Sandy Foot Girl Ch. 04: On The Block

I wondered if Jasmine would remember me. I wanted to think so, but new she would not, as I was simply one of countless naked slave girls she would process that day. I also wondered if she'd remember Lucy, who was still naked in the Cattle Wash, if she was lucky.

The phrase "quick out of the chute" turned over in my mind as I lowered my hand between my legs to pleasure my wet pussy. Judge Parker at the convention center had wanted to "grease the chute", and I noticed that I was in fact advancing rapidly, which meant that the girls were being sold quickly.

Soon two or three girls were crowded into the chute behind me and I was forced deeper inside. The cattle chutes had been my idea. When I had discovered that The Big D still had actual cattle chutes, I saw the opportunity to play with another fun Texas cow-town tradition that would differentiate us from our less distinct and larger corporate competitors.

I had kept the cattle chute idea, but enhanced it. The chute was a prefab cattle "alley" that could be adjusted in length by adding more sections. It was largely unchanged from its original deployment at The Big D, although I had enclosed the sides to shield the livestock from the light and noise of the outside world. Being sold was stressful enough, and I wanted the Pleasure Sluts to be able to focus on rubbing their hot little twats and tweaking their nipples as they focused on their performance on the block. As per my instructions, the walls had been pushed inward. I was packed in tightly enough to be able to touch the walls without lifting my arms, and feel the girl in front of me and the girl behind me pressing against my naked body.

"Squeeze the bitches in, Jake," I had said, laughing. "Pack them tight like in the old slave ships. Let them smell their own slave stink."

Jake had followed my instructions to the letter: my breasts were pressed into the back of the girl in front of me, and I could feel the hand of the girl pleasuring herself behind me rubbing against my own naked ass even as I stroked my own love button.

The smell of wet pussy filled the air. It felt good to feel my slave sisters pressed against me, snug and warm. No one spoke; like professional athletes preparing for a match, our focus was entirely on our performance. There was no girlish chatter, there was only the sighs of pleasure as we juiced ourselves and waited for our chance to show the buyers what we had.

The chute was inverted upwards, so I wouldn't have to struggle with the light, and climbing the stairs, and the sand all at once. I wasn't very bright, after all, and it certainly wouldn't speed things up to have me tripping as I ran up the steps of the auction block, like some sort of brainless klutz. No, no, that would never do. I had to be graceful, and "quick out of the chute."

What time was it? Probably after 5PM. Was Becky Lou still at work? Was she monitoring what was going on at The Big D? Did she have a confederate in place, ready to bid on me? If not, could a confederate get to The Big D fast enough? It was a lot of "ifs" considering that in a few minutes my sweet little honey pot was going to be up for sale.

I reached up and felt the humiliating blue tag on my ear. Shaped like California, it identified me as a 'blue state girl', one of the despised 'liberal elites.' I knew there would be men and women in the audience today who would enjoy watching me perform on the block because of my blue tag. As a tall, wealthy, beautiful member of the 1%, I had enjoyed special privileges all my life. Now I was "Blue, Tattooed, and Screwed", to use the memorable turn of phrase I had put in the catalog.

As a member of the 1%, I didn't view economic downturns as an entirely bad thing. Often the slaving business improved when the economy went south as increased financial hardships meant more women were enslaved. I often looked forward to economic downturns, even if they did hurt the little people.

The market model I had designed used artificial intelligence to detect and predict inventory bottlenecks, and it had detected a glut in slave pussy at The Big D. Part of it was the size of the operation; unlike HCI, The Big D simply didn't have that much room to hold excess livestock. Through complex regression analysis I had proven to Jake that when inventory levels were high, moving pussy faster at a lower margin actually eked out a slightly higher overall net profit. Not much, mind you, but over time, pennies added up to dollars.

