My Berlin Summer

This is the seventh chapter in our story about an American college student who
is enticed and then abducted into a life of slavery during a summer abroad. 
This chapter accelerates Jenny's transition from an innocent submissive into a
slave girl.  The basic themes are slavery, domination, humiliation, etc.  The
influences will be obvious to many.  Earlier chapters were posted to
alt.sex.stories, alt.sex.stories.bondage, alt.sex.stores.moderated,
www.storiesonline.net, and www.geocities.com/mrdjian.

Feedback is always welcome at danawilliams7979@yahoo.com.  I greatly appreciate
the messages I have received from readers; nothing is quite so inspiring as
praise.  The pace of publication may slow down a bit due to other demands, but
there should be a new chapter every week or two.

Please feel free to save and distribute copies as you wish, so long as you
maintain proper attribution.  You don't need my permission to archive the story
on a Web site, but please do let me know if you do so.

***

My Berlin Summer,  (MF/f slavery) by Dana Williams From:
danawilliams7979@yahoo.com (DW)

========================================================================

My Berlin Summer Chapter 1: The Invitation

=================================

I suppose it was all my own fault. I should have known what I was getting into.
Or maybe I did know, and that was why I got into it.  Sometimes it's hard to say
what we do of our own conscious volition, and what we are somehow drawn into
doing. But it happened all the same.

It was the summer after my junior year in college, when the world still lay
before me. I was living in Berlin, in Kreuzberg, and like any good American
college student, I spent my nights in Prenzlauer Berg, in what had once been
East Berlin. I was nominally in Berlin to learn German and to study art history,
but really I was there to have fun. And fun I had. It was late June, only three
weeks after I had arrived, and I had fallen in with a group of German students
whom I idolized - older, better traveled, more world-weary, they seemed the very
embodiment of sophistication to a girl from California, abroad for the first
time.

My real idol, though I tried my best not to admit it, was tall, black-haired,
leather-clad Cristina, a philosophy student and probably a lesbian. Despite my
considerably shorter stature, chestnut-brown hair, and awkward tendency to smile
when Cristina would have scowled, I fantasized about being like her - hard,
cutting, and supremely self-confident. When she invited me to do something with
her, I would invariably forget whatever plans I had to trail along with her
loyally.

So it was one day when she called my apartment and asked - no, told - me to come
have breakfast with her. We were eating croissants and drinking black coffee at
an outdoor table when she pushed her copy of Zitty across the table to me,
pointed at an advertisement, and said, "What do you think of that?"

I looked at the ad. It was a small black-and-white picture of a woman on hands
and knees, wearing only the manacles that joined her wrists and ankles, a metal
collar, and a leash, her lips pressed against a whip being held above her face
by an unseen master. I think my whole body must have quivered when I saw that
picture. It was not the first time I had wondered what it would be like to be
that woman - naked, chained, and completely at the mercy of a firm master. Or
mistress.  Here I was looking at the image of my fantasy.

I shook my head to clear my eyes and read the ad. It advertised a "Bondage Ball"
at a large East Berlin club - the next evening. I had heard dimly of this sort
of thing - a vast, tumultuous frenzy of leather-clad masters and slaves groping
each other to loud techno music - and had even, in my more libertine moments,
imagined that I might summon up the courage to go. But now that it was before me
...

"Well? I see that you are interested." Cristina's British-German accent brought
me back to the breakfast table.

"Um ... it seems interesting. I've never been to something like that, but I've
often thought of going." That, at least, was true.

Cristina gave me a long, hard look. I wondered if she could see into my eyes and
see a naked slave hiding behind them, if my inner nature were so evident. I
lowered my eyes, before realizing that was exactly what a slave would do. I
blushed, waiting for her to say something.  "Master or a slave?" she finally
asked.

My body screamed out for me to proclaim my slavehood, my desire to submit. But
my inhibitions were still too strong. I had not yet learned that girls such as I
were not allowed inhibitions. "I don't know ... it just seems interesting," I
managed to mumble.

"Well, if you want to go with me, you'll have to go as my slave," Cristina said
cheerfully. The words sent a thrill through my body from deep inside. I realized
that I was aroused just thinking about the possibility of going to a club as a
woman's slave. I wondered what I would have to do - what I would be allowed to
wear, whether I would be collared, or even leashed, whether I would have to
serve her as a slave ... "Well, what do you think?" Her voice brought me back to
reality.

"Are you serious?" I was just trying to buy time to think, but instantly I
regretted it ... would she withdraw the offer? Had I missed my chance to play
out my fantasy? "I mean, I'm open to anything," I said, trying to keep the
possibility open.

"OK, I have to go," Cristina said, standing up. My stomach felt empty for a
moment. "Think about it. If you want to be my slave, call me by tomorrow morning
so we have time to get you something to wear."

"OK, I'll think about it," I said, doing my best to sound assured and, I was
sure, failing miserably.

Once Cristina was out of sight, I turned back to the advertisement for the party
and considered the enticing, naked slave in the picture, her eyes closed as she
lingeringly, tenderly kissed the supple leather of the whip to which she was
subject. Or at least, that's what I was thinking. I tried to imagine what it
would be like, forced to my hands and knees, my wrists and ankles joined by
short lengths of chain, my head pulled upward by the pull on my chain leash,
completely nude, open to the visual and physical exploitation of a master. I
felt heat between my thighs. I tried to imagine what the club would be like.
Most likely, I expected, it would be disappointingly tame - a crowd of yuppies
playing at dominance and submission, spoiled brats in fancy leather costumes,
mild arousal destined for disappointment.  But the possibilities ... Perhaps I
would be stripped naked before a crowd of people, forced to crawl on the floor
and beg to lick their feet. Perhaps I would be made to dance naked before men,
desperately trying to interest them in my body until one deigned to make use of
it, only then to dance again, until all the men were satisfied.  Perhaps I would
be thrown over a table, my legs tied apart, to be casually used by any man who
so chose.

I knew then that I would go to that club. It was only a matter of gathering up
the courage to say that to Cristina.

I gathered up my things and hurried home to my apartment, visions of myself as a
slave girl passing through my mind. On my knees, bent over, licking the feet of
a master; standing on my toes, my wrists bound high above my head, awaiting the
touch of the lash; naked, on an auction block, forced to display my charms
openly to a crowd of bidders; kneeling before a man, hands bound behind my back,
serving his pleasure. I tried to banish the visions from my mind, but they kept
coming back. I had had these thoughts before, but never with this intensity.
Before, being a slave girl had been but an idle fantasy, one of the themes I
used occasionally when bored and seeking arousal. I would get a mild charge out
of seeing a picture of a woman in bondage, but little more; it never seemed a
plausible reality.  Now, at least for this moment, it seemed my destiny.
Cristina had unleashed a flood of emotions whose force I had never suspected.
They were sure to be disappointed at the club itself, I expected, but until
then, I would give myself up to my fantasy.

By the time I arrived at my small walkup apartment, I was damp between the
thighs. I debated momentarily whether it was appropriate for a slave girl to
pleasure herself, but ultimately could not resist the temptation, closing my
eyes and imagining the strong, powerful master who was forcing himself upon me,
raping my body with his manhood, using me mercilessly for his pleasure, then
casting me into the arms of another, without a second thought for the girl he
had just ravished. I felt their plunging thrusts as they took pleasure in my
vulnerable, open, enslaved softness, impressing on me my degraded condition,
nothing more than a vessel for their amusement and relaxation. I came as I
imagined only a slave girl could, completely uninhibited, without regard for
dignity or propriety. When the imaginary warriors had finished with their
plaything, she was a small, spent bundle of slave flesh lying exhausted on the
now-damp sheets of her summer-in-Europe futon.

Deeply embarrassed, and thankful that no one could see my condition, I took a
shower and decided there was no way I could go the club.



The next morning, however, I found myself dialing Cristina's number.

Several times I made it partway through the digits before hanging up.  When I
finally had the courage to press the last button, I found myself praying for her
answering machine. After five rings, I began to relax. Then her voice answered
the phone. "Hello?"

"Uh, hi, Cristina, this is Jennifer."

"Who?"

"You know, Jennifer."

"Oh, yeah. I'm sorry. What do you want?"

"Well, about going to that club tonight, ..."

"What club?"

"You know, the one with that event tonight." Silence. "The Bondage Ball."

"Oh, yeah. What about it?"

"Well, yesterday, you said that maybe we would go. And ... well, I think I would
be interested in seeing what it's like."

Silence. "You want to go as my slave?"

Now it was my turn to be silent. "Yes," I whispered. Although I was only
agreeing to accompany her in the role of a submissive to a club, I knew that
inside I was admitting something much deeper and more significant.

"You'll be my slave tonight?"

"Yes." Silence. "I'll be your slave." There. I had said it. It was out in the
world, and someone had heard it. I was not what people thought me to be - a
smart, well-educated, independent, free woman.  Instead, I was something else -
a naked slave girl asking for the collar of a master. I felt the now-familiar
surge of arousal as I contemplated the idea. There was silence on the other end.
Perhaps Cristina was wondering if I would make an acceptable slave - wondering
how I would look chained nude at her feet, or how skillful I could be with my
mouth and hands, or what my resale value could be, appropriately displayed to
assembled masters.

"Well, OK," she said. "Come over to my apartment around nine tonight."

"Thank you," I said, before realizing it was completely inappropriate.

Or maybe it was appropriate that a slave should thank her mistress.  "What
should I wear?" I had visions of bikinis, miniskirts, sheath dresses, ...

"Oh, don't worry about that," Cristina answered. "I'll find you something
appropriate."

"OK. Well, see you tonight."

"See you," she said. "Get plenty of rest." And then she hung up.

I resisted the urge to tear off my clothes and submit myself once again to the
use of my imaginary masters, this time resolving to deny myself until tonight. A
slave's body, after all, is not her own; it is up to the masters when, or even
if at all, she may enjoy its use.  Or at least that's how I imagined it must be.

I spent the day wandering around Schoneberg, looking into bookstores and
sneaking glances at the "art" photography books showing pictures of bound, naked
women. I wondered which of the models I would most resemble tonight when I was
myself exhibited to an audience of people I had never met. I returned to my
apartment, stripped myself naked, buckled a belt around my neck to take the
place of a collar, and posed before my full-length mirror, wondering what that
audience would see in me. Would they see just an American college girl playing a
role, soon to return to college and law school and a future in mergers and
acquisitions? Or would they see something else - a true slave girl, desperate to
please, seeking a master to put her in her place, to take away her freedom and
impose his will on her, to claim her naked beauty for his own ruthless use? I
regarded my body in the mirror. Perhaps men would find me of interest, even if I
was not tall, thin, and blonde; I knelt before the mirror, knees spread widely,
shoulder pulled back to project my breasts forward, lips half open in
anticipation ... Yes, I thought a man could find that wanton slut of interest -
perhaps the firmness of her full breasts, or the warmth of her mouth, or the
curves of her hips and thighs, or the softness of her belly. Or a woman might
find her of interest, might find her worthy of a collar and a chain and long
nights rendering intimate service with her lips and tongue. I had never been
particularly attracted to women, but I knew that it was a master I sought, and
whether that master were a man or woman was less important than that he or she
would use me as what I was, a plaything to be used and abused, to be enjoyed and
cast aside and forgotten. I was almost unbearably aroused looking at myself in
the mirror and imagining the indignities and humiliations I might be suffering
in only a few hours.

I wondered what Cristina would make me wear tonight - perhaps a latex bondage
suit, perhaps a simple string bikini, perhaps nothing but a collar and chains. I
hoped she would let me wear something - I had never been naked in public and,
despite my attraction to it, was simultaneously terrified at the thought. I
wondered if I should dress up somehow to go to her apartment. Did she expect a
brazen, begging slut, or a shy, vulnerable slave girl? Or just an ordinary
American college student, whom she would transform to suit her tastes?

I decided that, since she had not asked me to dress the part of a slave, to do
so would only draw attention to my inner yearnings that I was still not prepared
to admit to anyone. So as the dusk began to fall, I pulled on my customary
uniform - jeans, sandals, and a snug but generally modest halter top. It was too
warm for a sweater or jacket.

My heart pounding in my chest, I took a taxi to Cristina's apartment, wondering
if the driver could sense my unease, could strip me naked with his eyes and see
me for the slave I would soon be. I was so distracted I almost forgot to collect
my change until he shouted after me as I was walking away. I opened the outer
door of Cristina's building, tried to take a deep breath, failed, and pushed the
button for her apartment. The door buzzed, I pushed it, and I was inside.

Cristina opened the door and gave me a searching once-over from head to toe. I
was desperately afraid to catch a glint of disappointment in her eye. Should I
have worn something more revealing, more feminine? "I figured you would dress me
the way you wanted ..." I stammered.

"Of course, my dear," Cristina said. "But first, we have to make sure you want
to go through with this."

"Yes, I do."

"For this evening, you agree to be my willing, obedient slave, to obey me
unquestioningly in all things, to serve me and anyone I designate in any way I
choose at an instant's command?"

I swallowed. I thought for an instant about what might be commanded of me. I was
no virgin, but at the same time I was hardly experienced, and could only imagine
what a ruthless master might demand of my body. I saw myself being taken
simultaneously by two or even three men ... "Yes. I agree," I whispered.

Cristina smiled. "Of course, if at any time you wish to back out of this
agreement, you may. I will simply pack you into a taxi and send you back home.
But otherwise, you are mine."

"I'm yours." I tried to smile to show bravery, but only managed to blush and
lower my eyes.

"All right, let's get started. First, you will only speak when spoken to. You
will address any person you see, including me, as master or mistress - even
other slaves. Is that clear?"

"Yes ... yes, mistress," I said.

"Good." She reached behind her, picked up a scrap of cloth, and threw it at me.
"Now take off all your clothes and put that on." I paused.  "You can use the
bathroom to change."

Breathing a deep sigh of relief, I took the garment into the bathroom and closed
the door. What was I getting myself into? I looked at the clothing she had given
me. It was a simple, white negligee, slightly translucent, hardly there at all.
In it I would be next to naked before hundreds of strangers. Well, there was no
turning back now. I took off all my clothes, pulled it over my head, and looked
in the mirror. It hung from two thin straps on my shoulders, covered only the
bottom half of my breasts, and came only a fraction of the way down my thighs.
The tips of my breasts pressed against and showed clearly through the thin white
fabric. A deep cut exposed my back all the way to my waist. If I bent over, my
most intimate regions would come clearly into view of anyone standing behind me.
Nothing I had imagined - not even complete nudity - could be as humiliating as
this scanty garment. It was simply begging to be torn away, inviting men to
strip me naked and have me as the slave I was. I thought momentarily of backing
out of the bargain. But I was too close to realizing a fantasy that was too dear
to me to turn aside now.  Besides, a real slave would have no such choice. She
would simply have to wear whatever her masters deigned to throw her or, failing
that, nothing.

I pulled the garment down as far as it would go on my thighs, pulling it more
tightly across my breasts in the process, opened the door, and walked out in
front of Cristina. My breath caught in my throat when I saw what she was holding
- a short riding crop. "Not bad," she said.  "Turn around. Display yourself for
me." Not sure what that meant, I turned slowly, standing as straight as I could,
pulling back my shoulders and pushing my breasts forward for her to review. I
knew she could see them clearly; I hoped she liked them. That was all a slave
could hope for - to be pleasing to her master.

I was again standing before her. "Kneel," she commanded, pushing down on my left
shoulder with the riding crop. "Down on your heels," she ordered. I complied
eagerly, finally able to live out my fantasy, to demonstrate my submission to my
master. I kept my knees pressed tightly together, afraid that opening them would
expose myself completely to her gaze. Simply kneeling had already drawn the thin
fabric even higher on my thighs.

"Spread your knees," Cristina said simply. I looked up at her and swallowed.
"Now, slut," she continued. I opened them cautiously.  "Wider, slut!" she
ordered. "A slave must always open herself to the uses of her master." I spread
my knees until my thighs made a right angle between them. The hem of the garment
I wore was balanced precariously across the tops of my thighs. I put my hands
palms down on my now-bare thighs, pulled back my shoulders, thrust out my
breasts, and looked up again at my mistress, a slave hoping desperately for
acceptance. I hoped she liked what she saw - an eager slave who would do
anything to please her. It was what I was.

"Not bad," she said, smiling. "Now kiss my whip." She pressed the crop to my
lips. I kissed it hesitantly. "Not like that, slut!" she shouted. "Use your
tongue, take it in your mouth, caress it like your master's body." A shudder
went through my body, imagining that it was instead my imaginary master's
manhood pressed to my lips instead. I closed my eyes, opened my lips, and began
to tongue the crop with a heat and passion that my previous boyfriends would
have been shocked to behold. "Very good, slave," I could hear Cristina saying.
"That is how a slave pleases her master. I think you will do quite nicely." I
felt a surge of warmth course through me when she praised me.  Perhaps I would
be a good slave? I wondered why that thought thrilled me so deeply. I wondered
if I should be objecting to Cristina's casual treatment of me, as if I were in
reality nothing but a slave.  I wondered if a smart, independent woman would
have bolted to her feet and run from the room. But I realized that such a woman
would never have consented to don the flimsy garment I had willingly put on, to
open her knees so submissively.

Cristina laughed. "You may stop now, slut," she said. I lowered my eyes,
embarrassed. I had been so carried away that I had forgotten what I was doing.
"I think you really enjoyed kissing my whip," she said. "Didn't you?"

"Yes, mistress," I whispered.

"Good. That's how it should be." Cristina then turned and picked something up
off the table behind her. When she turned back to me, I could see what it was -
a heavy, chrome-colored collar, two half-circles attached at a heavy hinge.
"Hold back your hair," she said. I pulled up my long, brown hair and held it up
above my head.  She crouched down in front of me and casually snapped the collar
about my neck. The sound of the lock closing filled me with terror. Now I was
truly enslaved to her, for all the world to know. I put my hands to the collar
and felt its smooth, hard, cold surface. I knew nothing I could do could remove
that collar from my neck.

"You look just about ready," Cristina mused, looking over my scantily clad form.
"Just a couple of finishing touches ... Stand up and turn around." I obeyed
immediately. If I were playing a role, I would play it perfectly. "Hands behind
your back." Dreading what was coming next, I complied. I felt the steel
handcuffs lock around my small wrists and ratchet down. I tried to pull my
wrists apart and felt the links of chain joining them go taut. I felt my breasts
strain forward against the thin garment. My hands were bound behind my back
until Cristina chose to release them. I could not even use them to protect my
body from her or anyone else's attentions.

Cristina spun me around to face her. She was holding a long, thin chain. She
reached up to my neck and quickly snapped one end of it onto what must have been
a ring on the front of my collar. I was leashed! I could be led anywhere she
wished, like an animal. And with my hands chained behind my back, a leash
dangling from my collar, my slavery was immediately evident to even the most
casual observer.

"Cristina? ... Mistress? Are you taking me to the club like this?"

My head reeled from the backhanded slap of her leather-gloved hand.

"You are not to speak unless spoken to, slut," she said.

"Yes, mistress," I whispered. "I'm sorry, mistress."

"And yes, I am taking you to the club like this. Any objections and I'll cut
your clothes off and walk you through the streets naked." I repressed a
momentary desire to be led naked through the streets of Berlin. Facing a club
full of strangers in my current state was more than enough for my first night in
bondage.

"Kneel and wait here," Cristina ordered. I obeyed, kneeling back on my heels as
I had been taught, not forgetting to spread my knees as widely as I could. She
gathered a few belongings, including my wallet and keys, and prepared to go.
Then she returned to me, picked up my leash, and said, "Come along, slave." I
got to my feet hesitantly.  "You will follow behind me, on my left."

"Yes, mistress," I said, taking up position. I was about to walk out in public
wearing nothing more than a translucent piece of lingerie that exposed more of
my body than it covered, the handcuffs on my wrists, and the steel collar around
my neck. I thought I would die with humiliation. But at the same time, I knew
from the heat between my thighs I was incredibly aroused. If Cristina had
commanded me to kneel before her and serve her with my mouth I would have obeyed
instantly. Instead, she tugged sharply on the leash. Stumbling, I followed her
out the door, down the stairs, and out into the Berlin night.

My Berlin Summer Chapter 2: The Club

=============================

Luckily, there was a car - a stretch limousine - waiting to take us to the club.
The driver opened the back door for us, staring pointedly at my body all the
while. I did my best to avert my eyes. Once in the car, Cristina pushed me to my
knees on the floor. "You will lick my boots until we get there," she said
simply. I crawled in front of her on my knees, carefully lowered my upper body
to the floor so that her black leather boots were just in front of my face, and
delicately opened my mouth and extended my tongue to her right boot. I could
taste the new leather on my tongue. I closed my eyes, shutting out all sensation
except the feeling of her boots on my lips and tongue.  Although I was only an
amateur in the arts of giving pleasure, I did everything I could imagine a man
or woman could want from a slave's mouth, demonstrating my abject submission to
Cristina's boots. I felt her hand casually running through my long hair as if
she were petting a favorite dog.

Soon - too soon - I felt the car come to a stop. My heart pounding, my tongue
still stroking the leather of Cristina's boots, I listened to the driver get
out, walk around the car, and open the back door. I felt a tug on my leash as
Cristina pulled me back up to my knees, spreading them with a kick of her boot.
Then she stepped out of the car, forcing me to trail behind her.

As I stepped onto the sidewalk, I saw the line of people waiting at the door,
dressed in an outlandish assortment of black leather, latex, spandex, and
chains. There was an assortment of masters and slaves, but even the slaves -
identifiable mainly by their collars - had the hardened look of experienced
roleplayers. We walked directly toward the door, not bothering to go to the end
of the line, and Cristina began talking to the bouncer in a rapid German. I
stood behind her timidly, submissively, my eyes lowered to escape the gaze of
the crowd that I was sure was fixed solely on me. I could feel a hundred eyes
burning through the mockery of a garment that Cristina had given me to wear,
hugging every curve of my nearly naked body. If my hands had not been chained
behind my back, I would have used them to try to cover my body; if I had not
been collared and leashed, I would have run far away from their cold, evaluating
gazes; but held in place and exposed as I was, I began to feel the helplessness
and vulnerability of the slave girl, constantly open and available for the
contemplation and use of men.

Finally Cristina turned to me and said, in English, "He says that if you get on
your knees and kiss his feet, he'll let us in without waiting in line." She was
laughing. I glanced for a moment at the long line of people and decided that a
moment's humiliation was better than having to wait outside. Cristina tugged me
forward. Standing before the large, well-muscled man, I suddenly felt small, and
soft, and weak, truly only a plaything to give him whatever pleasure and
amusement he might find in a woman's body. Not daring to meet his eyes, I
lowered myself to my knees, bent my head forward toward the ground, and began to
lick and kiss at his feet. I closed my eyes and again tried to lose myself in
the delicious submissiveness of licking the hard, dusty leather, imagining that
I was a slave girl desperately trying to please a master, trying to arouse his
interest, inviting him to throw her on her back and rape her. I don't know how
long I lavished my attentions on his feet before Cristina tugged up on the
leash, saying, "That's enough, slut," and pulled me to my feet. The man gestured
that we should enter. As I walked in front of him I felt his hand lift up the
back of my garment and feel my body. My hands chained as they were, I was
powerless to stop him. Now I knew even more deeply the openness of a slave's
body and the casual uses to which she will routinely be put.

We entered the dark, cavernous club. I had been here several times, but never
before half-naked, my hands chained behind my back, trailing behind the mistress
who held the leash to my collar. I felt all eyes in the club turn towards me as
we stepped across the threshold. I tried to lower my eyes and let my hair drift
across my face, hoping no one would recognize me. Surely anyone who saw me could
hardly recognize Jennifer Nevins, the all-American college girl, in this
submitted, collared slave. Or could they? I looked around. The club was busy but
not filled. There were people who looked like masters, people who looked like
slaves, and a majority of indeterminate status.  The predominant dress was black
leather in all its forms - halters, miniskirts, boots, body suits, harnesses,
gloves, masks, cuffs, whips ... Scattered through the room a few slaves were
partially or fully naked, their breasts or their intimate regions exposed to
public view.  But in general, few people were as openly, vulnerably exhibited as
was I, the curves of my body easily visible through my thin white garment, my
bound hands helpless to protect me. I could depend only on the goodwill and
protection of my mistress.

We had stopped. I looked up. We had reached a table, and Cristina was chatting
with the people seated around it. With a shock, I recognized some of the German
friends I had made in the past few weeks: Iris, the quiet but friendly
violinist; Stefan, the doctor in a local hospital; Frank, the tall political
activist I had secretly admired. I blushed deeply, lowering my head. Now, I
knew, I could never hope to go out with him as an equal.

I was startled by the silence, all the eyes focused on my exposed body. "Yes,"
Cristina said, "our American friend makes a lovely slave. You should have seen
her licking my boots in the car." They laughed. I realized she was speaking
English for my benefit. I wanted to run away and hide. But I was held in place
by her firm hand on my leash.

"I just thought it would be interesting," I started to say, before being rudely
cut off by a backhanded slap from Cristina.

"Slaves do not speak unless spoken to," she reprimanded me. "Everyone here is
your master or mistress," she continued. "You will show them complete deference,
or you will be whipped."

"Yes, mistress," I sobbed. Well, I had asked for this - to be dominated and
humiliated in public. I would just have to endure the night somehow and then
rebuild my life in the morning.

I felt a sharp downward tug on the leash. "Slaves kneel in the presence of free
men and women," Cristina reminded me. I lowered myself to my knees and sat back
on my heels. Not wishing to be slapped again, or worse, I opened my knees.
Cristina's boots pushed them further apart. "Thrust out your breasts, Jenny,"
she ordered.  "Let's see what you've got." I obeyed, sobbing softly, pushing my
breasts forward against the thin fabric that was all I wore. I knew my nipples
were clearly visible to all of my friends.

"Have you used her at all," asked Iris. I was shocked to hear shy, quiet Iris
ask such an open question. But, I realized, I was just a slave. That is what we
are for - being used by our masters.

"No, not yet," Cristina answered. "This is just her first time, remember. But
she has a lot of potential. You should have seen her licking the bouncer's shoes
- you could tell she wanted something else in her mouth. Right, slut?"

"Yes, mistress," I answered.

"Have you ever pleasured a man with your mouth?"

"Yes, mistress," I whispered, reddening even more.

"Are you any good?"

"I think so, mistress." I supposed that at some point soon I might be put to the
test, and I did not want to be accused of misrepresenting my abilities. On the
other hand, judging from my performance with Cristina's boots, I expected that I
would throw myself into the task with passion.

"Well, there's plenty of time to find out about that later," Cristina laughed.
She took an empty seat and continued talking with her friends, in German.

I continued to kneel by her chair, knees still widely spread, hands behind my
back, chest thrust forward - a forgotten slave at her mistress's feet. I felt
heat growing between my thighs. I wondered what my friends thought of me now.
Were they shocked to see me here, dressed as a slave, obedient to a woman's
wishes? Did they think I was just playing a role, that tomorrow I would be the
carefree, innocent American student they had known? Or had they somehow already
known that inside that stereotypical exterior there already lay the heart of an
admitted, secret slave, who longed only for this - to be displayed openly,
humiliatingly, by a firm master? I wondered if I would ever be able to face them
again. Would I ever be able to say to Frank, "Of course, I was just
experimenting to see what it would be like." Or would he simply say, "I know you
are a slave, Jenny, now strip off those clothes, bend over, and grasp your
ankles," and then use me brutally as the slave girl he knew me to be?

I lifted my head slowly to look at Frank. He was staring intently at my body,
which was scarcely hidden from his gaze. He smiled when he caught my eye. I
lowered my eyes again, blushing. "Yes, Jenny, you are even lovelier than I had
thought," he said softly. I lifted my eyes again and smiled, relishing his
compliment. "I'm sure you're even lovelier naked."

"Thank you, master," I said, having been reminded of my status in relation to
him. Then, daring myself to go further, I continued, "This slave is happy if her
body pleases you, master," and tried to smile up at him.

He laughed and playfully ran his hand through my long, brown hair.  "What a
slave you are, my little slut," he said. "It will be a great pleasure to use
you."

