by Elle E. Ire
Not only are the two women slaves on display for sale, but they’ve been given something to compel them to show off more than their bodies for the pleasure of the gathered crowd.
I’m glad I haven’t eaten anything. Otherwise I might lose it right now.
A third light comes on, illuminating the center of the stage, where a large bed has been placed facing the gathered assembly.
Oh. Wow.
This is what Vick tried to tell you, a tiny voice whispers in my head. She tried to protect you from all this, but you insisted she needs you.
She does need me. Just maybe not right here.
If I focus all my attention on the numbers on my pad and ignore the stage, I’ll get through this. I scroll some more, not really seeing anything, but keeping my eyes lowered. The sound system picks up the rustling of skin against a mattress, then flesh brushing flesh. There must be microphones embedded in the damn headboard to capture such subtle sounds. Regardless, my mind is oh so helpfully filling in visuals for what my ears hear, even though I refuse to raise my head.
I glance to the side where Vick watches the stage, expression composed, eyes analytical—every inch the prospective buyer evaluating pricey merchandise. No sign of eagerness or arousal. Nothing to give away a particular interest that might encourage Jacks to raise his opening bids, because Jacks is indeed watching the watchers. I spot him beside the stage at floor level. He’s fixated on the VIPs, making notes on a pad of his own. And—
Beep. On my pricelist the listings for Saarah and Hodei jump by over a thousand credits each.
Jacks knows his business.
The rustling coming from the hidden speakers shifts to heavier breathing and the occasional soft moan. Murmured approval from the audience picks up in volume.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
Instead I lean back, checking out the competition as I suppose a good assistant might do. The male on my left, working for the woman on his far side, is doing the same. We exchange a tight smile before he returns his attention to his datapad. His employer, the only other woman at the VIP table, appears anything but pleased. Odd. She’s not analyzing or appraising like Vick. Instead, she’s sitting ramrod straight, shoulders tight, muscles tense. Her expression suggests she’s just eaten something sour, but the salads contained no citrus. Dark, deep shadows around her eyes accentuate the lines of age on her face. I lower my shields for a second, internally recoiling at the anger and strain within this woman.
She also looks familiar somehow, like I should know who she is but can’t quite place her. I’m about to raise my shields and ask Vick what she thinks when there’s another, stronger sense flaring up amidst the sea of lust and wanton desire surrounding me. It’s rage and aggression and a desire to satisfy a sexual frustration so intense that it treads close to murderous.
No surprise that a combination like this would be present here. Many, if not most slave buyers would project that toxic mix of emotions. What’s surprising is how well I’m reading it, even if I can’t identify the source. Whoever is projecting so strongly must share some small percentage of a brainwave match with my own patterns for me to detect it without physical contact.
I jerk my head toward Vick, focusing on her to defuse the violent emotional onslaught while I get my mental shields in order. She meets my gaze with her impassive one, eyebrows rising just a tad in a mix of confusion and concern.
Behind her, Cate adjusts her standing position to face away from us, giving us some minor semblance of privacy.
Vick’s hand lands on my shoulder. She leans toward my ear, her warm breath tickling my neck. My muscles tense. It takes a concentrated effort not to recoil from her touch, so much did the brief contact with that other mind throw me off-balance. Through our connection, my senses tell me Vick’s calm and composed, though worried about me. I read it all in the shifting colors surrounding her. The rage and desire to do harm I sensed moments before fade into the background, then vanish.
She must pick up my tension through our bond because her lips shift into a frown. “You all right?” she asks.
I shake myself, struggling for focus. I peer into corners, then around and behind us at the rest of the crowded cavern, but I can’t trace the specific source of what I felt, not with so many other distractions and my mental walls back in place.
On top of everything else so horribly wrong with this scenario, somewhere in this repurposed mining facility there’s a mind fixated on what I can only describe as psychotic, vicious action.
