Bukakke

He exploded all over our faces. The whore-master’s semen was warm on my tongue. I smacked my lips together, tasting him. I must swallow, I told myself. I must swallow the whore-master’s seed.

Suddenly the other whore had her tongue in my mouth and we were sharing his semen – correction – we were fighting for it – she was trying to steal it from the inside of my cheeks.

After I had won that battle, we fought for the last drops from the end of his dripping penis.

With that supply exhausted, I scraped my fingers down my cheeks, scooping his semen into my mouth, sucking my fingers, waggling my tongue.

Oh God. Why did I do all that?

Was it some deep-seated whore-girl fantasy made real? Or was it just my way of blocking out the reality of being used like a cheap slut?

We stood and curtsied in unison, our faces still glistening with traces of Mr. Khani’s seed. My nipples still burned from the clamps. I was a slut-whore, wasn’t I? I felt ashamed suddenly. I had just competed with a whore for Mr. Khani’s semen. I wore his special necklace. Was I his special whore? Not really a whore, but a whore all the same?

The other whore turned and began to trot away, her hips swaying, bottom wriggling.

It was then that I saw her number for the first time: She was Whore01. Maybe she was his special whore too?

I wasn’t sure if I should follow Whore01 or stay with my whore-master. No - not my whore-master, but Mr. Khani junior. Just a boy. How can a boy be a whore-master?

Was I dismissed? Or should I dance some more?

I curtsied for him again, stalling, hoping to get an order so that I could be in no doubt about what I should do.

“Are you still here?” he said, shooing me away.

I turned obediently and wriggled my buttocks away from him, making way back to the curtained area where I had been numbered.

I saw the CEO watching me from across the bar. He was smiling, the bastard. He had turned me into this.

He had turned me into this whore.

This slut.