Sandy Foot Girl Ch. 01: Slave Naked

I looked at the wooden gate in front of me. I was nearly 6 foot, but I was barefoot, and the gate was about 7 feet high, too high for me to peek over. I had designed it that way. It was better for the girl to look a bit disoriented when she left the dark chute and went into the auction pit. Fear meant adrenaline, and I knew that most buyers preferred it when a girl looked a little scared.

I could see a tiny speck of light peeking through the crack at the bottom of the gate where the rubber seal had worn off. I tried to stare at it, to let my eyes adjust, as I listened to the auctioneer finish his chant for the previous girl. I couldn't hear the words, not that they mattered, really. The sound of my heart pounding in my chest drowned out everything else.

Breathe, Sarah. Breathe. Don't be like one of those idiot girls who face plants when the gate opens. Fear is good. Fear is your friend. You designed it this way, remember?

Of course I remembered. I had stood in this very spot, explaining the entire psychology of the slave auction process to Jake Henry, the owner of the auction house. I had been dressed for success, in an elegantly tailored business suit, pearls, and Gucci shoes. Irony is a cruel mistress, and I now stood in precisely the same spot, barefoot and wearing nothing but my slave collar, which had my lot number, B-269.

I wasn't merely naked; in the shower I was naked all the time. I was SLAVE naked, which is an entirely different matter. I had no clothes to change into, no warm fluffy towel waiting on the other side of the gate. Being SLAVE naked meant having no clothes, and no way of getting any.

Naked was one thing; SLAVE naked was another thing altogether.

I struggled to breathe as I waited for the gate to open so that my shameful ordeal on the auction block could begin. The auctioneer's patter slowed as the final bids came in. It wouldn't be long now.

My eyes adjusted to the darkness. Looking down at the floor I saw some of the sand from the auction block had been tracked back into the gate area. The owner had wanted to get rid of the sand, a remnant of the days when cattle was sold out of these gates, but I had encouraged him to keep it.

"Make the sand part of your brand identity," I urged, bringing up a new slide in my PowerPoint show. "The slaves you sell are sometimes called 'Sandy Foot Girls', right? Make that part of your trademark. Only the highest quality pussy can become Sandy Foot Girls."

Now I looked down at the tiny dark grains of sand that decorated my feet and clung between my toes. In a few seconds the gate would open, and I would be a 'Sandy Foot Girl'.

It had all begun a week before when I had been giving the keynote address at The National Slave Association Show in Orlando, Florida. Becky Lou Bundy sat in the front row of my presentation, taking notes and listening carefully. When my speech was over she waited patiently for the other attendees to leave before approaching me to ask if I could join her for coffee to discuss a particular issue they were having in Texas.

Becky Lou was about 50, short, and squat, and spoke with a thick Texas twang, and listening to her spin her tale was cornpone pleasure. Becky Lou was a Supervisor in the Texas State Department of Agriculture, specifically in their Livestock and Slave Division. She dressed her role: cowboy boots, plaid shirt, and, of course, a white cowboy hat.

One of her department's duties was to conduct "pro forma" sales, sometimes referred to derisively as "sham sales" to verify that merchandise sold had been properly graded and the inspection, auction, and claim process was in order. The department would go in "undercover" as "secret shoppers", buy a slave, verify that the grading and identification were correct, and if all were in order, then immediately resell the slave on the open market. It was routine, actually, and nearly every state had some variation of this verification procedure.

"It was all goin' along fine," "Becky Lou explained, "but a few weeks ago the cow patties hit the fan when we outbid one of the Gov'ner's fishin' buddies. Seems we bought a slave girl the old coot had his eye on. He threw a hissy fit 'bout how we were interferin' with capitalism and drivin' up prices, and a bunch of other bullpucky, if you pardon my French. Problem is the regulations say we gotta do the verifications, but the Gov'ner made a ruckus and now we can't buy no real slave girls no more. It's a real pickle, and we don't got no answers. I figured on askin' you since you wuz a fancy consultant and college Professor and all. Whadya think?"

"You could have one of your departmental employees do it," I suggested. "Or hire someone to pose as a slave."

"Well, heck, yeah, but we ayn't got no takers. See, the girls got to get an authentic slave grade, so we can prepare what the auction house sells her as, and then we gotta go through the whole sales process, soup-to-nuts. And when the gavel falls..."

"The girl will actually be a slave," I said, smiling as I sipped my double latte.

"Sho'nuff," Becky replied. "Oh, we'll free her right away, and we'll tack whatever we paid for her onta' the slave house's annual registration fee, so it'll be a wash sale."

