Sandy Foot Girl Ch. 04: On The Block

I'm not sure how long I was unconscious. I lifted my head and slowly opened my eyes. I felt dizzy; my brain was buzzing.

Had it all been a bad dream? Had I fallen asleep at my condo in Manhattan, sipping a latte while reading the Wall Street Journal, and savoring the promising outlook for my slave industry stocks?

No, I wasn't wearing my jammies and lying on my favorite comfy couch. I was stark naked and lying on a cold cement floor. I ran my hand over my naked breasts, down my flat tummy, and to the top of my sex. No doubt about it: I was 100%, gloriously naked, birthday bare, without a stitch. I let my fingers run between my legs. Despite the coldness of the floor, my pussy was warm, and wet. I gave myself a little rub, enjoying the pleasure of my fingers.

I rubbed myself as I let my mind clear. Where was I? It wasn't until I let my other hand run up and touch the slave collar around my neck that the answer became clear.

Yes, of course. I was at The Big D Livestock and Slave Market in Dallas.

I relaxed and rubbed myself faster. I didn't need clothing, or a purse, or anything, really. Everything about me that still mattered was in computer system I had designed, and the bar code and RFID tag on my collar tied me into the system like any other piece of inventory. I might not know exactly where I was, but the computer did, and any employee could use their tracker or phone app to locate my exact location, status, grade, picture, sexual history, and any other fact they cared to browse. Now that I was naked and tagged, selling me would be as simple as selling a bag of potato chips or a candy bar at a gas station.

The peculiar part was my nudity and helplessness didn't frighten me. In fact, it made me hotter. As I rubbed myself my Slave Yoga mantras buzzed through my mind.

"A slave girl must be wet and ready. A slave girl must be wet and ready. A slave girl must be wet and ready." I was.

I did a quick self-inspection. My hair was dry and neatly combed, and my toenails and fingernails had been trimmed and scrubbed clean of all nail polish. A part of me was pleased to see my nail polish was gone; I had told them to sell the girls in as "natural" a state as possible. Plus the little sluts couldn't dig their nails into you if they had no nails.

"Keep the inventory clipped," I had written, "fresh scrubbed, and ready for the block." In my daze, my mind was still viewing myself in the 3rd person, as if I was looking at slave girl inventory. "Good the little slut is ready to be sold. It won't be long now."

I was awake, but with my brain still cooling off it still seemed like a dream. There was the coolness of the cement, the freedom of slavery, and the pleasure of my fingers. It was only when I heard other voices that I began to orient myself.

"I still don't see why you can't give me some coveralls to wear!" a familiar British accent said. "Or a robe, or something!"

"Coveralls are for employees only," I heard Jasmine replied coolly. "As for bathrobes, this isn't The Ritz, white girl. Relax. Your clothes will be dry in a few minutes and you can get dressed again."

I struggled to focus on my surroundings instead of merely myself. After a few seconds of squinting I realized I was toward the back of the hall in one of the prep areas where the girls were "prepared" after the Cattle Wash.

Seeing me blinking myself awake Jasmine used the leash that had been attached to my collar to pull me to my feet. "That was FUCKING STUPID, SLAVE GIRL!" she shouted. "You're lucky I didn't smoke your tiny brain!"

I looked around, blinking. Jasmine continued shouting at me. "You're so fucking SLAVE STUPID. I should whip the skin off your ass!"

I bristled at the characterization. I had entitled one of my book chapters "Slave Stupid", discussing in detail a pleasure sluts inability to logically reason, make long term plans, or understand anything other than the longings of her pussy and the crack of the whip.

I looked up at Miss Fish-and-Chips, the British reporter. She was entirely naked. Butt naked. Head to toe.

Seeing me looking her up-and-down, our little reporter blushed and tried to cover herself with her hands. "Can I have a towel?" she whined hopefully. "Please? Pretty please?"

Even in my disoriented state, her plaintive and pleading tone pleased me. Her Majesty didn't seem so commanding slave naked.

