Sandy Foot Girl Ch. 03: Feeling Blue

Seeing how closely the redheaded reporter was looking at my exposed sex and bottom hole, Jasmine laughed. "You want to shoot a picture for your readers, Miss Johnson?" Jasmine said, ingratiating herself with the little English snoop.

"Please. Call me Lucy. I'm sure that the readers would enjoy it," the redhead replied, in her increasingly annoying British accent, "and it certainly would boost circulation, ha-ha."

I could have choked her. I looked up at her between my legs, the blood rushing to my head, biting my lip in anger as she examined my private parts. The snooty English princess was examining my pussy like I were an animal stuffed in a display case at the fucking British Museum.

"Oh, my!" She said, giving my crotch a really good look. "She's wetter than Whales in a squall!"

The little English bitch fished a camera out of her purse and lined up the photo of my "pongy" pussy as though she were going for the Pulitzer Prize.

"Say CHEESE, slut," Jasmine said, taunting me as the English reporter snapped away.

I gasped as the black woman ran her fingers over my sopping wet sex, coating her fingers in my juices as the reporter continued clicking away.

"She left herself a little landing strip here," she said, running her fingers through my pubic curls. "Bare is popular, but since this proves she's a natural blonde, it might increase her price. Makes her look like a real California girl," she added, laughing as she cruelly tapped my dangling, blue, California ear tag. "I'll let her keep her little golden fleece until she's sold and with her new master."

I felt a tiny chill run down my spine at this fresh indignity: "I'll let her keep her little golden fleece..." Although I found Jasmine's power over me deeply humiliating, as a slaving professional, I totally respected her prerogative to make such decisions. I was the inventory she was selling, and, as such, it was her job to trim my hair - or remove it all together - to fit her perceptions of the market demand.

Like many aspects of sales, such decisions were a mixture of art and science. Some slave mongers liked to put a few whip stripes across a girl's bottom before they put her on the block, to show that she had been disciplined. A young woman in her late 20's with a flat chest, might have her hair cut into a pageboy or put in pigtails to make her look a bit more like a girl in her late teens. My nails were well manicured with red nail polish, but The Triple D, in keeping with my "livestock" theming, preferred no nail polish and closely-cropped nails.

In making her decision Jasmine had done a commendable job considering The Big D's "brand," market conditions, and local tastes. Although, as a slave girl, her decisions were of monumental importance to me, I knew that to her it was simply one of the hundreds of routine decisions she made each day managing retail sales. But even as I applauded her choice, the terrifying realization that my tits-and-pussy were now a salable commodity to be marketed to the local yokels like toothpaste or bubble gum, chilled me to the bone.

Jasmine's fingers moved down, and I gasped as she sunk them knuckle-deep into my pussy. "I could grease a truck axel with her slave honey," she chuckled.

The redheaded reporter laughed nervously, looking first at Jasmine's glistening fingers and then at my widely opened twat.

"Stick a finger up there and get a sample, if you really want to understand how juicy a Pleasure Slut can get," Jasmine urged.

The prissy British reporter looked shocked. Clearly, she had not expected this opportunity, and I could tell by the look on her face that she wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Um... maybe later," she said, unsure of herself.

Jasmine ordered me to stand. Even in my bare feet, I was quite a bit taller than the stupid English reporter who was looking at me with her head tilted a bit to one side, like a dog trying to decipher a stranger.

"She's is a filthy little tart, isn't she?" The smug little English muffin said. Oh, how I hated her, and envied her at the same time, in her neat, black skirt and white blouse. She thought she was better than me, and everything about her oozed condescension. I knew what she was thinking, for I had stood where she now stood countless times in countless slaving facilities, wrinkling my nose in disgust (and yes, amusement) at the smell of the hot, wet slave pussy being hustled to market.

Jasmine addressed me directly. Her voice wasn't angry, but it was sharp and commanding, the tone one might use with a dog when the owner wanted to make it clear that playtime was over.

"You thirsty, slave girl?" She asked. "You got to go pee?"

"Yes, Mistress," I replied, looking down at my dirty, bare feet.

"Too bad," she said. Jasmine grabbed me by the collar and walked me over to a small platform, about six feet long and three feet deep, and about a foot off the ground.

I swallowed hard. It was covered in sand.

"You're Prime Minus so you've had some training. Do you still know your block moves, slave slut?"

