Sold!..To The Highest Bidder

by Reese Gabriel

  Truly, I was a slave, despite my vague protests to the contrary.

  As soon as the men let go of me I fell to the floor. On my belly at their feet. Naked collared. The inked number on my twitching buttocks, and again on my soft, round tit.

  “Fuck her good,” I heard Hook Nose tell the others, their voices somewhere infinitely high up past their black boots that filled my line of vision. “Then bring her to the branding room.”

  HookNose’s boots left the room. The other two moved directly over me. I began to pant. I was going to be used. As a slave girl.

  “Turn over, cunt,” said one. Something hot and fast and leather cracked on my arse. “Now.”

  I rolled to my back, instinctively spreading my legs.

  “This one’s a quick learner,” said the one holding the belt.

  “She ain’t learned nothing yet,” the second replied, unzipping his pants.

  “Then we’ll teach her.” The belt lashed my breasts. The pain was terrible, but I made no move to protect them from a second blow.

  “Spread ‘em wider, slut,” the belt wielder was saying.

  I barely had time to accommodate the gargantuan penis. I thought it would split me open, but still I took it, whining and begging for more. The man’s face was beet red as he pumped himself in and out.

  “Jesus,” he kept muttering, looking like he might explode. At the last minute, just before coming, he pulled his cock out and aimed at my belly. I took the full load over my stomach and breasts.

  “Shit,” the other grumbled. “I ain’t touching that. You got her all jismed up.”

  “Quit your whining,” snapped the first as he got back up. “Just do her from behind.”

  “Fuck that shit!” The belt soared high and landed on my right thigh. Again, I made no move to protect myself. “Clean that shit off, cunt! All of it!”

  I moved to sit up but his boot pressed on my throat. “Scoop it off with your hands,” he demanded. “I wanna see you eat it.”

  Thus was I made to wipe the first man’s come off me, two sets of eyes upon me as I licked my palm again and again till it was clean of the milky discharge.

  “Eyes open,” he warned when I tried to spare myself the shame of having them look at me.

  Wistfully, I thought of Rainier’s emissions and how I’d treasured them during our love making sessions. If so much as a drop were spilled, I would lovingly clean it with my tongue. For hours after being made love to, I would lie beside him on my back, feeling his come seeping inside me or down my legs. Likewise, his marks upon my body, the welts from the crop, the bruises from the cane, and best of all, the hot imprints of his hand, molding, punishing me. Marking me.

  Unwittingly, my hand strayed to my crotch.

  “Hands over your head,” the man barked, cracking the belt over my crotch, stinging both my hand and the nether lips beneath.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  He whipped my breasts. “Sorry, master. You will address all men as master from now on.”

  “Yes,” I gulped. “Master.”

  A boot lodged itself under my buttock, prying me upward. “Turn over, slave. Face to the floor, on your knees, butt in the air. Spread your cheeks with your hands.”

  The position was uncomfortable, particularly as I had to press my cheek into the cold tile. My hands ached and my crotch throbbed. He’d made a fool of me, making me clean myself then spurning the front of me all together.

  The man grunted as he pressed his cock helmet into the tight channel proffered by my hands.

  “The asshole is too tight,” he complained, addressing his companion.

  “We’ll have to widen it before the sale,” lamented the other. “Meat like this is second grade, even with all three holes open, let alone two.”

  He grunted as he cleaved my narrow canal to the depths. “I know it. Too fucking old.” A hand stung my thigh. “The skin’s like freaking Corinthian leather.”

  “That piece last week was nice, though.”

  “Which one?” My assailant asked, shifting himself to increase his pace.

  “The teenager. Little brunette; tight as a drum, pussy grade 'a' fresh. Used to dance for Rainier till he threw her out of his club.”

  I stiffened, my fingernails digging into the cracks between the tiles. Could they be talking about her?

