The rough, heavy chain was pulled between her legs and fastened to the back of the iron collar already locked around her neck. As it came down it was locked to the iron shackles holding her wrists behind her back. The process would repeat with whichever slave girl they brought behind her until the coffle was complete. Her ankles also bore iron shackles but they were not connected. It would be a short, brisk march and hobble chains would have been a nuisance.

She wore nothing besides the restraints. All slaves were usually kept naked, especially those headed for auction. It was a clear, windless day and the sun felt good on her bare skin. The worn-smooth wood of the dock was warm under her feet. The air smelled clean; she had almost forgotten what fresh air was like.

“Ready, whores! March!”

The overseer took the lead chain and smacked the first girl hard on her hip with her crop. She jolted forward and the rest of them followed down the dock. She was the shortest of them and almost the youngest, and she had to walk quickly to keep up as they made their way to the quayside.

Their chains rattled and their feet thumped, mixing with all the other sounds of women in forced labour. Grunts of effort, the creak of winches, snarls of frustration, barked orders, the crack of whips and yelps of pain. Female slaves strained, naked bodies slick with sweat, as they moved crates, unloaded baskets and hauled ropes, all in chains and under the watchful eyes of the overseers with their ever-goading whips.

Her ginger hair was unkempt and shaggy and kept falling in front of her eyes. She shook her head and wished her hands were free to keep it away. A high scream cut through the hubbub and she saw its source to one side, not too far away. An overseer was punishing a bound slave.

The unfortunate victim was face down, bent over a rail, tiptoed feet bound together at a single ring in the ground. Her arms were pulled in front of her and tied off, keeping her body taut. Her skin was dark as mahogany, but from knees to hips she bore many bright welts of angry pink, purple and red. She tossed her shaved head and wailed, to no avail.

Suddenly the ginger slave was yanked forward as the chain pulled taut against her crotch, mashing between her buttocks and scraping her sensitive places as well as yanking her collar. She turned her eyes from the dreadful beating and picked up her pace, but not before the crop slashed against the back of her thigh.

She kept her head down and her eyes on the ground for the rest of the journey, not bothering to shake her hair away, simply keeping her pace up. It wasn’t a long walk, but her feet ached and she was short of breath when they arrived at the warehouse entry. Each girl had a short hobble chain locked to her ankle shackles before being disconnected from the coffle. As each girl was separated, they were selected to be taken to various holding areas.

“Labour. Labour. Domestic. Labour. Big jugs, whorehouse for her.”

The main sorter pulled the redheaded slave’s hair back and gave her a hard look before beckoning another woman over.

“A bit skinny, but short and flat’s doing well these days. Personal?”

“Hmm, maybe. Cunt, are you virgin? Still got your maidenhead”

Too nervous to speak, the slave tried to nod but the hand in her hair made that difficult. The other woman stepped up and slapped the girl’s face, making her squeak from the shock.

“Yes M’am. Or No Ma’am. Stupid slave girls should always show respect! Got it?”

The slave swallowed as she looked up at the two unsmiling faces.

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Now, again, are you a virgin?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

The second worker grabbed her by the arm and hustled her away; she had to trot as fast as she could just to keep up and not fall over thanks to her short legs and the ankle chain. She was led to a barred gate where a third woman looked her over.

“Are you sure?”

“Says she’s still maiden and I think she’s pretty enough under all that grime. She’ll scrub up. Besides, you know they’re buying them young these days.”

“Fair enough. I’d have ‘em young too if I could. I’ll throw her back if she’s been had, mind.”

“If she’s lied it’ll be the docks for her. But if it’s true, she’s not for the likes of you and me. Tell you what though, fancy going by the whore stock after shift’s over? Maybe that chubby raven-haired one’ll still be there. Best lick of my snatch I’ve had in weeks, she was.”

“You’re not wrong about that. I’ll find you later. Now, scrawny, inside here.”

The keeper led the slave girl to a waiting area, made her sit down and locked her collar to a low post. The floor was stone covered with straw, itchy, cold and uncomfortable, but it was a relief to be off her feet.

“The scrubbers’ll come get you. Keep quiet or I’ll come back and shut you up myself.”

She was alone and the place was quiet, the first time in forever that she hadn’t been surrounded by hubbub. She didn’t relax - slaves never relaxed - but she knew it was a good sign that they’d brought her here. Working the docks would be unbearable.

Two women came to fetch her, one short and plump, the other taller and pinched, both red faced and of middle years. They were friendly but firm with her as they led her down a passage and into a bright, steamy room.

