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Chapter 10 Unpaid
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“We have a problem,” the manager said edgily.
My fuck-master; anxious about something.
I stood on the end of my mistress’ leash, wearing the usual whore-knickers and heels, one foot turned outwards and placed in front of the other exactly as my mistress had taught me. I held my hands cupped neatly together behind my back - again, just like I had been instructed. I watched the ground at my fuck-master’s feet, chin low, breasts pert.
“What kind of problem?” my mistress asked coolly.
“Sir John has just turned up,” the manager said, his face pale. “He didn’t book, but then he’s Sir John – he doesn’t need to book. He’s asked for Whore94. Shit - he’s out there waiting for her now.”
God. I had slept on the floor last night, hadn’t I? Collared and chained to my own bedpost in room ninety-four. Like a dog. Like a bitch. Why hadn’t I gone home yesterday? Why hadn’t I tried to leave?
“So what’s the problem?” My mistress responded. “She’s been doing well. She’s in good shape, obedient, willing, understands her role. She’s more than ready.”
“That’s not the problem,” the manager shook his head. “Unfortunately Sir John wants the other Whore94. The old one, I mean. The one you… – you know.”
I shifted my foot slightly.
“STAND STILL,” my mistress barked immediately and flicked her end of the leash at my buttocks, stinging them.
…Sorry. Sorry mistress. Must stand still for her…
They would have let me go yesterday, wouldn’t they? – If I had tried to leave, I mean. Of course they would have let me go… Stop being silly…
“Okay, I see the problem,” my mistress said, lowering her voice again. “Sir John wants the old whore. Sir John is not the kind of person we can afford to upset. But we can’t send out the old Whore94 because she’s… well she’s not in a fit state to be presented to anyone right now.”
“Exactly,” the manager nodded.
“He really wants that disobedient bitch?”
“Yes. He was very clear. It has to be her.”
“But Sir John hasn’t been here for months! In fact no-one has ordered that useless slut for months. Have you spoken to Mr. Khani?”
“Yes, I rang him just now. He was furious, as you’d expect. He told me to ‘fix it’ – that Sir John is a ‘priority client’.”
“But our new Whore94 is so gorgeous and sexy and she loves to please her masters. Don’t you, whore?”
She flicked the leash at my buttocks again.
“Yes mistress,” I said, curtsying submissively.
Where would I have gone? - Even if they had let me leave, I mean. No job to go back to. Just an empty flat. An empty life.
“What are we going to do?” the manager said exasperatedly.
“We’ll just have to introduce Sir John to our new whore – I’m sure he will change his mind when he sees her.”
“It’s worth a try, I suppose,” the manager said. “I’m a bit concerned though – you know – she’s not fully broken in yet.”
“I already told you,” my mistress said, tugging on the leash. “I think she’s more than ready. I just need half-an-hour to prepare her.”
Everything would be okay when I signed the new contract, wouldn’t it? Here. At ‘The Scrava’. I would be well paid - I mean, they must pay well, surely? ...Hadn’t I better find out though? Make sure? I was entitled to know how much I could expect to earn working as their whore, wasn’t I?
My mistress half-dragged me out of the office.
I clip-clopped obediently behind her as she stomped in her thigh high leather boots and semi-transparent figure-hugging mini-dress down a flight of stairs, round a corner, and eventually through a doorway marked ‘Costume.’ The room we entered was packed with rows and rows of lingerie, skirts, heels, stockings - even bags, jewelry and cosmetics…
“SERVICE!” My mistress screeched, clapping her hands together sharply.
Almost instantly, two pretty assistants emerged from behind a screen and clip-clopped frantically over to us. They were both topless, had long blonde hair, and wore identical white panties with matching white heeled sandals. Each additionally wore a simple cotton maid apron, secured around the waist, which while affording them a modicum of modesty around their sex, also marked them out clearly as whore-servants.
The girls curtsied in unison and looked down at my mistress’ boots.
God, how lucky my mistress was: To have so many gorgeous girls available to serve her on a whim.
“Dress her as a slave-girl,” she ordered the girls. “Do it quickly. She has an urgent appointment.”
“Yes mistress,” they each responded and curtsied reverently.
