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Message-ID: <34459asstr$1010149811@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: danawilliams7979@yahoo.com (DW)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 3 Jan 2002 22:53:57 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} My Berlin Summer, Chapter 2 (MF/F, bd, nc, slavery)
Date: Fri,  4 Jan 2002 08:10:11 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

I originally posted this chapter to alt.sex.stories and
alt.sex.stories.bondage.  One of my readers suggested I post it as
well to alt.sex.stories.moderated to facilitate archiving.  The
original post follows below.

***

What follows is a story about an American college student who gets in
over her head during a summer abroad.  The basic themes are slavery,
domination, humiliation, etc., with something of an action theme (not
yet apparent) and relatively less sex than most such stories.  The
influences will be obvious to many.

It's planned at about eight chapters, of which the first four have
been written.  This is my first attempt, so please send feedback to
danawilliams7979@yahoo.com.  

Please feel free to save and distribute copies as you wish, so long as
you maintain proper attribution.

***

My Berlin Summer
by Dana Williams

Chapter 2:  The Club
Luckily, there was a car - a stretch limousine - waiting to take us to
the club.  The driver opened the back door for us, staring pointedly
at my body all the while.  I did my best to avert my eyes.  Once in
the car, Cristina pushed me to my knees on the floor.  "You will lick
my boots until we get there," she said simply.  I crawled in front of
her on my knees, carefully lowered my upper body to the floor so that
her black leather boots were just in front of my face, and delicately
opened my mouth and extended my tongue to her right boot.  I could
taste the new leather on my tongue.  I closed my eyes, shutting out
all sensation except the feeling of her boots on my lips and tongue. 
Although I was only an amateur in the arts of giving pleasure, I did
everything I could imagine a man or woman could want from a slave's
mouth, demonstrating my abject submission to Cristina's boots.  I felt
her hand casually running through my long hair as if she were petting
a favorite dog.

Soon - too soon - I felt the car come to a stop.  My heart pounding,
my tongue still stroking the leather of Cristina's boots, I listened
to the driver get out, walk around the car, and open the back door.  I
felt a tug on my leash as Cristina pulled me back up to my knees,
spreading them with a kick of her boot.  Then she stepped out of the
car, forcing me to trail behind her.

As I stepped onto the sidewalk, I saw the line of people waiting at
the door, dressed in an outlandish assortment of black leather, latex,
spandex, and chains.  There was an assortment of masters and slaves,
but even the slaves - identifiable mainly by their collars - had the
hardened look of experienced roleplayers.  We walked directly toward
the door, not bothering to go to the end of the line, and Cristina
began talking to the bouncer in a rapid German.  I stood behind her
timidly, submissively, my eyes lowered to escape the gaze of the crowd
that I was sure was fixed solely on me.  I could feel a hundred eyes
burning through the mockery of a garment that Cristina had given me to
wear, hugging every curve of my nearly naked body.  If my hands had
not been chained behind my back, I would have used them to try to
cover my body; if I had not been collared and leashed, I would have
run far away from their cold, evaluating gazes; but held in place and
exposed as I was, I began to feel the helplessness and vulnerability
of the slave girl, constantly open and available for the contemplation
and use of men.

Finally Cristina turned to me and said, in English, "He says that if
you get on your knees and kiss his feet, he'll let us in without
waiting in line."  She was laughing.  I glanced for a moment at the
long line of people and decided that a moment's humiliation was better
than having to wait outside.  Cristina tugged me forward.  Standing
before the large, well-muscled man, I suddenly felt small, and soft,
and weak, truly only a plaything to give him whatever pleasure and
amusement he might find in a woman's body.  Not daring to meet his
eyes, I lowered myself to my knees, bent my head forward toward the
ground, and began to lick and kiss at his feet.  I closed my eyes and
again tried to lose myself in the delicious submissiveness of licking
the hard, dusty leather, imagining that I was a slave girl desperately
trying to please a master, trying to arouse his interest, inviting him
to throw her on her back and rape her.  I don't know how long I
lavished my attentions on his feet before Cristina tugged up on the
leash, saying, "That's enough, slut," and pulled me to my feet.  The
man gestured that we should enter.  As I walked in front of him I felt
his hand lift up the back of my garment and feel my body.  My hands
chained as they were, I was powerless to stop him.  Now I knew even
more deeply the openness of a slave's body and the casual uses to
which she will routinely be put.

