Sheriff's Auction by Imreadonly2

[imreadonly2]

I want to apologize to Orflash for not responding sooner -- totally swamped and I haven't been near the web in a while. But as an apology, here is an expanded version of Sheriff's Auction story. I hope you enjoy!
Blushing red with humiliation, I squatted on the auction block, my legs spread wide, my eyes filled with tears.

"At least the drapes match the rug."

"Yeah, I like blonde gash."

"Looks like a tight little honeypot, all right."

Behind me, my auctioneer, Maxine, was touting my wares. I had known Maxine since I was a little girl and she was good at her job, damn good. She knew how to keep the excitement up and keep the auction moving with a steady stream of patter that kept the audience entertained despite the large number of items being moved that day.

I was lot 130. Lot 67 had been an old police car the town was retiring. Item 89 had been a goat from a local farmer; item 130 was a naked blonde slave girl, terrified, her heart racing as the bids on her naked body flowed in.

I was probably around six when I first met Max, and I remember she laughed when I asked my daddy if she was a boy or a girl. As she was the best livestock auctioneer in the area, we had become good friends, or at the very least had a warm business relationship, as I often attended the horse auctions and bought whatever I fancied. Maybe that’s why she never seemed to mind when I called her “Max” instead of Maxine, and teased her about being more of a stud than any of the horses she sold. She was very respectful, and always called me Ma’am, even when I was a little girl, although I was never really sure if she liked me or my daddy’s money.

"36? Do I hear 36? 36 from the woman with the red hair! 40? Come now, folks, she's a bargain at 40, ladies and gentlemen! Imagine her waitin’ fer’ ya’ at home each night like this, squatting, legs spread, yers’ to order, hers to please. Look at that pussy! I fingered it just this mornin’, and it’s tight as a tick! 40 from the gentleman in the blue blazer who knows quality when he sees it."

After Daddy died I actually visited Maxine, since I was concerned that my stepmother might start to sell off his assets even though I was the rightful heir. Maxine confirmed that my stepmother had actually given her a long list of assets to appraise. I was mortified when she showed me the list, which was damn near everything my father and I owned. Maxine was unconcerned and professional, and coolly explained that it made sense to sell most of my father’s “fancy” personal property in the city, where she’d get “top dollar” for it, while she’d sell the livestock in town, since we lived in “horse country.”

I blushed a little when Max asked about the “slave pussy” on my stepmother’s list, which confused her because she didn’t think my daddy owned any slaves. Max had said she asked my stepmother about it, and she just laughed and said she had “some sweet snatch waiting in the bullpen, almost ready to drop.”

“I hope it’s true, since there’s nothing more fun than auctioning off some hot, slave girl pussy,” Max said, licking her lips in a way that displayed her missing teeth. “But since your daddy didn’t have no slave girls, it sounds like horse feathers to me,” Max sniffed. “You know anything about it, Ma’am?”

I was usually pretty confident in dealing with Max, but now the words sort of tumbled out. “Sometimes… you know, when there is like… debt, or… something… the children under 21 can get sold off with the estate. I mean, not that it would ever happen… there’s no way… but I’m under 21.”

Maxine laughed out loud. “Bullshit, if you don’t mind my French Ma’am. Yer’ daddy was a millionaire. Slavery is for girls that don’t got no money, not for a proper young lady like yer’self, Ma’am”.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Daddy left everything to me, and just an allowance to her. But… I think she’s cooked up a phony will.”

Maxine laughed out loud at the absurdity, but her laughter ebbed as she saw I wasn’t laughing. She looked a little puzzled at first, but when she saw I wasn’t joking her demeanor changed. I felt a power shift between us as her laughter turned into a tight smile, and the twinkle in her eye turned into a cold appraising stare.

Max looked me up and down, first, running her eyes down my legs, then back up to my breasts. Embarrassed to be praised like a horse by this trailer park tomboy, I found myself staring at the ground as she walked around me in a slow, appraising circle.

I took a deep breath as she took the riding crop off her belt and used it to lift my chin into the air. “Shake out your hair,” she said curtly.

Her tone was entirely inappropriate, given our history and relative social standings. But in truth I found it more than a bit exciting to ordered about by this tomboy roustabout, and so I complied.

“Nice”, she said, appraising me like I was a side of beef. “Flat tummy” she said, poking me in the stomach with the tip of her riding crop. “And nice titties,” she said, smiling as she slowly ran the crop up between my breasts. Walking behind me I got the full appraisal, “Nice ass, too,” she observed, lifting one of my butt cheeks with the tip of her crop, as if she were weighing hamburger. “I could turn some sweet cash on yer’ gash. Ya’ ever been graded?”

“Of course not!” I said, shocked at the idea.

“Ever been with a girl, Princess?” she said, leaning in so I could smell her stale, cigarette breath.

“Of course not!” I said, even more shocked than before.

“That’s too bad, because I bet ya’all make a fine little rug muncher. Get that little pink tongue of yours way up there. Now ya’ ayn’t been trained, but that’s what the whip is fer, right?” she said. I tensed as she tapped my bottom twice in quick succession with the crop.

