My Wife's Hospitality, Part Nine by Joe Doe
Posted: Wed Oct 02, 2024 6:52 am
Although Harvey's offer to work at Slave Mart was tempting, I wanted to put some space between me and Margot to give the Slave Mart training program the time needed to work its magic. Margot liked to brag that her ABCD ("Academic Training, Boundaries, Conditioning, Discipline"), which she referred to as "dog training", could break down anyone's individuality and turn them into the perfect docile servant, fit to work in a palace, or a five-star hotel. Now her sleazebag former employee Harvey had used her techniques to develop a training program designed to prepare a girl for the auction block, and I was dying to see if it was as successful as turning Margot into the perfect Pleasure Slut as it was at creating maids and bellhops.
As hard as it was (and I do mean hard) I resisted the urge to visit Slave Mart and see Margot's training. Margot had often explained to me that one of the key "Boundaries" was keeping the employee in a training state for as long as required in order to bring them up to the desired standard. "Boot camp works better if they know my boot is going to be up their ass for as long as it takes," she told me. "I'm not interested in a battle of wills where they run down the clock. I win, they lose, and they submit and obey."
Margot got away with her martinet attitude because her hotel chain paid top dollar. At Slave Mart, the boundaries were literal fences, cages, and shock collars, but the principle was the same. I didn't want Margot to think of me as a safety net, or suppose that she could click her heels together and return safely to Kansas. The only Toto in this story was Sniffer the slave hound.
One of the ironies of the “dog training” that Margot invented which intrigued me was that Slave Mart used real dogs, both for perimeter security and to help keep the girls in line. If a slave girl get an attack of the stupids and tried to make a run for it, the slave mongers could release the hounds to run her down in very short order. Capture by a slave hound was never fun, or, to be more specific, never fun for the girl. Fortunately, the most part the mere sight of drooling, snarling slave dogs created sufficient terror to quash even the silliest slave bimbo’s freedom fantasy.
Margot had a natural fear of slave hounds, and I must confess I had enjoyed watching her sweat bullets during Sniffer’s “inspection”. As if Sniffer’s inquisitive nose wasn’t bad enough, Margot was carrying around the trauma of being mistakenly attacked by two slave hounds when she had gone jogging on the Cady Way Trail in Orlando. Although my wife is in excellent shape, the two German Shepards, both highly trained professionals, easily took away her pepper spray and switchblade. In short order they ripped off all her clothes, including her running shoes, reducing her to what their doggie brains thought of as her proper “slave naked” state. Fortunately, she did manage to sound her pocket alarm before the slave hounds took it from her, which brought the slave catchers to rescue her.
Although it was quickly determined that Margot was not the runaway slave bitch the dogs were hunting, her lack of SIN registration number meant that the catchers kept her naked and collared on the trail until I could show up and make a positive identification. Needless to say, Margot was furious, and demanded that the dogs be destroyed, or at least neutered. The cops never even looked at her, but told me that she should thank her stars she was a police officer’s wife.
Margot contacted a lawyer, who expressed genuine surprise at what had happened, as slave dogs were trained to pick up “slave scent.” Of all the women in the park, why would they have assaulted Margot? Margot assured the lawyer she did not know, and assured the lawyer she had not been near any Pleasure Sluts, and was wearing fresh clothes she had put on after a shower. My wife, ever fastidious, showered BEFORE and AFTER exercise.
The lawyer explained it was indeed puzzling, because slave hounds were trained to suss out slave girls, and never made mistakes. Indeed, because of their skill, their judgement was considered evidence in a court of law. If Margot dared to take the dogs to court the burden of proof was entirely on her. This would not be easy, as it would involve an examination in open court in front a slaving judge. Alas, Margot would be stripped slave naked, and other dogs would be brought in as expert witnesses. Numerous cold, wet noses would examine Margot for any trace of slave stink.
Would the dogs know that Margot thought all slave hounds should be gelded? Perhaps, because it’s said the dogs can sense such things. After all, that’s how slave girls think. Margot might feel that she was intellectually superior to the dogs, but her misplaced vanity would not change the legal reality that the dogs would be holding HER leash. In a Florida slave court, masculinity – even canine masculinity – ruled, and her fate would be in their furry paws.
