A REALLY Scary Halloween

"Take it off!" she yelled, turning in a circle like a dog wearing the cone of shame. The men laughed, and added to her indignity by slapping her naked bottom as she did her pumpkin head dance.

"Taylor's right, Brittany said, uttering a phrase I never thought I would hear her utter. "These stones are hot. If we are going to run give us our sneakers and—"

The men responded by fitting a second pumpkin head onto Brittany and bolted it to her yoke. Brittany's pumpkin head was even more ridiculous, with round eyes and a round nose her own little nose poked through. The mouth was composed of a wide, idiotic grin with monstrous buckteeth.

Like Taylor, Brittany turned in a circle trying to shake her clownish pumpkin head off, shouting about how hot it was and the stink as the laughing men took turns slapping her bottom

The last girl to be fitted with her pumpkin was Julie. The pumpkin she had carved was a simple one, with a broad smile that conveyed happiness rather than fear. It had enormous round eyes, which made it easier for her to see, a convenience that I doubted she was thinking of when she carved it.

Abdul and the men laughed out loud at the sight of the three pumpkin headed, naked girls dancing in circles as their bottoms were slapped. The girls were SO ridiculous that I joined the girls in hooting and jeering at them.

"Pumpkin heads! Pumpkin heads!"

"Love your pumpkin head, Taylor. It's so chic!"

"I think Brittany looks less stupid with the pumpkin head ON!"

Abdul used a red magic marker to write "Halloween" above Brittany's breasts, and "Parade" across her belly. Turning her around he wrote "Défilé d'Halloween" in blue pen across her back.

Brittany strained to see what he was writing on her body, but it did not matter. She was not the audience for the writing; she was only a slave girl.

"Our lead parade float is labeled," he said, patting Brittany on the belly. An orange chain, black yokes, and three pumpkin heads for our Halloween street parade," Abdul called out grandly. "Since all of the ladies have their costumes on, we shall proceed!"

Abdul had often addressed the girls as "ladies" when they were being particularly disagreeable, but now, naked, yoked, and chained to a slave coffle, he troweled the title on with an extra dose of irony. As if "ladies" would be paraded naked and chained through the streets. With a pumpkin headed Brittany as our Grand Marshall, our "Halloween Parade" began.

Leaving the courtyard we rounded a corner and found ourselves at the gates of the city.

"Maybe the police will help us," Sophie said hopefully, noticing the numerous uniformed patrolmen at the gates.

The police at the gate to this section did not attempt to help us; indeed, they smiled and touched their caps and laughed with Abdul as he stopped to give them the "gratuity" common for minor services in this part of the world. I wondered if the cash he handed them contained the same bills I had given him that morning when I had ordered him out to fetch coffees. It did not matter, of course. It was not my money any longer. Slave girls did not have money.

Although the old city was sealed to Westerners we had no problem passing through the gates in our "Halloween costumes". Indeed, the laughing policemen acted like they were expecting us. I didn't understand what they were saying, but they seemed to be in good spirits, and one grabbed my ass and gave it a good squeeze as I trotted past.

I would have punched him, if it hadn't been for my lovely, antique, black, faux "Alexander-the-Great" yoke. Truly the "yoke" was on me.

It took some practice to get the rhythm but soon the lot of us were jogging naked down the street, with the man on the camel in front of us using his camel stick to clear the people out of our way. The girls had laughed at the women in their burqas, but now it was their turn for the modestly clad women to point and laugh at the naked white slave girls running barefoot to market.

Much to my surprise most of the girls adapted to the situation quickly, as if running down the street naked, yoked, barefoot, and chained was no big deal.

"Hey Professor, do we, like, get extra credit for this?" Brittany asked, her voice echoing inside her goofy pumpkin head.

"Yes, we're doing extra, we should get extra credit, right?" Alice added hopefully. "Like a lab credit, or something."

"Can I get my cellphone back when I get there?" Stephanie said. "I want to try to update my Facebook status as a slave girl!"

Even as we ran the girls continued chattering about their "cool adventure" and the bragging rights it would give them.

The men in the streets hooted at us and appraised our naked bodies freely. I was mortified, but took some comfort in the fact that at least no one knew me. I suddenly felt light headed as I imagined what my church group might think of seeing me jogging naked down the street! Many would be horrified, no doubt, but how many of my male friends would enjoy the site? How many of the old biddies would think that I got what I deserved?

