Sandy Foot Girl, 7A Home Cumming!

[imreadonly2]

I've published pieces of this before, but I've added a bunch, and shaped it into a proper chapter that explains Sarah's escape(?) from The Big D. I'm leaving town for a few days, but until then I hope you enjoy, and leave comments before I post on Literotica. Merry Christmas, from Joe Doe, Sarah, Jake, and everyone at The Big D!


My Gucci shoes clickity-clacked loudly across the cement entrance as I strode confidently toward the enormous BIG D LIVESTOCK & SLAVE MARKET sign over the front door. As per my design, the entrance doors were wide, well lit, and inviting, as any glue trap should be. I smiled as I recalled the term I had coined, which was in the glossary of the new book I was writing:

CAT TRAPS: Slave markets that lure free women in with enticing freebees, in the hopes that they can be transformed into inventory and sold. Like a roach motel, free pussy goes in, but it never comes out. “The Free Grading Offer is just a cat trap.”

Jake owned The Big D, but I was the mastermind behind it, and I made sure everyone damn well knew it. It was my business genius that had turned this bankrupt cattle yard into a Harvard Business Case Study promoting my marketing genius. Jake had paid me generously, and as per our arrangement, I shared in copious profits, but it was the acclaim my work had received that was the real high.

I had worked The Big D into my professional brand, and the reputation I had built here allowed me to fetch top dollar and easy money sitting on countless boards of directors. The Cover of Texas Monthly had been nice, but the page one etching of me in The Wall Street Journal, as well as the covers of Forbes, Bloomberg, Fortune, The Economist, Entrepreneur, and the feature story on SIXTY MINUTES had made me a business celebrity.

With my carefully coiffed hair, designer glasses, and my smartly tailored business suit, I didn’t blend in to the Texas cattle vibe of The Big D. I didn’t care, because in point of fact, I wanted to stand out. I wasn’t some local dyke here to cop a free feel, or a High School senior pressured into getting a slave grading for her student loan. I wanted everyone who saw me to realize that I did NOT belong here. I was a powerful woman, rich, and in control. I MADE this world, but I was not OF this world.

I said I strode confidently, but in truth my walk was a little less brisk than usual. Although my wound had healed, the scars had remained, and I could feel The Big “D” brand between my butt cheeks with every step. As Judge Parker had hoped, it was a constant reminder of the day I had become, for a moment at least, a “Sandy Foot Girl.”

“A lady in the streets, branded between the cheeks,” as the advertisement said. Indeed. When I had written that line, it had merely been a clever turn of phrase, but the ridge of the brand was permanent, and I was reminded of my cleverness every single time I ran, walked, bent, turned, stood up, or sat down.

BADGING: Marking a slave girl with the logo of the auction house she was graded or sold out of. Similar to the automobile industry, it is a mark of quality, like the hood ornament on Ferrari or BMW.

As I walked through the front door, I noticed a delivery truck pulling around back. It was heading toward the loading dock, where I had been unceremoniously shipped in-and-out of the last time I been to the Big D. Watching the truck disappear around the corner of the building I felt a chill down my spine. If I was overdressed now, I was underdressed then.

The last time I had entered The Big D I was absolutely stark naked, without a single solitary stitch of clothing. I told myself it was simply a matter of dressing for the occasion. Now, I was a VERY smartly dressed professional woman, which was entirely appropriate. But my attire had been appropriate then, as well, for only a fool buys a Pleasure Slut with clothes on.

My exit had been even more humiliating. As per Rebecca Cook’s direction, I had been placed in a cage tip-to-toe with a Hispanic girl named Isabella, and we had spent 12 hours on our trip to Mexico eating each other pussies. Isabella had been arrested during a political protest over immigration, and since she was an American citizen and couldn’t be deported, was enslaved and exported instead. Tough break.

PUSSY PLEAS: Political trend where “tough-on-crime” prosecutors route misdemeanor cases involving attractive women to slave court, where they can be enslaved. “Cindy got wasted at the party on Saturday, and since she’s so hot, the police arrested her for being ‘Drunk & Disorderly’, and routed her case to slave court. She got a two-year indenture, and is going to be auctioned butt naked on the Quad on Sunday.”

“I hope you like Mexican food,” Isabella had joked. I did, and licked her “taco sauce” for hours, while she marveled at my ability to have orgasm after orgasm.

