Owning O

by Maren Smith

  "I won't need it," Alan told him, but Sam had already turned his attention to the fur-clad caveman sauntering down the hall toward them, his loincloth not quite long enough to hide a swish of low-hanging junk, and his club balanced against his shoulder.

  "Hi, how are you?" Sam handed out another program and paddle. "Sit anywhere you like." He held his smile until the man walked away. "Maybe Marshall will float you…"

  Alan shook his head.

  "You asked him?"

  "He's nervous enough having P-L-A-N-T-S in the audience. There's a fine line, I guess, between ensuring no submissive walks off the stage unpurchased and extending credit to one of his own when everyone else is expected to pony up promptly at the time of purchase. No." Alan shook his head again. "I'm not living paycheck to paycheck. I'll have enough."

  He hoped. The look Sam gave him said he hoped so too.

  Leaving the other Master to work the door, Alan ventured into the ballroom in search of a vacant chair. The rows up front by the stage were already packed, which was where he would have preferred to sit. Unfortunately, the folding seat he got stuck with was sandwiched in the middle of the room, positioned right smack behind a stage-obscuring pillar, and with at least a hundred other men and one or two women spread out all around him. He'd expected a big turnout, but really, how many more people would be coming to this thing?

  On every vacant chair was a bidding paddle with a number that lit up bright red when held aloft. He picked up his before he sat on it, and tried to make himself comfortable enough to wait. No sooner had he sat down, however, than he heard a familiar voice drawl in his ear, "You're really going to do it, huh?"

  Alan had to fight not to either roll his eyes or sigh. "Is there anybody in this place who knows how to mind his own business?"

  "You're kidding, right?" Snorting, Jackson made himself comfortable on the folding chair directly behind Alan. "Not a chance, buddy. And who the hell thought this was a good place to put a pillar?"

  "You may as well come up here," Alan said. "The view isn't any better, but if you're going to haunt my shadow the least we can do is sit together."

  Rather than try to squeeze himself through the narrow aisle of seated guests, Jackson stepped directly over the chair beside Alan and then plopped his muscular bulk down onto it. He immediately rose again to retrieve the auction paddle out from under him, then dropped the paddle in his lap and opened up his program. "So, which number is she?"

  "Seven." Alan knew all he needed to about the pamphlet, but he opened his as well and tried to look at any number but Tavy's. "Who are you here for? Don't tell me Marshall has you working as a—"

  "Don't say it," Jackson warned. "We've been ordered on pain of demotion not to say that word where we might be overheard."

  "Demotion?" Alan stared at him.

  "All the way to submissive, apparently." Jackson flipped his program over to look at the back. "I'm not actually sure he can do that, but I'm also not going to test the issue. And yes, to answer your question. I am… one of those. No submissive left behind and all that. There are about six of us scattered through the room, all under strict orders not to artificially elevate the bidding, though I doubt my services will be required. I was at the Beat the Meat earlier—"

  "Meet and Greet," Alan corrected.

  "Whatever. There wasn't a single volunteer being ignored by the prospective bidders. Should it happen that someone doesn't get bid on, sure, I'll raise my hand and take her—or him, I suppose—home for the next couple days. But you can smell the testosterone in this room and there are trouser tents just about everywhere you look. I predict a nice, fat bidding war erupting on every woman who crosses that stage. Alan, you gave me the wrong number. Number seven is O."

  As if all his attention were absorbed by the empty auction stage, Alan said nothing.

  After a moment, Jackson whistled. "Alan, not to tell you your business, but have you looked at that girl's hard limits?"

  Of course he had. He knew them all by heart. Alan didn't answer, his mind having already preoccupied itself with the unpleasant thought of the kind of bidding war Tavy would inspire just by walking out on the stage. Had she gone to the introductory gathering between the auction attendees? If so, his chances of getting out of this with so much as a penny left in his bank account were even lower than he'd initially thought. He swiveled around in his seat far enough to glance at the main ballroom door. With every new Dom slipping in past Sam, taking one of those programs and paddles, and hunting the aisles for a vacant chair, his chances dwindled even more.

