Home » BDSM sex story - My Berlin Summer

BDSM sex story - My Berlin Summer

 

Chapter 1:  The Invitation
I suppose it was all my own fault.  I should have known what I was
getting into.  Or maybe I did know, and that was why I got into it.
Sometimes it's hard to say what we do of our own conscious volition,
and what we are somehow drawn into doing.  But it happened all the
same.

It was the summer after my junior year in college, when the world
still lay before me.  I was living in Berlin, in Kreuzberg, and like
any good American college student, I spent my nights in Prenzlauer
Berg, in what had once been East Berlin.  I was nominally in Berlin to
learn German and to study art history, but really I was there to have
fun.  And fun I had.  It was late June, only three weeks after I had
arrived, and I had fallen in with a group of German students whom I
idolized - older, better traveled, more world-weary, they seemed the
very embodiment of sophistication to a girl from California, abroad
for the first time.

My real idol, though I tried my best not to admit it, was tall,
black-haired, leather-clad Cristina, a philosophy student and probably
a lesbian.  Despite my considerably shorter stature, chestnut-brown
hair, and awkward tendency to smile when Cristina would have scowled,
I fantasized about being like her - hard, cutting, and supremely
self-confident.  When she invited me to do something with her, I would
invariably forget whatever plans I had to trail along with her
loyally.

So it was one day when she called my apartment and asked - no, told -
me to come have breakfast with her.  We were eating croissants and
drinking black coffee at an outdoor table when she pushed her copy of
Zitty across the table to me, pointed at an advertisement, and said,
"What do you think of that?"

I looked at the ad.  It was a small black-and-white picture of a woman
on hands and knees, wearing only the manacles that joined her wrists
and ankles, a metal collar, and a leash, her lips pressed against a
whip being held above her face by an unseen master.  I think my whole
body must have quivered when I saw that picture.  It was not the first
time I had wondered what it would be like to be that woman - naked,
chained, and completely at the mercy of a firm master.  Or mistress.
Here I was looking at the image of my fantasy.

I shook my head to clear my eyes and read the ad.  It advertised a
"Bondage Ball" at a large East Berlin club - the next evening.  I had
heard dimly of this sort of thing - a vast, tumultuous frenzy of
leather-clad masters and slaves groping each other to loud techno
music - and had even, in my more libertine moments, imagined that I
might summon up the courage to go.  But now that it was before me ...

"Well?  I see that you are interested."  Cristina's British-German
accent brought me back to the breakfast table.

"Um ... it seems interesting.  I've never been to something like that,
but I've often thought of going."  That, at least, was true.

Cristina gave me a long, hard look.  I wondered if she could see into
my eyes and see a naked slave hiding behind them, if my inner nature
were so evident.  I lowered my eyes, before realizing that was exactly
what a slave would do.  I blushed, waiting for her to say something.
"Master or a slave?" she finally asked.

My body screamed out for me to proclaim my slavehood, my desire to
submit.  But my inhibitions were still too strong.  I had not yet
learned that girls such as I were not allowed inhibitions.  "I don't
know ... it just seems interesting," I managed to mumble.

"Well, if you want to go with me, you'll have to go as my slave,"
Cristina said cheerfully.  The words sent a thrill through my body
from deep inside.  I realized that I was aroused just thinking about
the possibility of going to a club as a woman's slave.  I wondered
what I would have to do - what I would be allowed to wear, whether I
would be collared, or even leashed, whether I would have to serve her
as a slave ...  "Well, what do you think?"  Her voice brought me back
to reality.

"Are you serious?"  I was just trying to buy time to think, but
instantly I regretted it ... would she withdraw the offer?  Had I
missed my chance to play out my fantasy?  "I mean, I'm open to
anything," I said, trying to keep the possibility open.

"OK, I have to go," Cristina said, standing up.  My stomach felt empty
for a moment.  "Think about it.  If you want to be my slave, call me
by tomorrow morning so we have time to get you something to wear."

"OK, I'll think about it," I said, doing my best to sound assured and,
I was sure, failing miserably.

