Sandy Foot Girl, Part 6A ON BRAND
Posted: Thu Jul 29, 2021 2:44 pm
Inspired by Carl’s recent writings, I decided to restart another stalled story. More to come!
Sandy Foot Girl, Part 6A: ON BRAND
By Joe Doe
“SOLD!”
As a professional slave consultant, I knew the word “sold” was one of those magical legal terms, like “fair warning” or “as is”, that creates a binding contract in a court of law. I had actually described it as a “legal key word” to my star pupil Timmy, when he was breathlessly taking notes in my class, hanging on my every word as I strutted back and forth in front of him in my $2,500 Armani business suit.
The simple, four letter word was the same, but the meaning was very different, now that I was naked on the auction block at The Big D, thrusting my pussy at the bidders and flicking my buttery bean for their entertainment. My scrawny, snotty-nosed teenage student was now my auctioneer. “Tiny Tim”, as I had derisively nicknamed him, towered over me, the slave whip he had cracked across my naked ass in one hand, the ornate wooden auction gavel I had given him as a graduation present in the other.
Timmy said the magic word in his slow, Texas drawl, so it rolled out as a musical, “Sooooooulll-duh!” savoring his triumph by taking a good three seconds to complete the magic spell to transform me from the career professional who had trained him and totally redesigned all the systems at The Big D, from intake and inventory to accounting and sales, to lot B-269, just another sweaty, naked, sandy foot girl sold like an animal off the auction block.
In the audience I could see several men grinning as I masturbated for their viewing pleasure. Some were looking at me, some at the overhead monitors that made my wet, open pussy look like a walk-in attraction. A few were already looking at their programs, checking the next girl up. The bidders checking their phones that pissed me off the most. It was the most humiliating moment of my life, and they were checking their messages, or perhaps the sports scores. Didn’t they realize who I was? Fuckers! I had designed the room they were standing in. I had picked out the bench cushions they were sitting on, and selected the overhead monitors they were gawking at. It had been my idea to put in the free WIFI they were using.
One woman looked at me with a combination of pity and disgust; Timmy had whipped my ass, I had peed myself, and I was covered with sweat and sand. She looked at me like I was a pig wallowing in it’s own filth, which I was. That’s how I designed it. My instructions to Jake had been clear, and now I was suffering through the system I had so perfectly designed.
“They’re livestock Jake. Strip ‘em buck naked. The customer’s need to see the merchandise, and feel it, and The Big D doesn’t sell pigs-in-pokes! Make ‘em sweat, and roll in the sand, and juice themselves, with everyone watching. Crack the whip on their skanky asses if you need to. Make the little piggies squeal. Their humiliation is all part of the show! Remember, the only difference between a Sandy Foot Girl and any other farm animal is two feet instead of four.”
The world was moving in slow motion. Timmy was still rolling out the magical word, SOLD, and the ornate auctioneer’s gavel I had placed in his hand on his graduation day was high in the air. Even knowing that the fall of the hammer would seal my doom, I felt a surge of pride, because of the height of the hammer. Timmy had remembered my training.
"Bring the gavel down HARD. Not only does it mark the legal completion of the sale, it’ll give the buyer a real sense of closure, and satisfaction. Plus it will wake up the dozers in the crowd and let them know the next piece of slave meat is ready for sale. Some of these girls never heard a gavel slam in a court proceeding, so you want to hit the hammer hard enough that the Pleasure Slut you’re selling will hear the sound ringing in her ears for the rest of her life. You’re not just dropping a hammer, you’re dropping a hammer on HER, on her freedom, on her old life."
“SOLLLLLLLLD!”
The auctioneer’s gavel came down with swiftness and finality, WHOOSHING through the air like a guillotine blade. The explosive pistol shot bang did indeed ring in my ears, causing me to jump a bit even as my pussy began to quiver into another slave-gasm to mark the completion of my sale. There was a light smattering of applause for Timmy’s expertise as my wet hole quivered on the huge jumbotrons through the auction area. Timmy was smiling, but at the bidders, not a me. Smiling at me would be as ridiculous as smiling at a chair or steamer trunk he had just sold.
His teacher, Sarah Hollister, Harvard Professor and jet setting consultant, no longer existed. Lot-B269, had been sold.
They say a slave girl never forgets her first auction. I knew I would never forget mine. Timmy, the pimply, snotty nosed teenage I had trained, had whipped my ass, both literally and figuratively. I had peed on myself. I had shaken my tits and shown them my asshole. I had rolled around in the sand like a frisky puppy. Under the crack of Timmy’s whip, I had shown the buyers everything I had, then masturbated myself to orgasm with my legs spread wide so they could see my little pink pussy spasm with pleasure. I wasn’t mortified; I was crushed. But I knew now from firsthand experience that the advice I had given my students was right. The sound of Timmy’s gavel would indeed ring in my ears forever.
I was an animal, livestock. I was a slave.
Although I was now a sold item, I did not altogether escape Timmy’s attention. Annoyed by the trouble I had caused him, and indifferent to the pleasure still quaking through my pussy, used his boot to push my head down into the sand and rub my nose into my “little accident” as my grandmother used to call it when her mutt peed on the rug. I didn’t resist this indignity, or protest when he yanked me up roughly by the hair and sent me scurrying to the edge of the auction block with a hard slap on my freshly whipped ass.
Was he too rough on me? Not at all. In establishing his absolute dominance, Timmy was showing the next girl already sprinting across the stage to take my place what would happen to her if she failed to obey every command to perfection. I looked back over my shoulder at Timmy even as I stumbled forward, but he was already onto the next girl. Whatever relationship we had once had was over, and his only concern would be to collect his commission.
I stumbled forward like a zombie. I was too rattled to think clearly, too ashamed to make eye contact with any of The Big D slave wranglers waiting for me of the stage. They were all wearing hats or shirts or belt buckles with The Big D logo. As per my directive, employees always promoted the logo in “on stage” areas. They were always “on brand”. I recognized a few of the slave wranglers, but would they recognize me? They didn’t seem to. Sarah Hollister, consultant bore little resemblance to the barefoot tits-and-pussy being led away from the auction block.
A wrangler tapped my ass with the whip twice, signaling the price of disobedience, while another grim-faced cowpoke held the prongs of an electric cattle prod in front of my face so I could see the two metal spikes.
I didn’t panic, for I knew this was standard procedure. Sometimes Pleasure Sluts panic after they are sold, particularly if they fear their new master. They had nothing to worry about in my case. I was broken. There was nothing I wouldn’t do. There was nothing beneath me, except the wooden slats of the auction block, and the sand between my toes.
With a single smooth move one slave wrangler cuffed my hands behind my back while his partner stuck the O-ring gag into my mouth, forcing my mouth into a ridiculous “O” shape. The cuffs behind my back were quickly snapped to a short strap which attached to the back of my collar, forcing my wrists up to the middle of my back and leaving my ass fully exposed for the whip.
As a final indignity, a yellow sticker labeling me as SOLD was slapped onto my blue cattle ear tag, marking me as “sold inventory” that couldn’t be vended again, at least not until my new master (or Mistress?) wanted to sell me. The demeaning SOLD tag had been my idea; both as a practical inventory control measure, and an amusing “on brand” touch.
