Ho 4 The Holidays, P2: Blackie Friday By Joe Doe
Posted: Sun Dec 01, 2024 9:26 am
Mason's childhood bedroom was simple and unassuming, with a single twin bed, a worn-out dresser, and a window that let in the hum of crickets outside. I laid face down on the mattress, the coolness of the fabric a relief against my skin. The sounds of laughter and clinking dishes from downstairs grew distant as my mind reviewed the peculiar turn of events.
The Huckleberry Farm logo stamped on my butt as if i were livestock was a stark reminder of the farm's unusual norms, “southern ways” that sent a thrill through me that I couldn't quite explain.
Although I was stamped “as if I were livestock”, in point of fact, livestock in these parts were not stamped, they were branded. If were a slave girl instead of Mason’s girlfriend, I wouldn’t be calmly waiting for a red magic marker to dry, I’d sobbing and chewing on my fist as I agonized over the fiery pain scarred into my behind.
I would be branded for my own good, of course. Branding slave girl’s butt’s was routine, and my backside would be no different than the rest. It would be done for my safety, my education, and my edification. Around the farm, branding was merely “ID”, no different than when I got my student identification card at UCLA. It was just business, the way things were done.The smiles and laughter of Mason’s family as they discussed sizzling their family brand onto my defenseless bottom were merely incidental.
As the minutes ticked by, the marker quickly dried, but the wetness between my legs remained. It was a betrayal of sorts, my body responding to something that my mind found degrading and foreign. Yet, I couldn't deny the glowing warmth that spread through me, the way my pulse quickened at the thought of being seen as a desirable property to be claimed. I tried to push the feelings aside, telling myself that I was just playing along for the sake of fitting in. But deep down, I knew it was more than that.
The bed creaked beneath me as I shifted my weight, the mattress squeaking in protest. I could still hear the muffled voices of Mason's family downstairs, their laughter and the clink of glasses a stark reminder of the world I had entered. Despite my best efforts to maintain my composure, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the thought of what they must have seen when Ma had exposed me, bent over with my legs spread wide.
The humiliation of having Ma yank down my panties, exposing me in such a shameful and degrading way, should have repulsed me. But instead, it had lit a fire inside me that I couldn't extinguish. I had always prided myself on my poise and professionalism, my ability to navigate the cutthroat world of the courtroom with ease. Yet, here I was, wet and trembling at the thought of being exposed like a barnyard animal at mating time with all of Mason’s family watching.
I reached between my legs and began to gently massage the tension away. The shameful wetness between my legs belied the facade I had worked so hard to maintain. A respected lawyer from Los Angeles was now revealed to be a horny farm animal with slave-like desires. The dichotomy was confusing, yet the arousal was unmistakable. I tried to think of something else, anything to distract myself from the heat pooling in my core, but it was as if my body had a mind of its own, eager to embrace this forbidden fantasy. As I lay there, I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to truly belong to this world, to let go of the constraints of my wealth, education, and city life and embrace the raw, unbridled passion that seemed to simmer just beneath the surface of everyone here. It was as if a part of me that I had long kept hidden was now banging at the doors of my consciousness, demanding to be set free.
I rubbed my clit, grunting with an animalistic pleasure at the feeling. I shifted onto all fours, my ass sticking up in the air as if offering itself up as goods at the farm, a choice piece of pussy for the breeding shed where cows and goats and pigs were mated. I let out a soft whimper. The mattress cushioned my palms and knees as I began to rock back and forth, the friction against my clit sending waves of pleasure crashing through me.
My imagination took hold, and I saw myself in the barn, naked and gagged, my wrists bound with rough rope as my clit was teased to a frenzy by the boy's diabolical "gizmo." I would be reduced to a randy farm animal, endlessly groaning and humping, begging for a release that never came, providing tasty drippings and the secret ingredient for Ma's prize winning gravy.
In my mind I hung helplessly, eyes bulging, screaming into my gag, vibrator pumping, and my clit buzzing. Drip, drip, drip. No one would care. “Set her, and forget her,” like hooking the cows udders up to the milking machines. Like the Thanksgiving turkey, I was just fixing’s for dinner, and a way for Mason’s Ma to win some stupid County Fair Blue Ribbon.
I arched my back and pushed my ass up higher, feeling the coolness of the air tickle my wetness. In the barn, I wouldn't be allowed to come, but here I could. I was close... so close. I drew it out, savoring the tease…
But my solitude was shattered by the sound of a single knock combined with the sound of the bedroom door opening. "Jennifer, y’all OK in there?" Ma's voice called out, her Southern drawl cutting through my private world.
I froze, my hand hovering over my pulsing clit. Ma’s no-knock entry had caught me seconds from release, ass up, with my legs spread wide.
“My-oh-my!” she said dryly. “It’s only Thanksgiving, and I can see all the way to Christmas.”
Far too late, I flipped over, and pulled the blankets over me, embarrassed to be caught pleasuring myself like a naughty teenager. “I thought I told you to lay still up here!” she said sharply. “We’re tryin’ to eat our pumpkin pie, and it sounds like ya’ll riding a horse up here. This is a Christian house, young lady, and if you weren’t my Thanksgiving guest, you’d be over my knee right now, for a does of hairbrush justice.”
I glance at Mason’s dresser, half expecting to see a wooden hairbrush, ready for use.
“I’m sorry, Ma,” I said, blushing. “I just... I don't know what came over me."
Ma nodded knowingly, as if she understood more than she was letting on. Her tone changing, she sat down on the edge of the bed, her ample form causing the mattress to dip. "Don't you fret, sweetie," she said, her hand resting on my back. "You're just getting acclimatized to the farm life. Your brand looked pretty good when you were flicking you’re little pea, but let’s see in when your ass isn’t jiggling like jello.”
I rolled over on my belly. I didn’t resist when mom pulled down the covers. She called it my brand, which is was, and it wasn’t, but something about her calling it that excited me.
Her eyes twinkled as she took in the sight of my bare bottom, the faux brand stark against my pale skin. Gently, she ran her fingers over my bottom, in a lazy gesture, like a windshield wiper.
"Looks mighty fine," she said with a nod, her voice filled with approval. “Y’all got a caboose made for a hot iron." The words sent a shiver down my spine, and I couldn't help but clench my cheeks reflexively at the thought of the pain a real brand would bring.
Ma caught my wincing expression and laughed, a rich, hearty sound that filled the room. "Ah, you city girls and your delicate sensibilities," she said, shaking her head. “Don’t worry. If it was a real brand, I'd be slapping cold cream on you right now. But it's all just for fun, ain't it? Give you a little thrill?”
It was more than a little thrill, and we both knew it. Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she added, "But if it were the real McCoy, you'd get over the sting plenty soon enough. It's just part of the life down here, a way to show who you belong to." She leaned in closer, her breath warm against my ear. "A brand is like a wedding ring, but more permanent, if you catch my drift." Her words hung in the air, and I felt a strange mix of fear and excitement at the implication. Was she hinting at something more?
Ma's hand was surprisingly gentle as she patted my butt and stood up. ”Now, you get some rest. Don't let yer’ naughty fingers keep you up all night. You do not want yer bottom making’ friends with my hairbrush.”
With that, she leaned down and placed a soft kiss on my forehead, her lips lingering for a moment before she turned and left the room, closing the door behind her. I couldn't help but wonder if she knew the effect she had just had on me, the way her words confused, frightened, and excited me.
I lay in bed, listening to the creaks of the old house and the distant sounds of the farm animals settling in for the night. Then, as if pulled by an invisible force, I rolled over onto my back, my hand once again finding its way to the wetness between my legs. I stroked myself lazily, the heat from earlier still smoldering just beneath the surface.
The door creaked open, and in stepped Mason. He took in my state with a surprised look, his eyes lingering on the logo on my butt. “Guess Ma’s right, you're all stamped and ready," he said, his voice playful and teasing. He looked handsome and powerful standing over me, and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of excitement at the thought of being his, even if it was all just play.
Slave girl horny and without thinking, I lunged at him, straddling his waist and kissing him fiercely. His hands found my hips, and he stumbled backward onto the bed, our bodies tangling together as we fell onto the mattress. My need for him was palpable, the faux brand on my skin seeming to pulse with every beat of my heart.
Mason's eyes widened at my sudden aggression, but he didn't protest. Instead, he took the initiative, filling me with his thick, hard cock. I moaned loudly, the sensation of being filled so completely and claimed by him sending me over the edge. I began to ride him like a wild animal, my thighs gripping his waist, my hips bucking as I chased the elusive high that had been building all night.
The room was filled with the sounds of our passion, the creaks of the old bed frame and my own desperate cries for more. Mason's grip tightened on my hips as he met my rhythm, his breathing growing ragged as he whispered for me to be quieter. But I was beyond caring. The farm had brought out a side of me I didn't know existed, and I reveled in it, feeling more alive than I ever had.
Ma's earlier joke about a real brand echoed in my mind, sending a delicious shiver through my body. The idea of permanently belonging to Mason, of being claimed by him in such a permanent way, only served to fuel my lust. As I rode him, I imagined the heat of a real brand, the searing pain that would mark me as his forever. I remembered Cletus saying real slave girls hungered for the brand.
The mattress groaned beneath us, and the headboard thumped against the wall, but I didn't care. I was lost in a whirlwind of passion, my body moving with a desperation that was as surprising as it was exhilarating. Mason's grip on my hips tightened, and he whispered for me to be quieter, but my moans grew louder, as I experienced a wildness that I had never felt before.
Ma had said the ink was dry, but the brand on my butt felt like it was still burning, a constant reminder of the new identity I was embracing. It was a thrilling sensation, one that made me feel wanton and free. As I rode Mason, I could feel the farm's strange energy seeping into me, transforming me into someone or something I didn't recognize. Nice LA Jennifer was gone. The farm had unleashed Alabama Slave Jen, and I reveled in the feeling of being claimed by him, of being his in every sense of the word.
Our bodies moved together in a frantic rhythm, the slap of skin against skin echoing through the room. The bed frame creaked ominously beneath us, but I couldn't help the wild bucking of my hips. With every thrust, the pressure grew more intense.
Ma's voice echoed in my head, "Looks good... a real nice caboose..." I felt a strange pride, as if my body was being evaluated by an experienced farmer assessing livestock. My slave brand marked me as an animal. I didn't have to be nice anymore. I could let go.
