We pulled into the dirt parking lot slowly, Mason driving with his crappy old truck with his usual palm-the-wheel ease, as if taking me to the livestock market to get my Slave Identification Number was just another errand. The truck rattled like it might fall apart any second, and my cage slid a little with every bump, but he slowly ambled forward, singing alone with some bullshit hillbilly slave girl song, without a care in the world.
She said I weren’t a man, until she got my brand.
She said I was a wussy, until I sold her pussy.
I was wondering if the livestock yard would even be open on Black Friday, but much to my surprise the dirt parking lot was packed. Makeshift stalls had popped up on the fringes of the lot and in the enormous open field next to the main building. There were tables, chairs, and makeshift booths setup in two sort-of rows that formed a Rodeo drive of hillbilly trash along the length of the lot.
Mason turned the radio down, and my tortured ears were soon treated to a cacophony of market place sounds: chatter, more country music, haggling, and the sound of livestock off in the not-far-enough distance.
I watched through the side of my dog carrier as people in jeans and plaid shirts were browsing through piles of junk. There was a stack of old couches—worn, mismatched, some with stains, others with broken legs. There were piles of old farm tools, in case you needed a wrench sized for the Incredible Hulk. Everything looked crusty, dirty, and oily, including the people. If this were a flea market in LA, someone would’ve called the health department. But in Alabama, this was Black Friday at its finest.
There were MAGA hats and political paintings and statues mixed in with religious icons, as if it were all the same thing. There were lots of politically incorrect paintings of buxom women with shotguns and beer, and loads of bric-a-brac with logos from the University of Alabama, Athens University, and a bunch of hillbilly colleges that nobody at UCLA had ever heard of, or would laugh about if they did.
There was a section of slave girl art, including several pictures of red hatted men standing over naked, chained blue state girls with the symbols of their liberal elitism piled up like discarded garbage. I recognized the symbols - elitist school hats, political buttons, and a pink top that looked like the top I had been wearing and which was now in the evidence bag of the Deputy’s squad car. The naked blonde women in these pictures had the same stupid, stunned, deer-in-the-headlights expression that I had worn since I was stripped, and I wondered if the tacky, cartoon art wasn’t a time portal glimpse of my future self.
There were old bikes of various sizes, duck decoys, guns that had no business being sold this way, homemade jams and jellies, and cheap, tacky figurines that stared back at me with painted, vacant eyes. Nobody in LA would have called this “art”, but I guess it’s what they had.
I let my gaze wander over the scene—people yelling back and forth across the stalls, a woman in a red plaid dress picking through a stack of mismatched dishes. It was busy, but somehow, it didn’t feel urgent. No one seemed particularly intent on buying anything. It was like the whole day was less about making a purchase and more about catching up with neighbors, swapping stories, and maybe getting a few laughs in.
There was a weird kind of charm to it, I supposed—if you squinted hard enough. The smell of hot dogs and burgers reached me as we passed a couple of grills, thick smoke hanging in the air, the scent of cheap meat wafting on the breeze. I was hungry, and desperately thirsty, and I poked my nose through the bars of my cage trying to sniff out the source, like a dog on the hunt.
Finally, I saw a little stand with a hand-painted sign that read “Lemonade—50 cents!" Next to it, an ice cream truck was blasting SWEET HOME ALABAMA. They probably played it all day, on loop.
“They’re selling lemonade for 50 cents!” I shouted to Mason, hoping he would stop.
“You don’t have 50 cents, slave girl!” he chuckled.
As stupid as it sounds, my hands jerked against my plastic zip tie cuffs to reach for my purse. I had no purse, of course, nor anything else. I was absolutely buck naked riding in a dog cage in the back of a pickup truck that should have been scrapped years ago. Money, and all of the options that it brings, were no longer a part of my life.
There were makeshift carnival games — the typical baseball throws and basketball hoop tests of skill. But there was also an archery contest, and a makeshift shooting range. A man was demonstrating his lariat skills, while, more ominously, another was entertaining a small crowd with a bullwhip, snapping branches off trees.
“Bet you’ve never seen anything like this before, huh?” Mason shouted over his shoulder, his voice all Southern drawl. I could barely hear him over the rumble of the truck and the chatter of the crowd, but I caught the amused tone in his voice.
“What is all this shit? Did the Wallmart burn down?” I shouted back.
“Better lose that elitist attitude, California girl,” he reminded me. “You ayn’t holding’ the whip no more.” My butt cheeks clenched at a warning that was more than a metaphor.