I didn’t know my sales price, let alone my buyer, but the clerk sitting beside the stage seemed pleased. He looked young to me; probably a college intern, but he was typing rapidly into the computer. It was a busy day at The Big D, and behind me Timmy was already chanting his auctioneer’s patter about the next girls “nice tits, and hot pussy”.
Sara Hollister had designed the system, but B-269 was just another slave, and the business of The Big D ground on.
“Fair price. Not bad for 88.6 seconds of work,” he said, noting my elapsed “block” time on his laptop.
“Yeah. Maybe Timmy can buy us dinner tonight,” the older, more grizzled wrangler said with a chuckle and a Dallas twang.
There had to be a mistake. 88.6 SECONDS? Seriously? I thought I had been on the bock for at least ten minutes. Could it have taken less than 90 seconds to strip away every last shred of dignity, and utterly disgrace me, and sell my pussy to the highest bidder.
I couldn’t believe it, and the knowledge of how swiftly I had been sold flicked away whatever remaining crumbs of my self-esteem I might have left on the block. I had cum – no, I had a slave-gasm, in front of everyone, multiple times, in 88.6 seconds? Was I really that slave hot?
I was. There was a stop watch on the table next to the computer, and as per my strict instructions, block time was measured ‘gavel-to-gavel.” Already the seconds were counting down on the next wretched girl’s sale.
88.6 seconds. Unbelievable. As I had said to Jake, “numbers don’t lie.”
Ah, yes, the numbers! The clerk was entering my sales data into AUCTIO OPS, a bolt on program I had designed which work with SAP. AUCTION OPS would immediately figure Timmy’s commission, and book the journal entries and receivable for my sale. It even allocated the various value-added costs, such as salaries, advertising, and other overhead costs, into my “cost of goods sold” so that Jake would be able to see an instant margin on B-269 on his daily sales report.
Of course, Jake wasn’t much of a numbers guy. He usually looked at the bottom line, and only called in Rebecca, his accountant, to dig into the detail if the numbers surprised him. My juicy slave pussy would be just another line item buried deep in a routine report Jake would barely glance at, if he bothered to look at it at all.
Jake had called me back numerous times to do detailed number crunching with Rebecca and make recommendations, which I had done. My analytics had done wonders for Jake’s bottom line. Today I had contributed to Jake’s income statement in a far more direct way. My “executive voice”, the one that I used for public speaking and management presentations, kicked in, explaining things to the dazed, silly slave girl with the blue SOLD tag dangling from her ear.
90 seconds is a good time, slave girl. Remember, The Big D is a livestock auction house, and you’re just another pussy to be sold. Whip ‘em, Ship ‘em, that’s what I say. Yes, it’s humiliating, but it’s totally on brand.
I felt a strange surge of pride at my sales price. Slave girls are very vain. But my executive voice knew I was only one girl. With the number of slave girls moving through The Big D today, cracking the whip across my ass and ordering me to pleasure my juicy gash onstage had only increased the profit margin ever-so-slightly. Still, as I told Jake, pennies add up to dollars. Perhaps my shameful degradation would help someone make their bonus, or help Jake pay for the oil painting of the Roman slave auction he had wanted to put in the entrance hall of his home. The picture had piqued my curiosity, and I remember pondering if I might someday design a slave market with a Roman theme.
No matter; the efficiency of the system I had set up at The Big D meant that I would no longer be contributing to slave markets as a designer, but only as inventory. I hoped Jake would enjoy the beautiful painting of my ancient Roman slave sister being auctioned, just as I had been auctioned, and I felt a slave girl’s natural surge of pride in knowing that the proceeds of my sale would buy something beautiful for my master.
I had assumed that my years of writing about slave girl psychology would prevent me from having the patterns of slave girl thinking implanted in my brain, but my joy was real.
I was startled as the wranglers quickly lifted me up off the auction block and passed me from the stage to the floor. I shouldn’t have been surprised; the wooden stairs leading up to the block were reserved for staff, and I was sold inventory. The men on the stage passed me to the men on the floor with an effortless ease born of experience. Now that I was sold goods, I would have to get used to be passed around, kenneled, crated, and shipped.
The grizzled old wrangler who had been hoping for a steak dinner attached a leash to my collar and led me to a side EMPLOYEES ONLY door that connected Broadway to “backstage”. He wasn’t rough or mean, but insistent, and we moved quickly. I hurried. After all, in a few seconds, it would be time for the next girl.
As we approached the door a peculiar sight caught my eye. It was a naked Pleasure Slut, her tits bouncing as she walked. She was covered in sand: there were clumps of dark sand in her long blonde hair, around her feet and clinging to her legs and feet. There were even clumps around her pussy, which was obviously quite wet and sticky. She was a hot, randy, Pleasure Slut, a typical Sandy Foot Girl. She was walking funny, and as I was feeling Timmy’s whip with every step I wondered for a moment if someone had whipped her ass. I hoped so. She was a disgusting little slut, the sort of randy little whore any decent woman despises on sight, and the thought of someone cracking the whip on her ass made me smile. The little strumpet was looking down at her dirty, sandy feet, too ashamed to make eye contact. Even in my present state she knew that I was better than her. But as we walked toward each other she lifted her head as I lifted mine, and for a moment our eyes locked.
She was wearing an O-ring gag. The drool was running out of her mouth and a couple of strands on either side were hanging off her chin, making her look like a slobbering St. Bernard, or maybe a Mastiff. No, a dog looked smarter: as I looked in this girl’s eyes, I saw nothing but stupid. It was clear from simply glancing at her that she was just another naked, feckless bimbo. Her eyes were glassy, and she was stupefied and slow-witted. It was clear from her vacant expression and the way she was drooling that the girl was an idiot, and I wondered if she had ever had a thought in her pretty, empty head. I had doubted it, and again, hoped that her new master would whip some sense into her skanky ass.
I wondered why she was walking toward the clerk while I was walking away. What had the idiot pig-girl done? Had the little dolt even managed to screw up her SALE? I smiled at the thought. To my surprise, she smiled back, mistaking my amusement at her stupidity for friendliness. What an airhead!
It wasn’t until we were almost touching that I had realized how blind I was. My heart sank as I realized that I wasn’t looking at another girl, but at my own reflection. I wasn’t walking towards another girl, but the enormous “last chance” mirror by the door that Timmy used to check his tie before he walked up the stairs to the auction block.
No wonder no one recognized me. I didn’t recognize myself. The image in the mirror both startled and frightened me. No. It chilled me to the bone. As a University Professor, I’d studied Professor Agatha Crush’s pioneering work on slave conditioning. Indeed, I had actually incorporated her theories into my design of The Big D. Reduced to its most elemental level, slave conditioning was a process for transforming an young woman into a shameless Pleasure Slut, hot, wet, and ready for the collar.
Some argued that it was the process of releasing the Pleasure Slut buried inside the girl, but that was an academic discussion, for the actual conditioning worked the same in either case.
As if to put a bow on it, a familiar face rapidly strode toward me. It was Rebecca Cook, The Big D’s accountant. I had spent hours with Rebecca, helping her install The Big D’s new systems and making sure that her chart of accounts was setup with enough granularity to analyze both her costs and profits from all conceivable angles.
