Any Chance Auction, Chapter 16B, by Joe Doe

[imreadonly2]

I’m not sure how long I was unconscious. My first sensation was, oddly enough, in my nose. A harsh, ammonia, burning sensation. I heard giggles, and shrill, feminine laughter as I jerked my head back and opened my eyes.

My vision was blurred, and it took me a moment to connect the ringing laughter with what I was seeing. In front of me, Hillary and Jennifer were looking down, bound in the branding rack. The girls were both laughing – no cackling, would be the word, but it was the stink under my nose and the screaming pain in my ass that shocked me to my senses.

My ass was being branded. The iron had been removed, but I could still feel the enormous heat burning into my flesh. The pain was so intense, it made me conscious of everything, creating a weird sort of time dilation effect where I could hear everything, and every second took hours.

Hillary was holding something under my nose, something that stank and burned and made me want to puke. At first, I thought it was the smell of my own burning flesh. However, it smelt worse than that! It was a mixture of garbage and shit and everything that smells bad, only 100 times more pungent than I’d find them in nature.

I tried to jerk my head away, but trussed up like a turkey I could only move a few inches. My resistance and distress only caused the two devils in front of me to cackle louder as Hillary practically shoved the tiny packet between her fingers up my nose.

“Don’t overdue it, ladies,” the blacksmith said. “You don’t want her to get acclimated to the stink, particularly with so many brandings left.”

“Fat chance of that,” a voice behind me said.

“Yeah, bag that shit,” Roger said. “I can smell that stink from here, and it makes me want to puke.”

The blacksmith’s tone was pedantic. “It’s called ‘Slave Behave’ and it’s a special mix put together here at The Big D. Think of smelling salts, ramped up to an 11. It comes with nose plugs, so the master doesn’t have to smell it when they use it.”

I looked up at Hillary and Jennifer and noted that the two grinning girls did indeed have nose plugs in, which was why they were grinning, while I was fighting the urge to vomit.

“Put it back in the bag before we all gag,” the blacksmith said. Jennifer complied.

Behind me, I tensed as I felt something cold press into my ass. “Relax, girl,” he said, patting my other cheek as if soothing a horse. “That was just a stamp. This brand has 9 parts, so we want an ink stamp so we get all the positions of all the little arms and legs right.”

Smiling down at me, Hillary tweaked my nose. “Here that, slave girl? We want your brand just right!” Hillary and Jennifer giggled.

“This sure is a complicated brand. Do we charge extra for this?”

“Nope,” the blacksmith replied. “See the SOLD sticker on her blue state ear tag? Block training, brands, slave chow, and kenneling are complimentary if the sluts actually sold. They actually have some ads they run every now and then, called the “Sand and Brand” special.”

“Oh, yeah!” one of the students said. “I saw a billboard for that on $75,” one of the students noted. It had the closeup picture of the girl’s feet on the beach, with their covered with sand.”

“Yeah, I remember the tag line,” one of the students said. “If she likes the sand, give ‘er the brand!” Jennifer said brightly.

“I’d like to see YOUR ass branded, Jennifer,” one of the boys noted. A number of the boys laughed and nodded agreement as Jennifer, although cruel and bitchy, was very hot, and would make a delicious slave girl.

“I wouldn’t brand you, loser,” Jennifer replied. “I’d geld you. Snip, snip!” Now it was the girl’s turn to laugh, while the boys winced at the thought. Jennifer was a nasty little bitch, and I suspected that if she did get a chance to enslave any of her classmates, the clippers would be a real threat.

“Wow, it’s cool that The Big D is giving her such an intricate brand for free,” one boy noted.

“Well, it’s all about customer service here at The Big D,” the blacksmith said. “That’s why we keep real old-time blacksmiths on staff, to make the brands and chains, and to brand the girls. The Big D also offers a tip-to-toe warranty on all girls, not just the primes. You can bring them back for remedial training within the first 90 days, and our branding offer is good for 30 days.”

My ass was on fire, and the pain was unbearable. The Big D logo had just been branded between my cheeks, badging me as a Sandy Foot Girl. The fuckers took real pride in their work, as evidenced by my mark, and the blacksmith’s commercial to the High School seniors who were hanging on his every word. I was just the barnyard animal, like a pig at a 4-H show, fighting the pain as I was forced to listen to the blacksmith’s commercial.

