Collateral Damage Pt. 02

It took almost an hour for my husband Jacques to find me. I was in the slave trader's parlor, a large and beautifully decorated room with intricately patterned red carpets and plush velvet drapes. The room was decorated with oil paintings depicting the auction of naked women, and several life-sized statues of naked slave women chained on their knees or standing on the auction block. The beautiful artwork linked the room to the grandeur of antiquity and the long tradition of female slavery, legitimizing and ennobling the room's mercantile purpose.

The room was reserved for the finest merchandise and was crowded with wealthy men, but the most notable feature of the room was the women. There were 9 of us, all naked, all beautiful, all on display as merchandise to be vended. Some stood on marble pedestals, some knelt on chairs. I was kneeling on a lovely circular wooden table decorated on the edges with a hand carved frieze of a slave auction. It was in this scene of refined elegance that I and the other naked slave woman were groped, assessed, discussed, and bid upon until money changed hands and the transaction was complete.

I saw Jacques before he saw me. I thought his eyes lingered a bit too long on some of the naked slave sluts, squirming in their own luscious juices as the buyers pawed them. I vowed I would reprimand him later. When his eyes finally saw me, naked and on all fours on the assessment table, his face registered both relief and horror.

Saad and the banker had been enjoying a drink by the fire, but Saad broke off the conversation and intercepted Jacques just as he reached me.

"I thought it might amuse you too look at this," he said, handing him a file. "She is now a registered slave."

"A slave?" Jacques said, looking at the folder with astonishment.

"Yes," Saad replied. "Legally she is a slave. Under our laws she is not your wife anymore, because slaves cannot be married. She will be collateral until Monday, or, if you choose, she is sold."

"Sold?" Jacques said, repeating the word as if he could believe it.

My heart sank as I watched Jacques open the folder and read the humiliating account of my enslavement. Every part of me had been measured and documented: my ears, the distance between my eyes, the length of my pussy lips, and even the circumference of my tiny bottom hole, which was described as "exquisitely sensitive to the touch, and deliciously snappy." My pussy was described as "slave hot", a shameful and degrading description which nonetheless was impossible to deny. The bottom of the page contained two locks of my golden blond hair, under a piece of cellophane. One lock was taken from my head, while the other blonde curls were had been clipped off my sopping wet sex.

As Jacques perused the official record of my humiliation the buyers continued to poke, fondle, and examine my naked body.

"Nice titties on this one. These nipples are soft. She hasn't dropped a litter yet."

"When she does you'll have milk for your morning tea, my friend. Ha-ha."

Behind me two young men in their late teens examined my sex. "She's a randy bitch all right."

"Yes, feel how juicy she is?"

"She's dribbling like a hot spring," he said.

"They say slave juice make an excellent marinade. I know a man who uses it in his barbeque sauce."

"Go ahead and give her a rub!"

One of the young men inserted his fingers into me while the other played with my clit. I squirmed with pleasure, but my attention was focused on Jacques. I watched as his gaze roamed my file. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened wide in disbelief.

As I looked up at him my eyes filled with tears. I knew what the last page showed: it was my slave registration number, which had been permanently inked to the inside of my front lip.

Unable to believe his eyes Jacques reached out and inserted his index and middle fingers into my mouth. Spreading his fingers widely he lifted up the corners, pulling my lip up high over my gum until my slave tattoo was fully visible. He pulled the gum high, and I felt like nothing so much as a horse or a dog having its teeth and gums checked at the veterinarian. He did not seem to care. Putting the slave folder next to my face he checked each number, one at a time, glancing first at the sheet and then at the big black numbers in my mouth as if to verify that all was in order.

I swallowed hard as I watched him mouth out each letter. "It has an official seal," he muttered to no one in particular, looking at the wax seal at the bottom of the page. It did indeed.

With the top of my lip pressed against my nose he checked the form against the enormous, thick black slave number on the inside of my lip, going character by character, verifying each of the six characters.

"Q"

"R"

"6"

"3"

"5"

"0"

There was no mistake. QR6350 had been registered. As the saliva dripped out of my gaping mouth and the tittering teenagers fingered my sex my greatest shame was the look of disappointment and defeat on my husband's face.

Jacques said nothing. To my surprise he simply kept looking at my lip, running his fingers over the number, assessing my tattoo thoughtfully.

Then he smiled!

His smile was slight, but it crushed me to the core. My welling tears flowed freely out of my eyes even as I grunted in pleasure from the buyer's teasing fingers.

Legally I was now a slave, a pleasure slut who could be used, bought, or sold. Jacques would not rescue me; indeed, he seemed pleased to see me get my comeuppance. Any dream I had of rescue was the foolish fantasy of an uppity slave girl who did not yet know her place.

Jacques smug, satisfied smirk and the tent in his pants said all that could not be said between us. I glared up at him, my anger turning to pleasure as I quaked into yet another orgasm.

"Her pussy quivers like pudding," the lad behind me said.

"Yes, and a hot, tasty pudding at that!" the other man sniggered.