"Use me?" I stammered, momentarily forgetting my new position in life.

"When?"

"Just wait and see, my little plaything," Frank said, and turned back toward the
conversation.

Waiting for my mistress to see fit to pay attention to me, I realized what the
life of a slave might be like, unable even to interest her master unless he
chose to be interested in her, desperately striving to be found worthy of
attention. The thought made me feel warm and wonderful. Perhaps this was really
what I was meant to be. I looked shyly up at Cristina - so dark, so strong, so
self-assured. Well, if this was a game, I would play it to the fullest, I
decided. I carefully inched closer to her, maintaining my open-kneed position,
turned my head towards her, and began to kiss and lick the tops of her boots,
just under the knee. I moved from there to her bare thigh, using my tongue as
delicately as possible, fearful of bothering her.  I closed my eyes and indulged
myself in my submission.

I was brought out of my reverie by Cristina's hand in my hair, jerking my head
upright. "Well, I see my little slave is hot," she said, to general laughter
around the table. I blushed yet again. "I think it's time to show you around the
facilities, so we can figure out what to do with you."

"Whatever you wish, mistress," I answered.

I felt a tug on the leash. "Up, slut!" Cristina commanded. I obeyed silently.
She turned and headed toward the back left area of the main club room, leaving
me to follow behind her, stumbling awkwardly, not used to walking quickly with
my hands bound behind my back. Trying to ignore the stares of the people we
passed - and, worse yet, the hands that casually reached out to stroke my
breasts or my backside, from which I was powerless to protect myself - I
followed her through an archway into another large room, this one well-lit by
comparison. I gasped as I looked around.

"This is where slaves get tied up and beaten," Cristina said matter-of-factly.
Indeed, there were nearly-naked bodies in various states of bondage all over the
room - men and women, thin and corpulent, black and white and everything else,
hanging from their wrists and strapped to the floor. Some were completely nude,
but most had been afforded some protection from roving eyes. A platinum blonde
in a leather bikini was spread-eagled to a wooden cross and being whipped by a
man in a biker uniform; a man in a latex bodysuit and matching hood was hogtied
and dangling from a ring suspended from the ceiling; a small Asian woman was
bound with her back to a post, her naked body criss-crossed painfully with
ropes.

I must have had my mouth open in shock. Cristina smiled at me.  "Well, what'll
it be for you? This is what you thought happened to slaves, isn't it?"

I could only shake my head slowly. Some of the bound figures had been left
unattended and completely helpless. "Do people just leave them here like that?"

"Sometimes," she said. "But it's completely safe. You just write on a sign what
people are allowed to do with the slave. If she's not available for general use,
you just say so." I noticed that next to some of the bound slaves, there were
small signs - "look, but don't touch," for example.

"You're not going to tie me up naked, are you?" I asked, shuddering.  Although
my scanty clothing left virtually nothing to the imagination, there was still
something about the tiny shred of modesty it permitted me. To go utterly naked
in such a setting was too frightening to imagine.

"Of course not, my dear Jenny," Cristina said soothingly. She looked around the
room. "There's an open spot," she said, and began leading me further into the
room. I followed, too frightened to ask.

She brought me to a small table, about three feet off the ground, with a padded
surface. Rings were set at several points around the perimeter of the table,
each connected to a short chain and cuff.  "This will do," Cristina said. "Now
stand here and lean onto the table," she ordered. I did as she asked, standing
at the edge of the table and leaning my body over it until most of my weight was
on my stomach and breasts. I felt the handcuffs being taken off my wrists.  Then
my mistress came around in front of me and chained my wrists to the far corners
of the table. A shudder went through my body as I felt the cold steel lock in
place about my wrists. Then she was behind me. I felt my legs pulled widely
apart and my ankles cuffed tightly to the two rear table legs. I was unable to
close my legs. I tried to rise up from the table but was prevented by the short
chains on my wrists. I tried to turn my head but could not see behind me.

I was chained to the table, bending over, forcibly held in place by unbreakable
links of steel. I could feel the short skirt of my garment rising high up on my
hips and knew that my softness was complete available from behind. The most
casual passer-by could see my body so brazenly and vulnerably exposed to view.
Now I knew that a slave could not expect to preserve even the most minimal
degree of modesty. She existed solely for the pleasure and convenience of
masters, and could expect to be displayed accordingly.

"Please, Cristina, don't do this to me," I begged. I was rewarded with an
electric jolt on my bottom where she slapped me with her riding crop. I gasped.

"Slaves don't use their mistress's names," she said, and hit me again.

I yelped in pain this time and shouted, "I'm sorry, mistress! I'm sorry!" hoping
for forgiveness. She walked around in front of me and pressed the crop against
my lips. I kissed it fervently, then began licking and caressing it with my
tongue. If showing my submission to that instrument of discipline would mollify
my mistress, then I would show it as best as I knew how. Cristina smiled, no
doubt amused at the eagerness of her new slave girl, perhaps wondering if she
would bring the same desperation and passion to all forms of service and
submission.

"I'm just going to leave you here for a bit," she said. "And don't worry, I'll
make sure that no one penetrates you."

"Thank you, mistress," I said, with true gratitude. Attracted as I was to the
condition of slavery, I had no wish to be taken from behind without even a
chance to see my rapist.

I heard the sharp click of Cristina's heels as she walked away. I considered my
situation. Only yesterday, before having breakfast with Cristina, I had been a
free-willed, ambitious, popular Californian college student with the world at
her feet. Now I was chained, face down, to a table in a busy nightclub, a collar
locked on my neck, virtually naked, my legs held open to view or worse.
Literally hundreds of people could walk right up and have their way with my
body, protected by nothing more than Cristina's handwritten "no penetration"
sign. Chained as I was, I could not even see them approach. I imagined what it
would be like if I were truly a slave, if I my body really were available to the
casual and forceful pleasures of men, and women, if I might be used quickly and
ruthlessly by a man whose face I would never see, or if another man might walk
up in front of me and demand to be served intimately. I felt immense relief that
I was not, truly, consigned to that fate.  But at the same time, I realized that
I was extremely aroused. I knew that I was wet, my body attempting to prepare
itself for its unseen rapists. Perhaps slave girls were constantly aroused as a
crude defense mechanism against sudden, brutal penetration. I only knew that if
a man were to take advantage of my exposed position, my body at least would
welcome the assault.

Suddenly my body stiffened. I felt a hand slide lazily over the curves of my
bottom, lingering near the parting of my thighs. The hand then drift upward,
under the thin fabric, to caress my flanks, upward toward the flare of my
breasts. "Very nice," I heard a man's voice muse in German. I kept my body
tense, uncertain what humiliation awaited me. "No penetration," I heard him say,
reading Cristina's note. Then he said something rapid that I did not understand.

"Entschuldigen Sie bitte?" I remembered to say.

He laughed. "An American!" he said, in English. "I was just saying, it's too bad
you're not available for ... for penetration. I would surely have taken you,
slave!"

"I'm sorry, master," I said, lifting my head and trying to turn to see him. Was
it really so obvious that I was a slave? But of course - who else would be bound
so provocatively, so vulnerably?

"It's ok, slut," he said, playfully slapping me on the bottom. Then his hand
returned between my legs, testing my most secret region, feeling the slickness
there. "But it seems you could really use something between your legs," he said,
laughing, and walked away.

I was mortified. Not only was I virtually naked, my legs widely spread, but it
was apparent that I was deeply aroused by my predicament.

Other hands came and went, softly caressing or firmly probing the unprotected
curves of my flesh. Men and women lifted my chin so to better see my face, to
see whether this slave was pleasing to the eyes, or one simply to be used from
behind. Some commanded me to lick and suck at their fingers, or to kiss their
whips lingeringly and tenderly. I obeyed as best I could, fearing nothing more
than to displease a master. One forced the handle of a whip lengthwise into my
mouth, ordering me to hold it with my lips, pleasuring it with my tongue. I
complied, tears in my eyes as I contemplated my utter degradation. What kind of
girl would so willingly accept such compounded humiliation, and even be aroused
by it? I knew the answer, but scarcely dared admit it to myself.

Still devotedly swirling my tongue around the whip handle, I heard Cristina's
voice above me. "I see you found something to keep your mouth occupied, slut." I
lifted my eyes to her, but did not stop my work. She reached down, grasped the
whip handle, and began to slowly slide it in and out of my mouth. Sobbing, I
continued to lavish my intimate attentions on the leather shaft. She pushed it
deeper and deeper into my mouth, almost forcing me to gag. I closed my eyes and
imagined it was a master I was serving. This was what I was good for, I thought
...

"She's quite talented," I heard a man say.

"Yes, isn't she?" answered Cristina, withdrawing the whip from my mouth. "You'd
hardly know this is her first night as a slave."

I looked up and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man in a simple black T-shirt and
black jeans. Kneeling at his feet was a stunningly beautiful Latina woman,
wearing nothing but a skimpy bra, garter belt, and stockings. She was looking up
at me with a knowing smile.

"And she enjoys it, too," Cristina continued. "Claudette can check."

"Go ahead, dear," the man said. The beauty lowered herself to all fours and
crawled around the table to somewhere behind me. I waited, my body tense.
Suddenly I felt something warm, and wet, and soft probing my most tender
regions. My body shook, involuntarily straining to reach toward the new
sensation. Cristina and the man laughed. My body continued to quiver.

Claudette was back again, kneeling at her master's feet. "I think she is about
to explode, master," she said. I wanted to bury my head and cry but, of course,
there was no such possibility. I was chained in place, and until Cristina saw
fit to release me, there was no place for this slave to hide. I moaned in
arousal and frustration.

"She is clearly full of passion, but I'm sure she's not nearly as skilled as
Claudette," Cristina said, eyeing the kneeling slave.

"She is yours for the asking," said the man graciously. I could not believe what
I was hearing. Was he simply bequeathing his slave to Cristina for her pleasure?
Is that what slaves were subject to?  Would Cristina be offering my body to him
in exchange? If she did, would I comply?

"Your offer is most generous," Cristina said. Looking at me, she continued, "I
would return the favor, but I fear this little slut is new to her collar, and is
not yet ready to serve your pleasure." I supposed I should have felt relieved to
be spared the indignity of being forced to serve a man, as a slave girl. But at
the same time, I felt frustrated, knowing that my submission would not be
consummated tonight.

"She seems ready enough to me, but I respect your wishes," he answered.

"But Claudette is woman enough for both of us," Cristina said, leading the three
of them away. Turning her head over her shoulder, she called out, "Don't worry,
someone will come for you."

Then I was returned to waiting in my state of helpless arousal, simultaneously
dreading the casual attentions my body was open to and hoping that someone would
consent to bring relief to my sexual needs.  Instead, however, I found myself
mostly ignored in favor of other bound beauties promising more than the simple
pleasures I could offer, left to my own tumultuous thoughts. What would I do
when Cristina finally release me? Would I be an indignant, self-righteous
professional woman, demanding to be released and returned to her world? Or would
I instead be a soft, willing slave girl, kneeling before her mistress and
begging to serve her and be used by her? I went back and forth, one moment
hating myself for what I had already let myself endure, the next telling myself
that this once I should let myself indulge my fantasy in as complete a form as
possible - even to include true, abject, unquestioning, unconditional sexual
servitude.

Hands came and went, exploring parts of my body never before so shameless
exposed to the world. I lowered my head to the surface of the table, feeling its
cool padding against my cheek. Never before had I felt so abandoned - naked,
chained helplessly, left to the mercy of anyone who cared to pay attention to
me.

Then I felt a hand in my hair, lifting my head up off the table. I gasped in
shock. It was Stefan, the doctor who had befriended me a few weeks before. He
was smiling.

"Cristina said I should pick you up and take you home," he said. I looked at
him, baffled. "It seems she had to take that slave Claudette home with her.
Couldn't resist." I was shocked to hear that Cristina hadn't been joking, that
she really would be making use of Claudette's most intimate services, that
Claudette really was so willing and available to apparently any person. Then I
was relieved that it was not I who would be chained at the foot of Cristina's
bed tonight, perhaps forced to beg to serve her mistress. At the same time,
though, I felt something close to jealousy as well. What did Claudette have that
I did not? Was I not beautiful, and obedient, and willing to serve? Had I not
been a perfect slave tonight? Why didn't Cristina want to take her pleasure from
my lips and tongue, why had she not chosen to imperiously have her way with my
body?

I felt Stefan releasing my wrists and ankles from the restraints. For the first
time in what felt like hours I could close my legs. But still I remained in
place where Cristina had put me, awaiting a command.

Stefan slapped me on the bottom and decorously pulled the hem of my garment down
to cover the little it could. "Come on, let's go," he said, picking up my leash
and heading toward the door.

"Stefan," I began. "You know I only came because I was curious, right?"

He stopped and turned to me. He looked into my eyes, hard. I had never before
noticed how tall and strong he was. Even though he was more or less average in
build, he seemed to tower over my small, soft, scantily clad body. I lowered my
eyes. I felt his hand pushing down on my shoulder. Tears in my eyes, I lowered
myself to my knees and spread them before him. Stefan, too, would enforce my
condition on me.

"There, that's better," he said. "Now what were you saying?"

"I said I came because I was curious, master," I whispered.

"Well, I hope you learned something, then," Stefan answered.

"Yes, master," I whispered.

Then he tugged sharply on the leash, signaling me to my feet, and again headed
toward the main room and through it to the door. I followed on my bare feet, my
eyes lowered, a slave trailing behind her master. Perhaps the onlookers thought
he was taking me home to consummate the evening, to exact from my captive flesh
the price of my slavery, to use me for what I was worth. Suddenly I wondered if
that was exactly what he intended, if he would take advantage of my near nudity
and helplessness to have his way with me. I felt a thrill go through my body and
heat welling up between my thighs. I imagined him forcing me again to his knees,
this time to serve his pleasure, throwing me on my back and kicking my legs
apart, or turning me to all fours for casual ravishment. I wondered how I would
respond. Would I protest at the invasion of my rights? Or would I revel in the
chance to serve a man, to reveal that I was a hot, willing slut only too happy
to take her rightful place at his feet?

Suddenly we were outside on the street in the cool night air, and I realized it
was all of Berlin now that could see my helpless exposed beauty. Luckily, a taxi
came by soon. Stefan held the door for me.  The cab driver gave me a long stare.
I reddened and lowered my eyes.  I realized again what it meant to be a slave.
Would Stefan make me serve the driver as well? I knew that if he did, I would
have to comply. A slave girl cannot choose the master whom she must please; she
must be hot, and soft, and open for all of them. I felt the cool vinyl seat on
my body. Stefan got into the car and gave the driver directions. He put his hand
in my hair. Would he pull my head down toward his lap, masterfully forcing me to
his pleasure? I turned my head toward him. But he only playfully tousled my
hair. "I never suspected you were so lovely, Jenny," he said. He put his hand on
my upper thigh, possessively. My breath became more hurried. I wondered if he
could sense my arousal.

Suddenly the taxi was stopping in front of my apartment. As Stefan paid the
driver, I suddenly remembered I had left my keys with Cristina. " I don't have
the key," I said, momentarily panicking at the thought of having to accompany
him to his apartment - there to suffer who knew what potential indignities - and
then having to return home in full daylight.

"Cristina gave it to me," he said, opening the door. The momentary tension on my
neck reminded me that he was still holding my leash. I followed him out of the
car, through the apartment door, and up the stairs, praying that none of my
neighbors would see me in my current state. My heart was racing, wondering what
would happen once we were in my apartment. Would he chivalrously bid me good
night and be on his way? Would he throw me to his feet and kick my legs apart?
Or would I, perhaps, drop to my knees and beg to serve him as a woman serves a
man? This, I knew, might be my best opportunity to truly live out my most secret
fantasy. But once I gave in to that temptation, I wondered if there was any
turning back.

We were at my door. Stefan unlocked it and pushed it open, letting me enter the
apartment first. "So this is where you live," he said.  Ordinarily I would have
been mortified at his seeing the apartment in its current state of disarray, but
all I could think about was whether I would be forced to serve as a slave
tonight. I had never been so aroused before in my life, my belly aching from
desire. But at the same time I was terrified of openly admitting my secret
desire, not simply for physical release, but more deeply for the psychological
and emotional thrill of submitting fully to a man, momentarily existing for no
purpose other than the sexual service of his pleasure.

I realized Stefan was now standing directly in front of me. My eyes came only to
the level of his shoulders. I dared not look into my eyes. My knees felt weak.

Slowly, trembling, I lowered myself to my knees, once more. Before tonight I had
never knelt in submission before a man or woman. Now it felt like my rightful
place. Without thinking, I opened my knees widely, the hem of my garment sliding
up to the top of my thighs. I pulled back my shoulders and sucked in my stomach,
lifting my chest up and forward, the thin fabric tightening across my breasts
and exposing them even more clearly to Stefan's view. Not sure how a slave would
beg for her master's attention, I whispered, "How may I serve you, master?"

Stefan did not respond. I waited in the terrifying silence, not sure which I
dreaded more - acceptance or rejection. Was I truly prepared to give myself
wholly to this man I hardly knew? But could I stand the humiliation of so
brazenly offering up my body, and being found not even worthy of a casual rape?

"Do you truly know what it means to serve, as a slave?" he finally asked.

I looked up at him, tears in my eyes. "I am kneeling before you, virtually
naked, my knees open, a collar on my neck. I have been exhibited, humiliated,
whipped, fondled, and aroused. I have been treated like a slave the entire
evening. I want nothing more than to give you everything that a slave can give
her master. If all I can give you is my body, for you to do with as you see fit,
then I beg you to take it. Only then can I truly know what it is to be a slave."

Stefan was silent.

"Turn around and face away from me," he ordered. I obeyed, trembling.

"Put your head to the floor." I complied, keeping my knees spread.  "Clasp your
hands behind your neck." I could feel the garment sliding up my back. I knew I
was completely exposed to him, vulnerable as only a slave can be. I waited, my
heart pounding. I hoped he would be satisfied with me.

"Do not move," he commanded. I was puzzled. Would he not simply take me now,
positioned as I was for his assault? "I am leaving now," he continued. "When I
am on the street, I will call you from my cell phone. The phone ring will be
your signal that you are free to break position." I felt a sense of relief, but
a far more powerful surge of frustration. I had completely capitulated to him,
throwing myself to his feet and begging to be raped, exposing as clearly as
possible the hidden nature I had only suspected even a day before. And even
after begging as prettily as I could, and presenting my body to him for his use,
I had been spurned.

"It is not up to the slave whether or not she will be used, or how, or by whom,"
Stefan explained. "Your place is simply to obey. You may ask to be raped, but it
may or may not be granted to you."

Then he walked out the door, leaving me kneeling, bent over, and open, locked
into position by his command. He left the door completely open. I was terrified
that a neighbor could pass by the door and see me - or, worse yet, enter and
take advantage of me. But he had commanded me not to move, and I obeyed. The
seconds seemed like hours. Finally the phone rang. I ran to it, but by the time
I picked it up, he had hung up. It had been solely a signal.

Sobbing, I closed the door to my apartment, tore off the sham of a garment I had
worn all evening, and fled to my bed, to suffer the depredations of my imaginary
rapists. Many times that night did they put their helpless slave's charms to
work, and she yielded to them as she had never before believed possible.
Finally, having tired of amusing themselves with her tender, captive flesh, they
let her cry herself to sleep.

My Berlin Summer Chapter 3: The Party

==============================

I awoke with the late-morning sun streaming into my windows, my sheets damp with
sweat. My body was still tired and sore from the exertions of the previous
night, but I felt strangely refreshed. I wondered how I would deal with the
consequences of my actions the night before - how I would face the friends who
had forced me to kneel at their feet and seen me lick the boots of my mistress -
but the light of the new day gave me the optimism that everything would be
better. I stretched, running my hands over thighs and belly and breasts,
luxuriating in the feel of my body. I knew I had sexual needs whose depths I had
never before suspected, but that gave me a curious feeling of pleasure and
satisfaction, knowing I could indulge those needs when I chose.

Then my fingers encountered the band of steel locked around my neck, and I
remembered that neither Cristina nor Stefan had ever removed my collar. The
weight of the inflexible collar, which I had grown so accustomed to the night
before, felt strange and frightening in the light of day and the softness of my
bed. I put my hands to the collar and tried to pull it open, to no avail. I felt
carefully around the outside and inside of the collar for a latch, but found
only a narrow seam with a small keyhole next to it. I jumped up and ran to look
in the bathroom mirror. To my dismay, I saw that it was securely, immovably
locked on me. I made a few efforts to pick the lock with a hairpin, but failed
miserably in my attempts. My heart began to race.  How could I go out with the
symbol of my submission locked about my neck for all to see? What did it mean
that they had left the collar on me? Would I ever be free of it? But then I
began to calm down.  Of course it had been a simple oversight. Cristina had
amused herself with treating me as a slave at the club, but she could not
possibly want to be bothered with a slave all the time. I would just call her,
ask her to come over to unlock the collar, and everything would be as before.

Happy with my self-reassurances, I turned on the water and stepped into the
shower. Luxuriating in the hot water, I considered my body in a new light. I had
always thought myself pretty, but had never given serious thought to how men -
or women - might evaluate my naked body as a source of sexual pleasure. I
smiled. It might have been my first time, but I was sure that at least some men
had found me of interest as a sexual object. I was still deeply humiliated by
Stefan's outright refusal to take advantage of my shamelessly offered charms,
but surely few men could have turned down the opportunity I had presented. I
supposed I was lucky that he was one of them. I wondered how I would feel now if
I had truly been help from behind and brutally, forcibly taken, perhaps over and
over, of if I had felt and tasted the seed of multiple men on my tongue.

I turned off the water, toweled myself off, and picked up the phone to call
Cristina. Suddenly I was overcome with doubt. What would she say to me? Would
she still treat me as her slave and demand my unquestioning obedience? Had she
lost all respect for me? Could she only see me as the soft, helpless, willing
slut I had played last night?

But there was nothing else to do, short of calling locksmith to pick the lock on
my collar. I dialed her number and waited, not breathing.  She picked up the
phone. "Hallo?"

"Hi, Cristina, this is Jenny."

"Oh, hi, Jenny," she said enthusiastically, "how are you feeling today?"

"Great," I said, not sure how she would take that. "I mean, last night was quite
an experience."

"You really seemed to be enjoying yourself," Cristina asked innocently.

I wasn't sure how I should answer that one - I couldn't deny it, but I needed to
appear the confident, free-spirited person I tried to be. I settled on "Yes, it
was very interesting to play that role. Thanks for letting me try it out."

"You seemed to take to it very naturally," she answered. "Stefan said you took
it very seriously."

So she knew. She seemed to be giving me the benefit of the doubt, at least. I
decided to drop the subject.

"Anyway, you forgot to give Stefan the key to my collar. Can you come over here
and unlock it for me? It's a little embarrassing," I said.  Now that was an
understatement. Less than a visible sign that actually would not have been
terribly remarkable in certain districts of Berlin, it was more a constant
reminder of the slave girl who had so comfortably inhabited my body the night
before, and who lay just below the surface of my current demeanor.

"Well, I'm terribly busy today, and I don't really have time to come over to
your neighborhood," Cristina said. "Why don't you meet me on my way?" she asked.
"I'm going to be in Prenzlauer Berg around lunchtime and we can meet at the caf
. Say at 1:30."

"OK," I said, not wanting to admit my embarrassment. "I'll see you then."

"Great," she answered. "See you."

I spent the next couple hours puttering around my apartment, trying
unsuccessfully not to think about my upcoming encounter with Cristina.  Our
relationship had seemed quite normal during the call, except for the
scarcely-hidden implications of her casual remarks. Did she think I was a
natural slave? What did she think of the fact that I had shamelessly offered my
body to Stefan, pleading on my knees like a slut? I imagined her forcing me to
strip off my clothes at an outdoor table and kneel at her feet, occupying my
tongue with the work of cleaning the dust off her boots. But I knew I had no
choice. I would have to confront her at some point.

I decided to dress in as un-slave-like a fashion as possible. I put on jeans, a
T-shirt from a 10K I had run a few months before, and a UCLA sweatshirt, wrapped
a dark silk scarf as best I could around the steel collar, and pulled my hair
back into a ponytail. I wore no makeup at all. Looking in the mirror, apart from
the somewhat incongruous silk scarf, I saw a completely normal, well-adjusted
college student. Steeling my resolve, I left the apartment and got on the U-bahn
for Prenzlauer Berg.

When I got to the caf , Cristina was already seated at an outdoor table,
casually sipping a cappuccino and looking over what looked like photographs. As
I approached, she put them back in a large envelope, rose, and greeted me with a
kiss on the cheek. "Hello, my little slave," she said with a wink and a smile,
as if it were all pleasant joke among friends.

"Hello, mistress," I tried to say with the same casual air. She indicated a seat
to me and I took it.

"I had a really good time last night," Cristina began. "I trust you did, too?"

I responded with the line I had worked on in the subway on the way over. "Yes, I
did. I've always liked trying new things, and this was definitely new. I'm not
sure I would do it again, but I'm glad I did it."

"I think you liked it a bit more than that," Cristina said with a knowing smile.
"I'm not sure I've ever seen a girl as heated as you were bound to that table.
Although that was probably nothing compared to when Stefan took you home." There
was silence. Luckily, Cristina changed the subject. "Hey, look at these," she
said, pushing the envelope toward me.

I opened it and pulled out a small stack of black-and-white 8x10 photos. I
gasped. There I was, wearing the slave's clothing that Cristina had given me to
ward, licking the boots of doorman on a public street. Then I was kneeling at
the table where Cristina and her friends were happily chatting, my head down, my
knees spread.  Then I was bent over and bound to that leather table, my body
completely exposed to the camera. Then I was seen from the front, my lips
wrapped around the whip handle that Cristina was thrusting deep into my mouth.

I looked up. "Where did you get these?" I asked.

"Oh, the guy who runs the club is a friend of mine. He usually has a
photographer take a few pictures of the star attractions. You should be happy.
He clearly thought you were one of the hottest girls there last night." I
couldn't speak, too shocked by the idea that last night's adventure in
submission had been recorded for posterity.  "You're really quite beautiful as a
slave," Cristina said, smiling again. "Much more than in those heavy clothes and
silly ponytail."

"What are you going to do with the pictures?" I asked, as a new fantasy rapidly
unfolded in my head, in which I was blackmailed into becoming Cristina's
personal slave, or perhaps the property of the club itself, constantly available
to any of its guests. I had reached the point where I had been tied again to
that same table, but now was being used repeatedly by one man after another when
Cristina interrupted my horrifying yet fascinating reverie.

"They're for you," she said. "I thought you might want them as ... as a
souvenir."

"But what about the negatives?"

"Oh, don't worry about that," Cristina said dismissively. "My friend is
extremely discreet. The last thing he wants is a reputation of exploiting the
people who pay his cover charges and buy his drinks.  If he put those pictures
up on the Internet, people would stop going to his parties."

That felt like a rather paltry measure of security to me, but I decided there
was little I could do about it. For all I knew, he had a right to take the
pictures, as I had freely entered his club dressed the way I did, and had freely
engaged in the activities I was now shocked to contemplate in images. "Thanks, I
guess," I said. "By the way, " I continued as casually as I could, "did you
bring the key for my collar?"

"Yes, I did," she answered, "but there's one favor I'd like to ask in exchange."

"What is it?" I asked, not sure if I wanted to hear the answer.

"I've been invited to a dinner party on Tuesday, and I wanted to know if you
would go as my date?"

"As your date?"

"Well, actually, each person has to bring a slave." The words struck deep into
my heart and body. I could feel warmth beginning to simmer between my thighs.
"You would just have to act like a slave, just like last night," she continued
reassuringly. "Everyone will know you aren't really a slave."

I thought for a moment about what that could mean. Were there really women - and
men - who were truly slaves, fully owned, compelled to utter obedience to their
masters, open and available to any of their whims or desires? Or did she only
mean that there were people who had more experience playing the role of slaves,
who perhaps would surrender themselves unconditionally for the span of an
evening?

