“So do you want to even do anesthesia?” Veronica asked. “I can give him a local, but it’s not necessary with us holding him down. Like I said, it’s pretty fast. Like snipping a bud off a flower.”
“When I was getting branded, Skeeter and Professor Asshole said that anesthesia would ruin the experience for me. I want him to have the whole experience, like he did for me. They said letting Skeeter brand me was part of the whole experience. Any chance I can do the cutting?”
“Any chance?” Taylor said, laughing.
“Freudian slip,” I said, smiling.
“Yeah, it’s just a pair of scissors really,” Veronica said. “No biggie.”
That did it. Poor Skeeter was so terrified that his knees buckled, and his face slid down the wall. Veronica immediately rushed over and eased him off his knees to the floor.
“The poor dear fainted,” Veronica said, slipping into full Doctor mode. “Let’s get him over to the couch.”
“Geez, why are guys so heavy?”
“Are you sure he didn’t have a stroke?”
“If he did, he still has his boner. No problems with blood flow there.”
“Should we use some smelling salts, or something?”
“Let’s use his control stick to wake him up,” Veronica said, tweaking his erection with her manicured finger.
Skeeter came to quickly, to sound a pumping that sounded a bit like a portable blender. Opening his eyes, he saw that he was in the kitchen, and we had tied him to the table. He strained against his ropes.
“Good luck, stud,” Veronica said, slipping a gag into his mouth.
Skeeter raised his head and looked between his legs. There was a tube around his penis, pumping away.
“We wanted to get a sample, in case Rita wants grandkids,” I explained. We’ll stick it in the freezer, and we’ll be ready for SNIP, SNIP!” I said, making a cutting motion with my fingers.
“I’m using the nozzle I use on cocker spaniels,” Doctor Veronica explained, slipping on her surgical mask. “I had to find one tiny enough for your little pizzle.”
“We’ll need to sterilize, of course,” Taylor said, pouring gin all over his crotch. Skeeter whimpered, but his dick was ramrod straight, and the machine kept pumping away.
“If you don’t want to do this, Skeeter, all you have to do is control yourself,” I said.
“Yeah, if you don’t cum, we can’t cut,” Taylor said. “Those are the rules.”
With that we all ran our hands over his naked body, stroking, teasing, caressing.
“Show a little restraint, slave boy,” I urged. “Prove to your Anna-Annie that you’re more than a dick with a cowboy hat on top, and you’ll get to keep your jewels.”
It took about 2 minutes for Skeeter to blow his load again.
“Wow, what a gusher!”
“That’s why I only date young guys.”
“Make your last one memorable, I guess.”
“Yeah, he won’t forget today.”
Skeeter actually screamed into his gag from the force of his ejaculation. Was he having his first slave-gasm? I hoped so. After all, it was Christmas, and I knew from experience that a real slave-gasm was the best gift I would ever give him.
“Wash your hands, and put on your mask and gloves, Annie,” Veronica said, holding up the curved, Mayo scissors. “Time to pop his load in the freezer, and get this show on the road.”
At the sight of the scissors, Skeeter fainted again.
Anna Annie smiled as she gently stroked back the hair over his eyes. “Trixie, get him cleaned up and untied. I think my nephew understands that my sister isn’t the only one in the family who can teach someone a lesson.”
When Skeeter woke up he was in the couch on the living room. His hands were still zipped, and he was blindfolded.
Veronica was the first to speak. “Your aunt decided to have mercy on you, which I wouldn’t have, given how you treated her. So, I want you to know my services remain very much on call, young man. In the meantime, my little slave boy, there are five professional women in need of a little attention. I suggest you do a good job on each of us, or we’ll paddle your behind.”
Terrified of both the brush and the scissors, Skeeter worked enthusiastically for the next hour. He was pretty sure his Anna Annie was his first customer, based on her perfume, and the sound of her moaning when she finally came, but with the blindfold? on and the other women chatting he couldn’t tell for sure. He remembered her scent from the block, although it was a lot stronger now that his face and nose were covered with her juices, as he diligently licked away.
After the third pussy, Skeeter began to flag a bit, until Anna Annie’s hairbrush brisked him up. He finished the last of Annie’s friends just as Rita called and asked for the car to be sent to pick them up at The Girl and the Goat, which gave my posse time to send their very contrite slave boy off for a quick shower and an early bedtime.
The next morning, Skeeter tried to act quite chipper, although both Rita and I saw the nervousness in his eyes. Once again, he treated his beloved Anna Annie with the deepest respect, and blushed when zo teased him or flirted with him. I was once again back in the saddle, and my relationship with my nephew was back to normal.
Almost. I had fixed Skeeter by threatening to “fix” him, but the rest of the world would not be so easy. That afternoon I went for a swim at The East Bank Club. The bikini I was wearing was actually from The Big D, and showed off my slave girl toned body to perfection. Naturally, as a bikini designed for free women playing slave girl, it was also quite cheeky, and showed off my Doodle brand.
