Sandy Foot Girl Ch. 07: Home Cumming

Remembering how carefully I had selected the sand I felt a surge of intellectual pride. But I also felt terrified, and strangely comforted, almost as if I were home. It was a peculiar thought, but they say a Pleasure Slut never forgets her first auction. I closed my eyes and squeezed my thighs together as I moaned in pleasure, relishing the pride and power I felt in being Miss Sandy Foot.

Lifting my foot, I let my toes run up the bollard, over the camera lenses. I rubbed my sandy toes back-and-forth, over the spots where the dirty slut's wet snatches had worn off the yellow paint. It seemed unfair that I had invented the pole, but never got to use it, at least not for real.

Jilling off at home wasn't the same. I rubbed my bare, sandy toes against the bollard, wondering what it would be like, wondering how it would feel to spread my legs, and grease the pole, with the camera's recording my twat, with everyone watching my pussy on the gigantic overhead monitors.

I looked over at Brittany & Taylor. Bitches. Everyone was looking at them, and their sloppy pink twats, which were practically dripping down on the spectators. I was more beautiful, but no one was looking at me!

"Are you all right, Miss?" Startled, I turned, to discover the cop who had been ogling me standing a few inches away, smiling as his eyes ran up and down my body. I was anything but all right, and we both knew it. I looked up at him, panting, feeling very small, mouth open.

He moved closer, invading my personal space as he crinkled his nose, and took a deep whiff. He sniffed again.

Had I worn too much perfume?

No, my pussy was soaking wet, and the juices were dribbling down my thighs. Had the Deputy had caught a whiff of my slave stink? I was impressed, as usually it took trained slave hounds to catch the smell.

Fortunately, there were no dogs at the entrance that day, but that didn't mean they weren't there. The slave hound's cold wet nose, poking into places it shouldn't be, was always a threat, even to free women. Women had to be careful when traveling, or a false positive might lead to a detainment and a humiliating strip search to confirm the identification.

The "testimony" of slave dogs was considered powerful evidence, and repeated "identifications" by slave hounds could be used in a slave court as evidence of defacto self-enslavement.

There was even a cartoon show about slave hounds, NOSEY PARKER, featuring a basset hound with an enormous nose. Nosey Parker was cute, and sold a lot of T-shirts. My favorite was a picture of Nosy Parker, looking suspiciously down to an incriminating red arrow pointing down to the girl's crotch, saying SNIFF HERE. but most young women looked on slave hounds, and their cold, wet noses, with dread. Slave hounds were merciless, and held had enormous power.

"We gotta special on slave gradings," the burly slave cop offered, looking my body up and down in a way that made me most uncomfortable. "And there's an Any Chance Auction? coming up soon, if you'd like to try yer' luck."

"Um, no...thank you," I said, feeling strangely nervous under his leering appraisal. "I was wondering if the girl in The Sandy Foot magazine was available for sale?"

"Which one?" he said, taking the magazine out of his back pocket. "Usually they turn inventory pretty fast."

Inventory! Asshole. I hated his toxic masculinity already, even as I found it incredibly exciting.

Taking the magazine out of his hands, I held it up next to my face. "I'm looking for this girl. The little slut who looks like me."

The police officer looked slightly baffled as he looked at the magazine cover, then at me, then back at the magazine. "She don't look nothing like you," he said, staring at the picture of Miss Sandy Foot. "She's... beautiful."

"I'm NOT beautiful?" I said, surprised. Seriously? WTF?

Realizing his unintended insult, the officer quickly backtracked. "Oh, no, that's not that I meant. Yer' real pretty, Ma'am," he said, a bit too respectfully.

"But?" I said, prompting him.

The officer took the magazine from my hands and adjusted the angle for a better look.

"She is Miss Sandy Foot. She is ripe. She is luscious. Miss Sandy Foot is... irresistible."

"And I'm not?" I challenged him, my annoyance growing. "Why? Because I have a brain?"

The preference of many men for submissive, insatiable Pleasure Sluts who would beg to suck their cocks was well documented. But to be compared to this PARTICULAR slut, B-269, a mere naked animal on the cover of a stroker magazine, and to be found wanting, genuinely pissed me off.

"Pleasure sluts can be smart," he countered, "although their brains are used to please, and avoid the whip."

At the mention of the whip, I glanced nervously at the slave whip on his belt, and felt my bottom cheeks clench together, a reflex that only served to remind me of my brand.

