Victoria's Secret: The Donkey Cart

The command was given for Victoria to squat, and squat she did: hands on head, knees splayed wide, with all her weight on her toes. It was delicious to see her this way, balanced ever-so-carefully, her nipples hardening in the slight breeze, her sex open and wide for all the men to see.

As the crowd grew rowdier the men drew closer. A few reached up to put their hands on Victoria's feet and ankles. One man slid his hand up her bare calf. Soon an old man reached up and managed to run his fingers over the lips of her sex, which I was surprised to see were already beginning to moisten.

Was Victoria getting turned on? I was flabbergasted, but also spellbound and anxious to see what would happen next.

"Juice!" the auctioneer commanded. To my shock and the crowd's delight. Victoria reached between her widely spreads and began to quickly masturbate herself towards orgasm, bouncing her shaking sex on her fingers.

It didn't take long for my wife's practiced, nimble fingers to achieve their goal. "Look at her pussy hole twitch and quiver!" a man shouted, as she gasped through her first orgasm.

"Yes, the little cock hound will give much pleasure," another man agreed.

I couldn't understand most of the jeers, for they were in French or Arabic or other local languages, but the crowd grew louder as Victoria kept rubbing, and tumbled into her second orgasm. Victoria pressed on but I became increasingly nervous as I sensed the crowd growing more aggressive. I wanted to do something, but what could I do? As a penniless stranger in a strange land, I was in some ways as helpless as my unfortunate wife.

Knowing that interference would be pointless, I instead moved towards the front for a closer look. The man who had reached for Victoria's sex was now rubbing her pussy, which seemed to get soggier with each jerk of his hand. The crowd heckled at her as she moaned in pleasure, the juices dribbling down her thighs. As Victoria groaned and writhed another man reached up to tweak her nipples, while still others caressed her calves and thighs.

Even the toothless merchant seemed to realize that the crowd was getting out of hand. Thinking quickly he turned to the short, skinny teenager tending the donkey at the front of the cart. The boy appeared to be around 18, and I supposed him to be our auctioneer's son for he was missing some of the same teeth as his father.

"Mo-seek-ah!" he screamed to a teenager standing near the counter. "Mo-seek-ah!" he repeated.

The teen pulled an Arabian flute out of his pocket and began to play.

Soon another man in another stall pulled out a small tom-tom like instrument and began pounding out a beat, and a woman began shaking what appeared to be a sort of homemade tambourine.

Victoria looked baffled. Poking her legs the merchant shouted Mo-seek-ah!" again.

Finally understanding Victoria began to sway in time with the exotic tune.

It was a masterstroke. As Victoria danced she was able to free herself from the grip of the men who reached for her. As each man touched her she'd spin and turn away, smiling at her own cleverness as she avoided anything more than a short caress.

Of course the men were gathering all around the cart so whenever she danced away from one of them she danced towards another. But she was laughing now, and the crowd was laughing and clapping along, too. The clever auctioneer had turned the situation from dangerous to fun.

Victoria was as good at dancing as she was at everything else, and soon picked up both the tempo and spirit of the lilting tune. The precariously balanced cart was bowed, with numerous gaps between the boards, and dancing barefoot around the nails and loose boards and gaps in the flooring required no small amount of skill. But Victoria did it beautifully, laughing as she twirled her short, dark hair, snapping her fingers in time to the beat of the music.

Joining in I clapped along with the crowd and cheered her remarkable performance. Victoria was amazing, and had pulled a triumph out of disaster.

Victoria's nipples were erect and her face was flush, both from the exertion of the dancing and from the humiliation of performing in front of dozens of strange black faces. She danced exquisitely, but I knew that somewhere deep inside of her the old Victoria was dying. The shame of the auction block was the final milestone in her transformation to mere chattel.

She danced hard, giving it her all, and I think she would have danced all day if fate had not again intervened. The merchant bid his son with the flute to climb up onto the cart. The lad did so carefully, for although he didn't weigh much the cart creaked precariously.

The auctioneer said something to the boy in Arabic, and he lifted his robe, revealing his short, slender shaft. The boy began to play his flute, and with a tap of the crop across her bare bottom, Victoria sank to her knees in the straw and dirt and shit and began playing the flute between the teenager's legs.

The bidding began. It went slowly, which gave Victoria plenty of time to please the flute-playing boy. I could tell he was close to coming when the music became more erratic and higher pitched.

