4th of July Slave Parade, Part Five by Joe Doe

[imreadonly2]

My apologies. I had hoped to be done by Friday, but I let the story grow, and now I hope to finish it by next weekend. I hope you enjoy the added detail, and the story. Joe

Much to my surprise, I slept like a baby. No tossing, no turning, no 3 a.m. doom spiral. Just nine uninterrupted hours, right into the pillow. I actually slept better than I did on days when I had court appearances. When I finally blinked awake, sunlight was already spilling across the duvet, and the clock on the nightstand said 8:02. Late, by my standards.

Walter was gone, but the kitchen had his quiet signature: a glass bowl of freshly diced fruit, a neat little handwritten note tucked beside it.

J —
You’re going to be magnificent. Just smile and be beautiful. You have this, girl.
Love,
W

There was something in the simplicity of it that made me smile. No teasing, no last-minute lectures about optics or it will all be over soon. Just support. Quiet and solid.

I padded into the exercise room and rolled out my mat in front of the mirrored wall. It was time for Slave Yoga. I always started with the same sequence—sun salutations, a few standing poses, a long stretch into downward dog, only with my legs spread wide, to show the bidders what they wanted to see.

I caught myself on the mental speedbump of “what the bidders wanted to see.” These were all block poses. But Walter wasn’t going to sell me. I wasn’t going to have to stand on the beautiful old Victorian Gazebo, and bend, and stretch, and jill myself off while the community college AV kids gave the town a closeup of my hot, wet snatch on the Jumbotron. This was all just a game; yoga poses I had done for years. Walter wouldn’t really sell me, would he?

The air was still cool from the night, and the room smelled faintly of eucalyptus from the spray I use on the mat. Somewhere between warrior two and triangle pose and my slave squats, I forgot about the parade.

It all just... slipped away. The case law, the clients, the money, the stress. It all vanished.

My breath fell into rhythm. My spine stretched. My joints loosened. And with every movement, I felt something strange and rare: peace. I felt good. Not in control—free. No worries, no pressure, no obligations. I felt my pussy begin to moisten as I went into a squat, and began to rub myself to orgasm. Was there a crowd watching me, cheering me on? It didn’t matter.

It didn’t take long. My orgasm washed over me in waves, causing me to shudder. I squirted out onto my mat, shameless in my release. I was an animal, raw, sexual, unbound. In slavery, I was free.

I caught my reflection in the mirror, I paused. I had shaken like I was in an earthquake, but like a good slave girl, I had held my pose, and kept my legs spread wide. If I did end up on the auction block, the buyers would get a good look at my juicy gash. They would know what the slave pussy they were buying was capable of.

Now, I looked calm. Grounded. The Julia James who negotiated eight-figure settlements with one hand and made soufflés with the other was gone. This Julia had a single focus. Pleasure.

And you know what? I was going to look fabulous.

Let them laugh. It was my moment, not theirs. I’d raised more money for that shelter than anyone thought possible. I’d become the unofficial finale of the Fourth of July Parade, hotter and louder than the fireworks. And somehow, absurd as it was—I was ready.
Let Millie cackle in her giggling glory. Let my son’s friends take the pictures that they’d jerk off to forever. Let the whole town line the streets. This was my parade. By owning nothing, I owned all of them.

After yoga, I stood in front of the mirror, towel around my neck, and just… admired myself. From every angle.

Damn, I was hot! Long limbs, lean muscle, posture like a ballet mistress and not an ounce of give in the shoulders. Being a corporate lawyer had its stressors, but stress had always sharpened me. I thrived under pressure—frankly, I think it sculpted me.

And now I was about to put all of this on display. Every inch. I knew every woman in town, even the college coeds, would be eating their hearts out, hating me as I walked down the street. Because I was hotter than any of them could be. I was SLAVE HOT.

