Sandy Foot Girl Ch. 06: On Brand

I jerked against my shoulder cuffs, desperate to cover my nakedness. I was fresh off the block, sold, whipped, and covered in my own filth, and the clumpy dark sand we had purchased together. I couldn't let this elegantly dressed professional woman see me this way! Alas, I could not help it. My wrangler jerked me out of the way so she could pass, but Rebecca paused. She had been my friend, or at least my subordinate, but now she looked me over with a critical, appraising eye, starting at my toes and letting her eyes do a leisurely run over my trembling, naked slave flesh.

Once again it was like looking in a mirror, but not. She looked like me, right down to my cold, calculating stare. The contrast between us, her, a tastefully dressed female executive, and me, a naked, leashed Pleasure Slut, couldn't have been more complete. As I jerked in my cuffs, trying to hide my nudity from her withering appraisal, I truly understood what it meant to be "slave naked." Again, the executive voice in my head chided me.

Don't try to hide your tits and pussy, slave girl. Remember, the Big D doesn't sell pigs-in-pokes! Miss Cook is an important lady, am executive, and it's right that you stand naked in front of her. That's it! Let her have a nice long look! She needs to see the goods.

I squirmed as I waited for Rebecca's roaming eyes to finish their professional assessment of my naked body. "Smelly little bimbo," Rebecca observed, wrinkling her nose.

"She worked up a stink in the slave chute, and they worked her hard on the block. Plus, I think she pissed herself on the block."

"Of course, she did," Rebecca said disdainfully, "that's what piggies do. But it's her slave heat I'm smelling. She stinks like a vibrator in a nunnery."

"That's how the buyers like them, Ma'am," my wrangler said.

Rebecca nodded. I gasped for air as my apprentice reached up and fingered the California shaped "Blue State Girl" tag that had been stapled through my ear. Running her finger over the SOLD sticker she asked my wrangler, "Quick turn?"

"88.6 seconds, Miss Cook," the wrangler replied, in a voice that made it clear that he knew he was talking to his boss.

"Not bad," Rebecca said, using her gold cross pen to lift up my chin so she could have a better look at me. "What was her margin?"

"I don't rightly know, Miss Cook," the wrangler said. "I can check, Ma'am," he offered humbly.

Rebecca used the tip of her pen to lift up my breast by the nipple, weighing the goods. "Don't bother, I'll check it on the report," she replied. Using her phone, Rebecca snapped a picture of my B-269 lot number for future reference. Clever girl! I had trained her well. Less than 90 seconds was an excellent turn time, but in the end it all came down to margin.

I had trained Rebecca to spot check operations, to match what she was seeing with what was on the page. I knew that later today she'd look up B-269 on her spreadsheet sales report, and scroll over to see my PPP -- Profit per Pussy.

Would my PPP please Rebecca? Would I help Jake buy the painting of the naked Roman slave girls? I hoped so. Jake couldn't be bothered to look at one slave girl's statistics, but Rebecca would. I hoped she would be proud of me, or at least satisfied with my margin.

What an honor for me, a lowly slave slut, to please an important executive like Rebecca Cook!

For a brief moment I felt a flicker of hope as I thought of Rebecca seeing my name on the report. She'll recognize me! She'll rescue me! This hope was quickly dashed as I recalled removing the names from the report and replacing it with columns that would show my relative sales ranking on a daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly basis, both by number and percentage. After all, once a girl was sold, her name was whatever her master gave her. The dollars were all that mattered.

We had become close, and during our work lunches, Rebecca often mused about what it would be like to be processed through the new system we were designing at The Big D. "I'd do it in a second, only I'm sure they'd recognized me!" Rebecca said.

"Not necessarily," I countered. "Naked and tagged, you'd be just another pussy. Most of them wouldn't even look at your face." Rebecca had giggled, and I could tell the idea excited her. We had spent hours tittering about various schemes to put one or the other of us through our system "undercover, as a test, to gain an inside perspective," or so we said.

Rebecca remained skeptical. "Do you really think that all of this mental conditioning you've built into the system would work, you know, on someone like you?"

"My research says yes, but I say no. I'm far too intelligent and sophisticated to ever make a convincing Pleasure Slut. If you encountered me backstage, naked and collared, what would you do?"

Rebecca looked me up-and-down. "I'd sell you," she said.

