11 comments/ 28297 views/ 16 favorites Victoria's Secret the Banana Problem By: Joe_Doe_Stories The trip to the slave market was certainly not boring. I kept my robe on and my face covered, keeping my identity concealed from Victoria. As a slave girl, Victoria was permitted no such covering, wearing only the cheap green beaded barefoot sandals on her feet, her green beaded twine necklace, and the slave shackles around her ankles. Her hands were cuffed in front of her, for it made walking faster, but I knew even that luxury would be denied her if she resisted in any way. I rode a camel, resting in a comfortable and cushioned saddle tent. Victoria and the other slave girls walked, naked and barefoot, their tiny feet making little prints on the sandy soil where countless naked girls had walked before them. Then the camels came after them, and the wind blew, and their tiny footprints were gone. As the caravan progressed we stopped occasionally to water the livestock and make a trade that added or freed some wretched girl from our coffle. The men drank from their canteens as the slaves watered themselves at the troughs with the camels and donkeys. As it was late in the day when we left we walked until sunset and into the night, not pausing to make camp until the next morning. We walked at night, or during the few hours around sunset and daybreak when the sun was not too hot to make travel unbearable. Even the rest periods were enjoyable, at least for me. When we stopped and the girls had finished pitching the tents and tending to the animals and preparing the food Victoria and the others were immediately put through slave training, a series of exercises designed to shape their bodies, spirits, and minds. The training was quite precise and I watched in fascination as Victoria was taught "slave positions", the poses a girl might be expected to make when being inspected for sale or being displayed on the auction block. Each pose highlighted a different aspect of her anatomy or personality, and put my furiously blushing wife in a position of maximum humiliation and exposure: "Dog": On all fours, legs spread wide, tongue out and panting as she looked up longingly for her master's approval. "Pussy": Similar to dog, but with the head down on the floor, and her legs spread wide enough to show off her bottom hole. "Inspection": Standing, hands on top of head, legs spread to shoulder length, back arched slightly to raise the breasts. "Jiggle": Hands in air in a surrender pose, hopping first on the left foot, then the right, making her breast and bottom cheeks jiggle until she was commanded to assume the next pose. "Squat": Squatting, hands behind head, knees spread wide. The last was my favorite, because Victoria face burned crimson whenever she squatted this way. The first time she attempted the pose she didn't spread her legs wide enough and she was punished with a flick of the whip across her lovely round bottom. It was not a hard stroke, but the look of astonishment on her face was delicious! The slavers routinely cracked the whip after each command, and Victoria had seen other girls punished. But until that instant I don't think it had registered with her that her pampered and patrician bottom might be whipped, and whipped well! In addition to the poses themselves, the girls were taught to assume various facial expressions: "pout", "grin", "laugh", "angry", "sorry", "afraid". I mused that the last one was easy for Victoria, bending over with her legs spread while a fat slave trader cracked a whip so close to her naked bottom that she flinched from the gust of air! The girls were monitored closely, and I watched with interest as Victoria used a small mirror she was given to perfect her expressions. I smiled the first time she saw herself, because I could see that she was appalled by her appearance. Her makeup was long gone, of course, and several days of naked marching in the humid African air had left her hair matted, knotted and frizzy. But at the sound of the cracking whip she quickly refocused on perfecting her expressions, straining not merely to show her features, but to expose her very soul. The training was constant and repetitive, as the girls were drilled over-and-over again in various languages. Victoria found this quite unnerving as it was a constant reminder that naked slave girls were fungible goods that could be shipped or sold anywhere in the world. I also had the unique experience of watching my wife masturbate herself repeatedly, lifting her hips off the ground and spreading herself wide so her masters could verify her orgasms as they watched her pussy spasm. Victoria was given a vibrator the first few times, but was quickly weaned off it and learned how to bring herself to orgasm quickly and efficiently with only her fingers. It was quite amusing watching my modest and often frosty wife learn to pleasure herself openly. The slaves were encouraged to masturbate themselves as they walked, a pleasure Victoria used to relieve herself from the tedium of her long march. Under the crack of the whip my prudish wife quickly became the juiciest of slave sluts: randy, wet, and ready to give her masters pleasure. Victoria learned to say, "Please let me suck your cock, master" in Chinese, Japanese, Spanish, French, Arabic, Russian, and German. Victoria knew the long marches, menial labor, constant drills, and masturbation were designed to break her and destroy her previous sense of identity. It was fun watching her struggles to resist, and I could see the hatred for what was being done to her blazing in her eyes even as she shuddered through each orgasm and responded to each crack of the whip. I smiled broadly underneath my mask as I watched her humbly kiss the dirty boots and of the man who had flicked his whip against her naked backside, or blush beet read as she spread her legs wide for the laughing, leering slavers. Victoria's slow but relentless transformation was all the more enjoyable because she was intelligent enough to realize what was being done to her and that her old identity was being crushed under the same enormous and pitiless training that had enslaved countless slave girls for thousands of years before her. I watched as her anger turn to fear, then finally a heartbreaking acceptance as her pride, dignity, and self esteem melted like a snowball in the blazing African sun. Her time in the coffle was not all bleak. During feedings she was permitted to talk with her fellow slave girls, and despite the disparity of languages they were all soon giggling and chattering and gossiping as all girls do. It was an enormous social shift for my wife. Only a few days before she would have regarded the girls as mere servants barely worthy of her notice. But as Victoria had literally been stripped of everything these uneducated and naked girls were now her peers and (I'm laughing as I write this) her social competitors! Even naked and enslaved