I imagined those poor men, with their boners, wanting to fuck me, wanting to buy me. I would relish the desperation in their eyes, and the anger their wives heaped on them as their helpless longing for my naked body earned them a summer on the couch. Take your pictures, and jerk off in the bathroom, because that’s as close as you will ever get to me.

I wasn’t dreading the attention anymore. Quite the opposite. They wanted to look? Let them look. Watch me strut, and weep, losers.
I turned and stared over my shoulder into the mirror. My ass was perfect: round, tight, and firm. I had occasionally toyed with the idea of getting a slave brand. The prestige auction houses or slave trainers had “hallmarks” that they used to mark the girls, like the sort of symbols you put on silverware. You could get a tattoo, because those hurt less, but tats didn’t have the same bragging rights. They offered tattoos that looked like brands, but even the good ones were regarded as cheats. After all, the hallmark was the mark of quality of a real slave girl, and nothing less than a fire heated brand, applied without anesthesia, would give a girl that sense of transformation, and that all important psychological mark of ownership.

If I did get a brand, it wouldn’t be an advertisement for the sleaze merchants that sold me. I might get a Prime or Prime+ brand someday, but even the fancy auction houses that sold Van Goghs as well as slaves were flesh peddlers, in my opinion. Ernie Tick, Slave Marts General Manager, was the worst, a creepy old franchisee running the Taco Bell of Slavery. Old, bald, fat, and with glasses on the end of his nose, I felt like she wanted to take a shower every time I saw him, and was always happy to take him to court when necessary. I had fought against Slave Mart getting a license, and although I had lost that battle Ernie as part of the compromise a disgruntled Ernie now had to pay 20% of his gross revenue to a township program that included a shelter for homeless and abused women.

I stared into my closet, wondering what I should wear. It was hot out, and for the run to the parade staging area, I picked something that felt natural. Sports bra, matte-black spandex shorts, sneakers, my favorite running hat and mirrored sunglasses. It was what I wore when I trained for marathons—practical, breathable, nothing to fuss with.

No phone. No earbuds. No wrist wallet with my ID and a tucked-away credit card. I wouldn’t need to buy anything today. Slave girls had no identity. Their identity was assigned. Besides, everyone already knew who I was. Millie and The Town Crier had made sure of that.
When I stepped outside, the sunlight was warm and clean, and the street was still quiet—too quiet, maybe. That’s when I saw it: the black-and-white cruiser parked just at the end of our block, engine humming softly.
I paused for a heartbeat.

The officer inside didn’t wave, didn’t move. But I could feel his gaze on me.

Curious. Why wasn’t he at the parade route already? Shouldn’t the whole force be managing traffic, floats, wine swigging teens?
I shook it off and started jogging. Easy pace. Focused steps. Past the cruiser, down the gentle slope of Sycamore Street, toward the school parking lot where the parade marshals always gathered.

But I could hear it behind me. That low, slow roll of tires on pavement. Not close—he wasn’t harassing me. But always there. Always keeping me in sight.

And then it clicked.

They sent someone to make sure I showed up.

The thought made me laugh, short and sharp. No one trusted Julia James not to wriggle out of a promise. It was subtle surveillance, but it was real. He wasn’t following a route—he was following me. And you know what? That was fine. Let them tail me like I was an escaping fugitive from dignity.

I wasn’t backing out. Not now. Not after all the donations, the promises, the news coverage. Not after Walter’s sweet note, or that strange peace I’d found on the mat that morning.

I would be there. Fully. Publicly. Slave naked, for one and all to see.

I hit my stride halfway down the block, sneakers bouncing softly on the pavement, heart finding its rhythm. It should have felt like any other run, but it didn’t. Not today.

I was running past mansions, but not real ones. These were the kind of houses that didn’t understand what they were trying to be. Torn-down originals replaced by swollen monuments to wealth without wisdom—McMansions, every one of them. Oversized, overdesigned, all screaming for attention and saying absolutely nothing.

