The Girl in the Window, Pt. 04

[Carl Bradford]

(I had intended to end this story with Part 03, but JOE DOE PROVIDED additional inspiration. You should recall that the rich and bored Natalie had allowed her husband Brad to sell her at an “Any Chance Auction,” a procedure at the Big D Slave Market whereby a slave is auctioned off but her owner retains the right to refuse the final auction price. Eager for the experience (but not the reality) of being auctioned as a slave, Natalie gave Brad power of attorney over her body. He led her, naked, collared, and cuffed, into the Big D, in the process humiliating her in front of various visitors including the just-turned-age-18 Wesley and Brad’s own mother, Agatha. Despite (or perhaps because of) her shame, Natalie climaxed just as she was sold in front of an audience that included not only Brad and Agatha but also Lois Spalding, an expert trainer of pony girls who has also been known to play slave for the sexual thrill. After the auction, Natalie recovered in a cage, impatiently waiting for Brad to restore her to freedom, only to learn from a slave wrangler that her “new Master wants to document your Prime rating by getting you branded as a real Sandy Foot Girl.”

(CAUTION: once again, this fantasy of female enslavement and submission is never intended to happen in the real world.)

(Natalie’s viewpoint)

Pretending to be a slave girl on the auction block has been the most enjoyable, thrilling experience of my life. I’d orgasmed and almost fainted at the moment when the auctioneer declared me “Sold!” But actually BEING a slave was terrifying!

I dug my toes into the cement floor as the wranglers dragged me toward the branding racks, babbling that I was actually a very rich, very important person, and that they were making a TERRIBLE mistake. It wasn't a problem for the wranglers, though, as they had heard it all before. Effortlessly, they carried me like a ragdoll towards what was now my inevitable fate.

Branding me was, from my point of view, a catastrophic disaster. But seeing half a dozen naked, girlish bottoms already strapped into position on the long rack, some already branded, some awaiting the kiss of the iron, I realized how understandable the mistake was. Legally, when the gavel fell, I became a slave girl, and branding my bottom was no different than monogramming my purse--a Gucci purse is more impressive than the same bag without the logo. It only took them a few seconds to lock me in position, with iron bars across my thighs and calves making it impossible for me to move my bottom in any way. Glancing up at the overhead monitor, I saw only a row of naked slave girl bottoms, and even I couldn’t tell which one was mine. I was just another newly-sold slave slut.

The blacksmith, old, fat, bald, and wearing a thick bib, knew though, and he carefully peeled back my lip to verify my SIN number against his computer screen. As soon as he released my lip I tried to explain.

"You don’t understand. This is all a terrible mistake!" I cried. "You need to call my husband, Brad. I'm rich! I can pay you!”

The wrangler behind me laughed. “Ya’ got cash in that purse, girl?” he teased, inserting his fingers in my slot. I was soaking wet from my attempts to kill my boredom in my cage with nonstop masturbation, but the minimum wage idiot behind me didn’t understand that.

“Juicy little slut,” he snickered. “This one really earned her Big D,” he added.

“I’m not a Pleasure Slut!” I said. “I’m the .01%. I’m a very powerful person! I’m a hefuae togr farar!"

From behind me, he slipped the rubber bit between my teeth, making further attempts to protest, or find out who had bought me, or how this mistake had happened, utterly pointless.

"Don't matter who you 'WUZ, girl," the wrangler said. "Yer a Sandy Foot girl, now, and in a few seconds, we’ll mark you as such forever. Wear the big D badge with PRIDE!"

I looked up at him, eyes bulging, nostrils flaring. I knew exactly what I looked like, for the girls on either side of me bore the same ridiculous expressions.

The worst part was the idiot cowboy who had strapped me in tight was right. The time for discussion was over. The papers were signed and sealed. Fuck, I had watched Brad and his leering lawyer Sheldon do it, idiot that I was. The gavel had fallen, and I had been sold off the block. I was a slave girl now, and I was going to get my pampered, perfectly toned ass branded. End of discussion—my ass was grass.

