StripSearch

Of all the many wonderful images in Southwest Shipping, one of my favorites was when they switched Natalie’s collar at HCI. I love the idea that such a simple act, a routine inventory control procedure, really, can change Natalie’s life forever.

Poor Natalie, doe-eyed and baffled, doesn’t even realize the import or meaning of the collar change. What a silly little slave bimbo she is! The bureaucracy of the slave market, which remorselessly takes proud free women in as raw materials to crush, so it can grind out hot slave girls, is built around an elaborate series these seemingly trivial procedures. The temperature of the water is turned up one degree at a time.

Having a bit of fun with the image, I imagined a quick story. Enjoy!


The Collaring

My grading over, I waited for the grader, or one of my handlers, to return my clothes. Nervously, I fingered the colorful collar around my neck, trying to get my finger between my neck and the steel. Why did it have to be so tight?

“Always the perfect fit!” as the ad said.

I desperately wanted to take off the temporary collar I was wearing, but dared not. The chip in my temporary collar was the only identification I had, and I didn’t want to be running around a slave market buck naked, with no identification.

Daddy had paid extra to get me a private grading room, but it was worth it. My economics Professor at Stanford had pressured me to get graded, saying I’d never understand the economics of slavery until I had experienced it. I think the horny bastard just wanted to see my humiliating grading pictures, but if it got me an “A” on the thesis he had pressured me into writing, it was worth it.

When my stepbrother Larry, or “Loser Larry” as I called him, walked in the door, I instantly crouched in the corner and tried to cover myself. “Slave spread,” he said.

“Fuck you and give me my clothes, loser!” I snapped.

Larry paused as his phone PINGED several times. He looked at the phone, made a few responses, and then returned his attention to me. Taking the whip off his belt he CRACKED it in the air, making me jump. “Slave spread,” he repeated.

Staring daggers at him, I obeyed, I squatted, spread my legs, and locked my hands behind my head. Larry was a loser, but he also worked at The Big D, and he was holding a whip, and I was a naked girl there for a grading. So I spread my knees, nice and wide, and let Loser Larry see everything he had ever dreamed of seeing. Larry’s phone kept PINGING, and I wondered why on earth a loser like him would get so many messages. But his eyes were glued to my pussy.

“Why are you here?” I said, gritting my teeth. “You said you wouldn’t be working today.”

“I lied,” he said simply. “Wow, Lisa, you are some really hot slave pussy.”

PING! PING! PING! What the fuck was going on with his phone?

“Give me back my clothes, asshole!” I hissed.

“Temper, temper,” he said, grinning down at me. “Hang tight, little sister, while I catch up on my messages.”

I squatted, slave spread, while my asshole stepbrother played on his phone. I was ready to kill him, but ground my teeth instead.

Finally, he returned his attentions to me. “Good news. I showed your grading pictures and the film of you jerking off for the grader to mom and dad. Mom was totally freaked, and won’t even talk. Dad got really pissed. I told him you might get a higher grade if we put you in an “Any Chance?” auction. Plus I told him it might be interesting to see what you might BRING him, in terms of what you cost him with your fancy ass tuition at Harvard. Now lather up.”

I stared at him. He couldn’t be serious. “I go to Stanford, dipshit.”

“You’re not going anywhere, except to the auction block, little sister.”

“Bullshit. Dad doesn’t need to sell me. And it won’t help my grade. I’m Prime already,” I said. “I know it.”

Larry’s beer belly, hanging over the belt of his uniform pants, shook when he laughed. “Slave girls are so vain. As for dad, money talks. You heard me, Pleasure Slut. Lather up.”

I looked up at Larry, smirking as he ran the lashes of the slave whip through his fingers. I was the family star, studying at Stanford, and he was loser who couldn’t hold a job until he finally got hired at The Big D. He wasn’t exactly a star here, either, but all the free pussy incentivized him enough to not get fired.

He had already seen my movie, obviously, and after a day of slave grading I didn’t have a lot of dignity left. Plus, Larry had the whip hand now, literally.

I’d destroy Larry when I got my clothes back. DESTROY HIM. I knew a dozen guys who would stomp his ass, just because I asked them to. And I was going to ask all of them.

“Give me some room,” I said.

