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Message-ID: <35644asstr$1015729805@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: danawilliams7979@yahoo.com (DW)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 9 Mar 2002 23:22:58 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} My Berlin Summer, Epilogue (MF/F, bd, nc, slavery)
Date: Sat,  9 Mar 2002 22:10:05 -0500
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This is the concluding epilogue to our story about an American college
student who is enticed and then abducted into a life of slavery during
a summer abroad.  The influences will be obvious to many.  The eleven
chapters in the story were posted to alt.sex.stories,
alt.sex.stories.bondage, alt.sex.stories.moderated,
www.storiesonline.net, www.djian.net, and www.bdsmlibrary.com.

Feedback is always welcome at danawilliams7979@yahoo.com.  I greatly
appreciate the messages I have received from readers.

Please feel free to save and distribute copies as you wish, so long as
you maintain proper attribution.  You don't need my permission to
archive the story on a Web site, but please do let me know if you do
so.

***

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.

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