"Any Chance?" Auction Pt. 02

"Trial brandings are $75. What sort of branding head do you want?"

I had heard enough. "Brand me?" I snapped. "Are you crazy?"

Undeterred, Rita clapped back. "You seemed to think 'branding' was all the rage last night, little sister? Don't ya remember? When ya' spilled yer drink on Skeeter?"

I shuddered as I recalled the scene. It had been late, and yes, I had drank too much wine. Trying to give Rosco some much needed career advice, I lamented his utter lack of personality.

"Everybody who matters in Chicago KNOWS me," I said. "I'm top dog. The problem with you, Rosco, is you're a little tiny nobody, and you'll be a nobody your whole life. A teesy-weensy drone, with a shriveled up little stinger, just like that bug on Skeeter's arm."

I pointed to the tattoo on Skeeters wrist, which showed the little mosquito drawing he had done in first grade. Skeeter, who had also been drinking, laughed along with my assault on his father's manhood, at least until his mother shot him THE LOOK.

"See? Even Skeeter got a brand!" I said, rubbing the childhood drawing he had on his wrist. "He draws this little bug on his bag, and the inside of his books, and even his belt buckle, so everybody knows they belong to Skeeter. It's smart, and so damn CUTE!"

I leaned over and gave Skeeter a kiss, right on his forehead, spilling some of his wine in the process.

"You know, Skeeter, if I were your slave girl, I'd wear your mark."

"Really, Ann-Annie?" you'd get a tattoo? Just for me?"

"Hell, no! Slave girls don't get arm tattoos!" I said, making a face. "Tattoos are for wimps! I'd get butt branded, and wear your mosquito right here!" Skeeters eyes went wide as I leaned forward into him again, and spanked myself twice on the ass. Skeeter stared at my butt, mouth agape. Rita was not amused.

It had been a drunken joke, and a way to taunt Rosco, and tease poor, horny, Skeeter. Last night, when I was a stinking rich bond trader, branding had seemed very far away. Now, I was a stinking, illiterate, slave girl, and branding was the Sunday Special.

"Might as well get the branding head, anyway," Rita said. "Skeeter might want to brand himself a leather bag, or his boots, or somethin'."

"Or somethin'," the clerk repeated, giving me a playful wink. My cheeks clenched in panic at the threat. Trixie was smiling, but I could see the hatred burning in her eyes. Like all chubby girls, the bitchy clerk hated Pleasure Sluts with a vengeance. She was jealous, for I was everything she could never be. I knew she would love to see me with a bit in my teeth, bent over for the red-hot iron.

"Rita, I know I was out of line last night. I shouldn't have teased Skeeter, but..."

Rita, clearly pissed off, cut me off cold. "Damn right you were out of line. Anne, you're my kid sister, and I love ya' to the moon-and-back. I know ya wanna play slave girl, but as your big sister it's my job to make sure ya' understand what bein' a slave girl is, so you make good decisions. Understood?"

"I think so, but--" I said, not sure where she was going.

"But nothing. 'But' ayn't the right answer. Listen up, Annie, cuz I'm gonna make this REAL simple? Do ya' even know where you are?"

"The Big D Slave Market in Dallas?" I asked, unsure of where she was going.

Rita's stern MOTHER voice was calm, cool, and highly condescending. "That's right, little sister. The Big D is a slave market, but before that, it was a LIVESTOCK market. Used to be the livestock had four hooves. Now they got two. But it ayn't no different. A cow or a pig comes down the chute, a bunch of things might happen, some of 'em not so nice. It might get collared. It might get scrubbed with stiff bristle brushes. It might go through the dip. If it's a male, it might get itself gelded, so you can be grateful I ayn't doing nothing like that, least not today."

I instinctively squeezed my legs together, wincing at the thought.

"Point is, I'm in charge, not you. Maybe I'll dip ya, and maybe I won't. Maybe I'll brand ya, and maybe I won't. You're in a real slave market, and yer' the inventory, so it's my decision, not yours. This ayn't Chicago. You're not the big cheese here, you're the cow. And cows don't get no say, got it?"

"Yes, but..."

"But nothing. You interrupt me, or say 'but' one more time, and it's gonna be yer' butt, raised sky high for the iron. Comprendo?"

I nodded. Satisfied that I had been silenced, Rita returned her attention to the clerk behind the counter.

"How much does a custom branding head cost?"

"It depends on the size, and the design."

"Can you do a mosquito?"

"I dunno," Trixie replied. "Maybe. Gotta picture?"

Rita searched through her phone for the image. Even without my glasses I recognized it instantly.

It was Skeeter's first grade drawing, that had inspired his logo and the tattoo on his wrist. The original was back in my mansion in Chicago, carefully framed, hanging between a Picasso and a Monet.