In any case, I could tell from the heat in my belly that I was clearly
interested, but I did not want to let on to Cristina the extent of my desire.
"Would I have to go completely naked?" I asked, trying to buy time.

"Not if you don't want to," Cristina answered. "I'm sure what you wore last
night would be appropriate."

"What kind of service would I have to provide? Would I have to sleep with
anyone?"

"That depends on what you want, Jenny," my friend said seriously. She waited.
"What do you want?"

"Well ... I might want to in some circumstances" - I could hardly deny that,
since she knew all about my attempts to interest Stefan - "but I'm not sure I
like the idea of being forced to please anyone who wants me."

"You won't have to do anything you don't want to," Cristina promised.

"If you want to call it off, just say so and I'll take you home."

"OK, then, I guess I'll try it. But only because it's you," I said, trying to
sound less excited than I was.

Cristina smiled. "I knew you'd agree. You'll have lots of fun."

"Now will you take of this collar?" I reminded her.

"Of course." She got up and stood behind me. "Bend forward and hold your hair
out of the way." I obeyed, realizing the submissiveness of this posture, even
here at a sidewalk caf table, baring my neck before Cristina. She pulled off the
scarf, exposing the steel collar to public view. I felt a bolt click and then
the soft breeze on the back of my neck as she lifted the collar away.

"Thank you," I whispered, finally free of that most compelling symbol of my
bondage.

"Any time," Cristina answered. "Why don't I just give you the key, so that
doesn't happen again," she said. I looked at her, wondering what she meant.
"Well, it's your collar now," she explained. "You can take it home and put it on
whenever the urge takes you."

The urge? Did she realize the depth of attraction that collar held for me?
"Well, ok," I said.

"It's settled, then," Cristina said, gathering up her things. "I'll pick you up
at your place on Tuesday around 6:30."

"What should I, uh, wear?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said. Seeing the shock on my face, she said, "No, I don't mean
you should go nude. Just don't worry about it. I'll bring you something ...
suitable." I wondered if that meant I would be granted more or less modesty than
I had enjoyed the night before, when my most feminine secrets had been clearly
on view and open to all. I wondered if it were possible to be more naked yet not
completely nude.  But I would be going to this party as a slave girl. I slave
has no control over what, if anything, she is allowed to wear. She must simply
abide by her master's will, even if that means displaying her charms openly to
all comers. That is the least a slave must expect.

"OK, see you then," I managed to say. Clutching the collar in my hand, I began
to retrace my journey to my apartment.



The next few days went by in a blur. I could think about nothing except the
party to which I would be going and, I suspected, at which I would be a
considerable part of the entertainment. I was afraid to see Cristina or any of
the friends who had seen me at the club, for fear of how they might treat me. I
found myself constantly wondering what other people, particularly men, thought
of me. Did they find me attractive? Would they like to have me kneeling naked at
their feet?  If I begged them to rape me, would they do so?

When Tuesday came, I felt almost sick with nervous anticipation. Last time
Cristina had exposed me in public, virtually naked, forced me to kneel before
and lick her feet, bound me bent over a table - in short, had treated me as a
slave. What would she demand of me tonight? I assumed she command at least as
much, and probably more. I expected I would find myself completely nude before
strangers, my charms open and exposed. But would I be compelled to serve them
with my body, surrendering the last vestige of my freedom, my soft flesh a mere
vessel for their pleasure? And if I were so commanded, would I obey?  I spent
much of the day trying to decide how I would respond. On the one hand, I was
deeply, viscerally attracted to the thought of being used as a helpless sexual
plaything, taken casually in multiple ways by strong masters intent only on
their own pleasure. On the other hand, I was frightened to fully admit my inner
nature to the world, to Cristina, and even to myself. At the time, I thought
that it was still possible to turn my back on this new world, to return to the
person I had been just a week before; but I sensed that if I truly surrendered
my body, I would be crossing an line of significance, searing a mark in my body
that would be impossible to erase. Then, I sensed, I would truly be a slave, for
there would remain nothing to separate me from that condition of complete
bondage and sexual servitude. What I failed to realize was that I was already a
slave, that there could be no turning back.

At the time, I told myself that I would not let masters have complete sway over
my body, that I would protect my last and most intimate assets from their
attentions. But I could not be sure that I would comply with that decision.

A few minutes after 6:30, just when I was beginning to wonder if Cristina found
me sufficiently pleasing, I heard a knock on the door.  I opened it, and there
she was, wearing an elegant black dress and high heels. "Hi, Cristina," I
started to say when she interrupted me.

"Shouldn't you be on your knees, slut?" she said coldly.

I swallowed my excuses and lowered myself to my knees. I spread them widely,
even though I was wearing jeans. I looked up at my mistress, already feeling the
now-familiar stirring between my legs. "Yes, mistress," I said. "I'm sorry,
mistress."

She brushed her hand in through my hair. "That's ok, Jenny," she said. "You have
a lot to learn, but you show great potential." I wondered what she meant by
that. "Well, my car's waiting, so let's get you dressed and let's get out of
here."

She opened her bag and pulled out two bands of dark blue cloth. "This one goes
around your breasts, and the other goes around your hips," she said
matter-of-factly. "You tuck the loose end in back." I looked at the cloth. At
least it was opaque this time, I thought.  "You can use the bathroom," she said,
smiling.

I rose to my feet, took the clothes, and went into the bathroom.  Well, I should
have known it would be something like this. I took off my clothes and looked in
the mirror. There was really nothing there that hadn't been on display to
hundreds of people last week. I wondered how long it would be before those full
breasts and soft hips would again be exposed to view. I wondered if this
evening's dinner guests would find them satisfactory. I hope they would.

Each band of cloth was long enough to wrap around my body almost twice. The one
for my hips was about six inches wide, allowing me to cover the area from the
tops of my hip bones down to a couple inches below my crotch. I started it at my
left hip, and wrapped it in front of my body twice before tucking it as tightly
as I could in back. I simple tug, I knew, and it would be around my ankles,
baring my charms to view. I wrapped the top, which was only about four inches
wide, around my breasts twice and, after a bit of a struggle, managed to tuck it
in as well. I looked at myself again in the mirror. Most of my breasts were
visible above and below the cloth, their curves clearly delineated. My hips were
more or less covered, but I knew if I were to bend over that my modesty would be
entirely compromised.  Just as last time, my garment was open at the bottom;
there was not even the flimsiest shield of cloth to stand between me and a
master's predations. I supposed that was as it should be. A slave girl should
always be open and available for use.

I walked out of the bathroom, stopped in front of Cristina, and knelt as she had
taught me, my knees widely spread, my breasts lifted up and forward for her
inspection. I lifted my eyes to her, hoping for a favorable reception. She
looked down at me and smiled.

"You look marvelous, my dear. Any man who sees you will be tempted to tear off
your clothes and take you on the spot."

I shuddered, thinking about how dangerous it would be to be a beautiful slave.
In my ordinary life I could usually protect myself from the demands of men who
might desire my body. As a slave, however, I would be at risk of forcible usage
by any man or woman who cared to possess me. I would simply have to comply with
his or her wishes, fully and submissively.

"Down on all fours," Cristina ordered, pulling her riding crop from her belt for
emphasis. Terrified, wondering what I had done, I lowered myself to hands and
knees, my hair falling over my face.  "Now, crawl away from me to the other side
of the room and turn around." I did so, my breasts swaying gently under me. I
turned and faced her. "Now get down on your belly and clasp your hands behind
your back." I obeyed, my breasts now pressed against the hard floor, my head
lifted off the ground to see her. "Very good," Cristina said.  "Now crawl back
to me on your belly and kiss my feet." Why was she doing this to me? What was
she putting me through my paces like a trained animal? Tears in my eyes, I began
to inch across the floor on my belly. "Hurry up, slut!" she shouted, and snapped
the crop in the air. I redoubled my efforts, squirming towards my mistress's
feet, utterly humiliated. When I reached her, I began licking and kissing
frantically at her shoes, hoping through sufficient passion to convince her of
my sincere obedience. I felt the end of the crop tracing lazy circles across my
back and moaned softly.

"You may desist, slave," Cristina said. I tried to look up at her.  "Kneel as
you were before." I obeyed. She pressed her crop to my lips and I kissed it
fervently. "That was a test of your obedience and docility," she said. She
paused. "You passed with flying colors.  You clearly have the makings of a truly
submissive slave." I blushed deeply. Not only had I obeyed her least command
instantly, but in the process I had actually become aroused. Just crawling
across the floor, licking my mistress's shoes, and kissing her whip had left me
weak with desire. I wondered if Cristina could sense my piteous state.

Cristina reached down and snapped the end of a chain leash on the ring on my
collar. "Now we're ready to go," she said. She picked up my keys from the
kitchen counter and led the way out of the apartment, locking the door behind
her. I followed her down the stairs and out the door to her waiting car. Groups
of people turned and stared as the collared and leashed slave girl followed her
mistress into the limousine, her scanty clothing hardly concealing the delights
of her body. Instead of sitting on the seat, I instinctively knelt before my
mistress, my knees spread, awaiting her command. She smiled. I expected her to
draw my head toward her and command me to serve her.  Now was the moment when I
would begin to pay the ultimate price of my slavery, when I would begin learn
how to satisfy my mistress's every pleasure. But instead, she reached down to
adjust my clothes, revealing even more of my breasts and hips, accentuating my
figure even further. "Yes, you make a wonderful slave," she said softly, her
hands caressing my naked flanks. "It will be a pleasure to finally take you." My
heart fluttered in anticipation.

Eventually the car stopped. The driver opened the door and Cristina stepped out,
her slave trailing behind. We were in the large, circular driveway of what
looked like late-nineteenth-century mansion.  Cristina turned to me. "Remember,
you are a slave here. If anyone says anything to you, you obey immediately.
Anything less will be punished." She paused. "If anything goes beyond your
limits, let me know and I'll take you home. OK?"

"Yes, mistress," I said.

Satisfied, she walked up the steps to the front door. I followed, my heart
beating furiously. What lay beyond that door?

Cristina rang the doorbell and the door opened almost instantly.  Inside was a
young, beautiful, red-haired woman, wearing a low-cut, short-skirted, black
sheath dress - and a metal collar. I felt a lump in my throat. Was she truly a
slave, or was she just playing a role?  Was there a difference? She knelt
gracefully, her knees widely spread, lowered her head to the floor before
Cristina, and straightened up again. "Thank you for coming, mistress," she said. 
"My master asks you to join him in the library."

"Thank you, Sonja," Cristina said. "Can you take this slut and make her useful?"
she said, indicating me. "Her name is Jenny, and she has almost no experience.
You may treat her as you would your own slave." I began to feel afraid. With
Cristina I felt some reassurance, but I had no idea what this woman might demand
from me. Of course, being given or loaned to another master is something a slave
girl must be prepared for and accept. It is part of what it means to be a slave.

"Of course, mistress," the kneeling slave said - with what I thought was a hint
of a smile. "I'll take care of her as if she were my own."

Cristina turned to me and said, "Remember to obey her - and anyone else -
immediately and absolutely. You only exist to serve and please them."

"Yes, mistress," I said, and she handed my leash to Sonja and walked away
through the archway to our left.

Sonja stood up gracefully and gave me a hard look. "Why aren't you kneeling,
slut?" she said.

I began to stammer a reply, swallowed it, and knelt in front of her
submissively. After a moment's hesitation, I opened my knees widely, adopting
the position that now seemed so natural to me. Hoping to appease her, I pulled
back my shoulders and thrust my breasts up and forward. I hoped she liked what
she saw.

"That's better, slut," she said. "Follow me and we'll put you to work. But don't
rise from your knees - a slut like you looks better on all fours." I padded
along behind her on hands and knees as she led the way through the opulently
arrayed dining room and into the kitchen, wondering what kind of "work" awaited
me. If Sonja really was a slave and compelled to serve her master's pleasure all
day, would she not seize the opportunity to abuse a slave girl of her own?  So
it was with some surprise that I found myself set to menial kitchen tasks -
peeling vegetables, slicing bread, cleaning dishes. As Sonja ordered me about, I
found myself, surprisingly, becoming mildly aroused. So slavery was not just
about being stripped naked, thrown to the ground, and raped as I had fantasized
- it was also about cooking and cleaning, attending to every wish a master might
have.

Twice more the doorbell rang. Each time Sonja answered the door and came back
with another exquisite, scantily dressed woman, collared, presumably another
slave girl. One, a tall, statuesque blonde wearing a translucent white
minidress, was named Eva; the other, a half-Asian with black hair and deep green
eyes, wearing a black lace bra and panties, was named Melissa. I was introduced
as Jenny, the "new American slut." As Cristina had warned me, I addressed them
as Mistress, which seemed to amuse them.

They seemed to know each other well, and chatted as they worked in the kitchen.
I could not make out everything they were saying, but the more I listened, the
more certain I was that they truly lived as slaves, as they discussed their
masters and the services they rendered to them, seemingly proud of the
indignities they were forced to endure.

At a pause in the conversation, I turned to Sonja and said, "Mistress, may I ask
a question?"

"Go ahead, slut," she answered.

"Are you all really ... slaves?" I managed to say.

"Yes, of course we are," said Sonja. "As are you, no doubt."

"I mean, do you really belong to masters, all the time, and do you do whatever
they ask?"

"Well, we don't do everything they ask, but generally we keep them happy
enough," she answered. "But I thought Cristina said you were her slave."

"I'm not really her slave ... at least not all the time," I said.

"Only sometimes."

"You're not really a slave, then?" Eva asked. "You dress like that and wear a
collar for fun?"

"Um ... it's sort of like that," I said.

Sonja laughed. "You're a slave girl, all right, if I've ever seen one. I saw the
way you spread your knees before me." She put her hands on my shoulders and
pushed down, guiding me to my knees. I opened them once again. "Now bend down
and get your lovely mouth to work licking my feet," she said. Numbly, I obeyed,
secretly thrilled to be lavishing my attentions on the feet of a lowly slave
girl. I could hear the other women laughing. "Later we'll find out how good she
really is," I heard Sonja saying to them.

"OK, slut, you can stop now," Sonja said. I knelt back on my heels and looked up
at her, my knees still widely spread. "Get back to work." I obeyed silently,
wondering what kind of girl I really was.  Was there really anything that
separated me from these three enslaved beauties, so at ease in their collars? I
expected I would soon find out.

At dinner there were three men and Cristina. It was our job to serve dinner, to
wait on our masters, to attend their every need or desire.  When not engaged in
serving, I followed the example of the other girls and knelt on the floor to the
left of Cristina's chair, my knees open and my back straight as I had been
taught. Occasionally she would ask me for more water or wine, which I would
fetch from the sideboard and pour for her. From time to time she would give me
morsels of food, which I would eat either from her fork or in her hand, not
allowed the use of my hands. She fed me as one would feed an animal. The dinner
conversation went quickly and, while I could not understand much of it, I could
make out a number of subjects - politics, Berlin opera houses, the quality of
the wine, and ... slaves. The men were openly discussing the qualities of their
slaves, even to the nature of the intimate services they were capable of
performing. A slave was clearly permitted not even a shred of privacy. Then,
with shock, I realized Cristina was talking about me - about the time at the
part when Claudette had tested my arousal, and about my offering my body to
Stefan when he took me home that night. I lowered my head, mortified.  Then they
all knew how wantonly I had begged to be used, and as a slave. Surely they would
demand at least that from me tonight.

Kneeling by my mistress's chair, dinner seemed to drag on interminably. All I
could think about was what indignities I would suffer once the meal had ended.
At one point, one of the men at the table made a brief motion to Melissa,
kneeling at his left. To my shock, she immediately crawled under the table and
positioned herself in front his seat, kneeling between his legs. Although my
view was obstructed, her soft moans helped me imagine only too clearly the
service she was rendering to him. He continued to eat, drink, and converse
normally - except for one moment when he leaned back, closed his eyes, and
sighed deeply. A few seconds later Melissa emerged from under the table and
resumed her position next to his chair, smiling and licking her lips. He put his
hand in her hair and petted her casually. All my fantasies about sexual slavery
had not prepared me for what I had just witnessed. I realized that we slaves
seated around the table were no more than the food and drink arrayed atop it -
objects available to serve the pleasures and desires of the masters seated at
the table. Making use of a slave was no more significant than drinking a glass
of wine. And I was one of those slaves.

When dinner was over, we cleared the table. Melissa and I washed the dishes
while Sonja and Eva served coffee and desserts to the masters in the living
room. When we finished with the dishes and joined the others, the masters were
beginning to play a game of poker, their slave once again kneeling at their
feet, expectant and available.  Sonja explained the rules to me. Each person had
individually marked chips. When one player had accumulated a certain number of
another player's chips, he could "cash them in" for a service ... to be rendered
by the other player's slave. The number of chips returned would depend on the
service demanded.

"What kinds of services?" I whispered.

She smiled at me. "Oh, anything ... it could range from a little lap dance, to
being thrown over a table and raped by everyone in the room.  It just depends on
how badly your master loses," she laughed.

I knew Cristina had given me a way out if things got too rough for me, but I
hoped I wouldn't have to use it.

The hands went quickly, as they were playing a form of the game I knew as "guts"
- two cards, no draw, only one round of bidding. And as chips changed hand,
debts started to be collected. Eva was kneeling under the table, sucking one
man's toes; Sonja did a brief striptease and resumed her position next to her
master's chair, nude save for her collar; and then it was my turn.

"Has she ever kissed another woman?" I heard a man asking.

Cristina looked at me. "No, mistress," I whispered.

The next thing I knew, I was locked in a kiss with Melissa, her tongue exploring
every corner of my mouth, her hands running possessively over my breasts, back,
and hips. When she finally released me from her embrace, my heart was pounding,
my mind racing. I had never experienced a kiss like that - so deeply sensual, so
passionate, so demanding. And Melissa was only another slave ... I was afraid to
find out what it would be like to be kissed by a master.

"How was she?" I heard the same man ask.

Melissa looked straight at me. "Hot and wet," she said, smiling. "I think she
wants more." Everyone at the table laughed, masters and slaves alike. I lowered
my head, blushing.

Cristina seemed to be playing recklessly, staying in almost every hand even with
poor cards. I wondered if she was consciously trying to test my limits tonight.
"I'd like to see her naked," another man said the next time. Cristina looked at
me, her eyebrow raised. I nodded my head numbly.

"Well, get on with it," Cristina ordered. I rose to my feet, stood as straight
as I could, untucked the cloth behind my back, and let it drop to the floor. I
stood bare-chested before a room full of virtual strangers. My eyes still on the
floor, I reached behind my hips and unwrapped my final veil. I hesitated and
looked at Cristina. Her eyes were hard. I lowered my head and dropped the cloth
to the floor.  Now I wore nothing more than my collar, a naked slave at the
mercy of her masters. Conscious of their gazes on me, I sucked in my stomach,
pulled back my shoulders, and pushed my chest forward. I hoped they liked the
naked body they saw before them. No doubt they were speculating about what uses
they would put it to later that evening.

"Turn around slowly, my dear," Cristina said. I obeyed, displayed like any
decorative object. "Put your hands in your hair. Spread your legs. Bend over and
grasp your ankles. Now get down on all fours. Crawl all the way around the
table." I obeyed her every command, tears in my eyes at the humiliation. I could
feel my breasts swaying beneath me as I circumnavigated the table. My hair was
falling about my face, thankfully preventing me from seeing the expressions on
their faces. "On your back. Split your legs and grasp your ankles." Now I was
completely exposed to them, and as a slave, unable even to close my legs
together. I could hear them discussing the details of my figure and anatomy.
Most of what I heard was complimentary, but some was directed at my
shortcomings, which were clearly apparent in the company of Sonja, Eva, and
Melissa.

"OK, you can kneel here again," I heard Cristina say. I dutifully crawled back
to my position and knelt as I had been taught. Now kneeling nude, I was even
more conscious of the symbolism of this position, my charms brazenly exposed to
view.

Eva was made to dance nude to an apparently Arabic melody before the group, her
hips and belly swaying sensuously to the music, expressing her complete
submission and availability, promising unlimited depths of pleasure. Melissa
gave one man a lap dance, nude, caressing his body passionately with her thighs
and breasts.

But Cristina kept losing. The man who had first made me kiss Melissa held her
chips. "I think we should give her what Melissa said she wants." He paused. "I
want Melissa to pleasure our new guest with her mouth."

"Well, Jenny, what do you think?" Cristina asked. This was something I had never
anticipated. I had expected to be the one kneeling on the floor, putting my lips
and tongue to their most appropriate use - not to have a lovely slave serving my
pleasure. Perhaps this didn't count as being raped, since I was the one
benefiting - or perhaps it was just that I had become so aroused already that I
desperately wanted some form of release.

"Yes, mistress," I said. "I'm willing."

I was laid down on my back over a glass coffee table, my wrists bound above my
head to the far legs of the table. Melissa knelt between my legs. "I'd like to
shave the slut first," she said, a wicked gleam in her eye. And so, bound over a
table, in full view of all assembled, my most private regions were shaved
completely bare, leaving me more naked than I had thought possible. And then I
felt Melissa's mouth on me, alternately soft and hard, slow and fast, cool and
hot, bringing me to a state of piteous arousal but never giving my body the
release it needed. "Please ... please ..." I whimpered after a few minutes, no
longer caring what anyone thought. I heard laughter and voices, sounding distant
as though at the far end of a long tunnel.

"Look at the slut. Watch how the arches her back and thrusts her hips out."

"This is a new slave, Cristina?"

"Where did you find her?"

Then Melissa withdrew, leaving me to my humiliating arousal. So this was one of
the ways that a slave could please her masters - entertaining them with her
helpless, captive arousal, only to be cruelly frustrated. Whether I was
satisfied or not mattered not to them. My wrists were released from their bonds,
and I returned on all fours to my post next to Cristina's chair, sobbing
quietly. I knew already that pleasuring myself would be grounds for punishment.
I could only kneel mutely and hope that the next master to claim my services
would use me in such a way as to permit my own satisfaction.

The stakes were increasing and the end of the game nearing. One man amassed
large numbers of each person's chips and announced a special hand to determine
which slave he would claim next. In preparation, all four slaves knelt with our
heads to the floor, our hands clasped behind our heads, in position to await the
outcome. We heard the cards being dealt and played to determine which of us
would be raped.  I alternately prayed and dreaded that I would be chosen, torn
between my shreds of dignity and my body's desperate yearning for release. I
heard the man rise from his chair and come around behind us. My body was wet in
anticipation, ready to be penetrated and used. But instead, it was Eva who was
the subject of his attentions. Not yet released from my position, I listened to
her moans and cries as she ultimately yielded. I was thankful that I had not
been forced to so clearly demonstrate my helplessness and submission. But at the
same time, I was incredibly envious of her rape.

Fortunately or unfortunately for me, Cristina's luck seemed to turn.  Sonja was
commanded to take up her place under the table, serving each master in turn
while they continued to play. Melissa was thrown on her back over the coffee
table and forcibly used by one of the men, she also yielding to his powerful
thrusts. I then saw her rise from the table, kneel before her rapist, and clean
him with her mouth.

And then the party was breaking up, the masters having satiated themselves with
the slave flesh available to them. Cristina indicated that I should dress
myself. I looked at her, pleading with my eyes.  Was I not to be raped? Could
she not see my overwhelming need? But clearly she could see how aroused I was.
It was her decision, as my mistress, that I would not be satisfied.

I rearranged the bands of cloth about my breasts and hips. Cristina reattached
the leash to my collar and, having said her good-byes, led me out the door and
back to her limousine.

Without being asked, I knelt before her and removed the cloth from my body,
stripping myself naked before my mistress. "Mistress, your slave begs to please
you," I pleaded, tears running down my cheeks.  "Please let me demonstrate my
submission. Use me any way you want."

Cristina smiled down at me. "Not now, my dear," she said. "There will be plenty
of that later."

My Berlin Summer Chapter 4: The Mansion

================================

That night, Cristina took me home, escorted me to my apartment, and bid me
good-night. Rejected once again in my attempt to offer my body for use, I cried
myself to sleep - but only after bringing myself to helpless, overwhelming
orgasm, imagining that the dinner party had ended instead with my repeated rape
by each of the masters present.

The next few days passed uneventfully, although I could think of little other
than my new experiences in slavery. I was too frightened to call Cristina, sure
that our relationship had changed and that she could now only accept me as an
utter, abject slut and slave. I had taken to wearing the collar Cristina had
left me whenever I was alone at home, and even sleeping in it, the leash tied
around the headboard of my bed, my body otherwise nude under the covers.

It was on such a night, when I had even managed to tie my wrists and ankles
together, in a symbol of my inner bondage, that everything would change, from
the semi-innocent games of an American college student to my new, very real
life.

I awoke with a start, feeling a heavy cloth pressed over my mouth, a knife blade
at my throat. I looked up at the intruder, my eyes wild with fear. "Are you
going to cry out?" he asked. I shook my head.  The hand over my mouth relaxed.

I looked around as best as I could and saw three black-clad figures towering
above my bed. My first thought was one of intense embarrassment - not just at
being nude before three strangers, but even more to have my self-imposed bondage
discovered. My second thought was one of fear. An attacker could not have asked
for more than a girl who had even gone to the trouble of tying herself up, who
so clearly was begging to be used like the slut and slave she was.  Now, it was
clear, I would pay the inevitable price for my careless attempts to live out my
fantasies. This time Cristina was not here to protect me, there were no
elaborate parlor games to hide behind. This time there was just my naked body to
placate the desires of three unknown men.

I hoped they would not be too rough with me.

"What do you want with me?" I whispered, fearing to be struck.

"We are here to fulfill your deepest desires," said the man who had awoken me.
The other men laughed softly. He began to unwind my leash from the headboard.

"What are you going to do to me? Are you going to rape me?" I asked.

"Is that your deepest desire?" he asked in response. I remained silent. "Yes, we
may rape you," he continued, "but that is not really why we are here."

"Why, then?"

"We are here to take you away from your life up to now and give another one, one
more suitable to the type of girl you are. One that will remove the disguises
and pretensions that you have adopted, and will reveal you for what you really
are, and put you to good use."

"I don't understand," I said, fearfully. "What are you talking about?"

In answer, he jerked on my leash, pulling me off the bed and onto the floor. I
gasped in pain. "Kneel," he ordered. I struggled to obey, my wrists and ankles
still bound, and knelt before him. After a moment's hesitation, I opened my
knees, displaying my now-shaven intimacies to his view. Almost instinctively, I
thrust out my breasts for him. He looked down at me, smiling. "I think you
understand quite well," he said. "You are clearly a slave, a girl who exists to
serve men in any way they desire, and particularly through the use of your body.
Look at how naturally, how readily, with so little training, you display your
body before a man. Look at the collar you locked around your own neck and the
knots you tied around your hands and feet. We are only making official what has
always been true about you, you little slut."

I was beginning to understand what might be happening. "Making official? What
does that mean?"

"Until now, you have played at being a slave. Well, those days are over for you
now. Now that you are in our possession, you are a slave, in absolute fact. This
is not a role that you can put on and take off as your fancy dictates. It is
what you are. From now on, you exist to serve your masters, absolutely and
perfectly. Your will, your desires, mean nothing. From now on, your life will be
one of perfect obedience and unremitting degradation."

I shuddered in fear. It all seemed so crazy, but yet it might be real. "Please
don't do this to me," I begged. "I have so much else to live for. Isn't there
something else I can offer you? Don't you want to rape me, to use my body any
way you like? I'll serve you any way you want, as often as you want, for as long
as you want," I pleaded. "But don't make me a slave."

"You have nothing to bargain with, slave," he answered. "I can use you any way I
want, as many times as I want, and still make you a slave. That's what being a
slave is all about." I knew he was right.  That was what I had to look forward
to, I began to realize - constant, repeated abuse of my most private charms,
with no control over what men and women would make use of me. I knew there could
be cooking, and cleaning, and stripping myself naked, posing seductively,
kneeling, and licking my master's feet, but the true essence of a slave girl's
life would be to provide the full range of exquisite, intimate, sexual services
that could be commanded of her, performing all of them immediately and
willingly. While my previous experiments with Cristina had always brought me
intense psychological excitement, this time I only felt dread at the future of
submission and humiliation that lay in store for me - and might begin at any
moment.