I was stunned and disbelieving that I was actually going to get branded. By comparison, I was only slightly surprised to see Doug & Wesley, the father and son who had witnessed my stripping in the parking lot, walk up to the branding racks.

"Hey, there, Missy!" Doug said, giving me a playful salute as he spoke in a voice far too cheerful for what was about to happen to me (easy for HIM to be happy; nobody was about to fry HIS ass.) "Hope ya'll don't mind an audience, but my boy here told your new owner that he thought brandin' your big rump with The Big D logo would be a mighty fine idea-r! Since Wesley kinda helped make the final decision, I asked if we might watch 'em put the old fire-iron to your caboose. The new owner said sure, seein' as how it's my boy’s birthday and all."

His birthday? Seriously? My head was still swimming as I struggled to form words. As if I could speak! And who the hell WAS my owner, anyway? Vital information for any slave to know, but I hadn’t a clue.

"Can I brand her, Dad?" Wesley said, in a voice that was way, way, too eager.

"Let's start by watchin', first, son," Doug said, putting his hand on his shoulder in a paternal way. "After all, she's gettin' branded for life, and with a red-hot iron, there ayn't no second chances."

Doug didn't have to remind me of that.

“She says she shouldn’t be branded,” the Blacksmith said wrly. “She’s a VIP: a very important pussy!”

Everyone laughed at the joke, except me, but I didn’t matter.

"Kinda funny, how they always come up with some reason they shouldn't get the iron!" Doug observed as the blacksmith scanned the chip in my collar and methodically verified my lot tag number against the number on his screen. Yes, this was permanent, so everything needed to be checked and double checked!

"Hysterical," the blacksmith said dryly. "Don't matter none, though. Only a fool argues with a slave girl."

"Words of wisdom," Doug said. "You remember that, Wesley. This here's a right smart fella."

"How old are you, son?" the blacksmith said.

"18 today, Sir!" he replied proudly.

The smiling blacksmith held up the iron, glowing and pulsing with heat. "Well, consider this your birthday candle, already lit for you. And that sweet little ass of hers? That's the cake.” Turning to me he said, “Time to make a wish, little slut."

The blacksmith took a moment to hold the red-hot iron up in front of my face. The branding head was black, but the heat had turned the cursive “D” logo to a bright, cherry red. The heat was pouring off it, and, in a frantic moment of slave stupid, I shouted my protests into my gag.

This is a mistake!
I’m a billionaire!
You’ve got to listen to me! I’m not a pleasure Slut! I’m not! I’m a very important person!

Of course, with the rubber bit in my teeth all that came out of my mouth as a gibberish and a string of drool.

“Waa-waa-waa-waa!” Wesley said, mocking me. Everyone laughed.

The blacksmith plunged the iron back into fire, to give it a bit more heat. “I want to do three bottoms with this iron, so we’ll get it nice and hot. The woman who called this little slut in asked to talk to me. She said you were a stuck up rich bitch, and you called The Big D “The Big Dick”.”

Tucking me under the chin, the blacksmith smiled. “Did you think that was funny, slave girl, disrespecting us that way? Bet you thought it was pretty funny. Ayn’t laughing now, are ya? Are ya? I’m gonna use the big branding head, and brand ya’ square on the dead center of your butt cheek. That’ll teach ya’ some respect!”

He took the iron, now blue hot, and blew on it. “Like I always say, if ya’ can’t make a slave girl see the light, you can make her feel the heat.”

Wesley laughed as the smith walked around the rack. “I imagine you won’t forget The Big D’s name, once ya’ wearing it!” he said, running his finger down the area that was about to be branded.

The girl to my left got a quick swab of alcohol, then a nice long 3 second burn. The poor animal screamed into her gag, every nerve tensed, straining against her bonds as if she were being electrocuted, and pissing as the iron burned her ass.