I came as the bed broke. The frame was designed for teenage Mason, not a randy slave girl in heat. Neither of us cared. We both fell asleep in the tiny bed, exhausted.
The next morning, I was jolted awake by a cow mooing. Mason's snores reverberated in the silence of the early morning. I slipped out of the tangled sheets in our tiny bed, careful not to wake him.
The farm was eerily peaceful, the only sounds being the distant chirp of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl.
My first instinct was to take a shower. That’s what I would have done in LA. The health club my family used in LA cost $50K a year, and it was a place to see and be seen. One did not go into The Wellness Facility stinking of pussy juice, sweat, and semen.
Today was different. I wasn’t in Los Angeles, California, I was in Middle-of-Fucking-Nowhere, Alabama, Today, I was a dirty little slave girl who didn’t have to worry about her stink.
I grabbed my workout gear, feeling a sudden urge to burn off the turkey and gravy from the night before. In the moonlit bedroom, I admired my reflection in the dusty mirror. The pink sports bra clung to my breasts like a second skin, and my tight booty shorts hugged my curves like a lover's embrace. The slave stamp on my butt was my little secret, but I knew it was there, marking me as the property of Huckleberry Farms.
With a quiet smile, I attached a blinking light to my waistband, ready to conquer the untamed wilderness of rural running. Rather than taking the risk of running into Ma, I used the window, remembering Mason’s teenage trick of using the tree as his ladder. i was in good shape, and it was a short drop to the ground.
The gravel crunched beneath my sneakers as I took off down the driveway, enjoying the cool morning air kiss my skin. The quiet was broken only by the rhythmic thump of my heart and the distant mooing of cattle.
The sun was rising, and cast eerie shadows across the dirt road, and the tall cornstalks whispered secrets as I sprinted past. The farm's antiquated charm had transformed into a mysterious playground, the darkness heightening my senses. The cold was biting, but I found myself relishing the way my body responded.
As I ran, the material of my booty shorts clung to my skin, each stride emphasizing the stamp’s presence. The cold air made my nipples as pointy as diamonds, and the sensation was oddly exhilarating. My breath misted in the moonlight, and the sound of my panting filled the quiet night. Farm life was a stark contrast to the controlled chaos of the city, where I was used to running with my earbuds in, the steady beat of my playlist blocking out the world. The silence here calmed my soul.
I toyed with the idea of running into town. Yesterday, we had driven past the historic county courthouse, and Mason had proudly showed me the statue of Judge Horton, who had tried the infamous Scottsboro Boys case, had his courtroom there. I love old historic courthouses, and had wanted to stop, but it was Thanksgiving and it was closed. However, I wasn’t sure if it would be open on Black Friday and if it was, I was hardly dressed for an important historical site, let alone a working courtroom.
I passed a dairy farm, the rhythmic hum of milkers and the lowing of cows filled the morning air. The smell of manure was faint but present, a pungent reminder of the life cycle that powered this rural existence. The cold nipped at my skin, and the dampness between my legs grew. It was an odd mix of discomfort and arousal, a sensation that grew with every step.
The taste of Mason's cum still lingered in my mouth, mixing with the saliva that had pooled there during my run. I almost never blew him, but last night I had been desperate to taste his cock, hungry for its masculine power. His jam left behind a musky, intoxicating flavor that seemed to fuel my desire for more.
Each step sent a jolt of pleasure through my core, the friction of my wet pussy against the fabric of my shorts an exquisite torment. I hadn't washed away the evidence of our passion, and I could feel his seed inside my pussy. The dirty, animalistic feel of it all was a stark contrast to my pristine city life. My pussy had turned Alabama animal.
The sun was up, and the air was getting warmer. The tranquility of my run was shattered by the sudden sound of a dog's bark. At first, I dismissed it as a farm dog, a common sound in these rural parts. But as the barking grew louder, I realized it was coming from behind me. I turned and saw a police car, lights flashing, cruising slowly down the road. My heart skipped a beat as I realized it was the a County Sheriff car with a Deputy inside. The German Shepherd in the back seat was barking furiously, as if he'd caught the scent of a fugitive. The smiling Deputy's eyes were glued to my bouncing breasts as he drove alongside me, his appraising leer sending a shiver down my spine.
I picked up my pace, adrenaline spiking as the car sped up to match me. I slowed down, encouraging him to pass, but he slowed down, too. All the while the barking continued. The game of cat and mouse was unnerving, and left my breath coming in ragged gasps. Finally, I’d had enough. I skidded to a stop, planting my hands on my hips, and glared at him. The barking grew more frantic, and the enormous black dog looked ready to leap out and devour me. The Deputy, a fat, prematurely balding Rufus, dramatically swerved the car in front of me, cutting off my path. The siren blared briefly, a jarring sound that echoed through the quiet night, leaving no doubt that he meant business.
The dog stopped barking as soon as the car door opened. The Deputy got out of his car, hooking his fingers into his belt for the walk of power. I could see the leer on the cop's face, his eyes never leaving my legs and breasts. I felt a mix of anger and fear, the reality of the situation setting in. I knew I could best him. The farm’s rural power games had led me to this moment, and I played to win. I wasn’t about to surrender to some small-town pervert with a badge.
"Good morning, Ma'am," he drawled, his voice thick with a Southern accent that was pure Hee-Haw. "What brings you out here at this hour, all dressed like that?"
"I'm exercising," I said firmly, standing my ground. "There's no law against it, and these are perfectly respectable running clothes."
Walking in a slow circle, the cop's eyes took a leisurely tour of my body, lingering on my breasts and the outline of my pussy. "Well, Miss, in these parts, we do things a might differently than you Yankees,” he said, instantly picking up my “foreign” accent. “We don't take kindly to strangers running 'round half-dressed, especially when it's a fine piece like you." His drawl was thick, and his smile was predatory. "I'd hate for any of the slave patrols to get the wrong idea. Do you have any ID?"
My heart dropped. I didn't bring my ID with me, thinking a quick run wouldn't require it. I had an armband I wore for my phone and ID, but that was back in LA.
"No, I'm sorry," I replied, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. "I usually run at my private gym back in LA, and I just use my phone’s bluetooth to buzz in."
The cop's eyes narrowed at my mention of LA, and I could see the resentment in his gaze. “Bluetooth buzzes ya’ in? Fancy that," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, here in rural 'Bama, we don't have fancy gyms and all that jazz. We work for a livin’, and don’t need to exercise.”
I rolled my eyes and laughed. “Yeah, you look really fit to me,” I said, calling out his bullshit.
Frowning, he took a step closer, his hand moving to the gun on his hip. "Now, tell me, Miss Fancy Pants, do you have a SIN number?"
Panic shot through me. I stumbled over my words, trying to explain that back in my social circles, a SIN—Slave Identification Number—was seen as unnecessary. "My boyfriend wanted me registered, but... my friends and I, we're not... we're not like that," I managed to say. "We're free. Girls in LA don't need to be marked. It's sexist and degrading."
The cop's leer grew more intense, his eyes never leaving my breasts as they heaved with each anxious breath. "Well, Missy," he said, his voice a sludgy drawl, "you're in the wrong neighborhood for that kind of attitude." He stepped closer, the smell of cheap cologne and sweat wafting from his uniform. "But it seems your boyfriend has some sense. A pretty little thing like you should be marked. It keeps you safe, ya know?”
“I don’t need a SIN,” I repeated firmly.
“That so?” he said. “Instead of givin’ me lip, why don’t you show me the inside of your top lip. I want to see for myself.”
He was within his legal rights, particularly in Alabama, where young women used their SIN numbers like alternate IDs. There were countless phone apps that allowed you to scan in lip tattoos, and when he was trying to sell me on their many advantage, Mason said they were often used as a quicker way to get into bars.
I knew he was getting off on his little power game, but my opinion didn’t matter. In Los Angeles, i was an attorney, but in Alabama, he was the law. Reluctantly, I used my two thumbs to peel back my gums and reveal my unblemished inside lip.
Watching from the car, the black dog barked in disapproval, clearly agreeing with Mason that I needed a number. For a moment, I thought of saying that “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a smoking hot body must be in want of a Slave Identification Number.” However I suspected my literary witticisms would be as lost on the Hillbilly Deputy as they would be on his canine partner.
I swallowed hard, my eyes flicking to the gun at his side. "Look," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, "I don't have any ID, okay? But I don't need any. I'm a lawyer, and you don't have probable cause to stop me."
The Deputy’s bemused belly laugh echoed through the fields. "A lawyer, huh?" He drawled out the word, his eyes glinting with malicious amusement. “A real legal beagle, huh? You don't look like no lawyer I've ever seen in Alabama."
"I'm an attorney in Los Angeles," I said through gritted teeth, my indignation rising. "I graduated at the top of my class, and I aced the California bar exam." Even as the words left my mouth, I knew I’d made a mistake. I sounded like a fool, trying to impress this backwoods Deputy with my academic pedigree.
He took another step closer, "Is that so?" he said, his smile widening. "Well, in these here parts, Miss Legal Beagle, we got a different set of laws. In Alabama, slave hounds, they got a right to stop and sniff out any girl with slave stink." He leaned in, his breath hot and foul in my face. "They can tell when a woman's got that sweet, ripe scent of a runaway, and yer’ sassy mouth ayn’t matching the odor comin’ out of yer’ sassy pants.”
"That's ridiculous," I protested, trying to keep the tremble from my voice. "I'm not a slave. I'm an attorney, and you have no right to—"
The cop's smile grew wider, and he gestured to the barking dog. "Hush now, Miss Legal Beagle. In these parts, my police dog Blackie here's got more say in your legal status than you do. And he's telling me you're hiding something. Something in those tight pink booty pants, I reckon."
Clearly the Deputy saw me as a catch, an easy win he had already scored. He was having fun now, flicking away my defenses, all the time moving me closer to the edge. I was hiding something: the so-called slave stink from the most arousing 12 hours of my life. Now, the leftover stench from my nasty girl fantasies was betraying me, and leading to my doom.
The Deputy licked his lips, his eyes never leaving my crotch. "Let's have a little look-see, shall we?" Walking to his police cruiser he opened the back door. Blackie bounded out, eyes fixed on me, his nose twitching as he took in my scent.