"So I really exist solely to please men with my body," I said to myself as much
as anyone. I looked up at my captor. "When do I begin? Are you going to teach me
my slavery now?"

"Not just yet, my eager little slut," he answered. "First we have to get you out
of here."

One of the other men pushed me to the floor and turned me to my back.  He took a
knife and cut the bonds joining my ankles. Then the third man pushed a small
ball gag into my mouth and buckled the straps tight in back. They lifted me to
my feet and wrapped a long trench coat around my nude body. The first man said,
"You're going to walk down the stairs and into the car parked in front of the
building. If you make any sudden moves, you'll pay for them later. Do you
understand?" I nodded my head quickly. I looked around my apartment, taking one
last glance at the life I was leaving behind, the life in which I had a bright
future ahead of me. Instead, I would be a helpless plaything, a sexual toy that
men and women would make use of and discard. Tears ran down my cheeks freely as
I imagined what my life would be like now - the services I would have to
perform, the people I would have to obey, the humiliations I would have to
suffer. Then one of the men led the way down the stairs and my captor pushed me
down behind him.

We reached the street without incident and I was pushed into a waiting
limousine. Once inside, I was stripped naked and once again made to kneel as a
slave. With the lights on, I could see the leader of the three men was tall and
broad-shouldered, with black hair and sharp, angular features. His colleagues
also towered above me. I had never before felt so small, and soft, and
vulnerable, as I did, kneeling naked and bound in their presence.

"I will explain a few things to you now," he began. "If you learn them, swiftly,
you will increase your chances of surviving." I swallowed, hard. "You are a
slave. That is all you are. You exist to serve your masters, instantly and
fully. You have no rights, no will, no desires. Your sole purpose is to give
pleasure to your masters. Being what you are, your best chance of doing that is
with your body, and I advise you to make use of it as best you can.

"You must address all free men and women as master or mistress. You will not
speak unless spoken to. If not otherwise instructed, you will kneel in their
presence. You may never close your knees or otherwise deny access to any part of
your body. You must remain continually, total open to any use that your masters
can imagine. If you fail to obey, you will be beaten, or worse. You can be used
in any way by any person at any time, and you must serve all of them willingly
and eagerly. Do you understand?"

My head swam. This was far more terrifying than any fantasy I had ever had. I
imagined the repeated, cruel abuses that I could suffer in this new life, being
forced to serve masters in ways I had never imagined, or simply being raped by
tens or hundreds of men in uninterrupted succession. "Yes, master," I whispered.
"I understand.  I will obey."

"Very well. Now I will be the first to introduce you to your new condition."

"Yes, master," I said meekly, now knowing I was only moments away from my first
slave rape. My body was beginning to lubricate itself in self-defense. "How may
I serve you?"

"Turn away from me," he ordered. I obeyed, still kneeling. "Put your head to the
floor. Put your hands behind your head." I was now fully open and exposed to
him, my bound hands powerless to protect me from his impending assault. He made
me wait what seemed like hours as I trembled naked on the floor of the
limousine, awaiting my ravishment.  Then suddenly he entered me and I gasped in
shock. He made use of me rapidly, casually, brutally, demonstrating that I was
but passive flesh available for his convenience, and then withdrew. He had
aroused me with his usage of me, but it was over much too quickly for me to gain
release. "You may thank me," he said.

"Thank you, master," I sobbed, not daring to break position. Then I felt another
man penetrate me and subject me to his domineering thrusts, again using me
quickly and casually. "Thank you, master," I repeated when he had finished with
me, and awaited the third.

"I would prefer to make use of that mouth of hers," he said instead.  Not sure
what was expected of me, I turned to face him and raised myself to my knees.

"You may use me in any way you wish, master," I said. At a sign of
encouragement, I opened his pants and lowered my head to his body. I had never
before pleasured a man with my mouth, but I thought I could guess what I should
do. He locked his hands in my hair and pulled my open mouth over his manhood,
setting the pace I must keep. Soon he let out a moan and clutched my head to
him, forcing me to swallow his seed. I almost gagged, but my fear at the
potential consequences overcame my reflex. He withdrew from me. "Thank you,
master," I managed to say. He cleaned himself off with my hair.

The leader of the three said, "That is all you are good for now. You had better
hope that men find you satisfactory."

"Yes, master," I replied.

Then the men took to talking to themselves in rapid German, leaving their slave
to kneel silently at their feet.

I cried softly during the car ride. I could think of nothing except the brutal
rape I had just suffered, their casual, forceful handling of my body. The long,
slow cycles of tantalizing, excruciating arousal that Cristina had put me
through, the fantasy world of semi-consensual slavery that I had imagined for
myself - these were long gone. Instead, I was kneeling, silently and in terror,
before three men who had just used me for their ruthless, unilateral pleasure,
treating my mouth as well as my body as only another place to find their
release. The taste of that last ravishment remained thick and heavy in my mouth.
I supposed I had better get used to it, I said to myself. It was a taste I was
sure to know well in the days, weeks, and months ahead. No, this was clearly not
the exotic, comfortable slavery I had imagined. But at the same time that I
dreaded what masters might do to me, I understood that, on some level, I had
asked for this. No one had made me accompany Cristina to that first party,
semi-nude, a collar and leash on my neck. No one had forced me to beg Stefan to
rape me that first night, or to offer my body up to Cristina after the dinner
party. And I knew that there could be no slavery that was not total,
unconditional, and abject, in which masters could not freely use my body in any
way they saw fit.

I moaned softly as my the realization of my predicament sank in.  This, then,
was what I had to look forward to, for at least as long as my body continued to
be of interest to masters - kneeling naked before men, my body still sore from
their previous assaults, waiting submissively for them to see fit to take
pleasure in my soft flesh once again. And I had to admit that part of me - a
small part, but one I could not deny - almost reveled in that realization, that
the slave girl in me had finally been recognized, brought out into the open, and
cruelly enslaved, finally being forced to put her charms to use.

I wondered if Cristina knew what was happening to me, if she had somehow
arranged for my abduction and enslavement, or had even sold the rights to my
body to some dealer in women's flesh. If the latter, I wondered what she had
gotten for me. Even if she were not involved, I felt sure that she would approve
of this drastic change in my fortunes.

I wondered how long I could survive as a helpless slave, completely at the mercy
of demanding masters. As a new slave, I expected I would provide at least some
novelty value, a new plaything for a few hours of entertainment. But then
perhaps they would tire of me, or at the least would become more and more
exacting, continually demanding new depths of submission and service. I silently
prayed that men would find me satisfactory, as my captor had said. But then I
realized with a shock that it was not just a matter of others "finding" me
satisfactory or not. I, though a slave, still must have some power to please
masters, to make them desire my services, to stimulate their desire and, in so
doing, provoke my own ravishment. If I wanted to survive, I would have to do
everything in my power to make myself desirable, to anticipate the wants of my
masters, to inflame them with lust and then satiate their urges with my soft,
naked body. I knew the only assets at my disposal were my body and my ability to
use it to please men and women, and that the quality of my life would depend
directly on my success in encouraging them to humiliate, abuse, and debase me.
And with a kind of calm, I realized that in succumbing to my submissive urges,
in giving in to masters as the brazen slut I knew I could be, I was only heeding
my own self-interest, following the course of action most likely to preserve my
life in a tolerable fashion. If I was totally dependent on the whims of my
masters, it was far better for them to find in me a willing, eager, sensuous
slut than a reluctant, withdrawing, resisting woman attempting to preserve her
dignity. Armed with this irrefutable justification, I was free to cast aside any
vestiges of modesty or propriety I might of thought to keep, free to embrace my
complete and abject subjection.

I looked up at my captor, a pleading look in my eyes. I begged silently for him
to be kind to me. I knew at that moment I would do anything in my meager powers
to please him. Unbidden, I lowered my head to his feet and began to lick at his
shoes. Although I had performed this act of obeisance several times before, this
was the first time I did so as a true slave, in complete recognition of the
absolute power this man held over me, my body, and my very life. I abandoned
myself completely to the worship of his feet, covering them with caresses of my
tongue and tears from my eyes, hoping in this tiny way to be found pleasing. At
that moment, I actually hoped that he would deign to make use of me again, if
only for the security of knowing that he found me of interest.

Instead, he only reached down and stroked my hair, falling about his feet.
"You'll make a good slave," he said. I moaned in appreciation, but continued
licking his shoes.

***



Eventually the car pulled into the long driveway of another secluded mansion. A
tug on my leash pulled me back up to my knees. I looked up at my master,
expectantly. "This is your new home, slut," he said.  This was real, then. I had
not been abducted simply to serve as an evening's entertainment, thereafter to
be returned to my accustomed life. This was, in fact, the beginning of a new
life, a life I whose outlines I could only dimly imagine - a life to be spent at
the feet of my masters, desperately hoping to please them with my nude body.

My captor led me up the stairs to the front door. I trailed behind him as
Cristina had taught me, my eyes lowered submissively. He knocked on the door and
I waited in expectant silence. The door swung open.

A tall, black-haired woman stood in the doorway. She looked at ease in a crisp
blue business shirt and grey slacks. She seemed about forty, her face hard but
not wrinkled, her hair flecked with grey. I looked into her eyes for a moment.
Then I lowered my eyes and knelt before her, my knees wide.

"Here's the slut," my captor said. I reddened at the verbal slap.

"How was she?" the woman asked.

"Remarkable," he answered. "I've never seen a new girl so eager to please." I
wanted to die on the spot. The humiliation of being raped by three men in the
back of a limousine paled next to the humiliation of having my secret,
submissive nature exposed.

"Is this true?" the woman asked me, lifting my chin with her hand.

"Are you eager to please?"

Tears welled up in my eyes. "Yes, mistress," I whispered. "I exist only to
please my masters." I took refuge in the thought that I was only trying to say
what she would want to hear, but I knew that was a lie.

"Then we will get along wonderfully, my dear," she said. She took the end of my
leash in her hand and led me into the house. My captor, the first man who used
me as a slave, patted me affectionately on the bottom and turned to leave.

She led me into a large, almost empty room that seemed more appropriate to a
Kreuzberg loft than to a rural mansion. She stopped and turned toward me.
Instantly I knelt before her, my knees open, my chest thrust forward. I hoped
she found my body pleasing. I wondered what she would demand of me - if I would
be forced to please her as I had pleased the men in the car.

"I take it you understand what has happened to you," she began. "You are now a
slave - a sex slave, in fact. We know that you have secretly desired to be a
slave, and now we are simply granting you that desire."

There was no way I could argue with that. Hadn't I gone willingly both to the
club and to the party, there to serve as a slave? Hadn't I begged Stefan and
Cristina to put me to use as a slave? "What is going to happen to me?" was all I
could ask.

"Although you show considerable promise as a slave, you have a great deal to
learn. This is a training facility. Here you will be taught what it means to be
a slave, and the arts of serving men and women with your body. If you do not
learn quickly, you will be whipped." She paused. "I assure you that it is best
to learn quickly." I nodded, silently. I had always been a good student, but
never before had I taken classes in sexual slavery. I hoped that I would be a
good student. I vowed to do everything I could to be pleasing.

Then I remembered what she had said - that this was only a training facility.
"Then what happens ... once I've been trained?" I whispered.

"Then you will be sold to your new master," she said simply. "And then you will
spend a lifetime endeavoring to convince him - or her - that you are worth
keeping. Presumably you will spend much of that time as naked as you are now,
with your legs spread or your mouth open, begging to be used as a slave. Or your
master can choose to sell you to someone else, of course. You are just an
article of property now, to be bought and sold and consumed."

I thought about what I had gotten myself into. No longer could I enjoy the
comforts of submitting to my idol, Cristina, or to people I knew and liked. Now
I was just a naked, helpless slave girl, who could find herself on her knees
before anyone, anywhere, begging to be raped. But at the same time, now I knew
that I truly had no choice in the matter. I was a slave and that was all there
was to it. I would have to be utterly pleasing to anyone who had rights over me.

"What kind of owners do the slaves get sold to?" I asked, wondering what fate
lay in wait for me.

"A few are sold to extraordinarily wealthy men and women who want to have
personal sex slaves. But actually, the largest number are sold to high-class
prostitution businesses," she said. "There's more money there than in private
slavery. Most of the girls we train here end up being rented by the hour or by
the night to wealthy businessmen who want the exquisite services that can only
be demanded of a complete slave. And then some are sold into the pornography
business, where they are used to make movies and videos. But there isn't much
need for slaves there, since so many young girls are willing to do it for the
money."

So that was my future - offering my body to one man after the other, to satisfy
their every desire, for the profit of my owners. Gone was any of the romance I
might have imagined in sexual slavery. Instead I would be a simple commodity to
be used up and presumably discarded when my body was no longer of interest.

"I am Claudia, but you will address me as Mistress," she said, jarring me out of
my reverie. "I run this house. You appear eager and obedient, but that remains
to be proven. Any disobedience, however slight, will be instantly punished. We
have very few rules, apart from absolute obedience. You will remain nude unless
specifically permitted otherwise. You will kneel when in the presence of any of
the staff here, unless permitted otherwise. Your body is constantly available
for use by any of the staff, unless specified otherwise.  And you may not please
yourself or any of the other slaves. Your bodies exist for the pleasure of
masters alone. Do you understand?"

"Yes, mistress," I said. "I will be absolutely obedient."

"Very good," she said. "You may keep the name 'Jenny' while you are here,
although you will more often answer to 'slave' or slut.'

"Michael!" she called. A moment later a tall, burly man strode in to the room.
"Take the new slave to the slave pen."

"Yes, Claudia," he answered. He picked up my leash and began to lead me away.
"Any special instructions?" he said with a smile.

"No, Michael," she said. "You may do with her as you wish."

I would not have to wait long to find out what she meant. He led me down a
staircase to a large, dimly lit room with several narrow beds.  Most seemed to
be occupied by young women, apparently naked under the thin sheets. He pulled me
to an empty bed, threw me down on it on my back, and tied my leash around a ring
attached to the wall above the head of the bed. Then he casually flipped me over
onto my stomach and lifted me onto my knees, forcing my bottom up into the air.
I heard him undoing his zipper behind me. My heart was pounding and my breathing
frantic as I realized I was to be raped once again. I could feel my body
lubricating itself desperately to protect against its impending violent
penetration. Then suddenly I felt him plunge into me and I cried out in pain and
surprise. He used me brutally, forcefully, and casually, with no regard for my
feelings or my own pleasure. I was nothing but a vessel for his manhood, a toy
for his amusement. My body was warm with excitement but still far from
satisfaction when I felt his final surge inside me. After he withdrew from me I
collapsed onto the bed, sobbing into my pillow. So this was what it meant to be
a slave. So this was what it meant to be a slave.  The words repeated over and
over in my head. "Welcome to your new life, slut," Michael whispered as he left.

My Berlin Summer Chapter 5: Training

=============================

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?

My Berlin Summer
by Dana Williams

Chapter 6:  The Auction

One evening after dinner I was summoned to Mistress Claudia's office. I entered,
walked to a position about one a half meters in front of her, as I had been
taught, and lowered myself gracefully to my knees.  Weeks of training had
brought to this simple act depths of gracefulness and submissiveness that I had
never before dreamed possible.  My walk was now the walk of a confessed slave
girl, my bared hips swaying softly in mute offering.  My posture was erect and
proud, the curves of my rounded shoulders and soft breasts modifying the line of
my body.  I no longer wore the hesitant modesty of a new slave girl, but
displayed my body simply, openly, and beautifully for my mistress's gaze. 
Kneeling was not merely a simple physical act, but a profound expression of my
inner nature, a way of taking my rightful place at her feet. 

The attitudes of my body were not merely lessons I had memorized and practiced,
but were reflections of the person I had now become, or rather that I had
learned I had always been.  In accepting my slavery, my inferiority to my
masters and my availability for their use, I had accepted not merely the
necessity of following their orders, but more significantly a new understanding
of what I was.  I knew that, for the type of girl I now was, it was only fitting
that I display my naked body casually, that I kneel unasked before a master, my
thighs parted to symbolize the exact nature of my submission.  And enough
masters had then put me to my back on the floor to impress on me the unavoidable
consequences of that submission.

Claudia was silent.  I could feel her gaze upon me as she walked around my naked
form. 

"You have made tremendous progress," she finally said, standing before me once
again.

"Thank you, mistress," I answered.  "This slave is happy if she has been
pleasing to her mistress."  These words of self-abjection, recently so foreign
to me, now felt like second nature - not because they had been practiced by
rote, but because they reflected my new station in life.

"Although your face and body leave something to be desired, you are clearly one
of the most intelligent, submissive, and eager slave girls whom we have
trained."

"Thank you, mistress," I said.  Her first comment had stung, but I knew that,
where sex slaves were concerned, I was no beauty, and was average at best.  Back
in Westwood, I had been one of the most attractive girls on campus, able to
tantalize men with little more than a tight outfit and a casual smile, and I had
made the most of that talent.  Here, though, many of the slave girls were simply
stunning in their beauty.  Capturing and training a slave is an expensive
proposition; it made little sense to expend the effort on any but the most
prized girls available.

"And you are considerably more beautiful than when you arrived," Claudia
continued.  "Your face and body are softer, more open, more available, more
submissive.  It is truly a transformation."

"Yes, mistress."  I did not know what else to say.  I supposed it was true.

"The trainers also tell me that you are an avid student of the arts of intimate
pleasure," Claudia said.  "They say they have rarely seen a girl so eager to
improve her skills."  She lifted my chin with the handle of her whip.  "Is this
true, Jenny?"

"Yes, mistress," I answered.  "My greatest desire is to be pleasing to my
masters, as a slave.  I have tried to learn how to give them pleasure with my
mouth and body."  Inside, I burned with shame to hear myself saying these words,
to betray myself as a confessed slut or, worse still, an eager sex slave.  But
outwardly, I said them simply and genuinely, because I knew them to be true.

"Do you think you are any good?" Claudia asked.

I didn't know what to say.  I thought the trainers had found me satisfactory.  I
knew from casual observation that I was selected more often than most of the
other girls to offer up my body for their use.  "I hope so, mistress," I said. 
Then, more boldly, I added, "Perhaps you will let me serve you, mistress." 

Claudia laughed.  "Not now, I'm a busy woman," she said.  "Overall, however, I
am extremely pleased with you."  I felt a warm glow of pleasure in my belly.  A
slave girl exists to be pleasing, and nothing can give her such a sense of
fulfillment as a master's praise.  "Of course, you are still a new slave, and
have much to learn," she continued. 

I remained silent.  I knew that in my life as a slave many things would be
demanded of me, services that I had probably not yet imagined, that I might find
even more deeply humiliating and degrading than anything that I had yet
suffered, that surely only the lowest of sluts would even consider.  But I knew
that I would embrace them, because that was what I was for. 

"But for now, you are ready to be sold," Claudia said.  I looked up, startled. 
"You see, this is a business.  We have increased your value tremendously in the
few weeks you have been here.  When you arrived, you were a fresh, untrained
capture, with a disposition to submit to your masters, but little else.  Now you
are an exquisite, tantalizing, beautiful slut, trained to give men pleasures
they can only exact from a true slave.  But keeping you here a few more weeks
will hardly increase your value now."  I stared at her blankly, hearing the
words but not understanding their meaning.  "Now is the time for your auction."

"Yes, mistress," I finally whispered.  Of course, I thought, as the words sunk
in.  I was a slave girl.  The mansion, the lessons, the trainers, the routine of
submission and rape - this was only a way station, a training course.  At the
end of it, I would be released to my fate, which was to be an unconditional,
helpless, absolutely perfect pleasure slave.  I could be owned by anyone -
anyone, that is, with the money to buy me - and would have to obey immediately
and enthusiastically the least of his or her commands.  And the majority of
those commands would involve the use of my naked body to gratify my masters'
sexual urges.  

"Do you have any questions?" Claudia asked.

"Whom am I to be sold to?" I said.  "What is going to happen to me?"  Here, I
felt secure.  Here, for the price of constant submission and repeated rape, I
was secure and fulfilled.  The thought of a new master and a new life frightened
me.

"First we will do your photo and video shoots," she explained.  "Then we will
distribute your package to our network of clients.  Some of them will be
interested, and some will not.  The interested ones will come here to inspect
you more closely, and then you will be auctioned off."  She paused.  "As to who
will buy you, we leave that to the whim of the market." 

I could feel tears welling up inside me.  So despite my faithful service to
Cristina, despite all my hours of practice and training under Claudia's
direction, there was no one who cared about me, except as merchandise.  I was
only a piece of captive female flesh, to be bought and sold for the pleasures
that could be extracted from it.  "Yes, mistress," I said.  "Thank you,
mistress."

"You are dismissed," she said. 

I lowered my head to the floor as I had been taught and tenderly, lingeringly,
kissed my mistress's feet, feeling my breasts graze the carpet.  I raised myself
again to my knees and then stood, turned, and left the room.

 ***

The next morning I was excused from class for my "photo shoot."  One room of the
mansion had been transformed into a professional photographer's studio.  All the
shots were taken against a blank white curtain.  Potential bidders were not
interested in props and sets.  All they would be interested in was my body.  In
all the pictures, I posed absolutely nude, save for my collar.

The photographer snapped his instructions in a friendly but authoritative voice,
casually ordering me to assume every humiliating position a man might like to
demand from a beautiful, naked girl.  He made me crawl across the set, forward
and backward and side to side, my back arched and bottom raised invitingly, my
head raised boldly, lips suggestively pursed, or my head lowered, my hair a
curtain before my face.  I posed in all the positions of slave rape, on my back,
knees, or belly, or standing, bent over, grasping my ankles, my legs always
widely spread for an unseen master's convenience.  The photographer took
close-ups of my most intimate areas, forcing me to display myself in the most
degrading fashion for inspection by my potential owners.  A master wants to know
every detail of his slave girl. 

I went through my paces almost numbly, unable to accept what was being done to
me.  I was being marketed like any commodity, made to reveal my charms as
enticingly as possible to increase my desirability in the market.  The feeling
of deep, emotional submission to a master or mistress, which is what had
initially tempted me into slavery, was far distant.  This side of slavery was
purely a business matter, and I was but a product. 

At one point during the session, apparently irritated at my somewhat leaden
performance, the photographer positioned me on my knees, my head to the floor,
my hands clasped over my head.  I expected he merely wanted to demonstrate to
his audience this additional option for exploiting my body and waited quietly
for him to take his pictures.  Instead, I found myself suddenly, brutally
entered from behind, and gasped in pain and surprise.  I felt his firm hands
grasping my breasts and hips, his body plunging into me forcefully.  But instead
of finishing with me quickly, he took his time, varying his rhythm, arousing me
pitilessly and unequivocally until, with his final surge within me, I cried out
in submission.  After withdrawing, he pulled me up to a kneeling position by the
hair and spun me around in front of him.  Unbidden, I cleaned him with my mouth,
hoping to earn some modicum of acceptance in his eyes.

I understand perfectly what had happened.  I had been simply going through the
motions, passively obeying his orders, not desperately seeking to please him as
a slave girl should.  He, the photographer, had seen this in my body, and had
known how best to impress on me my slavery.  I looked up at him with a kind of
awe and gratitude.  In making use of my body, he had reminded me of my place, my
role in life.  From that point, I adopted my poses with redoubled enthusiasm,
and my submission radiated from my body.  I hoped he was pleased with me.

In the afternoon, I continued my newfound career as a nude model, this time for
a video session.  It was largely similar to the morning photo shoot, except this
time every instant was captured on film as I was put through my humiliating
paces.  Not only was my physical beauty on display this time, but also my
absolute obedience and docility as I instantly complied with the orders given to
me.  In addition to assuming the many positions of submission and service that
are second nature to the slave girl, I was also compelled to lavish my
attentions on a variety of objects - kissing and licking the floor, on my knees,
or taking a whip handle in my mouth, my eyes half-closed in an ecstasy of
submission, or kneeling with my thighs and breasts wrapped around a vertical
pole, caressing it helplessly with my hands and lips.  I was made to beg my
unseen audience to allow me to serve them, to describe in intimate detail the
pleasures I could give them, to proclaim in unconditional terms my desire to be
taken, and mastered, and used as only a slave girl could be used.  I was not,
however, and to my relief, made to display my sexual talents directly for the
camera.  Apparently the potential buyers would be left to speculate on my
ultimate worth as a vessel for their pleasure.  Of course, the photos and video
they would have left little to the imagination.

After the video shoot, I was allowed an unusual moment to relax as the
technicians gathered their equipment.  I sat against a wall, nude, my knees
drawn up against my chest in a vain effort to cover myself.  The chain leash I
had worn during the last part of the session still dangled between my breasts
and through my legs.  I stared blankly into space.  Until a few weeks ago, only
a few boyfriends had ever seen me naked, and then only after weeks of pursuit,
presents, and romantic dinners.  Now I had been captured on hundreds of photos
and hours of videotape, not only completely naked, but ruthlessly exposed and
exploited as a purely sexual object.  I wondered who would see those images - if
they would filter back into the world I used to inhabit, and if my friends and
colleagues would see in that wanton, lascivious slave girl the memory of their
vanished friend Jennifer Nevins.  The occasional beatings and the rapes and the
sordid humiliations of my slavery had, so far, taken place within the four walls
of this mansion, out of sight of the world.  But this, I knew, was the beginning
of a new chapter of my slavery, in which I would be publicly available to any
man or woman, the kind of girl who with a snap of the fingers could be commanded
to open her naked thighs for a master's conquest.  At the moment, I felt neither
pride nor arousal, only a kind of numb sadness at the fate that awaited me.

After my "portfolio" had been shot, my life returned to something approaching
normal, insofar as the term could be applied to my situation.  I took up my
daily routine again the next day, and found the trainers at least as harsh as
they had been previously.  Perhaps they knew that I would soon be leaving them,
and wanted to ensure that their student did not embarrass them in the outside
world.  Or perhaps they only wanted to make sure that they took maximum
advantage of my available body before it was claimed by a new master.  But
scarcely a day went by when I was not savagely used, often forced to serve two
at once, or tied down with my legs spread to endure a succession of cruel
masters.  At those times I was thankful that they let me cry, sobbing face down
into a cushion while men made quick use of my unprotected body, wondering what I
might have done to deserve this brutal treatment.  But I knew that whether or
not I deserved it was of no consequence.  I was a slave, and these things might
be done to me.

About a week after the photo and video sessions, I was summoned after breakfast
again to Claudia's office.  I entered and knelt before her, without even
thinking.  It was only natural that a slave should kneel before her mistress.

"Your potential buyers will be here, today," she began.  "You will be at their
disposal for two hours each.  You will be absolutely, completely perfect in your
submission to them.  This evening, they will make their initial bids.  Depending
on the bids, you will either have a new owner tonight, or we may repeat the
process tomorrow.  Do you understand me?"

I was too stunned to speak.  Only twelve hours from now people I had never met
before would be bidding for unconditional ownership rights to my soft, naked
body and every charm and attraction it might hold.  And in the intervening
hours, I would be forced to perform for them as an absolute slave, using all of
my talents to elicit as high a bid as possible from them.

The whip snapped across the back of my shoulders.  "Slut!  Do you understand
me!"

"Yes, mistress," I quickly said.  "Forgive me, mistress."

Claudia glared at me.  "How much money we make on you depends on how well you
are able to excite the buyers' desire today.  You must be beautiful, and
tantalizing, and deeply sensuous, and utterly pleasing.  All of the buyers are
extremely interested in what they have seen so far.  But that must be nothing
compared to the delights you give them today."

"Yes, mistress," I said.  "I will be absolutely obedient."

I was told there were four groups bidding on me, each of which had sent one
representative to the auction.  I would serve two of them in the morning and two
in the afternoon.  First, however, I was "prepared" ... by being strapped down
on my back over a table, another slave girl between my knees lavishing her lips
and tongue on me.  She repeatedly brought me close to climax, each time denying
me my fulfillment, letting my helpless gasps and moans and pleas go unheeded. 
After what seemed like an eternity but was probably closer to twenty minutes, I
heard a trainer say, "I think she's had enough."  I was unbound from the table
and led toward the room where I would serve the buyers, a leash attached to my
collar and my hands cuffed behind my back. I would go to my potential masters
cruelly aroused, desperate for them to have their way with my body.  In my
current state, I could be nothing other than a begging, eager slut.

