Sandy Foot Girl, Part 5b, by Joe Doe

[imreadonly2]

In request to Hooked 6's request for more, Joe expanded Part 5 a bit. Enjoy, and comments welcome!

They say that no matter how many times she’s been sold, a pleasure slut never forgets her first auction. I knew I would never forget mine. Timmy, the pimply, snotty nosed teenage I had trained, had whipped my ass, both literally and figuratively. I had peed on myself. I had shaken my tits and shown them my butthole. I had rolled around in the sand like a frisky puppy. I had shown the buyers everything I had, then masturbated myself to orgasm with my legs spread wide so they could see my little pink pussy spasm with pleasure.

I wasn’t mortified; I was crushed. I was too rattled to think clearly, too ashamed to make eye contact with any of The Big D slave wranglers waiting for me of the stage. They were all wearing hats or shirts or belt buckles with The Big D logo. As per my directive, they ALWAYS promoted the logo. They were ALWAYS “on brand”.

I recognized a few of the slave wranglers, but would they recognize me? I doubted it. I wasn’t a person, I was tits and pussy. Sarah had been destroyed, and the zombie Pleasure Slut B-269 had taken her place.

One of the wranglers tapped my ass with the whip twice, signaling the price of disobedience, while another grim-faced cowpoke held the prongs of an electric cattle in front of my face so I could see the two metal spikes.

I didn’t panic, for I knew this was standard procedure. Sometimes Pleasure Sluts panic after they are sold, particularly if they fear their new master. They had nothing to worry about in my case. After disgracing myself on the block I was broken. There was nothing I wouldn’t do. There was nothing beneath me, except the wooden slats of the auction block, and the sand between my toes.

With a single smooth move one slave wrangler cuffed my hands behind my back while his partner stuck the O-ring gag into my mouth, forcing my mouth into a ridiculous “O” shape. The cuffs behind my back were quickly snapped to a short strap which attached to the back of my collar, forcing my wrists up to the middle of my back and leaving my ass fully exposed for the whip.

As a final indignity, a yellow sticker labeling me as SOLD was slapped onto my blue cattle ear tag, marking me as “sold inventory” that couldn’t be vended again, at least not until my new master (or Mistress?) wanted to sell me. The sales tag had been my idea; it was another nice “on brand” touch.

I didn’t know my sales price, let alone my buyer, but the clerk sitting beside the stage seemed pleased. He looked young to me; probably a college intern or a new recruit, but he was typing rapidly into the computer. After all, it was a busy day at The Big D, and behind me Timmy was already auctioning the next lot. I was just another slave, and the business of The Big D ground on.

“Fair price. Not bad for 88.6 seconds of work,” he said, noting my elapsed “block” time on his laptop.

“Yeah. Maybe Timmy can buy us dinner tonight,” the older, more grizzled wrangler said with a chuckle and a Dallas twang.

There had to be a mistake. 88.6 SECONDS? Seriously? Could it have taken less than 90 seconds to strip away every last shred of dignity, and utterly disgrace myself, and be fucking SOLD?

I couldn’t believe it, and the knowledge of how swiftly I had been sold flicked away whatever remaining crumbs of my self-esteem I might have left on the block. I had cum – no, I had a slave-gasm, in front of everyone! In 88.6 seconds? Was I really that slave hot?

I was. There was a stop watch on the table next to the computer, and block was measured ‘gavel-to-gavel.” Already the seconds were counting down on the next wretched girl’s sale. 88.6 seconds. As I had said to Jake, “numbers don’t lie.”

Ah, yes, the numbers! The clerk was entering my sales data into AUCTIO OPS, a bolt on program I had designed which work with all the major ERP systems. AUCTION OPS would immediately figure Timmy’s commission, and book the journal entries and receivable for my sale. It even allocated the various value-added costs, such as salaries, advertising, and other overhead costs, into my “cost of goods sold” so that Jake would be able to see an instant margin on B-269 on his daily sales report.

Jake wasn’t much of a numbers guy. He usually looked at the bottom line, and only called in the accountants to dig into the detail if the numbers surprised him. My juicy slave pussy would be just another line item buried deep in a daily report Jake would barely glance at, if he bothered to look at it at all.

Jake had called me back numerous times to do detailed number crunching and make recommendations, which I had done. My analytics had done wonders for Jake’s bottom line. Today I had contributed to Jake’s bottom line in a far more direct way.

