



                     GOING NATIVE 

                          by

                       Joe Doe



I REGARDED THE ORIGINAL STORY AS A THROW-AWAY AND WAS SURPRISED 
THAT IT GOT SUCH A SUCH A POSITIVE REACTION.  LAKEWOOD EVEN WROTE 
A GOOD SEQUEL, A STORY HE TITLED "GONE NATIVE."  HERE IS MY OWN 
SEQUEL, TOLD FROM HEATHER'S POINT OF VIEW.  


Part 2

After I convinced the women to submit to a medical exam, the chief 
made me a member of the tribe.  I was grateful for the honor, 
particularly since I knew that he didn't approve of Western women 
in general or me in particular, and I knew the award was a major 
concession on his part.

Nonetheless, I was mortified to learn that my clothes had been 
shipped to the next village, which meant that I would be 
accompanying my husband, the chief, and "Builder Bob" to the 
bustling marketplace wearing the native outfit of the tribe's 
females:  parrot feathers in my hair, a pair of leather sandals 
on my feet...and nothing else.

That's right.  No bikini, no thong.  Not a freaking stitch.  Much 
to my husband's amusement, I was going to be the little parrot 
girl, paraded through the marketplace wearing nothing but my feathers and a smile.

I had been teasing poor "Builder Bob" and "Doctor Dan" all summer, 
and I had planned the exposure at the shower and on the examination 
table as sort of a culmination to my native adventure.  However, as 
bad (and as delicious!) as it had been, my humiliation was limited 
to my husband, my two colleagues, and a few dozen gibbering natives.

The marketplace, however, was a bustling area filled with men and 
women, people of all nationalities and races.  To make matters 
worse, the tribal women (who were regarded as livestock) were 
always transported in a coffle with their wrists tied behind their 
backs and a rope looped around their necks.  

Being humiliated in camp was one thing, but being paraded through 
the center of town like a dog on a leash was another thing entirely.

Of course, that night as my hubby and I made love, I undermined my 
own objections by orgasming no less than 7 times, not counting two 
double headers.  

Early that morning I made my decision.  I was genuinely terrified 
at the thought of being led through the streets naked, like a 
tethered animal.  But I was even more terrified that I would never 
be this turned-on again.

That morning, after establishing our "safe word" (Clemency!), my 
husband kissed me goodbye and left me (in native costume) with the 
other women.  And there I stood, waiting patiently for someone to 
lash my hands behind my back and add me to the coffle.   

Even though no one was looking at me, I felt dreadfully exposed.  
As the seconds ticked away, I placed my hands over my breasts and privates, and wished desperately for my husband to return, so that 
I could yell "Clemency" and call the whole thing off.  

I had been waiting for only a few minutes when Gunta, one of the 
warrior leaders, came over.  Gunta had always liked me, but you 
could have knocked me over with a feather (ha!) when he placed a 
gold feather in my hair, marking me as a warrior!  Best yet, Gunta 
(bless his heart) gave me a loose fitting warrior robe to wear that 
would cover me from shoulders to toes, and which (needless to say) 
I quickly put on.  Gunta even let me sit on the rear of his wagon!

And so there I sat, perched on my wagon throne, watching smugly as 
the tribe's equivalent of a baggage handler went about the trifling 
task of binding the women's hands behind their backs, and tying the 
coffle nooses around their necks.  

I had never been popular with the women of the tribe, since as a 
white Westerner I was always given special treatment.  I'm sure 
they would rather not have been tied under any circumstances, but 
I could tell from the way they were glaring at me that the fact 
that I, a white woman, was allowed to dress as a warrior and smile 
at them as they were being trussed up like slaves was an enormous 
insult.  

I had the best of both worlds.  I was free to get my sexual jollies 
from the humiliation of those women, while remaining safely perched 
on my warrior wagon.  Life was sweet!

I couldn't understand what the women were saying, but I could tell 
from the way they were hissing at me that they didn't approve of 
the way that I was making faces at them....  

I laughed.  I feigned having my hands bound.  I stuck out my 
tongue.  I made monkey sounds.  The women were most displeased.

Too bad!  I was rich, and Western, and white...and they weren't.

The women were making so much noise that I didn't hear "Builder 
Bob" come up behind me.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I was just...uh...I was...Gunta made me a warrior.  He told me to 
sit on the wagon."

"Did he also tell you to cause an incident with the tribe's women 
and get us all kicked out of the country?"  

I stared at him dumbly.  He had not.

