Any Chance Auction, Part 17 by Joe Doe
Posted: Tue Nov 29, 2022 12:14 am
My humble thanks to Carl, for helping to move Annie's tale (tail?) to completion. 
Hillary, showing me no mercy, inserted the shovel-like handle of the iron that had just branded Skeeter’s doodle bug on my ass and began to move it around. The pain in my ass was indescribable, and I was only slowly regaining consciousness after being brought back to reality by having the horrible SLAVE OBEY stuck under my nose. Can I be blamed if I tried to ease the pain a bit by pushing back, and enjoying the sensation?
Jennifer, Steven, and the Blacksmith loosened the straps a bit, not as a mercy, but to make it easier for me to humiliate myself by fucking the handle of the branding iron that had burned Skeeter’s Doodle bug on my ass. Heedless of the show I was putting on, I gasped with pleasure and rode my branding iron, the blue cattle tag in my ear flopping against the side of my head.
An amused Hillary provided the play-by-play. “That’s it. Hump the iron. Hump the iron that’s just branded your ass. Show everyone what a little whore you really are. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for you. I want everyone to look at your big pussy up on the monitor, riding your branding iron, quivering and shaking like jelly at the thought of having your ass burned again.”
I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. It felt too good. Rubbing my pussy wasn’t a choice, or an action, it was part of who I was. Somehow, I knew it was I was meant to do.
“That’s it! All wet and sloppy, just like a real Pleasure Slut! Show everyone how much you LIKE it! You can’t wait for your next brand, can you slave girl? Well, don’t worry, because here it comes!”
I looked up at the monitor. To my horror, I saw that my gaping pussy was now grasping, sucking, and twisting around the handle like it was trying to eat the hook used to hang the iron on the wall. Hillary was cleverly (and cruelly) moving the stick down to tweak my clit, urging me on to shame myself, much to everyone’s delight.
My pussy was displayed on all of the monitors around The Bee & Brand, on screens large enough to make it look like a soggy walk-in closet. Behind me I could hear the restaurant patrons commenting as I pleasured myself on my branding stick.
“Look at her go. It’s like some slut vacuum cleaner.”
“This is why you need to keep Pleasure Sluts kenneled at night, Fred. They’ll hump anything that they can get their snatches against.”
“It’s disgusting,” a female voice observed. “I’m glad they branded that cockroach on her ass.”
“Yeah. Somebody should spray some Raid on her butt,” her friend agreed.
“Wow, I never thought that slave girls loved being branded so much.”
“Yeah, when they’re born to the collar, it’s built into their brains. It makes them feel owned and loved.”
My attention was draw away from my pussy toward the doodle bug that had just been burned into the center of my ass. It was just the oblong body and head, with the antenna and legs missing. The ridges were raised, and the skin burned black, with white ash around the edges. I could smell my burned flesh, mixed in with the slave stink of my sloppy wet pussy.
Suddenly I was in my penthouse in Chicago, enjoying my view of Lake Michigan as I sipped my $2,000 a bottle Chateau Lafite Rothschild. Looking at my nephew Skeeter, I traced the outline of the doodle bug he had branded into his backpack with the red painted toenail sticking out of my Gucci shoes.
Using my best coochie-coochy-coo voice, I teased, “If I were your slave girl, would you brand your little doodle bug on my round, bare, slave girl bottom?”
Skeeter, dumbstruck, looked at me. I smiled and made a sizzling sound as I touched my finger to the seat of my designer jeans.
“I dunno. Uh… I mean, only if you wanted me to, Anna Annie.”
“Oh, you bad boy! You naughty, naughty boy!” I said, running my bare toe up his leg. “Of course, I wouldn’t want you to. What sort of girl do you think I am, having that great big doodle bug branded on my butt? Do you think it would hurt?”
“Maybe, I guess,” he said. “Although in school they say slave girls don’t feel pain the way humans do.”
“Are you saying I’m not human?” I pouted.
“Not if you were a slave girl,” he said, trying to backtrack. “I mean, not legally. Legally, you’d be livestock… and after a while, not human in your head, either, I think.”
Taking another sip of my delicious red wine, I rose, and turned. “Of course, I do sort of wonder what it would look like,” I said, running my hand over the curve of my bottom, which were tightly encased in red leggings. “Maybe a teeny-tiny little brand?” I teased.
“No,” he said flatly, his eyes glued to my curvy backside. “You’d want it big enough for everyone to see the detail. Remember, a quality brand is a mark of ownership. A slave girl should take pride in her master’s mark, and be proud to show it to the world.”
I licked the wine off my lips as I stared over my shoulder at my bottom, wondering how the enormous brand Skeeter was imagining for me would look.
I didn’t need to wonder anymore. The brand was burned into my bottom, and the little doodle bug he had sketched in grade school now marked me as his possession, for one and all to see.
“Do we get to do the legs next?” Jennifer asked, her voice betraying her eagerness.
“No, sorry kids. I got a note on this one that we’re saving the legs for later. Apparently, the master blacksmith has been working on something special, and he wants to do the work himself.”
There was a general groan of disappointment as I was released from the branding rack. I tried to stand, crumpled to the floor. I tried to walk, but with the enormous brand on my ass, could not. Unceremoniously, I was thrown over the shoulder of a huge slave wrangler, my ass pointed skywards, and walked through the restaurant and out the door.
I was greeted with a light smattering of applause as I passed, although I knew the applause was for my brand, not me.
“Sweet brand.”
“Yeah, they do a nice job around here.”
“Can’t believe they do that for free.”
“Yeah, it’s a pretty good deal, considering the level of craftsmanship.”
“That’s why The Big D is the best.”
‘I can smell her burned ass.”
“I can smell her pussy.”
“What a slut!”
“I’m glad they branded her.”
“It shows them their place. I wish they could brand the little sluts every day.”
“That’s why they give ‘em temporaries, I think.”
“Nice brand, Moo-Moo.”
“Disgusting little piggy, isn’t she?”
