GOING NATIVE by Joe Doe I REGARDED THE ORIGINAL STORY AS A THROW-AWAY AND WAS SURPRISED THAT IT GOT SUCH A SUCH A POSITIVE REACTION. LAKEWOOD EVEN WROTE A GOOD SEQUEL, A STORY HE TITLED "GONE NATIVE." HERE IS MY OWN SEQUEL, TOLD FROM HEATHER'S POINT OF VIEW. Part 2 After I convinced the women to submit to a medical exam, the chief made me a member of the tribe. I was grateful for the honor, particularly since I knew that he didn't approve of Western women in general or me in particular, and I knew the award was a major concession on his part. Nonetheless, I was mortified to learn that my clothes had been shipped to the next village, which meant that I would be accompanying my husband, the chief, and "Builder Bob" to the bustling marketplace wearing the native outfit of the tribe's females: parrot feathers in my hair, a pair of leather sandals on my feet...and nothing else. That's right. No bikini, no thong. Not a freaking stitch. Much to my husband's amusement, I was going to be the little parrot girl, paraded through the marketplace wearing nothing but my feathers and a smile. I had been teasing poor "Builder Bob" and "Doctor Dan" all summer, and I had planned the exposure at the shower and on the examination table as sort of a culmination to my native adventure. However, as bad (and as delicious!) as it had been, my humiliation was limited to my husband, my two colleagues, and a few dozen gibbering natives. The marketplace, however, was a bustling area filled with men and women, people of all nationalities and races. To make matters worse, the tribal women (who were regarded as livestock) were always transported in a coffle with their wrists tied behind their backs and a rope looped around their necks. Being humiliated in camp was one thing, but being paraded through the center of town like a dog on a leash was another thing entirely. Of course, that night as my hubby and I made love, I undermined my own objections by orgasming no less than 7 times, not counting two double headers. Early that morning I made my decision. I was genuinely terrified at the thought of being led through the streets naked, like a tethered animal. But I was even more terrified that I would never be this turned-on again. That morning, after establishing our "safe word" (Clemency!), my husband kissed me goodbye and left me (in native costume) with the other women. And there I stood, waiting patiently for someone to lash my hands behind my back and add me to the coffle. Even though no one was looking at me, I felt dreadfully exposed. As the seconds ticked away, I placed my hands over my breasts and privates, and wished desperately for my husband to return, so that I could yell "Clemency" and call the whole thing off. I had been waiting for only a few minutes when Gunta, one of the warrior leaders, came over. Gunta had always liked me, but you could have knocked me over with a feather (ha!) when he placed a gold feather in my hair, marking me as a warrior! Best yet, Gunta (bless his heart) gave me a loose fitting warrior robe to wear that would cover me from shoulders to toes, and which (needless to say) I quickly put on. Gunta even let me sit on the rear of his wagon! And so there I sat, perched on my wagon throne, watching smugly as the tribe's equivalent of a baggage handler went about the trifling task of binding the women's hands behind their backs, and tying the coffle nooses around their necks. I had never been popular with the women of the tribe, since as a white Westerner I was always given special treatment. I'm sure they would rather not have been tied under any circumstances, but I could tell from the way they were glaring at me that the fact that I, a white woman, was allowed to dress as a warrior and smile at them as they were being trussed up like slaves was an enormous insult. I had the best of both worlds. I was free to get my sexual jollies from the humiliation of those women, while remaining safely perched on my warrior wagon. Life was sweet! I couldn't understand what the women were saying, but I could tell from the way they were hissing at me that they didn't approve of the way that I was making faces at them.... I laughed. I feigned having my hands bound. I stuck out my tongue. I made monkey sounds. The women were most displeased. Too bad! I was rich, and Western, and white...and they weren't. The women were making so much noise that I didn't hear "Builder Bob" come up behind me. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" "I was just...uh...I was...Gunta made me a warrior. He told me to sit on the wagon." "Did he also tell you to cause an incident with the tribe's women and get us all kicked out of the country?" I stared at him dumbly. He had not. Bob looked at me sternly. "If the chief hears about this, or sees you dressed as a warrior, he'll have a sacred cow. Take off that robe, Heather." I couldn't believe it. The insolent little wienie I had been sexually teasing for the last six months was actually ordering me to strip. "Maybe you didn't notice," I said, mustering all of the sarcasm I could, "but this robe is the only clothing I have. If I take it off, I'll be buck naked!" "I don't care," he said, his voice barely concealing his anger. "Either take it off, or I'll tell your husband that you were teasing the women." My stomach dropped. My husband and I had argued about my "corrupting influence" before, and now Bob had caught me red-handed. "Please don't tell him!" I whined. "Fine, then get off the wagon." I didn't get off the wagon, choosing to sulk instead, but I didn't struggle as Bob lifted me off and set me down on the ground like a rag doll. "Please, Bob, you don't have to do this," I said as he undid my sole garment and stripped me naked as a jaybird! I saw just the hint of a smile on his face as he looked me up and down. Then he spun me around and roughly tied my hands behind my back with the coarse rope the tribe used to bind their oxen, pigs, and women. He took me by the scruff of the neck and led me towards the other women. "Please, Bob, not the coffle!" I whined. "I'm not an animal. You can't do this to me!" But Bob COULD do this to me, and his answer was to throw the coffle noose around my neck. "Please! I just can't be paraded about like some naked bitch!" Bob's answer was to tighten the knot around my throat. "If you don't want to be treated like a bitch, Heather, then stop acting like one." He took my gold feather and walked away. I couldn't understand exactly what the other women in the coffle were saying, but no translation was really required. Laughter is the universal language. ****************************** After four hours of walking down endless dirt roads, I very much regretted the behavior that had cost me my seat in the wagon. My darling husband did his best to help me get into my role as a native by ignoring me totally, choosing instead to drink wine and chat with the chief in the comfortable lead wagon. Builder Bob chose one of the rear wagons. It was less comfortable, but it gave him a wonderful grandstand from which to ogle me. In fairness, Bob had not had any female companionship in months, and I had taken full advantage of his predicament to tease him mercilessly. Whenever I was felt bored, I would announce, "Now that's what I call a perfect sun" and then strip off my shirt (or sometimes my pants). Of course I always kept my soft, lacy underwear on, just to drive him crazy. In order to maintain my modesty, whenever I caught him sneaking a desperate peek, I'd shoot him an evil look, and he'd be forced to look away. It was good clean fun for all...or at least for me. Now that I was a tribeswoman, with my hands tied behind my back and three feathers in my hair, Bob was free to look, and look he did. I hadn't realized how much he disliked me until we stopped for our "break." The men enjoyed their wine and trotted off into the bushes to relieve themselves, while the women and animals were watered. I knew Builder Bob was staring at my backside when I bent over to drink water out of the animals' bucket, so naturally I kept my legs closed as tightly as possible. It was humiliating, to be sure, but I didn't fully appreciate what it was to be a barnyard animal until they unhooked us, and led us, four at a time, to a newly dug hole in the ground at the side of the road for what in polite circles is referred to as a restroom break. Alas for me, there was nothing polite about it. Builder Bob stood not more than six feet away and smiled down at me as the warrior holding our coffle chain commanded the four of us to squat and spread our legs. I hated the idea of whizzing on command, particularly with Bob watching, but I had been walking for hours, and my bladder was bursting. When they jiggled the coffle rope, I released my water like a good little doggie. I gushed a veritable waterfall for nearly two minutes, much to Bob's amusement. It was early afternoon when we got to the town, and I wish I could say that it was a relief. Although I wasn't wearing a watch (and wouldn't have been able to look at it if I were) I would guess that it was lunchtime, based on the crowded streets and the number of people going into and out of restaurants. I had visited this marketplace several times before, although never in my present condition, and I'd enjoyed browsing the shops and stalls. However, since I was now stark naked with my hands tied behind my back, the passing natives felt even more free to grope me. Fortunately, they brushed and squeezed rather than pinched and