Sandy Foot Girl Ch. 07: Home Cumming

"You'd shoot your load in five seconds with her. That's why I'd fuck her juicy wet gash. I wanna see the look on her face when I spurt and she knows I knocked her up."

"Speaking of faces, look at her expression, when she's jerkin' right on the auction block, for everyone to see. The little sperm rag loves it! Damn, I bet you could have the whole basketball and football teams fuck her all day and all night, and she'd love every minute of it."

"Maybe the coach will let us rent her, if we win the championship."

"That would be hot. I'd love to fuck her, or cream in her mouth."

I felt a wave of nausea pass over me as I imagined 40 players on a Varsity High School Texas football team, waiting for their chance to fuck me or spurt into my mouth.

FRIDAY NIGHT, TIGHT: The practice of using Pleasure Sluts as a reward for winning teams. "Marsha was head cheerleader, but when she turned 18, she got enslaved and the whole team got to fuck her when they won their first game. The guys called it home-cumming!"

My stomach dropped as I looked at the horny teenagers drooling over my picture. I had been THAT close to such a fate, servicing every teen-team cock they put in front of me.

"Watch your mouth, man, there's a lady there."

"Where?"

"Right there. She can hear everything we're saying."

I felt a sudden chill. I had been spotted. Would they recognize me? Surely, they'd recognize me!

Right?

"We're sorry, Ma'am," the first boy said, apologetically.

"Yeah, I hope you weren't offended, Miss," his friend added, looking downward.

They didn't recognize me, and don't call me Shirley. It took me a moment to recover my wits, shed fearful slave girl mode, and enter into my fake "mom" mode.

"That's okay. Try to watch the language, though, boys." I said, wagging my finger for effect. "We don't want to get security involved, as they'll call your parents. I might even tell your mommy to pull down your pants, and spank your little buns."

Now, it was the boys turn to blush, much to my delight. It was fun being in charge.

"No, need for that, Ma'am. We are SO sorry!"

"Yes, we were totally out of line, and we'll never do it again. No need to call anyone, I swear!"

Under my watchful gaze the little miscreants scooted out, after grabbing another handful of magazines. I hoped the little bastards yanked their dicks off.

Once again, my mind was flooded with a dozen emotions at once: pride, fear, relief, and excitement. I squeezed my thighs together. No doubt about it. Their admiration was exciting. One might say I was actually slave wet, if I was a slave girl, which I decidedly was not.

I wasn't really a slave, of course. My excitement was from the joy of having fooled them, all of them. It was exhilarating, and it felt wonderful. They had looked at me, and they had looked at the girl on the cover. They had seen no resemblance, because there was no resemblance. Timmy, Rebecca Cook and Jake hadn't recognized me when I was naked, gagged Pleasure Slut, nor did anyone seem to notice that it was me on the cover as Miss Sandy Foot.

The anonymity of being a just another naked slave girl, which had so horrified me when there was sand between my toes, now provided me with absolute, total immunity. Pretending to be B-269 was MY game. I had played it, and won. I had beaten all cummers.

"I'm NOT a Pleasure Slut. I'm NOT a pleasure slut," I said, reverse-mimicking the Slave Yoga training that had been drilled into my head. Humiliating as it was, the picture proved that the nightmare at The Big D had been a terrible mistake. The girl on the cover was not me. She looked nothing like me. Yes, I took pride in being "Miss Sandy Foot", but "Miss Sandy Foot" was not me.

Another voice in my head said, "Don't get overconfident. Those idiot teenagers were looking at your twat, not your face," I thought. "If they'd bothered to take a good look at you, you'd be goners for sure!" Somehow, that voice spurred me on all the more.

I looked to my left, to the reception check in counter. Two embarased young women were slowly stripping down to the buff. The blushing women handed their clothes to their mothers, who were smiling and yammering away with each other as they folded their daughter's clothes and put them in the clear plastic property bags provided by The Big D.

BAGGIN' & TAGGIN': First steps in enslavement or full gradings, where a girl's clothes are placed in a property bag, and the plastic tag is driven through her ear. "It's sorority rush week, and I spent the whole morning up front, baggin' & taggin'!"

One of the girls was wearing a Horace Mann school T-shirt. The girls might be brilliant, and smart, but they were definitely from out of town. They'd get a better grade if they entered naked. New York State didn't require the girls to take slave yoga, and even if Horace Mann offered it, they might well have foolishly allowed the girls to keep their leotards on.

