Sandy Foot Girl, Part 5, by Joe Doe

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Joe asked me to post this rough draft of part 5. Comments are welcome. Thank you, and Happy New Year!

My auction had begun, and the bids poured in quickly. Even as I blushed and spread my butt cheeks for Judge Parker’s amusement, I felt a surge of pride at the way “Tiny Tim” was quickly showing the bidders everything B-269 had.

I felt light headed and could hear my heart beating in my chest. I was glad for my Slave Yoga and block training, for it was this moment I’d prove myself worthy of my Prime Minus grade. Even if I felt like a stunned cow, I knew I’d have to move fast, and obey perfectly, to maximize my price.

“When you’re at level 5, don’t let the little sluts catch their breath, Timmy,” I had instructed my star pupil. “No matter who she was, or who she thought she was, she’s livestock, no different than a cow or a sow. She’s snatch to be sold, not a story to be told.”

I had taught Tiny Tim well. While every second on the auction block seemed like an hour to me, the total elapsed time between the gate sliding open and me spreading my butt cheeks like the most lascivious of slave sluts was only a few seconds. It was obvious from my high lot number (B-269) and my rifle-shot progression from the receiving dock to the auction block that The Big D was moving a lot of pussy that day.

The economics of the auction house dictated that there would be no slow, sexy reveals or discussions of my finer points: Timmy wanted to show the crowd my fuckable holes and sell me as gash-for-cash. From a purely business perspective, I heartily approved. My computer model had proved that it made more sense to sell three more slaves than squeeze a few extra dollars out of any particular lot. Any fantasies I had about being admired and appreciated were crushed under the brutal capitalism of The Big D, like a cowboy boot crushing a cigarette.

The rapid early fire was very typical of the opening stage of a typical Pleasure Slut auction. The first few bids always drew the “bumpers” (people who bid up the price for girls just for fun) and the “jerkers” (buyers who would later jerk off imagining they had bought the girl, or would get off jerking their fingers in-and-out of pleasure sluts put on the sales floor for display). These distractions made no difference to Timmy, who was focused solely on my hammer price and the number of “lots-per-hour” he could parade across his block.

“Change yer tune fer this one, ladies, and gents! Look up her pooper. We got nothin’ to hide!”

Timmy’s remark got some laughter even as I winced with the humiliation of having a crowd of people led by the loathsome Judge Parker looking between my splayed legs. I could tell from the tone of his chant that Timmy either didn't recognize me, or didn’t care. I hadn’t even had time to scan the audience to see if Becky Lou or Rosa were there to bid on me before I had been bade to roll in the sand, stick my butt out, and spread my legs to shoulder length.

“Show the buyers what they want to see,” I had instructed my young apprentice. “Don’t dwell. Sell.” Timmy was doing precisely that. The outcome of my entire life was resting on what would happen in the next few second, but to diminutive 18-year-old teenager standing on a box so he could see over the auctioneer’s podium I was simply the 269th pussy to be sold off the Broadway block on this busy afternoon.

One of the cameras was pointed at my face, so I didn’t dare look at Timmy, but I was able to catch a glance of him out of the corner of my eye. The podium I had designed for my little auctioneer was simple, but very much on brand. The Amish craftsman who had built both the auction block and the podium to my exacting specifications had used a 19th century craftsman style, but with a rustic Texas accent. Both the block and the front of the podium was a series of open slats that left everything but the top drawer where my paperwork was visible. I had conceived it as sort of a visual pun: if the girls were totally exposed, why shouldn’t the furniture be, too? Now that I was ‘dogging it’ on the block withmy butt cheeks spread wide my attempt at irony seemed more cruel than amusing.

I had stepped onto the block by exiting the humiliating cattle chute, like the animal I was. Timmy had mounted the block using the wooden steps, which had a lovely beveled handrail on one side. The sandy boards I was kneeling on were not perfectly flush, by design: I had wanted gaps for drainage so the sweat and piss of the terrified slave girls didn’t pool up. I had designed it well, and the sand, as humbling as it was, gave me excellent traction and made it easy to keep my footing.

I had spent a lot of time thinking about the height of the block, and even with my face facing away from the audience I could tell I had designed it well. I was close enough to Judge Parker that I could here him chuckling, and sniffling as he leaned in for a closer look. Yes, Judge Parker and the people in the middle tiers and top row had perfect views of my both my asshole and my widely split, hot, wet beaver.

