The Sex Slave | Chapters 1-2

  • This second chapter is appended—called The Auction. I slightly rewrote the first chapter, changing a couple details. I’ll delete the earlier post, chapter one, in a couple days. As always, with my writing, my posts at Erotic Writer are my first drafts. Feel free to point out mistakes and typos. I’m not vain. Please comment, your feedback, good or bad, is what motivates my writing. Stories are my conversation. If you want me to write more, join the conversation. Requests, improvements, and plot ideas are welcome. I make this up as I write. :)

The Night Before

“It’s been a great evening,” he said.

16194806“It still is,” I answered. The sun was setting. The beach lights were flickering on. The heat of the sun turned to a dark and warm humidity. I wasn’t wearing much, just a tight gray-green one-piece over a bikini.

“Can I buy you another drink?”

“No.” I still sipped the last margarita. I hadn’t had sex since arriving in Hawaii. I didn’t want to. I wanted three weeks just to myself. But tonight was the last night and the man asking wasn’t another boy on spring break. He was in his mid-thirties, crew cut, clean, friendly and dressed in a suit.

“Do you have plans for tomorrow?”

“I do and I don’t want to think about it,” I lied.

“How much of Hawaii have you seen?”

“Why?”

“I could show you around.” I felt his hand on my hip. A little push and then he was guiding me away from the beach bar and toward a discrete palm grove. His hand slipped from my hip to the small of my back, down my tail bone.

“The minute I saw you,” he said, lifting the bottom hem of my skirt, “I felt like we understood each other.” I was in bare feet. I stopped. I leaned forward against a palm, itself leaning toward the waves. I closed my eyes and I lifted my hips when his fingers entered me.

“You’re soaked.”

“I know.”

He stepped behind me.

“No.” I turned. I pushed him away. I spilled the Margarita. Maybe I was a little drunk. I turned my back against the palm. “I’m sorry. I—” He pinched my nipple, achingly engorged and obvious under the fabric. I dropped the glass and closed my eyes, both hands gripping his wrists.

“Say it again,” he said “You? So young? So beautiful? Tell me you don’t want to.”

“No!” I exhaled. He let go of my nipple, stinging and angrily jutting. Some part of me had expected him to call me a whore, a cock-tease, but I’d never flirted with a man his age. He smiled gently. “I apologize. I misread the situation and I apologize.”

“Situation?”

“A quickie. No dating. No dinner. No seduction.”

“What?” I asked incredulously.

“There’s something special about you. You made me want to try something I’ve never done before.”

“I’m sorry,” was all I could say, “but not tonight.”

The Interview

I’d spent my money, deliberately, recklessly, enjoying a last three weeks of freedom. I read novels on the beach. I stayed at a 5 star hotel. I ate at the best restaurants and this morning, with my last ten dollars, I sit under a palm tree at a sidewalk café. The sun glistens from parked cars, wheels and windshields. There’s an older woman behind me, a couple to my left. There’s a local grocery store across the street with a paper hula dancer in the window. Her eyes are over-sized and her black hair falls over her hips like waves. Bananas, oranges, dried fruits and baskets.

I don’t even have a return ticket.

I gave myself no choice. And when it was time, I left the magazine and the last of the money as a tip. I was lightheaded with fear and nervousness. I crossed the street, stumbling over the small curb. I entered the three story beige building with its green tinted windows. The floor was black and the ceiling was white with recessed lights.

“May I help you?” Asked a woman wearing black glasses behind a mahogany counter .

I couldn’t speak. I swallowed. I tried again. And then, voice shaking, I exhaled my name: “Choi Finnigan.”

The woman’s features softened. She touched my hand. I was gripping the counter’s edge. “You’ll be fine dear. Mr. Ward is expecting you and has no other appointments. Just take the elevator to the fourth floor, turn left and go to the end of the hallway. The door will be open.”

I followed her instructions.

By the time the doors opened to the fifth floor the stainless steel elevator was like a cage. I hurried out into the hallway. The floor of the hall was a gleaming biege tile. The pale green walls were topped by a narrow band of bamboo. Daylight gleamed through the door at the hallway’s end—a floor to ceiling window. When I stepped through the door there was a long wooden desk to my left and a leather couch to my right. The room was long and otherwise empty. A well-dressed, fiftyish man stood. A beautiful, dark haired woman remained seated in a single chair that was in a corner behind the couch.