Once Cristina was out of sight, I turned back to the advertisement for
the party and considered the enticing, naked slave in the picture, her
eyes closed as she lingeringly, tenderly kissed the supple leather of
the whip to which she was subject.  Or at least, that's what I was
thinking.  I tried to imagine what it would be like, forced to my
hands and knees, my wrists and ankles joined by short lengths of
chain, my head pulled upward by the pull on my chain leash, completely
nude, open to the visual and physical exploitation of a master.  I
felt heat between my thighs.  I tried to imagine what the club would
be like.  Most likely, I expected, it would be disappointingly tame -
a crowd of yuppies playing at dominance and submission, spoiled brats
in fancy leather costumes, mild arousal destined for disappointment.
But the possibilities ...  Perhaps I would be stripped naked before a
crowd of people, forced to crawl on the floor and beg to lick their
feet.  Perhaps I would be made to dance naked before men, desperately
trying to interest them in my body until one deigned to make use of
it, only then to dance again, until all the men were satisfied.
Perhaps I would be thrown over a table, my legs tied apart, to be
casually used by any man who so chose.

I knew then that I would go to that club.  It was only a matter of
gathering up the courage to say that to Cristina.

I gathered up my things and hurried home to my apartment, visions of
myself as a slave girl passing through my mind.  On my knees, bent
over, licking the feet of a master; standing on my toes, my wrists
bound high above my head, awaiting the touch of the lash; naked, on an
auction block, forced to display my charms openly to a crowd of
bidders; kneeling before a man, hands bound behind my back, serving
his pleasure.  I tried to banish the visions from my mind, but they
kept coming back.  I had had these thoughts before, but never with
this intensity.  Before, being a slave girl had been but an idle
fantasy, one of the themes I used occasionally when bored and seeking
arousal.  I would get a mild charge out of seeing a picture of a woman
in bondage, but little more; it never seemed a plausible reality.
Now, at least for this moment, it seemed my destiny.  Cristina had
unleashed a flood of emotions whose force I had never suspected.  They
were sure to be disappointed at the club itself, I expected, but until
then, I would give myself up to my fantasy.

By the time I arrived at my small walkup apartment, I was damp between
the thighs.  I debated momentarily whether it was appropriate for a
slave girl to pleasure herself, but ultimately could not resist the
temptation, closing my eyes and imagining the strong, powerful master
who was forcing himself upon me, raping my body with his manhood,
using me mercilessly for his pleasure, then casting me into the arms
of another, without a second thought for the girl he had just
ravished.  I felt their plunging thrusts as they took pleasure in my
vulnerable, open, enslaved softness, impressing on me my degraded
condition, nothing more than a vessel for their amusement and
relaxation.  I came as I imagined only a slave girl could, completely
uninhibited, without regard for dignity or propriety.  When the
imaginary warriors had finished with their plaything, she was a small,
spent bundle of slave flesh lying exhausted on the now-damp sheets of
her summer-in-Europe futon.

Deeply embarrassed, and thankful that no one could see my condition, I
took a shower and decided there was no way I could go the club.


The next morning, however, I found myself dialing Cristina's number.
Several times I made it partway through the digits before hanging up.
When I finally had the courage to press the last button, I found
myself praying for her answering machine.  After five rings, I began
to relax.  Then her voice answered the phone.  "Hello?"

"Uh, hi, Cristina, this is Jennifer."

"Who?"

"You know, Jennifer."

"Oh, yeah.  I'm sorry.  What do you want?"

"Well, about going to that club tonight, ..."

"What club?"

"You know, the one with that event tonight."  Silence.  "The Bondage
Ball."

"Oh, yeah.  What about it?"

"Well, yesterday, you said that maybe we would go.  And ... well, I
think I would be interested in seeing what it's like."

Silence.  "You want to go as my slave?"

Now it was my turn to be silent.  "Yes," I whispered.  Although I was
only agreeing to accompany her in the role of a submissive to a club,
I knew that inside I was admitting something much deeper and more
significant.

"You'll be my slave tonight?" 