I noticed the waitress, Veronica, was trussed up with her legs spread. Several of her fellow waiters were doing a bread serving, rubbing her wet pussy with the porous bread as she pushed back against their hands and moaned in pleasure. Her response was understandable, but I wondered if her father, seeing the video, might not decide to save himself her Ivy League tuition and sell her to The Big D.
Veronica was not my worry. Exhausted, physically and emotionally, I didn’t resist as they cuffed my hands to the wire wall of my slave cage to keep me from touching my brand. I was sleeping on straw, with a rough wool blanket as a sort of pillow. The cream they rubbed on my ass was cool, and eased the pain, if only a bit. Despite the searing throbbing in my bottom, I passed out, and fell into a coma-like sleep. I wasn’t afraid of nightmares, because I knew nothing could be worse than what I had just experienced.
I was sleeping so deeply I hadn’t even felt them remove my cuffs, and only awoke when a steel pole hooked my collar and dragged me out of my cage. The slave monger, holding my pole, kept my nose pressing against the cement floor, and the blue slave tag stapled through my ear with the SOLD sticker was lying flat on the floor next to my face. I recognized the garish boots in front of me immediately.
“Darned if you don’t smell like a pack of bitches in heat,” Rita said in her Texas twang. “Geez, you stink like a whorehouse on top a pig sty.”
“Probably should delouse her a’gin,” the wrangler said. “Sometimes them blankets git crotch crickets and nits in ‘em and stuff.”
Instinctively, I reached for my long hair, and began scratching. Lice? Could it be possible? The slave monger above me pressed down on the pole to press my nose into the cement.
“Her snatch is shaved,” Rita said. “Ayn’t no bugs in that rug.”
“Yeah, but they can still get crotch-roaches,” the wrangler said. “The only way to be sure is to scrub ‘em out before you take ‘em home.”
“Don’t worry, we will,” Rita said, her voice oozing with disgust.
“Rita? Are you going to… free me…” I said plaintively, my eyes staring at the toes of her boots.
“That’s not how you address a free woman, slave girl,” the slave monger said, pressing my face down harder into the cement.
She didn’t respond. “Um… Mistress?” I said, struggling to think of Rita in such a way.
“Well, lookee there,” she replied, her voice oozing sarcasm. “Looks like Skeeter’s whipped a little respect into little Miss Sassy Pants bottom,” she said, with a voice more satisfied than angry. “All nice and humble, now that ya’ got some nice red welts on yer’ butt.”
My bottom! Yes, Skeeter had whipped my ass off the auction block, a final, disgraceful humiliation in an arousing experience I shuddered to recall. What’s worse, I knew that she was looking right at the red stripes as I clenched my bottom cheeks and squirmed in humiliation.
Growing up together, Rita had always enjoyed reprimanding me and upbraiding me for my mistakes. It had been one of her great pleasures when I was a teenager, but it was a passion she hardly ever got to enjoy once I became mega successful, and acquired the power and attitude that only vast sums of money can buy.
Now, however, the worm had turned, and I was at Rita’s feet, literally. The fact that I had been so dismissive of my sister, and her entire Southern red state lifestyle, made my humiliation all the worse.
“Did you… see him… auction me?” I said, hoping desperately that she had not.
“Of course, I did, dumb-dumb. I’m his mama, and I wanted to make sure my boy did good. And he did MIGHTY fine. Truth is, I normally don’t enjoy watching livestock auctions, as it’s sort of loud and the whole place jist’ smells like pee. If ya’ wanna hear it plain, yer’ sale was no different than when this place sold pigs, except the piggies smelled better than you do right now! Though, I gotta say, little sister, ya’ really put on quite the show!”
Although she couldn’t see my face, I grimaced as my sister compared my auction to the sale of hogs. Flashing back, I recalled going with Skeeter to the Texas State Fair, which was just a few miles away from The Big D, at Fair Park in Dallas. Being Skeeter’s cool, hip Aunt, I went on all of the thrill rides with him, including The Cliff Hanger and The Beast and the ‘crazy’ rides Rita and Rosco wouldn’t go near.
I was wearing the midriff baring Big D T-shirt Skeeter had gotten me the previous Christmas, and when Skeeter insisted, we waited for the front log of The Texas Log Flume ride. I got SOAKED to the skin, with my thin T-shirt molding around my breasts and pink pokies like a thin layer of white body paint. Skeeter loved parading me up and down the Midway, holding hands, with everyone staring at my boobs, thinking I was his hot Yankee girlfriend. We even got a photo of me, Skeeter, and a guy dressed up as “Big Tex”, the fair mascot, with both Skeeter and Big Tex staring at my tits.
I spent $400 letting Skeeter win a $2 stuffed toy for me by trying to shoot baskets, and he insisted I do “the ladder” (me trying to crawl across a horizontal rope ladder without falling off) over-and-over. With my short-shorts and form fitting T-shirt, we drew quite a crowd of appreciative dads.
What a naughty boy he was!
My T-shirt had mostly dried out by the time we met up with Rita and Rosco, although Rita made me put on her jacket, “to be decent”. As a family, we went to the Big Tex Youth Livestock Auction, which was, as Rita said, noisy and stinky. One of Skeeter’s friends was in the show, and I remember clapping and cheering as he led his sow into the auction ring and paraded her around.
“Someday that’ll be you up at the podium, holding the gavel,” I said, whispering in Skeeter’s ear. “Only difference will be your piggies will have two feet instead of four, because they’ll be hot, naked slave girls.” It was so fun making Skeeter blush!
I had a lot of fun teasing Skeeter that day, although now I was the one who reeked of urine and sawdust and whatever critters had been on the scratchy wool blanket I’d slept on. The main source of my stench was my own slave stink, which embarrassed me even more than my collar, ear tag, or nakedness. I had felt so powerful and in control at the State Fair. I never dreamed Skeeter would actually sell me.
