Alice: Slave at the Marketplace Page 2

  We don’t have to wait very long, thank goodness.

  There is a lot of activity going on outside the tents. More voices. More laughter. More trooping feet. It is as if someone has opened the floodgates and let the customers in.

  I can hear them outside, asking questions about the cakes. I have expected most of the visitors to be English, but to my surprise, I hear a mixture of accents – as if the clientele to this exclusive marketplace has come from all corners of the Earth: English, American, French, German, Italian, Chinese.

  There are both male and female voices of all ages.

  “These cakes look positively scrumptious. But the prices are ridiculous.”

  “That’s because they are made from human milk, Madam. The butter used here is churned from human milk from our very own ‘cows’.”

  “Human milk is far creamier than cow’s milk, Mildred. That is why the cakes are so pricy.”

  “Can we just have a little taste to decide if we would like it before we purchase it?”

  “What’s inside the tent, young lady?”

  I tense.

  “Sir, if you would like a taste of the icing and the milk itself, our ‘cows’ are inside for you to sample.”

  “And there would be a prohibitive fee, of course?”

  “Certainly, sir, though I would not call the fee ‘prohibitive’. Two hundred dollars is very fair game for a generous sampling.”

  “Sir, I would add that the sampling will have to take place within twenty minutes to allow everyone ample time to enjoy the merchandise.”

  There apparently are plenty of takers, because after all the questions bantering back and forth, there are voices saying:

  “Thank you, sir, for your kind contribution. If you may step right in and choose a booth. Only the ones that are open are available to you.”

  I can hear footsteps coming into the tent. My engorged breasts strain in their woody confines. Someone comes into my booth. The curtains are drawn.

  “Mmmmm.”

  I can hear a man’s voice sighing on the other side of me as he takes in my icing-covered breasts. I wonder what designs have been drawn onto mine. Would my tits be decorated like one of those round plump cakes I see on the display shelves of bakeries?

  A wet tongue immediately begins to slather my breasts, starting from my right nipple. It trails around my areolas and makes lines upon my iced flesh. It licks the cream off from my right breast copiously. A thrill of pleasure courses through my legs. My nipples are extremely sensitive.

  A hot mouth seals itself around my right nipple and suckles me. I feel the spurt of my milk – so pent up within the confines of my mounds – into that warm orifice. Tendrils of pleasure immediately run all over my breasts from my nipples, even from the one which is currently not being suckled. My pussy goes moist despite my otherwise discomfort.

  I rotate my wrists in my shackles and bunch my fists.

  The unseen mouth sucks harder, and I hear similar suckling noises and moans of pleasure from the other booths.

  My milk flows and flows, molten honey that turns my loins into mush. A moan escapes my lips as my sweet liquid continues to gush. With each suck upon my nipple, I can feel my vagina contracting. He empties my right teat of its milk before I am even aware that his mouth has latched onto my left nipple. Providing he is a ‘he’, of course. So far, I have no clue of my drinker’s gender.

  Once again, he licks my left breast copiously and strips it of its icing. I must be delicious because I can hear slurping noises from him. Then he starts on my left nipple, and I can feel the pull of my milk again – like a taut string connected straight to my groin.

  My pussy combusts with the tug, and my milk once again geysers into his mouth.

  I hope he’s getting his money’s worth.

  My milk once again empties itself into his greedily suckling mouth. Spasms of satisfaction find refuge in my erogenous zones. My brain is filled with endorphins and other hormones. I am on a complete high, as though I am floating on a delirious cloud.

  I never knew being suckled could be such a pleasurable activity until I came to the farm.

  He sucks my left breast until I am dry once again. I hear the sound of the curtain being opened, and a voice saying: “Sir, your time is up.”

  “Why, thank you,” says a crisp English voice.

  Two large and warm hands squeeze my tits as a parting shot and footsteps pad away.

  I am left all alone, spent and weary, until Samuel comes to unchain me and lead me away.

