Chapter 8: My New Life

From that night, my fortunes had nowhere to go but up. And beginning the next morning, my lot did begin to improve. I was unchained in the morning and allowed to shower, eat, and rest in the slaves' quarters. For breakfast and lunch, unless we were called to perform our services elsewhere, we were allowed to eat as we chose from a small kitchen stocked with an assortment of healthy foods - cereal, skim milk, juices, fruit, fresh bread, raw vegetables, and so on. That first day, I was set to no menial chores, instead being allowed to rest and recover from the previous night's exertions. Though they were strict, our overseers were not unnecessarily cruel. The treatment I had suffered my first night was a ritual debasement imposed on every new slave girl, intended primarily to instruct her in her status and motivate her to be pleasing; they were sufficiently confident in its effectiveness that they saw no need to subject me to further abuse, but preferred to let their newest asset restore her strength and desirability.

Some of the other girls introduced themselves to me. Besides Michelle, there were two other Americans: Annabelle, from a liberal arts college in the Northeast, and Laura, who had been a model in New York. Once again I found myself in the awkward position of being one of the less attractive girls in a group. I knew that I would have to compensate for my face and body - certainly attractive, but not in the caliber of some of the girls around me - with absolute submissiveness and a fervent desire to please.

Despite our disparate backgrounds, all of the girls I met shared one thing in common - a hidden interest in submission that eventually led to our introduction into actual slavery. Apparently the type of slavers whom we had encountered, who seemed to operate in countries across the globe, were only interested in girls whose psychological profiles indicated that they could be molded into willing, helpless slaves. Of course, this made perfect sense. What man, presented with a reluctant, fearful slave girl, cowed into submission by beatings and threats, would not prefer an eager, submissive slave slut, desperate to please, willingly opening her thighs before him for his pleasure? I knew that I fell into that category, and I suspected that my new colleagues did as well.

In the evening, I was put to work in the club again - not, as I had feared, bound again over the same table to be used like so much captive flesh, but instead put to the more mundane task of waiting tables. Of course, as I had been instructed prior to going out onto the floor, I was to consider any client my absolute master, and was to comply immediately with any demands he made upon my body. My absolute nudity, especially compared with some of the girls who had been permitted clothing, revealing as it was, only reinforced my availability. But I was grateful nonetheless for this improvement in my condition. I was confident that, on my own two feet or kneeling before a client, I knew how to please a man. I was confident that my masters would find me an acceptable slave, and that I could count on my skills and my intrinsic submissiveness to protect me from the beatings and abuses that I could still feel in my sore body.

By watching the other girls, I quickly learned how to behave when serving clients in the club. We were to be elegant and unobtrusive, taking their orders and delivering their drinks and food, but at the same time were to subtly and sensuously offer the additional services that could be commanded of a slave girl. "How else may I serve you, master?" and "Does master desire anything else from this slave?" were phrases that I would use with a client who seemed more interested in drink and conversation than in intimate services; "This slave begs to please you" or "This slave begs to be raped" would be more appropriate with a client whose gaze was drawn to my naked breasts and thighs. I also learned the silent, non-verbal but highly communicative signals that slave girls might resort to - lowering my eyes, licking my parted lips, spreading my thighs, or pushing my breasts up and forward, so that a master might choose to reach out and caress them. I knew it was in my interests to draw attention, to make myself desirable, to be the kind of girl that a man might order to her knees before him, or might drag off to a private room, there to put her through her paces. And knowing that to be my station, I could not help myself from truly wanting to be found desirable, to be put on my back and used like the slave I was, to be allowed to cry out my submission in the arms of a master.

That first night, though, no man saw fit to spend the additional money to take me to a private room. A few commanded me to please them at their tables, kneeling before them while they continued with their drinks and their conversation, occasionally giving me a word of encouragement or a silent instruction with a hand locked in my hair. After serving them, I would quietly kiss their feet, thank them, and withdraw, leaving them to their company. I hoped I had been satisfactory and that there would not be any negative reports on me.

Over the next several days, however, I grew more and more bold, and as a consequence had more and more success in soliciting clients. For the most part, the clientele of the Club Aphrodite preferred eager, willing slave sluts, girls who would throw themselves, hot and wet, at their feet, begging to be taken. And as I gained confidence, I became more and more brazen, more and more forward in displaying my charms for men and communicating to them the exquisite pleasures I might provide them, either through verbal description or through the wordless moans of a desperate slave girl seeking the dominating touch of a master. While some of this performance was an act, some of it was real - I did want to be taken and dominated, not just because that would improve my standing among the slaves, but also because that was the sole relevant measure of my value. In school my value had been set by grades, friends, and boyfriends; here my value was set by my ability to please men, and I deeply, psychologically wanted to be valued. I welcomed the taste of a master in my mouth, or the feeling of him in my body, as a valid sign of the meaning my life now had, and I was truly grateful to the men who saw fit to give me that sign.

One night several days into my tenure at the club, I brought a vodka martini to a client sitting alone at a side table, and placed it before him. He was middle-aged, somewhat portly, and balding, and his suit was uncharacteristically pedestrian for the setting. But he was a man, and I was a naked slave. I dropped to my knees, my thighs wide, leaning forward to kiss and caress his knees and thighs. "Would master care to make use of this slave?" I begged.

"What can you do for me?" he asked.

"Whatever master can imagine, and many things besides," I said, looking up at him with my lips parted sensuously. It was a standard response.

"Very well. Take me to a private room," he said.

"Oh, thank you, master," I said, covering his feet with kisses. I was truly gratified. Not only had he accepted the humble offer of my naked body, but he would also pay an additional fee for my use, bringing my masters more money.

I led him down the hallway to one of the private bedrooms, opened the door, and let him precede me into the room. It was a rule in the club that we should always let clients enter the room first. It was a small gesture, and one that probably escaped the attention of most of our customers, but one that reinforced our subservient status.

He crossed the room and sat down in the large armchair. I got down on all fours and crawled across the room to his feet, my breasts and hips swaying prettily. I knelt before him and bent down to begin taking off his shoes, caressing his feet and calves lovingly and submissively. "How may I please you, master?" I said.

"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."