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Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

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imreadonly2
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Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by imreadonly2 »

Joe asked me to post this opening to the epilogue, as it will answer Orflash's questions about which direction the story is going. Feedback welcome.

Joe promises the reporter will show up later in the story. And he never tells you what color Sarah's hair is, because it is whatever color you wish it to be.


EPILOGUE

My Gucci shoes clippity-clopped loudly across the cement as I strode confidently toward the front entrance, smiling as I passed under the enormous BIG D LIVESTOCK & SLAVE MARKET sign overhead. With my carefully coiffed hair, my glasses on, and my smartest tailored business suit, I didn’t blend in at all. I didn’t care, because I didn’t want to blend in. In point of fact, I wanted to stand out. I wasn’t some local dyke here to cop a free feel, or a High School senior dared into getting a slave grading. I wanted everyone who saw me to realize that I didn’t belong here. I was a powerful woman, rich, and in control. They needed to say I was in this place, but I wasn’t OF this place.

I said I strode confidently, but in truth my walk was a little less brisk than usual. I applied a local anesthetic ointment every few hours, and had taped some cotton over the wound, but I could still feel the pain of The Big “D” brand between my butt cheeks with every step. As Judge Parker had hoped, it was a constant reminder of my status as a “Sandy Foot Girl.”

I noticed a delivery truck pulling around back, toward the entrance I had been unloaded into the last time I had entered the Big D. Watching the truck disappear into the unloading area I felt a chill down my spine. If I was overdressed now, I was underdressed then. The last time I was here, I had entered The Big D absolutely stark naked, without a single solitary stitch of clothing. I told myself it was simply a matter of dressing for the occasion. I was a smartly dressed professional woman now, which was appropriate. But my attire had been appropriate then, as well, for only a fool buys a Pleasure Slut with clothes on.

I wasn’t here to browse, I was here on a mission. It was the 15th, which meant the new magazine should be out. The magazine, called THE SANDY FOOT, had been my idea, of course. It was similar to a supermarket circular, but it featured articles on topics like the pros-and-cons of imported slaves and whether electric, freeze-dried , coal fired, or wood fired brands were best.

For the record, my brand had been coal fired, with an iron branding head. It was a method that stretched back to antiquity, back to Ancient Greece and Rome and beyond. Beyond the pain, a lingering effect of my branding was the strange bond I felt with the countless slave girls who had been branded before me. In some sense, they were all my sisters.

The printed sales magazines weren’t available online; you could only get them if you visited The Big D. Although I had instituted the magazine, I made it seem as if it were part of an older tradition, and built it into the livestock market identity. The magazine offered specials that weren’t available online. It was usually something to encourage an impulse buy: a free beer at the food court, a discount on slave kibble, or perhaps a free grading for your wife or sweetheart for Valentine’s Day.

The slavery fantasy was popular with many women, and The Big D sold a great deal of merchandise around Valentine’s Day. Non-permanent collars and temporary slave brands were big sellers. I didn’t have to fantasize about getting a slave brand anymore. I had one.

I was free, now, of course, or would be, as soon as Judge Parker got off his fat ass and signed the order reversing my enslavement. I could have just been freed, of course, after my assistant had purchased me back. But I wanted my record expunged, as if it had never happened. So I had paid a hefty premium for the buyer to sign a contract voiding my sale, instead of just selling me back.

The tricky part was getting The Big D to participate in voiding the sales contract. Their lawyer had flatly refused, citing Texas law that “all sales were final.” However. my high-priced Dallas lawyer had explained to Jake’s lawyer what had happened, and that I was actually an agent of the Texas Department of Agriculture, so it would be “best” to void the sale. They still refused, but agreed to accept me as a “return.”

The Big D hadn’t voided the sales contract, but they had accepted me back into inventory. That would have to do.

