"Any Chance?" Auction - Epilogue

Next step was the auction. As Jake walked me to Broadway, we encountered his accountant, Rebecca, a cute little striver who seemed bright and creative enough to be of use in our new venture. Jake told her she should give me a rundown on the financials, and I told her to call my secretary and setup an appointment. Although The Big D was privately held, I had already seen their financials through some banking contacts, but I was looking forward to hearing Rebecca's summary of their financial position.

Rebecca complimented my strappy sandal shoes, so I took them off and showed them to her, explaining that I had spotted them at the Gucci Roma flagship store near the Pantheon, and although they were $1500 USD I simply "had to have them".

"They're actually too nice for this floor, actually," I remarked, slipping them into my bag at the end of our conversation. Wear-and-tear on my shoes was hardly a concern for me, but it gave me an excuse to enjoy the sensation of standing barefoot on the cold, unforgiving floors of The Big D, one more time.

This time, of course, it was just for fun.

The naughty buzz between my legs grew as Rebecca remarked that they had an especially good December, because of "an unexpected windfall revenue stream". I knew she was referring to the money I had given Jake to compensate him for the loss in revenue on my record auction price when Rita had reserved the transaction. Having Jake's grinning accountant slyly mention my sale as I stood barefoot before her was an unexpected thrill.

The remainder of our walk to Broadway was a bit slower, as I was "barefoot-as-a-yarddog", as Rita might say, and used the walk to fondly remember my time as a slave girl at The Big D, when I had been not only barefoot but bare everything. Jake led me to the VIP section, winking at me as he chuckled about "putting a little extra padding" on my seat.

The VIP section had monitors, although I preferred the opera glasses as they allowed me to focus on the shock and humiliation on the terrified slave girls' faces as they struggled to grin their way through the most humiliating moment of their lives. Jake sat with me for the first hour of the auction, watching as I drank my $2,750 a bottle wine, and even sharing the small sample I offered him. As luck would have it, Skeeter was the auctioneer, and I think in part he was watching to make sure that my nephew wasn't slipping me top tail at bargain prices, as if that were my goal.

Skeeter did a bravura job, of course, getting the last penny out of every buyer, but with a patter so rapid most girls were on and off the block in a minute or less.

"Okay, ladies and gents, this next little piggy is hot, wet, and ready & set. Let's start at 20. I got 20, let's go 25. Fresh from the University of Texas, where she didn't make the grade, but sure made it here, as a Prime Minus. Do I hear 30? Got ya, Sir. 35? Come on, help Daddy get some of that tuition back. 35, from the man with the hat as big as Texas. Bend and spread, little girl, show 'em what yer sellin'! That is Prime Texas honey pot, hot, sweet, and gooey. 40 to the man who thinks she'll fit him like a glove. 45, 45? 45 from the man in the hat. Let's see ya' dance, girl. Shake them titties! Oh, there's 50 from the pretty lady from Chicago, who starts late but finishes strong. Do I hear 55? Come on, folks. She ayn't smart enough for school, but she's smart enough to suck yer' dick. 55? 55? Jump in, the water's warm, and so's her gash. Just look at that snatch! Do I hear 60? 60? 60 from Chicago. Do I hear 65? Come on, folks, don't let the Cubs beat our Rangers! Lather up that pussy, girl! CRACK! Ha, that got her ass movin', folks. Do I hear 65? 65 from the newbee, welcome to the party, Sir. Do I hear 70? 70 from Chicago, where they sure do need slave girls to keep 'em warm this time of year. Do I hear 75? 75? Come on, she'll sell for twice that after you train her, and trainin's half the fun. Crack! This girl knows how to jump, don't she, folks? No extra charge for the welts on her ass, folks, all part of the trainin'. 75? Going once... twice... sold, to the pretty lady from Chicago."

"Send her to Jamal," I said to Jake. "With her Southern pedigree, blonde hair, and blue eyes, he's just the sort of white girl he wants to put to stud on his plantation. Don't logo her. He'll want to do it himself."

"You're the boss, Miss Powers," Jake said. Making a note on his phone.

"Think of me as your partner, Jake. You know, my nephew is a real talent," I said, swirling my wine glass. "Take you treat him right, Jake. Rosco, too."

"My family is your family," Jake said, with dollar signs in his beady eyes.

