My Berlin Summer Chapter 5: Training
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The trainer barked out a short, authoritative command in a language I did not
understand. I looked at him in shock, not understanding what was required of me.
I was standing before him, naked. In his left hand was one end of a six-foot,
light chain leash. The other end was attached to a choke collar around my neck.
In his right hand was a long, flexible switch.
Suddenly the switch flashed across my back and a sharp downward tug on the leash
pulled me down to my knees. I cried out in pain. The trainer kicked my knees
apart and repeated the same monosyllabic command.
Then he shouted another command, again one I didn't understand. This one had two
syllables and began with a hard "k" sound. I was again struck by the switch, but
this time there was no tug on the leash to instruct me. I decided that I was to
supposed to guess what this command meant, and tried rising to my feet. For my
pains I was greeted with three more blows from the switch, and a brutal tug on
the leash and took my breath away and threw me onto my belly on the hardwood
floor. I lay there, not daring to move, my face and breasts literally pressed
against the floor. In an attempt to pacify my trainer, I spread my legs as
widely as possible. That at least seemed expected of me more often than not. The
switch was really not that terribly painful, but my back was smarting from the
multiple blows.
I heard the second, two-syllable command again, this time in a calmer voice. I
decided that it probably meant "belly," or something to that effect. In any
case, I was apparently not being beaten again, for the moment at least.
I heard a gruff, single-syllable command. It sounded slightly familiar, so I
rose to my knees, hoping to have guessed right. Instead, a pull and a twist on
the leash turned me onto my back on the hard floor. The switch burned across my
stomach, and then on my thighs. Again I spread my legs in a belated attempt to
placate the trainer. Even if I was slow to learn the trainer's commands, I would
do everything in my power to convince him of my utter obedience and eagerness to
please. I found myself hoping that he would rape me - anything to give me a
chance to show my worth to him. An instant later I hated myself for the thought.
Yes, I had been kidnapped and forced to obey the dictates of my abductors. But
there was no need for me to crave their abuses.
My thoughts were interrupted by a two-syllable command, again beginning with a
hard "k" sound. I instantly rolled over onto my belly, my hands at my sides, and
spread my legs widely. I held my breath, waiting for the whistle of the switch.
But this time I was not beaten. I had guessed right. Perhaps I could learn to be
a good slave. Perhaps I would survive. Instead of using the switch on me, the
trainer pushed his shoe in front of my face. I instantly kissed it, and then
began licking the shoe as sensuously as I knew how. I knew that if I learned
quickly, I would not be beaten. I resolved to be the best student the school had
ever known - even if it as a student of the arts of female slavery.
This was the most difficult class, Valerie had warned me, even worse than the
afternoon sessions in rendering prolonged and humiliating sexual services. In
this class, we were trained exactly as animals - with commands we could not
understand, leashes, choke collars, and whips. We were being taught our new
place in society, in which we no longer even counted as persons, but merely as a
particularly attractive form of animal property. Each day the set of commands
would change, although they might be repeated at long intervals. The semantic
content of the commands was largely constant from day to day, consisting largely
of the basic commands by which a slave girl may be put through her paces -
kneeling, on her belly or back, standing, bent over, grasping her ankles, and so
on - but each day we would have to learn which verbal signal corresponded to
each position or task. One of the by-products of the sessions is that we were
being taught this basic set of commands in a number of languages, but sometimes
the "language" of the day was pure nonsense, concocted solely for the benefit of
our training. It was almost impossible for a girl not to emerge from the session
with several red stripes across her back and thighs, and more importantly with a
desperate eagerness to please her trainer. I knew I would be no exception.
Valerie had prepared me for the day's activities as we chatted briefly in the
showers earlier in the morning. That morning, my first in the mansion, I was
awakened by a natural-light alarm at a time I guess to be around 7:30. I looked
around me and saw the beds I had dimly made out the night before. There were six
other girls in the room, all nude and chained like me to their beds. All were
stunningly beautiful. These slavers, I concluded, knew what they were doing.
