It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a Pleasure Slut.
And so, I found myself in the "warming bin", a holding area for the Pleasure Sluts waiting to be paraded as naked livestock and sold off the auction block at The Big D.
"Slave Fours!" Isabella Calico barked.
In a flash, one dozen Prime Pleasure sluts spun, dropped to all fours, lowered our noses to the cement floor, and spread our legs WIDE.
The room itself, like the rest of the backstage area, was functional. The ceiling was lower, indicating there were rooms above our head. The walls were lined with crates containing various slaving supplies that might be used in last minute preparations prior to sending the girls onto the block.
There were signs on the wall, but without my contacts, I couldn't read them. Indeed, everything was a blur. I hope my constant, quizzical squinting didn't make me look "slave stupid."
In some ways, the loss of my literacy left me in the worst of all possible worlds. The blue cattle tag dangling from my ear identified me as a member of the despised, Yankee, liberal elite, while the loss of my contacts had transformed me into the stupidest of bimbos. Doubtlessly I would be punished for both flaws.
Isabella Calico, I knew, would be happy to oblige. Drunk with power, she tapped her riding crop against her palm as she walked down the line of naked slave girls arranged for review. Apparently wanting to look her best for the auction, she had changed into a nice green dress. Not a designer dress, mind you, or anything as nice as the meanest rag in my closet, but nice by her bourgeoise, JC Penny standards.
"Well, well, well... twelve toasty little pussies, and twelve tight little bung holes, all in a row! Cheaper by the dozen, ha-ha! But you'll still bring an excellent price. I want you to know, ladies, when you're rolling in the sand, and humiliating yourself like the disgusting pig sows that you are, that you'll be earning Miss Calico a nice, fat bonus. When they're branding your ass tonight, I'll be home, planning my vacation to Hawaii, a vacation made possible by the sale of your skanky, stinking, slave pussies."
I had known Isabella Calico didn't like me, but I realized now that her rage was directed at all Pleasure Sluts. Like many free women, she had focused her anger at the sexism she had to endure, not at the men who had abused her, but at the women she regarded as the inciting cause.
I knew that her psychosis was deeper than that. Women compete with each other on many levels. I never dressed to impress or attract men. I dressed to impress other women, particularly my friends. Even for me, at the top of the heap, it was a constant struggle, worrying about what other women were thinking, or how I would be judged, or how it might affect my social standing.
I thought of my girlfriends, laughing as we spit food onto our plates at an Orange Fork restaurant, knowing that it was destined for a feeding trough or food bowl of some wretched slave slut. It was just good fun, of course, but was part of our delight our satisfaction in seeing a competitor laid low?
"All right, ladies", Miss Calico said, her voice equal measures of malice and sarcasm, it's time to lather up! Reach between your legs, and get busy. I want to see a dozen prime beavers, hot, wet, and ready for sale. You know what the buyers want to see. Last one to get a slave-gasm, feels my whip!"
There were sighs, grunts, and embarrassing squeals of pleasure as the twelve of us began to tease, finger, and rub our exposed twats, revealing all of the dirty little secrets of female self-pleasure to the smirking male slave wranglers standing behind us.
In Chicago, they would have been the sort of rough, crude men my butler might have hired to paint my mansion, or dig my indoor swimming pool. If I had met any of these men a few hours before at the mall, doubtlessly they would have held the door for me, waited on me, called me ma'am. They would have WANTED me. Even dressed, I was sexy as hell. But if they had dared to show their desire, I would have given them THE LOOK, and shoved them back roughly into PC hell. Now, they watched as I lathered up my hot, wet pussy with slave grease, just one of a 12 pack of snatch for sale.
"Look at the red head. That is one hot red snapper!"
"I like China girl."
"Yeah, but you eat one, you're hungry an hour later."
"What about the one in pig tales?
"Blue tag?
"Oh, the slut on the pole. Yeah, she's a real grease monkey. She'll fetch a VERY nice price."
I, blushed, for I was the "grease monkey" with the blue tag on her ear, and the pig tales.
Prep had been rapid, almost industrial, a pit stop with five people working on my nails, my makeup, my hair. Makeup at The Big D was almost nonexistent, as they preferred the "natural" look, but I did get just a touch of lipstick and eyeliner, to make sure the people in back could see. I was going to be auctioned in Broadway, their biggest theater, and at a distance such considerations mattered.
The two women arranging my hair had talked about me as if I wasn't there. "Pigtails" the first one said, using blue scrunchies to make it happen. "There are a couple of buyers who fancy themselves headmasters, and she'll look good in a school uniform."
