"Any Chance?" Auction Pt. 08

Skeeter was scared, and he tried not to come. Oh, did he try! It took almost 2 whole minutes for Skeeter to blow his load again.

"Wow, what a gusher!"

"That's why I only date young guys."

"Make your last one unforgettable, I guess."

Skeeter had actually screamed into his gag from the force of his ejaculation. Was he having his first slave-gasm? I hoped so. After all, it was Christmas, and I knew from experience that a real slave-gasm was the best gift I would ever give him.

At the sight of the scissors, Skeeter fainted again.

When Skeeter woke up he was in the couch on the living room. His hands were still zipped, and he was blindfolded.

Veronica was the first to speak. "Your aunt decided to have mercy on you, which I wouldn't have, given how you treated her. So, I want you to know my services remain very much on call, young man. In the meantime, my little slave boy, your mistresses require your oral devotion. I suggest you do a good job on each of us, or we'll paddle your behind."

Terrified of both the brush and the scissors, Skeeter worked enthusiastically for the next hour.

After the third pussy, Skeeter began to flag a bit, until Anna Annie's hairbrush brisked him up. He finished the last of Annie's friends just as Rita called and asked for the car to be sent to pick them up at the theater, which gave my posse time to send their very contrite slave boy off for a quick shower and an early bedtime.

The next morning, Skeeter tried to act quite chipper, although both Rita and I saw the nervousness in his eyes. Once again, he treated his beloved Anna Annie with the deepest respect, and blushed when I teased him or flirted with him. I was once again back in the saddle, and my relationship with my nephew was back to normal.

I had fixed Skeeter by threatening to "fix" him, but the rest of the world would not be so easy. That afternoon I went for a swim at The East Bank Club. The bikini I was wearing was actually from The Big D, and showed off my slave girl toned body to perfection. Naturally, as a bikini designed for free women playing slave girl, it was also quite cheeky, and showed off my Doodle brand.

I took my time lounging about the pool, enjoying the feeling of the water in the cool air, and the sensation of my nipples bulging against the thin material, When I saw two older couples whispering as they watched me stretch. I overheard two other older gentleman whispering that "they found the camel's toe", I seized the opportunity, and strutted over to explain.

"Do you like my brand?" I said, turning to show the entire work of art. "It's based on a drawing my nephew did when he was in grade school. He actually sold me, naked and collared, off the auction block. He's cute as a button, but he's a real whip cracker!" rubbing my butt and, laughing, as if having my ass whipped off the auction block was a childish prank.

"I was sold at The Big D in Dallas," I explained. See how the rope ties on the end of my bikini for a little "D"? That's their symbol. It's the same symbol they branded between my butt cheeks, after they sold me.

To say this was a conversation starter would be an understatement. A crowd quickly grew around me as I described my randy adventures in every lascivious detail. Everyone, it seemed, had questions, and there was a tentpole in the front of every male swimsuit. With my newly sensitive eye, I noticed a number of the women squeezing their thighs together. Several young women asked where they could go to get temporary brands. If Tom Sawyer was the glorious white washer, I was the glamorous slave girl.

The next day I decided to have a drink at the library of the Chicago Athletic Association. I stood, as it was quite crowded, and when the waiter came over I asked. "Which couch has the most padding? I had my butt branded at The Big D slave market a few weeks ago, and I have to be careful where I sit."

The crowded room fell into a shocked silence as I lifted the rear of my little black dress and did a full 360, ostensibly to show the waiter my brand from every angle. It was a good view, as I wasn't wearing any panties. An older man, having a drink with his family, motioned me over to a large, brown, very comfortable couch, as two people rose to make way for me.

For the next hour, I held court, telling my story as everyone crowded around. It was quite fun, even though I blushed when the older man mentioned that "without your panties, I can smell your slave girl excitement."

I knew I had a winning story to tell. Shortly after the first of the year, my impassioned speech at the Woman's Conference in New York went viral.

"If men are free to indulge their fantasies of owning a hot slave girl, why aren't women free to indulge their fantasies as well? The real sexism isn't making women slave girls, it's refusing to respect the choices every woman makes. If my choice is to make no further choices, and I'm brave enough to publicly adopt a lifestyle that allows me to explore my sexual fantasies, I should be respected, not condemned.

