Chapter 8: My New Life
From that night, my fortunes had nowhere to go but up. And beginning the next
morning, my lot did begin to improve. I was unchained in the morning and
allowed to shower, eat, and rest in the slaves' quarters. For breakfast and
lunch, unless we were called to perform our services elsewhere, we were allowed
to eat as we chose from a small kitchen stocked with an assortment of healthy
foods - cereal, skim milk, juices, fruit, fresh bread, raw vegetables, and so
on. That first day, I was set to no menial chores, instead being allowed to
rest and recover from the previous night's exertions. Though they were strict,
our overseers were not unnecessarily cruel. The treatment I had suffered my
first night was a ritual debasement imposed on every new slave girl, intended
primarily to instruct her in her status and motivate her to be pleasing; they
were sufficiently confident in its effectiveness that they saw no need to
subject me to further abuse, but preferred to let their newest asset restore her
strength and desirability.
Some of the other girls introduced themselves to me. Besides Michelle, there
were two other Americans: Annabelle, from a liberal arts college in the
Northeast, and Laura, who had been a model in New York. Once again I found
myself in the awkward position of being one of the less attractive girls in a
group. I knew that I would have to compensate for my face and body - certainly
attractive, but not in the caliber of some of the girls around me - with
absolute submissiveness and a fervent desire to please.
Despite our disparate backgrounds, all of the girls I met shared one thing in
common - a hidden interest in submission that eventually led to our introduction
into actual slavery. Apparently the type of slavers whom we had encountered,
who seemed to operate in countries across the globe, were only interested in
girls whose psychological profiles indicated that they could be molded into
willing, helpless slaves. Of course, this made perfect sense. What man,
presented with a reluctant, fearful slave girl, cowed into submission by
beatings and threats, would not prefer an eager, submissive slave slut,
desperate to please, willingly opening her thighs before him for his pleasure?
I knew that I fell into that category, and I suspected that my new colleagues
did as well.
In the evening, I was put to work in the club again - not, as I had feared,
bound again over the same table to be used like so much captive flesh, but
instead put to the more mundane task of waiting tables. Of course, as I had
been instructed prior to going out onto the floor, I was to consider any client
my absolute master, and was to comply immediately with any demands he made upon
my body. My absolute nudity, especially compared with some of the girls who had
been permitted clothing, revealing as it was, only reinforced my availability.
But I was grateful nonetheless for this improvement in my condition. I was
confident that, on my own two feet or kneeling before a client, I knew how to
please a man. I was confident that my masters would find me an acceptable
slave, and that I could count on my skills and my intrinsic submissiveness to
protect me from the beatings and abuses that I could still feel in my sore body.
By watching the other girls, I quickly learned how to behave when serving
clients in the club. We were to be elegant and unobtrusive, taking their orders
and delivering their drinks and food, but at the same time were to subtly and
sensuously offer the additional services that could be commanded of a slave
girl. "How else may I serve you, master?" and "Does master desire anything else
from this slave?" were phrases that I would use with a client who seemed more
interested in drink and conversation than in intimate services; "This slave begs
to please you" or "This slave begs to be raped" would be more appropriate with a
client whose gaze was drawn to my naked breasts and thighs. I also learned the
silent, non-verbal but highly communicative signals that slave girls might
resort to - lowering my eyes, licking my parted lips, spreading my thighs, or
pushing my breasts up and forward, so that a master might choose to reach out
and caress them. I knew it was in my interests to draw attention, to make
myself desirable, to be the kind of girl that a man might order to her knees
before him, or might drag off to a private room, there to put her through her
paces. And knowing that to be my station, I could not help myself from truly
wanting to be found desirable, to be put on my back and used like the slave I
was, to be allowed to cry out my submission in the arms of a master.
That first night, though, no man saw fit to spend the additional money to take
me to a private room. A few commanded me to please them at their tables,
kneeling before them while they continued with their drinks and their
conversation, occasionally giving me a word of encouragement or a silent
instruction with a hand locked in my hair. After serving them, I would quietly
kiss their feet, thank them, and withdraw, leaving them to their company. I
hoped I had been satisfactory and that there would not be any negative reports
on me.
Over the next several days, however, I grew more and more bold, and as a
consequence had more and more success in soliciting clients. For the most part,
the clientele of the Club Aphrodite preferred eager, willing slave sluts, girls
who would throw themselves, hot and wet, at their feet, begging to be taken.
And as I gained confidence, I became more and more brazen, more and more forward
in displaying my charms for men and communicating to them the exquisite
pleasures I might provide them, either through verbal description or through the
wordless moans of a desperate slave girl seeking the dominating touch of a
master. While some of this performance was an act, some of it was real - I did
want to be taken and dominated, not just because that would improve my standing
among the slaves, but also because that was the sole relevant measure of my
value. In school my value had been set by grades, friends, and boyfriends; here
my value was set by my ability to please men, and I deeply, psychologically
wanted to be valued. I welcomed the taste of a master in my mouth, or the
feeling of him in my body, as a valid sign of the meaning my life now had, and I
was truly grateful to the men who saw fit to give me that sign.