It was almost comedic how bad they were. Asymmetrical facades. Gables for no reason. Fake stone veneers and triple-wide garages with carriage-style doors that had never been within ten miles of an actual carriage. Little turrets, even—turrets, like someone thought they were building a castle in suburban Connecticut.

They had spent millions—millions—to make themselves look ridiculous. And the worst part? They didn’t even know.
I did. I’d taken one architecture class in college. Just one. But it had been enough to teach me the difference between grandeur and grotesque. When it came time to build my own home, I didn’t go for flair—I went for form.

A true Palladian. Symmetrical. Balanced. A perfectly scaled portico with a Greek colonnade that didn’t overreach. Every line, every shadow, every detail meant something. My house didn’t try too hard. It didn’t have to.
It’s was a wonderful kind of loneliness, being the only person on your block who understands that a window should align vertically with the one above it. But I enjoyed the joke.

As I passed each house, I felt that familiar flicker of contempt. These were people who’d won the lottery, with rich parents, or tech jobs or healthcare jobs they got because they were at the right place at the right time, and now thought they were better than everyone else. Their wealth was loud. Eager. Childish. The kind that needed granite countertops and twenty-foot lawyer-foyers to feel real. The kind that tried to buy elegance and landed on embarrassment.

But today… today I was running past more than just bad architecture. I was running past them. All of them. Past the world we’d shared: the polite charity functions, the status games, the double-cheek kisses and faux grins. The perfectly manicured illusion. And I was running toward something else. Something messy. Public. Humbling. REAL.

They would be on the sidewalks later, in their lawn chairs and ugly linen sundresses, laughing at the spectacle. Laughing at me. Hooting at me. But that night, the men would be thinking of me as they fucked their wives. Every single one of them. They would all want me. And the women would know it, and hate me, knowing that they didn’t have the guts to do what I was about to do. Not in a million years.
As I crested the hill and the school came into view, the parking lot was already bustling. Floats half-decorated. The marching band milling about. A giant papier-mâché bald eagle with wonky eyes. Balloons bobbing in the breeze.

The parking lot was already humming with motion—nearly-assembled floats, costumed clowns, people tossing last-minute glitter onto poster board. It all smelled like sunscreen, duct tape, and excitement.

I jogged up to the check-in desk, breath even, sunglasses still on, hat pulled low. The teenager behind the folding table was wearing a red, white, and blue scrunchie, and had a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other, stroking her chin like she was doing calculus instead of alphabetical check-in. I recognized her instantly as the girl from Starbucks. The one who wrote my name and a smiley face on my Cinnamon Dolce Latte every day, and looked disappointed when I didn’t tip her for delivering me overpriced coffee.

I looked over my shoulder. Now that I was being “registered” the squad car turned and was driving away. The inventory for today’s auction had been delivered. Their Amazon delivery truck job was done, and they could return to real police work.
“Name?” asked the teenage girl with a clipboard and a red-white-and-blue scrunchie.

My disguise had worked. Being polite, I took off my hat and glasses before I answered. “My name is Jul—"
Too late, her eyes lit up like I was Taylor Swift. “Oh my gosh, it’s Julia James!”

Across the lot, heads swiveled. The band’s trombone player actually gasped—gasped—and then shamelessly raised her phone to snap a photo.

I stood there in my running gear, suddenly the center of a solar system I never intended to orbit.
Miss Starbucks turned and shouted, “She’s here! Julia James is here! She’s really doing it!”

People clapped. Others waved. A few just stared, mouths slightly open, like they weren’t sure if I was real or a myth come to life. Several people I knew from zoning board meetings and charity auctions gave me that strange, delighted expression reserved for when someone respectable does something not at all respectable.

I smiled tightly. “Well, no turning back now,” I thought.

And then, like a stage cue, came the unmistakable click of low heels on pavement and the shrill, overbright voice I’d been expecting since I woke up.

“Julia!”

Millie.

She hustled toward me like she was auditioning for a commercial, all pastel cardigan and civic enthusiasm. Her face was pink with joy and triumph.

