My Berlin Summer Ch. 08

From that night, my fortunes had nowhere to go but up. And beginning the next morning, my lot did begin to improve. I was unchained in the morning and allowed to shower, eat, and rest in the slaves' quarters. For breakfast and lunch, unless we were called to perform our services elsewhere, we were allowed to eat as we chose from a small kitchen stocked with an assortment of healthy foods - cereal, skim milk, juices, fruit, fresh bread, raw vegetables, and so on. That first day, I was set to no menial chores, instead being allowed to rest and recover from the previous night's exertions. Though they were strict, our overseers were not unnecessarily cruel. The treatment I had suffered my first night was a ritual debasement imposed on every new slave girl, intended primarily to instruct her in her status and motivate her to be pleasing; they were sufficiently confident in its effectiveness that they saw no need to subject me to further abuse, but preferred to let their newest asset restore her strength and desirability.

Some of the other girls introduced themselves to me. Besides Michelle, there were two other Americans: Annabelle, from a liberal arts college in the Northeast, and Laura, who had been a model in New York. Once again I found myself in the awkward position of being one of the less attractive girls in a group. I knew that I would have to compensate for my face and body - certainly attractive, but not in the caliber of some of the girls around me - with absolute submissiveness and a fervent desire to please.

Despite our disparate backgrounds, all of the girls I met shared one thing in common - a hidden interest in submission that eventually led to our introduction into actual slavery. Apparently the type of slavers whom we had encountered, who seemed to operate in countries across the globe, were only interested in girls whose psychological profiles indicated that they could be molded into willing, helpless slaves. Of course, this made perfect sense. What man, presented with a reluctant, fearful slave girl, cowed into submission by beatings and threats, would not prefer an eager, submissive slave slut, desperate to please, willingly opening her thighs before him for his pleasure? I knew that I fell into that category, and I suspected that my new colleagues did as well.

In the evening, I was put to work in the club again - not, as I had feared, bound again over the same table to be used like so much captive flesh, but instead put to the more mundane task of waiting tables. Of course, as I had been instructed prior to going out onto the floor, I was to consider any client my absolute master, and was to comply immediately with any demands he made upon my body. My absolute nudity, especially compared with some of the girls who had been permitted clothing, revealing as it was, only reinforced my availability. But I was grateful nonetheless for this improvement in my condition. I was confident that, on my own two feet or kneeling before a client, I knew how to please a man. I was confident that my masters would find me an acceptable slave, and that I could count on my skills and my intrinsic submissiveness to protect me from the beatings and abuses that I could still feel in my sore body.

By watching the other girls, I quickly learned how to behave when serving clients in the club. We were to be elegant and unobtrusive, taking their orders and delivering their drinks and food, but at the same time were to subtly and sensuously offer the additional services that could be commanded of a slave girl. "How else may I serve you, master?" and "Does master desire anything else from this slave?" were phrases that I would use with a client who seemed more interested in drink and conversation than in intimate services; "This slave begs to please you" or "This slave begs to be raped" would be more appropriate with a client whose gaze was drawn to my naked breasts and thighs. I also learned the silent, non-verbal but highly communicative signals that slave girls might resort to - lowering my eyes, licking my parted lips, spreading my thighs, or pushing my breasts up and forward, so that a master might choose to reach out and caress them. I knew it was in my interests to draw attention, to make myself desirable, to be the kind of girl that a man might order to her knees before him, or might drag off to a private room, there to put her through her paces. And knowing that to be my station, I could not help myself from truly wanting to be found desirable, to be put on my back and used like the slave I was, to be allowed to cry out my submission in the arms of a master.

That first night, though, no man saw fit to spend the additional money to take me to a private room. A few commanded me to please them at their tables, kneeling before them while they continued with their drinks and their conversation, occasionally giving me a word of encouragement or a silent instruction with a hand locked in my hair. After serving them, I would quietly kiss their feet, thank them, and withdraw, leaving them to their company. I hoped I had been satisfactory and that there would not be any negative reports on me.

Over the next several days, however, I grew more and more bold, and as a consequence had more and more success in soliciting clients. For the most part, the clientele of the Club Aphrodite preferred eager, willing slave sluts, girls who would throw themselves, hot and wet, at their feet, begging to be taken. And as I gained confidence, I became more and more brazen, more and more forward in displaying my charms for men and communicating to them the exquisite pleasures I might provide them, either through verbal description or through the wordless moans of a desperate slave girl seeking the dominating touch of a master. While some of this performance was an act, some of it was real - I did want to be taken and dominated, not just because that would improve my standing among the slaves, but also because that was the sole relevant measure of my value. In school my value had been set by grades, friends, and boyfriends; here my value was set by my ability to please men, and I deeply, psychologically wanted to be valued. I welcomed the taste of a master in my mouth, or the feeling of him in my body, as a valid sign of the meaning my life now had, and I was truly grateful to the men who saw fit to give me that sign.

One night several days into my tenure at the club, I brought a vodka martini to a client sitting alone at a side table, and placed it before him. He was middle-aged, somewhat portly, and balding, and his suit was uncharacteristically pedestrian for the setting. But he was a man, and I was a naked slave. I dropped to my knees, my thighs wide, leaning forward to kiss and caress his knees and thighs. "Would master care to make use of this slave?" I begged.

"What can you do for me?" he asked.

"Whatever master can imagine, and many things besides," I said, looking up at him with my lips parted sensuously. It was a standard response.

"Very well. Take me to a private room," he said.

"Oh, thank you, master," I said, covering his feet with kisses. I was truly gratified. Not only had he accepted the humble offer of my naked body, but he would also pay an additional fee for my use, bringing my masters more money.

I led him down the hallway to one of the private bedrooms, opened the door, and let him precede me into the room. It was a rule in the club that we should always let clients enter the room first. It was a small gesture, and one that probably escaped the attention of most of our customers, but one that reinforced our subservient status.

He crossed the room and sat down in the large armchair. I got down on all fours and crawled across the room to his feet, my breasts and hips swaying prettily. I knelt before him and bent down to begin taking off his shoes, caressing his feet and calves lovingly and submissively. "How may I please you, master?" I said.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Anything master wishes," I answered. "But here, I answer to 'Jenny.'"

"Well, Jenny, what is your favorite flower?"

I looked up at him in shock. I remembered why I was here. I thought for a moment. "Roses," I whispered. "White roses."

"Well," he said casually, "I like daffodils, but my favorite flower is the chrysanthemum." That was the code phrase. I was suddenly frightened. I knew how to please a man with my body. I was not sure how to be a spy. "So what have you learned, Jenny?" he said.

I panicked. In my effort to become an acceptable slave, I had almost completely forgotten about the mission Cristina had assigned me. I began to ramble on about any topic I could think of - how I had been brought to Paris, the way the club worked, Philippe Arnaud, Mr. McGregor, Felix, the other girls. I hoped he would not give up on me. He was my connection to another life, where I might be something more than a naked slave desperate to serve men with her body.

"Well, we know all that already," he said. "But you are clearly eager to help. Just keep your ears open and remember everything you hear. In this type of case, there's no such thing as a big break. It's a lot of little details that, when you put them together, begin to paint a picture."

"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 with 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.