I was exhausted by the time we got back to the hotel room, in the early hours. The second performance had not been quite as painful as the first – I think Francoise had gone easy on me – but the spiders were just as terrifying. I have a genuine phobia of them, and I wondered if Francoise had an inexhaustible supply.

I was glad to get out of the corset and lie in my bed, naked. After having to listen, once again, to Serge and Francoise noisily making love, my thoughts went back to what my tormentor-in-chief had said earlier – ‘I am so hot right now! I am going to give you such a good time later!’ What had she meant? Had she even been serious? I certainly needed a ‘good time’ right now – I had not been allowed an orgasm, and I needed one so badly!

I was startled when I felt a body sit down on the bed, and I turned to see the outline of Francoise’ naked body over me. I felt a finger laid on my lips to warn me to keep quiet. The duvet was pulled away, despite my clinging on to it, and dumped on the floor. I felt her hand on my stomach, caressing me, moving downwards, making me draw a sharp breath as it cupped my sex, and two fingers slid down between my thighs. She leaned down over me, and I felt her nipples brush against the flesh of my breasts.

“Do you want me to show you a good time, ma petite?” she whispered.

“Oui, Maîtresse!” I replied, hardly able to breathe. I didn’t think I was a lesbian, I was just desperate!

“Don’t be frightened,” she said as she leaned closer, pressing her body against mine, and kissing me aggressively, her tongue forcing into my mouth and exploring, as I tried to respond. I felt her hand close around my wrist and pull my arm above my head on the bed. She broke the kiss, and a moment later, I felt something around the wrist – a rope! She was tying me to the bed?!

“Non, Maîtresse! S’il vous plait!” I whispered urgently as she took my other arm and started to tie that too.

“Sssh, petite souris! Don’t be frightened! This won’t hurt at all.”

She reached down and I felt rope tied tightly around my ankle, then my leg pulled off the side of the bed. She quickly tied my other ankle down the other side of the bed, and I was spread wide, unable to resist her. Not that I’d done anything to try to stop her before. This was now a fantasy situation – I’m helpless, do your worst! ‘This won’t hurt at all’ – God, I hoped that was true!

I nearly screamed when I felt her lips on my lips – and I don’t mean another French kiss! She put her hands on either side of my pussy and pulled, opening me up like a flower, and I could actually feel her hot breath on sensitive skin on the inside of my slit. When her tongue touched me, I let out a stifled squeal, and for the only time in my life, I wished I was gagged. I was almost there, all I needed was for just a little attention on my clit! I was writhing on the bed, pulling at the ropes. It was dark, I was naked, tied down, and being teased and tormented – God, I’d never felt so sexy in my life!

“Shall we try a little mutual satisfaction?” she asked in a temptress kind of way.

“Oui, oh Oui Oui, Maîtresse!” I replied, struggling to contain my excitement.

She twisted around on the bed, her knees either side of my chest and lowered herself, so that her face was over my pussy, and hers was inches from my mouth. Both descended together and, half-crazed by my frustrated lust, I eagerly leaned up off the bed and stuck my tongue in. She tasted – frankly – disgusting. Obviously, I knew how I smelled down there, but I’d never tasted a man’s semen before, and I think that’s what I was tasting now – Serge’s cum, from their earlier sex session. But I just went for it – I could feel her tongue licking around my slit and down around the entrance to my… okay, vagina is the only word, even though it sounds so clinical. I was so desperate to cum, I would have done anything – probably something Francoise was aware of and was exploiting.

As her tongue flicked tantalisingly, I dug deep, trying to force her to climax, so that she would bring me off too. I was having some success with my ‘no prisoners’ approach, as I heard her working herself up to full volume. As she became more and more excited, she was doing less and less for me, but I remembered the incident in the shower, when she had become very aggressive when I tried to stop. I felt I was past the point of no return, and so was she, now sitting up and riding my face, in the same way as she had ridden her husband’s cock. I could hardly breathe as her thighs pressed down against my cheeks, her pussy covered my mouth, and my nose was shoved between her buttocks – I had to make her cum just as a matter of survival! At last she was really screaming, and suddenly there was a flood of juices from her pussy into my mouth and face, honestly, it was like she’d wet herself!

She finally got off me, and I was able to breathe good, clean air again. But I was still writhing on the bed, left hanging on the edge.

“Maîtresse, s’il vous plait, je viens aussi?” I whispered desperately – please make me cum! She leaned down and kissed me full on the lips.

“Hmmm… I think… non, not tonight ma petite souris, maybe tomorrow.”

