Victoria's Secret: Price Chec!

"I'm BORED! How much further?" Victoria whined.

"About 20 minutes, darling. You're the one who wanted to walk to town."

"Because I thought I'd SEE something," she said, in her heightened RP British accent that made her sound like she was auditioning for Downton Abbey. "Really, Randolph! I came here to explore an exotic culture and I'm spending all day tramping along this bloody dirt road."

I sighed. My wife is wonderful to travel with when she is happy, and miserable to travel with when she is bored. Today, she was bored.

"Are there any animals along this river? Hippos or elephants or something?"

"This isn't the Jungle Boat Cruise, Victoria," I said, exasperated at her attitude. "The animals don't line up to perform for your amusement."

"So is the marketplace another long trip to nowhere?" she huffed.

"Well if you're looking for Harrods the market is going to disappoint you too, dear. Fruits, pots, and beads, mostly. You can buy a goat if you want."

Victoria thought for a moment. "Do they sell slave girls there?" she said.

I smiled and shook my head. Victoria had seen her first slave girl only a few days before, during our first morning in Africa. We had landed at port and were having breakfast in the luxury hotel for Westerners overlooking the marketplace. It was a leisurely affair, made more leisurely by Victoria. Although we had only been in the country a few hours she either already knew or made the acquaintance of several "people of quality" staying at the hotel. Each time someone entered or left, it seemed they had to stop at our table to say something.

When Victoria spotted the naked women being marched through the bustling marketplace she had been so shocked she nearly dropped her teacup.

"Those girls!" she cried. "They're chained together. And they're STARK NAKED."

Indeed they were. There were about 40 of them, naked except for the various bindings that held their hands behind their backs, and the ankle shackles that bound them to the coffle. It was a hot day, and it must have been difficult to walk across the hot stones of the market square barefoot, but the four slave wranglers in charge of the coffle used their crops and prods to make sure their inventory kept pace.

Victoria, shocked, peered down off the balcony for a better look. "They're slaves being taken to market," I explained as I sipped my tea. "Pleasure slaves, I'd guess, judging from their nice round bottoms and breasts, and their nakedness. It's important to let the buyers see the merchandise."

"Merchandise?" Victoria gasped. "But some of those girls are white!"

I laughed. "Being an English aristocrat wouldn't save you in the slave market, dear. Although your fair skin and green eyes might well fetch a better price."

If I had sprouted wings and flown off the balcony Victoria's expression could not have been more shocked. Victoria, the daughter of an English Lord, a naked slave girl? The very idea!

Victoria sniffed indignantly as she resumed her superior, haughty tone, quickly separating herself from the girls in the coffle. "I'm glad those men are whipping those girl's bottoms. Shameless! Parading naked through the streets where anyone can see them. What little sluts they are!"

Victoria was soon joined by several other ladies, all of who followed her lead in denouncing the slave girls for their brazenness and immodesty. Victoria nervously fingered her pearls and the lapel of her expensive silk blouse as she watched the slave women being paraded down the street; almost as if she was assuring herself that in her fine clothes she was quite different from the naked women.

"Some of the men they are passing are... touching them!"

"Disgusting!"

"Shameful!"

"Do you think the one with the big tits will fetch the best price?"

"Perhaps. But the blonde will get more."

"Do you think she's Swedish, or something?"

"American. Look at the way she's under-dressed." All the women laughed.

Alexandra, using the zoom lens of her overpriced camera, captured something the other women had not noticed. "I do believe several of those tarts have brands on their bottoms. Look. It's easier to see with the lighter skinned girls."

"Oh my, yes. That's not a tattoo. That's a burn."

Grabbing the camera from Alexandra Victoria zoomed in for a closer look. "Oh yes, that's a brand!" she said cheerfully. "Three stars on that one. That one has some letters. They're quite pretty, actually. I like it."

"So you think slave girls should be branded?" Alexandra asked as Victoria reluctantly passed the camera onto the next gawker.

"Definitely," Victoria chuckled. "Right on their big fat rumps!"

The women laughed.

"Do you suppose branding hurts?" Mrs. Howly asked, adjusting the camera for a better look.

"Maybe they used anesthesia."

