Site 59

Site 59

 

Author’s note:  Most of the locations in this story actually exist, and I’ve done my best to describe them as best as I can recall.  There really was a “Site 59,” located on a hilltop above the German village of Clausen, not too far from the French border in Rheinland-Pfalz.   Unlike most similar sites, we didn’t actually live there.  The barracks were about a 20 minute drive away, in an old military hospital that had outlived it’s use in that capacity.  That’s where I lived, in the room I’ve described in my story.  When I moved in, it really did have porn plastered all over the bathroom walls.  Unlike the story, I scraped the magazine pages scraped off and repainted the walls within my first week there.

 

Site 59 is gone now, just another relic of the Cold War like all the other sites and the people who served there. There’s a web site dedicated to it somewhere; I’ve seen it, and there are a few photos of what it looked like then, and what it’s become.  The two-ton doors on the storage bunkers rest open these days, and the few buildings remaining are just vandalized shells.  Like the site today, those of us who served there are getting old and rusty, but memories can last forever.   During my military service, this was my worst assignment, and my best.  It has also been fodder for fantasies about the men and women who served there, and what could have happened.

 

~~~~~~

 

I suppose the trip to get there should have given me an idea of what my next three years were going to be like.  First, a delay getting into the Dallas-Fort Worth airport caused me to miss my connecting flight.  Of course, it wasn't the airline=s fault (it never is, is it?), so I wasn't given the free hotel room and dinner most travelers received when such things happened.  Instead, I spent the night in the USO lounge.  Not a bad place, really, if you want to play pool, eat popcorn and drink Coke, but the shits for sleeping.  I had my choice of the molded plastic chair or the floor; I didn't think my wool uniform skirt would do well with the floor, so I tried to sleep sitting up in a chair.  I woke up regularly, never dozing for more than an hour, and by the time morning came, had a splitting headache and aching neck.  In retrospect, I should have spent the last of my cash on a cab and hotel room, but I didn’t have a whole lot left after what I used on my leave, and payday wasn’t for another two weeks.

 

Thank God, my morning flight left on time.  They even served one of those crappy breakfast trays, but at least it was nearly edible.  Of course, having missed my original flight to Charleston meant I=d missed my flight from there to Germany as well.  I got some crap from a dipshit Air Force lieutenant about missing movement, but he shut his face when I showed him the documentation that my flight had been delayed.  He ended up putting me on the “space available” list, which meant I’d be on the next flight with a seat open – after everyone ahead of me on the list.  Naturally, I wasn't able to catch a flight out that day or the next, and was stuck in that shithole terminal.  At least I had a place to sleep at night, but had to report to the terminal by 0700 and remain there until 2100 hours, just in case a seat came open.  I had to pay for my own room at the TAQ – “Temporary Airmen’s Quarters,” sort of a hostel for enlisted folks - and spent both days sitting in the terminal, bored out of my skull. 

 

Oh, did I mention that my luggage managed to disappear somewhere between Dallas and Charleston?  I mean, how can you lose a green duffle bag weighing 70 pounds?  Since this wasn’t my first such experience, though, I was fairly well prepared and had toiletries in my carry-on bag.  What I didn’t have, I was able to buy at the little base exchange in the terminal.  Unfortunately, they only stocked stuff like snacks, magazines and toothpaste.  What I needed the most was a change of underclothes, but those were all in my lost duffle bag, and by the time I could leave the terminal in the evening, the main base exchange was already closed.  So I made do, rinsing my  panties and panty hose out each evening in the TAQ and draping them over a towel bar in my room to dry overnight.

 

It was late afternoon on the third day, while I was half‑dozing over a Styrofoam cup of rancid coffee in the snack bar, when I heard my name being called on the overhead speaker.  Luckily, they=d found a seat on a flight for me.  Unfortunately, it wasn't a MAC charter – a regular airliner -  like I=d originally been scheduled on, but a C‑141 making a mail and cargo run.

 

If you've never flown on a tactical cargo aircraft, let me tell you that it is nothing like your typical airliner.  No windows to peek out of, and not much in the way of sound insulation, either.  Conduits and hydraulic lines overhead, steel planking under the feet.  A single restroom if you’re lucky, no overhead reading lights, and no adjustable air outlet.  Happily, there wasn't much cargo so they had room for a couple of rows of rear‑ facing seats; otherwise, it would have been the tubular steel and nylon web seating that folded down from the wall.  The seats didn’t recline, but the armrests between them could be removed.  I had three seats to myself, so did just that. There were blankets, too, but the Astewardess@ was a burly, heavyset crew chief.  Meals, if you could call them that, were box lunches we had to buy before boarding, at a cost of $3.50 each.  Mystery meat sandwiches, a bag of chips, an apple and a couple of packets of mustard.  After the obligatory safety briefing (yes, they do that on military aircraft, too), we were down the runway and into the air.  Once we reached cruising altitude, though, I unbuckled and stretched out across the empty seats for a restless nap.  I never slept well on airplanes.

 

Like I said, this was a cargo flight, and it seemed we were stopping everywhere there was an Air Force base.  New Jersey was first, then Bangor, Maine for refueling and a crew change.  Off to Greenland and Iceland, then down to the Azores, where we were actually told to get off the plane for a few hours while they changed crews again, refueled, and performed some maintenance.  By the time we got to Lajes Field in the Azores, we=d been cooped up for nearly 20 hours, so the walk down the airstrip to the little snack bar was a nice respite.  All six of us took the opportunity to down a couple of greaseburgers, though we=d been warned not to have any alcohol or we=d not be let back on the plane.  It seemed we=d barely gotten off when it was time to re-board.  In retrospect, I should have called their bluff and shown up drunk.  Being stuck here for a few days would have been like a vacation.  I’ve often wondered why the Army stuck their bases in such shitholes, while the Air Force installations, no matter how remote,  seemed to always be in beautiful locations with all the amenities.

 

From the Azores, it was only a few hours to England, and from there, several more to Rhein Main Air Base in Frankfurt, Germany. The flight was continuing to Ramstein, which was only a few kilometers from my destination, but the military being what it is, I wasn’t allowed to fly so close to where I was ending up.  Instead, I had to take a five hour trip on a crowded, ancient bus with school bus-style bench seats.  By now, it had been almost two days since I boarded that C‑141 at Charleston, and over three since leaving my parents= home.  My original flight was to have landed in the early evening, but now it was 0500, and by the time I cleared Customs, the base was coming alive.  The counter for the 21^st Replacement Detachment, where all incoming Army personnel initially reported – even those of us with direct assignments - was now manned, so I reported in.  After stamping my leave papers, the clerk directed me to a shuttle bus which took me to the replacement station.  I wasn't even going to get a real night=s sleep before being sent off to my new unit.  I didn’t know which specific unit that was yet, but all the physical security sites I knew of were located near Ramstein.

 

After sitting all morning in the detachment=s waiting room, I was finally handed my orders.  636^th Ordnance Company, Explosive Ordnance Disposal.  What the hell?  I was originally supposed to go to a Military Police physical security unit.  I wasn’t a bomb dog handler, so why the hell was I being sent to an EOD unit?  I didn't have time to ask any questions, because my bus was about to leave.  Five hours later, and I was there.

 

There were four of us being assigned to the 636^th that day,  three young male privates right out of the Military Police School, and me, a female Specialist Fourth Class,  the first female the unit had seen in over ten years.  You see, Site 59 was the only chemical weapons storage site for NATO forces in Europe during the Cold War.  All that nasty shit that makes people fall on the ground and twitch until they die?  That’s what was stored there.  The same shit those terrorists used a few years ago in Japan, the same stuff we thought Saddam had.  It’s was all super-secret back then, which was why I’d never heard of the place.  It’s declassified now – there’s even photos of the place and descriptions of what we guarded on official Army web sites – so it’s not like I’m going to go to some federal country club for telling you this.  Anyway, as a matter of policy, females had always been barred from assignment to Site 59. Until now.  I was the first of an eventual handful.

 

They were expecting a new dog handler, of course, but not a female.   My orders didn’t mention gender and nobody really paid much attention to first names.  There weren’t any females there, and not too many female “puppy pushers” in the Army at all back then.  The Operations Sergeant, a rather handsome sergeant named Andy (I’m going to use first names when I can remember them, the better to protect the guilty), seemed actually shocked when I walked in with the three privates.  He managed to stammer that they’d known females were going to be assigned to the unit soon, but they weren’t ready yet.

 

In other words, there were no female quarters, and the bunk they’d originally assigned to me was in a barracks room with four male soldiers.  Obviously, I couldn’t live there, so Andy had to pull something out of his ass.  The only room with a private bathroom was in the NCO wing of the building, down the hall from the Orderly Room, where the Platoon Sergeants and section leaders lived.  Needless to say, the incumbent resident – the most senior of the unit’s unmarried noncommissioned officers - was a little pissed when the First Sergeant told him he=d be moving out so that a junior enlisted female could move in. 

 

I wasn't all that surprised that there hadn’t been time to clean the room before I moved in.  It wasn’t much, but it was a lot more than I expected.  The room was about 8’x10’, plaster walls and one double-hung window, covered with a heavy brown GI-issue curtain.  The furniture consisted of the obligatory tubular steel bunk, grey metal wall locker, and a small writing desk with a metal folding chair.  Lighting was florescent, with a switch by the door.  The door had a double-keyed lock; a key was needed both inside and outside to lock it, but if a key was left in the lock on one side, it would be impossible to unlock it from the other.  This afforded a bit of additional privacy, as not even a master key would work if I left my key in the lock.

 

The attached private bath was what I found unusual, though.  Most soldiers – male and female alike – used common latrines, but I had a toilet, mirrored medicine cabinet, and bathtub.  However, it was the “wallpaper” that immediately caught my attention.  It seemed a previous occupant ‑ I never figured out whether it was the guy I displaced or not ‑ had covered the entire bathroom with cutouts from porn magazines.  Not just centerfolds from your average girlie magazine, either.  These were hardcore rape, bondage and sadomasochism photos.  Cum‑covered faces with ring gags and ball gags.  Collared necks.  Close‑ups of branded thighs and pierced cunt lips.  Ringed nipples and septums.  Backs and asses covered in welts and bruises.  White  pussies and mouths filled with black cocks.  Very hard-core stuff unlike anything I’d seen up to that time.  Hell, I didn’t even recognize what some of it was. This was, after all, the mid-1970’s, before body piercing became almost mainstream, and the internet was just some geek’s dream.  Fuck it, I figured, I needed a bath and some sleep.  It was going to take a while to get this shit off the walls.  I=d deal with it later.

 

First, though, I needed a beer to go with my bath.  This was Germany, after all, and barracks or not, the coin operated beer machine down the hall went with the neighborhood.  I wasn't familiar with any of the brands; as you=d expect, you wouldn't find Coors or Budweiser here.  I settled for something called Parkbrau, a local brew I later found out.  Popping the cap, I took a long sip.  A bit warmer than I was used to, not icy cold, but again this was something I=d find was pretty typical in Europe.  Apparently, ice cold beer is an American thing.  Still, it was quite good, and like most European beers, packed quite a punch.

 

I returned to my room, set the bottle down on the toilet tank lid, and stripped off my uniform.  Not only were these my only clothes until (and if) my duffle bag arrived, but all my hangers were my luggage as well.  So, I carefully laid my skirt and coat over the open door of the wall locker, and hung my somewhat mussed uniform blouse on the doorknob. 

 

The tub was the deepest and longest I=d ever seen.  Unless I lay down, my feet couldn't touch the other end.  Sitting upright,  the edge came up to my neck.  Must be a German thing, I thought, to have such a large bathtub.  The spigot actually came out of the wall at the side, not the end of the tub, which was interesting.  Not only did it fill from the middle (a nice thing when adding some hot water to a tub that has chilled), but I giggled when I realized that if I slid down just right, the water pouring into the tub would hit me right at the crotch.  An evil grin lit up my face when I considered the possibilities.  This might be even better than getting off with a shower stream, I thought, something I had done in the past.  After all, I would have to maintain my balance standing in the shower.  Here, I could just lay back and let Doctor H2O work his  magic.

 

I’d not been able to do anything with my underthings since leaving the TAQ in Charleston over two days earlier, so while waiting for the tub to fill, I washed my them out in the sink and laid them over the steam radiator to dry.  It would take a couple of hours, I figured, but I could nap while waiting.  

 

I just realized something.  This is supposed to be a sex story, right?  Damn...and I forgot to describe myself?  Okay, I already said I was 5'10" tall.  At the time this all occurred, I was 20 years old and about 165 pounds.  Yeah, I know, you=re thinking that=s a little overweight, but it wasn’t.  I wasn't at all flabby.  It was muscle.  I wasn't exactly a body builder (I mean, who wants tits that small?), but I did work out almost every day.  My biceps didn't bulge, but I could do sixty REAL pushups ‑ not those sissy knee things girls do.  Mostly, though, it was my legs and abdomen.  I loved running, and while not a real marathoner, had participated in – and finished – a couple of them.  I wasn't bad in a sprint, either, but what I really enjoyed was eight or ten miles on a mountain trail. 

