Any Chance Auction - PostScript Part A, by Joe Doe
Posted: Sun Jan 31, 2021 11:41 pm
From Joe: I had gotten tired writing about The Big D, so I decided to skip ahead a bit in the narrative, towards the end of the story. So this is the postscript, which reveals some, but not all, of Annie’s fate.
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My $1500 Prada high heel clicked loudly up the pink granite steps of the Tarrant County Courthouse. The courthouse, which had been rededicated as a slaving court, was a massive pink granite monstrosity built in the 1890s in an overly elaborate Italian Renaissance style. With it’ intricate scrollwork, pediment, and clock tower, the building was truly imposing.
There were deceptively large number of steps. It was a perplexing. I had made a game of running up dozens of flights to the top of my Penthouse in Chicago. Why then, was I slowing, and feeling totally winded climbing up the steps of the old courthouse?
Feeling dizzy and disoriented, I stopped right before the final three stairs. Looking back, I expected to see thousands of steps below me, but there were, maybe, 20. I gripped the curved brass railing of the old courthouse steps, struggling to breathe.
I looked in front of me. The stone building towered over me, surrounding me. It felt like it was going to swallow me. In front of me were just a few more steps, then another landing, and the 12-foot-tall wooden doors of the majestic old courthouse.
In the glass of the door was etched a naked woman in chains, standing on an auction block, and a gavel, the emblem of the Texas Slave Court.
My throat tightened, as if the hangman’s rope was closing around my windpipe. I was struck by the image of the condemned climbing the steps to the gallows. The stone columns on either side of me might as well have marked the entrance to the gates of hell. I leaned on the handrail for support. Through my $1,500 Cartier glasses I looked up at the stone pediment over the door, and read the phrase:
Servitus Inducta Libertas
“Slavery Is freedom”. Why did the mocking words chill me to the bone?
More importantly, despite my terror, why was I slave wet? I squeezed my thighs together, relishing the sensation.
I felt like I was on the verge of a walking orgasm, and a walking heart attack.
Could I be having a panic attack? No, that was silly. What on earth could I be afraid of? Fear was for girls without Platinum cards. I rubbed my thighs together, trying to turn my fear into pleasure. Slowly the joy between my legs grew.
My lawyer in Chicago had assured me that the lawsuit filed against The Big D was entirely frivolous. The contract had been cancelled by Rita, and my so-called ‘auction’ was null-and-void. My Dallas lawyer had agreed, although he added that it was “fucking nuts” for a pretty girl to stroll into slaving court, even as a spectator, regardless of the merits of the case. But I wasn’t going to let a mere lawyer spoil my fun.
I was free. Absolutely, 100% free. Elizabeth’s father, Lord Kensington, who had placed the winning bid, was disappointed that I wouldn’t be the fox in his perverted slave hunt. Well, he could hunt Elizabeth’s skanky ass, because I had beaten them. I had beaten all of them, all of the bastards who had bid on me, and slobbered over me, and were left with blue balls as I pulled the rug out from under them.
They didn’t die easy. Immediately after my sale, Lord Kensington had filed a Habeas Servus action, arguing that the cancellation had been illegal, and I was still a slave. However, the Chicago court had thrown it out, which reduced him to suing The Big D for monetary damages for the so-called fraud, which was totally ridiculous as the terms of the auction were made clear to all.
So he was reduced to a monetary lawsuit against The Big D, not me, although as an owner I obviously had an interest in the proceedings.
Over a dozen wealthy bidders had joined in Lord Dogshit’s ridiculous “slave claim” lawsuit. My revenge had been swift, and each of them had quickly found their crappy businesses hamstrung by permits I had pulled, investigations I had triggered, or financing that had mysteriously vanished when I called in a few choice favors.
Skipper Carrey had been boarded by the Coast Guard, and his yacht and slave girl “crew” seized when a close inspection of the ship’s logs revealed that he had been freely bringing his girls back and forth to the Caribbean without filing the necessary import/export paperwork. It was a simple formality, but it would cost him dearly. I made sure of that.
Mr. Choo’s China doll daughter, who had watched my auction with such breathless curiosity, had been kidnapped by slavers on a trip to Morocco. She had been sold as a yellow in the UAE, and even now Mr. Choo was trying desperately to get his little Princess back. Good luck, for I arranged her sale with my typical thoroughness and care. If he ever saw her again, it would be when they were good-and-done with her.
Poor Mr. Choo! I did send him a videotape of his little Princesses auction, and a few of the blushing beauties first pornos. Boo-hoo, Mr. Choo!
My vengeance was just beginning. As soon as this embarrassing lawsuit was tossed out of court, I was going to sue each one of the horny bastards for false enslavement, for signing onto Kensington’s ridiculous Habeas Servus petition. Bring the slave before the court, indeed! The horny bastards would get brought into court. They’d get all the sex they wanted in jail, only now it would be them sucking cock and bending over to take it up the ass.
With any luck, I might be able to enslave them myself, and “fix” them, like I had fixed my boyfriend’s dog Buster, so long ago. The bastards had whistled at me, and leered at me, as Skeeter had put me through my paces, and sold me off the block, treating me like mere pussy-for-sale.
I never lose, ever, and I play for keeps. I wouldn’t stop until I had my pound of flesh, and each and every one of them PAID for the way they humiliated me on the block.
The Big D itself had been another story. Rosco and Skeeter still worked there, and as a loving Aunt I didn’t want to do anything to diminish Skeeter’s hero status. After my sale was cancelled, I gave Jake, The Big D’s Owner, all of the cash he would have gotten from selling me. Skeeter got his enormous commission, leaving him debt free and with enough money to buy a house, when he was so inclined.
Rosco didn’t like me “giving” Skeeter the money, but I pointed out that he had, in fact, earned it, Jake was paying him, and it wasn’t his fault that Rita had cancelled my sale. Skeeter had made quite a bit of money selling the other girls, of course, although I, naturally, was the biggest prize.
I had sweetened the deal further by vastly overpaying for a 40% interest in The Big D, making me a silent partner. Jake was delighted at the sudden influx of free cash, and expanded his operations. It excited me to think of all those poor, stupid little Texas cowgirls getting run through a slave market I owned. More than that, it restored the sense of power and control that had been so ignominiously stripped from me.
The slave pole where I had disgraced myself was no longer the place of my humiliation. The slave pole was MINE.
Gaspard, the sommelier who managed my private wine cellar, didn’t understand why I had a old, large, yellow cement safety bollard installed in the corner of my elegant wine tasting room. I smiled. He didn’t need to understand.
My handyman was horrified that the base of the bollard had gotten worn out so quickly, as he had repainted it immediately after it had been installed. He had used acrylic, outdoor, high gloss “super” paint, in a bright safety yellow. What on earth could have sanded it off the two coats so quickly?
The big dufus apologized profusely, and promised to paint it again. I ordered him not to, explaining that it was “more comfortable for me, in its raw and natural state.” He looked baffled, but it didn’t matter. He was a moron, and my servants don’t need to understand anything I don’t tell them.
It had become something of a game for me, and I always sat where I could have a clear view of the yellow monster during my wine tastings. I told Kayne and Kim that it was a souvenir from the old Comiskey Park. I told Harry and Meghan I had placed it there as a constant reminder that wine selections required the utmost care. I told George and Amal that the space had once been underground parking, but I liked the bollard so much I had ordered the architect to build the room around my colorful yellow friend.
Whatever lie I told, I would laugh, and sip my wine, and enjoy the patina on the yellow monster’s well-worn base, as my guests enjoyed my overpriced wine.
The yellow bastard was mine. It was for MY pleasure, and I was in control. The Big D was no longer the slave market I had been auctioned from, it was the slave market I OWNED.
There were other advantages, as well. My ownership interest allowed me to get the tapes of my processing and auction. I had also gotten all of the copies of THE SANDY FOOT GIRL “magazine” that had featured me on the cover, splayed open on the auction block.
I had bragged to my girlfriends about how I had “owned” my auction, but the pictures of the frightened slave girl, covered in sand, with her pussy up for sale told a different story. I kept a box of the cheap sales throwaway coupon magazines locked up securely in Chicago, next to my vibrator, I used if frequently during my nightly amusements. Occasionally I would take a copy of the disgusting rag magazine down to my wine cellar, when I felt the urge to buff-the-bollard, as they said at The Big D.
