Any Chance Auction - Chapter 13A, by Joe Doe
Posted: Mon Nov 16, 2020 5:38 am
Skeeters voice boomed out over the PA, like the voice of God.
“And now, ladies and gents, 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!”
Blinded, my ass burning from the ginger, I slogged through the sand as I ran towards center stage. I was surprised to hear my own voice, not in my head, but coming through the loud speakers.
“Even I, the epitome of a powerful and successful woman, am subjected to crude remarks and unwanted stares. Are there times that I enjoy all of the male attention I receive? Yes. But that does not make it acceptable, and the men who look at me should… no, MUST… be punished.”
To my horror I realized that the monitors were playing my acceptance speech for the Finance and Feminism award at the WOMEN’S POWER!! conference. As I ran naked through the sand, my boobs and butt bouncing, I caught a glimpse of myself on the enormous monitor. I was dressed in my $3,000 blue Armani power suit. My hair was pulled back, and I had ditched my contacts for my black power glasses with the thick lenses. My carefully chosen look was sexy, but also crisp and professional.
My feminist self-righteousness echoed through the hall. “Today, I stand before you as a fabulously wealthy and successful businesswoman, a leader, and a model to little girls ever where. I am the woman that all of you strive to be.”
I smiled at the round of applause, and paused, with perfect comic timing. “And I am proud to say, I am not wearing ANY underwear.” I waited for the laughter to subside. “And no, I was not in a hurry.”
As my virtual self enjoyed the second burst of laughter, the real me I stood at the front center of the auction block. I was naked, physically and emotionally, frozen by the image of myself in a position of maximum power. The contrast between the smartly dressed, powerful, award winning feminist receiving her award on the monitor, and the sandy footed Pleasure Slut was scarcely believable.
Without my glasses or contacts, I couldn’t see the faces of the bidders, and their faces were a blur. However, Rosco had told me there were numerous buyers who knew me personally, and would doubtlessly enjoy owning and fucking me. I had comforted myself with the notion that this wouldn’t matter, as they would never recognize me.
I hoped to be sold as an anonymous Pleasure Slut, just another pussy in the dozen. But Skeeter, in his desire to turn a coin, would spare me nothing. He would humiliate me in front of everyone I knew in order to earn a few more pennies for The Big D.
Anne-on-the-monitor continued. My voice was crisp, clear, and confident. “As you can see, my skirt is tight, and several inches above my knees. But these are MY choices, MY decisions. Men who dare to objectify me, or proposition me, or allow their eyes to linger on me for too long, will meet my lawyers! Then they will understand what true power is!”
I could tell that the audience was having a difficult time reconciling the image of the powerful woman on the monitor with the naked Pleasure Slut standing before them. I looked at Skeeter, unsure of what to do.
The man who looked back at me looked like older brother, or perhaps the father, of my nephew. The teenage boy I had teased and tormented the night before was nowhere to be found. The man staring back at me, with his slave whip in hand, was in total control.
Skeeter spoke to me off microphone. “Do as she says.”
I looked at him, confused.
“Shake your titties, slave girl, slave hop. And don’t forget the slave smile. Show ‘em those pearly whites.”
The comments about showing them my “pearly whites” was delivered with just a hint of a smile, and I noticed a twinkle in his eye. But we weren’t sharing a joke; I was the joke. Making me shake my breasts with a gigantic, idiotic slave grin would prove the absurdity of the feminist screed I was delivering via the monitor.
As much as I hated it, I knew what I had to do. My nipples hardening in the breeze, I plastered a gigantic grin on my face. I stuck my tongue out a little between my teeth, to add an extra note of childishness. It went along nicely with my stupid pigtails. Under Skeeter’s command, I began to very slowly hop-hop-hop in a circle, causing my breast and bottom to bounce, even as my feminist, big-brother, image harangued the crowd.
“Men like to watch strippers, and porn stars, and slave girls, shake their breasts, and display themselves for their viewing pleasure!”
Hop-hop-hop.
The bouncing was setting the ginger in my ass on fire. Skeeter, seeing me wince, smiled, but waved his finger in an up-and-down motion, indicating I should continue. I continued, keeping the idiotic grin on my face as I bounced up-and-down.
“They try to demean us by calling our breasts, “hooters”, or “knockers”, “jugs”, or “boobs.”
Hop-hop-hop. The grinning, idiot pleasure bimbo bounced along, as the powerful feminist denounced her.
“Well, I am here to tell the world tonight, I am not a boob!”
I finished my hop, and my harangue, as the audience in my video presentation burst into righteous applause, and the audience in the hall burst into cruel, jeering laughter. The audience’s taunts were merciless.
“You’re a boob now!” someone called out.
“Tits-and-ass!”
“Nice hooters!”
“Bouncy-bounce!”
“Be respectful. Call ‘em milk duds!”
I wanted to disappear, to vanish from the universe. But Skeeter was just getting started. “Time for your block dance. Do everything she says,” he repeated.
The idea of parading myself through an auction block “dance” designed to degrade and humiliate me, and expose my naked body in every lewd pose possible, was unspeakably shameful. If Skeeter hadn’t punctuated his command with the crack of the whip, I’m quite certain I would have simply stood there, frozen in humiliation.
I jumped at the sound of the whip crack, and instinctively reached to cup my unprotected bottom. The crowd laughed. Building on the motion, I turned around, put my hands on my hips, and began shaking my bottom.
“I refuse to be objectified!” my voice thundered. “I am not an object to be viewed, for someone else’s pleasure!”
I shook my ass for the bidders. Skeeter’s wonderfully diabolical plan was revealed to me in all its evil glory. He was going to make me auction myself. I would not be allowed the familiar comfort of the carefully choreographed block dance that had earned me my Prime Minus grade. I had practiced that. I could zombie my way through that. I was going to jump to the commands of the well-dressed woman executive on the monitor, proving myself, and her a fool, and underscoring how everything I had once presented myself as, was a preposterous lie. My job was to make a fool of myself.
“Men want to humiliate us, and strip us of our clothes, our money, and our power. And when we disobey, they want to turn us over their knee and spank us, like we’re naughty little girls.”
Looking over my shoulder, I wagged my finger at the audience in a “naughty, naughty” gesture. Grinning at them, I playfully shook my pigtails and spanked my wiggling bottom.
