Luckily, there was a car - a stretch limousine - waiting to take us to the club. The driver opened the back door for us, staring pointedly at my body all the while. I did my best to avert my eyes. Once in the car, Cristina pushed me to my knees on the floor. "You will lick my boots until we get there," she said simply. I crawled in front of her on my knees, carefully lowered my upper body to the floor so that her black leather boots were just in front of my face, and delicately opened my mouth and extended my tongue to her right boot. I could taste the new leather on my tongue. I closed my eyes, shutting out all sensation except the feeling of her boots on my lips and tongue. Although I was only an amateur in the arts of giving pleasure, I did everything I could imagine a man or woman could want from a slave's mouth, demonstrating my abject submission to Cristina's boots. I felt her hand casually running through my long hair as if she were petting a favorite dog.
Soon - too soon - I felt the car come to a stop. My heart pounding, my tongue still stroking the leather of Cristina's boots, I listened to the driver get out, walk around the car, and open the back door. I felt a tug on my leash as Cristina pulled me back up to my knees, spreading them with a kick of her boot. Then she stepped out of the car, forcing me to trail behind her.
As I stepped onto the sidewalk, I saw the line of people waiting at the door, dressed in an outlandish assortment of black leather, latex, spandex, and chains. There was an assortment of masters and slaves, but even the slaves - identifiable mainly by their collars - had the hardened look of experienced roleplayers. We walked directly toward the door, not bothering to go to the end of the line, and Cristina began talking to the bouncer in a rapid German. I stood behind her timidly, submissively, my eyes lowered to escape the gaze of the crowd that I was sure was fixed solely on me. I could feel a hundred eyes burning through the mockery of a garment that Cristina had given me to wear, hugging every curve of my nearly naked body. If my hands had not been chained behind my back, I would have used them to try to cover my body; if I had not been collared and leashed, I would have run far away from their cold, evaluating gazes; but held in place and exposed as I was, I began to feel the helplessness and vulnerability of the slave girl, constantly open and available for the contemplation and use of men.
Finally Cristina turned to me and said, in English, "He says that if you get on your knees and kiss his feet, he'll let us in without waiting in line." She was laughing. I glanced for a moment at the long line of people and decided that a moment's humiliation was better than having to wait outside. Cristina tugged me forward. Standing before the large, well-muscled man, I suddenly felt small, and soft, and weak, truly only a plaything to give him whatever pleasure and amusement he might find in a woman's body. Not daring to meet his eyes, I lowered myself to my knees, bent my head forward toward the ground, and began to lick and kiss at his feet. I closed my eyes and again tried to lose myself in the delicious submissiveness of licking the hard, dusty leather, imagining that I was a slave girl desperately trying to please a master, trying to arouse his interest, inviting him to throw her on her back and rape her. I don't know how long I lavished my attentions on his feet before Cristina tugged up on the leash, saying, "That's enough, slut," and pulled me to my feet. The man gestured that we should enter. As I walked in front of him I felt his hand lift up the back of my garment and feel my body. My hands chained as they were, I was powerless to stop him. Now I knew even more deeply the openness of a slave's body and the casual uses to which she will routinely be put.
We entered the dark, cavernous club. I had been here several times, but never before half-naked, my hands chained behind my back, trailing behind the mistress who held the leash to my collar. I felt all eyes in the club turn towards me as we stepped across the threshold. I tried to lower my eyes and let my hair drift across my face, hoping no one would recognize me. Surely anyone who saw me could hardly recognize Jennifer Nevins, the all-American college girl, in this submitted, collared slave. Or could they? I looked around. The club was busy but not filled. There were people who looked like masters, people who looked like slaves, and a majority of indeterminate status. The predominant dress was black leather in all its forms - halters, miniskirts, boots, body suits, harnesses, gloves, masks, cuffs, whips ... Scattered through the room a few slaves were partially or fully naked, their breasts or their intimate regions exposed to public view. But in general, few people were as openly, vulnerably exhibited as was I, the curves of my body easily visible through my thin white garment, my bound hands helpless to protect me. I could depend only on the goodwill and protection of my mistress.