I took my time lounging about the pool, enjoying the feeling of the water in the cool air, and the sensation of my nipples bulging against the thin material, When I saw two older couples whispering as they watched me stretch by the pool, and overheard two other older gentleman whispering that “they found the camel’s toe”, I seized the opportunity, and strutted over to explain.
“Do you like my brand?” I said, pulling up her suit to show the entire work of art. “It’s a slave brand, based on a drawing my nephew did when he was in grade school. He actually sold me, naked and collared, off the auction block. He’s cute as a button, but he’s a real whip cracker!” rubbing my butt and, laughing, as if having my ass whipped off the auction block was a childish prank.
“I was sold at The Big D in Dallas,” I explained. See how the rope ties on the end of my bikini for a little “D”? That’s their symbol. It’s the same symbol they branded between my butt cheeks, after they sold me.
To say this was a conversation starter would be an understatement. A crowd quickly grew around me as I described her randy adventures in every lascivious detail. Everyone, it seemed, had questions, and there was a tentpole in the front of every male swimsuit. With my newly sensitive eye, I noticed a number of the women squeezing their thighs together. Several young women asked where they could go to get temporary brands. If Tom Sawyer was the glorious white washer, I was the glamorous slave girl.
The next day I decided to have a drink at the library of the Chicago Athletic Association. I stood, as it was quite crowded, and when the waiter came over I asked. “Which couch has the most padding? I had my butt branded at The Big D slave market a few weeks ago, and I have to be careful where I sit.”
The crowded room fell into a shocked silence as I lifted the rear of my little black dress and did a full 360, ostensibly to show the waiter my brand from every angle. It was a good view, as I wasn’t wearing any panties. An older man, having a drink with his family, motioned me over to a large, brown, very comfortable couch, as two people rose to make way for me.
For the next hour, I held court, telling my story as everyone crowded around. It was quite fun, even though I blushed when the older man mentioned that “without your panties, I can smell your slave girl exceitement.”
I knew I had a winning story to tell. Shortly after the first of the year, my impassioned speech at the Woman’s Conference in New York that went viral.
"If men are free to indulge their fantasies of owning a hot slave girl, why aren't women free to indulge their fantasies as well? The real sexism isn't making women slave girls, it's refusing to respect the choices every woman makes. If my choice is to make no further choices, and I'm brave enough to publicly adopt a lifestyle that allows me to explore my sexual fantasies, I should be respected, not condemned.
What I condemn is the soft sexism of the anti-slavery moment, that suggests that one choice is all I have. My supposedly "shameful disgrace" on the auction block was one of the proudest moments of my life. Stripped slave naked, I was tagged like an animal, and made to roll around in the sand as men bid on my naked body, but I emerged triumphant, and am the stronger for it, confident in my sexuality, my choices, and who I am."
I knew there was a business opportunity here, and my entrepreneurial skills kicked in. Quickly, I formed a plan to bring what she had learned at The Big D to Chicago.
My educational background, combined with the unique experience of moving through the entire auction process, gave me a soup-to-nuts insight into the economics of slavery, and what prices the auction houses charged for what. It was obvious that The Big D viewed slave gradings, slave gear, distress loans, temporary brandings, and Any Chance? Auctions as part of their cost of sales, and booked them as inventory overhead. The point of all of these services wasn’t to make money, but to secure inventory for the auction block.
Assume I take in 50 girls and sell them for $30,000 each (a fairly low price). Assuming they pay their wranglers an average of 100K a year and it takes two FTES (full time equivalents) to process the 50 girls through wash, training, auction, branding, etc. This means your direct cost of sale is about $1,000. If they get 10% of the auction price (another low figure), that means their gross profit is (($30,000 * 50) * .10) - $1,000 = $149,000.
I knew it wasn’t pure profit. Doubtlessly spend a lot on lobbying and political protection, although being Texas a huge chunk of that was in the form of free services provided by the girls themselves. Rather ironic when a newly collared slave girl blows the judge who sentenced her to slavery, or is fucked by the greedy uncle who decided she'd be better off as a slave girl than a heiress.
Security and advertising were also a cost, as was the overhead cost of the plant and management staff. The big box store was probably a loss leader, but the slave mall was definitely a profit center, as the high end stores that sell the more expensive diamond collars definitely turn a profit. Even with the warehouse store I was in, the "slave merchandise" was overpriced. I was caged in a fucking dog kennel rebranded with The Big D log. Guys jerked off and sent in their “deposits” to flavor the slave water to get a discount at the store. Sperm from vets or animal breeders was a bit more expensive, but at $2 a bottle you could still turn a profit.
