Sandy Foot Girl Ch. 02: The Journey

-Becky Lou grinning and chuckling as Rosa ordered me to strip. "Ya looked down yer nose pretty good at me when were at that conference, Professor," Becky Lou had said. "Bet you don't look so stuck-up nay-kid!" Dim-bulb that she was, Becky Lou was right about that: she had not only stripped me of my clothes, she had stripped me of my pride and dignity, laughing at me as she did it.

-That bitch Rosa parading me slave naked through the office. It had been infuriating and deeply mortifying, as men I wouldn't have given the time of day to looked at me up and down like I was some sort of hot, wet fuck bunny. So what if I my pussy was wet, and my juices were dribbling down my thighs? Being excited by a slave fantasy didn't mean I was a slave. When Rosa was in the break room drinking her water one of the more loathsome pervs - a fat, bald, bespectacled nerd who probably lived in his parents basement, "accidentally" dropped his comic book - excuse me, "graphic novel" - at my feet. It was called, "Slave Girl on Gonos" and featured a naked slave girl standing on an auction block in front of a group of reptilian aliens, like as a slave girl she didn't have enough problems. Kneeling down to pick up my magazine, he took a good whiff of my wet pussy, commented that I smelt "tangy, like apple cider." He actually reached for my snatch, but fortunately for me Rosa returned and slapped me hard on the ass to propel me out of the room, saving me from the probing fingers of Johnny Appleseed.

-The women were worse. A few of the younger ones looked amused, and were clearly pleased to see me being put in my place. A fat dyke with a buzz cut and a two overlapping female gender symbols actually licked her lips and whistled as Rosa paraded me by. Rosa, ever thoughtful, stopped and forced me through a nice-slow-spin so that the tomboy lesbo could have a good look at everything I had.

-A lot of the older women looked at me with unbridled contempt, if not active hatred. "Trollop", "Harlot", "Disgusting", and "Pig Slut" were a few of the milder terms I heard. A crabby old woman who told her equally ugly friend she hoped they "branded my whorish ass." My cheeks clenched in panic, as I knew that if someone actually mistook me for a real slave girl that option was very much on the regular menu. I understood their anger: I had often remarked myself that slave sluts who juiced themselves in public needed a hot iron and a good dose of the whip. Of course, I wasn't actually a slave slut, but a professional woman on an undercover assignment. That made all the difference.

What excited me most was that every single person I had passed had mistaken me for a randy, naked slave slut. I had passed many of these people on my way to Becky Lou's office; didn't they remember me? The receptionist who had been so polite and had offered me coffee when I had arrived now looked at me like I was a cockroach she'd like to grind under her heel.

Becky Lou was clearly a very low IQ individual, yet somehow the hapless country bumpkin had shucked off my old identity like the husk on an ear of corn. The shit-eating grin on face said it all: whatever our previous relationship, Becky Lou was now a government official overseeing the Slave Division and I was simply tits-and-pussy in a crate on my way to parts unknown.

After several hours of banging around in my metal dog crate I could feel us slowing down as we exited the expressway. We slowed down, then stopped, then started again.

I had no idea where we were going. Had we reached our final destination, or was the driver simply going to let me cook in back while he enjoyed a burger and a milkshake at some truck stop?

There was always the chance that he was stopping for a quick blowjob. It was a frightening thought, for in my present situation if he had a slave prod there wasn't much I was going to be able to do to resist him.

A few stoplights later the truck finally parked and the driver pulled up the back gate, blinding me with the light.

As I tried to shield my eyes from the light I felt my cage slide down the truck's loading ramp. I heard him scan the barcode on my bill-of-lading, which gave off a satisfied BEEP.

I struggled to open my eyes. I was in a large receiving dock. I watched as my driver handed his electronic pad to the receiving clerk, a bored Asian girl in her late teens who signed it with the haste and indifference of a girl who signed shipping receipts for a living. I couldn't see her face well from my position in the cage, but I stared at her surprisingly smart sneakers as she signed the pad that gave her total possession of me.

