Sandy Foot Girl 7B, Home Cumming!

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A few years ago, I had successfully pitched an idea to Netflix for a show, LAW & ORDER: SLAVE CATCHERS UNIT. Every week, there would be a new episode, with the cops hunting down an escaped slave girl, often hiding in plain sight under a new identity in the suburbs. The second half of the show, involve the naked girl trying to make her “case” in slave court (a fast & futile few seconds, with fingerprints & SIN) and, more importantly, her return to slavery and the communities reaction.

“I had asked her about her SIN before we got married, but she said it was for her student loan. Thank goodness SCU caught her before we had kids. I owe the SVU a real debt of thanks.”

“Geez, I can’t believe my Congresswoman is actually an escaped Pleasure Slut. That’s the Democrats, for ya!”

“The question is, ‘how are so many slave sluts escaping, and who’s helping them? Sorry, Lt. Peterson, but it looks like you’re going to have to go in again, undercover uncovered, as they say.”

The episodes where the smart, accomplished female detectives had to strip down to the buff to become giggling Pleasure Sluts were always ratings grabbers. (“Nowhere to hide your badge and gun now, eh, Cassie?”) At the conclusion of the show, the male cops would always gamely apologize for mistreating their colleagues or superiors as part of their ‘uncovered undercover’ work.

“Sorry about those whip marks, Jessie. I got some cream for your bottom, if you want me to help rub it in.”

“I want you to know I didn’t enjoy any of the blow jobs, Lt. I faked every orgasm.”

“Sorry, Captain Becker. I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”

The emotional core of the show was the harm the slave slut had caused by masquerading as a free woman, and the sense of satisfaction from sending her back to the auction block, naked and in chains. The show had won several Emmys, and was applauded by the critics for its sensitivity to the true victims of slave fraud, the innocent men who had believed the scheming little slut’s lies, many of whom now required counseling, or at least a chance at restitution, by banging the offender. “SCU” was a hit show, and I got myself a percentage of the profits, and a consulting credit in the titles. Always on brand! Sweet.

Looking at a shiny gold Slave Catcher’s badge usually made me smile, as it was money in the bank. But seeing it now, my cheeks clenched, and I felt the ridges of the Big D logo burned into my bottom. Legally, my ass belonged to The Big D. Again, the voice in my head kicked in.

“Be careful, Sarah. He’s a trained professional, and there’s nothing he likes more than stripping successful professional women down to the buff and slapping a collar on them. In the blink of an eye, you can go from being an SCU consultant, to next week’s plotline. Those sexist pig actors, producers and writers who’ve been ogling you for years would love to do a show about you.”

My police stud wasn’t a rookie, either, as his chest was filled with fruit salad. Slave Police get decorations, typically a “slave catcher” badge for every runaway they capture. The symbol is two overlapping squares, turned on their side, the ancient symbol of “slave bracelets.”

Five slave captures will get you a bronze badge. Ten will get you a silver. Fifty will get you a gold. My hero had three ROWS of glistening gold badges beneath, far too many for me to count, even if I had been able to breathe.

I squeezed my cheeks together, feeling my shameful badging. Under Texas law, my sweet slave ass belonged to him, and he’d get a nice reward – including a good fucking of my helpless slave girl pussy – if he caught me. Suddenly, the tiny “D” between my cheeks felt enormous, and it seemed like everyone in the lobby was staring at my ass.

Slave Catchers typically get a percentage of the girl’s auction price, but most departments put a limit on it, when the best catchers became as well paid as professional athletes. But it was definitely an elite group, and Texas was known for having some of the best catchers in the South.

A few years ago, close to 200 naked slave girls escaped from a cargo container in a port in New Orleans. They were all prime pussy, and bound for UAE, for resale in the Middle East. Needless to say, big money was involved, and when the slave vermin used their feminine charms to get clothes and vanish into the woodwork, the desperate Governor asked Texas for help.

