I caught a breath. I tried to open my eyes. Ahh...too bright! Light. Sound. The rush of ice-cold water, moving over my naked body in painful waves. No, not waves-- What was happening? I wasn't submerged, I was being sprayed -- no, blasted - with water.
I was lying on my side, and using the force of the spray I managed to roll so my back was facing the water. The high-pressure hose now blasted the backs of my legs and my ass, but at least I could breathe. I smelled... Salt? I wasn't facing the sun, so I could try to open my eyes again, if I squinted.
At least I was no longer in the demeaning dog crate I had been so cruelly shipped in. Struggling to focus even as my teeth chattered from the freezing water I could see I was stretched out on stone. No, many stones, held together by some sort of white plaster.
I struggled to rise but the force of the water was slowly pushing me along the stones and towards another stone wall, plastered a brilliant white. The force of the water flipped me over as I slid into the wall. I felt the spray move over my naked breasts, down my flat tummy. When the water hit my pussy I screamed and tried to cover my crotch. It didn't help.
Through the din of the water I heard men laughing.
It wasn't until the water turned off that I managed to wipe my eyes. Using both hands as a sort of sun visor I struggled to adjust to the brilliant sunlight all around me.
I was in the shade of a building, a stone building, covered in white plaster that looked very, very old. No, not old, ancient. There were maybe a half dozen men watching, one holding a high-pressure hose nozzle that was connected to a pump. The other end of the hose led into the sea, which explained the smell of salt. I had been hosed down with raw seawater, and I could smell the salt on me, and also the residue of my own stink and filth from the long journey locked in the crate.
I struggled to focus amid the hubbub of the port. There were small but colorful fishing boats behind the men. It looked like I was in some sort of picturesque Mediterranean fishing village. There were rows of houses stacked up onto the hill behind me, and merchants selling fruit and clothing from carts along the bay. A few feet away from me two men were scrubbing down a scooter with long stiff brushes that looked like brooms.
I looked at the men scrubbing the scooter, and they looked at me. They stopped scrubbing the bike, and picking up a rusty old bucket of soapy water headed straight for me.
"No!" I shouted.
Too late. The hundreds of tiny, sudsy bristles of the brush scraped my back as I turned away from the man with the brush. Another man grabbed me by behind, lifting me up by the hair, and I screamed as the rough bristles of the sudsy brush scoured my naked behind.
The men bent me over and kicked my legs apart. The crowd of men laughed as I cried out as the coarse brush scoured my tender bottom hole. I knew I stank, and I was grateful to have the smell of my own pea and shit scrubbed off me, but not like this. The two bearded men were scouring the most sensitive parts of my body with far less care and tenderness than they had shown their stupid scooter.
"You're making a mistake!" I shouted. "I'm not a slave!"
I heard laughter amongst the waves lapping against the fishing boats and rocks behind me. Were they laughing at me, or with me, or just sharing some private joke amongst themselves?
As they scrubbed roughly underneath my arms I got a better look at the mob, and my jaw clenched. They weren't laughing with me. The men watching my scrub down were laughing and joking at my pain and humiliation, but I couldn't recognize the language they spoke. They were darker skin, but white -- sort of swarthy. They wore rough work clothes and many had growths of beard or facial hair.
Where the hell was I? The exact location of the shitty peasant village I was in became secondary as the men stepped back and another blast of water from the sea hose hit my exposed bottom hole and banged my head into the wall. I gasped and cried as the hose again ran all over my body.
The men turned me around like a rag doll. By this point I was so exhausted and cramped and dazed from my journey in the crate that I didn't resist when the men used the rough truck brush to scrub my front. It wasn't until one of them lifted my foot up and the other roughly scrubbed my exposed pussy that I cried out again.
I tried to explain:
"You can't do this to me!"
"I'm an important person!"
More laughter, more scrubbing.
"I have powerful friends. American friend! Rich friends!"
One of the men laughed and mimicked me. "Rich! Rich!" which came out "Witch, Witch" in his guttural accent.
Where the hell was Agatha? I was guessing that one of the nicer houses up in the hills was probably hers, and I was soon going to be whisked away to her villa for lunch and a debriefing on my adventure.
However in the meantime she left me in the care of a group of uneducated riff-raff, the sort of working class nobodies who might have been tending the gardens or cleaning the pool or painting the hallways back at my University. Now these day laborer lowlifes had their grubby hands all over my naked body.
