Whore 94

Chapter 09: More Induction and Training

"Walk ahead of me where I can see you," she barked.

My Brazilian instructor. My mistress. My superior.

Was this what I had worked so hard to achieve? To strut in my g-string and whore-heels ahead of a woman who demanded I call her 'mistress'? To have her tap me on the buttocks with the end of her riding-crop? To be too afraid even to look at her?

Was this what I had signed up to?

Why had I submitted to her? Why had I started believing she was more important than me? Why had I accepted that?

Why did I feel the need to obey her?

What was it about her?

What was it about me?

Clip-clop. Down the corridor. Clip-clop. Like a pony-girl whore. Obedient. Compliant.

Around the corner. Another corridor. A flight of stairs. Down.

"Ninety-four," she said, reading it off my left buttock. "I hope you turn out better than the last one..."

When she smacked me on the left buttock, I knew to turn left.

Obey her. Do it. She is my superior.

"Stop," she ordered abruptly when we arrived at a pair of large wooden doors.

"This is the dance-room," she said, tapping me on the buttocks again.

I peered through the window-glass: A large, spacious, room with wooden flooring. Vacant.

"You will receive dance lessons here eventually," she said. "Not today though, too many other things to do."

Not today? How long did they intend to keep me here?

I sneaked a look at her. God. That semi-transparent mini-dress just made her look awesome. Irresistible. Just looking at her made me feel... weak. Inferior. Undeserving.

Before she could catch me looking at her, I quickly diverted my gaze to her boots... Mustn't look at her... Mustn't disrespect her...

"Go," she commanded, tapping my thighs.

Stop it. Stop being her whore. Stop obeying her riding-crop.

Not much farther along the corridor she bade me stop again. Muffled sounds of activity beyond the walls.

"This is the gymnasium," she said.

She turned the door open and tapped the crop on my bottom to signal to me that I should enter ahead of her.

People. At last. Other people.

No. Not people. Whores. Naked whores. Working out under the bright lights. Skipping. Jogging. Doing sit-ups.

All numbered.

A tall brunette stood majestically at the near end of the hall, hands on hips. She wore a stunning full-length black PVC cat-suit. She was gorgeous. And young. Nineteen? Twenty at a push.

She recognised my Brazilian mistress instantly, and greeted her with a quizzical raise of the eyebrows.

"New whore," my mistress explained, flicking her riding crop at my behind. "I'm showing her around her new home."

New home? What? I didn't live here, did I?

"Lucky you," the woman wearing the cat-suit replied. "Must be my turn to get a new-girl soon." Then, running her eyes up and down me, she added: "Mmm. She's sexy. You always get the sexy ones."

"Yes, sexy and submissive, this one," my mistress said. "Aren't you, whore?"

She tapped my buttocks firmly.

I looked at her boots and curtsied neatly.

"Yes mistress," I said quietly, respectfully.

"Licks arse like she was born to do it," my mistress boasted. "You love licking my arse, don't you whore?"

Say NO. Don't submit. Don't.

"Yes mistress," I said quietly, dipping my knees before her again, staring obediently at her boots.

"Mmmm..." the other woman mused. "I look forward to that then. You got her well trained already I see."

"Yes, she knows her place," my mistress said with an air of satisfaction. "Well, whore, this is your gym instructor. She'll make sure you stay in shape. You may kiss her feet."

I didn't hesitate. I should have done, I know, but I didn't. I curtsied politely for my mistress to show her I had understood the order. I then curtsied before the young gym instructor to show her I understood her superiority over me. Finally I knelt before her and kissed each of her boots, exactly as I had seen the whores do upstairs in 'The Scrava'.

I stayed down on my knees, head bowed before the young gym instructor.

What the hell was I doing?

How many more? How many more women would I submit to? How many women were more important than me?

Why was I one of the whores? Why hadn't the CEO arranged for me to be one of the mistresses? I would have been good at that, wouldn't I?

"Shine those boots with your tongue, whore," my Brazilian mistress commanded.

They paid me no attention while I obeyed the order. I ran the full length of my tongue over her boots and they just chatted like old friends. Were they really so used to having a whore lapping at their feet that they were entirely indifferent to it? Was I really that worthless?

Honestly, it sounds incredible even to me now. To think that I happily, well - kind-of happily - licked at that girl's boots while she chatted to my mistress. Why did I do that? I think I really did believe she was superior to me. That she was somehow worthy of worship. Yet she was so young. Younger than me. Bitch.