Victoria still found a way to be vain, taking enormous pride in her green twine barefoot sandals and necklace and bragging to the other girls about how the cheap green bead "gem stones" matched her beautiful green eyes. The other girls, most of who had nothing but their slave shackles, compared brands and argued about which was prettiest. I was stunned to hear Victoria bragging that her fair skin and green eyes "will earn me a handsome master, and a handsome brand," then giggle and laugh with the other girls as she speculated as to what sort of mark might look best on her pale white bottom! The paradox fascinated me. Clearly the process of being branded still terrified her, as she repeatedly asked the other girls what it was like, and looked quite queasy when they told her it was actually far worse than anything she could imagine. But a beautiful brand was a mark of prestige among the girls and something my social climbing wife sought eagerly. It would increase her status so she desperately wanted it, but she also dreaded it for she knew it would complete her transformation into mere livestock and mark her as a slave forever. The journey was tiring, but I knew it was exhausting for Victoria, both mentally and physically. Her lovely white ankles quickly developed shackle sores. Many of the other girls had developed calloused scars where the shackles rubbed them and it was interested to watch as Victoria gradually acquired this permanent souvenir of her slave girl adventure. The rope burn around her neck was also clearly visible, and I wondered if it would heal completely or if a scar would forever mark her as a willful slave who had nearly lost her life dancing on the end of a taught rope. I shuddered as I imagined what sort of cruel master such a mark might attract. I would oftentimes position my camel behind her, watching her breasts and bottom bob as she walked. The slave trader's whip had left a few small but delicious red welts across her alabaster ass, signs for every man who ogled her that my proud wife was quickly learning her place. I found myself staring at her bouncing bottom and wondering what sort of brand might look best on it. A letter? A symbol? It was not an idle question. Although they had packed my backpack in the caravan my receipt for Victoria was not in it. Perhaps Bouba had taken the precious document for safekeeping; I hoped that was the case, for whoever had the receipt could show up at the market and claim Victoria with no questions asked, making her impossible to trace. I hoped it would turn up soon, for if it did not I would no choice but to watch as she was led stark naked to the auction block. I would bid on her, of course, but I only had a few hundred Dalasi on me, and embarrassingly small sum for a piece of ass as fine as Victoria. Bank transfers to Africa can take days if not weeks, and I couldn't get the process started until I reached a place that had cell phone coverage. My best bet was to raid the ATM to my daily limit as soon as I got to port, and hope they didn't auction their choice merchandise before I had a chance to raise the money required for a competitive bid. In any event, my lack of paperwork meant that I had no claim and Victoria would most likely be branded when we reached the marketplace, if not before. When I raised this concern to Kaba, the leader of our caravan, he simply shrugged. In truth I'm not sure it even registered with him as a problem. Slaves are often branded, and if Bouba had said that it should be done when it could be done properly, then Victoria's perfect white bottom would be forever marked. A lost receipt, a slow bank transfer, a misunderstood order. Of such things are slave girls made. The journey was longer than expected, for we took several detours from the river to acquire additional inventory. I noticed that the men and the less attractive women gradually disappeared, to be replaced by females clearly destined to become pleasure slaves. By the time we reached the River Market at Tendaba there were nearly 100 girls in our coffle, and as we stopped by the local slave market for some quick bartering our naked girls were lined up for the locals to inspect. I watched as one of the slavers moved down the line, recuffing each girl's hands behind them so they could not conceal themselves from the buyers. They were being put to market, and shabby as this market was the goods were there to be felt and seen. The release of the coffle chain and the recuffing was not a lengthy or unusual procedure, as we had done as much at every market we had stopped at, but I was surprised to hear a familiar voice. "Finest slave pussy in Africa, gents. Tight and hot and ready." I turned with a startle at the sound of the Australian twang. It was Mr. Crawly, the oilman from the hotel, accompanied by two of the hotels other British guests, Lord Henry Humphrey and Colonel William Masterson. All three were filthy rich, but Crawly was what Victoria called "gutter rich", meaning his wealth was acquired from hard work rather than inheritance. He was also vulgar, crude, and definitely not welcome in the snobby social clique that Victoria and her friends had established on the patio of our hotel. Crawly was quite vulgar but the men in our group did not care. But the women did, and hence he was barely acknowledged by the "right" people when their wives were present. This was a slave market, though, so the men could be friends, as none of the wives were present now. All but one wife, that is. Victoria stood in the line of slave girls, naked as a newborn, sweating bullets as the men slowly made their way down the line of naked women. She had spotted them, of course, and I could tell by the expression of horror on her face and the way she was trembling that she knew damn well who they were. But would they recognize her? Under ordinary circumstances they might not, for the chained slave girl bore scant resemblance to the elegant lady they had known at the hotel. Victoria was naked, of course, and much more tan after her morning and evening strolls in the blazing African sun. Her appearance had deteriorated considerably during her time in the coffle and her once carefully coiffed hair was now dirty, stringy, and matted to her head. Her face and body were dirty from her long forced marches on dirt trails, and her shackled feet looked like two muddy boots. She had stunk from both sweat and her own excitement even before we had left the slave market. Now with little to do but sweat and rub her legs together to excite herself, she reeked like the naked animal she was. A casual acquaintance might have passed the tan slave girl by, dismissing her as a the bastard child of a local girl and a white tourist. But unfortunately for Victoria Lord Humphrey was far more than a casual acquaintance, having known her family for years in London. He belonged to the same clubs her father and brothers did, and although they were