Sandy Foot Girl Ch. 07: Home Cumming

"If you get sold again, no one will bother to save you. You'll be 1/50th of the next decoration on his shirt. You'll be a slave girl again, fucked and sold."

Struggling to steady myself, I put my hand on the mirror to keep from falling. Overcome with heat, I took off my blazer jacket. My back felt wet. Turning, I can see the back of my blouse was soaked with sweat, leaving it clinging to my skin.

Although I always wear a brassiere to work, for some reason that day I had chosen to go to work sans underwear. After all, my jacket would cover my breasts, and my skirt would cover my pussy.

After my enslavement, I often went around my apartment completely nude, even when the drapes were open. Clothing seemed strangely restrictive. But now, sweating like a hog, the braless look was not my friend. My nipples were hard, and the material of my silk blouse was clinging to my breasts like I was in a wet T-Shirt contest.

Even through his mirrored glasses, his gaze was penetrating. I was relieved when one of his brother officers asked him when the next auction was. Glancing at the clock on the wall he said simply, "Ten minutes to hammer time."

Hammer time! The sound of his deep, authoritative, masculine voice, and the phrase, "hammer time", triggered an immediate and vivid PSTD flashback. Suddenly I realized why the officer with the mirrored green eyes looked so familiar.

It had happened on the day I was sold. The entrance to the chute leading to the auction block was crowded, and I had to wait for the clerk to scan in the barcoded tag on my ear. Jasmine had unhooked my leash and walked over to talk to another employee about her plans for the weekend.

I was relieved to be free of the humiliating dog leash, although "free" was a relative term. I was naked in a slave market, along with dozens of other girls, waiting to be stuffed into a cattle chute, like an animal being led to slaughter. Still my mind told me this couldn't be happening, that it was all a dreadful mistake, a silly misunderstanding, and that someone would save me.

SLAVE STUPID: Also known as bimbo brain, refers to highly educated professional women turning into panicked animals or giggling airheads when they are stripped naked and collared. "If you lineup 100 naked girls in front of the auction block, 99 of them will think that they are going to be rescued. Pure slave stupid!"

It was then, when I was waiting to be stuffed into the chute, that I saw him. A police officer, strong, powerful, and muscular. He was chatting up one of the female wranglers, a cute college girl who was probably earning her slaving degree. He wasn't even looking at the naked slave girls awaiting their turn on the block. We weren't there to be flirted with and seduced. We were there to be sold and fucked.

He was a formidable, dominating presence, with his golden badge glimmering under the cool, industrial light. I had replaced the old-fashioned florescent tubes with more energy efficient, high bay LED lights. It was modern, and gave off more light, but I kept the long, linear shape of the old lighting fixtures, as I felt that it was important to the aesthetic for The Big D to have that rustic, cattle yard feel.

It pleased me to see the lighting I had designed glistening off his golden star badge. Even as I descended lower-and-lower into slave stupid, I knew that, under the circumstances, my professional pride was utterly incongruous. I was about to be auctioned off under the lights I was so proud of, and become a naked slave girl for real.

Why did I, as a naked slave slut, look on the slave catcher with hope? All my life, police officers had protected me and helped me. The armed guards at the various properties I owned were, like the centurion I was looking at now, often off duty cops. Due to my credentials and my natural air of authority, understood they worked for me, and acted accordingly.

Even police officers not on my payroll always treated me with respect, particularly when I informed them of who I was, and who my friends were. When I traveled to Dallas, I had a letter from the Mayor and Police Chief that I kept in my purse, asking the reader to speed my safe passage. You get these when you bring millions into the local economy. People with my sort of power didn't get speeding tickets. Laws are for the little people.

Was it slave stupid to ask him for help? Perhaps. But I was desperate, and so I decided to plead my case to the powerful muscle man with the badge and the gun and the mirrored green eyes.

I came up to one side, spread my legs, and put my hands on top of my head, the very picture of submission. It was a humiliating pose, but one that was expected when a slave girl risked addressing a free person, particularly a man in authority.

"Excuse me, officer?" I said meekly. "There's been a dreadful mix-up. I'm not actually a slave girl. I don't belong here. This is all a terrible, awful mistake! If you could... let me make a phone call, we can get this all straightened out."

He and the female slave wrangler stared at me, clearly shocked that I had the temerity to interrupt their flirtation.

