11 comments/ 6003 views/ 9 favorites Victoria's Secret: The Donkey Cart By: Joe_Doe_Stories I must admit that I was of two minds regarding Victoria's demotion to the ranks of the African slave girls. While I recognized the harsh jolt to her self-esteem the loss of her to-the-manor-born white privilege caused, I knew her life long denial that such privilege existed meant that this was a lesson she needed to learn. Her change in status was immediate. The white girls picked on the black girls, and her earlier snobbery with the other whites now cost her dearly. Patricia, the abducted school teacher, turned Victoria into her own personal pussy licker, and at every break where Victoria was not being fucked by one of the slave mongers one of the white slave girls would drag her over and put her tongue to work. Victoria was able to take some pleasure when Patricia's sister turned up, accompanied by an African guide, and attempted to rescue her. Unfortunately for the two women the guide was easily bribed and Patricia's sister was summarily stripped naked and added to the coffle as another slave girl, her passport and purse and clothes finding their way to the fire. Victoria clapped and cheered as the woman was stripped naked, and her enthusiasm that did little to endear her to the other white women. The truck I rode in was air-conditioned and had a small cooler of bottled water but watching the pack of dogs chase her was still exhausting. Victoria hated the dogs, and the way the one that took a shine at her constantly nipped at her heels. She liked her canine master even less when she realized she was helpless to evade his pursuit. Recalcitrant bitch that she was she weaved and dodged and tried to pull away, only to have the clever dog cut her off and heard her back where she belonged. After nearly an hour of this even Victoria began to comprehend who was in charge, and did her best to please him, much to his obvious satisfaction and her total humiliation. After another hour of running we were met by another truck at a small roadside store, where I got myself a chilled bottle of Coke and the dogs were given bowls of water. Victoria and the other slave girls were permitted to kneel and drink at the animal trough. After several hours of running they drank eagerly, sticking their faces in to the water with their hands behind them and lapping it up as they had been taught. The trough was also being used by several goats, and did not look particularly sanitary, but the thirsty girls ignored their four legged companions and the naked livestock drank together. Unfortunately for the thirsty slave girls the putrid water became even less appealing when a local teenager exiting the store decided to show off to his friends and peed into the trough the slave girls were drinking from, turning back to laugh and joke with his mates about "flavoring" the slave's water as he relieved himself. None of the observers objected for it was clearly all in good fun, a harmless teenage prank of no consequence whatsoever. I laughed with the other spectators, for it was quite comical to see the dehydrated slave girls furiously lap like dogs even as the boy mocked them for drinking his piss and asked them how it tasted! It was a grand jest, but for some reason Victoria took umbrage and when the first boy exhausted his bladder and his friend took his place to fill the tank with his stream she raised her head and objected quite rudely to the lad's good natured fun. One of the slavers moved in to whip the insolent, back-chatting slave's big round bottom, which was bare and pointed up and simply begging for the lash. But the boy she was yelling at had a more direct solution, and redirected his stream so that if filled her gaping, complaining pie-hole. It was a hole in one, and Victoria got quite a mouthful and a couple of good swallows as to everyone's amazement she CONTINUED flapping her gums even as he doused her, futilely shaking her head and sputtering her objections even as she tried to avoid the noxious stream. To her credit she caught her instinctive reflex and did not cover her face, remembering that slave girls are forbidden from using their hands to cover themselves or resist any form of punishment. But her insistence on gargling her outrage meant she got a good mouth rinsing from the laughing teenager's forceful stream. One of the other slaver's tossed Victoria a set of cuffs, and knowing what was expected of her she resisted the urge to wipe the urine off her face and instead locked her hands behind her back. Not wanting to sully his hands the slaver then secured the little piss-clown with an animal control pole, a long metal pole with a hemp rope noose on the end. The large slack loop slipped easily over her head, but once in place the slaver gave the other end of the cable a quick, sharp yank, eliciting first a panicked yelp followed by a comical little gurgle as the noose snapped tightly around the disobedient slave girl's slender throat. The steel pole was about 1.5 meters long and had been designed for trapping large dogs or perhaps even lions or other large predators. Today it was going to be used to teach a defiant slave a lesson she needed to learn. The crowd let out a collective chuckle and a few "oohs" as one of the other slavers uncoiled a long black whip, and laughed out right when the first harmless "test crack" through the air caused the slave animal at the end of the control pole to jump and gurgle as if she had actually been struck! Soaked in urine with her hands cuffed, her breasts and bottom bouncing as she gurgled and danced at the end of her stick, she was truly a ludicrous sight and I joined the crowd in laughing at her absurd pre-whipping dance. Alas the next crack of the whip was not for show and hit her squarely across her big round bottom, giving the dirty slave something to dance about! Dance she did, gurgling and jerking, her right knee rising up to nearly the height of her jiggling breasts as she tried to stamp out the pain. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! The crowd applauded each stroke wildly, cheering the whip master on, and even the barking dogs and bleating goats seemed to enjoy both his skill in whipping her back and bottom as well as her idiotic little dance. Still she resisted, and when one of the teenagers, a young man who I guessed to be about 19, came out of the crowd to squeeze her comically bouncing melons, she actually tried to kick him with one of her bare feet. The laughing boy easily dodged her, but the man holding her pole was not amused and bracing himself he arched the pole upwards until she was forced up on tip toe, and then her little toes left the ground! If the foolish little slave girl's dance had been energetic before it turned positively frantic once her toes left solid earth. He bounced her on the end of the stick like a puppet as she kicked wildly, making a mockery of any notion of decency or modesty as the little slut showed the crowd everything between her widely splayed legs. She strained downward against the noose as her toes brushed the earth, only to be jerked skyward again as she strained to find support. Again, the crowd laughed and cheered at the fun. After nearly a half minute of this he lowered her. She sank down with exhaustion, her knees wobbling as she caught her breath in relief. Her relief was short lived, however, as the muscular man was merely adjusting his grip. With another man joining him he lifted her again so her feet were nearly a half a meter off the ground! Now she REALLY danced, her wrists jerking frantically against the steel cuffs. The crowd loved it, erupting in a cheer as she kicked her legs wildly. After a few seconds she lost all control, and began peeing wildly, causing the circle to expand somewhat as the crowd pushed back to avoid her wildly spraying stream. As the crowd laughed I recalled Victoria's admonishment that "loafers on the dole should be hung in Piccadilly, with the hard working taxpayers like me getting some entertainment for our money as we watched them piss themselves." Now the crowd was laughing at her. "Good girl! Water the daises!" a fat African matron shouted out, and everyone laughed. Water them she did, and I think she would have ended the day pushing the daisies up if the crowd had its way. When her kicking became less frantic Kaba gave the signal to lower her to the ground. From his expression it was clear he had no sympathy for her, as her punishment was well deserved, but as a good businessman he realized that for the moment at least the little animal in the noose was more valuable as livestock than fertilizer. A simple click of the release button on the control pole slackened the noose, but even after the hemp rope was jerked off her head the slothful slave girl lay in the dirt, wallowing in her piss soaked mud mess as if the day was over and there was no work for her to do. Oddly enough as I watched the dark skinned girl lying in the dirt, panting like a dog as she struggled for oxygen, it was Victoria's own voice that came into my head. "The problem with darkies is their LAZY. Oh, they're clever enough in their own way, at stealing and such. But they'd rather just lay around then help themselves!" Some of the other white girls came over to laugh. "Disgusting little piggy," Suzanne hissed. "Wallowing in her own filth!" Patricia, Suzanne, and the other alpha girls formed a circle around the helpless slave girl and I could tell from the look in her eyes that Victoria was genuinely afraid. I briefly considered interceding, for I could have easily shooed them away, but I stood back, curious as to where this encounter might lead. The psychology of the situation was fascinating. The white girls were naked, too, and had been forced to drink from the piss-flavored trough as well. Yet not a one of them expressed admiration for Victoria's bravery in confronting their tormenters. Indeed, they seemed to revel in her degradation. The psychology of their racism fascinated me. Shamed and humiliated, the only solace to the naked white slave girls was cruelty to one even lower than they. "Lazy little slave monkey! Stupid, too. Talking back to the masters!" "Yes, no brains at all. Nothing but shit between her floppy black ears," she said, punctuating the analogy by kicking dirt in Victoria's face. "She'd eat her own slave apples if the masters let her." "Lazy n***** bitch," one of them hissed. At the use of the "n" word, Victoria shook her head violent. "No! Izzz... blanc," Victoria gasped, the irony of protesting her whiteness in African accented French lost on her. It was an interesting development - had being with the black girls caused her to adopt their mindset, even to the point of thinking in their language? "The little jungle bunny thinks she can pass as white," an English girl with a lower class accent sneered. "No, no, no, my little black monkey. You'll be whipped for that." "Yes, my little black banana," Patricia agreed. "You have gone bad now, and are all black. You will never be yellow again." The banana reference surprised me, for I had not told anyone in our caravan about Victoria's adventures as a little girl, when her mother had complained that she had gone "black as a banana" when left out in the sun. Had Victoria confessed this to the white girls? If so, why? This went on for several minutes, the white girls sneering at her blackness and predicting a delicious life for her "out in the cotton fields, where you nigras belong." "Those beads are too good for the likes of you," Suzanne sneered, grabbing Victoria's foot. Victoria screamed and tried to resist, but when one of the other girls stepped forward to put her foot on her head, forcing her face into the pissy mud, there was little that she could do. She sobbed and screamed as they took her precious barefoot sandals, her only possession and her last link to her old life. The cheap green beads were mere baubles, the sort of garish trash Victoria would never have been caught dead wearing in London. Now they were the whole world to her, and they were gone. "These are WHITE GIRL beads," one of the women said, kicking the black slave girl in the side. "You have no business wearing those!" "She probably stole them." "Yes, her sort are natural thieves, always stealing white people's things." "Yes, and even when you give them something they're too stupid to hold onto it." Despite Victoria's copious tears I must confess I was amused and gratified to hear her own racist tirades thrown back at her with