"Yes."  Silence.  "I'll be your slave."  There.  I had said it.  It
was out in the world, and someone had heard it.  I was not what people
thought me to be - a smart, well-educated, independent, free woman.
Instead, I was something else - a naked slave girl asking for the
collar of a master.  I felt the now-familiar surge of arousal as I
contemplated the idea.  There was silence on the other end.  Perhaps
Cristina was wondering if I would make an acceptable slave - wondering
how I would look chained nude at her feet, or how skillful I could be
with my mouth and hands, or what my resale value could be,
appropriately displayed to assembled masters.

"Well, OK," she said.  "Come over to my apartment around nine
tonight."

"Thank you," I said, before realizing it was completely inappropriate.
 Or maybe it was appropriate that a slave should thank her mistress.
"What should I wear?"  I had visions of bikinis, miniskirts, sheath
dresses, ...

"Oh, don't worry about that," Cristina answered.  "I'll find you
something appropriate."

"OK.  Well, see you tonight."

"See you," she said.  "Get plenty of rest."  And then she hung up.

I resisted the urge to tear off my clothes and submit myself once
again to the use of my imaginary masters, this time resolving to deny
myself until tonight.  A slave's body, after all, is not her own; it
is up to the masters when, or even if at all, she may enjoy its use.
Or at least that's how I imagined it must be.

I spent the day wandering around Schoneberg, looking into bookstores
and sneaking glances at the "art" photography books showing pictures
of bound, naked women.  I wondered which of the models I would most
resemble tonight when I was myself exhibited to an audience of people
I had never met.  I returned to my apartment, stripped myself naked,
buckled a belt around my neck to take the place of a collar, and posed
before my full-length mirror, wondering what that audience would see
in me.  Would they see just an American college girl playing a role,
soon to return to college and law school and a future in mergers and
acquisitions?  Or would they see something else - a true slave girl,
desperate to please, seeking a master to put her in her place, to take
away her freedom and impose his will on her, to claim her naked beauty
for his own ruthless use?  I regarded my body in the mirror.  Perhaps
men would find me of interest, even if I was not tall, thin, and
blonde; I knelt before the mirror, knees spread widely, shoulder
pulled back to project my breasts forward, lips half open in
anticipation ...  Yes, I thought a man could find that wanton slut of
interest - perhaps the firmness of her full breasts, or the warmth of
her mouth, or the curves of her hips and thighs, or the softness of
her belly.  Or a woman might find her of interest, might find her
worthy of a collar and a chain and long nights rendering intimate
service with her lips and tongue.  I had never been particularly
attracted to women, but I knew that it was a master I sought, and
whether that master were a man or woman was less important than that
he or she would use me as what I was, a plaything to be used and
abused, to be enjoyed and cast aside and forgotten.  I was almost
unbearably aroused looking at myself in the mirror and imagining the
indignities and humiliations I might be suffering in only a few hours.

I wondered what Cristina would make me wear tonight - perhaps a latex
bondage suit, perhaps a simple string bikini, perhaps nothing but a
collar and chains.  I hoped she would let me wear something - I had
never been naked in public and, despite my attraction to it, was
simultaneously terrified at the thought.  I wondered if I should dress
up somehow to go to her apartment.  Did she expect a brazen, begging
slut, or a shy, vulnerable slave girl?  Or just an ordinary American
college student, whom she would transform to suit her tastes?

I decided that, since she had not asked me to dress the part of a
slave, to do so would only draw attention to my inner yearnings that I
was still not prepared to admit to anyone.  So as the dusk began to
fall, I pulled on my customary uniform - jeans, sandals, and a snug
but generally modest halter top.  It was too warm for a sweater or
jacket.

My heart pounding in my chest, I took a taxi to Cristina's apartment,
wondering if the driver could sense my unease, could strip me naked
with his eyes and see me for the slave I would soon be.  I was so
distracted I almost forgot to collect my change until he shouted after
me as I was walking away.  I opened the outer door of Cristina's
building, tried to take a deep breath, failed, and pushed the button
for her apartment.  The door buzzed, I pushed it, and I was inside.

