"Any Chance?" Auction Pt. 04

I rubbed my pussy faster, even as I tried to assuage my fears. "He's just a kid. He can't be in charge. When I go back to Chicago, I'll hire him as my assistant. He'll fetch my laundry, and shine my shoes. I'll send him out to buy my tampons. He'll do everything I say."

I'd had a lot of fun with Skeeter over the years, teasing him, then brushing him back.

The truth is, I enjoyed keeping him off balance, hopping from foot-to-foot. In Chicago, I'd had my maid check his sheets every morning, and when she found the tell-tale, brownish-yellow splash of shame, I had pulled Skeeter aside, and confronted him with the evidence.

"These are silk sheets, young man!" I said, wagging my finger in his face while I scolded him. "Disgusting! I hope this was an accident, and this happened when you were asleep. Were you weren't thinking of your Aunt Anne when you made this mess?"

The little dear couldn't even look at me. "I'm soo...soo... sooo"

"I'm so-soo-soo--sorry?" I said, mocking his ashamed stammer. "What do you think your mother would say?"

Skeeter was mortified. "Please Anna-Annie! Don't tell MOM!"

"What I ought to do, young man, is turn you over my knee, pull down your pants and underpants, and paddle your tight little buns until they are as red as your face!"

Skeeter's eyes got as wide as saucers. "No, Anna-Annie! Please don't spank me."

"And if my hand doesn't do it, I'll use the wooden hairbrush. That should turn your little butt nice and red."

Despite the fear in his eyes there was also a noticeable bulge in his pants. "No, please, not the hairbrush. I can pay for the sheets."

"These sheets cost $6,500, Skeeter. How are you going to pay for them? If you can't control yourself, maybe I'll have to invite my friend Veronica over. She's a vet, and she has a milking machine they use dog breeding."

I smiled as Skeeter's face went ashen. "It has different sized nozzles. I'll tell Veronica to bring some of the little tiny nozzles over, like for a Golden Retriever, or maybe a terrier. We'll find one that fits nice-and-snug. We'll milk you before we put you to bed. Do you want that? Do you want Kathy and I to hook your little tiny willy up to a milking pump, and laugh while we turn it on and off? Moo-moo-moo?"

I had used my best stern Aunt voice, and I had left poor Skeeter both terrified and turned on. I'd had fun with it since then, seeing his eyes widen when I'd take out my hairbrush out of my purse. Sometimes I'd tap it against my palm and give him a little smirk. It was a particularly fun game to play when his parents were there, and poor Skeeter would start to stammer, while his puzzled parents would try to figure out what was wrong.

Sometimes, when I noticed him looking at me, I'd point at his erection, and whisper, "Moo-moo". I enjoyed watching him go pale.

It was great fun, turning him on and off. When we were having our last breakfast in Chicago, I had told his parents that on their next visit I might invite "my friend Veronica, the vet, over for lunch." Poor Skeeter had spurted milk out of his nose.

The chute opened for a moment. I squinted at the light. I heard a slave wrangler yell, "GIT" and the sound of him slapping a girl hard on the ass.

I heard Skeeter's voice over the murmur of the large crowd. His voice was much more Texan, and I could tell he was playing up the "country boy" thing as part of his persona.

His voice rang out. "Well done, pardner! Don't hesitate, participate. These young ladies will give ya'll the pleasures money can't buy... except at The Big D! Show us the green, and we'll show ya' the pink!"

The crowd laughed, and applauded. Then the chute door closed, plunging us back into the darkness. I could hear his voice, but I couldn't make out the words. I thought the auction was going well, though. There seemed to be a lot of bids coming in, and each sale was taking a bit longer than the rapid pace, 90-second, on-the-block-and-off auctions The Big D was famous for.

As I strained to hear what was happening outside of my steel hell, my butt cheeks clenched at every crack of the whip.

My adorable little squirt of a nephew was an expert with the whip. Once, in a backyard party, he lit matches taped to the fence post. He cut a playing card in Rita's hand in half. He whipped a penny his mother tossed in the air. It was an amazing demonstration, but even as I watched that night, fully dressed and sipping a glass of wine, my butt cheeks clenched on every CRACK.

There was a commotion ahead me. Isabella Calico, naked in the chute, was being taunted by the other girls. The slave girl behind her was holding her hands while the church woman with the red hair finger-fucked her.

"Sell our asses, Izzy? Make us slaves? Now we sell yours!"