I smiled at her twangy extra RRR sounds in "waRRRsh."

"True, but even if it's a post-and-reverse entry on your accounting ledgers, the girl will still have to go through the experience of being sold. Wash sale, sham transaction, call it what you want, but that's no small thing, Becky Lou."

"Well, heck, I know that," Becky said, clearly irritated with my pedantic tone. "I been doin' this fer a livin' before you were born, girl. Just because I don't teach at no fancy college don't mean I'm DUMB."

"You asked ME for help," I reminded her, surprised at the way Becky slipped into "bossy mom" mode so easily. "It's just...there's a psychology to it that's hard to explain. "When you go through the grading process, you're not a person anymore. You're a thing. Chattel. Inventory to be sold."

"Ya reckon I don't know that?" Beck Lou replied dismissively. "Mom" was still annoyed.

"Yes, but it's different to know it, and another thing to ... feel it."

I looked around the coffee shop. Most of the other attendees were in the next session, which left the place empty except for a guy in the corner talking to his office on the phone and a bored barista reading his Chemistry textbook.

Swallowing, I held up my lip to reveal the slave registration number tattooed on my upper lip.

"Garsh!" Becky Lou said. "Y'all been REGISTERED? Like, 'fer real, in the Nash-uh-null Regs'tree?"

"Yes, I'm in the National Slave Registry," I admitted. "And I'd appreciate it if you could keep your voice down. I'm not a slave, of course, but I got registered to raise my grade. I'm Prime-," I said proudly.

"No shit!" Becky Lou whispered, clearly impressed. "That's a mighty find grade, girl! Well, I'll be damned! College Girl must clean up real nice. You slave hot?"

I frowned. Unless a girl could turn straw into gold, being slave hot was the only way to get a Prime- rating.

"I needed to get an official grading, for my research," I explained, not answering her question directly. "I went through the entire process, except the enslavement, of course."

Becky Lou looked at me as if a light bulb had gone off over her head. "Yer' jist the critter I'm looking fer! Yer' all ex-pert on this here slaving business, and ya' already have one of them-there official grades. I can slip ya' into the system and git ya' up on the auction block faster than a tick can jump on a calf!"

"I really don't think so," I said, rising from my chair.

"I can pay ya'," she said. "How does $500 sound?"

"When I serve on boards, I typically get paid $5,000 a day, plus expenses," I said haughtily. "My shoulder bag cost $750. Look, I'm meeting with some of my friends from Harvard in a few minutes, so I really have to go. It's been nice meeting you."

I didn't have anyone to meet with, but I did enjoy strutting out of the coffee shop and leaving a embarrassed Becky Lou with the tab for my latte. With some time to kill before the evening reception I went back to my hotel room. Remembering my conversation with Becky Lou and my Prime- grade, I stripped naked, slowly turning as I admired my luscious body in the full-length mirror of my suite.

I was perfect. Well, almost perfect: Prime-. Going through an actual auction might lead to an actual sales price high enough to raise my grade to Prime, or even Prime+. I broke out my trusty vibrator as I imagined taking Becky Lou up on her outrageous offer.

The conference ended, but over the next few days I couldn't stop thinking about Becky Lou's proposal. The theme parks in Orlando promised "immersive experiences" and Becky Lou's offer would provide me with a safe way of living out one of my most delicious fantasies. I wouldn't just be slave hot, I'd be a slave, for a few hours anyway. A real slave, under Texas State Law, at least until Becky Lou and the Department of Agriculture freed me.

Becky Lou squealed with delight when I called her back and accepted her offer, under the guise of "research" for my new book. She was all chuckles and laughter, and promised to take "real good care of me!" Well, milk my cow, y'all.

"One other thing, Becky Lou," I said. "I want to be sold as an 'extraordinary talent' slave".

Becky Lou seemed doubtful. "We don't sell many of those."

"I'm not an ordinary person, I'm a highly skilled worker with years of experience in the slaving industry. I'll bring more money wearing a business suit than a slave collar."

"Don't know 'bout that," Becky Lou said. "That's usually reserved for celebrity violinists and shit like that. You're a Prime- girl!"

We went back-and-forth, with Becky Lou arguing that the seldom used "extraordinary talent" classification was so rare that it wasn't a good test of the system, and me explaining that I wasn't going to do this unless I could be sold as a college professor and consultant, not a naked slave girl. There were rules governing the use of "extraordinary talent" slaves and as a result they were treated more like indentures than slaves. When she realized that I wasn't backing down, Becky Lou agreed to fill out the forms my way. I would be a slave, but classified as "extraordinary talent."