Or did I? I did enjoy making him blush as I asked him for all the juicy details of how he might make me pose, and what sort of price I’d get on the block. Now, Skeeter had become my auctioneer, and The Big D was my Texas State Fair. I was the branded sow, and Rita, towering over me, my all-powerful owner.
“Can’t say I exactly hated yer’ auction, seeing all the lip ya gave me. Gotta admit, it was quite a hoot, when he put on that tape of ya’ being all smug and lecturin’ everybody about feminism, all the while you’re paddlin’ yer little pink canoe for everbody-and-their-dawg to see. You sure did look WOKE when he cracked that whip on yer’ ass.”
Rita guffawed loudly, and I felt glad I didn’t have to look her in the eye as I relived the shame of the block. I hadn’t been able to see the audience, but now I could clearly picture Rita, watching smugly as I pranced around naked on the block, displaying every crevice of my body under the commanding SNAP of Skeeter’s whip.
“Hard to feel sorry fer ya, given the way ya were askin’ fer it, and the way ya were so mean to Skeeter and Rosco. Kind of like chickens comin’ home to roost, ask me.”
She was right. She had warned me not to put on the collar, but I refused to listen. She had tried to talk me out of it, dozens of times, but I thought I knew better.
“Kinda surprised at much fun I had, watchin’ my boy teasin’ up them bids while ya’ teased that hot, stinky slave gash of yers. Got top dollar fer ya’, more than I’d pay, that’s for darn sure. Course, I ayn’t egg-zactly in the market for what The Big D’s sellin’, if ya’ know what I mean. But there’s plenty that are, as yer’ gonna figure out.”
The implicit threat in her last sentence caused a shiver to run down my back, as I felt the fear only a slave girl can know. I knelt before her, buck naked, my striped ass sticking in the air, my nose inches from her trashy boots. Rita was in control, her power unlimited and unconditional.
“Please, Rita,” I pleaded, whispering her name in the hopes the slave monger wouldn’t punish me for being too familiar. “Please don’t sell me!”
“Little late for that, little sister. Yer SOLD. Signed, & sealed, De-loused and De-livered, as they say, though I still think ya’ could use a good scrub down. The only question now is whether or not I go to the trouble of puttin’ the horse back in the barn. Not sure why I should. Couldn’t even believe it when Skeeter showed ‘em using yer hot pussy as a big old honey pot at lunch. Kind of disgustin’, if ya’ ask me, but Rosco said being disgustin’ is what Pleasure Sluts are all about. Lookin’ at ya on the floor there, seein’ as how you stink like a Mexican whore house on Cinco Da Mayo, I can’t say he’s wrong ‘bout that.”
Rita’s tone grew harsher as her motherly scolding built to its crescendo. “With that stupid blue sold tag dangling from yer’ ear, ya’ don’t look no different than the rest of the slave tail in this place. If I didn’t have your cage number, I woulda walked right past ya, not even blinked. Maybe I should jist keep walkin.”
Rita paused for effect, to let her dressing-down – and the finality of what might await me - sink in.
The worst part was that Rita was right. There was nothing special about me anymore. I was no longer a stinking rich member of the .001%, with a JP Morgan Reserve Card to buy anything I desired. Now I was just a stinking Pleasure Slut, tagged and sold.
If Rita walked out of here, my processing would be completed, and I would be delivered to the buyer. I’d be gone, and there would be nothing left of me, save my contribution to The Big D’s gross margin.
“If ya’ didn’t wanna get sold, ya’ shouldn’t have done such a good job showin’ off yer hoo-haw to every fella’ who wanted to take a look. Skeeter gits a mighty fine commission off yer sale. Thinkin’ of how you acted on the block, and forgettin’ I’m yer sister, can you give me one reason I shouldn’t let the sale go through?”
I needed a reason, and fast. We had been sisters, but at the moment she was anything BUT that. I couldn’t argue that I didn’t have it coming, as that had been well established. My sales price had been excellent, and had made Skeeter a superstar. There would be no angry bidders to deal with if my sale went through, and less paperwork, to boot, as Rita might say.
Rita stood before me, impatiently tapping her boot in front of my fearful eyes as my addled, slave girl brain struggled to come up with a reason for her to stop my sale.
Tap, tap, tap.
Tap, tap, tap.
“WELL?” she asked pointedly.
I considered arguing that I wasn’t actually a slave girl, but quickly abandoned the argument as patently ridiculous. Naked, collared, with a blue SOLD tag dangling from my ear, I could imagine Rita’s sarcastic, “Oh, REALLY?” as I tried to argue that the completed, legally binding paperwork that identified me as a slave were somehow fraudulent.
I always made fun of Rita and Rosco for questioning the 2020 election result. Now I was putting forth a conspiracy theory even more ridiculous. The naked Pleasure Slut she had watched her son sell off the auction block was, in fact, a free woman. Yeah, and the Martians were hiding JFK Jr. and Bigfoot at the Illuminati’s secret headquarters in Area 51.
Rita switched rhythm’s, tapping out an executioner’s drum roll on her faux imitation leather purse, and punctuating the final beat with a tap of her toe in my face
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat, TAP!
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat, TAP!
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat, TAP!
My brain froze. With my long neck stretched out and my nose touching the ground, I could do nothing but wait for the axe to fall as the execution drum roll sounded.
“That’s what I thought,” she said, in finger wagging tone. “Ya ayn’t got nuttin, do ya, slave girl?”
“I can pay him double,” I offered, desperately. “I’ll pay The Big D double what they’d have made, selling me.”
“Ya’ gone slave stupid already? I swear, slave girls got poop for brains. Slave girls don’t got no money. You don’t even got that fancy pants credit card no more. Heck, everythin’ ya own’s going to me. I’ll be richer than an ant in a sugar sack, if I let yer sale go through. Ya can’t buy yer way out of this one, Annie. All yer doin’ is givin’ me more reasons to sell ya.”
I wanted to say something, but I knew that anything I said would be idiotic. “Fear is for girls who don’t have Platinum cards.” Had I really said that, or had it been another person, long ago? Regardless, I was scared.
