Sex Slave at the Auction Page 2

  The ringmaster – in a slaver’s outfit today, replete with a black hooded mask and black cape – says, “Are you ready, Gina?”

  “Yes.”

  “State who you are.”

  “My name is Gina Wesley. I’m nineteen years old. I come from Minnesota. I’m currently a sex slave contracted to Mr. Russell Devlin. My master has kindly donated me to this auction for charity. So I hope you will please consider me for purchase, good sirs.” My voice quavers at the end.

  I see a few nods of appreciation in the audience. I am a natural sub, I’ve been told, and they like that. Means I’m pliant and amenable to retraining or whatever they have in store for me.

  The spotlights dim and transform into an eerie shade of white. Or maybe it’s an eerie shade of pale. Whatever it is, it’s designed to make my neoprene bikini light up into a ghostly disco blue. Like one of those bobbing lanterns you see during Halloween. My skin is equally pale, but my flesh and cleavage are very visible. Can’t hide the good parts.

  The music starts. It’s a bouncy instrumental soundtrack – part rock, part jazz. I have practiced tirelessly for this, and so I now launch into my moves, praying I won’t make a mistake. I’m not superlative at dancing, though I’m fairly limber, but this not exactly a dance.

  It’s a striptease.

  For starters.

  I don’t have a pole to twirl and make my moves around, so I gyrate and sway on the stage – making my hip movements more and more suggestive as the track winds on. I pirouette and favor my audience with a demure glance (no sultry teases – I’m aiming for a submissive label, not the assured temptress). After the first stanza, I reach behind my back to unclasp my neoprene top.

  I peel off my spaghetti straps and drop the flimsy thing onto the floor. No tossing it to the audience. These are billionaires, not cowboys. Though cowboys can be billionaires too, I suppose.

  My nipples are dark against my white skin. I know they have all seen them before, but it’s still quite a tantalizing sight, especially since my tits are large against my slim chest. My waist is looking sharp too – hand span thin and shapely. I must say that this is the best I’ve looked in a long while.

  After the second stanza, I reach for my bikini bottom.

  I take my time to wriggle my hips while snapping the elastic left and right to the music rhythm. I roll the bikini bottom down, exposing my buttocks, and then coyly roll them up again, all the while maintaining a demure expression. I repeat this. Again. And again. Each time, the bikini bottom gets rolled lower and lower, and I spin – exposing my bare shaved pussy in hopefully delectable glimpses.

  Then finally, I strip off the offending garment, letting it fall to my ankles and stepping out of its leg holes without a glitch. I’m totally naked now and the light is warm on my pale bare skin.

  But that’s not all I’m offering.

  Hell, anyone can do a simple striptease.

  All eyes rake my flesh as I stand with my legs apart. I take a deep breath as I reach inside my pussy hole and feel for the string I know is there. I find it with my pincer grip and pull it out. The string unravels. Out, out it comes, like a snaky coil being revealed for the first time. The string is white, and the light picks it up in all its glaring contrast to the relative darkness.

  I pull it further out, and the first flower hits the air. It isn’t a real flower, of course, but a luminous creation – all folded up inside – that springs into full bloom once released. The light on this is as blue as my discarded bikini.

  Gasps of appreciation all around. Claps. But I’m not finished.

  I dance and twirl, somehow managing to not trip over my blue heels. I pull more of the string out, and out comes the second blue flower. All of them are snugly tucked in a synthetic fiber tube which I’ve inserted inside my pussy earlier.

  The third flower comes out, and then the fourth – all choreographed to blossom at a certain beat of the music. The blooms continue to unfurl in a seemingly endless string. Every time the audience thinks I have reached the end of it, out pops another bright blue scandalous flower.

  In the end, my arms and shoulders are all draped with the stringed flowers – all gleaming like a neon version of the House of Blues. I bow to the excellent applause.

  But I’m not finished either.

  On cue, I prostrate myself on the floor on all fours. The ringmaster strides over, wielding his vicious-looking crop. I tense. As does the audience. Is he going to whip me for not doing a decent enough job?

