The Girl in the Window Pt. 02

In preparation, I went into extensive slave training with Master Mark. When I told Brad about my plan during breakfast, he didn't even look up from his phone.

"He's going to want to fuck you," he said flatly.

I hadn't even considered that, but I supposed he was right. "You don't mind?" I responded, more than a little surprised by his casualness.

"Why should I?" he said, as he doom-scrolled through the news. "He's not fucking my wife, he's fucking the slave pussy I'm going to sell at the Big D. Could you pass the cream cheese, please?"

The training was brutal. Master Mark brought in another guy, Master Elroy, whom I did not like at all. "Tough shit," Master Mark said. "That's the point--a man you obey even if you loath him." I worked hard, although I had to drop out of my Slave Yoga sessions with Taylor, Tiffany, and Mackenzie when my toned body and expert rolls made it obvious that I was taking it to another level. Too bad; those who can't keep up, get left behind.

At Master Mark's suggestion, Brad let me contact my auctioneer, some guy Brad knew named "Timmy". We exchanged some quick e-mails, and worked out a few tricks so Brad would have some surprises when I was on the block at The Big D. Timmy suggested that I not read too much about The Big D, as it would be more exciting for Brad if I was experiencing it "fresh", and he got to watch my reaction. I was a little annoyed that it was all about Brad, Brad, Brad, but I followed directions.

Yesterday, we flew into Dallas on my jet. As we taxied in, we passed a hanger marked "Southwest Shipping." Inside an open garage door, there was a coffle of naked slave girls being loaded for shipping. I felt a tiny shiver of fear and ordered the stewardess to pour me another glass of champagne. It was almost as if I were looking into my own future.

Brad took me to see a friend of his, Sheldon, who was an attorney and notary public. What does one wear to one's own enslavement? Knowing the purpose of the meeting, I decided on casual sexy, with a midriff-baring T-shirt from the Barnard College Swim Team and denim short-shorts.

"Nice," Sheldon commented, looking me up and down as he handed Brad the papers. "But, she should be barefoot, and that expensive purse will have to go."

"Don't worry; that Gucci purse will be the FIRST thing to go," my husband replied, chuckling. I went to sit down, but Sheldon corrected me.

"She should probably stand for this," he said, addressing Brad. "It's customary."

Looking at me, Brad nodded, ow it out of the way.

I fidgeted in front of the desk as Brad took his time reviewing the paper. Sheldon addressed all his comments to Brad, but he never took his eyes off my body, and I could tell he was imagining how I would look naked and on the block.

"She has nice tits," Sheldon observed. "I like her pokies. Sweet little ass, too--is her pussy as tight as it looks?"

"You'll never know," Brad replied, his eyes on the papers. Then he handed me the papers and I began to read quickly.

"You never know," observed Sheldon, looking at me like a lambchop he was about to eat. "I got money, too, you know."

"Hurry up," Brad said curtly, when I was half-way through the first paragraph. "I don't want to be late for dinner."

"Yeah, I charge extra for BIMBO time," Sheldon added. Obviously, he didn't notice my Barnard shirt, which was odd considered how much time he spent staring at my chest.

I speed-read the document, hoping I wasn't missing anything. Power of attorney authorizing Brad to sell me for up to seven years but forbidding shipment overseas or major body modifications. I noticed, though, that branding, nipple piercing, and the like WERE authorized at the discretion of Brad or whoever was my "owner." That word simultaneously made me moist and shivering.

As my limited-edition Samurai fountain pen shook in my hand, Sheldon asked if I were going to be graded and sold, and where, saying he'd love to "own some top-notch New York pussy." Brad just looked at with his little half-smile, daring me to sign without saying anything. Swallowing hard, I took the plunge, signing the power of attorney with a flourish.

Grinning lewdly at me, Brad's friend LOUDLY pounded his notary-public stamp onto the document, telling my husband--and now owner--"She's signed and sealed, all you need to do is deliver her!" Then he called to his secretary who brought in an embossing machine.

