Any Chance Auction, Chapter 15 by Joe Doe

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I awoke to the startling sensation of my cage being moved. I had been dreaming that I was showing off to the other girls who had been sold that night: Calico, and the redhead, and the blonde, bragging about how I had set a record price at The Big D. They were green with envy!

When I first awoke, I thought for a moment I was back in my enormous king-sized four-poster antique bed in Chicago. It wasn’t until I realized I could see nothing, hear nothing, and had my head bubble wrapped, that I remembered the events of the night before.

How long had I been asleep? I did not know. I wondered if I was being moved by a person or a computer. It didn’t matter. I was simply “pussy on the shelf”, as Rita had so delicately put it. I felt the sensation of my cage moving through space as the forklift slowly lowered me to the floor. Again, my cage tilted sideways, and I was soon lying against the bars as I was pushed in a handcart to my next destination.

My cage was relatively spacious – I was grateful to Skeeter and Rita for that - but it still felt wonderful when at last the cage door was opened and I was ushered out. I still had the “dummy” hood on. I knew it made me look ridiculous. I could only imagine who was watching me, with my enormous purple smiley faced cartoon head on, stretching my limbs. But stretching felt too good not to avail myself of the opportunity.

Two unseen hands removed my dummy hood. I was glad that my hands were free, for it gave me a chance to cover my eyes, and gradually readjust to the light, as the other girls were unpacked from their kennels. I was shocked to see how high the cages were stacked, and felt glad that Skeeter had given me the humiliating dummy hood. It had prevented me from being utterly terrified when my cage was raised into position on its palette, and the lack of sound and sight had allowed me a rich, blissful, Pleasure Slut sleep.

What a wise, kind master Skeeter was.

One of the slave girls complimented me on my sperm mustache, noting that I must have pleased my master very much to get such a beautiful load on my lips and under my nose. I beamed with pride, proud of my slave girl beauty mark.

A slave monger slapped her across the bottom, warning her to “keep her sucker hole shut.” Nonetheless, I smiled at her, thanking her for the compliment. I still had Skeeter’s deliciousness in my mouth, and I thought I was lucky to have such a wise master, who had let my sperm dry so thoroughly before kenneling me.

It was a peculiar thought, since I was not a slave girl, and Skeeter was certainly not MY master! Yes, Skeeter had said that my auction was complete, and I was, in fact legally a slave girl. However, that was yesterday, and now it was morning, and I felt certain that by now Rita had freed me. She was probably in the front waiting area, with my clothes, and all would be well in a few minutes.

Yes, she had teased me, but I knew Rita wouldn’t make me endure a full day in The Big D, and make me live the life of a collared Pleasure Slut, simply to take Skeeter to a fucking amusement park! After all, I had learned my lesson last night, hadn’t I? I had a chance to sleep on it. Nonetheless, I was slave naked and collared, and indistinguishable from the real slave girls, so I allowed myself the small slave girl fantasy of thinking I had a wise and caring master who loved me.

I watched them unpack the redhead, and Miss Calico, who rather irately protested that this was all a mistake. One of the handlers quickly bent her over and gave her three strokes of the slave whip, harder than necessary, in my opinion, while the other slave mongers laughed.

“You’re not in charge anymore, hot stuff,” one of the other slave mongers laughed.

“Yeah, your just tits and ass now, so no talking!” another said, piling on. Calico was soon on her knees, blowing one of the handlers she had once lorded it over. I had the sense that this was a bit unusual at The Big D, which ran like a well oiled machine, but that Calico’s special status, and her foolishness, warranted extra degradation.

“You wanted to use your mouth, slave girl?” the slave wrangler taunted. “Use it on my dick.”

There were no clocks on the wall, but I sensed it was morning, for about 25 of us were being unpacked. One of the slave mongers quickly chained my purple collar to the collars of the girls in front of me and behind me. The mongers shouting at us to MOVE IT, and my coffle was quickly jogging to our next destination.

We were taken outside into the chilly December air. The compound was surrounded with an electric fence, complete with warning signs, topped with razor wire. Beyond the terrifying fence, vicious dogs patrolled a “no girls” land between the electric fence and a huge concrete wall about 30 feet high.

The enormous guard dogs started growling and barking viciously at us as soon as the first naked girls come through the door, but when they saw we were chained together, and the slave mongers were tapping our bottoms with riding crops, they relented, apparently satisfied that we were sufficiently under control. However, they stood at the ready, eager to devour us in the unlikely event that 30 naked slave girls, chained together, climbed a barb wired electric fence, cut ourselves to shreds on the razor wire, in the hopes of feeding our bloody bodies to the hungry dogs, before somehow scaling a 50-foot cliff face wall.

The security was comical, given our level of helplessness, and I wondered if the outside visit wasn’t as much to intimidate as us, and enforce the absurdity of escape, as it was to freeze us to death.

We were led to a feeding trough, filled with slave kibble and orange slime. It appeared that we were not the first at the trough that morning, but fortunately the section I knelt in front of had lots of delicious orange slime, so I put my hands behind my back, stuck my face in, and lapped it up greedily.

I think this orange slime must have been different than the orange slime that I had eaten before. I had always regarded the slop scraps as disgusting, but now it was DELICIOUS, and I found it the perfect compliment to the crunchy slave kibble.

It was a truly scrumptious breakfast. Famished, I gobbled it down quickly, unlike the stupid slave slut next to me, who needed several cracks of the whip across her stupid, fat bottom before she finally joined me in savoring the orange and brown yumminess.

