I arrived in Los Angeles in time for the Winter quarter, but otherwise I was totally unprepared to return to my old life. My former roommates had given away my room when I had failed to show in August, but my friends were able to find me another apartment close to campus. When asked what had happened to me over the previous seven months, I was never able to come up with a convincing story; instead I said that I had been traveling with some friends I met in Berlin, and didn't want to talk about it any further.
For those first few weeks, I spent most of my time avoiding people, afraid of how I might behave. At times I found it difficult to resist the urge to tear off my clothes and drop to my knees, or to address both men and women as "master." When men showed any interest in me, I would brush them off hurriedly, afraid of how I might behave alone with one of them. I feared I would strip myself naked and beg to be used as a slave. I didn't know if that was what I truly wanted, or simply a reflex I had had instilled in me by my masters.
Then things only got worse. Apparently a reporter covering the military action on the Arabian peninsula heard about the American "sex slave" who had been found during an early-morning raid and had spent a day submissively compensating her liberators with her naked body. The media being what they are, the story was of course impossible to resist, and within a week an enterprising reporter had discovered my name. It was Valentine's Day, February 14, when the American sex slave was identified as Jennifer Nevins, a student at UCLA who had gone to Berlin for a summer abroad. How she had ended up as the plaything of a group of rebel troops was still unclear.
I heard about the story from a friend of mine and, sobbing, admitted that it was true. I attempted to lock myself in my apartment and shut out the world, but things only got worse; within two weeks, an adult magazine had somehow located a copy of the "portfolio" that my training house had shot to advertise me to potential buyers. Those degrading photographs of me, not only nude but collared, chained, and posing in a variety of humiliating positions, were soon available in print and on the Internet. I began to think my best option might be to find a master, someone who would take me under his protection and guard me from the outside world, in exchange for my absolute submission. At least that was something I knew how to do.
Instead, I did something else. I got in my car and drove to San Francisco, where I checked into a cheap hotel under a fake name. I legally changed my name to Cecilia Connors - my middle name and my mother's maiden name - died my hair that popular honey-blonde color, and began wearing non-prescription glasses. I got a job as an administrative assistant at a South of Market startup company and began to build a new life.
By the time spring turned to summer, I was almost able to live a normal life. I had even started going on dates again, usually with one of the employees of the high-tech companies in the former industrial districts of San Francisco. But generally one of two things would occur when I was finally alone with a man late in the evening. Sometimes I would blushingly send my suitor away, afraid to leave myself alone with him. Other times I would invite him into my apartment, where I would willingly comply with whatever desires he might indicate. It was then, whether naked and on my knees before my escort, or with my legs spread widely across my bed, that I felt most comfortable, that I could most easily forget the worries and distractions that otherwise seemed to occupy my days. I think my dates were generally shocked by my behavior, by my transformation from a quiet, conservative young woman into a wanton and talented slut, willing to perform sexual services they had never even conceived of. Most would ask to see me again, undoubtedly hoping once again to have me at their disposal, but I would generally break off any relationship quickly, afraid to go too far and fully release the slave I knew still lay inside me.
One evening in late June, I was watching "Friends" re-runs when there was a knock on my door. I opened it.
It was Cristina.
