4th of July Slave Parade, Part Eight by Joe Doe

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The crowd grew denser as we approached Main Street, the heart of our little town. The heckling continued, the catcalls and whistles mixing with the laughter of bubble blowing and frisbee and the barking of dogs. "Looks like someone's got a leaky pipe," one man shouted, and I heard a chorus of snickers.

I knew him, although I didn’t remember his name. He was a plumber I'd hired to fix a leak in my bathroom. Now the “leaky pipe” was my pussy, and with my arms bound behind my back there was no way to hide it. I wanted to pretend it was sweat. I didn’t want anyone to see how turned on I was. But everyone with binoculars or good eyesight could see my juices dribbling down my thighs, and the hecklers weren’t going to let me pretend that I was anything but a Pleasure Slut with a hot, juicy gash on display for everyone to see.

Another man called out, "God Bless America, and God Bless Mrs. Hart's blue blood, white skin, and red face!"

Everyone laughed. Conscious of the slave monger on horseback, his whip dangling from his hand as he rode up and down our line, I obeyed instructions, keeping an idiotic bimbo grin on my face and facing front. But the crowd was on both sides of me, and I could hear them clearly, even as they talked about me like I was an object, an animal incapable of understanding human speech.

"If the little slut wants to BLUE me, I'll do it."

"I hope he puts her hot little snatch of hers on the block."

“I’d bid on her.”

“Fuck, I’d pay just to see her squat on top of that fancy ass, expensive gazebo of hers.”

“Yeah, I thought that was a waste of tax money, but I don’t mind getting my wallet out today.”

“Not for this quality of snatch.”

My cheeks burned with humiliation, but I kept smiling and jogging, my breasts bobbing in time with the beat of the marching band. The head monger had told us to keep our heads up and our bodies moving, so that's what I did. The steel collar was tight around my throat, the metal chain jerking me along with each bounce. Smile, smile, smile.

The crowd grew denser as we approached the corner of Main, the heart of our picturesque, historic downtown. The heat from their bodies and the sun above was almost unbearable. Sweat rolled down my back and between my breasts, mixing with the sunscreen that had been applied earlier. The smell of hot asphalt and BBQ filled the air, and I felt a strange mix of nausea and arousal as I listened to the taunts and vulgar conversations about my naked body.

"Lawyer lady don't look so fancy without her briefs."

"Nice ass.”

“Yeah, suns out, buns out.”

“Geez, with her shaved I can see EVERYTHING!”

“Clit’s out, tits out,” another voice laughed. I recognized the voice as Enzo, the owner of FOOD & WINE, a local bistro on Main Street. We had dined there a couple of weeks ago, and he always came over to chat and make a fuss over me, probably because I always bought his most expensive bottles of overpriced wine.

I had actually helped Enzo get an easement for street dining, and had successfully defended him against a couple of nuisance suits. My reward for supporting this greaseball and his fucking overpriced restaurant was his loudly noting that with my snatch shaved and my knees up, my pussy was indeed fully exposed and out to enjoy the parade.

His head waiter / fake sommelier, eager to suck up to the boss, agreed. “That is one juicy piece of slave meat.”

“The snooty ones are always the hottest, once you get them stripped down to the buff,” Enzo observed. “Even now she looks so fucking proud of herself.”

None of them understood. I HAD to march this way, tits up and knees up, with an enormous grin, or I’d get the whip. His attitude was so typical of free people. They strip us, and humiliate us, and make us rub ourselves until we are little more than raw, quivering pussies. Then they jeer at us, and call us animals, and chastise us for our supposed lack of control.

I hated free people. Every one of them. But I also loved them, and identified with them, as a slave girl must, for they were the ones with the power. If I didn’t love them, I’d have nothing at all.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a father standing next to his son, who was wearing a shirt from the local community college. "I'd fuck that lawyer lady good, dad," the young man said.

"You’d have to wait for me, Jimmy,” his father joked. “Your mom says no slave pussy, but my rule is, ‘Dad first,” he laughed.

