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.'"
"Wel
l, 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."
My Berlin Summer Page 12