The Girl In The Window Pt 03

(Our story,

courtesy of Joe Doe

: Natalie is a rich, beautiful, and slightly spoiled/self-absorbed young resident of New York City. After she day-dreamed about being sold as a pleasure slave, she asked her husband Brad, a former slave wrangler from Texas, how much money she would bring if auctioned as a slave at the Big D Slave Market. Brad used his knowledge of slave psychology to tease his wife, offering to put her up for an "Any Chance Auction" to see what price she would bring; under these rules, the current owner must seriously consider the final bid for his property, but may decide not to sell. To add to the thrill, he threatened to have his mother, who considered Natalie a skank who had trapped her darling boy, witness her degradation.)

(Constantly teasing his wife, Brad got her to go through with her fantasy, giving him power of attorney over her body as well as willing her possessions to him. In the parking lot of the Big D, Natalie had to strip naked and undergo the admiration and fondling of Wesley, an 18-year-old guy visiting the market for the first time, as Brad led his bound slave on a leash towards the main entrance.)

(

Natalie's perspective

)

Seeing I was close to orgasm, Brad jerked me away from Wesley and paraded me into the front door of the Big D. It was early Sunday morning, so it wasn't crowded, but approaching the counter I saw that I had bigger problems.

SHE was standing by the front counter, waiting expectantly, dressed in stylish cream-colored pants and a gray sweater, with calf high black riding boots.

"Hey Mom!" Brad said, making a quick beeline to his beloved mother as I stumbled naked behind him. The shock on my poor feet, moving from hot asphalt to freezing concrete, felt like a thousand little knives, but that didn't matter to my "owner." Mommy was waiting!

Brad and his mother kissed on the lips, and she tussled her son's hair. "I like your cologne!" Agatha said. "Looking for a new wife already, or did you just want to impress your next slave girl?"

Brad chuckled at what I hoped was a joke as he handed Agatha my leash, the whip, and my shock control. "I'll get her checked in. My buddies will give her a fast run through, so we won't have to wait long."

"I hope so," Agatha replied. "I promised Lois I'd go riding with her this afternoon, at The Spinning Wheel ranch, so the sooner we can get her filthy snatch sold, the better."

Brad walked into the counter to "get her into inventory", as he so delicately put it, leaving me in the clutches of his thin, wasp-like mother. Agatha was tall, thin, and very beautiful, with shoulder length, curly blonde hair, and looked much younger than 45. She was smirking at me, as if she was highly amused, but her eyes burned fire.

"Natalie, how wonderful to see you!" she said, jiggling my leash. Again, stupidly, I jerked against my cuffs, wishing I could cover my nakedness.

Agatha took her time, relishing her power as she slowly looked me over, starting at my bare feet, my toes digging into the cement, and up to my trembling body, pausing to get a good look at my breasts and crotch.

Finishing her appraisal, Agatha smiled like the cat playing with a mouse. "You know, normally, you're SO overdressed, but today, your wardrobe is perfect for the occasion."

Agatha shocked me by reaching between my legs to cop a nice long feel. I gasped as my mother-in-law massaged my wet pussy. "My, you're soaking! You're a disgusting little bitch, but now, at least, I understand what Brad saw in you. But like I told him, you don't marry slave pussy. You fuck it, and you sell it."

Agatha smiled as she jerked my leash forward. "Let's get you warmed up, shall we? The buyers are waiting!" She didn't uncuff my wrists, and she made me back into the yellow bollard and lift my hind leg "like a dog--a female dog." It was an awkward position, which forced me to put my nose against the sand that had been scattered on the floor. The coarse, brown sand smelt of urine, sweat, and fear, but mostly, it reeked of the odor of female excitement.

Agatha moved so close that the tips of her black riding boots were nearly touching my nose. They were so polished I could see my reflection in them, and they seemed to positively gleam under the Big D's industrial lighting.

Agatha's voice was mockingly maternal. "Feel that little bump on the pole? That's the camera. I want you to keep your pussy sliding up and down over the camera, so we can all see the sweet, pink, juicy meat we're going to be putting on the block in a few minutes."

Above me, I heard Wesley's teenaged voice. "Gosh, is that her pussy up on the screen, Dad? It looks huge! Like a football game."

"Sure is, Son," Doug replied. "And I'd sure like to score a goal, ha-ha-ha!"