The math was simple. I could give 1,000 hot girls a free grading, temporary branding, collar, and kennel, and other trinkets, cynically calculating that if only one of them enslaves themselves they'll still make money. With this sort of economic model, I realized The Big D was more like a casino than a retail store. The only way they can go broke is if their inventory doesn't walk through the door. With the ability to clear over $100,000 profit in a single auction, it was a license to print money.
All Jake needed was someone with the capital and business savvy to expand his idea. He needed someone like me.
Chicago was a centrally located transportation hub. Illinois was a free state, of course, but had been forced to recognize slavery ever since the new Fugitive Slave Act had been passed.
I quickly created a proposal where the state could grant a license for a single auction house to operate in the city limits of Chicago, with generous tax incentives that would help the state ease its perpetual budgetary crisis. Indeed, if the operation scaled up the way I hoped it would, Illinois might even have a budgetary surplus. And I would own a monopoly of a centrally located trading hub with easy access to barges, rail cars, and planes.
I’d spent enough time in Springfield to know that “lobbying” state legislatures was simply a matter of writing checks. The Governor, who was already crazy rich, was a more difficult nut to crack. Fortunately, he was a billionaire too, and we ran in the same social circles. I had no problem arranging a meeting with him at his Gold Coast mansion, which was only a few blocks from mine.
The Governor immediately saw the financial potential in my proposal, and listened with rapt attention as I explained how all the Midwest girls whose farms have failed or who flunked out of school or defaulted on their loans could be processed in Chicago instead of being shipped South.
“I can’t argue with your numbers, Anne,” he said. “As always, you’ve done your homework, and it’s a strong proposal. I saw your speech at the Woman’s Conference, and you make a strong feminist argument for slavery, that’s really catching on with women everywhere. However, there is the moral question. Casino gambling is one thing, but slavery is quite another.”
I stood up, and moved my chair out of the way. Smiling, I kicked off her heels and slowly peeled my tube dress over her head, revealing that I was slave naked underneath.
Reaching into my bag, I clipped on the purple collar I had worn at The Big D.
Kneeling before the Governor’s desk, she spread her legs and put her hands behind her head.
“Is there nothing I can do to persuade you, Master?” I asked, casting my eyes toward the floor.
The drool coming off the end of the Governor’s tongue made it clear that slave girl Annie had won the argument that Anne could not. Slave girl or not, I was back in the saddle again.
EPILOGUE
“I miss everything about Chicago, except January and February.” Gary Cole
Temperatures in Chicago were in the single digits when my chartered jet had left O’Hare for Love Field that morning, and walking across the parking lot of The Big D was like walking backwards into summer. I had ditched my Eskimo Pie girl outfit on the plane, and was wearing a sheer white blouse, a dark purple Armani power suit, and Gucci high heel sandal shoes. I had decided against wearing a windbreaker, as my body had acclimated enough to the cold that a brief walk across a sunny parking lot didn’t require extra cover.
I laughed when I spotted the neon sign, portraying the crude animation of a blue cowboy on horseback chasing down and lassoing a pink, naked slave girl, the 3 frames endlessly repeating:
The running for her life, with the grinning cowboy chasing her.
The lasso falling around the terrified girl’s neck.
The noose choking her, and her reaching for her throat as she was jerked off her feet, like a silly cartoon of an endlessly animating, Hee-Haw gallows.
The image was really quite comical, as the idiot slave girl did look quite silly. I laughed the way a toddler might laugh when watching a loop of Wiley E. Coyote running off a cliff. I remember being horrified the first time I had seen it, which seemed quite silly to me now, as the animation was absurd. Of course, I had been naked at the time, with my hands tied behind my back and a rope leash tied snug around my throat, with my sister Rita leading me into The Big D like I was a reluctant puppy going to the vets. If clothes (or lack of clothes) make the woman, I was a very different woman today.
Today, I was here to buy, not be sold, and my clothes and perfume were worth more than the garish neon sign. The JP Morgan Reserve credit card in my purse (issued only by special invitation to clients with $10 million in assets on reserve) gave me sufficient reserves to buy the entire place, and everything in it. Today, I wasn’t afraid of lassos or cartoon cowboys. I wasn’t afraid of anything. I’ve said it before: Fear is for girls who don’t have Platinum cards.
The rent-a-cops, off duty Dallas police in little golf carts, were tooling around aimlessly, looking for escaping slave girls. They had hassled Rita and I when we walked across the lot, but as I strutted confidentially toward the door in my power suit, they kept their distance. I smiled, for my Jedi mind trick was working. I wasn’t the droid they were looking for.
There were several people in line ahead of me, at the front desk, mostly moms taking their unhappy daughters in after getting their disappointing December college grades or bigger than expected Christmas bills. Lines are for people who don’t have JP Morgan cards, so I strode to the front and stated my business.