I had proved to Rebecca that the Orange Fork program provided slave slop that was both cheaper and more nutritious than slave kibble, which after my competitive bidding program was put in place now cost less than the sand that was now clinging to my naked body. I had shown her how smaller cages or “double/triple caging” reduced the need for shelf space, and how shock collars actually saved money by reducing the need to mark the inventory with the whip. “We’re not here to make the girls comfortable, we’re here to sell their juicy twats,” I’d tell her. “Put the money on the stage, not on the page.”
Rebecca and I had become acquainted as I reorganized The Big D, and really got into the spirit of things when she figured out the power rush she could get from turning the screws on the girls to make more money. We got the giggles when we setup the vegetable garden in the large lot we kept set aside for future expansion. The feckless slave girls would have to poop and pee in the lot to fertilize it, and then work the fields and harvest the food that would be sold for a profit, or used for slave feed if it was unfit for human consumption. “Make the ho’s ho!” we tittered.
Rebecca ran a tight ship, just like I had taught her, and I had been sold in less than 90 seconds. That was as it should be, for we were at my Level 5 classification level – Red, “Whip ‘em & Ship ‘em”, as I called it. As she strode toward me, I felt a surge of pride in seeing my clever apprentice put my theories into practice with such ruthless efficiency. The line employees certainly seemed to respect her, with everyone clearing a path for her as her heels CLICKED a brisk path across the cement floor, just as they had once done for me.
Rebecca was wearing a conservative grey business suit, with a smart jacket and skirt that was cut at just about her knee. Her makeup was simple, and she was carrying a leather binder stuffed with papers. The hallway behind Broadway led in all directions, and Rebecca, looking every inch the serious professional I had trained her to be, was probably on the way back to her office. Whatever her destination, there was a definite swagger in her step, and she walked like a woman in charge, again, just as I always did.
I had helped Rebecca spruce up her professional wardrobe, explaining that just as the business needed to be “on brand”, she needed to be on brand as well. Being a beautiful woman in a male dominated slaving business, she had to look the part, and choose accessories that emphasized her professionalism and power. I had convinced her to ditch the jeans and plaid shirts, and to don professional looking glasses she really didn’t need, but which made her look intellectual.
What surprised me was how much she looked like me. She had died her hair the same shade of blonde, and put it up in the same style as me. She was wearing the same style of glasses I wore, and had even copied my commanding presence and walk. She had totally stolen my look, though as a mere bean counter she could never dress as well as I.
However, today I envied her JC Penny suit, as I was slave naked and leashed, with an O gag in my mouth. I had been her boss, but now her commanding presence washed over me like an ocean wave, as the wranglers parted before her. I felt a slave girl’s instinctive terror at seeing such a well-dressed and powerful woman strutting confidentially toward me.
I jerked against my shoulder cuffs, desperate to cover my nakedness. I was fresh off the block, sold, whipped, and covered in my own filth, and the clumpy dark sand we had purchased together. I couldn’t let this elegantly dressed professional woman see me this way! Alas, I could not help it. My wrangler jerked me out of the way so she could pass, but Rebecca paused. She had been my friend, or at least my subordinate, but now she looked me over with a critical, appraising eye, starting at my toes and letting her eyes do a leisurely run over my trembling, naked slave flesh.
Once again it was like looking in a mirror, but not. She looked like me, right down to my cold, calculating stare. The contrast between us, her, a tastefully dressed female executive, and me, a naked, leashed Pleasure Slut, couldn’t have been more complete. As I jerked in my cuffs, trying to hide my nudity from her withering appraisal, I truly understood what it meant to be “slave naked.”
“Smelly little bimbo,” Rebecca observed, wrinkling her nose.
“She worked up a stink in the slave chute, and they worked her hard on the block. Plus, I think she pissed herself on the block.”
“Of course, she did,” Rebecca said disdainfully, “that’s what piggies do. But it’s her slave heat I’m smelling. She stinks like a vibrator in a nunnery.”
“That’s how the buyers like them, Ma’am,” my wrangler said.
Rebecca nodded. I gasped for air as my apprentice reached up and fingered the California shaped “Blue State Girl” tag that had been stapled through my ear. Running her finger over the SOLD sticker she asked my wrangler, “Quick turn?”
“88.6 seconds, Miss Cook,” the wrangler replied, in a voice that made it clear that he knew he was talking to his boss.
“Not bad,” Rebecca said, using her gold cross pen to lift up my chin so she could have a better look at me. “What was her margin?”
“I don’t rightly know, Miss Cook,” the wrangler said. “I can check, Ma’am,” he offered humbly.
Rebecca used the tip of her pen to lift up my breast by the nipple, weighing the goods. “Don’t bother, I’ll check it on the report,” she replied. Using her phone, Rebecca snapped a picture of my B-216 lot number for future reference. Clever girl! I had trained her well. Less than 90 seconds was an excellent turn time, but in the end it all came down to margin.
I had trained Rebecca to spot check operations, to match what she was seeing with what was on the page. I knew that later today she’d look up B-216 on her spreadsheet sales report, and scroll over to see my PPP – Profit per Pussy.
Would my PPP please Rebecca? Would I help Jake buy the painting of the naked Roman slave girls? I hoped so. Jake couldn’t be bothered to look at one slave girl’s statistics, but Rebecca would. I hoped she would be proud of me, or at least satisfied with my margin. What an honor for me, a lowly slave slut, to please an important executive like Rebecca Cook.
For a brief moment I felt a flicker of hope as I thought of Rebecca seeing my name on the report. She’ll recognize me! She’ll rescue me! This hope was quickly dashed as I recalled removing the names from the report and replacing it with columns that would show my relative sales ranking on a daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly basis, both by number and percentage. After all, after a girl was sold, her name was whatever her master gave her. The dollars were all that mattered.
We had become close, and during our work lunches, Rebecca often mused about what it would be like to be processed through the new system we were designing at The Big D. “I’d do it in a second, only I’m sure they’d recognized me!” Rebecca said.
“Not necessarily,” I countered. “Naked and tagged, you’d be just another pussy.” Rebecca had giggled, and I could tell the idea excited her. We had spent hours tittering about various schemes to put one or the other of us through our system “undercover, as a test, to gain an inside perspective,” or so we said.
Rebecca remained skeptical. “Do you really think that all of this mental conditioning you’ve built into the system would work, you know, on someone like you?”
“My research says yes, but I say no. I’m far too sophisticated to ever make a convincing Pleasure Slut. If you encountered me backstage, naked and collared, what would you do?”
Rebecca looked me up-and-down. “I’d sell you,” she said.
I felt a delicious little chill as we both giggled like schoolgirls. We hadn’t done it, of course, because Rebecca and I were both afraid of getting caught, and the toll it might take on our reputations. After all, it would be hard for our work colleagues to ever again treat us as serious professionals if they saw us squatting naked on the auction block. But my hypothetical had come to pass, and Rebecca had encountered me backstage. Only my transformation had been so complete that her cold blue eyes showed no hint of recognition, no trace of friendship. I was sold goods, and the only thing that mattered was my inventory turn time, and my contribution to her PPP.