Rita tapped into her phone. "Can you mail it to yer'self?" she asked, handing the clerk the phone.

A few seconds later, the transaction was complete. Trixie turned her screen around to show Skeeter's drawing in The Big D's CAD program.

"This will work," Trixie said, staring deep into the screen as she centered the image. But it's got a lot of lines. To make it clear, we should make the branding head 3 inches by 3 inches."

"Is that a problem?" Rita asked.

"Not if you're branding boots or a bag. But it might look pretty big on her."

Outrageous as it might seem, listening to Rita design the customized branding head with the maleficent store clerk was driving my pussy crazy. Unable to object, all I could do was listen, as Rita ordered a branding head that could burn Skeeter's childish drawing into my bottom. And she was placing the order with the same casual tone she might use when ordering the brand for Skeeter's boots.

I didn't want to be branded. What same woman would? But the thought that I COULD be branded, and that Rita had that sort of power over me, was intoxicating.

The "mosquito" aspect dialed up the humiliation to an 11, and Rita knew it. Since he had been a little kid, I had bought Skeeter hats, skateboards, bikes, and t-shirts with his logo. The idea that the same logo he had doodled on his freshman textbooks, could now be burned into my ass, to mark his ownership of me, was the most humiliating thing imaginable. And Rita discussing it so casually, like it might actually happen, only made it hotter!

When Rita turned to look at me, she seemed genuinely surprised. I was a sight! My breath was coming in short gasps, my nipples were rock hard, and I was stamping my feet trying to bring myself off. Oh, what I would have given to have my hands freed!

Rita laughed and shook her head as I blushed crimson with embarrassment. "Look at you, all slave girl hot at the thought of getting' Skeeter's brand."

"The branding head is gonna be pretty big," Trixie said. "You might want to do her shoulder."

Rita smiled at me. "Her shoulder?" she said, sarcastically mocking me with my words from the night before. "Pleasure Sluts get it on the pussy mound, or on the butt."

Rita slapped me twice on the butt, mimicking my self-spanking from the night before. Only Rita's spanks weren't playful. They were spanks of ownership. My fear, and my excitement, were racing each other, and Rita laughed out loud as I danced in front of her, trying to jump away the sting, and rub my way to orgasm.

Trixie talked to Rita like I wasn't there. "She's pretty curvy, and if the branding head stretches over the curve of her butt, the blacksmith might have to press down really hard to get it flat. If he presses down too hard, it might not be a temporary brand... Wait. Let me print it on a 3 X 3 label. That way you can stick in on her ass, and see what it looks like."

Rita watched with an amused smile as I hopped from foot-to-foot, straining to orgasm. Behind me, the printer WHIRRED out Skeeter's logo.

Trixie handed Rita the white sticky label. "This is 3X3. Put it up against her butt and you'll see what I mean."

Rita twisted her finger, indicating that I should stop pleasuring myself and turn around. I obeyed.

"Wow, nice welts," Trixie said, staring at the whip marks on my ass.

"They won't interfere with her branding, will they?" Rita asked.

"Naw, not a problem. He'll just brand right over 'em".

I gasped as I felt Rita center the "brand" on my ass, moving it around as she perfected the position.

"I see what you mean," Rita said, moving her head as if she was centering a picture. "She's got a pretty big butt. Gotta say, Skeeter's doodle bug looks AWESOME!"

"Wow, it does look good," Trixie agreed. "Of course, It'll look even better, when it's burned on, and the ridges will be all 3-D."

I winced, and Rita smiled, as Trixie continued. "Now it says yer' gonna pick her up at 10:30, but the blacksmith isn't going to be here 'til noon. If you can wait 'til then, I can schedule 'er branding. You can talk to him first, and then decide if you actually want to brand her. Wait, look! I have an opening! Noon, sharp!"

I couldn't believe this was happening. Turning to Rita, I said, "I know I shouldn't have teased Skeeter last night, but--"

Rita cut me off. "But? But? Did you just say butt again? You know what that means, don't ya?"

I stared at her, mouth agape.

"Are ya tellin' me what to do?" Rita said. "Ya'll just earned a lesson in what it means to be a slave girl. Maybe I can't make ya' see the light, but I can make ya' feel the heat."

Rita turned to Trixie. "Put 'er on the schedule for tomorrow."

"Done!" Trixie said, hitting the enter key with a flourish.

"Are you really going to brand me?" I said, shrinking before her at the thought.

