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.
