Story Fragment: Unrecognizable by Joe Doe
Posted: Sun Sep 05, 2021 6:01 pm
Inspired by Zee, with my thanks.
It was a present for my husband's Steve's birthday, or to be more specific, I was the present. I say it was a present for him, but in truth, the idea turned me on, and it was present for the both of us.
It came up casually at breakfast one day. "You always tell the girls you mentor that they should put everything you teach them to work. Well, Professor, why don't you take all that slave yoga you've been secretly practicing in our bedroom at put it to work at an Any Chance? Auction at The Big D."
I was shocked when he proposed it, then got angry, until he pointed out that it was "a joke... or maybe a compliment. I think you'd bring an excellent price. Better than a lot of your students."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. You were Prime Minus when you got yourself graded on that trip to Atlanta. And your block moves have only gotten better since then."
"That was a totally private and exclusive grading, honey. There's a difference between posing for a female grader in a private room and rolling around in the sand at an auction block on The Big D."
"You bet there is," he said, smiling. "You'd do WAY better with the adrenaline of an actual performance... and the threat of the whip, of course," he added, giving me a little wink as I blanched.
Over the next few days, I went through all seven stages of grief, spending a lot of time on denial. But one-by-one, my darling husband flicked away my objections like crumbs of toast on his breakfast table.
- An Any Chance? Auction would allow me to be "sold", for real.
- It would be a genuine auction, with bona fide bids, and real bidders, opening their wallets and making substantial, legally binding bids. There was no better way to see my worth, and prove to myself that I could fetch just as good a price as any of the hot little coeds on the Austin campus.
- It was a 3-hour drive from Austin to Dallas, and if we did it on a Tuesday night, we were highly unlikely to encounter anyone I knew. "You can even scout the place before I consign you" Steve said, giving my pussy a delicious little tingle at the thought of him consigning me, like I was a bushel of oranges at a farmer's market.
- The risk was minimal, but it was the risk that made it exciting. Legally, Steve would be empowered to sell me. In point of fact, he WOULD sell me, at least technically. I would sign the self-enslavement papers, and be enslaved, at least for a few hours. Steve dismissed it as ‘legal mumbo jumbo’ and ‘pointless paper shuffling’, but it was the harsh, legalistic reality of the situation that made it such a turn on. I would be enslaved, and auctioned, with real buyers bidding for the right to own my sweet little over educated pussy.
A lot of marriage counselors used Any Chance? auctions as a way to build trust, even though sometimes the strategy went awry when an exasperated husband received an offer too good to resist. But Steve & I used it as foreplay, with me asking Steve what sort of slave pussy he might trade me in for, and him teasing me about all sorts of imaginary work emergencies or “friends in trouble” scenarios forcing him to leave and making it impossible for him to reverse my sale in time. It was SO hot!
One night when I was riding him like a pony I actually told him that if I fetched a fair price, he should leave me kenneled overnight, so I could “sweat it out a little.” He just laughed and said I wanted to rub my pussy all night, but after watching me be auctioned, he would want to fuck it. Steve knew me well.
"Maybe I should leave you, so you can have a breakfast of orange slime," he teased. "You always like spitting food into those Orange Fork bags when I take you somewhere fancy."
"I'd never eat that slop," I protested.
"You might not have a choice, slave girl. Bon Appetite!" He laughed at my nauseous, seasick grimace, but his mocking laughter only made me ride him all the harder.
This left my concerns about the auction itself. I knew The Big D was highly professional, and knew how to move and handle stock. During one marathon fucking, Steve casually assured me the whip “probably wouldn’t be a big deal, providing you remember your training and behave yourself, and don’t piss all over the stage. You’re well trained, and the auctioneers at The Big D are pros. They mostly just crack the whip to get the audience’s attention, and keep the little sluts on point.”
I ignored the reference to me as "a little slut", as I was grunting as he fucked me. Instead, I focused on the more urgent problem. “Could you ask them not to use the whip?” I pleaded.