such vitriol and vehemence. I looked towards the slave mongers to see if anyone would intercede. Although the slavers were black the hierarchy between white and black slave girls was strictly enforced because the white cargo was more valuable. A few of the girls flicked clumps of her piss soaked mud on Victoria, until the men signaled it was time to move. It was only when the girls moved away from her that she dared to take her face out of the mud. I laughed out loud when I saw her, and was reminded of the mud baths she used to take at her luxurious spa, although at her private club her mud solution was not prepared with piss and tears. The supplies being refreshed the coffle was now once again ready to move. Finishing my Coke I realized that the group was now splitting up, with the whites being loaded onto a truck bound for the port while the less valuable black cargo would travel by foot to one of the less selective interior markets. I knew it was a fateful split, for Kaba went with the more valuable white girls, cutting my only link with the one person who might vouch for Victoria's previous identity. But did it matter? The naked, piss soaked negress laying in the dirt bore no resemblance to the fine English lady who had railed about "lazy blacks and pakis" from the private sanctuary of her exclusive club in London. Traveling as a black girl would be harder, for the blacks were whipped harder, worked harder, and fed less than the whites, with no accommodations for the sun or the exhaustion of walking in a slave coffle all day. Paradoxically I knew it was the harsh unfairness of the sentence that made it just. Victoria's lies about her heritage and her racism in denying it had led her to her present state. I had wanted Victoria to darken, to lower her price so I could purchase her, but I never would have allowed her to travel through the sun unprotected if I had realized how dark she would become. Victoria had lied about her blackness, hiding herself behind a façade of racist snobbery, but the unrelenting kiss of the sun had revealed her true nature to all. Victoria was black, and now she would pay the price for her lifetime of lies. The irony was rich. Her own misbehavior had condemned her. Even if I had been so inclined it would have been impossible for me to argue that the urine-soaked negress laying in her own pissy mud pile was anything but what she was. No: Victoria was black, there was no doubt of that, and from this point on she would be treated as what she was. As she watched the white girls pile onto the truck Victoria realized to her horror what was about to happen. The white girls were leaving! With no way to join the other group Victoria was now effectively an African slave girl, and would remain one, perhaps forever. "Goodbye, Victoria!" Suzanne said cheerfully, waiving her slave beads. "Enjoy your life picking cotton!" "Yes, and sucking white cock!" Patricia added. "Suck it good and maybe the master will let you sleep at the foot of his bed, to keep you handy for late-night-sucks!" Patricia's sister added. Raising her head she moaned in agony as the laughing, jeering white women bid her goodbye. The tears flowing out of her eyes as she watched the laughing white women recede into the jungle would be the only washing her muddy black face would receive. Victoria was exhausted which was too bad as she and the other blacks still had several hours of running ahead of them. Fortunately the barking, snapping dogs helped her keep up the pace. The next several days were fascinating to watch. With the white girls gone Victoria's rapid descent into slavery turned into a rapid free fall. Already thin from her diet of slave gruel the extra effort of avoiding the snapping dogs at her heels thinned her quickly and I could soon see her ribs protruding from her sides. She cramped badly at night, and pressed tightly against the other girls for warmth she soon became infested with their lice. I must admit I found this amusing, remembering Victoria's hysterical reaction to flies and spiders and any sort of insect at a BBQ or picnic, and the verbal thrashing she gave the kindly old Willie, the black man who worked in our stables, when the horse poop was not picked up promptly and a fly was allowed to enter Victoria's domain. "This will not DO," she would say, as old Willie apologized and scooped it up like a feces fireman. I fought the urge to laugh as I watched her scratch her scalp and crotch, the only relief she had from the blood sucking of the vermin that now infested her hair and crotch. The chants she repeated were now all in French or one of the local African dialects, and I watched with fascination as she began not only to speak in these languages but think in them, the occasional English word being heavily tinted with a thick African accent. Day-by-day, moment-by-moment, Victoria was being destroyed, and an African slave girl was taking her place. And under the sun's merciless rays, she was growing darker each day. Although by every objective measure the lice infested slave girl was less attractive than before, I found myself irresistibly drawn to her. She masturbated herself incessantly and despite her degradation she was a randy, juicy slut. I had sex with numerous slave girls since our journey had begun, but determined not to reveal my identity I had not had sex with Victoria. Still, I desperately wanted to bend the dirty black bitch over and put her to her proper use. My new hosts knew I was British, and was friends with the owner, and extended me every courtesy. But they knew nothing of Victoria's background, and I knew full well their hospitality would not interfere with their main purpose, the sale of the African slaves. This also made the game quite exciting, since I knew that Victoria's sale was now more of an inevitability than a possibility. She WOULD be sold; the only question was when. There was a small mercy when along the way a truck caught up with us and the girls were deloused and disinfected. I say "small mercy" because Victoria hair was clipped short and the slavers, wearing masks to spared themselves the fumes, sprayed the girls down with a noxious high pressure chemical from a huge tank on the back of the truck. Judging from the size of the tank and