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From: danawilliams7979@yahoo.com (DW)
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Subject: {ASSM} My Berlin Summer, Chapter 5 (MF/F, bd, nc, slavery)
Date: Sun, 20 Jan 2002 01:10:05 -0500
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This is the fifth chapter in a story about an American college student
who gets in over her head during a summer abroad.  The basic themes
are slavery, domination, humiliation, etc., with relatively less sex
than most such stories.  The influences will be obvious to many. 
Earlier chapters were posted to alt.sex.stories,
alt.sex.stories.bondage, and alt.sex.stores.moderated; this is really
the first story that I have distributed in any form, so there is
nothing else out there.

Feedback is always welcome at danawilliams7979@yahoo.com.  I greatly
appreciate the messages I have received from readers; nothing is quite
so inspiring (and therefore likely to get me to continue writing) as
praise.  This chapter begins the "life of a slave girl" section of
this story, which a couple of readers feared would be less interesting
than the preceding chapters; I hope those fears will turn out to have
been unnecessary.

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 5:  Training

The trainer barked out a short, authoritative command in a language I
did not understand.  I looked at him in shock, not understanding what
was required of me.  I was standing before him, naked.  In his left
hand was one end of a six-foot, light chain leash.  The other end was
attached to a choke collar around my neck.  In his right hand was a
long, flexible switch.

Suddenly the switch flashed across my back and a sharp downward tug on
the leash pulled me down to my knees.  I cried out in pain.  The
trainer kicked my knees apart and repeated the same monosyllabic
command.

Then he shouted another command, again one I didn't understand.  This
one had two syllables and began with a hard "k" sound.  I was again
struck by the switch, but this time there was no tug on the leash to
instruct me.  I decided that I was to supposed to guess what this
command meant, and tried rising to my feet.  For my pains I was
greeted with three more blows from the switch, and a brutal tug on the
leash and took my breath away and threw me onto my belly on the
hardwood floor.  I lay there, not daring to move, my face and breasts
literally pressed against the floor.  In an attempt to pacify my
trainer, I spread my legs as widely as possible.  That at least seemed
expected of me more often than not.  The switch was really not that
terribly painful, but my back was smarting from the multiple blows.

I heard the second, two-syllable command again, this time in a calmer
voice.  I decided that it probably meant "belly," or something to that
effect.  In any case, I was apparently not being beaten again, for the
moment at least.

I heard a gruff, single-syllable command.  It sounded slightly
familiar, so I rose to my knees, hoping to have guessed right. 
Instead, a pull and a twist on the leash turned me onto my back on the
hard floor.  The switch burned across my stomach, and then on my
thighs.  Again I spread my legs in a belated attempt to placate the
trainer.  Even if I was slow to learn the trainer's commands, I would
do everything in my power to convince him of my utter obedience and
eagerness to please.  I found myself hoping that he would rape me -
anything to give me a chance to show my worth to him.  An instant
later I hated myself for the thought.  Yes, I had been kidnapped and
forced to obey the dictates of my abductors.  But there was no need
for me to crave their abuses.

My thoughts were interrupted by a two-syllable command, again
beginning with a hard "k" sound.  I instantly rolled over onto my
belly, my hands at my sides, and spread my legs widely.  I held my
breath, waiting for the whistle of the switch.  But this time I was
not beaten.  I had guessed right.  Perhaps I could learn to be a good
slave.  Perhaps I would survive.  Instead of using the switch on me,
the trainer pushed his shoe in front of my face.  I instantly kissed
it, and then began licking the shoe as sensuously as I knew how.  I
knew that if I learned quickly, I would not be beaten.  I resolved to
be the best student the school had ever known - even if it as a
student of the arts of female slavery.

This was the most difficult class, Valerie had warned me, even worse
than the afternoon sessions in rendering prolonged and humiliating
sexual services.  In this class, we were trained exactly as animals -
with commands we could not understand, leashes, choke collars, and
whips.  We were being taught our new place in society, in which we no
longer even counted as persons, but merely as a particularly
attractive form of animal property.  Each day the set of commands
would change, although they might be repeated at long intervals.  The
semantic content of the commands was largely constant from day to day,
consisting largely of the basic commands by which a slave girl may be
put through her paces - kneeling, on her belly or back, standing, bent
over, grasping her ankles, and so on - but each day we would have to
learn which verbal signal corresponded to each position or task.  One
of the by-products of the sessions is that we were being taught this
basic set of commands in a number of languages, but sometimes the
"language" of the day was pure nonsense, concocted solely for the
benefit of our training.  It was almost impossible for a girl not to
emerge from the session with several red stripes across her back and
thighs, and more importantly with a desperate eagerness to please her
trainer.  I knew I would be no exception.

