Any Chance Auction, Part 20, by Joe Doe

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In the morning, I was woken by a slave wrangler, who scanned my SIN number and let me out of my kennel. He looked to be about 19, and was wearing cowboy boots and a hat, and had a toothpick lodged in his mouth.

"Take a drink, and pee,” he said. Hearing his Texas twang, I recognized him as Hunk, the teenager who had checked me in when I first came to The Big D. Hunk had introduced me to my slavery, and received me in, and saved me from drowning in the delousing tank. He had fingered my pussy, commenting on my wetness, and asked Rita about “crotch crickets” before dumping me in the slave dip.

I hadn’t thought much of him that night, but as I looked up at him now, I stared at him with slave girl eyes. He looked so powerful, strong, and in control! Oh, how I Ioved him so!

Eager to please Hunk, I didn’t hesitate to lift my leg and pee in the grate, and even managed to lean over and suck some delicious sperm water out of the slave girl water bottle screwed into the wall while I was doing it, so he wouldn’t have to wait.

My master opened the door of a medium sized cage, about the size one might use to transport a Golden Retriever. He pointed at the door, indicating I should crawl inside.

“Do you remember me?” I asked.

His puzzled expression made it clear my question was absurd. I was a slave girl. Why would he remember me? It was like a box in an Amazon warehouse asking a forklift driver if he would remember it. It wasn’t a question of remembering me; I was inventory, and he simply didn’t care.

Hunk kicked the side of the cage, indicating I should enter. He hadn’t bothered talking to me that night, directing all of his conversation to Rita, and he certainly wasn’t going to waste time talking to me now.

“I’m supposed to be released, Master” I explained. “I’m free. Can I talk to Rosco?”

Looking at me, he sighed, and slipped a slave bit in my mouth, ending my protests. Then he cuffed my hands behind my back and forced me down onto all fours.

Slipping his fingers into my pussy, he copped a quick feel. I was slave wet, much to my surprise. Why was I slave wet? I had just woken up.

“Juicy,” he said, as he pulled his fingers out of me. It wasn’t directed at me, and it certainly wasn’t a comment. Clearly, he was just talking to himself. Once again, he kicked the side of the cage.

Dutifully, I crawled into the cage, far less comfortable than I would have been if I had obeyed him without protest.

“Slave girl’s mouths are not for talking,” as the old adage goes. Good advice.

He put me on a dolly, and merrily I rolled along, destination unknown. After a scan of my collar at the door, and a quick check of my paperwork by a bored looking security guard, I was wheeled outside to the back of a rusty old pickup truck that had seen better days. I felt myself tense, as I wondered if I was being misdelivered.

It wasn’t until I saw Skeeter’s boots, and realized that I was going to his home, and that I was looking at Rosco’s beyond crappy old truck, that I began to bounce around my cage like a puppy being released from the pound.

“That’s right, sweetie, you got a new master,” Hunk said as he raised my cage into the truck bed.

“Should I use the ratchet strap, so she doesn’t slide around?” Hunk asked.

Although I couldn’t see him, I heard Skeeter’s lackadaisical twang. “Naw, don’t bother, Hunk. The cage is heavy enough she won’t bounce out.”

I didn’t bounce out, but I did bounce, and slide, and chew my gag, as I endured the most terrifying 30 minutes as Skeeter sped me to The Ritz Carton like he was competing for a NASCAR win. Every bump forced my sore rear end against the cage metal.

With the casualness of a man who had gotten very used to living in The Ritz Carlton on his rich aunt’s dime, Skeeter tossed the keys to the valet. I couldn’t hear what Skeeter said, but my cage was unloaded and I was placed in storage with the other luggage, in a room behind the front desk.

Time doesn’t go fast in luggage storage, and I wondered what was going on. At last, Rita showed up, and sprung me.

My cage door wasn’t locked, but my cuffs were. “Can you get these off her paws?” she asked the bellman.

“I’ll call the concierge, Ma’am. I’m sure he can help.”

While we turned, Rita did a slow walk around, looking me over. “Wow, Skeeter really went to down on yer’ ass, little sister,” she said, letting out a slow whistle. “Ayn’t never seen a brand that big.”

“It feels big, too,” I replied.

The concierge was pleasant and nice, at least to Rita. I recognized him, as he had gotten me theater tickets, but now, other than a quick ogle of my naked body, I was ignored.