“Are you all right, Miss?”
I turned, and saw a well-dressed lawyer type, in a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase, standing next to me.
Startled, I took a moment to recover before responding. “I’m fine. Really. Just admiring the view. Thank you.”
He looked at the street, a bit baffled. It was nondescript, a long street that ended in the Convention Center. But my suite at the Omni, with the wrap around balcony that towered over this chickenshit courthouse, was very much the view I wanted.
He nodded, giving me the once over, letting his eyes run slowly over my bare skin. I smiled, relishing his attention. It was a hot, Texas day, so I had dispensed with wearing a blouse, bra, or a skirt. Why wear clothes I didn’t need? My long, double breasted Prada jacket went half way down my thighs, forming a perfectly acceptable skirt.
After careful consideration, I told myself that my look was entirely appropriate for court. True, I wasn’t wearing a shirt, but my breasts were fully covered by my jacket. My skirt covered my nicely rounded bottom, with 2-3 inches to spare, and my $1500 Prada high heel shoes were elegant and understated. I was showing a lot of skin, but this was slave court, and I didn’t want the slave bitches parading themselves naked before the judge to hog ALL the attention.
Disgusting pig sluts! They enjoyed having men gawk at their naked bodies. I knew their psychology well, for I played the part, for a while. Now I wanted the men to look at me, and see something they could never offer: quality. My makeup was subdued and natural.
I had learned at The Big D that sometimes less was more, and I knew it was better to let my natural beauty shine through. My expensive designer glasses were the finishing touch. I was beautiful, yes, but also brainy and elegant. I was smarter than all of them.
Doubtless some of the guards and wranglers might have their way with the shameless Pleasure Sluts introduced to their collars today. But I would be the one they couldn’t have, the one they fantasized about as they stroked their pathetic little willies in their shitty little apartments. I would be the girl in the penthouse suite, the untouchable goddess of their dreams!
Basking in my rescuer’s attention, and utilizing his desire to help a damsel in distress, my confidence quickly returned. I was in charge. I had nothing to fear.
“You can leave now,” I said dismissively. Turning away from my admirer, I took a deep breath, and trotted briskly up the remining steps, and, with some effort, pulled back the heavier-than-it-should-have-been old door leading into the antique courthouse.
It was lunchtime on a Tuesday, but the courthouse lobby did not seem particularly busy, as most people had found their way to where they wanted to be. I paused, and looked around. The lobby was exactly what you’d expect from the outside, an exercise in Texas-grubby classical. There was a speckled marble floor and stone columns along the walls, leading to a circular marble rotunda.
“Are you here for an enslavement?”
I turned to discover a tall, brawny police officer looking down at me. He was young, about 30, I’d guess, with a blonde mustache and sandy hair. His badge read SLAVE POLICE.
“Excuse me?” I said, not quite processing the question.
“Are you here for an enslavement? Are you going to be enslaved?”
“No!” I protested.
“Then what are you here for?” he asked.
What should I say? I didn’t really want to explain my civil court case to some meat head cop who would never understand the complexities. “I just came to… I don’t know… just look around.”
He regarded me skeptically. “Slave tourism, huh? We don’t get many girls lookin’ as hot as you, hanging around this place. Least none that don’t end up with a collar on ‘em. Where are you from, sweetie?”
“Chicago, SWEETIE” I explained, returning his sexism. “I’m a very successful bond trader.”
“Is that so?” he said skeptically. May I see your little purse? I need to check it. For security.”
I handed him my Valentino clutch purse. “Be careful,” I said, as he undid the clasp. “That bag cost me $1,750.”
“Well, la-dee-dah,” he mumbled. Rifling through my tiny purse, he pulled out my gold diamond crusted money clip. He let out a long, slow whistle.
“Why you got more money than I take home in my paycheck, honey? Rob a bank?”
“Incidentals. I never leave the house without $3,000,” I explained. “Can I go now, Officer?”
He took out my JP Morgan Reserve Card. “Wow, this is heavy!”
“It’s VERY heavy,” I said sarcastically. “It’s one of the most exclusive credit cards in the world. It’s issued by invitation only, and to get one, you need to have at least ten million-dollars of liquid assets in your JP Morgan account. I’m not the droid you’re looking for.”
He walked around me, and looked me up-and-down, letting his eyes travel slowly up my long legs, over my curvy bottom and the tapered waist of my jacket, and stopping on the bare skin exposed by the cut in the top of my jacket.
Looking across the rotunda, my Slave Cop let out a loud whistle.
From the other side of the courthouse, another officer came, leading an enormous German Shepard on a leash. The dog got about 20 yards from me, and then went berserk, barking, and snapping and growling.
“What’s wrong with him?” I said, retreating behind the officer. “Keep that thing away from me!”
“He’s a slave hound. His name is Brutus. He can smell slave pussy. Picks up the scent. You wet, girl? Can’t tell with all that fancy perfume.”
I blushed. I was, indeed, soaking wet. “It’s a scent, not a perfume,” I said, correcting him even as I cowered behind him to protect myself from the snarling dog. “I bought it on the Champs-Élysées in Paris, and it cost me 400 euros.”
“Found one,” the slave cop said. “Give Brutus a treat, and take him back with you.”
I frowned as the other officer patted Brutus on the head, and gave him a doggie treat for identifying me. Brutus wagged his tail happily. Brutus was a good name for him, I thought. He was, indeed, a brute, and he had betrayed me.
The other officer led Brutus back to his post.
“Show me the inside of your lip,” the officer in front of me said.
“Why?” I asked stupidly.
The frowning officer did not respond. He took the slave goad off his belt, and shook it out to full length.
Knowing the meaning of the gesture, I reluctantly used both hands to peel back my upper lip.
“Well, well, well,” he said, smiling sarcastically. “Miss Chicago bond trader got herself a SIN number. Take off your jacket.”
“I’m not wearing a bra.”
“Good. Take off your jacket.”
“I’m not a slave girl. You can check my SIN.”
“We’re past that. I’m going to check your pussy, and see how wet it is.”
I squeezed my thighs together. I was soaked! He smiled as I blushed.
“I’m not a slave girl. I’m a nice girl.”
“Well, Miss Money-Clip from Chicago, you’re in luck. You strutted into the courthouse where slave cops turn nice girls into slave pussy.”
“The money clip,” I said, pointing at my purse, which he was now holding at his side. “How about I give you half, and walk out of here?”
“How about you strip down to your birthday suit, and I march your naked ass into that-there courtroom upstairs, and let the Judge declare you a slave. Then I’ll keep your money, and get a commission on selling your stuck-up little snatch, too.”
I stared at him. I looked longingly at the courthouse door. I’d never make it.
I was wearing very expensive panties, but they were white, thin, and lacy, and I doubt they’d hide my wetness. Particularly if me made me take them off and place them in his beefy hand.
The officer held up the slave goad and pressed the button. I shuddered as the electricity arced between the two prongs.
“Take off the jacket, slave girl,” he said, with the voice of a man who held all the cards. “Show me your nice, firm, titties.”
“That won’t be necessary, Officer. This young lady is with me.”
I turned, to see an utterly ridiculous looking figure waddle up. He was short, and very fat, and dressed in a white linen suit with a string tie. He had a white goatee, and white sideburns, and an enormous cowboy hat that was failing to cover up the saddest attempt at a comb-over I had ever seen.
“She’s with you?” the officer asked, amazed.
“Yes. She’s my niece. You can go now.”
“I’ll need to keep her purse,” he said, not even bothering to address me. “Females aren’t allowed to carry bags or purses into the courthouse.”
“I have a lot of money in there,” I said.
“It will be safe,” the fat man in the goatee said. “I personally guarantee it. You can go now, officer. Thank you for your assistance.”
The officer, clearly disappointed, walked away, and returned with a claim check, which he handed to me. He placed my purse in a clear plastic bag, then stalked away, with my purse in hand.
I waited until he was out of earshot. “Thanks, Uncle,” I said sarcastically. “My name is Anne. I’m from Chicago.”
“Ah, the windy city! My name is Rufus,” the fat old man said, bowing majestically as he took off his hat. “Welcome to Texas Slave Court, Anne. May I show you around?”
“I’m good,” I said, glancing nervously over at the officer. “I might go grab some lunch, and head back to the hotel.”
