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From: danawilliams7979@yahoo.com (DW)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 24 Feb 2002 23:04:19 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} My Berlin Summer, Chapter 9 (MF/F, bd, nc, slavery)
Date: Sun, 24 Feb 2002 22:10:06 -0500
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This is the ninth 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.  There will be 11
chapters and an epilogue in total.

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 9:  The Client

On rare occasions, one of us slave girls might be rented out for a
night at a location other than the club, presumably at some
significant expense to the client.  This was primarily done for
clients who could not risk accidental discovery at the club - men, or
women, whose political, business, or other connections would not
permit them to be seen indulging in the soft, captive flesh of girls
such as I.  As a new slave girl I had understandably few of these
appointments, but as the months wore on my talents, such as they were,
became more and more familiar among the types of people who had the
means to command them, and, for better or for worse, I became more and
more desirable a property for the evening.

One night in October I was told that I had been reserved for the
evening by one of these "special" clients.  We were typically escorted
to these appointments under tight security, and this time was no
exception.  I made the trip in the back of an unmarked van, my wrists
and ankles secured by inflexible, cold steel handcuffs, my mouth
filled with a hard rubber ball gag, my eyes blindfolded so I would not
know where I was being taken.  Apart from my bonds and, of course, the
collar I always wore, I was completely nude.  Two guards accompanied
me in the back of the van, one seated on either side of me.  One
occupied himself on the way with caressing my body, first casually
across my breasts and belly, then between my legs, intimately and
implacably, bringing me to a forced arousal but, of course, leaving me
unsatisfied.  I would be delivered to my master of the evening hot,
wet, and desperate for a man's attentions.  I was frustrated, but I
also recognized the logic in this practice.  Men liked their slave
girls to be helplessly aroused, squirming on their naked bellies and
begging to be raped.  And if that is what they wanted, then that is
what they should get.  I was only a slave girl; who was I to question
a master's desires?

When the van finally stopped, my ankles were uncuffed and I was helped
out of the van and up a few steps into a building, one guard holding
each of my arms to direct me.  Then they released my arms and I
lowered myself to my knees, spreading them widely and lifting my
breasts prettily.  I had no idea who might be watching me, and had no
wish to be displeasing in the slightest.

One of the guards crouched down beside me and removed my handcuffs,
then my gag, and finally the blindfold.  I blinked my eyes against the
sudden light.  I was in the anteroom of a somewhat spare but
well-decorated house.  A middle-aged woman wearing what appeared to be
some sort of servant's costume stood before me, looking down at me
disapprovingly.  No doubt she saw in me a wanton, shameful slave slut,
a girl whose every curve proved she existed solely to provide
indescribable sexual pleasures to men.  I lowered my eyes,
embarrassed.  At the time, I would not have contested that description
of me.

The woman bent down and attached a long, thin chain leash to my
collar.  Once I had been terribly humiliated to be led on a leash like
a dog; now I accepted it without a moment's thought.  She tugged on
the leash and began to lead me up a staircase.  I rose to my feet to
follow.  Instantly she spun around and slapped me, hard, on my left
cheek.  I stumbled and fell to the ground.  "You will crawl like the
dog you are, slut!" she yelled at me.  She kicked at me as I lay on my
side.  I hurried to rise to all fours.

"This slave begs your forgiveness, mistress," I said, staring at the
floor.  If she had been a man, I would have covered her feet and legs
with kisses, hoping to distract his anger and encourage him to take my
body in punishment.  But I knew such wiles would not work with this
woman.  I trembled, hoping not to be struck again.  Instead, she
turned on her heel and marched up the stairs, leaving me to scramble
after her on all fours.

The guards waited below.  I knew that they would remain until the
morning to provide additional security.  A slave girl is too valuable
a possession to be left unguarded overnight.

On the second floor, the woman led me into a large room with a bed, a
large wardrobe, and a pair of armchairs.  The floors were of wood,
smooth and hard.  I hoped that I would be allowed to perform my
services on the bed and not on the floor's uncomfortable surface. 
These are the things that slave girls hope for.

She left me kneeling on the floor, facing the door, the leash dangling
between my breasts and over my left thigh as I knelt.  I remained
there, nearly motionless.  I had not been given permission to do
otherwise.  I wondered what my master would be like, what he would
demand of me.  I hoped he would not hurt me.