We entered the dark, cavernous club.  I had been here several times,
but never before half-naked, my hands chained behind my back, trailing
behind the mistress who held the leash to my collar.  I felt all eyes
in the club turn towards me as we stepped across the threshold.  I
tried to lower my eyes and let my hair drift across my face, hoping no
one would recognize me.  Surely anyone who saw me could hardly
recognize Jennifer Nevins, the all-American college girl, in this
submitted, collared slave.  Or could they?  I looked around.  The club
was busy but not filled.  There were people who looked like masters,
people who looked like slaves, and a majority of indeterminate status.
 The predominant dress was black leather in all its forms - halters,
miniskirts, boots, body suits, harnesses, gloves, masks, cuffs, whips
...  Scattered through the room a few slaves were partially or fully
naked, their breasts or their intimate regions exposed to public view.
 But in general, few people were as openly, vulnerably exhibited as
was I, the curves of my body easily visible through my thin white
garment, my bound hands helpless to protect me.  I could depend only
on the goodwill and protection of my mistress.

We had stopped.  I looked up.  We had reached a table, and Cristina
was chatting with the people seated around it.  With a shock, I
recognized some of the German friends I had made in the past few
weeks:  Iris, the quiet but friendly violinist; Stefan, the doctor in
a local hospital; Frank, the tall political activist I had secretly
admired.  I blushed deeply, lowering my head.  Now, I knew, I could
never hope to go out with him as an equal.

I was startled by the silence, all the eyes focused on my exposed
body.  "Yes," Cristina said, "our American friend makes a lovely
slave.  You should have seen her licking my boots in the car."  They
laughed.  I realized she was speaking English for my benefit.  I
wanted to run away and hide.  But I was held in place by her firm hand
on my leash.

"I just thought it would be interesting," I started to say, before
being rudely cut off by a backhanded slap from Cristina.

"Slaves do not speak unless spoken to," she reprimanded me.  "Everyone
here is your master or mistress," she continued.  "You will show them
complete deference, or you will be whipped."

"Yes, mistress," I sobbed.  Well, I had asked for this - to be
dominated and humiliated in public.  I would just have to endure the
night somehow and then rebuild my life in the morning.

I felt a sharp downward tug on the leash.  "Slaves kneel in the
presence of free men and women," Cristina reminded me.  I lowered
myself to my knees and sat back on my heels.  Not wishing to be
slapped again, or worse, I opened my knees.  Cristina's boots pushed
them further apart.  "Thrust out your breasts, Jenny," she ordered. 
"Let's see what you've got."  I obeyed, sobbing softly, pushing my
breasts forward against the thin fabric that was all I wore.  I knew
my nipples were clearly visible to all of my friends.

"Have you used her at all," asked Iris.  I was shocked to hear shy,
quiet Iris ask such an open question.  But, I realized, I was just a
slave.  That is what we are for - being used by our masters.

"No, not yet," Cristina answered.  "This is just her first time,
remember.  But she has a lot of potential.  You should have seen her
licking the bouncer's shoes - you could tell she wanted something else
in her mouth.  Right, slut?"

"Yes, mistress," I answered.  

"Have you ever pleasured a man with your mouth?"

"Yes, mistress," I whispered, reddening even more.

"Are you any good?"

"I think so, mistress."  I supposed that at some point soon I might be
put to the test, and I did not want to be accused of misrepresenting
my abilities.  On the other hand, judging from my performance with
Cristina's boots, I expected that I would throw myself into the task
with passion.

"Well, there's plenty of time to find out about that later," Cristina
laughed.  She took an empty seat and continued talking with her
friends, in German.

I continued to kneel by her chair, knees still widely spread, hands
behind my back, chest thrust forward - a forgotten slave at her
mistress's feet.  I felt heat growing between my thighs.  I wondered
what my friends thought of me now.  Were they shocked to see me here,
dressed as a slave, obedient to a woman's wishes?  Did they think I
was just playing a role, that tomorrow I would be the carefree,
innocent American student they had known?  Or had they somehow already
known that inside that stereotypical exterior there already lay the
heart of an admitted, secret slave, who longed only for this - to be
displayed openly, humiliatingly, by a firm master?  I wondered if I
would ever be able to face them again.  Would I ever be able to say to
Frank, "Of course, I was just experimenting to see what it would be
like."  Or would he simply say, "I know you are a slave, Jenny, now
strip off those clothes, bend over, and grasp your ankles," and then
use me brutally as the slave girl he knew me to be?

