Lady Charlotte's Conditioning, Part Three
Posted: Sun Nov 27, 2022 8:31 pm
No matter how well you are trained, or how much you practice, nothing can prepare a girl for her first slave auction.
I stood in the courtyard of my friend Omar’s slave market, sweat pouring down my back, my heart beating like a triphammer, awaiting my turn on the auction block. I was naked as a newborn, save the iron collar which had been riveted shut around my neck. I think they used iron and rivets because they were traditional. The place I was standing in was all about tradition, customs, and the familiar. It was certainly familiar to me.
I had first stood here a few weeks before, although it seemed a lifetime ago. After sending my feckless husband on some useless errand, I suggested that Omar that we ‘discuss business’, and requested a tour of his establishment. Ever the gracious host, Omar readily agreed.
I had been quite smartly dressed that day, as a member of the British aristocracy should always be. “Never wear anything that you would be embarrassed to meet the Queen in”, as father used to say.
Omar was the perfect gentleman, as he pointed out the lovely mosaic tilework, the double tiered arches supporting the second story, and carefully selected assortment of fragment flowers.
“The buildings that surround the courtyard were constructed in the early 800s, although this site was used as a slave market going back to the time of Alexander the Great.”
“That would be about 300 BC,” I noted.
“Yes, I think that’s right. If you look at the front of the yard, that’s actually the auction block that was used in Alexander’s time. The tile mosaic work around the sides was added later, but the granite on top of the block dates back to antiquity.”
The gavel fell, and I jumped a bit as the auctioneer yelled something like “Moob-on”. I thought he said, “move on”, but as he was speaking mostly in Arabic, he probably was saying “sold”. In any event, the “lot” that had been sold moved offstage, and the new “lot” moved on.
Whether it’s Sotheby’s or Omar’s slave market, an auction is an auction, after all. There are bidders holding up numbered paddles or umbrellas, an auctioneer, and a bang of the gavel to mark the completion of the sale. The proceedings were brisk, for one has to move the merchandise. Only this time, the merchandise was me.
The first girl had come in from the opposite side, and the girl after her had come in from my side. I immediately noticed that someone had used a red marker to write a large symbol on her chest. I had a similar symbol, too, and a matching one on my ass, but it was in Arabic, so I couldn’t read it. I was pretty sure it was my grade, or perhaps my lot number, as the toothless man had checked each girl’s tits when he was sorting us into groups. Then again, maybe he just liked staring at girls’ tits.
They seemed to be alternating sides, but the sales were moving briskly, and now there were only two girls in front of me. It was frustrating not being able to read, or understand was being said. There was a large poster pasted to a wall that said SLAVE AUCTION, but I couldn’t read any of the other text. The man who had taken away my contact lenses during my training had actually spanked my bottom for having them. It was better for slave girls to be illiterate—their duties did not require reading.
I swallowed hard, gasping for air as one of the girls on my side left us. I watched her tiny bare feet scamper up the steps and onto the yellow marble block.
“Oh, this is brilliant,” I gushed, smiling at Omar as I bent over to examine the tile work on the front of the auction block. It had two squares, turned on their sides, overlapping. “Oh, my, Qallalin tiles. Exquisite craftsmanship. And what a darling design.”
“It is not meant to be darling, Lady Charlotte. It is the African symbol for slavery,” Omar explained. ‘The interlocking diamonds represent two cuffs.”
“Oh, I see now!” I said brightly. “A pictographic language. You people are so clever.”
“It is our language,” Omar said. “There is nothing clever about it.”
I reached for the top of the auction block, hoping to rub its surface. Firmly but politely, Omar stepped in my way.
“Please, Lady Charlotte. The block is an ancient relic, reaching back to the very dawn of civilization. We ask that visitors do not touch it.”
“May I stand on it?”
“No,” he said. “It is forbidden.”
“I’ll slip off my shoes,” I said, offering a compromise.
“You’ll have to slip off more than your shoes, my dear,” Omar said, smiling. “When a girl is offered up for sale on that block, she is most entirely naked.”
I blushed under Omar’s sly smile, but quickly recovered. “You said this market is in use, for selling slave girls,” I countered. “What’s the big deal? I don’t see why I can’t step on the block, if others can?”
