I awoke to the startling sensation of my cage being moved. I had been dreaming that I was showing off to the other girls who had been sold that night: Calico, and the redhead, and the blonde, bragging about how I had set a record price at The Big D. I boasted that the bidders were eating out of my hand, and crowed about how expertly Skeeter had contrasted the video of me lecturing on the evils of "micro aggressions" and "the male gaze" as he cracked the whip and I rolled in the sand. No wonder my price had been so high: Skeeter and I had given the men exactly what they wanted. My slave sisters were green with envy!
It was an odd dream -- after all, the other girls were slaves, not my sisters. What was I thinking, bragging to them about my auction?
I tried to focus. For a brief moment, I thought for a moment I was back in my enormous king-sized four-poster antique bed in Chicago. It wasn't until I realized I could see nothing, hear nothing, and my head was bubble wrapped in the purple "dummy" hood, and I rubbed the welts from Skeeter's whip, that I realized that the "dream" about my auction had been real.
How long had I been asleep? I did not know. Was I being moved by a person or a computerized robot, sent to fetch me out of inventory? It didn't matter. Either way, I was simply "pussy on the shelf", as my sister Rita had so delicately put it.
I felt the sensation of my cage moving through space as the forklift slowly lowered me to the floor. Again, my cage tilted sideways, and I was soon lying against the bars as I was pushed in a handcart to my next destination. At least whomever was moving me was human.
My cage was relatively spacious -- I was grateful to Skeeter and Rita for that - but it still felt wonderful when at last the cage door was opened and I was ushered out. I still had the "dummy" hood on. I knew it made me look ridiculous. I could only imagine who was watching me, with my enormous purple smiley faced cartoon head on, stretching my limbs. They might very well be enjoying the sight of a slave girl stretching, bending, and hopping around, trying to restore her circulation. I didn't know how big my audience was, but stretching felt too good not to avail myself of the opportunity.
Two unseen hands removed my dummy hood. I was glad that my hands were free, for it gave me a chance to cover my eyes, and gradually readjust to the light, as the other girls were unpacked from their kennels. I was shocked to see how high the cages were stacked, and felt glad that Skeeter had given me my dummy hood. It had prevented me from being utterly terrified when my cage was raised into position on its palette. Like the cover on a bird cage, or a horse with blinders on, the ridiculous animal hood had given me the luxury of a rich, blissful, Pleasure Slut sleep. What a wise, kind master Skeeter was.
One of the slave girls complimented me on my sperm mustache, noting that I must have pleased my master very much to get such a beautiful load on my lips and under my nose. I beamed with pride, proud of my slave girl beauty mark.
A slave monger slapped her across the bottom, warning her to "keep her sucker hole shut." Nonetheless, I smiled at her, thanking her for the compliment. I still had Skeeter's deliciousness in my mouth, and I thought I was lucky to have such a kind master, who had let my sperm dry so thoroughly before kenneling me, so I could enjoy his taste all night.
Again, I caught myself on my peculiar thoughts. I was not a slave girl, and Skeeter was certainly not MY master! Yes, Skeeter had said that my auction was complete, and I was, in fact legally a slave girl. However, that was yesterday, and now it was morning. I felt certain that by now Rita had freed me. She was probably in the front waiting area, with my clothes, and I'd be back in my penthouse suite at the hotel in time for breakfast.
Yes, she had teased me, but I knew Rita wouldn't make me endure a full day in The Big D, and make me live the life of a collared Pleasure Slut, simply to take Skeeter to an amusement park. After all, I had learned my lesson last night, hadn't I? I had a chance to sleep on it.
Yes, I was free. I was certain of that. Nonetheless, I was slave naked and collared, and indistinguishable from the real slave girls, at least to the minimum-wage, coverall clowns who worked at The Big D. Enjoying the moment, I allowed myself to play with the slave girl fantasy of thinking I had a wise and caring master who loved me.
I watched them unpack the redhead, and Miss Calico, who rather irately protested that this was all a mistake. One of the handlers quickly bent her over and gave her three strokes of the slave whip, harder than necessary, in my opinion, while the other slave mongers laughed.
"You're not in charge anymore, hot stuff," one of the other slave mongers sneered.
"Yeah, your just tits and ass now, so no talking!" another said, piling on. Calico was soon on her knees, blowing one of the handlers she had once lorded it over. I had the sense that this was a bit unusual at The Big D, which ran like a well-oiled machine, but that Calico's special status, and her foolishness, warranted extra degradation.
"You wanted to use your mouth, slave girl?" the slave wrangler taunted. "Use it on my dick."
There were no clocks on the wall, but I sensed it was morning, for about 25 of us were being unpacked. One of the slave mongers quickly chained my purple collar to the collars of the girls in front of me and behind me. The mongers shouting at us to MOVE IT, and my coffle was quickly jogging to our next destination.
We were taken outside into the brisk December air. The compound was surrounded with an electric fence, complete with warning signs, topped with razor wire. Beyond the terrifying fence, vicious dogs patrolled a "no girls" land between the electric fence and a huge concrete wall about 30 feet high.
The enormous guard dogs started growling and barking viciously at us as soon as the first naked girls come through the door, but when they saw we were chained together, and the slave mongers were tapping our bottoms with riding crops, they relented, apparently satisfied that we were sufficiently heeled. However, the dogs stood at attention, eager to devour us in the unlikely event that 30 naked slave girls, chained together, climbed a barb wired electric fence, crawled naked through sharp razor wire, then somehow scaled a 50-foot cliff face stone wall.
