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.