I had, in point of fact, taken slave yoga at school. Forming the habit, every night I did countless hours of slave yoga at home after daddy and the servants went to bed. I had actually been caught out twice, once by Miss Hudson, our housekeeper, who walked in as I was doing a naked slave dance in front of the mirror, and once by Ralph, one of my horse wranglers, who came in on his vacation day to discover the owner’s daughter rolling naked in the straw out in the barn, while a tape of a slave auction played over a boombox. They both knew enough to keep their mouths shut, although I think, being servants, they gossiped amongst themselves. But I wasn’t going to brag about my first class slave moves to the mannish Max.

“I wouldn’t want to be sold around here,” I said. “Anywhere, but not here.”

“That’s too bad, Princess,” Max said. “Because here’s where you’d fetch top dollars. A lot of hard dicks in this town would like to try your tight little snatch. Plus, seeing as how ya’ll been such a good customer, I’d want to hold the gavel, and take care yer ass PERSONALLY” she said bending down to deliver the word personally in a loud whisper.

Bringing the game to an abrupt close, I reasserted control. “It’s not going to happen Max, or Maxine, or whatever your name is. Furthermore. I’d like to remind you that my daddy rented the land your business is on, and I will be your landlord, and setting your rent. Are we clear on our relationship?”

Max’s tone immediately slipped back into an appropriately subservient tone. “Yes, Ma’am, perfectly clear, Ma’am. Your father was always very fair with me, and I hope you will be, too.”

“We’ll see. In the meantime, you are going to help with me with a little… insurance policy. I am going to write you a cashier’s check that will be more than enough to pay for me, and with a nice commission for you. If I do… fall afoul of my stepmother’s nefarious plans, you will buy me and set me free. And under NO circumstances am I ever going to be sold within a million miles of this town. Are we clear on that?”

“Crystal clear, Ma’am,” she said, looking down at her boots. “Thank you putting your confidence in me, Ma’am. I won’t let you down.”

Of course, she did let me down. Once I was legally enslaved, I was simply merchandise, and promises to me meant nothing. She cashed the check, but my training at her hands had been both humiliating and rigorous. Max made sure I had lots of practice licking her smelly, disgusting pussy. At least I had the cold comfort of knowing I would fetch an excellent price. To save on transport costs and to get bids from locals who might have always dreamed of fucking me, Max advertised widely, and sold me at the Sheriff's Auction at the Saturday Farmer's Market, in the little park behind the Village Hall, with the entire town watching my shame. The park was always busy on Saturday; a clown was doing face painting, there were balloons and free popcorn, after the sale a local band would be playing on the wooden stage that was serving as my auction block.

It was nearly lunchtime and I was one of the last lots of the day. I had drawn a fine crowd.

"Turn around and show them your ass, slut!"

Obediently, I swung my leg over in a well-practiced move and displayed myself to the crowd. I was on all fours now, my legs spread wide to show the goods.

"Nice ass!"

"Geez, that is a nice snatch."

"Funny to see her like that."

"Yeah, she was always such a stuck up little rich bitch when she was on the cheerleading squad. Look at her now."

"Look at ALL of her!, Ha-ha!" I recognized the voice. It was my High School lab partner. He had always been too shy to ask me on a date. Now I was showing him my naked ass.

“Are those whip welts on her ass?”

“Yeah. Maybe she didn’t want to lick Max’s dirty furry.” I didn’t, but I did it anyway.

Unlike me, Max didn’t have time to listen to random chatter. There was money to be made! "45! 45, and I will throw in a free branding. Imagine your family brand on her sweet little ass!"

My butt cheeks clenched in panic and I heard some of yokels in the crowd guffaw out loud. We lived here because of my father's horse farm, and I loved riding the ponies. My father had always insisted that they be branded, and showed me how to do it. I had branded my horse, Brown Thunder, and had been fascinated by the process, since I knew that sometimes slave girls were branded. My beloved Brown Thunder had been sold as lot 110. My stepmother was making a clean sweep of all of my father's unwanted "junk" prior to her move back to the city with her new boyfriend, and that included me. In truth, I could have squashed her like a bug, and thrown her out of the house after Daddy died, but I financed her, and let her plot against me. I had played dumb and looked sad as the cruel little bitch cheated me out of my estate.

I told myself I wasn't in danger; sure, she hated me, but other than take my money, what could she do? In truth, I knew she would try something beyond simply stealing my money; that's why I gave her control. I wanted to see what she would do. The thought of being under her thumb both terrified me and excited me to my bones!

My father didn't owe any back taxes, but when my stepmother sold the pony farm, she prepaid the property taxes. NOW the estate owed taxes, and she was empowered to pay them out of whatever "assets" were in my father's estate. In what my lawyer called a "highly unconventional", "unorthodox" but "most probably illegal" maneuver she made me the "ass" in asset. That meant the Sheriff's Auction.

Behind me I could hear the farmers talk about what they might do with the animal being vended on the block.

"Did you bring your branding head today, Chad?"

"Yeah, I always keep it in my pocket. See? But we use it on the dairy cows, so it's pretty big."

"Naw, that's perfect. Just about 3 inches. Put it dead center on her right ass cheek, and it will make a perfect mark."

Branded! I fought the urge to pee. I couldn't pee, not with everyone behind me. And not with the cruel slave trader standing just to the left of me, holding the dressage whip, waiting for me to screw up.