The psychology of the transformation process had always fascinated me, and it was particularly pleasing to see it happen to the snooty British reporter. When a girl loses her clothes in The Big D, there is a powerful loss of status. This is true even in the mall, where the well dressed woman who is paying to pose for an "auction block" photo at one of the stores will feel a chilling loss of authority once her clothes are removed and put away and the clerk who had been fawning over her begins ordering her about as if she were a real slave. The sharp "taps" on her bottom with the whip won't be actual whip strokes, but the message will be clear. It's part of the experience, to be sure, but I knew from my research that it was also part of the terrible psychology of enslavement, a centuries old process designed to undermine a woman's self-esteem.

Now I could see the process in action. Jasmine's tone with the reporter was dismissive. "Look around you, DUMB-DUMB! Do you see girls with towels? If I give you a towel someone's just going to get annoyed and rip it off you. And stop covering yourself like your tits and pussy are golden. This is a slave market, not a PG-13 movie!"

"Eyes front, slave girl!" Jasmine said, slapping me on the side of the head. "You're in luck. I'd like to send your ass for a week of punishment and training. But we're at level 5. Do you know what level 5 means, stupid?"

Indeed I did, because I had invented it. Level 5 was a state of Severe Inventory Surplus, when The Big D was overflowing with slave girls. When The Big D was in Level 5, all niceties were skipped. The electric motto on the signboard near the clock on the wall stated the current state of readiness succinctly: "LEVEL 5: Whip 'Em & Ship 'Em!"

I had designed Level 5 to get the slave pussy on the block as fast as possible, to maximize revenue and throughput. It was a sound business model, and I had proofed the numbers. But as I hoped Becky Lou was on the way to rescue me from permanent enslavement, now I hoped that the system I had perfected could somehow be slowed down.

"The only reason I'm not paddling your ass right now is because the computer put you on the block in ten minutes. Are you going to BEHAVE, like a good little Prime Minus bitch, or do you want a world of hurt instead?"

Ten minutes! I had not slowed down the system at all. A part of me felt a surge of pride; the system I had honed could not be stopped. I had the option of being punished, and suffering great pain, but my sale would proceed regardless. In ten minutes, my slave snatch would be on the auction block.

Seeing that Jasmine was waiting for a response, I bowed my head, and instinctively responded with the slave mantras I had learned in my Slave Yoga class.

"I beg forgiveness, Mistress."

I will behave in all ways, and in all things, Mistress."

"I exist to please you, Mistress."

The British Reporter was incredulous that I was going to escape further punishment. "You're going to let her GET AWAY with what she did to me?"

It pleased me enormously that Jasmine's angry tone was the same with the reporter as it was with me. "I smoked her brain like pork sausage and she didn't get away with SHIT! And I told you the rule before we started, this isn't a tourist destination, it's a livestock yard, get it? Slave girls have shit-for-brains, and that means you treat them like any other wild animal under stress. You're lucky she didn't bite you, or kick your British ass all the way back to London."

"She attacked me!" the naked reporter protested.

"You went into an area you shouldn't have been in to taunt a slave. I had to pull a staff member when we are at peak to haul your clothes off to the laundry. Do you even know what rules are? You're lucky you're not in the hospital, or the morgue."

Lucy's dressing down - literally - gave me enormous pleasure, but I didn't dare smile. I kept my head down, and my eyes fixed on my freshly scrubbed toenails.

Yanking my leash Jasmine returned her attention to me. "Come on. It's time to put your disobedient ass on the block. In 9 minutes, you're going to be someone else's problem."

"Wait!" the reporter screamed. "You can't leave me here. You can't leave me here...naked!"

"Would you rather I took you to the auction block?" Jasmine asked, smiling. Lucy looked horrified as she realized how vulnerable she really was.

Jasmine smiled. "That's what I thought. Naked is good. Naked will let you blend in. I'll be back in a few minutes with your clothes. Just keep your mouth shut and stop bitching before someone gives you a collar and an ear tag!"

Jasmine turned to me as the reporter nervously touched her ear. "What are you smiling at, BIMBO?" she said harshly, yanking on my leash.

Jasmine led me quickly out of the shower area. I allowed myself a quick glance over my shoulder as Jasmine used her ID card to open the door that allowed us to exit the Cattle Wash. Miss Fish-and-Chips was arguing with two teenage slave mongers who were pushing her into the shower line. I allowed myself the tiniest of smiles. It looked like someone was about to get a good scrub down in the cattle wash.

The scouring brush bristles and detergents would feel harsh against her tender skin, but the men gawking at her from the gangway above would enjoy the show. Scrub-a-dub-dub!