The Texas Slave Catchers did their job well, capturing all 200 girls, plus another 80 that had escaped the collar through some happenstance and were now living normal lives. Most infamously, they arrested a very famous actress who was starring in a movie in New Orleans. Apparently, her father had created a protective enslavement order for her years before, which gave the slave catchers the pretext they needed to take her into custody as an escapee. Her lawyers fought it, but celebrity pussy brings top dollar, and after she was sold in Saudi Arabia the State Department declared that “further legal inquiries would be contrary to the interest of national security.”

Those sorts of occurrences were increasingly rare, now that Southwest Shipping had radically revolutionized the economics and professionalism of overseas shipping. Natalie Mortellaro and her partner Will were impressive. In Natalie I had finally found a female colleague worthy of respect, not a sad pretender like “Professor” Lindsay Williams. Southwest Shipping lived up to Natalie’s motto of “tight ship, tight pussy.”

But my immediate concern was a real Texas Slave Catcher looking at little-ol-me! My heart was racing, as a panic attack washed over me. I froze in place. Noticing me staring at him, mouth agape, he turned, and looked directly at me.

His mirrored eyes seemed to burn into my soul. I quickly turned away from him, and walked back toward the entrance, swimming against the crowd, fighting my conflicting feelings of excitement and lightheadedness, hoping I wouldn’t faint.

The doorway frame of the enormous front door was mirrored, a decorative effect that created an endless hallway and made the entrance sparkle in brilliant morning sun. I stood facing the mirror, and took my compact out of my purse, pretending to fix my already flawless makeup. In the reflection I could see the cop with the mirrored sunglasses still staring at me. Even with the mirrored sunglasses on I could feel his eyes roam freely up-and-down my body, and settle on my shapely ass.

I was wearing an Armani worsted wool business skirt. The day before I had instructed my tailor to tighten it, to flatter my figure. The tailor had gone a bit too far, and it hugged my ass so tightly I was afraid that if I bent over my brand would show through the tight fabric. It wasn’t comfortable, but my ass looked amazing in it, so I had worn it anyway.

My hands were trembling too badly to put on makeup, so I mostly just stared at him, struggling to breathe, trying not to show my panic. My officer-in-charge could see the fear in nervousness in my eyes, but as he wasn’t wearing sunglasses, I couldn’t see his. His hands weren’t trembling, and he looked calm and collected. He was interested, but not concerned. I was concerned enough for the both of us.

This wasn’t some teenage stroker, this was an officer trained to hunt down escaped slave girls. He was good at it, too: damn good, and had the fruit salad to prove it. Worse, he was carrying my image in his back pocket. I wasn’t escaped, of course, but I was a slave girl, at least technically. I mean, yes, I was part of his inventory, which meant I could be sold, but it was all a misunderstanding.

It is said that a trained slave cop can spot a slave girl from the way she talks, the way she walks, the way she laughs, or parts her hair. It becomes a sixth sense. Now the hunky slave hunter was staring at my ass. Could he see through my clothes, and see the humiliating butt brand that marked me as a Sandy Foot Girl, sold by The Big D? Did my gait identify me as newly badged?

A part of me wanted to circle around to the Slave Mall entrance, and get a wig, and some sunglasses, and maybe a nice floppy hat. My clothes were entirely different, so with my face covered there would be no way anyone could recognize me. But then I heard the voice in my head, spurring me on.

“No, that wouldn’t be fair, Sarah. After all, he is the police, and you are a registered Pleasure Slut. He’s the pussy posse, and you, my dear, are pussy. Of course, if he realizes your Miss Sandy Foot, he’ll use that big fist of his to grab you by the scruff of your neck, strip you down to your birthday suit, and put your sweet little pussy back on the auction block where it belongs.”

“Maybe he’ll fuck you, before he watches them sell you again. You’ll be one of the little “cop” perks of the job, like free coffee and doughnuts. He will take you in hand, and be strong and powerful, and you will cry in ecstasy as he rides you like a pony. You’ll crawl on the block with his cop spluge leaking out of your pussy, so everyone will see what a whore you are.”