The lawyer assured her not to worry, as in the interest of due process the proceedings would not be rushed. The Judge would bring in as many or as few hounds as he felt necessary, and the dogs would be permitted to examine the evidence at their leisure. Were Margot’s bottom cheeks clenching because she sensed what the dogs were thinking, as they jostled one another for the best position to smell her slave stink? Or was it the sight of the baliff, already heating the branding head in anticipation of the dog’s verdict?
When at last Margot understood that the proceeding might well end with her naked, collared, and kenneled, and far less free than her canine assailants, she suggested a different tact. Margot asked the lawyer if she could sue for injuries, as the hounds had left claw marks on her back and the bite marks on her neck when they forced her onto all fours. Unimpressed, her lawyer explained that forcing captured slave girls into “bitch position” was standard procedure, and the police never interfered with the capture dogs having a bit of fun. “You should be glad you told them that you were a police officer’s wife, before the dogs taught you a proper lesson.”
Needless to say, this experience had left my wife quite traumatized, and at the mere sight of a slave hound locking eyes with her, her arrogance would drain away, as she would experience a full-fledged panic attack. During their frequent arguments, my mother enjoyed pushing Margot’s buttons by telling her that if she ever got her rebellious daughter-in-law into slave training, she would use the slave hounds to curb Margot’s “friskiness.”
It was, I thought, an idle threat, as my mother was retired. Needless to say, I was was shocked when the first update I got on Margot didn’t come from my friend Bill, but from my mother. Apparently, a friend of hers had called to tell her that her daughter-in-law was going through slave training. Hearing that Margot was now “inventory”, my mom generously decided to help Slave Mart out and accept their repeated offers for her to return to work… on the sole condition that she be allowed to supervise her daughter-in-law’s training.
While I was relieved to know that Margot was being looked after by someone I knew, I also knew she harbored a deep resentment of my “haughty” Austrailian wife, whom she referred to as “the kangaroo queen” and “an outback outhouse ho-house.” I knew she was a professional slave trainer, but would her dislike of Margot allow her to train her properly?
“Absolutely, sweetie. People know she’s my kin, so I’ll HAVE to be strict with her, so no one can accuse me of favoritism. But I know her inside-and-out, which will allow me to break her down quickly. I know how snooty she is, so that’s why I sent her to homeless shelter for a week. Rooms filled with drunken, pee-soaked bums have needs, too,” she chuckled. Of course, the filthy little kola bear got crotch crickets, so now we delouse her, over, and over and over. You should see the look on her face when they stick the sprayer up between her legs. Her face turns as red as the Union Jack bars on the Aussie flag. What a hoot!”
I was shocked. As a hotelier, Margot considered the homeless a “scourge” and “vermin” and she regularly had to call the police to “keep the filth” away from her hotel. The idea that Margot, who showered twice a day, getting lice, after blowing a row of dirty bums, was unimaginable. She had been horrified blowing the bum on the loading dock. How would she would react to an endless bum gang bang? How dirty she must feel, picking nits out of her infested head and crotch!
Poor Margot. I knew my fastidious wife must be FREAKED! But knowing how prissy she was, a part of me wanted to laugh.
When I raised my concerns, my mother laughed. “Of course she’s freaked out – that’s the point. We need to shatter her old concept of herself in order to remake her. I need to build her from scratch, or snatch in her case. That’s how we’ll get the best price on her.”
“I’m not planning on selling her,” I said flatly. “I want that understood.”
“You need to at least consider it,” my mother said, correcting me. “Under the law, if you put her into a Tag Tail Sail, you need to at least consider every offer, or it’s fraud, and you’ll need to sell her by default. So if I get the price high enough…”
My mother’s voice trailed off, but her strategy was clear. She would turn Margot into the ultimate Pleasure Slut, and her son would once again be hers.
My mother insisted I give her at least a month to “totally clean the slate” of Margot’s mind. “She needs to know that no one is coming to rescue her. She needs to know I’m her mommy now, and she answers to me and the whip. She needs to internalize that the only way out of here is the auction block, and she needs to focus her tiny little kangaroo brain on selling her snatch for as much scratch as we can get for it.”
And so it was that I waited a month, and when I did return to Slave Mart I did so in the disguise of a typical tourist. The phone app they had given me allowed me to track Margot's schedule, so I knew when she was scheduled for her morning classes. After all, Academics was the first part of the ABCD.