Becky Lou, useless as ever, refused to reverse my consignment, arguing that she’d have to take me into custody if the consignment was reversed. So, pending the official reversal of the enslavement order, I was still technically property of The Texas Department of Agriculture, under consignment to The Big D as unsold inventory. I would remain in that status until the Judge reversed the sale, and my lawyer said Judge Parker, obviously having fun with the situation, was dragging his heels, making me sweat it out. He had tried to friend me online, and had even sent me a note asking how my “butt brand” was healing. I blocked his messages. Each day my lawyer would call, offering a new bribe to speed the plow, and each day his secretary promised that “it would be any day now.”

I wasn’t here to talk to Jake about my legal problems with the Judge. As far as I knew my sale had been a matter between the lawyers, with no one at The Big D realizing exactly who B-269 really was. That was fine by me.

No, I was here for the magazine, and the magazine alone. THE SANDY FOOT magazine was free, but nicely printed on glossy paper. The cover always featured a large photo of “Miss Sandy Foot”, one of the hottest girls in recent inventory. The naked slut was always in some eye-catching pose, while the last page included several more photos of the little slut posing for the camera or being sold off the auction block.

Of course, “Miss Sandy Foot” wasn’t the only naked girl. Far from it! Every page of THE SANDY FOOT had some sort of naked slave slut on it, either selling something or as a general testament to the high quality of slave gash sold at The Big D.

Once inside the door, the magazines were not hard to find. Both sides of the entrance had two huge stacks of them. With the stack on the right already being about half gone. People were picking them up as they walked in.

In truth, I hadn’t planned on returning to The Big D so soon after my ordeal. Indeed, common sense dictated that I should never return at all, or at the very least wait until the paperwork reversing my enslavement was complete. But whatever the minor legal difficulties, I had to return to The Big D, for one simple reason. I had to see if they had put my picture in THE SANDY FOOT.

The idea of all of these strangers slobbering over my naked picture was beyond mortifying, and I truly hoped I would be spared this final indignity. Beyond the embarrassment of it, the magazine was what Jake referred to as a “stroker”, and I knew men would be taking the pictures of me home to enjoy in the privacy of their bathrooms for years to come.

However, in a sense, it would be quite an honor. Only the hottest slave pussy was featured in THE SANDY FOOT. I hoped I had not made the cut, or at the very least was buried in a tiny advert on the back page. Perhaps just an ad for a branding iron, featuring my butt cheek, to show the perfection of The Big D’s “badging.” Yes, that would be nice: included, but not identifiable. To be excluded entirely would be insulting.

Steeling myself to either possibility I swallowed and approached the rack of adverts near the exit door, to avoid the crowds grabbing the magazines on the right as they entered The Big D.

The disgusting slut on the cover was on the auction block, legs spread wide. One hand was supporting her weight as she lifted her hot, wet, widely split beaver up for the camera, while the middle finger of her other hand massaged her clit. She was hot, and nasty, and covered with clumps of sand. I smiled. The little slut was definitely on brand!

Due to my insistence on high quality printing, every freckle on the girl’s naked body was visible, and the beaver shot was detailed enough for a gynecology textbook. Judging from the look of pleasure and the way her wet, sloppy, snatch seemed to be oozing pleasure juice, the photographer had caught the little whore mid-orgasm, in a state of ecstasy that made her oblivious to any sense of modesty or decency, as if a girl like that could ever possess such traits to begin with.

The pose was so wantonly lewd that I felt a strange sense of relief. “She’ll get all the attention,” I thought. “Even if I’m in the magazine, no one will notice me. Not with this filth on the cover.” It wasn’t until I noticed the urine-soaked sand pile between her legs that I realized that the disgusting cum bucket so wantonly flicking her bean for the camera was me.

They had taken my picture as I was cumming in front of everyone, right at the moment that the gavel was falling, and I was being sold.

“Take some more. The other guys got their Internet access locked down, too, when their moms caught ‘em jerking off.”

I turned to see two boys, whom I guessed to be about 19, tall and brawny, taking five or six of the magazines out of the stack. Apparently they had lost their Internet privileges for too much porn, and were forced to resort to non-digital stroke off material.

“Wow, look at this picture on the last page! Miss Sandy Foot is peeing!” the taller boy with blonde hair said.

“Ha-ha! Yeah, she is,” his shorter, squatter friend replied. “Look at where the whip is. She’s peeing because the auctioneer just cracked the whip on her skanky ass.”

