"any Chance?" Auction

Is DIE HARD a Christmas movie? If so, then checking yourself into a slave market at Christmas is a Christmas story. Read on!

It had started over Thanksgiving, when my friend Rita and her family visited me in Chicago. We both grown up in the same neighborhood, and our moms were close friends. I stayed in Chicago, making a fortune in the bond market and buying a mansion on the Gold Coast. Rita took a different path, falling in love with a good old boy named Rosco Hunt, and following him back to his home town in Dallas.

Rita's almost 15 years older than me, but our mothers were inseparable, so I saw a lot of her growing up, and we became close. Given our age difference, in some ways Rita's a bit more of a mom to me than a sister, and her son Sam, whom she calls Skeeter, is only a few years younger than I am.

I stayed in Chicago and got my degrees from Northwestern and the University of Chicago, and the rest is finance history. Once she moved to Dallas, Rita went totally Texas, learning to speak with a thick Texas twang that I often teased her about, much to her annoyance. Never one to stop halfway, Rita was more Texas than Rosco, or anyone else I had ever met from Texas.

"Say library," I'd say.

"Lie-brrareee", she'd drawl, and I'd burst into laughter.

Okay, it was a little mean, particularly when I made fun of her accent when we were out-and-about in Chicago, but if you can't be a little brat with your big "sister", who can you brat with?

We had a nice holiday over Thanksgiving, and Skeeter seemed to appreciate living in a mansion with a maid and a driver. As he had just turned 21, he was free to explore the city's clubs, which he did with a vengeance. I very much enjoyed being his cool Aunt Annie, which came out "Annie-Annie" in HIS thick Texas twang.

The visit was a huge success, and it wasn't until the end that Rita pulled me aside. "I reckon ya'll know Skeeter gotta TOTAL crush on ya, right?"

"Really?" I said. "I'm his Aunt!"

"No you're ayn't. We ayn't related, and yer his cool Almost-Aunt with more money than ya' can shake a stick at. He's totally horndog for you. It's bad enough I got my husband eye-balling ya', now you got my son all hot and bothered, too."

"I'm just having some fun. Skeeter's a kid! Besides, I don't think Roscoe likes me. He seemed pretty pissed the other night."

"That's cuz you called him a racist and an "ignoramus" for supporting our blessed President Trump. Plus, ya' practically a-cuse-ed him of cheatin' on me, right in front of Skeeter."

"I just asked him if he had sex with the slave girls at The Big D."

"For the zillionth time, Anne, it ayn't sex. He's a-trainin' 'em."

"Hello, Rita? Anyone home? Roscoe works as a MANAGER, in a SLAVE MARKET. That's what they sell at The Big D, isn't it? Slave girls? I asked him if he had sex with the girls. It's a fair question."

"They ayn't GIRLS. They're inventory. Merchandise! Lord love a duck, Annie, for a girl with so much fancy-pants Yankee education, you shure enough are DIM. Now you embarrassed Rosco in front of his boy."

"Skeeter didn't even hear. He was staring at my legs the whole time."

"Because you're wearin' a hooker dress, in Chee-cago, in November!"

"It's pronounced, Chicago, Rita, and I was just having a little fun. They wear a lot less at The Big D, Rita. Don't act all high-and-mighty with me. Your husband sells slave girls for a living, which is about as sexist as it comes. And your boy is studying "Slave Management" at the Ag College, like that's even a real degree."

"Don't you DARE come after my boy!" Rita said, pointing her finger in my face. "Don't get all high-and-mighty with me, little sister! You're one who took like a dozen classes in Slave Yoga. You're the one who has your official, Prime- grading certificate hanging on the wall right next to your college degree, and don't think Skeeter's eyes didn't bug out when you showed him THAT."

"I was showing him my degrees, and encouraging him to study hard, that's all. My Prime Minus certificate, which I am very proud of, and worked VERY hard to earn, just happened to be next to my many other accomplishments."

"And when he asked you if you were really Prime Minus, and then your turned up your lip, and had him read back the Slave Identification Number on your lip, and compare it to your certificate? And when you bragged about how pretty the gold seal was, and how the drawing of the naked slave girl at the top of the certificate was in the same pose you were in when you found out your final grade? You are totally slave hot! Ready-and-rarin' to go!"

"I am not!" I said indignantly. "I just have... a healthy curiosity."

"Healthy my bee-hind," Rita said. "Ya gotta hankerin' for the collar. As for my son's degree, he's had slave psychology, so don't think he don't see through all your fancy degrees. Teasin' him, turnin' him on. Yer nothin' but a slave tease, and if he got ya' naked and collared, he'd teach you a trick or two!"

