by Trent Evans
She stilled against her bar, her body rigid, the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears. This was nothing like what she’d anticipated, and standing there, bound, blindfolded in that building, with strange people all around her, she suddenly felt the unease tip over into fright.
Where was Kurt?
Before he’d been the first one to make himself known, and it turned out, he’d been the last to. But that had been enough. His was the beacon she kept in sight, the base for her sortie into the depths of submission, objectification, and ultimately, surrender.
Now though, she was truly at sea. Adrift. While on one hand it spoke to her need for adventure, on the other she felt lost — and not in a good way either. She needed her husband, her Owner, there with her. If only just to feel the strength in those hands, knowing he was molding her into something he wanted, he desired. Then everything would be possible, she’d make herself open to anything, as long as he found it pleasing.
Perhaps this feeling of loss is what pleases him. Can you endure that? Can you find grace in this too?
Pulling at her bonds, shaking her head in vain against the blindfold, she knew she was about to find out.
Chapter Four
Kurt laid a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “Just find a seat toward the front. Best view up there.”
Derek walked as if a zombie, his feet shuffling practically of his or her own accord. Though he counted himself as an imaginative sort, Kurt’s words really hadn’t prepared him for what he found in that huge barn. The center of the expansive space was dominated by a semi-circle of seats, all facing a fenced off circle, perhaps ten feet across. The seats were only half-filled, dozens of other people milling about at either side. Along the one side of the seating area, a large group filed lazily along a bank of wood-walled enclosures, alcoves really, three enclosed sides, totally open to the throng outside.
He’d thought it resembled a parody of horse stalls, though these were much smaller, and no other accoutrement of a stall could be seen.
Except perhaps the whips.
The long, thin menace of various black whips hung from the walls of each enclosure, and more than one onlooker availed themselves of them, testing the snapping bite of the implements on the trembling hides of the unfortunate occupants of the stalls.
The sharp sound came down again (he’d heard it when Kurt first led him into the stunning scene), and Derek turned toward it. Beyond the fenced circle, a polished wood lectern stood, attended by a tall, trim man. He was graying at the temples, but the width of his shoulders and the strong jaw bespoke a man very much still in the prime of vigor.
Derek tilted his head. “Is that what I think it is?”
“The gavel? Tradition.” Kurt grimaced. “Makes me think of those fucking courtroom shows on TV. No judges here though — only sellers and buyers.”
“Sellers of what?”
Kurt nodded toward the row of stalls. “What do you think?”
Jesus.
“Selling … them?” Derek looked to that fenced circle. “Permanently?”
“Just for a term, mostly.” Kurt squeezed Derek’s shoulder. “Hang tight, I’ll be right back.”
“Um, okay.”
He watched Kurt sidle through the rows of seats and make a beeline for a man and woman standing with a group of people toward the back of the seating area. The man Kurt spoke with looked younger, perhaps barely into his thirties, muscular, with close-cropped hair, and dressed in an impeccably cut black suit. His female companion, a stunning woman with hair a shocking blonde so pale as to be almost white, stood close to him, arm entwined with his. She wore an elegant full-length dress of deepest green, which hugged her lithe figure. Kurt gestured back toward Derek and the man and woman glanced his way, the glint in both sets of eyes visible even at that distance.
He swallowed.
Way out of your depth here, pal. What are you doing here?
Kurt and the couple made their way toward Derek, and he straightened his spine, turning their way and plastering on a friendly smile. He noticed one more figure then, another woman, a brunette with a pile of sable hair atop her head. She appeared quite tall, her long form wrapped in diaphanous black fabric that opened widely at the neck, leaving the soft inner curves of her breasts plainly visible. The outfit tapered down to just above the sex, where a large burnished ring clasped the garment together. Below the clasp, the fabric split daringly high up the legs, exposing smooth, pale inner thighs as she walked. Despite her height, the clasp of the garment nonetheless helped emphasize the surprising flare of wide hips, so unlike what one would expect in such a tall girl. She kept her eyes downcast, following the blonde woman at a discreet distance. Derek’s eyes took in what he’d at first assumed was a choker type necklace, but as the group drew closer it was clear it was nothing of the sort.
