Whore 94 Ch. 06

“No-one outside ‘The Scrava’ need ever know about it,” he went on. “It will be your little secret. Doesn’t that excite you, Elizabeth? Isn’t that erotic? Sexy? Naughty? - like going out not wearing panties under your skirt. And just imagine your maid on her knees lapping at it with her whore-tongue! Imagine her worshipping it, begging to kiss it, wanting nothing more in this world than to kiss your bottom and run her tongue over your number…”

Mmm… I couldn’t help picturing my new whore-maid on her knees doing exactly that….

…Mmmmm …Yes. I could imagine that. Oh yes.

Was he right? Was it just a harmless tattoo? A bit of fun? A sexy secret?

“Only the most gorgeous, most privileged, most beautiful, sexy, wonderful girls are invited to register here, Elizabeth. Think of it as an acknowledgement of how special you are. Your reward, if you like, for being so incredibly desirable…”

Why not? Why not accept the tattoo? What harm could it do?

“Keep that bottom up, whore,” the manager demanded.

“Sorry sir,” I squealed.

Why was I apologising? Why did I call him ‘Sir’?

CLICK.

Could I wear their tattoo? I could get rid of it when I stopped being a whore, couldn’t I? I would stop being a whore one day, wouldn’t I?

I felt the doctor’s needle scrape into my left buttock.

…don’t do it…

He was carving my number into me.

…stop him... don’t let him…

I was being numbered. Ninety-four. Whore number ninety-four.

…stop him…

CLICK, CLICK.

…don’t let him do it…

CLICK.

Welcome to my new life.

CLICK.

The life of a whore.

CLICK, CLICK.

Approved. Numbered. Registered. Catalogued. Owned.

CLICK.

“It’s done,” the doctor said finally.

Over so soon. He had worked quickly. Experienced. An experienced registrar of whores.

“Hold open that pussy one more time, whore,” the manager commanded.

I obeyed. I prised open my whore-pussy with my fingertips and displayed it to them again.

CLICK. CLICK.

Photos of a newly registered whore. For the catalogue. For the catalogue?

CLICK.

“Thank you for co-operating, Elizabeth,” the CEO said, “A pity I didn’t need this.”

I felt something cold and firm brush across my buttocks. Then I felt whatever it was come to rest upon my whore-number.

It was a cane. He was stroking my buttocks with a cane.

What did he mean it was a pity he hadn’t needed it?

He ran the tip of the cane across my gaping pussy while I held myself open for him.

God. What a slut I was. What a filthy slut.

I hated myself. I loathed myself. I was doing this for money. How cheap.

Maybe I deserved to feel his cane?

“You are now Whore94,” he said.

Yes. He was right. I was.

Oh God. What had I done?

“Whore94,” he repeated, enjoying the sound of it on his lips.

WHOOOOSH SPANK.

What!? No. No. This couldn’t be happening. Not to me. No. Oh God.

He had just cane-spanked my bare arse!

“Bottom up,” he commanded as I shrank away from him, “I haven’t finished yet.”

I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to raise my bottom up so he could spank me.

“I am paying you to be my whore,” he said, “I wish to spank my whore. Is my whore going to let me spank her or not?”

No, she wasn’t going to let him. No way.

WHOOOSH SPANK.

I opened my mouth to protest, but no words came out.

“Bottom up Elizabeth,” he insisted. “Stick that bottom up and out.”

WHOOOSH SPANK.

Shit. Oh shit. Please no. No. Please.

He wasn’t allowed to spank me was he?

CLICK.

Why didn’t I move?

WHOOSH SPANK.

Why didn’t I get off that work-bench?

CLICK.

I was holding my pussy open for them, wasn’t I? Why was he spanking me!

WHOOOOOOOOOOOSH SPANK.

Ow. Ow. That stung. That seriously hurt. I cried out. I know I cried out.

“I want that bottom UP,” he demanded.

“And keep that pussy open, whore,” the manager ordered.

I had been well-behaved, hadn’t I? Why were they doing this to me?

WHOOOOOOSH SPANK.

No! Stop! I didn’t want to be spanked. I didn’t want to be a whore anymore! It had all been a mistake. Please stop.

CLICK. CLICK.

“Good girl,” the CEO congratulated me. “You’re one of the best we’ve had. Keep that bottom up.”

WHOOOOOSH SPANK.

WHOOOOSH SPANK.

Ow. Please Stop. Please stop spanking me.

CLICK.

CLICK, CLICK.

He tapped my buttocks with the end of the cane. They felt raw. My rape-master was beating me. I was his piece of shit whore and he was beating me like a dog. Oh God. This couldn’t be happening, could it?

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH SPANK.

I yelped in agony as the blow bit viciously close to my open pussy lips.

“I think that’s enough,” he announced, testing my bum-flesh with prods from the end of his cane. “Next time Elizabeth, if you want to be spanked, just ask.”

What!? What was that supposed to mean? I hadn’t wanted to be spanked, had I?

He prodded me off the work-bench and I fell into a quivering heap on the floor.