The next hour was sheer pleasure, as I enjoyed my wine, my nephew's relentlessly entertaining performance, and an endless parade of Prime pleasure sluts, paraded under the skillful crack of Skeeter's whip. Many of them were new to the collar, but born for it, and I enjoyed watching them lather their pussies and roll in the sand and yelp as Skeeter whipped their cute little asses off the block. He'd done the same fantastic job auctioning off his aunt, but I'd been too distracted (and aroused) at the time to fully appreciate his skill. Now, I was free to drink my wine and enjoy each sale at my leisure.

From years of watching his beloved Anna-Annie, my nephew had learned a thing or two about power, and knew that in business, mercy was for the weak or the stupid. He even sold a girl Jake identified as a girl whom he had dated briefly. He had lavished attention on her, but she had cheated on him, then stood him up at Prom. The look of shock on her face when she realized she was being auctioned by a boy she had cheated on was priceless.

Skeeter's girlfriend had been on the track team, before her father's gambling debts drove her to the block. Skeeter looked directly at me as he offered her up for sale.

"Look at the red hair and legs on this fox, starting at her toes and going all the way up to heaven. I'll tell ya', this girl can RUN, and won't get winded, no matter how many dogs are chasin' her. Do I hear 70? 75 from the pretty lady from Chicago. Do I hear 80? This is one fine piece of foxtail!"

Taking the hint, I purchased her for Lord Kensington's fox hunt. The fact that she had long, red hair was only a plus, as I knew Kensington would use it to make her fox tail--before planting it up her tail.

As the auction preceded, I noticed I was drawing more attention, as the winning bidding in the VIP box sitting next to the owner. I saw a few of the buyers whispering to one another, and a swarthy, well-dressed buyer from the Middle East point me out to his assistant. Who was this mysterious lady from Chicago, with the unlimited funds, who was snapping up all the best merchandise, heedless of the cost? If they looked closely at the December issue of Miss Sandy Foot, they would know me all too well.

Although I did draw quite a bit of attention, I couldn't compete with the shameless sluts on the block, who disgraced themselves in the most lascivious ways in order to get everyone to look at them. I found myself feeling quite jealous of the unwarranted attention they were receiving; a common complaint free women have about slave girls. I was glad to see them sold and imagined their eyes bulging out of their sockets when the branding iron found its mark.

As the auction continued, I found myself becoming increasingly excited. A number of the winning bidders discretely excused themselves to have a bit of quick fun with their purchases, but as I had to stay to bid on the next girl all I could do was squeeze my thighs together, and rub my Doodle bug brand on the chair.

Since that unforgettable day when Skeeter had sold me off the very block I was sitting in front of now, and I had become a real Sandy Foot Girl, our relationship had reverted back to a rich aunt doting on her beloved nephew. Skeeter had once again become a kid to me, and I found myself becoming increasingly excited as I saw him order the naked slave sluts into the most humiliating poses, driving up the bids before literally dropping the hammer to cement their sales.

I felt my bottom cheeks clench with every snap of the whip, which caused me to rub the doodle bug logo emblazoned on my butt. It was impossible for me to look at the familiar logo emblazoned on the pocket of Skeeter's auctioneer's shirt, or the expensive, custom monogramed cowboy boots I had bought him, and not recall the childish doodle emblazoned on my butt.

It was most unfair. The girls on the block got to later themselves up, and rub their pussies for everyone to see. Indeed, they were encouraged to do so. I, on the other hand, was expected to sit there like a proper lady, and demurely sip my wine, ignoring the growing exciting between my legs, while they had all the fun.

After buying "The Slutty Six", as I christened them, I let Skeeter "receive his tip" backstage from his old girlfriend before she was shipped out to the fox hunt. As Skeeter was a pretty good rider, I wondered if I might contact Elizabeth through an intermediary and wrangle him an invitation to her hunt.

I lingered in the auction showroom after everyone left, and when the coast was clear made my way to the front of the auditorium. Slowly, I made my way up the stairs to the stage. I felt quite naughty, as I might have been the only barefoot girl who had ever gone UP these stairs. The last time I had been on stage I had entered through the chute and exited DOWN the stairs. Slave girls never ascended these stairs, as the trip through Broadway was only one way. My butt cheeks clenched together, and I felt The Big D logo between my cheeks, as I fantasized about Skeeter cracking his whip on my bottom in displeasure at my heresy.

