Whore 94 Ch. 02

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.

"Bend over a bit for me", he instructed.

I obeyed without hesitation. Protests raced through my mind, but that simply paralysed my ability to think clearly. Was he allowed to get me to dance for him? Is this what I could expect to have to do if I wanted to continue to enjoy the special privileges? It could be worse - I tried to convince myself - it was just a harmless little dance wasn’t it? Wasn't it? Why then did it feel so surreal?

I leaned forwards, sticking my bottom further out towards him, and began to rotate my hips a little more playfully. He didn't say anything. Did he want me to continue? I leaned forwards even more. I had to bend my knees - not like the girls at 'The Scrava': They could bend right over and touch their feet and continue to wriggle their bottoms, keeping their legs perfectly straight throughout. My back was just about horizontal now, my hair falling over my face. I was only too aware that my skirt had risen provocatively up the back of my thighs... I was displaying myself to him, presenting myself to him. Oh God. When will he let me stop?

"That's very good Elizabeth," he said. "You dance well. You should have been a dancer."

I hated myself for doing so, but as I continued to twist my hips I heard myself thanking him. And I called him 'Sir' again.

When I felt his hand on my bottom I almost leapt with fright. It had been just a brief, smooth caress through the material of my skirt, following the curve of my left bum-cheek. The touch had lingered too long to be anything but deliberate, yet it had been fleeting enough to leave me with no call to confront him. Too brief to mention. For one heart-stopping instance I had wriggled my bottom in the palm of his hand. I gritted my teeth. I wanted to stop, I wanted him to disappear.

I kept swaying for him, consciously straightening to a vertical position, praying that he would not touch me again. If he did, what then? Would I challenge him? I would have to, wouldn't I? And why weren't the lift doors opening?

"Elizabeth," he said abruptly, stiffly. "You're an ambitious girl, aren't you?"

I eased the rocking of my shoulders, but kept moving for him.

"Yes sir, I think so anyway, Sir," I answered feebly.

"To get to the top," he went on, "you have to be prepared to lose everything. It's all about risk. Most people are risk adverse: They go to work. They do their jobs. They may even do them well. But they aren't going anywhere."

I had almost slowed my wriggling to a halt now. What the hell was he talking about?

"There is no successful person on this planet who has not had to take a risk to get to where they are today," he said. "Are you prepared to take risks Elizabeth? Do you have what it takes to be successful?"

I stopped dancing and turned around slowly to face him. As my eyes rose to meet his I felt overwhelmingly embarrassed.

"I, I don't know Sir," I stammered, blushing.

"Well I can tell you that you do," he said. "You took one just now. You could have refused to dance for me, but you took a chance. You are going to be successful, I know already."

I remember how the tone of his voice, so matter-of-fact, had vocalized and given credence to my innermost desire to be successful. I did want to succeed, I was sure of that. God! How it had all gone wrong.

"I don't know what to say," I said, genuinely at a loss.

"Later today I will be promoting you," he announced suddenly.

What? Promoted!? Hadn't I only recently been promoted to PA to the CTO!? Was he serious? Another promotion? My heart skipped a beat.

"Are you... serious...?" I stuttered.

"I like people who take risks," he said. "Especially when they are as attractive as you are Elizabeth." He smiled amiably.

Wow! Really, I mean - Wow! Another promotion! I beamed at him with a mix of astonishment and joy.

"But first, Elizabeth, I would like you to dance a bit more for me. I don't remember asking you to stop..." His eyebrows arched mischievously. How curious: For one passing moment (and it was the first and last time I can remember ever thinking it) he appeared vaguely attractive.

Desperately trying to conceal my delight, I immediately started swaying my hips for him again, maintaining eye contact until he signaled with a twist of his forefinger that I should turn around. I turned away from him, wriggling eagerly, happily. Another promotion! Wow!

Without needing to be prompted I leant forwards to show off the curves of my skirt-wrapped bottom. I wriggled it for him. I placed my hands on my hips and rotated my shoulders. I tapped my heels, as if I were moving in time to the easy breezy Jazz of 'The Scrava'...

