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The Girl in the Window, Pt. 02

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Carl Bradford
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The Girl in the Window, Pt. 02

Post by Carl Bradford »

(The story so far, COURTESY OF JOE DOE: Natalie is a rich, beautiful, and slightly spoiled/self-absorbed young resident of New York City. She and her friends have engaged in the fashionable pastime of Slave Yoga, having a former slave wrangler from the South (“Master Mark”) order them through various suggestive poses while they repeated even more suggestive “mantras.” Titillated by the thought of being a naked, helpless slave on display, Natalie asked her husband, a former slave wrangler from Texas named Brad, how much money she would bring if auctioned as a slave at the Big D Slave Market.)

(Brad used his knowledge of slave psychology to tease his wife, offering to put her up for an “Any Chance Auction” to see what price she would bring. By this time, Brad had Natalie so worked up that she was naked and humping the window frame of their New York City penthouse, jilling off while imagining that she were a horny slut rubbing herself against one of the famous yellow bollards at the Big D.)
Gasping from the heady mixture of her excitement and complete exposure in the brightly lit windows, Natalie totally found the zone. Quickening her pace, she rubbed her button faster and faster as her excitement grew.

Satisfied with her progress, Brad continued his cool, dispassionate explanation, “That’s a good girl. Rub that slave grease in, good. When men you know come in – and I really expect that a few will – you will spread your legs and perform for them, the same as any other Pleasure Slut. If you make a proper job of it, they may not even notice that it’s you. After all, they mostly see you at charity balls and galas, and there’s no reason to think you’d be slave naked and polishing a pussy pole, stinking like a whore at low tide, slathering in your own juices. It’s not like they’re going to focus on your face, right?”

Natalie grunted at the cold comfort of being an unrecognizable slave pussy even as she groaned at the hot pleasure emanating from her pussy. The pole was warm and greasy now, and the thought that all Manhattan was watching made her more excited, not less.

“However, there will be one VIP visitor who will be invited,” Brad said, smiling. “One visitor, in particular, who will be my very special guest.”

“Who?” she gasped, not allowing anything to break her rhythm.

“Why, my mother, of course,” Brad said, smiling.

“Your mother! You must be joking. Your mother DESPISES me!”

“Keep rubbing. I didn’t give you permission to slow down,” he chided. “That pole won’t paint itself.”

Natalie quickened her pace as she pushed forward toward climax.

“Yes, my mother. I will make sure she has a front row seat.”

“But… but… your mother HATES me. She thinks I’m… the little tramp… who stole her precious son,” Natalie said, trying to stay focused on the conversation even as her mind swirled with pleasure. “She tells everyone that I’m nothing but a shameless whore.”

“Actually, she told my buddy Karl that you’re a disgusting slave slut, who should be stripped naked, branded, and put on the auction block. Karl likes you, but I could tell he was intrigued by the image,” Brad added, laughing.

“No,” Natalie gasped. “Why HER?”

“Because no one else on earth could possibly enjoy seeing you roll in the sand, and spread your legs, and pee when they cracked the whip on your skanky ass, more than my dear, sweet, white-haired old mom. Seeing you disgrace yourself would be her dream come true.”

“No…No… You can’t do that to me. You can’t make me perform like this. Not in front of her!”

“Don’t be so selfish. Think of how happy you’d make her. Letting her watch you paint the pussy pole might be the only time you’ll ever give her a gift she truly enjoys. I’ll sit right beside her and tell her that you wanted to please her like that.”

Despite her horror, Natalie quickened her pace. Brad was impressed. He knew the metal stick had to be absurdly uncomfortable, but Natalie adapted to it like a pro, and her pussy lips had become wet enough that it looked like a mouth sucking on the pole. She was doing an amazing job. Brad envisioned a whole building exterior being washed by naked slave girls, suspended by ropes, polishing the exterior columns with their groins.

Compared to straddling the sharp metal pole in front of all of Manhattan, painting a yellow bollard in the lobby of The Big D would be a snap. During his time at The Big D, Brad had seen a lot of Prime Pleasure Sluts. Watching his wife suck the pole with her pussy, he realized that Natalie’s hot body and natural wantonness could make up for her lack of training. No doubt about it. Regardless of her enormous wealth, social status, and upper East side sophistication, her steamy wet pussy made her a prime candidate for the block.

“Good girl,” Brad said. “Keep it moving. Keep that ass sliding up-and-down the pole. That’s it. You’ll get a very good price.”

“If men I knew bid on me,” Natalie said, grunting as she slid up and down, “I’d get a record price.”