“Oui, Maîtresse. Merci, Maîtresse,” I replied, almost in tears at my frustration. She went back to her own bed, leaving me tied down, so I couldn’t even do it myself! I did feel a silent tear run from my eye, as I lay there, wondering how I was going to get myself out of this mess.

- o O o -

When I awoke in the morning, I’d been untied, and I was allowed to go and shower alone, albeit with no clothes for the trip to the bathroom or back, but I didn’t meet any guests. Francoise helped me into the corset, dress and shoes, and we left for a publicity session – a well-known magazine wanted to do an interview with Serge, while Francoise and I were to go with the magazine’s photographer for a ‘glamour photo-shoot’, whatever that meant. It would provide much-needed funds for the tour, so I would have to go along with it

The art director and I headed to the botanical gardens by the Seine, where we met the photographer, Claude, a balding man in his fifties, who looked at me with very poorly disguised lust. He discussed his plans with Francoise – all in French, naturally, so I had no idea what was going on – while I tried to control the fly-away hem of my dress.

We moved to a quiet area of dense foliage and posed for some fairly standard shots – Francoise alone, both of us together smiling and laughing, me on my own, in rather more suggestive poses – leaning back against a tree with my foot raised up the trunk so one knee was bent, bending forward and pouting, giving an impressive view down my cleavage, straddling a fallen trunk suggestively. Francoise stepped in and pulled the puffed sleeves off my shoulders, exposing a little more flesh for the camera, which whirred as Claude fired off more shots. Then she handed me a pot of honey, with a honey dipper, just like the girl in the film, and encouraged me to hold it up, then let the honey drip onto my chest, oozing down between my breasts. More whirring, more shots.

I saw Francoise in the corner of my eye as I posed approaching again, but this time she thrust a clear perspex box under my nose – and I screamed, very loudly. Inside the box was a tarantula! A big, hairy-legged, bird-eating spider!

“Calm down, Terèse,” she scolded, “it’s harmless! It’ll make a great prop!”

“Non, non, non, Maîtresse, s’il vous plait, non!” I squealed, backing away. She now looked annoyed and, handing the box to Claude, grabbed my arm and hustled me over to the tree I had been photographed against earlier, pushing my back against the rough bark. She fished in her bag, and pulled out a very shiny pair of handcuffs!

I really tried to get away now, whining in terror. But I found out just how much stronger than me the French woman was, as she gripped my arm, locked a cuff around it, then twisted it behind my back, and behind the tree. The cameraman put down the box and stepped forward to help, grabbing my other arm and pulling it back so that the other cuff could be locked on. I was trapped! I let out another, desperate scream, but it was cut off, as a large rubber ball was forced into my mouth and the strap buckled around my head – I was gagged!

I focused on Francoise before me, pleading with my eyes for mercy, but the expression I saw on her smiling face was pitiless.

“Mmm, you look good with your lips stretched and your mouth full! I must gag you more often.”

She reached for the neckline of the dress and pulled it down, exposing the cups of the corset holding my breasts. She fiddled with them and, to my surprise pulled them away – they could be unzipped, apparently – fully exposing my breasts. She picked up the honey dipper and dripped more of the sticky, syrupy liquid onto my chin, my chest, and my nipples. I could hear the camera, as Claude tried to capture it all.

Francoise put down the honey and picked up the box again. I watched in horror as she opened the box and allowed the spider to crawl onto her hand. As she approached me, I screamed hysterically into the gag, pulling frantically at the cuffs, trying to get away, all in vain. Inexorably, the vile creature came towards me, bringing the spider with her. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the horror.

I felt something touch me and my eyes shot open. I looked down and saw the tarantula just sitting there on my left breast, covering the nipple. I froze, my mind gripped with terror, just staring at the motionless arachnid. I only started to scream and cry again as it walked, incredibly slowly, across my chest to the other breast.

This nightmare went on for another ten minutes, and I have tried to block the memory from my mind. Finally, the spider was put back in its box. I was released and, ignored by the other two, who were deep in conversation, I shakily readjusted my clothing, trying to scrape as much of the syrup from my body as I could.

I spent the rest of the day in a daze. There was some food, there were some meetings, there were drinks, there were old men ogling me, then I was back on the web, naked and helpless.

“You were very brave today, souris,” Francoise cooed as she stroked my hips, “and I’m going to give you a special reward.”

She held up a vibrator, a huge vibrator, black and shaped like a ten-inch cock, complete with veins and even balls! I watched hungrily as she smothered it in lubricant, lowered it to my hole, and eased it in. I let out a long moan, full of pent-up longing, as it slid into me, stretching me, filling me up, until its balls were resting against my thighs. Switch it on! Please! Now! I said nothing but I’m sure she could read the message in my eyes.