Omar’s smile tightened. “Lady Charlotte, I know you do not mean to insult me, but while this is my place of business, ‘the big deal’ is that it is also an ancient site with a rich historic tradition. The block you are looking at is legendary, and slave girls take great pride in being sold here. This is a place of honor and tradition, not an art museum or a zoo where the British aristocracy can come and gawk at other cultures.”
I couldn’t think. It was loud, and noisy, and I could hear the voices of the bidders to my left. I didn’t dare look at them, for that was not permitted. I could not make eye contact with them until I was on the block, squatting, spreading my butt cheeks, and showing off my nakedness to anyone who cared to bid on me. I could look at the bidders then, to seduce them with my eyes.
The angry looking man on my left, carrying a switch, hand already struck the ass of a girl who had forgotten to keep her eyes focused straight ahead. And so, I focused on the dancing black feet and pink soles of the girl on the block.
The current item for sale was black, but Omar’s inventory was wonderfully diverse. They sold Africans, Asians, Latin Americans, Americans, and Europeans. It wouldn’t have surprised me to see an Eskimo up on the block. She might have felt cold without a coat, if it wasn’t for the hot desert air.
I was a member of the British aristocracy, filthy rich, and a member of the .01%. But Omar’s was, in his words, “totally egalitarian”. Stripped of everything, I was just pussy to be sold.
“Money, titles, and educations don’t matter here,” Omar said proudly. “The auction block is the great equalizer. Here, the market determines a girl’s worth.”
Omar was right. Stripped of everything, I was no different than the Italian girl kidnapped by Somali pirates or the native girl sold to Omar’s by her jealous stepmother. I was simply “gash for cash”, as they saying goes.
It made sense that I could not look at the bidders, really. The auctioneer wanted to keep the focus on the merchandise on the block, and he didn’t want me to create a distraction by batting my eyes at one of the buyers. My turn would come, soon enough.
“Hello, Charlotte,” a familiar voice said. “You’re looking… fit.”
I knew the man who was speaking to me, but his presence was so out of context that I stared at him, mouth agape, struggling to remember who he was. He was older, a bit portly, with graying temples, boring glasses, and a craggily smile, and I had known him for many years.
“I’m Winston Campbell. I’m your father’s solicitor. I’m on the board with you, too.”
“Oh, yes, of course, Winston. Good to see you,” I said, offering him my hand, as if I was greeting him at a meeting of the Board of Directors, and not standing naked in a slave market.
Winston chuckled, amused by the absurdity of a naked slave girl offering to shake his hand, as if we were in anyway equivalent. But he dutifully played along, squeezing my little hand, then pulling up as he let go so he could “accidentally” brush my nipple.
“I wanted to say hello, and assure you that I’m here to make sure that everything goes off without a hitch.”
“You’re going to save me, then?” I asked.
“Oh, heavens, no! You may have heard that the papers have reported your death. It saves your father quite a bit of embarrassment. One can’t exactly have a naked slave girl as a daughter, can they? But it will be quite a mix if someone buys you and sets you free, or if your sale doesn’t go off. That would create something of a legal muddle, what with us faking your death and all. That’s why I’m here.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “You’re not here to help me?”
“If by helping you, you mean helping to get you properly sold, then I am very much here to help you. Once that gavel falls, you will officially become a slave. Under international law you will cease to exist, except as property. So legally, you are effectively dead, and we can close your estate. Even if you escape, whoever finds you will return you to the authorities, who will either return you to your owner, or resell you at a public auction as unclaimed goods. So, from a purely legal standpoint, it’s essential that this first sale go off without a hitch.”
“I see,” I said, defaulting to the pensive tone I used at board meetings. “I suppose that does make perfect sense. In any event, best to leave the legal matters to you.”
“Indeed,” he said. I blushed as his eyes slowly ran up and down my naked body. “Fortunately, I don’t anticipate any issues. I think the… merchandise in question is quite salable, and should fetch an excellent price. Of course, I’ll know for sure once I see it properly displayed.”
Winston glanced over at the auction block, where the black girl was bent over, and spreading her butt cheeks.
I pointed at the red writing scribbled my chest. “Winston, what does this mean?” I pleaded.
“Oh, THAT,” Winston chuckled, as if solving a childish riddle of no great import. Winston held up his program, which appeared to be written in both English and Arabic. “It’s your item number. It means you’re number 7,” he replied, smiling indulgently. “See?”
