The Slave Trade

It's pretty clear these people don't know what to do with me while they have me. They fear retribution from the Empire. They don't want to be blamed for the attack which, in retrospect, only annoyed the enemy without forwarding the cause. But they want to make some money for their efforts, and I'm the only saleable property they have: a white woman in the Middle East. That's how I wind up in the slave market.

I've only been manhandled thus far, but that happy state of affairs may not last much longer. My hands are tied together with rope which is suspended from a ceiling beam in a very long, low stone building housing the chattel on offer. One side is open to the daylight. I'm grateful for the shade -- the weather here at noon is stifling.

I'm still wearing most of my clothes. My blouse is ripped at the shoulder and neck, and has come partly untucked (no chance of tucking it back with my hands over my head) but is still mainly in one piece. And the exclusively male customers and merchants milling around seem to be a bit afraid to touch me. I have the unpleasant suspicion that this will change, but for now I remain unmolested. I'm grimy, of course. My hair is coming down from its usual conservative bun. One unattractive merchant has squeezed my waist and declared me too bony, in Farsi I can more or less understand. But no one has attempted an indecency. No one, that is, until you enter the enclosure.

You were, quite frankly, the arrogant bastard I most enjoyed irritating. I had enough clout with the philanthropist who funded the expedition to have some administrative control over the proceedings. It was highly enjoyable to circumvent some of your edicts. We'd crossed swords several times. But right now, I was enormously relieved to see you. Just the kind of disreputable place I'd expect to find you in, I reflected sardonically. But useful to have you here. I called out. You turned. You didn't recogniize me at first. Then your eyes lit up. But in a way that made me shiver just a little.

I expect, of course, that you will demand my immediate release. But that's not what happens. What happens is that you ask the hovering, obsequious merchant, who has clearly written me off as a bad investment, "How much? For two hours?" in a dialect that I am clearly intended to understand.

What? I sputter and issue outraged denunciations, but to no avail. They ignore me. Money changes hands. The merchant effaces himself. But not very far. The doings of white infidels seem to interest the buying public. You bury your hands in my hair and let it loose to fall halfway to my waist. You open my blouse, exposing the corset beneath that barely conceals my breasts, and cut the blouse from my back. I'm struggling now.

This is outrageous, unacceptable. Inconceivable. Inconceivably, my skirt is removed, though I manage to deliver a sharp kick in my own defense. But then it all goes your way. The petticoats are stripped from me, the bloomers, and I'm left standing in a corset that only covers me to the waist, stockings, and boots. Maybe the boots will allow me to inflict still more damage, I reflect hopefully, so angry that I'm almost unaware of my own excitement.

...and almost unaware of my exposed body. Something, it seems, that you are very much aware of. I can see your erection through the curtain of my hair and through your trousers. But apparently, you don't intend to risk any more bruises. Rattling out a complicated string of commands in a dialect I can't follow as well as that used previously, you send several burly men scurrying to do your bidding. One gives more play to the rope that binds my hands, though I notice with disappointment that it remains fastened to a hook I cannot reach. Another -- oh, this is outrageous -- comes up behind me and hoists me up, with his hands under my arms, eventually crossing his forearms beneath my breasts.

Two more -- Jesus how many men are necessary to subdue one woman? -- come to either side of me. What the hell is going on? You rattle off more commands, pointing, this time, in a way that is unmistakable. My knees go weak, though, given what I think will happen, that won't make any difference.

The man behind me hoists me in the air. Each of the other two, and they're young, strong men, catches a hold of one of my thighs. They spread me, in midair (I'm still struggling, mind, but more as a gesture of defiance), my legs parted in a Y, my cunt exposed, my clit for some reason throbbing. In distress, I tell myself, trying to bite the arm of the man behind me. You step between my legs.

I'm shouting and writhing, partly blinded by my hair, aware of my nakedness. Aware of the general amusement that fills the room. Aware of your enjoyment. I'm almost weeping with outrage and... something else that I don't want to think about. You step closer. You reach out and touch my clit and I almost swoon from the wave of pleasure that passes over me. How is that possible? You smile in a way I cannot like.