The girls sprung into action. One of them scurried to and fro collecting garments from the various racks, while the other girl fell to her knees and unfastened my heels. Once she had helped me step out of them, she pulled my panties down and unhooked them from around my ankles.
I didn’t move, didn’t dare.
My mistress, apparently disinterested in my nudity, let go of my leash, letting it dangle freely down my back, and strolled casually out into the corridor.
They were going to dress me as a slave-girl? What did a slave-girl wear exactly?
I pictured cuffs and chains. And a collar. I was already wearing a collar though, wasn’t I? Was I already a slave-girl?
Stockings? They were rolling stockings up my leg. Did slave-girls wear stockings? Fishnet stockings, apparently. Did slave-girls actually exist? I thought they were just something men dreamt up. They weren’t real, were they? Or were there really slave-girls out there somewhere, forced to carry out the bidding of their owners?
Imagine being a slave girl! Not me. Never. A whore, yes, I could live with that. But a slave? No. No way.
The black fishnet-stockings felt silky, sensual. One of the girls smoothed out the elastic stocking-tops and the fabric clung sexily to my thighs.
I felt like a doll.
They tightened a topless leather corset around my mid-riff, which forced my bare breasts together, up and outwards. God. It was really tight.
One of the girls then pulled my arms together behind my back and snapped something cold and metallic into place around my wrists. When she withdrew her small fingers I knew instantly what she had done: She had cuffed my wrists together behind my back!
Why?
And why did it feel so… sexy?
Cuffed by a whore. That’s what they were, wasn’t it? A couple of whores. …Mmmm… but wasn’t it wonderful having them dress me… together… serving me… so gorgeous… so blonde… so sexy… fluttering around me in their maid aprons…
“You’re beautiful,” I said to one of the girls suddenly, unable to contain it.
“Sshhh,” she urged.
“Why can’t I talk?” I asked in a whisper.
“You’re a slave,” she said quietly, crouching down before me and re-adjusting the tops of my stockings.
“It’s only a costume,” I said. “I’m not really a slave.”
“Sshhh,” the other girl insisted, looking nervously towards the door.
What was she doing now? Painting my nipples? Making them shiny?
The other girl started brushing my hair.
“What are your names?” I asked.
“Sshhh,” the girl painting my nipples hushed me again. “She can hear you.”
One of the girls helped me back into my heels and fastened them around my ankles. I enjoyed the sight of her huddled at my feet. Was that what my mistress saw when I knelt at her feet and licked her boots?
God: Wouldn’t it be great to be a mistress one day? Maybe I could work my way up. Please let it be like that. I would do anything for that. To have submissive little girls like these two curtseying for me and pressing their tongues into my sex… and into my arsehole… God yes... imagine that…
“Is she ready?” my mistress demanded suddenly. I hadn’t noticed her return, and neither, apparently, had the other girls. One of them blushed guiltily.
“Yes, mistress,” the girls said in turn, curtseying politely.
“I heard voices,” my mistress snapped. “I’ve told you girls before, NO TALKING unless I give explicit permission. Do you understand?”
The girls curtsied and muttered a feeble “Yes mistress.”
“What about YOU, slave?” She barked, turning to me. “Do you understand too?”
I curtsied and nodded. I almost toppled over as a lowered and raised myself before her, unable as I was to use my arms to balance myself.
“Yes mistress,” I said, looking at her feet.
Three fully-grown women, all half-naked, apologizing and curtseying to another woman. Our superior. Our mistress.
“Luckily for all of you I don’t have time to spank your pussies right now. Come on, slave. You’ve got work to do.”
She took the end of my leash and tugged on it.
That was it? This was my outfit? Where were the panties? Breasts and pussy on display. Tight leather corset. Collared and cuffed. Was that it?
She led me by my leash. Her slave now. Her slave-girl.
I tottered up the stairs, convinced that I would lose my balance at each step, yet somehow managing to retain my balance. Why did we have to walk so fast? Didn’t she realize it was difficult for me to walk in such high-heels with my wrists cuffed behind my back?
When we arrived at the area curtained-off from the public part of ‘The Scrava’, my mistress stopped abruptly, turned and glared at me.
“Are you going to be a good little slave-girl?” she snapped.
“Yes mistress,” I nodded and curtsied, looking at her feet.
“Good,” she said. “Because if not, you’re out. Right, I’m going to free your hands. You will crawl to your master.”
