"Any Chance?" Auction - Epilogue

"I miss everything about Chicago, except January and February." Gary Cole



Temperatures in Chicago were in the single digits when my chartered jet had left O'Hare for Love Field that morning, and walking across the parking lot of The Big D was like walking backwards into summer. I had ditched my Eskimo Pie girl outfit on the plane, and was wearing a sheer white blouse, a dark purple Armani power suit, and Gucci high heel sandal shoes. I had decided against wearing a windbreaker, as my body had acclimated enough to the cold that a brief walk across a sunny parking lot didn't require extra cover.

I laughed when I spotted the neon sign, portraying the crude animation of a blue cowboy on horseback chasing down and lassoing a pink, naked slave girl, the 3 frames endlessly repeating:

The running for her life, with the grinning cowboy chasing her.

The lasso falling around the terrified girl's neck.

The noose choking her, and her reaching for her throat as she was jerked off her feet, like a silly cartoon of an endlessly animating, Hee-Haw gallows.

The image was really quite comical, as the idiot slave girl did look quite silly. I laughed the way a toddler might laugh when watching a loop of Wiley E. Coyote running off a cliff. I remember being horrified the first time I had seen it, which seemed quite silly to me now, as the animation was absurd. Of course, I had been naked at the time, with my hands tied behind my back and a rope leash tied snug around my throat, with my sister Rita leading me into The Big D like I was a reluctant puppy going to the vet. If clothes (or lack of clothes) make the woman, I was a very different woman today. Now, the animation amused me, and gave me a delicious little tingle between my legs.

Today, I was here to buy, not be sold, and my clothes and perfume were worth more than the garish neon sign. The JP Morgan Reserve credit card in my purse (issued only by special invitation to clients with $10 million in assets on reserve) gave me sufficient reserves to buy The Big D slave market, and everything (and everyone) in it. I had nothing to fear from lassos or cartoon cowboys. I wasn't afraid of anything. Fear is for girls who don't have Platinum cards.

The rent-a-cops, off duty Dallas police in little golf carts, were tooling around aimlessly, looking for escaping slave girls. They had hassled Rita and I when we walked across the lot, but as I strutted confidentially toward the door in my power suit, they kept their distance. I smiled, for my Jedi mind trick was working. I wasn't the droid they were looking for.

There were several people in line ahead of me, at the front desk, mostly moms taking their unhappy daughters in after getting their disappointing December college grades or bigger than expected Christmas bills. Lines are for people who don't have JP Morgan cards, so I cut to the front and stated my business.

I loudly talked over the woman asking if she might be able to buy her daughter back, "if interest rates come down." She seemed a bit shocked, but stopped, submitting to my alpha girl status.

"I'm Anne Powers, and I'm here to say Jake. Let him know I'm on my way."

The clerk was suitably impressed. "Oh, yes, Miss Powers. He's expecting you. If you wait here, I'll get you a badge and an escort..."

"That's okay, I know the way." I said, walking past her.

I routed myself to the left, where an unhappy newbee was rubbing herself on the pussy pole. I smiled down at her, enjoying her obvious humiliation.

"Get your leg up, and run your twat over the camera, sweetie," I cooed, pointing at the overhead camera. "The men watching the monitor don't want to see your sparkling personality." She whimpered in shame, but seeing that the smiling woman in the purple power suit was waiting for her to comply, she obeyed.

I looked up at the monitor, and saw her pink wetness slopping over the camera, sucking like an octopus against the window. Satisfied, I grinned down a the miserable girl, giving her a thumbs up before turning to leave.

I felt a delicious tingling sensation between my legs, and the heels on my sandals made a satisfying clippity-clop sound on the cement floor. I wondered if the slave mall next door was carpeted or had linoleum floors. Maybe I'd stop by for a look after I finished my chat with Jake. They had some very upscale stores there, and it might be fun to have some shopgirl fawn over me as she tried to sell me a diamond encrusted slave collar.

As the owner, Jake had the largest office, just off the sales floor and up a short flight of stairs. I didn't touch the banister as I briskly trotted up the stairs, as slave markets are not the sorts of places where an elegant lady touches common surfaces.

I knocked once, then entered, not waiting for an answer.