I knew them, of course. It was horse country, and they had been good friends of my father. When I had visited them at their homes, I had been an honored guest. But I was a slave now, and if they bought me, I would face the branding iron.

"Pull your butt cheeks apart!" my butch auctioneer snapped. Reaching behind me I obeyed, lowering my head and raising my ass high. I was glad that the crowd couldn't see the humiliation on my face as I showed them my bottom hole.

"60! 60! from the woman in the red dress. Do I hear 65? Come, look at that tight butthole. Imagine being the first one to fuck that, gentlemen!"

"Already did it in High School!" a male voice called out. It was Chad Walters, and he was lying. He had wanted to date me in High School but I thought he was an asshole. Now he was seeing my asshole and he 'didn't even have to buy the little slut dinner' as I had heard him joke to one of his idiot friends. The crowd laughed along with Chad. I heard he was cruel to his slave girls.
I hoped he wouldn't bid on me.

"Wink your butthole!" one of my classmates brayed.

"Yeah, give it a wink!" another girl called.

No words were spoken; a gentle but meaningful tap-tap-tap of the whip on my naked right bottom cheek was the signal that the crowd's wishes were to be obeyed.

I "winked" my bottom hole open and closed as the crowd jeered at me.

I tensed as I felt Max's whip tap my bottom hole. "Yes, this is a fine brown starfish, that could squeeze a dime and make 10 cents change, ha, ha! That's it, wink, wink! Show these fine folks what an obedient little slut you are."

It was true. Anything to avoid Max’s whip!

"On your knees, slave meat. Legs spread."

Quickly, I turned and faced the crowd. I recognized all the faces: my teachers, amused shopkeepers and townies who had once waited on me, former boyfriends, girlfriends who looked sad for me, others who looked pleased that i was finally getting my comeuppance. Older women who had hugged me at my mother's funeral now looked at my naked body with cool indifference, some despising me for being their husband's next fuck toy, others idly curious about what price I might fetch. In the back was my stepmother, leaning casually against my Porsche, sunglasses on and smoking a cigarette, watching with a satisfied smile as the only challenge to her inheritance was disposed of, permanently.

My father had left everything to me, and had left her an allowance. An allowance. She had cheated me. I had to stop this. But now it was too late. My fantasy was coming true. My price was rising, and soon the gavel would fall.

"Do I hear 70! Arms up! Show 'em those tits! And pull back your hair!"

Obediently I raised my arms and pulled back my hair, closing my eyes to avoid meeting the gaze of the fat old men and callous boys assessing Lot #130.

"Tits are a little smaller than I thought they'd be."

"Yeah, but nice pokies."

I was on my knees, legs spread wide, eyes closed: the very picture of submission. How often had I fantasized about this moment? More times than I could count. But now that the bids were pouring in, and I could hear the louts in the crowd openly commenting on my naked body, I simply cast my eyes down in shame, unable to meet the gaze of all the people whom had once been my friends.

When he had been my English Teacher Mr. Feebs had encouraged my creative writing. Now he was standing in the crowd with a sly grin on his face, angling his cellphone camera so it pointed directly between my widely splayed thighs.

I saw most of my teachers in the crowd; none of them made eye contact, of course. Not when there were so many more interesting parts of me to look at.

"75! 75 from the gentlemen with the pink harness whip."

A pink harness whip? I had used a pink harness whip when I raced Brown Thunder, and the whip had been auctioned with the rest of his gear. Looking up, I let my eyes scan the crowd, anxious to locate the buyer of my beloved, race winning horse.

I spotted the tip of the whip, first, the adorable little pink tassel, which sprayed into maybe a dozen strands. I considered the wicked little tip my secret weapon, and mere sound of the whip's sinister CRACK! had been enough to win me many a race. The man who had bought Brown Thunder was standing in the very back row.

***

"That bit is way too tight," a raspy old voice had said. "And you're way too free with that whip, Missy."

I had turned to discover Roy Roads, a horse breeder who owned a small farm a few miles from my estate. Roy Roads was quite wealthy, although unlike the other gentlemen farmers he had actually worked his way up until he could afford his own ranch. He still dressed like he was shoveling the stables, though, and his leather beaten old face was quite a contrast to my spotless equestrian riding gear.

As I looked over my shoulder, I caught Roy Roads ogling my bottom, which was very much on display in my skin tight white jodhpurs. As I turned, he said nothing, but instead took a moment to slowly look me up-and-down, tip-to-toe. I was a sight! In addition to my painted-on-pants I was wearing knee-high black boots that had been polished that morning by the stable boys to a mirror shine, a white blouse buttoned up to the collar, and tight black vest cut short enough not to obstruct the view of my perfect round bottom. With my long golden hair tucked neatly under my black cap and my pink whip in my hand, I knew I was the picture of cool, blonde, equestrian beauty.

I knew Roy Roads, although he wasn't the sort of person father would ever invite to the house. I had never even seen his farm, since Roads had a huge 20-foot-tall privacy fence around the edge of his entire property. My father had hired him once or twice; he was good at his job. He was hardly of my social set, and my girlfriend and I were surprised that he had the nerve to talk to us.

