Any Chance Auction, Part 2, by Joe Doe

[imreadonly2]

Needless to say, I spent the next few days endlessly mulling over Rita’s offer. I was pretty certain that she didn’t really care about what Rosco was doing with the slave girls, but was my ‘undercover’ assignment a pretext to let me find out about what it might be like to a slave girl at The Big D, or was she testing our friendship, to see if I would come through for her?

I was more than a little surprised when my next communication wasn’t with Rita, but a phone call from her son, Skeeter.

“Anna-Annie?” he said, mangling “Aunt Annie” like he always did in his Texas drawl. “This is Skeeter. Ya’ gotta a sec to talk?”

“I know who it is, and I always have time for you, Squirt. Shoot!”

His voice was tentative. “I’m doing a… kinda… it’a paper fer’ a class at school, and I was wonderin’ if ya’ might help me out.”

“No problem, kiddo!” I said, feeling quite proud of his recognition of my intelligence. “What’s the topic? Math, business, finance, accounting… I got you covered.”

“Um… no. It’s uh…my Livestock Handling Class, actually. I gotta couple of questions.”

“Livestock?” I said, laughing. I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’ve never been on a farm in my life!”

“No. Not farm animals. Slave girls.”

There was a long pause as I let this sink in. “Oh. I see. What would I know about that?”

“We were in lab, and they brought in some slave girls for us to train. I didn’t recognize her at first, cuz she was collared and slave naked, but my slave girl was Mrs. Holiday, who had been the Chemistry teacher at my High School. Seems her husband had found out she was slave hot, and had a hankerin’ for the collar. She self-enslaved. So now it was my job to slave train her.”

“Awkward!” I said, laughing a bit nervously as I played with my pearls.

“I’ll say!” he agreed, returning my uneasy laugh. “I mean, she’d been my friggin’ TEACHER, and a real strict one, too! Now I gotta train her to be a Pleasure Slut, if you’ll pardon my French. I had to get her to suck my… uh… you know.”

“I get the picture. I bet she was pretty embarrassed, too.”

“She was. She was blushin’ beat red, and when I told her to kiss my cowboy boots she just stared up at me, like I was crazy, or somethin’. Well the teacher, Mr. Armstrong, came over, and I asked if we could switch, and he wanted to know why. When I told ‘em, he got really angry, and told me to man up. He said I was supposed to act professional, and professionals do the job. She said she weren’t no chemistry teacher no more, she was slave pussy, if ya’ pardon my French.”

“Pardoned. So what happened.”

“I couldn’t train her. He gave me a “D”, and when I told Mom he called him up, and asked if I might do some sort of makeup assignment, where I train some girl I know. Only I don’t know any girls who are slave girls, except for Mrs. Holiday, and she’s already done SOLD. I watched Dad sell her naked ass off the auction block at The Big D onSaturday.”

“Oh, my!” I said, fingering my pearls as I pictured the scene. “That must have been pretty embarrassing!”

“It was kinda fun, actually,” he said. “Dad did a good job showin’ off the goods, if ya’ catch my drift. She’d been kinda tough, and really made me work my ass off, just to get a “B”. It was cool watchin’ Dad crack the whip, and put her through her paces. He made her rub herself, and she came like gang-busters, right on the block. It was kinda funny, and I didn’t feel embarrassed or nuttin’.”

“I meant embarrassing for HER,” I said, correcting him, even as I felt my own excitement growing.

“Oh, I guess. I mean, she was shy as a crocus, and blushed beet red, ‘specially when she saw me watchin’, right up front! But then dad cracked the whip on her ass, and she smartened up right quick, ha-ha.”

As Skeeter treated me to a long burst of nasally laughter, I felt a distinct chill run down my spine, mixing with the excitement. I knew Skeeter as shy teenager, a sort of toy that I could tease and have fun with. But in his cruel laughter, I recognized the sadism or a born slave monger, a cruelty that I had learned about first-hand in my endless Slave Yoga and hours of preparation earning my Prime Minus grade. No doubt about it; Skeeter was his father’s son.

Cutting off his sadistic glee I asked rather pointedly, “So what does any of this have to do with me?”

“Well, like I said, I gotta slave train somebody I know, and I don’t know nobody, ‘cept you, with your Prime Minus grade, so—”

Now my indignation was genuine. “I hope you aren’t seriously suggesting…”

“Oh, gosh, no, Ann-Annie, I’d never do nuttin’ like that. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean. I mean, don’t tell mom, cuz I didn’t mean…”

It was fun watching him run backwards, but I still didn’t know what he wanted. “Relax, I’m not going to rat you out to your mother. But I do want to tell me what you want.”

