Sandy Foot Girl Ch. 05: SOLD!

My auction had begun, and the bids mounted in quickly. Even as I blushed and spread my butt cheeks for Judge Parker's amusement, I felt a surge of pride at the way "Tiny Tim" was quickly showing the bidders everything B-269 had.

I felt light headed and could hear my heart beating in my chest. I was glad for my Slave Yoga and block training, for it was this moment I'd prove myself worthy of my Prime Minus grade. Even if I felt like a stunned cow, I knew I'd have to move fast, and obey perfectly, to maximize my price.

"When you're at level 5, don't let the little sluts catch their breath, Timmy," I had instructed my star pupil. "No matter who she was, or who she thought she was, she's livestock, no different than a cow or a sow. She's snatch to be sold, not a story to be told."

I had taught Tiny Tim well. While every second on the auction block seemed like an hour to me, the total elapsed time between the gate sliding open and me spreading my butt cheeks like the most lascivious of slave sluts was only a few seconds. It was obvious from my high lot number (B-269) and my rifle-shot progression from the receiving dock to the auction block that The Big D was moving a lot of pussy that day.

The economics of the auction house dictated that there would be no slow, sexy reveals or discussions of my finer points: Timmy wanted to show the crowd my fuckable holes and sell me as gash-for-cash.

From a purely business perspective, I heartily approved of my speedy sale. My computer model had proved that it made more sense to sell three more slaves than squeeze a few extra dollars out of any particular lot. Any fantasies I had about being admired and appreciated were crushed under the brutal capitalism of The Big D, like a cowboy boot crushing a cigarette.

The rapid early fire was very typical of the opening stage of a Pleasure Slut auction. The first few bids always drew the "bumpers" (people who bid up the price for girls just for fun) and the "jerkers" (buyers who would later jerk off imagining they had bought the girl, or would get off jerking their fingers in-and-out of pleasure sluts put on the sales floor for display). These distractions made no difference to Timmy, who was focused solely on my hammer price and the number of "lots-per-hour" he could parade across his block.

"Change yer tune fer this one, ladies, and gents! Look up her pooper. We got nothin' to hide!"

Timmy's remark got some laughter even as I winced with the humiliation of having a crowd of people led by the loathsome Judge Parker looking between my butt cheeks. I could tell from the tone of his chant that Timmy either didn't recognize me, or didn't care. I hadn't even had time to scan the audience to see if Becky Lou or Rosa were there to bid on me before I had been bade to roll in the sand, stick my butt out, and spread my legs to shoulder length.

"Show the buyers what they want to see," I had instructed my young apprentice. "Don't dwell. Sell." Timmy was doing precisely that. The outcome of my entire life was resting on what would happen in the next minute, but to the diminutive 18-year-old teenager standing on a box so he could see over the auctioneer's podium I was simply the 269th pussy to be sold off the Broadway block on this busy afternoon.

One of the cameras was pointed at my face, so I didn't dare look at Timmy, but I was able to catch a glance of him out of the corner of my eye. The podium I had designed for my little auctioneer was simple, but very much on brand. The Amish craftsman who had built both the auction block and the podium to my exacting specifications had used a 19th century craftsman style, but with a rustic Texas accent. Both the block and the front of the podium was a series of open slats that left everything but the top drawer, where my paperwork was, visible. I had conceived it as sort of a visual pun: if the girls were totally exposed, why shouldn't the furniture be, too? Now that I was 'dogging it' on the block with my butt cheeks spread wide my attempt at irony seemed more cruel than amusing.

I had stepped onto the block by exiting the humiliating cattle chute, like the animal I was. Timmy had mounted the block using the wooden steps, which had a lovely beveled handrail on one side. The sandy boards I was kneeling on were not perfectly flush, by design: I had wanted gaps for drainage so the sweat and piss of the terrified slave girls didn't pool up. I had designed it well, and the sand, as humbling as it was, gave me excellent traction and made it easy to keep my footing, even as I squatted.

I had spent a lot of time thinking about the height of the block, and even with my face facing away from the audience I could tell I had designed it perfectly. I was close enough to Judge Parker that I could here him chuckling, and sniffling as he leaned in for a closer look. Yes, Judge Parker and the people in the middle tiers and top row had flawless views of my both my asshole and my widely split, hot, wet beaver.

