• Sign up or login, and you'll have full access to opportunities of forum.

African Slave

Go to CruxDreams.com
Chapter 5


Ensign Lacey stared sadly over the ocean as the rising sun tinged it the shade of beaten copper. The triangular silhouettes of the native boats notched the horizon. Would one of those take him to a life of slavery in an unknown place?


The physical pain of his mutilation had subsided to a dull, throbbing ache, rivalled now by the pain of his sunburn! The mental pain was indescribable! The horror of what had been done to him was only starting to sink in. He was a gelding! He would never be able to go with a girl. Worse, it seemed likely that he would have to submit to disgusting, unnatural practices. He had seen how Lady Barbara, the unreachable object of his desires, had been made to submit to unspeakable things. In full view of slaves and slavers.


An anguished cry made him look down the beach. “Why can’t he just die?” He thought to himself. He was a sailor from the ship who had bitten a slaver who tried to make him take his penis in his mouth, just as Lady Barbara was forced to do. The slaves were all forced to watch as he was impaled on a thick stake planted on the beach. He had been there all night, screaming his agony as the rough wood slowly penetrated his vitals. The slavers were determined to keep him alive as long as possible, giving him water at regular intervals. They did not stop the crabs from stripping the flesh off his feet, however.


His eyes were drawn to four figures walking down to the sea. Fatima, Lady Barbara’s maid, Miss Prudence and a striking black girl. The fourth figure was clad in an all enveloping garment with only a narrow slit for the wearer to see through. He looked with lust at the three naked women. Miss Prudence was badly sunburnt, her skin a flaming red. Her heavy breasts bounced as she walked. He longed to touch them. He looked down at the stub of his cock, tears welling up.


The fourth figure shucked the robe as it reached the water. Lady Barbara! He devoured the creamy skinned figure with his eyes as she entered the water with the others, watched as they washed each other, intimately. Then Lady Barbara emerged from the water, a vision of Venus, only to hide herself under the shapeless robe.


“Look all you like, youngster.” The sailor chained next to him in the coffle said, not unkindly. “That’s all we can do now, being gelded. How long do you think it will be before one of these black baboons shoves his cock into your arse? Or mine, come to that?”


“Must say, her ladyship wasn’t too proud to take his cock in her mouth. Not many Pompey whores who do that! And then only if you fill them with gin!” Lacey shuddered, disgusted at the thought of what lay ahead. His eyes were drawn to the black girl. She was proud in her nakedness, flaunting her body in front of the helpless slaves. Even though the steel collar at her throat advertised her own slave status.


Moto looked at the man on the stake, grateful for the burqa that hid her. His mouth was open in a rictus of agony, his hands bound behind his back. His feet, largely fleshless now, still scrabbling at the rough wood of the stake that was tearing into his body. His feet dislodged the crabs climbing up the stake, huge brutes, some as big as a man’s head. She retched dryly.


Last night her master had demanded the use of her mouth. She had taken the tip between her lips, kissing it as she had her husband’s. Fatima’s voice had been chilling. “Don’t play with it, girl! Take it deep! All of it!” Firm pressure on the back of her head forced the shaft deep into the mouth, until she choked and gagged. The black girl, Yasmina, made a disparaging sound with her tongue.


Try as she might, she could get no more than half his length into her throat without gagging. Fatima gave advice and applied pressure to her head, to no avail. Then the cock in her mouth pulsed and salty slime gushed into the throat. Choking, she pulled back, half spitting, half vomiting the stuff from her mouth. She knelt, gasping for breath, unaware of the reaction of the others. Yasmina looked at her in alarm, shocked, horrified by what she had done. Fatima said softly, “Oh shit, girl. You’re for it now! A slave never, never rejects her master’s gift.” Salim’s face was dark with anger. “You will suffer for this. You!”, he pointed at Fatima and Yasmina, “tomorrow you will take her to my men. She will practice until she can take my full length. If she fails, she will join that fool on a stake!”