The next outdoor activity was strangely welcome, given the frostiness of the morning. We were lined up in front of a teenage girl, who, despite the cold, was wearing Daisy Duke shorts and a halter top. She was not collared, which meant she was not a slave, and I found myself wondering about her status as she stepped up onto a wooden platform and took a fiddle out of a case.

She tapped her foot on the wooden platform 3 times, and began to play the fiddle, quite rapidly. The girls around me started to dance.

It is no mean trick to dance naked on freezing cold grass while your collar is chained to a girl on either side of you. The task was not made easier by the slave mongers, who screamed at us to got “faster” and cracked the whip whenever they thought our knees weren’t going high enough. But the coffle soon got into a rhythm, and while it wasn’t a line dance, we all raised our knees to the beat of the music as the cackling fiddle girl relentlessly drove us on.

There was an older man there, well dressed in a white suit, wearing a visitor tag. He had a white goatee, and seemed delighted by our performance.

“This is how ya’ do it!” he cackled. “Fiddle ‘em, and make ‘em dance, just like they did on the decks of the old slave ships. White meat or dark meat, make them butts and boobies bounce, to the rhythm of the fiddle, and the crack of the whip.”

The old geezer’s eyes gleamed with malicious glee as he watched us “dance”. I did not feel the whip, but I felt the wind from it, and the memory of how the whip felt on the block meant that every whip CRACK filled me with uncontrollable terror!

I danced, danced, DANCED!

The scene was beyond bizarre. The chains, the cracking whip, the smiling teenager tap dancing on the wooden board as she “fiddled” us, and the old man, clapping his hands as he sang along.

If it hadn't been for Cotton-Eye Joe,

I'd been married long time ago.

Where did you come from,
where did you go?

Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?

I was soon gasping for air, but afraid to slow my pace lest my bottom be whipped. My frantic eyes caught the twinkling eyes of the fiddler girl, who seemed most amused by my distress. I wordlessly pleaded with her for mercy, but her face showed only delight. It was the same delight my friends and I felt whenever we laughed about some disgusting Pleasure Slut being put firmly into her place.

The malicious gleam in the teenager’s eyes as she fiddled me transported me back in time. For a moment I was back on the deck of a wooden schooner, dancing to the laughter of the crew. I was on a Louisiana slave plantation, being danced before being sent out into the cotton fields. I was at the slave market in New Orleans, being fiddled for the men in the white linen suits before being paraded on the block.

When I had told Skeeter that his decision to study slavery was disgusting, and that it was dirty, perverted, and degrading, he had vehemently disagreed. Skeeter had pointed out that slaving was one of mankind’s oldest and most distinguished professions, steeped in centuries old traditions and honors.

The grand old “fiddling” tradition I was engaged in now let me gasping for air, but I didn’t dare slow, lest the tradition of whipping lazy slave girls find my sore bottom. I was pleased when I heard the whip crack against Miss Calico’s bottom, although I wasn’t sure if her performance lagged, or whipping her was simply too much fun not to.

The fiddling would have ended sooner, but the old man insisted on another tune, Slave Girl’s Reel. The slave monger’s wanted to get on with it, but the fiddler girl, hearing the request, laughed merrily, and started up the tune. Soon we were dancing again, the fiddle girl grinning at us, as the old man laughed and clapped as he sang along to our humiliation:

Slave girl, slave girl, collared, branded, stripped!
Slave girl, slave girl, dancing for the whip!
Slave girl, slave girl, lying on my bed,
Slave girl, slave girl, always wet and spread!

I would have surely collapsed from the frantic nature of the dance, but several close whip cracks kept my knees in the air, and my hands waving, and my “boobies bouncing” as the old man put it. My humiliation was intense, and was made worse by my audience: the grinning slave mongers, the security cameras, which had swivel into place to zoom in on us, and the dogs, who seemed to be laughing and jumping along with the music, as if a laughing dog was possible. Everyone, it seemed, was enjoying seeing us being fiddled.

Slave girl, slave girl, eyes are filled with fear!
Slave girl, slave girl, sees the auctioneer!
Slave girl, slave girl, let the bidders feel,
Slave girl, slave girl, if your tits are real!

By the time the devilish fiddler girl and the leering old man finished fiddling us, I was exhausted, and my lungs were burning.

The old man tipped the girl $50. “Thank you, kind Sir,” she said with a bow and a curtsey and a honey-suckle accent. “You are truly a Southern gentlemen.” Holding up the $50, she turned and winked at me, and laughed. Oh, how I despised her.

I, in contrast, was rewarded with the chance to squat over a steel trough and relieve myself. “Take a good dump, ‘ladies’, and a pee, too. Nothing to be ashamed of, and this might be your last chance for a while.”

I needed no urging. My “dance” had gotten my system moving, and releasing myself in front of a group of laughing men and inquisitive security cameras, as the fiddling had moved me to a place beyond shame.

I was numb when they took us inside to the showers, numb to my unchaining, numb to the laughing teenage boys scrubbing my body and drying me, numb to the leering customers watching my humiliation from the gallery above.

I had cum when one of the laughing teenagers had given me a good scrub between my legs, causing one of the men in the gallery to point out the “toilet brush slut” to his sons, who laughed along with him.

I missed the taste of Skeeter scum, and the orange slime in my mouth, but it felt good to be clean, and dry. I was loaded onto a caged golf cart with three other girls. I didn’t know where we were going, but panicked when I realized we were back in veterinary.

Fortunately, I was the first, which meant I didn’t have to wait.

“Does she get anesthesia?” one of the vets asked.