The fat old man stepped in my way, blocking my exit. I tried to step around him, but he fastened his fat little fist on my arm.
“Don’t be foolish, child. I want to show you something.”
I glanced over at the frowning officer, who was watching from a distance. He took his slave goad off his belt again, preparing to end any altercation between myself and the fat little troll holding my arm.
I glanced over my shoulder. Behind me, the slave hound was standing guard at the door on the opposite end of the courthouse.
“Please let go of my arm,” I said. “You’re hurting me.”
The man looked amused, but dutifully released my arm. He gestured with his hand grandly in the direction of my tour.
I looked at the front door I had strutted through so confidently a few minutes before. It was only a few feet away, but it might as well have been on the other side of the world.
I looked down at the fat man smiling up at me. Smiling, but very much in control, he used his finger to point towards the direction he wanted me to go.
I chewed my lip nervously, unsure of what to do.
I was trembling, but the ridiculous little man in the white suit didn’t seem nervous at all. Smiling, he snapped his fingers twice, indicating that it was time for me to get going!
Deciding to play along, I followed him into the Rotunda. In the center was a life-sized, white marble statue of a naked woman, her wrists chained together, leaning against a post.
Beaming, my host began my tour. “This is the original statue of The Greek Slave, by the American sculpture, Harry Powers. He carved it to show the link between American slavery and classical antiquity. It was put on tour before The War of Northern Aggression, in an attempt to make our Yankee brethren understand the error of their ways. Impressive, ayn’t it?”
I smiled as I looked down at him over my glasses. “The sculpture’s name was Hiram, not Harry, and while he was American he was in Europe when he sculpted this. The original, or at least one of the originals, for he made several copies, is in The National Gallery, and is in Seravezza marble, which those most definitely is not. And the subject was the Greek War of Independence in the 1820’s, where the Ottoman’s sold Greek women into slavery. It’s an anti-slavery piece, not pro.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” he retorted, clearly ruffled by my refutation of his bullshit. “And what, may I ask, brings an art expert to a slaving court?”
“My private jet,” I replied, looking down on the absurd little man over my glasses.
“Do you know what brings me here?” he said proudly.
“The bus?” I replied with a smirk. He frowned. Clearly the little fat man didn’t like being the butt of my joke, and me being a beautiful young woman made it sting all the more. Good.
“How do you know so much about this piece?”
“I have a copy in my garden in Chicago. It’s nicer, although I realized it wasn’t an original, so I didn’t get skunked, like the idiot who bought this probably did.”
He frowned. “An interesting piece of sculpture for a young woman to pick for her garden. Do you identify with her, perhaps?”
Now it was my turn to be flustered. I turned away so he wouldn’t see me blush. “Not at all. Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because I think you’d make a good Pleasure Slut.”
My flush deepened as I felt the disgusting little cretin evaluate me. “And I think you’d make a good Colonel Sanders, if you’d stop devouring the chicken two buckets at a time.”
I walked away, giving my ass a little extra sexy swing as I crossed the rotunda, leaving my “admirer” in my rear-view mirror.
I crossed the rotunda and pretended to look at a large oil painting. It took a while for the ridiculous fat man to waddle over, and I used the time to recover my composure.
“It’s a magnificent painting, isn’t it?” he said. His voice was behind me, and I could feel his eyes staring at my butt.
“It’s okay, for a knock-off.” I said dismissively. The painting, set in ancient Rome, depicted a woman being sold off the auction block to a group of mostly older male bidders. She was naked, with her back to the audience, her hand covering her face, and her robe in a sad little puddle next to her. The auctioneer, his hand resting on the podium, was responding to the bidders, four of whom were holding up their hands.
“It’s an original,” he said defensively.
“Sorry, but it’s as phony as your comb-over. The original is in the Walters Art Museum, in Boston, and was painted by Jean Leon Gerome in the 1860s. It’s an excellent example of Orientalism, a fetish style that allowed the artist to depict beautiful naked white women in bondage, while denouncing the immorality of slavery. It allowed his male audience to have their cake, and beat it, too.”
He let out a disgusting, dirty laugh. “Too bad you can’t see her front. Nice ass, though.”
“The focus of the painting is the men’s lust, and the male gaze,” I explained pedantically. “The poor girl is covering her face in shame, but it is the men who should be ashamed. By hiding the girl’s face, the viewer is allowed to envision any girl they know for sale. Indeed, I could envision myself, naked and exposed.”
I micked the pose of the girl on the block as my fat littler admirer literally wiped the drool off his lips. “I’d love to see you naked, on the block,” he said.
“Oh, you naughty boy!” I said, feigning shock. “Would you really do that to me? Strip me buck naked, and parade me around, and make me pose, under the crack of the whip. Would you watch as they humiliated me, and exposed me in every way, and made me bend and spread?”
I wagged my finger in his face. “You naughty, naughty boy. Keep your mind on Gerome’s art work, Sir, for I am a lady.”
“You sure is smart. You gotta copy of this painting, too?” he asked.
“Not exactly. But my girlfriends and I did pose for an oil painting in this style, several years ago, as a prank. Five of us being sold off the auction block in New Orleans. It was painted by Jamal. Jamal is world famous, but I’m sure you haven’t heard of him.”
His interest brightened immediately. “I see! Slave girls on the auction block, you say? Were the five of you… dressed appropriately for the occasion?” he said with a leer.
“I’m always dressed appropriately,” I replied, looking over my glasses.
“So you posed for the artist… au natural?” he said, trying but failing to sound sophisticated.
“But of course,” I said, returning his smile. “100%, birthday bare, stark naked. Slave naked, in fact, which is much worse, and on the auction block, no less. I think the artist quite enjoyed it, given the number of poses he put us in.”
“I’d very much like to see that painting,” he said.
“I bet you would. There were several paintings, actually. One for each of my girlfriends, featuring each of us as the centerpiece of the bidding. Mine was the best, of course, and the artist said so, numerous times. My girlfriends were SO jealous,” I said, laughing.
“Do you have a picture of it, on your phone?” he said.
“Yes, but you took my purse away!” I said pouting. “Too bad, or I could show it to you.”
He frowned. I laughed.
“There were quite a few drawings, too, as luck would have it. It was after a session, and my other girlfriends had gotten dressed and gone home. My friend Liu was waiting for me, since we were going to lunch at my private club afterwards. She had gotten dressed, but I was still naked, and collared, walking around, admiring Jamal’s art work.”
“Do you enjoy walking around naked?” the gross little fat man asked.
“There is a certain freedom to it,” I admitted. “Slave girls don’t have to worry about fashion or finance or their social standing. They can simply be petted and admired. Anyway, Jamal’s phone rang, and suddenly he was in a panic. He was supposed to have a slave girl show up to model for his class, but there was some sort of mix up, so he was in a panic. Then my friend Liu said, ‘Anne is slave naked. Why don’t you bring her over to pose?’”
“Needless to say, I blushed 12 shades of red. “Pose naked?’, I gasped. ‘Like I’m a SLAVE girl?’”
“That’s what you were doing now, silly. Nobody will know the difference. Unless you think you’re not pretty enough to pass as a real slave girl.”
“Liu was teasing, but I was annoyed. ‘Maybe I’m too beautiful to be a slave girl.’”
“’Let’s find out,’ Liu said, smiling. ‘If you do it, I’ll give you that Rembrandt at Steve’s place you were drooling over at Christmas time.’”
“I thought you and Steve broke up.”
“Yeah, I dumped him for Trevor. But I’ll tell him I’m interested again, and get the little daring to hand over the painting. Then I’ll dump him again.”
“’You are such a bitch!’ I said laughing.”
“’And you are such a slave girl’,” she said, joining in my laughter. ‘Deal?’”
“She extended her hand, and we shook, sealing the deal. But as soon as I released it, Jamal cinched my hands behind my back. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.”
“The class is at The School of The Art Institute, at Wabash and Monroe,” Jamal said casually. “It’s only a few blocks from here, so we’ll just cut up State Street.”
“I was stunned. ‘You want me to walk through the fucking Loop, stark naked, at 2PM? Are you cra—'
“My protests came too late! The slave bit was in my mouth, and my objections turned into an unintelligible garble.
“Oh, my! I can’t believe you agreed to walk naked down State Street,” the little fat man said.
“I didn’t. But Lucy had her slave crop in her bag, and three hard strokes on my backside turned me into a very penitent slave girl.”
