Matt is taken to the slave market where he meets a seductive Spanish slave named Miguel.

Duped - Part 5: The Kasbah (Page 1)
by Chrisus
Series: Duped
Art piece by Joji
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The old quarter of the city is certainly medieval in its appearance. The tall buildings, which overhang the narrow alleyways turning them into canyons of deep shade, belong to a long bygone era. How easy it is to imagine that one has been transported back through time to an earlier period of history.

The crowded streets - and really do they qualify as such - are a bewildering maze of twisting, narrow alleyways and cul-de-sacs which are only suitable for foot traffic. No cars can drive here; although one does pass the occasional merchant leading a heavily laden donkey to his shop in one of the many souks and bazaars which abound in this part of the "old city".

My sensory perceptions are in overload. My eyes struggle to take in the many activities, colours and movements that surround me and my nose is assailed by the rich scents of jasmine, citrus, sandalwood and other exotic spices. I watch as leather tradesmen work at their benches and carpet-weavers at their looms; the smell of freshly tanned leather and jute add to the exotic potpourri that assails my olfactory senses.

The babble of merchants' voices - all vying to attract the buyers' attention - adds to the cacophony of sound around me. All this is strange to my westernized ears and I'm unable to make sense of what is being said.

The stalls seem to be groaning under the weight of the merchants' goods. Everywhere I look, I see strange and wonderful things so unlike anything I am accustomed to back in London. From what I can see it is possible to buy anything here ranging from pottery, metalware, leather goods, colourfully woven carpets and a wide range of foods, sweetmeats, spices, fruits and vegetables.

And somewhere among this astounding array of merchandise it is possible to purchase something far more exotic and unusual. I refer to the secretive trading of chattel slaves.

Today, Anwar is escorting me to a slave-market where he is to meet his good friend, Mustapha to check on his six waiters who are to be sold at auction next Saturday.

I walk with Anwar through the narrow, winding streets of this mysterious, Middle-Eastern city to an area known only to the locals.

Here, tucked away in a discreet building is the local slave-market. Anwar has invited me to accompany him as he views the newly acquired slaves who are to be sold on Saturday. Anwar tells me that I am to be present at the auction as his "honoured guest" and witness as they are sold along with Mustapha's six waiter slaves.

I'd been excited at the prospect of actually visiting a real slave-market, at viewing the naked, displayed slaves and watching as they stand on the auction-block. Such scenes have fuelled my erotic fantasies for years. But now that fantasy is about to become reality, I'm not so sure.

My emotions are mixed. There is a sense of excitement on my part that I am to see real, honest to goodness slaves made ready for auction and yet there is also a degree of apprehension that genuine, chattel slavery really does exist and flourishes here.

Anwar has told me the slaves offered for sale on Saturday will be eagerly sought after among buyers from the Middle-East and Black Africa. Without exception, the day's offering will be young, white, Caucasian male slaves; most have been enslaved very recently but others like Mustapha's six slaves have been enslaved for varying lengths of time.

Why do I feel apprehensive? Well, I know I meet the criteria of the slaves incarcerated in the holding-pens waiting to be sold. I am young, white and no doubt I would be considered excellent slave material by an Arab slave-trader. And is it my imagination but are people staring at me as Anwar leads me through the tortuous maze of back alleyways to the slave-market. Do they see Anwar as a master delivering his white slave to be sold?

Suddenly, I feel a shiver run through my spine and I am touched by the cold, clammy hand of fear. It's hard to say whether that fear is justified or just the product of my feverish, overworked imagination. Nevertheless, it is real and suddenly, I am concerned for my safety.

What foolhardiness has brought me here to this place? Why have I allowed myself to be talked into accompanying Anwar to Maluchistan? With the wisdom of hindsight, I now wonder if this was a grave error of judgement on my part.

It would be so easy for me, as a stranger and a foreigner, to become lost in the twisting, tortuous maze of narrow walkways and alleys in this part of the Kasbah. But Anwar knows precisely where he is leading me and eventually we leave the hurly-burly of the souks behind us. We turn into a narrow street of what looks like empty buildings and workshops. Strangely, the street is deserted and the silence is ominous. Once more, I become apprehensive and if I knew my way back to my hotel I would certainly "turn tail and run". But I have no idea of where I am and I consider it would be unsafe for me to try and find my way back to the hotel alone and on foot.

And I tell myself that I am being stupid and worrying unnecessarily. After all, Anwar is my friend and business colleague and he'll look to my safety. No, my worries are prompted with the unfamiliarity of these new surroundings.

This buoys my spirits and I think that somewhere close by are the slave pens where Mustapha's six slaves are incarcerated and are being made ready for Saturday's auction. Despite my abhorrence that real chattel slavery really does exist, I am secretly looking forward to Saturday when I will be present to see a genuine slave auction.

