This is the conclusion to the story, "Tracy in the Slave Market," by Joe Doe. TRACY IN THE SLAVE MARKET by C. Lakewood Part 3 Tracy's bra and panties were unceremoniously ripped off by the auctioneer's ape-like assistant, and she was driven out into the enclosed yard, bare naked, with a poke from his cattle prod (which produced a satisfying sizzle and a yelp from Tracy). There, she had to dance miserably beneath the icy shower, trying to lather herself with the coarse soap provided to slaves. She had dallied so long that the other girls had finished, and she was alone in the yard, the center of attention of all the passersby (most of whom paused to enjoy the sight). John, who had gone on alone, was both embarrassed and horrified.... But he was also rooted to his choice spot next the fence during the entire performance...and he didn't look away. Lucy, meanwhile, had lagged behind, since it appeared that the blacksmith wanted a word with her. "Don't like to disappoint 'e young gennleman, marm, but I dunno as I'd put 'e mark jus' where y'said. Too close t'arsehole, y'see...could be alright...but chances of infection...well, it complicates fings...." Lucy, for her part, wasn't sure John would want to use his initials if it couldn't be done discreetly. While they were discussing options, they were joined by a third individual, Capt. Jack Morgan, wearing a cliché white suit and smoking a twisted black cheroot. Now a plantation owner himself, Morgan had made his fortune at sea (and, it was said, not entirely legally). A middle-aged, burly man of medium height, with a squint, a hook nose, and weather-beaten skin, he was known as hard, authoritarian, and exceptionally virile. It was said that he was a good friend to have, and a bad man to cross. He nodded to Lucy and touched the brim of his straw hat. "Pardon," he said, leering at her. (She blushed, despite herself.) "Can anyone tell me about that blonde bird out there under the shower? I've a mind to bid on her. Quite a contrast to the general run of mixed bloods, I dare say." His voice wore a cultured veneer, overlaying a broad Cornish accent. The effect was slightly sinister. Lucy brightened, stuck by a clever ldea that quickly developed into a cunning plan. "Her name's Tracy Smith, British, a toffee-nosed headmistress...and, as far as I know, she's 100% white." Morgan looked askance. "Indeed? I should say probably a hexadecaroon. Trying to 'pass,' eh? Well, now I am even more interested in buying her. Must correct her genealogy, what?" Lucy smiled. She couldn't have dreamt a more fitting buyer for Tracy.... ****************************** Within a few minutes the details were settled. Morgan licked his lips when he learned Tracy would be in a "no sale fee auction." Lucy agreed to change the brand (to a plain oval about 2½" high) and to re-position it (to the middle of Tracy's left butt-cheek). After her sale, the oval would become a frame for Morgan's own anchor brand. The trio then separated. Morgan, in rare good humor, strolled off, wishing he had moustachios to twirl. Lucy hurried after John, already rehearsing what she was going to tell him (and what she wasn't). The blacksmith found a new iron and thrust it into the glowing brazier to heat. Meanwhile, Tracy, having finished her shower, was heading to the branding barn, dripping wet and blissfully ignorant of the new indignities about to descend upon her. ****************************** The four-day preview period passed in a whirl for Tracy. To begin with, the branding was traumatic, and its effects lingering. Then her pubic hair was destroyed, painfully and probably permanently. Moreover, the parade of prospective bidders wanting to "feel the goods" seemed endless, and, to her chagrin, John came by four or five times a day -- and seemed to be rapidly losing both his inhibitions and his schoolboy deference toward her. By the second day, he was smirking as he swaggered away, wiping her goo from his fingers. The first attempts to teach her the slave paces failed, but the insertion of a ginger root up her ass successfully induced her to keep her mind on business. So she learned to strip seductively, to display herself, to masturbate on command, to pose and prance, to charm an audience of potential customers, to demonstrate through her body language just how insatiable she was.... All the while, though outwardly compliant, she was seething inside and promising herself that, when this ordeal was over, she would write an article...a series...a BOOK that would not only make her a ton of money, but would also bring this whole sordid industry crashing down. That determination was what kept her going.... ****************************** Saturday arrived, bright and sweltering. Tracy was, fittingly, the last to be auctioned. The crowd had not thinned appreciably when she was ordered to drop her coarse garment and mount the block. Her body was shiny with sweat, which she was grateful for; it helped hide the fact that her now bald cunt was drooling constantly. "And