Fatima led Barbara to where the slavers were eating their breakfast. She explained the task ahead of them. There were evil smiles and nudges as the first slaver stepped forward. Fatima unlaced the panel of the burqa that covered Barbara’s mouth, and her training began.


Several hours later Barbara was exhausted, her jaw cramped, her belly churning with the amount of semen she had swallowed. She had managed to take all of the last six cocks presented to her. She had swallowed the slimy product without spilling a drop. Another slaver stepped forward. The men exchanged knowing grins. He was gross, his belly wobbling as he walked. Yasmina’s smile dripped with malice. The man lifted his robe, revealing thighs like tree trunks. “Oh my God! No! It is not possible!” Barbara croaked as she saw what awaited her. The cock was as long and as thick as her forearm, black, veined, the circumcised head bulbous. Yasmina guided the thing to Barbara’s lips. She said something unintelligible. Fatima translated, “All of it, white bitch, all of it.”


Barbara thought she was going to die. She couldn’t breathe. Her jaw seemed about to dislocate. Her eyes crossed as she stared at the length of ebony cock still to go into her throat. “Deeper!” Fatima’s voice. Slowly, slowly it found its way into her, until she felt the coarse hair against her nose. Her throat convulsed, cramped, she was going to die. There was an explosion of hot, salty slime, not in her mouth, deep in her throat, beyond swallowing. It flowed straight into her stomach. Everything went black.


When she came to Fatima was closing the panel across her mouth. She had taken more than twenty men, none of whom had seen more of her that her lips and her tongue. The pleasure of seeing her body would come later.


On rubbery legs she followed the other three women back to her master’s tent. Prudence was in deep shock. She knew that a similar ordeal awaited her. She was a virgin in all ways.


In the shade of the tent the burqa was removed, its purpose purely to shield delicate skin from the sun. Salim nodded as Yasmina reported to him. He nodded, then handed her two strips of thick leather, each attached to a handle. The one was about two feet long and six inches wide. The other the same length but only just more than an inch wide. Yasmina smiled broadly as she was given the implements. She spat words into Barbara’s face. Fatima translated. “These are for you, witch! This,” she held up the wider one, “is for those milky tits. Thirty strokes on each one! With this,” The narrower one was offered, “I will have the great pleasure of whipping your witch cunt! Fifty strokes.”


The slaves were collected to witness the punishment. Barbara’s hands were bound behind her back. Two men held her arms. She watched the naked girl, for the first time appreciating the strength of muscle in her arms and shoulders. The hate in her eyes.


The girl swung hard! The thick, stiff leather impacting on a petite, creamy breast. The forest echoed to the screams of agony. That was the first stroke!

(To be continued)

EF27574C-A58E-4652-9ACC-128E5368D5E7.jpeg Twenty!!!!! :eek:

Too many! :confused:

Yuck!:(

And then punished too? Unfair!!! :oops:

20B1C294-1939-4DE9-8998-6832E863439B.jpeg Need I read more?
 
Excellent story very well rendered.

I can assure everyone that while there are many parallels with the story Barb and I are in the midst of, "Barbary Coast", they are pure co-incidence, even down to the presence of characters called Lady Barbara and Prudence and a leader of the slavers/pirates called Selim/Karim. Neither Barb nor I had any idea about your story, nor did you know of ours in advance, though if Selim has a brother named Tarir, I may start to wonder...
 
Excellent story very well rendered.

I can assure everyone that while there are many parallels with the story Barb and I are in the midst of, "Barbary Coast", they are pure co-incidence, even down to the presence of characters called Lady Barbara and Prudence and a leader of the slavers/pirates called Selim/Karim. Neither Barb nor I had any idea about your story, nor did you know of ours in advance, though if Selim has a brother named Tarir, I may start to wonder...
I think it's called convergent evolution!
 
Woman-Picture-4_300 (3).jpg ... but Barb of CF is brown , not readhair and Lady Barbara is not, now : she's only Moto ...
Decidely, I'm lost with your characters, Theseus ...:D
 
Chapter 6


Barbara screamed again, hoarse by now, amid her hysterical sobs. She had long lost count of the blows landed on her right breast. The creamy skin was now a painful red, the nipple for some reason standing proud, as if welcoming the punishment. Through her tears she looked at Yasmina. The black girl was panting, her body glistening with the sweat of her exertions. She looked to Fatima, who had been keeping count. She nodded. The girl planted her feet, making sure of her balance.