"California and other states will only take an ink stamp," Sheldon explained, "so you'll want this ink stamp if she gets shipped out of state. But I like to add the pretty raised gold seal, so that it looks even MORE official. A lot of the slaving judges in Texas like these, although I don't think you'll have ANY problems because they love enslaving Yankee pussy. I'm going to put the seal on, now. Do you want her naked for this part?"

Brad turned and looked me up and down, as if he were really considering it. "NAW, we have dinner reservations." He announced.

Leering at me, Sheldon pressed the button. I shuddered as it whirred and he loudly stamped it. He notarized and embossed several copies to give to Brad--when I asked where MY copy was, the two guys just said something about the owner needs a copy, not the property. Even that idea turned me on!

"So, where are you selling her?" Sheldon asked. "HCI can get you a really good price; I have a buddy there."

"Thanks, Sheldon," Brad said, ignoring him and politely holding the door open for me even as his friend leered at my soon-to-be-bare ass.

After a hasty dinner, we went back to our hotel room where I practically tore my clothes off and then begged him to ravish me. So he did, pinning me to the bed, kissing me breathless, and pounding my brains out, all the while whispering evil thoughts about how he would sell my "cute little butt" so I would be a real pleasure slave in less than 24 hours.

He kept up the pressure this morning, "ordering" me to kneel and give "my master" a blowjob in the shower and then use an enema bag, followed by lubricant up my bottom. He told me my butt must be ready to service my next master--I THINK he was still teasing, but who knows?

Driving to the Big D, Brad did most of the talking. "I just want to remind you of a few things, sweetheart. Don't forget that, for this Any Chance Auction to work, we both have to act as if it's REAL--as if I might really sell you for the right price. Besides, I know that's your fantasy, so just pretend you're getting sold today, got it?"

"No, it's not pretend," I said, gently correcting him. "I'm GOING to be sold. When the chute door opens, I'll be just another pussy on the block... 'Master.'" I added the last word, torn between amusement and worry.

"THAT's my good little bitch." He replied, patting my thigh. Even that gesture of affection reassured me. "Now, when we get to the Big D and I park the car, what are you going to do?"

"Step out of the car, strip down, put my clothes back onto the seat and wait for you in 'Present' position." This was where the fantasy felt both thrilling and terrifying.

He continued to prompt me, "So, I walk around the car and order you to 'Collar;'' after you kneel and I put the collar on your neck, I'll tell you to stand up and then what happens?"

I shivered at the thought of adding helplessness to my nudity. "Back hands, 'Master,'--you cuff my hands behind me and lead me to the main entrance."

He smiled and spoke to me as if I were an obedient puppy--a female puppy, of course! "GOOD girl! When we get inside you'll see a long line of concrete bollards painted yellow. While we're waiting for check-in, you either kneel beside me or, if I release your wrists, what do you get to do?"

"Rub myself against the bollard for good luck."

He nodded in agreement. "That's right, slut. You rub against the bollard, just like any other bimbo trying to get her dirty snatch off while hoping for a higher slave grade, got it?"

By now, my mind was getting back into the familiar pattern of this X-rated fantasy. "Yes, 'Master.'" I said with a smile, winking at him.

Ben summed up, just as we turned into a huge parking lot. "OK, we're here now. Just remember, while you're here you act exactly like any other piece of slave meat. This is your chance to live out your fantasy, babe. Keep jilling off whenever you get a chance so you're hot for your grading and later for the auction. If the handler wants to feel you up, he can; if he orders you to kneel down and swallow his dick, what do you do?"

"I say, 'Yes, Master,' and give him the best, the sloppiest, the horniest blow-job he's ever had, pretending... KNOWING that I'm really a slave girl and he might own me."

"Yeeehhh." Ben drawled. "You'd really love to do that, wouldn't you, my sexy slut?"

I nodded, my respiration and heart rate increasing. "Yes, Sir."

"Could we park a little closer to the front," I asked. "It seems like a long walk."

