by Ian Smith
The sheikh’s eyes continued to bore into her. “Obedience, or pain,” he snapped. “Which will it be?”
Penny tried to catch her breath. His fingers pushed ever further into her. She was frightened and shocked beyond measure: there was only one possible answer. “O-obedience ...” she whispered.
“Obedience, master,” he corrected her.
“Obedience, m-master,” she repeated breathlessly.
“Let her go,” the sheikh instructed the guard. Penny felt the iron grip dissolve. She knew what she had to do. She forced herself to remain impaled on the fingers, her face red with shame. He grinned, and removed his hand, to her infinite relief.
“This is the girl, is it?”
The cultured voice from behind her made her jump. Penny spun round and saw a middle-aged Caucasian man looking at her. His clothes and features, like his voice, suggested educated sophistication, although his deep tan indicated many years spent in this sort of climate. Penny realised that he must have seen her with the sheikh’s fingers up her and blushed furiously both because of that and her nudity.
The sheikh nodded. “She’ll fetch a fine price on the auction block, Mr. De Roulter,” he began to haggle.
The man called De Roulter waved him to silence. “You have three white girls for sale: that should dilute the price somewhat. Oh, I know she’d still fetch a lot; but she might be worth it.” He studied her in silence for a few moments. Penny coloured even more as her body was appraised, but she didn’t dare cover herself up. De Roulter’s calm arrogance frightened her almost as much as the sheikh’s threats. Trying to distract herself from the eyes sweeping over her breasts and pussy, Penny tried to place his accent: although his English was immaculate, he was not a native. Belgian or Dutch, perhaps, to judge from the name.
The cultured voice cut through her thoughts. “How old are you, girl?”
“J-just turned twenty, sir,” she faltered.
“Master, not sir,” he corrected firmly.
“M-master,” she repeated. It was a fearful word.
“Has your cunt seen much action in the past?”
“M-master?”
“Have you had a lot of sex, girl?” he rephrased the question sharply.
Penny coloured. He had no right to ask her such things. However, she didn’t dare not answer, nor lie. “Just a half dozen times, master. Three ... boys back home.” Plus that terrible rape on the beach, of course, but she couldn’t bring herself to mention that.
He shook his head sadly. “A waste of a very good body,” he opined. “Come here, girl.” She approached, nervously, until she was very close to him, close enough to smell his expensive after shave. Suddenly she felt fingers invading her sacred orifice again and she gasped loudly. But this time, unlike the sheikh, instead of just crudely delving deep, he brushed her clitoris and then began to rub it with his index finger. Hot and cold flushes washed over her body and she shuddered. Unable to resist, her body responded to him, her nipples hardening and her love channel juicing. She had never felt anything like this.
He smiled and removed his fingers. Astonishingly, Penny felt a little incomplete without them, although she was relieved to be free from his grasp. She was now even more acutely aware, however, of her total naked vulnerability.
“A young woman as beautiful as you is put on this earth to please men,” he told her. “But you must learn the discipline of total surrender. You think that your body is your own. It is not. Shortly it will belong to me. I will teach you to be a good slave with both your body and your mind. Only then will you find that slavery, though perhaps not enjoyable, can be fulfilling.” He turned to the sheikh. “My friend, we have some bargaining to do.”
Chapter Seven
Long days had passed in the cells below the house. Carrie was worried sick about Penny, who had not returned since being taken away. She had twice summoned the courage to ask the guards what had happened to her friends. The sole response of the guard had been to lash her with the quirts they carried at their side until she had run sobbing out of their range. Realising that she would get no answer - and that quirts hurt like mad - Carrie did not ask again. All she could do, therefore, was wait.
Although there was some ventilation form the cell, it was stuffy and oppressive. The smell of unwashed bodies, her own included, grew greater. The only sanitary facilities were a crude but flushable pan in one corner over which the user had to squat, with no way of washing either hands or body afterwards. Carrie longed for a bath. The loneliness, too, was terrible: she and the former maid would not speak to each other and none of the others seemed to know English and were all black or coloured anyway.