He cocked his head sideways, like a puzzled dog, then turned to face me squarely. I felt my pulse quicken as his mirrored eyes slowly perused my nakedness.

The term "slave naked" is used to describe a state of nudity and humiliation that extends far beyond the mere absence of clothes. I was naked, with my legs spread, and my hands on top of my head, my fingers tangled in my loosely flowing hair. In contrast, the man coolly appraising my nakedness was wearing shiny leather boots, crisply pressed blue pants with a gold stripe down the leg, and a dark blue, starched shirt festooned with epaulets, badges, and fruit salad marking the countless times he had captured slave girls like me and put their naked asses on the block.

He was muscular, with biceps like tree trunks, and was so tall that I had to look up at him to see his gold star badge. His belt contained the tools of his job, and everything he could possibly need to subdue a slave girl. He had a radio, handcuffs, a taser, pepper spray, a baton, extra ammunition for his gun, and of course, his.357 sidearm. I also noticed he had a Big D remote, which, with the press of a button, would shock any slave girl in its range into submission.

In contrast, I had nothing. Even the shock collar and the humiliating blue cattle tag dangling from my ear were the property of The Big D. Standing literally in his shadow, I trembled in the wake of his physical strength, weapons, and aura of command.

The irony was rich. In a way, he worked for me, and if I had been there with Jake, he would have obsequious and eager to please. I might have sent him on an errand, to fetch me some coffee. But I wasn't wearing my Gucci suit today. As I strained to draw in oxygen in short bursts, I stood before him, stripped of everything, nothing but a pair of tits and a hot, wet pussy.

I couldn't see his eyes, but with a tilt of his head, I saw him looking down at my bare feet, where my little toes were scrunched up, attempting to dig some warmth out of the freezing cold cement.

Oh, how I wish I had shoes! It is an old slaver's adage that a girl never realizes how much power shoes give her, until they are taken away.

BAREFOOT BIMBOS: A derisive name for slave girls. "You should never give barefoot bimbos shoes. Livestock shouldn't wear nuttin'. It makes 'em uppity."

As he tilted his head up, his mirrored gaze ran slowly up my trembling legs, stopping to rest on my closely shaven slave slash, with my lips and clit fully visible. I had been left just enough hair to prove I was a natural blonde. That would increase my profit-per-pussy number, but it was my dripping, clearly visible juices that would really drive up my block price.

My shameful wetness wasn't my fault! I had been rubbing myself, hard. I had to get my pussy block ready. But my macho cop didn't care about the unfairness of my predicament. All he saw was golden slave pussy, hot, wet, and ready to be sold.

The little bitch of the college student was grinning at me, clearly enjoying my nakedness. Oh, how I wanted to cover myself! But I didn't dare. Pleasure sluts were not permitted modesty, or any sort of dignity. I remained frozen in place, my feet glued to the floor, my hands bound together as securely as if they were in iron cuffs. I literally could not move, the power of his badge, his gun, and his commanding presence having simply overwhelmed me.

I felt a new rush of fear as he took two steps closer, totally engulfing me in his gigantic shadow. He took a deep breath, and I realized that, like any good hunting dog, the slave hound was picking up my scent.

SLAVE STINK: The toxic stench of animal sweat mixed with the aroused slave girl's pussy cream. "Our escapee had found clothes, and had dressed like a banker, but the slave hounds at the bus station picked up her slave stink right away. After checking her SIN the guards stripped her down slave naked and spanked her skanky ass all the way to the block."

I felt ashamed by his casual enjoyment of my slave stink, but his eyes continued upward, over my flat tummy, over my round breasts and pointy nipples, which were bouncing slightly as I struggled to breathe.

Finally, at long last, his cold, merciless green lenses rested on my desperate, pleading eyes.

Roughly grabbing the shameful blue cattle tag stapled painfully through my ear, he jerked my head closer and turned it to read my lot number. "B-169" he muttered, reducing me to my number.

"You gotta fancy accent, blue tag," he said, reducing me to the California-shaped, blue livestock tag dangling from my ear. "Where were ya' from?"

The past tense wasn't lost on me. Slave girls had no past, and when a girl is collared, her old identity dies.

I live in Manhattan, but also have homes in LA, Tokyo, London and Paris. My accent is Mid Atlantic, so I understand why the Texas hee-haw thought I was "fancy". "I teach...I taught... at Harvard," I said, hoping to impress him with my intellectual superiority.