 

Yeah, I know, that=s not what you want me to describe.  Straight, light brown hair cut just below my ears, cut in sort of a pageboy style ending just at my collar.  I was, after all, in the military.  34C‑26‑34, with firm breasts and fairly small (I thought) nipples.  For those into clothes fetishes, I wore a size four panty and a women=s size five shoe.  My pubic hair...well, there just wasn't much.  I didn't shave, but the only hair that ever grew there was just above my mound.  I always thought this thick bush on top with nothing on my slit looked a bit strange, so what hair there was, I kept trimmed short.  Pierced ears, but other ornaments would come later.  My fingernails were trimmed to the end of my fingers and the only polish I ever used on them was clear.  I was a soldier and needed to look the part.  My toenails were a different story, though.  Still neatly trimmed, I usually kept them painted a gloss red, though sometimes, when I was feeling particularly feminine, I=d use pink.  I didn't feel exactly feminine at the moment, but they were pink.  Rather dirty, after three days in the same stockings, too.

 

Sexually, I tended to be submissive and a bit of an exhibitionist, reveling in the thought of being caught in the midst of some deviant act.  One of my favorite activities as a child was to "lose" my panties whenever I could.  I discovered the joyous, nasty feeling of being naked under my skirt or dress ‑ particularly thin or short ones ‑ at an early age.  I can still remember the first time I went pantiless at school.  I continued "forgetting" my undergarments throughout my school years, culminating with graduation from high school, when I wore nothing but my cap, gown, and four inch heels.  My original thought was to flash the Principal, but, fortunately, my good sense overcame my need for that sort of exposure.  As far as I know, only I knew I was naked under the thin, satin gown.

 

My brother would certainly have known, if he'd still been alive, but that’s because he would undoubtedly have ordered me to dress that way.  He’d have probably also had me wear a butt plug to hold a load of semen he would have dumped there first.  At least, that was my fantasy.  He was my first love, and I adored him completely and faithfully.  Our relationship was a bit unusual, what some would call perverse.  He was not only my first love, but my first lover, as well as my Master.  I can't pinpoint a specific date when our brother‑sister relationship turned into a dom‑sub one. Looking back, I wasn't really his slave in the true context of the term, but I was his submissive and obeyed him completely. 

 

I was always deferring to his wishes.  Whenever there was a disagreement about what to watch on television, we went with his choice.  When it was bath time, he went first so that he could have all the hot water he wanted. If there was nothing but cold water left for mine, so be it.  Sometimes, when he “forgot” to pull the plug, I’d bathe in his dirty bath water.  I’m sure he knew, and I could often perceive the faint smell of urine as I climbed in.  At the age of ten, I was making his bed every morning and doing most of his weekly chores.  I cleaned his room and mowed the lawn for him.  I offered to do the dishes when it was his turn if he had something else to do, and I did his laundry and pressed his clothes.  He never told me to do these things; I instinctively knew that it would make him happy.  I never mentioned it, and it never even bothered me that his allowance always included a little extra for the chores I’d done. 

 

The first time I remember James (he insisted I call him James, not Jimmy, like our parents did) punish me for something was when I wanted to go listen to music with friends and he wanted me to wash his dirty football uniform.  When I objected, he turned me over his knee and gave my the hardest spanking I'd ever had.  Begging between sobs for him to stop, I finally agreed to do the laundry instead of going out.  As an added humiliation, he stuffed his damp, smelly jock strap in my mouth and made me hand‑wash everything.   From that day forward, until James was drafted into the Army, I washed all his dirty laundry, and did his underclothes by hand.  .

 

We attended the same high school, but he was two years ahead of me.  I turned sixteen in the middle of his senior year.  Sixteen was a mile mark for me, because he had this weird idea that doing anything with me before I reached that age would make him a pedophile or something.  So, the morning of my sixteenth birthday, he had me kneel naked next to his bed and suck his cock for the first time.  From that point on, I was hooked.  I would have done anything James wanted me to, just to be able to have that beautiful penis in my mouth.  It became my daily reward, but only if I was “good.”  Good meant going without panties or a bra, which I didn’t really mind, but it also meant giving him tongue baths after he worked out, which I found disgusting at first.  I eventually got used most of it, but the taste of sweaty, salty balls and ass crack still makes me quiver.  I hated that even more than the taste of running my tongue between his filthy, sweaty toes, but that made it all the more exhilarating for me.  I found that the less I liked whatever it was he was making me do, the more I enjoyed it.

 

James graduated that spring and was immediately drafted into the Army.  That was 1971.   I remember crying when he boarded the bus to basic training, but I don’t remember if the tears were from sadness or pain.  Not thirty minutes before leaving the house, he broke my ass in with a brutal butt-fucking, then made me lick my own shit off his cock.  I had troubles sitting still in the car, as semen slowly seeped out my distended asshole onto the vinyl seat.  I didn’t dare get out of the car when we got to the bus terminal, but just sat there, tear-filled eyes lowered, as he gently kissed my forehead.  I was still a virgin in one hole, and he whispered in my ear that I’d better be that way when he saw me next time.

 

Eight weeks later, when we visited Fort Ord for his basic training graduation ceremony, James took the last of my virginity.  Or maybe I willingly gave it to him.  He was going to fuck me, and that’s all that mattered.  Whether I wanted it or not was beside the point, though I have to admit that I more than wanted it.  In our last phone call before the trip, he told me exactly what he wanted me to wear:  a plain cotton pullover dress that fell just above my knees, and my flat leather sandals.  Nothing else, no panties, no bra.  He wanted me clean-shaven, too…underarms, legs and cunt.  That was the first time he made me shave my pussy, though I admit there wasn’t really a lot of hair to begin with.  He gave me a hug when we arrived, taking the opportunity to surreptitiously feel me up, nodding approvingly when he found I’d followed his wishes.

 

While mom and dad were sampling the food in the chow hall, James took me on a tour of his barracks.  I didn’t see much, though, because as soon as we entered his platoon’s bay, he pulled my dress up over my head, bent me over his bunk, kicked my feet apart and took me from behind.   That’s how I lost my virginity, to my own brother, bend over his bunk, my bare breasts rubbing against the rough wool blanket, with no emotion other than sexual need coming into play.  What I wasn’t ready for was what happened next.  Ordering me to stay as I was – bent over with my legs spread as widely as I could keep them, he offered the use of my cunt to the rest of his buddies.  When they were finally done, James made me stuff one of his dirty boot socks up my cunt while his friends watched.  Even though having my hold plugged like that meant I wouldn’t be sitting in a puddle of cum and blood on the trip home, prayed the whole way that mom and dad wouldn’t notice the “freshly fucked” odor about me.

 

James later told me that I’d been fucked by twelve other men that day, each of whom had paid fifty cents for the privilege.  My take was ten percent, he said, handing me two quarters and a dime.  So at the age of 16 and a few months, I not only forfeited the moral right to virginal white at my wedding, but earned the title of whore.  I rode home in the back seat of the car, sitting in a puddle of cum and praying that mom and dad wouldn’t notice the smell.

 

I saw James two months later, when he came home for leave after finishing Infantry school.  We fucked each other’s brains out during that time, doing it whenever we could.  I served him like a slave, too, waking him up each morning with a warm, wet mouth on his hard cock, then serving him breakfast in bed.  We joked a lot about our favorite breakfast being “sausage-stuffed clam.”   I was naked, or at least scantily dressed in something that revealed more than it hid, whenever our parents weren’t around.  That included the evenings when he’d invite me to the movies, bowling or whatever.  Nobody thought it was strange that James let me go with him; we’d always been inseparable, and as far as anyone knew, the best of friends.

 

There was, certainly, more to it than that.  At the bowling alley, for example, we’d get to bowl for free because James made me kneel behind the counter and suck off the clerk.  His friends knew all about it, because he made sure they did.  In fact, they’d bet on who would have the highest score.  Everyone except James put a dollar into the pot; if he won, he’d keep the money.  If someone else won, they’d win the use of my body and half the pot.  The other half would be given to me, and I’d be sent out to buy condoms.  I was always supposed to carry a supply of condoms; if I didn’t have any, then I was expected to let whoever was using me go bareback.  The thought of getting pregnant scared the hell out of me, and there were more times than I can remember sucking off some stranger in an alley for a few dollars so I could buy a pack of rubbers.

 

The last time I saw James was the morning we dropped him off at Oakland Army Base, where he had to report before being shipped out to Vietnam.  He never made it.  His plane crashed on takeoff from Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines.  The plane blew up in a fireball, we were told, and James, along with most of the 200+ passengers, was a few ounces of ash among the wreckage.  Nothing was shipped home, and there was little for me to hold on to.  I still had a few of his belongings, but it wasn’t the same.  There wasn’t even a funeral, just a memorial service.  At least if he’d made it as far as Vietnam, I could have gone to The Wall and mourned later in life, but even that wasn’t to be. 

 

Life as I knew it until that point started falling apart.  Mom and Dad separated, eventually getting a divorce.  I dropped out of school, got into the hippie thing; drugs, free love, and all that.  Even lived for a while on a commune in Oregon.  Nothing lasted very long though.  Then I ran into Tim.

 

Tim attended the nearby state university, and was a member of the resident jock fraternity.  Most of the members were on the football team, but there were a few track and some basketball guys there , too.  I soon became a common fixture at the frat house, eventually moving in, ostensibly as the housekeeper and cook.  What I really was, though was the readily-available piece of ass for anyone who wanted it.  I had a small corner of the attic where they’d given me a mattress and a couple of blankets, but I seldom spent my nights anywhere but in one of the Brothers’ beds – or on the floor next to it.  My clothing was selected by a different Brother each day, but never included panties or a bra.  I occasionally spent the day naked, but usually it was some skimpy, revealing outfit.  One of their favorites was a white leather mini-skirt, white leather vest that had one button in the front, and knee-high white “go-go” boots (for those of you who can remember those).

 

Whenever one of the teams won a game, or someone set a school record or won an individual event, I was the reward.  Thankfully, the football team wasn’t very good and only won three games that year; I was lucky to survive the first gang-bang mostly intact.  The football players were particularly rough in their fucking, and my ass and cunt were sore as hell and distended for a week afterwards.  Basketball and track season were better, if only because the athletes weren’t as brutal, and there weren’t as many of them.  An orgy with a dozen or so basketball players was a hell of a lot easier than forty football players, you know?  And, since track and field was pretty much an individual sport, that’s how those athletes would take me. Individually, one a night until all the winners had been serviced.  I was, quite literally, young, dumb and, more often than not, full of cum.

 

The only time I wasn’t used at least once a day was during my period, when I was taken downstairs into the dirt-floored root cellar to wait until I was “clean” again.  Thankfully, most of my periods were fairly light, and after four or five days of being chained naked to a support pillar with nothing to do and little to eat, I’d notify whichever brother brought my meal that I’d stopped bleeding.  At that point, I’d be taken upstairs and allowed to shower before being gang-raped by the entire fraternity.   As “punishment” for not being available to them during those few days, I would be forced to take them all on at once.  I began to actually look forward to the start of my cycle, because it would mean a few days of enforced chastity, followed by one hell of a gang bang.  I didn’t mind being a slut, and even reveled in the treatment I was receiving, but it all changed when I discovered Tim was getting rich by whoring me out.  It might have been another thing if he’d at least let me know, but all this time, he was charging everyone – including his frat brothers – every time they fucked me.

 

I found out about that one night after I’d been rather brutally gang-banged by eight men I’d never met before.  They’d tied me to a bed with my arms stretched out to my sides and my ankles over my head, and took turns using my cunt and ass whenever it pleased them.  The party went on for three days and nights, and during that time I wasn’t released once, not even to pee.  They seemed to take a lot of delight in having me wallow in my own waste, and between fuckings, they’d stick things in me or otherwise abuse my body for their own amusement.  One of the guys stuck a vacuum cleaner nozzle over my bald cunt and let the suction work at it for nearly an hour, causing my poor, abused labia to swell and puff lewdly out of my crotch.  They even joked about it, saying it was a good thing he’d used a wet vac, otherwise my cunt juice would have shorted it out.

 

I was nearly comatose when Tim came to get me, and I vaguely heard one of the men tell him it was the best fifty bucks he’d ever paid.  It didn’t register at the time, but a couple of days later I asked Tim about it and he admitted that he’d been whoring me out from the very beginning.  He told me the men hadn’t paid $50 each, but $50 total for the entire night.  My body had just been sold to a group of men for less than seven dollars each!  I’d known for a long time that I was a slut, but being a whore – and a cheap whore at that - was more than I could take.  I slapped Tim across the face and ran out, wearing nothing but the thin cotton dress and sandals he’d allowed me to keep as my “normal” wardrobe.  

 

I hitchhiked back home I moved back in with my folks, but things were different now. Neither of them had ever recovered from the death of their son.  They hadn’t known what I was up to, but apparently thought I’d become a strung out, drug-using whore.  Whore, yes.  Drug-user, never.  It wasn’t a happy homecoming, and I only stayed there four or five days before moving into a shelter.  It wasn’t much better, and I learned to expect two or three “visitors” each night, whether I wanted them to or not.  At least as a whore, I could make money, but I’d seen professional whores, and didn’t want to end up like that.  I had to find something, and that something showed up a week later, in the form of an Army recruiter.

 

The draft had just ended, and the military was having problems filling its ranks, and recruiters were actually canvassing homeless shelters, bus depots, and the like for fresh meat.  That’s what I was, fresh meat on the hoof, ready and willing to enter the service just because it was better than what I had now.  At that point, I didn’t even care what my occupational specialty was; I just needed something to get me out of the shelter.  I was going to fill four or five of his quota slots, and after a day of testing and another day at the Armed Forces Examination and Enlistment Station (at least I think that was what it was called) undergoing an extremely impersonal medical exam, I raised my right hand, signed some papers, and I was in.

