The Maret

I awoke to an assault of freezing water enveloping me, stabbing into me like a million knives. I tried to breathe and gulped water; I felt for sure I was drowning.

I caught a breath. I tried to open my eyes. Ahh...too bright! Light. Sound. The rush of ice-cold water, moving over my naked body in painful waves. No, not waves-- What was happening? I wasn't submerged, I was being sprayed -- no, blasted - with water.

I was lying on my side, and using the force of the spray I managed to roll so my back was facing the water. The high-pressure hose now blasted the backs of my legs and my ass, but at least I could breathe. I smelled... Salt? I wasn't facing the sun, so I could try to open my eyes again, if I squinted.

At least I was no longer in the demeaning dog crate I had been so cruelly shipped in. Struggling to focus even as my teeth chattered from the freezing water I could see I was stretched out on stone. No, many stones, held together by some sort of white plaster.

I struggled to rise but the force of the water was slowly pushing me along the stones and towards another stone wall, plastered a brilliant white. The force of the water flipped me over as I slid into the wall. I felt the spray move over my naked breasts, down my flat tummy. When the water hit my pussy I screamed and tried to cover my crotch. It didn't help.

Through the din of the water I heard men laughing.

It wasn't until the water turned off that I managed to wipe my eyes. Using both hands as a sort of sun visor I struggled to adjust to the brilliant sunlight all around me.

I was in the shade of a building, a stone building, covered in white plaster that looked very, very old. No, not old, ancient. There were maybe a half dozen men watching, one holding a high-pressure hose nozzle that was connected to a pump. The other end of the hose led into the sea, which explained the smell of salt. I had been hosed down with raw seawater, and I could smell the salt on me, and also the residue of my own stink and filth from the long journey locked in the crate.

I struggled to focus amid the hubbub of the port. There were small but colorful fishing boats behind the men. It looked like I was in some sort of picturesque Mediterranean fishing village. There were rows of houses stacked up onto the hill behind me, and merchants selling fruit and clothing from carts along the bay. A few feet away from me two men were scrubbing down a scooter with long stiff brushes that looked like brooms.

I looked at the men scrubbing the scooter, and they looked at me. They stopped scrubbing the bike, and picking up a rusty old bucket of soapy water headed straight for me.

"No!" I shouted.

Too late. The hundreds of tiny, sudsy bristles of the brush scraped my back as I turned away from the man with the brush. Another man grabbed me by behind, lifting me up by the hair, and I screamed as the rough bristles of the sudsy brush scoured my naked behind.

The men bent me over and kicked my legs apart. The crowd of men laughed as I cried out as the coarse brush scoured my tender bottom hole. I knew I stank, and I was grateful to have the smell of my own pea and shit scrubbed off me, but not like this. The two bearded men were scouring the most sensitive parts of my body with far less care and tenderness than they had shown their stupid scooter.

"You're making a mistake!" I shouted. "I'm not a slave!"

I heard laughter amongst the waves lapping against the fishing boats and rocks behind me. Were they laughing at me, or with me, or just sharing some private joke amongst themselves?

As they scrubbed roughly underneath my arms I got a better look at the mob, and my jaw clenched. They weren't laughing with me. The men watching my scrub down were laughing and joking at my pain and humiliation, but I couldn't recognize the language they spoke. They were darker skin, but white -- sort of swarthy. They wore rough work clothes and many had growths of beard or facial hair.

Where the hell was I? The exact location of the shitty peasant village I was in became secondary as the men stepped back and another blast of water from the sea hose hit my exposed bottom hole and banged my head into the wall. I gasped and cried as the hose again ran all over my body.

The men turned me around like a rag doll. By this point I was so exhausted and cramped and dazed from my journey in the crate that I didn't resist when the men used the rough truck brush to scrub my front. It wasn't until one of them lifted my foot up and the other roughly scrubbed my exposed pussy that I cried out again.

I tried to explain:

"You can't do this to me!"

Laughter, scrubbing.

"I'm an important person!"

More laughter, more scrubbing.

"I have powerful friends. American friend! Rich friends!"

One of the men laughed and mimicked me. "Rich! Rich!" which came out "Witch, Witch" in his guttural accent.