  “Apparently she was picked up for whoring downtown. Tried to solicit some undercover cop. He brought her here instead of jail.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember. The girl was brought in under the initial ‘K.’ I know the cop who brung her, too. Fella named Meyer. Works for the Cartel. I wish more of ‘em was like that guy, I’ll tell you; we’d have the streets cleaned of pussy in no time.”

  “I know,” the other agreed, reaching round to torture my hanging breasts with his hands. “All women are sluts and whores. Only way to have peace is to collar the lot of them and put them in chains. Isn’t that right, cunt?”

  “Yes,” I whimpered.

  “That’s ‘yes, master,’” he corrected. The man’s thumb and forefinger closed cruelly over my nipple, squeezing till I screamed.

  “Yes,” I wailed. “Master.”

  The combination of his abusing me and making me call him master was too much for him. His body went rock hard above me. His cock swelled as he stopped his pummeling. A moment later, load after load of his jism began squirting into my tight canal. There must have been quite a lot, as I felt it dripping down my thighs almost immediately.

  I came with him, unable to hold back.

  The men were busy transferring me from one cock to another when I asked the question that was burning in my mind.

  “Please, master,” I begged the second man as he put me to my knees to suck his half hard cock. “The teenager. The brunette. Can you tell me who bought her?”

  “Curious little cunt, aren’t you?” he asked, squeezing my cheeks for better access.

  I was hard at work sucking when he finally answered. “She went for fifty thousand. A hell of a lot for one piece of ass. The buyer was Japanese. Represented a private collector. Supposedly he’s assembling some kind of UN of pussy, with a slave representing every country on earth. Keeps them on a reserve on one of the islands. The real kicker is, he only takes teenagers, ones good enough to be beauty queens.”

  “Maybe he’ll have his own pageant,” the other chortled.

  The man in my mouth put his hands on either side of my face, forcing up my head. “Could be,” he quipped, looking me in the eye. “My question is, why does this cunt care so much?”

  Fortunately, I was unable to answer in my current predicament. By the time they were done with me, the matter was forgotten by the men. As for me, all I could think of was that smart, lovely girl, with so much ahead of her, reduced to being a sex pet in a mad man’s zoo. And yet slavery was what she wanted.

  A half hour later I was branded. Naturally I was terrified, but as it turned out, the physical pain is only a secondary factor. What is really going on is something mental. Imagine it if you can: You are naked, strapped down, your skin lathered like an animal. Handlers are pushing at your flesh, positioning your arse for maximum effect, talking about it, like it’s all in a day’s work.

  “This one’s meaty enough for a number two.”

  “Get that bit in the mouth.”

  “Fuck it—there’s welts back here. How can I work with that?”

  “Put it a little lower. And just go with the number one.”

  One of them is even chewing gum; he’s the one who puts the metal device in your mouth, immobilizing it, preventing screams. You look into his eyes, for an ounce of pity, but you find none. And then, just like that, they do it.

  A crackle and hiss. The smell of burnt flesh. Your flesh. A mark is being put on you. It’s forever, and it’s the very same thing they do to cattle. Just like them, you will be owned, too. People will buy and sell you, and in-between, things will be done to you. Sex things, animal things, whatever things your owners want to
do to you.

  It could be lasting a split second or a year, this fire in your body, this irrevocable marking. It doesn’t matter, really. It’s an abyss and you’re falling into it. And the bottom, if ever there is one, will look so different than what you knew before that there’s little point in thinking of yourself as the same person any longer. Desperately your mind clings to things, little bits of the past, from when you were free and had a name. At the same time, you go forward, leap frogging, trying to guess what it will be like. You take the little bits of what you’ve heard and learned, and dreamed, and you try to weave it into a whole.

  A vision of your future. A new identity. I’d learned a few things from the handlers while they were fucking me and from the woman as she prepared me for the branding. They talked about the life of a female slave, that universal creature existing in the shadow realms, the hidden places found in every country on earth. Asia, Africa, Europe and throughout the Americas. Brothels in Bangkok and Rio, hidden pleasure palaces in Brunei and Moscow, farms and chattel islands in the remote pacific.