We had stopped. I looked up. We had reached a table, and Cristina was chatting with the people seated around it. With a shock, I recognized some of the German friends I had made in the past few weeks: Iris, the quiet but friendly violinist; Stefan, the doctor in a local hospital; Frank, the tall political activist I had secretly admired. I blushed deeply, lowering my head. Now, I knew, I could never hope to go out with him as an equal.
I was startled by the silence, all the eyes focused on my exposed body. "Yes," Cristina said, "our American friend makes a lovely slave. You should have seen her licking my boots in the car." They laughed. I realized she was speaking English for my benefit. I wanted to run away and hide. But I was held in place by her firm hand on my leash.
"I just thought it would be interesting," I started to say, before being rudely cut off by a backhanded slap from Cristina.
"Slaves do not speak unless spoken to," she reprimanded me. "Everyone here is your master or mistress," she continued. "You will show them complete deference, or you will be whipped."
"Yes, mistress," I sobbed. Well, I had asked for this - to be dominated and humiliated in public. I would just have to endure the night somehow and then rebuild my life in the morning.
I felt a sharp downward tug on the leash. "Slaves kneel in the presence of free men and women," Cristina reminded me. I lowered myself to my knees and sat back on my heels. Not wishing to be slapped again, or worse, I opened my knees. Cristina's boots pushed them further apart. "Thrust out your breasts, Jenny," she ordered. "Let's see what you've got." I obeyed, sobbing softly, pushing my breasts forward against the thin fabric that was all I wore. I knew my nipples were clearly visible to all of my friends.
"Have you used her at all," asked Iris. I was shocked to hear shy, quiet Iris ask such an open question. But, I realized, I was just a slave. That is what we are for - being used by our masters.
"No, not yet," Cristina answered. "This is just her first time, remember. But she has a lot of potential. You should have seen her licking the bouncer's shoes - you could tell she wanted something else in her mouth. Right, slut?"
"Yes, mistress," I answered.
"Have you ever pleasured a man with your mouth?"
"Yes, mistress," I whispered, reddening even more.
"Are you any good?"
"I think so, mistress." I supposed that at some point soon I might be put to the test, and I did not want to be accused of misrepresenting my abilities. On the other hand, judging from my performance with Cristina's boots, I expected that I would throw myself into the task with passion.
"Well, there's plenty of time to find out about that later," Cristina laughed. She took an empty seat and continued talking with her friends, in German.
I continued to kneel by her chair, knees still widely spread, hands behind my back, chest thrust forward - a forgotten slave at her mistress's feet. I felt heat growing between my thighs. I wondered what my friends thought of me now. Were they shocked to see me here, dressed as a slave, obedient to a woman's wishes? Did they think I was just playing a role, that tomorrow I would be the carefree, innocent American student they had known? Or had they somehow already known that inside that stereotypical exterior there already lay the heart of an admitted, secret slave, who longed only for this - to be displayed openly, humiliatingly, by a firm master? I wondered if I would ever be able to face them again. Would I ever be able to say to Frank, "Of course, I was just experimenting to see what it would be like." Or would he simply say, "I know you are a slave, Jenny, now strip off those clothes, bend over, and grasp your ankles," and then use me brutally as the slave girl he knew me to be?
I lifted my head slowly to look at Frank. He was staring intently at my body, which was scarcely hidden from his gaze. He smiled when he caught my eye. I lowered my eyes again, blushing. "Yes, Jenny, you are even lovelier than I had thought," he said softly. I lifted my eyes again and smiled, relishing his compliment. "I'm sure you're even lovelier naked."
"Thank you, master," I said, having been reminded of my status in relation to him. Then, daring myself to go further, I continued, "This slave is happy if her body pleases you, master," and tried to smile up at him.