Blackie was massive, his muscles rippling under his sleek black fur as he raced towards me. Time slowed to a crawl as I watched him, his eyes focused on the prize. The only sound was the thunderous beat of my own heart in my ears, a wild drum-line announcing my fate.
Unlike the Deputy, who had a badge printed on his shirt, Blackie had a badge around his neck. It glimmered in the morning light as he ran towards me.
Blackie slammed into me, his code nose tunneling into the crotch of my pink shorts, nearly lifting me off the ground. Blackie buried his nose in the search, snuffling and sniffing, and I could feel the heat of his breath through the thin fabric. The humiliation washed over me in a wave as I fell backwards onto the dirt road, Blackie’s nose never losing contact, pinning me in the dirt.
The cop's laughter grew louder, a cruel taunt in the stillness of the early morning. “Good boy, Blackie. Looks like we caught ourselves some runaway slave pussy," he said, his hand on the dog's head, stroking him like a pet. The Deputy ordered Blackie to “HOLD” and Blackie switched positions, putting one paw on my bare midriff and the other on the crotch, shifting his full weight onto me and locking me in the place. The Deputy looked down, his eyes meeting mine, the smug grin never leaving his face, resting the tip of his filthy boot on the side of my face to show his disrespect for me. ”Now, let's get down to business. Where'd you run from, girl?"
Blackie's paw remained firmly on my stomach, holding me in place, as the cop's questions rained down on me like a storm of accusations. "Why aren't you registered or branded?" His eyes narrowed, his smile turning into a sneer. "And where'd you steal those fancy clothes from?"
I remained silent, my jaw clenched with indignation. The dog's paws were a heavy weight, a symbol of the power dynamics at play. In this topsy-turvy rural world, Blackie was in charge, not me.
"You don't have the right to remain silent," the Deputy reminded me with a smirk, his eyes flicking to my barely covered breasts. "Because, as a slave girl, you don't have the right to anything at all. Not even those pretty pink clothes you stole.”
The Deputy retreated to his squad car, leaving Blackie to his hairy, drooling vigil over me. The dog's paw remained heavy on my crotch and stomach, his nails digging slightly into my skin, his doggie badge glimmering in the sunlight. Blackie looked down at me with a self-satisfied gaze, his tongue lolling out in a doggy grin that I wanted to wipe off with a swift kick.
The Deputy rummaged around in the trunk of his car, his belly jiggling with every move he made. "Having fun, boy?" he called out. The dog's tail wagged happily. "Good. Keep that pussy pinned." He chuckled to himself, the sound grating on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. I gritted my teeth, refusing to give Blackie the satisfaction of seeing me beg like a dog.
I despised the furry black cop with every fiber of my being. Back in LA, I was an attorney, and I would have had his balls snipped off at the first sign of disrespect. But here, in the sticks of rural Alabama, Blackie was the one with the badge. Like his owner, he enjoyed humiliating me, and it was clear that he knew exactly what he was doing.
The smiling officer returned, and handed me a clear plastic bag with the word "Evidence" scrawled on it in thick, black letters. "Everything goes in there," he instructed, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Shoes, socks, shorts, bra, panties... everything. I want you slave stripped, and birthday bare” The Deputy stepped back, giving me space to undress, but his gaze remained glued to my body, a silent challenge.
Blackie's paws lifted from my body, and the dog sat back, his tail thumping against the ground with happiness. “Get busy, girl. Everything off. Now.” Blackie barked his approval.
Blackie might not have been to law school, but he knew what he liked. The humiliation of being made to strip naked in front of the two hairy cops was almost too much to bear, but it wasn’t like I had any choice. Besides, it excited me. I’d had strip search fantasies for years, and had often thought of being strip searched when I flashed my badge and wandered past security everyday in the courthouse. Stripping naked roadside for some Deputy with a badge printed on his shirt was unspeakably humiliating, and unspeakably hot. I decided to play their game, for a little longer, at least.
With trembling hands, I untied my shoelaces, bending down to place them in the bag. My heart hammered in my chest, my breath coming in shallow gasps as I tried to ignore the cold stare of the two badged animals staring at me.
I hopped on one foot, my legs shaking, and began to peel off my sock. The cool air hit my skin, and I couldn't help but shiver. The cop's smile grew wider as he watched, his eyes feasting on every inch of my exposed flesh.
"Everything," he repeated, his voice a lazy drawl that grated on my nerves. Blackie rose and moved in closer, before sitting down, eager to get a better look. I couldn't believe I was obeying the orders of a dog. But here I was, bending over, my pink shorts sliding down my legs. The cold air kissed my pussy, making my skin tingle.
The cop's eyes never left me as I untied the knot at the back of my sports bra. My heart raced, and I wondered if Blackie would still make me strip if the Deputy dropped dead from a heart attack. Probably.
With trembling fingers, I undid the knot, letting the fabric fall away from my breasts. They bounced slightly from the sudden freedom, and the cool air made my nipples tighten into hard peaks. Blackie's eyes widened, his tongue lolling out of his mouth in anticipation. The Deputy wolf-whistled, underscoring how much the two officers overseeing me are enjoyed their work.
The fabric of my panties stuck to my skin, damp from the remains of yesterday’s pussy slop, today’s excitement, and Blackie’s cold wet nose. I peeled them down my legs, trying to ignore the way their four eyes followed every movement. The dog's gaze was unwavering, his eyes locked onto the prized piece of evidence of my shameful slave girl status, the stinky crow's nest that Ma wouldn't touch, except with a coarse bristle brush.
As the panties hit the ground, Blackie’s ears perked up and he lowered his head to get a better look at my wet sex. I felt a fresh wave of humiliation wash over me as I surrendered my final garment to the open bag.
Without having to be told, Blackie yanked the bag out of my hand and ran to the squad car. Jumping up to stand on the passenger window sill he deposited every stitch of clothing onto the front seat, safely out of my slave girl reach.
As Blackie sprinted back to watch the show, the other Deputy approached with a cheap pair of plastic zip ties, the kind you might use to hold a bag of chips closed. He pulled my arms behind my back, the cold plastic biting into my skin as he secured them tightly. "Slaves don't need no fancy handcuffs. Slaves get zip ties, just like garbage.”
I winced, the plastic cutting into my skin. Blackie's eyes were glued to the scene, his tail thumping the ground in a staccato beat that matched the racing of my heart. "Why's he so happy?" I asked.
The Deputy chuckled, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and something darker. “Blackie loves his work,” he said.
Ma thought my pussy was too dirty to touch, but clearly the Deputy didn’t agree. I gasped as he slid a finger inside of me. “Contraband search,” he explained. “Don’t squirm, slave girl. Just relax and enjoy it.”
The worst part of it was I did enjoy it. I was aching for release, and his fat little fingers set me on fire. I pushed back on his hand. He laughed, and pulled his hand out, cleaning my pussy slop onto my hair.
The Deputy roughly pushed me towards the cruise, squeezing my butt. He stopped when he spotted the Huckleberry Farm crest stamped onto my naked ass.
His eyes widened with recognition, and his grip loosened slightly. "The Huckleberry's, eh?" he said, his tone shifting from predatory to something else entirely.
"Mason Huckleberry is my boyfriend," I explained, my voice shaking. "I'm visiting for Thanksgiving.”
The Deputy's grip loosened. "Mason?" He released me and takes a step back, eyeing the stamp on my butt. "Well, I'll be damned. Mason and I go way back. Smart little bastard. He helped me get out of High School even though he was till in 6th grade.”
For the first time since I had seen the Deputy, I smiled. Being 8 or 9 grade levels ahead was totally on brand for my clever boyfriend. The Deputy continued. “We used to fish together when we were just knee-high to a grasshopper." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Why didn't you tell me you belonged to Mason?"
"Because I don't belong to anyone," I replied tartly, my pride stinging. "And you didn't ask during your ‘investigation’”.
Deputy Dumbo seemed to consider my words before releasing his grip on me, his gaze lingering on the Huckleberry crest. His perpetual leer faded to something more thoughtful. "Well, I'll be," he murmured. "Mason's got himself a feisty one, hasn't he?"
"He sure fucking does," I agreed. Take these cuffs off.”
Nothing in Alabama is quick, and this Deputy sure wasn’t. “I got no idea why Mason brought his slave slut to Thanksgiving, or stamped yer’ ass instead of branding it, or why he hasn’t registered you yet, but you any’t goin’ nowhere, nohow, till Blackie and I figure this out.”
Blackie barked twice in agreement. I rolled my eyes, knowing that the officer with four legs could probably figure things out faster than the officer with two legs.
Lazily, Deputy Dumbo sauntered to his car and opened the door, leaning in to grab his cell phone, looking confused as he tried to find the phone number.
The rumble of an engine brought me back to reality, and I watched in horror as a Ford F150 truck appeared over the horizon, barreling toward us like a stampede. Instinctively, I tried to move my hands to cover my naked body, jerking the zip ties painfully into my wrist.
“No hurry, I’m just standing out here on the road buck naked with my hands cuffed behind me,” I said, calling out to the Deputy, who was still trying to figure out how to get Mason’s number. I gave him Mason’s number (duh!) and he actually managed to dial the phone without Blackie’s help.
Blackie got up, and took a slow, appraising walk around me, in a way reminiscent of the way the Deputy had sized me up during the first stop. Seeming to approve, he stopped and sat down in front of me, his piercing eyes never leaving my naked body.
"Mason Huckleberry, you picking up?" the Deputy drawled into the phone, his eyes flicking back to me. "Hey, this is Sammy Joe from the Sheriff's Department. Ya’ll remember me, now that yer’ a fancy big city lawyer?”
Straining to hear, I thought I heard Mason laugh on the other end of the phone. Maybe it was my desperate imagination. There was a pause as the Deputy listened to my boyfriend’s response.
I could hear nothing of what Mason was saying.
The Deputy opened the door and sat on the seat of his squad car, keeping his feet on the ground while still making himself mighty comfortable. ”Well, ya know," he drawled, leaning back in the driver’s seat of his old squad car. "Same ol’ same ol’ here in the sticks. Still working for the Sheriff’s Department, livin’ the dream. How about you? You doing okay up there in the big city?”
The truck was close enough that they spotted me, and the hooting and hollering and catcalling began. There were two men in the truck cabin, and another sitting on the truck bed, which I guess was allowed here? The driver was an older, but the young men were in their twenties. It looked like a father taking his sons into town. Seeing the squad car, and a naked girl, they slowed. This was the sort of show you didn’t want to have a ticket for.