I looked up at the monitor. With my butt cheeks spread, I could see the angry red lines of the ropey-logo of the Big D, burned into my flesh. Objectively, it was strangely beautiful, a mark that any slave girl would wear with pride. I knew that other girls who hadn’t made it to the main block of The Big D would be jealous. Why the jealousy of other slave girls, or how I could admire something that was still causing me pain, confused me, but as every second was taking hours, I chalked it up to my general delirium.

The blacksmith continued. “After that, prices are half off for the first year. That includes training or branding.”

“Gee, you mean her buyer could get her branded AGAIN?” Jennifer said, grinning down to me as she enjoyed the look of horror on my face.

“Yup!”, the blacksmith said brightly, “No extra charge. So you’re all 18. Any of you ladies scheduled to be graded.”

Several girls, a bit embarrassed, raised their hands. “I have to,” one girl volunteered. “For my student loans.”

“I’m taking a gap year. So my parents want me registered and graded before I go overseas.”

“Good idea,” the blacksmith said, “although a protective enslavement is even better, IMHO. But the point is, I’d really recommend getting it done here, as if your parents do decide to sell you, we throw in all the bells and whistles, free of charge.”

My mind was swimming. I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. My ass was being branded as part of a demonstration for a bunch of snotty nosed kids on their way to college. I could have bought and sold all of them, and their families, and The Big D, with the money in my checking account. As if that wasn’t surreal enough, they were all gushing over the fact that my horrific, dehumanizing, and unspeakably painful branding was free, like the toy thrown into a happy meal.

“I’m rich,” I screamed. “I can give each of you a million dollars, cash, if you let me go. Listen to me! I’m rich. You can’t do this to me!”

With the bit in my teeth it was all garble and slobber, and everyone laughed. Tucking me under the chin, Jennifer. “Oh, look, she’s so excited. She can’t wait for her next brand. Don’t worry, sweetie. We’re going to burn your ass REAL good.”

Indeed they were, as the blacksmith took the next branding head out of the fire. It was the body of Skeeter’s mosquito doodle and it was glowing an angry yellow. “A lot of blacksmith’s user thermometers, but I just go off color. This one’s plenty hot, which you can see by the lighter color.”

“Get those salts ready, girls. This is a pretty big ass brand,” the blacksmith observed.

“Well, she has a big ass,” Hillary replied, as everyone laughed.

The blacksmith, in teacher mode, continued. “Get the Slave Behave ready. We don’t want her to pass out during her branding, because this is where the learning is. This where she really learns what it means to be a slave girl. Juan, make sure you get the pan into position. She’s going to piss like a water sprinkler when this one burns in.”

“She looks pretty excited,” Hillary noted. “Can we make her hump the brand?”

“What’s that?” one boy asked.

“Let me show you,” Hillary said. Hillary held out her hand, and the blacksmith handed her the iron. “Be careful,” he warned. “That branding head is ready for action.”

Hillary turned the branding iron around, and put the old time wooden handle between my legs. Then she began to rub it against my hot, wet pussy. Like the Pleasure Slut they thought I was, I responded, pushing back against the stick.

“Oh my GAWD!” a girl said. “She’s humping it! She’s humping the branding iron that’s going to burn her ass.”

“She can’t help it,” the Blacksmith said. “She’s a born Pleasure Slut. It’s what Pleasure Sluts do.”

Hillary, grinning like a devil, put the wooden handle inside me as I rode it for all it’s worth. I couldn’t move much, but she worked the stick good, and quickly brought the trembling bitch in the branding rack to slave-gasm. My face burned beet red with humiliation as I watched my pussy tremble on the gigantic monitor.

“Wow. What a slut.”

“Yeah. She so needs to get her ass branded.”

I grunted for more, but Hillary pulled the stick out, causing some laughter as it popped like a cork. “That’s enough for now,” Hillary said. “Maybe some more later, when we do the legs.”

I trembled, both at the promise of another slave gasm and the threat of all the brands to come.

Hillary handed the Blacksmith the iron. I could feel the heat on my ass as the blacksmith positioned himself for the burn. “Left cheek,” he explained, “So her master can fondle it.”

