn't
employ me, did he? In what version of reality was his penis my new employer?

"Your new paymaster," he insisted, waving his cock at my lips.

I didn't know what to think. What should I do? Obey, or resist?

I must have known it would come to this. I was down on my knees, nipples hard
and clamped, whore-knickers riding up the crack of my arse, Whore94 marked on my
butt. Was I really anything other than a cheap whore? I deserved this, didn't I?

Did they really have the power to 'disappear' me if I didn't behave? Did I want
to risk finding out?

Play safe. Be a whore. For now, at least. See what happens. Find out what I
should have done later. Just get on with it. Be a good whore. Try to enjoy it.
It's only for a few hours.

I slowly took his penis into my mouth, not daring to look up at him.

"Whore94," he said as I tasted him.

I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I came from a good family. I had attended a
good school. I had a respectable job. Still did, didn't I? So what was I doing
making a whore of myself? I was worth more than that, wasn't I?

Another whore suddenly appeared on her knees next to me. She started lapping at
Mr. Khani's testicles and running her tongue along the shaft of his penis. Our
tongues met when I released his penis and mimicked her darting tongue movements
across his sexual organs.

"Good girls," he congratulated us, his penis stiffening further.

We lapped at him hungrily. Maybe he really was the son of a powerful man. The
way the other whore was busying herself licking his testicles seemed to suggest
he was someone important. She seemed especially keen to pleasure him, to worship
him. I tried to match her frenzied attentions. As I buried my tongue into his
sack I tried to imagine my life depended on how well I performed for him. Maybe
it did? If I failed he could make me disappear, couldn't he?

I was his whore. He had clamped my whore-nipples and now my whore-tongue was
worshipping the whore-master. What a privilege: To be Mr. Khani's whore. To be
his slut. I had to make myself believe it. Just for a few hours.

He pushed his penis back into my mouth. I opened wide and tilted my head back,
offering him my throat. My whole body tingled with the whore-girl fantasy
playing out in my mind. I had fantasized about this before, hadn't I? I must
give myself to him, it was my duty. I was his whore.

He grabbed a clump of my hair and used it as leverage to thrust his penis
repeatedly down my throat. I made myself as limp as I could for him, letting him
fuck my face like a rag-doll. His penis was rock hard, throbbing.

I knew he was about to explode. He withdrew his penis; I feigned reluctance to
let it go. He lined up his cock with my open mouth. This was it: It was to be my
turn to be a cum-drinking whore. The other girl's face appeared next to mine,
mouth equally agape, and together we waited for him to shoot us full of
whore-feed. We waggled our tongues expectantly.

We were eager little cum-whores, waiting to be fed.

He exploded all over our faces. The whore-master's semen was warm on my tongue.
I smacked my lips together, tasting him. I must swallow, I told myself. I must
swallow the whore-master's seed.

Suddenly the other whore had her tongue in my mouth and we were sharing his
semen - correction - we were fighting for it - she was trying to steal it from
the inside of my cheeks.

After I had won that battle, we fought for the last drops from the end of his
dripping penis.

With that supply exhausted, I scraped my fingers down my cheeks, scooping his
semen into my mouth, sucking my fingers, waggling my tongue.

Oh God. Why did I do all that?

Was it some deep-seated whore-girl fantasy made real? Or was it just my way of
blocking out the reality of being used like a cheap slut?

We stood and curtsied in unison, our faces still glistening with traces of Mr.
Khani's seed. My nipples still burned from the clamps. I was a slut-whore,
wasn't I? I felt ashamed suddenly. I had just competed with a whore for Mr.
Khani's semen. I wore his special necklace. Was I his special whore? Not really
a whore, but a whore all the same?

The other whore turned and began to trot away, her hips swaying, bottom
wriggling.

It was then that I saw her number for the first time: She was Whore01. Maybe she
was his special whore too?

I wasn't sure if I should follow Whore01 or stay with my whore-master. No - not
my whore-master, but Mr. Khani junior. Just a boy. How can a boy be a
whore-master?

Was I dismissed? Or should I dance some more?

I curtsied for him again, stalling, hoping to get an order so that I could be in
no doubt about what I should do.

"Are you still here?" he said, shooing me away.

I turned obediently and wriggled my buttocks away from him, making way back to
the curtained area where I had been numbered.

I saw the CEO watching me from across the bar. He was smiling, the bastard. He
had turned me into this.

He had turned me into this whore.

This slut.

Ch06: Registration
-----------------------------

I clip-clopped my way back to peg number 94, not wanting to look at anyone or
anything.

I had to get out of there as soon as possible. I had to get away from 'The
Scrava'. Never come back.

I carefully unclipped the clamps from around my nipples and undid the chain
around my neck, freeing myself of Mr. Khani's special necklace.

Pervert. Bastard.

Where was my dress? Not hanging on the peg where I had left it. Not on any of
the neighbouring pegs. No sign of it. And where were my panties?

No sign of any other whores. Where was everyone? Where were my clothes?

I washed my face at a basin; the sticky remnants of Mr. Khani's semen clung to
my fingers as I scrubbed my cheeks.

Bastard. Bastard. How dare he treat me like that? Like a cheap slut. Like a
whore. Hadn't he known I wasn't a whore? Bastard.

Where was my dress then? Where was it?

"You did well out there," the CEO's voice rang out of nowhere suddenly.

I spun around and there he was: leaning up against the door-frame, his face
beaming with pride.

"Young Mr. Khani was very happy with you," he said.

I blinked at him incredulously. I just wanted my clothes. I didn't care what Mr.
Khani thought of me. I just wanted my dress and then to get out of there as soon
as possible.

"You were truly wonderful," he affirmed.

Had he been watching me? Had he seen what Mr. Khani junior had made me do?

His eyes bore into me, making me feel uneasy, watched, observed. Naked. He made
me feel naked.

"Can I have my dress?" I asked nervously, crossing my wrists over my breasts in
order to hide them from him.

"Not yet," he responded firmly.

What did he mean 'Not yet'? It was my dress! Why couldn't I have my dress back?
Who was he to tell me I couldn't have my dress back?

"Mr. Khani would like you to dance for him again," he said flatly. "A few times
a week. Here in the club."

No way. I mean, no way! Who did they think I was? I wasn't going through that
again. Absolutely not. I wouldn't do it again. No. No more. It wasn't going to
happen. No chance. Sorry.

"Mr. Khani is a major investor in our company, Elizabeth. We're not going to
turn him down."

Oh yes we were. We were definitely going to turn him down.

"In fact," he went on, clearing his throat, "because I was sure you would be
flattered by the request, and because I knew you would understand the need to
accept it, I have already gone ahead and told him that you would be delighted to
perform for him again."

What!? Who did he think he was?

"So you see, it would be a bit embarrassing..." he went on, "I mean - I can
hardly go and tell him you have changed your mind."

In what way had I changed my mind? I had agreed to just one dance, hadn't I?