Without moving my head I sized up my auctioneer. Timmy had a blue sports jacket with The Big D logo, and a white dress shirt, and a red tie, also with the yellow rope logo of The Big D. The rest of his attire was pure Texas: jeans with a big steer belt buckle, an oversized white cowboy hat to make him look taller, and cowboy boots with lifts in them.

I had advised Timmy to wear the lifts and hat, to give him height, and the jacket and tie, to give him authority. But there was still something comical about his youthful appearance, as he looked less like a cowboy than a little boy trick-or-treating. Allowing myself the briefest flicker of a smile I took a moment to enjoy how absolutely ridiculous my auctioneer really was.

Surely, I had nothing to fear from such an absurd little creature. Timmy was a little boy playing dress up, pretending to be an auctioneer. I wondered if he shaved yet.

I flashed back to the first day when Timmy had come to me after class. He was shy, and had blushed when he confessed that he didn't know if he had the "dominance" to be a good auctioneer. I had gently lifted his chin with my hand, and looked into his eyes, telling him that I was sure it was a problem he could overcome, if he paid attention in class and did everything, I told him to.

I had made Timmy my 'little project', and bossed him, and mothered him. I delighted in telling "my little man," as I called him, to "stand tall" at the podium. Now he was doing just that, even if he was standing on a box.

In class, I had kept him squarely under my thumb, and even threatened to "spank him" if he misbehaved, much to the other auctioneer's amusement, and Timmy's embarrassment.

Now the tables had turned, and it wasn't Timmy who was blushing. I was no longer the teacher, and Timmy was no longer my student. In his tiny hands he held the symbols of his absolute authority over me.

In his right hand he held the slave whip, which was unfolded and dangling free, ready to strike. And in his right hand he held his auctioneer's gavel.

It was the auctioneer's gavel that scared me the most. It was walnut and ornately carved, as was the beveled base that matched it. The brass plaque on it had his name and graduation date. I knew that because I had been the one who had placed the gavel in his hand on graduation day. I had even put a special inscription in a brass plaque on the bottom.

To Tiny Timmy, my little man

Be good, or Mama spank!

Love, Sarah

He hadn't thought the inscription was very funny. I did.

The gavel was beautifully carved but not in a particularly sinister way. Indeed, to me it was simply another tool of the trade. I had held thousands of them over the years, and this one was no different than the rest. Why then, did the sight of the beautifully carved gavel in Timmy's little fist make my blood run cold?

This gavel was different, for this gavel controlled my destiny. Judge Parker had signed my enslavement order, so that I could complete my undercover assignment. Yes, I was legally a slave, but as long as I was the property of The Texas Department of Agriculture it would be simple enough for him to reverse his order and free me.

However, under the laws of the State of Texas, and the Uniform Slave Code recognized in all 50 states, when a registered slave is sold to a third party by a licensed slave dealer such as a The Big D, the sale and enslavement become irrevocable, unless it is found that the buyer, seller, and dealer were ALL acting in bad faith.

This meant that if Timmy sold me to some random stranger, which by all appearances he seemed quite happy to do, then the moment his gavel struck its walnut base I'd be the property of the highest bidder. And if Betty Lou and her idiotic side kick Rosa didn't realize how quickly I was being sold, and didn't get to The Big D in time, too bad, so sad.

The wet-behind-the-ears, pimply faced child standing on the box was using everything I had taught him to sell me with the gavel I had put in his hand. It was as infuriating as it was exciting.

"Come on, gentlemen, we don't want lookers!" Timmy urged. "Aren' there any Texans here? Y'all from out of state? Let's get this slut off-my-stage and into-her-cage!"

Every auctioneer had a different style, and Timmy, clearly relishing his position of power, liked to "have fun with the gavel", as I said in class. It's a good sales strategy, as people will bid more if they are having a good time. However, Timmy's playful tone vanished as he turned to address lot B-269.

"Leg's wider! Nose down, ass up!" Timmy barked in his thick Texas twang.

I strained to spread my knees as widely apart as possible... and then remembering the whip in Timmy's tiny fist, a couple of inches beyond that. I lowered my head to the stage, sticking my nose into the coarse brown sand as my bottom raised and opened up like a flower. I heard the ceiling mounted camera behind me whirl as it moved in for a closer look, allowing everyone at The Big D to see my asshole on their handy cellphone app.

The sand particles I was inhaling up my nose were putrid, and I fought the urge to wretch. They swept the market once a week, but I could smell the stink and sweat of the endless parade of disgusting slave sluts who had gone before me, as well as the pee of the girls who had lost control of their bladders and disgraced themselves on the block.