"We'll see. The heck of it is, it's my call, and you don't get no say. What I am gonna do is talk to the blacksmith. And after that... I decide," she said flatly. "Real slave girls never know what tomorrow's gonna bring. Which should give ya' plenty to think about in the kennel tonight, as you live out this little fantasy of yers'"

I stood before her, naked, panting, and utterly powerless. Nothing I could say was going to change her mind. But despite my helplessness, or perhaps because of it, I found myself rubbing my legs together. Rita was right. I wouldn't be sleeping tonight.

"Look at you, you poor thing, getting' yerself' all riled up." Rita reached out and stroked my face. It's okay. Big sister is here."

I rubbed my face against Rita's hand. Her hand was smooth, her voice strong, but gentle. "Annie, yer' my sister, and I love ya' more than Davey Crocket loved Texas. But ya' screwed up pretty badly last night, getting' drunk... insultin' Roscoe, and humpin' poor Skeeter's leg. Fer' shame! Fer shame!"

Rita was right. I hung my head sadly as she stroked my face. "I'm sorry," I said.

"I know. But yer' a slave girl now, and sorry don't slop the pig!"

Nodding. I leaned into her hand as she stroked my face, enjoying the sensation. "I'm yer' sister, and if I'm tough on ya', it's because I love ya'. Ya' want me to treat ya' like a real Pleasure slut, right?"

"Absolutely. Bring it on!" I challenged her, squeezing my thighs together at the thought.

Rita smiled and shook her head. "Look at you, juicing yerself. Poor little thing! Do you really need to come that bad?" she asked sympathetically.

Embarrassed, I nodded my head. "If you'd free my hands..."

Ignoring me, Rita turned to Trixie and asked, "This girl needs some relief. Can I have her paint the pussy post?"

Trixie, busy scheduling my kenneling and branding, shrugged. "That's what it's there 'fer. They're painting that first one like a candy cane, for Christmas. Use the one on the end, where all the stains are. They don't clean that one."

"I know. This ayn't my first rodeo!" Rita said, smiling as she walked back to the counter.

"Mind if I borrow that cute little pink flicker?" she said, pointing to a coil of pink rope hanging on peg hook.

Trixie looked at me and smiled. "My pleasure!" she said, handing Rita the rope.

With the pink rope in one hand and my leash in the other, Rita walked me toward the front door. Rita stopped in front of the 3-foot-tall yellow bollards that had prevented Hunk from driving his car into the help desk.

"Git' down on all fours," she ordered, using the coil of rope to point at the yellow bollard closest to the door.

"Do ya'see that spot, where the paint's done worn off?" If you wanna scratch that itch between yer' legs, scootch back, lift your hind leg, and rub yourself against the pole."

I looked up at her in stunned disbelief. "You want me to hump this post, right out in the open? Where everyone can see?"

Rita shrugged. "Yer' the one who wanted to play slave girl. If your all shy and modest, then wait till ya' get home tomorrow."

I looked at the post. "Why is it all brown, and white, and icky?"

Trixie, typing my order into the computer, didn't bother looking up as she explained. "That's the pussy juice from all the slaves who have jacked off on it before you. We move a lot of sluts through The Big D, and you ayn't nothin' special. A lot of girls have cum before you, and a lot of girls will cum after. Now it's yer' turn to cum, yer' turn to paint the post."

"What if someone walks in?" I asked, looking around nervously. "What if someone SEES?"

Rita shrugged. "What if they do? Sundays are slow. But when they git' busy, and there's a wait at check in, sometimes there'll be a dozen sluts here, jostlin's each other as they polish the pole! Still, If I were you, I'd hurry up and do my' business. A pretty thing like you might draw a lot of rubberneckers."

Horrified, I looked in both directions nervously.

Rita nudged my face with her dirty boot, backing me into the pole. "Go on, girl! Get paintin'!"

I looked up at Rita, towering over me, holding the pink coil of rope. Her arms were folded, her expression stern, and her foot was tapping impatiently as she waited for me to begin.

Could I wait until tomorrow to climax? I knew I could not. She was right; I was desperate for release! The sooner I started, the sooner I'd finish.

I backed up slowly, arranging myself so I was straddling the post. With my hands cuffed behind me, the only way I could balance myself was to put my face down onto the dirty cement, stained with the spray of the endless parade of slave sluts who had come before me.

The smell was awful, but the cool concrete of the rounded pillar felt strangely welcoming as I pressed my pussy against it.

Rita's MOM voice was stern. "Go on, git to it! Do 'yer business!" she commanded, as if she were reprimanding a recalcitrant puppy.

I tried to ignore Rita's tapping boot, and slowly began to rub myself. I started slow, and began to build up a rhythm.

Rita frowned. "Come on, git to it!" Rita shook out the rope and swung it in a circle over my head.

Once...

Twice...