I knelt on the hardwood floor, awaiting my first inspection, my hands still
cuffed behind my back, the leash dangling between my breasts and draped over my
left thigh.  Light flooded into the room from large windows on two sides of the
room.  Behind me was a simple bed on which I could be forced to demonstrate my
skills.  I thought about the last thing Claudia had said to me this morning as I
left her office.  "Their goal is to utterly humiliate you.  They want to see how
much you can take."  I shuddered at the thought, wondering what she could have
meant. 

I heard a hand on the door latch.  I swallowed. 

The door opened and a man looking exactly like a Japanese businessman entered. 
Or maybe that's what he was - a Japanese businessman, here to conduct business. 
He was on the young side of middle age, not unattractive, in an expensive gray
suit.  I imagined another setting, where we were meeting across a conference
room table, I clothed in similarly expensive attire.  Then I realized where I
was. 

"You are Jenny?"  He spoke heavily accented, but perfectly clear English.

"Yes, master," I answered.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one ... I think.  Is it past July 21st?"

"Yes, today is July 24.  Your birthday?"

"Yes, master," I said, fighting back a tear.  In the shock of my new life, I had
completely forgotten.

"Happy birthday," he said.  He was smiling.

"Thank you, master."

"How long have you been a slave?"

"A few weeks, master."

"What did you do before that?"

"I was a student at UCLA, master."  The memories began to get the better of me.

"What did you study?"

"Political science, master.  I planned to go to law school." 

He laughed.  "Well, I see things have changed a great deal for you."

"Yes, master," I said, blushing with humiliation.  What a difference a few weeks
had meant.  I could not be farther from the fast track to success than I was now
- kneeling naked and bound for inspection before a man capable of extracting any
service he chose from me.

"Do you like being a slave?"

"Yes, master."  I knew the answer.

"What do you like most about slavery?"

"Giving pleasure to my masters."

Many of the questions were formulaic.  We had learned the answers to them in our
classes.  We existed to serve our masters.  We were absolutely obedient.  We
wanted nothing more than to please our masters.  Our bodies were constantly
available for use by our masters.  Some of his questions were more probing,
however.  How many boyfriends had I had?  Had I served them well?  How would I
serve them if I saw them now?  What would I do if I could be free again? 

Finally he reached into his briefcase and took out a whip.  He tossed it across
the room behind me.  "Fetch," he said.

I struggled toward the whip on my knees and bent my head down to pick up its
handle in my teeth.  I turned to face him.  "On your belly," he said.  I lowered
myself to my belly and squirmed back to him, my hands still bound behind my
back.  My breasts and thighs ached from rubbing against the floor.  Finally I
lay on my belly at his feet.  At a motion of his hand, I struggled back up to my
knees and offered him the whip handle from between my lips.  He smiled.  He
grasped the whip handle and pushed it in and out of my mouth, simulating the act
of raping my mouth.  I closed my eyes and pretended I was in fact serving a man,
dedicating all the skills of my mouth and tongue to the inert whip handle.  He
withdrew the whip from my mouth and walked around behind me, pushing my head to
the floor, my bottom now raised high in the air.  Then suddenly I was penetrated
by the whip handle.  I could feel its solid mass pushing in and out of me,
tormenting my previously aroused body and mocking my slave's body.  "You may
relieve yourself or not, as you choose," he said.  I steeled myself to resist,
not wishing to let him bring me to climax in such a degrading fashion.  But as
the whip continued its inexorable domination of my body, I began to lose control
over my feelings, my resistance already weakened by the "preparation" I had
undergone.  Finally I gasped my submission, my hips shaking uncontrollably.  I
pressed my face to the floor, hoping to sink into it and vanish.

I felt the whip withdrawing from me.  The man came back in front of me and
pulled me back into a kneeling position by my hair.  Then he replaced the whip
handle in my mouth, forcing me to clean off the evidence of my own submission. 
Tears in my eyes, I obeyed. 

"You are clearly a hot slut," he pronounced as I continued to suck on the whip. 
"That will make you easier to control."  I lowered my eyes, shamed.  "Now let's
see if you can beg to please a man."

He pulled the whip out of my mouth.  I looked up at him in anticipation.  He
wanted me to beg. 

"Please, master, I beg to serve you," I began.  I leaned up and forward with my
body, presenting myself to him.  "Please let this slave attempt to give you
pleasure.  Let me take you in my mouth, or between my legs, or anywhere you
desire.  I will be hot, and wet, and wonderful for you."  I half closed my eyes
and licked my lips slowly.  I let my hips pulse back and forth in anticipation. 
"I beg to be taken, and raped, and dominated, master.  I long to have you inside
me, to feel you having your way with my body, using me like the slut I am."  I
was only following his instructions, of course.  But I could not deny that there
was some truth to what I was saying.  I did want to be raped, in part because
Claudia had commanded me to serve this man, but in part because my aroused body
was aching to be had.

"You may begin with your mouth," he finally said.

"Thank you, master," I said as he opened his pants.  This, at least, I knew how
to do, I told myself.  I opened my mouth and began to practice my trade, running
my tongue along him, gently coaxing him into my mouth, swirling my tongue as I
had practiced in my classes.  I knew I was a slave and that there was nothing I
could do about that.  I knew that, like it or not, this is what I had to look
forward to.  And at that moment, if I had to be a slave, I wanted only to be a
good slave, to demonstrate that I was worthy of interest and bidding.  I found
myself wanting desperately to please Claudia, to give this man and the ones that
would follow so much pleasure that I would bring a high price.  I could feel
myself slipping into that emotional ocean of submission where nothing exists
except the master, and the slave's absolute desire to worship and serve him.

Then, without warning, he withdrew from me.  "What a slut," he said.  I hoped I
could detect a trace of affection in his voice.  "Turn around and bend over." 
Knowing what was coming next, and with part of me hungering for it, I obeyed.  I
felt his hand on me.  He could feel how wet I was.  I resisted the urge to
climax right then.  "You want me to take you, don't you, slut?" he said.

"Yes, master," I gasped, trying to prevent my hips from pressing back against
him.  "Please, master.  Your slave begs you to take her.  Please."

Then he plunged into me.  My body opened and enveloped him gratefully.  His
powerful, dominating strokes left me gasping for breath, my breast heaving. 
Then I felt him climax within me, and I let myself over the edge, my hips
jerking in helpless orgasm. 

"Thank you, master," I said when he finally withdrew.  I had never before been
so truly thankful for a master's use, both physically and emotionally.  Suddenly
remembering my duty, I pulled myself back to my knees and offered my mouth to
clean him off, savoring the aftertaste of his conquest.  Although I had been the
captive victim of his ruthless onslaught, I felt nothing but a surge of joy and
gratitude.

I could feel the residue of his use dripping from my body onto the hardwood
floor.  He pointed down between my legs.  "Clean up after yourself, slut," he
ordered.  I looked up at him, questioningly.  My hands were still bound behind
my back.  He reached absent-mindedly for his whip.  Without being asked again, I
inched backward and leaned my face down toward the small puddle that had formed
on the floor.  With my tongue and lips, I gathered the mixed liquids into my
mouth and swallowed.  I felt thoroughly humiliated.  But such humiliation, I
knew, was a simple attribute of my position in life. 

Finally I returned to my kneeling position and looked up at my potential owner. 
"How may I serve you, master?" I asked.

Although he was only with me for about two hours, he found many other ways.

And so the day progressed.  After the Japanese businessman was a Russian one,
and after the Russian was a light lunch, and after lunch an English businessman. 
Between buyers I was allowed to shower and "freshen up," but then I was once
again pitilessly aroused by a slave girl kneeling between my legs.  I would go
to each buyer a hot slut begging to be used.  I am sure all the buyers were well
aware of the trick, but perhaps they expected it.  By mid-afternoon I had lost
count of the rapes, beatings, and other indignities I had suffered.  I had been
poked, prodded, and pinched in parts of my body I had previously never dreamed
of exposing to such attentions.  My hips and thighs were sore from use, and the
aftertaste of repeated violations clung to the inside of my mouth.  I had passed
through eager obedience and enthusiastic service to emotional numbness.  I
longed for my classes in slavery, where I had been able to lose myself in
striving to be a model student.

I was kneeling for the fourth time on the hardwood floor, my hands once again
cuffed behind my back, a leash dangling between my uplifted breasts, awaiting my
master of the hour, my tears buried back in my tear glands, unseen.  And then
the door opened and in walked Cristina.

"Cristina," I blurted out instantly.  "What are you doing here?"  My mind was
racing.  She was here to buy me, to set me free from the nightmare life of a
slave girl.  No, she was here to buy me, but to keep me as her personal sex
slave, nude and chained at her feet.  Or perhaps she was here to tell me that
this was all an elaborate joke, orchestrated by her to allow me to indulge my
hidden desires, but now completed, leaving me free to resume my old life.

She was silent.  She stood directly in front of me, her feet just inches from my
knees, and looked down into my eyes.  I had never before realized how beautiful
she was, her black hair cascading over her shoulders, her powerful, black-clad
figure towering over my soft, white body.  "Cristina?" I asked hesitantly.

"You've definitely changed, Jenny," she finally began, strolling slowly around
my kneeling form.  "And for the better, if I may say so myself."  She came to a
stop in front of me again.  "Tell me, do you enjoy being a slave?"

"No!" I said immediately.  "You would never imagine what I have to go through,
how many times I've been raped and beaten.  It's a living nightmare!  Tell me
this is all a joke."

"Actually, I could imagine quite well," she answered.  "Claudia has brought me
up to date on your accomplishments here."  I was silent.  "Apparently you are
one of the most eager and talented little slave sluts she has ever had."  I
lowered my eyes, blushing with shame.  "Well?  Is that true?"

"Yes.  Yes, mistress," I said.  "But I only did it because I had to ..."

"We always have choices, my dear," Cristina said.  "Now bend down and lick my
boots like a good little slut."

Tears beginning to well up into my eyes, I obeyed.  I remembered the first time
I had bent over her boots like this.  It had seemed like only a game, then. 
Now, I feared, it was something much more real.

"I do have some news for you, Jenny," Cristina said.  "But I am not here to free
you, nor am I going to buy you, although that is why I am ostensibly here.  In a
few days, you will be an utter slave slut in the absolute possession of one of
the gentlemen who preceded me here today."  I began to sob, my tears falling
onto her boots where I licked them up with my tongue.  To have momentarily
believed freedom might be at hand, only to have that hope dashed, was more than
I could bear.  "But first you will serve me like the slave you are.  I want to
see what you have learned."

Cristina walked around me and sat on the edge of the bed.  She leaned forward,
picked up the loose end of my leash, and tugged, drawing my head forward between
her legs.  I felt her hands clasping my soft brown hair as she pulled my face
and mouth closer to her body.  Weeks ago I had stripped myself naked and fallen
to my knees before her, begging to be allowed to serve her.  Now that wish was
being granted.

Delicately, I used my teeth to pull down her panties, alternating from side to
side until they were clear of her hips, then pulling them down and over her high
heels.  Then, taking a deep breath, I lifted my head back under her short black
skirt and dedicated myself to her pleasure.  I used every trick and nuance I had
learned, varying the rhythm, and intensity, and location my tongue's caresses,
hoping to show her that I was, indeed, worthy of being owned.  Cristina lay back
on the bed, her hands still locked in my hair, no doubt relishing my helpless
and passionate service.

Finally I felt her thighs grip my head as I brought her to a long and rolling
climax.  I continued to lick and kiss at her until her hands gently pulled me
away.

"Did I please you, mistress?" I asked.  Cristina had left no doubt as to the
relationship between us.

"Yes, my dear," she answered.  I flushed with pride.  "You still have a lot to
learn, but you clearly have some talent.  And Claudia was right - it's hard to
find a slave so eager to please.  As long as you keep up that zealousness,
you'll do fine as a slave."

"Thank you, mistress," I said.  Although I was deeply ashamed of it, I knew my
ability to block out everything and focus on a master's pleasure, to devote
myself wholly and unreservedly to his or her desires, would serve me well as a
slave.  My life might depend on that utter submissiveness.

"Now listen to me, Jenny," Cristina said seriously, leaning towards me.  "What
I'm going to tell you is very important, but you cannot tell anyone else, for
reasons that will soon be evident.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, mistress," I said. 

"In case you had any doubts, you are here because I recommended you to Claudia. 
I am one of her 'talent scouts;' I identify young girls with strong potential to
be female slaves and test them."  I thought about the day she had invited me to
that first "bondage ball."  Slowly it all started to make sense.  That had been
a test.  Apparently I had passed it.  "If they seem promising, Claudia takes it
from there."

"Yes, mistress," I said blankly.  Cristina had chosen this life for me.  I
supposed I should have hated her for it, but I couldn't muster the emotion.  She
had only opened the door to this life of unremitting sexual servitude; I had
stepped through it.

"But I chose you for another reason," Cristina continued.  "I'm really helping
the German police investigate the white slavery and prostitution industry. 
We're trying to plant informants into the organization, and I chose you.  We
need girls on the inside who can let us know what is going on and provide
evidence when we finally decide to nab someone.  For rather obvious reasons, we
can't just plant any old female agent; we don't need someone who can act like a
slave girl, we need someone who really is a slave girl, both physically and
emotionally.  Anything less and they would spot it immediately."  She paused. 
"That's where you come in."

"You want me to be a spy for you?" I stammered.  Slipping into the life of a
slave girl, completely free of worries and responsibilities - apart from
absolute obedience and exquisite sexual services, that is - was something I was
more than halfway resigned to.  This sounded more complicated, and dangerous.

"After a fashion," Cristina said.  "Listen, Jenny, this is the deal.  You can
say no, and this is the last you'll ever hear from me.  You'll be auctioned off
tonight, and you'll spend the next ten years begging men to use your soft little
body in ways you've never imagined.  Within three months you'll have lost your
personality and you'll never think any thoughts except how to be the most
fantastic sex toy your masters have ever seen.  And after ten years, who knows? 
If you're lucky, you'll be dumped on the street, turning tricks because it's the
only thing you can do.

"If you say yes, you spend your time listening to what goes on around you,
gathering evidence, and remembering it.  Periodically we'll send in a client to
pick up the information.  If we nail the people we want and the operation ends,
you're free to go.  You can go back to school and go on with your life.  Even if
we don't get them, we'll get you out within three years.  We'll just buy you if
we need to.

"That's your choice.  What'll it be?"

I thought rapidly.  Cristina was right.  Even if I could be contented as a sex
slave, how long could it last?  What could I look forward to once my cheerful
smile and young body were gone?  And what she was offering seemed the best
possible option.  I could continue to live out my slave girl fantasy, but now it
would have a happy ending; I would be set free while still young enough to live
another life.  And who would suspect in me, the perfect, subservient, eager
slave slut, an informant?

"Yes, mistress," I said.  "I'll do it."

Cristina smiled.  "I knew you would.  You may be a sucker for humiliation, but
you're still smart."  She casually patted me on the head.  "Tonight, you're
going to be bought by the Brit who was in here before me.  Don't ask how I know
that.  Then you're going to be shipped to a brothel in Paris.  You'll find out
what that's like soon enough.  You'll receive instructions from one of your
clients.  The code phrase is 'I like daffodils, but my favorite flower is the
chrysanthemum.'   If any client says that to you, he's one of us, and you can
trust him.  Do you understand?"

"I like daffodils, but my favorite flower is the chrysanthemum," I repeated. 
"Got it.  Mistress," I added.

"You were really meant to be a slave, Jenny.  It'll be a pity to set you free
when we're done."  She paused.  "Well, that's it for now.  We still have an hour
to spend in here or Claudia will get suspicious.  I'm supposed to be
test-driving you, you know.  Do you have any idea how we could pass the time?"

From the look on her face I could tell that she had an idea.  She pushed down on
my shoulders, forcing me to my back.  My wrists were pinned uncomfortably in the
small of my back.  She knelt above me, her knees straddling my face, and lowered
herself toward my waiting mouth.  "You have a lot to learn, slut," she said. 
"Maybe I can teach you something."

 ***

When Cristina's time with me was up, I was once again allowed to clean myself
and was then summoned to serve at dinner.  The four buyers were guests of the
house, but I played no particular role in the evening's activities.  Perhaps
Claudia wanted them to taste the merits of her other slave girls, to provoke
their interest in a future purchase.  Or perhaps my body was not being offered
to them in order to communicate that now, in order to have me, they would have
to pay.  Of course, they had had their way with my body repeatedly during the
day, so it would be something of an empty symbol.

After dinner I waited in the slave girls' common bedroom, waiting.  Other girls
tried to comfort me, but I had little patience for them.  Did they not know what
was happening to me?  I was being sold to the highest bidder, who would then own
me, completely and unconditionally.  Here in the training house, our masters had
been restrained by commercial motivations - we were here to be trained, not to
be casually and arbitrarily abused.  But soon, a defenseless slave in the wider
world, anything might be demanded of me, any command might be imposed on me.  I
had not even a shred of clothing to protect my body from the demands of my
future masters.  I imagined being tied down and raped by hundreds of men, one
after the other, until passing out in shock, only to be forcibly revived to
endure my continuing torture.  The only thing I had to hold onto was Cristina's
promise.  Three years and I would be free.  I did not know if I could endure
that long.

Finally I was ordered to Claudia's office.  I entered and knelt before her. 
Standing next to her was the English man who had "tried me out" earlier. 

"Jenny, this is Mr. McGregor," Claudia said.  He made the high bid on you, on
behalf of his company, and he is now your owner."  The shock must have been
evident on my face.  "You may greet your new master," she finally said.

I remembered then what I was supposed to do.  I turned to him, bent down, and
began to kiss his feet.  "Thank you, master," I said.  "I will be absolutely
obedient and pleasing, master.  Thank you for letting me be your slave."  I
remembered what he had done to me that afternoon.  He had been utterly
commanding, and ruthless, and dominant.  I had begged him to rape me and finally
screamed out my submission to him as he used me for the third time.  He had left
me with no doubts about what it meant to be his slave.

"Yes, I think she'll do nicely," he said to Claudia, ignoring my efforts to
please him.  Finally he indicated that I should stop.

"Jenny, you will sleep here tonight.  Tomorrow you will be transported to your
new home," Claudia said.  "You have been an excellent student and have all the
makings of a superb slut.  I wish you well."

"Thank you, mistress," I said.

"Do you have any questions?"

I don't know where I summoned the courage to ask.  "Mistress ... how much did I
cost?"

Claudia smiled and turned toward Mr. McGregor.  He laughed. 

"1.6 million dollars," he said.

My Berlin Summer
by Dana Williams

Chapter 7:  Paris

The next morning, after our group exercise and shower and one final breakfast
eaten naked and on all fours from a bowl on the tiled kitchen floor, I was
allowed to say good-bye to my fellow slave girls before being "shipped."  We
kissed and hugged, tears in our eyes.  After spending weeks together, virtually
all of the time with no clothing other than our collars, it seemed completely
natural to clasp another girl's naked body to my chest.  Here, although we had
been unequivocally taught our slavery, we had shared a routine and a set of
experiences.  Now, I expected, I would never see any of my sisters in slavery
again.

I would be transported to Paris in a simple minivan with tinted windows.  I was
consigned to two drivers who would see that I arrived at my destination
undamaged, Mr. McGregor flying to Paris separately.  Claudia did not deign to
see me off.  No doubt, having pocketed her profit on me, I was gone from her
mind, another foolish girl made to pay for her secret desires.  I wore nothing
except my collar, now adorned with a small brass tag indicating my new owner,
the bracelets that held my wrists together behind my back, and a twelve-inch
chain that joined my ankles together.  The drivers, I would later learn, did not
have the keys to my bonds - presumably so that I could not wheedle them into
unchaining me, in case I had any notions of escaping en route.  I noted that the
slack in the ankle chain left me enough latitude to open my knees and thighs for
them, either on my back or on my knees.  I expected this was a collateral
benefit of their occupation.

I was placed on the first bench seat behind the drivers, a long, loose chain
padlocked to my collar and to the inside of the van for extra security.  The
back door was locked and could only be opened from the outside,  I had no chance
of escape.  I would be delivered to my new owners, a new slave for their
amusement and pleasure.

One of the drivers, a young, stocky, black-haired man whose name I would learn
as Eddy, sat next to me while his colleague Karl drove.  "What a pretty little
slut you are," he said as he started to caress my breasts with his small but
strong hands.  "So young, and innocent ... but I can tell you love being a slut,
don't you.  You love spreading your legs for men, don't you, slut.  You love
having it in your mouth, in your slutty lips, tasting it, swallowing it, don't
you." 

His hand was now between my thighs, probing my body.  I was still dry from fear,
but I could feel my body beginning to respond, uncontrollably.  I knew where
this was going, and while I had no desire to be raped in the back seat of a van,
I knew that there was nothing I could do about it, and I would be better off
complying with this man's wishes.  I did not want an unfavorable report to
arrive with me in Paris.  "Yes, master," I whispered as sensuously as I could. 
"I love being a slut.  Please use me like the slut I am.  Let me take you in my
mouth and please you like you've never been pleased before."  I licked my lips. 
As a slave, I had learned early on to adapt my behavior to the preferences of
the master, to intuit quickly whether he wanted a hot, eager slut to be enjoyed
or a reserved, reluctant girl to be forcibly put to her back and dominated. 
This, I had been told, was one of my particular skills as a slave.  I closed my
eyes and let myself indulge in his impatient caresses between my legs, willing
myself to become hot and wet for him.  Bound as I was, there was little he could
expect me to do for him, at least until he positioned me appropriately.

Soon he pulled me down from the seat and put me on my knees in front of him, and
began to open his pants.  My body still sore from the abuses I had suffered the
day before, I decided I would do my best to satiate him with my mouth, to give
my bruises more time to heal.  I lowered my head to him and plunged into my work
with abandon, moaning with apparent satisfaction as I practiced my skills.  But
before I could complete my task, he withdrew from me and pushed me down on my
back.  My wrists ached, trapped in the small of my back against the rough carpet
of the van, as he brought his weight on top of and inside me, pressing my thighs
back against the floor.  Even though I was sore inside, my body welcomed his
entrance into me.  But after the work I had done with my mouth, he was unable to
last very long inside me, and he climaxed before I was able to achieve more than
a moderate arousal.  He withdrew, buckled his pants, and pushed me back onto my
seat.  I could feel a damp spot spreading on the vinyl seat. 

"She's really hot, Karl," he called up to the front seat.  "I bet you can't wait
to get a piece of that nice juicy ass."  I felt like I had been slapped.  As a
new slave, I still hated being reduced to my anatomical essentials.  But I knew
that was where most if not all of my value lay.

"Just let me get out of town and I'll take a turn," Karl answered.  As I awaited
the inevitable, Eddy casually ran his hands over my body, fondling his new toy. 
I moaned softly in appreciation, trying to please him.  "You want it again
already, don't you, slut?" he said.  "Well, you won't have to wait long."

I didn't.  About fifteen minutes later, the van pulled over by the side of the
Autobahn.  The two men changed places, Karl coming back to enjoy the
entertainment available for the ride, Eddy easing the van back onto the road. 
Karl was older, taller, and less of a talker than Eddy.  He wasted no time with
my mouth, dumping me unceremoniously on my belly on the bench seat, my breasts
crushed against the vinyl surface, my body open to him as a slave, before
entering me from behind.  He took his time, seemingly trying to arouse me, so I
let my mind go and let myself revel in his deep, powerful thrusts, forcibly
impressing on me my status as the helpless victim of his pleasure.  Finally I
felt him press himself against me, and I cried out in my own helpless orgasm.  I
hoped I would not be punished.  But he didn't seem to mind, even smiling down at
me as I cleaned him with my mouth, his hands playing with my hair.  "We're going
to have a nice trip, aren't we," he said.

I nodded as I could, my mouth still occupied by his manhood.

Now that my training was over, it seemed, there was little to pass my time other
than actual service.  Eddy and Karl were seeming indefatigable - certainly more
impressive than any of my boyfriends.  Perhaps it was a product of their
generally monotonous occupation.  Or perhaps it was a natural product of having
a naked, bound sex slave constantly available to them in the back seat, willing
and ready to indulge their every desire.  In any case, somewhere in the former
West Germany I lost count of how many times they had put me to their uses. 
After having exploited my more conventional uses, they had each used their hands
to bring themselves to climax, aiming at my wide-open mouth or at my breasts and
body.  They had wiped some of their ejaculations into my mouth for me to taste
and swallow, but the remainder was drying on my body and in my hair, out of
reach of my bound hands, an abject reminder of my miserable condition.  Through
it all, I attempted to maintain my eager, willing, slutty demeanor, knowing that
was what would please them the most.  But inside I was crying silently,
wondering if this was to be how I would pass all my days.  Since the first time
Karl had taken advantage of me, I could no longer be aroused by my abuse. 
Instead, I felt a mixture of soreness and boredom, hoping my rapists would tire
of me so I could rest my mouth and body.

At night we stopped by the road for a few hours to rest, and after having me
serve both of them at once, apparently for a change of pace, they stretched out
on the two bench seats to rest.  I was left lying curled up on the floor of the
van, my hands still uncomfortably bound behind my back.  Once they were asleep,
I lifted my head and looked about the van, wondering if I had any chance at
escape.  But the rear door was still locked, and chained as I was, I could not
reach the front doors.  I resigned myself to my fate and lay back down on the
hard floor.  I wished I had been given a pillow or blanket.  When I had been
free, I had taken those small comforts for granted.  Now, I knew, I could take
nothing for granted.  Finally I drifted off to a fitful sleep.

When I awoke, it was still dark.  I felt a tug on the chain attached to my
collar.  Unable to resist, I followed it, lifting my head toward the seat.  Eddy
was pulling my head towards his lap.  He put his hands in my hair and guided my
face down toward him.  I opened my mouth and began licking and kissing at him. 
"Yes, master," I sobbed, and continued my work. 

When he was finished with me, after I had swallowed submissively and cleaned him
off, he pushed me back onto the floor, where I landed hard on my left shoulder,
unable to break my fall with my hands bound behind me.  I lay there, wide awake,
unable to cry.

We arrived in Paris early the next morning.  It was a warm, overcast day, the
city's nineteenth-century apartment buildings gray against the gray sky.  I
pressed my nose to the window, trying to make out landmarks I had only seen in
pictures:  Beaubourg, Notre Dame, the spire of the Sainte Chapelle, the Louvre. 
I thought I recognized them, but I could not be sure.  I had often fantasized
about visiting Paris - in fact, I had been planning to at the end of my summer
in Berlin - but I had never imagined I would see the City of Light as a piece of
merchandise being delivered, a naked, bound, abused pleasure slave peering out
from behind tinted windows. 

We parked on a side street so that Eddy and Karl could make use of my aching
body one last time, and then we drove up a large avenue that I later learned was
the Champs Elysees, turned into a side street, and turned again through a gate
and into a large courtyard.  They opened the rear door, unlocked the chain
attaching my collar to the inside of the van, and led me out onto the flagstones
of the courtyard.  I could barely walk from having been chained for the entire
trip, and because of the short chain attaching my ankles.  Eddy's hand was still
exploring my body as they escorted me to a large doorway.  We were met by a
young, casually dressed man whose name was Felix.  Despite my fatigue, my aches,
and the poor appearance I am sure I made, still covered with the stains of the
previous twenty-four hours' abuses, I still wanted to make a good first
impression.  I sank to my knees on the hard stone and opened my thighs as best I
could.  Felix smiled.  He talked briefly with Karl, exchanged documents,
compared me to a picture he had of me, and checked the tag on my collar.  Then
he thanked my two couriers, who returned to their van.  Looking back at us, Eddy
called out, "She's a real hot one, that one.  A real first-class slut."