The stage was covered in a coarse, dark sand. I had tried to buy some for my exercise room back in Chicago, but I could never get the texture or color exactly right. Taking a small handful, I dropped it in my bag for later analysis. I wanted an exact match.

I walked across the stage, surveying the empty chairs, relishing the feeling of the coarse sand between my toes. Paradoxically, being auctioned off Broadway I had experienced the greatest sense of helplessness, but also the greatest sense of sexual power, I had ever felt. Everyone was looking at me, everyone had wanted me. I was Miss Sandy Foot, and had brought a record price. I was the best. I was THE ONE.

It was too bad that I had been too dazed, too frightened, too lost in the bright lights, and too anxious to avoid Skeeter's whip to enjoy the experience as much as I should have. It is said that a slave girl never forgets her first sale, but only enjoys her second. Running my foot across the sand, I felt sad that I would never experience such a thrill again.

"Well, well, well, if isn't Miss Sandy Foot herself," Skeeter said. "Enjoying the view from up there, Miss Powers? I always tell folks it's the best seat in the house, even if you don't get to sit."

"I prefer the VIP section, thank you very much," I said, laughing, as I walked down the stairs. "You look wonderful, Skeeter," I said, giving him a warm, familial hug. "How have you been?"

"Good. It's been quite a month since Christmas. Lot's been going on at The Big D. I ran into Jake, and he seemed happier than a pig in shit to see ya'. So, what ya' cooking up now, Anna Annie?"

"I'll fill you in while we go to see if the Legendary Slave Girls I ordered live up to their name."

"You wanna get ya' feet rinsed off?" he said. "There's a slave shower over yonder, if ya' wanna freshen up."

"No, I'm good. I like the feeling of the sand between my toes," I replied, amused by my nephews rather transparent attempt to march me into the showers slave naked. He would have to do better than that.

It was fun catching up with Skeeter. We chatted about work and school, and I tussled his hair and teased him about "finding any new girlfriends" like the cool, hip Aunt I was. He was suitably impressed by the scope of my plans for the Union Stockyards, and I told him he could get in "on the ground floor" if he wanted.

I wondered how Rita might feel about him moving to Chicago. Secretly, I hoped that all three of them would come, so we could all live closer together, as a family.

I had asked Jake to set the girls up in a staging area that was used before auctions, the same staging area that I had been prepped in prior to being trotted down the hall to the cattle chute that led me to the block. It was exciting to visit the area, with the same examination table that I had once been displayed on, not as a Pleasure Slut, but as a respected female professional.

Jake's accountant Rebecca greeted me warmly. She was talking to Samuel Norton, of Legendary Slavers. He was 50ish, chubby, with a gray flattop and Clark Kent glasses. He was fawning and obsequious, as he should be, given what I had paid him for the slaves I was about to see.

"I wanted to let you know that Jake is very excited about your Chicago proposal," Rebecca said. "He's told me to do whatever it takes to give you a sense of what we bring to the table."

"I'm very aware of what you bring to the table, Rebecca," I said, glancing at the examination table next to her. "During my visit in December, I acquired an insider's view of The Big D. I was most impressed with the... efficiency of your operations."

"Thank you, Miss Powers," Rebecca said, bowing her head. "Coming from you that is quite the compliment."

"It's not really The Big D's operations that are in question," I said, turning to Norton. "What I'm here to see is if Legendary Slavers lives up to the hype."

"I do believe you will be most pleased," Mr. Norton said.

On cue, a slave monger appeared, leading a coffle of naked slave girls, who promptly knelt on the cement with their legs spread and their fingers locked atop of their heads, thrusting their breasts forward. I wasn't impressed, I was stunned. I walked very slowly down the line of kneeling pleasure sluts, each of whom could have been my sister if not my twin. Anyone of them could have been mistaken for me, even at close range.

I was shocked to see Skeeter's doodle bug brand on each of their bottoms.

"This is extraordinary," I said. "I had seen the pictures in the catalog, but I never dreamed... How is this even possible?"

"Without revealing too many trade secrets, when an order arrives, we use our web crawler to locate possible candidates. Then we send out our acquisitions department to acquire the girls we need. We will occasionally do surgical touchups, but the closer you can get to the original, the better. The truth is, there are only so many faces out there, and each of us is less unique than we might suppose."

Looking at so many mirror images of myself naked, and kneeling before me, was a surreal experience. I walked up and down the line, struggling to grasp what I was seeing. I was simultaneously pleased that Legendary Slaves had done their job so well and distressed that I was so easy to replicate, at least physically.