“I was so afraid you’d chicken out,” she beamed, brushing imaginary dust from my shoulder. “But here you are! Right on time!”
I raised an eyebrow. “Was that what the police escort was about? Making sure I didn’t make a break for it?”

She laughed—a little too loudly. “Oh, heavens, no! That was just Officer Griggs. We were just making sure you got here safe and sound! It would’ve been tragic if you’d gotten lost on the way.”

Her eyes twinkled, all innocence with just the faintest edge of something else. I knew that edge. Bitch.

“Mm-hmm,” I said, voice dry. “Well, I appreciate you’ll be looking out for me today.”

“Every step of the way,” she gushed, linking her arm through mine with alarming cheerfulness. “Let’s get you over to the coffle. The parade starts in a few minutes, and we don’t want folks to miss out on seeing the star attraction, do we?”

I looked back and noticed Miss Starbucks grinning like a vengeful peasant pleased to see one of the aristocrats who had lorded it over her being led to la guillotine.

I let myself be led. I could feel eyes following us, phones snapping more photos. It was a parade, after all, and Millie was right -- I was the star attraction.

And Millie? She was practically glowing with purpose, like this moment was her grand finale.

"Julia," she cooed, "I have to tell you everyone is so anxious to see you! I've gotten so many calls. The crowd is absolutely massive!"

I clenched my teeth and nodded. I knew there would be a large crowd, as apparently everyone in town wanted to see me run down Main Street naked, but Millie was obviously enjoying this way too much.

"You know," she said sweetly, "I never knew you had such a... generous spirit. To offer to do this for the animals! Of course, a lot of them will be in the parade. You'll be just like them, now, totally naked, and up for sale."

"Walter said he wasn't going to sell me," I said, reminding her of my husband's promise.

"You never know," she teased. "Once he sees you naked and in chains, and hears what people are willing to pay for you, all bets are off. You won't be the first pretty young thing who went in for a grading or a little roleplay, and ended up on the auction block. Happens all the time."

Her words sent a chill down my spine, and my stomach knotted at the thought of Walter selling me. I had to believe he wouldn't do it, that he had my best interests at heart. But here I was, about to march with the other slave girls, and there was always that chance. Millie was right, my fate was uncertain.

Millie led me over to the Slave Mart trailer, and I couldn't help but notice their stupid logo, a blatant reminder I was now in the custody of the Wallmart of slavery. The box truck was open, revealing the cramped space where the girls had been held. The smell of fear and anxiety was palpable, mingling with the scent of sweat slave girl arousal.

As we approached, the whispering grew louder, and the naked girls stole glances at me, their expressions a mix of curiosity and wariness. I knew most of the slave girls would have no idea who I was, except if they knew me from before they were enslaved. It wasn't like slave girls got to read the newspapers.

"Welcome, Miss James," a gruff man in a leather apron said, holding a clipboard. His eyes raked over me, and I felt his gaze like the cool appraiser of female flesh that he was. He introduced himself to Millie as the auctioneer, Mr. Vito Castellanos, a man who made a fine living buying and selling people like cattle. Millie remembered him; they had talked on the phone, but this was their first chance to meet in person. He was polite to her, but he had a cruel smile, one that told me he knew his trade.

I looked at the slave girls. There were about 20 of them, all in shackles, all slave naked. They all had numbers on their chests in red magic marker. The Mayor’s niece was number 7, Jennifer, the girl whom I had enslaved in court a couple of weeks before, was number 14, and glared daggers at me. Mr. Castellanos called them by those numbers, not their names, reducing them to inventory items.

The girls were all wearing slave collars and shackles around their wrists and ankles. They were not restrained, as they did not need to be. Where was a naked, collared slave girl going to run in the middle of a crowded parking lot?

Mr. Castellanos looked over his clipboard and barked at me, "You're 23. Strip!"

"23 is your auction number, dear," Millie gushed, clapping her hands as she squealed in delight. "They're saving you for the end. Isn't that special?"

