“What’s this shit?” Mr. Castellanos said, clearly annoyed.
“Don’t look at me,” the driver said. “Orders from upstairs. When they saw the crowds they decided to throw some more pussy into the hopper. Don’t worry, they’re already shackled. All you have to do is link them up. They’ve even been oiled.”
The girls did indeed look quite shiny, as if they had just run a marathon. Actually, it was less sweat than moisture, a sort of glow that was quite attractive. I felt oddly jealous. Why had they been oiled up, and we’d been neglected? Especially in this sun, some sort of skin protection seemed essential.
My desire for proper SPF protection was short lived as I looked down my coffee line and saw a young man wearing Slave Mart coveralls reach down into an enormous 5-gallon tub of suntan cream and scoop out two handfuls, which he began to enthusiastically rub into the shoulders, tits, stomach, pussy, and legs of the naked slave girl 3 down from me in the coffle. He was efficient, and thorough, and rubbed the cream in vigorously. He made a good job of it, but I could tell he was enjoying it, both from the smile on his face and the tent like protrusion that pulled his coveralls away from his body.
With the cap and coveralls and the overall perversion of the task he was performing, it took me a moment to place the face. I knew him from somewhere, but I know so many people and it was clear that the context was missing for this young man. It wasn’t until I noticed how young he look that the synapses fired and I rapidly made the connection. Dated Bella. Jack’s friend on the baseball and basketball team. Brian Batz.
I had know Brian since James was in little league. I had taken him out for ice cream countless times, fed him dinner at my house, and chaperoned him on school trips. He was tall, athletic, and good looking, with an easy smile.
I had helped Brian get his Law merit badge, his Citizenship in the Community Merit badge, and his Citizenship in the Nation Merit badge. I had made him and James clean the basement when one of their science experiments blew up in our basement. I had bought popcorn from him.
Although my son James wasn’t on the swim team, I had gone to show my support with the other mom’s when Brian and the other boys made the state finals, cheering them on. I remember how the mom’s joked that it must have been a female gym teacher who selected their speedos, and how the boys had blushed when my friend Amber, Brian’s mom, threatened to “pull down their trunks and spank their little buns” if they didn’t win. I had rather enjoyed seeing Brian and the other 18 year old boys perform for us, and the fact that they found it embarrassing to have to run around in front of us in their little suits made it all the more enjoyable.
Now I was watching him oil up a girl a few feet from me, slopping the grease on her like she was a pig in the barnyard. I wasn’t surprised to see the tent in his pants, because I knew from watching him stand in front of me dripping wet, he was well endowed.
In truth, I hadn’t been that wild when he dated my daughter, Bella, as his nickname was “hump-and-dump”, but both James and I had made it clear there was to be none of that with Bella. Nonetheless, I was relieved when Bella dumped him, explaining it with the cryptic comment that ‘Brian will be better off with a girl more eager to please.”
“This is bullshit,” Vito Castellanos said. “I don’t even have the disposition sheet on the girls I have here. I have no idea who is supposed to be sold, shipped back, branded or sold, or branded or shipped back.”
“They need the numbers before they can give you that?”
“The numbers I just wrote on their tits?” Vito said. “They should have gotten numbers back at Slave Smart.”
“Some of them did, but they’re grouping everyone here as the parade lot, and then you’re assigning individual numbers, and then they’ll put those in the computers and they’ll make the assignments, and they’ll send it back to you.”
“When is this magic supposed to happen?” Mr. Castellanos said.
“Now, I think," the driver said sheepishly.
"This is a fuck show," Mr. Castellanos said, clearly disgusted. "Okay, I''ll get the new girls linked, and here's the magic marker. You can put the numbers on their tits. The last number was 26, I think, but double check before you start with 27, so you don't double number."
Mr. Castellanos handed the driver the thick red sharpie. After locating the last number, the driver approached the first new girl. She had the look of a deer-in-the-headlights, and I couldn’t blame her. She had probably been pulled out of her normal life just a couple of days ago, and was now being told to march naked down Main Street to the auction block. Well, join the club, sister.