He laughed and playfully ran his hand through my long, brown hair. "What a slave you are, my little slut," he said. "It will be a great pleasure to use you."
"Use me?" I stammered, momentarily forgetting my new position in life. "When?"
"Just wait and see, my little plaything," Frank said, and turned back toward the conversation.
Waiting for my mistress to see fit to pay attention to me, I realized what the life of a slave might be like, unable even to interest her master unless he chose to be interested in her, desperately striving to be found worthy of attention. The thought made me feel warm and wonderful. Perhaps this was really what I was meant to be. I looked shyly up at Cristina - so dark, so strong, so self-assured. Well, if this was a game, I would play it to the fullest, I decided. I carefully inched closer to her, maintaining my open-kneed position, turned my head towards her, and began to kiss and lick the tops of her boots, just under the knee. I moved from there to her bare thigh, using my tongue as delicately as possible, fearful of bothering her. I closed my eyes and indulged myself in my submission.
I was brought out of my reverie by Cristina's hand in my hair, jerking my head upright. "Well, I see my little slave is hot," she said, to general laughter around the table. I blushed yet again. "I think it's time to show you around the facilities, so we can figure out what to do with you."
"Whatever you wish, mistress," I answered.
I felt a tug on the leash. "Up, slut!" Cristina commanded. I obeyed silently. She turned and headed toward the back left area of the main club room, leaving me to follow behind her, stumbling awkwardly, not used to walking quickly with my hands bound behind my back. Trying to ignore the stares of the people we passed - and, worse yet, the hands that casually reached out to stroke my breasts or my backside, from which I was powerless to protect myself - I followed her through an archway into another large room, this one well-lit by comparison. I gasped as I looked around.
"This is where slaves get tied up and beaten," Cristina said matter-of-factly. Indeed, there were nearly-naked bodies in various states of bondage all over the room - men and women, thin and corpulent, black and white and everything else, hanging from their wrists and strapped to the floor. Some were completely nude, but most had been afforded some protection from roving eyes. A platinum blonde in a leather bikini was spread-eagled to a wooden cross and being whipped by a man in a biker uniform; a man in a latex bodysuit and matching hood was hogtied and dangling from a ring suspended from the ceiling; a small Asian woman was bound with her back to a post, her naked body criss-crossed painfully with ropes.
I must have had my mouth open in shock. Cristina smiled at me. "Well, what'll it be for you? This is what you thought happened to slaves, isn't it?"
I could only shake my head slowly. Some of the bound figures had been left unattended and completely helpless. "Do people just leave them here like that?"
"Sometimes," she said. "But it's completely safe. You just write on a sign what people are allowed to do with the slave. If she's not available for general use, you just say so." I noticed that next to some of the bound slaves, there were small signs - "look, but don't touch," for example.
"You're not going to tie me up naked, are you?" I asked, shuddering. Although my scanty clothing left virtually nothing to the imagination, there was still something about the tiny shred of modesty it permitted me. To go utterly naked in such a setting was too frightening to imagine.
"Of course not, my dear Jenny," Cristina said soothingly. She looked around the room. "There's an open spot," she said, and began leading me further into the room. I followed, too frightened to ask.
She brought me to a small table, about three feet off the ground, with a padded surface. Rings were set at several points around the perimeter of the table, each connected to a short chain and cuff. "This will do," Cristina said. "Now stand here and lean onto the table," she ordered. I did as she asked, standing at the edge of the table and leaning my body over it until most of my weight was on my stomach and breasts. I felt the handcuffs being taken off my wrists. Then my mistress came around in front of me and chained my wrists to the far corners of the table. A shudder went through my body as I felt the cold steel lock in place about my wrists. Then she was behind me. I felt my legs pulled widely apart and my ankles cuffed tightly to the two rear table legs. I was unable to close my legs. I tried to rise up from the table but was prevented by the short chains on my wrists. I tried to turn my head but could not see behind me.