She reached around me and fidgeted with my wrist-cuffs. I enjoyed her closeness, her smell. And suddenly I caught her eye… I smiled shyly, sweetly, nervously… God her green eyes were amazing… and then hurriedly I looked away… God I wasn’t supposed to do that…
Why didn’t she tell me off? Why didn’t she scold me?
She pointed at the floor. I curtsied and knelt for her.
“Crawl,” she commanded, tugging on the leash.
She led me through the gap in the curtain. Out into ‘The Scrava’. On all fours. On a leash.
Soothing Jazz. Smoke. Mirrors. People. Clients. Rich clients. Being entertained by beautiful whores. My colleagues. My co-workers.
And there I was, on all fours, crawling at my mistress’ boots. And she was walking so deliberately now. Why so slowly? Was she showing me off to them?
I was sure they must have been watching me. All of them. All the rich, powerful people in their suits and their ties…
And no underwear! My pussy on display, framed by my corset and the tops of my stockings. Bottom wriggling as I crawled.
This was what I was now. This.
How low had I gone? To allow myself to be paraded around like that… on show… Where was my dignity? Where was my pride? Where was my sense of self-worth?
I was a dog, wasn’t I?
What if any of them recognized me? What if one of them knew me?
“There goes Elizabeth,” I imagined them saying over the brim of their champagne glasses. “She used to be senior PA to the CTO. Now she’s a dog-whore. Apparently she always wanted to be one. I’ve seen the pictures. Practically begged for it, I heard…”
…And I wasn’t being paid for this, was I? I was doing it all for nothing. Not a dime. Not a penny. Not any kind of money.
…Doing it because… Why was I doing it? Because I had been told to. Because I had been ordered to. Because I was a slave-girl.
…No! It’s just a costume. Of course I’m not a slave-girl…
…Ah. …There he is… My master.
…Yes. He looks rich. Really rich. Distinguished looking. Don’t look at him. Look at your mistress’ boots. Look at his shoes. That’s all I’m worth. Do that. Do nothing else. Don’t think. Stop thinking. Concentrate on your job… Concentrate on what you are…
“Sir John,” my mistress said proudly. Did she curtsey? Did my mistress just curtsey? Was he royalty?
“Is that it?” Sir John said rudely in a perfect Victorian English accent.
“Yes sir,” my mistress said. “And our sincerest apologies for keeping you waiting.”
I had never heard her so polite. So respectful.
I felt my mistress’ boot on the top of my head. I didn’t resist. I let her push my face into Sir John’s shoes. I kissed each of them…He must be so important. So much more important than me. Must kiss his shoes… show him I understand how important he is…
“Hang it up for me would you?” Sir John said.
It? He was calling me an ‘it’? How dare he?
My mistress tugged me to my feet, whereupon I duly curtsied lowly before Sir John. I tried not to look at anything. My mistress pulled my arms behind my back and fastened the cuffs back in place around my wrists.
Sir John didn’t even look at me! Instead he gazed distractedly around ‘The Scrava’. At the other girls? What was wrong with me? Why didn’t he look at me? …He was quite old. Retirement age perhaps? He looked so stuck-up…
…God, how easy it is to instantly hate some people. He looked so pompous, arrogant. And evidently one of the elite member of society. Bastard. Life was so unfair…
Why was I his whore? Why was I his slave-girl?
SLAP.
My mistress had slapped my face!
And then her voice right in my ear, a harsh whisper: “DON’T LOOK AT HIM.”
“Sorry mistress,” I squeaked, realizing my mistake.
She reached above my head and pulled a pair of thin silvery chains down from the ceiling. She cupped one of my breasts and clipped the end of one of the chains to my nipple. I winced and gasped sharply when I felt the clamp bite.
SLAP.
“Quiet,” she barked.
She fixed the second clamp into place- I held my breath - then she turned and marched over to the wall, where a length of identical looking chain was wrapped around a lever.
Oh no. No.
She turned the lever slowly. The chains attached to my nipples shimmied as they drew taut.
Oh God. No.
She turned the lever a little more. The chains tugged at my nipples, pulling them up towards the ceiling. I arched my back instinctively and raised myself onto tip-toe – in a vain attempt to abate the biting sensation in my nipples.