“Anyway, soon a very tearful and obedient slave girl was walking naked down State Street, past the Chicago Theater, under the clock of Marshall Fields, and into the Blick Art Materials store on State Street, for a quick supply run prior to Jamal’s class.
“You must have gotten a lot of stares,” the judge said.
“I did, and suddenly I seemed to know everyone. Normally when I walk through the Loop, I scarcely notice anyone. Now, with everyone staring at me, and my hands cinched, and drool coming down my chin, I seemed to know EVERYONE. The waiter from Next. The concierge at my private club. The butch dyke who delivers my packages. Even my chauffer, and the Mexican that cleans my pool.”
“Did they recognize you?”
“No. I was sweating bullets, but Liu whispered in my ear. ‘Don’t worry, sweetie. They aren’t looking at your face. She was right. Bastards.”
“Liu even ran into her father, and they talked briefly on the corner, with him looking me up and down as they waited for the stoplight to change. I’ve met the man maybe 30 times, been to parties at his house, and invited him to my wine tastings. But he didn’t recognize me. He just chatted with Liu about having brunch with her and her mother on Sunday, all the while letting his eyes run slowly up-and-down my bottom.”
I smiled as the fat little man’s eyes ran slowly up-and-down my body. Judging by the bulge in my white pants, my story was really getting to him.
“Anyway, after a 5 block walk that seemed to take 20 years, I found out too late that it was for a one hour, art appreciation class on the female form, for wealthy donors to The Chicago Art Institute. You can imagine the sorts who signed up for THAT class,” I said laughing. “Rich old fuckers, who wanted an excuse to ogle a naked slave girl for an hour, in the name of art. I actually recognized a few of them, from the various social galas I sometimes go to. But again, they thought I was just a slave girl. It was quite exciting, actually. And the things they made me do! Peverts.”
“What sort of things?” the fat man said, leaning forward.
“Well, for starters they…”
My story was interrupted as the enormous clock tower in the roof of the building GONGED one PM. “Oh, sorry, time to go!” I said, feigning sadness as his jaw literally dropped with disappointment.
“No!” he said. “You have to tell me what happened!” he said, desperate for release, in every sense of that word. He glanced at his watch. “We still have time.”
I smiled down at him. “See my Apple watch? It’s custom, solid gold, with diamonds. It’s telling me it’s time to go, and your watch looks like it came from the Toys R-Us. You can finish squeezing your other bald head in the restroom,” I added, pinching his cheek like a toddler.
His face was the very picture of sexual frustration as I clicked across the marble floor of the rotunda to the stairs. He maneuvered to get a better view of my legs – and maybe up my dress, as I jogged up the antique courthouse’s old wooden steps to the courtrooms on the second floor.
My lawyers were already sitting at the defense table, as I was the first case on afternoon docket. I was glad to see them, as proper legal representation meant I wouldn’t have to put up with any bullshit from the guards and I’d get my purse and all my money back, or have the Slave Police thrown in jail and the nasty little slave hound neutered. Maybe I’d do it anyway.
For fun, I sat down with the girls who were waiting their turn in court. They were an unhappy lot, as slave court was NOT the place a pretty young girl wanted to be. As we waited for the Judge, I chatted up the cute little blonde with shoulder length hair sitting next to me. Her name was Margot, and she squirmed like she was sitting on hot bricks as she told me her tale of woe. Her boyfriend had run out on her without paying the rent, and her creepy, handsy, landlord, who had been hitting on her months, had taken her to slave court for the back rent.
“I paid off the back rent, and threw in a $200 late fee, and moved. The landlord still kept my security deposit, and he refused to drop the petition to have me enslaved, “since it wasn’t his problem.” Fuck-head! I don’t even understand why I’m here. It will be okay, don’t you think?”
“Sure sweetie,” I lied. “And if it’s not, branding doesn’t hurt for that long. Sevitus Inducta Libertas!” I added brightly.
She looked stricken. I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
“What’s your major, sweetie?” I asked.
“I’m in medical school. I’m going to be a doctor.”
“You’re going to be a Pleasure Slut,” I thought. I smiled indulgently, and feigning concern, ran my fingers through her blonde hair. No doubt about it; she’d bring an excellent price! As The Big D had a processing deal with this court, her name was probably already on the “contingent inventory” list, which really wasn’t all that contingent at all. I’d play the big sister, of course, comforting her every step of the way, promising that I’d help her. Then I’d watch from the front row as Skeeter sold her sweet little pussy, with the money from her sale going to my outstretched palm. Delicious!
The Bailiff waked to the front of the courtroom. “All rise! All rise! The 23rd District of the Slave Court of Texas is now in session, with the Honorable Judge Rufus T. Parker presiding. All persons and slaves having business before this court draw near and you will be heard. God Bless the United States of America, and this court, and don’t mess with Texas.”
The door to the Judge’s chamber’s opened, and little bald head with a terrible combover, his enormous bulk covered by a black robe, waddled up the steps of the massive wooden bench at the front of the court. It took me several seconds for my brain to register that ridiculous little fat man I had twisted around my finger in the rotunda a few minutes before would now be the Judge in my trial.
My case was announced at the lawyers introduced. Judge Parker cut right to the chase. “Is the slave girl in question present in the courthouse today.”
My Chicago lawyer rose to speak. “We didn’t think that was necessary, your honor, as this is a suit for civil damages. And she is not a slave girl, but a very successful bond trader from Chicago.”
“I see, and judging from your accent, are you from Chicago, too?”
“Yes, your honor, but I am duly licensed to—”
“Sit down, Counselor. Does the slave girl have local representation?”
“She does,” my other lawyer said, rising and bowing respectfully. “And as my colleague said, this is a suit for civil damages, with the plaintiff alleging…”
“I didn’t ask what the plaintiff was alleging, I asked why the girl wasn’t here in court today.”
“She is, your honor, but begging the court’s indulgence...”
“You have tired me out already, Counselor. I want this girl in front of my bench, now!”
Both of my lawyers glanced back at me. I had to press past Margo to get to the aisle, and make the 20 foot, million-mile march to the front of the courtroom.
The plaintiff’s lawyer rose. “Your honor, if it please the court, this is a civil suit, for damages. We are alleging that…”
“I know what you are alleging, Counselor, and you maybe seated. “If the girl is actually a slave, then there is no fraud, is there?”
“No, your honor, I suppose not, but--”
The Judge cut him off with a wave of his hand.
I stood in front of the bench.
“Take off your shoes,” the Bailiff said. “Girls aren’t allowed to wear shoes when standing on the Texas Slave Court Seal.”
Awkwardly, I took off my fancy designer shoes and handed them to the bailiff. I stood barefoot in front of the bench, my toes scrunching up from the freezing cold marble.
“Stand straight, girl!” the Judge barked. “Stop fidgeting!”
I snapped to attention. Judge Parker, smiling like the cat who got his cream, positively gleamed as he looked down at me. He let his eyes roam freely over my trembling form, enjoying my panic.
“You’re wheezing like you’re running away from something. You on the run, girl?” he said, toying with me.
“No, sir,” I gasped.
“Why are you wearing clothes girl? Where’s your collar? Are you DISRESPECTING my court?”
The bailiff, taking his cue, locked a black iron slave collar around my neck.
“You realize, GIRL, that a slave girl wearing clothes into my court, is grossly contemptuous, and totally disrespecting of my authority.”
I glanced back at my lawyers, who looked stricken. I wasn’t a slave girl, but that argument had already fallen flat.
“LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU, GIRL!” the Judge thundered.
“I’m sorry your honor,” I said, trembling. “I am SO SORRY! But please! I’m not a slave girl!”
My terror seemed to mollify him. “Well, you’re from Chicago, so maybe you don’t understand how we do things down in a Texas slave court. Let me explain. It says here you WAS a slave girl, at least for a while, at The Big D. So I expect you to appear before me in appropriate attire, as a simple matter of respect. Do you understand?”
“Yes, your honor,” I gasped.
“And you do want to show respect for my court, don’t you?”
“Yes, your honor,” I said, miserably.
“Speak up!”
“Yes Sir, your Honor, Sir,” I repeated loudly.
“Good girl. Well, then have at it,” he said. “Show me what all the fuss is about. Come on, git to it!”
