In the 21st Century?

The main marketplace wasn't huge, really, but as it was just opened for the day it seemed like the whole town must be there. A few Europeans or Americans were here and there, along with several Asians, but mostly the people were African. If Steven had arrived in his expensive clothes he would not have been impressed, but now, naked and leashed, the place must have felt like a bustling Times Square.

The slave market was in an old stone building just past where we entered the main market. High walls and an absence of windows shielded it from prying eyes.

I decided to stroll up and down the shaded aisles of booths with my naked male slave in tow. Humiliating for Steven, yes, but I was a little hungry and thought I might find something to snack on. I wasn't sure how long the rest of the proceedings would take before I could have a proper meal. Or maybe I would find a souvenir.

My husband endured the laughter, jeers, and pinches of the locals as I casually browsed the fruits and vegetables, woven baskets and trinkets the market had to offer. Nudity was not unknown in this part of the world, but my handsome husband's fair skin and hazel eyes made him a novelty.

Some of the very modestly dressed women, religious no doubt, shouted at him, cursing him for his brazen nakedness. Interestingly, they never directed a single word at me.

But several of the men and women seemed appreciative. Steven regularly drew appreciative squeezes, caresses, and pinches. Although when that happened I would let it happen only for a few seconds before abandoning the basket, shirt, or pot I was examining and, with a tug of the leash, move on. He wasn't quite common property.

We spent a good thirty minutes in the marketplace, with a distressed Steven sweating, panting, fidgeting futilely against the ropes that bound his wrists, croaking as he squirmed away from touches and gropes, squeezing his legs together to lessen his exposure, and generally looking like he needed to pee the entire time.

I, on the other hand, had a lovely stroll and bought a cheap necklace of shiny green beads and a pair of barefoot sandals threaded together with some simple green twine and some green and white beads. I also bought some dates, nuts, and fruit, which I ate myself.

Steven turned down my offer to share a banana--I liked the symbolism--although he did drink most of the bottled water I had in my backpack.

After a couple trips up and down the rows of vendors, we returned to where we began--the high stone walls of the slave market building, before a thick wooden door opening into a stone archway that led into another world.

I checked between Steven's legs. He was still hard, but now a drop of clear liquid was poised at the tip of his penis.

I reached down to feel his impressive hardness for myself. "If you want to stop, we'd better do it now," I said. Steven's eyes were wide, but he shook his head as he pushed his penis against my hand.

"So be it," I said. Anticipating the next step, I too was feeling some liquid between my legs.

* *

A well-dressed Westerner would normally not be welcomed into an African slave market, especially in the interior of the country, but Steven's naked beauty was my ticket in. The rifle-toting guards didn't say a word as I used his leash to pull him through the arched stone entrance and into the main courtyard.

The open-air courtyard was formed by the connection of four buildings in a square with a 20-foot-high stone wall that ran around the perimeter. The stone wall was a rampart built centuries ago that effectively sealed the slave market off from the modern world.

Most of the inventory was naked African women, but there was also a significant number of males. Only one of other males had fair skin, and he was rather small and scrawny for my taste. In this market Steven was definitely going to be a specialty item.

There was an enormous old stone fountain in the center courtyard. The women were gathered with their wranglers on the south side of the fountain while those of us with males in tow were directed to the north side.

The water trickled slowly from the top of the fountain into a smaller stone basin and then into the large basin below. Some of the other sellers were splashing the water on their slaves to make them more presentable.

Good idea. Glistening wet skin on an attractive body is definitely more desirable.

Business was already brisk, and several haggling sessions had begun. The growing crowd was milling around, taking their opportunity to inspect the slaves before the formal auction began. The prettiest women and most handsome men were drawing the largest crowds.

Soon Steven and I were so surrounded that I couldn't see more than a few feet around us. I don't know if it was his healthy good looks or exotic skin color that created the most interest.

Several of the potential customers, male and female, were taking liberties and touching and probing Steven in their inspections of his body. I didn't feel as though I could prevent them from doing so. After all, it's only right that customers can evaluate the goods carefully before bidding.

(Nor did I really want to stop them, if I'm completely honest.)