Again, my wrists instinctively jerked against my fucking Dollar Store garbage bag ties. Without even thinking, I looked around for something to cover myself, before remembering that Blackie had already unhelpfully deposited the EVIDENCE of every single stitch I was wearing into the front seat of the Deputy’s squad car.
I took a tiny step to the left, seeing if I could move behind the squad car. Blackie bared his teeth and growled ferociously, and I immediately stepped back. I could almost see his little doggie brain working.
“HEEL, little slave girl. You stand right there, with your tits and pussy on display, for the good old boys to see.”
“That’s it, Blackie!” one the yokels in the back shouted out. “Don’t let her hide her kitty!”
Their catcalls pierced the silence, a cacophony of lewd comments that made me cringe. "Nice headlights!" one yelled, gesturing at my breasts. "Looks like she needs a good fuck!" added another.
The father didn’t say anything, but he slowed the car to a dusty crawl, letting his boys have their fun.
“Hey, Sammy Joe! Blackie caught ya’ some slave snatch?”
Sammy Joe waved at them, smiling, but continued his chat with Mason.
“Rug’s a bit darker than the drapes.”
“Yeah, but she’s still a natural golden tail.”
“That is one sweet little honey pot.”
“Time for a quick suck, darlin?”
“Can ya’ imagine her chained to the side of the barn, waitin’ for a fuck?”
“Yeah, buy ‘er Pa, and we’ll finish our chores faster.”
The old man smiled, but said nothing.
Their words stung, but the raw, primal nature of their appraisal of my naked body sent a shiver of excitement down my spine and straight into my pussy. In LA, I could have had them arrested for “Lewd and Dissolute Conduct.” The penalty could have been six months in jail and a $1,000 fine, and I would have gone for the max.
For an instant, I was in my sharp blue business suit, arguing before the Judge I was clerking for. He was impressed, as the old codgers always were, that a young woman so young and beautiful could also be so intelligent and bold.
“Given the egregious nature of their conduct, your Honor, i don’t think the fine is enough. I think a stay in the county jail is necessary for the state to demonstrate that this conduct will not be tolerated. Perhaps they can use the time to meditate on what it feels like to be sexually harassed.”
No doubt about it, those two pretty boys would be plenty popular in the jail. I hoped they liked sucking on things.
Their voices ended my sweet fantasy and brought me back to my bitter reality. “She’s squeezing her thighs together. I think she’s juicing!”
“Yeah, I hope they auction her off at the courthouse. I wouldn’t mind a piece of that tail.”
As the truck pulled away, dust billowing in its wake, I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of liberation. My body was exposed and vulnerable, but in a way that was purely sexual and devoid of the complex social dynamics that had bound me at the farmhouse. Here, in this moment, I was free to be the object of their desire without the weight of their expectations or judgment. In an Orwellian way, slavery was freedom.
I turned my attention back to the Deputy, hoping that by now some progress had been made. It was a futile dream.
“No, they keep raising the prices for the fishing licensed up at Beer Creek. A lot of the sportin’ goods stores are pissed off, because they get an earful when they tell people what the price is. Yeah, I know inflation, but it don’t make no sense to me. You tellin’ me the fish are part of some fuckin’ supply chain?”
I couldn’t believe what was happening. I stood slave naked for the next 20 minutes while my boyfriend and the dumbest Deputy in Alabama talked about fishin’, the renovations on the historic courthouse, the rice farmers complaints about runoff, and the miracle that was Mason’s pickup truck running after all these years although it looked like it was about to fall apart.
Another truck went by. There was just one teenager in it, about 19, who said nothing, but waved at the Deputy, who waved back. His truck seemed to get caught in a black hole, going ever slower as he approached my naked body. As he grinned at me, I saw he had a missing tooth. No dental plan where he worked, I guessed.
His appraisal of my body was long, appreciative, and genuine. Again, i felt the familiar buzz in my pussy. I realized that the turn on was that like the other idiots in this town, this toothless hillbilly had no idea who I was. He actually thought I was a slave girl, which was making me juice as if I were what he beheld. I squeezed my thighs together, relishing my naughty excitement as I thought about what he’d do to me out in the barn.
At last, the conversation meandered back to the point. “So what do ‘ya want me to do with this girlfriend of yers? I can’t leave ‘er stand-in’ out here buck naked all day, much as everybody would enjoy it.”
I was stunned. I had assumed that all of the Andy Griffith show bullshit that I had been listening to for the last 20 minutes was the result of the Deputy’s failure to explain the gravity of the situation. I was wrong. Mason knew that I was naked, and cuffed, and exposed, and yet he still shot the breeze as if nothing was up. Bastard!
"Yeah, she's a spitfire all right," the Deputy agreed. "But she's got that slave stink on her. Ripe between the legs. Don't have no SIN or no brand, but I can fix that in a jiffy!"
My bottom cheeks clenched, as I knew what fixing my lack of a brand "in a jiffy” would entail.
“She’s slave hot, no question about that. Blackie’s never wrong ‘bout these things. Mason, I can run her over to the courthouse first thing Monday, get her into Judge Jenkin’s courtroom so he can sign her enslavement papers. Shouldn’t take long, with Blackie’s testimony.”
Blackie’s testimony? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My education, law license, and money meant nothing. My fate rested in Blackie’s furry paws, and on Monday I’d be sentenced to the slave collar by another witness in a collar, a doggie deposition.
I wondered if Blackie would put his paw on The Bible before he stuck his nose in my crotch.
The Deputy’s tone was casual, as if my enslavement was just another fishing license. ”It’s the first Monday of the month, so we can auction her off right there on the steps of the courthouse after lunch. We’re going to be sellin’ some huntin’ bows, a lawnmower, and a truck that’s way nicer than that shit heap you drive around, if you wanna come take a look.”
The Deputy talked about me as if I wasn’t there. “The Sheriff knows his business, and he’ll get a good price for her. He’ll make the little Yankee spread her legs and squat real low right on the courthouse landing, so her pussy opens up nice and drips on the steps. Drip, drip, drip! Then’ll he’ll make her lick it up!” The Deputy laughed, but nothing about the cruelty in his eyes made me think he was joking.
There was a pause as I wanted for Mason to rescue me. He was my lifeline, my only escape from this barnyard bullshit.
I stared at Blackie. Blackie stared back.
The Deputy laughed. “Yeah, she’s meaner than a raccoon in dumpster full of chili dogs. But her slave stink and drippy pussy, we might fetch enough to fix up that dumpster of a truck yer’ driving, ha-ha.”
I can’t believe what I was hearing. My stomach twists with anxiety, my mind raced with the horror of being sold with a lawnmower.
The Limestone County Courthouse was a a modest, two story neoclassical building with limestone steps leading up to a second story entrance. It had four Corinthian columns, a clock in the pediment, and a weather vane on the top of the copper dome for Doc Brown to attach his lightening rod to.
During Thanksgiving dinner I had mentioned that I loved historic old courthouses only to have Cletus inform me that “the Fucking Yankees burned the first one down during the War of Northern Aggression.” Everyone glared at me, until Mason cut the tension by joking that “Well, Jenny did lead the brigade that started the fire, and she was drunk on account of never havin’ drunk our Alabama Slammer Whiskey.”
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly. “Maybe I can sell some of Ma’s gravy on the courthouse steps, to help out with the building fund.”
Everyone laughed as I deftly shifted the topic back to Ma’s awesome gravy. I had wanted to visit the courthouse, and see Judge Horton’s historic courtroom. Now I would be seeing it not as a tourist, or as a lawyer, but as a defendant standing in front of some redneck Southern Judge.
I had been worried about going into the courthouse in my running clothes. After all, I didn’t want to be disrespectful of the court. For my Monday appearance, clothes wouldn’t be a problem. I’d be marched into court slave naked. I imagined the Judge smiling down on me, licking his lips as he looked me over. Would the Judge get a commission on my sale, too? I wondered if he’d watch my auction, or maybe bid on me.
I had never imagined when I had driven past the courthouse on Thursday that 96 hours later I would be on the courthouse steps, slave naked, showing famers and yokels and locals wandering in-and-out to get their driver’s licenses, my asshole and pussy as I bent and spread and squatted on the limestone staircase landing.
Things got worse. “Naw, we’ll just keep her at the jail. We don’t put slaves in the cells. We kennel ‘em with the slave hounds. We’ll keep her hands zipped up behind her so she don’t hurt the dogs none.”
Blackie barked his approval. Damn, that dog was smart. Too smart.
The silence stretches taut like a bowstring, as I awaited Mason’s verdict. The only sound was a distant, humming. Finally I could take it no more.
“Let me talk to Mason,” I said, taking a step towards the Deputy.
In a moment, Blackie cut me off, teeth bared, growling. Mason was my only way out of Blackie’s kennel, but if I made one more step I’d be dog food.
The Deputy ignored my futile attempt to grab my last lifeline. ”Uh-huh. Uh-huh" the Deputy said.
The suspense was unbearable! Blackie didnt mind.
After an interminable wait, the Sheriff’s Deputy finally spoke. "Look, Mason," he said, his voice oily with false camaraderie, "if you ain't sure what to do with her, we can always wait till Monday, and decide then. Auction her, and The Sheriff will get his commission. They call it poundage. I reckon he could swing a couple cases of Bud yer’ way for the trouble."
My stomach turned to ice. My LA condo was worth more than their courthouse. Would Mason really trade my pussy away for a case of beer? My body trembled with excitement at the thought, as I squeezed my thighs together.
Blackie’s eyes bore into my soul. “That’s right, slave girl. I’ll give you a quick run through in front of the judge. Then we’ll take you out on the steps, and you can squat real pretty for everyone to see. You won’t get away. Blackie will be there, to watch the whole thing."
"All right, I'll holler at ya' later. Don't forget about the fishin'" the Deputy said.
With a grin, he ended the call and turned back to me, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of excitement and greed as he sauntered back. "Looks like you're staying with us for the weekend, darlin’.”
The Deputy stopped in front of me, taking a moment to savor my fear as he looked me up-and-down. “It’s traditional for a new captured slave girl to give her arresting officers a slave kiss to thank them for their great customer service. Kneel.”
