"Any Chance?" Auction Pt. 07

I'm not sure how long I was unconscious. My first sensation was, oddly enough, in my nose. A harsh, burning sensation. I heard giggles, and shrill, feminine laughter as I jerked my head back and opened my eyes.

My vision was blurred, and it took me a moment to connect the ringing laughter with what I was seeing. In front of me, Brittany and Jennifer were looking down at me, bound in my branding rack. The girls were both laughing -- no cackling, would be the word, but it was the stink under my nose and the screaming pain in my ass that shocked me to my senses.

My ass was being branded. The iron had been removed, but I could still feel the remnants of it as the enormous residual heat burned into my flesh. The pain was so intense, it made me conscious of everything, creating a weird sort of time dilation effect every second took hours.

"Feel the burn, little slave girl? For that is what you are now: a slave girl. No more bullshit about "Any Chance? Auctions". There's no going back, now. You're a Sandy Foot Girl, the same as all the rest, with a Big D brand on your ass to prove it. Rita's not going to ride in on a white horse to save you. That horse has left the barn, and it has a Big D brand burned into its rump, just like you."

The pain was intense, but the fog in my brain was burning off, literally. Jennifer was holding something under my nose, something that stank and burned and made me want to puke. At first, I thought it was the smell of my own burning flesh. However, it smelt even worse than the terrible burnt hamburger smell from the brandings. The smell in my nostrils was a mixture of garbage and shit and everything that smells bad, only 100 times more pungent than you'd find them in nature.

I tried to jerk my head away, but trussed up like a turkey I could only move a my nose a few inches. My resistance and distress only caused the two she-devils in front of me to cackle louder as Jennifer practically shoved the tiny packet between her fingers up my nose.

"Don't overdo it, ladies," the blacksmith said. "You don't want her to get acclimated to the stink, particularly with so much fun to go."

"Fat chance of that," a voice behind me said.

"Yeah, bag that shit," Roger said. "I can smell that stink from here, and it makes me want to puke."

The blacksmith's tone was pedantic. "It's called 'Slave Behave' and it's a special mix put together here at The Big D. Think of smelling salts, ramped up to an 11. It comes with nose plugs, so the master doesn't have to smell it when they use it."

I looked up at Brittany and Jennifer and noted that the two grinning girls did indeed have nose plugs in, which was why they were grinning, while I was fighting the urge to vomit.

"Put it back in the bag before we everyone gets sick," the blacksmith said. Jennifer complied.

Behind me, I tensed as I felt something cold press into my ass. "Relax, girl," he said, patting my other cheek as if soothing a horse. "That cold you feel was just the stamp. This brand has 9 parts, so we want an ink stamp so we get all the positions of all the little arms and legs right."

Smiling down at me, Jennifer tweaked my nose. "Here that, slave girl? We want your brand just right!" she giggled.

I looked up at the students in front of me. Skeeters girlfriend Hillary, the little bitch who had fiddled me that morning, was still there, although now that I wasn't being branded, she had stopped recording. She was hot, in her cowboy boots and shorts, but she was a cruel little bitch, and she winked at me when she caught my eye. I hoped Skeeter was just humping her, and not giving her his heart.

"This sure is a complicated brand," a student voice behind me said. "Does The Big D charge extra for this?"

"Nope," the blacksmith replied. "See the SOLD sticker on her blue state ear tag? Block training, brands, slave chow, and kenneling are complimentary if the sluts actually sold. They run ads every now and then, called the "Sand and Brand" special."

"Oh, yeah!" one of the students said. "I saw a billboard for that on I75," one of the students noted. It had the closeup picture of the girl's feet on the beach, with their feet covered with sand."

"I remember the tag line," one of the students said. "If she likes the sand, give 'er the brand!" another voice said brightly. Everyone laughed.

"I'd like to see YOUR ass branded, Jennifer," one of the boys noted. A number of the boys laughed and nodded agreement. Jennifer, although cruel and bitchy, was very hot, and would make a delicious slave girl.

"I wouldn't brand you, loser," Jennifer replied. "I'd geld you. Snip, snip!" Now it was the girl's turn to laugh, while the boys winced at the thought. Jennifer was a nasty little bitch, and I suspected that if she did get a chance to enslave any of her classmates, the clippers would be a real possibility.

"Wow, sweet! It's cool that The Big D is giving her such an intricate brand for free," one boy noted.