now," the auctioneer proclaimed, "the final lot: an educated, mixed-blood 'fancy girl,' who has, until recently, been 'passing.' Hot and inventive enough for your bed, strong and sturdy enough for your fields...." "'Mixed-blood'?" Tracy thought angrily (though her lustful expression didn't change). "'Fancy girl'? I'll have that bastard's guts for garters...." But, after sashaying saucily about the block, she decided that it was probably a useful fiction, concocted to add verisimilitude. Tweaking her nipples, she calmed down mentally, though she did promise herself that, afterward, everyone involved in that scurrilous lie would feel the sharp edge of her tongue...and read about themselves in her book. At the crack of the whip, Tracy rolled in the sand, a layer of which had been spread across the top of the wooden auction block to capture the sweat and piss of the animals sold there. It excited her to feel it cling to her, for it reminded her that she was -- for the moment -- mere livestock. She was just another hot, randy bitch to be put to stud at her master's whim. "Show 'em yer cunt, girl," the auctioneer growled. "Let yer future master see how juicy it is." Tracy hesitated. She'd spied John in the front row, watching her through slitted eyes. And that bitch Lucy was next to him, relishing every degrading moment. Could she really masturbate in public...with John watching? A flick of the whip answered that question. She yelped and instinctively rolled onto her back to assume the required position. Lucy laughed behind her hand and said something ("witty," no doubt) to John. Having no choice, Tracy arched her back, spread her knees wide, and began to caress herself. The auctioneer sang the praises of her "cool white skin...and hot black blood," as she quivered and spasmed for the bidders' amusement. Orgasm over, she proceeded through the rest of her paces. She preened. She pouted. She scowled. She laughed. She tormented her nipples and flaunted her asshole. She showed them her body and even let them glimpse her soul, and all the while she was plotting her revenge.... The bidding was spirited, up to about £12,000, but then slowed. Tracy took that as an insult, and, masturbating sinuously, she breathed new life into the auction. She picked out a man in the front row -- a middle-aged, swarthy, thick-set man, with a squint and a hook nose -- and aimed her teasing at him. Inwardly, she shuddered at the thought of being owned...well, by ANY man...but especially by such an obvious (if superannuated) yob. His lineage was probably undesirable, too, Levantine maybe.... Or Gyppo perhaps. The bidding languished again and couldn't be revived this time. £17,000 was the final offer. "Sold!" the auctioneer exclaimed. pointing his whip at the white-suited "Gyppo" gentleman in the first row. Tracy heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank god THAT was over, and she could go back to.... Wait a minute! 'Sold'? No, I'm not sold! I can't be SOLD! That last bid was nowhere near the required minimum. or reserve price, or whatever they call it...." Morgan was being congratulated by two of his cronies -- whom he referred to as "Bos'n" and "Master-at-Arms" -- and whom he soon sent to take charge of his new possession, get her re-branded, and ship her off to "The Anchorage," his plantation. John initially looked thunder-struck, but Lucy hastily whispered an explanation of how a "no sale fee auction" worked...and a suggestion that Tracy must have wanted it this way -- otherwise, why wouldn't she have paid the paltry fee? John's face showed a puzzled frown, then a noncommittal, thoughtful expression, then a slight smile, then a grin. "Well," he said, "at least I'm 17,000 quid richer (minus the sales commission, of course). In any case, we must invite...Capt. Morgan, is it?...to tea. High tea...say, tomorrow. I'd like to get to know him better." He cast a look back at Tracy, who, appearing baffled, was staring first at the auction block, then at Lucy and John, as if she couldn't comprehend what was happening to her. Limp and confused, she didn't resist when the "Bos'n" quickly and expertly lashed first her wrists and then her elbows behind her back. She gritted her teeth when he fixed a tether around her neck -- the very same sort that was worn by the various sheep, pigs, cows, and horses that had also been auctioned earlier that day. Spotting the clerk who had arranged her sale, Tracy summoned up a reserve of energy and called out, "Pardon me, sir. There appears to have been some sort of cock-up. These two ruffians seem to be under the impression that I've been sold." The clerk turned, surprised both at the clearly uppercrust accent and the astonishing fact that a mere slave girl had the audacity to call out to him directly. His eyes wandered up from her bare feet, brown from the dirt in the auction yard, up her trim legs, lingered on her wet, hairless crotch, still dripping with her juices, and then continued up over her flat belly (which, like her