I had become so used to my nudity, and was so fascinated staring at the people, that I hadn’t really noticed the people looking back at me. In my present pose, all of rural Alabama had an excellent side view of a caged blonde slave girl with disheveled hair and dried semen on her face.
For the most part, they liked what the saw. To account for the people wandering through the parking lot, Mason was inching along, which made me into a sort of slave girl parade float, and gave those who cared to look had plenty of time to do so. Most of the people smiled, either appreciative of my naked body or amused by my predicament. A few of the older, church lady types looked disgusted, and I could hardly blame them. In my social set in LA, there was precious little sympathy for slave girls, who were viewed as home-wrecking, bimbo sluts who got what the deserved, even if the institution itself was wrong. Hate the sin, hate the sinner, hate the victim, too.
I noticed a few of the more appreciative men changed positions to get a view of my bare bottom when I passed them. I got a few wolf whistles, which pleased me. I heard two voices behind me.
“I can’t believe an ass like that isn’t branded.”
“Patience, son. Why do you think she’s here?”
I wanted to tell them to fuck off, but remembered Mason’s stern warning that I wasn’t holding the whip hand. With my inherited wealth and sterling credentials, I lived in a rarified world far about the white trash of rural Alabama, a state which was nearly dead last in economic opportunity. But now, every single person in this shit-hole owned more than I did. Plus, I wasn’t totally sure the man was wrong.
Off to the side, running around on a patch of dirt, were some of the locals playing touch football. They had no helmets, no pads, just raggedy T-shirts and a lot of energy. It felt like I’d stepped into a completely different world—one where social media didn’t exist, and people didn’t care about what was trending. It was interesting, seeing how Mason grew up. I’m not sure I didn’t like it better.
Mason stopped the truck to let an old woman with her walker very slowly make her way across the lot. A burly man in overalls with a bushy beard sauntered over, a toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth. He leaned down to peer into the cage, his eyes appraising my body in a way that made me feel like a prize cow at a county fair. "Mason," he drawled, spitting a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground, "I didn't know you were bringing in hot pussy today." His leer was unmistakable, and I felt a flush of humiliation heat my cheeks.
Mason chuckled, his hand casually resting on the cage door. "Just getting her numbered & graded,” he said with a shrug. "Got to know what she's worth, right?" His voice was light, teasing, but I knew he was enjoying his power over me more than he should. The idea of being sold, even as a tease, sent a bolt of fear through me, and I couldn't help but whimper softly as I shifted in my cage.
The burly man nodded, and eyed me up and down like I was a piece of prime real estate. "Looks like a fine specimen," he said, his gaze lingering on my breasts. “Good cocksucker from the look of it.”
I shot him a look. I didn’t want the splooge on my face, but I couldn’t wipe it off. Fat old fucker! I hope he choked on his toothpick.
He frowned at my glare. “She should fetch a good price… if she behaves." My heart hammered in my chest as he spoke, the reality of the situation hitting hard. The casualness of his threat, and the way they discussed my fate as if Mason were selling his shitty old truck made my pussy spasm.
Mason laughed, a deep, rich sound that seemed to echo in the dusty air. “Behave? That's what the whip is for," he said, his voice filled with a dark amusement that sent a shiver down my spine.
“If you wanna save yer’self a bit of money, I’ll buy her direct,” the burley man offered. “I don’t need no grader to tell me what I wanna fuck.” Both men laughed. I was horrified at the thought that Mason could actually sell me right off the back of his shitty truck like I was old farm tool, but being wanted that way, even by Hillbilly Santa, turned me on.
The old woman and her walker finally passed. Mason promised he’d “keep his offer in mind,” much to my dismay. Again, I was reduced to hoping that he was kidding.
The truck inched forward, the crowd seemingly oblivious to the human cargo being paraded through their midst. The anticipation was almost unbearable, my body a taut wire of need and trepidation.
Strangely, my sexual excitement only grew as I took in the mundane scene around us. People laughing, playing Frisbee with their dogs, and grilling hotdogs and hamburgers filled the air with the scent of charcoal and the sizzle of meat. Yet, here I was, naked and caged, being led through a door where I might never return. The juxtaposition of their carefree festivities with my possible sale excited me all the more.
I watched as the people milled about, laughing and bargaining over old furniture with the same enthusiasm as if they were buying a Rembrandt. A couple of men in faded tractor caps were deep in conversation about the rising cost of fertilizer and the government's indifference to their plight, while a woman with a flowered hat complained about the popcorn being too salty. It was just another Black Friday in rural Alabama, a chance to catch up with the neighbors, and maybe pickup a bargain.