The gavel fell, marking the end of another sale, as Winston quickly thumbed the thick glossy catalog for today’s programs, searching for the inventory he was looking for. “Let’s see… they’re selling 175 girls today,” he said as he searched. “Small wonder they’re moving things along. Yes, here you are. See, that’s your item number. All neat and tidy.”
I stared at the page describing the “item” being sold, rendered numb in shock and disbelief. There was some minimal text, which I couldn’t read even at this close range, having been rendered for all practical purposes illiterate when they robbed me of my eyewear.
There were only a few words, my entire life reduced to a tweet. I recognized the smiling picture of me in the upper left-hand corner. It was a cropped headshot, taken from a picture of me that appeared in the British edition of Vogue. It was an article celebrating my restoration of the family’s estate in Kent. Or perhaps it was an article about one of my charities?
No matter, for it was the other photos that dominated the page: photos of me rubbing my pussy, and showing off my asshole, and teasing my nipples, with an idiotic, bimbo grin on my face.
Seeing my stricken look, Winston tried to assure me. “I think your page turned out quite well, actually. One of the nicer ones, I’d say,” he added, thumbing through the booklet of naked women. “It’s quite a nice… spread. Have to show the buyers what they want to see,” he said, chuckling. I think they prep the goods quite nicely here, don't you think? I mean, look at you: hair all fluffed and nipples all perky. And of course...your bottom," he said, his voice trailing off.
I looked up at the enormous cursive O carved into the stone on the wall overlooking the auction block. "That's a cracking good logo you have there," I said, stroking my chin as I observed the object d'art. "It's quite distinctive. Delicate, but striking."
"I'm glad you like it," Omar said. "It's our hallmark, our mark of quality. We put it on all of finest goods, rather like a maker's mark."
"Really?" I said, my voice betraying my surprise. "You sell silver and glasses and things here? This doesn't seem like the sort of place you'd buy trinkets. Still, If you have a T-shirt or something, I'd like to buy it. Take it home as a souvenir."
"Our hallmark is not for sale, my dear," Omar said, "although some of the women who leave this place do take it with them."
"I don't understand," I said, pouting. "Why can't I have one?"
"Because we brand it on the slave girl's bottoms."
Shocked, I turned back to look at the O emblazoned on the wall. It now looked horrifying, scandalous, and enormous. The blood drained from my face, and my cheeks clenched in fearful anticipation as I wondered what it might be like to wear Omar's brand.
"It did turn out quite nicely," I said, turning and running my hand over the large O that had been branded on my bottom, admiring it over my shoulder. "I'm quite proud of it, actually. Only the finest slave girls get it."
"Congratulations, my dear. It looks quite smart on that tight little bottom of yours. Butt brands that large don't always flatter, but it suits you well. Tell me, did they use anesthesia?"
"That wouldn't be very traditional, would it?" I said, chuckling at his naïveté. "They did give me a very old leather bit, so I wouldn't bite off my tongue. Sometimes the old ways are the best."
"Quite right," Winston agreed, in a tone that suggested we were discussing the traditional marching order for a royal parade.
“Moob-on!” The gavel fell. The girl in front of me disappeared. My stomach dropped.
Stroking his chin, Winston reviewed my naked body with a thoughtful, penetrating gaze. "Truth be told, Charlotte, I'm quite looking forward to getting a better look at you, up on the block" he added. "All bent and spread. Get to see all the little details, that way, in all those secret, private places." I blushed as he moved his head around to appraise my nakedness from different angles.
"That's what makes Omar's such a prime market," I said, trying for the last few minutes of my existence to sound my plucky and cheerful self. "Parading girls naked on the block, and cracking the whip. Sometimes the old ways are the best."
"Quite right," he agreed.
“Moob-on!” The gavel fell. The girl in front of me disappeared.
“Is my husband here?” I asked, hoping I might yet be saved.
“He might be. Although I think he might have already made his purchase, and left. Don’t worry, though, there are lots of people who know you here. You’ll see lots of friendly faces, and a lot of family friends. All the best people.”
The gavel BANGED, and another girl was sold.
“They are ruthlessly efficient here,” Winston said. “Bring them in from both sides, I mean. It really keeps things moving.”
“Well, they’ve had over two thousand years to perfect the system,” I noted wryly.
“Well, then I’m leaving you in extremely capable hands. I don’t want to keep you. Ta-tah!”
