I was brought out of my reverie by Cristina's hand in my hair, jerking my head upright. "Well, I see my little slave is hot," she said, to general laughter around the table. I blushed yet again. "I think it's time to show you around the facilities, so we can figure out what to do with you."

"Whatever you wish, mistress," I answered.

I felt a tug on the leash. "Up, slut!" Cristina commanded. I obeyed silently. She turned and headed toward the back left area of the main club room, leaving me to follow behind her, stumbling awkwardly, not used to walking quickly with my hands bound behind my back. Trying to ignore the stares of the people we passed - and, worse yet, the hands that casually reached out to stroke my breasts or my backside, from which I was powerless to protect myself - I followed her through an archway into another large room, this one well-lit by comparison. I gasped as I looked around.

"This is where slaves get tied up and beaten," Cristina said matter-of-factly. Indeed, there were nearly-naked bodies in various states of bondage all over the room - men and women, thin and corpulent, black and white and everything else, hanging from their wrists and strapped to the floor. Some were completely nude, but most had been afforded some protection from roving eyes. A platinum blonde in a leather bikini was spread-eagled to a wooden cross and being whipped by a man in a biker uniform; a man in a latex bodysuit and matching hood was hogtied and dangling from a ring suspended from the ceiling; a small Asian woman was bound with her back to a post, her naked body criss-crossed painfully with ropes.

I must have had my mouth open in shock. Cristina smiled at me. "Well, what'll it be for you? This is what you thought happened to slaves, isn't it?"

I could only shake my head slowly. Some of the bound figures had been left unattended and completely helpless. "Do people just leave them here like that?"

"Sometimes," she said. "But it's completely safe. You just write on a sign what people are allowed to do with the slave. If she's not available for general use, you just say so." I noticed that next to some of the bound slaves, there were small signs - "look, but don't touch," for example.

"You're not going to tie me up naked, are you?" I asked, shuddering. Although my scanty clothing left virtually nothing to the imagination, there was still something about the tiny shred of modesty it permitted me. To go utterly naked in such a setting was too frightening to imagine.

"Of course not, my dear Jenny," Cristina said soothingly. She looked around the room. "There's an open spot," she said, and began leading me further into the room. I followed, too frightened to ask.

She brought me to a small table, about three feet off the ground, with a padded surface. Rings were set at several points around the perimeter of the table, each connected to a short chain and cuff. "This will do," Cristina said. "Now stand here and lean onto the table," she ordered. I did as she asked, standing at the edge of the table and leaning my body over it until most of my weight was on my stomach and breasts. I felt the handcuffs being taken off my wrists. Then my mistress came around in front of me and chained my wrists to the far corners of the table. A shudder went through my body as I felt the cold steel lock in place about my wrists. Then she was behind me. I felt my legs pulled widely apart and my ankles cuffed tightly to the two rear table legs. I was unable to close my legs. I tried to rise up from the table but was prevented by the short chains on my wrists. I tried to turn my head but could not see behind me.

I was chained to the table, bending over, forcibly held in place by unbreakable links of steel. I could feel the short skirt of my garment rising high up on my hips and knew that my softness was complete available from behind. The most casual passer-by could see my body so brazenly and vulnerably exposed to view. Now I knew that a slave could not expect to preserve even the most minimal degree of modesty. She existed solely for the pleasure and convenience of masters, and could expect to be displayed accordingly.

"Please, Cristina, don't do this to me," I begged. I was rewarded with an electric jolt on my bottom where she slapped me with her riding crop. I gasped.

"Slaves don't use their mistress's names," she said, and hit me again.

I yelped in pain this time and shouted, "I'm sorry, mistress! I'm sorry!" hoping for forgiveness. She walked around in front of me and pressed the crop against my lips. I kissed it fervently, then began licking and caressing it with my tongue. If showing my submission to that instrument of discipline would mollify my mistress, then I would show it as best as I knew how. Cristina smiled, no doubt amused at the eagerness of her new slave girl, perhaps wondering if she would bring the same desperation and passion to all forms of service and submission.

"I'm just going to leave you here for a bit," she said. "And don't worry, I'll make sure that no one penetrates you."

"Thank you, mistress," I said, with true gratitude. Attracted as I was to the condition of slavery, I had no wish to be taken from behind without even a chance to see my rapist.

I heard the sharp click of Cristina's heels as she walked away. I considered my situation. Only yesterday, before having breakfast with Cristina, I had been a free-willed, ambitious, popular Californian college student with the world at her feet. Now I was chained, face down, to a table in a busy nightclub, a collar locked on my neck, virtually naked, my legs held open to view or worse. Literally hundreds of people could walk right up and have their way with my body, protected by nothing more than Cristina's handwritten "no penetration" sign. Chained as I was, I could not even see them approach. I imagined what it would be like if I were truly a slave, if I my body really were available to the casual and forceful pleasures of men, and women, if I might be used quickly and ruthlessly by a man whose face I would never see, or if another man might walk up in front of me and demand to be served intimately. I felt immense relief that I was not, truly, consigned to that fate. But at the same time, I realized that I was extremely aroused. I knew that I was wet, my body attempting to prepare itself for its unseen rapists. Perhaps slave girls were constantly aroused as a crude defense mechanism against sudden, brutal penetration. I only knew that if a man were to take advantage of my exposed position, my body at least would welcome the assault.

Suddenly my body stiffened. I felt a hand slide lazily over the curves of my bottom, lingering near the parting of my thighs. The hand then drift upward, under the thin fabric, to caress my flanks, upward toward the flare of my breasts. "Very nice," I heard a man's voice muse in German. I kept my body tense, uncertain what humiliation awaited me. "No penetration," I heard him say, reading Cristina's note. Then he said something rapid that I did not understand.

"Entschuldigen Sie bitte?" I remembered to say.

He laughed. "An American!" he said, in English. "I was just saying, it's too bad you're not available for ... for penetration. I would surely have taken you, slave!"

"I'm sorry, master," I said, lifting my head and trying to turn to see him. Was it really so obvious that I was a slave? But of course - who else would be bound so provocatively, so vulnerably?

"It's ok, slut," he said, playfully slapping me on the bottom. Then his hand returned between my legs, testing my most secret region, feeling the slickness there. "But it seems you could really use something between your legs," he said, laughing, and walked away.

I was mortified. Not only was I virtually naked, my legs widely spread, but it was apparent that I was deeply aroused by my predicament.