A man entered the room and made the rounds of our beds, releasing us from our
leashes. We followed him down a corridor and down a flight of stairs into a
large exercise room. None of the girls seemed in the least concerned with her
complete nudity. I gathered that that was something that we slaves quickly grew
accustomed to. Once in the exercise room, each of us was given a card describing
our workout routine for the morning. The man briefly explained what it meant to
me. His manner was completely matter-of-fact, as if he were entirely used to
managing a group of naked, enslaved beauties. But of course, I realized, he was
entirely used to it. At the same time, I realized that my beauty, and
availability, in all likelihood meant very little to these men. Before, I had
been able to influence men with so little as a short skirt, a smile, and a touch
of my hand on their arm. Now, completely naked, my body at their disposal, I was
utterly powerless. Whatever they might want, they would have from me, simply by
snapping their fingers.
The exercises were largely aerobic, with some stretching and a small amount of
weight training. I gathered that our bodies were being carefully toned and
exercised to make sure we were in optimum physical condition. Masters would want
their slaves to be both excruciatingly attractive and physically fit, and could
enforce their will upon us.
After the exercise period, we entered an large, adjacent rest room where we
showered in a large, communal shower. That was when the other girls, including
Valerie, introduced themselves to me. They had been in the mansion anywhere from
one to seven weeks. Their stories were similar to mine. All had shown some
interest in slavery, whether by attending a fetish night at a club, role-playing
in an online chat room, or simply allowing a boyfriend to tie them up, and
shortly thereafter had been forcibly abducted and brought here. They were
resigned to their fate, although hardly enthusiastic about it - there was little
appealing, one remarked, in attending training classes all day and being
periodically raped as a diversion. They knew no more than I about the fate that
would await us once we "graduated" from this school. But about one thing there
was no doubt at all: we were, truly, slave girls, in the fullest sense of the
term. We were completely subject to the whims and desires of our masters, from
the most mundane to the most exquisitely sensuous, and could expect nothing in
return.
After cleaning and drying ourselves, we were allowed to proceed to the kitchen
back on the ground floor, where we were served breakfast. "Served" is perhaps
not the most appropriate word, in that we were required to eat on all fours, not
using our hands, from bowls on the floor containing hot oatmeal and water. On my
hands and knees, my hair falling about my face, my breasts depending from my
body, I lowered by head to the floor and lapped up the food and water with my
tongue. Glancing to my left and right, I saw that the other girls were eating
and drinking comfortably. I supposed that they had grown used to this particular
humiliation. I expected that I, too, would become accustomed to it.
After breakfast our lessons began in earnest. The first class was what the other
slave girls called our "dog-training" class, where we were forced to learn and
respond to commands in a foreign or nonexistent language. After my initial
bewilderment and confusion, I found that I was quite adept at making out the
nuances of the trainer's commands and quickly complying with his wishes. Often I
could read a simple gesture and understand his will, whether it was for me to
crawl to his feet, to spread my legs in apparent preparation to be used, or to
fetch his switch in my teeth. I even felt a brief surge of pride at my apparent
facility in this exercise, until I realized that I was simply demonstrating my
utter subjection and obedience to men.
At one point in the class, a short, blonde girl named Gretta had trouble
understanding and obeying a command. I saw her trainer flip her onto her
stomach, lift her bottom in the air, and use her from behind abruptly and
fiercely. I could not help staring, horrified, as she cried out as much in shock
and humiliation as in arousal. So casual rape was not only a convenient means
for the trainers to indulge their physical desires, but also was a form of
discipline. But inside me something, dimly, envied Gretta her sudden abuse.
Here I was, finally living out my most ardent fantasies, but strictly forbidden
to gratify my own needs. I realized that I had been constantly aroused not only
by the uses I had been subject to the night before, but also by the casual,
mundane humiliations I had suffered that morning - from being exercised, nude,
to eating from a bowl on my hands and knees, to now being put through my paces
literally like a domestic animal. It was not only being forced to give up my
body to my masters that excited me deep in my belly, but also having my degraded
status constantly impressed on me by the routines of slavery.
I wondered how many of the other girls were similarly aroused by their very
subjection, were secretly or openly excited to be the slaves and playthings of
men and women. Perhaps I was an anomaly, a girl who not only accepted her
enslavement, but secretly reveled in her utter submission. Or perhaps all the
girls in the mansion, in their hearts, had always longed to be slaves and only
now could be truly fulfilled. Most likely, I supposed, we were all somewhere in
between.
After the obedience class, we proceeded to another room outfitted like a small
seminar room, with a long table surrounded by chairs. Claudia, the mistress of
the house, stood before us. After kneeling before her, we were permitted to take
seats at the table.