Cristina opened the door and gave me a searching once-over from head
to toe.  I was desperately afraid to catch a glint of disappointment
in her eye.  Should I have worn something more revealing, more
feminine?  "I figured you would dress me the way you wanted ..." I
stammered.

"Of course, my dear," Cristina said.  "But first, we have to make sure
you want to go through with this."

"Yes, I do."

"For this evening, you agree to be my willing, obedient slave, to obey
me unquestioningly in all things, to serve me and anyone I designate
in any way I choose at an instant's command?"

I swallowed.  I thought for an instant about what might be commanded
of me.  I was no virgin, but at the same time I was hardly
experienced, and could only imagine what a ruthless master might
demand of my body.  I saw myself being taken simultaneously by two or
even three men ...  "Yes.  I agree," I whispered.

Cristina smiled.  "Of course, if at any time you wish to back out of
this agreement, you may.  I will simply pack you into a taxi and send
you back home.  But otherwise, you are mine."

"I'm yours."  I tried to smile to show bravery, but only managed to
blush and lower my eyes.

"All right, let's get started.  First, you will only speak when spoken
to.  You will address any person you see, including me, as master or
mistress - even other slaves.  Is that clear?"

"Yes ... yes, mistress," I said.

"Good."  She reached behind her, picked up a scrap of cloth, and threw
it at me.  "Now take off all your clothes and put that on."  I paused.
 "You can use the bathroom to change."

Breathing a deep sigh of relief, I took the garment into the bathroom
and closed the door.  What was I getting myself into?  I looked at the
clothing she had given me.  It was a simple, white negligee, slightly
translucent, hardly there at all.  In it I would be next to naked
before hundreds of strangers.  Well, there was no turning back now.  I
took off all my clothes, pulled it over my head, and looked in the
mirror.  It hung from two thin straps on my shoulders, covered only
the bottom half of my breasts, and came only a fraction of the way
down my thighs.  The tips of my breasts pressed against and showed
clearly through the thin white fabric.  A deep cut exposed my back all
the way to my waist.  If I bent over, my most intimate regions would
come clearly into view of anyone standing behind me.  Nothing I had
imagined - not even complete nudity - could be as humiliating as this
scanty garment.  It was simply begging to be torn away, inviting men
to strip me naked and have me as the slave I was.  I thought
momentarily of backing out of the bargain.  But I was too close to
realizing a fantasy that was too dear to me to turn aside now.
Besides, a real slave would have no such choice.  She would simply
have to wear whatever her masters deigned to throw her or, failing
that, nothing.

I pulled the garment down as far as it would go on my thighs, pulling
it more tightly across my breasts in the process, opened the door, and
walked out in front of Cristina.  My breath caught in my throat when I
saw what she was holding - a short riding crop.  "Not bad," she said.
"Turn around.  Display yourself for me."  Not sure what that meant, I
turned slowly, standing as straight as I could, pulling back my
shoulders and pushing my breasts forward for her to review.  I knew
she could see them clearly; I hoped she liked them.  That was all a
slave could hope for - to be pleasing to her master.

I was again standing before her.  "Kneel," she commanded, pushing down
on my left shoulder with the riding crop.  "Down on your heels," she
ordered.  I complied eagerly, finally able to live out my fantasy, to
demonstrate my submission to my master.  I kept my knees pressed
tightly together, afraid that opening them would expose myself
completely to her gaze.  Simply kneeling had already drawn the thin
fabric even higher on my thighs.

"Spread your knees," Cristina said simply.  I looked up at her and
swallowed.  "Now, slut," she continued.  I opened them cautiously.
"Wider, slut!" she ordered.  "A slave must always open herself to the
uses of her master."  I spread my knees until my thighs made a right
angle between them.  The hem of the garment I wore was balanced
precariously across the tops of my thighs.  I put my hands palms down
on my now-bare thighs, pulled back my shoulders, thrust out my
breasts, and looked up again at my mistress, a slave hoping
desperately for acceptance.  I hoped she liked what she saw - an eager
slave who would do anything to please her.  It was what I was.