“Why the fuck would I do that?” he said, thrusting into me harder and faster as he dismissed my suggestion in a voice that made it clear I was being utterly absurd. “The auctioneer knows what he’s doing, and a flick or two across your sexy little ass might be just the ticket to drive up your price.”
“The whip HURTS, asshole. I damn near did pee myself when I got it during my grading.”
Your pain, my gain,” he teased, giving me playful wink. “I’m sure they’ll give you a chance to squat and make your water before you go on the block. Relax, The Big D knows handle bimbos like you.”
I couldn't protest, as I came in waves.
Much to my embarrassment, Steve was right. I had filled out most of the forms online, so after I verified that the there was no one I knew wandering around, Steve explained to the receiving clerk that he wanted to give me up for their “rapid-run through service”, so he could make it to the baseball game. Apparently, the Texas Rangers were playing the Seattle Mariners, which meant that I had to strip down naked right at the counter as he was signing the forms and answering the questions only he, as my owner, could answer, with at least a dozen rubberneckers gleefully watching my strip tease to order.
My processing was rapid, and I was already gagged, caged, and loaded onto the handcart when the receptionist casually asked if Steve wanted "to give her The Big D logo, if she fetches a top price.” Cluelessly, Steve said, “Sure, whatever. Sounds great,” while staring at his phone. I screamed into my gag, but I was already rolling away towards my now inexorable performance on the auction block.
After scrubbing me down like a car, and giving me a quick delousing, I was made to squat and pee in front of a group of grinning, minimum wage slave handlers. Knowing the price of peeing on the block, I closed my eyes, and strained to get out every drop.
My ear tag, applied with a remorseless staple gun, was an orange steer, signifying that I was from the University of Texas, Austin. I wasn’t pleased at being linked back to my school in such a visual way, but as naked slave pussy it wasn’t like I had any choice in what branding the computer decided would bring the best price.
I took comfort in the anonymity of my Lot number, B-129. Soon I was stuffed into the cattle chute with dozens other bimbos. Like me, they were all slave naked, with only their ear tags and collars to identify them, and we were pressed tightly together, “slash in the chute”, as one of the wranglers put it.
A few of them had orange ear tags, like me, and a few faces seemed familiar, but none of us really looked at each other. The cattle chute was too dark and too terrifying to focus on anything but our own fear, and it wasn’t like naked Pleasure Sluts had anything interesting to say.
The chute was dark, crowded, and musty. My breathing came in short spurts, and all I could smell was wet pussy, as every 90 seconds or so a sale completed and I inched closer to my fate. I frantically rubbed my hot, wet pussy as I prepared myself for the most mortifying, shameful, and exciting moment of my life, my first time on the auction block.
"You're going to be sold. You're not a college professor anymore. You're a Pleasure Slut. You're a naked animal. You're chattel. They are going to auction you off, like a goat or a pig, and when the gavel falls, you will be sold. And there's nothing you can do to stop it."
The two losers who stapled my ear had been chatting about the storm that was due to roll in 11PM, and the risk of flash flooding. I rubbed my pussy faster as I imagined Steve, delaying the “pointless paper shuffling” of my release so he could watch some fucking baseball game. He would think he was doing me a favor, by fulfilling my fantasy of being kenneled overnight. But what if the flood killed the power, and shut down the computers at The Big D? The lock on my cage would still hold, and they'd still be able to feed me my slave slime. But would they be like a bank, helpless with the computers down? Would there be an automatic extension for Acts of God, and did a computer failure qualify? Texas Slave Courts seldom ruled in favor of slave pussy, with the running joke being the slave judges all used auctioneer’s gavels.
A burst of light and a hard slap across my ass sent me prancing across the stage with biggest smile I could muster. Muscle memory took over as I assumed “present position” – hands in my long brown hair, squatting down with my legs spread wide. Without my glasses I couldn’t read, but I saw Steve in the third row, towards the end.
Steve grinned at me and gave me the thumbs up. The tentpole in his pants make it clear I was slave hot, and beautiful. Good. I would fetch him an excellent price.
But it was the other faces I saw in the audience that horrified me.
