by Ian Smith
Carrie hadn’t expected to have to speak. She took a quick breath to steady herself. “I am nineteen, I will be twenty in two weeks time,” she said loudly and clearly in her very best cut-glass voice, still facing the multitude, then added haughtily: “and my name is Carina Barrington-Smythe.”
Although the last statement could only add to the price he was likely to get for her, the auctioneer did not like her arrogance. “Your name is Slave,” he snapped harshly.
Carrie shrugged her shoulders almost imperceptibly and ignored him. He seethed and his fingers clutched the whip handle tightly, but he did not use it. The sea of faces below them continued to stare at the girl’s lovely body. “Nineteen, nearly twenty, gentlemen,” he said to the throng, recovering himself. “Look at those tits! Good legs, too; and what couldn’t you do with that sweet little pussy, eh, gentlemen?” Carrie endured all this in silence, her face continuing to flush hotly. Nineteen, nearly twenty, she reflected bitterly. It now seemed certain that she would spend her twentieth birthday in captivity; she had to face the prospect that her special twenty-first birthday, too and perhaps many more after that, might be spent the same way. “She’s got a nice ass, too,” the auctioneer continued. “Turn around and show them your ass, slave.”
Carrie did not hesitate, nor did she quibble about being called slave. She turned and adopted a fresh pose, pushing her handcuffed wrists to the side so that her fine bottom was clearly on view. She kept her legs close but not entirely together, maintaining a dignified, elegant stance despite the circumstances and the restriction of the cuffs. Another quiet wave of noises of appreciation rippled through the gallery of onlookers. The auctioneer ordered her to face the front again and she did so, her expression carefully unchanged. Now at last he called for bids, after setting a starting level well above what had been paid for any of the coloured girls. It was not, however, above Samantha’s final price.
The inrush of bidding quickly pushed her price up. It was still a little bit below that of her former maid, but closing fast. It was her virginity, Carrie realised, that had made the other girl so expensive. For a moment she wished that she too were still virgo intacta: that would push her price into the stratosphere! But no, that would imply they could affect her, by being the first ever to possess her. In any case, as these thoughts went through her mind, the sums being bid for her passed the sixteen year-old virgin’s final price. Carrie hoped that the little bitch was still around and noting that, but she couldn’t see her.
The bids started to slow. Carrie wanted to see who was doing the bidding, but she wouldn’t demean herself by lowering her gaze. Besides, she had been watching the auctioneer and knew that he usually played a final trick to push the bidding a little higher. She was mentally preparing herself for this final act.
“Well, slave,” he said loudly to her, “let’s show the gentlemen what they’re really going to be missing if they pass up this opportunity. Turn around, spread your legs and bend right over.”
Carrie had expected him to demand she adopt this sort of crude position or something very like it. She was determined not to do it lightly. She remained still.
“Didn’t you hear me, slave?” he asked, and repeated his command word for word. Carrie still remained still: not cringing or wringing her hands as the maid had done, but just ignoring him. There were two possibilities, she theorized: firstly, he might grab her and physically force her into the position. That would be all right, she would have made her point. Or he might use the whip.
Thwack!
Her bottom exploded in a sea of pain. Tensed and ready for it, Carrie held her pose. Her facial muscles fought to keep her haughty expression. Somehow she managed it; but the pain, the pain!
Still she did not move.
The crowd were absolutely silent now. You could have heard a pin drop. Carrie sensed the auctioneer drawing his whip back for a second strike, then heard the leather whistling through the air. For a fleeting moment she closed her eyes.
Thwack!
The pain doubled. Carrie ground her teeth together, her lips pursed tightly, breathing through her nostrils. Still she did not move. She would capitulate after the fifth, she told herself. No, the third: that would still show her determination. Just one more, hold on!
Thwack!
It was agony, absolute Hell; but she had done what she set out to do; she had made her point. Calmly, unhurriedly, Carrie turned her back on the crowd, opened her legs very wide and in one graceful move swung her torso and head down, keeping her knees locked straight. The battered nerve ends in the flesh of her buttocks screamed their protest as she stretched her skin, but she ignored it. Fresh flushes washed over her face just as she was starting to adjust very slightly to her nudity, because she was now showing them her most personal areas, but it had to be done. They would also be able to see the three fresh and vivid red lines that throbbed madly across her moons.
At length the auctioneer ordered her to stand up and turn around once more. It was hard to face the audience after what she had just shown them, but Carrie managed it. Her eyes were misty with tears from the three whip strokes, but she was able to keep her face impassive, although she could no longer quite manage the haughty look. Encouraged a little by her unladylike display, but probably a lot more because of her show of defiance, there was a rush of fresh bids. Carrie willed the price up: she wanted to go for double what had been paid for the maid. She didn’t quite manage that, although it was not far off and more than three times the highest price for any of the black or coloured girls. Still Carrie managed to keep herself from looking to see who had bought her as the auctioneer finally called “sold!” She would find out soon enough. What if it was a black man or an Arab? They were in the vast majority here, although there were a few white faces in the crowd. No, she reasoned, it couldn’t be: her price, although she still had no idea what it would be in pounds, must be way beyond the local peasants. Surely it was an all-time record for this market. Only the most well heeled white men would have that sort of money.
