“You like that?” he says, smiling.
His fingers expertly massage my vaginal walls as his dilated eyes never leave mine. Beneath the water, his cock is diamond hard.
My voice is hoarse as I clutch at his shoulders. “Are you sure this is all you can do?”
“Yes, or I will be severely whipped. You don’t want to see me whipped, do you?”
The image is somewhat tantalizing.
Yes, I would really like to see Max hogtied and whipped, totally naked and pleading for mercy. I wouldn’t like to wield the whip myself, of course. I’m no dominatrix. But to see another man – Russell perhaps – doing that to him is a scene that would greatly excite me.
No kidding.
I reply contritely, always the submissive, “No, of course not, Max.”
His grin grows broader. “Liar.”
Standing there with his damp blond hair – its strands falling across his forehead so appealingly – and with his blue eyes twinkling, he’s a feast for the eyes.
“I love you,” I say, my heart swelling with need.
“I know.” This last he says with a tinge of sadness.
3
We rehearse.
We are told what to do.
And yet, when the time comes, we are wholly unprepared.
That is the nature of the auction, and everything that comes before it.
4
We are being prepared for the Parade.
We are in a holding cell, pretty much like the ones which are used to hold gladiators and other slaves before they are let out into the arena to fight to the death against each other/lions.
We are no longer in Russell’s mansion. Earlier, they blindfolded us and took us in a closed van to goodness-knows-where. When we are let out again, we are in the bright sunshine and a garden bursting with blossoms and fragrance.
Until we are led into a massive structure that appears – in all outward appearance – to be an amphitheater.
Then again, I could be wrong. It might be an arena. A gladiatorial ring in which we are about to be devoured by lions and tigers and bears.
Heathcliff and other similar butler/butler intern types are adorning us with our parade outfits. Perhaps ‘outfit’ is too generous a word, since nothing we possess is covered much.
My waist is encircled with a black and red PVC corset with multiple strands, baring my midriff in between. The lowest the corset comes to is to the level of my hipbones. My entire pubic region and my buttocks are exposed below it. As for the corset’s top, it ascends to culminate in two scarlet cups which are whalebone rigid. The cups serve to push my breasts up and in – so that my nipples are pointed forward and my cleavage is very, very pronounced.
Oh yeah – my nipples. They are painted red. Not just any red either, but a bright, shocking crimson that would make a harlot blush.
Nothing is covering my breasts. They are completely naked. My legs however are wrapped in more of those straps – this time they crisscross all over my lower limbs right down to my ankles. My feet terminate in three-inch high heels – black of course.
The entire ensemble is as kinky and sexy as hell.
Not content to leave my nipples and genitals free, Heathcliff has clipped silver bells on them. Their long, spiral strands dangle from both my nipples and terminate in those slender inverted domes. They tinkle every time I move . . . even when the motion requires as little as drawing breath.
Heathcliff has clipped the same silver bells on both my outer labia. As for my clit, he clamps something that looks like a hairpin over its hood. Silver chains trail from the arms of the hairpin. But instead of bells, these end in small lead weights – the kind used in stores selling grain from over two hundred years ago. These exert a constant tug upon my clit circumference – an exquisite sensation that renders my entire nether region numb and in precious hunger to be taken at the same time.
“Can you walk?” he asks me. His eyes twinkle as he gently pulls at my lead weights.
I take a deep breath. “I think so.”
“Good, you will need to. This isn’t the end of it.”
Beside Max, Greg and Alice, there are about a dozen other slaves in the holding pen – men and women alike. They are all young, beautiful and able-bodied.
We are all not decorated similarly. Alice wears a bodysuit made out of fine golden chains, all arranged to show her physical assets to the max. Instead of bells, tinkling golden wind chimes trail from her nipples, pussy lips and clit. She sees me eyeing her and shoots a glare in my direction.
I smile inwardly.
