Chapter 5 Saturday Visit to 'The Scrava'
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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.