Carrie stepped off the stage as the next, now totally insignificant naked black girl mounted it to be sold. It was an incredible relief to get out of the limelight, although she was still naked. Still, fierce pride burned within her. It seemed very unlikely now that she would ever succeed her father and outstrip even his financial success (though her school grades and lack of consistent work had already rendered that improbable) or in some other way lead a distinguished career. Instead, it looked as if she would see out her days as a naked slave of some local African fat cat: there was a strange feeling of finality to what had just happened, in that she had passed from being captive to slave. But if her esteemed father could have seen how his daughter acquitted herself naked on the auction block, in her last hour as a free person before she began a life of slavery, he would have been proud of her!
Chapter Eight
Andrew Johnson settled into his seat, carefully chosen so that he could observe the party without being noticed. As a British diplomat, he ought to take action if the rumour was true, that three British girls, two from wealthy and influential families, were indeed prisoners in this backwater state and one would be present tonight. However, he had no such intention: he enjoyed far too many favours from these people, and if these girls were silly enough to get themselves kidnapped, then that was their own hard luck. But he had heard that the two upper class girls were quite sensational and he wanted a look at this one.
Anton De Roulter, he reflected, looking around the fairly grand ballroom, was putting on quite a show. The man had plenty of money, no doubt illicitly earned, and had spent it well. He had attracted plenty of society figures from all over this area, who had turned out in all their finery. The majority were European ex-pats, with a few Arabic or indigenous African. The vast majority of them, of course, would never know the true status of this girl, when she appeared. That made it even more delicious. De Rou
lter, Johnson reflected, must be fairly sure of the hold of terror he had over the girl if he risked bringing her into contact with so many people. It wouldn’t do her any good if she made a fuss, of course, but it could be damned inconvenient. There was little doubt that she had been very severely warned. Johnson awaited her appearance with eagerness.
He was actually the first to notice her when she appeared through one of the side doors. The elegant evening gown she wore showed off a fantastic figure. Her fine shoulders and arms were bare, her beautifully styled, fine black hair brushing those shoulders like finest silk, the plunging cleavage perhaps just a trifle daring but showing to perfection the vibrant young breasts nestling within the gown. The delicate soft purple folds of the gown did not conceal her slim waist and lovely hips. As she moved hesitantly through the doorway and into the room, the split robes which reached almost down to her ankles parted for a moment to show just a hint of long, shapely, stocking-clad leg. The neat, stiletto encased feet seemed to glide as she moved. She looked for all the world as if she was born and raised in such grace and elegance, which of course she was. And yet, there was a haunted look about her face, a look of apprehension and fear which she was only partially able to hide. Not surprising, really: according to Johnson’s data, she had been De Roulter’s property for a month or so now. He was willing to bet that she had learnt her place. She glanced around uncertainly, and then located De Roulter, who was holding forth with a crowd of four men. Taking a deep breath and trying to hide her anxiety, the girl moved towards him. As she neared him, he noticed her and greeted her cheerfully.
“Ah, Lady Penelope! Do join us, please!” His manners were impeccable. “Gentlemen, may I present Lady Penelope Faversham of the esteemed English nobility.” He was using a false name, Johnson noted; a wise precaution even in his fairly unassailable position. One by one he introduced his guests to her. “Lady” Penelope greeted each one impeccably, her nervousness easing just slightly. Perhaps, after all, Johnson could almost hear her thinking, he does want me just as a society hostess for the evening. He smiled. He was near enough to hear much of the conversation when it resumed: De Roulter had steered it onto various English topics, particularly connected with the upper classes. He engineered plenty of chances for her to speak, and the young lady was able to talk of things from personal experience. She was a little out of date on recent society gossip, but in this part of the world that was not unusual. She began to visibly relax.
De Roulter then changed the topic again. He suggested it would be interesting for each person to say, if they had just one wish, what they most wanted. “Let’s start with you, Lady Penelope: if you could have just one thing in the whole wide world, what would it be?”
Johnson, of course, knew only too well what her real answer would be: her freedom. Naturally, though, she could not say that. In fact, after licking her delicately made up lips for a moment, the young girl said in her perfectly upper class accent, “to be quite truthful, Mr. De Roulter, I can’t really think of anything. I am” - she paused for a moment, then made herself say the outrageous lie - “perfectly happy.”
“I am delighted to hear it, my dear,” he replied. “Now, Sir Charles, what about you?”
The crusty, titled older man he spoke to thought for a moment. “Well now, to be honest, I’d like to be twenty years younger, so that the young lady here might favour me with a kiss.”
An amused ripple ran around the group, including Penelope who even blushed just slightly. “Come now, Sir Charles,” said De Roulter, “you’re not that old; is he, Lady Penelope?”
“Of course not,” the beautiful young woman said with a gracious smile. She was beginning to actually enjoy her evening.
“Prove it then,” said their host lightly to her. “Grant his wish.”