I felt a delicious little chill as we both giggled like schoolgirls. We hadn't done it, of course, because Rebecca and I were both afraid of getting caught, and the toll it might take on our reputations. After all, it would be hard for our work colleagues to ever treat us as serious professionals if they saw us squatting naked on the auction block. But my hypothetical had come to pass, and Rebecca had encountered me backstage. Only my transformation had been so complete that her cold blue eyes showed no hint of recognition, no trace of friendship. I was sold goods, and the only thing that mattered was my inventory turn time, and my contribution to her PPP.

To avoid her penetrating gaze I looked down, first at my own dirty, sandy feet, but then at Rebecca's surprisingly stylish charcoal pumps. Scrunching my toes against the icy cement floor, I wondered if I would ever wear shoes again. I knew that if it were left up to Rebecca, the answer would be a stony, "No."

Rebecca turned and began to click-click-click across the cement floor to her office. Desperate not to let my last possible link to my former life stroll away, I called her name, or tried to. With the "O" gag in my mouth, "Rebecca" came out as 'Uh-ha-huh?"

Rebecca clearly surprised at the sheer audacity of a mere slave girl daring to speak to a well-dressed financial professional, turned and looked at me. She didn't show the slightest hint of recognition, only disgust, like I was a cockroach on her kitchen floor. I looked at Rebecca with pleading eyes, begging her to save me.

Whoosh! My handler hit me square on the ass with his quirt, causing me to scream in pain as the three lashes on the tip dug into my bottom. "You know better than to talk to yer' betters" he scolded.

Rebecca smiled as I jumped under the crack of the whip, my knees jerking up and my breasts bouncing. She didn't intercede. After all, I was only a slave girl.

Her smiled faded as she regarded me coolly over the top of her Warby Parker glasses. I had trained her well, as I recognized the same disdainful, professional look I used when examining inventory.

Her demeanor oozed her superiority and arrogance. As with the girl in the mirror, I was looking at a reflection of me, or at least, my former self. I knew my fate was entirely in her hands. I trembled at her confidence and power, and melted under her pitiless, searing gaze.

I knew this was my last chance. I had to say something, to make her recognize me, to plead my case. But awed by her presence, all I could do was whimper, and when I tried to use my hands to explain, I simply jerked in my elbow cuffs, bouncing my titties for her. My little "bimbo dance" amused her, and her lips curved up with just the hint of a smile. Seeing that I had amused his boss, my wrangler flicked my bottom twice with the tip of the quirt, signaling that I should continue. With the sting of the quirt and the pain from Timmy's whip still burning on my ass, I quickly obeyed.

I hopped from foot-to-foot, drool dribbling down my chin, the blue cattle tag hanging from my ear slapping my face, my boobies and butt cheeks bouncing. "Knees up!" my wrangler ordered, punctuating his command with a flick of the quirt! OUCH! I continued my titty dance, knees high, while Rebecca smirked at me.

Oh, how I hated her, and her smug, superior smile! In that moment, I wanted SO much to process the great Miss Rebecca Cook through The Big D, giving her the full treatment. I actually joked about it once, enjoying her blush as I suggested a day in the slave inspection pens, as part of an internal audit, "and I do mean internal." Oh yes, it would be great fun to see her on the auction block, legs spread, while Timmy cracked the whip!

"What's her number again?", Rebecca said, clearly having forgotten me before she had even walked away.

"B-269, Ma'am," my wrangler replied.

"Where's she heading?" she asked the wrangler.

"Export to Mexico," he replied. "But I gotta badge her first."

"Get her there. I want her pussy in transit on the next truck."

"I think that trucks full," he said.

"Bullshit," Rebecca said. "Do a slave ship pack. It's not like she can smell any worse," she added, regarding me with disgust.

Before I could even process the import of this conversation, my wrangler jerked on my leash and twisted me around. I stumbled barefoot down the hall, my sandy feet feeling cold on the freezing cement. I looked over my shoulder, and saw her smiling with approval at the whip marks on my ass.

My wrangler jerked my leash harder, and soon I heard Miss Cook's heels click-click-click away from me as a voice in my head scolded me for my foolishness.

My wrangler was right, Miss Cook was my better, and I felt ashamed at having delayed her. I deserved to have my ass whipped. Bad, bad slave girl!

