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.