"Any Chance?" Auction Pt. 08

Although I was gagged, Professor Atkins, an expert in neuroscience and slave psychology, understood me fully, and gently stroked the tears out of my eyes as I attempted to grunt out my thanks. "That's okay, Northwestern. I know you're grateful. I'll let you give me your slave girl thanks."

Moving around to the front, Atkins unzipped his pants. Atkins smiled down at me as he put his girthy, fat tool in my mouth. I immediately went to work, determined to make him come as hard as possible, to thank him in the only way a girl like me was worthy to thank a master as skilled and talented as the great Professor Merle Atkins.

Using my tongue, I pleasured his sweaty pecker for all I was worth, as he egged me on. "That's it Northwestern, show me what you can do. Suck off the man who burned Skeeter's doodle bug into your sweet ass. Prove yourself worthy of the time I spent crafting your iron. Get a picture of this, Skeeter. I want everyone to see her with my dick in her mouth."

"This is the sort of Ted Talk a girl like you should give, with your tongue swirling around my sausage. Not looking so hoity-toity now, are you? Damn, you're good at this. Girls are usually pretty sloppy with these 'O' ring gags in their mouth, but not you, you figured it out right away. Clever girl! Okay, here it comes. OHHHHHH!

"YES, YES", he yelled, as he shot his salty load in my mouth. Spurt, spurt, spurt. He came so hard he almost fell over, and Skeeter steadied him. It was a slave girl triumph, I was proud that, for a moment at least, I caused my branding master to totally lose control.

My blacksmith's scum was everywhere, on my tongue, on my lips, dribbling down my chin. "I haven't come that hard since I was 18, girl," he said, tussling my hair. "You ever need a reference as a cocksucker, or somebody to do the other cheek, you give me a call," he added with a wink.

At last, they took the gag out of my mouth. I was careful not to swallow Professor Atkin's spunk, as permission had not been granted.

My legs were so weak they had to lift me off the branding bench. When they showed me my ass in the mirror, I couldn't believe it. It was a perfect replica of the drawing hanging next to my Picasso in Chicago, only better. The ridge burns really did make it seem to be 3-D, and Merle had added perspective, so the bug really did seem to be gripping my ass. As I clenched my cheeks, the bug seemed to move, and hold on tighter.

"Whadday think, Anna Annie?" Skeeter asked.

"It's beautiful," I gasped, barely able to speak. "All the other slave sluts will be so jealous."

My reaction might seem odd, but I loved status symbols, and having such a unique brand was the biggest status symbol a slave girl could have. It proved I had a rich and generous master, who cared enough to give me the very best.

Pleasure Sluts will fight over slave candy or slave beads or other trinkets, to establish their status over the other girls. Let the silly sluts fight over their worthless beads, I thought. My brand was my treasure. I knew Skeeter and Professor Atkins had given me a gift I, as a mere slave girl, could never repay.

Skeeter was holding me, but he let me drop to my knees.

"Thank you, Professor Atkins, for your magnificent brand," I said. Lowering my head, I looked up at him, then bowed my head to kiss the tip of his dirty boots.

Turning to Skeeter, I stared at his boots, at the logo I had paid to burn on the leather, identical to the one he had burned on to my butt. "Thank you, Master, for sharing your talent, and for marking me as your own." Slowly, lovingly, I kissed the custom boots I had bought my beloved nephew. The boots belong to him, as did my slave girl ass.

Skeeter and Professor Atkins talked for a moment, about what I do not know. I was a slave girl and showing my master my submission was all that mattered.

Skeeter threw me over his shoulder, so my ass was facing forward as he walked me back to the kennels. Much to my pride, several of Skeeter's friends remarked on my amazing brand as we passed.

"Nice logo on her butt, Skeeter. You setting up your own auction house, buddy?"

"Wow that's a doozy. Mind if I stop to take a picture?"

"Damn, is that thing moving?"

I felt a surge of pride as I was put in my kennel for the night. There were about 20 girls, all freshly branded, but mine was unique. I had fetched the most coin, and had been the most lascivious slut on the block.

I was the best.

All of us were exhausted, physically and mentally. For many, it was their first night of being a slave. Crawling up the side of the cage, I managed to get my lips around the penis head spout of the water bottle attached to the side of the cage, sucking out the delicious, sperm infused slave water.

It was a chilly December night, and the warehouse was cold, so we dog piled our naked bodies together for warmth. The other girl's butt brands looked common, and cheap. Exhausted, I fell into a deep and restful sleep, gently fondling my throbbing, beautiful, one-of-a-kind brand.

