Story Fragment: Dr. Hollister Research
Posted: Thu Sep 23, 2021 2:48 am
Researcher: Dr. Sarah Hollister
Subject SIN #: US-TXDL-2109-1471A
Topic: Subject was requested to describe her emotional reaction to being branded with the Big D "badge" logo after her "Any Chance?" Auction.
If I were trying to find a single word to describe my feelings, it would be "humiliated". "Mortified", "shamed", and "dehumanized" would work, too, but utter, complete humiliation was my overriding feeling.
It had been my idea, but it was my husband Dan who assured me that if I got slave training over the weekend and went through any "Any Chance?" auction on a slow, uncrowded Monday night while Steve was away at college, I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. What I didn't realize was that half of my son's graduation class seemed to have jobs working at The Big D. I was auctioned by Skeeter, who was Steve's lab partner in biology. I remembered Skeeter as this shy kid with braces and the logo boots who would blush whenever I caught him checking me out. I couldn't believe it when I ended up on Broadway, with my nose in the sand, looking at Skeeter's logo boots while he dangled his whip between my widely splayed butt cheeks, urging the audience to "open your wallets like she's opening her bung hole."
The little bastard did a good job block training me, and I lathered my hot, wet gash for the bidders. My husband's reward was an amazing price! Seriously, it was ridiculous, and far more than Dan & I ever thought possible. It was an offer no sane person could refuse.
I had told Dan that if I made Prime- and to auctioned off Broadway, he should get me "badged" with The Big D logo. They're damn hard to earn, and at the time I said it, I really did want it. I'm proud of it to this day.
But it's one thing to get a naughty thrill checking a box on a phone app when you're a executive sitting comfortably in her corner office, and quite another thing to be a naked slave girl being fastened into the branding rack while your son's friends joke about "burning her sweet little ass."
I think it was the TONE of the entire process that played on my emotions the most. I knew most of these kids, and considered them to be kids, even though they were all old enough to vote and work at The Big D. But I had ferried the to games and welcomed them into my home for parties and sleepovers, and still regarded them as being "Steve's little buddies" who needed looking after. But even though they called me "Mrs. G", like they used to, they showed me no respect whatsoever.
"Into the rack, Mrs. G!"
"Struggling won't help you now!"
"Yup, the branding iron is hot and ready!"
"Just like her hot, wet pussy, ha-ha!"
"Moo-moo!"
"Geez, I can't believe how wet her snatch is! Can we fuck her?"
"Maybe after. Now, let's get the bit into her teeth."
"Open wide, Mrs. G. Show us those pearly whites!"
I understood that the atmosphere was casual, and workman like. After all, no matter how utterly transformational and cathartic this was for me, for them, I was just another ass to brand. But what smoked me, if you'll pardon the pun, was that it wasn't just a job, it was a FUN job. My pain, shame, and terror weren't side effects, they were features, to be commented on and enjoyed.
"Bet she pisses on herself!"
"I think she pissed right before she went on the block."
"Doesn't matter. She'll piss like fire hose when we touch that sweet, white ass of hers. Pampered little bitch!"
"Don't be ashamed, Mrs. G. No shame when a slave girl pisses herself. Not like when you were free."
When they held the branding iron up in front of my bulging eyes, I screamed into my bit like a banshee. This couldn't be happening! I wasn't a slave. Yes, I was sold, but my husband was going to roll-it-back. Wasn't he? It was all a dreadful mistake!
"What-sa-matter, sweetie? Don't want to be branded? Well, mommy isn't in charge anymore, mommy's a slave, so no one gives to fucks what mommy wants."
"Shouldn't have filled it out on the form, ya' dumb bitch."
"Yeah, always telling us what do do, but like all slave girls, she's got shit for brains."
"Just bite down, Mrs. G. It will be over in a tick."
It was a lie, of course. The brand was forever. I can feel it now, when I squeeze my butt cheeks together.
Given the price Dan got for me, I don't blame him for going through with the branding, or my sale. I think being a Pleasure Slut is my better life, and as they say at The Big D, "if you truly love her, you'll let her go." Of course, now Dan can fuck me whenever he wants to, along with Skeeter & all my son's little friends, and the slave brothel near my old house. Do I miss my old life? No, as now I get to come all day long.
My emotions at being branded? Shame. Humiliation. Fear. Dehumanization. Degradation. I knew from that moment on I was an animal, and my purpose was to give pleasure to my betters. To be honest, Dr. Hollister, it's impossible to describe. It's something that you need to experience first hand.