I lifted my head slowly to look at Frank.  He was staring intently at
my body, which was scarcely hidden from his gaze.  He smiled when he
caught my eye.  I lowered my eyes again, blushing.  "Yes, Jenny, you
are even lovelier than I had thought," he said softly.  I lifted my
eyes again and smiled, relishing his compliment.  "I'm sure you're
even lovelier naked."

"Thank you, master," I said, having been reminded of my status in
relation to him.  Then, daring myself to go further, I continued,
"This slave is happy if her body pleases you, master," and tried to
smile up at him.

He laughed and playfully ran his hand through my long, brown hair. 
"What a slave you are, my little slut," he said.  "It will be a great
pleasure to use you."

"Use me?" I stammered, momentarily forgetting my new position in life.
 "When?"

"Just wait and see, my little plaything," Frank said, and turned back
toward the conversation.

Waiting for my mistress to see fit to pay attention to me, I realized
what the life of a slave might be like, unable even to interest her
master unless he chose to be interested in her, desperately striving
to be found worthy of attention.  The thought made me feel warm and
wonderful.  Perhaps this was really what I was meant to be.  I looked
shyly up at Cristina - so dark, so strong, so self-assured.  Well, if
this was a game, I would play it to the fullest, I decided.  I
carefully inched closer to her, maintaining my open-kneed position,
turned my head towards her, and began to kiss and lick the tops of her
boots, just under the knee.  I moved from there to her bare thigh,
using my tongue as delicately as possible, fearful of bothering her. 
I closed my eyes and indulged myself in my submission.

I was brought out of my reverie by Cristina's hand in my hair, jerking
my head upright.  "Well, I see my little slave is hot," she said, to
general laughter around the table.  I blushed yet again.  "I think
it's time to show you around the facilities, so we can figure out what
to do with you."

"Whatever you wish, mistress," I answered.  

I felt a tug on the leash.  "Up, slut!" Cristina commanded.  I obeyed
silently.  She turned and headed toward the back left area of the main
club room, leaving me to follow behind her, stumbling awkwardly, not
used to walking quickly with my hands bound behind my back.  Trying to
ignore the stares of the people we passed - and, worse yet, the hands
that casually reached out to stroke my breasts or my backside, from
which I was powerless to protect myself - I followed her through an
archway into another large room, this one well-lit by comparison.  I
gasped as I looked around.

"This is where slaves get tied up and beaten," Cristina said
matter-of-factly.  Indeed, there were nearly-naked bodies in various
states of bondage all over the room - men and women, thin and
corpulent, black and white and everything else, hanging from their
wrists and strapped to the floor.  Some were completely nude, but most
had been afforded some protection from roving eyes.  A platinum blonde
in a leather bikini was spread-eagled to a wooden cross and being
whipped by a man in a biker uniform; a man in a latex bodysuit and
matching hood was hogtied and dangling from a ring suspended from the
ceiling; a small Asian woman was bound with her back to a post, her
naked body criss-crossed painfully with ropes.

I must have had my mouth open in shock.  Cristina smiled at me. 
"Well, what'll it be for you?  This is what you thought happened to
slaves, isn't it?"

I could only shake my head slowly.  Some of the bound figures had been
left unattended and completely helpless.  "Do people just leave them
here like that?"

"Sometimes," she said.  "But it's completely safe.  You just write on
a sign what people are allowed to do with the slave.  If she's not
available for general use, you just say so."  I noticed that next to
some of the bound slaves, there were small signs - "look, but don't
touch," for example.

"You're not going to tie me up naked, are you?" I asked, shuddering. 
Although my scanty clothing left virtually nothing to the imagination,
there was still something about the tiny shred of modesty it permitted
me.  To go utterly naked in such a setting was too frightening to
imagine.

"Of course not, my dear Jenny," Cristina said soothingly.  She looked
around the room.  "There's an open spot," she said, and began leading
me further into the room.  I followed, too frightened to ask.