What I condemn is the soft sexism of the anti-slavery movement, that suggests that one choice is all I have. My supposedly "shameful disgrace" on the auction block was one of the proudest moments of my life. Stripped slave naked, I was tagged like an animal, and made to roll around in the sand as men bid on my naked body, but I emerged triumphant, and am the stronger for it, confident in my sexuality, my choices, and who I am."

I got a standing ovation, and millions of views.

I knew there was a business opportunity here, and my entrepreneurial skills kicked in. Quickly, I formed a plan to bring what she had learned at The Big D to Chicago.

My educational background, combined with the unique experience of moving through the entire auction process, gave me a soup-to-nuts insight into the economics of slavery, and what prices the auction houses charged for what. It was obvious that The Big D viewed slave gradings, slave gear, distress loans, temporary brandings, and Any Chance? Auctions as part of their cost of sales, and booked them as inventory overhead. The point of all of these services wasn't to make money, but to secure inventory for the auction block.

Assume I take in 50 girls and sell them for $30,000 each (a fairly low price). Assuming they pay their wranglers an average of 100K a year and it takes two FTES (full time equivalents) to process the 50 girls through wash, training, auction, branding, etc. This means your direct cost of sale is about $1,000. If they get 10% of the auction price (another low figure), that means their gross profit is (($30,000 * 50) *.10) - $1,000 = $149,000.

Gross margin isn't pure profit. Doubtlessly I'd spend a lot on lobbying and political protection, although being Texas a huge chunk of that was in the form of free services provided by the girls themselves. Rather ironic when a newly collared slave girl blows the judge who sentenced her to slavery, or is fucked by the greedy uncle who decided she'd be better off as a slave girl than as a heiress.

Security and advertising were also a cost, as was the overhead cost of the plant and management staff. The big box store was probably a loss leader, but the slave mall was definitely a profit center, as the high-end stores that sell the more expensive diamond collars definitely turned a profit. Even with the warehouse store I was in, the "slave merchandise" was overpriced. I was caged in a fucking dog kennel rebranded with The Big D logo.

Guys jerked off for free and sent in their "deposits" to flavor the slave water to get a discount at the store. Sperm from vets or animal breeders was a bit more expensive, but at $2 a bottle you could still turn a profit.

The math was simple. I could give 1,000 hot girls a free grading, temporary branding, collar, and kennel, and other trinkets, cynically calculating that if only one of them enslaves themselves they'll still make money. With this sort of economic model, I realized The Big D was more like a casino than a retail store. The only way they can go broke is if the suckers doesn't walk through the door. With the ability to clear over $100,000 profit in a single auction, it was a license to print money.

All Jake needed was someone with the capital and business savvy to expand his idea. All he needed was me.

Chicago was a centrally located transportation hub. Illinois was a free state, of course, but had been forced to recognize slavery ever since the new Fugitive Slave Act had been passed.

I quickly created a proposal where the state could grant a license for a single auction house to operate in the city limits of Chicago, with generous tax incentives that would help the state ease its perpetual budgetary crisis. Indeed, if the operation scaled up the way I hoped it would, Illinois might even have a budgetary surplus. And I would own a monopoly of a centrally located trading hub with easy access to barges, rail cars, and planes.

I'd spent enough time in Springfield to know that "lobbying" state legislatures was simply a matter of writing checks. The Governor, who was already crazy rich, was a more difficult nut to crack. Fortunately, he was a billionaire too, and we ran in the same social circles. I had no problem arranging a meeting with him at his Gold Coast mansion, which was only a few blocks from mine.

The Governor immediately saw the financial potential in my proposal, and listened with rapt attention as I explained how all the Midwest girls whose farms have failed or who flunked out of school or defaulted on their loans could be processed in Chicago instead of being shipped South.

"I can't argue with your numbers, Anne," he said. "As always, you've done your homework, and it's a strong proposal. I saw your speech at the Woman's Conference, and you make a strong feminist argument for slavery, that's really catching on with women everywhere. However, there is the moral question. Casino gambling is one thing, but slavery is quite another."

I stood up, and moved my chair out of the way. Smiling, I kicked off my heels and slowly peeled my tube dress over my head, revealing that I was slave naked underneath.

Reaching into my bag, I clipped on the purple collar I had worn at The Big D.

Kneeling before the Governor's desk, I spread my legs and put my hands behind my head.

"Is there nothing I can do to persuade you, Master?" I asked, casting my eyes toward the floor.

The drool coming off the end of the Governor's tongue made it clear that slave girl Annie had won the argument that Anne could not. Slave or free, I was in charge.