Victoria's Secret: Victoria's Story

With each passing day I found the distance between myself and the clothed people around me growing, even as I adopted their point of view. The thoughts that entered my mind surprised me at first, and at first I struggled to fight them. But with little to do but to walk, recite my slave chants, and pleasure myself, my old identity sank slowly and inexorably into the quicksand of my slavery.

As much as I struggled, the thoughts swirled through my brain:

Why should I be given clothes? Would one dress a donkey or a goat?

The left over "slave slop" in the feeding troughs wasn't disgusting. It was delicious, and it was kind of my master's to feed me.

If my bottom as slapped, switched, or whipped, it was for my own good. Like most slave girls I was naturally lazy and stupid, and needed the whip to teach me. I was too slow-witted to be reasoned with. When they ordered me to "fetch" the crop in my teeth, I would crawl as fast as I could. I was afraid of the crop and regretful of my mistake but I also knew that whatever I was being punished for was a lesson I needed to learn.

A slave brand was an honor. A slave girl should be proud to wear her master's brand. Wedding rings could be discarded, but brands formed a link that would last forever.

Where were we going? Was I to be sold? Who would buy me? I did not need to know. My masters were strong and smart and wise and they would do what was best.

I did not hope for a kind master. Instead I hoped only to be pleasing.

No. No. No. Temporary. This was temporary.

My mind raced. Branding was forever. But I was not branded. Not yet. Randolph would be here soon. I would be rescued. Soon. I hoped.

Detouring off the main road we came to a small river. Much to my relief we were finally unchained from the coffle and allowed to bathe while the men watered the other animals upstream. The water was freezing but I did not care. At last I was able to wash off my filth and slave stink and be rid of the cursed flies.

The men tossed us a few bars of primitive soap, which we shared. When you have nothing you learn to share, and the girls were soon laughing and chattering and splashing around in the water like school girls. I was careful to take off my barefoot sandals, so I did not lose them in the river, and hung them around my neck. One of the African girls said she liked my necklace, and I smiled, particularly since I saw Pamela giving me the evil eye, as she had ever since I had told the man to brand Suzanne.

The men watched us closely, and laughed and joked with one another as we washed our legs, breasts, bottoms, and between our legs. It was embarrassing, at least at first, for I had never bathed in front of a group of clothed men. But they were my masters, and somehow it seemed right and natural. I found myself joining the other girls in showing off for the men, posing as we washed each other's backs and bottoms, pretending to "drop" something as I turned and raised my naked ass into the air, spreading my legs just enough to draw their attention.

One of the girls ventured a bit too far downstream and a sharpshooter with a rifle fired into the little tree she was trying to pick fruit out of, snapping the branch. She ran back, splashing as the men laughed. It was quite startling to me, and a harsh reminder that although I was having fun now as a slave girl my life could end at any moment.

The rope around my neck had left a "hanging scar", a permanent reminder of my near execution at the hands of the errant donkey in the marketplace. Pamela told me that such scars were considered proof that a girl was destined to die at the end of a rope. Kaba agreed with her, but said that my scar might be an asset in that I might draw the attention of a master who liked to hang slave girls. The hanging scar showed that I had "fight and kick" and would dance nicely on the end of my master's rope. I shuddered at the thought.

I tried to scrub off my shackle sores, but alas they were no longer sores but scars. I knew it was for the best, for the permanent scars would make it easier for me to walk in a coffle or work chained in a field.

I imagined myself standing naked in the showers with my friends in my private club at London. They had private showers, of course, but I sometimes liked to use the large gang shower to show off my toned physique. I imagined trying to explain my hanging scar and shackle scars to them.

"Those? Oh, it's a sort of tattoo... Yes, I got them in Africa. They are considered a mark of royalty, actually. Melissa, would you mind putting some soap on my back? A little lower, please. Oh, that feels good. Yes, a spot of tea at the club would be lovely, Jennifer."

Would they believe me? Or would they know? A phone call might return me to slavery! I looked sadly at my shackle scars. Even without my chains, I would be a slave forever.

No! No! This was temporary. I was not a slave. I was NOT a slave!

I was relieved when the men did not chain us, and instead let us run ahead of them off the road into a grassy field. We were going off road now, walking through the plains and I enjoyed the feel of the grass between my toes. My relief was short lived, though, as I quickly discovered why my slave shackles were no longer necessary.

The masters met a farmer in a truck, and as we played naked in the field money was exchanged. A simple transaction, apparently, but for a naked slave girl watching men exchange money and shake hands can be a terrifying horror.

Sure enough, the back of the truck was opened and four enormous Anatolian Shepard dogs ran into the fields. The girls had spread out widely over the grassy hill but within less than a minute we were chased, corralled, bumped, and herded together, much like a flock of errant sheep.

