"Any Chance?" Auction Pt. 04

"Hey, Anna-Annie! Can we get some ice cream?"

"I don't know, Skeeter. I don't want to spoil your dinner."

"PLEEEEZZZE? Just one scoop?"

"Okay. Just one scoop."

Skeeter continued to give directions to Zach, apparently unaware that his slave lash was gently grazing my upturned bottom, causing my cheeks to flinch in panic.

"Sit Roberts and Jackson where they can see each other. They always bid on the same girls, and we can lighten their wallets if we can get a bidding war. Sit Mr. Willard and his wife in front of the monitor. They're too near sighted to see much from the VIP box, but they'll buy what they can see."

I was impressed. Skeeter was good, damn good. He had a strategy for each buyer, and each girl. He would get top dollar for all of us. I wondered what his strategy was for me? I'd find out soon enough.

"The black guy, Jamal Willie, is looking for girls for his slave market in Charleston. He runs it like it's still 1830, only he sells hot white girls to black run plantations. These girls will appeal to him, because they're strong enough to do farm work, and hot enough to make bed wenches. He prefers Southern belles, and he'll love church lady, and Brittany. But make sure he knows our little blue state girl, too.

I had actually argued with my girlfriends in favor of "The Reparations Project", which helped setup the black owned plantations. The idea of all those racist, white Southern crackers sucking black cock made me laugh! It had never occurred that my generous donations might be used to purchase me.

No. This couldn't be happening. I'd never end up trapped on some 19th century slave plantation, ankles chained, picking tobacco under the crack of the whip, and "entertaining" my black overseers while bent over a cotton bale in the barn.

No, no. I was in charge. I was rich. I was powerful.

I had told Skeeter about my generous donation to "The Reparations Project", which I had used to get a double tax deduction by laundering it through one of my shell corporations. Obviously, Skeeter didn't realize the "blue state girl" furiously buffing her wet pussy in front of him was me, for I knew he'd never be so cruel as to sell me to a slave plantation I had helped setup. Skeeter wouldn't do that to me. I was his Anna-Annie.

"Wow, Anna-Annie. I can't believe we're flying FIRST CLASS! Thanks for the upgrade!"

"Glad you like it, Skeeter. Maybe next time we'll do a private jet."

Skeeter, unaware of how his casual conversation was torturing me, continued. "The guy with the sideburns is the TV producer from the slave girl gladiator show."

Zach perked up immediately. "Oh, is that the one where they make them run the obstacle courses, and compete to drink the quart of jizz, and see who can crawl through the spanking machine the fastest?"

"Yeah, that's the one. He's going to love FBI girl, and I've already texted her fitness reports to him. But we're selling her Jackie-Chan-ass last, in case she goes slave stupid and decides she's going to kickbox her way out of here. I don't want her messing up the rest of my auction."

"Got it," Zach replied.

I'd never felt so utterly defenseless, so vulnerable, so excited! With his lash tickling my bottom, I had no choice but to continue to rub my pussy, finger fucking myself, teasing my button, listening in utter helplessness as Skeeter arranged the lineup order. He did it by the last digits of our lot numbers -- 7894-643, then 3345-921, then 8857-818. I couldn't see the lot number on the tag on my ear, so I couldn't tell where he was placing me in the auction order. Skeeter was careful and deliberate. There was a real art to it, arranging the ebb and flow of the auction to give certain bidders a chance to relax, while bringing other bidders to the front of the pack.

Watching him work was strangely relaxing. Suddenly, he didn't seem like a snotty nosed kid in a fancy cowboy hat I had bought him. It was clear that he was a trained professional that knew exactly what I wanted, and I was safe in his hands. If he knew me, that is.

"Yes, he's using my lot number," I thought. "Clearly, he doesn't know I'm here."

I wondered where Skeeter had placed me. I'd know soon enough. I'd know when he sold me off the block.

No, no. This couldn't be happening. I was back in Chicago, with Skeeter fawning of my new dress.

"Gosh, Anna-Annie! You look...uh...uh...amazing!"

"This old thing? I just threw this on? You don't think it's too short, do you?"

"No! I think it's PERFECT."

"Aren't you sweet? Well, sit next to me in the booth at dinner, and give my thighs a rub every now and then, to help keep your poor old Aunt's legs warm, okay?"

"Do you we have the export shipping crates ready, Zach?" Skeeter asked. We may need to box them up tonight, if the buyers want to bring them home."

"Not a problem. I got 'em ready. How many exports do you think we might have?"

"Hard to say. Maybe a few for Mr. Choo's Zoo."

