Innocence Enslaved (3 page)

“This one is ready,” a woman shouted by her ear. “Bring on the next!”

After they were prepared, she and her fellow unfortunate captives were shackled and bound, then taken to a small tent. That was her best guess, at least, having little to go on since she was blindfolded and gagged once more. They were left there for what seemed like an eternity, the awful dread and anticipation mounting.

“Green goes up on the block first,” the gruff-voiced man announced.

The block! Saints in heaven save her, would this nightmare never end?

With no other choice, she sat and listened helplessly to the jumble of voices outside as the slave auction began.

“Our first offering is this fine-looking young male! Who will open the bidding at fifty?” A shudder swept through her as she recognized the auctioneer. He’d been the one who’d inspected and handled her so roughly; she could still feel his harsh and intrusive touch.

“Is that the best green you’ve got? He’s scrawny,” an impatient man called.

She thought about what the color green could mean for a moment, before recalling the man last night had asked how many red. The different colors must place them into groups, somehow. Shifting positions on the hard bench, she wondered what color she’d been assigned and what manner of horror it would bring.

“He is indeed all skin and bones, like he’s been starved,” complained one.

“Agreed,” said another. “I’d probably have to nurse him back to health before seeing a decent day’s work for my coins and trouble. I’ll pass.”

“He’s a bit thin, yes, but surely that’s rectifiable.” After a brief pause, the auctioneer added, “Come now, folks. Even though these shoulders may be youthful, they have the promise of strength to work your fields or labor in your hall.”

Still, there were no takers.

“What say you?” the auctioneer prompted. “Have you need of a stable boy?”

“Seems more suited to be a serving boy or chambermaid; he’s frail like one,” a man scoffed.

“How ‘bout as a chamber boy, Jerwain,” someone called out. “I’d heard they were yer taste. Think Britha will notice if’n ya slip ‘im in the bed with ya?”

“Fie upon you, Hadden Jones. I’m no pederast,” the first man sputtered amidst a round of raucous laughter.

“Perhaps with a pretty harness, he might pull your wife’s cart. Oh, but he’d have to have greater heft to budge it an inch what with her burdensome weight.” He chortled loudly at his own jest.

A brief scuffle broke out after that with shouts, a few grunts of pain, and some folks urging the combatants on. It soon died down and the auctioneer got back to business.

“Good people of Lancore, however you choose to use a slave, bought and paid for, is up to you as the owner. Do I hear forty?”

His pleading went on for a bit, but the harried auctioneer couldn’t get a nibble, which brought up questions in Emilia’s mind about what became of the slaves that weren’t sold. As untold horrors crept into her thoughts, an offer came at long last.

“Twenty-five, not a penny more.”

A brief pause followed before the auctioneer gave in with a grumble. “Sold, though I feel like you’ve picked my pocket at such a low price. Bring out the next.”

After that, things went faster as slave after slave was brought to the block. The hearty voice of the auctioneer grated on her nerves and hatred brewed in her chest each time he called “sold!” She imagined him silently counting his growing pile of coins as one by one innocent men and women were hawked, their freedom taken from them without care, so many that eventually she lost count.

She sat in hopeless misery wondering how long she had before she was dragged naked before the crowd. While breathing in the stale air and the scent of rancid hay, she tried to ignore the itch on her nose that she couldn’t scratch, since that was the least of her worries. Exhausted, she closed her eyes and tried to set her mind on more pleasant things like home and her family. Those thoughts, and the fear that she might never see her loved ones again, ended up making her desolation worse.

Hours later, when the flaps of the tent flipped open and metal jangled inside, she knew her group’s time had come. Her heart thumped wildly as someone moved past her, sending a rush of cool air across her skin. The clank of chains and a thud in the hay told her a manacle had been released.

“Come on, girl, time to go.”

A muffled cry came from beside her and the bench shifted as the man took the other girl away. Overwhelming anxiety overtook her as the crowd began to whistle and cheers of “red, red, red,” started outside.

“How lovely. Our first pleasure slave of the day and isn’t she a beauty,” the auctioneer cried.