Once we were together the dogs, working as a team, subdivided us further, with two dogs managing the black girls and two dogs managing the white. Although I was standing next to Suzanne and Pamela when the herding began, one of the dogs accidentally pushed me toward the black girls, much to Pamela's delight.

I tried to make my way back to the white girls, but the dog guarding me, an enormous dog whose shoulder's came up to my waist, would have none of it. He growled and showed his teeth, staring me down with fierce, demanding eyes. Deciding that I was not to be mastered by a mere dog, I kicked at him. He was fast, and darted out of the way, so my toes barely glanced his fur. But he had to turn to avoid the kick, and I used the opportunity to run back to the white girls. My rebellion did not last for long.

As I ran one of the other dogs ran in front of me, cutting off my path. I turned to see the dog that I had kicked racing towards me. The intelligence in his fierce eyes startled me. It was human-like, yes, but somehow more. It was the look a master gives his slave girl when he can see into her very soul.

I turned to flee, but one of the dogs hit me hard from behind, knocking me to my belly. As I tried to rise the dog I had kicked jumped on my back as if it were the most natural thing in the world, causing me to gasp when I felt his paws on my shoulders.

"You've made a new friend, Vicky!" Pamela jeered. Suzanne laughed and applauded.

The dog pressed down on me, and when I resisted he locked his teeth around the back of neck, hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to break the skin. I tried to pull away but that only caused him to tighten his grip around my throat.

On hunts I had seen dogs smaller than the one that held me now snap a deer's neck in their jaws. I knew he could bring hundreds of pounds of pressure to bear, far more than my delicate neck could withstand. All the beast would have to do is bite down.

Terrified, I lowered my nose to the dirt in submission, raising my bottom high even as I spread my legs wide to keep my balance. My canine master held me in his jaws, and I could feel his breath on me, and his chest expanding and contracting as he pressed down on my back.

I feared for my life but then the farmer whistled twice, and called out "Reth", the dog's name and the African word for "King". Reth, not releasing his grip, rolled off my back, jerking my head sharply as he dismounted. With my neck still between his jaws Reth dragged me back to the other black girls. After being dragged a few feet I was able to get my feet under me, and when my canine master saw that I was not resisting him he permitted me crawl, keeping his teeth locked around my neck the entire time. The men laughed and hooted at me, as being frog marched this way across the field with my bottom raised and my legs spread I offered an excellent view of the merchandise. Only when I had rejoined the black girls was the dog's grip released.

I looked at the dog, challenging him. Reth barked and snarled at me, showing me his enormous teeth, including a pair of fangs that I knew could rip right through me! Again my foolish rebellion was crushed, and I heard the men laugh as I obediently fell back and hid behind the other black girls.

Reth seemed unimpressed. He stared at me, watching, his fierce eyes communicating his message. "I will decided your place, slave girl. Your days of holding the leash is over. Reth is the master now, and you will obey."

One of the slave mongers ran up the hill. I and another of the fairer skin black girls was separated from my group. A whistle and hand signal was given to my canine master, who immediately chased us down the hill toward the men.

For the next five minutes Reth chased the two of us around while the man in the truck and Kaba haggled. The two men bartered loudly, and I soon realized they were talking about us, grading our bouncing udders and breasts, and using the menacing dog constantly nipping at our heels to grade our wind!

He chased both of us, but I felt like Reth signaled me out for special attention, barking at me if I slowed my pace, making sure that I ran quickly, and turned, and jumped in a way HE thought proper.

With Reth constantly menacing me I sprinted as fast as I could, my lungs burning like fire and my mind dizzy. When my pace flagged or I would slow, he would growl at me and snap, causing me to run all the faster!

"Reth! Present!"

Reth herded us in front of the men, then trotted back to his master, who gave him a small doggy treat out of his pocket. I stood there, naked and covered in sweat, struggling to breathe as I watched the dog wag his tail and gobble down the bacon treat he received for exercising his naked slave bitch.

I was still gasping for air as the in the truck began to examine us. He checked our eyes, weighed our breasts, and squeezed our bottoms. At Kaba's orders, we both juiced ourselves as quickly as possible, and the farmer sampled our nectar after withdrawing his finger from between our legs. He seemed quite interested in me, and spent a great deal of time fingering my pussy. I felt a strange sense of pride in being chosen, even as my heart raced in terror with the realization of what his favor might mean.

With some reluctance he selected the other girl, rating her "the better worker" and me, "the hotter lay!" "Plus the one with the wet pussy is illiterate and stupid, and useless for paperwork, or farm work." I was both flattered and insulted.

Illiterate? Me?

It was true. I did not speak the native language, and my Oxford education meant nothing here. I knew nothing of work.

The famer was right. I was illiterate and stupid.