I felt a strange surge of pride at my sales price. Slave girls are very vain. But as a data analyst I knew I was only one girl. With anywhere from 1,200 to 2,000 slave girl’s moving through The Big D today, cracking the whip across my ass and ordering me to pleasure my juicy gash onstage had only increased the profit margin ever-so-slightly, by maybe a few thousandths of a percentage point on the DAILY report.

Still, pennies add up to dollars. Well played, gentlemen, well played.

I was a bit startled as I was lifted up off the auction block and passed from the stage to the floor. I shouldn’t have been surprised; the wooden stairs leading up to the block were reserved for staff, and I was sold inventory. The men on the stage passed me to men on the floor with an ease born of experience. I was just another naked girl.

The grizzled old wrangler who had been hoping for a steak dinner attached a leash to my collar and led me to a side EMPLOYEES ONLY door that connected Broadway to “backstage”. He wasn’t rough or mean, because he didn’t have to be. It had been a long day for the both of us.

As we approached the door a peculiar sight caught my eye. It was a naked Pleasure Slut, her tits bouncing as she walked. She was covered in sand: there were clumps of dark sand in her hair, around her feet and clinging to her legs and feet. There were even clumps around her pussy, which was obviously quite wet and sticky. In other words she was a hot, randy, Pleasure Slut, a typical Sandy Foot Girl.

I noted that she was walking funny, and as I was feeling Timmy’s whip with every step I wondered for a moment if someone had whipped her ass, too. Probably, and she probably deserved it, too, the filthy little slut. She was looking down at her dirty, sandy feet, as if she were too ashamed to make eye contact, but as we walked toward each other she lifted her head as I lifted mine, and for a moment our eyes locked.

She was wearing an O-ring gag. The drool had run out of her mouth and a couple of strands on either side were hanging off her chin, making her look like a slobbering St. Bernard, or maybe a Mastiff. No, a dog looked smarter: as I looked in this girl’s eyes, I saw nothing but stupid. It was clear from simply glancing at her that she was just a naked, feckless bimbo. Her eyes were glassy, and she looked dazed and slow-witted, like she had just hit her head, perhaps years ago.

I wondered why she was walking toward the clerk while I was walking away. What had the idiot, pig-girl done? Had the little dolt even managed to screw up her SALE? I smiled at the thought. To my surprise, she smiled back, mistaking my amusement at her stupidity for friendliness. Airhead!

It wasn’t until we were almost touching that I had realized how blind I was without my glasses. My heart sank as I realized that I wasn’t looking at another girl, but at my own reflection. I was looking in the “last chance” mirror by the door that Timmy used to check his tie before he walked up the stairs to the auction block.

No wonder no one recognized me. I didn’t recognize myself. The image in the mirror both startled and frightened me. No. It chilled me to the bone.

As a University Professor, I was, of course, familiar with Professor Agatha Crush’s pioneering work on slave conditioning. Indeed, I had actually incorporated her theories into my design of The Big D.

Reduced to its most elemental level, slave conditioning was a process for transforming a so-called “ordinary” young woman into a shameless Pleasure Slut, hot, wet, and ready for the collar. Some argued that it was the process of releasing the Pleasure Slut buried inside the girl, but that was an academic discussion, for the actual conditioning worked the same in either case.

The Big D was uniquely suited to this sort of conditioning, as it’s playful “livestock” brand which I promoted so relentlessly enforced the idea that the “inventory” was chattel, no different than a cow or a pig. The natural result of this was that the weak-minded sluts not only acted like slave girls, but SAW themselves as slave girls, fully internalizing their new identities.

I, of course, was far too sophisticated for such conditioning. I, as an educated professional woman well trained in the art and science of slavery, could never see myself as a mere slave girl! My façade had held, until the disgusting pleasure slut covered with sand I had seen in the mirror punched me in the stomach like a heavyweight boxer.

The concrete floor in the corridor was freezing cold on my sandy bare feet, but I didn’t resist as my wrangler led the disgusting pig slut with the freshly whipped ass toward her destiny.

Or to be more specific, I didn’t resist until I realized what my destiny was. My bored wrangler used his keycard to open a metal door, and I was immediately greeted by a blast of hot air and the glow of orange as he flung open the door and yanked me inside. By the time I realized that I was in the blacksmith’s shop, it was too late for me to resist.

I tried to pull back on my leash, but two strong wranglers lifted me up under my arms and bent me over the branding bench like I was a ragdoll. There were an insane number of straps and metal bars to keep me in place, but with four strong men working and my arms already cuffed behind my back it only took a few seconds to immobilize me, and raise my ass high in the air.

