My Berlin Summer
by Dana Williams
Chapter 9: The Client
On rare occasions, one of us slave girls might be rented out for a night at a
location other than the club, presumably at some significant expense to the
client. This was primarily done for clients who could not risk accidental
discovery at the club - men, or women, whose political, business, or other
connections would not permit them to be seen indulging in the soft, captive
flesh of girls such as I. As a new slave girl I had understandably few of these
appointments, but as the months wore on my talents, such as they were, became
more and more familiar among the types of people who had the means to command
them, and, for better or for worse, I became more and more desirable a property
for the evening.
One night in October I was told that I had been reserved for the evening by one
of these "special" clients. We were typically escorted to these appointments
under tight security, and this time was no exception. I made the trip in the
back of an unmarked van, my wrists and ankles secured by inflexible, cold steel
handcuffs, my mouth filled with a hard rubber ball gag, my eyes blindfolded so I
would not know where I was being taken. Apart from my bonds and, of course, the
collar I always wore, I was completely nude. Two guards accompanied me in the
back of the van, one seated on either side of me. One occupied himself on the
way with caressing my body, first casually across my breasts and belly, then
between my legs, intimately and implacably, bringing me to a forced arousal but,
of course, leaving me unsatisfied. I would be delivered to my master of the
evening hot, wet, and desperate for a man's attentions. I was frustrated, but I
also recognized the logic in this practice. Men liked their slave girls to be
helplessly aroused, squirming on their naked bellies and begging to be raped.
And if that is what they wanted, then that is what they should get. I was only
a slave girl; who was I to question a master's desires?
When the van finally stopped, my ankles were uncuffed and I was helped out of
the van and up a few steps into a building, one guard holding each of my arms to
direct me. Then they released my arms and I lowered myself to my knees,
spreading them widely and lifting my breasts prettily. I had no idea who might
be watching me, and had no wish to be displeasing in the slightest.
One of the guards crouched down beside me and removed my handcuffs, then my gag,
and finally the blindfold. I blinked my eyes against the sudden light. I was
in the anteroom of a somewhat spare but well-decorated house. A middle-aged
woman wearing what appeared to be some sort of servant's costume stood before
me, looking down at me disapprovingly. No doubt she saw in me a wanton,
shameful slave slut, a girl whose every curve proved she existed solely to
provide indescribable sexual pleasures to men. I lowered my eyes, embarrassed.
At the time, I would not have contested that description of me.
The woman bent down and attached a long, thin chain leash to my collar. Once I
had been terribly humiliated to be led on a leash like a dog; now I accepted it
without a moment's thought. She tugged on the leash and began to lead me up a
staircase. I rose to my feet to follow. Instantly she spun around and slapped
me, hard, on my left cheek. I stumbled and fell to the ground. "You will crawl
like the dog you are, slut!" she yelled at me. She kicked at me as I lay on my
side. I hurried to rise to all fours.
"This slave begs your forgiveness, mistress," I said, staring at the floor. If
she had been a man, I would have covered her feet and legs with kisses, hoping
to distract his anger and encourage him to take my body in punishment. But I
knew such wiles would not work with this woman. I trembled, hoping not to be
struck again. Instead, she turned on her heel and marched up the stairs,
leaving me to scramble after her on all fours.
The guards waited below. I knew that they would remain until the morning to
provide additional security. A slave girl is too valuable a possession to be
left unguarded overnight.
On the second floor, the woman led me into a large room with a bed, a large
wardrobe, and a pair of armchairs. The floors were of wood, smooth and hard. I
hoped that I would be allowed to perform my services on the bed and not on the
floor's uncomfortable surface. These are the things that slave girls hope for.
She left me kneeling on the floor, facing the door, the leash dangling between
my breasts and over my left thigh as I knelt. I remained there, nearly
motionless. I had not been given permission to do otherwise. I wondered what
my master would be like, what he would demand of me. I hoped he would not hurt
me.
After a time, a tall, thin, grey-haired man entered the room. He was wearing a
long, dark blue bathrobe, slippers, and apparently nothing else. I put my head
down and kissed the floor before his feet. "I beg to serve you, master," I
said, not rising from the floor.