“Miss Finnigan?”

“Yes.”

“Welcome. I’m Mr. Ward.” He stepped from behind the desk with a friendly smile. He took my hand and guided me to couch. I sat and knotted my hands in my lap. He returned to his desk and the woman behind me remained silent. He closed whatever flier, book or folder he had been raeding. “Are you nervous?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I expect you are.”

“So—”

“So, the woman behind you is Sierra. She’s already done what you’re about to do. She will always be with you. She may not always be in the same room. She will be your companion, your confidant, your friend (if you like) and the woman who will make sure you’re safe.”

“Okay.”

“She will never be far from you.”

“Got it.”

“If you ever want to leave, for any reason, she’ll facilitate that.”

“Okay.” I wanted to throw up. “Okay,” I said again.

“You’ve read every last word of the material we sent you. Miss Finnigan?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That’s essential. I want to stress, again, that every buyer has been exhaustively vetted and each has undertaken—“

“What about me?” I interrupted.

“You, my dear?” He smiled. “A certain naivety and innocence makes you more valuable. Any potential buyer will pay more for you. And it is the reason Sierra will always be with you.” He turned a paper on his desk. “Once you sign this you may well become a multi-millionaire, and whatever is paid for you will be yours. Your term will be one year. If you remain for the full year, you will receive the full amount. If for any reason the buyer violates the contract, you will still receive the full amount. If, however, you break your contract, your final payment will be prorated.”

“I understand.”

“And you understand what you’re signing?”

“I do,” I swallowed. I licked my lips and barely whispered another ‘Yes’.

“It is an odyssey, Miss Finnigan. Something only a handful women do. I expect the experience will challenge you and change you; not just for a day or a week but a year.”

“Yes,” I answered hoarsely.

“Even if you sign this and you can still walk out.”

“I know.”

“Then,” he slowly pushed the paper toward me, to the edge of the desk, “The agreement awaits your signature”

I looked at him as though through a tunnel whose edges grew darker before remembering to breathe. After five or ten minutes of silence, I stood. I slowly walked to the desk. I took the pen and signed with a shaking hand.

“You may return to the couch.” His voice was gentle. How simple. A deal with the devil. My Mephistopheles, an older man with a tight white beard. And then the inkling of a truth: Maybe selling ones soul is a kind of liberation. I looked at the floor and heard paper slide against paper.

“You’re a beautiful young woman.”

“Thank you.” But my answer was almost inaudible.

“Do you have some Polynesian ancestry?”

“Yes.”

“Women as young as you rarely undertake such an odyssey,” he mused. “While your Master can call you whatever he chooses, until then, you will simply be called ‘girl’.”

I glared.

“You disagree?”

“No, Mr. Ward—” I quickly turned my gaze to the floor..

“And so, your journey begins.”

I bit my lip and gripped my knees. I could hear his amusement. A longer silence followed. I heard the air conditioning begin to circulate in the floor vents. “I have a client coming at four,” he said. Another silence followed. “The blindfold, Miss Banes.”

“Why?” I asked without thinking.

“Because,” he answered, “I have clients, girl, and who they are is none of your business.”

Sierra stepped behind me and put three blindfolds in my lap. She held them up, one by one. They were perfumed. One was black. One was a beautiful blue and gold paisley, Another was blocks of purple, red and gold. They were all perfumed.

“Which would you like?” she asked with a beautiful accent—the first time I had heard her voice.

“The red and purple one.”

She drew it over my eyes and tied it firmly behind my head. “Is that too tight?”

“No.”

She squeezed my shoulder and kissed me beneath my ear, a kindness that made me grateful for the blindfold hiding my tears. I heard her return to her chair in the back corner of the room. Her footsteps were like whispers. Her name was my safe word.

There was another long silence. I could hear the elevator’s bells stopping at other floors. Nervousness fluttered in each breath like a caged bird. I sat with my knees together and to the side, my hands clasped in my lap. “You’re a beautiful slave girl,” he finally said. “And I wonder if your pussy is as beautiful as you are?”’

My stomach jumped. “I don’t know.”

“Lift your skirt and spread our legs, girl.”

My heart raced, but I lifted my dress and hesitantly opened my legs.

“Take off whatever your wearing underneath. You may toss them on the floor if you like. You won’t be needing them anymore.”