Mr. Castellanos was not smiling. I knew I had to get naked, quickly, but the thought of stripping off right here in the parking lot in front of Millie and whomever else was watching made my stomach tighten into a not. Millie watched with eager anticipation, her eyes gleaming with spiteful satisfaction.

With trembling hands, I surrendered my $400 athletic shoes, then my shorts, trying to keep my gaze from the other girls as I revealed my own bare flesh to them. The cool air brushed against my skin as the fabric slipped away, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. The crop top followed, and I was left standing in nothing but my bra and panties, feeling more naked than I ever had before. The sound of my own breathing was loud in my ears, the only thing that seemed to cut through the silence of the moment.

Millie, grinning, took my clothes and stuffed them into a large bag with the number 23 written on the side in red magic marker. The miserable little mouse of a clerk had come prepared.

"Now, the bra and panties," Mr. Castellanos ordered, his voice gruff and commanding.

"That's right, #23," Millie said brightly, holding the bag open for me. "Everything off. Slave naked, sweetie! Don’t be shy!"

I felt a hot flash of anger, but knew better than to argue with her. Slowly, with trembling hands, I reached behind and unclipped my bra, my breasts bouncing slightly from the sudden release. I stepped out of my panties, and handed them to the grinning clerk.

The auctioneer, Mr. Castellanos, took a long look at me, his gaze lingering on my naked body. "Very nice," he said, his voice filled with a greedy hunger that made me want to cringe. "You'll fetch a good price. Now, kneel and present."

I felt a surge of indignity and anger, but I knew better than to argue. With a deep breath, I dropped to my knees, spreading my legs apart and placing my hands behind my head. The pavement pressed against my knees, and I could feel the eyes of the surrounding people on me. Millie stepped forward, her own eyes gleaming with malicious pleasure as she took in the sight of me in the classic degrading, slave girl position.

"Look at you," she said with a wide smile, her voice dripping with false praise. "You've done such a good job shaving. It's a real treat for the crowd to see you so bare and wet."

I blushed furiously, feeling the heat spread from my cheeks to the rest of my body as she stepped closer. Her eyes were cold and calculating as she fingered the gusset of my discarded panties. She held them up, giggling as she showed the damp fabric to the gawkers who had gathered around. They murmured appreciatively, and I felt the humiliation wash over me.

My son's friend Willie, who had taken the pictures of me at the beach in my bikini, took the panties and gave them a whiff. He whistled, and passed the panties to my son's other friends, who shared the scent of my slave girl arousal as I blushed red.

"You really are a natural," Millie said, her voice trilling with excitement. "Look at the way you present yourself, so obediently. I can't wait to see the bids roll in for you at the auction!"

I didn't object. Slave girls don't speak unless they are asked a direct question. I was so busy staring forward, willing myself not to break down, that I didn't notice the anvil in front of me until Mr. Castellanos stepped up with an iron collar in his hands. The metal was cold and unyielding against my skin as he slipped it around my neck. Mr. Castellanos was no stranger to sizing girls for their collars, and mine was a perfect fit. The sound of the hammer striking the anvil echoed through the parking lot, and my head jerked as the rivet was flattened into place, sealing the collar onto me. The weight of it was a stark reminder of my new status.

How long I would remain in this collar, and whether it would ever come off was up to Walter. But he was nowhere to be seen.

Mr. Castellanos stepped behind me, his hands surprisingly gentle as he took my ankle placed it on the anvil, and slipped on the iron cuff with a well-practiced motion. BANG! With a single blow the rivet flattened, and the shackle was fixed into place. I was terrified and humiliated, but I knew better than to flinch. He was a professional, and he knew how to handle his merchandise without causing any damage.

"Good girl," he murmured, and I felt his hot breath against my neck as he worked. The second ankle only took a few seconds, as I was already in position. BANG! It was done.