"I'm a Ph.D.!" I shouted, as the scrub brush "shampooed" my hair with all the gentleness of the tire shine at a car wash. Not true, technically, I was a Ph.D. student, but I knew they were too stupid to know the difference. Looking at the buffoons leering and laughing and scrubbing me down, I wondered if they could even read or write.
They certainly gave no sign of understanding anything that I said, although the more I protested the more they joked amongst themselves in their indecipherable babble of a language. Did they not understand me or did they just not care? Maybe both.
A grubby old fisherman in waders stepped forward and lifted my foot up above my head. The hose, the pressure turned down, was still strong enough to pin me against the wall by my pussy. I screamed.
"When Professor Crush gets here, I'm going to have you fired!" I shouted, weeping. But they didn't seem to understand that I was a University student, or that I was on a slave-cation, so in fact they worked for me. I blushed beet red with humiliation as the men laughed at me. The workmen had earned their money, and had cleaned me inside-and-out.
With my humiliating scrub down finished the men turned their attention to several bleating goats that had just been unloaded from the ship. Was it the ship I had been unloaded from? I did not know. I didn't see my dog crate. As the brush went over the goat's fur they bleated as I had. I looked at my fellow livestock with understanding and sympathy.
Lifting me by the scruff of the neck one of the men used some coarse rope to tie my hands tightly behind my back. He then looped another link of rope, about six feet long, into a crude noose around my neck.
I looked up and saw that I was standing directly under a wooden beam that could be used to hold a sign or awning. The old wooden beam was thick, and if he tossed the rope over and hoisted me skyward he could simply tie the rope off and leave me to dance my life away.
"No!" I cried, "I'll be good. I'll do anything you say," I said, pleading for my life.
I wasn't sure if he understood me or not, but my desperation seemed to please him. He reached his hand between my legs, and fingered me, and I moaned and pressed against him, anxious to earn my master's favor. His hands were coarse and he smelled like rotting fish, but he was better than the rope.
When he finished his crude explorations of my pussy he yanked on the rope and I stumbled forward. I cried out from my sudden burst of light blindness as he pulled me out of the shade of the building and into the brilliant sun.
Even with my eyes closed, I heard voices all around me. As I stumbled forward I cried out again as I realized that he was pulling me stark naked away from the building and into a busy street.
"No, please!" I pleaded. "I'm naked! Please! PLEASE! Give me my clothes. Anything! I'm naked, damn you!"
I wasn't entirely unfamiliar with public nudity, having exercised naked in front of the disgusting, drooling perverts who watched me do my slave yoga at the club. They were scum, and I hated them, but it had aroused me to perform for them, as I knew they could never have me. My Slave Yoga was performed in the safety of my class, and the men had been high above me, behind glass, watching from the viewing gallery. My purse and ID were on the other side of the door in the locker room, and I had Master John and Suzie -- not to mention the law and the police -- to protect me.
Being paraded down the street entirely naked in a foreign country was an entirely different experience. My clothes were not safely tucked away in a securely locked locker. In this strange place I was a naked slave girl, and as such I had no clothes at all.
I remember laughing at the slave girls fighting amongst themselves over beads and slave sandals and such, as if such trinkets mattered. After all if you're naked with beads on you're still naked, right? Stupid, ignorant slave girls! Perhaps, but right now barefoot and naked I was desperate for anything, ANYTHING, that would make me feel less exposed, less helpless, less like I had nothing.
"I wish Suzie had left me with some slave beads," I thought, my already blurry eyes filling with tears. It was a curious sensation. I had nothing. NOTHING.
I found myself wondering where my passport was. Probably in my purse, I thought. I wondered where Suzie had taken my purse, which had the missing identification that could rescue me from this nightmare. Had she taken it home with her, and left it by the door. No, as a lawyer Suzie was the epitome of organization. My identification had been put SOMEWHERE. Perhaps she had taken it to work, and put it in her desk, or had given it to her secretary or one of her assistants or interns to file. I shuddered at the thought.
Slave girls, of course, often had their slave registration numbers tattooed on their inside of their upper lip, or occasionally branded on the tender skin inside one of their bottom cheeks. Agatha Crush always had her slave girl's bottoms branded with her gorgeous cursive monogram. There had been a time not so long ago when I had viewed slave tattoo and animal brands as demeaning. But now, being led naked through the streets with absolutely nothing to distinguish or identify, I secretly wished I had Agatha's elegant and distinctive brand burned into my ass.
