"Any Chance?" Auction Pt. 06

I awoke to the startling sensation of my cage being moved. I had been dreaming that I was showing off to the other girls who had been sold that night: Calico, and the redhead, and the blonde, bragging about how I had set a record price at The Big D. I boasted that the bidders were eating out of my hand, and crowed about how expertly Skeeter had contrasted the video of me lecturing on the evils of "micro aggressions" and "the male gaze" as he cracked the whip and I rolled in the sand. No wonder my price had been so high: Skeeter and I had given the men exactly what they wanted. My slave sisters were green with envy!

It was an odd dream -- after all, the other girls were slaves, not my sisters. What was I thinking, bragging to them about my auction?

I tried to focus. For a brief moment, I thought for a moment I was back in my enormous king-sized four-poster antique bed in Chicago. It wasn't until I realized I could see nothing, hear nothing, and my head was bubble wrapped in the purple "dummy" hood, and I rubbed the welts from Skeeter's whip, that I realized that the "dream" about my auction had been real.

How long had I been asleep? I did not know. Was I being moved by a person or a computerized robot, sent to fetch me out of inventory? It didn't matter. Either way, I was simply "pussy on the shelf", as my sister Rita had so delicately put it.

I felt the sensation of my cage moving through space as the forklift slowly lowered me to the floor. Again, my cage tilted sideways, and I was soon lying against the bars as I was pushed in a handcart to my next destination. At least whomever was moving me was human.

My cage was relatively spacious -- I was grateful to Skeeter and Rita for that - but it still felt wonderful when at last the cage door was opened and I was ushered out. I still had the "dummy" hood on. I knew it made me look ridiculous. I could only imagine who was watching me, with my enormous purple smiley faced cartoon head on, stretching my limbs. They might very well be enjoying the sight of a slave girl stretching, bending, and hopping around, trying to restore her circulation. I didn't know how big my audience was, but stretching felt too good not to avail myself of the opportunity.

Two unseen hands removed my dummy hood. I was glad that my hands were free, for it gave me a chance to cover my eyes, and gradually readjust to the light, as the other girls were unpacked from their kennels. I was shocked to see how high the cages were stacked, and felt glad that Skeeter had given me my dummy hood. It had prevented me from being utterly terrified when my cage was raised into position on its palette. Like the cover on a bird cage, or a horse with blinders on, the ridiculous animal hood had given me the luxury of a rich, blissful, Pleasure Slut sleep. What a wise, kind master Skeeter was.

One of the slave girls complimented me on my sperm mustache, noting that I must have pleased my master very much to get such a beautiful load on my lips and under my nose. I beamed with pride, proud of my slave girl beauty mark.

A slave monger slapped her across the bottom, warning her to "keep her sucker hole shut." Nonetheless, I smiled at her, thanking her for the compliment. I still had Skeeter's deliciousness in my mouth, and I thought I was lucky to have such a kind master, who had let my sperm dry so thoroughly before kenneling me, so I could enjoy his taste all night.

Again, I caught myself on my peculiar thoughts. I was not a slave girl, and Skeeter was certainly not MY master! Yes, Skeeter had said that my auction was complete, and I was, in fact legally a slave girl. However, that was yesterday, and now it was morning. I felt certain that by now Rita had freed me. She was probably in the front waiting area, with my clothes, and I'd be back in my penthouse suite at the hotel in time for breakfast.

Yes, she had teased me, but I knew Rita wouldn't make me endure a full day in The Big D, and make me live the life of a collared Pleasure Slut, simply to take Skeeter to an amusement park. After all, I had learned my lesson last night, hadn't I? I had a chance to sleep on it.

Yes, I was free. I was certain of that. Nonetheless, I was slave naked and collared, and indistinguishable from the real slave girls, at least to the minimum-wage, coverall clowns who worked at The Big D. Enjoying the moment, I allowed myself to play with the slave girl fantasy of thinking I had a wise and caring master who loved me.

I watched them unpack the redhead, and Miss Calico, who rather irately protested that this was all a mistake. One of the handlers quickly bent her over and gave her three strokes of the slave whip, harder than necessary, in my opinion, while the other slave mongers laughed.

"You're not in charge anymore, hot stuff," one of the other slave mongers sneered.

"Yeah, your just tits and ass now, so no talking!" another said, piling on. Calico was soon on her knees, blowing one of the handlers she had once lorded it over. I had the sense that this was a bit unusual at The Big D, which ran like a well-oiled machine, but that Calico's special status, and her foolishness, warranted extra degradation.

