"You have wonderful breasts. You are such a beautiful, sexy woman. I want to show you off. I want to see men looking at you, wanting you. You like to be noticed, to be talked about. Admit it. All women do, You like men wanting you."

"Sometimes. Sometimes it scares me." I realized my eyes were tearing up. My lip was trembling. I worried about my mascara running.

"And you like to be scared. It turns you on. I know."

"I'll be friendly. They're your friends. And I love you."

"That's right. Just be yourself."

"I feel like you are putting me on display, like you re giving me away."

"These are my friends. I want them to meet you, he said in a wounded voice that tugged at my heart. I want them to be impressed with my woman. Excuse me for that."

In the hallway outside the apartment door Jurgen gave me a kiss on the forehead and last minute instructions.

"Show them how much you love sex. I want them to see your smile and your tits. It will make me so proud to have my friends wanting my woman. You know what I mean?"

I nodded, but said nothing.

"I mean I'll be proud when they want to fuck my bitch. When they want to fuck you."

"That scares me."

"That's just the way it is. Humor me. I am Alpha Dog."

I did not like what I was hearing.

I grabbed his hand just as he was going to knock on the door. I hugged him, pressing myself against him erotically and gave him a passionate, deep kiss. Just tell me you love me, I whispered. I want them to know you love me.

"You know I do."

I looked around the cramped, dirty apartment. There were only three men and two women waiting for us. I expected more people.

"Where is everybody?"

"This is all," one of them said, looking me up and down appraisingly. "Are you disappointed?"

The men were drinking beer and eating peanuts and chips. They had a stereo blaring so loud I could barely understand what people were saying. The men had obviously been drinking before we got there and they were in a good mood. Everyone was smoking. Two ashtrays were overflowing with stinking butts and ashes.

Jurgen had brought a bottle of his German white wine, which had become my favorite. I was drinking a lot of wine since I met him and he always encouraged me to drink, saying I was more fun when I was tipsy. I gratefully accepted a glass, happy to have something to do with my hands. I occupied myself by sipping the wine slowly, constantly. At first I tried holding the glass in front of my breasts to block their view, but I felt like they might think I was trying to attract their attention to my breasts. As I sipped my wine, Jurgen refilled my glass, keeping it full. I was so nervous, I kept drinking until it was too late and I realized I was getting myself drunk.

At the party everyone stared boldly at my breasts and snickered. I was very self-conscious, wishing I could hide. I drank to take the edge off my anxiety. Jurgen talked about my breasts right in front of me. The men were friendly. I kept quiet and stayed by Jurgen's side, avoiding eye contact with the men. I was aware of them nudging one another and whispering about me, eyeing my breasts, my legs. I felt so naked. I crossed my arms in front of me to cover my breasts. The men, Jurgen most of all, enjoyed my discomfort. When they whispered amongst themselves I knew they were making lewd jokes about me and when they laughed, they were laughing at me. I just drank my wine and pretended I did not notice the men.

I realize he was telling them about our fight over my bra and was de scribing to them in a low voice how he had burned if off me. One of the men had the charred pink lace bra in his hands. They were passing it around, laughing. They were clearly amused by the story.

If it had been any other man I would have been furious and demanded to be taken home. That would have ended our relationship and any respect I had for the man, but with Jurgen I did not feel that way for some reason. I accepted the situation, pretending I was not aware of what was going on.

I crossed my legs and watched their heads move in unison as the men shifted their gazes from my breasts down to my legs.

Jurgen was happy. He was solicitous, affectionate.

"I am so proud of you," he said, squeezing my knee. His words touched my heart and I smiled. I craved his approval.

The more I drank, the more I relaxed. Soon I was laughing with the men. I uncrossed my arms and gave them all full, uninhibited views of my breasts. I even bantered, teased the men, making eye contact and giggled at their lewd comments about me. They became progressively more suggestive as they tested me, seeing how far they could go, how far Jurgen would allow them.

As Jurgen grinned proudly, I got in the spirit of the evening.

One of Jurgen's friends, a rough looking talkative guy named Bone, who was drinking Jack Daniels straight, kept staring at me strangely. Jurgen had sat me down in the empty chair next to Bone. He was older, fifty something, a bit gaunt and grizzled looking.

He told me he had heard a lot about me from Jurgen.