"Well, it's all about great customer service here at The Big D," the blacksmith said. "That's why we keep real old-time blacksmiths on staff, to make the branding heads and shackles, and to brand the slave girls. The Big D also offers a tip-to-toe warranty on all girls, not just the Primes. You can bring them back for remedial training within the first 90 days, and our branding offer is good for 30 days."

I imagined that even if slave girls weren't branded on being sold, they had 30 days to sweat it out while their master pondered the "sweet" deal.

The pain in my ass was moving from a long, howling burn to a steady throbbing. The Big D logo had just been branded between my cheeks, badging me as a Sandy Foot Girl. The fuckers took real pride in their work. I was just the barnyard animal, like a pig at a 4-H show, fighting the pain as I was forced to listen to the blacksmith's commercial for quality at The Big D.

I looked up at the monitor. With my butt cheeks spread, I could see the angry red lines of the ropey-logo of the Big D. As painful as it was, I had to admit it was strangely beautiful, a mark that any slave girl would wear with pride.

I knew that other girls who hadn't made it to the main block of The Big D would be jealous. Why the jealousy of other slave girls, or how I could admire something that was still causing me pain, confused me, but as every second was taking hours, I chalked it up to my general delirium.

The blacksmith continued. "After that, prices are half off for the first year. That includes training or branding."

"Gee, you mean her buyer could get her branded AGAIN?" Jennifer said, grinning down to me as she enjoyed the look of horror on my face.

"Yup!", the blacksmith said brightly, "No extra charge. So, you're all 18. Any of you ladies scheduled to be graded?"

Several girls, a bit embarrassed, raised their hands. "I have to," one girl volunteered. "For my student loans."

"I'm taking a gap year. My parents want me registered and graded before I go overseas."

"Good idea," the blacksmith said, "although a protective enslavement is even safer, IMHO. But the point is, I'd really recommend getting it done here, as if your parents do decide to sell you, we throw in all the bells and whistles, free of charge."

My mind was swimming. I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. My ass was being branded as part of a demonstration for a bunch of snotty nosed kids on their way to college. I could have bought and sold all of them, and their families, and The Big D, with my credit card. As if that wasn't surreal enough, they were all gushing over the fact that my dehumanizing, branding was free, like the toy thrown into a happy meal.

"I'm rich," I screamed. "I can give each of you a million dollars, cash, if you let me go. Listen to me! I'm rich. You can't do this to me!"

With the bit in my teeth it was all garble and slobber, and everyone laughed. Tucking me under the chin, Jennifer. "Oh, look, our little slave girl is excited. She can't wait for her next brand. Don't worry, sweetie. We're going to burn your ass REAL good."

Indeed they were, as the blacksmith took the next branding head out of the fire. It was the body of Skeeter's mosquito doodle and it was glowing an angry yellow. "A lot of blacksmith's user thermometers, but I just go off color. This one's plenty hot, which you can see by the lighter color."

"Get those salts ready, girls. This is a pretty big ass brand," the blacksmith observed.

"Well, she has a big ass," Hillary replied, as everyone laughed.

The blacksmith, in teacher mode, continued. "Get the Slave Behave ready. We don't want her to pass out during her branding, because this is where the learning is. This one thinks far too much of herself, and we need to teach this heifer what it means to be a slave girl. Juan, make sure you get the pan into position. She's going to piss like a water sprinkler when this burns home."

"She looks pretty excited," Hillary noted. "Can we make her hump the brand?"

"What's that?" one boy asked.

"Let me show you," Hillary said. Hillary held out her hand, and the blacksmith handed her the iron. "Be careful," he warned. "That branding head is ready for action."

Skeeter's girlfriend turned the branding iron around, and put the old-time wooden shovel handle between my legs. Then she began to rub it against my hot, wet pussy. I'm ashamed to admit this, but like the Pleasure Slut they thought I was, I responded, pushing back against the handle.

"Oh my GAWD!" a girl said. "She's humping it! She's humping the branding iron that's going to burn her ass."

"She can't help it," the Blacksmith said. "It's what Pleasure Sluts do."

Hillary, grinning like a devil, put the wooden handle inside me as I rode it for all it's worth. I couldn't move much, but she worked the stick good, and quickly brought me to slave-gasm. My face burned beet red with humiliation as I watched my pussy tremble on the gigantic monitor.

"Wow. What a slut."

"Yeah. I don't feel so bad about branding her now."

"Yeah, she's really asking for it, isn't she?"