“WOWZER!” Wesley said.

“Listen to that steak sizzle!” his dad said.

After the preview of coming attractions, I was next, and I protested lustily as I felt the cool alcohol swab my bottom.

“Wear it with pride, slut—this marks you PERMANENTLY as one of the fiiii-nest pieces o’ slave ass in all a’ Texas!”

A moment later, I felt an indescribable pain. I felt as if my heart was about to burst, and my brain was overloading. I don’t know if I pissed or screamed, but the pain went on-and-on, as did the laughter behind me.

Then everything went dark.

*****

The next thing I knew, I was shocked awake when what felt like a gallon of cold water struck my head. I was still butt naked (and I suddenly realized that my butt was throbbing with pain), cuffed, and lying face down on a concrete floor in what looked like a barn. Standing over me with the empty bucket was the redheaded woman who sat with my mother-in-law while I was auctioned off.

Standing next to her was my mother-in-law, Agatha. She was grinning even wider than when I had abased myself on the auction block.

Maybe it was the pain screaming out of my butt cheek, or the confusion of the cold water, but for a moment I actually thought I was rescued.

“Thank…thank you. Tell her… who I am!” I gasped, looking up at my mother-in-law.

Kneeling down, Agatha stroked the side of my face gently… then stuck a rubber bit between my teeth.

“You’re the little pony girl we’re going to take out for a ride,” she replied, yanking the laces tight.

“First things first;” said Lois. “We need to put the Spinning Wheel brand on your OTHER butt to prevent rustlin’.” She must have seen the terror in my eyes, but before I could even try to protest, she went on, in a kinder tone. “And don’t bother arguin’, girl. That didn’t help you any the last time you got branded, did it?” I shook my head, of course. “Look,” she continued. “I KNOW how much getting’ branded hurts—hell, I VOLUNTARILY got branded on MY butt (her left hand crept, almost unconsciously, to cup her rear end through her jeans)—dumbest thing I’ve ever done. But, it’s gonna happen to you no matter what, so we might as well do it now and get the misery and the healin’ for BOTH brands over with at the same time.”

I was still horrified, but she was right—arguing or struggling wouldn’t change anything. I was completely helpless, and whoever owned me had total control over my body—because I had been STUPID enough to sign away my rights, trusting my husband. Two burly hands bound me bent over a metal rail, and AAHHH! That REALLY burned.

Amazingly, I didn’t pass out. Was I getting used to the branding iron? The thought horrified me. I heard my mother-in-law Agatha cackling hysterically, babbling on about finally having that “slut” marked appropriately, how a brand was the ultimate “tramp stamp” and I was a tramp whore who needed it, and so on. Despite my pain, I would have tried to kill her if I weren’t bound so tightly.

Some guy dressed like a ranch hand who said he was a paramedic gave me some antiseptic and pain killers that knocked me out again. When I came to, the light through the windows said it was early evening. I woke because two ranch hands were thoroughly fondling me as they kitted me up as a pony girl—tall, heeled boots with horseshoes on the bottom, a tight bustier to hold my boobs, nipples fully exposed, on a shelf (which just made it more convenient for any free person to grope them), and then (after giving me some ibuprofen to swallow) they added a head harness with bit and reins.

The whole process was “supervised” by a beaming Agatha, who also wanted to install a ponytail connected to a HUGE buttplug. Thank heavens Lois told her that would have to wait until tomorrow, after my brands had started to heal.

Next, Lois told one wrangler to harness me to a light carriage to pull the two women around the ranch. She started to tell one of the hands to bring another pony girl to pull in tandem with me, but Agatha would have none of it. She insisted that her “EX”-daughter-in-law pull the carriage all by herself. "She's very independent, and doesn't like to be babied," Agatha explained in a falsely-sympathetic tone. (With a bit gagging me, I of course couldn’t contradict her even if I wished.) Lois shrugged, cancelled the instructions to add a second pony, and off we went!