He then proceeded to shackle my wrists, one at a time, placing my hand on the cold anvil, and again, BANG! The sound was deafening, and I felt the sharp sting of the metal as the shackles closed around my skin. He was quick, efficient, and precise in his movements. It was clear he had done this countless times before. The feeling of the shackles, tight and unforgiving, made it real, and my heart raced even as my pussy dripped.

Mr. Castellanos, finished with me, shoved me into the mass of naked slave girls, who scattered a bit as I slammed into them. Millie, her voice oozing mock sympathy, said. "Poor little Julia. You look so sad, naked and shackled with the other slave girls. But don't worry, the parade will start in a few minutes, and then you'll be able to show off your hot wet pussy to the entire town. Won't that be nice?"

[timerider]

Great chapter, Joe

[JustBob]

Good chapter. I would love to see you turn the table, have Millie end up a slave and sold in front of the town.

[Jim927]

Another great chapter, Joe. This story may be taking longer than you wanted, but it is worth it. Keep up the great work.

Jim

[jeepster]

Great chapter! Can't wait for the parade!

[lovethissite]

Joe: I agree great chapter. The new slave 23 knows what to expect it seems, including branding. I hope she is put up for auction before the entire town sold and branded. She will probably bring in enough money to keep the animal shelter going for several years, that is if her husband donates the sale price. Thank you.

[lovethissite]

Joe: I agree great chapter. The new slave 23 knows what to expect it seems, including branding. I hope she is put up for auction before the entire town sold and branded. She will probably bring in enough money to keep the animal shelter going for several years, that is if her husband donates the sale price. Thank you.

[AnObserver]

>> My apologies. I had hoped to be done by Friday, but I let the story grow, and now I hope to finish it by next weekend. I hope you enjoy the added detail, and the story. Joe <<

Not a problem - we're all looking forward to the next chapter(s)!

I agree that it would be an interesting role reversal to have Millie auctioned off at the end of the parade; she is just a bit too eager. Could she be trying too hard because she is envious?

[lovethissite]

Joe: This gets better with each paragraph. I love 23's embrace of slavery at lease in her mind no responsibilities no decisions to make. I hope she is put up for auction and purchased by a group of men she has sued, or put out business, and she is used totally in front of the entire town, and of course publicly branded afterward.

[Belinda]

Dearest Joe,

I hope you realize I consider all your work a cherished gift. You are so appreciated.

Warmest regards,
Belinda

[CyberNomad]

Another Joe Doe Classic! I can't wait to read what happens next.

[Mr. Smith]

It all just... slipped away. The case law, the clients, the money, the stress. It all vanished.

My breath fell into rhythm. My spine stretched. My joints loosened. And with every movement, I felt something strange and rare: peace. I felt good. Not in control—free. No worries, no pressure, no obligations. I felt my pussy begin to moisten as I went into a squat, and began to rub myself to orgasm. Was there a crowd watching me, cheering me on? It didn’t matter.

It didn’t take long. My orgasm washed over me in waves, causing me to shudder. I squirted out onto my mat, shameless in my release. I was an animal, raw, sexual, unbound. In slavery, I was free.

I love the slavery is freedom theme, freedom to do all those nasty and kinky sex acts that society frowns upon good girls performing. The freedom of a pleasure slut comes with the loss of control, now they can enjoy public sex, getting spanked, anal sex, multiple partners, .... , without being frowned upon because participation was not a choice they made. Taking away their freedom gives them a different type of freedom to behave as wanton sluts because that is what is now expected of them. I just loved the way Joe conveys this theme.

I understand a story getting away from you. The Christmas Coed was intended to be a standalone chapter. With three published, I have drafts with about 45-50 pages, and I haven't gotten Belinda to the Smithg Shop yet. Often, the unforeseen additions are what make these stories so much better. I just got back from a three week trip and started working on it again. I have notes about additions that I do not remember what I intended to insert.