I cut off the woman asking if she might be able to buy her daughter back, “if interest rates come down”, midsentence.
“I’m Anne Powers, and I’m here to say Jake. Let him know I’m on my way.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Powers. He’s expecting you. If you wait here, I’ll get you a badge and an escort…”
“That’s okay, I know the way.” I said, walking past her.
I routed myself to the left, where an unhappy newbee was rubbing herself on the pussy pole.
“Get your leg up, and run your twat over the camera, sweetie,” I said, pointing at the overhead camera. “The men watching the monitor don’t want to see your sparkling personality.”
I felt a delicious tingling sensation between my legs, and the heels on my sandals made a satisfying clippity-clop sound on the cement floor. I wondered if the slave mall next door was carpeted or had linoleum floors. Maybe I’d stop by for a look after I finished my chat with Jake. They had some very upscale stores there, and it might be fun to have some shopgirl fawn over me as she tried to sell me a diamond encrusted slave collar.
As the owner, Jake had the largest office, just off the sales floor and up a short flight of stairs. I didn’t touch the banister as I briskly trotted up the stairs, as slave markets are not the sorts of places where an elegant lady touches common surfaces.
I knocked once, then entered, not waiting for an answer.
Jake was talking on the phone. “That’s okay, Louise. Never mind, she’s already here. Yeah, she’s from Chicago,” he said, giving me a wink. “Skeeter says they walk fast up there.”
“Miss Powers, it’s a pleasure to see you,” Jake said, extending his hand. “Please, have a seat.”
“You’ll understand if I don’t shake hands with a man who handles slave pussy for a living,” I said, making a joke out of refusing his hand.
Jake stiffened. “I’m surprised you’re so fussy. I saw you’re auction video, and I know where your hand has been.”
I ignored the jibe, as Jake was punching under his weight. I quickly surveyed the room. It was by far the nicest room I had seen in the Home Depot like atmosphere of The Big D, and with lots of gold trim and faux antiques. But it was fundamentally unimpressive, a working-class man’s attempt to look rich.
Jake was in an enormous chair behind his enormous desk, and rather than cede the power position to him I sat on the couch, because it was “cozier”. The couch also had more padding, which was most welcome. I only felt the Big D logo between my butt cheeks when clenched my bottom, or wiped myself, but I still felt the sting of the temporary doodle bug that had been branded on my left ass cheek every time I sat down.
My feelings about my brands had evolved over the last few weeks, from terror at the iron, through the shame of being branded like chattel, to a definite sense of pride in what the brand’s represented. The Big D logo marked me (literally) as one of the sexually desirable women in the world. As I talked with Jake, I found myself clenching my cheeks together, exciting myself with the power reversal of buying an entity that had once owned me.
My skirt was short, and I smiled as I caught an embarrassed Jake ogling my long legs. He had seen all of me, I was sure, as I had been Miss Sandy Foot one month. As I had fetched a record price, a gif of me, naked with legs spread on the block squirting during my slave-gasm, was on the homepage of their website. They had also used a “comical” photo of Skeeter whipping my ass off the auction block at the conclusion of my sale, as part of their “Christmas Clearance” advertisement, which had run in the Dallas Morning News, The Fort Worth Star Telegram, “D” Magazine, and Texas Monthly. “That look on yer’ face is a hoot,” Rita said.
I could tell Jake was a bit confused and didn’t know quite what to make of me. I was a successful business woman, a billionaire investor, the beloved aunt of one of his employees, and the most profitable piece of ass he had ever sold, all at once. Being a guy, his eyes roamed over my body, even as his brain told him to follow the money.
I was used to the dual reaction. Over the last several weeks I had come to realize that my disgrace had been so public, it was impossible to distance myself from it. Instead, I embraced it. I had the Ad and the cover of MISS SANDY FOOT magazine on my ego wall back in Chicago, next to countless other honorary degrees and accolades. I routinely told people that yes, I had “played” slave girl, but if men could use slave girls without shame women shouldn’t feel shamed for pretending to be one. It was bullshit, of course, but it worked, and my feminist slave girl schtick was a good story. Naked girls, a fall from grace, and money. What wasn’t to like? Back in Chicago, I had been written about in both the Tribune and the Sun Times, and several of the local stations had done brief “feature” pieces about me during sweeps week. I had been the subject of several national news stories, and was mulling over offers from 20/20, Oprah, Chris Wallace and Sixty Minutes.
“So, I understand you were interested in making an investment in The Big D,” Jake said.
“We’ll get to that later,” I said, taking control of the conversation. “I understand you’ve been hassling my brother-in-law, and my nephew, Skeeter.”
Jake’s face hardened. “I’m not the one doing the hassling. Those rich guys that bid on you are pissed off that you backed off on the sale. They’re suing me for a small fortune.”