After a time, a tall, thin, grey-haired man entered the room.  He was
wearing a long, dark blue bathrobe, slippers, and apparently nothing
else.  I put my head down and kissed the floor before his feet.  "I
beg to serve you, master," I said, not rising from the floor.

"As you were," he said.  I rose again to my knees.  "Spread your knees
wider," he commanded.  I obeyed.  "Thrust out your breasts," he said. 
I pushed them forward even more than before, and pulled my shoulders
back for emphasis.  When a slave girl kneels, it is usually in a
position of relative relaxation, retaining freedom of motion in all
directions.  Now my body was rigid, my knees as far apart as my body
could bear, my breasts straining forward for my master's attention.  I
hoped he liked what he saw.

"I hear you are the hottest new pony in my friend M. Arnaud's stable,"
he said after contemplating my body for a minute.

"My hope is to be pleasing to my masters," I said in reply.  "I hope
that they have found me acceptable."

"Oh, I'm sure I will find you more than acceptable," he said.  He
paused.  "If not, you will be beaten."

I shuddered.  At the club, I was beaten relatively infrequently,
thanks no doubt to my careful attention to my duties and to the
pleasure of my masters.  I had no desire to feel the whip.  "I will be
absolutely obedient, master," I said.  "I hope that my body will prove
satisfactory."

The man walked over to the dresser and returned with a whip in his
hand.  He held its handle to my lips.  I licked and kissed it,
fervently and submissively.  In California I would never have kissed a
boyfriend with the passion I lavished on the instrument of my
domination.  But then I had not been a slave girl.  Now I was.

Apparently satisfied with my performance, he withdrew the whip from my
lips.  "On all fours," he said.  I obeyed instantly, my head lowered
submissively.  "Lift your head," he said.  I did so.  "Now turn and
crawl to the other side of the room."  I crawled, maintaining the
position I had been taught - back arched, bottom high, thighs spread. 
Even in the most humiliating positions, a slave girl must always
display her body to maximum advantage.  "Now pick up the end of your
leash and bring it to me."  I knew what he wanted.  I turned and
retraced my steps to where the end of the leash lay on the floor.  I
bent down my head and picked it up in my teeth before continuing back
to my master's feet.  I lifted my head to present the leash to him. 
He took it from my mouth and stroked my hair.  "What a good little
slave," he said.

"Crawl backward two meters," he continued.  I did so.  "On your belly,
spread your arms and legs" he said.  I obeyed, my body vulnerably and
openly stretched before him.  "On your back."  I rolled to my back,
keeping my arms and legs wide.  I had not been given permission to
close them.  "Grasp your ankles."  I did so, drawing them up over my
head, opening my body even more widely, brazenly presenting my charms
for his view and potential usage.  I held the position as he seemed to
consider my form.

He continued to put me through my paces, making me open and display my
body in ways that can only be demanded of an absolutely compliant
slave girl.  I hoped he liked what he saw.  On top of the arousal that
had been forced upon me during the ride in the van, I was becoming
increasingly excited by this man's simple, strict domination of me. 
As both a natural submissive and a trained slave girl, I was
conditioned to respond to mastery, to become heated in being compelled
to obey another's will.  Although he had hardly touched me, I knew
that the services he was already commanding me to perform were
profoundly sensual, and could only culminate in my absolute
ravishment, in the kind of sexual conquest that only a slave can
suffer at the hands of a master.  And as a slave, I longed for that
conquest, I longed to feel his body exerting its will over me and
inside me.

Suddenly I grew bold.  "Please, master," I said, uninvited, now on my
belly, grasping my ankles behind my body, "let me please you!  I beg
to serve you, as a slave."

Suddenly I felt the whip burn into the flesh of my back.  "You were
not asked to speak, slave," he said coldly.  I lay on the floor,
silent, tears forming in my eyes from the pain.  But I expected my
pleadings were not completely wasted.  Hopefully now he knew how
desperate I was, how much I longed for my rape.  And such knowledge, I
knew from experience, generally has its effect on a man.

Finally he positioned me again on my back, my knees lifted and my
thighs widely spread.  I was completely open to him as a slave, and I
knew my body was more than ready to accept his entry.  He swiftly
pulled my wrists first inside my thighs and then outside my ankles and
chained them in place with a pair of steel manacles.  Bound as I was,
I was powerless to close my knees.  Nor did I want to.

"Now you may beg to be raped, slave," he said as he crouched down by
me and removed his robe.