the pressure from the hose, I am guessing the truck originally had an industrial purpose, but this was not a problem as cleanliness was the goal rather than comfort. Directing the high-pressure stream of burning chemicals between the screaming girl's legs, against their hair, and between their butt cheeks disinfected the filthy little bitches well enough. After a few minutes to make sure the dirty sows were clean they were permitted to wash themselves in the creek. Victoria was free of lice at last, but was much the worse for wear. The delousing had an unexpected benefit, for the men at least, for now that they were free of vermin the slave mongers were now free to fuck them. And fuck them they did! I did not fuck Victoria, lest I inadvertently reveal my identity, but I watched closely each time Victoria was put to use. Sometimes they fucked her right on the ground, with her feet in the air and her legs wrapped tightly around her master; other time she was on all fours or simply bent over and fucked up her bottom or juicy twat. Victoria's Secret: The Donkey Cart No matter what the position Victoria was always an eager partner, and groaned and bucked and reached down or backwards to rub her randy little slave button eagerly as the men used her. At first I told myself that she was acting, and pretending to be more excited than she was, for after a particularly good fucking the men usually rewarded their hot slave humps with a piece of fruit or maybe even a part of a chocolate bar. This was in itself amusing, as I remembered my wife constantly complaining loudly every single time we went out that the wine had turned or the soufflé or pheasant was improperly prepared. No she was humping like a 25 pence whore, sucking black penis and swallowing every load served to her, being careful to lick up any drops of semen that splashed onto the ground or on her face, all in exchange for a tiny piece of bitter chocolate. It wasn't until a particular fucking that her true nature became clear to me. Some local farmers were exchanging supplies and as part of the barter a toothless old black farmer had his way with Victoria. Bent over with legs spread wide, the laughing old geezer fucked her slowly, with Victoria reaching up to rub herself as she always did. In this case, the old man was soft enough and slow enough that I was actually able to watch Victoria's pussy spasm through several shattering orgasms. Seeing the toothless old black man bring her off so easily made her true nature clear to all. Victoria was no longer the proper English lady who regarded sex as her duty to the Queen; she was now a randy African slave slut. More exciting still than watching Victoria getting fucked in exchange for a few apples was the knowledge that each day was drawing us closer to her final destination. Victoria was being run to market and like any cattle drive time was of the essence. Each day on the road meant another day of pay for the overseers, more slave kibble, and more carrying costs. The temptation was to run the girls harder, and run them they did, with the barking dogs herding the girls and spurring them on. Victoria had already lost weight and the dogs nipping at her heels left her gasping, sweating, and exhausted. Still, it was a pleasure to watch her run, and I always picked a truck that allowed me to watch her bouncing bottom and breasts as the dogs nipped at her heels. Victoria was very thin by the time the dogs chased her into the rural market that would be the place of her final disposal. The market was tiny and unimportant, actually smaller than the market where our adventure had begun a few weeks before. But Victoria's transformation was absolute and there was no question this was a fit place to sell her now. The leader of the caravan merely smiled when I asked if I could use Victoria the night before her sale. Ever the randy slave slut, Victoria began to rub herself as I dragged her to my tent by the scruff of her scrawny neck. I didn't reveal my face until we were inside the tent. I smiled as I watched her facial expressions: shock, confusion, puzzlement, awe. Then she fainted. When she came to I gave her some water and told her the entire story. I had been there since the beginning, watching as she was stripped, humiliated, brainwashed, tanned, and fucked into becoming an African slave. A brutal transformation, but a necessary one for now I had the money to buy her. Her reaction was classic Victoria. "You bass-tird!" she said, screaming at me in her French-African slave accent. "You'ze let them uze me, and you WATCH? You fuck-eng bass-tird!" She actually tried to strike me, but I caught her punch in my hand easily, and laughed as she flailed futility. It was quite amusing actually, and classic Victoria: I knew her anger at the way I had duped her far outweighed her anger at what had been done to her! I laughed as she tried to hit me, easily holding her tiny fists in my hand. It was only when she tried to kick me that I pushed her away, and took the slave whip off my belt. At the sight of the whip her slave training kicked in. "Pleeze, mas-tuah. No whip! I beez good slave! I beez good!" I smiled as I looked down at her, watching as she licked my dirty, sandaled feet. She was truly irresistible. "Don't worry, my little slave girl," I said. "I have already made arrangements with Balla, the leader of the caravan, to buy you. I will give him the money in the morning." "What my sale prize?" she said, looking up eagerly. I smiled. Even in their subjugation slave girls were so vain. "10,000, local." "How much, Englez?" she asked. "A pound. Maybe less." She looked at me in stunned disbelief. I smiled. The exchange rates never bothered her when she was buying local goods for a song. "I worth MORE," she said, clearly unhappy. "Youse, cheap, Englesh-men." "Not as cheap as you, my little black mongrel. Not as white as we pretended, are we? Now the sun has revealed you to be what you are. An ignorant black slave girl, ready to be sold in one of the cheapest pig markets in Africa." For a moment I thought she was going to strike me, but a tap of the slave whip against my thigh held her in check. "You put me on block," she insisted. "Block price more." "No. I'm not going to auction you. Too risky. Your