23 comments/ 45463 views/ 37 favorites Victoria's Secret: Price Check! By: Joe_Doe_Stories "I'm BORED! How much further?" Victoria whined. "About 20 minutes, darling. You're the one who wanted to walk to town." "Because I thought I'd SEE something," she said, in her heightened RP British accent that made her sound like she was auditioning for Downton Abbey. "Really, Randolph! I came here to explore an exotic culture and I'm spending all day tramping along this bloody dirt road." I sighed. My wife is wonderful to travel with when she is happy, and miserable to travel with when she is bored. Today, she was bored. "Are there any animals along this river? Hippos or elephants or something?" "This isn't the Jungle Boat Cruise, Victoria," I said, exasperated at her attitude. "The animals don't line up to perform for your amusement." "So is the marketplace another long trip to nowhere?" she huffed. "Well if you're looking for Harrods the market is going to disappoint you too, dear. Fruits, pots, and beads, mostly. You can buy a goat if you want." Victoria thought for a moment. "Do they sell slave girls there?" she said. I smiled and shook my head. Victoria had seen her first slave girl only a few days before, during our first morning in Africa. We had landed at port and were having breakfast in the luxury hotel for Westerners overlooking the marketplace. It was a leisurely affair, made more leisurely by Victoria. Although we had only been in the country a few hours she either already knew or made the acquaintance of several "people of quality" staying at the hotel. Each time someone entered or left, it seemed they had to stop at our table to say something. When Victoria spotted the naked women being marched through the bustling marketplace she had been so shocked she nearly dropped her teacup. "Those girls!" she cried. "They're chained together. And they're STARK NAKED." Indeed they were. There were about 40 of them, naked except for the various bindings that held their hands behind their backs, and the ankle shackles that bound them to the coffle. It was a hot day, and it must have been difficult to walk across the hot stones of the market square barefoot, but the four slave wranglers in charge of the coffle used their crops and prods to make sure their inventory kept pace. Victoria, shocked, peered down off the balcony for a better look. "They're slaves being taken to market," I explained as I sipped my tea. "Pleasure slaves, I'd guess, judging from their nice round bottoms and breasts, and their nakedness. It's important to let the buyers see the merchandise." "Merchandise?" Victoria gasped. "But some of those girls are white!" I laughed. "Being an English aristocrat wouldn't save you in the slave market, dear. Although your fair skin and green eyes might well fetch a better price." If I had sprouted wings and flown off the balcony Victoria's expression could not have been more shocked. Victoria, the daughter of an English Lord, a naked slave girl? The very idea! Victoria sniffed indignantly as she resumed her superior, haughty tone, quickly separating herself from the girls in the coffle. "I'm glad those men are whipping those girl's bottoms. Shameless! Parading naked through the streets where anyone can see them. What little sluts they are!" Victoria was soon joined by several other ladies, all of who followed her lead in denouncing the slave girls for their brazenness and immodesty. Victoria nervously fingered her pearls and the lapel of her expensive silk blouse as she watched the slave women being paraded down the street; almost as if she was assuring herself that in her fine clothes she was quite different from the naked women. "Some of the men they are passing are... touching them!" "Disgusting!" "Shameful!" "Do you think the one with the big tits will fetch the best price?" "Perhaps. But the blonde will get more." "Do you think she's Swedish, or something?" "American. Look at the way she's under-dressed." All the women laughed. Alexandra, using the zoom lens of her overpriced camera, captured something the other women had not noticed. "I do believe several of those tarts have brands on their bottoms. Look. It's easier to see with the lighter skinned girls." "Oh my, yes. That's not a tattoo. That's a burn." Grabbing the camera from Alexandra Victoria zoomed in for a closer look. "Oh yes, that's a brand!" she said cheerfully. "Three stars on that one. That one has some letters. They're quite pretty, actually. I like it." "So you think slave girls should be branded?" Alexandra asked as Victoria reluctantly passed the camera onto the next gawker. "Definitely," Victoria chuckled. "Right on their big fat rumps!" The women laughed. "Do you suppose branding hurts?" Mrs. Howly asked, adjusting the camera for a better look. "Maybe they used anesthesia." "In this country? I doubt it. More likely a stick between their teeth." The group laughed again. Victoria was unimpressed. "Why should they get anesthesia?" she huffed. "After all, they're not like you and I. These girls are little better than animals, and I didn't give anesthesia to any of my horses before I burned my family crest into their rumps." "Yes, Victoria, quite right. Animals. Thank you for pointing that out. I feel much better about this whole business now." "Do you think I can post these pictures on Facebook?" Alexandra chuckled. "Perhaps there's some sort of National Geographic exemption for nudity," she speculated, causing all the women to laugh. For all their denunciations and scorn Victoria and several of her fellow moralists nearly fell off the balcony as they strained to follow the coffle's progress. "Where are they going?" she asked. "The slave market inside that building at the end of the street," I replied. They'll be put in the holding pens for a few days for inspection, then put on the auction block." "The auction block?" she said, genuinely surprised. "Like Christie's or Sotheby's?" she gasped. I chuckled at her