Without moving my head I sized up my auctioneer. Timmy had a blue sports jacket with The Big D logo, and a white dress shirt, and a red tie, also with the yellow rope logo of The Big D. The rest of his attire was pure Texas: jeans with a big steer belt buckle, an oversized white cowboy hat to make him look taller, and cowboy boots with lifts in them.

I had advised Timmy to wear the lifts and hat, to give him height, and the jacket and tie, to give him more authority. But there was still something comical about his youthful appearance, as he looked less like a cowboy than a little boy trick-or-treating. Allowing myself the briefest flicker of a smile I took a moment to enjoy how absolutely ridiculous he really was.

Surely, I had nothing to fear from such an absurd little creature. Timmy was a little boy playing dress up, pretending to be an auctioneer. I wondered if he shaved yet.

I flashed back to the first day when Timmy had come to me after class. He was shy, and had blushed when he confessed that he didn’t know if he had the “dominance” to be a good auctioneer. I had gently lifted his chin with my hand, and looked into his eyes, telling him that I was sure it was a problem he could overcome, if he paid attention in class and did everything, I told him to.

I had made Timmy my ‘little project’, and bossed him, and mothered him. I delighted in telling “my little man,” as I called him, to “stand tall” at the podium. Now he was doing just that, even if he was standing on a box. In class I had kept him squarely under my thumb, and even threatened to “spank him” if he misbehaved, much to the other auctioneer’s amusement, and Timmy’s embarrassment.

Now the tables had turned, and it wasn’t Timmy who was blushing. I was no longer the teacher, and Timmy was no longer my student. In his tiny hands he held the symbols of his absolute authority over me.

In his right hand he held the slave whip, which was unfolded and dangling free, ready for use. And in his right hand he held his auctioneer’s gavel.

It was the auctioneer’s gavel that scared me the most. It was walnut and ornately carved, as was the beveled base that matched it. The brass plaque on it had his name and graduation date. I knew that because I had been the one who had placed the gavel in his hand on graduation day. I had even put a special inscription in a brass plaque on the bottom.

To Tiny Timmy, my little man
Be good, or Mama spank!
Love, Sarah

He hadn’t thought the inscription was very funny. I did.

The gavel was beautifully carved but not in a particularly sinister way. Indeed, to me it was simply another tool of the trade. I had held thousands of them over the years, and this one was no different than the rest. Why then, did the sight of the beautifully carved gavel in Timmy’s little fist make my blood run cold?

This gavel was different, for this gavel controlled my destiny. Judge Parker had signed my enslavement order, so that I could complete my undercover assignment. Yes, I was legally a slave, but as long as I was the property of The Texas Department of Agriculture it would be simple enough for him to reverse his order and free me.

However, under the laws of the State of Texas, and the Uniform Slave Code recognized in all 50 states, when a registered slave is sold to a third party by a licensed slave dealer such as a The Big D, the sale and enslavement become irrevocable, unless it is found that the buyer, seller, and dealer were ALL acting in bad faith.

This meant that if Timmy sold me to some random person, which by all appearances he seemed quite happy to do, then the moment his gavel struck its walnut base I’d be the property of the highest bidder. And if Betty Lou and her idiotic side kick Rosa didn’t realize how quickly I was being sold, and didn’t get to The Big D in time, too bad, so sad.

The wet-behind-the-ears, pimply faced child standing on the box was going to use everything I had taught him to sell me with the gavel I had put in his hand. It was as infuriating as it was exciting.

“Come on, gentlemen, we don’t want lookers!” Timmy urged. “Aren’ there any Texans here, or y’all from out of state? Let’s get this slut off-my-stage and into-her-cage!”

Every auctioneer had a different style, and Timmy, clearly relishing his position of power, liked to “have fun with the gavel”, as it’s said in the trade. It’s a good sales strategy, as people will bid more if they are having a good time. However, Timmy’s playful tone vanished as he turned to address lot B-269.

“Leg’s wider! Head down, ass up!” Timmy barked in his thick Texas twang.