Judging from their mom's fancy clothes, and their embarrassment, the two young women didn't understand slavery at all. It was quite amusing, really. Their mommies had probably flown them here because they heard The Big D was the best, and to spare them the indignity of being graded somewhere where they might be known. Soon they'd be naked, and mommy's money wouldn't matter.

UNDISCLOSED LOCATIONS: Also known as "Beaver Dens", UDs are prestigious but remote markets where celebrities or the rich can get graded without parading past their neighbors. "Colby told me she flew on her private jet to England to get graded. Harrod's runs a very expensive but very discrete Beaver Den there, right next to the docks in Liverpool."

Even if the girls didn't need student loans or credit cards, most of the Ivy League schools now required or 'strongly suggested' slave gradings for their female students.

I had actually written out Harvard's explanation of the requirement. Getting a top grade demonstrated physical fitness, discipline, and grace under pressure. More importantly, it also created a strong bond of empathy with the less fortunate, which would serve the girls through their entire lives. The fact that admissions officers, faculty, and administrators could gawk at their nude photos, and trade them back-and-forth like baseball cards, was entirely incidental.

I smiled as the young woman behind the counter walked over to the yellow bollards and explained the purpose of the cement poles, paying special attention to the areas lower on the pole where the paint had been stripped away. The mothers, clearly fascinated, ran their manicured fingers over the cracked and missing paint. They were asking questions, and looked absolutely amazed. Their daughters, naked, and trying to cover themselves, looked horrified.

PAINT STRIPPERS: Girls who work the yellow bollards at the Big D like strippers, or rub their pussies against it so hard they strip off the industrial acrylic latex yellow paint. "Brittany didn't want to rub the pole, especially with all the guys watching, but when they cracked the whip on her skanky ass, she became a world-class paint stripper."

The smiling clerk pointed at the overhead monitor, explaining the cameras in the poles. The naked girls began shouting at their mothers, who quickly hushed them.

The two young women reminded me of my students at Harvard, spoiled and full of themselves. Their mothers were right. A little time on the pussy pole might do them a world of good. Besides, the two co-eds had bigger problems. There was a hot market for hot pussy in Dallas. My friend Natalie Mortellaro at Southwest Shipping was really driving exports. Depending on how many brothers and sisters they had, mom & dad might decide to turn a quick profit.

Losing interest in the bratty girls, I glanced over at the two beefy security guards who were scanning the crowd as they entered. They had badges on, and mirrored sunglasses, and looked like they meant business. I moved a little closer. The two goons were wearing metal badges with stars on them, but who were they? Were they slave police, or security guards deputized by the city of Dallas, or local police hired by The Big D? Or were they glorified mall cops, beefy, but toothless, idiots with no real power?

I moved closer. No, the enormous pistol on his hip meant he wasn't a rent-a-cop security guard, a glorified doorman. His posture and calm confidence suggested a man totally in charge.

I had the magazine, or could have had it, if I chose to pick it up. But I felt myself strangely drawn to the guard at the door. Something about him seemed familiar; his bulging biceps, his hidden but constantly moving eyes, and the way he seemed to simply oozed power. Here was a man who knew how to handle himself. Looking at him excited me, and I felt my nipples harden as I looked him over.

It was a strange reaction, actually. He had no power over me. I effectively ran the business we were both standing in. One word from me, and his ass would be booted out the door. Why was I getting off on his power, when I was in charge?

Curious to solve this new slave psychology riddle, I moved back over to the entrance, to get a closer look. I stood a bit to the side, straining to see his badge. I stopped when I noticed that he had a copy of THE SANDY FOOT rolled up and stuffed into his back pocket.

"He saw me on the cover, and he picked up the magazine!" I squeezed my thighs together and gasped in pleasure, wetting my pussy at the thought of him being excited by me. Slave girls -- even pretend ones - are very vain! But I also knew that he had SEEN me; indeed, he had seen all of me, tip-to-toe, totally exposed. He had seen me winking my butthole, rolling in my own sand caked piss, orgasming as the gavel slammed down. Again, the awful, wonderful, powerful emotions washed over me: humiliation, fear, and a delicious tingling in my soaking wet pussy. What a rush!