naiveté. "Yes, that's the basic idea. Although I doubt you'll be buying any of your overpriced paintings there, darling. It's a livestock market. See? They're being led into the building with the camels and the goats in the pens outside. The slave pens are out back, covered by the awning." Again, Victoria nearly fell off the balcony as she strained to see. "Can we see the pens?" she asked eagerly. "Hardly, darling. It's not a place for Western women. Not Western women wearing clothes, anyway," I teased. Victoria doesn't take no for an answer, and for the rest of the day she was cross with me. A few hours later the guide drove us deep into the interior for our first safari, but I could tell Victoria was too miffed and too distracted by what she had seen to enjoy it. It had been a lovely few days, apart from my wife's insufferable attitude. She had been quite annoyed that her friend Alexandra had not sent her any pictures, although she still hoped something would be posted on the Web. No matter how many questions I tried to answer about the slaves, Victoria was never satisfied. As we took our lovely walk down the river to the marketplace, the subject arose again. "Tell me, Randolph: are there any slave girls at this market or not?" she pressed. "It can't be a proper market without livestock for sale, can it?" "I suppose not. There is a slave market there. It's in a courtyard, a bit off the central market. It's not a huge market, but there are usually a half dozen flesh peddlers there. And no, you can't go." There was another long pause as we walked for a few minutes. Victoria, like many people born to privilege, was never exactly bursting with sympathy for those less fortunate than her. It was clear that she had mentally separated herself from the girls in the marketplace, who she now referred to as "slave sluts", "livestock," or simply "bitches." "Well!" she huffed. "It hardly seems fair that a mere slave girl should be able to see something that me, a proper English lady related to royalty, cannot!" she huffed. There was an odd look on her face as we walked along. I didn't know what she was thinking, but for my part I simply relished her silence. "Do you think I'd make a good slave?" she finally asked. The question struck me like a bolt out of the blue. Despite her blueblood background my wife does have a kinky, submissive side, and I instantly wondered where this was going. "Perhaps," I hedged. "In the right market." "I'm serious, Randolph. Do you think I'd fetch a good price?" "I was being serious, dear. This is a tiny market. Higher quality goods are usually shipped out for resale. However, I'd wager you'd fetch a tidy sum. Of course pleasure slaves are not fungible goods, and sometimes it comes down to how an individual buyer reacts to a particular girl. There's only one way to know for sure." "How?" "Put the girl on the auction block and see." Victoria looked shocked "The auction block?" she stammered. I smiled at her at her discomfort, and seeing my pleasure at her embarrassment she quickly recovered. "Yes, quite right; that's as it should be. Impossible to know how something will sell until you sell it, I suppose. I simply must see this market." "Sorry. It's not a suitable tourist destination for white female tourists wearing Gucci sandals and diamond earrings." We walked along in silence for several minutes. Victoria was quiet as she mulled things over. "What if I wasn't wearing Gucci sandals?" "What do you mean?" "What if I were a slave girl? You could bring me in then, couldn't you?" "You don't have the guts," I said, laughing. "Would you like to make a wager on that?" Victoria, ever confident, stopped walking... and began stripping. Khaki's off. Shirt off. Pearls off. She looked quite enticing, standing before me in her sexy pink matching silk bra and panties. "Slaves don't wear £200 designer silk bras," I noted dryly. Victoria hesitated, then accepted my challenge by stripping her bra off. I smiled as her lovely nipples hardened in the warm African breeze. "Is this a busy market?" she asked, covering her breasts as she suddenly realized that she was standing nearly naked on a dirt road. "Crowded, I mean?" I smiled, enjoying my overbearing wife's sudden insecurity. "Busy enough," I added enigmatically, relishing her discomfort as I remembered the hell she had put me through during this "bloody boring" trip. Victoria looked quite enticing standing half naked in the road, covering her breasts with her arms. Alas, modesty was not permitted for a slave girl. Reaching into my backpack I pulled out a long reel of coarse rope. It was manufactured locally, and was rough and scratchy, but had been strong enough to pull our jeep out of the mud, with Victoria cursing me and our driver the entire time. Cutting off a short section, I walked behind Victoria and tied her hands behind her back using a simple handcuff knot. "That's too tight, Randolph!" Victoria protested. Squeezing her luscious bottom I leaned forward and whispered in her air. "That's not your choice, slave girl." I thought she was going to scream at me, but her response surprised me. "As master wishes," she said. I didn't bother to cut the remainder of the long rope, and quickly fashioned a slip tie with 3 or 4 twists around the knot. Victoria looked puzzled, at least until I threw the loop around her head and let it settle on her shoulders. Victoria glared at me as I pulled the loose end of the rope to a metal buckle on my backpack, then tucked the rest of the long rope into my pack, using the same trick I used at home when walking our Corky. She looked even unhappier as I systematically stripped her of her sandals, her eyeglasses, her diamond earrings, and finally, her silk panties. I was going to walk my little slave girl to the marketplace stripped of everything but the rope leash around her neck. "Want to call it off?" I said, smiling. She mouthed an obscenity I won't shock you by repeating. I responded with a toothy grin. Stark naked