I was the next in line, only inches from the steps. They were selling an American girl, a blonde, probably some idiot student who wandered away from her group on Spring Break. Being American wouldn’t help her here, just as being a British aristocrat wouldn’t help me. Who we once were didn’t matter. Now, we were all just naked slave girls.
I looked down at the granite steps, three of them, leading up to the block. They had warned us they were uneven, worn down from countless little slave girl feet who had run up and down the steps over the years, but we needed to move fast anyway. The buyers were important men and couldn’t be kept waiting for a silly slave girl.
“Would you allow me to go on the block if I told you that I own the place?” I asked, smiling triumphantly as I played my ace-in-the-hole.
“Excuse me?” Omar said.
“I own this place. My family founded the African Spice Company in 1721, and they purchased the slave market as part of a general diversification. We hold the land and building today under Consolidated Spices & Investments.”
“You own Consolidated Spices?” Omar said. “Seriously?”
“Yes. That’s why I was so interested in touring your little slave market. Not only do we lease this space to you, but I am also a major investor in your business, through two holding companies, so no one is the wiser. People of my sort can’t be seen as being involved with people like you, don’t you know.”
“I know indeed,” Omar said. “Only your money is involved. And many of your titled friends are my best customers.”
“The point is, Omar, I own everything here. So, if I wish to see the view from the auction block, I have every right to do so.”
Omar paused, and considered the matter before speaking. His voice was calm, but solemn.
“I am afraid I must respectfully disagree. Yes, you own the building. If you wish, you can terminate my lease. But remember, dating back to Alexander, and before, the only women who have been permitted to step onto this block have been naked slave girls. This is not a place of tourists, or Instagram posts. The girls who go up these steps do so to squat, and bend, and rub themselves, for the buyer’s evaluation.”
“Do you wish to disrespect the legacy of the countless slave girls who have come before you? Their view from the auction was not of a tranquil courtyard, scented with flowers, but of lustful men bidding on their naked bodies. They revealed all of their most secret places, under the crack of the whip, as part of a long and unbroken tradition. As long as I am in charge of this site, I will respect its heritage, customs and traditions. For that, Lady Charlotte, is what makes us civilized.”
Omar, stepped back, giving me ample room to mount the steps of the auction block, if I cared to.
I very much wanted to. But try as I might, I could not. Omar was right. I did not belong on those steps.
“Another time, perhaps,” I said, as I turned to leave.
“Yes, my lady,” Omar said enigmatically. “Another time.”
As Omar had noted, I had slipped off far more than my shoes. I stood naked, rubbing my pussy in preparation for the block, staring at the stone steps in front of me. I was transfixed by their beauty, and rich sense of history.
Winston had said they were selling 175 girls today. If they held auctions three times a week, since the time of Alexander, how many of my sisters had gone before me? How many would go after?
I didn’t even hear the gavel come down. Three taps of the whip upon my naked bottom signaled me that it was time for me to run up the stairs. The stairs were rough, with grooves from all the naked slave girl feet, but my entrance was graceful and beautiful.
I began my routine by turning, and showing them Omar’s brand, burned on my butt, smiling over my shoulder as I proudly displayed my hallmark of quality. Squinting, I thought I saw Lord Wellington raise his cane to bid on me, and Lord Kensington raise his rolled program high as he perused my naked body. I saw a sea of raised hand, hats, and auction paddles, held by various people whose nationalities I did not know.
I bent over, legs spread, and put my hands flat on the worn yellow marble, opening myself up for the buyers like a flower. Legally, perhaps, I still owned this auction block, at least until the gavel fell, and I disappeared forever.
The auctioneer tapped my bottom with the switch, and I leaned forward more, and began to rub my wet pussy for the buyers’ appraisal. My cheeks flinched as he swished his long crop through the air with wicked WHOOSH, causing my asshole to twitch, and the buyers to laugh.
Lady Charlotte might own this market, and the block I was standing on, but the market owned number 7, the little slut the men were bidding on. I did not try to see who was bidding on me, but merely look back and smiled, as I rubbed my hot drippy pussy.
I was careful not to let my busy fingers obstruct the buyer’s view, for they had a right to see what they were bidding on. Lady Charlotte could terminate Omar’s lease, but number 7 was simply tits and ass, pussy for sale.