"I take Slave Yoga, Mistress," I replied.

"Good," Jasmine said, unclipping the slave whip from her belt and shaking it out. "Get up on the block, bitch."

Feeling sick to my stomach I stepped up onto the faux auction block. My heart skipped a beat as I felt the sand beneath my bare feet, and between my toes.

My attention was quickly refocused when Jasmine pressed a button on her iPad and the block was brilliantly illuminated with light.

Jasmine regarded me coolly. "Okay, Miss Prime-Minus, let's see what you've got. Show me your best block moves. And remember, you're not here for a dance recital. You're a Pleasure Slut."

It was then I made my first mistake. I looked at Miss Fish-and-Chips, who was standing directly in front of the platform, camera in hand. "In front of HER MAJESTY?" I said sharply, hoping against hope that my last bit of dignity wouldn't be taken away by having to perform for the nosey, English bloodhound.

Jasmine response was to CRACK the whip in the air. I immediately fell into a squat, spreading my legs wide and licking my lips lasciviously.

Miss Fish-and-Chips had taken great umbrage at being referred to as "Her Majesty," and now smiled at me as I squat and spread. I realized I had rather stupidly made an enemy. Slave girls can't afford to have free women as enemies.

I leaned back, steadying myself with my left hand, spreading myself wide.

"I can see her poopy hole!" The reporter said, raising her camera to take a picture of me in the shameful position. Bitch!

Trying to ignore the click of her camera, I rubbed my pussy, soaking my fingers and bringing them to my own lips for a taste. I licked my lips to show the buyers how delicious and copious my slave honey was, ignoring the taste of the sand which clung to the end of my fingers.

I knew my block moves well. Some girls like to tease and do a slow build up, but I did not. I got to the good stuff right away. I had designed The Big D to sell pussy fast.

"I like the way her blue ear tag flops around when she does her moves," the English reporter observes. It's a nice touch. Gives her routine a bit of color."

Indeed it did. In photos, you could always tell an auction at The Big D because of the sand on the girls' feet and the ear tags. The Big D wasn't just another generic mass merchandiser, like HCI in Houston. Thanks to me, The Big D had personality.

The Big D was the best, and so was I. I had taken Slave Yoga classes to perfect a block routine which would allow a girl to display her charms as quickly and efficiently as possible. After all, how could I tell the slave girls what to do, if I hadn't figured it out myself?

I had insisted on taking the classes in the nude, with real slave girls and a real slave master cracking a real slave whip. Being a competitive person, I trained myself to the point of exhaustion, just as if I had been a real Pleasure Slut vying for a top grade. My hours of training had paid off in a flawless routine and a Prime Minus grade. I could tell from the impressed look on Jasmine's face that she was pleased. I felt a surge of pride even as my pussy grew ever more excited.

I went onto all fours, face forward, knees, hands, and feet in the sand, my breasts hanging down loosely. Looking up at Miss Fish-and-Chips, I made my "slave faces," designed to show the buyers my full range of emotions: Happy. Fear. Contempt. Anger. Embarrassment (with a genuine blush!). Coy/Sexy, Horny/Sexy. Pouty. Shocked! Disgust. Sadness. I saved orgasm for last.

Doing an expert roll in the sand, I flipped. I was on all fours, legs spread wide as goalposts, head down, ass and pussy raised high. The sand was clinging to my naked body, but I didn't care, because of my Slave Yoga training, and the sexual intensity of the situation. Reaching between my legs I quickly rubbed myself to a full lather.

"Buy me, Mistress," I pleaded with the redhead. "Let me lick your hot, red pussy! Let me pleasure your perfect English twat with my unworthy American tongue!"

"There's sand all over her," the redheaded noted, lining up another photo of my humiliation as I rubbed my hot slave pussy for her camera.

"Yeah, that's part of the show. This place used to be a cattle market, and the floors of the pens and auction floors were covered in sand and straw. We had a big-shot consultant come in, and she said we should keep it, and make a whole thing out of it. So now we advertise our Pleasure Sluts as 'Sandy Foot Girls.' "

I grimaced as I once again heard myself referred to in the third person, as if I were no longer there... as if I no longer existed. In a way I did not. It was terrifying, but I also felt a strange sense of satisfaction at how perfectly I was playing the role which had fueled my fantasies for so many years.