“If you get sold again, no one will bother to save you. You’ll be 1/50th of the next decoration on his shirt. You’ll be a slave girl again, fucked and sold.”

Struggling to steady myself, I put my hand on the mirror to keep from falling. Overcome with heat, I took off my blazer jacket. My back felt wet. Turning, I can see the back of my blouse was soaked with sweat, leaving it clinging to my skin.

Although I always wear a brassiere to work, for some reason that day I had chosen to go to work sans underwear. After all, my jacket would cover my breasts, and my skirt would cover my pussy.

After my enslavement, I often went around my apartment completely nude, even when the drapes were open. Clothing seemed strangely restrictive. But now, sweating like a hog, the braless look was not my friend. My nipples were hard, and the material of my silk blouse was clinging to my breasts like I was in a wet T-Shirt contest.

Even through his mirrored glasses, his gaze was penetrating. I was relieved when one of his brother officers asked him when the next auction was. Glancing at the clock on the wall he said simply, “Ten minutes to hammer time.”

Hammer time! The sound of his deep, authoritative, masculine voice, and the phrase, “hammer time”, triggered an immediate and vivid PSTD flashback. Suddenly I realized why the officer with the mirrored green eyes looked so familiar.

It had happened on the day I was sold. The entrance to the chute leading to the auction block was crowded, and I had to wait for the clerk to scan in the barcoded tag on my ear. Jasmine had unhooked my leash and walked over to talk to another employee about her plans for the weekend.

I was relieved to be free of the humiliating dog leash, although “free” was a relative term. I was naked in a slave market, along with dozens of other girls, waiting to be stuffed into a cattle chute, like an animal being led to slaughter. Still my mind told me this couldn’t be happening, that it was all a dreadful mistake, a silly misunderstanding, and that someone would save me.

SLAVE STUPID: Also known as bimbo brain, refers to highly educated professional women turning into panicked animals or giggling airheads when they are stripped naked and collared. “If you lineup 100 naked girls in front of the auction block, 99 of them will think that they are going to be rescued. Pure slave stupid!”

It was then, when I was waiting to be stuffed into the chute, that I saw him. A police officer, strong, powerful, and muscular. He was chatting up one of the female wranglers, a cute college girl who was probably earning her slaving degree. He wasn’t even looking at the naked slave girls awaiting their turn on the block. We weren’t there to be flirted with and seduced. We were there to be sold and fucked.

He was a formidable, dominating presence, with his golden badge glimmering under the cool, industrial light. I had replaced the old-fashioned florescent tubes with more energy efficient, high bay LED lights. It was modern, and gave off more light, but I kept the long, linear shape of the old lighting fixtures, as I felt that it was important to the aesthetic for The Big D to have that rustic, cattle yard feel.

It pleased me to see the lighting I had designed glistening off his golden star badge. Even as I descended lower-and-lower into slave stupid, I knew that, under the circumstances, my professional pride was utterly incongruous. I was about to be auctioned off under the lights I was so proud of, and become a naked slave girl for real.

Why did I, as a naked slave slut, look on the slave catcher with hope? All my life, police officers had protected me and helped me. The armed guards at the various properties I owned were, like the centurion I was looking at now, often off duty cops. Due to my credentials and my natural air of authority, understood they worked for me, and acted accordingly.

Even police officers not on my payroll always treated me with respect, particularly when I informed them of who I was, and who my friends were. When I traveled to Dallas, I had a letter from the Mayor and Police Chief that I kept in my purse, asking the reader to speed my safe passage. You get these when you bring millions into the local economy. People with my sort of power didn’t get speeding tickets. Laws are for the little people.

Was it slave stupid to ask him for help? Perhaps. But I was desperate, and so I decided to plead my case to the powerful muscle man with the badge and the gun and the mirrored green eyes.

I came up to one side, spread my legs, and put my hands on top of my head, the very picture of submission. It was a humiliating pose, but one that was expected when a slave girl risked addressing a free person, particularly a man in authority.

