Any Chance Auction - Chapter 12, by Joe Doe

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It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a Pleasure Slut.

And so, I found myself in the “warming bin”, a holding area for the Pleasure Sluts waiting to be paraded and sold on the auction block at The Big D.

“Slave Fours!” Isabella Calico barked.

In a flash, one dozen Prime Pleasure sluts spun, dropped to all fours, lowered our noses to the cement floor, and spread our legs WIDE.

The room itself, like the rest of the backstage area, was functional. The ceiling was lower, indicating there were rooms above our head. The walls were lined with crates containing various slaving supplies that might be used in last minute preparations prior to sending the girls onto the block.

There were signs on the wall, but without my contacts, I couldn’t read them. Indeed, everything was a blur. I hope my constant, quizzical squinting didn’t make me look “slave stupid.”

In some ways, the loss of my literacy left me in the worst of all possible worlds. The blue cattle tag dangling from my ear identified me as a member of the despised, Yankee, liberal elite, while the loss of my contacts had transformed me into the stupidest of bimbos. Doubtlessly I would be punished for both flaws.

Isabella Calico, I knew, would be happy to oblige. Drunk with power, she tapped her riding crop against her palm as she walked down the line of naked slave girls arranged for review. Apparently wanting to look her best for the auction, she had changed into a nice green dress. Not a designer dress, mind you, or anything as nice as the meanest rag in my closet, but nice by her bourgeoise, JC Penny standards.

“Well, well, well… twelve toasty little pussies, and twelve tight little bung holes, all in a row! Cheaper by the dozen, ha-ha! But you’ll still bring an excellent price. I want you to know, ladies, when you’re rolling in the sand, and humiliating yourself like the disgusting pig sows that you are, that you’ll be earning Miss Calico a nice, fat bonus. When they’re branding your ass tonight, I’ll be home, planning my vacation to Hawaii, a vacation made possible by the sale of your skanky, stinking, slave pussies.”

I had known Isabella Calico didn’t like me, but I realized now that her rage was directed at all Pleasure Sluts. Like many free women, she had redirected her anger at the sexism she had to endure, not at the men who had abused her, but at the women she regarded as the inciting cause.

Of course, I knew there was more to it than that. Women compete with each other on many levels. I never dressed to impress or attract men. I dressed to impress other women, particularly my friends. Even for me, at the top of the heap, it was a constant struggle, worrying about what other women were thinking, or how I would be judged, or how it might affect my social standing.

I thought of my girlfriends, laughing as we spit food onto our plates at an Orange Fork restaurant, knowing that it was destined for a feeding trough or food bowl of some wretched slave slut. It was just good fun, of course, but was part of our delight our satisfaction in seeing a competitor laid low?

“All right, ladies”, Miss Calico said, her voice equal measures of malice and sarcasm, it’s time to lather up! Reach between your legs, and get busy. I want to see a dozen prime beavers, hot, wet, and ready for sale. You know what the buyers want to see. Last one to get a slave-gasm, feels my whip!”

There were sighs, grunts, and embarrassing squeals of pleasure as the twelve of us began to tease, finger, and rub our exposed twats, revealing all of the dirty little secrets of female self-pleasure to the male slave wranglers standing behind us.

In Chicago, they would have been the sort of rough, crude men my butler might have hired to paint my mansion, or dig my indoor swimming pool. If I had met any of these men a few hours before at the mall, doubtlessly they would have held the door for me, waited on me, called me ma’am. They would have WANTED me. Even dressed, I was sexy as hell. But if they had dared to show their desire, I would have given them THE LOOK, and shoved them back roughly into PC hell. Now, they watched as I lathered up my hot, wet pussy with slave grease, just one of a 12 pack of snatch for sale.

“Look at the red head. That is one hot red snapper!”
“I like China girl.”
“Yeah, but you eat one, you’re hungry an hour later.”
“What about the one in pig tales?
“Blue tag?
“Oh, the slut on the pole. Yeah, she’s a real grease monkey. She’ll fetch a VERY nice price.”

I, blushed, for I was the “grease monkey” with the blue tag on her ear, and the pig tales.

Prep had been rapid, almost industrial, a pit stop with five people working on my nails, my makeup, my hair. Makeup at The Big D was very light, as they preferred the “natural” look, but I did get just a touch of lipstick and eyeliner, to make sure the people in back could see. I was going to be auctioned in Broadway, their biggest theater, and at a distance such considerations mattered.

The two women arranging my hair had talked about me as if I wasn’t there. “Pigtails” the first one said, using blue scrunchies to make it happen. “There are a couple of buyers who fancy themselves headmasters, and she’ll look good in a school uniform.”

The banality of their indifference horrified me. “They’re talking about my life. I could end up in some fucking school uniform, bent over for six-of-the-best, because some fat hairdresser thinks pigtails are a good way to market me.”

“Rita was right. Slave girls have no control. They can cut my hair into a pixie cut, or make me a cabin boy. They can shave my head for some guy’s prison camp fantasy, or turn my hair into a pony tail and race me. They can do anything they want. I have no control.”

I wondered which of my girlfriend’s fathers, or business rivals, or male friends liked to play Headmaster. Discovering how many of The Big D’s customers I knew was an eye-opener, and I was shocked to discover that I’d been a pampered guest at the same estates and yachts where they played out their kinky fantasies.

I was reminded of the old vaudeville joke, “The Aristocrats.” A hardened theatrical agent welcomes in a family who wants to show them their act. He agrees, and they all immediately disrobe, and engage in all manner of sex acts.

When they finish, the agent, horrified, says. “That was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my life! What do you call that act?”

“The Aristocrats!” the father says proudly.

Behind me, the two slave mongers talked as they watched me masturbate myself to orgasm.

“Frank Frackers is going to be here tonight. He’s going to love this one.”

I recognized the name immediately. Frank Frackers was a celebrity chef. I had eaten at his restaurants, both in Chicago, and around the world.

“They call him Fondu Frank,” the other wrangler said. He puts all the slave girls on a buffet table, with their legs spread nice and wide. Frank makes these special little sandwiches, and you can “warm” them in the slave girl’s pussies, where you “soak up the natural juices.”

The slave mongers looked down at me, furiously fingering my twat. “That’s one hot little toaster oven he said. They’re going to be lining up to use that honey pot!”

It wasn’t any particular fantasy, that spurred me to my slave-gasm. Nor was it the thought of all my ritzy friends, sandwiches in hand, lined up behind me, anxious to use my “toaster oven.” It was the total loss of power, the realization that I could be, at my master’s whim, transformed into any fantasy desired, from a human fondu pot, to a naughty school girl, to a prisoner-of-war, to a sexy alien painted green. I was an adult Barbie sex doll, a Halloween sex toy.

I was a juicy Pleasure Slut, and I was about to be auctioned off to “The Aristocrats.” My orgasm was shattering.

“Look at her go!”
“Get the bucket and mop, Joe, ha-ha!”
“What I wouldn’t give to fuck THAT one.”
“Reserved for our betters, Pete. Reserved for our betters.”

In her slave psychology book, Dr. Sarah Hollister had written about how slave girls used dissociation and denial to mentally shield themselves from reality. While I was too sophisticated to fall for such ruses, I did find myself thinking that, although the men were standing behind me, they must have been talking about one of the other sluts.

Before me, I saw Miss Calico’s painted toe, resting inches from my nose. “Why am I not surprised you were the first to come?” she sneered. “In a room of skanky, disgusting pig sluts, you are the wettest, stinkiest sow! But your hot, quivering snatch will bring a pretty penny, particularly when you slave-gasm on the block.”

“Are you going to slave-gasm on the block?” she taunted. “Are you going to get block pussy? Of course, you are. Because you are a randy, disgusting bitch, in full slave heat. I hope you end up in some cheap, college town brothel, and let horny teenagers and sad old college Professors pound your pussy 24/7.”