Then you begin speaking. In English, this time. Thankfully the merchants and customers cannot understand. You tell me, at the same time playing with my clit, slowly inserting your fingers in my cunt, slowly pushing a finger in my ass, that you will eventually free me. But you also say that you have been waiting to fuck me for a very, very long time. You have no intention of missing the opportunity. And you will not only have me, in every possible way, before all these people, but you will make me enjoy it. You will make me beg you to push your cock inside every opening my body possesses. You will make me scream my enthusiasm before all these witnesses. I ignore the fire that you've started in my clit and spit in your face. Or I try. Being suspended in midair with someone's finger in one's ass does dreadful things to one's aim.

You laugh. And unbutton your pants. Oh good lord. I'm writhing in earnest now. That's just too big to fit. You'll split me in half. There's a certain amount of amusement in the background that I'm barely aware of in my panic and then you step up close between my legs and push the tip of your cock between the lips of my cunt. Oh dear.

My writhing is apparently helping you along. How did I get so wet? How.. Deeper and deeper and... Oh good lord. Your hands are cupping the cheeks of my ass and you're thrusting, thrusting hard, and I seem to dissolve. I'm moaning now. Gasping. You gesture to the men to let me down. What? I'm horribly frustrated, but I can't say so. I sprawl on the floor, hands still fastened together and attached to the rope, absolutely aching with need. You stand over me, your erection still very much in evidence.

"I'm going to fuck you from behind now," you announce. "Get up on all fours. That's right. Show everyone you want it."

I'm aware of the picture I present. Almost naked -- the corset and stockings and boots making the nakedness of my ass and cunt somehow worse. But I want your cock inside me so badly that I do as you say. I push myself up on my bound hands and my knees.

"Part your legs," you say. "Arch your back. Show me your ass. Show me you want this."

I do, God help me. There's applause from some of the merchants. And then you ram your cock into me and fuck me so hard that I squeal, beside myself, every tissue of my body exploding with pleasure.

Again you stop. I think I actually utter a protest. Why? You haven't come. Why stop now? I'm so ready, so aroused, that I'm shaking. I sit up and your erect cock is almost in my face. You smile down at me.

"Some things have to be earned."

And then your cock is in my mouth, your hands are in my hair, and I have no urge whatsoever to bite, not wishing to undermine what promises to come later. You're too big for this, I reflect, but that's an advantage in other contexts. And you're so smooth, so hard... I develop an enthusiasm for the task. I run my tongue along the smooth, hard shaft, along the tip, tasting the drop of come that shivers there. I relax as you plunge down my throat and withdraw to let me suck. I can hear laughter, but I don't care. Then your hands tighten in my hair, and you push me back.

Suddenly you're holding... I'm not sure what to call it. Women of my class don't have names for things like that. Something shaped like your cock, made out of -- ivory? Something very big. Oh dear. I back up to the length the rope will permit. More laughter from the onlookers.

You direct me to assume a position on all fours again, suggesting that there are many helping hands at the ready should I refuse. I assume the position, shivering just a little. You slip the ivory phallus between my legs and into my cunt, to cries of approval from observers.

It's huge, but I'm wet, and it slips all the way in at once, the little ridge at the end lodged delightfully against my clit. I moan again. I wiggle down on it. You encourage me. So do the onlookers. Oh, this feels good. This--- I feel your other hand smearing some sort of unguent around my -- oh good lord. Slowly, steadily, you're pushing your cock into my ass. It's huge. You're -- now you begin to move the ivory phallus, sending waves of sensation through my clit and cunt, while your cock slowly fills me up from behind. The sensation is exquisite. I shout with pleasure and hear you laugh as your hand and your cock pick up speed, stuffing me so full, so well, so hard, that I, and you, explode. In my case, screaming.

It goes without saying that you finally purchased me. Although you had quite a time haggling. My price had gone up, after what everyone had seen.