"So we have a new student among us," Claudia began. "Jenny?"
"Yes, mistress?" I answered.
"Why are you here?"
I hesitated, my mind spinning in confusion. In secretly accepting my slavery the
night before, I had expected to be commanded, abused, humiliated, and degraded.
I had not expected to be quizzed like an unprepared schoolgirl. "Because I am a
slave, mistress," I attempted.
She smiled. "Yes, of course, but really, why are you a slave?"
I wondered what she expected me to say, what the right answer was. Was it
because three men had broken into my apartment the night before and abducted me,
a knife at my throat? Was it because I had been tricked into attending a club
with Cristina? Or was it something deeper, more primordial, more unconscious? "I
am a slave because I exist to serve and to please masters, mistress," I finally
managed to say.
"Get up and kneel before me," Claudia ordered. I obeyed silently, my eyes
lowered to the floor. "You are clearly trying to please me, which is to be
commended. But you are not telling the truth. As a slave, you exist to serve
your masters. That goes without saying. But it does not explain why you are a
slave."
I wracked my brain for the answer. I began to panic. I knew I was a slave - that
was now abundantly clear to me - but I knew it was not simply a matter of being
abducted and raped the night before, of wearing a collar around my neck, of
kneeling naked before my mistress. All these things felt unutterably right for
me, but they were all simply consequences of my identity as a slave. A slave was
simply what I was. It was not a matter of choice or historical explanation. It
was part of my inmost nature.
"I am a slave because that is what I am, mistress," I said, softly but clearly.
"I do not know how long I have been a slave, or why I became a slave, or if
perhaps I have always been a slave. I only know that in every fiber of my being,
I exist to serve my masters, to please them in any way that I can, asking
nothing, accepting everything." I stopped, confused and scandalized. I could
hear a couple of the other girls laughing, softly. What had I been saying? Was
this really the logical conclusion of everything I knew about myself? I knew
that this woman held the power of life or death over me, and that I would do
anything necessary to satisfy her. But was I really a true slave, deep in my
heart?
"A touching speech, slave," Claudia said. "Of course, you know almost nothing of
what it is to be a slave. But you will learn. You may take your seat."
I got up and took my place again, my eyes lowered to avoid the gaze of my fellow
slave girls. I felt I was constantly being tricked into crossing boundary after
boundary, surrendering more and more of my previous identity and sinking deeper
and deeper into the identity of an abject slave girl. I tried to tell myself
that I had said those words simply to satisfy my mistress and avoid the
punishments she surely could inflict on me, but at the same time I knew that was
a lie.
As the class continued, I became more and more fascinated by Claudia and the
power she held over us. She moved from one girl to the next, asking probing
questions about our fantasies, our desires, our earlier relationships, and our
feelings, drawing out our secret thoughts and confessions. One girl recounted
her seemingly innocent introduction to submission years before in a brief
experiment with a boyfriend, shuddering as she recalled the unexpected thrill
she had felt being naked, bound, and powerless for the first time. Claudia
forced another girl to describe, in excruciating detail, the sensations,
thoughts, and emotions she experienced when pleasing a man with her mouth -
everything from the physical sensations on her lips and tongue, to the constant
mental anticipation of the master's desires, to the deeply submissive emotional
charge she felt as he consummated his domination of her. I could feel the other
girls almost squirming with uncomfortable recognition of their own experiences,
and with silent but unmistakable arousal. She did not ask me any questions after
the beginning of the class, presumably leaving me to listen to my fellow slave
girls and absorb their lessons. By the end of the class, I was in awe of this
quietly powerful woman, of her ability to make us explore the depths of our own
submission, to confess our slavery not only explicitly but also with a level of
detail and conviction that could not simply be denied after the class had ended.
Each girl said things that, try as she might, could not be unsaid, and left the
room knowing herself even more a slave than when she had entered it.
After class, we were permitted to eat lunch, this time from a buffet of salads
and sandwiches, which we were allowed to eat with our hands, kneeling on the
floor. I assumed this was because it was easier for our masters for us to eat
this way, and the ritual humiliation we had suffered at breakfast, eating on
hands and knees from bowls on the floor, exposing our bodies as slaves to any
passers by, would be limited to that meal. After lunch, we were given time to
ourselves, which we took advantage of in the inner courtyard of the mansion,
enjoying the warm air and sunshine of the early summer. Of course, although
there was no prescribed activity at this time, we were still under the absolute
command of our masters. On separate occasions two of the trainers came outside
and called one or another of the girls to them. I watched in fascination as they
were made to please the men, intimately and unreservedly, in full view of the
rest of us. After being forced to these degrading services, each rejoined our
little circle, a little short of breath, but without ceremony, as if this were a
completely ordinary occurrence. And, of course, it was. We were slaves, and sex
slaves at that. This is what we existed for.