Like all the other aspects of The Big D, I had given a lot of thought to the sand. After reviewing countless samples, I had selected a rough industrial sand because the color matched the gray brown shade of the walls. I had been intrigued when I had learned that girls sold in The Big D were sometimes called "Sandy Foot Girls," and seeing the business opportunity I wondered if I might use the local colloquialism in the marketing of our product.

The West Texas sand I had chosen was much darker than what was normally used, and as I had anticipated it soon became something of a trademark for The Big D. On the website the online catalog ads for the various lots often featured women with bits of the dark sand clinging to their naked bodies. It gave the girls a distinct look, a brand identity that screamed "The Big D".

Many of the auctioneers regarded the sand as a nuisance necessary for cleanup, but I advised the owner to lean into the unique "look" the sand offered. I had sprinkled the "Sandy Foot Girls" name in the monthly newsletter / sales catalogue, and had even devoted the last few pages to a photo spread of "Miss Sandy Foot", the hottest, best-selling Pleasure Slut for sale.

As always, I had made an excellent choice, but now I wasn't carefully considering the texture and clinginess of the coarse sand on my manicured hand in my air conditioned office, I was rubbing my nose in it after dozens of slave girls had released their bladders on it. I didn't want to stick my nose in the brown filth, but the image of Timmy's whip was fresh in my mind, and I knew that with countless girls in inventory he would brook no rebellion from the Pleasure Slut displaying her asshole to the buyers.

Clumps of the pee-soaked sand were clinging to my hair, legs, feet, and body, which made it all the more disgusting. But I also felt a strange surge of pride, for this was the sand on Broadway, and I was now officially a Sandy Foot Girl!

With my nose in the sand I knew everyone in the crowd could see better than I could. Of course my mortifying slave slut position was only part of the problem. They had taken away my glasses when they had stripped me naked, of course: slave girls didn't need glasses. The loss of my glasses left me quite illiterate, yet another humiliation piled onto a day filled with them. While I couldn't see the faces of the people ogling my naked body I could hear stray bits of conversation as the bids poured in.

"Do ya'll think she'd make a good grad'ation present for Willy?" a middle aged woman asked in a thick Texas drawl.

"He got a dick, don't he?" her friend replied.

"She sure is excited."

"Yeah, I can smell her from here." I shuddered as I recognized Judge Parker's familiar drawl.

"The Prince likes blondes," a thickly accented voice said. "I'm putting in a bid."

"That is one hot, SLOPPY PUSSY!" a drunken msn said. It came from the side, where the gawkers and drunken good-old-boys stood. He wasn't a serious buyer, but Timmy picked up the chant.

Sixty, Sixty, DoIhearSixtyforthesloppypussy, sloppypussy, sloopypussy...This ayn't a rental, folks, this is 100% Blue State fuck bunny!

In the excitement of the auction, I had forgotten about the blue tag stapled to my ear. It was shaped like California and marked me as a despised "Blue State Girl".

"I don't like blue state girls," I heard one old male voice say.

"There okay, if you don't spare the whip, and teach 'em their place. 'Brand 'em, fuck, 'em, teach them to suck'em', that's what I say."

"Yeah, college girls don't look so stuck up when they have my cock in their mouth" a man sneered.

To my left I heard a teacher tell his student's to "put your phones away", only to have several of the student protest that they were examining my "hot slave pussy" in closeup on their phones. As if being sold by an 18-year-old wasn't humiliating enough, my shamefully wet pussy and asshole were part of some career day field trip for the seniors at the local high school.

"Look at that little brownie!"

"I wouldn't mind fucking that."

"You'd fuck anything, loser," a girl's voice responded.

"Yeah, you don't want to catch nothing. These Pleasure Sluts let the whole world fuck 'em."

Although I had expressed the same sentiment in equally vulgar terms, the cruelty in the humiliating comments caused me to clench my teeth. If I was sold to somewhere where the "whole world" could fuck me, then that wouldn't be my choice.

As if on cue I heard two voices with Mexican accents.

"We can put her to work in the brothel by the military base. We'll make our money back in 3 months, tops."

"Yeah, then we can resell her while she's still prime."

"Or turn her ass out across the border, in Nuevo Laredo, or Tijuana. Let the gringos fuck 'er, and we don't have to worry about the law."