I struggled for arguments. My mind blanked. Rita was right. I was a shit-for-brains slave girl. Rita was spared the hopeless stupidity of my slave bimbo-babble by the arrival of Skeeter and Rosco.
Rita went up on her toes, to kiss Rosco, as they exchanged “sweeties”, as Rita called their customary greeting to each other. Whatever Rosco might do at the slave market, it was clear that he was crazy about my sister.
I recognized Skeeter’s boots, right away, with the doodle bug I had burned into them, the body of which was now burned into my left butt cheek.
“Wow, that Doodle bug looks AWESOME on her,” Skeeter said, walking around me to look at my ass, and sounding like a teenager describing a new video game. “They did a super-duper job.”
“Yeah, but there ayn’t no legs,” Rosco noted. “You should really complete it before ya’ sell her. Looks kind of half-assed, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
Skeeter laughed at the outrageously funny dad joke, as did the slave wrangler, no doubt reported to him.
“Naw, I’m going to free her,” Rita said.
My world changed. Stunned, I looked up at her, finally taking my nose off the cement. Rita knelt down, and gently took my chin in her hand.
“I ayn’t gonna let the sale go through. I’m jist tryin’ to scare a little sense into ya. Don’t ya’ know, I love ya to the moon-and-back, Annie? Always have. I was lettin’ ya play slave girl, knowing it’d be safe if ya’ did it with me. Kind of a like an early Christmas present, since I can’t afford to buy ya’ nothing that ya’ don’t already have. Plus, maybe teachin’ ya a lesson, fer yer own good.”
“So, you’re not going to finish my brand?”
“Naw. I think ya’ done learned your lesson. Ya done playin’ slave girl?”
I nodded. Annie smiled, and tussled my hair.
“Sure hope ya’ don’t got no lice,” she said, shaking out her hand. We both shared a sisterly laugh together.
Reaching back, I gingerly touched the area close to my Doodle bug brand. “Is the brand… permanent?” I asked.
“That’s a question for a free woman to ask, not a slave girl,” Roscoe said.
“I beg your pardon, Master,” I said, again diverting my eyes.
“They should finish the brand,” Rosco said, pointedly ignoring me to remind me of my status. “It looks stupid that way.”
Skeeter quickly chimed in. “Professor Atkins said he had something special planned. I told him all about Anna-Annie, and he really wants to meet her.”
Rosco explained. “Merle Adkins, the branding master, thought Skeeter’s drawing wouldn’t look right if you just put it on all at once. See, it’s so big, it’s going to go around the curve of her butt. He redesigned the legs so it looks more 3-D, like the legs and wings are hanging onto the sides, like the bug is grabbing onto her butt. He’s going to put the legs on one at a time.”
Rita let out a low whistle. “Well, if that don’t beat everything. I imagine something that intricate will smart quite a bit, burning on each leg, I mean.”
“That it will,” Rosco admitted. “But it will be lovely. Adkins does nice work.”
“Yeah, he’s the best,” Skeeter agreed. “Ma-ma, I don’t see why I should have to finish school, if she doesn’t even have to finish her brands. I mean, she’s always sayin’ how ya’ gotta finish what ya start, no matter how hard it is. Well, I got the money where I don’t need school, after her auction. I don’t see why I have to do what she says, if she’s just a big hypocrite.”
Rosco nodded sagely. “The boy’s got a point, Rita. It’s yer’ sister who is always on about how important college is. I don’t see why she gets to pull out half way. Doesn’t seem like much of an example.”
“Ayn’t you too a caution!” Rita said. “I think you two jist want to blister her bee-hind again!”
Looking at me, Annie gave me a warm, sisterly smiled. “Don’t worry, Annie, I’m not gonna brand yer butt six times.”
“Ten,” Skeeter said. “There’s two antennae, and two wings, too,” he said, in a voice far too eager.
“EIGHT times, then,” Rita said.
“At least ya’ can let her meet Professor Atkins, and let him show us the brands,” Skeeter pleaded.
Roscoe agreed. “Yeah, Merle worked pretty hard on them, Rita, and he did want to meet Annie. Skeeter’s always bragging about his rich Aunt in Chicago, and telling everybody how awesome she is. As long as she’s here, might as well let the man meet her.”
“Okay, but no more branding, least not if she behaves herself,” she said, shooting me a warning look. “I mean it, Rosco,” he said.
“Merle works for me,” Rosco replied. “He’ll do as I say. I’ll send him a text, let him know what’s going on. Why don’t we go get paperwork sorted out, while your sister goes and says hello to Merle?”
“Sounds good,” Rita said. “Come on, Skeeter. Time to bail yer Aunt out of slave jail!”
The slave monger with the pole was all smiles as he led me to my doom at the blacksmith’s forge, predicting delicious moments for me under the iron. “I’m only sorry I can’t stay and watch,” he said.
“Yeah, too bad you’ll have to go find somewhere else to jerk off, asshole,” I thought, but didn’t dare say. I knew I wasn’t going to get branded – Rosco’s employees did as they were told, but I wasn’t going to argue with the slave monger, who obviously wanted to see me get it good. It was a strange netherworld I was in, a slave girl about to be freed, but not daring to act free.
I didn’t cover myself, and kept my arms locked behind me, gripping my elbows with my hands to keep my breasts sticking out. The Big D employees gave me a few appreciative glances, but naked girls were their business. One or two of them recognized me as “Skeeter’s Aunt” or “the pussy that fetched the record price.” One even joked I was ‘Miss Sandiest Foot”, a designation that caused me to thrust out my breasts with pride.
It wasn’t until we took the short cut through the store that I got real attention for my money, with several smiling men staring appreciatively at my tits and ass. These men didn’t know anything about my price, but they knew what they liked.
“Nice headlights.”
“What’s that brand on her ass. It looks stupid.”
“Maybe they were trying to Mickey Mouse and fucked it up.”