The security was comical, given our level of helplessness, and I wondered if the field trip outside wasn't as much to intimidate as us, and enforce the absurdity of escape, as it was to freeze us to death.
We were led to a feeding trough, filled with slave kibble and orange slime. It appeared that we were not the first at the trough that morning, but fortunately the section I knelt in front of had lots of delicious orange slime, so I put my hands behind my back, stuck my face in, and lapped it up greedily.
I think this orange slime must have been different than the orange slime that I had eaten before. When I had been filling the orange bags in Chicago with my rich girlfriends, and spitting into them, I had always regarded the slop scraps as disgusting. On more than one occasion, my drunken friends and I had actually taken the bags into the Ladies room and peed into them.
I knew that this must be different than the orange slime in Chicago, as now it was DELICIOUS, despite the smell and uneven texture. What was the point of worrying about what was in it, particularly when it was perfect complement to the crunchy but bland, dog food like slave kibble?
It was a truly scrumptious breakfast. Famished, I gobbled it down quickly, unlike the stupid slave slut next to me, who needed several cracks of the whip across her stupid, fat bottom before she finally joined me in savoring the orange and brown yumminess.
Stupid slave girl. I knew she must be new to her collar.
The next outdoor activity was strangely welcome, given the frostiness of the morning. We were lined up in front of a teenage girl, who, despite the cold, was wearing Daisy Duke shorts and a halter top. She was not collared, and was wearing a Big D ID badge. She was not a slave, and I found myself wondering about her status as she stepped up onto a wooden platform and took a fiddle out of a case.
She tapped her foot on the wooden platform 3 times, and began to play the fiddle, quite rapidly. The girls around me started to dance.
It is no mean trick to dance naked on freezing cold grass while your collar is chained to a girl on either side of you. The task was not made easier by the slave mongers, who screamed at us to "jump faster" and cracked the whip whenever they thought our knees weren't going high enough. But the coffle soon got into a rhythm, and while it wasn't a line dance, we all raised our knees to the beat of the music as the cackling fiddle girl relentlessly drove us on.
There was an older man there, well dressed in a white suit, wearing a visitor tag. He had a white goatee, and I wondered for a moment if he wasn't there to sell us fried chicken. The old geezer grinned broadly, and seemed delighted by our performance.
"This is how ya' do it!" the old Southern 'gentleman' cackled. "Fiddle 'em, and make 'em dance, just like they did on the decks of the old slave ships. White meat or dark meat, make them butts and boobies bounce, to the rhythm of the fiddle, and the crack of the whip."
The old geezer's eyes gleamed with malicious glee as he watched us "dance". I did not feel the whip, but I felt the wind from it, and the memory of how the whip felt on the block meant that every whip CRACK terrified me, even as my pussy buzzed with excitement.
I danced, danced, DANCED!
The scene was beyond bizarre. The chains, the cracking whip, the smiling teenager tap dancing on the wooden board as she "fiddled" us, and the old man, clapping his hands as he sang along.
If it hadn't been for Cotton-Eye Joe,
I'd been married long time ago.
Where did you come from,
where did you go?
Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?
I was soon gasping for air, and glistening with sweat, but afraid to slow my pace lest my bottom be lashed. My frantic eyes caught the twinkling eyes of the fiddler girl, who seemed most amused by my distress. I wordlessly pleaded with her for mercy, but her face showed only delight. It was the same delight my friends and I felt whenever we laughed about some disgusting Pleasure Slut being put firmly into her place.
It was odd that the girl had singled me out of the gaggle of dancing slave girls? Did I know her? Was she one of Skeeter's friends? Had she been at one of the parties I had gone through at Rita's house?
There had been a country band at his graduation party. Had she been one of the entertainers?
Did she recognize me? With my money and tendency to give lavish gifts, I dominated every party I attended. Of course, I had been dressed then, and in charge. I had been the fiddler, with everyone dancing to my tune. Now, I was the fiddled.
"Make the wenches dance!" the old man cackled. "Get 'em ship-shape!"
The old man's cackle and the malicious gleam in the teenager's eyes transported me back in time. For a moment I was back on the deck of a wooden schooner, dancing to the laughter of the crew. They had to keep me nimble, so I'd fetch a good price.
Then, I was at the slave market in Charleston, being fiddled for the men in the white linen suits before being paraded on the block.
When I had told Skeeter that his decision to study slavery was disgusting, and that it was dirty, perverted, and degrading, he had vehemently disagreed. Skeeter had pointed out that slaving was one of mankind's oldest and most distinguished professions, steeped in centuries old traditions and honors. Fiddling was one of those many "fine traditions."
Routine as it might be, the custom left me soaking in sweat, gasping for air, my calves aching, and my lungs burning. But I didn't dare slow, lest the tradition of whipping lazy slave girls find my sore bottom. I was pleased when I heard the whip crack against Miss Calico's bottom, although I wasn't sure if her performance lagged, or whipping her was simply too much fun not to.
The fiddling would have ended sooner, but the old man insisted on another tune, Slave Girl's Reel. The slave monger's wanted to get on with it, but the fiddler girl, hearing the request, laughed merrily, and started up the tune. Soon we were dancing again, my pussy buzzing with every jerk, the fiddle girl grinning at me. The old man laughed and clapped as he sang along to our humiliation:
Slave girl, slave girl, collared, branded, stripped!
