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Lady Charlotte's Conditioning, Part Two

Proud, educated, professional women who secretly long for humiliation, discipline, or slavery have their fantasies fulfilled.
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imreadonly2
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Lady Charlotte's Conditioning, Part Two

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The first thing that I did when I arrived at Omar’s Prime Meat Market was get myself a glass of champagne. Omar’s market / slave auction was an elegant, black tie affair, with the finest people buying only the finest pussy. If I was going to have to wear a tuxedo, I might as well enjoy myself.

I had decided before I arrived that I wasn’t going to make any particular effort to find Charlotte before the auction. You go to the grocery to buy an orange, not a PARTICULAR orange. Charlotte was my wife, or had been, anyway, before she foolishly enslaved herself to fulfill her slave girl fantasy, under the guise of winning some silly bet with Omar that he couldn’t “break her.”

He could break her, of course. That’s what Omar did. Her presence at tonight’s auction proved that, for Omar only sold fully trained slave tail. He said that it usually took no more than two weeks to break a slave girl in completely. Charlotte had been trained for nearly two months.

Upon being stripped and collared, my clever, educated wife had probably gone slave stupid, thinking she could ride out the clock. I wish I could have seen her pretty face when she realized there was no clock. I was not coming to rescue her, and she would be trained until she was ready to be sold. I’m sure it was at that awful, terrible moment! It was the moment her true training began.

I wasn’t surprised that Charlotte, or 67-8585, as she was known when I had last seen her at the slave training facility, required a bit of extra attention. As a high-born member of Britain’s 1%, she had been lived in unimaginable wealth and privilege. A lifetime of pampering and luxurious travel had given her an undeserved confidence in her abilities, and a mistaken belief that she could do anything. Lady Charlotte thought far, far too much of herself, but two months of slave training had doubtlessly stripped her of all those pretensions, as it stripped her of everything else. 67-8585 was now a slave girl.

“Would you like some foie gras entire, Master?” The naked, collared slave girl holding the silver tray asked. She had a French accent, and long brown hair. Like most of the brunette slave girls, she had been shaved between her legs. I looked her naked body up-and-down slowly, taking my time. She was exquisite, and per the rules of the evening, made no effort to hide her charms.

The lot number printed on her right tit suggested she was for sale. I hoped so, as I would very much like to see the little beauty do her squats on the auction block. I wondered what her story was. Had a wicked stepmother sold her into slavery, or had she simply been in the wrong place at the right time? It didn’t matter. Now she was just a slave girl.

Without bothering to say a word to her I took the treat off my naked slave’s tray and sampled it. It was delicious, of course. She bowed, and lowered her head, until I shooed her away with a dismissive wave of my fingers. She curtseyed, while slave naked and holding her silver tray, and turned to serve the next guest, as I admired her sweet, perfect ass.

I wondered if Charlotte was serving tonight. I hoped so. The thought of my naked wife offering me some Beluga caviar as she bowed and scraped before me made my penis pulse with satisfaction.

Charlotte had been born rich, and I had not. It was a cruel twist of fate she had never let me forget. Since her mysterious disappearance two months ago I, her grieving husband, had assumed total control of her finances. It would be delicious indeed to see my haughty, supercilious wife bow naked before me.

I was not cruel, or vengeful. Far from it! I was simply treating Charlotte the way she wanted to be treated, as a real slave girl. My vain wife insisted on an authentic experience, and desperately wanted to know what sort of price she’d bring. That question would be answered tonight, as it didn’t get more authentic than the auction block at Omar’s Prime Meat Market.

When we have visited the slave training center, Charlotte had delighted in the cruel way the naked slave girls were treated, giggling and clapping her hands with every crack of the whip. “That will keep the little bitches jumping!” she had tittered. I wondered if she was as fond of the whip now that she was on the receiving end. Perhaps. Some slave girls grow to love it, and need a good whipping to make them feel alive.

I wandered through the cocktail party, smiling politely at the other international guests, who represented the elite of every corner of the earth. I imagined it must have unnerved Charlotte, knowing that in a few hours she could be vanished into any corner of the world, never to be seen again. Good.

In addition to the naked servers, there were numerous girls in various poses. Some were “living statues”, standing atop of marble pedestals, holding Greek urns. Others were chained to the wall, or to pillars, where buyers were free to closely examine their charms.

I slowly walked down a row of perfect, naked bottoms, kneeling with legs spread, all bearing the brand of Omar’s auction house, the mark of quality. What an honor for them, to bear such a prestigious brand!


I reached between the legs of a pretty brown girl, fingering her sex. She was wet, of course, like a good slave girl always should be, and groaned in pleasure as she pushed back against my hand.