“No,” I begged, becoming distressed. “Please don’t, it’s hurting…”
My mistress glared at me sharply.
“Gag it,” Sir John ordered. “It’s noisy.”
Ow. Ouch. My nipples felt like they were going to be pulled off my breasts! This was unbearable. Please don’t do this to me. Please loosen it. Let me go.
“Please,” I whimpered. “It hurts…”
My mistress stormed over to me and slapped my face viciously.
“SILENCE!” she said, glaring at me, then, turning to Sir John: “I’m sorry sir, to tell the truth – we only acquired her recently – we’re still training her.”
“I just hope you’re not wasting my time,” Sir John replied obstinately.
My mistress stuffed a ball of red plastic into my mouth. I moaned in protest, but could do nothing to prevent it; the slightest movement meant feeling the bite and tug of the nipple clamps.
She secured the ball-gag tightly – extremely tightly - around the back of my head.
I moaned angrily into my gag. They had gone too far. I wasn’t prepared to put up with this any longer. With or without pay.
“It’s still making too mush noise,” Sir John complained.
God - I really was helpless - hardly able to move - not without excruciating pain, at any rate. I moaned and begged and drooled into my gag. Please! Let me down! I don’t want to be a slave! I want to be a whore. Not a slave. Please let me down. Please.
“You’re going to have to whip it until it learns to shut up.” Sir John remarked.
Whip me? Like this? They wouldn’t dare.
WHOP.
What was that? Some kind of whip? A flail? Whatever it was, it hurt. It really hurt.
WHOP WHOP.
She was whipping the backs of my thighs and my bum! Bitch! No, not her fault. Him. He had ordered her to do it. It was his fault. Obnoxious, pompous oaf.
WHOP.
This was torture! A disgrace.
WHOP WHOP.
“SILENCE, SLAVE” My mistress barked. “I am going to go on whipping you until you are SILENT.”
Suspended by my nipples, being beaten like a dog. Unable to move. And not permitted to complain. Was this what being a slave was all about?
I wasn’t really a slave, was I? Sir John must know I am not really a slave. It was just a costume. I was a whore, not a slave… Tell him mistress! Tell him I am your whore, your maid, your slut. Not his slave. Tell him…
Ow. Nipples hurting so badly. Want to pass out, make it go away.
Were they all watching? All the other clients in the club? Were they all standing around watching me hang like a piece of meat? Watching me being beaten? Being tamed?
That was it, wasn’t it? I was being tamed. Taught to be tame. To take punishment and not to complain. Not to resist. Not to question my status. To just accept it. All of it. The humiliation, the lack of pay, the beatings, the rapes…
Ow. Really painful. Crying now. Hurting too much. Please let me down. I beg you.
“It just won’t shut up,” Sir John remarked irritably. “Can we get another girl? I’m not at all happy with this one.”
I felt my mistress’ breath on my ear.
“You’re failing me,” she whispered fiercely in my ear. “Shut up right now or you’re out.”
She slapped my face, then promptly marched round me and whipped the backs of my thighs again.
WHOP.
I would be ‘out’? After all I had gone through for them? After all the sacrifices I had made? After all the favours I had performed for them? Why were they so unreasonable?
WHOP WHOP.
Ow. Too mush pain. …Must stop moaning. Must stop complaining. Must accept it. Must accept my role. My place. My position in this world…
…Must somehow forget the pain in my nipples. Must learn to submit to the pain. Must be tame. Must obey…
I was trembling and shaking and quivering and my heart pumped furiously… as if my blood didn’t know which way to pump through my veins…
I felt ashamed. So deeply ashamed. Ashamed that I had let it come to this.
What kind of girl was I? What kind of whore?
Pretty office girls used to knock nervously on my office door, dressed in their tiny little skirts and whiter than white blouses, and speak courteously to me and offer to make me coffee…
Now I was dressed as a sex-slave, suspended from my nipples, in public, being beaten and told to stop complaining about it.
“Good, slave,” my mistress barked. “Now stay quiet.”
WHOP.
I had to keep quiet. Had to. But how? I was in agony. Didn’t they realize?
“Well I must say,” Sir John said. “I’m not at all happy about this. I was assured the new slave would be as good as the last one. This really isn’t good enough.”
“But she’s so beautiful, don’t you think?” My mistress said. “In time she’ll learn to be a good slave.”