“Indeed, you would,” Brad agreed. “Your friends, and your daddy’s friends, have deep pockets, and they’d pay anything to fuck you. That’s why I’m going to give you a rapid-fire, slap-ya-on-the-ass through, and get your pussy on the block before anyone even knows you’re there. I’ll have all your paperwork ready-to-go and give you premium access, right to the front of the chute. I’m going to move you from Bergoff Goodman on Fifth Avenue to the block on the Broadway auction stand, faster than you can get a table at Le Bernardin.”

“The Chef can give me a table pretty damn fast,” she said, gasping as she slid up and down the pole. “I KNOW people.”

“I know people, too, although my slave wrangling associates are less genteel than folks are at Le Bernardin. My Big D buddies will get you bagged-and-tagged, give you a minute to warm up the pole, and then whip your ass right onto the Broadway auction platform. Depending on how hot that little pole polisher is, I can get you from farm-to-table, Gucci-to-gash, in five minutes or less. Even if someone you know is there, it won’t matter. They can look. They can sure as hell touch. But I’m going to tell them not to bid on you.”

Brad watched as the Pleasure Slut polishing the column and he described his plan for her auction. “But…. But …. If you do that… none of the bidders will know who I am,” she whined, struggling to wrap her head around her husband’s proposal. “Everyone will think I’m just another Pleasure Slut.”

“Because that’s what you’ll be, Princess. No one will know who you are, except for me, and, of course, my mother. The contrast between who you were and what you'll be is what makes this so delicious. You’ll go on the block slave naked. No college degree, no trust fund, no lawyer, no platinum credit cards. You’ll give me power-of-attorney. Then I’ll put your naked ass on the block wearing nothing but a livestock tag on your ear, a steel collar locked tight around your throat, and a great big toothy smile."

Looking down on her, Brad shook the lash out so it teased her belly. “Smile for me, slave girl. Smile as you rub the pussy pole. Show me how much you LOVE it. Show me those pearly whites.” Natalie showed all 32 of her perfect white teeth.

"They're going to clip a livestock tag to my ear?" Natalie said, keeping her huge smile even as she quickened her pace on the pole. "Do they have to?"

"Yes, they have to, and they're not going to clip it to your ear, they're going to STAPLE it THROUGH your ear. Remember, at The Big D you’re livestock, no different than a cow, or a goat, or a pig. The auctioneer probably won't like it when you get shuffled into his lineup, so he'll be pretty free with the whip, but that's okay. It will increase the entertainment value and probably drive up your price."

Natalie was close now, and rubbed all the faster, secretly thrilled by the image of herself as anonymous slave meat. "Because...he won't know who... I am."

“No one will know, and more importantly, no one will care. In truth, it won’t matter who you are, or who you were. Once you walk up those steps, you’ll be just another mange on the stage, and he’ll sell your hot little snatch in a Manhattan minute.”

Just then, Natalie showed how hot her little Manhattan snatch was by shamelessly orgasming all over the cold, square pole. Afterwards, she lay in a quivering mess on the “auction block”, gasping for air.

“Keep going,” Brad said, staring down at her impassively. “I didn’t give you permission to stop.”

Natalie, struggling to catch her breath, stared up at him.

Brad CRACKED the whip in the air, causing Natalie to jump. Quickly, she resumed her labors, sliding up-and-down the pole.

“Good. We’ll need to get you in shape, if we’re going to get you ready for the block.”

“The block?” she said. “But if you sell me, you won’t be able to fuck me anymore, ‘Master.’”

“I like the way you think, slave girl. My needs always come first. That’s why I would put you in an Any Chance? Auction.”

“What’s that?” Natalie said.

“It’s a special promotion The Big D offers. The idea is you put your wife or girlfriend up on the block, saying that if there is any chance you might sell her. Then she is displayed and sold. However, the seller has a set period of time to reject the bid.”

“So, I would actually be sold? For real?” Natalie said, sliding up and down the pole like a piston.

“That’s right. You’d be just another pussy on the block.” Brad smiled as Natalie’s pussy, gripping the pole, quivered through its second orgasm.

“You may rest, slave girl,” he said.

Natalie smiled up at her husband. “Good, because I was about to have a heart attack right in the window.”

“It’d be a great LAW & ORDER episode,” Brad teased.

Natalie, beaming, looked up at her husband with a slave girl’s love. “You’re a genius, Master. The Any Chance? Auction sounds like the perfect solution. You’ll get a real, on the level, honest to goodness gavel price on me. Then you’ll free me, and we’ll be having dinner at our favorite table at Le Berardin back in Manhattan.”