  The ringmaster stands behind my protuberant ass, offered like a sacrifice to the audience. I keep my thighs apart so that the spotlight shines on my ass. Since the stage is raised, everyone can see my butthole and glistening vulva. The fibro-elastic tube is buried deeper inside, and anyway, I don’t expect anyone to be able to peer into my vagina.

  The ringmaster lowers his riding crop to my buttocks. I hold my breath.

  He’s not supposed to hit me. He’s supposed to tease my buttocks with the crop. Slowly slide its lash over my ass to prolong the anticipation. Tease the curl of the crop into the valley between my cheeks and slyly massage the tight skin of my anus.

  He does this. The crop slips into my crack and runs up and down my puckered hole. It’s insanely pleasurable, and I have to suck in my breath and contract my sphincter muscles to maintain my position.

  It’s a shock to me when he raises the crop and brings it down hard on my buttocks.

  I cry out.

  He’s not supposed to do that. Why is he doing it?

  I stay very still as the crop descends to strike me again.

  Thuck!

  The pain flares throughout my buttocks. All sorts of reasons are running through my brain. Is he spanking me because he wants to, changing the routine in the process? Or did someone in the audience pay him to humiliate me?

  Twap!

  Tears squeeze out of my eyes and I’m terrified that they will ruin my makeup.

  The ringmaster hits me five more times – each lash a loud twack that resonates harshly through the stilled room, punctuated with occasional murmurs from the crowd. Then he finally bends over and reaches into my anus with his index finger and thumb.

  I’m already breathing hard. His fingers are hard and sharp. He probes deep into my rectum for the second string embedded inside me. Oh yes, I have buried treasure in both my holes, and it’s a wonder that I managed to dance so gracefully, if at all.

  (Or at least, I think I was graceful.)

  He finds it after a bit of wriggling. As we rehearsed earlier – and at least he’s following the script now – he stands to my side, pulls the string slowly . . . very slowly out, making sure that the tube within is withdrawn to the level of my anal sphincter, and then out of my anus for just a fraction of an inch –

  (I close my eyes. Oh please, please follow the script)

  -- and he suddenly jerks the whole thing out and out shoots

  POP!

  confetti in all colors and flourishes.

  I almost faint with relief. For a moment there, I thought he was going to make sure I have a little accident that would cause me to not be able to sit down for weeks. You just never know about the people who work here. They are that unpredictable and terrifying.

  Cheers and wild applause erupt.

  “Bravo!” The movie star actually gets up to his feet and claps. He is soon followed by the tennis player and the soccer player. I think these film/athlete types are more used to more boisterous appreciation.

  The ringmaster helps me to my feet. I’m still shaky from all the spanking and calisthenics but I manage to turn around to face the audience.

  I blush prettily as I take a bow.

  “Well done,” says the ringmaster to me in a low voice. I can’t see the upper half of his face except for his eyes, but his mouth crinkles.

  “Thank you, master.”

  He slaps my rump. “Off with you now.”

  I run off the stage after stooping to gather my bikini scraps. Alice is
standing there, watching me. As I glance at her face, she glares at me darkly and walks away.

  3

  I’m sleeping in my cot. We are not allowed to sleep with one another, so I’m alone. I miss Max terribly, of course, but they keep us apart at night so that we’re not tempted to have sex.

  I’m on a little dream cloud where I get to tear chunks of Alice’s hair out of her scalp while screaming, “You dirty whore! Stop tormenting your brother and forcing him to have sex with you!” Then Alice reaches for my right tit and squeezes it hard.

  “Wake up,” she says in a surprisingly gentle voice.

  Huh?

  I drowsily open my eyes. Heathcliff is standing above me. The little light on the wall has been switched on.

  Was he the one who just squeezed my breast?

  “There’s been a very private request for your services, Ms. Wesley. In return, your patron will donate twenty thousand dollars to your private account. Mr. Devlin has acceded to this arrangement.”

  *

  What have I become? A very high-priced whore?

  I run after Heathcliff in my heels, the only part of my anatomy that is wearing something. “What does he want with me?”