Bob looked at me sternly.  "If the chief hears about this, or sees 
you dressed as a warrior, he'll have a sacred cow.  Take off that 
robe, Heather."

I couldn't believe it.  The insolent little wienie I had been 
sexually teasing for the last six months was actually ordering 
me to strip.  

"Maybe you didn't notice," I said, mustering all of the sarcasm I 
could, "but this robe is the only clothing I have.  If I take it 
off, I'll be buck naked!"

"I don't care," he said, his voice barely concealing his anger.  
"Either take it off, or I'll tell your husband that you were 
teasing the women." 

My stomach dropped.  My husband and I had argued about my 
"corrupting influence" before, and now Bob had caught me 
red-handed.  "Please don't tell him!" I whined.

"Fine, then get off the wagon."

I didn't get off the wagon, choosing to sulk instead, but I didn't 
struggle as Bob lifted me off and set me down on the ground like a 
rag doll.  "Please, Bob, you don't have to do this," I said as he 
undid my sole garment and stripped me naked as a jaybird!

I saw just the hint of a smile on his face as he looked me up and 
down.  Then he spun me around and roughly tied my hands behind my 
back with the coarse rope the tribe used to bind their oxen, pigs, 
and women.

He took me by the scruff of the neck and led me towards the other women.

"Please, Bob, not the coffle!" I whined.  "I'm not an animal.  You 
can't do this to me!"

But Bob COULD do this to me, and his answer was to throw the coffle 
noose around my neck.  

"Please!  I just can't be paraded about like some naked bitch!"

Bob's answer was to tighten the knot around my throat.  "If you 
don't want to be treated like a bitch, Heather, then stop acting 
like one." 

He took my gold feather and walked away.

I couldn't understand exactly what the other women in the coffle 
were saying, but no translation was really required.  Laughter 
is the universal language.

		******************************

After four hours of walking down endless dirt roads, I very much 
regretted the behavior that had cost me my seat in the wagon.  
My darling husband did his best to help me get into my role as 
a native by ignoring me totally, choosing instead to drink wine 
and chat with the chief in the comfortable lead wagon.  

Builder Bob chose one of the rear wagons.  It was less comfortable, 
but it gave him a wonderful grandstand from which to ogle me.

In fairness, Bob had not had any female companionship in months, 
and I had taken full advantage of his predicament to tease him 
mercilessly.  Whenever I was felt bored, I would announce, "Now 
that's what I call a perfect sun" and then strip off my shirt (or sometimes my pants).  Of course I always kept my soft, lacy 
underwear on, just to drive him crazy.  

In order to maintain my modesty, whenever I caught him sneaking a desperate peek, I'd shoot him an evil look, and he'd be forced to 
look away.

It was good clean fun for all...or at least for me.  

Now that I was a tribeswoman, with my hands tied behind my back and 
three feathers in my hair, Bob was free to look, and look he did.

I hadn't realized how much he disliked me until we stopped for 
our "break."  The men enjoyed their wine and trotted off into 
the bushes to relieve themselves, while the women and animals 
were watered.

I knew Builder Bob was staring at my backside when I bent over to drink water out of the animals' bucket, so naturally I kept my legs 
closed as tightly as possible.  It was humiliating, to be sure, but 
I didn't fully appreciate what it was to be a barnyard animal until 
they unhooked us, and led us, four at a time, to a newly dug hole 
in the ground at the side of the road for what in polite circles is 
referred to as a restroom break.

Alas for me, there was nothing polite about it.  Builder Bob stood 
not more than six feet away and smiled down at me as the warrior 
holding our coffle chain commanded the four of us to squat and 
spread our legs.  I hated the idea of whizzing on command, 
particularly with Bob watching, but I had been walking for hours, 
and my bladder was bursting.  When they jiggled the coffle rope, I 
released my water like a good little doggie.  I gushed a veritable 
waterfall for nearly two minutes, much to Bob's amusement.

It was early afternoon when we got to the town, and I wish I could 
say that it was a relief.  Although I wasn't wearing a watch (and 
wouldn't have been able to look at it if I were) I would guess that 
it was lunchtime, based on the crowded streets and the number of people going into and out of restaurants.

I had visited this marketplace several times before, although never in my present condition, and I'd enjoyed browsing the shops and stalls.  However, since I was now stark naked with my hands tied behind my back, the passing natives felt even more free to grope 
me.  Fortunately, they brushed and squeezed rather than pinched 
and poked, and it was more embarrassing than painful.  