Didn’t they know what was happening to me? Did they have any idea who I was? They didn’t not. The casual indifference of the crowd only heightened my sense of degradation. To them, I was just another animal being brought to market, something to be bought and sold without a second thought.
As we slowly drove past the stalls, I saw a truck ahead of us unloading cows—real, live cows, who seemed about as unimpressed with the whole situation as the rest of the crowd. A couple of men in their twenties were watching the action, and and a couple of older women were leaning on the fence, gossiping and laughing.
The auction barn itself—a nondescript, one-story building — looked older than I was. The paint was chipped, the windows cracked, and there were no flashy signs or fancy doors to make it stand out. The only indication it was important was the handful of people wandering in and out of the front door, their faces a mix of purpose and indifference.
As we moved slowly through the lot, I looked through my bars at the people, and a few of the men looked back. I got less attention than I was expecting, actually, given that I was a naked woman in a dog cage. One more naked slave girl, even a cute one with splooge on her face, didn’t mean much.
I noticed a small group of women had dressed up for the occasion. They reminded me of my own friends—women who made a sport of looking effortlessly put together, even if it meant spending an hour in hair and makeup before stepping out the door. I was used to them—used to the glossy smiles and the way they talked loudly, just a little too loudly, to make sure everyone around them heard what they had to say.
When my friends and I went to the Futurity Horse Show back in LA, we never cared about the horses. Not really. We went because it was a place to see and be seen. The event was practically a fashion show, with people flocking to the bleachers just to show off their latest designer clothes and gossip about who was dating who, who’d broken up, and who was making a fool of themselves. George Clooney is at the bar! Sarah Jessica Parker’s wearing a vintage Gucci! Have you heard about Reese Witherspoon’s new project? I didn’t know much about horses, but I knew all about the celebrities, the brands, and how to make an entrance. And the people around me? They were there for the same reasons. To be seen.
The women here weren’t exactly celebrities—at least not in the way I was used to. Their chatter wasn’t about Hollywood gossip or real estate deals, but something else: who got drunk on Saturday, which farm boys had grown into hunks, and the latest on the best bargains at the flea market. It was like a whole different world, but the energy was the same.
The building was about 1 1/2 stories of corrugated steel, rusted in few parts. It was larger than it looked, for it had several extensions built in back, in a place where building out was much cheaper than building up.
Mason finally turned off the engine, which made it easier to communicate.
“Is that where they’re holding the auction?” I asked, shouting from my cage. It didn’t look like much.
“Yeah,” Mason said, not looking at it. “But honestly? Today people come for the flea market and the barbecue. The auction’s just a side show.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yup.” He slowed the truck to a crawl. “I mean, folks like to look at the cows, maybe bid on one or two, but it’s more about getting together. Socializing. The shopping’s just for fun.”
Looking around, I knew Mason was right. I began to see the charm of it all. Sure, it was chaotic. Sure, it was a little rough around the edges. But there was a certain hillbilly charm in how unpolished everything was.
At a stall with worthless commemorative plates, I spotted a young woman in a cowboy boots and hat, a stylish denim shirt with country girl fringe, Daisy Duke shorts. Like me, she was blonde, but her hair was in curls, and she was wearing bright red lipsticks. She was rocking her Daisy Dukes, and in truth it was a bit like a trashy country girl version of me. Catching sight of me, she turned her head sideways, making her evaluation, then smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile, it was the smile of a girl who saw me as opportunity to have some fun.
The curly hair blonde ended the high stakes negotiation over the tacky Thomas Kincaid ripoff plate, and made a beeline to me, a playful glint in her eye.
"Well, I'll be," she said, her voice carrying the sweetness of a Southern drawl. She sauntered over, her high heels sinking slightly into the dirt. "Look what we've got here." She leaned against the side of the truck, peering into my cage with a twinkle in her eye. “Fresh tail. Where’re y’all from, sugar?"
Her question hung in the air, a stark reminder of the world outside the farm, a world where people didn't buy and sell human beings like livestock. "Los Angeles," I murmured, trying to keep my voice steady.
Her eyes widened, a spark of something akin to excitement flashing across her face. "Well, I'll be chicken-plucked,” she drawled, her smile growing even wider. "You're a long way from La-La land, ain't ya?"
I certainly was, and I nodded, my throat dry with nerves. I could tell she was laying on the Alabama twang thick and heavy, enjoying her power over the naked, caged Yankee. The woman's laughter tinkled in the air, and she leaned closer, her perfume wafting into the cage—a bouquet of sweet flowers that seemed utterly out of place amidst the farm's earthy scents. "What brings you to our little neck of the woods?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.