“No! Please, no more! I can’t take any more! Please! You’re a woman! How can you do thi….! Noooooooo!”


The leather smacked into the battered breast once more. Barbara almost tore free of the men holding her, so fierce was her reaction to the blow. Salim stepped forward, stroked the battered breast, pinching the nipple, sending further waves of pain through Barbara’s tortured body.


Yasmina changed her position, found a new spot to stand. She stretched her shoulders. She patted the untouched left breast with the strap.


“Please! No more! Fatima! Please tell our master I will do anything! Anything! I’m sorry! Please!


Fatima said nothing, merely nodded at the black girl. Her arm swung!


Ensign Lacey had forgotten about his own pain, his mutilation, He watched in fascinated horror as Lady Barbara’s beautiful little breasts were beaten. He wished he could caress them. Surely this was inhuman?


Prudence was weeping. It was as if she could feel each blow on her own breasts. She knew she would do anything, absolutely anything, no matter how depraved or disgusting, to avoid a similar punishment.


Yasmina took her time, a smile on her face, allowing Barbara, Moto, the opportunity to appreciate each blow. Serve the witch right for trying to steal her master away from her body. She was tired now.


Fatima nodded. The strap smashed into the left breast. Moto was beyond screaming, managing just hiccupping, hysterical sobs. Another nod, another flat crack, and another.


The men let Moto go. She slumped to the ground. She was desperate to touch her breasts, to cradle the bruised flesh in her hands, hands that were still firmly tied behind her back.


The slavers moved off, returning with two ropes that they tied to high branches of two trees several yards apart. They returned to the sobbing slave, hauling her to her feet and half carrying, half dragging her to the trees. Leather cuffs were locked around her ankles, the ropes threaded through them. Feeding the free ends of the ropes to loops at the top of each they started hauling. Moto found herself dragged along the ground, then lifted off until she swung freely, her legs spread obscenely wide. Her fiery hair dragged in the dirt. Her struggles were to no avail.


Upside down as she was she saw Fatima approach Salim, kneel and beg him for something. He smiled, nodded, and handed the narrower of the straps to her erstwhile maid. In mixed hope and disbelief she watched the Circassian woman walk toward her, strap in hand. “The fun has only just begun, girl,” Fatima purred. She used two fingers to part the lips so beautifully presented to the audience. Moto moaned as the fingers entered her vagina, found the wetness there. Fatima licked her fingers. “As I thought, you are a true whore.” The strap slid across the tender lips.


“I think you should count, Lady Barbara Campbell. Count each one of the fifty strokes I am going to apply to your Ladyship’s cunt!”


Barbara couldn’t believe her ears. Fatima, her maid, her husband’s servant, was contemplating beating her. Unthinkable, surely? Moments later the unthinkable happened! The strap smacked resoundingly against her exposed vagina! Red waves of pain blurred her vision, Her body jack-knifed, writhing and twisting in agony! She couldn’t breathe! She gasped, trying desperately to catch her breath, to try and accommodate the agony. Somewhere in the distance amid the waves of pain she heard a voice. “I hear no count, My Lady. You clearly did not feel my poor attempt at whipping you. I shall have to start from scratch. Please count if you feel it!”


Barbara was desperately trying to count, to say that she had indeed felt it, that she couldn’t catch her breath, when the second blow landed! This time she screeched! “One! No two! Oh God, please! No more! Please!”


Fatima’s voice penetrated the haze of agony. “That is one by my count, My Lady. Please remember to count the next forty nine. I should hate to have to start again!”


For more than half an hour Fatima slowly, methodically beat her former mistresses’ cunt. Barbara screamed, begged, pleaded, howled, sobbed, but she did not stop counting. Finally she managed “Fifty! Oh God! Fifty! Please let it be over!”