I smelled Judge’s Rufus Parker’s cigar before I saw him. His white cowboy hat was covering his ridiculous comb-over, and the short man was now towering over me, but it was him, the same loathsome sideburns, fat belly, and ugly goatee.

I cried in panic and the slobber ran out of my mouth as he held pulled a hot branding iron out of the fire and held the glowing orange head up in front of my terrified eyes.

“This is the logo of The Big D,” he said, man-splaining the logo I had helped re-design. It’s quite an honor to be auctioned off the block at The Big D, to be a “Sandy Foot Girl”, and to wear this logo. I hope you appreciate it, slave girl, and wear it with PRIDE,” he said, punctuating his comment with an evil chuckle.

“If it were up to me, I wouldn’t give you the honor of wearing The Big D logo. After seein’ you piss yourself, I’d just brand the word PIG right on your forehead. But don’t worry, we’ll get to your brandin’ in a tick! First, I’m going to let you thank me for putting your sweet little Yankee twat up on the auction block. And we all know how slave girls thank their masters, don’t we?”

Rufus returned my branding iron to the brazier, burying the head deep in the glowing orange coals. “Don’t want to let it get cold, ha-ha!” he cackled, looking like a fat devil in a cheap, white suit.

Judge Parker signaled to one of the slave wranglers, who brought him a director’s foldable chair than he was able to wiggle his fat bottom into. It brought his crotch directly in line with my open mouth. Judge Parker didn’t work for The Big D, but being a judge, he obviously had influence here, and the staff were prepared to let him have his way.

The smoke from his disgusting cigar drifted down into my mouth. The stench was atrocious. But I soon had a worse stench to deal with as the odious little man unzipped his pants and fished out his pathetic excuse for a pecker.

It was about ¾ erect, and about 3 inches long. It was surrounded by a thick forest of white kinky hair, and had a bulbous purple head that made it look like a purple balloon on the end of a pencil.

I would have sucked any cock to get off the auction block… any cock except this one. He was wise to have put the gag on me, to prevent me from biting down.

He laughed when I tried to turn my face away, as my head was entirely immobile. Grabbing my hair he laughed as he flicked out a few clumps of sand, then guided his little pecker into my open mouth with ease. The “O” in the gag wasn’t large, and wasn’t designed for oral sex, but he was able to slide his sad little sausage in with no problem whatsoever.

“Oh, what’s a matter, sweetie?” he teased. “Don’t you want to suck the cock of the man who put your Northern nookie up on the auction block? Well, that’s too bad, because you’re a slave girl now, and slave girls don’t get to make them choices, do they? Git’ busy, slut! SUCK!”

What choice did I have? His pecker was in my mouth, and it was going to stay there until he was finished. But without the ability to move my head, or even close my lips or mouth around his shaft, all I could do was move my tongue to try to please him. This was going to take some time. Which gave him the chance to talk, and talk he did.

“I’m glad we got this time, B-269. I wanna let ya’ know it was me who arranged fer’ yer’ auction at THE BIG D. When you were braggin’ about how you changed everything down there, and made it all happen like grease lightnin’, I figured this was just the place to send ya, so dumb old Becky Lou and Rosa would still be sitting on their dumb asses when you were sold. Shit, they probably won’t even check their phones till tomorrow.”

And with that, my hopes of rescue were crushed under the heel of Judge Parker’s cowboy boot.

“Kind of a hoot, ya’ being PROCESSED through yer own fancy-pants system. What a stitch! Too bad you and I are the only ones who git the joke. How many girls have had their pussies sold off that auction block? Bet you don’t feel like such a smarty pants, now that yer’ the one doing ya squats.”

He was right. I felt ashamed, humiliated, broken, and violated. His revenge was sweet, while the taste in my mouth was nothing but bitter.

“That’s it… suck it, blue state girl,” he said, using his finger to playfully flick the blue tag on my ear as he guided my head. “You look me right in the eye while I’ze talking to ya! I wanna see the stupid look on you dumb kisser while you suck on my Texas Longhorn.”

“Uppity college girl! Lecturin’ me about slavery! Y’all don’t look so high-and-mighty now that ya’ got my snake in yer’ mouth!”

He was right. I did not. I wanted him to come, so this could be over. But all I could do was swirl my tongue, and look him in the eye, and try to move my head as much as I could to please him.

“Fuckin’ slave expert, my ass! Yer’ just a fuckin’ slave girl dressed up in fancy city-girl clothes. I knew you wuz a big fat fraud from the moment I saw ya’, with your fancy degrees and standin’ up on that stage, talkin’ down to me! No girl knows as much about slavery lest she’s got a hankerin’ for the collar.”