I nearly jumped out of my skin as the pink whip cracked, inches from ear!

"Git humpin'!" Rita barked. "Grease that pussy pole."

Rita cracked the pink whip, coming so close to my ass that the breeze from in tickled my bottom hole. She had told me Skeeter had taught her how to use the whip, and that she was "pretty darn good at it', although she wasn't at the "near genius" level of her whip-cracking son. Rita seemed plenty good to me. Abandoning any pretense of decency, I rubbed hard and fast, wigging my ass as I drove my twat into the pussy pole.

I lubricated quickly, and soon I was groaning with pleasure. Rita, laughing, used the whip to set the pace, cracking it near my ass whenever I missed a beat, or slowed. Soon I was painting the pole with gusto, mixing my juices in with all the other pleasure sluts that had gone before me, adding my own special coloring and odor to the slave slut "paint".

"You jist keep polishin' that pole, even after you squirt," Rita asked. "No stoppin', till I tell you ya' can. I want to see that pussy SQUIRM!", she said, laughing as she cracked the whip for emphasis.

I picked up the pace, rubbing hard and fast, like my pussy was in a blender. It was awkward, with my nose pressed into the slave stink, my right leg high, and my ass wiggling in the air as I humped the post. But I knew I was close...

"That's it, girl," Rita said, laughing. "Rub in yer' scent, like a dog markin' a tree. Good girl!"

Rita's humiliating "encouragement" pushed me over the edge, and I nearly fell over as I rocked through a life changing slave-gasm. But Rita made sure I had no time to enjoy it.

"Keep goin'" she said, cracking the whip. "That's it! Rub all that slave honey in. Wow, you sure is juicy! Don't look so snooty now, do ya, Annie? Come on! Faster! Faster! Paint that pussy post! Rub yer pussy juice in. This is what being a slave girl is. Give it a real good hump!"

It felt amazing, and I felt a kinship as I added my pleasure juice to the juices of my thousands of sisters who had come before. My eyes were closed, and the first sign that I wasn't alone was a familiar teenage voice.

"Oh...my...GAWD!!"

I opened my eyes to see a pair of pink sneakers, and a pair of high heels. The California girls had returned.

"What...a...pig slut!" the other girl said, her voice oozing disbelief.

"Have...you...EVER?"

I was mortified, raising my head, I slowed down.

Raising her arm, Rita cracked the whip. I screamed like a banshee as the whip flicked my wiggling behind.

"Oh...my GAWD! She... whipped...her...ASS?"

"Sometimes if ya' want grease, ya' got skin the pig!", Rita said, laughing as she waved the whip.

I shuddered as she cracked the whip in the air.

The second girl looked down at me. "Well, she did get her skanky ass moving."

"Yeah. Look at her go."

"I HAVE to...Film this."

"Why? It's, like... DISGUSTING."

"Like... guys love slave sluts. The piggier the better. That's all they do, is talk about slave pussy."

"They'll love her. Like...oink, oink!"

The girls laughed as I frantically rubbed myself on the post, sliding up and down, rubbing in my juices. The girls laughed at my shame as I slid up and down, massaging my twitching twat.

To my horror a small crowd began to form. A bald clerk on his break, eating a sandwich. A woman making a return. A man and his son, heading for the slave pens, but happy to spend a few minutes watching an an ignorant slave slut paint the pussy pole.

I was right by the front door, so as soon as anyone walked in the first thing they saw was my foot in the air and my drippy, creamy, poontang, greasing the pole. Needless to say, the crowd grew quickly.

Five or six old guys, who, judging from their hats, had just gotten out of their VHF meeting, approached Rita, who was still holding my rope leash, playfully jiggling it, as I moaned and grunted with pleasure.

"Ma'am," a skinny old geezer with a white mustache said, "I hope ya' don't mind my sayin' so, but I've been in every brothel in South America, South East Asia, Africa, and Europe, and that is the sloppiest pussy I've ever seen."

"Thank you, Sir!" Rita said, as the man gave her a crisp salute.

Much to my horror, Julio, the greasy beaner from Pig Face BBQ that had taken our order, and who I had flirted with, walked in. He recognized Rita immediately, but it wasn't until he walked around to the front of the post -- after stopping to take a long look at my widely splayed pussy -- that he recognized me.

"Well, well, well," he said. "If it isn't the girl who wanted her salad JUST SO, then barely touched it," he laughed. Turning to Rita, he pointed up at the reflection in the store's concave security mirror, which had been perfectly positioned to give a greatly enlarged and expansive view of my wet twat. "Painting the pole" was apparently part of the show at The Big D, and liked the thousands of sluts who had gone before me, I was giving the crowd a view of my sloppy pussy that would make a gynecologist blush.