Sergeant's Submissive Dreams

Gerhard told me nothing would be going on until later that evening, unless I wanted to partake of one of the slaves, or perhaps, he hinted with a smile, submit to someone myself. I declined the opportunity, reminding him once again of his promise; that nothing would happen to me unless and until I wanted it. He nodded agreeably, then offered to show me some of the sights in and around Munich. I spent the day as a tourist would, taking photos of the Glockenspiel, the Olympic venues, even visiting the town of Dachau, just outside Munich. I have to admit it was depressing to be there, but I felt it was necessary. I was, after all, of Jewish ancestry. I was relieved to see that Gerhard wasn't concerned when I finally admitted it to him, though he warned me that some of the others would consider me something less than human if they found out. Anti-Semitism, it seemed, was alive and well in Munich.

We returned to the club - I didn't really know what else to call it - early in the evening, after a very nice dinner in a quiet restaurant. Gerhard had explained to me that I'd not be permitted to bring my camera in, which I fully understood. He took it and locked it up in his car for me. I had time to go get cleaned up and try to take a quick nap before the auction began. Unfortunately, the thwap-thwap-squeal sounds from next door started up again as soon as I shut my eyes. I finally gave up, and walked down to the main room, taking a seat along the back wall.

Gerhard told me that there would be about 20 slaves auctioned off tonight; some for a night or weekend's worth of service, others permanently. He was going to sell the young girl I'd seen him with on the train, but didn't know whether he'd be buying a new one right now or not. I could see a glimmer in his eye, and knew he was hoping I'd be the replacement. We chatted while waiting for the sale to start, mostly about the types of slaves and owners. Some, he explained, treated their slaves like family members, while others used them as pets, housemaids, or even toilets. I told him I couldn't imagine anyone being used as a toilet; he told me to just wait and I'd get a chance to see it first-hand.

There wasn't much talking during the auction, just the voice of the auctioneer calling out as bids were made. There wasn't much need to describe the merchandise; anyone interested had been able to give anything they were interested in a "test ride," as it were, the day before. There were no names used, but I could see that virtually everyone in the audience literally smelled of money. Big money.

I watched quietly as the first few slaves were auctioned off; this first group consisted of the "players," those interested in a few days or weeks of servitude, humiliation and abuse. These weren't real slaves, Gerhard explained, just people who needed to get away from their own reality for a short while, to let someone else make decisions for them. He pointed out two in particular, a middle-aged, balding man who he said was a bank executive, and a young woman who worked in the brokerage business. I knew both were very high-stress jobs, and could understand their need for a "vacation" from it. Gerhard laughed when I said that; the banker was here every month, and the high bidder was invariably his wife, he said, pointing across the room towards her.

The true slaves - those who were actually being sold as property - were next. The first lot would be a pregnant set of twins. Gerhard told me that pregnant slaves weren't thought to be of much value. An Owner had to be careful during the last trimester and for a month or so after delivery, and then there were the expenses: doctor's visits, delivery, special diets, and so forth. He expected these two to be an exception, though; identical twins, being sold as a matched set. Tall and statuesque, just 20 years old with uplifted breasts and tanned bodies that set off their long, golden hair, swollen bellies sticking out almost obscenely, barely hiding the permanently denuded clefts of their sex. They both looked like they could be expected to drop their babies right there on the stage. I could see why they'd be a prize, I whispered, they were beautiful.

"No, not just that," he whispered back. "The babies, they are mongrels." Seeing the questioning look on my face, he explained further. "The man who fucked them, who gave them babies, he is African - a black man - who they bedded together. Their father becomes angry when he finds out, and says he has no daughters. Their man turns them into whores, and now he sells them. I think whoever buys them will also sell the babies somewhere; they are both girls, too, and there are places that train such mongrels to be slaves." I looked at him in disbelief, but realized he was telling me the truth. As Gerhard expected, the bidding on the twins was fast, furious and high. In the end, they went for a bit over two million Deutschmarks - about $700,000 at the then-current exchange rate. This was, I quickly discovered, not a pastime for the poor.

