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Beautiful woman, beautiful day, what else could you want.

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.

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