price has been set. I will buy you tomorrow, before the auction." "You'se not man enough to sell me," Victoria sneered. "You got no balls! When we go home London Victoria cut your money off and lock your tiny little Willie up in a cage so you no have sex...ever!" she said, smiling maliciously. I was stunned. Knowing Victoria's cruelty I had no doubt she could good on her threat. But why threaten me now? No one knew she was my wife; to everyone else she was simply another black slave girl ready to be paraded naked on the auction block. With her fate entirely in my hands, why would she threaten me so? One would think she wanted to be a slave. I stood firm. "You're not in charge here, Victoria. With your attitude be glad I'm purchasing you at all. It would serve you right if I didn't." Victoria smiled. Lying back in the dirt, she spread her legs and rubbed her bare pussy. "You-se buy, mas-ta. You wanna this," she said, rubbing her sex. I looked down at her, lying in the dirt, rubbing her bare pussy. She moistened quickly, and before long I could smell her arousal. I did not have to be asked twice. I had dreamt of this moment since I had first seen her naked in the slave market. I took her roughly, not as a wife, or even as a whore, but as a slave. Twice she orgasmed, but I did not care. Her pleasure did not matter. She was only a slave. When I was finished with her I sat in a small wooden folding chair, and pointed down at my flaccid penis. "Get to work, bitch. Make it hard again. I want lots of tongue work and lots of saliva. Suck, suck, suck. And when I blow my load I want you to swish it around in your mouth - back and forth- so you get a really good taste of your lord and master's seed before you swallow." Victoria refused to give head when were married but I was not asking her as a husband, but as a master. Seeing the defiance in her eyes I responded by picking up the slave whip and tapping it meaningfully against my palm. Dutifully she sank down on her knees and took my still slimy member in her mouth, sucking it greedily, the hatred and humiliation in her eyes making my total mastery of her all the sweeter. I lost track of how many times I enjoyed my randy slave slut, but that night I slept soundly. Each time I awoke I reached out and found my slave, and pushed her head to my crotch, letting her suck me to orgasm before falling back into a satisfied sleep. It was only when I reached for her head and realized that she was not there, that I knew morning had come. When I opened the tent I saw the market was a bustling place. What time was it? I heard the bleating of sheep in the livestock pens. Where was Victoria? My heart raced as I ran to find Balla, the leader of the caravan. But he was not in his tent. "Where is he?" I demanded of one of the other men in the caravan. I was told he had left an hour ago to do some trading at the river. I had arranged to buy Victoria from Balla, but now Balla was gone. Where was Victoria? In my heart I knew. But would I get there in time? The market was crowded, and I was already winded from my run to Balla's tent. But I never ran so hard or so fast in my life. Victoria was not in the main square, or at the large slave market near the entrance. Finally I found her, standing naked in a one of the livestock pens in a cheap slave market towards the back. It was shocking to see her there. There were a few other slave girls in the pen, but mostly there were a goats, and about two dozen pigs. I watched as a farmer moved from examining a pig's ears and snout to a goat's hoofs and fur to examining Victoria's feet, mouth, and breasts. "Balla is gone!" I shouted. She waited until the farmer's fingers came out of her mouth before she responded. "Good," she said, smiling broadly. "Now you'se buy me off block." I reached for my wallet. It was not there. "My wallet's gone!" I shouted, stupidly looking around as if I'd see it at my feet. Victoria laughed. "I'ze took it. Hid in yellow sack in big wagon so you not sell me to Balla. You'se fetch now. You bid high!" Victoria turned at the sound of a goat, bleating loudly as a brand was applied to it's bottom. Her smile faded. "After sale, brand. No charge. You'se hurry!" I was still panting from my first two runs across the market but that did not matter. I could feel the oxygen burning in my lungs as I raced back to Balla's tent. "Where's the big wagon?" I demanded. "Balla took it." I was too starved for oxygen to respond. In a bid to prove she had a worthy "block price" my stubborn wife had stolen my wallet to prevent me from buying her from Balla. Her plan had been to reveal the location of my wallet after she was put into the market to force me to bid on her. But now the wallet was gone and at least an hour away. I tried to explain myself to Balla's assistants but to no avail. I was not close enough to any of them to secure a loan, and indeed, they seemed confused as to what I was asking. "When Balla back, he give you money then. You buy different slave girl." I tried to explain again. She was my wife. The men laughed. "They all wives," another said knowingly "Bear sons, scrub and cook. One good as other." Seeing I was getting nowhere, I raced back to Victoria. By the time I got there, they were already taking her out of the pen. I was so tired from running I couldn't even speak. I simply stood there, resting my hands on my knees, gasping for breath. Victoria smiled when she saw me, but when I looked up at her and shook my head, her smiled faded. "No!" she said, instantly realizing from my expression that something had gone horribly wrong. "NO!" Victoria gasped as the slaver grasped her by the back of the neck and led her from the animal pen and toward a decrepit wooden cart. The goats had been auctioned on sold ground, but apparently the two legged livestock needed to be seen by all. The auctioneer was a toothless old man holding a long, wicked looking whip that seemed almost as big as he was. He pointed at Victoria, then pointed to the cart. Smiling toothlessly he patted the wooden slats on the floor of the badly bowed cart, bidding her to scamper onto it. Victoria surveyed the cart doubtfully. The wagon looked bad and smelled worse. Although the old gray tires looked like they might be rubber the cart itself