Reaching under my skirt, I slipped my underwear over my knees and to the floor. I opened my legs.

“Wider.”

I did.

“Wider, girl. So I can see. Wider until it hurts. Like you’re being fucked by a grown man. Have you ever been fucked by a grown man?”

“No,” I managed.

“You’ll address me and any man as ‘Sir’.”

“No Sir.” I spread my legs as far as the couch would let me.

“Ask if that’s wide enough.”

“Is that wide enough, Sir?”

“Lovely,” he said. “Just lovely. Beautiful. Stay like that. It’s a pleasure, enjoyable, relaxing, really. If you belonged to me, girl, I’d have you sit like that all day.”

Another long silence followed, and then, “Oh!”

“Yes?”

“I— Nothing, Sir.”

I waited, almost panting with uncertainty. “Stand up, pussy.” A window opened. I could smell the ocean, sand, sunlight on pavement, food, and hear motors and the busy street. “Her wrists please.”

Once again Sierra stood behind me. She crossed my wrists at the small of my back, then lifted my wrists to my elbows. She used one of the other scarves to bind my arms together.

“Come here.”

“ I can’t see,” I answered, but I awkwardly went to his voice.

“Stop,” he said. “I asked you a question.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And did you answer me?”

“No, Sir.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Bend over.”

I did.

“Now spread your legs.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Wider!”

The first stinging blow nearly toppled me. Sierra caught me. My exhalation was a sharp cry.

“The window is open,” he said quietly, “I leave it to you to decide if you wish others to hear you.”

“Yes Sir,” my voice shook.

He was using something broad and flat. By the third blow my pussy stung with the closeness of his blows, twisting, but not daring to move. Each blow was more painful than the last but also shunted the fear with something real and bearable. The shaking stopped. The pain was like a snake that moved with a tightening friction through my abdomen and breasts. When he stopped my thighs and blindfold were drenched with tears.

“What do you want?”

“To please your, Sir!”

“Then answer my question. When you uttered that little ‘Oh!’, what were you thinking?”

“That you— That you—“ I sniffled, “were interviewing me. You still are. You’re testing me. You said I could leave even if I signed the paper.”

I heard something. A sniff. A smile? I heard him unwrap something.

“Return to your seat and make sure that I can see your pussy, girl—your beautiful pussy.”

“Yes, Sir,” I made sure that he could see. As you read this, one paragraph quickly follows another, but there is no way to convey the passage of time other than to simply to tell you. The silences were long. The ligaments of my thighs were sore. The effect of the blindfold, of being told to display myself, prevented my mind from wandering. I wondered if he would speak again, if another command would follow, if every now and then he gazed at my pussy. Fear and arousal began to blur.

“Sir.”

“What is it?”

“I have to— I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Why?”

“To— to pee, Sir.”

“To piss? To piddle? To go wee?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“No,” he answered. “If you have to piddle, if you’re little pussy can’t hold it, you will nevertheless stay just as you are.”

“But—“

“Do I need to repeat myself, girl?”

“No, Sir.”

Nothing more was said and if an hour passed I couldn’t have said. At noon, perhaps, Ward instructed Sierra to fasten a leash to my neck. At intervals, he instructed Sierra to take me for a walk, to be sure I didn’t grow too stiff or uncomfortable. A walk meant crawling on hands and knees behind the couch, around Ward’s desk, down the hallway and back. By now the fullness of my bladder brought a sheen of sweat to my skin. Ward must have known. He stopped me in front of his desk late in the afternoon. I was still blindfolded. He had already instructed me to arch my back as I crawled. He wished to see my pussy at all times. I tried not to groan even as a trickle of moisture escaped and slipped down the inside of a thigh.

“But this isn’t piss, is it?”

“No, Sir,” I gasped.

I waited for Sierra to remove my blindfold or to raise me to my feet. I waited. “Sir?” I whispered hoarsely.

“I don’t see anything, pussy.”

My mouth hung open with discomfort. Here? Now? “Sir, I—”

“Did I say you could speak, girl? You can pee if you want to.”

But I couldn’t.

The elevator’s doors slid open. Footfall approached and tugged me by the leash back to the couch. I sat with my thighs spread.

“Did you bring the papers?” asked Ward.

“And then some,” answered another man. I heard movement, the sound of a suit’s fabric, then the weight of paper on the desk. All this happened as if I weren’t there. My odyssey had begun. I stood on a new island. If the men had talked about me, had said anything at all; but they said nothing to me or about me. The oceans were a dark sea of submission and humiliation and the roar of its waved beat in ears.