"What's that?"

"Mr. Choo despises white girls, so to prove his racial theory he has this big jungle enclosure, where he puts white girls on display in their "natural, primitive" state. He puts them in monkey mode, so they run around in his little jungle eating bananas, humping trees, and licking each other pussies. Every now and then he puts a dozen male white stud monkeys in the cage, and they all gang up on female, and circle around her, and everyone watches them mate!"

Zach and Skeeter both laughed at the word "mate". I rubbed on, even as I shuddered at the thought of being gang banged by a dozen men while a dozen well-dressed Asians, sipping champaign, laughed on the other side of a glass wall.

Shipping crates? I wondered how Rita would be able to review my auction price, if I were already on a private jet bound for China. Oh, why couldn't Skeeter see me? But with the whip grazing my bottom, I didn't dare speak. As I rubbed myself faster my mind struggled to regain control.

"Oh, my gosh, you bought me a CAR, Anna-Annie? I can't believe it."

"You earned it. You're the one who graduated from High School."

"This is just what I wanted!"

I would have got the Corvette, but your mom said no. The 'vet makes 'em wet, right, Skeeter?"

"Aw, Anna-Annie! Stop!"

"I love it when you blush, Skeeter."

Skeeter walked over and whispered something in Rena's ear. She smiled, and rubbed herself faster. Rena might have been an FBI agent, but she was also slave hot. Stopping at the church lady, he scratched her behind the ear, and gave her another piece of slave candy. And so he continued down the line, tending to each girl.

My mind struggled to comprehend what was happening. Skeeter seemed to have an instinctive understand of what every girl on the line needed. Yet he ignored me, treating me like just another naked animal waiting to be sold. The only attention I was getting was by accident, his slave whip grazing my ass menacingly as he chatted with Zach, as if to warn me of the price of thinking too much of myself.

Skeeter, calm, and in control, gave Zach his directions. "Put Lord Kensington on the aisle and take away one chair. He usually brings his Great Dane, Hercules, to watch the auction. He likes to see how the leader of his pack reacts to each of the Pleasure Sluts. 'Let the dog pick the fox,' he says."

As Skeeter discussed this, the little lashes from the cracker grazed my asshole. Panicked, I instinctively clenched my bottom cheeks together. My butt crack closed around the lash and I felt myself giving the whip a tiny tug.

My cheeks released the whip, but still the cracker teased my bottom hole, causing the clenching to continue. Even as I rubbed my hot, wet pussy closer to climax, the clench-tickle-clench cycle continued.

I couldn't believe Skeeter couldn't feel me tugging the whip, but he didn't seem to notice. It was Zach who laughed.

"Look, she's winking her asshole at you. You should get her to do that on the block."

Skeeter's reply, made as he was checking his iPad, epitomized nonchalance. "Yeah, she's going get a lot of bidders. The question is, who do I throw her to?"

"Whoever has the most money, I guess, " Zach said. "That is one hot slave pussy," Zach said.

Skeeter was unimpressed. "Better be. File says she's illiterate. All her personality's in her pussy."

The lash tickled my asshole again, and I clenched it, giving it a little tug. Illiterate! Well, I never! True, at the moment I couldn't read or write, but did that make me illiterate? No doubt about it; my idiot nephew didn't know it was me. My lot number was tied to some illiterate Pleasure Slut, a hot gash, a winking asshole. Not his brilliant, powerful, sexy Aunt from Chicago.

There was no other explanation. Skeeter had heard his father describe the risks of the Any Chance Auction. If he had realized it was me kneeling in front of him, he wouldn't be torturing my mind by describing each of the perverts who might be bidding on me, and who might, if things went sideways, own me forever.

"So who do you think is going to buy her?" Zeke asked.

"Who cares?" Skeeter replied. "She just another hot pussy who'll be winking her asshole on the block. But if I had to make my guess? Woof, woof." They both laughed.

That pushed me over the top. The idea that I'd be winking my asshole under the appraising stare of a Great Dane, shoved me into a raucous slave-gasm.

"Noisy little bitch, isn't she?" Zach said. "That's quite a puddle on the floor, too."

Skeeter retained his detached, professional tone, even as I orgasmed in front of him. "Yeah. The buyers will LOVE her. But she's only got one welt on her bottom, on the top. It's unbalanced."

"Do you want me to use some makeup?"

"Makeup's not The Big D way, Zach," Skeeter replied. "I'll brisk her up on the block, and get her balanced. And gingersnap her. I want the little bitch prancing lively."

