Any Chance Auction - Chapter 10B, by Joe Doe
Posted: Sun Oct 11, 2020 11:41 pm
I tried to scream. Instead, I moaned with pleasure, wiggling my ass on the steel cart as the men laughed at me, and the voice in my head taunted me. “Free women look at you with disgust. Never look them in the eye, or you will be punished.”
Isabella’s voice was warm, sincere. “Seeing how much you love your sister… well, it’s touched me. Here, in my heart. I want to help you, Rita. I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to make this happen.”
“Whad’ya mean?” Rita asked.
I grunted, struggling to orgasm, as I listened to Miss Calico tee-up the next part of the sales process, “Overcoming Objections.”
“As you know, we have a large auction coming up, and I would very much like to add Anne to our stock, as we promised our buyers a dozen prime head to bid on. Ordinarily, we charge $500 for girls to participate in an Any Chance Auction. It’s refundable if the girl is sold, as we get paid through our commission, but the $500 covers our costs if the girl’s owner decides not to sell her. But because I care about you, and Anne… I’m prepared to waive that fee.”
“Why thank you, Miss Calico! That’s right neighborly of you.”
“Furthermore, to thank you for being a special friend to The Big D tonight, I’m prepared to pay you $1,500, cash, right now, just for entering your sister in the auction. If you decide not to sell her in the morning, that’s fine. Keep the $1,500. It’s yours.”
“Wow!” Rita said. “I could buy the skateboard!”
Miss Calico smiled. “Yes, and the bowling ball, too, and have some money left over for yourself. You’re always worrying about everyone else. Wouldn’t it be nice to get something for yourself, for a change?”
I could see my sister’s eyes move about as she imagined all the treats $500 could buy. A part of me could scarcely believe what was happening. If it wasn’t for Rosco’s damn pride, I could have wired her $100,000 out of my petty cash. But as I lay helplessly, being slut shamed on the steel table, my aching, wet pussy was being bartered away for a skateboard and bowling ball!
“Well, this is gittin’ to be too good a deal to pass up,” Rita chuckled. “How can I say no to all that?”
“You can’t,” Miss Calico said. “But there’s something more. You were going to get her branded tomorrow, right?”
“Well… it’s scheduled,” Rita said, hedging.
“I’ll tell you what. If you decide to sell her, it will be up to her master if she gets branded. If not, then I’ll give her the implants and the branding, absolutely free.”
I couldn’t believe it. Miss Calico was throwing in a brand on my ass and the humiliating, all-controlling implants like they were a set of steak knives, or free shipping.
“Plus, I’ll include this,” Miss Calico said.
From my position on the table I struggled to see. Miss Calico opened the bag, and took out an expensive looking metal collar. It was purple, and shimmered in the light.
“Well, look at that!” Rita said. “Ayn’t that prettier than a gob of butter on a stack of wheat cakes.”
“This is an eternity collar. You know what that means, don’t you?”
“I sure do,” Rita said. “Is that really necessary?”
“No, not necessary,” Miss Calico said, “Essential. It’s essential if she’s ever going to get better. Do it for Anne. Do it for your son.”
Rita thought about it for a moment, then nodded.
Miss Calico took out another item, a cheap plastic blue tag that looked like a key ring.
“This is the tag the computer picked for her.”
“Well, I guess it’ll help her price,” Rita said. “I mean, it pays to advertise. Um… that slick purple collar is pretty expensive, ayn’t it?”
“It is,” she said, holding it up to the light. “Stainless steel, beautifully crafted. It’s one of the finest slave collars in the world.”
“How much will that frilly cost me?”
Miss Calico smiled. “Nothing, Rita. I’m giving it to you for free, because of the greatness of your love.”
Rita started to cry. Miss Calico, hugging her, patted her on the back.
Rita took a moment to blow her nose and compose herself as Miss Calico took out her iPad.
“I need to help Anne. What do I need to do, Miss Calico?” Rita asked.
“All I need is your signature on the sales authorization form,” Miss Calico said. “And please. Call me Isabella. You’re family now.”
“Thank you,” Rita said softly, as Miss Calico held up the iPad for her to sign.
The sensation as I watched Rita use her pointing finger to transform my pussy from “kenneled” to “goods available for sale” was simply indescribable.
It is said that there are three moments that define a girl’s enslavement: the signature, the collaring, and the first sale. But at The Big D, once the first was accomplished, the second two were as inevitable as the sunrise.
“Did the software know my emotions? Was there a part of my brain activated at the moment a woman becomes, legally, a Pleasure Slut? Perhaps not, but the mantra in the soft, whispery voice played in my ear.
“Your hot, wet, snatch hungers for the auction block. You want to show it to the buyers, show them your block heat. You long to fetch a fine price. You are a Prime Pleasure Slut.”
I arched my hips up, air fucking nothing as I struggled for release. In front of me, the trucker smiled, and stroked himself under his jacket as he pursed his lips in a mock air kiss.
The elderly man, realizing the trucker was giving himself a hand, left.
“That’s it,” Miss Calico said. “You can go now. I’ll call you in the morning, and tell you the bids.”
“Shouldn’t I stay… and watch?” Rita said.
“It might be better if you don’t,” Miss Calico said. “This is going to be a big night for your sister, a major transition. Think of it as dropping her off at rehab. She really needs to focus on getting well.”
I knew that Isabella Calico was far more interested in my resale than rehab, but Rita, ever gullible, seemed to buy it.
“You can go now,” she said, patting Rita’s hand. “I’ll take very good care of her.” Miss Calico rose, indicating the deal was closed.
Rita watched as she picked up the collar and blue tag.
“Are you gonna collar her now?” Rita asked.
Miss Calico nodded.
“May I do it?” Rita asked. “It might be easier for her, if it’s done by someone she loves.”
“Are you sure you can handle it?” Miss Calico said, in a solicitous voice. “I know you two are close.”
“Very close,” Rita said. “That’s why it needs to be me.”
Rita rose, and walked over to my right side. She smiled down at me, and stroked the side of my face. “How ya’ doin’, kiddo?” she said. She hadn’t call me that in years. Once again, Rita was my surrogate mom.