  Heathcliff flashes me a deadpan glance. “What do you think, Ms. Wesley?”

  Yeah, dumb question.

  “Does Max know?’

  Another dumb question. You are not in a normal relationship, and the sooner you get that into your thick skull, the sooner you can stop asking dumb questions.

  “I don’t believe he does, Ms. Wesley.” Heathcliff walks swiftly down the dungeon corridor. “There are circumstances to this request however.”

  “Circumstances?” I’m aware of how ignorant and helpless I sound.

  “He does not wish you to see his face.”

  “Oh. Do I have to wear a blindfold then?” I have been blindfolded before. It was . . . titillating.

  “No.” Heathcliff steers me to a stone chamber. “You see, we have prepared a special arrangement as per your patron’s specifications.”

  I stop in my tracks when I see what he means.

  There’s a wide gurney, pretty much like what you see in hospital emergency rooms, at the far wall. It is embedded inside the wall, or at least, that’s what it looks like. On closer inspection, I realize that a singular hole has been cut in the lower portion of that part of the wall so that the gurney straddles two rooms.

  I have no idea what’s on the other side. In the murky area in between, a black curtain drapes over the gurney, obscuring what’s on the other end. I try to peer under the gurney, but another row of black curtains stand guard.

  “Why doesn’t he want me to see his face?” I ask.

  “The ways of the very rich are sometimes hidden to me,” Heathcliff says with a half-smile.

  He wheels the gurney out of the other room and gestures to it. The curtains fall back into place, concealing everything. “Please . . . take your shoes off and lie down. I will have to restrain your wrists lest you be tempted to peek.”

  “Oh no, I won’t. I swear.”

  “Specifications, Ms. Wesley.”

  I sigh.

  I toe off my heels and climb onto the gurney. It’s made of metal. It is cold against my warm flesh. Heathcliff arranges me so that my wrists are pulled back and chained to the top of the gurney, beneath which are fastened two hooks. He leaves my legs untethered and pushes the bottom half of the gurney through the forbidding black curtains, and arranges the latter so that everything is where it was.

  I feel extremely vulnerable. The lower part of my naked body is exposed in the other chamber – prey to all kinds of indignities. My imagination runs wild with lions and tigers and bears . . . of the human variety.

  Heathcliff sees my frightened face and strokes my hair. “Don’t worry, Ms. Wesley. No one’s going to hurt you . . . within reason.”

  I nod and swallow the bile in my throat.

  Twenty thousand dollars. I can do this.

  And yes, I am a whore. Call me what you like, but it’s my nest egg. I’m already in this, so I might as well milk it for all it’s worth.

  “Stay where you are, Ms. Wesley. Your patron will be here shortly.”

  Like I’m going anywhere else.

  Heathcliff exits the room, but not before turning off all the lights and closing the door behind him. I’m alone in the dark, my ears sharpened for sounds from the other side of the curtain. The air is cold and my arms ache a little from being stretched. From the light beneath the curtain hem, I reckon that no one has left the other chamber in darkness.

  Not fair.

  I try to compose myself by breathing deeply. It’s going to be OK. But my disorientation is disconcerting. My mind wanders to the actual auction. I guess it’s the fear of the unknown that is sending me into overdrive. I possess an immediate omnipresent fear and another bigger one lurking in my near future.

  An irrational thought strikes me – what if it is Alice who is doing this to me? I’m literally at her mercy, all tied up like this. What if she’s doing this to me to take me out of the competition?

  What are we competing for anyway? To get the highest bid?

  A door whines open on the other side and all thoughts are instantly banished. I strain my ears to hear something beyond the quiet footsteps padding in. Soft slippers. Not the clickety-clack of heels. A presence looms nearer and I hold my breath. My blood goes swish-swish-swish within my ears and my heartbeat is almost painful.

  Please please don’t hurt me, I will him.

  Am I allowed to talk to him?

  Large hands land on my thighs. I can feel the calluses on them. Who among the men has calluses? A tennis player would have calluses. Hell, anybody can have calluses, even if they are white collar CEOs sitting in big offices.