I imagined Skeeter and his friends strolling into their local brothel and discovering to their surprise that it was their old friend Anna-Annie who would be servicing them today. I shuddered at the thought.

Miss Calico moved her foot forward. “Suck on my toe, slave girl. Suck on my toe, to thank Miss Calico for selling your slutty ass.”

Obediently I moved my head forward, and took Miss Calico’s big toe in my mouth. My blue tag dragged against the cement, and I could taste the freshly applied pink nail polish on her toe.

“That’s it. Suck it like a hoover. There’s a little tradition, where the auctioneer gets a blow job from the girl who gets the highest bid. Good luck. I’ll be rooting for you.”

At this new revelation, a chill went through my entire body. The idea that I might be obliged to suck the dick of the man who had sold me was mortifying. But it was my relationship to the auctioneer, unknown to Miss Calico, that filled me with dread. I felt a fresh wave of horror wash over me as I pictured my nephew Skeeter, smiling down at me, holding my pigtail “handles” as I THANKED the little bastard for whip cracking my ass through the most shameful and humiliating slave auction imaginable.

Satisfied at my subjugation, Miss Calico moved onto her next victim. Dropping down, she brushed the hair out of the eyes of the red headed slave girl next to me. “Oh, aren’t you pretty? Look, our hair is almost the same shade of red. Only you’re buck naked, and I’m not,” she teased.

Oozing malice, she continued. “It must have been so embarrassing for you, being arrested in front of your church group. After you were so sweet and nice, and put yourself up for collateral on the church loan! Don’t worry, I called them up, and encouraged them to come to your auction, to show you how bad they feel. Being good Christians, they’ll enjoy seeing a little strumpet like you put in her place. They won’t even think about trying to save you, after they see you rolling in the sand, and showing everyone your hot, skanky gash.”

“They’ll probably ask your new owner to donate you to the church for a weekend, so they can sell you for $20 a hump at the church bazar. Yes, all the bible thumpers you sang with, are going to get hot and bothered watching you rub your twat on the block. It makes me wonder if they actually forgot to mail in that payment.”

Having reduced the wretched redhead to tears, Miss Calico moved on. “Oh, look. China doll! Ha, ha! It’s Kato, everyone! The big, tough, FBI girl, reduced to a juicy little Pleasure Slut. And that red dragon ear tag you have on, it’s just adorable!!”

“I bet you there’s some criminal slaver organizations you busted up that would love to buy your ass on the resale market, Rena. But we’ll make a nice penny on you tonight. Guys love the submissive Asian chick thing, and having an FBI agent suck their cock sounds pretty hot.”

“Oh! You look angry! Do you want to hit me? Do you want to punch me? Go ahead, China doll. They’ll shock your ass senseless!”

The Chinese girl looked up at Isabella Calico in a cold, deliberate way. “Yes,” she said slowly. “But you’ll still be dead. And they’ll sell me, because they can make money on me, and they’ll use your dead body as fertilizer for this fucking slave girl rodeo.”

I laughed, as did the redhead, and everyone else who heard. Including Zach. I think Miss Calico would have zapped her, or hit her, but she was too freaked out by the cold, hard hatred in Rena’s eyes.

The tone of the scene changed immediately as Skeeter, staring at his iPad, strode in. Rosco followed closely behind.

Skeeter was the picture of elegant, cowboy professionalism. In addition to his custom, $750 cowboy boots with his mosquito logo, he was wearing the fringed cowboy shirt and matching cowboy hat, also logoed, that I had bought him for his birthday two years ago. His jeans were neatly pressed and his cowlick combed.

I smiled, delighted to see him wearing all of the fancy clothes I had bought him. It wasn’t until I saw that his Big D nametag now read AUCTIONEER that I remembered how completely our roles had reversed. I was no longer the doting Aunt, basking in his wonder and praise as I showered him with expensive gifts. I was naked, collared, and tagged. I was block meat, and Skeeter was my auctioneer, with the power of the gavel in his hand.

If Rita had brought him his clothes, that meant she might still be here. I had been glad when she had left, for as scary as it was to be alone, the idea of Rita laughing her ass off as her uppity city girl sister became a Sandy Foot Girl was nearly as mortifying as the auction itself.

The drama unfolding in front of me pushed those horrors from my mind. Isabella Calico went right for Rosco’s throat. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, putting your son in charge of the auction? This is a Broadway sale, not bring-your-son to work day.”

“I was running Broadway sales when you were still wearing braces,” Rosco said. “I chose Skeeter because he’s the best.”

“Bullshit. Where’s Timmy?” Miss Calico demanded.

“Mexico. He’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

“What about Jed?” her impatience growing.

“Back tomorrow.”

“What about you?”

“My license expired last year. The only licensed auctioneer we have is Bill Fritz.”

“Fritz SUCKS. He can’t even do a decent chant without stuttering.”

As Miss Calico and Rosco argued, Skeeter, calm, cool, and deliberate, perused the naked slave girls lined up neatly in the coffle row. He walked down the line slowly. looking down at each of us with a cool, appraising stare.

Seeing the distressed church lady, he knelt down and stroked her hair. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “Stop rubbing yourself. Just look at me… That’s good. Are you going to be able to do this?”

“I think so…” she said, tentatively

“I know you can do it. Don’t look at the audience. Don’t look at anyone you know. This is between you and me, okay?”

She nodded.

“We’re going to do this together. You’re very beautiful, and I’m going to make sure you get a good master. But you have to trust me, and work with me out there, okay, my friend?”

She smiled, grateful for his kindness. Skeeter, smiling, patted her on the head, and fed her a piece of slave candy.

As he rose, he glanced at me, more out of necessity, since I was the next girl. I smiled up at him, and mouthed “Hi”.

Skeeter said nothing. He looked through me, like he had no idea who I was. There was no acknowledgement of our relationship. Zero. Nothing.

Skeeter moved onto the Chinese FBI agent. “Are you going to be trouble?” he asked flatly.

She glared at him. Unlike Miss Calico, who had seemed afraid of her, Skeeter was unphased.

“I read your record, Special Agent Reina. You’re tough, and you’re brave, and you’re an impressive lady. But you’re not tougher than this place, because nobody is. If you can’t wrap your head around this, then let me know now, and I will pull you out of the lineup. Because if you fuck things up tonight, it’s going to embarrass me and cause you a whole lot of pain. Now do you want to do this thing, or not? Think, before you answer.”

Rena considered. “Let’s get it over with.”

“Smart girl. Same team, okay? I’m not going to lay a finger on you, just do as your told. Let’s get you a rich master, who will appreciate how valuable you really are.”

Skeeter’s calm, considered professionalism impressed me. It was bullshit, of course. He wasn’t our “friend”, he wasn’t there to “help” any of us, and after listening to the endless perversions Rosco had described, I knew that “rich” didn’t always mean “good”, as if I didn’t know that already.

Skeeter moved up and down the line, talking to each girl in a different voice, giving them confidence, or assuaging their fears, or, if needed, a bit of coaching about their block routines, and what he was expecting.

“You trained at HCI, Brittany?”

The blonde girl nodded.

“You’re a good dancer. There’s sand on the block, so you can do your slave rolls a little faster, because you’ll have more traction. Don’t worry, you’ll get a feel for it. We are way more personal than HCI. I know all about you Brittany. I know how smart you are. I already texted a couple of the buyers about your CPA, in case they were looking for brains as well as beauty. I’m going to take real good care of you, but you need to do an awesome block dance for me, okay? Show them how smart you are, and show them your best moves, and why they want to buy themselves a Bevo beaver,” he said with a smile.

Brittany nodded and smiled. Skeeter fed her some slave candy.