Unable to speak, I looked up at her, panting like a dog in heat. Rita held up the purple collar.
“Isn’t this pretty?” she asked, showing me the stainless steel. “See? It’s purple, your favorite color. Royal purple, just like a Princess!”
I looked at the beautiful, brushed, polished purple steel, glimmering under the light. It was beautiful, perfect. As Rita turned it in front of my face, it glistened.
Rita had indeed, given me the collar of my fantasies.
Seeing my smile, Rita held the collar up close, detailing its finer features. “See, it’s got two loops on it, front and back, for when they chain you to a coffle. And it has two sets of shock prongs, one set in front, and one in back. Really deluxe! Only the best for you, Anne.”
Miss Calico’s gentle voice was a cruel imitation of my sister’s. “It’s already been tied to your SIN, and it has a tracking chip, too. In Texas, when a slave girl goes into a store, or travels on the tollway, the information gets fed into a central database. That way no one can steal you, and you’ll be tracked everywhere you go. Isn’t that wonderful, Princess?”
Inside my ear, I heard the whisper. “Slave girls never think of books, or ideas, or science. Pleasure sluts think only of giving pleasure. Feel your pussy. Let it juice.”
“This here is an eternity collar,” Rita explained. See how it fits together, so you can’t even see the hinge. They call it an eternity collar, because when I slip it on your neck, and use this Allen wrench to turn the screw, it breaks a little vial of acid on the inside that melds the collar together. Forever.”
I gripped the sides of the table as Rita slipped the collar around my neck, closing it shut. In my mind, I imagined it as the rope from the gallows, being fitted around my throat.
The collar was snug, but not too tight. Trixie had used my grading papers to ensure I had the perfect fit. I would feel the collar touching my throat forever.
Miss Calico handed Rita the Allen wrench. I tensed as she put it in the collar.
“Here goes!” Rita said, smiling down at me.
Rita gently twisted the key three times. I could feel the collar warm ever so slightly as the locking mechanism sealed forever. I tried to speak, to cry out, to say something. My resistance caused my pussy to spasm so hard it lifted my bottom off the table.
“Look at ‘er squirm,” the first man said……..
“Yeah,” the trucker said. “Slave sluts LOVE their collars!”
Rita stroked the side of my face. Miss Calico, clearly impatient, held up the plastic blue tag. “Do you want me to do this next part?” she asked.
“No. I kin do it,” Rita said.
“See this?” Rita said. “This is yer’ ear tag. It’s blue, and shaped like California, so everybody will know you’re a Yankee lib. Kind of cute, isn’t it?” she said, giving it a jingle.
“Rosco says a lotta the rednecks will buy slave girls just cuz she’s a liberal. Ayn’t that a kick? I guess yer’ political views will finally be pop-lar, down here!”
Miss Calico handed Rita a tool. It looked like a belt punch, only with a long nail on the business end. Seeing it, I tried to scream, but it came out like a squeak.
Again, the voice in my ear kicked in, urging me to dumbness. “Pleasure Sluts are not curious. They never object, to anything. The answer is always two words: ‘Yes, Master.”
Rita turned to Miss Calico. “Do we really gotta do this? Tag ‘er, like she’s a pig, or a cow?”
“Absolutely, because that’s what she is: livestock. Remember: tough love.”
“Tough love,” Rita repeated.
Miss Calico put her hands over my face, holding my head tight to make sure I couldn’t move.
“Need any help?” the trucker called out.
“No, thank you,” Miss Calico replied. “We got it.”
I panted in fear as Rita placed the clip below my ear, and lined up the tag and long-nailed punch.
“That’s it,” Miss Calico said. “Get it in the dead center of her ear, where the cartilage is thickest.”
“Hold still, little sister,” Rita said. “Sorry, but sometimes tough love hurts!”
Clutching the handles of the punch Rita squeezed with all her might. Despite the software buzzing my pussy, I screamed as the nail drove through the dead center of my ear. The pain was unbelievable.
The pussy stimulation zipped up, but it could only go so far before it gave me an undeserved, unapproved slave-gasm. And so, it edged off, leaving me to concentrate on the pain and shame of my blue lib tag.
“It’ll be okay,” Miss Calico said. “She’s so slave hot she hardly feels it. Pleasure sluts don’t feel brandings or whippings, either, not like people do.
Liar! Tears in my eyes, I raised my head. The floppy blue tag, hanging from the center of my ear, bounced against the side of my head. I know I would have looked ridiculous, if sluts were permitted to have dignity.
“Wow, that turned out great,” Miss Calico said. “It looks really cute on her.”
“It does look nice!” Rita said, hitting the tag with her finger, and letting it swing through the air. “Nice and floppy!” she added with a laugh.
I looked at my ear tag, out of the side of my eye. I was stunned. I was an animal. I was livestock.
“I think you need to go now, Rita,” Miss Calico said. “We need time, to get her ready.”
Rita looked at me with gentle, kind eyes. “I want you to know, this is all for your own good, and because I love you. You have fun tonight, okay?”
Tapping me on the nose to get my attention, Rita’s tone turned serious. “I want you to listen to me, young lady, and I want you to listen good. Tomorrow morning, I will take a VERY close look at the top bid. I know your slave hot, and after I see the numbers, I’m going to review the pros and cons. I will make an objective decision, and if it’s a fair price, then…”
I tried to speak, to object, to say SOMETHING. But the pleasure in my pussy dialed up, and all I could was grunt, and buck my hips.
Rita kissed me, and patted me on the head. “Shhh! Ya got nothing to worry about. Everything will be fine. Yer in the system now, and yer’ just another pussy. Girls move through this place like shit through a goose.”
Rita glanced at her watch. “Oh gosh! I’m going to miss my favorite show! It’s almost time to pop open a cold one, get some chips-and-dip, and watch BLESS THE HARTS.”
Miss Calico burst into a smile. “I love that show!”
“I do too. Tonight’s my favorite, the one where Jenny gets the job in the strip club. I’ve already seen it. Twice! What a HOOT!”
My humiliating blue state ear tag flopping against my face, I watched in dazed disbelief as the two women snorted with laughter over a stupid, Southern, white trash cartoon. On Fox.