All of a sudden I felt the fingers of his right hand wrap firmly around my neck. His grip quickly tightened; his thumb pressing into the side of my throat. Instinctively I thrashed to release myself from his grip, but he held me firmly, masterfully.

"Keep dancing," he commanded. "I just want to hold you for a bit."

I swallowed. The grip on my neck didn't hurt particularly, but it was extremely uncomfortable. It felt controlled, like he was restraining his true strength, holding himself back from crushing my neck. These thoughts flooded through my mind, causing me to panic.

"Ow. Agh! Please... Sir," I choked,” - Don't hurt me."

He snorted a laugh through his nostrils. "I'm not hurting you am I? Just dance a bit more for me. That's all I want."

This wasn't legal, surely!? Of course it wasn't. I could sue him. You can't treat your employees like this! It was a disgrace. But hang on - was I allowing him do this to me? Or was I being forced? Is there even a difference? I had, after all, started dancing for him of my own volition. I hadn't asked him to half strangle me though, had I? But then... was I actually resisting? It saddens be greatly to admit that I did not resist, I don't know why. I don't know why I let him to hold me like that... And I don't know why I kept wriggling my bottom for him... Rotating my hips...

I felt his legs rubbing up against the back of my thighs as he drew closer to me - to steady his grip, perhaps.

"Lunch at 'The Scrava' today," he whispered suddenly, his warm breath close to my ear. Too close. "And the promotion, of course."

I understood well. I had to take risks to get to the top. If I stopped, I would lose everything. The promotion. The visits to 'The Scrava'. Probably my job too. The end of any ambition I may have harboured.

I continued to writhe for him, prisoner to the grip he held around my neck. Was it my imagination, or was he slowly increasing the pressure? I tried to dismiss it from my mind - tried to concentrate on wriggling my bottom correctly for him, tapping the plastic coated lift floor as I worked my heels. I felt like a puppet. Like a doll. A doll - that was it. I was his doll. He was playing with me.

His left hand suddenly clamped itself around my left buttock, his fingers digging into the hem of my skirt and pulling it upwards. He kept it there and I danced into it. I wriggled my bottom obediently in his palm.

He pushed my neck forwards, forcing me to bend further forwards; my bottom sinking deeper into his palm. His grip on my neck was unyielding. He caressed my bum-cheeks through the material of my skirt with his fingers. He kneaded me, molded my bottom.

Horrified, I wondered abruptly what I would do if he started touching me... Really touching me I mean. I would scream, I decided. I would have no choice. I couldn't let him touch me like that. Could I? That would be abuse. Wasn't it already abuse?

I felt his fingers inside my skirt, stroking the outline my panties around the crack of my arse, causing my bottom to quiver shamefully at his touch.

"Good girl," he breathed heavily.

He toyed with the flesh of my bottom as I wriggled in his hands. I hated myself - but what could I do? What should I do? I should have demanded that he stopped, of course. I could have done that. I may have lost my job, but so what? I could have initiated legal proceedings. Nothing would have become of it, but at least I would have walked away with a modicum of dignity. What dignity!? Who was I kidding? Dignity had long been thrown out: I had started dancing for him voluntarily after all!

A finger crept inside my panties and expertly located my exposed pussy lips. I shuddered with horror. It was real, it was happening. His grip tightened around my neck.

"Keep wriggling," he ordered.

Sadly, I submitted to his will. I am sure I wanted to resist, but I didn't. Instead I wriggled pathetically onto his finger, pulling him into my pussy, shamefully moist, almost inviting him in. I didn't scream. I didn't protest. I writhed on him, slid myself up and down his finger, clenched it with my cunt. He poked it deeper inside me.

When he let go of the grip on my neck, I found myself strangely wanting it back - not because I enjoyed being held like a cheap piece of meat, but because now, as I continued to wriggle and writhe on his finger, the sense that I was a willing participant in my own humiliation was heightened acutely. It felt like I was offering myself to him like a cheap slut.

He inserted a second finger inside me, causing me to moan audibly. My body quivered and shook and trembled. I rotated wider arcs with my hips, fucking myself worthlessly on his probing fingers.