Then, on what she estimated by the regular feedings to be the third day, things changed. In groups of three, the women were taken from the cell and did not return. By the time it came the turn of herself and Samantha, she was very frightened. However, she was taken to a bathing room and the very thing she most wanted. Under the watchful eyes of the guard, she was able to wash thoroughly. She was also able to groom her hair, trim her nails, shave her armpits and apply scent to her body and light makeup to her face. The marks of her various beatings having faded to the point where only the closest inspection would detect them, after two hours she looked almost restored to her old self. Only the nervous, haunted look in her eyes and the absence of her former arrogant air distinguished her from the beautiful idle socialite who had lain on the yacht so long ago soaking up the sun.
The guards even produced a key to Samantha’s chastity belt and removed it to enable her to wash more completely. Although she affected not to notice her former maid, Carrie saw the girl remove it with some relief, although she also noted that the guards watched her closely in case she tried to damage herself. Samantha also washed the insides of the belt itself, including the twin holes through which she had been able to urinate and defecate whilst wearing it. When their ablutions were at last concluded, the guards locked the belt back onto the sixteen year-old’s otherwise naked body.
The three girls were chained together by a neck coffle and led through the building. To Carrie’s annoyance, she brought up the rear, with the maid first and the Negress second. As they were clearly both inferior types, she should surely have been at the front, not that she wanted to face whatever was coming first. Instead, she had to stare into the gleaming ebony back and buttocks of the naked black woman as she followed behind her. They came upon the six girls who had already been taken from the cells and were chained to the back of that queue. For a while, they were just left with a single guard, standing in a hallway in that chained queue. Three more coloured girls were brought in and joined to them, behind Carrie; that made the entire contents of the dungeon. Those women who had previously been able to keep or scavenge tiny bits of cloth to wear had now lost them: each of them was now fully nude. A little while later, they were at last led off, twelve naked, freshly washed and scented young women. A door opened to a large courtyard and they were marched outside. For the first time in several days, Carrie felt the hot sun on her bare body.
The courtyard was a having mass of people, mostly men. The girls were in a roped off corridor which led to some steps onto a stone stage. The girl at the front of the coffle was detached from it and led up onto the stage, her rather limited naked charms now in full view of the audience. The mob quietened. A man on the stage began to speak, introducing the girl. She stood despondently facing the sea of leering faces, her hands behind her, her charms totally on view, her head hung low. There were shouts of sums of money from some of the audience. Carrie realised with horror that this was an auction: the girl was being sold!
A moment later came the worse realisation that the girl was the first in a line that also included herself. Carrie went hot and cold with both fear and indignation. Surely ... they did not intend to sell her in this manner as well! Oh, no, no ... it could not possibly be true. It w
as quite in order to sell these black savages: after all, Carrie reasoned, their forefathers had quite regularly been slaves and Carrie had never seen anything wrong with the old days of the American plantation slaves, particularly when America had still been a British colony; it had almost, in her view, been a more enlightened time. As for the maid, well, servant or slave, what was the difference? Such low born types were only good for serving others, whatever the technical status of the arrangements. But not her, not Carina Barrington-Smythe. Her father was rich and powerful; great companies and individuals thrived or collapsed at his whim. Born to greatness, she mixed with the elite of society. It was just not possible that she could be sold, naked and chained, in some pathetic little African market that her father could buy with loose change.
But the first girl had been sold and was being taken off to be given to her new owner and the second one, as nude as the first, frightened and compliant, was ascending the stage to be displayed and auctioned. And Carrie was ninth in line.
She looked around, desperately trying to find one of the guards. She called to the nearest one. “Please! I must see someone in authority!” He frowned, very possibly not understanding English. She repeated it more urgently. He grunted and moved over to her, but just as she was about to speak again he raised his hand as if to strike her. “No!” cried Carrie and cringed before him, the chains rattling and the girls nearest her in the coffle being pulled about as she moved. The raised hand, however, was only a threat. He moved away again, but she could not let the matter rest. “Please!” she called after him.