It was a strange thought. I had read about slave girls being "hungry for their brand" but I had never fully understood the psychology of their desire until this moment. Now I knew. I wanted to belong. I wanted to belong to someone!
My eyes clearing somewhat, I focused my attention on the man tugging my rope leash.
"Please," I said, trying to get his attention. "You don't understand. You need to untie my hands! I'm an important person!"
My uncomprehending captor never even bothered to turn around. As he jerked my leash and led me into the shade of the busy marketplace my eyes focused on him more. My captor was young... maybe 19? He was skinny, and wearing cutoff shorts and jeans and a T-shirt.
Seriously? This mere slip of a boy was leading me stark naked into a growing crowd with the casualness of a boy walking his dog.
From the architecture and white stone and colorful boats and salt water and white plaster and blue roofs and swarthy men I guessed I was on an island or on the coast, probably in Greece. I didn't understand the language spoken, but I certainly understood the rudeness of comments about my naked body as the men openly pointed at me and the old women cursed me. As the crowd thickened and the streets narrowed the situation worsened. These vulgar barbarians had no concept of personal space whatsoever. As I passed the crude and unsophisticated men freely reached out to grab my breasts, my ass, or ran their fingers through my long hair. Pigs! A few of the laughing men just reached out and grabbed me by the pussy, giving me a good feel, groping me as if they had every right to do so.
Perhaps in this place and in my present reduced circumstances they did. As a trained psychologist I knew that power was often a matter of perspective. In my eyes they might be vulgar, uneducated peasants, but in their eyes I was simply a naked slave girl.
"Slave girl." The words hit me like a club. I knew I wasn't, of course, but once again my mind wandered to my passport, sitting in my purse, sitting in the desk drawer of one of Agatha's summer interns cubicle.
Another man grabbed my breasts and started groping them, laughing to his friends as he did so. The teenager holding my leash didn't seem to care about the assaults behind him, except when a pussy grab or a titty pull caused me to slow, as this one did. Annoyed, he violently yanked the leash around my neck, as if it were somehow my fault that some fat old man was squeezing my tits like melons for sale. The noose tightened, cutting off my air and jerking me forward, as my boy-master muttered his displeasure at the way I was delaying him.
Delaying me from what? Where were we going? I did not know. I did not need to know.
I was a naked slave girl.
No! I pushed the thought from my mind. I was a psychology student, and this was research. It was natural that I would feel anxious, helpless, humiliated, afraid. Those were the sensations an actual naked slave girl would feel in similar circumstances, and those were the emotions I was studying.
With clinical attachment I shifted my attention to the strangers around me. With their dark skin and strange accents the men and women in the marketplace reminded me of the janitorial staff at the University who scrubbed the toilets and worked in the cafeteria and drove the busses that ferried the students about. From behind the boy who was holding my leash reminded me a bit of Juan, the townie that cleaned out the rat cages and mopped the floors at the psychology lab I ran on campus. I sometimes sent Juan on personal errands to stand in line for me to get tickets or haul boxes and furniture up-and-down-the-stairs when one of my friends moved. He didn't always seem happy about it, but he did it, because I was the pretty white girl who signed his performance review and he knew I could replace him or perhaps even deport him if he didn't dance to my tune.
I had never thought much about our relationship; after all, I was the graduate student running the lab, and I had the power. I was the one with the education. When I snapped my fingers, Juan jumped. That was simply the way things were, the way things were meant to be.
Strange as it might seem, I imagined Juan holding my rope leash, and suddenly I felt my pussy stirring, moistening at the thought of the servile teenage boy I ordered about leading me naked on a rope leash through the bustling marketplace.
The psychology of my arousal confused me. My girlfriends sometimes insisted that Juan take off his shirt when he was moving things or doing yard work for us or serving us by the pool at a party, but we were just teasing him. He wasn't at all muscular or attractive and it wasn't like anyone of us would ever actually stoop to date him. In truth, we were just being mean to him, playing a harmless but fun power game.