“No. It was included in the price, but her sister wanted her to get the full experience.”

“Okey-dokey!” the vet replied, putting a wooden stick into my mouth, and lacing it behind my head.

I stupidly resisted when they tried to pull me to the examination table, pulling back like a scared puppy. A jolt to my shock collar quickly put that foolish rebellion to the end. With little fuss, I was strapped to the table, with my legs spread wide. They used a very small needle to insert the nano-bot beneath my clit, and the pain was unbelievably intense, but brief, and replaced by ecstasy as they turned it on and test it.

“Oh, master! Oh, MASTER!” I cried.

“It’s working all right!” the vet said, laughing. “Let’s leave it on while we do the next bits.”

I think it hurt when they stuck the needle into my ear, and into my gums, but my pussy was buzzing so nicely I didn’t really care.

A voice in my head said, “This is a test of the Nano-Slave Broadcast System XPS-11. Speak if you can hear.”

“I can hear you clearly, Master,” I replied.

“Good. The vet said. Let’s test remote.”

I heard Rita’s unmistakable drawl in my ear, as clear as if she were standing in front of me. “How’s it goin’, city girl? Did you enjoy yer’ fiddlin’?”

“Did you see that?” I said, trying to get used to the sensation of talking to empty air.

“Yeah, Skeeter’s got a hookup to the close circuit feed on his phone. Damn, I nearly peed myself laughing. You always telling me how I’m a couch potato, and bragging about your marathon medals. I loved watching y’all gasping for air while they fiddled you, and cracked the whip to keep you jumpin’. Damn, girl! When they cracked that whip near your ass, the look on your face, and the way you got those knees up to your chest! Ha-ha-ha!”

I ground my teeth as Rita, unable to contain herself, dissolved into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

“That little blonde hair honey with the fiddle was somethin’, wasn’t she? What a cutie she is! Skeeter says they sell her music in the slave mall, so we can fiddle you at home, ha-ha! Of course, I got a video of it too, and i watched it again, and it was just as funny the second time, ha-ha-ha!”

Rita’s uncontrollable laughter enraged me. “Fuck you! Where are you? You got to get me the fuck out of here!”

The vet, displeased with my tone, held up the shock collar remote. I quickly rephrased. “Mistress? Where are you? Would it be possible for you to pick me up soon?”

“‘Fraid not, little sis. That pass you bought Skeeter gets him to the front of all the lines, and he is just going bananas with all these rides. What a great Christmas present! Thanks again!”

“I’m glad he’s enjoying it, Mistress,” I lied, eyeing the remote in the vet’s hand. “But you really need to…”

“Slave girls don’t give orders. Ayn’t you learned nothin’? Hang on, Skeeter wants the phone.”

“No, don’t give him the phone. I don’t want to talk to him. Rita? Rita?”

“Hey, Anna Annie. Wow, you sure are spread out wide on the exam table. Your pussy looks really hot this morning.”

I instinctively tried to close my legs, to no avail.

“Skeeter, turn off the video feed, and give the phone back to your mamma.”

“Gosh, you sure sound bossy for a slave girl! Hang on, let me turn up the juice for you,” he replied mischievously.

My pussy started to spasm and quiver like jello. It was like a vibrator, only it was INSIDE of me, driven me into a crazy ecstasy. I knew the camera was right between my legs, and he was watching, controlling my pussy with the slider bar on Rita’s fucking phone!

“No…No…NO! Stop it Skeeter! I’m going to come! Stop it, right now! Listen to me, young man! I’m not kidding. I don’t want you to see me this way.”

“Well, I’m seeing you all right. I’m seeing EVERYTHING! Wow, look at you, Anna Annie. Juicing up, and twitching like jello!”

My slave-gasm was shattering. When my senses returned, I heard Rita’s voice in my head. “Well, look at you. Ayn’t you the wettest otters pocket in the slave girl aquarium!”

“Rita!” I gasped. “You’ve gotta get me out of here. You’ve got to get…”

“Sorry, little Sis, gotta go. Skeeter wants to go on the Batman ride. Catch ya’ later. Y’all be a good little slave girl now!”

The buzzing in my pussy stopped as Rita turned off my pleasuring. I was half carried back to the transport cart, left wondering what my life would be like, with my pussy on a phone app, literally under Skeeter’s thumb.

The slave monger who helped me off the table was about 20, I’d guess, fat and nerdy. “Am I going to need the cuffs for you?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I replied. “I’m Prime Minus,” I added.

“You think I don’t know that, Slut? You spent all day at lunch bragging about it. Don’t you remember me?”

I stared at him blankly. His name tag read “Arthur” but I couldn’t place the face. “No, Master. I am sorry for being slave stupid, Master.”

Arthur smiled, pleased at my humility. “I’m one of Skeeter’s friends. You bought me lunch and a ticket to Wonder Woman. When I told you I worked at The Big D, you laughed, and slipped off your sandal, and rubbed my crotch with your foot under the table. You asked if i was going to enslave you, and collar you, and make you suck my cock. I actually blew a load in my pants, and when I stood up, everyone saw the stain, and laughed at me.”

“Pugsley?” I said, remembering the cruel nickname I had given him. “I remember now! It looked like you wet your pants. I laughed so hard!”

I gasped as he reached between my legs and fingered my pussy. “Who’s wet now, Pleasure Slut?” he asked, taunting me. Spinning me around, he fondled my ass. “Nice whip marks, slut. Were you a naughty girl? Let’s go. Time to harvest that slave honey of yours.”