At one point my trainer from the obedience class approached our group where we
were sitting on the grass, chatting softly. All the girls turned toward him and
knelt in the position we all knew so well. He approached me and, putting his
hand in my hair, lifted my head to look at him.
"You did well this morning," he said. "Not bad for a new slave."
I flushed with pride. A man had found me pleasing! "Thank you, master," I said.
"I will endeavor to learn as quickly as possible." He put his hand down by my
face, where I could lick and kiss at it. I did so, my eyes half closed, reveling
in my submission.
"You are a hot little slut," he said, smiling. I blushed, but did not refute
him, continuing to lick at his hand. Then he barked out a command, one I
recognized from the morning's lesson. I instantly lay on my back and spread my
legs, lifting my knees into the air. This was clearly a position for slave rape.
The thought sprang to my mind that this was the first time I would be had
"normally," as it were - my previous uses having been from behind, or with my
mouth.
But he did not instantly plunge into my waiting body. "You may beg," he said.
I opened my eyes in shock. He would make me beg? I would have none of that, I
told myself. I could be commanded, abused, raped, and humiliated, but that was
beyond my control. I would not beg to be put to sexual service. And yet it felt
so fitting - there I was, a naked slave before him, my legs wide in
anticipation, my thighs warm with arousal. This morning I had crawled at his
feet, desperate to obey his every command. Now he was giving me the opportunity
to fulfill my utter submission, and perhaps even to release the tensions that
had built up in me all morning as my slavery had been impressed upon me.
"I beg you to have me," I heard a voice saying, wondering where it could be
coming from. "I beg to be used, as a slave." He laughed, and then suddenly he
entered me. I clutched him with my arms and my body. This was the first time my
body was not simply being used as a passive convenience. I knew I was only a
new, inexperienced slave, but I would try anything in my power to please this
master. I caressed him with my whole body, trying to melt into him, to be warm,
soft, and open for him. I felt him inside me, not just physically but also
mentally and emotionally, driving into me the necessity, the absolute rightness
of my submission. I felt my arousal increasing, and wondered if I would be
punished for allowing myself to reach my climax. I focused on his pleasure
instead, on his mastery, and finally felt him surge within me. And in that
instant, as he consummated his domination of me, some hidden dam within me burst
open, and I felt myself swept away on some powerful and unknown current, my body
yielding to him as I had never believed possible. I heard a girl crying out her
submission, and wondered who it could be. But I knew it was I.
When I had gathered hold of my senses, the trainer was once again standing above
me, looking down. I could hear the other girls laughing, they having witnessed
my performance. I was deeply embarrassed. What had possessed me to so lose
myself in submissive service, to so eagerly accept my utter ravishment? Should I
not have endured his onslaught passively, holding my legs open but my mind
closed? But I could not ignore that something in me felt warm and wonderful
lying at the feet of my master, used for what I was worth. I rolled to my
stomach and kissed his feet in gratitude. "Did I please you, master?" I asked,
frightened.
"Yes, you did, slut," he answered.
"Thank you, master," I said, continuing to kiss his feet and legs.
Then he turned and walked away.
When I rejoined the conversation, I could feel that something had changed in the
other girls' attitude to me. They did not mention the spectacle I had just made
of myself - there was something of an unwritten rule that our constant sexual
uses were not to be discussed explicitly - but I could sense an uneasy
embarrassment, as if I had somehow crossed some boundary in the slave girl's
life of submission. I was no longer the "new girl," to be pitied and comforted.
I was something else - an eager, willing, debased slave slut. I sat on the
grass, not listening, wondering if that were really true.
Too soon, we were summoned inside to continue our training. I was surprised to
meet our first teacher - a lovely, black-haired, Mediterranean-looking woman,
dressed in thin but opaque black minidress - and a collar. She was a slave, just
as we were! But I soon realized that in this class, she held absolutely power
over us.
