Whore 94 Ch. 01

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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