“They’re not pissed at you, they’re pissed at me,” I said, correcting him. “The truth is, they’re totally out of your league, and you’re not important enough for them to be angry with. They’re just suing you because they know they can’t touch me.”
Jake, who regarded himself as quite the entrepreneur, looked crestfallen, but he knew it was true. Being in the top 1% and top .001% are two different worlds.
Yes, the bidders had been pissed, but that was half the fun. It made me laugh as I thought of all the rich perverts who had bid on me suffering blue balls as I sipped my wine back in Chicago.
Elizabeth’s father, Lord Kensington, who had placed the winning bid, was disappointed that I wouldn’t be the fox in his perverted slave hunt. I had made it up to him, though, and with a few extremely generous bribes to his downtrodden employees, I had arranged to have this daughter Elizabeth sent out as “the fox” on their latest hunt.
Poor Elizabeth! She tried to explain, but with a fox head mask glued over her head and a red fox tail hanging out of her ass, she didn’t really look like herself. Plus, it’s hard to explain that you’re actually the host’s daughter when there is a pack of braying dogs chasing you. You can imagine how embarrassed he was when Elizabeth’s hood was finally removed, and his Lordship realized that his Great Dane Hercules had just “run down” his daughter, in front of all his guests. Oh, my. How people talked!
Billionaires don’t die easy. Lord Kensington had filed a Habeas Servus action, arguing that the cancellation had been illegal, and I was still a slave. However, the Chicago court had thrown it out, which reduced him to suing the Big D for monetary damages for the so-called fraud, which was totally ridiculous as the terms of the auction were made clear to all.
Five other wealthy bidders had joined in Lord Dogshit’s ridiculous “slave claim” lawsuit. My revenge had been swift, and each of them had quickly found their crappy businesses hamstrung by permits I had pulled, investigations I had triggered, or financing that had mysteriously vanished when I called in a few choice favors.
Jamal, who liked to sell white girls to black plantation owners, found himself in the middle of a messy discrimination suit. It was asinine, of course, but it tied his financing up in knots as several banks pulled out, customers left to avoid the publicity, and he had to go back to actually growing sugar, instead of having slave girls give it away.
Skipper Carrey had been boarded by the Coast Guard, and his yacht and slave girl “crew” seized when a close inspection of the ship’s logs revealed that he had been freely bringing his girls back and forth to the Caribbean without filing the necessary import/export paperwork. It was a simple formality, but it would cost him dearly. I made sure of that.
John Drummer, the pony girl enthusiast, was attacked by unknown mysterious ruffians who trussed him up like a pony and sent him to a gay friend’s pony farm. Devoiced, he wasn’t identified for two days, after he had been raced several times and put to stud by three of the stronger male horses. I had actually attended one of the races he had placed in, and watched him suck the cock of the horse that had beaten? Him. It was quite funny, and as for John, if he can’t take a joke, fuck him.
Mr. Choo’s China doll daughter, who had watched my auction with such breathless curiosity, had been kidnapped by slavers on a trip to Morocco. She had been sold as a yellow in the UAE, and even now Mr. Choo was trying desperately to get his little Princess back. Good luck, for I arranged her sale with my typical thoroughness and care. If he ever saw her again, it would be when they were good-and-done with her.
Poor Mr. Choo! I did send him a videotape of his little Princess’ auction, and a few of the blushing beauty’s first pornos. Boo-hoo, Mr. Choo!
As soon as their embarrassing lawsuit was tossed out of court, I was going to sue each one of the horny bastards for false enslavement, for signing onto Kensington’s ridiculous Habeas Servus petition. Bring the slave before the court, indeed! The horny bastards would get brought into court. They’d get all the sex they wanted in jail, only like John Drummond, now it would be them sucking cock and bending over to take it up the ass.
With any luck, I might be able to enslave them myself, and “fix” them, like I had fixed my boyfriend’s dog Buster, so long ago. The bastards had whistled at me, and leered at me, as Skeeter had put me through my paces, and sold me off the block, treating me like mere pussy-for-sale. They would regret it, every last one of them.
As sweet as my vengeance was, the problem at hand was their anger was flowing over to Jake, and down onto Rosco and Skeeter. Living on a pile of money, I was safe. Shit flows downhill, as they say.
I leaned forward, placing my hand on Jake’s knee, drawing him back in with my most winning smile. “I like you, Jake. We need to make it clear that you’re a friend, not a foe. I have already contacted one of the top Dallas firms about representing you, and he assures me that with a few well placed ‘campaign contributions’ the slave court suits will be dismissed by next week. That’s how you do it down here, in Texas, right?”
