"Any Chance?" Auction Pt. 07

"That's why you put his Skeeter drawing up on your wall next to the Picasso. You were hoping that someday, somehow, he would give it to you. You enjoyed the fantasy of it, but now it's time to enjoy the reality. But your Platinum card won't help you now, little girl. Now you're a real Sandy Foot Girl, bought and sold. It was your bright idea to let Rita strip you down buck naked and give you a real run through at The Big D. You wanted to see what it would be like. Now your papers are in her purse, and Skeeter's doodle is on your butt. Today, your dream has come true."

Hillary, showing me no mercy, inserted the shovel-like handle of the iron that had just branded Skeeter's doodle bug on my ass and began to move it around. Can I be blamed if I tried to ease the pain a bit by pushing back, and enjoying the sensation? Can I be blamed if I humped the handle, like a bitch in heat?

Jennifer, Steven, and the Blacksmith loosened the straps a bit, not as a mercy, but to make it easier for me to humiliate myself by fucking the handle of the branding iron that had burned Skeeter's Doodle bug on my ass. Heedless of the show I was putting on, I gasped with pleasure and rode my branding iron, the blue cattle tag in my ear flopping against the side of my head.

Hillary used her other hand to record the show for Skeeter as she provided the play-by-play. "That's it. Hump the iron. Hump the iron that's just branded your ass. Show everyone what a little whore you really are. I don't want anyone to feel sorry for you. When I met you at the party, you were such a stuck-up bitch, looking me up and down like I was some sort of third-rate competition. Well, I'm in charge now, and you'll dance to my fiddle. That's it, squirm, slave girl. I want everyone to look at your big pussy up on the monitor, riding your branding iron, quivering and shaking like jelly at the thought of having your ass burned again."

I wanted to stop, but I couldn't. It felt too good. Rubbing my pussy wasn't a choice, or an action, it was part of who I was. Somehow, I knew it was I was meant to do.

"That's it! All wet and sloppy, just like a real Pleasure Slut! Show everyone how much you LIKE it!"

I looked up at the monitor. To my horror, I saw that my gaping pussy was now grasping, sucking, and twisting around the handle like it was trying to eat the hook used to hang the iron on the wall. Hillary was cleverly (and cruelly) moving the stick down to tweak my clit, urging me on to shame myself, much to everyone's delight.

My pussy was displayed on all of the monitors around The Bee & Brand, on screens large enough to make it look like a soggy walk-in closet. Behind me I could hear the restaurant patrons commenting as I pleasured myself on my branding stick.

"Look at her go. It's like some slut vacuum cleaner."

"This is why you need to keep Pleasure Sluts kenneled at night, Fred. They'll hump anything that they can get their snatches against."

"It's disgusting," a female voice observed. "I'm glad they branded that cockroach on her ass."

"Yeah. Somebody should spray some Raid on her snatch," her friend agreed.

"Wow, I never thought that slave girls loved being branded so much."

"Yeah, when they're born to the collar, it's built into their brains. It makes them feel loved."

My attention was drawn away from my pussy toward the doodle bug that had just been burned into the center of my ass. It was just the oblong body and head, with the antenna and legs missing. The ridges were raised. I could smell the burn, mixed in with the slave stink of my sloppy wet pussy.

Suddenly I was in my penthouse in Chicago, enjoying my view of Lake Michigan as I sipped my $2,000 a bottle Chateau Lafite Rothschild. Looking at my nephew Skeeter, I traced the outline of the doodle bug he had branded into his backpack with the red painted toenail sticking out of my Gucci shoes.

Using my best coochie-coochy-coo voice, I teased, "If I were your slave girl, would you brand your little doodle bug on my round, bare, slave girl bottom?"

Skeeter, dumbstruck, stared at my sexy feet. I smiled and made a sizzling sound as I touched my finger to the seat of my designer jeans.

"I dunno. Uh... I mean, only if you wanted me to, Anna Annie."

"Oh, you bad boy! You naughty, naughty boy!" I said, running my bare toe up his leg. "I should spank you for that! Of course, I wouldn't want you to. What sort of girl do you think I am, having that great big doodle bug branded on my butt?"

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be sorry," I said chiding him. "Women want REAL men, and real men aren't sorry when they brand slave girls. Now, tell me: do you think it would hurt?"

"Maybe, I guess," he said. "Although in school they say slave girls don't feel pain the way humans do."

"Are you saying I'm not human?" I pouted.

"Not if you were a slave girl," he said, trying to backtrack. "I mean, not legally. Legally, you'd be livestock... and after a while, not human in your head, either, I think."