Fortunately, he did help, and after quickly checking the model of my restraints, he located the magical key to release my wrists.

“What about her dog collar?” Rita asked.

“That’s electronic,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t be of any assistance, Ma’am.”

“Can you call maintenance, and saw it off?”

“It might have a charge, or an explosive. I wish I could help, because Miss Powers is one of our most valued guests. But it’s safest to get it done professionally, Ma’am.”

It was surreal, as the naked girl whose tits he was ogling was Miss Powers, but no mind.

Rita turned to me. “They put ya’ through the dip before you came here?” she asked.

“Um, no. I peed,” I said, hoping that would appease her.

“You got any creepy crawlers, or crotch crickets?” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“I dunno. I kinda slept in a pile of naked slave girls last night. We were rolling around a lot,” I confessed.

“What am I gonna do with you, girl?” she said, rolling her eyes.

“I can check her out,” the concierge said.

Rita nodded, and I knelt before the man who had once gotten me tickets to Garth Brooks. “Oh, yes, here’s a critter. And another. I’m afraid you’ve got one dirty little bunny here, Ma’am.”

“Can you clean her up,” Rita said. “I don’t want no critters in the room.”

“Neither do we, Ma’am. May I recommend a full head shave?”

“Naw, that’s okay. Just give her a good scrub.”

“Rita?” I said, as she turned and left the room. Before I could protest, she was gone.

The staff was not mean to me, but it was clear that everything about me disgusted them. I was taken outside behind the hotel, where a teenager who worked at the spa scrubbed me down with disinfectants and a long handled wooden brush. She was tough on my hair and between my legs, but seeing as how I could barely walk from the brand, took it easy on my ass.

The scrub down was thorough, but not cruel. An hour later, I was leashed and delivered to my suite on the top floor, feeling like a puppy who had just been given a bath.

“Sorry I can’t get that collar off, but Rosco and Skeeter went back to work. We’ll get it tomorrow.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m sort of used to it, actually. It makes me feel… secure.”

“Rosco warned me you’d probably be all slave crazy. He actually suggested I keep you as a slave for a week, but I thought that was bullshit since you’ve only been in the collar a couple of days. Hopefully, you don’t prove me wrong.”

“I’ll try, Mistress,” I said.

“My name’s Rita, and I’m your sister. You smell like bug spray, girl. Go take a shower.”

“Where?” I said, looking around the room.

“You can use the shower for humans, Annie,” she said. “You ayn’t a slave girl no more!”

For the next week or so, Rita lovingly nursed me back to full strength. I was uncollared and given my old clothes back. She rubbed cream on my brand, and the welts on my ass left from Skeeter’s whip.

We ate room service for the first few days, which was quite a step up from orange slime. I asked for slave kibble, but Annie refused, saying “You gotta get The Big D out of yer’ head, girl.”

“You can take the slave girl out of the collar, but you can’t take the slave out of the slave girl,” as the adage goes.

I did recover. The girl who had deloused me was shocked when she was called up to my room to give me a pedicure, but quickly recovered and did an excellent job. The concierge, alerted to the strangeness of a slave girl acting like a free woman in one of his suites, paid us a visit. When Rita showed him my return ticket paperwork, he looked at me, and finally recognized me. He said I should call him personally if I needed “anything to make your stay more enjoyable.”

It turns out, I wasn’t pregnant. Rita said that they put birth control in the slave kibble, although she wasn’t sure whether it was in the batch I got. I asked her if she was really going to send me to the breeding barn, to give birth in the straw.

“I looked into it,” she admitted. “Might be fun to have another little Skeeter runnin’ around, and it seemed like a pretty good deal, seein’ as how all it would cost me is yer’ milk.”

“A good deal?” I snapped. “It doesn’t seem like a good deal to me! I don’t believe you.”

“Hold yer horses, little sister,” Rita said, switching to her matronly tone. “Why do you think Skeeter has to take all them animal husbandry courses? Yer the one who wanted to play slave girl, remember? Well, slave girls get bred, and hung up by their heels, and looked after by vets, and sent out to the birthin’ barn to drop their pups, and I don’t reckon nobody gives a good garsh darn WHAT they think about it, like they can think anything at all. We clear on that, slave girl?”