Jasmine's voice was loud and her tone was sharp as she led me through the backstage areas toward the auction chute. "You're lucky we are at Level 5. I know you're a fucking idiot, because otherwise you wouldn't be here, but don't try any of that shit on the block, because the auctioneer has a whip, and he's not afraid to use it, got it?"

"Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress."

In my chapter "Slave Stupid" I had explained how the enslavement process reduced a pleasure slut's capacity for logical thought. As she became more in tune with the needs of her master, her ability to use her mind for anything other than giving and receiving pleasure quickly eroded.

As we walked rapidly through the facility my essay played through my mind. "It doesn't matter if she was once a nuclear physicist or a medical doctor. Once collared, the pleasure slut quickly focuses on masturbation, cock sucking, and avoiding the whip. Their inability to think or reason makes it less likely that they will successfully escape, but more likely that they will run, or do something foolish. Stupid isn't an action; stupid is who they are."

Throwing a bucket of water on that reporter and getting my brain smoked was slave stupid. It was only through sheer luck that I wasn't being whipped right now.

"A true pleasure slut is born, not made. Collaring a girl is like poking holes in a water balloon, and part of the amusement of the process is watching her so-called intelligence drain out of her, like water draining out of a colander."

The Big D was a maze, and although I had revamped operations, streamlining processing on a map was very different from walking barefoot down corridors with boxes, forklifts, handcarts, and cages stacked with supplies and unhappy slave girls. It was an odd feeling: although I had navigated these corridors successfully for months, and had even given tours, I had no idea where I was going. I struggled to focus, but a more pressing need called.

"May I rub my pussy, Mistress?" I asked. "I want to be slave hot for the block."

"Yeah, you get that snatch of yours nice and wet, block bimbo. Ayn't nobody gonna be buying your ass for your brains."

The worst part about slave stupid is that it robs you of your ability to focus. A part of me knew I needed to be plotting my escape. Was there someone who could rescue me, or someway to get word to Becky Lou, or a perhaps even a friend in New York? Could I yet be saved from the shame and humiliation of being paraded naked on the auction block? Good questions, but as my fingers sank into my wet pussy and began to rub, all I could think about was the pleasure coursing through me.

I groaned with the ecstasy of my own wetness. No, there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The paperwork to sell me had been signed by Judge Parker, and even if I somehow escaped from Jasmine, as a naked slave girl wearing a tracking collar, I'd soon be recapture, and punished.

I remembered one of my Slave Yoga mantras. "Slavery is Destiny. Slavery is Destiny." My destiny awaited.

It is said that a pleasure slut dreams of her first time on the block the way a free woman dreams of her wedding day. I had never dreamed of my wedding day, but being in the slaving business I had naturally wondered what it might be like to be bid upon, and put through my paces by an auctioneer. I had fantasies, but I had always told myself that was normal.

Now, my fantasies would be real.

Jasmine tugged harder on the leash. "Keep up the pace, slut. I'm not going to miss your block time because you're rubbing your stinking snatch."

I took a deep breath, and she was right. I could smell my arousal.

We passed a number of Big D employees, but my nakedness and self-pleasuring didn't draw much attention. We were in Level 5, and they were busy; there was a lot of pussy that needed to be processed. I remembered a few of them from the training classes I had taught at The Big D. I didn't remember their names, as none of them were that important to me... at least not then. Now they all had whips dangling from their belts, and slave goads. I knew if I were put under their command I would learn their names quickly.

The fact that I wasn't recognized by my former students, colleagues, or clients was a relief, as it would be the ultimate humiliation to encounter someone I knew as I was rubbing my stinking slave snatch on the way to the auction block. However, it was also the ultimate humiliation, as it reinforced the cruel fact that I was no longer recognizable as a professional woman, or even as a human. I was merely another piece of inventory.

As we rapidly advanced towards my fate Jasmine kept up with her instructions. "We used the photographs from your grading, so your picture is already in the online catalog. We don't have to photograph you again, which saves us a step."

I swallowed. Another step saved meant less time for Becky Lou to get here, and another chance to be rescued lost. Being led through the corridors of The Big D was like being led through the streets of Paris in a tumbril to the guillotine, and I knew the moment of execution was getting closer with each step.