“That’s how it’s done,” he said. “I tried that, but these guys are so rich…”
“That’s not a problem for me,” I said, cutting him off. “Now, as for them seeing you as a friend, I’ve sent Skeeter a number of very choice bottles of wine from my wine seller in Chicago. You are overloaded with excess slave pussy, because of Christmas returns and the economy and such. So, I am going to take some of that inventory off your hands. I will attend your auction on Broadway this afternoon, buy six of the hottest pieces of tail that you have, and send them to our friends as a gift from their old friend Jake, along with a bottle of wine from my VERY select wine cellar.”
“That sounds great, but I’m not sure if you can buy…”
Smiling, I rubbed Jake’s knee, leaning in so he could enjoy my $900 a bottle perfume. “Jake, I know you’re used to dealing with slave girl bimbos, but trust me, I’ve thought this through. You’re correct, that alone won’t satisfy them. What my perverted friend-emies really want is to fuck me. So that’s what you’re going to give them. Have you ever heard of Legendary Slavers?”
“Yeah, I think so. They do all sorts of kinky shit for rich people. Not really in my league, as you say.”
“Indeed. One of the services they provide is customized slave girls. Let’s say you want to fuck Taylor Swift, or cane Emma Watson, of get your cousin Sandra to dress up like slave girl Leia. Legendary Slavers will scour the earth to find a lookalike, and then enslave her, either by getting the girl to submit to an indenture or figuring out some trick to get her into a real collar. They’ll get plastic surgery as needed, and voce modulation devices. The girls will be trained as Pleasure Sluts, and trained on how to act like the celebrity, too. Then they’ll get sent to the billionaire pervert for a 3-month indenture.”
“Why only 3 months?” Jake said.
“A lot of times these girls are indentures, who want to go back to their regular lives – or actually, their regular lives minus the need to ever worry about money again. Or they figure they can make more money reselling Taylor or Brittany to the next billionaire. Billionaires bore quickly. Believe me, I know.”
“So, you’re going to send these billionaires a bunch of copies of celebrities?” Jake asked.
Leaning back, I slipped of my sandal and ran my foot up Jake’s leg, causing his erection to bounce in his pants. “No, silly. I’m going to send them copies of me. I knew these dirty old geezers weren’t going to go down without a fight, so as soon as I got back to Chicago, I contacted Legends. In a couple of hours, The Big D is going to receive a large shipment of… me!” I said, laughing. “But first, I’m going to buy a half dozen head—or should I say tail?-- of the hottest slave pussy in Dallas.”
“Sounds like you got everything all figured out,” he said.
“Of course, I do, you silly boy,” I said, taking my foot off his thigh and slipping it back into the sandal. “You expected any less?”
“You said something about an investment?” Jake said.
Reaching into my bag I pulled out a large portfolio. “As you may know, there’s a burgeoning futures market in slave girls. I plan on becoming a major player in that market, on the finance end, and you’re going to help me do it.”
“The Union Stock Yards?” Jake said, looking at the portfolio title. “I don’t get it.”
“Carl Sandburg called Chicago “The Hog Butcher to the World,” and the Union Stockyards was the largest livestock facility in the world. The neighborhood it used to be in is called Back of The Yards, and it’s fallen on hard times. I’m making arrangements to condemn the land to transform it back into a livestock facility for handling all the girls we’re going to be trading on the Chicago Board of Trade. I want to run it like a real livestock yard, only with slaves instead of cows.”
“Sort of like The Big D,” Jake said, putting it together.
“Exactly, like The Big D, only much larger, and much better capitalized. What do you say, Jake? Ready to move up to the big time?”
Jake was more than ready, and when he saw the size and scope of my proposal, I thought he was going to stain the front of his pants. “Are these numbers in the back real?”
“Absolutely. You’re in the operations end, and that’s important, but you make the money on Wall Street by moving money, not goods. Chicago is still the country’s rail hub, and once we start hedging slave girls by hedging them and moving them around like rail cars of wheat we can start making some real money. I’m already in touch with Natalie Mortellaro at Southwest Shipping and I’m talking to her about rail, truck, and air shipping logistics. She’s all in.”
“I don’t understand much about futures and options, and all that finance stuff,” Jake said, scratching his head.
“That’s why I’m here,” I said, smiling. “Jake, this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
It was quite amusing, actually, seeing the man who had been ogling my body now groveling at my feet at the promise of untold riches. I smiled, relishing the power only money can buy.
Next step was the auction. As Jake walked me to Broadway, we encountered his accountant, Rebecca, a cute little striver who seemed bright and creative enough to be of use in our new venture. Jake told her she should give me a rundown on the financials, and I told her to call my secretary and setup an appointment. Although The Big D was privately held, I had already seen their financials through some banking contacts, but I was looking forward to hearing Rebecca’s summary of their financial position.
Rebecca complimented my strappy sandal shoes, so I took them off and showed them to her, explaining that I had spotted them at the Gucci Roma flagship store near the Pantheon, and although they were $1500 USD I simply “had to have them”.