The game didn't seem so harmless or fun now. Why was I aroused at the thought of Juan leading me naked through the streets on a leash? I knew from my research and my personal experience in my Slave Yoga class that putting a beautiful girl in a posture of naked and vulnerable submission made her all the more attractive to men. But why was the thought of being humiliated by Juan so arousing?
I didn't realize precisely how vulnerable I was until my boy master stopped to talk to another teenager playing a video game on his phone. As the two chatted, one of my many passing "admirers" took advantage of my helpless vulnerability to attack me from behind. I gasped as he forced my legs apart and slipped his into my embarrassingly wet sex.
I didn't resist; indeed, because of the wetness of my sex and my inexplicable excitement over fantasizing about Juan I gasped with pleasure and pushed back, humping the strange man's hand with my soaking wet pussy.
Juan and his friend continued to laugh and chat about the video game, staring at the tiny screen. Behind me the laughing, unseen stranger finger fucked me. I closed my eyes and moaned, losing myself in my own pleasure.
I was on the very brink of orgasm when the moment ended. As if a trap door had sprung the noose around my neck tightened and yanked me forward out of my admirers grasp. The man behind me laughed and gave me a sharp slap on the ass as I stumbled forward in a daze, groaning and whimpering in frustration at the elusive orgasmic release denied to me.
I never saw the face of the man who had nearly brought me to orgasm.
As I realized how wet my pussy was I felt a fresh wave of humiliation rush over me. I had heard the slave girls talk about "block pussy", a condition where certain slave sluts actually could orgasm at the mere thought of being taken to the market and put up on the auction block. Even among slave girls this was looked down on, for it was a condition suffered by only the most ravenous and wanton of slave sluts. After all, being paraded and exhibited in a slave market was the ultimate degradation; how could any woman with a shred of dignity get excited by being publicly violated by any stranger with a coin in his pocket? Yet for slave sluts, the degradation of standing naked on an auction block was also the ultimate turn on.
I started to wonder if "block pussy" might not be a form of The Helsinki effect, where kidnappers begin to identify with and fall in love with their captors, as a psychological strategy for regaining a sense of power. I had experienced the hidden secret powers known only to a slave girl, the power of being desired and lusted after and wanted.
In class I had felt the eyes of the men watching from the overhead gallery examining every inch of my nakedness, discretely rubbing themselves through their pants as they imagined the ecstasy of possessing me. Their insatiable lust had spurred me on, and had inspired me to perform for them in the most shameless way. I hated them, but they also aroused me.
If helplessness gave one power, didn't it stand to reason that the MORE helpless one was, the more power one would experience? Did being absolutely naked in a foreign land, with my passport tucked away somewhere thousands of miles away, make me powerful then when I was neatly dressed and teaching a psychology class. I was determined to find out.
Luxuriating in my absolutely nakedness I took a moment to savor a dirty old man with white hair, stale breath, and a bushy mustache caressing one of my breasts and ass cheeks as I passed. It was just a quick feel, and the old man with the rotting teeth stunk of sweat and fish. But the touch of his coarse, filthy, wrinkled hands now caused me to groan with pleasure.
From my reading I remembered Foucault's argument that sexuality was "coextensive with power", meaning there was always some sense of power exchange in sexuality. Perhaps my excitement at being so rudely handled by these grubby men was indeed because, like the men watching me do Slave Yoga, they had no chance of ever having a romantic let alone a sexual relationship with me. At best, I might hire them to haul out my trash.
I wasn't excited because I was a slave slut. Indeed, it was quite the opposite. I was a highly educated academic researcher conducting an experiment, with the full backing and unimaginable wealth of Professor Agatha Crush behind me. They were uneducated laborers sucking on fish heads. I was as far above them as the dirt on the stones under my feet.
I smiled. I was in charge, but the men were too stupid to know it.
The vulgar, uneducated scum grabbing my breasts and pussy assumed that I was slave pussy, because that was what their uneducated minds could grasp. They didn't realize that this was an experiment, and even with my hands tied behind my back I was still in charge. The ignorant peasants who surrounded me were nothing more than lab rats in my cage.
Understanding the true nature of the situation allowed me to relax and revel in the sensual pleasures of my naked stroll through the busy market. I enjoyed the feel of the cold stones beneath my feet, and the little bits of dirt and gravel than I had been trying to avoid stepping on. I no longer tried to step around them. My discomfort was part of my slave-cation experience. Even faux "slave girls" needed to get used to walking barefoot.