He stepped back and I changed positions, kicking my feet out and spreading my legs for his viewing pleasure. Using my left hand to balance, I raised my pussy up high, and used my right hand to rub my clit, and “lather up”. Quickly, too quickly, the juices began to flow.

“Faster,” he said. “And get a couple of fingers up there. I want to see you play stinky finger, like you do with your girlfriends.”

FUCKER! He had read my sexual history. Dad had made him SWEAR he wouldn’t look at my pictures or access my files. I had put down my longtime “special friendship” with my roomates, Kathy and Cindy, and my occasional fuckbuddy Stevie. I put in all the juicy details because I thought it would help my grade, not so Loser Larry could jerk off over it. I was a good girl, after all.

“Look at you, flicking your little bean and tossing off like any other Pleasure Slut. All those years, looking at me like I was shit under your heel, a bug you could squash. You don’t look so hoity-toity now, juicin’ yer little slave snatch, ha-ha!”

Damn if the perversity of it wasn’t making my pussy hot. I was soon gasping with pleasure even as his damn phone kept PINGING. Again, Larry responded to texts.

“Why all the messages, LOSER?” I snapped. “Who would want to talk to YOU?”

“I downloaded your phone, using The Big D’s PHONE A FRIEND app, and I sent a text message telling all your contacts that The Big D is going to auction Lisa’s sweet little pussy tomorrow. I’m getting barraged by people asking if it’s true, and when you’ll be in the inspection pens, so they can cop a quick feel. Fuck, it looks like every guy you ever dated wants to get a finger in your twat.”

He showed me the phone, and popped up the grading picture he had sent out with my auction notice. I was squatting and rubbing my pussy, with a big idiot bimbo slave grin on my face. It was a picture of collared slave pussy, ready for the auction block.

“You bastard! You fucking bastard. My boyfriends will KILL you.”

“No, they’re thanking me, Princess. They’re all telling me what a prick tease you are, leading them on while you’re fucking your roommate. I also used The Big D’s NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH program, so everyone you went to school with around here, and our neighbors, and everyone in your Animal Rescue group, and the church, are going to come down to see you do your squats and lather up on Broadway, too.”

PING! PING! PING! “Shit, we’re going to have to do overflow seating. Kathy can’t make it, but Cindy and Stevie are going to fly in. They want to offer you moral support.”

Bullshit. When I told them that I was going to be graded, Cindy, Kathy, & especially that bull dyke Stevie got turned on. They teased me about what a hot Pleasure Slut I'd make, and how much they'd enjoy seeing me on the block. I told them to dream on, but apparently, their dreams were about to come true.

My heart was beating like a trip hammer as I closed my eyes and pictured all my girlfriends, my old boyfriends, plus the army of boys who I wouldn’t date, girls who hated me in High School, plus my old teachers, our neighbors, and my dad’s friends, watching as I disgraced myself, and rolled in the sand on the auction block, performing like an animal under the crack of the whip. It's said that once collared, a girl has no friends, a horrible truth amplified by every PING of Loser's phone. I was horrified, which didn’t explain why I orgasmed, while Larry laughed, and his damn phone kept PINGING.

“Nice,” he said. “Try to do that tomorrow, little sis. You know what they call it when you cum on the block? They call it a gavel-gasm!” Larry laughed. “Now show me your ear. It’s time for your tagging, little sister.”

To my horror, I saw my brother pull a cheap, plastic, but brightly colored rainbow tag out of his pocket. Taking the clippers off his belt, he SNAPPED them together, smiling as I winced at the sound.

“You can’t put that on me,” I gasped. “Everyone will think… I’m a lesbian!”

“Yup!” he said. “Because that’s what the computer says you are. Computer thinks you’ll pull a better price as a rug muncher than as a fancy blue state girl, so lesbian it is. I won’t lie to ya’, little sister. The ear tagging’s really gonna hurt. But we’ll get to that later.”

Larry unzipped his pants and fished out his skinny, disgusting little wiener. “Well you had your fun, so it’s only fair that I have mine. Time for a nice slave kiss, little sis.”

“I won’t,” I said.

“You will, or I’ll whip your ass.”

I knew enough about slave markets to know that disobedience was not an option. I could either suck him off before or after he whipped me. I chose before, if you can call it a choice.