It’s terrifying. But it’s not our assignment. And Vick doesn’t need to be worrying about unrelated problems when she’s in the middle of a delicate mission. When we take this operation down, this new problem will hopefully be eliminated right along with it.
I force a wavering smile. “There’s a lot of emotion in here. It’s a little overwhelming even with all the shield practice I’ve been doing these last few months.” It’s true. Undercover Ops has specialists on retainer for everything, including empath experts who’ve been working with me, preparing me for something like this. I’ve learned as much in my field as Vick and the guys have learned in theirs.
It still isn’t enough.
Her hand tightens in what is meant to be a comforting squeeze, though it’s all I can do to not tense further. “I can send you on an errand if you need a breather,” she says. “Lyle will be here.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I’ve got it now.”
She gives me a slow, unconvinced nod. “Okay.”
Shields or not, her trust, support, and faith in my abilities flows through our bond. It would be the perfect response if it didn’t also bring a stream of suppressed desire along with it. Heat pools in my core, at odds with the chill I’m fighting off. The result is a violent shiver that runs all the way down my spine to my toes.
It’s timed perfectly with a cry of release from one of the women on the stage, followed by a roar of applause and cheers from the assembled buyers.
Oh, it’s going to be a long night.
Chapter 11: Vick—Dessert
I am in trouble.
IS SHE really all right? I ask VC1 once Kelly relaxes, by increments, into her seat. She’s avoiding looking at the stage at all costs. Despite my concern, I suppress a smile. Given that the two women in the display bed are currently shifting to a sixty-nine, that’s for the best.
The frequent enigma of Kelly LaSalle is one of a growing number of things we have in common.
I almost choke on the sip of expensive rum I’m in the process of swallowing. Kelly glances my way, but I wave her off and set the glass aside. Yeah, for all I know her, I don’t understand half of what I should about Kelly. It’s almost comforting to realize the AI is as much in the dark as I am.
I catch myself drumming my fingers on the tabletop and still them. This display is typical of what our intel has told us about Jacks, but I wish they’d get on with things. The sooner I’m out of here, the sooner I can sneak away and locate all the installation’s critical areas. Then I can report to our invasion team and leave this hellhole behind.
It’s becoming warm in the cavern, and not from the effects of the view. I shift a little, tugging at the collar of my fresh dress shirt. There’s a soft orange glow emitting from flat metal panels hung in the upper corners of the space—portable heaters to ward off the moisture and chill of the stone. Not necessary at the moment. The crowd is producing plenty of its own heat.
“May I remove your jacket?” Cate asks from her attentive position behind me.
Prickles run over my neck and the back of my scalp. I hate having anyone out of my direct line of vision, and this entire setup is playing on my paranoia.
“Yes, thank you,” I tell her, remaining in character. She eases the heavy fabric from me, then hangs it across the back of the chair. Her hands return to my shoulders, where they take up a firm but relaxing massage.
“Um—”
“Please, allow me. It’s part of the servic
es Mr. Jacks provides.”
There’s a note of desperation in there. Will Jacks punish her if he thinks she’s not treating me properly? I’m trying to skirt the edges of my adopted persona, accepting as little physical attention as possible for both Kelly’s and my sake, but I don’t want Cate hurt more than she already has been by being here in the first place.
Jacks remains off to the side of the stage, but he is watching us. With an inner sigh of resignation, I stop arguing and hope Kelly knows it’s not something I want.
“Interesting choice,” I comment to distract myself from the expert kneading of the knots in my neck. “Two women. Not complaining.”
Cate laughs. “Yes, Mr. Jacks made us familiarize ourselves with all the VIPs’ sexual preferences.” She leans in again. “I am well aware you enjoy female company.”
I swallow hard. Kelly tilts her head in our direction but doesn’t make eye contact. Oh, I’m going to hear about this later.