I shook my head defiantly and scowled at him. I wasn't going to perform like
that again for anyone. Not now, not ever. It didn't matter who they were.

"Obviously we will discuss how best to compensate you for the additional
responsibilities..."

They wanted to pay me! What did they think I was? A common whore?

"Please let me have my dress," I insisted. "Please. I want to go."

"Elizabeth," he said in a more serious voice. "We'll double your salary."

Double my salary? God. One hundred thousand pounds. That was a lot of money.

"You'll also be assigned your own maid - to take care of you at home," he said,
eyes glinting mischievously. "Complements of Mr. Khani..."

My own maid?

"...And you'll be allocated a chauffeur," he went on. "Again, Mr. Khani's gift
to you. Be driven anywhere, anytime."

A maid? A chauffeur? That was surreal. But imagine it! Only the rich and famous
had maids and chauffeurs, didn't they?

"And there will of course be other benefits," his said, raising a suggestive
eyebrow. "Things I already know you will enjoy enormously..."

I felt giddy. My mind pulled in all directions at once, going nowhere.

They wanted me to whore for them! I couldn't do that, could I? I was above their
money and their benefits, wasn't I? I couldn't be bought... I had some
self-respect, some dignity, some pride. Didn't I?

"This is a sophisticated establishment, Elizabeth," the CEO said. "It's not a
street corner brothel. Performing here is safe and discreet. How you regard the
work itself is just a question of attitude - many of the girls actually enjoy
working here. They enjoy the sex; they enjoy flirting with the clientele. They
enjoy the money. They enjoy the kind of lifestyle they could only have dreamed
of previously."

While he spoke, the manager of the club had scurried up behind him.

"Mr. Khani just left," he puffed as he slid through the doorway, brushing past
the CEO. "He was satisfied, I'm glad to say. Remember how upset he got with the
last girl?"

What last girl? What happened?

I looked at the floor, desperately wanting it to swallow me. Why couldn't they
just leave me alone? Let me be? They were trying to make me their whore!

"I don't want to be a whore," I protested.

"It's too late, Elizabeth," the CEO said. "Look at yourself. You're already a
whore."

No. No! I wasn't a whore, was I?

Maybe I was: Didn't I display my breasts to him on demand? Didn't I dress as he
required me to dress? Didn't I also undress when he required me to undress?
Didn't I dance for him at his bidding? Hadn't I danced for him in the club with
the other whores? Wasn't I standing topless before him now, wearing nothing but
whore-knickers and my most expensive heels? Didn't I have Whore94 scrawled
across my bum?

Oh God. I choked. He was right. I was already a whore.

No. Never. I was more than that. Had to be.

"You are a whore," the CEO asserted, "and you enjoy it."

I sniffed, determined not to break into tears. I wanted my dress. I didn't want
this. I went to a good school. I had been taught that if I worked hard in a
respectable job then I would be successful. Had I been misled?

"Please don't make me a whore," I whimpered.

"Listen, Elizabeth," he said gently. "It's not what you think. What is a whore?
I'll tell you: A whore is a poor slut standing out in the cold on a street
corner in her thigh-high boots begging for a cheap fuck in order to pay her pimp
to beat her up and give her the next hit. That's what a whore is. There are no
whores here - only performers, entertainers, fantasy girls, dream girls,
Goddesses..."

I shivered, shook, trembled.

"You want to be successful don't you?" he asked.

I nodded feebly.

"Then agree to perform here," he urged. "You will be well paid. You will even
enjoy it. You are lucky in that respect - lucky, I mean, in that you are able to
enjoy playing whore."

How did he know that? He couldn't know that, could he? It wasn't even true, was
it? Why didn't I deny it? Why didn't I tell him he was mistaken - that he must
have me confused with someone else?

Oh God. Why was this happening? I was just an ordinary girl. I didn't want this.
Not me. Why me?

"Money buys freedom in this world, Elizabeth," he said darkly. "Without money
you are nothing more than a slave. You know what a slave is, Elizabeth? A slave
is forced to work against their will. A slave starts with nothing, is put to
work, and then ends up with nothing. How is that different from what most people
do, day in, day out? They work all day for their masters and then they go to the
bars and the clubs and the supermarkets and the high-street stores and they give
their money straight back to their masters. They pay their rent to their
masters. They make their mortgage repayments to their masters. All so they can
enjoy the luxury of turning up at work the next day to start slaving all over
again."

He spoke with such conviction. It sounded grotesque. Grotesquely real. Was it
real? Were we all slaves?

"Slavery was never abolished, Elizabeth. It was just cleverly disguised."

I didn't want to be a slave.

But I didn't want to be a whore.

How tragic that I would end up both.

They watched me silently. They were waiting for a decision. They were waiting
for me to tell them I wanted to be their whore.

"Why don't you dance for us right now and show us how much you would like to
accept Mr. Khani's offer," the CEO said, presenting me the floor with a gesture
of his wrist.

I looked down at my heels.

Oh God.

I was going to be their whore, wasn't I?

"I'll do it..." I squealed.

"I know," the CEO said. "Now dance."

I started to sway my hips for them.

Why?

I wriggled my bum, turned, showed them my 'Whore94' pen-marking.

Why did I do that?

How I wish now that I hadn't. How I regret that I did.

But as I lowered my arms from where they had shielded my bosom and as I wriggled
around and displayed them my breasts, I could only feel exhilarated,
intoxicated, breathless. I was going to be rich. I would be given a maid. My own
driver. Whores would worship my feet and sink their lips into my...

I rubbed my nipples and wriggled my hips. I was used to dancing for the CEO by
now. He was my employer. In a way he was now my pimp. He had found his whore a
good client, a good playground. She should be grateful, shouldn't she?

"Good girl," he said, hypnotized by my dance. "Panties down."

I obeyed, actually quite glad to be rid of the whore-knickers. They had made me
look cheap. They had advertised my wares, drawn attention to my sex.

Oh God. What kind of whore would I become?

I slid the panties down to my ankles and stepped out of them. I heard the
manager whistle air through his lips. I had almost forgotten him. I was dancing
for him too, wasn't I? He would be my manager here, wouldn't he?

I turned and wriggled appreciatively for him, showing him my exposed pussy,
delighting him with it, displaying him his new whore-girl.

"Can you register her right away?" The CEO asked.

They were going to register me? I hadn't realised it would be as organised as
that. Would I have to sign another contract?

"Um, yes - shouldn't be a problem." The manager answered, unable to take his
eyes off me.

"Good," the CEO said, his face beaming with pride again as I turned back to
wriggle for him. "Let's take her downstairs."

I tottered behind them, naked but for my heels, along the seemingly endless
corridors, down the innumerable flights of stairs. The artificial lighting was
scant at best for the most part, and there was no natural illumination. We must
have been well below ground level. How much more was there to the place? It was
immense! A bewildering complex of apparently abandoned corridors and passages.