“C’mon missy, we’ve got other girls to do, so no dawdling or trouble. First things first, I’ll make sure you didn’t lie.”

The taller woman wormed her hand between the young slave’s legs and carefully tested the entrance to her cunt. When she found the flap of flesh still intact inside she nodded to her partner.

“Lucky girl. Arms out to your sides.”

They placed a long, straight wooden bar across her shoulders and attached it to the back of her collar. Her wrist shackles were locked to the ends of the bar so that she could not touch or cover any part of herself.

The women led the slave to a round pit with two round stone posts about a shoulder width apart and told her to step onto the posts. It was awkward with the long bar and the hobble chain, but she managed. The shorter, fatter woman pushed her shoulder and made her squat.

“Piss and shit now if you can, you won’t get another chance until you’re sold. Mess yourself during the auction and you’ll regret it. And don’t take all day,.”

The redhead felt her cheeks burn as she tried to do her business. She was surprised there was anything left she could feel ashamed about after all she’d suffered. When she was done they pulled her upright and attached chains to each end of the bar, making sure to shorten them enough that she had to stand with her legs straight.

“I’ll start on your insides, then we’ll wash your head. After that I’ll let the water out and we’ll scrub the rest of you. I won’t hear no crying, or I’ll stuff your mouth. Clear?”

The girl had no idea what they meant by ‘insides’, but she nodded and then remembered. “Yes, Ma’am”.

A thick finger pushed at her bottom bud and she flinched instinctively although she had nowhere to get away. A quick smear of grease and the finger pushed passed her ring and into her back passage, adding to her dismay.

“There, don’t hurt no-one, does it? Now for the nozzle.”

The finger slipped out of her as quickly as it had gone in, but before she had time to react she felt something much harder and larger being forced into her. She hissed with pain as her arse hole stretched wide, wider and wider still before the thing slid into place and her muscle clenched around the nozzle’s stem.

Warm liquid began to gush into her bowels in a further indignity. She gave a whine of protest and squeezed her arse, but the thing was firmly embedded and she could not stop the flow. The slave felt her innards tighten as water filled them and then her stomach twisted as the first cramps came. She squirmed on the balls of her feet, rolling her hips, but she couldn’t escape the pain.

The washer women were thorough but brusque; they used water hot enough to make her gasp as they attacked her hair and scrubbed her face. They dragged a comb through her hair until the knots were gone - almost as painful as her intestinal distress - and cut it to a fringed bob. The pink and orange glowed in contrast to her grimy body.

“Time to let it loose. Down you go!”

They slackened the bar chains and pushed her down to squat once more. The nozzle was yanked out, prompting a yelp from the slave girl as her arse hole was popped open yet again, and she gushed the nasty water into the pit.

“Squeeze hard, get as much out as you can. Don’t want it oozing down your leg when someone well-to-do’s deciding what you’re worth.”

They stood her up again and set to her body with lye soap and bristled brushes before rinsing her with very hot water, treating her like a piece of meat. Every inch of her was tender and even pinker than her face when they were done. One of them soaped her armpits, her privates and her legs and the other carefully ran a wicked-looking razor over her mound, across her pits and up and down her slender legs. There’d been little hair on her body to begin with, but her skin was smooth as silk when they finished. For the last thing, they rubbed her from head to foot with oil, leaving her glowing and lightly fragrant. It was the cleanest she’d ever been.

They locked her hands behind her back with a short chain after they unfastened the bar. A guard was waiting as they led her out through a different door. The guard looked the slave up and down and nodded.

“She came up nicely even if she is just a slip of a thing. Still maiden? Wish I had that kind of money.”

“Still shut tight, although I’ve no idea how she kept it on a slave ship. P’raps they thought she’d break in half.”

The guard clicked a short chain onto the now-shorn redhead’s collar and led her off. They wound their way up and along, up and along until they’d climbed four or five flights of stairs and the girl’s feet were beginning to ache again as she trotted to keep up. They’d come to a nicer part of the castle, wooden floors and paneled walls, when they stopped at a heavy door.

The guard knocked and a panel slid open. She pushed the girl forward, better to be seen. “Delivery.”

With a rattle and thud the door swung open and the slave was ushered through to a small chamber. The handler inside took her leash and waved the guard off before closing the door. Only once the first door was barred and locked did the handler open the door in the opposite wall. Beyond that door was the most opulent room the girl had seen in her short life.

A finely-dressed handler took the slave into the auction room and the inner chamber door swung shut. The burgundy carpet felt soft as a meadow under her feet and natural light streamed in from stained glass windows set high in the walls. A dozen ornate armchairs formed a semicircle around a podium and hitching post, but she was led to a row of cubicles on the far side of the room.