They discussed business and I trembled with the dark intoxication. The discussion ended, a protracted silence wound like a wire in my stomach, and I almost jumped when Ward spoke. “Miss Laurel, will come up to the office please?”

Another minute passed and I heard a woman’s high heels. Was she the woman in the lobby? The clack of her walk paused in front of me. Nothing was spoken but I heard her sudden surprise, a sudden intake of breath. I heard linen slide. I heard breathing, movement, a zipper. One of the men said, cooly: “Bend over.” Those two words again, always those two words, masculine, peremptory, unmistakable in meaning and intent. Then I heard her, but not words—the sudden inhalation; the unmistakable cry, the surprise and remembered pleasure. I echoed her, my own cry, and bit my lip.

Her cries were sharp and plaintive; each one fuller than the last.

“Miss Banes.”

“Yes, Mr. Ward.”

“Bring the slave to orgasm.”

I remained seated, thighs wide, ligaments aching. Until this moment I had never been in a room with others having sex. The sound of it, smell of it, and unable to see, was a red tide that flooded my lonely island. I felt Sienna’s present behind me, over me, then her finger’s tip on my clit. I trembled. My small cries joined those of the secretaries. I heard her long consummation and his. For an afternoon, thighs and stomach straining to withhold my need to urinate, the same muscles, in a mix of arousal and exhaustion, shuddered once and then sharply pulsed. I came. The noise of my own thudding heart, my choked cries, couldn’t stop the small spurts. Then a dribble. I trembled. “I’m sorry, Sir! I’m sorry!” I blurted. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean too!”

No one answered. I only heard bodies in motion, clothes being straightened, small steps taken.

“The back of your skirt please, Miss Laurel, push it down,” said Mr. Ward as if I weren’t in the room.

Lips.

I felt Sierra’s laps. She kissed mine and kissed beneath my ear, my neck and collar bone. “Did you enjoy your orgasm?” she asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“I am jealous,” she said, “just like that?”

“But—”

“But nothing,” she hummed almost melodically. “I’ll clean up. That was very little. You were very good, but how unexpected! And maybe you will be punished? But I don’t know. There’s not time for that.”

“You know the effect your merchandise has on me,” said the other man to Mr. Ward.

“Did you enjoy Miss Laurel?”

“Of course.” There was a pause. “Is she being auctioned tonight?”

“You mean the slave girl?”

“Yes.”

“She’s not a very well behaved.”

“The best kind, Ward; and pity that I should have to tell you so.”

“Yes, in answer to your question.”

“The starting bid?”

“Undecided.”

I heard a zipper and the snap of a suit jacket.

“Come, little one,” said Sierra. I stood and followed the tug of the leash.

“Miss Banes,” said Ward.

“Shave her.”

“Yes, Mr. Ward.”

“And don’t forget to pierce her.”

“Yes, Mr. Ward.”

The Auction

14954624I was barefoot and blindfolded. I wore nothing under my dress. The marble of the floors were cool. The moisture still dampening thighs dribbled down to one knee. Sienna gently slowed, then guided me through a door. We were in a bathroom. My arms had been fastened behind me, wrists to elbows. Guiding me into a stall, she lifted my dress and told me to squat.

“You are very brave.”

“I don’t feel brave,” I answered.

“They especially enjoyed your orgasm with theirs.”

When I was done she tugged on my leash, led me down an elevator, took me briefly outside and guided me into a car. I stretched my legs. I guessed that we were in a limousine. The fear, the novelty, the excitement worked like tightening bonds in my stomach. Sienna leaned and whispered in my ear.

“The driver wants to see more of you.”

“Now?” I answered.

“I am not your Master,” she said. “You don’t have to but he adjusts his rear view mirror to look at you.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the slave auction, where you will be bought, no doubt.”

“How far?”

“Only another ten minutes, I’m guessing. The auction house is a private residence.”

Then I sat in silence, in the darkness of the blindfold, rocked by the comforting motions of the road. I felt the dark tug of submission and humiliation that was like an etherous drug. I gradually spread my legs, letting my dress ride up, letting him see me, appraise me, objectify me—my cunt. I felt Sienna’s fingertip on my nipple. She circled with a feathery lightness, only the thin fabric of the dress between her finger and my nipple. My lips parted. My head fell back and I exhaled, arching. The car slowed to a stop too soon. The chauffeur door opened and I closed my legs. Sienna pulled my dress to my knees. My own door opened and I was made to stand. Sienna guided me, as did the chauffeur.

