Sandy Foot Girl Ch.

01: Slave Naked

byJoe_Doe_Stories©

I looked at the wooden gate in front of me. I was nearly 6 foot, but I was
barefoot, and the gate was about 7 feet high, too high for me to peek over. I
had designed it that way. It was better for the girl to look a bit disoriented when
she left the dark chute and went into the auction pit. Fear meant adrenaline, and
I knew that most buyers preferred it when a girl looked a little scared.

I could see a tiny speck of light peeking through the crack at the bottom of the
gate where the rubber seal had worn off. I tried to stare at it, to let my eyes
adjust, as I listened to the auctioneer finish his chant for the previous girl. I
couldn't hear the words, not that they mattered, really. The sound of my heart
pounding in my chest drowned out everything else.

Breathe, Sarah. Breathe. Don't be like one of those idiot girls who face plants
when the gate opens. Fear is good. Fear is your friend. You designed it this way,
remember?

Of course I remembered. I had stood in this very spot, explaining the entire
psychology of the slave auction process to Jake Henry, the owner of the auction
house. I had been dressed for success, in an elegantly tailored business suit,
pearls, and Gucci shoes. Irony is a cruel mistress, and I now stood in precisely
the same spot, barefoot and wearing nothing but my slave collar, which had my
lot number, B-269.

I wasn't merely naked; in the shower I was naked all the time. I was SLAVE
naked, which is an entirely different matter. I had no clothes to change into, no
warm fluffy towel waiting on the other side of the gate. Being SLAVE naked
meant having no clothes, and no way of getting any.

Naked was one thing; SLAVE naked was another thing altogether.

I struggled to breathe as I waited for the gate to open so that my shameful

ordeal on the auction block could begin. The auctioneer's patter slowed as the
final bids came in. It wouldn't be long now.

My eyes adjusted to the darkness. Looking down at the floor I saw some of the
sand from the auction block had been tracked back into the gate area. The
owner had wanted to get rid of the sand, a remnant of the days when cattle was
sold out of these gates, but I had encouraged him to keep it.

"Make the sand part of your brand identity," I urged, bringing up a new slide in
my PowerPoint show. "The slaves you sell are sometimes called 'Sandy Foot
Girls', right? Make that part of your trademark. Only the highest quality pussy
can become Sandy Foot Girls."

Now I looked down at the tiny dark grains of sand that decorated my feet and
clung between my toes. In a few seconds the gate would open, and I would be a
'Sandy Foot Girl'.

It had all begun a week before when I had been giving the keynote address at
The National Slave Association Show in Orlando, Florida. Becky Lou Bundy sat in
the front row of my presentation, taking notes and listening carefully. When my
speech was over she waited patiently for the other attendees to leave before
approaching me to ask if I could join her for coffee to discuss a particular issue
they were having in Texas.

Becky Lou was about 50, short, and squat, and spoke with a thick Texas twang,
and listening to her spin her tale was cornpone pleasure. Becky Lou was a
Supervisor in the Texas State Department of Agriculture, specifically in their
Livestock and Slave Division. She dressed her role: cowboy boots, plaid shirt,
and, of course, a white cowboy hat.

One of her department's duties was to conduct "pro forma" sales, sometimes
referred to derisively as "sham sales" to verify that merchandise sold had been
properly graded and the inspection, auction, and claim process was in order. The
department would go in "undercover" as "secret shoppers", buy a slave, verify
that the grading and identification were correct, and if all were in order, then
immediately resell the slave on the open market. It was routine, actually, and
nearly every state had some variation of this verification procedure.

"It was all goin' along fine," "Becky Lou explained, "but a few weeks ago the cow
patties hit the fan when we outbid one of the Gov'ner's fishin' buddies. Seems
we bought a slave girl the old coot had his eye on. He threw a hissy fit 'bout how
we were interferin' with capitalism and drivin' up prices, and a bunch of other
bullpucky, if you pardon my French. Problem is the regulations say we gotta do
the verifications, but the Gov'ner made a ruckus and now we can't buy no real
slave girls no more. It's a real pickle, and we don't got no answers. I figured on
askin' you since you wuz a fancy consultant and college Professor and all.
Whadya think?"

"You could have one of your departmental employees do it," I suggested. "Or
hire someone to pose as a slave."

"Well, heck, yeah, but we ayn't got no takers. See, the girls got to get an
authentic slave grade, so we can prepare what the auction house sells her as,
and then we gotta go through the whole sales process, soup-to-nuts. And when
the gavel falls..."

"The girl will actually be a slave," I said, smiling as I sipped my double latte.

"Sho'nuff," Becky replied. "Oh, we'll free her right away, and we'll tack whatever
we paid for her onta' the slave house's annual registration fee, so it'll be a wash
sale."

I smiled at her twangy extra RRR sounds in "waRRRsh."

"True, but even if it's a post-and-reverse entry on your accounting ledgers, the
girl will still have to go through the experience of being sold. Wash sale, sham
transaction, call it what you want, but that's no small thing, Becky Lou."

"Well, heck, I know that," Becky said, clearly irritated with my pedantic tone. "I
been doin' this fer a livin' before you were born, girl. Just because I don't teach
at no fancy college don't mean I'm DUMB."
"You asked ME for help," I reminded her, surprised at the way Becky slipped into
"bossy mom" mode so easily. "It's just...there's a psychology to it that's hard to
explain. "When you go through the grading process, you're not a person
anymore. You're a thing. Chattel. Inventory to be sold."

"Ya reckon I don't know that?" Beck Lou replied dismissively. "Mom" was still
annoyed.

"Yes, but it's different to know it, and another thing to ... feel it."

I looked around the coffee shop. Most of the other attendees were in the next
session, which left the place empty except for a guy in the corner talking to his
office on the phone and a bored barista reading his Chemistry textbook.

Swallowing, I held up my lip to reveal the slave registration number tattooed on

my upper lip.

"Garsh!" Becky Lou said. "Y'all been REGISTERED? Like, 'fer real, in the Nash-
uh-null Regs'tree?"

"Yes, I'm in the National Slave Registry," I admitted. "And I'd appreciate it if you
could keep your voice down. I'm not a slave, of course, but I got registered to
raise my grade. I'm Prime-," I said proudly.

"No shit!" Becky Lou whispered, clearly impressed. "That's a mighty find grade,
girl! Well, I'll be damned! College Girl must clean up real nice. You slave hot?"

I frowned. Unless a girl could turn straw into gold, being slave hot was the only
way to get a Prime- rating.

"I needed to get an official grading, for my research," I explained, not answering
her question directly. "I went through the entire process, except the
enslavement, of course."
Becky Lou looked at me as if a light bulb had gone off over her head. "Yer' jist
the critter I'm looking fer! Yer' all ex-pert on this here slaving business, and ya'
already have one of them-there official grades. I can slip ya' into the system and
git ya' up on the auction block faster than a tick can jump on a calf!"

"I really don't think so," I said, rising from my chair.

"I can pay ya'," she said. "How does $500 sound?"

"When I serve on boards, I typically get paid $5,000 a day, plus expenses," I
said haughtily. "My shoulder bag cost $750. Look, I'm meeting with some of my
friends from Harvard in a few minutes, so I really have to go. It's been nice
meeting you."

I didn't have anyone to meet with, but I did enjoy strutting out of the coffee
shop and leaving a embarrassed Becky Lou with the tab for my latte. With some
time to kill before the evening reception I went back to my hotel room.
Remembering my conversation with Becky Lou and my Prime- grade, I stripped
naked, slowly turning as I admired my luscious body in the full-length mirror of
my suite.

I was perfect. Well, almost perfect: Prime-. Going through an actual auction
might lead to an actual sales price high enough to raise my grade to Prime, or
even Prime+. I broke out my trusty vibrator as I imagined taking Becky Lou up
on her outrageous offer.

The conference ended, but over the next few days I couldn't stop thinking about
Becky Lou's proposal. The theme parks in Orlando promised "immersive
experiences" and Becky Lou's offer would provide me with a safe way of living
out one of my most delicious fantasies. I wouldn't just be slave hot, I'd be a
slave, for a few hours anyway. A real slave, under Texas State Law, at least until
Becky Lou and the Department of Agriculture freed me.

Becky Lou squealed with delight when I called her back and accepted her offer,
under the guise of "research" for my new book. She was all chuckles and
laughter, and promised to take "real good care of me!" Well, milk my cow, y'all.

"One other thing, Becky Lou," I said. "I want to be sold as an 'extraordinary
talent' slave".

Becky Lou seemed doubtful. "We don't sell many of those."

"I'm not an ordinary person, I'm a highly skilled worker with years of experience
in the slaving industry. I'll bring more money wearing a business suit than a
slave collar."

"Don't know 'bout that," Becky Lou said. "That's usually reserved for celebrity
violinists and shit like that. You're a Prime- girl!"

We went back-and-forth, with Becky Lou arguing that the seldom used
"extraordinary talent" classification was so rare that it wasn't a good test of the
system, and me explaining that I wasn't going to do this unless I could be sold
as a college professor and consultant, not a naked slave girl. There were rules
governing the use of "extraordinary talent" slaves and as a result they were
treated more like indentures than slaves. When she realized that I wasn't
backing down, Becky Lou agreed to fill out the forms my way. I would be a
slave, but classified as "extraordinary talent."

I flew First Class to Austin and met Becky at her offices in the State Capital.
"Well, don't y'all look dolled up!" she said, laughing as I came into her office. Yer
dressed like yer on your way to be sworn in fer President!"

"Uh... I always dress this way," I said, looking down at my tailored Ralph Lauren
business suit. "Besides, I'm going to be sold as 'extraordinary talent', so I'd
better look the part."

"That's what I put 'ya in, fer," Becky Lou confirmed, holding up a stack of forms.

"Oh. Is the paperwork done already?" I asked.

Becky Lou nodded and sat her squat butt on the edge of her desk as I reviewed
my file. My pulse quickened and my mouth turned to cotton as I read my
enslavement request form, on top of the stack. I knew there would be
paperwork, but seeing my enslavement forms another matter altogether. I hand
handled thousands of enslavement files over the years, but this one was
different. This one was mine.

I had expected to spend today preparing for my enslavement, and had packed a
change of clothes in the large shoulder bag I was carrying. But Becky Lou had
downloaded all of my information from the National Slave Registry, and all of my
paperwork was in apple-pie order.

I blushed as I saw that Becky Lou had included my slave assessment. The
assessment included the pictures of me doing my slave squats and spreads that
the grader had filed as part of my assessment. They even had the close-ups of
my wet pussy that demonstrated I was "slave hot"; "the pink shots", as they
were known in the trade.

It was perfectly legal. As a government official in a slave agency Becky had full
access to the national registry. But the bureaucratic nature of the thick stack of
forms didn't make seeing a photo of my spread, wet beaver any less
embarrassing.

"Say cheese!" Becky Lou chuckled as she saw me staring at the photos. "Ya'll
sure do juice up real nice!"

Seeing the photos was surprising, but the truly surprising part was my reaction.
Seeing my enslavement photos, and realizing that Becky Lou had seen every
inch of me, my nipples began to harden and my pussy began to stir.

"I didn't think... you'd see these pictures," I stammered.

"Don't be shy, sweetie," she said, laughing. "Just think of me as your mama!"

I breathed a sigh of relief as I turned back to the front page. Double checking, I
saw the words 'Extraordinary Talent' circled in red pen on the enslavement
request form.

I searched through the stack, stopping at a page buried toward the back. "Wait
a second. This is a court order," I said, looking at a document toward the end of
the stack with the embossed "Lone Star" seal of the Great State of Texas.

"Sure is," she said. "I got Judge Parker to run ya' thru as a self-enslavement, so
we don't gotta get you no criminal cun-viction or mess up yer' credit by treating
ya' as a bankruptcy. But I do need you to sign the enslavement forms."

"I thought we'd handle this more like a grading," I said.

"Nope! This is a sale, darlin'. We could just do it with a title transfer, but a court
order makes it all nice and legal. I nodded, feeling a bit light headed as I stared
at Judge Parker's scrawl of a signature next to the embossed seal. My warm
pussy was juicing like it had during my slave grading. Why was looking at a
government seal so hot?

Becky Lou called in two work colleagues to witness my self-enslavement: Enus,

and idiot with thick glasses who looked like someone's unemployable brother-in-
law, and Rosa, a fat Hispanic woman who looked like a refrigerator with a head.

"So why are you self-enslavin', city girl?" Rosa asked, looking me up-and-down.
"Can't handle the real world? Or do you have a hot slave pussy, that needs to
get fucked all day long?"

I wasn't in the mood. "Fuck off, burrito butt, before I have you deported," I
snapped back.

Rosa looked like she was ready to hit me, but Becky Lou seemed amused. "Now,
now! No time for a pissin' match, ladies, let's git to it!"

Handing me a cheap-ass government pen that took several shakes to get any
ink out of, Becky Lou used her phone to film me signing the form. Rosa and
Enus signed it after me, as witnesses.

Rosa and Enus were all smiles as Rosa filmed me reading my enslavement
declaration.

"I acknowledge that I am making myself a slave, now and forever more, of my
own free will, under Texas Civil Code, Chapter 5 Conveyance, 5.309.1, Self
Enslavement. I convey ownership of my title as a forfeiture to the Texas
Department of Agriculture, Livestock and Slave Division."

"That's it," Becky Lou said, turning off her phone. "You're a slave," she said
flatly.

My heart skipped a beat. I just stared at her.

"Take off your clothes," Rosa said. "Everything."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Taco Bell, but I have a brain. I'm categorized as an
'extraordinary talent.'

"I think yer ridin' on the horse back-werds," Becky Lou said. "I SUBMITTED you
as an expert slave. But when I told Judge Parker what we were enslaving you
fer, he said that don't make no sense, since expert slaves are rarer than hen's
teeth. Plus when I told him you were Prime- and showed him the pictures of you
squatting naked for yer slave gradin' photos, he agreed with me it would be a
waste of hot slave pussy to sell 'ya 'fer 'yer brain."

Picking the forms up off the desk I quickly scanned Judge Parker's order. "You're
going to sell me as a pleasure slut?" I said, reading my sales classification off
the form in disbelief. "This can't be right! I'm a $500 per hour consultant, and a
Ph.D."

"Not no more, darlin'", she chuckled. "Yer slave pussy, now, and I got the
paperwork to prove it. All nice and legal!"
"You lied to me!" I said.

"Did not, little girl," Becky Lou said, switching into her stern mom voice. I gave
ya' the court order. Says "Pleasure Slut" right 'chere, on your sales type. I can't
help it none if y'all didn't read it."

"Expert Slave!" Rosa sniffed. "More like a pleasure slut with shit for brains!"

I shuddered as Becky Lou reached into her desk and handed Rosa a mean
looking riding crop. She's all yer's," Becky Lou said.

"I want you naked in 30 seconds, slut," Rosa said. "Or I'm gonna whip 'yer ass."

I turned to Becky Lou for help, but she was biting her lip to keep from laughing.
Whether she architected this or it was just a horrible mistake, it was clear she
was enjoying the moment.

"Strip?" I said, looking through the transparent glass wall of Becky Lou's office
into the sea of cubicles that made up the floor of the office building. "In front of
all these people?"

"Awww, is the little slave slut shy?" Becky Lou said mockingly, before shaking
her head and laughing. "Ya looked down yer nose pretty good at me when were
at that conference, Professor. Bet you don't look so stuck-up nay-kid!"

"Strip!" Rosa repeated, beating her fat palm impatiently with the crop.
"Everything."

Looking at the shit-eating-grin on Becky Lou's face I realized that she was
relishing my embarrassment. I had been rude to my mama. Now mama spank!

I didn't want to strip naked in a glass office that looked out onto dozens of office
cubes. But my choices were to get naked voluntarily or get naked with a
whipped ass. I quickly took off my jacket and gave it to the obese brown
woman, who stuffed my expensive wool garment into my bag like it was
garbage.

"Look, if I could talk to the Judge..."

"Faster," she said, as I unbuttoned my blouse. "I don't got all day for this."
Reaching forward she grabbed the hem of my garment and pulled it over my
head, popping a few buttons around my wrists as she yanked it off.

"Jist like skinnin' a little bunny rabbit!" Becky Lou guffawed.

In yanking my blouse off, Rosa set my Cartier eyeglasses askew. I started to

adjust them, but she intercepted me, and knocked them off my face and into the
bag that was being used as the hamper for my old life.

"I can't see a thing without those," I protested.

"Yeah, I know," Becky Lou said. "Yer gradin' form said you were ill - lit - erate,"
laughing as she sounded out the word for emphasis.

"I'M NOT ILLITERATE!" I said, deeply insulted. "I just can't read very well
without my glasses."

"You're a pleasure slut, idiot," Rosa said, digging her fat fingers into the
waistband of my skirt. "They're buying your coochie, not your brain."

Rosa yanked my skirt to the ground. Too fat to bend over, she kneeled in front
of me, stealing my shoes and skirt at the same time.

Not wanting her to yank off my bra, I quickly unhooked it and handed it over.
She put her sweaty hand on my chest to brace herself to rise. "Nice tits," Rosa
said, copping a free feel.

"Yeah, she'll bring a good price, all right," Becky Lou agreed. It struck me as an
odd comment; why did Becky Lou care what sort of price I brought?
"Apple watch, diamonds, and anything silver or gold, off," Rosa said flatly.
"Earrings too. Maybe if you let your new master blow his load in your mouth 10
times a day, he'll give you some pretty plastic slave beads."

I deposited my expensive jewelry in the bag, trying to ignore the hard stare
from Rosa and the grinning Becky Lou.

"Okay, you know what comes next, slave girl," Rosa snapped, staring fire at my
soft, silk, lace, pink panties as she spoke. "Put those rich girl fancy pants in the
bag, and do it NOW."

I was conscious of Enus, and maybe a dozen other workers, crowded outside of
Becky Lou's office window, watching intently as I performed my slow,
humiliating striptease-to-order. Without my glasses I couldn't see their
expressions in detail, but a few of them were carrying coffee cups, apparently
having stopped on their way back from a break to watch Rosa strip some stupid
slave girl butt naked.

As embarrassing as it was, I was very conscious of the riding crop that Rosa had
picked up off the desk and was now tapping against her fat little hand. Trying
not to make too big a show of it, I took off my panties as demurely as possible
and handed them to Rosa to drop in the bag.

No such luck. Instead of dropping them she checked the crotch. "They're
soaked!" she cackled. "Little puta likes taking off her clothes."

Rosa handed them to Becky Lou, who fingered the crotch and then held them up
to her hose to take a good whiff! "Whoo-eee!" she said. "Smells like Miss Fancy
Britches got the Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, right between her legs!"

Becky Lou made a point of showing the people looking through the window my
crotch stain before dropping my last remaining garment in my bag.

"Rug matches the drapes," Becky Lou noted, staring at my closely trimmed
pubic patch. "That will increase her price. All nice and blonde and golden, like a
baby canary."