Professor Mark Stevens, the chairman of my department.
Professor Abu Virkram, who taught Introduction to Engineering with me
Professor Sally Walters, the Dean of the College of Engineering and activist lesbian, who was smiling broadly as she looked directly between my widely splayed thighs.
The were all wearing Texas Rangers hats. There was a faculty sports club, which I totally ignored, as I didn’t care a fig about sports. Apparently, my darling hubby wasn’t the only one who had come to see the game. Only now I was the pre-show!
Worse, I saw row after row of students.
Jake & Bill, my two TA’s.
Bob, who I was advising on his master’s thesis.
Most of my Introduction to Engineering Class.
The gallery, which had been nearly empty less than an hour ago, was now jammed with people. I realized to my horror why so many girls farther down the chute had orange Augie ear tags like mine. Some of the sororities like to initiate their pledges through Any Chance? Auctions, with some of the houses setting minimum prices for the girls to be accepted as sisters. A lot of the houses tried to keep the dates secret, but word inevitably leaked out, and now a lot of the girl’s “friends” or teaching assistants had shown up for the opportunity to see them perform naked on the block. Thanks to social media, word spread fast, and locals who liked to see snooty college girls put in their place also showed up to have their fun.
The weird part was that although I recognized them, none of them seemed to recognize me. On campus, I wore my hair up, and always dressed in a natty blue or gray charcoal business suit. I wasn’t wearing my glasses now, and I imagine the orange ear tag, collar, and the dazed look in my eyes also changed my appearance, apparently beyond recognition. My heart and mind both raced.
“They’re looking at your pussy. The thought of you being naked on the auction block is incomprehensible to them. They see you as just another brainless bimbo, a hot piece of slave ass.”
Because that's what I was. Lost in my own thoughts, I must have missed a command, and held position too long. The whip exploded across my stupid, bimbo ass like a bolt of lightning. I screamed, and people who I thought of as my friends all laughed. Recovering, I quickly flipped into my next position: on all fours, legs spread wide, with my tale up high and my nose in the sand.
I could hear the crowd casually murmur about the weather and the game and how tight my asshole looked as the auctioneer extolled my charms.
What do I hear? What do I hear?
B-129 is might fine!
Fifteen? I got fifteen! Do I hear twenty?
Come on, two holes for the price of one!
Lather up girls, and show them that sweet Texas crude!
We got ourselves a real teacher here!
Digging my nose into the coarse brown sand, I reached back, spread my pussy lips, and masturbated for their viewing pleasure, giving everyone a view of my shameful pink wetness.
I had fantasized about this moment for years, and dreamed of fetching a good price. I’d told Steve I was worried that there would be no one with deep pockets to bid on me on a slow Tuesday night.
Steve laughed at my concerns. “Don’t worry, my silly little slave girl. The invisible hand, and the magic of the markets, always kicks in, and you’ll earn what you're worth,” tucking me under the chin like I was a child. Steve had been proven right, with a vengeance. Now the room was stuffed with wealthy college professors and rich frat bros. As the bids quickly mounted, I knew I’d fetch a good price, all right. My slave girl vanity might come back to haunt me, as top dollar would earn me the “honor” of having The Big D’s logo burned into the inner cheek of my ass.
Twenty? Do I hear twenty five?
Let go of yer’ peckers and reach for yer’ wallets, because this is one hot piece of Augie tail.
Look at her wink that pooper!
Twenty Five!
We are selling Prime tonight at the Big D!
Thirty! Do I hear thirty five?
“Augie tail”. At least he hadn’t identified me by name, just by lot. He had called me a teacher, but not a Professor, and the incriminating orange tag was dangling from ear, covered in sand. "Processing" had done its magic, and now I was just another wet snatch for sale.
Thinking quickly, I rubbed my face in the sand, hoping to obscure my features. The movement caused my ass to giggle, and the crowd laughed. Naked, humiliated, and utterly powerless, I showed my students and colleagues my dripping wet, widely spread pussy, the long red whip welt across my wiggling ass, and my nervously winking sphincter. Swallowing hard, I listened helplessly as the bids poured in on my naked body.
