Slave Yoga Ch. 06: The Market

I smiled. I was in charge, but the men were too stupid to know it.

The vulgar, uneducated scum grabbing my breasts and pussy assumed that I was slave pussy, because that was what their uneducated minds could grasp. They didn't realize that this was an experiment, and even with my hands tied behind my back I was still in charge. The ignorant peasants who surrounded me were nothing more than lab rats in my cage.

Understanding the true nature of the situation allowed me to relax and revel in the sensual pleasures of my naked stroll through the busy market. I enjoyed the feel of the cold stones beneath my feet, and the little bits of dirt and gravel than I had been trying to avoid stepping on. I no longer tried to step around them. My discomfort was part of my slave-cation experience. Even faux "slave girls" needed to get used to walking barefoot.

There was a pause in the action as Juan paused to haggle with a fruit vendor over some figs. As Juan and the street vendor laughed and teased each other, a homeless man sitting against the wall, rose and walked over for a closer look at my naked body.

Smiling his toothless smile he reached out and grabbed my breast, caressing my nipple, first one breast and then the other. I licked my lips sensuously and smiled at him, giving him a good tease. I'd show the old bum what slave hot meant! It was my game now, and I was going to play it for all it was worth.

Seeing that my teenage owner didn't seem to (literally) give a fig as to what he was doing, the reeking old bum put his hand between my legs, and laughed his stale, drunken breath into my mouth as he grabbed my hot, wet pussy. I was shamefully wet, and open, and ready, and I groaned with both humiliation and pleasure as he worked his dirty knuckles into my gaping sex. I closed my eyes and began humping his hand.

I groaned in pleasure. Release was seconds away...

Damn! My teen master jerked my lease and the dirty old man's fingers popped out of my wet pussy.

Damn Juan! Would I ever find release?

My master turned around and for the first time I got a good look at his face. He looked younger than Juan, as his face was covered with peach fuzz from the beard he wasn't man enough to grow yet. His skin was a bit darker too, a bit browner. He was 18 or 19, but seemed relaxed, as if handling a naked slave girl was nothing new to him. This might have been my first time naked in a marketplace, but it clearly wasn't his first time holding a naked girl's leash.

Juan finished peeling the orange he had purchased, then reached over to put the discarded peel into my mouth. The peel was tough and chewy, but I was famished, and welcomed the nourishment. He pointed at the other peel pieces he had discarded on the ground, nudging them with the tip of his shoe as he snapped his fingers and pointed down at the garbage on the street.

To my surprise the homeless man, sensing his opportunity, came up from behind and reaching between my legs once again sunk his fingers into my pussy and began groping and rubbing my soaking sex. I groaned in pleasure, but my boy master wasn't having it. Snapping his fingers insistently he again he pointed at the trash on the ground.

Eating the garbage was humiliating, yes, but if I obeyed I would get to enjoy the coarse fingers pleasuring my wet pussy. With the old homeless man's fingers wiggling inside of me I spread my legs and bent at the waist. My endless hours of Slave Yoga training had left me flexible, and by extending my tongue I was able to lift a discarded peel laying on the dirty stone pavement up with my tongue and into my mouth. I chewed, swallowed, and rapidly moved on to scoop up the next peel.

Skillfully I cleaned the pavement. Above me my master was still peeling his orange, and a few of the pieces bounced off my face as he casually dropped them onto the pavement in front of me. Like a sow eating the scraps tossed into her sty, I pressed my snout down against the pavement to lift the next discard into my hungry mouth, groaning with the pleasure of my total humiliation as the heat in my pussy built to a crescendo.

The old beggar laughed in surprise when I came in waves on his hand. Uneducated in the psychology and Foucault he didn't understand that his fun was really my fun, anymore than he could comprehend the dynamics of sexual power exchange. He thought of me as hot slave pussy he could cop a free feel from. He didn't realize that despite outward appearances, the girl humping his fingers like a bitch in heat had just used his dirty old hand to pleasure myself. Indeed, if I had any money, I would have tossed it on the ground for him to pick up as a tip.

