The Slut's Apprentice Ch. 07

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The Russians are coming.
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4.31
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Part 5 of the 19 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 12/16/2017
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31st December

A Disgrace of sluts

New Year's Eve was special. The hotel hosted a select group of rich and rather scary men. All hands were on deck; which was twenty eight tarts, plus maids, receptionists, doormen, waiters and waitresses and extra kitchen staff. I had helped out before in a non-sexual role (or so Mum thought) and I had always found the night exciting.

Most of the men came alone in big limos which were soon parked nose to tail in both car parks. The chauffeurs stayed outside but were provided with nibbles of various sorts throughout the light. There were twenty four male guests. This included one of Mum's very old clients who had been seeing her forever and Granddad who looked every inch the Dapper Don. He brought Grandma who would let him have a bit of fun but not with any family members. There was essentially one girl per man and a few spares. Although each man paid a small fortune, no real profit was made as the staff costs were so high. Much goodwill was however generated. Most of the guests were regulars and frequently entertained other businessmen at the hotel. They also recommended us to foreign businessmen visiting London who wanted a bit of hospitality. Then there were the diplomats. Ultimately, it was the establishment's reputation that kept it in business.

Four men brought young women with them presumably because they thought it made them look good. These girls were clearly on the game and all were Eastern European. Still, that was not the house's concern and we did not expect claims on our public liability insurance or gate crashing by the police or immigration. Each guest had chosen a working girl beforehand; either from past experience or via the members only part of the hotel website. They did not have to avail themselves of the same girl all night however. The four extra girls, myself included were not needed to sit at table and served as waitresses initially.

We also had some younger family members working as waitresses and indeed I had done so the previous two years. Each wore a distinctive uniform and was only allowed to serve at table, where there was a strict no touch policy or work behind the scenes. Whilst it could be argued that the whole set up was so illegal anyway, why get upset about age of consent? Using underage girls is reputational suicide and is asking for trouble.

Or at least that was what I was told. Frequently. I would always nod sincerely. I blush easily but not when I lie.

The cocktail waitresses were there to be touched.

I was dressed in a plain waitress uniform that was tight and very short which drew attention to my long legs which were encased in grip top black stockings. I wore a very small thong which was visible when I bent at the waist to take orders. Touching was allowed, as long as it was done discreetly, but arse slapping was considered vulgar. If a gentleman wanted me to sit on his lap, I would quickly push my thong to one side and position myself so that my groin was completely under the table, my knees further apart than was really ladylike. Then he could interfere with me to his heart's content. Which several men did. My job was to sit as still as possible and stare into the man's eyes. After a minute I was to gently but firmly remove his fingers, reposition my thong and get back to work. I really rather enjoyed being man handled as most of the men chatted to me while they were molesting me and I was showered with compliments. After a while us girls served less drinks and spent more time entertaining the customers. Three burly waiters were summoned to help the thirsty. They were unlikely to be touched.

The main crew were escorts (no pun intended) to the single men. Uniform code was strict; LBDs and no underwear. Even Mum; who still has a great body. The only person excused was Nan who surveyed her empire with pride. Alex was looking gorgeous and decidedly feminine and had gone for a number with very plunging cleavage. Several ice cubes were dropped down between her tits and she giggled like a little girl. Her ensemble was finished off by a thick choker, her favourite blue Cleopatra wig and spiky heeled thigh boots which made her one of the tallest people in the room.

Not quite as tall as Dani though, whose silky blonde hair was arranged luxuriously on top of her head. She had no trouble gliding in six-inch heels. Dani always had to make a choice of which bit to show off most. All of her bits were amazing but all of them on display together was simply overwhelming. She had gone for legs that night, which were bare and sunbed tanned. The hem of her dress barely covered her bum cheeks. When she stood next to someone sitting down, they got a perfect view of her cute little pussy. The dress was high necked but gossamer thin which outlined her tits beautifully. The majestic orbs wiggled seductively and Dani intermittently turned her nipples on and off, driving the ambassador to a small African country wild.

I had been told that dinner involved much touching up under the table but I was engaged with the other waiting staff and we were rather efficient. I took the liberty of leaning against any man I was serving and Alex of course. I did not touch the foreign sluts.

After dinner I was busy clearing tables and chairs in preparation for dancing. I then had to rush to get changed. I was sweaty, so I managed a very quick shower, put my hair up, applied makeup and slipped into my own little black dress under which I wore a fresh pair of stockings; white this time. The dress was rather longer than Dani's but was so backless that the top of my crack was visible. My back and shoulders are considered by many men to be my best features. In recognition of my gawkiness I was allowed four-inch heels.