Isabella was pleading for mercy, even as she moaned with pleasure. No doubt about it, little Miss Manager was slave hot. Her loathing and hatred of Pleasure Sluts, her obsession with seeing them degraded, made sense now. She didn't hate Pleasure Sluts. She hated the part of herself that longed for the collar.

The chute opened, and I squinted from the light. I heard a voice. "GIT! Both of ya! Lesbo time, ladies!"

Over the din of the crowd, I heard Skeeters voice. "Got a real treat tonight, folks: Two red headed foxes, lanky, lesbian, and in LOVE! Thought we might have 'em put on a little show!"

The chute closed, and the words became indistinct, even as I heard the crowd applaud. It was time for Isabella and the red headed church lady to perform. Together.

Again, I jumped as the whip cracked. Was it just for show? Or had Isabella foolishly resisted?

It didn't matter. I could hear the laughter and applause as the bids poured in. The "show" was on, and obviously the "foxes" were performing well.

The psychology of their sudden transformations was strangely liberating. Clearly, both church lady and Isabella had issues with a part of themselves they were embarrassed to show to others. They had woken up that day, and donned the guise of proper ladies, with all the constraints that such a role implies. But Pleasure Sluts weren't permitted pretty clothes, or embarrassment, or phony guises. As Pleasure Sluts, they would both reveal every part of their sexuality, and themselves. I had no idea what Isabella Calico's ultimate fate would be, but tonight, at least, she was a long way from Hawaii.

I knew Skeeter's use of the word "foxes" wasn't accidental. It was a cue for Lord Kensington. I swallowed hard at the thought, as I wondered how Lord Kensington knew which girls Hercules liked. To have my fate decided by a Great Dane! Still, perhaps if Hercules chose them, he wouldn't choose me.

Yes, Skeeter clearly knew what he was doing. He knew EXACTLY how to break down a girl's mind, and maximize their profit potential. His expertise made his forgetfulness about me all the more baffling.

I was not only the most powerful and successful woman there, I was also his beloved Anna-Annie. Why was he treating me like anonymous slave pussy?

I couldn't see how close I was to the front, since the chute was curved. The Big D was well designed. Don't let the pigs know what's coming.

You would think that with fewer girls, we'd have some room. But Brittany was pressing harder on me now, as if she was forcing me on the block. The girl in front of me was pressed against me, too, and my hand was stroking her ass even as I diddle my pussy. My nose was in her hair. It didn't smell like delouser, and I wondered why. But the smell that filled my nostrils was the stink of hot, wet, pussy. Slave pussy. Like mine.

The chute opened, light flooded in, and I pressed forward, rounding the corner. I could hear Skeeter's voice, closing off the bid.

"A round of applause, ladies, for Lord Kensington, and Hercules!"

My horror at my knowledge that Hercules was in a buying mood was submerged by the fact that I was no longer pressing against a girl in front of me, but the metal door.

I was next.

I rubbed my pussy faster, gasping from my own wetness, and my own fear.

I told myself it was going to be all right. It was an Any Chance Auction. That meant Rita could turn down the bid.

Although I had bought countless paintings for my mansion in Chicago at auction, and endless antiques, I had never heard of an auction where the reserve price could change. Any Chance auctions were new, and if a powerful buyer decided to challenge the rules, and I ended up in a Texas Slave Court...

No. It would be okay. Skeeter was in charge. Skeeter was in control.

The thought didn't calm me. My fate was in the hands of a 21-year-old kid. A kid who had clearly forgotten who I was, and was now treating me like I was just another hot Pleasure Slut.

His words burned into my mind. "Who do I throw 'er too?"

Would he steer me to a particular buyer? Would he try to get them all interested, to drive up my price? A bidding war would be the best-case scenario, at least from the point of view of The Big D.

Skeeter would be in charge. By emphasizing one aspect or the other, he could attract a certain buyer. If he talked about my running, I'd attract Lord Kensington.

Or maybe my fitness would leave me bridled and drooling, pulling John Drummer's cart, while his buggy whip cracked against my ass.

Jamal Willie would love to buy a privileged white girl for his black "reparations" slave market in South Carolina.

The juicy warmth of my pussy would make me a perfect "honey pot" for Frank Fondu's buffet table. I shuddered as I imagined the financier's I had bested and the fathers and brothers of my friends lining up behind me, waiting their turn to put their hand up inside me and sample my "sauce".

My pigtails would doubtlessly attract the attention of "headmasters", looking for schoolgirls to bend over for the cane.