My heart, which had already been racing, beat like a trip hammer at the threat. Across the border there'd be no coming back. I'd be fucked, literally and constantly, starved in a slave brothel as I was made to serve the dregs of humanity. There was no #MeToo in a Mexican slave brothel, and I'd be fuck by truckers, soldiers, tourists, frat boys, or anyone who wanted to have some kinky fun without having to spend much money. For a few dollars, anyone could have me anyway they wanted.

The bidders from the slave brothels bought a lot of girls, for after grinding a girl down they'd typically sell her to yet a cheaper brothel a few months later. Nonetheless they weren't popular with auctioneers, as it was felt that they "siphoned" bids. Why pay top dollar for a girl who you could fuck in a slave brothel for a couple of hundred pesos tomorrow night?

SixtyFive, SixtyFive, SixtyFive! You folks over yonder are allowed to bid too, so get to it! White & wet, wet & ready, ayn't nothin' wrong with this one but the price! FreeBadgingIncluded, FreeBadging!

I felt a chill run down my spine. Free badging had been my idea, another way to distinguish ourselves in the market. The conceit was The Big D was a premium brand, and owning a real Sandy Foot Girl was a point of pride, like owning the pickup truck. And like a pick-up truck, our inventory was marked with our logo. Except instead of putting a logo or the bumper of the truck, we branded The Big D logo on the newly sold slave girl's ass.

Like most of my initiatives, it had been a masterstroke, although it had required a bit of fine tuning. Some owners objected to having the brands placed on the dead center of the girl's naked asses, and so we quickly relocated the brands to "between the cheeks", on the exquisitely sensitive skin on the inner left butt cheek. This novel placement allowed the logo to be displayed when needed, and even fondled by her master during fucking, without marring the girl's day-to-day appearance in anyway.

The only downside was that the skin was so extremely sensitive that sometimes the girls would bite into their own tongues or mouths because of the intense pain. Jake had actually started giving the stupid sluts local anesthesia, until I showed him that you could solve the problem much more cheaply by simply putting a stick in the girl's mouth and strapping it to her head as a stick gag.

In addition to being cheaper, the stick gag made the girl's shriek's much less annoying, while doing nothing to lessen the impact of the vital lesson that a new slave girl can best learn from a scalding hot branding iron applied firmly and mercilessly to her naked ass.

As we had expert blacksmiths on staff, and woodfired forges, this free advertising and brand differentiation cost us practically nothing. As a result, badging was now as routine as it was inexpensive, and unless Becky Lou or Rosa intervened, I'd soon be wearing the "badge" I had designed forever.

My fear of the red-hot iron must have caused me to unconsciously clench my cheeks together in fear, for I heard Judge Parker's voice behind me. "Wink your asshole," he said loudly. I swear he was close enough when he said it that I could feel his breath on my exposed ass and pussy. I froze as Timmy picked up the chant:

Seventy, Seventy, SeventyForTheWinker, WINKER, WINKER, Goin'Forseventy.

I may had frozen, but Timmy had not. Seeing that I was not complying he punctuated his command with a whip crack so close to my naked bottom that I could feel the air rush down my bottom crack. Years of cattle ranching had made Timmy an expert with the whip, a skill I had once admired but now found terrifying.

Petrified of the whip I abandoned my last shred of dignity as I tightened and loosened my sphincter as rapidly as possible, "winking" my bottom hole at a laughing Judge Parker.

"That's it," Judge Parker sneered. "Show me how much you want it up the ass, B-269! I'll pack your fudge nice-and-tight, and ride your little piggy hole, long and hard, till you squeal for more! Wink it, Sarah! WINK IT!"

I obeyed like the obedient little fuck toy I was, pumping my asshole open and closed while the fat pig of a Judge laughed at my humiliation. What choice did I have? If I didn't obey, I'd feel Timmy's whip between my cheeks, cracking down hard. Timmy was my best student, and I knew he'd hit the bullseye.

"I wanna see her come," Judge Parker called out. Lifting my nose out of the sand, I glanced up at Timmy, who made a flipping motion with his wrist, signaling his command.

Like an obedient puppy I rolled in the sand onto my back. I lifted myself up and spread my legs obscenely wide, so my pussy was only a few feet from Judge Parker's disgusting fat face. Using my right hand to balance me, I put my left hand between my legs, spreading my legs and teasing my clitoris as the camera's zoomed in.