"Any Chance?" Auction Pt. 05

"That blowjob was AMAZING. You promised... "

Skeeter laughed. "You can't make a promise to a slave girl, dummy. Lights out," Skeeter he said, pulling the hood over my head.

He wasn't kidding. No sound. No light. Nothing. I tried to pull it off, but there was some sort of electromagnet that sealed the hood to my collar. It was like wearing an oversized purple pillow on my head. I knew I looked ridiculous, and sensed Skeeter was laughing as he took my picture, even if I couldn't see or hear anything.

Even as Skeeter slapped my whipped ass into the cage, I ground my teeth as I imagined Rita laughing at my picture, slave naked, collared, with the gigantic purple Kool Aide smile on my head. The Purple Princess! Oh, that picture would be a keeper, one to slip into the boring vacation slide shows she made everyone sit through.

That was my sister, always good for a laugh. At least she couldn't see her son's white scum on my lips.

When I was in the cage, Skeeter rubbed some cool cream on my ass, and between my butt cheeks. It felt wonderful, and I groaned in pleasure. Skeeter took advantage of the situation to cop a good feel of my pussy with his greasy, greedy fingers, but I didn't mind, because my master's touch felt good, too.

I didn't hear him close the door, or lock my cage, but shortly after he withdrew his hand, I tipped backwards, and realized he was using the dolly to wheel me into the warehouse, to be kenneled with the other stock.

The kenneling area must have been pretty far from Rosco's office, as it took a while to get there. We stopped several times along the way. I wondered it Skeeter had stopped to accept some congratulations on the big auction, or if he had simply turned me over to someone else for overnight storage.

I wondered if the men were talking about me, the record-setting Miss Sandy Foot. I hoped they were, but I doubted it. Whatever my former glories were, I was now sold inventory, just another crated and kenneled Pleasure Slut in a dummy hood. A slave girl's moment on the auction block is glorious, but brief.

Eventually, my crate was unceremoniously dumped off the dolly and slid onto the floor. I cried out, but I knew no one cared.

The crate remained there several minutes, as I clutched the bars with my little fingers, wondering what was happening to me. The cage jolted as something slid underneath me, and I had the sensation of being lifted high into the air.

High! Very high! I was on a forklift, and I was being lifted sky high to be placed on a rack. I could hear the hum of the lift truck as I kept going higher...higher... higher.

I clutched the bars in terror. The roof of the warehouse section was about 3 stories tall, and I knew Skeeter and Rosco could both operate "lift trucks" that could lift a cage or even a palette of slave girls 50 feet in the air. Texas was not renown for high safety standards, and slave markets were lightly regulated. I tried to tell myself that nothing would happen to me, that they wouldn't let me fall, because I was valuable inventory. But inventory was insurable, and graded slave girls were fungible goods.

I slid into place, and the lift truck sound faded as the driver withdrew to move onto other tasks. How high was I? I did not know. Curiosity was unbecoming in a slave girl.

I put my fingers through the bars of the side of my cage. I was definitely next to another cage, with another slave girl. I wiggled my fingers. Either they could not hear me, or had been bound so that they could not reach me. Or perhaps, seeing my ridiculous dummy hood, and lost in their own misery, they didn't feel like playing.

There was a metal rack below me, but I couldn't feel one above me. Was I on the top row? I shuddered at the thought of being three stories high. If I rolled over, and jostled my cage, would I fall off the rack? No, they had to have something to prevent that, lest cages be falling all night. I was safe.

I had to be safe, right?

Rita had deliberately arranged a situation where I would be mixed in with all the other naked Pleasure Sluts. What if I got lost? What if there was some sort of computer mix-up? Feeling a fresh wave of panic as I remembered the endless racks of girls, I struggled to get my dummy hood off, desperate to see what was happening to me.

The hood had been a masterstroke on Rita's part, a final coup de grâce designed to strip away any final shred of dignity that might have survived the endless humiliations of the day. With the hood blocking out all my senses, my mind was left to feed on itself, and reflect on my pole-greasing, my block prep, my public disgrace on the auction block, Rosco's seeding, Skeeters dried jizz in my mouth, and the loss of my degrees, property, and everything I had worked so hard to earn.

I pulled the wool blanket over myself, and began to buff my button. I could taste Skeeter in my mouth, and I relished the sweet bitterness of my master's scum as I rubbed myself to slave-gasm. I wondered if anyone watching. It didn't matter. Skeeter was right. I had nothing to be ashamed of. I was what I was.

I felt totally alive as I relished every sensation, the coarse brown sand clinging to my body, the purple eternity collar locked forever around my throat, the taste of Skeeter's jizz on my lips, the smell of the leather slave hood.

"It was a good day, for a slave girl," I told myself. "Slave girl Annie brought a record price. Slave girl Annie was a Sandy Foot Girl!"

I smiled. My friends back in Chicago would be SO jealous, even if they wouldn't admit it. I hoped I would see them again, to see the envy in their eyes, even if I appeared before them as nothing more than collared slave meat.

Hooded, and kenneled, my mind rolled freely. As humiliating as it was, Skeeter was right. I had nothing to be ashamed of. After I had turned myself over to Rita, and let her throw my clothes into the charity bin, I had lost the ability to make choices. It was the men who bid on me who should be embarrassed about their conduct, not me.

Strange as it might seem, having no choices gave me a sense of total liberation. I didn't have to worry about my money, or what I was going to eat, or what I was going to wear. I had no worries, no concerns. I existed to give pleasure, which, paradoxically, gave me more pleasure than I had ever felt.

I wondered if Skeeter would remember to call Cooter to cancel my butt branding. I was terrified he'd forget, yet the fantasy of being branded like an animal made my pussy all the hotter.

I masturbated myself to two glorious, mind-bending slave-gasms before I fell into a deep and restful sleep, and dreamt the sweet, carefree dreams of a Pleasure Slut.