Although it's not my primary profession, yes, I'm a writer. Glad you can tell! And don't be too hard on your hubby -- he was simply trying to help you out with your exhibitionist fantasies, as am I.
The probings in the slave pens varied greatly depending on the customer. Some of the men were clearly professional, and checked your pulse, hair, teeth, eyes, nose, ears, gate, and posture. The squeezed your breasts, checking for implants, and felt the softness of your bottom. The professionals were not rough when they put their fingers up inside of you -- a few even stroked you to wetness first, to make their examination easier. Still, their hands had a cold, detached feel, and the efficiency of their inspection of your most intimate treasures was, like the bleating of the goats in then next pen over, a bitter reminder of your status as chattel.
The louts who simply wanted to cop a quick feel were not nearly as gentle, but the slave trader usually shoed them away before they got too rough. Their examinations at least made you feel like a woman, an object of desire, even as it frightened you to think of how they might treat you if they owned you.
Remember, you wanted people to see you naked, didn't you? This is for your own good, Ann, and it's too late to whine about it now. As for being treated like an animal, well, it IS an open street market, and legally and -- in this place, morally, you are livestock to be sold. Around you they are selling baskets of fruit and colorful rugs and jewelry. You're dirty bare feet will feel cold standing on the ancient stone block where thousands of slave girls -- and cows and goats and camels -- were sold before you.
Try not to worry TOO much about the auctioneer's whip. Sure, the horrible CRACK is terrifying, and it always causes you to jump. You've heard the horrible shrieks and seen the angry red welts it left across the bottom of the girls were sold before you. But if you hop on one foot, and smile, and pout, and purse your lips, and let the auctioneer jiggle your breasts with the whip's sinister black handle, I'm sure he'll use it just for show....mostly.
You must strive to understand your master's point of view. You understand only a few words of their language. You are untrained, uneducated, and illiterate. You do not know how to weave a rug or till the fields or make flour. You are stupid and foolish. The only thing a girl like you understands is the whip! If they do stripe your bottom freely, how else are they to train you, and teach you your place?
Remember, Anne, the whip is your friend. It is there to encourage you, and to remind you to spread your legs WIDE as you squat for the buyers. Hearing it's crack you'll hesitate for only a moment as the auctioneer commands you to turn around, bend over, and spread your legs, spreading your butt cheeks wide and revealing everything the buyers wish to see. The laughter of the men as he taps your exposed bottom hole will remind you of your place. Humiliating, yes, but necessary, as the buyers need to see the merchandise.
Now on your back, legs apart...rub yourself. Arch your back and keep rubbing...show them all what a juicy American bitch you are. Although you've only had them on for a couple of days the iron manacles riveted to your wrists, neck, and ankles are already causing shackle sores. You want to be sold soon, so your husband can take you to a blacksmith who can strike off your shackles. Assuming, of course, his agent puts in the winning bid, and he decides the shackles should come off. Who is to say what he might do once he owns your bill of sale?