Why, a casual observer might think I was actually a slave pussy up for sale! With my ear clipped, wearing a bar coded RFI collar, and my clothing and identification tucked safely in a locked drawer 150 miles away in Austin, I was now indistinguishable from the other pleasure sluts up for sale at The Big D. I had created "Sandy Foot Girls." Now I was one... or at least, appeared to be. Groaning with pleasure, I rubbed my pussy.

"Wow, what a horny little wanker she is!" The snooty reporter said, looking down at me with a mixture of amusement and disgust. "Juicy little slag, isn't she?"

I relished the free woman's disgust, like the pleasure slut I was pretending to be. "Let me lick your feet, Mistress," I pleaded, my blue plastic tab bouncing against my face as I rubbed myself for her. "Let me rub my juicy twat to amuse you. I exist to give you pleasure!"

My mind was swimming. I was slave-naked, sand clinging to my sweaty body, pleasuring myself for some sneering, limey reporter and a mere monger with a slave whip in her hand. My humiliation was complete, but my hours of training had kicked in, and I was showing Miss Fish-and-Chips what I could do. I was showing her that I was the best.

"Oh, my gosh, she's having an orgasm!" The English chippy gasped. "Look at her pussy twitch! What a filthy slag she is! I've got to get a picture of this."

"Let me lick you, Mistress! Let me pleasure you!" I pleaded, losing control as the orgasm crashed over me.

Click, click, click. The little bitch photographed me, zooming in for close-ups of my face and pussy as I lost control. My pussy twitched and I begged to lick her dirty English snatch.

Oh, how I hated her! But I was also aware of Jasmine behind me, caressing her whip and smiling. It was a genuine auctioneer's whip, and it wasn't just for show.

I smoothly and gracefully rolled into my next pose, sweat and sawdust clinging to my naked body, spreading myself to show the buyers everything I had. I shook out my hair, letting it flow freely, the shameful blue ear tag that marked me as livestock-for-sale flopping against my face. I was a randy, stinking, slave slut, and it was as hot as hell!

The odd part was, as humiliating and degrading as my performance was, my block dance was also totally liberating. Like all things carefully practiced - especially during the disciplined training of Slave Yoga - a Pleasure Slut's performance on the auction block is, when perfected, truly an art form. I had no clothes, no identity, no possessions, no college degrees, no lofty professional career or position, no responsibilities. I had nothing. Nothing existed but my naked body, the sand, the auction block, and the crack of the whip. I had been designated a Pleasure Slut. My body was for giving pleasure.

Sand clinging to me, my hand soaked in my own slave honey, rolling and posing on the block, I had never felt so free!

I arched my back, spreading my legs wide as I rubbed my juicy blonde snatch. I could tell from the look on Jasmine's face that I had earned my Prime- grade, and in a peculiar way, her respect. Not her respect as a person, of course, but her respect as inventory which she could sell. Becky Lou and Judge Parker had stripped me of everything, and that was all I was. I was inventory.

As a management consultant I had earned Jake a pretty penny transforming The Big D into the most profitable operation per square foot in the State of Texas. Now, I would earn Jake a fat commission as he sold my naked ass off in the most degrading manner imaginable, laughing all the way to the bank as he did it. He would take money out of my sweet blonde pussy with the cool, calculating indifference of a man yanking money out of a slot at an ATM machine.

"My goodness, she is a randy little tart, isn't she?" the English reporter observed, as I quivered through my orgasm at her feet. "I felt a bit sorry for her when you took her out of the cage, but now..."

"Don't feel sorry for her," Jasmine said. "She has a calling for the collar. I can tell."

"A calling for the collar." It was a familiar phrase, and yet another humiliating insult. It is said that the most lascivious of pleasure sluts are "destined" for the collar, and that it calls to them.

"Good job, slut," Jasmine said. "You're slave hot, and ready for the block."

"Are you going to clean her up, first?" The British reporter asked. "To get rid of her... fishy smell."

I gave her my best "FUCK YOU" glare.

"That's our next step," Jasmine explained. "I'm taking her to the Cattle Wash. You can come along, if you want, although you might get your shoes wet."

My heart sank. The Cattle Wash! Fuck! I had forgotten about the Cattle Wash!

As Jasmine led me by my slave leash down the long corridor, Jasmine explained the Cattle Wash to my nemesis-with-a-notebook.