“Excuse me, officer?” I said meekly. “There’s been a dreadful mix-up. I’m not actually a slave girl. I don’t belong here. This is all a terrible, awful mistake! If you could… let me make a phone call, we can get this all straightened out.”

He and the female slave wrangler stared at me, clearly shocked that I had the temerity to interrupt their flirtation.

He cocked his head sideways, like a puzzled dog, then turned to face me squarely. I felt my pulse quicken as his mirrored eyes slowly perused my nakedness.

The term “slave naked” is used to describe a state of nudity and humiliation that extends far beyond the mere absence of clothes. I was naked, with my legs spread, and my hands on top of my head, my fingers tangled in my loosely flowing hair. In contrast, the man coolly appraising my nakedness was wearing shiny leather boots, crisply pressed blue pants with a gold stripe down the leg, and a dark blue, starched shirt festooned with epaulets, badges, and fruit salad marking the countless times he had captured slave girls like me and put their naked asses on the block.

He was muscular, with biceps like tree trunks, and was so tall that I had to look up at him to see his gold star badge. His belt contained the tools of his job, and everything he could possibly need to subdue a slave girl. He had a radio, handcuffs, a taser, pepper spray, a baton, extra ammunition for his gun, and of course, his .357 sidearm. I also noticed he had a Big D remote, which, with the press of a button, would shock any slave girl in its range into submission.

In contrast, I had nothing. Even the shock collar and the humiliating blue cattle tag dangling from my ear were the property of The Big D. Standing literally in his shadow, I trembled in the wake of his physical strength, weapons, and aura of command.

The irony was rich. In a way, he worked for me, and if I had been there with Jake, he would have obsequious and eager to please. I might have sent him on an errand, to fetch me some coffee. But I wasn’t wearing my Gucci suit today. As I strained to draw in oxygen in short bursts, I stood before him, stripped of everything, nothing but a pair of tits and a hot, wet pussy.

I couldn’t see his eyes, but with a tilt of his head, I saw him looking down at my bare feet, where my little toes were scrunched up, attempting to dig some warmth out of the freezing cold cement.

Oh, how I wish I had shoes! It is an old slaver’s adage that a girl never realizes how much power shoes give her, until they are taken away.

BAREFOOT BIMBOS: A derisive name for slave girls. “You should never give barefoot bimbos shoes. Livestock shouldn’t wear nuttin’. It makes ‘em uppity.”

As he tilted his head up, his mirrored gaze ran slowly up my trembling legs, stopping to rest on my closely shaven slave slash, with my lips and clit fully visible. I had been left just enough hair to prove I was a natural blonde. That would increase my profit-per-pussy number, but it was my dripping, clearly visible juices that would really drive up my block price.

My shameful wetness wasn’t my fault! I had been rubbing myself, hard. I had to get my pussy block ready. But my macho cop didn’t care about the unfairness of my predicament. All he saw was golden slave pussy, hot, wet, and ready to be sold.

The little bitch of the college student was grinning at me, clearly enjoying my nakedness. Oh, how I wanted to cover myself! But I didn’t dare. Pleasure sluts were not permitted modesty, or any sort of dignity. I remained frozen in place, my feet glued to the floor, my hands bound together as securely as if they were in iron cuffs. I literally could not move, the power of his badge, his gun, and his commanding presence having simply overwhelmed me.

I felt a new rush of fear as he took two steps closer, totally engulfing me in his gigantic shadow. He took a deep breath, and I realized that, like any good hunting dog, the slave hound was picking up my scent.

SLAVE STINK: The toxic stench of animal sweat mixed with the aroused slave girl’s pussy cream. “Our escapee had found clothes, and had dressed like a banker, but the slave hounds at the bus station picked up her slave stink right away. After checking her SIN the guards stripped her down slave naked and spanked her skanky ass all the way to the block.”