The band switched to "Stars and Stripes Forever," the beat bouncy and joyful, yet the cacophony of the crowd and the blazing heat bore down on me, making my head feel like it was in a vice. Still, I kept smiling, my knees high, acutely aware of the whip-wielding monger patrolling our line, eyes scanning for any signs of weakness. The happy scent of popcorn and corndogs filled my nostrils, mingling with the sweat that trickled down my body, and the raw stink of sexual arousal wafting off of me and the other slave girls.

Soon we'd be going past the ice cream store where I bought my son Jack’s friends their treats, past my favorite local bookstore I always tried to support, past the store where I had bought Bella her pink bike with the little basket and training wheels. My heart thudded against my ribs as I thought of the grandstand, where the town's dignitaries would sit, fanning themselves with their programs, sipping lemonade, and watching as the slave girls paraded by.

Many, many times, I had sat with them. Today, I was the entertainment.

I knew the route from the parking lot to the Gazebo was a little over a mile. It wasn't far, and I could jog it in a few minutes. But now, with the sun blazing down and my naked tits and ass jiggling as everyone laughed at me, every step seemed to take an hour. Even with the special rubber walk way they had laid down for the pets and slave girls, my feet felt like they were baking.

I wanted desperately for the parade to end, to get off Washington and onto Main, and then onto Park Way, and into the park. That is, until I saw what was ahead of me.

The Community Bank Building was a historic structure that dated from the 1920s, and was in the art deco style. It was now a galleria, with various offices on the second floor. The top front of the building was a large frieze with squirrels saving nuts and wise owls and, appropriately enough, Pharos collecting coins gathered from the labors of their adoring slaves. Today the frieze was covered by a gigantic printed cloth advertisement with the Slave Mart logo, and an advertisement of the day’s festivities in bold red letters.

GAZEBO GASH BASH
DRIPPY SLAVE PUSSY FOR SALE!
JULY 4th ONLY!

Beneath it was a drawing of a naked slave girl, leg spread, apparently on the block. I recognized the artist immediately as Zachary, my son's friend, now in the community college studying graphic design. It was a pencil sketch, but done in the hyper realistic style of Diego Fazio, so it looked more like a black and white photograph than a drawing.

The scene depicted the upcoming slave auction at the park. I could see some of the beautiful gingerbread detail work of the gazebo railing, and the tops of the heads of some of the bidders, several of whom were raising their hands. The auctioneer, standing to the left, was seen only from the waist up. I could see the gavel on his podium, and his whip, coiled up like a snake in his right hand, as he pointed into the crowd and accepted bods with his left.

The picture perfectly captured the excitement and intensity of an auction, and promised a thrilling time for all who attended. However as this was an advertisement, the main focus of the picture was the product that was up for sale. The focal point of the picture was a collared, naked slave girl, buffing her button like there was no tomorrow. Her pussy lips were open, wet, and ready. There was actually a drop of pussy juice dripping out of her snatch, suspended in midair, and although the picture was black and white it felt like I was seeing pink, as every detail of her slave pussy and even her little starfish was sketched in exquisite detail.

The detail on sketch, if you could call the near photograph a sketch, was gorgeous, and captured more than you might get in an actual photo, as every part of her was in perfect focus. The girl’s flowing hair, open mouth, spread legs, and the threatening whip, coiled ominously near her feet, were all gallery worth. The little slut’s toes were curled over the edge of the stage, clinging to it, and I could see the grain of the wood and the urgency in her stance as her toes struggled to maintain her grip during her shameful performance.

She was supporting her weight with her right hand in order to thrust her pussy out at the bidders, offering every part of herself for their viewing pleasure. Her nipples were hard and pointed up, and drawn with such an extreme sense of realism that I felt like I was looking at a drawing from Da Vinci’s sketchbook.

As a work of art, the drawing was exquisite, and I marveled at the detail and expressiveness of the slave meat on the block. However, I would have been even more appreciative of his talent if the slave girl on the block wasn’t so obviously me.

Yes, it was me, no doubt about it. Me, squatting on the block, legs splayed open, rubbing my hot, wet, shaved slave pussy as the bids poured in.