But instead, after bringing me right to the edge, she eased the thing out of me, leaving my pussy feeling like a fish out of water, gasping for sustenance.

“More of that later!” she promised, and I fervently wanted to believe her, as she once more raised me up.

Both performances that night were traumatic, because the little spiders brought flashbacks of the tarantula crawling on me, and my desperate screams rang around the gallery. Not that the audience objected – the more real my torment, the more they seemed to enjoy it. I was grateful to get back to the sanctuary of the hotel room.

“So, do you want your reward now, little mouse?” Francoise asked when all three of us were naked. My bottom was sore from the abuse it had received, my body ached, but my pussy was still dripping from all the stimulation it had been receiving over the last few days.

“Oui, Maîtresse, s’il vous plait,” I whispered, ashamed at my wantonness.

My Mistress – that was how I was beginning to think of her! – moved a small coffee table to a spot a couple of feet from the end of the bed, then put the black dildo right in the middle of it – the ‘balls’ had suckers under them, and the phallus pointed straight up at the ceiling. As I stared at it, imagining myself sitting on it and bringing myself off, Francoise came up behind me. She pulled my arms behind me, and I heard the handcuffs click shut around my wrists, meaning I would have to do it without using my hands. Serge came over and switched on the vibrator, then sat on the edge of the bed, facing me, his hand stroking his semi-erect cock.

“There you are, petite souris,” Francoise murmured in my ear as she reached around and fondled my erect nipples, “your chance to achieve satisfaction, just climb on board the ride to heaven!”

Oh, God, I wanted to so much! But they would both be watching, I’d die of embarrassment! I couldn’t! I felt a hand drift down across my stomach and start to play with me, just raising my arousal levels that little bit higher…

Slowly, almost reluctantly, I moved forward. I had to really spread my legs to get myself over the silicone monster, and I hovered there for a second, my dripping cunt – oh God, I can’t believe I used that word! – almost touching the vibrating column, before I gently lowered myself onto it, a moan which was almost a guttural howl coming from me. I took it all inside, all ten inches, even though it was painful, and rocked gently back and forth on it. My eyes fixed on Serge’s cock, which was fully erect now, and I exploded in a tremendous orgasm which had been building for days. It ran through me like bolts of electricity, making my muscles jump and spasm. I made at least as much noise as they had the previous nights, and I didn’t care that someone was banging on the ceiling for quiet!

I stayed on, wanting to ride on to another climax, and another, and another, until I was utterly exhausted! Suddenly, Serge sprung up off the bed and was there, in front of me, his rampant cock pointing directly at me. He moved forward and I tried to sway back, away from it, but Francoise was behind me! She held my head in a vice-like grip, prising my jaws apart, and then my mouth was filled by the shaft as she forced me forward onto it.

I choked. I gagged. I nearly threw up. Then I came again, the sensations just as intense as the first one. I was concentrating on breathing, not being sick, and those amazing vibrations, when I suddenly found myself with a mouthful of semen! My throat refused to accept it, and it flowed out from my lips, down my chin, and onto my body. Francoise pulled my head back, allowing Serge to now spray his seemingly never-ending cum into my face, until I was covered. I continued to go backwards, pulled by my hair, until I was sprawled on the floor, the dildo no longer inside me.

“Sweet dreams, petite souris,” I heard Francoise say, though I couldn’t open my eyes to see, because of the gunk across my eyelids. I felt the ballgag stuffed into my mouth and strapped tight, then the lights went out. I felt used, dirty, and deeply ashamed of myself – what kind of sex-crazed slut was I becoming?! I lay on the floor, in the dark, and cried myself to sleep.

- o O o -

The next two days in Paris revolved around the show – when I wasn’t there, I was pretty much confined to the hotel room. At night, I was not sexually assaulted as I had been previously, but I was kept handcuffed so that I couldn’t ‘play with myself and ruin my performance’, as Francoise put it!

I felt that I was being held prisoner by Serge and his wife, my only purpose being to perform in their sick show and to satisfy their perverted sexual desires. Even if I could escape, where could I go? I had no money with which to get home, and Francoise had even taken my passport ‘for safe keeping’! If I went to the police, what could I say? I had come here of my own free will in full knowledge of what I would be doing, having completed three days in London. I had even signed a contract specifying what was required of me. My protestations of being duped, bullied and tortured would be countered and challenged by the French couple, and who were they going to believe – two well-respected French citizens, or a penniless British student hoping to make some easy money?