Felix looked down on me, still on my knees.  "Are you a first-class slut,
Jenny?" he asked. 

"Yes, master," I answered.  "I live only to please my masters.  I want nothing
more than to serve them with my body."  He seemed like a reasonable person.  I
wanted desperately for him to like me, at least to treat me as a human being
rather than as the real-life sex doll I had been for the last day.

"Well, we'll see about that," he said, attaching a leash to my collar.  He led
me into the building, shuffling along after him as best as I could. 

Felix led me to a wing of the building that he introduced as the slave quarters. 
The rooms in this section only had windows on the interior courtyard, and
entrance and exit were controlled by two sets of locked doors.  Inside, he
turned me over to a slave girl named Helene, a French girl who spoke English
with only a mild accent.  English, I took it, was the international language of
the pleasure slave industry.  After unlocking my wrists and ankles, removing my
leash, and giving me strict instructions to obey Helene's every word, he left
me. 

Helene wore a one-piece, nearly opaque, light blue piece of lingerie that hung
from thin straps over her shoulders and came down to mid-thigh.  Although it was
cut low in front and back, slit high on her hips, and obviously the only thing
that she was wearing, I was deeply envious of her.  Since being abducted, I had
never been granted permission to wear clothing, except in a training situation. 
Now I was appearing before her nude and disheveled, the traces of the previous
days' degradations still apparent on my body and in my hair.  Surely she must
think me the lowest type of slut, I thought. 

Helene showed me where to shower and clean myself up, which I did, and gave me a
brief tour of the slaves' wing.  Unlike the relatively friendly atmosphere of
the training center I had just left, here the various girls seemed sullen and
unfriendly - an impression that would only be strengthened during my stay in my
new home.  Soon enough, I heard an intercom system paging Helene and Jenny.  She
accompanied me to the double gates of the slaves' wing, where I was met by Felix
again.  He reattached a leash to my collar and led me through a maze of
corridors to a sumptuous corner office, appointed with heavy wood furniture and
dark red curtains.

When Felix stopped, I knelt on the hardwood floor, awaiting instructions. 
Behind the desk was a large, imposing man with gray hair and sharp, almost
crooked features.  He finished reading some papers, rose, and walked around the
desk in front of me.  At his side materialized Mr. McGregor, who had so
thoroughly humiliated me only two days before.

"Well, Jenny," his voice boomed in the large room, "do you know why you are
here?"

"I have been purchased by a new owner, master," I answered.  "I am here to obey
his every command."

He smiled.  "Claudia does such a wonderful job training her girls, doesn't she,
Colin?"

Mr. McGregor answered, "Yes, but this one is particularly remarkable.  You would
think she didn't even need training."

"So I hear, so I hear," the large man said, turning back to me.  "I am Philippe
Arnaud, although you will refer to me as Monsieur Arnaud or, when addressing me,
as master.  This is a business, and I run it.  Do you know what kind of business
it is?"

"No, master," I said, not wanting to make a mistake.

"Surely you must have some idea."

I thought for a moment.  "A business where girls such as I are used as slaves,"
I ventured. 

"The business of pleasure.  My business is pleasure.  My customers come here
seeking pleasures they can find nowhere else, and I make sure they get them. 
And you are the key to that business.  The pleasure they seek is the kind of
exquisite, absolute satisfaction they can only get from a trained, sensuous
slave girl.  You are here to give them that pleasure.  As long as you do so, you
will be treated well.  If you should fail in the slightest, you will be
punished, or discarded."  I listened quietly.  This was essentially what I had
expected.  I took the time to subtly and continually adjust my position, drawing
attention to my charms, to my soft, uplifted breasts and to my open, inviting
thighs.  I knew I was attractive, that men desired my body.  I wanted M. Arnaud
to desire it as well.  "Do you understand?"

"Yes, master," I replied readily.  "I will be absolutely obedient." 

"Sometimes slave girls come here who are resolved to be obedient, but are really
only playing a game, going through the motions without really embracing their
slavery.  They are constantly scheming, looking for ways to get ahead and make
their lives easier, only pretending to live for their masters."  He looked into
my eyes.  "Are you such a girl?"

I looked down at the floor.  "No, master," I whispered.  "I am a true slave, a
natural slave, a girl who desires nothing more than to please her masters in any
way she can."

"Well, we shall see," he said simply.

He made a brief motion with his hand.  Felix tugged on my leash, drawing me to
my feet, and led me over to a corner of the room.  Above my head, an overhanging
beam jutted out from the wall.  A ring was set in the bottom face of the beam. 
I wondered what was going on.  Then Felix quickly cuffed my hands together in
front of me and attached them to a long chain, which he looped through the ring
and pulled down on the other side.  He was incredibly strong despite his
moderate build.  I felt the tension on the chain pulling my feet off the ground. 
My toes could barely graze the floor.  The steel cuffs bit into my wrists. 

Then I realized what was happening.  I was to be whipped.

"This is only a demonstration," I heard M. Arnaud saying behind me.  "This is to
let you know what awaits you should you ever be in the least displeasing."  He
paused.  "You may thank me."

"Thank you, master," I said, my voice trembling.  I wondered how many times I
would be struck.  I had felt switches and whips in training, but only to correct
lapses in my concentration or technique.  I had never been subjected to a
sustained, disciplinary beating.

M. Arnaud walked in front of me and help up a whip in front of me.  It was long
and black, with thick, heavy blades.  He pressed the handle to my mouth.  I
licked and kissed it, almost instinctively.  I hoped to mollify him with my
eager obedience, to soften the blows that would follow. 

He walked behind me again.  I tried to steel myself for the blow.  Then I heard
the hiss of the air behind me, and my back exploded in pain.  I screamed despite
myself.  Then the whip fell again.  And again.  It fell on my back, my bottom,
the back of my thighs, the front of my thighs, my belly, my breasts, and my
shoulders.  The blades of the whip were too large and heavy to bite into my skin
and draw blood, but their weight made it feel like I was being struck with
clubs.  I quickly lost count of the blows in the haze of pain that followed.  In
retrospect, I realized I was probably only whipped ten or fifteen times.  But in
my mind, the beating lasted an eternity.  I screamed and begged for it to end,
promising to do anything, anything at all to make it stop, but knowing that, as
a slave, anything could already be demanded of me, and what was demanded now was
that I scream in agony.  My body twisted in the air.  I remember seeing Mr.
McGregor and Felix and wondering at how calmly they looked on.  I begged them
all to rape me, to let me please them, to exact from me the price of my slavery. 
But they were impassive.

Finally the blows seemed to stop for longer than usual.  I was hanging from my
wrists, sobbing, my body alive with pain.  I know there are people for whom
physical pain is erotic and stimulating, the elixir that fires their arousal.  I
am not one of them.  As a slave girl, I knew that I was subject to the whip,
that I might be beaten for any disobedience, or even for no reason at all, and I
knew that was only fitting, for I was a slave.  But I could never enjoy the
actual pain of the beating.  I would gladly have served a hundred men in
succession rather than undergo the torture I had just experienced.

When Felix released my wrists, I could only collapse on the floor.  I dragged
myself on my belly over to M. Arnaud's feet and frantically began kissing them. 
"Please, master," I begged.  "Let me please you.  Take me any way you want. 
Have your way with my body.  Let me serve you."  I was desperate to prove my
worth to him, thinking that could spare me another beating.

"Remember, Jenny, that was a warning," he said as I continued to lick his shoes. 

"Yes, master," I said.  "Thank you, master."  I expected to be raped then and
there.  Instead, he pulled me up to a kneeling position by my hair.  I kept my
knees as far as apart as I could, in terror.  I would do nothing that might earn
me the slightest disapproval.  He put his hands to my neck and unlocked the
collar that had been there since I had first been abducted.  An instant later,
he replaced it with another - a smooth, gleaming, gold-colored collar engraved
with my name and the name of my owner:  Club Aphrodite. 

Felix accompanied me back to the slaves' wing where, thankfully, I was allowed
to sleep for a few hours. 

I awoke on one of four beds in a large shared bedroom.  The others were
unoccupied.  Not knowing what I was allowed to do, I was too scared to leave the
room and explore the area.  Instead, I lay on my back, naked, wondering what
course of events had brought me here, a slave girl completely subject to the
whims and cruelties of her masters.

Sometime later, another girl came in.  She was taller than I, with honey-blonde
hair, and, only partially concealed by her brief garment, a body that men might
kill to possess.  But, of course, as she was a slave, they could have her body
simply by snapping their fingers.

"Are you Jenny?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, "... mistress."

"Oh, you don't need to bother with that," she said, smiling.  "I'm a slave as
much as you.  My name is Michelle."

"You're an American?" I asked, guessing from her accent.

"Yes, I'm from Mississippi," she answered.  "I heard there was a new American
girl here.  It can be awfully difficult to find your bearings here, so I thought
I'd help you out."

And so Michelle explained to me the workings of Club Aphrodite.  As Cristina had
forewarned me, it was essentially a brothel, but one with the particular twist
that all the girls were complete and utter slaves.  Most of the patrons were
wealthy businessmen who paid either annual membership fees (in the hundreds of
thousands of dollars) or nightly fees (in the thousands of dollars) to come to
the club in the evenings (or, occasionally, in the afternoons) and take
advantage of all that it had to offer.  This included a bar, a lounge, and a
small dining area.  The primary offering, of course, was its stable of slave
girls, of which I was now the twelfth.  Our duties were to wait on them, to
bring them drinks and food, to dance for them, and, of course, to provide them
with whatever sensuous pleasures they might care to imagine.  We were completely
at their disposal at all times, and could be simply ordered to our backs and
raped on the floor.  We could also be taken into one of the adjoining bedrooms,
there to render longer services in private; for that, however, the clients would
have to pay extra.

In addition, the club had its own peculiar system for disciplining its slave
girls.  We were continuously ranked in three categories - A, B, and C - based on
several criteria:  how often we were selected to perform in a private bedroom
(thereby earning additional revenues for our masters), how satisfied our clients
were with our performances, how obedient we were to our masters, and so on.  The
best, most pleasing girls were in category A, and the least pleasing girls,
those most likely simply to be thrown over a table and raped from behind, were
in category C.  And the higher your category, the more privileges you were
allowed.  A girls were allowed to wear brief garments that, while highly
revealing, at least allowed them to preserve their modesty; were given the
lightest of chores; and were generally off-limits to club staff during the day. 
C girls, by contrast, remained completely nude at all times, were set to menial
tasks such as scrubbing the floor, and were available to any staff members in
any way at any time.  The result was a constant competition in which the girls
strove to outdo each other in obedience, sensuousness, and intimate skills, to
be as hot, wet, and deliciously open as they could possibly be, in order to
attract and hold the attention of our masters and our clients.

As the new girl, I was automatically at the bottom of the rankings, and would
remain there until I learned how to be more pleasing.

Michelle also warned me about the treatment I would receive as a fresh piece of
slave meat on my first night in the club.

That evening, after a light dinner, one of the guards escorted me into the main
lounge area of the club.  There, in one of the corners of the room, I was bent
forward over a low, padded table and chained in place, my ankles attached to two
legs of the table, my wrists bound to the opposite legs, my chin just hanging
over the far edge.  My belly and breasts were pressed against the surface of the
table.  Bound helplessly in this position, I knew my body was completely visible
and open from behind.  My mouth, too, was fixed in place, waiting to be put to
use.  I realized I was bound much as Cristina had bound me that first night in
that other club in faraway Berlin, only then my body had been "off limits." 
Now, I knew, no such limits applied.

I thought about what Michelle had said.  "The first night, a new slave girl is
bound over a table, her mouth and body available for anyone to use.  You will be
used like an animal, or like a passive piece of captive flesh.  What is more,
the clients will be encouraged to beat your unprotected body with a whip.  In
general, they are not allowed to beat us unless we are disobedient, which
doesn't happen very often.  But your first night, there is no such protection. 
The goal is to humiliate you, to break down any resistance you may have, to make
you wish to be allowed to please a man intimately rather than being brutally
abused by him.  All you can do is endure it."

My mouth was dry with fear.  I saw a few people begin to drift into the lounge,
sit at tables, and order drinks.  They were served by naked or scantily clad
slave girls.  The clients were well-dressed men of all ages and, from what I
could hear of their conversation, all nations.  There were a couple of women,
too, also expensively dressed.  I wondered when my trials would begin, when they
would begin to take advantage of my body, so helplessly and conveniently bound
and positioned for their use.  I thought about my slavery, about the
humiliations I routinely endured, trying to arouse myself, to prepare my body
for the multiple rapes I would suffer.  I closed my eyes and imagined what it
was like to spread my legs for a man, to welcome him inside me, to feel his
merciless thrusts, and to make him moan with pleasure.  I could feel the
familiar warmth growing between my thighs, could feel myself becoming wet with
anticipation. 

I did not have long to wait.

A middle-aged, stocky man with graying hair walked over to where I was
displayed.  He said nothing; I was not the sort of girl with whom one made
conversation.  In college, young men would trip over themselves trying to
entertain me with their wit and charm; here, such things were unnecessary, as I
was only a slave girl, with no right to withhold her favors from a master.  I
wondered again what those college friends would think of me now, only two months
removed from my final exams, naked and bound for the pleasure of men.

The man ran his hand over my back, bottom, and thighs, feeling the soft curves
of my slave's body.  He paused between my legs, feeling my arousal.  I could not
see him as he stood behind me, his hands idly caressing my body, relishing his
mastery and my submission.  Then suddenly he was inside me.  I cried out in
shock.  He used me swiftly and casually, emptying himself inside me while I was
still only mildly aroused.  He walked in front of me, wiped himself off on my
hair, and walked away.  I could feel the traces of his usage beginning to drip
down the inside of my thigh.  I began to cry.

Of course, I had been used forcefully and unilaterally many times before,
roughly pushed into position and made to endure a master's ruthless domination. 
But now, I realized, this was my life.  Before, in training, I had known that I
was preparing for something else, for the life of a slave girl; I had been in an
intermediate state, completely subject to my masters, but aware that I would
eventually move on to something else.  Now, for the first time in my life, I had
no future to look forward to.  I was a sex slave in a Parisian brothel that I
would never be able to escape, unless I were sold into some equally abject
slavery.  The hope Cristina had held out for me lay three years away - far too
long to mean anything to me in my current predicament.  From where I lay,
strapped naked over a table, I could only see a string of days like this one
running far into the future, days when I would be forced to serve men with my
small, soft body, repeatedly paying the price of my once-secret desires. 

Another man came over to where I was bound, opened his pants before me, and
began to make use of me.  I did my best to try to please him with my tongue, but
he did not seem interested in how I might serve him, only in the pleasure he
might forcibly take in my mouth.  When he had satisfied himself, he remained in
my mouth for a minute, waiting patiently as I swallowed, before withdrawing. 
Then he zipped up and walked away.

I will never forget that night for as long as I live.  I soon lost count of the
number of men who used my body for their unilateral pleasure, or the women who
held my head between their legs so that I could attempt to please them with my
tongue.  There were more than a few who also chose to beat me with the whip left
out for that purpose, making me cry out and beg to be raped until they finally
chose to take from me the pleasure I so desperately wanted to give them.  In my
training, I had been taught to be a fantastically sensuous slave, armed with an
arsenal of skills to tantalize, arouse, and satisfy both men and women.  Here I
could use none of them; I was chained in place, a passive receptacle for their
pleasure, a bundle of soft, captive flesh set out for their sexual consumption. 
Gone were the fantasies of providing long and exquisite intimate services under
the exacting commands of my master; instead I was simply beaten and taken by an
unending succession of men who cared not at all for me as an individual slave
girl, only for the parts of my body that were offered up for their convenience. 
I cried as I was repeatedly used, unnoticed by my rapists concerned only with
the softness of my flesh and the warmth of my mouth, until I could cry no more. 
I heard men laugh as they discussed the qualities of my anatomy openly, but I
was beyond humiliation.  I knew then better than I had known before that I was a
slave girl, and that this was the price I might have to pay for my slavery.

When the clients had finally left and the slave girls cleaned up the lounge
area, I expected to be released and taken back to the slaves' wing.  But no one
came for me.  I would be left to spend the night chained in place, contemplating
my situation and my fate.  I wondered if I would ever be released, or if I would
be chained there night after night, suffering the same treatment. 

I could not sleep, preoccupied as I was by the events of that day.  I thought
over and over again about the abuses I had endured and what they might imply for
my future life.  And before dawn, I had understood why new slaves were set out
and used in that way.  Never again could I have any doubts about my condition. 
I believed that I could sink no lower, that no slavery could be more abject and
degrading than what I had just suffered.  And I knew that, if I were unchained
from that table and allowed to serve my masters, I would do everything in my
power, would use all of my skills and all of the charms of my soft, captive
body, to be the most beautiful, submissive, obedient, sensuous, and perfect
slave I could be.  Rather than rebel against my brutal treatment, I resolve to
be a wonder to my masters.

I only prayed they would allow me the chance to show them what kind of slave
girl they had bought.

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.

My Berlin Summer
by Dana Williams

Chapter 9:  The Client

On rare occasions, one of us slave girls might be rented out for a night at a
location other than the club, presumably at some significant expense to the
client.  This was primarily done for clients who could not risk accidental
discovery at the club - men, or women, whose political, business, or other
connections would not permit them to be seen indulging in the soft, captive
flesh of girls such as I.  As a new slave girl I had understandably few of these
appointments, but as the months wore on my talents, such as they were, became
more and more familiar among the types of people who had the means to command
them, and, for better or for worse, I became more and more desirable a property
for the evening.

One night in October I was told that I had been reserved for the evening by one
of these "special" clients.  We were typically escorted to these appointments
under tight security, and this time was no exception.  I made the trip in the
back of an unmarked van, my wrists and ankles secured by inflexible, cold steel
handcuffs, my mouth filled with a hard rubber ball gag, my eyes blindfolded so I
would not know where I was being taken.  Apart from my bonds and, of course, the
collar I always wore, I was completely nude.  Two guards accompanied me in the
back of the van, one seated on either side of me.  One occupied himself on the
way with caressing my body, first casually across my breasts and belly, then
between my legs, intimately and implacably, bringing me to a forced arousal but,
of course, leaving me unsatisfied.  I would be delivered to my master of the
evening hot, wet, and desperate for a man's attentions.  I was frustrated, but I
also recognized the logic in this practice.  Men liked their slave girls to be
helplessly aroused, squirming on their naked bellies and begging to be raped. 
And if that is what they wanted, then that is what they should get.  I was only
a slave girl; who was I to question a master's desires?

When the van finally stopped, my ankles were uncuffed and I was helped out of
the van and up a few steps into a building, one guard holding each of my arms to
direct me.  Then they released my arms and I lowered myself to my knees,
spreading them widely and lifting my breasts prettily.  I had no idea who might
be watching me, and had no wish to be displeasing in the slightest. 

One of the guards crouched down beside me and removed my handcuffs, then my gag,
and finally the blindfold.  I blinked my eyes against the sudden light.  I was
in the anteroom of a somewhat spare but well-decorated house.  A middle-aged
woman wearing what appeared to be some sort of servant's costume stood before
me, looking down at me disapprovingly.  No doubt she saw in me a wanton,
shameful slave slut, a girl whose every curve proved she existed solely to
provide indescribable sexual pleasures to men.  I lowered my eyes, embarrassed. 
At the time, I would not have contested that description of me.

The woman bent down and attached a long, thin chain leash to my collar.  Once I
had been terribly humiliated to be led on a leash like a dog; now I accepted it
without a moment's thought.  She tugged on the leash and began to lead me up a
staircase.  I rose to my feet to follow.  Instantly she spun around and slapped
me, hard, on my left cheek.  I stumbled and fell to the ground.  "You will crawl
like the dog you are, slut!" she yelled at me.  She kicked at me as I lay on my
side.  I hurried to rise to all fours.

"This slave begs your forgiveness, mistress," I said, staring at the floor.  If
she had been a man, I would have covered her feet and legs with kisses, hoping
to distract his anger and encourage him to take my body in punishment.  But I
knew such wiles would not work with this woman.  I trembled, hoping not to be
struck again.  Instead, she turned on her heel and marched up the stairs,
leaving me to scramble after her on all fours. 

The guards waited below.  I knew that they would remain until the morning to
provide additional security.  A slave girl is too valuable a possession to be
left unguarded overnight.

On the second floor, the woman led me into a large room with a bed, a large
wardrobe, and a pair of armchairs.  The floors were of wood, smooth and hard.  I
hoped that I would be allowed to perform my services on the bed and not on the
floor's uncomfortable surface.  These are the things that slave girls hope for.

She left me kneeling on the floor, facing the door, the leash dangling between
my breasts and over my left thigh as I knelt.  I remained there, nearly
motionless.  I had not been given permission to do otherwise.  I wondered what
my master would be like, what he would demand of me.  I hoped he would not hurt
me.

After a time, a tall, thin, grey-haired man entered the room.  He was wearing a
long, dark blue bathrobe, slippers, and apparently nothing else.  I put my head
down and kissed the floor before his feet.  "I beg to serve you, master," I
said, not rising from the floor.

"As you were," he said.  I rose again to my knees.  "Spread your knees wider,"
he commanded.  I obeyed.  "Thrust out your breasts," he said.  I pushed them
forward even more than before, and pulled my shoulders back for emphasis.  When
a slave girl kneels, it is usually in a position of relative relaxation,
retaining freedom of motion in all directions.  Now my body was rigid, my knees
as far apart as my body could bear, my breasts straining forward for my master's
attention.  I hoped he liked what he saw. 

"I hear you are the hottest new pony in my friend M. Arnaud's stable," he said
after contemplating my body for a minute.

"My hope is to be pleasing to my masters," I said in reply.  "I hope that they
have found me acceptable."

"Oh, I'm sure I will find you more than acceptable," he said.  He paused.  "If
not, you will be beaten."

I shuddered.  At the club, I was beaten relatively infrequently, thanks no doubt
to my careful attention to my duties and to the pleasure of my masters.  I had
no desire to feel the whip.  "I will be absolutely obedient, master," I said. 
"I hope that my body will prove satisfactory." 

The man walked over to the dresser and returned with a whip in his hand.  He
held its handle to my lips.  I licked and kissed it, fervently and submissively. 
In California I would never have kissed a boyfriend with the passion I lavished
on the instrument of my domination.  But then I had not been a slave girl.  Now
I was.

Apparently satisfied with my performance, he withdrew the whip from my lips. 
"On all fours," he said.  I obeyed instantly, my head lowered submissively. 
"Lift your head," he said.  I did so.  "Now turn and crawl to the other side of
the room."  I crawled, maintaining the position I had been taught - back arched,
bottom high, thighs spread.  Even in the most humiliating positions, a slave
girl must always display her body to maximum advantage.  "Now pick up the end of
your leash and bring it to me."  I knew what he wanted.  I turned and retraced
my steps to where the end of the leash lay on the floor.  I bent down my head
and picked it up in my teeth before continuing back to my master's feet.  I
lifted my head to present the leash to him.  He took it from my mouth and
stroked my hair.  "What a good little slave," he said. 

"Crawl backward two meters," he continued.  I did so.  "On your belly, spread
your arms and legs" he said.  I obeyed, my body vulnerably and openly stretched
before him.  "On your back."  I rolled to my back, keeping my arms and legs
wide.  I had not been given permission to close them.  "Grasp your ankles."  I
did so, drawing them up over my head, opening my body even more widely, brazenly
presenting my charms for his view and potential usage.  I held the position as
he seemed to consider my form. 

He continued to put me through my paces, making me open and display my body in
ways that can only be demanded of an absolutely compliant slave girl.  I hoped
he liked what he saw.  On top of the arousal that had been forced upon me during
the ride in the van, I was becoming increasingly excited by this man's simple,
strict domination of me.  As both a natural submissive and a trained slave girl,
I was conditioned to respond to mastery, to become heated in being compelled to
obey another's will.  Although he had hardly touched me, I knew that the
services he was already commanding me to perform were profoundly sensual, and
could only culminate in my absolute ravishment, in the kind of sexual conquest
that only a slave can suffer at the hands of a master.  And as a slave, I longed
for that conquest, I longed to feel his body exerting its will over me and
inside me. 

Suddenly I grew bold.  "Please, master," I said, uninvited, now on my belly,
grasping my ankles behind my body, "let me please you!  I beg to serve you, as a
slave." 

Suddenly I felt the whip burn into the flesh of my back.  "You were not asked to
speak, slave," he said coldly.  I lay on the floor, silent, tears forming in my
eyes from the pain.  But I expected my pleadings were not completely wasted. 
Hopefully now he knew how desperate I was, how much I longed for my rape.  And
such knowledge, I knew from experience, generally has its effect on a man. 

Finally he positioned me again on my back, my knees lifted and my thighs widely
spread.  I was completely open to him as a slave, and I knew my body was more
than ready to accept his entry.  He swiftly pulled my wrists first inside my
thighs and then outside my ankles and chained them in place with a pair of steel
manacles.  Bound as I was, I was powerless to close my knees.  Nor did I want
to.

"Now you may beg to be raped, slave," he said as he crouched down by me and
removed his robe. 

"Please, master," I cried out.  "Your slave begs to be raped.  Take me,
overwhelm me, use me for your pleasure, make me serve you as a slave."

But first he toyed with me a while longer, using his hands to heighten my
arousal even further, but mercilessly preventing me from achieving climax.  He
also crouched above my face and used my mouth to prepare himself.  I greedily
licked at him with my tongue, thankful for the chance to give him pleasure. 
Finally, as I continued to beg him to have pity on me, he saw fit to enter me,
and I cried out my gratitude as he had his way with my body, using me
unilaterally as a debased, submitted slave. 

I thanked him repeatedly, tears in my eyes, when he finally withdrew from me. 
He took a blanket from the bed and spread it on the floor next to me, and then
rolled me onto my side on the blanket.  He left me chained as I was, my arms
still threaded inside my thighs and cuffed to the outsides of my ankles, unable
to close my knees.  Although the position was uncomfortable, I was by then
accustomed to the rigors of bondage.  I was grateful for the blanket, that I
would not have to sleep on the hard wood floor.  Soon I could hear him drifting
off to sleep. 

I lay there, awake, my mind still clouded with sex, thinking how wonderful it
was to be a slave, and to be at the mercy of men.  I hoped only that the master
was pleased with his slave.  Eventually I, too, fell asleep.

I awoke with a start.  I was being casually turned onto my front, my wrists and
ankles still chained together as before.  In this position, my hips were
unavoidably propped up on my knees, my body open and vulnerable from behind. 
With no way to support myself, my head was pressed against the blanket. 
Suddenly I felt myself entered from behind, held in place by firm hands on my
hips.  I felt his powerful strokes filling my body, finally surging as he
emptied himself in me yet again.  I felt him unlock the manacles joining my
wrists to my ankles, only to join my wrists together again behind my back.  He
gave me brief instructions, and then returned to his bed, leaving me once again
wide-eyed to contemplate my situation.

Earlier I had been thoroughly and ruthlessly dominated, forced to display myself
as a slave and to beg repeatedly for the privilege of serving my master.  Now I
had been used as a simple physical convenience, a piece of captive flesh within
which a man might find satisfaction for his basic urges.  These were both
unavoidable aspects of being a slave girl, I knew.  In the morning I would have
to experience a third. 

As I had been commanded, I awoke shortly after dawn, while the man was still
sleeping.  In the gray morning light, I rose to my feet and, using my teeth as
my hands were still bound behind my back, drew back the covers from the bed. 
Then I knelt beside my master's body and lowered my head to him, gently licking
at him with my tongue.  I could feel him stiffen and took him into my mouth,
closing my eyes to focus exclusively on giving him pleasure.  I could hear his
body stirring as he awoke, and felt his hands searching for and finding my hair. 
He seemed content.  I continued my work as he gained consciousness, slowly
increasing the depth and intensity of my motions, until he locked his hands in
my hair and took over the rhythm, forcing me down upon him at an increasing
speed.  He burst within me and I swallowed him greedily, not because I liked the
taste in itself, but because I wanted desperately to demonstrate to him my
absolutely, unconditional submission, my utter willingness to please him in any
way.  I continued to clean him with my tongue as he withdrew from my mouth.