"More like a glory hole on an I-35 truck stop", Rosa sneered. "I hope they get a
Brillo pad and scrub out any crotch critters before they put her smelly twat on
the block."

"They know what they are doing," Becky Lou replied. "They've handle her sort
everyday."

My sort? Who "they" were or where I was going was still a mystery, but I had
more immediate concerns. Spinning me around Rosa expertly zip-tied my hands
behind my back before I even knew what was happening.

"I see this ayn't yer first rodeo," Becky Lou said, complimenting her co-worker
on her speed and dexterity. "I'm not sure when they're going auction her. It's
getting late, so they may do it tomorrow, or let her sit in the sale inspection
pens for a week. I'll set a notification on my phone, to make sure I can get there
in time for the auction."

"Here that, fancy britches?" Rosa said, fondling my ass as she whispered into my
ear. "Better hope she gets her notification, before they sell your juicy coochie to
some Mexican puta palace."

"I'm done with her," Becky Lou said dismissively. "Ship her out."

Rosa pushed me toward the door.

"Wait! I said. "Don't take me out there... in front of everyone... like this! Give
me something to wear."

"Oh, that's right," Becky Lou said. I was gonna give you this to cover up with."

Beck Lou took a plastic slave poncho out of her desk drawer and shook it out. It
had a hole for a head, and would cover my body without having to remove the
cuffs.

Becky Lou reached up to put it over my head, but then stopped.

"You know, I got this fer ya' when you were fancy pants consultant, but you
sure-as-shit ayn't that now," she said thoughtfully. "I COULD put this on you,
and cover ya' up," she paused, drawing out the suspense, "but I like you just
fine the way you are, Sarah, ha-ha!" she said, tweaking my nose.

"Please," I pleaded. "I'm a college Professor. I teach at Harvard!"

"No, you're a pleasure slut, and I got the court order to prove it," she said.
"You're not a consultant, you're a slave, and slaves go to market slave naked.
So long, pleasure slut. See ya' on the auction block."

I found out what "slave naked" meant firsthand when Rosa flung open the door,
grabbed my ear, and propelled me forward with a sharp SLAP across my naked
ass.

Rosa swatted me into the crowd of grinning gawks. Several of them took
advantage to run a finger through my blonde strawberry patch, tug my curly
blond hair, or squeeze my breasts or bottom. With my hands cinched behind my
back there was nothing I could do to protect myself.

"Coming through! Coming through!" Rosa shouted, propelling me forward as one

hand yanked my ear while the other fondled my naked ass. "Fresh slave pussy!
Fresh pussy! Hot, wet, and ready!"

I blushed, partially because of my nudity, but mostly because everything she

was saying was true. The institutional flooring felt cold and dirty, but as the
much shorter Hispanic woman was holding me up by my ear I was walking
mostly on the balls of my feet.

The elevator bank was dead ahead, but Rosa turned right, pushing me into the
main aisle and parading me past literally dozens of government workers.
"Coming through! Fresh Slave Pussy!" she yelled, attracting as much attention
as possible. She was doing everything but ringing a bell.

With my glasses in my bag I couldn't see the detailed expressions of the workers
smiling at me, but I could hear their wolf whistles.

"Nice slave pussy."

"All moist and juicy."

"Bet she's a great hump."

"Yeah, if she moves her big ass, ha-ha!"

Rosa was putting me on "slave parade." The worst part was that the more
people ogled me, and hooted at me, and humiliated me, the wetter I got. If I
were an actual slave girl, I'd call it "block pussy", the reaction that the most
lascivious slave meat gets when they are exposed on the auction block.

Seeing the lustful looks and cruel smirks I tried to talk myself down. "You're not
slave pussy. You're name is Sarah, and you teach at Harvard, and you have a
million dollar slave consulting business. You are an intelligent, highly educated
professional woman, respected in the field. Yes, there is a court order making
you a pleasure slut, but that's just for show. I am not a pleasure slut. I am not a
pleasure slut."

Rosa stopped in the break room, leaving me standing in front of at least a dozen
people as she leisurely drank a glass of water. A hard slap on my ass and we
were out the door again, rounding the corner.

"What's the matter, little puta? Don't you like being slave naked? You'd better
get used to everyone staring at your coochie, because no one is going to bother
giving clothes to a little slut like you."

She paraded me slave naked around the entire floor, subjecting me to countless
leers, stares, wolf whistles, and lewd comments. After making sure everyone
had their fun with me, she brought me back to where we started, and we took
the freight elevator down.

My cage was waiting for me at the loading dock. Rosa stuffed a putrid brown
canvas bit gag into my mouth, then yanked the strap tight before buckling it
onto the back of my head. The pony bit forced my mouth into a permanent
forced smile, and she teased it was wonderful to see me "so happy to be sold."

Rosa snapped a temporary collar around my neck and locked it into place. My
pet crate had a sleeve for my bill of lading, but it was paper. The collar had a
chip in it that would track everywhere I went.

A hard slap across my ass punctuated her command to get into "doggie position,
bitch". I dropped on all fours and backed into my pet crate. I watched in horror
as the smiling Rosa made a big show of closing the latch and locking it shut with
a tiny padlock.

Rosa laughed as I stupidly bounced the lock off the tip of my nose, a futile
gesture that only proved how helpless I truly was.

"I'm sorry I'm not going to be able to watch them sell your hot, stinky coochie,
my little white puta," she sneered, hitting me on the nose with her finger. "But if
we meet again, maybe I'll have time to let you eat my pussy."

I was loaded onto a rusty white panel truck by a large Hispanic truck driver who
said nothing to me. He pointed a bar code scanner at me, and it gave out a
satisfied BEEP! as I was scanned into his inventory. Great. I was now "goods in
transit."

The driver wasn't wearing a uniform. Was this even a delivery service? Where
the fuck was I going, anyway? The truck had something written on the side, but
without my glasses I couldn't read it. I didn't need to read, or know where I was
going. I was a stupid, illiterate slave girl.
As my journey progressed, the depth of my feeble mindedness and stupidity
became readily apparent. The truck wasn't air conditioned, and quickly turned
into a pizza oven. Like the foolish little bimbo I was, I drooled as I chewed my
disgusting leather bit and stupidly hit the little lock with my nose as if that would
accomplish anything.

I assumed I was going to be sold locally, but we went out onto the highway and
my head hit the barred ceiling of my crate over-and-over. After the first hour of
banging around in my pet crate, it became obvious that my journey would be a
long one.

Where were we going? The biggest slave markets were in Houston, although San
Antonio, being a tourist hub, also did a brisk business. I knew Becky Lou was
testing the system; was she going to sell me out of state, in New Orleans?
Arkansas was a hellhole; she wouldn't send me there, would she?

I hoped I wasn't going to Mexico. That could be bad... very bad.

Squeezing my thighs together I passed the time by masturbating myself to

multiple orgasms as the delivery truck with no shocks hauled me down the
highway to parts unknown.

Sandy Foot Girl Ch. 02: The Journey

byJoe_Doe_Stories©

I was stark naked in a dog crate, with my hands cinched behind my back by a
cheap plastic tie. The white truck was hot and I felt every bump as my head hit
the top of my steel dog cage, but my position wasn't the worst of my miseries.

For starters, I had no idea where I was going. I had assumed I was going to be
sold in Austin, but when Becky Lou Brainless had fouled that up beyond all
recognition by misclassifying me as a so-called "Pleasure Slut" I'd inadvertently
become just another piece of slave tail to be traded back between the major
slave markets in Austin, Dallas, Houston, Larado, and El Paso. Of course if Becky
Lou decided to check an out-of-state market I might be auctioned in New
Orleans, Oklahoma City, Jackson, Little Rock, or Nashville. Depending on market
conditions I might be trucked as far east as Atlanta, as far west as Albuquerque,
or as far North as Kansas City.

As I had no idea of what my bill-of-lading said I had no idea where I was or how
far I might be traveling. The shitty truck I was on had a few non-descript boxes
in it, but I I didn't even know if it was a licensed delivery service. Keeping my
freight costs cheap meant I could be scalp traded anywhere in the country a
broker might make a few more cents on a tall, blonde slave girl.

I was used to flying first class and having private cars and limos prearranged.
My unaccustomed and highly unusual ignorance of my destination was as
aggravating as it was terrifying. "Slave girls have questions, but only masters
have answers." I wasn't a slave slut, of course, although I had to admit that in
my present situation the adage did have the sting of truth.

I had other miseries as well. The disgusting and well chewed leather slave bit in
my mouth was not only forcing my mouth into a permanent "slave smile", it was
also causing me to drool, which mixed my saliva in with the endless parade of
slave sluts who had chewed on this gag before me. It was salty and had a
chlorine smell, and as a slaving professional I knew all to well what the source of
that particular ingredient in the disgusting stew sloshing around in my mouth
was. Slave wranglers and delivery men sometimes amused themselves by
jacking off onto slave gags, knowing that countless slave girls would taste their
scum for years to come. I wondered how many lowlife truckers and interns and
unwashed delivery guys I was sucking off right now. How many slave sluts had
masturbated their dirty twats with my leather gag? More than I wanted to think
about.

I had never tasted "slave soup" as it was wryly called, and I wish I didn't
understand so well the flavors in my mouth. The downside of being a slaving
professional was I understood every indignity that was being visited upon me. I
had devised many of them. I laughed about them, and snickered as I had sent
countless slave girls off to their fate. My detailed knowledge of - indeed, my
culpability - in the indignities I was now suffering made the taste in my mouth
all the more bitter.

I was being shipped in a standard sized pet crate, built for a Golden Retriever or
a Labrador. As I am nearly six foot it wasn't large enough for me to maneuver
my hands in front of me, which would have given me the leverage to break the
cheap plastic zip tie that bound my wrists. I wondered if Rosa's choice of this
particular crate had been random, strategic, cheap, or just cruel. I settled on
cruel, as the little taco eater didn't seem any brighter than Becky Lou Bundy, the
architect of my current predicament.

Becky Lou! How could anyone be so stupid? If Becky Lou hadn't been a complete
moron she would have told me that Judge Parker had misclassified me as a
Pleasure Slut before I signed the stupid forms, when the mistake could have
been easily rectified, or I could have simply backed out.

No doubt about it: like most rural people, Becky Lou had shit-for-brains. I had
pegged her from the first as country-stupid, a witless cornpone bureaucrat in a
stupid cowboy hat and shit-kicking boots. My mistake had been in not double-
checking and then triple-checking her work. Foolish of me, since I doubted
Becky Lou could use an ATM without creating a banking crisis.

As the hours passed and my long trip entered what I supposed to be its second
hour I had ample time to chew on more than just my gag.

What if Becky Lou wasn't the feckless fool I had taken her for? What if my
misclassification as a Pleasure Slut had been her objective rather than the result
of her barnyard incompetence? Perhaps there was a reason she had pulled my
file, and shown Judge Parker my grading forms, and the pictures of me squatting
naked that had been taken during my slave grading.

Why go see the Judge at all? She could have just classified me as a criminal
enslavement or a debt enslavement through her office without actually getting a
court order, which would have made it easier to fix the later. Instead she filed an
genuine and legally binding enslavement order, then took the time to schedule a
meeting with Judge Parker, a meeting where she showed him picture of my hot,
wet "slave pussy".

As I got hotter and more exhausted I became more desperate. I tried to break
out of my zip tie cuffs, but with my hands tied behind my back I could not. I
tried to shake off my gag, or use my tongue to push it even a little out of my
mouth, to wipe the ridiculous "slave smile" off my face, a condition caused by
Rosa cruelly tightening the straps on my gap until my lips were pulled back and
my teeth exposed. My efforts only swirled the disgusting taste of dried sperm
and old spit around my mouth, and covered my face in my own drool.

I tried to think. Judge Parker was the name on my enslavement form. Had I
heard that name before? I had a vague recollection of having met a Judge
Parker when I had given a presentation at The Slave Expo conference in
Houston. I was lecturing to a packed ballroom at the Convention Center about
changes in The Uniform Slave Act. I remembered Parker's name because he had
a thick accent, and when he introduced himself I thought his name was Piker,
and everyone laughed. Not enjoying being the butt of the joke, Parker frowned.

Giving the matter my full attention I recalled the event. I was speaking in a huge
conference room in the Convention Center. There were lots of questions after my
presentation. Judge Parker had been one of the first to raise his hand.

In a room filled with colorful Texas characters Judge Rufus Parker made an
impression. He was so fat he used the chair in front of him to stand up. He had a
white goatee, and white sideburns, and was dressed in an all white suit, with an
enormous white cowboy hat. I asked him to remove his hat, "so everyone can
see you, and because you are talking to a lady, Sir."

This got some laughter, which he didn't like, and the removal of his hat got
some more laughter, as it revealed the world's worst comb over, which the hat
had disturbed, and which left his chrome dome bald, with a long strand of white
hair hanging down to his shoulder. He fiddled with it as the huge crowd laughed
at him, and the smiling photographer recording the event snapped his picture.
Judge Parker was in the second row, so I walked across the stage to his section.
He was fat and squat, and the removal of his Texas-tall cowboy hat further
diminished his non-existent stature. I'm a tall and quite leggy blonde, and with
the added height of the stage I literally towered over him, a supermodel talking
to a fat, bald, child.

When the usherette gave him his microphone his voice was loud and gruff. "My
slavin' court's as busy as a one legged man at an ass kickin' convention. I'm
'hell-bent-for-leather, and I want to brand these slave bitches while the iron's
still white hot! The little bitches kneel in front of my bench, cryin' and whinin'
about how they don't wanna be slaves, not giving two shits about falling bee-
hind on their stew-dent loans, or the people their daddies owe money too! I got
me a 'hankerin' to grease the chute, and git that slave pussy in their collars,
without so much paper-shufflin'!"

I chuckled as I smiled down at the merciless little ogre still fussing with his
ridiculous comb over; what an absurd figure he was!

Smiling, I explained that I had been working with the Texas Department of
Agriculture to "expedite the entire enslavement process." I quickly revised the
phrase to "simply the forms" when he frowned. Idiot! I finally got a smile out of
him when I promised he could enslave girls "liked greased lightning", and "get
'em quick out of the chute."

The form I had designed had indeed been much more efficient, with a large area
on top that allowed the Slave Registration Number and Name of the girl to be
written in by hand, a checkbox for the girl's classification, and a large bottom
area for Judge Parker's loose, lazy scrawl. I knew the form well, as I had moved
it through several prototypes. Sometimes I had actually written my own name
and SRN number on the prototypes. It was just for testing purposes, of course,
but I have to admit it had given me a delicious little scary tingle to see my name
on a slave order, even if it was fake.

Of course the version Becky Lou had shown me in the office was real, with a
control number in the upper left hand corner, and the embossed seal of the
Great State of Texas marking it as a binding legal document. A single quick
diagonal stroke checked the box that defined my current status: "Pleasure Slut".

On the bottom of the form Judge Rufus Parker's fat, braggadocios "R" and "P"
were the largest letters and the only ones that were vaguely legible. I had given
Judge Rufus Parker a large signature box, and the little fat oaf had used it to
send me naked into the slave market with a fat signature and a florid flourish.

I wondered if Judge Parker remembered me. The naked slave slut in my grading
photos bore scant resemblance to the impressive professional woman who had
held the room rapt through a 90-minute presentation in the jam-packed Houston
Convention Center.

Still, if Rosa explained who I was he might have remembered me. Would the fact
that he knew me cause him a moment's hesitation? I'm quite certain it would
not! I'm sure it would have amused him to see the tall blonde amazon who had
towered over him and mispronounced his name naked in a dog crate with a bit
between her teeth. It probably made his tiny little pecker hard as his fat little
fingers chicken scribbled out his ridiculously large signature.

Yes, enslaving me had probably excited him. But the inexplicable part was the
thought of him casually processing my enslavement forms excited ME. As I knelt
naked in my dog cage, the disgusting bit in my mouth, my honey pot began to
drip anew as I imagined Judge Rufus Parker smirking at my unsigned form,
relishing his power over the leggy blonde who had humiliated him in the
crowded ballroom.

He wouldn't take TOO long on my form, of course. His contemptuously scrawled

signature was his way of marking that my enslavement wasn't worth more than
a few seconds of his time. But I imagined he took a distinct pleasure at the little
WHIRR sound the electronic embossing machine made as he branded the Texas
"Star" shield onto my enslavement papers, literally sealing my fate.

Remembering his comment about "branding the bitches while the iron is white
hot" I clenched my bottom cheeks together. I knew that if Judge Rufus Parker
had his way, the Texas embossing seal might be the first of many "brands" in
my future.

Perhaps it was the heat, or the slave soup, but the thought of Judge Parker
signing an expedited enslavement form that I myself had redesigned was both
horrifying and incredibly exciting. Judge Parker was a clown and a fool, but the
thought of such a buffoon having total control over my destiny really got my
juices flowing. My stomach turned and my pussy grew hotter as I recalled his
follow up question:

"Reckon I git' a hankerin' to watch the little snooty little bitches I enslave gittin'
their cute little assess auction'd off. Can yer new fancy-pants system help me
find out which pussy market they sluts 'r goin' too?"

"It certainly will," I said proudly. "It will all be on the computer, including the
initial destination or point-of-sale. You can have your secretary help you if you
can't figure it out."

There was more laughter at this, with Judge Parker did not like at all. I
swallowed hard, gurgling down more slave soup in the process. Judge Parker
could use the system I had designed to track me like an overnight package. That
disgusting little pig could even use a phone app to check on my progress. I was
"out for delivery" right now, and Judge Parker would easily see the information I
desperately wanted to know: where I was going to be sold, and the estimated
time to my destination.

Slave girls had questions, but only masters had answers.

Would Judge Parker "git a hankerin' to come to my auction? I shuddered at the

thought. Thinking of the disgusting pig-of-a-judge sitting in the front row made
me sick to my stomach even as my honeypot spasmed with pleasure. I'd be
higher them him again, on the auction block. But I wouldn't look nearly so tall
on all fours, my legs spread wide, showing the grinning troll my sloppy wet
pussy and tight little butthole.
Why, oh why, had Becky Lou dragged Judge Parker into this? I had been proud
when my hot pussy had earned me a Prime- grade, but with Becky Lou at the
controls my randiness had earned me an official enslavement as a Pleasure Slut.
Going to court seemed like a lot of work, particularly for an incompetent, slow-
witted imbecile like Becky Lou.

Or perhaps Becky Lou wasn't as stupid as I had supposed. I new she resented
the way I had talked down to her when we had first met, as if there was anyway
for someone like me to talk to her that wasn't talking down. More than once she
had referred to me as "uppidy" in the ghastly Texas twang of hers, and she
seemed positively delighted when her pal Rosa stripped me down to the buff and
paraded me slave naked around the office.