Where the hell was Agatha? I was guessing that one of the nicer houses up in the hills was probably hers, and I was soon going to be whisked away to her villa for lunch and a debriefing on my adventure.

However in the meantime she left me in the care of a group of uneducated riff-raff, the sort of working class nobodies who might have been tending the gardens or cleaning the pool or painting the hallways back at my University. Now these day laborer lowlifes had their grubby hands all over my naked body.

"I'm a Ph.D.!" I shouted, as the scrub brush "shampooed" my hair with all the gentleness of the tire shine at a car wash. Not true, technically, I was a Ph.D. student, but I knew they were too stupid to know the difference. Looking at the buffoons leering and laughing and scrubbing me down, I wondered if they could even read or write.

They certainly gave no sign of understanding anything that I said, although the more I protested the more they joked amongst themselves in their indecipherable babble of a language. Did they not understand me or did they just not care? Maybe both.

A grubby old fisherman in waders stepped forward and lifted my foot up above my head. The hose, the pressure turned down, was still strong enough to pin me against the wall by my pussy. I screamed.

"When Professor Crush gets here, I'm going to have you fired!" I shouted, weeping. But they didn't seem to understand that I was a University student, or that I was on a slave-cation, so in fact they worked for me. I blushed beet red with humiliation as the men laughed at me. The workmen had earned their money, and had cleaned me inside-and-out.

With my humiliating scrub down finished the men turned their attention to several bleating goats that had just been unloaded from the ship. Was it the ship I had been unloaded from? I did not know. I didn't see my dog crate. As the brush went over the goat's fur they bleated as I had. I looked at my fellow livestock with understanding and sympathy.

Lifting me by the scruff of the neck one of the men used some coarse rope to tie my hands tightly behind my back. He then looped another link of rope, about six feet long, into a crude noose around my neck.

I looked up and saw that I was standing directly under a wooden beam that could be used to hold a sign or awning. The old wooden beam was thick, and if he tossed the rope over and hoisted me skyward he could simply tie the rope off and leave me to dance my life away.

"No!" I cried, "I'll be good. I'll do anything you say," I said, pleading for my life.

I wasn't sure if he understood me or not, but my desperation seemed to please him. He reached his hand between my legs, and fingered me, and I moaned and pressed against him, anxious to earn my master's favor. His hands were coarse and he smelled like rotting fish, but he was better than the rope.

When he finished his crude explorations of my pussy he yanked on the rope and I stumbled forward. I cried out from my sudden burst of light blindness as he pulled me out of the shade of the building and into the brilliant sun.

Even with my eyes closed, I heard voices all around me. As I stumbled forward I cried out again as I realized that he was pulling me stark naked away from the building and into a busy street.

"No, please!" I pleaded. "I'm naked! Please! PLEASE! Give me my clothes. Anything! I'm naked, damn you!"

I wasn't entirely unfamiliar with public nudity, having exercised naked in front of the disgusting, drooling perverts who watched me do my slave yoga at the club. They were scum, and I hated them, but it had aroused me to perform for them, as I knew they could never have me. My Slave Yoga was performed in the safety of my class, and the men had been high above me, behind glass, watching from the viewing gallery. My purse and ID were on the other side of the door in the locker room, and I had Master John and Suzie -- not to mention the law and the police -- to protect me.

Being paraded down the street entirely naked in a foreign country was an entirely different experience. My clothes were not safely tucked away in a securely locked locker. In this strange place I was a naked slave girl, and as such I had no clothes at all.

I remember laughing at the slave girls fighting amongst themselves over beads and slave sandals and such, as if such trinkets mattered. After all if you're naked with beads on you're still naked, right? Stupid, ignorant slave girls! Perhaps, but right now barefoot and naked I was desperate for anything, ANYTHING, that would make me feel less exposed, less helpless, less like I had nothing.

"I wish Suzie had left me with some slave beads," I thought, my already blurry eyes filling with tears. It was a curious sensation. I had nothing. NOTHING.

I found myself wondering where my passport was. Probably in my purse, I thought. I wondered where Suzie had taken my purse, which had the missing identification that could rescue me from this nightmare. Had she taken it home with her, and left it by the door. No, as a lawyer Suzie was the epitome of organization. My identification had been put SOMEWHERE. Perhaps she had taken it to work, and put it in her desk, or had given it to her secretary or one of her assistants or interns to file. I shuddered at the thought.