Tiring of Road's brazen appraisal of my form I spoke first. "You're a breeder, not a racer," I huffed. "I just won, the trophy, see? You should stick to horse humping", I said as my friends laughed at the old man. Roy Roads did not smile.

"I'd like to buy Brown Thunder," Roy Roads said. "It would be an easy retirement for him. No work, just grazin' and coverin' mares."

My girlfriends tittered.

"Brown Thunder is mine," I said, stroking his mane. "This bad boy still has a lot of trophies in him. Particularly for a girl who knows how to lace a tight bit, and crack the whip."

Brown Thunder jostled a bit and made a move to walk over to Roy; he knew that we were talking about him. I could tell Brown Thunder liked Roy. Did he know that Roy was offering him an easier life than racing? Perhaps. Horses can be smart that way, and can size people up quickly. I jerked a bit on Brown Thunder's bit and tapped his flank with my whip, reminding him that no matter how nice Roy seemed it was the pretty blonde girl with the pink whip who was in charge.

I turned to Roy and smiled, as I lovingly ran the whip through my hand. "One thing I've learned dealing with males: you should never hesitate to use the whip!"

My girlfriends tittered. I was goading Roy Roads but he didn't seem interested in taking the bait. "I see you branded him," he said flatly, in a voice that displayed no emotion.

"Yes, I said, stroking Brown Thunder's lovely brand. "I did it myself. Do you brand your livestock, Roads?"

"Sometimes," he said, tapping his belt buckle. I looked down to see that his belt buckle had a large RR branding iron head attached, with the two letters slightly superimposed. Then I remembered; Roy always wore his branding iron head on his belt.

"That's a pretty brand," I said, as I put my foot in the stirrup and mounted Brown Thunder. Roy Roads was about 6'5, lanky and thin, and I liked looking down on him.

"Tell me, do you enjoy masturbating horses?" I asked sweetly.

At this, my girlfriends burst into squeals of laughter.

Roy Roads was unperturbed. "I don't brand my horses, at least, not my four-legged ones. But I always brand the pony girls. Personally."

"Pony girls?" I said, genuinely shocked. My friends fell silent, their faces grim. We had all heard the stories about the slave girls being raced as ponies. I had begged my father to let me see a race, just one. I was told it was "not a proper event for a respectable young lady to attend. Besides, those are just legends."

It was always the same; all my friends had HEARD about pony girl races but no one had actually SEEN one. Some people said Roy Roads had an electric fence on the other side of his privacy wall. I had never seen it, although I had heard the barking dogs. When my friend Marsha worked at the horse tack shop in the village, she claimed she caught a glimpse of a backroom where they sold riding harnesses that weren't built for horses. But she didn't get a good look, just a glimpse. When I asked father about it he said there wasn't "any such room, and you don't belong in there anyway."

I looked down on Roy Roads coldly. "You're lying," I said flatly. "Pony girls are bullshit. There's no such thing."

If Roy Roads was upset at being called a liar, he didn't show it. I felt my pulse quicken as Roy appraised me with a gimlet eye. "You have a nice flank. Nice long legs. Good hips, and strong muscling. Good balance... and a strong gait. Of course, training - hard training - is the key. Do you run in school?"

"She won the 300 Meter Sprint," Brittany said proudly... and stupidly.

"Yeah, and she won regional in the Varsity Steeplechase," Tiffany said, doubling down Brittany's obtuseness. I could tell from the way he was looking at me he was not sizing me up to enter me in the Olympics.

"Steeplechase, huh?" Roy Roads said, allowing himself a chuckle. "That's the one where you run and jump over them hurdles and then splash through the water, isn't it?" he said. "Kind of like the girls on my farm... only you git to wear clothes, I guess. Glad to hear yer’ a champion. All my stock is champions."

I didn't attempt to hide my disgust as I glared down at him like shit under my boots, but Roy didn't care.

Smiling up at me he said, "You know, I bet you I could take Brown Thunder's bit and cut it down a bit, then fix it so it fit right between those pearly white teeth of yours. I bet you'd got a lot of trophies in you, too, if I laced the bit tight to show those pretty teeth and cracked the whip."

Enraged, I cracked down with my whip and hit Brown Thunder's spurs. I had only intended to flick the whip above Roy's head, but I caught the side of his face. From that day on, on those rare occasions when I saw Roy Roads, my girlfriends and I giggled and pointed at "Rip-Faced-Roy's" whip scar.

***

Now Rip-Faced-Roy, clad in his dirty dungarees, stood in back. I shuddered as he raised my pink whip in the air to signal his bid. His RR branding head belt buckle glistened in the sun. The initials seemed huge to me and I winced as I imagined the white-hot iron burning into my bare bottom. My branding would be free, but would Roy prefer doing it himself, back at his ranch? Probably. He'd make me wait for it.

In his left hand was Brown Thunder's bit... the bit he would modify to fit my mouth. Roy was right. I had pretty white teeth...and they'd all be on display.

I recognized a few of the stable louts from my father's farm standing by Roy; he had hired them when my stepmother had cut back on the staff in preparation for the sale of the farm. I didn't know their names; I simply called them "Boy" or "You". These uncouth ruffians, too stupid for college, had shoveled out my stables and saddled Brown Thunder and polished my boots to a mirror shine. Surely, they would help me! But they only smiled as they looked between my legs and ogled my bare breasts as Roy put in his bid.