Taking another sip of my delicious red wine, I rose, and turned. "Of course, I do sort of wonder what it would look like," I said, running my hand over the curve of my bottom. "Maybe a teeny-tiny little brand?" I teased.

"No," he said flatly, his eyes glued to my curvy backside. "You'd want it big enough for everyone to see the detail. Remember, a quality brand is a mark of ownership. A slave girl should take pride in her master's mark, and be proud to show it to the world."

I licked the wine off my lips as I stared over my shoulder at my bottom, wondering how the enormous brand Skeeter was imagining for me would look.

I didn't need to wonder anymore. The brand was burned into my bottom, and the little doodle bug he had sketched in grade school now marked me as his possession, for one and all to see.

"Do we get to do the legs next?" Jennifer asked, her voice betraying her eagerness.

"No, sorry kids. I got a note on this one that we're saving the legs for later. Apparently, the master blacksmith has been working on something special, and he wants to do the work himself."

There was a general groan of disappointment as I was released from the branding rack. I tried to stand, but crumpled to the floor. I tried to walk, but with the enormous brand on my ass, could not. Unceremoniously, I was thrown over the shoulder of a huge slave wrangler, my ass pointed skywards, and walked through the restaurant and out the door.

I was greeted with a smattering of applause as I passed, although I knew the applause was for my ass, not me.

"Sweet brand."

"Yeah, they do a nice job around here."

"Can't believe they do that for free."

"Yeah, it's a pretty good deal, considering the level of craftsmanship."

"That's why The Big D is the best."

"I can smell her pussy."

"What a slut!"

"I'm glad they branded her."

"It shows them their place. I wish they could brand the little sluts every day."

"That's why they give 'em temporaries, I think."

"Nice brand, Moo-Moo."

"Disgusting little piggy, isn't she?"

I noticed the waitress, Veronica, was trussed up with her legs spread. Several of her fellow waiters were doing a bread serving, rubbing her wet pussy with the porous bread as she pushed back against their hands and moaned in pleasure. Her response was understandable, but I wondered if her father, seeing the video, might not decide to save himself her Ivy League tuition and sell her to The Big D.

Veronica was not my worry. Exhausted, physically and emotionally, I didn't resist as they cuffed my hands to the wire wall of my slave cage to keep me from touching my brand. I was sleeping on straw, with a rough wool blanket as a sort of pillow. The cream they rubbed on my ass was cool, and eased the pain, if only a bit. Despite the searing throbbing in my bottom, I passed out, and fell into a restful slave-girl sleep.

I was sleeping so deeply I hadn't even felt them remove my cuffs, and only awoke when a steel pole hooked my collar and dragged me out of my cage. The slave monger, holding my pole, kept my nose pressing against the cement floor, and the blue slave tag stapled through my ear with the SOLD sticker was lying flat on the floor next to my face. I recognized the garish boots in front of me immediately.

"Darned if you don't smell like a pack of sow in heat," Rita said in her Texas twang. "Geez, you stink like a whorehouse on top a cesspool."

"Probably should delouse her a'gin," the wrangler said. "Sometimes them blankets git crotch crickets and nits in 'em and stuff."

Instinctively, I reached for my long hair, and began scratching. Lice? Could it be possible? The slave monger above me pressed down on the pole to press my nose into the cement.

"Her snatch is shaved," Rita said. "Ayn't no bugs in that rug."

"Yeah, but they can still get crotch-roaches," the wrangler said. "The only way to be sure is to scrub 'em out before you take 'em home."

"Don't worry, we will," Rita said, her voice oozing disgust.

"Rita? Are you going to... free me..." I said plaintively, my eyes staring at the toes of her boots.

"That's not how you address a free woman, slave girl," the slave monger said, pressing my face down harder into the cement.

"Um... Mistress?" I said, struggling to think of Rita in such a way.

"Well, lookee there," she replied, her voice oozing sarcasm. "Looks like Skeeter's whipped a little respect into Miss LaSalle Street," she said, with a voice more satisfied than angry. "All nice and humble, now that ya' got a brand and some nice red welts on yer' butt."

My bottom! Yes, Skeeter had whipped my ass off the auction block, a final, disgraceful humiliation in an arousing experience I shuddered to recall. What's worse, I knew that she was looking right at the red stripes as I clenched my bottom cheeks and squirmed in humiliation.

