Victoria's Secret: the Conclusion

By the time I got back to the slave pen Victoria's hands were tied behind her with a thick, coarse hemp rope. Another rope had been tied around her neck, with the loose end dangling down as a makeshift leash.

"Don't worry," I said, smiling broadly. "I have a plan."

Victoria's eyes brightened as for the first time in a long time she allowed herself to hope. "You buy me back?" she said excitedly, still maintaining her accented English. "You have money, Massah?"

I laughed and shook my head. "No, my little slave girl," I said dismissing her foolishness as I patted her on the cheek. "You stole my wallet, don't you remember? I could have easily bought you if you hadn't done that, for you sold for about 2 pounds."

I paused to allow her a moment to understand the enormity of what I had just told her. "So little?" she said, clearly shocked at the paltriness of the sum which had cost her her freedom. "You buy me back, easy!!!" she said, again allowing herself to hope.

"Indeed I could, if I had money, which I don't because you stole my wallet. Do not blame yourself my foolish little slave. You always used to say that all blacks are natural thieves. It does not anger me, any more than it embarrassed me to watch you juice yourself in front of the buyers bidding on your pussy. It is simply who you are. But today your thieving ways will cost you."

"What you mean?" she said.

"You don't have to talk that way, Victoria. No one else is listening."

Even with her skin dark I could see Victoria was blushing. Her accent was slightly absurd, a sort of pigeon English with an English person's idea of a French / African accent.

"Dis is how I'ze talk," she said defiantly. Nervously she looked around. "If deh here me talk fancy, I get whip. Now tell me plan! Tell me now."

I smiled at her bossiness and the tone of her voice for it was clear that even now she had not learned her lesson. "I can't buy you, which means I need some way of finding you after you are sold. Some way to guarantee you won't be lost."

"That the plan? You talk to owner? You promise him fortune, so you find me?"

"Your owner is buying you until harvest, and he'll resell you then. I have no money, and I don't know if I'm going to be able to get to the coast, get back, and locate you in time. So I need some way to find you."

"You give me cell phone?"

I laughed out loud at the idea of a naked black slave wench having a cell phone. Victoria could be stupid when she was desperate. Plus she clearly wasn't understanding her present state.

"No, the farmer would take that from you, and sell it. Tell me, Victoria: how do you mark the horses in your family's stable?"

"A microchip?" she said.

I smiled. "Those can be used AFTER you find the animal, and scan it, but they don't help you locate it. Plus this place is far too primitive for that sort of technology. Come now, Victoria, use that tiny brain of yours. When you were a little girl how did you mark your ponies so you knew they were yours?"

Victoria did think for a moment, and I relished the sight of the wheels in her mind turning as she slowly came upon the inevitable solution.

"I branded them?" she said reluctantly.

Victoria offered her answer tentatively, as if the answer itself, while technically correct, couldn't possibly be right. Alas, it was.

"Yes," I said cheerfully, opening my hand to reveal the branding head in my palm. "You branded them."

Victoria stared at the large W branding head in stunned disbelief.

"Beautiful, isn't it? Like the one your family uses. Remember what you said when you branded Dusty last year? You said it looked like two V's on top of each other, for Victoria, because you loved her twice as much. Now I'm going to love you twice as much, too."

"But... but Dusty was a horse!"

I smiled, amused by her attempt to argue herself out of the predicament she had created. Remember her attitude toward me when I was her husband it delighted me to toy with her now.

"True enough," I allowed, smiling pleasantly, and adopting the proper English 'morning at tea' tone we used for all of our business discussions, which in the past she always won as Victoria held the purse strings. "More to the point Dusty was chattel that needed to be marked. As I recall, when I asked you if branding was cruel you bombarded me with reasons why it wasn't: it was business, it was traditional, it was necessary, it only hurt for a second, and it was far less painful than the animal being stolen and abused. As always you seemed quite sure of yourself, quite certain you were right."

"I was right!" she insisted, "I'm always right."

Victoria's vanity was one of her great weaknesses, and it was delightful to use it to snare her. "Very well, I conceded you were right, and farm animals MUST be marked. Now explain to me why those reasons do not apply to you."