Rebecca turned and began to click-click-click across the cement floor to her office. Desperate not to let my last possible link to my former life stroll away, I called her name, or tried to. With the “O” gag in my mouth, “Rebecca” came out as ‘Uh-ha-huh?”
Rebecca clearly surprised at the sheer audacity of a mere slave girl daring to speak to a well dressed financial professional, turned and looked at me. She didn’t show the slightest hint of recognition, only disgust, like I was a cockroach on her kitchen floor. I looked at Rebecca with pleading eyes, begging her to save me.
Whoosh! My handler hit me square on the ass with his quirt, causing me to scream in pain as the three lashes on the tip dug into my bottom.. “You know better than to talk to yer’ betters” he scolded.
Rebecca smiled as I jumped under the crack of the whip, my knees jerking up and my breasts bouncing. She didn’t intercede. After all, I was only a slave girl.
Her smiled faded as she regarded me coolly over the top of her Warby Parker glasses. I had trained her well, as I recognized the same disdainful, professional look I used when examining inventory.
Her demeanor oozed her superiority and arrogance. As with the girl in the mirror, I was looking at a reflection of me, or at least, my former self. I knew my fate was entirely in her hands. I trembled at her confidence and power, and melted under her pitiless, searing gaze.
I knew this was my last chance. I had to say something, to make her recognize me, to plead my case. But awed by her presence, all I could do was whimper, and when I tried to use my hands to explain, I simply jerked in my elbow cuffs, bouncing my titties for her. My little “bimbo dance” amused her, and her lips curved up with just the hint of a smile. Seeing that I had amused his boss, my wrangler flicked my bottom twice with the tip of the quirt, signaling that I should continue. With the sting of the quirt and the pain from Timmy’s whip still burning on my ass, I quickly obeyed.
I hopped from foot-to-foot, drool dribbling down my chin, the blue cattle tag hanging from my ear slapping my face, my boobies and butt cheeks bouncing. “Knees up!” my wrangler ordered, punctuating his command with a flick of the quirt! OUCH! I continued my titty dance, knees high, while Rebecca smirked at me.
Oh, how I hated her, and her smug, superior smile! In that moment, I wanted SO much to process the great Miss Rebecca Cook through The Big D, giving her the full treatment. I actually joked about it once, enjoying her blush as I suggested a day in the slave inspection pens, as part of an internal audit, “and I do mean internal.” Oh yes, it would be great fun to see her on the auction block, legs spread, while Timmy cracked the whip!
“What’s her number again?”, Rebecca said, clearly having forgotten me before she had even walked away.
“B-269, Ma’am,” my wrangler replied.
“Where’s she heading?” she asked the wrangler.
“Export to Mexico,” he replied. “But I gotta badge her first.”
“Get her there. I want her pussy in transit on the next truck.”
“I think that trucks full,” he said.
“Bullshit,” Rebecca said. “Do a slave ship pack. It’s not like she can smell any worse,” she added, regarding me with disgust.
Before I could even process the import of this conversation, my wrangler jerked on my leash and twisted me around. I stumbled barefoot down the hall, my sandy feet feeling cold on the freezing cement. I looked over my shoulder, and saw her smiling with approval at the whip marks on my ass.
My wrangler jerked my leash harder, and soon I heard Miss Cook’s heels click-click-click away from me as a voice in my head scolded me for my foolishness.
My wrangler was right, Miss Cook was my better, and I felt ashamed at having delayed her. I deserved to have my ass whipped. Bad, bad slave girl!
Don’t even think of calling her Rebecca. It’s Miss Cook to you, slave girl. How dare you try to talk to her! Do your little titty dance, like the feckless bimbo you are, while the wrangler lashes your ass, and Miss Cook laughs at you. What a silly little slave clown you are, to think that someone as important as Miss Cook could ever worry about you.
I struggled to push the voice out of my head, but it was no use. I had studied Agatha Crush’s work carefully, and I considered The Big D to be the culmination of her theories. I felt that The Big D was uniquely suited to her sort of operant conditioning, as it’s playful “livestock” brand which I promoted so relentlessly enforced the idea that the “inventory” was chattel, no different than a cow or a pig. The natural result of this was that the weak-minded sluts not only acted like slave girls, but SAW themselves as slave girls, fully internalizing their new identities.
I, of course, had thought I was far too sophisticated for such conditioning. As an educated professional woman well trained in the art and science of slavery, I could never see myself as a mere slave girl! My façade had held, until the disgusting pleasure slut covered with sand I had seen in the mirror, and Rebecca Cook’s cool appraisal, kicked me in the stomach like a one-two punch from a MMA champion.
My mind struggled to process what Rebecca had said. Mexico? What the fuck? Becky Lou was supposed to buy me and release me, so I could go back to Austin. Rebecca had to have made a mistake. No. Rebecca, ever the accountant, didn’t make mistakes. Her spreadsheets didn’t lie. I was sold inventory, and soon I’d be in transit.
I had devised the slave ship pack, a more efficient method of cargo transport. Sometimes the girls were shipped standing, with their hands chained over their head pressed “titty to titty, with their pussies rubbing,” as I had wrote. Other times I put the girls on top of each other, in a 69 position. I liked to pair the girls that way, so the skanky little sluts could hump and tease each other, and arrive at the delivery point all nice and slave hot. Of course, the stink of all that hot, wet pussy inside of the truck was unspeakable, but I had come up with a way to turn a quick profit on it. Several “odor cameras” allowed me to capture the scent of their juices, wafting up through the panel truck, capturing it before it escaped through the vent.
“Sell every part of the pig but the oink, Rebecca,” I had chortled. I blushed at the idea of the scent of my slave juices being sold as a perfume or room “freshener” at The Big D mall, or being used by some housewife who wanted to smell like a skank for a roleplay with her husband, or at a fashionable party where the hostess wanted to be a little naughty. It had been a brilliant idea, and turned a tidy profit, but it didn’t seem so clever now that I had turned the stink from my pussy into a commodity that would be bought and sold.
I would have a nice, leisurely, 10-hour drive to the Mexican border. We’d be waved through the border quickly, without a customs inspection, as soon as they saw The Big D logo on the side of the truck. I had arranged a system where every now and then a Pleasure Slut was left behind as a “gratuity” for “further inspection.” I had been sold to an individual, or so I hoped, because if I was part of a large lot I might well get picked off by the guards to be used, used, used some more, then re-sold. I shuddered at the thought.
It would be 10 hours to the border, and much, much longer depending on deep we went into Mexico. We made shipments as far as Chiapas, which was a hub of slaving activity for all of Central America, and bordered on Guatemala. If I was being shipped that far, I’d be driving for days, across dirty, bumpy roads. My pussy buzzed at the thought, and I hoped my “road buddy” would be hot.
I felt a strange surge of pride, thinking of all the pussy stink I’d generate for Rebecca to sell. Cha-ching! Again, the executive voice in my head kicked in.
Don’t worry, slave girl. Miss Cook will pack you in nice and tight, with a pussy in your face, so you’ll have something to munch on all the way down. She sold your pussy, and now she’s going to sell the stink off your pussy, and make a tidy profit on it, too. Maybe she’ll even check the truck’s web cam, and watch you rub your titties against another slut, and slavegasm for everyone to see.
