A Slave's Diary - Part 2
By Leslie McCormick
A female bodybuilder becomes the sexual slave of a harsh and demanding mistress.


The next morning, I found the address Susan had given me, and rang the 
doorbell.  Margo, wearing an oversized sweat shirt and gray sweat pants, 
opened the door.  She smiled in greeting, and beckoned me inside. 

"The studio's through that doorway," she said, pointing.  "Go on in.  
Susan's setting up." 

"I'd like to talk to you." 

She shook her head.  "Later.  If I take too long with the coffee, I get 
the whip." 

"She whips you?"  The news astounded me. 

"Yes."  She looked me in the eye.  "It's not a bad thing.  Go on in.  
We'll talk later.  I promise." 

I knocked on the double oak door, but there was no answer.  Loud rock 
music issued from behind it.  I turned the knob, and pushed open the 
door. 

The room beyond was a true photographer's studio.  Klieg lights stood on 
stands of varying height around the room.  Mobile backdrops hung from 
ceiling tracks.  A scattered litter of props, a beach ball, an umbrella, 
a pair of women's gloves, lay untidily in another corner. 

Susan was taking light readings in the center of the room.  Her dark 
hair was tucked under a baseball cap.  She wore faded bib coveralls and 
no shoes.  Beneath the coveralls, she was nude.  The sides of her 
breasts were exposed.  When she saw me, she crossed the room, and 
extended her hand.  Her handshake was dry and firm.  She explained she 
needed another few minutes to complete the reading, and told me to 
change.  She pointed out the dressing room. 

It was bare room, with a narrow bench, and several hooks set into the 
walls at eye level.  I'd brought three posing suits with them, and I 
changed into the green one, liking the way the color complemented my 
hair and eyes. session.  I changed into my posing suit, and went back 
into the studio. 

Margo had returned.  A tray holding a carafe of coffee, three cups, and 
containers for sugar and cream sat on a work table under the large 
picture window.  In the street beyond, early morning pedestrians shared 
the street with slow-moving cars.  I fixed myself a coffee, and watched 
as they set up the equipment. 

They made a good team.  They moved like one person, with neither one 
interfering with the other.  Each one knew exactly what to do.  They 
moved with quick, feline confidence. 

The sunlight pouring through the skylights, coupled with the heat from 
the Klieg lamps made the room hot.  Soon, both women were sweating 
copiously.  Their clothing turned dark with moisture.  Margo suddenly 
paused to remove her shirt.  Her bare breasts, gleaming with 
perspiration, sprang into view.  I felt the floor of my stomach fall 
away.  She had the most stunning set of breasts I'd ever seen. 

They were as round and as firm as miniature basketballs, and they sat 
high on her chest in defiance of gravity.  The areola was large and 
pinkly crinkled around a pair of nipple spikes that looked like tiny 
thumbs.  Each one was double-pierced, and twin gold hoops bounced 
against her chest. 

"We're ready," Susan announced.  The baseball cap was replaced by a 
terrycloth bandana that encircled her head.  Her shoulders and arms were 
spotted with beads of sweat.  She picked up a towel, and used it to dry 
herself.  I caught a quick glimpse of her breasts as she toweled them 
dry, but not enough to form an impression.  I was disappointed. 

The session was intense, grueling work.  Until then, I'd no idea how 
hard models worked to achieve that effortless look they all seemed to 
share.  To make matters worse, I was a neophyte, and my unfamiliarity 
with the process slowed things down even more.  Susan was a demanding 
taskmaster, and didn't hesitate to give me the rough edge of her tongue 
when I screwed up.  By noon, I was hungry, tired and depressed.  When I 
ruined yet another shot, Susan angrily announced a break, and stalked 
from the room.  I dropped to the floor, and shed tears of frustration. 

"Don't cry," Margo said.  She sat beside me, and took me into her arms.  
She was still topless, and the rounded magnificence of her bosom pressed 
against me.  The nipples felt like tiny fingers digging into my side. 

"I didn't know it was going to be this hard," I said.  "And she's 
impossible." 

"She's a perfectionist," Margo said.  "When things don't go the way she 
wants, she gets upset.  It has nothing to do with you." 

"It has everything to do with me," I said. 

"You're just tired," Margo comforted.  "Why don't you get out of that 
suit, and I'll make us some lunch." 

Reluctantly, I agreed.  She got up, and left.  My posing suit was a 
sopping mess.  I'd sweated right through it.  I found it hard to believe 
there was that much water in my body.  I stripped it off, and left it on 
the studio floor.  Inside the dressing room, I discovered that my 
clothes were missing.  Only a short silk robe hung on one of the hooks.  
I didn't want to put the wet suit back on, so I donned the robe.  It 
felt wonderfully cool against my skin, but it was indecently short.  It 
just barely covered my ass when I stood up.  If I bent over, it exposed 
my butt and pussy.  Still, it was better than nothing.  I belted it 
around my middle, and went looking for Margo. 

The breakfast room overlooked the in-ground pool.  Floor-to-ceiling 
glass doors led out onto the flagstone terrace.  A few pieces of deck 
furniture were carelessly arranged around the pool's deep end.  Beyond 
that, stood a moderately sized cabana.  Susan was doing laps in the 
pool.  I could see her sleek head as it broke the surface. 

Margo had put on a bathing suit top.  Like the one she wore yesterday, 
this one was barely large enough to cover her dark, erect nipples.  
She'd removed the sweat pants in favor of white Spandex shorts. 

"I made you a chicken salad sandwich," she said, putting the plate down 
in front of me.  "What would you like to drink?" 

