"Any Chance?" Auction Pt. 02

I had been running behind Hunk's golf cart as fast as I could without overtaking it, desperate to keep some slack in the rope. In the front row of the cart, my sister Rita jabbered about the Christmas decorations in downtown Dallas as if she didn't have a care in the world.

When Rita urged Hunk to "Git goin'!", overtaking the golf cart was no longer a possibility. My eyes bugged out as I watched Hunk casually drop his foot onto the accelerator, letting gravity do all the work for him.

The cart's tiny engine ROARED to life. With my hands cuffed behind me, I was soon doing my best Northwestern Track Team 100-meter dash sprint.

My frantic, naked dash drew laughter from everyone we passed.

"Look at them BOOBIES BOUNCE!" the guy on the forklift observed.

"Looks like streakin's making a comeback! Shake' em girl!"

"It's easier if you swing yer' arms, idiot," a female clerk observed, not noticing my cuffs.

"Slave girls got shit for brains," her friend agreed.

"Look at those welts on her ass."

"Ouch! Looks like someone was a naughty girl."

"What's yer' hurry darlin? Looking fer' LOVE?"

"Hey Hunk, tryin' to set a world record?" his friend asked, waving at him.

The good news is that Hunk's lead foot got us to the Reception Desk fast. The bad news is that as the cart started to slow, Rita asked to see the Christmas tree. Hank, ever eager to provide outstanding customer service, nearly pulled my head off as he zipped the cart into a tight U-turn and plunged me out into the freezing cold parking lot for a quick 360 tour around the pathetic little Charlie Brown Christmas tree, the same tree Rita had walked past without a second glance on our way in.

The sad little tree was about 1/8 the size than the professionally decorated tree I had shown Rita, Skeeter, and Rosco, in the Great Room of my mansion in Chicago at Thanksgiving. As the freezing air burned my overtaxed lungs, Rita gushed about the pathetic shrub/tree for a whole minute, going on about how nice it was to have a tree that wasn't so "city perfect".

Rita was watching me pant out of the corner of her eye, and I wasn't sure if she was mocking my professional decorations, or giving me a chance to catch my breath, or both. Before my brain could get enough oxygen for me to decide her intentions Hunk gunned the engine and zipped us to the Reception Desk at full speed.

My bare feet pounded the unforgiving payment as I ran, and for a moment I thought the sliding glass door was going to cut me in two as it started to close. But then Hunk skidded the cart to a stop in front of the ugly yellow security bollards, a line of ugly dildos near the reception desk lest some idiot like Hunk drive his cart into the receptionist at 30 MPH.

I panted like a race horse, gasping for air, nostrils flaring, as Hunk tugged the rope and instantly freed the knot from the golf cart. Rita tried to tip him, but the ever-chivalrous Hunk refused, explaining it was against Big D policy, because "excellence is our job."

So instead of cash, Hunk took his tip by giving my pussy a final long rub and squeeze, causing me to groan in pleasure and unsatisfied longing as I pushed back, humping his hands. Hunk, laughing at my desperation, jumped into is cart and zipped away.

Reading my expression, Rita reminded me that "I told ya' last night that playin' slave girl at The Big D was puttin' yer neck in the noose, and now ya' know what I mean. We can stop right now, if ya' want to."

Since I had made my fortune, I had used my good looks and power to assume the dominant role with my older sister, but now the tables had turned. It was a peculiar turn on, standing naked in front of my dowdy, working class sister, with my hands zipped behind me, nipples hard, with my leash in her meaty fist.

Rita gave me a triumphant smile. "Had enough, or ya' still wanna mess with Texas, little girl?"

Squeezing my thighs together I felt the sweet pleasure of my slave girl fantasies coming to life. "Bring it on," I said.

Jerking my leash, Rita started cheerfully whistling THE YELLOW ROSE OF TEXAS as she led me toward the reception desk. A huge overhead sign claimed, "WELCOME TO THE BIG D."

Or so I think. The sign was my first surprise. Even though the lettering was huge, the letters were fuzzy. Losing my contacts made reading even huge letters difficult,

The Big D was still putting up it's Christmas displays. There was a laughing, mechanical Santa holding leashes and collars, with a gigantic whip in his belt. There was a sign I couldn't quite read, that said something about purchasing "ho, hos, and more hos." Two short, bearded elves were leering at a magazine with a naked slave girl on the cover.