I heard the manager’s voice over the loud speaker. “Hey, there’, pard-ners! Listen up, cuz we got ourselves a special event here at the Bee & Brand. We’re about to brand ourselves a real life slave girl, fresh to her collar, with an ass just ITCHIN’ for the iron! See those cheeks flinch?” he chuckled, pointing up at the monitor where my ass cheeks were indeed flexing in nervous anticipation. “This little Sandy Foot Girl fetched a record price in last week’s auction, so we’re gonna give her a real TEXAS sized branding, right on her sweet little ass! Let’s count ‘er down, 10 seconds to make this little Sandy Foot Girl a real slave!”

“Geez, look at her drool. She really does look like a horse,” Jennifer said, looking at the enormous closeup of my panicked face on the monitor.

“Yeah, especially with her nostrils flaring,” Hillary agreed.

“Slave girls got shit for brains, but she knows what’s coming,” a boy behind me chuckled.

Even from a couple of foot away I could feel the heat coming off the branding head, rolling over my bottom and up my back in waves.

Hillary, little bitch that she was, picked up her fiddle, and began playing "Turkey in the Straw." The music was bright and cheerful, and Hillary did a little dance as she played, adding to the festive, party mood. Hillary, keeping the beat, grinning at me as the crowd clapped along, as the manager used the loudspeaker to lead them in the countdown.

“TEN… NINE…”

My mind was swimming, as if I were in a fog. This couldn’t be happening. I was a rich and powerful person. I wasn’t some nameless Pleasure Slut, waiting to get her butt branded by a bunch of high school students as part of the lunchtime show. No. This couldn’t be real! My words from the other night at dinner returned to haunt me.

“I’m not afraid of anything. Fear is for girls who don’t have platinum cards.”

Suddenly, I wasn’t there. As if by magic I was on the Gold Coast, back in Chicago, looking over the top of my sunglasses as I surveyed my new Lamborghini Huracan EVO in the showroom on Lake Shore Drive. It was a bright sunny day, and the air conditioning washed over me.

I was dressed in my ridiculously expensive Armani designer jacket, which was long enough that I really didn’t need a skirt, or underwear of any sort, for that matter. My salesman, Enrico, was watching me clickety-clack around the car in my high heel shoes, trying to keep his tongue in his mouth as he wondered what I looked like under my $4,000 jacket. Prick teasing the help can be so much fun.

“Well, the red definitely makes a statement,” I conceded, looking at the car critically. “Are you sure this is your MOST expensive sports car? Fully loaded?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Absolutely Ma’am,” Enrico said, straining to be utterly servile to me even as he dreamed of fucking me.

“Well, I have to admit it drips money, and power, and success,” I said, eying it critically as I once again enjoyed doing a model walk around the car for my – and Enrico’s – viewing pleasure. “But I want it to scream ME. Hmmmm…. But I want more… I know. Could you monogram it?”

The cool of the car dealership was replaced by a wave of heat from the branding iron as the countdown continued. “EIGHT… SEVEN…” I tensed, pulling against my straps. I tried to bend my fingers back, straining to reach the buckle. I could almost touch it… but not quite.

I was slave naked, with my legs spread, and everything I had was up on the huge monitors for one and all to see. Oh, how I longed for the Armani jacket and Prada shoes I had worn at the car dealership that day! But my purse was in Rita’s car, which was parked 15 miles away at Six Flags, and my clothes were in the charity dumpster in the parking lot. Instead of $69,000 diamond earrings, I had a 69 cent blue tag marking me as a blue state girl, with a SOLD sticker pasted on top. The humiliating animal tag flopped against my face as I futility attempted to jerk myself free.

The crowd was laughing, and clapping along as they joined in the count down. “SIX… FIVE…” Like a grinning Nero, Hillary was fiddling away as my ass was about to be burned. Jennifer was above me, Slave Behave in their hands, ready to rouse me if I faltered.

No. No. This couldn’t be happening. Skeeter would call. Rita would intervene. “I’m a rich and powerful person”, I repeated. “Money talks. Money talks.”

“Money talks,” Ma’am,” Enrico repeated. “For you, anything. What would you like?”

“A monogram. My first name, Anne, in Apple Chancellery font. I want a beautifully flowing cursive. Extremely elegant. Nothing tacky. I want everyone to know who owns this car.”

“Of course, Ma’am. And where would you like the monogram?”

I walked around the car several times, in circles, two and fro. I knew my prancing around was driving poor Enrico crazy, as he tried to stare up my legs to my secret treasures. I took my time, savoring the moment. Possession, totally owning something, whether it was an absurdly ostentatious car or Enrico’s bulging eyes, was fun.