The audience jeered and cheered.
“Men’s confusion is understandable. There are girls, filthy, randy, Pleasure Sluts, hungry for their collars. I say, lock their collars on them forever!”
I smiled stupidly as I licked my lips, and playfully ran my fingers over my eternity collar.
It was unspeakably cruel, to make me mock myself this way, but the audience was loving it. I felt an odd surge of pride; I had told Skeeter that in business you had to be merciless, that you had no friends, and that every dollar you got was a dollar you ripped from someone else’s hands. You had no friends, no family, and there were only winners and losers.
I was so proud of him. He had learned my lessons well.
At the same time, I despised him for doing this to me. Not satisfied with merely displaying me as a Pleasure Slut, he had turned me into a pleasure clown, an object of ridicule and scorn. And the audience, who clearly hated and despised the politically correct Yankee feminist tripe bleating at them from the monitor, was loving every minute of it.
The mix of my anger, shame, pride, and admiration for Skeeter, who had become a man before my eyes, burned in me, like the ginger burning my ass.
“My sexuality is mine to use. Slave girls, like bonds, are sold as commodities, but I will not allow men to commoditize me. I am not a puppy, a pet to be played with. I will not roll in the dirt for their pleasure.”
Obeying her command, I quickly dropped to all fours and rolled in the sand, mimicking a bitch rolling in poop to scent herself. The dark brown, coarse sand clung to my sweaty body and hair, along with the stink and pee of the countless slave girls who had pranced on this sand before me.
As I rolled, the blue ear tag, clacked against my face, as my pigtails waved to-and-fro. I came up in doggie pose: on all fours, mouth hanging open, panting, with my ass wiggling and my tongue darting in and out of my mouth.
“Good girl!” a mocking voice called out.
“Do you want to suck on my bone?”
“Yeah, I’ll bury my bone all right. I’ll bury it really deep!”
I stood, sand still clinging to me, and let my hands roam over my naked body as my feminist self screeched at me. I had written this speech carefully, and knew where it was going… and exactly what I needed to do.
“Pleasure Sluts sicken and disgust me, as they should all free women. Yes, it’s fun to play slave girl. I’ve done it. Many of us have. But the Primes are farm animals, skanky hos with all their “brains” in their pussies. To so-called LADIES, who are block wet, and block ready, I say this…”
I used the dramatic pause to reach between my legs, and give myself a good finger fucking. I held my hand up, grinning broadly as I showed the laughing audience my glistening fingers, proving how block-hot I was.
“Let them be stripped, sold, and branded like the slave sluts they are!”
I formed my mouth into an “O” and let my eyes wide in mock alarm, at the threat of my impending sale. Then I licked my finger like it was a cock, wetting it.
Turning my ass to the crowd, I “branded” myself with my wet finger, wincing in pain as the “brand” burned in.
“You can wear my brand, slut!” a man called out.
“I’ll brand your mound, too!” another voice yelled. To my surprise, it was a woman.
I dropped to my side, knees up, laying on the sand, feet facing the audience, as my speech reached its crescendo.
“Do I use my sexuality to tease, and distract, and to exert power over men? Every day. But I will not allow men to objectify me, or sell my sexuality to put money in their fat, greasy, disgusting, piggy hands.”
I began to slowly open my legs, revealing myself…
“I am not a Pleasure Slut to be auctioned off. I am not a pussy to be sold.”
As the clothed, confident feminist on the monitor basked in the roaring cheers of the crowd, I lifted my foot high in the air, revealing my hot, wet, and very-much-for-sale pussy. The applause from the crowd cheering my performance continued, but the shot of me taking my bows was replaced with a live closeup taken by the camera just over me, showing my fingers teasing my glistening, gaping sex.
I gasped with pleasure as I rubbed myself, amazed at Skeeter’s unabashed brilliance. He had brought me to heel, and to the point of slave-gasm. The audience was eating out of his hand. What amazed me all the more, this mere boy had done it while hardly lifting a finger, by understanding me, and them, and how they wanted to see me, and what I feared, and longed for, the most. The applause for Anne the executive and Annie the Pleasure Slut mixed together into a single, long, thunderous ovation.
I allowed myself to look over at Skeeter. From my place in the sand, he seemed enormous and all powerful. He was smiling, obviously impressed by my performance, and clearly pleased with the audience’s reaction.
I tried to make eye contact with him, to share the moment. After all, I had executed his instructions perfectly, but it was HIS idea. They were cheering me, but Skeeter deserved some of the credit. A lot of the credit actually.
But Skeeter was not looking at me, and had no desire to share credit. His reaction surprised me, until I noticed his fingers lightly stroking the wooden hammer resting on the podium.
I swallowed hard. He was stroking the auctioneer’s gavel, the symbol of his power. When he dropped the hammer on me, I would be sold.
Skeeter was not interested in applause. A true professional, he was surveying the crowd, waiting for the right moment to begin my sale. He was not my partner, or my nephew, but my auctioneer. I was simply slave meat, no more and no less, and his reward for my sale would be entirely pecuniary in nature.
Sensing the moment was right, Skeeter wasted no time.
“Flip present!” he snapped, off microphone, but loud enough for me to hear.
I felt the air from his whip, followed by a crack of lightening that made my head ring. The whip would have hit me, If I wasn’t already doing one of my best moves – a hand stand, terminating in a flip that left me in slave present position: squatting, hands on my head. I was close enough to the edge of the block to curl my toes around it, and smell the cigar smoke of a fat, blurry man in the front row.
Feminist Anne was silenced, perhaps forever. Now it was Skeeter’s turn to describe the slave meat up for sale.
“Look at that SMILE, ladies and gents! Two fancy degrees, but no brains at all. Without her contacts, she can’t even read. Jist another illiterate Pleasure Slut, hot-for-the-cock! Show ‘em yer slave lather, Anna-Annie!”
Putting my rear hand in the sand to balance myself, I thrust my pussy up in the air. On a wire overhead, the camera zoomed down, getting a closeup of my wet snatch. I was careful to keep only one finger on my clit, so the camera could see my dripping pussy hole.
“Slave-gasm” Skeeter ordered, off microphone. I rubbed my button for all it was worth.
