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 th
at 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.
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 thank
ful 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.
My Berlin Summer Page 14
