Victoria's Secret: Victoria's Story

"Now I want you to kiss the tip, and lick the first few drops off the end. Very good, slave girl. Do you like the taste? I hope so, because this is what slavery tastes like. You will be sucking pricks of all shapes, colors and sizes. You will love them all with your tongue, and suck them eagerly. If you do not, you will be punished."

"Can you smell the coals? The branding head is getting hot. Red hot, redder than your hair. It will blister into your bottom, and sear the flesh forever. The pain will be intense, more than you can bear. But you will bear it anyway."

"Yes, that's it. Swirl your tongue around my penis as you watch your slave brand heat. Watch the heat roll off the brazier and imagine what it will feel like as it sizzles and smokes into your fat bottom while you suck my black cock."

"Excellent. Now flick your tongue around. Move your head up and down. Please me, white girl. I am your master, and pleasing my penis is why I let you keep your tongue. Good job, slave girl. Make it nice and wet. Lubricate my cock so I can fuck you, and plant my black seed deep in your fertile, red, Mississippi soil."

"Now a bit slower. That's it, my little white slave girl. Suck, suck, suck. That is what your mouth is good for now. I am not sending you to the market where your husband will buy you. I am going to send you deep into Africa, to a place where they grow sugar cane and coffee. You will be sold to a local planter who will put you to work in his fields, as my ancestors were put to work in your fields in Mississippi, and as their descendants work on your prison farms today. You will know what it is like to live in a place where the law despises you, a place where the law commands you to spread your legs and suck your master's cock."

As Suzanne sucked he signaled to one of the black slaves girls, a tall and lean African vixen the others caused Morda. Morda was a slave, but a mistress to the slaves, and treated the girls under her command cruelly. It was wise to put a slave woman in charge of the slaves, for who could know better how to hurt and humiliate a slave girl than another slave girl?

Morda smiled broadly as she came behind Suzanne and began rubbing her sex. Suzanne was shocked, and struggled to jerk away, but the stocks left her helpless and exposed. Morda stroked her off, gradually increasing the pace as Suzanne began humping her fingers.

"That's right, slave girl," the black man taunted. "Groan as you wet yourself for your master's cock. Grunt like the hot little piglet that you are. I am going to breed you now. You will be used to produce an army of little mongrel slaves, to toil in the fields and be sold away from you when your master finds it convenient."

Smiling the black man lifted the branding iron out of the fire. "Do you see? It is glowing red. When it's as white as your alabaster skin it will be ready. I will give you a nice slow burn, a burn that will last a lifetime. You will carry the memory of today on your white ass forever."

Despite my horror my finger found its way between my legs. Why was I reacting so?

Brands were PERMANENT. Brands were forever. I think that is why they terrified me – and excited me - so! Randolph might arrive to free me at any moment, reducing my ordeal to a dangerous and thrilling adventure to tell a few close friends in London, with the less seemly portions edited out, of course. But once branded there would be no going back. Once branded a girl would be a slave forever.

It wouldn't be simply the brand itself, although that would be terrible enough. Brands typically represented the ownership interest of a master, and it was understood that if a "free girl" was spotted with a slave brand she could be returned to the master who marked her. He would typically grant the agent returning her a very pleasing "recovery fee" as compensation for the time and effort of returning the "lost merchandise."

Even after Randolph rescued me I would not be safe. My brand might be seen by a maid, or at the Doctor's office, or at my exclusive private health club in London. A discrete phone call might be all it took to put me back in chains.

The psychology of the branding process was even more insidious. A slave brand permanently identifies a girl as livestock, chattel to be used, bought, and sold. The other girls had told me that slave brandings were always done out in the open, typically in a marketplace or some sort of animal pen where the men could watch as the brand burned into the girl's flesh, as if they were branding a pig or a goat. The men treated brandings as entertainment, and if the girl was humiliated and terrified so much the better.

I had seen brandings at the stables of course; all my horses bore my family's crest. They had side brands, or "Colorado brands" ("Collies" as they were sometimes called.) Slave girls, in contrast, were always "butt branded."

"Butt branded." It was a humiliating term for a terrifying and humiliating process. When the time came I would not be given the dignity of a brand on my shoulder or thigh. No, Lady Victoria would be "butt branded."