Anwar walks to the end of the cul-de-sac and raps loudly on a stout wooden door. Someone on the inside of the door opens a small grill at face height and peers out at us. Anwar speaks - in Arabic - and he receives the traditional, Arabic greeting in return. The grill is closed and I hear the sound of the heavy door being unbolted. It swings open giving Anwar an me just enough room to enter before it closes with an ominous bang followed by the metallic scraping sound of the bolt locking us in.

I look around and I am disappointed. We are in a small, cobblestoned courtyard which obviously serves as the point of entry to other parts of the building; around the perimeter there are other doors leading to - well, I don't know to where.

I'm not sure what I expected but this courtyard is so ordinary in its appearance that I am disappointed. There is nothing here that suggests this is a slave-market. It could be the interior to a private home and I wonder if perhaps Anwar is making a visit to a relative or friend before we continue on to the slave-pens.

A door opens in a far wall, and a tall, middle-aged Arab in traditional robes hurries forward to welcome Anwar, They embrace and exchange the customary greetings and then Anwar introduces me.

"Matt, allow me to introduce you to one of my oldest friends, Malik. Malik, this is the young lawyer from London I mentioned to you on the phone last night."

Malik greets me diffidently - but I attribute this to the natural Arab reserve when meeting a Westerner for the first time - and really I am flattered that Anwar has spoken about me to Malik. How stupid of me to be concerned. Obviously, Anwar holds me in high regard otherwise why would he mention me to his friends.

"Malik, Matt is one of my business associates and he has a prurient interest in slavery. However, he struggles to believe real slavery exists at all. I have assured him that it does and with your good graces I would like to prove it to him. With your indulgence, I would like my young friend to experience first-hand your slave holding pens and the actual auction-room."

"You pay me great honour, Anwar. And it would be my pleasure to allow you to view my humble premises and exhibit my livestock for your perusal. But first allow me to offer you my hospitality. Will you and Matt share sherbet with me?"

"We'd be honoured to do so, Malik."

Malik claps his hands three times and a door opens in a wall behind him. As I watch, a young white man, naked save for the flimsiest of loincloths, hurries forward and falls to the floor at Malik's feet.

I fancy I am a connoisseur of the perfect, male form and one of my greatest pleasures is to sit in a London park or eat my lunch in a food-mall and watch the passing parade of young men walking by. My attention is focused on them and in my fertile imagination; I salaciously strip them naked. It has to be said that I truly love full, male nudity. Yet there is something about the loincloth this young man - who is obviously a slave judging by the collar he wears around his neck - wears that adds to his allure. Somehow, his covering gives him an "air of mystery". It hides everything but suggests much. Quite clearly, I can see the outline of his genitalia and the sweeping curves of his ass outlined through the flimsy material that clings to him like a second skin. This centres my lust on him and because everything is "hidden", I have this desperate urge to reach out and tear the loincloth from him thus exposing his total nudity to my view.

His presence is disconcerting! But why should I be surprised? I mean I'm not altogether a stranger to being in the company of real slaves; back in London I'd spent many hours being served by Anwar's slave, Sven and I'd become a frequent diner at Mustapha's restaurant where I'd watched his slaves working as waiters. But I suppose it is the unexpectedness of seeing this latest slave. Somehow, seeing him in this Middle Eastern environment does bring home to me that Anwar is correct.

Chattel slavery really does exist in this oil-rich, desert nation!

Malik orders the slave to his feet; he stands subserviently with his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back resting on his ass and with his head bowed in humility. I have the opportunity to survey the slave.

I guess he is in his mid-twenties and the proportions of his hairless body are in perfect harmony. I can't see the colour of his eyes which are lowered to the ground but his cropped hair is thick and black suggesting that it naturally curly. I watch the rise and fall of his chest and the in-out bellowing of his abdomen as he breathes. His loincloth does little to hide his natural endowments. I see the outline of his cock and balls showing suggestively through the almost gauze-like material of his garment. And his covering certainly doesn't conceal the delightful curves of his shapely ass. He is olive skinned hinting at his Mediterranean origins and I am quite smitten by him. I'm unaware that both Anwar and Malik are observing me silently salivating over the slave's masculine beauty.

Malik speaks to me.

"I see that my slave interests you, Matt! He is quite delightful isn't he?"

Embarrassingly, I've been caught out and in my confusion, I manage to blurt out.

"So he's a slave? He's an honest to goodness slave?"

"But of course Matt! But he is just one of many that I have in my pens as you'll soon see when you enter further into my humble establishment.

Emboldened by Malik's reply I ask, "How long has he been a slave?"