As for Max, he wears a black-and-red leather harness and strap ensemble, pretty much in my vein. There’s a reason for this that will be made clear later. The straps crisscross his hip and groin region, showing off his splendid abdominal muscles and pubis. His chest is bare but for the bells on his nipples.
As for his erect cock – teased into rigidity by Heathcliff because it’s not allowed to droop at any stage during the parade – it is wrapped tightly with five faux leather bands, all studded with silver rivets. A tight black strap circles the root of his cock as well as his scrotum, as does another one like it just above the swell of his nuts.
The entire effect makes his genitals look plump and swollen. And if I may say so, delicious enough to eat. How I long to get down on my knees and suck that viciously strapped cock, but of course, I’m not allowed to.
Max is beside me. He’s not allowed to touch me. The bells on our erotic parts chime softly like mini church bells as we swing our bodies.
“You all right?” he says in a low voice.
“Yes.”
“Can you move easily?”
“Yes. You?”
“I think so. We’ll need to.”
The door swings open and Russell Devlin – billionaire, philanthropist, patriarch – strides in. He glances at Max and me and nods. Then he makes a beeline for Alice and Greg.
“She’s always been his favorite,” Max says with a slight tinge of bitterness. “I do what he tells me to do all the time. But she throws a hissy fit, and he’s all over her like seaweed.”
“Well, she’s not exactly in the silver spoon part of her inheritance right now.”
“Not right now,” he agrees. “And I’m not sorry. She needs to be taught a lesson. Our father’s like that. You don’t know what line you can cross with him. With me, it’s a lot closer than Alice, but I guess she’s snapped his string.”
His eyes are wistful as he stares at his father speaking to Alice. Yes, I would like to know the deal between him and his sister – the strange relationship they seem to have that involves a mélange of jealousy and heated expressions and hinted incest.
When Russell has finished talking to/comforting/lusting after Alice – or whatever weird relationship they possess – he walks over to Max and me.
“Father,” Max acknowledges him warily.
“How’re you doing, son?”
“Fine.”
“Ready for your big day?”
“I’m OK.”
It’s weird. They could have been talking about Max’s graduation. Or the night before a big swim meet.
Russell peruses me. His nostrils flare with desire as he takes in my bright red nipples and the bells that adorn me. My waist is like a wasp’s thanks to the corset, and I can hardly breathe – which is a good thing given all the shivery, tinkling sounds that I’m making.
I know I look good. Hell, I look a lot more than good. I know I’m beautiful and alluring and seductive and demure – traits desirable in any submissive – and I know I’m making a great impression on Russell, especially with the way I’m lowering my eyelashes, as if I’m painfully shy in his presence.
“Come here, Gina,” Russell says.
I take a step closer to him. My pulse quickens, and my breasts rise and fall under his scorching gaze.
He seizes my tits with both hands, taking care not to dislodge my clips and bells. The sound of tinkling escalates, as thou
gh a gust of wind has blown through the holding pen. He takes care not to smudge my nipples either, as the paint used is a thick rouge paste – no doubt applied to the cheeks of clowns and prima ballerinas.
My very erect nipples point at him like two accusing thumbs.
His handsome, weathered face wears an expression that is part desire and part scorn. He says to Max, “Take her to the next room.”
A delicious sliver of fear pools in my stomach as Max takes me by the arm and firmly steers me out of the holding pen. The other slaves watch us as we exit. Alice in particular is baleful and her blue eyes spit hate. I can see that her time as a slave has not improved her.
The next room is a smaller cell with vertical iron bars as frontage. There’s a stone table (altar?) in the middle with brown streaks (dried blood?) on its surface.
Something in me quails at the sight of it. I know Russell won’t hurt me – not now when we are approaching the parade. But the stone table harkens of an earlier brutal time where virgins are raped and sacrificed, and I’m not sure what theme (Roman? Ancient Greek? Pagan?) this auction will be taking.
“Lie down, Gina,” Russell commands me.