"Did I please master?" I dared to ask.

"Yes, you did," he said gently.  "You are quite a wonderful slave," he added.

"Thank you, master," I said with genuine gratitude.  "I am happy if I have been
pleasing."

"Yes," he said.  "I can see that you are happy."  He turned to an intercom by
the head of the bed and pushed a button.  "Marie!" he called.  "Come fetch the
slave!"  Then he rose from the bed and went into the bathroom to take a shower
and begin his day, seemingly without a thought for the slave girl he had so
thoroughly dominated and used.

The same servant woman soon entered the room and, without a word, led me by my
leash out and down the stairs.  I remembered to crawl behind her on hands and
knees, not daring to lift my head for fear of being struck.  The two guards from
the club were waiting for me.  "Were you well used, little slut?" one of them
asked. 

I could not lie to a master.  "Yes, master," I said.  "I was used as what I am,
a slave girl."

Then I was gagged, blindfolded, and bound as I had been on entering the house,
and escorted back out to the waiting van.  Now that I had served the customer,
there were of course no prohibitions on what the guards might do with me during
the ride back, and I spent it on my knees before them, still blindfolded, but
with my gag conveniently removed, so that my mouth might be put to its most
appropriate use.

The guards talked among themselves in French during the trip back to the club. 
I had studied French in middle school and high school, and could make out some
of their conversation - a talent I had never revealed to my masters.  I gathered
they were familiar with the client who had rented me for the night, and that he
was a prominent and powerful individual, one who often enjoyed the services of
the club's slave girls, in exchange for some service that he provided to the
club.  The nature of those services had something to do with police protection
for its business operations.  I became more interested in the conversation, but
took care to hide my interest with the contented moans of a sex slave being
permitted to practice her arts on a master.  But soon the topic shifted instead
to me, and the qualities and shortcomings of my body and my sexual techniques,
as they observed my efforts to please them.  I blushed to hear myself described
as a hot, juicy slave slut, a girl who loved nothing more than being thrown to
her back and raped, or having her mouth occupied with pleasing a master. 

As the van turned into the courtyard of the club, they finally allowed me to
desist in my services.  The man I had most recently been occupied with patted me
on the head and said, "Hopefully she'll be the one we take to M. Roget's next
time.  Her mouth almost makes the trip worthwhile." 

M. Roget.  That was his name.

The next time my external contact paid me a visit, I dutifully informed him of
everything that I had learned.  He had changed his method of interrogation;
instead of taking my statement and then rewarding himself with my body, he now
forced me to give my report as he made use of me.  But this time, when I told
him about M. Roget, he abruptly stopped and, while remaining inside me, asked me
a number of pointed questions.  I answered as I could, pinned helplessly under
him, my wrists bound to the corners of the bed where he had tied them.  I
described M. Roget as well as I could remember.  Finally he seemed contented
and, seeming only then to remember what I was good for, finished with me and
withdrew.

"You did a good job, Jenny," he said as he was getting dressed.  "And not just
with your body this time."

As it turned out, the guards did get to escort me to M. Roget's several times
over the next several weeks.  Each time I left the house completely devastated,
utterly ravished, dominated, and conquered, my body sore from the night's
exertions but also glowing with the lingering ecstasy of a slave girl who has
found fulfillment in her absolute sexual servitude.  It was in this state of
arousal and contentment that I invariably served the guards on the way back to
the club, seeking in my service to them to prolong the feeling of blissful
submission that was all a slave girl could aspire to.

It was late in November when, during one of his periodic visits, my contact let
slip that the investigation was close to a major breakthrough.  I did not dare
ask what that might mean for my personal situation, but it did give me a glimmer
of hope that I might soon be released from the enforced servitude to which I was
growing ever more accustomed.  Yes, hope.  For although I was learning more and
more about the helpless raptures of the pleasure slave, forced to experience
both the depths of submission and the heights of ecstasy, I still held the
belief - though less and less often - that being a slave was somehow an accident
of fate, a cruel detour on my life's path, an injustice that had torn from me a
bright future.  In a man's arms, overpowered and ravished, I knew that no life
suited me better than that of a naked, collared slave; but curled up on my bed
late at night, trying to put aside the memories of the evening's abuses so that
I might sleep, there were still times my eyes filled with tears on thinking of
the degradations and humiliations to which I had been reduced.  And I still
remembered the promise Cristina had made to me, that someday I might be free
once again, no longer available to any man at the snap of his fingers, no longer
a casual convenience for his primitive lusts.

From that day I awaited with eager anticipation - and with a sense of
inexplicable dread - the moment of my liberation.

But that was not what lay in store for me.

Instead, one morning I was summoned to M. Arnaud's office.  I had rarely seen
him since the first day I had been summarily beaten, a fortune I ascribed to my
generally exemplary level of service and submissiveness.  However, when I knelt
before him, his eyes were hard.  I swallowed in fear.  I was a naked slave girl
at the feet of her master, and he did not seem pleased with me.

"What are you?" he began.

"A slave girl, master," I whispered.

"Who is your master?"

"You are, master."  I squirmed, uncomfortably.  I hoped he would allow me to
placate him with my body.

"Are you absolutely obedient?"

"Yes, master," I answered.  "I beg to be able to demonstrate my obedience and
submission to you, master."

"We shall see," he said. 

He made a motion, and a guard appeared from behind me and pulled me to my feet
by my arms.  He pushed me, stumbling, toward the corner where I had been so
cruelly whipped on my first day in Paris.  Soon I was bound as I had been
before, my wrists chained high above my head, my feet barely reaching the floor. 
I was terrified. 

M. Arnaud approached me, casually swinging a long, heavy whip.  He held it to my
lips, where I frantically licked and kissed it.  I hoped he would not be too
harsh with me.

Then, as he looked into my eyes, he drew back the whip and cracked it across my
stomach, lighting up my body with pain.  Before I finished letting out my first
scream, the second blow landed across my thighs.  Three more blows fell, leaving
me sobbing and begging for mercy.  He paused. 

"Seven times in the last two months, you have been escorted outside the city to
serve a particular client," he said.  "Is this true?"

"Yes, master," I said wildly, not sure where this was leading.

"And did you serve him perfectly, giving everything he demanded of you?"

"Yes, master," I said.  Had I not been sufficiently pleasing?

"Did he ever tell you who he is, or what position he holds?"

"No, master," I said.  "I am only a slave.  I served only to give him pleasure,
as a slave girl can."

"Did you tell anyone else about your trips to serve this man?"

I was terrified, but I sensed that if I wanted to live, I would have to conceal
the truth.  "No, master," I said.

He drew back the whip and I closed my eyes in anticipation of the coming blow. 
The whip cut into my body five more times, across my back and thighs as well as
my belly and breasts. 

"Are you sure you do not know who he is?" he insisted.

"Yes, master," I said.  As difficult as it is for a naked slave girl to lie to
her master, I forced myself to do so. 

"And you have not told anyone anything about him?  Not even one of your other
clients?"

"No, master," I said.  Did he already know the truth?  Had my contact somehow
been discovered?  Was it all a set-up from the beginning?

Five more times was I beaten, and then five more times again.  Finally my wrists
were released from their chains, and I fell to the floor in a sobbing, trembling
heap.  I dragged my body over to M. Arnaud's feet and kissed them desperately,
hoping through this overt act of submission to pacify him.  I prayed he would
take out his anger at me by kicking my legs apart and claiming my body.  I would
do anything to avoid being whipped again.

"Needless to say, I don't believe you," he said.  I continued to lick his feet. 
"I should have you beaten to death for lying to me.  I clearly cannot keep you
here."  My body shuddered.  "But business before pleasure, as they say," he
continued.  "I have a received numerous offers for you, all at a considerable
premium to the price I paid for you, and it would be a shame to destroy such a
valuable asset.  It's not often that we find such a perfectly obedient, willing
slave slut as you.  I've decided to sell you.  Your new master has been apprised
of your suspected duplicity, and will no doubt take measures to render you
harmless."  I dared not desist in performing obeisance to my master.  "You will,
of course, remain an utter, helpless, complete sex slave - something for which
you are uniquely talented." 

I would learn - much later - what had happened.  M. Roget, as it turned out, was
the current Minister of the Interior in the French government, and his patronage
had helped ensure the continued, undisturbed operations not only of the club
where I served but also of a reasonable portion of the trade in high-end sex
slaves.  On learning of his involvement with the club, the investigators who had
"hired" me pressured him into relaxing his protection, and providing
information, under threat of exposing his involvement in the business.  This had
come to the attention of M. Arnaud, who had concluded that I, being M. Roget's
latest preferred slave, was the most likely source of a leak.  I still do not
know if he had any other information to go on.

At the time, my emotions were in a tumult.  On the one hand, I was grateful to
still be alive, having apparently come so close to dying a painful death as a
slave girl.  On the other hand, the freedom I had already begun planning for had
now receded beyond the sphere of reasonable likelihood.  Once in the secure
possession of a new master, I could no longer hope to be freed by the parties
whom I had been secretly aiding with my information.  I would go to my new
master a naked, powerless slave girl, and that was likely how I would live out
my useful life - on my back, belly, or knees, begging for the privilege of
serving men with my body.  Slavery was no longer an adventure, it was now my
unavoidable fate.  I had sensed already that my personality was changing, that I
found myself thinking more and more often of myself solely in terms of my
ability to please masters, and to do so with no thought for my own pleasure or
satisfaction.  Without the hope of freedom to cling to, I expected that
transformation would only accelerate.  Soon I would be nothing more than the
passive sex toy that Cristina had told me lay in my future, a pretty, compliant
plaything that men and women might use as they pleased, a slave girl equally
contented so long as she was being used for what she was worth. 

That is all you are, Jenny, a sex slave, and that is all you will ever be, I
told myself. 

My Berlin Summer
by Dana Williams

Chapter 10:  My New Master

Later that day my new master's representatives arrived to collect their new
property.  Three men took delivery in the lobby of the building that had been my
home for the past several months, briefly inspecting my naked, bruised body and
comparing me to a series of photographs before signing the documents indicating
receipt of goods.  I was then bound hand and foot and gagged, before one of the
men effortlessly lifted me to his shoulder and carried me into the courtyard, to
deposit me on the floor of a large van.  My mind was still numb.  I expected to
be raped in the car, but I could register neither fear nor anticipation.  I
wanted nothing more than to rest, recover from the beating I had received that
morning, and come to terms with this sudden change in my fortunes.

To my surprise, I was not put to work entertaining my keepers during the car
ride to a small airfield outside the city.  I wondered if my new master had
given instructions that I was not to be abused, and if perhaps that meant that
my slavery would be lighter and more tolerable than it had been in the club. 
There, I had been only so much captive slave flesh from which pleasure could be
forcibly extracted; where I was headed, perhaps I would be a valued possession,
a girl whose comfort might be somewhat protected, if only to ensure the
perfection of her services to her master.  I knew the slavery I was headed
toward could be nothing if not unconditional.  No man, I realized, would buy me
for any purpose other than to keep me and exploit me as a perfectly obedient
pleasure slave.  But there are many ways to treat a slave girl; perhaps one way
was to treat her gently, so that she might be even more thankful to and
dependent on her master.

The van drove onto the tarmac of the airfield.  In the back, I was lifted and
placed into a large, padded trunk.  I was buckled in place with my legs drawn up
to fit into the confined space.  The lid was closed and secured and my world
went black.  I could then feel the trunk being lowered from the van and rolled,
it seemed, across the concrete.  Then it was lifted and carried up a series of
steps, presumably into the plane that would take me to my new life.  My heart
was pounding, but I knew I had nothing to fear - other than, of course, the
perils that a slave girl routinely faces.  Someone had paid a large amount of
money for absolute ownership of my body, my talents, and my complete submission,
and he would ensure that I arrived safely in his keeping. 

Once the plane was airborne, the trunk was opened and I was lifted out of it and
placed on the floor.  I struggled to my knees and knelt before my three guards,
the only people in the passenger cabin of the small jet.  I spread my knees and
lifted my breasts as I had done so many times, hoping they were satisfied with
me.  I would gladly have served them with my body, but they showed surprisingly
little interest in my naked, helpless form.  One of the men reached behind my
head and unbuckled the straps of my gag. 

"Thank you, master," I said.  "How may I serve you, master?"  I expected the gag
had been released for a reason - a price I would gladly pay to be relieved of
its discomfort.

"Lie down, and rest," he said, tossing a pillow to the floor where I might lie
on it.  "Your master wants you to be fresh and rested when you arrive."

"Yes, master," I said, turning to my side on the floor of the plane.  I did not
ask who my master might be.  I was a slave.  If the masters wanted me to know,
they would tell me.  My place was only to listen, obey, and serve.

It was nighttime when we landed several hours later, but the air was still warm
when we exited the plane.  While I had been secretly smuggled aboard the plane
outside Paris - slavery being illegal in France - I was surprised to be simply
carried out of the plane by one of the guards, my naked, bound body draped over
his shoulder.  He carried me down the staircase from the plane and another
hundred meters or so to a waiting stretch limousine.  Perhaps this was a private
airfield, or perhaps I was simply in a place where naked slave girls were not
such an unusual occurrence.  If the latter, any chance I might have of ever
escaping my slave status would be significantly reduced.  But I was already
becoming resigned to a life as a sex slave.

The car drove for close to an hour.  I could make out little of the surroundings
in the moonless night.  I wondered what my new master would be like, and what he
would expect of me.  Would he want a hot, eager slave slut, ready to throw
herself at his feet and split her legs widely, begging to be raped?  Or perhaps
a shy, reluctant girl to be forcibly bent to his will and compelled to serve him
unquestioningly?  Or did he want an All-American college girl whom he could
dress up in cheerleader costumes, that she must then remove sensuously in the
privacy of his chambers?  I did not know.  All I could do was be myself - a
deeply submissive slave girl, willing to do anything to please her master.  I
hoped that would be enough for him.

The driver used a magnetic card to pass through a tall iron gate, and then we
turned into a long driveway that led to a small but elegant stone mansion.  It
seemed in the light from its windows like a modern version of an old English
university building, like one of the Oxford or Cambridge colleges refreshed with
a contemporary architect's clean lines.  I had little time to appreciate its
appearance before being once again lifted onto the guard's shoulder, carried
into the entranceway, and unceremoniously deposited on the floor.  My hands and
feet still bound by steel cuffs, I pushed myself up onto my knees and assumed
the position of a trained pleasure slave, looking about me for the face of my
master. 

Instead, I looked up into the eyes of a beautiful, young woman wearing a flowing
silk dress - and a steel collar about her throat.  "Welcome," she said in an
upper-class British accent.  "I am Charlotte, and as I am sure you have
realized, I am a slave girl, every bit as much as you."  Yes, she was a slave
girl.  The thin, short garment of silk was obviously all she wore, and could do
little to hide the sweet curves of her young, soft body.  I could see why she
had been chosen for slavery, her body almost crying out to be taken and
dominated by a master.  If I had been a man I was sure I could not have resisted
her, but would have torn off her dress and thrown her to the floor.  I wondered
if I might inspire those same reactions in men.  I shuddered to think of the
passions to which I was subject.

"Yes, mistress," I said.  As the new slave girl, I assumed I must treat any
other girls as my superiors.

"There is no hierarchy among slaves here, Jenny," Charlotte said.  "We are not
to devote our energies to any pursuits other than pleasing our master."  After a
pause, she continued.  "I am to see that you are cleaned and prepared to meet
the master."

The guards unchained my wrists and ankles, leaving me absolutely nude; my
previous collar had been left behind, in Paris.  I expected I would be wearing a
new collar soon.  Jenny led me up a spiral staircase and down a hall to a large,
almost opulent bathroom with a circular marble tub already filled with hot
water.  I entered the bath and luxuriated for a moment before she reminded me
that the master was waiting.  Not wanting to cause the least displeasure, I
hurriedly cleaned myself and toweled off.  There was no makeup available.  I
would present myself to my master purely as I was, without cosmetics or any
other artifice. 

When I was ready, Charlotte led me back down the hallway, past the stairs, and
into a large bedroom.  She left me, and there I knelt, my thighs spread and my
eyes cast down as she had instructed.  I knew I would do anything in my power to
be pleasing.  I desperately wanted my master to be pleased with his girl, and
feared the consequences of any disappointment.  I thought about how far I had
come from Los Angeles, where I had simply assumed that men liked me and wanted
me.  Then I could count on them to attempt to please me.  Now it was I, naked
and on my knees, who must beg for the chance to serve them. 

I heard footsteps, but forced myself to keep my eyes on the floor.  A moment
later there was a man standing before me.

"On your hands and knees," he said.  The British accent sounded familiar.  I
obeyed in a second.  "Kiss my feet," he said.  I lowered my head to his feet and
kissed them lightly, then tenderly, then passionately.  I moaned softly as a
sign of the arousal I experienced simply from kissing the feet of my master.  It
was a common slave girl's device to entice a master, but it was also something I
felt deep inside me.  "Lift your head," he said.  I did so.  I was still on all
fours, now looking ahead at his knees and thighs.  I felt his hands lifting my
hair off my neck.  I was momentarily confused.  Then I felt the cold steel
collar lock into place about my neck.  I had been collared, like a dog.  But
instead of being insulted, I felt secure in the collar.  I knew that I was worth
enough for a man to buy and own me, and the collar was the ultimate symbol of my
value as a slave.

"Kneel," he commanded.  I looked up into his eyes.

"David!" I must have shouted, throwing myself to my belly before him, clasping
his ankles and calves with my hands as I once again kissed his feet, fervently
and passionately this time.  It was the Arabian playboy who had so often claimed
me during the months in Paris, who had known so well how to make me scream in
pleasure and in submission.  He had bought me!  Perhaps he even cared about me. 
But even if he had no feelings for me, even if he had bought me solely because
he had found my sexual services to be satisfactory, had judged my soft thighs
worthy of being spread before him, I was still grateful, because I knew what
delights might await me under his power.  He was a powerful, unconditional,
absolute master, of course, one who knew how to make a slave girl crawl to him
and beg to be used, but at the same time he could make that same girl happier to
be a slave than she would have ever have imagined possible.

Then he dragged me back to my knees by my hair and slapped me across the face,
throwing my body sideways and to the floor.  "You are a common slave slut," he
said.  "Do not insult my name by letting it pass your lips."

"I'm sorry, master," I pleaded, still lying on my side where I had fallen. 
"Forgive me, master.  I am only a worthless slave girl.  Let me demonstrate to
you my absolute submissiveness.  Let me serve you as a slave, in any way you
desire."

He crouched down, rudely spun me only my belly, and lifted my hips into the air. 
An instant later I felt him deep inside me as he subjected me to his swift,
disciplinary rape.  He had no thought for my pleasure, but used me brutally,
casually, and unilaterally, exerting the primitive dominance of a master over
his slave.  But even being used in this way, my body welcomed him, and I could
feel myself heating up as he had his way with me, unavoidably responding both
physically and emotionally to my complete ravishment.  When he finished with me
and let me slump to the floor, defeated, I immediately rolled to my knees and
took him in my mouth to clean him and to show my utter submission, my desperate
eagerness to give pleasure, and my impatience to be used again. 

It was not long before he fulfilled that desire, and it was many times and in
many ways that my master compelled his new slave to serve him that night.  On my
back, my ankles bound to my wrists high above my head; leaning forward over the
bed, my wrists bound behind my back; on my knees before him, forced to hold
myself open for him with my hands; or writhing on top of him, at his command, my
hands behind my back; he extracted from me many times over the price of my
slavery.  That night he allowed me to sleep on the floor by his bed, chained by
my collar to the foot of the bed.  As I learned, I was extended that courtesy so
that he would have the convenience of summoning me onto the bed in the middle of
the night, there to continue my intimate services.  And in the morning, I even
dared to perform the task that M. Roget had first demanded of me, allowing him
to awaken in the gentle morning light already bathing in the warmth and softness
of his new slave's mouth.  He smiled, locked his hands in my soft hair, and
forcibly guided me to complete my task, holding me to him even as I swallowed in
submissive ecstasy.

"Thank you for buying me, master," I said when he finally released me,
continuing to kiss at his stomach and chest, my hair draped over his body.  I
expected he would want to begin his day and would have no more time to pass with
his slave girl, but I wanted to whet his appetite for later.  I was truly
grateful that if I were consigned to a lifetime of slavery, at least some of it
would be spent in his arms.

"You will have ample opportunity to thank me more fully," he answered.  "In time
you may come to curse the day that you came into my possession."

"I fear this slave must beg to differ, master," I said, pausing in my
ministrations to look up into his eyes.  "You may beat me, rape me, abuse me in
any way, but I will remain your devoted slave."  And at the moment, I meant it.

"Of course you will," David said.  "That is why I bought you."

I spent that first day learning about my new surroundings, under the tutelage of
the other slave girls David owned:  Charlotte, a university student he had met
in England, seduced, and enslaved; Deirdre, an American from Virginia, radiantly
blonde and long-legged; and Tamara, a Canadian from British Columbia,
brown-haired and athletic.  I gathered David's taste in girls ran to
innocent-seeming, fresh-faced young women capable of intense devotion to their
masters, girls who could not only be trained to accept their slavery, but could
be gradually but inexorably compelled to love their abject condition.  Charlotte
had been in his keeping the longest, for close to three years, and seemed to be
his favorite; once selected and purchased, he showed no signs of tiring of a
girl, rather spending months and years teasing out her inner submissiveness,
drawing her ever more completely into his power.

We were detained in David's "country house" outside the capital of the small
principality in which he was a prominent citizen.  The compound included several
buildings and stretched over close to a hundred acres of carefully tended
gardens in what was otherwise largely a desert region, a testament to his and
his family's wealth.  The entire complex was surrounded by a high, electrified
fence, with only two gates, each manned by armed guards.  The security was
primarily designed to maintain his family's privacy, but of course also served
to deter any attempt we slave girls might make to escape.  We had the run of the
building in which we were housed and a small portion of the grounds, but were
not allowed in most areas of the compound, particularly in the buildings where
David's three wives lived and raised their children.  I learned that his wives
were all well-educated but traditional women from the local aristocracy, and
that he was both a devoted husband and father.  But when it was a woman he
wanted, he turned instead to his small stable of white slave girls.  And for
this, it seems, we were uniformly hated by his wives.  They might feel relieved
that it was on us that he imposed his powerful urges and desires, but at the
same time we clearly represented the corrupt Western world that they hated.  In
the thin silk garments that we were permitted, which we must, of course, remove
at a moment's notice, we were visibly the sort of wanton, degraded sluts that
were so offensive to their traditional morals.  It may have been for our benefit
and protection that we were forbidden from seeing them.

It was a great relief to find that we were not made sexually available to the
various servants, guards, and other members of the complex.  While we must of
course obey the commands of any free person immediately and absolutely - under
threat of being whipped - David reserved the use of our bodies to himself, and
to those he specifically designated.  I do not think this was out of any
particular graciousness on his part, but rather from a desire to keep us in a
perpetual state of arousal and anticipation, letting our sexual needs grow over
time so that, when we were finally given the chance to serve him, we would be
particularly helpless and desperate to be pleasing.  There were times, however,
when we might be given either to a particular staff member, or when we might as
a group be thrown to them for their general amusement, either as a reward for
good service or simply as a diversion.  He was a generous employer, and the
services of his slaves were one way in which he compensated his employees.

In addition, we were also called on to serve at dinners or parties that David
would host for his friends or business associates.  At these affairs, we would
first perform such standard tasks as greeting guests, taking their coats,
serving drinks, and waiting at table - dressed, of course, in brief, sheer
garments that readily displayed our charms, and more than hinted at our eventual
availability for other, more intimate services.  Then, as the evening wore on,
our roles would change, and we would be commanded to remove our clothing so that
we might, now completely nude, serve as the object of various games and
diversions, in which our bodies were invariably the prize.  Sometimes, on these
nights, I would be used repeatedly by different men, as had been the routine in
Paris.  But here, at least, these occasions were the exception rather than the
rule, and I found that I even looked forward to them, because they allowed me to
most fully display and indulge my submissiveness, my ever-growing desire to
serve, and obey, and give pleasure, with no thought for myself, seeking
validation solely in the look of contentment I might see on a master's face as I
brought him to climax with my mouth or body.

After the first few nights, each of which David devoted to reducing me to a
helpless, conquered, dominated slave girl, begging her master for the privilege
of his use, I discovered that I enjoyed no special standing among the girls, but
would simply be selected when the master's whims turned toward my particular
appearance or talents.  David was a connoisseur of slaves, and on different
occasions his tastes might require a different delicacy to satiate his appetite. 
Generally we would be used in the evening, although on occasion he might summon
one of us to his chambers during the day, or even simply accost a girl where she
was, stripping off her flimsy garment and throwing her to his feet.  When I was
so chosen, it would only take an instant for my body to become ready to receive
him.  In fact, during that entire period I lived in a continuous state of mild
arousal, brought on by my awareness of my constant vulnerability and by my
ever-increasing submissiveness. 

As Cristina had predicted, I found myself daydreaming of being used by my master
or by his friends, or even being subjected to some particularly cruel and
demeaning form of rape, or thinking of new ways that I might use my body to
please him the next time he gave me the opportunity.  But even though it ran
counter to everything I had believed for the first two decades of my life, I was
not unhappy at this change in my emotional makeup, at this deepening of the
psychological bonds that enslaved me even more than the collar I wore about my
neck or the armed guards who barred my access to the outside world.  In Paris I
had been exposed to the brutal economic reality of being a slave girl, of having
my body repeatedly sold at a price set to maximize the profits taken by my
masters, and despite the sexual gratification I could sometimes find in the arms
of my clients, there were still times when I bitterly wept over my fate.  But
now it was as if I had been restored to the romantic notion of slavery that had
initially exerted its magnetic attraction over me.  Even when David commanded me
to strip myself naked and open my thighs for the amusement of a visiting
businessman whom he wished to entertain, I knew that it was indirectly my master
that I was serving, and when I was granted to a guest for the night, I knew it
was because it brought pleasure to my master.  I am sure that David had no more
concern for me than one might have for a preferred toy, a possession to be
enjoyed and then forgotten, at least until he next had occasion for it.  And yet
I know that I loved him, in a way and with a passion that I had never expected
to know.

Chapter 11: The Revolution

This idyll of blissful servitude came to a violent end early one cool morning in
January.

That night, I had been fortunate enough to be the slave girl selected by the
master to serve his pleasure. As usual, he had put me to a variety of the
specialized uses to which a slave such as I must be accustomed, finally cuffing
my wrists to my ankles and taking me from behind, making me scream repeatedly in
submission and ecstasy. Then he unbound my wrists and ankles, chained me to the
foot of his bed by the collar, and climbed into bed to sleep.

I lay awake for a time. The passage of the new year inspired in me another round
of reflection on how my life had changed. Every new year prior to this one, I
had looked forward to new experiences, accomplishments, and horizons. As a
popular, bright, hard-working student at a prestigious university, I had had a
world of possibilities open to me. Each new year I had regretted the
opportunities not taken in the previous twelve months and resolved to seek them
out in the next twelve months. Now, though, I lay chained naked at the foot of
my master's bed, a helpless but willing captive to his sexual depredations. By
the standards of my previous life, I was now the lowest of the low - not only a
wanton slut who would beg on her back for a man to take her, but worse than that
a confessed slave who willingly accepted the loss of her rights and freedoms in
exchange for the purity of absolute submission.

And this year, I truly had nothing to look forward to. My life, from this point
forward, would be nothing more than a continuation of the daily routine of
absolute obedience and sexual exploitation that I had lived for the past several
months. My master might tire of me and sell me to a new owner, but that would be
little more than a change of decor; in essence, my life would remain one of
perfect and constant sexual service to my master and any men or women he might
choose to make me available to, completely devoid of any choices or preferences
of my own. I must offer up my thighs or my tongue to anyone on a moment's
notice, routinely delivering pleasures that I had once reserved for a small
handful of boyfriends, or that I had never intended to provide to any man. I
knew all the ways in which a slave girl might be used, and blushed at how many
of them had brought me to helpless ecstasy.