My model was exquisitely sensitive to inventory levels, online prices at other auction houses, economic conditions, and factors that could increase the supply of slaves, such as higher college debt defaults or farm bankruptcies. And last week the Fed had failed to cut interest rates as much as Wall Street had hoped.

I rubbed myself faster and played with my nipples. The rich and detailed market understanding I had built into my model meant that my hot slave pussy was priced to MOVE. And while it stung my pride that I might actually sell for less, I could take comfort in the fact that in aggregate my quick-sale might add a few pennies to Jake's bottom line.

The bitter irony of it all wasn't lost on me. As a member of the privileged elite I was exempt from the sort of lunch-bucket concerns that dominated the daily lives of losers like Becky Lou and Rosa. But now I was a Sandy Foot Girl, and in a few seconds I'd be on the auction block, and spreading my pussy lips and showing off my butthole to a bunch of redneck lowlifes because a few Wall Street billionaires had been hoping for another 25 basis point cut.

It was dark. I remembered shining a flashlight into this same dark chute as I explained the psychology to Jake.

"Nice and dark! Let the little sluts sweat it out," I explained, smiling devilishly. "Even if she knows the setup of the room, she won't know who's auctioning her, or how many buyers are in the stands. Will there be people she knows in the crowd? Being paraded naked in front of a group of strangers is bad enough, but being auctioned in front of your neighbors, co-workers, or even ex-boyfriends is the ultimate humiliation. Make the little piggies squirm, and let them stew in their own juices."

Stew in their own juices! I fingered my love button faster, relishing my pleasure. Closing my eyes I let my fingers do the walking. It's really happening. I'm going to be sold. I am inventory, an item up for sale at The Big D. When they scanned my collar my status changed from GOODS AVAILABLE FOR SALE to BLOCK READY. Once sold, they'd scan my collar and change my status to SOLD MERCHANDISE. The gigantic sign painted on the wall of the Main Midway said it all:

Welcome To Big D Livestock And Slave Market, Pardner!

All Merchandise Sold As Is.

All Sales FINAL!

All sales were final. Final.

Breathe, B-269. Breathe.

B-269? Was that my name? No, I was Sarah. I was Sarah. Wasn't I?

The gate to the chute swung open, and the girl ahead of me ran out as the slave wrangler encouraged her journey with a sharp slap across her naked ass. The gate slammed shut, and I was in darkness again.

It wouldn't be long now; I was next. I was moving through my system "fast as greased lightning!" to use Judge Parker's memorable phrase. Yes, soon they'd turn a quick, tidy profit on me.

I stared at the auction door in front of me, and shuddered as I heard the auctioneer's gavel SLAM down like a guillotine blade. The pleasure slut in front of me had been sold. After many years of fantasizing about what it would be like to display myself on the auction block, my time had come.

The light blinded me as the gate in front of me sprung open like a trap door underneath my feet. I had the sensation of falling as I ran 'quick out of the chute", trying and failing to run past the hard SPANK! of the slave wrangler's hand.

As I plunged through the gate I thought, "This is what it's like to be hung."

I heard a murmur of appreciation from the crowd, followed by a few wolf whistles and some light applause as I sprinted across the block with an idiotic, toothy grin on my face, as the auctioneer read my lot number, "B-269". I could feel myself blush as the leering buyers appraised my naked body, but I knew that I had their attention.

I had shown the proper enthusiasm, and had stepped lively and gracefully, like a prancing gazelle. I felt a surge of pride. It was a strong start.

The moment had come. I could feel the sand between my toes. I was on the auction block, a real Sandy Foot Girl! I couldn't believe it. My emotions were in a washing machine: I was honored, humiliated, thrilled, and terrified, all at the same time. Any fantasies I had of the glamor of being auctioned vanished as the magnitude of what was about to happen to me sank into my bones.

The legal ramifications were as simple as they were incontestable: when I stepped onto the sand of the auction block, I was an agent of the Texas Department of Agriculture. When the auctioneer's gavel fell, I would be a slave.

