Sex Slave at the Auction Page 3
“Ohhh,” I gush in appreciation.
I picture my patron. He must be sitting up, joined to me at the genitals.
Hands hold my hips as he begins to rock against me. My natural lubrication makes the sawing movements oh-so-smooth, like hands plowing through butter in a mixing bowl. It’s good, sturdy sex – the kind of sex that I don’t get enough of these days.
I’m happy enough to assist him by matching his rhythm head on. I pump my hips to meet his – two genitals kissing, pestle grinding into mortar. My creams make squelching noises as our pieces of flesh merge and unmerge.
My mind trips into who he can be once again. Is he sampling the goods before he buys them? Am I the only one sampled this way? Or is he sampling me because he knows he might lose out on me in the bidding process?
This way, he gets to have me at least once.
It’s flattering to know that I am so desired. I would like to chalk it to my incredible beauty (choke), but I know it’s really because I paint such a submissive portrait.
My patron begins to grunt. I can’t really tell someone’s voice from his grunts. But his slamming into me gets wilder and more uncontrolled. I respond by raising my hips and urging him on. I can feel my own climax mounting in a slow inch-by-inch rappel to the peak, but I’m staving it off so that he can get off on me first.
God. I’m becoming such a commercial slut. Just because he paid twenty thousand dollars for this period with me, I’m accommodating his every need. Or maybe it’s because I’m such a born submissive. It becomes my natural instinct to deliver pleasure to everyone else before I will allow my own.
His cock pistons in and out of me with increasing vigor. I’m loving the slippery-smooth-slide-squelch of his rhythm, his soft balls slapping against the creamed mess of my vulva rim and anus, the abandoned grind of his hips against my groin.
With a hoarse cry – in which his voice breaks through a little (I think!) – he ejaculates his semen into me.
The jet spray is warm, copious and watery. I almost can feel (OK, imagine) the little spermatozoa of this unknown (and unknowable) person swimming inside me, delving into my crevices, battling the distance up into my cervix and closeted womb. He comes and comes in an almost endless tide, and I surrender myself to my own inescapable pleasure.
My climax is sublime. It’s a pixelated, fragmented, blissful explosion of sweet, sweet pleasure – floaty and cloudy and moist. I gasp instead of scream, and I’m so lost in my own sticky pleasure that I don’t realize he has pulled out his now softening penis.
No. Don’t leave me so soon.
But he seems to be in a hurry, and the gurney creaks as he climbs off me – off my legs and hips and wet, wet sopping genitals. The cool air chills my wet skin.
I don’t know what I’m hoping for – for him to say something, perhaps. A word of “That was nice”, or “It was worth every dime I paid for”, or maybe that’s way too much to ask for. Maybe even a pat on my thigh as acknowledgement. But there’s radio silence from his side, and I can hear his footsteps – carpet slippers, no doubt – shoshing away.
Damn.
*
My disappointment is still evident when Heathcliff comes in to unchain me.
“Now that it’s over, you can tell me who he was, Heathcliff,” I say as I rub my wrists. No harm in trying my luck.
Heathcliff smiles that little private smile of his.
“You know I can’t do that, Miss. But let’s just say that he has expressed a strong interest in purchasing you and this was merely a sample of your wares.”
So I was right! Well, kind of . . . seeing as I ran through every permutation in my brain when I was lying there.
Inwardly, I pump up my fist in triumph. So I’m not going to go bidless.
“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 object
s 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?
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?”
“Russell, she’s a good girl. She has no intention of letting us down.” Max’s mother strides to my side and smiles at me lovingly. “Max has told me so much about you. How lovely you are, my dear.”
So this is our formal introduction. I had envisioned a rather different scenario over turkey at a dinner table.
“Hi, Mrs. Devlin,” I squeak.
I love your son. I want to marry him if he’ll have me. And no, I’m not a gold-digger.