“Look at yer’ catalogue, folks! All those donations to lib causes, and communist candidates, and pickin’ up political correctness awards in little short dresses. Look at how smart she looked in that award speech, or standin’ in front of her fancy foreign car! Little bimbo don’t look so smart now, does she? Come on, folks! This here’s an Any Chance auction, so take a chance on turning this blue tag from a prick-teaser to a prick pleaser.”
The bids poured in, rapid fire, but with my focus on my throbbing clit, and the horrible burning in my ass, I didn’t even hear them. It was Skeeter’s voice, off microphone, that cut through my haze.
“Eyes front, and SMILE!” Skeeter ordered.
In an effort to concentrate, I had closed my eyes, and was grunting with pleasure. That would never do. No, I needed to show everyone what an idiot bimbo I was. That meant giving them my biggest, dumbest, bimbo grin, as if rubbing my hot pussy in front of a room full of horny bidders was the most fun I’d ever had. The problem was, with the heat in my pussy, and my fantasies of shame and exposure dialed up to 11, I wasn’t sure it wasn’t.
“Look at that bimbo-grin, folks!” Skeeter joked. “All her brains are in her pussy!”
I thought my shame couldn’t get any worse, but then a familiar voice cut through the bids like a knife. It was a female English accent, Royal pronunciation and old money, that positively oozed disdain. It was the voice of Lord Kensington’s daughter, my friend Elizabeth.
“I cannot BELIEVE that she is disgracing herself this way. Typical American. Got lucky in the market, and then thought she was clever. But no breeding, whatsoever.”
A female voice with a thick Chinese accent responded, “My father likey-like to use her for breeding. In zoo.”
“That WOULD be amusing,” Elizabeth chuckled. “Watching the sow chuck out her little bastard in the dirt, with all of us watching. Her hole couldn’t be much bigger than it is now!”
Perhaps hearing her, Skeeter picked up the comment. “Look at that pussy hole!” Skeeter said. “Wide open for business! You got the cash, we got the gash!”
“I met her in New York, me think,” the Chinese girl said. “At embassy dinner. She seemed nice.”
“Well, she’s not nice, obviously,” Elizabeth said dismissively. “She’s a hot pig slut, hungry for her collar.”
“So you no bid, then?” the Chinese girl said.
“No, I told father to bid on her. She’s a good runner. She ran the Chicago Marathon last year, and Boston a few years ago. Good stamina, although she might be far too stupid to make a good fox. Perhaps we will do a catch-and-release a few times, to get her heart pumping. That will make the fun last.”
“So our father both bid? Compete?”
“I don’t know. It’s really up to Hercules.”
I gasped. While I could not make out the faces, I spotted Hercules, the enormous Great Dane, in the front row of the VIP box. His ears were straight up, and his wagging tail was like a club. He had two handlers behind him, who were struggling to hold him as he strained forward. But the worst news is that Elizabeth’s father, Lord Kensington, was raising his hand to bid.
I heard another voice in the front row, talking on his phone. “Look at your catalog, Mr. Drummer. See that picture of her in her little running shorts, holding up her medal? She’s a natural runner! All she needs now is your bridle, a harness, and the snap of the whip!”
Skeeter didn’t have to tell me to rub my pussy faster… the CRACK of the whip did that.
I remembered laughing in John Drummer’s face when he confronted me at 21 in Manhattan. He was quite upset that the bonds I had sold him were now worthless, as if that were MY problem. I replied that fat, drunk, and stupid was no way to go through life. He vowed to “get me” someday. Now someday was today.
Would John Drummer race me, or just use me for “pleasure rides” through his estate? I’m sure the pleasure would be all his, and as Skeeter had promised, he’d be free with the whip.
John Drummer didn’t merely hate me, he DESPISED me. It never bothered me, as I wore his loathing as a badge of honor, proof of how badly I had bested him. My advice to Skeeter haunted my mind.
“I cheated some of them at business. Remember how I teased you, you’re your friends, and made you hard, and laughed at you? I did the same to all of them. They will remember how I scorned them, and they will be angry. No… enraged.”
As I squatted on the block I began to tremble slightly, overcome once again by my pride in Skeeter taking my advice, my admiration for Skeeter’s ruthlessness and business acumen, the terror of what was being done to me, and my uncontrollable, animalistic horniness.
“Look at that bacon sizzle, folks? I’d pork her, wouldn’t you?”
At that moment, I heard a momentous BARK, followed by laughter. My pussy began to shake like jelly, as I slave-gasmed!
“She… squirting!” the Chinese girl said.
“Disgusting!” Elizabeth said, in a voice that made me wonder if we had ever been friends. “I thought Hercules would have better taste.”
“She spraying that black man. In front row,” the Chinese woman replied.
“That’s Jamal,” Elizabeth said. “He likes to sell skanky white pussy to black plantation owners. She’d be PERFECT for that.”
I opened my eyes, and realized to my horror that I was pussy spraying a large, brawny, well dressed black man in the front row. He didn’t seem to mind. He wiped a bit of my wetness off his face with his fingers, and tasted me. Then he smiled, and placed his bid.
Skeeter used my humiliation to highlight my salability. “See how juicy that prime fillet is, ladies and gents? She don’t SAYS it, she SPRAYS it! You may gotta diaper her, so she don’t stain yer rug!”
“Dog it!” Skeeter ordered.
I was still cumming, but that didn’t matter. Releasing my pussy, I rolled in the sand, gracefully assuming the next position. On all fours, legs spread wide, with my wet snatch and asshole on full display for the bidders.
As I felt my butt cheeks part, my directions to Skeeter burned in my mind:
“It’ll be your job to make me disgrace myself, in front of men who’ve worked with me, lusted after me, despised me. Make me lather myself up in front of them, and roll in the sand like a cocker spaniel in heat, and show them all my secret little cracks and crevices.”
“What’s that sticking out of her ass?” a woman’s voice said.
“Ginger,” her partner replied. “They do it horses, to make their tails stick up, and make them prance.”
“She’s prancing, all right,” the woman said, laughing.
I gasped for air. I heard the laughter and bids of the audience, as Skeeter drove up my price. I heard the phrases through the din.
Skeeter’s voice, “Gimme Gimme More!”
“Bunghole.”
“Juicy beaver.”
“Skanky Slut.”