“Wow, I can see the pussy juices dribbling down her legs, Dad.”

“Yes, most of these little sluts are hungry for the collar,” the father explained.

The brief snippet of conversation was a revelation. What if the friends I had counted on for rescue viewed my slavery as something “I wanted?” After all, I had shared my fantasies with a number of my girlfriends, and in a small-town word gets around. I always worn harem girl or slave tunics at Halloween, and joked about what a hot slave I’d be. A sinking feeling washed over me. My plan had assumed safety because my friends would help me, but what if “helping me” meant doing nothing at all?

With mounting desperation my eyes raked the crowd. I spotted my father’s best friend, the Sheriff, on a raised platform in the back. He was standing akimbo, his hands resting on his gun belt, his legs spread to shoulder width, his gold badge glistening. Backlit by the morning sun he looked like the epitome of authority. This was the Sheriff’s Auction, HIS auction, and he was playing his part to the hilt.

Eve with his hat low on his brow and his mirrored sunglasses on I felt our eyes lock. I gave him a wan, feeble smile.

His face didn’t even twitch.

I felt a sudden spasm of pleasure ripple through my pussy as I sank still lower into my fantasy of submission. I had always wondered what it would be like to be viewed as an object, livestock, chattel. The Sheriff was an old family friend. Long ago he had taught me to play checkers; he had brought me a delicious soft served ice cream cone a few feet away from this very auction block during my very first Farmers Market 15 years before. I remembered how thrilled I was when he had given me a ride in his squad car and had turned the siren on. The Sheriff was my best friend ever!

Now he refused to even acknowledge me. I wasn’t a person; I was an item to be vended, Lot #130.

When my father’s lawyer told me my stepmother had asked for an order for my enslavement, I told myself that it was simply part of my fantasy. After all, the Sheriff would be present at my auction, for he got a 5% commission off the top. “Poundage” my father called it. Even as I mounted the steps to the auction block, I assured myself that my father’s old friend would rescue me.

The Sheriff would intervene! He wouldn’t allow this injustice to be done!

Now, at last, I had spotted him. He was there all right, presiding over my auction in a pose that epitomized macho justice. My sale was proceeding apace and the bidding had been brisk; I knew he would make a pretty penny on Lot #130. My delusion that he would intervene to help me had been more than wishful thinking; it was the foundation of my belief that this was only a role play that I could stop at any time. My memories of our lifelong friendship had calmed me, like music in a slaughterhouse.

It was deeply humiliating to have my father’s best friend see me so exposed, but it was his cool indifference to my plight that was truly working my pussy into a lather. He watched with professional detachment through his mirrored sunglasses as Max chanted up my tits and pussy to the leering crowd.

Watching him I knew the Sheriff was NOT going to intervene; indeed, he was there to make sure that no one else intervened, and that the sale of Lot #130 was as efficient, smooth, and profitable as possible. Soon the gavel would fall and my sale would be final. He would pocket close to $4,000 on my sale; not bad for a few minutes of work. Justice would be done.

Agnes, the village clerk, was sitting on a small table next to the Sheriff’s. Agnes was a CPA, and in addition to her work for the village she also worked as my father’s accountant.

Agnes was nothing if not methodical. Items to be sold were in the manila folders on her left, sold items were on the manila folders to her right. The paperwork for the inventory currently being vended – in this case, me – was spread out in front of her. When the final bid came in and the auction was complete Agnes would sign the sales form, emboss it with the town seal, and move my folder to the completed pile.

I would be sold.

I knew Agnes well, and considered her my penultimate backup in case things went awry. She knew my father, and she knew that he loved me. She had even witnessed my father’s REAL will!

Agnes normally dressed like an accountant but today she was dressed for a day in the park: khakis, sneakers, a pink polo shirt, a baseball hat and sunglasses. She had a large glass of homemade lemonade she had purchased from some budding little entrepreneur eager to take advantage of the milling crowd.

Agnes munched on a bag of popcorn as she chatted with some of the local women. She kept an eye on the auction – she would have to record the winning bid – but seemed far more interested in chattering with her friends than in the naked girl squatting on the auction block.

Did she not realize it was me? Was she blind? My auction paperwork was spread out in front of her! My humiliating sales papers contained a large head shot of me, and 4 full nudes showing my naked body from every angle.

Surely, she recognized me!

My pussy began to tingle again as her complete disinterest in my predicament sank in. My final failsafe backup looked like she was watching a 15-0 ballgame for a last place team. My excitement grew as I watched her munch her popcorn and chatter like a magpie as the bids flowed in.

Were there really pony girls, or was it bullshit? I might soon find out. And those idiots in the stable who had once been charged with harnessing Brown Thunder would now be tasked with harnessing me. I felt the wetness growing between my legs as I imagined them pushing the bit cruelly far back into my mouth, forcing my gums back over my teeth and yanking the laces tights as they forced my face in a permanent rictus. Other than my harness, I'd be naked, but a pretty girl is never fully dressed without her smile.

"This isn't happening," I thought. “Pony girls are bullshit. Someone will help me!"