They had me firmly in their grip, and things were only going to get more difficult, as we left Paris and headed south to our next venue, Cannes on the French Riviera. They were hiring a van to transport the exhibition materials down, and Serge would be driving.

“I’m sorry, cherie,” Francoise said to me when we went to get in the loaded van, “there’s only enough room in the front for two, you’ll have to ride in the back.” With all the other exhibits, I thought. I knew this was just another humiliation, another way to dehumanise me, but what could I say? I clambered into the back of the van, and watched as they closed the roller shutter and padlocked it, imprisoning me once again.

It was dark, cramped, and stiflingly hot in the metal container of the van. I quickly took off the dress and found a piece of cardboard to fan myself with, but I was soon covered in sweat, making the corset even more uncomfortable, though of course, I couldn’t remove that. I think that’s where my weight loss began, right there in that sauna of a vehicle. I bet I lost a few pounds that day! I found some old dust sheets and lay down, trying not to get motion sickness from the rolling progress down the Route du Soleil (highway to the sun).

The van stopped a couple of times for fuel, but they didn’t bother to open up the back, even to check I was still alive. By the end of the day, I was starving and dehydrated. When they finally unlocked and rolled up the shutter, it was dark outside, and I could tell we were in a truck stop, parked up, and presumably staying in a truckers’ motel overnight. I grabbed my dress and went to get out, but Francoise tossed a baguette and a couple of bottles of water onto the bed of the truck and, before I’d even got to the entrance, slammed it shut. I heard the padlock reapplied, and realised I wouldn’t be sleeping in any motel! I searched around blindly in the pitch black and found my ‘dinner’ – dry bread and lukewarm water. I’d called myself a prisoner, now I was on prison rations!

I passed an uncomfortable and scary night. In the morning, there was a bang on the wall by the cab.

“Are you okay, souris?” Francoise’ voice called out through the metal wall.

“Oui, Maîtresse!” I replied, though I didn’t feel okay but stiff, tired, and with a blinding headache.

The truck started off, and the day proceeded much the same as the previous one, except it got gradually hotter and even more uncomfortable. By the time we arrived at our final destination, it was night once more, and I was so exhausted, I could only crawl out of the truck, and stand very unsteadily in the hotel car park. I pulled on the dress, and was led to a back stairs – they had paid for a double room, and I had to be sneaked in to avoid paying extra.

The room was up ten flights of stairs, and I was exhausted before I started, so it was a struggle, to say the least! I was grateful to get out of the corset and shoes, and even more so to have a proper shower in the en suite bathroom. Francoise led me out onto the balcony and showed me the spectacular view – it was a beachfront hotel, and we looked out over the Mediterranean sea. Ten floors below was the road along the seafront, then one of the most famous beaches in Europe!

“Beautiful, n’est ce pas?” Francoise said as we gazed out over the blue water, turned silvery by the moon.

“Oui, Maîtresse,” I replied. Even though it was quite late, and I was naked, the air was pleasantly warm.

The big question was, of course, where was I going to sleep? Serge came out on the balcony, and handed a roll of foam rubber to Francoise.

“Ah, I envy you, petite souris,” she said. Serge gave a snort of derision.

“I don’t know why you call her ‘little mouse’,” he sneered, “she looks like a big fucking pig to me!”

I tried to ignore the gratuitous but hurtful insult, and concentrate on what Francoise had said.

“Pourquoi, Maîtresse?” I asked.

“Because you get to sleep under the stars!” she replied, unrolling the mattress and laying it on the balcony. I looked at her questioningly, but she seemed quite proud of finding a new way to humiliate me.

“Lie down!” she ordered, brooking no argument. Reluctantly, I sank down on the mat.

Francoise went inside for a moment, then came back out, and she had a length of chain in her hand. She wound one end around the bottom of the balcony railing, padlocking it in place, then motioned for me to come closer. I crawled over towards the rail, and had to just sit there as she wound the other end of the chain twice around my neck, then closed a padlock through the links. She pulled me forward and kissed me hard on the lips, then stood up and walked back into the room. The balcony doors closed, the key turned in the lock, and the curtains closed.

I couldn’t believe it! It was not bad enough that they treated me like a servant, now I was to be locked away like a slave?! How could one human being treat another in such a way? I felt utterly alone and helpless, but I was so tired that I had no problem falling asleep.

- o O o -

I woke early the next morning, stiff and cold, but the sun soon warmed me up.

