"SOLD!"
As a professional slave consultant, I knew the word "sold" was one of those magical legal terms, like "fair warning" or "as is", that creates a binding contract in a court of law. I had actually described it as a "legal key word" to my star pupil Timmy, when he was breathlessly taking notes in my class, hanging on my every word as I strutted back and forth in front of him in my $2,500 Armani business suit.
The simple, four letter word was the same, but the meaning was very different, now that I was naked on the auction block at The Big D, thrusting my pussy at the bidders and flicking my buttery bean for their entertainment, and my scrawny, snotty-nosed teenage student was now my auctioneer. "Tiny Tim", as I had derisively nicknamed him, towered over me, the slave whip he had cracked across my naked ass in one hand, the ornate wooden auction gavel I had given him as a graduation present in the other.
Timmy said the magic word in his slow, Texas drawl, so it rolled out as a musical, "Sooooooulll-duh!" savoring his triumph by taking a good three seconds to complete the magic spell to transform me from the career professional who had trained him and totally redesigned all the systems at The Big D, from intake and inventory to marketing and accounting, to lot B-269, just another sweaty, naked, sandy foot girl sold like an animal off the auction block.
In the audience I could see several men grinning as I masturbated for their viewing pleasure. Some were looking at me, some at the overhead monitors that made my wet, open pussy look like a walk-in attraction. A few were already looking at their programs, checking the next girl up. The bidders checking their phones that pissed me off the most. It was the most humiliating moment of my life, and they were checking their messages, or perhaps the sports scores.
Didn't they realize who I was? Bastards! I had designed the room they were standing in. I had picked out the bench cushions they were sitting on, and selected the overhead monitors they were gawking at. It had been my idea to put in the free WIFI they were using.
One woman looked at me with a combination of pity and disgust; Timmy had whipped my ass good, I had peed myself, and I was covered with sweat and sand. She looked at me like I was a pig wallowing in its own filth, which I was. That's how I designed it. My instructions to Jake had been clear, and now I was suffering through the system I had so perfectly designed.
"They're livestock Jake. Strip 'em buck naked. The Big D doesn't sell pigs-in-pokes, and the buyers gotta see the merchandise! Make 'em sweat, and roll in the sand, and juice themselves, with everyone watching. Crack the whip on their skanky asses if you need to. Make the little piggies squeal. Their humiliation is all part of the show! Remember, the only difference between a Sandy Foot Girl and goat or pig is two hooves instead of four."
The world was moving in slow motion. Timmy was still rolling out the magical word, SOLD, and the ornate auctioneer's gavel I had placed in his hand on his graduation day was high in the air. Even knowing that the fall of the hammer would seal my doom, I felt a surge of pride, because of the height of the hammer. Timmy had remembered my training.
"Bring the gavel down HARD. Not only does it mark the legal completion of the sale, it'll give the buyer a real sense of closure, and satisfaction. Plus, it will wake up the dozers in the crowd and let them know the next piece of slave meat is ready for sale. Some of these girls never heard a gavel slam in a court proceeding, so you want to hit the hammer hard enough that the Pleasure Slut you're selling will hear the sound ringing in her ears for the rest of her life. You're not just dropping a hammer, you're dropping a hammer on HER, on her freedom, on her old life."
"SOLLLLLLLLD!"
The auctioneer's gavel came down with swiftness and finality, WHOOSHING through the air like a guillotine blade. The explosive pistol shot bang did indeed ring in my ears, causing me to jump a bit even as my pussy began to quiver into another slave-gasm to mark the completion of my sale. There was a light smattering of applause for Timmy's expertise as my wet hole quivered on the huge jumbotrons through the auction area. Timmy was smiling, but at the bidders, not a me. Smiling at me would be as ridiculous as smiling at a chair or steamer trunk he had just sold.
His teacher, Sarah Hollister, Harvard Professor and jet setting slave consultant, no longer existed. Lot B-269, had been sold.
They say a slave girl never forgets her first auction. I knew I would never forget mine. Timmy, the pimply, snotty nosed teenage I had coached and mentored, had whipped my ass, both literally and figuratively. I had peed on myself. I had shaken my tits and shown them my asshole. I had rolled around in the sand like a frisky puppy. Under the crack of Timmy's whip, I had shown the buyers everything I had, then masturbated myself to orgasm with my legs spread wide so they could see my little pink pussy spasm with pleasure. I wasn't mortified; I was crushed. But I knew now from firsthand experience that the advice I had given my students was right. The sound of Timmy's gavel would indeed ring in my ears forever.
I was an animal, livestock. I was a slave.
Although I was now sold inventory, I did not altogether escape Timmy's attention. Annoyed by the trouble I had caused him, and indifferent to the pleasure still quaking through my pussy, used his boot to push my head down into the sand and rub my nose into my "little accident" as my grandmother used to call it when her mutt peed on the rug. I didn't resist this indignity, or protest when he yanked me up roughly by the hair and sent me scurrying to the edge of the auction block with a hard slap on my freshly whipped ass.
Was he too rough on me? Not at all. In establishing his absolute dominance, Timmy was showing the next girl already sprinting across the stage to take my place what would happen to her if she failed to obey every command to perfection. I looked back over my shoulder at Timmy even as I stumbled forward, but he was already onto the next girl. Whatever relationship we had once had was over, and his only concern with me would be to collect his commission.
I stumbled forward like a zombie. I was too rattled to think clearly, too ashamed to make eye contact with any of The Big D slave wranglers waiting for me at the end of the stage. They were all wearing hats or shirts or belt buckles with The Big D logo. As per my directive, employees always promoted the logo in "on stage" areas. They were always "on brand".