I walked naked through The Big D, Pugsley’s fat fingers fondling my ass. “Does Master know who bought me?”

“Curiosity is unbecoming in a Pleasure Slut. A Prime Minus should know that.”

I did, of course, but was desperate to know my fate. “Oh, Master is so smart! Does Master know what time the contingency clause expires on an Any Chance auction?”

Pugsley slapped me hard on the ass. “Nice, try, Slut, but that still sounds like a question. Say something slave girl, or I’l spank your little buns.”

“May I suck Master’s cock?” I pleaded.

“That’s more like it. I’d love to, but I’m working, and it’s almost time for lunch.”

“I am not hungry, Master,” I said. “I had a delicious breakfast.”

“You’re lunch,” he said, laughing. My blood ran cold.

***

The Bee & Brand was an open kitchen restaurant located in the mall section of The Big D. It served vegan options, burgers, and steaks, and, of course, Texas BBQ. It had about 40 wooden tables, and was casual upscale. Being illiterate, I couldn’t read the overhead, electronic signboard menus, but I had seen the menu online.

I had even toyed with suggesting to Rita that we eat there rather than Pig Face BBQ, although in truth I was too nervous to strut into The B&B room wearing short shorts, a belly-shirt, and my Gucci sandals, knowing that a few hours later the same staff that might be serving me dinner might well be kenneling me.

Had it really been less than 24 hours ago? I hadn’t been wearing much then, but oh, what I wouldn’t give to have those clothes back now!

The décor was a peculiar mixture of cutesy bee theming and ranch style. The tables and chairs could have been out of an old Western, but they had the restaurant’s honey bee and a B&B symbol branded on the back of each chair. There were large monitors mounted into the wooden tables, a curious mix of high tech and chuck wagon.

The open kitchen, which features an enormous wood fired grill, was covered with black and gold tiles arranged in a honeycomb pattern.

Pugsley led me to the front center of the restaurant, which featured a tiny wooden stage, elevated about 2 feet off the ground. It was large enough for an auction, or a honky-tonk band but right now the stage had an enormous silver stainless steel table on it.

Pugsley led up on the stage, and handed me two long, thigh high stockings, which were striped like a bee.

“Put it on,” he said.

I awkwardly donned the hose, not liking the smile on Pugsley’s fat face.

Next was a sort of T-shirt, which had an opening to leave my breasts bare, and was also covered in black and gold stripes.

Pugsly patted the enormous silver serving table with hand. “Lay on the serving tray. On your belly.”

The silver slab looked cold, and WAS cold, but I knew better than to complain. It was also much too short for me, and my head and feet hung off the ends. However, that problem was quickly solved as Pugsly threw a long length of rope around my neck, wrists, and ankles.

“This will take a couple of minutes,” he explained. “Although it’s more Japanese than Texan, we use Shibari ties for the open kitchen.”

I didn’t know what Shibari was, and I couldn’t see what he was doing. I felt a lot of knotting as he looped an elaborate hangman’s knot around my neck, and tied my hands behind my back, and my feet. The metal tray had two little pegs in it, which kept my legs splayed open, and brought me knees to the very edge of the platform.

“Wanna make sure everyone gets a good view of that sweet little honey pot of yours,” he said. I gasped and pushed back against his hand as he gave my pussy a little rub.

Oh, it felt so good!

But too soon the playful rubbing stopped and my situation worsened as Skeeter pulled out the slack in the rope, yanking my head back in my noose, and tying my hands to my feet.

“Now that’s a good old fashioned Texas hog-tie!” he said. “Buzz for me, my little honey bee!”

I didn’t want to buzz, but I did, when he stroked my exposed pussy.

“Bzzzz! Bzzzzzzz!” I said, hoping he would continue.

“Now your Miss Sandy Foot, so you get the gold!” he said, holding up a large golden earring. It wasn’t until I saw him take the punch gun off his belt that I panicked.

“No, please, don’t!” I said, as he stuck the punch in my nose. I screamed as he drove the punch through my septum, and it didn’t feel much better when he used the hole to “ring” my nose.

“Ha, ha!” he said, jingling the ring in my nose. “You got the gold ring!”

He placed a velcro black and gold striped cover over my eternity collar, and finished off my bee costume by butting a black rubber nose over my own, and fixing a pair of bobbling antenna to my head.

My nose throbbing, I lay hogtied on the table, dressed like a honeybee, but with my breasts, ass and vagina totally bare.

“The rope around my neck is choking me,” I said.

“Good. We want to keep you wiggling back and forth. The diners like to see the bees BUZZ. We’ll sell more bread that way.”

“Bread?” I said, struggling to get into a position to take the strain off my ankles and throat.

“Slave Honey Bread, silly. Skeeter didn’t tell you? We normally don’t serve it at lunch, because it’s our specialty here at The Big D. But Skeeter asked Jake last night if we could set you up at lunch, and since he’s hot shit now, on account of the big sale, Jake said sure. Let me show you.”

Pugsly fixed a camera so that it showed my face, and another so it showed my hot, open pussy.

Pugsly used the remote to turn on the vibrator in my pussy, causing me to pant with pleasure as my clit buzzed with joy! As I rocked back and forth on my silver tray, jerking my neck and feet in a see-saw motion.

Pugsly fetched a breadbasket. Then he used his remote to turn on my vibrator.

The basket was filled with cut, porous, white bread, cut into little “fingers” about two inches long. I gasped as Pugsly rubbed my wet pussy with the porous bread, soaking it well. As a final touch, he used his fat little fingers to stick the bread up inside of me. He rubbed it around well. I gasped from his touch. That damn vibrator!