"Skeeter still wipes his nose with his sleeve," I shot back.

"Which you never stop teasing him about. He's short and scrawny, Annie, but he's 21. He might be nervous as a June bug round you, he's pretty handy with the slave whip. Maybe he should show ya' some time!"

"What exactly do you mean by THAT?" I said, egging her on. "Perhaps you'd like to expand on that proposal?"

"Well, YER' the one quizzing Rosco about The Big D, and what the kennels are like, and if he's ever butt branded a girl. YER the one askin' about 'inventory turn', and how high they stack the cages, and what sorta kibble they put in the slave chow."

"I'm curious," I said, sounding a bit too defensive. "I've watched the videos of The Big D like 10,000 times, but those are ads. All they show is laughing customers in cowboy hats slapping each other on the back as they put their bids in. I want to know what it's like for the girls."

"Who gives a poop?" she said. "They're Pleasure Sluts."

"I care! I want to know what it's like!" I shot back.

"Well, if yer' so dang curious, maybe I should check ya'll into the slave pens, for an overnight stay. That way you could find out what the kennels are like, first hand."

There was a huge pause as I just stared at her, using my power over her to let her outrageous suggestion hang in the air. When I finally spoke, my voice was measured and calm.

"How dare you," I said quietly. "Look at this mansion. Do you know who I am?"

Rita laughed derisively, but when she responded, her voice was equally calm, and equally powerful.

"Do you know who you are?" she said. She smiled, enjoying the shocked look on my face as the question hung in the air, before she turned and exited.

XXX

Rosco and Skeeter hadn't heard our argument, or at least, didn't let on. The next morning was bright and cheerful, and made all the nicer when they found out that I had upgraded them to First Class, and had arranged for my driver to take them to the airport.

When Skeeter and Rosco were in the limo, Rita took me by the hands. "Thanks for the hospitality, Anne. Ya' know, the weather in Dallas is a spell nicer in December. Maybe y'all should come down and see-us."

"I might do that," I said giving her a kiss on the cheek.

"I was thinking about what you said about Rosco, and I am kind of curious about what he does when he's managing the place at night. You know men: everything's "fine".

We both laughed.

"If I checked you into the slave kennels, you could find out what it's like, and give me a report on Rosco."

I looked at her, a little stunned. She smiled, kissed me on the cheek, and disappeared into the limo.

XXX

Needless to say, I spent the next few days endlessly mulling over Rita's offer. I was pretty certain that she didn't really care about what Rosco was doing with the slave girls, but was my 'undercover' assignment a pretext to let me find out about what it might be like to a slave girl at The Big D, or was she testing our friendship, to see if I would come through for her?

I was more than a little surprised when my next communication wasn't with Rita, but a phone call from her son, Skeeter.

"Anna-Annie?" he said, mangling "Aunt Annie" like he always did in his Texas drawl. "This is Skeeter. Ya' gotta a sec to talk?"

"I know who it is, and I always have time for you, Squirt. Shoot!"

His voice was tentative. "I'm doing a... kinda... it'a paper fer' a class at school, and I was wonderin' if ya' might help me out."

"No problem, kiddo!" I said, feeling quite proud of his recognition of my intelligence. "What's the topic? Math, business, finance, accounting... I got you covered."

"Um... no. It's uh...my Livestock Handling Class, actually. I gotta couple of questions."

"Livestock?" I said, laughing. I'm afraid I can't help you. I've never been on a farm in my life!"

"No. Not farm animals. Slave girls."

There was a long pause as I let this sink in. "Oh. I see. What would I know about that?"

"We were in lab, and they brought in some slave girls for us to train. I didn't recognize her at first, cuz she was collared and slave naked, but my slave girl was Mrs. Holiday, who had been the Chemistry teacher at my High School. Seems her husband had found out she was slave hot, and had a hankerin' for the collar. She self-enslaved. So now it was my job to slave train her."

"Awkward!" I said, laughing a bit nervously as I played with my pearls.

"I'll say!" he agreed, returning my uneasy laugh. "I mean, she'd been my friggin' TEACHER, and a real strict one, too! Now I gotta train her to be a Pleasure Slut, if you'll pardon my French. I had to get her to suck my... uh... you know."

"I get the picture. I bet she was pretty embarrassed, too."

"She was. She was blushin' beat red, and when I told her to kiss my cowboy boots, she just stared up at me, like I was crazy, or somethin'. Well, the teacher, Mr. Armstrong, came over, and I asked if we could switch, and he wanted to know why. When I told 'em, he got really angry, and told me to man up. He said I was supposed to act professional, and professionals do the job. She said she weren't no chemistry teacher no more, she was slave pussy, if ya' pardon my French."