I felt ashamed by his casual enjoyment of my slave stink, but his eyes continued upward, over my flat tummy, over my round breasts and pointy nipples, which were bouncing slightly as I struggled to breathe.

Finally, at long last, his cold, merciless green lenses rested on my desperate, pleading eyes.

Roughly grabbing the shameful blue cattle tag stapled painfully through my ear, he jerked my head closer and turned it to read my lot number. “B-169” he muttered, reducing me to my number.

“You gotta fancy accent, blue tag,” he said, reducing me to the California-shaped, blue livestock tag dangling from my ear. “Where were ya’ from?”

The past tense wasn’t lost on me. Slave girls had no past, and when a girl is collared, her old identity dies.

I live in Manhattan, but also have homes in LA, Tokyo, London and Paris. My accent is Mid Atlantic, so I understand why the Texas hee-haw thought I was “fancy”. “I teach…I taught… at Harvard,” I said, hoping to impress him with my intellectual superiority.

“Well, la-dee-dah,” he snickered. Looking up at the industrial wall clock, above the cattle chute leading to the auction block, he chuckled.

“It’s nearly HAMMER time, Professor,” he teased.

The sarcasm in the word “Professor” was obvious. The slave wrangler he was flirting with laughed, as I dug my little bare toes into the concrete floor. Little college bitch! I hoped that someday she would end up in my class, so I could fail her.

Hooking his finger into his gun belt, he regarded me coolly. “You said you needed to make a phone call. Where’s your cell phone?”

“I’m not sure, Officer,” I said. “They took it.”

“Did they now? Maybe you just lost it. Here, let me check.”

I didn’t resist as he reached between my legs and slipped two fingers inside of me. He was taller than me, and using his hand he lifted me up onto my toes, so my pussy was dancing on his hand, and I was jerking like a puppet on a string.

The coed slave wrangler he had been flirting with moved to the side, to get a better view. I looked to her, silently pleading for help.

“Get your fingers way up there,” she said, laughing. “You know what thieves slave girls are.” Bitch!

I gasped as he thrust his fingers deep into me, and began rubbing the walls of my pussy in a classic contraband check.

“Looks like our little college Professor is sufferin’ from some brain drain,” he said, as the harpy behind him laughed.

BRAIN DRAIN: See Slave Stupid, Bimbo Brain. When an intellectual or professional woman gets slave hot, it is said that her brains dissolve and leak out of her juicy slave pussy. “She thought she’d win the Nobel, until her assistant collared her and stole all the credit. Dr. Gina’s brains sure did make a big old stain on the auction block!”

“Why did they take away your phone, juicy-fruit?” he asked, grinning down at me as he jerked me up and down on his fist.

“Because slave girls don’t have phones, Mas… Master!” I admitted, gasping with pleasure on his hand.

I groaned in frustration as he withdrew his fingers from me. “That’s right, Pleasure Slut,” he said.

Jerking me around by the ear tag as he swatted me on my bare ass.

“Slave girls (SPANK!) Don’t ask FREE PEOPLE (spank) to make phone calls for them (SPANK, SPANK, SPANK!)

Laughing, he spanked me back in line with the other slave pussy, and a few seconds later I was BEEPED into the system and stuffed into the cattle chute, pressed tightly between two other naked sluts and left to rub my wet pussy in preparation for my one-way trip to the auction block.

Now, the rent-a-cop who had so cruelly abused me was looking at me again, eyeing my nipples through my sheer silk blouse. My eyes narrowed into two tiny slits as I felt overwhelmed by a sudden desire to seek my vengeance upon him.

In an instant, my view of him transformed. When I had been a naked slave girl, he had seemed like an untouchable God. Now I saw him for what he truly was, a blue-collar bully, a miserable little jobsworth who had got his rocks off on abusing the helpless Pleasure Sluts under his authority.

“Hammer time”, indeed. I would drop the hammer on him. When I was naked, collared, and tagged, he was a tough guy with a badge. Now I was Dr. Sarah Hollister, in charge and in control, and I would make the little clock puncher pay for how he had treated me.