"I'm just here to get a SIN number," I said, swallowing hard, and trying to sound in control.
The woman's smile remained in place, but her eyes grew shrewd. "A SIN number, you say? You don't have one already, darling?"
"They don't do that sort of thing in LA," I replied, trying to keep the tremble from my voice. "At least, the wealthy girls don't."
The woman's smile grew cold, her eyes narrowing into slits. I'd obviously hit a nerve with my careless remark, and I realized too late that I might have just insulted her by pointing out that she was from a lower caste than the slave girl in the cage.
"I-I didn't mean to imply..." I stuttered, desperately trying to backpedal. “I know country folk - I mean, rural American girls…” But my sociological analysis was too late. The damage had been done, and “country folk” wasn't making things better. She didn't say a word, but her silence was deafening. Instead, she leaned closer to the cage, her eyes traveling up and down my naked body, appraising me. I could see the cogs turning in her mind, calculating my worth, determining if I was stock worth buying.
"You look quite fit," she said, her smile returning. "Strong legs. Are you a runner, sweetheart?"
Her question took me by surprise. "Yes," I replied, eager to connect on a human level, and be recognized for my hard work and accomplishments. "I was on the UCLA track team. Middle distance, mostly. Although I really excelled at steeplechase."
The woman's eyes lit up, and she leaned in closer. "Steeplechase, huh?" she said, her Southern accent thick with intrigue. "Now that's something you don't see every day. Is that the one where the girls slosh around in the mud, like pigs?”
"Yes, it's a race with water jumps and barriers," I explained, my voice gaining a bit of confidence. "You have to be strong, agile, and have good endurance. It's all about pushing through the pain and not letting anything stop you. I made it all the way up to the regionals.”
The woman nodded, her eyes still on my body. “Well shuck my corn," she said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. "But can y’all take orders, Miss UCLA?”
Remembering my role, I swallowed my pride. "Yes, Mistress," I said, my voice small and submissive. The word felt strange and yet somehow right on my tongue, under the circumstances. The curly haired blonde had a nice smile, but steel teeth. But something about playing this game with her excited me.
"Good girl," the woman said, her smile warming once more. Reaching into her pocket, she placed a sugar cube on the tip of her manicured fingers. It was shaped like a horse, and it was clear it was meant for animals, not humans. My stomach twisted, but I knew better than to refuse.
With my hands cuffed behind my back, I had to contort my body into an awkward position to get my mouth anywhere near the cube. I leaned my head to the side, my cheek pressing against the cold, unyielding metal of the cage, and stuck my tongue out. The cube was just out of reach, and she watched with amusement as I squirmed, my breasts swaying with the effort.
“Come on, girl, you can do it!” she teased.
Her friends, a pair of well-dressed brunettes with matching pearls and designer sunglasses, stepped closer, their eyes glittering with malicious delight. "Don't slobber on my fingers, now," the curly haired siren warned, her voice still sweet but with an underlying edge. Her friends giggled, their laughter echoing in my ears like a taunting chorus of harpies.
“Stick your snout through the bars,” one of the brunettes suggested. Turning my head, I stuck my nose and lips through the bars of the cage, pursing my lips outward. Laughing, the girl pulled the treat back to keep it just out of my reach.
As I strained to reach the sugar cube, my eyes fell upon the riding crop that hung from the blond girl’s belt. It was a shocking shade of pink, almost frivolous in its daintiness, yet the leather lash at the tip promised a sting that would be anything but playful. The sight of it made my pussy throb, and I couldn't help but imagine the feel of it slicing through the air, and the sound of it cracking against my backside. But for now, I needed that sugar cube.
Sticking my tongue out as far as it would go, I managed to attach it to the cube. It stuck, and with a slow, deliberate motion, I began to pull it back into my mouth, the sweetness coating my tongue as I drew it toward my gaping maw. The woman's eyes never left my face, a strange mix of amusement and something darker.
As the sugar cube touched my lips, I closed them around it, feeling a strange sense of victory despite the humiliation. I wasn’t sure what was in the cube, and wondered how different horse treats were from human treats. I didn’t care, reasoning that if I was going to be livestock, I might as well take enjoy the precious few perks the position offered. Famished, I chewed it, relishing the sweetness in a bitter day.
The woman's laughter filled the air, and her friends joined in, their eyes glinting with amusement. "Look at her," one of the brunettes said, her voice dripping with condescension. "So eager for a treat. She'll be easy to train."