"So you must like dogs, if you like Jurgen," he said, downing a glassful of whiskey. "You better learn to love dogs, especially Diesel if you are going to be Jurgen's girl. That man is devoted to his dog."

"I know. He loves dogs!"

"Jurgen does not like many people, and he does not usually trust a woman. He prefers the company of a good dog."

Jurgen was eavesdropping on our conversation from across the table. He smiled.

"There is a purity about a dog that women can't match," Jurgen said in a loud voice that quieted the rest of the room. "A dog will unquestionably obey its master. No matter what. A woman, no matter how much she thinks she loves the man, will argue, will question every instruction. In the end she will only do what she wants, ruled by her self interest. A dog cares only about its master."

"I have high standards for women," Jurgen went on. "Perfect temperament. Beauty, boldness. Submit to voice control."

"Like a dog," Bone added.

I assumed they were all joking, but I feared there was an edge of truth to their jokes. I realized Jurgen's comments were directed to me and my resistance to go braless for him. He was giving me a message. I did not miss his point.

"We are careful to select brood bitches for their characteristics, should be as careful selecting a girlfriend," Jurgen said. "I make it clear what I expect from my woman. Julie knows. She has no illusions. And the benefits make it worthwhile. Right, bitch?"

I blushed.

"He's had a lot of girlfriends over the years," Bone said. "Women like him. But they all get tired of competing with dogs for him. They think all the work, money and time devoted to these dogs is pointless and worthless. If they think that for a minute, they can't last long with Jurgen."

I laughed. I once dated a mountain climber who complained that women left him because they could not compete with mountains, and a wrestling coach who lost his wife because she did not want to compete with his wrestlers for his time and attention. I would not be like that.

He told me about Jurgen. He admitted Jurgen could sometimes be hard for people to understand. Some people at least. "Once you do understand him, know him, he is a tremendous guy. You need to be especially committed to him."

Jurgen bragged to his friends about my never having smoked a single cigarette in my life, never inhaled a puff in all my years. My adamant position on smoking made me a target for him for the months that we had been dating. Half the time Jurgen lit up a cigarette I think he did it just to annoy me.

"I think you'll smoke a cigarette for me," Jurgen said to me in front of his friends. " Do it for me, babe. It is important. I want you to." It was a showdown. I knew that Jurgen would be incredibly angry if I embarrassed him in front of his friends and refused him, and I had already made him angry with my reluctance to go braless to that party.

I figured it wasn't worth it. I loved the man. I trembled as I put Jurgen's half-smoked cigarette to my lips. I was aware of the circle of amused faces watching me. I inhaled and coughed.

Jurgen beamed. "One phobia down!"

"Anal sex is next, honey," his friend, Pete, shouted from across the table. Jurgen laughed.

I was awkward and clumsy. I did not know how to hold the cigarette and the men all laughed at the way I inhaled it. I did not even know what I did wrong. I felt foolish and stupid. After three cigarettes I felt more comfortable. I stopped coughing and I felt more polished holding the cigarette and putting it to my lips.

The men approved. Jurgen seemed quite pleased.

"You've come a long way baby!" I heard one of his friends say somewhere in the haze.

"By God, she's a natural," the bleached blonde said mockingly.

They gave me drink after drink. When I could not work the lighter anymore, Jurgen announced it was time to go home.

"I think she's about ready," I heard him tell his friends when I had to ask someone else to light my last cigarette. I had smoked eight cigarettes and drank four glasses of Jack Daniels. The room seemed tilted and the faces of Jurgen's friends all seemed strange and huge. I was stupid drunk. I could not walk without help. I smelled of decadence, a mixture of whiskey, cigarettes and perfume. My scent excited Jurgen.

That night he made love to me while I lay motionless beneath him, my stomach turning over and over. But I was pleased I had done that for him. I had demonstrated my love.

I remember him telling me how proud he was of me, that he was going to make me a completely different woman.

"You don't know what you are capable of," he said. "You don't even know who you are, yet. But I am going to show you."

In the morning he gave me a cigarette before I even get out of bed. The idea of someone smoking as soon as they woke up always disgusted me, but I lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply and savored the menthol. It tasted good. I smiled at Jurgen. He had succeeded in breaking down my refusal to smoke cigarettes. My lips were no longer virgin to tobacco and my lungs had been filled with smoke and nicotine flowed through my blood stream, just as he had told me it would. But that was not his true objective. It was unspoken, but after I had smoked that first cigarette, I was a smoker. Jurgen wanted me to smoke every day. It was his decision, not mine.