Don't even think of calling her Rebecca. It's Miss Cook to you, slave girl. How dare you try to talk to her! Do your little titty dance, like the feckless bimbo you are, while the wrangler lashes your ass, and Miss Cook laughs at you. What a silly little slave clown you are, to think that someone as important as Miss Cook could ever worry about you.

I struggled to push the voice out of my head, but it was no use. I had studied Agatha Crush's work carefully, and I considered The Big D to be the culmination of her theories. I felt that The Big D was uniquely suited to her sort of operant conditioning, as it's playful "livestock" brand which I promoted so relentlessly enforced the idea that slaves were chattel, no different than a cow or a pig. The natural result of this was that the weak-minded sluts not only acted like slave girls, but SAW themselves as slave girls, fully internalizing their new identities.

I, of course, had thought I was far too sophisticated for such rudimentary mental conditioning. As an educated professional woman well trained in the art and science of slavery, I could never see myself as a mere slave girl! My façade had held, until the disgusting Pleasure Slut covered with sand I had seen in the mirror, and Rebecca Cook's cool appraisal, kicked me in the stomach like a one-two punch from a MMA champion.

My mind struggled to process what Rebecca had said. Mexico? What the fuck? Becky Lou was supposed to buy me and release me, so I could go back to Austin. Rebecca had to have made a mistake. No. Rebecca, ever the accountant, didn't make mistakes. Her spreadsheets didn't lie. I was sold inventory, and soon I'd be in transit.

I had devised the slave ship pack, a more efficient method of cargo transport. Sometimes the girls were shipped standing, with their hands chained over their head pressed "titty to titty, with their pussies rubbing," as I had written. Other times I put the girls on top of each other, in stacked cages, in a 69 position. I liked to pair the girls that way, so the skanky little sluts could hump and tease each other, and arrive at the delivery point all nice and slave hot. Of course, the stink of all that hot, wet pussy inside of the truck was unspeakable, but I had come up with a way to turn a quick profit on it. Several "odor cameras" allowed me to capture the scent of their juices, wafting up through the panel truck, capturing it before it escaped through the vent.

"Sell every part of the pig but the oink, Rebecca," I had chortled. I blushed at the idea of the scent of my slave juices being sold as a perfume or room "freshener" at The Big D mall, or being used by some housewife who wanted to smell like a skank for a roleplay with her husband, or at a fashionable party where the hostess wanted to be a little naughty. It had been a brilliant idea, and turned a tidy profit, but it didn't seem so clever now that I had turned the stink from my pussy into a commodity that would be bought and sold.

I would have a nice, leisurely, 10-hour drive to the Mexican border. We'd be waved through the border quickly, without a customs inspection, as soon as they saw The Big D logo on the side of the truck. I had arranged a system where every now and then a Pleasure Slut was left behind as a "gratuity" for "further inspection." I had been sold to an individual, or so I hoped, because if I was part of a large lot I might well get picked off by the guards to be used, used, used some more, then re-sold. I shuddered at the thought.

It would be 10 hours to the border, and much, much longer depending on how deep we went into Mexico. We made shipments as far as Chiapas, which was a hub of slaving activity for all of Central America, and bordered on Guatemala. If I was being shipped that far, I'd be driving for days, across dirty, bumpy roads. My pussy buzzed at the thought, and I hoped my "road buddy" would be hot.

I felt a strange surge of pride, thinking of all the pussy stink I'd generate for Rebecca to sell. Cha-ching! Again, the executive voice in my head kicked in.

Don't worry, slave girl. Miss Cook will pack you in nice and tight, with a pussy in your face, so you'll have something to munch on all the way down. She sold your pussy, and now she's going to sell your pussy stink, and make a tidy profit on it, too. Maybe she'll even check the truck's web cam, and watch you rub your titties against another slut, and slave-gasm for everyone to see.

I didn't resist as my wrangler led me toward my destiny. Or to be more specific, I didn't resist until I realized what my destiny was. My bored wrangler used his keycard to open a metal door, and I was immediately greeted by a blast of hot air and the glow of orange as he pushed me through the door. By the time I realized that I was in the blacksmith's shop, it was too late for me to resist.

The blacksmith's shop! How had I forgotten my own design? Had my shameful performance on the block robbed me of my intelligence as well as my dignity?