It was a present for my husband's Steve's birthday, or to be more specific, I was the present. I say it was a present for him, but in truth, the idea turned me on, and it was present for the both of us.
It came up casually at breakfast one day. "You always tell the girls you mentor that they should put everything you teach them to work. Well, Professor, why don't you take all that slave yoga you've been secretly practicing in our bedroom at put it to work at an Any Chance? Auction at The Big D."
I was shocked when he proposed it, then got angry, until he pointed out that it was "a joke... or maybe a compliment. I think you'd bring an excellent price. Better than a lot of your students."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. You were Prime Minus when you got yourself graded on that trip to Atlanta. And your block moves have only gotten better since then."
"That was a totally private and exclusive grading, honey. There's a difference between posing for a female grader in a private room and rolling around in the sand at an auction block on The Big D."
"You bet there is," he said, smiling. "You'd do WAY better with the adrenaline of an actual performance... and the threat of the whip, of course," he added, giving me a little wink as I blanched.
Over the next few days, I went through all seven stages of grief, spending a lot of time on denial. But one-by-one, my darling husband flicked away my objections like crumbs of toast on his breakfast table.
- An Any Chance? Auction would allow me to be "sold", for real.
- It would be a genuine auction, with bona fide bids, and real bidders, opening their wallets and making substantial, legally binding bids. There was no better way to see my worth, and prove to myself that I could fetch just as good a price as any of the hot little coeds on the Austin campus.
- It was a 3-hour drive from Austin to Dallas, and if we did it on a Tuesday night, we were highly unlikely to encounter anyone I knew. "You can even scout the place before I consign you" Steve said, giving my pussy a delicious little tingle at the thought of him consigning me, like I was a bushel of oranges at a farmer's market.
- The risk was minimal, but it was the risk that made it exciting. Legally, Steve would be empowered to sell me. In point of fact, he WOULD sell me, at least technically. I would sign the self-enslavement papers, and be enslaved, at least for a few hours. Steve dismissed it as ‘legal mumbo jumbo’ and ‘pointless paper shuffling’, but it was the harsh, legalistic reality of the situation that made it such a turn on. I would be enslaved, and auctioned, with real buyers bidding for the right to own my sweet little over educated pussy.
A lot of marriage counselors used Any Chance? auctions as a way to build trust, even though sometimes the strategy went awry when an exasperated husband received an offer too good to resist. But Steve & I used it as foreplay, with me asking Steve what sort of slave pussy he might trade me in for, and him teasing me about all sorts of imaginary work emergencies or “friends in trouble” scenarios forcing him to leave and making it impossible for him to reverse my sale in time. It was SO hot!
One night when I was riding him like a pony I actually told him that if I fetched a fair price, he should leave me kenneled overnight, so I could “sweat it out a little.” He just laughed and said I wanted to rub my pussy all night, but after watching me be auctioned, he would want to fuck it. Steve knew me well.
"Maybe I should leave you, so you can have a breakfast of orange slime," he teased. "You always like spitting food into those Orange Fork bags when I take you somewhere fancy."
"I'd never eat that slop," I protested.
"You might not have a choice, slave girl. Bon Appetite!" He laughed at my nauseous, seasick grimace, but his mocking laughter only made me ride him all the harder.
This left my concerns about the auction itself. I knew The Big D was highly professional, and knew how to move and handle stock. During one marathon fucking, Steve casually assured me the whip “probably wouldn’t be a big deal, providing you remember your training and behave yourself, and don’t piss all over the stage. You’re well trained, and the auctioneers at The Big D are pros. They mostly just crack the whip to get the audience’s attention, and keep the little sluts on point.”
I ignored the reference to me as "a little slut", as I was grunting as he fucked me. Instead, I focused on the more urgent problem. “Could you ask them not to use the whip?” I pleaded.
“Why the fuck would I do that?” he said, thrusting into me harder and faster as he dismissed my suggestion in a voice that made it clear I was being utterly absurd. “The auctioneer knows what he’s doing, and a flick or two across your sexy little ass might be just the ticket to drive up your price.”