I strained to spread my knees as widely apart as possible… and then remembering the whip in Timmy’s tiny fist, a couple of inches beyond that. I lowered my head to the stage, sticking my nose into the coarse brown sand as my bottom raised and opened up like a flower. I heard the ceiling mounted camera behind me whirl as it moved in for a closer look, allowing everyone at The Big D to see my asshole on their handy cellphone app.

The sand particles I was inhaling up my nose were putrid, and I fought the urge to wretch. They swept the market once a week, but I could smell the stink and sweat of the endless parade of slave girls who had gone before me, as well as the pee of the girls who had lost control of their bladders and disgraced themselves on the block.

Like all the other aspects of The Big D, I had given a lot of thought to the sand. After reviewing countless samples, I had selected a rough industrial sand because the color matched the gray brown shade of the walls. I had been intrigued when I had learned that girls sold in livestock markets like The Big D were sometimes called “Sandy Foot Girls,” and seeing the business opportunity I wondered if I might use the local colloquialism in the marketing of our product.

The West Texas sand I had chosen was much darker than what was normally used, and as I had anticipated it soon became something of a trademark for The Big D. On the website the online catalog ads for the various lots often featured women with bits of the dark sand clinging to their naked bodies. It gave the girls a distinct look, a brand identity that screamed “Triple D”.

Many of the auctioneers regarded the sand as a nuisance necessary for cleanup, but I advised the owner to lean into the unique “look” the sand offered. I had sprinkled the “Sandy Foot Girls” name in the monthly newsletter / sales catalogue, and had even devoted the last few pages to a photo spread of “Miss Sandy Foot”, the hottest, best-selling Pleasure Slut of the previous month.

As always, I had made an excellent choice, but now I wasn’t carefully considering the texture and clinginess of the coarse sand on my manicured hand in my air conditioned office, I was rubbing my nose in it after dozens of slave girls had released their bladders on it. I didn’t want to stick my nose in the brown filth, but the image of Timmy’s whip was fresh in my mind, and I knew that with countless girls in inventory he would brook no rebellion from the a Pleasure Slut displaying her asshole to the buyers. Clumps of the pee-soaked sand were clinging to my hair, legs, feet, and body, which made it all the more disgusting. But I also felt a strange surge of pride, for this was the sand on Broadway, and I was now officially a Sandy Foot Girl!

With my nose in the sand I knew everyone in the crowd could see better than I could. Of course my disgusting slave slut position was only part of the problem. They had taken away my glasses when they had stripped me naked, of course: slave girls didn’t need glasses. The loss of my glasses left me quite illiterate, yet another humiliation piled onto a day filled with them. While I couldn’t see the faces of the people ogling my naked body I could hear stray bits of conversation as the bids poured in.

“Do ya’ll think she’d make a good grad’ation present for Willy?” a middle aged woman asked in a thick Texas drawl.

“He got a dick, don’t he?” her friend replied.

"She sure is excited."

"Yeah, I can smell her from here.” I shuddered as I recognized Judge Parker’s familiar drawl.

“The Prince likes blondes,” a thickly accented voice said. “I’m putting in a bid.”

“That is one hot, SLOPPY PUSSY!” a drunken voice said. It came from the side, where the gawkers and drunken good-old-boys stood. He wasn’t a serious buyer, but Timmy picked up the chant.

Sixty, Sixty, DoIhearSixtyforthesloppypussy, sloppypussy, sloopypussy…This ayn’t a rental, folks, this is 100% Blue State fuck bunny!

In the excitement of the auction, I had forgotten about the blue tag stapled to my ear. It was shaped in the shape of California and marked me as a despised “Blue State Girl”.

“I don’t like blue state girls,” I heard one old male voice say.

“There okay, if you don’t spare the whip, and teach ‘em their place. ‘Brand ‘em, fuck, ‘em, teach them to suck’em’, and they’re fine.”

“Yeah, college girls don’t look so stuck up when they have my cock in their mouth” a man sneered.

To my left I heard a teacher tell his student’s to “put your phones away”, only to have several of the student protest that they were examining my “hot slave pussy” in closeup on their phones. As if being sold by an 18-year-old wasn’t humiliating enough, my shamefully wet pussy and asshole was were part of some career day field trip for the Seniors at the local high school.

“Look at that little brownie!”