I wasn't asking for it, but it felt so good. Why couldn't anyone understand? Grunting for release, I pushed back hard, but Hillary pulled the stick out, causing some laughter as it popped like a cork. "That's enough for now," Hillary said. "Maybe some more later, when we do the legs."

I trembled, both at the promise of another slave-gasm and the threat of more to come.

Hillary handed the Blacksmith the iron. I could feel the heat on my ass as the blacksmith positioned himself for the burn. "Left cheek," he explained, "So her master can fondle it."

I heard the blacksmith's twangy voice over the loud speaker. "Hey, there', pard-ners! Listen up, cuz we got ourselves a special event here at the Bee & Brand. See those cheeks flinch?" he chuckled, pointing up at the monitor where my ass cheeks were indeed flexing in nervous anticipation. "This little Sandy Foot Girl fetched a record price in last week's auction, so we're gonna give her a real TEXAS sized branding, right on her sweet little ass! Let's count 'er down, 10 seconds to make this little Sandy Foot Girl a real slave!"

"Geez, look at her drool. She really does look like a horse," Jennifer said, looking at the enormous closeup of my panicked face on the monitor.

"Yeah, especially with her nostrils flaring," Hillary agreed.

"Slave girls got shit for brains, but she knows what's coming," a boy behind me chuckled.

Even from a foot away I could feel the heat coming off the branding head, rolling over my bottom and up my back in waves.

Skeeter's girlfriend Hillary, little bitch that she was, picked up her fiddle, and began playing "Turkey in the Straw." The music was bright and cheerful, and Hillary did a little tap dance as she played, adding to the festive, party mood. Hillary, keeping the beat, grinning at me as the crowd clapped along, as the manager used the loudspeaker to lead them in the countdown.

"TEN... NINE..."

My mind was swimming, as if I were in a fog. This couldn't be happening. I was a rich and powerful person. I wasn't some nameless Pleasure Slut, waiting to get her butt branded by a bunch of high school students as part of the lunchtime show. No. This couldn't be real! My words from the other night at dinner returned to haunt me.

"I'm not afraid of anything. Fear is for girls who don't have platinum cards."

Suddenly, as if by magic I was on the Gold Coast, back in Chicago, looking over the top of my sunglasses as I surveyed my new Lamborghini Huracan EVO in the showroom on Lake Shore Drive. It was a bright sunny day, and the air conditioning washed over me.

I was dressed in my ridiculously expensive Armani designer jacket, which was long enough that I really didn't need a skirt, or underwear of any sort, for that matter. My salesman, Enrico, was watching me clickety-clack around the car in my high heel shoes, trying to keep his tongue in his mouth as he wondered what I looked like under my $4,000 jacket.

Prick teasing the help, particularly salesmen desperate for a commission, was so much fun.

"Well, the red definitely makes a statement," I conceded, looking at the car critically. "Are you sure this is your MOST expensive sports car? Fully loaded?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Absolutely Ma'am," Enrico said, straining to be utterly servile to me even as he dreamed of fucking me.

"Well, I have to admit it drips money, and power," I said, eying it critically as I once again enjoyed doing a model walk around the car for my -- and Enrico's -- viewing pleasure. "But I want it to scream ME. Hmmmm.... But I want more... I know. Could you monogram it?"

The cool of the car dealership was replaced by a wave of heat from the branding iron as the countdown continued. "EIGHT... SEVEN..." I tensed, pulling against my straps. I tried to bend my fingers back, straining to reach the buckle. I could almost touch it... but not quite.

I was slave naked, with my legs spread, and everything I had was up on the huge monitors for one and all to see. Oh, how I longed for the Armani jacket and Prada shoes I had worn at the car dealership that day! But my purse was in Rita's car, which was parked 15 miles away at Six Flags, and my clothes were in the charity dumpster in the parking lot. Instead of $69,000 diamond earrings, I had a 69-cent blue tag marking me as a blue state girl, with a SOLD sticker pasted on top. The humiliating animal tag flopped against my face as I futility attempted to jerk myself free.

The crowd was laughing, and clapping along as they joined in the count down. "SIX... FIVE..." Like a grinning Nero, Hillary was fiddling away.

No. No. This couldn't be happening. Skeeter would call. Rita would intervene. "I'm a rich and powerful person", I repeated. "Money talks. Money talks."

"Money talks," Ma'am," Enrico repeated. "For you, anything. What would you like?"

