It was a busy day at the branding racks, and Professor Merle Atkins, The Big D's master blacksmith, had a lot of tail to process. I was inverted in the branding rack, my eyes staring at the cement floor, with Skeeter's baby batter sloshing around inside of me.
Although I couldn't see much, I could hear everything, and could feel the heat from the forge washing over my back and freshly branded bottom in waves. Horrified by the feeling of Skeeter's devilish little swimmers working overtime to make me preggers, I tried to hold still, but my hot, anxious pussy had a mind of it's own, and kept spasming in pleasure, almost like my body was somehow eager to get slave bred, and for the flaming hot kiss of the branding iron.
Knowing my own customized irons were heating in the forge made listening to the other girl's brandings all the more torturous. Professor Merle Atkins knew this, of course, for he knew everything about slave branding, and about how to get inside of a girl's head, and break her down psychologically, and how to utilize the act of branding to fully transition her into the mental state of a randy Pleasure Slut. Being sophisticated enough to understand his masterful use of psychology didn't make it any less effective, but it was a stark reminder that however educated I once was, I was now just another piece of slave girl ass waiting for the iron, and my branding master would now bend and remake my mind with the same dexterity with which he molded and shaped my branding iron.
My heart racing panic attack and pussy spasms weren't merely part of his plan, they were part of his fun, as was making me listen to the brandings of the other girls, as I waited for my own. Merle truly enjoyed his work, and always took his time to show the girl the red-hot iron and explain her branding in loving detail. Most of the brands were temporaries for housewives or college students who wanted to get their butts branded as a Christmas present to husbands or boyfriends. As he took a moment to fondle the girl's bottoms, and give them a good rub between their widely splayed legs, Merle always complimented them, and told them they were smart to get it done early. Every year he was deluged by women who wanted to get their butts branded on December 22nd or December 23rd, so many that even with the Christmas help from local ranchers The Big D had to turn women away.
"It's all about quality," Merle would explain. "People come to us because they know we do exceptional work," he'd say, holding up the glowing iron in the terrified girl's faces. "If we lose our commitment to quality, and rush things, it's game over, and The Big D would become just another brand."
At this point the girl, who had signed binding releases for their slave brandings, often had a change of heart, and screamed for mercy. Of course, it was hard to know why the girls were screaming, as Merle always masturbated the girls, sometimes multiple orgasms, as he taunted them. As they had slave gags in their mouth, it hardly mattered what they were trying to say. The gag and Merle's skillful fingers transformed a lawyer's or college professor's well-reasoned argument into easily ignored Pleasure Slut grunting.
Merle would chuckle as he spoke to each of "his little piggies", relishing the chance to play with the girl's mind. "Your husband's going to love this, 601. I bet he's going to fuck you doggie style from now on, just so he can see you're beautiful brand. At least until he sells you. Once he sees you as a piece of slave ass, there's no going back from that. That's it... don't be afraid to come. Show me how much you want it, little piggy. Oink for me! Don't be ashamed. I want it, too."
"Wow, a gap year overseas, before you start at Harvard. But your parents are right to register and brand you, for safety's sake. Best way to keep you from becoming block meat in Istanbul is to make you a piece of slave ass right here in Texas. Plus think of how great this Big D will look when you're showing your ass off in some thong on the beach in the Rivera. The Big D is a mark of quality know 'round the world, and you can really show off that sweet ass of yours with pride. That's it... just relax. Let my fingers be the start of your voyage..."
"I think it's great that you're getting your ass branded for Christmas, in exchange for that wedding ring. Fair trade, and good way of showing everyone you're more than just a marine biologist with a bunch of degrees, you're hot slave pussy. Maybe on Christmas morning, you can pull down your jammy pants in front of his whole family, and show everyone that his new fiancé is a real ho-ho-ho. Maybe you can jill yourself off for his dad and brothers and cousins, like I'm doing for you right now..."
When their orgasm started, he'd brand their butts, and they'd scream and pee on themselves, and squirt out their juices, in a head spinning mix of pain and pleasure. And so it was Professor Atkins associated the shameful finality of being branded as a Pleasure Slut, with the most shattering slave-gasm of their lives. It was a world class mind fuck, and watching him do it over-and-over, and knowing my turn was coming soon, didn't make it any less effective.
Making each girl listen to the other girls get it, and wait their turn, their clits throbbing in anticipation, was part of the sweet torture. It was like being branded over-and-over. When the girl orgasmed, and the brand sizzled their butts, all the girls waiting for the iron would scream, and clench their cheeks, and sometime even pee a little, although I was sort of peed out at that point.
Then Professor Merle would guffaw loudly, and give the girl's unbranded cheek a good spank, and tell her what a great job she did, sometimes scratching her behind the ear like a puppy. Sometimes, he would wipe away her tears, in a gentle, almost fatherly way.
Then, it was time for the next girl.
Professor Merle Atkins may have been an engineer, but he understood how to get inside of a girl's mind as well as any slave psychologist I'd ever seen. I'd been flattered that Merle knew so much about me, but watching him work I discovered that he carefully reviewed the files of every girl he branded. This was unusual for The Big D, where identity was purposely erased in favor of grade, and all girls were treated like tits-and-ass as they were pushed through the cattle yard system.
Although Mere's unique approach was definitely 'off brand' (pun intended), I suspect the Big D permitted it because it contributed to the greater mission of transforming housewives, college coeds, and professional women into sniveling, submissive slave sluts. A number of the girls who had gotten temporaries were now back for permanents. Their branding had revealed their true nature, and convinced their fathers, husbands, or boyfriends to sell their sweet asses on the block.