poked, and it was more embarrassing than painful. While it was certainly humiliating to be paraded before the natives, at least I had the cold comfort of knowing that they were used to female nudity. My worst humiliation was my encounters with Westerners. Black tribal women had been pranced through these streets for centuries, but naked white women were quite a novelty. However the white Westerners, dressed as they were in their khaki shorts and blue jeans and Isods and chic clothes made me more conscious of my nudity than ever. Every time I saw one of them, I instinctively tugged at the ropes around my wrists, only to rediscover each time that Builder Bob had done his job well. Some stared in amazement, some expressed shock and disgust, and others laughed and jeered. My reaction was always the same -- beet red embarrassment. At last we reached the slave market. I wish I could find a more politically correct, UN-acceptable term for it, but what else do you call a place where women are bought and sold? Anyway, this market was in a section of the city that I, as a Western woman, had never been allowed to go. I had actually tried to enter the area once, and the local police nearly arrested me. However, in my present state of undress, no one objected to my presence, since apparently marching a white woman naked to a slave market presented no protocol problems at all. As a shopper, I was not welcome. But, as inventory, I would be a guest of honor. ****************************** GOING NATIVE by Joe Doe HEATHER'S ADVENTURES CONTINUE. WHILE THE LAST THREE PARAGRAPHS BELOW DO CONFLICT WITH LAKEWOOD'S SEQUEL, "GONE NATIVE," YOU CAN JUST THINK OF IT AS AN "ALTERNATE ENDING," LIKE THOSE YOU SEE IN A LOT OF MOVIE DVDS THESE DAYS. Part 3 As they lined us up on the auction block, the slave merchant came out and bargained with the chief on the price of the women he wanted to sell. From the beginning the trader's eyes were riveted on me, and naturally the chief looked to my husband. Fortunately, my husband, tipsy as he was, indicated that I was not for sale. On the other hand, my drunken husband ended up acting as the translator between the chief and the slave merchant, which meant that his attention was frequently distracted by their negotiations. During these intervals, locals would "examine the merchandise" by squeezing my breasts, checking my teeth, and even bending me over for a closer look. I called out the safe word "Clemency" several times, but my husband was too far away to hear...and was probably too drunk to remember what it meant anyway. Soon he husband tottered away, into the building, and there was nothing between me and the growing crowd but my three feathers and my old friend Bob. I signaled to Bob for help, but he chuckled, relaxing in the shade, as the natives checked my feet and hair -- and discussed my anatomy in gibberish that I mercifully could not understand. At last my husband emerged and announced that he was going to the bazaar to get something to eat with the chief and the slave trader, and he invited Bob to come alone. Almost as an afterthought, my husband turned to Bob and pointed at me, "We should probably kennel her. If we leave her on the block, they'll auction her off for sure." Did he say "AUCTION?" I nearly lost my water again! "Why don't we peg her?" Bob said. "It's a quick way to make some money." "Pegging? What's that? She won't get hurt, will she?" my drunken husband asked, weaving from side to side. "No, it's just a way to get her inside and out of the sun," Bob said, making me sound more and more like a dog. "No one will hurt her." My husband spoke to the trader in his native language, and I could tell from the man's gestures that he was giving assurances that I would not be damaged. What a relief. "Excuse me," I interrupted. "what is pegging?" "I dunno. Ask Bob," my husband slurred. Men! Drunk, indifferent, and always a fountain of information. "Go ahead to lunch," Bob said. "I'll get her pegged and catch up." I watched in stunned belief as my husband staggered toward the exit. "I need to know what pegging is!" I shouted at him. "Bob'll show you. Have a good time, honey!" my husband replied as he tottered out the door. With that my husband was gone. It was only then that what I should have said when I was arguing with him flashed into my mind: "Clemency." Oh well, it was too late now. No clemency for Heather! Bob took my leash and led me inside. It wasn't until we got into the main room that I realized what pegging meant, and how Bob really felt about me. Along the far wall was a long row of naked black fannies. The women were bent over, kneeling. A few had their legs together, but most had their knees spread widely by two round wooden cylinders that had been slid into various