Rosa: there was another one! An even lesser, swarthy version of Becky Lou, she
was the sort who could lift a ton but couldn't spell it. Still, she had the zip-tie for
my hands and my slave cage ready, and seemed to know all about me even
though we had just met. Had Becky Lou spilled the tea to Rosa, or Judge Parker?
I wondered what she had said.

Slave girls had questions, but only masters had answers.

Time dragged on. I felt the pressure in my bladder grow. My slave cage had a
plastic floor with a tall lip, but I didn't relish the thought of sloshing around in
my own urine and smelling it as the temperature in the truck brought it to a low
simmer.

My nose crinkled at the smell of the slave soup cooking in the truck. No, this had
to be a mistake. If there was a conspiracy then Becky Lou and Rosa and perhaps
even the oafish Judge Parker had outsmarted me, which was clearly impossible.
After all, I was a Harvard Professor, and if they all studied together they couldn't
figure out half the words in one of my academic papers. I had a million dollar
consulting business, and I wouldn't have hired any one of them to shine my
Gucci shoes.
Hmmmm... My $1800 Gucci shoes were now sitting in a bag back at Becky Lou's
air-conditioned office, along with my purse and cellphone and everything I had
brought to Texas. I, on the other hand, was trying not to pee or wretch in my
own slave slobber as I sped down the highway in a delivery truck for terror
incognita: parts unknown.

I glanced up at the plastic sleeve, which contained my bill of lading and other
paperwork. I desperately wanted to read it, but with my hands cinched behind
me I couldn't even sniff it or touch it with my nose. Even if I could reach it I
couldn't read it, not without my glasses. Rosa, idiot that she was, hadn't given
me a chance to put in my contacts, which meant that my long vision was fuzzy
and my close vision was a total blur. Fucking idiot!

Great. I wasn't just a slave slut. I was a brainless, illiterate slave slut. Thank
you, Rosa.

My bill of lading probably had the Slave Registration Number that I'd had
tattooed inside my upper lip during my slave grading. Humiliating as it was, I
hoped the BOL had my correct SRN. Otherwise I might be lost in-transit. I
shuddered at the thought.

How stupid could Becky Lou be? As I bounced along in my cage I pondered the
thought. Although she worked for the Slave Division, I'm betting Becky Lou's
barnyard brain didn't understand the nuanced legal distinction between an
Expert Slave and a Pleasure Slut. Expert Slaves were treated like indentured
servants, but pleasure sluts were another thing altogether.

I wondered where I was going. Slave sales from a licensed slave dealer were
deemed "final, uncontestable, and irreversible".

At Stanford I had learned about the landmark case US v. Madison. The Supreme
Court ruled that in order to avoid endlessly contesting enslavements, sales by
registered slave dealers were considered final unless the enslaving party, the
buyer, and the seller were ALL party to a fraudulent enslavement. Furthermore
the enslavement had to be contested and proven fraudulent within 30 calendar
days of the sale.

The conservatives on the court had purposely set an absurdly high bar for
reversals. As it was exceedingly easy to delay court cases beyond 30 days, and
very rare for the buyer, seller, and enslaving party to all be found guilty of fraud
within this tiny temporal window, it effectively meant, as the court memorably
phrased it, "At auctions, the gavel is final."

Although she had been working at slavers all her life, I doubt an uneducated hick
like Becky Lou had the brainpower to understand what sending me to a licensed
auction house meant. Slave girls sometimes referred to the auction block as "the
gallows", because there was no going back. I always thought that it was slave
girl dramatics, but sweating it out in the back of the truck with my heart racing
the analogy seemed spot on.

As the minutes turned into hours I passed the time in the only way available to
me, rubbing my thighs together and squeezing my pussy the best I could in a
desperate attempt to relieve the tension. Pleasure sluts did this all the time; that
was one of the reasons their dirty little mitts were tied behind their backs. I
wasn't anything like them, of course, but it would have nice to take the edge off.

Yes, it would have been nice to touch myself. Really nice. Really, really nice.

Tick-tock! BUMP! BUMP! Tick-tock, tick-tock. The pressure in my bladder grew.

Damn! Oh, how I wish she had left my hands freed! How I would have pleasured
myself then!

With no way to physically stimulate myself I closed my eyes and concentrated

on the shocking images of my cruel and undeserved downfall:

-Becky Lou's stupidity in showing Judge Parker my slave grading pictures

-Judge Parker slobbering over the pictures of my slave grading as he recalled the
beautiful Yankee in the Convention Center who had humiliated him that day. I
imagined his fierce, beady eyes burning into each picture of my naked body that
the idiotic Becky Lou had so foolishly presented to him: my naked slave profile
pictures, full length, 'slave naked', front, side, and back, and the pictures of me
squatting. The pictures of me on all fours, legs spread, showing off everything I
had, and, of course, the pictures of my hot, wet, "slave" pussy. Becky Lou, idiot
that she was, had given the dirty old man the perfect excuse to ignore my years
of experience and college degrees and reclassify me as a Pleasure Slut. Indeed,
the slow-witted government bureaucrat had inadvertently presented my
vengeful victim with a de facto case for my enslavement. Small wonder his
signature had been so big.

-Did Judge Parker take the time to review my file? I had clipped the front page
of my tax return to my self-enslavement form. I wasn't bragging, or trying to
show up Becky Lou, exactly. (Well, maybe a little.) But my seven-figure salary
established my bona fides as an expert; surely the Judge couldn't have missed
that? As my pussy juiced I imagined the old goat licking his lips at the prospect
of stripping the uppity Harvard Professor of all her wealth and privilege and
sending her slave naked to the auction block. I squeezed my thighs together as I
imagined his tiny, withered old cock forming a nice stiffy as he signed the forms
sealing my fate. I wondered if he would come to my auction, to watch me squat,
and spread, and prance, under the crack of the whip! It wouldn't surprise me in
the least, and the thought of him watching my sale both galled me to the core
and sent my pussy into spasms of pleasure.

-Becky Lou grinning and chuckling as Rosa ordered me to strip. "Ya looked down
yer nose pretty good at me when were at that conference, Professor," Becky Lou
had said. "Bet you don't look so stuck-up nay-kid!" Dim-bulb that she was,
Becky Lou was right about that: she had not only stripped me of my clothes, she
had stripped me of my pride and dignity, laughing at me as she did it.

-That bitch Rosa parading me slave naked through the office. It had been
infuriating and deeply mortifying, as men I wouldn't have given the time of day
to looked at me up and down like I was some sort of hot, wet fuck bunny. So
what if I my pussy was wet, and my juices were dribbling down my thighs?
Being excited by a slave fantasy didn't mean I was a slave. When Rosa was in
the break room drinking her water one of the more loathsome pervs - a fat,
bald, bespectacled nerd who probably lived in his parents basement,
"accidentally" dropped his comic book - excuse me, "graphic novel" - at my feet.
It was called, "Slave Girl on Gonos" and featured a naked slave girl standing on
an auction block in front of a group of reptilian aliens, like as a slave girl she
didn't have enough problems. Kneeling down to pick up my magazine, he took a
good whiff of my wet pussy, commented that I smelt "tangy, like apple cider."
He actually reached for my snatch, but fortunately for me Rosa returned and
slapped me hard on the ass to propel me out of the room, saving me from the
probing fingers of Johnny Appleseed.

-The women were worse. A few of the younger ones looked amused, and were
clearly pleased to see me being put in my place. A fat dyke with a buzz cut and
a two overlapping female gender symbols actually licked her lips and whistled as
Rosa paraded me by. Rosa, ever thoughtful, stopped and forced me through a
nice-slow-spin so that the tomboy lesbo could have a good look at everything I
had.

-A lot of the older women looked at me with unbridled contempt, if not active
hatred. "Trollop", "Harlot", "Disgusting", and "Pig Slut" were a few of the milder
terms I heard. A crabby old woman who told her equally ugly friend she hoped
they "branded my whorish ass." My cheeks clenched in panic, as I knew that if
someone actually mistook me for a real slave girl that option was very much on
the regular menu. I understood their anger: I had often remarked myself that
slave sluts who juiced themselves in public needed a hot iron and a good dose of
the whip. Of course, I wasn't actually a slave slut, but a professional woman on
an undercover assignment. That made all the difference.

What excited me most was that every single person I had passed had mistaken
me for a randy, naked slave slut. I had passed many of these people on my way
to Becky Lou's office; didn't they remember me? The receptionist who had been
so polite and had offered me coffee when I had arrived now looked at me like I
was a cockroach she'd like to grind under her heel.
Becky Lou was clearly a very low IQ individual, yet somehow the hapless country
bumpkin had shucked off my old identity like the husk on an ear of corn. The
shit-eating grin on face said it all: whatever our previous relationship, Becky Lou
was now a government official overseeing the Slave Division and I was simply
tits-and-pussy in a crate on my way to parts unknown.

After several hours of banging around in my metal dog crate I could feel us
slowing down as we exited the expressway. We slowed down, then stopped,
then started again.

I had no idea where we were going. Had we reached our final destination, or was
the driver simply going to let me cook in back while he enjoyed a burger and a
milkshake at some truck stop?

There was always the chance that he was stopping for a quick blowjob. It was a
frightening thought, for in my present situation if he had a slave prod there
wasn't much I was going to be able to do to resist him.

A few stoplights later the truck finally parked and the driver pulled up the back
gate, blinding me with the light.

As I tried to shield my eyes from the light I felt my cage slide down the truck's
loading ramp. I heard him scan the barcode on my bill-of-lading, which gave off
a satisfied BEEP.

I struggled to open my eyes. I was in a large receiving dock. I watched as my

driver handed his electronic pad to the receiving clerk, a bored Asian girl in her
late teens who signed it with the haste and indifference of a girl who signed
shipping receipts for a living. I couldn't see her face well from my position in the
cage, but I stared at her surprisingly smart sneakers as she signed the pad that
gave her total possession of me.

My eyes struggled to adjust as she recited me my rote "greeting":

"You are at The Big D Livestock and Market in Dallas, Texas. You are here for
processing and sale as a pleasure slut. I am required by law to tell you that the
slave collar you will be fitted with can deliver a powerful and extremely painful
electric shock if you attempt to leave this building without permission.
Additionally, all Big D employees are authorized to use any means deemed
necessary to compel you to comply with all orders given to you, and those
means include electrical shock and whipping. If you follow my instructions you
will not be hurt. Do you understand?"

Miss Saigon demonstrated the price of my disobedience by holding a slave prod

in front of my wide eyes and pressing the trigger. My head hit the top of the
cage as I watched the electricity jump between the two sharp metal prongs
accompanied by a ZZZZZT! ZZZT! sound.

"Do you understand?" she repeated sharply.

I nodded and shouted YES into my gag. What else was I supposed to do? As my
eyes adjusted further I became conscious of a black woman talking to a woman
with long red hair. The redhead caught my eye as she was in a black skirt and
white blouse, and was scribbling notes in some sort of notebook. Everyone else
was wearing coveralls or polo shirts with The Big D logo, but the redhead was
dressed in a smart but not overly expensive suit, rather like a substitute teacher.

I was so stunned by what had happened that it wasn't until my eyes were finally
able to focus on the BIG D LIVESTOCK & SLAVE MARKET, with a D inscribed
inside a lasso, that I even realized where I was. I knew this place well. In fact, I
had helped reengineer it.

The owner of The Big D, Jake Henry, hired me to help supervise a remodeling of
his auction house to facilitate his shift from cattle to slave girls. Jake had already
hired an architect that had advised him to tear down the main building and
replace it with an entirely new structures inspired by the classical slave markets
of ancient Rome.

My advice to Jake was simpler: don't change a thing.

"This is Dallas, and it started as a cow town," I explained in my slide
presentation. "That's the tradition you need to build on, not Greece or Rome.
You're still selling livestock, only now some of the cows have two hooves instead
of four. But the rest is the same. I can help you streamline your operations, turn
your inventory over faster, and reduce your holding costs. But the physical
operation here is beautiful. It needs to be enhanced, not destroyed."

Jake Henry LOVED my proposal, and had hired me to supervise the modifications
to the facility. While I didn't remember all of the details of what I had done, I did
recall taking great delight in processing the slave girls like cattle.

The Asian chick used her foot to slide my cage on a blue handcart with the BIG
D logo. I swallowed hard as she pushed me across the loading dock and through
the doors and into the brutal system I had engineered.

The girl pushed me fast. "You gotta move that pussy, Jake," I had counseled,
mimicking a Texas twang as best as my Brahman accent would allow. "Every
second a girl is waiting in her cage is a second you aren't making money.
"Slaughterhouses don't make no money being sentimental, and you can't make
no money neither."

What was going to happen to me? I struggled to remember the "process" I had
designed. Why was the black woman in the coveralls and the woman with the
notebook following my handcart?

My plan had been to be sold as an expert slave at a small private auction in

Austin, but instead I had been crated and shipped off to The Big D, where I
would be paraded naked on the auction block. The faux prototype forms I had so
playfully put my name on had given me a deliciously naughty tingle, and a "fun
fear." But the enslavement order Judge Rufus Parker had signed and stamped
was totally real, and there was nothing fun about the fear I felt now.

How long until I was sold? Did Becky Lou already have confederates on site,
ready to purchase me? Did she even know where I was, or had my shipment
been accidentally diverted to Dallas?
Slave girls have questions, but only masters have answers. One thing was clear:
my fate would be sealed with the BANG of an auctioneer's gavel.

I couldn't believe how fortune had turned on me. As fate would have it, I was
not only going to be sold, I was going to be sold in a literal cattle market,
processed like livestock in a house-of-horrors of my own design.

Sandy Foot Girl Ch. 03: Feeling Blue

byJoe_Doe_Stories©

The receiving dock was crowded with girls in their cages. I had introduced
adjustable metal frames which allowed cages of various sizes to be stacked, up
to twenty to thirty feet high. It wasn't particularly pleasant to be in a cage 30
feet in the air, waiting for a forklift operator to retrieve you, but it was even less
pleasant to be in a lower cage, where the girl above might pee on you.

Too bad, so sad: my redesign of The Big D was about profit, not pleasure.

I was surprised at how crowded the loading dock was, but I didn't have time to
count the unhappy girls around me as the Asian girl controlling my handcart
quickly wheeled me away from receiving, using my cage to BANG open two
swinging doors with the ominous word PROCESSING on them.

The black woman in coveralls and the woman in the suit with the long red hair
were waiting for me there. As I entered there was a conversation in progress,
and in my cage, I stared at the black woman's leather working boots and the
woman's cheap low heel shoes hoping to learn their identities.

"Are you sure you don't want to just walk through each section?" The black
woman asked.

"No, I'd rather follow one slave through the entire process," the redhead replied
in a clipped British accent. "It might be better for my readers to personalize it a
bit and see how one girl goes through the entire system. I can get some pictures
of her, too. I'm not sure if we can use them in the newspaper, but my editor said
I should get them anyway."

"I bet he did." The black woman in the coveralls shrugged.

The British reporter's accent wasn't cockney, exactly, but it wasn't Royal RP. She
sounded like she was trying to sound better than she was. She was a little
striver, with cheap shoes which were a pale imitation of my Gucci shoes back in
Becky Lou's office. This limy cub reporter was going to do a story about me?
How insulting! But soon I had bigger problems.

Unlocking the absurdly tiny metal lock which had held me firmly in place for the
last several hours the Asian girl grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and
yanked me to my feet. I could feel a surge of pain in my wobbly legs as I was
finally allowed to stand.

"Oh, my!" the British reporter said. "She is a tall drink of water, isn't she?"

"Yeah, that probably helped her get her Prime Minus grade," the black woman
said, reading my grade off her iPad. The iPads had been my idea - they were
faster than shuffling papers.

The Asian chick reached up to pull back my upper lip, which was easy to do since
I was still gagged. She did a read-back of my Slave Registration Number tattoo,
which the black woman checked against the number on my bill of lading. She did
a second read-back, which the black woman used to pull up my file on her iPad.

This "double check" of the SRN had been my idea - it only took a few seconds
but making sure the receipts and shipments were correct was the key to proper
inventory control. I had redesigned The Big D's inventory control system. Now I
was inventory.

The reporter was about 5'6", and the black woman was only a bit taller. I was
nearly a foot taller than Miss Saigon, who I supposed was in college but was the
size of a little kid. I could have easily kicked her ass, but my hands were cinched
behind my back, and I was still gagged. Without even looking at me she
snapped a slave collar around my neck. The prongs were much sharper than the
"play collar" I used at home, and there were pointy metal prongs in both front
and back. I winced into my gag as she snapped it on, and the automatic locking
bolt SNAPPED into place.

"Oh, my," the reporter said. "Do those collars hurt?" I glared at her. Stupid
English bitch! Of course it hurt!

The black woman held up the remote control to my collar. "You're a Prime
Minus, so you know what happens when I press this button, right?"

I nodded obediently, and sincerely. The battery pack on my neck was large, and
she'd get no trouble from me. I also knew that if I made a run for the gate with
the collar on, the perimeter security would drop me like an insect running into a
bug zapper before I got ten feet from the building.

The black woman turned her attention to me. "Prone!" She barked. "Nose on the
cement."

My hands were still cuffed behind my back, so I had to kneel first, and then sort
of fall face forward onto the concrete. As per her instructions I pressed my
naked body and nose hard against the freezing cold cement.

"Oh my, she is... obedient," the reporter said stupidly.

"You'd be obedient too, if they put a shock collar on you, bitch," I thought.

The next part of the conversation was so horrible it didn't fully register in my
brain.

"You got her lot tag?" The black woman said.

"Yeah, right here," the Asian girl replied.

"Let's get her clipped."

I winced when the black woman's work boot clenched down on the back of my
neck, holding me in place. "Hold still," she commanded flatly. "This is going to
hurt."

"Tagging" had been my idea, inspired by a tour of the lot where I had noticed
that the cattle had color-coded plastic tags hanging from their ears. The odd part
is that although I had introduced the idea of tagging slave girls, I didn't even
realize, until I saw the Asian girl take the belt punch off her belt and clip the blue
tag into the punch gun that it was going to happen to ME.

It should have been obvious, but it was not. Many of the slave girls in the cages
I had passed had the demeaning plastic tags stapled to their ears. But that was
THEM; I was ME. After all, it wasn't like I was livestock! Surely they couldn't tag
ME!

But they could tag me... and don't call me Shirley.

The tag had a practical purpose, in that it had a sticker which showed the lot
number that would go into the electronic sales catalog, and serve as a quicker
reference than the rather lengthy SRN number. The auctioneer could check the
tag and announce, "we are selling lot FP-83897" and the buyers could pull up
the details of the girl on their cellphones. Of course you could always pull up the
girl being sold by just going to the "current" section in the menu and picking
which sales arena you were in, but some folks preferred pecking in the numbers.

I had learned that on many ranches they used different colors for heifers and
bulls and cows of different ages. I decided to have some fun with this idea and
expand it to be part of The Big D's brand identity.