I was chained to the table, bending over, forcibly held in place by unbreakable links of steel. I could feel the short skirt of my garment rising high up on my hips and knew that my softness was complete available from behind. The most casual passer-by could see my body so brazenly and vulnerably exposed to view. Now I knew that a slave could not expect to preserve even the most minimal degree of modesty. She existed solely for the pleasure and convenience of masters, and could expect to be displayed accordingly.
"Please, Cristina, don't do this to me," I begged. I was rewarded with an electric jolt on my bottom where she slapped me with her riding crop. I gasped.
"Slaves don't use their mistress's names," she said, and hit me again.
I yelped in pain this time and shouted, "I'm sorry, mistress! I'm sorry!" hoping for forgiveness. She walked around in front of me and pressed the crop against my lips. I kissed it fervently, then began licking and caressing it with my tongue. If showing my submission to that instrument of discipline would mollify my mistress, then I would show it as best as I knew how. Cristina smiled, no doubt amused at the eagerness of her new slave girl, perhaps wondering if she would bring the same desperation and passion to all forms of service and submission.
"I'm just going to leave you here for a bit," she said. "And don't worry, I'll make sure that no one penetrates you."
"Thank you, mistress," I said, with true gratitude. Attracted as I was to the condition of slavery, I had no wish to be taken from behind without even a chance to see my rapist.
I heard the sharp click of Cristina's heels as she walked away. I considered my situation. Only yesterday, before having breakfast with Cristina, I had been a free-willed, ambitious, popular Californian college student with the world at her feet. Now I was chained, face down, to a table in a busy nightclub, a collar locked on my neck, virtually naked, my legs held open to view or worse. Literally hundreds of people could walk right up and have their way with my body, protected by nothing more than Cristina's handwritten "no penetration" sign. Chained as I was, I could not even see them approach. I imagined what it would be like if I were truly a slave, if I my body really were available to the casual and forceful pleasures of men, and women, if I might be used quickly and ruthlessly by a man whose face I would never see, or if another man might walk up in front of me and demand to be served intimately. I felt immense relief that I was not, truly, consigned to that fate. But at the same time, I realized that I was extremely aroused. I knew that I was wet, my body attempting to prepare itself for its unseen rapists. Perhaps slave girls were constantly aroused as a crude defense mechanism against sudden, brutal penetration. I only knew that if a man were to take advantage of my exposed position, my body at least would welcome the assault.
Suddenly my body stiffened. I felt a hand slide lazily over the curves of my bottom, lingering near the parting of my thighs. The hand then drift upward, under the thin fabric, to caress my flanks, upward toward the flare of my breasts. "Very nice," I heard a man's voice muse in German. I kept my body tense, uncertain what humiliation awaited me. "No penetration," I heard him say, reading Cristina's note. Then he said something rapid that I did not understand.
"Entschuldigen Sie bitte?" I remembered to say.
He laughed. "An American!" he said, in English. "I was just saying, it's too bad you're not available for ... for penetration. I would surely have taken you, slave!"
"I'm sorry, master," I said, lifting my head and trying to turn to see him. Was it really so obvious that I was a slave? But of course - who else would be bound so provocatively, so vulnerably?
"It's ok, slut," he said, playfully slapping me on the bottom. Then his hand returned between my legs, testing my most secret region, feeling the slickness there. "But it seems you could really use something between your legs," he said, laughing, and walked away.
I was mortified. Not only was I virtually naked, my legs widely spread, but it was apparent that I was deeply aroused by my predicament.