"In this country? I doubt it. More likely a stick between their teeth."

The group laughed again.

Victoria was unimpressed. "Why should they get anesthesia?" she huffed. "After all, they're not like you and I. These girls are little better than animals, and I didn't give anesthesia to any of my horses before I burned my family crest into their rumps."

"Yes, Victoria, quite right. Animals. Thank you for pointing that out. I feel much better about this whole business now."

"Do you think I can post these pictures on Facebook?" Alexandra chuckled. "Perhaps there's some sort of National Geographic exemption for nudity," she speculated, causing all the women to laugh.

For all their denunciations and scorn Victoria and several of her fellow moralists nearly fell off the balcony as they strained to follow the coffle's progress.

"Where are they going?" she asked.

"The slave market inside that building at the end of the street," I replied. They'll be put in the holding pens for a few days for inspection, then put on the auction block."

"The auction block?" she said, genuinely surprised. "Like Christie's or Sotheby's?" she gasped.

I chuckled at her naiveté. "Yes, that's the basic idea. Although I doubt you'll be buying any of your overpriced paintings there, darling. It's a livestock market. See? They're being led into the building with the camels and the goats in the pens outside. The slave pens are out back, covered by the awning."

Again, Victoria nearly fell off the balcony as she strained to see. "Can we see the pens?" she asked eagerly.

"Hardly, darling. It's not a place for Western women. Not Western women wearing clothes, anyway," I teased.

Victoria doesn't take no for an answer, and for the rest of the day she was cross with me. A few hours later the guide drove us deep into the interior for our first safari, but I could tell Victoria was too miffed and too distracted by what she had seen to enjoy it.

It had been a lovely few days, apart from my wife's insufferable attitude. She had been quite annoyed that her friend Alexandra had not sent her any pictures, although she still hoped something would be posted on the Web.

No matter how many questions I tried to answer about the slaves, Victoria was never satisfied. As we took our lovely walk down the river to the marketplace, the subject arose again.

"Tell me, Randolph: are there any slave girls at this market or not?" she pressed. "It can't be a proper market without livestock for sale, can it?"

"I suppose not. There is a slave market there. It's in a courtyard, a bit off the central market. It's not a huge market, but there are usually a half dozen flesh peddlers there. And no, you can't go."

There was another long pause as we walked for a few minutes. Victoria, like many people born to privilege, was never exactly bursting with sympathy for those less fortunate than her. It was clear that she had mentally separated herself from the girls in the marketplace, who she now referred to as "slave sluts", "livestock," or simply "bitches."

"Well!" she huffed. "It hardly seems fair that a mere slave girl should be able to see something that me, a proper English lady related to royalty, cannot!" she huffed.

There was an odd look on her face as we walked along. I didn't know what she was thinking, but for my part I simply relished her silence.

"Do you think I'd make a good slave?" she finally asked.

The question struck me like a bolt out of the blue. Despite her blueblood background my wife does have a kinky, submissive side, and I instantly wondered where this was going.

"Perhaps," I hedged. "In the right market."

"I'm serious, Randolph. Do you think I'd fetch a good price?"

"I was being serious, dear. This is a tiny market. Higher quality goods are usually shipped out for resale. However, I'd wager you'd fetch a tidy sum. Of course pleasure slaves are not fungible goods, and sometimes it comes down to how an individual buyer reacts to a particular girl. There's only one way to know for sure."

"How?"

"Put the girl on the auction block and see."

Victoria looked shocked "The auction block?" she stammered. I smiled at her at her discomfort, and seeing my pleasure at her embarrassment she quickly recovered. "Yes, quite right; that's as it should be. Impossible to know how something will sell until you sell it, I suppose. I simply must see this market."

"Sorry. It's not a suitable tourist destination for white female tourists wearing Gucci sandals and diamond earrings."

We walked along in silence for several minutes. Victoria was quiet as she mulled things over.

"What if I wasn't wearing Gucci sandals?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if I were a slave girl? You could bring me in then, couldn't you?"

"You don't have the guts," I said, laughing.

"Would you like to make a wager on that?" Victoria, ever confident, stopped walking... and began stripping. Khaki's off. Shirt off. Pearls off. She looked quite enticing, standing before me in her sexy pink matching silk bra and panties.