  3

  “Where am I going next?” I say as Samuel sponges my tits off with a cloth and warm water.

  He winks. “You’ll see.”

  Back at the milk factory, another batch of ‘cows’ take over from us. Samuel removes my tail, puts a red cloak around my shoulders, and commandeers me out of the tent. Outside, many customers are milling around, inspecting the wares on display. They are dressed casually, and – as I suspected from their voices – of every age, gender and nationality.

  “The hens are in need of a little help,” Samuel says.

  “Hens?” I wrinkle my nose as I pull the cloak tighter around me. A couple of the customers avert their heads to favor me with interested stares.

  “Yes.” Samuel looks at me up and down. “I can see you’re enjoying yourself.”

  Gad, does it show?

  “I’m not,” I reply, pretending to be miffed he would think that.

  He grins.

  “You still have a little chip on your shoulder, don’t you? Once you give in to your fate – or rather, the fate Master Gabriel has planned for you – you will not fight everything so much.”

  He walks fast, and I have to patter after him on my bare feet.

  “I’m not fighting,” I argue.

  “But you are. You’re fighting us every step of the way. You’re not a natural submissive.”

  “Oh, you noticed.”

  He turns back to me. “Master Gabriel will beat it out of you. Just you wait.”

  A frisson of fear runs down my spine. Beat me? Is that what they would do to me to make me a submissive? To render me into a quivering little jelly of a female, subject to men’s whims?

  Never!

  I am only going along with all this because I plan to use Gabriel to seek revenge on my father. I am playing along – just giving them what they want to see and hear.

  We arrive at another tent. This is a green one with gaudy purple stars all over it. Samuel goes to the back, avoiding the customers who are all converging on the front stalls, but not before I get a glimpse of the merchandise on display. Here, beautifully painted eggs are being sold. The designs are intricate and boast blazing colors, patterns and even scenes.

  Alongside the eggs, a variety of foodstuff is being sold. There are gleaming puff pastries and what the English term as Cornish pasties, I believe. There are pies of different sorts.

  “These are all made of eggs incubated by our very own hens,” I hear the girl at the stall saying to a cluster of customers.

  “Come along,” Samuel says. “You don’t want to miss the Easter egg hunt.”

  He holds open a flap for me and I enter the tent through the back.

  “But it isn’t Easter,” I protest lamely.

  “It is when we want it to be.”

  Inside, the entire area is designed to resemble a garden. OK, an artificial garden, complete with toadstools and green plants and little fountains trickling silver water. A crazy paving path weaves through the ordered greenery. There are bushes and ferns and trees and flowers of all colors and makeup. A pair of speakers blare the sounds of birdsong into the air.

  The girls are all being prepped by their minders. I don’t really know any of the ‘hens’, since we don’t mingle, but I recognize some of the ‘rabbits’ here. So we are truly being rotated. The girls are naked of all accoutrements now, even their tails.

  The farmhands are busy trying to make them part of the scenery. That’s the best
I can describe it. One girl’s pussy is being stuck with huge petals to make her part of the flowers. Another girl’s pussy is being decorated with leaves. One girl is being prostrated over a toadstool so that her ass juts out high in the air.

  “Here,” Samuel says, stopping at a cart full of gaily painted eggs. “Crouch on all fours on the ground.”

  “Why?” I demand.

  “You need to work on your natural submissiveness,” he replies, grinning. “You wouldn’t want me to wave a cattle prod around, do you?”

  Uh, I guess not. So I dutifully get on all fours. The ground is a green padded carpet, lush with turf grass. Lush, moist smells permeate the entire tent, whose ceiling is bedecked with hanging artificial birds. The whole thing reminds me of a miniature golf track. Roving cameras are mounted everywhere, surveying the area like vigilant sentinels.

  Samuel picks up two Easter eggs from the cart and inserts them one after the other into my vagina.

  “These are real eggs, hard-boiled, so don’t squeeze them too hard or they will crack,” he warns.