appeared ancient. It had no sides, or if it did have sides they had long since been ripped off. It looked like a Bronze Age shop class project gone wrong, with roughly hewn and uneven boards held together by some strands of hemp rope and a few crooked and protruding nails. I shared her uncertainty. I couldn't imagine hauling anything in it; you might hang someone with it, but in truth it didn't even look stable enough for that. Even the little donkey in front of the cart looked embarrassed. I must admit that my emotions were mixed. Because of Victoria's trickery and stubborn insistence on finding her "block price" I had been forced to run back-and-forth across the market to the point of near collapse. I knew that was of no concern to my self-centered wife. As soon as I revealed myself as her husband I was once again hers to abuse. This time, however her trickery would cost her. The irony was rich. I knew that Victoria's time as a slave - shocking as it was - had taught her nothing. With the prospect of release in sight she was determined to walk over me and once again get her way. Now she would pay the price for her arrogance. Victoria would find her "block price", but she would do it by being sold off the back of a donkey cart in a market designed for the sale of pigs and goats. Victoria was appalled. But the toothless merchant, tired of waiting, picked her up like a ragdoll and lifted her onto the cart. She was an easy lift, and he even managed to grope her perfect little bottom in the process. Standing to her left I watched as Victoria looked down in dismay at the depressingly unfinished and misaligned boards. Her feet were dirty, but the cart bed was somehow dirtier. Victoria bent over and picked up a few dried out pieces of straw. She wrinkled her nose at the smell. Had the wagon been used for hauling pigs, or simply piles of their excrement? Victoria seemed slightly dazed, as if she couldn't believe this was happening. "Puh-leaze" she said to the merchant. "I Englush. I rich! I pay much!" The few men in the crowd who could understand her pigeon English laughed. She tried pigeon French: "Je suis riche!" Again, her appeal drew laughter. Despite the gravity of the situation, I found myself laughing along with the men. The thought that the little slave bitch standing naked on the back of the donkey cart owned ANYTHING - let alone riches - was absurd! "She rich!" one man cackled. "Yes," another man chortled. "Check her purse!" He reached between her legs only to have her step back. The auctioneer, displeased, cracked the whip in the air. Knowing what she must do, she stepped forward and placed her hands on top of her head, spreading her legs wide. Victoria gasped as he fingered her crotch. "No coins," he guffawed. "Just tight pooo-sey!" Victoria groaned in misery. "Puhh-leeze," she moaned. "I own cars. I give you Jag!" Again the men laughed. I did too, for the truth is the pretty slave girl had nothing to offer any of us but her strong back, her round breasts, and the gash between her legs. Victoria might have had numerous sports cars in her garage in London, right now the only form of conveyance in her life was the fetid, rotting, stinking wooden cart beneath her feet. Victoria soon had bigger problems than the cart. The dumpy platform was only a few feet off the ground, but it raised Victoria high enough to catch the eye of every man in the vicinity. To her discomfort and the merchant's delight a crowd of smiling black faces quickly formed around the disgraceful wooden scaffold. Victoria blushed hotly as she stood before the smiling crowd with her hands behind her back and her legs spread wide. Her embarrassment both surprised and amused me. I had supposed that she had lost all modesty over her slave training, as she was ogled, fondled, and humped with a regularity that was as casual as it was shocking. Until now, at least, she had been spared the ultimate humiliation for any slave girl: being paraded naked and being auctioned off like an animal in a public market crowded with goats, pigs, and sheep. It was a warm African day, but I knew the sheen of sweat glistening on Victoria's dark skin and the trickles of sweat running down her back and face had nothing to do with the sun. In the slave caravan there had been limits, for she was inventory, and damaging her too severely would lower her block price. Her new master would know no such limits, and would be free to beat, brand, or dispose of his new possession however he saw fit. As if the emphasize this point the auctioneer began by using the tip of his whip to point at the rope marks around Victoria's neck, laughing and joking as with the other hand he mimed hanging himself, complete with bulging eyes and extended tongue. From his laughter it was clear he was joking, but Victoria, remembering the horror of the noose, did not laugh with him. She knew as I did that her dirt cheap price might draw a master that would pay pocket change for her simply for the pleasure of watching her jerk on the end of a rope. I could see the terror in her eyes as she scanned the dark faces in the crowd, searching desperately for sympathy or compassion. She found none. To the men she was nothing more than an animal to be used for work or pleasure. Sympathy was not an emotion to be wasted on slave girls. For a moment I thought her horror at what was happening would overcome her, and she might make a run for it. But good sense and her rigorous training prevailed, and the naked slave slut presented herself obediently on the block. Running would earn her nothing but a good whipping. Indeed, the thought of a naked girl escaping by running through a crowd of men eagerly bidding on her body was comically absurd. Until the moment Victoria had been able to clutch the slender hope that I might rescue her. Indeed, that was what would have happened if her clumsy attempts at manipulation had not spoiled my plan. Nor was it likely that Lord Humphrey or Mr. Crawly would ever come to a market as primitive as this one. No, gentleman of their caliber only bid on the finest merchandise! The filthy black slave girl standing stark naked on the back of the dung cart would be sold for less money than these aristocrats would spend polishing their dirty boots. The