never particularly friendly he had, as he had once joked, seen Victoria "grow from a willful child to a spoiled brat to an insufferable young woman". Their dislike was mutual. Lord Humphrey was fat, and old, smoked cigars and walked with a cane, and despite their long acquaintance had often leered at Victoria in a most unappetizing way. His mistresses and trips to Africa were well known, and Victoria seemed genuinely disgusted when he showed up at our hotel at the port, and genuinely horrified to see him now. Given his reputation I was not surprised to see him in a slave market filled with naked women. Yet given her besmirched and befouled appearance there was still a possibility she might pass unnoticed. As a result of the recent trades there were several other fair skinned women in the line, a few as white as Victoria. Colonel Masterson and Mr. Crawly were so busy squeezing breasts and fingering slave snatch that they were literally standing next to her without noticing her. Victoria, sick with humiliation, stared at her feet, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, hoping to pass as simply another dirty and stinking slave girl and get off with a quick grope. But Humphrey had been ogling her for years, and dirty and bedraggled as she was, the odds were not in her favor. Victoria literally shuddered when she heard Lord Humphrey gasp. "Lady Victoria?" he said, his old eyes bulging. "Is that really you?" Much to my surprise, Victoria immediately switched to another tact. "Yes, Henry, it is," she said, lifting her chin up and addressing him as if she were greeting him for tea. "A pleasure to see you again, William," she said, noting the Colonel's presence with a pleasant smile. "And Mr. Crawly, of course," she added coldly. Victoria's upper crust RP accent and disdain for Mr. Crawly was quite absurd under the circumstances, but all three men were too stunned to laugh. Anxious to break the awkward pause, Victoria explained her predicament. "It would seem there was something of a mix back at the market and I got separated from Randolph. I would very much appreciate it if one of you gentlemen could take care of whatever stipend is required to secure my release, and requisition me some appropriate clothing so the four of us can be on our way." Lord Humphrey, still in shock, looked Victoria over, starting at her dirty feet and letting her eyes run up her bare legs. His gaze lingered as he examined her crotch and breasts. By the time his eyes met hers and he playfully reached out to toy with the slave beads around her neck, he was smiling broadly. Lord Humphrey turned to Kaba, who had come to intercept the three promising buyers. "Tell me, is this wench for sale?" "If she a little darker, maybe. We will put her on the auction block at the port. Will get better price for white girl there." Lord Humphrey turned back to Victoria and smiled. "I'm sorry, my dear. It appears you are not for sale." "Haggle with him!" Victoria shouted. "I'm not a slave! Pay the creature whatever he wants!" "No, my dear. Overpaying in a place like is simply bad business. Better to put you on the block, and let the market decide. I wager your hammer price is sure to be lower than what this rascal will extract in terms of a premium. " "The auction block? But I'm not a slave!" Victoria shouted. Lord Humphrey turned to Kaba. "I assume you have the proper legal paperwork for this girl?" "Of course, sir," Kaba replied. "Stamped and sealed. I can assure you that she is a slave." Lord Humphrey turned back to Victoria. "He has clear title to you, my dear, stamped and sealed. I assume you don't have your passport hidden anywhere, do you?" Lord Humphrey added, a sly twinkle in his eye. Victoria shook her head. "Quite so! Let's dispense with all this bosh and blather about you not being a slave, when we know that such talk will land me in jail and do nothing for you. Under the laws of this country and the evidence of my eyes you clearly are a slave, at least for the moment. Now can we agree on that, or should I move onto the next girl?" Victoria hesitated, then nodded. Lord Humphrey was not satisfied. His voice was stern. "Say it. Say that you are a slave. Then ask me to examine you." "Examine me! Good heavens, Henry, you can't be serious!" "I am quite serious," Lord Humphrey replied, the enjoyment in his eyes belying his stern tone. "We all agreed a moment ago that you are a slave. As such I must examine you properly if I am to place a suitable bid." "But Henry..." Victoria's protest was cut off as Lord Humphrey lifted her chin high with the silver tip of his walking stick. "You shall address me as "Your Lordship." You shall address William as "Colonel", and Crawly as 'Mr. Crawly" or "SIR". If that is too hard for you to remember you can simply call every man you meet "Master". Are we clear?" "Yes, your Lordship," Victoria replied meekly, straining to avoid the word "master", "Examine me. Examine me so you can place a proper bid." And with that the examination began. The men watched closely as under the crack of the whip Victoria was put through her slave paces. Back arched, belly out. Smile! Pout! "See how wet she is, gentlemen? See how her slave juices glisten on my fingers? A hot naked slave bitch, eager to please." "Goodness gracious she IS wet! I can smell her from here!" Lord Humphrey said, genuinely shocked. "Yes, she's a randy little Macaca!" Mr. Crawly chuckled. "Underpants are a waste on a dirty little monkey like her." As if to prove his point Mr. Crawly whistled loudly when the whip cracked and my furiously blushing wife bent over and spread her bottom cheeks wide. As I watched my wife bend, squat, laugh, pout, and twirl, I began to fully appreciate the genius of her training regime. Victoria was deeply, completely humiliated, but at each crack of the whip she nonetheless assumed the next disgraceful pose like the dirty little slave slut she now was. Victoria's Secret the Banana Problem The three men were nothing if not thorough. As the inspection continued breasts and bottom cheeks were weighed and squeezed, teeth examined, and dirty hair stroked for signs of lice. If Victoria had teased herself with the possibility that her prior acquaintance with the gentlemen might have earned her their respect, or at the very least persuaded them to allow her to keep a minuscule morsel of her dignity, she was quickly disabused of such fanciful notions. Soon Victoria was standing on one foot, hopping up-and-down as Crawly and the other gentlemen openly discussed her charms. "See how her titties bounce? Ripe little udders those are. Nice and firm. If I owned her I'd have her hand milked every mornin'. Nothing better than sweet English cream in Indian tea." "I don't think she's giving milk right now, Crawly", Colonel Masterson said, confirming his suspicion by giving my wife's bouncing nipples a few vigorous tugs. Crawly was undeterred. "Not now she won't, because the little