"I've had him for twelve months. He came to me in a shipment from Spain about this time last year. He should have been sold with his fellows at that time but I was quite smitten by him and decided to keep him - well at least temporarily. I never keep a slave for my personal use any longer than a year. After that, I grow tired of him and I'm looking for a newer, fresher boy to replace him and so the slave is sold on."

"Will that happen to this slave, Malik? Will you sell him?"

"But of course, Matt!" Malik laughs. "This slave is to be sold on Saturday. Already, I have clients wanting to buy him. He has generated much interest among my esteemed clients. There's a particular client who I know will bid strongly for him."

"Can I ask, Malik? Is that client from the Middle East?"

"No Matt! The client I speak of is an African. He's a very wealthy man; an oil billionaire from one of the emerging African countries. However, my clients come from many places; the Middle East, Africa and Asia and even some from Europe. They're an eclectic mix!"

"Africans buy slaves?"

The tone of my question reflects my incredulity and causes both Anwar and Malik to laugh.

"Indeed they do. They are among my most enthusiastic buyers and they have unlimited amounts of capital to invest in a slave. Of course, their keenness in the bidding process does drive up the prices for the slaves. But I'm certainly not complaining about that. However some of my less wealthy clients resent them their unlimited sums to spend on buying a slave."

"I never knew that! But then until I met Anwar, I never knew that real slavery still existed."

"Indeed it does Matt! But then, it never really went away. It has always been present but just well hidden away from prying eyes."

"I find that incredible! That slavery is practised but remains virtually unknown to the world."

"Why would you think that, Matt? Slavery is so much a part of the human condition. It stretches way back into antiquity; back to the very beginning of recorded history - and no doubt it existed long before men could write. Matt there are those who, for their own reasons, want to own and control another man - or woman. That's indisputable! And you can't legislate against that. No, when slavery was outlawed by the do-gooders and meddlesome fools in the West it didn't abolish it. It only forced it to go underground. There it still flourishes as you'll soon see."

"What will happen to this slave if the African buys him?"

"The same as happens to all young, white, male slaves I should think, Matt. He'll become his new master's pet. Africans owners can be flamboyant. I'm sure you're familiar with the images of their kings and chieftains leading a pet cheetah around on a leash or lying at their feet to impress their visitors. They no longer use cheetahs; they now have a preference to flaunt a well-set up, heavily hung, white slave on a leash. I am correct, am I not, Anwar?"

"Indeed you are, Malik! Matt, For an African to own a white slave it is a status symbol. It's very much the 'in thing' for a noveau riche African business man to own a white slave. In fact it's de rigeur for them to do so. Possibly this has something to do with their history when so many of their ancestors were enslaved? Perhaps they see the ownership of a white slave as 'turning the tables' on whites so to speak? But who really knows?"

"But enough idle chatter, Matt. I believe you'd like to see the slave in his natural state. Remove your covering slave and stand at full display!" Malik commands the slave.

Immediately, the slave removes his covering and in one fluid movement it falls to the ground at his feet. I watch as he moves his feet apart and entwines his finger behind his head. This has the effect of tightening his body and throwing his impressive physique into sharp relief. The slave is perfection - sheer perfection. His smooth, muscular body is hairless and, in keeping with what I'd seen with Anwar's slave, Sven, even his pubes has been removed. I'd always thought the removal of Sven's pubes added to his slave like status; somehow it robbed him of his "badge of manhood" and reduced his masculinity in my eyes. I'd seen Sven as an object and not as a man. And it is the same with this slave.

"Please Matt! Do me the honour of examining my slave. Feel free to inspect him."

How can I refuse Malik's kind invitation? I step forward and place my hands on the slave's body. As I do so I feel a slight shiver run through the slave. Is it fear or anticipation? Or perhaps it is a little of both?

As I finger the slave, I'm overwhelmed by the experience. Here I am, in an honest-to- goodness slave-market hidden away in the Middle-East examining a real slave who is scheduled to be sold at auction within a few days.

The slave is warm to the touch and as I place my hands on either side of his neck, I feel the rapid throbbing of his arteries. I move down over his chest and feel both the sharp intake of his breath and the beating of his heart. I pause and tease his generously sized nipples into needle-point sharpness. He looks at me and I see despair etched onto his face and the utter hopelessness of his situation buried deep within his tear filled eyes.

I see reflected in this slave's sad face the suffering of the true slave! He is the modern day representative of all those countless victims who, throughout history, have suffered the cruel injustices and obscenities of chattel slavery.

Momentarily, I am swamped with sympathy for the slave but I remind myself that I can do nothing to help him other than to hope he is bought by a kindly, new Master. However, as quickly as I'd felt sympathy for the slave's plight, it dissipates; I find that I relish the temporary power over him that his Master has given to me and I return to the enjoyment of inspecting his magnificent body.