After that he insisted I smoke with him all the time to keep demonstrating my love for him. I smoked alone in my apartment, practicing so that when I smoked in public I would look smooth and comfortable with a cigarette in my hand.

One day he ordered me to go and buy cigarettes. I felt so scared standing nervously at the convenience store counter, working up my courage to order a pack of cigarettes, trying to act calm so the clerk could not tell. I had never expected to do that in all my life. I felt like a shoplifter. I felt so wicked. My heart was pounding. I felt like I was making a drug deal. I was embarrassed and excited. It was a thrill, a rush, just to buy a pack of cigarettes... I giggled when I got back. Jurgen said he was proud of me. He was expanding my horizons.

"I know that was hard for you. The point is you see you are capable of doing things you never thought you would. That is the point of our relationship. Otherwise, I might as well spend my time with someone else."

I didn't want him to do that!

Smoking narrowed the difference between me and him and me and his friends. They were more accepting, more friendly. I became one of them when I smoked. It made all the difference. Before I smoked, they saw me as an outsider, someone who thought I was better than them. Stuck up. Now I was one of them.

The weekly gathering of his friends became "smoking parties" focused on me. Jurgen liked making me the center of attention. But at the same time that he liked having men wanting me, he made sure they all understood I was "off limits." He was very possessive.

He made me carry his cigarettes in my purse and to always have a lighter ready for him. He called me his cigarette slave in front of his friends. He would have me light his cigarettes and whenever any of his friends wanted to smoke it was my responsibility to pull out my lighter and light their cigarettes. They would send me out to buy him and his friends more cigarettes, something that they knew I found humiliating.

One of his closest friends, Gene, a guy in his sixties, who had a particularly bad smoking habit since he was ten, loved Marlboro s. Jurgen had me sit with Gene at the next meeting of the dog people. Gene held up a half-smoked Marlboro with a wet sloppy filter and demanded that I finish it. I put that wet soggy cigarette to my lips while they all watched. I tasted his saliva and smoked. They all got quiet. It was intense, strangely erotic for me. And for them, too. I could see it in their eyes. It was an intimate and forbidden act with another man. They had all broken down my moral resistance. What could be next? Group sex?

"I like you wicked," Jurgen told me.

Jurgen made me put my hands on the man's shoulders and kiss him. Someone took a picture of me with the cigarette in my mouth. I felt lightheaded, giddy and silly.

Jurgen made me take turns smoking each of the men's cigarettes, then kissing them deeply. It was like those French classes in high school. And it was like group sex. I felt whorish and cheap. But it was exciting, definitely forbidden. One guy put his hand on my leg under the table, but I never told Jurgen.

All evening I had to put cigarette after cigarette to my lips, light it and inhale deeply to get the cigarette burning, then hand it to Jurgen or one of his friends, whoever wanted to smoke. They laughed at my awkwardness with the cigarettes and would make me take a second or third deep puff before they deemed their cigarette ready. They thought it was sexy to see my lipstick on the filter.

"Those lungs aren't so pretty and pink any more, bitch," Pete said. "We re going to give you lung cancer."

I could not be sure if he was serious or not.

From then on I had to buy him and all his friends their cigarettes -- with my own money. I had to carry packs for all his friends at all times. My purse was filled with Camels for Bone. Lark Box for Joe. Marlboros. Kools. I had to buy myself a bigger purse. And I smoked pretty much anything. They called me the cigarette bitch, or the cigarette whore, the tobacco slave. The nicest thing they called me was the pack horse. And every night they would send me out on cigarette runs. And generally every night they would all sit at a table and they would demand that I smoke a cigarette from each one of their packs, one after the other. On those nights they insisted I always have a cigarette going.

I sampled all their brands and settled on Newports as my brand.

One night Jurgen casually told me to buy and extra pack for his nephew, who was just sixteen and too young to buy cigarettes on his own. I objected. I felt it was immoral, practically child molesting. He insisted. I felt humiliated and he ordered me to hand the pack to the kid and light one of his cigarette the way I did for his friends.

