Any Chance Auction - Chapter 7 By Joe Doe

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Note from Joe: Thanks for your encouragement, Hooked 6. Based on your feedback, I wrote another scene were Rita "encourages" her sister on. Enjoy!

I had been running behind Hunk’s golf cart as fast as I could without overtaking it, desperate to keep some slack in the rope. In the front row of the cart, my sister Rita jabbered about the Christmas decorations in downtown Dallas as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

When Rita urged Hunk to “Git goin’!”, my overtaking the golf cart was no longer a problem. My eyes bugged out as I watched Hunk casually drop his foot onto the accelerator, letting gravity do all the work for him.

The cart’s tiny engine ROARED to life. With my hands cuffed behind me, I was soon doing my best Northwestern Track Team 100-meter dash sprint, just to keep the rope from snapping my neck.

My frantic, naked dash drew laughter from everyone we passed.

“Look at them BOOBIES BOUNCE!” the guy on the forklift observed.

“Looks like streakin’s making a comeback! Shake’ em girl!”

“It’s easier if you swing yer’ arms, idiot,” a female clerk observed, not noticing my cuffs.

“Slave girls got shit for brains,” her friend agreed.

“Look at those welts on her ass.”

“Ouch! Looks like someone was naughty girl.”

“What’s yer’ hurry darlin? Looking fer’ LOVE?”

“Hey Hunk, tryin’ to set a world record?” his friend asked, waving at him.

The good news is that Hunk’s lead foot got us to the Reception Desk fast. The bad news is that as the cart started to slow, Rita asked to see the Christmas tree. Hank, ever eager to provide outstanding customer service, nearly pulled my head off as he zipped the cart into a tight U-turn and plunged me out into the freezing cold parking lot for a quick 360 tour around the pathetic little Charlie Brown Christmas tree, the same tree Rita had walked past without a second glance on our way in.

The sad little tree was about 1/8 the size than the professionally decorated tree I had setup two weeks before for Rita, Skeeter, and Rosco, in the Great Room of my mansion in Chicago. As the freezing air burned my overtaxed lungs, Rita gushed about the pathetic shrub/tree for a whole minute, going on about how nice it was to have a tree that wasn’t so “city perfect”.

Rita was watching me pant out of the corner of her eye, and I wasn’t sure if she was mocking my professional decorations, or giving me a chance to catch my breath, or both. Before my brain could get enough oxygen for me to decide her intentions Hunk gunned the engine and zipped us to the Reception Desk at full speed.

My bare feet pounded the unforgiving payment as I ran, and for a moment I thought the sliding glass door was going to cut me in two as it started to close. But then Hunk skidded the cart to a stop in front of the ugly yellow security bollards, a line of ugly dildos placed in front of the reception desk lest some idiot like Hunk drive his cart into the receptionist at 30 MPH.

I panted like a race horse, gasping for air, nostrils flaring, as Hunk tugged the rope and instantly freed the knot from the golf cart. Rita tried to tip him, but the ever-chivalrous Hunk refused, explaining it was against Big D policy, because “excellent service is our job.”

So instead of cash, Hunk took his tip by giving my pussy a final long rub and squeeze, causing me to groan in pleasure and unsatisfied longing. Hunk, laughing at my desperation, jumped into is cart and zipped away.

I was still struggling for oxygen as Rita, cheerfully whistling THE YELLOW ROSE OF TEXAS, led me by my leash toward the reception desk, which had a huge sign on it that said “WELCOME”.

Or so I think. The sign was my first surprise. Even though the lettering was huge, the letters were fuzzy. Losing my contacts made reading even huge letters difficult,

The bored teenage girl chewing her gum behind the counter looked up from her phone to give us a faux friendly greeting. “Howdy! Happy Holidays and welcome to The Big D. My name is Trixie. How can I help y’all?”

“Merry Christmas, Trixie,” Rita said, making clear she was part of the Jesus army in the war on Christmas. Reaching into her bag Rita pulled out a folded slip of paper, which she handed to the clerk.

“I’m going to kennel her overnight. I made a reservation online. I just brought her in through the livestock entrance.”

Rita had explained to me that Sunday night, being slow, had the part time or trainee help. I hadn’t expected much, but the girl behind the counter crawled below my expectations. Trixie looked to be about 25, a chubby bottle blonde with a wad of gum bigger than a brain. I pegged her immediately as mall trash, the sort of worthless “help” that ensured that I always shopped at “appointment only” stores.

Nothing about Trixie surprised me, except the way she looked at me. After my run, my hair was once again a mess. My makeup had been scrubbed off, and my 400 euro perfume had been replaced with flop sweat and the stink of delousing fluid and cattle scrub. I stood before her, slave naked, wet, and shivering in a pool of my own sweat and drippings.

Trixie’s fat face registered her disgust as her eyes immediately dropped to my shaved crotch.

“She got crotch crickets?” she asked, pointing at my vagina with the sort of disgusted look one might give a dead rat swarming with maggots.

“Not no more!” Rita said, givin’ me a playful wink.