The driver took her by the arm, and she flinched at his touch. He gently the wrote 27 on her left breast in bold, red ink.
Standing there, numbered, naked, and chained, I felt a cold knot form in my stomach. This was really happening. The auction block and branding iron weren’t just abstract concepts anymore; they were my new reality.
They were clearly disorganized. All community parades are a bit improvisational, but at the end of this parade an auction block and branding iron were waiting for me. I wasn't supposed to be sold, or branded, but it didn't feel great to hear that the instructions were in the mail.
The driver looked over the new arrivals, trying to keep his smile from turning into a leer, and failing. “Okay, you’re 28, 29, 30...” he said, scribbling on their bare skin. The girls squirmed, and I could see the fear in their eyes. It was clear that this was a new experience for them, and not one they had signed up for. The only comfort was that we were all in the same boat, or rather, the same slave coffle, as Mr. Castellnos quickly hooked me to them.
The nakedness was a constant source of humiliation The slave collar was tight and rubbed against my throat, the metal cuffs around my ankles and wrists were cold and unforgiving, and the chain jingled and jerked with every movement. But what was truly humiliating was the way the men talked about us. They discussed us like we were misplaced packages that needed a quick resort and proper routing.
I shifted from foot to foot, nervously wondering if the clerk at the Slave Mart office would process #23 properly, and realized she wasn’t destined for the brand and block. She would be hurried, and he was right this was a fuck show, and mixing in all these new girls and doing these manual processes quickly with so many people involved only made things riskier.
The clamor of the parade grew louder, and the smell of grilling meat and sugary treats from the nearby street fair filled the air, a stark contrast to the fear and trepidation in the holding area. Each jingle of the chains was a reminder of the reality of my situation, and the anticipation of what was to come sent a shiver down my spine. Would the clerk at Slave Mart realize I was different? That I was a volunteer, not meant for the same fate as the others?
My thoughts were abruptly interrupted as Brian's deep voice instructed the trembling girl beside me to hold still. I couldn't help but watch as he plunged his hands into the pail of suntan cream, the thick, white substance disappearing into the depths of his palms before he brought them back out, dripping with the sticky, viscous fluid. He slopped it onto her shoulders, and she jumped a little. Then he he began to spread the lotion over her exposed skin. She was young, probably not much older than Brian and James, and her eyes were wide with a mix of terror and confusion as he coated her in the protective sheen.
"Let's get those titties of yours all nice and greasy," Brian said with a leer that was eerily at odds with the polite, respectful young man I knew him to be. He massaged the cream into her breasts, his thumbs circling around her erect nipples. She squirmed, trying to shrink away from his touch, but the chain connecting her to the rest of us held firm. He chuckled at her discomfort, his eyes locked onto her chest as he worked the lotion in, his own erection straining against his coveralls.
With a wicked smirk, he spread the cream down over her quivering belly, the cruel twist of his lips making it clear that he was savoring her humiliation. His fingers danced lower, reaching the apex of her thighs, and she let out a whimper as he slid them into the slick folds of her pussy. She tried to clench her legs together, but he roughly kicked her feet apart.
"Hold still, little piggy," he jeered, his voice thick with malicious glee as he coated her inner thighs and the sensitive skin of her vulva. She trembled, her face a mask of horror and arousal.
Spinning her around with surprising strength, he began to slap the greasy lotion onto her back, smearing it in broad, degrading strokes that made her skin shine. "Squeal if you need more," he said, his eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure. Except for her whimpers, the girl remained silent, the only sound the sickening smack of his palms on her flesh.
Despite knowing him for years, I realized that there was a side to Brian that I had never seen before - a side that reveled in the humiliation and powerlessness of others, especially women. Unfortunately for me, I was learning it when I was helpless, naked, chained, and utterly at his mercy.