“I wouldn’t mind fucking that.”

“You’d fuck anything, loser,” a girl’s voice responded.

“Yeah, you don’t want to catch nothing. These Pleasure Sluts let the whole world fuck ‘em.”

Although I had expressed the same sentiment in equally vulgar terms, the cruelty in the humiliating analysis caused me to clench my teeth. If I was sold to somewhere where the “whole world” could fuck me, then that wouldn’t be my choice.

As if on cue I heard two voices with Mexican accents.

“We can put her to work in the brothel by the military base. We’ll make our money back in 3 months, tops.”

“Yeah, then we can resell her while she’s still prime.”

“Or put he across the border, in Nuevo Laredo, or Tijuana. Let the gringos fuck ‘er, and we don’t have to worry about the law.”

My heart, which had already been racing, beat like a trip hammer at the threat. Across the border there’d be no coming back. I’d be fucked, literally and constantly, starved in a slave brothel as I was made to serve the dregs of humanity. There was no #MeToo in a Mexican slave brothel, and I’d be fuck by truckers, soldiers, tourists, frat boys, or anyone who wanted to have some kinky fun without having to spend much money. For a few dollars, anyone could do anything they wanted.

The bidders from the slave brothels bought a lot of girls, for after grinding a girl down they’d typically sell her to yet a cheaper brothel a few months later. Nonetheless they weren’t popular with auctioneers, as it was felt that they “siphoned” bids. Why pay top dollar for a girl who you could fuck in a slave brothel for a couple of hundred pesos tomorrow night?

SixtyFive, SixtyFive, SixtyFive! You folks over yonder are allowed to bid to, so get to it! White & wet, wet & ready, ayn’t nothin’ wrong with this one but the price! FreeBadgingIncluded, FreeBadging!

I felt a chill run down my spine. Free badging had been my idea, another way to distinguish ourselves in the market. The conceit was The Big D was a premium brand, and owning a real Sandy Foot Girl was a point of pride, like owning a big fancy pick up truck. And like a pick-up truck, our inventory was marked with our logo. Except instead of putting a logo or the bumper of the truck, we branded The Big D logo on the newly sold slave girl’s ass.

Like most of my initiatives, it had been a masterstroke, although it had required a bit of fine tuning. Some owners objected to having the brands placed on the dead center of the girl’s naked asses, and so we quickly relocated the brands to “between the cheeks”, on the sensitive skin on the inner left butt cheek. This novel placement allowed the logo to be displayed when needed, and even fondled by her master during fucking, without marring the girl’s day-to-day appearance in anyway.

The only downside was that the skin was so extremely sensitive that sometimes the girls would bite into their own tongues or mouths because of the intense pain. Jake had actually started giving the stupid girls local anesthesia, until I showed him that you could solve the problem much more cheaply by simply putting a stick in the girl’s mouth and strapping it to her head as a stick gag.

In addition to being cheaper, the stick gag made the girl’s shriek’s much less bothersome, while doing nothing to lessen the impact of the important lesson that a new slave girl can best learn from a scalding hot branding iron applied firmly and mercilessly to her naked ass.

As we had expert blacksmiths on staff, and woodfired forges, this free advertising and brand differentiation cost us practically nothing. As a result, badging was now as routine as it was inexpensive, and unless Becky Lou or Rosa intervened, I’d soon be wearing the “badge” I had designed on the inside of my left butt cheek forever.

My fear of the red-hot iron must have caused me to unconsciously clench my cheeks together in fear, for I heard Judge Parker’s voice behind me. “Wink your asshole,” he said loudly. I swear he was close enough when he said it that I could feel his breath on my exposed ass and pussy. I froze as Timmy picked up the chant:

Seventy, Seventy, SeventyForTheWinker, WINKER, WINKER, Goin’Forseventy.

I may had frozen, but Timmy had not. Seeing that I was not complying he punctuated his command with a whip crack so close to my naked bottom that I could feel the air rush down my bottom crack. Years of cattle ranching had made Timmy an expert with the whip, a skill I had once admired but now found terrifying.

Terrified of the whip I abandoned my last shred of dignity as I tightened and loosened my sphincter as rapidly as possible, “winking” my bottom hole at a laughing Judge Parker.