bitch hasn't dropped her litter yet. I'd keep her knocked up right good, dropping whelps by the score, so I could get my money back on 'er, I would." "A sound business proposition," Lord Humphrey's agreed, enjoying the change in bounce as the exhausted Victoria began hopping on her other foot. "I imagine a litter of white slave girls would fetch a very fair price indeed." "Yeah, but I'd mate her with the coloreds, too," Crawly explained. "Stronger field stock when you mix the blood lines. Plus this one ayn't so fair as she makes out to be." "Whatever do you mean?" "See how much darker she is now then she was a few days ago? Sun did that. Turn around, girl, and show us your bum." The chain between her ankles was just long enough for Victoria to keep her foot off the ground as she hopped. Still hopping, Victoria turned. "See? Few hours in the sun, and her arse cheeks look like two brown hamburger buns!" Crawly said, squeezing Victoria's bouncing bottom. "See the way her hair is frizzled into its natural shape? For all her fine airs and her snooty accent, she's got monkey blood in her, no doubt!" "Lady Victoria, BLACK?" Lord Humphrey said. "A bit tan perhaps, but..." "Naw, she's a colored," Crawly insisted. "Isn't that right, love? There's a skeleton in the closet. Might not even be legitimate. Probably the serving girl's daughter, if you ask me." Although quite repelled by the noxious nature of Crawly's comments I was nevertheless intrigued. Victoria had always been EXTREMELY careful to shade herself from the sun, and enormous floppy hats and gallons of sunscreen were her required summer wear. When she sat on the porch at the hotel and enjoyed our tea in the morning, we always got there first to make sure we got the table shaded by both the building and an enormous umbrella. I had never actually seen her tan. Our caravan had been traveling mostly at night. But even with the limited sun she had quickly acquired a surprisingly bronze skin tone. Interesting. I recalled overhearing one of the black servants at her family's estate whispering about Victoria's dread of the sun, calling her "a vampire". The black woman said that when Victoria was little she had stayed in the country for a week, and had played in the fields, and had "gone bad like a banana, first yellow, then brown, then black and spoiled. Her mother was furious!" I had dismissed the story as a spiteful servant's exaggeration, but seeing how quickly she had acquired an all-over tan, to the point where her shading similar to some of the lighter skin Africans in her coffle, and knowing that she had been in the sun only a few hours each day, I began to wonder. I could tell from the look on Victoria's face that the remark stung for Victoria shared the prejudices of her class. "I don't object to THOSE people per se," she would often say, "It's there laziness that bothers me. I despise people who always have their hand out, waiting to be GIVEN something." Now Victoria, penniless and naked in a slave market, was being lumped in with the people she so casually dismissed as "the takers." "So tell us, my little African Princess," Crawly said, his voice oozing malice, "about the black negro skeletons you've been hiding in your family's castle's closet." "I don't know what you mean," Victoria said, still trying to hop as Crawly fondled her bottom. I can assure you, Sir..." Crawly would have none of it. Putting a hand on her tummy so the hopping slave girl wouldn't fall, he delivered a half dozen crisp hard spanks right across Victoria's naked bottom cheeks! "Oh! Oh! Oh! My Grandmother was Brazilian!" Victoria cried out, shouting as the spanks landed. "My grandfather was spending the summer on the family's plantation in Brazil and he got some servant pregnant, and since Grandma couldn't conceive... But...but mother was white. I swear it." "The old switcheroo?" Crawly sneered. "I knew it. Blood will out. She's a darkie all right. Brazilian's are the worst. Fool you as whites, but they tan up black as yer' boots!" "See? She's even got a hangman's scar. That's how ya' deal with uppity coloreds...haul them up and let them dangle a while. Sip a beer while 'ya watch 'em kick. Filthy monkeys." "No, you lie! You lie! I'm white. I don't get darker than this. I swear." Crawly spun my Victoria around. She was weeping now, more from shame than the spanks I think, as her dark disgrace was revealed to the white men before her. Grabbing her face and handling her roughly, Crawly began a careful analysis of her features. "Nose is a bit wider than it should be. Green eyes show she's mixed, but there's some dark flecks in there, too. Nice full lips, you see? Yes, she's a colored all right." "I do see your point...perhaps," Lord Humphrey hedged. "One drop is all it takes," Crawly replied. "I think we should check back on her when they bring her to market," Crawly said. "Another few days in the sun might work wonders. I bet she'll be dark enough to work on my plantation by then. " "Lady Victoria, a black plantation slave?" Lord Humphrey said, shocked at the idea. "Really, Crawly, that's going to far!" "Yes, quite right, old sport," Colonel Masterson agreed. "Besides, even if she does darken, to what end? Give the poor girl some clothes, and put her back in the house, and she'll quickly lighten up again." "Them shackle and beads she's wearing is the only clothes she'll ever have," Crawly spat back. "Those are too good for likes of her, if you want my opinion. If she's dark at the market, I'll buy her, and I'll buy her as a n*****. I'll march her back through the streets n**** naked, and she'll work n***** naked in my fields." At this the men fell silent, both in embarrassment at his most disagreeable language and the underlying fury at Victoria that they revealed. Sensing the other's reaction, Crawly smiled. "Don't be squeamish, mates. My brand will look fine on her big black arse. And she'll be pleasured by bucks constantly, when she's not being milked for my morning tea." At this more light-hearted suggestion the men laughed. "Well, the ladies would certainly be amused to watch our little Samba toil in the fields, then serve them tea," Colonel Masterson allowed. "I'm sure they'd enjoy having a black version of Lady Victoria drawing their baths and hauling their bags and polishing their boots." Victoria looked quite horrified as the men laughed out loud at the humiliating suggestion. Lord Humphrey seemed unconvinced. "I think using her as a plantation slave is a bit of a waste, frankly. She looks quite fit to me. As I recall, you ran in school, didn't you girl?" I noted with interest that Humphrey now referred to "Lady Victoria" as "girl". How quickly the wind had changed! "Yes sir," Victoria replied, keeping her face down humbly even as she smiled with pride. "I ran cross country, sprints, and steeple chase. I qualified for the Olympic team, actually, but father wouldn't let me compete. He said it wasn't proper for a