How long was I down there like that? Ten minutes?

Finally my mistress gave me a whack on the arse and ordered me to get up.

I stood and curtsied.

"Thank you mistress," I said quietly, keeping my eyes on the trails of saliva I had left on the gym instructor's boots.

I felt the riding crop on my buttocks again.

"Come on whore. We've got business elsewhere."

She prodded me out of the gymnasium.

God. What a whore I was. Accepting it. Accepting it without questioning it. Shameful.

Where were the men? Where was the manager of the club? Where were my fuck-masters?

We descended a flight of stairs and proceeded through an archway into a large seating area.

"This is the cafeteria," my mistress explained.

My God: Two naked whores on their hands and knees scrubbing the floor. Whore-maids. Must be. Anywhere else it would be surreal. But not here. Not down here. They looked up nervously when they heard our heels. The mere sight of my mistress' boots was enough to return them dutifully to their work.

I followed my mistress over to the whores. She perched on the edge of a bench, crossed one leg over the other, and sat overlooking the girls working diligently at her feet.

"I'm going to smoke a cigarette," she said.

I looked at her boots and curtsied.

What should I do? Just stand there and wait?

"Get down and scrub the floor," she said, not even bothering looking at me.

No. I didn't hear that. I didn't want to do that. Please no. I was more than that, wasn't I? I didn't want to be a scrubber. That's what they were, wasn't it? Scrubbers. Scrubber-whores. No way did I want to do that. Never.

"Yes mistress," I said politely, and curtsied for her.

Do it for her. Do it for my mistress.

I went down on all fours between the two scrubber-girls.

"Use your knickers," my mistress said.

Wash the floor with my knickers? Why?

Hang on a second... that girl is labelled Whore108? ...How is that possible? Wasn't I the newest whore? ...but I'm Whore94 ...How could there be a Whore108?

I pulled my g-string down my legs from around my whore-heels. Yes. Be one of them. Learn to be a good scrubber-whore. Accept it.

I dipped my knickers in their bucket of dirty water, and started scrubbing the floor. I washed away my own scuff-marks. Following the lead of the other girls, I pushed my thong into the cracks between the interleaving wood panels and scratched out the grime with my fingernails.

I must know my place. I must learn my role.

She watched me, taking long drags on her cigarette as I scrubbed the floor at her feet.

God. This was a disgrace. Why was I scrubbing the floor for her? I wasn't being paid for this was I? Not directly, at any rate. And with my own whore-knickers? It was ridiculous. Embarrassing.

"Kneel," she ordered suddenly,

I knelt.

"Tilt your head back and open your mouth," she said.

I obeyed.

"You are my ashtray," she said. "Keep your mouth open. If you close it I will have you strung up."

Her ashtray? What did she mean by that? She couldn't...

...Strung up? What did that mean?

She flicked the end of her cigarette into my mouth. I tasted her spent ash on my tongue and almost choked.

No. Not me. Not this. Why me? Why this?

"KEEP IT OPEN!" She barked.

My eyes welled with tears.

It tasted disgusting, foul. ... But I'm her ashtray ...Be a good girl... Be her ashtray. Scrub her floors. Lick her arse. Her wonderful arse...

It was a test, I thought. She was pushing me. Provoking me. Looking for an excuse to beat me. To fail me. To tell me I couldn't work here... She didn't want me to succeed. She was jealous of all the attention they were giving me. That was it, wasn't it? It was her petty little way to assert her own sense of importance.

"I have to do this," she said. "Not because I like to treat my sluts like this, but because I know people who do. Consider it part of your induction."

She deposited her ash in my face again.

Tears ran down my cheeks. This was what I was now. This.

Finally she flicked the butt of her cigarette onto the floor and trod it into the ground with the sole of a boot.

"Clean that up," she ordered.

I scooped up the mess as best I could with my fingers.

"Mop up the rest with you knickers. Hurry now."

I mopped up the ash with my sodden g-string. Her ash. Her mess. My new life.

"Good, whore. Now put your uniform back on."

My uniform. My g-string. She wanted me to wear it. Wet. Dirty. Bitch.

Don't do it... Your life is worth more than that... I am worth more than this... Don't wear those filthy knickers for her. Show her you still have some dignity.