“Come on folks, let’s get those bids in, before this one start’s humpin’ my hammer!”
The worst part was I knew it was true. If he had dropped it in the sand in front of me, I would have humped the hammer he was going to use to sell my pussy. It wasn’t a brilliant joke, but the GUFFAW I heard from the back cut through the din, and sent another wave of horror over me.
It was Rita’s laugh. Rita was there, and she was LAUGHING! Rita, who I dearly loved, but whom I had also teased, and snubbed, and belittled. Rita was enjoying her bratty, misbehaving little sister’s comeuppance, as well she should.
“I love you, Annie, but yer the biggest smarty pants I know. Always so sure of yerself, thinkin' you know everything! It's kind of fun seein' y’all fidgety, back on your heels, as yellow as mustard. I'm gonna enjoy takin' you down a peg or two.”
The bids and chatter were coming in fast. I hadn’t even processed Rita’s presence when a Brahman accent rang over the rest. “Look at that asshole wink. That is one fine rear porthole, gentlemen, water tight and ship-shape! Anne will become Andrew, and will make a fine cabin boy.”
I didn’t want to wink my asshole at Skipper Cary, but with the ginger burning me I had no choice. The next time I was on Skipper Carey’s yacht, it wouldn’t be as a pampered guest. I’d be a “cabin boy”, hair clipped short, serving my friends, and my friend’s fathers, and their brothers, champaign and hors d'oeuvres. I knew “Andrew” would have to endure quite a few pats on “his” ass, until finally I was frog marched below decks for a good buggering.
Skeeter’s voice boomed over the PA. “Look at that asshole pucker up! Gotta feeling she don’t like the ginger!” Sketter said.
“Too fuckin’ bad!” a voice called out.
“Yeah, let it burn!” Everyone laughed.
Skeeter laughed too. “Ya’ll wanna show our little Yankee lib some down home Texas hospitality, don’t we? Plus ya’ll maya noticed that there’s a whip mark on the top of her ass, but not on the bottom,” Skeeter drawled. “Well, folks, we don’t do half-assed jobs at The Big D.”
“Imagine her in a school uniform, with her cute little pigtails, and her ass in the air, waiting for the strap, or the cane. This is an ass that was made to be whipped, folks!”
I felt the tip of a leather boot I had payed $750 for gently kick me in the ribs. “Get that ass up in the air, you lazy pig-slut! Time to show these folks a good, old-fashioned, Texas gingersnap!”
I lifted my ass HIGH. I felt my butt cheeks lift and separate widely as I lowered my nose into the sand to smell the sweat and pee and stink of the thousands of other slave girls who had pranced on the auction block before me.
“Ooh! I can see the ginger!” the Chinese girl said.
“What a trollop!” Elizabeth huffed. “Oh, does she ever have this coming!”
I didn’t know what precisely I had coming, or what a “gingersnap” was. However, the happy sound of my sister Rita’s voice, calling out over the crowd, told me it wasn’t good.
“That a boy, Sketter! Gingersnap her… GOOD!” Rita hog-hollered.
“That’s my MA,” ladies and gentlemen, Skeeter said, as the crowd laughed. “And ya always best do what mama says! Hold still now, Anna-Annie!”
I felt the pain across my ass first, before I even heard the CRACK of Skeeter’s whip. Instinctively, I clenched my butt cheeks. In what I quickly realized was the worst decision I had ever made in my life, I “grabbed” the whip with the exquisitely sensitive skin between my cheeks.
It was like clenching a flaming razor.
Stupid slave girl!
Foolish slut bimbo!
Why, oh why, hadn’t I done what my wise master, my auctioneer, had ordered me to do. No, like a foolish slave slut, I “grabbed” the leather whip “poppers” with my butt cheeks, skinning my interior butt cheeks by sending them to war against Skeeter’s merciless, unstoppable whip!
If it was a war, it was a war the whip won. My clenching bottom was, at best, a minor annoyance, as the whip dug in and Skeeter skillfully yanked the ginger finger out of my clenching asshole.
The whip cut the inside of my sensitive butt cheeks like a scalpel. I could hear my scream, and the crack of the whip, and the laughter, but it was my own instructions to Skeeter that rang in my mind:
“Spare me nothing. Crack the whip on my skanky ass, not because I was disobedient, but just to make them laugh.”
And laugh they did! The hoots, laughter, cheers, whistles, and applause were deafening.
“Bullseye!”
“She felt that one!”
“Now that’s a gingersnap!”
“Enjoy your award, Anne?”
“Damn, that boy’s good!”
“Do it again!”
“Nice shot, Skeeter”.
The last singsong voice, cutting over the crowd was Rita’s. There was no hint of sympathy in her voice for the disobedient little slave slut who had defied her son, just a delighted display of motherly pride.
Soon the crowd began to chant:
GINGER-SNAP!
GINGER-SNAP!
GINGER-SNAP!
I lay in the sand, sobbing, a pile of tears, pain, and degradation, as the blood thirsty crowd called for my ass.
If I thought my pathos would invoke sympathy from my auctioneer, I was mistaken. “Slave fours!” he snapped.
My asshole was screaming in pain. I couldn’t believe it. He was ordering me back into position for a second go!
Had I misheard? Perhaps. With my head lying in the sand, and my eyes filled with tears, the clearest view I had of him was his power totem, the childish bug doodle he had drawn in first-grade, and was now hanging on the wall of my mansion in Chicago.
“Wow, Anna-Annie!” he said, as I held him up to look at it. “So you took it! Mom was wondering where it went.”
“I…borrowed it. I asked your mom for it, and she said no, so I just sort of… took it.”
“You STOLE it?”
“No, silly!”, I said, tweaking his adorable little nose. “Poor people steal things. Rich people appropriate them, so they can be enjoyed by the right sort of people, who can properly appreciate them. Right now, I’m working on a project that’s going to tear down a bunch of dirty, old poor people slums to put in a beautiful, gorgeous new golf course. That’s not stealing, not when my lawyers do it. It’s appropriation.”
“So what’s the difference between stealing and apopo- appro-poto…”
“Appropriation,” I said, laughing. “The difference is money, and power.”
“Fear is for girls who don’t have platinum cards.” I had no platinum card, or money, or power. I was a naked slave slut, covered in sand, shame, and my own slave grease, staring at the boots of my auctioneer.
