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Ch.05: Saturday Visit to 'The Scrava'


It was a Saturday evening.

‘The Scrava’, that exclusive club for the privileged, exuded its usual magical ambience. Puffs of cigar smoke filtered the candlelit hues emanating from invisible alcoves. Silky Jazz sounds throbbed and hummed and snaked through the haze… and the dancing whore-girls… their bodies gyrating and swaying… Heavenly, divine, angelic little whore-sluts… giving themselves to us – yes, to us, the guests, their superiors in this world… their sole purpose to entertain, to give pleasure…

The CEO had invited me.

“Wear your most expensive heels,” he had said.

My first weekend visit. A real privilege. Or so I thought.

I dined off the back of Whore80. She danced for me, petted my feet with her lips. I drank champagne. Too much champagne, probably. She ate my pussy. Good little whore-slut.

The club was busier than during the week: More guests, more whores. Each whore numbered, owned. Eager to please little fuck-whores. I felt majestic. I was one of the privileged, wasn’t I?

I saw and recognised the club manager conferring with the CEO while the whores glided around them in their heels, swaying and turning and twisting and turning… enchanting, enticing me... hypnotizing me…

“Elizabeth,” The CEO said suddenly, snapping out of my trance. He had somehow managed to get right up close to me. How had he snuck up on my like that?

“The manager needs a favour,” he said quickly. “I have told him the answer is already ‘No’ – but I have at least allowed him to persuade me to ask you.”

I shot a glance over at where I had seen the manager a moment ago. He was still standing there, fidgeting anxiously.

I turned my attention back to the CEO and looked up at him blankly.

“Over there – ,“ he gestured vaguely across the club – “is Mr. Khani junior - the son of the man who owns this bar. He is an extremely powerful and influential man, mainly because of who his father is.”

I nodded even though I had never heard of the man.

“Apparently he’s just passing through, here for a few hours only,” the CEO went on. “He wants you to go over and dance for him.”

What!? Why on earth would he want me to dance for him!? He had the pick of the whores. They were gorgeous. They were available. He owned them! As the son of the owner of this club he practically owned these whores, didn’t he?

“Me!?” I said incredulously. “Why me?”

“As I say, I have already told him that the answer is ‘No’,” he said. “After all - you only dance for me, right? You’re my dancing girl.”

What!? I only dance for him? Where did he get that idea from?

“I don’t mind dancing for other people,” I retorted, watching him raise an eyebrow. “But – well - not here, surely? Not in public, I mean.”

He smiled confidently.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, “and that’s why I told the manager the answer was already ‘No’. I told him that you belonged to me and that was that.”

What!? Belonged to him? I didn’t belong to anyone! Especially not him. I did a job for him, that was all, wasn’t it? Did he really believe that I ‘belonged’ to him?

“The manager tried telling me how successful other girls have become after catching Mr. Khani’s eye,” he shrugged. “Actually he’s right about that - some of them are doing pretty well for themselves these days - but don’t worry, I assured him I paid you well and that you were happy dancing for me.”

The man had raped me. I had thanked him. I had danced for him. I had humiliated myself before one of his young secretaries. And now he thought I was happy to ‘belong’ by him! What kind of man was he? Who did he think he was?

Mr. Khani - or whatever his name was - had singled me out for Christ’s sake! – I mean, all those naked, available, sexy whore-girls to choose from and he wanted ME to dance for him! The guy must have taken a serious fancy to me! I couldn’t fail to impress him… And who knows where it might lead… mixing it with the super-rich… It had to be worth taking a chance for, didn’t it?

“I’ll do it,” I heard myself announce. “I’ll do it. Where is he?”

The CEO looked strangely unmoved. I had expected him to protest – to try to keep me ‘his’. Instead he just looked on impassively as the manager rushed over, rubbing his palms together gleefully.

“Come with me Elizabeth – that is your name, isn’t it?” The manager chimed. “We’ll get you kitted out.”

Saying nothing – wanting to ignore the CEO like he had so often ignored me - I trotted hurriedly behind the manager across the club.

He led me through a curtained area, past various whore-girls in various stages of undress, through a mirrored room, along a corridor and into a changing area. There I followed him to a peg fixed to the wall at shoulder height. Inscribed into a small bronze label under the peg, was the number ‘94’. A skimpy pair of white semi-transparent embroidered knickers hung on it.