"You wanted to use your mouth, slave girl?" the slave wrangler taunted. "Use it on my dick."

There were no clocks on the wall, but I sensed it was morning, for about 25 of us were being unpacked. One of the slave mongers quickly chained my purple collar to the collars of the girls in front of me and behind me. The mongers shouting at us to MOVE IT, and my coffle was quickly jogging to our next destination.

We were taken outside into the brisk December air. The compound was surrounded with an electric fence, complete with warning signs, topped with razor wire. Beyond the terrifying fence, vicious dogs patrolled a "no girls" land between the electric fence and a huge concrete wall about 30 feet high.

The enormous guard dogs started growling and barking viciously at us as soon as the first naked girls come through the door, but when they saw we were chained together, and the slave mongers were tapping our bottoms with riding crops, they relented, apparently satisfied that we were sufficiently heeled. However, the dogs stood at attention, eager to devour us in the unlikely event that 30 naked slave girls, chained together, climbed a barb wired electric fence, crawled naked through sharp razor wire, then somehow scaled a 50-foot cliff face stone wall.

The security was comical, given our level of helplessness, and I wondered if the field trip outside wasn't as much to intimidate as us, and enforce the absurdity of escape, as it was to freeze us to death.

We were led to a feeding trough, filled with slave kibble and orange slime. It appeared that we were not the first at the trough that morning, but fortunately the section I knelt in front of had lots of delicious orange slime, so I put my hands behind my back, stuck my face in, and lapped it up greedily.

I think this orange slime must have been different than the orange slime that I had eaten before. When I had been filling the orange bags in Chicago with my rich girlfriends, and spitting into them, I had always regarded the slop scraps as disgusting. On more than one occasion, my drunken friends and I had actually taken the bags into the Ladies room and peed into them.

I knew that this must be different than the orange slime in Chicago, as now it was DELICIOUS, despite the smell and uneven texture. What was the point of worrying about what was in it, particularly when it was perfect complement to the crunchy but bland, dog food like slave kibble?

It was a truly scrumptious breakfast. Famished, I gobbled it down quickly, unlike the stupid slave slut next to me, who needed several cracks of the whip across her stupid, fat bottom before she finally joined me in savoring the orange and brown yumminess.

Stupid slave girl. I knew she must be new to her collar.

The next outdoor activity was strangely welcome, given the frostiness of the morning. We were lined up in front of a teenage girl, who, despite the cold, was wearing Daisy Duke shorts and a halter top. She was not collared, and was wearing a Big D ID badge. She was not a slave, and I found myself wondering about her status as she stepped up onto a wooden platform and took a fiddle out of a case.

She tapped her foot on the wooden platform 3 times, and began to play the fiddle, quite rapidly. The girls around me started to dance.

It is no mean trick to dance naked on freezing cold grass while your collar is chained to a girl on either side of you. The task was not made easier by the slave mongers, who screamed at us to "jump faster" and cracked the whip whenever they thought our knees weren't going high enough. But the coffle soon got into a rhythm, and while it wasn't a line dance, we all raised our knees to the beat of the music as the cackling fiddle girl relentlessly drove us on.

There was an older man there, well dressed in a white suit, wearing a visitor tag. He had a white goatee, and I wondered for a moment if he wasn't there to sell us fried chicken. The old geezer grinned broadly, and seemed delighted by our performance.

"This is how ya' do it!" the old Southern 'gentleman' cackled. "Fiddle 'em, and make 'em dance, just like they did on the decks of the old slave ships. White meat or dark meat, make them butts and boobies bounce, to the rhythm of the fiddle, and the crack of the whip."

The old geezer's eyes gleamed with malicious glee as he watched us "dance". I did not feel the whip, but I felt the wind from it, and the memory of how the whip felt on the block meant that every whip CRACK terrified me, even as my pussy buzzed with excitement.

I danced, danced, DANCED!

The scene was beyond bizarre. The chains, the cracking whip, the smiling teenager tap dancing on the wooden board as she "fiddled" us, and the old man, clapping his hands as he sang along.

If it hadn't been for Cotton-Eye Joe,


I'd been married long time ago.


Where did you come from,

where did you go?


Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?

