"Any Chance?" Auction Pt. 03

Taking my hand from between my legs, I rubbed my slave grease beneath his nose. "Smell me, master. Smell my hotness. Smell my desire. I'm a disgusting little slave monkey, who needs to be lashed, and sold. The other sluts you will auction tonight will mean nothing. They are pretenders! I am the horniest, the hottest, the most beautiful. Smell me, even as you sell the other little sluts for whatever coin they might bring."

Slowly, I sank down into "slave squat" -- legs spread wide, tits out, licking my lips with desire as I looked up to him. Slowly, gracefully, sinking onto one knee, I leaned forward. I licked the dirty tip of his boot, showing him the sand and orange slime on my tongue, as I let my blue animal tag flop against his boots.

They were the $1500 custom boots I bought him last Christmas, the ones with his childish mosquito drawing etched into the side. Using my tongue, I licked the brand.

"Your mother ordered your drawing as a branding head. She paid for it with my Platinum card. I won't have to buy you custom boots or bags any more, Skeeter. You can brand them yourself. Right after you brand my ass."

I worked up a slave lather, running the whip between my legs as I imagined the scene. "Could you actually do it, Skeeter? Could you press the hot iron down, and burn the cute little doodle you drew in first grade, the brand I paid for, into my sexy, slave girl ass?"

Closing my eyes, I grunted with pleasure as I diddled myself with the whip.

Skeeter's calm, but clear voice, stopped me cold. "No," he said, "I prefer pussy brands."

Now it was my turn to look pie-eyed. "But... but... it's a 3-inch brand," I protested. "It's too... too... too big!"

"Aw, you're stammering again," Skeeter said, mocking me with my own words. "How adorable."

I felt myself go ashen as I trembled at his feet. His smirk, echoing his mother's, spoke volumes. "You're the one who wanted to play slave girl. Slave girls don't make the decisions. From now on, I'm in charge."

It was a thought as frightening as it was thrilling. If this really happened, the 21-year-old boy I had held under my thumb for years would be selling my pussy off the auction block.

"Present the whip," he commanded.

Removing the whip from my pussy, I put it in my mouth. I squatted before him, and waited for his signal, like a dog holding his morning newspaper.

He considered me for a moment, appraising me, letting his eyes roam up and down my naked body, my heaving breasts, my wet, drippy pussy. Then he snapped his fingers twice, and extended his open palm.

Slowly, I extended my neck up, and opened my mouth, dropping the slave whip in his hand.

"Sell me, master!" I pleaded. "Make me roll in the sand, and sell my hot, wet, slave pussy."

Skeeter looked down on me. If there was the slightest trace of a smile on his face, it wasn't from kindness, or amusement, or compassion. It was a smile of accomplishment, of satisfaction, of control.

My pussy twitched with pleasure as he smirked down at me, running the slave lash through his fingers.