"I'm a woman, not a horse! I'm not a farm animal."

"Not in England, perhaps, but we're not in England, are we? You brought us here, and here you are legally a farm animal. You will eat slop and pull heavy ploughs and carts, and the farmer will be free to use the whip on you if you are lazy, and mortgage or sell you, just as he would any other farm animal. Would you like to read your bill of sale?"

Victoria, looking most unhappy, shook her head.

"So you agree that -- under the laws of the place we are standing in right now -- you are a farm animal?"

She hesitated, then nodded.

"Very well. We have established you are a farm animal. You have said yourself that branding farm animals is NOT inhumane, and that it only hurts for a moment, if at all, and we both know you are always right. Indeed, as I recall you said branding farm animals was a necessity."

"I didn't NEED to brand Dusty," Victoria conceded. "Emily and Katherine had branded their ponies and... "

I smiled and nodded, "I understand. A rump brand can be very attractive, and a sign of pride for the owner. They are in fact quite traditional, and quite proper, and legal, and all the things that you so admires. See that girl over there, by the well, and the other one, by the wall? Like you, they are both slaves, and they are both wearing brands."

"But a brand is PERMANENT," she wailed. "Forever. It will mark me as a slave FOREVER. Even after I return to England, I'll be marked as a slave."

"Come now, Victoria! Why so squeamish? You yourself told me your family fortune was built on the Triangle trade, and it wasn't immorality, it was business. True, a slave brand is indelible, and once marked you shall be a slave forever. You won't be able to go the beach, and you'll have to be careful about changing or showering at the gym, or with your doctor. If someone sees it, it would be QUITE embarrassing, and if the wrong person sees it, or if I tire of your attitude, you might well find yourself back on the slave market again."

"You bastard!" she screamed. "You fucking bastard! You can't do this to me!"

"There, there, my little negress," I said, soothing her temper tantrum as if she were a naughty child, "I'm not doing this to you, you did this to you. As for the brand, I'm doing it FOR you. See? I picked the largest W I could find, so it would be easy to spot. I have this separate head to put the stars around it, so it will be just like the one you put on Dusty."

"Fucking idiot!" she said. "That brand is too big for my thigh if you put stars all around it. You can't collie brand me with that."

As an avid equestrian, Victoria was quite familiar with branding terminology, and I had witnessed her branding numerous horses and other animals on her family farm. Victoria enjoyed to brand the animals herself, for she enjoyed the sense of power it gave her, felt that the branding process formed a bond between the animal and the owner.

Despite her panic, anger, and unnecessary vulgarity Victoria's objection to being "collie" branded was technically accurate. A "Colorado" style brand would be on her thigh, and although the very large W would fit her thigh there would be no way I could surround it with a circle of stars, as I had planned. Thus an alternate branding site was needed.

"I'm not going to collie brand you," I said, smiling pleasantly. "You're going to be butt branded."

Hearing this Victoria let loose with a string of expletives so foul that I was forced to use the spider gag I had in my pocket to turn her curses into gibberish. She resisted my attempts to drag her towards the blazing forge, but with her hands tied behind her and the rope around her neck acting as a noose there was nothing to prevent me from dragging her to the enormous blacksmith (who was, ironically, quite black). The wooden stock he locked her in looked quite old and crude, and I was amused to see that the locking peg they used to lock the brace around her head was not even iron, but simply wood. Despite it's age and rotten and ragged appearance the wood was quite thick and heavy. I wondered if it might have been harvested from a slave ship, a relic of the slave business Victoria's family had owned, and was now in some bit of cosmic justice being repurposed to brand Victoria's pampered, aristocratic, but now very black bottom.

The stocks were built into a sort of table frame, which Victoria was obliged to lie across as we locked her feet and strapped her thighs into place. It did not look particularly comfortable, and I imagine it was even less so when the huge wooden beam was dropped on the small of her back, rendering Victoria's backside quite immobile.

I passed the time waiting for the branding heads to heat by obliging Victoria to suck me off, and I was quite glad that the spider gag was sturdy for I am quite certain she would have bitten down if she could have.