While I struggled to pull them (neither the carriage nor especially Agatha was really lightweight), the two women chatted pleasantly. Much to Agatha’s delight, Lois periodically used the whip on my bare lower back (I guess I should be thankful that she didn’t strike my newly-branded ass!) The ranch owner actually sounded reasonable as she tried to teach me various horse gaits such as canter and trot. That 24-caret bitch Agatha kept urging her to use the whip more, but Lois explained that, once a pony understood what the whip sound meant, cracking the whip was usually enough.

She was right—I may have been a smart college woman on the inside, but for the moment “Pony Girl Natalie” was DESPERATE to please these two women and avoid further pain.

CRACK!

Giddyap, Natalie!
As with every other part of my slave girl fantasy, the hard reality brought with it a new and fascinating perspective. I kept several horses at the stables of the family estate, and I adored going for carriage rides with Brad in Central Park. Two days ago, I had walked past a group of animal rights protestors as I had climbed into my carriage. Now I was the horse, bitted, nostrils flaring, incapable of any thought other than pleasing my riders to avoid the whip! It was truly horrifying and humiliating in a way I never could have imagined from the comfort of my cushy carriage seat.

Brad and I had made out in the back of the enclosed carriage, his hand between my legs, but now, the excitement between my legs was made all the worse by the fact that relief was impossible.

Once she had me trotting as hard as I could, however, Lois tried to get more speed by striking different parts of my bound, exposed body—the whip landed on the back of my thighs, and "between the cheeks," so as to not interfere with the two brands. At least, Lois professed to be impressed with my efforts, noting "she's smart and feisty, just like I like 'em." Agatha observed that I was "sweating like a horse, or should I say a pony bitch?" but Lois said that was natural, as she’s pulling twice the normal weight for a trained pony girl.

Despite my pain and desperation, the sense of humiliation and fear somehow aroused me again; I could feel moisture dripping down between my thighs, which only made the occasional whip strike on my wet skin even more painful. I heard Lois offering options to Agatha:

“Well, she lacks the legs and the mass to really be a racer—if you left her here for two months, we could work on her gait and her endurance, but she’s never going to win many races. There are two other ways to use her, of course. First, she’s so obviously horny, so ‘wet and ready,’ that she could be a "trotter"—sometimes called a picnic pony—by men who visit the ranch for ‘a carriage ride and a slave girl ride.’”

Agatha interrupted. “So, she would be both a pony girl and a whore for your visitors? That sounds interesting.”

Lois continued, almost as if she hadn’t been interrupted. “The other option for a pretty but slutty slave is to edge the male ponies; we lead her around our stallions in their stalls to keep ‘em hard without ever actually letting them come—have to make sure she’s lathered up and smells horny for the taste. The girl might spend all day sucking off horse dicks, keeping them on edge for their best performance. IF—and only if—a stallion wins his race, then we tie a couple of Edgers onto mounting racks and let the winners stuff any hole they want to. The stallions really POUND the ponies at that point, because all the stallions hate being cock-teased by Edgers before the race.”

“Gosh,” giggled Agatha. “It’s tough to choose because both of those jobs would keep the little skank thoroughly used, which is what she wants and needs. Can you start out training her hard, and then pimp the slut out to some visitors AND stallions to see where she gets the most ‘bang for the buck’—err, fuck?”

Either fate terrified me, but I thought I’d rather be ANY male’s slave cunt than spend all my time kowtowing to my monster-in-law. Just then, things got a little worse for me.

Agatha suddenly asked to see the view from Lois's house, which overlooks the entire ranch. Lois replied that the road leading to her house was too steep for one pony to pull two people, but at Agatha's insistence, I heard Lois give her the whip and reins! Next thing I knew, the bitch was driving me up the aptly-named "Horsewhip Hill" so Agatha could enjoy the majestic view. I lost count of how many whip strokes I took while the woman kept up a constant stream of invective:

“Come on, you bimbo whore slut of a pony. MOVE when I tell you to, you little bitch! Don’t act like you don’t know how to shake your ass to get what you want—that’s how you got my son to marry you, remember? Time for you to learn your place. I’m going to make sure you give that pussy away for free to every swingin’ dick on this ranch!” and so on.

