We had been outside for only a short while. I felt the sun on my body. It felt so good after so long in the filth and squalor of the pens.
There were calls and cries. We were apparently in a public street.
I was being led, leashed, nude, gagged and hooded through a public street!
In some ways I was thankful for the hood, which at least afforded me a degree of anonymity. I imagined what it would be like to be paraded nude, leashed, and gagged without the hood.
I stumbled. There was a pain at my bottom. Someone had slapped it.
"Nice ass!" I heard a male voice say. There was laughter.
I wondered how long I would have to endure such acute humiliation and degradation. I heard the braying of animals. There was no sound of motor engines. How primitive this place was.
My bare feet felt the dirt of the street. It felt dusty and uneven. Several times I stepped in what I hoped to be mud. There were puddles. I could not see where to place my feet. I was much at the mercy of him who held my leash, pulling me along by my neck.
After a time, I heard the sound of a door opening and I sensed that we were inside once more.
"Kneel," said the guard.
I knelt.
The man called out.
"Draca!"
There was no reply. He called again.
"Draca!"
I heard footsteps approach, lighter than those before. They stopped, and I guessed that someone else was in front of me. I knelt very still and listened intently.
"Morning, Tarak," said a voice, a woman's, "What do you want at this time of day? All the sluts are still asleep. But I suppose I could wake one up for a good customer, for an extra coin. You want little Lita, I suppose?"
"I don't want paga now," said the man, "I'm working. I've brought the wench we talked of. This is her."
"This is who?" said the woman.
"The barbarian. The one with pierced ears that we were talking about last night. That you agreed to take in."
The woman harrumphed.
"I don't recall anything about taking in a barbarian."
"You do. It was just last night. You said that rather than selling her off for sleen-meat you could use her here."
"I don't remember it being a barbarian. I assumed you meant a proper slave. What am I meant to do with a barbarian?"
"They're all the same, Draca. Look at her body, don't you think she's got slave curves?"
I felt my left breast cupped and dropped. It was not painful, but humiliating and embarrassing nonetheless.
I had not yet become used to having my bottom casually slapped, or my breasts fondled, even as in this case, apparently, to make a point about my putative attractiveness.
There was a pause.
"Hmmm...yes," said the woman, "I see what you mean. Not bad. Be a shame to sell her straight off for sleen-meat."
They were talking about me as if I was not there. I was scandalized but was unable to help myself straightening a little in the hood, and arching my back a bit to accentuate my figure, knowing myself under their careful appraisal.
Eventually the woman grunted.
"Alright," she said, "I suppose she isn't costing me anything, and I am short of a slut or two at the moment. I'll take her on, if you say so, but you owe me one, Tarak."
The man's voice laughed.
"You get plenty enough coin out of me, Draca. Look on this as a bonus. I'll be here again this evening; be sure and have Lita hot and waiting for me."
"You don't want the barbarian to serve you then?"
He laughed again, mockingly.
I heard his footsteps recede.
The hood was taken from my head. I breathed in the air. It smelt unpleasant and stuffy. A faint odour combining something like whisky, and sweat, and something else less familiar, the smell of sexual fluids. The combination smelt disgusting to my sensitive nose. I have a very good sense of smell and taste.
I found myself looking up into the eyes of a robed corpulent woman. She looked down at me with hostility. I instinctively averted my eyes, but then her hand gripped my face, her thumb at my left cheek, her fingers at my right. She removed the gag. I felt drool drip down my chin. With her hands she forced me to look upwards once more, my blue eyes meeting her downward glaring gaze. It felt good to be without the gag.
"So you're the barbarian bit of ass they're fobbing off on me, eh? What do they call you, slut?"
I stammered out quickly, "M-masters have been pleased to name me, 'flower', Mistress."
"I see, and how much training have you had, 'flower'?" She spoke my new name contemptuously, as if it was unpleasant to even let it cross her lips.
"I have been taught to speak Gorean, Mistress, and some slave positions, and something of my duties as a slave, Mistress."
"Oh," she said, "Have you indeed? And what about pleasing men? Have they taught you that, wench?"
"A little bit, Mistress."
I thought dejectedly of the embarrassing encounters with the guards, and when Chloe and Siri had taunted me. Of my assessment mark of one out of ten for what had been termed 'slave heat'.
"A little bit? Well that isn't going to do you much good here, is it, candy cake?"
She still gripped my cheeks in her pudgy hand, so that I was unable to lower my head. I am sure that I was blushing.
"No, Mistress," I managed to say.
She removed her fingers from my face.
"Stand up," she said, "Let's have a proper look at your set of curves, little blondie.
I did as I was told, and got unsteadily up from my knees to my feet.
"Hands on your head," she barked, "Arch your back, push those tits out! Don't you even know how to stand properly?"
I complied with her instructions. I had been taught to stand in such a position, of course, as a basic part of my training. It was termed the display position, and was one of a number of bodily positions that I had been taught.
Even standing thusly the woman loomed over me. I am fairly short, about five feet two inches, and she must have been at least five foot ten, and probably weighed twice what I did. She was wearing a long and flowing robe that had seen better days, and sandals.
She surveyed me from tip to toe, her brow furrowed in thought. Her fingers pinched me at the waist, testing the tautness of my skin. She took my left breast and cupped it in her hand, then letting it drop, as if testing its pertness, and my flexibility. She inspected the mark burnt into my leg.
I wanted to hide somewhere, but I knew that in such a position I was perfectly positioned for her unhurried perusal of my curves.
I thought back to earth, and imagined myself walking down the street in my sexiest minidress, the canary yellow one, as short as I dared wear back then, tight at my chest and hips, aware of the darting eyes of men. They would sneak a quick look at me, and then look away again quickly.
Oh the pleasure I got knowing that they were 'checking me out', but also of the cultural boundaries that ensured that they were not permitted more than a brief glance as I walked down the street, swaying my hips, fully aware that they could hardly take their eyes off me, and yet still safe from them and their baser, more primitive urges.
Now it seemed that anyone could 'look me over', for as long, and in as much detail, as they desired. They could even touch me or, apparently, spank me in the street. I shivered, frightened at what I now was and its implications.
I was no longer wearing the canary yellow minidress, of course. Nor my lacy lingerie. I was nude apart from a collar and my hoop earrings.
The fact that she inspecting me so assiduously was also a woman made it more embarrassing and humiliating. I was not used to being regarded as such by women.
"Turn about, sugarplum, let me see your ass."
I followed her instructions. I knew that my ass was one of my best features. Had not a man shortly before complimented it in the street, emphasizing his compliment with a firm smack?
"Feet apart. Split those pretty legs."