I clenched my teeth at my sister’s so-called humor. I did not have crotch crickets, not today, not before my ‘dip’, NOT EVER. If I had stridden into this dump yesterday in my designer dress and Gucci shoes, I would have flicked the fat, loser clerk away with my finger as I demanded service from a manager. But now, this Walmart reject looked at me not with fear, or respect, but with disgust.

“This girl has no idea who I am,” I thought. “She actually thinks I’m a slave girl.”

The thought of mall trash like Trixie looking down on me was infuriating, but it was also incredibly exciting. I could feel a delightful buzz between my legs as I realized my slave girl disguise had totally fooled the idiot clerk.

Because my hands were tied behind my back with zip cuffs, and I was slave naked, with a rope around my neck, the little barcode checker thought she was better than me. Clearly, she had no idea who she was dealing with.

I felt a delightfully naughty tingle as Trixie, looking bored, scanned in the bar code on the reservation. Her computer, happy that it found me, PINGED!, as once again I squeezed my thighs together with pleasure.

“Got it,” Trixie said, staring at her screen. “Can I verify her SIN number?”

“They did all that at the livestock entrance,” Rita drawled.

“Yeah, I gotta do it again,” the clerk said, readying her computer for the process. “We need to verify who she is before we collar her. It’s procedure.”

My collar! It was really happening. I was going to get a real, albeit temporary, slave girl collar. The color would be different, because it would be a temporary, but despite that slight defect it would be close enough. Soon I’d be wearing a Big D collar.

Rita pulled me toward the counter, and peeled back my upper lip to reveal my Slave Identification Number to the nasty little jobsworth behind the counter. Yes, I had been scanned in at the livestock desk, but she was going to make me go through this humiliation again. My dignity meant nothing. The rules were everything.

Using her scanner but keeping her distance, the clerk scanned my number. The machine gave a satisfied PING! as I rubbed my legs together.

“Got ‘er,” the girl said cheerfully, looking at the screen. “She’s inventory now.”

Inventory! My pussy spasmed in pleasure at the word. The little computer jockey had used her petty, tyrannical powers to transform my SIN number into a SKU. Exciting as it was, I felt a surge of fear, as I flashed back to my accounting classes at Northwestern:

Inventory:

A current asset.

Stock

Goods

Merchandise

Tangible property, available for sale.

I was there to be kenneled, but still, she had said the magic word. I wasn’t me anymore, I was inventory, a SKU, a product that COULD, in theory, be sold. I squeezed my legs together, relishing the sensation.

The bureaucratic blonde’s annoying drone jerked me back to reality. “She’s graded, but she’s not a slave,” she whined, looking at her computer screen as if there was some mistake. “Why are you kenneling her?”

“She’s a Prime Minus Pleasure Slut,” Rita said. “I don’t want ‘er humpin’ by husband, or my boy.”

The clerk chuckled knowingly. No need to explain further. Rita’s cover story was convincing, even if in my case, it was totally untrue. It was common knowledge that Pleasure Sluts were insatiable, and needed to be kenneled.

“Do you wanna sell her?” the clerk asked. “She’s Prime Minus. Yer’ crazy not to sell her.”

I glared daggers at Trixie, wishing her to die. It wasn’t like my sister would ever consider selling me, but still. The mere suggestion made my heart skip a beat.

I knew Trixie was jealous of me, jealous of my beauty, jealous of the attention I received from the men. No doubt working at the Reception Desk gave the little paper-pusher quite the thrill, the opportunity to humiliate women more desirable that she’d ever be.

Rita’s reply to her brassy suggestion shocked me, less for the words than for the measured, thoughtful look Rita gave me as she spoke as she responded to Trixie’s observation that she’d be “crazy not to sell me”

“I’m thinkin’ ‘bout it,” she said, in a tone that made me wonder if she was indulging the clerk, trying to frighten me, or seriously considering the offer.

“Well, if you decide to sell ‘er, mention my name, cuz I get a commission.”

“Sure will.” Rita, obviously having fun, gave me a playful wink at the idea of fat Trixie getting a few extra dollars in her paycheck for putting me on the auction block.

Without even making eye contact, Trixie slapped a disclaimer form in a plastic sleeve on the counter and ordered me to read it.

I approached the counter, struggling to adjust my eyes to the text. But without my glasses, I might as well have been blind. I squinted, but could only make out a few of the words. I began haltingly.

“I…accuse… accounting?”

“Damn, stinky girl, you can’t read, neither?” the clerk behind the desk drawled.

“Can ya’ read it to ‘er?” Rita asked.

“Whatever,” Trixie said, shooting me an annoyed look.

The clerk, having the spiel memorized, spoke in a rapid-fire patter that reduced everything to one long word, reciting a legal warning that amounted to 1) I was inventory 2) They would shock the shit out of me or whip my ass if I gave them any lip. As if to emphasize the latter point, the little tyrant took the slave goad off the hook and put it on the counter, pressing the button so I could watch the little spark jump between the two metal prongs. Having felt it before during my private grading training, I jumped at the evil, electrical BUZZ.