The physical auction block had been my idea. The sales pit had originally been exactly that, a bare pit strewn with sand surrounded by benches arranged in a half circle. After all, there was no point in making cows or pigs walk up the stairs, and the floor where the audience sat was raked so that every seat provided an excellent view.

While I had hewed closely to the "cattle" market theme, I had added the large wooden auction block with the podium and auctioneer's gavel. Partially it was a visual reference to the prestigious auction houses that sold art. However mostly it was a tribute to the slave markets of the golden days of yore, stretching back to the Old South and the Barbary Pirates and even ancient Greece and Rome. Auctioning slave girls off a block was a longstanding tradition. It was important to show proper respect for the customs and rituals that legitimized the process.

I was in the largest theater, "Broadway". During the remodel I had added comfortable padding and cup holders to the benches and had expanded the wings so that more people could stand. The theater was full which meant there were about 500 people looking at my naked body either directly or on the TV monitors above. Countless more were doubtlessly watching me on their phones or pads. Between the light blindness and my nearsightedness, I couldn't see any faces, but I was conscious of countless eyes ogling my naked flesh.

As I moved to the center of the block I finally locked eyes on the auctioneer. Standing naked in front of 500 people I had supposed that I couldn't have been more humiliated or appalled.

I was wrong. My heart sank. I knew him. I knew my auctioneer.

His name was Timmy, and when I had met him he was a freshly scrubbed 18-year-old who had come to work for Big D's straight off his families cattle ranch in Texas. He was only about 5 foot, and was very youthful looking, which had earned him the nickname of "Tiny Tim", which he despised.

I had taught Timmy auction block procedures. He had been an excellent student, and had sat in the front row. He took copious notes and had asked all the right questions. He was my star pupil, and had shown a great deal of promise. Nonetheless, I was surprised to see him trusted with an auction of a Prime Minus slave on Broadway.

Timmy was standing on a step stool that allowed him to see over the top of the auctioneer's podium. Remembering his embarrassment about his height, I fought the urge to laugh. Still, I felt a surge of pride to see my star pupil moving so rapidly through the ranks, and I hoped I would have a chance to shake his hand and congratulate him.

Not now, of course. After he sold me. I swallowed hard.

As we locked eyes he smiled at me, and for a brief instant I thought he recognized me. Then I saw it wasn't a smile, exactly, it was more like a smug, satisfied smirk as he looked at the tall blonde girl standing naked before him. I recognized it as the "I own your ass" smile, and realized he was using a technique that I had taught him:

Establish control of your inventory. Let her know that you're in charge.

The nature of his cruel smile of ownership was confirmed quickly enough as he CRACKED the whip in the air while impatiently gesturing for me to begin my paces with his other hand.

Muscle memory kicked in and I quickly sprinted across the stage to "first position": legs spread, chin up, hands behind my head.

"Squat!" Timmy commanded, and I quickly moved into a more revealing pose: bending with legs spread wide enough and only my toes touching the stage, revealing my hot, wet, spread pussy lips and my butthole to the audience.

Timmy didn't waste any time and immediately started his auctioneers chant:

Fourty-Five, Fourty-Five

Willyagive-willyagive Fourty-Five

Fifty-Fifty-Fifty-doIgot-Fifty

My auction had begun.

It was then that I spotted him. Even without my glasses he was impossible to miss. Judge Rufus Parker, the man who had sentenced me to the auction block I was now squatting on, was sitting comfortably in his chair just a few feet in front of me. Fat as a walrus, white sideburns and goatee, with the world's worst comb-over. He was wearing a white suit, but he had removed his trademark ten-gallon hat so as to not block the view for the bidders behind him.

Our eyes locked - mine in horror, his with a devilish twinkle. With a puckish grin he tugged on his ear to indicate his approval of the blue cattle tag that had been stapled to my ear, a badge of shame that demarked my reclassification as livestock.