He told me the kid had a crush on me and he made me go to the movies with the kid to give him a thrill. The kid held my hand and after the movie he kissed me, saying he was looking forward to "dating" me again. Jurgen made me buy cigarettes for the kid and his friends.

My throat burned. I developed a cough. My clothes stunk. My hair stunk. My apartment reeked of cigarette smoke. The ashes made my car filthy. After awhile I did not care. Then I got so I actually liked the smell, it gave me comfort, and then after awhile I never noticed the smell that I used to find so nauseating. I spent so much money on cigarettes. I woke up and had a smoke before I could think about eating. I got irritable and jumpy if I went an hour without a cigarette. I felt a sense of unease and insecurity when I was down to my last pack and such a sense of comfort when I opened a brand new carton. There was something satisfying, something exciting about smoking, especially under those circumstances.

Jurgen had turned it into something sexy.

Before long I was smoking two packs a day, every day. Smoking my first cigarette before I got out of bed in the morning and the last one in bed before falling asleep.


I lost weight. The pounds just came off. I was too skinny. The cigarettes had sapped my appetite and ruined the taste of food. I did not care.

One time I stopped outside the grocery store to take the last desperate drags on my cigarette before going inside. As I stood next to the trash can hungrily inhaling the precious puffs of that cigarette I looked up and saw a well-dressed woman watching me with an unmistakable look of disgust on her face. The woman wrinkled her nose and walked by me. I knew what she was thinking, but it was too late. She didn't understand. I just wanted that nicotine in my bloodstream. I saw the men looking at each other with that knowing look and they laughed. At me. That was what they had reduced me to.

Jurgen had enslaved to cigarettes and he was proud of it.

Jurgen was surely and deliberately breaking down all my moral standards that had shaped my life. When he found out I did not like something, he made it his mission to break down my objections. He made me eat oysters and sushi when he found out I did not like that kind of food. He made me drink whiskey with him and spend time with his friends, especially the ones that made me uncomfortable. On election day, he insisted I vote all Republican, which made me probably the first person in my family not to vote Democratic in all of history!

I convinced Jurgen to take me to the New Year's Eve party my boss was throwing at a downtown bar for the people in my office. I was proud of my boyfriend and I figured it was my turn to show him off to my friends. It was bitterly cold that night, the temperature was something like eight degrees below zero. I cared about what those people thought of me. I mean, I had to work with them every day, so I was sure Jurgen would not humiliate me the way he did around his friends. Because of the cold, I was wearing wool slacks and a black turtleneck sweater, which was appropriate for an office part. Jurgen refused to be seen with me unless I wore what he told me what to wear: a very short black corduroy skirt with big brass buttons up the front and a lovely, but very sheer, white blouse he had bought me for the party. No bra and a thick gold chain necklace. And open toed high heels. I had wanted to wear slacks because of the severe cold, but he would not allow that! I also wore a beautiful green suede leather coat with a white fur trimmed hood. I loved that coat. It was very expensive and expensive to clean. He had a nice suit and a beautiful full length brown coat and gloves. We could see our breath in the car and I shivered all the way over. He made me drive. He liked me to drive because he could do things and I was in no position to resist. It was a game he liked to play. I did not know where we were going and he made me park the car blocks away.

When I stopped the car he made me take off my coat and he made me remove my pantyhose and panties. It was soooo cold. He made me walk several blocks like that. My feet were numb. I was shivering by the time we got to the party. He had that big warm coat and gloves. I never really got warm. Jurgen liked the way the cold made my nipples stand out against the fabric of the blouse. I know my friends from work thought I was strange that night. I could tell the way they looked at me. The men ogled my breasts and the women looked daggers at me. After the party Jurgen made me get in the back seat and take my clothes off and lay down naked on the cold upholstery so he could open his pants and make love to me in the freezing cold. It was sooo cold, but I was thrilled to show him how far I would go for him. He had no respect for my limits. He always told me that. He said I needed to be pushed to new limits.

Jurgen lived a very ordered life. The more I stayed with him, the more I was surprised at how ordered he was. It was more than just putting the cap back on the toothpaste. It was clear to me that if I wanted a place in that life I would have to adapt to him. He was very unyielding in so many ways. He always went to bed at eleven thirty and he always woke up at five thirty every morning. And he never lingered in bed. I do not know how he did it. It irritated him if I did not get right up and he could not stand to let me sleep in. In Jurgen's life, I soon learned, everyone follows Jurgen's rules. So I went to bed at eleven thirty and I got up at five in the morning so I could brew his coffee before he woke up. Jurgen had taught me how to make the coffee his way and how to make his breakfast the way he liked it. And, of course, he got very upset if I did not keep his kitchen in the exact order he liked.