It was Sunday, and business was slow. Still, I felt myself blush as two teenage girls came in. The blonde was wearing pink sneakers and a Taylor Swift Tour shirt; her redheaded friend was wearing a patterned dress and high heels. They were cute, although not as cute as me. After carding them, Trixie launched into her spiel.

“Howdy! Happy Holidays and welcome to The Big D. My name is Trixie. How can I help y’all?”

“We’re from like, California,” the girl said, oozing valley girl. “We’ve never seen a slave market before, and we were wondering if we could.., like… look around.”

“Sure thing!” Trixie said. “Would ya’ like some coupons? We offer discounts gradings on Sundays.”

“I… don’t… .THINK so!” the blonde replied, as it were the dumbest idea in the world. Seeing me, the valley girl turned.

“Oh… my… GAWD!” she said. “She’s… like… TOTALLY NAKED!”

“Yeah, and I think she’s trying to cum!” her friend said.

I thought I was being subtle as I squeezed my thighs together, but I’d been caught.

“Oh… my… GAWD” the blonde repeated. “She’s… like… JUICY! How… DISGUSTING!”

“What a pig slut!” her friend agreed.

I blushed crimson under the alpha girl’s cruel assessment, feeling very much like I was naked in school. But it was about to get worse.

“I’m gonna put her down in the computer as illiterate, okay?” Trixie said, turning back to her computer as she addressed Rita.

“Oh… my… GAWD!” the blonde said. “She can’t read either!”

Both girls turned to each other and burst into cruel laughter.

“Let’s go,” the redhead said.

“Right,” the blond agreed. “I don’t want to catch, like… BIMBO!”.

The girls, laughing at me, walked away.

“Git that a lot?” Rita asked.

“Sometimes. Big city Yankees like to look down their noses at us. But they love to come visit.”

Rita smiled at me. “I know the type.”

“So I’m going to mark her down as illiterate, all right?” Trixie repeated.

With all the erudite indignation I could muster, I corrected Trixie’s mistake. “I’ll have you know, young lady, I have degrees from Northwestern University, AND The University of Chicago.”

The girl popped her gum. “Fine. Read somethin’ then, indicating all the sheets of paper hanging on the corkboard walls surrounding the Reception Desk.

I looked around at the surrounding signs, frantically trying to find something I could read to prove my literacy. It was all a blur. “Um…Um… that’s a calendar, on the wall behind you. It says December.”

“It says November, Einstein,” the girl said. “We didn’t change the month yet.”

The girl resumed typing. “Illiterate… and dumb as a bag of slave chow,” she said aloud, not bothering to hide her contempt for my stupidity.

I turned to Rita, looking at her to correct this outrageous injustice, this insult to my education. Instead, she was biting her lip to keep from laughing.

Her reaction was understandable. Rita had often accused me of flaunting my credentials and “snobbing people with my fancy degrees”. Rita had gotten particularly upset when I questioned the worth of an Agricultural Slave Management degree from the community college Skeeter was attended, and urged him to attend a “a REAL school, up North.”

“This is weird,” Trixie said, typing. “The computer says she does have degrees. It won’t let me mark her as illiterate if she has education… and all these fancy jobs!”

“It’s a mistake,” Rita said. “Jist delete ‘em all out.”

Trixie nodded and put her fat finger on the DELETE button. I watched in horror as the chubby clerk deleted all of my years of study, my awards, and my endless string of distinguished achievements. Whoever I had been when I woke up this morning, in The Big D’s computer system I was now a naked, illiterate slave slut.

Trixie’s power was as frightening as it was intoxicating. One of the dangers of checking into a slave market was the chance that something might go wrong, and social media was filled with stories of young ladies who had gone into slave markets or slave stores at the mall for gradings and had found themselves auctioned instead. I wondered if the two Valley girls who had sneered at me knew the dangers. Statistically, it was a rare occurrence, but it did happen.

The chubby bottle blonde girl with the fat fingers could strip me of everything. Rita would be compensated for my “loss”, but reversing an enslavement sale was nearly impossible. I had thought I was going to drown in the dip tank, but Trixie’s chubby fat fingers were far more dangerous than any rope around my neck.

I turned to my smirking sister, my desperation growing as I watched the clerk delete my accomplishments, one after another. Sensing my frustration at my uncharacteristic sense of helplessness, Rita scratched me behind the ear, like a puppy that needed soothing.

“Anyn’t no shame not bein’ able to read, girl,” she said, adopting her sincere nurturing, big sister voice. “Best just to accept who you are. Don’t worry! Yer still plenty good at suckin’ cock. And that’s what men want! Ayn’t nobody gonna buy a Pleasure Slut for the conversation.”

Rita’s voice wasn’t teasing, but sincere. As her words sank in, I realized that she wasn’t taunting me, but giving me wise, sisterly advice. My education and erudition were not going to help me. Indeed, they would just get me punished. At The Big D, girls needed a different set of skills. And that is “who I was.”

Rita pointed at a chalkboard, a chalkboard I couldn’t read. “Tell me all about these here ‘Sunday Specials.’ Whatcha’ got today?”