 

I took to the Army – particularly Basic Training – like a fish to water.  I loved everything about it, the discipline, the physical training, everything.  Waking up to some screaming shrew throwing trash cans across the platoon bay, wolfing down chow in five minutes, running everywhere we went, having all of two minutes for a shower, all the time having someone screaming commands in my ear.  Maybe it was my masochistic or submissive streak coming out, but the point is, I loved it.  I was rather surprised when my orders for advanced training came through.  I expected to become a clerk-typist or cook, something like that.  I’d even hoped to for something were I would be doing the bidding of other people, maybe a hospital orderly, taking out bedpans and mopping floors.  Instead, I was being sent straight to the Military Police.  That school was almost as fun as basic.  Lots of physical and mental harassment.  I was disappointed when I got to my first duty station and discovered the “real” Army isn’t at all like that.

 

Anyway, back to Germany…

 

So, there I was, just starting to climb into a hot, steamy tub in a bathroom covered in pornographic wallpaper, when there was a pounding on my door.

 

AYes?@ I yelled as loud as I could. 

 

ACQ.  First Sergeant is here, and he wants to see you.  Says he wants your ass in his office five minutes ago!@

 

AUh...okay,@ I replied, climbing out of the tub.  AWould you tell the First Sergeant that I be there in just a couple of minutes?@  I don=t know if the Charge of Quarters heard me or not, as he didn't reply.  Maybe he had already gone back to his post.

 

Quickly drying off (I=d been provided two towels and a washcloth along with my linens), I started to get dressed.   My panties and bra were still soaking and I found several huge runs in my panty hose, so I decided to forego them.  Nobody would know what I was wearing under my uniform, so throwing the rest of it on as hastily as I could, I literally ran down the hall to the Orderly Room, where the First Sergeant=s office was.

 

AYou look like shit, Specialist,@ was the first thing he said to me.  

 

The First Sergeant was, a big burly black guy by the name of Charley.   I=d later find out that most of the guys thought he was a number one asshole, but he did okay by me over my tour.  He=d started as an MP, I learned, but was sent to become a munitions inspector after being caught smoking dope ‑ on duty, no less! ‑ during his first enlistment in Hawaii.  One would think something like that would end a career, and today, I=m sure it would. However, at the time this happened, it didn't.  The Army was hurting for soldiers, and willing to give second chances.  In his case, it was worth it.

 

AYes, First Sergeant.  Sorry, First Sergeant.  I've been on planes since Monday...@ I started to explain, before he cut me off.

 

AYes, I know.  Your bags will be here in a couple of days.  They=re still at DFW, where they=d been taken off your original flight.@

 

AThank you, First Sergeant,@ I replied dutifully.  AIt=s good to know my things haven=t been completely lost.@ 

 

AIn the meantime, I'll see about getting you a partial pay tomorrow.  You=re probably going to need a couple sets of fatigues to get you through until your stuff gets here.@

 

AAgain, thank you, First Sergeant.@

 

AThere=s no need to be so formal, soldier.  >Top’ is fine,@ he smiled, using the age-old nickname for First Sergeants everywhere.  Well, at least he wasn't a complete asshole, I thought, and he seems to have some concern for his troops.  That=s always a good sign.

 

AThanks, Top.  I'll need a few other things, too.@

 

AWe'll get the duty driver to take you in to Pirmasens tomorrow.  The PX here doesn't have much other than shaving cream and beer, you know?@

 

ANot much use for feminine deodorant and rose-smelling soap, you mean?@

 

AYeah, that too,@ he smiled, somewhat embarrassed.  ALooks like that=s going to change, though.  Apparently, you’re just the first.  I guess we ought to get used to having fee-males (that’s how he pronounced it, like two words) here.”

 

AYou=re right about that, Top,@ I laughed.  AI suppose it ain't the same Army as it was in the old days, huh?@

 

AHell, today it ain’t the same Army it was two hours ago.  I never even gave thought to how we were gonna deal with having fee‑male soldiers in the unit!@

 

ASounds to me like them days is over, Top.@

 

AYup,@ he replied thoughtfully.  ASay, you had anything to eat?  Hungry?@

 

ATop, the last thing I had to eat was one of those Air Force box lunches.@

 

ADog meat sandwich and a mustard packet?@ he inquired with a raised eyebrow, his eyes glistening.  I nodded, giggling.

 

AWell, how about we go over to the club,  I spring for dinner and introduce you to a few of the troops before they get too wasted?”

 

AI=d love to, Top, but are you sure that would be appropriate?  What it might look like, I mean...@

 

AHell, I take all my soldiers out for their first beer.  Been doing that since I became a squad leader, about 20 years ago.  Ask anyone here...it=s something I do for all my troops.  Just >cause you happen to have different equipment, why should that stop a tradition?@  He got up from his behind his desk and ushered me out of the office.

 

The club was only about a two block walk, but it wasn't until we were halfway there that an unexpected breeze made me remember that I was wasn’t wearing panties or a bra.  The thought that I was walking around outside sans underwear excited the exhibitionist part of me, and I realized I was becoming moist.  I only hoped nobody could smell my pussy, or that I’d have a burst of lust and leave snail tracks on my chair.  I smiled when the words “snail tracks” popped in my mind; that’s what James called it when I left a wet slime trail wherever I sat.

 

The club was small, in a building to itself not too far from the main ‑ only ‑ gate to the Kaserne.  A dozen or so tables, a bar, and an open area for a dance floor.  This night, there was no band, so the juke box in the corner played whatever music someone with a couple of quarters decided to select.  The menu was limited ‑ just burgers, hot dogs and t-bone steaks ‑ but there were also pretzels at the bar.  Without asking, Top ordered me a steak, and one for himself, too.  It wasn't bad, though I could tell it came straight from the freezer to the grill.  Not even flame‑broiled, either, but fried like hamburgers at McDonalds.  I gave it a C, but at least it was real food.  It was cheap, as was the beer and drinks, but I knew better than to have much after such a long day.  Especially that German beer; it really packed a punch, so after two beers I said good night to the First Sergeant and headed back to my room.

 

I woke up the next morning, if not refreshed, at least feeling somewhat human.  No hangover, thank God, but a mouth that tasted like something had died in it.  No toothbrush so I made do with rubbing a corner of my washcloth across my gums and rinsing with water.

 

When I looked up in the mirror, after spitting into the sink, my eye caught one particular picture out of the dozens pasted to the wall.  It was of a young, dark haired woman, on her hands and knees.  A leash led from the black leather collar around her neck as she bent forward to kiss the toe of a highly‑shined military Corcoran jump boot.  I turned around and examined it carefully.  It wasn't cut from a magazine at all!  It was a Polaroid photo!  Oh, my God...whoever decorated this room either took the photo, was the person who wore the boots, or knew who did!  I nearly swooned at the thought, plopping down on the toilet seat in surprise.  My fingers slowly, gently stroked my slit as I stared at the slave girl in the photo.

 

My mind went back to the previous night.  I=d been out in public with my cunt exposed.  Well, almost.  I went out without panties.  And here I am, diddling myself while looking at the picture of a naked girl serving her Master.  Did that make me a slut, like she apparently was?  Is?  Oh, God...was she a soldier assigned here, or to a nearby unit?  A local girl?  Someone=s wife?  What if I run into her somewhere?  I stared at her face, her eyes, the vision burning itself into my memory.  Why was I doing this?  Was I hoping I would see her somewhere?  My eyes roved over the other pictures stuck to the wall.  Oh, God...I just realized what I was doing...I was finger‑fucking myself, and I was about to cum, staring at pictures of naked girls being abused!  But I couldn't stop...I grabbed my erect clitoris and twisted it between my thumb and forefinger, squealing as I slid to the floor, my climax washing over me, my head resting on the edge of the toilet.  I panted, catching my breath, trying to bring myself back to some semblance of normal before morning formation.

 

My pulse returning to normal, I quickly wiped my wet, swollen crotch with a wad of toilet paper and got dressed.  This time, the panties were dry, and were the first things to go on.  It was probably a good thing, too, because I couldn't get those pictures...the Polaroid in particular...out of my mind.  As soon as I got my partial pay, I=d be needing some panty liners.  Hopefully, I=d get them before my cotton undergarment soaked through.  I could feel myself getting wet even as I headed out the door.

 

The day went by fairly uneventfully.  I got my  pay and through most of the in‑ processing before lunch.  I even managed to keep my mind off things of a sexual nature, for the most part, until I finally made it to the PX in Pirmasens that afternoon.  The duty driver, thankfully, had decided not to accompany me, but stayed in the jeep.  I don=t embarrass easily, but the thought of having some man with me while I bought some of the more personal items would have been too much for even me.  As it was, I hesitated long and hard before picking up an electric vibrator ‑ the kind with all the attachments ‑ ostensibly for aching muscles, but really designed particularly for women to use to relieve particular forms of aching ‑ along with my tampons, panty liners and other hygiene items.

 

Selecting a checkout line at the PX is much like playing roulette, so I just got in one of the two lines and took my chances.  I didn't pay much attention to anyone or anything, just piled my purchases on the conveyor belt when my turn came.  I didn't even pay attention to the cashier until she=d totaled my bill.  She had red hair, but it was unmistakable.  She was the girl in the Polaroid!  The eyes, the nose, even the mouth were the same.  The hair style, too, though it was a different color.  Perhaps it had been dyed before, because looked natural now.  I was momentarily taken aback, stunned and motionless, until she quietly coughed, holding her hand out for my cash.

 

AOh, excuse me,@ I said lamely.  AUh...you reminded me of someone else for a moment.@

 

AYes, a lot of people tell me that,@ she replied in a soft, southern accent. 

 

Alabama, maybe, I catalogued.  Sounded a lot like our then-current President, whose claim to fame before politics was being a peanut farmer.  No, I thought, it couldn't be her.  This one sounded like a proper Southern lady, not a slut, and certainly not a slut who would allow herself to be collared and kiss someone=s boot as submissively as in that photo.  It had to be someone else.  I shrugged my shoulders, picked up my bags and headed back to the jeep. 

 

I found the driver sitting patiently, browsing the current edition of Hustler magazine, when I returned.  He looked up at me without embarrassment, stuck the magazine between the seats, and we headed back to the barracks.  It seemed, I thought, my new colleagues were playing games with me, trying to see how far they could go before I=d say something.  Well, I figured, I wanted to be one of the boys, so I guess this was how the boys played here in Deutschland.

 

He dropped me off back at the barracks, helping unload the back of the jeep but not offering to carry anything to my room.  It took me two trips to get it all.  As I started to unpack, I noticed that some of the things I=d picked up at the Clothing Sales Store had been tampered with.  This had been one of our first stops, before the PX, where they sold uniforms and such.  Since they also had undergarments, and they were much cheaper than the PX, I=d bought some bras, panties and panty hose there.  To my surprise, the packages of undergarments had been opened.  It looked like the driver may have pawed over them, but nothing else.  They weren't damaged, just the packages opened.   Curious. 

 

I spent the afternoon painstakingly sewing patches on one set of fatigues.  The others would go to the tailor, but my handwork was near enough to machine work that only a close examination would reveal any discrepancies.

 

I spent the rest of my week going through the tedium universally known by soldiers as “in-processing.”  This meant visiting the personnel center, the medical and dental clinics, getting briefings on local customs and restrictions, signing for equipment from the supply room, getting a mail box, and all the things that need to be done before you’re officially able to go to work.  One of the things that I had to do was stop by and see the unit intelligence officer, because my security clearance was due for an update.  Since the investigation was expired, I couldn’t go to work on the site until a new National Agency Check was completed.  This would take up to six months, I was informed, and in the interim, I’d be working as the company CQ – the Charge of Quarters, or the poor schmuck who had to stay awake all night answering the phone, making security checks, and the like.

 

So I was the more-or-less permanent weeknight CQ for the next four months – my clearance came back sooner than expected – with weekends being covered through a rotation of everyone else, who had to pull 24 hour shifts.  Mine wasn’t much better – 15 hours a day, Monday through Friday – but at least I got some sleep.

 

It was during one of those CQ tours that I first stumbled onto a BDSM group right there in my unit.

 

It was about 0200 on a Friday night, and I was making one of my hourly rounds, when I heard the noise.  Definitely female, but not quite a scream.  More like a hushed squeal, as I passed by the Third Platoon’s latrine.  Normally, I wouldn’t enter a male latrine, but I knew there shouldn’t be any women in that part of the barracks, so I had to investigate.  What I found was beyond belief – at least beyond my fairly sheltered beliefs at the time:  the cashier from the PX, chained between two urinals, squatting over a massive dildo-shaped vibrator.  Her hands were behind her back, probably bound, I assumed, as were her legs.  A wooden pole between her ankles kept her legs apart, and cords were wrapped around her thighs and calves to keep her in what must have been an extremely uncomfortable squatting position.  She was blindfolded, so she couldn’t see me – she probably didn’t even know I was there – and the large red ball gag in her mouth was probably the only reason she wasn’t screaming at the top of her lungs.  Her entire body was shaking, spasming, as she was in the middle of a gigantic orgasm.  I watched her for maybe ten seconds, when I heard one of the toilets flush.  There was someone else in the latrine with her, and I quickly backed out of the door and finished my rounds.

