Whore 94 Ch. 04

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She dances like a whore.
4.3k words
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Part 4 of the 11 part series

Updated 10/31/2022
Created 08/04/2004
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fronker
fronker
444 Followers

Ch.04: The First Performance

I knocked politely at the door to the CEO's private office.

No answer.

The murmur of male voices in conversation within.

I was naked but for a skimpy pair of pink silk panties and matching pink Italian leather glamour sandals with spiked heels. They had been left on my desk earlier that day, boxed and wrapped. The attached note had said simply 'CEO's office, 2 pm'.

I knocked again, more firmly.

The height of the heels forced my bottom out as I straightened my legs. My breasts had never felt so bare, so exposed. They jutted out neatly, the nipples pert, shiny.

I gulped.

It was really happening. How surreal: I was just about to give my first performance for the CEO - the man who had raped and humiliated me. I hadn't seen him at all since then. How was I going to react to seeing him again? Was I really going to present my naked breasts to him and entertain him with my dancing?

I desperately wanted to be called in so that I could get on with the dance. Imagine being caught standing there like that in the corridor: The senior PA stripped to her panties, knocking dutifully at the CEO's door.

The rumble of conversation persisted beyond the door. Who else was in there? Why didn't they let me in? Should I just go ahead and enter?

"Come." The CEO's authoritative voice finally called out.

I pushed the door open hesitantly and peeked into the lavishly furnished office. Instantly I felt three pairs of eyes on my breasts: The CEO and two other men I hadn't seen before. They looked rich in their shiny suits; probably guests from a city bank or something. I felt their gaze move to my pink knickers, lingering a while there. Then to my heels. One of the men smiled and nodded appreciatively.

"Yes?" The CEO peered at me over his glasses.

I had been instructed to expect this. Apparently, the CEO liked to impress his guests by pretending to be surprised at interruptions to his meetings.

"Hello sir," I responded as I had been told to. "I was wondering if you would permit me to dance for you sir?"

The only other prior instruction I had been given me was that I should then start to dance. Even as I closed the door behind me, I had started to sway my hips. I stepped cautiously into the room, placed my hands on my hips, and started to wriggle my body, just as I had seen the whores at 'The Scrava' do.

The CEO reclined back in his high-backed chair and lifted his feet onto the desk. One of the guests leaned back against a wall. The other man remained seated in a comfortable looking armchair across the office. They were positioned such that as I turned and wriggled my body for them, no part of it was hidden from their gaze.

I was on display. The CEO had spanked me into this. He had fucked me into this. And there I was, gratefully dancing for him. I must have seemed so willing, so eager to be wriggling my breasts for them, so grateful to have the opportunity to prance around in those pink Italian heels and display myself to him...

After a few minutes they seemed to get used to me being there, since they appeared to get back to business. They discussed loudly and proudly how wonderful the South of France was at that time of year - a good time for property apparently, and how they really must sell that old yacht and get a newer model...

Meanwhile, I danced. I wriggled, paraded back and forth, turned, twisted, pouted, ran my fingers through my hair, leaned forwards to show off the curves of my bum.

The meeting dragged on and on. At least an hour by now. They discussed numbers and percentages... Honestly, to this day I have no idea what it all meant. I just kept going, doing what was required of me.

When I heard a knock on the door, I tried not to let it distract me. I turned and kept wriggling my rear, vaguely aware of someone entering the room behind me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the CEO's many bleached-blonde secretaries place a pile of papers on his desk. She wore the usual micro-length skirt and heels. I had seen her around – I think we had even greeted each other once or twice. I had never been sure if I out-ranked her (I was the Senior PA to the CTO, she was one of the many secretaries to the CEO). I knew now. She clearly out-ranked me – It was I who was dancing topless in her presence, wriggling my bottom for her.

She was so young though - not yet twenty! How could someone so young possibly be allowed to see me dancing topless like that?

"Stay and take notes, Nicola," the CEO invited her.

She sat in a vacant chair, clicked her pen and busied herself scribbling on a pad of paper.

I kept dancing. I brushed my fingers down the sides of my breasts, my hips, my thighs, my bottom. I was too embarrassed to look at her, but I felt her eyes on me. How could this girl - at least five years younger than me - be considered senior to me!? It didn't make sense. She should be the one performing, shouldn't she?