"No way. I don't want someone to ding my Lamborghini," he said.

In my mind, I had gone through the parking-lot strip a million times and had even practiced it at home, watching in the mirror. It was different now. As promised, my Gucci purse was the first thing to go, and Brad smiled as he tossed it into the "fronk" of the orange Lamborghini. Next, I took off my strappy Christian Louboutin shoes and dropped them in.

Only, when I had practiced in my New York condo, there hadn't been a father and son walking past, stopping to watch me strip. The boy was wearing a "IT'S MY BIRTHDAY" shirt, and apparently this trip to the Big D was his present for turning 18.

"Holy Shit!" the teenager said in a stage whisper. "Is that rich girl really going to strip naked right here?" he asked his father.

"Looks that way," his father replied, putting his hand up to ask a question.

"Sellin' or gradin'?" the father asked Brad.

"Sellin'," replied Brad with a grin.

"Can we buy her, Dad? Puuhhhh-leezze?"

"Your mom would kill me if she knew I was takin' you here. She thinks we're going to Dick's Sporting Goods, remember?"

"Oh, yeah; I forgot." The younger guy replied.

I was naked now, slave naked, after Brad reminded me that slave girls don't have $50,000 earrings. I took a moment to frown as I looked at all my worldly possessions in the trunk. The sports car trunk was TINY, but it had more than enough space to hold my entire pre-slave girl existence.

Brad SLAMMED the trunk shut without a second thought, sealing me off from my freedom. He didn't seem to realize the emotional impact of that. Men with clothes and keys and money don't understand what it feels like to be a naked slave girl.

To my surprise, Brad took a crop/whip out of the back seat. He snapped his fingers and used the whip to point to the pavement behind the car, reminding me of what I had already forgotten.

I knelt down on the hot asphalt, interlocked my fingers behind by neck, and spread my thighs apart into "present" position.

As if I needed any reminder of my exposure, the birthday boy exclaimed "Golly! I can see her vagina!"

"This isn't biology class, son," the father corrected him. "Slave girls don't have vaginas. They have pussies, snatches, boxes, twats, and beavers."

"Yes, sir--that sure is a pretty beaver!" the birthday boy replied, his eyes glued between my thighs. He watched breathlessly as Brad collared me. To my surprise, Brad had chosen a plain, off the shelf stainless steel collar, much less fancy than the one I had bought for fluffy. It had rings on the front and back, making it easy to attach me to a coffle, and a dual pair of electric shock "prongs" on either side that dug into my neck as he closed the collar.

"It hurts," I said.

"You'll get used to it," Brad replied. The father laughed.

"Bracelets," Brad said. I presented my wrists, and Brad cuffed them, again using a plain, off the shelf version of slave cuffs. The bracelet sitting in my trunk had cost me $35,000. The bracelet I was going to wear into the slave market would retail at The Big D for less than $20.

As a final touch, he added a strap, running from the back of my collar to my cuffs. Tightening the strap, it pulled my wrists up to the center of my back, locking them in place.

"You don't have to do that," I said.

Brad responded by slapping me hard across the ass.

"Oww!" I said. "That hurt."

"It's supposed to hurt. Next time it's the crop, or the collar."

Brad pressed the remote, giving me a brief BUZZ that caused me to jump a little. I know he had it set on ONE, and it was just a warning, but it still shocked me.

"Wow, look at her boobies jiggle," my pie-eyed teenage admirer said. Ever accommodating, Brad BUZZED me again, causing me to squirm for the boy.

As a final indignity, Brad hooked a short leather leash to the front of my collar. I glared at him as he attached the simple bolt snap to the front of my collar, which seemed to amuse him. "Woof!" he said, smiling as he jerked the leash. I was going to be led into the Big D like a dog, a bitch.

The Big D got bigger and bigger as he led me across the lot. I felt as if everyone within eyesight was looking at me, evaluating my body. The asphalt felt like fire on my bare feet, another aspect of Texas slavery that life in my Manhattan condo had left me ill-prepared for. Feeling the sun on my bare skin, I wished I had a deeper tan to protect me, or I could walk slower. Collared and leashed, with my wrists pinned to the small of my back, Brad set the pace.