Eventually we arrived at what could only be described as some kind of
underground studio workshop. Spotlights hung from the ceiling. They were
directed at and illuminating a large wooden work-bench in the centre of the
room. Circling the workbench, meticulously arranged, an array of what looked
like camera-recorders were set up on tripods. Miscellaneous tools, tool-boxes,
crates and shelving lined the sides of the room. Was this where I would
register?

A middle-aged man wearing a heavily soiled white laboratory coat had been
adjusting one of the cameras when we arrived.

"You're earlier than I expected," he said, his accent carrying an easy lilt.
Irish, perhaps.

"She's an intelligent girl," the CEO replied, somewhat cryptically.

I felt his hand on my shoulder suddenly, causing my whole body to shudder.

"Elizabeth," he said gently, "we are going to register you now. It's a simple
procedure, but there are one or two formalities to be taken care of."

I looked at him blankly. What kind of procedure?

"The good doctor here..." he said, indicating the man wearing the stained
laboratory coat "...will conduct a routine medical examination. We also need to
take a few photographs."

That man was a doctor? He didn't look like a doctor. He looked more like a
mechanic. And they wanted to take photographs?

"We need to document your physical condition at the time of enrolment," The CEO
explained. "It also gives us legal protection against, well, shall we say,
'issues' that have come up once or twice in the past. The photographs
conveniently serve as evidence of your consent to register with us. Necessary
red-tape, I'm afraid."

That sounded reasonable enough, didn't it?

Did I really want to go through with this? Did I really want to be their whore?
Was the extra money worth it? Was it too late to change my mind?

"So, Elizabeth," the CEO said, "get up on the bench and we'll get started."

The manager had picked up a handheld camera and seemed to be checking its
operation.

I scanned the work-bench nervously. Get up on it? Why?

"Come on whore, get up on the bench," the manager complained. "We don't have all
day."

Who was he to get impatient with me? He was just the manager! A nobody really.
He couldn't get a real job so he had ended up running a club full of whores.

Oh God: He would be my fuck-master soon.

I pulled myself up onto the bench so that I was perched on the edge of it, my
heels still able to reach the floor. I blinked in the full glare of the
spotlights.

"No, not like that Elizabeth," the CEO said. "We're not taking snaps for the
family album. Get right up on the bench and get on all fours."

On all fours? Why?

"It's just a routine examination," the CEO smiled.

"Come on whore, get on with it," the manager growled.

Part of my mind screamed with resentment at being called a 'whore' like that.
But I would have to get used to it, wouldn't I? It came with the territory. It
was just a word. Nothing to get upset about. Think of the money.

I pulled my legs up under my bottom, twisted round, levered myself onto my knees
and there I was: Up on their work-bench, in the spotlight, on all fours. Ready
to be examined.

Were the cameras running? Were they filming me?

CLICK went the manager's camera. CLICK CLICK.

I felt like a porn-model.

"Head down a bit, and hold your bottom up nicely for us Elizabeth," the CEO
instructed.

I complied and immediately heard the camera again:

CLICK. CLICK.

God. What was I doing?

"Open your legs a bit wider," the CEO instructed. "We need clear shots of your
pussy."

I obeyed. The camera clicked.

"Hold your pussy open for us," the CEO commanded.

I hesitated. Was this how they documented consent? They would have me display
myself to them of my own volition?

I reached my fingers between my legs and spread my pussy lips for them with my
finger nails. I was showing them my pink, offering them my sex. How shameful.

CLICK CLICK. CLICK.

"These are going to look great in the catalogue," the manager chattered
excitedly.

Catalogue? What catalogue?

The man wearing the lab-coat shuffled busily around me. He checked my teeth. He
squeezed my breasts. He prodded my ribs. He stroked my legs. He patted my
bottom. His fingers ran down the crack of my arse. He circled my sex. Suddenly
he had one of his fingers planted in my pussy.

Instinctively I cringed, released my pussy-lips, and drew my legs together
defensively.

"Come on Elizabeth, behave yourself," the CEO said firmly. "It's just a routine
examination. Trust the good doctor."

Behave myself? Did he mean that I should allow this so-called doctor to touch my
sex with his dirty fingers? Was that it?

"Bottom up whore," the manager insisted. "Spread your legs, and hold that pussy
open nice and wide for us."

I didn't want to be that kind of whore! I didn't want to be examined. I didn't
want them to take pictures of me.

But hesitantly, quivering wretchedly, I resumed the required pose.

I stuck my bottom out high, sunk my head low.

Oh God. Why?

CLICK.

The doctor - if indeed that was what he was - delicately inserted his finger
into my sex once again.

CLICK CLICK.

I felt his finger probing me. I held myself open for him. He rubbed my clitoris.
I let a small moan escape. Oh God. It felt good. No! It felt awful, degrading.

CLICK.

He withdrew his finger and I wanted it back the instant it was gone. No I
didn't. I didn't want it back. Never. Disgusting, dirty finger. Who did he think
he was toying with my sex like that?

SPIT.

Something warm and wet land on my arsehole. Had he just spat on my arse?
Bastard.

SPIT.

"Keep that pussy held open, Elizabeth," the CEO instructed.

SPIT.

CLICK.

The doctor's fingers pressed at the nub of my arsehole, rubbing in his spit,
moistening me. He borrowed juice from my pussy and rubbed it into my anus. I
wanted to resist. Should I have resisted?

CLICK CLICK.

He inserted a finger into my arse; it slipped in shamefully easily. He was
surprisingly gentle. Smooth. I think I wanted it in there. No. No. It couldn't
have been like that.

"Wriggle that butt a bit, Elizabeth" the CEO called out. "Head down. Keep your
bottom up."

I obeyed. I wriggled my arsehole on the doctor's finger. He wasn't a doctor, was
he? Couldn't have been.

CLICK.

How many photos were they planning on taking? Should I still be holding my pussy
open? Or could I let go?

The doctor withdrew his finger from my arse. Had I passed the examination? Could
I register now?

He shuffled around me. With my chin almost right down on the surface of the
bench I was staring straight into his groin. He reached out his hand and offered
me his fingers, waving them under my nose. I could smell myself on them.

I knew what I was supposed to do. The CEO had taught me. I had seen the other
whores do it. I was a whore now.

I took his fingers into my mouth and sucked obediently. I wrapped my tongue
around them and tasted myself on them.

CLICK.

I slurped at his fingers.

CLICK CLICK.

I drooled over them.

CLICK.

I held my pussy open throughout.

CLICK. Shuffling footsteps. CLICK. CLICK.

"She's ready," the doctor announced finally.

Ready? Ready for what?

He withdrew his fingers from my mouth and dragged them roughly across my face.

"We will now complete the registration process, Elizabeth," the CEO said. "Are
you ready to wear your number?"

Wear my number? What number? He must mean...

No, not that. Surely not that.