girl to run about in shorts, with men watching." "Quite right" Lord Humphrey agreed. "In addition to being quite a runner, I understand you're a bit of an equestrian, are you not?" "Yes, sir," Victoria said, unsure of where Lord Humphrey was going. "I have a friend of mine who's a Sheik, with something of a fascination for fair skinned white women. It amuses him to have them dance bare breasted for his Western visitors, wearing nothing but translucent harem pants. He lets me stable a few girls at his estate who, when they're not being used for my purposes, can be used for his. I'm sure he'd enjoy having a fair skinned green eyed English girl to dance for his guests, and amuse them as he sees fit." Victoria blanched. The thought of dancing half naked for strangers was shocking enough, but more shocking still if she should encounter someone she knew as one of the guests. But the worst was yet to come. "Sounds most intriguing. But tell us, what are your purposes?" Colonel Masterson inquired. "Tell us about these stables of yours." "Nothing much to tell, really," his Lordship replied casually, lighting his cigar. "I keep a string of pony girls there. Sometimes I race them, sometimes I breed them. Sometimes I merely hook them up to a cart and take a few of my friends out for a trot." "A trot? I scarcely seek how that slip of a girl could carry a walrus like you, Humphrey, let alone a cart filled with your posh fat friends," Crawly snickered. Lord Humphrey simply smiled as he knelt down next to Victoria, who was still hopping as directed. I watched closely as he began squeezing her bouncing bottom and flexing thighs. "Nonsense. See how long this wretched girl has been hopping? Nice strong thighs on this one. The carts are balanced, and sometimes I'll use a team of girls. This little filly is stronger than you think. See the tightness in her bottom cheeks and calves? Ready to pull the heaviest load up the steepest, muddiest hill." Mr. Crawly remained unconvinced. "Perhaps, if she'd do it. A human pony, shitting in her own straw? Her ladyship might not stand for it." Lord Humphrey laughed. "Of course she wouldn't stand for it, old sport. She'd be tied between the shafts with a thick leather bit between her teeth, and a harness holding her in place. As for her liking it, that's what the pony whip is for." Victoria let out a pitiful whimper as her bottom cheeks clenched under Lord Humphrey's threat. "I'll burn the Humphrey family crest on her hide, of course. An "H" inscribed in a circle, with lightning bolts for the three bars. I burn the circle on first, then a week later the first bar, then so on. Four brands in all, applied by yours truly, so my little filly understands who owns her." Victoria shuddered as Colonel Masterson sagely nodded. "She'd make a fine pony girl, all right, and I'd love to have her under the whip. After I buy her, maybe I'll lend her to you for a race, provided you let me take her on a trot. I'd love to see that big bottom of hers wiggling beneath the carriage shafts as I decorated it with the whip." "You're bidding on her, too?" Crawly said, obviously dismayed at having a third competitor. "I might." Colonel Masterson lifted Victoria's chin up and looked her in the eye. "Tell me, girl: you did fox hunting on your estate, did you not?" "Yes sir," Victoria said. "And you bagged a cheetah on safari last week?" I grimaced. Victoria and I had fought all week about her safari expedition but she had insisted on going, saying that adding an animal head and a cheetah rug to her study was part of her "family honor." I had been furious with her, and genuinely disgusted by her actions. "Since your such a skilled huntress, I may purchase you away from Crawly and take you on a different sort of hunt. There's a friend of mine a few miles from here who runs a fox hunt. Of course since the quarry is a bit larger he uses Great Danes rather than hounds. Of course you'll be kenneled with the bitches for a few days so you'll get their scent on you. It will make the Great Danes a bit aggressive, I fear. Then we'll send you out naked into the compound while we have our dinner. After dessert we will release the dogs and hunt you down." "Will you give her shoes, at least?" Crawly asked. "Of course not. The animal will be naked as nature intended. There's quite a bit of thistle and a few small lakes. Some of the girls try to hide there, although the dogs always find them. The water can be quite chilly at night, I'm afraid, so hopefully they'll find you before you freeze. There is a grove of trees, about ten miles from the house, if you can find them. You might try for them, for it's far better to be treed then to let the dogs catch you out in the open," he said, chuckling. "A girl as fit as you might be able to find the trees, although time will not be your friend. There's a wildlife preserve, and from time-to-time one of the larger cats gets past the fence. No danger to us, as they avoid the dogs. But I'm sure you'll find cheetah hunting much different when you are stark naked, and bleeding from running barefoot over the rocks and thistle, with no weapon other than what you can manufacture." For a moment I thought Victoria was going to faint. She was bringing home a cheetah skin as a trophy. Now she might be the trophy of one of the animals she so callously hunted. "We usually hunt local girls, as my friends claim that Africans make the best runners. I'll wager him different, and I'm betting with those muscular legs of yours you'll give the dogs quite a run. I'll get good odds and will make a tidy profit when the dogs finally hunt you down. And, of course, as the man who brought the quarry, I'll have first dibs on you." Mr. Crawly turned to Kaba as he fingered Victoria's wet sex. Despite her humiliation she gasped with pleasure as she pushed back against his hand. "It looks like our randy slave girl has three masters ready to bid on her hot slave pussy. As none of us like to lose, you'll get a lively price for her. Do you mind if we sample the goods now?" Lord Humphrey discretely passed the flesh peddler a bribe large enough to elicit a very satisfied smile. "As you wish, gentlemen," Kaba replied. "She is at your disposal." Crawly's cruel smile vanished as he turned to Victoria. "You hear him, my little African princess. On your knees. Time 'fer you to learn some humility, kneeling in the African dirt, servicing a white man like nature intended." Victoria's eyes burned fire. "No, never! Not you. Not any of you. I'll bite it off first." And with that Victoria spat in Crawly's face. "I am sorry, gentlemen," Kaba replied. "The girl is untrained. We have many other girls who—" "I don't want another girl," Crawly said. "I want her. And I want to see her punished." "Yes, quite right," Lord Humphrey agreed. "Girls like her must be taught their place." Colonel Masterson nodded. "The empire was built on discipline. Impossible to be too strict about these