It took almost an hour for my husband Jacques to find me. I was in the slave trader's parlor, a large and beautifully decorated room with intricately patterned red carpets and plush velvet drapes. The room was decorated with oil paintings depicting the auction of naked women, and several life-sized statues of naked slave women chained on their knees or standing on the auction block. The beautiful artwork linked the room to the grandeur of antiquity and the long tradition of female slavery, legitimizing and ennobling the room's mercantile purpose.
The room was reserved for the finest merchandise and was crowded with wealthy men, but the most notable feature of the room was the women. There were 9 of us, all naked, all beautiful, all on display as merchandise to be vended. Some stood on marble pedestals, some knelt on chairs. I was kneeling on a lovely circular wooden table decorated on the edges with a hand carved frieze of a slave auction. It was in this scene of refined elegance that I and the other naked slave woman were groped, assessed, discussed, and bid upon until money changed hands and the transaction was complete.
I saw Jacques before he saw me. I thought his eyes lingered a bit too long on some of the naked slave sluts, squirming in their own luscious juices as the buyers pawed them. I vowed I would reprimand him later. When his eyes finally saw me, naked and on all fours on the assessment table, his face registered both relief and horror.
Saad and the banker had been enjoying a drink by the fire, but Saad broke off the conversation and intercepted Jacques just as he reached me.
"I thought it might amuse you too look at this," he said, handing him a file. "She is now a registered slave."
"A slave?" Jacques said, looking at the folder with astonishment.
"Yes," Saad replied. "Legally she is a slave. Under our laws she is not your wife anymore, because slaves cannot be married. She will be collateral until Monday, or, if you choose, she is sold."
"Sold?" Jacques said, repeating the word as if he could believe it.
My heart sank as I watched Jacques open the folder and read the humiliating account of my enslavement. Every part of me had been measured and documented: my ears, the distance between my eyes, the length of my pussy lips, and even the circumference of my tiny bottom hole, which was described as "exquisitely sensitive to the touch, and deliciously snappy." My pussy was described as "slave hot", a shameful and degrading description which nonetheless was impossible to deny. The bottom of the page contained two locks of my golden blond hair, under a piece of cellophane. One lock was taken from my head, while the other blonde curls were had been clipped off my sopping wet sex.
As Jacques perused the official record of my humiliation the buyers continued to poke, fondle, and examine my naked body.
"Nice titties on this one. These nipples are soft. She hasn't dropped a litter yet."
"When she does you'll have milk for your morning tea, my friend. Ha-ha."
Behind me two young men in their late teens examined my sex. "She's a randy bitch all right."
"Yes, feel how juicy she is?"
"She's dribbling like a hot spring," he said.
"They say slave juice make an excellent marinade. I know a man who uses it in his barbeque sauce."
"Go ahead and give her a rub!"
One of the young men inserted his fingers into me while the other played with my clit. I squirmed with pleasure, but my attention was focused on Jacques. I watched as his gaze roamed my file. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened wide in disbelief.
As I looked up at him my eyes filled with tears. I knew what the last page showed: it was my slave registration number, which had been permanently inked to the inside of my front lip.
Unable to believe his eyes Jacques reached out and inserted his index and middle fingers into my mouth. Spreading his fingers widely he lifted up the corners, pulling my lip up high over my gum until my slave tattoo was fully visible. He pulled the gum high, and I felt like nothing so much as a horse or a dog having its teeth and gums checked at the veterinarian. He did not seem to care. Putting the slave folder next to my face he checked each number, one at a time, glancing first at the sheet and then at the big black numbers in my mouth as if to verify that all was in order.
I swallowed hard as I watched him mouth out each letter. "It has an official seal," he muttered to no one in particular, looking at the wax seal at the bottom of the page. It did indeed.
With the top of my lip pressed against my nose he checked the form against the enormous, thick black slave number on the inside of my lip, going character by character, verifying each of the six characters.
"Q"
"R"
"6"
"3"
"5"
"0"
There was no mistake. QR6350 had been registered. As the saliva dripped out of my gaping mouth and the tittering teenagers fingered my sex my greatest shame was the look of disappointment and defeat on my husband's face.
Jacques said nothing. To my surprise he simply kept looking at my lip, running his fingers over the number, assessing my tattoo thoughtfully.
Then he smiled!
His smile was slight, but it crushed me to the core. My welling tears flowed freely out of my eyes even as I grunted in pleasure from the buyer's teasing fingers.
Legally I was now a slave, a pleasure slut who could be used, bought, or sold. Jacques would not rescue me; indeed, he seemed pleased to see me get my comeuppance. Any dream I had of rescue was the foolish fantasy of an uppity slave girl who did not yet know her place.
Jacques smug, satisfied smirk and the tent in his pants said all that could not be said between us. I glared up at him, my anger turning to pleasure as I quaked into yet another orgasm.
"Her pussy quivers like pudding," the lad behind me said.
"Yes, and a hot, tasty pudding at that!" the other man sniggered.
Ignoring my gasping, panting orgasm Saad directed his conversation to Jacques. "The banker thinks she should be branded. But the slave market will charge for it, so I can put it off if you wish."