My shame turned to horror as I watched the newly sold slave girl get dragged to the front of the truck and laid her down over the passenger seat so her rump was raised high. They plugged an odd looking contraption into the cigarette lighter, and it wasn't until the slave girl started to scream at the sight of it that I realized what it was, what it had to be to invoke such terror.

It was an electric branding iron!

The element heated quickly, even as the girl begged and pleaded and screamed as the laughing men patted her brown bottom, joking about how her "rump roast will smoke nicely."

They handed the branding iron to the farmer, and he smiled down at the slave girl as he slowly approached her with the white-hot iron. He took his time, blowing on the tip to show the trembling, sobbing girl how hot it was.

It is said that although a girl may be sold many times, she will always be a slave to the first man that brands her. And so it was.

The dog's bandana was removed and stuffed into her mouth before the branding, and despite the makeshift gag her scream when the farmer applied the brand to her naked bottom chilled me to the bone, even as my own bottom cheeks clenched in fear.

"Don't worry, little slave girl," Kaba said, fondling my bottom as he whispered in my ear. "Your turn will come soon enough. Unless you want me to brand your pretty black bottom now? Maybe I give you to him now, to prepay him for the next time I use his dogs?"

I don't know what shocked me more, the thought that I might be branded and given to a farmer to pay for a dog rental, or the idea that the coffle I was in was simply one of countless trips that Kaba made with girls like me.

I stared at the sobbing slave girl, my eyes fixated on the smoke rising from her branded bottom. It was a simple brand, a sort of cursive X with a slight curve that made it distinctly and strangely beautiful. How lucky she was to have such a striking brand! I couldn't help but wonder what my bottom might look like with such an exquisite mark.

"She's waiting her turn," one of the slave mongers said. "She must want to be branded!"

At this, I felt all eyes turn on me, and a wave of panic overtook me. I froze in place.

The farmer turned to Kaba, who nodded.

The farmer took the bandana out of the sobbing girl's mouth, stroking her cheek gently. She sobbed bitterly at the agony of her branding, but gazed up at the farmer with a look of awe and longing. He had branded her. She was his slave forever.

The branding iron was plugged in for a second heating. I felt faint as the farmer approached me, the bandana, still wet from the other girl's spittle, clutched in his fat fist.

For a moment I considered begging to be branded on the hip, or the shoulder. That was all that was left to me, begging WHERE to be branded. But I knew that was futile.

I, Lady Victoria, would be "butt branded."

He reached up to gag me, but before he could stuff it into my mouth I dropped to my knees, unzipped his pants, and took his member in my mouth.

The first time I had to take a black man's penis in my mouth I was disgusted. But now I did not care about his smell, or the putrid taste in my mouth, or the horrible sensation of the pulsing snake. I knew how to please him, of course. Sucking countless cocks had taught me that. But to my surprise I found myself wanting to please him, wanting to do my best, wanting to make him happy.

He would never love me; I was, after all, merely a slave. But still I longed to please him. I shuddered a bit as I heard the branding iron buzz, signaling it was ready. I redoubled my efforts, teasing his penis with my tongue, slurping, working the shaft with my hands, sucking him eagerly.

"She's hungry for it," one of the slave mongers observed.

"Yes, she's got slave hunger in her belly know," Kaba agreed. "She is hungry for her master's seed."

The men's humiliating comments caused the blood to rush to my face. I blushed because I was ashamed. I blushed because I knew they were right.

The farmer's load was clumpy, hot, salty, and bitter. I sucked it down eagerly.

As I licked my lips Kaba glanced at his watch, then turned to the farmer. "We must leave now. We will deal later."

Kaba nodded at me. Overjoyed with my reprieve I ran up the hill to join the other slave girls, with Reth nipping at my heels to me to make sure I found my way.

My mind reeled. In the last few minutes I had been manhandled by a dog, nearly sold, and mistaken for a Negro! I looked at my hand. My skin was dark, darker even than some of the other Negroes, but surely they didn't think I was African?

The dogs clearly thought I was black. But they were merely dogs. They did not know that I was a wealthy English aristocrat, Oxford educated, with my own title and ancestral home. reth saw only a naked African slave girl who needed to be herded into place.

I must admit that a part of me found the mix-up exciting. After all, I had come to Africa to experience a primitive society, and there was certainly no better way to do that than to actually immerse myself into their culture by becoming an African slave girl. Perhaps my canine master had done me a favor and his cold wet nose had pushed me though the door to an exciting new adventure.

Of course everything has a price, and although I had no money the price of my slumming would not be cheap. Even in our coffle the African girls were used more freely, worked harder, and suffered harsher discipline. Would I soon be pulling carts with the negroes? Was I now an ignorant and illiterate African?

The dogs seemed to think so, and they were in charge. They chased us forward, and I ran with the other African girls, with the men on horseback following closely behind. Deciding to take full advantage of my misfortune I resolved to play the part, and be a good little African slave girl, until such time as my rescue could be arranged.