Growing up together, Rita had always enjoyed reprimanding me and upbraiding me for my mistakes. It had been one of her great pleasures when I was a teenager, but it was a passion she hardly ever got to enjoy once I became mega successful, and acquired the power and attitude that only vast sums of money can buy.

Now, however, the worm had turned, and I was at Rita's feet, literally. The fact that I had been so dismissive of my sister, and her entire Southern red state lifestyle, made my humiliation all the worse.

"Did you see him auction me?" I said, hoping desperately that she had not.

"Of course, I did, dumb-dumb. I'm his mama, and I wanted to make sure my boy did good. And he did MIGHTY fine. Truth is, I normally don't enjoy watching livestock auctions, as it's sort of loud and the whole place jist' smells like pee. If ya' wanna hear the truth plain and unvarnished, yer' sale was no different than when this place sold pigs, except the piggies smelled better than you do right now. Though, I gotta admit, little sister, ya' really put on quite the show!"

Although she couldn't see my face, I grimaced as my sister compared my auction to the sale of hogs. Flashing back, I recalled going with Skeeter to the Texas State Fair, which was just a few miles away from The Big D, at Fair Park in Dallas. Being Skeeter's cool, hip Aunt, I went on all of the thrill rides with him, including The Cliff Hanger and The Beast and the 'crazy' rides Rita and Rosco wouldn't go near.

I was wearing the midriff baring Big D T-shirt Skeeter had gotten me the previous Christmas, and when Skeeter insisted, we waited for the front log of The Texas Log Flume ride. I got SOAKED to the skin, with my thin T-shirt molding around my breasts and pink pokies like a thin layer of white body paint. Skeeter loved parading me up and down the Midway, holding hands, with everyone staring at my boobs, thinking I was his hot Yankee girlfriend. We even got a photo of me, Skeeter, and a guy dressed up as "Big Tex", the fair mascot, with both Skeeter and Big Tex staring at my tits.

I spent $700 letting Skeeter win a $2 stuffed toy for me by trying to shoot baskets, and he insisted I do "the ladder" (me trying to crawl across a horizontal rope ladder without falling off) over-and-over. With my short-shorts and form fitting T-shirt, we drew quite a crowd of appreciative dads.

What a naughty boy my nephew was. More than once, I threatened to give him a good spanking.

My T-shirt had mostly dried out by the time we met up with Rita and Rosco, although Rita made me put on her jacket, "to be decent". As a family, we went to the Big Tex Youth Livestock Auction, which was, as Rita said, noisy and stinky. One of Skeeter's friends was in the show, and I remember clapping and cheering as he led his sow into the auction ring and paraded her around.

"Someday that'll be you up at the podium, holding the gavel," I said, whispering in Skeeter's ear. "Only difference will be your piggies will have two feet instead of four, because they'll be hot, naked slave girls." It was so fun making Skeeter blush!

I had a lot of fun teasing Skeeter that day, although now I was the one who reeked of urine and sawdust and whatever "crotch critters" had been on the scratchy wool blanket I'd slept on. The main source of my stench was my own slave stink, which embarrassed me even more than my collar, ear tag, or nakedness.

Even now, I couldn't believe this was actually happening, and I was naked at my sister's feet. I had felt so powerful and in control at the State Fair. I never dreamed Skeeter would actually sell me.

Or did I? I did enjoy making him blush as I asked him for all the juicy details of how he might make me pose, and what sort of price I'd get on the block. Now, Skeeter was my auctioneer, and The Big D was my Texas State Fair. I was the branded sow, and Rita, towering over me, my all-powerful owner.

"Did you enjoy watching them auction me," I said through clenched teeth.

"Can't say I exactly hated it, seeing all the lip ya gave me. Gotta admit, it was quite a hoot, when he put on that tape of ya' being all smug and lecturin' everybody about feminism, all the while you're paddlin' yer little pink canoe for everbody-and-their-dawg to see. You sure did look WOKE when he cracked that whip on yer' ass."

Rita guffawed loudly, and I felt glad I didn't have to look her in the eye as I relived the shame of the block. I hadn't been able to see the audience, because of the bright lights shining in my eyes, and the way Skeeter had kept my naked, sandy, sweaty Pleasure Slut body squarely focused on fetching the highest price possible, courtesy of his whip. But in my mind, I could clearly picture Rita, watching smugly as I pranced around naked on the block, an idiotic slave grin plastered on my mug, displaying every crevice of my body, as Skeeter cracked the whip.

"Hard to feel sorry fer ya, given the way ya were askin' fer it, and the way ya were so mean to Skeeter and Rosco. Kind of like chickens comin' home to roost, ask me."

