I'm dancing for a German guy.
Displaying myself to him.
Performing for him.
Gyrating for him in a black O-ring thong and high-heeled dancing shoes.
...Look at my breasts, sir...
...Would you like to play with them, sir?...
Offering myself.
Selling myself.
Leaning forwards now, presenting my bottom to him.
...You can have me, sir...
...Your money buys me, sir...
Stroking my Whore94 tattoo.
...Yes, touching is allowed sir...
...Yes, red from where they spank me sir...
Keeping perfect time with the easy jazz.
It comes so easily... So naturally...
I've been here - what – a week now?
God. A whole week.
A whole week of being their new little dancing whore.
Numbered.
Owned.
No, not owned. Never. Not me.
A whole week of curtseying and thanking them for letting me train here at 'The Scrava '.
Thanking them for making me what I never dared to be...
...For taking me where I never dared go...
Not resisting. Not saying 'No'. Not walking away from them.
Instead presenting myself to them freely, voluntarily, willingly.
Knowing that I am submitting to them, knowing that I am being used.
Used for sex.
Used to make money.
Used for...
...whatever...
...Just used...
This doesn't happen to decent girls like me.
It can't happen.
Yet here I am: Doing it.
Enjoying it.
Wanting it.
Loving it.
Loving the attention.
Loving having the bouncers ogle and stare as I strut between clients wearing my whore knickers and heels.
Loving seeing their desire, their lust.
Loving performing for the German guy.
Loving seeing his desire, his lust.
I know what he wants.
I know what they all want.
They want to possess me.
To have me.
To take me.
To invade me.
To have me moan with gratitude and pleasure as they fill me.
That's what they want...
...The German guy is staring; concentrating.
His eyes following my every turn.
I have him.
I know that look: They all get that look...
That's when I know he will buy me.
That's when I know he will pay for a piece of me.
...Slip your money in my thong, sir...
...Yes sir... there is fine... You're can touch me there... or anywhere... as it pleases you...
Smiling at him shyly while he touches me.
Blinking at him while he pays my pussy.
...Is that what I'm worth to you, sir?...
He's quite handsome. Broad shoulders. Neat blonde hair. Nice suit. Wide brown eyes.
I like it when I like them, if you know what I mean.
It feels sexy.
It feels less like a job.
A job?
Is this my job?
They haven't even started paying me yet, have they?
...Your money buys me, sir...
...Your money makes me yours...
He looks like a tourist.
How old is he? Early twenties? How did he find out about the club? Who invited him? He doesn't seem important enough to be here.
Tip-tapping my heels on the wood-flooring as I sway and wriggle and turn for him.
Writhing around him.
Hands on top of my head. Letting them fall slowly. A delicate caress of my breasts on the way down. A wriggle of my bottom.
...Pay me more before you fuck me, sir...
...Please pay me a little more...
God. I haven't been home all week.
Do I live here now?
What on earth am I doing?
Why am I doing this? Why am I dancing for these people? Why do I wear their number?
Why do they spank me? Why do I let them?
Is this really my job?
Is this really my role in life?
Is it the same for all the other girls?
Do they think about these things?
...Straddling his leg...
Rubbing my groin into his knee.
...I'm your girl, sir...
...I'm your whore...
Facing the other way.
Straddling his other leg.
Fucking myself on him.
Feeling wet. Feeling dirty. Feeling horny.
...Pinch my nipples, sir...
...Play with them... Twist them a little...
Seeing the other girls sifting deliciously, magically, sexily through the smoke.
All of them so beautiful.
All of them so sexy.
How lucky the Khani's are to have all this.
To own all of us.
All us whores.
...Yes sir, you can bite my nipples...
...You can lick my breasts... Let me hold them up for you sir...
Watching the excitement grow in his trousers.
It won't be long now.
Will he spank me?
Most don't, but some like to.
Do I enjoy it? Do I enjoy having them spank me? How can anyone possibly enjoy that?
No. I hate it.
I mean, I must hate it.
Of course I hate it.