“I’d whip that ass.”

“I’d fuck that ass. Look at the picture of her butthole! Damn, her pooper looks tight. I’d pump her all night.”

My sphincter involuntarily tightened as I imagined the tall young 19-year-old with the broad shoulders making good on his promise.

“You’d shoot your load in 5 seconds with her. That’s why I’d fuck her juicy wet gash. I wanna see the look on her face when I spurt and she knows I knocked her up.”

“Look at her face, when she’s jerkin’ right on the auction block, for everyone to see. Damn, you could have the whole football team fuck her all day and all night, and she’d love every minute of it.”

“Maybe the coach will let us rent her, if we win the championship.”

“That would be hot. I’d love to fuck her, or cream in her mouth.”

I felt a wave of nausea pass over me as I imagined 40 players on a Varsity High School Texas football team, waiting for their chance to fuck me or spurt into my mouth. I knew some Varsity teams and many college teams that used Pleasure Sluts as a reward for winning teams: “Friday Night, Tight”, it was called. I had been THAT close to such a fate...

“Watch your mouth, man, there’s a lady there.”

“Where?”

“Right there. She can hear everything we’re saying.”

I felt a sudden chill. I had been spotted. They recognized me. THEY KNEW WHO I WAS!

“We’re sorry, Ma’am,” the first boy said, apologetically.

“Yeah, I hope you weren’t offended, Miss,” his friend added, looking downward.

“That’s okay. Try to watch the language, though, boys.” I said, offering them a wan smile as they meekly apologized again. They left, after grabbing another half dozen magazines. I blushed crimson as I watched them saunter away. At this rate, I’d be stroke off material for half the teenage boys in Dallas.

I listened closely to their conversation as they walked away. Looking at my magazine cover, they resumed discussing how “fuckable” my wet beaver looked.
Once again, my mind was flooded with a dozen emotions at once: pride, fear, relief, and excitement. No doubt about it. Their admiration was making me slave wet.

Not that I was really a slave, of course. I had fooled them, all of them, and it felt wonderful. They had looked at me, and they had looked at the girl on the cover. They had seen no resemblance because there was no resemblance.

“I’m NOT a Pleasure Slut. I’m NOT a pleasure slut,” I said, mimicking the Slave Yoga training that had been drilled into my head. The picture proved that the nightmare at The Big D had been a terrible mistake. Yes, I took pride in being “Miss Sandy Foot,”, but “Miss Sandy Foot” was not me.

Another voice in my head said, “Those idiots were looking at your twat, not your face,” I thought. “If they’d bothered to take a good look at you, you’d be goners for sure!”

I glanced over at the two beefy security guards who were scanning the crowd as they entered. They had badges on, and mirrored sunglasses, and looked like they meant business. I moved a little closer. The two goons were wearing metal badges with stars on them, but who were they? Were they slave police, or security guards deputized by the city of Dallas, or local police hired by The Big D? Or were they glorified mall cops, beefy, but toothless, idiots with no real power?

I moved closer. No, the Glock pistol on his hip suggested something far more serious. His posture and calm confidence suggested a man totally in charge.

I had the magazine, or could have had it, if I chose to pick it up. But I felt myself strangely drawn to the guard at the door; his bulging biceps, his Glock, his long, thick, wooden baton, his slave taser, his hidden but constantly moving eyes, and the way he seemed to simply ooze power. Here was a man who knew how to handle himself. Looking at him excited me, and I felt my nipples harden as I looked him over.

Curious, I moved back over to the entrance, to get a closer look, standing a bit to the side, trying to see his badge. I stopped when I noticed that he had a copy of THE SANDY FOOT rolled up and stuffed into his back pocket.

“He saw me on the cover, and he picked up the magazine!” I squeezed my thighs together and gasped in pleasure, wetting my pussy at the thought of him being excited by me. Slave girls are very vain! But I also knew that he had SEEN me; indeed, he had seen all of me, tip-to-toe, totally exposed. Again, the emotions washed over me: humiliation, fear, and a delicious tingling in my soaking wet pussy.