The more senior guard at the front of the coffle, who did speak a little English, turned round and came over to her. He leered at her, showing gaps in his teeth and covering her with bad breath. “You make no fuss, English girlie,” he said menacingly. “We no want hit you before you go on stage, no want give you marks, see? Is o.k. on stage, but not before.” He leaned closer. “But you cause trouble, we get you later, see? You think you special ‘cause you is English lady? Pah!” He almost spat at her. “You is cunt like all the rest. Slave, too. Get good price for white skin and light hair and being English lady, but that all.”
“Please! My father could pay you a fortune in ransom!”
He grinned. “They all say that, English lady. If your father come, he come with guns and men and tricks. No, we get good price for you on stage. Easier that way. You keep quiet, or else, yes?” He turned to the other guard and said something in a language Carrie didn’t know. The other man grinned and went away for a minute. When he came back, they grabbed her hands and forced them behind her back.
“What are you doing?” she protested. “Let me go!”
Her only reply was two sharp metal clicks. She felt cold steel around her wrists, which they had pulled together and when she tried to separate them she could not. She had been handcuffed!
“Now you keep quiet, or later we whip your titties and cunt, see?” He walked away. Carrie went hot and cold. She had felt the whip numerous times since her capture on her bottom and it hurt unbelievably, but the one stroke she had taken across her young boobs had been particularly terrible. She did not want another such. And it was absolutely crystal clear that they were not going to listen to her. Her best bargaining chip, her father’s money, had bounced off them.
In a short time, she would have to step up onto that stage and be publicly auctioned, naked.
They were on the fourth girl now. Each girl had unhappily but without fuss done as she had been told. Born to it, Carrie thought acidly. The sums of money they were being sold for meant nothing to her: she didn’t even know which country she was in, let alone what the exchange rate was between the local currency and sterling. Ahead of her, the young maid watched the proceedings with an ashen face, tears running down her cheeks. As a virgin of just sixteen years of age this would be very hard on her, but Carrie didn’t care. The maid was unimportant, but Carrie wasn’t!
Girl number five was summoned and sold. It was the maid’s turn. Openly weeping, she stepped up onto the stage. Immediately the crowd fell silent: a white woman was a rarity in this town, let alone on the auction block. The chastity belt covering her crotch helped by her turning side on and covering one leg with another, Samantha covered her chest with both arms, shielding herself. The auctioneer’s response was simple: he held a short, thick whip which, her bottom being largely sheltered by the belt, he lashed across her lower back. Samantha whimpered, but remained huddled up. He lashed her again, the sound of leather on bare flesh echoing in the near-silent square. This time she cried out with the pain and then slowly, with great reluctance, lowered her arms. A murmur of appreciation rolled around the crowd as her firm young apple-shaped breasts came into view. The auctioneer came close behind her. There was the sound of a key rattling in a lock and then the two halves of the metal waistband of the chastity belt swung open. He lowered the crotch piece until he was able to pull it through her legs and away from her. Immediately her hands flew to cover her now exposed crotch. He raised the whip, threateningly and she miserably and hastily lowered her hands. The murmur ran around again at the sight of her thin covering of light brown pubic hair over the almost invisible sex lips which had never been breached.
Only now did the auctioneer speak. Carrie had not listened to him previously: now, for the first time, she paid attention to what he said.
“Now then, gentlemen, take a look at that little body! Prime English meat she is, just sixteen and wait for it, completely intact! Guaranteed virgin, never been had! Who want to be the first to taste her, then?”
Half a dozen bids were shouted at once. Samantha, her bright red face suffused with tears, cringed with humiliation beyond description. Watching, Carrie felt a twinge of sympathy for a moment: the kid was so young and inexperienced. What must it be like, to have the rights to taking your cherry auctioned in public? But her momentary compassion quickly faded. The virginity of a servant girl was not overly important; moreover, it would soon be Carrie’s turn out there.