All through the process I had assured myself that the next step wasn't dangerous as someone would surely intervene to save me. "My father's lawyer won't toss out the will. He drew it up. He had been there when my father signed it." Much to my surprise, when I told him I trusted my stepmother to "do the right thing" he just shrugged. "I work for the estate, not for you, and I get paid either way," he said, as he handed the will over to her.

He had warned me I couldn't contest the will after the estate closed, but I felt confident that my stepmother wouldn't move to enslave me. Sure, she had joked about it, in that "eat-your-spinach-little-girl" way of hers. But there was no REAL danger. Surely, she didn't despise me that much. Besides, my father was rich. How could see do it? I wanted to see her try, but I told myself there was no way she could pull it off.

She filed the paperwork to sell the farm - and pay the property taxes with my enslavement - a few hours after my lawyer surrendered my father's real will to her tender care.

Even then I wasn't worried. "I know the Sheriff," I thought. "He'll put a stop to this. He used to golf with my father. He spoke at my father's funeral. He had been so comforting as I wept on his shoulder. "He won't enslave me," I thought. "He's my friend."

Indeed he did not. When I went to the office, to tell them about what my stepmother had done, and demand a warrant for her arrest, his deputy, Barney, told me to strip naked. I protested that I was not a slave, but apparently my stepmother had talked to the Sheriff and had persuaded him that I needed a lot of training time to fetch a fair price at the Sheriff’s auction.

I was barefoot when I came into the office, because a few days before all my shoes had mysteriously disappeared. When I protested to Mrs. Hudson, she said that it was probably for the best, as “slave girls need to learn to walk barefoot." It was summer, so I didn’t press the matter, and had spent the last several days barefoot, much to my serving staff’s amusement.

I had worn the dress my maid Daphine had left out for me, a VERY short white tunic with a plunging neckline and a rope belt that the Free People called “Summer Slave Fun”. I usually just wore it for my slave yoga class, but Daphine had dug it out of the back of her closet and laid it out for her. I should have worn something else, but playing along, I had put the dress on.

Barney certainly liked it, and his eyes BULGED as I surrendered the tunic to reveal I was naked underneath. For all of his bluster, I always thought of Barney as a wimp, but he sure seemed to take charge once I was collared and cuffed. Instead of taking me to Max’s he walked me there, slave naked and leashed, with my hands cuffed behind my back, right through the center of town! Oh, the stares we got. How the little peacock strutted, as I blushed crimson, and begged him not to slave-parade me up-and-down each street.

I told myself that my friends would never let me be auctioned naked in the auction market. They had money to spare! Surely one of them would buy me and set me free before it came to that. ONE of them would save me. "I'll be free, and I can get my father's lawyer to reopen the estate. This is all just a fantasy; a role play. Everything will be fine. My friends will save me."

Now I was naked on the auction block. Where were my friends? I scanned the crowd and caught sight of Tiffany and Brittany. Tiffany was gabbing on the phone. Brittany was texting.

I wasn’t stupid. I had a plan. I had backups! My secret weapon was Rachel.

Brittany was my best friend, and I had confided to Brittany and her mom Rachel that I thought my stepmother was up to something. Rachel agreed that I should let my mother’s plan proceed, saying I should “give her enough rope to hang herself with. You have nothing to worry about. I’m a lawyer, and I know all about slave law, and I even prosecuted a few wrongful enslavement cases back when I worked as a prosecutor. If your stepmom makes a move on you, I’ll be there, and she’ll be the one wearing the collar.”

Rachel cut an impressive figure in court, and had made enough money to retire before she was 40. I knew that if anyone could help me it was her. “Well, it will be good to have another backup plan,” I observed.

“Another?” Rachel said. “I’m insulted. What else do you have up your sleeve?”

“It’s a secret. I’m not telling anyone, just in case. I’ve heard stories, and… people change. You never know what people might do, once you’re actually collared.”

“Now I’m insulted twice. I’m your lawyer. You have to tell me everything.”

We went back-and-forth a bit, with Rachel becoming increasing annoyed with my “recalcitrance”, and Brittany watching it like it was a tennis match. When Rachel finally stormed out of the room, Brittany grinned from ear-to-ear. “Oh, you’re going to get it now.”

I felt a chill when Rachel returned, wooden hairbrush in hand, and sat herself down on a chair in the middle of the kitchen. I recognized the hairbrush from the time we had all been spanked at the slumber party for talking to loud. But that had been years ago. I was 19 now, surely she wouldn’t!

Rachel crooked her finger to beckon me forward. “You think you are so smart, beating Brittany on all the test, and beating my daughter in all the sporting events, and stealing her boyfriends. Well, you are NOT smarter than me, young lady. Are you going to tell me about this top-secret plan of yours, or would you rather I paint your little caboose red with Harry-the-Hairbrush?”

“Harry” was the nickname for the brush Rachel used to tan Brittany’s behind, and her friends, when we made the mistake of getting close enough. As a frightful litigator, none of the other moms dared to complain. I was 19, and I could have walked out. But a part of me was excited by her power and dominance. A part of me wanted to see if she’d really do it.

I decided that lawyer or not, I could talk myself out of it. “I just… I want one plan as an emergency, that nobody knows about. I promised myself I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“I’m not anyone. I’m your lawyer, and an angry mom who is going to tan your behind!”