I knew better than to look back to my lawyers, and instead reached for the top button of my jacket with my trembling fingers. From his bench on high, Judge Rufus T. Parker beamed down at me, his eyes glistening with lust.
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My $1500 Prada high heel clicked loudly up the pink granite steps of the Tarrant County Courthouse. The courthouse, which had been rededicated as a slaving court, was a massive pink granite monstrosity built in the 1890s in an overly elaborate Italian Renaissance style. With it’ intricate scrollwork, pediment, and clock tower, the building was truly imposing.
There were deceptively large number of steps. It was a perplexing. I had made a game of running up dozens of flights to the top of my Penthouse in Chicago. Why then, was I slowing, and feeling totally winded climbing up the steps of the old courthouse?
Feeling dizzy and disoriented, I stopped right before the final three stairs. Looking back, I expected to see thousands of steps below me, but there were, maybe, 20. I gripped the curved brass railing of the old courthouse steps, struggling to breathe.
I looked in front of me. The stone building towered over me, surrounding me. It felt like it was going to swallow me. In front of me were just a few more steps, then another landing, and the 12-foot-tall wooden doors of the majestic old courthouse.
In the glass of the door was etched a naked woman in chains, standing on an auction block, and a gavel, the emblem of the Texas Slave Court.
My throat tightened, as if the hangman’s rope was closing around my windpipe. I was struck by the image of the condemned climbing the steps to the gallows. The stone columns on either side of me might as well have marked the entrance to the gates of hell. I leaned on the handrail for support. Through my $1,500 Cartier glasses I looked up at the stone pediment over the door, and read the phrase:
Servitus Inducta Libertas
“Slavery Is freedom”. Why did the mocking words chill me to the bone?
More importantly, despite my terror, why was I slave wet? I squeezed my thighs together, relishing the sensation.
I felt like I was on the verge of a walking orgasm, and a walking heart attack.
Could I be having a panic attack? No, that was silly. What on earth could I be afraid of? Fear was for girls without Platinum cards. I rubbed my thighs together, trying to turn my fear into pleasure. Slowly the joy between my legs grew.
My lawyer in Chicago had assured me that the lawsuit filed against The Big D was entirely frivolous. The contract had been cancelled by Rita, and my so-called ‘auction’ was null-and-void. My Dallas lawyer had agreed, although he added that it was “fucking nuts” for a pretty girl to stroll into slaving court, even as a spectator, regardless of the merits of the case. But I wasn’t going to let a mere lawyer spoil my fun.
I was free. Absolutely, 100% free. Elizabeth’s father, Lord Kensington, who had placed the winning bid, was disappointed that I wouldn’t be the fox in his perverted slave hunt. Well, he could hunt Elizabeth’s skanky ass, because I had beaten them. I had beaten all of them, all of the bastards who had bid on me, and slobbered over me, and were left with blue balls as I pulled the rug out from under them.
They didn’t die easy. Immediately after my sale, Lord Kensington had filed a Habeas Servus action, arguing that the cancellation had been illegal, and I was still a slave. However, the Chicago court had thrown it out, which reduced him to suing The Big D for monetary damages for the so-called fraud, which was totally ridiculous as the terms of the auction were made clear to all.
So he was reduced to a monetary lawsuit against The Big D, not me, although as an owner I obviously had an interest in the proceedings.
Over a dozen wealthy bidders had joined in Lord Dogshit’s ridiculous “slave claim” lawsuit. My revenge had been swift, and each of them had quickly found their crappy businesses hamstrung by permits I had pulled, investigations I had triggered, or financing that had mysteriously vanished when I called in a few choice favors.
Skipper Carrey had been boarded by the Coast Guard, and his yacht and slave girl “crew” seized when a close inspection of the ship’s logs revealed that he had been freely bringing his girls back and forth to the Caribbean without filing the necessary import/export paperwork. It was a simple formality, but it would cost him dearly. I made sure of that.
Mr. Choo’s China doll daughter, who had watched my auction with such breathless curiosity, had been kidnapped by slavers on a trip to Morocco. She had been sold as a yellow in the UAE, and even now Mr. Choo was trying desperately to get his little Princess back. Good luck, for I arranged her sale with my typical thoroughness and care. If he ever saw her again, it would be when they were good-and-done with her.
Poor Mr. Choo! I did send him a videotape of his little Princesses auction, and a few of the blushing beauties first pornos. Boo-hoo, Mr. Choo!
My vengeance was just beginning. As soon as this embarrassing lawsuit was tossed out of court, I was going to sue each one of the horny bastards for false enslavement, for signing onto Kensington’s ridiculous Habeas Servus petition. Bring the slave before the court, indeed! The horny bastards would get brought into court. They’d get all the sex they wanted in jail, only now it would be them sucking cock and bending over to take it up the ass.
With any luck, I might be able to enslave them myself, and “fix” them, like I had fixed my boyfriend’s dog Buster, so long ago. The bastards had whistled at me, and leered at me, as Skeeter had put me through my paces, and sold me off the block, treating me like mere pussy-for-sale.
I never lose, ever, and I play for keeps. I wouldn’t stop until I had my pound of flesh, and each and every one of them PAID for the way they humiliated me on the block.
The Big D itself had been another story. Rosco and Skeeter still worked there, and as a loving Aunt I didn’t want to do anything to diminish Skeeter’s hero status. After my sale was cancelled, I gave Jake, The Big D’s Owner, all of the cash he would have gotten from selling me. Skeeter got his enormous commission, leaving him debt free and with enough money to buy a house, when he was so inclined.
Rosco didn’t like me “giving” Skeeter the money, but I pointed out that he had, in fact, earned it, Jake was paying him, and it wasn’t his fault that Rita had cancelled my sale. Skeeter had made quite a bit of money selling the other girls, of course, although I, naturally, was the biggest prize.
I had sweetened the deal further by vastly overpaying for a 40% interest in The Big D, making me a silent partner. Jake was delighted at the sudden influx of free cash, and expanded his operations. It excited me to think of all those poor, stupid little Texas cowgirls getting run through a slave market I owned. More than that, it restored the sense of power and control that had been so ignominiously stripped from me.
The slave pole where I had disgraced myself was no longer the place of my humiliation. The slave pole was MINE.
Gaspard, the sommelier who managed my private wine cellar, didn’t understand why I had a old, large, yellow cement safety bollard installed in the corner of my elegant wine tasting room. I smiled. He didn’t need to understand.
My handyman was horrified that the base of the bollard had gotten worn out so quickly, as he had repainted it immediately after it had been installed. He had used acrylic, outdoor, high gloss “super” paint, in a bright safety yellow. What on earth could have sanded it off the two coats so quickly?
The big dufus apologized profusely, and promised to paint it again. I ordered him not to, explaining that it was “more comfortable for me, in its raw and natural state.” He looked baffled, but it didn’t matter. He was a moron, and my servants don’t need to understand anything I don’t tell them.
It had become something of a game for me, and I always sat where I could have a clear view of the yellow monster during my wine tastings. I told Kayne and Kim that it was a souvenir from the old Comiskey Park. I told Harry and Meghan I had placed it there as a constant reminder that wine selections required the utmost care. I told George and Amal that the space had once been underground parking, but I liked the bollard so much I had ordered the architect to build the room around my colorful yellow friend.
Whatever lie I told, I would laugh, and sip my wine, and enjoy the patina on the yellow monster’s well-worn base, as my guests enjoyed my overpriced wine.
The yellow bastard was mine. It was for MY pleasure, and I was in control. The Big D was no longer the slave market I had been auctioned from, it was the slave market I OWNED.
There were other advantages, as well. My ownership interest allowed me to get the tapes of my processing and auction. I had also gotten all of the copies of THE SANDY FOOT GIRL “magazine” that had featured me on the cover, splayed open on the auction block.
I had bragged to my girlfriends about how I had “owned” my auction, but the pictures of the frightened slave girl, covered in sand, with her pussy up for sale told a different story. I kept a box of the cheap sales throwaway coupon magazines locked up securely in Chicago, next to my vibrator, I used if frequently during my nightly amusements. Occasionally I would take a copy of the disgusting rag magazine down to my wine cellar, when I felt the urge to buff-the-bollard, as they said at The Big D.
“Are you all right, Miss?”
I turned, and saw a well-dressed lawyer type, in a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase, standing next to me.
