"Any Chance?" Auction Pt. 04

The bids and chatter were coming in fast. I hadn't even processed Rita's presence when a Brahman accent rang over the rest. "Wink that asshole, you dirty little slut! That is one fine rear porthole, gentlemen, water tight and ship-shape! Anne will become Andrew, and will make a fine cabin boy."

I didn't want to wink my asshole at Skipper Cary, but with the ginger burning me, and Skeeter cracking the whip, I had no choice. The next time I was on Skipper Carey's yacht, it wouldn't be as a pampered guest. I'd be a "cabin boy", hair clipped short, serving my friends, and my friend's fathers, and their brothers, champaign and hors d'oeuvres. I knew "Andrew" would have to endure quite a few pats on "his" ass, until finally I was frog marched below decks for a good buggering.

Skeeter's voice boomed over the PA. "Look at that asshole pucker up! Gotta feeling she don't like the ginger!" Sketter said.

"Too fuckin' bad!" a voice called out.

"Yeah, let it burn!" Everyone laughed.

Skeeter laughed too. "Ya'll wanna show our little Yankee lib some down home Texas hospitality, don't we? Plus ya'll maya noticed that there's a whip mark on the top of her ass, but not on the bottom," Skeeter drawled. "Well, folks, we don't do half-assed jobs at The Big D."

"Imagine her in a school uniform, with her cute little pigtails, and her ass in the air, waiting for the strap, or the cane. This is an ass that was made to be whipped, folks!"

I felt the tip of a leather boot I had payed $750 for gently kick me in the ribs. "Get that ass up in the air, Anna-Annie! Time to show these folks a good, old-fashioned, Texas gingersnap!"

I lifted my ass HIGH. I felt my butt cheeks lift and separate widely as I lowered my nose into the sand to smell the sweat and pee and stink of the thousands of other slave girls who had endured the shame and humiliation of the auction block before me.

"Ooh! I can see the ginger!" the Chinese girl said.

"What a trollop!" Elizabeth huffed. "Oh, does she ever have this coming!"

I didn't know what precisely I had coming, or what a "gingersnap" was. However, the happy sound of my sister Rita's voice, calling out over the crowd, told me it wasn't good.

"That a boy, Sketter! Gingersnap her... GOOD!" Rita hog-hollered.

"That's my MA, ladies and gents" Skeeter said, as the crowd laughed. "And ya always best do what mama says! Hold still now, Anna-Annie!"

I felt the pain across my ass first, before I even heard the CRACK of Skeeter's whip. Instinctively, I clenched my butt cheeks. In what I quickly realized was the worst decision I had ever made in my life, I "grabbed" the whip with the exquisitely sensitive skin between my cheeks.

It was like clenching a flaming razor.

Stupid slave girl!

Foolish slut bimbo!

Why, oh why, hadn't I done what my wise master, my auctioneer, had ordered me to do. No, like a foolish slave slut, I "grabbed" the leather whip "poppers" with my butt cheeks, skinning my interior butt cheeks by sending them to war against Skeeter's merciless, unstoppable whip!

If it was a war, it was a war the whip won. My clenching bottom was, at best, a minor annoyance, as the whip dug in and Skeeter skillfully yanked the ginger finger out of my clenching asshole.

The whip cut the inside of my sensitive butt cheeks like a scalpel. I could hear my scream, and the crack of the whip, and the laughter, but it was my own instructions to Skeeter that rang in my mind:

"Spare me nothing. Crack the whip on my skanky ass, not because I was disobedient, but just to make them laugh."

And laugh they did! The hoots, laughter, cheers, whistles, and applause were deafening.

"Bullseye!"

"She felt that one!"

"Now that's a gingersnap!"

"Enjoy your award, Anne?"

"Damn, that boy's good!"

"Do it again!"

"Nice shot, Skeeter".

The last singsong voice, cutting over the crowd was Rita's. There was no hint of sympathy in her voice for the disobedient little slave slut who had defied her son, just a delighted display of motherly pride.

Soon the crowd began to chant:

GINGER-SNAP!

GINGER-SNAP!

GINGER-SNAP!

I lay in the sand, sobbing, a pile of tears, pain, and degradation, as the blood thirsty crowd called for my ass.

If I thought my pathos would invoke sympathy from my auctioneer, I was mistaken. "Slave fours!" he snapped.

My asshole was screaming in pain. I couldn't believe it. He was ordering me back into position for a second go!

Had I misheard? Perhaps. With my head lying in the sand, and my eyes filled with tears, the clearest view I had of him was his power totem, the childish bug doodle he had drawn in first-grade, and was now hanging on the wall of my mansion in Chicago.

"Wow, Anna-Annie!" he said, as I held him up to look at it. "So, you took it! Mom was wondering where it went."

"I...borrowed it. I asked your mom for it, and she said no, so I just sort of... took it."