"Just water," I said.  "What happened to my clothes?" 

"I'm washing them.  They'll be dry in about an hour.  You don't mind, do 
you?" 

"No, but this robe is awfully short." 

"You don't have to worry," Margo said.  "You've got a wonderful body." 

I blushed, but managed to answer, "So do you." 

Margo sat down opposite me while I munched my sandwich.  Her eyes were 
so dark in color, I couldn't see where the pupils ended and the iris 
began.  They looked like polished marble. 

"How long have you been Susan's slave?" I asked. 

"Three years," she said. 

"How did it happen?" 

"She found me." 

I frowned, puzzled.  "Found you?  I don't understand." 

"There are some women who are born to be slaves," Margo said.  "Susan 
has a way of spotting them.  Once she does, she takes them under her 
wing and trains them.  When they're fully trained, she sells them." 

"Sells them?" 

"Yes.  To other masters or mistresses.  It's a lucrative profession." 

"Is she going to sell you?" 

Margo looked out at the pool.  "I don't think so, but I can't be sure.  
I've been her slave longer than anyone else has, but that really means 
nothing." 

"And you like it?"  I was having a hard time getting my mind around the 
concept. 

"I love it," Margo said, looking back at me.  "It's the most liberating 
feeling in the world." 

"How can it be liberating?  You're a slave." 

She shook her head.  "You don't understand," Margo said.  "Being a slave 
is liberating because you give yourself over to another person.  It 
frees you from having to make choices.  In that way, it's liberating." 

"I don't understand." 

"You will." 

"What do you mean?" 

We were interrupted by the sound of the glass door sliding open.  Susan 
stood naked and dripping on the terrace. 

"Get me a towel," she said to Margo. 

Susan was nicely proportioned.  She had wide shoulders, and a trim waist 
that flared out into softly rounded hips.  Her breasts were small, but 
they had a pronounced cleavage, probably from weight lifting.  Susan had 
the look of someone who worked out.  She wore a small gold ring through 
her left nipple.  Her abdomen was as well developed as mine was. 

Margo went and got a towel, and then dried Susan off.  When Margo was 
finished, Susan came and sat down in the chair next to mine. 

"I hope my being nude doesn't bother you," Susan said.  She picked up 
the sandwich Margo had prepared for her, and took a bite.  She had 
straight white teeth. 

"No," I stammered, lying.  Having her nude and this close to me was 
raising my body temperature to volcanic heights.  I felt flushed. 

"That's good," Susan said.  "I hate wearing clothing around the house." 

We ate in silence.  I kept stealing glances at Susan out of the corner 
of my eye.  I couldn't keep my eyes off her.  She had such exotic looks.  
When we were both finished, Margo cleared the table, and then put an 
ashtray on the table.  She handed Susan a hand-rolled cigarette, waited 
for Susan to place it in her mouth, and then held a match to its end.  
Even though it'd been years since I'd indulged, I recognized the smell 
immediately.  It was marijuana. 

When Susan passed the joint to me, I took it without hesitation.  I was 
feeling wanton and carefree, and something inside me was telling me to 
throw caution to the winds.  I inhaled deeply. 

Before long, I was high as a kite.  The world seemed to swim past me in 
slow motion.  Everything Susan or Margo said struck me as amusing.  I 
laughed and giggled like a young child. 

"The shoot's going well," Susan said during a lull in the conversation.  
"You're very photogenic." 

The unexpected compliment sobered me.  "That's nice of you to say," I 
said, "especially after the way I kept screwing things up." 

"Don't worry about it," Susan said.  "You'll get the hang of it soon 
enough.  You just need to relax a little more.  You're too uptight." 

"Not any more," I laughed, pointing to the marijuana. 

"Really?  Let's see.  Stand up and take off the robe." 

I only hesitated a second. Then, emboldened by the marijuana, and by my 
sense of daring-do, I stood, untied the robe's belt, and let it fall to 
the fall. 

I have excellent nipple spikes.  I always have had.  Even as a teenager, 
my nipples have been long and thick.  They're round and long, looking 
more like an eraser on the end of a pencil.  In the cool air, they were 
as hard as stones. 

Susan stood facing me, and captured my nipples between her thumb and 
forefinger.  While looking into my eyes, she tugged on them 
experimentally.  I wasn't prepared for the answering tingle in my pussy.  
I sucked in my breath. 

"You like that, don't you?" Susan said.  It was more a statement than a 
question. 

I was afraid to speak, fearing that my voice would reveal my excitement.  
I nodded my head. 

"I want you to try something," Susan said. 

"What?"  My voice was harsh and ragged. 

"You'll see," she replied.  "I only have one rule.  I'll stop if you 
tell me to.  But if you say 'Stop', then it's over.  Completely over.  
There'll be no second chance.  Do you understand?" 

I knew what Susan was talking about, even though it hadn't been 
explicitly stated.  She'd looked into the depths of my heart, and seen 
my secret.  She was asking me to submit to her.  I wanted to, but I was 
fearful.  Did I have enough courage to put myself in someone's hands?  I 
could stop what was going to happen at any time, but it was double-edged 
sword.  If I let my fear rule, I would be shutting myself off from what 
I secretly desired.  On the other hand, I had to completely trust Susan, 
and I didn't know if I could do that.  Her intensity frightened me.  I 
glanced at Margo.  The look of understanding allayed my fears.  I looked 
back at Susan. 

"Yes," I said.  "I understand." 

"Good," Susan said.  "Margo, prepare Leslie.  I'll be right back." 

End of Part II