Sandy Foot Girl Ch. 02: The Journey

I was stark naked in a dog crate, with my hands cinched behind my back by a cheap plastic tie. The white truck was hot and I felt every bump as my head hit the top of my steel dog cage, but my position wasn't the worst of my miseries.

For starters, I had no idea where I was going. I had assumed I was going to be sold in Austin, but when Becky Lou Brainless had fouled that up beyond all recognition by misclassifying me as a so-called "Pleasure Slut" I'd inadvertently become just another piece of slave tail to be traded back between the major slave markets in Austin, Dallas, Houston, Larado, and El Paso. Of course if Becky Lou decided to check an out-of-state market I might be auctioned in New Orleans, Oklahoma City, Jackson, Little Rock, or Nashville. Depending on market conditions I might be trucked as far east as Atlanta, as far west as Albuquerque, or as far North as Kansas City.

As I had no idea of what my bill-of-lading said I had no idea where I was or how far I might be traveling. The shitty truck I was on had a few non-descript boxes in it, but I I didn't even know if it was a licensed delivery service. Keeping my freight costs cheap meant I could be scalp traded anywhere in the country a broker might make a few more cents on a tall, blonde slave girl.

I was used to flying first class and having private cars and limos prearranged. My unaccustomed and highly unusual ignorance of my destination was as aggravating as it was terrifying. "Slave girls have questions, but only masters have answers." I wasn't a slave slut, of course, although I had to admit that in my present situation the adage did have the sting of truth.

I had other miseries as well. The disgusting and well chewed leather slave bit in my mouth was not only forcing my mouth into a permanent "slave smile", it was also causing me to drool, which mixed my saliva in with the endless parade of slave sluts who had chewed on this gag before me. It was salty and had a chlorine smell, and as a slaving professional I knew all to well what the source of that particular ingredient in the disgusting stew sloshing around in my mouth was. Slave wranglers and delivery men sometimes amused themselves by jacking off onto slave gags, knowing that countless slave girls would taste their scum for years to come. I wondered how many lowlife truckers and interns and unwashed delivery guys I was sucking off right now. How many slave sluts had masturbated their dirty twats with my leather gag? More than I wanted to think about.

I had never tasted "slave soup" as it was wryly called, and I wish I didn't understand so well the flavors in my mouth. The downside of being a slaving professional was I understood every indignity that was being visited upon me. I had devised many of them. I laughed about them, and snickered as I had sent countless slave girls off to their fate. My detailed knowledge of - indeed, my culpability - in the indignities I was now suffering made the taste in my mouth all the more bitter.

I was being shipped in a standard sized pet crate, built for a Golden Retriever or a Labrador. As I am nearly six foot it wasn't large enough for me to maneuver my hands in front of me, which would have given me the leverage to break the cheap plastic zip tie that bound my wrists. I wondered if Rosa's choice of this particular crate had been random, strategic, cheap, or just cruel. I settled on cruel, as the little taco eater didn't seem any brighter than Becky Lou Bundy, the architect of my current predicament.

Becky Lou! How could anyone be so stupid? If Becky Lou hadn't been a complete moron she would have told me that Judge Parker had misclassified me as a Pleasure Slut before I signed the stupid forms, when the mistake could have been easily rectified, or I could have simply backed out.

No doubt about it: like most rural people, Becky Lou had shit-for-brains. I had pegged her from the first as country-stupid, a witless cornpone bureaucrat in a stupid cowboy hat and shit-kicking boots. My mistake had been in not double-checking and then triple-checking her work. Foolish of me, since I doubted Becky Lou could use an ATM without creating a banking crisis.

As the hours passed and my long trip entered what I supposed to be its second hour I had ample time to chew on more than just my gag.

What if Becky Lou wasn't the feckless fool I had taken her for? What if my misclassification as a Pleasure Slut had been her objective rather than the result of her barnyard incompetence? Perhaps there was a reason she had pulled my file, and shown Judge Parker my grading forms, and the pictures of me squatting naked that had been taken during my slave grading.

Why go see the Judge at all? She could have just classified me as a criminal enslavement or a debt enslavement through her office without actually getting a court order, which would have made it easier to fix the later. Instead she filed an genuine and legally binding enslavement order, then took the time to schedule a meeting with Judge Parker, a meeting where she showed him picture of my hot, wet "slave pussy".