I felt the sun’s heat on my skin. I stood on warm gravel.

A door opened, the door of a house, and I heard footsteps approach in the gravel. “Is this the merchandise?”

“Yes, Mistress,” replied Sienna.

I jumped, startled, when I felt the palm of a hand press between my thighs, pressing the fabric of my dress against the wetness between them. The hand stayed there—the woman’s hand.

“Good girl,” she said, feeling he wetness. “You’ll fetch a good price. Ready for a cock’s mastering?”

“Answer the Mistress,” said Sienna gently.

“Yes, Mistress!”

“Good.” Her hand moved upward, then palmed my abdomen. “Strong. Healthy. Perfect for come.” Then she pinched my left nipple. I inhaled. “And sensitive.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good.” She released my nipple and already seemed to move onto other thoughts, walking away as she spoke. “Take the merchandise inside. Shave the girl. Clean her. Oil her inside and out. I think she would look more attractive with braids. Tie them up. Find some flowers and put them in her hair. Is she Hawaiian? I like her hair. You know the rest. Make sure she looks aroused—nipple piercing should help with that.”

I felt a tug at the leash, I followed.

My skin rose with goosebumps as I was led into the house, out of the sun. I liked the smell, an earthy and leafy smell suggesting I was in the shade of tropical leaves, that the windows of the house were opened, that if my blindfold were removed I might have a view of the ocean through the leaves of a coconut palm. “What does the house look like?” I asked Sienna as she carefully guided me down some stairs.

“The man who owns it is very wealthy. Very modern. If you removed your blindfold, you would see the ocean is now several miles away, but it is beautiful and blue. You will like the house when you see it. There is a balcony that goes almost all the way around. The man who owns the house hosts the auction. He bids on a new slave girl every year and perhaps he will buy you.”

A mixture of anticipation, fear, and just as quickly shame—I already wished this mean would be my owner.

At the bottom of the stairway the air was cooler. We turned into what I guessed was a room. I could hear the broad-leaved trees, and felt a breeze through what must have been an open window. I also heard running water, but that was from within the room. I smelled teakwood.

Sienna remained with me and two others joined her I knew by heir hands. They untied my wrists from my elbows, let me stretch, and removed my dress. I was naked. No one spoke, but little by little my skin was washed. Linen moved over my nipples, between legs and over my anus. They cleaned between my toes and fingers. And then, after doing what seemed to take so little time, they once more draw my wrists behind me, up and tied them each to the opposite elbow. I felt the motion of my leash.

“I have fastened your leash to a restraint in the ceiling,” said Sienna. “You are free to walk as far as the leash will allow you, my sweet slave. I am invited to a lunch. I will bring you back a treat, something small that no one will notice. If I could, I would bring you back a little of everything, but you are a slave now. Be brave. I am not far.”

Only after she left did I notice that I wasn’t alone. I heard breathing. I heard movement, slight, and like my own. I slowly wondered if I were in a room with other slaves, also readied to be sold who, like me, were naked, wrists and arms bound, tied by the neck to leashes that would only let us wander in the confines of the room.

At first I didn’t move. I didn’t dare to. What if they weren’t slaves?

But perhaps I stood for an hour. My calves began to ache. My back grew sore with the lack of motion. I could hear restlessness elsewhere in the room. Elsewhere in the house, far enough removed that I couldn’t discern words, I heard laughter and conversation, and the occasional peal of wine glasses. My isolation gnawed. Once more the dark heat of fear and eroticism was like a damp lantern in my abdomen. My breathing faltered. I cried out as if startled by nothing. No one else answered but I heard their breathing. I heard someone groan. Someone was having sex.

I took a step toward the sound of the wind. I took another and another.

Maybe she hadn’t fastened the leash? Maybe I could go to the window. I could climb out. I could run. I was certain I could quickly rub off the blindfold. I bumped into someone else, also naked. I would have cried out, but coughed instead. The length of the leash yanked at my collar. I was like an animal, a slave, a piece of property leashed in a back room.