By the time we reached the top of the hill, my back and thighs felt as if they were raw meat, and a few strokes had even sliced through the dressings on my new brands, causing me excruciating pain. I was panting and shaking and hacking; I think the only reason why I didn’t drop dead on the spot was that I was determined to get my revenge on that inhuman monster.

After they admired the view, I heard and felt Lois reclaim control of reins and whip. That, plus the downhill grade, meant that the return trip was relatively easy although still no picnic (THAT thought only reminded me of the prospect of being a picnic pony whore—a marvelous masturbatory image in theory, but in reality, I was sure, a humiliating and painful experience every time.)

Meanwhile, Agatha demanded that I go to the stables and “audition” for the role of Edger by almost-not-quite sucking off as many stallions as possible. At least my legs got a rest, as I knelt in the straw and entertained a steady stream of VERY well-endowed young men in pony tack.

Agatha smiling, arms folded, watched the whole time, losing no opportunity to point out that I was (1) obviously a champion cocksucker and (2) enjoying being on my knees, servicing other subhuman slaves who were still superior to me! I don’t know which of us was more frustrated—the stallions who were aroused but then dragged away before they could cum, or me the Edger who never got the relaxation and dubious reward of swallowing their spunk.

Maybe she was right about my naturally-slutty personality, though; if it hadn’t been for my throbbing new brands, I could really have enjoyed just staying on my knees all evening to entertain all those swinging young dicks! After the day I’d been through, I really enjoyed the power I had over the male slaves, and my ability to “punish” them by denying them the release they so desperately craved.

I’d been a slave for less than a day, but my mind was already in full-blown (pardon the pun) slave submission, and I understood the term “slave power,” the paradox that slavery was freedom, and it was the slave girls who controlled the males they served.

Lois came to check on us, briefly, and bring Agatha a glass of lemonade. I wasn’t sure whether Agatha had explained who I was to Lois, who in any event seemed to regard me as just another animal on her ranch. Clearly Lois didn’t care about who I was, but the source of her indifference was still murky. Unsure, I concentrated on sucking the enormous tool of the stallion in front of me, reasoning that as a slave girl it wasn’t in my interest to think. (Besides, to be honest, except for my sore butt I was having fun, living out my submissive dreams and swallowing lots of cock!)

*****
I was slurping down my fifth load of jism when Brad showed up. I didn’t stop, both because I was afraid of that whip and because (as I said) I was enjoying myself. So, as I meticulously licked every yummy drop of stallion cum off his still-erect dick, I just listened.

What I heard gave me a rush of hope and even pride! Brad was furious with his mother, and actually took my side over the wicked witch of the South (South Texas, anyway). Turns out that SHE had me branded and shipped off without his knowledge--Brad had planned on rescinding my sale, and just wanted to let me sweat it out a little to increase my fantasy of helpless enslavement. Instead, my mother-in-law had called The Big D and approved the sale without Brad's permission—in fact, without the digital owner’s chit to approve it. I thought it was ALMOST worth it to be branded and whipped, just to hear that my husband loved me more than my fortune and even more than he loved his mom! Agatha, of course, was furious, but as he calmed down Brad told her AGAIN that I had agreed to the auction precisely to please her—she got all the fun she could imagine out of subjugating me, but fun time was over.

Lois, bless her heart, turned out to be an honest person—or perhaps she wasn’t joking when she told me that she had once been branded? “OK, Brad. I have a policy of never buying ponies when the title is in question, and clearly that’s the case here, especially if you as the owner never approved the sale. I’m sorry, Agatha—I was trying to do you a favor, but I never intended to buy the slut if her owner didn’t really want to sell her.” She looked a little annoyed at Agatha, too, but was determined not to show it, as it was obvious from her tone that she was attempting to mediate the situation.