As I got hotter and more exhausted I became more desperate. I tried to break out of my zip tie cuffs, but with my hands tied behind my back I could not. I tried to shake off my gag, or use my tongue to push it even a little out of my mouth, to wipe the ridiculous "slave smile" off my face, a condition caused by Rosa cruelly tightening the straps on my gap until my lips were pulled back and my teeth exposed. My efforts only swirled the disgusting taste of dried sperm and old spit around my mouth, and covered my face in my own drool.

I tried to think. Judge Parker was the name on my enslavement form. Had I heard that name before? I had a vague recollection of having met a Judge Parker when I had given a presentation at The Slave Expo conference in Houston. I was lecturing to a packed ballroom at the Convention Center about changes in The Uniform Slave Act. I remembered Parker's name because he had a thick accent, and when he introduced himself I thought his name was Piker, and everyone laughed. Not enjoying being the butt of the joke, Parker frowned.

Giving the matter my full attention I recalled the event. I was speaking in a huge conference room in the Convention Center. There were lots of questions after my presentation. Judge Parker had been one of the first to raise his hand.

In a room filled with colorful Texas characters Judge Rufus Parker made an impression. He was so fat he used the chair in front of him to stand up. He had a white goatee, and white sideburns, and was dressed in an all white suit, with an enormous white cowboy hat. I asked him to remove his hat, "so everyone can see you, and because you are talking to a lady, Sir."

This got some laughter, which he didn't like, and the removal of his hat got some more laughter, as it revealed the world's worst comb over, which the hat had disturbed, and which left his chrome dome bald, with a long strand of white hair hanging down to his shoulder. He fiddled with it as the huge crowd laughed at him, and the smiling photographer recording the event snapped his picture.

Judge Parker was in the second row, so I walked across the stage to his section. He was fat and squat, and the removal of his Texas-tall cowboy hat further diminished his non-existent stature. I'm a tall and quite leggy blonde, and with the added height of the stage I literally towered over him, a supermodel talking to a fat, bald, child.

When the usherette gave him his microphone his voice was loud and gruff. "My slavin' court's as busy as a one legged man at an ass kickin' convention. I'm 'hell-bent-for-leather, and I want to brand these slave bitches while the iron's still white hot! The little bitches kneel in front of my bench, cryin' and whinin' about how they don't wanna be slaves, not giving two shits about falling bee-hind on their stew-dent loans, or the people their daddies owe money too! I got me a 'hankerin' to grease the chute, and git that slave pussy in their collars, without so much paper-shufflin'!"

I chuckled as I smiled down at the merciless little ogre still fussing with his ridiculous comb over; what an absurd figure he was!

Smiling, I explained that I had been working with the Texas Department of Agriculture to "expedite the entire enslavement process." I quickly revised the phrase to "simply the forms" when he frowned. Idiot! I finally got a smile out of him when I promised he could enslave girls "liked greased lightning", and "get 'em quick out of the chute."

The form I had designed had indeed been much more efficient, with a large area on top that allowed the Slave Registration Number and Name of the girl to be written in by hand, a checkbox for the girl's classification, and a large bottom area for Judge Parker's loose, lazy scrawl. I knew the form well, as I had moved it through several prototypes. Sometimes I had actually written my own name and SRN number on the prototypes. It was just for testing purposes, of course, but I have to admit it had given me a delicious little scary tingle to see my name on a slave order, even if it was fake.

Of course the version Becky Lou had shown me in the office was real, with a control number in the upper left hand corner, and the embossed seal of the Great State of Texas marking it as a binding legal document. A single quick diagonal stroke checked the box that defined my current status: "Pleasure Slut".

On the bottom of the form Judge Rufus Parker's fat, braggadocios "R" and "P" were the largest letters and the only ones that were vaguely legible. I had given Judge Rufus Parker a large signature box, and the little fat oaf had used it to send me naked into the slave market with a fat signature and a florid flourish.

I wondered if Judge Parker remembered me. The naked slave slut in my grading photos bore scant resemblance to the impressive professional woman who had held the room rapt through a 90-minute presentation in the jam-packed Houston Convention Center.

Still, if Rosa explained who I was he might have remembered me. Would the fact that he knew me cause him a moment's hesitation? I'm quite certain it would not! I'm sure it would have amused him to see the tall blonde amazon who had towered over him and mispronounced his name naked in a dog crate with a bit between her teeth. It probably made his tiny little pecker hard as his fat little fingers chicken scribbled out his ridiculously large signature.