Startled, I took a moment to recover before responding. “I’m fine. Really. Just admiring the view. Thank you.”
He looked at the street, a bit baffled. It was nondescript, a long street that ended in the Convention Center. But my suite at the Omni, with the wrap around balcony that towered over this chickenshit courthouse, was very much the view I wanted.
He nodded, giving me the once over, letting his eyes run slowly over my bare skin. I smiled, relishing his attention. It was a hot, Texas day, so I had dispensed with wearing a blouse, bra, or a skirt. Why wear clothes I didn’t need? My long, double breasted Prada jacket went half way down my thighs, forming a perfectly acceptable skirt.
After careful consideration, I told myself that my look was entirely appropriate for court. True, I wasn’t wearing a shirt, but my breasts were fully covered by my jacket. My skirt covered my nicely rounded bottom, with 2-3 inches to spare, and my $1500 Prada high heel shoes were elegant and understated. I was showing a lot of skin, but this was slave court, and I didn’t want the slave bitches parading themselves naked before the judge to hog ALL the attention.
Disgusting pig sluts! They enjoyed having men gawk at their naked bodies. I knew their psychology well, for I played the part, for a while. Now I wanted the men to look at me, and see something they could never offer: quality. My makeup was subdued and natural.
I had learned at The Big D that sometimes less was more, and I knew it was better to let my natural beauty shine through. My expensive designer glasses were the finishing touch. I was beautiful, yes, but also brainy and elegant. I was smarter than all of them.
Doubtless some of the guards and wranglers might have their way with the shameless Pleasure Sluts introduced to their collars today. But I would be the one they couldn’t have, the one they fantasized about as they stroked their pathetic little willies in their shitty little apartments. I would be the girl in the penthouse suite, the untouchable goddess of their dreams!
Basking in my rescuer’s attention, and utilizing his desire to help a damsel in distress, my confidence quickly returned. I was in charge. I had nothing to fear.
“You can leave now,” I said dismissively. Turning away from my admirer, I took a deep breath, and trotted briskly up the remining steps, and, with some effort, pulled back the heavier-than-it-should-have-been old door leading into the antique courthouse.
It was lunchtime on a Tuesday, but the courthouse lobby did not seem particularly busy, as most people had found their way to where they wanted to be. I paused, and looked around. The lobby was exactly what you’d expect from the outside, an exercise in Texas-grubby classical. There was a speckled marble floor and stone columns along the walls, leading to a circular marble rotunda.
“Are you here for an enslavement?”
I turned to discover a tall, brawny police officer looking down at me. He was young, about 30, I’d guess, with a blonde mustache and sandy hair. His badge read SLAVE POLICE.
“Excuse me?” I said, not quite processing the question.
“Are you here for an enslavement? Are you going to be enslaved?”
“No!” I protested.
“Then what are you here for?” he asked.
What should I say? I didn’t really want to explain my civil court case to some meat head cop who would never understand the complexities. “I just came to… I don’t know… just look around.”
He regarded me skeptically. “Slave tourism, huh? We don’t get many girls lookin’ as hot as you, hanging around this place. Least none that don’t end up with a collar on ‘em. Where are you from, sweetie?”
“Chicago, SWEETIE” I explained, returning his sexism. “I’m a very successful bond trader.”
“Is that so?” he said skeptically. May I see your little purse? I need to check it. For security.”
I handed him my Valentino clutch purse. “Be careful,” I said, as he undid the clasp. “That bag cost me $1,750.”
“Well, la-dee-dah,” he mumbled. Rifling through my tiny purse, he pulled out my gold diamond crusted money clip. He let out a long, slow whistle.
“Why you got more money than I take home in my paycheck, honey? Rob a bank?”
“Incidentals. I never leave the house without $3,000,” I explained. “Can I go now, Officer?”
He took out my JP Morgan Reserve Card. “Wow, this is heavy!”
“It’s VERY heavy,” I said sarcastically. “It’s one of the most exclusive credit cards in the world. It’s issued by invitation only, and to get one, you need to have at least ten million-dollars of liquid assets in your JP Morgan account. I’m not the droid you’re looking for.”
He walked around me, and looked me up-and-down, letting his eyes travel slowly up my long legs, over my curvy bottom and the tapered waist of my jacket, and stopping on the bare skin exposed by the cut in the top of my jacket.
Looking across the rotunda, my Slave Cop let out a loud whistle.
From the other side of the courthouse, another officer came, leading an enormous German Shepard on a leash. The dog got about 20 yards from me, and then went berserk, barking, and snapping and growling.
“What’s wrong with him?” I said, retreating behind the officer. “Keep that thing away from me!”
“He’s a slave hound. His name is Brutus. He can smell slave pussy. Picks up the scent. You wet, girl? Can’t tell with all that fancy perfume.”
I blushed. I was, indeed, soaking wet. “It’s a scent, not a perfume,” I said, correcting him even as I cowered behind him to protect myself from the snarling dog. “I bought it on the Champs-Élysées in Paris, and it cost me 400 euros.”
“Found one,” the slave cop said. “Give Brutus a treat, and take him back with you.”
I frowned as the other officer patted Brutus on the head, and gave him a doggie treat for identifying me. Brutus wagged his tail happily. Brutus was a good name for him, I thought. He was, indeed, a brute, and he had betrayed me.
The other officer led Brutus back to his post.
“Show me the inside of your lip,” the officer in front of me said.
“Why?” I asked stupidly.
The frowning officer did not respond. He took the slave goad off his belt, and shook it out to full length.
Knowing the meaning of the gesture, I reluctantly used both hands to peel back my upper lip.
“Well, well, well,” he said, smiling sarcastically. “Miss Chicago bond trader got herself a SIN number. Take off your jacket.”
“I’m not wearing a bra.”
“Good. Take off your jacket.”
“I’m not a slave girl. You can check my SIN.”
“We’re past that. I’m going to check your pussy, and see how wet it is.”
I squeezed my thighs together. I was soaked! He smiled as I blushed.
“I’m not a slave girl. I’m a nice girl.”
“Well, Miss Money-Clip from Chicago, you’re in luck. You strutted into the courthouse where slave cops turn nice girls into slave pussy.”
“The money clip,” I said, pointing at my purse, which he was now holding at his side. “How about I give you half, and walk out of here?”
“How about you strip down to your birthday suit, and I march your naked ass into that-there courtroom upstairs, and let the Judge declare you a slave. Then I’ll keep your money, and get a commission on selling your stuck-up little snatch, too.”
I stared at him. I looked longingly at the courthouse door. I’d never make it.
I was wearing very expensive panties, but they were white, thin, and lacy, and I doubt they’d hide my wetness. Particularly if me made me take them off and place them in his beefy hand.
The officer held up the slave goad and pressed the button. I shuddered as the electricity arced between the two prongs.
“Take off the jacket, slave girl,” he said, with the voice of a man who held all the cards. “Show me your nice, firm, titties.”
“That won’t be necessary, Officer. This young lady is with me.”
I turned, to see an utterly ridiculous looking figure waddle up. He was short, and very fat, and dressed in a white linen suit with a string tie. He had a white goatee, and white sideburns, and an enormous cowboy hat that was failing to cover up the saddest attempt at a comb-over I had ever seen.
“She’s with you?” the officer asked, amazed.
“Yes. She’s my niece. You can go now.”
“I’ll need to keep her purse,” he said, not even bothering to address me. “Females aren’t allowed to carry bags or purses into the courthouse.”
“I have a lot of money in there,” I said.
“It will be safe,” the fat man in the goatee said. “I personally guarantee it. You can go now, officer. Thank you for your assistance.”
The officer, clearly disappointed, walked away, and returned with a claim check, which he handed to me. He placed my purse in a clear plastic bag, then stalked away, with my purse in hand.
I waited until he was out of earshot. “Thanks, Uncle,” I said sarcastically. “My name is Anne. I’m from Chicago.”
“Ah, the windy city! My name is Rufus,” the fat old man said, bowing majestically as he took off his hat. “Welcome to Texas Slave Court, Anne. May I show you around?”
“I’m good,” I said, glancing nervously over at the officer. “I might go grab some lunch, and head back to the hotel.”
The fat old man stepped in my way, blocking my exit. I tried to step around him, but he fastened his fat little fist on my arm.
“Don’t be foolish, child. I want to show you something.”