No, he couldn't mean that. They couldn't expect me to go through that, could
they? I was only going to perform a few times a week, wasn't I? Surely it
wouldn't be necessary to do that.

Oh God. That was why I was here, wasn't it? To get my tattoo. They were going to
tattoo my registration number on my bottom! They were going to inscribe Whore94
on my arse. Of course they were. I should have guessed, shouldn't I? Why hadn't
I realised? Was I stupid? I deserved it, didn't I? If I was that stupid, I
deserved to be numbered like a whore.

No. Surely not. I wouldn't let them. No way. No way.

"Well, Elizabeth?" he asked again, "Are you ready?"

"You mean..." I whimpered.

"Yes Elizabeth," he said. "You aren't fully registered until you're wearing your
number."

I swallowed.

"And you can't perform here until you are fully registered," he added.

Why was I up on the work bench? Why was I on all fours, sticking my bottom up
obediently? And why was I still holding my sex open for them? What kind of whore
was I?

Hesitantly, uncertainly, I released my pussy-lips and pulled my hand back
between my legs. They didn't complain. Good. That was something at least. But
for how long had I been holding myself open needlessly for them then? Why hadn't
they told me I could let go?

"I... I don't want to be tattooed," I protested feebly.

"Yes you do Elizabeth," the CEO said, sounding unnervingly sure of himself.

What!? Who did he think he was?

"Don't attach too much importance to it," he said dismissively. "It's just a
tattoo. Practically everyone has one these days."

Maybe they do, I thought. But not like that. Not spelling out your whore-number.

"It's just a bit of fun," he said, "A harmless tattoo."

Maybe it was a just a harmless tattoo to him, but he wouldn't be the one wearing
it, would he?

"No-one outside 'The Scrava' need ever know about it," he went on. "It will be
your little secret. Doesn't that excite you, Elizabeth? Isn't that erotic? Sexy?
Naughty? - like going out not wearing panties under your skirt. And just imagine
your maid on her knees lapping at it with her whore-tongue! Imagine her
worshipping it, begging to kiss it, wanting nothing more in this world than to
kiss your bottom and run her tongue over your number..."

Mmm... I couldn't help picturing my new whore-maid on her knees doing exactly
that....

...Mmmmm ...Yes. I could imagine that. Oh yes.

Was he right? Was it just a harmless tattoo? A bit of fun? A sexy secret?

"Only the most gorgeous, most privileged, most beautiful, sexy, wonderful girls
are invited to register here, Elizabeth. Think of it as an acknowledgement of
how special you are. Your reward, if you like, for being so incredibly
desirable..."

Why not? Why not accept the tattoo? What harm could it do?

"Keep that bottom up, whore," the manager demanded.

"Sorry sir," I squealed.

Why was I apologising? Why did I call him 'Sir'?

CLICK.

Could I wear their tattoo? I could get rid of it when I stopped being a whore,
couldn't I? I would stop being a whore one day, wouldn't I?

I felt the doctor's needle scrape into my left buttock.

...don't do it...

He was carving my number into me.

...stop him... don't let him...

I was being numbered. Ninety-four. Whore number ninety-four.

...stop him...

CLICK, CLICK.

...don't let him do it...

CLICK.

Welcome to my new life.

CLICK.

The life of a whore.

CLICK, CLICK.

Approved. Numbered. Registered. Catalogued. Owned.

CLICK.

"It's done," the doctor said finally.

Over so soon. He had worked quickly. Experienced. An experienced registrar of
whores.

"Hold open that pussy one more time, whore," the manager commanded.

I obeyed. I prised open my whore-pussy with my fingertips and displayed it to
them again.

CLICK. CLICK.

Photos of a newly registered whore. For the catalogue. For the catalogue?

CLICK.

"Thank you for co-operating, Elizabeth," the CEO said, "A pity I didn't need
this."

I felt something cold and firm brush across my buttocks. Then I felt whatever it
was come to rest upon my whore-number.

It was a cane. He was stroking my buttocks with a cane.

What did he mean it was a pity he hadn't needed it?

He ran the tip of the cane across my gaping pussy while I held myself open for
him.

God. What a slut I was. What a filthy slut.

I hated myself. I loathed myself. I was doing this for money. How cheap.

Maybe I deserved to feel his cane?

"You are now Whore94," he said.

Yes. He was right. I was.

Oh God. What had I done?

"Whore94," he repeated, enjoying the sound of it on his lips.

WHOOOOSH SPANK.

What!? No. No. This couldn't be happening. Not to me. No. Oh God.

He had just cane-spanked my bare arse!

"Bottom up," he commanded as I shrank away from him, "I haven't finished yet."

I didn't want to. I didn't want to raise my bottom up so he could spank me.

"I am paying you to be my whore," he said, "I wish to spank my whore. Is my
whore going to let me spank her or not?"

No, she wasn't going to let him. No way.

WHOOOSH SPANK.

I opened my mouth to protest, but no words came out.

"Bottom up Elizabeth," he insisted. "Stick that bottom up and out."

WHOOOSH SPANK.

Shit. Oh shit. Please no. No. Please.

He wasn't allowed to spank me was he?

CLICK.

Why didn't I move?

WHOOSH SPANK.

Why didn't I get off that work-bench?

CLICK.

I was holding my pussy open for them, wasn't I? Why was he spanking me!

WHOOOOOOOOOOOSH SPANK.

Ow. Ow. That stung. That seriously hurt. I cried out. I know I cried out.

"I want that bottom UP," he demanded.

"And keep that pussy open, whore," the manager ordered.

I had been well-behaved, hadn't I? Why were they doing this to me?

WHOOOOOOSH SPANK.

No! Stop! I didn't want to be spanked. I didn't want to be a whore anymore! It
had all been a mistake. Please stop.

CLICK. CLICK.

"Good girl," the CEO congratulated me. "You're one of the best we've had. Keep
that bottom up."

WHOOOOOSH SPANK.

WHOOOOSH SPANK.

Ow. Please Stop. Please stop spanking me.

CLICK.

CLICK, CLICK.

He tapped my buttocks with the end of the cane. They felt raw. My rape-master
was beating me. I was his piece of shit whore and he was beating me like a dog.
Oh God. This couldn't be happening, could it?

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH SPANK.

I yelped in agony as the blow bit viciously close to my open pussy lips.

"I think that's enough," he announced, testing my bum-flesh with prods from the
end of his cane. "Next time Elizabeth, if you want to be spanked, just ask."

What!? What was that supposed to mean? I hadn't wanted to be spanked, had I?

He prodded me off the work-bench and I fell into a quivering heap on the floor.

"Crawl over to the kind doctor and thank him for numbering you," the CEO
commanded.

Oh God. I knew what that meant. I knew, but there was nothing I could do to stop
it now.

My newly registered bottom wriggled shamelessly as I crawled over to the
dcotor's feet. There, as I tilted back my chin to look up at him and express my
gratitude, I took his cock straight into my face. One naked whore slut on her
knees thanking her tattoo-master for registering her.