  "Hope you have enough," Jackson said, as if he were reading Alan's mind.

  "So do I," Alan muttered, then wished he'd bit his tongue.

  At seven o'clock exactly, the door Sam was guarding swung closed, and the lights in the ballroom dimmed. The room grew quiet when Master Marshall ascended the stage. His formal black leathers melded him with the growing darkness. Just the sight of him, as he crossed the dais to take up the auctioneer's microphone, made the already thick tension in the room heavier.

  Alan was not immune. Craning to see around the pillar, he tightened his grip on the numbered paddle. The back of his head buzzed like a live cattle wire up under his skull. He'd been saving money his whole life, but only in the last few weeks had he truly understood what he'd been saving it for. He only wished he'd had the foresight to get enough moved in time, out of savings and into an account he could access. He eyed his neighbors in the surrounding crowd, the hum of tension radiating from them like a physical presence in the hall. Many were considered some of the Castle's best customers; a few could easily be considered wealthy. How many of them were here for Tavy? He honestly didn't know, but he was willing to bet more than one or two. He could exhaust every penny he had, and it was still entirely possible someone could outbid him. Another man might take his Tavy home tonight.

  No. Not this time. When she left the auction stage, it was going to be with his collar on her neck and the leash attached to it in his hand. For once, he was going to have something more of her than illicit copies of pictures begged off Mistress Genni in Photography.

  "Good evening," Master Marshall said, while the lights on the stage moved to center him and bring the Master of the Masters into stark relief against the red backdrop of the heavy velvet curtains. "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Castle's first ever Charity Submissive Auction. As many of you know, this last summer, the Castle lost one of its own to cancer. For those of you who knew him, the loss has been soul-rending. For those who didn't, Master Don was one of the original six founding Masters with the vision to help me take a dilapidated stone structure going to rubble in Scotland and bring it here, to Ohio. His greatest contributions to our facility have been the Nobles' Program, the period costumes, and the Master's Supper and Show, where he presided every night without fail that entire first year. There are bits and pieces of his influence in every wing and every hall, and in the rules by which we abide. In short, the Castle never would have become what it is today without his guidance and influence. And so, what better way to honor his memory than by hosting this charity event? Bid, and bid generously. Each submissive you are about to meet has pledged to make this a weekend for you to remember. Every penny you spend not only will the Castle match, but it will, in Don's name, be donated to aid a very worthy cause: the fight to eradicate cancer for good."

  Applause erupted through the room, and Alan joined in, but it said something about him and where his mind was that at each clap of his hands, all he could think about was that moment when he finally—finally—got Tavy alone. Got her down across his knee. Instead of the vague sting of his palm meeting his own palm, what he'd be feeling then was the yielding flesh of her bottom filling up his hand, turning softly pink one crisp smack at a time, until her moans were in his ear and her heady arousal filled the air around him.

  Master Marshall held up his hands, waiting for the room to quiet. "Before we begin, let's go over the rules. What you are purchasing toni
ght is the use of a willing submissive from the moment you make payment until ten o'clock Friday morning. Sexual favors are not included in the bidding. As consenting adults, that is strictly between you and your submissive. If you are the winning bidder in an auction, your submissive will be removed to a waiting area while you settle your account. You will then be given a file containing his or her likes, wants, desires…and hard limits. You will make yourself familiar with those limits, and you will not cross those lines."

  The quiet that had descended over the audience became amplified as Marshall looked over them. The ice blue of his gaze seemed to pierce them all in turn; Alan tucked behind his pillar most certainly included.

  "Your submissive has vowed to make his or herself pliant to your desires," Marshall continued, and his stare became positively glacial. "But no still means no. If you cross that line, you will find yourself in my office and I will not be forgiving. Also, the Castle rule regarding gags is still very much in effect. If you do not apply for a gag waiver and I catch you using one, I will not be forgiving. Are these rules understood?"