Anesthesia would be a small mercy, but of course it was never used. Did I give anesthesia to my horses? A slave girl was no different. A gag or stick to keep me from biting off my tongue would be sufficient. A slave girl's tongue could be useful for pleasuring her master.

Of course branding a girl in a marketplace or barnyard usually meant that she would endure her final passage into slavery in the presence of beasts with four hooves instead of two. Their presence was considered beneficial, and four hooved animals were often marked at the same time as the two hoofed ones, to reinforce the similarity among the farm animals. Also, it was easier to brand all the stock at once at the blacksmith's convenience. Sometimes slaves and horses shared the same smoldering iron.

Yes, the psychology of branding was powerful, even for me. Fortunately I was intelligent enough to resist it, at least in part.

"That's enough sucking, slave girl. I don't want to waste my load in your mouth. I have not come for several days, and I wish to use my full load for your first breeding. Tell me, do you have any birth control?"

Suzanne gasped her answer, as Morda was still behind her rubbing her sex. "No. I made my husband get a vasectomy a few years ago."

"You snipped him?" he said, laughing. "Serves him right for marrying you. All white dicks should be snipped. No need wasting eggs on a man who'd let his woman cut him. Since you made your man your eunuch you'd probably like me to use this?" the black man said, taking a Trojan packet from his pocket.

"Yes," Suzanne gasped. "I need... I need protection."

"Protection is for free white women, not slaves. Look closely, slave girl, for it is the last time you will ever see one of these. From now on, you will ride bareback, like the penniless slave slut you are."

Suzanne watched in horror as he tossed the desperately needed condom onto the fire, where it quickly began to smolder, then burn. "You have no money, no clothes, no identification, and no protection. Soon you will be paraded naked through the streets to the auction block, where eager black faces will ogle and laugh at your nakedness as the auctioneer displays your red hair and nice titties and red furry pussy."

"The auction will be quick. One of the men will buy you. But I am the man who branded you. You will always be my slave."

Suzanne gasped as the man walked behind her, and with a single slow thrust, entered her. "That's it, slave girl. Grip your master's cock with your tight white pussy. Push back on me as I breed you. You have nothing to offer me but your wet, animal heat. Grunt and groan like the rutting sow you are. Push back hard and show me you are fit for breeding, before I brand your ass, and mark you as my slave forever."

Much to my shock Suzanne seemed to accept the fucking eagerly, pushing back and groaning even as the laughing, sneering man jeered her and promised to "seed her moist, red Mississippi clay."

I watched the red headed bitch's breeding with a sort of detached amusement, laughing out loud at her wide-eyed shock as she felt his black penis thrust into her for the very first time. There was a certain justice to it, as the entire economy of her state was built on slave labor, from the river plantation mansions to the hellish "private prisons" of today that were little better than plantations.

Of course my family had made it's fortune running plantations as well, and we still maintained a significant interests oversees, but at least my ancestors were English ladies and gentleman who knew how to keep their more unsavory business enterprises discreetly overseas. Americans!

She grunted as he pumped in-and-out, pushing back and rocking with pleasure despite her humiliation. Her reaction didn't shock me. The constant mantras and forced masturbation rituals were powerful, a form of brainwashing that few girls could resist. We were all being subjected to a form of conditioning that had been used to transform proud and independent women into juicy slave sluts for centuries. I felt grateful for my superior genes and breeding, for I knew that without them I'd be no different than the rutting slave slut in front of me.

"You are warm and wet, Fire Crotch. That is what I shall call you, because of your red hair, and your slave girl heat. You juice well, Fire Crotch, like a natural slave. The days in the fields will be long, but you will learn to please the overseers, or you will feel the lash. If you please your owner as you are pleasing me now, you may earn an hour in your master's bed, before he kicks you out and orders you to sleep on the floor like the bitch dog you are. What an honor for you, to be your master's naked and collared white bitch."

"Please!" she said. "I'm a missionary. I'm here to teach English, and sanitation, and Christianity."

"You are nothing," the black man replied coldly. "You cannot speak the language, or read or write. You are an illiterate beast, fit only for manual labor and breeding. And that is how you will be used. Perhaps your merciful master will teach you a bit of HIS religion, the true religion, so you may one day see Paradise. Not the real paradise, of course, for your slavery will persist even in heaven, where your pleasure will be had by serving your superior black masters forever."