Jake was talking on the phone. "That's okay, Louise. Never mind, she's already here. Yeah, she's from Chicago," he said, giving me a wink. "Skeeter says they walk fast up there."

"Miss Powers, it's a pleasure to see you," Jake said, extending his hand. "Please, have a seat."

"You'll understand if I don't shake hands with a man who handles slave pussy for a living," I said, making a joke out of refusing his hand.

Jake stiffened. "I'm surprised you're so fussy. I saw your auction video, and I know where your hand has been."

I ignored the jibe, as Jake was punching under his weight, taking a moment to survey the room. It was by far the nicest room I had seen in the Home Depot like atmosphere of The Big D, and with lots of phony gold trim and faux antiques. But it was fundamentally unimpressive, a working-class man's attempt to look rich.

Jake was in an enormous chair behind his enormous desk, and rather than cede the power position to him I sat on the couch, because it was "cozier". The couch also had more padding, which was most welcome. I only felt the Big D logo between my butt cheeks when clenched my bottom, or wiped myself, but I still felt the sting of the temporary doodle bug that had been branded on my left ass cheek every time I sat down.

My feelings about my brands had evolved over the last few weeks, from terror at the iron, through the shame of being branded like chattel, to a definite sense of pride in what the brand's represented. The Big D logo identified me as one of the most sexually desirable women in the world. As I talked with Jake, I found myself clenching my cheeks together, exciting myself with the power reversal of buying an entity that had once owned me. I would enjoy making the employees who had once "processed" me grovel at my feet, and shudder when they heard my high heels clicking across the floor.

My skirt was short, and I smiled as I caught an embarrassed Jake ogling my long legs. He had seen all of me, I was sure, as I had been Miss Sandy Foot, the cover girl on his magazine. As I had fetched a record price, a gif of me, naked with legs spread on the block squirting during my slave-gasm, was on the homepage of their website. They had also used a "comical" photo of Skeeter whipping my ass off the auction block at the conclusion of my sale, as part of their "Christmas Clearance" advertisement, which had run in the Dallas Morning News, The Fort Worth Star Telegram, "D" Magazine, and Texas Monthly.

"That look on yer' face is a hoot," Rita said. Ha-ha.

I could tell Jake was a bit confused and didn't know quite what to make of me. I was a successful business woman, a billionaire investor, the beloved aunt of one of his employees, and the most profitable piece of ass he had ever sold, all at once. Being a guy, his eyes roamed over my body, even as the smaller part of his brain told him to follow the money.

I was used to the dual reaction. Over the last several weeks I had come to realize that my disgrace had been so public, it was impossible to distance myself from it. Instead, I embraced it. I had the Ad and the cover of MISS SANDY FOOT magazine on my ego wall back in Chicago, next to countless other honorary degrees and accolades. I routinely told people that yes, I had "played" slave girl, but if men could use slave girls without shame women shouldn't feel shamed for pretending to be one. It worked, because I made it work, and my feminist slave girl schtick was a good story. Naked girls, a fall from grace, and money. What wasn't to like? Back in Chicago, I had been written about in both the Tribune and the Sun Times, and several of the local stations had done brief "feature" pieces about me during sweeps week. I had been the subject of several national news stories, and had been an enormous hit on Howard Stern and Real Time With Bill Maher. I was mulling over other offers from Axios, Oprah, Chris Wallace and Sixty Minutes.

"So, I understand you were interested in making an investment in The Big D," Jake said.

"We'll get to that later," I said, taking control of the conversation. "I understand you've been hassling my brother-in-law, and my nephew, Skeeter."

Jake's face hardened. "I'm not the one doing the hassling. Those rich guys that bid on you are pissed off that you backed off on the sale. They're suing me for a small fortune."

"They're not pissed at you, they're pissed at me," I said, correcting him. "The truth is, they're totally out of your league, and you're not important enough for them to be angry with. They're just suing you because they know they can't touch me."

Jake, who regarded himself as quite the entrepreneur, looked crestfallen at my blunt assessment, but he knew it was true. Being in the top 1% and top.001% are two different worlds.

Yes, the bidders had been pissed, but that was half the fun. It made me laugh as I thought of all the rich perverts who had bid on me suffering blue balls as I sipped my wine back in Chicago.

