Slave Yoga, Part 7A

[imreadonly2]

Joe asked me to post this beginning to Slave Yoga, Part 7.

As the prospective buyers shifted their attention to the girl being vended, I had a moment to survey the busy marketplace around me. I was being sold in what appeared to be a town square in a medium sized village. All of buildings that formed the square were made of stone that appeared to be very old, and whitewashed white. While I didn’t know the precise age, if the people were wearing togas instead of t-shirts, their costumes would have perfectly matched the setting.

I was on my toes, with a noose around my neck, attached to a hook in the wall that in turn was attached to an old hand crank. There were many such hooks in the wall, and cranks. Some were used to suspend goods for sale in the square, such a fishing nets filled with pots, or the day’s catch from the sea. The hooks were used to suspend goods available for sale – in my case, a naked slave girl seconds from her fate on the auction block.

In addition to the naked slave girls, goats, and pigs for sale in my section of the market, there were vendors selling handmade jewelry, carpets, flowers, fruits and vegetables, and various food carts. I could smell freshly cooked lamb, and the smell of the cooking meat blended in with the heat, the livestock being sold alongside me, and my own slave stink to form a very earthy aroma.

The sun was bright, and I found myself looking longingly at a cart of hats and sunglasses. I was attracted to a small store selling leather bags, although the thought of a naked slave girl buying an expensive purse seemed laughable. I shifted the weight onto the balls of my feet as the rope dug into my neck. I was not like the snotty college girls who had stopped to laugh and insult me as they browsed freely through the market. I was not a rich American tourist. I was a naked Pleasure Slut. I wasn’t there to buy, I was there to be sold.

The snotty teenage girls who had made fun of me said I was on a Greek island, and although I could not read any of the signs around the square, the unfamiliar alphabet certainly seemed consistent with that hypothesis. It felt strange not to be able to read anything, or understand any of the half overheard conversations in the bustling marketplace around me. It made me feel even more helpless, cutoff, and isolated. No, worse; it made me feel STUPID.

“Stupid little slave slut! She can’t even speak, or read or write, ha-ha!”

As part of my undergraduate work I had taken a course in classical civilizations, which of course discussed ancient Greece, ancient Rome, and slavery. Professor Bakas was tenured and the head of his small department, which allowed him to maintain his position in spite of his horrible sexism. He was also an unapologetic proponent of slavery, both modern and ancient. He frequently derided the intelligence of the coeds in his class, observing that he didn’t understand why “a girl pretty enough for the collar would chase a diploma instead.”

I noticed that whenever a girl game an answer in class, it was inevitably wrong, and soon all the girls had demeaning nicknames. I was called “Turgid Tracy”, or “Twitty”, or sometimes simply vlákas, the Greek word for “idiot” or “fool.” As you can imagine, there weren’t a lot of girls in his class, and many dropped out as the semester progressed. Determined to win him over, I suggested that I write a paper on classical female slavery, a short essay on what it felt like to be sold in a Macedonian slave market, booty from a conquest of Alexander The Great.

My essay was short, but Professor Bakas loved it, and even asked me to act out my auction in front of the class, with him as the auctioneer. I wasn’t naked, but wore a sports bra and running shorts, and sandals, which I discarded so he could put me through my paces barefoot. He did not strike me with the whip, but seemed to enjoy tapping my bottom with it, or using the tip to make my breasts jiggle while my classmates laughed and bid on me. I was clothed, and had not taken Slave Yoga yet, and so I did not have the moves of a well-trained Pleasure Slut. But it was great fun, and everyone seemed to enjoy my “auction” enormously.

Professor Bakas took a shine to me. He still enjoyed belittling my intelligence, threatening to whip my bottom, and commenting in front of everyone that I was “more suited to the collar than college”. However I sealed my grade with him by demonstrating my “slave kiss” in his office.

It wasn’t sex-for-grades, though. I want to make that clear. True, Professor Bakas was fat, old, with olive skin and a terrible combover. But I found him incredibly sexy and attractive, and swallowed his load eagerly. How many free women get to suck off their “auctioneer?” I was the only girl vlákas in his class that semester to earn an “A”… and judging from his groans, I truly earned it.

In writing the essay for Professor Bakas that saved my grade, I had been forced to fantasize about what it might have been to a proud free woman, enslaved by Alexander The Great’s unstoppable army, and put on a stone auction block to be vended as war booty. Perhaps I was from Judea, or Persia, or Istanbul. It mattered not. I was no longer a proud free woman. One ignorant, naked Pleasure Slut was as good as the other, as it was only my tits and pussy that were for sale.