She was lowered to the ground, the ropes removed from her ankles and left, her hands still bound behind her. She curled up in a foetal ball, her world a hell of pain. Prudence knelt beside her. “You are to remain bound until tomorrow night. The master has ordered it to be so. I am allowed to put water and gruel under that tree for you. The one next to the shelter. You will have to crawl there.”


Moto lay there, sobbing. It was not only the pain, the betrayal hurt as much as the beatings. Just three days ago she had been the queen bee, a young noblewoman to whom everyone pandered. Now she was naked, bound, her most intimate parts exposed. Brutalised by her servant.


Finally she surrendered to her raging thirst. She tried to stand, but her legs were too weak to support her, even trying to walk on her knees was impossible. She had to keep them wide apart to ease the pain in her grossly swollen nether lips. Finally she crawled, inching along the ground, her bruised breasts scraping against earth and twigs. The bowl of gruel was covered in flies, and there were things swimming in the water. With her hands bound behind her, there was no option but to plunge her face in the bowl and drink like an animal.


As darkness fell she watched as Yasmina lovingly undressed her master. It came as a shock to Moto that she now thought of him as such. She watched with envy as Yasmina and Fatima knelt before the slaver, their lips and tongues worshiping his body until finally they shared his penis. Yasmina flashed a look of triumph at the bound woman as she rolled on her back, spread her thighs and willingly accepted her master inside her.


Moto sobbed. Not only because of the pain, but because she felt lost and empty. She wanted what the black slavegirl was getting. She wanted to be filled by that cock! To be used! To be his bedslave!

(To be continued)
 
The girl swung hard! The thick, stiff leather impacting on a petite, creamy breast. The forest echoed to the screams of agony. That was the first stroke!

Woman-Picture-4_300 (3).jpg ... a jealous slave is always even more cruel than a Master ! Believe my experience ...:devil:
 
Chapter 7


Prudence walked back from the stream where she had filled her water jar. She was proud that after almost two weeks as a slave she had mastered the art of carrying the jar, containing some three gallons of water, on her head. She walked proudly, erect, her hips swaying as she walked, her full breasts bobbing gently. How different she was from the pale English miss who staggered out of the surf thirteen days before.


She was no longer pale! Her naked body was tanned a golden brown. The mousey brown ringlets that took so long to arrange every day were gone, her head shaven bald, revealing beautiful bone structure. Gone too was the fashionable softness of her body. Days of hard labour, of running and walking beside Abdul’s horse had firmed her muscles, added strength and shape. She had looked at her reflection in the calm surface of the pool, and she liked what she saw. Prudence liked being a slave!


She liked the way the slavers looked at her, reading the lust in their eyes. The string of cowry shells around her waist protected her from that lust. It denoted her virginity, a valuable commodity. She was the only female survivor from the ship to possess that valued commodity. She licked her lips, tasting the salty taste of Abdul’s semen. She smiled to herself. Fortunately her mouth did not have to be virgin! When he first took her mouth she had protested vehemently, appalled that this unnatural practice should be forced upon her. Now she lusted after the feel and taste of the thick shaft of meat. She had tasted several of the slavers, and even the master had honoured her with his manhood. She wanted more! She wanted to feel the invasion of her body, of her ‘womanly parts’ as her mother would have called them, of her arse! She would have to wait for that until she was sold.


She thought of her mother’s constant admonitions against the ‘sins of the flesh’, the ‘sinful lusts’ of her husband, how it was a woman’s unpleasant duty to suffer through her marital duties. The Prudence of two weeks ago had dreaded the thought that she would one day have to suffer the indignities her mother railed against. She was grateful that she still had at some years of grace before she became ‘marriageable’ at eighteen. Now she couldn’t wait for this march to end. She wanted to be displayed, sold, ravished, by her new owner. Every night in camp she watched with envy as Moto, Fatima and Yasmina were used by Salim. She had watched with equal envy as Abdul had taken Ensign Lacey, watched the boy’s furious struggles, listened to his pleas for mercy as inch after inch of the Big African’s cock had driven into his body. She had lubricated that cock with her mouth, had envied every inch that penetrated the boy’s anus. He no longer screamed, merely moaned with resigned shame at his nightly use.