I got down on my knees as gracefully as I could with my hands zipped behind my back. I watched as the fat little Deputy unzipped his brown uniform trousers and fished out his fat little pecker, already hard in anticipation of the tip I was about to give.
“Get busy, girl,” he ordered. “We can’t wait all day.”
Blackie barked his approval.
The Huckleberry Farm logo stamped on my butt as if i were livestock was a stark reminder of the farm's unusual norms, “southern ways” that sent a thrill through me that I couldn't quite explain.
Although I was stamped “as if I were livestock”, in point of fact, livestock in these parts were not stamped, they were branded. If were a slave girl instead of Mason’s girlfriend, I wouldn’t be calmly waiting for a red magic marker to dry, I’d sobbing and chewing on my fist as I agonized over the fiery pain scarred into my behind.
I would be branded for my own good, of course. Branding slave girl’s butt’s was routine, and my backside would be no different than the rest. It would be done for my safety, my education, and my edification. Around the farm, branding was merely “ID”, no different than when I got my student identification card at UCLA. It was just business, the way things were done.The smiles and laughter of Mason’s family as they discussed sizzling their family brand onto my defenseless bottom were merely incidental.
As the minutes ticked by, the marker quickly dried, but the wetness between my legs remained. It was a betrayal of sorts, my body responding to something that my mind found degrading and foreign. Yet, I couldn't deny the glowing warmth that spread through me, the way my pulse quickened at the thought of being seen as a desirable property to be claimed. I tried to push the feelings aside, telling myself that I was just playing along for the sake of fitting in. But deep down, I knew it was more than that.
The bed creaked beneath me as I shifted my weight, the mattress squeaking in protest. I could still hear the muffled voices of Mason's family downstairs, their laughter and the clink of glasses a stark reminder of the world I had entered. Despite my best efforts to maintain my composure, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the thought of what they must have seen when Ma had exposed me, bent over with my legs spread wide.
The humiliation of having Ma yank down my panties, exposing me in such a shameful and degrading way, should have repulsed me. But instead, it had lit a fire inside me that I couldn't extinguish. I had always prided myself on my poise and professionalism, my ability to navigate the cutthroat world of the courtroom with ease. Yet, here I was, wet and trembling at the thought of being exposed like a barnyard animal at mating time with all of Mason’s family watching.
I reached between my legs and began to gently massage the tension away. The shameful wetness between my legs belied the facade I had worked so hard to maintain. A respected lawyer from Los Angeles was now revealed to be a horny farm animal with slave-like desires. The dichotomy was confusing, yet the arousal was unmistakable. I tried to think of something else, anything to distract myself from the heat pooling in my core, but it was as if my body had a mind of its own, eager to embrace this forbidden fantasy. As I lay there, I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to truly belong to this world, to let go of the constraints of my wealth, education, and city life and embrace the raw, unbridled passion that seemed to simmer just beneath the surface of everyone here. It was as if a part of me that I had long kept hidden was now banging at the doors of my consciousness, demanding to be set free.
I rubbed my clit, grunting with an animalistic pleasure at the feeling. I shifted onto all fours, my ass sticking up in the air as if offering itself up as goods at the farm, a choice piece of pussy for the breeding shed where cows and goats and pigs were mated. I let out a soft whimper. The mattress cushioned my palms and knees as I began to rock back and forth, the friction against my clit sending waves of pleasure crashing through me.
My imagination took hold, and I saw myself in the barn, naked and gagged, my wrists bound with rough rope as my clit was teased to a frenzy by the boy's diabolical "gizmo." I would be reduced to a randy farm animal, endlessly groaning and humping, begging for a release that never came, providing tasty drippings and the secret ingredient for Ma's prize winning gravy.
In my mind I hung helplessly, eyes bulging, screaming into my gag, vibrator pumping, and my clit buzzing. Drip, drip, drip. No one would care. “Set her, and forget her,” like hooking the cows udders up to the milking machines. Like the Thanksgiving turkey, I was just fixing’s for dinner, and a way for Mason’s Ma to win some stupid County Fair Blue Ribbon.
I arched my back and pushed my ass up higher, feeling the coolness of the air tickle my wetness. In the barn, I wouldn't be allowed to come, but here I could. I was close... so close. I drew it out, savoring the tease…
But my solitude was shattered by the sound of a single knock combined with the sound of the bedroom door opening. "Jennifer, y’all OK in there?" Ma's voice called out, her Southern drawl cutting through my private world.
I froze, my hand hovering over my pulsing clit. Ma’s no-knock entry had caught me seconds from release, ass up, with my legs spread wide.
“My-oh-my!” she said dryly. “It’s only Thanksgiving, and I can see all the way to Christmas.”
Far too late, I flipped over, and pulled the blankets over me, embarrassed to be caught pleasuring myself like a naughty teenager. “I thought I told you to lay still up here!” she said sharply. “We’re tryin’ to eat our pumpkin pie, and it sounds like ya’ll riding a horse up here. This is a Christian house, young lady, and if you weren’t my Thanksgiving guest, you’d be over my knee right now, for a does of hairbrush justice.”
I glance at Mason’s dresser, half expecting to see a wooden hairbrush, ready for use.
“I’m sorry, Ma,” I said, blushing. “I just... I don't know what came over me."
Ma nodded knowingly, as if she understood more than she was letting on. Her tone changing, she sat down on the edge of the bed, her ample form causing the mattress to dip. "Don't you fret, sweetie," she said, her hand resting on my back. "You're just getting acclimatized to the farm life. Your brand looked pretty good when you were flicking you’re little pea, but let’s see in when your ass isn’t jiggling like jello.”
I rolled over on my belly. I didn’t resist when mom pulled down the covers. She called it my brand, which is was, and it wasn’t, but something about her calling it that excited me.
Her eyes twinkled as she took in the sight of my bare bottom, the faux brand stark against my pale skin. Gently, she ran her fingers over my bottom, in a lazy gesture, like a windshield wiper.
"Looks mighty fine," she said with a nod, her voice filled with approval. “Y’all got a caboose made for a hot iron." The words sent a shiver down my spine, and I couldn't help but clench my cheeks reflexively at the thought of the pain a real brand would bring.
Ma caught my wincing expression and laughed, a rich, hearty sound that filled the room. "Ah, you city girls and your delicate sensibilities," she said, shaking her head. “Don’t worry. If it was a real brand, I'd be slapping cold cream on you right now. But it's all just for fun, ain't it? Give you a little thrill?”
It was more than a little thrill, and we both knew it. Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she added, "But if it were the real McCoy, you'd get over the sting plenty soon enough. It's just part of the life down here, a way to show who you belong to." She leaned in closer, her breath warm against my ear. "A brand is like a wedding ring, but more permanent, if you catch my drift." Her words hung in the air, and I felt a strange mix of fear and excitement at the implication. Was she hinting at something more?
Ma's hand was surprisingly gentle as she patted my butt and stood up. ”Now, you get some rest. Don't let yer’ naughty fingers keep you up all night. You do not want yer bottom making’ friends with my hairbrush.”
With that, she leaned down and placed a soft kiss on my forehead, her lips lingering for a moment before she turned and left the room, closing the door behind her. I couldn't help but wonder if she knew the effect she had just had on me, the way her words confused, frightened, and excited me.
I lay in bed, listening to the creaks of the old house and the distant sounds of the farm animals settling in for the night. Then, as if pulled by an invisible force, I rolled over onto my back, my hand once again finding its way to the wetness between my legs. I stroked myself lazily, the heat from earlier still smoldering just beneath the surface.
The door creaked open, and in stepped Mason. He took in my state with a surprised look, his eyes lingering on the logo on my butt. “Guess Ma’s right, you're all stamped and ready," he said, his voice playful and teasing. He looked handsome and powerful standing over me, and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of excitement at the thought of being his, even if it was all just play.
Slave girl horny and without thinking, I lunged at him, straddling his waist and kissing him fiercely. His hands found my hips, and he stumbled backward onto the bed, our bodies tangling together as we fell onto the mattress. My need for him was palpable, the faux brand on my skin seeming to pulse with every beat of my heart.
Mason's eyes widened at my sudden aggression, but he didn't protest. Instead, he took the initiative, filling me with his thick, hard cock. I moaned loudly, the sensation of being filled so completely and claimed by him sending me over the edge. I began to ride him like a wild animal, my thighs gripping his waist, my hips bucking as I chased the elusive high that had been building all night.
The room was filled with the sounds of our passion, the creaks of the old bed frame and my own desperate cries for more. Mason's grip tightened on my hips as he met my rhythm, his breathing growing ragged as he whispered for me to be quieter. But I was beyond caring. The farm had brought out a side of me I didn't know existed, and I reveled in it, feeling more alive than I ever had.
Ma's earlier joke about a real brand echoed in my mind, sending a delicious shiver through my body. The idea of permanently belonging to Mason, of being claimed by him in such a permanent way, only served to fuel my lust. As I rode him, I imagined the heat of a real brand, the searing pain that would mark me as his forever. I remembered Cletus saying real slave girls hungered for the brand.
The mattress groaned beneath us, and the headboard thumped against the wall, but I didn't care. I was lost in a whirlwind of passion, my body moving with a desperation that was as surprising as it was exhilarating. Mason's grip on my hips tightened, and he whispered for me to be quieter, but my moans grew louder, as I experienced a wildness that I had never felt before.
Ma had said the ink was dry, but the brand on my butt felt like it was still burning, a constant reminder of the new identity I was embracing. It was a thrilling sensation, one that made me feel wanton and free. As I rode Mason, I could feel the farm's strange energy seeping into me, transforming me into someone or something I didn't recognize. Nice LA Jennifer was gone. The farm had unleashed Alabama Slave Jen, and I reveled in the feeling of being claimed by him, of being his in every sense of the word.
Our bodies moved together in a frantic rhythm, the slap of skin against skin echoing through the room. The bed frame creaked ominously beneath us, but I couldn't help the wild bucking of my hips. With every thrust, the pressure grew more intense.
Ma's voice echoed in my head, "Looks good... a real nice caboose..." I felt a strange pride, as if my body was being evaluated by an experienced farmer assessing livestock. My slave brand marked me as an animal. I didn't have to be nice anymore. I could let go.
I came as the bed broke. The frame was designed for teenage Mason, not a randy slave girl in heat. Neither of us cared. We both fell asleep in the tiny bed, exhausted.
