My Berlin Summer Ch. 05

"Yes, you did, slut," he answered.

"Thank you, master," I said, continuing to kiss his feet and legs.

Then he turned and walked away.

When I rejoined the conversation, I could feel that something had changed in the other girls' attitude to me. They did not mention the spectacle I had just made of myself - there was something of an unwritten rule that our constant sexual uses were not to be discussed explicitly - but I could sense an uneasy embarrassment, as if I had somehow crossed some boundary in the slave girl's life of submission. I was no longer the "new girl," to be pitied and comforted. I was something else - an eager, willing, debased slave slut. I sat on the grass, not listening, wondering if that were really true.

Too soon, we were summoned inside to continue our training. I was surprised to meet our first teacher - a lovely, black-haired, Mediterranean-looking woman, dressed in thin but opaque black minidress - and a collar. She was a slave, just as we were! But I soon realized that in this class, she held absolutely power over us.

"I see we have a new girl among us," she began. "So today we will work on basic things. Everyone stand up." I rose to my feet along with the other slaves, unsure of what would happen. She walked around the room, inspecting our posture, and came to rest in front of me. She looked into my eyes. I held my body as straight as I could, under inspection.

"Breathe, Jenny, breathe!" she finally said. "You're a living being, not a statue."

"Yes, mistress," I said, trying to comply.

Her hands caressed my stomach, my sides, and my breasts. "Feel your body," she said. "Be aware of your body, every inch of it. Let every muscle you have breathe, and come alive." I adjusted my posture, subtly shifting my weight, lifting my body and accentuating its natural curves. "There you go," she said. "I knew there was a slave in you."

She stepped back and surveyed the class with her eyes. "One of the first duties of the slave girl is absolute, exquisite beauty," she said. "You were not chosen for this fate for the powers of your minds. You were chosen because of the beauty of your bodies. You must be proud of your body. You are a sex slave. You exist to serve masters with your bodies. Your bodies are continuously on display. Your body must always say, 'I am desirable. I am sensuous. At your slightest word, I will give you pleasures you never imagined possible.' You must communicate all that simply by the way you hold your naked body." She paused to let the words sink in. I supposed the other girls had heard them before. This lesson was for me. I began to understand, then the full meaning of her words. As a slave girl, I possessed nothing, not even a thread of clothing. I had no rights, not even the right to speak unbidden. I existed so that others might take pleasure in and exact services from my body. Being a slave was not just passively obeying orders and suffering in silence. More than that, it was an identity to be lived deeply in every moment, to be expressed in so trivial a way as the manner in which I presented my charms for inspection, admiration, and abuse. "Yes, Jenny, that is how a slave girl stands," the teacher said. I was startled. I did not realize that I had changed my position.

She clapped her hands. "Now everyone walk to the other side of the room, turn around, and walk back to your original place."

For the next hour or two, we practiced and were instructed in seemingly the most mundane activities - standing, walking, kneeling, crawling. It was as if I had to learn everything over again. Details I had always ignored now became central to my existence, as physical expressions of my slavery. I began to learn the many languages of the body: the excitement implied by a swaying hip, the submission inherent in a downcast gaze, the warm, sensuous pleasures promised by a pair of parted lips. I learned to arch my back while crawling across the floor to a master's feet, accentuating my natural curves and advertising the availability of my body. I learned to writhe subtly, almost imperceptibly, when kneeling before a master, drawing his gaze down toward my captive, enslaved intimacies. In everything we must be beautiful, and graceful, and, even more than that, utterly sensuous and submissive. And I began to sense the paradoxical power a slave girl might possess, the power to incite desire and arousal and passion - a passion that, of course, she must then satisfy with her body.

The final class of the day was the one all of the slaves girls dreaded, but nevertheless must attend and apply themselves to assiduously. This was the class where we were trained in the intimate, physical arts of pleasing a master, of giving him the long, languorous, and unconditional pleasures that can only be demanded of a full slave. The other girls were already accustomed to the particular indignities we were forced to endure, but I of course had no preparation for the unique humiliation the class offered -practicing the slave girl's repertoire of sexual techniques under the watchful eye of a trainer. We spent most of the class demonstrating our skills on plastic, sculpted replicas of a master's manhood, whether caressing them with our lips and tongues, or clenching them tightly with the muscles of our bellies. I wept with the shame of publicly, openly submitting my body to these training devices, wishing that a man had consented to let me serve him instead, to prove to him that I might be able to give him pleasure. But I knew that I was but a novice in the discipline of sexual submission, and that only by applying myself to my humiliating lessons would I be found worthy of serving a man. And so, despite the tears in my eyes, I continued to take the plastic instrument deeper and deeper into my mouth, swirling my tongue across its molded contours, trying to relax my throat as I was instructed. From time to time we would be permitted to demonstrate what we had learned on the bodies of our trainers, a task that I threw myself into with abandon, eager to prove that my skills were better applied to flesh and blood masters, desperate to earn the praise of my superiors. But even when being put through our debasing exercises, I sustained myself by imagining that I was in fact serving a master, one who might abuse me and discard me, but at least one to whom I could give some small amount of pleasure and gratification, in so doing fulfilling the purpose of my existence.