I frowned as they laughed. Rosco was right, my brand would look better finished. I hoped it was a temporary. I’d find out as soon as I was free.
Hillary, showing me no mercy, inserted the shovel-like handle of the iron that had just branded Skeeter’s doodle bug on my ass and began to move it around. The pain in my ass was indescribable, and I was only slowly regaining consciousness after being brought back to reality by having the horrible SLAVE OBEY stuck under my nose. Can I be blamed if I tried to ease the pain a bit by pushing back, and enjoying the sensation?
Jennifer, Steven, and the Blacksmith loosened the straps a bit, not as a mercy, but to make it easier for me to humiliate myself by fucking the handle of the branding iron that had burned Skeeter’s Doodle bug on my ass. Heedless of the show I was putting on, I gasped with pleasure and rode my branding iron, the blue cattle tag in my ear flopping against the side of my head.
An amused Hillary provided the play-by-play. “That’s it. Hump the iron. Hump the iron that’s just branded your ass. Show everyone what a little whore you really are. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for you. I want everyone to look at your big pussy up on the monitor, riding your branding iron, quivering and shaking like jelly at the thought of having your ass burned again.”
I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. It felt too good. Rubbing my pussy wasn’t a choice, or an action, it was part of who I was. Somehow, I knew it was I was meant to do.
“That’s it! All wet and sloppy, just like a real Pleasure Slut! Show everyone how much you LIKE it! You can’t wait for your next brand, can you slave girl? Well, don’t worry, because here it comes!”
I looked up at the monitor. To my horror, I saw that my gaping pussy was now grasping, sucking, and twisting around the handle like it was trying to eat the hook used to hang the iron on the wall. Hillary was cleverly (and cruelly) moving the stick down to tweak my clit, urging me on to shame myself, much to everyone’s delight.
My pussy was displayed on all of the monitors around The Bee & Brand, on screens large enough to make it look like a soggy walk-in closet. Behind me I could hear the restaurant patrons commenting as I pleasured myself on my branding stick.
“Look at her go. It’s like some slut vacuum cleaner.”
“This is why you need to keep Pleasure Sluts kenneled at night, Fred. They’ll hump anything that they can get their snatches against.”
“It’s disgusting,” a female voice observed. “I’m glad they branded that cockroach on her ass.”
“Yeah. Somebody should spray some Raid on her butt,” her friend agreed.
“Wow, I never thought that slave girls loved being branded so much.”
“Yeah, when they’re born to the collar, it’s built into their brains. It makes them feel owned and loved.”
My attention was draw away from my pussy toward the doodle bug that had just been burned into the center of my ass. It was just the oblong body and head, with the antenna and legs missing. The ridges were raised, and the skin burned black, with white ash around the edges. I could smell my burned flesh, mixed in with the slave stink of my sloppy wet pussy.
Suddenly I was in my penthouse in Chicago, enjoying my view of Lake Michigan as I sipped my $2,000 a bottle Chateau Lafite Rothschild. Looking at my nephew Skeeter, I traced the outline of the doodle bug he had branded into his backpack with the red painted toenail sticking out of my Gucci shoes.
Using my best coochie-coochy-coo voice, I teased, “If I were your slave girl, would you brand your little doodle bug on my round, bare, slave girl bottom?”
Skeeter, dumbstruck, looked at me. I smiled and made a sizzling sound as I touched my finger to the seat of my designer jeans.
“I dunno. Uh… I mean, only if you wanted me to, Anna Annie.”
“Oh, you bad boy! You naughty, naughty boy!” I said, running my bare toe up his leg. “Of course, I wouldn’t want you to. What sort of girl do you think I am, having that great big doodle bug branded on my butt? Do you think it would hurt?”
“Maybe, I guess,” he said. “Although in school they say slave girls don’t feel pain the way humans do.”
“Are you saying I’m not human?” I pouted.
“Not if you were a slave girl,” he said, trying to backtrack. “I mean, not legally. Legally, you’d be livestock… and after a while, not human in your head, either, I think.”
Taking another sip of my delicious red wine, I rose, and turned. “Of course, I do sort of wonder what it would look like,” I said, running my hand over the curve of my bottom, which were tightly encased in red leggings. “Maybe a teeny-tiny little brand?” I teased.
“No,” he said flatly, his eyes glued to my curvy backside. “You’d want it big enough for everyone to see the detail. Remember, a quality brand is a mark of ownership. A slave girl should take pride in her master’s mark, and be proud to show it to the world.”
I licked the wine off my lips as I stared over my shoulder at my bottom, wondering how the enormous brand Skeeter was imagining for me would look.
I didn’t need to wonder anymore. The brand was burned into my bottom, and the little doodle bug he had sketched in grade school now marked me as his possession, for one and all to see.
“Do we get to do the legs next?” Jennifer asked, her voice betraying her eagerness.
“No, sorry kids. I got a note on this one that we’re saving the legs for later. Apparently, the master blacksmith has been working on something special, and he wants to do the work himself.”
There was a general groan of disappointment as I was released from the branding rack. I tried to stand, crumpled to the floor. I tried to walk, but with the enormous brand on my ass, could not. Unceremoniously, I was thrown over the shoulder of a huge slave wrangler, my ass pointed skywards, and walked through the restaurant and out the door.
I was greeted with a light smattering of applause as I passed, although I knew the applause was for my brand, not me.
“Sweet brand.”
“Yeah, they do a nice job around here.”
“Can’t believe they do that for free.”
“Yeah, it’s a pretty good deal, considering the level of craftsmanship.”
“That’s why The Big D is the best.”
‘I can smell her burned ass.”
“I can smell her pussy.”
“What a slut!”
“I’m glad they branded her.”
“It shows them their place. I wish they could brand the little sluts every day.”
“That’s why they give ‘em temporaries, I think.”
“Nice brand, Moo-Moo.”
“Disgusting little piggy, isn’t she?”