merchant began his sales pitch by grabbing Victoria's breast and cracking a joke that cause the crowd to laugh. The he roughly spun her around so the crowd could see her bottom, poking her right bottom cheek as he made another joke that drew laughter. I couldn't understand the merchant's jokes, and I wasn't sure if Victoria's slave French was sufficient for her to appreciate the auctioneer's playful humor. Doubtless she understood everyone was laughing at her, and it was clear from the pained expression on her face that she was not appreciating the rich humor of her situation at all. With her back turned to the crowd, he jiggled her bottom cheeks with the tip of his whip, laughing and joking as he bounced her ass cheeks up-and-down. The crowd laughed with him. When he tried to bend Victoria at the waist she resisted, staring at him in disbelief. I could read the shock on her face. Bend over, with her legs spread wide? With all these men watching? I smiled. The special degradation of being displayed this way on the auction block, and knowing that the men were bidding on her naked pussy, was clearly overwhelming her good sense. Did the foolish little slave girl not understand that it was her ass, tits, and pussy that were for sale? Undeterred by her stupidity the merchant grabbed her short hair and pushed her head down, literally bending her to his will. Roughly kicking her feet apart, he opened up her sex and her rear passage for the buyer's inspection. The merchant's rapid-fire patter switched to Arabic, with a little French, I think. The hooting, laughter, and jeers from the crowd required no translation. I was pleased when he switched to English. "Tight flower!" he said, tapping her anus with his riding crop. "Shit hole fit you like glove. She squeal like piggy when you fuck her butt hole!" The crowd laughed and finally understanding the joke I laughed with them, but alas, he switched back to Arabic. Victoria's Secret: The Donkey Cart The command was given for Victoria to squat, and squat she did: hands on head, knees splayed wide, with all her weight on her toes. It was delicious to see her this way, balanced ever-so-carefully, her nipples hardening in the slight breeze, her sex open and wide for all the men to see. As the crowd grew rowdier the men drew closer. A few reached up to put their hands on Victoria's feet and ankles. One man slid his hand up her bare calf. Soon an old man reached up and managed to run his fingers over the lips of her sex, which I was surprised to see were already beginning to moisten. Was Victoria getting turned on? I was flabbergasted, but also spellbound and anxious to see what would happen next. "Juice!" the auctioneer commanded. To my shock and the crowd's delight. Victoria reached between her widely spreads and began to quickly masturbate herself towards orgasm, bouncing her shaking sex on her fingers. It didn't take long for my wife's practiced, nimble fingers to achieve their goal. "Look at her pussy hole twitch and quiver!" a man shouted, as she gasped through her first orgasm. "Yes, the little cock hound will give much pleasure," another man agreed. I couldn't understand most of the jeers, for they were in French or Arabic or other local languages, but the crowd grew louder as Victoria kept rubbing, and tumbled into her second orgasm. Victoria pressed on but I became increasingly nervous as I sensed the crowd growing more aggressive. I wanted to do something, but what could I do? As a penniless stranger in a strange land, I was in some ways as helpless as my unfortunate wife. Knowing that interference would be pointless, I instead moved towards the front for a closer look. The man who had reached for Victoria's sex was now rubbing her pussy, which seemed to get soggier with each jerk of his hand. The crowd heckled at her as she moaned in pleasure, the juices dribbling down her thighs. As Victoria groaned and writhed another man reached up to tweak her nipples, while still others caressed her calves and thighs. Even the toothless merchant seemed to realize that the crowd was getting out of hand. Thinking quickly he turned to the short, skinny teenager tending the donkey at the front of the cart. The boy appeared to be around 18, and I supposed him to be our auctioneer's son for he was missing some of the same teeth as his father. "Mo-seek-ah!" he screamed to a teenager standing near the counter. "Mo-seek-ah!" he repeated. The teen pulled an Arabian flute out of his pocket and began to play. Soon another man in another stall pulled out a small tom-tom like instrument and began pounding out a beat, and a woman began shaking what appeared to be a sort of homemade tambourine. Victoria looked baffled. Poking her legs the merchant shouted Mo-seek-ah!" again. Finally understanding Victoria began to sway in time with the exotic tune. It was a masterstroke. As Victoria danced she was able to free herself from the grip of the men who reached for her. As each man touched her she'd spin and turn away, smiling at her own cleverness as she avoided anything more than a short caress. Of course the men were gathering all around the cart so whenever she danced away from one of them she danced towards another. But she was laughing now, and the crowd was laughing and clapping along, too. The clever auctioneer had turned the situation from dangerous to fun. Victoria was as good at dancing as she was at everything else, and soon picked up both the tempo and spirit of the lilting tune. The precariously balanced cart was bowed, with numerous gaps between the boards, and dancing barefoot around the nails and loose boards and gaps in the flooring required no small amount of skill. But Victoria did it beautifully, laughing as she twirled her short, dark hair, snapping her fingers in time to the beat of the music. Joining in I clapped along with the crowd and cheered her remarkable performance. Victoria was amazing, and had pulled a triumph out of disaster. Victoria's nipples were erect and her face was flush, both from the exertion of the dancing and from the humiliation of performing in front of dozens of strange black faces. She danced exquisitely, but I knew that somewhere deep inside of her the old Victoria was dying. The shame of the auction block was the final