“And now, ladies and gents, 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!”
Blinded, my ass burning from the ginger, I slogged through the sand as I ran towards center stage. I was surprised to hear my own voice, not in my head, but coming through the loud speakers.
“Even I, the epitome of a powerful and successful woman, am subjected to crude remarks and unwanted stares. Are there times that I enjoy all of the male attention I receive? Yes. But that does not make it acceptable, and the men who look at me should… no, MUST… be punished.”
To my horror I realized that the monitors were playing my acceptance speech for the Finance and Feminism award at the WOMEN’S POWER!! conference. As I ran naked through the sand, my boobs and butt bouncing, I caught a glimpse of myself on the enormous monitor. I was dressed in my $3,000 blue Armani power suit. My hair was pulled back, and I had ditched my contacts for my black power glasses with the thick lenses. My carefully chosen look was sexy, but also crisp and professional.
My feminist self-righteousness echoed through the hall. “Today, I stand before you as a fabulously wealthy and successful businesswoman, a leader, and a model to little girls ever where. I am the woman that all of you strive to be.”
I smiled at the round of applause, and paused, with perfect comic timing. “And I am proud to say, I am not wearing ANY underwear.” I waited for the laughter to subside. “And no, I was not in a hurry.”
As my virtual self enjoyed the second burst of laughter, the real me I stood at the front center of the auction block. I was naked, physically and emotionally, frozen by the image of myself in a position of maximum power. The contrast between the smartly dressed, powerful, award winning feminist receiving her award on the monitor, and the sandy footed Pleasure Slut was scarcely believable.
Without my glasses or contacts, I couldn’t see the faces of the bidders, and their faces were a blur. However, Rosco had told me there were numerous buyers who knew me personally, and would doubtlessly enjoy owning and fucking me. I had comforted myself with the notion that this wouldn’t matter, as they would never recognize me.
I hoped to be sold as an anonymous Pleasure Slut, just another pussy in the dozen. But Skeeter, in his desire to turn a coin, would spare me nothing. He would humiliate me in front of everyone I knew in order to earn a few more pennies for The Big D.
Anne-on-the-monitor continued. My voice was crisp, clear, and confident. “As you can see, my skirt is tight, and several inches above my knees. But these are MY choices, MY decisions. Men who dare to objectify me, or proposition me, or allow their eyes to linger on me for too long, will meet my lawyers! Then they will understand what true power is!”
I could tell that the audience was having a difficult time reconciling the image of the powerful woman on the monitor with the naked Pleasure Slut standing before them. I looked at Skeeter, unsure of what to do.
The man who looked back at me looked like older brother, or perhaps the father, of my nephew. The teenage boy I had teased and tormented the night before was nowhere to be found. The man staring back at me, with his slave whip in hand, was in total control.
Skeeter spoke to me off microphone. “Do as she says.”
I looked at him, confused.
“Shake your titties, slave girl, slave hop. And don’t forget the slave smile. Show ‘em those pearly whites.”
The comments about showing them my “pearly whites” was delivered with just a hint of a smile, and I noticed a twinkle in his eye. But we weren’t sharing a joke; I was the joke. Making me shake my breasts with a gigantic, idiotic slave grin would prove the absurdity of the feminist screed I was delivering via the monitor.
As much as I hated it, I knew what I had to do. My nipples hardening in the breeze, I plastered a gigantic grin on my face. I stuck my tongue out a little between my teeth, to add an extra note of childishness. It went along nicely with my stupid pigtails. Under Skeeter’s command, I began to very slowly hop-hop-hop in a circle, causing my breast and bottom to bounce, even as my feminist, big-brother, image harangued the crowd.
“Men like to watch strippers, and porn stars, and slave girls, shake their breasts, and display themselves for their viewing pleasure!”
Hop-hop-hop.
The bouncing was setting the ginger in my ass on fire. Skeeter, seeing me wince, smiled, but waved his finger in an up-and-down motion, indicating I should continue. I continued, keeping the idiotic grin on my face as I bounced up-and-down.
“They try to demean us by calling our breasts, “hooters”, or “knockers”, “jugs”, or “boobs.”
Hop-hop-hop. The grinning, idiot pleasure bimbo bounced along, as the powerful feminist denounced her.
“Well, I am here to tell the world tonight, I am not a boob!”
I finished my hop, and my harangue, as the audience in my video presentation burst into righteous applause, and the audience in the hall burst into cruel, jeering laughter. The audience’s taunts were merciless.
“You’re a boob now!” someone called out.
“Tits-and-ass!”
“Nice hooters!”
“Bouncy-bounce!”
“Be respectful. Call ‘em milk duds!”
I wanted to disappear, to vanish from the universe. But Skeeter was just getting started. “Time for your block dance. Do everything she says,” he repeated.
The idea of parading myself through an auction block “dance” designed to degrade and humiliate me, and expose my naked body in every lewd pose possible, was unspeakably shameful. If Skeeter hadn’t punctuated his command with the crack of the whip, I’m quite certain I would have simply stood there, frozen in humiliation.
I jumped at the sound of the whip crack, and instinctively reached to cup my unprotected bottom. The crowd laughed. Building on the motion, I turned around, put my hands on my hips, and began shaking my bottom.
“I refuse to be objectified!” my voice thundered. “I am not an object to be viewed, for someone else’s pleasure!”
I shook my ass for the bidders. Skeeter’s wonderfully diabolical plan was revealed to me in all its evil glory. He was going to make me auction myself. I would not be allowed the familiar comfort of the carefully choreographed block dance that had earned me my Prime Minus grade. I had practiced that. I could zombie my way through that. I was going to jump to the commands of the well-dressed woman executive on the monitor, proving myself, and her a fool, and underscoring how everything I had once presented myself as, was a preposterous lie. My job was to make a fool of myself.
“Men want to humiliate us, and strip us of our clothes, our money, and our power. And when we disobey, they want to turn us over their knee and spank us, like we’re naughty little girls.”
Looking over my shoulder, I wagged my finger at the audience in a “naughty, naughty” gesture. Grinning at them, I playfully shook my pigtails and spanked my wiggling bottom.
The audience jeered and cheered.