Not all the slaves were so expensive, though. Even one teen - she couldn't have been more than fourteen - who was a medically-certified virgin, fetched only a bit $9000 by the exchange rate at the time. I was surprised by this, but it seemed few of the prospective buyers were interested in untrained flesh. The more training and experience, I discovered, the higher the price.

Gerhard's slave was an average example, and sold in the mid-range of about $20,000 US. She was actually 22, a bit older than I first thought, but had been a slave for eight years. From what I could decipher of the blurb on her in the mimeographed brochure, she feared pain but relished humiliation. Unpierced and relatively unblemished - Gerhard had given her a whipping with a belt earlier, just so the audience could see how nicely the red stripes contrasted with her the pale skin on her ass - and a complete description of her measurements and medical condition. Two abortions, both from before she submitted herself into slavery, she was now on the pill; safe sex wasn't always practiced in the BDSM world, but unwanted pregnancies were always avoided. Gerhard was her third Master, and had owned her for almost three years. Her "resume" included the fact that she'd been devirginized by her stepbrother at the age of 12, and that he'd whored her out to his friends from then until, at age 16, she ran away from home. She was experienced with all three holes, I read, was adept at pleasuring both men and women. I almost wished I could afford to buy her myself, I thought, struggling to keep from shoving my hand down the front of my pants. I had to leave the auction then; my need was too great, and I knew that as soon as they brought those shaved, young men out, I'd be creaming in my pants.

I did a lot of thinking that night, and the night after. I moved out into a hotel several kilometers away for my last night in Munich, thinking that perhaps my thoughts were the result of where I was staying. However, I found my mind even more focused on the idea of submission, even imagining I was the one being sold.

When I returned to work, I knew I had to explore my submissive side more. I began taking to tying my ankles to the corners of my bunk at night (thankfully, I had a private room with an adjoining bath that I didn't have to share), sometimes even gagging myself with my soiled panties, or occasionally my dirty socks, at night. I started shaving myself, too, finding a level of joy in the sensation of air blowing over my bare pussy whenever I'd go out. I stopped wearing panties when I was in a skirt or dress, and began wearing those two things as often as possible. Still, though, I dared not act out my desires except in the privacy of my room; the closest I would get is going into town sans undergarments.

My enlistment was nearly over, and though I was eligible for retirement in only a few more years, I decided not to go that route. If I retired, I'd be subject to recall, and I didn't want that hanging over my head. I did still have over a year before I could get out, so I started looking around. I went back to Munich twice, checking out the BDSM clubs, and visited Berlin to look for the same thing. A week in Great Britain only showed me that the Brits have a thing for latex, spanking, ass-fucking and homosexuality. I wasn't all that enthused with anything I found in Europe, so I asked for a month's leave and went back to the States.

I figured Los Angeles or San Francisco would be the places to find people into the BDSM lifestyle. New York was another possibility, but I'd be a stranger there. I was born and raised in California, and that was where I'd be most comfortable. So, I flew in to SFO, rented a hotel room and started exploring.

A couple of evenings later, I observed a burly man dressed in leather and a young blonde girl walking down the street together. She was dressed in leather, too...the tiniest micro mini skirt I'd ever seen, and a halter top that leaved exposed much, much more than it covered. She tottered along with great difficult, in a pair of boots that went to her knees and had spiked heels at least five inches high. Her hands were manacled at her waist, and the man led her along at the end of a leash. Perhaps I'd found what I was looking for.

I followed the strange-looking couple as they entered an alley running between two rows of buildings. Another man stepped out from the shadows and spoke to the first man briefly. I saw him hand what appeared to be a wad of bills to the girl's owner - for that's how I thought of him now. With the motion of his hand, the young girl dropped to her knees and reached to the second man's - the customer's - crotch, deftly releasing his cock and slurping it into her ready mouth.

I was so intent on what I was watching, that I failed to notice tat the first man was gone. Suddenly, I was grabbed from behind!

"What do we have here? A cop, or a voyeur?" he said in my ear. I could feel his hot breath on my cheek as his hands wandered over my body. "Hmmm...no wire, so you're probably not a cop. A pervert, then? Getting your jollies watching people having sex? Well, which is it, Missy?" He shook me by the shoulders forcefully.