One night several days into my tenure at the club, I brought a vodka martini to
a client sitting alone at a side table, and placed it before him. He was
middle-aged, somewhat portly, and balding, and his suit was uncharacteristically
pedestrian for the setting. But he was a man, and I was a naked slave. I
dropped to my knees, my thighs wide, leaning forward to kiss and caress his
knees and thighs. "Would master care to make use of this slave?" I begged.
"What can you do for me?" he asked.
"Whatever master can imagine, and many things besides," I said, looking up at
him with my lips parted sensuously. It was a standard response.
"Very well. Take me to a private room," he said.
"Oh, thank you, master," I said, covering his feet with kisses. I was truly
gratified. Not only had he accepted the humble offer of my naked body, but he
would also pay an additional fee for my use, bringing my masters more money.
I led him down the hallway to one of the private bedrooms, opened the door, and
let him precede me into the room. It was a rule in the club that we should
always let clients enter the room first. It was a small gesture, and one that
probably escaped the attention of most of our customers, but one that reinforced
our subservient status.
He crossed the room and sat down in the large armchair. I got down on all fours
and crawled across the room to his feet, my breasts and hips swaying prettily.
I knelt before him and bent down to begin taking off his shoes, caressing his
feet and calves lovingly and submissively. "How may I please you, master?" I
said.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Anything master wishes," I answered. "But here, I answer to 'Jenny.'"
"Well, Jenny, what is your favorite flower?"
I looked up at him in shock. I remembered why I was here. I thought for a
moment. "Roses," I whispered. "White roses."
"Well," he said casually, "I like daffodils, but my favorite flower is the
chrysanthemum." That was the code phrase. I was suddenly frightened. I knew
how to please a man with my body. I was not sure how to be a spy. "So what
have you learned, Jenny?" he said.
I panicked. In my effort to become an acceptable slave, I had almost completely
forgotten about the mission Cristina had assigned me. I began to ramble on
about any topic I could think of - how I had been brought to Paris, the way the
club worked, Philippe Arnaud, Mr. McGregor, Felix, the other girls. I hoped he
would not give up on me. He was my connection to another life, where I might be
something more than a naked slave desperate to serve men with her body.
"Well, we know all that already," he said. "But you are clearly eager to help.
Just keep your ears open and remember everything you hear. In this type of
case, there's no such thing as a big break. It's a lot of little details that,
when you put them together, begin to paint a picture."
"Yes, master," I said. Although I suppose we had some sort of professional
relationship, I was still naked and on my knees before him. "Thank you, master.
I'll do better next time."
"I'm sure you will," he said, patting me on the head. "Now let's put that
pretty mouth of yours to better use." I looked up at him, not sure what he
meant, but the hands drawing my head towards his lap made his intentions clear.
"I know you want it, little slut," he said. "That's why you were picked for
this job."
I knew he was right. It only took me a few seconds to revert from Jenny the
free-willed spy to Jenny the perfectly obedient sex slave. A few minutes later
I felt him stiffen and heard him gasp as he filled my mouth. I swallowed as I
had been conditioned to do. "Thank you, master," I said when he finally
withdrew from me.
Over the next several weeks I increased my efforts to keep abreast of things
that were going on at the club. I casually asked the other slaves what they
knew about the business, and even tried to ask innocent questions of my masters
that might shed light on their operation - asking about my price, about how much
they might make off a girl such as me, about where and how they gathered the
slaves who were the backbone of their operation. I explained that, having once
envisioned a career in corporate law, I was simply interested in how the
business worked. If anyone might have been suspicious, I think they were
mollified by my nearly perfect behavior, by my evident zealousness to be
absolutely subservient and perfectly pleasing. And every week or two, my
contact to the external world - whose name I would never find out - would visit
the club, listen to my report, and then make use of my body as if I were simply
a pretty slave girl to be had on a moment's whim. Which, of course, I was.
My efforts to become a better slave were also paying dividends. During this
period, I moved up from being a "class C" girl to class B and finally to class
A. As a benefit of my elevation, I was permitted to wear clothing - at least
until a master ordered me strip myself naked, for his viewing pleasure or for
his use. My sole garment was what was called a "slave dress" - a single piece
of thin, light blue silk hanging from thin straps over my shoulders, barely
covering my body from the top part of my breasts to the upper part of my thighs,
open to my waist in back and slit to the hip on both sides. It was a mockery
of a dress more than anything else, that would reveal my body with only a slight
change in position, that in any case afforded no protection against a master's
touch, and that, of course, I could be ordered to remove at any instant. But at
least I did not have to go completely naked at all times, for which I was deeply
thankful.
As a "class A" girl, I was also not required to serve the club staff during the
day, supposedly to allow me to better serve the paying clients in the evening.
But in my desire to be a perfect slave, I chose not to insist on this privilege,
and continued to offer myself for use to whoever might want me. I knew that the
quality of my life depended on being pleasing to all of my masters, and that I
was most qualified to do so on my knees or back, my body available for the
taking. I knew some of the other girls resented me for this degree of
wantonness, but I didn't care what they thought. I was a slave girl, I existed
for the pleasure of men, and it was men that I would serve.