with a rope around her neck and a her hands lashed behind her back, Victoria suddenly became aware of every sound, twig snap, and motion in the "bloody boring jungle." "What if someone sees me?" she asked, her voice cracking. I smiled. Victoria gets bitchy when she gets angry, but she gets acute laryngitis when she gets nervous. And now she was very nervous indeed. "What if they do?" I chuckled, relishing her unease. "Nothing to see really. Just another naked slave girl." A quick tug of the rope and we were off. It was hard for Victoria to keep up with my brisk pace walking barefoot on the unpaved road, but the knot tightening around her lovely neck provided wonderful incentive for her to keep up. A few passing jeeps honked their horns at us, much to Victoria's distress. "If your friends at the hotel could see you now!" I teased. Victoria shuddered at the thought. One man in a jeep offered me a ride. "If you don't want her in the jeep, I can tie her leash to the bumper," he joked. At least I think it was a joke. I turned him down; walking my haughty wife to market was simply too much fun, and I wanted the pleasure to last. Victoria had nothing to say, for after her first few minutes of complaining her vocal cords gave way to her nervousness and I was treated to a blessed silence I had not enjoyed since we had landed in Africa. I took the long way but walked her fast, and we arrived at the marketplace a good six minutes ahead of schedule. I decided to make up for our promptness with a languid, leisurely, stroll. I wasn't sure if Victoria was panting because of my brisk pace, the rope around her throat, or her nervousness when she realized how bustling the market was! It wasn't a huge marketplace, really; it was the sort of market that my shop-a-holic wife would have dismissed as an "African dung heap" if she had arrived in her designer clothes. But now, naked and leashed, the village exchange looked to Victoria like a bustling Piccadilly Circus! The slave market was in an old stone building just past where we entered. Walking past it I decided to stroll up and down the aisles of the main market with my naked slave girl in tow. Humiliating for Victoria, yes, but one never knows when one might want to buy an apple. My blushing wife endured the laughter, jeers, and cheers of the locals as I casually browsed the fruits, vegetables, woven baskets, and trinkets the market had to offer. Nudity was not unknown in this part of the world, but my lovely wife's fair English skin and green eyes made her a bit of a novelty. Some of the women shouted obscenities at her, cursing the little slave slut's brazen nakedness while never directing a single word at me. But the men seemed appreciative. Victoria regularly drew appreciative squeezes and pinches, although when that happened I was always quick to abandon my examination of the basket, shirt, or pot I was examining, and with a tug of the leash move on. We spent a good thirty minutes in the marketplace, with a very distressed Victoria sweating, panting, fidgeting, struggling futilely against the ropes that bound her wrists, croaking out absurd little squeaks as she squirmed away from pinches and gropes, squeezing her legs together to try and shield her modesty, and generally looking like she was going to pee the entire time. I, on the other hand, had a lovely stroll, and purchased a cheap necklace of shiny green beads and a pair of barefoot sandals threaded together with some simple green twine and some green and white beads, along with some dates, nuts, and fruit. Victoria turned down my offer to share my banana, although she did partake vigorously of the bottled water I had in my backpack. After several trips up and down the rows of vendors selling fruits and knickknacks, we returned to where we began. As we stood in front of the stone arch leading into another century I checked between Victoria's legs. She was positively dripping with excitement. "If you want to stop, we'd better do it now," I said. Victoria shook her head as she pushed her wet sex against my fingers. A well-dressed Westerner would normally not be welcomed into a slave market but Victoria's naked beauty was my ticket in. The rifle toting guards didn't say a word as I used her leash to pull her through the arched stone entrance and into the main courtyard. The courtyard was formed by the connection of a half dozen buildings with a six-meter high stonewall that ran around the perimeter, a rampart built centuries ago that effectively sealed the slave market from the modernity. There were a few men for sale, and even a pen of goats, but most of the inventory consisted of naked or scantily clad African women. There were a few girls with fair skin, but in this market Victoria was definitely a specialty item. There was an enormous old stone fountain in the center courtyard. The water trickled very slowly from the top into a smaller stone basin and then finally into the large basin below, large enough to comfortably park a jeep in if one were so inclined. Although the water trickled slowly, business around the fountain was brisk, with miniature auctions breaking out each time a new girl stepped up onto the edge of the fountain. There were at least four lengthy haggling sessions going on at anyone time, and sometimes as many as six or seven, with the prettier girls drawing larger crowds and taking up more space than their less attractive sisters. I wondered if the higher prices justified the extra space and time the prettier girls seemed to require. I decided that it must, for no one seemed to mind selling whatever naked girl was unfortunate enough to step onto the makeshift auction block. "Randolph? My friend, what are you doing here?" I squinted in the sunlight before recognizing the fat African wearing the blue smock like shirt and the blue circular cap. "It is me, Bouba. I met you at the party. Do you not remember?" My company imports and exports millions of dollars in African goods