One of the slavers made a lewd comment about her breasts. She now understood enough of their language to get the gist of it, and to make a saucy retort. Not too impertinent. Her back and buttocks were still stiff and painful from the whipping three days ago. A dozen lashes with the kiboko for a cheeky comment to Abdul. She had screamed and danced furiously as the whip laid lines of fire across her back, but for some reason there had also been a warmth and a tingling in her loins that she wanted to experience again.


She called a greeting to her mother as she walked past her. “Good evening mother. Hard at work as usual?” There was no reply. Not that she expected one, beyond perhaps a grunt. Her mother was one of the camp whores. She was on her hands and knees, her mouth full of a slaver’s cock, while another stroked slowly and lazily in and out of her arse.


Prudence smiled inwardly. Her mother had always been such a snob. Referring to herself as Mrs Captain Curran, taking on airs and graces she thought were appropriate to her status. Now she was certainly acting appropriately to her status! One of eight women and two boys who were the camp whores, serving the needs of thirty slavers. They didn’t mind the sagging breasts, the folds of skin where the woman had lost many pounds since the shipwreck. All they wanted were tight, more or less, holes in which to sate their lust.


Ensign Lacey was oiling his master’s saddle when Prudence entered the camp. His gut twisted with unrequited desire as he watched Prudence walk into the camp. There were advantages to being Abdul’s personal slave. One of them was oiling Prudence’s body with coconut oil every day. Unlike her his skin did not like the sun, it was red and flaky and itchy, her’s was like silk under his hands as he anointed her. He ate better food than the other slaves, but the price he paid was high. He was sodomised every day, and together with Prudence, was expected to take his master into his mouth. She seemed to relish the invasion, he hated it. He was an officer and a gentleman, to be used in this fashion was degrading and humiliating. The buggery was no longer as painful as it had been. The first few times had been excruciating! Now it was just unpleasant, but the humiliation of being buggered in front of her had not decreased.


Fatima nodded approvingly as Prudence came into the camp. The girl was a natural slave, and had adapted well to her status. She was eager to learn the language, even more eager to learn how to please a man. Fatima would never have thought that the prissy miss on the ship would turn into this voluptuous, delicious slave. She would not be at all surprised if she did not fetch a price close to what Lady Barbara sold for.


Bagamoyo was only a few days march away. Moto, her former mistress, was settling into her life as a slave. The burqa had protected her skin from the sun. It hampered her when they were on the march, but she had learned to manage running in the flapping garment, her bound wrists attached to Salim’s saddle. Salim had Moto, Yasmina and Fatima as his personal bedslaves, while Abdul had chosen young Richard Lacey and Prudence, although in her case only her mouth could be used.


It had been hard for the young officer. Abdul was big, and not particularly gentle. The boy had screamed shrilly the first time, screamed and begged until his master was spent. Prudence had cuddled him as he cried himself to sleep. She had asked Fatima for advice on making things easier for the boy, and for herself when she was sold and would lose her virginity. Every evening she lubricated the boy, gently stretching him. Surreptitiously she did the same for herself, in preparation for her sale.


Moto worked in the shade of the trees, preparing her master’s supper. She was grateful to be naked, to be free of the hot, sweaty folds of the burqa. It protected her from the sun, and meant that she was not naked in front of the other slaves all day, but it was clumsy, hot and sweaty. She envied the others as they ran naked. Only three more days march before they reached Bagamoyo. Surely there would be missionaries there, who would buy her freedom. That was where they took the saintly Dr Livingstone, after all, there was a church there. She would be freed, would once more be Lady Barbara Campbell. Her husband would forgive her for the indignities she had been forced to endure. She was not like Fatima, a born slave, or like Prudence, who seemed to relish her slavery and could not wait to be sold so that she could lose her virginity. She was living in a strange, dual world. Some of the time she was lady Barbara, the beautiful and privileged young aristocrat, at other times she was Moto, the slave who craved her master’s attention, the feel of his hands on her body, the feel of him inside her body.