  Even penthouses in New York where lovely, model-gorgeous women return by night from dazzling public lives only to strip, falling from the arms of their strong, silent escorts to crawl into tiny cages or onto boat sized beds so they can be chained or tied down in rooms equipped like the best horror chamber from any movie.

  And then there’s the training. Would you believe there are actual manuals, taught by instructors? Girls are molded from them, beginning from scratch, like newborns. Females, learning to grovel, finding bliss in obedience, living for a pat on the head, an extra treat, a monthly night in a real bed. Girls learning a dozen ways to whimper and pant, a thousand dances, the art of writhing properly under a whip, how to keep a master’s cock in mouth for hours while he sleeps.

  They say that Tolliver Khan, my new master is well versed in the training of women. It was my education, not my looks that attracted his representative to me. Owning an intelligent girl, one with high status is said to be a particular joy. Each time he has her, he is are reminded as a master of his inherent superiority to the female, solely by virtue of his sex. Horrible, politically incorrect words, I know. But they are my reality.

  And so my story winds down now. I trust you can imagine how I was used following my branding and by whom. I was tied for much of the time and when there were no men available, other females were brought. Slaves like me. It was just like when I was with Krissy. The slaves were strapped into artificial cocks and made to fuck me for as long as the handlers wanted.

  The dildos are useful for both punishment and training as there are no natural limits on the length of time and brutality with which they may be employed as there are with flesh and blood penises. As disciplined as a slaver or trainer might be, after all, he is still a man. And once any man is in possession of a fully subjugated cunt, arse or mouth, it is biologically impossible to hold out for too long.

  For nearly twenty hours straight, I was in sexual peril. The only pauses were to check the healing of my brand and to allow me momentary respites to squat over a drain in the corner to piss. The room they held me in was the infamous third room, a dungeon-like lair in the bowels of the house where anything at all may be done to a girl with impunity. Even screaming is allowed, as the stone walls and floors are utterly soundproof.

  The handlers were skilled in keeping me alive. At the slightest sign of dehydration, I was allowed to slurp water from a bowl. Likewise, I was fed by hand, earning small morsels in exchange for particular diligence in my duties as a pleasure vessel.

  I overheard a debate at one point between the Hook Nose and the woman as to the virtues of sexually torturing a girl prior to auction. Some slavers feel that a girl should be pampered ahead of time so as to appear innocent, ripe for the taking at the time of her sale. Others, HookNose included, thought this was a travesty. The girl should be broken in ahead of time so the buyers will see clearly the slave material to be bid on.

  In addition to the fucking, I was marked with a crop. These marks would show, I was told, during my sale. A visibly whipped woman always brings a higher price. The auction itself took place in a parlor in the upstairs portion of the house. The room was exceedingly large, accommodating over fifty gentlemen and ladies in plush Victorian armchairs and settees.

  Full-length glass windows graced the far wall, while an equally high set of oaken bookcases flanked the near wall. The really ingenious thing about the room was the wooden platform, made of smooth cherry, installed permanently in one corner. It was from here the girls were displayed. And I do mean displayed.

  They brought me in under the hot lights of the chandeliers. White gloved courtiers escorted me in a long gown of gold. It was off the shoulder, with a deep plunge that all but bared my breasts. The hem ran to the floor, well disguising my bare feet and bare legs. My crotch was also nude and I had been completely shaved for the occasion. I was given a fresh leather collar, very high and stiff. A metal ring was attached to the front of it.

  I trembled as I walked; not only for fear of the audience, but also on account of the hour of frigging I’d endured ahead of time at the hands of the woman. She seemed to enjoy telling me in detail what would happen, looking for little reactions in my face and body. Each time I creamed, she would scoop the liquid and feed it to me. It was a painful reminder of how much the notion of my own slavery aroused me.

  “You’ll stand straight,” she had hissed, masturbating me cruelly. “Every eye on you, as they read your vitals. Age. Breast size. Hip and ass dimensions. Responsiveness to abuse. Quality of oral skills. Sexual receptivity.”