“You’ll have to make do with your own heels,” the manager explained. “Yours haven’t arrived yet.”

Mine hadn’t arrived? What on earth did he mean by that?

“Get changed, then come and find me back at the curtain we just came through,” he said, and scampered off.

He left me standing there looking at peg number 94. At peg number 48 a whore-girl was shaving her legs. At peg number 70 a girl was applying make-up to her nipples, making them shiny, perhaps.

Oh shit. What had I done? I had agreed to dance for a complete stranger – in public, right here, right now! And for some reason I hadn’t considered the fact that I would have to dance half naked. Was I some kind of idiot? What on earth should I do now? Was it too late to change my mind?

I slid the straps of my black evening dress over my shoulder. Oh God. Why? What was I doing?

I peeled the dress down over my bosom, revealing my naked breasts. I checked around. No-one seemed to be paying me any attention. No-one could know I wasn’t just another whore – this was their changing room after all.

I was just about to dress like a whore too, wasn’t I? I would blend in, look like all the others.

I would appear to be a whore. That was bad.

But I would appear to be a whore. That was also good. At least no-one would notice me. They would just see another whore. Right?

Was I a whore? Why was I doing this? I was going to dress like a whore, make myself up like a whore, dance like a whore. How did that make me ‘not a whore’? Hang on! I wasn’t even doing this for money! Well – not in the ordinary sense anyway… I was doing it as ‘a favour’, wasn’t I? A favour for who? Not the CEO? Oh Shit! What the fuck was I doing!?

I slid the dress down to my ankles and stepped out of it.

Whore48 had just shot a glance over at me hadn’t she? No. I was just being paranoid. Anyway, what did it matter what a whore thought? I could tell her to get on her knees and eat my pussy if I wanted to, couldn’t I?

How many pegs were there? I saw they numbered up to 99. Ninety-five upwards appeared unoccupied. Below ninety-four there was usually some evidence of recent usage: Left paper-bags, shoes, bags, panties hanging up on the peg…

I slid my panties down and reached for the pair hanging up on peg number 94. I ran them through my fingers. They were whore-knickers, I was in no doubt.

I stepped into the panties and pulled them up around my hips. They barely covered my mound. They tugged up my bum. Yes. Definitely whore-knickers. My transformation was complete. I was dressed appropriately, whorishly. My breasts were naked, on display. I was about to show them to the son of the owner of the club.

Was I ready? Ready to dance? Was I really going to go through with this?

I hung my black evening-dress and panties up on peg number 94 and stood there trembling. I was scared, terrified of what I was about to do, of what I was apparently capable of doing. If I were capable of going through with this… then what else was I be capable of? Was I capable of being a whore?

Never. No. Never. I must never be capable of doing that. It’s just a dance, be confident - I told myself - That is the only way.

I retraced the route along which I had followed the club manager, ending up as he had directed me at the curtain. He must have been waiting for me. His eyes poured over my breasts, up and down my legs, inspecting me. I stood before him silently, patiently, while he nodded his head with approval.

“Good girl,” he said. “Give me a turn.”

Obediently I spun around for him, showing him how tightly the whore-knickers pulled themselves up the crack of my bottom, how high they rode up my hips, how the white semi-transparent material framed so delicately my sex.

“Lovely,” he said. “Just one thing though– you can’t go out there without your number.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a felt-tip pen.

“Obviously it’s just something temporary for now,” he explained. “Bend over.”

My jaw dropped in disbelief. He wanted to write my ‘number’ on my bottom! No way!

“Look,” he said – “It’s only temporary. If I send you out there without it you’ll stand out a mile. You’ll have every guest in the house chasing after you!”

Shit. Oh shit. He was right. I had to look every bit the whore. Otherwise they would see me. I needed to be invisible.

I bent over slowly, resignedly, and offered him my buttocks.

I closed my eyes when I felt his fingers on my bottom. I felt the nib of the pen pressing into my flesh. He was careful, deliberate, slow. Too slow. What could be taking him so long?

“Don’t worry – you’ll get your permanent number soon enough,” he said as he worked.

“Good, that’s that done,” he said with satisfaction when he was through, and he gave my newly marked bum-cheek a congratulatory pat.

Strangely I found myself wanting to see it, to see what I looked like numbered, marked as a whore.

“You are Whore94,” he informed me. “That is your name while you wear that number. What is your name?”

