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.