Sandy Foot Girl, Part 6A: ON BRAND
By Joe Doe
“SOLD!”
As a professional slave consultant, I knew the word “sold” was one of those magical legal terms, like “fair warning” or “as is”, that creates a binding contract in a court of law. I had actually described it as a “legal key word” to my star pupil Timmy, when he was breathlessly taking notes in my class, hanging on my every word as I strutted back and forth in front of him in my $2,500 Armani business suit.
The simple, four letter word was the same, but the meaning was very different, now that I was naked on the auction block at The Big D, thrusting my pussy at the bidders and flicking my buttery bean for their entertainment. My scrawny, snotty-nosed teenage student was now my auctioneer. “Tiny Tim”, as I had derisively nicknamed him, towered over me, the slave whip he had cracked across my naked ass in one hand, the ornate wooden auction gavel I had given him as a graduation present in the other.
Timmy said the magic word in his slow, Texas drawl, so it rolled out as a musical, “Sooooooulll-duh!” savoring his triumph by taking a good three seconds to complete the magic spell to transform me from the career professional who had trained him and totally redesigned all the systems at The Big D, from intake and inventory to accounting and sales, to lot B-269, just another sweaty, naked, sandy foot girl sold like an animal off the auction block.
In the audience I could see several men grinning as I masturbated for their viewing pleasure. Some were looking at me, some at the overhead monitors that made my wet, open pussy look like a walk-in attraction. A few were already looking at their programs, checking the next girl up. The bidders checking their phones that pissed me off the most. It was the most humiliating moment of my life, and they were checking their messages, or perhaps the sports scores. Didn’t they realize who I was? Fuckers! I had designed the room they were standing in. I had picked out the bench cushions they were sitting on, and selected the overhead monitors they were gawking at. It had been my idea to put in the free WIFI they were using.
One woman looked at me with a combination of pity and disgust; Timmy had whipped my ass, I had peed myself, and I was covered with sweat and sand. She looked at me like I was a pig wallowing in it’s own filth, which I was. That’s how I designed it. My instructions to Jake had been clear, and now I was suffering through the system I had so perfectly designed.
“They’re livestock Jake. Strip ‘em buck naked. The customer’s need to see the merchandise, and feel it, and The Big D doesn’t sell pigs-in-pokes! Make ‘em sweat, and roll in the sand, and juice themselves, with everyone watching. Crack the whip on their skanky asses if you need to. Make the little piggies squeal. Their humiliation is all part of the show! Remember, the only difference between a Sandy Foot Girl and any other farm animal is two feet instead of four.”
The world was moving in slow motion. Timmy was still rolling out the magical word, SOLD, and the ornate auctioneer’s gavel I had placed in his hand on his graduation day was high in the air. Even knowing that the fall of the hammer would seal my doom, I felt a surge of pride, because of the height of the hammer. Timmy had remembered my training.
"Bring the gavel down HARD. Not only does it mark the legal completion of the sale, it’ll give the buyer a real sense of closure, and satisfaction. Plus it will wake up the dozers in the crowd and let them know the next piece of slave meat is ready for sale. Some of these girls never heard a gavel slam in a court proceeding, so you want to hit the hammer hard enough that the Pleasure Slut you’re selling will hear the sound ringing in her ears for the rest of her life. You’re not just dropping a hammer, you’re dropping a hammer on HER, on her freedom, on her old life."
“SOLLLLLLLLD!”
The auctioneer’s gavel came down with swiftness and finality, WHOOSHING through the air like a guillotine blade. The explosive pistol shot bang did indeed ring in my ears, causing me to jump a bit even as my pussy began to quiver into another slave-gasm to mark the completion of my sale. There was a light smattering of applause for Timmy’s expertise as my wet hole quivered on the huge jumbotrons through the auction area. Timmy was smiling, but at the bidders, not a me. Smiling at me would be as ridiculous as smiling at a chair or steamer trunk he had just sold.
His teacher, Sarah Hollister, Harvard Professor and jet setting consultant, no longer existed. Lot-B269, had been sold.
They say a slave girl never forgets her first auction. I knew I would never forget mine. Timmy, the pimply, snotty nosed teenage I had trained, had whipped my ass, both literally and figuratively. I had peed on myself. I had shaken my tits and shown them my asshole. I had rolled around in the sand like a frisky puppy. Under the crack of Timmy’s whip, I had shown the buyers everything I had, then masturbated myself to orgasm with my legs spread wide so they could see my little pink pussy spasm with pleasure. I wasn’t mortified; I was crushed. But I knew now from firsthand experience that the advice I had given my students was right. The sound of Timmy’s gavel would indeed ring in my ears forever.
I was an animal, livestock. I was a slave.
Although I was now a sold item, I did not altogether escape Timmy’s attention. Annoyed by the trouble I had caused him, and indifferent to the pleasure still quaking through my pussy, used his boot to push my head down into the sand and rub my nose into my “little accident” as my grandmother used to call it when her mutt peed on the rug. I didn’t resist this indignity, or protest when he yanked me up roughly by the hair and sent me scurrying to the edge of the auction block with a hard slap on my freshly whipped ass.
Was he too rough on me? Not at all. In establishing his absolute dominance, Timmy was showing the next girl already sprinting across the stage to take my place what would happen to her if she failed to obey every command to perfection. I looked back over my shoulder at Timmy even as I stumbled forward, but he was already onto the next girl. Whatever relationship we had once had was over, and his only concern would be to collect his commission.
I stumbled forward like a zombie. I was too rattled to think clearly, too ashamed to make eye contact with any of The Big D slave wranglers waiting for me of the stage. They were all wearing hats or shirts or belt buckles with The Big D logo. As per my directive, employees always promoted the logo in “on stage” areas. They were always “on brand”. I recognized a few of the slave wranglers, but would they recognize me? They didn’t seem to. Sarah Hollister, consultant bore little resemblance to the barefoot tits-and-pussy being led away from the auction block.
A wrangler tapped my ass with the whip twice, signaling the price of disobedience, while another grim-faced cowpoke held the prongs of an electric cattle prod in front of my face so I could see the two metal spikes.
I didn’t panic, for I knew this was standard procedure. Sometimes Pleasure Sluts panic after they are sold, particularly if they fear their new master. They had nothing to worry about in my case. I was broken. There was nothing I wouldn’t do. There was nothing beneath me, except the wooden slats of the auction block, and the sand between my toes.
With a single smooth move one slave wrangler cuffed my hands behind my back while his partner stuck the O-ring gag into my mouth, forcing my mouth into a ridiculous “O” shape. The cuffs behind my back were quickly snapped to a short strap which attached to the back of my collar, forcing my wrists up to the middle of my back and leaving my ass fully exposed for the whip.
As a final indignity, a yellow sticker labeling me as SOLD was slapped onto my blue cattle ear tag, marking me as “sold inventory” that couldn’t be vended again, at least not until my new master (or Mistress?) wanted to sell me. The demeaning SOLD tag had been my idea; both as a practical inventory control measure, and an amusing “on brand” touch.