"That's it, roll your tongue around, my little negress. You would never suck me off back in England, but this isn't England, is it? Flick the head a bit...now make some noise. That's it...I want to hear you slurp! Suck the cock of the man who is about to brand you. That's a good little slave girl. Too bad you're such a thieving little monkey. If you hadn't stolen my wallet you might have remained a clear skin animal, but now you're going to get a coal fired butt branding, just like the one you gave Dusty. It's a pity he's not here to watch it; I think he'd quite enjoy seeing you jump as the iron was pressed into your ass."

Dusty had received one custom brand, a W surrounded by stars, and as that brand was not available I would have to make due by branding Victoria multiple times. I wasn't sure whether Victoria was aware of this difference now, but it hardly mattered, as she would be apprised of the situation soon enough. In the meanwhile, I relished the sensation of my rock hard cock in her mouth as Victoria alternated between staring death at me and looking anxiously at the menacing branding heads heating rapidly in the red-hot coals.

The ever stubborn Victoria deemed not to swallow, which was fine for me as I quite enjoyed watching my copious load of jizz settle and dry along the inside of her mouth and her tongue. In the meantime we turned to the more immediate problem of finding some way of drawing a perfect circle on her bottom which we could use as a guide for the placement of the W and the surrounding stars.

"OTTT!' "OOTTT" Victoria said, struggling to speak through her spider gag. Misunderstanding her the blacksmith replied, "Yes, the irons are very HOT, and will make a lovely mark, as soon as we get the circle drawn."

"Ohhh!" "OTT! "OOOOT!"

"She's saying, 'pot'," I said, translating her gibberish back into English. Sure enough, Victoria was referring to an old pot that was lying unused by the fire. Sure enough, placing it against her right bottom cheek I found it was perfectly sized for tracing an oval on her "native", unbranded ass.

"Berrry Nice!" the blacksmith said. "Now we go!"

I grinned at Victoria, savoring the look of terror and panic in her eyes. Ever the know-it-all her final act as a free woman had been to help us engineer her own branding, an irony I relished enormously.

The blacksmith guided my had as I burned the enormous W on her bottom, eliciting a guttural shriek of agony from Victoria and laughter from the men and even the other slave girls who gathered around to watch. The blacksmith guided me through the first two applications of the branding stars, which elicited similar screams despite their smaller size.

Fortunately the farmer arrived, and Victoria's screams became quite a bit more muffled as he took the opportunity to drop his pants and put his crinkly old penis into Victoria's unwilling mouth. Suitably gagged I proceeded with the branding, worried a bit that Victoria might bite down and break the gag, causing the poor farmer some injury. Fortunately, I was able to burn in several more stars before he spent his load, and the blacksmith and then the blacksmith's assistant took his place.

We paused to thrust the star back into the burning coals until it was once again smoldering hot. However this obstacle was in fact an opportunity as there were a line of laughing, joking Africans eager to use Victoria's gaping mouth.

Alas, Victoria did not show the fortitude that Dusty had and actually passed out half way through the proceedings. Once again we used the pause to reheat the branding head and get it glowing hot before we applied the noxious smelling salts to revive her. I lost count of how many men she sucked off during her branding, but when at last I finished the lovely W was surrounded by a beautiful band of tiny ★.

Victoria's price, while paltry by English standards, quite impoverished the farmer and forced him to sell his donkey. This meant that Victoria had to pull him and his fully loaded wagon home, a chore I'm sure the little farm animal would have found quite impossible if he had not been so free with the whip.

I watched in fascination as her thighs and freshly branded butt strained under the crack of the donkey whip. The brand was indeed quite lovely, and I thought she had never looked more desirable. However my lust was tempered by a nagging worry that I might never see Victoria again.

EPILOGUE

With no funds in my possession it took me nearly a month to work my way out of the interior and to a British embassy where I could secure funds. It took me longer still to find a guide who could actually get me back to where I was. The farmer proved quite elusive, and it cost me a small fortune to find him by which time he had sold Victoria for a tidy profit to a trader who had in turn had sold her to a wholesaler who had brought her to a slave market in Ghana where all sales were in cash and no records were kept. I saw the large stone auction block she was sold off of, and imagined her bending and squatting and showing her wares as the auctioneer cracked his whip, but alas my fevered imagination at the humiliations she endured, enjoyable as they were, did nothing to discover her location.