I would have certainly come again, but when I scooped up the last orange peel with my tongue my master jerked me forward and once again I felt the noose tighten around my throat. I wondered if the coarse rope would leave a mark. A part of me I hoped so. Real slave girls often had shackle scars around their throats, wrists, or ankles and sometimes even a "hangman's scar" around their necks. Marks of my captivity would be like a badge of honor and would certainly make my slave girl guise more convincing.

We rounded a corner and my master lifted a latch that took us into a wooden pen where various buyers were inspecting goats, pigs, and donkeys. I literally stepped in it, and my foot sank into the ooze of the animal droppings. Nonetheless I kept up my pace as my master left no slack on my leash.

Juan led me to a line of naked slave girls, about a dozen in all, chained or fastened to an assortment of huge iron meat hooks that looked like they had been cemented or drilled into the ancient wall centuries ago.

The meat hook was about two foot above my head, and my master easily threw the rope over it. He quickly and expertly threaded the end of my rope through one of several large holes that were drilled through a worn but very thick leather strap.

With the leather strap firmly knotted to the noose around my neck he smiled at me puckishly and then begin turning the very large and very old ratchet gear built into the wall which was attached to the end of the leather strap holding my noose. The gear looked very old, like something out of antiquity, and I supposed its original purpose was to haul up pallets or perhaps large animals off the back of a cart and into sales area.

Grabbing the old wooden hand crank he turned the old but still very serviceable gear in a clock-wise motion.

CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK

I gasped as the noose around my neck tightened and I felt my feet being pulled off the stone.

"Noooooo!" I shouted.

My master laughed.

CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK

CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK

My master didn't stop until I was stretched out so all of my weight was on my toes and the balls of my feet. I was struggling not to hang myself, a task made all the more difficult by the wet ooze between my toes, which left my feet and the area beneath me a sloppy mess.

My master took a moment to enjoy my struggle, chuckling as I hopped from foot-to-foot trying to find something firm to stand on. His dark, black eyes did remind me of Juan's, except Juan refused to make eye contact, and looked at me with fear and trepidation, where my Master's eyes positively twinkled with amusement. Smiling, my teenage master leaned forward and kissed me, slipping his tongue into my mouth even as he slipped his fingers inside my wet pussy for a nice, long, feel. I didn't resist him and instead pressed my pussy into his fingers to take some of the weight off my throat.

It was shameful, I know. I didn't want to give the little bastard such an energetic finger fuck but I was willing to do anything to save myself from the tug of the noose. The worst part of the humiliation was when I found myself responding to Juan's touch, and rocking back and forth on his grubby little fingers.

When he finally released -- just short of orgasm again! - I was reduced to shifting my weight as I danced at the end of my rope, my breasts and bottom bouncing and jiggling. Struggling for air kept me in constantly in motion, which seemed to please the men watching me.

All around and inside the pens there were men milling about and moving down the line as they examined the teeth and more interesting parts of the other chained slave girls.

A few yards away they were selling goats from a stone auction block that looked to be left over from the days of antiquity. The steps and short stone ramp leading up to the ramp were rounded with age, and I was left wondering how many millions of bare animal feet -- two legged and four legged -- had walked across the stone. I was gasping and dancing on the end of my rope, but the merchants running the market seemed unconcerned, and focused their attention on the goats they were auctioning.

A smiling old man came by, squeezed my breasts, and cupped my pussy. He laughed at how wet I was, and motioned over to his son, who also came in for a good feel.

This couldn't be happening.

Where were my slave papers?

Where was Suzie, or Professor Crush?

Did anyone here speak English?

Struggling to focus as I dangled in my noose I recalled Suzie insuring me against theft, lest I be picked off by the cargo handlers at the airport and be sold in some foreign market, never to be heard from again.

No. No. That couldn't happen to me. Yes, I was dangling from a cargo hook in a slave market, a piece of cargo to be inspected, auctioned, and sold.

Oddly enough my rope "dance" caused my to rub my thighs together, and even in my torment I found myself growing ever wetter even as I strained against the rope. The rope around my neck was tight, but if I lifted my feet off the ground I could pleasure my pussy before the lack of air forced me back onto my straining, searching toes.

A few yards away the auctioneer finished selling the goat. The auctioneer shouted out something that sounded to me like "POLLY-THEE!" which I'm guessing meant "SOLD!" in whatever language I was listening to. The goat was led off the auction block and another goat quickly took its place.

