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.