Despite my horror at being catcalled as I trotted naked down the street I felt quite proud of the attention my red hair and "fire crotch" drew from my male admirers. When I had first stripped I had been worried that I wouldn't fit in with my students, since they were so much younger. But my fear was unfounded. Running down the street stark naked, collared and chained to my coffle, I was simply another piece of ass on her way to market -- and a choice and tasty piece of ass at that.

As we rounded the corner and ran into the center of the busy marketplace my humiliation -- and excitement - crashed over me in waves. I had never felt so exposed in my life. In the courtyard other naked girls surrounded me, but now, I was in a sea of fully clothed African villagers, shouting and pointing at my naked breasts and red bush.

I felt the blood rush to my face. Although in truth I was only one of two dozen girls I felt like every set of black eyes I saw was on ME, laughing, scowling, appraising, and reveling in my nudity and embarrassment. My hands formed tiny fists of frustration as I instinctively jerked against my yoke in a vain attempt to reach down to cover my breasts or crotch or bottom as we jogged past the jeering locals.

"This is a Halloween Parade, Ladies!" Abdul said merrily, putting an extra ironic emphasis on the term ladies. "Show them your treats! Let the marketplace judge which costume is the best!"

Terrible as it was, my nipples were hard and my pussy felt like it was on fire. It wasn't easy or pleasant to run naked and barefoot down the street; in fact, it was awful. However the worse it got the more excited I became.

Trotting down the street in our slave coffle, chained together by the heavy orange chain, we formed a single line of blushing humiliation. I only caught an occasionally glimpse of Brittany and Taylor's and Julie's foolish pumpkin heads and the other girlish bare bottoms bouncing in front of me, and I saw nothing of the girls behind me.

The people on the street certainly saw us and called out all manner of obscenity at us as we bounded by. Thankfully some of it was in Arabic or French or other local gibberish I did not understand, but the phrases I understood only increased my shame.

"Block girls, block girls!" one woman in a hijab called out, clapping her hands merrily with her similarly clad friends in time with the rhythm of our forced run. "Run along to the auction block!"

"Slave whores, market meat!" another old woman joined in.

"Halloween Parade! Ha! Ha! Parade them on the block. Let everyone see them naked."

"Slave pussy!"

"White pooo-sy!" one man jeered.

"Flaming bush!" one man called out to his friend, pointing at my red pubes. I squeezed my thighs together as best as I could as I ran, reveling in my pleasure even as I blushed beet red from the humiliation.

The section of the city we were running through looked truly ancient and reminded me of the back lot from an old Hollywood movie set. The streets were wide the buildings were mud brick. The wooden stalls were filled with wicker baskets filled with fresh fruits and colorful rugs and glazed pots. We had visited markets like it for the last month, and as I ran past I imagined myself laughing and giggling as I haggled with the cart peddlers over the price of the merchandise. Now I was the merchandise.

It was still early but the dirty, ancient stone felt unpleasantly hot on my bare feet, as if I were running over a rapidly heating pizza stone. With every step my bare soles discovered a sharp pebble, discarded pop-top, or a fresh animal dropping. Running over dirt and stone and the occasional deep mud puddle soon transformed our dainty white feet and carefully manicured and colorfully painted toenails into mud-encrusted boots.

As the pebbles dug into my feet I longingly eyed the cheap sandals for sale in the stalls on either side of the street. But slave girls did not wear sandals. As Abdul had slave girls must be put to market barefoot. The psychology made sense: if my bare feet made me feel more naked then so much the better.

My breast and bottom bouncing in time with my sisters I squeezed my thighs together, reveling in my helplessness, humiliation, shame, and lust.

Sometimes observers would point at Julie's, Taylor and Brittany's pumpkin heads and laugh. "Halloween! Halloween!" Abdul's men would call out by way of explanation, lifting our orange chain for emphasis. "Do you like their costumes?"

The spectators would laugh, complimenting us on our white skin and pumpkin heads. Everyone, it seemed was enjoying our parade, except for us of course.