Two older women, one wearing a black dress and the other a head scarf, walked in front of me. They checked my hands, and finding them smooth and soft, laughed. They asked me something in their native language, and I just stared at them baffled.

One of the women reached between my legs and felt my wet pussy. She laughed in disgust as she showed her wet fingers to her friend before drying them in my hair. Unlike the men, they didn't find my "slave heat" appealing, as it was obvious they were looking for a domestic. They spit on the ground and cursed me, then quickly moved along.

The next man in line took more of an interest in me. He started off by taking a breast in each hand, smiling as he kneaded my breasts in a long, luxurious feel. He reached a finger between my legs, laughing out loud at my wetness as I blushed. He checked my teeth, and my hair. Lastly he spun me around, squeezing my ass cheeks as I struggled to gain my footing.

He finished by slapping me hard across the ass. It stung, and the force of it caused me to spin in circles on my rope as my laughing appraiser strolled away.

I struggled to focus, reasoning about current predicament. After all, no matter what anyone in this shithole country might think, I was a doctoral student, well educated and wealthy, at least compared to the ignorant fishmongers who now surrounded me.

A fat old man with a wide nose and a deep tan approached me, and started fondling my nipples. He stunk of fish and he had a patches on his pants and holes in the underarms of his shirt, which I saw when he raised my hands over my head to get a better grope of my naked breasts.

"A-mair-uh-can?" he asked in thickly accented English.

"Yes, Master," I replied. "Please buy me. I want to serve you with my hot mouth, and hot slave pussy."

My answer, memorized in class and given by rote, surprised me. I don't know if he understood me, but he smiled. I knew part of his enjoyment was having a pretty American girl so obviously out of his league as a sex slave he could finger and grope. He was enjoying my humiliation and degradation, but that was, of course, his right as a buyer in the slave market. The surprising part was that I found myself enjoying it too.

In one of my papers for Dr. Crush I had written that a naked girl in a slave market enters into a very specific and well defined social compact. It is her job to be pleasing, and to welcoming to the men who fondle her, to demonstrate her worthiness to be their slave. The compact benefits the girl as well, as by pleasing the customers with her hot naked body, she might attract a more wealth master, and earns the buyer's admiration and respect as a worthy piece of slave meat.

When I presented this paper to Professor Crush she crossed out the words respect and admiration, explaining that it was impossible for a fully clothed master to respect or admire a slave slut, or indeed feel anything but lust for them. She suggested the word "desire", which truth be told is the better adjective. A worthy performance in a slave market might earn the respect of other slave girls for sale, but humping every stranger's fingers like an insatiable sex bunny is hardly the sort of behavior that earns a young woman "respect."

Yet hump the old man's fingers I did, for as soon as he touched my hot pussy I immediately began juicing on my hand. "Buy me master," I pleaded, licking my lips suggestively. "I want to suck your cock, and swallow your load."

I felt quite sure the man's disgusting load tasted like rancid fish oil, but as my training had kicked in I truly longed to swish his seed around my mouth before gobbling it down like fine wine. As I humped his hand he generously rubbed my clit with his thumb, and I knew that despite his stink and age and obesity he would be a good master. A master who would give me what I needed.

I came on his hand, groaning in pleasure, and not stopping as I pushed my way towards a second orgasm. My master laughed, and pulling his finger out of me, wiped his hand on my faces. Amused by my wantonness, he wiped most of my juices under my own nose, so I could smell myself for the rest of the day.

Much to my surprise my fat master did not stay to buy me or even watch me be auctioned but instead simply waddled off into the marketplace, disappearing into the crowd. My heart sank; in our brief time together I felt we had forged a master / slave girl bond, a partnership based on our mutual pleasure.

The adage said "A good slave girl loves all her masters." I had thought the saying bizarre, until I found myself falling in love with Master John. But I was surprised to find myself pining for the touch of the man who had simply used me to cop a free feel.

And so it was for the next 30 minutes, as my feet, calves, thighs, pussy, ass, butthole, back, arms, hair, and teeth were examined by an endless variety of buyers and browsers, the horny and the bored. Some did not even approach me, but simply stopped to look at me and laugh with their friends, pointing out the pretty fair skinned girl constantly struggling to get her footing as she jerked in her noose.