"Well, la-dee-dah," he snickered. Looking up at the industrial wall clock, above the cattle chute leading to the auction block, he chuckled.

"It's nearly HAMMER time, Professor," he teased.

The sarcasm in the word "Professor" was obvious. The slave wrangler he was flirting with laughed, as I dug my little bare toes into the concrete floor. Little college bitch! I hoped that someday she would end up in my class, so I could fail her.

Hooking his finger into his gun belt, he regarded me coolly. "You said you needed to make a phone call. Where's your cell phone?"

"I'm not sure, Officer," I said. "They took it."

"Did they now? Maybe you just lost it. Here, let me check."

I didn't resist as he reached between my legs and slipped two fingers inside of me. He was taller than me, and using his hand he lifted me up onto my toes, so my pussy was dancing on his hand, and I was jerking like a puppet on a string.

The coed slave wrangler he had been flirting with moved to the side, to get a better view. I looked to her, silently pleading for help.

"Get your fingers way up there," she said, laughing. "You know what thieves slave girls are." Bitch!

I gasped as he thrust his fingers deep into me, and began rubbing the walls of my pussy in a classic contraband check.

"Looks like our little college Professor is sufferin' from some brain drain," he said, as the harpy behind him laughed.

BRAIN DRAIN: See Slave Stupid, Bimbo Brain. When an intellectual or professional woman gets slave hot, it is said that her brains dissolve and leak out of her juicy slave pussy. "She thought she'd win the Nobel, until her assistant collared her and stole all the credit. Dr. Gina's brains sure did make a big old stain on the auction block!"

"Why did they take away your phone, juicy-fruit?" he asked, grinning down at me as he jerked me up and down on his fist.

"Because slave girls don't have phones, Mas... Master!" I admitted, gasping with pleasure on his hand.

I groaned in frustration as he withdrew his fingers from me. "That's right, Pleasure Slut," he said.

Jerking me around by the ear tag as he swatted me on my bare ass.

"Slave girls (SPANK!) Don't ask FREE PEOPLE (spank) to make phone calls for them (SPANK, SPANK, SPANK!)

Laughing, he spanked me back in line with the other slave pussy, and a few seconds later I was BEEPED into the system and stuffed into the cattle chute, pressed tightly between two other naked sluts and left to rub my wet pussy in preparation for my one-way trip to the auction block.

Now, the rent-a-cop who had so cruelly abused me was looking at me again, eyeing my nipples through my sheer silk blouse. My eyes narrowed into two tiny slits as I felt overwhelmed by a sudden desire to seek my vengeance upon him.

In an instant, my view of him transformed. When I had been a naked slave girl, he had seemed like an untouchable God. Now I saw him for what he truly was, a blue-collar bully, a miserable little jobsworth who had got his rocks off on abusing the helpless Pleasure Sluts under his authority.

"Hammer time", indeed. I would drop the hammer on him. When I was naked, collared, and tagged, he was a tough guy with a badge. Now I was Dr. Sarah Hollister, in charge and in control, and I would make the little clock puncher pay for how he had treated me.

It would have to be done carefully. The shameful and incriminating magazine with the disgusting photo of me was in his possession, and he was already looking me up-and-down. He literally had the power to enslave me in his back pocket, and if I wasn't careful, I might quickly go from in-charge to in-ventory. But the whiff of danger of it only made my revenge all the more exciting. Yes, this was definitely going to be fun!

Ignoring his gaze, I wandered over to the yellow bollard on the other side of the door. The two college girls were there, working the poles, with their smiling mothers urging them on. One of the girls was on her back, the other had her hind leg raised, and was rubbing the pole like a dog peeing on a hydrant.

"Come on, Taylor, you can do better than that. Don't let Brittany show you up."

"I want you to come first, Brittany," the other mom said. "First is always best."

"Yes, last one to come is a rotten egg!" the other mom chortled.

The moms were cute, too. They were enjoying making their daughter's race, but their level of involvement suggested something more. I could tell they were a little jealous of the naked sluts, and wanted in on the show. The Big D always kept the mothers involved throughout the process, ostensibly as a curtesy. With any luck, Jake might soon be selling a fine pair of nesting dolls.