There was a pause in the action as Juan paused to haggle with a fruit vendor over some figs. As Juan and the street vendor laughed and teased each other, a homeless man sitting against the wall, rose and walked over for a closer look at my naked body.
Smiling his toothless smile he reached out and grabbed my breast, caressing my nipple, first one breast and then the other. I licked my lips sensuously and smiled at him, giving him a good tease. I'd show the old bum what slave hot meant! It was my game now, and I was going to play it for all it was worth.
Seeing that my teenage owner didn't seem to (literally) give a fig as to what he was doing, the reeking old bum put his hand between my legs, and laughed his stale, drunken breath into my mouth as he grabbed my hot, wet pussy. I was shamefully wet, and open, and ready, and I groaned with both humiliation and pleasure as he worked his dirty knuckles into my gaping sex. I closed my eyes and began humping his hand.
I groaned in pleasure. Release was seconds away...
Damn! My teen master jerked my lease and the dirty old man's fingers popped out of my wet pussy.
Damn Juan! Would I ever find release?
My master turned around and for the first time I got a good look at his face. He looked younger than Juan, as his face was covered with peach fuzz from the beard he wasn't man enough to grow yet. His skin was a bit darker too, a bit browner. He was 18 or 19, but seemed relaxed, as if handling a naked slave girl was nothing new to him. This might have been my first time naked in a marketplace, but it clearly wasn't his first time holding a naked girl's leash.
Juan finished peeling the orange he had purchased, then reached over to put the discarded peel into my mouth. The peel was tough and chewy, but I was famished, and welcomed the nourishment. He pointed at the other peel pieces he had discarded on the ground, nudging them with the tip of his shoe as he snapped his fingers and pointed down at the garbage on the street.
To my surprise the homeless man, sensing his opportunity, came up from behind and reaching between my legs once again sunk his fingers into my pussy and began groping and rubbing my soaking sex. I groaned in pleasure, but my boy master wasn't having it. Snapping his fingers insistently he again he pointed at the trash on the ground.
Eating the garbage was humiliating, yes, but if I obeyed I would get to enjoy the coarse fingers pleasuring my wet pussy. With the old homeless man's fingers wiggling inside of me I spread my legs and bent at the waist. My endless hours of Slave Yoga training had left me flexible, and by extending my tongue I was able to lift a discarded peel laying on the dirty stone pavement up with my tongue and into my mouth. I chewed, swallowed, and rapidly moved on to scoop up the next peel.
Skillfully I cleaned the pavement. Above me my master was still peeling his orange, and a few of the pieces bounced off my face as he casually dropped them onto the pavement in front of me. Like a sow eating the scraps tossed into her sty, I pressed my snout down against the pavement to lift the next discard into my hungry mouth, groaning with the pleasure of my total humiliation as the heat in my pussy built to a crescendo.
The old beggar laughed in surprise when I came in waves on his hand. Uneducated in the psychology and Foucault he didn't understand that his fun was really my fun, anymore than he could comprehend the dynamics of sexual power exchange. He thought of me as hot slave pussy he could cop a free feel from. He didn't realize that despite outward appearances, the girl humping his fingers like a bitch in heat had just used his dirty old hand to pleasure myself. Indeed, if I had any money, I would have tossed it on the ground for him to pick up as a tip.
I would have certainly come again, but when I scooped up the last orange peel with my tongue my master jerked me forward and once again I felt the noose tighten around my throat. I wondered if the coarse rope would leave a mark. A part of me I hoped so. Real slave girls often had shackle scars around their throats, wrists, or ankles and sometimes even a "hangman's scar" around their necks. Marks of my captivity would be like a badge of honor and would certainly make my slave girl guise more convincing.
We rounded a corner and my master lifted a latch that took us into a wooden pen where various buyers were inspecting goats, pigs, and donkeys. I literally stepped in it, and my foot sank into the ooze of the animal droppings. Nonetheless I kept up my pace as my master left no slack on my leash.
Juan led me to a line of naked slave girls, about a dozen in all, chained or fastened to an assortment of huge iron meat hooks that looked like they had been cemented or drilled into the ancient wall centuries ago.
The meat hook was about two foot above my head, and my master easily threw the rope over it. He quickly and expertly threaded the end of my rope through one of several large holes that were drilled through a worn but very thick leather strap.