"You STOLE it?"

"No, silly!", I said, tweaking his adorable little nose. "Poor people steal things. Rich people appropriate them, so they can be enjoyed by the right sort of people, who can properly appreciate them. Right now, I'm working on a project that's going to tear down a bunch of dirty, old poor people slums to put in a beautiful, gorgeous new golf course. That's not stealing, not when my lawyers do it. It's appropriation."

"So what's the difference between stealing and apopo- appro-poto..."

"Appropriation," I said, laughing. "The difference is money, and power. Fear is for girls who don't have platinum cards."

I had no platinum card, or money, or power. I was a naked slave slut, covered in sand, shame, and my own slave grease, staring at the boots of my auctioneer.

"Little Skeeter", the child I had so often held, towered over me like a skyscraper. My eyes ran up from the tip of his $750 boots, up his scrawny legs, lingering for a moment on the bulge in his jeans.

Nothing wrong with a man enjoying his work.

My eyes traveled over the custom, fringed cowboy shirt I had bought him, and rested on his face. His brow was shaded by his cowboy hat, but I saw no hint of mercy in his icy, business-like eyes.

He didn't speak loudly. He didn't have to. It was my job to listen, my job to obey.

"Slave fours," he repeated. "Then lather up. It's time to get yer' pussy SOLD."

He drew out the "s" in sold, emphasizing what he was going to do, and his absolute power over me. I pleaded with my eyes.

He responded by running the popper at the end of the slave whip through his fingers, reminding me of how our relationship had changed.

Fortunately, my years of Slave Yoga training kicked in, and I responded to my auctioneer's command like a properly trained Pleasure Slut should. Rolling in the sand back to center stage, I resumed my position. Nose down, ass high, legs spread WIDE. The crowd laughed, clapped and whistled as my tortured bung hole came into view.

I reached between my legs and diddled my clit with one finger, making sure the crowd, and the camera, had an unobstructed view of my dripping, open, slave gash, as the bidder's comments burned in my ears. The image of my sex soon filled the monitor.

"I can't believe she's playing her clit-ar."

"Yeah, nice finger-picking. And it's my favorite song."

"What a skanky sleazebag! Even after he ginger-snapped her!"

"Wow, he skinned her asshole good!"

"Little slut had it coming."

"I hope he does it again."

Sure enough, the coliseum crowd, unsatisfied, once again began to chant.

GINGER-SNAP!

GINGER-SNAP!

GINGER-SNAP!

Skeeter, laughing, walked back and forth across the auction block, lord of his domain.

Raising my head, and looking over my shoulder, I licked my lips, and waggled my tongue, making it clear to the bidders how much I wanted to suck on their rock-hard cocks, and lick their pussies.

"I've showed you the pink, now you show me the green. This little slut ayn't sitting on her wallet no more. She's showin' you fine rich folks everythin' she's got! Now open your purses, like she's opened hers."

The bids poured in. I couldn't really hear the numbers, as Skeeter's auctioneer patter was too fast, and I was too engrossed in my own pain, humiliation, and the hot fire between my legs as I rubbed myself to slave-gasm.

Instead, I heard Elizabeth's snooty voice.

"I don't know why she's getting so much attention," Elizabeth huffed. "I hope Daddy doesn't overbid on her."

"Yes, they are offering fortune for her," the Chinese girl said, obviously impressed.

"I don't know why," Elizabeth said. "I could run faster than her, at least in a sprint. Maybe. And I've done fox hunting for years. I could certainly outsmart a pack of dumb dogs."

"You would run, like fox?" the Chinese girl said, surprised.

"Actually, I would love to! Father agreed to it last year, as a race between Lord Barker's daughter, and myself. Two foxes, double the fun. I was shocked he agreed to it, and pretended to be outraged, but began training immediately."

"But... but what if they caught you?" the Chinese girl asked.

"They wouldn't," Elizabeth said. "I had a strategy and route plan all worked out. I told father all about it, and he laughed and said that he admired my pluck, but that I shouldn't get my hopes up, as the dogs are quite sensitive to smell, as if I can't outsmart a pack of sniffy dogs! But it doesn't matter. Debra got cold paws at the last moment so it got cancelled. A pity. My little brother and his friends were quite disappointed, as they were SO interested in hunting me down."

Elizabeth giggled. The image of the prim, proper, and very lady like Elizabeth splashing naked through a stream with the horses and dogs in hot pursuit, was a powerful one, but my impending slave-gasm was cut short, by the crowd's chant.

GINGER-SNAP!

GINGER-SNAP!

GINGER-SNAP!

Skeeter, enjoying the way the crowd was eating out of his hand, laughed, and reached into his pocket.

"See this here wooden match, ladies and gents?" he said, holding it up like a stage magician. "Git those bids high enough, and light my fire, and I'll light hers."