She brought me to a small table, about three feet off the ground, with
a padded surface.  Rings were set at several points around the
perimeter of the table, each connected to a short chain and cuff. 
"This will do," Cristina said.  "Now stand here and lean onto the
table," she ordered.  I did as she asked, standing at the edge of the
table and leaning my body over it until most of my weight was on my
stomach and breasts.  I felt the handcuffs being taken off my wrists. 
Then my mistress came around in front of me and chained my wrists to
the far corners of the table.  A shudder went through my body as I
felt the cold steel lock in place about my wrists.  Then she was
behind me.  I felt my legs pulled widely apart and my ankles cuffed
tightly to the two rear table legs.  I was unable to close my legs.  I
tried to rise up from the table but was prevented by the short chains
on my wrists.  I tried to turn my head but could not see behind me.

I was chained to the table, bending over, forcibly held in place by
unbreakable links of steel.  I could feel the short skirt of my
garment rising high up on my hips and knew that my softness was
complete available from behind.  The most casual passer-by could see
my body so brazenly and vulnerably exposed to view.  Now I knew that a
slave could not expect to preserve even the most minimal degree of
modesty.  She existed solely for the pleasure and convenience of
masters, and could expect to be displayed accordingly.

"Please, Cristina, don't do this to me," I begged.  I was rewarded
with an electric jolt on my bottom where she slapped me with her
riding crop.  I gasped.

"Slaves don't use their mistress's names," she said, and hit me again.

I yelped in pain this time and shouted, "I'm sorry, mistress!  I'm
sorry!" hoping for forgiveness.  She walked around in front of me and
pressed the crop against my lips.  I kissed it fervently, then began
licking and caressing it with my tongue.  If showing my submission to
that instrument of discipline would mollify my mistress, then I would
show it as best as I knew how.  Cristina smiled, no doubt amused at
the eagerness of her new slave girl, perhaps wondering if she would
bring the same desperation and passion to all forms of service and
submission.

"I'm just going to leave you here for a bit," she said.  "And don't
worry, I'll make sure that no one penetrates you."

"Thank you, mistress," I said, with true gratitude.  Attracted as I
was to the condition of slavery, I had no wish to be taken from behind
without even a chance to see my rapist.

I heard the sharp click of Cristina's heels as she walked away.  I
considered my situation.  Only yesterday, before having breakfast with
Cristina, I had been a free-willed, ambitious, popular Californian
college student with the world at her feet.  Now I was chained, face
down, to a table in a busy nightclub, a collar locked on my neck,
virtually naked, my legs held open to view or worse.  Literally
hundreds of people could walk right up and have their way with my
body, protected by nothing more than Cristina's handwritten "no
penetration" sign.  Chained as I was, I could not even see them
approach.  I imagined what it would be like if I were truly a slave,
if I my body really were available to the casual and forceful
pleasures of men, and women, if I might be  used quickly and
ruthlessly by a man whose face I would never see, or if another man
might walk up in front of me and demand to be served intimately.  I
felt immense relief that I was not, truly, consigned to that fate. 
But at the same time, I realized that I was extremely aroused.  I knew
that I was wet, my body attempting to prepare itself for its unseen
rapists.  Perhaps slave girls were constantly aroused as a crude
defense mechanism against sudden, brutal penetration.  I only knew
that if a man were to take advantage of my exposed position, my body
at least would welcome the assault.

Suddenly my body stiffened.  I felt a hand slide lazily over the
curves of my bottom, lingering near the parting of my thighs.  The
hand then drift upward, under the thin fabric, to caress my flanks,
upward toward the flare of my breasts.  "Very nice," I heard a man's
voice muse in German.  I kept my body tense, uncertain what
humiliation awaited me.  "No penetration," I heard him say, reading
Cristina's note.  Then he said something rapid that I did not
understand.

"Entschuldigen Sie bitte?" I remembered to say.

He laughed.  "An American!" he said, in English.  "I was just saying,
it's too bad you're not available for ... for penetration.  I would
surely have taken you, slave!"

"I'm sorry, master," I said, lifting my head and trying to turn to see
him.  Was it really so obvious that I was a slave?  But of course -
who else would be bound so provocatively, so vulnerably?

"It's ok, slut," he said, playfully slapping me on the bottom.  Then
his hand returned between my legs, testing my most secret region,
feeling the slickness there.  "But it seems you could really use
something between your legs," he said, laughing, and walked away.