It was part of the role, of course. Unlike Isabella, who was a natural born puta, I was just playing a part. I explained to Rosie that my enslavement had been a terrible mistake, and that I was actually a multimillionaire consultant and a Professor at Harvard. She laughed at my obvious lie, slapped me on the ass, and told me to “keep your tongue on the taco.”

I wondered whatever happened to Isabella. It didn’t matter. She was only a slave girl.

I’d thought about Rebecca a lot since my release. I had mentored her, and she had repaid my kindness by mimicking my wardrobe (as best as her salary would allow) in a futile attempt to become a miniature version of me.

Rebecca hadn’t recognized me that day in the slave market, and had treated me like I was the skankiest of whores. Now I held the whip hand, and the little bean counter would pay the price for her insolence.

AVENGING VAGINA: Women who take revenge on the people who abused them during their grading or enslavement. “After Tammy’s dad put her mom through an Any Chance? Auction, and invited all his drinking buddies to watch, she went all avenging vagina, and literally locked his pecker in a chastity cage for six months.”

I strode through the entrance, the picture of self-confidence. I wasn’t here to reminisce; I was here on a mission. It was the 15th, which meant the new magazine should be out.

THROW AWAYS: Promotional leaflets or trinkets that you give away to promote the brand. “The vibrators with The Big D logo we give away on Black Friday don’t make money, but we make a fortune in pre-Christmas gradings.”

The magazine, called THE SANDY FOOT, had been my idea, of course. It was similar to a supermarket circular, but it featured articles on topics like the pros-and-cons of imported slaves and whether electric, freeze-dried, coal fired, or wood fired brands were best.

For the record, my brand had been coal fired, with an iron branding head. It was a method that stretched back to antiquity, back to Ancient Greece and Rome and beyond. I was glad I had selected coal fire brands for The Big D, as it tied it to the larger tradition, and bonded me with the countless slave girls who had been branded before me. In some sense, they were all my sisters.

Plus, as I had explained to Jake, coal burned hotter, and led to cleaner, deeper brands. And if it led to a deeper scar, so the little sluts would feel it on every step, so much the better. The little bitches should never forget they are slave girls.

And I never would.

The printed sales magazines weren’t available online; you could only get them if you visited The Big D. Although I had instituted the magazine, I made it seem as if it were part of an older tradition, I used a font I had found in a Texas newspaper from the 1880s. Despite the color photography and glossy paper, THE SANDY FOOT skillfully invoked an old-time, Western livestock market / rodeo.

THE SANDY FOOT always included a few cartoons. They were simple, hand drawn, single frame affairs, in the ironic spirit of THE FAR SIDE or THE NEW YORKER. For example, a cartoon might depict a man on a horse swinging a lasso over his head to chase down a naked, fleeing slave girl, while behind her another slave girl cheerfully jumps rope. Another depicted a slave girl on her knees in front of a man unzipping his trousers, asking “I’m new at this. I’m guessing I don’t get Sundays off?”

Laid out like a glossy supermarket circular, the magazine offered specials that weren’t available online. It was usually something to encourage an impulse buy: a free beer at the food court, a discount on slave kibble, or perhaps a free grading for your wife or sweetheart for Valentine’s Day.

Recognizing that women were an untapped market, I’d persuaded Jake to paint the tin roof over the front entrance an off pink, to make it more alluring to female customers / potential inventory. The slavery fantasy was popular with many women, and The Big D sold a great deal of merchandise around Valentine’s Day. Non-permanent collars and temporary slave brands were big sellers.

I remembered using an ink stamp to try and see what a Big D brand would look like, between my butt cheeks. Of course, I didn’t have to fantasize about getting a slave brand anymore. I had one. The pain had faded, but the rubbing, and the reminder of what it meant, was incessant.

I was free, now, of course, or would be, as soon as Judge Parker got off his fat ass and signed the order reversing my enslavement. I could have just been freed, of course, after my assistant had purchased me back. But I wanted my record expunged, as if it had never happened. To make a point that perhaps only I cared about, I had paid a hefty premium for the buyer to sign a contract voiding my sale, instead of just selling me back.

The tricky part was getting The Big D to participate in voiding the sales contract. Their lawyer had flatly refused, citing Texas slave law that “all sales were final.” However. my high-priced Dallas lawyer had explained to Jake’s lawyer what had happened, and that I was actually an agent of the Texas Department of Agriculture, so it would be “best” to void the sale. After a great deal of legal wrangling, they agreed to accept me as a “return.”