No doubt about it, she was exquisite. She whimpered a bit as I withdrew my hand and put my wet fingers to my nose, enjoying her scent. She even smelled good. I wondered if she was black, or Hispanic. Her lot number, 68-5645 had been stamped on her bottom. I might look her up, or wait for the auctioneer to extoll her charms and reveal all her secrets when he put the pretty little slut on the block.

As I wiped my greasy fingers in the curly hair of the blonde girl kneeling next to her, I thought of the note I had written to Omar.


My friend,

Thank you very much for your kind invitation to the auction on Saturday. I will, of course, attend, alone, as my wife Charlotte is still missing. Sadly, my love appears to be permanently, irretrievably lost. Her family, friends, and attorneys have all urged me to move on, and so it must be.

You are right that I am much in need of female companionship, and now that I am living in the area it might be amusing to own one or two concubines. As we are friends, perhaps we can trade back-and-forth now and then, from your plentiful inventory? J

In any event, I will bid on at least one girl on Saturday. I will decide which one in the moment, when I see their performances on the block. When one goes to a seafood restaurant, and they survey the lobster tank, they are not looking for a particular lobster, but the finest lobster, based on the available stock. Such will it be on Saturday.


I wondered if Omar had shown the note to 67-8585. I hope he had, for it was for her own good. She needed to understand that she was simply another animal in a market, a lobster in the tank, awaiting her fate. She could expect no reprieve, no rescue. Tonight, Lady Charlotte, the toast of London, the woman whose beauty and wealth had made the royals jealous, would be paraded stark naked, and sold on off the auction block, like the randy, naked slave slut she now was.

Knowing that I was not coming to bid on her would free her to focus on what really mattered, her performance on the auction block. An excellent performance would earn her a wealthy master, while a poor performance might result in the sale to a broker that might well resell her several times, until she ended up in some forsaken brothel where the girls were beaten for sport.

Not that a wealthy master guaranteed an easy life, for there was no such thing for a slave girl. She might well end up dancing naked for some Sheik’s western visitors, her ass and breasts bouncing, or end up as a pony girl for some Indian billionaire. But a good performance on the block was her best hope.

I smiled at the thought. My wife had been born on third base, and had spent her whole life thinking she had hit a triple. Now, stripped of her title, money, and privilege, she was no different than any of the other naked sluts. With nothing to fall back on, her fate would be determined by her performance, the marketplace, and the auctioneer’s gavel.

I continued wandering through the room, my eyes roaming freely over the naked bodies that were there for my viewing pleasure. I stopped to watch a fat, old bald man with a bit of white hair fingering a beautiful young woman chained to a post. Much to my surprise, he turned and greeted me warmly.

“Good to see you, old sport!” he said. “Are you a friend of Omar’s, then? Finest slave tail on the continent, or any continent, if you ask me.”

At the sound of his voice, I recognized Lord Henry Chapman, a friend and sometimes business rival of Charlotte’s father. His estate bordered Charlotte’s fathers, and they were always squabbling about the boundaries, and whose fox hunt trampled which bushes.

“I heard about Charlotte’s disappearance. Dreadfully sorry, old sport, but these things happen, and there’s nothing to be done about it. The family was wise to stop the search. If a place like Omar’s proves anything, it’s that lovely young girls who disappear are unlikely to ever be seen again.”

We talked for a few minutes about the market and the weather and he invited me to his club. After a few minutes of such chatter, I politely ended the conversation to continue my search.

His remark tying Charlotte to Omar intrigued me, and I wondered if he hadn’t already encountered my wife, naked and chained. Whether he had or had not, I doubt he would make much of a fuss about it. He had never liked her father, and he liked Charlotte even less. I suppose the real question was whether he’d bid on her, and if she might be the “fox” in one of the “special hunts” he held when his wife was out of town.

I continued my search. I made a pass through the entire room and had, I thought, looked at every naked girl, without yet encountering my wife, when I was greeted by a familiar voice.

“My friend, it is a pleasure to see you,” Omar said in his booming voice. “I trust you are enjoying the food and drink, and everything is to your liking?”

“Very much so,” I said, “It is truly a magnificent party.”

“Yes, and the best is yet to come,” he said slyly. “Are any of the girls to your liking?”

“Yes, all of them,” I chuckled. “But I’m not sure I can afford them, even with Charlotte’s money.”

“Remember, you will get 95% of Charlotte’s block price immediately after the sale, with me taking only a modest 5% for training and her sales commission. It is my best rate, for one of my very best friends.”

“You are too kind,” I said. “Is Charlotte going to be sold tonight? I did not see her.”