With a shit-eating grin, Judge Parker held up the book he had been using to cover the bulge in his pants. I gasped when I saw what it was, as I recalled why I remembered him so clearly. I had signed the book he was now holding in his hand.

I had met Judge Parker at the book signing after my presentation. Remembering his annoyance during the Q&A, I smiled when he handed me my book: "Profit Per Pussy: The Art and Science of Slaving", for my autograph.

"Thank you for buying my book," I said, opening the front cover and signing my name.

"I didn't buy it, sweetie," the fat man replied. "I'm a Judge, so I got it for free!"

I frowned; I didn't like comps. "Well, hopefully you'll learn something," I said, finishing my large signature with a flourish.

"I want you to dedicate the book to Rufus Parker, the toughest judge in Texas!" he boasted.

"I can't write that. How do I know you're the toughest judge?"

"You'd know it if you were in my courtroom, standing in front of my bench, Goldilocks. Girls like you don't look sassy when I got my gavel in my hand."

"Yes, I'm sure you stroke your little gavel a lot," I said, flashing him my cutest smile.

Judge Parker frowned; he was not used to a pretty young woman talking back to him so boldly. Too bad, so sad, fatso. The other people in line were listening, and I was not backing down.

"You know what I like best about selling Yankee girls?" he said. "I like it when I sign a girl's enslavement form, then I sit in the front row, and watch 'em up on the auction block, knowin' I'm gonna turn-a-pretty-penny on their sale. I like it when they bend over, and spread, nice-and-wide. Yankee girls spreadin' their butt cheeks is like openin' the drawer on a register, and I can practically hear the cash register bell RING and the coins fall into my pocket as they show off their tight little bung holes, ha-ha!"

Finishing the inscription I handed him back the book. "Well, with you in the front role, there's more than one asshole to look at."

It was the perfect retort, and everyone, including me, laughed out loud as an angry Judge Parker skulked off. I'm sure he was even less pleased when he got home and read my inscription:

To Rufus Paker, the fattest judge in Texas, with love from Sarah, the sassy Yankee who got away!

Again I'd had a laugh at Judge Parker's expense, humiliating him first in public, then in writing. But he who laughs last laughs best.

Now Judge Parker sat in the front row, smirking at me. In his hands he held up the book I had autographed that day, Profit Per Pussy, featuring a smiling picture of me on the cover, looking quite sassy in my blue business suit.

It was Judge Parker who was smiling now. Profit Per Pussy was an apropos title, for I knew Judge Parker was going to make a tidy profit off of my sale. And he was right, squatting on the auction block, I didn't look nearly so sassy.

At a moment when I assumed nothing could be worse, Timmy, my auctioneer, gave a command that made my heart flutter.

"Dog it!" Timmy snapped, punctuating his command with a whip crack so close to my naked backside that I could feel the air rush down my bottom crack. Years of cattle ranching had made Timmy an expert with the whip, a skill I had once admired but now found terrifying.

Humiliated beyond words but desperate to avoid the whip I did a graceful slave-roll into the required position: on all fours, bottom facing the audience, head down, legs spread as wide as nature allowed, showing Judge Parker everything.

My pussy dripping, my face flushed beet red from humiliation, sand clinging to my naked skin, I lifted my bottom up and opened myself up like a flower, my bottom hole winking at the audience in reaction to the breeze of the air conditioner. Judge Parker's taunt rang in my ears.

"I like it when I sign a girl's enslavement form, then I sit in the front row, and watch 'em up on the auction block, knowin' I'm gonna turn-a-pretty-penny on their sale! I like it when they bend over, and spread, nice-and-wide. Yankee girls spreadin' their butt cheeks is like openin' the drawer on a register, and I can practically hear the cash register bell RING and the coins fall into my pocket as they show off their tight little bung holes, ha-ha!"

I wasn't sure if I actually heard Judge Parker say "ca-ching!" or if the cash register sound I heard was only in my mind.