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"Around!" came the harsh and gutteral order from the Malay trader. Robbie Morrison obeyed, if meekly and over slowly. The blonde 21year old Scottish sailor shuffled on the makeshift display-block, still trying to cup his manhood with his now shackled hands. Stark naked like the rest of Captain Jacobs' crew in this steamy, stinking chamber of the slave fortress on an insignificant island of a Pacific archipelago, bound in coffle. They were presently being looked over by prospective buyers from all over South East Asia and one or two evidently from lands in the Ottoman empire.
Young, white, European slaves were glutting these black markets. Muslim traders and buyers had largely abandoned seeking their slaves from Africa. Most of those African lands were now within the community of the believers anyway. It didn't sit easy on the conscience to keep fellow religionists in bondage. But white European infidels were another thing. They were usually strong bodied, if not overly clean or intelligent. So went their owners reasoning. And besides, it was not as if these Europeans weren't engaged in exactly the same enterprise with African slaves for their own colonies. There were no angels in this world.
`take hands away!' came the order, accompanied by a stinging smack from the Malay's flail.
Morrison gingerly obeyed. His hefty young manhood was now on full display, swaying gently between his milky white legs. The Thai women present giggled. Indeed, it was a Thai woman who was the prospective buyer. She reached and took hold of Morrison's package, grinning at her associates and nattering incomprehensibly (to the British slaves anyhow). Evidently they found the chunky white dick amusing. The Malay laughed too.
`other side now!' came that harsh voice again. Morrison turned, revealing his pearly white arse, glistening with the sweat produced by this awful humidity.
A Turkish trader had stepped forward. With an impish smile he indicated what his interest was to the Malay. The Malay in turn snickered callously.
"Over!" he barked.
"what??!!" Morrison's reaction was of both genuine confusion as to the instruction mixed with creeping dread as it began to dawn on him just what might be the agenda.
"Silence dog!!" another crack from the flail "you, hands on knees. Bend down! Do quickly now. Show asshole, dog!"
It was as young Morrison feared. He cautiously obeyed. Then he felt the Turks hands on his butt cheeks, pulling them apart. A rough finger entered. The discomfort was bad enough, but now the indignity. He heard a murmur of opposition from his fellow captives at this abominable display. Then a cacophony of of foreign words and cracks from flails as the Lascar pirates and slave traders chastised their British thralls.
Morrison's heart sank. Was this to be his fate? Sold off as a piece of white flesh to some lascivious Turk with a more than passing interest in the texture of his manhole?
He needn't have worried. The Turk moved on down the line. It would seem that young Toby, the English cabin boy, beloved of all the enslaved sailors was to be the purchase. Morrison heard the poor lad crying as he was pawed by the wretched heathen. In Morrison's heart, a burning seed for dreadful revenge was planted at that moment.