Millions of slave girls had graced this block before me, but this was my moment. No one objected to me standing in this legendary place of honor, for this is where I belonged. My time had come.
I stood in the courtyard of my friend Omar’s slave market, sweat pouring down my back, my heart beating like a triphammer, awaiting my turn on the auction block. I was naked as a newborn, save the iron collar which had been riveted shut around my neck. I think they used iron and rivets because they were traditional. The place I was standing in was all about tradition, customs, and the familiar. It was certainly familiar to me.
I had first stood here a few weeks before, although it seemed a lifetime ago. After sending my feckless husband on some useless errand, I suggested that Omar that we ‘discuss business’, and requested a tour of his establishment. Ever the gracious host, Omar readily agreed.
I had been quite smartly dressed that day, as a member of the British aristocracy should always be. “Never wear anything that you would be embarrassed to meet the Queen in”, as father used to say.
Omar was the perfect gentleman, as he pointed out the lovely mosaic tilework, the double tiered arches supporting the second story, and carefully selected assortment of fragment flowers.
“The buildings that surround the courtyard were constructed in the early 800s, although this site was used as a slave market going back to the time of Alexander the Great.”
“That would be about 300 BC,” I noted.
“Yes, I think that’s right. If you look at the front of the yard, that’s actually the auction block that was used in Alexander’s time. The tile mosaic work around the sides was added later, but the granite on top of the block dates back to antiquity.”
The gavel fell, and I jumped a bit as the auctioneer yelled something like “Moob-on”. I thought he said, “move on”, but as he was speaking mostly in Arabic, he probably was saying “sold”. In any event, the “lot” that had been sold moved offstage, and the new “lot” moved on.
Whether it’s Sotheby’s or Omar’s slave market, an auction is an auction, after all. There are bidders holding up numbered paddles or umbrellas, an auctioneer, and a bang of the gavel to mark the completion of the sale. The proceedings were brisk, for one has to move the merchandise. Only this time, the merchandise was me.
The first girl had come in from the opposite side, and the girl after her had come in from my side. I immediately noticed that someone had used a red marker to write a large symbol on her chest. I had a similar symbol, too, and a matching one on my ass, but it was in Arabic, so I couldn’t read it. I was pretty sure it was my grade, or perhaps my lot number, as the toothless man had checked each girl’s tits when he was sorting us into groups. Then again, maybe he just liked staring at girls’ tits.
They seemed to be alternating sides, but the sales were moving briskly, and now there were only two girls in front of me. It was frustrating not being able to read, or understand was being said. There was a large poster pasted to a wall that said SLAVE AUCTION, but I couldn’t read any of the other text. The man who had taken away my contact lenses during my training had actually spanked my bottom for having them. It was better for slave girls to be illiterate—their duties did not require reading.
I swallowed hard, gasping for air as one of the girls on my side left us. I watched her tiny bare feet scamper up the steps and onto the yellow marble block.
“Oh, this is brilliant,” I gushed, smiling at Omar as I bent over to examine the tile work on the front of the auction block. It had two squares, turned on their sides, overlapping. “Oh, my, Qallalin tiles. Exquisite craftsmanship. And what a darling design.”
“It is not meant to be darling, Lady Charlotte. It is the African symbol for slavery,” Omar explained. ‘The interlocking diamonds represent two cuffs.”
“Oh, I see now!” I said brightly. “A pictographic language. You people are so clever.”
“It is our language,” Omar said. “There is nothing clever about it.”
I reached for the top of the auction block, hoping to rub its surface. Firmly but politely, Omar stepped in my way.
“Please, Lady Charlotte. The block is an ancient relic, reaching back to the very dawn of civilization. We ask that visitors do not touch it.”
“May I stand on it?”
“No,” he said. “It is forbidden.”
“I’ll slip off my shoes,” I said, offering a compromise.
“You’ll have to slip off more than your shoes, my dear,” Omar said, smiling. “When a girl is offered up for sale on that block, she is most entirely naked.”
I blushed under Omar’s sly smile, but quickly recovered. “You said this market is in use, for selling slave girls,” I countered. “What’s the big deal? I don’t see why I can’t step on the block, if others can?”
Omar’s smile tightened. “Lady Charlotte, I know you do not mean to insult me, but while this is my place of business, ‘the big deal’ is that it is also an ancient site with a rich historic tradition. The block you are looking at is legendary, and slave girls take great pride in being sold here. This is a place of honor and tradition, not an art museum or a zoo where the British aristocracy can come and gawk at other cultures.”