“Not so fast. I’m signing you up for an Any Chance? Auction. That means there needs to be a CHANCE I’m going to sell you. You want high bids for your body, right? So the bidders must believe I will sell you.”

“But you’re not going to sell me. We’re doing this to get my gavel price.”

“Right. But there has to be a CHANCE that I can sell you. The bidders are bidding on you because there is at least some possibility you might actually be enslaved. If not, it could be assumed that I’m entering into the contract fraudulently.”

“That’s stupid. Who will know? Who cares?”

“Well, the bidders might care, and if they bring a suit in a Texas slave court, the court will care, and if they convince the court, the court will push the sale through. You will be sold to the highest bidder.”

“Fuck that. You said you weren’t going to sell me.”

“Right. But I have to CONSIDER selling you, in good faith, to the highest bidder or that bidder might sue.”

“Do the plaintiffs ever win?”

“Hardly ever. ‘Any Chance?’ is a pretty low standard, or a high standard, depending on your point of view. It’s just a smidge of a chance. The Big D doesn’t want to make a big deal of it, since the point is to drive traffic, by parading pussy that WON’T get sold, to auction pussy that CAN be sold. So, it isn’t a problem unless you’re a fucking idiot.”

“Define a fucking idiot,” Natalie said.

“Tell everyone I’d never sell you. Blowing off enormous, over-market-price bids. Bragging about how you don’t have to eat orange slime because in an hour you’ll be having dinner at an overpriced French restaurant.”

“In other words, everything that comes out of my mouth.”

“Pretty much. But I have good news for you. But first, head down, and spread your legs. No, wider. I want to see your butt cheeks SPREAD.”

Natalie didn’t like Brad’s tone, but she had certainly enjoyed her two orgasms. Acceding to the humiliating commands, she bit her lip but spread herself out, splitting herself wide for his viewing pleasure. Natalie tensed as she felt the lash dangle between her cheeks and tickle her butthole.

“The good news is, you don’t have to understand any of this, slave girl. All you have to do is act as if you’re being sold—spread your butt cheeks and wink your cute little asshole. That’s it. Don’t worry about being sold or about any of this. Just worry about avoiding the lash and putting in a good performance on the block. Let the smart men take care of the rest.”

“So, I shouldn’t worry about the fact you might actually sell me?”

“No, you should worry. You should worry A LOT. Because if you don’t . . . If you don't LOOK like you might pee yourself from fear, it might actually happen.”

Brad smiled as Natalie panted, and her asshole winked nervously as he teased it with the lashes of the beautiful, antique whip.

“What if the auctioneer decided to crack the whip? What would you do?” He asked, trying to goad her further.

“I’d laugh.”

“Laugh? Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s funny. Slave girls get the most comic expressions on their faces when they hear the whip. Their mouths form into little “O’s”, and they get this wonderful pie-eyed, OMG! look.”

Taking a step back, Brad popped his phone out of his pocket with the speed of a gunslinger, pointing it at Natalie.

“What are you doing? Don’t take a picture of me like—”

Natalie’s complaint was cut short as Brad used his other hand to CRACK the whip through the air. He didn’t hit her with it, but it was close enough for her to feel the air WHOOSH between her cheeks.

“You bastard, you almost hit me!”

But Brad couldn’t stop laughing. “You’re hysterical! Look at this! You gotta see this!”

Still laughing, Brad showed her the little film of her reacting to the whip. As predicted, her eyes bulged, her whole body tensed, her mouth opened wide enough to show her tonsils. She seemed to gasp and inhale at the same time.

Brad was beside herself with laughter. “Look at that! You look like Wiley E. Coyote putting his finger into a light socket. Your tongue pops out just as your asshole winks! Here, look at it again.”

Brad laughed just as hard on the rerun. Natalie was less amused.

“Delete that, RIGHT NOW,” she ordered.

Brad was unimpressed. “Slave girls don’t give orders,” he said, putting the phone back in his pocket. “Back in position. Legs spread, head down, ass in the air. Show me the pink, slave girl.”

Natalie, glaring at him, hesitated. What about the phone? She looked up at her husband.

Brad looked different now. He wasn’t angry, but he wasn’t smiling either. He had a “don’t fuck with me” expression she recognized from her slave training with Master Mark.

Brad was handy with the whip; that much was clear. Apparently, he had learned more about slave training and how to handle slave girls during his playboy summers at the Big D than she had ever imagined. It was a side of him previously unknown to her, as side she didn’t dare trifle with.

Brad tapped the whip impatiently against his leg. Swallowing, Natalie assumed the degrading position, exposing herself fully to his male gaze.

“You have other things to worry about, slave girl. Prime Pleasure Sluts at The Big D are badged.”