Ignoring my gasping, panting orgasm Saad directed his conversation to Jacques. "The banker thinks she should be branded. But the slave market will charge for it, so I can put it off if you wish."

As I finished my orgasm Jacques crouched until our noses were almost touching, smiling broadly as he cupped my chin in my hand, forcing me to meet his amused gaze as I gasped through my orgasm.

He lifted his eyebrows expectantly, daring me to respond in a "your serve" kind-of-way, relishing his absolute power over me.

I knew he wanted me to cave, to plead for mercy, to beg him to save me. He wanted me to abandon my last remaining scraps of self-respect to feed his gargantuan ego. His wife, the woman who hated slave sluts, was panting like a bitch in heat as she was fingered to orgasm in the slave market. His amusement was palpable.

I glared at him as he savored my anger, shame, and helplessness, despising his smug, self-satisfied smile.

His smile broadened as I opened my mouth, presumably to beg for his help. He waited expectantly...

I did not speak. Instead, I spit in his face.

It was a good shot, a huge goober, dead center. I think I got a bit in his mouth. We were so close I don't think anyone but Saad saw me spitting on him but to my delight I wiped his smug, self satisfied smile right off his grinning mug.

That showed him!

Jacques rose, wiped my spittle off his face, and turned to Saad.

"Brand her," he said. His voice was barely a whisper.

His voice had been so soft that I wasn't sure what I had heard, and the satisfaction of spitting in the bastard's face had been so enormous that I was still awash in the afterglow. I grinned up at him, still enjoying my triumph.

Saad spoke to one of the slavers, who retrieved a black iron frame that was leaning against the wall and unfolded it in the center of the room. It unfolded like a luggage rack, with a padded seat a few inches off the floor and another padded area about a foot in front of it, but a few feet higher. At first glance the device looked quite foolish, like a chair that had been put together wrong, a maze of iron bars and most incongruously, little black cup holders.

I actually laughed when I saw it fully unfolded, for it looked quite absurd, like a shop class project put together by a blind student. The seating areas were in all the wrong places; it looked a bit like a prayer kneeler, only not. It had been welded together and unfolded quite nicely, but the cup holders were horizontal rather than vertical, so the drinks would spill.

The slaver slid the legs into three deep slots in the wooden floor, bolting the frame in place.

I didn't resist when the slaver setting up the absurd contraption beckoned me over with a crooked finger; indeed, I wanted a closer look. Standing over the device it looked even more puzzling, and I watched as the man slid several iron bars out of the eyehooks that held them in place.

I don't know why men love grabbing slave girls by the back of the neck or why they grip us so hard, but where the head goes the body goes and I was quickly obliged to kneel down on the first pad and bend over the second one. I felt something cold encircle my ankles, but before I could look back another man had opened up one of the cup holders, pulled my hand through, and snapped it shut.

I tried to rise but with my hands and feet locked into place I could not. I was now kneeling over the luggage rack, my knees resting on one pad, my arms and torso from my chin to the top of my crotch resting on another. It was more comfortable than the table had been, actually, because of the thick black padding, which although quite worn and not exactly plush was an adequate cushion.

The mystery of the horizontal cup holders had been solved and the riddle of the iron bars was next. The first bar slid in over the back of my neck, the second over my shoulders, the third above my hips, and the fourth over the back of my ankles. The final iron bar slid in just below my hips, and required some adjustment so that it pressed down on my legs directly underneath my bottom.

All of these devices snapped closed like gate latches, and were easily enough undone. I could have undoubtedly stood up and released myself if only one of my hands had been free. Indeed, if my feet had been free, I might have been able to rise up and shake off the iron bars, and maybe lift the little latch holding my wrist cuffs with my toes. None of the locks was, by itself, particularly significant, but working as a group they formed an undefeatable adversary. I could not lift my neck, back, shoulders, or legs. I could not even move them. Indeed, the bar above my neck prevented me from looking up, and I found myself straining my eyes and searching the room to see what was happening. I was no longer smiling, although the men were, laughing and joking as they continued their examination of the other girls. However strange as it may seem I was still, at that point, thinking like a free woman, and my brain could not process what was about to happen.

The man who had disappeared through the door reappeared, carrying a heavy black pot with a wooden handle. It wasn't until he set the pot down a few feet in front of me and I felt the waves of heat and saw the glowing red and white coals that I even realized it was a brazier.

My brain had not completed the circuit but I knew something had gone horribly wrong. I started to scream, but as my mouth opened one of the men standing behind me fixed a leather stick between my teeth and laced it up behind my head. It was a simple device, and reminded me of the bit you might use on a horse, but fitted for a slave girl's mouth.

Kneeling down in front of me Jacques showed me the branding head. It was, indeed, as long as his thumb, but to me it looked enormous. He looked down at me, showering me with the smug, self-satisfied smirk that had inspired me to spit in his face. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he teased. "I am glad they're branding your left butt cheek. That way I can fondle your brand with my right hand while I fuck you."