I was soon gasping for air, and glistening with sweat, but afraid to slow my pace lest my bottom be lashed. My frantic eyes caught the twinkling eyes of the fiddler girl, who seemed most amused by my distress. I wordlessly pleaded with her for mercy, but her face showed only delight. It was the same delight my friends and I felt whenever we laughed about some disgusting Pleasure Slut being put firmly into her place.

It was odd that the girl had singled me out of the gaggle of dancing slave girls? Did I know her? Was she one of Skeeter's friends? Had she been at one of the parties I had gone through at Rita's house?

There had been a country band at his graduation party. Had she been one of the entertainers?

Did she recognize me? With my money and tendency to give lavish gifts, I dominated every party I attended. Of course, I had been dressed then, and in charge. I had been the fiddler, with everyone dancing to my tune. Now, I was the fiddled.

"Make the wenches dance!" the old man cackled. "Get 'em ship-shape!"

The old man's cackle and the malicious gleam in the teenager's eyes transported me back in time. For a moment I was back on the deck of a wooden schooner, dancing to the laughter of the crew. They had to keep me nimble, so I'd fetch a good price.

Then, I was at the slave market in Charleston, being fiddled for the men in the white linen suits before being paraded on the block.

When I had told Skeeter that his decision to study slavery was disgusting, and that it was dirty, perverted, and degrading, he had vehemently disagreed. Skeeter had pointed out that slaving was one of mankind's oldest and most distinguished professions, steeped in centuries old traditions and honors. Fiddling was one of those many "fine traditions."

Routine as it might be, the custom left me soaking in sweat, gasping for air, my calves aching, and my lungs burning. But I didn't dare slow, lest the tradition of whipping lazy slave girls find my sore bottom. I was pleased when I heard the whip crack against Miss Calico's bottom, although I wasn't sure if her performance lagged, or whipping her was simply too much fun not to.

The fiddling would have ended sooner, but the old man insisted on another tune, Slave Girl's Reel. The slave monger's wanted to get on with it, but the fiddler girl, hearing the request, laughed merrily, and started up the tune. Soon we were dancing again, my pussy buzzing with every jerk, the fiddle girl grinning at me. The old man laughed and clapped as he sang along to our humiliation:

Slave girl, slave girl, collared, branded, stripped!

Slave girl, slave girl, dancing to the whip!

Slave girl, slave girl, lying on my bed,

Slave girl, slave girl, always wet and spread!

I would have surely collapsed from the frantic nature of the dance, but several close whip cracks kept my knees in the air, and my hands waving, and my "boobies bouncing" as the old man put it. My humiliation was intense, and was made worse by my audience: the grinning slave mongers, the security cameras, which had swivel into place to zoom in on us, and the dogs, who seemed to be laughing and jumping along with the music, if a laughing dog was possible. Everyone, it seemed, was enjoying seeing us being fiddled.

Slave girl, slave girl, eyes filled with fear!

Slave girl, slave girl, sees the auctioneer!

Slave girl, slave girl, let the bidders feel,

Slave girl, slave girl, if your tits are real!

By the time the devilish fiddler girl and the leering old man finished fiddling us, I was exhausted, and close to collapse.

The old man tipped the fiddling girl several bills. "Thank you, kind Sir," she said with a bow and a curtsey and a honey-suckle accent. "You are truly a Southern gentleman." Holding up the fistful of bills, she turned and winked at me, and laughed.

Oh, how I despised her.

I, in contrast, was rewarded with the chance to squat over a steel trough and relieve myself. "Take a good dump, 'ladies', and a pee, too. Nothing to be ashamed of, and this might be your last chance for a while."

I needed no urging. My "dance" had gotten my system moving, and relieving myself in front of a group of laughing men and inquisitive security cameras was no longer humiliating. The fiddling had moved me to a place beyond shame.

I was numb when they took us inside to the showers, numb to my unchaining, numb to the laughing teenage boys scrubbing my body and drying me, groping and joking about my wet pussy, numb to the leering customers watching my humiliation from the gallery above.

I came when one of the laughing teenagers gave me a good scrub between my legs, causing one of the frat boys in the gallery to point out the "toilet brush slut" to his friends, who laughed along with him.

With the other slave girls, I drank my fill from the water pooling at the shower drain. I missed the taste of Skeeter scum, and the orange slime in my mouth, but I was thirsty. I was loaded onto a caged golf cart with three other girls. I didn't know where we were going, but panicked when I realized we were back in veterinary.