  No one in the audience said a word, but his edicts were crystal clear and after another sweeping glare, Marshall nodded. "Then let us begin. Our first submissive, ladies and gentlemen. Please welcome… Jasmine."

  Jackson had been right. From the moment Jasmine walked out onto the stage in her blue and green sequined and coin-dangling belly-dancing outfit, every eye in the room was hungrily on her. She was plump and dark-skinned, her jet-black hair hanging in a single long braid down to her hips, which lent her an exotic, Disneyesque allure that she wore every bit as comfortably as the gossamer veil which didn't quite hide the prettiness of her face.

  "A servant looking for a Master to worship," Marshall told the audience as she let her hips lead her in a full circle, rolling and gyrating in seductive popping motions that made the coins on her dancing outfit jingle. If she wasn't a real belly-dancer, she was faking her way through the part extremely well. "Hard limits include anal, but she loves to be restrained. The bidding will start at two hundred—"

  Even before he could read out the minimum price, all through the audience red lights flashed as multiple paddles shot up and the price soared. Alan felt his stomach sink all the way into his boots when it hit two thousand and just kept going. Two thousand, for four days and three nights? Jasmine was attractive and her attitude was beautiful, but she was no Tavy. This did not bode well, and by the time Marshall snapped his auctioneer's gavel down on the podium—pointing out into the audience as he said, "Thirty-eight hundred to number seventy-two. Come and collect your prize, Seventy-Two,"—it was all Alan could do not to taste his upcoming defeat with every shaky breath.

  Calm. Calm, he had to be calm. He pressed his sweaty palms flat against his thighs, his face a mask of expressionless stone. But… thirty-eight hundred dollars? He could buy a car for that. Maybe not a new car, but still a car. Or go on a cruise. Or rent a house in the French Quarter of New Orleans in the middle of Mardi Gras. Except that he already had a car, he had no interest in cruises, and if it came down to a choice between Mardi Gras and three nights with Tavy, who the hell cared about New Orleans?

  "Gentlemen," Master Marshall said, holding out his hand to draw all eyes to the far right of the stage. "Welcome Blossom."

  And so the auction went on. Blossom, a pretty blonde woman wearing the scanty white tunic of a Roman slave girl, cost her newly-acquired Master five thousand. A babygirl, bound for four days of fun in the Ageplay program, brought a staggering eight. Number four on the auction block was a young man in a Roman loin cloth. He had a taut stomach, a tight ass, and, as Marshall was only too happy to announce, a burning desire to intimately know the term 'rode hard and put up wet'. He went for almost six thousand. Alan recognized the Dominant who marched up to the stage to pay for his new toy.

  "I hope he was serious about what he wanted," Jackson murmured. "Because he's going to get his wish with that one."

  Alan didn't say anything. He didn't have to. One look at Jackson let him know that the Castle's Chief of Security was already making a mental note to inform his staff to be ready should they need to respond to a trouble call. Opening up his program (as if he really needed the reminder), Alan looked at the brief description given for Tavy. While the fifth submissive strutted out onto the stage in her kitty-cat ears and tails, and turned around to wiggle her bottom to the chuckling delight of the audience, he pulled out his cellphone and discreetly checked his bank account. He didn't need to do that either, but the time was ticking down, that inevitable moment where he either won or lost was looming closer, and it was getting harder and harder to hold still. His heart was pounding, embedding his pulse in his temple and his throat.

  Tavy was next. Alan rubbed his mouth. There were too many men in this room. Every last one of them was going to want her. How could they not?

  "Easy," Jackson said softly, burly arms folded across his chest, his long legs as stretched out as the row of chairs in front of him would accommodate.

  "I am easy," Alan snapped. A man well known for his unflappable calm, every inch of him was itching within his own skin.

  The kitten brought eight thousand. Eight. The second one so far to go for so much. He felt sick. That was more than he had. How could anyone pay that much for four damn days?