Pugsly stood in front of me as he sampled the treat. “Wow! That is Prime Texas honey bread!” I blushed as the smiling boy enjoyed my “slave honey.”

He pointed at the overhead monitor. To my horror, I saw my face, with my ridiculous black nose, tagged ear, ringed nose, and bobbling antenna, lost in the throws of pleasure. Below me was the text, advertising the chance to buy a piece of my humiliation.

Slave Honey Bread, $1.99!

The picture flipped to show my buzzing pussy, with Pugsley dipping the bread inside of me, and taking it out.

Juicy, & Hot Out Of The Warming Oven!

I couldn’t believe it. They were selling my “slave honey”, at $1.99 a throw, with my hot, wet pussy as the fondu pot / warming oven.

“Please, Pugsley,” I pleaded. “Don’t humiliate me this way. Don’t sell my slave honey!”

Pugsley adopted a coochie-coo tone as he tweaked my nose. “Oh, Skeeter’s poor little Anna Annie HUMILIATED? Like when you made me blow a load in my pants?”

“Please! You can’t do this to me! I can pay you! I can pay you a lot of money! I’m stinking rich! I’m a powerful, and important woman.”

“You’re a stinking ho,” he said, rubbing my pussy. “And how much are going to pay me? Show me the money, bitch.”

“I don’t have it. It’s… in my purse. In Rita’s car. I think. Unless she put it somewhere else.”

“Uh-huh. You don’t got money, but you got honey!”

He laughed as he rubbed another piece of bread against my buzzing pussy. “Those pictures of our special bread service are going on sign boards all over The Big D. And whenever someone “warms” some bread…”

Pugsley inserted the bread into me, rubbing it around to sop up the juice, “the monitors will show a live picture of your little oven, and the blush on your pretty little face while you warm everyone’s appetizer, and grunt like a whore.”

“You can’t do this to me!” I gasped. “I’m a powerful person!”

“I can,” Pugsley said, chomping on the freshly warmed bread, “and you any’t nothing no more, slave girl.” “The best part is, the bread service isn’t even your biggest worry. It’s almost 11AM. At 12:30 PM, the diners are going to get a special treat. Do you remember this?”

Pugsley reached into his pocket and extracted a brass sculpture. It was a bug, with six legs, a head, two part body, and two antenna. “Recognize this?”

I gasped as I realized I was looking at Skeeter’s doodle, in branding head form.

“It’s too big! It’s too big!”

Pugsley laughed, and reaching around pressed it against my ass. “Naw, we’ll put it in dead center, and press down hard. It will cover most of your ass cheek. It’s not supposed to be permanent, but it’s worth the risk, for a brand as cute as this one!” he said, holding it up in front of my horrified face.

“Now the legs and antenna are too slim to burn on with this branding head, so the blacksmith is going to have to use a branding gun to burn those on. Let’s see…six legs, and two antenna, and he’s going to burn them in nice and slow. OUCH!” he said, laughing.

“This is the cream that will keep the brand from being permanent,” he said, putting on a glove before rubbing it into my butt cheek. “It will make the branding hurt way worse, but the buzzing in your pussy will keep you distracted. Maybe.”

“One thing is for sure. This skeeter is gonna BITE,” he said, wiggling the branding iron head in front of my terrified face. “Of course, they say slave girls don’t feel pain, not like humans do. I guess you’ll find out soon enough, huh?”

“Please. I can pay you. Really, I can.”

“Pleasure Sluts don’t have money, bimbo. This is the only purse you have,” he said, reaching between my legs with his bared hand to give my pussy a squeeze. You can pay men with this hot, wet purse between your legs.”

“I can blow you,” I offered. “I can blow you if you let me come!”

“Naw, we’re gonna keep you edged all afternoon, to keep your pussy wet, and your little oven nice and toasty. It’s gonna be shit for you, but delicious for the guests. You can blow the blacksmith after he brands your fat ass, to thank him for the good job he’s going to do, marking you as Skeeter’s Pleasure Slut.”

My eyes bulging, I watched as the smiling Pugsley attached the brass branding head to an iron branding stick, and walked to the open kitchen. He thrust the branding head under the burning wood, and I could feel the heat waft over as the wood surrounded and heated the iron.

As the dinners watched the chef’s cook their steaks and burgers, I would watch the branding iron being heated to burn my ass.

The next 90 minutes were a fresh hell of humiliation. It pays to advertise, and soon the restaurant was crowded with patrons with a line waiting outside to sample my honey. The slave honey bread was de rigueur, of course, and everyone, it seemed, placed at least one order.

I had a good view of the restaurant, and the diners had a wonderful view of my face and pussy, as they were both splashed on the monitors whenever the bread was warmed in my “oven”, which was almost constantly. The bread was always brought fresh to the table, and sometimes the diners would laugh and toast me as they ate it.

I was actually close enough to some of the diners to squirm through their comments.

“She is a tasty one.”

“A little salty.”

“Blue tagged, Yankee bitch. Don’t look so uppity now.”

“Look at her juice!”

“More like look at her sluice.”

“Oh, Daddy, this is good. Can we have some to go?”

“Tastes a bit fishy to me.”

“What do you expect. Last night she masturbated herself to slave-gasm about 20 times on the auction block, with the whole world watching.”

“This bread is SOAKED! I think they overdid it with this one”

“She’s the one who’s overdoing it. Nice and toasty, though.”

“Yup. Best warming oven in town. You should buy her and put her in the kitchen, for sandwiches and such.”