The next morning, I was jolted awake by a cow mooing. Mason's snores reverberated in the silence of the early morning. I slipped out of the tangled sheets in our tiny bed, careful not to wake him.
The farm was eerily peaceful, the only sounds being the distant chirp of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl.
My first instinct was to take a shower. That’s what I would have done in LA. The health club my family used in LA cost $50K a year, and it was a place to see and be seen. One did not go into The Wellness Facility stinking of pussy juice, sweat, and semen.
Today was different. I wasn’t in Los Angeles, California, I was in Middle-of-Fucking-Nowhere, Alabama, Today, I was a dirty little slave girl who didn’t have to worry about her stink.
I grabbed my workout gear, feeling a sudden urge to burn off the turkey and gravy from the night before. In the moonlit bedroom, I admired my reflection in the dusty mirror. The pink sports bra clung to my breasts like a second skin, and my tight booty shorts hugged my curves like a lover's embrace. The slave stamp on my butt was my little secret, but I knew it was there, marking me as the property of Huckleberry Farms.
With a quiet smile, I attached a blinking light to my waistband, ready to conquer the untamed wilderness of rural running. Rather than taking the risk of running into Ma, I used the window, remembering Mason’s teenage trick of using the tree as his ladder. i was in good shape, and it was a short drop to the ground.
The gravel crunched beneath my sneakers as I took off down the driveway, enjoying the cool morning air kiss my skin. The quiet was broken only by the rhythmic thump of my heart and the distant mooing of cattle.
The sun was rising, and cast eerie shadows across the dirt road, and the tall cornstalks whispered secrets as I sprinted past. The farm's antiquated charm had transformed into a mysterious playground, the darkness heightening my senses. The cold was biting, but I found myself relishing the way my body responded.
As I ran, the material of my booty shorts clung to my skin, each stride emphasizing the stamp’s presence. The cold air made my nipples as pointy as diamonds, and the sensation was oddly exhilarating. My breath misted in the moonlight, and the sound of my panting filled the quiet night. Farm life was a stark contrast to the controlled chaos of the city, where I was used to running with my earbuds in, the steady beat of my playlist blocking out the world. The silence here calmed my soul.
I toyed with the idea of running into town. Yesterday, we had driven past the historic county courthouse, and Mason had proudly showed me the statue of Judge Horton, who had tried the infamous Scottsboro Boys case, had his courtroom there. I love old historic courthouses, and had wanted to stop, but it was Thanksgiving and it was closed. However, I wasn’t sure if it would be open on Black Friday and if it was, I was hardly dressed for an important historical site, let alone a working courtroom.
I passed a dairy farm, the rhythmic hum of milkers and the lowing of cows filled the morning air. The smell of manure was faint but present, a pungent reminder of the life cycle that powered this rural existence. The cold nipped at my skin, and the dampness between my legs grew. It was an odd mix of discomfort and arousal, a sensation that grew with every step.
The taste of Mason's cum still lingered in my mouth, mixing with the saliva that had pooled there during my run. I almost never blew him, but last night I had been desperate to taste his cock, hungry for its masculine power. His jam left behind a musky, intoxicating flavor that seemed to fuel my desire for more.
Each step sent a jolt of pleasure through my core, the friction of my wet pussy against the fabric of my shorts an exquisite torment. I hadn't washed away the evidence of our passion, and I could feel his seed inside my pussy. The dirty, animalistic feel of it all was a stark contrast to my pristine city life. My pussy had turned Alabama animal.
The sun was up, and the air was getting warmer. The tranquility of my run was shattered by the sudden sound of a dog's bark. At first, I dismissed it as a farm dog, a common sound in these rural parts. But as the barking grew louder, I realized it was coming from behind me. I turned and saw a police car, lights flashing, cruising slowly down the road. My heart skipped a beat as I realized it was the a County Sheriff car with a Deputy inside. The German Shepherd in the back seat was barking furiously, as if he'd caught the scent of a fugitive. The smiling Deputy's eyes were glued to my bouncing breasts as he drove alongside me, his appraising leer sending a shiver down my spine.
I picked up my pace, adrenaline spiking as the car sped up to match me. I slowed down, encouraging him to pass, but he slowed down, too. All the while the barking continued. The game of cat and mouse was unnerving, and left my breath coming in ragged gasps. Finally, I’d had enough. I skidded to a stop, planting my hands on my hips, and glared at him. The barking grew more frantic, and the enormous black dog looked ready to leap out and devour me. The Deputy, a fat, prematurely balding Rufus, dramatically swerved the car in front of me, cutting off my path. The siren blared briefly, a jarring sound that echoed through the quiet night, leaving no doubt that he meant business.
The dog stopped barking as soon as the car door opened. The Deputy got out of his car, hooking his fingers into his belt for the walk of power. I could see the leer on the cop's face, his eyes never leaving my legs and breasts. I felt a mix of anger and fear, the reality of the situation setting in. I knew I could best him. The farm’s rural power games had led me to this moment, and I played to win. I wasn’t about to surrender to some small-town pervert with a badge.
"Good morning, Ma'am," he drawled, his voice thick with a Southern accent that was pure Hee-Haw. "What brings you out here at this hour, all dressed like that?"
"I'm exercising," I said firmly, standing my ground. "There's no law against it, and these are perfectly respectable running clothes."
Walking in a slow circle, the cop's eyes took a leisurely tour of my body, lingering on my breasts and the outline of my pussy. "Well, Miss, in these parts, we do things a might differently than you Yankees,” he said, instantly picking up my “foreign” accent. “We don't take kindly to strangers running 'round half-dressed, especially when it's a fine piece like you." His drawl was thick, and his smile was predatory. "I'd hate for any of the slave patrols to get the wrong idea. Do you have any ID?"
My heart dropped. I didn't bring my ID with me, thinking a quick run wouldn't require it. I had an armband I wore for my phone and ID, but that was back in LA.
"No, I'm sorry," I replied, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. "I usually run at my private gym back in LA, and I just use my phone’s bluetooth to buzz in."
The cop's eyes narrowed at my mention of LA, and I could see the resentment in his gaze. “Bluetooth buzzes ya’ in? Fancy that," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, here in rural 'Bama, we don't have fancy gyms and all that jazz. We work for a livin’, and don’t need to exercise.”
I rolled my eyes and laughed. “Yeah, you look really fit to me,” I said, calling out his bullshit.
Frowning, he took a step closer, his hand moving to the gun on his hip. "Now, tell me, Miss Fancy Pants, do you have a SIN number?"
Panic shot through me. I stumbled over my words, trying to explain that back in my social circles, a SIN—Slave Identification Number—was seen as unnecessary. "My boyfriend wanted me registered, but... my friends and I, we're not... we're not like that," I managed to say. "We're free. Girls in LA don't need to be marked. It's sexist and degrading."
The cop's leer grew more intense, his eyes never leaving my breasts as they heaved with each anxious breath. "Well, Missy," he said, his voice a sludgy drawl, "you're in the wrong neighborhood for that kind of attitude." He stepped closer, the smell of cheap cologne and sweat wafting from his uniform. "But it seems your boyfriend has some sense. A pretty little thing like you should be marked. It keeps you safe, ya know?”
“I don’t need a SIN,” I repeated firmly.
“That so?” he said. “Instead of givin’ me lip, why don’t you show me the inside of your top lip. I want to see for myself.”
He was within his legal rights, particularly in Alabama, where young women used their SIN numbers like alternate IDs. There were countless phone apps that allowed you to scan in lip tattoos, and when he was trying to sell me on their many advantage, Mason said they were often used as a quicker way to get into bars.
I knew he was getting off on his little power game, but my opinion didn’t matter. In Los Angeles, i was an attorney, but in Alabama, he was the law. Reluctantly, I used my two thumbs to peel back my gums and reveal my unblemished inside lip.
Watching from the car, the black dog barked in disapproval, clearly agreeing with Mason that I needed a number. For a moment, I thought of saying that “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a smoking hot body must be in want of a Slave Identification Number.” However I suspected my literary witticisms would be as lost on the Hillbilly Deputy as they would be on his canine partner.
I swallowed hard, my eyes flicking to the gun at his side. "Look," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, "I don't have any ID, okay? But I don't need any. I'm a lawyer, and you don't have probable cause to stop me."
The Deputy’s bemused belly laugh echoed through the fields. "A lawyer, huh?" He drawled out the word, his eyes glinting with malicious amusement. “A real legal beagle, huh? You don't look like no lawyer I've ever seen in Alabama."
"I'm an attorney in Los Angeles," I said through gritted teeth, my indignation rising. "I graduated at the top of my class, and I aced the California bar exam." Even as the words left my mouth, I knew I’d made a mistake. I sounded like a fool, trying to impress this backwoods Deputy with my academic pedigree.
He took another step closer, "Is that so?" he said, his smile widening. "Well, in these here parts, Miss Legal Beagle, we got a different set of laws. In Alabama, slave hounds, they got a right to stop and sniff out any girl with slave stink." He leaned in, his breath hot and foul in my face. "They can tell when a woman's got that sweet, ripe scent of a runaway, and yer’ sassy mouth ayn’t matching the odor comin’ out of yer’ sassy pants.”
"That's ridiculous," I protested, trying to keep the tremble from my voice. "I'm not a slave. I'm an attorney, and you have no right to—"
The cop's smile grew wider, and he gestured to the barking dog. "Hush now, Miss Legal Beagle. In these parts, my police dog Blackie here's got more say in your legal status than you do. And he's telling me you're hiding something. Something in those tight pink booty pants, I reckon."
Clearly the Deputy saw me as a catch, an easy win he had already scored. He was having fun now, flicking away my defenses, all the time moving me closer to the edge. I was hiding something: the so-called slave stink from the most arousing 12 hours of my life. Now, the leftover stench from my nasty girl fantasies was betraying me, and leading to my doom.
The Deputy licked his lips, his eyes never leaving my crotch. "Let's have a little look-see, shall we?" Walking to his police cruiser he opened the back door. Blackie bounded out, eyes fixed on me, his nose twitching as he took in my scent.
Blackie was massive, his muscles rippling under his sleek black fur as he raced towards me. Time slowed to a crawl as I watched him, his eyes focused on the prize. The only sound was the thunderous beat of my own heart in my ears, a wild drum-line announcing my fate.