As I had done undercover work at the department, it wasn't hard to put together a disguise. A bit of padding around the middle, a shirt with picture of an alligator golfing, sunglasses, a graying mustache, and Mouse ears made me look like just another tourist dad who had snuck away from the family for a clandestine trip to watch Slave Mart put some hot, gator girl pussy through their paces. I even paid the $30 entrance fee, and an extra $5 to rent binoculars, rather than flash my badge and give the game away.
I didn't like to get up early on my days off, and therefore I had never actually been to a morning session to watch the girls work out. So today would be a double treat, as my $30 would also include a chance to witness firsthand how Margot's slave training was progressing. It was early in the morning, there weren't many people in the small theater. I scooped up a carton of complimentary popcorn out of the old-time popcorn wagon, bought myself a Mountain Dew out of the vending machine, and settled in with the other wankers to watch the show.
I didn't have long to wait, as soon enough a door opened and the girls ran down the aisle past me to take their places on stage. It was quite an amazing sight: dozens of branded backsides bouncing past me, close enough that I could have leaned over and slapped one. I was a little disappointed when the door closed and Margot was not in the group. I checked my phone app, to make sure that I had the right date and time.
The girls were much closer than they were when Margot and I had watched them shower, and I had a great view. I was in the front row I had a perfect view of the proceedings, but was annoyed Margot wasn't there. For $30, the popcorn was free.
The command was given, and the naked women began to jog-in-place in front of me, their tits bouncing wildly as they lifted their knees high in the air. "Let's build up a stink, you dirty little piggies!" the slave trainer said, CRACKING the whip for emphasis. The girls jogged faster.
It wasn't until I noticed that the slut who was jogging in place a few feet in front of me had a small brown birthmark over her left breast that I realized my mistake. Margot's magnificient mane of blone hair was gone, and her dirty, infested pussy had been shaved bare as a newborn. The stubble on her head no longer blonde, but had reverted to its natural chestnut brown color. She was wearing no makeup, lip gloss, or nail polish. If it wasn’t for her bouncing titties and birthmark, I wouldn’t have recognized her at all.
My penis throbbed against my tacky cargo shorts as the reality of her enslavement sunk in. My vain and conceited wife, who spent hours prepping herself in the mirror had totally lost control of her appearance. Her hair color, makeup, and clothes were no longer her choice. Her pussy had been shaved because it was goods-for-sale, and the buyers wanted to see what they were buying. The only thing she was wearing was the collar around her neck, and a small steel ring that had been punched through her septum, allowing her to be led around, literally, by the nose.
I smiled as I imagined my strident feminist’s wife’s reaction to her humiliating nose ring. The irony was rich. I had put on a disguise so she wouldn't recognize me; she had stripped totally naked, and I didn't recognize her.
The most remarkable part of her transformation had nothing to do with her appearance, at least not directly. She had a gigantic, bimbo grin plastered on her face, and I could swear she was trying to show me all her teeth at once. But it was the absolute terror in her eyes that struck me, as she nervously tried to see the two slave wranglers on either side of her, both of whom were holding whips.
The wrangler on the right, who appeared to be in charge, was a Hispanic about 20 years old. Margot didn't notice me because the audience didn't matter to her. The only thing that mattered to her was perfecting her movements to avoid the whip.
"Juice it!" the wrangler on the right called out, cracking the whip through the air to punctuate his sentence. At the crack of the whip, all of the girls' eyes widened like cartoon characters as they elegantly fell backwards into position, with their pussies thrust out toward the audience. I wasn't surprised when Margot began rubbing her clit with her thumb while finger fucking herself with her other hand. I was surprised when she stopped holding herself up with her left hand and somehow managed to move both hands to her pussy as she rushed herself to orgasm.
BAM! Margot was the first to come, and actually squirted onto the stage. She grunted like an animal in heat as her pussy spasmed and gushed. I was amazed. The old Margot had been reluctant to display such a loss of control, so she had never come that way with me. Although she was only a few feet in front of me, I used my binoculars to get an enhanced view of her squirting pussy hole.
Her dignity, gone, there was no trace of her previous reluctance to display her arousal.