annually, but once the context was provided I remembered Bouba immediately. At the party in London he had been wearing a Western suit, and had been introduced to Victoria and I as a "trade manager" charged with running several of his companies local retail businesses. A native African, his Arabic, English and French were excellent, and he was the sort of chap equally at home at a cockfight in the lowliest slum or a swanky party of the sort his bosses threw to secure my company's lucrative business. "What brings you to our humble market, Randolph? Buying or selling?" he said, casting a evaluating glance at my nervous looking wife. "Price check," I chuckled, shaking her rope leash as I ignored Victoria's laser glare. "My wife Victoria was curious about slavery, so I agreed to bring her to market and give her a little taste of the life of a slave girl. My apologies if she does not introduce herself, but she has a spot of laryngitis." "That will increase her price; it is not becoming for a slave girl to chatter. It is truly a pleasure to see you again, Victoria, particularly so much of you. I remember you well from the party, with the lovely red dress that offset your beautiful green eyes. You were quite enchanting, although I must say that I much prefer the dress you are wearing right now," he said, laughing heartily. "Appalled" doesn't do my wife's expression justice; for a moment I thought she might actually vomit. It was bad enough to be paraded in front of anonymous strangers, but now she was standing stark naked and bound in front of a African - and a mere merchant at that - who she had met socially in London. Bouba and I wandered out of earshot for a moment as I explained that I did not want to sell Victoria but I very much wanted to teach her a "memorable lesson." Victoria's Secret: Price Check! "I understand. You wish for her to be humbled?" "Completely," I responded. Bouba smiled and nodded. "So what do you think, Bouba?" I said loudly as we walked back to Victoria's hitching post. Can I get a fair price for her here?" I asked, very much enjoying the mix of nausea, shock, fear, horror, and horniness on my wife's lovely face. "I can give you my professional opinion, if you like," Bouba replied, detaching the riding crop from his belt as Victoria's eyes grew wide as saucers. "By all means," I said. "Free feel... I mean, feel free to check her out." My wife was not amused by my Freudian slip, but had little time to ponder as Bouba checked her eyes, nose, teeth, tongue, hair, ears, and neck. The examination was rapid but not perfunctory, as Bouba handled her like a farm professional who knew precisely what he was looking for. As he ran his fat fingers over her back, legs, thighs, and checked the soles of her feet and even between her toes, I casually untied the rope from my backpack and tied her rope leash to a worn wooden pole that was also serving as hitching post for three bleating goats and two braying donkeys. Victoria, her voice gone, bleated along side her four legged friends as Bouba fondled her freely. "You have firm udders, slave girl," Bouba said, weighing Victoria's naked breasts like they were fruits in the marketplace. "Your nipples harden easily and they will bring me an excellent price. Now bend over, so I may examine the pleasure grove between your milky English thighs." My hotly blushing wife did not wish to bend over, but two insistent taps of the riding crop across her naked bottom made it clear that it was not a suggestion. Victoria bent, and Bouba bent her still further, capping her humiliation by roughly kicking her legs wide apart. "You are wet and juicy, my little slave slut," Bouba observed. "Bringing you to market has put you in slave heat, and now your slave honey is flowing. Let us see how hot you are." A small crowd gathered to watch my wife's shaming as Bouba continued to stroke her quivering wet sex. Bouba addressed me. "This item would bring a fair price here, and it would be a simple enough matter to stand her on the fountain and sell her to the highest bidder. But it would be foolish to vend merchandise of this quality in a market as poor as this one. We could get a better price if we put her in a slave caravan and marched her to port, where the international traders meet." "I believe I know that place," I said. "It's by the hotel we stayed in when we first arrived, I believe," enjoying Victoria's look of horror. "But I don't have a slave sack for her to wear," I teased. "She will not need one," Bouba chuckled as he casually worked his fingers against her sex. "We will march the little slut buck naked through the streets of every village, camp, and watering hole between here and the ocean. It is a long trip on foot, but we will reach port, eventually." Victoria quivered through an orgasm even as Bouba continued. "She would fetch a better price in euros or dollars than she would in dalasi or dinar. I could make you an offer now, or give you 60% of her auction price." "Are we negotiating?" I chuckled, as Victoria craned her neck back to look up at me. "Always. You can trust me to deal fairly with you my friend. Your firm's business is worth far more to my employer than the profits from a single English pussy." Giving me a playful wink, Bouba added, "Do you want her branded now, or when we get to market?" Victoria gasped, and started to rise only to be stopped by a crisp smack of the riding crop across her naked bottom cheeks. "I don't know. How does this branding business work?" I asked, enjoying Victoria's panic. "Girls marked for export are typically branded and registered at port, although we can do it now, if you prefer. It might be a bit cheaper here, but they'll make a better job of it at the larger market. The brands they use here are large and crude." I looked down at my wife's very exposed sex. As we discussed her branding her bottom hole puckered and unpuckered in fear even as her sex quivered and quaked. "How much would it cost here?" I asked. "About 