I couldn’t think. It was loud, and noisy, and I could hear the voices of the bidders to my left. I didn’t dare look at them, for that was not permitted. I could not make eye contact with them until I was on the block, squatting, spreading my butt cheeks, and showing off my nakedness to anyone who cared to bid on me. I could look at the bidders then, to seduce them with my eyes.
The angry looking man on my left, carrying a switch, hand already struck the ass of a girl who had forgotten to keep her eyes focused straight ahead. And so, I focused on the dancing black feet and pink soles of the girl on the block.
The current item for sale was black, but Omar’s inventory was wonderfully diverse. They sold Africans, Asians, Latin Americans, Americans, and Europeans. It wouldn’t have surprised me to see an Eskimo up on the block. She might have felt cold without a coat, if it wasn’t for the hot desert air.
I was a member of the British aristocracy, filthy rich, and a member of the .01%. But Omar’s was, in his words, “totally egalitarian”. Stripped of everything, I was just pussy to be sold.
“Money, titles, and educations don’t matter here,” Omar said proudly. “The auction block is the great equalizer. Here, the market determines a girl’s worth.”
Omar was right. Stripped of everything, I was no different than the Italian girl kidnapped by Somali pirates or the native girl sold to Omar’s by her jealous stepmother. I was simply “gash for cash”, as they saying goes.
It made sense that I could not look at the bidders, really. The auctioneer wanted to keep the focus on the merchandise on the block, and he didn’t want me to create a distraction by batting my eyes at one of the buyers. My turn would come, soon enough.
“Hello, Charlotte,” a familiar voice said. “You’re looking… fit.”
I knew the man who was speaking to me, but his presence was so out of context that I stared at him, mouth agape, struggling to remember who he was. He was older, a bit portly, with graying temples, boring glasses, and a craggily smile, and I had known him for many years.
“I’m Winston Campbell. I’m your father’s solicitor. I’m on the board with you, too.”
“Oh, yes, of course, Winston. Good to see you,” I said, offering him my hand, as if I was greeting him at a meeting of the Board of Directors, and not standing naked in a slave market.
Winston chuckled, amused by the absurdity of a naked slave girl offering to shake his hand, as if we were in anyway equivalent. But he dutifully played along, squeezing my little hand, then pulling up as he let go so he could “accidentally” brush my nipple.
“I wanted to say hello, and assure you that I’m here to make sure that everything goes off without a hitch.”
“You’re going to save me, then?” I asked.
“Oh, heavens, no! You may have heard that the papers have reported your death. It saves your father quite a bit of embarrassment. One can’t exactly have a naked slave girl as a daughter, can they? But it will be quite a mix if someone buys you and sets you free, or if your sale doesn’t go off. That would create something of a legal muddle, what with us faking your death and all. That’s why I’m here.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “You’re not here to help me?”
“If by helping you, you mean helping to get you properly sold, then I am very much here to help you. Once that gavel falls, you will officially become a slave. Under international law you will cease to exist, except as property. So legally, you are effectively dead, and we can close your estate. Even if you escape, whoever finds you will return you to the authorities, who will either return you to your owner, or resell you at a public auction as unclaimed goods. So, from a purely legal standpoint, it’s essential that this first sale go off without a hitch.”
“I see,” I said, defaulting to the pensive tone I used at board meetings. “I suppose that does make perfect sense. In any event, best to leave the legal matters to you.”
“Indeed,” he said. I blushed as his eyes slowly ran up and down my naked body. “Fortunately, I don’t anticipate any issues. I think the… merchandise in question is quite salable, and should fetch an excellent price. Of course, I’ll know for sure once I see it properly displayed.”
Winston glanced over at the auction block, where the black girl was bent over, and spreading her butt cheeks.
I pointed at the red writing scribbled my chest. “Winston, what does this mean?” I pleaded.
“Oh, THAT,” Winston chuckled, as if solving a childish riddle of no great import. Winston held up his program, which appeared to be written in both English and Arabic. “It’s your item number. It means you’re number 7,” he replied, smiling indulgently. “See?”