“It’s my paper. I’m tryin’ to write a paper about gradin’ someone you know. And you gotta Prime Minus grade, which is SUPER impressive. Even mom and dad are impressed. I know mom is super jealous.”

“Okay, we’ve established how impressive I am,” I said, exasperated. “Now can we end this Texas two-step, and tell me what you’re after?”

“I’m writin’ the paper, see? And I wanted to know how you feel. I mean… I know you been slave graded. I mean you didn’t seem embarrassed gabbin’ about it, or nothin’”.

“Why I should I be embarrassed? I got an excellent grade. I worked hard to get it. Is your father embarrassed about what he does?”

“No, Ma’am,” he said. “He’s right proud of his work. He says he puts food on our table.”

“Then there is no reason for me to be embarrassed, either.”

“No, I reckon not. It’s just… well, since it’s an OFFICIAL grade, ya’ got pitchur’s took, right? For your file?”

I tensed a bit. “Yes, I had the required photographs taken”.

“ALL the photographs?” he said. “In ALL the various slave poses?”

I felt myself blush, and there was a noticeable pause before I answered.

“Yes. You know that. That’s um… the law.”

“So yer slave pitchur’s are on file, in the National Slave Registry.”

“Yes, but I’m not a slave,” I said, feeling my pulse quickening as this mere boy questioned me.

“Maybe, but ya gotta Slave Identification Number, tattooed on your lip, jist like a real slave girl! Ya showed me, remember? I read off the numbers, bright-and-bold and clear as day!”

“Yes,…I… I… uh.. re-remember.” I could tell the little piss ant was enjoying himself. But perhaps it was because it was Skeeter, a boy I had always held firmly under my thumb, I found it strangely exciting, too.

“I even did a read-back for ya, and compared yer lip number against yer USDA gradin’ certificate, jist like I do with the Pleasure Sluts in my lab classes. You remember that, don’t ya’, Annie?”

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled, feeling my pulse quicken.

“And yer’ pitchur’s are online, which means people with access can look ‘em up. If they got your SIN number, they can look it up and..”

His voice trailed off. There was a long pause as I struggled to recover, and regain control. “Go on. Finish your sentence.”

“Uh… they can look ya’ up and… and see. See everythin! I mean… EVERYTHIN’!”

His voice trailed off, but I knew where his devious male mind was heading. I was glad he couldn’t see my blush over the phone. “I see. Now tell me the truth. Did you write down my Slave Identification Number, young man?” I asked sternly.

“I dunno,” he mumbled.

“The truth,” I repeated, not raising my voice, but making it clear an answer was expected.

“Yeah,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Thank you for your honesty. Do you have access to the Slave Registry at school?”

“Yes… no…sorta. In class.”

“I see. Have you looked me up?”

“No. I can’t. They only let us look up what they tell us to look up.”

“I see. If you could, WOULD you look me up? Would you read my grading notes, and responsiveness ratings, and read my psychological profile? Would you look at all the pictures of me, slave naked? Tell me the truth, short stuff.”

There was a long pause at the end of the phone. “I dunno. Maybe?”

“Maybe? I guess I must not have made much of an impression on you. Don’t you think I’m pretty, Little Man?”

“No, Ann-Annie, I didn’t mean that!” he protested.

“I’m just teasing,” I said, enjoying his discomfort. “Thank you for your honesty. Look, here’s what you should put in your paper. Write this down. Apologize for not training Miss Holiday, who is obviously a hot little Pleasure Slut who deserves whatever she’s got coming to her. Tell him you talked to your Aunt, who has a Prime Minus grade. That will impress him, because he knows what that means.”

“He sure does!” Skeeter agreed. “Prime Minus is rarer than hen’s teeth”.

“That’s right. Tell him your super smart Aunt in Chicago says that you should always be a professional, just like your father is. Tell him I said that if you ever trained me, I’d want you to treat me like just another Pleasure Slut, and sell my ass off the block for the best price possible. Tell him the kindest thing you can do with a Pleasure Slut is to be strict with them, because otherwise they get confused, and think that you care about them. You got all that, Mouse?”

“Uh-huh,” he said. I could hear the keyboard click as we talked.

“Now your dad knew who Miss Holiday was, right? He had met her at school, when she was your teacher.”

“Yeah, he knew her. So?”

“He wasn’t embarrassed, was he? Your father was a professional. He put his feelings aside, and stripped her naked, and put her through her paces, and even cracked her skanky ass with the whip when he had to. Right?”

“Yup! He sure’nuff did.”

“And because of your father, her husband got a better sale price, and she got a richer master, who will value her more. Pleasure sluts are really vain, and I bet she’s proud of the fine price your father earned for her, through his hard work. Don’t you see? Your father really did Miss Holiday a favor.”