“I wish I could take credit, but like your book says, ‘REAL Pleasure sluts are born, not made.’ You remember writin’ that, Professor?”

I did, and I bobbled my head to show my acquiescence as I licked his little pecker hard. “That’s it, Professor! Keep yer’ eyes on me while ya’ suck my pecker dry. You wuz born a Pleasure Slut, just like I wuz born to put stuck-up little bitches like you in yer’ place. I wish ya’ could see the red welt on that big ass of yers’, or the look on yer’ face when you creamed yourself in front of the whole damn world! Shit! You were MADE for the collar.”

Tears flowed out of my eyes and down my cheeks. It wasn’t because he was lying about me, but because he was telling the truth. There was no use fighting the conditioning. Numbers don’t lie, the image in the mirror wasn’t a lie, and Judges and court orders don’t lie, either. I was who I was. I realized at that moment how sage and sensible Judge Parker was, and what a stupid, brainless little bimbo I had been all along.

I had told myself I was pretending to be a slave girl on the auction block, to avoid the whip. But the truth is, it was my life BEFORE the block that had been the fake, the charade. Judge Rufus Parker, in his infinite, all powerful wisdom, had revealed who I really was. Realizing my true identity, I sunk deeper into my role.

“That’s it…yeah tickle the little vent with your tongue, slave girl. That’s where the big creamy surprise is comin’. Just like a dreamsicle. Suck on it like it’s your momma’s titty. The milk’s comin’, girl. Yeah, yer’ hungry for my spunk, ayn’t you? All you save sluts are. Wanna taste my POWER. You wanna taste the POWER of the man who signed yer’ dumb ass into slavery, and is gonna stick my red hot brandin’ iron right up between yer’ cheeks. Suck it, slave girl. Suck on my gavel.”

“I’m not gonna lie to you, slut. The iron’s gonna hurt. It’s gonna hurt a LOT. But it’s fer’ yer own good. Y’all gotta trust that Judge Rufus know best. You gotta LEARN yer’ place, Sandy Foot Girl! You gotta stop thinkin’ ya’ll gotta brain, or any reason fer’ existin’ besides sucking dicks and humpin’.”

He was right, and I looked up at him like he was a God. I flicked my tongue under the underside of his fat bulbous penis, straining to please my master, focusing on my reason to live.

“Now when I shoot my load in yer mouth, I don’t want ya’ swallowing. I want you to spread it round yer’ mouth with your tongue, so ya’ getta REAL good taste. I want that taste in your mouth when I put that red-hot iron on yer’ backside, and mark you as a slave slut FOREVER. Ha-ha-ha.”

Could you believe I could feel my pussy spasm and moisture. I sucked harder, eager for my powerful master’s seed.

“Yer probably wonderin’ who bought ya. Well, truth is, I don’t even give a shit. I didn’t even bother to turn around and look, cuz when it comes to what happens to you, I’m clear out of fucks-to-give. Yer just another slave girl, and your ass is SOLD.”

Judge Parker, the wise and just, was right. It didn’t matter who bought me. After all, I was only as slave girl.

He thrust his little wiener deeper into my mouth. It wasn’t big enough to reach my throat, even fully erect, but I gagged anyway.

“Remember what ya’ wrote in my book, slave girl? ‘From Sarah, the sassy Yankee who got away.’ Who got away! There’s a hoot, too! Bet you don’t feel like you got away now, with my pecker in your mouth. Do you, slave girl?”

I swirled my tongue around trying to please him as he wiggled his sausage in my mouth, trying desperately to please him, and bring him to climax. “Oh, you like that, don’t you? Don’t you, whore? Yeah, you wanna give yer first ever slave kiss to the man who made all of this possible: Rufus Parker, yer Judge, jury, and executioner, ha-ha!”

I flicked my tongue against the vent, and pressed up on his penis with the floor of my mouth.

That did it! I cried out as the first hot spurt blasted onto my tongue. It was hot, thick, salty, and putrid, just like the man who produced it. Instinctively, I wanted to spit it out, but I did not. I was a only a slave girl, and he was an a Judge, the embodiment of the law, and all that was powerful and wise. I knew it was good for me to taste it.

“That’s it! Like that taste? Suck it up, slave girl! Suck up the scum of the man who collared you, and put your skanky ass on the block. Suck up the jizz of Judge Rufus T. Parker.”

Judge Parker made me open up my mouth, to prove that my tongue was caked in his salty spooge. I did, reveling in the taste of my master’s spunk.