The bored teenage girl chewing her gum behind the counter looked up from her phone to give us a faux friendly greeting. "Howdy! Happy Holidays and welcome to The Big D. My name is Trixie. How can I help y'all?"

"Merry Christmas, Trixie," Rita said, making clear she was part of the Jesus army in the war on Christmas. Reaching into her bag Rita pulled out a folded slip of paper, which she handed to the clerk.

"I'm going to kennel her overnight. I made a reservation online. I just brought her in through the livestock entrance."

I looked Trixie up-and-down. Rita had explained to me that Sunday night, being slow, had the part time or trainee help. I hadn't expected much, but the girl behind the counter crawled below my B-team expectations. Trixie looked to be about 25, a chubby bottle blonde with a wad of gum bigger than a brain. I pegged her immediately as mall trash, the sort of worthless "help" that ensured that I always shopped at "appointment only" stores.

Nothing about Trixie surprised me, except the way she looked at me. After my run, my hair was once again a mess. My makeup had been scrubbed off, and my 400-euro perfume had been replaced with flop sweat and the stink of delousing fluid and cattle scrub. I stood before her, slave naked, wet, and shivering in a pool of my own sweaty drippings.

Trixie's fat face registered her disgust as her eyes immediately dropped to my shaved crotch.

"She got crotch crickets?" she asked, pointing at my vagina with the sort of disgusted look one might give a dead rat swarming with maggots.

"Not no more!" Rita said, givin' me a playful wink.

I clenched my teeth at my sister's country humor. I did not have crotch crickets, not today, not before my 'dip', NOT EVER. If I had stridden into this dump yesterday in my designer dress and Gucci shoes, I would have flicked the fat, loser clerk away with my finger as I demanded service from a manager. But now, this Walmart reject looked at me not with fear, or respect, but with disgust.

"This girl has no idea who I am," I thought. "She actually thinks I'm a slave girl."

The thought of mall trash like Trixie looking down on me was infuriating, but it was also incredibly exciting. I could feel a delightful buzz between my legs as I realized my slave girl disguise had totally fooled the idiot clerk.

Because my hands were tied behind my back with zip cuffs, and I was slave naked, with a rope around my neck, the little barcode checker thought she was better than me. Clearly, she had no idea who she was dealing with.

I felt a delightfully naughty tingle as Trixie, looking bored, scanned in the bar code on the reservation. Her computer, happy that it found me, PINGED!, as once again I squeezed my thighs together with pleasure.

"Got it," Trixie said, staring at her screen. "Can I verify her SIN number?"

"They did all that at the livestock entrance," Rita drawled.

"Yeah, I gotta do it again," the clerk said, readying her computer for the process. "We need to verify who she is before we collar her. It's procedure."

My collar! It was really happening. I was going to get a real, albeit temporary, slave girl collar. The color would be different, because it would be a temporary, but despite that slight defect it would be close enough. Soon I'd be wearing a Big D collar.

Rita pulled me toward the counter, and peeled back my upper lip to reveal my Slave Identification Number to the nasty little jobsworth behind the counter. Yes, I had been scanned in at the livestock desk, but she was going to make me go through this humiliation again. My dignity meant nothing. The idiotic "procedure" was all that mattered.

Using her scanner but keeping her distance, the clerk scanned my number. The machine gave a satisfied PING! as I rubbed my legs together.

"Got 'er," the girl said cheerfully, looking at the screen. "She's inventory now."

Inventory! My pussy spasmed in pleasure at the word. The little computer jockey had used her petty, tyrannical powers to transform my SIN number into a SKU. Exciting as it was, I felt a surge of fear, as I flashed back to my accounting classes at Northwestern:

Inventory: A current asset, typically tangible property, available for sale. Also called, goods, stock, merchandise.

I was there to be kenneled, but still, she had said the magic word. I wasn't me anymore, I was inventory, a SKU, a product that COULD, in theory, be sold. I squeezed my legs together, relishing the naughty possibilities.

The bureaucratic blonde's annoying drone jerked me back to reality. "She's graded, but she's not a slave," she whined, looking at her computer screen as if there was some mistake. "Why are you kenneling her?"

"She's a Prime Minus Pleasure Slut," Rita said. "I don't want 'er humpin' by husband, or my boy."

The clerk chuckled knowingly. No need to explain further. Rita's cover story was convincing, even if in my case, it was totally untrue. It was common knowledge that Pleasure Sluts were insatiable, and needed to be kenneled.

"Do you wanna sell her?" the clerk asked. "She's Prime Minus. This time of year, yer' crazy not to sell her."