Elizabeth's father, Lord Kensington, who had placed the winning bid, was disappointed that I wouldn't be the fox in his perverted slave hunt. I had made it up to him, though, and with a few extremely generous bribes to his downtrodden employees, I had arranged to have this daughter Elizabeth sent out as "the fox" on their latest hunt.

Poor Elizabeth! She tried to explain, but with a fox head mask glued over her head and a red fox tail hanging out of her ass, she didn't really look like herself. Plus, it's hard to explain that you're actually the host's daughter when there is a pack of braying dogs chasing you. You can imagine how embarrassed he was when Elizabeth's hood was finally removed, and his Lordship realized that his Great Dane Hercules had just "run down" his daughter, in front of all his guests. Oh, my, how people talked!

Billionaires don't die easy. Lord Kensington had filed a Habeas Servus action, arguing that the cancellation had been illegal, and I was still a slave. However, the Federal court in Chicago had thrown it out, which reduced him to suing the Big D for monetary damages for the so-called fraud, which was totally ridiculous as the terms of the auction were made clear to all.

Five other wealthy bidders had joined in Lord Dogshit's ridiculous "slave claim" lawsuit. My revenge had been swift, and each of them had quickly found their crappy businesses hamstrung by permits I had pulled, investigations I had triggered, or financing that had mysteriously vanished when I called in a few choice favors.

Jamal, who liked to sell white girls to black plantation owners, found himself in the middle of a messy discrimination suit. It was asinine, of course, but it tied his financing up in knots as several banks pulled out, customers left to avoid the publicity, and he had to go back to actually growing sugar, instead of having slave girls give it away.

Skipper Carrey had been boarded by the Coast Guard, and his yacht and slave girl "crew" seized when a close inspection of the ship's logs revealed that he had been freely bringing his girls back and forth to the Caribbean without filing the necessary import/export paperwork. It was a simple formality, but it would cost him dearly. I made sure of that.

John Drummer, the pony girl enthusiast, was attacked by unknown mysterious ruffians who trussed him up like a pony and sent him to a gay friend's pony farm. Devoiced, he wasn't identified for two days, after he had been raced several times and put to stud by three of the stronger male horses. I had actually attended one of the races he had placed in, and watched him suck the cock of the horse that had beaten him. It was quite funny, and I'll never forget the look in his eyes as he spotted me, dressed in my riding outfit, watching him suck that dick. I actually hooked him up to a cart, and took him out for a trot afterwards. I used the whip freely, because if he can't take a joke, fuck him.

Mr. Choo's China doll daughter, who had watched my auction with such breathless curiosity, had been kidnapped by slavers on a trip to Morocco. She had been sold as a yellow in the UAE, and even now Mr. Choo was trying desperately to get his little Princess back. He would get her back eventually, when the horny arabs tired of her, and turned her for a quick profit back to Daddy. As a consolation prize, I sent him a videotape of his little Princess' auction, and a few of the blushing beauty's first pornos. Boo-hoo, Mr. Choo!

As soon as their embarrassing lawsuit was tossed out of court, I was going to sue each one of the horny bastards for false enslavement, for signing onto Kensington's ridiculous Habeas Servus petition. Bring the slave before the court, indeed! The horny bastards would get brought into court. They'd get all the sex they wanted in jail, only like John Drummond, now it would be them sucking cock and bending over to take it up the ass.

With any luck, I might be able to enslave them myself, and "fix" them, like I had fixed my boyfriend's dog Buster, so long ago. The bastards had whistled at me, and leered at me, as Skeeter had put me through my paces, and sold me off the block, treating me like mere pussy-for-sale. They would regret it, every last one of them.

As sweet as my vengeance was, the problem at hand was their anger was flowing over to Jake, and down onto Rosco and Skeeter. Living on a pile of money, I was safe. Shit flows downhill, as they say.

I leaned forward, placing my hand on Jake's knee, drawing him back in with my most winning smile. "I like you, Jake, and I'm here to solve all your problems. I'm the sort of friend you need. I have already contacted one of the top Dallas firms about representing you, and he assures me that with a few well placed 'campaign contributions' the slave court suits will be dismissed by next week. That's how you do it down here, in Texas, right?"

"That's how it's done," he said. "I tried that, but these guys are so rich..."