50 dalasi," he said. I smiled as Victoria squeaked comically. It was a cheap price, even here, where such a sum might buy you a hamburger. Translated it was even cheaper, about 75 pence, or maybe $1.60 in American. "Of course at market they might brand her for free, as part of the export fee, in which case the cost would effectively be borne by the buyer." "Let's see the work they do here; then I'll decide," I said, granting her a temporary reprieve. "I want her bottom to have a proper brand." Victoria's relaxed sufficiently to allow Bouba to rock her through another orgasm as the men behind her, a few of whom spoke English, snickered about her "steaming box" and "juicy white pussy." Victoria was permitted to rise, and watched intently as Bouba began scribbling on a small pad of preprinted forms he took from his pocket. "It will take her caravan about three days to walk to market. She will be held in the display pens for at least 48 hours before she is put on the block. Take this receipt," he said, ripping a pink carbon out of the preprinted ticket book. "Be careful not to lose it, for you will need it to claim her. If you do not wish to claim her, or you arrive after the auction you will receive 60% of the proceeds of what promises to be a very fair price." I nodded as I casually stuck the receipt in the external webbed pocket of my backpack, enjoying Victoria's unintelligible squeaky protest as I crumpled the precious slip of paper that might save her from the auction block and stuffed it between my sweating water bottle, a melting, half eaten chocolate bar, and the banana peel left over from my snack. "I have a meeting on Wednesday, but if I hurry I should be able to make it to market," enjoying my wife's groan as I pretended to trust her fate to Africa's notoriously unreliable transportation system. In fact, I already planned to don a hooded robe and join her caravan, and be at her side the entire way to watch as she was handled as a slave. But there was no need for her to know that. "That girl over there has several brands on her bottom," I observed. "Why so many?" Even as he massaged my gasping wife's sex Bouba maintained his casual tone, "Those are registration brands. The circular brand on her left cheek designates the market she was sold in. The marks on her right cheek show her registration number. Each brand is applied separately, with a thirty minute wait between brands. We're taking Victoria to a busy port, so her registration number will be large. The branding irons will be kept busy & blazing all afternoon, but the smelling salts will wake her when she swoons." I was surprised when Victoria squeaked through her loudest orgasm yet. "You have my permission to speak, slave," I said, watching her face closely even as she pushed her sex against Bouba's hand. "Do you WANT to be branded?" I leaned in close as Victoria struggled to squeak out her answer. I expected her to call a halt to the entire business, or at least warn me to back off. Once again, my wife surprised me. Her voice was so weak I had to put my ear almost against her mouth to hear what I suspected would be her last words for the next few days. "If master wishes it," she stammered. I was stunned. I had only been talking about the branding to scare her. But now I wondered if I should give my snooty wife a lasting souvenir of her trip to Africa. "If I don't arrive at the market in time for the auction, would I be able to buy her back later?" "Most likely," Bouba replied. "Merchandise of this quality would probably be purchased by a wholesaler, who would gladly resell her if the price was right. Of course you can always send an agent to bid on her in place." "Why would I do that?" I asked. "Price check," he replied casually. "Offers and assessments are good, but a sale is the only way to truly determine her value on the block. Of course you will end up losing a few euro to account for the auctioneer's commission and the wholesaler's profit, but the exchange rates are good and you can well afford it. In exchange you will receive a genuine and legally binding bill of sale that will firmly establish her market price. Your slave will suffer the shame and humiliation of being paraded on the auction block, but that hardly matters. After all, she is only a slave." Victoria whimpered. Ignoring her, I pressed on. "I will receive clear title to the goods?" "Naturally. The title will be registered and can be endorsed and transferred when she is sold, or used as collateral at a bank." "Excellent. After the auction the man who buys her will own her. What if he doesn't wish to sell her? What if something goes wrong?" Bouba shrugged, as if discussing a matter of no great importance. "He may wish to use her for a while...or longer. In any event you may always purchase another slave girl, my friend. There are many for sale." "How many bidders will there be?" I asked. "I want to make sure she's properly displayed, and I get a fit price for her." Out of the corner of my eye I saw Victoria trembling as we chatted about her sale not as a possibility, but as a fate accompli. "Yes. The auction block itself is a livestock ring, which is also used for the sale of cattle and larger animals. The rows of bleachers are raked to give the crowd an unobstructed view. The animals enter through a sliding panel on the right, and run briskly around the ring, her breasts and bottom bouncing ,with the sand underneath their feet. Since she is illiterate and does not speak Arabic, she will not understand what is being said, anymore than a goat or a cow would. But at the crack of the auctioneer's whip she will bend and spread, so all the men can see her charms. It will not take long; the buyers will have examined her in detail, and they know their business. And there is much merchandise to sell. When she is sold the panel on the left will open, and she will run through, making way for the next animal. " Victoria struggled to breathe at the thought of what I knew