Item #7 had been a part of the market once again for just over a week now, though it was not her first time. She had spent as long as she could remember here, though for different reasons. As a small girl, she had been sold as a companion for the children of free citizens, or even bought for the odd manual labors where smaller frames were necessary. That was the last time she remembered having a name that was not a number: Elilah. Given to her by a woman that acted as her mother, whether she truly was or not, until she was finally purchased and the two were separated.
She had been given many numbers before, and she could still remember every one. The last time #7 was here, before being sold to that middle aged man to warm his bed, she had been #12.
She had tended to her previous master’s every desire for three years until he had a fatal heart attack, and his next of kin sold her back to the market as they dolled out the rest of his estate. It was what she had been dreading. While she did have to tend to her master’s carnal needs, she had been fed-well and comfortable. A privilege for any slave, she was well aware. Now, those luxuries had been ripped away, and #7 was left to the mercy of fate once again.
Xxx
The day seemingly had no end. The sun beat down relentlessly upon the earth, turning the stone floor of the pavilion into a painful heating plate, and the shade of the tents or the few trees into invaluable real estate for patrons.
7 felt a bead of sweat trickle down her back. How it tickled, but she couldn’t possibly reach it. Her merchant had bound her arms behind her, forearms stacked on each other, hands at the opposite elbow. She kneeled on an elevated platform, shortly chained by the rounded iron collar around her neck to the anchor beneath her. Her shoulders, back and knees ached from the rigid position, and never seemed to get used to it, regardless of how many days she endured it.
Mercifully, her merchant had tied her beneath the tent belonging to the stall. A brutish man, but smart enough to know that sunburnt slaves who can’t move from the pain do not fetch pretty prices.
She would have no protection from that great light of the gods, otherwise. Slaves must be naked when on display, as to give potential buyers an up-close and honest show of what they are purchasing.
7’s thoughts of what might become of her were broken by the sight of a man entering the stall from the corner of her eye. Potential buyers came and went constantly, yes; some even with a new slave in tow…but…something felt off about this man. Even now, she could see something in the way he walked. Not casually, but with a purpose. Deliberate…he knew exactly where he was and why he was here.
Careful to keep her eyes low, 7 did her best to examine the man. Average height, muscular build, close cropped blonde hair. He wore a black t-shirt, faded blue jeans and engineer boots. She couldn’t make out any facial features from here, though.
Nervously, 7 waited as this man slowly worked his way around the perimeter of the stall, examining each slave available for purchase. Today there were four other slaves on display besides her; two more female and two male. Each chained in their own position to increase intrigue. Though there were male and female products in this tent and males typically were used for manual labor, all here were pleasure slaves; intended to be sold to brothels, adult filmmakers or the occasional eccentric private owner. Who was this man looking to buy for?
Her muscles tensed as this man finally arrived at her station. The soreness of her body, the stuffy heat of the day’s weather, the constant noise from beyond the tent, all instantly disappearing. Of course, the man couldn’t really DO anything to her. Not yet anyway. She only belonged to her vendor until she was purchased. Visual inspection and some investigative touching was all the market allowed in terms of slaves that were for sale.
Nevertheless, 7 felt the man’s eyes on her. For an unnerving length of time he stood there…staring. As tempted as she was, she knew better than to look this stranger in the eyes. To do so would require ‘correcting’ by her vendor after hours, and he would take that job *very* seriously.
Suddenly his hand reached out to grab her breast, and she fought the reflex of flinching down to a microscopic twitch.
The stranger’s large, cold hand squeezed her left tit, feeling it’s heft and firmness, before deftly checking the other.
“Spread your thighs,” he finally said. The voice that came from him was deep, and business-like.
7 was too focused on processing his sound, and the order itself to execute it. An instant too slow for the man’s liking, and in response she felt a sudden and stinging slap to her right breast. The gasp and whimper that came from her was pure, and not practiced like how vendors taught products to react in order to entice buyers.
Obediently, she turned her knees wide apart to allow the man full access to her rose petals. He wasted no time, grabbing her thighs and using his thumbs to spread her sex even wider to his prying eyes.
7 felt her cheeks and chest begin to burn, regardless of the smack and summer heat. Being examined was always embarrassing and nerve-wracking to her. What was he looking for? What would he want to see?
Finally, the stranger seemed satisfied. He did not leave the stall, he did not ask her any questions; he only walked to the counter where the vendor was perched behind the register and said he would “like buy Item Number 7”.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/yutm0o/pain_doll_the_harrowing_tales_of_7_part_1