My livestock tags were similar to cheap plastic key chains for holding the lot
numbers, but the designs were playful and humorous, and told you something
about the girl at a quick glance. For example, lesbians had rainbow tags,
whereas the Asian girl who was tagging me might have a Chinese dragon, and
the black woman with her foot on my neck would have had a watermelon. Debt
slaves often had green dollar sign ear tags, while offenders enslaved for some
non-violent offense like marijuana possession had jailhouse stripes. Foreign
nationals often had their national flag as an ear tag marker. The English reporter
who had crouched down to get a closer look at my tagging would have most
likely had a Union Jack ear tag.

The tags weren't meant to be a definitive guide: you could be an Asian lesbian
from the UK, for example, and you wouldn't get three tags. The tags were
actually assigned by the artificial intelligence engine I had coded in the system
that matched the information in the girl's file with current market trends. If
lesbians were selling well, my hypothetical Asian lesbian from the UK would most
likely get a rainbow tag.

It had never occurred to me what sort of tag I might get, because the idea of
having my ear stapled like a pig or a cow had simply been unthinkable. Could
my entire personality be reduced to a 7-cent plastic ear tag? I think not!

However the computer system I had designed, when faced with the impossible
challenge of transforming my entire life into an offensive stereotype, had
devoted the necessary nanoseconds to accomplish precisely that. My tag was
blue, and in the rough shape of the state of California, identifying me as one of
the despised "liberal elites."

The category had actually been Jake's idea; I didn't even think such a thing
existed.

Jake had laughed at my bafflement. "Well, being from HARRRR-VARD, you

wouldn't think there were elites, would ya?" He teased.

The tag would be as humiliating as it was inaccurate. True I was tall and blonde.
I had condos in LA and San Francisco. I had gotten my engineering degree at
Stanford, but I was hardly a "California girl." Massachusetts was a blue state,
and I taught at Harvard, but I was hardly liberal! I liked low taxes, particularly
on my investment income, and didn't give a shit about the poor.
It was probably my income that did it. Fuck! Once again, I was being victimized
for being richer, smarter, prettier, and more productive than the foreigners and
white trash like Becky Lou who leeched off my success and wealth production.

I never understood why buying a "blue state girl" would be a thing, but Jake said
a lot of his buyers like to buy "snooty liberal college girls and teach 'em a
lesson." I thought it was stupid when I heard of it, but I did come up with an
amusing classification for the unfortunate victims of red state animus in the
catalog: BLUE, TATTOOED & SCREWED.

I looked up at the smiling Asian girl as she fitted the blue tag marking me as a
member of a despised and reviled social class on my ear.

"NO! YOU'RE MAKING A MISTAKE! I DON'T BELONG HERE! I'M NOT REALLY A
SLAVE. THIS IS ALL A MISTAKE!"

The problem was I was bound and gagged, so my protests were

incomprehensible gibberish. As much as I was prepared to call the entire
undercover assignment off, there was no turning back now.

"Wow, look at her drool!" The reporter said stupidly. "She's really excited about
getting tagged!"

Fucker! I wasn't excited, I was angry, humiliated, and scared. I knew this was
going to hurt. If I had a Union Jack tag, I would have wrestled her to the ground
and clipped her fucking limey ear.

POP!

I was now tagged. The hole the tag made was tiny, but it went straight through
the cartilage, and was heated to prevent infection. I screamed into my gag at
the sudden jolt of pain. But I had no time to rest. Releasing her work boot from
my neck, the black slave monger quickly pulled me to my feet.

As I struggled to get my sea legs, she briefed the reporter on what just
happened.

"Her lot number, B-26969, is tied to her SRN number. I've used the app to tie
her SRN - that's her slave registration number - to her temporary collar, too. Her
catalog number on her blue tag and her permanent SRN number are now paired
together, all neat and tidy."

Neat and tidy. I sobbed bitterly, causing the blue cattle tag to flop against the
side of my face.

"Oh, I see what you mean now," the British reporter said, reaching out to tweak
my dangling tag. "Those are fun!"

Bitch! I wanted so much to staple her ass!

The black woman pointed. "See those cameras all over? They are tracking her
location in the facility, so we can see where she is at any time. Jake can run
reports and see how quickly we're processing them, so we can constantly
improve efficiency."

I knew all of this, of course - it had been my idea. "Constant Improvements in

Efficiency" had been a slave management technique I had developed back at
Harvard. I had presented it thousands of times, but what was different was
hearing a slave wrangler in coveralls explain it to a reporter, while I stood stark
naked before them, with a fucking blue tag dangling from my ear. It gave us a
real advantage over the larger slave houses. They were huge in comparison to
The Big D, but we ran a much tighter and more efficient ship.

None of this was news to me, but the slave monger's next statement surprised
me. "The business is really about margins. In Texas, the local county, the local
Sheriff, the enslavement officer, and the judge all get a percentage of her sales
price. Everybody gets a little taste, so you really need to watch the pennies!"

I felt my stomach drop. I knew the process of skimming a percentage off a girl's
enslavement was common in a lot of the Southern States - Louisiana and
Mississippi were notorious for it. Popularly known as "skimming the sale," it was
a controversial practice, for it gave the authorities a strong incentive to push
through enslavements and sell girls for as much as possible. A lot of Southern
Sheriffs and Judges had made themselves rich enslaving Yankee girls on their
way to Spring Break.

As routine as this corruption was, it had simply never occurred to me that

something like that might actually happen to me. After all, I wasn't some
feckless co-ed who could be enslaved and sold to pay for pimping out Becky
Lou's new truck or Judge Parker's new ten-gallon hat. Was I?

Suddenly sending me to be sold at The Big D took on a more sinister air. Becky
Lou and Judge Parker had sent me to a smaller slave market where I could be
sold quickly, efficiently, and without a fuss. My efficiency improvements and its
proximity to Austin made The Big D the ideal place for the two of them to turn a
tidy profit on my naked ass. The knowledge that they would both be making
money on my sale threw everything into sharp relief and was as shameful as it
was infuriating.

Why then, did my pussy spasm with pleasure as I imagined Judge Parker in his
chambers, holding his monthly commission statement in his hand as he quickly
scanned the list to find out how much money he had made on me? Why was the
idea of him laughing at and enjoying the money he made turning my "gash-to-
cash" such a turn-on? I squeezed my thighs together as I imagined him trying
on his brand-new hat.

After years of studying the markets in slave pussy, I had developed a patented
system for maximizing profit. When inventories were low, it made sense to prep
the girls, put them through additional training, and leaven them in the pens for a
long time in order to give the buyers a chance to "get a feel" for the
merchandise, literally. The concept was that when you didn't have much
inventory to sell, maximize PPP: Profit-Per-Pussy.

On the other hand, when there was a glut of slave girls on the market, my
studies had shown that the marginal costs of the extra training, feeding, and
upkeep for the girls exceeded the marginal profit one could make by maximizing
the profit on each pussy. In those sorts of market scenarios, the best way to
make money was to maximize your PPH: Pussy-Per-Hour.

PPP/PPH represented a fundamental disruption to the ordinary business model,

but as I explained to Jake, the key to a successful business was not to resist
change but to embrace it. Jake wasn't convinced at first, but income statements
don't lie.

When there was a glut of girls, the auction schedule slowed, and the emphasis
changed from the sale of girls to the sale of peripheral products and services.
Customers with our phone app would get notices about specials in our large
"slave mall" which sold slave collars, whips, and other peripheral services. Two-
for-one gradings or mother-daughter gradings would go on sale. The traders
would be dispatched to the grading areas so they could make a "tender" offer
and maybe pick up some excess pussy at low prices. For example, this might
happen when a surprised father realized that he could reduce his college bills by
putting his darling daughter on the block. Even better, he might find that
exchanging his wife for a slave slut would be much more profitable if he got rid
of his daughter at the same time.

The restaurant by the inspection pen would open, encouraging buyers to linger
longer, have a drink, and give the inventory a good going over. The prices of the
girls would rise, but the sales pitches would become more fulsome as buyers
would learn the SAT scores and sexual peccadillos of the hot Asian slut featured
as today's "Sandy Foot Girl." I had actually broken down the market into five
states, which were visible in all the backstage areas, so the employees would
know how to proceed.

1- Pussy Premium Red (severe shortage)

2- Slow-and-Steady Yellow

3- Steady-as-She-Goes GREEN (normal state - ideal)

4- Keep-It-Moving Yellow

5- Whip-Em-&-Ship-Em Red (severe surplus)

I hadn't thought much of the state of the market on the way to Becky Lou's
office in Austin, as I really didn't care how fast or how slow Jake was moving
pussy through The Big D in Dallas when I was going to be an Expert Slave in
Austin, which was an entirely different product in a different market. However,
given my current predicament, the "state" of the PPP/PPH system I'd perfected
was of premium importance. The system I had designed had determined I was a
"blue tag" girl and would eventually determine when I would be put on the
auction block.

With my gag and cuffs removed, the black woman signaled Miss Saigon that she
could go. She dutifully clomped away in her sneakers to receive the next truck of
slave pussy.

"This is a pleasure slut from Austin," the black woman explained to the reporter.
"Being a pleasure slut she's probably pretty randy, and she's been juicing herself
for the last three hours on the road."

I blushed at the accuracy of her assessment.

"How do you know that?" the redhead asked.

The black woman smiled. "Because I KNOW, white girl," she said. "Shit, I can
smell her from here!"

When she sneered "white girl" I suddenly remembered the black woman in the
coveralls and realized for the first time who was controlling my fate. Her name
was Jasmine, and she was a shift leader at The Big D. I remembered we had
talked once, and I remarked that my family had made their fortune in the
slaving business in the antebellum era, and "... my ancestors might have sold
your ancestors." It was a joke, but she didn't laugh.
"That's why I like working at The Big D, white girl," Jasmine replied. "Whites sold
blacks for years. Now it's time for this black girl to crack the whip and sell me
some white pussy."

Jasmine didn't recognize me; she was either looking at her iPad or addressing
the English reporter, scribbling notes for her idiotic story. But remembering our
relationship I knew that even if Jasmine did recognize me, it wouldn't help me at
all. Indeed, it would be sweet revenge to process the sale of the descendent of
an antebellum flesh peddler.

The redhead with the notebook seemed quite interested in my processing, but a
bit bewildered, as though she were visiting from Mars. I didn't appreciate her
presence at all, as it was humiliating enough to be "processed" into The Big D
without some English redbird oo-ing and aw-ing over all the humiliating little
details, and even reaching over to examine the blue tag dangling from my ear,
as though I were in a petting zoo.

The little English strumpet actually gave a sniff. "She does seem quite whiffy,"
the redhead noted, wrinkling her little nose at me. "But is she really... excited? I
mean, how can you be sure?"

I shot her Majesty an evil glare. Yes, I stank, but I had been cooking for 3 hours
in the back of a white panel truck, unlike the little office girl in front of me, who
still smelled of her cheap, off-the-shelf perfume.

Jasmine pointed her crop at me. "Display!" She snapped.

I hesitated, but when I saw the controller for my shock collar was in Jasmine's
hand and knowing how much agony my slave collar could deliver, I snapped to
it. Biting my lip, I immediately turned, spread my legs to shoulder width, and
bent my head down as far as I could, raising my ass high in the air.

I blushed hotly as I felt my butt cheeks lift and separate, opening myself up like
a flower and revealing both my sex and asshole to Jasmine's and the idiot,
English woman's peering eyes.
As if I weren't embarrassed enough, the English reporter bent over to get a
closer look at my sex. "Oh, yes, I can smell her now. Quite pongy!" She
observed.

Seeing how closely the redheaded reporter was looking at my exposed sex and
bottom hole, Jasmine laughed. "You want to shoot a picture for your readers,
Miss Johnson?" Jasmine said, ingratiating herself with the little English snoop.

"Please. Call me Lucy. I'm sure that the readers would enjoy it," the redhead
replied, in her increasingly annoying British accent, "and it certainly would boost
circulation, ha-ha."

I could have choked her. I looked up at her between my legs, the blood rushing
to my head, biting my lip in anger as she examined my private parts. The snooty
English princess was examining my pussy like I were an animal stuffed in a
display case at the fucking British Museum.

"Oh, my!" She said, giving my crotch a really good look. "She's wetter than
Whales in a squall!"

The little English bitch fished a camera out of her purse and lined up the photo
of my "pongy" pussy as though she were going for the Pulitzer Prize.

"Say CHEESE, slut," Jasmine said, taunting me as the English reporter snapped
away.

I gasped as the black woman ran her fingers over my sopping wet sex, coating
her fingers in my juices as the reporter continued clicking away.

"She left herself a little landing strip here," she said, running her fingers through
my pubic curls. "Bare is popular, but since this proves she's a natural blonde, it
might increase her price. Makes her look like a real California girl," she added,
laughing as she cruelly tapped my dangling, blue, California ear tag. "I'll let her
keep her little golden fleece until she's sold and with her new master."

I felt a tiny chill run down my spine at this fresh indignity: "I'll let her keep her
little golden fleece..." Although I found Jasmine's power over me deeply
humiliating, as a slaving professional, I totally respected her prerogative to
make such decisions. I was the inventory she was selling, and, as such, it was
her job to trim my hair - or remove it all together - to fit her perceptions of the
market demand.

Like many aspects of sales, such decisions were a mixture of art and science.
Some slave mongers liked to put a few whip stripes across a girl's bottom before
they put her on the block, to show that she had been disciplined. A young
woman in her late 20's with a flat chest, might have her hair cut into a pageboy
or put in pigtails to make her look a bit more like a girl in her late teens. My
nails were well manicured with red nail polish, but The Triple D, in keeping with
my "livestock" theming, preferred no nail polish and closely-cropped nails.

In making her decision Jasmine had done a commendable job considering The
Big D's "brand," market conditions, and local tastes. Although, as a slave girl,
her decisions were of monumental importance to me, I knew that to her it was
simply one of the hundreds of routine decisions she made each day managing
retail sales. But even as I applauded her choice, the terrifying realization that
my tits-and-pussy were now a salable commodity to be marketed to the local
yokels like toothpaste or bubble gum, chilled me to the bone.

Jasmine's fingers moved down, and I gasped as she sunk them knuckle-deep
into my pussy. "I could grease a truck axel with her slave honey," she chuckled.

The redheaded reporter laughed nervously, looking first at Jasmine's glistening

fingers and then at my widely opened twat.

"Stick a finger up there and get a sample, if you really want to understand how
juicy a Pleasure Slut can get," Jasmine urged.

The prissy British reporter looked shocked. Clearly, she had not expected this
opportunity, and I could tell by the look on her face that she wasn't sure what to
make of it.

"Um... maybe later," she said, unsure of herself.

Jasmine ordered me to stand. Even in my bare feet, I was quite a bit taller than
the stupid English reporter who was looking at me with her head tilted a bit to
one side, like a dog trying to decipher a stranger.

"She's is a filthy little tart, isn't she?" The smug little English muffin said. Oh,
how I hated her, and envied her at the same time, in her neat, black skirt and
white blouse. She thought she was better than me, and everything about her
oozed condescension. I knew what she was thinking, for I had stood where she
now stood countless times in countless slaving facilities, wrinkling my nose in
disgust (and yes, amusement) at the smell of the hot, wet slave pussy being
hustled to market.

Jasmine addressed me directly. Her voice wasn't angry, but it was sharp and
commanding, the tone one might use with a dog when the owner wanted to
make it clear that playtime was over.

"You thirsty, slave girl?" She asked. "You got to go pee?"

"Yes, Mistress," I replied, looking down at my dirty, bare feet.

"Too bad," she said. Jasmine grabbed me by the collar and walked me over to a
small platform, about six feet long and three feet deep, and about a foot off the
ground.

I swallowed hard. It was covered in sand.

"You're Prime Minus so you've had some training. Do you still know your block
moves, slave slut?"

"I take Slave Yoga, Mistress," I replied.

"Good," Jasmine said, unclipping the slave whip from her belt and shaking it out.
"Get up on the block, bitch."

Feeling sick to my stomach I stepped up onto the faux auction block. My heart
skipped a beat as I felt the sand beneath my bare feet, and between my toes.

My attention was quickly refocused when Jasmine pressed a button on her iPad
and the block was brilliantly illuminated with light.

Jasmine regarded me coolly. "Okay, Miss Prime-Minus, let's see what you've got.
Show me your best block moves. And remember, you're not here for a dance
recital. You're a Pleasure Slut."

It was then I made my first mistake. I looked at Miss Fish-and-Chips, who was
standing directly in front of the platform, camera in hand. "In front of HER
MAJESTY?" I said sharply, hoping against hope that my last bit of dignity
wouldn't be taken away by having to perform for the nosey, English bloodhound.

Jasmine response was to CRACK the whip in the air. I immediately fell into a
squat, spreading my legs wide and licking my lips lasciviously.

Miss Fish-and-Chips had taken great umbrage at being referred to as "Her

Majesty," and now smiled at me as I squat and spread. I realized I had rather
stupidly made an enemy. Slave girls can't afford to have free women as
enemies.

I leaned back, steadying myself with my left hand, spreading myself wide.

"I can see her poopy hole!" The reporter said, raising her camera to take a
picture of me in the shameful position. Bitch!

Trying to ignore the click of her camera, I rubbed my pussy, soaking my fingers
and bringing them to my own lips for a taste. I licked my lips to show the buyers
how delicious and copious my slave honey was, ignoring the taste of the sand
which clung to the end of my fingers.

I knew my block moves well. Some girls like to tease and do a slow build up, but
I did not. I got to the good stuff right away. I had designed The Big D to sell
pussy fast.

"I like the way her blue ear tag flops around when she does her moves," the
English reporter observes. It's a nice touch. Gives her routine a bit of color."

Indeed it did. In photos, you could always tell an auction at The Big D because
of the sand on the girls' feet and the ear tags. The Big D wasn't just another
generic mass merchandiser, like HCI in Houston. Thanks to me, The Big D had
personality.

The Big D was the best, and so was I. I had taken Slave Yoga classes to perfect
a block routine which would allow a girl to display her charms as quickly and
efficiently as possible. After all, how could I tell the slave girls what to do, if I
hadn't figured it out myself?

I had insisted on taking the classes in the nude, with real slave girls and a real
slave master cracking a real slave whip. Being a competitive person, I trained
myself to the point of exhaustion, just as if I had been a real Pleasure Slut vying
for a top grade. My hours of training had paid off in a flawless routine and a
Prime Minus grade. I could tell from the impressed look on Jasmine's face that
she was pleased. I felt a surge of pride even as my pussy grew ever more
excited.

I went onto all fours, face forward, knees, hands, and feet in the sand, my
breasts hanging down loosely. Looking up at Miss Fish-and-Chips, I made my
"slave faces," designed to show the buyers my full range of emotions: Happy.
Fear. Contempt. Anger. Embarrassment (with a genuine blush!). Coy/Sexy,
Horny/Sexy. Pouty. Shocked! Disgust. Sadness. I saved orgasm for last.