I was mortified.  Not only was I virtually naked, my legs widely
spread, but it was apparent that I was deeply aroused by my
predicament.

Other hands came and went, softly caressing or firmly probing the
unprotected curves of my flesh.  Men and women lifted my chin so to
better see my face, to see whether this slave was pleasing to the
eyes, or one simply to be used from behind.  Some commanded me to lick
and suck at their fingers, or to kiss their whips lingeringly and
tenderly.  I obeyed as best I could, fearing nothing more than to
displease a master.  One forced the handle of a whip lengthwise into
my mouth, ordering me to hold it with my lips, pleasuring it with my
tongue.  I complied, tears in my eyes as I contemplated my utter
degradation.  What kind of girl would so willingly accept such
compounded humiliation, and even be aroused by it?  I knew the answer,
but scarcely dared admit it to myself.

Still devotedly swirling my tongue around the whip handle, I heard
Cristina's voice above me.  "I see you found something to keep your
mouth occupied, slut."  I lifted my eyes to her, but did not stop my
work.  She reached down, grasped the whip handle, and began to slowly
slide it in and out of my mouth.  Sobbing, I continued to lavish my
intimate attentions on the leather shaft.  She pushed it deeper and
deeper into my mouth, almost forcing me to gag.  I closed my eyes and
imagined it was a master I was serving.  This was what I was good for,
I thought ...

"She's quite talented," I heard a man say.

"Yes, isn't she?" answered Cristina, withdrawing the whip from my
mouth.  "You'd hardly know this is her first night as a slave."

I looked up and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man in a simple black
T-shirt and black jeans.  Kneeling at his feet was a stunningly
beautiful Latina woman, wearing nothing but a skimpy bra, garter belt,
and stockings.  She was looking up at me with a knowing smile.

"And she enjoys it, too," Cristina continued.  "Claudette can check."

"Go ahead, dear," the man said.  The beauty lowered herself to all
fours and crawled around the table to somewhere behind me.  I waited,
my body tense.  Suddenly I felt something warm, and wet, and soft
probing my most tender regions.  My body shook, involuntarily
straining to reach toward the new sensation.  Cristina and the man
laughed.  My body continued to quiver.

Claudette was back again, kneeling at her master's feet.  "I think she
is about to explode, master," she said.  I wanted to bury my head and
cry but, of course, there was no such possibility.  I was chained in
place, and until Cristina saw fit to release me, there was no place
for this slave to hide.  I moaned in arousal and frustration.

"She is clearly full of passion, but I'm sure she's not nearly as
skilled as Claudette," Cristina said, eyeing the kneeling slave.

"She is yours for the asking," said the man graciously.  I could not
believe what I was hearing.  Was he simply bequeathing his slave to
Cristina for her pleasure?  Is that what slaves were subject to? 
Would Cristina be offering my body to him in exchange?  If she did,
would I comply?

"Your offer is most generous," Cristina said.  Looking at me, she
continued, "I would return the favor, but I fear this little slut is
new to her collar, and is not yet ready to serve your pleasure."  I
supposed I should have felt relieved to be spared the indignity of
being forced to serve a man, as a slave girl.  But at the same time, I
felt frustrated, knowing that my submission would not be consummated
tonight.

"She seems ready enough to me, but I respect your wishes," he
answered.

"But Claudette is woman enough for both of us," Cristina said, leading
the three of them away.  Turning her head over her shoulder, she
called out, "Don't worry, someone will come for you."

Then I was returned to waiting in my state of helpless arousal,
simultaneously dreading the casual attentions my body was open to and
hoping that someone would consent to bring relief to my sexual needs. 
Instead, however, I found myself mostly ignored in favor of other
bound beauties promising more than the simple pleasures I could offer,
left to my own tumultuous thoughts.  What would I do when Cristina
finally release me?  Would I be an indignant, self-righteous
professional woman, demanding to be released and returned to her
world?  Or would I instead be a soft, willing slave girl, kneeling
before her mistress and begging to serve her and be used by her?  I
went back and forth, one moment hating myself for what I had already
let myself endure, the next telling myself that this once I should let
myself indulge my fantasy in as complete a form as possible - even to
include true, abject, unquestioning, unconditional sexual servitude.

Hands came and went, exploring parts of my body never before so
shameless exposed to the world.  I lowered my head to the surface of
the table, feeling its cool padding against my cheek.  Never before
had I felt so abandoned - naked, chained helplessly, left to the mercy
of anyone who cared to pay attention to me.

