Epilogue
I arrived in Los Angeles in time for the Winter quarter, but otherwise I was
totally unprepared to return to my old life. My former roommates had given away
my room when I had failed to show in August, but my friends were able to find me
another apartment close to campus. When asked what had happened to me over the
previous seven months, I was never able to come up with a convincing story;
instead I said that I had been traveling with some friends I met in Berlin, and
didn't want to talk about it any further.
For those first few weeks, I spent most of my time avoiding people, afraid of
how I might behave. At times I found it difficult to resist the urge to tear
off my clothes and drop to my knees, or to address both men and women as
"master." When men showed any interest in me, I would brush them off hurriedly,
afraid of how I might behave alone with one of them. I feared I would strip
myself naked and beg to be used as a slave. I didn't know if that was what I
truly wanted, or simply a reflex I had had instilled in me by my masters.
Then things only got worse. Apparently a reporter covering the military action
on the Arabian peninsula heard about the American "sex slave" who had been found
during an early-morning raid and had spent a day submissively compensating her
liberators with her naked body. The media being what they are, the story was of
course impossible to resist, and within a week an enterprising reporter had
discovered my name. It was Valentine's Day, February 14, when the American sex
slave was identified as Jennifer Nevins, a student at UCLA who had gone to
Berlin for a summer abroad. How she had ended up as the plaything of a group of
rebel troops was still unclear.
I heard about the story from a friend of mine and, sobbing, admitted that it was
true. I attempted to lock myself in my apartment and shut out the world, but
things only got worse; within two weeks, an adult magazine had somehow located a
copy of the "portfolio" that my training house had shot to advertise me to
potential buyers. Those degrading photographs of me, not only nude but
collared, chained, and posing in a variety of humiliating positions, were soon
available in print and on the Internet. I began to think my best option might
be to find a master, someone who would take me under his protection and guard me
from the outside world, in exchange for my absolute submission. At least that
was something I knew how to do.
Instead, I did something else. I got in my car and drove to San Francisco,
where I checked into a cheap hotel under a fake name. I legally changed my name
to Cecilia Connors - my middle name and my mother's maiden name - died my hair
that popular honey-blonde color, and began wearing non-prescription glasses. I
got a job as an administrative assistant at a South of Market startup company
and began to build a new life.
By the time spring turned to summer, I was almost able to live a normal life. I
had even started going on dates again, usually with one of the employees of the
high-tech companies in the former industrial districts of San Francisco. But
generally one of two things would occur when I was finally alone with a man late
in the evening. Sometimes I would blushingly send my suitor away, afraid to
leave myself alone with him. Other times I would invite him into my apartment,
where I would willingly comply with whatever desires he might indicate. It was
then, whether naked and on my knees before my escort, or with my legs spread
widely across my bed, that I felt most comfortable, that I could most easily
forget the worries and distractions that otherwise seemed to occupy my days. I
think my dates were generally shocked by my behavior, by my transformation from
a quiet, conservative young woman into a wanton and talented slut, willing to
perform sexual services they had never even conceived of. Most would ask to see
me again, undoubtedly hoping once again to have me at their disposal, but I
would generally break off any relationship quickly, afraid to go too far and
fully release the slave I knew still lay inside me.
One evening in late June, I was watching "Friends" re-runs when there was a
knock on my door. I opened it.
It was Cristina.
She looked magnificent in a black leather dress that emphasized her statuesque
figure, poised on high black boots with high heels. She entered unasked, closed
the door behind her, and pulled a whip out of her briefcase. "Kneel, slut," she
commanded.
My knees went weak and I soon found myself looking up at her from the floor. My
heart was pounding.
Cristina pressed the whip to my mouth. After a moment's hesitation, I kissed it
tentatively. She pushed it more firmly, and I kissed it again, more
passionately and submissively. I hoped she would not use it on me. I knew I
would not be able to stop her.
"You look good as a blonde, Jenny," Cristina said with a smile. "Take off your
glasses." I put them to the side. "Spread your knees." I opened them further,
reassuming the position I had known so well for so many months. It felt strange
to be kneeling while fully clothed. I was wearing jeans, socks, and T-shirt. I
wondered how long it would be before I was naked.
"I see you have forgotten your lessons, Jenny," Cristina said, shaking out the
whip. "You should be kissing my feet by now."
Immediately I bent down and began. "I'm sorry, mistress," I said. "Forgive me,
mistress." The taste of the smooth leather brought back memories I had hoped to
erase.
I felt Cristina reach down and lock a steel collar about my neck. I shuddered
with fear. Then she attached a chain leash to the collar and used it to pull me
back up to a kneeling position.
"Stand up," she said. I obeyed. "Strip." She dropped the end of the leash so
that I would be able to take off my shirt. I reached down and pulled off my
socks. I wondered how far this would go. I expected she would make me serve
her, but it was what came after worried me. Would she enslave me as I had once
longed for her to do? Would I go willingly again into slavery? I pulled off
the shirt, letting the leash fall back down between my breasts. I unbuttoned
and unzipped my jeans, pulled them down off my hips, and stepped out of them. I
was wearing only a bra and cotton panties.
I looked up at Cristina. She was smiling. I lowered my eyes and reached behind
my back to unclasp my bra. A moment later my breasts were bare, as they had
been for most of the past summer and fall. Then I reached down and peeled the
panties down my legs and stepped out of them. I was nude, collared and chained.
My knees felt weak. I wanted to kneel and spread my thighs in submission, but I
had not been ordered to.
Cristina walked up to me and began caressing my naked body. I did not lift my
hands to stop her. I was a slave once again. My body was hers to do with as
she pleased.
"You are wet, slut," Cristina said.
"Yes, mistress," I said, humiliated. She put her fingers in my mouth, forcing
me to suck them. I could not hide my arousal.
Cristina coiled the leash in her hand, leaving only eighteen inches of slack.
She pulled me over to the couch in my living room and sat on its edge. I knelt
before her. She used the leash to pull my face between her legs. "Yes,
mistress," I said. I lifted her dress and extended my tongue. I felt her hands
in her hair as she clutched my head to her body. I began to serve her as only a
slave girl knows how, my eyes closed in submissive ecstasy.
Many times did Cristina have me serve her that evening, in many different
positions. She raped me with the handle of her whip, allowing me to come to
orgasm as the pitiless implement abused me. I cried out my submission to her on
my knees, nude, collared, and chained, as I had been so many times.
Hours later, Cristina was once again seated on the sofa as I knelt before her,
my hands now tied behind my back, softly licking and kissing at her legs. "So,
Jenny," she said, "will you be my slave?"
I continued kissing her, my mind and body still warm in the afterglow of the
evening's services. I thought about the bliss of the last few hours, and the
frustrations and disappointments of the previous months of freedom. I knelt
back on my heels and looked up at her.
I gave her my answer.
It was the most difficult decision of my life. I still often wonder if I made
the right choice.