He traced his finger along the magazine as he tried to explain. "See how wavy her hair is? How ripe and round her titties are? Look at them pokies! And her snatch is drippin' right onto the sand. What fella wouldn't want a slut like this at his boots, beggin' to pleasure him?"

I'd heard enough. My hair was done carefully, to hide the scar from the hole in my ear from the humiliating blue animal tag. My hair was up, but no so far up as to expose my shameful tagging.

Glaring at him, I undid my hair, and shook it out loosely, so it flowed naturally over my shoulders, like the little slut on the cover. I dropped my $500 blue blazer on the dirty, sandy cement floor, like I'd never need it again. Ditching my glasses, I put them in my purse, then dropped my purse on top of the blazer.

Without my glasses, all of the text in the room, from the overhead signs to the details on the slave catcher's badge, quickly shifted into a blur. I felt a sudden chill as years of education vanished.

Words did not matter. Imports were popular precisely because ignorant, illiterate slaves were easier to control. B-269 offered the best of all worlds -- well spoken, but unable to use reading to either distract herself or as a tool to escape.

My imprisonment in Mexico had been perfect, actually, and I had to admire it, on a purely technical level. Not only couldn't I read, but most of my customers didn't speak English. After a very short while, language stopped having meaning to me, and all words were gibberish. I was a collared set of fuck holes, an illiterate foreign bimbo. No, worse, I was livestock, as incapable of understanding what my master's said as a pig or a goat.

The hunky slave catcher barely looked at me as I stripped away my tasteful and stylish veneer, and instead chose to ogle the frisky cover girl block meat known as Lot B-269. I hated her, or hated myself, for not being able to draw the interest of the handsome man who preferred the fantasy picture to the educated, wealthy, free woman standing before him. I decided to shift tacks.

"I'm looking for the girl because she is my sister," I said.

"Your sister!" the man said, finally looking up from the magazine in surprise. "Really? I don't see no family re-zemblance."

"That's because the little slut has her head back, and you can't see her face that well. You're looking at MY face, and HER stinking wet snatch," I said, my voice bristling with anger.

He smirked at the truth of the observation. I blushed at his smile, because although I was referring to the wet snatch of B-269, my pussy was now soaking. Without panties, my slave juices were dribbling down my bare legs.

"You can see our nipples are the same, though, when I tease them."

I put my head back, and closed my eyes, approximating the pose of the disgusting slut on the magazine cover. Reaching up with my right hand, I tweaked my nipples until they were pointy, and the pinkness poked through the front of my sheer, silk blouse.

At this point a few of the men watching the monitors turned their attention to me, the woman in the sheer blouse teasing her nipples. Their attention pleased me. The men weren't staring at 3rd rate octopussy. They were staring at me. ME!

"Yer drawin' a crowd, girl," the officer observed.

"Tough shit," I said. "Crowds are your fuckin' problem, mall cop. Tease my other breast."

The muscular slave cop didn't need to be asked twice. He reached out and cupped my breast, massaging it through my blouse.

"See? My right breast is just a bit bigger than the other one, just like the girl in the photograph. Like her, my tits are soft, and ripe, and begging for a master's touch."

The cop, mesmerized, nodded.

"The little slut is...me...me sister. I hope she wasn't sold. Do you think we would have gotten a better block price, auctioned as a pair?"

"Yeah, a great pair," he said, fondling my breast. "I see the resemblance now, even if you ayn't rubbin' your snatch on the auction block."

"True, but my pussy IS wet, and will get even wetter when I rub it." Brazenly, I lifted my skirt, to just below the goods, and reached my hand in, groaning with pleasure as I wet my fingers.

I held up my wet, glistening, fingers in front of his nose. "I smell wonderful, don't I? Am I not ripe, and juicy, like the slut on the cover, Master?"

The hulking officer said nothing, but closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, as if he was memorizing my scent.

I pushed on, relishing the tease, relishing my power over him, and the thrill of the hunt. "As for the auction block, this is the famous Big D. You got plenty of blocks, don't you? Nice, tall sandy ones, for girls like me to prance on?"

Smiling, I massaged the huge muscle on his arm. "Perhaps all this slave girl needs is a big, strong, slave catcher brave enough to strip me buck naked, and put me on the block, so they can turn a quick coin selling off hot, wet slave pussy."

"Perhaps you should get your ass-assessed," he said, looking at my body in an extremely professional way.