  The taste lingered in my mouth as it all came true. The men looking on as the auctioneer read from the card. And then, the opening bid of one thousand dollars. It was a whirlwind from there.

  “Have we no higher bids?” the man lamented.

  Someone tore away my dress. I was naked now, standing amidst glittering rags.

  A whip cracked on my arse as I was told to assume the first position. Hands behind my head, breasts pushed out, legs apart.

  “Firm tits,” the auctioneer pointed out with a squeeze. “Unusually juicy cunt.”

  Oohs and ahhs followed as the man’s finger was held up, glistening. I glazed under the hot lights, reeling from the unspeakable shame.

  “Mouth like a vacuum,” he quipped, pulling apart my jaws like a filly. “Bend over.” He says next, his voice in a careful aside, “Don’t mess this up or I’ll have your hide.”

  I grasped my ankles the way the woman told me I would have to.

  “The ass already takes a number four, gentlemen and ladies; I don’t need to say the potential here.”

  A plastic shaft, of exactly that size was inserted in me. I took it without resistance.

  “She’s dripping,” he cried. “Tell me you don’t want to own this.”

  My arse resounded with the slap of his hand. I felt it myself, a line of hot sex juice trickling down the inside of my leg.

  “And a brain, too,” he added incidentally. “A PhD.”

  It was at this point the representative of Mr. Khan entered the bidding, proposing for my purchase the amount of seven thousand dollars.

  “And that’s not all,” the auctioneer chimed, grabbing me by the hair so my head was at crotch level. “She can deep throat a six, without gagging.”

  A number six was shoved in my mouth.

  It was a painful position to assume, my head ingesting one shaft while my arse absorbed another. Were it not for the men holding me as I was, bent at the waist, I would surely have fallen to the ground. The bids were a jumble, a frenzy. By the time the auctioneer closed his hand at ten thousand, I had climaxed twice, though no one had laid a hand on my pussy.

  “Will you take possession this evening?” the auctioneer asked the Khan’s man afterward in the salon reserved for the reckoning of accounts.

  “No,” said the man, running his hand through my hair to check its sheen. “You will be given informa
tion for delivery, to a private airfield, about a dozen miles away.”

  The Khan’s representative, as it turned out had been a very busy man collecting beauties for his boss. The plane had a number of other girls on it, two of whom I mentioned in the beginning. I wondered if the little blonde and the shapely brunette had been bought at auction like me, or if they’d been purchased privately. Or maybe even captured outright. At the mall, perhaps, or from out of some office late at night.

  At one time I’d have been revolted by that notion, but now, it seems almost inevitable. As strong as men are, and as weak as we females are, how can we avoid becoming their possessions? One can fight it, making a career of resistance, as I did, but sooner or later a girl’s inner needs will catch up with her. And the harder she fights, the more likely it is she will succumb.

  I’ll admit for a while I entertained a fantasy that Tolliver Khan would turn out to be a code name for Rainier himself. I pictured Gustav running onto the plane to claim me for his own. I would crawl from the cage and shower his feet with kisses. He would scoop me in his arms and take me away to be his one and only slave.

  We have been in flight now for an hour, though, and I no longer hold onto such hopes. Actually, I have something better than hope: the impending prospect of sexual usage at the hands of the burly flight crew. The blonde was taken out a short while ago. I can see her now, writhing underneath the navigator. She was still begging them for release, claiming it was all a mistake, but any minute now, you could see she’d be in the throes of orgasm, naked, her body on the metal floor of the plane, cushioning her temporary master as he pumps her full of his seed.

  It’s all a mistake. Surely every slave in history has uttered those words at one time or another! And yet, I do not think it a mistake for them to have put her nude on her back, wish-boning her legs, spreading her shackled ankles mercilessly far apart. She is good, the little blonde; she moves like a woman, a natural slave. And she is all the more appealing for her verbal resistance.