I noticed the waitress, Veronica, was trussed up with her legs spread. Several of her fellow waiters were doing a bread serving, rubbing her wet pussy with the porous bread as she pushed back against their hands and moaned in pleasure. Her response was understandable, but I wondered if her father, seeing the video, might not decide to save himself her Ivy League tuition and sell her to The Big D.
Veronica was not my worry. Exhausted, physically and emotionally, I didn’t resist as they cuffed my hands to the wire wall of my slave cage to keep me from touching my brand. I was sleeping on straw, with a rough wool blanket as a sort of pillow. The cream they rubbed on my ass was cool, and eased the pain, if only a bit. Despite the searing throbbing in my bottom, I passed out, and fell into a coma-like sleep. I wasn’t afraid of nightmares, because I knew nothing could be worse than what I had just experienced.
I was sleeping so deeply I hadn’t even felt them remove my cuffs, and only awoke when a steel pole hooked my collar and dragged me out of my cage. The slave monger, holding my pole, kept my nose pressing against the cement floor, and the blue slave tag stapled through my ear with the SOLD sticker was lying flat on the floor next to my face. I recognized the garish boots in front of me immediately.
“Darned if you don’t smell like a pack of bitches in heat,” Rita said in her Texas twang. “Geez, you stink like a whorehouse on top a pig sty.”
“Probably should delouse her a’gin,” the wrangler said. “Sometimes them blankets git crotch crickets and nits in ‘em and stuff.”
Instinctively, I reached for my long hair, and began scratching. Lice? Could it be possible? The slave monger above me pressed down on the pole to press my nose into the cement.
“Her snatch is shaved,” Rita said. “Ayn’t no bugs in that rug.”
“Yeah, but they can still get crotch-roaches,” the wrangler said. “The only way to be sure is to scrub ‘em out before you take ‘em home.”
“Don’t worry, we will,” Rita said, her voice oozing with disgust.
“Rita? Are you going to… free me…” I said plaintively, my eyes staring at the toes of her boots.
“That’s not how you address a free woman, slave girl,” the slave monger said, pressing my face down harder into the cement.
She didn’t respond. “Um… Mistress?” I said, struggling to think of Rita in such a way.
“Well, lookee there,” she replied, her voice oozing sarcasm. “Looks like Skeeter’s whipped a little respect into little Miss Sassy Pants bottom,” she said, with a voice more satisfied than angry. “All nice and humble, now that ya’ got some nice red welts on yer’ butt.”
My bottom! Yes, Skeeter had whipped my ass off the auction block, a final, disgraceful humiliation in an arousing experience I shuddered to recall. What’s worse, I knew that she was looking right at the red stripes as I clenched my bottom cheeks and squirmed in humiliation.
Growing up together, Rita had always enjoyed reprimanding me and upbraiding me for my mistakes. It had been one of her great pleasures when I was a teenager, but it was a passion she hardly ever got to enjoy once I became mega successful, and acquired the power and attitude that only vast sums of money can buy.
Now, however, the worm had turned, and I was at Rita’s feet, literally. The fact that I had been so dismissive of my sister, and her entire Southern red state lifestyle, made my humiliation all the worse.
“Did you… see him… auction me?” I said, hoping desperately that she had not.
“Of course, I did, dumb-dumb. I’m his mama, and I wanted to make sure my boy did good. And he did MIGHTY fine. Truth is, I normally don’t enjoy watching livestock auctions, as it’s sort of loud and the whole place jist’ smells like pee. If ya’ wanna hear it plain, yer’ sale was no different than when this place sold pigs, except the piggies smelled better than you do right now! Though, I gotta say, little sister, ya’ really put on quite the show!”
Although she couldn’t see my face, I grimaced as my sister compared my auction to the sale of hogs. Flashing back, I recalled going with Skeeter to the Texas State Fair, which was just a few miles away from The Big D, at Fair Park in Dallas. Being Skeeter’s cool, hip Aunt, I went on all of the thrill rides with him, including The Cliff Hanger and The Beast and the ‘crazy’ rides Rita and Rosco wouldn’t go near.
I was wearing the midriff baring Big D T-shirt Skeeter had gotten me the previous Christmas, and when Skeeter insisted, we waited for the front log of The Texas Log Flume ride. I got SOAKED to the skin, with my thin T-shirt molding around my breasts and pink pokies like a thin layer of white body paint. Skeeter loved parading me up and down the Midway, holding hands, with everyone staring at my boobs, thinking I was his hot Yankee girlfriend. We even got a photo of me, Skeeter, and a guy dressed up as “Big Tex”, the fair mascot, with both Skeeter and Big Tex staring at my tits.
I spent $400 letting Skeeter win a $2 stuffed toy for me by trying to shoot baskets, and he insisted I do “the ladder” (me trying to crawl across a horizontal rope ladder without falling off) over-and-over. With my short-shorts and form fitting T-shirt, we drew quite a crowd of appreciative dads.
What a naughty boy he was!
My T-shirt had mostly dried out by the time we met up with Rita and Rosco, although Rita made me put on her jacket, “to be decent”. As a family, we went to the Big Tex Youth Livestock Auction, which was, as Rita said, noisy and stinky. One of Skeeter’s friends was in the show, and I remember clapping and cheering as he led his sow into the auction ring and paraded her around.
“Someday that’ll be you up at the podium, holding the gavel,” I said, whispering in Skeeter’s ear. “Only difference will be your piggies will have two feet instead of four, because they’ll be hot, naked slave girls.” It was so fun making Skeeter blush!
I had a lot of fun teasing Skeeter that day, although now I was the one who reeked of urine and sawdust and whatever critters had been on the scratchy wool blanket I’d slept on. The main source of my stench was my own slave stink, which embarrassed me even more than my collar, ear tag, or nakedness. I had felt so powerful and in control at the State Fair. I never dreamed Skeeter would actually sell me.
Or did I? I did enjoy making him blush as I asked him for all the juicy details of how he might make me pose, and what sort of price I’d get on the block. Now, Skeeter had become my auctioneer, and The Big D was my Texas State Fair. I was the branded sow, and Rita, towering over me, my all-powerful owner.