Then I felt a hand in my hair, lifting my head up off the table.  I
gasped in shock.  It was Stefan, the doctor who had befriended me a
few weeks before.  He was smiling.

"Cristina said I should pick you up and take you home," he said.  I
looked at him, baffled.  "It seems she had to take that slave
Claudette home with her.  Couldn't resist."  I was shocked to hear
that Cristina hadn't been joking, that she really would be making use
of Claudette's most intimate services, that Claudette really was so
willing and available to apparently any person.  Then I was relieved
that it was not I who would be chained at the foot of Cristina's bed
tonight, perhaps forced to beg to serve her mistress.  At the same
time, though, I felt something close to jealousy as well.  What did
Claudette have that I did not?  Was I not beautiful, and obedient, and
willing to serve?  Had I not been a perfect slave tonight?  Why didn't
Cristina want to take her pleasure from my lips and tongue, why had
she not chosen to imperiously have her way with my body?

I felt Stefan releasing my wrists and ankles from the restraints.  For
the first time in what felt like hours I could close my legs.  But
still I remained in place where Cristina had put me, awaiting a
command.

Stefan slapped me on the bottom and decorously pulled the hem of my
garment down to cover the little it could.  "Come on, let's go," he
said, picking up my leash and heading toward the door.

"Stefan," I began.  "You know I only came because I was curious,
right?"

He stopped and turned to me.  He looked into my eyes, hard.  I had
never before noticed how tall and strong he was.  Even though he was
more or less average in build, he seemed to tower over my small, soft,
scantily clad body.  I lowered my eyes.  I felt his hand pushing down
on my shoulder.  Tears in my eyes, I lowered myself to my knees and
spread them before him.  Stefan, too, would enforce my condition on
me.

"There, that's better," he said.  "Now what were you saying?"

"I said I came because I was curious, master," I whispered.

"Well, I hope you learned something, then," Stefan answered.  

"Yes, master," I whispered.  

Then he tugged sharply on the leash, signaling me to my feet, and
again headed toward the main room and through it to the door.  I
followed on my bare feet, my eyes lowered, a slave trailing behind her
master.  Perhaps the onlookers thought he was taking me home to
consummate the evening, to exact from my captive flesh the price of my
slavery, to use me for what I was worth.  Suddenly I wondered if that
was exactly what he intended, if he would take advantage of my near
nudity and helplessness to have his way with me.  I felt a thrill go
through my body and heat welling up between my thighs.  I imagined him
forcing me again to his knees, this time to serve his pleasure,
throwing me on my back and kicking my legs apart, or turning me to all
fours for casual ravishment.  I wondered how I would respond.  Would I
protest at the invasion of my rights?  Or would I revel in the chance
to serve a man, to reveal that I was a hot, willing slut only too
happy to take her rightful place at his feet?

Suddenly we were outside on the street in the cool night air, and I
realized it was all of Berlin now that could see my helpless exposed
beauty.  Luckily, a taxi came by soon.  Stefan held the door for me. 
The cab driver gave me a long stare.  I reddened and lowered my eyes. 
I realized again what it meant to be a slave.  Would Stefan make me
serve the driver as well?  I knew that if he did, I would have to
comply.  A slave girl cannot choose the master whom she must please;
she must be hot, and soft, and open for all of them.  I felt the cool
vinyl seat on my body.  Stefan got into the car and gave the driver
directions.  He put his hand in my hair.  Would he pull my head down
toward his lap, masterfully forcing me to his pleasure?  I turned my
head toward him.  But he only playfully tousled my hair.  "I never
suspected you were so lovely, Jenny," he said.  He put his hand on my
upper thigh, possessively.  My breath became more hurried.  I wondered
if he could sense my arousal.

Suddenly the taxi was stopping in front of my apartment.  As Stefan
paid the driver, I suddenly remembered I had left my keys with
Cristina.  " I don't have the key," I said, momentarily panicking at
the thought of having to accompany him to his apartment - there to
suffer who knew what potential indignities - and then having to return
home in full daylight.