 

I stayed away from Third Platoon’s area that night, but was never able to get the sight of that naked woman, fucking herself while chained between two urinals, out of my mind.  I ran back to my room as quickly as I could the next morning, leaving my clothes in an untidy heap on the floor as frantically got myself off while splayed out on my bathroom floor, staring that the Polaroid photo of the woman from the night before.

 

The next two months went by in a fairly mindless blur, just an endless stream of CQ duty, while I waited for my clearance to come in.  It wasn’t hard work, just boring, and I collapsed in my bed each morning after chow, exhausted from doing nothing more than patrolling the hallways once each hour and spending the rest of my time sitting next to the only unlocked exterior door, making sure only authorized persons were allowed to enter.  My only respite was the weekends, and even that wasn’t much.  Saturday nights I usually spent at the club, only because it was close and cheap.  A dollar would get me a mixed drink or a couple of beers –  alcohol was actually cheaper than soda pop – and there was usually a band on Saturdays.  The bands ranged from terrible to fair, but it was something to do.  A couple of beers, a steak, a few more beers, and suddenly the night would be gone.  A mindless, monotonous existence, but it was a paycheck, you know?

 

Since my shift started at 1600, my weekend went from Saturday morning until Monday afternoon.  Now, if you’ve never been in Germany, there isn’t anything open on Sunday, unless you’re looking to buy some gas.  There really wasn’t that much to do, so I usually just hung out in my room, or took walks out in the woods.  That was one nice thing about living in that part of the country – Rheinland-Pfalz, for those who might know it – was there were plenty of woods, hills and streams.  It was nice and quiet, and I’d often go for an all-day stroll, maybe stopping by a creek bank, taking off my shoes and relaxing with my feet in the clear, bubbling stream.

 

It was on one of those long walks, while I was doing just that – dangling my feet in the water – that I suddenly got what I’ve always thought of as “a case of the hornies.”  I started thinking about that first night in Germany, when I went to the club sans panties, and all the things that could have happened if I’d been found out.  Before I knew it, I had one hand inside the crotch of my walking shorts and the other inside my bra, working myself up into a frenzy.  Only the fear of being caught stopped me, and when I realized what I was doing, I quickly splashed some water on my face and walked back to the barracks.   When I got there, I went straight to my room, and as soon as the door closed, I literally ripped my clothes off, leaving them in a heap by the door.  Rushing into the bathroom, I laid down on the cold tile floor with my head against the toilet, and staring at the photos on my wall – I still hadn’t taken them down – frantically masturbated to an explosive orgasm.

 

I spent the rest of that weekend in my room, naked, getting dressed only in order to go to chow.  Even then, I wore as little as possible – jeans, a sweat shirt and running shoes – no panties, bra or socks.  I can’t describe the feeling it gave me to be nearly naked in public like that, but the closest word is “erotic.”   Everything suddenly took on a sexual connotation.  Pens and pencils were tiny dildos; my uniform belt was sometimes a tool for punishment and other times used as a collar and leash.  I imagined myself licking dust off spit-shined boots worn by the MPs at the gate.  In the chow hall, fried eggs reminded me of breasts, the sausage like little penises.  I began selecting my least favorite foods from the menu, because I was sure a Master would make me eat things I didn’t like, either for training or as punishment for some perceived misdeed.  I imagined my oatmeal was covered with semen, and that I’d get beaten if I didn’t eat it all.  I forbade myself from having desserts, but filled up on coffee and water and then tortured myself by not emptying my bladder until I could hold it no longer.  I was permitted to piss only in my bathtub, saving the urine in it for my next bath.  The toilet was only for shitting; I was only allowed to flush it just before I left for work, and keeping the door open ensured the odor would permeate my tiny room.

 

When I went back to work Sunday night, the only thing I wore under my uniform was a tee shirt and a sanitary pad.  I had to really concentrate on not masturbating at the CQ desk, and by the time I got off shift and back to my room the next morning, my pad was soaked.  I quickly disrobed, dropping my pants first, followed by my shirt, then squatting on the floor to untie my boots so I could remove the trousers completely.  This was how I imagined my Master would order me to expose myself – cunt first, then tits – as I undressed.  I was already covered in sweat, but denied myself the bath I so badly needed.  Instead, I tied my ankles to the foot of the bed so that my legs were splayed open, and laid flat on my back.  Then, shoving the saturated pad in my mouth, began sucking my own juices from it as I tweaked and tugged my nipples.  My imaginary Master wasn’t permitting me to touch my cunt, I told myself, but would let me cum if I could do it only through playing with my tits.  I laid there for four hours, working myself into a frenzy, the room reeking of horny girl scent, before my world finally exploded into a shower of silver flashes.  Thank God for the soaked pad in my mouth, otherwise the whole building would have heard my screams. 

 

That began my era of going sans underthings, and for the next few weeks, I seldom wore panties or bras.  I found out socks were a necessity, though, because any serious walking in combat boots would cause my feet to erupt in blisters.  While I was still on permanent CQ, though, I would wear stockings and a garter belt.  Sometimes, when the weather was cool, I’d forego my uniform top and just zip my field jacket up over my naked breasts.

 

One night after pulling CQ, I decided I’d tie myself up again, only this time I’d give myself as many orgasms as I could.  I tied my ankles to the corners at the head of the bed, leaving my cunt splayed wide open almost directly above my face.  Then I took my handcuffs (I was an MP, remember?), and with my left hand behind my leg and my right hand over the top, locked my wrists together.  I could still squirm around a little – the handcuff key was attached to a shoelace tied to the cuffs – but I couldn’t move my hands away from my crotch.  The sound of the handcuff locking actually caused me to have a small orgasm, but my fingers quickly brought me to three more.  My hands, and the bed beneath me, were soaked.  I fell asleep after eight, but woke up several times during the day and masturbated several more times before I finally got up for work.  I’d recently fantasized about being in public smelling of cunt, but knew I had to take a bath.  My sheets were soaked, and the room reeked of the extended finger-fucking I’d been doing.  When I came out of the bathroom, I could still smell it.  I decided right then that I’d leave it that way for a while.  It was only right that a nasty, horny slut like me should be forced to sleep in her own stench.

 

After that, I started alternating things.  One day I’d tease myself without being permitted an orgasm, and the next day I’d cum until I was numb.  I’d take my vibrator and duct tape it between my legs before turning it on and then cuffing my wrists to the headboard.  Sometimes I’d tie myself spread-eagle to the bed, and other times I’d squat on the floor and fuck myself until I fell over.  I’d sleep in bed, or on the floor with a rope around my neck tied to the footboard, or in the bathroom with my wrists secured around the base of the toilet.  The only thing was constant, and that was that if anyone had ever walked in on me, I’d be helpless.  They’d be able to do whatever they wanted, and there wouldn’t be a thing I could do about it.  The thought scared the shit out of me, but at the same time, made me even more horny.

 

I still spent my weekends out in the woods, and those adventures became even more daring.  I started going out wearing nothing but my gym shorts, running shoes and a tank top, quite often leaving my clothes behind a tree or under a rock while I jogged a kilometer or so in the nude, ready to jump in the bushes if I heard anyone approaching.  I always returned to my clothes sweaty and horny, and rewarded myself with a quick orgasm.  I eventually started making a contest out of it, only allowing myself to cum if I made it back to my clothes within a certain time, or if I did something particularly outrageous beforehand.  One time I pissed all over my clothes before starting the naked part of my trek, and had to wear them while I jilled off.  I managed to sneak back into the barracks still smelling of piss.

 

This went on for about four months, my actions coming progressively more perilous as time went on, until my security clearance came through and I was finally able to go to work at the site.  Officially, it was NATO Site 59, but everyone in the unit just called it “the hill,” or “the site.”  Although there were literally dozens of numbered sites, each with its own purpose, this was the only one any of us cared about.

 

The site was situated in a clearing deep inside the woods above the German city of Clausen.  I found that work on the site was nearly as dull, boring and mindless as pulling CQ, at least at first.  While the unit had been short-handed when I arrived, in the months since, six new handlers had shown up, and now there was a shortage of dogs.  So, instead of working nights in the barracks, I worked days in the kennels.  Dog teams generally work during hours of darkness, so during the day, there was usually nobody there but me and the Kennelmaster.  He ran the place, and I did all the grunt work like feeding and watering the dogs, spraying out the kennels and picking up dog shit from the yard.  When that was done, I’d be put to work washing windows, sanitizing feed dishes, or even painting the rocks white.  Anything to keep busy.  The only good thing about the assignment was that I couldn’t work as a KP in the kitchen.  For the uninitiated, that means washing dishes and mopping the floors, but KP was something Dog Handlers were exempt from.  People tended to have issues when the person behind the serving line is covered in hair, with dog shit on his or her boots.

 

I started fantasizing about the Kennelmaster, a handsome, clean-cut Staff Sergeant named John.  If I could have ever described someone as a dreamboat, it would have been him.  He had short, blond crew-cut hair; piercing blue eyes; and a body that made me want to melt whenever I saw him.  We had a little weight room in the security building across the other side of the site, and he’d spend an hour every afternoon working out.  From shoulders to waist, his body formed a perfect V, and I could see his six-pack – make that a twelve-pack – clearly outlined whenever he took his uniform shirt off.  I wasn’t into resistance training then, but after I mentioned that I liked to run, he started giving me an hour or two off in the afternoons to myself. 

 

Unlike the barracks, where I had to walk a mile or so before entering the forest, the site was situated in a little clearing surrounded by them, and I had less than 100 yards – meters, since this was Germany – before I could be completely surrounded by trees and undergrowth.  There were a number of trails, but none appeared very well-used, so I started going back to my old tricks.  I couldn’t get away without wearing a bra, though; John was too astute to not notice that, but I still didn’t wear any panties.  Thank God for the pads I wore, because I would have soaked through my pants otherwise.

 

Working in the kennels, one thing I had access to was extra canine gear, and I managed to sneak an old leather dog collar out of storage.  Taking it home one weekend, I fixed it up with a tiny padlocked latch and used a marking pen and stencil set to write “SLAVE BITCH” across the leather in bold, red lettering.  The next Monday, I took my walk wearing nothing but the collar.  I did the same thing each day for the rest of the week.  I had a special hiding place – a shrub next to a rock formation – where I’d hide my clothes during my walk.  When I was done, I’d secrete the collar there in the same place.  Each time, I’d sit in the dirt with my legs splayed, bringing myself to orgasm at the end of my walk, then wipe my wet, sticky fingers on my breasts before getting dressed and jogging back to the kennels.

 

It was Friday that my life would change forever.  In addition to dropping my clothes during my walk, I cuffed my hands behind my back.  I’d been practicing getting out of them, and knew I could either work the key behind my back or slip my wrists down the back of my legs and over my feet, allowing me to bring my hands in front of my waist to unlock the cuffs.  Before locking myself into them, though, I slipped my collar on and double-checked to make sure the key was in the pocket of the trousers I’d neatly folded and left behind in my hiding place.  I set off down the trail at a fast walk, completely naked, collared, and with my hands bound behind my back.

 

I’d gone maybe a mile when I heard the unmistakable sounds of someone on the path ahead of me.  Seeing a small depression left of the trail, I quickly darted towards it, but failed to notice the downed sapling which caught me just above the ankles, causing me to tumble headfirst down the hill.  With my hands bound behind my back, I was unable to break my fall, and hit the ground head-first, letting out a loud moan as I did.  The noises on the trail above me stopped momentarily, and I could only hope I was hidden – and quiet – enough that whoever it was would go away without investigating further.  I made myself as small as possible, curling into a fetal position under a bit of brush and holding my breath.  My heart pounded in my ears, so loudly that I knew whoever it was could hear it.  I prayed silently for the first time in years, promising that this would be the final time I’d play this dangerous game, if only God would see me through this one incident.

 

Alas, my prayers went unanswered as I heard rustling in the brush above me, and then the crackling of twigs breaking as the movement came closer.  I closed my eyes, willing my heart to stop pounding, not daring to breathe.  Only the low, familiar growl caused me to open them.  I looked up and saw Wolf, my nemesis from the kennels, standing over my naked form.  Of all the dogs in the section, Wolf hated me.  He hated everyone, but most of all, me.  There were only two people who could have taken Wolf out, his handler, a guy named Pete, who was three weeks into a 30-day stateside leave, and John.  Wolf growled at me again, barring his teeth.  I knew from experience that he was about to attack, and that he’d go for my neck. 

 

“Roll onto your back and lower your eyes.  Don’t look him in the eyes,” I heard John’s voice command.  “Just do it, and he’ll see you aren’t a threat.”  Wolf was a Sentry Dog and wasn’t trained to back down on command.  These were the Army’s bad-ass canines, not like regular police dogs you might be familiar with.  I knew John was right, and did as he said, rolling over and presenting my bare belly to Wolf in a manner that indicated submissiveness. 

 

Wolf stopped growling, but I sensed – because my eyes were now tightly closed – his presence coming near me.  I could feel his warm breath on my naked form, drips of saliva landing on me as he panted heavily.  I felt his nose touch my inner thigh, and almost instinctively, I opened my legs and allowed him to sniff at what was supposed to be my most private parts. Then I heard him change position, walking towards my head, sniffing at my face.  My body broke out in perspiration, and I let out a quiet whimper as his muzzle came in contact with my throat.  Wolf must have understood my fear, my submissiveness, because I heard him step back, and then, suddenly, felt the hot spray of his urine hitting me in the face.  In his own way, Wolf had claimed me.  I heard John’s voice in the background, praising him.  When his bladder was empty, Wolf trotted away, back to John’s side.