I tried to pull away as she unsnapped my jeans and yanked them down to my ankles.

“Panties, too, Mom!” my best friend Brittany shouted out unhelpfully. “It hurts more on the bare.”

It did indeed, and after 20 spanks I told Rachel about the slave agent I had paid to bid on me if all my other backstops went sideways. “His name is Jacob Waterman. I can give you his phone number.”

“Later,” Rachel said. “After I finish your spanking,” she said, as Harry doubled down on my “overdue discipline.” “You have a nice ass. You would make an excellent slave girl, pausing to squeeze my bottom and giggle before giving me another painful volley. By the time it was all over, Rachel had all the details, and promised she’d “check into this Jacob Waterman, to see if he’s reliable.” I also gave her power-of-attorney, which meant I wasn’t there during my enslavement hearing, when she was supposed to present all of the evidence I had gathered proving that my stepmother had forged the will. I had already been taken into custody at that point, and she said it would be better if I didn’t show up to court “kneeling naked with your legs spread, in front of old Judge Parker.”

I wonder what happened in court. I had my mother on tape, admitting the will was a fraud. How could Rachel have lost my case? Oh, I wish I’d been there! I wish she had come to tell me, but, of course, slave girls don’t have lawyers.

It was then I noticed Rachel walking down the aisle, looking hot-as-hell in cutoffs and a midriff baring, “Don’t Make Me Use My Lawyer Voice” T-shirt. She was carrying two ice cream cones, and as she sat down next to Judge Parker, she handed him one. For a moment our eyes locked. I pleaded with her for help. She was here, and with the Judge. I knew she could save me! She smiled, gave me a little wink, and stuck out her tongue to take a sloppy, delicious lick of her soft serve cone.

Agnes was still chattering; the Sheriff stood in back, impassive, watching.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw Agnes signaling to the Max. Was she signaling for her to stop?

I had been rescued! Agnes was stopping the auction! Oh, how I adored her at that moment. I knew she would rescue me.

My heart sank as I realized that she was merely tapping her watch. The bids were slowing, it was nearly noon, and Agnes wanted the auctioneer to “wrap it up.” Agnes wasn’t objecting to selling my hot, wet pussy to the crowd, but rather to the time it was taking to sell me. After all, I was simply another juicy slave slut, and lunch was waiting.

Bitch! Oh, how I hated her!

Max, determined to extract the last few dollars from Lot 130 and caring nothing for my dignity, turned to me. “Up on your toes, lean back, and push your ass down. I want them to be able to see your tits, butthole, and pussy all at the same time. Deep squat: put your hand on the platform so you don’t fall.”

I knew the pose she wanted; Max had taught me all the poses, under the crack of the whip. But the thought of assuming such a pose in front of The Sheriff, all my friends from school, and the entire town was simply unthinkable. It wasn't until I heard the CRACK of the whip above my head and heard the laughter from the crowd that I assumed the degrading stance, squatting deeply.

"Nice pooper," an old woman in the front chuckled to one of her friends. There were three or four of them, nasty old crones from the nursing home who never bid but thought that watching "hussies" get auctioned was great sport.

Ignoring my humiliation, Max pressed on with the business of commerce. "81? 81 is a bargain, ladies and gentlemen! Do I hear 80,500 for this long-legged blonde beauty?"

Long legged beauty! Why did he have to say that? Sure enough, taking his cue Roy Roads raised my pink whip in the air to signal his bid. My stepmother smiled as she noticed Roy bid, then leaned back against my Porsche and blew an enormous smoke ring.

I wondered if she knew the rumors about Roy Roads. If so, it wouldn't bother her. An avowed vegetarian and member of PETA, she thought horse racing was cruel. I'm sure she'd see my new life as sweet revenge...or justice.

The Sheriff had turned his head and was looking at the pretty pink tassel on Roy’s raised whip. Like the rest of the crowd, he was waiting to see if anyone would raise the stakes. No one did.

I looked at my lawyer, Rachel, wondering if she’d spring to my defense. I could still be saved. She whispered something in Judge Parker’s ear. What was she saying? Was she telling the Judge to call a halt to the proceedings, before the gavel fell?

Whatever it was she said, Judge Parker laughed.

I had heard the Sheriff liked to bet on pony girl races. I wondered if he would bet on me. If hoped he would, and I hoped he would win. It would break my heart to disappoint him.

In the background I could see a dog playing catch Frisbee. I heard music and saw people splashing in the fountain. Fresh popcorn was popping and the lemonade stand was doing a brisk business. Rachel and Judge Parker were enjoying their damn ice cream cones! It was just another day in the park. Didn’t they realize the enormity of what was about to happen?

“Going ONCE…. Going TWICE!”

Agnes, pen poised over the paper, watched carefully, waiting for her chance to record the bid. She was eager to get things over with; after all, it was lunchtime.

How did this happen? Like most things, it had happened in stages. Like a frog being boiled, I had let them turn the water up one degree at a time. Even now I told myself that this was simply a ruse, a prank, a fantasy. This wasn't really happening. Someone would save me. My father's friends would save me from Roy Roads. He couldn't buy me, not with my own whip! Of course, it wasn't my whip anymore; role play or not, in my guise as a naked slave girl on the auction block, I owned nothing. I squatted naked, with my legs spread wide. Even my pussy and bottom hole were for sale.