The dancing had already started to a live jazz band. All the working girls knew how to dance as did most of the men. The Eastern floozies mainly stayed out in the gazebo, smoking, drinking and scoring. Fortunately, most had brought their own gear.

As the evening progressed couples would slip away. Some returned quite quickly, some not. The maids were kept busy, both keeping the rooms clean and stopping unintended interruptions. I was dancing with a huge member of the Russian business community. He was not incredibly tall but he was incredibly wide. He asked me to simply call him Dima. He agreed to call me Chlo.

When our dance had finished he took me by the hand out to the gazebo. There he gestured to a vacuous looking blonde who had just done an enormous line of coke. She laid one out for him and one for me. I do not really like cocaine, even recreationally and certainly not when at work. That sort of applies to all drugs, legal and otherwise. It was expected that the working girls would have about four glasses of champagne and wine over the whole evening plus lots of water. Nan and Mum watched us like hawks. The Russian laughed at my British reserve and took the second line for himself.

I sipped gingerly at a glass of sparkling water. My paramour called over the head waiter who returned shortly after with a small bowl of fruit. The Russian handed it to me and set off, followed by me and the blonde.

When we reached reception, the Russian bear greeted the head maid with profuse kisses and hugs. She held an iPad and offered the man a choice of three rooms. He chose 206 and set of up the stairs. He knew his way. The maid reminded him that I had to be back downstairs by quarter to twelve. He bowed and assured her that he knew that. As soon as we walked through the door, he commanded.

"Undress me."

He was clearly a man used to getting his own way. I put the bowl of fruit on the sideboard and set about my task. I thought that the blonde would join in but she just stood there absent mindedly gnawing at a strawberry. When she went to pick up another one, the man barked something in Russian and the girl flinched.

I had mastered the art of undressing clients and by the time I was finished he was hard. He was the hairiest man I had ever seen. He had probably been a fine physical specimen as a youth and could still probably snap my neck with one hand but time had taken its toll and he had probably not seen his feet or penis for several years.

I slipped out of my dress and did a twirl.

"You have a fine body, my dear," he observed. "I like tall athletic women. What is your sport?"

"400 metres," I replied smoothly.

"Yes, of course. You are built perfectly for that. Have you run for your country?"

"No, not yet sir but I am getting faster."

I felt the strong need not to give too much away.

"You may undress Katya, now."

The woman was tall and skinny. Probably a model or at least a former one. She wore thick makeup and seemed only a few years older than me. Her face was almost devoid of expression; Botox, drugs or both I thought. She had pin-point pupils which went with the injection marks on both arms. More alarmingly, however was the wedding ring on her right ring finger.

Whose wife was she, I wondered. I was certainly not going to ask.

I unzipped Katya's silver mini-dress. She also wore nothing underneath. Her ribs were clearly visible and she had bruises on them and both upper thighs. Her breast implants looked strange on her girlish body. She stepped out of the pool of fabric at her feet and suddenly grabbed me with ice cold hands.

I yelped but any protestation was stifled as she locked her mouth to mine and thrust her uncomfortably long tongue into my mouth. I was taken by surprise but quickly relaxed and let her play with my tonsils. I pushed my body into hers and returned the kiss only more gently. Her mouth tasted of stale tobacco. I correctly guessed that Dima wanted a bit of a lesbian warm up. Katya's body was as cold as her hands and probably as her life.

"My Katya also like tall athletic women, as you see. In fact, she chose you, not me."

I did not believe that for a moment.

Katya broke the kiss and gave me a sweet smile that might have melted my heart in different circumstances. She indicated to me that I should remove my shoes. That was a relief; bastard things. She led me over to the bed and pointed at the reclining Dima's penis, whilst she climbed over him and began kissing him. Knowing my place, I duly went down on him. My nose was soon buried in a forest of wiry fluff and I struggled not to sneeze. Still as a true professional I carried on fellating.

After a while I was ordered to disengage and go down on Katya. Her pussy was dry and cold and smelt like she had died. I somewhat doubted that she was as into girls as Dima claimed. I was prepared, however to rise to the challenge and set about my task with tongue and fingers which duly turned on the cunt sap tap. I had tucked my knees under my belly and stuck my arse in the air as this was generally a popular sight. I was not surprised to be taken roughly from behind but I was still a little dry and it hurt. My pussy is a small target and the bear missed twice, bruising my perineum. Then he was in and I gripped his manhood as I had been trained to do as he pounded me.