Kneeling before him, I asked, “When is my auction?”

Larry smiled. “When it’s convenient,” he said. “You’ll find out when they stuff you in the chute, slave girl.

Larry wiped his precum on my lips. Fighting my gag reflex, I took his disgusting sausage in my mouth. It tasted like rotting meat, but quickly hardened like pulsing steel. I sucked, as Larry’s phone continued to PING.

“Wow, look at that!” Larry said, gasping as he talked. “Your academic advisor is flying in to watch yer’ sale. Get a load of that!”

Bastard! Fucking bastard! I had told him about my loser brother who worked at The Big D. Now I wondered if my professor had been in contact with Larry, and had gotten my pea brained brother to set this all up.

Larry groaned with pleasure. I was working hard, trying to get it over with, but Larry didn’t seem to mind. Pulling my hair back, Larry unlocked my temporary collar, and tossed it onto the floor. It felt a relief to have the steel collar no longer touching my skin, but my relief was short lived.

I whimpered at the loud CLICK of the new, permanent slave collar locking around my throat. A different sound, more like a BEEP, marked Larry using his phone app to scan me into The Big D’s system.

“Congratulations, little sis,” he said, gasping with pleasure. “You’re no longer a customer at The Big D. Now you’re INVENTORY.”

The collar around my neck was snug, and even tighter than the other. “Always a perfect fit.”

He might have been a loser, but Larry was right. I was no longer wearing a temporary collar, but a slave collar. I was no longer a college girl from Stanford, gathering research for her thesis. I was wearing my block collar. I was pussy to be sold.

PING! PING! PING!

He exploded his sticky load in my mouth as I rubbed my pussy into another mind blowing slavegasm.

The only downside to Little Joe's story fragments is that they ALWAYS leave me wanting more. He creates such intriguing set-ups and gives such enticing details about his characters in such a short amount of time one can't help but get drawn into the story to such a depth that when the end to the fragment comes, a post fragment depression sets in and a need for another Joe Doe fix manifests itself.

What a great fragment, Joe. I especially loved the Big D's Neighborhood Watch program. What an amazingly clever way to instantly heighten the slave's humiliation and fear all with a simple push of the button. I'd also be remiss if I didn't comment on the term "gavel-gasm." I laughed out loud at that one.

Seriously though, I would like to encourage you to continue with this as our newest collared slave gets auctioned off. I know this story is fine as it is but darn it all - I need more!!

Hooked6

Thanks for the kind comments. Gavel-gasm and Neighborhood Watch are part of a glossary I'm building of terms that Sarah Hollister coined during her career, both at the Big D and elsewhere. It's still a work in progress, but here are a few:

BAGGIN’ & TAGGIN’: First steps in enslavement or full gradings, where a girl’s clothes are placed in a property bag, and the plastic tag is driven through her ear. “It’s sorority rush week, and I spent the whole morning up front, baggin’ & taggin’!”

BRAND BRAGGERS: Girls who brand that their brands are prettier or more innate than the other girls. “Whenever a Sandy Foot Girl meets another slave, the first thing she does is bend over and show her badge, like a peacock showing it’s feathers to another bird. They are total brand braggers.”

BIDDER BATH: Girls who squirt when they orgasm on the auction block. “I think that Sandy Foot Girl gave the whole front row a bidder bath.”

DEATH ROW: Women nervously waiting to be auctioned. “Let’s stuff them in the chute a few minutes early. I want Death Row fully loaded, and the trap door ready to go, before 10AM.”

DAWDLE DEMONS: “Owners” who make their wives, daughters, or girlfriends wait hours of even days, sweating it out to the last second to find out if their “Any Chance?” auction will be reversed. “My chemistry teacher, Mrs. Halsey, has been waiting since Saturday to find out if she’s going to freed or shipped to Dubai. Her husband’s a really dawdle demon.”

DIDDLE DAWDLE: Slave girls who diddle themselves during a seemingly endless wait to find out if their “Any Chance?” auction will be reversed. “Yeah, Halsey's really sweating up a slave stink, and is TOTALLY freaking out. I don't think she likes her students seeing her this way. I told her, "Chill, girl, panting don't help none." I even let her suck my prick to distract her, but I’ve had to change her water bottle 10 times. All she does is suck spunk water, pee, and diddle dawdle.”