Suddenly a booming voice cut through chatter: "Marina? My friend, what are you doing here?"

I squinted in the sunlight before recognizing the tall African wearing the blue smock-like shirt and the blue circular cap. "It is I, Banda. We met at the party last New Year's. In Chicago. Do you not remember?"

My company imports millions of dollars in African goods annually, and once the context was provided I remembered Banda immediately. At the Chicago party he'd been wearing a Western suit and had been introduced to Steven and me as an "export trade manager." A native African, his Arabic, English, and French were excellent. I remembered that he filled out the Western suit very nicely with his athletic build, and he had the sort of charm that enabled him to secure my company's lucrative business.

"Of course," I said, giving him a hug. "I'm surprised! I didn't expect to see you here of all places."

"Nor did I!" he exclaimed. "But what a delight! And what brings you to our humble market, dear Marina? Buying or selling?" he said, casting an evaluating glance at my nervous-looking husband.

"Just a price check," I chuckled, shaking Steven's rope leash as I ignored his glare. "My husband Steven has been curious about slavery--rather intensely so, I might add--so I agreed to bring him to market and give him a little taste of the life of a pleasure-slave."

Banda looked over at Steven, but Steven kept his face averted, not meeting Banda's eyes.

"My apologies," I said, "if he doesn't introduce himself, but in all the excitement he has a touch of laryngitis."

"Not a problem," Banda said to me, "In fact, that will increase his price--it is not becoming for a slave boy to chatter."

And then turning directly to Steven: "It is truly a pleasure to see you again, dear Steven," he said, glancing down and taking in Steven's rather prominent member "--particularly so much of you," he added.

His eyes scanned the rest of Steven's physique before returning to his face. "I remember you well from the party, with the tailored worsted suit in gray with the deep green tie that offset your beautiful hazel eyes. You were quite handsome then--although I must say that I much prefer what you are wearing right now," he said, laughing heartily.

His laugh was contagious, and several of the potential customers joined in his appreciation.

I know my husband's expressions well, and "aghast" doesn't do Steven's expression justice. It was bad enough to be paraded in front of anonymous strangers, but now he was stark naked and bound in front of an African merchant he had met socially at a fancy party in Chicago.

I looped Steven's rope leash around a knob on the fountain, and Banda and I wandered out of earshot for a moment. The crowd of people closed in around Steven and I lost sight of him for the next few minutes.

* *

I explained to Banda that I didn't actually want to sell Steven--but I very much wanted to teach him a memorable lesson.

"And," Banda surmised, "I sense from the state of Steven's ... groin ... that this is also an erotic experience you want him to have too?"

I didn't say anything but my own face must have betrayed something, for Banda had a knowing look in his eyes. "And for you too, I can see."

Again my silence told him what he already knew. "How ... adventuresome," he said, his eyes crinkling.

"But one serious question, Marina, in all this fun," Banda looked me directly as we became partners in this venture. "How far we can go with our pleasure in determining his price?"

I'd been considering that for a while now, and it wasn't yet clear to me how far I wanted to go down this road. Fantasy is one thing--and teaching my complaining husband a lesson is another--but we were also in the real world, and in a dangerous part of the world too.

So I said, "I will use the word Chicago if you are going too far, Banda, as a signal for you to stop. But until then, I will give you free rein."

"Excellent," he said. "I assume you want him exposed."

"Yes."

"And he can be touched."

"Yes."

"By women?"

"Okay."

"And by men?"

"Yes!" For some reason that was something I especially wanted to see.

"You want him used?"

"Oh yes."

"Abused?"

I paused to think.

"Within limits," I said slowly.

"Understood. But until we reach those limits, you want him to learn what it means to be slave?"

"Completely," I responded.

Banda smiled and nodded.

* *

"So what do you think, Banda?" I said loudly as we walked back to Steven's hitching post. Steven was clearly relieved when we came back into sight. "Can I get a fair price for him here?" I asked, very much enjoying the mix of shock, worry, and horniness on my husband's handsome face.

"I can give you my professional opinion, if you like," Banda replied, detaching the riding crop from his belt. Steven's eyes grew as wide as saucers.