The gavel fell, marking the end of another sale, as Winston quickly thumbed the thick glossy catalog for today’s programs, searching for the inventory he was looking for. “Let’s see… they’re selling 175 girls today,” he said as he searched. “Small wonder they’re moving things along. Yes, here you are. See, that’s your item number. All neat and tidy.”
I stared at the page describing the “item” being sold, rendered numb in shock and disbelief. There was some minimal text, which I couldn’t read even at this close range, having been rendered for all practical purposes illiterate when they robbed me of my eyewear.
There were only a few words, my entire life reduced to a tweet. I recognized the smiling picture of me in the upper left-hand corner. It was a cropped headshot, taken from a picture of me that appeared in the British edition of Vogue. It was an article celebrating my restoration of the family’s estate in Kent. Or perhaps it was an article about one of my charities?
No matter, for it was the other photos that dominated the page: photos of me rubbing my pussy, and showing off my asshole, and teasing my nipples, with an idiotic, bimbo grin on my face.
Seeing my stricken look, Winston tried to assure me. “I think your page turned out quite well, actually. One of the nicer ones, I’d say,” he added, thumbing through the booklet of naked women. “It’s quite a nice… spread. Have to show the buyers what they want to see,” he said, chuckling. I think they prep the goods quite nicely here, don't you think? I mean, look at you: hair all fluffed and nipples all perky. And of course...your bottom," he said, his voice trailing off.
I looked up at the enormous cursive O carved into the stone on the wall overlooking the auction block. "That's a cracking good logo you have there," I said, stroking my chin as I observed the object d'art. "It's quite distinctive. Delicate, but striking."
"I'm glad you like it," Omar said. "It's our hallmark, our mark of quality. We put it on all of finest goods, rather like a maker's mark."
"Really?" I said, my voice betraying my surprise. "You sell silver and glasses and things here? This doesn't seem like the sort of place you'd buy trinkets. Still, If you have a T-shirt or something, I'd like to buy it. Take it home as a souvenir."
"Our hallmark is not for sale, my dear," Omar said, "although some of the women who leave this place do take it with them."
"I don't understand," I said, pouting. "Why can't I have one?"
"Because we brand it on the slave girl's bottoms."
Shocked, I turned back to look at the O emblazoned on the wall. It now looked horrifying, scandalous, and enormous. The blood drained from my face, and my cheeks clenched in fearful anticipation as I wondered what it might be like to wear Omar's brand.
"It did turn out quite nicely," I said, turning and running my hand over the large O that had been branded on my bottom, admiring it over my shoulder. "I'm quite proud of it, actually. Only the finest slave girls get it."
"Congratulations, my dear. It looks quite smart on that tight little bottom of yours. Butt brands that large don't always flatter, but it suits you well. Tell me, did they use anesthesia?"
"That wouldn't be very traditional, would it?" I said, chuckling at his naïveté. "They did give me a very old leather bit, so I wouldn't bite off my tongue. Sometimes the old ways are the best."
"Quite right," Winston agreed, in a tone that suggested we were discussing the traditional marching order for a royal parade.
“Moob-on!” The gavel fell. The girl in front of me disappeared. My stomach dropped.
Stroking his chin, Winston reviewed my naked body with a thoughtful, penetrating gaze. "Truth be told, Charlotte, I'm quite looking forward to getting a better look at you, up on the block" he added. "All bent and spread. Get to see all the little details, that way, in all those secret, private places." I blushed as he moved his head around to appraise my nakedness from different angles.
"That's what makes Omar's such a prime market," I said, trying for the last few minutes of my existence to sound my plucky and cheerful self. "Parading girls naked on the block, and cracking the whip. Sometimes the old ways are the best."
"Quite right," he agreed.
“Moob-on!” The gavel fell. The girl in front of me disappeared.
“Is my husband here?” I asked, hoping I might yet be saved.
“He might be. Although I think he might have already made his purchase, and left. Don’t worry, though, there are lots of people who know you here. You’ll see lots of friendly faces, and a lot of family friends. All the best people.”
The gavel BANGED, and another girl was sold.
“They are ruthlessly efficient here,” Winston said. “Bring them in from both sides, I mean. It really keeps things moving.”
“Well, they’ve had over two thousand years to perfect the system,” I noted wryly.
“Well, then I’m leaving you in extremely capable hands. I don’t want to keep you. Ta-tah!”
