Sandy Foot Girl, Part 4, by Joe Doe

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Joe asked me to post this here. Enjoy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A slave girl must be wet and ready. A slave girl must be wet and ready. A slave girl must be wet and ready.” I was.

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

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

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

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

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

I struggled to focus on my surroundings instead of merely myself. After a few seconds of squinting I realized I was toward the back of the hall in one of the prep areas where the girls were “prepared” after the Cattle Wash.

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

I looked around, blinking. Jasmine continued shouting at me. “You’re so fucking SLAVE STUPID. I should whip the skin off your ass!”

I bristled at the characterization. I had entitled one of my book chapters “Slave Stupid”, discussing in detail a pleasure sluts inability to logically reason, make long term plans, or understand anything other than the longings of her pussy and the crack of the whip.

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

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

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

The psychology of the transformation process had always fascinated me, and it was particularly pleasing to see it happen to the snooty British reporter. When a girl loses her clothes in The Big D, there is a powerful loss of status. This is true even in the mall, where the well dressed woman who is paying to pose for an “auction block” photo at one of the stores will feel a chilling loss of authority once her clothes are removed and put away and the clerk who had been fawning over her begins ordering her about as if she were a real slave. The sharp “taps” on her bottom with the whip won’t be actual whip strokes, but the message will be clear. It’s part of the experience, to be sure, but I knew from my research that it was also part of the terrible psychology of enslavement, a centuries old process designed to undermine a woman’s self-esteem.

Now I could see the process in action. Jasmine’s tone with the reporter was dismissive. “Look around you, DUMB-DUMB! Do you see girls with towels? If I give you a towel someone’s just going to get annoyed and rip it off you. And stop covering yourself like your tits and pussy are golden. This is a slave market, not a PG-13 movie!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I beg forgiveness, Mistress.”

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

“I exist to please you, Mistress.”

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

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

“She attacked me!” the naked reporter protested.

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

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

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

“Wait!” the reporter screamed. “You can’t leave me here. You can’t leave me here…naked!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.”

In my chapter “Slave Stupid” I had explained how the enslavement process reduced a pleasure slut’s capacity for logical thought. As she became more in tune with the needs of her master, her ability to use her mind for anything other than giving and receiving pleasure quickly eroded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I remembered one of my Slave Yoga mantras. “Slavery is Destiny. Slavery is Destiny.” My destiny awaited.

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

Now, my fantasies would be real.

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

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

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

The fact that I wasn’t recognized by my former students, colleagues, or clients was a relief, as it would be the ultimate humiliation to encounter someone I knew as I was rubbing my stinking slave snatch on the way to the auction block. However, it was also the ultimate humiliation, as it reinforced the cruel fact that I was no longer recognizable as a professional woman, or even as a human. I was merely another piece of inventory.

As we rapidly advanced towards my fate Jasmine kept up with her instructions. “We used the photographs from your grading, so your picture is already in the online catalog. We don’t have to photograph you again, which saves us a step.”

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

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

“Yes, Mistress,” I agreed, rubbing myself harder. Damn if she wasn’t right.

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

“Yes, Mistress. I will try, Mistress.”

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

“I’m not slave stupid,” I thought.

“The fuck you’re not,” Jasmine snapped back. “You maybe the stupidest fucking bimbo I’ve ever processed. And that electroshock therapy I gave you a couple of minutes ago probably didn’t help matters much.”

Had I spoken the words allowed? I must have. I was having problems focusing on anything but Jasmine’s orders and the growing excitement between my legs. “Relax, and enjoy the moment”, I told myself. “You will do well, and make Jake and The Big D proud.”

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

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

“What’s my reserve price?” I asked.

I jumped in fear as Jasmine cracked the whip.

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

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

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

I caught myself…what was I thinking? At the moment I should be focusing on escape, or Becky Lou buying me back, I was instead focusing on pleasuring my new owner. But my fingers felt so good. As much as I struggled against it, I knew I was “hot for the block.”

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

My computer program had assigned me to Broadway, the largest auction area for the hottest and prettiest girls. I felt a surge of pride and a spasm of pleasure in my pussy. I hoped I would turn Jake a tidy profit.

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

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

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

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

Jasmine’s radio squawked a problem at the loading dock, and taking the walkie-talkie off her belt she turned away and responded that she’d be right there.

I wondered if Jasmine would remember me. I wanted to think so, but new she would not, as I was simply one of countless naked slave girls she would process that day. I also wondered if she’d remember Lucy, who was still naked in the Cattle Wash, if she was lucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As a member of the 1%, I didn’t view economic downturns as an entirely bad thing. Often the slaving business improved when the economy went south as increased financial hardships meant more women were enslaved. I often looked forward to economic downturns, even if they did hurt the little people.

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

My model was exquisitely sensitive to inventory levels, online prices at other auction houses, economic conditions, and factors that could increase the supply of slaves, such as higher college debt defaults or farm bankruptcies. And last week the Fed had failed to cut interest rates as much as Wall Street had hoped.

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

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


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

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

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

Welcome To Big D Livestock And Slave Market, Pardner!
All Merchandise Sold As Is.
All Sales FINAL!

All sales were final. Final.

Breathe, B-269. Breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

As I plunged through the gate I thought, “This is what it’s like to be hung.”

I heard a murmur of appreciation from the crowd, followed by a few wolf whistles and some light applause as I sprinted across the block with an idiotic, toothy grin on my face, as the auctioneer read my lot number, “B-269”. I could feel myself blush as the leering buyers appraised my naked body, but I knew that I had their attention.

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

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

The legal ramifications were as simple as they were incontestable: when I stepped onto the sand of the auction block, I was an agent of the Texas Department of Agriculture. When the auctioneer’s gavel fell, I would be a slave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As we locked eyes he smiled at me, and for a brief instant I thought he recognized me. Then I saw it wasn’t a smile, exactly, it was more like a smug, satisfied smirk as he looked at the tall blonde girl standing naked before him. I recognized it as the “I own your ass” smile, and realized he was using a technique that I had taught him:

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

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

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

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

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

Fourty-Five, Fourty-Five
Willyagive-willyagive Fourty-Five
Fifty-Fifty-Fifty-doIgot-Fifty

My auction had begun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t write that. How do I know you’re the toughest judge?”

“You’d know it if you were in my courtroom, standing in front of my bench, Goldilocks. Girls like you don’t look sassy when I got my gavel in my hand.”

“Yes, I’m sure you stroke your little gavel a lot,” I said, flashing him my cutest smile.

Judge Parker frowned; he was not used to a pretty young woman talking back to him so boldly. Too bad, so sad, fatso. The other people in line were listening, and I was not backing down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At a moment when I assumed nothing could be worse, Timmy, my auctioneer, gave a command that made my heart flutter.

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

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

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

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

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

[Belinda]

Good continuation of the Story, but in several places you are just repeating yourself.
Once you have said it, move on.

[jeepster]

Good chapter! Like the whole story!

[Belinda]

Wonderful continuation of a great story.

[Hooked6]

This is such a great story that has me enthralled with what happens to our Harvard Professor. I hope there is more to come.

Hooked6

[GypsieCowboy]

Sandy Foot Girl is absolutely one of My favorite stories of 2019!!!

-GypsieCowboy