In moments, Lois freed me from all the pony tack but not my collar. Lois even gave me a couple of sugar cubes to help me get the taste out of my mouth—but feeding me sugar just reminded me that I was a pony! Brad had brought a bag with the clothing I had discarded this morning, and while I hastily dressed they talked about how to un-fuck this situation (it was too late to un-fuck my mouth, let alone my butt!) Brad readily agreed to refund that HUGE purchase price to Lois, including the 10% that the Big D got as its commission. Agatha howled about losing her prey, but he just ignored her.

Meanwhile, because the sale had been registered in the national data base, they couldn’t just pretend it never happened. Lois explained, and Brad reluctantly agreed, that legally I was still a slave, with no degree, no husband, and no property, and would remain so unless and until the sale were rescinded in court and entered into the data base. However, this would involve taking me into a Texas slave court, which was "a risky place for a rich Yankee girl to be." Got that right—I wanted to get the HELL out of Texas and never return! My little fantasy had turned into a huge pain in the butt—actually two pains in the butt.

Brad told her about his friend Sheldon, and Lois smiled. “I know him. He’s very good, and popular in slave court. He’s exactly the lawyer you want, but he will demand the customary fee. He’ll want to fuck her,” he said, indicating me with a nod of her head, as if she were pointing out the way to the bathroom.”

“NO WAY,” I said.

“Way,” Lois replied. “You two are Yankees in Texas, and you better start learnin’ to do things the Texas way, or else. Your best bet of rescinding the sale is to claim fraud, but that will get get Agatha in trouble—and I mean Texas slave court trouble," Lois explained. "Your mom is still hot enough to sell, and they might not like Natalie's resale back to her former husband, so you could end up with two bitches on the block instead of one."

I think the thought of being enslaved herself finally got to Agatha, but I couldn’t help saying , “That sounds just fine to me. At the very least I’d like to brand HER butt and take HER for a pony slut spin around the ranch!”

“Carriages are always available,” Lois replied cheerfully, shooting her lying friend Agatha a look.

My bitch of a mother-in-law suddenly became as sweet as sweet tea when she realized that her own ass was at stake, apologizing for the “little misunderstanding.”

"I really thought Brad wanted to sell you, Natalie, and I hated to see you cooped up in that cage, when we could all go out for a ride together and enjoy the fresh air and sunshine at this beautiful ranch."

That was just too much for me. I exploded “Fuck off!” and tried to strike HER with the damn whip she had used on me, but Lois stopped me.

“I understand how you must feel, Natalie, but you’re still legally a slave. If you strike a free woman now you’re likely to end up a pony girl for life. Save your anger until after we get you freed." Lois handed me another sugar cube as consolation, which I eagerly devoured, much to Brad’s amusement.

“I’m afraid she’s right, Darling,” my husband said, very apologetically. “You’re going to have to play the part until Sheldon can unravel this mess. I don’t blame you for being angry, but please, can’t you accept my mother’s apology?"

So I had to agree to smile when I wanted to scratch her eyes out. A “little misunderstanding,” huh? I couldn’t say, “misunderstanding my ass,” because it had already cost me my butt, so how about horse-manure?

At least Brad took me out of that horrible scene quickly. On the way to the airport, he explained that I was legally obligated to wear a collar and keep the slave chip inside my body until we got me freed—anything else would make me a runaway and almost guarantee my permanent servitude. I understood all that, but then my OWN DAMN PILOT insisted that, in accordance with FAA regulations for slaves, I had to be handcuffed for takeoff! That, plus the pain of having to sit on my brands for take-off, was the last straw, and I dissolved into tears.