I was the next in line, only inches from the steps. They were selling an American girl, a blonde, probably some idiot student who wandered away from her group on Spring Break. Being American wouldn’t help her here, just as being a British aristocrat wouldn’t help me. Who we once were didn’t matter. Now, we were all just naked slave girls.
I looked down at the granite steps, three of them, leading up to the block. They had warned us they were uneven, worn down from countless little slave girl feet who had run up and down the steps over the years, but we needed to move fast anyway. The buyers were important men and couldn’t be kept waiting for a silly slave girl.
“Would you allow me to go on the block if I told you that I own the place?” I asked, smiling triumphantly as I played my ace-in-the-hole.
“Excuse me?” Omar said.
“I own this place. My family founded the African Spice Company in 1721, and they purchased the slave market as part of a general diversification. We hold the land and building today under Consolidated Spices & Investments.”
“You own Consolidated Spices?” Omar said. “Seriously?”
“Yes. That’s why I was so interested in touring your little slave market. Not only do we lease this space to you, but I am also a major investor in your business, through two holding companies, so no one is the wiser. People of my sort can’t be seen as being involved with people like you, don’t you know.”
“I know indeed,” Omar said. “Only your money is involved. And many of your titled friends are my best customers.”
“The point is, Omar, I own everything here. So, if I wish to see the view from the auction block, I have every right to do so.”
Omar paused, and considered the matter before speaking. His voice was calm, but solemn.
“I am afraid I must respectfully disagree. Yes, you own the building. If you wish, you can terminate my lease. But remember, dating back to Alexander, and before, the only women who have been permitted to step onto this block have been naked slave girls. This is not a place of tourists, or Instagram posts. The girls who go up these steps do so to squat, and bend, and rub themselves, for the buyer’s evaluation.”
“Do you wish to disrespect the legacy of the countless slave girls who have come before you? Their view from the auction was not of a tranquil courtyard, scented with flowers, but of lustful men bidding on their naked bodies. They revealed all of their most secret places, under the crack of the whip, as part of a long and unbroken tradition. As long as I am in charge of this site, I will respect its heritage, customs and traditions. For that, Lady Charlotte, is what makes us civilized.”
Omar, stepped back, giving me ample room to mount the steps of the auction block, if I cared to.
I very much wanted to. But try as I might, I could not. Omar was right. I did not belong on those steps.
“Another time, perhaps,” I said, as I turned to leave.
“Yes, my lady,” Omar said enigmatically. “Another time.”
As Omar had noted, I had slipped off far more than my shoes. I stood naked, rubbing my pussy in preparation for the block, staring at the stone steps in front of me. I was transfixed by their beauty, and rich sense of history.
Winston had said they were selling 175 girls today. If they held auctions three times a week, since the time of Alexander, how many of my sisters had gone before me? How many would go after?
I didn’t even hear the gavel come down. Three taps of the whip upon my naked bottom signaled me that it was time for me to run up the stairs. The stairs were rough, with grooves from all the naked slave girl feet, but my entrance was graceful and beautiful.
I began my routine by turning, and showing them Omar’s brand, burned on my butt, smiling over my shoulder as I proudly displayed my hallmark of quality. Squinting, I thought I saw Lord Wellington raise his cane to bid on me, and Lord Kensington raise his rolled program high as he perused my naked body. I saw a sea of raised hand, hats, and auction paddles, held by various people whose nationalities I did not know.
I bent over, legs spread, and put my hands flat on the worn yellow marble, opening myself up for the buyers like a flower. Legally, perhaps, I still owned this auction block, at least until the gavel fell, and I disappeared forever.
The auctioneer tapped my bottom with the switch, and I leaned forward more, and began to rub my wet pussy for the buyers’ appraisal. My cheeks flinched as he swished his long crop through the air with wicked WHOOSH, causing my asshole to twitch, and the buyers to laugh.
Lady Charlotte might own this market, and the block I was standing on, but the market owned number 7, the little slut the men were bidding on. I did not try to see who was bidding on me, but merely look back and smiled, as I rubbed my hot drippy pussy.
I was careful not to let my busy fingers obstruct the buyer’s view, for they had a right to see what they were bidding on. Lady Charlotte could terminate Omar’s lease, but number 7 was simply tits and ass, pussy for sale.
Millions of slave girls had graced this block before me, but this was my moment. No one objected to me standing in this legendary place of honor, for this is where I belonged. My time had come.