With the leather strap firmly knotted to the noose around my neck he smiled at me puckishly and then begin turning the very large and very old ratchet gear built into the wall which was attached to the end of the leather strap holding my noose. The gear looked very old, like something out of antiquity, and I supposed its original purpose was to haul up pallets or perhaps large animals off the back of a cart and into sales area.
Grabbing the old wooden hand crank he turned the old but still very serviceable gear in a clock-wise motion.
I gasped as the noose around my neck tightened and I felt my feet being pulled off the stone.
"Noooooo!" I shouted.
My master laughed.
My master didn't stop until I was stretched out so all of my weight was on my toes and the balls of my feet. I was struggling not to hang myself, a task made all the more difficult by the wet ooze between my toes, which left my feet and the area beneath me a sloppy mess.
My master took a moment to enjoy my struggle, chuckling as I hopped from foot-to-foot trying to find something firm to stand on. His dark, black eyes did remind me of Juan's, except Juan refused to make eye contact, and looked at me with fear and trepidation, where my Master's eyes positively twinkled with amusement. Smiling, my teenage master leaned forward and kissed me, slipping his tongue into my mouth even as he slipped his fingers inside my wet pussy for a nice, long, feel. I didn't resist him and instead pressed my pussy into his fingers to take some of the weight off my throat.
It was shameful, I know. I didn't want to give the little bastard such an energetic finger fuck but I was willing to do anything to save myself from the tug of the noose. The worst part of the humiliation was when I found myself responding to Juan's touch, and rocking back and forth on his grubby little fingers.
When he finally released -- just short of orgasm again! - I was reduced to shifting my weight as I danced at the end of my rope, my breasts and bottom bouncing and jiggling. Struggling for air kept me in constantly in motion, which seemed to please the men watching me.
All around and inside the pens there were men milling about and moving down the line as they examined the teeth and more interesting parts of the other chained slave girls.
A few yards away they were selling goats from a stone auction block that looked to be left over from the days of antiquity. The steps and short stone ramp leading up to the ramp were rounded with age, and I was left wondering how many millions of bare animal feet -- two legged and four legged -- had walked across the stone. I was gasping and dancing on the end of my rope, but the merchants running the market seemed unconcerned, and focused their attention on the goats they were auctioning.
A smiling old man came by, squeezed my breasts, and cupped my pussy. He laughed at how wet I was, and motioned over to his son, who also came in for a good feel.
This couldn't be happening.
Where were my slave papers?
Where was Suzie, or Professor Crush?
Did anyone here speak English?
Struggling to focus as I dangled in my noose I recalled Suzie insuring me against theft, lest I be picked off by the cargo handlers at the airport and be sold in some foreign market, never to be heard from again.
No. No. That couldn't happen to me. Yes, I was dangling from a cargo hook in a slave market, a piece of cargo to be inspected, auctioned, and sold.
Oddly enough my rope "dance" caused my to rub my thighs together, and even in my torment I found myself growing ever wetter even as I strained against the rope. The rope around my neck was tight, but if I lifted my feet off the ground I could pleasure my pussy before the lack of air forced me back onto my straining, searching toes.
A few yards away the auctioneer finished selling the goat. The auctioneer shouted out something that sounded to me like "POLLY-THEE!" which I'm guessing meant "SOLD!" in whatever language I was listening to. The goat was led off the auction block and another goat quickly took its place.
Two older women, one wearing a black dress and the other a head scarf, walked in front of me. They checked my hands, and finding them smooth and soft, laughed. They asked me something in their native language, and I just stared at them baffled.
One of the women reached between my legs and felt my wet pussy. She laughed in disgust as she showed her wet fingers to her friend before drying them in my hair. Unlike the men, they didn't find my "slave heat" appealing, as it was obvious they were looking for a domestic. They spit on the ground and cursed me, then quickly moved along.
The next man in line took more of an interest in me. He started off by taking a breast in each hand, smiling as he kneaded my breasts in a long, luxurious feel. He reached a finger between my legs, laughing out loud at my wetness as I blushed. He checked my teeth, and my hair. Lastly he spun me around, squeezing my ass cheeks as I struggled to gain my footing.
He finished by slapping me hard across the ass. It stung, and the force of it caused me to spin in circles on my rope as my laughing appraiser strolled away.