"Thirty seconds, finish it!" I was soon treated to the sight of all the girls frantically trying to climax in time. Most of them made it. The three who didn't, got the whip.
Margot climaxed again. She didn't get slave candy this time, but her wantonness drew her master's praise. "See? Our little show-ho squirted TWICE! That's a pussy that's block ready!"
"Block ready." Margot's eyes widened, and I read in her expression a mixture of pride in being the best and terror of the auction block. Would I really put her through the humiliation of a Tag Tail Sale? As a police office, I could probably get her out of it. But then I would never know how much she was worth. After seeing her performance today, I had to know the price of the pussy gyrating before me.
"Back thrust", he commanded, cracking the whip. In unison, the girls got on all fours. Squatting backwards, with their asses facing toward me, they thrust back and forth, spreading their butt cheeks and privates out like flowers as they showed "the buyers" all their girlish secrets.
As Margot gyrated her ass for my viewing pleasure, it became apparent why I had failed to recognize her bottom bounced past me. Her luscious ass had two fading tramlines, one across the crease between her buttocks and thighs, which must have made it agonizing to run, walk, or sit, and one shorter "flick" mark that covered most of her right cheek and part of her left. The marks did not appear to be particularly deep, and were mostly faded, but it amused me enormously to see that my bossy, domineering wife had experienced the "discipline" of ABCD, and learned how to be a slave girl under the crack of the whip.
The other change in her rear charms was more obvious, and even more arousing. In the dead center of her left bottom cheek, she wore a Slave Mart brand: an SM with a slightly curly S and M about an inch tall. The other girls were branded, too, as this "badging" was a common practice, like putting the dealer's sticker on the back of a freshly sold car. Seeing it, I nearly creamed in my pants as I realized my wife's luscious ass had been reduced to a billboard for a sleazy, chain store pussy mill.
No matter what happened to her in future she would bear the mark of her abasement for the remainder of her life.
Did my wife Margot even exist anymore? Or was she just another of branded, tagged slave ass for sale?
"Girlfriend position!" the wrangler shouted. Instantly the girls paired off as they went into a 69 position, with an Asian girl licking her crotch as Margot returned the favor. I watched her ass bounce and her pussy twitch with pleasure as she ate out the Chinese slave girl. Both girls were grunting, and really going at it. Her enthusiasm was uncharacteristic, for Margot had told me she never liked Chinese food and had often expressed distaste at the thought of lesbian activity. Now, I used my binoculars as she grunted closer to orgasm even as she obediantly licked up the other girl’s salty soy sauce.
As hard as it was (and I do mean hard) I resisted the urge to visit Slave Mart and see Margot's training. Margot had often explained to me that one of the key "Boundaries" was keeping the employee in a training state for as long as required in order to bring them up to the desired standard. "Boot camp works better if they know my boot is going to be up their ass for as long as it takes," she told me. "I'm not interested in a battle of wills where they run down the clock. I win, they lose, and they submit and obey."
Margot got away with her martinet attitude because her hotel chain paid top dollar. At Slave Mart, the boundaries were literal fences, cages, and shock collars, but the principle was the same. I didn't want Margot to think of me as a safety net, or suppose that she could click her heels together and return safely to Kansas. The only Toto in this story was Sniffer the slave hound.
One of the ironies of the “dog training” that Margot invented which intrigued me was that Slave Mart used real dogs, both for perimeter security and to help keep the girls in line. If a slave girl get an attack of the stupids and tried to make a run for it, the slave mongers could release the hounds to run her down in very short order. Capture by a slave hound was never fun, or, to be more specific, never fun for the girl. Fortunately, the most part the mere sight of drooling, snarling slave dogs created sufficient terror to quash even the silliest slave bimbo’s freedom fantasy.
Margot had a natural fear of slave hounds, and I must confess I had enjoyed watching her sweat bullets during Sniffer’s “inspection”. As if Sniffer’s inquisitive nose wasn’t bad enough, Margot was carrying around the trauma of being mistakenly attacked by two slave hounds when she had gone jogging on the Cady Way Trail in Orlando. Although my wife is in excellent shape, the two German Shepards, both highly trained professionals, easily took away her pepper spray and switchblade. In short order they ripped off all her clothes, including her running shoes, reducing her to what their doggie brains thought of as her proper “slave naked” state. Fortunately, she did manage to sound her pocket alarm before the slave hounds took it from her, which brought the slave catchers to rescue her.