things." Kaba nodded. "I have a young lad who needs training in such matters. Perhaps this is an opportunity." The men nodded. And with the unanimous verdict of the tribunal Victoria's fate was sealed. With her legs already in shackles securing her was easy. A large cinderblock was placed between Victoria's spread legs, over her chain, and three more blocks placed on top of the first. A second pile of cinderblocks was placed a few feet in front of her. The purpose of this was not clear until one of the slavers produced a piece of wood about a meter long that had been carved into a sort of triangle. The triangle was placed on top of the two piles of cinderblocks, forming a sort of sawhorse that Victoria was obliged to straddle with her legs spread wide. A set of cuffs around her wrists, tucked neatly under the other cinderblock, left her immobile, although she was able to strain up a bit and lift her crotch and torso off the triangle she was resting on. This freedom was welcome, for the wooden board her pussy was resting against was clearly most uncomfortable, even if the sight of her squirming bottom was most entertaining to the three men who watched her. Victoria strained to raise her bottom up and take the weight off her sex, spreading both her bottom cheeks and her legs as she strained. As I watched her squirm I realized that she was suffering on a crude African version of the Spanish Donkey, the medieval torture device used on heretics. Lord Humphrey must have been thinking the same thing, for he remarked to Colonel Crawford how "charming it was that men from every culture on earth eventually discover the same techniques for breaking-in willful girls." "They're breaking-her-in," I thought. "Training her like a pony, or a dog." From the way she was crying and squirming, I imagine it was quite painful, although I eased my conscience by remembering was for her own good. Recalling the rope around her neck in the marketplace I knew that her punishment could be much worse. Mercy? No. This simply had to be done, and the sooner the better. Victoria had volunteered to be a slave girl, and if she were to survive in her new role she must learn obedience. Through her sobs Victoria watched as one of the slavers handled a bare chested teenager a long dressage whip, a little more than a meter in length. I jumped at the sound of the cracking whip, which reverberated through the air like a gunshot. The whip was not huge, but it was a nasty little bastard, and I knew that it would teach the bound slave girl a lesson she would not soon forget. A part of me wanted to intervene, even as the bulge beneath my robe stiffened. But I knew that Kaba was an experienced slave trainer, and would give Victoria the discipline she needed. Better to simply observe as justice was done. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! The whip snapped in the air as the boy got a feel for his new toy. Victoria, looking over her shoulder watched him, her naked and defenseless bottom clenching at the sound of each pistol shot. Her mental anguish as the whip cut through the air was palpable. I flashed back to Victoria scoffing as her father reprimanded her for using "too much whip" when she rode. Now the wheel had turned. She was once again in the saddle, but now she was riding a spanking horse, and Victoria would feel precisely what a pony whip felt like. I knew the lesson would be severe, but I vowed no interference because I knew it was a lesson she needed to learn. Colonel Masterson was right: it was impossible to be too strict about such things. The boy handling the whip cracked it quite well, although he walked with some difficulty. I guessed his age to be about 18 or 19 although his growth was clearly stunted, probably from poor nutrition. His teeth were bad and the man training him talked to him gently. "Dudu is not very bright," Kaba explained, "but young men like him often make excellent whip masters. If they cannot earn female companionship with charm or good looks, their resentments can be put to good use as they take great pleasure in whipping female bottoms." Pausing, Dudu moved in closer and took careful aim. CRACK! The sound a whip makes is actually a small sonic boom created when the whip tip breaks the sound barrier, a dry scientific fact that is worth considering when evaluating the whip's effect on a bare female bottom. Victoria screamed like a banshee as the first stroke hit her ass, a tad off center, striping the left cheek a bit more than the right. Keeping in mind the purpose of the stroke was to teach a disrespectful slave girl obedience the stroke was very fine indeed. However in whipping slave girls as in most other matters, practice makes perfect. I watched closely as Dudu, learning from the first stroke, raised the whip again. CRACK! Victoria's Secret the Banana Problem "Ahhhh! Stop! Stop!! Please! I'll do it! I'll do anything you say!" "What is it you'll do, girl?" Crawford said, laughing. "Tell us exactly." "I'll suck your penis," Victoria sobbed. "I'll suck you off, every last one of you. And I will swallow every drop!" "Yes, you will, you stuck-up little bitch. You will suck us, and beg for more. But first, you will be whipped, like the naughty slave girl you are." SNAP! It was hard to say which was louder, the crack of the whip or the scream, but hearing them both together I wished I had brought earplugs. I felt relieved when the instructor took the whip from the boy and handed him a roughly hewn stick attached to a rope. I watched as he went around to the front of Victoria and put the stick between her teeth. She tried to struggle, but Dudu was no amateur, and he quickly tied the gag off, reducing Victoria's frantic pleas to comically unintelligible babble. The teenager had barely stepped away when the master demonstrated his art on Victoria's naked ass. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Three strokes, perfectly spaced, right in a row. One might have supposed the audience would pity poor Victoria her scorched bottom, but in truth the opposite was the case. As she twisted her head around us I could see the large wooden stick had peeled her gums back over her teeth, leaving her mouth open in a perfectly ridiculous grinning rictus. As I watched her wiggle her big bottom and shout unintelligible pleas for mercy, I did what everyone else in the quickly growing crowd of spectators did: I laughed. "Ha! Ha! Look at the little bitch twist her arse! She felt that, she did!" Mr. Crawly spat. "Yes, nicely done, old sport," Lord Humphrey said. "Let's take that big bottom of hers out for a nice long ride." "Yes indeed, quite right," Colonel Masterson agreed. "Lay them on smartly. Show her who's in charge." Taking the whip from his master. The young man earnestly tried his hand at his apprenticed trade. WHIP! WHIP! WHIP! WHIP! Dudu did well, judging from Victoria's drool and frantic gibberish, although clearly he was not as skilled as