I struggled to focus, reasoning about current predicament. After all, no matter what anyone in this shithole country might think, I was a doctoral student, well educated and wealthy, at least compared to the ignorant fishmongers who now surrounded me.
A fat old man with a wide nose and a deep tan approached me, and started fondling my nipples. He stunk of fish and he had a patches on his pants and holes in the underarms of his shirt, which I saw when he raised my hands over my head to get a better grope of my naked breasts.
"A-mair-uh-can?" he asked in thickly accented English.
"Yes, Master," I replied. "Please buy me. I want to serve you with my hot mouth, and hot slave pussy."
My answer, memorized in class and given by rote, surprised me. I don't know if he understood me, but he smiled. I knew part of his enjoyment was having a pretty American girl so obviously out of his league as a sex slave he could finger and grope. He was enjoying my humiliation and degradation, but that was, of course, his right as a buyer in the slave market. The surprising part was that I found myself enjoying it too.
In one of my papers for Dr. Crush I had written that a naked girl in a slave market enters into a very specific and well defined social compact. It is her job to be pleasing, and to welcoming to the men who fondle her, to demonstrate her worthiness to be their slave. The compact benefits the girl as well, as by pleasing the customers with her hot naked body, she might attract a more wealth master, and earns the buyer's admiration and respect as a worthy piece of slave meat.
When I presented this paper to Professor Crush she crossed out the words respect and admiration, explaining that it was impossible for a fully clothed master to respect or admire a slave slut, or indeed feel anything but lust for them. She suggested the word "desire", which truth be told is the better adjective. A worthy performance in a slave market might earn the respect of other slave girls for sale, but humping every stranger's fingers like an insatiable sex bunny is hardly the sort of behavior that earns a young woman "respect."
Yet hump the old man's fingers I did, for as soon as he touched my hot pussy I immediately began juicing on my hand. "Buy me master," I pleaded, licking my lips suggestively. "I want to suck your cock, and swallow your load."
I felt quite sure the man's disgusting load tasted like rancid fish oil, but as my training had kicked in I truly longed to swish his seed around my mouth before gobbling it down like fine wine. As I humped his hand he generously rubbed my clit with his thumb, and I knew that despite his stink and age and obesity he would be a good master. A master who would give me what I needed.
I came on his hand, groaning in pleasure, and not stopping as I pushed my way towards a second orgasm. My master laughed, and pulling his finger out of me, wiped his hand on my faces. Amused by my wantonness, he wiped most of my juices under my own nose, so I could smell myself for the rest of the day.
Much to my surprise my fat master did not stay to buy me or even watch me be auctioned but instead simply waddled off into the marketplace, disappearing into the crowd. My heart sank; in our brief time together I felt we had forged a master / slave girl bond, a partnership based on our mutual pleasure.
The adage said "A good slave girl loves all her masters." I had thought the saying bizarre, until I found myself falling in love with Master John. But I was surprised to find myself pining for the touch of the man who had simply used me to cop a free feel.
And so it was for the next 30 minutes, as my feet, calves, thighs, pussy, ass, butthole, back, arms, hair, and teeth were examined by an endless variety of buyers and browsers, the horny and the bored. Some did not even approach me, but simply stopped to look at me and laugh with their friends, pointing out the pretty fair skinned girl constantly struggling to get her footing as she jerked in her noose.
One of the groups that stopped was a group of coeds in their late teens. I was guessing they were in college on some sort of Spring Break, for one of them wore their Sorority T-shirt and the others all had on shirts or hats with their sorority symbol. They had been drinking, and two of them still had beer cans in their hands, and were giggly in that highly annoying way teenage girls have to produce a titter and shriek that does right through you.
When they saw me they burst into shrill laughter, and after whispering to each other for a few minutes and tittering and laughing and pointing at me, they moved in for a closer look.
"You got a rope around your neck, slave girl!" one of the girls said contemptuously, standing so close I could smell the beer on her breath and see the braces on her teeth. She spoke with a thick Southern drawl.
"Yeah, we should stay, Betty-Jean. I want to watch her get sold."
"I hope they brand her slave ass. I bet she'd scream like a pig."
The girls all laughed at this, as my bottom cheeks clenched in fear.
"Where are we?" I said.
"The slave market, dumb shit. Don't you know anything?"
"She's a slave girl. Her brains are in her hot pussy."