“See the brass ring in her nose? She’s out of my price range, my friend.”

“This is good bread. Sort of sweet.”

"Is that the girl or the bread?”

“Maybe both. Actually, I’d describe her as a little tart, ha-ha-ha!”

There was an old man, who came in on his electric scooter, by himself, first thing. He ate nothing but my slave bread, and the bald little gnome looked right at me, smacking his lips and smiling at me in the most obscene way as he made it very clear how much he was enjoying my slave honey, and my humiliation. He also kept “adjusting” the napkin on his lap, in a way that was quite obscene, but no one seemed to mind.

Several other older people soon filled the restaurant, and I realized to my disgust that I was now the centerpiece of a retirement home field trip.

The older women were the worst.

“This bread is disgusting. I can’t believe men eat this.”

“She looks a bit like my granddaughter. She’s a slut, too. Hungry for the collar.”

“Girl’s today!”

“The lot of them are Pleasure Sluts if you ask me. The way they dress. Really!”

“In my day we’d have spanked their bare bottoms.”

“They’re going to brand hers, instead.”

“Good, it will last longer.”

“Disgusting little piggy. I can hardly wait to see her branded.”

“I hope they press down hard.”

“Yes. I hope she bites her tongue off, ha-ha.”

A cute waitress with a name tag that read VERONICA came up with a basket of bread, and an evil grin on her face “Thanks for inspiring me, bimbo,” she said. “I’m leaving for MIT tomorrow, and I’m gong to study hard, so I don’t become a Pleasure Slut like you.”

“I have a Master’s Degree from the University of Chicago,” I protested, before the rope choked me quiet.

“Bullshit. You’re a Pleasure Slut, with a hot dripping honey but. Don’t insult free women by pretending you have a brain. Open wide. Here it comes.”

Veronica was not gentle as she juiced her bread. “Aw, poor honey bee doesn't want to give up her honey? Too bad, slut. Slave honey is all you’re good for. I’m going to enjoy watching them brand your skanky ass.”

Veronica tweaked my little bee nose and ring, then pretended to sniff my delicious slave honey bread, before cheerfully prancing off to deliver it to the college boys at her table. I watched her flirt, using my slave honey to increase her tip.

To my horror I discovered that, presumably for an extra fee, patrons could “hand dip” their bread. My first two “customers” were two twin boys, and I’ll call them boys, even though they were there with their father celebrating their 18th birthday, with my helplessly exposed, buzzing pussy being part of their “present”.

The two were short and scrawny, with thick glasses and braces, including the headgear strap that went on around their head. One was wearing a “Math-lete” T-shirt and the other was wearing a T-shirt with a picture of Issac Newton. Their father was an older version of themselves, equally nerdy, although he was wearing a Texas Instruments polo shirt. I think I weighed more than the three of them put together.

“Well, you’re both 18 today, and that means it’s time for you to cop your first feel. The nice thing about a Pleasure Slut is you don’t have to buy them dinner, or tell them that they are beautiful, or worry about whether they’re ready for you to touch them, because a greasy sow like this one is always ready, and always wants you to touch her. Now watch closely, because you get one dip each.”

I groaned as he wiped the bread around the outside of my pussy, soaking in the juices. “Now cup the bread in the top of your hand, with your fingers. If she was tight, you’d have to use two, but since she’s such a sloppy Suzie, you can use three, easy. Bend your fingers like this, so you got a good grip on the top of the bread, then ease it into that buzzing little beehive of hers just like this.”

I gasped as I felt the bread slide inside me, the noose around my neck jerking me backwards as I rocked helplessly to the rhythm of his obscene violation. “Give her button a little rub, right HERE”, he said, showing his twin nerd-ettes my clit, “to keep her humming, and soak up some extra juice!”

At the feeling of his thumb on my clit the buzzing vibrator stopped, as the implant in my ear detected that I was close to slave-gasm. Frustrated as I was that the vibrating had stopped, I pressed against his hand, even as the rocking motion caused the rope to tighten around my throat.

“Now cup your fingers, and run the bread around the sides of her snatch, to make sure you soak up all the juices,” nerd-dad said, using his best know-it-all, Mike Brady voice. “Pleasure Sluts are like oranges. It isn’t until you give them a squeeze, and taste their juice, that you can really tell what’s inside.”

“She looks pretty wet,” one of the boys observed. “Can you get the bread TOO wet?”

“Good question, Skippy,” Dad replied. “You can, which is why I’m keeping it cupped in my fingers. This bread is pretty stiff, but it’s porous, and with the amount of juice-in-her-sluice, it’ll break up for sure if you don’t hold it right.”

After a nice, leisurely feel, he withdrew the bread from my tingling pussy.

I cried out and jerked against my ropes as Dad gave me a hard slap on my bare ass.

“Don’t forget to give her a good hard spank,” Dad said. “It’s part of the tradition.” The boys and Dad laughed.

“Wow, look at her face!” Skippy said.

“Yeah, I think she was about to come!” his brother replied.

“Girls like her are always about to come,” Dad said. I blushed beet red, because he was right.

They were both standing behind me, and I realized to my horror that they could see my expression because the monitors overhead and at each table were showing closeup views of my face, and gushy, hot “honey pot”.

About ten feet away from me, three teenaged mean girls turned the monitor toward me, and used the touch screen to expand the image of my face. They laughed as they made mocking impressions of me panting in agony, and jiggled their earrings like they were the shameful blue tag clipped to my ear.

“Nice nose ring, moo-moo,” one of them said, making sure it was loud enough for me to hear.