Slave girls, of course, often had their slave registration numbers tattooed on their inside of their upper lip, or occasionally branded on the tender skin inside one of their bottom cheeks. Agatha Crush always had her slave girl's bottoms branded with her gorgeous cursive monogram. There had been a time not so long ago when I had viewed slave tattoo and animal brands as demeaning. But now, being led naked through the streets with absolutely nothing to distinguish or identify, I secretly wished I had Agatha's elegant and distinctive brand burned into my ass.

It was a strange thought. I had read about slave girls being "hungry for their brand" but I had never fully understood the psychology of their desire until this moment. Now I knew. I wanted to belong. I wanted to belong to someone!

My eyes clearing somewhat, I focused my attention on the man tugging my rope leash.

"Please," I said, trying to get his attention. "You don't understand. You need to untie my hands! I'm an important person!"

My uncomprehending captor never even bothered to turn around. As he jerked my leash and led me into the shade of the busy marketplace my eyes focused on him more. My captor was young... maybe 19? He was skinny, and wearing cutoff shorts and jeans and a T-shirt.

Seriously? This mere slip of a boy was leading me stark naked into a growing crowd with the casualness of a boy walking his dog.

From the architecture and white stone and colorful boats and salt water and white plaster and blue roofs and swarthy men I guessed I was on an island or on the coast, probably in Greece. I didn't understand the language spoken, but I certainly understood the rudeness of comments about my naked body as the men openly pointed at me and the old women cursed me. As the crowd thickened and the streets narrowed the situation worsened. These vulgar barbarians had no concept of personal space whatsoever. As I passed the crude and unsophisticated men freely reached out to grab my breasts, my ass, or ran their fingers through my long hair. Pigs! A few of the laughing men just reached out and grabbed me by the pussy, giving me a good feel, groping me as if they had every right to do so.

Perhaps in this place and in my present reduced circumstances they did. As a trained psychologist I knew that power was often a matter of perspective. In my eyes they might be vulgar, uneducated peasants, but in their eyes I was simply a naked slave girl.

"Slave girl." The words hit me like a club. I knew I wasn't, of course, but once again my mind wandered to my passport, sitting in my purse, sitting in the desk drawer of one of Agatha's summer interns cubicle.

Another man grabbed my breasts and started groping them, laughing to his friends as he did so. The teenager holding my leash didn't seem to care about the assaults behind him, except when a pussy grab or a titty pull caused me to slow, as this one did. Annoyed, he violently yanked the leash around my neck, as if it were somehow my fault that some fat old man was squeezing my tits like melons for sale. The noose tightened, cutting off my air and jerking me forward, as my boy-master muttered his displeasure at the way I was delaying him.

Delaying me from what? Where were we going? I did not know. I did not need to know.

I was a naked slave girl.

No! I pushed the thought from my mind. I was a psychology student, and this was research. It was natural that I would feel anxious, helpless, humiliated, afraid. Those were the sensations an actual naked slave girl would feel in similar circumstances, and those were the emotions I was studying.

With clinical attachment I shifted my attention to the strangers around me. With their dark skin and strange accents the men and women in the marketplace reminded me of the janitorial staff at the University who scrubbed the toilets and worked in the cafeteria and drove the busses that ferried the students about. From behind the boy who was holding my leash reminded me a bit of Juan, the townie that cleaned out the rat cages and mopped the floors at the psychology lab I ran on campus. I sometimes sent Juan on personal errands to stand in line for me to get tickets or haul boxes and furniture up-and-down-the-stairs when one of my friends moved. He didn't always seem happy about it, but he did it, because I was the pretty white girl who signed his performance review and he knew I could replace him or perhaps even deport him if he didn't dance to my tune.

I had never thought much about our relationship; after all, I was the graduate student running the lab, and I had the power. I was the one with the education. When I snapped my fingers, Juan jumped. That was simply the way things were, the way things were meant to be.

Strange as it might seem, I imagined Juan holding my rope leash, and suddenly I felt my pussy stirring, moistening at the thought of the servile teenage boy I ordered about leading me naked on a rope leash through the bustling marketplace.