"Please, master," I cried out.  "Your slave begs to be raped.  Take
me, overwhelm me, use me for your pleasure, make me serve you as a
slave."

But first he toyed with me a while longer, using his hands to heighten
my arousal even further, but mercilessly preventing me from achieving
climax.  He also crouched above my face and used my mouth to prepare
himself.  I greedily licked at him with my tongue, thankful for the
chance to give him pleasure.  Finally, as I continued to beg him to
have pity on me, he saw fit to enter me, and I cried out my gratitude
as he had his way with my body, using me unilaterally as a debased,
submitted slave.

I thanked him repeatedly, tears in my eyes, when he finally withdrew
from me.  He took a blanket from the bed and spread it on the floor
next to me, and then rolled me onto my side on the blanket.  He left
me chained as I was, my arms still threaded inside my thighs and
cuffed to the outsides of my ankles, unable to close my knees. 
Although the position was uncomfortable, I was by then accustomed to
the rigors of bondage.  I was grateful for the blanket, that I would
not have to sleep on the hard wood floor.  Soon I could hear him
drifting off to sleep.

I lay there, awake, my mind still clouded with sex, thinking how
wonderful it was to be a slave, and to be at the mercy of men.  I
hoped only that the master was pleased with his slave.  Eventually I,
too, fell asleep.

I awoke with a start.  I was being casually turned onto my front, my
wrists and ankles still chained together as before.  In this position,
my hips were unavoidably propped up on my knees, my body open and
vulnerable from behind.  With no way to support myself, my head was
pressed against the blanket.  Suddenly I felt myself entered from
behind, held in place by firm hands on my hips.  I felt his powerful
strokes filling my body, finally surging as he emptied himself in me
yet again.  I felt him unlock the manacles joining my wrists to my
ankles, only to join my wrists together again behind my back.  He gave
me brief instructions, and then returned to his bed, leaving me once
again wide-eyed to contemplate my situation.

Earlier I had been thoroughly and ruthlessly dominated, forced to
display myself as a slave and to beg repeatedly for the privilege of
serving my master.  Now I had been used as a simple physical
convenience, a piece of captive flesh within which a man might find
satisfaction for his basic urges.  These were both unavoidable aspects
of being a slave girl, I knew.  In the morning I would have to
experience a third.

As I had been commanded, I awoke shortly after dawn, while the man was
still sleeping.  In the gray morning light, I rose to my feet and,
using my teeth as my hands were still bound behind my back, drew back
the covers from the bed.  Then I knelt beside my master's body and
lowered my head to him, gently licking at him with my tongue.  I could
feel him stiffen and took him into my mouth, closing my eyes to focus
exclusively on giving him pleasure.  I could hear his body stirring as
he awoke, and felt his hands searching for and finding my hair.  He
seemed content.  I continued my work as he gained consciousness,
slowly increasing the depth and intensity of my motions, until he
locked his hands in my hair and took over the rhythm, forcing me down
upon him at an increasing speed.  He burst within me and I swallowed
him greedily, not because I liked the taste in itself, but because I
wanted desperately to demonstrate to him my absolutely, unconditional
submission, my utter willingness to please him in any way.  I
continued to clean him with my tongue as he withdrew from my mouth.

"Did I please master?" I dared to ask.

"Yes, you did," he said gently.  "You are quite a wonderful slave," he
added.

"Thank you, master," I said with genuine gratitude.  "I am happy if I
have been pleasing."

"Yes," he said.  "I can see that you are happy."  He turned to an
intercom by the head of the bed and pushed a button.  "Marie!" he
called.  "Come fetch the slave!"  Then he rose from the bed and went
into the bathroom to take a shower and begin his day, seemingly
without a thought for the slave girl he had so thoroughly dominated
and used.

The same servant woman soon entered the room and, without a word, led
me by my leash out and down the stairs.  I remembered to crawl behind
her on hands and knees, not daring to lift my head for fear of being
struck.  The two guards from the club were waiting for me.  "Were you
well used, little slut?" one of them asked.

I could not lie to a master.  "Yes, master," I said.  "I was used as
what I am, a slave girl."

Then I was gagged, blindfolded, and bound as I had been on entering
the house, and escorted back out to the waiting van.  Now that I had
served the customer, there were of course no prohibitions on what the
guards might do with me during the ride back, and I spent it on my
knees before them, still blindfolded, but with my gag conveniently
removed, so that my mouth might be put to its most appropriate use.