How long would I hang for them? How long?
“Sir John!” a voice suddenly intervened, jollily. “Why… I haven’t seen you down here for a while!”
A male voice. Familiar. Too familiar.
I couldn’t see the club behind me, but I recognized that voice all right. It was the CEO. Him again. My old employer. No question.
Oh God. Him. Here. Seeing me dressed as a slave-girl and suspended from the ceiling. Trembling. Sobbing. Bleating. No. Must not bleat. Or they’ll whip me. Must stay quiet.
“Sir John, meet Rachel, our new PA. The last girl had to leave suddenly – left us a bit in the lurch. Rachel is her replacement. Rachel, this is Sir John, he’s on the board of governors. You should curtsey to him.”
Rachel? My replacement? Here? Already? It had taken me months to get my first invite to ‘The Scrava’! What made her so special?
Oh God. She must be looking at me. What must she see? A whore, suspended by her nipples and arse-beaten... Just another whore.
“She curtseys nicely,” Sir John remarked. “She’s clearly going to be a successful young lady.”
“Yes,” the CEO replied. “That’s why we brought her along, actually. To show her the true meaning of success. Would you like her to dance for you?”
“Yes, why not?” Sir John replied. “I would enjoy that very much.”
“Rachel, Sir John would like you to dance for him.”
“Dance, sir? You mean… here? In front of all…”
“Yes please Rachel, if you wouldn’t mind. Sir John is an extremely important part of our organization. Dance for him for a while – like you did for me during your interview.”
“You mean… You want me to…?”
“Yes. Panties and heels. Come on now, don’t keep Sir John waiting. There’s a good girl.”
Good girl? Wasn’t I his good girl? Why was he ignoring me? Had he even seen me? He must have done! He must have seen my ‘Whore94’ tattoo at least. He must recognize that, surely?
Ow… Everything fuzzy… Too much pain… Hurts too much. Concentrate. It won’t be long now. Surely not…
“SILENCE!” My mistress barked.
WHOP.
Bitch. Why did I ever submit to her? She was horrible, cruel, evil.
“Fresh meat?” Another voice piped up. The manager. My fuck-master. Unmistakable.
“Rachel is a very special girl,” the CEO answered. “We’re thinking of promoting her to Senior PA.”
“That’s good,” said the manager. “Sooner the better, we’re very busy at the moment.”
How many people were watching me? How many people were standing around me? Was the CTO there too? Was he watching me?
“Oh she’s a delightful dancer,” Sir John said. “Lively bottom. Firm tits. Why not stop a while and lunch with me?”
“I’d love to,” the CEO responded, “but unfortunately there are rather a few of us today. We’re celebrating the Hudson deal.”
“So bring them all over here my good man – the more the merrier.”
“Well why not?” the CEO responded brightly. “I’ll go round up the troops. Back in a tick.”
…Hate not being able to see them…No voices now... Just dreamy jazz… and the rhythmic clip-clop of Rachel dancing for Sir John. Why couldn’t I dance for him? I could dance ‘delightfully’, couldn’t I? Why did Sir John seem to despise me so much? What had I done wrong? It wasn’t my fault he wanted the old Whore94 instead of me, was it?
I imagined Rachel dancing for him behind me… wriggling her exposed breasts… teasing him by turning and bending over… showing off her ‘lively’ bottom… gyrating and pouting and swooning and offering herself to him…
How much did she know? Did she know what they had in mind for her? How could she know? How could she know that she would soon wear a Whore163 tattoo? How could she know she would one day hang alongside me and a dozen other whores, with Mr. Khani senior pacing up and down inspecting us, prodding us with a stick, pointing out our selling points to his Middle-Eastern business associates? How could she possibly know any of that?
Why was Rachel the special girl? Why was I dressed as a slave, wrists cuffed behind my back, nipples hooked up to the ceiling. It wasn’t fair. I wanted to be dancing. I wanted to be dancing in my knickers for Sir John.
“Come here darling,” I heard Sir John say. “Come and kneel here.”
The clip-clopping stopped. Pathetic. Why didn’t she resist? Why didn’t she refuse?
“I want you to show me how much you have enjoyed dancing for me,” Sir John said gently.
Don’t do it Rachel! Don’t do it! What kind of girl would do that?