The psychology of my arousal confused me. My girlfriends sometimes insisted that Juan take off his shirt when he was moving things or doing yard work for us or serving us by the pool at a party, but we were just teasing him. He wasn't at all muscular or attractive and it wasn't like anyone of us would ever actually stoop to date him. In truth, we were just being mean to him, playing a harmless but fun power game.

The game didn't seem so harmless or fun now. Why was I aroused at the thought of Juan leading me naked through the streets on a leash? I knew from my research and my personal experience in my Slave Yoga class that putting a beautiful girl in a posture of naked and vulnerable submission made her all the more attractive to men. But why was the thought of being humiliated by Juan so arousing?

I didn't realize precisely how vulnerable I was until my boy master stopped to talk to another teenager playing a video game on his phone. As the two chatted, one of my many passing "admirers" took advantage of my helpless vulnerability to attack me from behind. I gasped as he forced my legs apart and slipped his into my embarrassingly wet sex.

I didn't resist; indeed, because of the wetness of my sex and my inexplicable excitement over fantasizing about Juan I gasped with pleasure and pushed back, humping the strange man's hand with my soaking wet pussy.

Juan and his friend continued to laugh and chat about the video game, staring at the tiny screen. Behind me the laughing, unseen stranger finger fucked me. I closed my eyes and moaned, losing myself in my own pleasure.

I was on the very brink of orgasm when the moment ended. As if a trap door had sprung the noose around my neck tightened and yanked me forward out of my admirers grasp. The man behind me laughed and gave me a sharp slap on the ass as I stumbled forward in a daze, groaning and whimpering in frustration at the elusive orgasmic release denied to me.

I never saw the face of the man who had nearly brought me to orgasm.

As I realized how wet my pussy was I felt a fresh wave of humiliation rush over me. I had heard the slave girls talk about "block pussy", a condition where certain slave sluts actually could orgasm at the mere thought of being taken to the market and put up on the auction block. Even among slave girls this was looked down on, for it was a condition suffered by only the most ravenous and wanton of slave sluts. After all, being paraded and exhibited in a slave market was the ultimate degradation; how could any woman with a shred of dignity get excited by being publicly violated by any stranger with a coin in his pocket? Yet for slave sluts, the degradation of standing naked on an auction block was also the ultimate turn on.

I started to wonder if "block pussy" might not be a form of The Helsinki effect, where kidnappers begin to identify with and fall in love with their captors, as a psychological strategy for regaining a sense of power. I had experienced the hidden secret powers known only to a slave girl, the power of being desired and lusted after and wanted.

In class I had felt the eyes of the men watching from the overhead gallery examining every inch of my nakedness, discretely rubbing themselves through their pants as they imagined the ecstasy of possessing me. Their insatiable lust had spurred me on, and had inspired me to perform for them in the most shameless way. I hated them, but they also aroused me.

If helplessness gave one power, didn't it stand to reason that the MORE helpless one was, the more power one would experience? Did being absolutely naked in a foreign land, with my passport tucked away somewhere thousands of miles away, make me powerful then when I was neatly dressed and teaching a psychology class. I was determined to find out.

Luxuriating in my absolutely nakedness I took a moment to savor a dirty old man with white hair, stale breath, and a bushy mustache caressing one of my breasts and ass cheeks as I passed. It was just a quick feel, and the old man with the rotting teeth stunk of sweat and fish. But the touch of his coarse, filthy, wrinkled hands now caused me to groan with pleasure.

From my reading I remembered Foucault's argument that sexuality was "coextensive with power", meaning there was always some sense of power exchange in sexuality. Perhaps my excitement at being so rudely handled by these grubby men was indeed because, like the men watching me do Slave Yoga, they had no chance of ever having a romantic let alone a sexual relationship with me. At best, I might hire them to haul out my trash.

I wasn't excited because I was a slave slut. Indeed, it was quite the opposite. I was a highly educated academic researcher conducting an experiment, with the full backing and unimaginable wealth of Professor Agatha Crush behind me. They were uneducated laborers sucking on fish heads. I was as far above them as the dirt on the stones under my feet.