“Hey,” the man’s voice was almost a whisper. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I stuck out my tongue and swallowed.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” I said again. I moved as close to the window as the leash would allow. “Are you— Are you—“

“A slave?”

“Yes.”

“A slave,” I laughed nervously. “I can’t believe I just asked if you were another slave.” The noise of the sex, though still restrained, was louder now. “So, guys can be sex slaves too?”

“Yeah, sure.”

My mind raced. I needed to talk. Anything. “So, have you done this before?”

“No. How ‘bout you?”

“No!”

“Yeah, you sound pretty nervous.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“So, how long have you been here?”

“Maybe an hour or two?”

I bit my lip. I didn’t know what else to say. I jumped when I heard his lips almost next to my ear. “Hear those two fucking?”

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“We could fuck too.”

The floor felt as if it had fallen out from under me. My heart raced. I swallowed. Before I could answer his lips pressed to mine. We kissed. Lips. Tongue. I needed it all. I was frightened, but to be touched was less frightening than to be alone. He lips moved to my throat, then lower until he’d sucked my breast into his mouth. I exhaled. “Are you’re hands tied behind you?”

He release my tit from the suction of lips and tongue. “Yes.”

“What if they found out?”

“Suck my cock.”

“What?”

“Suck my cock,” he said again. “Please, slave. Suck my cock.”

I didn’t know what to do. Once again the floor fell out from under me. He was as frightened as I was, and as desperate with the eroticism of fear. I kissed him. I kissed his throat. I licked his chest. I bit his nipple. He groaned.

I bent over, kissed the muscles of his abdomen. I could smell him, his sex, his cock, his musk. I knelt.

“Please,” he said again.

I searched for him with my lips and tongue, then found him. He was rigid. Thick. I wondered if it was painful for a man’s cock to be so enraged. The heat brushed my lips and cheek. I took him in my mouth—pity and my own need to touch. He groaned. He shuddered.

I sucked him, knees apart, hands bound behind me. I wanted to cup his balls, to know the pleasure of his muscles , but I was only my mouth—my own humiliation and arousal. My leash softly thwacked his abdomen as I sucked.

“Thank you,” he breathed.

I didn’t hurry. The sounds of celebration, conversation and civilization continued on another floor. Bereft of freedom, vulnerable and leashed, one slave sucked another. Elsewhere in the room other salves had paired. I heard them groan. Their cries, like mine, were a mix of pleasure, trepidation and escape. We surely were all blindfolded, all leashed, all unable to touch but with mouths, cunts and cocks. I licked, I took his balls in my mouth. He twitched and gave an almost panicked cry. I quickly leaned back. I glanced over my shoulder as though I could see. I couldn’t but I heard no one coming.

“Please,” he whispered.

My tongue found him, tasted semen. I licked the long drip of semen from the underside of his cock. His balls dripped with semen and I took them in my mouth, one after the other, until his was clean. The distant noise of the party had quieted. I heard someone speaking. He trembled. I only had to hold him in my mouth and he came. Powerful spurts. I waited on my knees, holding him in my mouth, swallowing until I was sure he was done.

He exhaled.

I stood. We kissed.

“I want to fuck you,” he said. I bit his lip until he squirmed.

I was aroused but I returned to the center of the room. This was what I wanted. I held onto my desire, my need to be penetrated, like a burning coal, There was nothing left of my fear but cinders and ashes.

The noise of the party had ceased. I could hear the scrape of chairs and the movement of feet from one room to another, to a stairway, to a hall. New sounds emanated from the outside. The sounds of evening. I would be auctioned soon. Footsteps entered into the room—several. One of them was Sienna. She took my leash and tugged. I followed.

“Oh,” she said, pausing, “I see.” She wiped my chin. “Did you receive semen anywhere else?”

“No!”

“I won’t tell a soul. Your secret is safe with me. Always. Even from your Master. Sometimes a woman must take what she must take and the reasons for it need no explanation. Good for you.”

A few short steps further and we entered another room.

“Afix the merchandise to the chair,” said a man.

I felt too sets of hands. They released my arms from their bondage. I winced with stiffness. They turned me and made me sit on what felt like the edge of a stool. A gasped with surprise when they spread my knees, then cried out when my thighs were stretched further by ropes that bound my ankles to my thighs, that split me impossibly open. Another drew my wrists behind me, bound them together, then tied my wrists to my hair, forcing my head back, my wrists up, and my breasts forward. I could move. My breathing came in short bursts, half with the stretched discomfort of my position.