Finishing with the girl, he moved the gigantic pale in front of me. I winced as he reached in and dumped his hands into the white goo, retrieving an enormous gob to spread on my naked body. Smiling, he took a moment to look me up and down, clearly enjoying my helplessness and humiliation.
"Hello, Mrs. James," he said, smirking as he ogled my naked body. "Nice day for a parade, isn't it?"
My heart hammered in my chest as he approached me, the greasy lotion coating his hands. "Brian, please," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. "You know me. You know my son. Please, don't do this to me."
"Sorry, you're not in charge anymore.” The cool cream hit my skin, sending goose bumps across my flesh despite the heat of the sun. “You're just another piggy to be greased."
Brian's hands were firm as they slid the lotion over my body, his eyes roving over me as if he had never seen a naked woman before. I felt his gaze linger on my breasts, and the heat in my cheeks had nothing to do with the sun above us. He was enjoying this far too much.
"Let's get those jugs all nice and oily," he snickered. "I want them to glisten for everyone as they bounce in the sunshine."
I felt his sticky hands sliding over my breasts, and a wave of helplessness washed over me. The coldness of the cream was a shock, but it was his leer that truly sickened me. The same boy I had watched grow into a man, who had spent countless hours at my dinner table, was now treating me like a piece of meat. His touch was rough, his movements deliberate. He knew what he was doing to me, and he reveled in it.
"Ohh, you look so sad!" he mocked. "Our little legal eagle lost all her feathers. It's more like the Thanksgiving Day parade, because I'm thankful for this. And you're the turkey, good enough to eat."
Brian’s hands, those same hands that I had put a bandaid on, or held when we crossed street, that had held the baseball bat as he hit a home run I cheered, , those hands began to spread the thick white goo down my tummy.. It was cold at first, but soon warmed up as it blended with my sweat, smoothing it into my skin. I tried to hold my head up high, to not give him the satisfaction of seeing me squirm, but it was hard when his fingers got closer to my pussy.
"All the guys are teasing James that you are doing this because you're slave hot," he snickered. "I bet your oozing buckets of slave honey, aren't you slut?"
I jerked against my chains, helpless, as Brian used the curve of my ass cheek to clean his finger before reaching in to check my pussy for slave heat.
“Looks like your'e all wet and juicy,” he said, and I felt his digit press against my slit. He slid it down to my clit, and I realized I was hopelessly wet, probably from the excitement of the parade, and the exposure, and the supreme degradation of it all. I knew I was excited, but until Brian felt me up I didn’t realize that I was, if not slave hot, then certainly close enough to be regarded as such. Why was my body responding to Brian’s hand? The pleasure and pressure was surprising and I felt myself clench around his finger as he began to rub. I had to bite my lip to keep from groaning in pleasure.
"Please, Brian, don't," I begged. I couldn’t help but push back against him, my hips moving of their own accord as his knuckles pushed against my clit. The humiliation of having him do this to me was unbearable. I was a lawyer, a mother, a wife, and here I was, being felt up by this snot nosed teenager in front of everyone, helpless to resist.
"You should call me Master," he reminded me. "Unless you want me to whip your ass," he added with a smirk. As i danced on his finger, I didn't know what I wanted.
My mind swirled. I thought of Brian as a friend, or perhaps more accurately, a child under my parental authority. How could it be that I was jilling myself off in the High School parking lot like some horny teenager grateful to have a boyfriend?
I had known for the last week that Millie was evil, but I had thought Brian was a good boy, the sort of boy who might rescue me, or at least feel sorry for me. Instead, he was calling me ‘slave hot’ and laughing as I humped his hand.
Brian pulled his finger out as I groaned in disappointment. "Sorry we don't have more time, slut, but we need to parade your ass to the Gazebo, while the iron is hot!" He laughed, but my butt cheeks clenched at the threatening joke.
As he finished greasing my ass, back, and legs, Brian offered me some free advice. "You're slave hot, so use that. Don't fight it. Enjoy it. You'll have a better chance avoiding the whip if you play along, and the best way to play along is method acting. Become the juicy, fuckable slave girl everyone wants to buy."