“That’s it,” Judge Parker sneered. “Show me how much you want it up the ass, B-269! I’ll pack your fudge nice-and-tight, and ride your little piggy hole, long and hard, till you squeal for more! Wink it, girl! WINK IT!”

I obeyed like the obedient little fuck toy I was, pumping my asshole open and closed while the fat pig of a Judge laughed at my humiliation. What choice did I have? If I didn’t obey, I’d feel Timmy’s whip between my cheeks, cracking down hard. Timmy was my best student, and I knew he’d hit the bullseye.

“I wanna see her come,” Judge Parker called out. Lifting my nose out of the sand, I glanced up at Timmy, who made a flipping motion with his wrist, signaling his command.

Like an obedient puppy I rolled in the sand onto my back. I lifted myself up and spread my legs obscenely wide, so my pussy was only a few feet from Judge Parker’s disgusting fat face. Using my right hand to balance me, I put my left hand between my legs, spreading my legs and teasing my clitoris as the camera’s zoomed in.

Eighty, Eighty, Show-em-the-pink, Eight for the pink! Show ‘em the pink, slut!

I obeyed, using my working hand to spread my pussy lips wide and using my thum to flick my clit. As per Timmy’s direction, I showed them the pink, being careful not to let my hand block my pussy as I openly masturbated myself to orgasm for their amusement. I would have liked to have closed my eyes and concentrated, but as per my training I moved my face through a series of emotions to try to show the buyers what my personality might look like: big smile, playful sexy smirk, pout, frown, lascivious lip-lick.

“Eighty, Eight, open up them curtains, slut, and show ‘em that pink butterfly of yers. Hotter than a Dallas sidewalk in July!” The crowd laughed.

I was hot, wet, and juicy, and as I inched closer to orgasm I heard a loud speaker in the other room playing the little advertising jingle I had written, to the tune of “Ayn’t We Got Fun!”

Down the slave chute
Birth-day suit!
Sand-y Foot Girl!

Pussy’s runny
Drips slave honey,
Sand-y Foot Girl!

She’s wet and read-y,
To squat on the block.
A slut who’s eager,
To suck on your cock.

It was all true. I licked my lips as I made contact with Judge Parker, begging to take his disgusting pecker in my mouth for a humiliating “slave kiss.” His eyes twinkled with amusement as my slave honey dribbled down my thighs and my pussy spasmed with pleasure.

I had never felt so exposed, so humiliated, so slave naked. Judge Parker wasn’t looking at just my pussy, he was looking into my soul, and laughing at what he saw.

His court order was true. I was a Pleasure Slut. I was a Sandy Foot Girl.

I finally got a look at the crowd. The room was packed, and I had no way of knowing who had bid on me up to this point. The moms in the front row were bidding, as was an older man who seemed to want to buy me for his idiot son, who was sitting next to him with a lecherous grin on his face. A hard-faced woman with a laptop was bidding; she scared me.

I recognized one of the bidders from his tweedy clothes. He was a Texas oilman who had used his fortune to build himself a faux English Manor, and now hosted “fox hunts” on his estate. I knew he was biding on me because he thought I’d be a good runner, and while the thought of being chased down by men on horseback and a pack of braying dogs wasn’t appealing, it frightened me less than the two swarthy men from the slave brothel, or the representative of the Sheik, both of whom were still bidding.

It’s who I didn’t see that really scared me. There was no Betty Lou, or Rosa. And Judge Parker wasn’t bidding. Apparently, he had simply come to revel in the humiliation of whatever Yankee girls he had scheduled for the block.

On the wall there was a sign, which I could only read because I had written it. ALL SALES FINAL. I swallowed hard.

Even as my orgasm closed in the pace of the slow. It wouldn’t be long now. Soon I would be sold. Not daring to move my face I gave Timmy a bit of side-eye.

Much to my surprise, my auctioneer was not pleased with my price, and his grumpy gaze turned to an angry glare as he focused on me, the prone slave slut who was displeasing him, failing him, costing him his commission. Worse, I had been on the block longer than my allotted 45 seconds, and time was money.

The urgency of Timmy’s chant increased even as the bidding stopped.

Somebodygimme 90 Somebodygimme90 Somebodygimme90 Gottagiveme90…

But the conversation in the front row had moved on.