"Perhaps you should turn in your badge, and get a toy gun instead," I said contemptuously. I turned up my lip, flashing the slave registration number tattooed onto the inside of my lip. "I'm registered already, Prime Minus, dummy, with everything about me on file."

"Pictures too?" he said, leering at me with a lascivious smile.

Blushing, I nodded.

"So yer' slave hot?" he said, "like your little sis?"

"I'm way hotter than my sister," I said smiling as I teased the bulge in his pants with my hand. "I have a brain. She can't even read! But we're twins, so I got a Big D Badge brand when she was branded, as a show of support."

He laughed. "You lie! Free women don't get badged, willingly. The pain is too intense."

I smiled at him. "The only way you'd ever see that is I enslaved you, and I put you on your knees, and I bent over so you could kiss my little boo-boo, and make it feel better, with your tongue."

"You'd make a slave of me?" he asked, surprised.

"I sure would, cowboy. I'd keep you caged, and naked, except when I took you out to dance for me and my friends. I'd brand my initials on that tight little ass of yours, so everyone could see that you were mine."

I reached around and ran my finger over his tight ass. "Do you know how butt brandings hurt? Mine was excruciating!"

"I don't care none," he said flatly. "It's supposed to be. A girl should feel her brand."

"I'll make sure you feel your, stud. I'll make you lick me for hours, and lick my feet. Then I'd bend you over and have my way with you, and lock your little wiener up in a cage, until you cried and cried and begged for release."

"I'd never submit to you," he said.

"You would," I said. "Or it would be snip-snip!"

I laughed as he winced, enjoying my power over him. Pulling back my hair, I showed him my earrings. "Do you see these earrings? They're white gold, and encrusted with diamonds. They cost me $45,000. With that sort of money, I could buy your pathetic little sausage a thousand times over."

I was startled as he grabbed my wrist. "You have a whole in your ear. You've been cattle tagged!" he said accusingly.

Shit! I stared at him for a moment, dumbstruck. "Um... yes. I had myself tagged, in support of my sister. Let go of me!"

"Free men don't take no orders from Pleasure Sluts. I want to check your SRN," he said. He wasn't smiling now, he was glaring at me through his cold, dark merciless sunglasses.

"Why?" I said, still smiling.

"Because I said so... runaway." The last accusing word, runaway, was soft, barely a whisper.

"Do you want to hear the truth?" I said, challenging him.

"Yes. Every word of it."

"Then let go of my wrist."

He dropped my wrist and took a step back, retreating to neutral ground to hear my tale. Like Scheherazade in 1,001 Tales of The Arabian Nights, I was spared, so that my story could be told.

I adopted my best breathy Marilyn Monroe / Betty Boop voice as I went into flirty airhead mode. "Well, the truth is hard because slave girls are natural liars, and they tell all sorts of goofy stories!"

I giggled. He did not smile. "I want the truth."

"But I am a silly slave girl, master, and all I have are silly stories! My earrings DID cost me $45,000, although I got the punch hole in my ear absolutely free! I am actually a wealthy, big shot management consultant, and I consult with slave businesses like The Big D. You must be new here, because otherwise you'd know I MADE this shithole. Now I make a FORTUNE turning the screws on all the poor little slave girls, and on working stiffs like you."

As I spoke, I giggled, giving him my best girlish laughter. I ran my finger down his muscular chest, right down to the bulge of his crotch. Still, he did not smile. I was his quarry now, and his expression was dead serious, and chilled me to the bone.

Despite the danger, or perhaps because of it, I was still having fun. This was my game, and playing it gave me an intoxicating mix of terror and excitement. After all, there are only so many diamonds a girl can buy before it gets BORING. Being in the muscular, frowning deputies gun-sight was thrilling, and I squeezed my thighs together as I relished the incredible sensation of pure slave heat between my legs.

It is often said that slave girls are born, not made, and it is impossible to save a born Pleasure Slut from her collar. If that was true, then the opposite must also be true. I was well educated, wealthy, and free. That was my destiny, so as thrilling as my game was, I knew that I had nothing to fear. After all, I was NOT a slave girl."

Tittering, and biting my fingernail, I continued my game. "Truth is, ditzy as I am, I'm the one who devised all of the great marketing ideas about making The Big D into a livestock market, only for slave girls. Wasn't that clever of me?" I giggled again, seemingly amazed that I had actually thought of something smart.

Running my hands lasciviously over my curves I said, "Maybe it was because I understood that Pleasure Sluts are nothing but animals, that need to be kept tagged, naked, and caged, like the livestock that they are."