Skeeter talked to every girl in the line, making sure they knew why they were special, and what they had to offer. It was brilliant slave psychology, and I knew that after Skeeter’s talk, every girl would offer their best.

All except me. Despite my repeated efforts to catch his eye, or smile at him, Skeeter never even looked at me. It was as if I wasn’t there. I felt baffled, humiliated, hurt.

Skeeter walked behind us, slowly walking down the line. Much to my shame and mortification, he stopped directly behind me, making a point of watching me masturbate for him.

I tensed as I felt him dangle the whip over my bottom. He ran the lashes from the wicked little cracker at the tip of the whip across my naked, upturned cheeks.

“Faster,” he commanded.

I obeyed, gasping as I worked myself into a higher level of pleasure. But the chilly indifference of his voice startled me. Did Skeeter even realize who he was talking to? I would understand if he did not. I didn’t look anything like his Aunt Anne. I was now just another Pleasure Slut in a line of a dozen other sluts, just another pussy, furiously working up a slave lather under the watchful eye of her auctioneer.

As my slave heat grew, my mind struggled to rationalize what was happening. Why didn’t he smile back at me? Like when I was at the trough, naked and lapping up the orange slime, Skeeter hadn’t recognized me.

Yes, that was what was happening. That’s why he didn’t smile at me. With everything else happening, Skeeter had simply forgotten I was here. I felt a sense of relief, and the freedom to rub my pussy faster. There was no need to panic. I was still in charge, still in control. In an attempt to comfort myself, my mind flashed back to a time when the young boy with the whip had answered to me, and I had been the one in control.

“Hey, Anna-Annie! Can we get some ice cream?”
“I don’t know, Skeeter. I don’t want to spoil your dinner.”
“PLEEEEZZZE? Just one scoop?”
“Okay. Just one scoop.”

Skeeter continued to give directions to Zach, apparently unaware that his slave lash was gently grazing my upturned bottom, causing my cheeks to flinch in panic.

“Sit Roberts and Jackson where they can see each other. They always bid on the same girls, and we can lighten their wallets if we can get a bidding war. Sit Mr. Willard and his wife in front of the monitor. They’re too near sighted to see much from the VIP box, but they’ll buy what they can see.”

I was impressed. Skeeter was good, damn good. He had a strategy for each buyer, and each girl. He would get top dollar for all of us. I wondered what his strategy was for me? I’d find out soon enough.

“The black guy, Jamal Willie, is looking for girls for his slave market in Charleston. He runs it like it’s still 1830, only he sells hot white girls to black run plantations. These girls will appeal to him, because they’re strong enough to do farm work, and hot enough to make bed wenches. He prefers Southern belles, and he’ll love church lady, and Brittany. But make sure he knows our little blue state girl, too.

I had actually argued with my girlfriends in favor of “The Reparations Project”, which helped setup the black owned plantations. The idea of all those racist, white Southern crackers sucking black cock made me laugh! It had never occurred that my generous donations might be used to purchase me.

No. This couldn’t be happening. I’d never end up trapped on some 19th century slave plantation, ankles chained, picking tobacco under the crack of the whip, and “entertaining” my black overseers while bent over a cotton bale in the barn.

No, no. I was in charge. I was rich. I was powerful.

I had told Skeeter about my generous donation to “The Reparations Project”, which I had used to get a double tax deduction by laundering it through one of my shell corporations. Obviously, Skeeter didn’t realize the “blue state girl” furiously buffing her wet pussy in front of him was me, for I knew he’d never be so cruel as to sell me to a slave plantation I had helped setup. Skeeter wouldn’t do that to me. I was his Anna-Annie.

“Wow, Anna-Annie. I can’t believe we’re flying FIRST CLASS! Thanks for the upgrade!”
“Glad you like it, Skeeter. Maybe next time we’ll do a private jet.”

Skeeter, unaware of how his casual conversation was torturing me, continued. “The guy with the sideburns is the TV producer from the slave girl gladiator show.”

Zach perked up immediately. “Oh, is that the one where they make them run the obstacle courses, and compete to drink the quart of jizz, and see who can crawl through the spanking machine the fastest?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. He’s going to love FBI girl, and I’ve already texted her fitness reports to him. But we’re selling her Jackie-Chan-ass last, in case she goes slave stupid and decides she’s going to kickbox her way out of here. I don’t want her messing up the rest of my auction.”

“Got it,” Zach replied.

I’d never felt so utterly defenseless, so vulnerable, so excited! With his lash tickling my bottom, I had no choice but to continue to rub my pussy, finger fucking myself, teasing my button, listening in utter helplessness as Skeeter arranged the lineup order. He did it by the last digits of our lot numbers – 7894-643, then 3345-921, then 8857-818. I couldn’t see the lot number on the tag on my ear, so I couldn’t tell where he was placing me in the auction order. Skeeter was careful and deliberate. There was a real art to it, arranging the ebb and flow of the auction to give certain bidders a chance to relax, while bringing other bidders to the front of the pack.

“Yes, he’s using my lot number,” I thought. “Clearly, he doesn’t know I’m here.”

I wondered where Skeeter had placed me. I’d know soon enough.

I rubbed, enjoying the sensation. I wasn’t here. This wasn’t happening. I was back in Chicago.

“Gosh, Anna-Annie! You look…uh…uh…amazing!”
“This old thing? I just threw this on? You don’t think it’s too short, do you?”
“No! I think it’s PERFECT.”
“Aren’t you sweet? Well, sit next to me in the booth at dinner, and give my thighs a rub every now and then, to help keep your poor old Aunt’s legs warm, okay?”

“Do you we have the export shipping crates ready, Zach? We may need to box them up tonight, if the buyers want to bring them home.”

“Not a problem. I got ‘em ready. How many exports do you think we might have?”

“Hard to say. Maybe a few for Mr. Choo’s Zoo.”

“What’s that?”

“Mr. Choo despises white girls, so to prove his racial theory he has this big jungle enclosure, where he puts white girls on display in their “natural, primitive” state. He puts them in monkey mode, so they run around in his little jungle eating bananas, humping trees, and licking each other pussies. Every now and then he puts a dozen male white stud monkeys in the cage, and they all gang up on female, and circle around her, and everyone watches them mate!”

Zach and Skeeter both laughed at the word “mate”. I rubbed on, even as I shuddered at the thought of being gang banged by a dozen men while a dozen well-dressed Asians, sipping champaign, laughed on the other side of a glass wall.

Shipping crates? I wondered how Rita would be able to review my auction price, if I were already on a private jet bound for China. Oh, why couldn’t Skeeter see me? But with the whip grazing my bottom, I didn’t dare speak. As I rubbed myself faster my mind struggled to regain control.

“Oh, my gosh, you bought me a CAR, Anna-Annie? I can’t believe it.”
“You earned it. You’re the one who graduated from High School.”
“This is just what I wanted!”
I would have got the Corvette, but your mom said no. The ‘vet makes ‘em wet, right, Skeeter?”
“Aw, Anna-Annie! Stop!”
“I love it when you blush, Skeeter.”

Skeeter, calm, and in control, continued. “Put Lord Kensington on the aisle and take away one chair. He usually brings his Great Dane, Hercules, to watch the auction. He likes to see how the leader of his pack reacts to each of the Pleasure Sluts. ‘Let the dog pick the fox,’ he says.”

As Skeeter discussed this, the little lashes from the cracker grazed my asshole. Panicked, I instinctively clenched my bottom cheeks together. My butt crack closed around the lash and I felt myself giving the whip a tiny tug.

My cheeks released the whip, but still the cracker teased my bottom hole, causing the clenching to continue. Even as I rubbed my hot, wet pussy closer to climax, the clench-tickle-clench cycle continued.

I couldn’t believe Skeeter couldn’t feel me tugging the whip, but he didn’t seem to notice. It was Zach who laughed.