"Slaves don't wear £200 designer silk bras," I noted dryly.

Victoria hesitated, then accepted my challenge by stripping her bra off. I smiled as her lovely nipples hardened in the warm African breeze.

"Is this a busy market?" she asked, covering her breasts as she suddenly realized that she was standing nearly naked on a dirt road. "Crowded, I mean?"

I smiled, enjoying my overbearing wife's sudden insecurity. "Busy enough," I added enigmatically, relishing her discomfort as I remembered the hell she had put me through during this "bloody boring" trip. Victoria looked quite enticing standing half naked in the road, covering her breasts with her arms. Alas, modesty was not permitted for a slave girl.

Reaching into my backpack I pulled out a long reel of coarse rope. It was manufactured locally, and was rough and scratchy, but had been strong enough to pull our jeep out of the mud, with Victoria cursing me and our driver the entire time. Cutting off a short section, I walked behind Victoria and tied her hands behind her back using a simple handcuff knot.

"That's too tight, Randolph!" Victoria protested.

Squeezing her luscious bottom I leaned forward and whispered in her air. "That's not your choice, slave girl."

I thought she was going to scream at me, but her response surprised me. "As master wishes," she said.

I didn't bother to cut the remainder of the long rope, and quickly fashioned a slip tie with 3 or 4 twists around the knot. Victoria looked puzzled, at least until I threw the loop around her head and let it settle on her shoulders.

Victoria glared at me as I pulled the loose end of the rope to a metal buckle on my backpack, then tucked the rest of the long rope into my pack, using the same trick I used at home when walking our Corky. She looked even unhappier as I systematically stripped her of her sandals, her eyeglasses, her diamond earrings, and finally, her silk panties. I was going to walk my little slave girl to the marketplace stripped of everything but the rope leash around her neck.

"Want to call it off?" I said, smiling.

She mouthed an obscenity I won't shock you by repeating. I responded with a toothy grin.

Stark naked with a rope around her neck and a her hands lashed behind her back, Victoria suddenly became aware of every sound, twig snap, and motion in the "bloody boring jungle."

"What if someone sees me?" she asked, her voice cracking. I smiled. Victoria gets bitchy when she gets angry, but she gets acute laryngitis when she gets nervous. And now she was very nervous indeed.

"What if they do?" I chuckled, relishing her unease. "Nothing to see really. Just another naked slave girl."

A quick tug of the rope and we were off. It was hard for Victoria to keep up with my brisk pace walking barefoot on the unpaved road, but the knot tightening around her lovely neck provided wonderful incentive for her to keep up.

A few passing jeeps honked their horns at us, much to Victoria's distress. "If your friends at the hotel could see you now!" I teased. Victoria shuddered at the thought.

One man in a jeep offered me a ride. "If you don't want her in the jeep, I can tie her leash to the bumper," he joked. At least I think it was a joke. I turned him down; walking my haughty wife to market was simply too much fun, and I wanted the pleasure to last.

Victoria had nothing to say, for after her first few minutes of complaining her vocal cords gave way to her nervousness and I was treated to a blessed silence I had not enjoyed since we had landed in Africa.

I took the long way but walked her fast, and we arrived at the marketplace a good six minutes ahead of schedule. I decided to make up for our promptness with a languid, leisurely, stroll. I wasn't sure if Victoria was panting because of my brisk pace, the rope around her throat, or her nervousness when she realized how bustling the market was!

It wasn't a huge marketplace, really; it was the sort of market that my shop-a-holic wife would have dismissed as an "African dung heap" if she had arrived in her designer clothes. But now, naked and leashed, the village exchange looked to Victoria like a bustling Piccadilly Circus!

The slave market was in an old stone building just past where we entered. Walking past it I decided to stroll up and down the aisles of the main market with my naked slave girl in tow. Humiliating for Victoria, yes, but one never knows when one might want to buy an apple.