And then Brian was onto the next girl. Frustrated, I tried to rub my thighs together, hoping for relief. None came.
The head slave monger rode in on a horse. He was about what you'd expect -- 35, with rough hands and a no nonsense attitude. he was dressed as a colonial officer, in red white, and blue. He had slave prods and collars attached to his saddle, but my eyes were drawn to the long slave whip he held in his hand.
The irony was not lost on me. Slave mongers of today loved to point out that America was founded with slavery, and claimed that slavery was the cornerstone of our liberty. I was to be marched naked through the street in chains as part of a celebration of our nation's commitment to freedom and individual liberty.
As the the coffle chain was checked for a final time, I spotted the High School Principal, Mr. Jenkins, standing next to the wrestling coach, Mr. Thompson. I had known both of them for years. Mr. Jenkins had shaken my hand proudly when I was valedictorian, and Mr. Thompson had been a mentor to James throughout his school years. Now, they both stared at me with unabashed lust, their eyes devouring my shiny, naked body without a hint of shame.
The man on the horseback, the head monger, rode back and forth, his eyes scanning our shivering forms. He cracked the whip in the air, the sharp sound making me flinch. "You're going to give them a show, bitches!" he barked. "Jog the whole way, keep those tits and asses bouncing! When the parade stops, so they can play music or the dog can dance or whatever else shit happens, you jog in place. Give 'em their money's worth."
I couldn't believe this was happening. I was a successful lawyer, a wife, a mother, and now I was being ordered around like some kind of...some kind of...
The whip cracked again, jolting me out of my thoughts. The head monger's voice boomed over the parking lot, echoing off the concrete. "Jog! Keep those tits bouncing, I said! This ain't no leisurely stroll, you're on your way to the block. Show 'em what yer' worth."
The long line of girls in the coffle began to jog in place, our shackles jingling in unison, and my cheeks burned with humiliation. My breasts bobbed up and down as I moved, and the smirks from the men around me grew bolder. The blonde beside me, her eyes wide with fear, stumbled slightly, and she fell into me, her naked skin brushing together. She was trembling, and I could feel her heart racing through her chest.
"Knees up, you clumsy bitches!" the slave monger yelled, cracking the whip inches over my head.
"We're having a sale today, LADIES, right after the parade," the slave mongers said. "We're doing it right in that fancy guh-zee-bot in the park! So step lively, because you're on your way to the block.”
I had helped get that gazebo approved. I had sat in countless meetings with the town council, discussing the permits and the donations and the community benefits. It was supposed to be a place for concerts and weddings and town meetings. But now it had been transformed into an auction block.
Thanks to me, the gazebo was beautiful, functional, and elegant. Craftsman style, with rustic beams and a shingled roof that looked like it had been there for a hundred years, even though it was only five. The sides were open, fenced varnished wood that glinted in the sun, and there were seven steps leading up to the platform. It was high enough that everyone would get a good view of my naked body, displayed for the town to see.
The parade started moving, and with it, so did we. The shackles bit into my skin as we left the shade and moved through the parking lot. The crowd grew larger and louder, their cheers and whistles mixing with the sound of the marching band and the sirens of the fire trucks as we marched onto Washington Street.. I kept my eyes forward, trying not to look at anyone I knew, but it was impossible not to feel their eyes on me. The banners and flags fluttered above our heads, a stark contrast to the cold metal at my neck and wrists.
Washington Street, named after our first President. Marching me naked down the street had to be right, since Washington had slaves, right?
The head slave monger on the horse barked another order, his voice slicing through the cacophony of the parade. "Smile, bitches! This is your big day, remember?" His grin was wide and cruel, and the way he wielded his whip made it clear that disobedience was not an option.