holes in the boards that they were kneeling on. At that moment, I realized to my horror what "pegging" meant. But I was naked, and my hands were tied behind my back, and Builder Bob was leading me by the leash around my throat. So I used the one weapon available to me: I screamed. "No!" I shouted. "You can't spread my legs that way!" My protests were silenced when one of the traders expertly slipped a ring-gag into my open mouth. My mouth was still open, and I could make sounds, but I was wholly unintelligible, which took a lot of the effectiveness out of shouting. Bob and his slave trader assistants easily bent me over and tied my coffle rope to a leg of the bench I was kneeling on. Then they strapped me down, to keep my waist lowered and my ass in the air. The peg board was adjustable, which allowed Bob the option of leaving me with my knees chastely together, or wide apart, or anywhere in-between. What do you think he decided to do? If you guessed "spread her out like 10 peso whore," you guessed correctly. I screamed into the gag as he slid the wicked pegs into place, but he just laughed. "Now that's what I call a beautiful moon!" he said, mocking me with a paraphrase of my own teasing words. I shivered as he gently stroked my pussy, which, with the humiliation of the marching, the nudity, and the auction block, was now sopping wet. "You're such a little slut. I'd do you right now, if your husband wasn't my friend. Don't worry. I said you'd earn a bit of money, but, since you're white, they won't sell that little pussy of yours unless someone pays with hard currency. And you don't have Westerners touring dives like this." He laughed and left. As if on cue, two minutes later Archibald Cockley entered through the opposite door with Reginald White in tow. Archibald worked at the British Embassy. He was 60, bald, and fat -- though he viewed himself as "mature" and dashing. I had met him at an embassy party a few months before where he bragged about the 11 sons he had sired and advised my husband to keep me "barefoot and pregnant." The pig. I felt simply dreadful when I spilled my champagne down the front of his dress pants, and all of the guests laughed at him. I had met him only once, but I recognized him instantly. I would know those beady eyes and that crooked smile anywhere. Cockley was accompanied by Reginald White, a young man who had been one of my pupils when I taught school at the capital. In class he had been quiet and painfully shy around girls, and, even though he was 19 now and had grown up quite nicely, I could see that he was quite embarrassed by the sea of female flesh in front of him. I recognized them before they saw me, but I knew that wouldn't last long. There were countless other naked fannies on display, but mine was the only white one, and, courtesy of Builder Bob, my legs were pegged wider than the goal posts at a football game. It was a cafeteria of pussy, and I was the blue plate special. Since I had no way of making myself inconspicuous, I arched my backside up and pressed my face against the wood in front of me. Unfortunately, this manoeuvre spread my bottom cheeks apart even farther, if such a thing was possible, and was interpreted by Cockley as some of sort of mating dance. "Look at this one," Cockley said, chuckling lewdly. "See the way she's spreading for us? It's obvious the little bitch is in heat!" "I think the pegs are forcing her knees apart, sir" Reginald replied quite reasonably. "Maybe we should remove them." Clever boy, that Reggie! Wonderful boy! I had always liked him. "Nonsense," Cockley snorted back. "The pegs don't explain why she's so wet. Feel this quim, boy!" "No, thank you, sir. I don't think we should be here, sir. Maybe we should just go." "Don't be foolish, boy. It will put hair on your chest. Here, let me pay this man for the two of us." I felt butterflies in my tummy as I listened to Cockley pass a few spare coins to the native in charge to pay for the right to use me in any way that he wished. Then I heard his voice again, directing Reginald, "Go round front of this one, so you can see her face." Reginald walked around the line of women until he stood in front of me. I pressed my face to the wood, desperate to conceal my identity. "Good!" Cockley said. "Now, take your pecker out of your pants, and put it in her mouth." "I can't, sir. Her face is screwed into the wood!" My face was not screwed into anything, although I was pressing it so tightly downward that it was an easy mistake to make. Suddenly I felt three bands of fire across my bare backside. WHIP! WHIP! WHIP! Cockley was hitting my bare bottom with the slave trader's switch! "Head up, girl! We paid good money for that lazy mouth of yours, and we intend to use it." The pain was