And so the days and weeks of my training passed.

The contents of our lessons changed, but the daily routine remained the same. Each morning we began with our exercise routines, and each afternoon we concluded by refining our techniques of pleasing our masters. We were kept constantly naked, except for the occasional early afternoon classes when we would be taught how to wear various articles deemed suitable for slaves - generally skimpy, diaphanous garments that displayed our bodies as wantonly as if we were naked - and, invariably, how also to take them off as sensuously as possible. Some days we were given rudimentary instruction in the art of dancing nude before masters, writhing seductively to music, brazenly displaying our charms that men might be tempted to exploit them once the dance was finished.

Our classes in sexual technique would also vary, some days being devoted to the art of pleasing women rather than men. This was a subject in which I had had no experience at all, never having been attracted to members of my own sex prior to the night I first longed to serve Cristina as a slave. But after my initial hesitation, and encouraged by the whips the trainers kept close at hand, I quickly learned to apply my mouth as zealously to serving a woman's pleasure as a man's. In accepting my slavery, I had to accept that I was completely at the mercy of any master who might own me, and could be called on just as easily to serve women as men. And realizing that such services were as intrinsic and natural an aspect of my slavery as was spreading my soft thighs before a man, I overcame my earlier inhibitions and was even able to take pride in my growing skills. Sexual preference, I learned, was only something that had meaning for people entitled to preferences; as a slave, I knew that any wishes and inclinations of my own that I might have were simply meaningless.

Some days I was raped repeatedly, sometimes used quickly and casually, a mere convenience to be taken advantage of, sometimes allowed to practice my newfound skills and even to yield in helpless rapture to my rapist; other days would pass without my being put to such degrading uses. On those days when I was not taken and thrown to the floor, or pushed to my knees before a man, I would wonder despairingly if I were any good as a slave, or if perhaps all my efforts to please my masters were in vain; on the days when men did see fit to kick apart my legs and claim the tender flesh that lay between them, I would rest contented that, for one more day at least, I had been found worthy of enslavement.

In the evenings, we would perform chores about the house, cook dinner, and serve our masters and their occasional guests at the table; these domestic tasks, too, were a natural part of the life of a slave girl. Afterward, we would clear the table, clean up, and offer up our bodies for the convenience or entertainment of the masters. At these times, I noticed there would be a kind of silent, unspoken competition among us slaves for the attention of our masters, something I am sure we would scarcely have dared admit to ourselves, but was nevertheless apparent in our postures, in our attitudes, in the way we subtly employed all the tricks and wiles we had learned to draw attention to our bodies and communicate the silent promise of unutterable delights. And when I was selected from among the available slave flesh to be the object of uninhibited, unfettered lust, I always felt a rush of both pride and arousal. Being chosen, even if only for a casual slave rape, was in itself an affirmation of my value, of my desirability, and I knew that that was now the only measure of my existence.

There were times that I remembered my earlier life, only days or weeks removed from my current state, and then I would cry with humiliation and remorse, thinking of everything that had been stolen from me, or rather that I had given up in accepting this new life as a slave. There were times I remembered Cristina, and wondered if she remembered me - if she knew what had happened to me, if she regretted not claiming me when she had the opportunity. I wondered if now, after having learned something of how a slave can be pleasing to a master or mistress, she would be able to resist the offer I had once made of my body, or if she would order me to take my place, kneeling between her legs to serve her pleasure. I wondered if anyone in the world cared any longer for me, or if I were simply a piece of merchandise, tailored and honed to serve a particular and suitable purpose, with a certain value, to be sold, consumed, and discarded. Then I would lie awake sobbing into my pillow. But even then I wondered if this life was somehow deeply right for me, if it was what I was good for, what I had been meant to be.

We will never know if it were somehow foreordained that we would become the people we are today, or if our lives are simply the product of conscious choice and random chance accumulated over many years. Was I a true slave who had only now found her ultimate fulfillment, or just another young woman who had taken a now-forgotten first step down the slippery slope that led me to where I was now, bound naked to a bed in a slave training house, my body still sore from my masters' uses, the taste of their domination still in my mouth?