"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 fel
t 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.
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.
My Berlin Summer Page 3