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From: danawilliams7979@yahoo.com (DW)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 16 Feb 2002 15:34:33 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} My Berlin Summer, Chapter 8 (MF/F, bd, nc, slavery)
Date: Sat, 16 Feb 2002 19:10:07 -0500
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This is the eighth chapter in 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.  Earlier
chapters were posted to alt.sex.stories, alt.sex.stories.bondage,
alt.sex.stories.moderated, www.storiesonline.net,
www.geocities.com/mrdjian, and www.bdsmlibrary.com.  For those who
recall the preface to the first chapter, the story is turning out to
be more than 8 chapters, as initially expected; the current outline
has 11, with possibly an epilogue as well.

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.

***

My Berlin Summer
by Dana Williams

Chapter 8:  My New Life
 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.

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