The guards talked among themselves in French during the trip back to
the club.  I had studied French in middle school and high school, and
could make out some of their conversation - a talent I had never
revealed to my masters.  I gathered they were familiar with the client
who had rented me for the night, and that he was a prominent and
powerful individual, one who often enjoyed the services of the club's
slave girls, in exchange for some service that he provided to the
club.  The nature of those services had something to do with police
protection for its business operations.  I became more interested in
the conversation, but took care to hide my interest with the contented
moans of a sex slave being permitted to practice her arts on a master.
 But soon the topic shifted instead to me, and the qualities and
shortcomings of my body and my sexual techniques, as they observed my
efforts to please them.  I blushed to hear myself described as a hot,
juicy slave slut, a girl who loved nothing more than being thrown to
her back and raped, or having her mouth occupied with pleasing a
master.

As the van turned into the courtyard of the club, they finally allowed
me to desist in my services.  The man I had most recently been
occupied with patted me on the head and said, "Hopefully she'll be the
one we take to M. Roget's next time.  Her mouth almost makes the trip
worthwhile."

M. Roget.  That was his name.

The next time my external contact paid me a visit, I dutifully
informed him of everything that I had learned.  He had changed his
method of interrogation; instead of taking my statement and then
rewarding himself with my body, he now forced me to give my report as
he made use of me.  But this time, when I told him about M. Roget, he
abruptly stopped and, while remaining inside me, asked me a number of
pointed questions.  I answered as I could, pinned helplessly under
him, my wrists bound to the corners of the bed where he had tied them.
 I described M. Roget as well as I could remember.  Finally he seemed
contented and, seeming only then to remember what I was good for,
finished with me and withdrew.

"You did a good job, Jenny," he said as he was getting dressed.  "And
not just with your body this time."

As it turned out, the guards did get to escort me to M. Roget's
several times over the next several weeks.  Each time I left the house
completely devastated, utterly ravished, dominated, and conquered, my
body sore from the night's exertions but also glowing with the
lingering ecstasy of a slave girl who has found fulfillment in her
absolute sexual servitude.  It was in this state of arousal and
contentment that I invariably served the guards on the way back to the
club, seeking in my service to them to prolong the feeling of blissful
submission that was all a slave girl could aspire to.

It was late in November when, during one of his periodic visits, my
contact let slip that the investigation was close to a major
breakthrough.  I did not dare ask what that might mean for my personal
situation, but it did give me a glimmer of hope that I might soon be
released from the enforced servitude to which I was growing ever more
accustomed.  Yes, hope.  For although I was learning more and more
about the helpless raptures of the pleasure slave, forced to
experience both the depths of submission and the heights of ecstasy, I
still held the belief - though less and less often - that being a
slave was somehow an accident of fate, a cruel detour on my life's
path, an injustice that had torn from me a bright future.  In a man's
arms, overpowered and ravished, I knew that no life suited me better
than that of a naked, collared slave; but curled up on my bed late at
night, trying to put aside the memories of the evening's abuses so
that I might sleep, there were still times my eyes filled with tears
on thinking of the degradations and humiliations to which I had been
reduced.  And I still remembered the promise Cristina had made to me,
that someday I might be free once again, no longer available to any
man at the snap of his fingers, no longer a casual convenience for his
primitive lusts.

 From that day I awaited with eager anticipation - and with a sense of
inexplicable dread - the moment of my liberation.

But that was not what lay in store for me.

Instead, one morning I was summoned to M. Arnaud's office.  I had
rarely seen him since the first day I had been summarily beaten, a
fortune I ascribed to my generally exemplary level of service and
submissiveness.  However, when I knelt before him, his eyes were hard.
 I swallowed in fear.  I was a naked slave girl at the feet of her
master, and he did not seem pleased with me.

"What are you?" he began.

"A slave girl, master," I whispered.

"Who is your master?"

"You are, master."  I squirmed, uncomfortably.  I hoped he would allow
me to placate him with my body.

"Are you absolutely obedient?"

"Yes, master," I answered.  "I beg to be able to demonstrate my
obedience and submission to you, master."

"We shall see," he said.  

He made a motion, and a guard appeared from behind me and pulled me to
my feet by my arms.  He pushed me, stumbling, toward the corner where
I had been so cruelly whipped on my first day in Paris.  Soon I was
bound as I had been before, my wrists chained high above my head, my
feet barely reaching the floor.  I was terrified.