Max helps me up onto the table. The stone is cold against my buttocks. Max positions me so that my legs are dangling off the edge. I am not left in that precarious state for long. Russell seizes both my legs and roughly prizes them apart. My decorations and bells jangle in protest. As my legs are strung wide open, the lead weights and bells succumb to gravity and fall in between my thighs, cinching and dragging my clit and pussy lips in their wake.
“Careful, Father.”
“I know what I’m doing, son.”
Russell lets go of my legs. He does not undress, but unbuckles his belt and unzips his fly instead. His throbbing purple cock bursts forth in vigor – already hard and straining at the glans. It points to me from its nest of blond pubic hair and tight balls raised by his lowered waistband.
Russell wears briefs, not boxers, I notice.
I concentrate on his devilishly handsome face even though I’m having trouble balancing my legs to maintain my spread-eagled state. He is so amazingly handsome – with his piercing blue eyes that rake across my body like coals. Yes, I can see who Max will grow older to be, the lucky bastard. He’s blessed with such abundantly splendid genetics.
Max on the other hand does not appear happy. As he’s on my right, he’s helping me to steady my right thigh, but my left is on its own precarious perch.
“We’ll have to be going in soon, Father.”
“Stop fussing.”
The head of Russell’s magnificently large cock pauses at my moist vulva. I’m merely moist, not wet, as this proposed sexual interlude has been rather sudden and my nerves are still strung to maximal tautness. The sweet, flowering mouth of my vulva is red and partially obscured by the strands that dangle from my hairpin clit clamp. My clit is a compressed and numb piece of flesh.
I close my eyes.
Take me.
“I think I’ll go for something else today,” Russell says. “Guide my rod, Max.”
I flutter open my eyes in surprise.
Max’s mouth twitches. I’m right. He’s none too pleased about this whole thing. I wonder why – he who has opted to give me to his father in the first place. Does he have a change of heart now that he himself has been made a slave?
He moves to his father’s left and seizes his father’s enormously broad stick. A dutiful and obedient eldest son.
The symbolism is not lost on me.
My mouth dries as Max positions the cock at the entry point of my anus. He has to guide the head so that it is centered in between the double strands attached to my bells and weights. Russell is huge and his cock is not lubricated, so I brace myself for pain.
Max notices my grimace. He spits on his palm and wipes the wetness onto his father’s schlong. I shoot him a graceful glance and he flashes me a quick smile as he guides the cock to slowly ease into my anus. The initial thrust is painful, and I let out a little cry as the hard flesh spears me and widens the puckered circumference of my anus.
My sphincter is very tight – still tight despite the fact that I’ve been taken many times in the ass – and it is stretched like a rubber band as Russell bulldozes his way through.
“Ohhhhh,” I groan as his shaft pummels its way into my rectum. My walls are cleaved apart like water being parted by a ship’s prow.
Once Russell is fully in, Max move away to stand at my right side again. Once more, he helps support my bent leg. He stands like a sentinel – beautiful face immobile – as his father begins to pump into my ass.
Bam, bam, bam.
It’s extremely brutal sex.
Or should I say sodomy.
Russell has always taken me harshly, and this is no exception. He drives his rod into my asshole as if he’s a hammer trying to nail a column of air into my guts. And I think he’s succeeding because the shock of his pounding is clobbering my flesh into submission, and my bells are clanging and banging as though to herald the pope’s arrival.
Russell begins to pant. From his force and his rapid fire strokes, I know this will be a quick one. His balls slap into my buttocks, scissoring the strands of my decorations. I claw at the stone table with my nails as I moan with pain and pleasure. Max’s eyes hold mine, and he gives me his hand. I clutch at his warm palm like it’s a lifesaver.
In. Out. In. Out. Russell’s thick cock rubs against my walls with such rigor that I think he’s almost trying to start a fire. He makes guttural noises in his throat as he accelerates his fucking. I whip my head back and forth and clench my jaw with the increased pressure. My fingernails – lacquered red and painted with a delicate white bell design – indent the flesh of Max’s palm. He grips my hand harder to reassure me.