Rita was right. I wanted to play slave girl, and slave girls exist to give pleasure and profit to their masters. If that meant me being hooded, then seeded by a dozen muscular male slaves chosen for their genes, then I had no say in the matter. I’d give birth in the barn, with the vet putting the stick in my mouth, and maybe some ag students or even an amused tour group watching.

Although I had only been enslaved for a couple of days, “deprogramming” me required a significant amount of effort on Rita’s part, as she eased me back into my old mindset.
“For Pete’s sake, put some clothes on! Ya’ can’t go get ice buck nay-ked.”
“Sorry, Annie, but I gotta tie yer hands to the bed posts, to keep ya’ from rubbin’ all night. Don’t worry none, I’m right here in the other bed, jist like when we was kids.”
“Nope, ya’ can’t wear no collar. I’ll going to let you wear yer pearls, though, so ya’ got that sense of security.”
“That’s room service. Go sit in the bedroom while he sets up. I don’t want ya’ trying to blow him again as a tip.”
Wearing clothes was a real struggle for me. I had gotten used to the freedom of being slave naked, of feeling my breasts and bottom bounce freely when I “slave strutted”, as Rita called my new style of walking. I missed having men leer at me and freely check out my tits, pussy, and brand, and their sly smiles as they reveled in my subjugation as they imagined what it would be like to fuck me. Not to mention casually goosing and fondling me if I came within reach.
Rita didn’t understand. “Men are still gonna look at ya’, little sister,” she said, shaking her head. It’s not like puttin’ on some pants and a shirt are gonna turn ya’ into a boy.” She was right, but totally wrong. Men would still check me out, of course, but discretely, as if I caught them and gave them THE LOOK (which I had loved doing) they would feel embarrassed and ashamed.
In contrast, when I was a slave girl the bellhop or gardener or the man reading his newspaper in the lobby was free to gaze at my shaved pussy for as long as they cared to, and even offer an open appraisal if they saw fit. The slave girl with the gigantic bug brand gripping her ass was permitted no modesty, and she was kept naked for their viewing pleasure, with frequent comments about the brand or her “sweet, tight pussy”, or both.
Slave Yoga was forbidden me, and instead she had a punching bag set up in the suite, so I could get a form of exercise as far away from being a slave girl as possible. Slave girls are trained to be flexible, not aggressive.
“Think about the way Miss Calico talked me into auctioning ya, while ya’ were up in the stirrups,” Rita urged, trying to build up my anger as I kicked and punched the bag. “Think about all those pervert friends of yers’, laughin’ their butts off while Skeeter put ya’ thru yer’ paces on the block. And think about old Professor Merle, yuckin’ it up while he burned Skeeter’s brand onto yer’ butt, one leg at a time.”
When she heard me reciting my old slave mantras as I masturbated in the shower, Rita gave me a new set of non-slave mantras to repeat, during supervised bath time.
My name is Ann Powers. I’m beautiful, wealthy, and successful.
I am powerful, independent, confident, and strong.
I can buy anything I want, or achieve any dream of success I have.
I’m highly intelligent.
I am NOT a Pleasure Slut.
I am NOT a bimbo.
I am NOT a sextoy.
I am a free woman, as smart as I am successful.
I’m a graduate of the University of Chicago and Northwestern University.
I have a mansion on the Gold Coast, a family that loves me, and servants that wait on me hand-and-foot.
Rita worked me hard, and in a few days I was able to eat at the hotel restaurant, with a seat cushion, of course. Ten days after I arrived, Rita and I flew back to Chicago on my private jet and continued my recovery there.

It was a happy, festive time, and I spoiled Rita by taking her shopping on North Michigan Avenue. Soon Skeeter and Rosco would arrive, and our Christmas celebrations would begin in earnest.