Unlike the Deputy, who had a badge printed on his shirt, Blackie had a badge around his neck. It glimmered in the morning light as he ran towards me.
Blackie slammed into me, his code nose tunneling into the crotch of my pink shorts, nearly lifting me off the ground. Blackie buried his nose in the search, snuffling and sniffing, and I could feel the heat of his breath through the thin fabric. The humiliation washed over me in a wave as I fell backwards onto the dirt road, Blackie’s nose never losing contact, pinning me in the dirt.
The cop's laughter grew louder, a cruel taunt in the stillness of the early morning. “Good boy, Blackie. Looks like we caught ourselves some runaway slave pussy," he said, his hand on the dog's head, stroking him like a pet. The Deputy ordered Blackie to “HOLD” and Blackie switched positions, putting one paw on my bare midriff and the other on the crotch, shifting his full weight onto me and locking me in the place. The Deputy looked down, his eyes meeting mine, the smug grin never leaving his face, resting the tip of his filthy boot on the side of my face to show his disrespect for me. ”Now, let's get down to business. Where'd you run from, girl?"
Blackie's paw remained firmly on my stomach, holding me in place, as the cop's questions rained down on me like a storm of accusations. "Why aren't you registered or branded?" His eyes narrowed, his smile turning into a sneer. "And where'd you steal those fancy clothes from?"
I remained silent, my jaw clenched with indignation. The dog's paws were a heavy weight, a symbol of the power dynamics at play. In this topsy-turvy rural world, Blackie was in charge, not me.
"You don't have the right to remain silent," the Deputy reminded me with a smirk, his eyes flicking to my barely covered breasts. "Because, as a slave girl, you don't have the right to anything at all. Not even those pretty pink clothes you stole.”
The Deputy retreated to his squad car, leaving Blackie to his hairy, drooling vigil over me. The dog's paw remained heavy on my crotch and stomach, his nails digging slightly into my skin, his doggie badge glimmering in the sunlight. Blackie looked down at me with a self-satisfied gaze, his tongue lolling out in a doggy grin that I wanted to wipe off with a swift kick.
The Deputy rummaged around in the trunk of his car, his belly jiggling with every move he made. "Having fun, boy?" he called out. The dog's tail wagged happily. "Good. Keep that pussy pinned." He chuckled to himself, the sound grating on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. I gritted my teeth, refusing to give Blackie the satisfaction of seeing me beg like a dog.
I despised the furry black cop with every fiber of my being. Back in LA, I was an attorney, and I would have had his balls snipped off at the first sign of disrespect. But here, in the sticks of rural Alabama, Blackie was the one with the badge. Like his owner, he enjoyed humiliating me, and it was clear that he knew exactly what he was doing.
The smiling officer returned, and handed me a clear plastic bag with the word "Evidence" scrawled on it in thick, black letters. "Everything goes in there," he instructed, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Shoes, socks, shorts, bra, panties... everything. I want you slave stripped, and birthday bare” The Deputy stepped back, giving me space to undress, but his gaze remained glued to my body, a silent challenge.
Blackie's paws lifted from my body, and the dog sat back, his tail thumping against the ground with happiness. “Get busy, girl. Everything off. Now.” Blackie barked his approval.
Blackie might not have been to law school, but he knew what he liked. The humiliation of being made to strip naked in front of the two hairy cops was almost too much to bear, but it wasn’t like I had any choice. Besides, it excited me. I’d had strip search fantasies for years, and had often thought of being strip searched when I flashed my badge and wandered past security everyday in the courthouse. Stripping naked roadside for some Deputy with a badge printed on his shirt was unspeakably humiliating, and unspeakably hot. I decided to play their game, for a little longer, at least.
With trembling hands, I untied my shoelaces, bending down to place them in the bag. My heart hammered in my chest, my breath coming in shallow gasps as I tried to ignore the cold stare of the two badged animals staring at me.
I hopped on one foot, my legs shaking, and began to peel off my sock. The cool air hit my skin, and I couldn't help but shiver. The cop's smile grew wider as he watched, his eyes feasting on every inch of my exposed flesh.
"Everything," he repeated, his voice a lazy drawl that grated on my nerves. Blackie rose and moved in closer, before sitting down, eager to get a better look. I couldn't believe I was obeying the orders of a dog. But here I was, bending over, my pink shorts sliding down my legs. The cold air kissed my pussy, making my skin tingle.
The cop's eyes never left me as I untied the knot at the back of my sports bra. My heart raced, and I wondered if Blackie would still make me strip if the Deputy dropped dead from a heart attack. Probably.
With trembling fingers, I undid the knot, letting the fabric fall away from my breasts. They bounced slightly from the sudden freedom, and the cool air made my nipples tighten into hard peaks. Blackie's eyes widened, his tongue lolling out of his mouth in anticipation. The Deputy wolf-whistled, underscoring how much the two officers overseeing me are enjoyed their work.
The fabric of my panties stuck to my skin, damp from the remains of yesterday’s pussy slop, today’s excitement, and Blackie’s cold wet nose. I peeled them down my legs, trying to ignore the way their four eyes followed every movement. The dog's gaze was unwavering, his eyes locked onto the prized piece of evidence of my shameful slave girl status, the stinky crow's nest that Ma wouldn't touch, except with a coarse bristle brush.
As the panties hit the ground, Blackie’s ears perked up and he lowered his head to get a better look at my wet sex. I felt a fresh wave of humiliation wash over me as I surrendered my final garment to the open bag.
Without having to be told, Blackie yanked the bag out of my hand and ran to the squad car. Jumping up to stand on the passenger window sill he deposited every stitch of clothing onto the front seat, safely out of my slave girl reach.
As Blackie sprinted back to watch the show, the other Deputy approached with a cheap pair of plastic zip ties, the kind you might use to hold a bag of chips closed. He pulled my arms behind my back, the cold plastic biting into my skin as he secured them tightly. "Slaves don't need no fancy handcuffs. Slaves get zip ties, just like garbage.”
I winced, the plastic cutting into my skin. Blackie's eyes were glued to the scene, his tail thumping the ground in a staccato beat that matched the racing of my heart. "Why's he so happy?" I asked.
The Deputy chuckled, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and something darker. “Blackie loves his work,” he said.
Ma thought my pussy was too dirty to touch, but clearly the Deputy didn’t agree. I gasped as he slid a finger inside of me. “Contraband search,” he explained. “Don’t squirm, slave girl. Just relax and enjoy it.”
The worst part of it was I did enjoy it. I was aching for release, and his fat little fingers set me on fire. I pushed back on his hand. He laughed, and pulled his hand out, cleaning my pussy slop onto my hair.
The Deputy roughly pushed me towards the cruise, squeezing my butt. He stopped when he spotted the Huckleberry Farm crest stamped onto my naked ass.
His eyes widened with recognition, and his grip loosened slightly. "The Huckleberry's, eh?" he said, his tone shifting from predatory to something else entirely.
"Mason Huckleberry is my boyfriend," I explained, my voice shaking. "I'm visiting for Thanksgiving.”
The Deputy's grip loosened. "Mason?" He released me and takes a step back, eyeing the stamp on my butt. "Well, I'll be damned. Mason and I go way back. Smart little bastard. He helped me get out of High School even though he was till in 6th grade.”
For the first time since I had seen the Deputy, I smiled. Being 8 or 9 grade levels ahead was totally on brand for my clever boyfriend. The Deputy continued. “We used to fish together when we were just knee-high to a grasshopper." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Why didn't you tell me you belonged to Mason?"
"Because I don't belong to anyone," I replied tartly, my pride stinging. "And you didn't ask during your ‘investigation’”.
Deputy Dumbo seemed to consider my words before releasing his grip on me, his gaze lingering on the Huckleberry crest. His perpetual leer faded to something more thoughtful. "Well, I'll be," he murmured. "Mason's got himself a feisty one, hasn't he?"
"He sure fucking does," I agreed. Take these cuffs off.”
Nothing in Alabama is quick, and this Deputy sure wasn’t. “I got no idea why Mason brought his slave slut to Thanksgiving, or stamped yer’ ass instead of branding it, or why he hasn’t registered you yet, but you any’t goin’ nowhere, nohow, till Blackie and I figure this out.”
Blackie barked twice in agreement. I rolled my eyes, knowing that the officer with four legs could probably figure things out faster than the officer with two legs.
Lazily, Deputy Dumbo sauntered to his car and opened the door, leaning in to grab his cell phone, looking confused as he tried to find the phone number.
The rumble of an engine brought me back to reality, and I watched in horror as a Ford F150 truck appeared over the horizon, barreling toward us like a stampede. Instinctively, I tried to move my hands to cover my naked body, jerking the zip ties painfully into my wrist.
“No hurry, I’m just standing out here on the road buck naked with my hands cuffed behind me,” I said, calling out to the Deputy, who was still trying to figure out how to get Mason’s number. I gave him Mason’s number (duh!) and he actually managed to dial the phone without Blackie’s help.
Blackie got up, and took a slow, appraising walk around me, in a way reminiscent of the way the Deputy had sized me up during the first stop. Seeming to approve, he stopped and sat down in front of me, his piercing eyes never leaving my naked body.
"Mason Huckleberry, you picking up?" the Deputy drawled into the phone, his eyes flicking back to me. "Hey, this is Sammy Joe from the Sheriff's Department. Ya’ll remember me, now that yer’ a fancy big city lawyer?”
Straining to hear, I thought I heard Mason laugh on the other end of the phone. Maybe it was my desperate imagination. There was a pause as the Deputy listened to my boyfriend’s response.
I could hear nothing of what Mason was saying.
The Deputy opened the door and sat on the seat of his squad car, keeping his feet on the ground while still making himself mighty comfortable. ”Well, ya know," he drawled, leaning back in the driver’s seat of his old squad car. "Same ol’ same ol’ here in the sticks. Still working for the Sheriff’s Department, livin’ the dream. How about you? You doing okay up there in the big city?”
The truck was close enough that they spotted me, and the hooting and hollering and catcalling began. There were two men in the truck cabin, and another sitting on the truck bed, which I guess was allowed here? The driver was an older, but the young men were in their twenties. It looked like a father taking his sons into town. Seeing the squad car, and a naked girl, they slowed. This was the sort of show you didn’t want to have a ticket for.
