theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
7.
Naked men and women stood chained to pillars, with people moving among them. A naked man was being tied, spread-eagled between two posts. A naked woman, her back and breasts a mass of bloody wheals, was being pushed toward a raised platform. Oh! God! This was the slave market! This was where I would be sold!
From somewhere close by there was an agonised scream, drawn out. At the same time there was the tantalising smell of roasting meat. My stomach rumbled again. I caught sight of Susan, walking beside her daughter Carrie. At the sight of the brand on her belly the realisation struck! The delicious smell was the smell of roasting human flesh! The smell of a red-hot iron brand being applied to the flesh of some poor, helpless slave! My stomach clenched as I realised that I would soon be smelling that smell at close range, as the hot iron seared into my own flesh!
Our column halted yet again. I watched as the whipped woman on the platform, oh god, that was the auction block, was turned this way and that, her labia spread wide to reveal the pink inside of her pussy, as the auctioneer worked up the price. Then it was over, the woman taken from the platform. She started to scream as she was led to where a man in a leather apron was standing in front of a brazier. Her knees buckled as he took a branding iron from the brazier, blew on it, shook his head in disapproval, and replaced it in the coals. Four burly men held her down on a table. A well-dressed man in white robes placed a finger on the outside of her left breast. She was pleading, begging hysterically as the man in the apron removed the iron from the coals, blew the ash away, nodded and applied the almost white hot iron to the spot indicated by her new owner!
She screamed shrilly as the smell of meat again invaded my nostrils. A bucket of water was poured over her breast and she was led away, to make way for another terrified slave!
Sharon caught my shocked look. She nodded, smiled wryly at me. I saw Candy staring at the brazier. Her face was pale. She too realised that this was not a game!
We were released from our neck chains and herded into an underground pit. There were already about twenty slaves in the low, confined space. There were almost fifty of us. Surely seventy people could not be crammed into such a small space? We would suffocate! My nostrils were assailed by the smell of hot bodies, fear, urine. The door was slammed behind us, and there was the rattle of a lock. The only light entered through a narrow slit at the roof, obviously at ground level. We were crammed in, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, breast to breast. Men and woman mixed. For the first time I noticed that most of the men had newly healing wounds; wounds where their balls had been. They had been castrated! My eyes shot to the white boy, the one who had been so aroused by the sight of his naked mother, whom she had wanted to take her anal cherry. Would he have his balls cut off like these others?
I found myself next to a white girl. Deeply tanned, but certainly of European extraction. She had dirty blonde hair. Her slender body was strong, well muscled. Her breasts were heavy, too heavy for her slender body. I noticed that her back bore a fine network of white scars, visible despite her dark tan. She sat with her knees drawn up to her breasts. Tears were streaming down her face. She had spots of cum on her thighs, and she exuded a strange, strong musky odour.
She noticed my gaze, and the way my nose wrinkled at the smell. “Goats! Fucking goats! I hate goats!”
She spoke English with a heavy, rather charming accent. She looked quite young, perhaps in her late teens. As she straightened up I noticed that each breast bore a brand. Different brands. Two owners?
“My name is Claudette,” she said, “although my last master just called me ‘nanny’, short for nanny goat.”
“Your last master? There has been more than one?” I stuttered.
“Three!” She pointed at the brands on her breasts and at a third just above her pussy. “Now I am too old. I will be sold to a brothel.” She wrinkled her nose. “Goats! I hate fucking goats!”
I looked at her. Too old? Surely she was still in her teens?
“How can you be too old?” I asked.
“I am almost twenty.”
My mind reeled. She had had three owners, been branded three times. Too old? What did that make me? Was I destined for a brothel?
Naked men and women stood chained to pillars, with people moving among them. A naked man was being tied, spread-eagled between two posts. A naked woman, her back and breasts a mass of bloody wheals, was being pushed toward a raised platform. Oh! God! This was the slave market! This was where I would be sold!
From somewhere close by there was an agonised scream, drawn out. At the same time there was the tantalising smell of roasting meat. My stomach rumbled again. I caught sight of Susan, walking beside her daughter Carrie. At the sight of the brand on her belly the realisation struck! The delicious smell was the smell of roasting human flesh! The smell of a red-hot iron brand being applied to the flesh of some poor, helpless slave! My stomach clenched as I realised that I would soon be smelling that smell at close range, as the hot iron seared into my own flesh!
Our column halted yet again. I watched as the whipped woman on the platform, oh god, that was the auction block, was turned this way and that, her labia spread wide to reveal the pink inside of her pussy, as the auctioneer worked up the price. Then it was over, the woman taken from the platform. She started to scream as she was led to where a man in a leather apron was standing in front of a brazier. Her knees buckled as he took a branding iron from the brazier, blew on it, shook his head in disapproval, and replaced it in the coals. Four burly men held her down on a table. A well-dressed man in white robes placed a finger on the outside of her left breast. She was pleading, begging hysterically as the man in the apron removed the iron from the coals, blew the ash away, nodded and applied the almost white hot iron to the spot indicated by her new owner!
She screamed shrilly as the smell of meat again invaded my nostrils. A bucket of water was poured over her breast and she was led away, to make way for another terrified slave!
Sharon caught my shocked look. She nodded, smiled wryly at me. I saw Candy staring at the brazier. Her face was pale. She too realised that this was not a game!
We were released from our neck chains and herded into an underground pit. There were already about twenty slaves in the low, confined space. There were almost fifty of us. Surely seventy people could not be crammed into such a small space? We would suffocate! My nostrils were assailed by the smell of hot bodies, fear, urine. The door was slammed behind us, and there was the rattle of a lock. The only light entered through a narrow slit at the roof, obviously at ground level. We were crammed in, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, breast to breast. Men and woman mixed. For the first time I noticed that most of the men had newly healing wounds; wounds where their balls had been. They had been castrated! My eyes shot to the white boy, the one who had been so aroused by the sight of his naked mother, whom she had wanted to take her anal cherry. Would he have his balls cut off like these others?
I found myself next to a white girl. Deeply tanned, but certainly of European extraction. She had dirty blonde hair. Her slender body was strong, well muscled. Her breasts were heavy, too heavy for her slender body. I noticed that her back bore a fine network of white scars, visible despite her dark tan. She sat with her knees drawn up to her breasts. Tears were streaming down her face. She had spots of cum on her thighs, and she exuded a strange, strong musky odour.
She noticed my gaze, and the way my nose wrinkled at the smell. “Goats! Fucking goats! I hate goats!”
She spoke English with a heavy, rather charming accent. She looked quite young, perhaps in her late teens. As she straightened up I noticed that each breast bore a brand. Different brands. Two owners?
“My name is Claudette,” she said, “although my last master just called me ‘nanny’, short for nanny goat.”
“Your last master? There has been more than one?” I stuttered.
“Three!” She pointed at the brands on her breasts and at a third just above her pussy. “Now I am too old. I will be sold to a brothel.” She wrinkled her nose. “Goats! I hate fucking goats!”
I looked at her. Too old? Surely she was still in her teens?
“How can you be too old?” I asked.
“I am almost twenty.”
My mind reeled. She had had three owners, been branded three times. Too old? What did that make me? Was I destined for a brothel?