The other brunette seemed less sure. She tilted her head to the side, eyeing me with a skeptical gaze. "But can she pull a pony cart?" she asked, her voice cool and calculating. "We've got a race coming up, and I don't want her to embarrass us by collapsing half way around the track."
The curly haired blonde, now identified as the potential buyer, took a moment to consider her friend's words. She reached for the pink riding crop attached to her belt, and detached with a practices ease. My eyes followed it as she brought it closer to my face, close enough for me to smell the leather of the wicked looking pink lashes at the tip. She hooked the crop under my chin, gently lifting it so that I was forced to look up at her. Her eyes searched mine, looking for any sign of defiance or fear.
“She has spirit," she said thoughtfully, her voice carrying the weight of a seasoned judge of pony girls. "A girl who can handle a piggy run through cold water with everyone watching would make a fine pony. It takes a certain kind of strength and endurance to run through water and mud, to leap over barriers without breaking stride. Endurance is just practice. And with her, that’ll be the fun part.”
Her smile was anything but friendly, but my pride got the better of me. "I've been running since Junior High" I said. "I don't care about running through mud, or in the rain. I'm a good jumper. I won't let you down."
The blonde with the riding crop tapped her chin, considering my words. "Is that so?" she said with a smirk. "You think you can handle the cart?" she asked.
"I've run the LA Marathon twice," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "And I've done it in under four hours both times."
The blonde's eyebrows shot up as she feigned being impressed. “Well paint my barn blue!” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Aren't you just full of surprises? But those carts can get heavy, pony girl. Particularly if all three of us are in it.”
My heart sank a little as the women laughed. I knew the curly haired blonde was playing with me, the way a cruel cat plays with a trapped mouse.
I nodded, my heart racing as I tried to keep up the façade of confidence. "I've been lifting weights and running since I was a teenager," I said, refusing to surrender my pride in my achievements. I was on the track team in UCLA. It’s way more competitive than anything in Alabama.”
It was prideful, if not a downright insult, but the blonde smirked as she ran the crop up and down the back of my legs, testing the tightness of my muscles like an experienced trader of pony girl flesh. "Well, well," she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "Looks like we've got ourselves a budding Secretariat here." She turned to her friends, who tittered in response.
“I think I’ll name you BLUE STATE”, she said, her voice a cruel, silky whisper. “You see, Blue State, we like to bet on the races here, and a pretty little thing like you, with your fancy marathon times and your fancy LA life, would be quite the novelty. I think the folks would get a real kick out of watching you run your heart out, pulling that cart with your teeth clenched around the bit, nostrils flaring, the pony whip cracking as you race for the finish line. Knowing your hot shit from UCLA would make it all the sweeter.”
Her friends laughter, and the fear in my eyes, only spurred her on.
Reaching into her fringe pocket she pulled out a silver dollar sized branding head, a T with little curls on the tip. “I’ll even let you wear my exclusive Taylor brand on that perky little ass of yours.”
The sheer malevolence dripping from her blonde curls was overwhelming. The glint in her eye proved that this was her action plan, and not just a way to terrify me.
“I think she’s gonna pee herself,” one of the brown haired harpies said.
In truth, I was not only thirsty, but I was desperate too pee as well. The cage Mason had put me in had no drain, and as I didn’t want to kneel in my own pee as I was brought in, I was now struggling to hold back the dam even as dehydration dried my bones.
As the women chuckled, I heard Mason's voice cut through the air, a sudden and unwelcome interruption. "Taylor, is that you?" he called out, his voice booming. "I haven't seen you in a heap of Sundays!"
A blush crept up my neck as I recognized the name. I realized the woman who had been evaluating me was Taylor, Mason's ex-girlfriend. Taylor was the one that Ma thought got away, the one that Mason dumped when he went to school in LA, promising to return for her, but leaving her behind for me. The curly haired blonde vixen who still texted him, and sent him sexy selfies. They were just friends, or so Mason told me.
I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t recognized her. I knew all about Mason’s pathetic, needy, begging ex, the Taylor trying too hard to look like a certain singer in her country era with her blonde curls and red lipstick.
I hadn’t recognized her because in LA, Taylor was no threat to me. Mason’s white trash ex was a minor annoyance, a joke. It was impossible for me to reconcile that pathetic, powerless Taylor with the curly haired blonde goddess who was threatening to race me under the crack of her adorable pink whip.
In LA, Taylor was barely worthy of my consideration. But in Alabama, and things were different. With the riding crop in her hand and a branding head in her pocket, this Taylor had the power to change my “era” forever.