“What a cow! They should give her some hormones, or knock her up, and hook her up to a milking machine.”

“They sell slave milk?” the other girl said, clearly new to all of this.

“Yes, dummy. We can order you some for lunch, if you like.”

“Freshly squeezed, ha-ha.”

My attention returned to the voices behind me. “Look, Dad, her pussy hole is puckering up, like she wants more bread.”

“She does, Allistair,” Dad explained knowingly. “She’s not like the girls at school, who laugh at you when you ask them out. Pleasure Sluts long for their master’s touch. They WANT you to put your fingers in their pussies, and give them a little rub. It makes them feel loved.”

I groaned as he gave my pussy a little rub. “See? Now you first, Skippy. Grab some bread and slide your hand right in. I’d used at least 3 fingers, to make sure you get a good grip on the bread.”

I groaned with shame and pleasure as Skippy, tentatively at first, pushed his fingers and the bread inside me. Skippy gave me a leisurely rub.

“Don’t forget to rub her button!” Dad directed, laughing. “Row, row, row, the boat. A day without slave juice, is like a day without sunshine.”

The girls at the table began laughing as I began rocking back and forth. I was choking myself, humping his hand. The girls at the table were mock strangling themselves as they laughed at me, but I didn’t care. It felt so good.

“Wow!” Skippy said. “My hand is getting soaked. Look, her slave grease is running onto my wrist.”

“Yeah, talk about the squeeze of the day!” Allistair said, laughing.

My desperately desired slave-gasm was close, and since the sensor wasn’t controlling them, and their bored waiter didn’t seem to give a shit how long they took, I might actually come. I kept pushing back as his thumb tweaked my clit, excited, but humiliated and enraged at the same time. I would have punched all three of them out, if I hadn’t been hogtied.

Did they understand how much they were shaming me? Didn’t they know how degrading it was, to be turned into the first feel and personal juicer for two metal mouths who had never been NEAR a girl?

Oh, how I DESPISED the three little geeks. I would have beaten them to a pulp if my hands hadn’t been tied behind my back, which, of course, they were.

Although I usually traveled around in my limo, when traffic was bad and I was shopping, I sometimes used the El to buzz back and forth between La Salle Street and Water Tower Place. Once a man had actually tried to grab my butt, and I had rather deftly broken his arm on the subway pole. I remember it made the most delicious SNAP, and when he fell to the ground I began stomping his face with my boot. Several bystanders pulled me off, but it was fun while it lasted.

I wasn’t some Pleasure Slut you could cop a quick feel from! I was nobody’s toy, nobody’s victim. I was a kickass, superheroine, Wonder Woman in a business suit.

Alas, “was” was the operative verb. Now I rocked back and forth, the nose around my neck choking me as little Skippy felt me up like my pussy was a new mitten he was trying out for Christmas.

“Take your hand out, Skippy,” Dad directed. “I think she’s about to come.”

“Yeah, save some for me,” Allistair agreed.

The festivities were interrupted when the music suddenly cranked up, and the waitstaff met up front for enthusiastic line dance version of that Big D favorite, Sandy Foot Girl!

My sweetie wanted a wedding,
as the price of her bedding,
but her daddy wanted cash
for her sweet Texas ass.
So I gotta big shock,
seeing ‘er on the block
buffin’ her pearl
She’s my Sandy Foot Girl!

The manager, a guy about Rosco’s age, stepped in front, and interrupted the dance. The music stopped.

“Our little girl Veronica here is a management trainee, but she’s going to be leaving us tomorrow for her Christmas break, and then to be an engineer at MIT,” the manager explained.

The audience applauded politely.

“Now Veronica, we have a little tradition at the Branded Bee, that a girl’s last line dance is always done slave naked. Let’s see what you got, Veronica!”

Veronica looked like a deer trapped in the headlights. She turned to her other servers, looking for a confirmation that this was just a joke, but they were laughing and clapping.

“Take it off, fancy pants,” one of the girls laughed.

“Yeah, let’s see what the nerds at MIT are going to be getting.”

One of her female coworkers shook out a slave prod, making it clear to the horrified Veronica that her cooperation was NOT negotiable.

The restaurant crowd, ever helpful, began chanting and clapping.

TAKE IF OFF!
TAKE IT OFF!
TAKE IT OFF!

“We’ll do it fer ya if we got to, girl!” one of the older waitresses said, as they moved in.

I was pleased that the monitor no longer showed my pussy, but Veronica’s panicked, worried expression, as she pulled her T-shirt over her head. The audience hooted as her lacy pink bra came into view.

Soon she was stripping to the beat of the music, as her fellow waitresses clapped along.

I felt myself go weak,
as my girl spread her cheeks.
The hottest pussy in the land,
rolling in the sand.

Veronica, down to her bra and panties, frowned as her smiling manager motioned for her to take off her bra.

JUGS!
JUGS!
JUGS!

I smiled. Like many a girl who had gone before her, Veronica had realized too late how quickly power can shift at The Big D.

[urlhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3lNkCt1CDc0[/url]

[Citizen1069]

They keep getting better and better, Keep up the great writing!

What other traditions will Veronica find out about?
If she gets slave wet during her dance, she will spend the rest of her shift in just a collar.
If she has a slave-gasm during her dance, she will spend the rest of her shift in just a collar before she is shipped off to slave processing.
If she makes an error on a food order she gets a spanking instead of a tip.
If she drops a plate of food the cook gets to paddle her.
If she drops a cup the bartender gets to strap her.