 

“On your feet, fratwhore!” John yelled at me.  I looked up at him, embarrassed beyond belief, but shocked that he’d called me that name.  “Yes, that’s what Timmy used to call you, wasn’t it?  I recognized you the day you arrived.  I doubt you remember me, but Tim and I were friends, frat brothers in fact.  As I recall, your going rate at the time was fifty cents a hole, or two buck for the whole night.”

 

Oh, how I remembered the fraternity house and the students who lived there.  Whether cooking, cleaning or being someone’s sex toy, the only time I was permitted to wear clothing was when company was around.  Even then, it was always clothing of the most revealing sort, usually a mini skirt and thin halter top, never with panties or a bra.  I was up before dawn each morning to prepare breakfast for everyone, then to crawl under the dining room table to service with my mouth anyone who wanted some quick oral relief.  After everyone was gone, it was a day of household chores, always done to perfection with the promise of a beating if even a speck of dirt was found.  Each bed had to be made with fresh linen, the soiled linen carefully washed and folded for use the next day.  Dishes washed and put away.  Floors swept and mopped.  Toilets and bathrooms scrubbed.  Furniture polished until I could see my reflection in the surface.  Dinner prepared and served promptly at 5:00 pm. 

 

After dinner, if I was lucky, I’d have a little free time to myself, during which I tried to prepare myself – mentally and physically – for whatever would happen later in the evening.  I never knew who would be using me that night, but so many of the brothers liked anal sex that it was imperative that I had an enema.  No matter what hole they used, I knew I was going to be cleaning cocks with my mouth, and even after all these months, the taste of my own shit made me wretch.  I’d vomited once after being forced to lick a cock that had just been removed from my ass, and after the punishment I received, vowed to never do that again.

 

I also took the time to wax my pubes whenever I could, daily if possible.  I was required to keep my crotch absolutely free of hair, and after having my cunt beaten with a coat hanger after someone claimed to have felt stubble, I took special care to make sure I was completely bare between my legs.  I even resorted to carefully examining myself with a magnifying mirror, checking my constantly red, swollen, abused gash for any signs of follicles starting to grow. 

 

My overall appearance was also important to the brothers.  After the dinner dishes were done and they were either relaxing or studying, I was required to appear before them wearing specific items and made up a specific way, depending on the day of the week.  On Mondays and Wednesdays, I was supposed to be a slut, with heavy facial makeup and rouge on my nipples and cunt lips.  Red fishnet stockings, lace garter belt, and six inch high stiletto heels completed the outfit.  Tuesdays and Thursdays, I was the French maid, with severe, pale makeup and the traditional uniform – sans panties or a bra, of course.  From Friday through Sunday afternoon, though, I was just a slave.  No makeup, just a bright red leather collar and a ball gag that would be removed whenever anyone deigned to use my mouth, then just as unceremoniously replaced as soon as their cum was spurted down my throat.  I’d spend the weekend on my hands and knees, servicing the brothers and any friends they invited over, including more than a few girlfriends who wanted to try me out.  I wasn’t permitted to clean myself during these weekend sessions, and typically by Saturday morning, was a cum-covered, stinking mess.  I doubt there was ever a weekend where I wasn’t fucked at least thirty times.  And then I found out Tim was peddling my ass to his friends, charging everyone for the use of my body.

 

All these memories came rushing back as I struggled to my knees, then my feet.  John took Wolf’s leash and snapped it to my collar.

 

“A bitch should walk at the heel,” he commented, “but for now, I want you in front of me.  Throw your hips forward and wiggle your ass like a bitch in heat.  Do a good enough job of getting me hot and maybe I’ll fuck your slutty ass, just like before,” he said.

 

He led me back towards the site, slapping my bare ass with a switch whenever he wanted me to turn left or right.  Whenever Wolf thought I was walking too slow, he’d come up behind me and growl, twice actually nipping at my ankles as I stumbled barefoot down the rock-strewn path.  We took a circuitous route back to the kennels, at one point cutting through a heavily wooded area from one trail to another.  The tree branches slapped at my naked body, and the twigs, rocks and other obstacles pierced the soles of my feet until I was leaving a clear blood trail that anyone would be able to follow.

 

Our route brought us to the far side of the kennel area, near an old corrugated steel, unwalled shelter, under which the kennel crates were stored.  Kennel crates were transportation cages in which each dog was initially brought to the site from Texas, where they were trained.  They were similar to commercial animal cages used by airlines, but of heavier construction.  The floor was a solid piece of heavy aluminum, the walls and roof of similar material, but punctured with circular holes about two inches in diameter.  The front wall was a door, the upper half strong bars and the lower a hinged plate that could be opened to permit food and water to be provided to the animal.  We still used the crates on occasion, usually when we had to take a dog to the veterinarian in Kaiserslautern, but we had about 20 excess that were never used, and just remained stacked off to once side along with  unused chain link fencing remnants, old light poles, and other rubbish.

 

I felt John’s booted foot hit the back of my leg, causing my knees to collapse and my body to topple forward onto the ground.  Without a word, he pushed my head into the dirt, kicked my knees apart, and mounted me from behind.  He fucked me with a force I hadn’t felt in years, a familiar feeling going back to the days when my own brother would rape me in nearly the same way.  John’s cock wasn’t especially long, but it was thick, and I could feel it stretching my nether lips to the point where, even as lubricated as I was, it hurt.  He pummeled into me relentlessly, using me like the hole I was, finally shooting his cum deep inside me.  That’s all I was, I realized at that point, a cum receptacle, a convenient hole for men to relieve themselves in.

 

“In,” John commanded, opening one of the crate doors.  With my wrists still bound securely behind my back, I shuffled on my scraped knees to the open hatch before lowering my torso forward and semi-slithering in to the cramped space,  Once inside, it was necessary for me to roll to my side and assume a fetal position so that when John shut the door, my feet were pressed firmly against it.  Without a word, I heard him click the leash snap over the hasp, effectively locking me inside.  I lay there, feeling his cum seep out of my well-used, sore hole.

 

Leaving Wolf to guard me for the moment, he walked off to the kennels, returning a few minutes later.  He opened the door to my cage and, at his command, I carefully wormed my way outside, turned around, and then returned to my prison, feet-first this time.  My naked breasts scraped painfully against the ground, as I didn’t the strength left to keep my back arched enough to keep them out of the dirt.  At one point, John placed his hands on my shoulders and forcefully pushed me backwards into my prison, causing a nipple to catch on the edge of the crate and pinching it painfully.  Once I was inside, he locked the crate door with a padlock and slid two stainless steel food dishes – the same type we used to feed the dogs - through the food slot; my body was taking up too much room and they wouldn’t fit completely inside, so he left them positioned about halfway through the slot.  One bowl was about half-full of water, but I was dismayed when I saw the food dish was brimming with the dry pellets of the sawdust-like food the dogs received, called MSD, for Maximum Stress Diet.  Well, there was no doubt that I was under maximum stress at the moment, but I was sure I wouldn’t like what I was being offered.  MSD was scientifically designed for the nutritional needs of military working dogs, but it was tasteless.  I knew, because one of the initiation rites at the kennels was to take a handful and eat it.  I’d done that weeks before, and it did taste like a combination of sawdust and dirt.  It also made you extremely thirsty, and while only a cup or so was fed to each dog, it swelled in their bellies with water.  The same thing happened with people, too, and it made me look nearly pregnant when I went through my initiation.  Before I had an opportunity to do anything, though, John covered the crate with an old tarp.

 

“See you on Monday!” he exclaimed.  “I’d suggest you think about your new position in life while you have the chance.”

 

So there I was, locked naked inside a kennel crate, wrists cuffed behind my back, laying uncomfortably on my side and unable to move more than a few centimeters.  I was barely able to lift my head enough to lap at the two dishes next to my face, though thankfully, the water was closest.  I wanted to avoid the MSD as long as possible, but knew I’d never make it through the weekend without eating at least some of it.

 

With the tarp blocking out most of the light, I had to rely on my ears to keep what track of time I could.  It was easy to tell the difference between night and day, but it was the sounds that told me when dusk or dawn were approaching.  I could hear the truck arrive with the handlers each evening, and the sounds of them taking their dogs out for work returning hours later, as dawn broke.  Several times I could hear nocturnal animals scurrying around; this area was filled with hedgehogs and boars, both of which my ears could make out as they sought food.  I wasn’t able to sleep that first night, and just lay there, unable to even think clearly as my body began to ache.

 

Saturday morning broke, and the sun beat down on the tarp covering my tiny prison.  Have you ever been inside a canvas tent during the heat of the day?  That’s what it was like.  There was no air circulation; just the musty odor of the covering, damp from the dew the night before, beginning to heat up.  I could barely breathe it was so warm, almost like a steam room by early afternoon.  My only respite was the now-brackish water that I was able to lap up with considerable effort.  By evening my stomach was finally aching enough that I dared snag a couple of morsels of MSD with my tongue and swallowed them, followed by another tiny drink of water.  It was just too much work to try to truly quench my thirst, and I had to satisfy myself with wetting my tongue a few times each hour.

 

It wasn’t until mid-day that I realized a very bad problem.  Although I’d had little to drink and even less to eat, my body was still going through its normal digestive process.  Both my bladder and bowels were beginning to ache, but being virtually unable to move, there was no possibility of me doing anything without soiling myself.  Even though I knew I’d never be able to hold off until John returned on Monday, I tried as long as I could, finally shitting and pissing in my tiny cell and spending the rest of the day laying in my own filth.  By late afternoon, flies had started to swarm down on me, making life just that much more uncomfortable.  All I could do was shake slightly whenever they landed on my body, causing them to fly away for a few seconds before landing again.

 

The dog handlers arrive early that evening, the “five quarter” truck’s brakes squealing harshly as they pulled up in front of the kennels.  A few minutes later, I could hear them walking their dogs around, letting them stretch their legs and whatnot.  I prayed that none of them would notice me; the wind must have been blowing right, because none of the three dogs working that night came close.  I kept as quiet as I could until I heard the gate open and close again, signaling that the dog handlers had gone to work.

 

It stormed that night, the wind blowing the tarp away.  I shivered uncontrollably as the cold rain pelted my unprotected, naked body.  The only good thing was that the storm washed my own filth away but by morning I was physically and emotionally beaten and would have done anything just to be released from this Hell.  I’d never been so cold and miserable in my life, my arms were numb, and I could barely think.  It was Sunday morning, and with the exception of a few moments of semi-conscious napping, I’d been awake for over three days now.  The bowl containing my food had filled with rain water, turning the MSD into a yellowish, watery mush which I was able to suck up between my lips with a little less problem today.  The water bowl was filled to the brim, with mosquitoes and other insects floating in it.  My body was numb from the cold, abuse and forced immobilization; if I was injuring myself, I wouldn’t have been able to tell.  Nor, at that point, would I have cared.  My brain apparently went into survival mode, and I became completely unaware of my surroundings.

 

My mind took me back to a time I’d rather have forgotten, just after I dropped out of school and left home.  I’d decided I wasn’t finding whatever it was I was looking for at that Oregon commune, so I simply headed out to the highway and tried thumbing a ride.  My only belongings were the clothes on my back:  a red flower-patterned peasant-style dress with an elastic bodice, a pair of worn-out cotton panties, and a pair of flat leather sandals.  My hair at that time was long, scraggly dirty blonde, my toenails were painted in a rainbow of colors – each toe different – and I wore a pair of purple-lensed square-framed sunglasses.

 

I eventually hooked up with a biker who was passing through.  He pulled up next to me, gave me the visual once-over, and motioned to the seat behind him.

 

“Get on, bitch,” were his only words.  I had no idea who he was or where we were going, and that that point, I didn’t really care.  His commanding voice, though, reminded me of James, and I immediately noticed a wetness between my legs.

 

We’d ridden about an hour when he – I still didn’t know his name – pulled off at what turned out to be a small biker bar on the side of the highway.  He pulled in at the end of a line of about a dozen other Harleys, some new, some chopped, some beaten and battered.  Before I really knew what was going on, he’d taken a length of chain from his saddle bag, wrapped one end around my ankle and secured it with a padlock.  The other end he threaded through the bike frame, also locking it, and then lifted me off the bike, depositing me on the ground..

 

“I’m gonna go have a beer or two.  Watch my bike, cunt,” he said, then turned and walked into the bar.

 

The sun was starting to go down, and there was a chill in the air, but I couldn’t do anything but shiver and stomp my feet trying to stay warm.  My biker didn’t return until well after dark.  Other bikers, many with girls sitting behind them, arrived and went inside.  Many of the men grinned at me, while most of the women gave me distaining looks.  I could hear music playing, and the loud voices of a raucous party going on.  I didn’t have a watch, but it must have been four or five hours that I was stuck out there, chained like a piece of property to his bike  When he did return, he didn’t even bother releasing the chain from my ankle.  He just unlocked it from the bike frame and snapped the end to a clip on his belt before motioning me to get back on. 

 

This time he just took me around the bar, to a small shack behind the main building.  After locking his bike, he removed a bed roll tied to his saddlebags and handed it to me. 

“Follow,” he commanded, and I did.  He led me into the shack, the chain around my ankle chaffing me painfully.  It really was a shack, and from the looks of it, had once been a tool shed.  It was filthy, with a bare dirt floor and nothing but a dirty mattress on the ground.  He pushed me down onto it, holding me down with a booted foot on my belly, while he pulled down his trousers.  He knelt between legs, forcing them apart, and then ripped both my dress and panties off.