“Men’s confusion is understandable. There are girls, filthy, randy, Pleasure Sluts, hungry for their collars. I say, lock their collars on them forever!”
I smiled stupidly as I licked my lips, and playfully ran my fingers over my eternity collar.
It was unspeakably cruel, to make me mock myself this way, but the audience was loving it. I felt an odd surge of pride; I had told Skeeter that in business you had to be merciless, that you had no friends, and that every dollar you got was a dollar you ripped from someone else’s hands. You had no friends, no family, and there were only winners and losers.
I was so proud of him. He had learned my lessons well.
At the same time, I despised him for doing this to me. Not satisfied with merely displaying me as a Pleasure Slut, he had turned me into a pleasure clown, an object of ridicule and scorn. And the audience, who clearly hated and despised the politically correct Yankee feminist tripe bleating at them from the monitor, was loving every minute of it.
The mix of my anger, shame, pride, and admiration for Skeeter, who had become a man before my eyes, burned in me, like the ginger burning my ass.
“My sexuality is mine to use. Slave girls, like bonds, are sold as commodities, but I will not allow men to commoditize me. I am not a puppy, a pet to be played with. I will not roll in the dirt for their pleasure.”
Obeying her command, I quickly dropped to all fours and rolled in the sand, mimicking a bitch rolling in poop to scent herself. The dark brown, coarse sand clung to my sweaty body and hair, along with the stink and pee of the countless slave girls who had pranced on this sand before me.
As I rolled, the blue ear tag, clacked against my face, as my pigtails waved to-and-fro. I came up in doggie pose: on all fours, mouth hanging open, panting, with my ass wiggling and my tongue darting in and out of my mouth.
“Good girl!” a mocking voice called out.
“Do you want to suck on my bone?”
“Yeah, I’ll bury my bone all right. I’ll bury it really deep!”
I stood, sand still clinging to me, and let my hands roam over my naked body as my feminist self screeched at me. I had written this speech carefully, and knew where it was going… and exactly what I needed to do.
“Pleasure Sluts sicken and disgust me, as they should all free women. Yes, it’s fun to play slave girl. I’ve done it. Many of us have. But the Primes are farm animals, skanky hos with all their “brains” in their pussies. To so-called LADIES, who are block wet, and block ready, I say this…”
I used the dramatic pause to reach between my legs, and give myself a good finger fucking. I held my hand up, grinning broadly as I showed the laughing audience my glistening fingers, proving how block-hot I was.
“Let them be stripped, sold, and branded like the slave sluts they are!”
I formed my mouth into an “O” and let my eyes wide in mock alarm, at the threat of my impending sale. Then I licked my finger like it was a cock, wetting it.
Turning my ass to the crowd, I “branded” myself with my wet finger, wincing in pain as the “brand” burned in.
“You can wear my brand, slut!” a man called out.
“I’ll brand your mound, too!” another voice yelled. To my surprise, it was a woman.
I dropped to my side, knees up, laying on the sand, feet facing the audience, as my speech reached its crescendo.
“Do I use my sexuality to tease, and distract, and to exert power over men? Every day. But I will not allow men to objectify me, or sell my sexuality to put money in their fat, greasy, disgusting, piggy hands.”
I began to slowly open my legs, revealing myself…
“I am not a Pleasure Slut to be auctioned off. I am not a pussy to be sold.”
As the clothed, confident feminist on the monitor basked in the roaring cheers of the crowd, I lifted my foot high in the air, revealing my hot, wet, and very-much-for-sale pussy. The applause from the crowd cheering my performance continued, but the shot of me taking my bows was replaced with a live closeup taken by the camera just over me, showing my fingers teasing my glistening, gaping sex.
I gasped with pleasure as I rubbed myself, amazed at Skeeter’s unabashed brilliance. He had brought me to heel, and to the point of slave-gasm. The audience was eating out of his hand. What amazed me all the more, this mere boy had done it while hardly lifting a finger, by understanding me, and them, and how they wanted to see me, and what I feared, and longed for, the most. The applause for Anne the executive and Annie the Pleasure Slut mixed together into a single, long, thunderous ovation.
I allowed myself to look over at Skeeter. From my place in the sand, he seemed enormous and all powerful. He was smiling, obviously impressed by my performance, and clearly pleased with the audience’s reaction.
I tried to make eye contact with him, to share the moment. After all, I had executed his instructions perfectly, but it was HIS idea. They were cheering me, but Skeeter deserved some of the credit. A lot of the credit actually.
But Skeeter was not looking at me, and had no desire to share credit. His reaction surprised me, until I noticed his fingers lightly stroking the wooden hammer resting on the podium.
I swallowed hard. He was stroking the auctioneer’s gavel, the symbol of his power. When he dropped the hammer on me, I would be sold.
Skeeter was not interested in applause. A true professional, he was surveying the crowd, waiting for the right moment to begin my sale. He was not my partner, or my nephew, but my auctioneer. I was simply slave meat, no more and no less, and his reward for my sale would be entirely pecuniary in nature.
Sensing the moment was right, Skeeter wasted no time.
“Flip present!” he snapped, off microphone, but loud enough for me to hear.
I felt the air from his whip, followed by a crack of lightening that made my head ring. The whip would have hit me, If I wasn’t already doing one of my best moves – a hand stand, terminating in a flip that left me in slave present position: squatting, hands on my head. I was close enough to the edge of the block to curl my toes around it, and smell the cigar smoke of a fat, blurry man in the front row.
Feminist Anne was silenced, perhaps forever. Now it was Skeeter’s turn to describe the slave meat up for sale.
“Look at that SMILE, ladies and gents! Two fancy degrees, but no brains at all. Without her contacts, she can’t even read. Jist another illiterate Pleasure Slut, hot-for-the-cock! Show ‘em yer slave lather, Anna-Annie!”
Putting my rear hand in the sand to balance myself, I thrust my pussy up in the air. On a wire overhead, the camera zoomed down, getting a closeup of my wet snatch. I was careful to keep only one finger on my clit, so the camera could see my dripping pussy hole.
“Slave-gasm” Skeeter ordered, off microphone. I rubbed my button for all it was worth.