The couple then started talking to each other, presumably in Russian. It was certainly not the language of love and I suspected they were talking about me. I was glad not to be able to understand. My head was yanked back as Papa Bear pulled hard on my hair. I resisted which make my back muscles stand out. Then Mama Bear grabbed a chunk and pulled my back to her twat. This went on for a bit and she started humping my face and calling out. They seemed to come at about the same time. I was crushed into the Mattress by his considerable weight and she stroked my hair rather tenderly and said thank you several times; the only word of Russian I know.

Finally, I was released and he went to the window and leaned his head out to have a smoke. Katya kissed me gently and then shaking slightly took herself off to the bathroom carrying her enormous handbag.

I felt a bit of a spare part and moved myself away from the wet patch.

Fortunately, there was a tap on the door, which opened an inch and a deep male voice said.

"You are needed downstairs, Miss Chloe."

Funny. That was where I had just been. Gaily, I got dressed and announced my departure.

Downstairs was teeming with female flesh. There was no time for a shower, so I had to make do with the Mexican variety using some baby wipes. At least I felt marginally less sticky. I hung my dress on a hanger and placed my shoes underneath. Then I put on a short black silk kimono and proceeded out into the lobby to join the queue of barefoot scantily covered tarts. We stood still in perfect silence, both the short and long legged.

Guests began appearing and passed outside to congregate in the porte cochere. The waiting staff brought out trays of champagne. None of it was for us however. The ancient grandfather clock began to chime midnight and fireworks were released from the roof. The doors were flung open and the procession of whores slowly and silently walked into the night. As the most junior I was last. I was handed a small square of black glass on which were two lines of white powder. In front of me were two rows of limousines. All were dark and their engines were off but ticked gently as they cooled. The temperature had dropped considerably and the air was clear and crisp. The kimono made little impact and goose bumps rose on my arms and legs whilst my nipples tried to escape and run back inside.

I was directed to follow a doorman who was dressed in a long, very thick coat (lucky sod) and a top hat. The gravel was freezing and bit into my soles but I maintained my composure although I did her the odd muttered curse from further up the line. Finally, I reached the last limo and turned to face the passenger door. I handed my tray to the footman and removed my kimono, draping it over his arm. The tray was handed back to me and I remained stood at attention, starting to shiver. Being naked was actually no colder that being inadequately dressed.

The fireworks stopped and a whistle blew. The doorman opened the door and the interior light came on. Careful to keep the tray level, I climbed into the thankfully warm car. I handed the tray to the driver and lowered my head onto his waiting penis. I descended no deeper than his cock head however and kept perfectly still as he balanced the tray on my head. When he was done the tray was passed back to the doorman and I was given a little tap on the bum which meant I had to tuck my knees in tight and get my arse higher so the door could be shut.

The light went out and I set about giving the chauffeur his New Year bonus whilst he stroked my upper body and moaned. He put on some classical music and I rather wished that the doorman would open the door and spit roast me. After a while I heard car doors opening and shutting and duly my charge fired a huge amount of spunk into my mouth, which I struggled to keep in. He managed a couple of aftershocks which I licked clean. I let his member come out of my mouth with a little pop and a kiss to its blind eye.

The chauffeur lowered the passenger window, the door was opened behind me and I reversed out into the freezing January air. I was again at the back of a queue of now stark-naked women and we marched quickly back into the lobby with the doormen following behind. The guests had formed a guard of honour and alternated between clapping vigorously and patting our icy bottoms. I followed the line into the kitchen.

Each girl was handed a shot glass of the tipple of her choice by Edward, the maître d'hôtel. There was no need for stage names here. He remembered each girl's choice. I was handed a glass of pear schnapps which I downed in one; the instant fire making me splutter.

"Well done, Miss Catherine," Edward declared in his deep baritone. "Happy New Year."

Before I could reply the door was shut behind me and I was pulled into a naked huddle in the middle of the large room. Extra heaters had been brought in and it was baking. By sheer luck I was pushed against Alex's cold back whilst a pair of cold tits pressed into mine. We were all shivering and shuffled forward like emperor penguins so that I gradually moved to the centre of the group and then out again. It took a mere ten minutes and lots of rubbing to get circulation returned.

The huddle broke up and on the trestle table the chefs had place piping hot sweat shirts, mugs of tea and bacon sarnies. It was a long table and we all fitted on the benches either side which were smoothly polished, so avoiding splinters. Alex and Dani had reserved me a space and I slid my thin hips between their more ample pelvises.

Much gossip ensued but we were not allowed too much rest as the midnight parade tended to get the guests randy again. The maids brought our dresses and shoes to us and soon I was back in the ballroom, revived and ready for the final round.

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