“I’m… I’m not…” Rachel protected, her voice small, weak, feeble, pathetic. “I’m not a whore.”
“I know,” Sir John replied. “But you want to be successful don’t you?”
“Yes sir…”
“Come on then, show me what a good new employee you are.”
No! She couldn’t, surely?
Sucking sounds. Slurping and panting. Filthy bitch. Had she no shame?
“Good girl,” he said. “Lick me there… That’s it…”
Had they forgotten me? Were they just going to leave me hanging? Like decoration? On display?
“Good girl. Now sit on me. No, face the other way. Hold your pussy open for me. That’s it. Good. You’re wet… Good. That’s it. Fuck yourself hard. Good girl.”
Fucking her!? …And she sounded like she was enjoying herself... God - he was old enough to be her Grandpa!
SMACK.
Smacking her buttocks?
SMACK SMACK.
“You’re going to make a wonderful whore,” he said.
“Thank you sir”
Why did she accept it? Was she stupid?
SMACK.
Why was she letting him treat her like that?
He groaned finally as he came up her.
“Good girl,” Sir John congratulated her. “You fuck well for such a young whore.”
“Thank you sir,” Rachel said. Between sobs? Was she crying?
“Curtsey, whore,” my mistress barked at her.
“I’m not…” Rachel started to protest again.
“CURTSEY!” my mistress screamed.
Who could refuse such an order from my mistress?
“Good girl,” my mistress said. “Now get lost. We’re busy here.”
“Wait,” Sir John interrupted. “I want my new slave to clean her up. If you would be so kind as to let her down…”
Me? Clean her up? That could only mean one thing… But anything would be better than hanging on these clamps… Oh yes - please! Please let me down… Please let me down so I can clean her up…
My mistress turned the lever and the chains slackened immediately. What a relief. What a merciful relief. My nipples glowed, burned.
My mistress’ face right up against mine. She looked furious, angry. Why? I hadn’t done anything wrong, had I? I had been a good girl, hadn’t I? A good slave?
She unclipped the clamps from my nipples. Free. At last. Blood rushing to my nipples. My mistress had set me free… and now she was undoing the gag… I would scream at her as soon as it was out of my mouth - that was what I would do. I would shout and scream and yell and tell them exactly what I thought of their perverted little games and their disgraceful treatment of me. And I would make sure Rachel knew exactly who she was dealing with.
“BE A GOOD WHORE,” my mistress half barked, half whispered into my ear.
Yes. Be a good whore. Don’t shout or yell or scream or any of that. Stay quiet. Be grateful that you are free of the nipple clamps. Be grateful that part is over…
I put my full weight onto my heels. Fantastic. Freedom.
“Rachel,” Sir John said. “My slave will now clean you up.”
My mistress turned me round and that was when I saw Rachel for the first time.
She was smallish, and shy looking. She had small rosy breasts and long brown wavy hair. Her face was over-made up with smudged bright red lipstick and traces of Sir John’s semen. She wore a sopping pair of light-blue panties. God - she was a child! Well, okay, not a child, but surely a recent school-leaver. And she had just sat on Sir John’s penis! How lucky the elite. How damned the rest of us.
I was to clean her up? Her? This girl? This child?
“CURTSEY TO YOUR MISTRESS!” my mistress barked.
Curtsey? To her? To my replacement? Oh God.
I curtsied to her. To Rachel. And I looked at her feet. Beautiful heeled sandals. Painted toes. My superior in this world. My sixteen year-old mistress. For now, at least. Until they made her their whore too.
My mistress flicked the end of my leash at my buttocks. I was still her dog, wasn’t I?
I knelt before Rachel and looked adoringly at her feet.
“Is she a whore?” Rachel asked.
“Not even that,” said Sir John. “It’s a slave. Every inch of it is owned. It works for nothing, and is grateful for it.”
I put my tongue into Rachel’s sodden panties and lapped at them for all my life was worth. I tasted her juices. I tasted Sir John’s semen. I worked my tongue around the material of her panties and buried my face in her sex.
I was a clean-up girl. A cum-licker. A filth-eater. I pushed my tongue into Rachel’s pussy and probed for as much of Sir John’s semen as I could get. This was my job. This was my life. This was what I had to do. Must do it. Must do it obediently. Must do it eagerly.