Valerie had prepared me for the day's activities as we chatted briefly
in the showers earlier in the morning.  That morning, my first in the
mansion, I was awakened by a natural-light alarm at a time I guess to
be around 7:30.  I looked around me and saw the beds I had dimly made
out the night before.  There were six other girls in the room, all
nude and chained like me to their beds.  All were stunningly
beautiful.  These slavers, I concluded, knew what they were doing.

A man entered the room and made the rounds of our beds, releasing us
from our leashes.  We followed him down a corridor and down a flight
of stairs into a large exercise room.  None of the girls seemed in the
least concerned with her complete nudity.  I gathered that that was
something that we slaves quickly grew accustomed to.  Once in the
exercise room, each of us was given a card describing our workout
routine for the morning.  The man briefly explained what it meant to
me.  His manner was completely matter-of-fact, as if he were entirely
used to managing a group of naked, enslaved beauties.  But of course,
I realized, he was entirely used to it.  At the same time, I realized
that my beauty, and availability, in all likelihood meant very little
to these men.  Before, I had been able to influence men with so little
as a short skirt, a smile, and a touch of my hand on their arm.  Now,
completely naked, my body at their disposal, I was utterly powerless. 
Whatever they might want, they would have from me, simply by snapping
their fingers.

The exercises were largely aerobic, with some stretching and a small
amount of weight training.  I gathered that our bodies were being
carefully toned and exercised to make sure we were in optimum physical
condition.  Masters would want their slaves to be both excruciatingly
attractive and physically fit, and could enforce their will upon us.

After the exercise period, we entered an large, adjacent rest room
where we showered in a large, communal shower.  That was when the
other girls, including Valerie, introduced themselves to me.  They had
been in the mansion anywhere from one to seven weeks.  Their stories
were similar to mine.  All had shown some interest in slavery, whether
by attending a fetish night at a club, role-playing in an online chat
room, or simply allowing a boyfriend to tie them up, and shortly
thereafter had been forcibly abducted and brought here.  They were
resigned to their fate, although hardly enthusiastic about it - there
was little appealing, one remarked, in attending training classes all
day and being periodically raped as a diversion.  They knew no more
than I about the fate that would await us once we "graduated" from
this school.  But about one thing there was no doubt at all:  we were,
truly, slave girls, in the fullest sense of the term.  We were
completely subject to the whims and desires of our masters, from the
most mundane to the most exquisitely sensuous, and could expect
nothing in return.

After cleaning and drying ourselves, we were allowed to proceed to the
kitchen back on the ground floor, where we were served breakfast. 
"Served" is perhaps not the most appropriate word, in that we were
required to eat on all fours, not using our hands, from bowls on the
floor containing hot oatmeal and water.  On my hands and knees, my
hair falling about my face, my breasts depending from my body,  I
lowered by head to the floor and lapped up the food and water with my
tongue.  Glancing to my left and right, I saw that the other girls
were eating and drinking comfortably.  I supposed that they had grown
used to this particular humiliation.  I expected that I, too, would
become accustomed to it.

After breakfast our lessons began in earnest.  The first class was
what the other slave girls called our "dog-training" class, where we
were forced to learn and respond to commands in a foreign or
nonexistent language.  After my initial bewilderment and confusion, I
found that I was quite adept at making out the nuances of the
trainer's commands and quickly complying with his wishes.  Often I
could read a simple gesture and understand his will, whether it was
for me to crawl to his feet, to spread my legs in apparent preparation
to be used, or to fetch his switch in my teeth.  I even felt a brief
surge of pride at my apparent facility in this exercise, until I
realized that I was simply demonstrating my utter subjection and
obedience to men.

At one point in the class, a short, blonde girl named Gretta had
trouble understanding and obeying a command.  I saw her trainer flip
her onto her stomach, lift her bottom in the air, and use her from
behind abruptly and fiercely.  I could not help staring, horrified, as
she cried out as much in shock and humiliation as in arousal.  So
casual rape was not only a convenient means for the trainers to
indulge their physical desires, but also was a form of discipline. 
But inside me something, dimly, envied Gretta her sudden abuse.  Here
I was, finally living out my most ardent fantasies, but strictly
forbidden to gratify my own needs.  I realized that I had been
constantly aroused not only by the uses I had been subject to the
night before, but also by the casual, mundane humiliations I had
suffered that morning - from being exercised, nude, to eating from a
bowl on my hands and knees, to now being put through my paces
literally like a domestic animal.  It was not only being forced to
give up my body to my masters that excited me deep in my belly, but
also having my degraded status constantly impressed on me by the
routines of slavery.

