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."
"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.