"As you were," he said. I rose again to my knees. "Spread your knees wider,"
he commanded. I obeyed. "Thrust out your breasts," he said. I pushed them
forward even more than before, and pulled my shoulders back for emphasis. When
a slave girl kneels, it is usually in a position of relative relaxation,
retaining freedom of motion in all directions. Now my body was rigid, my knees
as far apart as my body could bear, my breasts straining forward for my master's
attention. I hoped he liked what he saw.
"I hear you are the hottest new pony in my friend M. Arnaud's stable," he said
after contemplating my body for a minute.
"My hope is to be pleasing to my masters," I said in reply. "I hope that they
have found me acceptable."
"Oh, I'm sure I will find you more than acceptable," he said. He paused. "If
not, you will be beaten."
I shuddered. At the club, I was beaten relatively infrequently, thanks no doubt
to my careful attention to my duties and to the pleasure of my masters. I had
no desire to feel the whip. "I will be absolutely obedient, master," I said.
"I hope that my body will prove satisfactory."
The man walked over to the dresser and returned with a whip in his hand. He
held its handle to my lips. I licked and kissed it, fervently and submissively.
In California I would never have kissed a boyfriend with the passion I lavished
on the instrument of my domination. But then I had not been a slave girl. Now
I was.
Apparently satisfied with my performance, he withdrew the whip from my lips.
"On all fours," he said. I obeyed instantly, my head lowered submissively.
"Lift your head," he said. I did so. "Now turn and crawl to the other side of
the room." I crawled, maintaining the position I had been taught - back arched,
bottom high, thighs spread. Even in the most humiliating positions, a slave
girl must always display her body to maximum advantage. "Now pick up the end of
your leash and bring it to me." I knew what he wanted. I turned and retraced
my steps to where the end of the leash lay on the floor. I bent down my head
and picked it up in my teeth before continuing back to my master's feet. I
lifted my head to present the leash to him. He took it from my mouth and
stroked my hair. "What a good little slave," he said.
"Crawl backward two meters," he continued. I did so. "On your belly, spread
your arms and legs" he said. I obeyed, my body vulnerably and openly stretched
before him. "On your back." I rolled to my back, keeping my arms and legs
wide. I had not been given permission to close them. "Grasp your ankles." I
did so, drawing them up over my head, opening my body even more widely, brazenly
presenting my charms for his view and potential usage. I held the position as
he seemed to consider my form.
He continued to put me through my paces, making me open and display my body in
ways that can only be demanded of an absolutely compliant slave girl. I hoped
he liked what he saw. On top of the arousal that had been forced upon me during
the ride in the van, I was becoming increasingly excited by this man's simple,
strict domination of me. As both a natural submissive and a trained slave girl,
I was conditioned to respond to mastery, to become heated in being compelled to
obey another's will. Although he had hardly touched me, I knew that the
services he was already commanding me to perform were profoundly sensual, and
could only culminate in my absolute ravishment, in the kind of sexual conquest
that only a slave can suffer at the hands of a master. And as a slave, I longed
for that conquest, I longed to feel his body exerting its will over me and
inside me.
Suddenly I grew bold. "Please, master," I said, uninvited, now on my belly,
grasping my ankles behind my body, "let me please you! I beg to serve you, as a
slave."
Suddenly I felt the whip burn into the flesh of my back. "You were not asked to
speak, slave," he said coldly. I lay on the floor, silent, tears forming in my
eyes from the pain. But I expected my pleadings were not completely wasted.
Hopefully now he knew how desperate I was, how much I longed for my rape. And
such knowledge, I knew from experience, generally has its effect on a man.
Finally he positioned me again on my back, my knees lifted and my thighs widely
spread. I was completely open to him as a slave, and I knew my body was more
than ready to accept his entry. He swiftly pulled my wrists first inside my
thighs and then outside my ankles and chained them in place with a pair of steel
manacles. Bound as I was, I was powerless to close my knees. Nor did I want
to.
"Now you may beg to be raped, slave," he said as he crouched down by me and
removed his robe.
"Please, master," I cried out. "Your slave begs to be raped. Take me,
overwhelm me, use me for your pleasure, make me serve you as a slave."
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 that
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.