“What is badging?” she asked, knowing it wouldn’t be good.

“It’s an assayer’s mark, to show the girl was a Prime Pleasure Slut, sold at the Big D. It is given to only the tastiest and juiciest of sluts.”

“Like a hallmark? Like the one on that Paul Revere silver pot that Daddy bought from the museum, and gave to me?”

Brad smiled. “Yes, just like the overpriced pot your daddy pressured the board into selling him, and which you barely looked at. Only, instead of the mark going on the bottom of the pot, it would go on YOUR bottom. A beautiful, ropey letter “D”, branded right between your butt cheeks.”

Brad dangled the lash down, so that it grazed the inside of her bottom cheek. Clearly terrified, Natalie’s bottom clenched around the dangling lash.

“No, you can’t let them brand me, Brad! You have to tell them not to.”

“I could,” Brad allowed. “But I won’t. I’d rather leave it up to you. Don’t worry, Natalie. They only mark the most lascivious of sluts, the ones who bring the best price, the ones who are so insatiable they’d hump the handle of the branding iron, or the whip that will skin their ass, or anything else they can get between their legs.”

Brad stuck the handle of the whip between Natalie’s legs and gave her a little rub. “If you don’t want to get branded, all you have to do is show the tiniest bit of self-control.”

Brad rubbed the whip gently over her pussy. She tried to pull back. She tried to resist. For almost four seconds she tried, but the temptation was overwhelming. Resistance was futile. Inevitably, she pushed back and began humping the whip. Smiling, Brad turned the whip around and pushed the antique handle into her. Her pussy spread widely to take in the silver tip and the elegant mother of pearl handle.

Soon, Natalie was humping for all she was worth, riding the whip hard.

“That’s it. Ride the handle of the branding iron, slut. Ride the handle, while we get the D logo all heated up for you. Think about how exquisite the brand will look between your tight little cheeks.”

Brad thought the warning would stop her, or at least slow her down, but if anything, it spurred her on. She was hot and sloppy, and it looked like her gaping pussy was trying to eat the whip handle. Brad wondered if she could stain the old antique, or the stainless-steel pole, with her pussy cream, and her incessant rubbing. He certainly hoped so.

“So how long,” she said, gasping as she rode the whip, “until I’m ready for the block?”

“That’s mostly up to you,” Brad replied. “You need to practice hard, both with your Slave Yoga trainer and me, so you can put on a good show. We’ll talk you through everything you have to do and say, every pose until the gavel comes down. Beyond that, I expect you to get the kind of beauty treatments you would normally have before you go on display at a major social event. In fact, think of it as getting ready for your wedding, only the ring goes around your neck, or perhaps through your clit, instead of your finger!—you know, haircut, pedicure, all-over tan, bikini wax. The waxing is particularly important—no pubic hair allowed on slave girls.”

“Have you any idea how much that waxing hurts?” Natalie whined, in between pants.

“That’s the price of beauty,” he answered, smugly. “If you want to be rated Prime and sell for a six-figure price, you have to offer the bidders a beautiful and rampantly-horny pussy on the slave block, got it, slave girl?”

“Yes, Master,” she replied, climaxing at the thought. With moist thighs, erect nipples and clit, and a vacant, wanton expression, Natalie already looked like a perfect bimbo slut.

*****

(Natalie’s viewpoint, four weeks later)

I decided to do this, but Brad didn’t make it any easier: the image of me, slave naked and collared, getting sold on an auction block with my mother-in-law sneering at me was just too compelling, a wild confluence of sex, submission, and humiliation. At least once a week and sometimes more often, one of us would bring this fantasy up, and I would get so turned on I couldn’t think straight. I started to dream about an auctioneer using a whip on my butt to evoke the very kind of squeal and o-shaped face I used to laugh at. Brad kept saying that I didn’t have the guts to go through with it, which just made me more determined to do it—now I’m wondering
how I came to be that dumb! Come to think of it, Brad also suggested that we both go to an attorney to execute wills leaving our property to each other, plus living wills (or whatever you call them) that authorized each of us to make decisions if the other were incapacitated.

In preparation, I went into extensive slave training with Master Mark. When I told Brad about my plan during breakfast, he didn’t even look up from his phone.

“He’s going to want to fuck you,” he said flatly.

I hadn’t even considered that, but I supposed he was right. “You don’t mind?” I responded, more than a little surprised by his casualness.

“Why should I?” he said, as he doom-scrolled through the news. “He’s not fucking my wife, he’s fucking the slave pussy I’m going to sell at the Big D. Could you pass the cream cheese, please?”