It would have to be done carefully. The shameful and incriminating magazine with the disgusting photo of me was in his possession, and he was already looking me up-and-down. He literally had the power to enslave me in his back pocket, and if I wasn’t careful, I might quickly go from in-charge to in-ventory. But the whiff of danger of it only made my revenge all the more exciting. Yes, this was definitely going to be fun!

Ignoring his gaze, I wandered over to the yellow bollard on the other side of the door. The two college girls were there, working the poles, with their smiling mothers urging them on. One of the girls was on her back, the other had her hind leg raised, and was rubbing the pole like a dog peeing on a hydrant.

“Come on, Taylor, you can do better than that. Don’t let Brittany show you up.”

“I want you to come first, Brittany,” the other mom said. “First is always best.”

“Yes, last one to come is a rotten egg!” the other mom chortled.

The moms were cute, too. They were enjoying making their daughter’s race, but their level of involvement suggested something more. I could tell they were a little jealous of the naked sluts, and wanted in on the show. The Big D always kept the mothers involved throughout the process, ostensibly as a curtesy. With any luck, Jake might soon be selling a fine pair of nesting dolls.

NESTING DOLLS: Auctioning off mothers and daughters together. “Did you see Lana Jackson squatting next to her two daughters on the block? They are one hot set of nesting dolls.”

The two naked daughters were clearly embarrassed, and were blushing beet red. I smiled. How delightful it was, seeing them taken down a peg! It was clear that Taylor, at least, had needed a touch of persuasion, for she had tears in her eyes, and a fresh whip welt across her naked ass. A small crowd of people had stopped to watch the two naked slave bitches polish the pole with their slave grease. On the overhead monitors, the pussy camera captured them in all their pink glory.

OCTOPUSSY: A wet, spread, pink slave pussy, pressed against a camera lens, which is said to resemble an Octopus’s sucker, or mouth, pressed against glass. “Check out the octopussy on Taylor! Looks like she’s trying to suck down that whole pussy pole.”

Ignoring Brittany & Tiffany, I moved over to an unoccupied pole. I slipped off my Gucci shoe, and pressed it against the sponge at the base of the bollard. It was still wet, which was kind of a waste, as the pussy juice would have made a nice scented candle.

I had missed out on the chance to experience the pussy pole during my quick run through at The Big D. I hadn’t registered at the front desk, but had been shipped in as inventory to be sold. The Big D was in Condition Red, so B-269 had been moved from the unloading area to the auction block in a matter of minutes. It had seemed like hours to B-269, of course, but my system had worked flawlessly, and the little slut had been processed in record time. I’m sure Rebecca, The Big D’s accountant, would be pleased when she saw my PPP numbers on her spreadsheet.

PROFIT PER PUSSY: The amount of money made on every pussy you sell, and a measure of profitability. This can be computed as a gross margin (sales price less cost of good sold) but more typically includes overhead costs, including carrying costs that measure feeding, training, and inventory storage. Time is $$$. "Buying Prime pussy can get mighty expensive. Better PPP to buy choice, and whip 'em into shape."

Letting B-269 paint the pussy pole in the lobby might have been good marketing. She would be nice window dressing, and her ecstasy might inspire other girls – or their significant others – to enroll for slave training. But in terms of the PPP, it was best to put the little slut on the block as quickly as possible.

I played with a bollard after my release. The parking garage at my condo in LA had one, to prevent me from backing the car into the wall. Not that I ever parked it myself; I always let the valet fetch it.

Sometimes, late at night, I’d go down into the garage, strip down, snap on a slave collar. I’d pop my clothes into the trunk of my Tesla, being careful to keep the key fob in the shadows, but within reach. I’d spread my legs, and work the pole, bringing myself to a shattering orgasm as I rubbed my pussy against the cold, hard concrete, slathering it with my juices.

