Story Fragment: Dr. Hollister Research

[imreadonly2]

Researcher: Dr. Sarah Hollister
Subject SIN #: US-TXDL-2109-1471A
Topic: Subject was requested to describe her emotional reaction to being branded with the Big D "badge" logo after her "Any Chance?" Auction.

If I were trying to find a single word to describe my feelings, it would be "humiliated". "Mortified", "shamed", and "dehumanized" would work, too, but utter, complete humiliation was my overriding feeling.

It had been my idea, but it was my husband Dan who assured me that if I got slave training over the weekend and went through any "Any Chance?" auction on a slow, uncrowded Monday night while Steve was away at college, I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. What I didn't realize was that half of my son's graduation class seemed to have jobs working at The Big D. I was auctioned by Skeeter, who was Steve's lab partner in biology. I remembered Skeeter as this shy kid with braces and the logo boots who would blush whenever I caught him checking me out. I couldn't believe it when I ended up on Broadway, with my nose in the sand, looking at Skeeter's logo boots while he dangled his whip between my widely splayed butt cheeks, urging the audience to "open your wallets like she's opening her bung hole."

The little bastard did a good job block training me, and I lathered my hot, wet gash for the bidders. My husband's reward was an amazing price! Seriously, it was ridiculous, and far more than Dan & I ever thought possible. It was an offer no sane person could refuse.

I had told Dan that if I made Prime- and to auctioned off Broadway, he should get me "badged" with The Big D logo. They're damn hard to earn, and at the time I said it, I really did want it. I'm proud of it to this day.
But it's one thing to get a naughty thrill checking a box on a phone app when you're a executive sitting comfortably in her corner office, and quite another thing to be a naked slave girl being fastened into the branding rack while your son's friends joke about "burning her sweet little ass."

I think it was the TONE of the entire process that played on my emotions the most. I knew most of these kids, and considered them to be kids, even though they were all old enough to vote and work at The Big D. But I had ferried the to games and welcomed them into my home for parties and sleepovers, and still regarded them as being "Steve's little buddies" who needed looking after. But even though they called me "Mrs. G", like they used to, they showed me no respect whatsoever.

"Into the rack, Mrs. G!"

"Struggling won't help you now!"

"Yup, the branding iron is hot and ready!"

"Just like her hot, wet pussy, ha-ha!"

"Moo-moo!"

"Geez, I can't believe how wet her snatch is! Can we fuck her?"

"Maybe after. Now, let's get the bit into her teeth."

"Open wide, Mrs. G. Show us those pearly whites!"

I understood that the atmosphere was casual, and workman like. After all, no matter how utterly transformational and cathartic this was for me, for them, I was just another ass to brand. But what smoked me, if you'll pardon the pun, was that it wasn't just a job, it was a FUN job. My pain, shame, and terror weren't side effects, they were features, to be commented on and enjoyed.

"Bet she pisses on herself!"

"I think she pissed right before she went on the block."

"Doesn't matter. She'll piss like fire hose when we touch that sweet, white ass of hers. Pampered little bitch!"

"Don't be ashamed, Mrs. G. No shame when a slave girl pisses herself. Not like when you were free."

When they held the branding iron up in front of my bulging eyes, I screamed into my bit like a banshee. This couldn't be happening! I wasn't a slave. Yes, I was sold, but my husband was going to roll-it-back. Wasn't he? It was all a dreadful mistake!

"What-sa-matter, sweetie? Don't want to be branded? Well, mommy isn't in charge anymore, mommy's a slave, so no one gives to fucks what mommy wants."

"Shouldn't have filled it out on the form, ya' dumb bitch."

"Yeah, always telling us what do do, but like all slave girls, she's got shit for brains."

"Just bite down, Mrs. G. It will be over in a tick."

It was a lie, of course. The brand was forever. I can feel it now, when I squeeze my butt cheeks together.

Given the price Dan got for me, I don't blame him for going through with the branding, or my sale. I think being a Pleasure Slut is my better life, and as they say at The Big D, "if you truly love her, you'll let her go." Of course, now Dan can fuck me whenever he wants to, along with Skeeter & all my son's little friends, and the slave brothel near my old house. Do I miss my old life? No, as now I get to come all day long.

My emotions at being branded? Shame. Humiliation. Fear. Dehumanization. Degradation. I knew from that moment on I was an animal, and my purpose was to give pleasure to my betters. To be honest, Dr. Hollister, it's impossible to describe. It's something that you need to experience first hand.