 

“My cunts only wear what I give them, understand?” he said, squeezing my left breast painfully while he trapped my wrists with his other hand and stretched my arms over my head.

 

“Yes, Master,” I replied, finding myself once again in a very familiar situation.

 

I really don’t remember everything that happened to me after that; I know he fucked me, and when he was done, all his buddies did the same thing.  After they were all through, he locked my ankle chain to an anvil that was apparently there for just that purpose, and then left, locking the padlock on the door as well.  I wasn’t going to go anywhere, but then again, nobody was going to do anything to me unless my new Master wanted them to.

 

I stayed with the bikers – I won’t mention their group, but it’s one well-known to law enforcement – for about three months, until they got tired of me and left me at a bar. During that time, I’d been fucked so many times – I think the least was six or eight cocks a day – I couldn’t keep count.  I was “low cunt on the totem pole,” so it wasn’t just the men who used me; I was at the beck and call of every female there, too.  If I got to wear clothing, it was something tossed out by one of the other women, usually nothing more than a halter and a pair of stained hot pants or jean shorts.  Nothing I ever wore was washed, either, and I was forced to wear whatever I had until someone decided to give me something else.  It didn’t matter when I was indoors, though, because I was always kept naked and in chains.  I was, in effect, a slave to the entire group.  But that was then, and this story is about Site 59, so let’s return there.

 

The weather started to warm up later that morning, but coupled with the rain of the night before, the humidity was brining out the gnats and mosquitoes.   I fell into a painful stupor while the insects feasted on my unprotected, abused body.  I was completely unaware of my surroundings by now, totally oblivious to anything but the agony I was feeling from two full days of being bound, stuffed in a cage, and forced to endure everything I’d gone through since being caught.  My body responded by shutting down, causing me fall into a restless semi-comatose sleep.

 

I don’t know how long I slept before I was awakened to a pounding of wood on my kennel crate.  I looked up groggily to see John silhouetted in the sunlight.

 

“Do you know your place yet, fratwhore?” he said quietly, leaning down to peer in through the barred door. 

 

“Yes. Master,” I croaked, barely conscious.

 

He unlocked the crate door and ordered me out.  With my hands still locked behind me and my muscles cramped from being bound in the same position for two plus days, this was no easy task, but I managed to eventually slither out on my belly onto the muddy ground.  Pushing me face-first into the ground, John stood with one foot on the back of my neck while he unlocked my handcuffs.  He threw my dirty, wet fatigues on the ground and told me to get dressed and report to his office when I was done.  I was unable to move for several minutes while my muscles labored to respond to my brain’s commands, but was able to slowly and painfully dress.  I limped haggardly into the kennel building, waiting outside his open office door.

 

“Get in the jeep,” he finally said, after making me stand there, shivering for several minutes.  “Wait for me.”  I was in no shape to drive right now anyway, so there was no way I was going to be able to leave.  I sat in the passenger’s seat  and waited.  The rear seat had been removed so a kennel crate could be carried, though there wasn’t one there at the moment.  Just the bare steel jeep bed.  When he came out, I half expected him to order me into the back, but he just started the jeep and we drove away.

 

I wasn’t sure where we were going, but it turned out to be the barracks after all.  He parked the jeep and led me in to my room.  When the CQ questioned us, he just said I’d fallen in the creek and was coming back to get changed.  John had my room key, and I looked at him questioningly while he unlocked the door.

 

“Strip and go take a bath,” he ordered.  “You stink.”  I started to walk into the bathroom to change when he grabbed me by the arm.  “No, strip here.  From now on, you’re to be naked whenever you’re in this room.  As soon as you walk in, you drop your clothes.  I don’t care whether anyone is with you or not, you will get naked as soon as you cross this threshold.”  Without any argument, I dropped my soaked clothes on the floor and stumbled into the bathroom.

 

While I was bathing, John went through my belongings, piling all my civilian jeans and most of my tops on the floor.  He pawed through my undergarments, selecting a threadbare pair of panties with a torn waistband and my oldest, most worn-out bra for me to keep.  The rest went into a pile in the middle of my bed, along with all but one pair of my boot socks.  The only civilian clothes he allowed me to keep were two skirts, a halter top, my bikini, and a pair of strap-style black heels.

 

“You won’t wear these without my permission,” he said, referring to the one set of undergarments he’d left.  “I’d make you toss them all, but you might need a pair someday.”   Well, at least I’d have something to wear when I went to the doctor, I thought.

 

He smiled when he saw my bathroom, saying he liked the décor and that it would stay.  Of course, he might want to personalize it a bit, he commented, with photos of his new slave in action. 

 

He handed me my shortest skirt and bikini top and told me to take the pile of clothing out to the trash.  The next thing he did, while I was taking my clothes out to the dumpster, was to work on the door lock.  It was a double-keyed mechanism, meaning you had to have a key to lock or unlock it from either side.  He quickly disabled the interior keyway.  I could now be locked in or out, but would not be able to secure the door from the inside, so anyone could walk in on me unless John decided to lock the door when he left.  He also took the precaution of nailing my window shut, thus making it impossible for me to leave my room without breaking the glass after I was locked in.  John completely  controlled my ability to enter and leave my own room. 

 

He was far from finished, though.  After ordering me to my knees on the bathroom floor – knees spread widely, hands clasped behind my head, mouth open – he told me to hold position until he returned.  He was gone for quite a while, but when he got back, I heard him moving around in the bedroom area, the noise of moving furniture and clanking metal.  I couldn’t see out the door, though, and even though he couldn’t see me, I didn’t break position.  Finally, he ordered me to crawl out into what had been my living area.

 

My bunk had been dismantled and the parts stacked on top of the wall locker.  Only the mattress remained, laying by itself on the floor, without linen or blankets.  A heavy metal chain – the type used in the Arms Room to secure weapons racks – was bolted to the radiator-style heater, and the other end to a hinged steel loop with a padlock on it.  It was this loop that John placed around my left ankle, locking it in place.  Now not only could I not leave my room without his permission, but even my movements within the room were limited.  I noticed he’d doubled the chain over so that I’d be restricted to the sleeping area; I wouldn’t be able to get to my bathroom unless he re-locked it at full length.

 

Several mirrors were now mounted on the walls, angled downward so that I would see my own reflection wherever I looked when I was on my mattress.   My personal property – desk lamp, stereo, everything I used to decorate my room with – was gone.  The only thing remaining was my television, but atop it was a large, bulky video player.  These were the early days of home video, and Beta format was still king.  Video machines back then cost hundreds of dollars and weren’t all that popular yet.  There was one exception, and that was porn.  John explained that he would be providing me with one video a day.  After watching the video, I was to write an essay of at least 1000 words, explaining the plot in detail, and what I learned from it.  My essay was due before breakfast each morning, and it wasn’t ready, there wouldn’t be any breakfast. 

 

That was the first of many rules he explained to me that evening. 

 

 “First of all, I don’t like cunt hair.  You won’t always have time to wax it, and shaving isn’t close enough for my liking, so you have an appointment tomorrow to have it permanently removed.”  I began to protest, but he stifled me with another comment:  “Of course, I can always tell them you want to be totally hairless.  Scalp, eyebrows, the work,” he said with a raised eye.  My mouth clamped shut and I just looked down, focusing my eyes on his feet.

 

“Second, you’re too fat.”  Now, that comment really pissed me off, but I was in no position to argue.  After all, I was down to 122 pounds now, and at 5’10” tall, was pretty much skin and bones.  “I want to start seeing ribs, so from now on, you’re on a diet, nothing but what I decide to let you eat, until you lose at least another fifteen, maybe 20 pounds.  No more weight training at the gym, either.  The only exercise you’ll get is running.  And fucking, of course.”  Again, I didn’t dare say anything.  To do so would undoubtedly mean another beating, because his mind was made up.

 

“Third, you’re a  lousy fuck.  You were a lousy fuck at the frat house, and you’re still a lousy fuck.  I figured in all the years you’ve been whoring, you’d know what it takes to be something other than a cum dump, but apparently, you haven’t.  So that’s the reason for the videos.  Maybe you’ll learn something from them; if not, I’ll send you somewhere where you’ll learn how to fuck properly.”

 

Even being such a lousy lay, however, didn’t stop him from using me that night.   Several times, in all my holes.  After ass-fucking me like a bitch on the floor, he had me lick his shitty cock clean and then laid down on my mattress and fell asleep, leaving me to sleep on the hard floor, chained to the radiator.  He woke me up three times that night, each time so he could just dump another load of cum in me.. The next morning, he hoisted my mattress up to the top of my locker, telling me that I would have to earn the privilege of a comfortable place to sleep.  Until then, he said, I could curl up anywhere on the floor I wanted.

 

After breakfast the next day – John let me eat whatever I wanted in the mess hall that morning, which would become an unusual event  – he took me into Kaiserslautern to what would today be known as a body art establishment.  Europe generally being several years ahead of the U.S. in fashion, tattoos and body piercing were already quite popular among certain groups.  It was a grungy place, almost scary, with filthy floors and stone walls covered with years of grime.  The proprietor was a hulk of a man with a bare, hairy chest and tattoos on his arms.  He spoke with a Turkish accent, grinning when he saw the two of us.

 

 After making me strip, John  helped the owner strap me on my back to an ancient-looking wooden table, spreading my arms and legs as far apart as possible.  The Turk’s fat, grubby fingers took liberties with my body everywhere he could reach.  John just nodded approval and let the man grope me.

 

“Payment before or after?” John asked.

 

“Oh, I think after.  Before makes the work more difficult,” he replied, taking out an intimidating-looking electrical device and plugging it in to the wall outlet.  “This will take some time, and she may not like the pain.  Noise would distract me, too.  Did you bring something to gag her with?”

 

“Sure did, just like you suggested,” John said, pulling a pair of jockey shorts out of his pocket.  He walked over to my head and held them up for me to see.  “I’ve been wearing them all weekend,” he said, “Just so they’d be nice and tasty for you.”  I watched helplessly as he balled them up, making sure the stains were on the outside.  Aware of the futility of resistance, I meekly opened my mouth and allowed him to shove them deeply between my teeth.  I could taste the mush of his manliness as he sealed the gag in place with a strip of duct tape that had been conveniently hanging at the side of the table.

 

After checking my bonds, the Turk began moving the device over my pubes, removing each hair individually, burning the follicle as he did.  I laid there for two hours, squirming while I was painfully denuded, until he was done.  After he put the tool away, he unbuckled my feet.  I assumed I was going to be let up, but instead, he attached my ankles to my wrists so that my cunt was pointed straight up in the air, climbed onto the table, pulled out his uncut cock and began brutally fucking me.  He came quickly, without a word, then climbed down and released my bonds.  I realized then that I was his payment.

 

“Bring her back in a month.  It’ll take two, maybe three treatments to make it completely permanent.”  Not so much as a “thank you” or “nice fucking you,” to me, though.  John gave me my sun dress to slip back on, and let me out of the dingy building into the daylight.

 

The rest of my week was a whirlwind.  Constantly naked when I was locked in my room, never allowed panties or a bra when I was out.  After my regular day’s work at the kennels – John didn’t let me slack off from that at all, and actually demanded more from me now – I still had to go back to my room, watch the video of the day and write my essay.  John had also taken to having me do his laundry and spit-shine his boots each night, so I had that to do as well as my own work.  In between this, he usually used each of my holes at least once a day.  He liked to start the day off with a blow job when he came to unlock me in the morning, then a quick fuck (usually doggy style) at the kennels around lunch time, and an ass-fuck before bed.  I was only allowed to bathe in the morning before breakfast, so I’d usually lay on the floor of my room all night, trying to sleep on the hard tile, while cum seeped out of my distended asshole.  Oh, God, how I loved it!

 

This went on for a couple of weeks, when John told me he’d made arrangements for me to be “trained how to fuck,” as he put it.  He didn’t tell me exactly what at the time, but I was somewhat surprised at the questions he asked.

 

“When do you expect your next period to start?” he asked.  I was pretty regular, and told him it would be in three or four days.  “Good.  The day it starts, you’re going AWOL,” he told me matter-of-factly.  I looked up at him, surprised at the statement.  “All you’ll need is a dress for travel.  Nothing else.  Everything will be provided for you where you’re going.”

 

“I understand,” I replied, though I really didn’t.

 

What he had in mind, and what happened to me for the next four weeks, was an experience I’ll never forget.  It was the most educational, exciting, humiliating and degrading month of my life.  The evening of the day my period started, he handed me a plain, threadbare cotton dress and led me out to his car.  We didn’t drive far, only about 50 kilometers, to the outskirts of the city of Kaiserslautern, stopping at a facility known as Annabella Haus.

 

Annabella Haus was the largest whore house in Rheinland-Pfalz, with over 100 prostitutes working there.  It catered to a primarily military crowd, and soldiers being what they are, they weren’t too picky.  The whores there weren’t exactly the best looking, but the one attribute they all had was three holes available for rent.  It was to be my home for the next four weeks.