XXX

In the morning, I was woken by a slave wrangler, who scanned my SIN number and let me out of my kennel. He looked to be about 19, and was wearing cowboy boots and a hat, and had a toothpick lodged in his mouth.

"Take a drink, and a piss," he said. Hearing his Texas twang, I recognized him as Hunk, the teenager who had checked me in when I first came to The Big D. How long had it been? It seemed like years ago.

Hunk had introduced me to my slavery, and received me in, and had nearly drowned me in the delousing tank. He had fingered my pussy, commenting on my wetness, and asked Rita about "crotch crickets" before dumping me in the slave dip.

I hadn't thought much of him that night, but as I looked up at him now, I stared at him with slave girl eyes. He looked so powerful, strong, and in control! Oh, I loved Hunk so!

Eager to please Hunk, I didn't hesitate to lift my leg and pee in the grate, and even managed to lean over and suck some delicious sperm water out of the slave girl water bottle screwed into the wall while I was doing it, so he wouldn't have to wait.

My master opened the door of a medium sized cage, about the size one might use to transport a Golden Retriever. He tapped his boot on the cage impatiently, indicating I should crawl inside.

"Do you remember me?" I asked.

His puzzled expression made it clear my question was absurd. I was a slave girl. Why would he remember me? It was like a box in an Amazon warehouse asking a forklift driver if he remembered it.

I was inventory. Hunk simply didn't care.

Hunk kicked the side of the cage, indicating I should enter. He hadn't bothered talking to me that night, directing all of his conversation to Rita, and he certainly wasn't going to waste time talking to me now.

"I'm supposed to be released, Master," I said hopefully. "I'm free... I think. Can I talk to Rosco?"

Looking at me, he sighed, and slipped a slave bit in my mouth, ending my annoying slave girl chatter. Then he cuffed my hands behind my back and forced me down onto all fours.

Slipping his fingers into my pussy, he copped a quick feel. I was slave wet, much to my surprise.

Why was I slave wet? I had just woken up.

"Juicy," he observed, as he pulled his fingers out of me. "Nice brand, too." It wasn't directed at me, and it certainly wasn't a compliment. Clearly, he was just talking to himself. Once again, he kicked the side of the cage.

Dutifully, I crawled into the cage, far less comfortable than I would have been if I had obeyed him without protest. "Slave girl's mouths are not for talking," as the old adage goes.

He put me on a dolly, and merrily I rolled along, destination unknown. After a scan of my collar at the door, and a quick check of my paperwork by a bored looking security guard, I was wheeled outside to the back of a rusty old pickup truck that had seen better days. I felt myself tense, as I wondered if I was being misdelivered.

It wasn't until I saw Skeeter's boots, and realized that I was going to his home, and that I was looking at Rosco's beyond crappy old truck, that I began to bounce around my cage like a puppy being released from the kill shelter.

"That's right, sweetie, you got a new master," Hunk said as he raised my cage into the truck bed.

"Should I use the ratchet strap, so she doesn't slide around?" Hunk asked.

Although I couldn't see him, I heard Skeeter's lackadaisical twang. "Naw, don't bother, Hunk. The cage is heavy enough she won't bounce out."

I didn't bounce out, but I did bounce, and slide, and chew my gag, as I endured the most terrifying 30 minutes of my life as Skeeter sped me to The Ritz Carton like he was competing for a NASCAR win. Every bump forced my sore rear end against the cage metal.

With the casualness of a man who had gotten very used to living in The Ritz Carlton on his rich aunt's dime, Skeeter tossed the keys to the valet. I couldn't hear what Skeeter said, but my cage was unloaded and I was placed in storage with the other luggage, in a room behind the front desk. It was all slightly absurd, and I smiled as I imagined Rosco's shitty truck parked next to the Lamborghinis and Porsches, but it was no more ridiculous than a naked, caged slave girl stuffed into a hot, unlit shed between the Prada bags and Louis Vuitton suitcases.

Time doesn't go fast in luggage storage, and I wondered what was going on. At last, Rita showed up, and sprung me.

My cage door had a combination lock, which Rita knew. My cuffs were another issue. "Can you get these off her paws?" she asked the bellman.

"I'll call the concierge, Ma'am. I'm sure he can help."

While we waited, Rita did a slow walk around, looking me over. "Wow, Skeeter really went to town on yer' ass, little sister," she said, letting out a slow whistle. "Ayn't never seen a brand that big."

"It feels big, too," I replied.