“They’re actually too nice for this floor, actually,” I remarked, slipping them into my bag at the end of our conversation. Wear-and-tear on my shoes was hardly a concern for me, but it gave me an excuse to enjoy the sensation of standing barefoot on the cold, unforgiving floors of The Big D, one more time.
The naughty buzz between my legs grew as Rebecca remarked that they had an especially good December, because of the “windfall revenue of a reversed sale”. I knew she was referring to the money I had given Jake to compensate him for the loss in revenue on my record auction price when Rita had reserved the transaction. Having Jake’s grinning accountant slyly mention my sale as I stood barefoot before her was an unexpected thrill.
The remainder of our walk to Broadway was a bit slower, as I was “barefoot-as-a-yarddog”, as Rita might say, and used the walk to fondly remember my time as a slave girl at The Big D, when I had been not only barefoot but bare everything. Jake led me to the VIP section, remarking that he had “put a little extra padding” on my seat.
The VIP section had monitors, although I preferred the opera glasses as they allowed me to focus on the shock and humiliation on the terrified slave girls’ faces as they struggled to grin their way through the most humiliating moment of their lives. Jake sat with me for the first hour of the auction, watching as I drank my $2,750 a bottle wine, and even sharing the small sample I offered him. As luck would have it, Skeeter was the auctioneer, and I think in part he was watching to make sure that my nephew wasn’t slipping me top tail at bargain prices, as if that were my goal.
Skeeter did a wonderful job, of course, with a patter so rapid every girl was on and off in a minute or less.
“Okay, ladies and gents, this next little piggy is hot, wet, and ready for market. Let’s start at 20. I got 20, let’s go 25. Fresh from the University of Texas, where she didn’t make the grade, but sure made it here, as a Prime Minus. Do I hear 30? Got ya, Sir. 35? Come on, help Daddy get some of that tuition back. 35, from the man with the hat as big as Texas. Bend and spread, little girl, show ‘em what yer sellin’! That is Prime Texas honey pot, folks. 40 to the man who thinks she’ll fit him like a glove. 45, 45? 45 from the man in the hat. Let’s see ya’ dance, girl. Shake them titties! Oh, there’s 50 from the pretty lady from Chicago, who starts late but finishes strong. Do I hear 55? Come on, folks. She ayn’t smart enough for school, but she’s smart enough to suck yer’ dick. 55? 55? Jump in, the water’s warm, and so’s her pussy. Do I hear 60? 60? 60 from Chicago. Do I hear 65? Come on, folks, don’t let the Cubs beat our Rangers! Lather up that pussy, girl! CRACK! Ha, that got her ass movin’, folks. Do I hear 65? 65 from the newbee, welcome to the party, Sir. Do I hear 70? 70 from Chicago, where they sure do need slave girls to keep ‘em warm this time of year. Do I hear 75? 75? Come on, she’ll sell for twice that after you train her, and trainin’s half the fun. Crack! That made her jump. No extra charge for the welts on her ass, folks, all part of the service. 75? Going once… twice… sold, to the pretty lady from Chicago.”
“Send her to Jamal,” I said to Jake. “With her Southern pedigree, blonde hair, and blue eyes, he’s just the sort of white girl he wants to put to stud on his plantation. Don’t logo her. He’ll want to do it himself.”
“You’re the boss, Miss Powers,” Jake said. Making a note on his phone.
“Think of me as your partner, Jake. You know, my nephew is a real talent,” I said, swirling my wine glass. “Take you treat him right, Jake. Rosco, too.”
“My family is your family,” Jake said, with dollar signs in his beady eyes.
The next hour was sheer pleasure, as I enjoyed my wine, my nephew, and an endless parade of Prime pleasure sluts, paraded under the skillful crack of Skeeter’s whip. They were trash, of course, new to the collar, but born for it, and I enjoyed watching them lather their pussies and roll in the sand and yelp as Skeeter whipped their skanky asses off the block. He’d done the same fantastic job auctioning off his aunt, but I’d been too distracted (and aroused) at the time to fully appreciate his skill.
From years of watching his beloved Anna-Annie, my nephew had learned a thing or two about power, and knew that in business, mercy was for the weak or the stupid. He even sold a girl Jake identified as a girl whom he had dated briefly. He had lavished attention on her, but she had cheated on him, then stood him up at Prom. The look of shock on her face when she realized she was being auctioned by a boy she had dumped was priceless.
Skeeter’s girlfriend had been on the track team, before her father’s gambling debts drove her to the block. Skeeter looked directly at me as he offered her up for sale.
“Look at the red hair and legs on this fox, starting at her toes and going all the way up to heaven. I’ll tell ya’, this girl can RUN, and won’t get winded, no matter how many dogs are chasin’ her. Do I hear 70? 75 from the pretty lady from Chicago. Do I hear 80? This is one fine piece of foxtail!”