"I see we have a new girl among us," she began. "So today we will work on basic
things. Everyone stand up." I rose to my feet along with the other slaves,
unsure of what would happen. She walked around the room, inspecting our posture,
and came to rest in front of me. She looked into my eyes. I held my body as
straight as I could, under inspection.
"Breathe, Jenny, breathe!" she finally said. "You're a living being, not a
statue."
"Yes, mistress," I said, trying to comply.
Her hands caressed my stomach, my sides, and my breasts. "Feel your body," she
said. "Be aware of your body, every inch of it. Let every muscle you have
breathe, and come alive." I adjusted my posture, subtly shifting my weight,
lifting my body and accentuating its natural curves. "There you go," she said.
"I knew there was a slave in you."
She stepped back and surveyed the class with her eyes. "One of the first duties
of the slave girl is absolute, exquisite beauty," she said. "You were not chosen
for this fate for the powers of your minds. You were chosen because of the
beauty of your bodies. You must be proud of your body. You are a sex slave. You
exist to serve masters with your bodies. Your bodies are continuously on
display. Your body must always say, 'I am desirable. I am sensuous. At your
slightest word, I will give you pleasures you never imagined possible.' You must
communicate all that simply by the way you hold your naked body." She paused to
let the words sink in. I supposed the other girls had heard them before. This
lesson was for me. I began to understand, then the full meaning of her words. As
a slave girl, I possessed nothing, not even a thread of clothing. I had no
rights, not even the right to speak unbidden. I existed so that others might
take pleasure in and exact services from my body. Being a slave was not just
passively obeying orders and suffering in silence. More than that, it was an
identity to be lived deeply in every moment, to be expressed in so trivial a way
as the manner in which I presented my charms for inspection, admiration, and
abuse. "Yes, Jenny, that is how a slave girl stands," the teacher said. I was
startled. I did not realize that I had changed my position.
She clapped her hands. "Now everyone walk to the other side of the room, turn
around, and walk back to your original place."
For the next hour or two, we practiced and were instructed in seemingly the most
mundane activities - standing, walking, kneeling, crawling. It was as if I had
to learn everything over again. Details I had always ignored now became central
to my existence, as physical expressions of my slavery. I began to learn the
many languages of the body: the excitement implied by a swaying hip, the
submission inherent in a downcast gaze, the warm, sensuous pleasures promised by
a pair of parted lips. I learned to arch my back while crawling across the floor
to a master's feet, accentuating my natural curves and advertising the
availability of my body. I learned to writhe subtly, almost imperceptibly, when
kneeling before a master, drawing his gaze down toward my captive, enslaved
intimacies. In everything we must be beautiful, and graceful, and, even more
than that, utterly sensuous and submissive. And I began to sense the paradoxical
power a slave girl might possess, the power to incite desire and arousal and
passion - a passion that, of course, she must then satisfy with her body.
The final class of the day was the one all of the slaves girls dreaded, but
nevertheless must attend and apply themselves to assiduously. This was the class
where we were trained in the intimate, physical arts of pleasing a master, of
giving him the long, languorous, and unconditional pleasures that can only be
demanded of a full slave. The other girls were already accustomed to the
particular indignities we were forced to endure, but I of course had no
preparation for the unique humiliation the class offered -practicing the slave
girl's repertoire of sexual techniques under the watchful eye of a trainer. We
spent most of the class demonstrating our skills on plastic, sculpted replicas
of a master's manhood, whether caressing them with our lips and tongues, or
clenching them tightly with the muscles of our bellies. I wept with the shame of
publicly, openly submitting my body to these training devices, wishing that a
man had consented to let me serve him instead, to prove to him that I might be
able to give him pleasure. But I knew that I was but a novice in the discipline
of sexual submission, and that only by applying myself to my humiliating lessons
would I be found worthy of serving a man. And so, despite the tears in my eyes,
I continued to take the plastic instrument deeper and deeper into my mouth,
swirling my tongue across its molded contours, trying to relax my throat as I
was instructed. From time to time we would be permitted to demonstrate what we
had learned on the bodies of our trainers, a task that I threw myself into with
abandon, eager to prove that my skills were better applied to flesh and blood
masters, desperate to earn the praise of my superiors. But even when being put
through our debasing exercises, I sustained myself by imagining that I was in
fact serving a master, one who might abuse me and discard me, but at least one
to whom I could give some small amount of pleasure and gratification, in so
doing fulfilling the purpose of my existence.