“Good morning, little one!” Francoise said, as she threw open the French windows. “You’re not needed during the setup today, so I think you should get some sun.”

She released me and led me inside, where Serge was dressing, and he ignored me altogether. God, I was so over him! At least Mistress Francoise acknowledged my existence, took the time to think of me, even if it didn’t always work out to be to my benefit. I was shocked at myself, that I was thinking vaguely nice things about the woman who had basically taken away my freedom! What was wrong with me?

“Put on your shoes, then I have a bathing costume for you to wear when you go to La Plage.”

The ‘costume’ turned out to be nothing more than a black thong! This had to be a sick joke, surely. When I went to the beach, I wore a one-piece costume, a wrap-around skirt and, if I could, a chunky knitted sweater to cover me up! The idea of these monsters in front of me on the loose in public was unthinkable. But, it appeared I had no option – a pair of six-inch heels and a thong which just about covered the area I had shaved, and left my arse hanging out, was going to be my attire for the day.

“Here’s some tanning oil,” Francoise said, passing me a bottle, “and here’s 20 euros for the entrance. Now be careful! I don’t want you getting sunburn!”

“Maîtresse… peut etre… couvrir la?” I fumbled with my non-existent French and pointed to my breasts. Surely, I can’t walk around with these on display?!

“Don’t worry, souris, everyone goes topless in Cannes.” There was a snort of derision from Serge, as if to say ‘not if they’re that big!’ Rude bastard!

With that, I was dismissed. I went down the stairs and across the road to the serviced beach area I had seen from the balcony. It was still early, but there were several sun-worshippers already there and, yes, the women were all topless. However, they all looked like catwalk models, with their perky little breasts, not giant melons like mine! I found a sun lounger in a corner, and oiled myself up. A waiter came straight over and asked what I wanted. I panicked – the entrance fee had used up my 20 euros and I couldn’t afford a drink! But I was already dehydrated from the previous day.

“Er, l’eau, s’il vous plait,” I said, miming a glass being filled from a tap. Two minutes later, he was back with a tall glass of iced water.

“Trois euros, s’il vous plait,” he said, leaning down towards me. Jesus, 3 quid for a glass of water?! Only in Cannes! Or Paris, London, Rome…

“Er, j’ai pas d’argent, monsieur, pardon,” I said apologetically, indicating I had nothing but the inadequate clothing I was wearing. He smiled and gave me a wink, then left. Maybe he liked big girls, or girls with big tits at least! I had a little fantasy involving me having to suck him off to pay my bar bill, and smiled – someone had finally done something nice for me! Every time he saw my glass empty, he came over and gave me a fresh drink. It made my day.

Normally I take a stack of books on holiday, so I was bored just lying there and sizzling. I saw one of the beautiful people doing stretching exercises, and I suddenly thought that if I was going to be treated like a sex object (!), on display all the time, maybe I should try and make sure my wobbly bits only wobbled when I wanted them to. I’d never been to a gym in my life, and I’d stayed out of gym class at school – why give the bullies more material? – but I started doing stomach crunches and other exercises to try and tighten everything up. It was hard work, but I found I actually enjoyed feeling out of breath and sweaty for the right reasons. I think the cute waiter liked to see me hot and sweaty too, which was fine by me! That was the beginning of a fitness obsession that I've maintained ever since.

I sheltered under the parasol during the hottest part of the day, then lay out through the afternoon.

“You look simply divine, souris!” It was Francoise, standing over me. She was dressed in a thong, the same as me, but with a large sunhat and a wrap-around skirt, and she looked absolutely fabulous. She pulled up a lounger next to me and we spent the afternoon sunbathing together. She chatted away, but I was still only allowed to use French, which meant I was largely restricted to ‘Yes, Mistress’, ‘No, Mistress’, and ‘Thank you, Mistress’ when she bought me some very welcome food.

Despite these restrictions, I really enjoyed our afternoon. It was like spending time with a naughty aunt – your mum’s younger sister who the family disapproved of, because of her ‘loose morals’ and hedonistic ways. Francoise’ conversation was intelligent, witty, and at time, downright funny. She told me all about the bitchy world of commercial art, was well aware of Serge’s rampant self-regard, and took the mickey out of him hilariously. But it was clear that she loved him deeply, and really believed he was a genius, and would do anything to support him.

As for our relationship, she clearly thought of it as a ‘bit of fun’. I was outraged by that at first, but it set me thinking. I had always hated my body, yet here I was, surrounded by people who thought I was sexy (except for Serge) – ‘big and beautiful’, rather than just overweight and stupid. I was experiencing sex in ways I couldn’t have even imagined before. Okay, I resented being treated like a child, or a servant, or even a slave, but I quite liked the idea that I was a sex object! Maybe I was so naïve and inexperienced that I deserved to be treated like that. Was I developing Stockholm syndrome, where the kidnap victim begins to see themselves through their kidnappers’ eyes?