"By all means," I said. "Free feel... I mean, feel free to check him out."

My husband was not amused by my word play but had little time to ponder as Banda checked his eyes, nose, teeth, tongue, hair, ears, and neck. The examination was rapid but not perfunctory, as Banda handled him like a professional who knew precisely what he was looking for. He ran his thick fingers over Steven's back, legs, thighs, ankles, and even checked the soles of his feet and between his toes.

I casually untied the rope from my backpack and tied Steven's rope leash to a worn wooden pole that was also serving as hitching post for a horse. Steven, his voice gone, grunted alongside his four-legged friend as Banda fondled his body freely.

"You have firm chest, slave boy," Banda said, squeezing Steven's pectorals like they were fruits in the marketplace. He tweaked his nipples several times. "Very nice--your nipples harden easily, and if we find the right customer that feature will bring us an excellent price. Now bend over, so I may examine the pleasure grove between your long and creamy American legs."

My blushing husband did not wish to bend over, but two insistent taps of the riding crop across his naked bottom made it clear that it was not a suggestion. Steven bent, and Banda bent him still further, capping his humiliation by roughly kicking his legs wide apart.

He slapped Steven's bottom a few times with his hand, the loud smacks drawing the attention of the crowd to Steven's finely shaped buttocks. Steven's skin was pinkish from the sun, but the smacks turned his ass brighter red.

Banda squeezed the two globes carefully, assessing their firmness, and then ran a thick finger down the crack of Steven's ass, pausing at his anus and pressing there. Steven moaned loudly at that.

The finger remained there only a few moments before Banda's hand continued its journey down to his groin and ended with it gripping Steven's fully hard cock.

"You are hard and wet, my slave slut," Banda observed. Indeed pre-cum was leaking from the tip of Steven's penis. As we all watched, another drop fell to the sandy dust between his spread-apart feet.

"Bringing you to market has put you in slave lust, and now your liquid is flowing. Let us see how hot you are."

A crowd gathered to watch my husband's shaming as Banda continued to stroke his throbbing organ. Banda addressed his voice to me but spoke loudly so everyone in the crowd could hear.

"This item would bring a fair price here, and it would be simple enough to stand him on the fountain block and sell him to the highest bidder."

I had no idea what amount of money that would be. As I scanned the faces of the potential bidders around us, men mostly but a few women, I could see them making their own calculations.

"But it would be foolish to sell merchandise of this quality in a market as small as this one. We could get a better price if we put him in tomorrow's slave caravan and marched him to the port city, where the international traders meet."

"I know that place!" I said--"it's by the hotel we stayed in when we first arrived in Africa." I enjoyed Steven's look of horror.

Then I added, "I'm sure we would even see some of our friends there."

"Ah yes," Banda chuckled as he casually worked his fingers around Steven's groin, caressing his balls lightly and squeezing his shaft firmly. "Quite a few Americans and Europeans stay there."

Steven suddenly shuddered and moaned as his orgasm consumed him, and his semen shot directly down to the dust beneath his feet. His legs weakened, and Banda released him, letting him sink to his knees in the sandy dirt below.

"I think you were born to be a pleasure-slave, my American boy," Banda said. "But quickly now, back on your feet so that everyone can see the merchandise."

Steven was slow to rise, but another touch of the crop got him hastily to his feet. He swayed a little, still recovering from his orgasm.

I had a thought. "If we're sending him to the port city, he'll need a slave sack to wear for the journey." I know Steven heard the teasing tone in my voice.

"He will not need one," Banda said. "We will march him buck naked through the streets of every village between here and the ocean so everyone can have a good look. It is a two-day trip on foot."

I let myself imagine Steven roped or chained for that long, walking naked in the sun, allowed to rest and cool in the shade when his wranglers decided, ordered to move again when told, cropped if he reacted too slowly, and otherwise on display for anyone.

Those visions made hot things surge inside me.

"Plus," Banda added, "He would fetch you a better price in euros or dollars there than he would here in the local currency."

He gave Steven another appraising look. "I personally could make you an offer for him right now, for myself." He let the tip of his crop press lightly against the tip of Steven's penis.