  The hands begin to stroke my flesh – slow, long sensuous trips up and down my limbs. They dive in between my thighs and part them gently.

  So he is a gentle man, my patron.

  So far.

  Fingers dart to my pussy lips and peel them apart to reveal my clit. I picture my splayed genitals – my little red throbbing clit peeking from under the harsh glare of whatever light there is on the other side. My sweet little hood will be wrinkled, and the undersides of my outer labia would be pink and wet and very lickable.

  Up close, displayed wantonly like this, would my patron find me delectable? Does he find my pussy beautiful and is he admiring my soft little petals – the folds within folds – in between? My pussy starts to cream at the actuality of a total stranger scrutinizing it with a fine tooth comb. A total stranger I cannot see. It’s illicit and seedy, and there’s excitement and danger simmering under the surface of the situation, and my skin prickles with goose bumps.

  With his thumb and another finger, he keeps my outer pussy lips apart and invitingly open. Yet another finger begins to stroke the nub of my clit. My vaginal muscles clench as soon as the pulp of his fingertip touches my hood.

  Ohhhhhhh.

  It seems like forever since someone has touched me this way – with gentleness and purpose.

  He massages my clit, strokes out the little wrinkles so that my blood rushes into the little hillock of exquisitely sensitive flesh. His finger dips into my little ravines and clefts, eliciting a deep thrill within me. I long to simultaneously close my legs and open them wider.

  My breath comes out in short pants.

  He continues to toy with me this way – roaming his finger up and down, sideways and diagonally, all the while knocking my tender clit hood around and aside as though it’s a teat, or a mini-punching bag. My fluids pour out of my vulva, staining the rim of my anus and the undersides of my buttocks; maybe even spilling down to pool onto the gurney.

  I’m a water tap these days. A cream dispenser. I become turned on at the slightest things.

  The finger pokes into my bubbling vulva and slides in easily into my pussy hole. My vagina blossoms like a flower at the welcome intrusion, and I open my thighs
wider to allow the finger swifter passage. One finger is joined by another, and soon there three. Then I feel a fist beginning to form.

  Not so gentle after all.

  I grip my own bound fists and grit my teeth.

  His four crowded fingers are soon joined by his thumb, and my vaginal walls are pushed and pushed and pushed apart so as to accommodate the creeping expansion of knuckles and folded palm.

  Ahhhhhhhh. I suck in multiple breaths and try to raise my diaphragm. I’m always a little afraid of being fisted, no matter how many objects with larger circumferences have been inserted into me. There’s something brutal and sick about fisting and its implications.

  The fist rotates inside me. Wriggles. Tries to get a good fit. The fingertips grasp at the mouth of my cervix. I’m so expanded that I have no choice but to open my legs up even more, so that my knees are off the surface of the gurney and I’m clinging to my own chains for balance.

  I moan piteously.

  There is no reply except for his sharp intake of breath.

  He continues to fist me, slowly pumping his beaked hand up and down the length of my overstretched vagina. I’m writhing and trashing my head and crying softly.

  “Please . . . oh please, sir . . . ”

  I don’t know what it is I’m begging for. I don’t really want him to stop, but I don’t really want him to prolong it either.

  The fist withdraws, and I experience a profound relief. The entire area of my groin is as wet as wet can be. I wonder if I should close my legs, but his palms tread lightly upon my thighs – an unspoken signal to keep them apart.

  The gurney creaks as a weight climbs aboard. Naked legs nestle upon and around my thighs as hands balance themselves, using my flesh as leverage. Those same hands sweep across my belly, stopping just at the margins of the black curtain. My patron clearly does not wish to touch my breasts or let me see his hands.

  I feel the stump of a cock head being placed at my previously stretched vulva. This is my natural state – having a cock in my vagina, where it’s meant to be. I savor the nuanced and measured slide of the penis into my pussy – hard flesh spreading velvety soft flesh – going deep, deep, deepest until the cock head butts against my greedy cervical mouth.