Judge Parker eased himself into a standing position and zipped up his pants, as one of the wranglers pulled the chair out of the way. Reaching into the brazier, he extracted the branding iron by the wooden handle, and holding the glowing tip so close that I could feel the heat on my face.

He looked at me and smiled. “You know where this is goin’, don’t ya, girl?”

My heart racing, I nodded.

“It’s quite an honor, being a Sandy Foot Girl, and gettin’ to wear the mark of The Big D. Ya’ understand what a PRIVLEDGE this is, don’t ya?”

Again, I nodded as he fed me the pap from the marketing materials I had written.
“You’re gonna feel this for a long time. Whenever y’all take a step, or wipe yourself, of get fucked, and feel that brand, I want you to remember who put ya’ in yer’ collar, and who branded yer’ dumb ass. Think ya’ can remember that, dummy?”

I nodded, signaling his importance in my life as the one man I would never forget.

With his free hand he stroked my cheek as he moved the red hot branding iron in so I could inspect it closely. I was panting, and drooling, and felt like I might pass out. Sensing my terror, he gently stroked my sandy hair, like I was a puppy he was trying to calm.

“Ya’ know I don’t brand most of the girls I enslave,” he noted. “But I wanted to be here to watch ‘em auction off that hot little pussy of yers, and be the first one to shoot my load into yer mouth, and to brand yer sweet little ass. You understand what an honor that is, right? To actually be branded by the man who signed your enslavement forms. You feel honored, right?”

I nodded, and tried to say thank you, which came out like gibberish with my mouth in an “O”. The Judge laughed.

“Don’t try to talk. Talking means thinkin’, and your thinkin’ days are over. Well, let’s git to it, then. Strike while the iron is hot!”

Behind me I felt one of the slave wranglers spread my butt cheeks widely apart as the Judge walked behind me, branding iron in hand.

“This is gonna hurt you more than it’s gonna hurt me!” he chuckled.

The pain was blinding. Every muscle in my body jerked against the metal and leather restraints holding me firmly in place, and I understood why I had been fastened down in such an absurdly secure way. As he pressed the brand home hard, into the inside skin of my butt crack, everything in front of me turned orange. The only senses I had were the smell of my burning skin and the sound of my own screams mixed in with Judge Rufus Parker’s laughter.

As I passed out, I knew that from this moment on, the logo for “The Big D” would always be a part of me. No matter what I did, or where I went, I would forever be on brand.

[orflash64]

Great follow up Joe.
Although I think you meant to say electric cattle "prod" not electric cattle.
This follow up was just as I envisioned it, with the Judge laughing at her as he comes in her mouth.
So she does get branded, but if that epilogue where she goes back to the Big D as a consultant, is she free again? Or does her owner put her to work as a consultant (you know because she is a expert) as well as a pleasure slave?
Does Timmy and a few others get to fuck her as well. Does the processing test extend all the way till she is delivered to her master, So they can look at every step of the journey?
When she is back at the Big D to pick up the Newsletter, is she dressed or naked and wearing a slave collar? Or dressed and wearing a collar?

[Hooked6]

THANK YOU JOE!!! You made my day! Wonderful story with a very endearing protagonist. I can actually feel her wide range of emotions and the way she tries to intellectually figure things out or rationalize her situation throughout the entire plot, like many of your characters do, makes this another classic.

Hooked6

[orflash64]

Joe,

Without having to re-read the whole story, trying remember if Sarah is Blonde or Red head?

[gary]

Love it, as usual. I do wonder though what happened to that British reporter who found herself naked after having a bucket of water dumped on her.

[jeepster]

Awesome! Never thought she would get to the next step of enslavement! Love the judge being the one to brand her!

[Hooked6]

Awesome! Never thought she would get to the next step of enslavement! Love the judge being the one to brand her!

I agree. That was a nice, unexpected touch and the set-up for the judge's retribution was already in the story earlier so his actions made sense as to why he was taking such a personal interest in making the effort to witness her auction as well as issuing a court order for her enslavement and ignoring her pleas to be marked as expert talent and reclassified as a pleasure slave when this whole process started. Such foreshadowing is a hallmark of a great writer.

Hooked6

[lovethissite]

Wow i have been a fan of this series for it seems years now and always wanted to read more chapters. You have made the wait worth it. I just stumbled across it by chance and am glad I did. Glad to see that the judge was her first and that he branded her, love the placement too, she deserves harsh treatment for all her prior sins. I hope you continue the series. Thank you.