Sex Slave at the Auction (4 page)

“Does he like me?”

“Indeed. He finds you very beautiful and
obedient, Ms. Wesley.”

Another thought occurs to me.

“Is he a cruel man?”

He was very gentle with me, but that does
not preclude cruelty.

Heathcliff’s face shadows a little, which
makes my heart sink.

“Let’s not think of such things, Ms. Wesley.
Let’s merely take it one step at a time.”

4

One step at a time.

My next step is the DISPLAY.

We are taken to a large hall by our grooms.
It is filled with multiple bondage racks and apparatuses. We are
all naked, of course, and apprehensive.

So I have met the man who would buy me, and
there is a suggestion that he can be cruel. But the hands that
touched my most intimate parts were gentle, and the cock that
pierced me was not unforgiving – unlike what I’m used to.

My groom takes me to a high suspension rig
that is actually a tripod. Three steel rods meet at an apex, and
there’s a triangular contraption dangling from it that resembles a
giant metal clothes hanger. Chains run from either end of this
triangular contraption. I realize that this is a spreader bar.

So I am to be suspended like a piece of
meat. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Come on, Gina,” my groom says affably.

“Is this thing safe?” I say dubiously.

He knocks on one of the rods with his fist.
“Safe as safe can be. You’re not going to go all wussy now so close
to the auction, are you?”

“I’m not wussy.” I stick out my chin
defiantly.

I don’t much like this groom. He’s sly and
he molests me any chance he gets. While bathing me in the shower
earlier, he played with my pussy for far longer than necessary,
soaping and cleaning my clit and labia over and over until I’m
rubbed raw. He also inserted the bar of soap inside my pussy and
left it there for ages while he tweaked and massaged my tits.

And while he’s doing all this, his cock is
hard and pressed against the rim of my anus.

“I’m not supposed to take you,” he murmurs
in my ear, “though I badly want to.”

“Then why don’t you do it then?” I challenge
him.

“Can’t. House rules.” He slides his cock in
between my ass cheeks. “Hmmmmm, what I would give to ram this thing
inside your ass. I’ll fuck you till you scream for mercy and get
down on your knees to beg me to stick it down your throat.”

I’m inexplicably turned on by this frank sex
talk, despite disliking him intensely. Gawd, I must have got it
harder than I thought.

My groom lowers the spreader bar from the
high contraption.

“Put up your arms, Gina.”

He chains both my wrists to either end of
the hanger.

“You look very luscious.” He squeezes both
my breasts, grinning.

I fume at him, being helplessly tethered
this way.

He then secures my ankles, one after the
other, and attaches them to two hooks hanging from the overlying
rods. The steel is cold against my wrist, and I brace myself for
some degree of discomfort as he raises my entire body up with
pulley systems.

“Nice,” he says as I struggle to shift my
limbs into a tolerable position.

The end result of my suspension: my legs are
spread wide apart and borne by those two chains from the rods near
the pyramidal apex, and my arms are pulled by the spreader bar. My
groom has arranged me so that my body is slightly tilted
horizontally. My breasts and belly are an angle and facing the
ceiling. My pussy is exposed – very glaringly, I might add – to
anyone who wishes to inspect and peruse me at the level of his
chest.

I was right. The manacles are uncomfortable,
even though they are lined with soft leather. It’s the very act of
suspension that strains all my joints. Thank goodness I’m young and
limber enough to withstand this. My long hair trails from my scalp
in a dangling flourish.

But my groom is not finished with me.

He inserts something in a wrapper inside my
vagina, and a corresponding one in my anus.

“What is it?” I squeak.

“A surprise for the bidders.” He grins.
“Don’t push it out.”

The amount of time I have been doubly
penetrated by objects escapes me, so I don’t think I’m going to be
pushing anything out soon.

My groom takes a considerable amount of time
to tuck in my pussy folds.

“I’m rearranging them so you’ll look
pretty.”

I grit my teeth.

He gives the rim of my anus a parting
stroke. “I’ll miss you.”

“I won’t miss you.”

“You know, for a submissive, you sure have
hidden claws.”