As for Merle, he clearly had a blast "helping you girls out", and was more than willing to spend the extra time it took to "play with each of my squealing little piggies". As a highly intelligent man, he relished the mental game. If every war is won before it is fought, then every girl in Merle Atkin's branding rack became a slave before the iron even burned her ass.
"If you want my opinion, 609, I think you were smart to go for the bigger brand, worthy of an entrepreneur such as yourself. You have a mighty fine ass, and your husband is going to want something he can grab ahold of, when he fucks you. Ha-ha, no need to try to talk. It's not like you can think of something I don't already know, slave girl. Yeah, I know the branding head looks a lot bigger, now that it's glowing! Damn, this brand's a beauty. It's going to look amazing on that big butt of yours. Here, let me stick a finger in that hot pie of yours. Wow, that snatch of yours is quivering like jelly. You must really want this, huh? Well, I want it to. Here it comes. Goodbye, Female Entrepreneur of the Year, hello Pleasure Slut #609!"
"Sorry, 614, but I spoke to your stepmom and she agreed it would be a more memorable experience for you without any anesthesia. So, we're going to save your daddy $10 and just let you bite down hard on your slave bit. Don't worry, it's plenty thick, and you won't bite through... even though you're going to darn well going to try, ha-ha. Shhh! Hush, now! Getting your butt numbed up before getting branded is like going sightseeing with a hood over your head. Oooh, that's it. You like my fingers don't you? Of course, you do. I know what Pleasure Sluts like, and don't kid yourself, you are all alike. Ooh, you're squirting. Here it comes!"
"I can't give you The Big D logo, 621. You didn't quite make the grade. The good news is I chatted with your boyfriend and we're going to brand the word SLAVE right on your pussy mound. Congratulations, you'll be slave pussy forever, and they'll be no changing that!"
I hung there, Skeeter's spunk swimming around my womb, staring at the rubbers on the floor, conscious of the snap-crackle-pop of the irons, listening to Merle crawl inside each girl's mind. I desperately wanted this agony to end, but it would not. I had to wait my turn.
Merle knew each girl intimately, but he didn't use names. The last 3 digits of the SIN was a more appropriate way of identifying slave pussy. Sometimes he'd use a mocking nickname: "California Girl", "Puta", or, for a theoretical physicist who was getting enslaved after falling behind on her student loans, "Einstein".
"Well, getting your ass branded and sold probably wasn't the Christmas present you were hoping for, 497, but those are the breaks. At least you're going to get a really pretty Arabic brand out of the deal. Look at that glow! Isn't it pretty? I love the little curls they put on everything. Yeah, it's not many girls your age that get to visit Qatar. The slave markets there are even bigger than The Big D. That's it... just let my fingers do your thinking for you. You were never too bright anyway, so just let all that thinking go..."
"Yeah, sorry, Captain, the bits don't taste very good. We could wash 'em, I guess, but I think tasting the other girl's spit, and feeling your teeth marks slide into all the little grooves the other girls made, makes you feel like you're part of that exclusive slave girl sisterhood, am I right? Don't worry--once we're done, they'll fit you with a nice gag coated in some guy's cum when they box you up for shipping. Yummy! Maybe you'll even get loaded on one of those airplanes you used to pilot, with your old crew and all the stews watching you go into the cargo hold. Oh, my, you are juicing up easily. That's right, just let go. Your days of controlling things are over. Let Professor Merle land your plane..."
"Okay, now I'm going to pull the laces tight, your majesty, so your mouth is going to open up as your lips pull back. That's a girl! Just like when you were homecoming queen last month. That's what I call a branding grim!"
Merle Atkins relentless cheerfulness was part of his cruel mockery, and I'm sure sadism played no small part in his enjoyment. Being reminded that you were here because you got sick and screwed up your organic chemistry exam, or your father's farm failed, or you wanted your husband to stop fucking slave girls and look at you "that way", or because someone made your husband an offer he couldn't refuse during your "Any Chance?" auction, made feeling that hot iron press into your ass all that much more memorable. It was also more fun, at least for Merle.
I had been heads-down for so long that I was actually feeling queasy, and while I was glad when Skeeter returned and flipped me back into branding position like I was a folding table, I was also terrified, for I knew my moment had come.
"Good to see ya', Skeeter," Atkins said. "Ready to see me do my finest work?"
"I sure, am Professor," Skeeter said. "I'm always ready to learn from you."
"Truth is, I'm trying something a bit new here. It's not often I get to brand such a rich piece of ass. I'd like you to stand back, because we're filming this, but if you could get a few shots with your phone, that would be great, too."
"Sure thing, Professor," Skeeter said, pulling out his phone.
Atkins picked up the branding iron that he had fucked me with and stuck it into the brazier until the first iron clicked in place.
"It locks in, with a double bolt," he explained. "You can't have any wobble during the burning, or it will screw up the brand. Like popping a virgin, you only get one shot at this, so you got to do it right."
Atkins held the brand up in front of my face, turning it to-and-fro so I could see it from every angle. He also put his hand between my legs, and began rubbing me slowly...
"See that curve, Northwestern?" he said. "I spent a ton of time modeling your butt and the brand in the computer, to get it just right. Then I tested my theory out on some pig hides to make sure it'd actually work."