Trixie, occupied with her typing, didn't notice Rita grinning at me as the bored, gum chewing clerk ticked through the list of complimentary products, in her best, "Do you want fries with that?" rapid-speak.

"You get 10% off a gift certificate of $100 or more, which you can use at your next grading or the slave mall, although not for auction purchases. You can get a copy of the girl's grading file, complete with photos, including expanded set photos."

Rita smiled at me. "Bet ya’ them sexy pictures would be a welcome Christmas present for a young college fella like Skeeter. How much is that?"

"$29. $35 for the expanded photo set."

When I had posed for the photographs, I had been trying to get the highest grade possible, and the result was a photo “spread” that was beyond pornographic. The thought of Skeeter drooling over my pictures horrified me, but before I could object Rita had already moved on.

" What else ya' got?"

"We also offer discounted slave training, and trial brandings," she said, as the printer behind her WHIRRED to life and began spitting out forms.

"She's pretty well trained,” Rita replied. “But tell me about them-their trial brandin’s."

"They use a lighter touch, and a special pre-branding cream. It takes a bit longer to apply, and hurts a bit more, but the burn isn't permanent. It heals up after a couple of months."

"So it's not PERMANENT?" Rita said, playfully mocking me with my own words.

"Yeah," the bored clerk replied. "But it burns worse than a permanent branding, or so they tell me. Master's sometimes use them as a trial, to see how they like a brand location, before they do a permanent one."

"So how much for the trial brandin’?” Rita asked.

"Trial brandings are $75. What sort of branding head do you want?”

I had heard enough. “Brand me?” I snapped. “Are you crazy?”

Undeterred, Rita clapped back. "You seemed to think ‘branding’ was all the rage last night, little sister? Don’t ya remember? When ya’ spilled yer drink on Skeeter?”

I shuddered as I recalled the scene. It had been late, and yes, I was feeling the wine. Trying to give Rosco some much needed career advice, I lamented his utter lack of personality.

"Everybody who matters in Chicago KNOWS me," I said. "I'm top dog. The problem with you, Rosco, is you’re a little tiny nobody, and you'll be a nobody your whole life. A teesy-weensy drone, with a shriveled up little stinger, just like that bug on Skeeter's arm."

I pointed to the tattoo on Skeeters arm, which showed the little mosquito drawing he had done in first grade. Skeeter, who had also been drinking, laughed along with my assault on his father’s manhood, at least until his mother shot him THE LOOK.

"See? Even Skeeter got a brand!" I said, rubbing the childhood drawing he had on his wrist. “He draws this little bug on his bag, and the inside of his books, and even his belt buckle, so everybody knows they belong to Skeeter. It's smart, and so damn CUTE!"

I leaned over and gave Skeeter a kiss, right on his forehead, spilling some of his wine in the process.

"You know, Skeeter, if I were your slave girl, I'd wear your mark."

"Really, Ann-Annie?" you'd get a tattoo? Just for me?"

"Hell, no! Slave girls don't get arm tattoos!" I said, making a face. "Tattoos are for wimps! I'd get butt branded, and wear your mosquito right here!" Skeeters eyes went wide as I leaned forward into him again, and spanked myself twice on the ass. Skeeter stared at my butt, mouth agape. Rita was not amused.

It had been a drunken joke, and a way taunt Rosco, and tease poor, horny, Skeeter. Last night, when I was a stinking rich bond trader, branding had seemed very far away. Now, I was a stinking, illiterate, slave girl, and branding was the Sunday Special.

"Might as well get the branding head, anyway," Rita said. "Skeeter might want to brand himself a leather bag, or his boots, or somethin'."

"Or somethin'," the clerk repeated, giving me a sly smile. My cheeks clenched in panic at the threat. The clerk was smiling, but I could see the fire burning in her eyes. Like all chubby girls, the bitchy clerk hated Pleasure Sluts with a vengeance. She was jealous, for I was everything she could never be. I knew she would love to see me with a bit in my teeth, bent over for the red-hot iron.

"Rita, I know I was out of line last night. I shouldn't have teased Skeeter, but..."

Rita, clearly pissed off, cut me off cold. “Damn right you were out of line. Anne, you're my kid sister, and I love ya' to the moon-and-back. I know ya wanna play slave girl, but as your big sister it's my job to make sure ya' understand what bein' a slave girl is, so you make good decisions. Understood?"

"I think so, but--" I said, not sure where she was going.

"But nothing. ‘But’ ayn't the right answer. Listen up, Annie, cuz I’m gonna make this REAL simple? Do ya’ even know where you are?"

"The Big D Slave Market in Dallas?" I asked, unsure of where she was going.

Rita's stern MOTHER voice was calm, cool, and highly condescending. "That's right, little sister. The Big D is a slave market, but before that, it was a LIVESTOCK market. Used to be the livestock had four hooves. Now they got two. But it ayn't no different. A cow or a pig comes down the chute, a bunch of things might happen, some of 'em not so nice. It might get collared. It might get scrubbed with stiff bristle brushes. It might go through the dip. If it's a male, it might get itself gelded, so you can be grateful I ayn't doing nothing like that, least not today."