 

Since my period had started, I wasn’t able to begin my service as a prostitute right away, so my first five days were spent watching the other girls ply their trade.  There were two-way mirrors and surveillance cameras, and I sat and intently studied their actions, learning how to make the proper sounds and movements at the correct time.  It was easy, but tedious, as I spent at least 16 hours each day just watching, unable to rest or sleep.  The reason I was unable to rest is because I was also learning how to wear the clothes of a professional prostitute, in particular, stiletto shoes.  I’d never worn anything other than two inch heels, but now I was being forced into thigh-high boots with heels as high as nine inches!  Each day I’d be given a different pair of shoes to teeter around in, and by the end of the day, my feet would be screaming in pain. 

 

I had other work to do as well, primarily tidying up each room after it was used, changing the sheets and making the beds.  I had to do all this while wearing those damnable shoes as well.  They told me it was so I would get used to wearing things like that, but I really think it was just to cause me pain.

 

I didn’t find out until the third day that I was being charged for what they called my “training.”  The currency at the time was Deutschmarks, but for those who want to make the conversion, a dollar was worth about DM 2.75 when this happened, although the actual exchange rate changed daily.

 

First of all, I was being charged an up-front fee of DM 200, plus DM 50 each day for my “training.”  Everything else had a charge, too…seven marks for each meal, ten marks a day for clean bedding, and three marks every time I took a shower.  By the time I progressed to the point where I could start making money, I was already deeply in debt.

 

I assumed making that much money would be pretty easy, but I was wrong.  The going rate for a whore was DM 50, but since I was a “trainee,” my customers would pay just DM 20.  Then, half of that money went to the house, which meant I was going to be spreading my legs for the grand total of ten marks – about three dollars - a pop.  Then I found out this wasn’t the “per fuck” rate, but for a whole hour, and they could fuck me as many times as they wanted during that hour!  I quickly realized that I’d have to fuck at least a dozen customers a day to just break even – let alone paying what I already owed!  I knew most of the whores only had two or three customers a night, but hoped that my “half-price special” would garner more attention.  That, and maybe I could negotiate more pay for extra services.  I knew, for instance, that a straight fuck was 50 marks, but ass could be twice that.  One whore told me she had a customer who wanted her to suck him off after he ass-fucked her, and was willing to pay an additional DM 200 to have her do it.  As disgusting as it sounded to me at the time, I realized I’d probably do it if the opportunity arose.

 

Most of my customers were young soldiers and airmen, mostly because I was available so cheap.  They weren’t interested in quality, for the most part, just a quick fuck to empty their balls into.  Weekends were especially tedious for me, since work soon made its way around the nearby installations that there was a new half-price whore who would do just about anything, particularly if you offered her a few extra bucks.  The only good thing about that, if you could really call it that, was that I quickly became popular and was not only able to pay my debt to the house, but actually had a few dollars of my own by the time my month was up.

 

When John picked me up on the 28^th day, I handed him a sealed ledger book the management had told me to give him.  It was the record of my stay:  the daily fees, what meals I ate, how many showers, and of course, how many people had paid to fuck me.  He whistled when he saw the total:  I’d had 341 customers in just over three weeks, or about 15 a day during the time that I’d been made available.  The total cost to my customers had been DM 5,115, plus  another DM 300 in tips for “extra services” like sucking ass and giving tongue baths.  My half of the take was DM 2,707.50 (the house kept half my tips, too), with expenses of DM 2,167.  My net profit was just over 540 Deutschmarks.  John laughed his ass off when he told me I had netted less than 55 cents per customer!  And how much of few pennies did I get to keep?  None.  John kept it as partial repayment for having to go without the use of my body during the “training period.”  It was his right, anyway, even without the excuse he provided.  I was, in essence, his slave, his property, and any earnings I made rightly belonged to him.

 

I reported back to the unit on day 29 of my absence.  One more day and I’d have been reported as a deserted, but because I beat the deadline, I was just Absent Without Leave, or AWOL.  The Company Commander, an Ordnance Corps Major (most companies were commanded by Captains, but not special weapons units), wasn’t especially pleased that I refused to explain my absence, and his displeasure was made clear when he administered nonjudicial punishment:  reduction to E-2 (two pay grades, the most he could take), forfeiture of a week’s pay (in addition to not getting paid for the four weeks I was AWOL), a month of  extra duty in the amount of four hours work each evening after my regular job was done, and a month of restriction to barracks, place of duty, chapel, and dining hall.  The last part didn’t really impact me at all, since I was used to being locked up in my room anyway, but the extra duty really did hurt.  Before my stint at Annabella Haus, I was getting about seven hours of rest time each night.  Now I was going to cut that by more than half, and I knew John wouldn’t reduce my other duties in order to make up for it.

 

I quickly discovered that my extra duty was going to be no different than that of other soldiers who had served it.  It started after duty hours each night, with giving the offices of the Major and First Sergeant a thorough cleaning.  I took out the trash, wiped down everything, and vacuumed the floors.  Then it was off to the latrines.  Since there were no male soldiers serving extra duty, it was my responsibility to scrub the toilets, urinals, shower stalls and floors.  It wasn’t all that bad, except for Third Platoon – the latrine where I found the naked PX clerk chained to the urinal months earlier.  They seemed to go out of their way to make my work particularly difficult and often humiliating.

 

While members of the other platoons would wait outside the latrine until I was done, those in the third platoon apparently timed their bladders and bowels to the expected time of my arrival.  Each night, it seemed, I’d be just starting my work when someone would walk in and use a urinal or toilet I’d just cleaned, making sure they splattered liberally when they did so.  Several times,  one particular NCO would come in, take a shit in a just-scrubbed toilet, and then tell me it needed to be cleaned again.  I’d find that he hadn’t bothered to flush, and missed when he wiped his ass.  There’d usually be shitty toilet paper on the floor, and often enough, a brown stripe of shit and a large glob of semen on the seat.  I was expected, of course, to ensure everything was clean for the Duty NCO to inspect before I was released for the night.

 

Being released didn’t mean I was done with my work by any means.  In addition to spending at least an hour reviewing a sex video and then preparing my written essay, I also had to launder John’s uniform for the next day, then starch and iron it.  Once that was done, it was time to spit shine his boots.  He demanded that the entire boot, from toe to collar, be mirror polished, and it usually took me ninety minutes – often more if he’d been out in the woods – to get them acceptable.  When he came by at 0430 each morning to pick up his uniform, I had to be waiting on my knees, ready to do his bidding. 

If my work met with John’s approval, he’d allow me to accompany him to the chow hall for breakfast after a quick fuck or blow job.  I was never allowed to clean up after he used me for sex, so I often to the dining facility with his cum dripping out of me.  Thank God he allowed me the luxury of a sanitary pad when he decided to not use my mouth.

 

John would grab a cup of coffee and sit down, while I stood in line and ordered his breakfast.  He always had a large meal, usually something like a three-egg omelet, home fries, a half dozen slices of bacon, fresh fruit, and either toast or a pastry.  My meal, when I was allowed to eat, was always the same:  skim milk and a single scrambled egg.  I detested both, but was forced to put a smile on my face and pretend I was happy.  The consequences if I did otherwise would have been worse than not being allowed to eat.  I complained just once, and went hungry for two days as a result. I quickly learned not to complain about my food.

 

It was about that time that John decided I’d start earning my reputation as a slut.  It was my twenty-first birthday, and he took me to the NCO club to celebrate.  At his instructions, I wore my hair in a single, short braid.  I thought it looked horrible, but John just said it would make a good handle.  I wore no bra, no panties, no stockings.  Just a cheap-looking plum-colored rayon dress that ended just above my knees, and a pair of heels.  To prepare for the party, I carefully shaved my body – my legs and underarms anyway, since I had no cunt hair now – and at his direction, filled my ass with my medium butt plug.  By the time I was dressed, my pussy was dripping.  I asked him if I could at least wear panties and a pad, but he just smiled and said he wanted everyone to smell my need.

 

As he walked me to the club, he explained the rules for the evening.  I would accept drinks from anyone, but always had to mention that champagne makes me especially horny.  I would not refuse any offer to dance, nor would I object or try to stop anyone’s hands from taking liberties with my body. 

 

That’s exactly what I did.  Word quickly spread throughout the club that night about champagne, and after the first the first two dances, nothing but slow music played on the juke box for the rest of the night.  I never did get a chance to eat, as I was too busy dancing and sipping on the endless glasses of champagne that were bought for me.  I was felt up more times than I could count, with fingers pawing at my ass and cunt all night, my breasts bruised from being mashed against so many chests, and my neck covered in hickeys.  Still, John said I wasn’t to let anyone get any further than fingering me without his permission.  When one of my partners decided he wanted to go farther than feeling me up, John motioned me over to our table.

 

“Tell him you’ll jack him off, and that you want him to cum in your champagne glass.”  I was horrified.  Even my time as a whore at Annabella Haus wasn’t as bad as this.  There, nobody knew me.  Here, everyone did, and word would soon get out.  I didn’t have any choice, though.  I nodded my head reluctantly, took the young man into a secluded corner and did the deed.  Upon my return to the table, John had me drink the thick, viscous fluid down in front of everyone. 

 

From that point on, my life took a drastic change for the worse.  Although nothing else happened that night, when John got me back to my room, he explained that from now on, anyone who bought me a drink could get whatever they wanted.  I was no longer permitted to say no to anyone.

 

As the unofficial company slut, it wasn’t long before I found I was pregnant.  Sure, I was on the pill, but as effective as they can be, nothing is 100%.  John had long ago dispensed with the requirement that anyone using me needed to wear a rubber; he was having me “examined” every two weeks by a local German doctor (who was paid for his services with the use of my body, naturally),  The examination always concluded with a  massive dose of antibiotics that were unavailable in the U.S. facilities.

 

Back then, pregnant soldiers had the option of staying in the service or getting out.  I’m not sure if that still exists today, but I had a decision to make.  If I stayed in until the baby was born, I had to serve out the remaining two years of my enlistment.  If I got out, I’d be on my own as far as the expenses involved with giving birth.  It wasn’t my decision, though, because John told me that I’d staying in.  After the baby was born, he or she would be adopted by a German family, and I’d continue being John’s slave.

 

So that’s what happened.  Because John was planning on selling my baby on the black market, I had to take care of myself.  No longer was a drink the price for a piece of ass, but the cost was the same.  Seventy-five cents was what it cost.  “You get a fuck, and change for your buck,” was what they said.  Now I wasn’t just the company slut, but the cheapest whore possible.  Well, at least I was still getting ten percent – seven and a half cents a fuck – which was  more than I made for myself at Annabella’s.

 

The end of my military career came before any of that could happen, though.  I was about five months pregnant when John had to go away for an overnight trip to Mannheim, so he left me locked in my room on a short chain.  This meant my chain was shortened so that I couldn’t get into the bathroom, and in fact, could barely move off the mattress.  He left me a bowl of water and a bucket to use as a toilet, but nothing at all for comfort or to occupy my time.  All I could do was lay on my smelly mattress and stare at my own reflection in the mirrors.  At least he said I could masturbate to my heart’s content as long as I kept track of my orgasms and told him how many I had when he returned.

 

The problem was, though, he didn’t return.  At least not the next day, or the one after that.  All I could do was lay there on the floor, waiting and waiting, hoping and hoping, my room getting smellier and smellier as I had to use the bucket to relieve myself, hunger gnawing at my belly.  It wasn’t until the fourth afternoon that I heard footsteps approach and the key slide into my door lock.  I quickly rose to a kneeling position, spread my knees as widely as possible, clasped my hands behind my neck and lowed my eyes towards the ground.  The door opened, and my heart took a leap as I saw not one, but three sets of polished boots in the doorway.  I wasn’t supposed to, but I looked up and saw the First Sergeant, the Supply Sergeant and the CQ staring at me, open-mouthed.

 

“What the fuck?” I heard the First Sergeant say.  “Sergeant, go get the CO.  Now!”  The CQ  ran off down the hall, as my body turned bright red in embarrassment and humiliation.  I wanted to curl up and die, but my body wouldn’t obey my brain.  I just knelt there, my legs spread wide, exposing my naked body to the stares of the two men.

 

“Did somebody do this to you?” the First Sergeant asked with a concerned tone in his voice as he entered the room, looking unsuccessfully for something to cover my naked form with.  I had no bed coverings, and all my clothes were in my wall locker, locked securely with the key in John’s possession.  I couldn’t answer him, and responded with just a blank stare.

 

“Sergeant Smith said…” the CO started to say, then interrupted himself.  “Fuck!  He wasn’t bullshitting me.”

 

“I’m not sure what’s going on, sir,” the First Sergeant said, “But I think we need to get CID out here ASAP.”  The First Sergeant was an MP, the company commander wasn’t.

 

“I’ll go call the MPs.  You see what you can find out.”

 

“No, sir,” the First Sergeant replied.  “Don’t call the MP Station, whatever you do.  Get ahold of Chief Warrant Officer Velasquez at CID and tell him I said to get his ass down here pronto.  He used to work for me before he got his warrant, and he’ll know how to handle this.  Smart kid, you know?”

 

“Okay,” the major replied, heading back to his office.

 

“Right now,” the First Sergeant said, “I want this place shut down.  Nobody comes down this hall, and nobody within fifty feet outside the window.  Post guards, but don’t tell anyone anything.  This is now a crime scene, until CWO Velasquez says otherwise.”

 

“Yes, First Sergeant,” the supply sergeant responded automatically.  As soon as he was gone, Top turned and looked at me, shaking his head sadly.