I glanced over at the frowning officer, who was watching from a distance. He took his slave goad off his belt again, preparing to end any altercation between myself and the fat little troll holding my arm.
I glanced over my shoulder. Behind me, the slave hound was standing guard at the door on the opposite end of the courthouse.
“Please let go of my arm,” I said. “You’re hurting me.”
The man looked amused, but dutifully released my arm. He gestured with his hand grandly in the direction of my tour.
I looked at the front door I had strutted through so confidently a few minutes before. It was only a few feet away, but it might as well have been on the other side of the world.
I looked down at the fat man smiling up at me. Smiling, but very much in control, he used his finger to point towards the direction he wanted me to go.
I chewed my lip nervously, unsure of what to do.
I was trembling, but the ridiculous little man in the white suit didn’t seem nervous at all. Smiling, he snapped his fingers twice, indicating that it was time for me to get going!
Deciding to play along, I followed him into the Rotunda. In the center was a life-sized, white marble statue of a naked woman, her wrists chained together, leaning against a post.
Beaming, my host began my tour. “This is the original statue of The Greek Slave, by the American sculpture, Harry Powers. He carved it to show the link between American slavery and classical antiquity. It was put on tour before The War of Northern Aggression, in an attempt to make our Yankee brethren understand the error of their ways. Impressive, ayn’t it?”
I smiled as I looked down at him over my glasses. “The sculpture’s name was Hiram, not Harry, and while he was American he was in Europe when he sculpted this. The original, or at least one of the originals, for he made several copies, is in The National Gallery, and is in Seravezza marble, which those most definitely is not. And the subject was the Greek War of Independence in the 1820’s, where the Ottoman’s sold Greek women into slavery. It’s an anti-slavery piece, not pro.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” he retorted, clearly ruffled by my refutation of his bullshit. “And what, may I ask, brings an art expert to a slaving court?”
“My private jet,” I replied, looking down on the absurd little man over my glasses.
“Do you know what brings me here?” he said proudly.
“The bus?” I replied with a smirk. He frowned. Clearly the little fat man didn’t like being the butt of my joke, and me being a beautiful young woman made it sting all the more. Good.
“How do you know so much about this piece?”
“I have a copy in my garden in Chicago. It’s nicer, although I realized it wasn’t an original, so I didn’t get skunked, like the idiot who bought this probably did.”
He frowned. “An interesting piece of sculpture for a young woman to pick for her garden. Do you identify with her, perhaps?”
Now it was my turn to be flustered. I turned away so he wouldn’t see me blush. “Not at all. Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because I think you’d make a good Pleasure Slut.”
My flush deepened as I felt the disgusting little cretin evaluate me. “And I think you’d make a good Colonel Sanders, if you’d stop devouring the chicken two buckets at a time.”
I walked away, giving my ass a little extra sexy swing as I crossed the rotunda, leaving my “admirer” in my rear-view mirror.
I crossed the rotunda and pretended to look at a large oil painting. It took a while for the ridiculous fat man to waddle over, and I used the time to recover my composure.
“It’s a magnificent painting, isn’t it?” he said. His voice was behind me, and I could feel his eyes staring at my butt.
“It’s okay, for a knock-off.” I said dismissively. The painting, set in ancient Rome, depicted a woman being sold off the auction block to a group of mostly older male bidders. She was naked, with her back to the audience, her hand covering her face, and her robe in a sad little puddle next to her. The auctioneer, his hand resting on the podium, was responding to the bidders, four of whom were holding up their hands.
“It’s an original,” he said defensively.
“Sorry, but it’s as phony as your comb-over. The original is in the Walters Art Museum, in Boston, and was painted by Jean Leon Gerome in the 1860s. It’s an excellent example of Orientalism, a fetish style that allowed the artist to depict beautiful naked white women in bondage, while denouncing the immorality of slavery. It allowed his male audience to have their cake, and beat it, too.”
He let out a disgusting, dirty laugh. “Too bad you can’t see her front. Nice ass, though.”
“The focus of the painting is the men’s lust, and the male gaze,” I explained pedantically. “The poor girl is covering her face in shame, but it is the men who should be ashamed. By hiding the girl’s face, the viewer is allowed to envision any girl they know for sale. Indeed, I could envision myself, naked and exposed.”
I micked the pose of the girl on the block as my fat littler admirer literally wiped the drool off his lips. “I’d love to see you naked, on the block,” he said.
“Oh, you naughty boy!” I said, feigning shock. “Would you really do that to me? Strip me buck naked, and parade me around, and make me pose, under the crack of the whip. Would you watch as they humiliated me, and exposed me in every way, and made me bend and spread?”
I wagged my finger in his face. “You naughty, naughty boy. Keep your mind on Gerome’s art work, Sir, for I am a lady.”
“You sure is smart. You gotta copy of this painting, too?” he asked.
“Not exactly. But my girlfriends and I did pose for an oil painting in this style, several years ago, as a prank. Five of us being sold off the auction block in New Orleans. It was painted by Jamal. Jamal is world famous, but I’m sure you haven’t heard of him.”
His interest brightened immediately. “I see! Slave girls on the auction block, you say? Were the five of you… dressed appropriately for the occasion?” he said with a leer.
“I’m always dressed appropriately,” I replied, looking over my glasses.
“So you posed for the artist… au natural?” he said, trying but failing to sound sophisticated.
“But of course,” I said, returning his smile. “100%, birthday bare, stark naked. Slave naked, in fact, which is much worse, and on the auction block, no less. I think the artist quite enjoyed it, given the number of poses he put us in.”
“I’d very much like to see that painting,” he said.
“I bet you would. There were several paintings, actually. One for each of my girlfriends, featuring each of us as the centerpiece of the bidding. Mine was the best, of course, and the artist said so, numerous times. My girlfriends were SO jealous,” I said, laughing.
“Do you have a picture of it, on your phone?” he said.
“Yes, but you took my purse away!” I said pouting. “Too bad, or I could show it to you.”
He frowned. I laughed.
“There were quite a few drawings, too, as luck would have it. It was after a session, and my other girlfriends had gotten dressed and gone home. My friend Liu was waiting for me, since we were going to lunch at my private club afterwards. She had gotten dressed, but I was still naked, and collared, walking around, admiring Jamal’s art work.”
“Do you enjoy walking around naked?” the gross little fat man asked.
“There is a certain freedom to it,” I admitted. “Slave girls don’t have to worry about fashion or finance or their social standing. They can simply be petted and admired. Anyway, Jamal’s phone rang, and suddenly he was in a panic. He was supposed to have a slave girl show up to model for his class, but there was some sort of mix up, so he was in a panic. Then my friend Liu said, ‘Anne is slave naked. Why don’t you bring her over to pose?’”
“Needless to say, I blushed 12 shades of red. “Pose naked?’, I gasped. ‘Like I’m a SLAVE girl?’”
“That’s what you were doing now, silly. Nobody will know the difference. Unless you think you’re not pretty enough to pass as a real slave girl.”
“Liu was teasing, but I was annoyed. ‘Maybe I’m too beautiful to be a slave girl.’”
“’Let’s find out,’ Liu said, smiling. ‘If you do it, I’ll give you that Rembrandt at Steve’s place you were drooling over at Christmas time.’”
“I thought you and Steve broke up.”
“Yeah, I dumped him for Trevor. But I’ll tell him I’m interested again, and get the little daring to hand over the painting. Then I’ll dump him again.”
“’You are such a bitch!’ I said laughing.”
“’And you are such a slave girl’,” she said, joining in my laughter. ‘Deal?’”
“She extended her hand, and we shook, sealing the deal. But as soon as I released it, Jamal cinched my hands behind my back. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.”
“The class is at The School of The Art Institute, at Wabash and Monroe,” Jamal said casually. “It’s only a few blocks from here, so we’ll just cut up State Street.”
“I was stunned. ‘You want me to walk through the fucking Loop, stark naked, at 2PM? Are you cra—'
“My protests came too late! The slave bit was in my mouth, and my objections turned into an unintelligible garble.
“Oh, my! I can’t believe you agreed to walk naked down State Street,” the little fat man said.
“I didn’t. But Lucy had her slave crop in her bag, and three hard strokes on my backside turned me into a very penitent slave girl.”
