(It would be best to read chapters 1-4 first)
I was on tiptoe. My wrists were in chains, hanging from a hook in a line of other girls from our village. Bastia had led me here. He unchained my wrists from behind me only to shackle them in front of me. His men hoisted my arms up into this uncomfortable position. Doubtless the slavers did this to display my naked body fully to my potential buyer. The other girls also dangled helplessly, like sides of beef in the butcher shop.
My potential buyer, I thought. My potential savior. He was dressed as a ship's captain in practical, but well-tailored foreign garb that I did not recognize. He was tall, strong and self-assured as he inspected the merchandise while smiling and chatting with Bastia. Bastia referred to him only as "Captain." If this Captain chose not to pay at least a full silver piece for me, Bastia would feed me to his dogs. I could not remain in this city. I wore this horrible banishment brand on my back. It throbbed, along with the brand on my thigh. I was marked forever as a condemned slave. This Captain would take me away from here, or no one would. I would be his slave or I would be dog food. I was determined not to cry. No one would buy a crying slave. Instead I would beg. I was determined to survive. My husband was somewhere. I could feel it in my heart. I would survive for him. He would find me, somehow. I would beg to serve this Captain as his slave.
Clearly the slavers had made similar impressions on the other girls. None struggled, screamed in indignation, or begged to be freed. They all seemed to want to be bought, too. We all hung compliantly on display for this man to inspect. I am sure we all wanted to sob at the indignities that had been inflicted on us. But we all wanted to survive. So we hung, waiting to be inspected.
A tall woman accompanied the Captain. She seemed authoritative and confident, even though she also wore a thin steel collar. Surely that meant that she was a slave, I thought. Free women did not wear collars like that. She was property too, just like us. But she was also not like us. Her eyes were cold and confident. She stood tall as she looked us over like the merchandise that we were. She sported a revealing red dress. It revealed much of her cleavage. If she was a slave, she might have been picked out for her breasts, which seemed outsized for her slender frame. The dress hung marvelously on her body. It was tied with a thin belt and slit on the sides, revealing her toned legs. Her attire was revealing, but not horribly immodest. It seemed too nice for a slave, but neither was it a dress a free woman would wear--at least not in public. I thought I saw a brand on her thigh as she moved as the slits in the dress revealing her slender legs. Her black hair was tied back, seemingly to stay out of her fierce eyes. She had sandals, which slave girls usually did not get to wear. She also had a coiled whip attached to a belt around her waist. But the collar was unmistakable. She must be a slave. Her gaze was fierce, more intense than the buyer. I heard the Captain refer to her as Domina. That did not sound like her name, so much as her title.
The Captain and this woman called Domina focused their attentions on the first girl down the line, far to my right. Her name was Belinda. I knew her. Belinda was the miller's wife. She was a bit shorter than me and older than me. She had flowing blond hair, which apparently was not in demand by the ladies of our captor's city because she had been allowed to keep it. She was begging to be bought.
"Please Master, I will serve you well," she pleaded. "Am I not pretty? Touch me, please? I want you to touch me. I want your strong hands on me. Take me to your bed, please. Please, Master?" She struggled to thrust her firm breasts out towards him as the chains that held her jingled.
What had gotten into Belinda, I wondered? She was begging like a whore in a brothel. Just three days ago she had been a devoted wife and mother of two children. What had they done to her, I wondered? Was it her children! That might be it. A mother would do anything to protect her children. Maybe they had them. Maybe they had threatened her. Whatever they had done, she was putting on a shameless display. Bastia's buyer caressed her breasts. She moaned loudly. It seemed like she was enjoying it.
"Ohh yes Master, ohh yes, thank you," Belinda squealed. "Please pinch them, feel how firm they are." Her body shivered as he caressed her.
An evil grin crossed the face of the tall woman. "This one will do nicely," she said.
"So compliant. What did you do to this one, Bastia?" muttered the Captain.
"Our training is superb, as you know," he replied, "but we cannot reveal our secrets." They both laughed softly at that.
"It does not matter," said Domina as she stared into Belinda's eyes. "She is eager enough. I could give her over to the men right now." So perhaps she was in charge of the slaves on the ship, I thought. Still a slave herself, but one who would have authority over me. That is, if I were lucky enough to be bought.
Belinda's begging reminded me of slave Jenna's performance. Jenna's squirms and cries were a performance. Jenna had told me so. Belinda was performing too. She needed to be bought. Perhaps she was trying to save herself, perhaps to save her family. She had never so much as appeared in public without a full, modest dress. And now they had her naked and begging for a stranger's touch. The slavers' cruelty had no bounds. But maybe at least whatever mercy she hoped for would be visited upon her children.
"This one is acceptable, Bastia," said the Captain. "We will enjoy her charms during our voyage and get good coin for her back home. Very nice."
Belinda hung her head in relief as he moved on. The woman called Domina touched her whip for a moment, continuing to star at Belinda. But then her slender hand slid off of it. Apparently, Domina had decided that Belinda did not need to feel the whip. She would be bought. For whatever reason, Belinda wanted to be a slave on their ship and she had succeeded. Could I beg like that, I wondered? Would I have to? I was younger and prettier than her. Surely if this man was happy with her he would take me. But then, she had her full head of beautiful blond hair. I was bald. And I had this horrible brand on my back. They had made me ugly.
The next girl was Deborah. Well, her name had been Deborah. As I had been told, none of us had names any more. Free women had names. We would be called whatever our new masters wanted. I had been called slut more often than anything else. I doubt that would be my name--it would be all too common. Deborah would not keep that name. It sounded too important. Slaves were not important. We were property. Deborah had been important. Her husband ran the tanner's guild. Well, the man who had been her husband had. He had controlled the leather trade in the region. She had been the pretty young woman he wanted as his bride. Maybe her familiarity with leather whips had made her more afraid of the whip than the rest of us. She also seemed compliant enough to the Captain.
Domina stepped forward and held Deborah's ample breasts in her hands. She fondled them as if doing so were nothing. It made Deborah squirm. I am sure she had never been touched like that by any save her husband. But now anyone could fondle her. She was helpless to prevent it. Her nipples grew firm under Domina's touch. The woman continued caressing her and remarked, "the men will love this one." Deborah blushed a deep crimson. "Lower her restraints."
The men lowered the chains that held Deborah's arms, affording her some freedom of movement. "To my feet, slave, press your body to my feet," Domina ordered.
Deborah seemed already broken to me. The experience of being reduced to slavery from her status as a merchant's wife was surely enough to make her as submissive as these people wanted. She pressed her naked body to the ground at the woman's feet. Her brand was clearly visible on her outer thigh. Whatever she once was, she was a slave for the rest of her life now.
"Kiss my feet, slave girl," the woman ordered. Deborah complied. She kissed softly, slowly, over the sandals. Over and over, she planted soft kisses on the woman's toes, and sandals. I could not turn away from the spectacle of the merchant's wife in such a state. I had looked up to Deborah as a leader of the women in the village. Now she was nothing but a plaything. And I was even lower.