“I only reserve them for the likes of
you.”

“Oh, sassy now, aren’t we?” He rears his
face menacingly near mine. “Word is that someone
big
wants
to buy you. And you’re not going to like who he is.”

Oh?

I want to ask him more about who this
someone is, but he is already walking away.

I swallow the lump in my throat. This
waiting and anticipating is almost painful.

Around me, everyone else is being similarly
harnessed and tied to the bondage furniture in various positions –
all involving displaying their genitals and erotic holes in
prominent and reachable places. I understand this. In order to make
their decision to bid for us, our patrons will need to observe,
inspect and handle us personally.

I would too, if I were buying a heifer.

I have not told Max about my little
encounter last night. Heathcliff has ordered me to keep it hush
hush, or my payment will be forfeited.

Max is now being spread on what I believe
they call a ‘prayer’ rack. It consists of three benches which are
mounted on a frame. The middle bench is significantly higher than
the two other benches. Max’s body is strung across this piece of
equipment with his back atop the middle bench. His legs are spread
out and tethered to one of the lower benches. His arms are
stretched above his head, which is tipped backwards, and tied to
the opposite lower bench.

He looks supremely uncomfortable with his
back arched like that. But his cock and balls are very prominently
displayed. His groom inserts a similar wrapped object in his
anus.

Alice on the other hand is mounted against a
‘tower’, or at least, a tower with plenty of arms sticking out of
its sides. Her hands are tied to the top of it, and her legs are
splayed wide and wrapped around two of the lower arms. Her nipples
are clamped and pulled by chains.

She looks very fetching and sexy. But her
face glowers, as if she doesn’t take kindly to being in such a
position. She’s not a natural submissive.

OK. That was the understatement of the
year.

Greg is tied upside down to an inverted
cross. His legs are bound together to the vertical beam so that his
cock and balls are prominently displayed. His barbell piercing
glints in the skylight bulbs on the ceiling.

Beside each exhibit (I never thought I’d be
declaring myself an exhibit, but here I am), the grooms place a
placard detailing our names, our statuses and our ages, pretty much
in the way we introduced ourselves during the Talentime. The only
thing missing here is the starting price tag. There’s also a
dispenser on a low table for wet wipes. Clearly, our private parts
are to be manhandled and our sticky juices wiped off later so the
guests can go on to the next exhibit.

We wait.

We wait for about half an hour. My wrists
and ankles start to chafe, as I knew they would.

Max calls out to me, “You OK, Gina?”

“Yes. You OK?”

“Still breathing.”

“Your concern for each other is touching,”
Alice remarks. “But you do realize, Gina, that you probably won’t
be seeing Max again for a long, long time, don’t you? There are no
kissy huggy goodbyes for slaves.”

Yes, I know. But I hate the fact that she
rubs it in.

“Well, that goes for you too,” I shoot
back.

She smirks. A strange expression for a bound
slave.

“I’m made of sterner stuff than you are.
Touchy feely people like you wear their emotions on their sleeves.
You’ll be getting all teary-eyed and hung up soon over Max.”

“And you won’t miss Greg?” I challenge.

Greg flashes me a guarded look. At least, I
think that’s what it is from his upside down vantage.

“Sweetheart, Greg already knows the answer
to that,” Alice drawls. “I don’t
do
emo.”

Frankly, I believe her. I believe she’s one
of those ice-cold bitch queens who don’t have one iota of
compassion or people-mindedness in them.

The doors of the hall swing open. The guests
troop in, champagne glasses in their hands. A party was probably
held in another hall for them, seeing as their cheeks are flushed
from alcohol. Not only are the billionaires present, but they have
brought their spouses and other relatives too – offspring,
siblings, parents, grandparents.

The atmosphere is suddenly warmed by the
presence of so many milling bodies. Voices and laughter tinkle
everywhere, and the chamber is festooned with the gay chatter of
many different nationalities.

“Oh, what a treat!”

“Look at this one. Isn’t he
magnificent?”

“Such huge balls. Amazing.”

It’s
almost
normal, except for the
exhibits they are openly gushing over.