I was conscious of the crowd forming around me to watch, but with my nose smelling the dirty sand and my eyes locked on the Agatha's shiny boots, the only thing that mattered was her voice, and the spasms of pleasure rocking my twat.

"That's it!" she said, encouraging me. "Now let's go a little faster," Agatha said, punctuating her command by clicking her tongue twice and tapping my bouncing bottom with the whip, like I was a horse. Driving her point home, Agatha said. "That's a good little pony. Too bad I can't take you to my friend Lois's ranch. Then I could really put the whip on that big ass of yours and see what you could do. She's supposed to meet me here. Who knows? Maybe she'll buy you. There's no accounting for taste. Still, Lois has a good eye for such things. You were never much of a daughter-in-law, but you might make a fine pony, if a little short."

The suggestion terrified me, as I pictured myself hooked up to a cart with Agatha and one her bitchy friends cracking the whip! Gasping for oxygen, I nonetheless quickened my pace. In truth, her cool voice, soft and maternal but also commanding and threatening, got to me. The sheer perversity of being made to hump the pole like a dog, with Agatha smiling down at me, spurred me to new heights.

"That's it, Natalie," she cooed. "Polish that pole. Show mommy what a little skank you are, so I can enjoy it all the more when I see you squatting on the block."

That did it! With my pussy spread wide and covering the lens, it was impossible to hide what came next.

"Geez, Dad, what's happening?" Wesley said. "Her pussy looks like it's trying to eat the camera!"

"It's called a slave-gasm, Son. The little bitch can't control herself. That's why she's a-collared and trussed up like a hog. She'd be humping yer' leg if she had half the chance."

"Doesn't sound so bad to me," Wesley replied.

"Yeah," his dad replied, "But it'd leave your jeans spotted and smelly."

I was ready to cum again, but my ecstasy of debased sex came to an abrupt end as Brad returned and Agatha roughly yanked me to my feet like a disobedient dog.

"Are they going to put a SIN number on her out here?" Agatha asked, as she led me to the counter. "I'd like to watch."

"No, I asked for a fast run through, so they're going to do it in back. They're going to get her on the block in 15 minutes."

Agatha looked disappointed. "No time in the slave pens? We might get more money for her if the buyers get to feel the merchandise."

Agatha reached between my legs, and again I had the perverse sensation of my mother-in-law slipping her fingers into my soaking wet sex. "See how wet she is? The little bitch is humping my hand!"

"Yeah, I've seen it all, and then some," Brad said laconically. "That's why I'm thinking you might be right, mom, and it might be time for a change."

"It's not enslavement," Agatha said, pulling Brad against her in that creepy way of hers that always made me shudder. "It's a free divorce. She wants it, too. Did you see how she was humping that pole?"

"I saw. It was pretty disgusting. You were right, mom; she's got a calling for the collar. The Big D is where she belongs."

Agatha pressed herself tighter against Brad, tousling his hair, then kissing him on the lips. "Mommy's always right, sweetie. Now that she's out of the way, we'll be able to spend more time together."

"Let's get started," Brad said. Brad yanked my leash roughly, leaning me across the counter so the bored, gum chewing female clerk could scan the chip in my collar into inventory with a loud BEEP.

"That's it, " Agatha said, clearly delighted at the sound. "She's inventory!"

"Yeah, well, she's not my problem, that's for damn sure," Brad said. "Not anymore. Come on, let's go to Broadway. I want to get you a good seat for the auction."

"Aren't you precious," she said, stroking his face.

I watched as my husband and his mother walked away, their arms around each other's waists, Agatha resting her head on his shoulder. Agatha's relationship with Brad had always creeped me out, although he said I was imagining things. Seeing me not as a daughter-in-law, but as the slut who stole her precious son, my enslavement and sale would be the best present a son had ever given his mom.

*****

The next few minutes all happened in a blur, so I couldn't really distinguish between my fantasies, my dreams, and reality. The hulking Black wrangler handled me, all right, but he seemed to just be doing his job, not enjoying pawing the high-class pussy under his control. A chip inserted in my chest, a California-shaped blue plastic tag stapled painfully through my ear, a slave ID number tattooed inside my lower lip, ordering me through three really humiliating, revealing positions while he photographed me, and then--finally, some sign that he thought I was sexy; he made me kneel under the computer table and suck him off! I was so revved up with the fantasy of being a slave girl that I enjoyed the whole thing--and I do mean the WHOLE thing; he had a really nice-sized dick, and both it and his cum tasted fantastic. Or maybe I just convinced myself of that.