NESTING DOLLS: Auctioning off mothers and daughters together. "Did you see Lana Jackson squatting next to her two daughters on the block? They are one hot set of nesting dolls."

The two naked daughters were clearly embarrassed, and were blushing beet red. I smiled. How delightful it was, seeing them taken down a peg! It was clear that Taylor, at least, had needed a touch of persuasion, for she had tears in her eyes, and a fresh whip welt across her naked ass. A small crowd of people had stopped to watch the two naked slave bitches polish the pole with their slave grease. On the overhead monitors, the pussy camera captured them in all their pink glory.

OCTOPUSSY: A wet, spread, pink slave pussy, pressed against a camera lens, which is said to resemble an Octopus's sucker, or mouth, pressed against glass. "Check out the octopussy on Taylor! Looks like she's trying to suck down that whole pussy pole."

Humiliating as their performance I was, I envied them. Their expensive clothes were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps their mothers had them, perhaps they were already stored. There is a real freedom in being unencumbered by clothes, a freedom that is impossible to describe to a free woman. Since my release, I spent a lot of time in my apartment naked, but it wasn't the same. Clothes were still an option for me, and readily available. I wouldn't be whipped for attempting to cover myself. I could be naked, yes, but not slave naked.

Ignoring Brittany & Tiffany, I moved over to an unoccupied pole. I slipped off my Gucci shoe, and pressed it against the sponge at the base of the bollard. It was still wet, which was kind of a waste, as the pussy juice would have made a nice scented candle.

I had missed out on the chance to experience the pussy pole during my quick run through at The Big D. I hadn't registered at the front desk, but had been shipped in as inventory to be sold. The Big D was in Condition Red, so B-269 had been moved from the unloading area to the auction block in a matter of minutes. It had seemed like hours to B-269, of course, but my system had worked flawlessly, and the little slut had been processed in record time. I'm sure Rebecca, The Big D's accountant, would be pleased when she saw my PPP numbers on her spreadsheet.

PROFIT PER PUSSY: The amount of money made on every pussy you sell, and a measure of profitability. This can be computed as a gross margin (sales price less cost of good sold) but more typically includes overhead costs, including carrying costs that measure feeding, training, and inventory storage. Time is $$$.

Letting B-269 paint the pussy pole in the lobby might have been good marketing. She would be nice window dressing, and her ecstasy might inspire other girls -- or their significant others -- to enroll for slave training. But in terms of the PPP, it was best to put the little slut on the block as quickly as possible.

I played with a bollard after my release. The parking garage at my condo in LA had one, to prevent me from backing the car into the wall. Not that I ever parked it myself; I always let the valet fetch it.

Sometimes, late at night, I'd go down into the garage, strip down, snap on a slave collar. I'd pop my clothes into the trunk of my Tesla, being careful to keep the key fob in the shadows, but within reach. I'd spread my legs, and work the pole, bringing myself to a shattering orgasm as I rubbed my pussy against the cold, hard concrete, slathering it with my juices.

Once, a security guard on patrol nearly caught me, and I had to hide in my own trunk. When I realized that he was coming toward me, I knew I didn't have time to dress, so I popped open my rear trunk and climbed inside. The problem is, I think he must have seen the trunk go up, because he came and stood behind the car, and even tapped on it to ask if anyone was in there. So there I was, squished in the trunk, slave naked and collared, with an armed guard trying to figure out if I was an escaped slave girl hiding in parked car.

Eventually he left. No harm done, other than I peed on my clothes when he called his partner and asked if he should call the police. I had taken the key fob into the car with me, but I had left the key to my collar on the ground, and the cop picked it up and took it with him. So after an hour of lying in my own pee, I had to sneak back up the fire stairs to my condo, collared and stinking of my own urine.

I ended up calling a locksmith to make a house call to get the collar off me, and he had a good laugh. I offered him a really good tip to keep it quiet, but he smiled and said he'd prefer a nice, long slave kiss. Totally feeling the moment, the deal was struck.

Now I was in the presence of the actual pussy pole that I had helped to make famous. Having been a slave girl (sort of), the pole took on an entirely new meaning for me, and I felt an incredible rush of excitement as I looked at it in awe.

There was sand on the floor near the pole. I ran my naked toes through it. I felt a delicious shiver run up my leg as I once again felt the coarse dark sand that I had rolled in when I was on the auction block. The sensation of it rubbing against my skin was electrifying.