I wondered how many of the other girls were similarly aroused by their
very subjection, were secretly or openly excited to be the slaves and
playthings of men and women.  Perhaps I was an anomaly, a girl who not
only accepted her enslavement, but secretly reveled in her utter
submission.  Or perhaps all the girls in the mansion, in their hearts,
had always longed to be slaves and only now could be truly fulfilled. 
Most likely, I supposed, we were all somewhere in between.

After the obedience class, we proceeded to another room outfitted like
a small seminar room, with a long table surrounded by chairs. 
Claudia, the mistress of the house, stood before us.  After kneeling
before her, we were permitted to take seats at the table.

"So we have a new student among us," Claudia began.  "Jenny?"

"Yes, mistress?" I answered.  

"Why are you here?"

I hesitated, my mind spinning in confusion.  In secretly accepting my
slavery the night before, I had expected to be commanded, abused,
humiliated, and degraded.  I had not expected to be quizzed like an
unprepared schoolgirl.  "Because I am a slave, mistress," I attempted.

She smiled.  "Yes, of course, but really, why are you a slave?"

I wondered what she expected me to say, what the right answer was. 
Was it because three men had broken into my apartment the night before
and abducted me, a knife at my throat?  Was it because I had been
tricked into attending a club with Cristina?  Or was it something
deeper, more primordial, more unconscious?  "I am a slave because I
exist to serve and to please masters, mistress," I finally managed to
say.

"Get up and kneel before me," Claudia ordered.  I obeyed silently, my
eyes lowered to the floor.  "You are clearly trying to please me,
which is to be commended.  But you are not telling the truth.  As a
slave, you exist to serve your masters.  That goes without saying. 
But it does not explain why you are a slave."

I wracked my brain for the answer.  I began to panic.  I knew I was a
slave - that was now abundantly clear to me - but I knew it was not
simply a matter of being abducted and raped the night before, of
wearing a collar around my neck, of kneeling naked before my mistress.
 All these things felt unutterably right for me, but they were all
simply consequences of my identity as a slave.  A slave was simply
what I was.  It was not a matter of choice or historical explanation. 
It was part of my inmost nature.

"I am a slave because that is what I am, mistress," I said, softly but
clearly.  "I do not know how long I have been a slave, or why I became
a slave, or if perhaps I have always been a slave.  I only know that
in every fiber of my being, I exist to serve my masters, to please
them in any way that I can, asking nothing, accepting everything."  I
stopped, confused and scandalized.  I could hear a couple of the other
girls laughing, softly.  What had I been saying?  Was this really the
logical conclusion of everything I knew about myself?  I knew that
this woman held the power of life or death over me, and that I would
do anything necessary to satisfy her.  But was I really a true slave,
deep in my heart?

"A touching speech, slave," Claudia said.  "Of course, you know almost
nothing of what it is to be a slave.  But you will learn.  You may
take your seat."

I got up and took my place again, my eyes lowered to avoid the gaze of
my fellow slave girls.  I felt I was constantly being tricked into
crossing boundary after boundary, surrendering more and more of my
previous identity and sinking deeper and deeper into the identity of
an abject slave girl.  I tried to tell myself that I had said those
words simply to satisfy my mistress and avoid the punishments she
surely could inflict on me, but at the same time I knew that was a
lie.

As the class continued, I became more and more fascinated by Claudia
and the power she held over us.  She moved from one girl to the next,
asking probing questions about our fantasies, our desires, our earlier
relationships, and our feelings, drawing out our secret thoughts and
confessions.  One girl recounted her seemingly innocent introduction
to submission years before in a brief experiment with a boyfriend,
shuddering as she recalled the unexpected thrill she had felt being
naked, bound, and powerless for the first time.  Claudia forced
another girl to describe, in excruciating detail, the sensations,
thoughts, and emotions she experienced when pleasing a man with her
mouth - everything from the physical sensations on her lips and
tongue, to the constant mental anticipation of the master's desires,
to the deeply submissive emotional charge she felt as he consummated
his domination of her.  I could feel the other girls almost squirming
with uncomfortable recognition of their own experiences, and with
silent but unmistakable arousal.  She did not ask me any questions
after the beginning of the class, presumably leaving me to listen to
my fellow slave girls and absorb their lessons.  By the end of the
class, I was in awe of this quietly powerful woman, of her ability to
make us explore the depths of our own submission, to confess our
slavery not only explicitly but also with a level of detail and
conviction that could not simply be denied after the class had ended. 
Each girl said things that, try as she might, could not be unsaid, and
left the room knowing herself even more a slave than when she had
entered it.