“Look, she’s winking her asshole at you. You should get her to do that on the block.”

Skeeter’s reply, made as he was checking his iPad, epitomized nonchalance. “Yeah, she’s going get a lot of bidders. The question is, who do I throw her to?”

“Whoever has the most money, I guess, " Zach said. "That is one hot slave pussy,” Zach said.

Skeeter was unimpressed. “Better be. File says she’s illiterate. All her personality’s in her pussy.”

The lash tickled my asshole again, and I clenched it, giving it a little tug. No doubt about it; my idiot nephew didn’t know it was me. My lot number was tied to some illiterate Pleasure Slut, a hot gash, a winking asshole. Not his brilliant, powerful, sexy Aunt from Chicago.

There was no other explanation. Skeeter had heard his father describe the risks of the Any Chance Auction. If he had realized it was me kneeling in front of him, he wouldn’t be torturing my mind by describing each of the perverts who might be bidding on me, and who might, if things went sideways, own me forever.

“So who do you think is going to buy her?” Zeke asked.

“Who cares?” Skeeter replied. “She just another hot pussy, and a winking pooper. But if I had to make my guess? Woof, woof.” They both laughed.

That pushed me over the top. The idea that I’d be winking my asshole under the appraising stare of a Great Dane, shoved me into a raucous slave-gasm.

“Noisy little bitch, isn’t she?” Zach said. “That’s quite a puddle on the floor, too.”

Skeeter retained his detached, professional tone, even as I orgasmed in front of him. “Yeah. The buyers will LOVE her. But she’s only got one welt on her bottom, on the top. It’s unbalanced.”

“Do you want me to use some makeup?”

“Makeup’s not The Big D way, Zach,” Skeeter replied. “I’ll brisk her up on the block, and get her balanced. And gingersnap her. I want the little bitch prancing lively.”

Even as my slave-gasmed continued, my cheeks clenched. ‘Brisking’ didn’t sound good. And what was a gingersnap? As the pleasure sloshed through my brain, I hoped Skeeter would realize who I was soon… but not too soon, because my twat was singing with joy!

My pussy was still quivering when Miss Calico came over to confront him.

“You better be every damn bit as good as your old man thinks you are!” she snapped.

“I’ll go my best, ma’am”, he replied, ever unflappable. “But I’m not your problem.”

“Excuse me?” she demanded, clearly in no room for riddles.

“The girl on the far end, with the waist length hair, is Choice Plus, not Prime. We can’t sell her on Broadway.”

“The hell we can’t,” Isabella Calico shot back. “She’s hot enough, and we promised them twelve head.”

“She’s hot, but she’s not Prime. She could be, with a couple of months of training. But I’m not putting her on Broadway. Not tonight.”

“Bullshit! We’re selling twelve girls. She’s almost Prime.”

Skeeter walked over to the girl. “Slave roll, right.”

The girl tucked her leg up, and tried to roll, but fell and hit her head on the floor. “Get her some ice”, he said, and Zach complied.

Miss Calico was angry. “This is an auction, not the Olympics. It’s not your call.”

“It sure is. I’m the auctioneer. I decide what goes on the block.”

“You’re a FUCKIN’ KID. You’re somebody’s idiot son. You’re fired.”

Skeeter shrugged. “Fine. You do the auction, Miss Calico.”

“I’m calling, Jake.”

“Call him,” Skeeter said. “He’s going to be mighty pissed you tried to sell Choice as Prime, and even more pissed that you promised twelve, and are selling eleven. These are our best customers, Miss Calico. I’d say you just made a serious mistake.”

I was amazed, as was everyone in the room. Skeeter wasn’t standing up to a bully. He’d was BEATING a bully.

Her tone changed. “Let’s be reasonable. I don’t want to get fired. Let’s compromise.”

“Fine. I’ll give you two minutes before the auction. You can go up and explain that there will only be eleven girls, not twelve, and take responsibility for what you’ve done. Jake likes it when people admit their mistakes. It might not save your job, but at least you can have a bit of dignity.”

“Fuck you,” she hissed back.

Skeeter, the picture of calm, said nothing.

She glared at him. The pause hung in the air. Skeeter did not back down.

“Fine. We can do an Any Chance Auction, where we don’t accept the bids until morning,” Miss Calico said.

“Yeah. We got one girl who’s Any Chance.”

“Why not two?” she replied.

“Who do you have in mind?” he asked.

“Me,” she said.

For the first time since he walked in, Skeeter looked surprised. “Sorry. You’re very pretty, ma’am, but it’s Prime only.”

“I’m Prime,” she said. “Check my SIN.”

Miss Calico pulled back her lip, revealing her Slave Identification Number tattoo.

Again, Skeeter looked surprised, but quickly recovered. “Scan her into the system, Zach,” he said. “Let’s check her out.”

Zach, looking like he had been transported into another dimension, scanned his boss’s upper lip into the system. PING!

“Here you are,” Skeeter said, checking his iPad. “Well, well. You are Prime Minus. Very nice. Looks like you got some good block moves, too. Yeah, you’ll do nicely. But you’ll need an “owner”, to review your bids.”

“I’ll do it,” Rosco said. “I won’t sell you.”

“The fuck you will,” she said. “I don’t trust him.”

“My father doesn’t like you, but he’s a man of his word. If you’d rather Zach did it, or someone else in this room, who’d all make a nice piece of change selling your nasty, lying, ass, it’s your call. But you got about five seconds to decide, because I got an auction to run, and I’m got to go chat up the buyers. I don’t have time to waste fixing your mistakes.”

“Fine. Let’s do it,” she said.

Skeeter turned to Zach. “Get the Choice Girl back in holding. Get the newbee stripped down and in the chute. Put her next to the other redhead, church lady. They got the same color hair, and I’ll sell ‘em together. Maybe get a little lesbo thing going.”

Isabella Calico was outraged. “Are you crazy? You think I’m going to lick her snatch? On the AUCTION BLOCK?”

It was too late, for Skeeter, a man on a mission, was already heading out the door. My last sight of him was the mosquito doodle on his boots. It had seemed “cute” before, but now, from my position on the floor, it was a totem of absolute power.

Rosco, beaming with pride, trailed behind his poised, confident, auctioneer son like a puppy, following him out the door.

“Stand there,” Zach said, pointing to a spot on the floor. “I want the other slave girls to watch.”

“Why?” Miss Calico said.

“Seeing me put you through your paces is going to make them hot.”

She glared at him. He took the slave goad off his belt, and pressed the button. She jumped back as it sparked.

Isabella Calico moved to center stage. “You’re getting the cock cage for this,” she hissed.

“Not tonight, I’m not. Give me a bag, Peter,” Zach said. “A garbage bag.”

“With pleasure,” Peter responded.

“Take off your shoes,” he ordered.

Isabella removed her shoes, and handed them over to the smiling Zach, one at a time. He examined each one briefly, then dropped it into the plastic green sack.

“Now the dress. Strip it off, slave girl.”

Glaring, she unzipped in back, then pulled it over her head. The other workers, who had doubtlessly felt Miss Calico’s wrath before, whistled and catcalled as her sexy, matching green bra and panty set came into view.

“Nice, slave girl,” Zach said. “Sexy. Kind of slutty. Business outside, and party underneath, huh? Who would have dreamed that lurking under your frosty, bitch interior, was a hot, wet Pleasure Slut? Bra next, Isabella. Show me your tits.”

Gritting her teeth, Isabella Calico unhooked her bra, and shrugged it off her shoulders.

Her appreciative crowd, feeling more confident, was getting more vocal.

“Nice jugs!”
“Love those pink nipples.”
“All nice and pointy.”
“That’s because she LIKES it.”
“Of course, she likes stripping for us. Prime Minus!”