Doing an expert roll in the sand, I flipped. I was on all fours, legs spread wide as
goalposts, head down, ass and pussy raised high. The sand was clinging to my
naked body, but I didn't care, because of my Slave Yoga training, and the sexual
intensity of the situation. Reaching between my legs I quickly rubbed myself to a
full lather.

"Buy me, Mistress," I pleaded with the redhead. "Let me lick your hot, red
pussy! Let me pleasure your perfect English twat with my unworthy American
tongue!"

"There's sand all over her," the redheaded noted, lining up another photo of my
humiliation as I rubbed my hot slave pussy for her camera.

"Yeah, that's part of the show. This place used to be a cattle market, and the
floors of the pens and auction floors were covered in sand and straw. We had a
big-shot consultant come in, and she said we should keep it, and make a whole
thing out of it. So now we advertise our Pleasure Sluts as 'Sandy Foot Girls.' "

I grimaced as I once again heard myself referred to in the third person, as if I

were no longer there... as if I no longer existed. In a way I did not. It was
terrifying, but I also felt a strange sense of satisfaction at how perfectly I was
playing the role which had fueled my fantasies for so many years.

Why, a casual observer might think I was actually a slave pussy up for sale!
With my ear clipped, wearing a bar coded RFI collar, and my clothing and
identification tucked safely in a locked drawer 150 miles away in Austin, I was
now indistinguishable from the other pleasure sluts up for sale at The Big D. I
had created "Sandy Foot Girls." Now I was one... or at least, appeared to be.
Groaning with pleasure, I rubbed my pussy.

"Wow, what a horny little wanker she is!" The snooty reporter said, looking down
at me with a mixture of amusement and disgust. "Juicy little slag, isn't she?"

I relished the free woman's disgust, like the pleasure slut I was pretending to
be. "Let me lick your feet, Mistress," I pleaded, my blue plastic tab bouncing
against my face as I rubbed myself for her. "Let me rub my juicy twat to amuse
you. I exist to give you pleasure!"
My mind was swimming. I was slave-naked, sand clinging to my sweaty body,
pleasuring myself for some sneering, limey reporter and a mere monger with a
slave whip in her hand. My humiliation was complete, but my hours of training
had kicked in, and I was showing Miss Fish-and-Chips what I could do. I was
showing her that I was the best.

"Oh, my gosh, she's having an orgasm!" The English chippy gasped. "Look at her
pussy twitch! What a filthy slag she is! I've got to get a picture of this."

"Let me lick you, Mistress! Let me pleasure you!" I pleaded, losing control as the
orgasm crashed over me.

Click, click, click. The little bitch photographed me, zooming in for close-ups of
my face and pussy as I lost control. My pussy twitched and I begged to lick her
dirty English snatch.

Oh, how I hated her! But I was also aware of Jasmine behind me, caressing her
whip and smiling. It was a genuine auctioneer's whip, and it wasn't just for
show.

I smoothly and gracefully rolled into my next pose, sweat and sawdust clinging
to my naked body, spreading myself to show the buyers everything I had. I
shook out my hair, letting it flow freely, the shameful blue ear tag that marked
me as livestock-for-sale flopping against my face. I was a randy, stinking, slave
slut, and it was as hot as hell!

The odd part was, as humiliating and degrading as my performance was, my

block dance was also totally liberating. Like all things carefully practiced -
especially during the disciplined training of Slave Yoga - a Pleasure Slut's
performance on the auction block is, when perfected, truly an art form. I had no
clothes, no identity, no possessions, no college degrees, no lofty professional
career or position, no responsibilities. I had nothing. Nothing existed but my
naked body, the sand, the auction block, and the crack of the whip. I had been
designated a Pleasure Slut. My body was for giving pleasure.
Sand clinging to me, my hand soaked in my own slave honey, rolling and posing
on the block, I had never felt so free!

I arched my back, spreading my legs wide as I rubbed my juicy blonde snatch. I

could tell from the look on Jasmine's face that I had earned my Prime- grade,
and in a peculiar way, her respect. Not her respect as a person, of course, but
her respect as inventory which she could sell. Becky Lou and Judge Parker had
stripped me of everything, and that was all I was. I was inventory.

As a management consultant I had earned Jake a pretty penny transforming The

Big D into the most profitable operation per square foot in the State of Texas.
Now, I would earn Jake a fat commission as he sold my naked ass off in the
most degrading manner imaginable, laughing all the way to the bank as he did
it. He would take money out of my sweet blonde pussy with the cool, calculating
indifference of a man yanking money out of a slot at an ATM machine.

"My goodness, she is a randy little tart, isn't she?" the English reporter
observed, as I quivered through my orgasm at her feet. "I felt a bit sorry for her
when you took her out of the cage, but now..."

"Don't feel sorry for her," Jasmine said. "She has a calling for the collar. I can
tell."

"A calling for the collar." It was a familiar phrase, and yet another humiliating
insult. It is said that the most lascivious of pleasure sluts are "destined" for the
collar, and that it calls to them.

"Good job, slut," Jasmine said. "You're slave hot, and ready for the block."

"Are you going to clean her up, first?" The British reporter asked. "To get rid of
her... fishy smell."

I gave her my best "FUCK YOU" glare.

"That's our next step," Jasmine explained. "I'm taking her to the Cattle Wash.
You can come along, if you want, although you might get your shoes wet."

My heart sank. The Cattle Wash! Fuck! I had forgotten about the Cattle Wash!

As Jasmine led me by my slave leash down the long corridor, Jasmine explained
the Cattle Wash to my nemesis-with-a-notebook.

"Mostly we sell slave girls now, although we still sell some cattle, goats, and
sheep," Jasmine explained. "When Jake first made the switch to slaves, we
installed some shower nozzles in the cattle scrub area, so the slave bitches
would have a place to wash up before we sold them. But that consultant I was
telling you about thought we were missing an opportunity to 'differentiate
ourselves in the market,' or some shit like that. She even put in a big viewing
area up above, so the customers could come in and watch. Now cattle scrub is
this big show."

The Cattle Wash area was crowded with naked girls, unhappily waiting for their
turn in one of the scrub stalls. The viewing area above the concrete floor was
crowded with visitors, mostly male but some women too, mostly college girls
who thought it was a naughty thrill, or vengeful old biddies who liked to see
young women laid low.

You could always tell the serious buyers - the men and women taking notes on
little pads of paper or on their cell phones while the naked girls were paraded in
front of them and scrubbed down. They weren't laughing, and they didn't have
beer or hotdogs. They looked at the girls with a cold, calculating eye, and they
were the ones who scared me the most.

I had designed the Cattle Wash but, as with much of what had happened with
The Big D, I hadn't stayed around to see the final construction build out. A part
of me was fascinated to see my final vision in practice. The viewing gallery was
larger than I'd thought it would be, and I was pleased to see that they had
followed my suggestion and put a cash bar near the back. In my original design
the viewers stood in back, on a raised balcony about 15 foot above the floor, but
they had expanded it so the balcony wrapped around both sides, making the
wash area into a sort of thrust stage for the festivities.

I had suggested cameras to allow visitors to The Triple D to check out the action
on their phones. It wasn't accessible on the Web - you had to be in the facility to
watch, because I wanted buyers on the floor and not jerking off at home.
However, the cameras allowed visitors who couldn't crowd onto the balcony to
"watch the fun" as I put it.

Jake had been doubtful, as he didn't see why "... washing cows would draw
visitors." Washing cows would not, I explained, but naked slave girls were
another matter, and the more you treated them like real cattle the better. The
packed viewing gallery filled with beer-swigging customers told me once again I
was right.

My delight in the success of my design was cut short when Jasmine pushed me
past the dozens of naked, humiliated slave girls to the front of the line. "I got a
reporter with me," Jasmine said, shouting above the fray and giving a head-
check to Miss Fish-and-Chips. "Can you do Golden Rod here first?"

The teenage boy nodded and scanned-in my collar, which gave a satisfied BEEP.
There were about 30 teenagers working in the crowded Cattle Wash, mostly
male, all wearing blue coveralls and baseball caps with The Big D logo on them.

It had been my idea to staff the Cattle Wash with seniors from the local High
School. I still remembered my sales pitch to Jake. "They're 18 or 19, they'll work
cheap, and a lot of them have car wash experience already. It's no different, and
you'll get a bunch of horny teenage boys who love their job and will work for less
than minimum wage because they're getting school credit and it gives them a
chance to feel-up slave pussy."

Knowing full well what was coming, I turned to Jasmine and Lucy. "I could just
shower using one of the nozzles on the wall?" I pleaded hopefully, pointing to
the now unused shower nozzles my redesign had shoved into obsolescence.
"That way I wouldn't have to cut in line, and it would be faster."
Jasmine turned to Lucy and gave her a "your call," look. Lucy smiled at me as
she stroked her chin thoughtfully. "It WOULD be faster," she teased, drawing out
the suspense, "but I think for my readers' sake I really need to see the entire
process."

Oh, how I DESPISED her! She was all smiles as Jasmine used the butt of her
whip handle to shove me into stall number 6, where a very unhappy looking
redhead was just finishing up.

Four teenage boys in coveralls immediately took me into custody, attaching my

wrists to a pair of dangling wrist cuffs. A few quick crank turns later, I was
dangling in the air, my toes struggling to graze the drain below me on the
cement floor.

The water from the high-pressure hose was freezing cold, and I could hear
Limey Lucy giggling as they blasted me with it.

I screamed as the boy with the hose directed the freezing, high-pressure spray
directly at my crotch.

"That's it, Beau!" One of the other boys shouted, laughing. "Own that lib!"

I knew the phrase, "Own the lib!" was a reference to my humiliating, blue ear
tag. I had actually put a joke about "Owning the Libs!" in the "Blue, Tattooed,
and Screwed" section of the catalog which sold the despised Blue State Girls. I
had never really felt the sting of discrimination, being tall and blonde. But now
the blue tag dangling from my ear marked me as part of a despised group,
which made it all the more fun to humiliate and abuse me.

The soaping gun was next. As per my design they hosed me down with a green,
carbolic cattle shampoo, nice and gritty, which stunk to high heaven and smelled
like tar and cough syrup. I was soon covered head-to-toe with thick, green
foam, as the boys with the scrub brushes moved in.
A few used hand-held scrub brushes for my hair and crotch; a few used brushes
with longer handles to do my back and stomach and legs more efficiently. One of
the boys gently shampooed my hair; at least that felt good, sort of. The scrub
team raised my feet high in the air and spread my legs wide so the camera could
have a good look as a pimply-faced fatty with a stupid grin used a scrub brush to
"scour her skanky, Yankee twat!" My tits and butthole got a similarly thorough
scrub down.

After my freezing cold "rinse" I was treated to the indignity of a humiliating and
entirely gratuitous "pest inspection". A 19-year-old teenage boy with gloves on
spread my pussy lips and looked for "pests" while another boy filmed it up close
with a tiny camera. Anyone in The Big D who had a phone could get a
gynecologist's view of my spread, pink pussy.

"Guys love to see the pink," I had assured Jake. Now they were seeing mine.

No pests or disease were found, of course - but that wasn't really the point, was
it? The objective was objectification, to make me feel like a filthy farm animal
while entertaining the leering gawkers. In the next pointless "sanitary"
procedure I was then deloused. The boy who sprayed me down with the
pressurized delousing spray was wearing a gas mask to spare him from the
burning, stinking chemicals. I was not so lucky.

"Give her a good spray between the legs, Beau."

"Yeah, these liberal bitches are filthy little sows."

When they finally released my wrist cuffs, Miss Fish-and-Chips, feeling quite full
of herself, boldly strolled up to greet me.

"Oh, my! That was a jolly good cleaning, wasn't it?" she said cheerfully.

I stood before her freezing, soaking wet, and stinking of disinfectants. To put it
mildly, I wasn't in the mood. I picked up one of the buckets containing the scrub
brushes and dumped it right over her head.
It was the last thing I remembered before I heard my punishment collar buzz
and everything in the room went black.

Sandy Foot Girl Ch. 04: On The Block

byJoe_Doe_Stories©

I'm not sure how long I was unconscious. I lifted my head and slowly opened my
eyes. I felt dizzy; my brain was buzzing.

Had it all been a bad dream? Had I fallen asleep at my condo in Manhattan,
sipping a latte while reading the Wall Street Journal, and savoring the promising
outlook for my slave industry stocks?

No, I wasn't wearing my jammies and lying on my favorite comfy couch. I was
stark naked and lying on a cold cement floor. I ran my hand over my naked
breasts, down my flat tummy, and to the top of my sex. No doubt about it: I
was 100%, gloriously naked, birthday bare, without a stitch. I let my fingers run
between my legs. Despite the coldness of the floor, my pussy was warm, and
wet. I gave myself a little rub, enjoying the pleasure of my fingers.

I rubbed myself as I let my mind clear. Where was I? It wasn't until I let my
other hand run up and touch the slave collar around my neck that the answer
became clear.

Yes, of course. I was at The Big D Livestock and Slave Market in Dallas.

I relaxed and rubbed myself faster. I didn't need clothing, or a purse, or

anything, really. Everything about me that still mattered was in computer
system I had designed, and the bar code and RFID tag on my collar tied me into
the system like any other piece of inventory. I might not know exactly where I
was, but the computer did, and any employee could use their tracker or phone
app to locate my exact location, status, grade, picture, sexual history, and any
other fact they cared to browse. Now that I was naked and tagged, selling me
would be as simple as selling a bag of potato chips or a candy bar at a gas
station.

The peculiar part was my nudity and helplessness didn't frighten me. In fact, it
made me hotter. As I rubbed myself my Slave Yoga mantras buzzed through my
mind.

"A slave girl must be wet and ready. A slave girl must be wet and ready. A slave
girl must be wet and ready." I was.

I did a quick self-inspection. My hair was dry and neatly combed, and my
toenails and fingernails had been trimmed and scrubbed clean of all nail polish. A
part of me was pleased to see my nail polish was gone; I had told them to sell
the girls in as "natural" a state as possible. Plus the little sluts couldn't dig their
nails into you if they had no nails.

"Keep the inventory clipped," I had written, "fresh scrubbed, and ready for the
block." In my daze, my mind was still viewing myself in the 3rd person, as if I
was looking at slave girl inventory. "Good the little slut is ready to be sold. It
won't be long now."

I was awake, but with my brain still cooling off it still seemed like a dream.
There was the coolness of the cement, the freedom of slavery, and the pleasure
of my fingers. It was only when I heard other voices that I began to orient
myself.

"I still don't see why you can't give me some coveralls to wear!" a familiar
British accent said. "Or a robe, or something!"

"Coveralls are for employees only," I heard Jasmine replied coolly. "As for
bathrobes, this isn't The Ritz, white girl. Relax. Your clothes will be dry in a few
minutes and you can get dressed again."

I struggled to focus on my surroundings instead of merely myself. After a few

seconds of squinting I realized I was toward the back of the hall in one of the
prep areas where the girls were "prepared" after the Cattle Wash.

Seeing me blinking myself awake Jasmine used the leash that had been attached
to my collar to pull me to my feet. "That was FUCKING STUPID, SLAVE GIRL!"
she shouted. "You're lucky I didn't smoke your tiny brain!"

I looked around, blinking. Jasmine continued shouting at me. "You're so fucking

SLAVE STUPID. I should whip the skin off your ass!"

I bristled at the characterization. I had entitled one of my book chapters "Slave

Stupid", discussing in detail a pleasure sluts inability to logically reason, make
long term plans, or understand anything other than the longings of her pussy
and the crack of the whip.

I looked up at Miss Fish-and-Chips, the British reporter. She was entirely naked.
Butt naked. Head to toe.

Seeing me looking her up-and-down, our little reporter blushed and tried to
cover herself with her hands. "Can I have a towel?" she whined hopefully.
"Please? Pretty please?"

Even in my disoriented state, her plaintive and pleading tone pleased me. Her
Majesty didn't seem so commanding slave naked.

The psychology of the transformation process had always fascinated me, and it
was particularly pleasing to see it happen to the snooty British reporter. When a
girl loses her clothes in The Big D, there is a powerful loss of status. This is true
even in the mall, where the well dressed woman who is paying to pose for an
"auction block" photo at one of the stores will feel a chilling loss of authority
once her clothes are removed and put away and the clerk who had been fawning
over her begins ordering her about as if she were a real slave. The sharp "taps"
on her bottom with the whip won't be actual whip strokes, but the message will
be clear. It's part of the experience, to be sure, but I knew from my research
that it was also part of the terrible psychology of enslavement, a centuries old
process designed to undermine a woman's self-esteem.
Now I could see the process in action. Jasmine's tone with the reporter was
dismissive. "Look around you, DUMB-DUMB! Do you see girls with towels? If I
give you a towel someone's just going to get annoyed and rip it off you. And
stop covering yourself like your tits and pussy are golden. This is a slave market,
not a PG-13 movie!"

"Eyes front, slave girl!" Jasmine said, slapping me on the side of the head.
"You're in luck. I'd like to send your ass for a week of punishment and training.
But we're at level 5. Do you know what level 5 means, stupid?"

Indeed I did, because I had invented it. Level 5 was a state of Severe Inventory
Surplus, when The Big D was overflowing with slave girls. When The Big D was
in Level 5, all niceties were skipped. The electric motto on the signboard near
the clock on the wall stated the current state of readiness succinctly: "LEVEL 5:
Whip 'Em & Ship 'Em!"

I had designed Level 5 to get the slave pussy on the block as fast as possible, to
maximize revenue and throughput. It was a sound business model, and I had
proofed the numbers. But as I hoped Becky Lou was on the way to rescue me
from permanent enslavement, now I hoped that the system I had perfected
could somehow be slowed down.

"The only reason I'm not paddling your ass right now is because the computer
put you on the block in ten minutes. Are you going to BEHAVE, like a good little
Prime Minus bitch, or do you want a world of hurt instead?"

Ten minutes! I had not slowed down the system at all. A part of me felt a surge
of pride; the system I had honed could not be stopped. I had the option of being
punished, and suffering great pain, but my sale would proceed regardless. In ten
minutes, my slave snatch would be on the auction block.

Seeing that Jasmine was waiting for a response, I bowed my head, and
instinctively responded with the slave mantras I had learned in my Slave Yoga
class.
"I beg forgiveness, Mistress."

I will behave in all ways, and in all things, Mistress."

"I exist to please you, Mistress."

The British Reporter was incredulous that I was going to escape further
punishment. "You're going to let her GET AWAY with what she did to me?"

It pleased me enormously that Jasmine's angry tone was the same with the
reporter as it was with me. "I smoked her brain like pork sausage and she didn't
get away with SHIT! And I told you the rule before we started, this isn't a tourist
destination, it's a livestock yard, get it? Slave girls have shit-for-brains, and that
means you treat them like any other wild animal under stress. You're lucky she
didn't bite you, or kick your British ass all the way back to London."

"She attacked me!" the naked reporter protested.