After class, we were permitted to eat lunch, this time from a buffet
of salads and sandwiches, which we were allowed to eat with our hands,
kneeling on the floor.  I assumed this was because it was easier for
our masters for us to eat this way, and the ritual humiliation we had
suffered at breakfast, eating on hands and knees from bowls on the
floor, exposing our bodies as slaves to any passers by, would be
limited to that meal.  After lunch, we were given time to ourselves,
which we took advantage of in the inner courtyard of the mansion,
enjoying the warm air and sunshine of the early summer.  Of course,
although there was no prescribed activity at this time, we were still
under the absolute command of our masters.  On separate occasions two
of the trainers came outside and called one or another of the girls to
them.  I watched in fascination as they were made to please the men,
intimately and unreservedly, in full view of the rest of us.  After
being forced to these degrading services, each rejoined our little
circle, a little short of breath, but without ceremony, as if this
were a completely ordinary occurrence.  And, of course, it was.  We
were slaves, and sex slaves at that.  This is what we existed for.

At one point my trainer from the obedience class approached our group
where we were sitting on the grass, chatting softly.  All the girls
turned toward him and knelt in the position we all knew so well.  He
approached me and, putting his hand in my hair, lifted my head to look
at him.

"You did well this morning," he said.  "Not bad for a new slave."

I flushed with pride.  A man had found me pleasing!  "Thank you,
master," I said.  "I will endeavor to learn as quickly as possible." 
He put his hand down by my face, where I could lick and kiss at it.  I
did so, my eyes half closed, reveling in my submission.

"You are a hot little slut," he said, smiling.  I blushed, but did not
refute him, continuing to lick at his hand.  Then he barked out a
command, one I recognized from the morning's lesson.  I instantly lay
on my back and spread my legs, lifting my knees into the air.  This
was clearly a position for slave rape.  The thought sprang to my mind
that this was the first time I would be had "normally," as it were -
my previous uses having been from behind, or with my mouth.

But he did not instantly plunge into my waiting body.  "You may beg,"
he said.

I opened my eyes in shock.  He would make me beg?  I would have none
of that, I told myself.  I could be commanded, abused, raped, and
humiliated, but that was beyond my control.  I would not beg to be put
to sexual service.  And yet it felt so fitting - there I was, a naked
slave before him, my legs wide in anticipation, my thighs warm with
arousal.  This morning I had crawled at his feet, desperate to obey
his every command.  Now he was giving me the opportunity to fulfill my
utter submission, and perhaps even to release the tensions that had
built up in me all morning as my slavery had been impressed upon me.

"I beg you to have me," I heard a voice saying, wondering where it
could be coming from.  "I beg to be used, as a slave."  He laughed,
and then suddenly he entered me.  I clutched him with my arms and my
body.  This was the first time my body was not simply being used as a
passive convenience.  I knew I was only a new, inexperienced slave,
but I would try anything in my power to please this master.  I
caressed him with my whole body, trying to melt into him, to be warm,
soft, and open for him.  I felt him inside me, not just physically but
also mentally and emotionally, driving into me the necessity, the
absolute rightness of my submission.  I felt my arousal increasing,
and wondered if I would be punished for allowing myself to reach my
climax.  I focused on his pleasure instead, on his mastery, and
finally felt him surge within me.  And in that instant, as he
consummated his domination of me, some hidden dam within me burst
open, and I felt myself swept away on some powerful and unknown
current, my body yielding to him as I had never believed possible.  I
heard a girl crying out her submission, and wondered who it could be. 
But I knew it was I.

When I had gathered hold of my senses, the trainer was once again
standing above me, looking down.  I could hear the other girls
laughing, they having witnessed my performance.  I was deeply
embarrassed.  What had possessed me to so lose myself in submissive
service, to so eagerly accept my utter ravishment?  Should I not have
endured his onslaught passively, holding my legs open but my mind
closed?  But I could not ignore that something in me felt warm and
wonderful lying at the feet of my master, used for what I was worth. 
I rolled to my stomach and kissed his feet in gratitude.  "Did I
please you, master?" I asked, frightened.

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

"Thank you, master," I said, continuing to kiss his feet and legs. 
Then he turned and walked away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so the days and weeks of my training passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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