She was right. She had warned me not to put on the collar, but I refused to listen. She had tried to talk me out of it, dozens of times, but I knew better.

"Kinda surprised at much fun I had, watchin' my boy teasin' up them bids while ya' teased that hot, stinky slave gash of yers. Got top dollar fer ya', more than I'd pay, that's for darn sure. Course, I ayn't egg-zactly in the market for what The Big D's sellin'. But there's plenty that are. Everybody's tellin' me I'd be crazy not to take the money and run."

The implicit threat in her last sentence caused a shiver to run down my back. It was the fear only a slave girl can know. I knelt before her, buck naked, my striped ass sticking in the air, my nose inches from her trashy boots. Rita was in control, her power unlimited and unconditional.

"Please, Rita," I pleaded, whispering her name in the hopes the slave monger wouldn't punish me for being too familiar. "Please don't sell me!"

"Little late for that, little sister. Yer SOLD. Signed, & sealed, De-loused and De-livered, as they say, though I still think ya' could use a good scrub down. The only question now is whether or not I go to the trouble of chasin' the horse back in the barn. Not sure why I should. Seems to me you might end up in a collar one way or another. Only difference is, this time Skeeter gets the glory, and I get the money to give him everything he deserves."

"Yes," I said, staring at the cement. "Skeeter does deserve the best."

"Damn right. Truth is, I was thinkin' of letting you go this morning, then Skeeter showed 'em using yer hot pussy as a big old honey pot at lunch. Kind of disgustin', if ya' ask me, but Rosco said being disgustin' is what Pleasure Sluts are all about. Lookin' at ya on the floor there, seein' as how you stink like a puta on Cinco Da Mayo, I can't say he's wrong 'bout that."

Rita's tone grew harsher as her motherly scolding built to its crescendo. "With that stupid blue sold tag dangling from yer' ear, ya' don't look no different than the rest of the slave tail in this place. If I didn't have your cage number, I woulda walked right past ya, not even blinked. Maybe I should jist keep walkin."

Rita paused for effect, to let her dressing-down -- and the finality of what might await me - sink in.

The worst part was that Rita was right. There was nothing special about me anymore. I was no longer a stinking rich member of the.001%, with a JP Morgan Reserve Card to buy anything I desired. Now I was just a stinking Pleasure Slut, tagged and sold.

If Rita walked out of here, my processing would be completed, and I would be delivered to the buyer. I'd be gone, and there would be nothing left of me, save my contribution to The Big D's gross margin.

"If ya' didn't wanna get sold, ya' shouldn't have done such a good job showin' off yer hoo-haw to every fella' who wanted to take a look. Skeeter gits a mighty fine commission off yer sale. Thinkin' of how you acted on the block, and forgettin' I'm yer sister, can you give me one reason I shouldn't let the sale go through?"

I needed a reason, and fast. We had been sisters, but at the moment she was anything BUT that. I couldn't argue that I didn't have it coming, as that had been well established. My sales price had been excellent, and had made Skeeter a superstar. There would be no angry bidders to deal with if my sale went through, and less paperwork, to boot, as Rita might say.

Rita stood before me, impatiently tapping her boot in front of my fearful eyes as my addled, slave girl brain struggled to come up with a reason for her to stop my sale.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

"WELL?" she asked pointedly.

I considered arguing that I wasn't actually a slave girl, but quickly abandoned the argument as patently ridiculous. Naked, collared, with a blue SOLD tag dangling from my ear, I could imagine Rita's sarcastic, "Oh, REALLY?" as I tried to argue that the completed, legally binding paperwork that identified me as a slave was somehow fraudulent.

"Got a conspiracy theory you'd like to share?" she asked.

I always made fun of Rita and Rosco for questioning the 2020 election result. Now I was putting forth a conspiracy theory even more ridiculous. The naked Pleasure Slut she had watched her son sell off the auction block was, in fact, a free woman. Yeah, and the Martians were hiding JFK Jr. and Bigfoot at the Illuminati's secret headquarters in Area 51.

Rita switched rhythm's, tapping out an executioner's drum roll on her faux imitation leather purse, and punctuating the final beat with a tap of her toe in my face

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat, TAP!

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat, TAP!

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat, TAP!

My brain froze. With my long neck stretched out and my nose touching the ground, I could do nothing but wait for the axe to fall as the execution drum roll sounded.

"That's what I thought," she said, in finger wagging tone. "Ya ayn't got nuttin, do ya, slave girl?"