One of the groups that stopped was a group of coeds in their late teens. I was guessing they were in college on some sort of Spring Break, for one of them wore their Sorority T-shirt and the others all had on shirts or hats with their sorority symbol. They had been drinking, and two of them still had beer cans in their hands, and were giggly in that highly annoying way teenage girls have to produce a titter and shriek that does right through you.

When they saw me they burst into shrill laughter, and after whispering to each other for a few minutes and tittering and laughing and pointing at me, they moved in for a closer look.

"You got a rope around your neck, slave girl!" one of the girls said contemptuously, standing so close I could smell the beer on her breath and see the braces on her teeth. She spoke with a thick Southern drawl.

"Yeah, we should stay, Betty-Jean. I want to watch her get sold."

"I hope they brand her slave ass. I bet she'd scream like a pig."

The girls all laughed at this, as my bottom cheeks clenched in fear.

"Where are we?" I said.

"The slave market, dumb shit. Don't you know anything?"

"She's a slave girl. Her brains are in her hot pussy."

I felt myself go flush as the girls laughed at me. They reminded me of the bratty teenagers in the class I taught, only worse: stupid Southern rednecks going to some crappy college I had never heard of in some hillbilly state down South. For a moment I wished I was a Professor at their college, so I could bend them over my desk and crack their haughty asses with a paddle.

"Look between her legs, Ellie-May. Little slave girl's all hot and juicy."

"What country are we in?" I asked.

"It's not a country, it's an island off Greece, dumb shit."

"Shhh! Don't tell her anymore, Becky. Slave girls don't get to ask free women questions."

"Yeah!" Becky said, getting up close to shout in my face. "We're free slave girl, and we have clothes on, and you don't get to ask us shit."

"Maybe we should just give that fat guy selling the goats $20 to hang her," Ellie May said, tugging on the rope and forcing me onto my toes.

"Yeah, it would be fun to watch her pee on herself."

"Poor little naked slave girl, hanging in the slave market," Betty Jean said.

"Bet you wish you had some clothes, like we do."

Struggling against the hand tugging on my noose I forced a smile. "You have clothes. For now."

"What does that mean?" Becky asked.

"See that man with the badge?" I replied. "He hasn't stopped looking at you since you arrived. He's probably wondering what a bunch of shit-for-brains sorority girls are doing wandering around a foreign slave market. It won't take long to strip you naked and burn your passports. Maybe they'll auction us together."

The girls all looked over their shoulders at the policeman with the dark sunglasses who was staring at them impassively. At that moment another police officer arrived, and the first officer pointed directly at the girls. The other man looked them over, and smiled.

The rope around my neck was instantly released. "Maybe we should get out of here," Becky said.

"Yeah," Ellie-May said. "Like NOW."

The girls took off in the opposite direction, with the police in close pursuit. I wondered if I would see them again.

I was in Greece, or close to Greece anyway. Strangely enough the thought calmed me, as I knew that I was now part of an ancient and well-established tradition. The stone steps leading up to the auction block I was to be sold off of were rounded, worn away by thousands of years of tiny bare slave girl feet making their way up to the block where they could be displayed, bid upon, and vended.

I felt certain that Agatha had arranged this. After all, what better way for me to study slavery than by examining it at it very roots, at the birthplace of democracy. the ancient world where slavery had been at it's zenith. Agatha often pointed out that the greatness of classical civilization was built on slavery. In putting me to market here, Agatha was allowing me to share in a proud tradition.

I was in no real danger, for the winning bidder would doubtlessly be one of her hired confederates. It made total sense. Philosophy students have Socratic arguments, political science students debate THE REPUBLIC, drama students watch performances of Oedipus Rex. I, a student of slavery, would stand barefoot on a two-thousand -year-old stone auction block and be sold as a naked slave girl. What could be more perfect?

It was strangely comforting. Soon I would be shuffling up the same steps my sisters had shuffled up for thousands of years, binding me permanently to the greatness of Greece and Rome as I allowed myself to be sold in the classical tradition. I felt a strange sense of honor, and spread my legs and licked my lips, eager to draw yet another buyer or browser to fully examine everything I had to offer.