"Uh...neither, sir. Sir, please... I saw you walking with her, and I was curious. That's all, please!"

"Uh huh. So what exactly about us caught your eye You claim to be so curious, so what are you so curious about? Come on, girl, spit it out!" He urged me on with another tooth-jarring shake.

"The way you were dressed - you, her - the skirt..." I mumbled.

"And the leash? Her collar? Maybe you were wondering what it would be like to be collared yourself? To be led down a public street on the end of a leash, offering yourself to anyone with enough money to rent the use of your body from your Master?"

"Yes, sir," I shamefully admitted in a quiet voice.

"Wondering what it would be like, or wishing you were her?" he asked, spinning me around and looking into my face, his eyes burning a hole through my soul.

"I...uh...I'm not sure, sir," I answered as truthfully as I could. "I mean...I did a couple of scenes in Europe, but I was wondering..."

"Wondering what it would be like if it was real, not just play? How it would be like to be a real slave, to be bought or sold, rented out, used however your owner wanted? To be a true slave, with no duty except absolute obedience?"

"Yes, sir," I responded, my voice shaking as I lowered my head in embarrassment. "At least I think so. I'm not sure. I'm afraid to try, but I'm afraid not to. Does that make any sense?" I was baring my soul, my darkest dreams, to a stranger, yet I felt totally comfortable doing so. He responded with a laugh, releasing my arms.

"Of course it makes sense, little one. Your submissive side is drawing you, but your logical self is telling you to play it safe, never put yourself at risk by giving up your freedom."

"I guess so," I mumbled. I hadn't thought it over that way.

"So," he said, shifting gears, 'You want to go get a cup of coffee? Someplace public, where can talk?"

"Um..." I said, nodding across the alley, where the girl was just finishing zipping her now-satiated customer's pants up.

"Oh, her?" he asked incredulously. "Hey, fella! Here," he hollered, tossing him the leash, "She's yours for the night. No charge. No rough stuff, ether. You fuck up her looks, I fuck you up. Capische?"

"I gotcha pal. No problem...I take real good care of your bitch. You want I should bring her back here when I'm done with her?"

"Nah, just kick the bitch out in the morning. She knows where to go."

The man nodded and started down the street, pulling the stumbling girl after him.

"She'll do that? Go with him and do whatever he says?"

"Yup. And do you know why?"

"Because she's your sex slave, and you told her to?" I asked.

"That's partly right," he explained, "But the reason is much deeper than that. She could have said no, and nothing would have happened. Just like when I took her out tonight, to be whored out. She could have said no. It's not like I need the money, and besides, how much do you think she really earns at two dollars a blow? No, I don't threaten, beat or blackmail her, either. She stays with me of her own volition, willingly, because I give her the to things she craves most."

"And those are..."

"One, I give her the opportunity to serve...totally and completely give of herself to another. Two, she needs to be humiliated. It's part of her sexuality. She craves it, and it's the only way she achieves pleasure during sex," he told me frankly. "Now, how about that coffee?"

He walked us to small diner, selecting a booth in the back corner. Ordering coffee for both of us, he leaned back and crossed his arms, looking intently at me.

"So what exactly are you looking for?" he asked me bluntly. "A quick thrill? Is that what this is all about? You're a thrill-seeker? Or maybe a fledgling author, gathering information for a book? Or are you hoping I'll enslave you, take you home, tie you up and fuck your brains out?"

I sat and stared, watching his face break into a grin, finally causing me to laugh.

"You really are a cheeky bastard, aren't you?" I asked.

"Yup. Never been anything but. So tell me what you're looking for."

"Hey, I don't even know your name, and you want my life story?'

"Bill. Nice to meet you... "

"Penelope" I responded.

"Bullshit."

"Penelope. Really. My mother had a thing for Victorian names."

"People don't really call you that, do thy? I mean what do people usually call you? Pen? Penny?"

"'Sergeant,' actually" I responded.

"Sergeant?"

"Army. Just over ten years now," I replied.

"Shit. Two years was more than enough for me," he replied, "Sergeant."

"Drafted?"

"Yeah. Spent most of my time in the 'Nam, but what the hell," he shrugged. "That's were I found out about this BDSM shit, you know? Little place in Bangkok. Went there on leave. So, where you stationed."