his master. "A little more wrist action, I think," Colonel Masterson said. "It's all in the snap." "Yes, you must CRACK it across her bottom, so the little bitch feels it down to her toes," Crawford suggested helpfully. The master took the whip back from his apprentice and taught him a new trick: two strokes, in rapid succession, the first causing Victoria to raise her bottom high, and the second actually cracking the whip between her bottom cheeks, skinning the exquisitely sensitive skin near her bottom hole! "Bullseye!" Colonel Masterson said, laughing. "Capital!" Lord Humphrey agreed, applauding as if he had just witnessed the winning volley in a tennis match. "She'll feel that one with every step." "And with every shite," Mr. Crawley added crudely. The older man explained the technique to the boy, miming the action several times before actually repeating the sequence in earnest. CRACK! Victoria's bottom raised up, spreading her cheeks wide, leaving her blow hole in full view. CRACK! The second stroke of the whip tickled her anus, causing such a frenzy of head shaking and cries that I thought our little pony might bite through her wooden stick. "Serves her right for showing us her little winker," Mr. Crawly chuckled. "Little whores who like to show off their butt knots should have them whipped." Of course "like" had nothing to do with it, as Victoria's reaction had been entirely involuntary. In fact, knowing what was coming, I had watched her strain against it. However the crack of the whip was too strong to ignore, and when the next stroke came her resistance again vanished, leaving her open for yet another of the skilled whip master's "bullseyes." The master handed his apprentice the whip, and the young lad had at it. He did well, but it was a difficult trick shot, and nearly impossible to time. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Each stroke caught her, but the second stroke never made it between her parted cheeks. Victoria's screams and pleas, unintelligible as they were, became even more frantic as her bottom became a criss-cross of whip marks. It was a curious turn of events. Victoria was not being whipped into submission, for she had agreed to submit after the very first stroke. Nor was she being whipped as a punishment, for if correction were the goal the punishment would have ceased long before now. Victoria's naked bottom was merely target practice, a handy arse for a young apprentice's training. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! An animalistic yelp erupted from Victoria and a cheer erupted from the crowd as the whip found it's mark, skinning her neatly between the cheeks. "Well done, lad!" Lord Humphrey said, pausing the action long enough to hand the largely toothless but broadly grinning young man a gold £1 coin. "Do it again and I'll double it!" The lad, now getting the rhythm of it, repeated his success. CRACK! CRACK! Another coin was dispensed. CRACK! CRACK! Another coin was offered. I think this would have continued all day if there had not been a commotion at the end of the market. Two fair skinned Westerners, dressed in khakis and polo shirts, were led by two of the armed guards to Kaba's presence. "My goodness," the man exclaimed, identifying himself immediately as an American by his slow Southern drawl. "What are y'all doing to that poor girl?" "Silence!" Kaba replied. "I ask questions. Who are you? Why you here?" "My name is Tim McNeely, and this is my wife Suzanne. We are missionaries from Mississippi, from the Redemption Crusade. We were looking for the Tendaba River Market." "You have found it. Missionaries are not welcome here. Your church once came to my village, and gave medicine. You do good. So you are free to go. But you must leave immediately." "Are these women slaves?" Suzanne asked, looking at the coffle of chained naked women. "Yes, as you would be, if you had not helped my village. Now leave." "Let's go darling," Tim said. "I told you that coming here was a mistake." "But those girls! They're naked!" the woman protested. "Let me see them. How are we to help these people if we don't understand their ways?" "Let's go, darling. Those men almost shot us. We may not be so lucky next time." "Exactly," the woman replied. "We're not safe, except here. Particularly me. If someone else had captured us, I'd be a slave already." "You would," Kaba said. "You are pretty, and American, with red hair. Good figure. You bring fine price at Port." "Oh, yes, the Port Market!" Suzanne said. "In the city where we landed. I know where that is." "Your group saved my father's life," Kaba said. "So you may go. The debt is paid." "No! If you put us out there again we'll probably get lost, or captured again. Then what will become of me? I want to stay with you." "I do not travel with white women," Kaba said. "Go." "Some of those women in the coffle are nearly white," Suzanne protested. "Let me travel with them." "If I did that," Kaba said, "you would travel as my slave." "Good!" Suzanne said. "What better way to see what this place is like than to travel as a slave?" "Darling, are you out of your mind?" her husband spat. "Those girls are naked!" "Don't be silly; they're wearing shackles. Now be a dear and take my clothes and passport and such and meet me when I reach the market at Port." Suzanne turned to Kaba, "I will be your slave until my husband can claim me at Port. Deal?" Kaba paused and looked Suzanne up and down with a calculating professional's eye. "Deal," Kaba said quietly. Her obviously henpecked husband tried to argue but Suzanne already had her polo shirt off and was unzipping her khakis by the time he got the first sentence out. Still protesting, the men led him out of camp with her clothes in hand as they led her over to the fire for shackling. "Oh, goody, my very own slave shackles! I've always wondered what this would be like." "Now you will know," Kaba said quietly. The diversion of the new slave girl's shackling had ended Victoria's whipping but not her ordeal. By the time I turned back I saw that Mr. Crawly had his pants around his ankles and my wife, still tied down over her punishment horse, was rubbing his plump penis over Victoria's trembling lips. "You're a filthy little piggy," Crawly observed, "and I wouldn't let you near my bed without taking a coarse bristle brush to you to get rid of the scabies. But you do have a pretty mouth." Victoria shuddered as Crawly leered down at her. "Open wide. Time to do what slave girls do best." Victoria gagged as he slid his large, bulbous tool into her mouth. "That's it, my little slave girl," Crawly sneered. "Wrap them' big plump black lips of yours around your master's dick. That's what yer' mouth is for, for all your fancy dresses and airs. We'll have no more chatter from you, looking down your nose at me. Now you can look down on my cock." Victoria sucked him eagerly, far more eagerly than she had sucked me on our honeymoon when