“Gosh, I never thought of it that way.”

“Well, now you got something to think about. Write that in your paper. Tell him I said that if you ever sold me, I hope you wouldn’t hesitate to crack the whip, and make me bend-and-spread. Write that down..”

“Got it! Bend-and-spread! Mr. Armstrong will love that. Thanks, Ann-Annie. You’re so smart! You’re the best.”

“You’re welcome. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“I don’t know… there is one other thing…I guess.”

“Spit it out, kiddo. There’s no secrets between us.”

“The other night I was layin’ in bed, and I heard Dad talkin’ to Dad, through the vent. He was sayin’ he wrote down your SIN, and looked up your file. He said he thought your pictures were really HOT. He said….uh…”

Again his voice trailed off. “What did he say?” I said, pressing.

“I reckon I shouldn’t say. You won’t like it much. I don’t-wanna-git-n trouble.”

“You won’t get in trouble. What did he say?”

“You won’t get angry, or nuttin, right?”

“I promise I won’t get angry, unless you don’t tell me,” I said, the tension in my voice rising.

“Swear ya’ won’t get angry?”

I could hear the lilt in his voice. He was enjoying this now, withholding the information wanted so bad, relishing his power over me. Normally I teased him, and called him ‘mouse.’ But now he was the enormous cat, and I was the tiny mouse.

“I swear! Tell me, already!”

“Okay. He said there was this one photo of ya. You were doing a slave squat, and you were up on yer toes, with your legs spread like ‘goal posts.’ That’s how he put it: goal posts! He said yer lips was spread, and your hole was WIIIII-DE OPEN, ‘like a bolt lookin’ for a screw,’ – that’s what he said. He said you were buffing yer’ button – that’s how he put it – buffin’ yer button – and judging from the look on yer’ face, it looked like you was comin’ all over yer hand, and he could practically see yer’ pussy twitching, ‘like a piece of liver in an earthquake.’ He said you were wetter than a Seattle whorehouse, and—”

“I think that’s enough Texas aphorisms. What did your mother say to all this?”

“I couldn’t hear her voice through the vent. But I heard her laughin’. She was laughin’ real hard.”

“I see. Well, your mistaken, and they were probably talking about some other girl named Anne. It’s a very common name. I’m sure of that, because your father would never abuse his authority that way. And even if he did, he’s the one who should be embarrassed, not me. Right?”

“I guess so. But it sure sounded like he was talkin’ about you. So yer’ sayin’ they’re anyn’t no pictures of you like that? Buffin’ yer button?”

“I didn’t say that. What I’m saying is that your mother and father would never talk about me that way, and if there were any pictures of me like that – and I’m not saying there are or aren’t – he wouldn’t look at them. Now go to bed, Skeeter.”

“Uh…Anna-Annie? Don’t tell mom I called, okay? And don’t tell her I squealed on Dad.”

“I won’t. Be good, and go straight to bed. No funny business under the covers, thinking about those pictures of me, okay?”

“No, Ma’am. I’d never… I mean, not in a disrespectful way, anyway.”

“That’s good. Good night, Squirt.”

“Nighty-nite, Ann-Annie!”

As soon as I hung up the phone with Skeeter, I dialed his mother.

“Hello, Rita? This is Annie. No, I’m fine, how are you? Is that offer to come down and visit you still open? Great. Well, why wait for Christmas. I’ll come down and see you this weekend. No, I’ll just stay at your house on Saturday. As for Sunday… I understand Sunday is a slow night, and I was wonderin’ if there is any room at the kennels at The Big D?

MORE TO COME!! SUGGESTIONS & FEEDBACK WELCOME!

[gary]

Excellent build up. Of course she will probably end up enslaved.

[imreadonly2]

Gary, Joe writes back, "It's never about the destination. It's the journey."

[jeepster]

Love it! Joe is the best !

[lovethissite]

Joe: Again this is another great chapter. Anne has no idea she is being set up. She is such an "A" personality and arrogant, that she feels she is the smartest and most cleaver person in the room. Just because she is an elite, Chicago Limo Lib, she has no idea that all her lessers may be more cleaver and street smart than she. On to the re read . Thank you.

[Belinda]

It has been over two years since reading this and I had forgotten how great a story this is. Thank you so much for writing the new segments which has pushed me to reread this wonderful piece of work.

[imreadonly2]

I ended up rereading it too, Belinda, to remember what the heck it was about. However, I really liked the story and character, and even after the lapse fell right back into writing it.

I had posted an epilogue 2 years ago, but I have a new epilogue now, as I'm using some of Carl's ideas and taking the story in a different direction. I find it sort of interesting, actually, to have the gap with to alternate endings, written years apart. Our stories change as we change.