In the weeks as summer turned to autumn, I also began to attract a set of
"regular" clients, for whom I was one of the particular attractions of the club.
A client would be allowed to reserve a favorite slave, either for a night or
part of one, if he were willing to pay an additional fee. However, a slave girl
could only be reserved for up to three nights per week; the other nights, she
had to be freely available to whatever client desired her use. (And, of course,
being slaves, we had no nights off; pleasing our masters was not an occupation
that we deserved rest from, but rather a simple attribute of our condition.)
One of my "regulars" was a wealthy aristocrat from a small Arabian principality.
He had a long, un-spellable, Arabic-sounding name, but went among us by "David."
He had studied at Cambridge and divided his time between London and his home
country, taking the Chunnel on most weekends to enjoy the pleasures of Paris -
including those he was able to take from my naked body. He was, as they say,
tall, dark, and handsome, a consummate gentleman, and a man who knew how to use
a slave girl, as I quickly learned the first night that he chose me for his
amusement.
That night, he used me more times than I had imagined possible, and in more ways
- first unilaterally, tying me with my legs spread and simply satisfying himself
in my flesh, then more creatively, forcing me to serve him in positions I had
not known my body could assume, then passionately, driving me repeatedly to
painful arousal with his tongue and his hands, finally forcing me to beg, as a
humiliated, debased slave, for my orgasm. When he finally untied me, I fell to
my knees before him and bent down to lick and kiss at his feet. I was
physically and emotionally devastated by the experience, but at the same time I
felt a profound sense of joy and satisfaction. I knew that I had served this
complete stranger as only a slave girl can serve, had been used as only a slave
can be used, but I felt joy in the thought that he had chose me as the girl he
would use, that I might have been able to be pleasing to him in some small way.
Doubtless, had I not been pleasing, I would have been thrown back onto the floor
of the lounge, replaced by another girl of his choice at no additional charge;
that he had elected to extract such long and intimate services from my body must
have indicated that I had been found worthy of pleasing him. That night, I
learned not only that I could be forced to spread my legs for men, or that I
could be compelled to respond physically and emotionally to a man's uses, but
that I wanted to be so used, that I longed in my heart and my belly to be
mastered, stripped naked and thrown to a man's feet to be raped as the slave I
was.
After that first night, whenever David entered the club, I would immediately -
unless I was serving another client, who would then have complete rights over my
body - bring him his favorite drink, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and strip
myself naked at his feet, mutely or explicitly begging to be put to my uses.
Sometimes he would simply pat me on the head and send me on my way, or sometimes
he would indicate a friend of his whom I must serve as passionately and
helplessly as I served him. But other times he would grab me by the hair and
pull me to a private room, there to throw me forward on my hands and knees,
where he would summarily rape me before proceeding to explore his larger
repertoire of uses for a slave girl. Those nights I would lie awake even as he
slept, softly kissing his legs and feet so as not to wake him, thanking Cristina
for having seen the slave in me and letting me know the fulfillment I could find
only in absolute submission.
Some clients seemed to take pleasure less in sexual services themselves than in
the opportunity to thoroughly dominate a naked slave girl, to have me completely
at their mercy, a willing, compliant, and helpless toy for their amusement.
They might have me crawl about the room at their feet, assume various positions
of submission and vulnerability, lick and kiss their bodies or even inanimate
objects, or otherwise express my inferiority and subjugation. Or some would
take pleasure in binding me in different positions, using the arsenal of
specialized equipment put at their disposal - blindfolds, gags, cuffs, chains,
and an assortment of devices made of leather, steel, or latex too complex to
describe. I might be left helplessly bound and blindfolded, waiting in
terrifying anticipation to know what would next be done to me. Other men
enjoyed having me dress up in various costumes and pose for them, and then
invariably remove those clothes, either slowly, piece by piece, gradually
uncovering the slave's body they had paid for and could soon possess, or
quickly, tearing off my clothes to reveal the naked slut that I knew myself to
be, soon on her knees and begging to be used.
There are many ways in which a master can enjoy the services of a complete
slave, and I learned many of them.
Of course, the majority of the clients I served had little in the way of
imagination. In the most common scenario, I would be simply ordered to my
knees, there to beg briefly for the privilege of pleasing my master, before he
consented to my pleas and allowed me to serve him with my mouth. These men, I
decided, were either lazy or unimaginative. But still I was compelled to obey
them instantly and perfectly. And I learned to find satisfaction even in such a
simple and routine act of service. Although my body would be scarcely aroused,
at the moment I felt the master's warmth spreading across my mouth and down my
throat, I would still feel a deep surge of selfless ecstasy, secure in the
knowledge that, for this moment at least, I had successfully fulfilled my new
purpose in life. And when I thanked him, on all fours, my hair cascading over
his feet as I kissed them helplessly, it was not a mere formality, but a true
expression of my slave's feelings.
And so the summer passed into autumn, as the leaves I could only see in the
distance changed colors and the air in the courtyard grew crisper.