Although it was quickly determined that Margot was not the runaway slave bitch the dogs were hunting, her lack of SIN registration number meant that the catchers kept her naked and collared on the trail until I could show up and make a positive identification. Needless to say, Margot was furious, and demanded that the dogs be destroyed, or at least neutered. The cops never even looked at her, but told me that she should thank her stars she was a police officer’s wife.
Margot contacted a lawyer, who expressed genuine surprise at what had happened, as slave dogs were trained to pick up “slave scent.” Of all the women in the park, why would they have assaulted Margot? Margot assured the lawyer she did not know, and assured the lawyer she had not been near any Pleasure Sluts, and was wearing fresh clothes she had put on after a shower. My wife, ever fastidious, showered BEFORE and AFTER exercise.
The lawyer explained it was indeed puzzling, because slave hounds were trained to suss out slave girls, and never made mistakes. Indeed, because of their skill, their judgement was considered evidence in a court of law. If Margot dared to take the dogs to court the burden of proof was entirely on her. This would not be easy, as it would involve an examination in open court in front a slaving judge. Alas, Margot would be stripped slave naked, and other dogs would be brought in as expert witnesses. Numerous cold, wet noses would examine Margot for any trace of slave stink.
Would the dogs know that Margot thought all slave hounds should be gelded? Perhaps, because it’s said the dogs can sense such things. After all, that’s how slave girls think. Margot might feel that she was intellectually superior to the dogs, but her misplaced vanity would not change the legal reality that the dogs would be holding HER leash. In a Florida slave court, masculinity – even canine masculinity – ruled, and her fate would be in their furry paws.
The lawyer assured her not to worry, as in the interest of due process the proceedings would not be rushed. The Judge would bring in as many or as few hounds as he felt necessary, and the dogs would be permitted to examine the evidence at their leisure. Were Margot’s bottom cheeks clenching because she sensed what the dogs were thinking, as they jostled one another for the best position to smell her slave stink? Or was it the sight of the baliff, already heating the branding head in anticipation of the dog’s verdict?
When at last Margot understood that the proceeding might well end with her naked, collared, and kenneled, and far less free than her canine assailants, she suggested a different tact. Margot asked the lawyer if she could sue for injuries, as the hounds had left claw marks on her back and the bite marks on her neck when they forced her onto all fours. Unimpressed, her lawyer explained that forcing captured slave girls into “bitch position” was standard procedure, and the police never interfered with the capture dogs having a bit of fun. “You should be glad you told them that you were a police officer’s wife, before the dogs taught you a proper lesson.”
Needless to say, this experience had left my wife quite traumatized, and at the mere sight of a slave hound locking eyes with her, her arrogance would drain away, as she would experience a full-fledged panic attack. During their frequent arguments, my mother enjoyed pushing Margot’s buttons by telling her that if she ever got her rebellious daughter-in-law into slave training, she would use the slave hounds to curb Margot’s “friskiness.”
It was, I thought, an idle threat, as my mother was retired. Needless to say, I was was shocked when the first update I got on Margot didn’t come from my friend Bill, but from my mother. Apparently, a friend of hers had called to tell her that her daughter-in-law was going through slave training. Hearing that Margot was now “inventory”, my mom generously decided to help Slave Mart out and accept their repeated offers for her to return to work… on the sole condition that she be allowed to supervise her daughter-in-law’s training.
While I was relieved to know that Margot was being looked after by someone I knew, I also knew she harbored a deep resentment of my “haughty” Austrailian wife, whom she referred to as “the kangaroo queen” and “an outback outhouse ho-house.” I knew she was a professional slave trainer, but would her dislike of Margot allow her to train her properly?
“Absolutely, sweetie. People know she’s my kin, so I’ll HAVE to be strict with her, so no one can accuse me of favoritism. But I know her inside-and-out, which will allow me to break her down quickly. I know how snooty she is, so that’s why I sent her to homeless shelter for a week. Rooms filled with drunken, pee-soaked bums have needs, too,” she chuckled. Of course, the filthy little kola bear got crotch crickets, so now we delouse her, over, and over and over. You should see the look on her face when they stick the sprayer up between her legs. Her face turns as red as the Union Jack bars on the Aussie flag. What a hoot!”