While it was certainly humiliating to be paraded before the 
natives, at least I had the cold comfort of knowing that they 
were used to female nudity.  My worst humiliation was my 
encounters with Westerners.  Black tribal women had been pranced 
through these streets for centuries, but naked white women were 
quite a novelty.  

However the white Westerners, dressed as they were in their khaki 
shorts and blue jeans and Isods and chic clothes made me more 
conscious of my nudity than ever.  Every time I saw one of them, 
I instinctively tugged at the ropes around my wrists, only to 
rediscover each time that Builder Bob had done his job well.  Some 
stared in amazement, some expressed shock and disgust, and others 
laughed and jeered.  My reaction was always the same -- beet red 
embarrassment.

At last we reached the slave market.  I wish I could find a more 
politically correct, UN-acceptable term for it, but what else do 
you call a place where women are bought and sold?  Anyway, this 
market was in a section of the city that I, as a Western woman, 
had never been allowed to go.  I had actually tried to enter the 
area once, and the local police nearly arrested me.  However, in 
my present state of undress, no one objected to my presence, since 
apparently marching a white woman naked to a slave market presented 
no protocol problems at all.  

As a shopper, I was not welcome.  But, as inventory, I would be a 
guest of honor.


		******************************



                       GOING NATIVE 

                            by

                         Joe Doe



HEATHER'S ADVENTURES CONTINUE.  WHILE THE LAST THREE PARAGRAPHS 
BELOW DO CONFLICT WITH LAKEWOOD'S SEQUEL, "GONE NATIVE," YOU CAN 
JUST THINK OF IT AS AN "ALTERNATE ENDING," LIKE THOSE YOU SEE IN 
A LOT OF MOVIE DVDS THESE DAYS. 


Part 3

As they lined us up on the auction block, the slave merchant came 
out and bargained with the chief on the price of the women he 
wanted to sell.  From the beginning the trader's eyes were riveted 
on me, and naturally the chief looked to my husband.  Fortunately, 
my husband, tipsy as he was, indicated that I was not for sale.  

On the other hand, my drunken husband ended up acting as the 
translator between the chief and the slave merchant, which 
meant that his attention was frequently distracted by their 
negotiations.  During these intervals, locals would "examine 
the merchandise" by squeezing my breasts, checking my teeth, 
and even bending me over for a closer look.  

I called out the safe word "Clemency" several times, but my husband 
was too far away to hear...and was probably too drunk to remember 
what it meant anyway.  Soon he husband tottered away, into the 
building, and there was nothing between me and the growing crowd 
but my three feathers and my old friend Bob.  I signaled to Bob 
for help, but he chuckled, relaxing in the shade, as the natives 
checked my feet and hair -- and discussed my anatomy in gibberish 
that I mercifully could not understand.

At last my husband emerged and announced that he was going to the 
bazaar to get something to eat with the chief and the slave trader, 
and he invited Bob to come alone.  Almost as an afterthought, my 
husband turned to Bob and pointed at me, "We should probably kennel 
her.  If we leave her on the block, they'll auction her off for 
sure."

Did he say "AUCTION?"  I nearly lost my water again!

"Why don't we peg her?"  Bob said.  "It's a quick way to make some 
money."

"Pegging?  What's that?  She won't get hurt, will she?" my drunken 
husband asked, weaving from side to side.

"No, it's just a way to get her inside and out of the sun," Bob 
said, making me sound more and more like a dog.  "No one will 
hurt her."

My husband spoke to the trader in his native language, and I could 
tell from the man's gestures that he was giving assurances that I 
would not be damaged.  What a relief.

"Excuse me," I interrupted.  "what is pegging?"

"I dunno.  Ask Bob," my husband slurred.  Men!  Drunk, indifferent, 
and always a fountain of information.

"Go ahead to lunch," Bob said.  "I'll get her pegged and catch up."

I watched in stunned belief as my husband staggered toward the 
exit.  "I need to know what pegging is!" I shouted at him.

"Bob'll show you.  Have a good time, honey!" my husband replied 
as he tottered out the door. 

With that my husband was gone.  It was only then that what I should 
have said when I was arguing with him flashed into my mind:  "Clemency."

Oh well, it was too late now.  No clemency for Heather!

Bob took my leash and led me inside.  It wasn't until we got into 
the main room that I realized what pegging meant, and how Bob 
really felt about me.

Along the far wall was a long row of naked black fannies.  The 
women were bent over, kneeling.  A few had their legs together, 
but most had their knees spread widely by two round wooden 
cylinders that had been slid into various holes in the boards 
that they were kneeling on.  