"Pardoned. So, what happened?"

"I couldn't train her. He gave me a "D", and when I told Mom he called him up, and asked if I might do some sort of makeup assignment, where I train some girl I know. Only I don't know any girls who are slave girls, except for Mrs. Holiday, and she's already done SOLD. I watched Dad sell her naked ass off the auction block at The Big D on Saturday."

"Oh, my!" I said, fingering my pearls as I pictured the scene. "That must have been pretty embarrassing!"

"It was kinda fun, actually," he said. "Dad did a good job showin' off the goods, if ya' catch my drift. She'd been kinda tough, and really made me work my ass off, just to get a "B". It was cool watchin' Dad crack the whip, and put her through her paces. He made her rub herself, and she came like gang-busters, right on the block. It was kinda funny, and I didn't feel embarrassed or nuttin'."

"I meant embarrassing for HER," I said, correcting him, even as I felt my own excitement growing.

"Oh, I guess. I mean, she was shy as a crocus, and blushed beet red, 'specially when she saw me watchin', right up front! But then dad cracked the whip on her ass, and she smartened up right quick, ha-ha."

As Skeeter treated me to a long burst of nasally laughter, I felt a distinct chill run down my spine, mixing with the excitement. I knew Skeeter as shy teenager, a sort of toy that I could tease and have fun with. But in his cruel laughter, I recognized the sadism or a born slave monger, a cruelty that I had learned about first-hand in my endless Slave Yoga and hours of preparation earning my Prime Minus grade. No doubt about it; Skeeter was his father's son.

Cutting off his sadistic glee I asked rather pointedly, "So what does any of this have to do with me?"

"Well, like I said, I gotta slave train somebody I know, and I don't know nobody, 'cept you, with your Prime Minus grade, so--"

Now my indignation was genuine. "I hope you aren't seriously suggesting..."

"Oh, gosh, no, Ann-Annie, I'd never do nuttin' like that. I'm sorry! I didn't mean. I mean, don't tell mom, cuz I didn't mean..."

It was fun watching him run backwards, but I still didn't know what he wanted. "Relax, I'm not going to rat you out to your mother. But I do want to tell me what you want."

"It's my paper. I'm tryin' to write a paper about gradin' someone you know. And you gotta Prime Minus grade, which is SUPER impressive. Even mom and dad are impressed. I know mom is super jealous."

"Okay, we've established how impressive I am," I said, exasperated. "Now can we end this Texas two-step, and tell me what you're after?"

"I'm writin' the paper, see? And I wanted to know how you feel. I mean... I know you been slave graded. I mean you didn't seem embarrassed gabbin' about it, or nothin'".

"Why I should I be embarrassed? I got an excellent grade. I worked hard to get it. Is your father embarrassed about what he does?"

"No, Ma'am," he said. "He's right proud of his work. He says he puts food on our table."

"Then there is no reason for me to be embarrassed, either."

"No, I reckon not. It's just... well, since it's an OFFICIAL grade, ya' got pitchur's took, right? For your file?"

I tensed a bit. "Yes, I had the required photographs taken".

"ALL the photographs?" he said. "In ALL the various slave poses?"

I felt myself blush, and there was a noticeable pause before I answered.

"Yes. You know that. That's um... the law."

"So yer slave pitchur's are on file, in the National Slave Registry."

"Yes, but I'm not a slave," I said, feeling my pulse quickening as this mere boy questioned me.

"Maybe, but ya gotta Slave Identification Number, tattooed on your lip, jist like a real slave girl! Ya showed me, remember? I read off the numbers, bright-and-bold and clear as day!"

"Yes,...I... I... uh.. re-remember." I could tell the little piss ant was enjoying himself. But perhaps it was because it was Skeeter, a boy I had always held firmly under my thumb, I found it strangely exciting, too.

"I even did a read-back for ya, and compared yer lip number against yer USDA gradin' certificate, jist like I do with the Pleasure Sluts in my lab classes. You remember that, don't ya', Annie?"

"Uh-huh," I mumbled, feeling my pulse quicken.

"And yer' pitchur's are online, which means people with access can look 'em up. If they got your SIN number, they can look it up and.."

His voice trailed off. There was a long pause as I struggled to recover, and regain control. "Go on. Finish your sentence."

"Uh... they can look ya' up and... and see. See everythin! I mean... EVERYTHIN'!"

His voice trailed off, but I knew where his devious male mind was heading. I was glad he couldn't see my blush over the phone. "I see. Now tell me the truth. Did you write down my Slave Identification Number, young man?" I asked sternly.

