"What are you going to do with the pictures?" I asked, as a new fantasy rapidly unfolded in my head, in which I was blackmailed into becoming Cristina's personal slave, or perhaps the property of the club itself, constantly available to any of its guests. I had reached the point where I had been tied again to that same table, but now was being used repeatedly by one man after another when Cristina interrupted my horrifying yet fascinating reverie.
"They're for you," she said. "I thought you might want them as ... as a souvenir."
"But what about the negatives?"
"Oh, don't worry about that," Cristina said dismissively. "My friend is extremely discreet. The last thing he wants is a reputation of exploiting the people who pay his cover charges and buy his drinks. If he put those pictures up on the Internet, people would stop going to his parties."
That felt like a rather paltry measure of security to me, but I decided there was little I could do about it. For all I knew, he had a right to take the pictures, as I had freely entered his club dressed the way I did, and had freely engaged in the activities I was now shocked to contemplate in images. "Thanks, I guess," I said. "By the way, " I continued as casually as I could, "did you bring the key for my collar?"
"Yes, I did," she answered, "but there's one favor I'd like to ask in exchange."
"What is it?" I asked, not sure if I wanted to hear the answer.
"I've been invited to a dinner party on Tuesday, and I wanted to know if you would go as my date?"
"As your date?"
"Well, actually, each person has to bring a slave." The words struck deep into my heart and body. I could feel warmth beginning to simmer between my thighs. "You would just have to act like a slave, just like last night," she continued reassuringly. "Everyone will know you aren't really a slave."
I thought for a moment about what that could mean. Were there really women - and men - who were truly slaves, fully owned, compelled to utter obedience to their masters, open and available to any of their whims or desires? Or did she only mean that there were people who had more experience playing the role of slaves, who perhaps would surrender themselves unconditionally for the span of an evening?
In any case, I could tell from the heat in my belly that I was clearly interested, but I did not want to let on to Cristina the extent of my desire. "Would I have to go completely naked?" I asked, trying to buy time.
"Not if you don't want to," Cristina answered. "I'm sure what you wore last night would be appropriate."
"What kind of service would I have to provide? Would I have to sleep with anyone?"
"That depends on what you want, Jenny," my friend said seriously. She waited. "What do you want?"
"Well ... I might want to in some circumstances" - I could hardly deny that, since she knew all about my attempts to interest Stefan - "but I'm not sure I like the idea of being forced to please anyone who wants me."
"You won't have to do anything you don't want to," Cristina promised.
"If you want to call it off, just say so and I'll take you home."
"OK, then, I guess I'll try it. But only because it's you," I said, trying to sound less excited than I was.
Cristina smiled. "I knew you'd agree. You'll have lots of fun."
"Now will you take of this collar?" I reminded her.
"Of course." She got up and stood behind me. "Bend forward and hold your hair out of the way." I obeyed, realizing the submissiveness of this posture, even here at a sidewalk caf table, baring my neck before Cristina. She pulled off the scarf, exposing the steel collar to public view. I felt a bolt click and then the soft breeze on the back of my neck as she lifted the collar away.
"Thank you," I whispered, finally free of that most compelling symbol of my bondage.
"Any time," Cristina answered. "Why don't I just give you the key, so that doesn't happen again," she said. I looked at her, wondering what she meant. "Well, it's your collar now," she explained. "You can take it home and put it on whenever the urge takes you."
The urge? Did she realize the depth of attraction that collar held for me? "Well, ok," I said.
"It's settled, then," Cristina said, gathering up her things. "I'll pick you up at your place on Tuesday around 6:30."
"What should I, uh, wear?" I asked.
"Nothing," she said. Seeing the shock on my face, she said, "No, I don't mean you should go nude. Just don't worry about it. I'll bring you something ... suitable." I wondered if that meant I would be granted more or less modesty than I had enjoyed the night before, when my most feminine secrets had been clearly on view and open to all. I wondered if it were possible to be more naked yet not completely nude. But I would be going to this party as a slave girl. I slave has no control over what, if anything, she is allowed to wear. She must simply abide by her master's will, even if that means displaying her charms openly to all comers. That is the least a slave must expect.
"OK, see you then," I managed to say. Clutching the collar in my hand, I began to retrace my journey to my apartment.
The next few days went by in a blur. I could think about nothing except the party to which I would be going and, I suspected, at which I would be a considerable part of the entertainment. I was afraid to see Cristina or any of the friends who had seen me at the club, for fear of how they might treat me. I found myself constantly wondering what other people, particularly men, thought of me. Did they find me attractive? Would they like to have me kneeling naked at their feet? If I begged them to rape me, would they do so?
When Tuesday came, I felt almost sick with nervous anticipation. Last time Cristina had exposed me in public, virtually naked, forced me to kneel before and lick her feet, bound me bent over a table - in short, had treated me as a slave. What would she demand of me tonight? I assumed she command at least as much, and probably more. I expected I would find myself completely nude before strangers, my charms open and exposed. But would I be compelled to serve them with my body, surrendering the last vestige of my freedom, my soft flesh a mere vessel for their pleasure? And if I were so commanded, would I obey? I spent much of the day trying to decide how I would respond. On the one hand, I was deeply, viscerally attracted to the thought of being used as a helpless sexual plaything, taken casually in multiple ways by strong masters intent only on their own pleasure. On the other hand, I was frightened to fully admit my inner nature to the world, to Cristina, and even to myself. At the time, I thought that it was still possible to turn my back on this new world, to return to the person I had been just a week before; but I sensed that if I truly surrendered my body, I would be crossing an line of significance, searing a mark in my body that would be impossible to erase. Then, I sensed, I would truly be a slave, for there would remain nothing to separate me from that condition of complete bondage and sexual servitude. What I failed to realize was that I was already a slave, that there could be no turning back.
At the time, I told myself that I would not let masters have complete sway over my body, that I would protect my last and most intimate assets from their attentions. But I could not be sure that I would comply with that decision.
A few minutes after 6:30, just when I was beginning to wonder if Cristina found me sufficiently pleasing, I heard a knock on the door. I opened it, and there she was, wearing an elegant black dress and high heels. "Hi, Cristina," I started to say when she interrupted me.