Paraded before the Billionaires (2 page)

There’s:

A PARADE

A RACE

TALENTIME

DISPLAY

AUCTION

What the hell do they mean?

Max shakes his head as he bathes me in the
Roman Atrium – a Roman bathhouse-type structure located somewhere
in the mansion. Another room I haven’t been in, of course, but I’m
getting used to that.

“I have never been to an auction,” he
remarks, sponging my breasts.

We are both immersed in the rectangular
pool, bubbling with hot water. In another corner, Greg is bathing
Alice, whose blonde hair is wet and plastered all over her lovely
back. They are engaged in low conversation, and concern is etched
on Greg’s handsome face.

“How come?” I say.

“The ones run by my father’s friends in the
exclusive club are meant for people with a certain financial
equity. Meaning billionaires.”

“And you’re not one?”

I don’t mean this to come out as teasing –
because frankly, my mood is far from being a coquette right now –
but somehow it does.

“Not yet.” He grimaces. “My father doesn’t
plan to make it easy.”

“So he’s going to make you sweat it out for
your inheritance?”

“Yes. I have to get a job, do other stuff to
prove myself . . . like
this
.”

I shake my head. It all seems so . . .
weird. But then, the Devlins are anything but normal.

“And the money from the auction goes to . .
. ?”

“Charitable causes.” His hands move down to
my belly where he lovingly dips the tip of the sponge into my
umbilicus. I shiver in the slowly building anticipation. “Darfur.
Somalia. Laos landmine victims.”

“That’s noble.”

What a method to be noble.

“Billionaires are complicated beings.
Eccentric. They like their fun, and they also like to be
charitable. In every person, there exist multiple facets – cruelty,
kindness, ruthlessness, gentleness – not usually in equal measure.
The same Fortune 500 CEO who has fired his secretary that very
morning because she got pregnant with his kid may make a ten
million dollar donation to UNICEF at noon.”

Max shrugs as if he’s seen it all
before.

“So who’s the audience for this
auction?”

“It varies, I guess. Sometimes the same
people appear every year, so I’ve been told. Other times, there are
newbies. Maybe the newly minted rich. We’ll have sheikhs, movie
stars, rock stars, tycoons, princes – ”

“Princes.” My mind is swirling with the
possibilities.

Max lowers the sponge so that it is below
the surface of the water. He trails it down the smooth slope of my
lower abdomen. He pauses just above my pubic line.

I’m shaved, of course. I’ve bikini waxed
every other day since I’ve met Max because I know he likes my pussy
hairless. Having a hairless pussy makes me feel a lot sexier too,
not to mention a lot hornier.

“You know that we are not allowed to have
sex from now on unless instructed,” he warns.

“No kidding.”

“It’s the rules. Once I’ve become a sex
slave, my body is not my own. It is my master’s to do as he
pleases.”

“So you are in the same boat as me.”

“All four of us.” His beautiful face is
solemn. “So I can’t fuck you, as much as I want to right now. This
is as far as I can go.”

To demonstrate, he slides the sponge down to
my labia, where he slyly prizes up and digs beneath the petals of
my flesh. I gasp as the sponge brushes my throbbing clit, already
primed by his previous sponging ministrations upon my breasts and
belly.

His fingers lift my labia, and with his
third finger, he presses the sponge hard upon my clit – eliciting a
spasm of pleasure.

I give a little moan. From across the pool,
Alice turns to regard me with a glare.

“Ssssh.” Max grins. “Don’t let Heathcliff
know you’re having too much fun.”

It isn’t Heathcliff as much as Alice, I want
to say. Perhaps she’s jealous.

Of
you
. With me.

His fingers surreptitiously massage the
tender flesh on the under-leaves of my outer pussy lips. It’s
ohhhhh
so enticing. Then he snares and compresses my clit,
so that my little nub is straining with need and heat – even beyond
the delicious warmth of the water – and I’m trying not to make a
noise, even though my fists and toes are curling wantonly and for
the love of God.

He maintains his firm hold on my clit and
labia while his other hand slips below my pussy. He inserts two
fingers into my pussy hole.
Ooooooh
. In the bubbling water,
my entire body – including the tunnel of my vagina – is
languorously suffused with warmth, and his intrusion becomes a
lovely addition to my general state of heightened arousal.

“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 though 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.