"I dunno," he mumbled.

"The truth," I repeated, not raising my voice, but making it clear an answer was expected.

"Yeah," he admitted sheepishly.

"Thank you for your honesty. Do you have access to the Slave Registry at school?"

"Yes... no...sorta. In class."

"I see. Have you looked me up?"

"No. I can't. They only let us look up what they tell us to look up."

"I see. If you could, WOULD you look me up? Would you read my grading notes, and responsiveness ratings, and read my psychological profile? Would you look at all the pictures of me, slave naked? Tell me the truth, short stuff."

There was a long pause at the end of the phone. "I dunno. Maybe?"

"Maybe? I guess I must not have made much of an impression on you. Don't you think I'm pretty, Little Man?"

"No, Ann-Annie, I didn't mean that!" he protested.

"I'm just teasing," I said, enjoying his discomfort. "Thank you for your honesty. Look, here's what you should put in your paper. Write this down. Apologize for not training Miss Holiday, who is obviously a hot little Pleasure Slut who deserves whatever she's got coming to her. Tell him you talked to your aunt, who has a Prime Minus grade. That will impress him, because he knows what that means."

"He sure does!" Skeeter agreed. "Prime Minus is rarer than hen's teeth".

"That's right. Tell him your super smart aunt in Chicago agrees that you should always be a professional, just like your father is. Tell him I said that if you ever trained me, I'd want you to treat me like just another Pleasure Slut, and sell my ass off the block for the best price possible. Tell him the kindest thing you can do with a Pleasure Slut is to be strict with them, because otherwise they get confused, and think that you care about them. You got all that, Mouse?"

"Uh-huh," he said. I could hear the keyboard click as we talked.

"Now your dad knew who Miss Holiday was, right? He had met her at school, when she was your teacher."

"Yeah, he knew her. So?"

"He wasn't embarrassed, was he? Your father was a professional. He put his feelings aside, and stripped her naked, and put her through her paces, and even cracked her skanky ass with the whip when he had to. Right?"

"Yup! He sure'nuff did."

"And because of your father, her husband got a better sale price, and she got a richer master, who will value her more. Pleasure Sluts are really vain, and I bet she's proud of the fine price your father earned for her, through his hard work. Don't you see? Your father really did Miss Holiday a favor."

"Gosh, I never thought of it that way."

"Well, now you got something to think about. Write that in your paper. Tell him I said that if you ever sold me, I hope you wouldn't hesitate to crack the whip, and make me bend-and-spread. Write that down."

"Okay... Bend-and-spread! Mr. Armstrong will love that. Thanks, Ann-Annie. You're so smart! You're the best."

"You're welcome. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"I don't know... there is one other thing...I guess."

"Spit it out, kiddo. There's no secrets between us."

"The other night I was layin' in bed, and I heard Dad talkin' to Dad, through the vent. He was sayin' he wrote down your SIN, and looked up your file. He said he thought your pictures were really HOT. He said....uh..."

Again his voice trailed off. "What else did he say?" I said, pressing.

"I reckon I shouldn't say. You won't like it much. I don't-wanna-git-n trouble."

"You won't get in trouble. What did he say?"

"You won't get angry, or nuttin, right?"

"I promise I won't get angry, unless you don't tell me," I said, the tension in my voice rising.

"Swear ya' won't get angry?"

I could hear the lilt in his voice. He was enjoying this now, withholding the information wanted so bad, relishing his power over me. Normally I teased him, and called him 'mouse.' But now he was the enormous cat, and I was the tiny mouse.

"I swear! Tell me, already!"

"Okay. He said there was this one photo of ya. You were doing a slave squat, and you were up on yer toes, with your legs spread like 'goal posts.' That's how he put it: goal posts! He said yer lips was spread, and your hole was WIIIII-DE OPEN, 'like a bolt lookin' for a screw,' -- that's what he said. He said you were buffing yer' button -- that's how he put it -- buffin' yer button -- and judging from the look on yer' face, it looked like you was comin' all over yer hand, and he could practically see yer' pussy twitching, 'like a piece of liver in an earthquake.' He said you were wetter than a Seattle whorehouse, and--"

"I think that's enough Texas aphorisms. What did your mother say to all this?"

"I couldn't hear her voice through the vent. But I heard her laughin'. She was laughin' real hard."

"I see. Well, your mistaken, and they were probably talking about some other girl named Anne. It's a very common name. I'm sure of that, because your father would never abuse his authority that way. And even if he did, he's the one who should be embarrassed, not me. Right?"