"What is your name?" he asked.

"Anything master wishes," I answered. "But here, I answer to 'Jenny.'"

"Well, Jenny, what is your favorite flower?"

I looked up at him in shock. I remembered why I was here. I thought for a moment. "Roses," I whispered. "White roses."

"Well," he said casually, "I like daffodils, but my favorite flower is the chrysanthemum." That was the code phrase. I was suddenly frightened. I knew how to please a man with my body. I was not sure how to be a spy. "So what have you learned, Jenny?" he said.

I panicked. In my effort to become an acceptable slave, I had almost completely forgotten about the mission Cristina had assigned me. I began to ramble on about any topic I could think of - how I had been brought to Paris, the way the club worked, Philippe Arnaud, Mr. McGregor, Felix, the other girls. I hoped he would not give up on me. He was my connection to another life, where I might be something more than a naked slave desperate to serve men with her body.

"Well, we know all that already," he said. "But you are clearly eager to help. Just keep your ears open and remember everything you hear. In this type of case, there's no such thing as a big break. It's a lot of little details that, when you put them together, begin to paint a picture."

"Yes, master," I said. Although I suppose we had some sort of professional relationship, I was still naked and on my knees before him. "Thank you, master. I'll do better next time."

"I'm sure you will," he said, patting me on the head. "Now let's put that pretty mouth of yours to better use." I looked up at him, not sure what he meant, but the hands drawing my head towards his lap made his intentions clear. "I know you want it, little slut," he said. "That's why you were picked for this job."

I knew he was right. It only took me a few seconds to revert from Jenny the free-willed spy to Jenny the perfectly obedient sex slave. A few minutes later I felt him stiffen and heard him gasp as he filled my mouth. I swallowed as I had been conditioned to do. "Thank you, master," I said when he finally withdrew from me.

Over the next several weeks I increased my efforts to keep abreast of things that were going on at the club. I casually asked the other slaves what they knew about the business, and even tried to ask innocent questions of my masters that might shed light on their operation - asking about my price, about how much they might make off a girl such as me, about where and how they gathered the slaves who were the backbone of their operation. I explained that, having once envisioned a career in corporate law, I was simply interested in how the business worked. If anyone might have been suspicious, I think they were mollified by my nearly perfect behavior, by my evident zealousness to be absolutely subservient and perfectly pleasing. And every week or two, my contact to the external world - whose name I would never find out - would visit the club, listen to my report, and then make use of my body as if I were simply a pretty slave girl to be had on a moment's whim. Which, of course, I was.

My efforts to become a better slave were also paying dividends. During this period, I moved up from being a "class C" girl to class B and finally to class A. As a benefit of my elevation, I was permitted to wear clothing - at least until a master ordered me strip myself naked, for his viewing pleasure or for his use. My sole garment was what was called a "slave dress" - a single piece of thin, light blue silk hanging from thin straps over my shoulders, barely covering my body from the top part of my breasts to the upper part of my thighs, open to my waist in back and slit to the hip on both sides. It was a mockery of a dress more than anything else, that would reveal my body with only a slight change in position, that in any case afforded no protection against a master's touch, and that, of course, I could be ordered to remove at any instant. But at least I did not have to go completely naked at all times, for which I was deeply thankful.

As a "class A" girl, I was also not required to serve the club staff during the day, supposedly to allow me to better serve the paying clients in the evening. But in my desire to be a perfect slave, I chose not to insist on this privilege, and continued to offer myself for use to whoever might want me. I knew that the quality of my life depended on being pleasing to all of my masters, and that I was most qualified to do so on my knees or back, my body available for the taking. I knew some of the other girls resented me for this degree of wantonness, but I didn't care what they thought. I was a slave girl, I existed for the pleasure of men, and it was men that I would serve.

In the weeks as summer turned to autumn, I also began to attract a set of "regular" clients, for whom I was one of the particular attractions of the club. A client would be allowed to reserve a favorite slave, either for a night or part of one, if he were willing to pay an additional fee. However, a slave girl could only be reserved for up to three nights per week; the other nights, she had to be freely available to whatever client desired her use. (And, of course, being slaves, we had no nights off; pleasing our masters was not an occupation that we deserved rest from, but rather a simple attribute of our condition.)

One of my "regulars" was a wealthy aristocrat from a small Arabian principality. He had a long, un-spellable, Arabic-sounding name, but went among us by "David." He had studied at Cambridge and divided his time between London and his home country, taking the Chunnel on most weekends to enjoy the pleasures of Paris - including those he was able to take from my naked body. He was, as they say, tall, dark, and handsome, a consummate gentleman, and a man who knew how to use a slave girl, as I quickly learned the first night that he chose me for his amusement.

That night, he used me more times than I had imagined possible, and in more ways - first unilaterally, tying me with my legs spread and simply satisfying himself in my flesh, then more creatively, forcing me to serve him in positions I had not known my body could assume, then passionately, driving me repeatedly to painful arousal with his tongue and his hands, finally forcing me to beg, as a humiliated, debased slave, for my orgasm. When he finally untied me, I fell to my knees before him and bent down to lick and kiss at his feet. I was physically and emotionally devastated by the experience, but at the same time I felt a profound sense of joy and satisfaction. I knew that I had served this complete stranger as only a slave girl can serve, had been used as only a slave can be used, but I felt joy in the thought that he had chose me as the girl he would use, that I might have been able to be pleasing to him in some small way. Doubtless, had I not been pleasing, I would have been thrown back onto the floor of the lounge, replaced by another girl of his choice at no additional charge; that he had elected to extract such long and intimate services from my body must have indicated that I had been found worthy of pleasing him. That night, I learned not only that I could be forced to spread my legs for men, or that I could be compelled to respond physically and emotionally to a man's uses, but that I wanted to be so used, that I longed in my heart and my belly to be mastered, stripped naked and thrown to a man's feet to be raped as the slave I was.

After that first night, whenever David entered the club, I would immediately - unless I was serving another client, who would then have complete rights over my body - bring him his favorite drink, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and strip myself naked at his feet, mutely or explicitly begging to be put to my uses. Sometimes he would simply pat me on the head and send me on my way, or sometimes he would indicate a friend of his whom I must serve as passionately and helplessly as I served him. But other times he would grab me by the hair and pull me to a private room, there to throw me forward on my hands and knees, where he would summarily rape me before proceeding to explore his larger repertoire of uses for a slave girl. Those nights I would lie awake even as he slept, softly kissing his legs and feet so as not to wake him, thanking Cristina for having seen the slave in me and letting me know the fulfillment I could find only in absolute submission.