Chapter 8: Emerald on the Auction Block

“How do you remain so calm?” I ask Naomi.

“My mother was a slave, so I’ve been a slave for all of my life,” replies Naomi. “This will be my third time on the auction block, so I know what to expect.”

“How well do you remember the previous occasions?” I ask.

“I was quite young on the first occasion, and I don’t remember much about it. The second time it was the human pigsty that passed for the slave dealer’s premises that I remember the most.”

While the three of us are friendly to each other, Ruby, Naomi and I haven’t known each other long enough to be close friends. We are simply passing strangers who have shared the common experience of being captives on board One-eyed Jack’s ship. We have never met before, nor are we likely to see each other again after tomorrow’s auction. That doesn’t mean that I don’t care about what happens to them, but I’m realistic enough to know that there is nothing I can do to alter any of our futures.

Ruby was taken away before I woke this morning, so I presume she is one of those on display today. I admire her courage in defying the overseer, but he has obviously taken his revenge on her body. The red marks on her bottom and back from yesterday may have quickly faded, but they must have hurt her like Hell at the time. And yet her spirit remains strong despite her cruel treatment.

At first it looks as though Naomi and I will be spending all day locked in the large cage with the other women who are not being put on display today. That can mean one of two things; either Naomi and I have attracted sufficient potential buyers already, or that nobody is interested in us and the market owner doesn’t want to waste the limited space in the pre-auction viewing room. My intuition tells me that I have admirers from those who inspected us yesterday, but that doesn’t mean I’ll gain a good master.

According to Naomi the owner of this market is following the usual routine for Puskin’s slave auctions. It means that tomorrow we will be roused at dawn, and told to wash ourselves thoroughly. The overseer will then sort us into groups depending on the order in which we are to be sold. We won’t be fed breakfast as some slaves being sold for the first time have been known to vomit out of fear while being auctioned. Naomi said that she has seen that happen once, and it isn’t a pretty sight. It is also rumoured to reduce the worth of the slave. Apparently, the more common occurrence of a frightened slave who loses control of her bladder on the block doesn’t devalue her price at all.

“Those to be sold first will be ones who the market owner believes to be his inferior stock,” says Naomi as though discussing the weather. “Most likely they will become slaves in some factory sweat shop, laundry or kitchen. The next group to be sold will be those who might appeal to the owners of brothels or other establishments which provide exotic entertainment in this male oriented world. The women regarded as the most valuable will be sold last. The men with serious money to spend will be waiting for them.”

I’ve no idea where I will rank in this grotesque pecking order. Last night there were about twenty women who slept in this cage, and it’s possible that there will be more arriving today.

An old woman in a plain white dress enters the cage and begins to clean the stone floor. She refuses to answer any of our questions and we give up after a while. Her filthy task would have been easier if the overseer had provided us with buckets to use for our calls of nature. At least the floor is cleaned every day in this establishment. Naomi said that the last slave market where she was held stank like a sewer and the only attempt at sanitation was to periodically add another layer of straw on the floor.

Just as I am beginning to think my entire day is going to be spent in the cage, the overseer arrives and one by one we are removed from the cage. I’m one of the first ones to be taken, and I feel very nervous at being separated from the other women. I relax when I realise that the purpose of this excursion is so that I can be weighed, measured and questioned so that a few on my attributes can be recorded.

“Your current owner tells me that you are the daughter of some northern king,” says the man writing my details into a large book.

“Yes, master,” I reply, remembering the honorific we have been told to use when speaking to any of the men who run this place.

“And yet your father allows you to be sold into slavery,” observes the man.

“My father is dead. My brother killed him and seized his throne,” I reply, remembering what Ruby told me about what happened at the Banded Parrot Inn.

The next thing I know my bottom is on fire. I let out a yelp of surprise mixed with pain.

“Master! You forgot to say ‘master’ when you spoke,” snaps the overseer as he rewinds his whip.

“Master,” I belatedly say to the man. The stinging in my arse is starting to change into a warm glow and my cunt starts to feel moist. I begin to realise why Ruby likes such treatment.

“Hmm,” says the man before turning his attention to the overseer. “Put her in batch four tomorrow. Make sure she is properly prepared.”

The overseer acknowledges his orders and escorts me back to the cage. I’ve no idea what being in batch four means, or what preparations the man has ordered. For the moment, all I can concentrate on is the tingling sensation across my arse, and my overwhelming need to do something about my resulting arousal.

I attribute the cause of my recent obsession with sex to my treatment at the hands of One-eyed Jack and the fact that I have been kept naked for over a week. I can’t explain why I don’t feel afraid or horrified at the way I’m being degraded. It’s a though I’m living in some sort of fantasy world. Whatever the reason I don’t seem to be able to stop my primal urges from taking control of me.

When I return to the cage I find that Naomi has been taken away, presumably to undergo the same interrogation that I’ve just endured. I study the other captives held in the cage. The majority are about my age or slightly older, although there are a couple who look younger, perhaps about twenty. I know that only a few of them speak any language that I know, so trying to have conversation with them is a waste of time. I find a free space by the bars and sit down. Almost at once the third and fourth fingers of my right hand delve deep into my moist cunt while my left hand starts to play with my clit. I’ve spread my legs wide in full view of the nearby women, who look at me with a mixture of pity and disgust.

“Have you no pride, northerner?” asks one of the women in my native language.