Sandy Foot Girl Ch. 06: On Brand

"SOLD!"

As a professional slave consultant, I knew the word "sold" was one of those magical legal terms, like "fair warning" or "as is", that creates a binding contract in a court of law. I had actually described it as a "legal key word" to my star pupil Timmy, when he was breathlessly taking notes in my class, hanging on my every word as I strutted back and forth in front of him in my $2,500 Armani business suit.

The simple, four letter word was the same, but the meaning was very different, now that I was naked on the auction block at The Big D, thrusting my pussy at the bidders and flicking my buttery bean for their entertainment, and my scrawny, snotty-nosed teenage student was now my auctioneer. "Tiny Tim", as I had derisively nicknamed him, towered over me, the slave whip he had cracked across my naked ass in one hand, the ornate wooden auction gavel I had given him as a graduation present in the other.

Timmy said the magic word in his slow, Texas drawl, so it rolled out as a musical, "Sooooooulll-duh!" savoring his triumph by taking a good three seconds to complete the magic spell to transform me from the career professional who had trained him and totally redesigned all the systems at The Big D, from intake and inventory to marketing and accounting, to lot B-269, just another sweaty, naked, sandy foot girl sold like an animal off the auction block.

In the audience I could see several men grinning as I masturbated for their viewing pleasure. Some were looking at me, some at the overhead monitors that made my wet, open pussy look like a walk-in attraction. A few were already looking at their programs, checking the next girl up. The bidders checking their phones that pissed me off the most. It was the most humiliating moment of my life, and they were checking their messages, or perhaps the sports scores.

Didn't they realize who I was? Bastards! I had designed the room they were standing in. I had picked out the bench cushions they were sitting on, and selected the overhead monitors they were gawking at. It had been my idea to put in the free WIFI they were using.

One woman looked at me with a combination of pity and disgust; Timmy had whipped my ass good, I had peed myself, and I was covered with sweat and sand. She looked at me like I was a pig wallowing in its own filth, which I was. That's how I designed it. My instructions to Jake had been clear, and now I was suffering through the system I had so perfectly designed.

"They're livestock Jake. Strip 'em buck naked. The Big D doesn't sell pigs-in-pokes, and the buyers gotta see the merchandise! Make 'em sweat, and roll in the sand, and juice themselves, with everyone watching. Crack the whip on their skanky asses if you need to. Make the little piggies squeal. Their humiliation is all part of the show! Remember, the only difference between a Sandy Foot Girl and goat or pig is two hooves instead of four."

The world was moving in slow motion. Timmy was still rolling out the magical word, SOLD, and the ornate auctioneer's gavel I had placed in his hand on his graduation day was high in the air. Even knowing that the fall of the hammer would seal my doom, I felt a surge of pride, because of the height of the hammer. Timmy had remembered my training.

"Bring the gavel down HARD. Not only does it mark the legal completion of the sale, it'll give the buyer a real sense of closure, and satisfaction. Plus, it will wake up the dozers in the crowd and let them know the next piece of slave meat is ready for sale. Some of these girls never heard a gavel slam in a court proceeding, so you want to hit the hammer hard enough that the Pleasure Slut you're selling will hear the sound ringing in her ears for the rest of her life. You're not just dropping a hammer, you're dropping a hammer on HER, on her freedom, on her old life."

"SOLLLLLLLLD!"

The auctioneer's gavel came down with swiftness and finality, WHOOSHING through the air like a guillotine blade. The explosive pistol shot bang did indeed ring in my ears, causing me to jump a bit even as my pussy began to quiver into another slave-gasm to mark the completion of my sale. There was a light smattering of applause for Timmy's expertise as my wet hole quivered on the huge jumbotrons through the auction area. Timmy was smiling, but at the bidders, not a me. Smiling at me would be as ridiculous as smiling at a chair or steamer trunk he had just sold.

His teacher, Sarah Hollister, Harvard Professor and jet setting slave consultant, no longer existed. Lot B-269, had been sold.

They say a slave girl never forgets her first auction. I knew I would never forget mine. Timmy, the pimply, snotty nosed teenage I had coached and mentored, had whipped my ass, both literally and figuratively. I had peed on myself. I had shaken my tits and shown them my asshole. I had rolled around in the sand like a frisky puppy. Under the crack of Timmy's whip, I had shown the buyers everything I had, then masturbated myself to orgasm with my legs spread wide so they could see my little pink pussy spasm with pleasure. I wasn't mortified; I was crushed. But I knew now from firsthand experience that the advice I had given my students was right. The sound of Timmy's gavel would indeed ring in my ears forever.