As per his father's command he pulled out, and splashed his jism across her face. Victoria turned to show the crow her semen splashed countenance as the final bids came in. She licked some of the salty goo from her lips, but remembering her rigorous slave training made no attempt to wipe away her teenage master's precious seed.

Her final price of 21,000 was impressive, more than twice what I had agreed to pay for her. In the parlance of the slavers Victoria made excellent "block meat."

It was a good price, but I could have purchased her easily if she had not stolen my wallet. 21,000 was good money for this market, but that was because the people were so poor. Victoria had been sold for about $2.75 USD, or a little less than £2.

The farmer who bought her did not seem like a bad chap, and through a friendly slave monger who agreed to act as a translator I learned that his ox had died and he planned to use Victoria for "plowing and sucking" until harvest, when he would probably resell her.

I nodded in agreement. From a purely mercantile point-of-view she was a wise purchase. Victoria had been a runner in college, and being chased by dogs had increased both her wind and speed. Once in harness Victoria would make an excellent plough horse. As for her sucking, the evidence of her skill was literally plastered all over her face. She wouldn't like doing farm work, of course, but that didn't matter. The wise farmer, I noticed, had a wicked looking slave whip dangling from his belt.

When I explained that she was my wife, and that I wanted to buy her, but did not have the money now, the farmer grew suspicious. Fearing theft he refused to give me his name, but the translator said he thought his name was "Pongo" or "Bunta" and that he lived on a farm "somewhere South." It wasn't much, but it was something.

I looked over at Victoria. She was standing with the "sold" stock, naked and penned. Someone had written a small symbol, her lot number, on her left bottom cheek with a red pen, to identify her new owner. Unfortunately, other than the easily erased number there was little to distinguish her from the other black slave girls she was standing with.

A terrible thought washed over me as I watched her standing naked and shamed in her slave pen. Would I ever see Victoria again? How would I find her?

A thought occurred to me as I looked at the number on her bottom. If there were only some way to mark her, some way that wouldn't wash off...

I turned to the farmer, and through the intermediary asked him if he planned to brand her.

He shrugged. "No, but you can if you want," he said, laughing. "After all, she's your wife."

The farmer told the slave monger he wanted to shop for another hour before picking Victoria up but I was free to brand her "as I wished." Clearly the idea of me selecting a brand for my wife's ass amused him.

I walked over to the blacksmith's forge and began searching through the branding heads. There were the normal characters from the Western alphabet, in Roman typeface. There was also a set of Arabic characters, and Greek characters, as well as a number of standard symbols: @ # $ & ¢ £ ¥ € ✚ ★✖ α ϕ and so forth.

For a moment I toyed with idea of branding her sales price on her bottom: £2. I laughed out loud at the idea as I knew it would make a splendid joke when we got back to London.

I also considered branding her with the letter "T" for "thief" as a permanent reminder of her foolishness in stealing my wallet. It would be a good lesson for her if I never saw her again.

But I wanted to see her again, and putting my anger aside I let my goal guide my choice. I knew the brand I chose must be unique and memorable if I were ever to find her again. My eyes settled on the star symbol as I recalled the brand that Victoria used on her horses: the letter W inscribed inside of a small circle of stars. I knew that brand was unique because her family had trademarked it. And what better way to identify her than the very brand I had seen her burn into the hide of her own string of horses at her family's various stables?

Victoria's family brand was custom made by a craftsman; with neither money nor time to spare I would have to improvise. I immediately rejected the tiny, lowercase "w" reasoning that visibility was of the essence. The Roman W cow brand I selected was quite a bit bigger than the rather petite ★ but I knew that if the blacksmith applied each star one-after-another he could eventually form a lovely and esthetically pleasing full circle.

Alas, the enormous size of the W meant that a collie brand on her thigh was simply out of the question. The little slave slut would have to be "butt branded" with the W being placed directly in the center of one of her big fat ass cheeks, with an enormous galaxy of stars orbiting around it.

There would, at least in theory, be some pain in this, although the slave mongers warned me about crafty slave girls who exaggerated their momentary discomfort at the application of the iron to elicit undeserved sympathy. Remembering Victoria's duplicitous scheming with my wallet I resolved not to be fooled again: the light-fingered little slut would get a proper butt branding, right on her thieving ass.

By the time I got back to the slave pen Victoria's hands were tied behind her with coarse hemp rope. Another rope had been tied around her neck, with the loose end dangling down as a makeshift leash.

"Don't worry," I said, smiling broadly. "I have a plan."