I stood and pulled the sodden knickers up my around my groin... Just please her... make her happy... It's for my own good...

"You are a disgusting whore," she said.

I curtsied and thanked her.

...She's so beautiful ...Obey her... Please her...

Go to the bathroom," she said. "Clean yourself up. You may rinse your knickers. You may rinse your mouth out with soap. Move quickly."

I curtsied and thanked her again, and trotted hurriedly to the bathroom. I did rinse my mouth with soap, and I scrubbed my g-string under the cold tap. Bitch. How dare she treat me like a dirty scrubber? How dare she use me as an ashtray?

I hurried back to her, clip-clopping in my heels, g-string pulled high up my groin. I curtsied before her and looked at her boots.

"You're doing well, whore," she said, nodding. "I think you deserve a little reward. Follow me."

She led me out of the cafeteria, along another slew of corridors, to what I would eventually come to know as the 'Pampering chamber'.

And what a chamber it was: Hot tubs, steam, towels, perfumes, oils, creams, jars, ointments... the constant gurgle of running water... naked whores strutting around with shiny olive skin... giving massages... being massaged... being rubbed... being stroked...

My mistress clicked her fingers to draw the attention of one of the olive-skinned attendants.

"Pamper my new whore," she said simply. Then turning to me, she added: "I will return shortly,"

She didn't even give me time to curtsey and thank her. She spun on her heels and marched away.

"Hello ninety-four," the attendant said. She was petite. Cute. Pretty. Naked.

"Hello," I said, and curtsied politely.

The girl giggled.

"No need to curtsey to me – I'm a working girl too," she said. A sweet French accent.

A working girl? Was that what she called herself?

She turned and showed me her whore-tattoo: Whore132.

"How...?" I started.

"Sshhhh," she said. "I'm going to take good care of you."

I removed my heels and g-string at her request and lay prone on a bench draped with hot wet towels... she poured jug after jug load of steaming hot water onto my back... always pouring slowly, teasing me, letting the water massage my muscles with its warmth...

I folded my arms under my head and rested my chin on the backs of my palms. I watched the other girls around me for a while. All so beautiful. All so incredibly beautiful. Then as I started to relax, I felt my eyelids falling.

No. Don't sleep. Stay alert.

"How can you be Whore132?" I asked her suddenly. "I mean – I thought I was new – the newest, erm, working girl one, I mean."

She giggled.

"You are a replacement for the last ninety-four, I think."

A replacement? Was that what I was? Not new. A replacement. That didn't sound so special. I thought I was special. Selected by Mr. Khani personally. That was right, wasn't it?

"What happened to the last one?" I wondered aloud.

"I am sorry, I don't know," she said sweetly.

She fidgeted with a tube of gel-like substance.

"Are you enjoying your new job so far?" she asked, rubbing the gel-like substance into my shoulders gently with her finger-tips.

I didn't answer, not knowing what to say.

"It's okay," she said. "We are all friends here. I know what it's like at first. It feels strange. But you get used to it. Then you realise you love it. And then you never want to stop doing it."

Her palms moved to the short of my back.

Really? Was it really like that? Would I grow to love being here?

"They only choose the most beautiful and special girls," she said. "We are the lucky ones."

I looked up at her questioningly, wanting her to elaborate. Wanting to hear more of her sweet French accent. So lovely, so sexy...

"How did you end up here?" I asked.

She patted that gel into my thighs

"Well..." she giggled nervously. "I keep asking myself the same question."

"Please tell me, I would love to hear your story," I pleaded.

She patted my buttocks.

"Okay, I'll tell you," she said, skipping around me to fetch a jar of something reddish.

"I was a qualified nurse, working in a private clinic. One day we had a patient in – someone very important – I can't tell you who, but you've probably heard his name mentioned in the media... He was only in for a few hours – a routine operation – and I attended him for the few hours that he was in. A few weeks later I received a surprise call from his PA. He wanted to invite me to join him for an evening at some club called 'The Scrava'. I was so impressed with the invitation that I accepted it immediately."

She poured the thick red substance onto my calves and rubbed it in expertly with her palms.

"When we arrived here that first time..." She went on, "Mon Dieu...I was so aroused by the sight of the girls... at how they worshipped my feet with their little tongues... and made me come... it was wonderful."

Yes it was. I remembered my first day too. Like a dream. Fantastic.

