Chapter 2: Arrival at the slave market

The remainder of the voyage passed by timelessly. It might have been the six weeks it was, or six months or years or just a few minutes. Someone marked the days at sea on the base of the mast where it was founded in a complicated joint to the keel board. Victoria didn’t bother to look or count the groups of four vertical lines with a diagonal slash across for each completed set.

Her passage of time on the voyage was taken up, either sitting alone and silently at the far end of the hold that held just over half of the original cargo, or being violated by her captor, who had chosen her body for his own pleasure. Daily, monkey boy capered down on a rope, selected the chosen and then tied a rope around their waist to be hauled up, out through the hatch. For some reason that Victoria could not fathom, those who were selected were not welcomed back by the rest of the cargo. They were shunned as if leprous and had nothing but backs facing them. Even stranger was the fact that the chosen shunned each other as well.

Victoria felt him slip from her body, thinking that he had once again, cum in her ass. She was getting quite used to the feeling of his cock being buried inside her, feeling the throb of his orgasm and then the slow expulsion from her body of his seed, over the following hour or so. The regular anal sex had cured her constipation, something they all suffered with from the lack of food, unless they got dysentery, which usually killed them and resulted in another body, floating away, discarded and forgotten as no more than human waste.

He hadn’t cum in her ass this time. Instead, he turned her around, forced her to kneel and then shoved his cock between her lips. Then he came, spurting his seed to the back of her throat. She gagged and spat the vile stuff out. That was when he hit her, smacking her face with the flat of his hand.

“Next time, you swallow it all.” With that, he shoved her back towards the hatch for monkey boy to lower her back into the hold.

They crossed the Atlantic in mostly fine weather, but as they neared the Caribbean Islands, the winds got up until they met a raging storm, full on. Waves that seemed taller than the ship crashed over the gunwales and set the decks awash. Even with the hatches battened down, much of the water found its way to the bilges, dripping through cracks in the overhead planking, soaking the miserable cargo. It was a fierce storm, with incessant winds shrieking through the rigging and throwing the vessel about like a cork. The mast groaned under the weight, even though all the sails were furled and tied. Caulking split away from the planking, causing more water to leak into the hold in sprays too numerous to count.

By the end of the storm, another six inches had been added to the bilge water, bringing it up to their knees. At least, while the storm had raged, no one was hauled out of the hold to be used by the sailors. They were much too busy trying to stay afloat. And then, when everything had calmed down, too busy caulking the leaks before ramming pitch between the joints and pumping out the bilge.