Other hands came and went, softly caressing or firmly probing the unprotected curves of my flesh. Men and women lifted my chin so to better see my face, to see whether this slave was pleasing to the eyes, or one simply to be used from behind. Some commanded me to lick and suck at their fingers, or to kiss their whips lingeringly and tenderly. I obeyed as best I could, fearing nothing more than to displease a master. One forced the handle of a whip lengthwise into my mouth, ordering me to hold it with my lips, pleasuring it with my tongue. I complied, tears in my eyes as I contemplated my utter degradation. What kind of girl would so willingly accept such compounded humiliation, and even be aroused by it? I knew the answer, but scarcely dared admit it to myself.
Still devotedly swirling my tongue around the whip handle, I heard Cristina's voice above me. "I see you found something to keep your mouth occupied, slut." I lifted my eyes to her, but did not stop my work. She reached down, grasped the whip handle, and began to slowly slide it in and out of my mouth. Sobbing, I continued to lavish my intimate attentions on the leather shaft. She pushed it deeper and deeper into my mouth, almost forcing me to gag. I closed my eyes and imagined it was a master I was serving. This was what I was good for, I thought ...
"She's quite talented," I heard a man say.
"Yes, isn't she?" answered Cristina, withdrawing the whip from my mouth. "You'd hardly know this is her first night as a slave."
I looked up and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man in a simple black T-shirt and black jeans. Kneeling at his feet was a stunningly beautiful Latina woman, wearing nothing but a skimpy bra, garter belt, and stockings. She was looking up at me with a knowing smile.
"And she enjoys it, too," Cristina continued. "Claudette can check."
"Go ahead, dear," the man said. The beauty lowered herself to all fours and crawled around the table to somewhere behind me. I waited, my body tense. Suddenly I felt something warm, and wet, and soft probing my most tender regions. My body shook, involuntarily straining to reach toward the new sensation. Cristina and the man laughed. My body continued to quiver.
Claudette was back again, kneeling at her master's feet. "I think she is about to explode, master," she said. I wanted to bury my head and cry but, of course, there was no such possibility. I was chained in place, and until Cristina saw fit to release me, there was no place for this slave to hide. I moaned in arousal and frustration.
"She is clearly full of passion, but I'm sure she's not nearly as skilled as Claudette," Cristina said, eyeing the kneeling slave.
"She is yours for the asking," said the man graciously. I could not believe what I was hearing. Was he simply bequeathing his slave to Cristina for her pleasure? Is that what slaves were subject to? Would Cristina be offering my body to him in exchange? If she did, would I comply?
"Your offer is most generous," Cristina said. Looking at me, she continued, "I would return the favor, but I fear this little slut is new to her collar, and is not yet ready to serve your pleasure." I supposed I should have felt relieved to be spared the indignity of being forced to serve a man, as a slave girl. But at the same time, I felt frustrated, knowing that my submission would not be consummated tonight.
"She seems ready enough to me, but I respect your wishes," he answered.
"But Claudette is woman enough for both of us," Cristina said, leading the three of them away. Turning her head over her shoulder, she called out, "Don't worry, someone will come for you."
Then I was returned to waiting in my state of helpless arousal, simultaneously dreading the casual attentions my body was open to and hoping that someone would consent to bring relief to my sexual needs. Instead, however, I found myself mostly ignored in favor of other bound beauties promising more than the simple pleasures I could offer, left to my own tumultuous thoughts. What would I do when Cristina finally release me? Would I be an indignant, self-righteous professional woman, demanding to be released and returned to her world? Or would I instead be a soft, willing slave girl, kneeling before her mistress and begging to serve her and be used by her? I went back and forth, one moment hating myself for what I had already let myself endure, the next telling myself that this once I should let myself indulge my fantasy in as complete a form as possible - even to include true, abject, unquestioning, unconditional sexual servitude.
Hands came and went, exploring parts of my body never before so shameless exposed to the world. I lowered my head to the surface of the table, feeling its cool padding against my cheek. Never before had I felt so abandoned - naked, chained helplessly, left to the mercy of anyone who cared to pay attention to me.
Then I felt a hand in my hair, lifting my head up off the table. I gasped in shock. It was Stefan, the doctor who had befriended me a few weeks before. He was smiling.
