Any Chance Auction - Chapter 8, by Joe Doe

[imreadonly2]

Leaving the counter, Trixie walked over to Rita, iPad in hand. "I got this heifer’s branding scheduled at noon, sharp!” Trixie said. “But I gotta couple of questions for ya', and some paperwork for ya’ to sign."

"Shoot!" Rita said cheerfully.

"Uhh... do you want to do it at the counter? I mean, more PRIVATE like?" she said indicating me with a dog-like cock of her head.

"Pshaw!" Rita said. "She's a big snoopy-snoop, always sniffin' around, always askin' about The Big D. Wants to know how things work ‘round here. No reason she shouldn't hear all the juicy details!"

"She's juicy all right!" Juan, the BBQ boy, agreed.

"So what ya' got for me on your gizmo there," Rita said, pointing to Trixie's Ipad.

"No big deal. Just a couple of questions 'bout her butt brandin'."

“No big deal?” I thought. At the mention of my butt branding, a wave of panic washed over me, as I felt my butt cheeks involuntarily clench. Rita, seeing my reaction, shot me a stern look. She moved the coiled whip in her hand up-and-down, indicating that I needed to keep greasing the pole. I redoubled my efforts, returning to the task at hand with gusto, much to the pleasure of the growing crowd of spectators.

"You can see the sections she's been painting are a little darker," one man said to his wife.

"Yes, I agree," she said. "I like the color. She did a really good job."

"Oh...my...GAWD!" one of the Valley Girls said. "She is like… SLAVE HUMPING that dirty old pole."

"She is SO skanky!" her friend agreed.

"Sewer pussy!" Valley Girl said.

The old guys were discussing whether they could pool their funds and buy me for their VFW Post, as a sort of mascot. I rubbed on.

Satisfied with the enthusiasm of my pole painting, Rita turned back to Trixie. "Shoot!" she said brightly.

"Right or left?" Trixie asked.

"Right or left what?" Rita asked.

"Right or left butt cheek," Trixie said.

"I dunno. Right?" Rita said, looking at my ass wiggling in the huge mirror above my head.

“A lot of masters are right-handed, and they like to fondle the girl's brand when they fuck her," Trixie replied.

"Yer so smart! Left cheek it is!" Rita said.

Listening to their cheerful chatter, my mouth went dry, and my heart began to pound. As I struggled to breathe, I heard a strange voice in my head.

Tomorrow you’re going to be branded. It’s your own fault. You were a snoopy-snoop, pestering Rosco with questions, asking him what brandings were like, and how it felt. Like he would know!”

Rita’s right. Snoopy-snoop slave girl’s who want to know what it’s like to be branded have to find out for themselves. Tomorrow they’ll strap you down tight, with your ass raised sky high. You’ll explain that Rita isn’t really going to brand you, that you are just there to get the branding head, so Skeeter can brand his boots, and leather bags, and camping gear. The blacksmith will say nothing, but smile, as he runs his hand gently over your ass.

I knew I shouldn’t listen to the voice, but the truth was, it was a welcome distraction from the random conversations going on all around me, and the banality of Trixie’s computerized checklist. The voice urged me on, making my pussy hotter. I pressed harder against the yellow bollard, rubbing faster, picturing the scene.

You’ll wait for Rita’s call. The call that will rescue you from the branding iron. You’ll wait. And wait. And wait some more.

When the phone finally rings, you’ll jerk against the straps, but they will hold you fast. After several rings, the blacksmith will stop working, and answer the phone. He and Rita will chat.

You’ll sweat bullets as you listen to them politely prattle about the little things: Christmas presents, holiday decorations, the weather. When the subject of branding comes up, he’ll turn his back on you. Did Rita tell him you were a snoopy-snoop? Struggling against your bonds, you’ll strain to hear.

Rita does most of the talking. There are long pauses between his answers, giving you plenty of time to imagine what your sister is saying about you.