Feeling flattered, I moved closer, anxious to see my hidden admirer’s badge. I hoped he was someone powerful, someone important.

Stopping about four feet in front of him, I brazenly examined my hero’s credentials. His badge was a beautiful, shimmering, gold, and as I had hoped the circle above the star identified him as POLICE. He was definitely a real cop, and not a street cop either, for his shield was gold, not tin. The circle beneath the badge identified his jurisdiction: Dallas, Texas. Below that was his badge number, and the words that make every slave girl’s blood run cold: SLAVE CATCHER.

He was not only police, he was a part of the Dallas PD’s elite Slave Catcher unit. They were some of the best paid police officers in the city, as they were often hired by The Big D and the other auction houses to work security. Plus the Texas legislature had passed a law to allow them to receive a bounty on every catch. Needless to say, getting on the Slave Catcher squad was VERY competitive.

My police stud wasn’t a rookie, either. Slave Police get decorations, typically a “slave catcher” badge for every girl they capture. The symbol is two overlapping squares, turned on their side, the ancient symbol of “slave bracelets.”

Five slaves captures will get you a bronze badge. Ten will get you a silver. Fifty will get you a gold. My hero had three rows of gold badges beneath, far too many for me to count, even if I had been able to breathe.

My heart was racing, as my panic attack washed over me. I froze in place. Noticing me staring at him, mouth agape, he turned, and looked directly at me.

His mirrored eyes seemed to burn into my soul. I quickly turned away from him, and walked back toward the entrance, swimming against the crowd, fighting my conflicting feelings of excitement and lightheadedness, hoping I wouldn’t faint.

The slave cop who had me in his sights was wearing many slave catcher badges, but I was wearing one too: the slave ‘badge” of The Big D, branded between my butt cheeks only a few days before. The anesthetic had worn off, and the cotton had come loose because of the sweat pouring down my back and into my butt crack. Every step hurt, and I struggled to walk normally, fighting the crowd.

The doorway frame of the enormous front door was mirrored, a decorative effect that created a sort of endless hallway and made the entrance sparkle in the Dallas morning sun. I stood facing the mirror, and took my compact out of my purse, pretending to fix my already flawless makeup. In the reflection I could see the cop with the mirrored sunglasses still staring at me. Even with the mirrored sunglasses on I could feel his eyes roam freely up-and-down my body, and settle on my shapely ass.

I was wearing one of my worsted wool business skirts, but the day before I had instructed my tailor to tighten it, to flatter my figure. The tailor had gone a bit too far, and it hugged my ass so tightly I was afraid that if I bent over my brand would show through the tight fabric. It wasn’t a comfortable skirt, but my ass looked amazing in it, so I had worn it anyway.

My hands were shaking too badly to put on makeup, so I mostly just stared at him, struggling to breath, trying not to show my panic. This wasn’t some teenage stroker, this was an officer trained to hunt down escaped slave girls. He was good at it, too: damn good, and had the fruit salad to prove it. Worse, he was carrying my image in his back pocket. I wasn’t escaped, of course, even if I was a slave girl, at least technically. I mean, it was all a misunderstanding.

It is said that a trained slave cop can spot a slave girl from the way she talks, the way she walks, the way she laughs or parts her hair. It becomes a sixth sense. Now the hunky slave hunter was staring at my ass. Could he see through my clothes, and see the humiliating butt brand that marked me as inventory sold by The Big D? Did my tortured gait identify me as a newly “badged” girl?

A part of me wanted to circle around to the Slave Mall entrance, and get a wig, and some sunglasses, and maybe a nice floppy hat. My clothes were entirely different, so with my face covered there would be no way anyone could recognize me. But then I heard another voice in my head, a strange voice, calm and soothing, that addressed me in the 3rd person.

“No, that wouldn’t be fair, Sarah. After all, he is the police, and you are a registered Pleasure Slut. It’s only fair that you let him have a good look at you. He is the law, after all. Of course, if he realizes your Miss Sandy Foot, he’ll use that big fist of his to grab you by the scruff of the neck, strip you down to your birthday suit, and put your sweet little pussy back on the auction block where it belongs.”

