Victoria's Secret the Banana Problem

Story Info
Victoria's price check in the slave market continues.
9.8k words
4.57
115.9k
80

Part 1 of the 7 part series

Updated 08/30/2017
Created 06/08/2015
Share this Story

Font Size

Default Font Size

Font Spacing

Default Font Spacing

Font Face

Default Font Face

Reading Theme

Default Theme (White)
You need to Log In or Sign Up to have your customization saved in your Literotica profile.
PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here

The trip to the slave market was certainly not boring. I kept my robe on and my face covered, keeping my identity concealed from Victoria. As a slave girl, Victoria was permitted no such covering, wearing only the cheap green beaded barefoot sandals on her feet, her green beaded twine necklace, and the slave shackles around her ankles. Her hands were cuffed in front of her, for it made walking faster, but I knew even that luxury would be denied her if she resisted in any way.

I rode a camel, resting in a comfortable and cushioned saddle tent. Victoria and the other slave girls walked, naked and barefoot, their tiny feet making little prints on the sandy soil where countless naked girls had walked before them. Then the camels came after them, and the wind blew, and their tiny footprints were gone.

As the caravan progressed we stopped occasionally to water the livestock and make a trade that added or freed some wretched girl from our coffle. The men drank from their canteens as the slaves watered themselves at the troughs with the camels and donkeys. As it was late in the day when we left we walked until sunset and into the night, not pausing to make camp until the next morning. We walked at night, or during the few hours around sunset and daybreak when the sun was not too hot to make travel unbearable.

Even the rest periods were enjoyable, at least for me. When we stopped and the girls had finished pitching the tents and tending to the animals and preparing the food Victoria and the others were immediately put through slave training, a series of exercises designed to shape their bodies, spirits, and minds.

The training was quite precise and I watched in fascination as Victoria was taught "slave positions", the poses a girl might be expected to make when being inspected for sale or being displayed on the auction block. Each pose highlighted a different aspect of her anatomy or personality, and put my furiously blushing wife in a position of maximum humiliation and exposure:

"Dog": On all fours, legs spread wide, tongue out and panting as she looked up longingly for her master's approval.

"Pussy": Similar to dog, but with the head down on the floor, and her legs spread wide enough to show off her bottom hole.

"Inspection": Standing, hands on top of head, legs spread to shoulder length, back arched slightly to raise the breasts.

"Jiggle": Hands in air in a surrender pose, hopping first on the left foot, then the right, making her breast and bottom cheeks jiggle until she was commanded to assume the next pose.

"Squat": Squatting, hands behind head, knees spread wide.

The last was my favorite, because Victoria face burned crimson whenever she squatted this way. The first time she attempted the pose she didn't spread her legs wide enough and she was punished with a flick of the whip across her lovely round bottom. It was not a hard stroke, but the look of astonishment on her face was delicious! The slavers routinely cracked the whip after each command, and Victoria had seen other girls punished. But until that instant I don't think it had registered with her that her pampered and patrician bottom might be whipped, and whipped well!

In addition to the poses themselves, the girls were taught to assume various facial expressions: "pout", "grin", "laugh", "angry", "sorry", "afraid". I mused that the last one was easy for Victoria, bending over with her legs spread while a fat slave trader cracked a whip so close to her naked bottom that she flinched from the gust of air!

The girls were monitored closely, and I watched with interest as Victoria used a small mirror she was given to perfect her expressions. I smiled the first time she saw herself, because I could see that she was appalled by her appearance. Her makeup was long gone, of course, and several days of naked marching in the humid African air had left her hair matted, knotted and frizzy. But at the sound of the cracking whip she quickly refocused on perfecting her expressions, straining not merely to show her features, but to expose her very soul.

The training was constant and repetitive, as the girls were drilled over-and-over again in various languages. Victoria found this quite unnerving as it was a constant reminder that naked slave girls were fungible goods that could be shipped or sold anywhere in the world.

I also had the unique experience of watching my wife masturbate herself repeatedly, lifting her hips off the ground and spreading herself wide so her masters could verify her orgasms as they watched her pussy spasm. Victoria was given a vibrator the first few times, but was quickly weaned off it and learned how to bring herself to orgasm quickly and efficiently with only her fingers. It was quite amusing watching my modest and often frosty wife learn to pleasure herself openly.