Taylor’s face lit up like a neon sign at a truck stop when she saw Mason. She threw her arms wide open and Mason came toward her, grinning widely. They embraced, and for a moment, I was forgotten in the cage. Their hug was tight and familiar, the kind that spoke of a shared past and unspoken secrets. It was the kind of hug that made me feel like a forgotten toy, left behind in the dust of their memories.
It started as a hug, but Taylor had other plans. As she pulled back from the embrace, she leaned in and pressed her lips against Mason's. It was a kiss that lingered, filled with the kind of heat that could only come from a long-simmering resentment or a white-hot passion that hadn't been fully extinguished. I watched, my heart racing, as their mouths moved against each other's, the sugar on her lips tastier than the sugar on mine.
Mason broke away, but his eyes never left Taylor's, not even to glance at me, the naked girl in the cage. Eyes darting back and forth, they talked about old times, their voices filled with the kind of ease that comes from shared history. I heard him mention his new job, his new condo in the city, and all the excitement that came with it. Yet, not once did he mention me. I was invisible, a silent witness to their rapidly rekindling connection.
Taylor spoke of her life at the farm, her voice laced with boredom and a hint of resentment. "Racing pony girls," she said with a sigh, "It's all Daddy lets me do that's fun around here. But I've been itching to get out, maybe go to LA for a few months. Maybe we could find a stable. I remember when you liked to ride all night,” she teased, running her hand over her chest. I waited for Mason to stop her, to cut her off, to tell her that he was involved. He did not.
Taylor shot Mason a look that was both sexy and calculating. “If I came to LA, would you be my cowboy again? Would you be there to give me ride, and show me the sights?"
Mason's eyes lit up, his smile growing wider, but not once did he glance in my direction. "I'd love that," he said, his voice thick with enthusiasm. "You know I've got that condo in the city. fabulous views!”
No, I had a condo in the city. Mason was my live-in. Suddenly, that didn’t seem to matter.
Taylor's eyes gleamed with excitement, and she leaned closer, her hand brushing against his arm. "That sounds like so much fun," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I've always wanted to see the Hollywood sign and walk the Walk of Fame. And maybe go to one of those fancy parties. Maybe I could stay at your place for a few days."
Mason's smile grew wider, and he nodded eagerly. "Of course," he said, his voice filled with a promise that made my stomach drop. "You'd love it. There's so much to see and do. We could hit the beach, check out some art galleries, maybe even catch a Lakers game."
Taylor giggled, her hand playing with the leather lash of her riding crop. "Oh, you know how much I've missed the beach," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "And I just bought this new bikini. It's so tiny, it's practically illegal." She winked at Mason, and the tension in the air grew thick as I knew he was imagining her prancing around for his viewing pleasure. Bitch!
Mason leaned against the side of the truck, his gaze never leaving Taylor's. "Your crop's looking pretty," he said, his voice casual. “Look’s like Barbie’s riding crop,” he teased.
Taylor looked down at the pink riding crop in her hand, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "It's not just for show," she said, flicking the leather gently. "It's got quite the bite. Is this little filly for sale?" she said, sticking the crop through the bars to poke me in the ribs.
Mason's eyes snapped to me, a mix of surprise and amusement. "Well, I hadn't planned on it," he said, looking me over. "But for the right price, anything's possible.
Taylor's smile grew predatory as she took a step closer to the cage. She slid the pink riding crop through the bars, the leather tip coming to rest lightly on my bottom. "I really could use a strong runner," she said, her eyes never leaving mine. "Someone who won't tire out easily. Daddy says he'll buy me any pony I want, for Christmas. You name the price."
Mason's hand rested on the cage door, his thumb tracing a lazy circle on the metal. "How much are you thinking?" he asked, his tone casual.
”Oh, I'd make it worth your while," she murmured, her voice a siren's call that sent a shiver down my spine. “Enough to get a brand new truck for us to drive around in. I can give you anything you want, Mason. Anything.”
Mason smiled as she licked her ruby red lips.
Taylor ran the lash across my bare bottom as I banged my head on the top of the cage. "Plus, this rump is too pretty not to whip," she tittered.
The sound of a gruff man's voice cut through their flirtation like a hot knife through butter. "Mason!" he bellowed. "You two lovebirds done gawking? I've got a whole line of cattle to get through, and you're holding up the works!"
Mason's smile never faltered, but he gave Taylor's arm a gentle squeeze before turning to the man. "Sorry, Emmet," he called out. "Just catching up with an old friend."
Emmet, the burly man from earlier, grunted in response, his eyes lingering on Taylor's retreating figure before he nodded. "Just don't let her sweet talk you into giving away the goods before I can make an offer," he said, his voice gruff. "We've got a business to run here."