Yes, enslaving me had probably excited him. But the inexplicable part was the thought of him casually processing my enslavement forms excited ME. As I knelt naked in my dog cage, the disgusting bit in my mouth, my honey pot began to drip anew as I imagined Judge Rufus Parker smirking at my unsigned form, relishing his power over the leggy blonde who had humiliated him in the crowded ballroom.

He wouldn't take TOO long on my form, of course. His contemptuously scrawled signature was his way of marking that my enslavement wasn't worth more than a few seconds of his time. But I imagined he took a distinct pleasure at the little WHIRR sound the electronic embossing machine made as he branded the Texas "Star" shield onto my enslavement papers, literally sealing my fate.

Remembering his comment about "branding the bitches while the iron is white hot" I clenched my bottom cheeks together. I knew that if Judge Rufus Parker had his way, the Texas embossing seal might be the first of many "brands" in my future.

Perhaps it was the heat, or the slave soup, but the thought of Judge Parker signing an expedited enslavement form that I myself had redesigned was both horrifying and incredibly exciting. Judge Parker was a clown and a fool, but the thought of such a buffoon having total control over my destiny really got my juices flowing. My stomach turned and my pussy grew hotter as I recalled his follow up question:

"Reckon I git' a hankerin' to watch the little snooty little bitches I enslave gittin' their cute little assess auction'd off. Can yer new fancy-pants system help me find out which pussy market they sluts 'r goin' too?"

"It certainly will," I said proudly. "It will all be on the computer, including the initial destination or point-of-sale. You can have your secretary help you if you can't figure it out."

There was more laughter at this, with Judge Parker did not like at all. I swallowed hard, gurgling down more slave soup in the process. Judge Parker could use the system I had designed to track me like an overnight package. That disgusting little pig could even use a phone app to check on my progress. I was "out for delivery" right now, and Judge Parker would easily see the information I desperately wanted to know: where I was going to be sold, and the estimated time to my destination.

Slave girls had questions, but only masters had answers.

Would Judge Parker "git a hankerin' to come to my auction? I shuddered at the thought. Thinking of the disgusting pig-of-a-judge sitting in the front row made me sick to my stomach even as my honeypot spasmed with pleasure. I'd be higher them him again, on the auction block. But I wouldn't look nearly so tall on all fours, my legs spread wide, showing the grinning troll my sloppy wet pussy and tight little butthole.

Why, oh why, had Becky Lou dragged Judge Parker into this? I had been proud when my hot pussy had earned me a Prime- grade, but with Becky Lou at the controls my randiness had earned me an official enslavement as a Pleasure Slut. Going to court seemed like a lot of work, particularly for an incompetent, slow-witted imbecile like Becky Lou.

Or perhaps Becky Lou wasn't as stupid as I had supposed. I new she resented the way I had talked down to her when we had first met, as if there was anyway for someone like me to talk to her that wasn't talking down. More than once she had referred to me as "uppidy" in the ghastly Texas twang of hers, and she seemed positively delighted when her pal Rosa stripped me down to the buff and paraded me slave naked around the office.

Rosa: there was another one! An even lesser, swarthy version of Becky Lou, she was the sort who could lift a ton but couldn't spell it. Still, she had the zip-tie for my hands and my slave cage ready, and seemed to know all about me even though we had just met. Had Becky Lou spilled the tea to Rosa, or Judge Parker? I wondered what she had said.

Slave girls had questions, but only masters had answers.

Time dragged on. I felt the pressure in my bladder grow. My slave cage had a plastic floor with a tall lip, but I didn't relish the thought of sloshing around in my own urine and smelling it as the temperature in the truck brought it to a low simmer.

My nose crinkled at the smell of the slave soup cooking in the truck. No, this had to be a mistake. If there was a conspiracy then Becky Lou and Rosa and perhaps even the oafish Judge Parker had outsmarted me, which was clearly impossible. After all, I was a Harvard Professor, and if they all studied together they couldn't figure out half the words in one of my academic papers. I had a million dollar consulting business, and I wouldn't have hired any one of them to shine my Gucci shoes.

Hmmmm... My $1800 Gucci shoes were now sitting in a bag back at Becky Lou's air-conditioned office, along with my purse and cellphone and everything I had brought to Texas. I, on the other hand, was trying not to pee or wretch in my own slave slobber as I sped down the highway in a delivery truck for terror incognita: parts unknown.