I wondered what time it was. We had left the hotel at 7AM, and had spent perhaps an hour in the courtyard. My "block time" was 1PM. Times in this part of the world were seldom accurate, but at the sale of two to three girls per minute I imagined that I might be standing on the auction block very soon. I tried to move my head in the yoke to glance at my Apple watch, and laughed. My watch was in my "candy" bag, along with my passport and all my other possessions.

We were in good shape but the long run over the jagged stone caused our pace to flag. Seizing the moment the man with the whip moved along the coffle on his camel until he located Patrice's ripe round bottom, the same bottom he had been eyeing earlier when she had undressed. Patrice didn't see him raise the whip high over his head...

CRACK!

The whip cut through the air at supersonic speed, creating a terrifying sound that reminded me of a pistol shot mixed with a thunderclap. In an amazing act of marksmanship the man cut Patrice directly across her nicely rounded bottom without touching the girl behind her.

Patrice screamed like a banshee: a long, loud shriek that pierced the air as loudly as the whip crack that caused it. Patrice reached back to rub her bottom, her hands jerking against the stocks. As the man with the whip fell behind us we all instinctively tightened our bottoms and strained to look over our shoulders to discover who was next.

"Eyes front!" Abdul barked sharply. "If you wish to avoid the whip, run faster, you lazy sluts!"

One of the older women we were running past picked up on the taunts. "Yes, run little white slave girls, run!"

"Knees up! Make those titties bounce!"

"You can't always earn your gruel wrapping your legs around your master," another woman called out. "Today you sweat. Ha-ha!"

Conscious of the whip I worked hard, lifting my knees higher as I picked up the pace.

CRACK! I heard muffled pumpkin head Taylor scream, followed by Brittany's muffled pumpkin head voice.

"Taylor's pissing herself!" Brittany cried out merrily through her own pumpkin head.

"Shut up and keep running, idiot, or your ass is next," Jessica warned her.

The sight of the proud and disdainful Taylor pissing like a racehorse as she ran naked down the street was simply too priceless to miss and I strained to look ahead of me. Sure enough, I caught a quick glimpse of Taylor's pumpkin head, the enormous red whip welt across her bottom, and waterfall of urine scattering out of her like a broken garden sprinkler as she ran.

Our pace quickened and there were no more whip cracks behind me. The example made of Patrice and Taylor had been more than enough.

"Slave girls are stupid," one of the men riding next to me remarked. "But they learn the whip soon enough." It was true.

Trying to take my mind off the jeers and the rude squeezes and hand spanks from the crowd I focused on the red stripe on Patrice's bottom thickened and grew into a very painful looking red wheal. The whip master had caught her squarely and dead center, across both cheeks of her ripe round bottom. It was strangely beautiful, and I couldn't help but admire the craftsmanship of his work, even as my own naked bottom cheeks clenched and unclenched in nervous anticipation at the knowledge that the whip master was somewhere behind me, ogling my naked bottom as he selected his next target.

The pizza stones beneath my feet grew hotter as I wondered how Julie's alabaster skin was faring in the sun. Would the auction block be stone or wood? Would it be too hot to stand on? No doubt it would be strewn with sand, as all such blocks were, even at the goat market. "For easy cleanup," Abdul explained, if Taylor or one of us released our bladder during our sale.

The girls had giggled when he said it, but they had been clothed then, enjoying their sweetened coffee in the air-conditioned café. Soon they would be on the auction block, displaying their naked bodies for the crowd as the auctioneer cracked his whip in the air. I wondered how many of them might piss themselves at the sound of the whip. I worried that I might.

I envisioned myself naked on the block, looking down at a sea of lustful men, squatting and spreading my legs wide, bending over and spreading my butt cheeks to show my most intimate parts to the buyers. I was older but would my red pussy bring a premium price? I had no doubt Abdul would be watching from a front row seat.

As we ran down the street we passed a livestock market that was selling goats and chickens. Several goats, apparently freshly vended, were being branded. They bleated lustily as their owners mark was burned into their hides.

I noticed my sisters wincing in sympathy as our four legged brethren were subject to the iron. "Brethren" might seem a strong word, as they were only goats, but we were only slaves. We were naked and being taken to market, and titles for each of us had been prepared. In a slave market an animal is an animal.

"Look at the perky titties on that one," one of the men said, referring to Abigail.