The slaves were encouraged to masturbate themselves as they walked, a pleasure Victoria used to relieve herself from the tedium of her long march. Under the crack of the whip my prudish wife quickly became the juiciest of slave sluts: randy, wet, and ready to give her masters pleasure. Victoria learned to say, "Please let me suck your cock, master" in Chinese, Japanese, Spanish, French, Arabic, Russian, and German.

Victoria knew the long marches, menial labor, constant drills, and masturbation were designed to break her and destroy her previous sense of identity. It was fun watching her struggles to resist, and I could see the hatred for what was being done to her blazing in her eyes even as she shuddered through each orgasm and responded to each crack of the whip. I smiled broadly underneath my mask as I watched her humbly kiss the dirty boots and of the man who had flicked his whip against her naked backside, or blush beet read as she spread her legs wide for the laughing, leering slavers.

Victoria's slow but relentless transformation was all the more enjoyable because she was intelligent enough to realize what was being done to her and that her old identity was being crushed under the same enormous and pitiless training that had enslaved countless slave girls for thousands of years before her. I watched as her anger turn to fear, then finally a heartbreaking acceptance as her pride, dignity, and self esteem melted like a snowball in the blazing African sun.

Her time in the coffle was not all bleak. During feedings she was permitted to talk with her fellow slave girls, and despite the disparity of languages they were all soon giggling and chattering and gossiping as all girls do. It was an enormous social shift for my wife. Only a few days before she would have regarded the girls as mere servants barely worthy of her notice. But as Victoria had literally been stripped of everything these uneducated and naked girls were now her peers and (I'm laughing as I write this) her social competitors!

Even naked and enslaved Victoria still found a way to be vain, taking enormous pride in her green twine barefoot sandals and necklace and bragging to the other girls about how the cheap green bead "gem stones" matched her beautiful green eyes. The other girls, most of who had nothing but their slave shackles, compared brands and argued about which was prettiest. I was stunned to hear Victoria bragging that her fair skin and green eyes "will earn me a handsome master, and a handsome brand," then giggle and laugh with the other girls as she speculated as to what sort of mark might look best on her pale white bottom!

The paradox fascinated me. Clearly the process of being branded still terrified her, as she repeatedly asked the other girls what it was like, and looked quite queasy when they told her it was actually far worse than anything she could imagine. But a beautiful brand was a mark of prestige among the girls and something my social climbing wife sought eagerly. It would increase her status so she desperately wanted it, but she also dreaded it for she knew it would complete her transformation into mere livestock and mark her as a slave forever.

The journey was tiring, but I knew it was exhausting for Victoria, both mentally and physically. Her lovely white ankles quickly developed shackle sores. Many of the other girls had developed calloused scars where the shackles rubbed them and it was interested to watch as Victoria gradually acquired this permanent souvenir of her slave girl adventure.

The rope burn around her neck was also clearly visible, and I wondered if it would heal completely or if a scar would forever mark her as a willful slave who had nearly lost her life dancing on the end of a taught rope. I shuddered as I imagined what sort of cruel master such a mark might attract.

I would oftentimes position my camel behind her, watching her breasts and bottom bob as she walked. The slave trader's whip had left a few small but delicious red welts across her alabaster ass, signs for every man who ogled her that my proud wife was quickly learning her place. I found myself staring at her bouncing bottom and wondering what sort of brand might look best on it. A letter? A symbol? It was not an idle question.

Although they had packed my backpack in the caravan my receipt for Victoria was not in it. Perhaps Bouba had taken the precious document for safekeeping; I hoped that was the case, for whoever had the receipt could show up at the market and claim Victoria with no questions asked, making her impossible to trace. I hoped it would turn up soon, for if it did not I would no choice but to watch as she was led stark naked to the auction block.

I would bid on her, of course, but I only had a few hundred Dalasi on me, and embarrassingly small sum for a piece of ass as fine as Victoria. Bank transfers to Africa can take days if not weeks, and I couldn't get the process started until I reached a place that had cell phone coverage. My best bet was to raid the ATM to my daily limit as soon as I got to port, and hope they didn't auction their choice merchandise before I had a chance to raise the money required for a competitive bid.