"Anyway, I went back to his place that evening. He was unbelievably rich. He lives in the most amazing mansion... incredible. He had half-naked maids all over his house, working busily away... they served me in all kinds of ways... just wonderful. We started a kind of relationship. He would send a driver over to pick me up after work and bring me to his home. He would dress and treat me like one of the maids - that would arouse him so much... I let him spank me like he spanked them... I would even take on some of the house-hold duties - that used to excite him... He would invite two or three of his maids to join us in his bed and we would worship his body from head to foot with our tongues. He was obsessed with me... and the way he treated me like one of his maids made me so horny..."

"Sorry," she said, interrupting herself. "Just talking about it makes me horny."

"Please go on," I insisted, wanting desperately to know the rest.

I felt her hands on my buttocks. Kneading them.

"One day he needed an extra waitress for a party he was throwing, and he asked me to stand in. I agreed. I wore a skimpy topless waitress outfit and served the guests along with the other maids. We curtsied to them and treated them like royalty. I dare-say a few of them were... Anyway to cut a long story short I ended up on my knees under the dining table sucking them off or licking their pussies one by one along with the other maids. A couple of the guests screwed me over the table. Honestly, I enjoyed it so much... enjoyed doing it for my master – for that was what I had started to call him – he liked that."

She was massaging my thighs now. Yes... keep going... feels amazing...

"Soon after that he asked me to quit my nursing job in order to become one of his maids on a full-time basis. He wouldn't pay me, he said, but he would see I would not want for anything for the rest of my life. I was in love with him. I was in love with his life-style. I would have done anything for him. Anything. So here I am today. He has me working here for him. Anything I earn goes to him. And I want it to be like that. Everything I do is for him. He comes in every now and then to fuck me. I live for those days."

"And you're happy?" I asked, stunned by what I was hearing.

"Yes, of course," she said without a flicker of hesitation. "I have learnt a lot about myself since I came here. I have learned that I am submissive. I used to be ashamed to admit it, but now I realise I should be proud of what I am. Proud that I enjoy serving others, that it makes me feel good, that it turns me on. It is the most primitive of instincts, isn't it? To be aroused, to be turned on. I was so repressed before I came here. Why not submit? We are brain-washed into thinking we are all equal, all important. It's not true. My master is superior to me, that is why he is rich and wealthy and I am his miserable slave-whore. But I want to be his slave. I want to be used. I want to feel owned. I don't want to be in control of myself. I can't help myself..."

Was I the same as her? Did I enjoy serving others? Was that what I wanted to do? Did I enjoy licking my mistress' boots? Her pussy? Her arse? I did, didn't I? Not the physical acts in themselves perhaps, but what it meant, what it represented, what it symbolized. But didn't I also enjoy being worshipped? Didn't I also want to be the mistress?

Yes. I loved being in control. That was what I really wanted, wasn't it? I was worth more than her. More than this submissive wench-whore-slut. I wanted maids to look after me. I had a maid, didn't I? They had promised me one, at least. When would I get my maid? Would she be as beautiful as Whore132? Would she have a lovely French accent?

"Your mistress will be back soon," she said sadly. "You must have a hot-soak before she returns."

I stood. My muscles and limbs felt incredible. Re-energised. My skin smooth. Silky. Cleansed.

She led me to a hot-tub brimming with steaming water and held onto my hand while I slipped into it. Mmmm... Steaming hot water, immersed right up to my neck...

"Honestly my dear," she said, smiling at me. "You are such a lucky girl. You are so beautiful and sexy... I keep hearing about how special you are to them. They have great plans for you, I think. So lucky. All the girls have heard about you, you know. You're practically famous down here."

I blinked up at her. Famous? Me?

"They can be really strict at times here, but there are so many rewards to enjoy," she said.

I smiled back at her. She was so pretty. So nice. How could she possibly be a whore? She was too, well, too nice. Too pure. Too innocent.

"Thank you," I said. "You've been really sweet."

"You're welcome," she said.

Then she slipped away into the steamy depths of the Pampering Chamber.

I lay there, churning it all over in my mind.

She seemed like a really nice genuine girl, didn't she? Intelligent, too. Maybe she was right. Maybe there was no shame in being a 'working girl' here at 'The Scrava'?. Maybe I was inventing the shame. Inventing the humiliation. Maybe I should just relax... go with it. Become what they wanted me to become...

The steam snaked and puffed all around me... My eyelids felt heavy...