intense, but my desire to keep my face hidden won out. However, when he grabbed the rope around my neck and jerked my head up, I had no choice. Reginald recognized me immediately. "Oh, my gosh, Mr. Cockley!" he cried. "It's Mrs. Johnson, my teacher from school!" I turned my head and looked at Cockley. He stared down at me with his beady eyes, and smiled his crooked grin. "Well, well, well. Fancy meeting you here. Husband got tired of you, did he? Decided to sell you to the natives?" "We've got to help her, sir. We've got to call the authorities!" Cockley responded by tapping my bottom with the switch. "I'm sure Mrs. Johnson doesn't want us to make a fuss, boy. I'm sure she just wants to take you in her mouth, get this all over and done with as soon as possible, and let us go on our way." I certainly did NOT want to take my former student in my mouth, but I also didn't want to endure the corruption of the local military police, particularly in my current position. I looked up at Reginald and nodded, "Yes." Reginald was a horny teenager, and I, a teacher he had once fantasized about, was now kneeling in front of him ready to suck him off. I know Reginald wanted to do it, but.... "Go ahead, Reggie," Cockley urged. "She's hungry for it. Give her a nice big load to gargle with." As a warning, Cockley tapped my bottom with the switch. What choice did I have? I looked up at Reginald and tried to articulate, "Please. I...I want it." Whatever, he got the message. Reginald opened his pants and put his member in my mouth. The gag kept me from speaking, or from closing my mouth, but it didn't prevent me from using my tongue to bring my former student to a rocking orgasm. Unfortunately, with my hands tied and my mouth gagged open, there wasn't much I could do about his sperm dribbling down my chin. As Reginald walked outside to enjoy a much needed rest, Cockley turned his attention to my other end. I shuddered as he bent down and smiled his crooked smile and whispered in my ear. "Your husband told a friend of mine at the club that you two were trying to have children, but he had a pitifully low sperm count. I would imagine that means you're not using any birth control right now, right?" I didn't answer, but the tension in my body portrayed the truth. I heard him unzip his pants. I tensed as I felt the tip of his penis run up and down the length of my sex. "No birth control leaves you in a delightfully vulnerable position, don't you think? So open...so available...so fertile...." "The last time we spoke was at that embassy party, when I told you about my 11 sons. I told you my seed was still as powerful as ever, but you replied that I hadn't conceived a child in years and that I couldn't "impregnate an amoeba." The other guests had a good laugh at my expense, with you leading the charge. Are you still laughing now, Missy?" I was not laughing; I was squirming as he teasingly ran his prick up and down over my quivering wet slit. What can I say? Like my joke with the native women, it had seemed funny at the time. Cockley reached into his wallet and extracted a condom. Dangling it in front of my wide eyes like bait, he smiled his crooked smile. "I'll bet you'd like me to use this rubber, wouldn't you?" A condom! I was saved. I nodded eagerly, to show him how wonderful his idea was. "Ordinarily I would, but you seem to think my little swimmers have lost their punch. Well, there's one way to find out. I have eleven sons. Do you wonder if I can make it an even dozen? I grunted as he sank his bare, unsheathed penis inside of me. "That's it, you little slut," he taunted. "Grip it tight. I'm a real man, and today you'll get a bareback ride. Make my little swimmers feel welcome, and they'll reward you with a big fat belly... When my husband arrived back from lunch, he was more than a little surprised to find Reginald's seed on my lips, and Cockley's jizz leaking down my thighs. Apparently "she won't be harmed" didn't translate into "she won't be fucked." On the brighter side, my husband got half of the fifty cents that Cockley and Reginald had paid to skewer me. ****************************** By the time we knew for sure that I was pregnant, we were already deep into the jungle on our next assignment, so we couldn't have done anything even if we had wanted to. Not that we wanted to; we had both wanted a child for so long that we viewed my pregnancy as the answer to our prayers. Besides, I had sex with my husband several times a week. We both agreed that in all likelihood the child was my husband's. It had to be, didn't it? Now I'm back in the States, and my husband and I are the proudest parents on earth. My son is gorgeous, with the most wonderful beady eyes, and a delightfully crooked smile. The End Edited by C. Lakewood