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.