Bagamoyo, where she would be free!

(To be continued)
 
Moto sobbed. Not only because of the pain, but because she felt lost and empty. She wanted what the black slavegirl was getting. She wanted to be filled by that cock! To be used! To be his bedslave!
xM_10.jpg She's beguinning to understand ... Goooood !
 
Chapter 8


Patience Curran woke reluctantly, painfully. There was just a trace of light in the sky, soon it would be dawn, then the sun would burst above the horizon, heralding another day, another eternity of stumbling through the sand. Her bowels griped, her anus gripping the length of bamboo her tormentors had forced into her after they had done using her. She needed to go, dreading having to remove the bamboo, knowing she would have to replace it once done. She shuddered with disgust. These heathen savages took great pleasure in her abuse, constantly thinking of new ways to humiliate her. Using her hands she dug a shallow hole beside her. There was no privacy for a slave, chained neck to neck as they were. She moaned in pain as she removed the bamboo, squatted over her hole. Done, she took a deep breath to summon up her courage, then shoved the hated stem back into herself. The pain was much less that that of the whipping that would follow if it were not there.


The slaves were stirring. A few trusted slaves were moving along with the containers of gruel that was the slaves’ food. There was always a fight over the foul tasting stuff. Hunger ruled their lives.


As she crammed the stuff into her mouth she thought of her daughter. She had seen her two days ago, walking tall and naked, seemingly proud of her indecent nakedness. She had been brought up as a modest girl. What had these heathens done to her to change her into such a shameless slut? Strutting along swinging her hips and pushing out her breasts. Patience looked at her own breasts, hanging down like udders as she crouched over her food. One of the guards strode along the line. He caught sight of her and started fiddling with his robe. Her heart sank. There was no sense in fighting the inevitable. With a sigh she rose to her knees, opening her mouth.


As the cock drove into her unwilling mouth, she thought back over her life, over her nineteen years of marriage. The dashing soldier had assiduously wooed her until her parents had given their consent for their twenty-year-old daughter to marry him. The wedding had been a triumph for her, her husband so handsome in his uniform. It seemed natural to be marrying a man almost twice her age. She looked forward to a life of ease and respect. The wedding night was an ordeal. She was appalled at the sight of the naked man, at the THING growing from his loins. She was horrified that that thing would invade her body. She lay passive, weeping softly as he took his pleasure of her. Pregnancy followed soon after, giving her more than a year of reprieve from his attentions. Charity was a joy, a cute little girl who was like a doll to her mother. Blessedly the Captain had gone away on campaign soon after her birth, giving Patience a welcome break from his attentions. He returned more than two years later. Their weekly couplings had the inevitable effect, and Prudence arrived three years after her sister. She had managed to evade his attentions for another year before he became insistent. After that she was required to submit to his lust once a week. She would hitch up her nightgown, spread her legs and recite Psalms while he grunted on top of her.


She had thought that to be an unspeakable ordeal until the shipwreck and her descent into the hell of slavery. The man grunted and spurted his seed into her throat. He wiped himself on her shaven head and walked off. She hawked and spat as much of his seed as possible onto the ground.


Whips were cracking and the slaves were stirring as she heard a strange, wailing chant in the far distance. She staggered to her feet, waddling slightly from the object in her bowels. Another day had begun.


Moto had donned her burqa and was offering her wrists to be bound in readiness for the day’s march when she heard the chant. Fatima and Yasmina were already bound, their wrists attached to their master’s saddle by a length of rope. “What’s that chanting?” she asked Fatima as she was attached to the opposite side of the saddle by her lead rope.


“That is the call to prayer. We must be near a town or a village. Perhaps this is the end of our march.


The morning’s march was short. They stopped at a river. The slaves were told to wash, to clean themselves in the clear water. The atmosphere was almost festive as they splashed and washed. Some were even laughing as they played in the water. Fatima was washing Moto, combing out her wet hair. The Muezzin called again, louder now. Then there was another sound. Moto raised her head. Bells! Church bells! Moto morphed into Lady Barbara! “Fatima! Those are church bells! There must be missionaries here! We are saved! Saved! They will buy our freedom! We’re saved!” She danced around Fatima in her excitement.