Whatever, a couple of hours later I found myself naked and strapped once again to the web – new city, new gallery, new audience, but the same old helplessness.

“I have some good news for you, souris,” Francoise said with a smile, “no more spiders. I could see how frightened you were, and it was too much for the show.”

“Oh, merci, Maîtresse,” I said, mightily relieved that that particular nightmare was off the agenda.

“We just need to find a new spark for the your performance, n’est ce pas?”

She went around behind me, and I let out a squeal of surprise when I felt her reach around and attach clips to my pussy lips – they didn’t hurt, but I was nervous of what they might do later.

As the performance began, I looked up to see what awaited me – maybe Francoise had lied, or maybe she had substituted some other creepy-crawly for the spiders. But, as the mechanical arachnid appeared, I screamed because of the sudden sharp pain of a pulse of electricity directly into my pussy, shocking me in more ways than one. As the spider came level with me, the speaker crackled into life.

“I hope that didn’t hurt too much,” Francoise’ voice said, “I’ll make it up to you.”

When I looked down, I could see that the black vibrating dildo had been fitted to the spider’s abdomen, and was now approaching my wet, welcoming pussy. As it slid home, I let out a noise somewhere between a squeal, a scream and a moan, it just felt so incredible. Francoise brought me to a noisy climax and, as the audience below me applauded, forced me to deliver an exquisite encore! By the time I was lowered back down after a second, equally pleasurable performance, I was worn out. But Francoise seemed to have been fired up by the show and, with me still strapped spread-eagle to the web, almost literally devoured me, kissing and groping me, sucking my nipples and letting her hands roam all over my oily body! Okay, I was thinking, I’m really tired, but if you want to go for this, I’ll definitely be up for it…

Francoise quickly stripped out of her blouse and skirt, revealing her usual elegant, sexy underwear – power blue basque, spaghetti-string panties – and pressed her hot body against mine.

“I am going to really make you suffer, now, petite souris!” she breathed into my ear.

“Maîtresse?” I quailed, fright suddenly gripping me.

“Yes, you’re going to be begging me for mercy!”

And she was right. For the next thirty minutes, she tortured me relentlessly, using her lips, tongue and teeth on my breasts, and her fingers on my clitoris to bring me, time and again, to the very edge of release but leave me tantalisingly short of the ultimate satisfaction. I didn’t believe anyone could do that for so long, or that it could feel any more frustrating, but I was wrong. When she went down on her knees and flicked me with her tongue, I knew what they meant by ‘exquisite torture’.

I was begging her for mercy at this point, as best I could, but she just kept on teasing me. My worst nightmare was that she was going to stop, but then my second worst nightmare was she would keep on doing what she was doing! She straightened up and pressed herself against me, her face inches from mine. I felt her fingers spreading me open once more, and touching my swollen little button.

“Are you ready now, little one?” she asked quietly.

“Oui, Maîtresse!” I replied, my voice shaking. God, I was so ready! Please don’t leave me this way!

“What would you do, to come right now?”

“Tout, Maîtresse! Tout le Monde!” It was the closest I could get to ‘everything’ in my weak French – and I would have done anything and everything to cum right then, I was so desperate. She looked at me and smiled. As the seconds ticked by, I feared that she was going to deprive me.

Suddenly, she thrust her fingers deep inside me, reaching for, and finding, the spot which would send me wild. I screamed as I came so hard, but she kept driving into me, extending the moment of bliss until I was gasping for breath. At last, I came off the peak of the climax, but she was not satisfied, she wanted to drive me to a second glorious orgasm, and she succeeded. As I tried to catch my breath, I was in awe of the woman – she had just given me one of the most amazing evenings of my life, and I knew I would always be grateful to her for that.

We spent a week in Cannes, and it was the most fun of the whole tour. Mornings spent soaking up the sun and being ogled by my favourite waiter, afternoons laughing with Francoise, and evenings filled with spectacular sexual stimulation added up to a hugely enjoyable seven days – just the kind of thing I had hoped for when we set out!

The next few days, however, would turn out to be traumatic, and prove to be a turning point in my young life.

- o O o -

Our next destination was Monte Carlo, just a short drive along the coast. I was allowed to ride up front with Serge and my Mistress, and I was soon very grateful for this privilege. The scenery was beautiful and spectacular, and arriving in the principality of Monaco via the Grande Corniche coast road was marvellously dramatic.

