My Berlin Summer Ch 02

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."