Red suddenly made sense to her. At home, it was a harlot’s color. In Lancore, it was clearly the color assigned to a pleasure slave, what she would soon become. Panicked, she pulled at the restraints as she’d done a hundred times since she’d been taken. The binding cut into her already raw skin and as in all the other attempts, held firm. She was helpless, her situation hopeless as much as the woman now up for auction.

“Such long golden hair and bountiful tits…”

Emilia flinched, knowing without seeing from her whimpers and the raucous cheers and comments from the audience that she was being heartlessly displayed.

“Smooth, supple thighs and in between,” there was a leer in the auctioneer’s eager tone when he continued, “one of the tightest, sweetest cunts you’ll ever find!”

The image of the girl being roughly handled as her charms were peddled was forever imprinted on Emilia’s brain. She wondered if the blindfold would be removed while she was on the block. She didn’t think she could bear it, seeing the leering crowd and the men who made ribald comments.

They were doing worse than that now, hurling rude, vulgar questions at the auctioneer faster than he could answer.

“How old is she?” one man asked loudly.

“Where is she from?” called another.

“Is she pure?” demanded a third. “If I’m to pay a premium price, I’d insist on probing her cunt myself to ensure I’m not being rooked.”

“She is not more than twenty at best,” the vendor boomed. “And although she is not pure, she has never been with child, her slender hips will attest to that. Let’s start the bid at two hundred, shall we?”

“Two hundred,” came the first eager bid.

“Two twenty-five,” was the counter offer.

“Two fifty,” said yet another.

“Three hundred,” came a new determined voice and Emilia was shocked to hear it was a woman.

“You there, tavern keeper,” the obnoxious barker called, “what do you say? Three twenty-five? You wouldn’t let this fresh little tart go to the brothel for a mere twenty-five, would you?”

“Three twenty-five.” The eager man was back in the game.

“Four hundred,” countered a man; another soon topped it, and another after that. The bids were coming so fast now, she couldn’t keep up, until someone called, “Eight hundred silver!”

“Have her,” the other man shot back resignedly, “I’m out.”

“Do I hear eight twenty-five?” the man prodded. “You there, madame. Too rich for your blood? Surely this lovely little lass would make a fine addition to your stable of chamber girls, no?”

“I’ll wait for the next, let the zealous man over there have her,” came the feminine reply.

“Sold to the gentleman on the left for an even eight hundred!”

She broke into a cold sweat, knowing there were only two of them left. Although it only delayed what seemed inevitable, she hoped for a miracle and prayed she wouldn’t be next. What would be the next girl’s fate? Would the tavern keeper want her, and make her serve drunken men their ale while touching, pinching, and doing God only knew what else to her? Would the madame bid again and buy her to serve as one of her chamber girls? She could only imagine what that would entail.

A whimper escaped her throat and she jumped as something brushed her leg. “Easy there, red, we’re saving you for last.”

The bench rocked and the other crying, struggling girl was taken away. She could hear her choking down sobs as the man hauled her out. He was telling her not to cry or she wouldn’t bring a good price. When she continued, muffled yelps were followed by the unmistakable sound of skin striking skin.

“Oh, we have a feisty offering next. Surely this one has never known the bite of the whip.”

Whip? Her body jerked with alarm. Did he say whip?

“Strong little filly, she is, I say,” the auctioneer chuckled as he continued. “Who is up for subduing this wild raven-haired beauty?”

“Two hundred,” was the first eager bid.

“Two hundred? Are you joking? The untamed nature of this one is worth a starting bid of at least three hundred.”

“Three hundred,” called a new male voice over the murmurs.

“Ah, very good.”

“Three fifty,” growled the next bidder.

“Four hundred,” countered another man.

The bids came faster, shouted from a variety of men driving up the price. For Emilia, it was like being trapped in a horrifying nightmare that wouldn’t end. All she wanted was to go home.

Perhaps she was too sheltered and was naïve in the ways of the world, for this place and its people were nothing like she was used to. Certainly, they had rough men and vulgar talk, as well as taverns, and she heard rumors of a bawdy house some distance away, but never would an auction such as this take place, not in Melbourne, surely.