“She is here somewhere,” he said dismissively. “We are selling 175 girls tonight. There is so much hot, wet slave pussy in this room, it is difficult for even me to keep track,” he added, laughing.

As he spoke, several naked slave girls began to walk up and down, ringing little silver bells.

“Ah, it is time for the auction,” Omar said. “I reserved you a front row, center seat. You will see all of the action. Enjoy yourself, my dear friend, while I attend to business.”

Omar left me, as I made my way into the next room. I did have the best seat in the house, immediately in front of the auction block. I would have an excellent view of the proceedings.

There was a light applause as the first 30 girls to be sold jogged up the aisle, asses and titties bouncing, and split into two groups to await their fate on either side of the auction block. Sales were brisk, and when the gavel fell and the sold merchandise was exiting one side of the block, with a final crack of the auctioneer’s whip across their bottoms to mark the end of the sale, a girl from the opposite side would already be running across the block to take her place.

Charlotte was in the first group, and I realized at once why I had not recognized her. My wife’s blonde hair had been lightened, and curled. She usually wore it up, but now it was hanging loose around her shoulders. Her pubic hair had been shaved, except for a small porn star landing strip. Most strikingly, her bottom had been branded with Omar’s mark of quality, a lovely, large, bold O in Omar’s signature, fancy Edwardian Script font. It was a beautiful brand, large and distinct, the sort any slave girl would be proud to wear.

https://thumbs.dreamstime.com/z/edwardi ... 275813.jpg

It was a very deep burn, and I imagined it must have been quite painful to apply, but that’s why it was best to have these things done professionally. Omar would have seen to it that Charlotte had been properly bitted, so that she didn’t bite her tongue off during the process, and secured in such a way that no matter how hard the little bitch jerked the mark would be flawless, and flawless it was.

Of course, her brand, lovely as it was, wasn’t the sort of thing one would expect to see in the sauna at Charlotte’s oh-so-exclusive women’s club in London. Although I imagine if one of her friends did catch sight of it, it would be quite the conversation starter.

Charlotte, naked and collared, stood to the left of the auction block, in the middle of the pack, nervously awaiting her turn. I forgave myself for not recognizing her, for stripped and collared, she looked quite unremarkable. Lady Charlotte was now 67-8585, another naked slave girl, indistinguishable from the peasant girl kidnapped from her village or the girl who had answered the wrong ad or the college student who had foolishly strayed from her tour group. Her money meant nothing here, and she was now simply tits and ass. Soon she'd be on the auction block, rubbing her pussy and spreading her butt cheeks, under the command of the auctioneer's whip.

I knew it would be hard on her. Charlotte’s eyes were bulging, and she was breathing hard and fast, causing her breasts to bounce up and down in the most delightful way. She was standing barefoot and naked on a marble floor, in a chilly, air-conditioned room, and her nipples were hard. Despite her obvious terror, she had been well trained, and kept her eyes forward focused, not daring to look at the well-dressed elites who would soon be bidding on her naked body.

I looked behind me, and caught Lord Henry, ogling Charlotte's naked body as he licked his lips lasciviously. Seeing that I was looking at him, he gave me a wink, and a leering grin. I wondered how many times Henry and Charlotte had chatted at parties, or enjoyed tea together. How may times had he greeted her as an honored guest in his home? It didn't matter. Now that she was pussy-to-be-sold, he wouldn't lift a finger to save her. The filthy old goat had known Charlotte since she was a baby, but hat wouldn't stop him from bidding on her.

The auctioneer, a swarthy brown man in a businessman’s suit and tie, walked up the center aisle. In one hand he held his auctioneer’s gavel, in the other a coiled slave whip.

I smiled as Charlotte’s butt cheeks clenched and unclenched in alarm. Clearly the little slut was no stranger to the whip! When we had been sitting on the porch, Charlotte had laughed merrily when the slave girls had been whipped. I doubt she would find it as amusing when the whip cut into her perfect, round ass, as she was sprinting off the auction block.

Charlotte, now in the middle of a full-blown panic attack, would need to rely on muscle memory and her rigorous training in order to put in anything resembling a suitable performance on the block. If she did not, she would suffer greatly under the auctioneer’s whip.

The auctioneer cleared his throat and turned the catalog to the first page as the audience quieted. The stove was heated and the water in the pot was bubbling. Charlotte’s breasts bobbled up and down as the little lobster awaited her turn in the boiling water.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!
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lovethissite
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Re: Lady Charlotte's Conditioning, Part Two

Post by lovethissite »

Hope there is a third chapter.
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timerider
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Re: Lady Charlotte's Conditioning, Part Two

Post by timerider »

Awesome story, from riches to buck naked, collared and branded.
Cinderalla as fallen.
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