And so the days and weeks of my training passed.
The contents of our lessons changed, but the daily routine remained the same.
Each morning we began with our exercise routines, and each afternoon we
concluded by refining our techniques of pleasing our masters. We were kept
constantly naked, except for the occasional early afternoon classes when we
would be taught how to wear various articles deemed suitable for slaves -
generally skimpy, diaphanous garments that displayed our bodies as wantonly as
if we were naked - and, invariably, how also to take them off as sensuously as
possible. Some days we were given rudimentary instruction in the art of dancing
nude before masters, writhing seductively to music, brazenly displaying our
charms that men might be tempted to exploit them once the dance was finished.
Our classes in sexual technique would also vary, some days being devoted to the
art of pleasing women rather than men. This was a subject in which I had had no
experience at all, never having been attracted to members of my own sex prior to
the night I first longed to serve Cristina as a slave. But after my initial
hesitation, and encouraged by the whips the trainers kept close at hand, I
quickly learned to apply my mouth as zealously to serving a woman's pleasure as
a man's. In accepting my slavery, I had to accept that I was completely at the
mercy of any master who might own me, and could be called on just as easily to
serve women as men. And realizing that such services were as intrinsic and
natural an aspect of my slavery as was spreading my soft thighs before a man, I
overcame my earlier inhibitions and was even able to take pride in my growing
skills. Sexual preference, I learned, was only something that had meaning for
people entitled to preferences; as a slave, I knew that any wishes and
inclinations of my own that I might have were simply meaningless.
Some days I was raped repeatedly, sometimes used quickly and casually, a mere
convenience to be taken advantage of, sometimes allowed to practice my newfound
skills and even to yield in helpless rapture to my rapist; other days would pass
without my being put to such degrading uses. On those days when I was not taken
and thrown to the floor, or pushed to my knees before a man, I would wonder
despairingly if I were any good as a slave, or if perhaps all my efforts to
please my masters were in vain; on the days when men did see fit to kick apart
my legs and claim the tender flesh that lay between them, I would rest contented
that, for one more day at least, I had been found worthy of enslavement.
In the evenings, we would perform chores about the house, cook dinner, and serve
our masters and their occasional guests at the table; these domestic tasks, too,
were a natural part of the life of a slave girl. Afterward, we would clear the
table, clean up, and offer up our bodies for the convenience or entertainment of
the masters. At these times, I noticed there would be a kind of silent, unspoken
competition among us slaves for the attention of our masters, something I am
sure we would scarcely have dared admit to ourselves, but was nevertheless
apparent in our postures, in our attitudes, in the way we subtly employed all
the tricks and wiles we had learned to draw attention to our bodies and
communicate the silent promise of unutterable delights. And when I was selected
from among the available slave flesh to be the object of uninhibited, unfettered
lust, I always felt a rush of both pride and arousal. Being chosen, even if only
for a casual slave rape, was in itself an affirmation of my value, of my
desirability, and I knew that that was now the only measure of my existence.
There were times that I remembered my earlier life, only days or weeks removed
from my current state, and then I would cry with humiliation and remorse,
thinking of everything that had been stolen from me, or rather that I had given
up in accepting this new life as a slave. There were times I remembered
Cristina, and wondered if she remembered me - if she knew what had happened to
me, if she regretted not claiming me when she had the opportunity. I wondered if
now, after having learned something of how a slave can be pleasing to a master
or mistress, she would be able to resist the offer I had once made of my body,
or if she would order me to take my place, kneeling between her legs to serve
her pleasure. I wondered if anyone in the world cared any longer for me, or if I
were simply a piece of merchandise, tailored and honed to serve a particular and
suitable purpose, with a certain value, to be sold, consumed, and discarded.
Then I would lie awake sobbing into my pillow. But even then I wondered if this
life was somehow deeply right for me, if it was what I was good for, what I had
been meant to be.
We will never know if it were somehow foreordained that we would become the
people we are today, or if our lives are simply the product of conscious choice
and random chance accumulated over many years. Was I a true slave who had only
now found her ultimate fulfillment, or just another young woman who had taken a
now-forgotten first step down the slippery slope that led me to where I was now,
bound naked to a bed in a slave training house, my body still sore from my
masters' uses, the taste of their domination still in my mouth?