“Got some red-headed snatch up next.”

“Yeah, maybe she’ll be less pricey than this one.”

“Girls on Broadway always go for top dollar. You get the bargains at Dixie Traders.”

The current offer of 88 was an excellent price, although like Timmy I had hoped for more. But given that I was 269 there was an obviously a glut of top rated pussy at The Big D that day.

Every slave girl likes to think that she’ll always bring top dollar, just as every auctioneer always like to think they alone can get the very best price. However that was ego, not business. But Timmy simply wouldn’t let it go.

This girl’s a bargain at 90, ladies and gents! Worth at least 100! Gottagivem90! Gottagiveme90! You over there – you biddin’ or swatting flies? What’s wrong with that snatch? Get yer’ peckers out gentlemen, and yer’ wallets will follow!

There was something about Timmy’s frustration that I found amusing. Maybe it was the way the little boy-man was standing on the stepping stool to look over the podium, or the desperation of his pleas, or my memories of how the other auctioneers had teased “Tiny Tim.”

Truth be told I was both relieved and insulted that he didn’t recognize me. It wasn’t surprising, really: in class I wore my hair up, and had glasses, and, dressed like the powerful professional woman I was. The successful architect of the Big D’s redesign, the seasoned expert who had taught Billy his trade, bore scant resemblance to the naked slave slut who was now rapidly rubbing her hot, wet pussy on the auction block, sawdust clinging to her sweaty body, nose, and hair. (Slave pixie dust, they called it. After rolling around on the block like a frisky puppy begging for a doggy toy I had more than my fair share of the dusty ‘magic.’ )

Being auctioned off by this wet-behind-the-ears teenager would have been even worse if he had realized who I was, and precisely how far I had fallen. But a part of me was also furious at him for not recognizing me. I was his teacher, his mentor, his boss… or had been, at any rate. Now he was treating me like just another piece of slave pussy to turn a quick dollar on. I deeply resented his power over me, and the smug, satisfied smirk of ownership he had given me when he first saw me naked on the block.

A part of me was delighted to see him fail, as it was mortifying to be sold by someone whom I still viewed as my pimply-faced student. Not as talented a student as I had assumed, for Tiny Tim couldn’t even break 90.

Poor little Timmy! That’s what happens when you send a boy to do a man’s job.

Breaking character, I turned my head, and laughed at him. Not with him, but AT him, at his ineptitude, at his failure. Reestablishing control, our eyes met, as his teacher sent him the message of failure he needed to hear.

It wasn’t a huge laugh, not like the guttural joy Judge Parker had been directing at me. Nonetheless, I could see the rage flash across Timmy’s boyish face.

A part of me was sorry I hadn’t made Tiny Timmy pull down his pants and underpants on that first day and get over my knee, for a good-old-fashioned underpants downer. With my power over him, and his timid nature, I’m sure I could have gotten away with it. I had missed my chance to spank him them, but I was happy to make up for it now.

Timmy was angry, so I replied by pursing my lips and wincing in mock sympathy.

“What-sa-matter, baby?” I said with my eyes. “Poor little Tiny Timmy can’t get 90 for the hot slave girl worth at least 100? Your little tiny willy not big enough? Boo-hoo!

I closed my review of Timmy’s lackluster performance with another chuckle, derisive headshake, and a long, slow eye roll.

To the shock and surprise of everyone in the crowd, Timmy did something auctioneers NEVER, EVER do.

Timmy stopped chanting.

I had beaten him. I had gotten inside his head. I had won. I was still in charge.

The crowd was deathly silent as the enraged auctioneer raised his slave whip in the air. I was kneeling on the block with my legs spread and my pussy raised high. Terrified, I quickly rolled, hoping to take the blow on my back.

I was on my knees, bottom raised high, when the whip cracked. I was standing slightly in front of and several feet to the left of Tiny Tim, who was still standing on his box behind the podium, so I was surprised when he somehow managed to deliver a perfectly placed shot that landed dead center on my naked ass.

The whip exploded like a line of fire across my cheeks, bisecting both spheres and slicing my bottom in half like it was a hamburger under the butcher’s knife. Instinctively I clenched my butt cheeks, which was the worse thing possible, as it caused the exquisitely tender skin between my cheeks to close around the fiery whip, and draw in down into a loop toward my butthole, giving me a skinning in the most sensitive place imaginable.