I looked at him quizzically. Did I really have to say it?

”Whore94,” I obliged him.

“That’s right,” he said. “And while you’re out there address all men with ‘Sir’, all women with ‘Miss’. What’s your name?”

“Whore94,” I responded meekly, “Sir.”

“Good girl. Right, now get out there and put on a good show,” he said jollily, giving my bottom another pat.

It was time. Time to dance. Time to be a whore.

I slid out through the curtain into ‘TheScrava’ proper. My God. I was a part of the show now. I was one of them. One of the whores. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Where should I go? No-one had told me where to go! I turned back to the curtain, feeling lost.

“Your boss will introduce you to Mr. Khani,” the manager said, waving me away from him.

I should present myself to the CEO dressed like this then? He would see me numbered as a whore. Oh God. I couldn’t face him like this, could I? I couldn’t do it. But I had no choice now, did I?

Nervously I made my first few steps over towards the alcove where I had left the CEO. My hips swayed as I walked. I felt eyes on me from all directions. I was on display. In public. A whore.

“Ah, Whore94!” The CEO called out when he saw me trotting towards him. “I was starting to wonder what had happened to you!”

How did he know my number? He hadn’t seen it yet – couldn’t have.

I knew that if I were a whore, a real whore I mean, then I should curtsey and start dancing for him. I also knew that if I were in his private office I would be obliged to do the same, since I had signed up to that. But here, in public, I was under no such obligation.

Yet I did curtsey. And I did start to dance. Why? Why did I do that? To blend in perhaps, to remain invisible. I hoped that was the reason. What other explanation could there be?

Two other whores danced for the CEO with me. We displayed our breasts to him, we wriggled out bottoms, swayed our hips. I was playing whore to the man who had spanked and raped me. What a disgrace I was.

“Very nice,” he said as I wriggled my 94 for him. “I’m proud of you Elizabeth.”

It felt good hearing him call me by my name. I wriggled more teasingly, forgetting I was there, in that bar, dancing topless in public, numbered as one of the whores.

“Unfortunately,” he said in a loud voice, “You shouldn’t be here dancing for me at all – I’ll introduce you to Mr. Khani junior– son of the owner of this very club, and one of the largest investors in our company.”

He stood up, moved his hand down to my bum-cheeks and held it there, guiding me across the club like that. I shivered as I remembered the last time he had held my buttocks in his palm. I felt myself wriggling on him as I clip-clopped alongside him in my heels. He was delivering me to Mr. Khani.

“Look, I shouldn’t tell you this,” he half-whispered as he steered me along, “but a word of advice, if I may. Mr. Khani’s father is incredibly powerful – both he and his son are well used to getting exactly what they want. Don’t look at him directly, don’t speak, always curtsey before doing anything. Obey his every command. Just act like the other whores, basically.”

I thought I was just going to dance for him? That was all wasn’t it?

“Come on Elizabeth,” he said, apparently reading my thoughts. “You’re a big girl now. You know what ‘dancing’ means in a place like this. This is not just a run-of-the-mill strip-club where good little office boys ogle and stare before slipping their green into your knickers. This place is for real.”

He was right: I knew. Or at least I should have known. I still didn’t know what I was doing, why I was going through with it. I wasn’t drunk, was I? Did I want to do it? Was that it? Did I want to try out being a whore? Was this some kind of bizarre self-exploration?

“These people own everything, Elizabeth,” The CEO went on. “They own property, business, land. They own the food on your table. They own the media. They own the universities. They own people. They own all that you see here. Including these knickers.”

His palm tightened around my bum-cheeks.

“Seriously Elizabeth,” he said, slowing our pace to a crawl. “Behave yourself this evening, don’t deny them anything. You have to convince yourself that they own you for the evening. Give yourself to them. Don’t resist them.”

He wrapped his fingers around the material of my panties above the crack of my bottom, clutched the material in his grip, and drew me to a standstill. He seemed tense, anxious, suddenly.

“If you resist,” his voice hardened, “they can make you disappear – you know – disappear - forever.”

His grip on my panties loosened. I was dumbstruck. They could do that? They could make people disappear?

“Stay alive, Elizabeth,” he said as we resumed our progress across the club floor.

I was in up to my neck. Deeper than that. I was being swept along with tide. I was drowning.

We arrived at a dimly lit alcove where a group of distinguished looking Middle-Eastern looking men were enjoying champagne, girls, food, cocaine.