The training was brutal. Master Mark brought in another guy, Master Elroy, whom I did not like at all. “Tough shit,” Master Mark said. “That’s the point—a man you obey even if you loath him.” I worked hard, although I had to drop out of my Slave Yoga sessions with Taylor, Tiffany, and Mackenzie when my toned body and expert rolls made it obvious that I was taking it to another level. Too bad; those who can’t keep up, get left behind.

At Master Mark's suggestion, Brad let me contact my auctioneer, some guy Brad knew named "Timmy". We exchanged some quick e-mails, and worked out a few tricks so Brad would have some surprises when I was on the block at The Big D. Timmy suggested that I not read too much about The Big D, as it would be more exciting for Brad if I was experiencing it "fresh", and he got to watch my reaction. I was a little annoyed that it was all about Brad, Brad, Brad, but I followed directions.

Yesterday, we flew into Dallas on my jet. As we taxied in, we passed a hanger marked “Southwest Shipping.” Inside an open garage door, there was a coffle of naked slave girls being loaded for shipping. I felt a tiny shiver of fear and ordered the stewardess to pour me another glass of champagne. It was almost as if I were looking into my own future.

Brad took me to see a friend of his, Sheldon, who was an attorney and notary public. What does one wear to one’s own enslavement? Knowing the purpose of the meeting, I decided on casual sexy, with a midriff-baring T-shirt from the Barnard College Swim Team and denim short-shorts.

“Nice,” Sheldon commented, looking me up and down as he handed Brad the papers. “But, she should be barefoot, and that expensive purse will have to go.”

“Don’t worry; that Gucci purse will be the FIRST thing to go,” my husband replied, chuckling. I went to sit down, but Sheldon corrected me.

“She should probably stand for this,” he said, addressing Brad. “It’s customary.”
Looking at me, Brad nodded, ow it out of the way.

I fidgeted in front of the desk as Brad took his time reviewing the paper. Sheldon addressed all his comments to Brad, but he never took his eyes off my body, and I could tell he was imagining how I would look naked and on the block.

“She has nice tits,” Sheldon observed. “I like her pokies. Sweet little ass, too—is her pussy as tight as it looks?”

“You’ll never know,” Brad replied, his eyes on the papers. Then he handed me the papers and I began to read quickly.

“You never know,” observed Sheldon, looking at me like a lambchop he was about to eat. “I got money, too, you know.”

“Hurry up,” Brad said curtly, when I was half-way through the first paragraph. “I don’t want to be late for dinner.”

“Yeah, I charge extra for BIMBO time,” Sheldon added. Obviously, he didn’t notice my Barnard shirt, which was odd considered how much time he spent staring at my chest.

I speed-read the document, hoping I wasn’t missing anything. Power of attorney authorizing Brad to sell me for up to seven years but forbidding shipment overseas or major body modifications. I noticed, though, that branding, nipple piercing, and the like WERE authorized at the discretion of Brad or whoever was my “owner.” That word simultaneously made me moist and shivering.

As my limited-edition Samurai fountain pen shook in my hand, Sheldon asked if I were going to be graded and sold, and where, saying he’d love to “own some top-notch New York pussy.” Brad just looked at with his little half-smile, daring me to sign without saying anything. Swallowing hard, I took the plunge, signing the power of attorney with a flourish.

Grinning lewdly at me, Brad’s friend LOUDLY pounded his notary-public stamp onto the document, telling my husband—and now owner—“She’s signed and sealed, all you need to do is deliver her!” Then he called to his secretary who brought in an embossing machine.

“California and other states will only take an ink stamp,” Sheldon explained, “so you’ll want this ink stamp if she gets shipped out of state. But I like to add the pretty raised gold seal, so that it looks even MORE official. A lot of the slaving judges in Texas like these, although I don’t think you’ll have ANY problems because they love enslaving Yankee pussy. I’m going to put the seal on, now. Do you want her naked for this part?”

Brad turned and looked me up and down, as if he were really considering it. “NAW, we have dinner reservations.” He announced.

Leering at me, Sheldon pressed the button. I shuddered as it whirred and he loudly stamped it. He notarized and embossed several copies to give to Brad—when I asked where MY copy was, the two guys just said something about the owner needs a copy, not the property. Even that idea turned me on!

“So, where are you selling her?” Sheldon asked. “HCI can get you a really good price; I have a buddy there.”

“Thanks, Sheldon,” Brad said, ignoring him and politely holding the door open for me even as his friend leered at my soon-to-be-bare ass.