"Cristina gave it to me," he said, opening the door.  The momentary
tension on my neck reminded me that he was still holding my leash.  I
followed him out of the car, through the apartment door, and up the
stairs, praying that none of my neighbors would see me in my current
state.  My heart was racing, wondering what would happen once we were
in my apartment.  Would he chivalrously bid me good night and be on
his way?  Would he throw me to his feet and kick my legs apart?  Or
would I, perhaps, drop to my knees and beg to serve him as a woman
serves a man?  This, I knew, might be my best opportunity to truly
live out my most secret fantasy.  But once I gave in to that
temptation, I wondered if there was any turning back.

We were at my door.  Stefan unlocked it and pushed it open, letting me
enter the apartment first.  "So this is where you live," he said. 
Ordinarily I would have been mortified at his seeing the apartment in
its current state of disarray, but all I could think about was whether
I would be forced to serve as a slave tonight.  I had never been so
aroused before in my life, my belly aching from desire.  But at the
same time I was terrified of openly admitting my secret desire, not
simply for physical release, but more deeply for the psychological and
emotional thrill of submitting fully to a man, momentarily existing
for no purpose other than the sexual service of his pleasure.

I realized Stefan was now standing directly in front of me.  My eyes
came only to the level of his shoulders.  I dared not look into my
eyes.  My knees felt weak.

Slowly, trembling, I lowered myself to my knees, once more.  Before
tonight I had never knelt in submission before a man or woman.  Now it
felt like my rightful place.  Without thinking, I opened my knees
widely, the hem of my garment sliding up to the top of my thighs.  I
pulled back my shoulders and sucked in my stomach, lifting my chest up
and forward, the thin fabric tightening across my breasts and exposing
them even more clearly to Stefan's view.  Not sure how a slave would
beg for her master's attention, I whispered, "How may I serve you,
master?"

Stefan did not respond.  I waited in the terrifying silence, not sure
which I dreaded more - acceptance or rejection.  Was I truly prepared
to give myself wholly to this man I hardly knew?  But could I stand
the humiliation of so brazenly offering up my body, and being found
not even worthy of a casual rape?

"Do you truly know what it means to serve, as a slave?" he finally
asked.

I looked up at him, tears in my eyes.  "I am kneeling before you,
virtually naked, my knees open, a collar on my neck.  I have been
exhibited, humiliated, whipped, fondled, and aroused.  I have been
treated like a slave the entire evening.  I want nothing more than to
give you everything that a slave can give her master.  If all I can
give you is my body, for you to do with as you see fit, then I beg you
to take it.  Only then can I truly know what it is to be a slave."

Stefan was silent.  

"Turn around and face away from me," he ordered.  I obeyed, trembling.
 "Put your head to the floor."  I complied, keeping my knees spread. 
"Clasp your hands behind your neck."  I could feel the garment sliding
up my back.  I knew I was completely exposed to him, vulnerable as
only a slave can be.  I waited, my heart pounding.  I hoped he would
be satisfied with me.

"Do not move," he commanded.  I was puzzled.  Would he not simply take
me now, positioned as I was for his assault?  "I am leaving now," he
continued.  "When I am on the street, I will call you from my cell
phone.  The phone ring will be your signal that you are free to break
position."  I felt a sense of relief, but a far more powerful surge of
frustration.  I had completely capitulated to him, throwing myself to
his feet and begging to be raped, exposing as clearly as possible the
hidden nature I had only suspected even a day before.  And even after
begging as prettily as I could, and presenting my body to him for his
use, I had been spurned.

"It is not up to the slave whether or not she will be used, or how, or
by whom," Stefan explained.  "Your place is simply to obey.  You may
ask to be raped, but it may or may not be granted to you."

Then he walked out the door, leaving me kneeling, bent over, and open,
locked into position by his command.  He left the door completely
open.  I was terrified that a neighbor could pass by the door and see
me - or, worse yet, enter and take advantage of me.  But he had
commanded me not to move, and I obeyed.  The seconds seemed like
hours.  Finally the phone rang.  I ran to it, but by the time I picked
it up, he had hung up.  It had been solely a signal.

Sobbing, I closed the door to my apartment, tore off the sham of a
garment I had worn all evening, and fled to my bed, to suffer the
depredations of my imaginary rapists.  Many times that night did they
put their helpless slave's charms to work, and she yielded to them as
she had never before believed possible.  Finally, having tired of
amusing themselves with her tender, captive flesh, they let her cry
herself to sleep.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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