There were six cubicles and four of them had a light curtain drawn across their entrance, but the redhead was placed in one of the other two. The handler locked her collar to the wall with a short chain and attached her wrists to a longer chain above her head. Her right ankle was locked to a floor ring with a very short chain, but her left ankle was left free. She had enough freedom to stand, sit and turn around, but not enough to leave the booth.

The curtain was kept closed, but the handler returned from time to time, always with another person; buyers come to inspect the stock. She was appraised in many ways, from having her teeth checked, her buttocks squeezed, her thighs pinched, squatting with her knees spread wide, standing on tiptoe, a hand at her throat, fingers inside her mouth, fingers inside her arse hole, fingers between her legs, even fingertips at the entrance to her cunt - the handler warning that particular buyer, “Break it, you owe us full rate plus a damage fee, so be gentle!” - and hands exploring every inch of her from toes to scalp. No-one talked to her at all, much less asked her a question.

Of the cavalcade, two stood out. A man in his prime years who moved like a warrior and whose eyes were always searching. She could tell he was lean and muscled beneath his rich, heavy clothes. The other was a woman, older than the fighter, maybe in her late forties by the creases at her mouth and eyes and the fineness of her dark hair. She was short and birdlike, but with firm hands and a stare that allowed no dissent. Her long black dress only made her more imposing. Both spent plenty of time looking at her; the other customers spent more time touching. She felt unnerved to be appraised like that, but it was nice to feel she might be of value to them.

Her curtain was opened and she could see that every chair was occupied, the warrior and the bird among them. Most had already come to inspect her, but there were at least three who had not. The buyers varied in temperament, some animated, some quiet, some impatient, some preoccupied.

Two slaves were already on display. One, a short and curvy girl with olive skin and dark eyes, knelt by the post, arms behind her back and knees apart, locked in place by her collar and wrist cuffs. The other, blonde haired, lean and long-limbed by contrast, had a long chain from her neck to the top of the post and one ankle locked to a ring in the floor.

This latter girl was ordered to turn to and fro, bend over, arch her back and so on, displaying her tanned flesh and small breasts to the buyers. Bidding was brisk and she sold quickly, to a portly older man.

The blonde was hustled away and the other girl replaced her, in turn being replaced by a coal-black skinny little thing with a shaved head. She hung her head as she waited to be sold.

Meanwhile, the dusky girl was being obstinate, refusing to spread her legs. A handler delivered loud blows with a long-handled crop until the child’s squealing protests gave way to sulky compliance. Despite her defiance, she went for more than the blonde and to the same bidder.

The buyers showed less interest in the black girl, whose age was given as ten years and who stared at the floor whenever possible. While she went for a fair sum it was the lowest yet, to a scowling man in simple clothes. He had been the losing bidder on the blonde.

They unlocked the redhead and hauled her to the hitching post as the next girl - a brunette with teats so huge they were completely out of proportion with her tiny frame - was prepared for sale. The redhead went obediently; she’d seen what happened to the other girl and she’d felt the crop’s sting on her own skin often enough. They pushed her down and she opened her legs to show off her snatch as they fastened the locks.

She had plenty of time to watch the bidders as a three way tussle played out for the top-heavy twelve year old. The warrior and the scowler were two of those, joined by an animated woman who seemed to be relishing the bidding war. It was the woman that won, paying a good sight more than even the olive-skinned child had fetched. A number of them spent the time watching her, which was unnerving. The redhead thought that at least a couple of them had not bid on any of the other girls.

The auctioneer helped swap her chains as they readied her for sale. She could see them bring the next girl, another blonde, shorter than her and covered with beautiful tattoos, but then she was being ordered into this pose and that pose and had to pay attention.

“And next, a lovely ginger girl. Eleven years old, a lithe body and an angel’s face, look at her! And she’s a rare one, still has her maidenhead, virgin as the day she was born. Any of you could be the first to take that prize!”

The auctioneer worked his patter and the redhead did as she was told, bending over and spreading her arse cheeks, arching her back to show off the bumps where her tits would grow, even putting her hands to her quim to spread her lower lips when bidden.

The bidding was almost riotous, impossible for her to keep up with. The auctioneer managed the crowd while still giving her commands; smile, crouch, spread. The first big battle seemed to be between the scowler, a heavy-jowled ruddy man, and someone who had not even visited her - a cadaverous man in a priest collar. They ran her price up, blowing past even the brunette in short order.

Then the warrior stepped into the fray, casually trumping all three of them. The priest tussled with him for two or three rounds, then fell silent like the other two. It seemed she might be sold to him, but the portly fellow placed a bid at the last moment and the action came alive once more.