The smile on the lovely face faded. Evidently, Johnson realised, De Roulter had issued previous instructions to the girl that his slightest suggestion was to be taken as an order. The smile quickly returned, but it was ever so slightly forced now. Wordlessly, the girl leaned over to the older gentleman and kissed him, not on the cheek but on the lips. She meant it to be only momentary, but he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight to him. Penelope wasn’t silly enough to struggle: although Johnson was certain that she was not keen on this, she wrapped her own bare arms around the man’s portly frame. For long seconds they remained together, his tongue most definitely inside her mouth. When he finally released her, they were both quite breathless and had attracted quite a bit of attention.
“Well, thank you, my dear,” the old fossil gasped. “That was very nice.”
Penelope coloured, aware that they had caused a stir. “My pleasure, Sir Charles,” she said unsteadily and breathlessly.
“And very kind of you too, Lady Penelope,” De Roulter added, which did nothing to restore her sang-froid. He turned to the next man, a coloured man in a gaudy military uniform. “Now, Colonel, if you had just one wish, what would it be?”
The rotund man considered. “Well,” he said, “I have to be very honest here. I have always had an eye for the ladies, but nothing ever excites me more than a glimpse of a long leg clad in nylon stockings. I would just like to see more such sights from time to time.”
“Perhaps particularly the legs of beautiful young members of the British aristocracy, eh, Colonel?” De Roulter laughed. “Well, I don’t think we can help you here, unless our Lady Penelope is game for it?”
Once again most of the growing audience did not realise that Penelope’s answer was forced. “O-of course, Mr. De Roulter,” she said, trying to keep the unhappiness out of her voice. “What should I do?”
“Well, there are some very convenient slits in that wonderful dress of yours. Perhaps you could just walk around a little and make use of them.”
“C-certainly.” Nervously, Penelope began to move around a little. Her elegant hands pulled the folds of her dress away momentarily, tantalisingly exposing her curvaceous leg almost up to mid-thigh before covering it once more. Her natural poise, the result no doubt of an expensive education, covering up some of her jerky stiffness, she began to walk around a little more, flicking the dress away from one leg or the other with increasing frequency. Quite a few people turned their heads to watch, some puzzled by her behaviour, others admiring this extremely attractive young woman as she blushingly revealed her legs.
The colonel himself eventually brought matters to a close. “Thank you, Lady Penelope,” he said in close to a leer, “That was most pleasant.”
The girl’s face was now quite red with embarrassment. Her repeated answer of “my pleasure” came from a tight voice and was not convincing.
“Tell me, my dear,” the baronet Sir Charles asked; “are you wearing tights, or stockings? I was trying to tell, but I couldn’t quite see.”
Penelope swallowed. “Stockings, Sir Charles,” she eventually said as discreetly as she could manage.
“Eh? Sorry, you’ll have to speak up a bit. I’m a little deaf.”
Penelope sighed visibly. “Stockings, Sir Charles,” she said loudly enough for everybody nearby to hear. She was clearly not going to be allowed to get away with anything less.
“Oh my,” he sighed thoughtfully. “Elasticated, or with suspenders?”
Penny’s colour went a little deeper. “Suspenders, Sir Charles,” she replied loudly but unhappily.
De Roulter turned to the third man. “So, George, what would your fondest wish be?”
The businessman he addressed smiled. “Well, like the colonel, I have my own little fetishes,” he said. “I like to have women play with my wedding tackle. Sometimes they don’t even have to get it out, just kiss it through my trousers and slip their hands down the front to stroke it a little. Of course, I would never ask such a well-bred young woman as Lady Penelope here to do anything like that ...”
This time the girl didn’t even
bother to wait for the prompt from De Roulter. “That won’t be a problem, Mr. Phillips,” she said to the man, making an obvious effort to keep her voice even. She moved over to him and, her eyes lowered, slipped her slim hands down the front of his trousers. To Johnson, it was an amazing sight: a sophisticated upper class young lady openly wanking a man at a society ball. Actually, De Roulter’s choice of Phillips for this “favour” was particularly astute: although a good deal older than the girl, he was ruggedly handsome and could just about have been mistaken for her boy friend. More and more of the guests were noticing what was going on; they were too urbane to actually gather around, but there were plenty of eyes looking with less than perfect discretion, the men surprised but amused, the women taken aback and mostly looking less than impressed. The lady Penelope, concentrating on her task, was for once blissfully unaware. Phillips, rapidly approaching orgasm, was also focused on her attentions.
“Shall I ... er ... finish it? I mean, do you want to go, um, all the way?” the girl whispered to him in some embarrassment. Johnson only just caught the words: fortunately he had excellent hearing.
“No ... no, you’d better stop now,” the man replied. “Don’t forget the kiss now; that is,” he remembered to add, “if you don’t mind.”
Penelope extracted her hands and then knelt down in front of the now bulging groin and planted a deft, gentle kiss on the clearly outlined male member through his trousers. The place had gone quiet. Only now did the poor girl realise just how much attention was on her. Somebody said “bravo!” and there was a small ripple of applause. Penelope struggled to her feet, her humiliation at new heights. De Roulter was already asking the fourth and final man, a balding little weasel called Bewes, for his wish. Penelope was visibly steeling herself.