legs, still had particles of sand clinging to it) and beyond. Her firm breasts were thrust up and out, a consequence of her elbows being lashed behind her back. Her hair, wet from sweat and glistening with sand, fell loosely in rat-tails about her bare shoulders. "I'm sorry...er...miss," the clerk replied, amused at her posh tone and deciding to play along. "All sales are final." "They most certainly are not. There's been something of a bobble, and it must be corrected." As she said "bobble," Tracy agitatedly bounced up and down, causing her breasts to wobble. The seaman laughed, although the clerk doubted they enjoyed the irony of the pun as much as the sight of her bobbing breasts. The clerk smiled; whoever this girl was, she certainly did think a lot of herself. Her airs would soon be whipped out of her, but for the moment it was most amusing to chat with a naked slave girl who was addressing him as if she were the owner of the slave market rather than its inventory. "I see. And what is...was your name?" "Cap'n means ter call 'er 'Juicy,'" the "Master-of-Arms" replied. "Ye can see -- an' smell -- why. But I fink 'er name used ter be 'Smif.'" Tracy blushed and squeezed her thighs together. She fought down her rising indignation. She had to be pleasant toward these cretins, yet keep her aura of superiority, which she knew was crucial to her survival. If she acted like she was simply another slave girl, then.... She shuddered. "No, I have to show them I'm a lady," she thought. "Even though I'm butt-naked, in a slave market, with my juices running down my thighs, quality will show through." And quality did seem to show through, for the clerk was amused enough that he actually took a moment to search the thick stack of papers he was carrying and locate her bill-of-sale. "Ah, yes, Miss Smith," he said. "You've been sold to Capt. Morgan, of Anchorage plantation. The captain does love his fancy gals, as everyone knows. I imagine you'll be wearing bedroom slippers, when you're not barefoot in the fields." Tracy ignored the rude laughter of the ruffians holding her rope as she struggled to maintain control. "Young man, I do not appreciate your tone," she huffed. "I was auctioned on reserve, or whatever it is you call it, and the minimum...." The clerk referred again to his papers. "No. You failed to pay your no-sale fee, which covers the expenses of the house if you do not sell, to compensate us for our costs. The fee was 10 bob...." "I...I could pay it now, sir. B-but my belongings have been stowed away," she explained, still hopeful she might talk herself out of her predicament. If you can locate my purse, I would gladly pay the paltry fee, plus a handsome commission to yourself for your trouble." The novelty was beginning to wear thin. "Too late, my girl. And, for the record, your purse is in the branding barn. Your clothing and effects from your old life will be burned as fuel for the branding brazier, according to tradition. As for any money, the blacksmith who brands you will keep it, as HIS commission." "But I've already been branded!" Tracy wailed. The clerk put his hand on Tracy's shoulder, turning her back toward him so he could inspect her bottom. "Ah, yes, and a lovely brand it is, too. Capt. Morgan's mark will be set inside it. A simple anchor, the symbol of an illustrious naval family, which any slave girl would be proud to wear." Tracy stared at him, unable to speak. "Of course, if the edges of the new brand touch or even come close to the previous burn, it will be extra painful." He looked at her escorts. Do you have a muzzle, to keep the little filly from biting off her tongue?" "Aye, sir," the Bos'n said, saluting and slipping the gag into Tracy's mouth, ending all further argument. "I do remember you now, Miss Smith. You were the schoolteacher who talked to me as if you were Queen Victoria, and who accused me of theft. In your new life, I fear, you are now a student and have much to learn. I advise you to learn it quickly." He winked at the two sailors. "Apparently she's been 'passing' for years. But Capt. Morgan has already begun the process of rectifying that. Her papers will now specify that she's a...." He consulted his records. "Ah, yes, an octaroon and illegitimate for three generations. She will never 'pass' again, that much is sure. Carry on, men." The Bos'n jerked on Tracy's rope, and she stumbled forward. He tied her to a hitching post, where she waited for her branding behind a cow, two goats, and a rather large sow. ****************************** As Tracy waited to get re-acquainted with the iron, John was already thinking about seeing her again...on a regular basis, as a...rental. He was sure that he could come to some sort of arrangement with Capt. Morgan.... He tipped his hat forward, rakishly, over one eye. And, while he was about it, perhaps he could begin repaying all those canings from his school days. "That was then, and this is now," he thought. "Come, Lucy." She took his arm. He wasn't the only one making plans.