"Not bad," she said, smiling.  "Now kiss my whip."  She pressed the
crop to my lips.  I kissed it hesitantly.  "Not like that, slut!" she
shouted.  "Use your tongue, take it in your mouth, caress it like your
master's body."  A shudder went through my body, imagining that it was
instead my imaginary master's manhood pressed to my lips instead.  I
closed my eyes, opened my lips, and began to tongue the crop with a
heat and passion that my previous boyfriends would have been shocked
to behold.  "Very good, slave," I could hear Cristina saying.  "That
is how a slave pleases her master.  I think you will do quite nicely."
 I felt a surge of warmth course through me when she praised me.
Perhaps I would be a good slave?  I wondered why that thought thrilled
me so deeply.  I wondered if I should be objecting to Cristina's
casual treatment of me, as if I were in reality nothing but a slave.
I wondered if a smart, independent woman would have bolted to her feet
and run from the room.  But I realized that such a woman would never
have consented to don the flimsy garment I had willingly put on, to
open her knees so submissively.

Cristina laughed.  "You may stop now, slut," she said.  I lowered my
eyes, embarrassed.  I had been so carried away that I had forgotten
what I was doing.  "I think you really enjoyed kissing my whip," she
said.  "Didn't you?"

"Yes, mistress," I whispered. 

"Good.  That's how it should be."  Cristina then turned and picked
something up off the table behind her.  When she turned back to me, I
could see what it was - a heavy, chrome-colored collar, two
half-circles attached at a heavy hinge.  "Hold back your hair," she
said.  I pulled up my long, brown hair and held it up above my head.
She crouched down in front of me and casually snapped the collar about
my neck.  The sound of the lock closing filled me with terror.  Now I
was truly enslaved to her, for all the world to know.  I put my hands
to the collar and felt its smooth, hard, cold surface.  I knew nothing
I could do could remove that collar from my neck.

"You look just about ready," Cristina mused, looking over my scantily
clad form.  "Just a couple of finishing touches ... Stand up and turn
around."  I obeyed immediately.  If I were playing a role, I would
play it perfectly.  "Hands behind your back."  Dreading what was
coming next, I complied.  I felt the steel handcuffs lock around my
small wrists and ratchet down.  I tried to pull my wrists apart and
felt the links of chain joining them go taut.  I felt my breasts
strain forward against the thin garment.  My hands were bound behind
my back until Cristina chose to release them.  I could not even use
them to protect my body from her or anyone else's attentions.

Cristina spun me around to face her.  She was holding a long, thin
chain.  She reached up to my neck and quickly snapped one end of it
onto what must have been a ring on the front of my collar.  I was
leashed!  I could be led anywhere she wished, like an animal.  And
with my hands chained behind my back, a leash dangling from my collar,
my slavery was immediately evident to even the most casual observer.

"Cristina? ... Mistress?  Are you taking me to the club like this?"

My head reeled from the backhanded slap of her leather-gloved hand.
"You are not to speak unless spoken to, slut," she said.

"Yes, mistress," I whispered.  "I'm sorry, mistress." 

"And yes, I am taking you to the club like this.  Any objections and
I'll cut your clothes off and walk you through the streets naked."  I
repressed a momentary desire to be led naked through the streets of
Berlin.  Facing a club full of strangers in my current state was more
than enough for my first night in bondage.

"Kneel and wait here," Cristina ordered.  I obeyed, kneeling back on
my heels as I had been taught, not forgetting to spread my knees as
widely as I could.  She gathered a few belongings, including my wallet
and keys, and prepared to go.  Then she returned to me, picked up my
leash, and said, "Come along, slave."  I got to my feet hesitantly.
"You will follow behind me, on my left."

"Yes, mistress," I said, taking up position.  I was about to walk out
in public wearing nothing more than a translucent piece of lingerie
that exposed more of my body than it covered, the handcuffs on my
wrists, and the steel collar around my neck.  I thought I would die
with humiliation.  But at the same time, I knew from the heat between
my thighs I was incredibly aroused.  If Cristina had commanded me to
kneel before her and serve her with my mouth I would have obeyed
instantly.  Instead, she tugged sharply on the leash.  Stumbling, I
followed her out the door, down the stairs, and out into the Berlin
night.