The Girl In The Window Pt 04

(I had intended to end this story with Part 03, but

Joe Doe provided additional inspiration

. You should recall that the rich and bored Natalie had allowed her husband Brad to sell her at an "Any Chance Auction," a procedure at the Big D Slave Market whereby a slave is auctioned off but her owner retains the right to refuse the final auction price. Eager for the experience (but not the reality) of being auctioned as a slave, Natalie gave Brad power of attorney over her body. He led her, naked, collared, and cuffed, into the Big D, in the process humiliating her in front of various visitors including the just-turned-age-18 Wesley and Brad's own mother, Agatha. Despite (or perhaps because of) her shame, Natalie climaxed just as she was sold in front of an audience that included not only Brad and Agatha but also Lois Spalding, an expert trainer of pony girls who has also been known to play slave for the sexual thrill. After the auction, Natalie recovered in a cage, impatiently waiting for Brad to restore her to freedom, only to learn from a slave wrangler that her "new Master wants to document your Prime rating by getting you branded as a real Sandy Foot Girl."

(CAUTION: once again, this fantasy of female enslavement and submission is never intended to happen in the real world.)

(

Natalie's viewpoint

)

Pretending to be a slave girl on the auction block has been the most enjoyable, thrilling experience of my life. I'd orgasmed and almost fainted at the moment when the auctioneer declared me "Sold!" But actually BEING a slave was terrifying!

I dug my toes into the cement floor as the wranglers dragged me toward the branding racks, babbling that I was actually a very rich, very important person, and that they were making a TERRIBLE mistake. It wasn't a problem for the wranglers, though, as they had heard it all before. Effortlessly, they carried me like a ragdoll towards what was now my inevitable fate.

Branding me was, from my point of view, a catastrophic disaster. But seeing half a dozen naked, girlish bottoms already strapped into position on the long rack, some already branded, some awaiting the kiss of the iron, I realized how understandable the mistake was. Legally, when the gavel fell, I became a slave girl, and branding my bottom was no different than monograming my purse--and a Gucci purse is worth so much more with the logo on it. It only took them a few seconds to lock me in position, with iron bars across my thighs and calves making it impossible for me to move my bottom in any way. Glancing up at the overhead monitor, I saw only a row of naked slave girl bottoms, and even I couldn't tell which one was mine. I was just another newly-sold slave slut.

The blacksmith, old, fat, bald, and wearing a thick bib, knew though, and he carefully peeled back my lip to verify my SIN number against his computer screen. As soon as he released my lip I tried to explain.

"You don't understand. This is all a terrible mistake!" I cried. "You need to call my husband, Brad. I'm rich! I can pay you!"

The wrangler behind me laughed. "Ya' got cash in that purse, girl?" he teased, inserting his fingers in my slot. I was soaking wet from my attempts to kill my boredom in my cage with nonstop masturbation, but the minimum wage idiot behind me didn't understand that.

"Juicy little slut," he snickered. "This one really earned her Big D," he added.

"I'm not a Pleasure Slut!" I said. "I'm the .01%. I'm a very powerful person! I'm a hefuae togr farar!"

From behind me, he slipped the rubber bit between my teeth, making further attempts to protest, or find out who had bought me, or how this mistake had happened, utterly pointless.

"Don't matter who you 'WUZ, girl," the wrangler said. "Yer a Sandy Foot girl, now, and in a few seconds, we'll mark you as such forever. Wear the big D badge with PRIDE!"

I looked up at him, eyes bulging, nostrils flaring. I knew exactly what I looked like, for the girls on either side of me bore the same ridiculous expressions.

The worst part was the idiot cowboy who had strapped me in tight was right. The time for discussion was over. The papers were signed and sealed. Fuck, I had watched Brad and his leering lawyer Sheldon do it, idiot that I was. The gavel had fallen, and I had been sold off the block. I was a slave girl now, and I was going to get my pampered, perfectly toned ass branded. End of discussion--my ass was grass.

I was stunned and disbelieving that I was actually going to get branded. By comparison, I was only slightly surprised to see Doug & Wesley, the father and son who had witnessed my stripping in the parking lot, walk up to the branding racks.