The banality of their indifference horrified me. "They're talking about my life. I could end up in some fucking school uniform, bent over for six-of-the-best, because some fat hairdresser thinks pigtails are a good way to market me."
"Rita was right. Slave girls have no control. They can cut my hair into a pixie cut, or make me a cabin boy. They can shave my head for some guy's prison camp fantasy, or turn my hair into a pony tail and race me. They can do anything they want. I have no say in anything."
I wondered which of my girlfriend's fathers, or business rivals, or male friends liked to play Headmaster. Discovering how many of The Big D's customers I knew was an eye-opener, and I was shocked to discover that I'd been a pampered guest at the same estates and yachts where they played out their kinky fantasies.
I was reminded of the old vaudeville joke, "The Aristocrats." A hardened theatrical agent welcomes in a family who wants to show them their act. He agrees, and they all immediately disrobe, and engage in all manner of sex acts.
When they finish, the agent, horrified, says. "That was the most disgusting thing I've ever seen in my life! What do you call that act?"
"The Aristocrats!" the father says proudly.
Behind me, the two slave mongers talked as they watched me masturbate myself to orgasm.
"Frank Frackers is going to be here tonight. He's going to love this one."
I recognized the name immediately. Frank Frackers was a celebrity chef. I had eaten at his restaurants, both in Chicago, and around the world.
"They call him Fondu Frank," the other wrangler said. He puts all the slave girls on a buffet table, with their legs spread nice and wide. Frank makes these special little sandwiches, and you can "warm" them in the slave girl's pussies, where you "soak up the natural juices. Like we do at The Bee & Brand."
The slave mongers looked down at me, furiously fingering my twat. "That's one hot little toaster oven he said. They're going to be lining up to use that honey pot!"
It wasn't any particular fantasy, that spurred me to my slave-gasm. Nor was it the thought of all my ritzy friends, sandwiches in hand, lined up behind me, anxious to use my "toaster oven." It was the total loss of power, the realization that I could be, at my master's whim, transformed into any fantasy desired, from a human fondu pot, to a naughty school girl, to a prisoner-of-war, to a sexy alien painted green. I was an adult Barbie sex doll, a Halloween sex toy.
I was a juicy Pleasure Slut, and I was about to be auctioned off to "The Aristocrats." My orgasm was shattering.
"Look at her go!"
"Get the bucket and mop, Joe, ha-ha!"
"What I wouldn't give to fuck THAT one."
"Reserved for our betters, Pete. Reserved for our betters."
In her slave psychology book, Dr. Sarah Hollister had written about how slave girls used dissociation and denial to mentally shield themselves from reality. While I was too sophisticated to fall for such ruses, I did find myself thinking that, although the men were standing behind me, they must have been talking about one of the other sluts.
Before me, I saw Miss Calico's painted toe, resting inches from my nose. "Why am I not surprised you were the first to come?" she sneered. "In a room of skanky, disgusting pig sluts, you are the wettest, stinkiest sow! But your hot, quivering snatch will bring a pretty penny, particularly when you slave-gasm on the block."
"Are you going to slave-gasm on the block?" she taunted. "Are you going to get block pussy? Of course, you are. Because you are a randy, disgusting bitch, in full slave heat. I hope you end up in some cheap, college town brothel, with horny teenagers and sad old college Professors pounding your pussy 24/7."
I imagined Skeeter and his friends strolling into their local brothel and discovering to their surprise that it was their old friend Anna-Annie who would be servicing them today. I shuddered at the thought.
Miss Calico moved her foot forward. "Suck on my toe, slave girl. Suck on my toe, to thank Miss Calico for selling your slutty ass."
Obediently I moved my head forward, and took Miss Calico's big toe in my mouth. My blue tag dragged against the cement, and I could taste the freshly applied pink nail polish on her toe.
"That's it. Suck it like a hoover. There's a little tradition, where the auctioneer gets a blow job from the girl who gets the highest bid. Good luck. I'll be rooting for you."
At this new revelation, a chill went through my entire body. The idea that I might be obliged to suck the dick of the man who had sold me was mortifying. But it was my relationship to the auctioneer, unknown to Miss Calico, that filled me with dread. I felt a fresh wave of horror wash over me as I pictured my nephew Skeeter, smiling down at me, holding my pigtail "handles" as I THANKED the little bastard for whip cracking my ass through the most shameful and humiliating slave auction imaginable.
Satisfied at my subjugation, Miss Calico moved onto her next victim. Dropping down, she brushed the hair out of the eyes of the red headed slave girl next to me. "Oh, aren't you pretty? Look, our hair is almost the same shade of red. Only you're buck naked, and I'm not," she teased.