As my inquiries grew more insistent I began to annoy the local authorities, who revoked my visa and forced me to return to England. In England I resumed the search remotely, hiring numerous shady characters and slave traders who seemed more interested in collecting their commissions than in locating my missing wife. Indeed, most of them seemed positively baffled as to why I was willing to spend so much time and money attempting to locate one particular worthless black slave girl when there were far superior girls available at a much cheaper price.

"One pussy is much like the other, is it not?" they asked, clearly puzzled by my determination.

After three months I received a notification that Victoria had voluntarily renounced her British citizenship. The document looked authentic, but the postmark was from Hong Kong and the law firm that officiated it did not appear to exist. Regardless, the document did its dirty work of absolving the British government of its duty to help me, which they did at the insistence of Victoria's family, who fond the entire situation quite scandalous and wanted nothing more than to have everything swept under the rug.

It was Victoria's family that had her declared dead, waiting not the traditional seven years but only a few months. I was shocked to find that a newly filed will completely disinherited me and left me penniless. Fortunately, her family agreed to a generous settlement if I agreed not to contest her death or the will, effectively setting me up for life. Having no other recourse I took the bribe.

Before departing for my newly purchased townhouse in London I negotiaed pensions for our servants with her family, most of whom had been used by Victoria quite cruelly, including Willie, the black stable hand who had been the chief target of Victoria's racist tirades.

I resumed my life, for there was nothing else to do. A year after my return I met Emanuela, a perfectly charming young woman who was beautiful and rich and kind.

I first met Emanuela on the beach in Cannes. She was English, but quite tan, because of her mother's Brazilian extraction, although she returned to a pasty white when the summer ended. She also shared Victoria's racist tendencies, which were exaggerated when she realized that I would not marry her because of my guilt and worry about Victoria.

"I hope whoever owns her is free with the whip!" Emanuela would say, whenever Victoria's name was mentioned. "The little black slut got what she deserved."

I wondered if my relationship with Emanuela was in some way an attempt to replace Victoria, but it did not matter because I was very much in love with her. I fell in love with Emanuela, but I knew I could never commit as long as there was a chance that Victoria was alive.

As it so often does salvation came from a most unexpected quarter. I was surprised when Lord Humphrey invited me to lunch at his opulent private men's club in London, but the reason for his unexpected chumminess soon became clear as he revealed that Emanuela's father had requested that I be "given a talking to about making Emanuela an honest woman."

"Victoria is gone, old chap," Lord Humphrey said, "Dead and buried. No sense living in the past."

I explained that I could never remarry as long there was a chance that Victoria was alive and could be saved. He smiled, and as if he had been fully prepared for my answer he handed me a first class plane ticket to Casablanca leaving that very afternoon.

"No need to pack anything but your passport. There will be someone waiting for you when you arrive."

"You know where she is?" I said, incredulous.

He responded with a smile. "Bon voyage, old sport," he said, rising to leave.

His answer told me nothing, and I wasn't sure if my journey would end in Victoria's rescue or merely in some grizzly proof of her death. Landing in Casablanca I was indeed greeted by a government official. Bypassing customs I was taken to a private jet which flew for several hours over the ocean, I know not where, for the pilot and the crew did not speak English, or at least, did not care to speak it to me.

I felt quite nervous during this portion of my trip, as there was no trace of me after I left England, and I wondered if this might not be a plot by Victoria's family to rid themselves of me once and for all. However after several hours of flying over endless ocean we landed on a remarkable structure, a floating airstrip located in an endless blue sea. I switched transport to a small cargo boat, and enjoyed the warm tropical breezes as the silent crew piloted us for several more hours through the ocean towards what I was sure was the remotest island in the world.

My experience at the dock was even more curious. I was required to hand over my watch, cellphone, and wallet, and change into clothes that removed any traces of modernity. When I emerged from the gated and heavily guarded dock area I was dressed as a 19th century sugar planter, complete with broad brimmed hat and white breaches. Boarding a horse drawn wagon, I continued my journey into the past and for what I felt for sure was the final leg of my remarkable journey.