Taking the hint, I purchased her for Lord Kensington’s fox hunt. The fact that she had long, red hair was only a plus, as I knew Kensington would use it to make her fox tail—before planting it up her tail.
As the auction preceded, I noticed I was drawing more attention, as the winning bidding in the VIP box sitting next to the owner. I saw a few of the buyers whispering to one another, and a swarthy, well-dressed buyer from the Middle East point me out to his assistant. Who was this mysterious lady from Chicago, with the unlimited funds, who was snapping up all the best merchandise, heedless of the cost? If they had a copy of the December issue of Miss Sandy Foot, they would know me all too well.
Although I did draw quite a bit of attention, I couldn’t compete with the shameless sluts on the block, who disgraced themselves in the most lascivious ways in order to get everyone to look at them. I found myself feeling quite jealous of the unwarranted attention they were receiving; a common complaint free women have about slave girls. I was glad to see them sold and imagined their eyes bulging out of their sockets when the branding iron found its mark.
As the auction continued, I found myself becoming increasingly excited. A number of the winning bidders discretely excused themselves to have a bit of quick fun with their purchases, but as I had to stay to bid on the next girl all I could do was squeeze my thighs together, and rub my Doodle bug brand on the chair.
Since that unforgettable day when Skeeter had sold me off the very block I was sitting in front of now, and I had become a real Sandy Foot Girl, our relationship had reverted back to a rich aunt doting on her beloved nephew. Skeeter had once again become a kid to me, and I found myself becoming increasingly excited as I saw him order the naked slave sluts into the most humiliating poses, driving up the bids before literally dropping the hammer to cement their sales.
I felt my bottom cheeks clench with every snap of the whip, which caused me to rub the doodle bug logo emblazoned on my butt. It was impossible for me to look at the familiar logo emblazoned on the pocket of Skeeter’s auctioneer’s shirt, or the expensive, custom monogramed cowboy boots I had bought him, and not recall the childish doodle emblazoned on my butt.
It was most unfair. The girls on the block got to later themselves up, and rub their pussies for everyone to see. Indeed, they were encouraged to do so. I, on the other hand, was expected to sit there like a proper lady, and demurely sip my wine, ignoring the growing exciting between my legs, while they had all the fun.
After buying “The Slutty Six”, as I deemed them, I let Skeeter “receive his tip” backstage from his old girlfriend before she was shipped out to the fox hunt. As Skeeter was a pretty good rider, I wondered if I might contact Elizabeth through an intermediary and wrangle an invitation to her hunt.
I lingered in the auction showroom after everyone left, and when the coast was clear made my way to the front of the auditorium. Slowly, I made my way up the stairs to the stage. I felt quite naughty, as I might have been the only barefoot girl who had ever gone UP these stairs. The last time I had been on stage I had entered through the chute and exited DOWN the stairs. Slave girls never went UP these stairs, as the trip through Broadway was only one way. My butt cheeks clenched together, and I felt The Big D logo between my cheeks, as I imagined Skeeter cracking his whip in displeasure at my heresy.
The stage was covered in a coarse, dark sand. I had tried to buy some for my exercise room back in Chicago, but I could never get the texture or color exactly right. Taking a small handful, I dropped it in my bag for later analysis.
I walked across the stage, surveying the empty chairs, relishing the feeling of the coarse sand between my toes. Paradoxically, being auctioned off Broadway I had experienced the greatest sense of helplessness, but also the greatest sense of sexual power, I had ever felt. Everyone was looking at me, everyone had wanted me. I was Miss Sandy Foot, and had brought a record price. I was the best. I was THE ONE.
It was too bad that I had been too dazed, too frightened, too lost in the bright lights, and too anxious to avoid Skeeter’s whip to enjoy the experience as much as I should have. It is said that a slave girl never forgets her first sale, but only enjoys her second. Running my foot across the sand, I felt sad that I would never experience such a thrill again.
“Well, well, well, if isn’t Miss Sandy Foot herself,” Skeeter said. “Enjoying the view from up there, Miss Powers? I always tell folks it’s the best seat in the house.”
“I prefer the VIP section, thank you very much,” I said, laughing, as I walked down the stairs. “You look wonderful, Skeeter,” I said, giving him a warm hug. “How have you been?”
“Good. It’s been quite a month since Christmas. Lot’s been going on at The Big D. I ran into Jake, and he seemed happier than a pig in shit to see ya’. So, what ya’ cooking now, Anna Annie.”
“I’ll fill you in while we go to see if the Legendary Slave Girls I ordered live up to their name.”
“You wanna get ya’ feet rinsed off?” he said. “There’s a slave shower over yonder, if ya’ wanna freshen up.”
“No, I’m good. I like the feeling of the sand between my toes.”