The tennis player comes to stand before me.
He is accompanied by a beautiful redheaded woman I recognize as his
wife from the covers of
Sports Illustrated
.

“She’s lovely,” she murmurs in a thick
accent. She turns to her husband and says something in Czech or
whatever Eastern European dialect they are using.

Her husband replies, nodding. I find myself
wondering if he was my patron from last night. Would I be able to
tell if he touches me again?

Unfortunately, it is his wife who touches me
instead. (Or maybe he doesn’t feel the need to touch me because
he’s fucked me last night. And OK, I’ll stop ruminating.) She
begins by prodding my buttocks, running her fingertips down my
cleft and feeling for the puckered mouth of my asshole.

The Czech tennis player encourages her by
saying something.

She laughs as her fingers worm their way
into my asshole. I tense at her intrusion, especially as her long
and lacquered acrylic fingernails are extremely sharp. Her fingers
probe the walls of my rectum, feeling for the ridges.

Then her eyes light up as she finds the
surprise.

“What is it, love?” her husband says.

She snares it with two of her fingers and
extracts it. The object crackles in its wrapper.

“It’s a fortune cookie,” she exclaims.

So it is. I recognize the ribbon-like brown
confection.

“Well, open it,” her husband declares.

I’m glad he didn’t say ‘eat it’, but since
when does anyone actually eat a fortune cookie? (OK, I used to when
I was a kid.)

She tears the wrapper and crumbles the
cookie. Out falls a piece of folded white paper to the floor. She
picks it up and reads it aloud:

“The person who buys this beautiful slave
will have great happiness.”

How corny and quaint. Despite my bound
state, I can’t help smiling.

The Spanish soccer player comes up, a
beautiful brunette girlfriend with extremely large tits in tow.

“What are you doing?” he asks his
friend.

“My wife is finding buried treasure.”

“Ah, interesting. Perhaps there’s something
in her cunt. Let me try.”

The soccer player comes up to me and stands
in front of my fully exposed pussy. He lowers his nose to sniff at
it.

“Hmmmmmm. Nothing like the smell of fresh
pussy in the evening.”

His girlfriend glares at him.

“And how are you,
querida
?” he asks
me. “Ready to be sold to your new master? If I bought you, I’d beat
you every day and fuck your ass silly. And I’d make you suck my
cock while I sit on the can. You’d like that, won’t you?”

I shudder. Up close, his swarthy face is
cruel.

He wriggles his surprisingly soft fingers
into my pussy hole. Why are they soft? Oh yes, they don’t play
soccer with their hands. I suck in my breath at his digital
penetration. Cruelty in an implied threat. Is he my suitor from
last night?

Stop it, Gina, stop it!

Around me, the other exhibits are having
similar experiences. Greg has attracted many admirers who ooh and
aah over his impressive piercing. The men and women tug and pull at
his penis from all angles, as if it’s a rubber toy, and run their
fingertips over his barbells.

At Max’s end, the female supermodel and the
female designer are caressing his balls, lifting them up and
exclaiming over them. Funny. I had them pegged as lesbians. Or
maybe they swing both ways.

The evening winds on. I daresay every single
billionaire and their relatives have examined me by the evening’s
end. My tits, pussy and anus have been poked and groped and prodded
so many times that I have lost count. Every single one of my erotic
holes is sore.

The sheikh comes over and opens my
mouth.

“Good teeth,” he says, as though I’m a
horse. He leaves without looking at me twice and treks to Max
instead, his white robes flowing.

Russell and his wife pay me a visit.

“Having fun?” he says as he heartily slaps
my rump.

“Russell!” his wife chides him. “She’s
already traumatized enough, the poor thing.”

She doesn’t show any signs of distress
despite her children being stretched out and molested on the rack.
Of course, ‘molested’ is an arbitrary word since I don’t have a
clue how much Max and Alice are enjoying this.

“Now, Gina,” Russell says, “you be a good
girl now, you hear? Do everything your new master tells you and
don’t give me grief.”

“Yes, master.”

“Don’t shame the Devlin house now, do you
hear?”