My eyes struggled to adjust as she recited me my rote "greeting":

"You are at The Big D Livestock and Market in Dallas, Texas. You are here for processing and sale as a pleasure slut. I am required by law to tell you that the slave collar you will be fitted with can deliver a powerful and extremely painful electric shock if you attempt to leave this building without permission. Additionally, all Big D employees are authorized to use any means deemed necessary to compel you to comply with all orders given to you, and those means include electrical shock and whipping. If you follow my instructions you will not be hurt. Do you understand?"

Miss Saigon demonstrated the price of my disobedience by holding a slave prod in front of my wide eyes and pressing the trigger. My head hit the top of the cage as I watched the electricity jump between the two sharp metal prongs accompanied by a ZZZZZT! ZZZT! sound.

"Do you understand?" she repeated sharply.

I nodded and shouted YES into my gag. What else was I supposed to do? As my eyes adjusted further I became conscious of a black woman talking to a woman with long red hair. The redhead caught my eye as she was in a black skirt and white blouse, and was scribbling notes in some sort of notebook. Everyone else was wearing coveralls or polo shirts with The Big D logo, but the redhead was dressed in a smart but not overly expensive suit, rather like a substitute teacher.

I was so stunned by what had happened that it wasn't until my eyes were finally able to focus on the BIG D LIVESTOCK & SLAVE MARKET, with a D inscribed inside a lasso, that I even realized where I was. I knew this place well. In fact, I had helped reengineer it.

The owner of The Big D, Jake Henry, hired me to help supervise a remodeling of his auction house to facilitate his shift from cattle to slave girls. Jake had already hired an architect that had advised him to tear down the main building and replace it with an entirely new structures inspired by the classical slave markets of ancient Rome.

My advice to Jake was simpler: don't change a thing.

"This is Dallas, and it started as a cow town," I explained in my slide presentation. "That's the tradition you need to build on, not Greece or Rome. You're still selling livestock, only now some of the cows have two hooves instead of four. But the rest is the same. I can help you streamline your operations, turn your inventory over faster, and reduce your holding costs. But the physical operation here is beautiful. It needs to be enhanced, not destroyed."

Jake Henry LOVED my proposal, and had hired me to supervise the modifications to the facility. While I didn't remember all of the details of what I had done, I did recall taking great delight in processing the slave girls like cattle.

The Asian chick used her foot to slide my cage on a blue handcart with the BIG D logo. I swallowed hard as she pushed me across the loading dock and through the doors and into the brutal system I had engineered.

The girl pushed me fast. "You gotta move that pussy, Jake," I had counseled, mimicking a Texas twang as best as my Brahman accent would allow. "Every second a girl is waiting in her cage is a second you aren't making money. "Slaughterhouses don't make no money being sentimental, and you can't make no money neither."

What was going to happen to me? I struggled to remember the "process" I had designed. Why was the black woman in the coveralls and the woman with the notebook following my handcart?

My plan had been to be sold as an expert slave at a small private auction in Austin, but instead I had been crated and shipped off to The Big D, where I would be paraded naked on the auction block. The faux prototype forms I had so playfully put my name on had given me a deliciously naughty tingle, and a "fun fear." But the enslavement order Judge Rufus Parker had signed and stamped was totally real, and there was nothing fun about the fear I felt now.

How long until I was sold? Did Becky Lou already have confederates on site, ready to purchase me? Did she even know where I was, or had my shipment been accidentally diverted to Dallas?

Slave girls have questions, but only masters have answers. One thing was clear: my fate would be sealed with the BANG of an auctioneer's gavel.

I couldn't believe how fortune had turned on me. As fate would have it, I was not only going to be sold, I was going to be sold in a literal cattle market, processed like livestock in a house-of-horrors of my own design.