“Crawl over to the kind doctor and thank him for numbering you,” the CEO commanded.

Oh God. I knew what that meant. I knew, but there was nothing I could do to stop it now.

My newly registered bottom wriggled shamelessly as I crawled over to the dcotor’s feet. There, as I tilted back my chin to look up at him and express my gratitude, I took his cock straight into my face. One naked whore slut on her knees thanking her tattoo-master for registering her.

I panted on the end of his penis and flicked my tongue frantically at his shaft. Occasionally I dared to look up at him. He was enjoying the new whore.

He grabbed one of my breasts and squeezed it firmly. He released it and slapped it. He tugged at my nipple, turned it expertly in his fingers.

He placed his dripping cock between my breasts and bade me massage it there with my tits. I pressed my palms to the outside of my bust and rubbed them obediently into his shaft. The tip of his penis thrust and stabbed me at my throat. My nipples were extraordinarily hard, hot, swollen.

What a disgrace. But it felt so good to hold his throbbing penis between my whore-breasts.

No! No. It wasn’t like that. Couldn’t have been.

CLICK.

And they were documenting it. Taking pictures of their new whore. This was more than consent, wasn’t it?

The doctor shot his semen under my chin and spilled it over my tits. I clenched his penis tightly while he rode his orgasm. His thrusts eased until finally he grunted, satisfied, spent.

I pouted as I massaged his cock between my nipples. And I panted. My pussy was on fire. I was a filthy cunt-whore, wasn’t I? This was what I had always wanted, wasn’t it? To serve cock. To worship it. To have it inside me.

I released the tattoo-master’s cock and let his semen dribble down my chest. I stood and curtsied, sticking out my breasts so that he could better admire his orgasm dripping from my pert nipples.

CLICK, CLICK.

I turned, wriggled my 94 for him, faced him again, curtsied again.

Why? Why did I do all that? No-one had forced me to do it. No-one had even asked me.

CLICK.

I must thank the fuck-master. My photographer. My manager.

I crawled to him and sunk my lips into his shoes. I ran my tongue along them. I could see my whore-face in them.

He pulled me up by my hair and dragged me over to the work-bench. He bent me over it and stuck his cock straight up my sopping pussy from behind.

At last. At last. That was what I wanted. A good fucking. Yes. Fuck me.

“Wriggle on it, bitch,” he demanded. “Fuck yourself on my cock.”

I wriggled obediently, while he tugged on my hair, forcing my neck back. I pulled him into me, eased him out, drew him back in again. He was so hard, so stiff, so warm. So powerful. My fuck-master.

“Faster,” he shouted. “Faster.”

I wriggled more frantically. His cock felt enormous inside me.

He fucked me hard. He banged me. No more gentle love-making for this whore. I would be banged from now on. Used. Screwed like a bitch. Spanked. Spat on. Caned.

He thrust in and out and in and out and in and out.

BANG BANG BANG.

He fucked me good. He fucked his new whore proper.

He was my manager. He knew how to manage this whore.

SLAP SLAP

He slapped my arse. He slapped my 94. It felt good. It felt awful. It felt wonderful. It felt horrible. I was a bitch whore slut cunt meat dog wasn’t I?

“Drink it, bitch” my fuck-master barked at me, yanking my hair viciously, forcing me to cry out.

I turned, fell to my knees, opened my mouth wide for him, stuck my tongue out, waggled it greedily. I waited for him to shoot his jizzum down my throat.

When he came, I swallowed. I scooped his sperm from my face and rubbed it into my breasts, mixing it with that of the doctor. He held my chin firmly throughout, forcing me to look up at him.

“Good fucking whore you found here,” he wheezed.

The CEO didn’t respond.

I pouted up at my fuck-master submissively.

“Thank you sir,” I said as he released my chin.

Then I stood and curtsied. My new fuck-master. My new manager.

God. Why was I behaving so disgracefully? They had forced their whore-tattoo on me and now I was thanking them for it! It was far worse than the rape, wasn’t it? At least the rape would go away. The tattoo would never go away. It would be like wearing a licence to be raped. Forever.

My breasts were covered in semen. I was a cum-wench. A gizzum-doll.

Now the CEO would fuck me, wouldn’t he? I crawled over to him and knelt before him. I looked up at him. My rape-master.

Why had I let him beat me?

I stared at his shoes. He owned me now, didn’t he?

“Kiss the cane, Elizabeth” he said.

I kissed it. He had raped me and I had thanked him for it. Now he had beaten me and I was thanking him for that too.

“You’re dirty,” he said. “I’m not going to fuck a dirty whore.”

Why not? Why wouldn’t he fuck me?

I was on fire. I wanted him inside me. Like last time.

“Get up,” he ordered. “It’s time to go.”

I stood and curtsied politely.

“Thank you sir,” I uttered feebly, and curtsied again.

As I trotted obediently behind them back along the maze of corridors that made up the underbelly of ‘The Scrava’ my breasts dripped with their semen and my buttocks raged from the caning.

I was numbered now.

What a disgrace.

And it was only just beginning.

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