Nicola sat silently while the men talked. I dared a quick glance over at her once or twice. She was staring right at me, clearly enjoying the spectacle of my naked torso writhing for her entertainment.

"Elizabeth," the CEO said eventually, after what could only have been two hours of continuous dancing. Why hadn't I thought of asking how long each session would last? My legs ached terribly - those ridiculous heels were difficult enough to walk in, let alone dance in.

"Yes sir," I answered promptly, not daring to stop dancing however much it hurt.

"I want you do dance for Nicola until we get back."

He stood up and his two guests followed him out of the room. They left Nicola the bleached-blond secretary behind. They left me dancing for her.

I didn't want to continue - I felt utterly humiliated. But I had signed a deal. I had accepted this. I had agreed to dance for my superiors – and evidently Nicola was my superior, whether I liked it or not. I had to dance for her: It was my job.

She put down her pencil and notepad and smiled at me strangely. She lent back in her chair, put her feet up on the arms of the sofa next to her, crossed her ankles, showing me most of her thighs.

She giggled. God – she was so young! And there I was, dancing topless for her in a pair of skimpy pink panties.

Suddenly she snapped her fingers.

"Come on! Dance!" she demanded. "Put some enthusiasm into it!"

It is true that I had been dancing more lethargically. While that was partly due to exhaustion, it was mostly due to the fact that I was having trouble reconciling what was happening to me.

I wanted to refuse. But I didn't, couldn't.

I wanted my dignity back, but I suppose I was too afraid to stop - or at least too afraid of the consequences of stopping. That would mean breaking the agreement, wouldn't it? And if I broke the agreement... What would happen then? I would have put myself through this humiliation for nothing... And in a way, that would be even more humiliating. Humiliating yourself for material gain is one thing, but humiliating yourself for nothing – that was just foolish, wasn't it?

If I stopped now I would have been raped for nothing. I had even signed it off! The humiliation would be tenfold. They would laugh about the girl who danced topless for one of the CEO's secretaries - for nothing, who bent over and allowed herself to be fucked from behind by the CEO in the lift - for nothing, and who showed her appreciation by sucking her own arse-juice off the CEO's thumb - for nothing.

I gritted my teeth and slowly increased the movement in my tired hips and legs.

"Turn around," Nicola said firmly. "I want to see your bum wriggling for me. And come closer."

I obeyed each instruction, hiding my reluctance as best I could.

"More." she barked, "Move your butt more."

Again, I obeyed her request.

"Bend over more, and wriggle that bottom for me as fast as you can," she ordered.

I had to endure it – let her have her fun. I was a dancer. I would dance for her, but no more. I was sure of that.

I bent over as far I could without toppling over and wriggled my bottom furiously for her.

"Good," she said. "You're starting to get the idea."

She had me shake my bum for her for what seemed an eternity. She was playing with me. I was her plaything. Her doll. My eyes started to swell with water. I wanted to stop wiggling my bottom for her, but the doubts persisted.

"Stop," she ordered finally.

I stopped gratefully and stood upright, facing away from her.

"That was nice," she congratulated me. "I love to see my girls wriggling their arses for me. Now... let's give your feet a rest - you can kneel for me and wriggle your hips from there." She pointed to the carpet at her feet.

I couldn't kneel for her, could I? That would be so... well, submissive, wouldn't it? I was worth more than that, wasn't I?

I knelt at her feet and I looked at her ankles. God - She was so young. I started to cry.

"Well?" she said expectantly.

I swallowed, and began to rock my shoulders for her, making my breasts rise and fall for her entertainment.

"Put your hands on your hips," she commanded.

I obeyed. It was futile questioning her authority. I just wanted it all to be over, to end.

I wriggled my bottom, hands on hips, my breasts protruding out towards her sexily, submissively.

"Smile," she instructed.

No doubt she had seen my tears. I was a mess.

I smiled obediently. I had to force it - a horrible fake smile – which I held through gritted teeth.

"You see - you're enjoying yourself," she said smugly. "You're enjoying kneeling for me and displaying your breasts for me aren't you?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

"Aren't you?" she insisted.

I nodded, still forcing the smile.

"Don't slow down," she barked.

I sped up my swaying.

"Look," she said harshly, "I want you to say 'Yes miss' when I ask you a question. Is that understood?"

That was going too far surely? I couldn't start calling her 'Miss' could I? She was just an office junior! But if I refused, she would have me on my feet again – and how long would that go on? I couldn't do that anymore: My feet were hurting too much.