Zach didn’t even have to say what was next. He just pointed at her green, lacy underpants, and snapped his fingers twice.

Isabella was blushing now, and I wasn’t sure if she was going to cry or be sick. Stripping for Zach, the subordinate she had so thoroughly crushed under her heel, was deeply humiliating for her. But the real question was, when she turned her green panties over to Zach, why was the crotch soaking wet?

“I’m not a Pleasure Slut,” she protested, as Zach passed her wet panties around. “I’m not!”

Zach smiled and pointed to the vacant slot at the end of the row. “Lather up, slave girl.”

The ear tag the computer chose for Isabella Calico was a pair of handcuffs, the symbol for a slaver, enslaved. There were a lot of buyers who enjoyed the particular humiliation of a woman who had the tables so completely turned, and had to endure the humiliations that she had forced on so many others. It was like the tough, female warden being sent to her own prison, and as with prison, her former position made her a particular target for the cruelty of the other slave girls.

Isabella Calico screamed lustily as the steel tag poked through her ear, but there were no murmurs of sympathy from her slave sisters. Instead, there were quiet groans of pleasure, and the sound of several slave-gasms from some of the randier girls, myself included.

XXX

Professor Sarah Hollister had written that the ten minutes a girl spends waiting to step onto the auction block is the longest ten years of her life. I had no idea how a college Professor understood slave psychology so well, but once again she nailed it.

I wasn’t sure of my exact order in the lineup, as they packed us into the cattle chute quickly. The wranglers “loading the chute” knew what they were doing, so we, the idiot slave girls who were being sold, didn’t have to.

There weren’t many pictures of Broadway online, but The Big D did have one shot of the empty, sand covered block. The auctioneer’s podium was to the right, and the surface of the block was covered in sand. I wondered where the VIP boxes were, and where the cameras were.

I hadn’t even noticed the cattle chute, and had foolishly assumed that I would be taking the steps, like a human being. It was an illusion that was shattered when the first girl was dispatched.

The gate opened and for a moment the cattle chute was lit. I heard a hand slapping her bare ass and a male voice shouting “Git!”

The gate closed, and the girl vanished, forever, as the Pleasure Sluts awaiting their fate were once again plunged into darkness.

“Quick out of the chute!” the wrangler who had put his hand on my ass to press me into the girl in front of me said. “When the door opens, RUN!”

The chute was quite long, but they packed us in like sardines! My shoulders were touching the metal sides of the chute, and my breasts were pressed into the back of the girl in front of me. Despite the crowd, we were all busy. Like the other girls, I had my hands between my legs, rubbing and teasing, edging myself, keeping myself in a hot, slave lather.

The sides were metal, but the floor beneath me was wooden slat. I dug my toes into the little gaps as I pleasured myself.

In a few seconds, I’d be on the block, showing the buyers everything I had. My pussy needed to be hot, wet, and ready-for-action.

We were pressed together so tightly that Brittany’s nose was in my hair. She was pretty, and I knew she had good block moves, but I hoped I would fetch a better price.

Yes, I could beat her. I would make Skeeter proud. I would be the best.

At the thought of Skeeter, my heart sank. I told myself that he wouldn’t be the one auctioning me, and that one of the other auctioneers would arrive at the last moment, gavel in hand, ready to save me from the humiliation of being auctioned by my snot-nosed nephew.

I rubbed my pussy faster, even as I tried to assuage my fears. “He’s just a kid. He can’t be in charge. When I go back to Chicago, I’ll hire him as my assistant. He’ll fetch my laundry, and shine my shoes. I’ll send him out to buy my tampons. He’ll do everything I say.”

I’d had a lot of fun with Skeeter over the years, teasing him, then brushing him back.
The truth is, I enjoyed keeping him off balance, hopping from foot-to-foot. In Chicago, I’d had my maid check his sheets every morning, and when she found the tell-tale, brownish-yellow splash of shame, I had pulled Skeeter aside, and confronted him with the evidence.

“These are silk sheets, young man!” I said, wagging my finger in his face while I scolded him. “Disgusting! I hope this was an accident, and this happened when you were asleep. Or were you weren’t thinking of your Aunt Anne when you made this mess?”

The little dear couldn’t even look at me. “I’m soo…soo… sooo”

“I’m so-soo-soo—sorry?” I said, mocking his ashamed stammer. “What do you think your mother would say?”

Skeeter was mortified. “Please Anna-Annie! Don’t tell MOM!”

“What I ought to do, young man, is turn you over my knee, pull down your pants and underpants, and paddle your tight little buns until they are as red as your face!”

Skeeter’s eyes got as wide as saucers. “No, Anna-Annie! Please don’t spank me.”

“And if my hand doesn’t do it, I’ll use the wooden hairbrush. That should turn your little butt nice and red.”

Despite the fear in his eyes there was also a noticeable bulge in his pants. “No, please, not the hairbrush. I can pay for the sheets.”

“These sheets cost $6,500, Skeeter. How are you going to pay for them? If you can’t control yourself, maybe I’ll have to invite my friend Kathy over. She’s a vet, and she has a milking machine they use dog breeding.”

I smiled as Skeeter’s face went ashen. “It has different sized nozzles. I’ll tell Kathy to bring some of the little tiny nozzles over, like for a Golden Retriever, or maybe a terrier. We’ll find one that fits nice-and-snug. We’ll milk you before we put you to bed. Do you want that? Do you want Kathy and I to hook your little tiny willy up to a milking pump, and laugh while we turn it on and off? Moo-moo-moo?”

I had used my best stern Aunt voice, and I had left poor Skeeter both terrified and turned on. I’d had fun with it since then, seeing his eyes widen when I’d take out my hairbrush out of my purse. Sometimes I’d tap it against my palm and give him a little smirk. It was a particularly fun game to play when his parents were there, and poor Skeeter would start to stammer, while his puzzled parents would try to figure out what was wrong.

Sometimes, when I noticed him looking at me, I’d point at his erection, and whisper, “Moo-moo”. I enjoyed watching him go pale.

It was great fun, leading him on and cutting him off. When we were having our last breakfast in Chicago, I had told his parents that on their next visit I might invite “my friend Kathy, the vet, over for lunch.” Poor Skeeter had spurted milk out of his nose.

The chute opened for a moment. I squinted at the light. I heard a slave wrangler yell, “GIT” and the sound of him slapping a girl hard on the ass.

I heard Skeeter’s voice over the murmur of the large crowd. His voice was much more Texan, and I could tell he was playing up the “country boy” thing as part of his persona.

His voice rang out. “Well done, pardner! Don’t hesitate, participate. These young ladies will give ya’ll the pleasures money can’t buy… except at The Big D! Show us the green, and we’ll show ya’ the pink!”

The crowd laughed, and applauded. Then the chute door closed, plunging us back into the darkness. I could hear his voice, but I couldn’t make out the words. I thought the auction was going well, though. There seemed to be a lot of bids coming in, and each sale was taking a bit longer than the rapid pace, 90-second, on-the-block-and-off auctions The Big D was famous for.

And every now-and-then, I jumped at the crack of the whip!

Skeeter was an expert with the whip. Once, in a backyard party, he lit matches taped to the fence post. He cut a playing card in Rita’s hand in half. He whipped a penny his mother tossed in the air. It was an amazing demonstration, but even as I watched that night, fully dressed and sipping a glass of wine, my butt cheeks clenched on every CRACK.

There was a commotion ahead me. Isabella Calico, naked in the chute, was being taunted by the other girls. The slave girl behind her was holding her hands while the church woman with the red hair finger-fucked her.

“Sell our asses, Izzy? Make us slaves? Now we sell yours!”

Isabella was pleading for mercy, even as she moaned with pleasure. No doubt about it, little Miss Manager was slave hot. Her loathing and hatred of Pleasure Sluts, her obsession with seeing them degraded, made sense now. She didn’t hate Pleasure Sluts. She hated the part of herself that longed for the collar.