I glanced up at the plastic sleeve, which contained my bill of lading and other paperwork. I desperately wanted to read it, but with my hands cinched behind me I couldn't even sniff it or touch it with my nose. Even if I could reach it I couldn't read it, not without my glasses. Rosa, idiot that she was, hadn't given me a chance to put in my contacts, which meant that my long vision was fuzzy and my close vision was a total blur. Fucking idiot!

Great. I wasn't just a slave slut. I was a brainless, illiterate slave slut. Thank you, Rosa.

My bill of lading probably had the Slave Registration Number that I'd had tattooed inside my upper lip during my slave grading. Humiliating as it was, I hoped the BOL had my correct SRN. Otherwise I might be lost in-transit. I shuddered at the thought.

How stupid could Becky Lou be? As I bounced along in my cage I pondered the thought. Although she worked for the Slave Division, I'm betting Becky Lou's barnyard brain didn't understand the nuanced legal distinction between an Expert Slave and a Pleasure Slut. Expert Slaves were treated like indentured servants, but pleasure sluts were another thing altogether.

I wondered where I was going. Slave sales from a licensed slave dealer were deemed "final, uncontestable, and irreversible".

At Stanford I had learned about the landmark case US v. Madison. The Supreme Court ruled that in order to avoid endlessly contesting enslavements, sales by registered slave dealers were considered final unless the enslaving party, the buyer, and the seller were ALL party to a fraudulent enslavement. Furthermore the enslavement had to be contested and proven fraudulent within 30 calendar days of the sale.

The conservatives on the court had purposely set an absurdly high bar for reversals. As it was exceedingly easy to delay court cases beyond 30 days, and very rare for the buyer, seller, and enslaving party to all be found guilty of fraud within this tiny temporal window, it effectively meant, as the court memorably phrased it, "At auctions, the gavel is final."

Although she had been working at slavers all her life, I doubt an uneducated hick like Becky Lou had the brainpower to understand what sending me to a licensed auction house meant. Slave girls sometimes referred to the auction block as "the gallows", because there was no going back. I always thought that it was slave girl dramatics, but sweating it out in the back of the truck with my heart racing the analogy seemed spot on.

As the minutes turned into hours I passed the time in the only way available to me, rubbing my thighs together and squeezing my pussy the best I could in a desperate attempt to relieve the tension. Pleasure sluts did this all the time; that was one of the reasons their dirty little mitts were tied behind their backs. I wasn't anything like them, of course, but it would have nice to take the edge off.

Yes, it would have been nice to touch myself. Really nice. Really, really nice.

Tick-tock! BUMP! BUMP! Tick-tock, tick-tock. The pressure in my bladder grew.

Damn! Oh, how I wish she had left my hands freed! How I would have pleasured myself then!

With no way to physically stimulate myself I closed my eyes and concentrated on the shocking images of my cruel and undeserved downfall:

-Becky Lou's stupidity in showing Judge Parker my slave grading pictures

-Judge Parker slobbering over the pictures of my slave grading as he recalled the beautiful Yankee in the Convention Center who had humiliated him that day. I imagined his fierce, beady eyes burning into each picture of my naked body that the idiotic Becky Lou had so foolishly presented to him: my naked slave profile pictures, full length, 'slave naked', front, side, and back, and the pictures of me squatting. The pictures of me on all fours, legs spread, showing off everything I had, and, of course, the pictures of my hot, wet, "slave" pussy. Becky Lou, idiot that she was, had given the dirty old man the perfect excuse to ignore my years of experience and college degrees and reclassify me as a Pleasure Slut. Indeed, the slow-witted government bureaucrat had inadvertently presented my vengeful victim with a de facto case for my enslavement. Small wonder his signature had been so big.

-Did Judge Parker take the time to review my file? I had clipped the front page of my tax return to my self-enslavement form. I wasn't bragging, or trying to show up Becky Lou, exactly. (Well, maybe a little.) But my seven-figure salary established my bona fides as an expert; surely the Judge couldn't have missed that? As my pussy juiced I imagined the old goat licking his lips at the prospect of stripping the uppity Harvard Professor of all her wealth and privilege and sending her slave naked to the auction block. I squeezed my thighs together as I imagined his tiny, withered old cock forming a nice stiffy as he signed the forms sealing my fate. I wondered if he would come to my auction, to watch me squat, and spread, and prance, under the crack of the whip! It wouldn't surprise me in the least, and the thought of him watching my sale both galled me to the core and sent my pussy into spasms of pleasure.