[orflash64]

Joe, are you sure you want that bread thing in the story? I almost stopped reading the story, bit grossed out.

[Mr. Smith]

orflash64 wrote:
Joe, are you sure you want that bread thing in the story? I almost stopped reading the story, bit grossed out.

Joe is just going with the Texan version of Nyotaimori which is a respected culinary tradition of eating sushi off the naked female body in Japan dating back to the 1600's and was especially popular during the Edo Period (1603-1867). Recently it has become a more popular bachelor party trend.

For some reason the wasabi tray is kept away from the body. I'm thinking that if the wasabi got in the wrong place it would make a gingersnap feel mild in comparison.

For the record real men do not use chopsticks, instead the lick the pieces up with their mouths which depending on the placement of the sushi allows for some additional flavors, seasoning or special sauce depending on what you call it.

[orflash64]

What does that have to do with sticking bread up her pussy and eating it. I have seen the Japanese dinning thing, this isn't it.
They eat food around her, on her and even have a replica of her filled with the cuisine and eat it, but pussy isn't a dipping sauce.

[jeepster]

I kinda like the chapter! Driving her humiliation further down!

[Carl Bradford]

I agree, it was very humiliating and embarrassing for her and for the most part a good chapter, but the bread thing just seems a little gross.
A little sampling is one thing but over doing it can be dangerous. Just ask Michael Douglas, who got throat cancer because he couldn't stop eating his wife's (Catherine Zita-Jones) pussy.

[Mr. Smith]

I'd risk it eating Catherine Zeta-Jones's pussy! After all eating pussy leads to f----ng pussy and possibly other things. I wonder if he ever added honey, chocolate syrup, or whipped cream with a cherry on top?

[imreadonly2]

From Joe:

The scene with the slave bread was inspired by a scene in a very old French porn film, The Education of the Baroness.

[url]https://xhamster.com/videos/education-o ... 371652/url]

The dinner starts about 46 minutes in. Two criminals break into the house and make the maid and mistress trade places. At 53 minutes in they "warm" the kidneys in her pussy as she is serving dinner. Sorry if it grossed anyone out, but I thought this was a hot scene, and it inspired me, and I thought having her excitement put up for sale would be an extra humiliation for Anne.

The idea of the dummy hood was sort of a sensory depravation device, which could be useful if you didn't want a slave to see where they were being transported, or you wanted to allow her to sleep in a noisy place, like the slave kennel, or you simply wanted to give her time to think. With Annie, I think all 3 apply. I hadn't really thought of subliminal messaging, although you could do that with the speaker in her ear as she sleeps, and that would be a good idea. "I love to suck master's cock" as she's falling asleep, very softly, so that's her last thoughts as she's nodding off.

After the branding, I'm not sure I have much more for her to do at The Big D. I was thinking of skipping ahead to the conclusion, as I would really like to get there in my lifetime!

[Hooked6]

From Joe:

The scene with the slave bread was inspired by a scene in a very old French porn film, The Education of the Baroness.

[url]https://xhamster.com/videos/education-o ... 371652/url]

To Joe: I LOVED the bread scene in your story and I also like the movie link. Thank you!

I was thinking of skipping ahead to the conclusion, as I would really like to get there in my lifetime!

I have THREE things to say about that. First, this is the most marvelous slave story I have ever read so don't feel the need to rush to a conclusion on our accounts. Second, If you are worried about the length of your lifespan I have it on good authority that if good wishes were fact, YOU, sir, are going to live a very long life so again, no need to rush the conclusion! Best wishes from your fans!! Third, I can see a life in multiple stories outside of The Bid D for Anna-Annie. Sequel possibilities abound!

Hooked6

[Carl Bradford]

Let me add my applause to those of your other eager fans. Personally, I would really like to see a conclusion to this story, but primarily because I'm curious as to whether Annie gets branded, who her owner is, whether anyone else gets to use her (please, please), and what her final disposition (slave, free, or whatever) is. Like the famous Professor Sarah, Annie would be a perfect opportunity for "parole", allowing her to resume her life as nominally free while actually being on-call to periodically suffer new new humiliations, on penalty of being unmasked (with slave catchers) if she/they fail to cooperate. I've always imagined Professor Sarah taking "research sabbaticals" to work as a slave hooker, brothel girl, glory hole attendant, etc.; something similar (the fox hunt scenario?) might be a fitting solution for Annie. But, that's just me--I like happy endings that give the protagonist both freedom and a sexual high. (If I had to vote, I would suggest that Ms. Callico is a much more appropriate candidate for long-term slavery, since she persuaded Annie's "sister" to put our girl up for sale and install those implants. Maybe the Big D keeps her around as a demonstrator for new slaves?)

As for your lifespan, I hope that you "live long and prosper," preferably putting other fictional women into humiliating slavery.

[Carl Bradford]

Joe, you will no doubt finish this story and many more. When you start on a new one I hope you give some thought to making a continuation of "Victoria the war whore", I know you said there was not much interest in the story. That might be because not alot of people read it. Of all your change in status stories this one seems the most plausible.
A British girl captured during WW 2 and made to be a "Comfort Woman" to the occupying soldiers and natives did happen. It would definitely change a proper girl's outlook on life and what she would do to survive. Once treated as a cheap whore for years, can she ever really move past it.

[lovethissite]

Joe: I loved this chapter. Rita is really not the stupid meek "sister" Anne assumed she was. I can't wait to see if Anne services Rita, since she needs experience servicing Mistresses, and what better Mistress to serve than Rita, her first owner. More please Joe.