The Big D hadn’t voided the sales contract, but they had accepted me back into inventory. That would have to do for now, until the enslavement order could be reversed. Becky Lou, useless as ever, explained that she’d have to take me into custody if the consignment was reversed without the enslavement being reversed, particularly if my limbo status lingered for too long. After all, the State of Texas couldn’t have Pleasure Sluts running around loose. So, I was careful not to reverse the consignment, at least not yet.

So, pending the official reversal of the enslavement order, I was still technically property of The Texas Department of Agriculture, under consignment to The Big D as unsold inventory. I would remain in that status until the Judge reversed the sale, and my lawyer said Judge Parker, obviously having fun with the situation, was dragging his heels, making me sweat it out. The bastard had actually tried to friend me online, and had even sent me a note asking how my “butt brand” was healing.
I blocked his messages.

SLAVE SHAMING: The act of shaming or socially ostracizing a woman who had once been a slave. “When your mom found out that Jenny’s mom had once been a slave girl, she totally slave shamed her. She won’t even let her into her house, because she doesn’t want her ‘slave stink in her rug or drapes.’”

Slave shaming was one of the reasons I needed the transaction to be reversed, not just nullified. Judge Parker knew the truth, but as his actions in pushing my sale through had been more than a little questionable I knew he wouldn’t be interested in blowing the whistle on himself. Plus, I think he liked the power of being the only one who knew. With Judge Parker it was all about the power.

But I needed to get this reversed, before anyone else found out. Each day my lawyer would call, offering a new bribe to speed the plow, and each day Judge Parker’s wormy clerk promised that “it would be any day now.” I had already stuffed almost $25,000 into his fat little fingers, and still I waited. Bastard! In Texas politics, money talks, and I’d fix Parker’s wagon as soon as I was done with him. But for the time being, I needed him, which meant I couldn’t crush him like the cockroach that he was.

CARROTING: The process of breaking a slave girl by endlessly teasing her with the promise of a freedom that will never come. “I know you shouldn’t be a slave, Angelina, and I told you I talked to a guy who’s talking to another guy about a friend who might fix it. In the meantime, though, my dad’s watching, so you really need play along, and give me a Grade A hummer.”

I wasn’t here to talk to Jake about my legal problems with the Judge. I had been extremely careful to keep my sale a boring technical matter between the lawyers, with no one at The Big D realizing exactly who B-269 really was. This wasn’t unusual, as once enslaved, pleasure sluts were identified by SIN, not by name. Jake and Rebecca didn’t know, and never would, if I played my cards right.

Today I was here primarily for the magazine. THE SANDY FOOT magazine was free, but nicely printed on glossy paper. The cover always featured a large photo of “Miss Sandy Foot”, one of the hottest girls in recent inventory. The naked slut was always in some eye-catching pose, while the last page included several more photos of the little slut posing for the camera or being sold off the auction block.

Of course, “Miss Sandy Foot” wasn’t the only naked girl. Far from it! Every page of THE SANDY FOOT had some sort of naked slave slut on it, either selling something or as a general testament to the high quality of slave gash sold at The Big D.

Once inside the door, the magazines were not hard to find. Both sides of the entrance had two huge stacks of them. With the stack on the right already being about half gone. People were picking them up as they walked in.

In truth, I hadn’t planned on returning to The Big D so soon after my ordeal. Indeed, common sense dictated that I shouldn’t return at all, or at the very least wait until the paperwork reversing my enslavement was complete. After all, technically, I was still inventory. But whatever the technicalities, I had returned to The Big D for one simple reason. I wanted to see if they had put my picture in THE SANDY FOOT.

The idea of all of these strangers slobbering over my naked picture was beyond mortifying, and I truly hoped I would be spared this final indignity. Beyond the embarrassment of it, the magazine was what Jake referred to as a “stroker”, and I knew the most disgusting “customers” imaginable would be taking the pictures of me home to enjoy in the privacy of their bathrooms for years to come.

However, if I were actually a slave girl, it would be quite an honor. Only the hottest slave pussy was featured in THE SANDY FOOT. I hoped I had not made the cut, or at the very least was buried in a tiny advert on the back page. Perhaps just an ad for a branding iron, featuring my butt cheek, to show the perfection of The Big D’s “badging.” Yes, that would be nice: included, but not identifiable. To be included was mortifying, but to be excluded entirely would be insulting. My brand was beautiful, and I had worked hard to earn in.