"Badging" was my term, the sly slang for branding, to differentiate it from the "branding" of The Big D itself. "Lexus and BMW are marks of quality, a sign that the owners have the money to buy the best," I explained to Jake. "I want the Big D's logo to mean the same thing, only instead of putting the badge on the front of the car, we'll burn it onto our Pleasure Sluts asses."

Jake had been skeptical at first, particularly with my idea of branding the girls on the inside of their butt cheek. It was a practical solution to a tricky problem. It was only visible if shown, and thus opened our grading process up to an audience of professional women who wanted the thrill of playing slave girl but didn't want to risk having their humiliating butt brand spotted at their ritzy health club, or during their massage. An elegant logo brand inside the cheek was classy, almost demure.

Like all my ideas, it had proven to be a winner. I still remembered the day I took Jake to see the line of Pleasure Sluts. "Bend and spread, ladies," I said, saying the word "ladies" with as much sarcasm as I could muster, "time to D-splay!" On cue, all ten Pleasure Sluts spread their legs and bent over, putting their pussies, assholes, and Big D brands on display. Jake LOVED it, particularly when I joked that I might get one myself.

"Would you really?" he said, licking his lips as he looked at me.

"Maybe I already have," I said with a wink, enjoying my tease.

I had not, of course, but once Jake approved, I quickly made the brand a focus of our marketing campaigns. Print and digital ads contained a picture of a bent over Pleasure Slut's branded inner cheek, with various clever taglines under the "D" brand.

This Valentine's Day, put a ring on it.

College is fine, but why not get a grade that will actually make you money?

Remind him why he married you.

A lady in the streets, branded between her cheeks.

Give her something she'll always be proud to D-splay!

My slang term "D-splay" had actually caught on, and slave girls far beyond the reach of The Big D knew that the order to D-splay meant to bend and spread, WIDE. But only the finest, Big D Prime earned the honor of a "D" badge. We had actually won a lawsuit against a place that branded girls with our trademark. Outrageous! Badging was limited to the finest pieces of slave ass.

Women paid Jake top dollar for the training needed to become Prime, and worked hard to earn our brand, which they paid for too. But ultimately, like being a Sandy Foot Girl sold off the Broadway block, The Big D brand was never bought, but EARNED. As a bonus, many of the little sluts, succumbing to the conditioning required to become a Prime, ended up getting sold. It was a win for everyone.

My marketing didn't seem so clever now that Miss Cook was sending me to be "badged." Badged! How could I have forgotten the word that I had coined? Had my collar made me slave stupid? It appeared to be so. As if to prove what a dopey little slave girl I was, I tried to pull back on my leash, like a puppy at the vets. Again, the executive voice in my head kicked in, playfully mocking me.

Silly little airhead! Are all your brains in your tits? Do you really think you can get away? Girls have been pulling away from the branding irons for eons! Do you think you're special, B-269? Well, you're not. Remember, volume, volume, volume! You're just another Pleasure Slut now. No pain, no gain. Time for you to bend over, and feel the burn!

Undeterred by my foolishness, the two strong wranglers lifted me up under my arms and bent me over the branding bench like I was a ragdoll. There were an insane number of straps and metal bars to keep me in place, but with four strong men working and my arms already cuffed behind my back it only took a few seconds to immobilize me, and raise my ass high in the air.

With my legs spread and my body bent, my butt cheeks parted, widely. I blushed, for I knew I was on full D-splay!

In front of me, as per my cruel design, was the piping hot forge, used to make the shackles that would confine me, and heat the brand that would mark me forever as a slave girl. There were a large number of racks in the room, all lined up in front of the forge, and even as I was being strapped down I had to endure the animal like screams of another gagged girl to my left as the iron honored her with the mark of her master's ownership.

Staring at the flames and hot coals before me, my mind traveled back to my book, and the design ethos that this room embodied.

A slave girl's branding should be both routine and careful, methodical in nature but casual in practice. A large number of branding racks placed in front of a blazing forge will allow the girl time to carefully consider what is about to happen, and gather her strength and whatever wits she might still possess to face the iron. She should be made to wait for her brand, and in waiting be made to understand that although her branding is momentous and life changing to her, it is routine to the free people entrusted with marking her. She will be transformed forever, but they will simply thrust the iron back into the fire in preparation for the next pretty slave girl bottom.