I didn’t know my sales price, let alone my buyer, but the clerk sitting beside the stage seemed pleased. He looked young to me; probably a college intern, but he was typing rapidly into the computer. It was a busy day at The Big D, and behind me Timmy was already chanting his auctioneer’s patter about the next girls “nice tits, and hot pussy”.
Sara Hollister had designed the system, but B-269 was just another slave, and the business of The Big D ground on.
“Fair price. Not bad for 88.6 seconds of work,” he said, noting my elapsed “block” time on his laptop.
“Yeah. Maybe Timmy can buy us dinner tonight,” the older, more grizzled wrangler said with a chuckle and a Dallas twang.
There had to be a mistake. 88.6 SECONDS? Seriously? I thought I had been on the bock for at least ten minutes. Could it have taken less than 90 seconds to strip away every last shred of dignity, and utterly disgrace me, and sell my pussy to the highest bidder.
I couldn’t believe it, and the knowledge of how swiftly I had been sold flicked away whatever remaining crumbs of my self-esteem I might have left on the block. I had cum – no, I had a slave-gasm, in front of everyone, multiple times, in 88.6 seconds? Was I really that slave hot?
I was. There was a stop watch on the table next to the computer, and as per my strict instructions, block time was measured ‘gavel-to-gavel.” Already the seconds were counting down on the next wretched girl’s sale.
88.6 seconds. Unbelievable. As I had said to Jake, “numbers don’t lie.”
Ah, yes, the numbers! The clerk was entering my sales data into AUCTIO OPS, a bolt on program I had designed which work with SAP. AUCTION OPS would immediately figure Timmy’s commission, and book the journal entries and receivable for my sale. It even allocated the various value-added costs, such as salaries, advertising, and other overhead costs, into my “cost of goods sold” so that Jake would be able to see an instant margin on B-269 on his daily sales report.
Of course, Jake wasn’t much of a numbers guy. He usually looked at the bottom line, and only called in Rebecca, his accountant, to dig into the detail if the numbers surprised him. My juicy slave pussy would be just another line item buried deep in a routine report Jake would barely glance at, if he bothered to look at it at all.
Jake had called me back numerous times to do detailed number crunching with Rebecca and make recommendations, which I had done. My analytics had done wonders for Jake’s bottom line. Today I had contributed to Jake’s income statement in a far more direct way. My “executive voice”, the one that I used for public speaking and management presentations, kicked in, explaining things to the dazed, silly slave girl with the blue SOLD tag dangling from her ear.
90 seconds is a good time, slave girl. Remember, The Big D is a livestock auction house, and you’re just another pussy to be sold. Whip ‘em, Ship ‘em, that’s what I say. Yes, it’s humiliating, but it’s totally on brand.
I felt a strange surge of pride at my sales price. Slave girls are very vain. But my executive voice knew I was only one girl. With the number of slave girls moving through The Big D today, cracking the whip across my ass and ordering me to pleasure my juicy gash onstage had only increased the profit margin ever-so-slightly. Still, as I told Jake, pennies add up to dollars. Perhaps my shameful degradation would help someone make their bonus, or help Jake pay for the oil painting of the Roman slave auction he had wanted to put in the entrance hall of his home. The picture had piqued my curiosity, and I remember pondering if I might someday design a slave market with a Roman theme.
No matter; the efficiency of the system I had set up at The Big D meant that I would no longer be contributing to slave markets as a designer, but only as inventory. I hoped Jake would enjoy the beautiful painting of my ancient Roman slave sister being auctioned, just as I had been auctioned, and I felt a slave girl’s natural surge of pride in knowing that the proceeds of my sale would buy something beautiful for my master.
I had assumed that my years of writing about slave girl psychology would prevent me from having the patterns of slave girl thinking implanted in my brain, but my joy was real.
I was startled as the wranglers quickly lifted me up off the auction block and passed me from the stage to the floor. I shouldn’t have been surprised; the wooden stairs leading up to the block were reserved for staff, and I was sold inventory. The men on the stage passed me to the men on the floor with an effortless ease born of experience. Now that I was sold goods, I would have to get used to be passed around, kenneled, crated, and shipped.
The grizzled old wrangler who had been hoping for a steak dinner attached a leash to my collar and led me to a side EMPLOYEES ONLY door that connected Broadway to “backstage”. He wasn’t rough or mean, but insistent, and we moved quickly. I hurried. After all, in a few seconds, it would be time for the next girl.
As we approached the door a peculiar sight caught my eye. It was a naked Pleasure Slut, her tits bouncing as she walked. She was covered in sand: there were clumps of dark sand in her long blonde hair, around her feet and clinging to her legs and feet. There were even clumps around her pussy, which was obviously quite wet and sticky. She was a hot, randy, Pleasure Slut, a typical Sandy Foot Girl. She was walking funny, and as I was feeling Timmy’s whip with every step I wondered for a moment if someone had whipped her ass. I hoped so. She was a disgusting little slut, the sort of randy little whore any decent woman despises on sight, and the thought of someone cracking the whip on her ass made me smile. The little strumpet was looking down at her dirty, sandy feet, too ashamed to make eye contact. Even in my present state she knew that I was better than her. But as we walked toward each other she lifted her head as I lifted mine, and for a moment our eyes locked.
She was wearing an O-ring gag. The drool was running out of her mouth and a couple of strands on either side were hanging off her chin, making her look like a slobbering St. Bernard, or maybe a Mastiff. No, a dog looked smarter: as I looked in this girl’s eyes, I saw nothing but stupid. It was clear from simply glancing at her that she was just another naked, feckless bimbo. Her eyes were glassy, and she was stupefied and slow-witted. It was clear from her vacant expression and the way she was drooling that the girl was an idiot, and I wondered if she had ever had a thought in her pretty, empty head. I had doubted it, and again, hoped that her new master would whip some sense into her skanky ass.
I wondered why she was walking toward the clerk while I was walking away. What had the idiot pig-girl done? Had the little dolt even managed to screw up her SALE? I smiled at the thought. To my surprise, she smiled back, mistaking my amusement at her stupidity for friendliness. What an airhead!
It wasn’t until we were almost touching that I had realized how blind I was. My heart sank as I realized that I wasn’t looking at another girl, but at my own reflection. I wasn’t walking towards another girl, but the enormous “last chance” mirror by the door that Timmy used to check his tie before he walked up the stairs to the auction block.
No wonder no one recognized me. I didn’t recognize myself. The image in the mirror both startled and frightened me. No. It chilled me to the bone. As a University Professor, I’d studied Professor Agatha Crush’s pioneering work on slave conditioning. Indeed, I had actually incorporated her theories into my design of The Big D. Reduced to its most elemental level, slave conditioning was a process for transforming an young woman into a shameless Pleasure Slut, hot, wet, and ready for the collar.
Some argued that it was the process of releasing the Pleasure Slut buried inside the girl, but that was an academic discussion, for the actual conditioning worked the same in either case.
As if to put a bow on it, a familiar face rapidly strode toward me. It was Rebecca Cook, The Big D’s accountant. I had spent hours with Rebecca, helping her install The Big D’s new systems and making sure that her chart of accounts was setup with enough granularity to analyze both her costs and profits from all conceivable angles.