I panted on the end of his penis and flicked my tongue frantically at his shaft.
Occasionally I dared to look up at him. He was enjoying the new whore.

He grabbed one of my breasts and squeezed it firmly. He released it and slapped
it. He tugged at my nipple, turned it expertly in his fingers.

He placed his dripping cock between my breasts and bade me massage it there with
my tits. I pressed my palms to the outside of my bust and rubbed them obediently
into his shaft. The tip of his penis thrust and stabbed me at my throat. My
nipples were extraordinarily hard, hot, swollen.

What a disgrace. But it felt so good to hold his throbbing penis between my
whore-breasts.

No! No. It wasn't like that. Couldn't have been.

CLICK.

And they were documenting it. Taking pictures of their new whore. This was more
than consent, wasn't it?

The doctor shot his semen under my chin and spilled it over my tits. I clenched
his penis tightly while he rode his orgasm. His thrusts eased until finally he
grunted, satisfied, spent.

I pouted as I massaged his cock between my nipples. And I panted. My pussy was
on fire. I was a filthy cunt-whore, wasn't I? This was what I had always wanted,
wasn't it? To serve cock. To worship it. To have it inside me.

I released the tattoo-master's cock and let his semen dribble down my chest. I
stood and curtsied, sticking out my breasts so that he could better admire his
orgasm dripping from my pert nipples.

CLICK, CLICK.

I turned, wriggled my 94 for him, faced him again, curtsied again.

Why? Why did I do all that? No-one had forced me to do it. No-one had even asked
me.

CLICK.

I must thank the fuck-master. My photographer. My manager.

I crawled to him and sunk my lips into his shoes. I ran my tongue along them. I
could see my whore-face in them.

He pulled me up by my hair and dragged me over to the work-bench. He bent me
over it and stuck his cock straight up my sopping pussy from behind.

At last. At last. That was what I wanted. A good fucking. Yes. Fuck me.

"Wriggle on it, bitch," he demanded. "Fuck yourself on my cock."

I wriggled obediently, while he tugged on my hair, forcing my neck back. I
pulled him into me, eased him out, drew him back in again. He was so hard, so
stiff, so warm. So powerful. My fuck-master.

"Faster," he shouted. "Faster."

I wriggled more frantically. His cock felt enormous inside me.

He fucked me hard. He banged me. No more gentle love-making for this whore. I
would be banged from now on. Used. Screwed like a bitch. Spanked. Spat on.
Caned.

He thrust in and out and in and out and in and out.

BANG BANG BANG.

He fucked me good. He fucked his new whore proper.

He was my manager. He knew how to manage this whore.

SLAP SLAP

He slapped my arse. He slapped my 94. It felt good. It felt awful. It felt
wonderful. It felt horrible. I was a bitch whore slut cunt meat dog wasn't I?

"Drink it, bitch" my fuck-master barked at me, yanking my hair viciously,
forcing me to cry out.

I turned, fell to my knees, opened my mouth wide for him, stuck my tongue out,
waggled it greedily. I waited for him to shoot his jizzum down my throat.

When he came, I swallowed. I scooped his sperm from my face and rubbed it into
my breasts, mixing it with that of the doctor. He held my chin firmly
throughout, forcing me to look up at him.

"Good fucking whore you found here," he wheezed.

The CEO didn't respond.

I pouted up at my fuck-master submissively.

"Thank you sir," I said as he released my chin.

Then I stood and curtsied. My new fuck-master. My new manager.

God. Why was I behaving so disgracefully? They had forced their whore-tattoo on
me and now I was thanking them for it! It was far worse than the rape, wasn't
it? At least the rape would go away. The tattoo would never go away. It would be
like wearing a licence to be raped. Forever.

My breasts were covered in semen. I was a cum-wench. A gizzum-doll.

Now the CEO would fuck me, wouldn't he? I crawled over to him and knelt before
him. I looked up at him. My rape-master.

Why had I let him beat me?

I stared at his shoes. He owned me now, didn't he?

"Kiss the cane, Elizabeth" he said.

I kissed it. He had raped me and I had thanked him for it. Now he had beaten me
and I was thanking him for that too.

"You're dirty," he said. "I'm not going to fuck a dirty whore."

Why not? Why wouldn't he fuck me?

I was on fire. I wanted him inside me. Like last time.

"Get up," he ordered. "It's time to go."

I stood and curtsied politely.

"Thank you sir," I uttered feebly, and curtsied again.

As I trotted obediently behind them back along the maze of corridors that made
up the underbelly of 'The Scrava' my breasts dripped with their semen and my
buttocks raged from the caning.

I was numbered now.

What a disgrace.

And it was only just beginning.

Chapter 7

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

There it was: Whore94.

It hadn't been a dream then. It hadn't even been a nightmare.

Whore94; Inscribed on my left buttock. It represented so much for something so
small.

It told me I was a whore. It told other people I was a whore.

Had I been forced? Seduced? Manipulated? Or had I come willingly?

Had I wanted it? Had I always wanted it? Had I always been a whore?

I spent a long time staring into my bedroom mirror, wishing myself away -
wishing away the whore blinking back at me from the other side of the glass.

My buttocks were red, raw, swollen.

I shouldn't have let the CEO spank me like that. Why had I let him do that to
me? What kind of woman was I? What kind of whore?



My mobile phone chirped. I reached for it and saw the word 'Sir' flashing up on
the display. It was the CTO - my boss. I had entered his name into my address
book as 'Sir' as a kind of joke. It had been a joke, hadn't it?

"Good morning Elizabeth," he chimed brightly when I answered the call. "I've
just finished talking to the CEO. He told me about last night - I wanted to be
the first to congratulate you."

Congratulate me?

"You're a very lucky girl," he said. "It's an outstanding opportunity!"

My mind whirled. I had sucked Mr. Khani junior's penis. I had swallowed his
semen. I had agreed to be his whore! They had tattooed 'Whore94' on my arse,
taken photographs, cane-spanked me...  Was that lucky?

"Elizabeth? Hello? Are you still there Elizabeth?"

"Yes, sorry..." I managed. "I'm just a bit taken aback by it all..."

"Understandable," he said kindly. "You've made some tough decisions. But you
should feel proud of yourself Elizabeth. And just think of the rewards..."



"The CEO caned me..." I spluttered.



"Yes, I've seen him cane a few girls in his time. Well done Elizabeth."

"Well done?"

"Yes, well done!" He affirmed. "The CEO is paying you to whore for him, and
judging by some of the pictures I'm looking at now, you were a very good whore."

What!? He was looking at the pictures? Oh God.

"You've got the..." I gasped.

"Of course," he said, voice still bright. "I get all the pictures. I decide
which ones we use."

"Use?"

"In the catalogue."

What!? No. Surely not. They were going to use the photographs of me holding my
pussy-lips open while having my bottom tattooed and caned... in some kind of
catalogue!?



