The helicopter began to rise into the air. I was crying steadily by now. "You mean it's all over? I'm not a slave any more? I can go home?" I had dreamed about this moment, but for months now had never expected it to happen. And now that it had come, I did not know whether I preferred it to remaining a helpless pleasure slave.

"You're not a slave any more, Jenny," he answered. "It's over."

My mind was mixed with both elation and sadness. Elation, of course, that I would be free, that I could go about my life as I chose, that my future had been given back to me. Never again would I have to kiss the whip that was about to beat me, never would I be tied up to be used like a piece of furniture, never would I have to spread my knees helplessly before a man, begging to be raped. But it also meant that I would never again know the exquisite rapture of the overpowered, overwhelmed, ravished slave, held in place by her master's body and forced to experience the unconditional surrender of her body. Never would I have the absolute security of gazing into a master's eyes as I swallowed and knowing that I had brought him pleasure he could only find in a slave, and had thereby fulfilled my purpose in life. Never could I spread my knees before a man and beg to be raped as the slave I suspected I might still be.

"Please, lieutenant," I said. "Let me thank you. Let me thank you and your men in the only way I know how, with my body. Let me serve you and give you pleasure, let me give my body to you so that you may use it in any way you desire."

Lieutenant Shipman looked at me harshly. "I don't know what's wrong with you, slut, but you know I can't allow that."

"Please, sir," I begged. "I've spent two weeks being raped and abused hundreds of times by men who hated me and wanted nothing more than to humiliate me. You are the first men who have done anything good for me. Why should they be able to make use of me, and not you? I would gladly give you the usage of my body, if you would accept it, to show you my gratitude. I have nothing else to give you. I'm begging you." I adjusted my position slightly, bringing attention to my breasts, my belly, and the curve of my thighs as they extended toward my intimate regions. He was only a man, after all.

The man next to the lieutenant whispered in his ear, smiling. "Very well," he finally said. "We'll see what we can do when we get back to base."

I spent the remainder of that day in a room partitioned off from the large warehouse that had been converted into a barracks for the Special Forces who had been assigned to this mission. After eating and showering, and affirming once more that I did, truly and desperately, want to be the unit's slave for that day, I retired to "my" room, which had been equipped with a bunk and a few sleeping bags. There I awaited the men as, one by one, they came to take advantage of the eager slut they had so fortuitously discovered on their raid. I was still nude except for the collar and leash, which I hoped would inspire them to treat me as what I still knew myself to be, a slave, and I told each man that I would serve him in any way he chose, no matter how depraved or unusual he might think it. A majority, of course, could not resist the thought of having a naked, chained girl kneel at their feet and please them with her mouth, which of course I did happily. Only a few showed any inclination to tie me helplessly and subject me to something approaching the brutal rapes I had so often suffered. But whatever they demanded or, more often, asked for politely, I performed with all of the beauty, submissiveness, and gratitude I knew possible. They had given me the gift of freedom; I wanted to leave them with the gift of a perfect slave girl, which so few men have had the pleasure of enjoying.

After I had served their pleasure, even repeatedly for some of them, I was dressed in spare army clothes and taken to the logistics center to arrange transportation back to the United States. The day's delay was ascribed to an illness that was attested to by the unit's physician. I felt uncomfortable wearing "normal" clothes, clothes that did not clearly reveal my body, that could not be simply torn away, and that shielded my body from casual rape. I had grown so accustomed to being sexually available that I almost wanted to tear off my clothes and kneel before the men around me, proclaiming myself their inferior and their plaything. After some haggling, it was arranged that I would be taken in a jeep to the nearest American consulate two hundred miles away, where air travel to Los Angeles could be arranged.

I thanked my liberators once more - saving a passionate kiss for Lieutenant Shipman for last - and bid them farewell. The next day I was on a plane to Los Angeles by way of London. I did not know what would await me there.

Epilogue

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.