BRAND BRAGGERS: Girls who brand that their brands are prettier or more innate than the other girls. “Whenever a Sandy Foot Girl meets another slave, the first thing she does is bend over to show her Big D badge, like a peacock showing it’s feathers to another bird. They are total brand braggers.”

Steeling myself to either possibility I swallowed and approached the rack of adverts near the exit door, to avoid the crowds grabbing the magazines on the right as they entered The Big D.

The disgusting slut on the cover was on the auction block, legs spread wide. One hand was supporting her weight as she lifted her hot, wet, widely split beaver up for the camera, while the middle finger of her other hand massaged her clit. She was hot, and nasty, and covered with clumps of sand. I smiled. The little slut was definitely on brand!

Due to my insistence on high quality printing, every freckle on the girl’s naked body was visible, and the beaver shot was detailed enough for a gynecology textbook. Judging from the look of pleasure and the way her wet, sloppy, snatch seemed to be oozing slut juice, the photographer had caught the little whore mid-orgasm, in a state of ecstasy that made her oblivious to any sense of modesty or decency, as if a girl like that could ever possess such traits to begin with.

The pose was so wantonly lewd that I felt a strange sense of relief. “She’ll get all the attention,” I thought. “Even if I’m in the magazine, no one will notice me. Not with this filthy slave hole on the cover. She even peed herself.”

Yes, he had peed herself. I smiled, experiencing the lovely thrill of schadenfreude at her utter humiliation. My pleasure was cut short as I remembered that I had peed myself, too, when Timmy had cracked the whip across my ass when I threw him off his auctioneer’s chant. I had it coming, really. I had thought I’d be clever, and show Timmy that he was still the student, but he was quick to use the whip, as I had taught him to do, and educate the little slut on the block on what it meant to be a slave.

She had peed herself, just like me. And she was in the same pose I had been, when I was sold. Of course, this girl was literally screaming in ecstasy as they sold her juicy hole. No, no, it couldn’t be--

It was… Bastards! They had taken my picture as I was cumming in front of everyone, right at the moment that the gavel was falling, and Timmy was selling my sweet, wet pussy right off the auction block. I wasn’t in the magazine, buried on page 20. I was on the cover! I was the main “spread”, in every sense of the word.

GAVEL-GASM: Slave girls who time their orgasm for the fall of the auctioneer’s gavel. “The little slut acted scared, but she totally gavel-gasmed when she was sold. She was so pleasure-dazed they had to crack the whip across her ass three times just to get her off the block.”

“Take some more. Jimmy & Billy got their Internet access locked down, too, when their moms caught ‘em jerking off to slave girl pictures on the web.”

I turned to see two boys, whom I guessed to be about 19, tall and brawny, taking five or six of the magazines out of the stack. Apparently, they, or their friends, had lost their Internet privileges for too much porn, and were forced to resort to non-digital stroke off material. How quaint.

“Wow, look at this picture on the last page! Miss Sandy Foot is peeing!” the taller boy with blonde hair said.

“Ha-ha! Yeah, she is,” his shorter, squatter friend replied. “Look at where the whip is. She’s peeing because the auctioneer just cracked the whip on her skanky ass.”

“I’d whip that ass.”

“I’d fuck that ass. Look at the picture of her butthole! Damn, her pooper looks tight. I’d pump her all night.”

My sphincter involuntarily tightened as I imagined the tall young 19-year-old with the broad shoulders making good on his threat.

“You’d shoot your load in five seconds with her. That’s why I’d fuck her juicy wet gash. I wanna see the look on her face when I spurt and she knows I knocked her up.”

“Speaking of faces, look at her expression, when she’s jerkin’ right on the auction block, for everyone to see. The little sperm rag loves it! Damn, I bet you could have the whole basketball and football teams fuck her all day and all night, and she’d love every minute of it.”

“Maybe the coach will let us rent her, if we win the championship.”

“That would be hot. I’d love to fuck her, or cream in her mouth.”

I felt a wave of nausea pass over me as I imagined 40 players on a Varsity High School Texas football team, waiting for their chance to fuck me or spurt into my mouth.

FRIDAY NIGHT, TIGHT: The practice of using Pleasure Sluts as a reward for winning teams. “Marsha was head cheerleader, but when she turned 18 she got enslaved and the whole team got to fuck her when they won their first game. The guys called it home-cumming!”