By the time I was back in Chicago, I was walking normally, and acting normally enough to pass for my old self. Looking at me, you’d never suspect that I had been a slave girl.
“You POSED as a slave girl”, Rita would say, correcting me. Of course, she was right. It was all a roleplay, an act. It was just a bit of fun, Rita teaching me a lesson. Now, ironically, she was trying to teach me to act like the old Annie, the one whose cock-teasing and entitlement had irritated her so often.
The welts on my ass from Skeeter’s and Annie’s whip quickly faded. The Big D brand between my cheeks and Skeeter’s doodle bug were both temporaries, but they would take several months to fade. Leggings or tight clothes were uncomfortable, so it was baggy pants and skirts for me, but Rita made it fun when we went shopping together for “more comfortable” clothes.
For lunch, we’d alternate between “somewhere fancy” that I’d pick (RL) and somewhere she’d pick (Bub City BBQ). We celebrated Christmas together, as Skeeter and Rosco worked right through the day after Christmas. Every Christmas The Big D was overwhelmed with women who wanted to be packaged and delivered as slave girls on Christmas Eve or Christmas morning to their husbands or boyfriends. It was a logistical nightmare, and The Big D was forced to institute a new rule that all “Christmas packages” had to be naked and caged no later than 12/23 at noon, which led to a lot of caged slave girls simply being stacked up on palettes on the loading dock or even in the freezing parking lot, waiting to be shipped. It had become a regular feature on cable news, as the image of row-after-row of caged faux “slave girls” stacked up sky high, was simply too good a visual for Fox & CNN not to use as a teaser.
A new company, Southwest Shipping, had improved the bottlenecks enormously, although there were still bad addresses and botched deliveries. For example, one MILF had directed that she be delivered to the address “on file”, not realizing that her son’s frat house was on file under her phone number after she had sent him a slave girl as a birthday present. The frat bros wouldn’t even admit she was there, and her son had to return to campus to rescue his very well used mom.
As a side note, the mom insisted that it was not her fault, and the Big D should have figured out her correct home address rather than simply using the address in the computer. To prove her point, she did not mention the home address issue the following Christmas when she checked in herself and her daughter, who was to be delivered to her home as a present for her fiancé. Shockingly, they were both delivered to the frat house again! Her husband, angered by her stubbornness, refused to pick her up until after the New Year, so mother and daughter were forced to perform together for over a week.
Southwest Shipping did most of the local deliveries “door-to-door”, but there wasn’t a lot they could do about “customs inspections” or “opened packages” when the mailman in Biloxi, Mississippi, would decide to pick a cage lock and have a little fun, not realizing that the bound and gagged slave girl he was fucking was the wife of an army captain and the daughter of a general. Oops. Nobody ever reads the bill of lading.
While small as a percentage, these types of fiascos kept the management team in damage control mode through Christmas Day and for some time after. When Rosco and Skeeter finally arrived on the 28th, they were exhausted, and spent the first day of our Christmas celebration sleeping.
Skeeter was appropriately surprised when we opened presents and discovered I had gotten him a new Tesla. Rita thought it was “too much” but what is a rich Aunt for, if not to spoil her nephew? Especially a nephew who had thrilled her at the slave market.)
The first sign of trouble was when my driver pulled the car around and we did the walk-around. Skeeter was thrilled, and I showed him the doodle bug drawing I had custom painted on the rear bumper. “Wow, Anna-Annie. It looks just like the one I branded on YOUR caboose,” he said, causing my eyes to go wide as Skeeter grabbed my branded butt and gave it a lascivious squeeze.
This wasn’t lost on his mother, who slapped his hand and scolded him. Skeeter laughed sheepishly, claiming he’d “forgotten” and claiming that “after auctioning her sweet, hot pussy, she still just looks like a slave girl playing dress up.”
When I opened my presents, I was surprised to see my impish nephew had purchased me a batch of condoms and cream for my butt. “That’s not funny, Skeeter,” his mom said, while his dad noted that he “shouldn’t push it.” Skeeter said he was just joking.
After the presents, we had lunch at Gibson’s steakhouse. When I asked Skeeter how his steak was, he said it was “hot, pink, and juicy, just like my favorite slave girl,” causing me to blush as he rubbed my knee under the table.