"Hey, there, Missy!" Doug said, giving me a playful salute as he spoke in a voice far too cheerful for what was about to happen to me (easy for HIM to be happy; nobody was about to fry HIS ass.) "Hope ya'll don't mind an audience, but my boy here told your new owner that he thought brandin' your big rump with The Big D logo would be a mighty fine idea-r! Since Wesley kinda helped make the final decision, I asked if we might watch 'em put the old fire-iron to your caboose. The new owner said sure, seein' as how it's my boy's birthday and all."

His birthday? Seriously? My head was still swimming as I struggled to form words. As if I could speak! And who the hell WAS my owner, anyway? Vital information for any slave to know, but I hadn't a clue.

"Can I brand her, Dad?" Wesley said, in a voice that was way, way, too eager.

"Let's start by watchin', first, son," Doug said, putting his hand on his shoulder in a paternal way. "After all, she's gettin' branded for life, and with a red-hot iron, there ayn't no second chances."

Doug didn't have to remind me of that.

"She says she shouldn't be branded," the Blacksmith said wrly. "She's a VIP: a very important pussy!"

Everyone laughed at the joke, except me, but I didn't matter.

"Kinda funny, how they always come up with some reason they shouldn't get the iron!" Doug observed as the blacksmith scanned the chip in my collar and methodically verified my lot tag number against the number on his screen. Yes, this was permanent, so everything needed to be checked and double checked!

"Hysterical," the blacksmith said dryly. "Don't matter none, though. Only a fool argues with a slave girl."

"Words of wisdom," Doug said. "You remember that, Wesley. This here's a right smart fella."

"How old are you, son?" the blacksmith said.

"18 today, Sir!" he replied proudly.

The smiling blacksmith held up the iron, glowing and pulsing with heat. "Well, consider this your birthday candle, already lit for you. And that sweet little ass of hers? That's the cake." Turning to me he said, "Time to make a wish, little slut."

The blacksmith took a moment to hold the red-hot iron up in front of my face. The branding head was black, but the heat had turned the cursive "D" logo to a bright, cherry red. The heat was pouring off it, and, in a frantic moment of slave stupid, I shouted my protests into my gag.

This is a mistake!

I'm a billionaire!

You've got to listen to me! I'm not a pleasure Slut! I'm not! I'm a very important person!

Of course, with the rubber bit in my teeth all that came out of my mouth as a gibberish and a string of drool.

"Waa-waa-waa-waa!" Wesley said, mocking me. Everyone laughed.

The blacksmith plunged the iron back into fire, to give it a bit more heat. "I want to do three bottoms with this iron, so we'll get it nice and hot. The woman who called this little slut in asked to talk to me. She said you were a stuck up rich bitch, and you called The Big D "The Big Dick"."

Tucking me under the chin, the blacksmith smiled. "Did you think that was funny, slave girl, disrespecting us that way? Bet you thought it was pretty funny. Ayn't laughing now, are ya? Are ya? I'm gonna use the big branding head, and brand ya' square on the dead center of your butt cheek. That'll teach ya' some respect!"

He took the iron, now blue hot, and blew on it. "Like I always say, if ya' can't make a slave girl see the light, you can make her feel the heat."

Wesley laughed as the smith walked around the rack. "I imagine you won't forget The Big D's name, once ya' wearing it!" he said, running his finger down the area that was about to be branded.

The girl to my left got a quick swab of alcohol, then a nice long 3 second burn. The poor animal screamed into her gag, every nerve tensed, straining against her bonds as if she were being electrocuted, and pissing as the iron burned her ass.

"WOWZER!" Wesley said.

"Listen to that steak sizzle!" his dad said.

After the preview of coming attractions, I was next, and I protested lustily as I felt the cool alcohol swab my bottom.

"Wear it with pride, slut--this marks you PERMANENTLY as one of the fiiii-nest pieces o' slave ass in all a' Texas!"

A moment later, I felt an indescribable pain. I felt as if my heart was about to burst, and my brain was overloading. I don't know if I pissed or screamed, but the pain went on-and-on, as did the laughter behind me.

Then everything went dark.

*****

The next thing I knew, I was shocked awake when what felt like a gallon of cold water struck my head. I was still butt naked (and I suddenly realized that my butt was throbbing with pain), cuffed, and lying face down on a concrete floor in what looked like a barn. Standing over me with the empty bucket was the redheaded woman who sat with my mother-in-law while I was auctioned off.

Standing next to her was my mother-in-law, Agatha. She was grinning even wider than when I had abased myself on the auction block.