God – sperm around her arse too? Must clean that up too, then. Must clean everywhere.
“Mmmm…” Rachel moaned, rocking on my face.
My mistress flicked the end of my leash at me every now and then. I was doing it for her, wasn’t I? This was part of my training, wasn’t it?
How had it come to this? How had I let things get so out of control that I was willing to do this?. For nothing, too. For nothing.
Rachel began to build towards orgasm on my face, panting and moaning excitedly, youthfully, uncontrollably.
Imagine if they gave me to her. To a sixteen year-old – or however old she was. Imagine if I licked her pussy every day for the rest of my life. Imagine if she came on me every day. Imagine being her slave. Her pussy-girl.
“That’s wonderful,” a voice chimed.
Oh God. The CEO again.
When I pulled my face away from Rachel’s sex I saw them all. The CEO. The CTO. Nicola - Oh God, not her. The manager. My mistress. Sir John. And many other senior members of staff from the company.
My face dripped with Rachel’s juices and Sir John’s come.
And they were clapping. Like it was some kind of show. Some kind of theatre.
“KISS HER FEET,” my mistress barked.
I fell prostrate before Rachel and pecked at her feet. Lovely delicate feet. Was I worthy of this? I ran my tongue voluntarily along her toes. Delicious toes.
“Good girl,” Rachel said in her small voice.
God. A sixteen year-old girl telling me I was a good girl – her good girl - while I lapped pathetically at her toes.
“GET UP AND CURTSEY, SLAVE!” my mistress barked. “AND THANK HER.”
I stood awkwardly – I was still wearing the wrist-cuffs – and curtsied before my young mistress.
“Thank you mistress,” I said, staring at her feet.
Another round of applause went round.
I was gone. No way back now. Not ever. Never.
“Well done Elizabeth,” the CEO’s voice called out. “Come now and thank each and every one of your superiors for making you what you are today.”
I looked up sheepishly at Rachel. She was watching me exactly the way I had watched the faces of the whores who in turn had once served me.
I curtsied for her again, then I clip-clopped over to the CEO, looking up only to navigate my way over to him.
When I stumbled, a wave of laughter went round the spectators. Laughing at me. Laughing at their new slave-whore.
I curtsied as neatly as I could for the CEO and knelt before him. I leaned forwards and kissed each of his feet, wrists still clasped in their bondage behind my back.
“Thank you,” I whimpered.
“Thank you for what?” he said.
I peered up at him. …Thank you for raping me? Thank you for making me a whore? Thank you for beating me with your cane? Thank you for taking me roughly up my arse? Thank you for giving me a way? Thank you for being my superior in this world?
“”Thank you for what?” he insisted.
“Thank you for everything,” I said and kissed his feet again.
He placed the sole of one of his shoe on my head and pinned my face to the floor.
They laughed.
I felt the tip of his cane exploring the crack of my bottom.
“We own this now,” he said and cracked the cane across my buttocks.
CRACK.
He removed his foot and prodded me to my feet.
I tottered over to the CTO. The group fell quiet. All eyes on me. I was the entertainment. Their special girl. Their whore, doing her show. Showing them my obedience. Demonstrating my submission. Showing them my whore body marked with my whore tattoo. Showing them my red-raw nipples and streaked buttocks. Their property.
I curtsied, kissed my ex-boss’ feet and thanked him for everything.
And then Nicola. Why was she so lucky? What was so special about her?
I kissed her feet. My superior in this world. My Goddess.
“Thank you for everything,” I said.
“You’re always were a fucking whore,” she said, and spat in my face.
I thanked her again, and they all laughed. Too late now… I’m theirs. They own me. They can spit on me and beat me and string me up and fuck me and have me wait on them…
I thanked them all in the same way. A few of the others spat on me just as Nicola had done. Each, without exception, sneered down at me as I bowed my head before them and thanked them for owning me.
It didn’t seem to matter anymore.
…They are the elite…
…They are entitled to me…
…Just let them…
…Pout for them now while they slap my breasts with their cocks… while they stick their fingers in me and masturbate themselves onto my tongue…
…Take them in my face. Take them in my sex. Take them in my arse…
Let them have me.
Let them use me.
Let them own me.
Be one of their girls.
Be Whore94.
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