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.