Zachary was quite talented, and more than once I had scolded him for sketching me without my permission. Since he had been in little league, he’d had a schoolboy crush. Kind of cute, actually. His mom and I laughed about it, and she enjoyed teasing him, and making him blush.

You’ll never do a family portrait of us, but you sure don’t mind drawing Julia. Maybe we should all live in her house so we can finally get a painting of the whole family.

Zachary, now 19, had his revenge, displaying a fantasy version of me that had probably been cooking in his adolescent fantasies for some time. The object of his desire, stripped naked, collared, pussy-for-sale.

My hair flowing loose and free, looked amazing. The detail was astonishing. He’d shaded every strand where it slipped from over my head and face, cascading over my shoulder, curling slightly at the ends. It wasn’t just hair—it was movement, light, softness. A living thing.
Zachary had captured the exact shape and swell of my breasts, noticing the slightest asymmetry. It was obvious from his accurate portrayal of my nipples that Zachary had spent a considerable amount of time studying the pokies that I never bothered to hide when I was casually dressed with my son’s friends.

Sometimes, when I get excited, I can look pouty, as my lips seem to expand. Zachary had captured that. He caught the shape of the tiny birthmark on my neck, the indescribably small indentation I had on my forehead that I got when I had fallen off my bike. He captured way I favor my right arm, and the tiny mole on my right foot. It was all there. Every hair, perfection, and imperfection, up on the wall and supersized for everyone in the town to see.

Zachary had rendered my face in a way I didn’t know was possible with pencil. My mouth was hanging open, and my tongue was visible as I gasped with pleasure, or moaned with shame, or both. I had Mona Lisa eyes – was I smiling, or crying out in anguish and humiliation, or having an orgasm, or enjoying my tease as I drove the bidders into a frenzy? Every time I looked at my face, I saw something different, as he seemed to capture everything at once.

He had given my eyes a depth, an indescribable longing combined with panic, fear, humiliation, and raw sexual energy. It was so much more than a drawing. It was a map of every emotion a slave girl could experience. It was if he had captured my essence in pencil, and drawn a picture of the darkest and most forbidden recesses of the slave girl mind.

This wasn’t a sketch. It was an intimate picture of my body, mind, and soul. It was obvious he hadn’t just seen me; he had studied me. Not in the way college boys sometimes glance at MILFs with vague appreciation—but truly seen me. The nuance of my presence, the quiet intelligence I tried to keep steady beneath the surface, the tension I held in my jaw when I thought too hard. It was all there.

He was clearly a talented artist, and as a piece of erotica, it was unquestionably beautiful. He was talented—more than I had realized. But I knew that the drawing wasn’t merely an advertisement, it was his chance to expose me, shame me, reveal my most intimate parts before the entire town. The fact that he used his talents to humiliate me in such a vicious way was truly appalling.

More than once when I had caught him sketching me, I had threatened to turn him over my knee, and spank his bottom red. He had always blushed as his friends laughed, and I added that I would make sure I did it in front of an audience. As I looked at the shameful erotica, he had drawn of me I became fixated by the image of him crying and squirming as I used the hairbrush to bring him to tears, and make him experience the sense of exposure, and humiliation I felt at this moment.

That’s when I noticed the handbills on the light poles and hanging from the bulletin boards advertising specials at the galleria. It was the shameful picture of me, legs spread, posted on flat surfaces up and down the street. Anyone who cared to could take a sketch of my naked body home for their entertainment. I had no doubt many would.

The whip cracked so close to my ass that I could feel the breeze from it. “Eyes front, bitch!” the horse-riding slave monger snapped. “This is a slave parade, not an art gallery. You’ll get to show your snatch on the auction block soon enough!”

[Mr. Smith]

Joe, a great addition to this story! I love the skilled young artist's rendering, and how that will have its own immortality.

I bet Slave Mart will have that in their advertising promotions for some time to come!