I felt a momentary, profound sadness at the life I had left behind. I supposed
that as long as I lived I would feel moments like this. But they were fewer than
they had once been, and I did not know at that moment if I would have
voluntarily given up my slavery for the freedom I had once known.

I awoke with a start. It was still dark out, although there seemed to be a shade
of pre-dawn gray light filtering through the light curtains. I thought perhaps
my master had summoned me to his bed to enjoy my naked body once again, but he
was still sound asleep. Then I heard the sounds of men running through the
building, of hammering on doors, of furious commands being shouted in Arabic. I
was scared, but I dared not wake my master, who was by habit a deep sleeper -
especially after having thoroughly made use of one of his slave girls. I was
chained to the foot of his bed, nude. There was little I could do.

He woke up when the door of the room burst open and four men rushed in, wearing
assorted, mis-matching military fatigues and carrying what looked like automatic
rifles. My master jumped out of the bed and started toward the bathroom door,
but they intercepted him before he could get that far. A moment later, I saw
them tie my beloved master's hands together behind his back and begin to march
him out of the room. I wondered what kind of men these might be, that they could
assault the compound of one of the country's favored sons and treat him so.

As two of the men led David out of the room, another spied me huddled against
the bed, my legs drawn up to my chest in a futile effort to cover my nudity. He
smiled, said something to the others, and walked over to me, pulling me to my
feet by my arm. The chain on my neck would not let me stand upright, forcing me
to bend over in a humiliating posture. I heard laughing from the men. They
forced my master to produce the key to my chain and unlocked it from the bed,
leaving it on my collar as a leash. Then they tied my hands behind my back and
led me out of the room behind my master. I noticed they had draped his robe over
his shoulders and belted it in front to protect his modesty. I, however, was
marched through the halls completely nude save for my collar and bonds. I walked
as gracefully as I could despite being led by a leash, my hips swaying and my
breasts thrust forward as I had been taught. I had no idea what these men might
do to me, but I desperately wanted to interest them in my body, to make them see
me as a sex toy with which they might amuse themselves. The alternatives, it
seemed, could be much worse.

We were marched through the breaking dawn light outside and across the compound
to the central building, which I knew from the times we had served at my
master's parties or business meetings. There, in the large main dining room, a
kind of makeshift command center had been set up. There were twenty or thirty of
the irregular soldiers in the room, and others drifted in or out. Against one
wall, bound and under guard, were the regular inhabitants of the compound -
guards, servants, wives, and children. We were brought to one end of the room,
where the apparent leader of the attackers had seated himself at one end of the
central dining table. He was thin and bearded, with a rifle slung across his
shoulders and a wild look in his eye.

First he spoke briefly with David, and then two guards escorted him over to the
wall with the other prisoners. Then it was my turn. I lowered myself to my knees
and spread them as widely as possible. He had probably never known a slave girl
such as I. I would use every device I knew to win his interest.

"You are American?" he said in heavily accented English.

"Yes ? master," I said. He smiled.

"You American girls - you are all sluts," he said. "Yes?"

"Yes, master," I said, not wanting to contradict him. "I am a slut, master."

"All you want is sex. Always sex," he said. "You come here and you seduce our
men with your slutty bodies."

I was afraid where this was leading. "Yes, master," I said.

"Sluts like you are a disgrace and a threat to our nation," he said bitterly.
"We should kill you all."

My eyes went wild with fear. I did the only thing I knew how to do. I prostrated
myself before him, falling onto my side and squirming over to him, where I began
to kiss at his feet frantically. "No, master," I pleaded. "Please don't kill me.
Let me serve you instead. Let me serve you and your men with my body. You can
use me any way you want. I know I'm a worthless slut, but think of the pleasure
you could have with me."

He looked down at me. "You disgust me, flaunting your body, begging to be raped.
You Americans are weak. I despise you."

But he did not stop me from licking and kissing his feet and ankles. I looked up
at him from where I lay, naked and bound, at his feet. "Yes, I am weak, and you
are right to despise me. But why kill me, even if you hate me? Would it not be a
sweeter victory to take advantage of my weakness, to enslave me and make me your
own, or to give me to your men as one of the spoils of your conquest? If it is
Americans you hate, what would be better than taking their girls and using us
for your amusement, kicking our legs apart and raping us, or forcing us to serve
you in ways you would never demand from your own women? And no matter how you
abuse me, I will remain your devoted slave, always ready to please you or anyone
you choose. Why throw away such a chance to demonstrate your superiority over
us, to put us in chains and make us beg for your touch?"

I could feel him softening, and I was sure it had more to do with the sight of a
pretty, naked girl, bound at his feet, desperately attempting to please him,
than with any arguments I might make. He said something to an associate, who
laughed and pointed at me.

"Think about all the ways you can use me," I said. "Think of all the ways you
can humiliate me, or bind me, or take pleasure from my body. Imagine putting me
on all fours and taking me from behind, or kneeling me at your feet to please
you with my mouth, or bending me over a table and raping me. Think of all the
things you can do with a naked, helpless slave. I offer you all those things and
more, in exchange for my life. And when you tire of me, you can always kill me
then, or sell me to someone else in exchange for something you do value."

He turned to his associate and said something, apparently a joke. Then he turned
back to me and said, "OK, we'll give you an audition. If he's satisfied," he
said, pointing to the man by his side, "you can live."

"Thank you, thank you, master," I said. I turned my body slightly and began
kissing the feet of the man I must now please. "How may I serve you, master," I
asked. "May I please you with my mouth?" I begged, licking and parting my lips
as I knelt back on my heels, lifting my breasts to bring them to his attention.
"Or do you want me on my back, or on my belly?"

In response, he unbuttoned his pants and smiled. "Thank you, master," I said,
and knelt up off my heels to begin my work. With my hands bound behind me I was
somewhat limited in my techniques, but I expected I could do enough with my lips
and tongue to bring this man pleasure he had never known from his girlfriends,
wives, or prostitutes. After all, I was a trained pleasure slave. I moaned in
apparent pleasure as I bobbed my head up and down, closing my eyes to focus the
physical sensations of intimate service. Never before had I pleasured a man in
such fear for my life. Nothing existed in the world for me but his manhood,
which I worshipped passionately with all the offerings of a slave girl. I felt
him stiffen and prepared for his climax. But then he pulled my head off of him,
pulled me to my feet, and threw my upper body over the dining table. I felt my
body crushed against the table as he entered me, powerfully and triumphantly,
the force of his body impressing on me my inferiority, my identity as a mere
instrument for the fulfillment of his pleasure. He held my hips tightly as he
spent himself in me, as I gasped and moaned more in relief than in anything
else. When he withdrew from me, I turned and sank to my knees before him, taking
him once again lovingly into my mouth. I raised my eyes to him, hoping to see in
them a clue to my fate.

He stroked my hair approvingly as I continued to clean him, lovingly coaxing
every drop from him. When I was finished I leaned my head against his thigh and
asked, "Did I please master?" The man looked at the commander and said a few
words.

"You have been found acceptable for use by my men," he said.

"Thank you, master!" I said, covering his feet with kisses once again. "Thank
you. I will be a perfect, obedient slave to them, master."

"My men have worked hard and have had little in the way of comforts," he
continued. "It will be fitting that they take pleasure from the body of our
defeated enemy. As long as you are pleasing, you will be allowed to live. If you
fail in the slightest, you will be killed, or worse."

"Thank you, master," I repeated. "I will be a marvel to you and your men."

Two guards lifted me by the arms and conducted me to an adjacent room, then
being used as a kind of refreshment room, where food and drinks ransacked from
the grounds were available and a TV was playing. The eyes of the soldiers
already in the room fixed themselves on my naked body when I was brought in. I
knew I would have to satisfy all of them, and many more, but I was deeply
grateful for the chance. I was a slave girl, and pleasing men was the sole
object of my existence. The punishment the commander had intended to mete out to
me was nothing more than my rightful station in life, open and available for the
uses of men.

After some discussion about how best to make use of their unexpected prize, I
was tied on my back over a small table, my ankles roped to the two legs on one
side and my wrists to the legs on the other side. My legs were wide open for
assault from the front, and in addition, my head hung back over the far edge of
the table. I was sure I was not a particularly attractive sight, but I knew I
was an inviting target for the men's lusts. Quickly one of the men positioned
himself in front of me and began to take advantage of my vulnerable position.
Bound as I was, I could do little to participate in my rape, but I could still
use my inner muscles to massage him. I closed my eyes and moaned in an expert
simulation of a slave girl's rapture, hoping by that means to further excite my
attacker. But although I began solely as a stratagem to please my master of the
moment, I soon felt myself becoming truly heated, and was ashamed to feel my
body responding to its brutal, casual usage. As a slave, I knew myself subject
to this kind of unilateral, disciplinary use, simply bound for the masters'
convenience and used as a passive vessel for their pleasure. And I knew that
this was a perfectly appropriate use of me, a natural expression of my
submission and their dominance. So by the time my rapist clutched me to him and
climaxed within me, my cries were more real than fake, and I was disappointed to
feel him leave me.

However, I was not long to be left unattended. A moment later, another man had
taken his place. My head hanging over the table as it was, I could not see him
as he made use of me, but could only lose myself in the physical sensations of
my ravishment. And then I was interrupted by another man who had positioned
himself in front of my face, where my mouth hung open invitingly. He quickly
began to make use of my mouth and throat as I licked at him greedily. In this
position, it was less a matter of me pleasing him with my mouth than of him
simply having his way with me, taking advantage of the curve of my throat to
plunge deeply within me, but I did what I could with lips and tongue to increase
his pleasure. The intense humiliation of being bound helplessly and used
simultaneously by two unknown assailants pushed me to the brink of climax, and
my body began to shake in helpless orgasm. I heard the men laugh. I was sure I
was confirming all of their prejudices about American women - that we were
wanton sluts who wanted nothing more than to be tied up and raped. But while I
knew it was not true of most of my sisters back home, I knew equally well that
it was true of me.

Those two men were replaced by others, and others still as the morning wore on.
I was joined in that room by David's three other slave girls, who were tied in a
variety of positions where they might be freely available to the men, and I
could soon hear their gasps and moans mingled with my own. One or two were
crying as they were forcibly entered and made use of, but even they could not
help their bodies from responding to the men.

We remained in place for the majority of the day as the rebel commander let all
of his men enjoy the prize of the day's successful assault, but eventually the
stream of soldiers trickled down, presumably as they returned to the duties of
war. I learned then and over the next days that these men were part of a large
rebel force that was seeking to overthrow the now-corrupt aristocracy of oil
barons who essentially owned the small principality. They were not Islamic
fundamentalists, as I am sure they were portrayed by the Western media, but were
closer to secular nationalists, upset more at American support for the oiled
class than at any attacks on religious values or traditions - although they were
more than ready to accept the support of religious zealots as well. At the
moment, they had engaged in a series of surprise attacks on government and
aristocracy strongholds, and were waiting uneasily as the larger surrounding
nations - and the United States, with its nearby bases in Saudi Arabia - decided
how to respond.

That night, I was reassured to find myself summoned to the bed of the local
commander, upstairs in the master bedroom on the second floor. I was allowed to
drink some water, eat some food, and take a shower to make myself more
presentable for my new master, as I now saw him. I never found out what happened
to David, or to the other prisoners I had last seen lined up against the wall of
the main dining room.

I entered the commander's room completely naked, wearing only my collar, a chain
leash, and the thin ropes that held my wrists together behind my back. He first
looped my leash through the bedframe and locked it in place, but I was surprised
when, instead of simply kicking my legs apart and tasting the fruits of my
submission, he untied my wrists and invited me to join him on the bed. I think,
for all his skill and experience in leading men, he was unsure about how to use
a slave girl. I undressed him slowly, licking and kissing at his body, finally
taking him into my mouth and lavishing my talents on him slowly and lingeringly.
He reared up, holding my head in place with his hands, and I gazed up at his
face as I swallowed, continuing to caress him with my tongue, hoping to see some
trace of contentment or pleasure in his eyes. I think he was pleased with his
girl.

He made me sleep, bound once again, on the floor by his bed, and in the early
morning he jerked on my leash to command me back onto its surface. This time,
after letting me lick and kiss at him, he rolled me over onto my back, thrust my
legs apart, and plunged into me violently, abusing me as the American slut he so
hated, but also forcing me to cry out in joy, a vanquished slave girl responding
helplessly to her master.

I spent the next two weeks in that one building, most of it in another
second-floor bedroom where the soldiers could make use of me when not engaged in
their more bellicose pursuits. I would be chained by my leash to the bedframe to
prevent escape, but otherwise was left free, unless one of my rapists chose to
tie me up in some fashion using the handcuffs and ropes available. Some of the
men seemed experts in the arts of abusing a helpless, naked girl, tying me in
positions that both caused me pain and opened me up creatively for their
exploitation, or cruelly arousing me with their caresses or with physical
implements and then refusing to let me achieve satisfaction. But for the most
part, they were relatively unimaginative, the vast majority preferring either to
have me serve them with my mouth, kneeling before them, or to push me over onto
my belly and breasts and take me from behind like a dog. Whatever their tastes,
of course, I knew to serve them with absolute obedience and with all the
intimate techniques that I had learned. I knew that I was still under threat of
death, should I fail to be pleasing.

For the first few days I could still hear the moans or cries of the other slave
girls, similarly employed in other rooms on the second floor, but soon they were
transferred to other groups of troops for their comfort and amusement, either as
gifts from one commander to another or, perhaps, in exchange for guns and
ammunition. At the beginning, too, there was a constant stream of men demanding
my body, which I of course gave to them freely, but that began to tail off
during the first week; as the commander told me later, he feared that my
constant availability was making his men soft, and from that point he would only
grant rights to my body as a reward for specific accomplishments.

Most nights I spent in his room, chained on the floor by his bed after having
served him, but there were also nights when he allowed me to remain in the bed
after he had made use of me. Then I would kiss and caress him gently as he fell
asleep, and he would awake to find my lips and tongue warm and wet on his body,
attempting to show a slave's gratitude for the kindness he showed me. Although
each night he seemed to try out some new way of dominating and abusing me, using
his new sex toy to experiment in the many pleasures that can be extracted from a
naked, willing girl, there was also something innocent in him, in the almost
naive joy he took each time he thrust my knees apart and entered me, once again
establishing his dominion over my body. For my part, I did everything in my
humble powers to bring him the pleasures a man may enjoy from a woman, not only
because I feared him as the master of my fate, but even a little because of that
innocence.

The end came quickly at the end of those two weeks. I was lying in his arms in
bed, asleep, when we were both awakened by the low throbbing of helicopters. He
sprang up and grabbed his rifle, but then two windows burst in and the room was
filled with a sudden flash of light, sound, and smoke. I was knocked off the bed
into a corner of the room, where I curled up in shock and fear; my master was
thrown to the floor, dazed. Suddenly heavily armed men in uniforms burst in
through both windows, releasing the ropes they had used to descend from their
helicopters, instinctively covering the room and its entrances with their
weapons. These were professionals, the real soldiers, I knew. Two of them
quickly cuffed my master, and two came over to me, covering me with their guns.

"Please, masters," I said, struggling to my knees and opening them
instinctively, "don't hurt me. I'll do whatever you want."

"You're an American?" one said in a flat Midwestern accent.

"Yes, master."

"What are you doing here?"

I swallowed. "I'm a slave girl ? a sex slave. I've been held here by these men."

"OK, don't worry," he said matter-of-factly. "We'll get you out of here." He
fetched a pair of pincers from another soldier, which they used to cut the
padlock holding my leash in place. They cuffed my hands behind my back with
plastic cuffs as a precaution, and then one of the men lifted me up and began to
carry me down out of the room and down the stairs. He handled me casually, but I
noticed he could not resist brushing a hand over my breasts as I lay helplessly
in my arms.

I never saw my previous master again.

The ground floor and the surrounding area had already been secured by other
American soldiers. Outside the building, two large helicopters were idling. I
was carried to one of them, already almost full with men, and handed in.

"Wow, who sent us this present?" one of the men asked, sounding like no more
than a high school kid.

"Just get her back to the base and take her to see a doctor," my escort said
before leaving. "She says she's an American, but we'd better be sure before we
take those cuffs off."

All the bench seats inside the helicopter were taken, so I knelt on the hard
metal flooring. Without thinking, I opened my knees and lifted my breasts
appealingly. I blushed, realizing that I was posing as a slave. But I remained
in that position, not knowing what my status was, whether I was allowed to
assume another position, whether these men, too, would take advantage of my
naked, unprotected body for their sport.

One of the men leaned over to me. "I'm Lieutenant Shipman," he said. "U.S. Army.
Who are you and what the hell is going on?"

"My name is Jenny, master," I said. "I used to be Jennifer Nevins. I went to
UCLA. I'm a ? a slave girl. A sex slave." I began to cry with shame and
humiliation. "I was captured and kept here, and I had to serve the men with my
body, over and over again."

"It's OK now, Jenny," the officer said. "And don't call me master. We're getting
you out of here, and we'll take you to see a doctor, and soon you'll be on your
way back home and all of this will be over."

"What's going on?" I asked. "Why did you come here?"

"This was a surprise raid to capture the leaders of the rebel movement here," he
said. "We hit six different compounds simultaneously tonight. If everything went
as well as it did here, the revolution should be over by tomorrow." He paused.
"We had no idea we'd find you."

The helicopter began to rise into the air. I was crying steadily by now. "You
mean it's all over? I'm not a slave any more? I can go home?" I had dreamed
about this moment, but for months now had never expected it to happen. And now
that it had come, I did not know whether I preferred it to remaining a helpless
pleasure slave.

"You're not a slave any more, Jenny," he answered. "It's over."

My mind was mixed with both elation and sadness. Elation, of course, that I
would be free, that I could go about my life as I chose, that my future had been
given back to me. Never again would I have to kiss the whip that was about to
beat me, never would I be tied up to be used like a piece of furniture, never
would I have to spread my knees helplessly before a man, begging to be raped.
But it also meant that I would never again know the exquisite rapture of the
overpowered, overwhelmed, ravished slave, held in place by her master's body and
forced to experience the unconditional surrender of her body. Never would I have
the absolute security of gazing into a master's eyes as I swallowed and knowing
that I had brought him pleasure he could only find in a slave, and had thereby
fulfilled my purpose in life. Never could I spread my knees before a man and beg
to be raped as the slave I suspected I might still be.

"Please, lieutenant," I said. "Let me thank you. Let me thank you and your men
in the only way I know how, with my body. Let me serve you and give you
pleasure, let me give my body to you so that you may use it in any way you
desire."

Lieutenant Shipman looked at me harshly. "I don't know what's wrong with you,
slut, but you know I can't allow that."

"Please, sir," I begged. "I've spent two weeks being raped and abused hundreds
of times by men who hated me and wanted nothing more than to humiliate me. You
are the first men who have done anything good for me. Why should they be able to
make use of me, and not you? I would gladly give you the usage of my body, if
you would accept it, to show you my gratitude. I have nothing else to give you.
I'm begging you." I adjusted my position slightly, bringing attention to my
breasts, my belly, and the curve of my thighs as they extended toward my
intimate regions. He was only a man, after all.

The man next to the lieutenant whispered in his ear, smiling. "Very well," he
finally said. "We'll see what we can do when we get back to base."

I spent the remainder of that day in a room partitioned off from the large
warehouse that had been converted into a barracks for the Special Forces who had
been assigned to this mission. After eating and showering, and affirming once
more that I did, truly and desperately, want to be the unit's slave for that
day, I retired to "my" room, which had been equipped with a bunk and a few
sleeping bags. There I awaited the men as, one by one, they came to take
advantage of the eager slut they had so fortuitously discovered on their raid. I
was still nude except for the collar and leash, which I hoped would inspire them
to treat me as what I still knew myself to be, a slave, and I told each man that
I would serve him in any way he chose, no matter how depraved or unusual he
might think it. A majority, of course, could not resist the thought of having a
naked, chained girl kneel at their feet and please them with her mouth, which of
course I did happily. Only a few showed any inclination to tie me helplessly and
subject me to something approaching the brutal rapes I had so often suffered.
But whatever they demanded or, more often, asked for politely, I performed with
all of the beauty, submissiveness, and gratitude I knew possible. They had given
me the gift of freedom; I wanted to leave them with the gift of a perfect slave
girl, which so few men have had the pleasure of enjoying.

After I had served their pleasure, even repeatedly for some of them, I was
dressed in spare army clothes and taken to the logistics center to arrange
transportation back to the United States. The day's delay was ascribed to an
illness that was attested to by the unit's physician. I felt uncomfortable
wearing "normal" clothes, clothes that did not clearly reveal my body, that
could not be simply torn away, and that shielded my body from casual rape. I had
grown so accustomed to being sexually available that I almost wanted to tear off
my clothes and kneel before the men around me, proclaiming myself their inferior
and their plaything. After some haggling, it was arranged that I would be taken
in a jeep to the nearest American consulate two hundred miles away, where air
travel to Los Angeles could be arranged.

I thanked my liberators once more - saving a passionate kiss for Lieutenant
Shipman for last - and bid them farewell. The next day I was on a plane to Los
Angeles by way of London. I did not know what would await me there.

Epilogue

I arrived in Los Angeles in time for the Winter quarter, but otherwise I was
totally unprepared to return to my old life.  My former roommates had given away
my room when I had failed to show in August, but my friends were able to find me
another apartment close to campus.  When asked what had happened to me over the
previous seven months, I was never able to come up with a convincing story;
instead I said that I had been traveling with some friends I met in Berlin, and
didn't want to talk about it any further.

For those first few weeks, I spent most of my time avoiding people, afraid of
how I might behave.  At times I found it difficult to resist the urge to tear
off my clothes and drop to my knees, or to address both men and women as
"master."  When men showed any interest in me, I would brush them off hurriedly,
afraid of how I might behave alone with one of them.  I feared I would strip
myself naked and beg to be used as a slave.  I didn't know if that was what I
truly wanted, or simply a reflex I had had instilled in me by my masters.

Then things only got worse.  Apparently a reporter covering the military action
on the Arabian peninsula heard about the American "sex slave" who had been found
during an early-morning raid and had spent a day submissively compensating her
liberators with her naked body.  The media being what they are, the story was of
course impossible to resist, and within a week an enterprising reporter had
discovered my name.  It was Valentine's Day, February 14, when the American sex
slave was identified as Jennifer Nevins, a student at UCLA who had gone to
Berlin for a summer abroad.  How she had ended up as the plaything of a group of
rebel troops was still unclear.

I heard about the story from a friend of mine and, sobbing, admitted that it was
true.  I attempted to lock myself in my apartment and shut out the world, but
things only got worse; within two weeks, an adult magazine had somehow located a
copy of the "portfolio" that my training house had shot to advertise me to
potential buyers.  Those degrading photographs of me, not only nude but
collared, chained, and posing in a variety of humiliating positions, were soon
available in print and on the Internet.  I began to think my best option might
be to find a master, someone who would take me under his protection and guard me
from the outside world, in exchange for my absolute submission.  At least that
was something I knew how to do.

Instead, I did something else.  I got in my car and drove to San Francisco,
where I checked into a cheap hotel under a fake name.  I legally changed my name
to Cecilia Connors - my middle name and my mother's maiden name - died my hair
that popular honey-blonde color, and began wearing non-prescription glasses.  I
got a job as an administrative assistant at a South of Market startup company
and began to build a new life. 

By the time spring turned to summer, I was almost able to live a normal life.  I
had even started going on dates again, usually with one of the employees of the
high-tech companies in the former industrial districts of San Francisco.  But
generally one of two things would occur when I was finally alone with a man late
in the evening.  Sometimes I would blushingly send my suitor away, afraid to
leave myself alone with him.  Other times I would invite him into my apartment,
where I would willingly comply with whatever desires he might indicate.  It was
then, whether naked and on my knees before my escort, or with my legs spread
widely across my bed, that I felt most comfortable, that I could most easily
forget the worries and distractions that otherwise seemed to occupy my days.  I
think my dates were generally shocked by my behavior, by my transformation from
a quiet, conservative young woman into a wanton and talented slut, willing to
perform sexual services they had never even conceived of.  Most would ask to see
me again, undoubtedly hoping once again to have me at their disposal, but I
would generally break off any relationship quickly, afraid to go too far and
fully release the slave I knew still lay inside me.

One evening in late June, I was watching "Friends" re-runs when there was a
knock on my door.  I opened it.

It was Cristina.

She looked magnificent in a black leather dress that emphasized her statuesque
figure, poised on high black boots with high heels.  She entered unasked, closed
the door behind her, and pulled a whip out of her briefcase.  "Kneel, slut," she
commanded.

My knees went weak and I soon found myself looking up at her from the floor.  My
heart was pounding. 

Cristina pressed the whip to my mouth.  After a moment's hesitation, I kissed it
tentatively.  She pushed it more firmly, and I kissed it again, more
passionately and submissively.  I hoped she would not use it on me.  I knew I
would not be able to stop her.

"You look good as a blonde, Jenny," Cristina said with a smile.  "Take off your
glasses."  I put them to the side.  "Spread your knees."  I opened them further,
reassuming the position I had known so well for so many months.  It felt strange
to be kneeling while fully clothed.  I was wearing jeans, socks, and T-shirt.  I
wondered how long it would be before I was naked.

"I see you have forgotten your lessons, Jenny," Cristina said, shaking out the
whip.  "You should be kissing my feet by now."

Immediately I bent down and began.  "I'm sorry, mistress," I said.  "Forgive me,
mistress."  The taste of the smooth leather brought back memories I had hoped to
erase.

I felt Cristina reach down and lock a steel collar about my neck.  I shuddered
with fear.  Then she attached a chain leash to the collar and used it to pull me
back up to a kneeling position. 

"Stand up," she said.  I obeyed.  "Strip."  She dropped the end of the leash so
that I would be able to take off my shirt.  I reached down and pulled off my
socks.  I wondered how far this would go.  I expected she would make me serve
her, but it was what came after worried me.  Would she enslave me as I had once
longed for her to do?  Would I go willingly again into slavery?  I pulled off
the shirt, letting the leash fall back down between my breasts.  I unbuttoned
and unzipped my jeans, pulled them down off my hips, and stepped out of them.  I
was wearing only a bra and cotton panties. 

I looked up at Cristina.  She was smiling.  I lowered my eyes and reached behind
my back to unclasp my bra.  A moment later my breasts were bare, as they had
been for most of the past summer and fall.  Then I reached down and peeled the
panties down my legs and stepped out of them.  I was nude, collared and chained. 
My knees felt weak.  I wanted to kneel and spread my thighs in submission, but I
had not been ordered to. 

Cristina walked up to me and began caressing my naked body.  I did not lift my
hands to stop her.  I was a slave once again.  My body was hers to do with as
she pleased. 

"You are wet, slut," Cristina said. 

"Yes, mistress," I said, humiliated.  She put her fingers in my mouth, forcing
me to suck them.  I could not hide my arousal.

Cristina coiled the leash in her hand, leaving only eighteen inches of slack. 
She pulled me over to the couch in my living room and sat on its edge.  I knelt
before her.  She used the leash to pull my face between her legs.  "Yes,
mistress," I said.  I lifted her dress and extended my tongue.  I felt her hands
in her hair as she clutched my head to her body.  I began to serve her as only a
slave girl knows how, my eyes closed in submissive ecstasy.

Many times did Cristina have me serve her that evening, in many different
positions.  She raped me with the handle of her whip, allowing me to come to
orgasm as the pitiless implement abused me.  I cried out my submission to her on
my knees, nude, collared, and chained, as I had been so many times.

Hours later, Cristina was once again seated on the sofa as I knelt before her,
my hands now tied behind my back, softly licking and kissing at her legs.  "So,
Jenny," she said, "will you be my slave?"

I continued kissing her, my mind and body still warm in the afterglow of the
evening's services.  I thought about the bliss of the last few hours, and the
frustrations and disappointments of the previous months of freedom.  I knelt
back on my heels and looked up at her.

I gave her my answer.

It was the most difficult decision of my life.  I still often wonder if I made
the right choice.

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