At that moment, I realized to my horror what "pegging" meant.  
But I was naked, and my hands were tied behind my back, and 
Builder Bob was leading me by the leash around my throat.  So 
I used the one weapon available to me: I screamed.  

"No!" I shouted.  "You can't spread my legs that way!"

My protests were silenced when one of the traders expertly slipped 
a ring-gag into my open mouth.  My mouth was still open, and I 
could make sounds, but I was wholly unintelligible, which took a 
lot of the effectiveness out of shouting.

Bob and his slave trader assistants easily bent me over and tied 
my coffle rope to a leg of the bench I was kneeling on.  Then they 
strapped me down, to keep my waist lowered and my ass in the air.

The peg board was adjustable, which allowed Bob the option of 
leaving me with my knees chastely together, or wide apart, or 
anywhere in-between.

What do you think he decided to do?

If you guessed "spread her out like 10 peso whore," you guessed 
correctly.  I screamed into the gag as he slid the wicked pegs 
into place, but he just laughed.  "Now that's what I call a 
beautiful moon!" he said, mocking me with a paraphrase of my 
own teasing words.

I shivered as he gently stroked my pussy, which, with the 
humiliation of the marching, the nudity, and the auction 
block, was now sopping wet.  "You're such a little slut.  
I'd do you right now, if your husband wasn't my friend.  
Don't worry.  I said you'd earn a bit of money, but, since 
you're white, they won't sell that little pussy of yours 
unless someone pays with hard currency.  And you don't have 
Westerners touring dives like this."

He laughed and left.  As if on cue, two minutes later Archibald 
Cockley entered through the opposite door with Reginald White in 
tow.  

Archibald worked at the British Embassy.  He was 60, bald, and fat 
-- though he viewed himself as "mature" and dashing.  I had met him 
at an embassy party a few months before where he bragged about the 
11 sons he had sired and advised my husband to keep me "barefoot 
and pregnant." 

The pig.  I felt simply dreadful when I spilled my champagne down 
the front of his dress pants, and all of the guests laughed at him.

I had met him only once, but I recognized him instantly.  I would 
know those beady eyes and that crooked smile anywhere.

Cockley was accompanied by Reginald White, a young man who had been 
one of my pupils when I taught school at the capital.  In class he 
had been quiet and painfully shy around girls, and, even though he 
was 19 now and had grown up quite nicely, I could see that he was 
quite embarrassed by the sea of female flesh in front of him.

I recognized them before they saw me, but I knew that wouldn't last 
long.  There were countless other naked fannies on display, but 
mine was the only white one, and, courtesy of Builder Bob, my legs 
were pegged wider than the goal posts at a football game.  

It was a cafeteria of pussy, and I was the blue plate special.

Since I had no way of making myself inconspicuous, I arched my 
backside up and pressed my face against the wood in front of me.  
Unfortunately, this manoeuvre spread my bottom cheeks apart even 
farther, if such a thing was possible, and was interpreted by 
Cockley as some of sort of mating dance.

"Look at this one," Cockley said, chuckling lewdly.  "See the way 
she's spreading for us?  It's obvious the little bitch is in heat!"

"I think the pegs are forcing her knees apart, sir" Reginald 
replied quite reasonably.  "Maybe we should remove them."  

Clever boy, that Reggie!  Wonderful boy!  I had always liked him.

"Nonsense," Cockley snorted back.  "The pegs don't explain why 
she's so wet.  Feel this quim, boy!"

"No, thank you, sir.  I don't think we should be here, sir.  Maybe 
we should just go."

"Don't be foolish, boy.  It will put hair on your chest.  Here, let 
me pay this man for the two of us."  I felt butterflies in my tummy 
as I listened to Cockley pass a few spare coins to the native in 
charge to pay for the right to use me in any way that he wished. 
Then I heard his voice again, directing Reginald, "Go round front 
of this one, so you can see her face."  

Reginald walked around the line of women until he stood in front 
of me.  I pressed my face to the wood, desperate to conceal my identity.  

"Good!" Cockley said.  "Now, take your pecker out of your pants, 
and put it in her mouth."  

"I can't, sir.  Her face is screwed into the wood!"

My face was not screwed into anything, although I was pressing it 
so tightly downward that it was an easy mistake to make.

Suddenly I felt three bands of fire across my bare backside.  WHIP! 
WHIP!  WHIP!  Cockley was hitting my bare bottom with the slave 
trader's switch!

"Head up, girl!  We paid good money for that lazy mouth of yours, 
and we intend to use it." 

The pain was intense, but my desire to keep my face hidden won out. 
However, when he grabbed the rope around my neck and jerked my head 
up, I had no choice.  