Even as my slave-gasmed continued, my cheeks clenched. 'Brisking' didn't sound good. And what was a gingersnap? As the pleasure sloshed through my brain, I hoped Skeeter would realize who I was soon... but not too soon, because my twat was singing with joy!

My pussy was still quivering when Miss Calico came over to confront him.

"You better be every damn bit as good as your old man thinks you are!" she snapped.

"I'll go my best, ma'am", he replied, ever unflappable. "But I'm not your problem."

"Excuse me?" she demanded, clearly in no room for riddles.

"The girl on the far end, with the waist length hair, is Choice Plus, not Prime. We can't sell her on Broadway."

"The hell we can't," Isabella Calico shot back. "She's hot enough, and we promised them twelve head."

"She's hot, but she's not Prime. She could be, with a couple of months of training. But I'm not putting her on Broadway. Not tonight."

"Bullshit! We're selling twelve girls. She's almost Prime."

Skeeter walked over to the girl. "Slave roll, right."

The girl tucked her leg up, and tried to roll, but fell and hit her head on the floor. "Get her some ice", he said, and Zach complied.

Miss Calico was angry. "This is an auction, not the Olympics. It's not your call."

"It sure is. I'm the auctioneer. I decide what goes on the block."

"You're a FUCKIN' KID. You're somebody's idiot son. You're fired."

Skeeter shrugged. "Fine. You do the auction, Miss Calico."

"I'm calling, Jake."

"Call him," Skeeter said. "He's going to be mighty pissed you tried to sell Choice as Prime, and even more pissed that you promised twelve, and are selling eleven. These are our best customers, Miss Calico. I'd say you just made a serious mistake."

I was amazed, as was everyone in the room. Skeeter wasn't standing up to a bully. He'd was thrashing a bully, badly.

Her tone changed. "Let's be reasonable. I don't want to get fired. Let's compromise."

"Fine. I'll give you two minutes before the auction. You can go up and explain that there will only be eleven girls, not twelve, and take responsibility for what you've done. Jake likes it when people admit their mistakes. It might not save your job, but at least you can have a bit of dignity."

"Fuck you," she hissed back.

Skeeter, the picture of calm, said nothing.

She glared at him. The pause hung in the air. Skeeter did not back down.

"Fine. We can do an Any Chance Auction, where we don't accept the bids until morning," Miss Calico said.

"Yeah. We got one girl who's Any Chance."

"Why not two?" she replied.

"Who do you have in mind?" he asked.

"Me," she said.

For the first time since he walked in, Skeeter looked surprised. "Sorry. You're very pretty, ma'am, but it's Prime only."

"I'm Prime," she said. "Check my SIN."

Miss Calico pulled back her lip, revealing her Slave Identification Number tattoo.

Again, Skeeter looked surprised, but quickly recovered. "Scan her into the system, Zach," he said. "Let's check her out."

Zach, looking like he had been transported into another dimension, scanned his boss's upper lip into the system. PING!

"Here you are," Skeeter said, checking his iPad. "Well, well. You are Prime Minus. Very nice. Looks like you got some good block moves, too. Yeah, you'll do nicely. But you'll need an "owner", to review your bids."

"I'll do it," Rosco said. "I won't sell you."

"The fuck you will," she said. "I don't trust him."

"My father doesn't like you, but he's a man of his word. If you'd rather Zach did it, or someone else in this room, who'd all make a nice piece of change selling your nasty, lying, ass, it's your call. But you got about five seconds to decide, because I got an auction to run, and I'm got to go chat up the buyers. I don't have time to waste fixing your fucking mistakes."

"Fine. Let's do it," she said.

Skeeter turned to Zach. "Get the Choice Girl back in holding. Get the newbee stripped down and in the chute. Put her next to the other redhead, church lady. They got the same color hair, and I'll sell 'em together. Maybe get a little lesbo thing going."

Isabella Calico was outraged. "Are you crazy? You think I'm going to lick her snatch? On the AUCTION BLOCK?"

It was too late, for Skeeter, a man on a mission, was already heading out the door. My last sight of him was the mosquito doodle on his boots. It had seemed "cute" before, but now, from my position on the floor, it was a totem of absolute power.

Rosco, beaming with pride, trailed behind his poised, confident, auctioneer son like a puppy, following him out the door.

"Stand there," Zach said, pointing to a spot on the floor. "I want the other slave girls to watch."

"Why?" Miss Calico said.

"Seeing me put you through your paces is going to make them hot."

She glared at him. He took the slave goad off his belt, and pressed the button. She jumped back as it sparked.

Isabella Calico moved to center stage. "You're getting the cock cage for this," she hissed.