"Yes miss," I heard myself say.

It was too late anyway now. I was already kneeling at her feet, wriggling my breasts and hips for her. What difference did calling her 'Miss' make?

"Let's try again," Nicola said, smiling horribly now. "You're enjoying kneeling before me and doing as I tell you aren't you?"

"Yes miss," I replied shyly through the forced smile.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yes miss" I repeated more firmly.

"Now I want you to thank me for letting you rest your legs," she barked.

"Thank you for letting me rest my legs, miss" I mumbled, still wriggling for her, still smiling, still crying.

"No," she said sharply. "I want you to thank me for letting you kneel."

It was becoming absurd. She was really twisted.

"Thank you for letting me kneel," I said resignedly.

"Good," she said. "Good girl. Good little slut."

A slut? No-one had ever called me a slut before. I wasn't going to stand for that - no way! I was no slut! That was intolerable.

So why didn't I do something? Why didn't I say something? Why was I still wriggling my breasts for her?

"Don't slow down," she barked before I could get my head together. "In fact - get up again, I'm tired of having your slutty little face so close to my knees."

Oh God. She wanted me back on my heels again. I couldn't. I would refuse. I had to refuse. Why didn't I refuse?

I rose to my feet obediently and resumed dancing for her. She was tormenting me, enjoying treating me like a slut.

"Knickers down." She barked suddenly.

I was stunned. I dithered, almost stopped dancing altogether.

"KNICKERS DOWN. NOW!" she shrieked.

I would dress as my superiors required. I had signed up to it. I pulled the skimpy pink silk panties down to my knees, and then, turning to face her, I wriggled my pussy for her pleasure.

"All the way down to your ankles," Nicola insisted, pointing at my knickers.

I leaned forwards and pushed them down to my ankles, somehow managing to keep dancing as I did so.

"That's nice, slut." she said. "Wriggle that pussy for me. I want to see that pussy wriggle."

I obeyed. I bent my head back, arching my back, jutting my breasts out even further, the nipples shamefully erect. I shook my hips frenetically for her, offering her my pussy.

"I want to see your arsehole now," she demanded.

Without hesitating, I turned away from her, panties still wrapped around my ankles, and leaned forwards. I was acting without her explicit instruction – degrading myself almost voluntarily.

"Spread those cheeks, whore", she growled.

She had called me a 'whore'! Sadly, it felt strangely appropriate. I was a whore, wasn't I? I had agreed to take of my clothes and gyrate naked for my superiors in return for money, status... That was the lot of a whore, wasn't it?

I spread my legs apart, prised open my bum-cheeks with my fingers and wriggled my arsehole for her.

"More." She barked.

I pulled my cheeks further apart, displaying my anal passage to her.

"You're not wriggling fast enough, bitch" she said harshly.

I wriggled my arsehole furiously for her. I was worthless, bent over before her, knickers around my ankles, spreading my buttocks open with my fingers. Time seemed to get stuck, the humiliation was unending.

"Next time, slut," she said, "I don't expect to have to remind you how to dance for me."

Next time? There would be a next time? My heart sank.

I was still wriggling my arsehole for her. When would she let me stop?

"In future," she went on, "when I clap my hands together, you will pull your panties down, turn around, bend over, spread your legs, and wriggle your arsehole for me, just as you are now. Understood slut?"

I squealed a small "Yes miss".

"And when I clap my hands together while you are in that position, you will pull your panties up tightly around your crotch, curtsey for me, and then kneel at my feet. Is that understood?"

I nodded, mumbled another small "yes miss".

"Let's try that now," she said, and clapped her hands together sharply.

I released my buttocks, reached down and scooped up my panties from my ankles. I drew them up quickly to my knees, then up around my hips. I pulled them tightly up the crack of my bum, just as she had instructed. How shamefully obedient I was. The tears flooded down my cheeks as I turned towards her and curtsied politely.

What a tragedy: I had just curtsied to one of the CEO's bleached-blonde secretaries. We all used to laugh about them strutting about like tarts in their micro-skirts and high heels.

I knelt at her feet (actually glad to take the weight off my ankles) and gazed resignedly at the delicate straps of her heeled sandals.

"You've stopped wriggling," she said. "I didn't tell you to stop."

Immediately I resumed writhing for her.

"Hands on your hips, whore." She ordered.

I obeyed, numb.