I was shocked. As a hotelier, Margot considered the homeless a “scourge” and “vermin” and she regularly had to call the police to “keep the filth” away from her hotel. The idea that Margot, who showered twice a day, getting lice, after blowing a row of dirty bums, was unimaginable. She had been horrified blowing the bum on the loading dock. How would she would react to an endless bum gang bang? How dirty she must feel, picking nits out of her infested head and crotch!
Poor Margot. I knew my fastidious wife must be FREAKED! But knowing how prissy she was, a part of me wanted to laugh.
When I raised my concerns, my mother laughed. “Of course she’s freaked out – that’s the point. We need to shatter her old concept of herself in order to remake her. I need to build her from scratch, or snatch in her case. That’s how we’ll get the best price on her.”
“I’m not planning on selling her,” I said flatly. “I want that understood.”
“You need to at least consider it,” my mother said, correcting me. “Under the law, if you put her into a Tag Tail Sail, you need to at least consider every offer, or it’s fraud, and you’ll need to sell her by default. So if I get the price high enough…”
My mother’s voice trailed off, but her strategy was clear. She would turn Margot into the ultimate Pleasure Slut, and her son would once again be hers.
My mother insisted I give her at least a month to “totally clean the slate” of Margot’s mind. “She needs to know that no one is coming to rescue her. She needs to know I’m her mommy now, and she answers to me and the whip. She needs to internalize that the only way out of here is the auction block, and she needs to focus her tiny little kangaroo brain on selling her snatch for as much scratch as we can get for it.”
And so it was that I waited a month, and when I did return to Slave Mart I did so in the disguise of a typical tourist. The phone app they had given me allowed me to track Margot's schedule, so I knew when she was scheduled for her morning classes. After all, Academics was the first part of the ABCD.
As I had done undercover work at the department, it wasn't hard to put together a disguise. A bit of padding around the middle, a shirt with picture of an alligator golfing, sunglasses, a graying mustache, and Mouse ears made me look like just another tourist dad who had snuck away from the family for a clandestine trip to watch Slave Mart put some hot, gator girl pussy through their paces. I even paid the $30 entrance fee, and an extra $5 to rent binoculars, rather than flash my badge and give the game away.
I didn't like to get up early on my days off, and therefore I had never actually been to a morning session to watch the girls work out. So today would be a double treat, as my $30 would also include a chance to witness firsthand how Margot's slave training was progressing. It was early in the morning, there weren't many people in the small theater. I scooped up a carton of complimentary popcorn out of the old-time popcorn wagon, bought myself a Mountain Dew out of the vending machine, and settled in with the other wankers to watch the show.
I didn't have long to wait, as soon enough a door opened and the girls ran down the aisle past me to take their places on stage. It was quite an amazing sight: dozens of branded backsides bouncing past me, close enough that I could have leaned over and slapped one. I was a little disappointed when the door closed and Margot was not in the group. I checked my phone app, to make sure that I had the right date and time.
The girls were much closer than they were when Margot and I had watched them shower, and I had a great view. I was in the front row I had a perfect view of the proceedings, but was annoyed Margot wasn't there. For $30, the popcorn was free.
The command was given, and the naked women began to jog-in-place in front of me, their tits bouncing wildly as they lifted their knees high in the air. "Let's build up a stink, you dirty little piggies!" the slave trainer said, CRACKING the whip for emphasis. The girls jogged faster.
It wasn't until I noticed that the slut who was jogging in place a few feet in front of me had a small brown birthmark over her left breast that I realized my mistake. Margot's magnificient mane of blone hair was gone, and her dirty, infested pussy had been shaved bare as a newborn. The stubble on her head no longer blonde, but had reverted to its natural chestnut brown color. She was wearing no makeup, lip gloss, or nail polish. If it wasn’t for her bouncing titties and birthmark, I wouldn’t have recognized her at all.
My penis throbbed against my tacky cargo shorts as the reality of her enslavement sunk in. My vain and conceited wife, who spent hours prepping herself in the mirror had totally lost control of her appearance. Her hair color, makeup, and clothes were no longer her choice. Her pussy had been shaved because it was goods-for-sale, and the buyers wanted to see what they were buying. The only thing she was wearing was the collar around her neck, and a small steel ring that had been punched through her septum, allowing her to be led around, literally, by the nose.