Once, a security guard on patrol nearly caught me, and I had to hide in my own trunk. When I realized that he was coming toward me, I knew I didn’t have time to dress, so I popped open my rear trunk and climbed inside. The problem is, I think he must have seen the trunk go up, because he came and stood behind the car, and even tapped on it to ask if anyone was in there. So there I was, squished in the trunk, slave naked and collared, with an armed guard trying to figure out if I was an escaped slave girl hiding in parked car.

Eventually he left. No harm done, other than I peed on my clothes when he called his partner and asked if he should call the police. I had taken the key fob into the car with me, but I had left the key to my collar on the ground, and the cop picked it up and took it with him. So after an hour of lying in my own pee, I had to sneak back up the fire stairs to my condo, collared and stinking of my own urine.

I ended up calling a locksmith to make a house call to get the collar off me, and he had a good laugh. I offered him a really good tip to keep it quiet, but he smiled and said he’d prefer a nice, long slave kiss. Totally feeling the moment, the deal was struck.

Now I was in the presence of the actual pussy pole that I had helped to make famous. Having been a slave girl (sort of), the pole took on an entirely new meaning for me, and I felt an incredible rush of excitement as I looked at it in awe.

There was sand on the floor near the pole. I ran my naked toes through it. I felt a delicious shiver run up my leg as I once again felt the coarse dark sand that I had rolled in when I was on the auction block. The sensation of it rubbing against my skin was electrifying.

Remembering how carefully I had selected the sand I felt a surge of intellectual pride. But I also felt terrified, and strangely comforted, almost as if I were home. It was a peculiar thought, but they say a Pleasure Slut never forgets her first auction. I closed my eyes and squeezed my thighs together as I moaned in pleasure, relishing the pride and power I felt in being Miss Sandy Foot.

Lifting my foot, I let my toes run up the bollard, over the camera lenses. I rubbed my sandy toes back-and-forth, over the spots where the dirty slut’s wet snatches had worn off the yellow paint. It seemed unfair that I had invented the pole, but never got to use it, at least not for real.

Jilling off at home wasn’t the same. I rubbed my bare, sandy toes against the bollard, wondering what it would be like, wondering how it would feel to spread my legs, and grease the pole, with the camera’s recording my twat, with everyone watching my pussy on the gigantic overhead monitors.

I looked over at Brittany & Taylor. Bitches. Everyone was looking at them, and their sloppy pink twats, which were practically dripping down on the spectators. I was more beautiful, but no one was looking at me!

“Are you all right, Miss?” Startled, I turned, to discover the cop who had been ogling me standing a few inches away, smiling as his eyes ran up and down my body. I was anything but all right, and we both knew it. I looked up at him, panting, feeling very small, mouth open.

He moved closer, invading my personal space as he crinkled his nose, and took a deep whiff. He sniffed again.

Had I worn too much perfume?

No, my pussy was soaking wet, and the juices were dribbling down my thighs. Had the Deputy had caught a whiff of my slave stink? I was impressed, as usually it took trained slave hounds to catch the smell.

Fortunately, there were no dogs at the entrance that day, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. The slave hound’s cold wet nose, poking into places it shouldn’t be, was always a threat, even to free women. Women had to be careful when traveling, or a false positive might lead to a detainment and a humiliating strip search to confirm the identification.

The “testimony” of slave dogs was considered powerful evidence, and repeated “identifications” by slave hounds could be used in a slave court as evidence of defacto self-enslavement.

There was even a cartoon show about slave hounds, NOSEY PARKER, featuring a basset hound with an enormous nose. Nosey Parker was cute, and sold a lot of T-shirts. My favorite was a picture of Nosy Parker, looking suspiciously down to an incriminating red arrow pointing down to the girl's crotch, saying SNIFF HERE. but most young women looked on slave hounds, and their cold, wet noses, with dread. Slave hounds were merciless, and held had enormous power.

“We gotta special on slave gradings,” the burly slave cop offered, looking my body up and down in a way that made me most uncomfortable. “And there’s an Any Chance Auction? coming up soon, if you’d like to try yer’ luck.”