The chute opened, and I squinted from the light. I heard a voice. “GIT! Both of ya! Lesbo time, ladies!”

Over the din of the crowd, I heard Skeeters voice. “Got a real treat tonight, folks: Two red headed foxes, lanky, lesbian, and in LOVE! Thought we might have ‘em put on a little show!”

The chute closed, and the words became indistinct, even as I heard the crowd applaud. It was time for Isabella and the red headed church lady to perform. Together.

Again, I jumped as the whip cracked. Was it just for show? Or had Isabella foolishly resisted?

It didn’t matter. I could hear the laughter and applause as the bids poured in. The “show” was on, and obviously the “foxes” were performing well.

The psychology of their sudden transformations was strangely liberating. Clearly, both church lady and Isabella had issues with a part of themselves they were embarrassed to show to others. They had woken up that day, and donned the guise of proper ladies, with all the constraints that such a role implies. But Pleasure Sluts weren’t permitted pretty clothes, or embarrassment, or phony guises. As Pleasure Sluts, they would both reveal every part of their sexuality, and themselves. I had no idea what Isabella Calico’s ultimate fate would be, but tonight, at least, she was a long way from Hawaii.

I knew Skeeter’s use of the word “foxes” wasn’t accidental. It was a cue for Lord Kensington. I swallowed hard at the thought, but maybe if Hercules chose them, he wouldn’t want to choose me.

Yes, Skeeter clearly knew what he was doing. He knew EXACTLY how to break down a girl’s mind, and maximize their profit potential. His expertise made his forgetfulness about me all the more baffling.

I couldn’t see how close I was to the front, since the chute was curved. The Big D was well designed. Don’t let the pigs know what’s coming.

You would think that with fewer girls, we’d have some room. But Brittany was pressing harder on me now, as if she was forcing me on the block. The girl in front of me was pressed against me, too, and my hand was stroking her ass even as I diddle my pussy. My nose was in her hair. It didn’t smell like delouser, and I wondered why. But the smell that filled my nostrils was the stink of hot, wet, pussy. Slave pussy. Like mine.

The chute opened, light flooded in, and I pressed forward, rounding the corner. I could hear Skeeter’s voice, closing off the bid.

“A round of applause, ladies, for Lord Kensington, and Hercules!”

My horror at my knowledge that Lord Kensington was buying was submerged by the fact that I was no longer pressing against a girl in front of me, but the metal door.

I was next.

I rubbed my pussy faster, gasping from my own wetness, and my own fear.

I told myself it was going to be all right. It was an Any Chance Auction. That meant Rita could turn down the bid.

Although I had bought countless paintings for my mansion in Chicago at auction, and endless antiques, I had never heard of an auction where the reserve price could change. Any Chance auctions were new, and if a powerful buyer decided to challenge the rules, and I ended up in a Texas Slave Court…

No. It would be okay. Skeeter was in charge. Skeeter was in control.

The thought didn’t calm me. My fate was in the hands of a 21-year-old kid. A kid who had clearly forgotten who I was, and was now treating me like I was just another hot Pleasure Slut.

His words burned into my mind. “Who do I throw ‘er too?”

Would he steer me to a particular buyer? Or maybe he’d try to get them all interested, to drive up my price? A bidding war would be the best-case scenario, at least from the point of view of The Big D.

Skeeter would be in charge. By emphasizing one aspect or the other, he could attract a certain buyer. If he talked about my running, I’d attract Lord Kensington.

Or maybe my fitness would leave me bridled and drooling, pulling John Drummer’s cart, while his buggy whip cracked against my ass.

Jamal Willie would love to buy a privileged white girl for his black “reparations” slave market in South Carolina.

The juicy warmth of my pussy would make me a perfect “honey pot” for Frank Fondu’s buffet table. I shuddered as I imagined the financier’s I had bested and the fathers and brothers of my friends lining up behind me, waiting their turn to put their hand up inside me and sample my “sauce”.

My pigtails would doubtlessly attract the attention of “headmasters”, looking for schoolgirls to bend over for the cane.

Or perhaps my pigtails and my tight bottom would catch the eye of “Skipper” Carey, eager to find a new “cabin boy” to bugger on his yacht.

My wild randiness would make me a wonderful candidate for “monkey mode” in Mr. Choo’s zoo. My international shipping crate might be just beyond the auction gate, ready and waiting.

And were the Arabs buying?

Who would Skeeter sell me to? Who would buy me? My fate was entirely in his hands.

I hoped I would bring a good price. Maybe by this time next week, I’d be bragging with my girlfriends in Chicago, drinking champagne and joking about my slave-cation at The Big D.

If Skeeter played the buyers off against each other, it would increase the bids, and my bragging rights, but it was not without risk. The higher the price, the more pressure there would be to complete the sale.

Fortunately, I was anonymous, and soon this would be over soon. No one knew I was here. I’d be just another anonymous slave pussy. Skeeter hadn’t recognized me, naked and eating orange slime at the slave trough. The buyers wouldn’t recognize me, either. After all, they knew me as a rich, successful professional woman from Chicago. They wouldn’t recognize the skanky slave slut rolling in the sand on the auction block.

No, everything would be all right. In 90 seconds, it would be over. Rita would reject the bid, and I’d be back at the house within the hour.

No, I’d go to the Ritz Carleton. The Penthouse. Yes. I’d check in to the Penthouse, boss the butlers around, and take a long, hot bath. Maybe some time in the hot tub on the balcony, enjoying the twinkling city lights. Then I’d go to sleep in my soft, comfy bed, nestled in my silk sheets.

For a moment I briefly considered throwing the auction. A bad performance on the block would doubtlessly lower my price, decrease my desirability, and make it easier for my sale to be unwound. I was surrounded by Prime pussy. If I was totally recalcitrant, or clumsy, or was clearly Choice, I might attract no bids at all.

My bond trader brain told me it was the best choice. Ditch it. Take a few whip cracks, then fall off the block! Slide into Skeeter, and make the bidders laugh. Pee on the front row. I’d be punished, yes, but it would be better than being crated for Mr. Choo’s Zoo.

No. I knew I couldn’t do it. I’d embarrass The Big D. Rosco might lose his job. And Skeeter’s first auction would be a shambles.

No, Skeeter was counting on me. He had put me toward the front, or at least toward the middle. He had done that because he knew that he could count on me. I wasn’t going to rebel. I would make him proud.

I had told Skeeter I loved him, and that I’d do anything for him. Now was my chance to prove it. I’d earn Skeeter an “A”, and kickstart his career, not by being his wise, sagacious mentor, or his inspirational role model. I’d help Skeeter by being the hottest, wettest, slave pussy The Big D had ever sold.

I struggled to breathe as I pressed against the industrial green, metal door. I knew I wouldn’t be able to read any of the signs in the auction hall, because I couldn’t read anything. But I recalled the picture of the Broadway block, and the writing on the wall, written in enormous, moon type letters.

ALL SALES FINAL

It didn’t matter. I had to take the chance. I had to do it, for Skeeter.

I rubbed my pussy faster, edging myself, working myself to the peak of excitement, my orders to him echoing in my mind.

“You can’t treat me like I’m your rich Aunt Anne. When I’m barefoot on the block, you need to treat me like I’m the skankiest of Pleasure Sluts."

Without even realizing it, Skeeter had followed my orders to a tee. I wrapped my toes around the wooden slat beneath my feet, struggling to hang on.

I wasn’t aware of the slave wrangler standing next to me, until I felt his hand reach out and touch my ass. “Sorry ‘bout this, girl, but I gotta gingersnap ya’. It’s gonna burn like fuck, but leave it in, till Skeeter takes er out.”