Miss Calico disappeared as she led Rita to the front of the store to get her $1,500 bribe. I hoped Skeeter enjoyed his skateboard.
The trucker, seeing my end was near, focused his beady eyes on my wet sloppy, pussy. With a little groan, he finished his business.
Looking both ways, he pulled a rag out of his pocket, and wiped himself under his leather jacket, before zipping up his pants and rising.
“Thanks for the show, purple Princess,” he said, giving me a wink. “Sorry I can’t hang around to see ‘em sell yer’ sweet little meat glove, but they need a truck full of beer in San Antonio.”
Looking both ways, he checked to make sure no one was watching. The coast was clear.
He came up to me, and cupped my pussy in his fat hand, then slipped two fingers inside of me. Grateful for his touch, I groaned with pleasure, and humped his hand.
He took his fingers out of my pussy, and put them in his mouth. “Finger licking good!” he chuckled. Then he left.
Miss Calico was all smiles as she returned. Now that Rita was gone, she turned off the app on her phone, allowing me to speak.
"Why are you doing this to me?" I asked, as Miss Calico none-to-gently ripped the control tape from my ear, pussy, and head.
"Because I DESPISE sluts like you. Everything about you is a lie. It's skanks like you who make it hard for smart, decent, honorable women like me. Pleasure Sluts who pretend to be accomplished professional women, then disgrace themselves, rubbing themselves, acting like whores. I know you better than I know myself. Collaring coochie like you is one of the great joys of this job.”
"No, I'm not like that. I'm rich! I'm successful..."
Isabella’s eyes filled with rage. "A lady in the streets, a ho between the sheets? No, you're just a ho. When I saw you humping the pole I figured you were just another pig slut. But when your sister told me your story. I knew everything about you. Everything."
“I have to deal with your shit every day. Men talking down to me, staring at my ass, wondering what I’m like in bed. Garbage and filth, complimenting me on my tits, and asking me if they are going to auction me tonight. Pig fuckers! I can’t do anything but laugh, because they’re CUSTOMERS.”
"YOU’RE the reason I have to put up with their shit. Teasing your nephew. Rubbing against him. I bet he thinks his rich Aunt is smart, and successful. Someone he can look up to. I hope you enjoyed teasing him, because those days are gone forever. No one will respect you, or love you, or fear you. They will just FUCK you. You'll be nothing more than a hole and a goal.
"I can pay you! I’m worth a fortune!"
"Not any more, you’re not. You don’t even own that collar. Seeing you roll in the sand, and spread your legs for the bidders, and finally, seeing that look of defeat in your eyes when the gavel falls, and you realize your just an object, a juicy hole and a hot mouth, will be payment enough.”
Hunk, driving a different kind of motorized golf cart, drove up, maneuvering himself into position in front of my table. As Rita’s harangue continued, a bored Hunk undid my bonds.
"Did you enjoy your dinner with your idiot sister’s son, flirting with him, prick teasing him? Did you enjoy your delicious food, and fine wine? Did you hump the wine bottle, too? Did you wear a hot, sexy dress? Did you flirt with the waiter? Of course, you did. Disgusting. Letting a pig slut like you root around where decent women eat. Well tonight, I’m in charge, my little purple princess. You're going to eat like the sow you are. I want you to think of me with every bite."
Rita turned to Hunk. "Take her over to the Dining Hall. Then get her prepped for Broadway."
Miss Calico gave me one final hiss of disgust, then turned, and walked away.
The irony was rich. I had been scared that Rita had ulterior motives, but her love was steadfast. It was the beautiful, smart, “professional woman”, so like myself, who had betrayed me.
If my time on the examination table seemed like hours, the next few minutes flew by in seconds.
Hunk used his scanning gun to zap my collar, and it gave a satisfied PING!
Working quickly, Hunk clipped shackles around my ankles, yanking on them to test the lock. He hooked the shackles to the cable then threw the end over a pole. Hauling me up I soon found myself hanging upside-down in the back of his golf car, dangling from the long pole.
I thought of my room at the Ritz Carlton, and the luggage cart with the long bar the bellhop used to bring my beautiful dresses to my room. “Right this way, Miss,” he’d say. “We’ll be there in a jiffy.”
Now I was hanging from the luggage bar, and I was the luggage. Hunk threw the cart into reverse. I screamed as the golf cart lurched backwards, towards a yellow bollard.
I was far enough away from the back of the cart that I didn’t swing into anything when Hunk crashed into the pole. My last sight of the yellow bollard was a green paint transfer Hunk had left there, bigger than the scrape I had polished off the water pipe on the other end of the store.
We sped down an aisle, past a few startled customers, past the VFW geezers, who were having coffee at a table. “Lot of people hangin’ out fer yer’ auction, hot stuff,” Hunk said. “Ya’ must have put on quite a show.”
We crashed through a pair of swinging gate doors and again entered the backstage area.
Hunk turned me over to a bored looking Mexican in his late 40’s who scanned my collar before Hunk sped away.
Squeezing my ass, the Mexican led me down the hall, past another armed security guard. The Mexican validated his keycard on a pad, then the security guard buzzed us through a heavy security door.
We entered a small "man trap" room. The Mexican validated his ID again on the keypad, and signaled to yet another armed guard on the other side of the glass, who buzzed us through the second heavy security door.
The Mexican led me to another security guard, who used his scanning gun to scan my collar. His gun registered a satisfied BEEP.
"Got her?" the Mexican said.
"Yup! She's in the system, and ready-for-sale. Just another bitch-on-the-block. Take her to the Dining Hall."
Each security door and checkpoint took me farther from Rita, farther my room at the Ritz Carleton, farther from home. Even if I could get past the police and two metal doors, and through the "pussy trap" airlock, my collar would shock me before the cops in the parking lot even had a chance to run me down and lasso me.
“I'm glad to be through those doors," I thought. "I'm chipped, and they got my SIN in the system. I'm safe now."
The slave psychology books I had poured over in my free time often discussed, “The Freedom of Slavery.” The idea was that slave girls came to see their collars and cages as protectors, barriers from responsibilities and decisions they couldn’t handle. Buried in the massive security of The Big D, with my power suit, purse, and ID safely in my sister’s care, I felt absolutely free.
