He joins her on the bed

Randy hesitated for nearly a minute, wrestling with his inner demons as he tried to come to grips with what he had done. Chaining Miss Marlton to the bed might have been a grave mistake. The way she reluctantly offered her calf in surrender, placing it into his hand and allowing him to tighten the black wrought-iron band around her slender white ankle was as erotic for him as her earlier kiss.

The memory of a public **** auction in Rio that he had done his best to forget crashed down on him like a coil of cable. On the way to the rich whaling grounds of the mighty Pacific the New Bedford had stopped to water and re-provision first in Havanah and again while traveling along the Brazilian coast at Rio de Janeiro. In each of these cities Randy had seen slavery on a scale he had never imagined; the sight of ebony-skinned slaves working the fields, coffles of shackled men shuffling through the city streets and even the auctions where these men and women were sold were so commonplace that he stopped being bothered by them. This particular **** auction however was different.

It was a market that specialized in the sale of lovely young females. Dozens of nubile women were led in chains, one-by-one to the center of a raised stage where merchants, craftsmen and even brothel owners of the city mingled freely with noblemen from outlying plantations. These men cheered and clapped in delight as the loose cotton robes were pulled from the shoulders of the nude forms of the lithe young women who were displayed before being sold. All the women were exceptionally beautiful in their own way, some were copper-skinned indigenous women with small upturned breasts and long black hair others were as black as coal with breasts the size of grapefruits and round asses and others still were clearly mulattoes with much lighter skin and features that were almost classical.

The auctioneer was skilled at provoking the already licentious nature of the crowd, at times inviting bidders onto the stage to grope and fondle the unfortunate young women. Randy understood almost none of the auctioneer's Portuguese, but even with the language barrier it was easy enough to imagine what the man was saying about how these slaves could be used. Randy had even tried to leave, but his mates from the New Bedford insisted that he stay for the finale.

The auction ended with the sale of three fair-skinned women fully dressed in European style clothing and begging piteously in a language that sounded Slavic to Randy's untrained ear. It seems the trio had been sold to the captain of a **** barque off the coast of West Africa by a lanteen-rigged pirate galley and added to his cargo of human flesh. Unlike the coloured slaves, these three women struggled in their chains as their clothing was cut away for the cheering buyers; more and more of their pale skin was slowly exposed until they were as naked as the other poor souls sold earlier in the night, and then they too were auctioned off to the leering men. Randy made it a point to stay away from that part of the city for the next two or three days until his ship weighed anchor.

What had disturbed Randy the most about the experience was the unspeakable desire he had felt to possess one of those lovely chained women. He could not help but imagine himself one of the city's wealthy **** owners buying one of these women to use as he chose. It was not just the pale-skinned captives at the auction's climax that had aroused his male humours, any one of the lovely young slaves would have been a delight to own and enjoy in a most unchristian manner. Thankfully, the harrowing rounding of Cape Horn and the grueling hours of the whaling had wiped the troubling experience from his memory. He had all but forgotten the auction and his reaction to the sale of the young women until he saw the iron cuff tightening on the scantily clad Miss Marlton's naked limb. God how he wanted her. To take her, possess her, use her again and again for his pleasure until there was nothing left to take and he owned every bit of her.

Charlotte watched Black Brand with growing alarm as she saw the raw sexual hunger in his eyes. No man had ever looked at her like that, the unmasked desire was both terrifying and exciting and she turned away from her abductors lustful gaze. Charlotte was thankful that she was fully dressed instead of exposed to the highwayman's eyes like before. But how long could he leave her alone now that she was secured to his massive bed?

Her clothing would not last long if he chose to strip her. Her eyes lingered on the polished antler grip of the hunting knife that hung easily from his belt. In one of her hidden romances she remembered a scene where savages in the great forests of the former colonies **** the daughters of a officer of the foot and carried them into the wildlands before cutting away their dresses with knives just like that. She rolled away from him unable to look at the outlaw without imagining what he might do to her chained form.

"Oh God!" Charlotte gasped into the pillow. The pillow linens smelled like him, rich and earthy not at all like the colognes worn by her suitors ... "Oh dear Lord, please!" Charlotte felt the weight of his muscular body as he sat on the bed by her side. She drew her legs together rolling further from him suddenly aware of the moisture that was leaking from sex, why oh why was her body betraying her like this? When his hand reached out to touch her she could take it no more.

"Why are you doing this to me?" She asked looking back over her shoulder to make eye contact with her abductor.