  The eggs are large ones – oval, firm and cool as they slide into my pussy. They are larger in diameter than the average cock, and my vaginal tunnel has to stretch to accommodate them. They feel like solid balls in my pussy.

  “Now we are going to make you part of the décor,” Samuel says.

  “Am I going to be a flower?” I say sarcastically.

  “No, you’re going to be an Easter surprise.” He motions to a bush. “Get behind there.”

  How surprising can a bush be? I get up.

  “No, don’t straighten yourself,” Samuel cautions. “The eggs might slide out. Just walk on your hands and knees and follow me.”

  It is an uncomfortable exercise, but I trudge after him on all fours to round the bush. I spy at least two Easter eggs perched in between the branches. At least the verdant carpet grass is soft.

  A stone table awaits me behind the bush. Four Easter eggs nestle at the foot of it.

  “Climb on that and lie on your back. Spread your legs.”

  I do so, spreading my thighs for him to see. Samuel gazes at my enticing pussy, noting the bottom half of the blue and green speckled egg that must have been showing at its aperture.

  “Stone surprise?” I say drily.

  He guffaws. “I find your sense of humor refreshing, though I can’t say the Mistresses will. That will earn you a cuff from Karen, for sure.”

  Another woman comes in. I recognize her as one of the harried staff putting decorative touches on the girls out there. She carries a small tray of pastries and little jars filled with what I presume is foodstuff.

  “Busy morning, Stephanie?” Samuel inquires.

  “Like the pits,” Stephanie grumbles. “The johns misbehaved and tried to mount the rabbits. We made it very clear that this Easter Egg hunt is not a mounting exercise. That is for the other attractions.”

  Stephanie peruses my pussy and nods approvingly.

  “Still tight, this one. Stay still,” she orders me.

  She squats between my legs and busies herself with the tray of pies. The pies are small – about three inches in diameter – and they emit an aroma of freshly baked crust. Stephanie displays a knife, and my heart stops.

  “Relax,” Samuel tells me. “It’s for the pie.”

  Stephanie makes a few deft cuts into the bottom of one of the pies, and places it upon the shoal of my pussy. The manipulated crust embeds itself in between my labia and clit. Shuddering sensations emit from my clit as the pastry kneads and squeezes it.

  Stephanie pats the pie into place and ensures it is well balanced.

  “If you do anything to make it fall off, I’ll stick an electric prod up your ass,” she threatens me.

  Nice manners, these.

  Samuel takes in my look of alarm.

  “Relax,” he says. “Steph just woke up on the wrong side of somebody else’s bed this morning.”

  “You bet I did. One of the horses . . . what’s his name? Caleb? Cain? He has a cock like a bull. I’m still sore from all that pounding.”

  Steph stands up and admires her handiwork.

  “Nice. I’ll bet you had a go at that pussy, Sam.”

  “Sweet and tight, as expected.”

  “Yeah, I can see she’s got you curled around her little finger. You’ve got to stop fraternizing with the farm animals or they’ll cut your bleeding heart right out of you.” To me, she hisses, “Don’t move.”

  Then she strides away.

  Samuel says, “Stay right here, Alice. Easter Egg hunt is about to begin.”

  He makes to move away, but I call out to him, my breasts heaving, “Wait! What’s going to happen to me?”

  He pauses at the side of the bush. “I’m not supposed to fraternize with you, remember?”

  He laughs and leaves me all alone to my wild imagination.

  4

  The loudspeakers sound even before I have time to adjust my expectations.

  “Welcome, welcome to all you treasure hunters!” says a disembodied female voice with a clipped English accent. “Just look around, take in the glorious sights, indulge your senses and enjoy. Remember, you are only allowed to use your hands and your mouths. No penetration of any of the girls’ genitalia by any instruments, including your penises, is allowed.”

  There is a rush of footsteps into the tent.

  No penetration? Now I understand Stephanie’s remark.