My blushing wife endured the laughter, jeers, and cheers of the locals as I casually browsed the fruits, vegetables, woven baskets, and trinkets the market had to offer. Nudity was not unknown in this part of the world, but my lovely wife's fair English skin and green eyes made her a bit of a novelty. Some of the women shouted obscenities at her, cursing the little slave slut's brazen nakedness while never directing a single word at me. But the men seemed appreciative. Victoria regularly drew appreciative squeezes and pinches, although when that happened I was always quick to abandon my examination of the basket, shirt, or pot I was examining, and with a tug of the leash move on.

We spent a good thirty minutes in the marketplace, with a very distressed Victoria sweating, panting, fidgeting, struggling futilely against the ropes that bound her wrists, croaking out absurd little squeaks as she squirmed away from pinches and gropes, squeezing her legs together to try and shield her modesty, and generally looking like she was going to pee the entire time.

I, on the other hand, had a lovely stroll, and purchased a cheap necklace of shiny green beads and a pair of barefoot sandals threaded together with some simple green twine and some green and white beads, along with some dates, nuts, and fruit. Victoria turned down my offer to share my banana, although she did partake vigorously of the bottled water I had in my backpack.

After several trips up and down the rows of vendors selling fruits and knickknacks, we returned to where we began. As we stood in front of the stone arch leading into another century I checked between Victoria's legs. She was positively dripping with excitement.

"If you want to stop, we'd better do it now," I said. Victoria shook her head as she pushed her wet sex against my fingers.

A well-dressed Westerner would normally not be welcomed into a slave market but Victoria's naked beauty was my ticket in. The rifle toting guards didn't say a word as I used her leash to pull her through the arched stone entrance and into the main courtyard.

The courtyard was formed by the connection of a half dozen buildings with a six-meter high stonewall that ran around the perimeter, a rampart built centuries ago that effectively sealed the slave market from the modernity. There were a few men for sale, and even a pen of goats, but most of the inventory consisted of naked or scantily clad African women. There were a few girls with fair skin, but in this market Victoria was definitely a specialty item.

There was an enormous old stone fountain in the center courtyard. The water trickled very slowly from the top into a smaller stone basin and then finally into the large basin below, large enough to comfortably park a jeep in if one were so inclined.

Although the water trickled slowly, business around the fountain was brisk, with miniature auctions breaking out each time a new girl stepped up onto the edge of the fountain. There were at least four lengthy haggling sessions going on at anyone time, and sometimes as many as six or seven, with the prettier girls drawing larger crowds and taking up more space than their less attractive sisters. I wondered if the higher prices justified the extra space and time the prettier girls seemed to require. I decided that it must, for no one seemed to mind selling whatever naked girl was unfortunate enough to step onto the makeshift auction block.

"Randolph? My friend, what are you doing here?"

I squinted in the sunlight before recognizing the fat African wearing the blue smock like shirt and the blue circular cap. "It is me, Bouba. I met you at the party. Do you not remember?"

My company imports and exports millions of dollars in African goods annually, but once the context was provided I remembered Bouba immediately. At the party in London he had been wearing a Western suit, and had been introduced to Victoria and I as a "trade manager" charged with running several of his companies local retail businesses. A native African, his Arabic, English and French were excellent, and he was the sort of chap equally at home at a cockfight in the lowliest slum or a swanky party of the sort his bosses threw to secure my company's lucrative business.

"What brings you to our humble market, Randolph? Buying or selling?" he said, casting a evaluating glance at my nervous looking wife.

"Price check," I chuckled, shaking her rope leash as I ignored Victoria's laser glare. "My wife Victoria was curious about slavery, so I agreed to bring her to market and give her a little taste of the life of a slave girl. My apologies if she does not introduce herself, but she has a spot of laryngitis."

"That will increase her price; it is not becoming for a slave girl to chatter. It is truly a pleasure to see you again, Victoria, particularly so much of you. I remember you well from the party, with the lovely red dress that offset your beautiful green eyes. You were quite enchanting, although I must say that I much prefer the dress you are wearing right now," he said, laughing heartily.

"Appalled" doesn't do my wife's expression justice; for a moment I thought she might actually vomit. It was bad enough to be paraded in front of anonymous strangers, but now she was standing stark naked and bound in front of a African - and a mere merchant at that - who she had met socially in London.

Bouba and I wandered out of earshot for a moment as I explained that I did not want to sell Victoria but I very much wanted to teach her a "memorable lesson."