The concierge was pleasant and nice, at least to Rita. I recognized him, as he had gotten me theater tickets on a previous visit, but now, other than a quick ogle of my naked body, I was ignored. I was grateful, for having him recognize me would have been all the more humiliating.

Fortunately, he knew his business, after quickly checking the model of my restraints, he located the magical key to release my wrists. The finer hotels could always help you with your slave girl.

"What about her dog collar?" Rita asked.

"That's electronic," he said. "I'm afraid I can't be of any assistance, Ma'am."

"Can you call maintenance, and saw it off?"

"It might have a charge, or an explosive. I wish I could help, because Miss Powers is one of our most valued guests. But it's safest to get it done professionally, Ma'am."

It was surreal, as the naked girl whose tits he was ogling was Miss Powers, but no mind.

Rita turned to me. "They put ya' through the dip before you came here?" she asked.

"Um, no. I peed," I said, hoping that would appease her.

"You got any creepy crawlers, or crotch crickets?" she said, wrinkling her nose.

"I dunno. I kinda slept in a pile of naked slave girls last night. We were rolling around a lot," I confessed.

"What am I gonna do with you, slave girl?" she said, rolling her eyes.

"I can check her out," the concierge said.

Rita nodded, glad to be relieved of an unpleasant task. I knelt before the man who had once gotten me tickets to Garth Brooks. "Oh, yes, here's a critter. And another. I'm afraid you've got one dirty little bunny here, Ma'am."

"Can you clean her up?" Rita said. "I don't want no crotch critters in her box."

"Neither do we, Ma'am. May I recommend a full head shave?"

"Naw, that's okay. Just give her a good scrub."

"Rita?" I said, as she turned and left the room. Before I could protest, she was gone.

The staff was not mean to me, but it was clear that everything about me disgusted them. I was taken outside behind the hotel, where a teenager who worked at the spa scrubbed me down with disinfectants and a long handled wooden brush. She was tough on my hair and between my legs, but seeing as how I could barely walk from the brand, took it easy on my ass.

The scrub down was thorough, but not cruel. An hour later, I was leashed and delivered to my suite on the top floor, feeling like a puppy who had just been given a bath.

"Sorry I can't get that collar off, but Rosco and Skeeter went back to work. We'll get it tomorrow."

"That's okay," I said. "I'm sort of used to it, actually. It makes me feel... secure."

"Rosco warned me you'd probably be all slave crazy. He actually suggested I keep you as a slave for a week, but I thought that was bullshit since you've only been in the collar a couple of days. Hopefully, you don't prove me wrong."

I was astonished. A couple of days? Could that be right?

"I'll try, Mistress," I said, bowing my head.

"My name's Rita, and I'm your sister. You smell like bug spray, girl. Go take a shower."

"Where?" I said, looking around the room.

"You can use the shower for humans, Annie," she said. "You ayn't a slave girl no more!"

For the next week or so, Rita lovingly nursed me back to full strength. I was uncollared and given my old clothes back. She rubbed cream on my brand, and the welts on my ass left from Skeeter's whip.

We ate room service for the first few days, which was quite a step up from orange slime. I asked for slave kibble, but Annie refused, saying "You gotta get The Big D out of yer' head, girl."

"You can take the slave girl out of the collar, but you can't take the slave out of the slave girl," as the adage goes.

Gradually, I did recover. The girl who had deloused me was shocked when she was called up to my room to give me a pedicure, but quickly recovered and did an excellent job. The concierge, alerted to the strangeness of a slave girl acting like a free woman in one of his suites, paid us a visit. When Rita showed him my return ticket paperwork, he looked at me, and finally recognized me. He said I should call him personally if I needed "anything to make your stay more enjoyable."

It turns out I wasn't pregnant. Rita said that they put birth control in the slave kibble, although she wasn't sure whether it was in the batch I got. I asked her if she was really going to send me to the breeding barn, to give birth in the straw.

"I looked into it," she admitted. "Might be fun to have another little Skeeter runnin' around, and it seemed like a pretty good deal, seein' as how all it would cost me is yer' slave milk."

"A good deal?" I snapped. "It doesn't seem like a good deal to me! I can't believe you looked into that."

"Hold yer horses, little sister," Rita said, switching to her matronly tone. "Why do you think Skeeter has to take all them animal husbandry courses? Yer the one who wanted to play slave girl, remember? Well, slave girls get bred, and hung up by their heels, and looked after by vets, and sent out to the birthin' barn to drop their pups, and git' hooked up to the milking machine, and I don't reckon nobody gives a good garsh darn WHAT they think about it, like they can think anything at all. We clear on that, little sister?"