 

“You did this yourself, didn’t you?”  All I could do was lower my head and nod.  I couldn’t let anyone know of John’s involvement. “You know, we came here because we thought you were AWOL again, and were going to inventory your property and secure it in Supply.  I guess you figured wrong, thought you could get loose before anyone missed you, but something went wrong, huh?”  Again, I nodded.  “Well, I guess you have a decision to make, then.  You can either lie to the investigator and tell him you got drunk or something, and don’t know what happened, or you can explain you’re a bondage slut who likes to chain herself up and piss in buckets.

 

So that’s exactly what I did.  When CWO Velasquez showed up, he first took  “crime scene” photos – making sure he got plenty of shots of my naked body, naturally – then processed the “evidence,” before interviewing me.  It really wasn’t much of an interview, though, because it turned out he was one of the many soldiers who used me while I was in residence at Annabella Haus, and he remembered me.  I wouldn’t tell him anything, so he just made up a confession for me to sign, and I did.

 

I went straight from my ankle chain to handcuffs, and was marched – still naked – through the barracks to CWO Velasquez’s car.  He made a show of taking me to the medical clinic, but he explained he knew I hadn’t been raped or anything.  He had me escorted to an exam room where, with my ankles strapped into stirrups, he had one of the medics snap photos while he took liberties with my helpless body.  He made me cum twice, too, all caught on camera for posterity.  I knew these photos would probably never make it into the investigative file; years later, I found them on the internet.

 

There were ten or eleven charges against me, including Destruction of Government Property, AWOL (again) and a bunch of others that basically amounted to being a pervert.  The property destruction was for the mattress, which was saturated with piss and was beyond salvaging, and the bathroom “wallpaper,” even though I tried to explain it was that way when I moved in.  And, while I wasn’t actually charged criminally for it, my pay was garnished to pay for uniforms that I no longer had.

 

The powers that be wanted me secured somewhere, but weren’t sure pre-trial confinement in the stockade was the most appropriate place, so I was admitted to the psychiatric ward in the hospital in Landstuhl.   Because of my alleged instability and concerns that I’d try to harm myself, I spent the next six weeks in four point restraints.  What this meant was that I was strapped onto a hospital bed, my ankles secured to the bottom corners with soft ties, with my arms at my sides and straps around my chest just under my breasts and across my shoulders.  At CWO Velasquez’s suggestion, I wasn’t allowed any clothing, for fear that if I managed to slip the restraints (fat chance of that!), I might be able to hang myself with them.  So, except for being let up every four hours to use the toilet,  walk around a bit and maybe have something to eat, I spent my entire time at Landstuhl tied naked on my back with my legs spread.  Sometimes at night, I could sense the orderlies looking at my naked body through the isolation cell window, but except for the occasional groping while I was being let up or put back down, nobody touched me.

 

It was a General Courts-Martial, the most severe kind.  By now, John had returned – he’d been in the hospital as the result of some sort of injury that happened while he was gone – and made a show of coming to visit me in the nut ward.  He told me what was going to happen, and what I’d do.  I would request a jury trial and plead not guilty to all charges, but wouldn’t provide any testimony on my own behalf.  He wanted all the evidence to become part of the public record, just as a further means of humiliating me.  I had to agree with him, too, because at that point, I wanted everyone in the world to know that I was just a bondage slut.

 

That’s just what happened, too.  Before a jury of three men and four women – the women in particular giving me hateful looks as the evidence was presented – I was formally pronounced a pervert, a slut, and a whore.  I was sentenced to reduction to the lowest pay grade, forfeiture of all pay and allowances, six months confinement at hard labor, and a dishonorable discharge.  Because my sentence was less than a year, I served it in Germany, at the military prison in Heidelberg.

 

I was what they called a “special case,” and like at Landstuhl, they put me on suicide watch.  This time, though, it wasn’t four point restraints, but what they called a “stripped cell.”   I spent the time inside my cell with nothing at all except a paper gown that barely covered me.  The idea was that I wouldn’t be able to cause myself any harm, though I admit to considering stuffing it down my throat and causing suffocation.  At night, they tossed a mattress – not unlike the one I’d ruined and been charged for back in the barracks – but no blankets.  When I wasn’t in my cell, I was in prison attire, scratchy unpressed cotton fatigue pants and shirt, and a pair of combat boots.  Prisoners who brought underwear with them were required to launder them themselves; I had none, so I went without. 

 

We were sent out in chain-gang style, shackled to each other at the ankles, to perform menial labor like picking up litter and clearing brush from the installation perimeter.  I was the only female inmate on that crew; nobody could ever say the Army wasn’t into equal opportunity, because they treated us all the same.  Especially when it came to hygiene.  If we were on a crew and had to piss or shit, we were expected to drop our trousers and just do it.  I never had much of a problem, being not just a slut but an exhibitionist, but the some of the men did.  I guess they were concerned about letting me see their dicks or something.  I’m sure a lot of them jerked off after seeing my naked ass squatting on the ground; I always made sure to face someone when I did, just because.

 

The day after my sentence ended, I was escorted to Rhein-Main the next day, put on a plane and basically kicked out of the country.  I was in a dress uniform for the first time in a long while, and the first time in over a year that I was wearing underclothes.  Brand new, issued along with the blouse, coat, skirt and pumps that I was wearing.  There was no rank on my sleeve, though, and the Military Police Corps wanted no part of me, so I was wearing the twin U.S. collar brass of a soldier without an occupational specialty.  Most other people didn’t notice anything untoward, but I could tell the few who did.  There was generally only one type of soldier sent back from Europe with no rank and U.S. collar insignia, and that was the one identified as homosexual.  Well, I wasn’t gay, but I wasn’t about to explain my story to anyone, either.  Let them think what they wanted to think.

 

I was met at the Fort Dix main gate by two Military Policemen who escorted me directly to the stockade, where I’d remain until my outprocessing was completed.  I was technically no longer a prisoner, but they didn’t know what else to do with me, so they locked me up in a segregation cell.  Someone had seen that I’d been on suicide watch for my entire six months in Heidelberg, so they decided I should remain that way.  They didn’t have paper gowns at Dix, so they let me keep my panties.  Not my bra, though, because that was considered a security risk.  I might hang myself with the straps.  Even though I’d been fucked in the most degrading ways by more men than I could count, the three days in the Fort Dix stockade was the most humiliating time of my life.  Whenever I had to pee or shit, I had to ask for toilet paper and to have the water in my cell turned on so I could flush.  My meals were finger food – sandwiches, carrot sticks and the like – because they couldn’t trust me with even the flimsy plastic flatware the prisoners were given.  The first night, when my period started, I had to nearly beg for a tampon, and even couldn’t get a fresh one until I turned the old one in.

 

On Monday morning, I was given my uniform back and allowed to dress under the watchful eyes of a female MP who glared at me disdainfully.  She made it clear that she thought I was a degenerate freak.   After that, I was escorted to the Adjutant General’s Office, where a Staff Sergeant – I was apparently unworthy of seeing the AG himself – explained my veteran’s benefits to me.  With the discharge I received, there wasn’t much to explain.  I could continue my life insurance for a few years, but any hopes of educational benefits or a VA home loan were long gone.  My court martial was a matter of record, and was considered a federal court felony conviction, so my rights to vote, hold government office, and even possess a firearm were non-existent now.  I would never be a cop, which had been my plan for after I completed my military service, and probably wouldn’t even be able find a job as a security guard.  I only had one other skill, and that was of marginal value, but perhaps I could find a pimp to work for.  At least I’d be able to have a place to live and keep food in my belly.  I walked out of the building thirty minutes after arriving, with nothing but a folder containing my discharge papers, a check for the $153 the Army had owed me, and the clothes on my back.  I had nowhere to go, and no way to get there.

 

I figured I could make a few bucks hanging around the back gate like whores at other bases I’d been at did, so paid a week in advance for a $12 a night room in a seedy no tell motel, found a mini skirt, halter top and pair of “fuck me” boots at a Goodwill store down the street, and went into business.  I’d learned a lot since my time at Annabella Haus, and among them was that prices varied by location.  I quickly found out that the going rate for a blow job was $15, a fuck was $30, and an entire night cost between $100 and $150.  I did okay that first night, bringing in $180 with two fucks and eight blow jobs.  An ass fuck would have been at least $50, but I had no takers that night.

 

I managed to continue working for myself until the fourth night, when I was approached by a tall, lanky black man who asked me unabashedly what the fuck I was doing working on his street corner without paying him rent.  I’d just finished a session with two young soldiers who’d taken me simultaneously in the ass and cunt, and was in no physical shape to argue.  He told me that if I wanted to continue working here, I’d have to pay him half my earnings and put out for him and his friends whenever they demanded it.  It was going to be just like whoring at Annabella Haus, I realized, so I gave him what money I already had and just left.  I never went back, spending the last three days and nights locked in my room, worrying about what I was going to do.  It was about nine at night on my last night when there was a pounding at my door.

 

“Yes?” I said timidly.  Nobody knew I was here, or so I believed.

 

“Open the damned door, fuckmeat!” I heard a familiar voice bellow.  I swung the door open to find John standing there, my red collar dangling from his hand.  I immediately dropped to my knees, crying.

 

“I heard from one of my soldiers about a whore with a bald pussy.  He mentioned some other things, too, and I figured it might be you.  Took me forever to find you, though, cunt.  You’ll be punished for that, of course,” he said as he locked the familiar collar around my neck.  “Now, bend over.  I haven’t found any bitches willing to take it up the ass since you got your butt kicked out of the Army.”

 

I signed myself over to John two days later.  He wouldn’t marry me – and I don’t blame him for that, because who wants to marry a whore? – and slavery is technically illegal, so we did the next best thing.  After signing a General Power of Attorney so he could have legal authority over all my assets, we saw a friendly judge who was more than willing – for a few favors from me – to declare me incompetent and  the ward of John, under his complete control for all purposes.  Six hours and an ass fuck later, and I had an ID card showing that I was the legal dependant of John, that I belonged to him.

 

Just like before, he kept me chained and naked, only this time it was in his studio apartment off post.  I slept on a ratty blanket on the floor beside his bed, so that I would be immediately available if he awoke and wanted to use me for anything.  The first night, he introduced me to toilet slavery, dragging me by the hair to his crotch, then slowly (because it was my first time) emptying his bladder into my mouth.  After that, he never used the toilet to piss in, preferring my mouth instead.

 

I was left locked inside the apartment in heavy shackles whenever he was gone.  The telephone had a lock on it, and I wasn’t even able to open the windows because they were bolted shut from the outside.  I wasn’t even allowed to wear clothing on the frequent occasions when he’d invite friends over; my sole reason for being present becoming known immediately upon their entering the apartment.  I spent my days laundering John’s clothes – his soiled shorts and dirty socks by hand – and keeping his home clean.  The only cleaning tools I was permitted were rags, soap and paste wax.  Each day I would meticulously pick each fiber of lint from the living room carpet, carefully polish the hardwood entry and hallway with a pair of my old panties, and clean the toilet using nothing but my tongue.  I was permitted no entertainment; no television, radio or books except what John believed would help me become a better slave.  He continued to provide me with porn videos, and I continued to write 1000 word essays describing what I learned from each one.  This was done on my leisure time, of course – the six hours or less of time I was granted for rest – as nothing was to interfere with my daily duties.

 

John was eventually transferred from Fort Dix back to Germany.  Because I’d basically been deported from that country only two years earlier, he wasn’t able to take me with him.  Keeping me as his property in the states would have been counterproductive; not only was I unable to serve him properly, but at that point in my life, I was quite incapable of caring for myself, either.  What he did was hold an auction, selling me to another soldier in his unit and having the commitment order changed to reflect my new Owner’s name.  Ten months later, when that soldier transferred as well, the same thing happened again.  I stayed at Fort Dix for the next seven years, owned by a succession of soldiers.

 

My last Owner, though, was different.  More humane would be a good way of putting it, I guess.  He began reintegrating me into society, letting me wear clothes, taking me shopping and to restaurants – things I hadn’t done in such a long time.  I guess I was a pet project of his, sort of like Eliza in “My Fair Lady,” only he had to do more than change my speech pattern.  At first, I was so accustomed to being naked all the time and calling everyone “Master,” that it was dangerous for him to take me out in public.  I’d even forgotten how to read, but he tutored me with the newspaper and quickly brought my skills back.

 

He eventually set me free, paying six months rent for my own apartment, when he finally left the military.  He even arranged for a scholarship for me at the local community college, so I was able to go to school and work part time.  In my heart, I knew I’d always be a slave, though, and felt that any job I had should reflect that.  I didn’t want to endanger my education, though, so I couldn’t resort to prostitution.  I was no longer attractive enough to get a job in a strip club, either, so I ended up working as a clerk in an adult bookstore.  I stayed there after finishing school, too, eventually becoming the manager, and after ten years, actually buying an interest in the company. I had made something of myself, but it was all about to come crashing down.

 

I was busy in the back office, taking care of the books, when the clerk – a gangly college student – knocked on my door and told me there was a client asking to speak with me.  This wasn’t all that unusual, because we often had special requests; the establishment was well-known for providing custom-made and unique items.

 

“Yes, may I help you?” I asked the young man who stood before me.  He looked at me curiously, a slight grin on his face.

 

“Yes, fuckmeat, I think you may,” he said in a thick German accent, taking out the tattered leather collar I’d worn at Site 59 nearly two decades before and fastening it around my neck.  “It is time to return you to your rightful place in society….mother.”