Fearful of the whip, I forced my lips into a smile that felt more like a grimace, and as I did, I could feel the eyes of the town on me. There was Mr. Patel, who always had a cheery "hello" when I picked up my dry cleaning. There were the two young men who mowed our lawn every week, their eyes wide and hungry as they took in my naked form. And there, oh God, there were the tellers from the bank, the ones who had always called me M’am with such respect, their smiles now filled with a knowing leer as they watched me jog in my shackles.
My face burned with humiliation, but my body seemed to have a mind of its own. The jingling of the chains, the roughness of the special mat they had laid down against my bare feet, the smell of hot dogs and cotton candy... it all melded into a strange symphony that had me rubbing my thighs together to the rhythm of "Yankee Doodle Dandy." The music felt like a mockery of my dignity, but it also seemed to give me some semblance of control, a beat to march to, a way to keep going despite the raw, overpowering sexual humiliation of it all.
As we marched down Washington, knees raised high, the crowd grew denser, and my heart raced faster. The line of naked girls in front of me was a sea of jiggling flesh, each one's buttocks bobbing up and down with every step. I tried to focus on the brands some of them had, the intricate patterns that marked them as property. Surprisingly, the brands didn't repulse me. In fact, they had a certain allure, a primitive beauty that seemed to enhance their appeal. The way the sun glinted off the freshly oiled skin, the stark contrast of the raised brands on their buttocks, the way it made their flesh look so...ownable.
The Slave Mart logo was burned into the flesh of some of the girls, and as I watched it sway with every stride they took, I found myself feeling a strange sense of arousal. In the past, I had always thought it was obvious and stupid looking. It was a simple design, a stylized SM with a bar connecting them, but the way it stood out on their skin, a permanent declaration of their submission, was undeniably erotic. I realized that the logo was not just a mark of ownership but a declaration of status, a brand that transformed them from mere naked humans into something...more. It was a symbol that transcended the tawdry reality of their situation, turning them into living, breathing works of art.
The proud arch of their backs, the way their buttocks rippled as they moved, the stark contrast between the smooth, oiled skin and the raised, darkened flesh of the brands – it all combined into a mesmerizing spectacle that had me questioning my own feelings. These girls were more than just numbers on a sheet, no matter what the slave mongers thought. They were now walking, breathing embodiments of desire and power. Their brands were not just a cruel reminder of their fate but a declaration of their allure.
Some of the brands were intricate, with swirls and flourishes that spoke of pride and ownership. Others were stark and simple, a clear, unmistakable claim of dominance. Yet, regardless of their design, they all shared the same purpose: to label these females as property, to be used and enjoyed by their masters. And as we marched through the crowded streets, I realized the worst brand was better than no brand at all.
It was strange, but I found myself wishing I had a brand, too. Maybe it was the thrill of the forbidden, the excitement of being part of something so taboo, or perhaps it was the undeniable power of submission that resonated within me.
The thought of being claimed, permanently marked as someone's property, made me feel desired, wanted. I had always prided myself on being a strong, independent woman, but here, in the middle of the street, chained and oiled up for the town's pleasure, I couldn't help but feel a pang of envy for the branded girls. At least they had a clear place in the world, a role to fill. They were someone's treasure, to be displayed and used as the master saw fit.
My eyes wandered to the backside of the brunette in front of me. She had a particularly intricate brand, an interlocking set of initials that looked more like a work of art than a symbol of slavery. The way the sun kissed the darkened skin, the way the muscles in her thighs and buttocks flexed with every step – she was a vision of subjugation and beauty that was impossible to ignore. I found myself biting my lip, wondering what that brand might look like on my fuller, more rounded bottom. I knew I would wear it better!
The concept of "brand bitterness" floated through my mind. I had read about it, but had dismissed it as a myth. Brand Bitterness was the envy and resentment that unbranded or less ornately branded slaves felt towards those who bore the marks of their masters with pride. As much as I didn't want to admit it, I felt a pang of something akin to it. As the crowd hooted at me, my mind swam in a mixture of lust and confusion. How could I be experiencing slave girl emotions when I wasn't even a slave girl?
)