Though I couldn’t see, I felt that everyone moved with purpose and precision.

I gasped when I felt metal against my thigh. They were shaving me. I could do nothing. I couldn’t move and understood the reason. He was firm. He pinched the thin skin between my thigh and entry between his finger finger. He let the razor slide icily over my tendons. I shook and my breath turned to grunts as the unforgiving discomfort of my bondage only seemed to tighten. My body was rubbed with oil. My hair was braided and I felt the stems of flowers against my scalp.

“Pierce her nipples.” My barber spoke with a clinical efficiency.

Two sets of hands pulled at my nipples. Rolled them. Tugged them. My breaths turned to pitched cries, short, sharp, like the panicked appeals of a trapped bird.

“I know of a slave girl,” said Sienna, lips at my ear, “whose arrival was delayed such that she was purchased by her master before she was shaved and pierced into slavery.” She pressed her finger into my mouth.

“Suck. Comfort yourself little one,” she said.

“And when her master saw her, as you are now, he was inflamed by desire.”

My eyes rolled when the fleshy thumb of my barber pressed against my clit, kneading, pressing, and pressing the fragrance of oil around and into me. I groaned. The immobility of my pain began to transform—pain and pleasure flowed one into the other. The barber pressed oil into my anus. My hands clenched and released.

“He withdrew his cock. He knelt between her stretched thighs, just as you are now. Her cunt was there for the taking, open, inviting. He waited. And then, just as she was about to orgasm—“

I screamed.

My womb and anus were pierced. I stiffened but my orgasm was thwarted.

As my bondage was undone, I was lifted to my feet. “It is a glittering diamond,” said Sienna, behind me.

“What is?”

“The device in your anus.”

My pelvis swiveled. My nipples were two pin-pricks of pain. But not entirely pain. I wanted them to be assuaged, suckled, comforted. I ached for the orgasm that had escaped me.

Once more Sienna tugged on my leash.

Then at last, having left the room, she removed my blindfold. I stood in front of a mirror. My skin was a sheen of oil. I saw myself shaved. My cunt gleamed, was smooth and girlish. My tits were thick and yearned for the lip. They were pierced by two golden rings. I bead of desire already formed at my lip. My belly was smooth. I was ready to be fucked and owned. Sienna gestured to high heeled shoes. I bit my lip.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’ve never really worn high heeled shoes.”

“Ha!” She smiled. “Then your awkwardness will be charming.”

“What if I can’t!”

“I will catch you.”

I pressed a toe into the tip, heel lifted, then pressed my foot into the shoe, then the other. I had never worn high heels as extreme as these . My posture changed, breasts thrust forward, pussy and ass lifted behind me. I turned, unsteadily, looking at myself. The diamond plug in my ass, that I might have hidden, glittered beneath the hook of my spine.

“You are trembling again,” Sienna smiled.

“I’ve never seen myself like this.”

“As an utterly sexual object?” she said. “The men will compete for you, will bid for you, will pay to be the man who fucks you.”

“How strange.”

“And yet?”

“Needing to know nothing more about a woman. Just this.” I ran my hands over my breasts, hips, then inward. “And this,” I said. “There’s nothing more to a man than this, is there?” I slipped a finger into the entry between my thighs, then sliding upwards crossed my fingers over the flat oval of my belly. “No price he won’t pay for this, for my body, to orgasm here.”

“And yet?”

“That this is what attracts a man—and not the woman. “And yet, how strange that knowing what he wants—” I slipped my finger into the crease of my cunt, shuddered, and drew my wetness over my belly, “makes me ready—makes me want to give him what he wants.”

“Are you ashamed of this?”

“Should I be?”

“No,” said Sienna. “Be whoever you want to be. Why should your story be like anyone else’s” She gently pulled my wrists behind me. This time the bondage wasn’t painful. I pair of golden cuffs affixed my writs at the small of my back, not crossed, but held by a glittering chain between the cuffs.

“Blind fold?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Now you will see everything—and the men who will bid to own you, to fuck you, and command you.”

I trembled again.

“But one last piece of advice,” said Sienna. “Many slaves fall in love with their masters. And many slaves marry their masters. But for the next year you will live as if under a spell, a charm that you and your Master will create together. My advice to you, if you fall in love with your master, that you never utter love’s name. Strive in every other way, with every deed and act of submission, to express your love. And if you are to fall in love with your Master, and he with you, speaking love’s name won’t be necessary.”