“The whip HURTS, asshole. I damn near did pee myself when I got it during my grading.”
Your pain, my gain,” he teased, giving me playful wink. “I’m sure they’ll give you a chance to squat and make your water before you go on the block. Relax, The Big D knows handle bimbos like you.”
I couldn't protest, as I came in waves.
Much to my embarrassment, Steve was right. I had filled out most of the forms online, so after I verified that the there was no one I knew wandering around, Steve explained to the receiving clerk that he wanted to give me up for their “rapid-run through service”, so he could make it to the baseball game. Apparently, the Texas Rangers were playing the Seattle Mariners, which meant that I had to strip down naked right at the counter as he was signing the forms and answering the questions only he, as my owner, could answer, with at least a dozen rubberneckers gleefully watching my strip tease to order.
My processing was rapid, and I was already gagged, caged, and loaded onto the handcart when the receptionist casually asked if Steve wanted "to give her The Big D logo, if she fetches a top price.” Cluelessly, Steve said, “Sure, whatever. Sounds great,” while staring at his phone. I screamed into my gag, but I was already rolling away towards my now inexorable performance on the auction block.
After scrubbing me down like a car, and giving me a quick delousing, I was made to squat and pee in front of a group of grinning, minimum wage slave handlers. Knowing the price of peeing on the block, I closed my eyes, and strained to get out every drop.
My ear tag, applied with a remorseless staple gun, was an orange steer, signifying that I was from the University of Texas, Austin. I wasn’t pleased at being linked back to my school in such a visual way, but as naked slave pussy it wasn’t like I had any choice in what branding the computer decided would bring the best price.
I took comfort in the anonymity of my Lot number, B-129. Soon I was stuffed into the cattle chute with dozens other bimbos. Like me, they were all slave naked, with only their ear tags and collars to identify them, and we were pressed tightly together, “slash in the chute”, as one of the wranglers put it.
A few of them had orange ear tags, like me, and a few faces seemed familiar, but none of us really looked at each other. The cattle chute was too dark and too terrifying to focus on anything but our own fear, and it wasn’t like naked Pleasure Sluts had anything interesting to say.
The chute was dark, crowded, and musty. My breathing came in short spurts, and all I could smell was wet pussy, as every 90 seconds or so a sale completed and I inched closer to my fate. I frantically rubbed my hot, wet pussy as I prepared myself for the most mortifying, shameful, and exciting moment of my life, my first time on the auction block.
"You're going to be sold. You're not a college professor anymore. You're a Pleasure Slut. You're a naked animal. You're chattel. They are going to auction you off, like a goat or a pig, and when the gavel falls, you will be sold. And there's nothing you can do to stop it."
The two losers who stapled my ear had been chatting about the storm that was due to roll in 11PM, and the risk of flash flooding. I rubbed my pussy faster as I imagined Steve, delaying the “pointless paper shuffling” of my release so he could watch some fucking baseball game. He would think he was doing me a favor, by fulfilling my fantasy of being kenneled overnight. But what if the flood killed the power, and shut down the computers at The Big D? The lock on my cage would still hold, and they'd still be able to feed me my slave slime. But would they be like a bank, helpless with the computers down? Would there be an automatic extension for Acts of God, and did a computer failure qualify? Texas Slave Courts seldom ruled in favor of slave pussy, with the running joke being the slave judges all used auctioneer’s gavels.
A burst of light and a hard slap across my ass sent me prancing across the stage with biggest smile I could muster. Muscle memory took over as I assumed “present position” – hands in my long brown hair, squatting down with my legs spread wide. Without my glasses I couldn’t read, but I saw Steve in the third row, towards the end.
Steve grinned at me and gave me the thumbs up. The tentpole in his pants make it clear I was slave hot, and beautiful. Good. I would fetch him an excellent price.
But it was the other faces I saw in the audience that horrified me.
Professor Mark Stevens, the chairman of my department.