I kept circling, enjoying the look of both my new car, and the bulge straining against his trousers. Dream on, sales boy.

I circled my car like a cat circling its prey. Where should my new car be marked? Where would my brand of ownership look the best. The door? The hood. No. Finally, I stopped. Here. On the rear.”

“Near the Lamborghini label?” he said, eager to please me, eager to get it right.

“No, HERE,” I said, lifting the tip of my Prada shoe to the exact spot on the bumper I wanted. The strappy shoe was open toe, and I touched my big red toe to the exact spot I wanted the monogram to rest.

Enrico’s eyes bulged. Lifting my foot caused my dress to “accidentally” raise, revealing my landing strip and everything between it. “Can you see?” I said, enjoying the tease. “I want my name to run right along HERE,” I said.

Enrico’s tongue literally protruded from his mouth as I dragged my toe along the left rear bumper, spreading my legs for his viewing pleasure.

“Perhaps I should get my camera,” he gasped, staring between my legs as I wiggled my toes against the cool metal.

I wiggled my toes as the countdown continued. “THREE… TWO…”

“Right on her left rear bumper!” someone in the crowd the count neared its conclusion. One of the overhead monitors at the Big D was focused on my left ass cheek, another on the glowing yellow branding iron, still pulsing from the heat. The jumbo-tron screen made it as tall as I was, and twice and wide.

I had the curious sensation of seeing my own face up on the huge screen, a ridiculous smile on my face, eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, drooling like an imbecile. No. That couldn’t be me. I didn’t look like that.

“I will make the brand is very discreet, Ma’am,” Enrico promised.

“No, I want it BIG,” I said. “I want everyone to see who the owner is.”

“ONE!”

I got my wish as Skeeter’s enormous doodle bug drawing was pressed into my ass, marking me as his possession. After having already been badged with The Big D’s logo, I can’t say the pain was a surprise to me, but it didn’t make it any easier to bear. Once again, everything went white, only this time, the “Slave Obey” under my nose kept me conscious, as Jennifer and Hillary giggled at my distress. “No, no, you little piggy. No napping. We want you awake for the whole thing!”

Behind me I could hear voices as I struggled to pass out, but could not. Time stopped as the endless pain in my ass allowed me to process all the chattering voices behind me, one and a time.

“He was right. She’s peeing like a water sprinkler.”

“What do you expect? That’s what pigs do when you put the iron to their ass.”

“No dignity at all.”

“Still smiling, though, ha-ha!”

“Yeah, slave girls love their brands.”

“I think she’s going to bite through her gag.”

“I love it when they brand Yankees.”

“Yeah, blue state girls don’t look so hoity toity when you brand their asses.”

I could hear a voice in my head as I smelled my own burning flesh, and heard my ass sizzle. Much to my surprise, it wasn’t Rita’s voice, or Skeeters, but my own.

“Okay, little slave girl, now you’re getting the branding of your dreams, right on your slave girl ass. How many times have you had a nice girl’s night in, teasing yourself with your vibrator while you imagined yourself getting branded? Oohh, feel the burn. What a nice work out your ass is getting! No pain, no gain, right, slave girl?”

“Remember that time when you held Skeeter’s drawing up in the mirror, next to your butt, and wondered what it might look like burned into your ass? Remember all those times you teased him about it? ‘If I were your slave girl, Skeeter, you could burn that little doodle bug into my ass instead of your boots. Then everyone would know I belonged to you.’ You were secretly hoping for this, weren’t you? That’s why you gave him those expensive branded boots, and branded hat, and the gold cufflinks, and the custom tie. Remember when you took him to that fancy leather goods store, how you squeezed his hand and clenched your butt cheeks when you watched them burn the logo into his leather bag? It was quite the little naughty thrill, imagining it was your soft skin instead of the leather that the brand was burning into.”

“That’s why you put his Skeeter drawing up on your wall next to the Picasso. You were hoping that someday, somehow, he would burn it on your ass. Or at least you enjoyed the fantasy of it. But your Platinum card won’t help you now, little girl. Now you’re a real Sandy Foot Girl, bought and sold. No, you had to let Rita strip you down buck naked and give you a real run through at The Big D. You wanted to see what it would be like. Now the papers are in her purse, and the ass is on your iron. Now, your dream has come true.”