My stomach dropped as I looked at the horny teenagers drooling over my picture. I had been THAT close to such a fate, servicing every teen-team cock they put in front of me.

“Watch your mouth, man, there’s a lady there.”

“Where?”

“Right there. She can hear everything we’re saying.”

I felt a sudden chill. I had been spotted. Would they recognize me? Surely, they’d recognize me!

Right?

“We’re sorry, Ma’am,” the first boy said, apologetically.

“Yeah, I hope you weren’t offended, Miss,” his friend added, looking downward.

They didn’t recognize me, and don’t call me Shirley. It took me a moment to recover my wits, shed fearful slave girl mode, and enter into my fake “mom” mode.

“That’s okay. Try to watch the language, though, boys.” I said, wagging my finger for effect. “We don’t want to get security involved, as they’ll call your parents. I might even tell your mommy to pull down your pants, and spank your little buns.”

Now, it was the boys turn to blush, much to my delight. It was fun being in charge.

“No, need for that, Ma’am. We are SO sorry!”

“Yes, we were totally out of line, and we’ll never do it again. No need to call anyone, I swear!”

Under my watchful gaze the little miscreants scooted out, after grabbing another handful of magazines. I hoped the little bastards yanked their dicks off.

Once again, my mind was flooded with a dozen emotions at once: pride, fear, relief, and excitement. I squeezed my thighs together. No doubt about it. Their admiration was exciting. One might say I was actually slave wet, if I was a slave girl, which I decidedly was not.

I wasn’t really a slave, of course. My excitement was from the joy of having fooled them, all of them. It was exhilarating, and it felt wonderful. They had looked at me, and they had looked at the girl on the cover. They had seen no resemblance, because there was no resemblance. Timmy, Rebecca Cook and Jake hadn’t recognized me when I was naked, gagged Pleasure Slut, nor did anyone seem to notice that it was me on the cover as Miss Sandy Foot.

The anonymity of being a just another naked slave girl, which had so horrified me when there was sand between my toes, now provided me with absolute, total immunity. Pretending to be B-269 was MY game. I had played it, and won. I had beaten all cummers.

“I’m NOT a Pleasure Slut. I’m NOT a pleasure slut,” I said, reverse-mimicking the Slave Yoga training that had been drilled into my head. Humiliating as it was, the picture proved that the nightmare at The Big D had been a terrible mistake. The girl on the cover was not me. She looked nothing like me. Yes, I took pride in being “Miss Sandy Foot”, but “Miss Sandy Foot” was not me.

Another voice in my head said, “Don’t get overconfident. Those idiot teenagers were looking at your twat, not your face,” I thought. “If they’d bothered to take a good look at you, you’d be goners for sure!” Somehow, that voice spurred me on all the more.

I looked to my left, to the reception check in counter. Two embarased young women were slowly stripping down to the buff. The blushing women handed their clothes to their mothers, who were smiling and yammering away with each other as they folded their daughter’s clothes and put them in the clear plastic property bags provided by The Big D.

BAGGIN’ & TAGGIN’: First steps in enslavement or full gradings, where a girl’s clothes are placed in a property bag, and the plastic tag is driven through her ear. “It’s sorority rush week, and I spent the whole morning up front, baggin’ & taggin’!”

One of the girls was wearing a Horace Mann school T-shirt. The girls might be brilliant, and smart, but they were definitely from out of town. They’d get a better grade if they entered naked. New York State didn’t require the girls to take slave yoga, and even if Horace Mann offered it, they might well have foolishly allowed the girls to keep their leotards on.

Judging from their mom’s fancy clothes, and their embarrassment, the two young women didn’t understand slavery at all. It was quite amusing, really. Their mommies had probably flown them here because they heard The Big D was the best, and to spare them the indignity of being graded somewhere where they might be known. Soon they’d be naked, and mommy’s money wouldn’t matter.

UNDISCLOSED LOCATIONS: Also known as “Beaver Dens”, UDs are prestigious but remote markets where celebrities or the rich can get graded without parading past their neighbors. “Colby told me she flew on her private jet to England to get graded. Harrod’s runs a very expensive but very discrete Beaver Den there, right next to the docks in Liverpool.”

Even if the girls didn’t need student loans or credit cards, most of the Ivy League schools now required or ‘strongly suggested’ slave gradings for their female students.