I flew First Class to Austin and met Becky at her offices in the State Capital. "Well, don't y'all look dolled up!" she said, laughing as I came into her office. Yer dressed like yer on your way to be sworn in fer President!"

"Uh... I always dress this way," I said, looking down at my tailored Ralph Lauren business suit. "Besides, I'm going to be sold as 'extraordinary talent', so I'd better look the part."

"That's what I put 'ya in, fer," Becky Lou confirmed, holding up a stack of forms.

"Oh. Is the paperwork done already?" I asked.

Becky Lou nodded and sat her squat butt on the edge of her desk as I reviewed my file. My pulse quickened and my mouth turned to cotton as I read my enslavement request form, on top of the stack. I knew there would be paperwork, but seeing my enslavement forms another matter altogether. I hand handled thousands of enslavement files over the years, but this one was different. This one was mine.

I had expected to spend today preparing for my enslavement, and had packed a change of clothes in the large shoulder bag I was carrying. But Becky Lou had downloaded all of my information from the National Slave Registry, and all of my paperwork was in apple-pie order.

I blushed as I saw that Becky Lou had included my slave assessment. The assessment included the pictures of me doing my slave squats and spreads that the grader had filed as part of my assessment. They even had the close-ups of my wet pussy that demonstrated I was "slave hot"; "the pink shots", as they were known in the trade.

It was perfectly legal. As a government official in a slave agency Becky had full access to the national registry. But the bureaucratic nature of the thick stack of forms didn't make seeing a photo of my spread, wet beaver any less embarrassing.

"Say cheese!" Becky Lou chuckled as she saw me staring at the photos. "Ya'll sure do juice up real nice!"

Seeing the photos was surprising, but the truly surprising part was my reaction. Seeing my enslavement photos, and realizing that Becky Lou had seen every inch of me, my nipples began to harden and my pussy began to stir.

"I didn't think... you'd see these pictures," I stammered.

"Don't be shy, sweetie," she said, laughing. "Just think of me as your mama!"

I breathed a sigh of relief as I turned back to the front page. Double checking, I saw the words 'Extraordinary Talent' circled in red pen on the enslavement request form.

I searched through the stack, stopping at a page buried toward the back. "Wait a second. This is a court order," I said, looking at a document toward the end of the stack with the embossed "Lone Star" seal of the Great State of Texas.

"Sure is," she said. "I got Judge Parker to run ya' thru as a self-enslavement, so we don't gotta get you no criminal cun-viction or mess up yer' credit by treating ya' as a bankruptcy. But I do need you to sign the enslavement forms."

"I thought we'd handle this more like a grading," I said.

"Nope! This is a sale, darlin'. We could just do it with a title transfer, but a court order makes it all nice and legal. I nodded, feeling a bit light headed as I stared at Judge Parker's scrawl of a signature next to the embossed seal. My warm pussy was juicing like it had during my slave grading. Why was looking at a government seal so hot?

Becky Lou called in two work colleagues to witness my self-enslavement: Enus, and idiot with thick glasses who looked like someone's unemployable brother-in-law, and Rosa, a fat Hispanic woman who looked like a refrigerator with a head.

"So why are you self-enslavin', city girl?" Rosa asked, looking me up-and-down. "Can't handle the real world? Or do you have a hot slave pussy, that needs to get fucked all day long?"

I wasn't in the mood. "Fuck off, burrito butt, before I have you deported," I snapped back.

Rosa looked like she was ready to hit me, but Becky Lou seemed amused. "Now, now! No time for a pissin' match, ladies, let's git to it!"

Handing me a cheap-ass government pen that took several shakes to get any ink out of, Becky Lou used her phone to film me signing the form. Rosa and Enus signed it after me, as witnesses.

Rosa and Enus were all smiles as Rosa filmed me reading my enslavement declaration.

"I acknowledge that I am making myself a slave, now and forever more, of my own free will, under Texas Civil Code, Chapter 5 Conveyance, 5.309.1, Self Enslavement. I convey ownership of my title as a forfeiture to the Texas Department of Agriculture, Livestock and Slave Division."

"That's it," Becky Lou said, turning off her phone. "You're a slave," she said flatly.

My heart skipped a beat. I just stared at her.

"Take off your clothes," Rosa said. "Everything."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Taco Bell, but I have a brain. I'm categorized as an 'extraordinary talent.'