There was laughter and hoots from the crowd as Skeeter kneeled down and carefully inserted the unlit match into my puckered asshole.

"Nooooooooo," I whimpered, my nose sniffing the coarse, dark sand.

"Steady, girl," Skeeter said, rubbing his hand over my neck and down my spine, calming me like a skittish horse. "Don't get slave stupid, and clench."

The auction resumed. The bids poured in. Then end was near.

I couldn't believe what was happening. "He's not really going to sell me. He's just teaching me a lesson. He won't actually drop the gavel. He won't let the hammer fall."

"Oooh, I see the little red tip of the match," the Chinese girl said. "Do you think... skinny boy with whip... he light it?"

"I hope so," Elizabeth replied.

"Oooh! It so close to her butt hole. Won't that hurt?" Chinese girl said.

"I hope so," Elizabeth replied.

"Oh...my... GAWD!" a familiar voice said. "She's, like, waving the match around. Like it's a little flag, ha-ha!"

It was true. Some of the movement was from the vibrations as my finger teased my clit, but most of it was my asshole clenching, and unclenching on the little match, causing it to wave to-and-fro, a little banner of shame.

Silly little slave girl! Skeeter had warned me not to clench, but like the disobedient little slut I was, I waved the match around. Some of it was panic, but some of it was a strange Pleasure Slut pride, a sensation unknowable to a free woman, the love of being the center of the bidder's attention. No wonder Elizabeth was jealous of me.

"They should put a little Texas flag on the tip of the match," one onlooker suggested.

"Wink it! Wink it! Wink it!" a couple of younger male voices chanted. I wondered if the frat bros were there, or maybe some seniors from the local High School. With my nose in the sand, I was in no position to survey the crowd enjoying my shame.

Instead, I obediently "winked" my asshole, and waved my little red tipped flag pole proudly as the final bids poured in.

This couldn't be happening. No, I wasn't a Pleasure Slut, winking her asshole on the block of The Big D as the bids poured in. I wasn't some skanky Sandy Foot Girl.

I was enjoying shots in my sister's Rita's backyard as we celebrated a summer picnic.

I remembered the night clearly. Skeeter's whip cracking demonstration in the backyard had been impressive, but, as always, I had to up the ante. "Okay, Skeeter, let's see how good you are. I'll give you $200 if you can light the match," I said, walking over to the fence and retrieving one of the unlit matches. "But you have to light it in my shot glass, without knocking it over."

"Don't be throwing money at the boy," Rita said sternly.

"Your drunk, Anne," Rosco agreed.

"I'm having FUN. You two should try it sometime. If our little man is such hot stuff, he shouldn't be afraid of a teensy-weensy bet," I said, downing my tequila shot before putting the tiny glass on the fence. "$200 for lighting the match...without knocking my glass over."

"That-there glass is a souvy-neer, from our trip to Mexico," Rita protested.

I dismissed her with a drunken wave. "I can buy you a truckload of shitty Mexican shot glasses, and the two truckloads of the taco-eaters who make them. Come on, Skeeter, let's see what you can do. Do it for your Anna-Annie."

Skeeter lit the match. But the glass fell from the blow, and cracked when it hit the patio. Still, it was a good try. I applauded anyway, but I could tell Skeeter was embarrassed. It was his first failure of the night, and after that, he put his whip away.

Boo-hoo! Poor little whip cracker.

Rita punished Skeeter for breaking her shot glass by grounding him for the weekend. I was not punished, of course. Skeeter had thought it wasn't fair, but, being a good Aunt, I used the experience to teach him a lesson. "People with power are never punished," I explained smugly, raising my bottle in toast before taking a long swig.

Rita frowning, offered a different lesson. "What goes 'round, comes 'round," Rita said, glaring at me.

Rita was right: it had indeed come around, full circle. My misdeed had not been pardoned, rather, my punishment had simply been deferred. I wondered if Rita had suggested the match; it certainly seemed like my sister's barnyard, biblical justice come home to roost. Like the good mother she was, Rita would make sure I'd pay for my disobedience, and that I learned my lesson. The trick that had gotten Skeeter in trouble would be repeated, only now my winking asshole would double for the shot glass. Remembering how Rita's favorite shot glass had shattered, I prayed that Skeeter's aim had improved.

I was so lost in the old memory, enjoying my singing twat, and waving my little match-flag, that I didn't realize what was happening until I heard the gavel slam down with a mighty, final, BANG.

"SOLD!" Skeeter said.

Sold.

The crowd went wild. But it was Rita's voice that cut across the din. "Light 'er up!" she yelled.

The roar of the crowd, the crack of the whip, the heat of the lighting match, and the pain between my ass cheeks again I foolishly clenched my bottom crack around Skeeter's whip, all came at once as I exploded into a slave-gasm that made the sand in front of me turn to white, then blackness, as I lost consciousness.

I had been sold.