I was an animal, livestock. I was a slave.

Although I was now sold inventory, I did not altogether escape Timmy's attention. Annoyed by the trouble I had caused him, and indifferent to the pleasure still quaking through my pussy, used his boot to push my head down into the sand and rub my nose into my "little accident" as my grandmother used to call it when her mutt peed on the rug. I didn't resist this indignity, or protest when he yanked me up roughly by the hair and sent me scurrying to the edge of the auction block with a hard slap on my freshly whipped ass.

Was he too rough on me? Not at all. In establishing his absolute dominance, Timmy was showing the next girl already sprinting across the stage to take my place what would happen to her if she failed to obey every command to perfection. I looked back over my shoulder at Timmy even as I stumbled forward, but he was already onto the next girl. Whatever relationship we had once had was over, and his only concern with me would be to collect his commission.

I stumbled forward like a zombie. I was too rattled to think clearly, too ashamed to make eye contact with any of The Big D slave wranglers waiting for me at the end of the stage. They were all wearing hats or shirts or belt buckles with The Big D logo. As per my directive, employees always promoted the logo in "on stage" areas. They were always "on brand".

I recognized a few of the slave wranglers, but would they recognize me? They didn't seem to. Sarah Hollister, the well dressed, confident consultant bore little resemblance to the humiliated, barefoot tits-and-pussy being led away from the auction block.

A wrangler tapped my ass with the whip twice, signaling the price of disobedience, while another grim-faced cowpoke held the prongs of an electric cattle prod in front of my face so I could see the two metal spikes.

I didn't panic, for I knew this was standard procedure. Sometimes Pleasure Sluts panic after they are sold, particularly if they fear their new master. They had nothing to worry about in my case. I was broken. There was nothing I wouldn't do. There was nothing beneath me, except the rough wooden slats of the auction block, and the sand between my toes.

With a single smooth move one slave wrangler cuffed my hands behind my back while his partner stuck an O-ring gag into my mouth, forcing my mouth into a ridiculous "O" shape. The cuffs behind my back were quickly snapped to a short strap which attached to the back of my collar, forcing my wrists up to the middle of my back and leaving my ass fully exposed for the whip.

As a final indignity, a yellow sticker labeling me as SOLD was slapped onto my blue cattle ear tag, marking me as "sold inventory" that couldn't be vended again, at least not until my new master (or Mistress?) wanted to sell me. The demeaning SOLD tag had been my idea; both as a practical inventory control measure, and an amusing "on brand" touch.

I didn't know my sales price, let alone my buyer, but the clerk sitting beside the stage seemed pleased. He looked young to me; probably a college intern, but he was typing rapidly into the computer. It was a busy day at The Big D, and behind me Timmy was already chanting his auctioneer's patter about the next girls "nice tits, and hot snatch".

Sara Hollister had designed the system, but B-269 was just another slave, and the business of The Big D ground on.

"Fair price. Not bad for 88.6 seconds of work," he said, noting my elapsed "block" time on his laptop.

"Yeah. Maybe Timmy can buy us dinner tonight," the older, more grizzled wrangler said with a chuckle and a Dallas twang.

There had to be a mistake. 88.6 SECONDS? Seriously? I thought I had been on the bock for at least ten minutes. Could it have taken less than 90 seconds to strip away every last shred of dignity, and utterly disgrace me, and sell my pussy to the highest bidder?

I couldn't believe it, and the knowledge of how swiftly I had been sold flicked away whatever remaining crumbs of my self-esteem I might have left on the block. I had cum -- no, I had a slave-gasm, in front of everyone, multiple times, in 88.6 seconds? Was I really that slave hot?

I was. There was a stop watch on the table next to the computer, and as per my strict instructions, block time was measured 'gavel-to-gavel." Already the seconds were counting down on the next wretched girl's sale.

88.6 seconds. Unbelievable. As I had said to Jake, "numbers don't lie."