A fucking collar?
Wrapping around her slim throat — rather snugly, he thought — it was a band of smooth black leather, inlaid with the glittering sparkle of small gemstones, perhaps even diamonds.
“Here, I’d like you two to meet someone.” Kurt extended a hand. “This is my good friend, Derek York.”
The man took Derek’s hand in a sure grip, winking at him. “Kurt’s not fucking around I see. Dropped you straight into the viper’s nest.”
“This is Blaine Forster.” Kurt nodded toward the blonde. “And his wife, Kathryn.”
The woman’s cool hand took Derek’s in a soft, yet assured motion, a wry smile curving lips that shimmered with a pale gloss. “Pleasure, Mr. York. I hope Kurt’s treating you well?”
“So far, but it’s early and he’s not done drinking yet.”
Kathryn allowed him a warm smile. Blaine’s laughter held the easy confidence of money and power, but Derek was nonetheless relieved he hadn’t sounded like a jackass. Kurt hadn’t told him he’d be rubbing shoulders with fucking Illuminati types.
He also didn’t tell you there’d be an auction of random chicks either, dumbass.
Kurt looked beyond Kathryn at the woman behind her. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I’ve … ”
Kathryn’s eyes slid to Blaine a moment, then she turned, a lacquered nail pointing at the floor. The tall woman sank to her knees in a fluid motion, without a hint of hesitation.
Kathryn’s fingers absently played with the sable curls piled atop the kneeling woman’s head. “This is Erica.”
Blaine smiled at the two men. “She hasn’t been with us long, but as you can see.” He tilted a head toward his wife. “Kathryn’s brought her along quite well, all things considered.”
Kathryn’s slender fingers lifted Erica’s chin, her cold, blue eyes staring down at the silent, kneeling woman.
“Well, we’ve got some rounds to make,” Blaine said, nodding toward his wife.
With a snap of Kathryn’s fingers the mute Erica rose, her eyes not leaving the floor.
“Glad-handing and back-slapping. Never fucking ends.” Blaine clapped Derek’s shoulder. “Good to meet you, my friend. Enjoy yourself.”
Before Derek could respond, the couple was off, melting back into the milling crowd. Erica lifted her eyes, giving Derek a small smile, then followed the couple into the throng.
Ho-ly shiz-nit.
Kurt and Derek took a seat, the rows around them beginning to fill with people. Cigarette smoke, perfume and the scent of the barn itself fused into an odd, but not unappealing, olfactory combination, the sense of anticipation rising like the low hum of an audience as a symphony tunes its instruments.
“Uh, who were they? Was he a CEO or something?”
Kurt chuckled. “Funny you’d say that. That happens to be exactly what Blaine is — among other things. Wife’s a lawyer.”
“Seems like a tough chick.” The absurdity of the statement did not prevent it from rolling off Derek’s lips.
Kurt glanced over at him. “Shark. Rip your fucking balls off, man.”
Remembering the predatory gleam, the hard possessiveness he saw i
n the woman’s eyes as she glared down at Erica, had Derek thinking the woman had other things in mind than tearing off mens’ nuts.
The overhead lights dimmed and the tall man at the lectern gaveled down once more. “Call to order! Call to order. Trust quarterly auction. What have we for terms?”
Some of the crowd remained standing at either side of the seats, most of them watching the proceedings avidly. The crowd at the left parted, a stocky, dark-haired man leading a shapely woman by the arm down to the fenced circle at the center of the viewing area. The man whispered something to her, and she raised her chin, acknowledging him with a quick incline of her head. He opened a section of the circular railing, swinging it wide, and the woman stepped inside.
Derek sat forward, the beat of his heart gathering into a gallop.
The woman stood at the front of the circular railing, facing the crowd, gazing straight ahead, yet at no person in particular. A woman of striking beauty, her burnished ringlets fell about her face in a fetching auburn cascade, contrasting the pale perfection of her skin. She wore a simple, yet tasteful evening gown of muted cream, the swell of her bosom, and broad beam of her hips hinting at a figure in the fullest flush of womanhood.