I had felt a few “taps” of the whip before during slave training, and they had hurt like hell, even if my trainer said he had barely touched me. But I’d never felt pain like this. Timmy was clearly pissed at the little slave slut who had embarrassed him in front of the bidders. My apprentice had used his skill with the whip with a bitter vengeance, and had delivered a stroke intended to reestablish his control over both me and everyone who was watching.

Now it was my turn to break character. Letting out an animalistic howl, I reached back and grabbed my scorched butt cheeks, loosing all dignity. The next few seconds seemed like hours as the pain in my bottom consumed me, only gradually allowing other realizations to sink in.

The salty tears running down my face.

The resumption of Timmy’s horrible chant…

The raised hands as the bids poured in.

For a moment I thought the large pool spreading around my knees was blood, but it wasn’t until I heard the voice of the man in the front row that I realized what had happened.

“The blue-ribbon piggy is peeing on herself!” a male voice said.

“Yeah, they’re all disgusting little sows,” his wife replied. “Peeing everywhere, humping the chair legs. Now you see why I make the boys keep them locked up in the slave kennels in the barn.”

The laughter of the two moms in the front row, shopping for a graduation gift for their son Willy.

“Ha-ha! She felt that one!”

“Yeah. He really skinned that big ass of hers.”

“Serves the little bitch right for challenging the auctioneer.”

“Cracked her ass so hard she pissed herself.”

“No dignity at all.”

“No brains either. It doesn’t seem to be hurting the bidding, though.”

Although I had literally written the book on slave auctions, part of the fun of the business was there was always something new to learn. I had embarrassed my auctioneer, had my ass whipped, and had disgraced myself by pissing on the block. But the bids were pouring in. The crowd’s reaction surprised me, until I remembered the blue tag stapled to my ear. People were enjoying watching the “blue ribbon piggy” getting her ass whipped.

Tiny Tim was chanting fast now. “Fair room, & fair warning, folks! I know this one’s a virgin cuz I fucked her myself this mornin’!”

It was an old joke, but the audience laughed, for Timmy once again had them eating ouf of his hand. The last minute snipers were moving in to, trying to get me for a few dollars more, but Timmy wasn’t having it: “I can’t shave her any closer!”

I had trained my student well, and he was going to get top dollar for the student slave slut squatting in her own filth. My wisdom in scattering the sand over the auction block had been proven right. I couldn’t take full credit, of course: the wisdom of the ages dictated covering the sales area with sand, in case the livestock fouled itself in front of the buyers.

Of course, when I had told them my precise specifications of the type and quantity of sand to be used, I had never dreamed that I would peeing on the sand in front of an amused crowd of the local yokels.

Jake had once said that a girl isn’t really a slave until she feels the sand of the auction block between her toes. I wiggled my toes. Some of my spray had hit my feet, which meant the sand was between my toes in clumps. I was now a “Sandy Foot Girl” but the final, legal designation of my new status was yet to come.

The bidding was up over 100, but Timmy still wasn’t satisfied. “Rub that juicy pussy, slut,” he snapped. “Let the buyers watch ya’ come.”

I wish I could say that I obeyed because of the whip in Timmy’s hand, and the utter certainly that he would use it if I showed the slightest trace of disobedience.

I wish I could say I wasn’t conscious of the laughter and chatter of the buzzing bidders who were staring at my blatantly exposed sex. “Flick that bean, girl!” Judge Parker ordered. “Let’s see that pussy SQUIRT”.

But the truth is I was eager to cum in front of everyone, and show them that I was worth what they were bidding on me. Somehow the humiliation of the High School Class, and Judge Parker, and the local yokels bidding on my sloppy wet pussy made it all the hotter.

I leaned back placing my left hand in the sand to steady myself as I lifted my pussy up for the crowd’s appraisal. I was careful to use only my thumb, and not to block the view of my sex, so they could watch my little hole spasm and twitch with pleasure as I went to town on my clit.