Her price rose and rose and she thought everyone had bid on her, save one; the birdlike woman. The bidding faltered once more and it seemed the warrior would claim her, but then the woman offered a huge sum for her, easily beating his bid. She saw him grimace, but bid he again only to be raised again.

The warrior threw up his hands and called, exasperated, “Enough Helena, you can have her. Damn you and your deep pockets!”

The bird lady smiled but said nothing. The auctioneer banged his gavel and she knew who’d she belong to once the money changed hands. The handlers swapped her for the tattooed girl; she marveled at how intricate and continuous the ink was and wondered how long it must have taken - and how much it might have hurt.

They took her to off set to changing her irons. The heavy collar came off first. She’d worn it so long that to be without it felt so light and strange. They replaced it with an elegant, polished ring of steel with an invisible fastening. Her new mistress arrived while they were swapping her ankle shackles for ones to match the collar, with a bright hobble chain between them; she had no doubt it would be too strong to snap despite its delicate look.

“My newest acquisition. You’ll call me Mistress, always. Do you have a name?”

It was the first time she had spoken directly to the redhead.

“Catherine, if it please you Mistress.”

“It does not. Never speak it again. You’re Sally now. Sally-slave, Sally-slut. Tell me your name.”

“It’s Sally, Mistress.”

“Good girl. Be obedient and willing and I won’t need to punish you.”

She turned her attention to the chief handler.

“Have her sealed and keep her on her own - not with my other purchases. I’ll be back later to collect them both.”

“The usual cross wire style, Madam?”

“Of course. She should fit five rings each side if you space them closely.”

With that, Catherine-now-Sally’s Mistress was gone. The handlers joined her wrists behind her and led her away on a chain leash as the girl wondered what the instructions meant and where she was being taken next. There had been so much here-and-there already today and none of it what she’d expected.

They brought her to another room, a place that somehow felt sinister to Sally. She was pushed on her back onto a wide, padded bench. They strapped her down, leather bands across her stomach, her chest, crossed from armpit to shoulder, above her elbows, her wrists, high on her thighs to spread them painfully wide, as far as they could go, above and below her knees, around each ankle and finally across her forehead, pressing her head deep into the padding.

She couldn’t turn her head, but she felt them at her sex, swabbing her nether lips and mound and inner thighs with something cold and pungent, carefully exploring her. It tickled but her bonds did not even let her flinch.

A new man appeared, an older fellow with a kindly face and simple clothes. He looked down at her and spoke.

“I won’t lie, this is going to be painful. Ten piercings, a ring in each. Then I’ll fix the seal over your puss. Cry out if you need, but try not to be too loud; it won’t make me go any faster.”

Sally felt him tugging down there, then a sharpness, then white pain flooding from her cunt lip. Pain followed by pain, a stab and then a twist and some sort of pressure. The whole thing repeated on her other side, then back to the first lip.

She hissed and grunted as her rings were fitted, left to right, working further up for each pair. Despite his skill, it seemed to take forever and Sally’s world had dissolved into hot agony, her most sensitive place alive with fire. The leather straps left no way to jerk herself away from his awful work.

“That’s ten. Well borne, girlie. Shiny rings clamped tight. They’d have to be cut off to be got out, which no-one ever will. You’ll be sore between your legs for a week, maybe two, but if you keep it very clean it’ll heal nicely. Last part now, much easier than what you’ve had.”

The piercer showed Sally a shining piece of curved metal, thinner at the ends and thicker at the middle, five holes down each side. One end was flared and scooped, the other curved inwards. She winced as he pulled her parts open and pushed the cold metal against her flesh. Something tugged at the rings one by one, bright spikes as something squashed them against the metal. She could tell the thing would be held snug between her legs.

She heard a click and the piercer said, “All done. Look at your sealing.”

He loosened the head strap and the ones at her shoulders. Sally craned her neck to look down at a hand mirror. She gasped in surprise; the metal was pressed against her quim with a wire that zig-zagged across it from ring to ring. Her nubbin was covered and the curved end went right to her hole. A small padlock finished the thing, keeping the wires taut. She could see her poor lips were all swollen and stretched thanks to the rings.

“That lock’ll touch when you put your legs together, so you’re reminded that you’re sealed and you’re your mistress’ slave. She’s done, you can take her to the holding cage. Make sure she can’t touch herself or rub on anything.”

Two handlers had appeared. Sally was quickly unstrapped and led away, her most valuable asset now safely locked behind unyielding steel, her new life still unknown.