Maybe it was the pain screaming out of my butt cheek, or the confusion of the cold water, but for a moment I actually thought I was rescued.

"Thank...thank you. Tell her... who I am!" I gasped, looking up at my mother-in-law.

Kneeling down, Agatha stroked the side of my face gently... then stuck a rubber bit between my teeth.

"You're the little pony girl we're going to take out for a ride," she replied, yanking the laces tight.

"First things first;" said Lois. "We need to put the Spinning Wheel brand on your OTHER butt to prevent rustlin'." She must have seen the terror in my eyes, but before I could even try to protest, she went on, in a kinder tone. "And don't bother arguin', girl. That didn't help you any the last time you got branded, did it?" I shook my head, of course. "Look," she continued. "I KNOW how much getting' branded hurts--hell, I VOLUNTARILY got branded on MY butt (her left hand crept, almost unconsciously, to cup her rear end through her jeans)--dumbest thing I've ever done. But, it's gonna happen to you no matter what, so we might as well do it now and get the misery and the healin' for BOTH brands over with at the same time."

I was still horrified, but she was right--arguing or struggling wouldn't change anything. I was completely helpless, and whoever owned me had total control over my body--because I had been STUPID enough to sign away my rights, trusting my husband. Two burly hands bound me bent over a metal rail, and AAHHH! That REALLY burned.

Amazingly, I didn't pass out. Was I getting used to the branding iron? The thought horrified me. I heard my mother-in-law Agatha cackling hysterically, babbling on about finally having that "slut" marked appropriately, how a brand was the ultimate "tramp stamp" and I was a tramp whore who needed it, and so on. Despite my pain, I would have tried to kill her if I weren't bound so tightly.

Some guy dressed like a ranch hand who said he was a paramedic gave me some antiseptic and pain killers that knocked me out again. When I came to, the light through the windows said it was early evening. I woke because two ranch hands were thoroughly fondling me as they kitted me up as a pony girl--tall, heeled boots with horseshoes on the bottom, a tight bustier to hold my boobs, nipples fully exposed, on a shelf (which just made it more convenient for any free person to grope them), and then (after giving me some ibuprofen to swallow) they added a head harness with bit and reins.

The whole process was "supervised" by a beaming Agatha, who also wanted to install a ponytail connected to a HUGE buttplug. Thank heavens Lois told her that would have to wait until tomorrow, after my brands had started to heal.

Next, Lois told one wrangler to harness me to a light carriage to pull the two women around the ranch. She started to tell one of the hands to bring another pony girl to pull in tandem with me, but Agatha would have none of it. She insisted that her "EX"-daughter-in-law pull the carriage all by herself. "She's very independent, and doesn't like to be babied," Agatha explained in a falsely-sympathetic tone. (With a bit gagging me, I of course couldn't contradict her even if I wished.) Lois shrugged, cancelled the instructions to add a second pony, and off we went!

While I struggled to pull them (neither the carriage nor especially Agatha was really lightweight), the two women chatted pleasantly. Much to Agatha's delight, Lois periodically used the whip on my bare lower back (I guess I should be thankful that she didn't strike my newly-branded ass!) The ranch owner actually sounded reasonable as she tried to teach me various horse gaits such as canter and trot. That 24-caret bitch Agatha kept urging her to use the whip more, but Lois explained that, once a pony understood what the whip sound meant, cracking the whip was usually enough.

She was right--I may have been a smart college woman on the inside, but for the moment "Pony Girl Natalie" was DESPERATE to please these two women and avoid further pain.

CRACK!

Giddyap, Natalie!

As with every other part of my slave girl fantasy, the hard reality brought with it a new and fascinating perspective. I kept several horses at the stables of the family estate, and I adored going for carriage rides with Brad in Central Park. Two days ago, I had walked past a group of animal rights protestors as I had climbed into my carriage. Now

I

was the horse, bitted, nostrils flaring, incapable of any thought other than pleasing my riders to avoid the whip! It was truly horrifying and humiliating in a way I never could have imagined from the comfort of my cushy carriage seat.

Brad and I had made out in the back of the enclosed carriage, his hand between my legs, but now, the excitement between my legs was made all the worse by the fact that relief was impossible.