Or perhaps my pigtails and my tight bottom would catch the eye of "Skipper" Carey, eager to find a new "cabin boy" to bugger on his yacht.

My wild randiness would make me a wonderful candidate for "monkey mode" in Mr. Choo's zoo. My international shipping crate might be just beyond the auction gate, ready and waiting.

Were the Arabs buying? Would I have to endure another auction in the sand, with the auctioneer speaking in Arabic, overseas?

Who would Skeeter sell me to? Who would buy me? My fate was entirely in his hands.

I hoped I would bring a good price. Maybe by this time next week, I'd be bragging with my girlfriends in Chicago, drinking champagne and joking about my slave-cation at The Big D.

If Skeeter played the buyers off against each other, it would increase the bids, and my bragging rights, but it was not without risk. The higher the price, the more pressure there would be to complete the sale.

Fortunately, I was anonymous, and soon this would be over soon. No one knew I was here. I'd be just another nameless slave pussy. Skeeter hadn't recognized me, naked and eating orange slime at the slave trough. The buyers wouldn't recognize me, either. After all, they knew me as a rich, successful professional woman from Chicago. They wouldn't recognize the skanky slave slut rolling in the sand on the auction block.

No, everything would be all right. In 90 seconds, it would be over. Rita would reject the bid, and I'd be back at the house within the hour.

No, I'd go to the Ritz Carleton. The Penthouse. Yes. I'd live in to the Penthouse, boss the butlers around, and take a long, hot bath. Maybe some time in the hot tub on the balcony, enjoying the twinkling city lights. Then I'd go to sleep in my soft, comfy bed, nestled in my silk sheets.

For a moment I briefly considered throwing the auction. A bad performance on the block would doubtlessly lower my price, decrease my desirability, and make it easier for my sale to be unwound. I was surrounded by Prime pussy. If I was totally recalcitrant, or clumsy, or was clearly Choice, I might attract no bids at all.

My bond trader brain told me it was the best choice. Ditch it. Take a few whip cracks, then fall off the block! Slide into Skeeter, and make the bidders laugh. Pee on the front row. I'd be punished, yes, but it would be better than being crated for Mr. Choo's Zoo.

No. I knew I couldn't do it. I'd embarrass The Big D. Rosco might lose his job. And Skeeter's first auction would be a shambles.

No, Skeeter was counting on me. He had put me toward the front, or at least toward the middle. He had done that because he knew that he could count on me. I wasn't going to rebel. I would make him proud.

I had told Skeeter I loved him, and that I'd do anything for him. Now was my chance to prove it. I'd earn Skeeter an "A", and kickstart his career, not by being his wise, sagacious mentor, or his inspirational role model. I'd help Skeeter by being the hottest, wettest, slave pussy The Big D had ever sold.

I struggled to breathe as I pressed against the industrial green, metal door. I knew I wouldn't be able to read any of the signs in the auction hall, because I couldn't read anything. But I recalled the picture of the Broadway block, and the writing on the wall, written in enormous, moon type letters.

ALL SALES FINAL

Final. My heart was racing, but it didn't matter. I had to take the chance. I had to do it, for Skeeter.

I rubbed my pussy faster, edging myself, working myself to the peak of excitement, my orders to him echoing in my mind.

"You can't treat me like I'm your rich Aunt Anne. When I'm barefoot on the block, you need to treat me like I'm the skankiest of Pleasure Sluts."

Without even realizing it, Skeeter had followed my orders to a tee. I wrapped my toes around the wooden slat beneath my feet, struggling to hang on.

I wasn't aware of the slave wrangler standing next to me, until I felt his hand reach out and touch my ass. "Sorry 'bout this, girl, but I gotta gingersnap ya'. It's gonna burn like fuck, but leave it in, till Skeeter takes er out."

The small object he slid between my butt cheeks and pushed into my asshole didn't feel hot, at least at first. It felt, small, wet, and cool, like a little finger.

It took a few seconds for it to begin to burn!

"Ahhhh!" I said, as the fire began. The wrangler laughed. "That a' girl. That will keep ya' prancin' lively!"

I didn't have time to register the burning. The chute opened, and the light exploded into my eyes at the same instant the man's palm exploded across my ass.

"Git!" he shouted, his hand spanking me out of the chute.

It was all a blur...

Bright, blinding lights!

The auction block!

My asshole was on fire!

The feeling of sand between my toes.

