My Berlin Summer Read online

  "Yes, master," I said. Although I suppose we had some sort of professional relationship, I was still naked and on my knees before him. "Thank you, master. I'll do better next time."

  "I'm sure you will," he said, patting me on the head. "Now let's put that pretty mouth of yours to better use." I looked up at him, not sure what he meant, but the hands drawing my head towards his lap made his intentions clear. "I know you want it, little slut," he said. "That's why you were picked for this job."

  I knew he was right. It only took me a few seconds to revert from Jenny the free-willed spy to Jenny the perfectly obedient sex slave. A few minutes later I felt him stiffen and heard him gasp as he filled my mouth. I swallowed as I had been conditioned to do. "Thank you, master," I said when he finally withdrew from me.

  Over the next several weeks I increased my efforts to keep abreast of things that were going on at the club. I casually asked the other slaves what they knew about the business, and even tried to ask innocent questions of my masters that might shed light on their operation - asking about my price, about how much they might make off a girl such as me, about where and how they gathered the slaves who were the backbone of their operation. I explained that, having once envisioned a career in corporate law, I was simply interested in how the business worked. If anyone might have been suspicious, I think they were mollified by my nearly perfect behavior, by my evident zealousness to be absolutely subservient and perfectly pleasing. And every week or two, my contact to the external world - whose name I would never find out - would visit the club, listen to my report, and then make use of my body as if I were simply a pretty slave girl to be had on a moment's whim. Which, of course, I was.

  My efforts to become a better slave were also paying dividends. During this period, I moved up from being a "class C" girl to class B and finally to class A. As a benefit of my elevation, I was permitted to wear clothing - at least until a master ordered me strip myself naked, for his viewing pleasure or for his use. My sole garment was what was called a "slave dress" - a single piece of thin, light blue silk hanging from thin straps over my shoulders, barely covering my body from the top part of my breasts to the upper part of my thighs, open to my waist in back and slit to the hip on both sides. It was a mockery of a dress more than anything else, that would reveal my body with only a slight change in position, that in any case afforded no protection against a master's touch, and that, of course, I could be ordered to remove at any instant. But at least I did not have to go completely naked at all times, for which I was deeply thankful.

  As a "class A" girl, I was also not required to serve the club staff during the day, supposedly to allow me to better serve the paying clients in the evening. But in my desire to be a perfect slave, I chose not to insist on this privilege, and continued to offer myself for use to whoever might want me. I knew that the quality of my life depended on being pleasing to all of my masters, and that I was most qualified to do so on my knees or back, my body available for the taking. I knew some of the other girls resented me for this degree of wantonness, but I didn't care what they thought. I was a slave girl, I existed for the pleasure of men, and it was men that I would serve.

  In the weeks as summer turned to autumn, I also began to attract a set of "regular" clients, for whom I was one of the particular attractions of the club. A client would be allowed to reserve a favorite slave, either for a night or part of one, if he were willing to pay an additional fee. However, a slave girl could only be reserved for up to three nights per week; the other nights, she had to be freely available to whatever client desired her use. (And, of course, being slaves, we had no nights off; pleasing our masters was not an occupation that we deserved rest from, but rather a simple attribute of our condition.)

  One of my "regulars" was a wealthy aristocrat from a small Arabian principality. He had a long, un-spellable, Arabic-sounding name, but went among us by "David." He had studied at Cambridge and divided his time between London and his home country, taking the Chunnel on most weekends to enjoy the pleasures of Paris - including those he was able to take from my naked body. He was, as they say, tall, dark, and handsome, a consummate gentleman, and a man who knew how to use a slave girl, as I quickly learned the first night that he chose me for his amusement.

  That night, he used me more times than I had imagined possible, and in more ways - first unilaterally, tying me with my legs spread and simply satisfying himself in my flesh, then more creatively, forcing me to serve him in positions I had not known my body could assume, then passionately, driving me repeatedly to painful arousal with his tongue and his hands, finally forcing me to beg, as a humiliated, debased slave, for my orgasm. When he finally untied me, I fell to my knees before him and bent down to lick and kiss at his feet. I was physically and emotionally devastated by the experience, but at the same time I felt a profound sense of joy and satisfaction. I knew that I had served this complete stranger as only a slave girl can serve, had been used as only a slave can be used, but I felt joy in the thought that he had chose me as the girl he would use, that I might have been able to be pleasing to him in some small way. Doubtless, had I not been pleasing, I would have been thrown back onto the floor of the lounge, replaced by another girl of his choice at no additional charge; that he had elected to extract such long and intimate services from my body must have indicated that I had been found worthy of pleasing him. That night, I learned not only that I could be forced to spread my legs for men, or that I could be compelled to respond physically and emotionally to a man's uses, but that I wanted to be so used, that I longed in my heart and my belly to be mastered, stripped naked and thrown to a man's feet to be raped as the slave I was.

  After that first night, whenever David entered the club, I would immediately - unless I was serving another client, who would then have complete rights over my body - bring him his favorite drink, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and strip myself naked at his feet, mutely or explicitly begging to be put to my uses. Sometimes he would simply pat me on the head and send me on my way, or sometimes he would indicate a friend of his whom I must serve as passionately and helplessly as I served him. But other times he would grab me by the hair and pull me to a private room, there to throw me forward on my hands and knees, where he would summarily rape me before proceeding to explore his larger repertoire of uses for a slave girl. Those nights I would lie awake even as he slept, softly kissing his legs and feet so as not to wake him, thanking Cristina for having seen the slave in me and letting me know the fulfillment I could find only in absolute submission.

  Some clients seemed to take pleasure less in sexual services themselves than in the opportunity to thoroughly dominate a naked slave girl, to have me completely at their mercy, a willing, compliant, and helpless toy for their amusement. They might have me crawl about the room at their feet, assume various positions of submission and vulnerability, lick and kiss their bodies or even inanimate objects, or otherwise express my inferiority and subjugation. Or some would take pleasure in binding me in different positions, using the arsenal of specialized equipment put at their disposal - blindfolds, gags, cuffs, chains, and an assortment of devices made of leather, steel, or latex too complex to describe. I might be left helplessly bound and blindfolded, waiting in terrifying anticipation to know what would next be done to me. Other men enjoyed having me dress up in various costumes and pose for them, and then invariably remove those clothes, either slowly, piece by piece, gradually uncovering the slave's body they had paid for and could soon possess, or quickly, tearing off my clothes to reveal the naked slut that I knew myself to be, soon on her knees and begging to be used.

  There are many ways in which a master can enjoy the services of a complete slave, and I learned many of them.

  Of course, the majority of the clients I served had little in the way of imagination. In the most common scenario, I would be simply ordered to my knees, there to beg briefly for the privilege of pleasing my master, before he consented to my pleas and allowed me to serve him wi
th my mouth. These men, I decided, were either lazy or unimaginative. But still I was compelled to obey them instantly and perfectly. And I learned to find satisfaction even in such a simple and routine act of service. Although my body would be scarcely aroused, at the moment I felt the master's warmth spreading across my mouth and down my throat, I would still feel a deep surge of selfless ecstasy, secure in the knowledge that, for this moment at least, I had successfully fulfilled my new purpose in life. And when I thanked him, on all fours, my hair cascading over his feet as I kissed them helplessly, it was not a mere formality, but a true expression of my slave's feelings.

  And so the summer passed into autumn, as the leaves I could only see in the distance changed colors and the air in the courtyard grew crisper.

  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 an
d 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."