I had proved to Rebecca that the Orange Fork program provided slave slop that was both cheaper and more nutritious than slave kibble, which after my competitive bidding program was put in place now cost less than the sand that was now clinging to my naked body. I had shown her how smaller cages or “double/triple caging” reduced the need for shelf space, and how shock collars actually saved money by reducing the need to mark the inventory with the whip. “We’re not here to make the girls comfortable, we’re here to sell their juicy twats,” I’d tell her. “Put the money on the stage, not on the page.”
Rebecca and I had become acquainted as I reorganized The Big D, and really got into the spirit of things when she figured out the power rush she could get from turning the screws on the girls to make more money. We got the giggles when we setup the vegetable garden in the large lot we kept set aside for future expansion. The feckless slave girls would have to poop and pee in the lot to fertilize it, and then work the fields and harvest the food that would be sold for a profit, or used for slave feed if it was unfit for human consumption. “Make the ho’s ho!” we tittered.
Rebecca ran a tight ship, just like I had taught her, and I had been sold in less than 90 seconds. That was as it should be, for we were at my Level 5 classification level – Red, “Whip ‘em & Ship ‘em”, as I called it. As she strode toward me, I felt a surge of pride in seeing my clever apprentice put my theories into practice with such ruthless efficiency. The line employees certainly seemed to respect her, with everyone clearing a path for her as her heels CLICKED a brisk path across the cement floor, just as they had once done for me.
Rebecca was wearing a conservative grey business suit, with a smart jacket and skirt that was cut at just about her knee. Her makeup was simple, and she was carrying a leather binder stuffed with papers. The hallway behind Broadway led in all directions, and Rebecca, looking every inch the serious professional I had trained her to be, was probably on the way back to her office. Whatever her destination, there was a definite swagger in her step, and she walked like a woman in charge, again, just as I always did.
I had helped Rebecca spruce up her professional wardrobe, explaining that just as the business needed to be “on brand”, she needed to be on brand as well. Being a beautiful woman in a male dominated slaving business, she had to look the part, and choose accessories that emphasized her professionalism and power. I had convinced her to ditch the jeans and plaid shirts, and to don professional looking glasses she really didn’t need, but which made her look intellectual.
What surprised me was how much she looked like me. She had died her hair the same shade of blonde, and put it up in the same style as me. She was wearing the same style of glasses I wore, and had even copied my commanding presence and walk. She had totally stolen my look, though as a mere bean counter she could never dress as well as I.
However, today I envied her JC Penny suit, as I was slave naked and leashed, with an O gag in my mouth. I had been her boss, but now her commanding presence washed over me like an ocean wave, as the wranglers parted before her. I felt a slave girl’s instinctive terror at seeing such a well-dressed and powerful woman strutting confidentially toward me.
I jerked against my shoulder cuffs, desperate to cover my nakedness. I was fresh off the block, sold, whipped, and covered in my own filth, and the clumpy dark sand we had purchased together. I couldn’t let this elegantly dressed professional woman see me this way! Alas, I could not help it. My wrangler jerked me out of the way so she could pass, but Rebecca paused. She had been my friend, or at least my subordinate, but now she looked me over with a critical, appraising eye, starting at my toes and letting her eyes do a leisurely run over my trembling, naked slave flesh.
Once again it was like looking in a mirror, but not. She looked like me, right down to my cold, calculating stare. The contrast between us, her, a tastefully dressed female executive, and me, a naked, leashed Pleasure Slut, couldn’t have been more complete. As I jerked in my cuffs, trying to hide my nudity from her withering appraisal, I truly understood what it meant to be “slave naked.”
“Smelly little bimbo,” Rebecca observed, wrinkling her nose.
“She worked up a stink in the slave chute, and they worked her hard on the block. Plus, I think she pissed herself on the block.”
“Of course, she did,” Rebecca said disdainfully, “that’s what piggies do. But it’s her slave heat I’m smelling. She stinks like a vibrator in a nunnery.”
“That’s how the buyers like them, Ma’am,” my wrangler said.
Rebecca nodded. I gasped for air as my apprentice reached up and fingered the California shaped “Blue State Girl” tag that had been stapled through my ear. Running her finger over the SOLD sticker she asked my wrangler, “Quick turn?”
“88.6 seconds, Miss Cook,” the wrangler replied, in a voice that made it clear that he knew he was talking to his boss.
“Not bad,” Rebecca said, using her gold cross pen to lift up my chin so she could have a better look at me. “What was her margin?”
“I don’t rightly know, Miss Cook,” the wrangler said. “I can check, Ma’am,” he offered humbly.
Rebecca used the tip of her pen to lift up my breast by the nipple, weighing the goods. “Don’t bother, I’ll check it on the report,” she replied. Using her phone, Rebecca snapped a picture of my B-216 lot number for future reference. Clever girl! I had trained her well. Less than 90 seconds was an excellent turn time, but in the end it all came down to margin.
I had trained Rebecca to spot check operations, to match what she was seeing with what was on the page. I knew that later today she’d look up B-216 on her spreadsheet sales report, and scroll over to see my PPP – Profit per Pussy.
Would my PPP please Rebecca? Would I help Jake buy the painting of the naked Roman slave girls? I hoped so. Jake couldn’t be bothered to look at one slave girl’s statistics, but Rebecca would. I hoped she would be proud of me, or at least satisfied with my margin. What an honor for me, a lowly slave slut, to please an important executive like Rebecca Cook.
For a brief moment I felt a flicker of hope as I thought of Rebecca seeing my name on the report. She’ll recognize me! She’ll rescue me! This hope was quickly dashed as I recalled removing the names from the report and replacing it with columns that would show my relative sales ranking on a daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly basis, both by number and percentage. After all, after a girl was sold, her name was whatever her master gave her. The dollars were all that mattered.
We had become close, and during our work lunches, Rebecca often mused about what it would be like to be processed through the new system we were designing at The Big D. “I’d do it in a second, only I’m sure they’d recognized me!” Rebecca said.
“Not necessarily,” I countered. “Naked and tagged, you’d be just another pussy.” Rebecca had giggled, and I could tell the idea excited her. We had spent hours tittering about various schemes to put one or the other of us through our system “undercover, as a test, to gain an inside perspective,” or so we said.
Rebecca remained skeptical. “Do you really think that all of this mental conditioning you’ve built into the system would work, you know, on someone like you?”
“My research says yes, but I say no. I’m far too sophisticated to ever make a convincing Pleasure Slut. If you encountered me backstage, naked and collared, what would you do?”
Rebecca looked me up-and-down. “I’d sell you,” she said.
I felt a delicious little chill as we both giggled like schoolgirls. We hadn’t done it, of course, because Rebecca and I were both afraid of getting caught, and the toll it might take on our reputations. After all, it would be hard for our work colleagues to ever again treat us as serious professionals if they saw us squatting naked on the auction block. But my hypothetical had come to pass, and Rebecca had encountered me backstage. Only my transformation had been so complete that her cold blue eyes showed no hint of recognition, no trace of friendship. I was sold goods, and the only thing that mattered was my inventory turn time, and my contribution to her PPP.