[Mr. Smith]

My daughter Annabelle had spent the night at one of her friend's house to allow me to prepare myself for the big event. She and Walter agreed they needed to give me space to get ready. She left a note on the refrigerator for me to read this morning under the picture of the two of us on her sixteenth birthday last year.

Dear Mom,

I’m so proud of you for raising all that money for the animal shelter renovation. It takes real courage to get slave naked and participate in the big 4th of July parade today. Everyone in town will be there cheering you on. Remember, you’re doing it for all those pussycats in the shelter.

My friends on the cheer team, April, Amber, Carli, Savannah and I all agreed that we’d follow in your footsteps next summer when we are all eighteen. As you know we all regularly volunteer at the SPCA’s Cat and Kitten Adoptions on Saturdays in front of the PetsMart store finding good homes for those cute kittens and older pussycats. This cause is so near and dear to our hearts.

Amber’s mom Candi said she’d do it next year once she gets herself in slave naked shape. She’s only in bikini shape now. Did you know that she was a Sandy Foot Girl when she was eighteen and has the brand to prove it? She even showed it to us.

Now, the other moms are throwing jealous hissy fits because they don’t have the bodies to wear bikinis, instead only wearing one pieces in public. I think each of them threw a grand into the pot to help you out. Carli’s dad donated another grand after seeing the pictures that Millie posted online. He said you were hotter than a two-dollar pistol and he had to see you slave naked while hoping to get a chance to pet your pussy. I just love how supportive all my best friend's parents have been!

Candi promised to take all of us to the Big D Slave Market for our college financial aid slave gradings right after high school graduation. This will give time for our Bid D brands to heal for the big 4th of July parade. Just imagine how much money we’ll raise for the animal shelter next year! Candi thinks we should all auction ourselves off as Summer Sluts for the rest of the summer to raise money for college. Candi thinks all young women should experience slavery to better value our freedom. She also said that slavery is freedom to experience all those nasty kinky things that good girls don’t do but are so much fun.

Love,
Bella

PS Mom, I’m still a good girl.

[imreadonly2]

My Dearest Bella,

Words fail me as I attempt to describe how proud I am of you, and the beautiful, kind, and thoughtful young woman that you have become. As you mother, my pride in you knows no limits, nor does my love.

I don't think there is any better way to build your sympathy or bond with animals than become a slave. As slave girls we will be stripped naked, collared, numbered, graded, and yes, perhaps even sold. We will be muzzled, and fed the same food as the animals at the pet store, and know the feeling of looking up at smiling Master or Mistress holding our leash, and wondering what they will do with us. Will we be punished, or branded, or sold? It is not up to us, it is up to THEM.

It's one thing to feel sorry for the animals in the shelter, and it's another to actually be strapped down with your bottom in the air, watching as the blacksmith heats your iron. They say the psychology of branding turns some girls into slaves forever, as they can never again think of themselves as anything but livestock. Many acquire an aversion to meat, and a preference for slave kibble. While I dread the thought of being branded, I must admit there would be a certain justice to it, given all the horses we've branded, and all the hamburger we have both enjoyed over the years.

Amber's mom has shown us her brand on several occasions, as she is very proud of it. While The Big D does have a national reputation, I hope you'll at least consider something a bit closer to home. I know you've enjoyed the parties we've attended at Bob Downing's house, but did you know that he is actually descended from one of the original owners of Downing & Hughes, one of the largest slave traders in Lexington? As you might have guessed from all the beautiful "living statues" or slave girls in the garden during the party, Bob has resumed the family business, and has turned a tidy profit on it. Bob & I became good friends when we were in the legislature together, and he knew how to drive a tough bargain, and squeeze a dime out of every nickel. After a few drinks last year he said he'd love to get my "sweet blue-grass ass up on the grading table."