We quickly arrived at the ironically named “Dining Hall.” A bored worker bee scanned my collar in, and then led me over to one of the enormous troughs that stretched the length of the room.
The troughs were made of wood, and looked VERY old. The worker brought me to a row and found me an open spot, and I knelt down next to the other girls. Since my hands were already zipped behind my back, I didn’t have to worry about holding them in place, like the women next to me. But I spread my legs goal post wide, like the other girls, like a good slave slut should.
Waiting for my trough to be filled. I looked around. The girls at my trough were pretty, although none as pretty as me. Every slave girl wants to be the prettiest, and they hate girls prettier than they are. A number of the little sluts looked at me with open dislike, which pleased me.
Slave girls are so vain! They all wanted to be the best, but I was the best. Ha!
One of the slave mongers moved over a metal chute suspended from the ceiling over the trough. He pulled a switch, and brown slave kibble began to pour into the trough. He moved the dispenser down the length of the trough. Behind him, another handler, carrying an old shovel that had what I hoped were clumps of dirt on it, spread out the kibble further, distributing it evenly.
A second tube was lowered, dispensing a liquid, greasy, chunky orange stew that I had read about but never actually seen. Orange slave slime!
In the last few years, restaurants had gotten into the habit of scraping unused or uneaten food off plates into logo garbage bags provided by the slave handlers. It was considered a chic and trendy form of recycling by the smart set, and was all the rage. Even in areas of the country that didn’t support slavery, there were countless ORANGE FORK decals in the window, indicating the restaurants proud participation in the program.
In Chicago, my girlfriends had made a grand joke of it. Whenever we ate at a trendy Orange Fork eatery, we’d always chew up some food and then spit it back on the plate, “for the girls.”
“So nice of us to pre-chew it for them!” we’d say, laughing.
The impossibly expensive steak house we had eaten at in Dallas last night was an Orange Fork establishment, and as we had so much food, Skeeter and I had made a game of masticating the lobster, the steak, the mashed potatoes, and mixing it into the unused gravy, then snorting with glee as the waiter scraped our chewy slop into the Orange Fork bag.
“Wait,” I said, grabbing the handkerchief Skeeter had used to blow his nose. “You missed the nose syrup,” I said, laughing.
Opening the orange bag, the waiter dutifully let me scrape Skeeters snot into the slave stew, “for flavoring.”
Skeeter, who had drank almost as much as I had, couldn’t stop laughing.
“That’s disgustin’!” Rita said, “and mean, too.”
“It’s fun!” I replied, punching her in the arm for emphasis.
I had known I was going to be kenneled at The Big D, but I had no idea that they participated in Orange Fork, which seemed a lot less fun now that the orange slime dinner waste was floating past my face. I’d had no intention of “dining” at The Big D, as I only intended on being kenneled overnight.
Nonetheless, I was here, legs spread, hands behind my back, kneeling naked in front of the feeding trough. The man with the shovel moved down the row, mixing the stew with the kibble, turning it over like he was fertilizing a field. As the shovel dragged past my face, the smell was unbearable. But my pussy began to tingle as the familiar voice returned.
“Feel that hum in your snatch? Of course, you do! It’s dinner time, slave girl, so get ready. Fresh Orange Fork slime, straight from the garbage can, all cold and greasy. Dig in. It’s exactly the dinner a pig slut like you deserves.”
Staring at the slime, other meals came to mind. I pictured Rita, at home, eating chips and dip as she watched Bless The Hearts.
I pictured my friends and I, laughing as we enjoyed a sumptuous buffet at my mansion in Chicago.
I pictured myself on the porch of my Penthouse Suite in Dallas, enjoying the twinkling lights of the city as I chewed up sushi and spit it into The Orange Fork bag.
“Snouts down, piggies,” the man at the head of the trough said. “It’s dinner time for you randy sows!”
In spite of my revulsion, or perhaps because of it, I felt a spasm of pleasure in my crotch as the imaginary voice in my head urged me on.
“You are a slave girl. A hot, randy Pleasure Slut. It’s time to stick your snout in the trough, and eat the food your rich friends spit out. Bon appetite!”
My pussy was hot, and wet, and it only got worse when I managed to lower my face into the disgusting, greasy, ooze. It tasted awful! But that only made my pussy hotter.
The insidious trainer had done its wicked work, and now I no longer needed the vibrator or speaker in my ear to enjoy the buzz and hear slave mantras in my head.
“It doesn’t taste bad. The kibble is good for me, and very nutritious. I think that’s a bit of potato… and I think someone must not have liked their broccoli, which means this slave girl gets a treat. This piece of fat still has a lot of prime rib on it, and is nice and juicy.”
“I am eating orange slime! Real orange slime, just like a real slave slut.” It felt deliciously naughty, and I felt my pussy twitch with pleasure. I began to lap it up eagerly.
“Where’s the slut who greased the pole?” one of the men asked. “She looked pretty hot on the security camera.”
“Don’t you recognize her? She’s right there.”
“I wasn’t looking at her face.”
Looking up, I noticed the boots of the man holding the shovel. They were beautiful boots, elegantly crafted, and far too expensive for someone who worked at The Big D. There was a childish mosquito drawing branded on the side.
My heart sank as I realized I was looking at the boots I had bought Skeeter last Christmas.
A voice from behind me cried out. “She’s the skank in the middle, with the wet pussy, the blue tag, and the stupid look on her face. Look at her, slurping up that slime!”
Skeeter turned and looked down the row, his eyes stopping to rest on me. I quickly ran my tongue over my face trying to clean off the slop from my snout.
I could see Skeeter was having one of those peculiar moments, when you see someone you know in the wrong location, and you can't quite place them, like when you see your teacher at the supermarket, or a celebrity in the lobby of your hotel.
He looked at me… my tag… my collar… my tits… and my hot, wet pussy, his brain unable to process what his eyes were telling him.
“Hi, Skeeter,” I said softly.
I could say that I don't know who was more surprised, me or Skeeter, but I would be lying. Skeeter was definitely the more surprised.
“Anna-Annie?” he replied. “What the fuck?”
Isabella’s voice was warm, sincere. “Seeing how much you love your sister… well, it’s touched me. Here, in my heart. I want to help you, Rita. I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to make this happen.”