‘I see… Of course. Yes, she’s in the branding rack right now. No, I’m afraid the disc is much too large, and has far too many lines, for a temporary brand. I can try, but… Yes, she’s slave naked, with her bottom in the air. That’s right. Ha-ha! Yes, rearing-and-ready-to-go!

I agree, she does have a very sexy bottom. No. I haven’t shown it to her yet. I see. Yes, I agree, it turned out very nicely. I’m glad you liked it, but the picture I sent doesn’t really do it justice. It’s really quite lovely… My best work. I’m quite proud of it, actually. Yes, I’ll make sure she gets a good look at it, first. Well, it doesn’t really matter what she thinks, does it? It’s your decision. I see… I see… Of course. Yes. I understand perfectly. It’s lovely to talk to you again, as well. Have a good one.”

He puts down the phone. You look up at him, hoping to see the answer in his eyes. The blacksmith is an older man, large, muscular, and powerful. He looks down at you in a fatherly way. He smiles as he brushes the hair out of your eyes.

Reaching into his pocket he takes out a small box. He holds it in front of your face and slowly lifts the lid, enjoying the suspense as he reveals his prize.

Removing the lid, he uncovers the treasure: A large, round, golden disc, with Skeeter’s childish mosquito drawing, rendered magnificently in delicate, etched relief.

“It’s BEAUTIFUL!” you say. “Is it gold?”

“Bronze,” he says. “But it looks like gold doesn’t it? Bronze will last forever… and make the perfect burn.”

Your cheeks clench and unclench in panic as the blacksmith smiles down at you. He runs his finger over the branding head, showing you the finer points of the craftsmanship, the artistry, the elegance of Skeeters innocent, childish design. You admire the disc’s simple beauty, even as it’s possible – and still unclear – purpose, makes it difficult for you to breathe.

“Strapping me down in the branding rack is procedure,” you tell yourself. “I’m on the schedule, so he wanted to be ready, just in case. He’s going to release me any minute, and Rita will come, and I’ll get dressed, and we’ll all have lunch together. It will be my treat. Yes, we’ll have a great laugh at my being put in the branding rack. As if such a thing could actually happen.”

You breathe in short bursts as he holds the branding head up to your face, inches from your nose. “When rendered by a craftsman, even a child’s simple drawing can become a work of art,” he explains. “All it needs now is the perfect frame”.

You shudder as he moves behind you, and lightly draws his fingers over your naked left cheek. “A perfect, beautiful frame,” he repeats softly, teasing the skin as he lightly strokes your naked, squirming bottom.

Your breath is coming in little gasps now, like you’re breathing through a straw. In your mind’s eyes you see Skeeter’s original drawing hanging in your mansion in Chicago. It had been a grand joke, when you put the childish painting between the Picasso and the Monet, and mounted it in an antique 16th century Italian frame, with beautiful gold inlaid detail work.

You remember Rita, glaring at you as you slapped yourself on the bottom as you leaned against Skeeter, joking about how perfect his little “doodle bug” would look, etched into your sexy ass.

The frame you bought for Skeeter’s drawing in Chicago had cost you $75,000. One wrong word from your sister, and the “frame” for the golden disc will cost you much, much more.

“You know what the little disc is for, don’t you, Anne?” the blacksmith asks.

You shake your head, pretending not to know. He smiles indulgently. You know he is toying with you, playing with you, having his fun as he makes you sweat it out.

“But you WANT to know, don’t you?” he asks, prompting you again.

Pouting, you shake your head.

He looks down at you. The rivulets of sweat are running down your forehead, and you are chewing your lip as you struggle to breathe. Enjoying your panic, he presses on.

“I think you DO want to know,” he says. “Your sister says you’re a Nosey Parker.”

He places his large finger on the end of your nose, wiggling it back and forth. “Are you a Nosey Parker, Annie?” he asks archly, in the voice of a parent talking to a naughty child.

You nod.

“I want to hear you say it.”

Your voice cracks as you repeat the words. “I…I’m a… a nos—I’m a Nosey Parker.”