"Mostly we sell slave girls now, although we still sell some cattle, goats, and sheep," Jasmine explained. "When Jake first made the switch to slaves, we installed some shower nozzles in the cattle scrub area, so the slave bitches would have a place to wash up before we sold them. But that consultant I was telling you about thought we were missing an opportunity to 'differentiate ourselves in the market,' or some shit like that. She even put in a big viewing area up above, so the customers could come in and watch. Now cattle scrub is this big show."

The Cattle Wash area was crowded with naked girls, unhappily waiting for their turn in one of the scrub stalls. The viewing area above the concrete floor was crowded with visitors, mostly male but some women too, mostly college girls who thought it was a naughty thrill, or vengeful old biddies who liked to see young women laid low.

You could always tell the serious buyers - the men and women taking notes on little pads of paper or on their cell phones while the naked girls were paraded in front of them and scrubbed down. They weren't laughing, and they didn't have beer or hotdogs. They looked at the girls with a cold, calculating eye, and they were the ones who scared me the most.

I had designed the Cattle Wash but, as with much of what had happened with The Big D, I hadn't stayed around to see the final construction build out. A part of me was fascinated to see my final vision in practice. The viewing gallery was larger than I'd thought it would be, and I was pleased to see that they had followed my suggestion and put a cash bar near the back. In my original design the viewers stood in back, on a raised balcony about 15 foot above the floor, but they had expanded it so the balcony wrapped around both sides, making the wash area into a sort of thrust stage for the festivities.

I had suggested cameras to allow visitors to The Triple D to check out the action on their phones. It wasn't accessible on the Web - you had to be in the facility to watch, because I wanted buyers on the floor and not jerking off at home. However, the cameras allowed visitors who couldn't crowd onto the balcony to "watch the fun" as I put it.

Jake had been doubtful, as he didn't see why "... washing cows would draw visitors." Washing cows would not, I explained, but naked slave girls were another matter, and the more you treated them like real cattle the better. The packed viewing gallery filled with beer-swigging customers told me once again I was right.

My delight in the success of my design was cut short when Jasmine pushed me past the dozens of naked, humiliated slave girls to the front of the line. "I got a reporter with me," Jasmine said, shouting above the fray and giving a head-check to Miss Fish-and-Chips. "Can you do Golden Rod here first?"

The teenage boy nodded and scanned-in my collar, which gave a satisfied BEEP. There were about 30 teenagers working in the crowded Cattle Wash, mostly male, all wearing blue coveralls and baseball caps with The Big D logo on them.

It had been my idea to staff the Cattle Wash with seniors from the local High School. I still remembered my sales pitch to Jake. "They're 18 or 19, they'll work cheap, and a lot of them have car wash experience already. It's no different, and you'll get a bunch of horny teenage boys who love their job and will work for less than minimum wage because they're getting school credit and it gives them a chance to feel-up slave pussy."

Knowing full well what was coming, I turned to Jasmine and Lucy. "I could just shower using one of the nozzles on the wall?" I pleaded hopefully, pointing to the now unused shower nozzles my redesign had shoved into obsolescence. "That way I wouldn't have to cut in line, and it would be faster."

Jasmine turned to Lucy and gave her a "your call," look. Lucy smiled at me as she stroked her chin thoughtfully. "It WOULD be faster," she teased, drawing out the suspense, "but I think for my readers' sake I really need to see the entire process."

Oh, how I DESPISED her! She was all smiles as Jasmine used the butt of her whip handle to shove me into stall number 6, where a very unhappy looking redhead was just finishing up.

Four teenage boys in coveralls immediately took me into custody, attaching my wrists to a pair of dangling wrist cuffs. A few quick crank turns later, I was dangling in the air, my toes struggling to graze the drain below me on the cement floor.

The water from the high-pressure hose was freezing cold, and I could hear Limey Lucy giggling as they blasted me with it.

I screamed as the boy with the hose directed the freezing, high-pressure spray directly at my crotch.

"That's it, Beau!" One of the other boys shouted, laughing. "Own that lib!"

I knew the phrase, "Own the lib!" was a reference to my humiliating, blue ear tag. I had actually put a joke about "Owning the Libs!" in the "Blue, Tattooed, and Screwed" section of the catalog which sold the despised Blue State Girls. I had never really felt the sting of discrimination, being tall and blonde. But now the blue tag dangling from my ear marked me as part of a despised group, which made it all the more fun to humiliate and abuse me.