"You went into an area you shouldn't have been in to taunt a slave. I had to pull
a staff member when we are at peak to haul your clothes off to the laundry. Do
you even know what rules are? You're lucky you're not in the hospital, or the
morgue."

Lucy's dressing down - literally - gave me enormous pleasure, but I didn't dare
smile. I kept my head down, and my eyes fixed on my freshly scrubbed toenails.

Yanking my leash Jasmine returned her attention to me. "Come on. It's time to
put your disobedient ass on the block. In 9 minutes, you're going to be someone
else's problem."

"Wait!" the reporter screamed. "You can't leave me here. You can't leave me
here...naked!"

"Would you rather I took you to the auction block?" Jasmine asked, smiling. Lucy
looked horrified as she realized how vulnerable she really was.

Jasmine smiled. "That's what I thought. Naked is good. Naked will let you blend
in. I'll be back in a few minutes with your clothes. Just keep your mouth shut
and stop bitching before someone gives you a collar and an ear tag!"

Jasmine turned to me as the reporter nervously touched her ear. "What are you
smiling at, BIMBO?" she said harshly, yanking on my leash.

Jasmine led me quickly out of the shower area. I allowed myself a quick glance
over my shoulder as Jasmine used her ID card to open the door that allowed us
to exit the Cattle Wash. Miss Fish-and-Chips was arguing with two teenage slave
mongers who were pushing her into the shower line. I allowed myself the tiniest
of smiles. It looked like someone was about to get a good scrub down in the
cattle wash.

The scouring brush bristles and detergents would feel harsh against her tender
skin, but the men gawking at her from the gangway above would enjoy the
show. Scrub-a-dub-dub!

Jasmine's voice was loud and her tone was sharp as she led me through the
backstage areas toward the auction chute. "You're lucky we are at Level 5. I
know you're a fucking idiot, because otherwise you wouldn't be here, but don't
try any of that shit on the block, because the auctioneer has a whip, and he's
not afraid to use it, got it?"

"Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress."

In my chapter "Slave Stupid" I had explained how the enslavement process

reduced a pleasure slut's capacity for logical thought. As she became more in
tune with the needs of her master, her ability to use her mind for anything other
than giving and receiving pleasure quickly eroded.

As we walked rapidly through the facility my essay played through my mind. "It
doesn't matter if she was once a nuclear physicist or a medical doctor. Once
collared, the pleasure slut quickly focuses on masturbation, cock sucking, and
avoiding the whip. Their inability to think or reason makes it less likely that they
will successfully escape, but more likely that they will run, or do something
foolish. Stupid isn't an action; stupid is who they are."

Throwing a bucket of water on that reporter and getting my brain smoked was
slave stupid. It was only through sheer luck that I wasn't being whipped right
now.

"A true pleasure slut is born, not made. Collaring a girl is like poking holes in a
water balloon, and part of the amusement of the process is watching her so-
called intelligence drain out of her, like water draining out of a colander."

The Big D was a maze, and although I had revamped operations, streamlining
processing on a map was very different from walking barefoot down corridors
with boxes, forklifts, handcarts, and cages stacked with supplies and unhappy
slave girls. It was an odd feeling: although I had navigated these corridors
successfully for months, and had even given tours, I had no idea where I was
going. I struggled to focus, but a more pressing need called.

"May I rub my pussy, Mistress?" I asked. "I want to be slave hot for the block."

"Yeah, you get that snatch of yours nice and wet, block bimbo. Ayn't nobody
gonna be buying your ass for your brains."

The worst part about slave stupid is that it robs you of your ability to focus. A
part of me knew I needed to be plotting my escape. Was there someone who
could rescue me, or someway to get word to Becky Lou, or a perhaps even a
friend in New York? Could I yet be saved from the shame and humiliation of
being paraded naked on the auction block? Good questions, but as my fingers
sank into my wet pussy and began to rub, all I could think about was the
pleasure coursing through me.

I groaned with the ecstasy of my own wetness. No, there was nowhere to run,
nowhere to hide. The paperwork to sell me had been signed by Judge Parker,
and even if I somehow escaped from Jasmine, as a naked slave girl wearing a
tracking collar, I'd soon be recapture, and punished.

I remembered one of my Slave Yoga mantras. "Slavery is Destiny. Slavery is

Destiny." My destiny awaited.

It is said that a pleasure slut dreams of her first time on the block the way a free
woman dreams of her wedding day. I had never dreamed of my wedding day,
but being in the slaving business I had naturally wondered what it might be like
to be bid upon, and put through my paces by an auctioneer. I had fantasies, but
I had always told myself that was normal.

Now, my fantasies would be real.

Jasmine tugged harder on the leash. "Keep up the pace, slut. I'm not going to
miss your block time because you're rubbing your stinking snatch."

I took a deep breath, and she was right. I could smell my arousal.

We passed a number of Big D employees, but my nakedness and self-pleasuring

didn't draw much attention. We were in Level 5, and they were busy; there was
a lot of pussy that needed to be processed. I remembered a few of them from
the training classes I had taught at The Big D. I didn't remember their names, as
none of them were that important to me... at least not then. Now they all had
whips dangling from their belts, and slave goads. I knew if I were put under
their command I would learn their names quickly.

The fact that I wasn't recognized by my former students, colleagues, or clients

was a relief, as it would be the ultimate humiliation to encounter someone I
knew as I was rubbing my stinking slave snatch on the way to the auction block.
However, it was also the ultimate humiliation, as it reinforced the cruel fact that
I was no longer recognizable as a professional woman, or even as a human. I
was merely another piece of inventory.

As we rapidly advanced towards my fate Jasmine kept up with her instructions.

"We used the photographs from your grading, so your picture is already in the
online catalog. We don't have to photograph you again, which saves us a step."

I swallowed. Another step saved meant less time for Becky Lou to get here, and
another chance to be rescued lost. Being led through the corridors of The Big D
was like being led through the streets of Paris in a tumbril to the guillotine, and I
knew the moment of execution was getting closer with each step.

"I'm going to put you in a chute. It's going to be dark, and you'll be pressed up
against the slave girl in front of you. If you're smart, you'll use whatever time
you have get to get your pussy slave wet. When the chute door flies open,
you're going to blinded by the light. But you need to get on the block as quick as
you can, or the wrangler will whip your ass. Run fast to the center of the auction
block, and smile. The buyers like to see enthusiasm. This is your big moment,
slut. Your big moment on the auction block. Exciting, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mistress," I agreed, rubbing myself harder. Damn if she wasn't right.

"The block will have sand on it, like the block you did your moves on, but it will
be much higher. Try not to fall off. Stay sharp. Got it?"

"Yes, Mistress. I will try, Mistress."

I listened to her instructions closely, and was grateful for them. True, I had
designed the system she was describing, but my mind was swimming, and I felt
dazed and confused. My rapid transformation to block meat was making it
difficult for my brain to function. I had hoped that my years of Slave Yoga would
kick in, and allow me to perform as required.

"I'm not slave stupid," I thought.

"The fuck you're not," Jasmine snapped back. "You maybe the stupidest fucking
bimbo I've ever processed. And that electroshock therapy I gave you a couple of
minutes ago probably didn't help matters much."
Had I spoken the words allowed? I must have. I was having problems focusing
on anything but Jasmine's orders and the growing excitement between my legs.
"Relax, and enjoy the moment", I told myself. "You will do well, and make Jake
and The Big D proud."

I had learned my block moves as muscle memory, like a good pleasure slut
does. I wouldn't have to think... like I even could.

Jasmine continued her instructions. "You're going to be on the auction block, and
you're going to show 'em your tits and pussy. Put on a good show, and you
make me me money. Put on a bad show, and we may not sell you. That means
training. If I see you again, I'll whip your ass."

"What's my reserve price?" I asked.

I jumped in fear as Jasmine cracked the whip.

"I'm sorry Mistress," I said, falling to my knees. "I'm not here to ask questions.
I'm stupid. I'm nothing but tits and pussy. Tits and pussy to be sold!"

Satisfied, Jasmine yanked me roughly to my feet and led me quickly down the
long corridor, holding me "short leash" like a recalcitrant dog.

The words stung because they were true. Even as I apologized, I was rubbing
my pussy. I had struggled against the "slave stupid" conditioning during my
Slave Yoga classes, and purposefully limited my time in the training collar. Now
the collar was locked onto my neck, and there was no way to stop my descent. I
was thoroughly ensconced in my role, if it indeed could even be considered a
role. Thanks to Judge Parker, my enslavement was signed, sealed, and
delivered. When the auctioneer's gavel fell, I would be sold, and all sales were
final. I hoped that I would be pleasing.

I caught myself...what was I thinking? At the moment I should be focusing on

escape, or Becky Lou buying me back, I was instead focusing on pleasuring my
new owner. But my fingers felt so good. As much as I struggled against it, I
knew I was "hot for the block."

"Okay, here we are," Jasmine said. I was backstage at the "Broadway Block". I
had given each of the auction areas fun names, mostly based on cattle towns or
ranching terms: Chicago was at the center, Kansas City was smaller and closer
to the entrance. Branding Block was closest to the blacksmith, where the
branding's were done.

My computer program had assigned me to Broadway, the largest auction area

for the hottest and prettiest girls. I felt a surge of pride and a spasm of pleasure
in my pussy. I hoped I would turn Jake a tidy profit.

My system redesign had helped make The Big D "the best damn auction house in
Texas!" as Jake always liked to say. The changes had been revolutionary for
them, but meant little to me, for I was simply an outside consultant. But I knew
I had caused their profits to surge.

Now they were going to sell me, and once again I would be contributing to their
bottom line. But now the economics were reversed. The sale would change my
life forever, although the profit my pussy would generate for them would be a
minuscule part of Jake's enormous income for the year.

The chute entrance was crowded, and we had to wait our turn for the bored
clerk with the scanner to check the tag on my ear to make sure I was in the
right area. BEEP! I was scanned in. My pussy was now ready for sale.

Jasmine gave me a quick pep talk I'm sure she gave thousands of times before.
"You're Prime Minus, and that makes you the best. Make me proud, B-269. And
remember: quick out of the chute!" she said, slapping me on the ass as she sent
me inside.

Jasmine's radio squawked a problem at the loading dock, and taking the walkie-
talkie off her belt she turned away and responded that she'd be right there.
I wondered if Jasmine would remember me. I wanted to think so, but new she
would not, as I was simply one of countless naked slave girls she would process
that day. I also wondered if she'd remember Lucy, who was still naked in the
Cattle Wash, if she was lucky.

The phrase "quick out of the chute" turned over in my mind as I lowered my
hand between my legs to pleasure my wet pussy. Judge Parker at the
convention center had wanted to "grease the chute", and I noticed that I was in
fact advancing rapidly, which meant that the girls were being sold quickly.

Soon two or three girls were crowded into the chute behind me and I was forced
deeper inside. The cattle chutes had been my idea. When I had discovered that
The Big D still had actual cattle chutes, I saw the opportunity to play with
another fun Texas cow-town tradition that would differentiate us from our less
distinct and larger corporate competitors.

I had kept the cattle chute idea, but enhanced it. The chute was a prefab cattle
"alley" that could be adjusted in length by adding more sections. It was largely
unchanged from its original deployment at The Big D, although I had enclosed
the sides to shield the livestock from the light and noise of the outside world.
Being sold was stressful enough, and I wanted the Pleasure Sluts to be able to
focus on rubbing their hot little twats and tweaking their nipples as they focused
on their performance on the block. As per my instructions, the walls had been
pushed inward. I was packed in tightly enough to be able to touch the walls
without lifting my arms, and feel the girl in front of me and the girl behind me
pressing against my naked body.

"Squeeze the bitches in, Jake," I had said, laughing. "Pack them tight like in the
old slave ships. Let them smell their own slave stink."

Jake had followed my instructions to the letter: my breasts were pressed into
the back of the girl in front of me, and I could feel the hand of the girl pleasuring
herself behind me rubbing against my own naked ass even as I stroked my own
love button.

The smell of wet pussy filled the air. It felt good to feel my slave sisters pressed
against me, snug and warm. No one spoke; like professional athletes preparing
for a match, our focus was entirely on our performance. There was no girlish
chatter, there was only the sighs of pleasure as we juiced ourselves and waited
for our chance to show the buyers what we had.

The chute was inverted upwards, so I wouldn't have to struggle with the light,
and climbing the stairs, and the sand all at once. I wasn't very bright, after all,
and it certainly wouldn't speed things up to have me tripping as I ran up the
steps of the auction block, like some sort of brainless klutz. No, no, that would
never do. I had to be graceful, and "quick out of the chute."

What time was it? Probably after 5PM. Was Becky Lou still at work? Was she
monitoring what was going on at The Big D? Did she have a confederate in
place, ready to bid on me? If not, could a confederate get to The Big D fast
enough? It was a lot of "ifs" considering that in a few minutes my sweet little
honey pot was going to be up for sale.

I reached up and felt the humiliating blue tag on my ear. Shaped like California,
it identified me as a 'blue state girl', one of the despised 'liberal elites.' I knew
there would be men and women in the audience today who would enjoy
watching me perform on the block because of my blue tag. As a tall, wealthy,
beautiful member of the 1%, I had enjoyed special privileges all my life. Now I
was "Blue, Tattooed, and Screwed", to use the memorable turn of phrase I had
put in the catalog.

As a member of the 1%, I didn't view economic downturns as an entirely bad

thing. Often the slaving business improved when the economy went south as
increased financial hardships meant more women were enslaved. I often looked
forward to economic downturns, even if they did hurt the little people.

The market model I had designed used artificial intelligence to detect and predict
inventory bottlenecks, and it had detected a glut in slave pussy at The Big D.
Part of it was the size of the operation; unlike HCI, The Big D simply didn't have
that much room to hold excess livestock. Through complex regression analysis I
had proven to Jake that when inventory levels were high, moving pussy faster at
a lower margin actually eked out a slightly higher overall net profit. Not much,
mind you, but over time, pennies added up to dollars.

My model was exquisitely sensitive to inventory levels, online prices at other

auction houses, economic conditions, and factors that could increase the supply
of slaves, such as higher college debt defaults or farm bankruptcies. And last
week the Fed had failed to cut interest rates as much as Wall Street had hoped.

I rubbed myself faster and played with my nipples. The rich and detailed market
understanding I had built into my model meant that my hot slave pussy was
priced to MOVE. And while it stung my pride that I might actually sell for less, I
could take comfort in the fact that in aggregate my quick-sale might add a few
pennies to Jake's bottom line.

The bitter irony of it all wasn't lost on me. As a member of the privileged elite I
was exempt from the sort of lunch-bucket concerns that dominated the daily
lives of losers like Becky Lou and Rosa. But now I was a Sandy Foot Girl, and in
a few seconds I'd be on the auction block, and spreading my pussy lips and
showing off my butthole to a bunch of redneck lowlifes because a few Wall
Street billionaires had been hoping for another 25 basis point cut.

It was dark. I remembered shining a flashlight into this same dark chute as I
explained the psychology to Jake.

"Nice and dark! Let the little sluts sweat it out," I explained, smiling devilishly.
"Even if she knows the setup of the room, she won't know who's auctioning her,
or how many buyers are in the stands. Will there be people she knows in the
crowd? Being paraded naked in front of a group of strangers is bad enough, but
being auctioned in front of your neighbors, co-workers, or even ex-boyfriends is
the ultimate humiliation. Make the little piggies squirm, and let them stew in
their own juices."

Stew in their own juices! I fingered my love button faster, relishing my pleasure.
Closing my eyes I let my fingers do the walking. It's really happening. I'm going
to be sold. I am inventory, an item up for sale at The Big D. When they scanned
my collar my status changed from GOODS AVAILABLE FOR SALE to BLOCK
READY. Once sold, they'd scan my collar and change my status to SOLD
MERCHANDISE. The gigantic sign painted on the wall of the Main Midway said it
all:

Welcome To Big D Livestock And Slave Market, Pardner!

All Merchandise Sold As Is.

All Sales FINAL!

All sales were final. Final.

Breathe, B-269. Breathe.

B-269? Was that my name? No, I was Sarah. I was Sarah. Wasn't I?

The gate to the chute swung open, and the girl ahead of me ran out as the slave
wrangler encouraged her journey with a sharp slap across her naked ass. The
gate slammed shut, and I was in darkness again.

It wouldn't be long now; I was next. I was moving through my system "fast as
greased lightning!" to use Judge Parker's memorable phrase. Yes, soon they'd
turn a quick, tidy profit on me.

I stared at the auction door in front of me, and shuddered as I heard the
auctioneer's gavel SLAM down like a guillotine blade. The pleasure slut in front of
me had been sold. After many years of fantasizing about what it would be like to
display myself on the auction block, my time had come.

The light blinded me as the gate in front of me sprung open like a trap door
underneath my feet. I had the sensation of falling as I ran 'quick out of the
chute", trying and failing to run past the hard SPANK! of the slave wrangler's
hand.

As I plunged through the gate I thought, "This is what it's like to be hung."
I heard a murmur of appreciation from the crowd, followed by a few wolf
whistles and some light applause as I sprinted across the block with an idiotic,
toothy grin on my face, as the auctioneer read my lot number, "B-269". I could
feel myself blush as the leering buyers appraised my naked body, but I knew
that I had their attention.

I had shown the proper enthusiasm, and had stepped lively and gracefully, like a
prancing gazelle. I felt a surge of pride. It was a strong start.

The moment had come. I could feel the sand between my toes. I was on the
auction block, a real Sandy Foot Girl! I couldn't believe it. My emotions were in a
washing machine: I was honored, humiliated, thrilled, and terrified, all at the
same time. Any fantasies I had of the glamor of being auctioned vanished as the
magnitude of what was about to happen to me sank into my bones.

The legal ramifications were as simple as they were incontestable: when I

stepped onto the sand of the auction block, I was an agent of the Texas
Department of Agriculture. When the auctioneer's gavel fell, I would be a slave.

The physical auction block had been my idea. The sales pit had originally been
exactly that, a bare pit strewn with sand surrounded by benches arranged in a
half circle. After all, there was no point in making cows or pigs walk up the
stairs, and the floor where the audience sat was raked so that every seat
provided an excellent view.

While I had hewed closely to the "cattle" market theme, I had added the large
wooden auction block with the podium and auctioneer's gavel. Partially it was a
visual reference to the prestigious auction houses that sold art. However mostly
it was a tribute to the slave markets of the golden days of yore, stretching back
to the Old South and the Barbary Pirates and even ancient Greece and Rome.
Auctioning slave girls off a block was a longstanding tradition. It was important
to show proper respect for the customs and rituals that legitimized the process.

I was in the largest theater, "Broadway". During the remodel I had added
comfortable padding and cup holders to the benches and had expanded the
wings so that more people could stand. The theater was full which meant there
were about 500 people looking at my naked body either directly or on the TV
monitors above. Countless more were doubtlessly watching me on their phones
or pads. Between the light blindness and my nearsightedness, I couldn't see any
faces, but I was conscious of countless eyes ogling my naked flesh.

