Sex Slave at the Auction (2 page)

I won’t even attempt to eavesdrop, but
looking at the bent heads and how close they are standing while
talking to each other, I’m willing to hazard the guess that
whatever they had is far from over.

Max was right.

This is seriously fucked up.

2

Yeah, I know we are fucked up. Human beings
are essentially fucked up in one way or another, some more than
others. But I have no time to contemplate the mysteries of mankind
because it’s now time for my TALENTIME.

Would you believe it? I don’t believe they
even called it ‘Talentime’. I haven’t done of these since I was in
middle school.

We are all backstage and dressed up. Well,
if you can consider what we are wearing ‘dressed’. My
performance
requires a certain amount of delicacy, and thus
I am decked in a gaudy bikini – all blue neoprene. I feel like an
inflated sex doll. I even have a blue jewel in my belly button.
Everything is strategically designed for what I must do.

I have something else inside me, tucked deep
within my pussy. As a result, I can’t walk that well. Correction: I
can’t walk that well
gracefully
. I have to do my best to
totter around in my blue high heels and not stumble doing it.

Everyone has their own routine. Their own
sexual circus act. All are designed to humiliate us and titillate
our illustrious spectators. All are designed to show off what we
can do to our best of our abilities. We are not allowed to ask one
another to describe our set pieces. That way, we are directly in
competition with one another, just like in the chariot race.

We can hazard guesses about the other acts,
however, from the apparatuses we are carrying. Mine is hard to
decipher, seeing as my naughty bits are all covered up by
neoprene.

“What’s your act?” Alice demands. She is
dressed up rather prettily with Chinese fans. Or at least, those
fans are strategically placed upon her breasts and pussy, and she
has chopsticks in her hair.

“Oh come on, Alice, you know I can’t tell
you that.”

She gives me the once over.

“Striptease?” she says slyly. “Believe me,
sweetheart, you have nothing much to offer.”

“Oh, I’ll have plenty more to offer than
you.” I puff up my chest. My breasts are larger than hers even
though I’m not as tall, and I’m right proud of it.

We are both aware that Max and Greg are
within spitting distance and taking in every comma of our barbed
exchange.

“Alice,” Max says, “leave Gina alone.”

Alice smirks at me. “Won’t be seeing you
around much longer, I’m glad to say.” She turns and walks off.

What does she mean by that? I frown. Does
she know something I don’t?

Max is clad in a fishing net which is nicely
wrapped around his genitals so that his bulge is very prominent. He
carries a trident. I’m not quite sure what effect they are aiming
for – fisherman’s wharf or Poseidon. (
And where will the blunted
end of that trident go?)

Greg is going for a baseball theme. He wears
a baseball cap and a jockstrap, and he swings a baseball bat and
carries a couple of baseballs.
What does he intend to do with
those?
He catches my concerned look and flashes me a bruised
grin as though to say, ‘Yeah, life is a bitch’.

It
is
that bad.

One by one, we are led out to the stage
inside the darkened hall Greg and I performed on the night we were
crowned victors of the race. Backstage, we can only listen to the
applause, whoops and whistles for each performer above the canned
music.

Alice scores a thunderous response, whatever
she is doing.
Yeah, she would
, my jealous heart mutters. I’m
well aware her parents are in the audience watching her do whatever
it was she did, and to still garner that sort of applause without
getting flustered in front of her folks is nothing short of
amazing.

It takes a person of certain strength to do
it. And also . . . a certain inclination.

I’m sure how I perform tonight will go a
long way in factoring how I will be perceived by my potential
buyers. So Max and I won the foot race – that has to be a good
thing. But now, I’m doing this completely on my own.

My palms are clammy as the emcee calls my
name. I recognize his voice. It’s the ringmaster from my previous
sexual display. The one who whipped Max as though the latter is a
tethered, misbehaving stallion while he was made to fuck me, his
filly.

Gawd. Will he whip me too if I stumble?

I step onto the stage. The hall is as I
remembered it, and the audience is seated almost as they were. This
time, the stage is bare except for the glaring spotlights trained
on it. Russell and Max’s mother are seated in the front row.

I can see the black movie star, the
ex-supermodel and her lesbian lover, the sheikh, the African
leader, the tennis player, the Spanish soccer star and the
dictator. All eyes are riveted upon me on the stage. An aura of
expectation hangs in the stilted air-conditioned atmosphere. A
trickle of sweat runs through the cleft between my buttocks.

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.