Feeling both angry, embarrassed, and strangely flattered, I moved closer, anxious to see my hidden admirer's badge. I hoped he was someone powerful, someone important.

Stopping about four feet in front of him, I brazenly examined my hero's credentials. His badge was a beautiful, shimmering, gold, and as I had hoped the circle above the star identified him as POLICE. Mr. Macho was definitely a real cop, and not a street cop either, for his shield was gold, not tin. The circle beneath the badge identified his jurisdiction: Dallas, Texas. Below that was his badge number, and the words that make every slave girl's blood run cold: SLAVE CATCHER.

PUSSY POSSE: A slang term for elite slave catcher units, often hired off duty by the major auction houses to work security. "The Texas Legislature passed a law giving the Pussy Posse a bounty on every catch. Jethro's making a fortune!"

A few years ago, I had successfully pitched an idea to Netflix for a show, LAW & ORDER: SLAVE CATCHERS UNIT. Every week, there would be a new episode, with the cops hunting down an escaped slave girl, often hiding in plain sight under a new identity in the suburbs. The second half of the show, involve the naked girl trying to make her "case" in slave court (a fast & futile few seconds, with fingerprints & SIN) and, more importantly, her return to slavery and the communities reaction.

"I had asked her about her SIN before we got married, but she said it was for her student loan. Thank goodness SCU caught her before we had kids. I owe the SVU a real debt of thanks."

"Geez, I can't believe my Congresswoman is actually an escaped Pleasure Slut. That's the Democrats, for ya!"

"The question is, 'how are so many slave sluts escaping, and who's helping them? Sorry, Lt. Peterson, but it looks like you're going to have to go in again, undercover uncovered, as they say."

The episodes where the smart, accomplished female detectives had to strip down to the buff to become giggling Pleasure Sluts were always ratings grabbers. ("Nowhere to hide your badge and gun now, eh, Cassie?") At the conclusion of the show, the male cops would always gamely apologize for mistreating their colleagues or superiors as part of their 'uncovered undercover' work.

"Sorry about those whip marks, Jessie. I got some cream for your bottom, if you want me to help rub it in."

"I want you to know I didn't enjoy any of the blow jobs, Lt. I faked every orgasm."

"Sorry, Captain Becker. I didn't recognize you with your clothes on."

The emotional core of the show was the harm the slave slut had caused by masquerading as a free woman, and the sense of satisfaction from sending her back to the auction block, naked and in chains. The show had won several Emmys, and was applauded by the critics for its sensitivity to the true victims of slave fraud, the innocent men who had believed the scheming little slut's lies, many of whom now required counseling, or at least a chance at restitution, by banging the offender. "SCU" was a hit show, and I got myself a percentage of the profits, and a consulting credit in the titles. Always on brand! Sweet.

Looking at a shiny gold Slave Catcher's badge usually made me smile, as it was money in the bank. But seeing it now, my cheeks clenched, and I felt the ridges of the Big D logo burned into my bottom. Legally, my ass belonged to The Big D. Again, the voice in my head kicked in.

"Be careful, Sarah. He's a trained professional, and there's nothing he likes more than stripping successful professional women down to the buff and slapping a collar on them. In the blink of an eye, you can go from being an SCU consultant, to next week's plotline. Those sexist pig actors, producers and writers who've been ogling you for years would love to do a show about you."

My police stud wasn't a rookie, either, as his chest was filled with fruit salad. Slave Police get decorations, typically a "slave catcher" badge for every runaway they capture. The symbol is two overlapping squares, turned on their side, the ancient symbol of "slave bracelets."

Five slave captures will get you a bronze badge. Ten will get you a silver. Fifty will get you a gold. My hero had three ROWS of glistening gold badges beneath, far too many for me to count, even if I had been able to breathe.

I squeezed my cheeks together, feeling my shameful badging. Under Texas law, my sweet slave ass belonged to him, and he'd get a nice reward -- including a good fucking of my helpless slave girl pussy -- if he caught me. Suddenly, the tiny "D" between my cheeks felt enormous, and it seemed like everyone in the lobby was staring at my ass.

Slave Catchers typically get a percentage of the girl's auction price, but most departments put a limit on it, when the best catchers became as well paid as professional athletes. But it was definitely an elite group, and Texas was known for having some of the best catchers in the South.