As I moved to the center of the block I finally locked eyes on the auctioneer.
Standing naked in front of 500 people I had supposed that I couldn't have been
more humiliated or appalled.

I was wrong. My heart sank. I knew him. I knew my auctioneer.

His name was Timmy, and when I had met him he was a freshly scrubbed 18-
year-old who had come to work for Big D's straight off his families cattle ranch in
Texas. He was only about 5 foot, and was very youthful looking, which had
earned him the nickname of "Tiny Tim", which he despised.

I had taught Timmy auction block procedures. He had been an excellent student,
and had sat in the front row. He took copious notes and had asked all the right
questions. He was my star pupil, and had shown a great deal of promise.
Nonetheless, I was surprised to see him trusted with an auction of a Prime Minus
slave on Broadway.

Timmy was standing on a step stool that allowed him to see over the top of the
auctioneer's podium. Remembering his embarrassment about his height, I
fought the urge to laugh. Still, I felt a surge of pride to see my star pupil moving
so rapidly through the ranks, and I hoped I would have a chance to shake his
hand and congratulate him.

Not now, of course. After he sold me. I swallowed hard.

As we locked eyes he smiled at me, and for a brief instant I thought he

recognized me. Then I saw it wasn't a smile, exactly, it was more like a smug,
satisfied smirk as he looked at the tall blonde girl standing naked before him. I
recognized it as the "I own your ass" smile, and realized he was using a
technique that I had taught him:

Establish control of your inventory. Let her know that you're in charge.

The nature of his cruel smile of ownership was confirmed quickly enough as he
CRACKED the whip in the air while impatiently gesturing for me to begin my
paces with his other hand.

Muscle memory kicked in and I quickly sprinted across the stage to "first
position": legs spread, chin up, hands behind my head.

"Squat!" Timmy commanded, and I quickly moved into a more revealing pose:
bending with legs spread wide enough and only my toes touching the stage,
revealing my hot, wet, spread pussy lips and my butthole to the audience.

Timmy didn't waste any time and immediately started his auctioneers chant:

Fourty-Five, Fourty-Five

Willyagive-willyagive Fourty-Five

Fifty-Fifty-Fifty-doIgot-Fifty

My auction had begun.

It was then that I spotted him. Even without my glasses he was impossible to
miss. Judge Rufus Parker, the man who had sentenced me to the auction block I
was now squatting on, was sitting comfortably in his chair just a few feet in front
of me. Fat as a walrus, white sideburns and goatee, with the world's worst
comb-over. He was wearing a white suit, but he had removed his trademark ten-
gallon hat so as to not block the view for the bidders behind him.

Our eyes locked - mine in horror, his with a devilish twinkle. With a puckish grin
he tugged on his ear to indicate his approval of the blue cattle tag that had been
stapled to my ear, a badge of shame that demarked my reclassification as
livestock.

With a shit-eating grin, Judge Parker held up the book he had been using to
cover the bulge in his pants. I gasped when I saw what it was, as I recalled why
I remembered him so clearly. I had signed the book he was now holding in his
hand.

I had met Judge Parker at the book signing after my presentation. Remembering
his annoyance during the Q&A, I smiled when he handed me my book: "Profit
Per Pussy: The Art and Science of Slaving", for my autograph.

"Thank you for buying my book," I said, opening the front cover and signing my
name.

"I didn't buy it, sweetie," the fat man replied. "I'm a Judge, so I got it for free!"

I frowned; I didn't like comps. "Well, hopefully you'll learn something," I said,
finishing my large signature with a flourish.

"I want you to dedicate the book to Rufus Parker, the toughest judge in Texas!"
he boasted.

"I can't write that. How do I know you're the toughest judge?"

"You'd know it if you were in my courtroom, standing in front of my bench,

Goldilocks. Girls like you don't look sassy when I got my gavel in my hand."

"Yes, I'm sure you stroke your little gavel a lot," I said, flashing him my cutest
smile.

Judge Parker frowned; he was not used to a pretty young woman talking back to
him so boldly. Too bad, so sad, fatso. The other people in line were listening,
and I was not backing down.
"You know what I like best about selling Yankee girls?" he said. "I like it when I
sign a girl's enslavement form, then I sit in the front row, and watch 'em up on
the auction block, knowin' I'm gonna turn-a-pretty-penny on their sale. I like it
when they bend over, and spread, nice-and-wide. Yankee girls spreadin' their
butt cheeks is like openin' the drawer on a register, and I can practically hear
the cash register bell RING and the coins fall into my pocket as they show off
their tight little bung holes, ha-ha!"

Finishing the inscription I handed him back the book. "Well, with you in the front
role, there's more than one asshole to look at."

It was the perfect retort, and everyone, including me, laughed out loud as an
angry Judge Parker skulked off. I'm sure he was even less pleased when he got
home and read my inscription:

To Rufus Paker, the fattest judge in Texas, with love from Sarah, the sassy
Yankee who got away!

Again I'd had a laugh at Judge Parker's expense, humiliating him first in public,
then in writing. But he who laughs last laughs best.

Now Judge Parker sat in the front row, smirking at me. In his hands he held up
the book I had autographed that day, Profit Per Pussy, featuring a smiling
picture of me on the cover, looking quite sassy in my blue business suit.

It was Judge Parker who was smiling now. Profit Per Pussy was an apropos title,
for I knew Judge Parker was going to make a tidy profit off of my sale. And he
was right, squatting on the auction block, I didn't look nearly so sassy.

At a moment when I assumed nothing could be worse, Timmy, my auctioneer,

gave a command that made my heart flutter.

"Dog it!" Timmy snapped, punctuating his command with a whip crack so close
to my naked backside that I could feel the air rush down my bottom crack. Years
of cattle ranching had made Timmy an expert with the whip, a skill I had once
admired but now found terrifying.

Humiliated beyond words but desperate to avoid the whip I did a graceful slave-
roll into the required position: on all fours, bottom facing the audience, head
down, legs spread as wide as nature allowed, showing Judge Parker everything.

My pussy dripping, my face flushed beet red from humiliation, sand clinging to
my naked skin, I lifted my bottom up and opened myself up like a flower, my
bottom hole winking at the audience in reaction to the breeze of the air
conditioner. Judge Parker's taunt rang in my ears.

"I like it when I sign a girl's enslavement form, then I sit in the front row, and
watch 'em up on the auction block, knowin' I'm gonna turn-a-pretty-penny on
their sale! I like it when they bend over, and spread, nice-and-wide. Yankee girls
spreadin' their butt cheeks is like openin' the drawer on a register, and I can
practically hear the cash register bell RING and the coins fall into my pocket as
they show off their tight little bung holes, ha-ha!"

I wasn't sure if I actually heard Judge Parker say "ca-ching!" or if the cash
register sound I heard was only in my mind.

Sandy Foot Girl Ch. 05: SOLD!

byJoe_Doe_Stories©

My auction had begun, and the bids mounted in quickly. Even as I blushed and
spread my butt cheeks for Judge Parker's amusement, I felt a surge of pride at
the way "Tiny Tim" was quickly showing the bidders everything B-269 had.

I felt light headed and could hear my heart beating in my chest. I was glad for
my Slave Yoga and block training, for it was this moment I'd prove myself
worthy of my Prime Minus grade. Even if I felt like a stunned cow, I knew I'd
have to move fast, and obey perfectly, to maximize my price.

"When you're at level 5, don't let the little sluts catch their breath, Timmy," I
had instructed my star pupil. "No matter who she was, or who she thought she
was, she's livestock, no different than a cow or a sow. She's snatch to be sold,
not a story to be told."

I had taught Tiny Tim well. While every second on the auction block seemed like
an hour to me, the total elapsed time between the gate sliding open and me
spreading my butt cheeks like the most lascivious of slave sluts was only a few
seconds. It was obvious from my high lot number (B-269) and my rifle-shot
progression from the receiving dock to the auction block that The Big D was
moving a lot of pussy that day.

The economics of the auction house dictated that there would be no slow, sexy
reveals or discussions of my finer points: Timmy wanted to show the crowd my
fuckable holes and sell me as gash-for-cash.

From a purely business perspective, I heartily approved of my speedy sale. My

computer model had proved that it made more sense to sell three more slaves
than squeeze a few extra dollars out of any particular lot. Any fantasies I had
about being admired and appreciated were crushed under the brutal capitalism
of The Big D, like a cowboy boot crushing a cigarette.

The rapid early fire was very typical of the opening stage of a Pleasure Slut
auction. The first few bids always drew the "bumpers" (people who bid up the
price for girls just for fun) and the "jerkers" (buyers who would later jerk off
imagining they had bought the girl, or would get off jerking their fingers in-and-
out of pleasure sluts put on the sales floor for display). These distractions made
no difference to Timmy, who was focused solely on my hammer price and the
number of "lots-per-hour" he could parade across his block.

"Change yer tune fer this one, ladies, and gents! Look up her pooper. We got
nothin' to hide!"

Timmy's remark got some laughter even as I winced with the humiliation of
having a crowd of people led by the loathsome Judge Parker looking between my
butt cheeks. I could tell from the tone of his chant that Timmy either didn't
recognize me, or didn't care. I hadn't even had time to scan the audience to see
if Becky Lou or Rosa were there to bid on me before I had been bade to roll in
the sand, stick my butt out, and spread my legs to shoulder length.

"Show the buyers what they want to see," I had instructed my young apprentice.
"Don't dwell. Sell." Timmy was doing precisely that. The outcome of my entire
life was resting on what would happen in the next minute, but to the diminutive
18-year-old teenager standing on a box so he could see over the auctioneer's
podium I was simply the 269th pussy to be sold off the Broadway block on this
busy afternoon.

One of the cameras was pointed at my face, so I didn't dare look at Timmy, but
I was able to catch a glance of him out of the corner of my eye. The podium I
had designed for my little auctioneer was simple, but very much on brand. The
Amish craftsman who had built both the auction block and the podium to my
exacting specifications had used a 19th century craftsman style, but with a rustic
Texas accent. Both the block and the front of the podium was a series of open
slats that left everything but the top drawer, where my paperwork was, visible. I
had conceived it as sort of a visual pun: if the girls were totally exposed, why
shouldn't the furniture be, too? Now that I was 'dogging it' on the block with my
butt cheeks spread wide my attempt at irony seemed more cruel than amusing.

I had stepped onto the block by exiting the humiliating cattle chute, like the
animal I was. Timmy had mounted the block using the wooden steps, which had
a lovely beveled handrail on one side. The sandy boards I was kneeling on were
not perfectly flush, by design: I had wanted gaps for drainage so the sweat and
piss of the terrified slave girls didn't pool up. I had designed it well, and the
sand, as humbling as it was, gave me excellent traction and made it easy to
keep my footing, even as I squatted.

I had spent a lot of time thinking about the height of the block, and even with
my face facing away from the audience I could tell I had designed it perfectly. I
was close enough to Judge Parker that I could here him chuckling, and sniffling
as he leaned in for a closer look. Yes, Judge Parker and the people in the middle
tiers and top row had flawless views of my both my asshole and my widely split,
hot, wet beaver.

Without moving my head I sized up my auctioneer. Timmy had a blue sports

jacket with The Big D logo, and a white dress shirt, and a red tie, also with the
yellow rope logo of The Big D. The rest of his attire was pure Texas: jeans with a
big steer belt buckle, an oversized white cowboy hat to make him look taller,
and cowboy boots with lifts in them.

I had advised Timmy to wear the lifts and hat, to give him height, and the jacket
and tie, to give him authority. But there was still something comical about his
youthful appearance, as he looked less like a cowboy than a little boy trick-or-
treating. Allowing myself the briefest flicker of a smile I took a moment to enjoy
how absolutely ridiculous my auctioneer really was.

Surely, I had nothing to fear from such an absurd little creature. Timmy was a
little boy playing dress up, pretending to be an auctioneer. I wondered if he
shaved yet.

I flashed back to the first day when Timmy had come to me after class. He was
shy, and had blushed when he confessed that he didn't know if he had the
"dominance" to be a good auctioneer. I had gently lifted his chin with my hand,
and looked into his eyes, telling him that I was sure it was a problem he could
overcome, if he paid attention in class and did everything, I told him to.

I had made Timmy my 'little project', and bossed him, and mothered him. I
delighted in telling "my little man," as I called him, to "stand tall" at the podium.
Now he was doing just that, even if he was standing on a box.

In class, I had kept him squarely under my thumb, and even threatened to
"spank him" if he misbehaved, much to the other auctioneer's amusement, and
Timmy's embarrassment.

Now the tables had turned, and it wasn't Timmy who was blushing. I was no
longer the teacher, and Timmy was no longer my student. In his tiny hands he
held the symbols of his absolute authority over me.
In his right hand he held the slave whip, which was unfolded and dangling free,
ready to strike. And in his right hand he held his auctioneer's gavel.

It was the auctioneer's gavel that scared me the most. It was walnut and
ornately carved, as was the beveled base that matched it. The brass plaque on it
had his name and graduation date. I knew that because I had been the one who
had placed the gavel in his hand on graduation day. I had even put a special
inscription in a brass plaque on the bottom.

To Tiny Timmy, my little man

Be good, or Mama spank!

Love, Sarah

He hadn't thought the inscription was very funny. I did.

The gavel was beautifully carved but not in a particularly sinister way. Indeed, to
me it was simply another tool of the trade. I had held thousands of them over
the years, and this one was no different than the rest. Why then, did the sight of
the beautifully carved gavel in Timmy's little fist make my blood run cold?

This gavel was different, for this gavel controlled my destiny. Judge Parker had
signed my enslavement order, so that I could complete my undercover
assignment. Yes, I was legally a slave, but as long as I was the property of The
Texas Department of Agriculture it would be simple enough for him to reverse
his order and free me.

However, under the laws of the State of Texas, and the Uniform Slave Code
recognized in all 50 states, when a registered slave is sold to a third party by a
licensed slave dealer such as a The Big D, the sale and enslavement become
irrevocable, unless it is found that the buyer, seller, and dealer were ALL acting
in bad faith.
This meant that if Timmy sold me to some random stranger, which by all
appearances he seemed quite happy to do, then the moment his gavel struck its
walnut base I'd be the property of the highest bidder. And if Betty Lou and her
idiotic side kick Rosa didn't realize how quickly I was being sold, and didn't get
to The Big D in time, too bad, so sad.

The wet-behind-the-ears, pimply faced child standing on the box was using
everything I had taught him to sell me with the gavel I had put in his hand. It
was as infuriating as it was exciting.

"Come on, gentlemen, we don't want lookers!" Timmy urged. "Aren' there any
Texans here? Y'all from out of state? Let's get this slut off-my-stage and into-
her-cage!"

Every auctioneer had a different style, and Timmy, clearly relishing his position
of power, liked to "have fun with the gavel", as I said in class. It's a good sales
strategy, as people will bid more if they are having a good time. However,
Timmy's playful tone vanished as he turned to address lot B-269.

"Leg's wider! Nose down, ass up!" Timmy barked in his thick Texas twang.

I strained to spread my knees as widely apart as possible... and then

remembering the whip in Timmy's tiny fist, a couple of inches beyond that. I
lowered my head to the stage, sticking my nose into the coarse brown sand as
my bottom raised and opened up like a flower. I heard the ceiling mounted
camera behind me whirl as it moved in for a closer look, allowing everyone at
The Big D to see my asshole on their handy cellphone app.

The sand particles I was inhaling up my nose were putrid, and I fought the urge
to wretch. They swept the market once a week, but I could smell the stink and
sweat of the endless parade of disgusting slave sluts who had gone before me,
as well as the pee of the girls who had lost control of their bladders and
disgraced themselves on the block.

Like all the other aspects of The Big D, I had given a lot of thought to the sand.
After reviewing countless samples, I had selected a rough industrial sand
because the color matched the gray brown shade of the walls. I had been
intrigued when I had learned that girls sold in The Big D were sometimes called
"Sandy Foot Girls," and seeing the business opportunity I wondered if I might
use the local colloquialism in the marketing of our product.

The West Texas sand I had chosen was much darker than what was normally
used, and as I had anticipated it soon became something of a trademark for The
Big D. On the website the online catalog ads for the various lots often featured
women with bits of the dark sand clinging to their naked bodies. It gave the girls
a distinct look, a brand identity that screamed "The Big D".

Many of the auctioneers regarded the sand as a nuisance necessary for cleanup,
but I advised the owner to lean into the unique "look" the sand offered. I had
sprinkled the "Sandy Foot Girls" name in the monthly newsletter / sales
catalogue, and had even devoted the last few pages to a photo spread of "Miss
Sandy Foot", the hottest, best-selling Pleasure Slut for sale.

As always, I had made an excellent choice, but now I wasn't carefully

considering the texture and clinginess of the coarse sand on my manicured hand
in my air conditioned office, I was rubbing my nose in it after dozens of slave
girls had released their bladders on it. I didn't want to stick my nose in the
brown filth, but the image of Timmy's whip was fresh in my mind, and I knew
that with countless girls in inventory he would brook no rebellion from the
Pleasure Slut displaying her asshole to the buyers.

Clumps of the pee-soaked sand were clinging to my hair, legs, feet, and body,
which made it all the more disgusting. But I also felt a strange surge of pride, for
this was the sand on Broadway, and I was now officially a Sandy Foot Girl!

With my nose in the sand I knew everyone in the crowd could see better than I
could. Of course my mortifying slave slut position was only part of the problem.
They had taken away my glasses when they had stripped me naked, of course:
slave girls didn't need glasses. The loss of my glasses left me quite illiterate, yet
another humiliation piled onto a day filled with them. While I couldn't see the
faces of the people ogling my naked body I could hear stray bits of conversation
as the bids poured in.

"Do ya'll think she'd make a good grad'ation present for Willy?" a middle aged
woman asked in a thick Texas drawl.

"He got a dick, don't he?" her friend replied.

"She sure is excited."

"Yeah, I can smell her from here." I shuddered as I recognized Judge Parker's
familiar drawl.

"The Prince likes blondes," a thickly accented voice said. "I'm putting in a bid."

"That is one hot, SLOPPY PUSSY!" a drunken msn said. It came from the side,
where the gawkers and drunken good-old-boys stood. He wasn't a serious
buyer, but Timmy picked up the chant.

Sixty, Sixty, DoIhearSixtyforthesloppypussy, sloppypussy, sloopypussy...This

ayn't a rental, folks, this is 100% Blue State fuck bunny!

In the excitement of the auction, I had forgotten about the blue tag stapled to
my ear. It was shaped like California and marked me as a despised "Blue State
Girl".

"I don't like blue state girls," I heard one old male voice say.

"There okay, if you don't spare the whip, and teach 'em their place. 'Brand 'em,
fuck, 'em, teach them to suck'em', that's what I say."

"Yeah, college girls don't look so stuck up when they have my cock in their
mouth" a man sneered.