We checked into our hotel in the late afternoon – I noticed the balcony, and assumed that would be my ‘bedroom’ tonight – and I was sent to the shower to freshen up. As I came back into the bedroom, Francoise had a surprise for me.

“We’re going to the casino tonight!” she cried, clearly as excited as I was when I heard this. “Serge’s backers have invited us to meet them there, so we need to get you dressed!”

I was surprised and delighted when she produced a new undergarment for me, something different from the white corset, which implied I would not be dressed as I would be for the show. It was a black satin waist cincher, which pulled me in as tightly as the corset, but did not extend over my breasts. However, it was accompanied by a strapless, half-cup bra, which managed to support my oversized assets, while leaving my nipples exposed. It was a feat of modern engineering!

But the absolute show-stopper was the dress. Black taffeta, strapless, fitted waist, flared skirt. It was gorgeous, and I knew I looked gorgeous in it! My usual heels completed my outfit, and the benefits of a week in the sun were clear to see, in all the sun-kissed flesh on display!

“Darling, you look stunning!” Francoise gushed, as she looked me over like a mother sending her daughter to the summer ball.

“Not bad, not bad at all,” Serge commented as he came in from the bathroom. He looked pretty stunning himself, in a classic tuxedo and bow tie – I felt a little of the old attraction there, even though he was probably thinking he was the best-looking one in the room.

He was right, until Francoise came out in her outfit – a backless, full-length evening gown in red. Now, she really was stunning, putting us two into the shade.

We seemed ready to leave, but apparently I wasn’t finished yet. To my shock, and I have to say dismay, Francoise put leather bondage cuffs around my wrists and ankles, locking them in place. The final touch was a leather collar around my neck, closed by tightening a small grub screw. I was upset that I had gone from looking like an independent woman on a night out with her friends, to a sex slave under the control of the beautiful couple she served. But when I looked at myself in the mirror, it seemed that the cuffs and collar had added to my alluring looks, and I felt incredibly sexy. Maybe looking like a sex slave wasn’t the worst look…

We took a taxi to the casino and, as we walked under that famous portico, it felt like we were walking into a Bond movie! Serge was clearly the handsome villain, Francoise the beautiful but cruel power behind the throne. And me? I think I was the sweet ingénue, bedded by James Bond shortly after the opening credits and murdered horribly but inventively in the first reel!

There was a long period of standing around, trying to look interested as the great and the good – or at least well-heeled and wealthy – chatted to the artist and his art director, and I felt like a spare part. Suddenly, I realised that a man was standing very close to me, examining me, checking out the collar and cuffs. He was tall and slim, with a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, and the dark good looks which indicated an Arabic heritage.

“You are the model, no?” he asked, in an accent which sounded like it had been learned at an English public school.

“Oui, Monsieur,” I replied diffidently. My Mistress had not ordered me to only speak French, but it seemed natural.

“You are very pretty,” he stated flatly, “what is your name?”

“Terèse, Monsieur,” I replied, using the French version of my name, I’m not sure why. I felt nervous and deeply uncomfortable under his unwavering gaze.

“But these,” he indicated the cuffs, and put his hand to the collar on my neck, “ indicate you are more than just a model?”

“Monsieur?”

“Are you owned by Serge or by his wife?” he asked bluntly, implying it had to be one or other, if not both. I shot a nervous glance across at Francoise who, catching my panicked look, detached herself from the group she was with and came over to us.

“Is everything okay, sir?” I was shocked by her deferential tone of voice.

“I was just admiring your slave,” he smiled.

“I think you may have read a little too much into Terèse’ costume for tonight,” she responded smoothly, “now, why don’t we see if Serge is available to describe his vision for the exhibition?” She led him away, and I took a swig of my drink. I realised my hands were shaking.

“Do you know who that was?” Francoise asked excitedly when she returned a couple of minutes later, “he’s Sheikh Ali Al Habsi, one of the richest men in the world! He’s a billionaire! And he likes you, you know. If you play your cards right, you would be set for life!”

I looked at her unhappily, wishing I could explain how uncomfortable I was made to feel by the way he had looked at me. I had no doubt he liked me, and would like to get with me, but I didn’t believe he gave a damn how I might feel about the whole thing. He didn’t look like he was used to asking permission…

We went into the gaming rooms of the casino, and split up. Serge went to the roulette table with a few of his patrons, while I followed Francoise over to the baccarat room. She sat down, while I stood behind her chair, watching the game unfold. There were quite a few other women standing behind their players, but they were exclusively tall, leggy, blonde, and beautiful, dripping in ostentatious jewellery, and each standing behind a much older man.