In any event, my lack of paperwork meant that I had no claim and Victoria would most likely be branded when we reached the marketplace, if not before. When I raised this concern to Kaba, the leader of our caravan, he simply shrugged. In truth I'm not sure it even registered with him as a problem. Slaves are often branded, and if Bouba had said that it should be done when it could be done properly, then Victoria's perfect white bottom would be forever marked.

A lost receipt, a slow bank transfer, a misunderstood order. Of such things are slave girls made.

The journey was longer than expected, for we took several detours from the river to acquire additional inventory. I noticed that the men and the less attractive women gradually disappeared, to be replaced by females clearly destined to become pleasure slaves. By the time we reached the River Market at Tendaba there were nearly 100 girls in our coffle, and as we stopped by the local slave market for some quick bartering our naked girls were lined up for the locals to inspect.

I watched as one of the slavers moved down the line, recuffing each girl's hands behind them so they could not conceal themselves from the buyers. They were being put to market, and shabby as this market was the goods were there to be felt and seen.

The release of the coffle chain and the recuffing was not a lengthy or unusual procedure, as we had done as much at every market we had stopped at, but I was surprised to hear a familiar voice.

"Finest slave pussy in Africa, gents. Tight and hot and ready."

I turned with a startle at the sound of the Australian twang. It was Mr. Crawly, the oilman from the hotel, accompanied by two of the hotels other British guests, Lord Henry Humphrey and Colonel William Masterson. All three were filthy rich, but Crawly was what Victoria called "gutter rich", meaning his wealth was acquired from hard work rather than inheritance. He was also vulgar, crude, and definitely not welcome in the snobby social clique that Victoria and her friends had established on the patio of our hotel.

Crawly was quite vulgar but the men in our group did not care. But the women did, and hence he was barely acknowledged by the "right" people when their wives were present. This was a slave market, though, so the men could be friends, as none of the wives were present now.

All but one wife, that is.

Victoria stood in the line of slave girls, naked as a newborn, sweating bullets as the men slowly made their way down the line of naked women. She had spotted them, of course, and I could tell by the expression of horror on her face and the way she was trembling that she knew damn well who they were. But would they recognize her?

Under ordinary circumstances they might not, for the chained slave girl bore scant resemblance to the elegant lady they had known at the hotel. Victoria was naked, of course, and much more tan after her morning and evening strolls in the blazing African sun. Her appearance had deteriorated considerably during her time in the coffle and her once carefully coiffed hair was now dirty, stringy, and matted to her head. Her face and body were dirty from her long forced marches on dirt trails, and her shackled feet looked like two muddy boots. She had stunk from both sweat and her own excitement even before we had left the slave market. Now with little to do but sweat and rub her legs together to excite herself, she reeked like the naked animal she was.

A casual acquaintance might have passed the tan slave girl by, dismissing her as a the bastard child of a local girl and a white tourist. But unfortunately for Victoria Lord Humphrey was far more than a casual acquaintance, having known her family for years in London. He belonged to the same clubs her father and brothers did, and although they were never particularly friendly he had, as he had once joked, seen Victoria "grow from a willful child to a spoiled brat to an insufferable young woman".

Their dislike was mutual. Lord Humphrey was fat, and old, smoked cigars and walked with a cane, and despite their long acquaintance had often leered at Victoria in a most unappetizing way. His mistresses and trips to Africa were well known, and Victoria seemed genuinely disgusted when he showed up at our hotel at the port, and genuinely horrified to see him now. Given his reputation I was not surprised to see him in a slave market filled with naked women.

Yet given her besmirched and befouled appearance there was still a possibility she might pass unnoticed. As a result of the recent trades there were several other fair skinned women in the line, a few as white as Victoria. Colonel Masterson and Mr. Crawly were so busy squeezing breasts and fingering slave snatch that they were literally standing next to her without noticing her.

Victoria, sick with humiliation, stared at her feet, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, hoping to pass as simply another dirty and stinking slave girl and get off with a quick grope. But Humphrey had been ogling her for years, and dirty and bedraggled as she was, the odds were not in her favor.

Victoria literally shuddered when she heard Lord Humphrey gasp.