I glared daggers at Trixie, wishing her to die. It wasn't like my sister would ever consider selling me, but still. The mere suggestion made my heart skip a beat.

I knew Trixie was jealous of me, jealous of my beauty, jealous of the attention I received from men. No doubt working at the Reception Desk gave the little paper-pusher quite the thrill, the opportunity to humiliate women far more desirable that she'd ever be.

Rita's reply to her brassy suggestion shocked me, less for the words than for the measured, thoughtful look Rita gave me as she responded to Trixie's observation that she'd be "crazy not to sell me"

"I'm thinkin' 'bout it," she said, in a tone that made me wonder if she was indulging the clerk, trying to frighten me, or seriously considering the offer.

"Well, if you decide to sell 'er, mention my name, cuz I get a commission."

"Sure will." Rita, obviously having fun, gave me a playful wink at the idea of fat Trixie chugging an extra six pack at the trailer park as a reward for putting me on the auction block.

Without even making eye contact, Trixie slapped a disclaimer form in a plastic sleeve on the counter and ordered me to read it.

I approached the counter, struggling to adjust my eyes to the text. But without my glasses, I might as well have been blind. I squinted, but could only make out a few of the words. I began haltingly.

"I...accuse... accounting?"

"Damn, stinky girl, you can't read, neither?" the clerk behind the desk drawled.

"Can ya' read it to 'er?" Rita asked.

"Whatever," Trixie said, shooting me an annoyed look.

The clerk, having the spiel memorized, spoke in a rapid-fire patter that reduced everything to one long word, reciting a legal warning that amounted to 1) I was inventory 2) They would shock the shit out of me or whip my ass if I gave them any lip. As if to emphasize the latter point, the little tyrant took the slave goad off the hook and put it on the counter, pressing the button so I could watch the little spark jump between the two metal prongs. Having felt it before during my private grading training, I jumped at the evil, electrical HISS.

It was Sunday, and business was slow. Still, I chewed my lip nervously as I looked around the lobby. I'd been naked before, but this wasn't naked at an exclusive spa, or sunbathing on a luxury yacht, or naked on a private island. Those were controlled settings, where I might "accidentally" flash a cabana boy for a bit of fun. I couldn't grab a towel or got to a locker, for my clothes were GONE, along with my money and all my ID, save the collar around my neck.

The Big D was a public venue, a big box store, where anyone who cared to come walk in and see everything I had. Which, of course, is exactly what happened. I felt myself go flush as two teenage girls came in. The blonde was wearing pink sneakers and a Taylor Swift Eras Tour shirt; her redheaded friend was wearing a patterned dress and high heels. They were cute, although not as cute as me. After carding them, Trixie launched into her spiel.

"Howdy! Happy Holidays and welcome to The Big D. My name is Trixie. How can I help y'all?"

"We're from like, California," the girl said, oozing valley girl. "We've never seen a slave market before, and we were wondering if we could.., like... look around."

"Sure thing!" Trixie said. "Would ya' like some coupons? We offer discount gradings on Sundays."

"I... don't....THINK so!" the blonde replied, as it were the dumbest idea in the world. "We're like... in community college. Like, we have a brain." Seeing me, the valley girl turned.

"Oh... my... GAWD!" she said. "She's... like... TOTALLY NAKED!"

"Yeah, and I think she's trying to cum!" her friend said.

I thought I was being subtle as I squeezed my thighs together, but I'd been caught.

"Oh... my... GAWD" the blonde repeated. "She's... like... JUICY! How... DISGUSTING!"

"What a pig slut!" her friend agreed.

I blushed crimson under the alpha girl's cruel assessment, feeling very much like I was naked in school. But it was about to get worse.

"I'm gonna put her down in the computer as illiterate, okay?" Trixie said, turning back to her computer as she addressed Rita.

"Oh... my... GAWD!" the blonde said. "She can't read either!"

Both girls turned to each other and burst into cruel laughter.

"Let's go," the redhead said.

"Right," the blond agreed. "I don't want to catch, like... BIMBO!".

The girls, laughing at me, walked away.

"Git that a lot?" Rita asked Trixie.

"Sometimes. Big city Yankees like to look down their noses at us. But they love to come visit."

Rita smiled at me. "I know the type."

"So I'm going to mark her down as illiterate, all right?" Trixie repeated.

With all the erudite indignation I could muster, I corrected Trixie's mistake. "I'll have you know, young lady, I have degrees from Northwestern University, AND The University of Chicago."