Adding to the tension and sense of danger for me was the constant presence of that big dog. Diesel did not seem to like me at all.

I knew how dangerous Rottweilers can be. I read in the newspaper how drug dealers use them for protection in the big cities, how they are used for dog fighting because of their viciousness. Jurgen showed me the terrible newspaper clippings about the little boy who had been killed by three Rottweilers while he waited for his school bus. Jurgen made sure I knew about the woman jogging on the other side of town had been attacked a month ago. She had required more than four hundred stitches. I thought of that woman a lot. I jog, too. At least I tried to, but the smoking was making that hard for me.

One of Jurgen's friends, an interesting guy named Pete, showed me his hand where his own Rottweiler bit off three fingers. He said Rottweilers had to be treated with respect and raised by people who knew what they were doing. But he said that if he saw a Rottweiler show the slightest aggressiveness or out-of-control behavior, he got rid of them because they were so dangerous. He had the Rottweiler that bit him destroyed because he could never trust the dog again.

Pete told me stories about how he had one dog that killed two bitches that were not receptive to his advances. But the dog was sweet around people. I think he was trying to warn me.

I also met one of Jurgen's old girlfriends, Jean, who seemed kind of amused by me. We could not have been more different. She seemed hard-
edged with stringy bleached blonde hair and a big rose tattoo on her right calf. Jean was a chain smoker and she drove a pickup truck. There was an instant dislike between the two of us, but she did tell me that if I wanted to keep Jurgen's interest she said I would have to be willing to jump hoops for the man, and to never make him choose between me and his precious dog. She said that was why they broke up. She wasn't willing to play second fiddle to a dog for any man. When she talked to me it seemed that she was smirking at me all the time.

One afternoon I came out of work and found Jurgen had pasted a "I Love My Rottie" bumper sticker on my car. I remember feeling that Jurgen was "marking" me in some strange way. In fact, I felt flattered. It was like he was declaring me a part of his world.

After several months of dating every weekend, Jurgen encouraged me to spend my time at his house and to bring my clothes over. He did not want me moving in completely, but he wanted me to almost live with him! I was thrilled when he cleared out a dresser and space in his closet for my clothes. It was romantic for me to hang my dresses and tops alongside his slacks and shirts in his closet and to fill drawers with my things, to sort our laundry together and see my panties and bras mixed in the basket with his boxer shorts and socks. It was very intimate. I told him many times I loved him and wanted to have his baby. He did not discourage me from talking about marriage, but he never brought it up I felt that someday it would happen.

He liked having me there to do things for him and I loved to do things for him. Sometimes he would get a craving for a nice salad and I would go out into the kitchen and make him the most wonderful salad just to his specifications. Sometimes I would sit next to him and feed it to him forkful by forkful. I had never been so in love, so devoted to a man before. I brought my favorite plants from my apartment to brighten up his house, even my most favorite asparagus plant which had grown huge under three years of my loving care.

I devoted myself to Jurgen. I cleaned his house the way he liked it cleaned, washed his clothes the way he insisted, made his meals the way he liked, and I was thrilled when he allowed me to balance his checkbook and pay his bills. I felt really close to him when he allowed me to deposit my paycheck into his checking account. It meant I had no control of my own money and I had to ask him before I bought anything, but it made me feel so close to my man.

Jurgen put me to work washing and waxing his Jeep and his Dodge pickup truck. When it was cold he made me fill up the three heavy kerosene stoves he used to heat up parts of his big house. That was back breaking to lift and carry those stoves once they were full of fuel, but Jurgen never offered to help. He liked watching me struggle. I recognized it as just another test.

I felt like I was his wife in many ways. In his mind, I was his bitch. I felt so domesticated. Jurgen was very demanding and very possessive. He was very detail conscious and everything had to be done his way or he would get very angry. Something in Jurgen's dominating personality filled a need of mine. The more dominating he was, the more determined I was to please him. I realize now that he was a control freak, but I did not care, I just wanted to know what to do to make him happy.