"Don't worry Elizabeth," he tried to reassure me. "Clients won't know it's you,
they'll just see a beautiful girl with 'Whore94' tattooed on her bum, and that's
the number they'll use when they place their order."

"Place their order...?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Of course," he said. "Clients book their girls in advance. They pick the whores
they want, specify what they should be wearing, how they want them to behave,
that kind of thing. That way there is no chance of them being disappointed when
they turn up at 'The Scrava'. How else do you think we always managed to arrange
Whore80 for you?"

They had booked Whore80 for me? They had booked her to be my table-whore? To
worship my feet and lap at my pussy?

"I just kind of assumed she was, well, always there..." I said feebly.

"Well actually, she is always there," he responded. "She lives there - if that's
what you mean - but she still has to be booked so she can be prepared, her
make-up fixed, and so she can be dressed as required."

Whore80 lived there? At 'The Scrava'? People could live at that place?



"An advantage of the booking system is that it allows us to monitor demand," my
boss went on, "so we know which whores are the most popular, attracting the most
prestigious clients, bringing in the most money - you know. The best whores get
the best rewards, obviously... Oh! This is a splendid photo, you have a truly
delightful pussy Elizabeth..."

I wanted to die. How could he be so callous, so cruel? I imagined him sitting
there, receiver tucked under his chin... my pictures scattered across his coffee
table as he thumbed through them...

Bastard.

How had it come to this? Images whirled through my mind of rich, privileged
people, instructing their servants to place their 'order' for me... pointing to
a picture of me bent over displaying my sex, saying: "That one... I want
ninety-four, and that one... and that one....."

Shit. Why hadn't I resisted? Why was I a whore?

"I'm not sure I want to do this anymore...." I stammered.

"Don't be silly Elizabeth," he said smoothly. "It will be just fine. Ah - this
is a good one too..."

Shit. How the photographs must have made me looked so consenting, willing, keen
even. I hadn't resisted, had I? Why not? Why hadn't I put up a fight? It would
have ruined their pictures at least.

"If these photos are anything to go by," he said suddenly, "I am going to
seriously enjoy fucking you."

Enjoy fucking me? Had he said that? Fuck me? Who said anything about him fucking
me? He was my boss - he wouldn't be allowed to fuck me would he?

No. No way.

Were they expecting another Laura? Laura the coffee girl - office slut. My
coffee girl. My slut. They couldn't make me an office-whore could they? Was that
part of the deal? They hadn't said that, had they?

Would I be one of their fuck-girls from now on?

No: I was different. Mr. Khani had picked me out - I was special. They couldn't
make me another Laura. I was above that. Better than that. Better than her.
Wasn't I?

How could I turn up for work every day knowing that anyone might fuck me at any
time? I had agreed to perform for Mr. Khani - that was all. Just because I was a
whore, that didn't mean I had to fuck everyone, did it? Could I refuse a fuck?
Or did I have to fuck anyone at anytime from now on?

What was I thinking of!? Of course I could refuse a fuck! I was still a
human-being after all - wasn't I? Not just a piece of fuck-meat. Of course I
could refuse. I would refuse. I would definitely refuse.

"You still there Elizabeth? You keep going quiet on me."

"Yes I erm..." I answered weakly, not able to articulate the words I didn't want
to hear myself say. "Will you... I mean... will you....you know..."

"Will I fuck you?" he guessed. "Is that what you are trying to say?"

"Yes," I sobbed.

"Yes, I will fuck you, Elizabeth," he said. "In fact, when you arrive at the
office on Monday morning, come straight up to my office."

I broke into tears. He was my boss! I had worked for him for all this time and
he had never laid a finger on me. In fact, he had acted so gentlemanly, so
kindly. Hadn't he been supportive and caring that day the CEO had raped in the
lift?

"But you're my boss..." I said.

"Yes," he agreed, "which is precisely why I will be fucking you from now on."

I couldn't believe it. That was illegal, surely? Even if it weren't, I didn't
have to put up with it. I just wouldn't go back to the office. Ever.

"You can't force me," I bleated.

"Well actually I can," he snorted. "But I won't have to. Your chauffeur will
pick you up first thing on Monday morning and bring you straight to the office."

My chauffeur? Ah yes. My chauffeur. That was one of the 'benefits' wasn't it?
What about the maid? They had mentioned a maid too. When would the maid arrive?

"All senior staff will be informed of your new role," he said ominously.



"I'm not going to do it," I retorted.

"Oh you will," he said airily. "Because that is what we are paying you to do."

"Then I quit," I said.

"No you don't," he laughed. "Enjoy the rest of the weekend, Elizabeth, and see
you on Monday."

With that, he hung up.

Bastard. How dare he talk to me like that? Bastard.

I wouldn't do it. I would quit. I would get another job. Even if it didn't pay
very well. Anything would be better than the prospect of being treated like an
office slut-whore.

I would tell the police. This was illegal, wasn't it? Or was it? They had
documented my consent... the evidence was on my left-buttock... and in those
photographs...

God.

What would the law make of all that? I would be laughed out of court.

Should I tell my parents?

"Daddy, look what they did to me..."

No.

I couldn't do that.

My friends? Could I tell my friends? What friends? All they ever talked about
was what was happening in the latest TV drama. I couldn't tell them about this,
could I? They all thought I was doing well in my job, that I was successful.
That's what I wanted them to think, wasn't it?

No. I had to deal with this alone.

I couldn't quit, could I? I had been doing so well in the job... one promotion
after another... not to mention the pay-rises... and the other perks... those
whores down on their knees lapping at my feet, worshipping me, making me feel
like a Goddess... I couldn't give all that up, could I?

Wouldn't it be me down on my knees soon though? Wouldn't it be me doing the
worshipping?

So stop then. Stop NOW.

Why didn't I stop?

I wish I knew the answer to that.

But on Monday morning, when a gleaming black Rolls-Royce eased to a halt in the
street outside my home and sounded its horn, I was ready.

Ready. Ready for whatever would come at me; ready to be their fuck-girl, if that
was what they wanted.

Why not? Why the fuck not? Just do it. Let them use you. Use them in return.
Take their money. Take their chauffeur and their maid. In the end, I win. Don't
I? It wouldn't be forever, would it? Just until I have enough saved up never to
have to work again...

Then I would show them. All of them. I would be free. Not a wage-slave. Not a
whore. Not a dogsbody. No more dictations, phone-calls, polite laughter...

The driver - my driver, my chauffeur - held the passenger door open politely for
me...

I would play the game. This game. Their game.

...My bare legs felt the cold of the leather seat interior...

Yes. I would play, and I would win.

...We purred... glided... floated... through the streets of London...

Fuck them all. Life was too short to be a good little office girl earning
jack-shit money. Do that and then die of old-age. No thanks. Not me. Not this
whore.