I leaned and I kissed Sienna.

And then, with reluctance, she broke the kiss and led me to a green door, wood stained green, at the end of the hallway. I was surrounded by wealth. The walls of the hall were bamboo, and the floor was teak, and recessed lights lit the hallway. Still trembling, Sienna pushed the door open and led me in.

At first I could see no one, blinded by a light the shone only on me. I knew the room was full. I could hear their breaths, their sudden conversation at the sight of me, some laughter, but not unkind. And they clapped. I was on a stage and men and women sat at round tables below me. They were dressed in black—tuxedos for the men and exquisite black dresses for the women. I stood before them, naked, ready to be fucked. At the end of a stage stood Mr. Ward behind a podium.

Sienna brought me to the middle of the stage and left me there. There were immediately two women, also slaves, wearing nothing but a chain around their waist and pierced nipples. But one girl wasn’t fully naked. I saw what looked like a bikini buttom, but was metal, gold, and I knew that the cup penetrated her by the way she moved—held in place by the chain at her waist. They placed a bar, a spreader bar, at my feet.

“Spread your legs, girl.”

I wasn’t even sure who spoke. I obeyed. My ankles were fastened to the spreader bar.

Ward struck the podium with a gavel. The room quieted. My heart flooded my senses with a beating tide. I know that my stomach and thighs quivered. I knew that they appraised my cunt and my tits, none of which I could hide from them. I could see, in the audience, that some of the women, unhurriedly, stroked the cocks of the men sitting next to them. “Who will be bidding?” Ward asked. “Please raise your cards.”

14600746

Over half a dozen men raised a card.

I shook. I quickly glanced at the men, and my eyes widened. Him!—the man from the hotel! And he looked just as stunned to see me—the girl! The girl who turned him down. The girl who betrayed him. Absurd, stupid thoughts! I averted my gaze but where else was I going to look? Anyone but him! Not like this!

Ward gestured to me. His finger turning. The two slavegirls returned and turned me around. Then one of them lowered a black, silken, rope with which the hooked my hand cuffs. Then, pulling the rope, they lifted my wrists behind me and forced me to bend over,. legs spread by the spreader bar, to be appraised from behind—cunt and the diamond in my ass visible to all A girl, in high heels, to be mounted. There was appreciative murmuring and discussion.

I closed my eyes, imagining anyone but him.

“The bidding will start at 100,000 dollars.” Ward struck the gavel. “150,000! Do I have 200,000?” he asked, as if they bid on the value of my cunt, and they did. “200,000! Do I have 250? 250? 300! Do I have 350?Yes, Madame. 400. Do I have 5? 500,000? Do I have 6. 750,000. Do I have 8? 800,000! Do I have 1,000,000 dollars for the girl? One million! Do I have 1,100,000? Yes. 1,100,000!”

I descended into the dark waters of my desire, the blood of an ocean, beating, living, grinding civility into grains of sand. Moisture dripped down my thigh, the hollow of my knee, and to my ankle—for all to see. What were my tits, my ass, and my cunt worth?

“1,800,000! Do I have two million? 2,100,000. Do I have 2,250,000? 2,250,000! Do I have 2,300,000?”

I was sweating under the stage light. Sweat dripped from my nipples, thick and protruding, ready to be sucked, ready to be mounted, ready to swing with the weight of a man’s thrusts.

“4, 250,000! Going once! Going twice!”

The gavel struck.

“Sold.”

William Crimson | March 1 2018

Latest Comments

  1. darkfriday1408 says:

    Very nice!

    I really liked the entire setting and how everything was portrayed.

    Was she bought by the man she meet and the bar and turned down or was she bought by someone else?

    Also, will the story be continued?

    Good luck and happy writing.

    • willcrimson says:

      Thank you so much for writing. =)

      As to your question… ha! You know, I left it that way on purpose. Do you want him to be her owner? I promise I’ll write the next chapter so you find out.

    • darkfriday1408 says:

      Thank you for answering.

      I think it would be interesting to see him being her owner. It would be interesting to see how she would feel about that considering that she rejected him and it would also be interesting to see if he might treat her differently because of that.

    • willcrimson says:

      I like how you think. Maybe we should find out…

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