He lifted my skirt right up over my arse, exposing the bare flesh, divided by the line of my flimsy knickers. He pulled my panties more tightly up my arse crack. How he must have enjoyed the sight of my bare buttocks as I wriggled frantically on his fingers.

SPANK.

Shit! He had slapped my bum! I felt it land viciously on my right buttock. I jolted, then immediately froze, stunned. I remained petrified, bent over before him, two of his fingers stuffed inside my pussy.

"Don't stop! I didn't tell you to stop!" He snarled, and whacked me again.

SPANK.

I couldn't believe I was being spanked! No-one had ever spanked me before. Not my parents. Not my teachers. I was a fully grown adult! How dare he spank me?

SPANK. SPANK SPANK SPANK.

It was starting to hurt. But he didn't seem to want to stop.

"Keep dancing!" He barked.

I forced myself to resume writhing on his fingers. Would he stop spanking me if I danced for him?

"Faster!" he ordered. SPANK SPANK.

I moved faster: I quickly learned that although he wouldn't stop spanking me, the faster I moved the less able he was to land a firm whack on my arse. To minimise the pain, I had to wriggle more quickly.

His thumb started pushing at my arsehole. The flesh of my buttocks was burning. I am deeply ashamed to admit that I wriggled obediently onto the tip of his thumb, encouraging it to enter my arsehole. His thumb slowly penetrated me. I eased onto it, moaning audibly, his fingers still deep inside my pussy. He had me in a pinch. The CEO held me in a pinch! And I was writhing on it. How many other girls had he held that? How many of his secretaries had wriggled onto his fingers? How many of his personal assistants had taken his thumb in their arseholes? How many whores?

SPANK.

I had forgotten about the spanking. Sliding onto his thumb had bought me a little respite.

Holding me between his thumb and fingers like that, he was now able to steer my butt more controllably into the path of each slap. I was utterly in his power. Five minutes ago I had been a respectable PA to the CTO, preparing to start a normal day's work in the office. Now I was a miserable, obedient, quivering slut to the CEO.

SPANK SPANK.

My arse was raw. My eyes welled up with tears. I was a slut. A dirty slut. And I was letting myself be finger-fucked like a wench, thumb-fucked like a whore.

He withdrew his fingers from my snatch, but left his thumb stuffed in my arse. I knew what was coming even before I felt the tip of his penis prodding at my swollen pussy lips. He pulled my panties aside. I slowed my dance expectantly.

"Open wide," he instructed.

I obeyed the command unquestioningly. Too late now. I was his fuck toy. I opened my legs for his cock.

The first thrust was cautious, speculative, exploratory. The second thrust was considerably more vigorous.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

He was inside me. He was fucking my pussy. He fucked me hard. Long, masterful strokes. How many of the other girls had he fucked? How many whores? I was sure I was just another one in a long line of obedient bitches. Just another meat-hole for him to stick his prick into. If only I had fully realised that - instead of deluding myself with the notion that I was special, that he had singled me out for my intelligence, my efficiency, my ambition.

I cried as he fucked me: Tears of shame. And pain. I struggled to balance on my heels as he thrust deeply inside me, but I managed to hold my bottom up receptively for him. At times it felt like he was supporting my entire weight with the thumb still buried in my arse. It seemed that the more obedient I was, the more I submitted my body to him, the less painful were his thrusts.

"Are you on the pill?" He asked suddenly, impatiently.

I sniffled out a feeble "Yes Sir."

"Correct answer," he said, and promptly shot his load inside me with a few final thrusts and a grim grunt of satisfaction. I felt the warmth of his semen shoot deep within me. He held onto my arsehole with his thumb for a while, breathing deeply, heavily.

Then he pulled his thumb out of my arse roughly - catching his nail on my rim - making me cry out.

"You can straighten your skirt," he said unsympathetically.

Gratefully I straightened, adjusted my knickers, pulled them out of my arse crack. I clenched my pussy lips together - determined not to let dribbles of his semen escape down my thighs. I arranged my skirt. Then I turned to face him. He had just finished forcing his penis back into his pants. His face beamed with pride.