To my left I heard a teacher tell his student's to "put your phones away", only to
have several of the student protest that they were examining my "hot slave
pussy" in closeup on their phones. As if being sold by an 18-year-old wasn't
humiliating enough, my shamefully wet pussy and asshole were part of some
career day field trip for the seniors at the local high school.

"Look at that little brownie!"

"I wouldn't mind fucking that."

"You'd fuck anything, loser," a girl's voice responded.

"Yeah, you don't want to catch nothing. These Pleasure Sluts let the whole world
fuck 'em."

Although I had expressed the same sentiment in equally vulgar terms, the
cruelty in the humiliating comments caused me to clench my teeth. If I was sold
to somewhere where the "whole world" could fuck me, then that wouldn't be my
choice.

As if on cue I heard two voices with Mexican accents.

"We can put her to work in the brothel by the military base. We'll make our
money back in 3 months, tops."

"Yeah, then we can resell her while she's still prime."

"Or turn her ass out across the border, in Nuevo Laredo, or Tijuana. Let the
gringos fuck 'er, and we don't have to worry about the law."

My heart, which had already been racing, beat like a trip hammer at the threat.
Across the border there'd be no coming back. I'd be fucked, literally and
constantly, starved in a slave brothel as I was made to serve the dregs of
humanity. There was no #MeToo in a Mexican slave brothel, and I'd be fuck by
truckers, soldiers, tourists, frat boys, or anyone who wanted to have some kinky
fun without having to spend much money. For a few dollars, anyone could have
me anyway they wanted.

The bidders from the slave brothels bought a lot of girls, for after grinding a girl
down they'd typically sell her to yet a cheaper brothel a few months later.
Nonetheless they weren't popular with auctioneers, as it was felt that they
"siphoned" bids. Why pay top dollar for a girl who you could fuck in a slave
brothel for a couple of hundred pesos tomorrow night?

SixtyFive, SixtyFive, SixtyFive! You folks over yonder are allowed to bid too, so
get to it! White & wet, wet & ready, ayn't nothin' wrong with this one but the
price! FreeBadgingIncluded, FreeBadging!

I felt a chill run down my spine. Free badging had been my idea, another way to
distinguish ourselves in the market. The conceit was The Big D was a premium
brand, and owning a real Sandy Foot Girl was a point of pride, like owning the
pickup truck. And like a pick-up truck, our inventory was marked with our logo.
Except instead of putting a logo or the bumper of the truck, we branded The Big
D logo on the newly sold slave girl's ass.

Like most of my initiatives, it had been a masterstroke, although it had required

a bit of fine tuning. Some owners objected to having the brands placed on the
dead center of the girl's naked asses, and so we quickly relocated the brands to
"between the cheeks", on the exquisitely sensitive skin on the inner left butt
cheek. This novel placement allowed the logo to be displayed when needed, and
even fondled by her master during fucking, without marring the girl's day-to-day
appearance in anyway.

The only downside was that the skin was so extremely sensitive that sometimes
the girls would bite into their own tongues or mouths because of the intense
pain. Jake had actually started giving the stupid sluts local anesthesia, until I
showed him that you could solve the problem much more cheaply by simply
putting a stick in the girl's mouth and strapping it to her head as a stick gag.

In addition to being cheaper, the stick gag made the girl's shriek's much less
annoying, while doing nothing to lessen the impact of the vital lesson that a new
slave girl can best learn from a scalding hot branding iron applied firmly and
mercilessly to her naked ass.

As we had expert blacksmiths on staff, and woodfired forges, this free

advertising and brand differentiation cost us practically nothing. As a result,
badging was now as routine as it was inexpensive, and unless Becky Lou or Rosa
intervened, I'd soon be wearing the "badge" I had designed forever.

My fear of the red-hot iron must have caused me to unconsciously clench my

cheeks together in fear, for I heard Judge Parker's voice behind me. "Wink your
asshole," he said loudly. I swear he was close enough when he said it that I
could feel his breath on my exposed ass and pussy. I froze as Timmy picked up
the chant:

Seventy, Seventy, SeventyForTheWinker, WINKER, WINKER, Goin'Forseventy.

I may had frozen, but Timmy had not. Seeing that I was not complying he
punctuated his command with a whip crack so close to my naked bottom that I
could feel the air rush down my bottom crack. Years of cattle ranching had made
Timmy an expert with the whip, a skill I had once admired but now found
terrifying.

Petrified of the whip I abandoned my last shred of dignity as I tightened and

loosened my sphincter as rapidly as possible, "winking" my bottom hole at a
laughing Judge Parker.

"That's it," Judge Parker sneered. "Show me how much you want it up the ass,
B-269! I'll pack your fudge nice-and-tight, and ride your little piggy hole, long
and hard, till you squeal for more! Wink it, Sarah! WINK IT!"

I obeyed like the obedient little fuck toy I was, pumping my asshole open and
closed while the fat pig of a Judge laughed at my humiliation. What choice did I
have? If I didn't obey, I'd feel Timmy's whip between my cheeks, cracking down
hard. Timmy was my best student, and I knew he'd hit the bullseye.
"I wanna see her come," Judge Parker called out. Lifting my nose out of the
sand, I glanced up at Timmy, who made a flipping motion with his wrist,
signaling his command.

Like an obedient puppy I rolled in the sand onto my back. I lifted myself up and
spread my legs obscenely wide, so my pussy was only a few feet from Judge
Parker's disgusting fat face. Using my right hand to balance me, I put my left
hand between my legs, spreading my legs and teasing my clitoris as the
camera's zoomed in.
Eighty, Eighty, Show-em-the-pink, Eighty for the pink! Show 'em the pink, slut!

I obeyed, using my working hand to spread my pussy lips wide and using my
thumb to flick my clit. As per Timmy's direction, I showed them the pink, being
careful not to let my hand block my pussy as I openly masturbated myself to
orgasm for the buyer's amusement. I would have liked to have closed my eyes
and concentrated, but as per my training I moved my face through a series of
emotions to try to show the buyers what my personality might look like: big
smile, playful sexy smirk, pout, frown, lascivious lip-lick.

"Eighty, Eight, open up them curtains, slut, and show 'em that pink butterfly of
yers'. Hotter than a Dallas sidewalk in July!" The crowd laughed.

I was hot, wet, and juicy, and as I inched closer to orgasm I heard a loud
speaker in the other room playing the little advertising jingle I had written, to
the tune of "Ayn't We Got Fun!"

Down the slave chute

Birth-day suit!

Sand-y Foot Girl!

Pussy's runny

Drips slave honey,

Sand-y Foot Girl!

She's wet and read-y,

To squat on the block.

A slut who's eager,

To suck on your cock.

It was all true. I licked my lips as I made eye contact with Judge Parker, begging
to take his disgusting pecker in my mouth for a humiliating "slave kiss." His eyes
twinkled with amusement as my slave honey dribbled down my thighs and my
pussy spasmed with pleasure.

I had never felt so exposed, so humiliated, so slave naked. Judge Parker wasn't
looking at my pussy, he was looking into my soul, and laughing at what he saw.

His court order was now true. I was a Pleasure Slut. I was a Sandy Foot Girl.

I finally got a look at the crowd. The room was packed, and I had no way of
knowing who had bid on me up to this point. The moms in the front row were
bidding, as was an older man who seemed to want to buy me for his idiot son,
who was sitting next to him with a lecherous grin on his face. A hard-faced
woman with a laptop was bidding; she scared me.

I recognized one of the bidders from his tweedy clothes. He was a Texas oilman
who had used his fortune to build himself a faux English Manor, and now hosted
"fox hunts" on his estate. I knew he was biding on me because he thought I'd be
a good runner, and while the thought of being chased down by men on
horseback and a pack of braying dogs wasn't appealing, it frightened me less
than the two swarthy men from the Mexican slave brothel, or the representative
of the Sheik, both of whom were still bidding.
It's who I didn't see that really scared me. There was no Betty Lou, or Rosa. And
Judge Parker wasn't bidding. Apparently, he had simply come to revel in the
humiliation of whatever Yankee girls he had scheduled for the block.

On the wall there was a sign, which I could only read because I had written it.
ALL SALES FINAL. I swallowed hard.

Even as my orgasm closed in the pace of the slow. It wouldn't be long now.
Soon I would be sold. Not daring to move my face I gave Timmy a bit of side-
eye.

Much to my surprise, my auctioneer was not pleased with my price, and his
grumpy gaze turned to an angry glare as he focused on me, the prone slave slut
who was failing him, costing him his commission. Worse, I had been on the
block longer than my allotted 45 seconds, and time was money.

The urgency of Timmy's chant increased even as the bidding stopped.

Somebodygimme 90 Somebodygimme90 Somebodygimme90 Gottagiveme90...

But the conversation in the front row had moved on.

"Got some red-headed snatch up next."

"Yeah, maybe she'll be less pricey than this one."

"Girls on Broadway always go for top dollar. You get the bargains at Dixie
Traders."

The current offer of 88 was an excellent price, although like Timmy I had hoped
for more. But given that I was B-269 there was an obviously a glut of top rated
pussy at The Big D that day.

Every slave girl likes to think that she'll always bring top dollar, just as every
auctioneer always like to think they alone can get the very best price. However
that was ego, not business. But Timmy simply wouldn't let it go.

This girl's a bargain at 90, ladies and gents! Worth at least 100! Gottagivem90!
Gottagiveme90! You over there - you biddin' or swatting flies? What's wrong
with that snatch? Get yer' peckers out gentlemen, and yer' wallets will follow!

There was something about Timmy's frustration that I found amusing. Maybe it
was the way the little boy-man was standing on the stepping stool to look over
the podium, or the desperation of his pleas, or my memories of how the other
auctioneers had teased "Tiny Tim."

Truth be told I was both relieved and insulted that he didn't recognize me. It
wasn't surprising, really: in class I wore my hair up, and had glasses, and,
dressed like the powerful professional woman I was. The successful architect of
the Big D's redesign, the seasoned expert who had taught Billy his trade, bore
scant resemblance to the naked slave slut who was now rapidly rubbing her hot,
wet pussy on the auction block, sawdust clinging to her sweaty body, nose, and
hair. (Slave pixie dust, they called it. After rolling around on the block like a
frisky puppy begging for a doggy toy I had more than my fair share of the dusty
'magic.' )

Being auctioned off by this wet-behind-the-ears teenager would have been even
worse if he had realized who I was, and precisely how far I had fallen. But a part
of me was furious at him for not recognizing me. I was his teacher, his mentor,
his boss... or had been, at any rate. Now he was treating me like just another
piece of slave pussy to turn a quick dollar on. I despised his power over me, and
the smug, satisfied smirk of ownership he had given me when he first saw me
naked on the block.

A part of me was delighted to see him fail, as it was mortifying to be sold by

someone whom I still viewed as my pimply-faced student. Not as talented a
student as I had assumed, for Tiny Tim couldn't even break 90.

Poor little Timmy! That's what happens when you send a boy to do a man's job.
Breaking character, I turned my head, and laughed at him. Not with him, but AT
him, at his ineptitude, at his failure. Reestablishing control, our eyes met, as his
teacher sent him the message of failure he needed to hear.

It wasn't a huge laugh, not like the guttural joy Judge Parker had been directing
at me. Nonetheless, I could see the rage flash across Timmy's boyish face.

A part of me was sorry I hadn't made Tiny Timmy pull down his pants and
underpants on that first day and get over my knee, for a good-old-fashioned
underpants downer. With my power over him, and his timid nature, I'm sure I
could have gotten away with it. I had missed my chance to spank his butt
cheeks red, but I was happy to make up for it now.

Timmy was angry, so I replied by pursing my lips and wincing in mock

sympathy.

"What-sa-matter, baby?" I said with my eyes. "Poor little Tiny Timmy can't get
90 for the hot slave girl worth at least 100? Your little tiny willy not big enough?
Boo-hoo!

I closed my review of Timmy's lackluster performance with a chuckle, derisive

headshake, and a long, slow eye roll.

To the shock and surprise of everyone in the crowd, Timmy did something
auctioneers NEVER, EVER do.

Timmy stopped chanting.

I had beaten him. I had gotten inside his head. I had won. I was still in charge.

The crowd was deathly silent as the enraged auctioneer raised his slave whip in
the air. I was kneeling on the block with my legs spread and my pussy raised
high. Terrified, I quickly rolled, hoping to take the blow on my back.

CRACK!
I was on my knees, bottom raised high, when the whip came down. I was
standing slightly in front of and several feet to the left of Tiny Tim, who was still
standing on his box behind the podium, so I was surprised when he somehow
managed to deliver a perfectly placed shot that landed dead center on my naked
ass.

The whip exploded like a line of fire across my cheeks, bisecting both spheres
and slicing my bottom in half like it was a hamburger under the butcher's knife.
Instinctively I clenched my butt cheeks, which was the worse thing possible, as
it caused the exquisitely tender skin between my butt cheeks to close around the
fiery whip, and draw in down into a loop toward my butthole, giving me a
skinning in the most sensitive place imaginable.

I had felt a few "taps" of the whip before during slave training, and they had
hurt like hell, even if my trainer claimed he had barely touched me. But I'd
never felt pain like this. Timmy was clearly pissed at the little slave slut who had
embarrassed him in front of the bidders. My apprentice had used his skill with
the whip with a bitter vengeance, and had delivered a stroke which reestablished
his control over both me and everyone who was watching.

Now it was my turn to break character. Letting out an animalistic howl, I

reached back and grabbed my scorched butt cheeks, loosing all dignity. The next
few seconds seemed like hours as the pain in my bottom consumed me, only
gradually allowing other realizations to sink in.

The salty tears running down my face.

The resumption of Timmy's horrible chant...

The raised hands as the bids poured in.

For a moment I thought the large pool spreading around my knees was blood,
but it wasn't until I heard the voice of a man in the front row that I realized what
had happened.
"The blue-ribbon piggy is peeing on herself!" a male voice chortled.

"Yeah, they're all disgusting little sows," his wife replied. "Peeing everywhere,
humping the chair legs. Now you see why I make the boys keep them locked up
in the slave kennels in the barn."

I felt the sting of the laughter of the two moms in the front row, shopping for a
graduation gift for their son Willy.

"Ha-ha! She felt that one!"

"Yeah. He really skinned that big ass of hers."

"Serves the little bitch right for challenging the auctioneer."

"Yes, all these little sluts need to have their asses whipped if you ask me.
Running around naked, and rubbing themselves like bitches in heat!"

"Cracked her ass so hard she pissed herself."

"No dignity at all."

"No brains either. It doesn't seem to be hurting the bidding, though."

Although I had literally written the book on slave auctions, part of the fun of the
business was there was always something new to learn. I had embarrassed my
auctioneer, had my ass whipped, and had disgraced myself by pissing on the
block. But the bids were pouring in. The crowd's reaction surprised me, until I
remembered the blue tag stapled to my ear. People were enjoying watching the
"blue ribbon piggy" getting her ass whipped.

Tiny Tim was chanting fast now. "Fair room, & fair warning, folks! I know this
one's a virgin cuz I fucked her myself this mornin'!"
It was an old joke, but the audience laughed. Once again, Timmy had them
eating ouf of his hand. The last minute snipers were moving in to, trying to get
me for a few dollars more, but Timmy wasn't having it: "I can't shave her any
closer!"

I had trained my student well, and he was going to get top dollar for the horny,
wet, slave slut squatting in her own filth. My wisdom in scattering the sand over
the auction block had been proven right. I couldn't take full credit, of course: the
wisdom of the ages dictated covering the sales area with sand, in case the
livestock fouled itself in front of the buyers.

Of course, when I had told them my precise specifications of the type and
quantity of sand to be used, I had never dreamed that I would be peeing on the
sand in front of an amused crowd of the local yokels.

Jake had once said that a girl isn't really a slave until she feels the sand of the
auction block between her toes.

I wiggled my toes. Some of my spray had hit my feet, which meant the sand
was between my toes in clumps. I was now a "Sandy Foot Girl" but the final,
legal designation of my new status was yet to come.

The bidding was up over 100, but Timmy still wasn't satisfied. "Rub that juicy
pussy, slut," he snapped. "Let the buyers watch ya' come."

I wish I could say that I obeyed because of the whip in Timmy's hand, and the
utter certainly that he would use it if I showed the slightest trace of
disobedience.

I wish I could say I wasn't conscious of the laughter and chatter of the buzzing
bidders who were staring at my blatantly exposed sex.

"Flick that bean, girl!" Judge Parker ordered. "Let's see that pussy SQUIRT".

But the truth is I was eager to cum in front of everyone, and show them that I
was worth what they were bidding on me. Somehow the humiliation of the High
School Class, and Judge Parker, and the local yokels bidding on my sloppy wet
pussy made it all the hotter.

I leaned back placing my left hand in the sand to steady myself as I lifted my
pussy up for the buyer's appraisal. I was careful to use only my thumb, and not
to block the view of my sex, so they could watch my little hole spasm and twitch
with pleasure as played my clit like a guitar.

Timmy's chant slowed as he tried to eke out a final bid. "Going...going... All in
and all done, folks! Fair warning... Going... Going..."

As Billy raised the hammer, I stared at it, mouth agape. He held it above his
head, like he was an evil wizard holding a magic wand that would transform me
forever.

No, no, this couldn't be happening. Not to me! I wasn't B-269, I was Sarah. I
was standing confidently in my penthouse in Midtown, cocktail in hand, looking
out over Central Park. I wasn't squatting naked on an auction block,
masturbating my hot, wet, spread pussy for the crowd, flicking my little bean
and watching the hammer fall on my sale.

I looked up at Billy with pleading eyes, hoping he'd recognize me, hoping he'd
realize his mistake, hoping he'd save me at the last possible instant! Oh, what a
story that would be!

But Timmy was focused solely on the audience. He was pointing at the bidder
with his whip hand, a tight smirk on his face. He was signaling to the buyer that
a good bargain had been struck, just like I had trained him to do.

In that instant, I would have sucked every cock at The Big D, and licked every
pussy, to have kept that hammer from falling. The gavel moved in slow
motion...

"Stop!" I thought. "Please! No! No! You're making a terrible mistake!"

But there was another voice in my head, the voice of Sarah, the ruthless slaving
professional, cool, cold, and detached.

"Sell the little slut! She's done her squats, and shown everyone her tight little
bunghole. Now sell her skanky ass. 'No pity, No reserve, no regrets.' Don't let
her waste anymore of your time. She's only been here an hour, which means
your carrying costs on her are practically a rounding error. Any money you make
selling her hot little pussy is pure profit. Sell her like the slave pig slut she is.
Stay on brand! Drop the gavel on the little bitch, NOW!"

I was slave hot, and soon I was overcome by my crushing slavegasm: chilling,
exhausting, fiery, exhilarating, and 1,000 other things all at once. The buyers
laughed and cheered as my pussy spasmed and undulated like Jello in an
earthquake. My unparalleled pleasure was cut short by a single word from
Timmy that would change my life forever.

"SOLD!"