I instinctively squeezed my legs together, wincing at the thought.

"Point is, I'm in charge, not you. Maybe I'll dip ya, and maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll brand ya, and maybe I won't. The point is, this is a real slave market, and yer' the inventory, so it's my decision, not yours. This ayn't Chicago. You're not the big cheese here, you're the cow. And cows don't get no say, got it?"

"Yes, but..."

"But nothing. You interrupt me, or say ‘but’ one more time, and it’s gonna be yer’ butt, raised sky high for the iron. Comprendo?”

I nodded. Satisfied that I had been silenced, Rita returned her attention to the clerk behind the counter.

“How much does a custom branding head cost?”

“It depends on the size, and the design.”

“Can you do a mosquito?”

“I dunno,” Trixie replied. “Maybe. Gotta picture?”

Rita searched through her phone for the image. Even without my glasses I recognized it instantly.

It was Skeeter’s first grade drawing, that had inspired his logo and the tattoo on his wrist. The original was back in my mansion in Chicago, carefully framed, hanging between a Picasso and a Monet.

Rita tapped into her phone. “Can you mail it to yer’self?” she asked, handing the clerk the phone.

A few seconds later, the transaction was complete. Trixie turned her screen around to show Skeeter’s drawing in The Big D’s CAD program.

“This will work,” Trixie said, staring deep into the screen as she centered the image. But it’s got a lot of lines. To make it clear, we should make the branding head 3 inches by 3 inches.”

“Is that a problem?” Rita asked.

“Not if you’re branding boots or a bag. But it might look pretty big on her.”

Outrageous as it might seem, listening to Rita design the customized branding head with the maleficent store clerk was driving my pussy crazy. Unable to object, all I could do was listen, as Rita ordered a branding head that could burn Skeeter’s childish drawing into my bottom. And she was placing the order with the same casual tone she might use when buying a basting brush for the barbeque.

I didn’t want to be branded. What same woman would? But the thought that I COULD be branded, and that Rita had that sort of power over me, was intoxicating.

The “mosquito” aspect dialed up the humiliation to an 11, and Rita knew it. Since he had been a little kid, I had bought Skeeter hats, skateboards, bikes, and t-shirts with his logo. The idea that the same logo he had doodled on his freshman textbooks, could now be burned into my ass, to mark his ownership of me, was the most humiliating thing imaginable. And Rita discussing it so casually, like it might actually happen, only made it hotter!

When Rita turned to look at me, she seemed genuinely surprised. I was a sight! My breath was coming in short gasps, my nipples were rock hard, and I was stamping my feet trying to bring myself off. Oh, what I would have given to have my hands freed!

Rita laughed and shook her head as I blushed crimson with embarrassment. “Look at you, all slave girl hot at the thought of getting’ Skeeter’s brand.”

“The branding head is gonna be pretty big,” Trixie said. “You might want to do her shoulder.”

Rita smiled at me. “Her shoulder?” she said, sarcastically mocking me with my words from the night before. “Only wimps get shoulder brands. This little slut’s gonna get a BUTT BRAND!”

Rita slapped me twice on the butt, mimicking my self-spanking from the night before. Only Rita’s spanks weren’t playful. They were spanks of ownership. My fear, and my excitement, were racing each other, and Rita laughed out loud as I danced in front of her, trying to jump away the sting, and rub my way to orgasm.

Trixie talked to Rita like I wasn’t there. “She’s pretty curvy, and if the branding head stretches over the curve of her butt, the blacksmith might have to press down really hard to get it flat. If he presses down too hard, it might not be a temporary brand… Wait. Let me print it on a 3 X 3 label. That way you can stick in on her ass, and see what it looks like.”

Rita watched with an amused smile as I hopped from foot-to-foot, straining to orgasm. Behind me, the printer WHIRRED out Skeeter’s logo.

Trixie handed Rita the white sticky label. “This is 3X3. Put it up against her butt and you’ll see what I mean.”

Rita twisted her finger, indicating that I should stop pleasuring myself and turn around. I obeyed.

“Wow, nice welts,” Trixie said, staring at the whip marks on my ass.

“They won’t interfere with her branding, will they?” Rita asked.

“Naw, not a problem. He’ll just brand right over ‘em”.

I gasped as I felt Rita center the “brand” on my ass, moving it around as she perfected the position.

“I see what you mean,” Rita said, moving her head as if she was centering a picture. “She’s got a pretty big butt. But Skeeter’s brand looks AWESOME!”

“Wow, it does look good,” Trixie said. “Nice work, Skeeter. Of course , It’ll look even better, when it’s burned on, and the ridges will be all 3-D.”

I winced, and Rita smiled, as Trixie continued. “Now it says yer’ gonna pick her up at 10:30, but the blacksmith isn’t going to be here ‘til noon. If you can wait ‘til then, I can schedule ‘er branding. You can talk to him first, and then decide if you actually want to brand her. Wait, look! I have an opening! Noon, sharp!”

