"Do you think you are any good?" Claudia asked.

I didn't know what to say. I thought the trainers had found me satisfactory. I knew from casual observation that I was selected more often than most of the other girls to offer up my body for their use. "I hope so, mistress," I said. Then, more boldly, I added, "Perhaps you will let me serve you, mistress."

Claudia laughed. "Not now, I'm a busy woman," she said. "Overall, however, I am extremely pleased with you." I felt a warm glow of pleasure in my belly. A slave girl exists to be pleasing, and nothing can give her such a sense of fulfillment as a master's praise. "Of course, you are still a new slave, and have much to learn," she continued.

I remained silent. I knew that in my life as a slave many things would be demanded of me, services that I had probably not yet imagined, that I might find even more deeply humiliating and degrading than anything that I had yet suffered, that surely only the lowest of sluts would even consider. But I knew that I would embrace them, because that was what I was for.

"But for now, you are ready to be sold," Claudia said. I looked up, startled. "You see, this is a business. We have increased your value tremendously in the few weeks you have been here. When you arrived, you were a fresh, untrained capture, with a disposition to submit to your masters, but little else. Now you are an exquisite, tantalizing, beautiful slut, trained to give men pleasures they can only exact from a true slave. But keeping you here a few more weeks will hardly increase your value now." I stared at her blankly, hearing the words but not understanding their meaning. "Now is the time for your auction."

"Yes, mistress," I finally whispered. Of course, I thought, as the words sunk in. I was a slave girl. The mansion, the lessons, the trainers, the routine of submission and rape - this was only a way station, a training course. At the end of it, I would be released to my fate, which was to be an unconditional, helpless, absolutely perfect pleasure slave. I could be owned by anyone - anyone, that is, with the money to buy me - and would have to obey immediately and enthusiastically the least of his or her commands. And the majority of those commands would involve the use of my naked body to gratify my masters' sexual urges.

"Do you have any questions?" Claudia asked.

"Whom am I to be sold to?" I said. "What is going to happen to me?" Here, I felt secure. Here, for the price of constant submission and repeated rape, I was secure and fulfilled. The thought of a new master and a new life frightened me.

"First we will do your photo and video shoots," she explained. "Then we will distribute your package to our network of clients. Some of them will be interested, and some will not. The interested ones will come here to inspect you more closely, and then you will be auctioned off." She paused. "As to who will buy you, we leave that to the whim of the market."

I could feel tears welling up inside me. So despite my faithful service to Cristina, despite all my hours of practice and training under Claudia's direction, there was no one who cared about me, except as merchandise. I was only a piece of captive female flesh, to be bought and sold for the pleasures that could be extracted from it. "Yes, mistress," I said. "Thank you, mistress."

"You are dismissed," she said.

I lowered my head to the floor as I had been taught and tenderly, lingeringly, kissed my mistress's feet, feeling my breasts graze the carpet. I raised myself again to my knees and then stood, turned, and left the room.

The next morning I was excused from class for my "photo shoot." One room of the mansion had been transformed into a professional photographer's studio. All the shots were taken against a blank white curtain. Potential bidders were not interested in props and sets. All they would be interested in was my body. In all the pictures, I posed absolutely nude, save for my collar.

The photographer snapped his instructions in a friendly but authoritative voice, casually ordering me to assume every humiliating position a man might like to demand from a beautiful, naked girl. He made me crawl across the set, forward and backward and side to side, my back arched and bottom raised invitingly, my head raised boldly, lips suggestively pursed, or my head lowered, my hair a curtain before my face. I posed in all the positions of slave rape, on my back, knees, or belly, or standing, bent over, grasping my ankles, my legs always widely spread for an unseen master's convenience. The photographer took close-ups of my most intimate areas, forcing me to display myself in the most degrading fashion for inspection by my potential owners. A master wants to know every detail of his slave girl.

I went through my paces almost numbly, unable to accept what was being done to me. I was being marketed like any commodity, made to reveal my charms as enticingly as possible to increase my desirability in the market. The feeling of deep, emotional submission to a master or mistress, which is what had initially tempted me into slavery, was far distant. This side of slavery was purely a business matter, and I was but a product.

At one point during the session, apparently irritated at my somewhat leaden performance, the photographer positioned me on my knees, my head to the floor, my hands clasped over my head. I expected he merely wanted to demonstrate to his audience this additional option for exploiting my body and waited quietly for him to take his pictures. Instead, I found myself suddenly, brutally entered from behind, and gasped in pain and surprise. I felt his firm hands grasping my breasts and hips, his body plunging into me forcefully. But instead of finishing with me quickly, he took his time, varying his rhythm, arousing me pitilessly and unequivocally until, with his final surge within me, I cried out in submission. After withdrawing, he pulled me up to a kneeling position by the hair and spun me around in front of him. Unbidden, I cleaned him with my mouth, hoping to earn some modicum of acceptance in his eyes.

I understand perfectly what had happened. I had been simply going through the motions, passively obeying his orders, not desperately seeking to please him as a slave girl should. He, the photographer, had seen this in my body, and had known how best to impress on me my slavery. I looked up at him with a kind of awe and gratitude. In making use of my body, he had reminded me of my place, my role in life. From that point, I adopted my poses with redoubled enthusiasm, and my submission radiated from my body. I hoped he was pleased with me.

In the afternoon, I continued my newfound career as a nude model, this time for a video session. It was largely similar to the morning photo shoot, except this time every instant was captured on film as I was put through my humiliating paces. Not only was my physical beauty on display this time, but also my absolute obedience and docility as I instantly complied with the orders given to me. In addition to assuming the many positions of submission and service that are second nature to the slave girl, I was also compelled to lavish my attentions on a variety of objects - kissing and licking the floor, on my knees, or taking a whip handle in my mouth, my eyes half-closed in an ecstasy of submission, or kneeling with my thighs and breasts wrapped around a vertical pole, caressing it helplessly with my hands and lips. I was made to beg my unseen audience to allow me to serve them, to describe in intimate detail the pleasures I could give them, to proclaim in unconditional terms my desire to be taken, and mastered, and used as only a slave girl could be used. I was not, however, and to my relief, made to display my sexual talents directly for the camera. Apparently the potential buyers would be left to speculate on my ultimate worth as a vessel for their pleasure. Of course, the photos and video they would have left little to the imagination.