Copyright 2010 by Lance Colton, all rights reserved.

The Slave Market – Chapter 2

       The next evening the Wazir, his son and I, along with five guards, had been dropped off in front of the Koutoubia mosque.  Built in the twelfth century it is the oldest of the only three remaining Alhomad minarets in the world and is, by law, the tallest structure in all of Marrakesh.  From there we made the short walk through the souk (town market square) with its teeming mass of con artists, water sellers, dancers, snake charmers and vendors of most anything imaginable into the labyrinth of the medina that was the original old town of Marrakesh.  The old town is a winding maze of narrow walking streets that meander as if a cow or goat had ambled along looking for something to chew on and those worn down paths had become the streets.  I was lost after the first five minutes.  To me it seemed as if we were walking in circles but I was sure that the Wazir and his son knew exactly where we were.  We finally stopped and knocked on an unremarkable steel door which was opened immediately by a servant.

       Stepping inside was like entering another world.  The dirt and grime and sewer and garbage smell of the street was left behind.  Flowering shrubs and green plants were the first impression followed by acres of marble.  An open courtyard was to our left with flowering shrubs and date palms.  We were ushered down a long hall to a large room that looked like a small amphitheater.  Comfortable tiered seating faced a raised dais where the action was in full swing.  We were seated in a place of honor in the front row.  I glanced at the stage and saw a naked girl in chains clearly being offered for sale to the crowd.  It truly was a slave market!  The auctioneer was shouting out sharply in Arabic and pointing at her charms.  Bidding was fierce. 

       That girl was sold, whisked away and the next one came in.  It was a fascinating spectacle but I was only watching with half an eye because, while the women were somewhat attractive and naked, which is always an eye catcher for a man, I really had no intention of buying a slave.  My experience last night had been incredible but, to actually own a slave?  It went against everything I’d been taught.

       We were served tea and the parade of women went on.  I could see the Wazir watching me closely to gauge my interest but I kept my poker face on.  I wasn’t buying in to his world.  After about thirty women had come and gone, solidifying my belief that I wasn’t a buyer, the Wazir plucked at my sleeve.

       “Greg, my friend,” he said, “I want you to pay special attention to the next three slaves.  They are very special and will go for many dirhams.”

       Instead of being in chains and at the end of a leash like the previous women, the next girl walked in alone.  Only the fact that she was naked and collared and standing on that stage gave away the fact that she was being sold.  A hush settled over the room.  I glanced around me and it seemed that every eye was focused on me and what I might do.  I looked at her carefully.  There was a compelling quality about her that I couldn’t define and it stirred my interest but I didn’t want a slave.  I dropped my eyes to my tea.

       When I glanced up she was gone and another girl was in her place.  It was déjà vu.  She was also an exceptionally striking woman with the same mysterious quality.  I looked at the Wazir and shook my head in annoyance.  I was tired of playing this game.  I leaned into his ear.

       “Achmed,” I whispered, “I don’t mean to seem inhospitable but owning a slave doesn’t fit my lifestyle and…”

       “One more and we go, Greg,” he interrupted.

       I sighed and sat back.  Looking at one more beautiful naked woman wouldn’t kill me.  I nodded and indicated that the farce should continue.

       I have never in my life had a reaction like I did to the next woman who walked out.  She was an image of everything that had piled up in the dark corners of my mind as to what my ideal woman would be like.  It felt like my heart had stopped.  My vision closed in to where she was the only thing I could see.  I forced myself to breathe and relax but my body had other ideas.  Something about her struck straight to the center of my being and I only knew one thing.   I wanted this one anyway that I could have her.  I would kill, I would cheat, I would lie, I would…I forced myself to calm down.

       Achmed raised one finger slightly, the auctioneer said something sharply in Arabic and all of a sudden my dream was seated next to me.

       “Master,” she said in perfect English, “I am yours.”

       I was unable to speak.  I couldn’t believe that after all of my protests about not wanting a slave that the only thing that kept running through my mind was how delicious it was going to be to get her bent over one of the frames in the dungeon and listen to her whimpering as I used the whip on her ass.  She must have sensed my desire because she picked a whip off of the table and smiled at me.

       “Your new slave needs to learn her place, sire,” she said, handing me the whip.

       I wanted nothing more than to use it on her right then and finish by driving my dick into her pussy and losing myself in pleasure.  Some last vestige of sanity intruded.  I placed the whip back on the table and looked at my host.

       “Achmed, I didn’t bid,” I protested.

       “I bought her for you,’ he said.  “Consider her a gift from me.  It is my poor effort at repaying that which can never be repaid.”

       “What if I don’t want her?”

       “I will send her back,” he said simply, clapping his hands twice.

       That produced an immediate reaction.  The auctioneer stepped from the stage and held out his hand to the girl.  She rose and started away from me.  I felt like someone had taken my right arm off at the shoulder.

       “Wait!” I shouted.

       She stopped and turned.  Achmed looked at me expectantly.

       “Wait?” he asked.

       “I…I don’t mean to be…inhospitable,” I said.  “She can stay.”

       “You don’t want to be…inhospitable?” Achmed laughed.

       “Well…”

       “So, you want her to stay?” he asked softly.

       “Y…yes.”

       “As your slave?”

       “As my slave?” I thought.

       “Achmed, I…”

       “Don’t believe in owning a slave?” he finished.

       “Yes,” I said.  “Couldn’t she just be my…”

       “Girlfriend?”

       “Yes,” I said hopefully.

       “Greg, she is a slave,” he said.  “She is here to be sold.  If you want her to stay she will have to stay as your slave.  Otherwise we must put her back up for sale.”

       “Put her back up for sale?” my mind screamed.  “To someone else?”

       I looked around the room and realized that there were many wealthy sheiks looking at her like she was water and they had just made the three thousand kilometer trip across the Sahara from Timbuktu without anything to drink.  I panicked.

       “I want her to stay,” I said firmly.

       “As your slave?”

       “Yes, damn it, as my slave.”

       Achmed raised one finger and once again she was seated next to me.  I couldn’t bring myself to look at her.  I felt guilty and relieved at the same time.  I was a…slave owner!

       “So, you decided to keep me,” she laughed.

       I looked at her sharply.  She looked down demurely.

       “Yes,” I said coldly, “and I guess you were right.”

       “I was right, sire?” she said perplexedly, keeping her eyes down.

       I picked the whip off of the table and put the tip of it under her chin, using it to raise her gaze to meet mine.

       “You are going to need to learn your place.”