Rebecca turned and began to click-click-click across the cement floor to her office. Desperate not to let my last possible link to my former life stroll away, I called her name, or tried to. With the “O” gag in my mouth, “Rebecca” came out as ‘Uh-ha-huh?”
Rebecca clearly surprised at the sheer audacity of a mere slave girl daring to speak to a well dressed financial professional, turned and looked at me. She didn’t show the slightest hint of recognition, only disgust, like I was a cockroach on her kitchen floor. I looked at Rebecca with pleading eyes, begging her to save me.
Whoosh! My handler hit me square on the ass with his quirt, causing me to scream in pain as the three lashes on the tip dug into my bottom.. “You know better than to talk to yer’ betters” he scolded.
Rebecca smiled as I jumped under the crack of the whip, my knees jerking up and my breasts bouncing. She didn’t intercede. After all, I was only a slave girl.
Her smiled faded as she regarded me coolly over the top of her Warby Parker glasses. I had trained her well, as I recognized the same disdainful, professional look I used when examining inventory.
Her demeanor oozed her superiority and arrogance. As with the girl in the mirror, I was looking at a reflection of me, or at least, my former self. I knew my fate was entirely in her hands. I trembled at her confidence and power, and melted under her pitiless, searing gaze.
I knew this was my last chance. I had to say something, to make her recognize me, to plead my case. But awed by her presence, all I could do was whimper, and when I tried to use my hands to explain, I simply jerked in my elbow cuffs, bouncing my titties for her. My little “bimbo dance” amused her, and her lips curved up with just the hint of a smile. Seeing that I had amused his boss, my wrangler flicked my bottom twice with the tip of the quirt, signaling that I should continue. With the sting of the quirt and the pain from Timmy’s whip still burning on my ass, I quickly obeyed.
I hopped from foot-to-foot, drool dribbling down my chin, the blue cattle tag hanging from my ear slapping my face, my boobies and butt cheeks bouncing. “Knees up!” my wrangler ordered, punctuating his command with a flick of the quirt! OUCH! I continued my titty dance, knees high, while Rebecca smirked at me.
Oh, how I hated her, and her smug, superior smile! In that moment, I wanted SO much to process the great Miss Rebecca Cook through The Big D, giving her the full treatment. I actually joked about it once, enjoying her blush as I suggested a day in the slave inspection pens, as part of an internal audit, “and I do mean internal.” Oh yes, it would be great fun to see her on the auction block, legs spread, while Timmy cracked the whip!
“What’s her number again?”, Rebecca said, clearly having forgotten me before she had even walked away.
“B-269, Ma’am,” my wrangler replied.
“Where’s she heading?” she asked the wrangler.
“Export to Mexico,” he replied. “But I gotta badge her first.”
“Get her there. I want her pussy in transit on the next truck.”
“I think that trucks full,” he said.
“Bullshit,” Rebecca said. “Do a slave ship pack. It’s not like she can smell any worse,” she added, regarding me with disgust.
Before I could even process the import of this conversation, my wrangler jerked on my leash and twisted me around. I stumbled barefoot down the hall, my sandy feet feeling cold on the freezing cement. I looked over my shoulder, and saw her smiling with approval at the whip marks on my ass.
My wrangler jerked my leash harder, and soon I heard Miss Cook’s heels click-click-click away from me as a voice in my head scolded me for my foolishness.
My wrangler was right, Miss Cook was my better, and I felt ashamed at having delayed her. I deserved to have my ass whipped. Bad, bad slave girl!
Don’t even think of calling her Rebecca. It’s Miss Cook to you, slave girl. How dare you try to talk to her! Do your little titty dance, like the feckless bimbo you are, while the wrangler lashes your ass, and Miss Cook laughs at you. What a silly little slave clown you are, to think that someone as important as Miss Cook could ever worry about you.
I struggled to push the voice out of my head, but it was no use. I had studied Agatha Crush’s work carefully, and I considered The Big D to be the culmination of her theories. I felt that The Big D was uniquely suited to her sort of operant conditioning, as it’s playful “livestock” brand which I promoted so relentlessly enforced the idea that the “inventory” was chattel, no different than a cow or a pig. The natural result of this was that the weak-minded sluts not only acted like slave girls, but SAW themselves as slave girls, fully internalizing their new identities.
I, of course, had thought I was far too sophisticated for such conditioning. As an educated professional woman well trained in the art and science of slavery, I could never see myself as a mere slave girl! My façade had held, until the disgusting pleasure slut covered with sand I had seen in the mirror, and Rebecca Cook’s cool appraisal, kicked me in the stomach like a one-two punch from a MMA champion.
My mind struggled to process what Rebecca had said. Mexico? What the fuck? Becky Lou was supposed to buy me and release me, so I could go back to Austin. Rebecca had to have made a mistake. No. Rebecca, ever the accountant, didn’t make mistakes. Her spreadsheets didn’t lie. I was sold inventory, and soon I’d be in transit.
I had devised the slave ship pack, a more efficient method of cargo transport. Sometimes the girls were shipped standing, with their hands chained over their head pressed “titty to titty, with their pussies rubbing,” as I had wrote. Other times I put the girls on top of each other, in a 69 position. I liked to pair the girls that way, so the skanky little sluts could hump and tease each other, and arrive at the delivery point all nice and slave hot. Of course, the stink of all that hot, wet pussy inside of the truck was unspeakable, but I had come up with a way to turn a quick profit on it. Several “odor cameras” allowed me to capture the scent of their juices, wafting up through the panel truck, capturing it before it escaped through the vent.
“Sell every part of the pig but the oink, Rebecca,” I had chortled. I blushed at the idea of the scent of my slave juices being sold as a perfume or room “freshener” at The Big D mall, or being used by some housewife who wanted to smell like a skank for a roleplay with her husband, or at a fashionable party where the hostess wanted to be a little naughty. It had been a brilliant idea, and turned a tidy profit, but it didn’t seem so clever now that I had turned the stink from my pussy into a commodity that would be bought and sold.
I would have a nice, leisurely, 10-hour drive to the Mexican border. We’d be waved through the border quickly, without a customs inspection, as soon as they saw The Big D logo on the side of the truck. I had arranged a system where every now and then a Pleasure Slut was left behind as a “gratuity” for “further inspection.” I had been sold to an individual, or so I hoped, because if I was part of a large lot I might well get picked off by the guards to be used, used, used some more, then re-sold. I shuddered at the thought.
It would be 10 hours to the border, and much, much longer depending on deep we went into Mexico. We made shipments as far as Chiapas, which was a hub of slaving activity for all of Central America, and bordered on Guatemala. If I was being shipped that far, I’d be driving for days, across dirty, bumpy roads. My pussy buzzed at the thought, and I hoped my “road buddy” would be hot.
I felt a strange surge of pride, thinking of all the pussy stink I’d generate for Rebecca to sell. Cha-ching! Again, the executive voice in my head kicked in.
Don’t worry, slave girl. Miss Cook will pack you in nice and tight, with a pussy in your face, so you’ll have something to munch on all the way down. She sold your pussy, and now she’s going to sell the stink off your pussy, and make a tidy profit on it, too. Maybe she’ll even check the truck’s web cam, and watch you rub your titties against another slut, and slavegasm for everyone to see.
)
Joe