The dark brown sand was coarse and clingy, allowing for better traction. As I sunk into it, it encased the soles of my bare feet, adhering to me, changing me, transforming me, as it became one with my body.

"I'm a Sandy Foot Girl," I thought. The realization hit me like a thunderbolt, as I felt a simultaneous jolt of astonishment, fear, and pride.

Yes, pride! I was on Broadway, the biggest area at The Big D, which billed itself as the best damn slave market in Texas. For a slave girl, this was the big time. The arena, which didn't seem that huge in the photo, now seemed enormous. Rendered nearsighted, I couldn't make out the faces, but it was packed with people. PACKED.

Sprinting across the block to center stage, my blue tag, breasts, and bottom bouncing. My run of shame seemed to take forever...

I felt the buyers cold, amused eyes taking my measure. Staring at me. Appraising me.

I felt a surge of pride as the crowd murmured its approval, and a feeling of horror as Skeeter announced my sale in his best country twang, his powerful, confident voice booming over the speakers, coming from everywhere, like the voice of God.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, someone a lot of ya'll know. A real blue state lib, and our own little fancy-pants bond trader from Chicago, my own Anna-Annie!"

Skeeters voice boomed out over the PA, echoing around the area.

Blinded, my ass burning from the ginger, I slogged through the sand as I ran towards center stage. I was surprised to hear my own voice, not in my head, but coming through the loud speakers.

"Even I, the epitome of a powerful and successful woman, am subjected to crude remarks and unwanted stares. Are there times that I enjoy all of the male attention I receive? Yes. But that does not make it acceptable, and the men who look at me should... no, MUST... be punished."

To my horror I realized that the monitors were playing my acceptance speech for the Finance and Feminism award at the WOMEN'S POWER!! conference. As I ran naked through the sand, my boobs and butt bouncing, I caught a glimpse of myself on the enormous monitor. I was dressed in my $3,000 blue Armani power suit. My hair was pulled back, and I had ditched my contacts for my black power glasses with the thick lenses. My carefully chosen look was sexy, but also crisp and professional.

My feminist self-righteousness echoed through the hall. "Today, I stand before you as a fabulously wealthy and successful businesswoman, a leader, and a model to little girls everywhere. I am the woman every woman strives to be."

I smiled at the round of applause, and paused, with perfect comic timing. "And I am proud to say, I am not wearing ANY underwear." I waited for the laughter to subside. "And no, I was not in a hurry."

As my virtual self enjoyed the second burst of laughter, the real me I stood at the front center of the auction block. I was naked, physically and emotionally, frozen by the image of myself in a position of maximum power. The contrast between the smartly dressed, powerful, award-winning feminist receiving her award on the monitor, and the sandy footed Pleasure Slut was scarcely believable.

Without my glasses or contacts, I couldn't see the faces of the bidders, and their faces were a blur. However, Rosco had cheerfully assured me there were numerous buyers who knew me personally, and would doubtlessly enjoy owning and fucking me. I had comforted myself with the notion that this wouldn't matter, as they would never recognize me.

I hoped to be sold as an anonymous Pleasure Slut, just another pussy-in-the-pack. But Skeeter, in his desire to turn a coin, would spare me nothing. He would humiliate me in front of everyone I knew in order to earn a few more pennies for The Big D.

I had made Skeeter attend the conference to watch me speak, even though I knew it was horribly awkward for him, a cowboy in a sea of crisply dressed professional women, listening to my strident, misandric harangue. He was a fish-out-of-water, and his embarrassment had amused me. Now he was returning the favor, and the well-dressed woman who had amused her feminist peers was now a fish in the frying pan.

Anne-on-the-monitor continued. My voice was crisp, clear, and confident. "As you can see, my skirt is tight, and several inches above my knees. But these are MY choices, MY decisions. Men who dare to objectify me, or proposition me, or allow their eyes to linger on me for too long, will meet my lawyers! Then they will understand what true power is!"

I could tell that the audience was having a difficult time reconciling the image of the powerful woman on the monitor with the naked Pleasure Slut standing before them. I looked at Skeeter, unsure of what to do.

The man who looked back at me looked like the older brother, or perhaps the father, of my nephew. The teenage boy I had teased and tormented the night before was nowhere to be found. The man staring back at me, with his slave whip in hand, was in total control.

Skeeter spoke to me off microphone. "Do as she says."

I looked at him, confused.

"Shake your titties, slave girl, slave hop. And don't forget the slave smile. Show 'em those pearly whites."