I couldn’t believe this was happening. Turning to Rita, I said, “I know I shouldn’t have teased Skeeter last night, but—”

Rita cut me off. “But? But? Did you just say butt again? You know what that means, don’t ya?”

I stared at her, mouth agape.

“Are ya tellin’ me what to do?” Rita said. “I think maybe ya’ need a lesson in what it means to be a slave girl. Maybe I can’t make ya’ see the light, but I can make ya’ feel the heat.”

Rita turned to Trixie. “Put ‘er on the schedule for tomorrow.”

“Done!” Trixie said, hitting the enter key with a flourish.

“Are you really going to brand me?” I said, shrinking before her at the thought.

“Maybe, maybe not. The thing of it is, it’s my call, and you don’t get no say. What I am gonna do is talk to the blacksmith. And after that… I decide,” she said flatly. “Real slave girls never know what tomorrow’s gonna bring. Which should give ya’ plenty to think about in the kennel tonight.”

I stood before her, naked, gasping for air, and utterly powerless. Nothing I could say was going to change her mind. But despite my helplessness, or perhaps because of it, I found myself rubbing my legs together. Rita was right. I wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

“Look at you, you poor thing, getting’ yers’elf all riled up.” Rita reached out and stroked my face. It’s okay. Big sister is here.”

I rubbed my face against Rita’s hand. Her hand was smooth, her voice strong, but gentle. “Annie, yer’ my sister, and I love ya’ more than Davey Crocket loved Texas. But ya’ screwed up pretty badly last night, getting’ drunk… insultin’ Roscoe, and humpin’ poor Skeeter’s leg. Fer’ shame! Fer shame!”

Rita was right. I hung my head sadly as she stroked my face. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“I know. But the thing of it is, yer’ a slave girl now, and sorry don’t slop the pig!”

Nodding. I leaned into her hand as she stroked my face, enjoying the sensation. “I’m yer’ sister, and if I’m tough on ya’, it’s because I love ya’. Ya’ want me to treat ya’ like a real Pleasure slut, right?”

“Absolutely. Bring it on!” I challenged her, squeezing my thighs together at the thought.

Rita smiled and shook her head. “Look at you, juicing yerself. Poor little thing! Do you really need to come that bad?” she asked sympathetically.

Embarrassed, I nodded my head. “If you’d free my hands…”

Ignoring me, Rita turned to Trixie and asked, “Can I have her paint the pussy post?”

Trixie, busy scheduling my kenneling and branding, shrugged. “That’s what it’s there ‘fer. Use the one on the end, where all the stains are. They don’t clean that one.”

“I know. This ayn’t my first rodeo!” Rita said, smiling as she walked back to the counter.

“Mind if I borrow that cute little pink flicker?” she said, pointing to a coil of pink rope hanging on peg hook.

Trixie looked at me and smiled. “My pleasure!” she said, handing Rita the rope.

With the pink rope in one hand and my leash in the other, Rita walked me toward the front door. Rita stopped in front of the 3-foot-tall yellow bollards that had prevented Hunk from driving his car into the help desk.

“Git’ down on all fours,” she said, using the coil of rope to point at the yellow bollard closest to the door.

“Do ya’see that spot, where the paint’s done worn off?” If you wanna scratch that itch between yer’ legs, scootch back, lift your hind leg, and rub yourself against the pole.”

I looked up at her in stunned disbelief. “You want me to hump this post, right out in the open? Where everyone can see?”

Rita shrugged. “Yer’ the one who wanted to play slave girl. If your all shy and modest, then wait till ya’ get home tomorrow.”

I looked at the post. “Why is it all brown, and white, and icky?”

“That’s the pussy juice from all the slaves who have jacked off on it before you. We move a lot of sluts through The Big D, and you ayn’t nothin’ special. A lot of girls have come before you, and a lot of girls have come after. Now it’s yer’ turn to cum, yer’ turn to paint the post.”

“What if someone walks in?” I asked, looking around nervously. “What if someone SEES?”

Rita shrugged. “What if they do? Sundays are slow. But when they git’ busy, and there’s a wait at check in, sometimes there’ll be a dozen sluts here, jostlin’s each other as they polish the pole! Still, If I were you, I’d hurry up and do my’ business. A pretty thing like you might draw a lot of rubberneckers.”

Horrified, I looked in both directions nervously.

Rita nudged my face with her dirty boot, backing me into the pole. “Go on, girl! Get paintin’!”

I looked up at Rita, towering over me, holding the pink coil of rope. Her arms were folded, her expression stern, and her foot was tapping impatiently as she waited for me to begin.

Could I wait until tomorrow to climax? I knew I could not. She was right. The sooner I started, the sooner I’d finish.

I backed up slowly, arranging myself so I was straddling the post. With my hands cuffed behind me, the only way I could balance myself was to put my face down onto the dirty cement, stained with the spray of the endless parade of slave sluts who had come before me.

The smell was awful, but the cool concrete of the rounded pillar felt surprisingly cool as I pressed my pussy against it.