That afternoon, I caught the maid and my personal chef giggling as they looked at a copy of MISS SANDY FOOT, which pictured yours truly on the cover. Apparently, Skeeter had brought a box of the magazines to Chicago, with the intended purpose of leaving them everywhere he could to embarrass me. I scolded them, and seized the magazine, which I took back to my room for a bit of “slave girl fun”.
Stripping myself naked, I duplicated the poses in front of the mirror. I was wearing a faux training collar, which I found totally unsatisfying after wearing the real thing. I couldn’t duplicate the cover photo, which depicted Skeeter’s whip lighting the match sticking out of my asshole at the moment I was sold, but I got the pose, with my legs and butt cheeks spread wide. Imagining the cheers of the crowd, I squirted onto my genuine hardwood floors in a thunderous near-slavegasm as I relived the moment I was sold.
I say near slave-gasm, for only a slave can have a slave-gasm. But damn, it was close. I lay on the floor, exhausted. Skeeter’s little humiliations had been fun for both of us, but I knew that it was dangerous. For some inexplicable reason, programming me to be a slave girl came much easier than deprogramming me.
Skeeter’s brand was burned on my ass, so naturally I was responding to him as a master responded to a slave girl. Fun as it was, I had worked too hard to deprogram myself to let my smarty pants, wet-behind-the-ears nephew push me back down the greased chute that led directly to my slave kennel—even if the thought of that greased MY chute.
Skeeter’s systemic disrespect highlighted a larger issue. I had been spared having to face anyone who had seen my disgrace, living in the safe space Rita had lovingly crafted for me. Plus, I had the advantage of Christmas, as people who had my sort of money didn’t work particularly hard in November.
However, when the New Year began, I would have to once again return to the big bad world. Lord Kensington, Skipper Carey, Jamal, and Mr. Choo had all seen me disgrace myself on the block. Skeeter wasn’t the only one who had pictures of this month’s cover girl, and I had no doubt that my humiliation had traveled everywhere. A quick call to two of my girlfriends confirmed that ‘everyone’ had seen the photos, which were being circulated far-and-wide.
One of the keys to being a success in business is to find the opportunity in the disaster. Sipping my wine as I stared at my enormous Christmas tree, I mulled my next move. I could pull a Fletcher Christian, and exile myself forever on some tropical island. Or, leaning into the example of certain famous political figure, I could embrace my disgrace, and make it part of my brand, understanding that in this case the brand had been burned into my butt.
Fortunately, Rita had provided the solution a few hours before, when my cat Rockefeller had jumped on Skeeter’s lap. Skeeter had gently returned Rockefeller to the floor, explaining “That’s not the pussy I’m interested in,” while giving me his best cowboy leer.
“Yer’ not too old to turn over my knee,” Rita warned.
“I’m 21, mom,” Skeeter said, giving her an eyeroll to match his contemptuous rejection of her authority.
“Do disciplinary responsibilities also devolve to his loving Aunt?” I asked, ignoring Skeeter’s protest.
“If yer’ askin’ if ya’ kin tan his behind, I’d say yes.”
The next morning, when I presented Rosco and Rita with box tickets to see A Christmas Carol, she immediately picked up on what I was planning without having to be told. Rosco, clueless, didn’t understand why he was being “dragged off to some stupid play,” but knew better than to argue with his wife.
When my female posse arrived, all looking sexy-as-hell in their short party dresses, Skeeter’s tongue hit the floor. Soon the wine was flowing freely, with a delighted Skeeter holding court as the sole rooster in the henhouse.
My friend Lori, a lawyer who had more money than she could count, broke the ice. “So Anne tells me you’re now a full time auctioneer, Skeeter. Congratulations.”
“Well, I owe it all to my Anna Annie,” he said. “She is the hottest, wettest, skankiest slave pussy in all of Texas, and maybe all of the world, so auctioning her made me look really good. Did you see her photos?”
Smiling, Skeeter reached into an end table and extracted a copy of MISS SANDY FOOT, which he had stashed there. He tried to pass it around, but none of my friends would take it. Instead, they simply looked at him, smiling.
“That’s not a very respectful way to talk about your Aunt,” Veronica noted.
“You know, Anne, he is quite rude. Perhaps you should punish him,” Taylor agreed.
“Yes, I think punishment is definitely required,” Jennifer chimed in.