As I couldn’t really sit on my bottom, my pilot offered me an alternative. A slave kennel was found. My pilot’s insistence that I strip butt naked was “FAA regulations” but as this was a private plane I knew the horny bastard just wanted to see me strip for him. But as anything was better than sitting on my brands, strip I did, and even let the grinning stewardess record my SIN number off my lip and lock me in my cage.

“I need a slave name for the manifest,” the pilot said. I looked up at him expectantly, wondering how my husband saw me, now that I was naked and caged.

Brad thought for a moment, smiling down at me as he considered the matter. “Sugar Snatch”, he said. “Because she gives it up so sweet.”

At least Brad fed me through the bars inflight. I wanted to fire them both when we landed, but Brad said I’d better get used to it, because “that’s how slave girls are treated, sweetie.”

*****

Brad was right. I’d like to say that my life in New York returned to normal, but that would be a lie. It took two weeks for my brands to heal to the point where I could bear to sit on them, and even after that I didn’t want to go out in public wearing a slave collar. Instead, once I was mostly healed, Brad and I decided that I might as well use the reality of being enslaved as a vehicle to resume my damaged fantasies of submission. Our bedroom sizzled as I performed for my dazzled and sex drunk husband like the randiest of pleasure sluts, with Sugar Snatch begging her “Master” to “ram your huge cock into all my holes.” He happily obliged, and between trysts he joked that it was almost a pity to pay Sheldon so much to try to free me.

“Money isn’t the sort of payment to Sheldon that worries me,” I said. Brad just smiled.

After I wore his cock down to a nub, I finally resumed my slave yoga classes. Going to and from those classes, turtleneck collars concealed my slave collar. Still, the size of the brands on my ass, particularly the enormous, ropy, D, made it impossible to hide from Mackenzie, Taylor, and Tiffany, so I wore it as a badge of pride, instead. Yes, all four of us decided to take slave yoga classes in the nude with some real pleasure sluts who were brought into the exercise session at The Mercedes Club to make the training more “authentic.” My friends were SO jealous, as I was hotter than even the real pleasure sluts, none of whom been rated prime. The spectators watching from the gallery loved my brands with some speculating that the “D” stood for “Delicious” or “Desirable” and that the wagon wheel meant I belonged to the Wheeler family, who, truth be told, didn’t have enough money to shine my shoes. It also helped that I had learned exactly what it meant to be a real slave, which made my gyrations even sexier—think of it as method acting!

Of course, my “friends” had their fun, too, as when one of the new attendants at the club didn’t recognize me they told them my name was “Sugar Snatch” and laughed when I was forced into the showers with 20 other naked pleasure sluts. My collar didn’t identify me as part of the lot belonging to Soho Slavers (thank goodness) so I was hooked up to one of the pleasure racks for “free use” by the club members. As Brad was out of town and I had been devoiced, I was well used for the next two days by Creepy Carl, several friends of my father, Brad’s basketball buddies, and (worst of all) my father-in-law, who puffed on his cigar while he fucked me from behind. He was old, and he took forever with me. He barely looked down at me and spent the whole time blathering about his new racket with his racquetball partner, who had his tiny, withered dick in my mouth.

I did feel a surge of pride as my father-in-law commented to his friend on what “a wet, tight fuck she is. “Such smooth skin,” he observed. “I’ve always liked smooth skin,” he said, as he caressed my wagon wheel brand with his finger.

“The wheel of fate,” he chuckled, reverting to one of his favorite go-to expressions as he slow-pumped me in and out.

Brad returned, and the next morning my father-in-law was the picture of gentility as we enjoyed mimosas at The Metropolitan Club. It might seem odd that he didn’t recognize me, but the beautiful young woman with the carefully coiffed hair and the Armani turtleneck bore scant resemblance to the nameless pussy he had slow fucked and reamed the afternoon before.

Agatha, unaware of what had happened, was nonetheless her charming self, asking repeatedly if my chair “was comfortable, or needed more padding” and wondering “why you are wearing a turtleneck in such weather!” Bitch.