"I like the red-headed snatch running behind her. Her pokies are sharp as sticks."

I glanced down and saw my nipples were indeed erect, a side effect of running naked and my overall excitement. Worse, the buzz between my legs was growing worse.

"Whore!" an old woman wearing a chador spat at us as we ran past. "Shameless slave whores! You all should be whipped!"

Her friend, also wearing a chador, agreed. "Peel the skin off their naked asses! Give me a whip and I will do it myself!"

I noticed it was the women in traditional garb that seemed to despise us the most. It made sense. As Western women we reveled in our freedoms and regarded them as little better than slaves. In return many of them regarded us as sluts and whores. Popular culture held us up as the standard of perfection and beauty, a standard they would never obtain. Seeing us brought low and being reduced to merchandise to be sold in an open-air market was particularly delicious revenge for them and pleased them enormously. Their reaction of the women did not surprise me; I knew that if some of the jealous old biddies in my church group would have gladly joined in if they had seen me running naked down the street.

The sun came out from behind the clouds and I began sweating profusely. The rivulets pouring down my face and back provided some relief, but embarrassment too, as I could smell my own stink overwhelming both my perfume and my deodorant. My hair began stringing together in clumps and matting to my head and I could feel the sweat pouring out from beneath my arms and into my eyes.

Worse, I became conscious of another smell, the smell of my own arousal. Running naked past jeering locals, my sweat, and the constant presence of goats and cows and camels many of whom, like us, were collared or tethered, constantly reminded me that I was now a naked animal being stampeded to market. It was a thought as humiliating as it was exciting.

The wonderful wet tingle between my legs had provided me with relief at first, but as my excitement grew I felt frustrated, as I desperately longed to reach my hand between my legs and finish the job. I wondered if the people I passed could smell my arousal.

The flies certainly could. Big black, disgusting African flies descended on us to lick up the salty stink pouring off our bodies. Abigail tried to shake her ass to rid herself some particularly noxious insects that had crawled between her bouncing butt cheeks. I jumped and nearly fell as the whip flashed between us, leaving a wicked stripe across her ass.

"Keep running, bitch!" the slave monger shouted. "Lift your knees high. Make your ass and titties bounce!" Even as she screamed Abigail did just that.

We soldiered on. The flies had their way with us, crawling over our faces and into our bottom cracks and between our legs, feasting on our musty juices. The tears coming out of my eyes only added to their feast.

The tirade of humiliating comments about my "pink nipples" and "hot red pussy" mixed in with the other catcalls about pumpkin headed Taylor's piss and the "Halloween Parade" banner written on Brittany's naked body and the stripes across Stephanie's ass and how Julie's stupid pumpkin smiled meant "she enjoyed it".

The barrage of humiliation made it impossible to judge which "costume" was best, as if that were even the point. The girls were millennials: everyone would run naked and everyone would get a trophy. We were being run through the streets because stripping us of our clothing was not enough. Abdul wanted to strip us of our dignity.

I was relieved when we stopped for water, although even that respite was not without its humiliation. The men drank from water bottles and soda cans, while we were directed to a rusty old cast iron pig trough about 15 feet long, which was, alas, currently in use by pigs being brought to market.

The yokes made it impossible for us to use our hands, which were still bolted to the sides of our heads in their wooden prison.

"On your knees, my little piggies," Abdul directed. "Don't dirty the delicious water we have prepared for you with your filthy hooves. Stick your snouts in, and start lapping!"

And so it was that the entire coffle, necks changed together, jostled with the pigs for the chance to stick our faces directly into the brackish water. The stench of the pigs and the putrid water and the other girls was nearly unbearable, but it did not matter. I was desperate for water and drank eagerly.

The trough was low, so the lot of us had to raise our naked asses high in the air as we jostled with the squealing and grunting pigs to stick our snouts in the trough.

My legs were tired, and it was a relief not to be running, but sticking my ass in the air brought a fresh wave of humiliation as a crowd began to gather around us to comment on our charms. A lot of the comments were French or African gibberish, thankfully, for the comments I did understand were dreadful.

"Look at the nice long legs on that blonde."

"Yes, she's quite the colt, isn't she?"

"Love to take her for a ride. All night long!"