Mason chuckled, his hand still resting on the cage door. "You know Taylor," he said with a wink. “She always gets what she wants."
Taylor took the riding crop and gently tapped it against the bars of my cage, the leather thwacking with a sound that sent a shiver down my spine. She leaned in closer, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she whispered, "Your time has come, Blue State." She reached the lash out to me, letting it tickle the tip of my nose. "See ya’ real soon.”
I should have been afraid, but in that moment I suddenly felt a surge, as the power only a slave girl knows surged through me. Emmet wanted me, the Burley man wanted me, The Deputy wanted me, and Taylor wanted me.
“He’ll never want to fuck you as much as he wants me, sugar,” I purred, in a soft, silky whisper only she could hear. "Slave girls are always sexier.”
Taylor’s false smiled faded as she glared at me with undisguised rage. Turning to Mason, she said coldly, “I want her. Name your price.” None too pleased, Taylor turned, ass swinging in her Daisy Dukes, and walked away with her posse.
Mason chuckled, his eyes on Taylor's retreating backside. "Looks like you've made an impression," he said, his voice thick with amusement. “What did you say to her that got her hornets buzzing?”
I smiled up at him, “Just girl talk,” I said, pleased to keep him in the dark.
Mason laughed. ”Well, before we deal with Taylor, we got to get you tatted and graded. We can't have you going to a good home without knowing what you're worth, can we?”
The cage door swung open with a metallic screech, and I stepped out, my legs wobbly from the cramped space. The cold ground sent a shiver through me, and I realized just how much I'd been sweating from the heat and the fear. The zip-tie cuffs were still in place, the plastic biting into my wrists, but at least my legs could finally stretch.
As Mason helped me down from the truck, I couldn't help the anger that bubbled up inside me. "What the hell was that?" I demanded, my voice shaking with a mix of fear and indignation. "Why were you flirting with her?"
Mason's smile never wavered, his eyes still following Taylor's swaying hips as she disappeared into the crowd. "Oh, just old times' sake," he said, his tone dismissive. "No harm in that. Did you really want me to introduce you as my girlfriend?" he teased. “You saw how she treated you when she thought you were just some stupid slave snatch I collared in LA. If she knew you were my girlfriend, she’d probably reroute you to the slaughter house.”
I knew he was right, but that didn’t mean I was happy about it. “Why did you let fucking Taylor kiss you on the lips?”
His answer was an unapologetic shrug. “You’d better learn some manners, slave girl. Remember that fucking Taylor has the riding crop and you don’t,” he said flatly. “Now stretch out, and get back in character. Shit is about to get seriously real. Sure you want to do this?
“Yes, sir,” I said.
He looked at me, unsatisfied.
“Yes, Master,” I said, as my eyes examined my filthy brown feet.
Mason smiled as he watched me stretch the fatigue out of my limbs, enjoying my naked body. Looking around the cattle yard, I saw my limbering had drawn other male eyes as well. I told myself that I didn’t care. After all, I was pretending to be a slave girl, right?
Placing his hand on my shoulder, Mason led me forward. ”Taylor’s still around. You’re going to be my little secret, aren't you? I want everyone to think you’re just some hot slave pussy I picked up in LA. And I’m definitely going to keep your sale as an option on today’s menu. You’ll get better treatment if they think I might sell you.”
“Yes, Master,” I repeated, trying to please.
I knew he was right. It was easier to be just a thing, an object to be used and discarded, then to have to deal with the complexities of being a person with feelings and a past. If Taylor didn't see me as a threat to her relationship with Mason, then I'd be safer. The grader would treat me better if I were potential inventory. For the moment, I needed to be nameless slave gash, a stupid bimbo from LA Mason had talked into a slave registration. Fortunately, naked in a slave market, it wouldn’t be hard for me to play the part.
Emmet, the man “in charge” of this barnyard dump, welcomed Mason with a country twang. He was a fat old hick, and he eyed my naked body with a blatant appraisal that made me want to hide. His gaze was cold, professional, and I could tell he’d seen a lot of pussy in this yard. He was bad with a farm cap trying to hide it, with a flannel shirt and bib overalls stuffed with pens and the tools of his trade. His eyes lingered on my breasts and the patch of hair between my legs even as he spoke with Mason.
"Good to have you back, son," Emmet said, slapping Mason on the back. "How's the big city treating you?"
"It's different, that's for sure," Mason replied with a chuckle. "I sure do miss Alabama."