"That is the position you must adopt. Don't forget it. And don't stop wriggling next time. You are a dancer – so keep dancing. If you want to smile, you can."

I didn't dare refuse. I forced a smile, desperately trying to look happy about wiggling my naked body for her while kneeling at her feet and gazing at her ankles.

A few hours ago I had been preparing to dance topless for the CEO. The very thought of that had been appalling enough. But there I was instead, panties pulled up high over my hips, kneeling before one of his secretaries; alert to the clap of her hands so that I could stand, pull my knickers down to my ankles, bend over, spread my legs, open my arse and wriggle it for her.

Why did I keep obeying her? I was worth more than that, surely?

"Good," Nicola congratulated me. "Very good. You're a good girl Elizabeth."

Curiously I felt glad that I was, in fact, a good girl.

"I'm going to tell the CEO you refused to dance for me," she said suddenly.

What? What!? She couldn't do that – could she?! I had obeyed her every instruction. I had danced well for her – hadn't I? Wasn't I still dancing well for her?

"Unless..." she added slowly, "you sit that delicious arsehole of yours down on my middle finger and show me what an obedient slut you are."

Oh my God! Sit on her middle finger! - That wasn't in the agreement, was it? They had said no touching, hadn't they? I couldn't humiliate myself like that.

"I..." I stammered. "I'd rather, I mean, I'd prefer not to, please, miss"

"Well, it's up to you," she said coldly.

There was a deafening silence. I was still wriggling my arsehole for her. She would tell the CEO I had refused to dance! Oh shit - that would mean... Well that would mean the end of everything I had been struggling so hard to build up. Oh God.

"I was asked to dance, miss", I sniveled. "Not to do all... that."

"Life's a bitch," she said sharply. "Sit on my finger and I'll tell the CEO you danced wonderfully for me. I just want to see you wriggle your butt on my finger, that's all."

I stopped swaying my breasts for her. In an instant I knew I was walking out right there and then. That was it. The end. Finito. I had had enough.

I stood up, turned away from her.

I took a step forwards. I was out of there. I was gone.

So why did I took a step backwards? And why did I lower my bottom towards her extended middle finger?

I felt her long finger nail wrap its way around my pulled-up panties. I felt my arsehole resist as she toyed with its puckered entrance. And then she was inside me. She slid her middle finger straight up my butt.

I stood there, knees bent, offering her my bum, quivering, in tears. I slid my arse up and down her finger. I remembered the CEO in the lift, how I had slid up and down and wriggled on his thumb. It was happening again. I was allowing my arse to be raped. Where was my dignity? Where was my pride?

"That is delicious, slut" Nicola congratulated me. "You're going to make a wonderful whore."

I was going to make a wonderful whore? What did she mean by that? I was Senior PA to the CTO! I was no whore. But as I slid my arse up and down her finger I had to admit, I was pretty close to being a whore. I wasn't exactly resisting was I? Why didn't I resist?

"Dance," she ordered.

I danced on her finger. I wriggled and writhed while her finger probed my passage.

"Delicious," she congratulated me. "Screw yourself on my finger."

I fucked my arse compliantly on her digit.

"Are you going to dance on my finger next time, slut?" she asked.

"Yes miss," I panted.

"You will beg me for my finger next time, won't you slut?"

"Yes miss," I answered, not really caring what I was agreeing to.

She pulled her finger from my arse. God. How shameful that I yearned for it to be put back there. I had started to enjoy it, hadn't I?

"On your knees," she commanded.

I knelt at her feet obediently. My arsehole glowed, throbbed.

"Good girl," she said. "While you're down there, give my feet a quick massage."

I looked up at her quizzically.

"A massage! Take off my heels and give my feet a massage!" she demanded.

I undid the delicate straps of her high-heeled sandals and then, tenderly, I started to rub her feet with my fingers, kneading them in my palms. She sighed with pleasure.

"Use your breasts," she ordered.

I peered up at her questioningly again.

"Massage my feet with your breasts, you stupid slut!" she barked.

I leaned forwards until the tip of my one of my nipples was brushing against the top of one of her feet. Is this what she wanted? She gasped and I saw that it was. I pressed the breast into her foot, rubbed them together, making a swirling motion with my chest, almost prostrate before her. When she lifted her ankle, I caressed the sole of her foot with my nipples. She moaned with pleasure.

fronker
fronker
444 Followers
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