"I'm going to put you in a chute. It's going to be dark, and you'll be pressed up against the slave girl in front of you. If you're smart, you'll use whatever time you have get to get your pussy slave wet. When the chute door flies open, you're going to blinded by the light. But you need to get on the block as quick as you can, or the wrangler will whip your ass. Run fast to the center of the auction block, and smile. The buyers like to see enthusiasm. This is your big moment, slut. Your big moment on the auction block. Exciting, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mistress," I agreed, rubbing myself harder. Damn if she wasn't right.

"The block will have sand on it, like the block you did your moves on, but it will be much higher. Try not to fall off. Stay sharp. Got it?"

"Yes, Mistress. I will try, Mistress."

I listened to her instructions closely, and was grateful for them. True, I had designed the system she was describing, but my mind was swimming, and I felt dazed and confused. My rapid transformation to block meat was making it difficult for my brain to function. I had hoped that my years of Slave Yoga would kick in, and allow me to perform as required.

"I'm not slave stupid," I thought.

"The fuck you're not," Jasmine snapped back. "You maybe the stupidest fucking bimbo I've ever processed. And that electroshock therapy I gave you a couple of minutes ago probably didn't help matters much."

Had I spoken the words allowed? I must have. I was having problems focusing on anything but Jasmine's orders and the growing excitement between my legs. "Relax, and enjoy the moment", I told myself. "You will do well, and make Jake and The Big D proud."

I had learned my block moves as muscle memory, like a good pleasure slut does. I wouldn't have to think... like I even could.

Jasmine continued her instructions. "You're going to be on the auction block, and you're going to show 'em your tits and pussy. Put on a good show, and you make me me money. Put on a bad show, and we may not sell you. That means training. If I see you again, I'll whip your ass."

"What's my reserve price?" I asked.

I jumped in fear as Jasmine cracked the whip.

"I'm sorry Mistress," I said, falling to my knees. "I'm not here to ask questions. I'm stupid. I'm nothing but tits and pussy. Tits and pussy to be sold!"

Satisfied, Jasmine yanked me roughly to my feet and led me quickly down the long corridor, holding me "short leash" like a recalcitrant dog.

The words stung because they were true. Even as I apologized, I was rubbing my pussy. I had struggled against the "slave stupid" conditioning during my Slave Yoga classes, and purposefully limited my time in the training collar. Now the collar was locked onto my neck, and there was no way to stop my descent. I was thoroughly ensconced in my role, if it indeed could even be considered a role. Thanks to Judge Parker, my enslavement was signed, sealed, and delivered. When the auctioneer's gavel fell, I would be sold, and all sales were final. I hoped that I would be pleasing.

I caught myself...what was I thinking? At the moment I should be focusing on escape, or Becky Lou buying me back, I was instead focusing on pleasuring my new owner. But my fingers felt so good. As much as I struggled against it, I knew I was "hot for the block."

"Okay, here we are," Jasmine said. I was backstage at the "Broadway Block". I had given each of the auction areas fun names, mostly based on cattle towns or ranching terms: Chicago was at the center, Kansas City was smaller and closer to the entrance. Branding Block was closest to the blacksmith, where the branding's were done.

My computer program had assigned me to Broadway, the largest auction area for the hottest and prettiest girls. I felt a surge of pride and a spasm of pleasure in my pussy. I hoped I would turn Jake a tidy profit.

My system redesign had helped make The Big D "the best damn auction house in Texas!" as Jake always liked to say. The changes had been revolutionary for them, but meant little to me, for I was simply an outside consultant. But I knew I had caused their profits to surge.

Now they were going to sell me, and once again I would be contributing to their bottom line. But now the economics were reversed. The sale would change my life forever, although the profit my pussy would generate for them would be a minuscule part of Jake's enormous income for the year.

The chute entrance was crowded, and we had to wait our turn for the bored clerk with the scanner to check the tag on my ear to make sure I was in the right area. BEEP! I was scanned in. My pussy was now ready for sale.

Jasmine gave me a quick pep talk I'm sure she gave thousands of times before. "You're Prime Minus, and that makes you the best. Make me proud, B-269. And remember: quick out of the chute!" she said, slapping me on the ass as she sent me inside.

Jasmine's radio squawked a problem at the loading dock, and taking the walkie-talkie off her belt she turned away and responded that she'd be right there.