As he tensed one of the slave mongers, adjusted the stocks down, so her bottom was raised higher than her head, and her master's potent sperm could run into her and fertilize her completely. I rubbed my own crotch as I watched, conscious of the many loads of thick African sperm that had been shot into me as I had been buckled down into the stocks naked and helpless.

I admit I was more than a little concerned with my own vulnerability to impregnation, but comforted myself with the though that I had been walking all day. As I masturbated myself the sperm had been dribbling down my thighs. The coffle master watched me closely, to make sure that I wiped it onto my fingers and licked it up as it dribbled out of me.

Perhaps it was my imagination, but even mixed in with my own juices I fancied that I could taste the different flavors of sperm of the many blacks who had fucked me. The young, strong ones had thicker gobs and tasted more like kitchen cleanser; the older and weaker ones had loads that were stringier and tasted more like a salty soup.

How many black men had seeded me? I had lost count. The line was endless, one after another, and the men laughed and grunted as they blew their loads deep into my unprotected pussy. But I felt certain it had run out of me, for the alternative was simply unthinkable. I was the daughter of an Earl, after all, and a member of the British nobility, not like that Mississippi white trash bent over for her well deserved slave seeding. There was no way any of that filthy black cream could have impregnated ME.

I watched closely as the black man pumped faster, and I knew from my own hateful experience that he was close to his release. "I am going to come now, and, I sense, so are you. Do you want me to stop? Or do you want me to continue. What say you, Fire Crotch?"

"Please. Pull out! Don't do this to me. Don't come inside me," she pleaded, staring at the ash remains of the condom packet on the brazier that was heating the branding iron.

The man laughed loudly as he spurt his load. "Do you feel that, my little Southern belle? That is your first black son. The first of many, I suspect. You will be a strong field hand and a good breeder. Your son will be a memory of our time together, a memory that will last forever. Now I will give you another."

The man pulled out of her, and walking around in front of the stock wiped his penis off on her red hair. Grinning broadly he slowly took the branding iron out of the fire, pulling the hidden branding edge out from under the coals. The tip was white hot, and he blew on it softly as Suzanne recoiled in horror. It was so hot it seemed almost alive as the smoke poured off his breath.

To my surprise he looked directly at me. "The juicy whore on the end is rubbing herself," he chuckled. "Tell me, whore, do you think I should brand her? Or was impregnating her enough?

I had not even been conscious of my masturbation, and blushed slightly at the black man's attention. Everyone was looking at me, but my response was instinctive and automatic.

"You should brand her, master," I said, rubbing myself faster.

"Why?"

"Because she is a slave slut," I replied, "in need of her master's brand."

"You do not think it is cruel," he asked.

"No," I replied. "It is justice."

The black man smiled down at Suzanne. "Very well. The decision has been made. Branding it is."

Some of the other girls stared at me angrily as I masturbated myself faster, but I didn't care. I wasn't one of them. I wasn't a slave. Why shouldn't I enjoy watching a slave branding?

The black man nodded, and one of the slave mongers picked a dirty stick up off the ground and stuck it between Suzanne's pearly white teeth. He pushed it in deeper, pushing her lips back until it almost looked like the stupid little bitch was grinning.

She closed her eyes and bit down hard as the smiling black man slowly applied the brand to her bottom.

"One, Mississippi...." he said, laughing as the silly little redhead screamed lustily even as she bit into her stick.

"Two, Mississippi..." I rubbed harder as I watched the smoke rise off her bottom.

"Threeeeee, Missssssissssippi!"

After a final second that seemed to last an eternity he lifted the iron, revealing the beautiful and elegant "Stars & Bars" he had burned directly into the center of her fat white bottom cheek. It was angry and red, redder then the pretty slave girl's long red hair. I rubbed myself into another shattering orgasm as I imagined the foolish little red head in the fields, her branded bottom on display, toiling under the blazing African sun.

I smiled as I watched the foolish missionary scream and sob. The American bitch didn't take it very well. No breeding.

"Enjoy yourself, my little English muffin," the girl next to me hissed. "Your turn will come soon enough. I'm going to enjoy watching them brand your pampered British ass."