"I love the way her ass jiggles when she walks," the boy observed. Instinctively, I pulled down my hands to try and cover myself, a foolish free girl action. All I did was yank my own head back as the cuffs kept my wrists squarely in the center of my back.

"Dad, I can see the hand print on her ass where he spanked her." The boy's tone was casual, as if I couldn't hear every word he was saying. Or perhaps he had already mentally classified me as the helpless slave meat I had become.

"It would be even cuter with a brand on it," his dad replied.

"Wow. Could we watch them do that?" the boy asked eagerly.

"Maybe," his father replied. "Sometimes they do it in the restaurant."

"Hey, Mister, are you going to get her branded?" the boy asked.

Brad stopped and turned in their direction. "I haven't decided yet," he said. "What do you think?" The sound of that word "yet" frightened me even more.

"I dunno" said the boy, staring at my butt. "It's perfect the way it is."

"Give it a feel," Brad suggested. "That will help you decide."

His father nudged the young man. "Go ahead," he said, "Jest don't tell your mother."

The boy took a handful of my bottom cheek, fondling it. Then, he switched to both hands.

"What do you think?" Brad said, smirking again. "Brand or no brand? It's up to you."

That was the point when I truly knew what it was to be a slave. A snotty-nosed teenager was squeezing my butt before he decided whether my ass was going to be branded. Fifteen minutes earlier, I had been a wealthy, independent, well-educated adult and now I was just a toy for an 18-year-old stranger. Looking at him, I pleaded with my eyes, shaking my head as I mouthed the word "No, No, No" over and over again.

"You might want to check out how wet she is," Brad suggested. "Go ahead, don't be shy. Give 'er a good feel!"

The gangly teenager did just that, but that wasn't the humiliating part. The humiliating part was how wet I was!

"Geez, she's soaking," he said, as I involuntarily humped back on his scrawny fingers. He lowered himself for a better view, examining me closely. Brad winked at his proud father as he explored what we all knew was his first pussy.

"How does it feel, son?" Dad chuckled.

"Sloppy... quivery...but good." My pussy had never felt so alive. The fact that this kid had no idea what he was doing, and other people in the parking lot had stopped to gape at us, somehow made it all the hotter. I was getting felt up, out in front of a slave market, just like a real Pleasure Slut!

"Let's go, Wesley," he said. "I'm sure this fine gentleman has other things to do, and wants to get his bitch on the block."

"I do indeed," Brad said. "But we still need a decision about the branding. Why don't you give me your phone, and you can text me later with your boy's decision."

Cell phones were exchanged, with the father marveling over Brad's custom, gold plated IPhone. It was determined that the father's name was Doug, and he worked in construction, and Texas was in a building boom. I was guessing he didn't make enough to buy Wesley his own slave, or maybe his wife wouldn't allow it. But he could still take his boy to The Big D for "a little peek-and-poke" as he put it.

"Can I watch, Dad?" the boy asked. "I mean, if I decide to get her branded, can I watch them burn her ass?"

"Maybe," Brad said. "Sometimes they do it in the restaurant, as a lunchtime thing."

"The Bee & Brand?" the father said. "Best slave honey in Texas!"

"What's slave honey?" the boy inquired, asking my question.

"It's what you got all over yer' fingers, boy!" the father said, laughing. "Come on, let's go. We need to get this girl off the asphalt, before she burns those dainty feet of hers," he chuckled. "She's itchin' to get some sand between her toes!"

I was hopping from foot to foot, partially because of the asphalt, partially from the excitement of being so rudely felt up by Wesley, eager to explore my new pussy. The reference to sand-between-my-toes made me shudder, as I remembered Brad had said The Big D used sand on their auction blocks, like it was a real livestock market. Because it WAS a real livestock market, and I was about to become just another caged, horny animal in its inventory!

(To be continued)