“Anyway, soon a very tearful and obedient slave girl was walking naked down State Street, past the Chicago Theater, under the clock of Marshall Fields, and into the Blick Art Materials store on State Street, for a quick supply run prior to Jamal’s class.
“You must have gotten a lot of stares,” the judge said.
“I did, and suddenly I seemed to know everyone. Normally when I walk through the Loop, I scarcely notice anyone. Now, with everyone staring at me, and my hands cinched, and drool coming down my chin, I seemed to know EVERYONE. The waiter from Next. The concierge at my private club. The butch dyke who delivers my packages. Even my chauffer, and the Mexican that cleans my pool.”
“Did they recognize you?”
“No. I was sweating bullets, but Liu whispered in my ear. ‘Don’t worry, sweetie. They aren’t looking at your face. She was right. Bastards.”
“Liu even ran into her father, and they talked briefly on the corner, with him looking me up and down as they waited for the stoplight to change. I’ve met the man maybe 30 times, been to parties at his house, and invited him to my wine tastings. But he didn’t recognize me. He just chatted with Liu about having brunch with her and her mother on Sunday, all the while letting his eyes run slowly up-and-down my bottom.”
I smiled as the fat little man’s eyes ran slowly up-and-down my body. Judging by the bulge in my white pants, my story was really getting to him.
“Anyway, after a 5 block walk that seemed to take 20 years, I found out too late that it was for a one hour, art appreciation class on the female form, for wealthy donors to The Chicago Art Institute. You can imagine the sorts who signed up for THAT class,” I said laughing. “Rich old fuckers, who wanted an excuse to ogle a naked slave girl for an hour, in the name of art. I actually recognized a few of them, from the various social galas I sometimes go to. But again, they thought I was just a slave girl. It was quite exciting, actually. And the things they made me do! Peverts.”
“What sort of things?” the fat man said, leaning forward.
“Well, for starters they…”
My story was interrupted as the enormous clock tower in the roof of the building GONGED one PM. “Oh, sorry, time to go!” I said, feigning sadness as his jaw literally dropped with disappointment.
“No!” he said. “You have to tell me what happened!” he said, desperate for release, in every sense of that word. He glanced at his watch. “We still have time.”
I smiled down at him. “See my Apple watch? It’s custom, solid gold, with diamonds. It’s telling me it’s time to go, and your watch looks like it came from the Toys R-Us. You can finish squeezing your other bald head in the restroom,” I added, pinching his cheek like a toddler.
His face was the very picture of sexual frustration as I clicked across the marble floor of the rotunda to the stairs. He maneuvered to get a better view of my legs – and maybe up my dress, as I jogged up the antique courthouse’s old wooden steps to the courtrooms on the second floor.
My lawyers were already sitting at the defense table, as I was the first case on afternoon docket. I was glad to see them, as proper legal representation meant I wouldn’t have to put up with any bullshit from the guards and I’d get my purse and all my money back, or have the Slave Police thrown in jail and the nasty little slave hound neutered. Maybe I’d do it anyway.
For fun, I sat down with the girls who were waiting their turn in court. They were an unhappy lot, as slave court was NOT the place a pretty young girl wanted to be. As we waited for the Judge, I chatted up the cute little blonde with shoulder length hair sitting next to me. Her name was Margot, and she squirmed like she was sitting on hot bricks as she told me her tale of woe. Her boyfriend had run out on her without paying the rent, and her creepy, handsy, landlord, who had been hitting on her months, had taken her to slave court for the back rent.
“I paid off the back rent, and threw in a $200 late fee, and moved. The landlord still kept my security deposit, and he refused to drop the petition to have me enslaved, “since it wasn’t his problem.” Fuck-head! I don’t even understand why I’m here. It will be okay, don’t you think?”
“Sure sweetie,” I lied. “And if it’s not, branding doesn’t hurt for that long. Sevitus Inducta Libertas!” I added brightly.
She looked stricken. I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
“What’s your major, sweetie?” I asked.
“I’m in medical school. I’m going to be a doctor.”
“You’re going to be a Pleasure Slut,” I thought. I smiled indulgently, and feigning concern, ran my fingers through her blonde hair. No doubt about it; she’d bring an excellent price! As The Big D had a processing deal with this court, her name was probably already on the “contingent inventory” list, which really wasn’t all that contingent at all. I’d play the big sister, of course, comforting her every step of the way, promising that I’d help her. Then I’d watch from the front row as Skeeter sold her sweet little pussy, with the money from her sale going to my outstretched palm. Delicious!
The Bailiff waked to the front of the courtroom. “All rise! All rise! The 23rd District of the Slave Court of Texas is now in session, with the Honorable Judge Rufus T. Parker presiding. All persons and slaves having business before this court draw near and you will be heard. God Bless the United States of America, and this court, and don’t mess with Texas.”
The door to the Judge’s chamber’s opened, and little bald head with a terrible combover, his enormous bulk covered by a black robe, waddled up the steps of the massive wooden bench at the front of the court. It took me several seconds for my brain to register that ridiculous little fat man I had twisted around my finger in the rotunda a few minutes before would now be the Judge in my trial.
My case was announced at the lawyers introduced. Judge Parker cut right to the chase. “Is the slave girl in question present in the courthouse today.”
My Chicago lawyer rose to speak. “We didn’t think that was necessary, your honor, as this is a suit for civil damages. And she is not a slave girl, but a very successful bond trader from Chicago.”
“I see, and judging from your accent, are you from Chicago, too?”
“Yes, your honor, but I am duly licensed to—”
“Sit down, Counselor. Does the slave girl have local representation?”
“She does,” my other lawyer said, rising and bowing respectfully. “And as my colleague said, this is a suit for civil damages, with the plaintiff alleging…”
“I didn’t ask what the plaintiff was alleging, I asked why the girl wasn’t here in court today.”
“She is, your honor, but begging the court’s indulgence...”
“You have tired me out already, Counselor. I want this girl in front of my bench, now!”
Both of my lawyers glanced back at me. I had to press past Margo to get to the aisle, and make the 20 foot, million-mile march to the front of the courtroom.
The plaintiff’s lawyer rose. “Your honor, if it please the court, this is a civil suit, for damages. We are alleging that…”
“I know what you are alleging, Counselor, and you maybe seated. “If the girl is actually a slave, then there is no fraud, is there?”
“No, your honor, I suppose not, but--”
The Judge cut him off with a wave of his hand.
I stood in front of the bench.
“Take off your shoes,” the Bailiff said. “Girls aren’t allowed to wear shoes when standing on the Texas Slave Court Seal.”
Awkwardly, I took off my fancy designer shoes and handed them to the bailiff. I stood barefoot in front of the bench, my toes scrunching up from the freezing cold marble.
“Stand straight, girl!” the Judge barked. “Stop fidgeting!”
I snapped to attention. Judge Parker, smiling like the cat who got his cream, positively gleamed as he looked down at me. He let his eyes roam freely over my trembling form, enjoying my panic.
“You’re wheezing like you’re running away from something. You on the run, girl?” he said, toying with me.
“No, sir,” I gasped.
“Why are you wearing clothes girl? Where’s your collar? Are you DISRESPECTING my court?”
The bailiff, taking his cue, locked a black iron slave collar around my neck.
“You realize, GIRL, that a slave girl wearing clothes into my court, is grossly contemptuous, and totally disrespecting of my authority.”
I glanced back at my lawyers, who looked stricken. I wasn’t a slave girl, but that argument had already fallen flat.
“LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU, GIRL!” the Judge thundered.
“I’m sorry your honor,” I said, trembling. “I am SO SORRY! But please! I’m not a slave girl!”
My terror seemed to mollify him. “Well, you’re from Chicago, so maybe you don’t understand how we do things down in a Texas slave court. Let me explain. It says here you WAS a slave girl, at least for a while, at The Big D. So I expect you to appear before me in appropriate attire, as a simple matter of respect. Do you understand?”
“Yes, your honor,” I gasped.
“And you do want to show respect for my court, don’t you?”
“Yes, your honor,” I said, miserably.
“Speak up!”
“Yes Sir, your Honor, Sir,” I repeated loudly.
“Good girl. Well, then have at it,” he said. “Show me what all the fuss is about. Come on, git to it!”
I knew better than to look back to my lawyers, and instead reached for the top button of my jacket with my trembling fingers. From his bench on high, Judge Rufus T. Parker beamed down at me, his eyes glistening with lust.