Skeeter asked if the girls were "properly trained, given the short time span."

"We do the Lord's work, son. It's like St. Paul says, "Slaves, be obedient to your human masters, with fear and trembling in your heart. That's scripture, son, so you know it's true."

It was definitely time for a new bottle of wine. Skeeter did the pouring. I took my time inspecting them, pausing in front of each of them to take a sip of the delicious $2,500 per bottle Chateau Raya Chateaunef-du-Pape 2007 I had switched to after polishing off the bottle I had consumed at the auction.

"What was your name, before you were enslaved?" I asked the first girl.

"Anne Powers," she replied in my voice. "I was a commodities trader from Chicago."

Norton smiled like a proud father. "Our voice modulation software does wonders. More real than real, isn't it?"

"What's my address in New York?" I asked her.

"I own the 90th, 91st, and 92 floors of 432 Park Avenue, overlooking Central Park," she said.

I looked down at myself disapprovingly. "Oh, you are a filthy little piggy, aren't you?" I said, "Kneeling there, with your little hoo-haa hanging out for all the men to look at. Tsk-tsk-tsk, no modesty at all."

My Gucci sandal shoes were open toe, which allowed me to run my red painted toe directly over the snatch of the next girl. "Look at you, all wet and ready to go! Are you getting all randy, being in the presence of a free woman?" I teased.

"I am always ready to serve, Mistress," she said in my voice.

I paused at number three, looking down at her critically. "She does look like me, although her butt's a bit chubby. Maybe you send this one off to the races. Nothing wrong with her fat ass a pony lash couldn't cure."

They didn't dare look up at me, as there are few things more terrifying for a slave girl than a powerful, well dressed free woman able to determine their fate. Taking the slave whip of Skeeter's belt, I used the tip to lift up their chins, and turned their heads to-and-fro, as I examined them closely. They might look like me, but I was still in charge.

I assessed number four with a critical eye. "She's a little flat on top, isn't she? I mean, sort of boyish? I know! You can make her a cabin boy. She'll look so cute in her short pants and sailor uniform. And the men will so enjoy taking her below deck to bugger that tight little bottom of hers."

It was bizarre, but also thrilling, walking up and down the row of replicas. I was reminded of an infinity mirror, as I seemed to be looking at an endless recursions of naked slave girl images of myself.

I stopped in front of a girl, naked, head bowed, who made me wonder if my mother hadn't had a twin. She looked exactly like me, and even had the same small mole on her neck.

"Get up on the table, slave girl," I snapped. "Like a dog."

The girl obediently scampered up onto the examination table, on all fours. Placing my wine glass on the small of her back to hold her in position, I did a slow walk around the table, examining her with a gimlet eye.

"Show me your SIN number," I said.

Being careful not to spill my wine, she held used her thumbs to raise her upper lip, so I could read the number tattooed on the inside of her mouth.

"Don't worry, it's a different SIN number than yers, Anna-Annie," Skeeter said, as if reading my mind. "But otherwise, she's a dead-ringer."

"I'm taller than her," I said sharply.

"That's cuz yer' wearing heels," Skeeter said. Looking down at my feet, I saw that Skeeter was right, and the difference in height was accounted for by the heels on my sandals. Worse, the little slut was wearing red toe polish that was the identical shade as mine.

It was incredibly exciting, if dizzying, and I felt my pussy buzz as I looked at myself on the examination table. I was both the Mistress and the slave, the owner and the owned.

I walked behind her and ran my fingers over the raised scar of her doodle bug brand. Like, mine, it appeared to be 3-D, and gripping her bottom. When I jiggled her butt cheeks with the tip of my whip, the bug seemed to move. Like the brand that I myself wore, the craftsmanship was extraordinary, and I wondered if Professor Merle had worked his magic on her ass, too.

It was an odd sensation. I loved my brand, and was proud of it as a work of art. I had often admired it in the mirror, but now I was seeing afresh, as I was able to run my fingers over it, and appreciate it in a way I never had.

"How did you get the brand so perfect?" Skeeter asked, again reading my thoughts. "I thought Professor Atkins was the only one who could brand something that complicated."

"Professor Atkins belongs to The International Brotherhood of Slave Blacksmiths," Norton explained. "He was quite proud of his accomplishment and wrote an article about Miss Power's brand in their online professional journal, THE FORGE."