The girl popped her gum. "Fine. Read somethin' then, indicating all the sheets of paper hanging on the corkboard walls surrounding the Reception Desk.

I looked around at the surrounding signs, frantically trying to find something I could read to prove my literacy. It was all a blur. "Um...Um... that's a calendar, on the wall behind you. It says December."

"It says November, Einstein," the girl said. "We didn't change the month yet."

The girl resumed typing. "Illiterate... and dumb as a bag of slave kibble," she said aloud, not bothering to hide her contempt for my stupidity.

I turned to Rita, looking at her to correct this outrageous injustice, this insult to my education. Instead, she was biting her lip to keep from laughing.

Her reaction was understandable. Rita had often accused me of flaunting my credentials and "snobby degrees". Rita had gotten particularly upset when I questioned the worth of an Agricultural Slave Management degree from the community college Skeeter was attended, and urged him to attend a "a REAL school, up North."

"This is weird," Trixie said, typing. "The computer says she does have degrees. It won't let me mark her as illiterate if she has education... and all these fancy jobs!"

"It's a mistake," Rita said. "Jist delete 'em all out."

Trixie nodded and put her fat finger on the DELETE button. I watched in horror as the chubby clerk deleted all of my years of study, my awards, and my endless string of distinguished achievements. Whoever I had been when I woke up this morning, in The Big D's computer system I was now a naked, illiterate slave slut.

Trixie's power was as frightening as it was intoxicating. One of the dangers of checking into a slave market was the chance that something might go wrong, and social media was filled with stories of young ladies who had gone into slave markets or slave stores at the mall for gradings and had found themselves auctioned instead. I wondered if the two Valley girls who had sneered at me knew the dangers. Statistically, it was a rare occurrence, but it did happen.

The chubby bottle blonde girl with the fat fingers could strip me of everything. Rita would be compensated for my "loss", but reversing an enslavement sale was nearly impossible, particularly in the legal hellhole that was a Texas slave court. I had thought I was going to drown in the dip tank, but Trixie's chubby fat fingers were far more dangerous than any rope.

I turned to my smirking sister, my desperation growing as I watched the clerk delete my accomplishments, one after another. Sensing my frustration at my uncharacteristic sense of helplessness, Rita scratched me behind the ear, like a puppy that needed soothing.

"Anyn't no shame not bein' able to read, girl," she said, adopting her sincere nurturing, big sister voice. "Best just to accept what ya' are. Don't worry! Yer still plenty good at suckin' stuff, and that's what fellas want! Ayn't nobody gonna buy ya' for the conversation."

Rita's voice wasn't teasing, but sincere. As her words sank in, I realized that she wasn't taunting me, but giving me wise, sisterly advice. My education and erudition were not going to help me. Indeed, they would just get me punished. At The Big D, I'd need a different set of skills.

Rita pointed at a chalkboard, a chalkboard I couldn't read. "Tell me all about these here 'Sunday Specials.' Whatcha' got today?"

Trixie, occupied with her typing, didn't notice Rita grinning at me as the bored, gum chewing clerk ticked through the list of complimentary products, in her best, "Do you want fries with that?" rapid-speak.

"You get 10% off a gift certificate of $100 or more, which you can use at your next grading or the slave mall, although not for auction purchases. You can get a copy of the girl's grading file, complete with photos, including expanded set photos."

Rita smiled at me. "Bet ya' them sexy pictures would be a welcome Christmas present for a young college fella like Skeeter. How much is that?"

"$29. $35 for the expanded photo set."

When I had posed for the photographs, I had been trying to get the highest grade possible, and the result was a photo "spread" that was beyond pornographic. The thought of Skeeter drooling over my pictures horrified me, but before I could object Rita had already moved on.

"What else ya' got?"

"We also offer discounted slave training, and trial brandings," she said, as the printer behind her WHIRRED to life and began spitting out forms.

"She's pretty well trained," Rita replied. "But tell me about them-their trial brandin's."

"They use a lighter touch, and a special pre-branding cream. It takes a bit longer to apply, and hurts a bit more, but the burn isn't permanent. It heals up after a couple of months."

"So it's not PERMANENT?" Rita said, playfully mocking me with my own words.

"Yeah," the bored clerk replied. "But it burns worse than a permanent branding, or so they tell me. Master's sometimes use them as a trial, to see how they like a brand location, before they do a permanent one."

"So how much for the trial brandin'?" Rita asked.