"Lady Victoria?" he said, his old eyes bulging. "Is that really you?"

Much to my surprise, Victoria immediately switched to another tact. "Yes, Henry, it is," she said, lifting her chin up and addressing him as if she were greeting him for tea. "A pleasure to see you again, William," she said, noting the Colonel's presence with a pleasant smile. "And Mr. Crawly, of course," she added coldly.

Victoria's upper crust RP accent and disdain for Mr. Crawly was quite absurd under the circumstances, but all three men were too stunned to laugh. Anxious to break the awkward pause, Victoria explained her predicament. "It would seem there was something of a mix back at the market and I got separated from Randolph. I would very much appreciate it if one of you gentlemen could take care of whatever stipend is required to secure my release, and requisition me some appropriate clothing so the four of us can be on our way."

Lord Humphrey, still in shock, looked Victoria over, starting at her dirty feet and letting her eyes run up her bare legs. His gaze lingered as he examined her crotch and breasts. By the time his eyes met hers and he playfully reached out to toy with the slave beads around her neck, he was smiling broadly.

Lord Humphrey turned to Kaba, who had come to intercept the three promising buyers. "Tell me, is this wench for sale?"

"If she a little darker, maybe. We will put her on the auction block at the port. Will get better price for white girl there."

Lord Humphrey turned back to Victoria and smiled. "I'm sorry, my dear. It appears you are not for sale."

"Haggle with him!" Victoria shouted. "I'm not a slave! Pay the creature whatever he wants!"

"No, my dear. Overpaying in a place like is simply bad business. Better to put you on the block, and let the market decide. I wager your hammer price is sure to be lower than what this rascal will extract in terms of a premium. "

"The auction block? But I'm not a slave!" Victoria shouted.

Lord Humphrey turned to Kaba. "I assume you have the proper legal paperwork for this girl?"

"Of course, sir," Kaba replied. "Stamped and sealed. I can assure you that she is a slave."

Lord Humphrey turned back to Victoria. "He has clear title to you, my dear, stamped and sealed. I assume you don't have your passport hidden anywhere, do you?" Lord Humphrey added, a sly twinkle in his eye.

Victoria shook her head.

"Quite so! Let's dispense with all this bosh and blather about you not being a slave, when we know that such talk will land me in jail and do nothing for you. Under the laws of this country and the evidence of my eyes you clearly are a slave, at least for the moment. Now can we agree on that, or should I move onto the next girl?"

Victoria hesitated, then nodded. Lord Humphrey was not satisfied. His voice was stern. "Say it. Say that you are a slave. Then ask me to examine you."

"Examine me! Good heavens, Henry, you can't be serious!"

"I am quite serious," Lord Humphrey replied, the enjoyment in his eyes belying his stern tone. "We all agreed a moment ago that you are a slave. As such I must examine you properly if I am to place a suitable bid."

"But Henry..."

Victoria's protest was cut off as Lord Humphrey lifted her chin high with the silver tip of his walking stick. "You shall address me as "Your Lordship." You shall address William as "Colonel", and Crawly as 'Mr. Crawly" or "SIR". If that is too hard for you to remember you can simply call every man you meet "Master". Are we clear?"

"Yes, your Lordship," Victoria replied meekly, straining to avoid the word "master", "Examine me. Examine me so you can place a proper bid."

And with that the examination began. The men watched closely as under the crack of the whip Victoria was put through her slave paces.

Back arched, belly out.

Smile!

Pout!

"See how wet she is, gentlemen? See how her slave juices glisten on my fingers? A hot naked slave bitch, eager to please."

"Goodness gracious she IS wet! I can smell her from here!" Lord Humphrey said, genuinely shocked.

"Yes, she's a randy little Macaca!" Mr. Crawly chuckled. "Underpants are a waste on a dirty little monkey like her."

As if to prove his point Mr. Crawly whistled loudly when the whip cracked and my furiously blushing wife bent over and spread her bottom cheeks wide.

As I watched my wife bend, squat, laugh, pout, and twirl, I began to fully appreciate the genius of her training regime. Victoria was deeply, completely humiliated, but at each crack of the whip she nonetheless assumed the next disgraceful pose like the dirty little slave slut she now was.