I had actually written out Harvard’s explanation of the requirement. Getting a top grade demonstrated physical fitness, discipline, and grace under pressure. More importantly, it also created a strong bond of empathy with the less fortunate, which would serve the girls through their entire lives. The fact that admissions officers, faculty, and administrators could gawk at their nude photos, and trade them back-and-forth like baseball cards, was entirely incidental.

I smiled as the young woman behind the counter walked over to the yellow bollards and explained the purpose of the cement poles, paying special attention to the areas lower on the pole where the paint had been stripped away. The mothers, clearly fascinated, ran their manicured fingers over the cracked and missing paint. They were asking questions, and looked absolutely amazed. Their daughters, naked, and trying to cover themselves, looked horrified.

PAINT STRIPPERS: Girls who work the yellow bollards at the Big D like strippers, or rub their pussies against it so hard they strip off the industrial acrylic latex yellow paint. “Brittany didn’t want to rub the pole, especially with all the guys watching, but when they cracked the whip on her skanky ass, she became a world-class paint stripper.”

The smiling clerk pointed at the overhead monitor, explaining the cameras in the poles. The naked girls began shouting at their mothers, who quickly hushed them.

The two young women reminded me of my students at Harvard, spoiled and full of themselves. Their mothers were right. A little time on the pussy pole might do them a world of good. Besides, the two co-eds had bigger problems. There was a hot market for hot pussy in Dallas. My friend Natalie Mortellaro at Southwest Shipping was really driving exports. Depending on how many brothers and sisters they had, mom & dad might decide to turn a quick profit.

Losing interest in the bratty girls, I glanced over at the two beefy security guards who were scanning the crowd as they entered. They had badges on, and mirrored sunglasses, and looked like they meant business. I moved a little closer. The two goons were wearing metal badges with stars on them, but who were they? Were they slave police, or security guards deputized by the city of Dallas, or local police hired by The Big D? Or were they glorified mall cops, beefy, but toothless, idiots with no real power?

I moved closer. No, the enormous pistol on his hip meant he wasn’t a rent-a-cop security guard, a glorified doorman. His posture and calm confidence suggested a man totally in charge.

I had the magazine, or could have had it, if I chose to pick it up. But I felt myself strangely drawn to the guard at the door. Something about him seemed familiar; his bulging biceps, his hidden but constantly moving eyes, and the way he seemed to simply oozed power. Here was a man who knew how to handle himself. Looking at him excited me, and I felt my nipples harden as I looked him over.

It was a strange reaction, actually. He had no power over me. I effectively ran the business we were both standing in. One word from me, and his ass would be booted out the door. Why was I getting off on his power, when I was in charge?

Curious to solve this new slave psychology riddle, I moved back over to the entrance, to get a closer look. I stood a bit to the side, straining to see his badge. I stopped when I noticed that he had a copy of THE SANDY FOOT rolled up and stuffed into his back pocket.

“He saw me on the cover, and he picked up the magazine!” I squeezed my thighs together and gasped in pleasure, wetting my pussy at the thought of him being excited by me. Slave girls – even pretend ones - are very vain! But I also knew that he had SEEN me; indeed, he had seen all of me, tip-to-toe, totally exposed. He had seen me winking my butthole, rolling in my own sand caked piss, orgasming as the gavel slammed down. Again, the awful, wonderful, powerful emotions washed over me: humiliation, fear, and a delicious tingling in my soaking wet pussy. What a rush!

Feeling both angry, embarrassed, and strangely flattered, I moved closer, anxious to see my hidden admirer’s badge. I hoped he was someone powerful, someone important.

Stopping about four feet in front of him, I brazenly examined my hero’s credentials. His badge was a beautiful, shimmering, gold, and as I had hoped the circle above the star identified him as POLICE. Mr. Macho was definitely a real cop, and not a street cop either, for his shield was gold, not tin. The circle beneath the badge identified his jurisdiction: Dallas, Texas. Below that was his badge number, and the words that make every slave girl’s blood run cold: SLAVE CATCHER.

PUSSY POSSE: A slang term for elite slave catcher units, often hired off duty by the major auction houses to work security. “The Texas Legislature passed a law giving the Pussy Posse a bounty on every catch. Jethro’s making a fortune!”

[jeepster]

ARRG! Was waiting to see how Sarah 'escaped'! Should have known Joe would make us wait!

[mikey22]

I really like reading about Sarah’s adventures. That’s an awesome woman you’ve created. Please keep them coming.