"A monogram. My first name, Anne, in Apple Chancellery font. I want a beautifully flowing cursive. Extremely elegant. Nothing tacky. I want everyone to know who owns this car."

"Of course, Ma'am. And where would you like the monogram?"

I walked around the car several times, in circles. I knew my prancing around was driving poor Enrico crazy, as he tried to stare up my legs to my secret treasures whenever I leaned over to rub an imaginary spot on the flawless car.

I took my time, savoring the moment. Possession, totally owning something, whether it was an absurdly ostentatious car or Enrico's bulging eyes, thrilled me.

I kept circling, enjoying the look of both my new car, and the bulge straining against his trousers. Dream on, Willy Lowman.

I circled my car like a cat circling its prey. Where should my new car be marked? Where would my brand of ownership look the best. The door? The hood. No. Finally, I stopped. Here. On the rear."

"Near the Lamborghini label?" he said, eager to please me, eager to get it right.

"No, HERE," I said, lifting the tip of my Prada shoe to the exact spot on the bumper I wanted. The strappy shoe was open toe, and I touched my big red toe to the exact spot I wanted the monogram to rest.

Enrico's eyes bulged. Lifting my foot caused my dress to "accidentally" raise, revealing my landing strip and everything between it. "Can you see?" I said, enjoying the tease. "I want my name to run right along HERE," I said.

Enrico's tongue literally protruded from his mouth as I dragged my toe along the left rear bumper, spreading my legs for his viewing pleasure.

"Perhaps I should get my camera," he gasped, staring between my legs as I wiggled my toes against the cool metal.

I wiggled my toes as the countdown continued. "THREE... TWO..."

"Right on her left rear bumper!" someone in the crowd shouted as the count neared its conclusion. One of the overhead monitors at the Big D was focused on my left ass cheek, another on the glowing yellow branding iron, still pulsing from the heat. The jumbo-tron screen made it as tall as I was, and twice as wide.

I had the curious sensation of seeing my own face up on the huge screen, a ridiculous forced smile on my face from the gag, eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, drooling like an imbecile.

No. That couldn't be me. I didn't look like that. I was back on Lake Shore Drive, buying an overpriced sportscar.

"I will make the brand is very discreet, Ma'am," Enrico promised.

"No, I want it BIG," I said. "I want everyone to see who the owner is."

"ONE!"

I got my wish as Skeeter's enormous doodle bug drawing was pressed into my ass, marking me as his possession. After having already been badged with The Big D's logo, I can't say the pain was a surprise to me, but it didn't make it any easier to bear. Once again, everything went white, only this time, the "Slave Obey" under my nose kept me conscious, as Jennifer and Hillary giggled at my distress. "No, no, you little piggy. No napping. We want you awake for the whole thing!"

Behind me I could hear voices as I struggled to pass out, but could not. Time stopped as the endless pain in my ass allowed me to process all the chattering voices behind me, one and a time.

"He was right. She's peeing like a water sprinkler."

"What do you expect? That's what pigs do when you put the iron to their ass."

"No dignity at all."

"Still smiling, though, ha-ha!" With the gag in my mouth, I had no choice.

"Yeah, slave girls love their brands."

"I think she's going to bite through her gag."

"I love it when they brand Yankees."

"Yeah, blue state girls don't look so hoity toity when you give 'em the iron."

I could hear a voice in my head as I smelled my own burning flesh, and heard my ass sizzle. Much to my surprise, it wasn't Rita's voice, or Skeeters, but my own.

"Okay, little slave girl, now you're getting the branding of your dreams, right on your slave girl ass. How many times have you enjoyed a girl's night in, teasing yourself with your vibrator while you imagined yourself getting branded? Oohh, feel the burn. What a nice work out your ass is getting! No pain, no gain, right, slave girl?"

"Remember that time when you held Skeeter's drawing up in the mirror, next to your butt, and wondered what it might look like on your cute little bottom? Remember all those times you prick-teased him about it?

'If I were your slave girl, Skeeter, you could burn that little doodle bug into my ass instead of your boots. Then everyone would know I belonged to you.' You were secretly hoping for this, weren't you? That's why you gave him those expensive branded boots, and branded hat, and the gold cufflinks, and the custom tie. You were begging for it, weren't you?

Remember when you took him to that fancy leather goods store, how you squeezed his hand and clenched your butt cheeks when you watched them burn the logo into his leather bag? It was quite the little naughty thrill, imagining it was your tight, round bottom that was being marked as Skeeter's property."