“Whad’ya mean?” Rita asked.
I grunted, struggling to orgasm, as I listened to Miss Calico tee-up the next part of the sales process, “Overcoming Objections.”
“As you know, we have a large auction coming up, and I would very much like to add Anne to our stock, as we promised our buyers a dozen prime head to bid on. Ordinarily, we charge $500 for girls to participate in an Any Chance Auction. It’s refundable if the girl is sold, as we get paid through our commission, but the $500 covers our costs if the girl’s owner decides not to sell her. But because I care about you, and Anne… I’m prepared to waive that fee.”
“Why thank you, Miss Calico! That’s right neighborly of you.”
“Furthermore, to thank you for being a special friend to The Big D tonight, I’m prepared to pay you $1,500, cash, right now, just for entering your sister in the auction. If you decide not to sell her in the morning, that’s fine. Keep the $1,500. It’s yours.”
“Wow!” Rita said. “I could buy the skateboard!”
Miss Calico smiled. “Yes, and the bowling ball, too, and have some money left over for yourself. You’re always worrying about everyone else. Wouldn’t it be nice to get something for yourself, for a change?”
I could see my sister’s eyes move about as she imagined all the treats $500 could buy. A part of me could scarcely believe what was happening. If it wasn’t for Rosco’s damn pride, I could have wired her $100,000 out of my petty cash. But as I lay helplessly, being slut shamed on the steel table, my aching, wet pussy was being bartered away for a skateboard and bowling ball!
“Well, this is gittin’ to be too good a deal to pass up,” Rita chuckled. “How can I say no to all that?”
“You can’t,” Miss Calico said. “But there’s something more. You were going to get her branded tomorrow, right?”
“Well… it’s scheduled,” Rita said, hedging.
“I’ll tell you what. If you decide to sell her, it will be up to her master if she gets branded. If not, then I’ll give her the implants and the branding, absolutely free.”
I couldn’t believe it. Miss Calico was throwing in a brand on my ass and the humiliating, all-controlling implants like they were a set of steak knives, or free shipping.
“Plus, I’ll include this,” Miss Calico said.
From my position on the table I struggled to see. Miss Calico opened the bag, and took out an expensive looking metal collar. It was purple, and shimmered in the light.
“Well, look at that!” Rita said. “Ayn’t that prettier than a gob of butter on a stack of wheat cakes.”
“This is an eternity collar. You know what that means, don’t you?”
“I sure do,” Rita said. “Is that really necessary?”
“No, not necessary,” Miss Calico said, “Essential. It’s essential if she’s ever going to get better. Do it for Anne. Do it for your son.”
Rita thought about it for a moment, then nodded.
Miss Calico took out another item, a cheap plastic blue tag that looked like a key ring.
“This is the tag the computer picked for her.”
“Well, I guess it’ll help her price,” Rita said. “I mean, it pays to advertise. Um… that slick purple collar is pretty expensive, ayn’t it?”
“It is,” she said, holding it up to the light. “Stainless steel, beautifully crafted. It’s one of the finest slave collars in the world.”
“How much will that frilly cost me?”
Miss Calico smiled. “Nothing, Rita. I’m giving it to you for free, because of the greatness of your love.”
Rita started to cry. Miss Calico, hugging her, patted her on the back.
Rita took a moment to blow her nose and compose herself as Miss Calico took out her iPad.
“I need to help Anne. What do I need to do, Miss Calico?” Rita asked.
“All I need is your signature on the sales authorization form,” Miss Calico said. “And please. Call me Isabella. You’re family now.”
“Thank you,” Rita said softly, as Miss Calico held up the iPad for her to sign.
The sensation as I watched Rita use her pointing finger to transform my pussy from “kenneled” to “goods available for sale” was simply indescribable.
It is said that there are three moments that define a girl’s enslavement: the signature, the collaring, and the first sale. But at The Big D, once the first was accomplished, the second two were as inevitable as the sunrise.
“Did the software know my emotions? Was there a part of my brain activated at the moment a woman becomes, legally, a Pleasure Slut? Perhaps not, but the mantra in the soft, whispery voice played in my ear.
“Your hot, wet, snatch hungers for the auction block. You want to show it to the buyers, show them your block heat. You long to fetch a fine price. You are a Prime Pleasure Slut.”
I arched my hips up, air fucking nothing as I struggled for release. In front of me, the trucker smiled, and stroked himself under his jacket as he pursed his lips in a mock air kiss.
The elderly man, realizing the trucker was giving himself a hand, left.
“That’s it,” Miss Calico said. “You can go now. I’ll call you in the morning, and tell you the bids.”
“Shouldn’t I stay… and watch?” Rita said.
“It might be better if you don’t,” Miss Calico said. “This is going to be a big night for your sister, a major transition. Think of it as dropping her off at rehab. She really needs to focus on getting well.”
I knew that Isabella Calico was far more interested in my resale than rehab, but Rita, ever gullible, seemed to buy it.
“You can go now,” she said, patting Rita’s hand. “I’ll take very good care of her.” Miss Calico rose, indicating the deal was closed.
Rita watched as she picked up the collar and blue tag.
“Are you gonna collar her now?” Rita asked.
Miss Calico nodded.
“May I do it?” Rita asked. “It might be easier for her, if it’s done by someone she loves.”
“Are you sure you can handle it?” Miss Calico said, in a solicitous voice. “I know you two are close.”
“Very close,” Rita said. “That’s why it needs to be me.”
Rita rose, and walked over to my right side. She smiled down at me, and stroked the side of my face. “How ya’ doin’, kiddo?” she said. She hadn’t call me that in years. Once again, Rita was my surrogate mom.
Unable to speak, I looked up at her, panting like a dog in heat. Rita held up the purple collar.
“Isn’t this pretty?” she asked, showing me the stainless steel. “See? It’s purple, your favorite color. Royal purple, just like a Princess!”
I looked at the beautiful, brushed, polished purple steel, glimmering under the light. It was beautiful, perfect. As Rita turned it in front of my face, it glistened.
Rita had indeed, given me the collar of my fantasies.