But it never really hurts, does it? Isn't it all just a game, an act – theatre? I mean, there has never been any long-term damage, has there?
Just some redness.
Some soreness.
And isn't there something thrilling – something naughty – something disgracefully erotic in being bent over a client's knee and publicly palm-spanked on my bare cheeks for all to see?
Why do I enjoy that? What kind of slut am I?
...But that rush of blood... The adrenaline... The thumping of my heart as I am spanked... The anger... The shame... And then later, when it's over, while I dance and gyrate and writhe for them to thank them for what they have done, don't I exalt in the shiver and the tingle and the warmth and the glow of flesh...
...When the CEO stroked his cane across my buttocks, didn't I yearn for what would come next? Didn't I actually want him to clip my bottom and tell me I was his 'good little whore'? And didn't I love to be taken and possessed by him, bottom red and humiliated?
How could I want that?
How can I explain that, unless you understand it already?
Why should I be ashamed of who I am?
Why should I be frightened of who I really am?
See how my guardian – one of the bouncers – the shortest and fattest of them – see how he stares at me tonight.
He seems... Angry?
Jealous?
His eyes make me feel... uneasy... uncomfortable...
Don't worry about him. Concentrate on your job.
This job.
The German guy's fingers inside me again.
His teeth on my nipples.
I'm dancing on his fingers.
His dancing girl slut.
Half an hour ago I was 'working the door' – greeting the guests as they arrived.
Curtseying and taking their coats.
Kneeling before them and kissing their feet – welcoming them to the club.
Running my tongue across their shoes to show them how important they are to me.
They patted their palms on my bottom.
Told me they would 'see me later'.
Squirming on my guardian's fingers during the quiet periods.
Not sure if he was allowed to touch me like that, but letting him anyway.
Kneeling before him, pouting up at him, pushing my face into his groin.
Being his doll.
Being his girl.
Having him offer me to each guest as they arrived...
Hating having him smirk at me.
Just hating him.
Hating him ordering me around all the time.
Come here. Go there. Do this. Do that.
Bastard.
But too weak to disobey.
Too weak to say 'No.'
He thinks he's one of them, but he's not: He's just a bouncer, an employee.
Not one of my owners.
Taking the German guy's cock between my breasts.
Masturbating him like that.
Holding him firm in my bosom.
Feeling him throb.
Hearing his agitation, his frustration, his desperation.
Sucking his bell.
Tapping his manhood against my cheeks.
Licking the tip.
Burying it inside my face.
Almost choking on him.
Hanging breathless and limp on him while he fucks the back of my throat.
...Yes sir... I'm your cock-girl...
...Your money in my thong... Your penis in my face...
...Fuck my face, sir...
Thinking about my mistress' arsehole. That's what I am supposed to think about. That's why I am doing this.
For her. For her arsehole.
Anything for her arsehole.
I live for that now.
I live for her.
To be her favourite whore.
So lucky to have such a beautiful mistress... With those wonderful green eyes...
...I need your cock, sir...
...I need you inside me...
Standing now.
Turning.
Holding my thong aside with my thumb.
...Pussy, sir?...
..Or arse...?
Holding my pussy open for him. Showing off my pink. Lowering my bottom towards his groin.
Hovering on the end of his manhood.
Writhing with the tip of his penis in my entrance.
Sliding onto his shaft.
I'm so wet for him.
I'm so horny.
Head rushing... High as a kite...
Time... passing by so... unevenly... some things seem to flash by so fast I miss them when I blink... the only thing that seems to slow them down – the only thing that seems to make it all make sense – is this... doing this... riding German cock... having German cock inside me... wrapping myself around it... up and down... squirming... wriggling...
Massaging my own breasts, needing the stimulation.
Where are the clamps today?
...Body reeling out of control...
I'm a fuck-girl, aren't I?
This is what I do.
...Fuck me, sir...
...This was why I was born...
...This is my purpose... my goal...
His strong hands on my breasts. He learns fast. He's a good lover, I can tell. Wonderful hands.