“Look at yer’ catalogue, folks! All those donations to lib causes, and communist candidates, and pickin’ up political correctness awards in little short dresses. Look at how smart she looked in that award speech, or standin’ in front of her fancy foreign car! Little bimbo don’t look so smart now, does she? Come on, folks! This here’s an Any Chance auction, so take a chance on turning this blue tag from a prick-teaser to a prick pleaser.”
The bids poured in, rapid fire, but with my focus on my throbbing clit, and the horrible burning in my ass, I didn’t even hear them. It was Skeeter’s voice, off microphone, that cut through my haze.
“Eyes front, and SMILE!” Skeeter ordered.
In an effort to concentrate, I had closed my eyes, and was grunting with pleasure. That would never do. No, I needed to show everyone what an idiot bimbo I was. That meant giving them my biggest, dumbest, bimbo grin, as if rubbing my hot pussy in front of a room full of horny bidders was the most fun I’d ever had. The problem was, with the heat in my pussy, and my fantasies of shame and exposure dialed up to 11, I wasn’t sure it wasn’t.
“Look at that bimbo-grin, folks!” Skeeter joked. “All her brains are in her pussy!”
I thought my shame couldn’t get any worse, but then a familiar voice cut through the bids like a knife. It was a female English accent, Royal pronunciation and old money, that positively oozed disdain. It was the voice of Lord Kensington’s daughter, my friend Elizabeth.
“I cannot BELIEVE that she is disgracing herself this way. Typical American. Got lucky in the market, and then thought she was clever. But no breeding, whatsoever.”
A female voice with a thick Chinese accent responded, “My father likey-like to use her for breeding. In zoo.”
“That WOULD be amusing,” Elizabeth chuckled. “Watching the sow chuck out her little bastard in the dirt, with all of us watching. Her hole couldn’t be much bigger than it is now!”
Perhaps hearing her, Skeeter picked up the comment. “Look at that pussy hole!” Skeeter said. “Wide open for business! You got the cash, we got the gash!”
“I met her in New York, me think,” the Chinese girl said. “At embassy dinner. She seemed nice.”
“Well, she’s not nice, obviously,” Elizabeth said dismissively. “She’s a hot pig slut, hungry for her collar.”
“So you no bid, then?” the Chinese girl said.
“No, I told father to bid on her. She’s a good runner. She ran the Chicago Marathon last year, and Boston a few years ago. Good stamina, although she might be far too stupid to make a good fox. Perhaps we will do a catch-and-release a few times, to get her heart pumping. That will make the fun last.”
“So our father both bid? Compete?”
“I don’t know. It’s really up to Hercules.”
I gasped. While I could not make out the faces, I spotted Hercules, the enormous Great Dane, in the front row of the VIP box. His ears were straight up, and his wagging tail was like a club. He had two handlers behind him, who were struggling to hold him as he strained forward. But the worst news is that Elizabeth’s father, Lord Kensington, was raising his hand to bid.
I heard another voice in the front row, talking on his phone. “Look at your catalog, Mr. Drummer. See that picture of her in her little running shorts, holding up her medal? She’s a natural runner! All she needs now is your bridle, a harness, and the snap of the whip!”
Skeeter didn’t have to tell me to rub my pussy faster… the CRACK of the whip did that.
I remembered laughing in John Drummer’s face when he confronted me at 21 in Manhattan. He was quite upset that the bonds I had sold him were now worthless, as if that were MY problem. I replied that fat, drunk, and stupid was no way to go through life. He vowed to “get me” someday. Now someday was today.
Would John Drummer race me, or just use me for “pleasure rides” through his estate? I’m sure the pleasure would be all his, and as Skeeter had promised, he’d be free with the whip.
John Drummer didn’t merely hate me, he DESPISED me. It never bothered me, as I wore his loathing as a badge of honor, proof of how badly I had bested him. My advice to Skeeter haunted my mind.
“I cheated some of them at business. Remember how I teased you, you’re your friends, and made you hard, and laughed at you? I did the same to all of them. They will remember how I scorned them, and they will be angry. No… enraged.”
As I squatted on the block I began to tremble slightly, overcome once again by my pride in Skeeter taking my advice, my admiration for Skeeter’s ruthlessness and business acumen, the terror of what was being done to me, and my uncontrollable, animalistic horniness.
“Look at that bacon sizzle, folks? I’d pork her, wouldn’t you?”
At that moment, I heard a momentous BARK, followed by laughter. My pussy began to shake like jelly, as I slave-gasmed!
“She… squirting!” the Chinese girl said.
“Disgusting!” Elizabeth said, in a voice that made me wonder if we had ever been friends. “I thought Hercules would have better taste.”
“She spraying that black man. In front row,” the Chinese woman replied.
“That’s Jamal,” Elizabeth said. “He likes to sell skanky white pussy to black plantation owners. She’d be PERFECT for that.”
I opened my eyes, and realized to my horror that I was pussy spraying a large, brawny, well dressed black man in the front row. He didn’t seem to mind. He wiped a bit of my wetness off his face with his fingers, and tasted me. Then he smiled, and placed his bid.
Skeeter used my humiliation to highlight my salability. “See how juicy that prime fillet is, ladies and gents? She don’t SAYS it, she SPRAYS it! You may gotta diaper her, so she don’t stain yer rug!”
“Dog it!” Skeeter ordered.
I was still cumming, but that didn’t matter. Releasing my pussy, I rolled in the sand, gracefully assuming the next position. On all fours, legs spread wide, with my wet snatch and asshole on full display for the bidders.
As I felt my butt cheeks part, my directions to Skeeter burned in my mind:
“It’ll be your job to make me disgrace myself, in front of men who’ve worked with me, lusted after me, despised me. Make me lather myself up in front of them, and roll in the sand like a cocker spaniel in heat, and show them all my secret little cracks and crevices.”
“What’s that sticking out of her ass?” a woman’s voice said.
“Ginger,” her partner replied. “They do it horses, to make their tails stick up, and make them prance.”
“She’s prancing, all right,” the woman said, laughing.
I gasped for air. I heard the laughter and bids of the audience, as Skeeter drove up my price. I heard the phrases through the din.
Skeeter’s voice, “Gimme Gimme More!”
“Bunghole.”
“Juicy beaver.”
“Skanky Slut.”
“Come on folks, let’s get those bids in, before this one start’s humpin’ my hammer!”