After a hasty dinner, we went back to our hotel room where I practically tore my clothes off and then begged him to ravish me. So he did, pinning me to the bed, kissing me breathless, and pounding my brains out, all the while whispering evil thoughts about how he would sell my “cute little butt” so I would be a real pleasure slave in less than 24 hours.

He kept up the pressure this morning, “ordering” me to kneel and give “my master” a blowjob in the shower and then use an enema bag, followed by lubricant up my bottom. He told me my butt must be ready to service my next master—I THINK he was still teasing, but who knows?

Driving to the Big D, Brad did most of the talking. “I just want to remind you of a few things, sweetheart. Don’t forget that, for this Any Chance Auction to work, we both have to act as if it’s REAL—as if I might really sell you for the right price. Besides, I know that’s your fantasy, so just pretend you’re getting sold today, got it?”

“No, it’s not pretend,” I said, gently correcting him. “I’m GOING to be sold. When the chute door opens, I’ll be just another pussy on the block . . . ‘Master.’” I added the last word, torn between amusement and worry.

“THAT’s my good little bitch.” He replied, patting my thigh. Even that gesture of affection reassured me. “Now, when we get to the Big D and I park the car, what are you going to do?”

“Step out of the car, strip down, put my clothes back onto the seat and wait for you in ‘Present’ position.” This was where the fantasy felt both thrilling and terrifying.

He continued to prompt me, “So, I walk around the car and order you to ‘Collar;’’ after you kneel and I put the collar on your neck, I’ll tell you to stand up and then what happens?”

I shivered at the thought of adding helplessness to my nudity. “Back hands, ‘Master,’—you cuff my hands behind me and lead me to the main entrance.”
He smiled and spoke to me as if I were an obedient puppy—a female puppy, of course! “GOOD girl! When we get inside you’ll see a long line of concrete bollards painted yellow. While we’re waiting for check-in, you either kneel beside me or, if I release your wrists, what do you get to do?”

“Rub myself against the bollard for good luck.”

He nodded in agreement. “That’s right, slut. You rub against the bollard, just like any other bimbo trying to get her dirty snatch off while hoping for a higher slave grade, got it?”

By now, my mind was getting back into the familiar pattern of this X-rated fantasy. “Yes, ‘Master.’” I said with a smile, winking at him.

Ben summed up, just as we turned into a huge parking lot. “OK, we’re here now. Just remember, while you’re here you act exactly like any other piece of slave meat.
This is your chance to live out your fantasy, babe. Keep jilling off whenever you get a chance so you’re hot for your grading and later for the auction. If the handler wants to feel you up, he can; if he orders you to kneel down and swallow his dick, what do you do?”

“I say, ‘Yes, Master,’ and give him the best, the sloppiest, the horniest blow-job he’s ever had, pretending . . . KNOWING that I’m really a slave girl and he might own me.”

“Yeeehhh.” Ben drawled. “You’d really love to do that, wouldn’t you, my sexy slut?”

I nodded, my respiration and heart rate increasing. “Yes, Sir.”

“Could we park a little closer to the front,” I asked. “It seems like a long walk.”

“No way. I don’t want someone to ding my Lamborghini,” he said.

In my mind, I had gone through the parking-lot strip a million times and had even practiced it at home, watching in the mirror. It was different now. As promised, my Gucci purse was the first thing to go, and Brad smiled as he tossed it into the “fronk” of the orange Lamborghini. Next, I took off my strappy Christian Louboutin shoes and dropped them in.

Only, when I had practiced in my New York condo, there hadn’t been a father and son walking past, stopping to watch me strip. The boy was wearing a “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY” shirt, and apparently this trip to the Big D was his present for turning 18.

“Holy Shit!” the teenager said in a stage whisper. “Is that rich girl really going to strip naked right here?” he asked his father.

“Looks that way,” his father replied, putting his hand up to ask a question.

“Sellin’ or gradin’?” the father asked Brad.

“Sellin’,” replied Brad with a grin.

“Can we buy her, Dad? Puuhhhh-leezze?”

“Your mom would kill me if she knew I was takin’ you here. She thinks we’re going to Dick’s Sporting Goods, remember?”

“Oh, yeah; I forgot.” The younger guy replied.

I was naked now, slave naked, after Brad reminded me that slave girls don’t have $50,000 earrings. I took a moment to frown as I looked at all my worldly possessions in the trunk. The sports car trunk was TINY, but it had more than enough space to hold my entire pre-slave girl existence.

Brad SLAMMED the trunk shut without a second thought, sealing me off from my freedom. He didn’t seem to realize the emotional impact of that. Men with clothes and keys and money don’t understand what it feels like to be a naked slave girl.