Their casual banter made me feel ever more isolated. I tried to stand as still as possible, my arms still cuffed behind my back with the plastic zip cuffs, while the men discussed the weather and the upcoming game between Auburn and The University of Alabama. My heart raced, the beat echoing in my ears louder than the sounds of the animals in the barn. Sweat trickled down my spine, making me feel sticky and vulnerable. I could feel the wetness between my legs growing as the two men gabbed about the unstoppable Crimson Tide.
“Pussy prices are up for the holidays, so you might want to lock in a price now,” he said, eying me up and down. “Plus, you don’t know what might happen with tariffs next year.”
“My friend Skeeter in Dallas says all the talk is just a negotiating ploy,” Mason replied. “He’s got this Aunt who is a genius trader at the CBOT, and she isn’t worried at all. Says country folk get scared, while city folk get rich.”
“Ayn’t that the truth,” he said.
“She’s actually thinking of starting up some kind of hedge fund that’s buying up livestock yards, so she can control the entire supply chain, from soup-to-nuts. You selling?” Mason said.
“If the price is right, I’d sell anything,” Emmet said, laughing. “That’s how this business goes. Just ask my daughter,” he added with a bitter laugh.
“Maybe I’ll invite Aunt CBOT down to take a look at your operation someday, make you rich,” he joked.
Emmet turned to me, his eyes raking over my naked form with a professional detachment that sent a shiver down my spine. “Or you can make me rich today. What’s the deal with this one?" he asked Mason. "Are you going to sell her?"
Mason looked at me, his expression unreadable. “Maybe. I'm just here to get her registered. California pussy” he explained.
Emmet nodded, as if “California pussy” explained everything there was to know about me.
Emmet’s nodded. “Nice ass,” he said, turning me for a better look. “You want her branded too?" His question sent a bolt of terror through my body, and I couldn't help but clench my butt cheeks. I knew from Thanksgiving dinner that branding girls was routine, and it was something they did all the time at Alabama livestock yards
Mason considered it for a moment, his gaze drifting to my bare ass. "Probably not," he said casually.
Emmet leaned in, his eyes lingering on my tight, round cheeks. "Ah, come on, son. It's Black Friday. We're offering a free branding with every registration. Quite a deal."
Mason's gaze met mine, a devilish glint in his eyes. "Well, now that's a bargain," he said, stroking his chin as if he were actually considering it. My heart raced.
"You'd be doing her a favor," Emmet said, eyeing my exposed bottom. "Gets 'em used to their place, ya know? They need a brand/to understand!“ he chuckled, playfully turning my terror into rhyme.
I bit my lip, my eyes locked on Mason, searching for some hint of what he might decide. His expression remained unreadable, a mask of calm that made my stomach flip.
I shook my head a little, signaling my displeasure. Mason frowned. I was supposed to be playing slave girl, and slave girls did not decide when or whether their asses would be branded.
Mason's gaze was intense, his eyes showing his displeasure with me. My jaw dropped when he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, metallic branding head, the H and half-circle of Huckleberry Farms glinting in the fading light. The innocuous disc that could mark me as being claimed, but could also make me a piece of the farm's rich history.
I couldn't believe he'd brought it. It was so...real. The brand was something he'd mentioned in passing, a part of the farm's culture, but here it was, in his hand, so close to me. My mind raced with fear and excitement.
Why did he bring it with him? Was he really going to do it?
Mason's smile grew as he handed the brand over to Emmet. "Keep it handy," he said casually. "Just in case.”
Mason's gaze never left my eyes, and I could see the power he wielded, the control he had over me in that moment. In the city, we were a modern couple, sharing a life and a condo, but here, in the rural heart of Alabama, the power dynamics shifted. Here, he was the alpha, and I was his to command. It was a stark contrast to my usual take-charge attitude, and the thrill of submission made my pussy throb.
Emmet held the branding head up to the light, turning it over in his rough, calloused hands. The H and half-circle of Huckleberry Farms glinted, a symbol of ownership that could, if Mason gave the word, be burned into my bottom forever. Emmet nodded approvingly. "It'd look real good on her," he said. "You'd be crazy not to take the deal, and have it professionally done. You only get one chance, you know."
Mason chuckled. "You're not wrong," he said, his voice low and filled with a hint of mischief? "But let's not get ahead of ourselves."
Emmet handed Mason a clipboard with a single page form and several carbons. "Just fill this out, son. It's all the standard stuff."
Mason took the clipboard with a chuckle. "You guys still using carbon paper?"
“Yup. Sometimes the old ways are the best. Press hard.”
One of my goals was to create a world different from The Big D, but world building takes time, as I keep thinking of new twists as I write. 