“Good girl,” he says. “Now are you a little snoopy-snoop, always sticking your cute little nose in where it doesn’t belong, asking about the slave girl brandings?”

You nod. “Say it,” he says, again wiggling your nose for emphasis. “Say, ‘I’m a little snoopy-snoop, sticking my little nose in where it doesn’t belong, asking about the slave girl brandings.”

Gasping, stuttering, you repeat the humiliating phrase, telling the smiling blacksmith you’re a snoopy-snoop. It’s a long phrase, and it takes you several tries to get all the words right: snoopy-snoop, sticking your little nose in, asking about the slave girl brandings. He is patient with you, playfully wiggling your nose as he corrects you.

You tell yourself this can’t be happening. Yes, you pestered Rosco, endlessly asking him about brandings. You wanted to know what it was like, how much it hurt, and how having the brands made the girls “feel.” Rita warned you, time-and-again, not to be a snoopy-snoop, or a nosey parker. But surely, this was all just a game.

The blacksmith holds the beautiful golden disc up in front of your face. You stare at it, awed by its beauty, size, and power.

“Do you know what this is, Annie?” he asks.

“Rita got it. It’s a Christmas gift for Skeeter,” you say, not wanting to admit what you know, lest you make it real. “It’s for branding his boots.”

“No, Annie. Rita did get it. But it’s a Christmas gift for you.”

Your eyes go wide as he picks up the leather branding bit, chewed and well worn.

He shakes it out, and you close your eyes as the spittle from the other girls who used the bit flies off. Holding the well-chewed leather in front of your face, he smiles.

“Your sister also says, you can be a bit of a chatty-Kathy.”

You stare at the bit in disbelief. No. No. This can’t be happening.

“Open your mouth, Anne,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.

“You can make it into a pendent!” you yell. “I’ll wear it all the time! I’ll show everyone how beautiful it is!”

The blacksmith silences you by putting the bit between your teeth. He pulls back hard, forcing your face into a ridiculous smile. “Yes, Anne,” he says, pulling your gums back further as he yanks the laces tight. “That’s exactly what your sister Rita said. She wants you to wear it all the time. And you’ll show everyone how beautiful it is.”

You watch helplessly, nostrils flaring, drool running out of your mouth, as he screws the copper head onto the branding stick. He does it slowly, smiling at you, enjoying each turn of the screw.

He lifts up the completed branding iron, admiring it. Then he walks to the fireplace, and opens the lid on the brazier. Smiling, he steps to the side, letting you see the contents of the fire pit.

Your eyes widen like saucers as the hot coals come into view. The coals are red, and orange, but mostly white. The air around the coals seems to writhe, distorted from the intense heat.

“Oh my, this IS hot,” he says, chuckling as he stirs the flaming hot coals with the branding head. “This will do quite nicely. But let’s give it a little air. That will make it hotter still.”

You watch him turn over the coals, building the heat, expertly tending the fire. Satisfied, he buries the branding head deep under the smoldering coals. Turning to you, he smiles.

“I need to get it as hot as possible, to get the cleanest, and most beautiful burn. I hope you don’t mine waiting. Good cooking takes time.”

He walks behind you, smiling as he ogles your naked behind. “You have a lovely bottom, Anne,” he says, cupping and massaging the target cheek. “But it will be even prettier when I put Skeeter’s brand on it. Skeeter’s drawing is too big for a temporary, so we’ll have to do a permanent. A small price to pay, for art.”

In front of you, you watch the branding iron heat, the stick moving slightly from the force of the convection. The branding iron seems to be alive. Behind you, the blacksmith speaks softly as he slowly fondles your ass.

“Skeeter drew an adorable little doodle bug, Anne. He deserves to have it admired. And soon, you’ll give it the perfect frame. You know, I think little boys would enjoy doodling in art class more, if they knew their drawings were going to end up branded on big girl’s sexy bottoms.”

You look over your shoulder. In your imagination you don’t see the blacksmith, but Skeeter, clutching his adorable little drawing.