I had no idea what the game was about, and just watched the little piles of chips moving from one player to another. It looked like Francoise was quite good at this, as the pile in front of her grew taller. But generally, it was pretty dull.

There was a sudden commotion, and I looked around to see Al Habsi move into an empty chair at our table. He looked directly at me and smiled, an act not involving his eyes, which were cold and dead. The game resumed, and seemed to be interminable, but it looked like the best players were the sheikh and my Mistress.

“Perhaps we should play for something more interesting,” he said, and once again he was staring directly at me.

“What were you thinking?” Francoise asked, a knowing smile on her face.

“Why not a night of pleasure with your young… friend?”

“I’m sorry,” my Mistress replied, “that would be way beyond the table limit here.” The sheikh smiled, and I felt like someone just stepped on my grave. Thankfully, Francoise decided to leave soon after, and I was incredibly relieved to get out of there. I didn’t mind if I never saw that guy again! Back at the hotel, I was stripped of my nice new clothes, but the cuffs were left in place, and the chain was locked to my new collar – I got the impression these were permanent additions. I felt strangely secure when I was safely chained up on the balcony, and slept very soundly.

The show the next night was as exciting and satisfying as usual. I was even coping quite well with getting electrocuted in my pussy, knowing the pleasure which was to follow.

As I was lowered back down, I saw someone standing with Francoise, and my sudden feeling of dread was confirmed when I saw that it was the sheikh, staring up at my naked, glistening body. The two of them seemed to be having a pleasant conversation as I hung there before them, unable to cover myself, which for some reason suddenly embarrassed me. I didn’t want this guy looking at me close up. How mixed-up was that?

Francoise suddenly seemed to become cold and formal at some turn in the conversation, and shortly after that the sheikh left, looking far from happy. The French woman unstrapped me and returned me to the hotel, all in silence. Clearly something had upset her deeply, but I was struggling to form a question.

“S’il vous plait, Maîtresse, pourqoi… es Tu… annoyé?” I asked, clumsily and, certainly, wrongly. She looked unsure of whether she should tell me, eventually deciding I should know.

“The sheikh wanted to buy you from me,” she said, “he offered me a quarter of a million dollars. I told him I wouldn’t sell you for a million.” She kissed me on the forehead, gave me a tight hug, and left me alone

Oh my God! Bought and sold! How could that be?! We live in a modern world, people are not property, to be treated like cattle! But I realised that, if Mistress Francoise had agreed to the sale, there was absolutely nothing I could have done to prevent it. The thought that I, born and bred in England, with its democratic history, its abolition of the slave trade, could be sold into slavery, was the most scary thing I had ever encountered. I passed a restless night, trying to come to terms with my altered circumstances.

Francoise was up early the next morning, coming out to me on the balcony.

“We have decided not to fulfil the other three nights we were due to be here, I think it is too dangerous. Wait here while we go to the gallery and pack up. I’ll be back for you in a couple of hours.” With that, she left, locking the balcony windows and leaving me chained to the railing. I was scared by the obvious concern on her face – what did she think might happen?

It was less than an hour before she returned. But as the windows opened, I saw it wasn’t Francoise, but one of the hotel staff. Oh heck, what was I going to say now?! He came over towards me, but before I could explain, he had stuck a strip of tape across my mouth! He turned me face down and grabbed my arms together behind my back. I felt tape being wrapped around my wrists, then saw a second man, also dressed as a member of staff, come out onto the balcony. Tape was added around my ankles and knees, then they made me sit up, and wrapped tape all the way around my body and my legs. Despite all my struggling and screaming, there was nothing I could do!

There was a brief hiatus while one of the men disappeared back into the room. He reappeared a few minutes later with a pair of bolt cutters in his hands and, seconds later, I was ‘freed’ from the railing, lifted up and carried into the room, where I saw they had brought in a laundry hamper. It was no shock when they dumped my tightly bound body into the hamper and buried me under dirty sheets and towels. I felt the thing being rolled away – out of the room, into the lift, across some uneven surface. The towels were removed and I was lifted out, but only so I could be dumped into the trunk of a car, which was slammed shut on me. Moments later, the car was moving away.

I had no doubts about what had happened. Sheikh Ali Al Habsi had not taken Francoise’ refusal to sell as the end of the matter – what he couldn’t buy, he would steal. I was on my way into his control, and that prospect filled me with abject terror.