Seeing my smile, Rita held the collar up close, detailing its finer features. “See, it’s got two loops on it, front and back, for when they chain you to a coffle. And it has two sets of shock prongs, one set in front, and one in back. Really deluxe! Only the best for you, Anne.”
Miss Calico’s gentle voice was a cruel imitation of my sister’s. “It’s already been tied to your SIN, and it has a tracking chip, too. In Texas, when a slave girl goes into a store, or travels on the tollway, the information gets fed into a central database. That way no one can steal you, and you’ll be tracked everywhere you go. Isn’t that wonderful, Princess?”
Inside my ear, I heard the whisper. “Slave girls never think of books, or ideas, or science. Pleasure sluts think only of giving pleasure. Feel your pussy. Let it juice.”
“This here is an eternity collar,” Rita explained. See how it fits together, so you can’t even see the hinge. They call it an eternity collar, because when I slip it on your neck, and use this Allen wrench to turn the screw, it breaks a little vial of acid on the inside that melds the collar together. Forever.”
I gripped the sides of the table as Rita slipped the collar around my neck, closing it shut. In my mind, I imagined it as the rope from the gallows, being fitted around my throat.
The collar was snug, but not too tight. Trixie had used my grading papers to ensure I had the perfect fit. I would feel the collar touching my throat forever.
Miss Calico handed Rita the Allen wrench. I tensed as she put it in the collar.
“Here goes!” Rita said, smiling down at me.
Rita gently twisted the key three times. I could feel the collar warm ever so slightly as the locking mechanism sealed forever. I tried to speak, to cry out, to say something. My resistance caused my pussy to spasm so hard it lifted my bottom off the table.
“Look at ‘er squirm,” the first man said……..
“Yeah,” the trucker said. “Slave sluts LOVE their collars!”
Rita stroked the side of my face. Miss Calico, clearly impatient, held up the plastic blue tag. “Do you want me to do this next part?” she asked.
“No. I kin do it,” Rita said.
“See this?” Rita said. “This is yer’ ear tag. It’s blue, and shaped like California, so everybody will know you’re a Yankee lib. Kind of cute, isn’t it?” she said, giving it a jingle.
“Rosco says a lotta the rednecks will buy slave girls just cuz she’s a liberal. Ayn’t that a kick? I guess yer’ political views will finally be pop-lar, down here!”
Miss Calico handed Rita a tool. It looked like a belt punch, only with a long nail on the business end. Seeing it, I tried to scream, but it came out like a squeak.
Again, the voice in my ear kicked in, urging me to dumbness. “Pleasure Sluts are not curious. They never object, to anything. The answer is always two words: ‘Yes, Master.”
Rita turned to Miss Calico. “Do we really gotta do this? Tag ‘er, like she’s a pig, or a cow?”
“Absolutely, because that’s what she is: livestock. Remember: tough love.”
“Tough love,” Rita repeated.
Miss Calico put her hands over my face, holding my head tight to make sure I couldn’t move.
“Need any help?” the trucker called out.
“No, thank you,” Miss Calico replied. “We got it.”
I panted in fear as Rita placed the clip below my ear, and lined up the tag and long-nailed punch.
“That’s it,” Miss Calico said. “Get it in the dead center of her ear, where the cartilage is thickest.”
“Hold still, little sister,” Rita said. “Sorry, but sometimes tough love hurts!”
Clutching the handles of the punch Rita squeezed with all her might. Despite the software buzzing my pussy, I screamed as the nail drove through the dead center of my ear. The pain was unbelievable.
The pussy stimulation zipped up, but it could only go so far before it gave me an undeserved, unapproved slave-gasm. And so, it edged off, leaving me to concentrate on the pain and shame of my blue lib tag.
“It’ll be okay,” Miss Calico said. “She’s so slave hot she hardly feels it. Pleasure sluts don’t feel brandings or whippings, either, not like people do.
Liar! Tears in my eyes, I raised my head. The floppy blue tag, hanging from the center of my ear, bounced against the side of my head. I know I would have looked ridiculous, if sluts were permitted to have dignity.
“Wow, that turned out great,” Miss Calico said. “It looks really cute on her.”
“It does look nice!” Rita said, hitting the tag with her finger, and letting it swing through the air. “Nice and floppy!” she added with a laugh.
I looked at my ear tag, out of the side of my eye. I was stunned. I was an animal. I was livestock.
“I think you need to go now, Rita,” Miss Calico said. “We need time, to get her ready.”
Rita looked at me with gentle, kind eyes. “I want you to know, this is all for your own good, and because I love you. You have fun tonight, okay?”
Tapping me on the nose to get my attention, Rita’s tone turned serious. “I want you to listen to me, young lady, and I want you to listen good. Tomorrow morning, I will take a VERY close look at the top bid. I know your slave hot, and after I see the numbers, I’m going to review the pros and cons. I will make an objective decision, and if it’s a fair price, then…”
I tried to speak, to object, to say SOMETHING. But the pleasure in my pussy dialed up, and all I could was grunt, and buck my hips.
Rita kissed me, and patted me on the head. “Shhh! Ya got nothing to worry about. Everything will be fine. Yer in the system now, and yer’ just another pussy. Girls move through this place like shit through a goose.”
Rita glanced at her watch. “Oh gosh! I’m going to miss my favorite show! It’s almost time to pop open a cold one, get some chips-and-dip, and watch BLESS THE HARTS.”
Miss Calico burst into a smile. “I love that show!”
“I do too. Tonight’s my favorite, the one where Jenny gets the job in the strip club. I’ve already seen it. Twice! What a HOOT!”
My humiliating blue state ear tag flopping against my face, I watched in dazed disbelief as the two women snorted with laughter over a stupid, Southern, white trash cartoon. On Fox.
Miss Calico disappeared as she led Rita to the front of the store to get her $1,500 bribe. I hoped Skeeter enjoyed his skateboard.
The trucker, seeing my end was near, focused his beady eyes on my wet sloppy, pussy. With a little groan, he finished his business.
Looking both ways, he pulled a rag out of his pocket, and wiped himself under his leather jacket, before zipping up his pants and rising.
“Thanks for the show, purple Princess,” he said, giving me a wink. “Sorry I can’t hang around to see ‘em sell yer’ sweet little meat glove, but they need a truck full of beer in San Antonio.”