The marketplace I was might well have dated back to antiquity, and I wondered if the stone auction block that awaited me was there in Alexander’s time. It seemed quite possible.

I noticed some soldiers sitting on benches, chatting pleasantly and eating their lamb, only half watching as the naked slave girl on the block was put her paces. In my mind I imagined them as Alexander’s soldiers, there to enforce the peace, and ensure that the captured slave pussy was sold with as little fuss as possible.

It was at that moment that I became fully conscious of how “slave naked” I truly was, more than I had ever been before. When I had arrived at the airport to meet Suzie, I had been an American citizen, and well educated young professional woman completing her Phd. Now, without my passport or any form of identification, I was no more than a naked animal in a livestock market.

Shaking my head I noticed that the humiliating plastic pink barcoded animal tag that Suzie had so cruelly clipped through my ear was gone, and there was no sign of the bill of lading that I had been shipped with. I didn’t have a Slave Identification Number tattooed to the inside of my lip, or even Agatha’s distinctive slave brand to identify me.
I might as well be from Macedonia, or Babylon, or Judea, and it might as well have been 400 BC, for I was no different than the endless parade of proud free women who had been paraded naked on this auction block before me.

Like my ancient sisters, I had no chance of legal recourse. Under the WTO’s Uniform Enslavement Act, even “incorrect” enslavements were considered valid, unless all parties involved new of the fraud. It was a very high bar, and purposely so. So if the auctioneer, or my future master, thought I was just another slave slut – and why wouldn’t they? – at best my estate could sue for damages, if anyone even wanted to bother. Under local law, I was a slave, I was legally a slave, and every court and policeman on the island would treat me as such.

If by some miracle I did manage to escape the noose around my neck and wrists, run naked down the street, and dive off a cliff to swim back to Europe, the local police or whoever encountered me would promptly recapture me and sell me, with a “capture commission” for their trouble.

In such circumstances fleeing to the US Embassy would be worse than useless. Countless foreign nationals were vended in the United States, and the large sums of money involved in the international slave trade made the fate of any single girl entirely irrelevant. I had heard countless stories of the US Ambassador turning a sobbing American girl over to the police, and then staying to watch her whipping and subsequent sale. Indeed, sometimes such goodwill exchanges were rewarded by giving the Ambassador a “slave kiss” from the returned goods!

As I looked at the bored soldiers, I imagined them in togas and sandals. Alexander’s men would not help me. Indeed, they would make sure my sale proceeded without a hitch.

I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of the bleating animals, the roasting kebobs, and my own shameful arousal. Today the bustling marketplace would sell watches, apples, cheeses and spices, and a nameless pleasure slut, wet between her legs.

[orflash64]

Joe, it's a good start to the beginning to the next chapter of Slave Yoga. Still some misspellings.
As not much is happening yet I take it much more is to come?
The overall body of the story has been very titillating and exciting, I hope this continues to be the case as the story continues.
Might there be a slave kissing booth in the market? I'm sure Tracey is thirsty after her long plane ride.

[Hooked6]

I am ABSOLUTELY thrilled that Joe Doe has continued this most excellent story. This was a wonderful start to what promises to be another great full-length chapter in this epic saga (and I don't use this description lightly.) I love the psychology that this story contains which enables me to make this journey with our protagonist while traveling inside her head. Terrific writing in this entire series! I can't wait for more.

Hooked6

[jeepster]

Thanks for a great story to read in these troubling times! Really hoping theres more to come!

[Freight_Train]

Thanks for a great story to read in these troubling times! Really hoping theres more to come!

+1

[imreadonly2]

Finally got around to reading it. I loved it as usual, though I didn't think this was where Slave Yoga was going to end up. Going to read the next part right away
A slight historical inaccuracy, Istanbul was called Byzantium in Alexander's time, becoming Constantinople in 330 A.D. then Istanbul in 1453, though it continued to be known as Constantinople until its name change to Istanbul was made permanent in 1928.
I have to admit Tracy probably doesn't know all that, and given the lack of good history teaching she probably doesn't even know that Istanbul is a recent name. But as a reader of history and a bit of a nit picker I like to give the information.

[timerider]

This one of my favorites on Lit, great job