His pectorals are solid muscle and yet they are soft, warm and yielding to the touch. The ridged abdominals ripple as I insert a finger into the deep indent of his navel. Next, I inspect his genitals. I am so engrossed that I don't see Anwar and Malik watching me with great interest. More to the point, I don't see them as they exchange knowing smiles and telling glances. I am unaware that I am under their close scrutiny and that they are appraising me and my re-action to the slave.

Next, I visually assess his genitals. His plump balls hang low and heavy between his thighs - I have always been partial to low-hangers - and one hangs slightly lower than its stable-mate. I reach out and take them into my cupped hand and I am delighted by both the weight and feel of them. His hairless scrotum is satiny-soft and pliable to the touch and as I gently roll each ball between my fingers, the slave rewards me with an incipient erection. I watch as his generous penis thickens and lengthens.

He is circumcised and I recall Anwar telling me this is mandatory for all slaves. Anwar had said the first thing done to a new, uncircumcised slave is to remove his foreskin. I wonder if this slave had been cut at the time of his enslavement and I look to see if there is evidence of this. Sure enough, I examine his cock and I see the red, tell-tale ring of his operation encircling the thick shaft of his penis.

I play with his erection. His cock is silky smooth - like his scrotum - and my hand glides up and down it length exciting both the slave and me. My own cock is massively erect and straining within the tight confines of my boxer shorts. I toy with the slave and I use a finger nail to gently tease his piss-slit. As I do so, I feel both the sharp intake of his breath and the quivering of his limbs. Eventually, he rewards me with a pearl-like drop of his precum glistening at the tip of his cock. I test its viscosity by rubbing it between my fingers and thumb and watch as a thin, grey-white thread dribbles slowly down to the ground.

I'd dearly like to masturbate the slave but I hold myself in check. I'm unsure if Malik has given me permission to become so intimate with his slave and for me to do so could be seen as overstepping the bounds of his hospitality.

So, as compensation, I tell the slave to turn with his back to me and I have to say the view from the rear is every bit as impressive as the one from the front. From behind, his torso is "V-shaped" with broad shoulders tapering down to a trim waist. With his hands still clasped behind his head, his biceps are bunched up into rounded balls of solid muscle and the muscles in his powerful back ripple with each nervous breath. I particularly like the way the indent of his back draws my attention to his small, curvaceous buttocks which rest atop his long muscular legs. And on either side of the spinal column, just above each buttock, is a most delightful dimple that adds to the slave's overall appeal.

The ass-cheeks are small but well-rounded and I reach out and take one in each hand. As I gently squeeze them, I am surprised by their firmness; there is no evidence of any flab or softness in them. The well-defined dividing cleft invites my closer attention and I slip my exploratory finger into the slave's ass-crack feeling for his anus. Slowly, I use my finger to excite the puckering hole and the slave's audible gasp tells me that he is very responsive to my touch.

"Matt, allow me to show you the best feature of my slave." Malik offers. "Slave, bend and spread and expose yourself fully to my guest's view!"

Immediately, the slave does as his Master commands. He shuffles his feet further apart and bends at the waist while lowering his head level with his knees. Reaching behind, he takes an ass-cheek in each hand and stretches them as far apart as is anatomically possible.

As the slave shamelessly displays himself, I am rewarded with a tantalizing glimpse of his striated, pink rosebud. The puckering of his sphincter betrays the slave's nervousness as, at the same time, it seems to be winking an invitation to me to explore it further. Naturally, I hesitate. After all, the slave is the property of my host, Malik; surely it would be bad manners for me to touch so intimate a part of his slave's body. But the urge for me to do so and to explore further is very strong and I must use my willpower to resist.

Malik speaks and it is almost as though he is reading my thoughts.

"Matt! Would you like to examine my slave more closely and to have the freedom to enter through his Golden Portal and to sample the delights of his inner body?"

Malik's invitation - if indeed it is one - takes me by surprise. What exactly is he inviting me to do? Is he telling me that I can digitally explore the slave's ass? Or is he inviting me to have anal intercourse with the slave? I am uncertain and splutter out my reply.

"I'm sorry, Malik! I don't quite know what you mean?"

"Very simply, Matt, I'm asking if you'd like to use my slave. I can assure you of a most memorable experience. He's a most delightful fuck!"



  1. 31118azti - May 29, 2020, 9:18 pm

    Well written and very erotic, thanks!

  2. scotts60143 - May 30, 2020, 6:57 pm

    Any yet another great chapter! Also filled with so many details hard to keep up with them all, and the description of the slave is so thorough I can almost visualize him naked on display. Still, my only question is how can Matt be so stupid??!! Oh well, that said definitely can’t wait to see his turn come as he becomes a slave!

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