I pulled the garment down as far as it would go on my thighs, pulling it more tightly across my breasts in the process, opened the door, and walked out in front of Cristina. My breath caught in my throat when I saw what she was holding - a short riding crop. "Not bad," she said. "Turn around. Display yourself for me." Not sure what that meant, I turned slowly, standing as straight as I could, pulling back my shoulders and pushing my breasts forward for her to review. I knew she could see them clearly; I hoped she liked them. That was all a slave could hope for - to be pleasing to her master.
I was again standing before her. "Kneel," she commanded, pushing down on my left shoulder with the riding crop. "Down on your heels," she ordered. I complied eagerly, finally able to live out my fantasy, to demonstrate my submission to my master. I kept my knees pressed tightly together, afraid that opening them would expose myself completely to her gaze. Simply kneeling had already drawn the thin fabric even higher on my thighs.
"Spread your knees," Cristina said simply. I looked up at her and swallowed. "Now, slut," she continued. I opened them cautiously. "Wider, slut!" she ordered. "A slave must always open herself to the uses of her master." I spread my knees until my thighs made a right angle between them. The hem of the garment I wore was balanced precariously across the tops of my thighs. I put my hands palms down on my now-bare thighs, pulled back my shoulders, thrust out my breasts, and looked up again at my mistress, a slave hoping desperately for acceptance. I hoped she liked what she saw - an eager slave who would do anything to please her. It was what I was.
"Not bad," she said, smiling. "Now kiss my whip." She pressed the crop to my lips. I kissed it hesitantly. "Not like that, slut!" she shouted. "Use your tongue, take it in your mouth, caress it like your master's body." A shudder went through my body, imagining that it was instead my imaginary master's manhood pressed to my lips instead. I closed my eyes, opened my lips, and began to tongue the crop with a heat and passion that my previous boyfriends would have been shocked to behold. "Very good, slave," I could hear Cristina saying. "That is how a slave pleases her master. I think you will do quite nicely." I felt a surge of warmth course through me when she praised me. Perhaps I would be a good slave? I wondered why that thought thrilled me so deeply. I wondered if I should be objecting to Cristina's casual treatment of me, as if I were in reality nothing but a slave. I wondered if a smart, independent woman would have bolted to her feet and run from the room. But I realized that such a woman would never have consented to don the flimsy garment I had willingly put on, to open her knees so submissively.
Cristina laughed. "You may stop now, slut," she said. I lowered my eyes, embarrassed. I had been so carried away that I had forgotten what I was doing. "I think you really enjoyed kissing my whip," she said. "Didn't you?"
"Yes, mistress," I whispered.
"Good. That's how it should be." Cristina then turned and picked something up off the table behind her. When she turned back to me, I could see what it was - a heavy, chrome-colored collar, two half-circles attached at a heavy hinge. "Hold back your hair," she said. I pulled up my long, brown hair and held it up above my head. She crouched down in front of me and casually snapped the collar about my neck. The sound of the lock closing filled me with terror. Now I was truly enslaved to her, for all the world to know. I put my hands to the collar and felt its smooth, hard, cold surface. I knew nothing I could do could remove that collar from my neck.
"You look just about ready," Cristina mused, looking over my scantily clad form. "Just a couple of finishing touches ... Stand up and turn around." I obeyed immediately. If I were playing a role, I would play it perfectly. "Hands behind your back." Dreading what was coming next, I complied. I felt the steel handcuffs lock around my small wrists and ratchet down. I tried to pull my wrists apart and felt the links of chain joining them go taut. I felt my breasts strain forward against the thin garment. My hands were bound behind my back until Cristina chose to release them. I could not even use them to protect my body from her or anyone else's attentions.
Cristina spun me around to face her. She was holding a long, thin chain. She reached up to my neck and quickly snapped one end of it onto what must have been a ring on the front of my collar. I was leashed! I could be led anywhere she wished, like an animal. And with my hands chained behind my back, a leash dangling from my collar, my slavery was immediately evident to even the most casual observer.
"Cristina? ... Mistress? Are you taking me to the club like this?"
My head reeled from the backhanded slap of her leather-gloved hand.
"You are not to speak unless spoken to, slut," she said.
"Yes, mistress," I whispered. "I'm sorry, mistress."
"And yes, I am taking you to the club like this. Any objections and I'll cut your clothes off and walk you through the streets naked." I repressed a momentary desire to be led naked through the streets of Berlin. Facing a club full of strangers in my current state was more than enough for my first night in bondage.
"Kneel and wait here," Cristina ordered. I obeyed, kneeling back on my heels as I had been taught, not forgetting to spread my knees as widely as I could. She gathered a few belongings, including my wallet and keys, and prepared to go. Then she returned to me, picked up my leash, and said, "Come along, slave." I got to my feet hesitantly. "You will follow behind me, on my left."
"Yes, mistress," I said, taking up position. I was about to walk out in public wearing nothing more than a translucent piece of lingerie that exposed more of my body than it covered, the handcuffs on my wrists, and the steel collar around my neck. I thought I would die with humiliation. But at the same time, I knew from the heat between my thighs I was incredibly aroused. If Cristina had commanded me to kneel before her and serve her with my mouth I would have obeyed instantly. Instead, she tugged sharply on the leash. Stumbling, I followed her out the door, down the stairs, and out into the Berlin night.
Chapter 2: The Club
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.