...the silent movie projection of the city winked at me through the one-way
glass...

London looked so vivid, enticing, alive that morning. It had never looked that
way before. Was I alive now? Was that it?

...and suddenly I was in the office...

Were they staring at me as I trotted by?

No. Just paranoia.

They didn't know, couldn't know, could they? How could they possibly know? They
were wage-whores. Whores and slaves. All of them. Sold out. I was going places.
Let them stare. Fuck them. Fuck them all. What did they know?

I knew before I clip-clopped into the CTO's office that simply being there was
by itself an act of submission: He had told me what to expect. He was going to
fuck me. That's what he had said. He was going to fuck his new whore. And his
new whore had arrived. On time. Ready.

But he wasn't there.

I looked around the vacant office, half-expecting him to appear suddenly from
behind a filing cabinet.

Had he changed his mind? Had he been joking?

Was I too early? Too keen?

"Elizabeth!" a female voice called out with considerable urgency from the office
doorway.

It was Laura. My coffee girl. My slut. She was out of breath, her cheeks
flushed.

"He told me to tell you to get ready," she panted, "and that he'd be along
soon."

Get ready? What did 'get ready' mean exactly?

Laura turned her head suddenly, nervously, as if making sure no-one were
watching us.

"I heard," she whispered tensely. "I'm sorry."

"What did you hear?" I snapped.

"Ssshhh," she urged, looking around nervously again. "I should have warned you,
but I was too scared."

Too scared? What was she talking about?

"Always do what they want," she said quickly. "Always. Otherwise they'll..."

Otherwise what? What was she saying?

"We can't talk here," she said, her eyes darting left and right. "They can
listen."

She backed off a few steps.

"Get ready for him," she insisted, speaking more audibly. "We can talk later."

Why was she acting so strangely? There was nothing to be scared about was there?

"What does 'get ready' mean exactly?" I wondered aloud.

"Didn't he tell you?"

I shook my head.

"He wants you to strip, turn and face the wall, bend over, hold your - you know
- hold it open for him," she said. "And be quick, he'll be here anytime now."

She turned and sped away, looking around herself anxiously.

God. He wanted me to present myself to him like that? It wasn't enough that I
had come willingly to have him fuck me. He wanted me to offer myself to him,
give myself to him. Bastard.

How had Laura heard about me? And what had she heard exactly?

Why was she so scared?

And why hadn't she curtsied for me? She was my coffee-slut wasn't she? Had she
forgotten herself? Had she forgotten who I was?

He wanted me to undress... and face the wall? And bend over... and wait for
him... No. Please no. This is an office for fuck's sake! How could I do that?

I closed the office door. If I were going through with this, I would at least do
it with a modicum of privacy, of modesty.



God. Should I just go home? Never come back?

I peeled off my blouse. Just do it. They were going to pay me, weren't they?

I unclipped my bra and draped it over the back of a chair. Topless in my boss'
office... Well... I had danced for the CEO wearing less. Not a big deal. Just
flesh. Reveal it, Expose it. You're used to it now.

I unzipped my mini-skirt, pulled it down to my ankles and kicked it aside. My
bottom tingled, still sore from the caning.

How I had whored for them. I was a whore, wasn't I? Get those knickers down,
whore, I told myself.

I was naked, apart from the heels. Leave them. They like the heels.

Was I ready?

No.

Turn and face the wall. That was what she had said he wanted.

Shit. What a slut I was.

Naked. Facing the wall. Trembling.

Should I bend over now? Or wait for him to arrive? Was he watching me? A camera,
or a peephole, or something?



I had better bend over. Just in case.

He wanted me keen, didn't he?

Better be keen then.

I bent over, keeping my legs straight, and stuck out my bottom. Whore94. Ready
now. Ready to be used.

Where was he? How long would I have to wait?

How many more times would I stick out my sex and wait to be fucked? No-one was
forcing me to do this, were they? So why did I do it? Why?

The office door rattled open. Oh God. This was it. Time to be fucked.

Suddenly I remembered that I was supposed to hold myself open for him. I reached
my hand hurriedly between my legs and felt my moist, swollen pussy lips. Oh God.
I was aroused. How was that possible? This wasn't arousing, was it? This was...
embarrassing... humiliating... No. Please no. Please don't be such a slut...

I parted my sex and listened to the footsteps cross the room behind me. I didn't
dare turn to look at him. Instead, I clenched my eyes shut and tried not to
think. Some papers rustled. Then the footsteps made their way back over to the
door. There they seemed to hesitate. Was he watching me?

A little cough, then the door clicked shut.

Oh God. It hadn't been him, had it?

It had been someone else. Someone else had just seen Whore94 bent over facing
the wall waiting to be fucked. How shameful.

When would my boss come and fuck me? He had said he would fuck me, hadn't he? So
where was he?

The door rattled open again. I quickly parted my pussy-lips a little wider and
held them open.

It must be him this time, surely?

No.

High-heels.

Clip-clop. Clip-clop.

Getting nearer.

That perfume... reminded me of... Laura.

What did she want this time?

I twisted my neck round and looked at her quizzically, wondering why she was
undressing.

"He wants me too," she sighed.

In hardly any time at all she drew alongside me, facing the same wall. Like me,
she bent over and parted her sex, offering it to the room behind us. I imagined
our whore-arses lined up like that. Whore67 and Whore94. In that order. Both our
arses owned.

I stared at the wall and tried not to think.

I was one of them now. One of the whores. I was another Laura. Another slut.
God. I had spat in her face. Why had I done that? No-one deserves to be treated
like that do they?

"Laura?" I stammered. "Why are you here?

"Because he just told me to," she said quietly.

"No - I mean - why are you here at all? Did Mr. Khani choose you? Are you paid
well?"

Did I hear her sniff? Sob?

"I can't talk about it," she said.

"What do you mean you can't talk about it?"

"I can't. I just can't." she whimpered. "Please - you'll get us in trouble."

Trouble? What kind of trouble? Why was she so reluctant to talk? Was she
embarrassed? Ashamed?

The office door swung open noisily. I parted my pussy-lips almost instinctively
and I imagine Laura did the same.

"Ah, good girls," the CTO's voice rang out proudly.

He was here. Finally.

Shit.

He strode across the room towards his desk.

We continued to hold ourselves open for him.

He started whistling nonchalantly, tunelessly.

Was he provoking us? Showing us his power?

"Why don't you warm each other up," he said finally.

Before I could work out what he meant, I felt Laura's palm on my bottom. The
tips of her finger-nails probed towards my pussy, and when they found it,
started to circle my sex delicately... God! She was masturbating me... and it
felt... good... No... awful... Not here... She was a coffee-girl slut! How could
I let her manipulate my sex like that in front of my boss?

I reached my fingers for Laura's sex and mimicked her caresses. She wasn't
aroused like I was. I played with her teasingly, determined to make her moan
with pleasure.