The CEO greeted Mr. Khani junior with a firm hand-shake. He was shorter than I had expected, and certainly younger. He must have been what… eighteen? Or maybe he just looked young for his age. He was dressed immaculately. He was handsome too. He had picked me out personally then had he? Why me?

“So this is my new girl?” he said, admiring my body, still held in the CEO’s palm, being offered to him. He spoke with a somewhat surprising aristocratic English accent.

I curtsied, not knowing what else to do. Then I started to dance. I wriggled in the CEO’s palm until he finally pulled his arm away and left me gyrating freely.

“I would like to express my sincere gratitude for your kind gift,” Mr. Khani said to the CEO. “Keep bringing them in.”

I heard it, but I didn’t hear it. I didn’t want to hear it. How could I be a ‘gift’? I thought I had been singled out by Mr. Khani junior himself? That was right, wasn’t it? What was all this about ‘gifts’? Maybe it was just bravado, just for show. I knew the CEO liked that kind of thing – I had first hand experience of it, after all.

It made no difference: I was dancing for Mr. Khani junior and I was to be his whore for the evening. But only for the evening. Just a few hours. I was certain of that.

I turned, showing Mr. Khani my number. Whore94. I wriggled it, leaned over, shook it some more.

When I straightened and turned back to face them, the CEO had vanished.

I had been wrapped, stamped and delivered.

The goods were being inspected.

Soon I would be opened, used.

I was one of a number of whores performing for the group of Middle-Eastern looking men. A few of the whores were on their knees, sucking the men’s cocks and lapping at their testicles. A few had been made table-whores and were being dined off. The rest, like me, were dancing.

I saw one of the whores on her knees get a mouthful of ejaculation. I thanked my lucky stars that I was not a cum-drinking whore like her. Absolutely no way I was going to swallow any Middle-Eastern semen. I was a respectable English girl! But maybe they would try? If they tried I would have to refuse. But would I be able to refuse? Was I or was I not a whore? How I hoped I would not have to find out.

Mr. Khani beckoned me closer to him. Oh My God. Was this the moment I had been dreading?

I curtsied politely, and waited for him to speak.

He didn’t. He just pointed at the floor.

Oh shit. He wanted me to kneel then.

It felt strange kneeling before such a young man – a boy really - however grand the reputation preceding him. Ashamedly, I realised my nipples were hard, pointing up at him expectantly. Why was that? Was I enjoying being his whore? No way. No possible way.

“I would very much like you to wear this special necklace,” Mr. Khani said in his perfect English accent.

He showed me the ‘the special necklace’ and I understood instantly. Yes, there was a delicate chain collar that would be worn around the neck. But there were also two further delicate metal chains attached… and at the end of those were what could only be… clamps. He wanted me to wear clamps on my nipples!

I had never worn anything like that before. I had always imagined it would be uncomfortable. Well, that was the whole point, wasn’t it?

Shit. What should I do? Refuse?

Suddenly his fingers were on my nipples. I didn’t resist. Why didn’t I resist? He was just a boy!

He pinched and turned each of my nipples between his finger and thumb. Then he bade me hold my hair up while he fastened the chain around my neck. The metal felt cold. It felt silky, sexy. No it didn’t, it felt awful, horrible. It looked real silver. He ran his fingers delicately along one of the lengths of chain attached to the collar, and clipped it with experienced fingers in place around my left nipple.

I gasped and almost leapt. It was so tight! Why did it have to be so tight?

“Now you will dance more beautifully,” he said quietly.

I drew breath sharply when he snapped the second clamp in to place.

He spent several long seconds admiring his handiwork. I had just given my breasts to a complete stranger! What on earth was I doing?

Although I felt his eyes on me, I did not dare return his gaze. Instead I looked down at his feet and his expensive looking, shiny, black, patent leather shoes.

The pinching sensation seemed to intensify as he signalled for me to rise. I curtsied. I wasn’t sure if I should thank him or not. The CEO had told me not to speak. Better not then.

With my nipples decorated by ‘the special necklace’, I resumed dancing for him. I was somewhat relieved: This had to be better than drinking his semen, didn’t it? Curiously, I quickly discovered that the pinching sensation in my nipples made me wriggle my bosom more eagerly – since the extra movement seemed to distract from the discomfort. Was that what he had meant when he had said it would make me dance ‘more beautifully’?

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