Looking both ways, he checked to make sure no one was watching. The coast was clear.
He came up to me, and cupped my pussy in his fat hand, then slipped two fingers inside of me. Grateful for his touch, I groaned with pleasure, and humped his hand.
He took his fingers out of my pussy, and put them in his mouth. “Finger licking good!” he chuckled. Then he left.
Miss Calico was all smiles as she returned. Now that Rita was gone, she turned off the app on her phone, allowing me to speak.
"Why are you doing this to me?" I asked, as Miss Calico none-to-gently ripped the control tape from my ear, pussy, and head.
"Because I DESPISE sluts like you. Everything about you is a lie. It's skanks like you who make it hard for smart, decent, honorable women like me. Pleasure Sluts who pretend to be accomplished professional women, then disgrace themselves, rubbing themselves, acting like whores. I know you better than I know myself. Collaring coochie like you is one of the great joys of this job.”
"No, I'm not like that. I'm rich! I'm successful..."
Isabella’s eyes filled with rage. "A lady in the streets, a ho between the sheets? No, you're just a ho. When I saw you humping the pole I figured you were just another pig slut. But when your sister told me your story. I knew everything about you. Everything."
“I have to deal with your shit every day. Men talking down to me, staring at my ass, wondering what I’m like in bed. Garbage and filth, complimenting me on my tits, and asking me if they are going to auction me tonight. Pig fuckers! I can’t do anything but laugh, because they’re CUSTOMERS.”
"YOU’RE the reason I have to put up with their shit. Teasing your nephew. Rubbing against him. I bet he thinks his rich Aunt is smart, and successful. Someone he can look up to. I hope you enjoyed teasing him, because those days are gone forever. No one will respect you, or love you, or fear you. They will just FUCK you. You'll be nothing more than a hole and a goal.
"I can pay you! I’m worth a fortune!"
"Not any more, you’re not. You don’t even own that collar. Seeing you roll in the sand, and spread your legs for the bidders, and finally, seeing that look of defeat in your eyes when the gavel falls, and you realize your just an object, a juicy hole and a hot mouth, will be payment enough.”
Hunk, driving a different kind of motorized golf cart, drove up, maneuvering himself into position in front of my table. As Rita’s harangue continued, a bored Hunk undid my bonds.
"Did you enjoy your dinner with your idiot sister’s son, flirting with him, prick teasing him? Did you enjoy your delicious food, and fine wine? Did you hump the wine bottle, too? Did you wear a hot, sexy dress? Did you flirt with the waiter? Of course, you did. Disgusting. Letting a pig slut like you root around where decent women eat. Well tonight, I’m in charge, my little purple princess. You're going to eat like the sow you are. I want you to think of me with every bite."
Rita turned to Hunk. "Take her over to the Dining Hall. Then get her prepped for Broadway."
Miss Calico gave me one final hiss of disgust, then turned, and walked away.
The irony was rich. I had been scared that Rita had ulterior motives, but her love was steadfast. It was the beautiful, smart, “professional woman”, so like myself, who had betrayed me.
If my time on the examination table seemed like hours, the next few minutes flew by in seconds.
Hunk used his scanning gun to zap my collar, and it gave a satisfied PING!
Working quickly, Hunk clipped shackles around my ankles, yanking on them to test the lock. He hooked the shackles to the cable then threw the end over a pole. Hauling me up I soon found myself hanging upside-down in the back of his golf car, dangling from the long pole.
I thought of my room at the Ritz Carlton, and the luggage cart with the long bar the bellhop used to bring my beautiful dresses to my room. “Right this way, Miss,” he’d say. “We’ll be there in a jiffy.”
Now I was hanging from the luggage bar, and I was the luggage. Hunk threw the cart into reverse. I screamed as the golf cart lurched backwards, towards a yellow bollard.
I was far enough away from the back of the cart that I didn’t swing into anything when Hunk crashed into the pole. My last sight of the yellow bollard was a green paint transfer Hunk had left there, bigger than the scrape I had polished off the water pipe on the other end of the store.
We sped down an aisle, past a few startled customers, past the VFW geezers, who were having coffee at a table. “Lot of people hangin’ out fer yer’ auction, hot stuff,” Hunk said. “Ya’ must have put on quite a show.”
We crashed through a pair of swinging gate doors and again entered the backstage area.
Hunk turned me over to a bored looking Mexican in his late 40’s who scanned my collar before Hunk sped away.
Squeezing my ass, the Mexican led me down the hall, past another armed security guard. The Mexican validated his keycard on a pad, then the security guard buzzed us through a heavy security door.
We entered a small "man trap" room. The Mexican validated his ID again on the keypad, and signaled to yet another armed guard on the other side of the glass, who buzzed us through the second heavy security door.
The Mexican led me to another security guard, who used his scanning gun to scan my collar. His gun registered a satisfied BEEP.
"Got her?" the Mexican said.
"Yup! She's in the system, and ready-for-sale. Just another bitch-on-the-block. Take her to the Dining Hall."
Each security door and checkpoint took me farther from Rita, farther my room at the Ritz Carleton, farther from home. Even if I could get past the police and two metal doors, and through the "pussy trap" airlock, my collar would shock me before the cops in the parking lot even had a chance to run me down and lasso me.
“I'm glad to be through those doors," I thought. "I'm chipped, and they got my SIN in the system. I'm safe now."
The slave psychology books I had poured over in my free time often discussed, “The Freedom of Slavery.” The idea was that slave girls came to see their collars and cages as protectors, barriers from responsibilities and decisions they couldn’t handle. Buried in the massive security of The Big D, with my power suit, purse, and ID safely in my sister’s care, I felt absolutely free.
We quickly arrived at the ironically named “Dining Hall.” A bored worker bee scanned my collar in, and then led me over to one of the enormous troughs that stretched the length of the room.
The troughs were made of wood, and looked VERY old. The worker brought me to a row and found me an open spot, and I knelt down next to the other girls. Since my hands were already zipped behind my back, I didn’t have to worry about holding them in place, like the women next to me. But I spread my legs goal post wide, like the other girls, like a good slave slut should.