The older woman was unmoved. “Don’t get too excited, Moto. Missionaries are men, and hardly saints. Now get this burqa on before the sun reduces your value.” Roughly she pulled the burqa over Moto’s still damp body, then tied her wrists.


Prudence’s heart sank when she heard the bells. She, too, had heard tales of saintly missionaries buying slaves their freedom. Freedom! This was freedom, she thought. The last thing she wanted was to regain the supposed freedom of being Miss Prudence Curran. She did not want to be bound, enslaved by convention, by modesty, by all the rules that governed the life of a young lady. It was unthinkable that she could go back to a society where it was considered extremely daring for a young man to touch his lips to the back of her hand. How could she accept that, when she knew the pleasure of having his male hardness deep in her throat?


Ralph heard the bells with sorrow. Perhaps missionaries would buy his freedom. His parents were wealthy and would more than compensate them. But what awaited him in England? Would the Army have him back? If they did, he would always be the target of sniggers and comments; the gelding in a man’s coat.


Mrs Curran was overjoyed! Soon she would be free!


The march continued for a short time before they say the glint of the sun on the crescent moon on top of the minaret. Soon buildings appeared, stray dogs barked at the column of slaves as they entered the town. A forest of masts bobbed at the waterside. Salim smiled inwardly. Bagamoyo! Here they would rest, get the slaves into top shape before the short voyage to Ungujaa. Zanzibar! Home of Tippoo Tib. He looked back at the slender figure swathed in the burqa who followed his horse. There walked his fortune!


Lady Barbara was ecstatic! Off to the right, among a group of trees, she could see the steeple of a sizable church. Freedom beckoned!


Mrs Curran looked at the church, at the robed, cowled man emerging from it. Papists! Hardly Christians at all, but still believers in the gentle Christ. Even Papists would have enough Christian charity to buy their freedom.


The streets became narrow. Lady Barbara, for once, was grateful for her burqa. She could see the lust in the men’s eyes as they looked at Fatima and Prudence. White slaves were rare, attractive female slaves more so. Yasmina drew attention, but black slaves were commonplace. It was only her exceptional beauty that drew any attention at all. The road turned to the left, down to the sea. On their left was a large open area, studded with ranks of metal posts. Most were vacant, but a few had naked slaves chained to them by the neck. The slavers efficiently divided their stock into groups of four, chaining them to their pillars. Fatima, Yasmina, Prudence and Ralph shared a pillar. Lady Barbara, now feeling much more like Moto, stood alone in her burqa, still tied to Salim’s horse. A short, fat man appeared from the official looking building opposite the slave market. He looked greasy and unwashed, but bowed to Salim and accepted a purse of coins.


Abdul untied Moto, bowing mockingly before her. “For you, my lady, we have special accommodations, fitting for your exalted status. Lady Barbara smiled under her burqa. This was more like it! She followed him willingly to the cool shade of the broad verandah. He untied her hands.


“Get that robe off, slut!” His growl was menacing, his words so unexpected that she automatically shucked the burqa. “What do you think you’re doing?” She retorted as he quickly tied her hands again, then tied them to a ring in a beam above her head.


“Come back! You can’t leave me like this! There are people around! Women! Children! Come back! Let me go!” She stamped her foot in frustration. With her hands above her head she was completely exposed to the eyes of the whole town!


The white slaves attracted much attention. These were rare, a real curiousity. Moto, with her milky skin and flaming hair attracted many interested viewers. Many reached out to touch her skin and stroke her hair. She had to endure it all, helpless and exposed as she was.


Her attention was drawn to five figures walking slowly down the road. Their grey robes and crucifixes identified them as monks. Despite her predicament her spirits rose. These holy men would buy her freedom. They made their way through the crowd toward her. She smiled encouragingly.


“Thank you, holy fathers! You are my salvation!”

(To be continued)
 
Back
Top Bottom