To my surprise, Brad took a crop/whip out of the back seat. He snapped his fingers and used the whip to point to the pavement behind the car, reminding me of what I had already forgotten.

I knelt down on the hot asphalt, interlocked my fingers behind by neck, and spread my thighs apart into “present” position.

As if I needed any reminder of my exposure, the birthday boy exclaimed “Golly! I can see her vagina!”

“This isn’t biology class, son,” the father corrected him. “Slave girls don’t have vaginas. They have pussies, snatches, boxes, twats, and beavers.”

“Yes, sir—that sure is a pretty beaver!” the birthday boy replied, his eyes glued between my thighs. He watched breathlessly as Brad collared me. To my surprise, Brad had chosen a plain, off the shelf stainless steel collar, much less fancy than the one I had bought for fluffy. It had rings on the front and back, making it easy to attach me to a coffle, and a dual pair of electric shock “prongs” on either side that dug into my neck as he closed the collar.

“It hurts,” I said.

“You’ll get used to it,” Brad replied. The father laughed.

“Bracelets,” Brad said. I presented my wrists, and Brad cuffed them, again using a plain, off the shelf version of slave cuffs. The bracelet sitting in my trunk had cost me $35,000. The bracelet I was going to wear into the slave market would retail at The Big D for less than $20.

As a final touch, he added a strap, running from the back of my collar to my cuffs. Tightening the strap, it pulled my wrists up to the center of my back, locking them in place.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said.

Brad responded by slapping me hard across the ass.

“Oww!” I said. “That hurt.”

“It’s supposed to hurt. Next time it’s the crop, or the collar.”

Brad pressed the remote, giving me a brief BUZZ that caused me to jump a little. I know he had it set on ONE, and it was just a warning, but it still shocked me.
“Wow, look at her boobies jiggle,” my pie-eyed teenage admirer said. Ever accommodating, Brad BUZZED me again, causing me to squirm for the boy. As a final indignity, Brad hooked a short leather leash to the front of my collar. I glared at him as he attached the simple bolt snap to the front of my collar, which seemed to amuse him. “Woof!” he said, smiling as he jerked the leash. I was going to be led into the Big D like a dog, a bitch.

The Big D got bigger and bigger as he led me across the lot. I felt as if everyone within eyesight was looking at me, evaluating my body. The asphalt felt like fire on my bare feet, another aspect of Texas slavery that life in my Manhattan condo had left me ill-prepared for. Feeling the sun on my bare skin, I wished I had a deeper tan to protect me, or I could walk slower. Collared and leashed, with my wrists pinned to the small of my back, Brad set the pace.

“I love the way her ass jiggles when she walks,” the boy observed. Instinctively, I pulled down my hands to try and cover myself, a foolish free girl action. All I did was yank my own head back as the cuffs kept my wrists squarely in the center of my back.

“Dad, I can see the hand print on her ass where he spanked her.” The boy’s tone was casual, as if I couldn’t hear every word he was saying. Or perhaps he had already mentally classified me as the helpless slave meat I had become.

“It would be even cuter with a brand on it,” his dad replied.

“Wow. Could we watch them do that?” the boy asked eagerly.

“Maybe,” his father replied. “Sometimes they do it in the restaurant.”

“Hey, Mister, are you going to get her branded?” the boy asked.

Brad stopped and turned in their direction. “I haven’t decided yet,” he said. “What do you think?” The sound of that word “yet” frightened me even more.

“I dunno” said the boy, staring at my butt. “It’s perfect the way it is.”

“Give it a feel,” Brad suggested. “That will help you decide.”

His father nudged the young man. “Go ahead,” he said, “Jest don’t tell your mother.”

The boy took a handful of my bottom cheek, fondling it. Then, he switched to both hands.

“What do you think?” Brad said, smirking again. “Brand or no brand? It’s up to you.”

That was the point when I truly knew what it was to be a slave. A snotty-nosed teenager was squeezing my butt before he decided whether my ass was going to be branded. Fifteen minutes earlier, I had been a wealthy, independent, well-educated adult and now I was just a toy for an 18-year-old stranger. Looking at him, I pleaded with my eyes, shaking my head as I mouthed the word “No, No, No” over and over again.

“You might want to check out how wet she is,” Brad suggested. “Go ahead, don’t be shy. Give ‘er a good feel!”

The gangling teenager did just that, but that wasn’t the humiliating part. The humiliating part was how wet I was!

“Geez, she’s soaking,” he said, as I involuntarily humped back on his scrawny fingers. He lowered himself for a better view, examining me closely. Brad winked at his proud father as he explored what we all knew was his first pussy.

“How does it feel, son?” Dad chuckled.