The man with her stepped before the lectern, his arm outstretched toward the woman standing within the circle. “A lady for term of service, Sir.”
“Mr. Broughton, who is this person standing in the dock?” The laconic delivery spoke of rote memorization — or ritual.
“Stanton Broughton,” Kurt whispered. “Big shot in metals. Got mines in Montana, South Africa, several other places.”
“Who’s she?” He was struck by the way her big eyes caught the light from overhead, sparkling with it.
“That’s his … holy shit.” Kurt chuckled softly. “I can’t believe it … ”
“My wife, Shae is being put up for a term.” Stanton snapped a glance at his wife. “Length of service shall be up to the session, Sir.”
A wave of murmurs swept through the attendees.
The man at the lectern cleared his throat, flipping a page over. “We haven’t had the wife of a Prime go up for a term in … a long while. The session would like to know why.”
Derek turned to Kurt. “A Prime? What …?”
“I’ll tell you later.” Kurt nudged Derek’s shoulder. “Keep watching.”
Stanton squared his shoulders, taking a step toward the lectern. “The reasons aren’t important. I am putting her up for a term of service. She’s agreed to it.”
The man at the lectern sighed, his microphone picking it up as almost a hum. “There are, of course, no specific prohibitions against such a thing, but the session suggests some background might be useful in determining the length of service.”
Stanton clasped his hands behind his back. “I’ve decided that—”
“Stanton, please! Don’t … ”
The woman had turned toward her husband, reaching out with one hand, the other over her mouth.
He strode to her, and whispered something to her that Derek couldn’t make out. The woman nodded once, then dropped her gaze to the floor, turning once more toward the watching crowd.
Stanton returned to the lectern, arms once more clasped behind his back. “I’ve decided that she needs to learn discipline. She’s grown … soft. I’m unable to attend to her as she needs, so a term would seem a logical choice.”
“There are other … ways.” The man at the lectern fixed Stanton with a hard gaze. “You know she will be given no leniency. No special treatment whatsoever.”
“As our laws state.” Stanton took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m aware — we’re both aware — of this.”
“Very well.” The man at the lectern nodded, and two hulking men strode to the dock. Their black gloves startled Derek, and the entire space grew dead silent, rapt at the sight before them. The pair of men held Shae by the upper arms as if she might flee at any moment.
“Shae Elise Broughton, do you enter into service to the Trust by your choice, free of any coercion?”
She flinched slightly, then firmed her chin. “I do.”
The man at the lectern snapped his gaze to Shae’s husband. “Stanton Edward Broughton, do you release your wife into service to the Trust by your will, free of any coercion?”
“I do.” Stanton’s hands clenched into fists behind his back. “Take good care of her.”
The slight difference in wording between the two questions wasn’t lost on Derek, though he had no clue what that might signify. There were so many questions swirling in his mind now, his head was spinning.
“It is done then.” The gavel came down twice, the sound so jarring, Derek jerked in his seat. A startled woman behind them laughed nervously. “The session pronounces Shae Elise Broughton, henceforth referred to as ‘S’, as under the service and protection of the Trust for a period of no less than six months from this date.”
The crowd gasped.
“What?” Derek turned to Kurt. “I mean, what does …?”
Kurt winced. “Usually it’s a month or two, at most. This is …unusual.”
Stanton looked back at the crowd, the fingers of his clenched fists white, then strode to the dock, shouldering aside one of the mountainous men holding his wife. He leaned close, whispering to Shae, then brushed his lips across her cheek.
Tears coursed down her face, their tracks glistening in the harsh overhead lights. She seemed to sag in the grip of the two men, as without another glance back at her, Stanton stalked off into the crowd.
Several men stood and made their way closer to the front, and the viewers stirred, the energy of the crowd transforming.