Fortunately, I was the first, which meant I didn't have to wait.

"Does she get anesthesia?" one of the vets asked.

"No. It was included in the price, but her sister wanted her to get the full experience."

"Okey-dokey!" the vet replied, putting a wooden stick into my mouth, and lacing it behind my head.

I stupidly resisted when they tried to pull me to the examination table, pulling back like a scared puppy. A jolt to my shock collar quickly put that foolish rebellion to the end. With little fuss, I was strapped to the table, with my legs spread wide. They used a very small needle to insert the nano-bot beneath my clit, and the pain was unbelievably intense, but brief, and replaced by ecstasy as they turned it on and test it.

"Oh, master! Oh, MASTER!" I cried.

"It's working all right!" the vet said, laughing. "Let's leave it on while we do the next bits."

I think it hurt when they stuck the needle into my ear, and into my gums, but my pussy was buzzing so nicely I didn't really care.

A voice in my head said, "This is a test of the Nano-Slave Broadcast System XPS-11. Speak if you can hear."

"I can hear you clearly, Master," I replied.

"Good. The vet said. Let's test remote."

I heard Rita's unmistakable drawl in my ear, as clear as if she were standing in front of me. "How's it goin', city girl? Did you enjoy yer' fiddlin'?"

"Did you see that?" I said, trying to get used to the sensation of talking to empty air.

"Yeah, Skeeter's got a hookup to the close circuit feed on his phone. Damn, I nearly peed myself laughing. You always telling me how I'm a couch potato, and bragging about yer' aerobics routine. I loved watching y'all gasping for air while they fiddled you. Damn, girl! When they cracked that whip near your ass, the look on your face, and the way you got those knees up to your chest! Ha-ha-ha!"

I ground my teeth as Rita, unable to contain herself, dissolved into a fit of laughter.

"That little blonde hair honey with the fiddle was somethin', wasn't she? What a cutie she is! Skeeter says they sell her music in the slave mall, so we can fiddle you at home, if ya' liked the tune. Of course, I got a video of yer little dance, so we can play it anytime we got a hankering to. Might be good to show people, when you start getting all snooty."

Rita's uncontrollable laughter enraged me. "Fuck you! Where are you? You got to get me the fuck out of here!"

The vet, displeased with my tone, held up the shock collar remote, and gave me a short but painful warning jolt. I quickly rephrased. "Mistress? I beg your forgiveness. Would it be possible for you to pick me up soon?"

"'Fraid not, little sis. That pass you bought Skeeter gets him to the front of all the lines, and he is just going bananas with all these rides. What a great Christmas present! Thanks again!"

"I'm glad he's enjoying it, Mistress," I lied, eyeing the remote in the vet's hand. "But you really need to..."

"Slave girls don't give orders. Ayn't you learned nothin'? Hang on, Skeeter wants the phone."

"No, don't give him the phone. I don't want to talk to him. Rita? Rita?"

"Hey, Anna Annie. Wow, you sure are spread out wide on the exam table. Your pussy looks really hot this morning."

I instinctively tried to close my legs, but the straps held me open.

"Skeeter, turn off the video feed, and give the phone back to your mamma."

"Gosh, you sure sound bossy for a slave girl! Hang on, let me turn up the juice for you," he replied mischievously.

My pussy started to spasm and quiver like Jello. It was like a vibrator, only it was INSIDE of me, driving me into a crazy ecstasy. I knew the camera was right between my legs, and he was watching, controlling my pussy with the slider bar on Rita's phone!

"No...No...NO! Stop it Skeeter! I'm going to come! Stop it, right now! Listen to me, young man!" I said, trying to sound authoritative. "I'm not kidding. I don't want you to see me this way."

"Well, I'm seeing you all right. I'm seeing EVERYTHING! Wow, look at you, Anna Annie. Juicing up, and shaking like a wet dog!"

My slave-gasm was shattering. When my senses returned, I heard Rita's voice in my head. "Well, look at you. Ayn't you the wettest otters pocket in the slave girl aquarium!"

"Rita!" I gasped. "You've gotta get me out of here. You've got to get..."

"Sorry, little Sis, gotta go. Skeeter wants to go on the Batman ride. Catch ya' later. Y'all be a good little slave girl now!"

The buzzing in my pussy stopped as Rita turned off my pleasuring. I was half carried back to the transport cart, left wondering what my life would be like, with my pussy on a phone app, literally under Skeeter's thumb.