Rita's MOM voice was stern. "Go on, git to it! Do 'yer business!" she commanded.

I tried to ignore Rita's tapping shoe, and slowly began to rub myself. I started slow, and began to build up a rhythm.

Rita frowned. “Come on, git to it!” Rita shook out the rope and swung it in a circle over my head.

Once…

Twice…

I nearly jumped out of my skin as the pink whip cracked, inches from ear!

“Git humpin’!” Rita barked. “Grease that pussy pole.”

Rita cracked the pink whip, coming so close to my ass that the breeze from in tickled my bottom hole. She had told me Skeeter had taught her how to use the whip, and that she was pretty good at it, although she wasn’t at the “near genius” level of her whip-cracking son. Still, she seemed plenty good to me! Abandoning any pretense of decency, I rubbed hard and fast, wigging my ass as I drove my twat into the pussy pole.

I lubricated quickly, and soon I was groaning with pleasure. Rita, laughing, used the whip to set the pace, cracking it near my ass whenever I missed a beat, or slowed. Soon I was painting the pole with gusto, mixing my juices in with all the other pleasure sluts that had gone before me, adding my own special coloring and odor to the slave slut “paint”.

“You jist keep polishin’ that pole, even after you squirt,” Rita asked. “No stoppin’, till I tell you ya’ can. I want to see that pussy SQUIRM!”, she said, laughing as she cracked the whip for emphasis.

I picked up the pace, rubbing hard and fast, like my pussy was in a blender. It was awkward, with my nose pressed into the slave stink, my right leg high, and my ass wiggling in the air as I humped the post. But I knew I was close…

“That’s it, girl,” Rita said, laughing. “Rub in your scent, like a dog markin’ a tree. Good girl!”

Rita’s humiliating “encouragement” pushed me over the edge, and I nearly fell over as I rocked through a life changing slave-gasm. But Rita made sure I had no time to enjoy it.

“Keep goin’” she said, cracking the whip. “That’s it! Rub all that slave honey in. Wow, you sure is juicy! Don't look so snooty now, do ya, city girl? Come on! Faster! Faster! Paint that pussy post! Rub yer pussy juice in. Give it a real good hump!”

It felt amazing, and I felt a kinship as I added my pleasure juice to the juices of my thousands of sisters who had come before. My eyes were closed, and the first sign that I wasn’t alone was a familiar teenage voice.

“Oh…my…GAWD!!”

I opened my eyes to see a pair of pink sneakers, and a pair of high heels. The California girls had returned.

“What…a…pig slut!” the other girl said, her voice oozing disbelief.

“Have…you…EVER?”

I was mortified, raising my head, I slowed down.

Raising her arm, Rita cracked the whip. I screamed like a banshee as the whip cut into my wiggling behind.

“Oh…my GAWD! She… whipped…her…ASS?”

“Sometimes if ya’ want grease, ya’ got skin the pig!”, Rita said, laughing as she waved the whip.

I shuddered as she cracked the whip in the air.

The second girl looked down at me. “Sure did get her lazy ass moving.”

“Yeah. Look at her go.”

“I HAVE to…Film this.”

“Why? It’s, like… DISGUSTING.”

“Like… guys love slave sluts. The piggier the better.”

“They’ll love her. Like…oink, oink!”

The girls laughed as I frantically rubbed myself on the post, sliding up and down, rubbing in my juices. The girls laughed as I frantically rubbed myself on the post, sliding up and down, massaging in my juices.

To my horror a small crowd began to form. A bald clerk on his break, eating a sandwich. A woman making a return. A man and his son, heading for the slave pens, but happy to spend a few minutes watching an an ignorant slave slut paint the pussy pole.

I was right by the front door, so as soon as anyone walked in the first thing they saw was my foot in the air and my drippy, creamy, poontang, greasing the pole. Needless to say, the crowd grew quickly.

Five or six old guys, who, judging from their hats, had just gotten out of their VHF meeting, approached Rita, who was still holding my rope leash, playfully jiggling it, as I moaned and grunted with pleasure.

“Ma’am,” a skinny old geezer with a white mustache said, “I hope ya’ don’t mind my sayin’ so, but I’ve been in every brothel in South America, South East Asia, Africa, and Europe, and that is the sloppiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you, Sir!” Rita said, as the man gave her a crisp salute.

Much to my horror, Julio, the greasy beaner from Pig Face BBQ that had taken our order, and who I had flirted with, walked in. He recognized Rita immediately, but it wasn’t until he walked around to the front of the post – after stopping to take a long look at my widely splayed pussy – that he recognized me.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t the girl who wanted her salad JUST SO, then barely touched it,” he laughed. Turning to Rita, he pointed up at the reflection in the store’s concave security mirror, which had been perfectly positioned to give a greatly enlarged and expansive view of my wet twat. “Painting the pole” was apparently part of the show at The Big D, and liked the thousands of sluts who had gone before me, I was giving the crowd a view of my sloppy pussy that would make a gynecologist blush.

“No wonder you wanted extra sauce. That is one hot beef brisket!”