Ah, yes, the numbers! The clerk was entering my sales data into AUCTION OPS, a bolt on program I had designed which work with SAP. AUCTION OPS would immediately figure Timmy's commission, and book the journal entries and receivable for my sale. It even allocated the various value-added costs, such as salaries, advertising, and other overhead costs, into my "cost of goods sold" so that Jake would be able to see an instant margin on B-269 on his daily sales report.

In truth, Jake wasn't much of a numbers guy. He usually looked at the bottom line, and only called in Rebecca, his trusted accountant, to dig into the detail if the numbers surprised him. My juicy slave pussy would be just another line item buried deep in a routine report Jake would barely glance at, if he bothered to look at it at all.

Jake had called me back numerous times to do detailed number crunching with Rebecca and make recommendations, which I had done. My analytics had done wonders for Jake's bottom line, but today I had contributed to Jake's income statement in a far more direct way. My "executive voice", the one that I used for public speaking and management presentations, kicked in, explaining things to the dazed, silly slave girl with the blue California SOLD tag dangling from her ear.

90 seconds is a good time, slave girl. Remember, The Big D is a livestock auction house, and you're just another pussy to be sold. Whip 'em, Ship 'em, that's what I say. Yes, it's humiliating, but it's totally on brand.

I felt a strange surge of pride at my sales price. Slave girls are so vain! But my executive voice knew I was only one girl. With the number of slave girls moving through The Big D today, cracking the whip across my ass and ordering me to pleasure my juicy gash onstage had only increased the profit margin ever-so-slightly. Still, as I told Jake, pennies add up to dollars. Perhaps my shameful degradation would help someone make their bonus, or help Jake pay for the oil painting of the Roman slave auction he had wanted to put in the entrance hall of his mansion. The picture had piqued my curiosity, and I remember pondering if I might someday design a slave market with a Roman theme.

No matter; the efficiency of the system I had set up at The Big D meant that I would no longer be contributing to slave markets as a designer, but only as inventory. I hoped Jake would enjoy the beautiful painting of my ancient Roman slave sister being auctioned, and I felt a slave girl's natural surge of pride in knowing that the proceeds of my sale would buy something beautiful for my master.

I had assumed that my years of writing about slave girl psychology would prevent me from having the patterns of slave girl thinking implanted in my brain, but my joy at fetching a good price for Jake was real.

I was startled as the wranglers quickly lifted me up off the auction block and passed me from the stage to the floor. I shouldn't have been surprised; the wooden stairs leading up to the block were reserved for staff, and I was sold inventory. The men on the stage passed me to the men on the floor with an effortless ease born of experience. Now that I was sold goods, I would have to get used to be passed around, kenneled, crated, and shipped.

The grizzled old wrangler who had been hoping for a steak dinner attached a leash to my collar and led me to a side EMPLOYEES ONLY door that connected Broadway to "backstage". He wasn't rough or mean, but insistent, and we moved quickly. I hurried. After all, in a few seconds, it would be time for the next girl, and I didn't want to get in the way.

As we approached the door a peculiar sight caught my eye. It was a naked Pleasure Slut, her tits bouncing as she walked. She was covered in sand: there were clumps of dark sand in her long blonde hair, around her feet and clinging to her legs and feet. There were even clumps around her pussy, which was obviously quite wet and sticky. She was a hot, randy, Pleasure Slut, a skanky Sandy Foot Girl. She was walking funny, and as I was feeling Timmy's whip with every step I wondered for a moment if someone had whipped her ass. I hoped so. She was a disgusting little slut, the sort of randy little whore any decent woman despises on sight, and the thought of someone cracking the whip on her ass made me smile. The little strumpet was looking down at her dirty, sandy feet, too ashamed to make eye contact. Even in my present state she knew that I was better than her. But as we walked toward each other she lifted her head as I lifted mine, and for a moment our eyes locked.

She was wearing an O-ring gag. The drool was running out of her mouth and a couple of strands on either side were hanging off her chin, making her look like a slobbering St. Bernard, or maybe a Mastiff. No, a dog looked smarter: as I looked in this girl's eyes, I saw nothing but stupid. It was clear from simply glancing at her that she was just another brainless, feckless bimbo. Her eyes were glassy, and she was stupefied and slow-witted. It was clear from her vacant expression and the way she was drooling that the girl was an idiot, and I wondered if she had ever had a thought in her pretty, empty head. I had doubted it, and again, hoped that her new master would whip some sense into her dimwitted ass.