I turned to confront the slave girl next to me, a pretty American school teacher named Pamela. Her "prize winning trip" to Africa had been more of a prize for her captors than for her. Pamela was pretty, with black hair and eyes nearly as green as mine, but she was common in the way that most American girls are.

"I saw my friend Lord Henry Humphrey examining you," I replied coolly, silencing the American commoner with my finest British RP accent. "You have strong legs, and a big round bottom. It will bounce around nicely under his pony whip as Henry races you around his estate. Perhaps I'll join him, and he'll lend me his whip. I will enjoy seeing how fast you can run!"

Pamela was undeterred. "The men told me my sister is flying to Africa to pay my ransom. I'm getting out. You're not going anywhere."

"My family has enough money to buy and sell this entire bloody country," I sneered, "and you with it. My husband Randolph is coming for me. He bought me these beautiful sandals," I said, showing her the shiny beads and string wrapped around my feet.

"Foolish British fop," the upstart American replied, laughing in my face. "You're going to be sold long before we reach port. You're getting darker, Vicky. Look at yourself. The sun is turning you into one of THEM."

I felt myself shudder as Pamela burned me with the blazing hatred in her eyes. "I remember you from the hotel, you and your snooty friends sitting on the balcony, looking down your noses at everyone else. I wonder what they'll all think of you when you're in the coffle, being run down the street – how did you friends put it? – oh yes, I remember. 'Being run down the street n***** naked.'"

She laughed, and some of the other white girls next to her laughed with her. For the first time I looked at my hands. They were dark, tan, and dirty, yes, but surely...

My arms were dark... much, much too dark. I shuddered as I remembered the time as a little girl I had tanned "black as a banana." Mother had been so angry!

"Keep her out of the sun," my mother had shouted at the maids. "In the sun the little bastard browns up quicker than a pork sausage."

"Bastard." It was the only time I had ever heard my mother use that term or speak of me that way. I was put in the nursery and was not let out for three weeks. Seeing me again mother was her old self, and the incident was never spoken of again.

"Browning up like a sausage," I thought, examining for the first time my dark and now strangely unfamiliar arms, legs, and torso.

My skin was not my only problem. The high humidity and sun had caused my hair to frizz and twist. It had always had quite a bit more curl than I felt fashionable, but my hairdresser in London had a treatment that kept it straight and untangled. But with no hairdresser to assist me my hair had become quite kinky and textured.

In my London salon it might be called "Afro textured". In the slave coffle my hair was simply "African".

I didn't have time to contemplate this latest unexpected development as one of the black buyers inspecting the girls dropped a coin into one of the slave monger's hands. With little ado I was soon forced to my knees. I let one hand drift between my legs as my now experienced soft pink tongue glided up and down his shaft before taking his large purple head into my mouth.

My mind raced. "The conditioning isn't affecting me. I'm not like the other girls. I am not a slave. I am NOT a slave," I thought. My mantra grew more desperate as I ran my tongue around the tip of the large black penis in my mouth, sucking eagerly as I longed to fill my mouth with my master's hot and tasty seed.

After leaving the trading center we marched for another day. Again, the fairer skin girls were given coverings to shield themselves from the sun, but I was not. I was free to enjoy the warm sun and cool African breeze!

I struggled to ignore the sun, and all thoughts of black bananas and pork sausages that kept invading my mind. I was tan, certainly, but this was as dark as I would get. I simply couldn't get any darker. No, no: that was impossible.

At first I found my nudity to be shameful, but increasingly I found myself glad to be naked. It was strangely liberating, and I enjoyed the way strange men passing my coffle ogled my naked slave girl body. Sometimes the passing strangers would reach out for a quick feel. As long at the coffle's progress was not slowed my master's did not care.

Although I reveled in the attention and the power my naked body gave me over men there was a darker side as well. My masters said that giving slave girls clothing made them uppity, and it was best to keep them naked and in chains to emphasize their animal like state. This was certainly true with me as I found the psychology of my nudity steadily preying on my already battered self-esteem. Being constantly paraded naked in front of fully clothed men – all of whom were free to fondle me, or slap my bottom - made me feel like an animal, particularly when at various stops perspective buyers would check my teeth or "udders" and speculated about "how many pups" I might drop. The latter left me especially frightened, for the memory of my breeding was fresh and still played on my mind.