"Are we negotiating?" I chuckled.

"Always. You can trust me to deal fairly with you, my friend. Your firm's business is worth far more to my employer than the profits from a single American. Or we can put him on the block today and I will give you 60% of his auction price."

Steven looked imploringly at me. I couldn't tell which of the options he'd prefer. To be purchased for the black man's use? Or to have the auction and let the bidding competition among the men and women decide?

Steven's penis had softened after his orgasm, but already it was hardening again as Banda and I continued our negotiations.

"One more matter!" Banda said. "Slave boy, bend over again and show us your ass." Steven complied immediately this time, and Banda again spread his legs to expose his anus. Giving me a playful wink, Banda added, "Do you want him branded now, or when we get to the port market?"

Steven gasped and started to rise--only to be stopped by a crisp smack of the riding crop across his naked bottom cheeks. The crop left a darker red mark against the already red and pink flesh.

"I don't know. How does this branding business work?" I asked, enjoying Steven's panic.

"Slaves marked for export are typically branded and registered at port, although we can do it now, if you prefer. It might be cheaper here, but they'll do a better job at the larger market. The brands used here are cruder."

"Is it only branding, or could it be a tattoo?"

"Tattooing is more expensive but gives a prettier result. It really depends on what kind of mark you think the customer would most want."

I looked down at my husband's very exposed ass and groin. As we discussed branding or tattooing, his cock quivered even as his anus puckered and un-puckered in fear. Part of me wished Banda would stick ... something ... in that anus.

"How much would it cost here?" I asked.

"About 10 meticals for a brand, maybe 20 for a tattoo," he said. Steven's throat squeaked out an unintelligible sound. Those were cheap prices, even here, where such a sum might buy you a hamburger and fries. Translated it was even cheaper, maybe $2 or $3 American.

"Of course at the big market they might do it free, as part of the export fee, in which case the cost would effectively be borne by the buyer."

I decided: "Let's see samples of the kind of work they do here, and I'll choose later," I said, granting Steven a temporary reprieve. "I want his ass to have a proper ownership brand."

"Very well, then," Banda agreed, taking a thick black marking pen out of his shirt pocket. For now we'll give him a temporary mark." He inscribed a T symbol on Steven's left buttock and stepped back so we could all see. "That means he's for transport."

Using the excuse of inspecting the mark, a few of the men and a well-dressed woman had crept closer to Steven's bent-over body, within touching distance. They spoke enough English and I heard "tasty rod" and "hot white ass" and "pretty-boy face for riding."

Banda resumed caressing him toward another orgasm. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen Steven's cock so red and throbbing. Banda's stroking caused Steven to shudder again, and yet more semen spilled into the dust.

Steven was permitted to sink to his knees again, to recover from his second orgasm in just a few minutes.

* *

I watched as Banda began scribbling on a small pad of pre-printed forms he took from his pocket. "It will take his caravan two days to walk to the port market. He will be held in the market's display pens for about 24 hours before he is put on the auction block. Take this receipt," he said, ripping a pink carbon out of the pre-printed ticket book.

"Be careful not to lose it, for you will need it to claim him. If you do not wish to claim him, or if you arrive after the auction is over, you will receive 60% of the proceeds of what promises to be a very fair price."

I nodded as I casually stuck the receipt in a webbed outer pocket of my backpack, enjoying Steven's moan-protest as I crumpled the precious slip of paper that might save him from the auction block. I stuffed it between my water bottle and a melting chocolate bar.

"I have a two-day safari scheduled tomorrow," I said, "but of course I want to see the auction too."

"Sometimes these safaris don't get back on schedule," Banda pointed out.

"Yes," I agreed, pretending to trust Steven's fate to Africa's notoriously unreliable transportation system. "No guarantees, of course, but if all goes well I should be able to make it to the slave market in time." My husband's groan gave me a warm pleasure.

* *

I say "pretending" because, in fact, I already planned to don a hooded robe and join his caravan, to be near enough the entire way to watch how he was handled as a slave.

Of course I would enjoy the journey, seeing what liberties the wranglers might take with him and the other pleasure-slaves in charge.