"I think yer ridin' on the horse back-werds," Becky Lou said. "I SUBMITTED you as an expert slave. But when I told Judge Parker what we were enslaving you fer, he said that don't make no sense, since expert slaves are rarer than hen's teeth. Plus when I told him you were Prime- and showed him the pictures of you squatting naked for yer slave gradin' photos, he agreed with me it would be a waste of hot slave pussy to sell 'ya 'fer 'yer brain."

Picking the forms up off the desk I quickly scanned Judge Parker's order. "You're going to sell me as a pleasure slut?" I said, reading my sales classification off the form in disbelief. "This can't be right! I'm a $500 per hour consultant, and a Ph.D."

"Not no more, darlin'", she chuckled. "Yer slave pussy, now, and I got the paperwork to prove it. All nice and legal!"

"You lied to me!" I said.

"Did not, little girl," Becky Lou said, switching into her stern mom voice. I gave ya' the court order. Says "Pleasure Slut" right 'chere, on your sales type. I can't help it none if y'all didn't read it."

"Expert Slave!" Rosa sniffed. "More like a pleasure slut with shit for brains!"

I shuddered as Becky Lou reached into her desk and handed Rosa a mean looking riding crop. She's all yer's," Becky Lou said.

"I want you naked in 30 seconds, slut," Rosa said. "Or I'm gonna whip 'yer ass."

I turned to Becky Lou for help, but she was biting her lip to keep from laughing. Whether she architected this or it was just a horrible mistake, it was clear she was enjoying the moment.

"Strip?" I said, looking through the transparent glass wall of Becky Lou's office into the sea of cubicles that made up the floor of the office building. "In front of all these people?"

"Awww, is the little slave slut shy?" Becky Lou said mockingly, before shaking her head and laughing. "Ya looked down yer nose pretty good at me when were at that conference, Professor. Bet you don't look so stuck-up nay-kid!"

"Strip!" Rosa repeated, beating her fat palm impatiently with the crop. "Everything."

Looking at the shit-eating-grin on Becky Lou's face I realized that she was relishing my embarrassment. I had been rude to my mama. Now mama spank!

I didn't want to strip naked in a glass office that looked out onto dozens of office cubes. But my choices were to get naked voluntarily or get naked with a whipped ass. I quickly took off my jacket and gave it to the obese brown woman, who stuffed my expensive wool garment into my bag like it was garbage.

"Look, if I could talk to the Judge..."

"Faster," she said, as I unbuttoned my blouse. "I don't got all day for this." Reaching forward she grabbed the hem of my garment and pulled it over my head, popping a few buttons around my wrists as she yanked it off.

"Jist like skinnin' a little bunny rabbit!" Becky Lou guffawed.

In yanking my blouse off, Rosa set my Cartier eyeglasses askew. I started to adjust them, but she intercepted me, and knocked them off my face and into the bag that was being used as the hamper for my old life.

"I can't see a thing without those," I protested.

"Yeah, I know," Becky Lou said. "Yer gradin' form said you were ill - lit - erate," laughing as she sounded out the word for emphasis.

"I'M NOT ILLITERATE!" I said, deeply insulted. "I just can't read very well without my glasses."

"You're a pleasure slut, idiot," Rosa said, digging her fat fingers into the waistband of my skirt. "They're buying your coochie, not your brain."

Rosa yanked my skirt to the ground. Too fat to bend over, she kneeled in front of me, stealing my shoes and skirt at the same time.

Not wanting her to yank off my bra, I quickly unhooked it and handed it over. She put her sweaty hand on my chest to brace herself to rise. "Nice tits," Rosa said, copping a free feel.

"Yeah, she'll bring a good price, all right," Becky Lou agreed. It struck me as an odd comment; why did Becky Lou care what sort of price I brought?

"Apple watch, diamonds, and anything silver or gold, off," Rosa said flatly. "Earrings too. Maybe if you let your new master blow his load in your mouth 10 times a day, he'll give you some pretty plastic slave beads."

I deposited my expensive jewelry in the bag, trying to ignore the hard stare from Rosa and the grinning Becky Lou.

"Okay, you know what comes next, slave girl," Rosa snapped, staring fire at my soft, silk, lace, pink panties as she spoke. "Put those rich girl fancy pants in the bag, and do it NOW."

I was conscious of Enus, and maybe a dozen other workers, crowded outside of Becky Lou's office window, watching intently as I performed my slow, humiliating striptease-to-order. Without my glasses I couldn't see their expressions in detail, but a few of them were carrying coffee cups, apparently having stopped on their way back from a break to watch Rosa strip some stupid slave girl butt naked.