"Germany," I told him. "MP, platoon sergeant, even."

"Fuck," he commented quietly. "A woman MP, running a fucking platoon. "

"Yeah, well you know, that affirmative action shit and all," I responded, smiling. He let loose with another of his guffaws.

"Okay, Sergeant Penelope, ma'am...so tell me about yourself, and why you were following me. And, yes, I did notice."

So, I told him the story about my trip to Munich, and the other places I'd visited, and that I was intrigued, but not convinced, that being a sub was really what I wanted to do. I told him that I'd come to San Francisco just to nose around a bit, check out the clubs, maybe talk to someone in the lifestyle. He nodded thoughtfully.

"So this is sort of a 'find yourself' trip for you, then? You're unsure of what you want to do with your life, so you're looking to experiment a bit?"

"Yeah, I guess, kind of," I replied. "I mean, I like the Army and all, but there's a need in my life that it just isn't filling. I never felt so...well, full...and no pun intended...than when I was doing that scene in Munich." He thought about it for a moment before responding.

"I think I have an idea, but I want you to hear me out first," he said thoughtfully, continuing when I put my elbows on the table and nodded. "How would you feel about being sort of a temporary slave? With the right and ability to say 'stop' whenever you want? To be able to set limits, and to know that whatever happens, it would be over at a specific time? A trial period for you. Nothing that you don't willingly accept, and nothing permanent?"

"I might consider it, if I knew someone I trusted."

"What, you don't trust me???" he asked, with puppy dog eyes and a hurt look on his face. "Just kidding. Okay, how about this? You have someone you know, who you can check in with each day on the telephone?" I nodded. "So, I give you my ID, you tell your friend you're going to call each day at a certain time, and that if you don't, something is wrong. You have them write down my name, license number, address and everything, and if they don't hear from you, they call the cops. Fair enough?"

"I think so," I answered, "But how do I know you're showing me your real ID?"

"Simple. Tomorrow, we go down to the DMV together and have them bring me up on their computer. I'll even show you that the address on my license is really my home. You can quit whenever you want, no questions asked, and you can set whatever limits you want. Nobody does anything to you unless you say so."

"For real? I mean, you're not just giving me a line of crap, are you?"

"Not at all. And, in fact, I'll even give you the chance to see if you really are a dom, not a sub."

"How's that?"

"Simple. I'll give you full rights over that little slave girl you saw back in the alley. She'll obey you just like she does me. You can do anything you want to her, and have her do anything you want."

"Okay, I guess," I said, still a bit wary.

"Great. Okay...meet you someplace tomorrow morning, say about nine?"

"How about here?" It seemed as good a place as any.

So, I walked myself back to my hotel and called an old girlfriend of mine who lived in the South Bay. I told her where I was, that I'd be spending the next few days with this guy, and asked if it would be okay if I checked in with her once a day, just to be safe? She said it was no problem, so I told her I'd be giving her some information tomorrow that she needed to write down. Again, no problem.

I had troubles sleeping that night, my mind racing with a million thoughts. Should I trust this guy? Did he really mean what he said? Is this really for me? What about his girl...what if the guy he so casually gave her to turned out to be some sort of serial killer? I made my decision, though. I'd give myself to him for 48 hours.

He nodded silently when I told him of my decision the next day, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a metal choke chain and a leather leash.

"Remove your undergarments, shoes and socks, " he ordered, "and kneel at my feet." I did as he commanded - hesitatingly, but I did do it - and knelt as he slipped the choker over my neck. Barefoot, he led me down the alley, stopping at the corner where it ended at a main thoroughfare.

"The first and only responsibility of a slave is obedience," he said, looking down at me like a schoolteacher lecturing to a second grader. "This is the first test of your obedience. Go into the drug store across the street," he pointed, "and purchase two dozen condoms. Make sure they're single packs, and each one has to be different. They're behind the counter, so you'll have to ask the clerk."

I looked up at him in shock. I figured I'd be fucked, or at least be sucking a cock, but to embarrass myself by walking into a store half-naked and asking for condoms? My face turned bright red, but all I could do was nod.