Timmy’s chant slowed as he tried to eke out a final bid. “Going…going… All in and all done, folk! Fair warning… Going, going…”

I was slave hot, and it only took a few seconds for me to have a crushing slave-gasm: chilling, exhausting, fiery, exhilarating, and 1,000 other things all at once. The buyers laughed and cheered as my pussy spasmed and undulated like a piece of liver in an electric blender. My unparalleled pleasure was cut short by a single word from Timmy that would change my life forever.

“SOLD!”

Yes, “sold”, in Timmy’s drawn out Texas drawl, no less, so it came out as a musical, “Sooooooulll-duh!” The gavel came down like a guillotine blade, severing me from my freedom forever.

The sound of Timmy’s ornate wooden gavel hit me with the force of a baseball bat. Tears welled up in my eyes, even as pleasure quaked through my body. I had been sold. I was a slave.

Timmy, annoyed by the trouble I had caused him, and indifferent to the pleasure still quaking through my pussy, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck. He pushed my head down into the sand, rubbing my nose into my “little accident” as my grandmother used to call it when her little dog peed on the rug. I didn’t resist this indignity, or protest when he yanked me up roughly and sent me scurrying down the steps of the auction block with a hard slap on my freshly whipped ass.

The slave wrangler taking me down the steps stuck the stick gag in my mouth and pulled the ratchet strap tight, locking it into place. I bit down into the well chewed leather around the wooden stick, tasting the disgusting, putrid slave slobber of the countless girls who had bit into this gag before. My knees weakened as I realized that the open door I was facing glowed orange, and I was only a few steps away from the room where my “badging” would take place. The grip around my neck tightened, forcing me down the stairs.

I wasn’t even down the last step when I heard Timmy start the chant for the next girl. And so the system I had so expertly designed for The Big D ground on.

[Belinda]

Joe,

You have a true gift. This story is so great and just keeps getting better. I so visualized myself on the block a subject of my own structured sales strategy.

Highest regards,

Belinda

[jeepster]

Great continuation! You are truly the master of this genre!

[gary]

Excellent

[orflash64]

Pretty good follow up Joe. Only a few spelling errors. Will this be the end of the story? Will it continue with the branding and her finding out who bought her? Will she finally know if is a actual slave or just a systems check all along? And how many sessions with the Judge and Tim and a few others to get her life back? or a dream sequence after branding when she passes out and dreams she is released and it just a big nightmare of a misunderstanding, but after weeks of back to her old life is just unfullfilling she yearns for the slave life, nothing else was quite as sexually exciting as being a Sandy Foot girl. But then she wakes up from the dream and she realizes she still is a naked slave, branded and sold, and she is happy with the outcome.

[Hooked6]

Great story. As for me, I don't care what direction this story takes as long as I get to read more!

Hooked6

[imreadonly2]

Some Responses from Joe:

First, thank you to Gary, jeepster, and everyone for their comments.

BELINDA: Thank you so much, Belinda, and i'm glad you experienced the story in the way I was hoping. In real time this chapter probably takes about 90 seconds, but it's less about the events than her unique insight as she both coolly observes and hotly experiences the auction process she designed. She's completely humiliated by Timmy's treatment of her, but also aroused by it, and proud of it, because she taught him everything he knows. As an intelligent woman, you can easily imagine being called in to work at a some sort of imagined slave facility. You'd focus on your work, of course, even as you were horrified of the prospect of being processed, and perhaps, deep down, more than a little excited by it.

HOOKED 6: Thank you so much for the nice comments -- I'm a fan of your amazing writing as well!

ORFLASH: There is actually no chapter after this one, as the focus of the story was always here experience at The Big D. Who bought her is anyone's guess, and the reader is invited to choose the ending that most pleases them.

That being said I did write an epilogue where she Sarah returns to The Big D in consultant mode to get a copy of the free monthly SANDY FOOT GIRL magazine / sales flier... with her as the cover, as Miss Sandy Foot. She experiences walking through the facility, and speaking with Jake, even as there are pictures of her naked and squatting on the auction block in all the magazine racks all around them. She is both excited and terrified she will be discovered and returned to the auction block. Should be a fun read!

[orflash64]

That sounds even more exciting, to go back to work after going through the process with everyone remembering her that way. She will never be as in charge as she once was, especially with her naked pictures of being put through her paces posted everywhere.

[jeepster]

Yes that sounds interesting! With people actually knowing its her on the cover and her trying to be the boss!