He licked his lips as I gyrated for him. The gawkers moved closer to listen in, but they didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was my Master and me.

"Of course, I guess I wasn't as clever as I thought, cuz' I got myself up-and-enslaved!" I said, rolling my eyes and throwing my hands up, like some blonde bimbo who had locked her key fob in her Tesla.

"Here's a funny one. Would you believe an auctioneer I trained sold my naked ass right off the auction block on Broadway, the market I designed? And if that wasn't humiliating enough, Judge Rufus T. Parker, who was the Judge who enslaved me, burned the Big D brand onto the inside of my ass cheek. I'd insulted him at a slave convention, so I guess he didn't like me very much. Can you believe he did that?"

"Yup," he said. "You gotta smart mouth, slave girl!"

"Thanks!" I giggled. "Nobody ever calls me smart! Well, anyway, I guess he thought somebody needed to teach me my place, and he sure did! So, anyway, the rich guy who bought me gave me to his son, who had just turned 19. He was a moron, and fucked me a few times, but he was pretty gay, so his dad got angry, and put me to work in this shitty brothel he owned that was right next to his coal mine. Can you guess what they made me do there, being that you're such a super-duper smarty pants detective, and all?"

"Hunting dogs are used for hunting. You were a Pleasure Slut. They made you a ho-ho." I smiled. It was another term I had coined.

HO-HO: Pleasures Sluts working in cheap brothels or as street hookers. All Pleasure Sluts are ho's, but if you are a Pleasure Slut and a street hooker, you're degradation is doubled, so you are a ho-ho. "Lindsay ayn't no college professor, she's just another ho-ho."

I feigned surprise as I held my hand to my mouth. "Oh, my! How did you guess that the made me a WHORE? You're so SMART!" I tittered. "You're right, of course. I thought I was a big shot executive, with a fancy Ivy League education. But NAKED, and collared, on my knees, with my legs spread and my hands behind my head, I looked like just another Pleasure Slut!" I explained, rolling my eyes, and waving my hands in the air. "What a goofy mix up, tee-hee-hee!"

"I don't think so," he said, not joining in with my silly bimbo laughter.

I was loving this, even if he was not, so I continued in my breathless, Marilyn voice. "Well, don't ya' know, they didn't think it was a mistake either, and they put my skanky ass TO WORK. I was locked up in this red-light district, that had a huge cement wall, with razor wire, and guard towers, and everything! It was next to this gigantic mine, where thousands and thousands of workers dug coal out of the ground day-and-night. The mine was HUGE, and there was an army of miners! They didn't pay the filthy little buggers much, but they did give them plastic tokens, that they could use in the company store, and the company brothels. So I didn't even get fucked for money. I got fucked for these little plastic laundry tokens, that looked like play money. How humiliating!"

"Good," he said. "You had it coming, slave girl."

"Golly, that's what they thought, too! They put me in this nasty old room with about 20 other ho-hos, with these thin, filthy mattresses all over the floor. The workers had these tokens, and they'd drop them in a bucket by my feet. And do you know what those dirty, nasty miners did to me, after they threw a token in my bucket?"

"They fucked you."

"WOW! You are like a brain-iac! A big shiny badge and a big brain! What else do you have that's big?" I teased. "After they dropped their token in the bucket, they dropped their load into one of my buckets. The pimps used these little timers, so they only got 10 minutes to fuck me. They were pretty horny, so most of them didn't take long. But I was REALLY popular, because of my white skin, and blonde hair, and nice tits, so I was usually taking at least two, or sometimes three or even four dicks at a time, if I used my hands. And as soon as one guy would get off me, another would get on. All day long! Boy, my thin mattress got worn down to a rag!" I laughed.

"Good. Pleasure Sluts should be put to use. They got their pesos worth. I bet you were one tasty taco."

TACO: Slang for a Pleasure Slut put to work as a puta. "Maria thinks she's going to inherit the company, but she won't look so high and mighty once we send her over the border, and turn her into taco meat."

"Oh yeah, they sure did!" I giggled. "My bucket was an old paint can, painted pink, just like my pussy. And they kept filling it with tokens, over and over. I remember thinking I had to swallow two gallons of spluge for every gallon of tokens. And it wasn't very yummy, let me tell you!"

"What a mix-up! I mean, look at me! Look at how I'm dressed! Can you actually believe they thought I was a whore, like this Miss Sandy Foot Girl."