Skeeter puts his drawing down, and walks over to the brazier. He pulls the branding iron out of the hot coals slowly, being careful to shield himself from the intense heat. With calm deliberation, he brings the hot iron over for your inspection, smiling at you as he holds it up in front of your bulging, panicked eyes.

The surface of the branding head is so hot that you can feel the heat rushing over your face. The intense temperature cooks the air around the iron, creating a heat mirage. Skeeter’s little doodle bug breathes in-and-out, wiggling its antenna and legs.

Skeeter blows on the tip, and the bug turns from white to blue to red to orange and then back again. Skeeter smiles at you, playfully blowing on the tip a second time, so you can both enjoy the lovely color show together. Skeeter hadn’t liked it when you had told him is drawing was “cute”, and “precious”. Now, his “adorable” little bug was going to sting.

Skeeter returns the branding iron to the fire, burying the branding head under the white hot coals. You strain against your straps, trying desperately to escape. You notice that the buckle around your right wrist hasn’t been pulled all the way through the loop. If you can get your finger under the loop, you might be able to unbuckle your wrist, and escape

Skeeter returns, and watches impassively as you struggle to free yourself. After much anguish, you begin to make progress, and the strap begins to loosen. Yes. Yes! You are almost there!

Skeeter pulls the strap away from your finger, cutting off your escape. He pulls it all the way through the loop, pulling it taunt. He smiles, then walks around behind you.

Looking over your shoulder, you are forced to “smile” at Skeeter, your teeth showing, your gums pulled back, drool running down your chin. How silly slave girls look! Mocking you, Skeeter “smiles” back, flashing his teeth and distorting his face into a parody of your own forced rictus.

Skeeter turns his attention to your bottom, watching intently as your bottom cheeks clench-and-unclench to the music of the crackling fire. Skeeter smiles. Soon, his drawing will have the perfect frame.

[gary]

Intense, hanging on the edge of my seat

[Carl Bradford]

I always enjoy your suspenseful stories, but this interaction between sisters and imagination is even better than usual. Some of your other women have been not only arrogant but unbelievably stupid in teasing and defying the men who will eventually dominate them. This time, Anne seems to be smart enough to realize that she's in real trouble, so she is becoming much more respectful of the staff and aware of her defenselessness. Like Professor Sarah, though, one can't help hoping that she really does get branded, not to mention used sexually, to reinforce the lesson. Please, please, keep going!

[jeepster]

Wow! Waiting with a bated breath! Joe has done it again, another gem!

[Calico_Chimera]

I'm sooo happy that I came across this story. I'm almost glad that so many chapters had already been written so I didn't have to wait until now. This whole story has been so hot to read from the beginning until this point. I've been trying to take my time with it, to savor each chapter, but I still finished it too quickly because I didn't want to stop reading.

The idea of painting the pole is a concept that took me right to the edge my seat, literally. Just imagining being in that scene with the detail you described was intense. I love the branding buildup. I for one, really hope that her sister tells the blacksmith to brand her uppity ass for real. I love how Rita insisted on the large size brand. That would be hard to cover up in most swimsuits. Imagine what her friends back home would think if they saw that? I wonder how Skeeter would react? I imagine that he'd want to make her show it off to all of his friends. It seems like Rita is going to share all of this with him at some point. I think the only way that Rita could make that brand anymore humiliating would be to add some text to it, to more cement ownership or perhaps a slave nickname. I look forward to finding out what other humiliating plans Rita has in mind to take her sister down another peg or two.

Thanks for a great read! I'll be excitedly checking back for more.

[lovethissite]

Joe: I love Calico 's comments I too wanted a big brand and permanent. Anne deserves anything she gets and I hope you continue. Anne needs to be a permanent, naked, pleasure slave forever. Thank you again.

[reddbunnz]

Anne has an arrogant attitude, a good dose of ego, and a vivid imagination. All three have created the perfect storm for her current situation. I would like to see her experience completed without permanent slavery or a branded butt. But only if she learns the lessons of humility and to honor others feelings and rights.