for her would be the supreme humiliation. Was Bouba joking? I thought he was, but his expression was difficult to read. In truth, I wasn't sure. I turned to Victoria for approval. Victoria looked at me with desperate, pleading eyes. But what was she pleading for? I could see the idea of having a genuine bill of sale thrilled her. But to earn it she would have to endure the shame of a slave auction and experience being sold like an animal. Plus, depending on the whim of her purchaser, there was a real danger she might become a slave forever. I waited for her answer. Unable to speak, she nodded yes. I smiled as I adjusted the hair around her shoulders. "I don't want to send you to market totally naked," I said. "After all, it's a long walk to a crowded port. If you ran into someone we know that would be SO humiliating!" Victoria nodded in agreement. But her relief was short lived as I slipped the cheap beads around her neck and threaded the green threaded barefoot sandals over a toe and around her ankle. "There!" I said, in a voice that suggested a job well done. "The green beads match your eyes. You were always quite the fashionista. Now even if I don't make it there on time you will mount the auction block in the height of slave girl fashion. And I want you to look your best when you walk past our hotel." I laughed out loud as her beautiful green eyes grew wide as saucers as she remembered the morning on the hotel balcony. The irony was rich, and remembering Victoria's merciless vituperations of the slave girls made it all the more enjoyable. "That's right, my little slave girl," I teased. "You will be paraded naked in front of some of the very same people we met when we arrived. I doubt they'll recognize you of course; you'll simply be another naked little slut, chained to her coffle, shuffling past them in your leg shackles as they sip their morning tea." "Perhaps your friend Alexandra will be able to snap some pictures of you with her zoom lens, and put them up on the Internet. Wouldn't that be delightful? Don't fret, my little slave girl: even if they recognize you, no one will help you. No doubt they will speculate as to how much you might bring, and applaud the men in your coffle for whipping your lazy bottom as you scurry down the street. You will look up at them, enjoying their drinks on the balcony, and they will look down on you." "You wanted to see where the girls were going, as I recall, and watch an auction. Now you will." Before leaving Bouba motioned to one of his assistants, who quickly the rope from the hitch and walked my leashed wife to a large stone wall with an arched entryway into another area of the fort. With her hands lashed behind her back she was helpless to resist, but seeing she was being taken away from me and Bouba struggled anyway. The slaver responded by placing a cut of his riding crop across her naked bottom. With her panic rendering her essentially mute my wife let out a comical little "Yip", sounding very much like one of our Corkies. The long rope around Victoria's neck make securing her simplicity itself. The slaver casually tossed the long, loose end over a large stone arch that formed a doorway into an interior courtyard and tied it off to an ancient iron hook protruding from the base of the wall. Perhaps as a punishment for her resistance he tied the rope so tightly that Victoria was forced up onto the balls of her feet, and struggled to find her footing. This left her doing a delightfully enticing dance that caused her breasts and bottom to be constantly bouncing even as the buyers examined her. The man placed her at a delightfully central location, and as I relaxed in the shade on the old stone steps I watched as the customers carefully examine my squirming wife's hair, mouth, eyes, nose, ears, legs, feet, and steaming wet pussy. I use the word "buyers" loosely - although a few made offers, most were simply locals who wanted a quick feel. Some of the men laughed as they ran their finger along the bright red wheal on her bottom. It was the first of many such marks, I suspected, unless her attitude rapidly improved. Leaving the display area I spoke briefly with Bouba. Taking me inside his office and explaining my plan I gave him my backpack and he gave me a scarf and cloak to cover my face, and, of course, a small slave whip and goad. I was encouraged to use them freely. I noted the slaver who had striped her bottom didn't know that she was free and had whipped her and tied her off as if she were simply a haughty slave girl in need of a lesson. We agreed I would accompany her but that Victoria would have a more "authentic experience" if only the caravan's leader and I knew her true identity. For the next few days Victoria would truly be a slave. Now in disguise I retreated to enjoy my tea on a patio with an excellent view of the courtyard below. Sitting in the shade I was sure Victoria could not see me. In the walled courtyard behind where she was standing the blacksmith worked, and I could tell the smell of the burning charcoal and the bleating of the animals - both four legged and two legged - as the brands were burned into their hides distressed her greatly. I enjoyed her anguish as I sipped my tea. There were a few minor incidents. As they involved the travails of a naked slave girl they are scarcely worth recounting, but they may be of interest to readers who take an interest in such things. To my surprise the man who led our safari a few days before dropped by the market. I don't know if he recognized Victoria in her humbled circumstances or not, but I suspected he did, for he spent an inordinate amount of time fingering her, and then a great deal of time haggling with the flesh peddler in charge of Victoria's section of the market. It was obviously a serious discussion, at least to the buyer, and Victoria looked quite frightened. Her eyes sought out me or Bouba, and I could tell that she was genuinely panicked that she might be sold before