Brad’s father, who had always ignored the tension between his wife and me, took my hand. “A young lady as lovely as Natalie looks lovely in whatever she cares to wear.”

“Or not wear,” Agatha said, under her breath. Brad shot her a look.

“Such smooth skin,” he said, stroking my hand. “She’s quite a catch, Brad,” he said pleasantly.

“Indeed,” Brad agreed, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

The conversation continued for several minutes while my father-in-law enjoyed stroking my hand as he and Brad chatted about sports. Fortunately, he was utterly oblivious to the fact that the girl he was flirting with was a recent fuck, as a stiff prick doesn’t pay much attention to what hole is pleasuring it. However, when he noted that the playoff games were “the wheel of fate,” I almost spit my mimosa across the room.

Brad thought my “little mishap” with his dad was quite amusing, and when he realized how anonymous I could be decided to push the envelope. One beautiful Sunday I was one of the bridesmaids at his friend Steve’s wedding, dancing with men who had fucked me stupid at the bachelor party the night before. Brad had arranged for me to be the anonymous “entertainment” while his friends made me airtight, stuffing all my openings simultaneously. They were too drunk, or too horny, or too indifferent to recognize me, but I had to admit the wedding was a lot more interesting for me when I knew what the penis of every man in the bridal party looked like. The best man really WAS the best, with a cock big enough around to be a soda can—more like a 16-oz Monster Energy Drink, because it sure energized my climax!

It was then that I realized how important context was. “I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on” was a real thing, and elegant, posh society Natalie looked and comported herself so differently from the pleasure slut Sugar Cube that we could have been standing next to each other and not be recognized. I told Brad the only difference between me and Superman is Clark Kent only needed to take off his glasses. He loved that joke.

The transformation itself was a turn on. I made a point of hiring different masseuses, relishing their look of surprise when I removed my robe to reveal my collar and brands. Many of them walked out, refusing to dirty their hands by touching slave meat. It was such a turn on, seeing the looks on their faces.

Then we spent some time in the Hamptons. Why give the lawn crew or the pool boy a cash tip when you can let them fuck your hot pleasure slut, chained naked and spread-eagled in the dog kennel? One minute I was giving them orders, and the next I was naked, kneeling, spread wide, and totally in their power. I remembered “the little people” by letting them fuck me. I was happy to play, so long as my “owner” eventually rescued me. And THEN Sugar Snatch beg her Master to pound her until she was slave stupid. What a rush.

I don’t know what to think about my approaching court date in Texas. On the phone, Sheldon had made it clear that he would be expecting the “customary personal services payment” BEFORE we went into court. He was a sleazy bastard, and I despised him, which is why I always got turned on asking Brad about him when my owner was fucking me. I guess the sleazier I felt, the more it would turn me on. Go figure.

Brad’s dad was right. Although the brands were placed firmly on my ass, the wheel of fate keeps on spinning. On the one hand, I was desperate to correct the wrong and regain my freedom. On the other hand, being a collared, branded piece of PRIME Texas slave ass has its moments . . . Do you suppose that, while we’re down in Texas, Brad would be willing to take me back to the Spinning Wheel Ranch and “ride your pony”?

(The End)

[jeepster]

Great chapter! Really hoping the trip to Texas is next chapter! Loving how she is embracing the role of slave girl!

[lovethissite]

Thanks Carl loved it.

[butterballgurl]

Loving this story. Great turn of events. Imagining mother-in-law with the circle star brand if she's held accountable.

[dtrelsky]

Great story! The mother-in-law cleary isn't sorry in the least as even after hearing how her ass could be on the line she is still making comments to rile up Natalie. Circle star seems like the perfect remedy.
If her husband repurchasing her is a real concern when they go to court he could have Lois hold the deed on her until the courts declare her free. She's already proven to Brad that she's more trustworthy than his mother after all.