M. Arnaud approached me, casually swinging a long, heavy whip.  He
held it to my lips, where I frantically licked and kissed it.  I hoped
he would not be too harsh with me.

Then, as he looked into my eyes, he drew back the whip and cracked it
across my stomach, lighting up my body with pain.  Before I finished
letting out my first scream, the second blow landed across my thighs. 
Three more blows fell, leaving me sobbing and begging for mercy.  He
paused.

"Seven times in the last two months, you have been escorted outside
the city to serve a particular client," he said.  "Is this true?"

"Yes, master," I said wildly, not sure where this was leading.

"And did you serve him perfectly, giving everything he demanded of
you?"

"Yes, master," I said.  Had I not been sufficiently pleasing?

"Did he ever tell you who he is, or what position he holds?"

"No, master," I said.  "I am only a slave.  I served only to give him
pleasure, as a slave girl can."

"Did you tell anyone else about your trips to serve this man?"

I was terrified, but I sensed that if I wanted to live, I would have
to conceal the truth.  "No, master," I said.

He drew back the whip and I closed my eyes in anticipation of the
coming blow.  The whip cut into my body five more times, across my
back and thighs as well as my belly and breasts.

"Are you sure you do not know who he is?" he insisted.

"Yes, master," I said.  As difficult as it is for a naked slave girl
to lie to her master, I forced myself to do so.

"And you have not told anyone anything about him?  Not even one of
your other clients?"

"No, master," I said.  Did he already know the truth?  Had my contact
somehow been discovered?  Was it all a set-up from the beginning?

Five more times was I beaten, and then five more times again.  Finally
my wrists were released from their chains, and I fell to the floor in
a sobbing, trembling heap.  I dragged my body over to M. Arnaud's feet
and kissed them desperately, hoping through this overt act of
submission to pacify him.  I prayed he would take out his anger at me
by kicking my legs apart and claiming my body.  I would do anything to
avoid being whipped again.

"Needless to say, I don't believe you," he said.  I continued to lick
his feet.  "I should have you beaten to death for lying to me.  I
clearly cannot keep you here."  My body shuddered.  "But business
before pleasure, as they say," he continued.  "I have a received
numerous offers for you, all at a considerable premium to the price I
paid for you, and it would be a shame to destroy such a valuable
asset.  It's not often that we find such a perfectly obedient, willing
slave slut as you.  I've decided to sell you.  Your new master has
been apprised of your suspected duplicity, and will no doubt take
measures to render you harmless."  I dared not desist in performing
obeisance to my master.  "You will, of course, remain an utter,
helpless, complete sex slave - something for which you are uniquely
talented."

I would learn - much later - what had happened.  M. Roget, as it
turned out, was the current Minister of the Interior in the French
government, and his patronage had helped ensure the continued,
undisturbed operations not only of the club where I served but also of
a reasonable portion of the trade in high-end sex slaves.  On learning
of his involvement with the club, the investigators who had "hired" me
pressured him into relaxing his protection, and providing information,
under threat of exposing his involvement in the business.  This had
come to the attention of M. Arnaud, who had concluded that I, being M.
Roget's latest preferred slave, was the most likely source of a leak. 
I still do not know if he had any other information to go on.

At the time, my emotions were in a tumult.  On the one hand, I was
grateful to still be alive, having apparently come so close to dying a
painful death as a slave girl.  On the other hand, the freedom I had
already begun planning for had now receded beyond the sphere of
reasonable likelihood.  Once in the secure possession of a new master,
I could no longer hope to be freed by the parties whom I had been
secretly aiding with my information.  I would go to my new master a
naked, powerless slave girl, and that was likely how I would live out
my useful life - on my back, belly, or knees, begging for the
privilege of serving men with my body.  Slavery was no longer an
adventure, it was now my unavoidable fate.  I had sensed already that
my personality was changing, that I found myself thinking more and
more often of myself solely in terms of my ability to please masters,
and to do so with no thought for my own pleasure or satisfaction. 
Without the hope of freedom to cling to, I expected that
transformation would only accelerate.  Soon I would be nothing more
than the passive sex toy that Cristina had told me lay in my future, a
pretty, compliant plaything that men and women might use as they
pleased, a slave girl equally contented so long as she was being used
for what she was worth.

That is all you are, Jenny, a sex slave, and that is all you will ever
be, I told myself.

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