Again, my wrists instinctively jerked against my fucking Dollar Store garbage bag ties. Without even thinking, I looked around for something to cover myself, before remembering that Blackie had already unhelpfully deposited the EVIDENCE of every single stitch I was wearing into the front seat of the Deputy’s squad car.
I took a tiny step to the left, seeing if I could move behind the squad car. Blackie bared his teeth and growled ferociously, and I immediately stepped back. I could almost see his little doggie brain working.
“HEEL, little slave girl. You stand right there, with your tits and pussy on display, for the good old boys to see.”
“That’s it, Blackie!” one the yokels in the back shouted out. “Don’t let her hide her kitty!”
Their catcalls pierced the silence, a cacophony of lewd comments that made me cringe. "Nice headlights!" one yelled, gesturing at my breasts. "Looks like she needs a good fuck!" added another.
The father didn’t say anything, but he slowed the car to a dusty crawl, letting his boys have their fun.
“Hey, Sammy Joe! Blackie caught ya’ some slave snatch?”
Sammy Joe waved at them, smiling, but continued his chat with Mason.
“Rug’s a bit darker than the drapes.”
“Yeah, but she’s still a natural golden tail.”
“That is one sweet little honey pot.”
“Time for a quick suck, darlin?”
“Can ya’ imagine her chained to the side of the barn, waitin’ for a fuck?”
“Yeah, buy ‘er Pa, and we’ll finish our chores faster.”
The old man smiled, but said nothing.
Their words stung, but the raw, primal nature of their appraisal of my naked body sent a shiver of excitement down my spine and straight into my pussy. In LA, I could have had them arrested for “Lewd and Dissolute Conduct.” The penalty could have been six months in jail and a $1,000 fine, and I would have gone for the max.
For an instant, I was in my sharp blue business suit, arguing before the Judge I was clerking for. He was impressed, as the old codgers always were, that a young woman so young and beautiful could also be so intelligent and bold.
“Given the egregious nature of their conduct, your Honor, i don’t think the fine is enough. I think a stay in the county jail is necessary for the state to demonstrate that this conduct will not be tolerated. Perhaps they can use the time to meditate on what it feels like to be sexually harassed.”
No doubt about it, those two pretty boys would be plenty popular in the jail. I hoped they liked sucking on things.
Their voices ended my sweet fantasy and brought me back to my bitter reality. “She’s squeezing her thighs together. I think she’s juicing!”
“Yeah, I hope they auction her off at the courthouse. I wouldn’t mind a piece of that tail.”
As the truck pulled away, dust billowing in its wake, I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of liberation. My body was exposed and vulnerable, but in a way that was purely sexual and devoid of the complex social dynamics that had bound me at the farmhouse. Here, in this moment, I was free to be the object of their desire without the weight of their expectations or judgment. In an Orwellian way, slavery was freedom.
I turned my attention back to the Deputy, hoping that by now some progress had been made. It was a futile dream.
“No, they keep raising the prices for the fishing licensed up at Beer Creek. A lot of the sportin’ goods stores are pissed off, because they get an earful when they tell people what the price is. Yeah, I know inflation, but it don’t make no sense to me. You tellin’ me the fish are part of some fuckin’ supply chain?”
I couldn’t believe what was happening. I stood slave naked for the next 20 minutes while my boyfriend and the dumbest Deputy in Alabama talked about fishin’, the renovations on the historic courthouse, the rice farmers complaints about runoff, and the miracle that was Mason’s pickup truck running after all these years although it looked like it was about to fall apart.
Another truck went by. There was just one teenager in it, about 19, who said nothing, but waved at the Deputy, who waved back. His truck seemed to get caught in a black hole, going ever slower as he approached my naked body. As he grinned at me, I saw he had a missing tooth. No dental plan where he worked, I guessed.
His appraisal of my body was long, appreciative, and genuine. Again, i felt the familiar buzz in my pussy. I realized that the turn on was that like the other idiots in this town, this toothless hillbilly had no idea who I was. He actually thought I was a slave girl, which was making me juice as if I were what he beheld. I squeezed my thighs together, relishing my naughty excitement as I thought about what he’d do to me out in the barn.
At last, the conversation meandered back to the point. “So what do ‘ya want me to do with this girlfriend of yers? I can’t leave ‘er stand-in’ out here buck naked all day, much as everybody would enjoy it.”
I was stunned. I had assumed that all of the Andy Griffith show bullshit that I had been listening to for the last 20 minutes was the result of the Deputy’s failure to explain the gravity of the situation. I was wrong. Mason knew that I was naked, and cuffed, and exposed, and yet he still shot the breeze as if nothing was up. Bastard!
"Yeah, she's a spitfire all right," the Deputy agreed. "But she's got that slave stink on her. Ripe between the legs. Don't have no SIN or no brand, but I can fix that in a jiffy!"
My bottom cheeks clenched, as I knew what fixing my lack of a brand "in a jiffy” would entail.
“She’s slave hot, no question about that. Blackie’s never wrong ‘bout these things. Mason, I can run her over to the courthouse first thing Monday, get her into Judge Jenkin’s courtroom so he can sign her enslavement papers. Shouldn’t take long, with Blackie’s testimony.”
Blackie’s testimony? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My education, law license, and money meant nothing. My fate rested in Blackie’s furry paws, and on Monday I’d be sentenced to the slave collar by another witness in a collar, a doggie deposition.
I wondered if Blackie would put his paw on The Bible before he stuck his nose in my crotch.
The Deputy’s tone was casual, as if my enslavement was just another fishing license. ”It’s the first Monday of the month, so we can auction her off right there on the steps of the courthouse after lunch. We’re going to be sellin’ some huntin’ bows, a lawnmower, and a truck that’s way nicer than that shit heap you drive around, if you wanna come take a look.”
The Deputy talked about me as if I wasn’t there. “The Sheriff knows his business, and he’ll get a good price for her. He’ll make the little Yankee spread her legs and squat real low right on the courthouse landing, so her pussy opens up nice and drips on the steps. Drip, drip, drip! Then’ll he’ll make her lick it up!” The Deputy laughed, but nothing about the cruelty in his eyes made me think he was joking.
There was a pause as I wanted for Mason to rescue me. He was my lifeline, my only escape from this barnyard bullshit.
I stared at Blackie. Blackie stared back.
The Deputy laughed. “Yeah, she’s meaner than a raccoon in dumpster full of chili dogs. But her slave stink and drippy pussy, we might fetch enough to fix up that dumpster of a truck yer’ driving, ha-ha.”
I can’t believe what I was hearing. My stomach twists with anxiety, my mind raced with the horror of being sold with a lawnmower.
The Limestone County Courthouse was a a modest, two story neoclassical building with limestone steps leading up to a second story entrance. It had four Corinthian columns, a clock in the pediment, and a weather vane on the top of the copper dome for Doc Brown to attach his lightening rod to.
During Thanksgiving dinner I had mentioned that I loved historic old courthouses only to have Cletus inform me that “the Fucking Yankees burned the first one down during the War of Northern Aggression.” Everyone glared at me, until Mason cut the tension by joking that “Well, Jenny did lead the brigade that started the fire, and she was drunk on account of never havin’ drunk our Alabama Slammer Whiskey.”
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly. “Maybe I can sell some of Ma’s gravy on the courthouse steps, to help out with the building fund.”
Everyone laughed as I deftly shifted the topic back to Ma’s awesome gravy. I had wanted to visit the courthouse, and see Judge Horton’s historic courtroom. Now I would be seeing it not as a tourist, or as a lawyer, but as a defendant standing in front of some redneck Southern Judge.
I had been worried about going into the courthouse in my running clothes. After all, I didn’t want to be disrespectful of the court. For my Monday appearance, clothes wouldn’t be a problem. I’d be marched into court slave naked. I imagined the Judge smiling down on me, licking his lips as he looked me over. Would the Judge get a commission on my sale, too? I wondered if he’d watch my auction, or maybe bid on me.
I had never imagined when I had driven past the courthouse on Thursday that 96 hours later I would be on the courthouse steps, slave naked, showing famers and yokels and locals wandering in-and-out to get their driver’s licenses, my asshole and pussy as I bent and spread and squatted on the limestone staircase landing.
Things got worse. “Naw, we’ll just keep her at the jail. We don’t put slaves in the cells. We kennel ‘em with the slave hounds. We’ll keep her hands zipped up behind her so she don’t hurt the dogs none.”
Blackie barked his approval. Damn, that dog was smart. Too smart.
The silence stretches taut like a bowstring, as I awaited Mason’s verdict. The only sound was a distant, humming. Finally I could take it no more.
“Let me talk to Mason,” I said, taking a step towards the Deputy.
In a moment, Blackie cut me off, teeth bared, growling. Mason was my only way out of Blackie’s kennel, but if I made one more step I’d be dog food.
The Deputy ignored my futile attempt to grab my last lifeline. ”Uh-huh. Uh-huh" the Deputy said.
The suspense was unbearable! Blackie didnt mind.
After an interminable wait, the Sheriff’s Deputy finally spoke. "Look, Mason," he said, his voice oily with false camaraderie, "if you ain't sure what to do with her, we can always wait till Monday, and decide then. Auction her, and The Sheriff will get his commission. They call it poundage. I reckon he could swing a couple cases of Bud yer’ way for the trouble."
My stomach turned to ice. My LA condo was worth more than their courthouse. Would Mason really trade my pussy away for a case of beer? My body trembled with excitement at the thought, as I squeezed my thighs together.
Blackie’s eyes bore into my soul. “That’s right, slave girl. I’ll give you a quick run through in front of the judge. Then we’ll take you out on the steps, and you can squat real pretty for everyone to see. You won’t get away. Blackie will be there, to watch the whole thing."
"All right, I'll holler at ya' later. Don't forget about the fishin'" the Deputy said.
With a grin, he ended the call and turned back to me, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of excitement and greed as he sauntered back. "Looks like you're staying with us for the weekend, darlin’.”
The Deputy stopped in front of me, taking a moment to savor my fear as he looked me up-and-down. “It’s traditional for a new captured slave girl to give her arresting officers a slave kiss to thank them for their great customer service. Kneel.”
I got down on my knees as gracefully as I could with my hands zipped behind my back. I watched as the fat little Deputy unzipped his brown uniform trousers and fished out his fat little pecker, already hard in anticipation of the tip I was about to give.
“Get busy, girl,” he ordered. “We can’t wait all day.”
Blackie barked his approval.