I knew my beloved Brown Thunder would live a life of ease. Depending on how the bidding went, I might not be so lucky. I closed my eyes and lowered my head as I imagined him grazing in the pasture and whinnying in amusement as he watched Roy crack the whip and put me through my paces.

[Carl Bradford]

As always, Joe is the master of the sudden drop of power, when the rich, arrogant woman (who secretly hankers for enslavement) suddenly loses her clothes and her freedom. Simply magnificent, especially the way in which her "friends" betray her. The whole time, it seems as if she's hoping for a reprieve and yet revelling in the idea of exposure and enslavement, made worse by the fact that everyone she knows can witness her debasement. As usual, I can't help wishing we could see the aftermath of this auction, when she is branded, trained, and thoroughly used to fulfill her fantasies.
I'm also glad to see that Joe is contemplating further writings; I hope he will share all his work not only here with his friends but on Literotica.

[Mr. Smith]

I would love to see a part two where Rachel, her daughter Brittany and the step mother all end up on the auction block getting what they deserved. I confess, as I read the story I was wondering if the brand was going between the cheeks or on the cheek so to speak and we never got there. Great story!

[SmCyber]

As always excellent story. I really hope that this continues and develops.
The possible directions this could go are intriguing.
I'd personally like RR to invite the main characters into his compound to witness and participate in the forthcoming humiliations.

RR obviously has an axe to grind and the Sheriff could provide a significant number of trustees from the local prison farm.
Presumably a bit of goodwill is put their way to reward their good behaviour.
A possible reunion with a former classmate who was thought to have run away to the big city.
The teachers would enjoy a class reunion with their former pupils.
The possibilities are endless.
Well done again.
SmCyber

[Hooked6]

Surely there needs to be a Part 2 to this Marvelous story. All of the people of that little town that attended the Sheriff's Auction that day know the outcome and had a chance to witness what happened afterwards to Lot #130 and to Max and the Stepmother and whether the Sheriff got to bet on our heroine at the Pony Races or had a chance to arrange for an auction on the evil conniving Stepmother. I'd like to know too.

I am betting that you aren't going to keep us in suspense and will grant us with the favor of a continuation. I know, I know, you are right in surmising that I suck in winning any bets that that I have made in the past but clearly betting on you as an author is a sure thing, right?

Hooked6

[Carl Bradford]

I, too, would enjoy a sequel, first to see the heroine used and then (in the best of all possible worlds) to see her betrayers--at least those who didn't think she WANTED to be enslaved, which was probably the majority of her true friends--get the same treatment.
In due respect to the author, however: we as his fans should all recognize that, for him, the true thrill is the rapid descent of the haughty (bur secretly submissive) woman down to naked and humiliated horny slut up to the moment when the auctionneer declares her "Sold." Asking the author to go beyond that one word and show us the consequences of her enslavement is unrealistic. I'm not criticizing the author, just trying (I hope) to empathize with him. You can't expect a great artist to turn his portrait masterpiece into a vast landscape.
But it WOULD be nice to see this woman kitted up as a pony girl and used while bound to a mounting frame . . .

[Mr. Smith]

Maybe Joe does Rachel and Brittany on the block being sold as a MILF/DILF pair reminiscing on how they betrayed Lot #130, what happened to lot #130, how they were caught, and ended up naked on the block while they get sold. Some kind of karma story.

[Hooked6]

Asking the author to go beyond that one word and show us the consequences of her enslavement is unrealistic. I'm not criticizing the author, just trying (I hope) to empathize with him. You can't expect a great artist to turn his portrait masterpiece into a vast landscape.

What?? I most respectfully disagree. Asking an author for a sequel is like asking a beautiful woman for sex. You may get ignored the majority of the time, but often you'll get lucky. Failing to ASK almost certainly guarantees failure. Being an eternal optimist I prefer to live in hope. Come on Imreadonly2, can we get lucky?

Besides, a sequel often stands alone and rises or falls on its own merits taking nothing away from the original. It challenges the author to expand beyond his or her comfort zone allowing authors to explore talents that may lie hidden - otherwise stagnation often ensues leading to each story seemingly following a set formula making his or her work predictable.

Hooked6

[Hooked6]

I agree.

Nearly ten years ago, I wrote "Return of the cane". It was intended as a one-off story for an acquaintance in the UK, with no sequels planned. But once written, it gave rise to more ideas - which eventually became the increasingly elaborate world of the CPA.

"Return of the cane" inspired more stories about Jenni - then led to the first Sarah Jenkins story. A single line in one of the Sarah Jenkins stories about McDonald's spanking their employees was later used as inspiration for "The Golden Arches" - the first of the "Tales of the CPA". It was at that point that I realised I now had a well-developed fantasy world that could be used for a multitude of scenarios.

I agree that stagnation and repetition can be a trap - that's why I try to focus on the story rather than the action. Stories can take on a life of their own, giving variety and unexpected twists to keep things interesting. After all, anticip[ation is half the fun!

[Hooked6]

WOW! You made my point WAAAY better than I did. Thanks!

Hooked6

[ZeeChromosome]

Redacted