one of us returned to rescue her. The market traffic slowed to a trickle at lunch, and there were few buyers to examine my wife's wares. This was a mixed blessing, for Victoria was sweating profusely, with the odor of her arousal and the stench from her sweat totally overwhelming the expensive perfume she had dabbled onto herself that morning. Her slave stink drew flies, and with her hands tied she was helpless to do anything but shake herself to try to get rid of them. But they were not easily deterred, and when they realized how helpless she was they settled in, licking the salty cream from her breasts, and crawling between her bottom cheeks and over her pussy, much to her disgust. A minor kerfuffle erupted when a fully loaded donkey lumbered through the archway, inadvertently snagging the end of the rope tied around Victoria's neck. Victoria tried to pull back but with her hands lashed behind her back and nothing to grab onto she was helpless to resist. The helpless naked slave girl's beautiful green eyes went wide with panic as the noose tightened around her neck and the little donkey slowly lifted her off the ground and into the air! The market was quiet now, and the flesh peddler in charge of Victoria had moved to the other section of the compound, leaving the slave girl with her hands bound behind her to dangle, dancing & kicking on the end of a taught rope. Frantically, I threw my money on the table and headed to the stairs...which were blocked by four men carrying an enormous table up into the café. I looked back to the yard. The donkey's owner, annoyed that the snagged rope had impeded his progress through he doorway sighed wearily as he ambled around the animal to undo the snag. He tried to get the donkey to backup, but the little burro would have none of it. The merchant was the model of patience with the little donkey, which left the unfortunate hanging victim to jerk and kick as her toes brushed the dirt, the green beads from her barefoot sandals twinkling in the bright African sunshine. The little furrows her toes dug into the dirt as she danced offered the tantalizing promise of support but little more. Helpless, she strained to touch her toes to the ground... Soon even that hope was snatched from her. As the merchant tried to pull the donkey backwards the stubborn ass responded by surging forward several steps, lifting the naked slave girl's feet a full 50 centimeters off the ground! As the rope jerked her clear of the ground the terrified slave girl kicked harder, causing the knot to slip behind her left ear even as the rope tightened around her throat. With the stairs blocked, I climbed over the balcony and began crawling down the side of the building, keeping one eye over my shoulder as I watched her frantic struggles. By this time there several men in the yard had noticed her struggles. No one helped. Instead they were laughing, jeering at her bobbing breasts and pointing between her legs as she exposed herself. To the Africans her agonizing suspension hanging was great fun. Her life and her suffering did not matter; after all, they were free, and she was only a slave. In the safe confines of her private club Victoria had often opined that criminals should be hung in the public square, both as a deterrent, "and where there is nothing on HBO." Her dream of hanging as a popular entertainment had come true, only now she was the once dancing at the end of the rope. By the time I dropped into the yard the merchant had persuaded the donkey to backup by offering it a bit of fruit. Victoria returned to earth with a newly discovered revulsion for capital punishment and fresh understanding of how precarious the life of slave girl could be. Victoria's Secret: Price Check! The flesh peddler returned, and untied the rope from the hook. But Victoria's relief was short lived when he used her leash to pull her through the archway into the inner sanctum of the blacksmith's courtyard. Clearly terrified at what awaited her in the blacksmith's yard, Victoria resisted, digging her heels into the dirt and even trying to kick him. But the naked girl with her hands tied and rope around her throat was no match for the experienced slaver, and soon Victoria was in line behind two goats and the little donkey who had nearly executed her, waiting for the busy blacksmith's ministrations. Confident of my disguise, I sat on a wooden bench and enjoyed the fruit I had purchased earlier that morning. The little donkey went first, but Victoria paid little attention as the blacksmith nailed the shoes onto the donkey's hooves. Her attention - and mine - was focused entirely on the blazing forge, and the dozens of hot branding irons being heated in the burning blaze. Things only got worse when the blacksmith's assistant tossed the goat on its side and held it down for its branding. As the brand was pressed down Victoria tried to scream, but she was so frightened that the bleating from the goat was louder than her cry. The brand was only held down for a few seconds, but the evil smell & hiss horrified her. Victoria did manage a pitiful yelp as the second goat was branded. The goats had been held in place by one man, but Victoria - through necessity of simply the desire to join in on the fun - got considerably more attention. One man put his knee into Victoria's back, another knelt on her knees. Another had his boot on her throat, pressing the side of her face into the dirt. The mood was festive and jovial as the laughing men held the squirming little animal in place for her branding. One of the men squeezed her ass cheek and patted the outlined area that would suffer the first brand. The Africans laughed and made animal sounds, MOOING and BLEATING and OINKING as they imitated the screams of an animal being branded as they fondled her creamy alabaster ass. It was clear that for the men at least the branding of her pert white bottom was an amusing diversion. My mind was buzzing. Victoria had left the matter of