Rita was right. I wanted to play slave girl, and slave girls exist to give pleasure and profit to their masters. If that meant me being hooded, then seeded by a dozen muscular male slaves chosen for their genes, then I had no say in the matter. I'd give birth in the barn, with the vet putting the stick in my mouth, and maybe some ag students or even an amused tour group watching.

Although I had only been enslaved for a couple of days, "deprogramming" me required a significant amount of effort on Rita's part, as she eased me back into my old mindset.

"For Pete's sake, put some clothes on! Ya' can't go get ice buck nay-ked."

"Sorry, Annie, but I gotta tie yer hands to the bed posts, to keep ya' from rubbin' all night. Don't worry none, I'm right here in the other bed, jist like when we was kids."

"Nope, ya' can't wear no collar. I'll going to let you wear yer pearls, though, so ya' got that sense of security."

"That's room service. Go sit in the bedroom while he sets up. I don't want ya' trying to blow him again as a tip."

Wearing clothes was a real struggle for me. I had gotten used to the freedom of being slave naked, of feeling my breasts and bottom bounce freely when I "slave strutted", as Rita called my new style of walking. I missed having men leer at me and freely check out my tits, pussy, and brand, and their sly smiles as they reveled in my subjugation as they imagined what it would be like to fuck me. Not to mention casually goosing and fondling me if I came within reach.

Rita didn't understand. "Men are still gonna look at ya', little sister," she said, shaking her head. It's not like puttin' on some pants and a shirt are gonna turn ya' into a boy." She was right, but totally wrong. Men would still check me out, of course, but discretely, as if I caught them and gave them THE LOOK (which I had loved doing) they would feel embarrassed and ashamed. In contrast, when I was a slave girl the bellhop or gardener or the man reading his newspaper in the lobby was free to gaze at my juicy slave pussy for as long as they cared to, and even offer an open appraisal if they saw fit. The slave girl with the gigantic bug brand gripping her ass was permitted no modesty, and she was kept naked for their viewing pleasure, with frequent comments about the brand or her "sweet, tight snatch".

Slave Yoga was forbidden me, and instead she had a punching bag set up in the suite, so I could get a form of exercise as far away from being a slave girl as possible. Slave girls are trained to be flexible, not aggressive.

"Think about the way Miss Calico talked me into auctioning ya, while ya' were up in the stirrups," Rita urged, trying to build up my anger as I kicked and punched the bag. "Think about all those pervert friends of yers', laughin' their butts off while Skeeter put ya' thru yer' paces on the block. And think about old Professor Merle, yuckin' it up while he burned Skeeter's brand onto yer' butt, one leg at a time."

When she caught me reciting my old slave mantras as I masturbated in the shower, Rita gave me a new set of non-slave mantras to repeat, during supervised bath time.

My name is Ann Powers. I'm beautiful, wealthy, and successful.

I am powerful, independent, confident, and strong.

I can buy anything I want, and have achieved all my dreams of success.

I'm highly intelligent.

I am NOT a Pleasure Slut.

I am NOT a bimbo.

I am NOT a sex toy.

I am a free woman, smart and successful.

I'm a graduate of the University of Chicago and Northwestern University.

I have a mansion on the Gold Coast, a family that loves me, and servants that wait on me hand-and-foot.

Rita worked me hard, and in a few days I was able to eat at the hotel restaurant, with a seat cushion, of course. Ten days after I arrived, Rita and I flew back to Chicago on a private jet and continued my recovery there.

It was a happy, festive time, and I spoiled Rita by taking her shopping on North Michigan Avenue. Soon Skeeter and Rosco would arrive, and our Christmas celebrations would begin in earnest.

By the time I was back in Chicago, I was walking normally, and acting normally enough to pass for my old self. Looking at me, you'd never suspect that I had been a slave girl.

"You POSED as a slave girl", Rita would say, correcting me. Of course, she was right. It was all a roleplay, an act. It was just a bit of fun, Rita teaching me a lesson. Now, ironically, she was trying to teach me to act like the old Annie, the one whose cock-teasing and entitlement had irritated her so often.

The welts on my ass from Skeeter's whip faded. The Big D brand between my cheeks and Skeeter's doodle bug were both temporaries, but they would take several months to fade. Leggings or tight clothes were uncomfortable, so it was baggy pants and skirts for me, but Rita made it fun when we went shopping together for "more comfortable" clothes.