“Can’t say I exactly hated yer’ auction, seeing all the lip ya gave me. Gotta admit, it was quite a hoot, when he put on that tape of ya’ being all smug and lecturin’ everybody about feminism, all the while you’re paddlin’ yer little pink canoe for everbody-and-their-dawg to see. You sure did look WOKE when he cracked that whip on yer’ ass.”
Rita guffawed loudly, and I felt glad I didn’t have to look her in the eye as I relived the shame of the block. I hadn’t been able to see the audience, but now I could clearly picture Rita, watching smugly as I pranced around naked on the block, displaying every crevice of my body under the commanding SNAP of Skeeter’s whip.
“Hard to feel sorry fer ya, given the way ya were askin’ fer it, and the way ya were so mean to Skeeter and Rosco. Kind of like chickens comin’ home to roost, ask me.”
She was right. She had warned me not to put on the collar, but I refused to listen. She had tried to talk me out of it, dozens of times, but I thought I knew better.
“Kinda surprised at much fun I had, watchin’ my boy teasin’ up them bids while ya’ teased that hot, stinky slave gash of yers. Got top dollar fer ya’, more than I’d pay, that’s for darn sure. Course, I ayn’t egg-zactly in the market for what The Big D’s sellin’, if ya’ know what I mean. But there’s plenty that are, as yer’ gonna figure out.”
The implicit threat in her last sentence caused a shiver to run down my back, as I felt the fear only a slave girl can know. I knelt before her, buck naked, my striped ass sticking in the air, my nose inches from her trashy boots. Rita was in control, her power unlimited and unconditional.
“Please, Rita,” I pleaded, whispering her name in the hopes the slave monger wouldn’t punish me for being too familiar. “Please don’t sell me!”
“Little late for that, little sister. Yer SOLD. Signed, & sealed, De-loused and De-livered, as they say, though I still think ya’ could use a good scrub down. The only question now is whether or not I go to the trouble of puttin’ the horse back in the barn. Not sure why I should. Couldn’t even believe it when Skeeter showed ‘em using yer hot pussy as a big old honey pot at lunch. Kind of disgustin’, if ya’ ask me, but Rosco said being disgustin’ is what Pleasure Sluts are all about. Lookin’ at ya on the floor there, seein’ as how you stink like a Mexican whore house on Cinco Da Mayo, I can’t say he’s wrong ‘bout that.”
Rita’s tone grew harsher as her motherly scolding built to its crescendo. “With that stupid blue sold tag dangling from yer’ ear, ya’ don’t look no different than the rest of the slave tail in this place. If I didn’t have your cage number, I woulda walked right past ya, not even blinked. Maybe I should jist keep walkin.”
Rita paused for effect, to let her dressing-down – and the finality of what might await me - sink in.
The worst part was that Rita was right. There was nothing special about me anymore. I was no longer a stinking rich member of the .001%, with a JP Morgan Reserve Card to buy anything I desired. Now I was just a stinking Pleasure Slut, tagged and sold.
If Rita walked out of here, my processing would be completed, and I would be delivered to the buyer. I’d be gone, and there would be nothing left of me, save my contribution to The Big D’s gross margin.
“If ya’ didn’t wanna get sold, ya’ shouldn’t have done such a good job showin’ off yer hoo-haw to every fella’ who wanted to take a look. Skeeter gits a mighty fine commission off yer sale. Thinkin’ of how you acted on the block, and forgettin’ I’m yer sister, can you give me one reason I shouldn’t let the sale go through?”
I needed a reason, and fast. We had been sisters, but at the moment she was anything BUT that. I couldn’t argue that I didn’t have it coming, as that had been well established. My sales price had been excellent, and had made Skeeter a superstar. There would be no angry bidders to deal with if my sale went through, and less paperwork, to boot, as Rita might say.
Rita stood before me, impatiently tapping her boot in front of my fearful eyes as my addled, slave girl brain struggled to come up with a reason for her to stop my sale.
Tap, tap, tap.
Tap, tap, tap.
“WELL?” she asked pointedly.
I considered arguing that I wasn’t actually a slave girl, but quickly abandoned the argument as patently ridiculous. Naked, collared, with a blue SOLD tag dangling from my ear, I could imagine Rita’s sarcastic, “Oh, REALLY?” as I tried to argue that the completed, legally binding paperwork that identified me as a slave were somehow fraudulent.
I always made fun of Rita and Rosco for questioning the 2020 election result. Now I was putting forth a conspiracy theory even more ridiculous. The naked Pleasure Slut she had watched her son sell off the auction block was, in fact, a free woman. Yeah, and the Martians were hiding JFK Jr. and Bigfoot at the Illuminati’s secret headquarters in Area 51.
Rita switched rhythm’s, tapping out an executioner’s drum roll on her faux imitation leather purse, and punctuating the final beat with a tap of her toe in my face
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat, TAP!
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat, TAP!
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat, TAP!
My brain froze. With my long neck stretched out and my nose touching the ground, I could do nothing but wait for the axe to fall as the execution drum roll sounded.
“That’s what I thought,” she said, in finger wagging tone. “Ya ayn’t got nuttin, do ya, slave girl?”
“I can pay him double,” I offered, desperately. “I’ll pay The Big D double what they’d have made, selling me.”
“Ya’ gone slave stupid already? I swear, slave girls got poop for brains. Slave girls don’t got no money. You don’t even got that fancy pants credit card no more. Heck, everythin’ ya own’s going to me. I’ll be richer than an ant in a sugar sack, if I let yer sale go through. Ya can’t buy yer way out of this one, Annie. All yer doin’ is givin’ me more reasons to sell ya.”
I wanted to say something, but I knew that anything I said would be idiotic. “Fear is for girls who don’t have Platinum cards.” Had I really said that, or had it been another person, long ago? Regardless, I was scared.