It is an insightful and calculated choice on the part of Mr. Jacks. According to the data I have compiled, ninety percent of the men in attendance prefer women. Ninety percent of the women here prefer women. By having two women on the stage, he is pleasing almost everyone in the room. Very few heterosexual women or homosexual men dabble in sex slave ownership. It is not a tendency they have, though there are rare exceptions.
I’m guessing VC1 means the woman a few seats down from me, but honestly, that woman doesn’t seem to be enjoying any aspect of this fucked-up extravaganza. I wonder what she’s doing here at all.
VC1, can you run a facial recognition scan on the other female buyer at this table? I know her. I’m sure I do.
On it, the AI replies.
Cate leans in closer, presumably to apply more pressure to her massage but also serving the dual purpose of brushing her almost bare breasts against the back of my neck. Her skin warms in contact with mine, an erect nipple tickling as it passes over my taut tendons.
Onstage, Saarah shudders through another impressive orgasm, her entire body going rigid, her spine arching off the bed in a perfect arc. The audience heaves a collective sigh. I wonder how much is real and how much for show, but Kelly flushes a deeper shade of pink, and Jacks strides up the steps to the center of the raised platform.
“Well,” he says when he is blocking the audience’s view, “that seems like an appropriate time for a short intermission.”
A groan rises up from the crowd along with some hisses and boos, like we’re all watching a circus or a sporting event rather than two women being forced to have intercourse in front of a couple of hundred strangers. Cate steps away to refill drinks, offering an appeasement for the interruption, leaving me to focus on the object of my anger.
I hate this man. And if the opportunity presents itself, I’m making certain he never survives to go before a court for his crimes. Too many chances he’ll be released on a technicality. No, this ends here.
The glass in my hand cracks with the pressure I’m exerting on it, a tiny fissure running down its side. I stare at my white-knuckled grip.
Fuck. Kelly thinks I still have a soul. I have my doubts.
“Breathe,” Kelly says, covering my hand with her own, whatever was bothering her earlier put aside because I come first in her world.
Thanks to the Storm’s programming, she must always come second in mine.
Jacks isn’t the only one I’d like to eliminate.
“I hope you’re all enjoying the presentation.” Jacks gestures behind himself at the two panting, sweat-glistening women on the bed. “Sorry, there’s no preempt on these two. You’ll have to wait for the auction to bid on one or both of them.”
Another general groan.
“I promise, there’s more entertainment to come. But first, dessert!” He throws both hands up in the air like the referee in an airball match, and from around either side of the stage, two lines of scantily clad servers appear bearing trays laden with bowls of rainbow-colored fruits and confections.
I blink at the untouched plate of some sort of fish and vegetables in front of me. When did that get there? And how long has it been sitting?
Best damn soldier in the Fighting Storm, my ass. That kind of distracted, anyone could have crept up on me and done some serious damage, or worse, gone after Kelly. I need to get my head on straight.
You were distracted. Being human, understandably so.
My eyebrows rise. Is VC1 attempting to… comfort me?
I also have the information you requested. The other female buyer at this table is Clara Hothart, Secretary of the Treasury for Earth’s One World government. She is wearing a wig, and her makeup is intended to age her by approximately ten years, but that is her identity.
And that just made my job here a whole helluva lot harder.
I lean forward and cast a casual glance her way, but she’s paying me no attention, her narrowed eyes glaring at Jacks on the stage as if she could bore a hole through his forehead.
What the fuck is she doing here? Is she an actual buyer? If so, then the disguise would make sense. An elected official to the known universe’s most powerful government would not want to be identified here. But if that’s the case, why isn’t she more interested and entertained?
I follow her gaze again, to Jacks, and then beyond him… to the girls on the bed.
While I run the possible scenarios through my head, a server sets a bowl of diced fruit in front of Kelly. She digs in, probably since she also hasn’t eaten much and she’s using the food as a distraction.
I need background on Saarah, I tell VC1, selecting the girl closer in skin tone and facial features to Secretary Hothart. I have a very bad feeling.