Russell comes with a cry.
His volcanic spume of semen shoots into me and aims for somewhere high up in my bowels. Even the force of his sperm is a rocket booster jet. I feel like I’m being cleansed in one of those New Age alimentary canal hookups, and yet it’s a satisfying sensation like no other.
I know I have pleased and pleasured my master . . . and in that, I have done my duty as a sex slave.
I am content.
It doesn’t matter if I don’t come. My master has achieved orgasm, and that is satisfaction enough for me.
Russell pulls out of me, his cock still overflowing and dripping with a massive amount of semen. My groin, buttocks and inner thighs are all covered with his white goo.
“I’ll have to clean her up again,” Max says reproachfully.
“Let Heathcliff do it.” Russell drips the last of his cum onto my pussy and tucks in his now spent cock back into his briefs. There’s the elastic snap of his waistband as he covers his snake up again. He zips up his pants and latches on his belt bucket. “Good luck, Gina. I hope you’ll go to a good home.”
Yes, that is what frightens me. That my new – if temporary – owner might not take a shine to me. And I won’t have Max or Greg to help me there.
My concern must have shown on my face, because Russell’s expression changes. Now he’s almost paternal as he pats my knee.
“Don’t worry, Gina. Think of how much better you will be as a submissive when you come out of this. The same rules apply. No permanent scarring. And be sure to please your new master as you have pleased me.”
I muster my courage. “W-will I be able to opt out of it if I – I can’t take the punishments, master?”
Russell maintains his tight smile.
“Not for slaves sold through an auction, my dear. You will have to weather it for the duration. The only way is to escape, but I’m sure you won’t disappoint me by doing that.”
5
The door of the holding cell opens with a creak – an iron grate being wound by ancient machinery – and I’m reminded again of gladiatorial rings and hunger-crazed animals with blood lust in their eyes. The atmosphere is brittle with the smell of iron, straw and
sweat.
We are in a line – fronts facing one another’s backs. Our arms are bound in a plethora of ways. My elbows are bent behind my back, and my wrists cruelly tied and strung from another rope which is attached to a lariat around my neck. In this manner, my throat and slender neck bear the burden of the weight of my arms.
The others are bound differently. Max has his neck and wrists secured in a wooden stock that parts longitudinally – the kind used for medieval prisoners, with a hole for his neck and two smaller apertures for his hands. Greg’s arms are bound behind him in an intricate rope mesh that involves Japanese shibari patterns.
As for Alice, she is forced to balance a clay jug on her head. Her arms are pulled upward and tethered to the jug’s neck so that it is firmly secured to her scalp.
But that’s not all.
We are all connected to one another in the most creative of ways.
There’s a dildo in my vagina. It is slender and held inside by four chains which are locked to my corset – two in front to either side of my decorated pussy, and two at the back, running up my buttocks. This dildo is in turn connected by an iron chain to Max in front of me – or in particular, the dildo inside his ass. To the back of me, a similar iron chain runs from my dildo to the one inside Greg’s asshole.
We are lined that way – man, woman, man, woman – all strung up like paper dolls. Dildo in pussy for the women, dildo in ass for the guys.
We are forced to march this way out of the holding pen and into the sunlight.
It is as I suspected. We are in an amphitheater, and the sky is a rich bowl of blue above us. Clouds scud across, chased by winds. The very same winds whip around us – Indian summer warm and robust, teasing my hair into a mahogany blaze behind my back. As I walk, my bells jingle, signaling my humiliating approach.
My erotic bits are worked into a smorgasbord of electric and illicit sensations –all heightened by the movements of my limbs and the swell of my breasts as I breathe. The dildo in my vagina whittles inside as I walk – a stick in its snug cubbyhole. Every step I take is a reminder that it is there.
Paraded before the Billionaires Page 2