Reginald recognized me immediately.

"Oh, my gosh, Mr. Cockley!" he cried.  "It's Mrs. Johnson, my 
teacher from school!"

I turned my head and looked at Cockley.  He stared down at me with 
his beady eyes, and smiled his crooked grin.  "Well, well, well.  
Fancy meeting you here.  Husband got tired of you, did he?  Decided 
to sell you to the natives?"

"We've got to help her, sir.  We've got to call the authorities!"  

Cockley responded by tapping my bottom with the switch.  "I'm sure 
Mrs. Johnson doesn't want us to make a fuss, boy.  I'm sure she 
just wants to take you in her mouth, get this all over and done 
with as soon as possible, and let us go on our way."

I certainly did NOT want to take my former student in my mouth, but 
I also didn't want to endure the corruption of the local military 
police, particularly in my current position.  I looked up at 
Reginald and nodded, "Yes."

Reginald was a horny teenager, and I, a teacher he had once 
fantasized about, was now kneeling in front of him ready to 
suck him off.  

I know Reginald wanted to do it, but....

"Go ahead, Reggie," Cockley urged.  "She's hungry for it.  Give her 
a nice big load to gargle with."

As a warning, Cockley tapped my bottom with the switch.  What 
choice did I have?  I looked up at Reginald and tried to 
articulate, "Please.  I...I want it."

Whatever, he got the message.

Reginald opened his pants and put his member in my mouth.  The gag 
kept me from speaking, or from closing my mouth, but it didn't 
prevent me from using my tongue to bring my former student to a 
rocking orgasm.  

Unfortunately, with my hands tied and my mouth gagged open, there 
wasn't much I could do about his sperm dribbling down my chin.

As Reginald walked outside to enjoy a much needed rest, Cockley 
turned his attention to my other end.  I shuddered as he bent 
down and smiled his crooked smile and whispered in my ear.

"Your husband told a friend of mine at the club that you two were 
trying to have children, but he had a pitifully low sperm count.  
I would imagine that means you're not using any birth control 
right now, right?"  

I didn't answer, but the tension in my body portrayed the truth.  
I heard him unzip his pants.

I tensed as I felt the tip of his penis run up and down the length 
of my sex.  "No birth control leaves you in a delightfully 
vulnerable position, don't you think?  So open...so available...so 
fertile...."

"The last time we spoke was at that embassy party, when I told you 
about my 11 sons.  I told you my seed was still as powerful as 
ever, but you replied that I hadn't conceived a child in years and 
that I couldn't "impregnate an amoeba."  The other guests had a 
good laugh at my expense, with you leading the charge.  Are you 
still laughing now, Missy?"

I was not laughing; I was squirming as he teasingly ran his prick 
up and down over my quivering wet slit.  What can I say?  Like my 
joke with the native women, it had seemed funny at the time.

Cockley reached into his wallet and extracted a condom.  Dangling 
it in front of my wide eyes like bait, he smiled his crooked smile. 
"I'll bet you'd like me to use this rubber, wouldn't you?"

A condom!  I was saved.  

I nodded eagerly, to show him how wonderful his idea was.

"Ordinarily I would, but you seem to think my little swimmers have 
lost their punch.  Well, there's one way to find out.  I have 
eleven sons.  Do you wonder if I can make it an even dozen?

I grunted as he sank his bare, unsheathed penis inside of me.  
"That's it, you little slut," he taunted.  "Grip it tight.  
I'm a real man, and today you'll get a bareback ride.  Make 
my little swimmers feel welcome, and they'll reward you with 
a big fat belly...

When my husband arrived back from lunch, he was more than a little 
surprised to find Reginald's seed on my lips, and Cockley's jizz 
leaking down my thighs.  

Apparently "she won't be harmed" didn't translate into "she won't 
be fucked."

On the brighter side, my husband got half of the fifty cents that 
Cockley and Reginald had paid to skewer me.

		******************************

By the time we knew for sure that I was pregnant, we were already deep into the jungle on our next assignment, so we couldn't have done anything even if we had wanted to.  Not that we wanted to; we had both wanted a child for so long that we viewed my pregnancy as the answer to our prayers.

Besides, I had sex with my husband several times a week.  We both agreed that in all likelihood the child was my husband's.  It had 
to be, didn't it?

Now I'm back in the States, and my husband and I are the proudest parents on earth.  My son is gorgeous, with the most wonderful 
beady eyes, and a delightfully crooked smile.


The End


Edited by C. Lakewood