[Darrenwhipsthesluts]

Joe, I simply cannot laude this masterpiece enough. If Shopenhauer's " The World as Will and Representation " is considered his greatest work, these last two chapters have made "Any Chance Auction" on par with the such great magnum opuses in the world of erotic fiction. I'm sure I speak for many here, when I say a giant standing ovation and shouts of Bravisimo are in order.

[lovethissite]

Joe: Enjoyed this chapter too hope there are more coming at some point. "Slave Hummer" even in great distress still doesn't understand her situation. Maybe now that her branding is completed she can start understanding her new lot in life. I doubt it though, her self importance is amazing and she is definitely in need of an attitude adjustment. I hope Rita, Skeeter and Rosco love the artwork and will enjoy their new toy. Thanks again for continuing this great series.

[jeepster]

Awesome chapter! Can't believe this story can keep getting better!

[lovethissite]

Joe: I loved the last couple of chapters , please continue. Hillary has been a great character and its is good to read more about her. It seems like she is a younger Anne and has Skeeter's heart now. She is enjoying controlling Anne both with her fiddle playing and her taping of the her multiple brandings. "Slave Hummer" is now property and after her 36 month court imposed sentence, Hillary and now husband Skeeter should forever own her and her fortune. Hillary and Skeeter with the now naked, collared, branded and pierced and completely broken slave, will enjoy their new founded wealth and power. Hummer is used to Hillary's delight and approval by all her former staff, associates and so called "society friends" as a mere servant now for their pleasure and now pain slut, she has found her true purpose in life.

[Carl Bradford]

Knowing Joe, I suspect that there may still be plot twists to come. (I have already suggested that the power of attorney would have allowed Annie to be purchased and enslaved with her own money, then released only after suitable subjugation, but I'm sure Joe has something equally if not more devious in mind for her.)
It appears that Annie is finally admitting to herself that she really wanted this humiliation, that all her prick-teasing was a half-conscious effort to end up naked, implanted, and branded. Bout time she woke up. If so, her sister has achieved the learning objective that she articulated when she checked Annie in two (? I've lost track) days earlier. All of which doesn't change the fact that I (and I suspect other readers) still hope that Annie will experience the full depths of being a sex slave--even if her butt hurts too much for her to enjoy betting screwed at the moment.
Fantastic, as always.

[Hooked6]

“She looks pretty excited,” Hillary noted. “Can we make her hump the brand?”

Hillary turned the branding iron around, and put the old time wooden handle between my legs. Then she began to rub it against my hot, wet pussy. Like the Pleasure Slut they thought I was, I responded, pushing back against the stick.

“Oh my GAWD!” a girl said. “She’s humping it! She’s humping the branding iron that’s going to burn her ass.”

Hillary, grinning like a devil, put the wooden handle inside me as I rode it for all it’s worth. I couldn’t move much, but she worked the stick good, and quickly brought the trembling bitch in the branding rack to slave-gasm. My face burned beet red with humiliation as I watched my pussy tremble on the gigantic monitor.

I just LOVE this humiliating visual. Just perfect. Some authors spend excessive time "World" or universe building, others march on in a hurry to recount the plot, but you, Joe, are a master story teller. Inserting scenes like this leave most readers simply in awe.

Hooked6

[Mr. Smith]

I just love the creativity. Introducing "Slave Behave" to insure the slave gets the entire branding experience to remind her of her current status. No sleeping through it. At some point will she have a dry pee with nothing coming out with the number of brandings. Then demeaning the pleasure slut with her humping the brand. Incredible visualization. I am trying to decide if it is more humbling to hump the brand right before or after it is used. Why not just do both.

I would like to know if Joe or anyone else has ever considered using a horse twitch in a story? Carl and I have been discussing the use of this instrument or something similar in stories we are working on. It just has such a brutally demeaning quality to it.

[Hooked6]

I would like to know if Joe or anyone else has ever considered using a horse twitch in a story? Carl and I have been discussing the use of this instrument or something similar in stories we are working on. It just has such a brutally demeaning quality to it.