The rush of early bids settled down as the price rose, well above that of the other girls to date. Carrie eyed the girl’s body critically: she was pretty, but nothing too special. Her breasts were firm but not that big, her shape reasonable without being sensational, her features cute but common. Still, the bids came in quickly enough, but then slowed and halted. The auctioneer, however, had one final card to play. A guard handed a simple wooden chair to him on the stage, which he placed down at the front of the platform facing the mob.
“Sit on it and open your legs wide,” he instructed the sobbing Samantha.
Her face went white. “No, please!” she begged. A moment later the whip lashed across her now unprotected bottom. She howled and clutched her buttocks. Sobbing uncontrollably, she lowered herself down onto the chair and, inch by inch, forced herself to open her thighs until her entrance, her sex lips, her whole crotch was on show to just about everyone. Carrie sniffed at the commonness of her pose: lack of breeding will out, she said to herself.
“Now then, gentlemen,” the auctioneer said, “there’s the gateway to Heaven. Only one man will be the first to go there; who will it be?” The tactic briefly rekindled the bidding, which went a few hundred whatever the currency units were higher before coming to a final halt. Samantha peered into the crowd, trying to see who it was who had made the final bid and would therefore be the first man ever to have her. Neither she nor Carrie could see, although the latter didn’t care much in any case.
Still copiously weeping, Samantha was led from the stage. Carrie ignored her. The next girl was ushered up and, a lot of the interest having temporarily waned, the bidding went slowly. It gave Carrie time to think. She now accepted that she had no way out: like it or not, she was going to be put on that stage and hawked off like a piece of cattle. The only question was how she was going to approach it. She didn’t think much of Samantha’s whimpering display; it was hardly a cred
it to her country. Still, what could you expect from a simpering child of the lower orders? Carrie, however, was true blue English; the red blood of the nobility flowed through her veins. These peasants might get her body, but they would not get the better of her. She breathed deeply, trying to steady her nerves and steel herself. She had no illusions that this would be quite an ordeal.
The eighth girl left the stage, head bowed. The guard had already unlocked Carrie from the chain, although her hands remained cuffed behind her back. Without waiting to be told, she stepped up onto the stage and moved to the front of it. Shoulders back, breasts thrust out, legs a little wide with her crotch on show, she stood there, staring out into space as if the hushed crowd didn’t exist. The fact that her hands were manacled behind her back she used as a good reason to keep them away from her front, and at the same time acted as if she was not handcuffed and it was entirely her choice to keep her hands where they were. However, although she haughtily ignored the audience, inside herself she could not dismiss them. She hadn’t realised that there were so many of them! Her face coloured as she realised just how many men, and most of them black, she was brazenly displaying her youthful feminine charms to and she fought to maintain her icy poise. I have a good body, she told herself, easily better than any of the other, common girls on sale (this was true); let them see it, let them see that it’s beyond the pockets of nearly all of them. And if they’re going to sell me, she thought, let the price be the highest ever paid in this miserable little backwater. It was not easy: she felt the eyes of all these men searing her most delicate skin; but Carrie’s wilful, determined nature prevailed. Although her face flushed scarlet, she kept her head up and gazed into the distance.
The auctioneer was taken aback. He had not expected this. Carrie felt the tiniest flicker of triumph. However, he soon recovered. “Well now, gentlemen,” she heard him begin, “just feast your eyes on that.” Carrie’s face turned even more crimson and she fought to maintain her pose. “This is why you’ve all come here today. A real, genuine member of the British aristocracy, this one is; blue blood and blue eyes. How many of you remember the days when the British Empire ruled half of Africa? Well, here’s your chance to turn the tables and lord it over someone from their ruling classes. Anybody got any old grudges to settle? Calls herself Carrie, and she’s ... hey, girl, how old are you?”