These are marvelous. Most of these are new to me but I love them all. Thanks,,

Hooked6

Joe always finds new ways to emphasize the humiliation of a slave market, and this list of terms is an example of that. I would imagine that Sarah Hollister herself was responsible for a "Bidder Bath" when she climaxed on the auction block.
One question, though--I thought that one of the accepted norms of being slave graded was that the candidate MUST report already slave naked, not even carrying a bag with her clothes, which in turn necessitates her walking across the parking lot, if not farther, slave naked. I seem to recall Annie losing her expensive clothes into a dumpster before she was kenneled. Moreover, most judicial or administrative enslavements involve the individual stripping naked in the courtroom or Department of Agriculture office, as Sarah did at the beginning of Sandy Foot Girl. No doubt there would be a few instances where a person was "ambushed" or surprised by being unexpectedly stripped and enslaved at the market (such an instance would be a great opportunity for Joe's signature description of fall from power to slavery--hint, hint!). In general, however, how common would it be to "Bag and Tag" an individual's clothing at the market?

Stripping in the parking lot is de rigueur if you want a top grade, but a surprising number of women still end up stripping at the counter. In the case of large groups (like the sorority, or civic organizations, or conventioneers), they sometimes makes special arrangements, or simply do it at the counter, as it's more convenient to have personal belongings bagged and stored rather than kept on a bus or a group of cars. The Big D frowns on this, and has discussed stopping the storage of personal property for sometime, both for liability and practical reasons. The policy changes regularly.

BEST UNDRESSED: A sly reference to an informal practice of female employees who pick off the "unclaimed baggage" of women who are enslaved and never get their clothes back. "Mrs. Lawrence was pretty surprised when I stopped by the loading dock after I punched out, and she saw I was wearing her clothes. I told her I was hitting the clubs with her fancy duds, and I hoped she had a good time in Mexico! I definitely win Best Undressed for this week!"

FURNACE FUEL: Slang for the unclaimed personal property of women who come in for a grading, and are then sold. Clothing is usually picked off by female staff (SEE BEST UNDRESSED) or donated to charity. "Her husband just told us to throw all her shit out. She only had about $50 in cash, but Jake's goin' to turn a pretty penny on that wedding ring. Jake used her crap as furnace fuel, to heat her branding iron. You should have seen the look on her face when her passport went up, ha-ha!"

GAGGLES: Large groups of women who come in, laughing and joking, sometimes planned, but often unannounced. "Tell Jake we need to staff up. The Texas Women's Leadership Conference is in town this week, and every night the counters getttin' overrun with gaggles of drunken slave pussy. Oh, and have maintenance bolt some temporary bollards onto the floor, like we do at Christmas."

VIPS: An internal employee joke for “Vastly Ignorant Pussy”, typically referring to rich women who naïvely go to The Big D and buy the most expensive grading package without ever bothering to figure out what it’s all about. “Miss Hollywood strutted her like she owned the place, after her agent booked the full package. She actually looked over her giant sunglasses and asked if ‘There was VIP entrance.” Jethro and Sally couldn’t stop laughing! They had the blushing little superhero bagged, tagged, and, after a little whip crackin', painting the pole faster than you can say Rodeo Drive!”

Oh I LOVED the term VIP - Vastly Ignorant Pussy.

Too funny. I actually know people who that term might apply to.

Hooked6

I have to agree about the concept of VIP--it sounds almost like the Big D equivalent of "Stairway to Heaven" where the woman at least asked for an explanation of how to buy her way in--only in this case, the woman doesn't bother to ask and will be serving others. Again, the fertile brain of Joe has offered us the outline for an excellent story.

Carl Bradford wrote: ↑Wed Nov 24, 2021 6:30 pm I have to agree about the concept of VIP--it sounds almost like the Big D equivalent of "Stairway to Heaven" where the woman at least asked for an explanation of how to buy her way in--only in this case, the woman doesn't bother to ask and will be serving others. Again, the fertile brain of Joe has offered us the outline for an excellent story.

Now if only Santa would read your post and maybe persuade Joe to write a story along the VIP lines I’d get everything I wanted for Christmas.

Hooked6