“Strip her.” There were eager male sounds from the group who’d drawn closer. The man at the lectern swept the gathered men with a basilisk gaze. “There will be no touching. She’ll be displayed for review in the pens afterward. You can get your fill then.”
The two silent, gloved monsters divested the woman of her rich dress with lightning speed, her breasts wobbling in the clutch of a black lace brassiere. One man held her by the shoulders in an iron grip, while the other knelt and assisted her out of her silk hold-ups. The bra was unsnapped and it fluttered to the floor, the kneeling man snatching the panties down the thighs in a rough motion that had her body shuddering.
Both standing once more, the foreboding men flanked the nude, trembling woman, her head hanging down, a red flush suffusing her upper chest. She was well formed, looking to be in her late twenties, but was perhaps overripe, an exaggerated roundness to her belly, thighs a trifle too lush. Her breasts were buoyant, their paleness contrasting against the rosy nipples standing upright despite the warmth of the space. Regardless of whether or not he found this whole thing irretrievably fucked up (he did), Derek found her quite interesting indeed, and despite the surreal nature of the proceedings, he found himself leaning forward in anticipation, his cock an iron hard bar of need between his legs.
Who knew forced exhibitionism appealed this much to you? Perv.
Looking around him though at the people nearby, he realized he was in good company. Kurt sat silent, stroking the stubble at his chin, a glint in his eyes as he stared at the display up front.
“Have I a bid, then?” The man at the lectern pointed the handle of the gavel at the audience. “Starts at fifty thousand.”
“Fifty … Jesus H.” Derek leaned toward Kurt. “They aren’t talking about house credits or fake money are they?”
Kurt shook his head. “The real deal. This is just getting started. You’ll see.”
The bids came in fast, each bidder holding up what looked like a varnished wood fan or placard. It seemed as if half the people in the audience placed bids, but as the tally approached six figures, only a handful of bidders, three men, and surprisingly, one woman, remained.
“Bidding is at ninety seven thousand. Do I have one hundred?” The gavel waved at the men holding Shae, who turned her around, jostling her between them as if she weighed nothing at all
.
Several whistles could be heard as the crowd got a look at the woman’s ass.
“What the fuck, Kurt? Is that what I think it is?” Derek’s head shook, and he rubbed the palm of his hand over his lips. This was something else indeed.
“This isn’t her first time up for a term,” Kurt whispered. “In fact, I think that’s how they met. You’ll have to ask him sometime.”
“Yeah, okay dick.” Derek scowled at his friend. “I’ll just ask the dude why his wife has a letter branded on her ass.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll bet he’d love to talk about it with you.” Kurt elbowed Derek in the ribs. “Later though. Pay attention to this. It’s important.”
The men held her tight between them, the woman’s bottom rippling and shaking as she struggled against the grip of their pitiless hands. Her ass was broad, well fleshed and soft, and like the rest of her, it was, despite being slightly overripe, very attractive. Looking upon it, Derek’s thoughts were decidedly impure. But his eye kept being drawn back to the letter B emblazoned on the woman’s left buttock. Perhaps two or three inches tall, the scarring of the brand had faded quite a bit, and the mark itself was paler than he would have expected, but it was clearly visible, burned indelibly into the vulnerable flesh.
“I’ve got a bid of one twenty five, but on one condition.” A tall man, with avid, sparkling blue eyes stepped forward, his placard held high. “I want to see if my money’s well spent.”
The man at the lectern narrowed his eyes, then nodded toward the two figures holding Shae. They forced her to bend until her upper body was perpendicular with the floor, her breasts swinging below her. Her grunts were muffled from her position. One of the men slapped a big-gloved palm onto her ass, his fingers easing apart her cleft.
The sex was wet, swollen, and aside from the dark curls atop her mound, bare. The dark anus cringed within the valley of the buttocks, the woman yelping as the big palm patted the sex with a moist sound.
“I bid one twenty five then,” the young man said, smiling, his gaze firing.
“Apparently met specifications?” Derek cringed at his snark. This was not a snark-worthy situation. This was run outta here as fast as your legs can carry you, shit.