The small object he slid between my butt cheeks and pushed into my asshole didn’t feel hot, at least at first. It felt, small, wet, and cool, like a little finger.

It took a few seconds for it to begin to burn!

“Ahhhh!” I said, as the fire began. The wrangler laughed. “That a’ girl. That will keep ya’ prancin’ lively!”

I didn’t have time to register the burning. The chute opened, and the light exploded into my eyes at the same instant the man’s palm exploded across my ass.

“Git!” he shouted, his hand spanking me out of the chute.

It was all a blur…

Bright, blinding lights!

The auction block!

My asshole was on fire!

The feeling of sand between my toes.

“I’m a Sandy Foot Girl,” I thought.

The arena, which didn’t seem that huge in the photo, was enormous. I couldn’t make out the faces, but it was packed with people. PACKED.

Sprinting across the block to center stage, my blue tag, breasts, and bottom bouncing. My run of shame seemed to take forever…

The buyers taking my measure. Staring at me. Appraising me.

My surge of pride as the crowd murmured its approval, and my horror as Skeeter announced my sale in his best country twang, his powerful, confident voice booming over the speakers, coming from everywhere, like the voice of God.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, someone a lot of ya’ll know. A real blue state lib, and our own little fancy-pants bond trader from Chicago, my own Anna-Annie!”

[imreadonly2]

Great build up, but did you forget to collar Rita. You tagged her, but nothing on her being collared. Would it have been a Forever Collar? Would the handlers shock her when she didn't follow orders ir just payback?doesn't

I understand the dehumanizing of the chute, but it just doesn't seem necessary to smug them all together. They need to look pretty for the bidders, not packed in like sardines.

[Carl Bradford]

Thank you for putting Skeeter in charge of his teasing aunt; I'm sure I'm not the only one hoping she draws the highest bidding, so she has to service him orally after the auction. It's great to see him come into his own, including openly auctioning his own (adoptive) aunt--another great reversal of power. I will defer to the creator of Ms. Calico as to whether this is in character, but it was a fine touch to have that woman join the lineup at the last minute, and then prove to be as submissive as all the sluts she had criticized before. You're the one who taught me that nothing appeals quite so much as the slaver enslaved, hence the handcuffs eartag.
Regardless of her ultimate fate, I hope you can reconcile your sequence of events so that Anne doesn't get shipped out this evening; she might miss her date with the branding iron the next day!
I'm going to have to start recycling superlatives. I had thought that Sandy Foot Girl was the ultimate in suspense, but this version is at least as heart-pounding and erotic, if not more so.
I know you've been working hard to produce new chapters; your loyal fans appreciate the high speed production of such finely-tuned subjugation!

[imreadonly2]

I meant Miss Calico, she should be collared, not just ear tagged.

[imreadonly2]

Outstanding! Love the twist n the build up

[Calico_Chimera]

That was another incredibly fun chapter to read. Nicely done again!

Having them all line up and 'lather' before the main event was a fantastic idea. The feeling of anticipation that I had as a reader leading up the main event was great. Although I liked the idea of packing the slave girls tightly together before the auction and it added to the buildup, I was really hoping that Anne would get to watch each sale take place. Then we would could get her perspective and thoughts on each. Plus, it would have been exciting to have the details on the unique approach that Skeeter takes to sell each one to his targeted buyer. I loved how you detailed what each buyer's interest might be in the slave girls though. The gingersnap idea was sexy but now I'm left to wonder what will happen with that 'accessory' on the auction block. Is she going to have to keep it lodged in her butt the whole time or will be it be removed before her performance? Maybe the buyers would like seeing her rolling around and clenching onto it while spread.

This chapter felt like it should have contained a little something to please almost everyone. The added backstory of Anne threatening Skeeter with a spanking and the pump conjured some evil, sexy images in my mind but I'll keep that to myself.

It's probably no surprise that I most especially relished the fate of Miss Calico. Again, your characterization of her was perfect. With her loving the control that she has, but all along secretly desiring to have that control stripped from her. Yes, Carl, I think she would approve. I agree with orflash that it was sad to see her get away without donning a collar. I think she is going into this out of necessity but also to scratch an itch. She eagerly volunteered. She likely thinks that after this is over, life is just going to go back to normal for her. I'm not sure if it will or if at this point she will even want that in the end. If she does go back to her job after this though, it seems like her actions would have permanently changed the way that her co-workers view her. Foxes eh.. ...thrown to the fox hunter and his dog as part of a pair of fox girls. That was so very hot!

I'll share how this fantasy went in my mind. I could feel the liberation that you described in that moment as I imagined being Miss Calico. That moment, forcefully pressed snugly against the girl in front of me. Why do I feel so aroused by this? Her soft, supple body pressed so firmly against mine. I should want to push away but I don't. Then I'm blinded as the door opens. Dazzled, with no chance to readjust, I feel the blazing sting of a sharp smack from a handler in the middle of my right ass cheek. Reflexively, I leap out into the light, following the girl in front of me. As my eyes adjust to the light, I find myself focusing on the smooth, toned hindquarters of the shapely slave girl running ahead of me. I hear that incompetent kid, Skeeter, announce our arrival from the auction block stage, as if we were a couple of lesbian fox girls. He did threaten this backstage but surely he didn't mean to sell me that way. I'm totally straight and I think he must know that! But then why am I positively glowing with the spicy heat of arousal as I hear those words tumble from his mouth? The girl in front of me looks back at me with a smile which turns to laughter as our introduction sinks in. Did she forgive me so soon for being so mean to her earlier? I suddenly and strangely find myself hoping so as my eyes meet hers. I helplessly find myself smiling back at her.

Acting on a spontaneous urge, my smile turns into as sly smirk as I laugh playfully and run to catch up with her. She spots me swinging an open palm at the cleft of her ass and dodges to the right. Chasing her sends us both in a frolicking a circle as my palm finally finds it mark. I give her ass a little squeeze before it dawns on me where we are, right in front of the auction block and being watched. I suddenly fear that my random bout of distraction may have angered our young auctioneer, but as I look upon him at the block he gazes down upon me with a look of smug satisfaction and beckons us forward. Feeling overwhelmed, I allow myself to become distracted. Skeeter professionally proceeds to present our feminine charms to the crowd as if we were prized cattle. It isn't until I feel the wind of his whip crack right next to my left nipple that I realize he has given me a command. He orders me to move up to the very front of the stage and roll on my back, then pause, spread, and hold my legs in wide 'V' shape. He commands that I stay like that, allowing the buyers to inspect my glistening muff as closely as they wish. I then hear him command the other slave girl to stand over me.

While beneath her I look up nervously, careful not to break my pose. I twitch as a drop of her feminine nectar drips onto the tip of my nose. I can smell the sweet aroma of her arousal. Surely he's not going to... At the crack of the whip he orders her to slave squat and hold the 'expose' pose over my head. She quickly complies and holds position, spread with the folds of her pussy blossoming just above my lips. I can't see Skeeter from where I lay, beneath the beautiful bottom of my now slave sister, but I imagine his lips forming a vindictive smirk as he looks down upon me and powerfully barks out, "Lick Izzy!". I hesitate only for a second before tasting her with just the tip of my tongue before raising my head slightly to get a better lick. I pleasure her in long sensual animalistic licks and find myself completely absorbed in my own lust. Perhaps I could make up for the way I treated her earlier. Not having been this close to another woman's pussy before, I found her scent intoxicating. I'm not lesbian but this is turning me on so much, I told myself, as I circled her clit with my darting tongue. I didn't know where this evening would end but I knew I didn't want to be done playing slave girl yet. There was so much more to explore.

So that's where my mind went. You always leave these teasing hooks. I can't help but explore them further in my mind. I loved the chapter.