Waiting for my trough to be filled. I looked around. The girls at my trough were pretty, although none as pretty as me. Every slave girl wants to be the prettiest, and they hate girls prettier than they are. A number of the little sluts looked at me with open dislike, which pleased me.
Slave girls are so vain! They all wanted to be the best, but I was the best. Ha!
One of the slave mongers moved over a metal chute suspended from the ceiling over the trough. He pulled a switch, and brown slave kibble began to pour into the trough. He moved the dispenser down the length of the trough. Behind him, another handler, carrying an old shovel that had what I hoped were clumps of dirt on it, spread out the kibble further, distributing it evenly.
A second tube was lowered, dispensing a liquid, greasy, chunky orange stew that I had read about but never actually seen. Orange slave slime!
In the last few years, restaurants had gotten into the habit of scraping unused or uneaten food off plates into logo garbage bags provided by the slave handlers. It was considered a chic and trendy form of recycling by the smart set, and was all the rage. Even in areas of the country that didn’t support slavery, there were countless ORANGE FORK decals in the window, indicating the restaurants proud participation in the program.
In Chicago, my girlfriends had made a grand joke of it. Whenever we ate at a trendy Orange Fork eatery, we’d always chew up some food and then spit it back on the plate, “for the girls.”
“So nice of us to pre-chew it for them!” we’d say, laughing.
The impossibly expensive steak house we had eaten at in Dallas last night was an Orange Fork establishment, and as we had so much food, Skeeter and I had made a game of masticating the lobster, the steak, the mashed potatoes, and mixing it into the unused gravy, then snorting with glee as the waiter scraped our chewy slop into the Orange Fork bag.
“Wait,” I said, grabbing the handkerchief Skeeter had used to blow his nose. “You missed the nose syrup,” I said, laughing.
Opening the orange bag, the waiter dutifully let me scrape Skeeters snot into the slave stew, “for flavoring.”
Skeeter, who had drank almost as much as I had, couldn’t stop laughing.
“That’s disgustin’!” Rita said, “and mean, too.”
“It’s fun!” I replied, punching her in the arm for emphasis.
I had known I was going to be kenneled at The Big D, but I had no idea that they participated in Orange Fork, which seemed a lot less fun now that the orange slime dinner waste was floating past my face. I’d had no intention of “dining” at The Big D, as I only intended on being kenneled overnight.
Nonetheless, I was here, legs spread, hands behind my back, kneeling naked in front of the feeding trough. The man with the shovel moved down the row, mixing the stew with the kibble, turning it over like he was fertilizing a field. As the shovel dragged past my face, the smell was unbearable. But my pussy began to tingle as the familiar voice returned.
“Feel that hum in your snatch? Of course, you do! It’s dinner time, slave girl, so get ready. Fresh Orange Fork slime, straight from the garbage can, all cold and greasy. Dig in. It’s exactly the dinner a pig slut like you deserves.”
Staring at the slime, other meals came to mind. I pictured Rita, at home, eating chips and dip as she watched Bless The Hearts.
I pictured my friends and I, laughing as we enjoyed a sumptuous buffet at my mansion in Chicago.
I pictured myself on the porch of my Penthouse Suite in Dallas, enjoying the twinkling lights of the city as I chewed up sushi and spit it into The Orange Fork bag.
“Snouts down, piggies,” the man at the head of the trough said. “It’s dinner time for you randy sows!”
In spite of my revulsion, or perhaps because of it, I felt a spasm of pleasure in my crotch as the imaginary voice in my head urged me on.
“You are a slave girl. A hot, randy Pleasure Slut. It’s time to stick your snout in the trough, and eat the food your rich friends spit out. Bon appetite!”
My pussy was hot, and wet, and it only got worse when I managed to lower my face into the disgusting, greasy, ooze. It tasted awful! But that only made my pussy hotter.
The insidious trainer had done its wicked work, and now I no longer needed the vibrator or speaker in my ear to enjoy the buzz and hear slave mantras in my head.
“It doesn’t taste bad. The kibble is good for me, and very nutritious. I think that’s a bit of potato… and I think someone must not have liked their broccoli, which means this slave girl gets a treat. This piece of fat still has a lot of prime rib on it, and is nice and juicy.”
“I am eating orange slime! Real orange slime, just like a real slave slut.” It felt deliciously naughty, and I felt my pussy twitch with pleasure. I began to lap it up eagerly.
“Where’s the slut who greased the pole?” one of the men asked. “She looked pretty hot on the security camera.”
“Don’t you recognize her? She’s right there.”
“I wasn’t looking at her face.”
Looking up, I noticed the boots of the man holding the shovel. They were beautiful boots, elegantly crafted, and far too expensive for someone who worked at The Big D. There was a childish mosquito drawing branded on the side.
My heart sank as I realized I was looking at the boots I had bought Skeeter last Christmas.
A voice from behind me cried out. “She’s the skank in the middle, with the wet pussy, the blue tag, and the stupid look on her face. Look at her, slurping up that slime!”
Skeeter turned and looked down the row, his eyes stopping to rest on me. I quickly ran my tongue over my face trying to clean off the slop from my snout.
I could see Skeeter was having one of those peculiar moments, when you see someone you know in the wrong location, and you can't quite place them, like when you see your teacher at the supermarket, or a celebrity in the lobby of your hotel.
He looked at me… my tag… my collar… my tits… and my hot, wet pussy, his brain unable to process what his eyes were telling him.
“Hi, Skeeter,” I said softly.
I could say that I don't know who was more surprised, me or Skeeter, but I would be lying. Skeeter was definitely the more surprised.
“Anna-Annie?” he replied. “What the fuck?”
Absolutely loved it! Things moved much faster than I expected. I didn't expect Anne to find herself getting ready for the auction block so quickly, I didn't expect Rita to collar her so quickly, and I didn't expect Skeeter to show up at the end. Miss Calico did an excellent job of closing the deal. I wonder if Rita will regret her decision later. It seems like there could be some small print details that perhaps Rita didn't take enough time to fully consider. Will she even be able to back out if she changes her mind? It seems like some important details were being intentionally held back.
She seemed to enjoy teasing the helpless slave girl on the table.