It's pretty clear these people don't know what to do with me while they have me. They fear retribution from the Empire. They don't want to be blamed for the attack which, in retrospect, only annoyed the enemy without forwarding the cause. But they want to make some money for their efforts, and I'm the only saleable property they have: a white woman in the Middle East. That's how I wind up in the slave market.
I've only been manhandled thus far, but that happy state of affairs may not last much longer. My hands are tied together with rope which is suspended from a ceiling beam in a very long, low stone building housing the chattel on offer. One side is open to the daylight. I'm grateful for the shade -- the weather here at noon is stifling.
I'm still wearing most of my clothes. My blouse is ripped at the shoulder and neck, and has come partly untucked (no chance of tucking it back with my hands over my head) but is still mainly in one piece. And the exclusively male customers and merchants milling around seem to be a bit afraid to touch me. I have the unpleasant suspicion that this will change, but for now I remain unmolested. I'm grimy, of course. My hair is coming down from its usual conservative bun. One unattractive merchant has squeezed my waist and declared me too bony, in Farsi I can more or less understand. But no one has attempted an indecency. No one, that is, until you enter the enclosure.
You were, quite frankly, the arrogant bastard I most enjoyed irritating. I had enough clout with the philanthropist who funded the expedition to have some administrative control over the proceedings. It was highly enjoyable to circumvent some of your edicts. We'd crossed swords several times. But right now, I was enormously relieved to see you. Just the kind of disreputable place I'd expect to find you in, I reflected sardonically. But useful to have you here. I called out. You turned. You didn't recogniize me at first. Then your eyes lit up. But in a way that made me shiver just a little.
I expect, of course, that you will demand my immediate release. But that's not what happens. What happens is that you ask the hovering, obsequious merchant, who has clearly written me off as a bad investment, "How much? For two hours?" in a dialect that I am clearly intended to understand.
What? I sputter and issue outraged denunciations, but to no avail. They ignore me. Money changes hands. The merchant effaces himself. But not very far. The doings of white infidels seem to interest the buying public. You bury your hands in my hair and let it loose to fall halfway to my waist. You open my blouse, exposing the corset beneath that barely conceals my breasts, and cut the blouse from my back. I'm struggling now.
This is outrageous, unacceptable. Inconceivable. Inconceivably, my skirt is removed, though I manage to deliver a sharp kick in my own defense. But then it all goes your way. The petticoats are stripped from me, the bloomers, and I'm left standing in a corset that only covers me to the waist, stockings, and boots. Maybe the boots will allow me to inflict still more damage, I reflect hopefully, so angry that I'm almost unaware of my own excitement.
...and almost unaware of my exposed body. Something, it seems, that you are very much aware of. I can see your erection through the curtain of my hair and through your trousers. But apparently, you don't intend to risk any more bruises. Rattling out a complicated string of commands in a dialect I can't follow as well as that used previously, you send several burly men scurrying to do your bidding. One gives more play to the rope that binds my hands, though I notice with disappointment that it remains fastened to a hook I cannot reach. Another -- oh, this is outrageous -- comes up behind me and hoists me up, with his hands under my arms, eventually crossing his forearms beneath my breasts.