her branding up to me, which it clearly was since she was in no position to stop it. Should I get Bouba? Should I say something? What should I say? What could I say that would matter, with her naked bottom ready for the marking and the brands heating in the iron? How could I stop them now? More importantly, did I want to? Avoiding undue haste I considered the matter carefully. After all, Victoria had left the decision in my hands. Why would she have done that if she did not want me to exercise my own judgment? Victoria loved monograming her towels and bags, did she not? When she agreed to become a slave, did she not in fact agree to become property? Even in England livestock are routinely marked. I considered the group of black men who were holding her down. The irony was delicious. A few hours before Victoria might have been shouting at these ruffians not to scuff her luggage. Now she was naked, face down and bottom high, waiting for them to brand her. I walked over for a closer look. Putting aside my emotions I assessed the girl at my feet with a cold, unjaundiced eye. The dirty, sweaty slave girl had no clothes, no passport, no money, and no legal rights whatsoever. She had rope burns around her throat and wrists, but that was to expected, for animals needed to be restrained. The randy little minx had been masturbated by Boubo and the other men repeatedly, and I could smell the juices from her arousal, mixed in with her sweat and even a bit of dried urine: apparently the little piggy had wet herself during her near hanging. Her slave stink was pungent, and wafted into my nostrils with an acrid foulness. Before she was sold the filthy little beast would have to be scoured and disinfected, preferably with a coarse bristle brush and some gritty kitchen cleanser, with special attention paid to the gamey smelling gash between her legs. She was panting like a dog. Clearly the little animal was terrified of the hot iron, but in that respect she was no different than the countless slave girls who had preceded her, or the goat for that matter. Indeed, her bottom would be marked with the same irons used to mark the bottom of the cows and pigs. Yes, the pain would be excruciating, but remembering her words on the balcony branding her rump would be no different than branding one of her horses. Was it not for the best? Victoria's gross disrespect of the slaver had nearly cost her life. Slave girls were branded in part to humble them and remind them they were only livestock. Branding her might save her far worse punishments. In that sense branding her was a mercy. Branding her might even save her life. I looked at her sexy white bottom. Victoria herself said she thought the slave girl's brands were pretty, and that "all slave girls should be branded on their big fat rumps." Her round white bottom was perfect. But it would be more perfect with a slaver's brand. "Qui Marquis?" the blacksmith said, looking to the slaver to tell him which brand to retrieve from the forge. The slaver looked down at my wife, a boot on her neck and her face in the dirt, straining to look up on him. He smiled down at her as he nursed the place on his leg where he kicked her. After a lengthy pause, he said something in French to the blacksmith, and much to my surprise, Victoria was released. Apparently the slaver had merely been teasing her, as revenge. A part of me was, I'm ashamed to say, disappointed. What surprised me was that, after her initial elation, Victoria seemed disappointed too. She looked at the forge, then turned her hips so her bare bottom faced the slaver. "No marquis?" she said, looking genuinely crestfallen. I was stunned. The slaver, more experienced with the ways of slave girls than I, laughed knowingly. However her attention quickly shifted as one of the blacksmith's assistant pushed her to the ground and put an old leg shackle around my wife' slender ankle. Victoria's eyes went wide as the blacksmith approached her with a red-hot peg. She was about to be shackled. Permanently shackled. In the horror of what was about to happen Victoria finally found her voice. "Please," she gasped, looking up at the slaver she had kicked only a few moments before. "I'm not a slave." "That's what they all say, my little slave girl," he chuckled, clearly amused at her horror. The peg was inserted and Victoria's foot was dumped in a bucket of water. Steam rose from the bucket as the rivet welded itself permanently into place. It didn't take long to imprison her right foot, and even less time to imprison her left. Victoria sobbed copiously as she stared at her dirty bare feet, imprisoned in the ancient looking shackles. I wondered how many girls had worn the shackles before her. The bond was permanent, and she might well wear them until her death freed the fetters for the ankles of the next slave girl. "You are a slave," the slaver said simply. The slave merchant led her to the coffle and attached the buckle in her shackle to the coffle's chain. There was much weeping, but no kicking. That luxury was now denied her, for the chain between her ankles was too short for the little slave girl to lift a foot without tipping herself over. It would take her a while to learn to walk in them, but the men with the slave whips, myself included, would provide her with the necessary instruction. Victoria looked quite pitiful, weeping as she stared at her dirty, dusty feet and cheap barefoot sandals. I might have actually felt sorry for her, if she wasn't reaching between her legs to masturbate herself as she sobbed. It was a long walk to port and Victoria would do it as a naked slave girl, clad in nothing but shackles and beads, worrying the entire time about whether I would actually allow her to be branded and sold. I remembered the receipt, still in my backpack. I hoped Bouba remembered to pack it with the caravan. I would know when I reached port. I smiled. For the next few days, at least, Victoria wouldn't be bored, and neither would I.