I rang a little silver bell, and Trixie, giggling in her little French maid’s outfit, brought in a silver tray. Having endured quite a bit of harassment as part of Skeeter’s campaign to humiliate me, she was all smiles and giggles when she lifted the food warmer to reveal an old-fashioned wooden hairbrush.
Taking the hairbrush, I tapped it against my palm meaningfully. “Skeeter, please stand in front of me, and put your hands on your head,” I said calmly.
“Why?” he said, although I think he knew why.
“Because I’m going to pull down your pants and underwear, and spank your naughty little bottom.”
Can you believe Skeeter actually tried to make a break for it? Lara, who is a champion kickboxer, had no problem putting his ass on the floor, and with ten women holding him, it was hardly necessary for Trixie to use the taser on him when we ziplocked his wrists and ankles, although she did it anyway. I zipped the cuffs tight, using the same brand of zip Rita had used that fateful night when she had led me into the bowels of The Big D.
Taylor was all smiles as she undid Skeeter’s belt buckle and unzipped his jeans. “Nice doodle bug”, she said, smiling as she tapped the custom-made, gold-plated belt buckle with his signature doodle bug emblem etched into it, which I had given him for his birthday. “Let’s see if your other doodle bug is as big.”
Skeeter tried to hop back as his pants went down to his ankles, but Lara jerked him up by the throat in her powerful grip. He chocked and went limp, reminding me of how I had choked when Rita had run me naked through The Big D tied to a gold cart, with a noose around my neck.
“Look like someone has a tentpole in their shorts,” Angelina said.
“Yeah, ever since the 5 of us walked into the room,” Lori noted. “Like he’d have a chance with any of us.”
“Please, Anna-Annie,” Skeeter whimpered, clearly cowed by the overwhelming force of girl power. “Don’t take down my pants. Spank me over my shorts!”
“You didn’t mind pulling your pants down when you put it in my mouth,” I reminded him. “Or when you tried to? impregnate me like a sow, and hung me up by my heels, like a side of beef.”
“Did he really?” Veronica said. “You know, down at my veterinary practice, we have procedures for dealing with males that are too aggressive.”
“Do you?” I said. “You’ll have to tell me more. But first, let’s get our naughty little boy’s underpants out of the way, shall we?”
Skeeter blushed the most delightful shade of red as the grinning Taylor skinned his underpants down to his ankles.
Taylor took the head between her fingers, examining it critically as my posse moved in for a closer look.
“I thought it would be bigger,” Lori said.
“Yes, a bit of a disappointment,” Angelina said. “I thought it would be bigger, based on what you said, Anne.”
“It felt bigger inside me, when he fucked me in the branding rack, like I was sheep.”
“Naughty boy,” Veronica said. “As a professional veterinarian, I think we’re looking at a stallion that might be better off as a gelding.”
There was much laughter at this. Skeeter was breathing hard and fast, unable to speak, as Taylor twisted the tip of her nob in her fingers. He was utterly helpless, turned on and terrified, and I was glad to see him finally understand what it meant to be a slave.
“Let’s start by getting those tight little buns of his all warmed up.”
“Yeah, put his buns in the oven,” Lori said.
“Toast ‘em good,” Jennifer added.
Taylor, leading him by his erect pecker, guided him over my knee. He gasped as I squeezed my thighs together, and he felt my bare skin imprison his shaft between my legs.
“Trixie,” I said. “Could you put some paper underneath his little gun? I don’t want to stain the Macassar Ebony floor if my little puppy has an accident.”
I had asked Trixie to have a copy of the Tribune handy, but instead she tore up one of the copies of MISS SANDY FOOT, arranging it so that Skeeter would blow his load directly onto my picture in the event of an embarrassing “accident.”
“Not feeling so smart now, are we young man?” I said, rubbing the hairbrush in slow circles around his tight, taught bottom. “Do you still think I’m your slave girl?”
“No, Ma’am,” Skeeter gasped. “Yer’ my Anna-Annie. Yer’ in charge.”
“Damn right. And why am I in charge?” I teased, as I tapped his bottom in preparation for the first stroke.
“Because yer’ smarter, and richer, than anybody I know,” he said, still hoping for a reprieve.
“That’s right,” I said. “Get ready. Now I’m going to show you what happens to naughty little boys who disrespect their aunts.”
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!
Remembering the way he had laughed as he whipped my ass on the block, can you blame me for tanning his bottom? I didn’t even have to scold him, as my laughing posse took turns tormenting him.
“Bad, bad boy!”
“Misbehave, and aunty spank!”