milestone in her transformation to mere chattel. She danced hard, giving it her all, and I think she would have danced all day if fate had not again intervened. The merchant bid his son with the flute to climb up onto the cart. The lad did so carefully, for although he didn't weigh much the cart creaked precariously. The auctioneer said something to the boy in Arabic, and he lifted his robe, revealing his short, slender shaft. The boy began to play his flute, and with a tap of the crop across her bare bottom, Victoria sank to her knees in the straw and dirt and shit and began playing the flute between the teenager's legs. The bidding began. It went slowly, which gave Victoria plenty of time to please the flute-playing boy. I could tell he was close to coming when the music became more erratic and higher pitched. As per his father's command he pulled out, and splashed his jism across her face. Victoria turned to show the crow her semen splashed countenance as the final bids came in. She licked some of the salty goo from her lips, but remembering her rigorous slave training made no attempt to wipe away her teenage master's precious seed. Her final price of 21,000 was impressive, more than twice what I had agreed to pay for her. In the parlance of the slavers Victoria made excellent "block meat." It was a good price, but I could have purchased her easily if she had not stolen my wallet. 21,000 was good money for this market, but that was because the people were so poor. Victoria had been sold for about $2.75 USD, or a little less than £2. The farmer who bought her did not seem like a bad chap, and through a friendly slave monger who agreed to act as a translator I learned that his ox had died and he planned to use Victoria for "plowing and sucking" until harvest, when he would probably resell her. I nodded in agreement. From a purely mercantile point-of-view she was a wise purchase. Victoria had been a runner in college, and being chased by dogs had increased both her wind and speed. Once in harness Victoria would make an excellent plough horse. As for her sucking, the evidence of her skill was literally plastered all over her face. She wouldn't like doing farm work, of course, but that didn't matter. The wise farmer, I noticed, had a wicked looking slave whip dangling from his belt. When I explained that she was my wife, and that I wanted to buy her, but did not have the money now, the farmer grew suspicious. Fearing theft he refused to give me his name, but the translator said he thought his name was "Pongo" or "Bunta" and that he lived on a farm "somewhere South." It wasn't much, but it was something. I looked over at Victoria. She was standing with the "sold" stock, naked and penned. Someone had written a small symbol, her lot number, on her left bottom cheek with a red pen, to identify her new owner. Unfortunately, other than the easily erased number there was little to distinguish her from the other black slave girls she was standing with. A terrible thought washed over me as I watched her standing naked and shamed in her slave pen. Would I ever see Victoria again? How would I find her? A thought occurred to me as I looked at the number on her bottom. If there were only some way to mark her, some way that wouldn't wash off... I turned to the farmer, and through the intermediary asked him if he planned to brand her. He shrugged. "No, but you can if you want," he said, laughing. "After all, she's your wife." The farmer told the slave monger he wanted to shop for another hour before picking Victoria up but I was free to brand her "as I wished." Clearly the idea of me selecting a brand for my wife's ass amused him. I walked over to the blacksmith's forge and began searching through the branding heads. There were the normal characters from the Western alphabet, in Roman typeface. There was also a set of Arabic characters, and Greek characters, as well as a number of standard symbols: @ # $ & ¢ £ ¥ € ✚ ★✖ α ϕ and so forth. For a moment I toyed with idea of branding her sales price on her bottom: £2. I laughed out loud at the idea as I knew it would make a splendid joke when we got back to London. I also considered branding her with the letter "T" for "thief" as a permanent reminder of her foolishness in stealing my wallet. It would be a good lesson for her if I never saw her again. But I wanted to see her again, and putting my anger aside I let my goal guide my choice. I knew the brand I chose must be unique and memorable if I were ever to find her again. My eyes settled on the star symbol as I recalled the brand that Victoria used on her horses: the letter W inscribed inside of a small circle of stars. I knew that brand was unique because her family had trademarked it. And what better way to identify her than the very brand I had seen her burn into the hide of her own string of horses at her family's various stables? Victoria's family brand was custom made by a craftsman; with neither money nor time to spare I would have to improvise. I immediately rejected the tiny, lowercase "w" reasoning that visibility was of the essence. The Roman W cow brand I selected was quite a bit bigger than the rather petite ★ but I knew that if the blacksmith applied each star one-after-another he could eventually form a lovely and esthetically pleasing full circle. Alas, the enormous size of the W meant that a collie brand on her thigh was simply out of the question. The little slave slut would have to be "butt branded" with the W being placed directly in the center of one of her big fat ass cheeks, with an enormous galaxy of stars orbiting around it. There would, at least in theory, be some pain in this, although the slave mongers warned me about crafty slave girls who exaggerated their momentary discomfort at the application of the iron to elicit undeserved sympathy. Remembering Victoria's duplicitous scheming with my wallet I resolved not to be fooled again: the light-fingered little slut would get a proper butt branding, right on her thieving ass. By the time I got back to the slave pen Victoria's hands were tied behind her with coarse hemp rope. Another rope had been tied around her neck, with the loose end dangling down as a makeshift leash. "Don't worry," I said, smiling broadly. "I have a plan."