I smiled as I imagined my strident feminist’s wife’s reaction to her humiliating nose ring. The irony was rich. I had put on a disguise so she wouldn't recognize me; she had stripped totally naked, and I didn't recognize her.
The most remarkable part of her transformation had nothing to do with her appearance, at least not directly. She had a gigantic, bimbo grin plastered on her face, and I could swear she was trying to show me all her teeth at once. But it was the absolute terror in her eyes that struck me, as she nervously tried to see the two slave wranglers on either side of her, both of whom were holding whips.
The wrangler on the right, who appeared to be in charge, was a Hispanic about 20 years old. Margot didn't notice me because the audience didn't matter to her. The only thing that mattered to her was perfecting her movements to avoid the whip.
"Juice it!" the wrangler on the right called out, cracking the whip through the air to punctuate his sentence. At the crack of the whip, all of the girls' eyes widened like cartoon characters as they elegantly fell backwards into position, with their pussies thrust out toward the audience. I wasn't surprised when Margot began rubbing her clit with her thumb while finger fucking herself with her other hand. I was surprised when she stopped holding herself up with her left hand and somehow managed to move both hands to her pussy as she rushed herself to orgasm.
BAM! Margot was the first to come, and actually squirted onto the stage. She grunted like an animal in heat as her pussy spasmed and gushed. I was amazed. The old Margot had been reluctant to display such a loss of control, so she had never come that way with me. Although she was only a few feet in front of me, I used my binoculars to get an enhanced view of her squirting pussy hole.
Her dignity, gone, there was no trace of her previous reluctance to display her arousal.
"Thirty seconds, finish it!" I was soon treated to the sight of all the girls frantically trying to climax in time. Most of them made it. The three who didn't, got the whip.
Margot climaxed again. She didn't get slave candy this time, but her wantonness drew her master's praise. "See? Our little show-ho squirted TWICE! That's a pussy that's block ready!"
"Block ready." Margot's eyes widened, and I read in her expression a mixture of pride in being the best and terror of the auction block. Would I really put her through the humiliation of a Tag Tail Sale? As a police office, I could probably get her out of it. But then I would never know how much she was worth. After seeing her performance today, I had to know the price of the pussy gyrating before me.
"Back thrust", he commanded, cracking the whip. In unison, the girls got on all fours. Squatting backwards, with their asses facing toward me, they thrust back and forth, spreading their butt cheeks and privates out like flowers as they showed "the buyers" all their girlish secrets.
As Margot gyrated her ass for my viewing pleasure, it became apparent why I had failed to recognize her bottom bounced past me. Her luscious ass had two fading tramlines, one across the crease between her buttocks and thighs, which must have made it agonizing to run, walk, or sit, and one shorter "flick" mark that covered most of her right cheek and part of her left. The marks did not appear to be particularly deep, and were mostly faded, but it amused me enormously to see that my bossy, domineering wife had experienced the "discipline" of ABCD, and learned how to be a slave girl under the crack of the whip.
The other change in her rear charms was more obvious, and even more arousing. In the dead center of her left bottom cheek, she wore a Slave Mart brand: an SM with a slightly curly S and M about an inch tall. The other girls were branded, too, as this "badging" was a common practice, like putting the dealer's sticker on the back of a freshly sold car. Seeing it, I nearly creamed in my pants as I realized my wife's luscious ass had been reduced to a billboard for a sleazy, chain store pussy mill.
No matter what happened to her in future she would bear the mark of her abasement for the remainder of her life. Did my wife Margot even exist anymore? Or was she just another of branded, tagged slave ass for sale?
"Girlfriend position!" the wrangler shouted. Instantly the girls paired off as they went into a 69 position, with an Asian girl licking her crotch as Margot returned the favor. I watched her ass bounce and her pussy twitch with pleasure as she ate out the Chinese slave girl. Both girls were grunting, and really going at it. Her enthusiasm was uncharacteristic, for Margot had told me she never liked Chinese food and had often expressed distaste at the thought of lesbian activity. Now, I used my binoculars as she grunted closer to orgasm even as she obediantly licked up the other girl’s salty soy sauce.