A few years ago, close to 200 naked slave girls escaped from a cargo container in a port in New Orleans. They were all prime pussy, and bound for UAE, for resale in the Middle East. Needless to say, big money was involved, and when the slave vermin used their feminine charms to get clothes and vanish into the woodwork, the desperate Governor asked Texas for help.

The Texas Slave Catchers did their job well, capturing all 200 girls, plus another 80 that had escaped the collar through some happenstance and were now living normal lives. Most infamously, they arrested a very famous actress who was starring in a movie in New Orleans. Apparently, her father had created a protective enslavement order for her years before, which gave the slave catchers the pretext they needed to take her into custody as an escapee. Her lawyers fought it, but celebrity pussy brings top dollar, and after she was sold in Saudi Arabia the State Department declared that "further legal inquiries would be contrary to the interest of national security."

Those sorts of occurrences were increasingly rare, now that Southwest Shipping had radically revolutionized the economics and professionalism of overseas shipping. Natalie Mortellaro and her partner Will were impressive. In Natalie I had finally found a female colleague worthy of respect, not a sad pretender like "Professor" Lindsay Williams. Southwest Shipping lived up to Natalie's motto of "tight ship, tight pussy."

But my immediate concern was a real Texas Slave Catcher looking at little-ol-me! My heart was racing, as a panic attack washed over me. I froze in place. Noticing me staring at him, mouth agape, he turned, and looked directly at me.

His mirrored eyes seemed to burn into my soul. I quickly turned away from him, and walked back toward the entrance, swimming against the crowd, fighting my conflicting feelings of excitement and lightheadedness, hoping I wouldn't faint.

The doorway frame of the enormous front door was mirrored, a decorative effect that created an endless hallway and made the entrance sparkle in brilliant morning sun. I stood facing the mirror, and took my compact out of my purse, pretending to fix my already flawless makeup. In the reflection I could see the cop with the mirrored sunglasses still staring at me. Even with the mirrored sunglasses on I could feel his eyes roam freely up-and-down my body, and settle on my shapely ass.

I was wearing an Armani worsted wool business skirt. The day before I had instructed my tailor to tighten it, to flatter my figure. The tailor had gone a bit too far, and it hugged my ass so tightly I was afraid that if I bent over my brand would show through the tight fabric. It wasn't comfortable, but my ass looked amazing in it, so I had worn it anyway.

My hands were trembling too badly to put on makeup, so I mostly just stared at him, struggling to breathe, trying not to show my panic. My officer-in-charge could see the fear in nervousness in my eyes, but as he wasn't wearing sunglasses, I couldn't see his. His hands weren't trembling, and he looked calm and collected. He was interested, but not concerned. I was concerned enough for the both of us.

This wasn't some teenage stroker, this was an officer trained to hunt down escaped slave girls. He was good at it, too: damn good, and had the fruit salad to prove it. Worse, he was carrying my image in his back pocket. I wasn't escaped, of course, but I was a slave girl, at least technically. I mean, yes, I was part of his inventory, which meant I could be sold, but it was all a misunderstanding.

It is said that a trained slave cop can spot a slave girl from the way she talks, the way she walks, the way she laughs, or parts her hair. It becomes a sixth sense. Now the hunky slave hunter was staring at my ass. Could he see through my clothes, and see the humiliating butt brand that marked me as a Sandy Foot Girl, sold by The Big D? Did my gait identify me as newly badged?

A part of me wanted to circle around to the Slave Mall entrance, and get a wig, and some sunglasses, and maybe a nice floppy hat. My clothes were entirely different, so with my face covered there would be no way anyone could recognize me. But then I heard the voice in my head, spurring me on.

"No, that wouldn't be fair, Sarah. After all, he is the police, and you are a registered Pleasure Slut. He's the pussy posse, and you, my dear, are pussy. Of course, if he realizes your Miss Sandy Foot, he'll use that big fist of his to grab you by the scruff of your neck, strip you down to your birthday suit, and put your sweet little pussy back on the auction block where it belongs."

"Maybe he'll fuck you, before he watches them sell you again. You'll be one of the little "cop" perks of the job, like free coffee and doughnuts. He will take you in hand, and be strong and powerful, and you will cry in ecstasy as he rides you like a pony. You'll crawl on the block with his cop spluge leaking out of your pussy, so everyone will see what a whore you are."