  The voice on the loudspeaker continues:

  “During your Easter egg hunt, there is one egg in particular you will be looking for. But you won’t be able to recognize it from the outside. In that egg, a surprise inside awaits you. All eggs must be brought back to the podium and we will have to crack each one to find the surprise.”

  My heart skips a beat. I wonder if any of the eggs rolling inside of me contain the surprise they are speaking of. Does it mean I am special?

  “If you encounter any edible barriers to the eggs, you would have to consume the entire pastry. Failure to do so will lead to forfeit of five eggs. The first contestant to collect the most eggs through these barriers wins a prize, and the contestant who finds the special egg will be given a special treat.”

  There is a murmur which runs at the other side of the tent, as if all the contestants are poised and ready.

  “In twenty minutes, we will ring the bell for you to stop collecting eggs. So we’d best get going. Are you ready?”

  There is a collective manly chorus of “YES!”

  “Are you truly ready?”

  “YES!”

  “Well then, contestants. On your marks, get set, go!”

  A scuffle of shoes ensues.

  I wait, all my muscles on red alert. I wonder how long it would take for someone to find me. Exclamations of surprise and pleasure punctuate the air closer to the entrance, indicating that some of the girls have already been ‘found’.

  I do not have to wait long, apparently.

  A man comes around the bush. He is naked but for a thong which delineates his erection. He is in his thirties, I suppose. Raven-haired. Barrel-chested. Stocky. He carries a basket with a dozen eggs rolling within it. His left bicep is adorned with a black elastic armband which displays the number ‘5’.

  His eyes light up as he sees my proffered pussy, all covered in its pie.

  “Ah, delicious!” he proclaims. “Would you be the surprise now?”

  I am wondering that myself. I smile up at him to encourage him.

  He kneels down between my legs, just as Stephanie has done.

  “Now what do we have here?”

  I wonder if I am allowed to speak to the contestants. I decide I don’t care.

  “Eggs,” I reply sassily.

  He smiles at me. “A chipper, aren’t you?” He has a decidedly Australian accent. “Now let’s see. I have to finish my pie like a good boy, don’t I now?”

  I smile at him again. He lowers his mouth to my crust-covered pussy and starts to eat it. I
don’t know what’s inside the pie, and I think of asking him, but he is so absorbed in nibbling and biting and chewing and slurping that I don’t want to disturb him.

  His tongue and teeth soon reach my clit and labia. He grazes my erotic bits with his teeth, and I gasp.

  He looks up. “I’d love to eat all of you, but I have to be getting to the eggs.”

  “So take them,” I say.

  His fingers delve into my pussy and nudge the outermost egg.

  “Tight fit,” he observes.

  “Suck them out,” I urge him.

  “Good idea.” He gazes at me with new light.

  He opens his mouth and places it on my vulva this time, and sucks. His cheeks hollow as he makes a slurping sound. I can feel the eggs being suctioned out of my passage. It is a strange sensation, akin to a string of sex beads being pulled out.

  He takes out the first egg from his mouth and shows it to me.

  “Are you the surprise?”

  I shake my head lightly. “I wouldn’t know.”

  He sucks the other egg out in the same manner.

  “I would love to get to know you better,” he says regretfully, “but I have a contest to win.”

  “Go win it,” I say.

  Smiling, he puts the two eggs from my pussy into the basket and scoops up the other ones by the base of the rock.

  “Bye,” he says, and vanishes around the bush.

  It is all I can do but wait till the entire hunt is finished. The loudspeakers keep us abreast of the happenings.

  “And Contestant 13 is racing ahead. Our spies tell us he has collected twenty-one eggs already and is racing to get more!”

  “Now Contestant 21 is a true challenger! He has amassed thirty eggs and he’s seeking that special one that will make a difference. But can Contestant 5 be a dark horse in this hunt? He has just discovered a secret cache of fifteen eggs all in one place!”

  Number Five! My Australian suitor!

  A couple of other contestants stumble upon me in my little hideaway, noting the crumbs left on my pussy.