"Money is never a problem for me," I said, cutting him off. "They are powerful men, and good customers, and I want them to see Jake and The Big D as their friend. I've sent Skeeter a number of very choice bottles of wine from my wine seller in Chicago. You are overloaded with excess slave pussy, because of Christmas returns and the economy and such. So, I am going to take some of that inventory off your hands. I will attend your auction on Broadway this afternoon, buy six of the hottest pieces of tail that you have, and send them to our friends as a gift from their old friend Jake, along with a bottle of wine from my VERY select wine cellar."

"That sounds great, but I'm not sure if you can buy..."

Smiling, I rubbed Jake's knee, leaning in so he could enjoy my $900 a bottle perfume. "Jake, I know you're used to dealing with slave girl bimbos, but trust me, I've thought this through. You're correct, that alone won't satisfy them. What my perverted friend-emies really want is to fuck me. So that's what you're going to give them. Have you ever heard of Legendary Slavers?"

"Yeah, I think so. They do all sorts of kinky shit for rich people. Not really in my league, as you say." His voice betrayed his hurt, but it was important for him to know his place.

"Indeed. One of the services they provide is customized slave girls. Let's say you want to fuck Taylor Swift, or cane Emma Watson, of get your cousin Sandra to dress up like slave girl Leia. Legendary Slavers will scour the earth to find a lookalike, and then enslave her, either by getting the girl to submit to an indenture or figuring out some trick to get her into a real collar. They'll get plastic surgery as needed, and voce modulation devices. The girls will be trained as Pleasure Sluts, and trained on how to act like the celebrity, too. Then they'll get sent to the billionaire pervert for a 3-month indenture."

"Why only 3 months?" Jake said.

"A lot of times these girls are indentures, who want to go back to their regular lives -- or actually, their regular lives minus the need to ever worry about money again. Or they figure they can make more money reselling Taylor or Brittany to the next billionaire. Billionaires bore quickly. Believe me, I know."

"So, you're going to send these billionaires a bunch of copies of celebrities?" Jake asked.

Leaning back, I slipped off my sandal and ran my foot up Jake's leg, causing his erection to bounce in his pants. "No, silly. I'm going to send them copies of me. I knew these dirty old geezers weren't going to go down without a fight, so as soon as I got back to Chicago, I contacted Legends. In a couple of hours, The Big D is going to receive a large shipment of... me!" I said, laughing. "But first, I'm going to buy a half dozen head--or should I say tail?-- of the hottest slave pussy in Dallas."

"Sounds like you got everything all figured out," he said.

"Of course, I do, you silly boy," I said, taking my foot off his thigh and slipping it back into the sandal. "You expected any less?"

"You said something about an investment?" Jake said.

Reaching into my bag I pulled out a large portfolio. "As you may know, there's a burgeoning futures market in slave girls. I plan on becoming a major player in that market, on the finance end, and you're going to help me do it."

"The Union Stock Yards?" Jake said, looking at the portfolio title. "I don't get it."

"Carl Sandburg called Chicago "The Hog Butcher to the World," and the Union Stockyards was the largest livestock facility in the world. The neighborhood it used to be in is called Back of The Yards, and it's fallen on hard times. I'm making arrangements to condemn the land to transform it back into a livestock facility for handling all the girls we're going to be trading on the Chicago Board of Trade. I want to run it like a real livestock yard, only with slaves instead of cows."

"Sort of like The Big D," Jake said, putting it together.

"Exactly, like The Big D, only much larger, and much better capitalized. What do you say, Jake? Ready to move up to the big time?"

Jake was more than ready, and when he saw the size and scope of my proposal, I thought he was going to stain the front of his pants. "Are these numbers in the back real?"

"Absolutely. You're in the operations end, and that's important, but you make the money on Wall Street by moving money, not goods. Chicago is still the country's rail hub, and once we start hedging slave girls by hedging them and moving them around like rail cars of wheat we can start making some real money. I'm already in touch with Natalie Mortellaro at Southwest Shipping and I'm talking to her about rail, truck, and air shipping logistics. She's a smart girl, and she's all in."

"I don't understand much about futures and options, and all that finance stuff," Jake said, scratching his head.

"That's why I'm here," I said, smiling. "Jake, this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

It was quite amusing, actually, seeing the man who had been ogling my body now groveling at my feet at the promise of untold riches. I smiled, relishing the power only money can buy.