His firm runs the auction's in Tandy Centennial Park, and he is hoping to return it to its original name of "Cheapside Park" to honor its history as a slave trading center." He joked about me "filling up Cheapside" for my auction, and said I'd "won his heart" when I was in the legislature. I should explain the brand they use isn't as famous as The Big D's, but for the tippy-top Prime's they put a little heart at the end of the beautiful cursive "D", and is simply adorable, and quite the status symbol among the Kentucky elites. Amber's mom only went to The Big D when she found out she didn't qualify for a heart.

Bob is pretty brutal with his merchandise, but I guess that's part of the business. I read that someone never knows what it it means to be an animal until they've spent all night chewing at the steel padlock of a Downing & Huges cage, desperate for escape. I thought this was silly, as I know I'm too smart to try and chew through a padlock. As my own feelings of dread and helplessness mount, I'm not so sure. I think going "slave stupid" is another word for letting go, and letting your rational mind let go, so you can experience the ecstasy and animalistic release only a slave girl can know.

Another advantage of Cheapside is that it's quite a bit closer than Dallas, and your Dad and I can drop you off. Doesn't that sound better than spending days being driven down to Dallas, naked and caged with dozens of other girls, peeing in your cage, rationing your water, wondering when you arrive?

Bob always takes the time to do the proper training before the sale, and knowing Bob he'll get top dollar for you. Your father actually asked Bob about pricing, and Bob whispered some numbers in his ear, and your father whistled. The secrecy of your father's little joke really annoyed me at the time, but Bob laughed and said "slave girls shouldn't be thinking about money". Of course, Bob's right, but it still annoyed me, even as it excited me a little. I know your father's question may have seemed mean, but to someone like Bob it's all about the money. Naked and collared, squatting on the block, you wouldn't be my darling daughter anymore, but livestock. Slave markets are brutal, and you'll be hot, wet, slave pussy, and both your father and I hope that you bring a block price that will make us proud.

Yes, I know you're talking about the summer program, but as the parents of a beautiful young women like you, we will undoubtably be given a sweetheart offer at the end of the summer to allow your slavery to continue. Your father and I have already discussed this, and we've both agreed that depending on your take to the collar, we will make the decision then, and let you live your best life. Your father jokingly talks about it as his "fresh start" option, as your sale price will pay for your brother's tuition, while eliminating all costs associated with educating you. He even jokes that we should get graded together over the summer, so he can sell us a pair, and give him the option of starting over without the expense of a divorce! If Carli's dad thought I was hot, I'm sure he'd make a shoot his hot pistol in his pants when he saw us performing together.

I know your father is kidding, but I must admit the idea of being displayed next to you fills me with pride, and I'd welcome the chance to be there with you on every step of your journey. Remember, it won't be all fun and games, and you find out who your real friends were when you are naked and squatting in front of them. Everyone -- and I mean EVERYONE -- will see you as slave meat, but the level of sadism in how they treat you will let you know where you stood with them. You'll find out which girls were your friends, and which girls were jealous bitches, and which boys cared about you and who just wanted to fuck you. It is amazing how fast the tables turn when you are collared. If you find even one friend, you will be blessed.

Also, remember that sometimes summer programs can last longer than expected. If you decide to extend it into a gap year, as many do, there is always a chance that your Master will breed you with several slave studs, and you will spend your year as a slave girl doing menial labor as you fatten up like the little cow you will be. At the termination of your contract, you will face the agonizing decision of leaving your baby or accepting the collar forever. I know you will make the right choice.

No matter what some stupid slave markets says you're worth, please know that you will always be priceless to me. I have so much more to say, but it is off to the parade. Wish me luck, and don't let your father sell me, ha-ha!

Your loving Mommy

[RegressedNegress]

Umm ... Wow ... Whew ...

Part 5 and the 4th of July Slave Parade story as a whole were really good. But I feel compelled to confess that I'm way too much of a mess right now to express whatever further, more substantive comments I'd intended to make when I finished Part 5.

Reading the daughter-mother letter exchange of July16 (Mr. Smith) and July 20 (Joe Doe) turned my mind to mush.

[imreadonly2]

Ha! Thank you for inspiring me to finish up part 6!