Professor Abu Virkram, who taught Introduction to Engineering with me
Professor Sally Walters, the Dean of the College of Engineering and activist lesbian, who was smiling broadly as she looked directly between my widely splayed thighs.
The were all wearing Texas Rangers hats. There was a faculty sports club, which I totally ignored, as I didn’t care a fig about sports. Apparently, my darling hubby wasn’t the only one who had come to see the game. Only now I was the pre-show!
Worse, I saw row after row of students.
Jake & Bill, my two TA’s.
Bob, who I was advising on his master’s thesis.
Most of my Introduction to Engineering Class.
The gallery, which had been nearly empty less than an hour ago, was now jammed with people. I realized to my horror why so many girls farther down the chute had orange Augie ear tags like mine. Some of the sororities like to initiate their pledges through Any Chance? Auctions, with some of the houses setting minimum prices for the girls to be accepted as sisters. A lot of the houses tried to keep the dates secret, but word inevitably leaked out, and now a lot of the girl’s “friends” or teaching assistants had shown up for the opportunity to see them perform naked on the block. Thanks to social media, word spread fast, and locals who liked to see snooty college girls put in their place also showed up to have their fun.
The weird part was that although I recognized them, none of them seemed to recognize me. On campus, I wore my hair up, and always dressed in a natty blue or gray charcoal business suit. I wasn’t wearing my glasses now, and I imagine the orange ear tag, collar, and the dazed look in my eyes also changed my appearance, apparently beyond recognition. My heart and mind both raced.
“They’re looking at your pussy. The thought of you being naked on the auction block is incomprehensible to them. They see you as just another brainless bimbo, a hot piece of slave ass.”
Because that's what I was. Lost in my own thoughts, I must have missed a command, and held position too long. The whip exploded across my stupid, bimbo ass like a bolt of lightning. I screamed, and people who I thought of as my friends all laughed. Recovering, I quickly flipped into my next position: on all fours, legs spread wide, with my tale up high and my nose in the sand.
I could hear the crowd casually murmur about the weather and the game and how tight my asshole looked as the auctioneer extolled my charms.
What do I hear? What do I hear?
B-129 is might fine!
Fifteen? I got fifteen! Do I hear twenty?
Come on, two holes for the price of one!
Lather up girls, and show them that sweet Texas crude!
We got ourselves a real teacher here!
Digging my nose into the coarse brown sand, I reached back, spread my pussy lips, and masturbated for their viewing pleasure, giving everyone a view of my shameful pink wetness.
I had fantasized about this moment for years, and dreamed of fetching a good price. I’d told Steve I was worried that there would be no one with deep pockets to bid on me on a slow Tuesday night.
Steve laughed at my concerns. “Don’t worry, my silly little slave girl. The invisible hand, and the magic of the markets, always kicks in, and you’ll earn what you're worth,” tucking me under the chin like I was a child. Steve had been proven right, with a vengeance. Now the room was stuffed with wealthy college professors and rich frat bros. As the bids quickly mounted, I knew I’d fetch a good price, all right. My slave girl vanity might come back to haunt me, as top dollar would earn me the “honor” of having The Big D’s logo burned into the inner cheek of my ass.
Twenty? Do I hear twenty five?
Let go of yer’ peckers and reach for yer’ wallets, because this is one hot piece of Augie tail.
Look at her wink that pooper!
Twenty Five!
We are selling Prime tonight at the Big D!
Thirty! Do I hear thirty five?
“Augie tail”. At least he hadn’t identified me by name, just by lot. He had called me a teacher, but not a Professor, and the incriminating orange tag was dangling from ear, covered in sand. "Processing" had done its magic, and now I was just another wet snatch for sale.
Thinking quickly, I rubbed my face in the sand, hoping to obscure my features. The movement caused my ass to giggle, and the crowd laughed. Naked, humiliated, and utterly powerless, I showed my students and colleagues my dripping wet, widely spread pussy, the long red whip welt across my wiggling ass, and my nervously winking sphincter. Swallowing hard, I listened helplessly as the bids poured in on my naked body.