[Mr. Smith]

I particularly loved the varied commentary by the bystanders, from the plumber to the father and son. Especially the way they talk about her, as if she isn't even there, an animal incapable of understanding human speech. Under the humiliation and slave heat simmers her pride, she knows that they can only look at the menu but cannot afford to sample the expensive entrée. She knows the ones lusting over her will at the end of the day, go home empty-handed and either take matters into hand, so to speak, or they'll pin one fo the flyers to their headboards and imagine it is her, the hot slave from the parade they are banging instead of the wife who let herself go, only able to grade as Select or Cutter. If you remember the Brandi Brandt episode of Married with Children, you'll know what I'm talking about.

Then there's Zachery, who pays homage to his fantasy girl, demonstrating his true thoughts through art. The incredible detail tells a story. I think it's 50-50 that Zachery would want that spanking, especially if it was a bare fanny. And he probably deserves it.

"Oh Zachary, I saw you spying on me more than once from the second story guest bathroom when I'm sunning by the pool in my skimpy bikini. I know from your body movements and that look on your face that you're choking your chicken fantasizing about me. It's time to hold you accountable, young man. Over the knee you go."

[RegressedNegress]

Oh my gosh! So vividly and intricately detailed on so many levels! Verbal and visual objectification and humiliation. Social and emotional. Biophysical and sexual. Her real-life, hyper-sexual experience and her/its photo-like hyper-realistic, hyper-sexualized, fetishized representation and objectification in the drawing. All that and more, what words and pictures in such immersive, evocative word pictures. Thanks Joe!

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[timerider]

Head em up move out.

[Mr. Smith]

I love the visual. These are definitely not Sandy Foot Girls, instead looking more like a portable grab and go bin of Select or Cutter slave girls on sale all for the same price. Pick the one you want, pay the man and leave. No wasting time on an auction.

[imreadonly2]

Yes, they're not Sandy Foot Girls, but I imagined the story of this photo as something that, in it's own way, is equally exciting. Perhaps the Collegiate Women in Business Club visits a local farm that is unloading slave girls rented for the day to work in the field. As a joke, they all strip off for the group photo. Two of the girls have fathers and one has a boyfriend who work the unloading at SLAVES, LIVESTOCK, AND FEED, a few miles down the road.

Wouldn't it be funny if they drove over there, slave naked? Imagine the looks on their faces as they saw the new "slave pussy" that had just arrived for processing. It's a grand joke, and they all pose for a group photo as Carl, the driver, prepares to close the rear tailgate.

Head em' up and move em' out, indeed.

[Johnny Lawrence]

It would be even funnier if the men they knew had taken a long lunch break. The fathers and boyfriends are busy knocking back a few at the local strip club, and they’ve got some local boys filling in for them. Who is gonna know, right?

But the local boys aren’t dumb. They can’t be fooled. “Oh yeah,*suuuure* this is a prank. Yeah yeah, ‘not really slaves’, right. Must be some *other* truck full of select grades that are supposed to be collared, devoiced, and put on the afternoon train to a Mexican whorehouse. Hey Billy Bob, just use the cattle prod if they don’t move…”

[Mr. Smith]

This is just a group of college students from Williams up north that were arrested during an abolitionist protest that became violent on the steps of the capital in Austin. Each woman was sentenced to two years of judicial enslavement at their sentencings by the Honorable "Collaring Carl" Bradford. Women's Studies professor Gertrude Frost (3rd from right) was deemed the ringleader by the judge who ruled this was a factor in aggravation that warranted a double badging with the four-inch circle star burned into her right buttock and one in the front, either on the mons Venus or inside top left breast with the two-inch circle star. The judge, in an act of leniency gave Professor Frost the option of choosing the placement in front. I one last desperate act of defiance she disrespectfully cut off the judge shouting, "You might as well give me both." And yes, the judge was more than willing to oblige her request.

Since no reputable slave market was willing to put this mixture of Cutter and Select slave pussies on their auction block, they were sold as a group to SLAVES, LIVESTOCK, AND FEED at a discount to brand and dispose of.

It should be noted that the judge gave these newly collared felons a little lecture from the bench on badging trends at the Big D and Longhorn slave markets noting, "Hooter badging on the top inside of the breast is popular now for FINO wives, some free women, and with some Masters. Every time you show a little cleavage you’re showing off your bona fides. Right now, double badging, front and rear is trending with Prime pleasure sluts."