"Cristina said I should pick you up and take you home," he said. I looked at him, baffled. "It seems she had to take that slave Claudette home with her. Couldn't resist." I was shocked to hear that Cristina hadn't been joking, that she really would be making use of Claudette's most intimate services, that Claudette really was so willing and available to apparently any person. Then I was relieved that it was not I who would be chained at the foot of Cristina's bed tonight, perhaps forced to beg to serve her mistress. At the same time, though, I felt something close to jealousy as well. What did Claudette have that I did not? Was I not beautiful, and obedient, and willing to serve? Had I not been a perfect slave tonight? Why didn't Cristina want to take her pleasure from my lips and tongue, why had she not chosen to imperiously have her way with my body?
I felt Stefan releasing my wrists and ankles from the restraints. For the first time in what felt like hours I could close my legs. But still I remained in place where Cristina had put me, awaiting a command.
Stefan slapped me on the bottom and decorously pulled the hem of my garment down to cover the little it could. "Come on, let's go," he said, picking up my leash and heading toward the door.
"Stefan," I began. "You know I only came because I was curious, right?"
He stopped and turned to me. He looked into my eyes, hard. I had never before noticed how tall and strong he was. Even though he was more or less average in build, he seemed to tower over my small, soft, scantily clad body. I lowered my eyes. I felt his hand pushing down on my shoulder. Tears in my eyes, I lowered myself to my knees and spread them before him. Stefan, too, would enforce my condition on me.
"There, that's better," he said. "Now what were you saying?"
"I said I came because I was curious, master," I whispered.
"Well, I hope you learned something, then," Stefan answered.
"Yes, master," I whispered.
Then he tugged sharply on the leash, signaling me to my feet, and again headed toward the main room and through it to the door. I followed on my bare feet, my eyes lowered, a slave trailing behind her master. Perhaps the onlookers thought he was taking me home to consummate the evening, to exact from my captive flesh the price of my slavery, to use me for what I was worth. Suddenly I wondered if that was exactly what he intended, if he would take advantage of my near nudity and helplessness to have his way with me. I felt a thrill go through my body and heat welling up between my thighs. I imagined him forcing me again to his knees, this time to serve his pleasure, throwing me on my back and kicking my legs apart, or turning me to all fours for casual ravishment. I wondered how I would respond. Would I protest at the invasion of my rights? Or would I revel in the chance to serve a man, to reveal that I was a hot, willing slut only too happy to take her rightful place at his feet?
Suddenly we were outside on the street in the cool night air, and I realized it was all of Berlin now that could see my helpless exposed beauty. Luckily, a taxi came by soon. Stefan held the door for me. The cab driver gave me a long stare. I reddened and lowered my eyes. I realized again what it meant to be a slave. Would Stefan make me serve the driver as well? I knew that if he did, I would have to comply. A slave girl cannot choose the master whom she must please; she must be hot, and soft, and open for all of them. I felt the cool vinyl seat on my body. Stefan got into the car and gave the driver directions. He put his hand in my hair. Would he pull my head down toward his lap, masterfully forcing me to his pleasure? I turned my head toward him. But he only playfully tousled my hair. "I never suspected you were so lovely, Jenny," he said. He put his hand on my upper thigh, possessively. My breath became more hurried. I wondered if he could sense my arousal.
Suddenly the taxi was stopping in front of my apartment. As Stefan paid the driver, I suddenly remembered I had left my keys with Cristina. " I don't have the key," I said, momentarily panicking at the thought of having to accompany him to his apartment - there to suffer who knew what potential indignities - and then having to return home in full daylight.