“Oh, I think he’s going to cry!”
“Oh, yes, those are definitely tears.”
“Don’t be ashamed, little Skeeter. Little boys always cry when they get their botties smacked.”
“Especially when the girls are watching!”
Skeeter, overwhelmed, pleaded for mercy. “Please, Anna Annie. I’ll be good.”
“PWEEZE, I’ll be GOOD!” Veronica said, mimicking him.
“They always promise to be good, when you’re spanking their butts.”
“Look at the snot dribbling out his nose.”
“Doesn’t look snooty anymore, just snotty.”
“Yeah, just a snot nosed little brat, getting his butt warmed by mommy.”
“Geez, he sure is squirming!”
“No dignity at all.”
Surgically removing every last bit of my cocky nephew’s dignity was my goal, and I didn’t mind that he was squirming, as the latter only assisted the former. I was very carefully flexing my thighs on each stroke, milking his shaft. I had arranged the spanking so that I could see the look of anguish on his face in the full-length mirror we were facing, as well as watch the head of his pecker twitch helplessly as it pointed down at the smiling picture of me squirting naked on the auction block.
At last, the inevitable happened.
“He’s blowing his load! He’s blowing his load right on your picture!”
“Yikes, he got it on your face.”
“He’s got it everywhere.”
“Yes, very disrespectful.”
“Wow! What a gusher!”
“No control at all.”
“Maybe you should do something about this, Dr. Veronica.”
My tone was firm as I rubbed his hot, red bottom with my hand. “Now that I have your full attention, Skeeter, without an erection to distract you, we’ll finish up this round with a little reminder of what happens when you disrespect your Anna-Annie.”
Parting his butt cheeks, I ran the back of the wooden brush down the inner skin. “You know, I still feel the logo of the Big D whenever I clench, or whip myself. The skin here is exquisitely sensitive, as you are about to find out, young man.”
Skeeter howled – and his audience laughed, as I spanked him between his butt cheeks, until he was sobbing like a baby.
When at last I finished, I rolled him off my lap. Grabbing him by the back of the neck, I rubbed his nose into the spluge he had blown across my picture. “Bad boy!” I said, scolding him like a puppy. “Making a mess on the floor. Dr. Veronica has a cure for willful males like you.”
Skeeter didn’t resist as I spanked his little butt into position for a little corner time. Lara made him bend and hold her engagement ring against the wall with his nose, an awkward position that left his butt cheeks spread, and his ball sack dangling between his legs, much to the amusement of my posse, who enjoyed their wine and conversation as Skeeter struggled to remain in position.
For the next 30 minutes, the party continued on, with my friends and I joking about cute valets we flirted with at our various clubs and how much money our investments had earned that year and where the best tax shelters were. Busy as we were, we did make a little time to talk about the naughty little boy in the corner, and the “little problem” between his legs.
“You know I have my vet bag out in the car,” Veronica said. “I can send Trixie out to get it, and she’ll be back in a tick.”
“I thought a procedure like that would require a surgical ward, and anesthesia, and all that other stuff,” Taylor said.
“Naw, we can just do it in the kitchen,” Veronica said. “We didn’t make a big production out of it when I did this down on the farm in medical school. It’s pretty quick, really. Snip, snip! Christmas time, when people are getting new pets, I’ll do a dozen dogs a day.”
“Thirteen today,” Taylor giggled.
Gelding was a common enough procedure for male slaves, and I knew that Skeeter had familiarized himself with it during his slave-ag classes in college. Nonetheless, as we all laughed, Skeeter shook so bad I thought he’d fall over. Like all Christmas gifts, it was better to give than to receive.

[Hagenherz]

Super geschriebener Any Chance Auktion.
Könnte mir vorstellen, das es eine weitere Revanche (durch diese Rachegefühlen gegen Ritas Sohn),
von Rita gegen Annie laufen könnte und Annie von Rita noch demütigender in die Sklaverei gebracht wird.

[jeepster]

Seems it's time for Skeeter to get control of his slave again!

[Mr. Smith]

Looks like Skeeter lost his man card. Anne and her friends shredded it and burned the pieces until all that was left was ash. Next thing you know that veterinarian will be pegging the poor boy as he gets to know his new mistress as he learns to like it. Yikes. Didn't see that coming.

[Belinda]

Wow what a turn of events for Skeeter. Those beautiful successful women have no sense of humor for disrespectful behavior. Joe you are the best at developing nuances to your plot. Just fabulous. Another wonderful piece of work dear.

[lovethissite]

Good bridge chapter Joe.