You are not a precog, VC1 reminds me, but I am following your thought processes, and I share your… bad feeling.
I snort but stop myself. If I can have feelings with all my mechanical parts, why can’t she?
Cate doesn’t let the server deliver my dessert. Instead, she takes it from him, using it as an opportunity to reach around me and brush her lithe arm across my breast once more. She sets down a small dish with a single pink-cellophane-wrapped candy resting upon it. The other VIPs receive similar treats in varying colors, while the other assistant also gets fruit. I shift around in my seat. None of the other buyers have these either. It must be something very expensive and rare, not worth wasting on the lower-tier customers.
“Try this,” Cate purrs in my ear. “I think you’ll enjoy it.” Prickles chase each other across the back of my neck.
I unwrap the dessert, the cellophane crinkling in my fingers. Inside is a single piece of what appears to be chocolate, dark and rich, with a pink dot at its center. The men at the table are popping them into their mouths, but not before I spot blue dots on theirs. Secretary Hothart’s also displays a pink dot. She doesn’t bother eating it, but rather pushes it away on its tiny plate.
Different candies for the men and the women? Seriously? Is Jacks that sexist?
I place the confection in my mouth, the bitter sweetness bursting over my tongue as it melts too fast to be mere chocolate. There’s something else, a touch of tart, a bit of spice, flavors I can almost but not quite isolate as it fills my senses in one quick burst, then fades.
I wait for VC1 to fill in the missing ingredients for me, but she’s silent. Maybe she’s finally learning not to provide unasked for information after all.
“Well,” I mutter, “if he ever decides to quit the slave trade, he could make a living as a chocolatier.”
I roll the wrapping into a tight ball and discard it to the side while I become aware that Jacks’s gaze has sharpened on my table even further. His eyes dart from one of us to the next, watching, studying… waiting.
For what?
VC1… I begin as heat rises in my stomach and works its way outward in an ever-increasing spiral pattern, up into my breasts, tightening the nipples even harder than before, and down, lower, spreading to my…. My thigh and vaginal muscles clench in response, in
protest. My heartrate picks up its rhythm.
What the actual fuck?
I have the answer to your inquiry, VC1 informs me.
VC1, I try again. I have more urgent needs than background info.
She ignores me. The one Jacks calls Saarah is in fact Cynthia Hothart, Secretary Hothart’s only child.
For a moment, my physical issues are forgotten. I sit up straight, noting with a different part of my brain that the men down the table are shifting in their seats, back and forth, side to side. More than one masculine hand disappears beneath the ornate tablecloth. Their attendants step up behind them, leaning down, whispering into their ears. Some of the VIPs close their eyes in apparent bliss.
I pull my attention back to my AI’s latest news. Why didn’t we hear anything? A kidnapping of that much political importance would have made every newsnet in and out of the Sol system.
Every merc team would have made a bid to attempt Cynthia’s rescue. It would have been the biggest payday of the year for whomever got the contract.
Likely it has something to do with the fact that Cynthia disappeared from one of Los Angeles’s premier BDSM nightclubs.
Ah. Yeah. I can see where Hothart might have been reluctant to let that bit surface, and too self-centered in her concern for her career and her daughter’s reputation to put her daughter’s life above those things. Idiot.
So now she’s here, incognito, to do what? Rescue her daughter by herself?
I take another quick look at her assistant, fussing with his datapad in one hand and a fork for his fruit bowl in the other. Now that I study him, I can make out the outlines of muscles beneath his oversized suit jacket, the way his eyes dart from the pad to Jacks to the corners of the room and back down again. He’s a hired soldier, in a much better disguise than his employer.
I wonder which outfit he works for.
I’m about to ask VC1 to do a search on him too, when Jacks gives a wave of his hands to the two women behind him, Saarah who is not Saarah, and Hodei. The girls fall back into their sixty-nine, a screen dropping down behind them and hidden cameras highlighting every touch, every caress, every heave of their breasts.