"Cristina gave it to me," he said, opening the door. The momentary tension on my neck reminded me that he was still holding my leash. I followed him out of the car, through the apartment door, and up the stairs, praying that none of my neighbors would see me in my current state. My heart was racing, wondering what would happen once we were in my apartment. Would he chivalrously bid me good night and be on his way? Would he throw me to his feet and kick my legs apart? Or would I, perhaps, drop to my knees and beg to serve him as a woman serves a man? This, I knew, might be my best opportunity to truly live out my most secret fantasy. But once I gave in to that temptation, I wondered if there was any turning back.
We were at my door. Stefan unlocked it and pushed it open, letting me enter the apartment first. "So this is where you live," he said. Ordinarily I would have been mortified at his seeing the apartment in its current state of disarray, but all I could think about was whether I would be forced to serve as a slave tonight. I had never been so aroused before in my life, my belly aching from desire. But at the same time I was terrified of openly admitting my secret desire, not simply for physical release, but more deeply for the psychological and emotional thrill of submitting fully to a man, momentarily existing for no purpose other than the sexual service of his pleasure.
I realized Stefan was now standing directly in front of me. My eyes came only to the level of his shoulders. I dared not look into my eyes. My knees felt weak.
Slowly, trembling, I lowered myself to my knees, once more. Before tonight I had never knelt in submission before a man or woman. Now it felt like my rightful place. Without thinking, I opened my knees widely, the hem of my garment sliding up to the top of my thighs. I pulled back my shoulders and sucked in my stomach, lifting my chest up and forward, the thin fabric tightening across my breasts and exposing them even more clearly to Stefan's view. Not sure how a slave would beg for her master's attention, I whispered, "How may I serve you, master?"
Stefan did not respond. I waited in the terrifying silence, not sure which I dreaded more - acceptance or rejection. Was I truly prepared to give myself wholly to this man I hardly knew? But could I stand the humiliation of so brazenly offering up my body, and being found not even worthy of a casual rape?
"Do you truly know what it means to serve, as a slave?" he finally asked.
I looked up at him, tears in my eyes. "I am kneeling before you, virtually naked, my knees open, a collar on my neck. I have been exhibited, humiliated, whipped, fondled, and aroused. I have been treated like a slave the entire evening. I want nothing more than to give you everything that a slave can give her master. If all I can give you is my body, for you to do with as you see fit, then I beg you to take it. Only then can I truly know what it is to be a slave."
Stefan was silent.
"Turn around and face away from me," he ordered. I obeyed, trembling. "Put your head to the floor." I complied, keeping my knees spread. "Clasp your hands behind your neck." I could feel the garment sliding up my back. I knew I was completely exposed to him, vulnerable as only a slave can be. I waited, my heart pounding. I hoped he would be satisfied with me.
"Do not move," he commanded. I was puzzled. Would he not simply take me now, positioned as I was for his assault? "I am leaving now," he continued. "When I am on the street, I will call you from my cell phone. The phone ring will be your signal that you are free to break position." I felt a sense of relief, but a far more powerful surge of frustration. I had completely capitulated to him, throwing myself to his feet and begging to be raped, exposing as clearly as possible the hidden nature I had only suspected even a day before. And even after begging as prettily as I could, and presenting my body to him for his use, I had been spurned.
"It is not up to the slave whether or not she will be used, or how, or by whom," Stefan explained. "Your place is simply to obey. You may ask to be raped, but it may or may not be granted to you."
Then he walked out the door, leaving me kneeling, bent over, and open, locked into position by his command. He left the door completely open. I was terrified that a neighbor could pass by the door and see me - or, worse yet, enter and take advantage of me. But he had commanded me not to move, and I obeyed. The seconds seemed like hours. Finally the phone rang. I ran to it, but by the time I picked it up, he had hung up. It had been solely a signal.
Sobbing, I closed the door to my apartment, tore off the sham of a garment I had worn all evening, and fled to my bed, to suffer the depredations of my imaginary rapists. Many times that night did they put their helpless slave's charms to work, and she yielded to them as she had never before believed possible. Finally, having tired of amusing themselves with her tender, captive flesh, they let her cry herself to sleep.