Actually a horse twitch is just a distraction to the horse to keep its mind off what you are doing elsewhere on the horse's body. Although it looks brutal or painful to someone not terribly well familiar with horses, it actually causes no real pain. The twitch is rope like device placed on the horse's lips and twisted a bit to encase the lips. Since a horse cannot see directly in front of them - their eyes are off to each side to search for preditors - they are essentially blind in their area of their nose and forehead. The twitch confuses them as they can't figure out what that feeling is on their lips. If the twitch is misused to cause pain it is ineffective and causes more violent reactions from the horse thereby preventing the farrier or Vet from doing his/her work. It is the same as someone rubbing the area between the eyes on a horse's face as it calms them. They can't see what is going on but they know it feels good so they focus on that good feeling rather than the needle the Vet is holding about to give them an injection in the neck that the horse CAN SEE. Works most of the time.

A twitch on a human slave to have the same effect would be something like a hood over the slave's face or blinders on a pony girl restricting their vision then teasing their nipples or pussy with a feather. The girl's attention will be on the feather NOT on the branding iron about to sear their butt. Hope that helps.

Hooked6

[Mr. Smith]

I want to thank Hooked6 for clearing up how a horse twitch is used. I did watch a video on how it was used. For my story I was looking for something that was more demeaning than leading the ponygirl/boy by the bridle for the breeding scene. I will have the ponygirl "hobbled" which will be more of a spreader bar than an actual horse hobble but wanted to use as many equine terms as possible. An actual horse twitch could be used on the stallion. Loop it over the testicles and twist until tight. An additional twist or two would be extremely painful to force compliance. The trainer would actually have him by the balls so to speak. I will apologize to those of you who just crossed your legs either physically or mentally at that image. For the ponygirl I was thinking of some sort of nose clip inside of the nostrils. Using a horse twitch like device on the lower lip might work but could lead to bruising or swelling if twisted to tight. Just picture me pulling on my lower lip while thinking, "Can I get a horse twitch device on here." There are some creative minds on here and was open for suggestions. I still love Gary's pear like device, I think it was named the slave catcher or something like that and the visualization of Amy stuck on it climaxing is one of my favorite scenes.

[Hooked6]

For my story I was looking for something that was more demeaning than leading the ponygirl/boy by the bridle for the breeding scene. There are some creative minds on here and was open for suggestions.

Okay, if you are looking for a cringe-worthy visual, how about instead of a twitch you use a forceps-like clamp that locks onto the top and bottom of the pony-girl's tongue that is protruding out of her mouth. The more she resists, the farther her tongue is pulled out of her mouth. It can be coated with an aphrodisiac substance (or semen) causing her to produce massive amounts of thick saliva dribbling down her face and chest. The clamp is attached to a lead line/rope which is used to pull the pony-girl towards whatever destination or breeding station after she is shown off to the crowd? The substance on the clamp can also stimulate copious amounts of vaginal secretions perfect for breeding which slowly form long, thick, string-like slime that dangle between her legs eventually breaking free falling to the ground as she walks along.

Not sure if this will do for your story. It was just a thought.

Hooked6

[Mr. Smith]

Hooked6 wrote,

It can be coated with an aphrodisiac substance (or semen) causing her to produce massive amounts of thick saliva dribbling down her face and chest.

I love this idea for the ponygirl's bit. Chemically arousing the poor little ponygirls when their arms are restrained so that they cannot service themselves is a good visual. Slap a collar on them that only allows them to make horse sounds and all they can do is whinny in frustration. Could this be used routinely or just on special occasions? One would not want the slave to develop a tollerance to it. How about an aphrodisiac laced lump sugar as a reward?

I am starting on my ponygirl chapter for Allison and I am wrestling witht the dielma of wether or not to have her with a bit in her mouth when she is hobbled for breeding. With the horse sound collars you would get amusing horse sounds from the ponygirl getting bred. I mean, what does a horse orgasm or moan sound like? How would I write it in the story? With the bits in their moths it is more huiliating, especially if wearing blinders with the head secured looking at the ground so she can only hear what is going on around. And no horse sounds. So may dilemas and so little time.

[lovethissite]

Joe: Caught up finally and loved it again, can't wait for more. After Anne serves out her court sentence, including servicing her legal team, she is returned to now Mistress Rita and Master Rosco as a humble passive and obedient slave, both pleasure and pain. Rita no longer considers Anne her "sister" and uses her frequently. Skeeter and Hillary are now married and want to start a family, someday, so Rita as a belated wedding gift, gives Anne as their forever slave and servant. Skeeter has Anne immediately permanently pussy branded, owned by S & H, for Skeeter and Hillary.