I had always pictured my enslavement as a long, STORY OF O like bondage ritual. My enslavement was less ritual than PROCESS, and the rapid, indifferent handling I received really made me feel like a piece of meat. The man tattooing my lip asked if I was "Brad's tail," the first sign than anyone knew me, but the other wrangler didn't know.

"I don't know who the fuck she was, and I don't care. I just know I need to get her into the Broadway chute in six minutes, or the fucking computer program that bitchy Harvard consultant put in is going to demerit my ass. So, hurry up and get her tatted, okay?"

"We should just brand it on her ass, if they want it that fast," he replied, causing me to clench my cheeks in panic. I was pretty sure that Brad was just teasing, and he wasn't going to let that dweeb loser Wesley decide if my ass was going to get branded. But the thought that my fate was in his scrawny, 18

th

birthday boy hands only added to my humiliation.

The car wash pressure shower and delousing were truly awful, but at least they finally uncuffed me. I lost count of how many hands touched my body. There must have been something wrong with those merchants--they only graded me Prime Minus, but heck, Prime is Prime, right?

I was glad Agatha wasn't there to watch me squat over the grate and pee. I did it, somehow, because I didn't want to give the bitch the satisfaction of watching me soil myself on the block.

I'd barely recovered wits when "my" wrangler, feeling me up and praising what a "juicy little whore" I was, stuffed me into the tunnel leading to the block. It was dark, and there were at least a dozen other girls pressed against each other. "When you see the light, it's showtime!" were the only words of wisdom my wrangler had time for as I disappeared into the darkness.

The chute stank of sweat and pee and female arousal. Every two minutes or so I could see light ahead of me as the next girl was led to her doom. The speed of the disposal process alarmed me. Certainly they couldn't sell a girl that fast! I recalled the tale of a famous English hangman who could dispatch a prisoner in 12 seconds from the time they entered the room.

Pushing those thoughts from my mind, I refocused on my sale. Brad had warned me that it had to be realistic, but his performance with Agatha had truly unnerved me. There had been no mention of the revocation of the "Any Chance?" auction since we had left New York, and Agatha had kept me busy on the pole while I had been checked in.

Had he even remembered to choose the "Any Chance?" auction? Had Agatha, the mother-in-law demon from hell, talked him out of it? Or would she cuddle and baby him, in that way that made me barf, until it was too late to save me? Slave girls have questions, but only masters have answers.

No, no. Brad wasn't going to sell me. It was all a game. My game. It had all been my idea, right? Brad was playing it for real, like he promised, but it was just that: play.

The light in front of me was brighter, and as I rounded the final corner, I was surprised to see that I was next in the chute. Whatever had happened, or whatever was going to happen, I had to focus on my block performance, and get the best price possible. If Brad revoked the auction, a high price would give me bragging rights with whomever I chose to tell. If he didn't, and my sale went through, at least I wouldn't end up in some cheap hellhole. The slave girl adage, "If you have to be collared, make it a golden one" appealed to my greedy, rich girl heart, even as it reminded me of the cheap iron around my own throat.

I felt a sharp slap across my ass, but I was so buzzed in adrenaline that I hardly reacted, just trotted out onto the Broadway auction block and begged, as loudly as I could, "Please, Masters, shove your enormous dicks up all three of my holes!"

The auctioneer kept ordering me into lewd positions. Muscle memory took over, as I displayed every inch of my naked body to the blur of faces in front of me.

"Come on, gents! This is genuine New-Yawwwk pussy, fresh from her condo on Central Park. Let's show Miss Blue Tag some gen-you-wine Texas hospitality!"

He cracked the whip uncomfortably close to my ass. I whimpered in fear as I heard Agatha's high pitched laugh echo through the room.

"That's it, girl, show 'em the pink. Give it a good rub! What will ya' give me for some wet, hot, pink pastrami, fresh from the deli!"

Thrusting my pussy forward, I rubbed myself hard and fast, showing my randiness to the world as I pushed myself to orgasm.

"Look at that juicy meat, all pink and sloppy. Soak up them' juices with a bagel, and ya' got yerself a real New York pussy sandwich!"

I turned, putting my weight on my hands and spreading my legs so they could see between my cheeks.

"Check out that subway tunnel, folks? Git' out yer' wallets, so you can give 'er a ride!"