Never would innocents be sold, or be so abused, and she couldn’t fathom a man or woman ever having to pull another around in a cart like an animal. The thought of auctioneers peddling human beings like cattle, or of whippings as a source of entertainment, not to mention public nudity and inconceivable perversities, were beyond her wildest imaginings. The implausible stories she’d heard about Lancore, which she thought were overblown and exaggerated, were apparently true, all of them.

Tears drifted from under the thick black cloth of the blindfold and tracked their way down her cheeks as the cost of the poor soul up for bid became too dear and the frantic shouting slowed. The auctioneer didn’t give up quite yet, however.

“Are you going to let this one slip through your fingers too, man?” he cajoled. “It would be a shame to allow all her beauty to go to another. Imagine the new patrons she would draw to your tavern.”

“Six hundred,” the man she now identified as Bart the tavern keeper called out with a renewed eagerness in his voice.

“Think of how fun it will be to tame her spirit,” the auctioneer mused, tempting his audience further. “What price can you put on the look in a woman’s eye the moment you see her submit?”

“End the bidding and be done with it, man,” Bart demanded impatiently, clearly afraid someone would up the price yet again. A short burst of laughter erupted from the crowd.

“You’re good, Bart,” one of the other bidders hollered. “She’s a fine piece, though something tells me the best is yet to come.”

“Madame?” the auctioneer asked.

“I don’t need whores that need taming. I’ve got enough trouble.”

The crowd broke out in applause as the man ended it by shouting, “Sold! Congratulations, Bart. I envy you this one.” There was a round of ribald jests and a scuffling noise, including whimpers and muffled pleas of no. “Now comes what you’ve been waiting for, friends. Bring out the last of the lot.”

Her time had run out. It wouldn’t be long before some strange man, or debauched woman, took possession of her, probably with the intent to deflower her as quickly as possible. Emilia’s heart sank into the pit of her stomach and she began shaking fiercely as the rustle of footsteps signaled that her captor was near. It took only a moment to release her ankle cuff and shackle, then hard fingers took hold of her arm. She was led on bare feet through the prickly hay. When it gave way to thick grass, she knew she was outside. The crowd noise grew steadily louder and icy fear gnawed at her insides. She dug in her heels, frantically pulling at the grip that tightened painfully in reaction.

“You’ll make it worse for yourself if you resist, girl,” he threatened. It sounded muffled due to the erratic thud of her heart pounding in her ears and she couldn’t seem to get enough air. Her throat was dry and constricted, making it difficult to swallow, almost like the gag had slipped and lodged in her throat. Despite all this, she still mounted a struggle, futilely trying to break free.

She was dragged a few more steps before the man stopped. Her world turned on end the next moment and she screamed into the gag as he lifted her. Beyond terrified, she kicked and squirmed in his arms, but still, he moved forward. He took her up some steps, his boots thudding loudly on the treads before depositing her on her feet. Other hard hands grabbed her, holding her in place as she listened to the dull thump of his steps retreating.

“And here is what I promised,” the auctioneer boomed suddenly in her ear, making her jump. “Yet another spirited one that will be a pleasure to tame.”

His hands fell to her shoulders, though he stayed near, so close that his body brushed against her. She was assailed by the stench of sweat and the hot odor of ale on his breath. She grimaced, trying to pull away, when the sharp crack of two searing blows echoed in the heavy air as something, a lash perhaps, connected with her backside.

The crowd erupted in cheers as she squealed in surprise.

“Be still or there’ll be more of that, beauty,” the auctioneer droned low.

She froze, the stinging heat on her bottom having captured her attention fully. Not daring to risk the whipping he spoke of earlier, she did as she was told and stood still.

“Good girl,” he said quietly. “Now, I’m going to remove the blindfold and let the bidders see your lovely face. A word of warning, it will be bright after being in the dark so long.”

The black cloth fell away. Hues of pink and gold prickled behind her eyelids as the man offered her up to the hungry clamoring crowd. Even with her eyes clamped shut, she knew they stared at her, feeling their desirous eyes on her bare skin. She could picture their leering expressions. In her mind, they were a lustful, depraved, salivating horde and nothing she ever wanted to see. Perhaps if she kept her eyes closed, she wouldn’t ever have to know which smirking face belonged to the man they called Bart, the madame, or any of the other corrupt men who preyed on helpless innocents such as herself and the many unfortunates who had gone before her.