“Maybe Jake will let him fuck you, before they sell you again, as a reward. They do that all the time; actually; it’s one of the “cop” perks of the job, like free coffee and doughnuts. He will take you in hand, and be strong and powerful, and you will cry in ecstasy as he fucks you. You’ll go back on the block with his spluge leaking out of your pussy, and everyone will see what a whore you are.

If you get sold again, your assistant won’t bother to save you. You’ll be 1/50th of one of the next decorations on his shirt, and you’ll be a slave girl again, fucked and sold.

Struggling to steady myself, I put my hand on the mirror to keep from falling. Overcome with heat, I took off my blazer jacket. My back felt wet. Turning, I can see the back of my blouse was soaked with sweat, leaving it clinging to my skin.

Although I always wear a brassiere to work, for some reason that day I had chosen to go to work sans underwear. After all, my jacket would cover my breasts, and my skirt would cover my pussy.

After my experience of a few weeks ago, I often went around my apartment completely nude, even when the drapes were open. Clothing seemed strangely restrictive.

But now, sweating like a hog, the braless look was not my friend. My nipples were hard, and the material of my silk blouse was clinging to my breasts like I was in a wet T-Shirt contest.

“Are you all right, Miss?” I turned, to see the cop who had been ogling me standing a few inches away, smiling as he looked at my shapely breasts. I was anything but all right, and we both knew it. I looked up at him, panting, feeling very small, mouth open.

He moved closer, invading my personal space as he crinkled his nose, as if he smelled something unusual. He sniffed again.

Had I worn too much perfume?

I took a deep whiff too, and realized what he was smelling. My pussy was soaking wet, and the juices were dribbling down my thighs. The slave hound had caught my scent.

“May I help you?” he said, clearly a bit suspicious that I hadn’t answered him.

“Um…yes,” I said, trying to think of something to say. “I was wondering if the girl in The Sandy Foot was available for sale?”

“Which one?” he said, taking the magazine out of his back pocket. “Usually they turn the inventory pretty fast.”

I undid my hair, and shook it out loose, like it had been on the auction block. Taking the magazine out of his hands, I held it up next to my face. “I’m looking for this girl. The little slut who looks like me.”
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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by Hooked6 »

Oh, I am SO loving this story. The visual imagery of Sarah’s Picture on the front of The Sandy Foot Magazine capturing her in the throes of her Slave-gasm the moment she was sold with the urine-drenched sand pile between her legs was PRICELESS. Marvelous descriptive writing that.

I also loved the little clever pearls scattered throughout the story like the great marketing ploys having Valentine Day Special’s in the magazine not available online to cultivate potential girls’ imaginations predisposing them to slavery or the coupons for a free beer at the food court to keep males hanging around to be tempted to make an impulse buy of a slave or spend a little more than they should have making a purchase. Alcohol is a marvelous inducement. (I wonder if the Big-D has Schills to drive up the price of slaves they auction when the bidding is ripe for taking advantage?)

But my favorite little gem was the “Friday Night, Tight” reward for the athletes winning a game. THAT made me chuckle.

Oh, and this Epilogue does answer the question about Sarah’s hair color in my mind at least. She HAS to be a blonde as only a blonde would flirt with danger like our protagonist just did while still technically a slave. That was rich!

Hooked6
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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by orflash64 »

Damn Joe, it's practically a book now. You just need a illustrator.
Sarah sure does like to fly close to the flame. I'm sure she spends a number of sessions under the Judge's desk before he signs her freedom. :twisted:
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A picture is worth a thousand words, a picture of a beautiful nude lady, priceless.

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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by Belinda »

Another wonderful segment. You truly have an amazing gift. Thanks so much for your effort. You are greatly appreciated.
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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by jeepster »

Wow! That is so hot!
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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

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Wow, I really didn't expect her to get out of slavery. It is the kind of ending I like though.
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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by jeepster »

In the first story in this series on the yahoo site she said she was a blonde! A natural blonde is exactly the wording!
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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by imreadonly2 »

Joe asked me to post this reply:

Wow! Turns out Hooked6 was right after all! Blonde it is.