I wondered why she was walking toward the clerk while I was walking away. What had the idiot pig-girl done? Had the little dolt even managed to screw up her SALE? I smiled at the thought. To my surprise, she smiled back, mistaking my amusement at her stupidity for friendliness. What an airhead!

It wasn't until we were almost touching that I had realized how blind I was. My heart sank as I grasped that I wasn't looking at another girl, but at my own reflection. I wasn't walking towards another girl, but the enormous "last chance" mirror by the door that Timmy used to check his tie before he walked up the stairs to the auction block.

No wonder no one recognized me. I didn't recognize myself. The image in the mirror both startled and frightened me. No. It chilled me to the bone. As a University Professor, I'd studied Professor Agatha Crush's pioneering work on slave conditioning. Indeed, I had actually incorporated her theories into my design of The Big D.

Reduced to its most elemental level, slave conditioning was a process for transforming a young woman into a shameless Pleasure Slut, hot, wet, and ready for the collar. Some argued that it was the process of releasing the Pleasure Slut buried inside the girl, but that was an academic discussion, for the actual conditioning worked the same in either case.

As if to put a bow on it, a familiar face rapidly strode toward me. It was Rebecca Cook, The Big D's accountant. I had spent hours with Rebecca, helping her install The Big D's new systems and making sure that her chart of accounts was setup with enough granularity to analyze both her costs and profits from all conceivable angles.

I had proved to Rebecca that the Orange Fork program provided slave slop that was both cheaper and more nutritious than slave kibble, which after my competitive bidding program was put in place, now cost less than the sand that was now clinging to my naked body. I had shown her how smaller cages or "double/triple caging" reduced the need for shelf space, and how shock collars actually saved money by reducing the need to mark the inventory with the whip. "We're not here to make the girls comfortable, we're here to sell their juicy twats," I'd tell her. "Put the money on the stage, not on the page."

Rebecca and I had become acquainted as I reorganized The Big D, and she really got into the spirit of things when she figured out the power rush she could get from turning the screws on the girls to make more money. We got the giggles when we setup the vegetable garden in the large lot we kept set aside for future expansion. The feckless slave girls would have to poop and pee in the lot to fertilize it, and then work the fields and harvest the food that would be sold for a profit, or used for slave feed if it was unfit for human consumption. "Make the ho's ho!" we tittered.

Rebecca ran a tight ship, just like I had taught her, and I had been sold in less than 90 seconds. That was as it should be, for we were at my Level 5 "red" classification level -- "Whip 'em & Ship 'em", as I called it. As she strode toward me, I felt a surge of pride in seeing my clever apprentice put my theories into practice with such ruthless efficiency. The line employees certainly seemed to respect her, with everyone clearing a path for her as her heels CLICKED a brisk path across the cement floor, just as they had once done for me.

Rebecca was wearing a conservative charcoal business suit, with a smart jacket and skirt that was cut at just about her knee. Her makeup was simple, and she was carrying a leather binder stuffed with papers. The hallway behind Broadway led in all directions, and Rebecca, looking every inch the serious professional, was probably on the way back to her office. Whatever her destination, there was a definite swagger in her step, and she walked like a woman in charge, again, just as I had.

I had helped Rebecca spruce up her professional wardrobe, explaining that just as the business needed to be "on brand", she needed to be on brand as well. Being a beautiful woman in a male dominated slaving business, she had to look the part, and choose accessories that emphasized her professionalism and power. I had convinced her to ditch the jeans and plaid shirts, and to don professional looking glasses she really didn't need, but which added to her gravitas.

What surprised me was how much she looked like me. She had died her hair the same shade of blonde, and put it up in the same style as me. She could take her carefully coiffed hair down at night, of course, as I often did when practicing my slave poses in front of the mirror in her bedroom. "Gucci shoes by day, barefoot by night," I had joked.

Rebecca was wearing the same style of glasses I wore, and had even copied my commanding presence and walk. She had totally stolen my look, though as a mere bean counter she could never dress as well as I. However, today I envied her JC Penny suit, as I was slave naked and leashed, with an O gag in my mouth. I had been her boss, but now her commanding presence washed over me like an ocean wave, as the masses parted before her. I felt a slave girl's instinctive terror at seeing such a well-dressed and powerful woman strutting confidentially toward me.