"I'm glad you decided to stay with us, Elizabeth," he said, as Laura found my
clitoris and turned it in her fingers. "You're going to make a wonderful whore
ninety-four, I'm sure of that."

I panted as Laura found my spot. Mmmm. God. How shameful.

"That's enough girls," he said, his voice approaching. "Spread nice and wide for
me now."

I shifted my feet apart, my left ankle pressed up against Laura's right. A
couple of fuck-girls. Lined up.

When Laura gasped suddenly I knew the CTO had penetrated her. When she
half-screamed I knew he was pushing himself into her roughly.

"When I say I want you ready, that means I want you READY," he barked. "Next
time make sure you are READY."

She whimpered and cried out as he forced himself into her again.

After a few more thrusts, it was my turn. His strong hands gripped my hips. I
felt his penis pushing up against my pussy. This was it. He was going to screw
his senior PA. His new whore.

He was inside me and I was panting and squealing like the slut I was fast
becoming. He withdrew almost the full length of his cock and then BANG he was
back inside me.

So this was what it felt like to be an office-slut.

"Good girl," he said. "Glad someone round here knows what 'ready' means."

His thrusts were long and smooth. My breasts shook to and fro as he pumped me. I
was his fuck-girl now, wasn't I?

He withdrew and started banging Laura again.

I wanted him back inside me. No I didn't. How could I? He was my boss! I had
never wanted him to fuck me before, had I? Or had I?

He was inside me again. I gripped the wall with my fingers as he thrust up me
vigorously.

"Good little sluts," he breathed.

SLAP SLAP.

He was slapping Laura's bottom and fucking her hard. She bleated and moaned.

SLAP SLAP SLAP.

It was my turn. His slaps fell on my sore, caned buttocks. His cock felt like it
was burning a hole in the base of my womb.

Did I imagine it or did he spend more time with me before swapping back to
Laura? He was enjoying me, wasn't he? He would remember this whore. He would
remember the first time he fucked Whore94.

The next time his cock came back I tightened myself around it and wriggled on
it. When he slapped my bottom I wriggled it even more.

"Good girl," he said. "Some of the other whores could learn a thing or two from
you."

I felt I could orgasm on his cock like that. Amazing. I had never come in that
position before.

I felt his testicles slapping into me as he rammed in deeply. I quivered and
moaned and squealed. He was staying with me. He wanted my pussy, not Laura's.
Good.

He banged me and banged me and banged me.

"On your knees girls," the CTO ordered suddenly.

We turned and knelt at his feet. The end of his penis dripped with our juices.

I took it into my mouth and slurped over its length as he thrust it down my
throat. God! I was Deep-throating my boss! And enjoying it... No - hating it...
loathing him, loathing myself.

"Don't swallow," he instructed, between laboured breaths. "Take my come in your
mouths and keep it there. I want you to taste me."

He ejaculated over our whore-faces.  I stuck out my tongue and received his
semen appreciatively upon it. I pouted and smiled up at him. Laura's tongue
twisted into mine and we swapped his come backwards and forwards, tasting him,
as he had ordered.

He shook himself over us. I petted the tip of his penis with my tongue, taking
off the last drops of his semen.

He beamed down at our come-drenched faces. I held my mouth open so he could see
his semen and know that I had obeyed him and not swallowed.

"I want to see you tongue-fucking each other," he said. "Fuck my come into each
other with your tongues."

I gave Laura a nervous sideways glance.

He wanted me to stick my tongue in her sex? Fuck her with my tongue? Fuck his
semen into her? But she was my coffee-girl, wasn't she? I couldn't do that.

Laura reclined back on the floor at his feet, raised her knees, and spread her
legs.

"Get on her, Elizabeth," the CTO ordered. "Sit on her face."

I nodded submissively.

I manoeuvred onto all fours so that my rear hovered over Laura's nose, and
lowered my face towards her exposed sex.

God. Was I going to do this?

I felt her tongue reaching up for my sex, the tip of it flicking at me
frenetically.

As I drew my face down closer to her pussy I let a dribble of the CTO's semen
drop from my lips onto her.

"Begin," the CTO said.

I sat my sex down into Laura's face and simultaneously pushed my face into her
pussy. I felt her tongue thrusting into me, and I did the same to her. I scooped
the CTO's semen out of my cheeks with my tongue and pushed it into her.

The CTO stood over us and enjoyed the sight of his whores performing for him. We
were so lucky to have this chance to share his semen, weren't we? That's what I
tried to tell myself as I pumped my tongue in and out of Laura's hole. I was a
whore-slut, I had taken my boss' come in my face and now I was sharing it with
his other slut. We had to perform for him, show him how important his semen was
to us.

I panted frantically as Laura pleasured me, circled her tongue around the edge
of my pussy... pushed it in again... lapped at my clitoris... sucked on me...

...and suddenly I was a quivering slut held in the grip of an incredible
orgasm... twitching and moaning... screaming silently...

"Good girl," my boss said. "You make a great whore, Elizabeth. The CEO was right
about you all along."

I hardly heard him. I was still riding... and Laura was still lapping at me...
my body rushed with the onset of ecstasy...  

"Stop," he commanded suddenly. "Elizabeth, kneel. Laura, fetch me both your
panties."

I knelt and looked directly at his shoes. My boss' shoes. He would have me
kissing them soon. My nipples pointed out and up at him, my breasts were swollen
and flushed with arousal. How shameful.

Laura trotted back over and handed him our knickers. Could I go now? Had he
finished with us?

"Stick your tongues out," he ordered.

He pushed Laura's knickers into my face and mopped up his semen and her juices
with them. He stuffed them in my mouth and rubbed them into the inside of my
cheeks. Then he flicked them dispassionately into my bosom.

"Put them on," he said.

He clicked his fingers, as if to say: "And hurry up."

I scooped them up and felt their wetness.

I looked over at Laura having her face wiped by my panties.

He wanted me to wear Laura's knickers?



I stood as I stepped into the panties and pulled them up around my sex. I wore
her damp, sperm-soiled thong. By the time I had finished adjusting the straps on
my hips, I saw that she similarly wore mine.

"Turn around," he ordered.

We turned. He stroked my Whore94 tattoo. My buttocks tingled.

"Wear my semen with pride," he said, patting my bottom.

"Dance for me while I read the paper," he instructed, prodding our behinds
gently.

He sat at his desk and turned his attention to a copy of the 'Financial Times'.

We danced. We writhed and wriggled and swayed for him in our soiled panties. A
couple of numbered whores dancing for their boss. Wearing his semen.

So this was what being an office slut-whore was all about then.

But this was nothing. Nothing compared to what would come. Nothing.

The office telephone rang.

"Laura, get that," he said.

She curtsied and thanked him.

"Elizabeth," he said firmly. "You can stop now."

Following Laura's lead, I curtsied and mumbled a small "Thank you sir".

"Bring me a coffee," he said quietly, not bothering to look up from his
newspaper.

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