The worst part was I knew it was true. If he had dropped it in the sand in front of me, I would have humped the hammer he was going to use to sell my pussy. It wasn’t a brilliant joke, but the GUFFAW I heard from the back cut through the din, and sent another wave of horror over me.
It was Rita’s laugh. Rita was there, and she was LAUGHING! Rita, who I dearly loved, but whom I had also teased, and snubbed, and belittled. Rita was enjoying her bratty, misbehaving little sister’s comeuppance, as well she should.
“I love you, Annie, but yer the biggest smarty pants I know. Always so sure of yerself, thinkin' you know everything! It's kind of fun seein' y’all fidgety, back on your heels, as yellow as mustard. I'm gonna enjoy takin' you down a peg or two.”
The bids and chatter were coming in fast. I hadn’t even processed Rita’s presence when a Brahman accent rang over the rest. “Look at that asshole wink. That is one fine rear porthole, gentlemen, water tight and ship-shape! Anne will become Andrew, and will make a fine cabin boy.”
I didn’t want to wink my asshole at Skipper Cary, but with the ginger burning me I had no choice. The next time I was on Skipper Carey’s yacht, it wouldn’t be as a pampered guest. I’d be a “cabin boy”, hair clipped short, serving my friends, and my friend’s fathers, and their brothers, champaign and hors d'oeuvres. I knew “Andrew” would have to endure quite a few pats on “his” ass, until finally I was frog marched below decks for a good buggering.
Skeeter’s voice boomed over the PA. “Look at that asshole pucker up! Gotta feeling she don’t like the ginger!” Sketter said.
“Too fuckin’ bad!” a voice called out.
“Yeah, let it burn!” Everyone laughed.
Skeeter laughed too. “Ya’ll wanna show our little Yankee lib some down home Texas hospitality, don’t we? Plus ya’ll maya noticed that there’s a whip mark on the top of her ass, but not on the bottom,” Skeeter drawled. “Well, folks, we don’t do half-assed jobs at The Big D.”
“Imagine her in a school uniform, with her cute little pigtails, and her ass in the air, waiting for the strap, or the cane. This is an ass that was made to be whipped, folks!”
I felt the tip of a leather boot I had payed $750 for gently kick me in the ribs. “Get that ass up in the air, you lazy pig-slut! Time to show these folks a good, old-fashioned, Texas gingersnap!”
I lifted my ass HIGH. I felt my butt cheeks lift and separate widely as I lowered my nose into the sand to smell the sweat and pee and stink of the thousands of other slave girls who had pranced on the auction block before me.
“Ooh! I can see the ginger!” the Chinese girl said.
“What a trollop!” Elizabeth huffed. “Oh, does she ever have this coming!”
I didn’t know what precisely I had coming, or what a “gingersnap” was. However, the happy sound of my sister Rita’s voice, calling out over the crowd, told me it wasn’t good.
“That a boy, Sketter! Gingersnap her… GOOD!” Rita hog-hollered.
“That’s my MA,” ladies and gentlemen, Skeeter said, as the crowd laughed. “And ya always best do what mama says! Hold still now, Anna-Annie!”
I felt the pain across my ass first, before I even heard the CRACK of Skeeter’s whip. Instinctively, I clenched my butt cheeks. In what I quickly realized was the worst decision I had ever made in my life, I “grabbed” the whip with the exquisitely sensitive skin between my cheeks.
It was like clenching a flaming razor.
Stupid slave girl!
Foolish slut bimbo!
Why, oh why, hadn’t I done what my wise master, my auctioneer, had ordered me to do. No, like a foolish slave slut, I “grabbed” the leather whip “poppers” with my butt cheeks, skinning my interior butt cheeks by sending them to war against Skeeter’s merciless, unstoppable whip!
If it was a war, it was a war the whip won. My clenching bottom was, at best, a minor annoyance, as the whip dug in and Skeeter skillfully yanked the ginger finger out of my clenching asshole.
The whip cut the inside of my sensitive butt cheeks like a scalpel. I could hear my scream, and the crack of the whip, and the laughter, but it was my own instructions to Skeeter that rang in my mind:
“Spare me nothing. Crack the whip on my skanky ass, not because I was disobedient, but just to make them laugh.”
And laugh they did! The hoots, laughter, cheers, whistles, and applause were deafening.
“Bullseye!”
“She felt that one!”
“Now that’s a gingersnap!”
“Enjoy your award, Anne?”
“Damn, that boy’s good!”
“Do it again!”
“Nice shot, Skeeter”.
The last singsong voice, cutting over the crowd was Rita’s. There was no hint of sympathy in her voice for the disobedient little slave slut who had defied her son, just a delighted display of motherly pride.
Soon the crowd began to chant:
GINGER-SNAP!
GINGER-SNAP!
GINGER-SNAP!
I lay in the sand, sobbing, a pile of tears, pain, and degradation, as the blood thirsty crowd called for my ass.
If I thought my pathos would invoke sympathy from my auctioneer, I was mistaken. “Slave fours!” he snapped.
My asshole was screaming in pain. I couldn’t believe it. He was ordering me back into position for a second go!
Had I misheard? Perhaps. With my head lying in the sand, and my eyes filled with tears, the clearest view I had of him was his power totem, the childish bug doodle he had drawn in first-grade, and was now hanging on the wall of my mansion in Chicago.
“Wow, Anna-Annie!” he said, as I held him up to look at it. “So you took it! Mom was wondering where it went.”
“I…borrowed it. I asked your mom for it, and she said no, so I just sort of… took it.”
“You STOLE it?”
“No, silly!”, I said, tweaking his adorable little nose. “Poor people steal things. Rich people appropriate them, so they can be enjoyed by the right sort of people, who can properly appreciate them. Right now, I’m working on a project that’s going to tear down a bunch of dirty, old poor people slums to put in a beautiful, gorgeous new golf course. That’s not stealing, not when my lawyers do it. It’s appropriation.”
“So what’s the difference between stealing and apopo- appro-poto…”
“Appropriation,” I said, laughing. “The difference is money, and power.”
“Fear is for girls who don’t have platinum cards.” I had no platinum card, or money, or power. I was a naked slave slut, covered in sand, shame, and my own slave grease, staring at the boots of my auctioneer.