I struggled for arguments. My mind blanked. Rita was right. I was a shit-for-brains slave girl. Rita was spared the hopeless stupidity of my slave bimbo-babble by the arrival of Skeeter and Rosco.
Rita went up on her toes, to kiss Rosco, as they exchanged “sweeties”, as Rita called their customary greeting to each other. Whatever Rosco might do at the slave market, it was clear that he was crazy about my sister.
I recognized Skeeter’s boots, right away, with the doodle bug I had burned into them, the body of which was now burned into my left butt cheek.
“Wow, that Doodle bug looks AWESOME on her,” Skeeter said, walking around me to look at my ass, and sounding like a teenager describing a new video game. “They did a super-duper job.”
“Yeah, but there ayn’t no legs,” Rosco noted. “You should really complete it before ya’ sell her. Looks kind of half-assed, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
Skeeter laughed at the outrageously funny dad joke, as did the slave wrangler, no doubt reported to him.
“Naw, I’m going to free her,” Rita said.
My world changed. Stunned, I looked up at her, finally taking my nose off the cement. Rita knelt down, and gently took my chin in her hand.
“I ayn’t gonna let the sale go through. I’m jist tryin’ to scare a little sense into ya. Don’t ya’ know, I love ya to the moon-and-back, Annie? Always have. I was lettin’ ya play slave girl, knowing it’d be safe if ya’ did it with me. Kind of a like an early Christmas present, since I can’t afford to buy ya’ nothing that ya’ don’t already have. Plus, maybe teachin’ ya a lesson, fer yer own good.”
“So, you’re not going to finish my brand?”
“Naw. I think ya’ done learned your lesson. Ya done playin’ slave girl?”
I nodded. Annie smiled, and tussled my hair.
“Sure hope ya’ don’t got no lice,” she said, shaking out her hand. We both shared a sisterly laugh together.
Reaching back, I gingerly touched the area close to my Doodle bug brand. “Is the brand… permanent?” I asked.
“That’s a question for a free woman to ask, not a slave girl,” Roscoe said.
“I beg your pardon, Master,” I said, again diverting my eyes.
“They should finish the brand,” Rosco said, pointedly ignoring me to remind me of my status. “It looks stupid that way.”
Skeeter quickly chimed in. “Professor Atkins said he had something special planned. I told him all about Anna-Annie, and he really wants to meet her.”
Rosco explained. “Merle Adkins, the branding master, thought Skeeter’s drawing wouldn’t look right if you just put it on all at once. See, it’s so big, it’s going to go around the curve of her butt. He redesigned the legs so it looks more 3-D, like the legs and wings are hanging onto the sides, like the bug is grabbing onto her butt. He’s going to put the legs on one at a time.”
Rita let out a low whistle. “Well, if that don’t beat everything. I imagine something that intricate will smart quite a bit, burning on each leg, I mean.”
“That it will,” Rosco admitted. “But it will be lovely. Adkins does nice work.”
“Yeah, he’s the best,” Skeeter agreed. “Ma-ma, I don’t see why I should have to finish school, if she doesn’t even have to finish her brands. I mean, she’s always sayin’ how ya’ gotta finish what ya start, no matter how hard it is. Well, I got the money where I don’t need school, after her auction. I don’t see why I have to do what she says, if she’s just a big hypocrite.”
Rosco nodded sagely. “The boy’s got a point, Rita. It’s yer’ sister who is always on about how important college is. I don’t see why she gets to pull out half way. Doesn’t seem like much of an example.”
“Ayn’t you too a caution!” Rita said. “I think you two jist want to blister her bee-hind again!”
Looking at me, Annie gave me a warm, sisterly smiled. “Don’t worry, Annie, I’m not gonna brand yer butt six times.”
“Ten,” Skeeter said. “There’s two antennae, and two wings, too,” he said, in a voice far too eager.
“EIGHT times, then,” Rita said.
“At least ya’ can let her meet Professor Atkins, and let him show us the brands,” Skeeter pleaded.
Roscoe agreed. “Yeah, Merle worked pretty hard on them, Rita, and he did want to meet Annie. Skeeter’s always bragging about his rich Aunt in Chicago, and telling everybody how awesome she is. As long as she’s here, might as well let the man meet her.”
“Okay, but no more branding, least not if she behaves herself,” she said, shooting me a warning look. “I mean it, Rosco,” he said.
“Merle works for me,” Rosco replied. “He’ll do as I say. I’ll send him a text, let him know what’s going on. Why don’t we go get paperwork sorted out, while your sister goes and says hello to Merle?”
“Sounds good,” Rita said. “Come on, Skeeter. Time to bail yer Aunt out of slave jail!”
The slave monger with the pole was all smiles as he led me to my doom at the blacksmith’s forge, predicting delicious moments for me under the iron. “I’m only sorry I can’t stay and watch,” he said.
“Yeah, too bad you’ll have to go find somewhere else to jerk off, asshole,” I thought, but didn’t dare say. I knew I wasn’t going to get branded – Rosco’s employees did as they were told, but I wasn’t going to argue with the slave monger, who obviously wanted to see me get it good. It was a strange netherworld I was in, a slave girl about to be freed, but not daring to act free.
I didn’t cover myself, and kept my arms locked behind me, gripping my elbows with my hands to keep my breasts sticking out. The Big D employees gave me a few appreciative glances, but naked girls were their business. One or two of them recognized me as “Skeeter’s Aunt” or “the pussy that fetched the record price.” One even joked I was ‘Miss Sandiest Foot”, a designation that caused me to thrust out my breasts with pride.
It wasn’t until we took the short cut through the store that I got real attention for my money, with several smiling men staring appreciatively at my tits and ass. These men didn’t know anything about my price, but they knew what they liked.
“Nice headlights.”
“What’s that brand on her ass. It looks stupid.”
“Maybe they were trying to Mickey Mouse and fucked it up.”
I frowned as they laughed. Rosco was right, my brand would look better finished. I hoped it was a temporary. I’d find out as soon as I was free.