Julio’s laughter pushed me into my second slave-gasm, causing my pussy to spasm like jello.

“They’re gonna need a new post.”

“Damn! She actually got yellow paint chips on her snuggle box.”

“That is one tight looking snapper.”

“Ha! Somebody get me a sponge!”

“You sellin’, lady? Cuz I’m buying!”

“Yeah, take her down to the slave pens, Lady. Let us cop a quick feel.”

“Or a slow one,” another voice said.

I thought of dinner, and the way I had rubbed myself up against Skeeter. I didn’t know about the pussy pole then, but Rita did. This wasn’t her first rodeo. Rita had been pissed, and I wondered if even then, watching me tease her son in my little black “hooker dress”, Rita didn’t imagine me painting the pussy pole at The Big D.

I looked up at Rita, who responded by running the nasty little lash on the whip, the part that Skeeter called “the cracker”, lovingly through her fingers, daring me to stop.

Under the threat of the lash, I rubbed faster, painting the pole as the crowd cheered me on.

“Any chance ya’ll sell her?” Julio asked. “On the auction block, I mean.”

Rita, seeing my look of horror at the thought of a dirty little beaner like Julio bidding on me, gave me a measured look before answering. “There’s always a chance,” she said.

As the crow grew larger, the taunts grew more vulgar. But Rita, whip in hand, made sure I didn’t slow down. Her smile wasn’t cruel, but amused. It was the smug smile of a proud pet owner, watching with satisfaction as her dog performed a trick at the neighborhood BBQ.

From behind the counter, I heard Trixie’s voice. “Ya' know it would be a lot cheaper if ya' just picked a standard brand, or did it on her shoulder.”

Out of the side of my eye I could see Rita, arms crossed, smiling triumphantly as I shamed myself on the post in front. “No,” she said firmly, “I want Skeeter’s doodle, full size, and I want it branded on her ass.”

[imreadonly2]

Joe, you flipped Anne for Rita with the ear scratching.

[jeepster]

Awesome! Love the direction this is going!

[imreadonly2]

Joe, you flipped Anne for Rita with the ear scratching.

Thanks. Joe's fix has been made, and he expanded the post scene, too. Joe sent you a drawing for the gallery to go with this story, as well, and thanks you for your wonderful pictures. Great job!

[imreadonly2]

WOW! To paraphrase Rita’s vernacular, “There’s gold in them thar words!”

This is probably the most erotic, exceptionally creative, stimulatingly arousing chapter of any story I have ever read . . . period, full-stop.

There are so many great moments in Chapter7 I hardly know where to begin. The interaction between Rita and Anne was very entertaining. I LOVE Rita’s use of her MOM-voice coupled at just the right moment with tender encouragement to her kid sister. Anne’s fear came shining through amazingly well reinforcing the seriousness of her situation.

The Skeeter drawing/Branding head discussion was absolute pure genius! The entire three-way dialog concerning the practical matters of the branding process was extremely well-done, so much so I re-read that exchange several times.
But I must admit what was your crowning achievement was concept of painting the pussy-post. OMG that was so amazingly hot. If they gave awards for erotically creative scenes, this would win hands down (or up and down as the case may be.) When my favorite characters, the teenage valley girls, made their reappearance I could just feel Anne’s humiliation factor increasing exponentially as this entire scene was so well-written.

I have no idea how you can top this but I am definitely staying tuned to find out.

Hooked6

[imreadonly2]

A note from Joe.

Thank you, everyone. I was thinking the pussy post was a particular hot scene, too, Hooked 6, and I just added a bit more to the end. I was thinking this might be hard to top, too, but the fun is in the trying.

Hmm... We haven't seen Rosco yet. And where's Skeeter tonight? Probably dreaming of his sexy Aunt Annie, enjoying her dinner on her penthouse patio at the Ritz Carleton, bossing the servants about, looking down on all the little people below. Ah, Anne, sophisticated and elegant, cool and disdainful, always the proper lady.

[Carl Bradford]

Once again, the master of humiliation at the slave market had outdone himself. Superb, Joe--please keep it going!

[katamaran789]

Your work is truely inspiring, Joe. Thank you for posting imreadonly2

[imreadonly2]

For anyone who wants to know what Skeeter's doodle looks like, Orflash has posted his first grade art class drawing in the Any Chance Auction photos folder, although with other pictures to tie in with the story. While Trixis is right, and there are a lot of lines, I still think it will make a wonderful brand. I hope his Ann-Annie likes it.

[jeepster]

I simply LOVE Skeeter's doodle that Orflash has posted. HA! What a great and humiliating brand. The very fact that this primitive sketch hangs in Anne's home between some very expensive classic art that Posh guests pass by every day in her mansion and might someday adorn Anne's bottom is really arousing. Part of me hopes she actually gets the temporary brand as a lot of people she knows witnesses the event!

Hooked6

[imreadonly2]

Thank you, Hooked 6. If you liked the image of Skeeter's drawing hanging in Anne's mansion, you will love Chapter 8!

[lovethissite]

Joe: Anne has found her true calling she is a pleasure slut. Thank you.