"Not tonight, I'm not. Give me a bag, Peter," Zach said. "A garbage bag."

"With pleasure," Peter responded.

"Take off your shoes," he ordered.

Isabella removed her shoes, and handed them over to the smiling Zach, one at a time. He examined each one briefly, then dropped it into the plastic green sack.

"Now the dress. Strip it off, slave girl."

Glaring, she unzipped in back, then pulled it over her head. The other workers, who had doubtlessly felt Miss Calico's wrath before, whistled and catcalled as her sexy, matching green bra and panty set came into view.

"Nice, slave girl," Zach said. "Sexy. Kind of slutty. Business outside, and party underneath, huh? Who would have dreamed that lurking under your frosty, bitch interior, was a hot, wet Pleasure Slut? Bra next, Isabella. Show me your tits."

Gritting her teeth, Isabella Calico unhooked her bra, and shrugged it off her shoulders.

Her appreciative crowd, feeling more confident, was getting more vocal.

"Nice jugs!"

"Love those pink nipples."

"All nice and pointy."

"That's because she LIKES it."

"Of course, she likes stripping for us. Prime Minus!"

Zach didn't even have to say what was next. He just pointed at her green, lacy underpants, and snapped his fingers twice.

Isabella was blushing now, and I wasn't sure if she was going to cry or be sick. Stripping for Zach, the subordinate she had so thoroughly crushed under her heel, was deeply humiliating for her. But the real question was, when she turned her green panties over to Zach, why was the crotch soaking wet?

"I'm not a Pleasure Slut," she protested, as Zach passed her wet panties around. "I'm not!"

Zach smiled and pointed to the vacant slot at the end of the row. "Lather up, slave girl."

The ear tag the computer chose for Isabella Calico was a pair of handcuffs, the symbol for a slaver, enslaved. There were a lot of buyers who enjoyed the particular humiliation of a woman who had the tables so completely turned, and had to endure the humiliations that she had forced on so many others. It was like the tough, female warden being sent to her own prison, and as with prison, her former position made her a particular target for the cruelty of the other slave girls.

Isabella Calico screamed lustily as the steel tag poked through her ear, but there were no murmurs of sympathy from her slave sisters. Instead, there were quiet groans of pleasure, and the sound of several slave-gasms from some of the randier girls, myself included.

XXX

Professor Sarah Hollister had written that the ten minutes a girl spends waiting to step onto the auction block is the longest ten years of her life. I had no idea how a college Professor understood slave psychology so well, but for me, every sound echoed, and the world seemed to move in slow motion.

I wasn't sure of my exact order in the lineup, as they packed us into the cattle chute quickly. The wranglers "loading the chute" knew what they were doing, so we, the idiot slave girls who were being sold, didn't have to.

There weren't many pictures of Broadway online, but The Big D did have one shot of the empty, sand covered block. The auctioneer's podium was to the right, and the surface of the block was covered in sand. I wondered where the VIP boxes were, and where the cameras were.

I hadn't even noticed the cattle chute, and had foolishly assumed that I would be taking the steps, like a human being. It was an illusion that was shattered when the first girl was dispatched.

The gate opened and for a brief moment the cattle chute was dimly lit. I heard a hand slapping her bare ass and a male voice shouting "Git!"

The gate closed, and the girl vanished, forever, as the Pleasure Sluts awaiting their fate were once again plunged into darkness.

"Quick out of the chute!" the wrangler who had put his hand on my ass to press me into the girl in front of me said. "When the door opens, RUN!"

The chute was quite long, but they packed us in like sardines! My shoulders were touching the metal sides of the chute, and my breasts were pressed into the back of the girl in front of me. Despite the crowd, we were all busy. Like the other girls, I had my hands between my legs, rubbing and teasing, edging myself, keeping myself in a hot, slave lather.

The sides were metal, but the floor beneath me was wooden slat. I dug my toes into the little gaps as I pleasured myself.

In a few seconds, I'd be on the block, showing the buyers my goodies! My pussy needed to be hot, wet, and 'merchandisable', as Skeeter always said.

We were pressed together so tightly that Brittany's nose was in my hair. She was pretty, and I knew she had good block moves, but I hoped I would fetch a better price.

Yes, I could beat her. I would make Skeeter proud. I would be the best.

At the thought of Skeeter, my heart sank. I told myself that he wouldn't be the one auctioning me, and that one of the other auctioneers would arrive at the last moment, gavel in hand, ready to save me from the humiliation of being auctioned by my snotty-nosed nephew, whom I had for so long held squarely under my thumb.