[Carl Bradford]

Another superb piece (pun intended).
I presume that this interview provides Sarah Hollister with cover when she writes (in her academic rather than slut persona) about experiencing branding. Did this woman's husband use her self-approved brand as evidence that she really was a slave, or did he just execute the Any Chance deal (thereby paying the mortgage and financing the kid's college--excellent management of household ass-sets) and she fortuitously ended up in a brothel where all the local kids could visit/use her once they turned 18? The ideal solution, of course, would be for the husband to make a special arrangement where he could visit her once a week and check her out for a few nights/month as bed warmer, which would of course involve traipsing her naked and bound between his parked car and the house. This would remind the neighborhood of her fate and refresh her humiliation. In that case, he might even let her dress and spend a normal weekend "at home" before re-enacting her fall from grace/status each time he returns her to the brothel. Groundhog's Day for slave whores.
Part of the branding experience is the sense of subjugation, putting the final seal on the loss of status and fall from (in this case) sexy suburban housewife to slave slut. Joe and I had speculated about the psychological impact of having a newly-enslaved MALE be branded, especially if he were under control of a powerful but attractive female slave wrangler. This is one of the reasons that my own favorite slave market, the Longhorn, has four tall, muscular, well-endowed, and assertive women, one of whom is really a Switch, working there. It's an equal opportunity slaver!

[jeepster]

Love that Sarah is doing research into branding! Waiting for her to be the subject of the research!

[Mr. Smith]

I would think the interviewee also felt lust and excitement as demonstrated by her drippy slave snatch. Just think of the humiliation if one of her son's grammer school through high school frineds made her hump the branding iron until she creamed all over it befoe burnining the Big D badge into her ass. Then there is pride that she earned the honor of being badged a Sandy Foot Girl into perpetuity by scoring in the prime range on her slave grade as an older MILF. I mean, what an honor that most women at her age can only dream about, bearing that brand on her ass for the rest of her life

[imreadonly2]

In that case, he might even let her dress and spend a normal weekend "at home" before re-enacting her fall from grace/status each time he returns her to the brothel. Groundhog's Day for slave whores.

Alexis lipped her licks like a hungry cat stalking its prey as she closed in on Debbie, standing alone by herself with a drink in her hand, watching the birthday party from afar

"Well, Debbie," she purred. "I almost didn't recognized you with your clothes on! What are you doing out of the brothel? That's where you work, now - I'm sorry, do Pleasure Sluts work, really? I mean, that's where your owners work you, I should say. The slave brothel?"

"Yes, that's right. It's Steve's birthday today, and he said he wanted to see me, so his dad arranged for me to come to Steve's party, as a present. Steve didn't want to come see me at the...the..."

"At the SLAVE BROTHEL?" Alexis said loudly, making sure everyone could hear. "Yes, I imagine it would be quite disquieting, to see your mother naked and humping away, or rubbing her hot little snatch out front to try and draw in customers. Of course, I imagine that this isn't the first time someone made a birthday present out of you. From what I hear, you were the High School graduating classes favorite gift."

"Please, Alexis, can you keep your voice down. I'm here as Steve's mom today."

"Just because your husband is letting you wear your old clothes doesn't make you free, little slave girl. Don't put on heirs with me, or I'll whip your ass."

"I'm not... I'm sorry, Mistress. I did not mean to offend."

"That's quite all right, dear. So nice of Dan's new wife to let you come. Isn't she nice? You two could be sisters. Well, maybe you as the older sister. Maybe if Dan enslaves her, you two might perform for him together."

Debbie squeezed her glass of lemonade tighter, nearly breaking the glass, as her old rival continued to taunt her. "So what's it like spreading your legs for everyone in town, and then seeing them here at the party? What's it like talking to them, knowing that they've all FUCKED you?"

"I don't know Alexis. You should ask your husband. I know he can't get it up with you, but he didn't have any problems with me on Tuesday night."

[Carl Bradford]

I feel honored that Joe took my suggestion and wrote a scene in which the fallen woman returns to her home for a weekend, only to be humiliated again. Of course, there could be endless fun at the brothel, where she gets to service all the grown-up guys whom she used to be Den Mother for, drive to soccer practice, and so on--perhaps they remind her about how she had teased them by dressing in a revealing manner when they were teenagers--that reminiscing going on as, perhaps, two of the now-18 year olds spit roast the former MILF.
Fantastic as always; thanks for crumbs from your evil imagination, Joe.

Carl