You have a great eye for detail, Jeepster, and a great future as a slave catcher. Jake says you can have an afternoon with the Sandy Foot Girl of your choice as a reward for your eagle eye!
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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by jeepster »

So if she is 'inventory' now what could the big D have her do?
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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by lovethissite »

Well done. I have been waiting for more on Sandy Foot Girl for a long long time. Thanks Joe for allowing someone to continue this series. I recently found this site although I do follow Strip Search especially Joe_Doe_Stories and all of his series. I loved Sarah's brand location between the cheeks would have loved to read what led up to that location and her state of mind at the time and what actually occurred after the gavel dropped. I can't wait to read what happens to her with the officer how long will it take to raise her lip and drop her clothes and march over to the judge. I suspect that Sarah will not be a free woman long. Keep up the great work. Thank you.
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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by lovethissite »

Great chapter again thank you. Sarah is such a fool. She is back at the Big D and is not fully a free woman but is returned inventory at the same auction house she was sold. Although her assistant repurchased her from her buyer she is still a branded pleasure slut. For an educated professional woman she needs a permanent collar more brands perhaps a pussy or tit brand and loss of all status clothes and freedom, she just doesn't learn. She should be returned to Becky Lou and Rosa after a severe whipping and servicing by men and women. Becky Lou should display her and use her for a time at the Ag Center then resale her permanently and buy a new car or house with her profits. Good luck.
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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by lovethissite »

I just went to the original Sandy Foot Girl series and yes Sarah is a natural blond Chapter 1 page 2. Now that it looks like a recently branded and not quite free Sarah may again be slave naked, I'm hoping that whatever her hair color is on her head, she becomes completely shaved from the neck down. Thanks for moving towards completion of a series, it is so frustrating to read series after series on a few of these sites, and very few are ever completed.





















m hoping that whatever her hair color is on top of her head no hair will soon exist below her neck. Thank again for picking up the baton and adding to the series i hope there is more to come. A complete series seems so rare and is very frustrating. Good l.uck.
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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by mikey22 »

I’m definitely intrigued with this! Is there more to come?
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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by imreadonly2 »

Yes, I wrote out a whole bit where Sarah sort of goes on the run from The Big D, and disguises herself as a bimbo, only to have slave hounds catch her scent at the airport. More ideas than time to write them.

I was also thinking of a sequence where she visits the girls who have just been sold at The Any Chance? auction, to hear their stories, and "comfort" them, while relishing their distress.

I don't know, Mallory. Being a fashion designer is a really good career, and I'm sure you're making good money, but your boyfriend would be CRAZY not to take this price. I mean, you are serious, top grade pussy, and he should be really proud of what you bought. I bet you were amazing on the block! It looks like you got sold to someone in the UAE. Hopefully they like American girls, as a lot of time they just like to punish them. He might change his mind, but it looks like you are already scheduled for Southwest Shipping. Don't worry, they'll take real good care of you, and they never damage the merchandise. Oh, don't cry. Rub your pussy, and everything will be fine. That a girl A little faster. That's it, get it good and wet. Don't worry, I'll give your boyfriend a call, and we'll talk business. Don't worry your pretty little head about it. Dr. Hollister will take care of everything.
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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by mikey22 »

I’m definitely liking what I’ve red so far. Keep up the good work
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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by mikey22 »

I red all I could find of the sandy foot girl series. Is there just 6 chapters? It just seems to end? Is there more somewhere else? I’m curious about Sarah How does she ever get freed? I like chapter 1 the most. Being tricked like she was. And Rosa stripping her down in the AG office. That was great!
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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by imreadonly2 »

There is another chapter, which I've posted in fragments, but which needs to be shaped into a proper story. Thank you, Mike, as inquiries like yours do inspire me to write. :-)
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Re: Sandy Foot Girl, Epilogue, Part 1

Post by jeepster »

Really hoping the reporter does reappear! Either as a reporter doing a follow up or a as a naked slave, maybe Sarah's!
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