she deemed it an absolute necessity. The pony whip had made her eager to please, and strapped down as she was, with her crotch resting on the board and her freshly whipped bottom squirming in agony, the memory of what she had suffered was still fresh in her mind. Crawly came, causing Victoria to sputter and choke as he shot his foul load into her mouth. She tried to spit it out, but some spilled out, forming a sperm icicle on her chin. With Crawly done Lord Humphrey unzipped his pants and began to fish out his tool, but she had a more pressing problem. Behind her, Dudu was fingering her pussy, and stroking his own member in preparation for entry. "Please!" Victoria pleaded, gasping as the toothless black teenager fingered her wet pussy. "Don't let him take me...bare. I took my last birth control bill days ago!" Lord Humphrey smiled down at her as he wiped a little drop of his pre-come across her trembling lips. "A week, even a month, isn't THAT long", he said philosophically. "Perhaps you'll have some residual protection." He smiled. "Then again, perhaps not." "Please! Don't let me him enter me...without protection." "You should have thought of that sooner, I'd say," Colonel Masterson observed. "Should have taken a pill or something this morning. But why is that my problem?" "Quite right," Lord Humphrey agreed. "A matter of personal responsibility, is it not?" I admit I hadn't thought of it that way, but there was something about Lord Humphrey's commanding and patriarchal tone that made everything he said sound like perfect sense. "Please. Don't let him come inside me! I need protection!" "Oh, like one of these?" Lord Humphrey said, playfully taking a condom out of his wallet. "Should I ask your gentlemen caller to wear this?" "Yes, please!" Victoria pleaded. "Give it to him!" "GIVE it, you say?" he said, looking down at her disdainful look. "Yes, girls of your sort are always looking for someone to GIVE you something. I will sell it to you, for 50 pence. A most reasonable price, under the circumstances." "But...but I don't have any money!" Victoria sobbed. "Yes, of course you don't," he scolded. "Dirty little slut running around naked with your legs open and your dirty little snatch wet and wide. Always looking for a handout! Well, you won't get one today." Seeing the chance for a stern moral lecture Colonel Masterson rose to the occasion. "You see, girl, if we simply GAVE it to you, you'd learn nothing about consequences, or the value of money. But if we let the chips fall where they may you'll learn your lesson, and learn it well, I'm afraid." Victoria looked up at him, speechless. Not only was she being denied a rubber, she was being lectured using precisely the same language she so often used. Unfortunately for Victoria, the consensus was unanimous. "Quite right," Lord Humphrey agreed. "Make the little slut ride bareback." "Yes, that's right," Mr. Crawly sneered. "Don't give her a glove. If she gets preggers it will be a lesson to her." Victoria's protests became a mute point as the laughing lad entered her wet pussy smoothly from behind even as Lord Humphrey stuffed his weathered but hard member into her mouth. Lord Humphrey teased Victoria mercilessly as she sucked him off. "That's right, suck your master's pecker like the lollipops or sweets I used to give you when you were a child. I'll give you a nice big load of tasty white cream to gargle with, and I want you to swish it around in your mouth and get a good taste before I tell you to swallow. Then the bright eyed young man who lashed your bottom will shoot a nice big load of baby batter into that hot, wet, unprotected pussy of yours. Don't worry if he doesn't knock you up straight away; there's plenty more bucks where he came from. I'm sure one of their little baby makers will get in there and get the job done." Sure enough, a line of black men had formed behind her, waiting for their chance to fuck her. There was another line forming behind Colonel Masterson, who was waiting for Lord Humphrey to finish so that he too could enjoy Victoria's mouth. As the men fucked her, Victoria strained to lift herself off the wooden board, longingly eyeing the condom laying in the dirt even as she sucked. A rubber! A rubber! My kingdom for a rubber. Satisfied that Victoria would be occupied for some time to come, I wandered over to refill my canteen. The sales were brisk, and Kaba unloaded about twenty girls, and bought three more lighter skinned girls he felt more fit for the market at port. As I filled my canteen Kaba told me that we were going take yet another detour to yet another market. "They do brandings there," he said casually. "First rate work." I said nothing, but tensed as I remembered that Victoria's branding had merely been postponed until we reached a place where it could be done properly. Such a place was now only a day's walk away. I heard a girlish cry, and turned back to see the cause of the commotion. Suzanne, who a few minutes before had been a proper missionary, was now a naked and shackled slave girl, surrounded by an excited crowed of laughing Africans. Her pale skin and lovely red hair fascinated them, and their hands were touching her everywhere: her hair, her arms, her back, her legs, her breasts, and of course between her legs. One man was comparing the lightly covered hair on her arm to his own bare arm, which had no hair. A group of women were kneeling in front of her, laughing as they rubbed her sex and teased her clitoris out of hiding. Suzanne's face was nearly as red as her hair, but it did not matter. Now she knew what it was to be a slave girl. Part of our journey would be during the day, and Kaba had asked me if I wanted the already tan Victoria shielded from the sun like the other white girls, or answer the riddle Mr. Crawly had proposed by seeing how dark she might get. Victoria was quite tan already, and if she got much more tan she might actually pass for mixed. Or perhaps she might become darker still... This would lower her value, and with a lower price I might be able to manage a bid. Of course if she got too dark Kaba might not bother saving her for the port, and might sell her along the way, at a market where I could not trace her. Knowing that I would never get the funds to bid on her, and worried about what cruel fate might await her if she was sold to Crawly, Masterson, or Humphrey, I struggled to decide. A few hours in the African sun might be all it took to lower her price. I could take a chance, and bet on my wife's honor that she had been telling the truth when she called Mr. Crawly a liar and protested her inherent whiteness. But if she got too dark... Still a little darker, and I might be able to afford her. It seemed like a sensible approach, until I recalled the maid's comment that the sun "spoiled her like a banana". I slept poorly, wondering what I should do. I needed to lower her price. But a spoiled banana could be very black indeed.