Once she had me trotting as hard as I could, however, Lois tried to get more speed by striking different parts of my bound, exposed body--the whip landed on the back of my thighs, and "between the cheeks," so as to not interfere with the two brands. At least, Lois professed to be impressed with my efforts, noting "she's smart and feisty, just like I like 'em." Agatha observed that I was "sweating like a horse, or should I say a pony bitch?" but Lois said that was natural, as she's pulling twice the normal weight for a trained pony girl.

Despite my pain and desperation, the sense of humiliation and fear somehow aroused me again; I could feel moisture dripping down between my thighs, which only made the occasional whip strike on my wet skin even more painful. I heard Lois offering options to Agatha:

"Well, she lacks the legs and the mass to really be a racer--if you left her here for two months, we could work on her gait and her endurance, but she's never going to win many races. There are two other ways to use her, of course. First, she's so obviously horny, so 'wet and ready,' that she could be a "trotter"--sometimes called a picnic pony--by men who visit the ranch for 'a carriage ride and a slave girl ride.'"

Agatha interrupted. "So, she would be both a pony girl and a whore for your visitors? That sounds interesting."

Lois continued, almost as if she hadn't been interrupted. "The other option for a pretty but slutty slave is to edge the male ponies; we lead her around our stallions in their stalls to keep 'em hard without ever actually letting them come--have to make sure she's lathered up and smells horny for the taste. The girl might spend all day sucking off horse dicks, keeping them on edge for their best performance. IF--and only if--a stallion wins his race, then we tie a couple of Edgers onto mounting racks and let the winners stuff any hole they want to. The stallions really POUND the ponies at that point, because all the stallions hate being cock-teased by Edgers before the race."

"Gosh," giggled Agatha. "It's tough to choose because both of those jobs would keep the little skank thoroughly used, which is what she wants and needs. Can you start out training her hard, and then pimp the slut out to some visitors AND stallions to see where she gets the most 'bang for the buck'--err, fuck?"

Either fate terrified me, but I thought I'd rather be ANY male's slave cunt than spend all my time kowtowing to my monster-in-law. Just then, things got a little worse for me.

Agatha suddenly asked to see the view from Lois's house, which overlooks the entire ranch. Lois replied that the road leading to her house was too steep for one pony to pull two people, but at Agatha's insistence, I heard Lois give her the whip and reins! Next thing I knew, the bitch was driving me up the aptly-named "Horsewhip Hill" so Agatha could enjoy the majestic view. I lost count of how many whip strokes I took while the woman kept up a constant stream of invective:

"Come on, you bimbo whore slut of a pony. MOVE when I tell you to, you little bitch! Don't act like you don't know how to shake your ass to get what you want--that's how you got my son to marry you, remember? Time for you to learn your place. I'm going to make sure you give that pussy away for free to every swingin' dick on this ranch!" and so on.

By the time we reached the top of the hill, my back and thighs felt as if they were raw meat, and a few strokes had even sliced through the dressings on my new brands, causing me excruciating pain. I was panting and shaking and hacking; I think the only reason why I didn't drop dead on the spot was that I was determined to get my revenge on that inhuman monster.

After they admired the view, I heard and felt Lois reclaim control of reins and whip. That, plus the downhill grade, meant that the return trip was relatively easy although still no picnic (THAT thought only reminded me of the prospect of being a picnic pony whore--a marvelous masturbatory image in theory, but in reality, I was sure, a humiliating and painful experience every time.)

Meanwhile, Agatha demanded that I go to the stables and "audition" for the role of Edger by almost-not-quite sucking off as many stallions as possible. At least my legs got a rest, as I knelt in the straw and entertained a steady stream of VERY well-endowed young men in pony tack.

Agatha smiling, arms folded, watched the whole time, losing no opportunity to point out that I was (1) obviously a champion cocksucker and (2) enjoying being on my knees, servicing other subhuman slaves who were still superior to me! I don't know which of us was more frustrated--the stallions who were aroused but then dragged away before they could cum, or me the Edger who never got the relaxation and dubious reward of swallowing their spunk.

Maybe she was right about my naturally-slutty personality, though; if it hadn't been for my throbbing new brands, I could really have enjoyed just staying on my knees all evening to entertain all those swinging young dicks! After the day I'd been through, I really enjoyed the power I had over the male slaves, and my ability to "punish" them by denying them the release they so desperately craved.

I'd been a slave for less than a day, but my mind was already in full-blown (pardon the pun) slave submission, and I understood the term "slave power," the paradox that slavery was freedom, and it was the slave girls who controlled the males they served.