Subject SIN #: US-TXDL-2109-1471A
Topic: Subject was requested to describe her emotional reaction to being branded with the Big D "badge" logo after her "Any Chance?" Auction.
If I were trying to find a single word to describe my feelings, it would be "humiliated". "Mortified", "shamed", and "dehumanized" would work, too, but utter, complete humiliation was my overriding feeling.
It had been my idea, but it was my husband Dan who assured me that if I got slave training over the weekend and went through any "Any Chance?" auction on a slow, uncrowded Monday night while Steve was away at college, I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. What I didn't realize was that half of my son's graduation class seemed to have jobs working at The Big D. I was auctioned by Skeeter, who was Steve's lab partner in biology. I remembered Skeeter as this shy kid with braces and the logo boots who would blush whenever I caught him checking me out. I couldn't believe it when I ended up on Broadway, with my nose in the sand, looking at Skeeter's logo boots while he dangled his whip between my widely splayed butt cheeks, urging the audience to "open your wallets like she's opening her bung hole."
The little bastard did a good job block training me, and I lathered my hot, wet gash for the bidders. My husband's reward was an amazing price! Seriously, it was ridiculous, and far more than Dan & I ever thought possible. It was an offer no sane person could refuse.
I had told Dan that if I made Prime- and to auctioned off Broadway, he should get me "badged" with The Big D logo. They're damn hard to earn, and at the time I said it, I really did want it. I'm proud of it to this day.
But it's one thing to get a naughty thrill checking a box on a phone app when you're a executive sitting comfortably in her corner office, and quite another thing to be a naked slave girl being fastened into the branding rack while your son's friends joke about "burning her sweet little ass."
I think it was the TONE of the entire process that played on my emotions the most. I knew most of these kids, and considered them to be kids, even though they were all old enough to vote and work at The Big D. But I had ferried the to games and welcomed them into my home for parties and sleepovers, and still regarded them as being "Steve's little buddies" who needed looking after. But even though they called me "Mrs. G", like they used to, they showed me no respect whatsoever.
"Into the rack, Mrs. G!"
"Struggling won't help you now!"
"Yup, the branding iron is hot and ready!"
"Just like her hot, wet pussy, ha-ha!"
"Moo-moo!"
"Geez, I can't believe how wet her snatch is! Can we fuck her?"
"Maybe after. Now, let's get the bit into her teeth."
"Open wide, Mrs. G. Show us those pearly whites!"
I understood that the atmosphere was casual, and workman like. After all, no matter how utterly transformational and cathartic this was for me, for them, I was just another ass to brand. But what smoked me, if you'll pardon the pun, was that it wasn't just a job, it was a FUN job. My pain, shame, and terror weren't side effects, they were features, to be commented on and enjoyed.
"Bet she pisses on herself!"
"I think she pissed right before she went on the block."
"Doesn't matter. She'll piss like fire hose when we touch that sweet, white ass of hers. Pampered little bitch!"
"Don't be ashamed, Mrs. G. No shame when a slave girl pisses herself. Not like when you were free."
When they held the branding iron up in front of my bulging eyes, I screamed into my bit like a banshee. This couldn't be happening! I wasn't a slave. Yes, I was sold, but my husband was going to roll-it-back. Wasn't he? It was all a dreadful mistake!
"What-sa-matter, sweetie? Don't want to be branded? Well, mommy isn't in charge anymore, mommy's a slave, so no one gives to fucks what mommy wants."
"Shouldn't have filled it out on the form, ya' dumb bitch."
"Yeah, always telling us what do do, but like all slave girls, she's got shit for brains."
"Just bite down, Mrs. G. It will be over in a tick."
It was a lie, of course. The brand was forever. I can feel it now, when I squeeze my butt cheeks together.
Given the price Dan got for me, I don't blame him for going through with the branding, or my sale. I think being a Pleasure Slut is my better life, and as they say at The Big D, "if you truly love her, you'll let her go." Of course, now Dan can fuck me whenever he wants to, along with Skeeter & all my son's little friends, and the slave brothel near my old house. Do I miss my old life? No, as now I get to come all day long.
My emotions at being branded? Shame. Humiliation. Fear. Dehumanization. Degradation. I knew from that moment on I was an animal, and my purpose was to give pleasure to my betters. To be honest, Dr. Hollister, it's impossible to describe. It's something that you need to experience first hand.