[imreadonly2]

I had known Isabella Calico didn’t like me, but I realized now that her rage was directed at all Pleasure Sluts. Like many free women, she had redirected her anger at the sexism she had to endure, not at the men who had abused her, but at the women she regarded as the inciting cause.

I loved this bit of feminine insight. It rings true not only in this slave story by this character but in real life today as well. I learned a long time ago that to truly understand a woman, I needed to look past the obvious actions and words that she exhibits in a particular situation and to identify the raw emotion or feelings driving the behavior. Once those are identified, understanding the woman and how to deal with her is easy-peasy. Woman can be incredibly vindictive to their own kind.

Nice bit of insight here in the story, Joe. Thanks.

Hooked6

[dtrelsky]

Love seeing Izzy volunteer to lower herself to the level of the pig sluts she so despises! I have to agree with Calico_Chimera about wanting to see how the pair of redheaded foxes performed on the block. The other standout slave being the FBI agent but since she's last I guess we haven't missed her yet. Her character really makes me wonder if there might not be a lot more going on behind her sale
Annie teasing Skeeter about milking him was fun too.
Mr. Choo's Zoo certainly sounds interesting as well, though I wonder how long it's safe to keep a slave girl in monkey mode before she needs a break to prevent irreparable harm to her psyche. Having irregular breaktimes may be part of the trick to make sure they not only behave as monkeys for guests but remain ashamed and embarassed whenever they get turned back on.
I was surprised Rosco was so quick to give his word to not sell Miss Calico as I do think he will keep his word, especially since he gave it in front of several co-workers from the sounds of it. Then again, I think everyone in that room was just happy to get to see her being a Pleasure Slut even if they have to put up with her retribution when she comes back to work, though she may be a bit more careful about how she treats her subordinates in the future!
Looking forward to Annie's block performance and finding out who bid the most, something she'll always remember!

[Mr. Smith]

Both of your Any Chance Auction participants need to be branded. There is nothing like the sizzle of the brand to drive home the fact for a new slave that she is no longer a free woman than branding. It will also happen before the bids are accepted or rejected so it will further screw with their minds. No concealing Anne's brand in between the cheeks or on her vagina. It needs to be right in the center of one of her butt cheeks. Now if you want to give her two with the second on her vagina to really drive the point home I am open for that.

On a side note I really want to see how the Big D does it's branding. Is it on stage in front of an audience or is it in the blacksmith's shop out of the public eye. I assume the brandings would be on stage and used to draw a crowd for entertainment purposes. Personally I think Texas should make branding mandatory for all slaves as part of the conditioning process to get them in the correct mindset for their new status.

Thanks for the very detailed story.

[imreadonly2]

From Joe:

Thank you so much for all the wonderful feedback and great ideas. They are appreciated more than I can say. This is what has driven my story forward, and kept me writing, and I'm trying hard to actually finish this one!

My plan is to draft the next chapter this weekend. And we are getting close to a close...

Good point with Isabella Calico's collar, Orflash - that was a missed opportunity. I will correct that in a subsequent version!

The cattle chute idea was established in SANDY FOOT GIRL, but it does point out an interesting structural problem. First person POV does allow you to do a lot of psychological insights, but as the heroine loses her agency her perspective becomes more limited. So she isn't going to fully understand everything that is happening to HER, let alone everyone else, as she only knows what she is told.

One of the goals of the cattle chute is to keep the girl totally focused on her idea of herself as livestock -- the other auctions aren't distracting her, although she's aware of them. She's aware of the other naked girls pressing against her, emphasizing that she's just another hotdog in package, waiting for her chance to be thrown into the pot. She really is slave meat.

Plus, the cool thing about starting up a lot of threads - which I got from Carl's wonderful TRYING ON A COLLAR - is you can really fire up people's imaginations, but the negative is, unless you write a Dickens novel, not every thread will be perfectly resolved by the end. However I'm hoping that the end - which is coming soon - will bring most of the main arcs to a satisfying conclusion.

Carl, the idea of Miss Calico was to have her like the Minister who always preaches about sex, and is having the affair, or the gay conversion therapy person who is (of course) gay. Often it is the moral crusaders who are most obsessed.

The Skeeter arc is an interesting one. I think in every master there is a submissive, and visa-versa, as you really play both roles in your head. And Anne & Skeeter are enjoying the ultimate power exchange fantasy, as the two story lines go back-and-forth in her mind (and probably his) as her auction proceeds.

I loved the story-within-a-story about Miss Calico's performance on the block! If I write a sequel to the story from Rita's POV, I'll include this. VERY HOT!!

The pair of foxes is interesting, as the girls might not only be trying to outsmart the dogs (hopeless) but outsmart the other girl, and draw the foxes to their rival.

Hooked6, I was very much inspired by your e-mail to me about feminine rivalry when I wrote that piece about Miss Calico. I'm glad you liked it, as your opinion means a lot to me!

Dtrelsky, you make a good point about monkey mode. Maybe it gets triggered when the door to the viewing area opens, and the motion detector sees there are guests waiting to be entertained. The girls are awakened, and the fun begins! Maybe in their hidden enclosure they are reading THE ECONOMIST or Tolstoy, but when the lights go out they are in monkey mode and it's time to hump the tree!

I hadn't thought of the branding as being a spectator sport, Mr. Smith, but that does seem like a really great marketing opportunity. I'll think about that....

Thank you, everyone. Hope to post more next week!!

[imreadonly2]

To Joe:

Dammit, you talented SOB - this is a great story! Now I really have to step up my game.

(I've just now caught up, so I'm going to comment on the entire series rather than go back to each entry, although I may do that anyway.)

So much to like here, but to me the best aspect is that while this is a careening-headlong-toward-the-block Joe Doe story, it also includes some serious character development with quite dramatic moments. Skeeter stepping up and becoming a man, coming out from under his father's shadow to save the day, is wonderful; he's a fictional character, and yet I felt genuinely proud for him.

It would have been so easy to portray Skeeter and Rosco as dumb rednecks or unfeeling greedheads willing to sell their sister-in-law with just a shrug, and yet they rose to the occasion. Just wonderful; their characters capture some of the same things I really like in Carl Bradford's work.

You've always been great at revealing what's going on inside the protagonist's head, but honestly this is your best work yet. When Anne was trying to communicate with Rita while strapped to the table, being buzzed by the implant and listening to the mantras, I could feel myself getting frustrated along with her. Reading Anne desperately clinging to her identity but then getting a thrill from the danger of being sold, I liked that the "pendulum" tempo was increasing as we neared this chapter. Her increasing fear that her nephew didn't recognize her was spot-on, exactly the sort of thinking someone in a crisis would do.

Skeeter standing up to Miss Calico, and then having her agree to the auction, was excellent. And that specialized tag for a slaver enslaved? Sorry, but I'm totally stealing that.

I'm enjoying the shout-outs and "Easter Eggs," like the red-headed slave girl being put up for collateral by her church, the mention of HCI (and Skeeter diplomatically saying that they're more "personal" at the Big D, which made me laugh - a nice way of saying that HCI is Wal-Mart and Big D is Macy's or Saks Fifth Avenue by comparison), and that Dr. Hollister is something, isn't she? Great stuff.

The Reparations Project?

Thoroughly enjoying this story. I have to stop writing and go the hell to bed, but I'll have more tomorrow I'm sure.
Well done, amigo

[lovethissite]

Joe: only one thing to say. Thank you!

[Tanuki]

The other standout slave being the FBI agent but since she's last I guess we haven't missed her yet. Her character really makes me wonder if there might not be a lot more going on behind her sale

This was Joe's clever cameo of my character from this series:

https://literotica.com/s/reina-in-a-strange-land

Joe helped me conceive of this story - the mysterious woman and her shop was his idea and I wrote a story around it. Reina appears in Any Chance Auction, although her character doesn't match up with my story,, at least not yet.