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.