  "Number seven," Master Marshall announced, holding out his arm while the spot lights drifted to the right of the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome O."

  And suddenly, there she was—barely clothed in a corset that amplified her breasts and diminished her already tiny waist, flared her hips and turned her already long and slender legs into an eye-drawing masterpiece of feminine allure. They were bare, no stockings this time, and although he was a sucker for long legs gift-wrapped in thigh-highs and garters, this outfit honestly didn't need anything extra to make it perfect.

  Except a collar, came his next hungry thought. And a leash by which to lead her back to his room.

  "This lady is a lover of cock worship," Master Marshall told them. "Her hard limits include sex without condoms. However, in her admission packet I believe she said it best herself when she wrote: Use me. Degrade me. Break me."

  Tavy turned away from the crowd. As other volunteers had done before her, Alan thought she was going to twirl for them, to show her beautiful body from every enjoyable angle. But with her back to them, she stopped. Her long legs parted, and then she bent at the waist, folding all the way over until her bottom was a round, thrusting target outlined by the thin strip of her panties. She gripped her ankles and held that pose, her long brown ponytail pouring down like a waterfall onto the stage floor between her splayed feet.

  "I recommend the cane," Master Marshall told the audience. "If you forgot your own, the Castle does come fully stocked. Let the bidding start at two hundred dollars."

  More than one paddle shot into the air. Red lights flashed all around Alan, and his grip tightened on the handle of his own paddle. He didn't join the bidding, not right away. Instead he watched, letting the numbers climb as he tried to identify which of the warring Doms might be the most intent on taking his Tavy away from him. Marshall was calling out two thousand almost before Alan could blink, but by the time they hit three thousand, only three men remained in the bidding war.

  "It's slowing down," Jackson murmured, speaking just loudly enough for Alan to hear.

  Nodding, Alan's intense gaze followed each flash of light and fought hard to stay off Tavy, who was still holding her ankles up on that stage, the inner slopes of her taut thighs quivering under the strain. It wasn't until Marshall left the podium and drifted toward her, that Alan began to pay attention to what was happening on stage. The price climbed to thirty-five hundred, and the third bidder dropped out, but all Alan felt was the fist-like clenching of his gut when Marshall laid his hand on the side of Tavy's hip, patting her gently even as he continued to point out the next highest bidder.

  Four thousand.

  "It's defin
itely slowing down," Jackson noted softly, and still Alan held himself with statue stillness, his gaze transfixed upon the bent figure on the stage. Between her parted legs, he could see her bright red lips part, and then the mounds of her breasts—seemingly one shallow breath away from letting gravity spill them completely out over her corset—shook in a telltale hitch. She wasn't looking at the audience. Instead, she stared straight down at the floor, but that hitch gave away a lot. Alan didn't need to see her eyes.

  "She's crying." He never meant to say that out loud.

  Beside him, Jackson switched his attention from the audience to the stage. "So she is. Alan, you're about to lose this auction."

  It wasn't that Alan hadn't been hearing Marshall all this time, because he had. He'd just compartmentalized it; relegated the droning of his voice as he worked the room to something heard—but not quite listened to. Until the moment when suddenly what he realized Marshall was saying was, "Going once… Going twice…"

  He was looking right at Alan, one golden eyebrow arched in warning.

  Alan's paddle shot into the air, red light flashing. What the hell amount were they even on?

  "Forty-four hundred," Marshall supplied, pointing right at him. "Do I see forty-five?"

  From the third row on the opposite side of the room, the man who had up until that moment claimed the highest bid, snapped around in his chair to glare at Alan. Frowning, he raised his paddle and the bidding took off again.

  Alan upped to forty-six, his heart beginning to pound, a rush of pure adrenaline zinging straight through him. This was a lot of money. He snapped his paddle up again to bid at forty-eight. He was almost at the top of what he could afford. How much higher could this other guy afford to go?