I looked over my shoulder, flashing the idiotic bimbo smile that Master Mark had taught me, grinning as if I didn't understand what was being done to me. But I DID understand. My fancy degree, money, and life of privilege had all been stripped from me. I was nothing but hot, wet slave pussy being sold off the block. And hot I was--I had enjoyed the fantasy of being sold at auction, but the reality was even more arousing.

Looking over my shoulder, I melted inside as I saw that Brad had indeed gotten Mommy a good seat. They were in the second row, on the aisle. Brad was grinning at me with a thumbs-up sign, sitting next to his mother who looked like the cat who had stolen the crème, grinning evilly at me.

I hoped he told her that I had humiliated myself like this just to please her. That would let me have a little dignity, even if she was too smart to believe him. Agatha knew a Pleasure Slut when she felt one.

Agatha was sitting next to a tall redhead, who looked like she was dressed for a day on the ranch. She was looking at me critically, examining the merchandise.

"$30? That ayn't enough to buy a ride in that fancy sports car she rode in here this morning. Put a crowbar in yer' wallets and give me $35!"

The redhead raised her finger, and the bidding progressed.

Right next to Brad was Creepy Karl, almost drooling while he stared at my crotch and boobs. I can't believe that Brad had invited him! He wasn't bidding, though, just watching.

They all looked so comfortable sitting together, four peas in a pod, relaxed and pleased with themselves, as I debased myself for their viewing pleasure. Their presence was unspeakably humiliating, but I decided to use my little fan club to spur me on.

The voice in my head told me what to do. "Real slave girls have to display themselves to anyone, even if they knew them when they were a person," I told myself. "Show 'em what they want to see, Natalie. It's all part of the game."

I rolled in the sand to assume the next pose, squatting, knees spread, pussy wide. The coarse sand clung to me, especially my damp pussy, and I could feel it in my hair and on my body. I was a filthy mess, judging from the satisfied smile on Agatha's face. Yes, she was seeing EXACTLY what she wanted to see.

"Give me 70! Do I hear 70? See the sizzle on that steak? Don't hesitate, participate!"

"Whip her!" Agatha said. Her voice was playful, but it cut through the din like lightning, as did the whip, which caught me on the soft flesh between my thighs. Just like all the films I had seen, I'm sure that the whipped slave girl rose up off her ankles, formed her mouth into a surprised "O," and yipped! Everybody roared with laughter, but that HURT. Oh, well, another fantasy fulfilled, right? A little pain for a lifetime of masturbation material.

Time was out of kilter--it seemed as if I'd been on that platform forever, and yet only 15 seconds. I do know that the combination of jilling off and then living out my filthiest fantasies really cranked up my arousal. In the back of my mind, I was aware of the constant patter of the auctioneer, and the amounts he was quoting as bids on me seemed unbelievable. I mean, I'm a hot piece of ass if I do say so myself, but once the redhead Lois got into a bidding contest with two other people, the numbers didn't even slow down! Worse still, I was so excited and distracted I couldn't even tell who was bidding what. Good thing Brad isn't REALLY going to sell me, I thought. Just the idea of being sold for real to some unknown clown was ratcheting up my excitement.

"Going once? Going twice, SOLD, to number 43, for 212,000 dollars! Quality ass for a quality price!" Ohmigod, I thought, did I really get that high a bid? Just the thought of it caused me to tip over into orgasm, collapsing and rolling in the thin layer of sand on the platform.

*****

I still don't remember quite how I got to this cage. I almost passed out during my orgasm, and "my" wrangler had to get help lifting me off the stage (I didn't even mind when those guys goosed me and squeezed my erect boobs; I felt so happy and valuable at that moment that letting them feel me up was like tipping the valet to get my car.) Somebody checked my collar and the newly-tattooed number inside my lip, then the guys cuffed me again and walked me back to this cage to wait for Brad.

I was pissed at Brad for making me wait, but after my whirlwind processing through The Big D my few remaining minutes as "inventory" gave me time to think. The blue plastic California tag dangling from my ear had been a shock, but it really drove home the fact that I was livestock being put to market in a way that mere words never could. Yes, it was still humiliating and painful, but there was a brilliance in a way that it categorized me for the buyers as a blue state elitist, and the lot number was yet another backup to the chip in my collar and in my chest. I might be inventory, but I would never be LOST inventory, and my blue cattle tag now had a SOLD sticker on it, like I was a new car at the Dealers. As a pleasure slut, I had been judged more valuable than almost any automobile.