“Sloppy… quivery…but good.” My pussy had never felt so alive. The fact that this kid had no idea what he was doing, and other people in the parking lot had stopped to gape at us, somehow made it all the hotter. I was getting felt up, out in front of a slave market, just like a real Pleasure Slut!

“Let’s go, Wesley,” he said. “I’m sure this fine gentleman has other things to do, and wants to get his bitch on the block.”

“I do indeed,” Brad said. “But we still need a decision about the branding. Why don’t you give me your phone, and you can text me later with your boy’s decision.”

Cell phones were exchanged, with the father marveling over Brad’s custom, gold plated IPhone. It was determined that the father’s name was Doug, and he worked in construction, and Texas was in a building boom. I was guessing he didn’t make enough to buy Wesley his own slave, or maybe his wife wouldn’t allow it. But he could still take his boy to The Big D for “a little peek-and-poke” as he put it.

“Can I watch, Dad?” the boy asked. “I mean, if I decide to get her branded, can I watch them burn her ass?”

“Maybe,” Brad said. “Sometimes they do it in the restaurant, as a lunchtime thing.”

“The Bee & Brand?” the father said. “Best slave honey in Texas!”

“What’s slave honey?” the boy inquired, asking my question.

“It’s what you got all over yer’ fingers, boy!” the father said, laughing. “Come on, let’s go. We need to get this girl off the asphalt, before she burns those dainty feet of hers,” he chuckled. “She’s itchin’ to get some sand between her toes!”

I was hopping from foot to foot, partially because of the asphalt, partially from the excitement of being so rudely felt up by Wesley, eager to explore my new pussy. The reference to sand-between-my-toes made me shudder, as I remembered Brad had said The Big D used sand on their auction blocks, like it was a real livestock market. Because it WAS a real livestock market, and I was about to become just another caged, horny animal in its inventory!

(To be continued)
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Re: The Girl in the Window, Pt. 02

Post by Cwelst72 »

The story gets better and better. Thanks
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Re: The Girl in the Window, Pt. 02

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Wow! Awesome chapter! As said the story just gets better! Keep the collaboration going! This could be another epic story!
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Re: The Girl in the Window, Pt. 02

Post by lovethissite »

Loved this chapter. You have incorporated all the great parts of previous stories. Rich highly educated privileged successful woman with a desire to be owned. I loved the open ended slave contract 7 years piercing possible branding looks like a definite all holes ready. it has it all just looking forward to the next chapters. BRAVO!
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Re: The Girl in the Window, Pt. 02

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Carl Bradford wrote: Mon Jan 17, 2022 5:22 pm
“Do the plaintiffs ever win?”

“Hardly ever. ‘Any Chance?’ is a pretty low standard, or a high standard, depending on your point of view. It’s just a smidge of a chance. The Big D doesn’t want to make a big deal of it, since the point is to drive traffic, by parading pussy that WON’T get sold, to auction pussy that CAN be sold. So, it isn’t a problem unless you’re a fucking idiot.”

“Define a fucking idiot,” Natalie said.

“Tell everyone I’d never sell you. Blowing off enormous, over-market-price bids. Bragging about how you don’t have to eat orange slime because in an hour you’ll be having dinner at an overpriced French restaurant.”

“In other words, everything that comes out of my mouth.”

HILARIOUS! Dialogue like this not only provides comic relief during a tense moment in a story, it endears the readers to the characters all the more as we can identify with them. Most of us know from real life tense experiences that humor is a coping mechanism - using it doesn't imply that people think what is happening is funny, it is just a way of keeping one's sanity at a very serious time. When authors such as you, Carl, and Joe Doe place just the right amount of humor at just the right time it emphasizes to the reader that, "Oh dear, this character is really feeling the pressure now!" It elevates the story to something special and people remember it long after new chapters keep coming along.

Well done.

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Re: The Girl in the Window, Pt. 02

Post by imreadonly2 »

Groucho Marx said that all comedy is character. A lot of the humor derives from the persona that the actor or comic establishes, with a routine by Amy Schumer being very different than a routine by Chris Rock, because of who they are.

In this case, the humor is Natalie, spoiled little rich girl, blathering on about how being naked and caged and registered and sold isn't really slavery at all, because she's really a very important person, and the .001%, and she's going to be free any minute because The Big D and all of these laws are just a big joke to an important person like her. And, of course, it's the running of her mouth that gets her into trouble.

In this case, the more arrogant, powerful, and educated she is, the more ironic (and funny) the joke is. Sort of like that woman in the news recently who bragged that she couldn't go to jail because she was, well, Natalie. Oops!

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