"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 hu
miliating 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 quest
ions 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.
My Berlin Summer Page 9