I felt myself go flush as the girls laughed at me. They reminded me of the bratty teenagers in the class I taught, only worse: stupid Southern rednecks going to some crappy college I had never heard of in some hillbilly state down South. For a moment I wished I was a Professor at their college, so I could bend them over my desk and crack their haughty asses with a paddle.
"Look between her legs, Ellie-May. Little slave girl's all hot and juicy."
"What country are we in?" I asked.
"It's not a country, it's an island off Greece, dumb shit."
"Shhh! Don't tell her anymore, Becky. Slave girls don't get to ask free women questions."
"Yeah!" Becky said, getting up close to shout in my face. "We're free slave girl, and we have clothes on, and you don't get to ask us shit."
"Maybe we should just give that fat guy selling the goats $20 to hang her," Ellie May said, tugging on the rope and forcing me onto my toes.
"Yeah, it would be fun to watch her pee on herself."
"Poor little naked slave girl, hanging in the slave market," Betty Jean said.
"Bet you wish you had some clothes, like we do."
Struggling against the hand tugging on my noose I forced a smile. "You have clothes. For now."
"What does that mean?" Becky asked.
"See that man with the badge?" I replied. "He hasn't stopped looking at you since you arrived. He's probably wondering what a bunch of shit-for-brains sorority girls are doing wandering around a foreign slave market. It won't take long to strip you naked and burn your passports. Maybe they'll auction us together."
The girls all looked over their shoulders at the policeman with the dark sunglasses who was staring at them impassively. At that moment another police officer arrived, and the first officer pointed directly at the girls. The other man looked them over, and smiled.
The rope around my neck was instantly released. "Maybe we should get out of here," Becky said.
"Yeah," Ellie-May said. "Like NOW."
The girls took off in the opposite direction, with the police in close pursuit. I wondered if I would see them again.
I was in Greece, or close to Greece anyway. Strangely enough the thought calmed me, as I knew that I was now part of an ancient and well-established tradition. The stone steps leading up to the auction block I was to be sold off of were rounded, worn away by thousands of years of tiny bare slave girl feet making their way up to the block where they could be displayed, bid upon, and vended.
I felt certain that Agatha had arranged this. After all, what better way for me to study slavery than by examining it at it very roots, at the birthplace of democracy. the ancient world where slavery had been at it's zenith. Agatha often pointed out that the greatness of classical civilization was built on slavery. In putting me to market here, Agatha was allowing me to share in a proud tradition.
I was in no real danger, for the winning bidder would doubtlessly be one of her hired confederates. It made total sense. Philosophy students have Socratic arguments, political science students debate THE REPUBLIC, drama students watch performances of Oedipus Rex. I, a student of slavery, would stand barefoot on a two-thousand -year-old stone auction block and be sold as a naked slave girl. What could be more perfect?
It was strangely comforting. Soon I would be shuffling up the same steps my sisters had shuffled up for thousands of years, binding me permanently to the greatness of Greece and Rome as I allowed myself to be sold in the classical tradition. I felt a strange sense of honor, and spread my legs and licked my lips, eager to draw yet another buyer or browser to fully examine everything I had to offer.
I looked to my right. They were finished with the goats, and I watched helplessly as the first of the naked slave girls was led by the scruff of her neck up the steps to the ancient auction block. She was about 19, naked, with olive skin and long black hair. Naturally, she looked terrified, but the auctioneer did not care. She was to be sold.
The ancient whitewashed stone auction block about six feet long and maybe four feet above the crowd, giving the crowd a good view of the merchandise being vended. The animals were led up to the block via a wooden ramp in back, but the dark haired slave girl took the worn stone steps, her tiny bare feet and toes grasping for footing on the convex stairs, badly worn and curved in at the center by the countless naked slaves who had walked up these steps before her.
I wondered what the girl's name was, and how she had gotten to this wretched state. It did not matter. She was now simply slave pussy to be sold off the old hunk of stone, like the endless parade of girls sold before her. A parade I would soon be joining.
My confidence building exercise was interrupted as a buyer lifted me by my hair Struggling in my noose I was helpless to resist as he opened my mouth and examined my teeth and gums. The master inspecting me was fat, and bald, and he stunk of wine and cigarette smoke. Remembering my slave training, I smiled at him as he stuck his fingers into my hot slave pussy, hoping to win his favor. "Buy me, Master," I pleaded, licking my lips hungrily.