Jacques handed the brand to the blacksmith, an older man in worn clothes, and work boots that made him look very different from the well-dressed gentlemen in the parlor. He had a scruffy white mustache and goatee and was wearing a thick leather smock to shield him from accidents. I, totally naked, had no such shield.

The smiling blacksmith knelt down in front of me. I watched him slowly and methodically screw the branding head to a short iron pole with a wooden handle. Several of the gentleman also gathered around to watch, sipping their drink as they enjoyed the wild, panicked look in my eyes.

"The stupid little bitch knows what's coming now," one guffawed.

"Yes. Time for some rump roast!" another man chuckled.

"Women are naturally stupid, but slave girls are the worst."

"Yes, they only understand two things: the brand and the whip."

"If you can't make them see the light make them feel the heat."

Amidst all the jocularity I could indeed feel the heat. I watched with helpless dread as the old blacksmith thrust the branding head deep into the coals and walked away.

I could not walk away. I had to watch second by agonizing second, as the branding head got hotter...and hotter... and hotter still.

"She has a nice round ass," a voice behind me said.

"Yes, it should brand up well."

"Is he going to sell her?"

"I'm not sure. That banker fellow certainly wants him to."

"Ha! He just wants his cut."

"Bankers are worse than slavers."

"Yes, at least when you pay for a slave girl, you get to do the fucking."

The men laughed. Staring at the branding iron in the hot coals, I struggled not to puke into my gag.

I couldn't move my head, but I moved my eyes to search for Jacques or Saad, the only two that could save me. I could not look up so I reduced myself to futilely searching for their shoes.

Behind me the blacksmith was tucking a tarp under the bench.

"What's that for?" one man asked.

"In case she pees," another man asked. "They don't want her to stain the floor."

"Do they really do that?"

"Yes. Cows and pigs do it, too. Sometimes they shit."

"Goodness! Don't they have any dignity?"

"Of course not. They're slaves."

I watched in terror as the blacksmith took the iron out of the fire. He blew on it, causing the tip to glow a horrible, sickening, orange red. Dissatisfied, he thrust it back into the fire.

"Isn't it hot enough?"

"It's glowing like the sun."

"No, it's orange. He wants it white."

I was sweating, both from the heat and the terror of what was about to happen to me. I chewed my leather gag, helpless to wipe the drool from my chin. I was a slave, registered and - in a few moments - branded. The brand on my ass would mark me as livestock forever more.

"Look at her drool."

"Yes, she knows what's coming, all right."

"I bet she squeals like a pig."

"Oink! Oink!"

The men laughed cruelly.

"I saw a slave bite through her gag once."

"Must have been an old gag."

"Or a really hot brand. Ha-ha!"

I tensed as I saw Jacques shoes walk behind me. I felt his hand on my left bottom cheek, then something cold. I could not move my head and it took me a moment to realize what was happening.

"Bull's-eye!" one man laughs.

"Yes, dead center. Best place for it. Right in the fat part of her rump."

To my horror I realize Jacques had used a marking pen to show the blacksmith where to burn me.

The blacksmith returns, takes the brand out of the fire and blows on it. It glows white.

The blacksmith rises and walks behind me.

"Here we go!"

"This is going to be good."

It was not good. It was not good at all. I felt the searing heat from the brand before it even reached my skin. The branding did not last for long: a second, or maybe two, but it felt like it lasted for days. Every nerve in my body screamed in pain, pain so indescribable it simply overwhelmed me. Behind me the men laughed, and applauded, and cheered. I did not care. My entire world was pain.

I peed myself, of course, because that is the way of slave girls under the iron. I did not care. The men were right: dignity was not for slave sluts.

They did not sell me. I remained in Saad's house until Monday, when the loan was repaid, at which point he deeded me over to Jacques. He immediately put me to use not as his wife, but as his slave.

Jacques sold our home and now lives in a house not far from his friend Saad. My new slave name is Sunflower, a reference to my lovely blonde sex. Master owns two other slave girls, a red headed slave girl named Fire and a girl with long, black hair and large tits he has named Silk. I love them, for they are my sisters, and we often perform together for our master's pleasure. But I am jealous of them and compete with them for my master's favor.

I didn't like it when my master started dating again. His fiancé is a haughty, jealous little bitch, impossible to please and quick to use the whip. She often asks us what it is like to be a slave, to be branded and used, and to be made to stand naked in the marketplace. Although we are not supposed to know about it sometimes she steals our dirty slave rags and pretends to be a slave. Flame, Silk, and I will listen at the bedroom door, trying not to giggle as our master orders her about, and flicks her bottom with the whip.

My master's fiancé hates us and she has made our master promise to sell one of us to help pay for the wedding. Silk, Fire, and I are competing fiercely to be most pleasing to our master. Our struggles amuse him. I know my master's new wife would like to see me standing naked on the auction block. I hope if master sell me my new master will be kind. It does not matter, though, because I know I will serve him well.

I am not worried about master's fiancé. I know her turn is coming.