Paraded before the Billionaires (4 page)

We do an about-turn, as we have practiced.
The iron chains unwind and rewind themselves around our thighs as
we end up a hundred-and-eighty degrees from where we were at. Our
buttocks and back view are now proffered to the gaze. The dildos in
the men’s rectums are very obvious in this frontage, and I think
that’s the whole idea.

“Right turn, and march!”

We assume our previous positions with our
side profile to the spectators again. And we march upon the
well-trod dirt track around the amphitheater.

One circuit, and it’s back to the holding
pen.

I wonder if the master or mistress who will
purchase me has already made up his/her mind at this first round of
display.

6

It’s now time for the Race.

We are partnered – Max and I. The partnering
down our slave ranks includes a man and woman as a pair.

We are dressed in the same garb as before in
the Parade, only now our arms have been released from our
bonds.

It’s necessary, of course, for what we are
about to do. My nipple, pussy and clit clamps have been released
for about an hour to allow the circulation to flow into my flesh
again and for the numbness to ease. But as soon as my respite is
over, the clamps are put on again upon my tender flesh like
leeches.

We are tethered to a two-wheel open Roman
chariot. It’s not from the ancient past, of course, in case that’s
what you are thinking. It’s newly made, I think, and gilded with
gold paint. The wheels are large and spoked and steel-rimmed. These
are the ones that made those tracks on the ground of the
amphitheater, which suggests that we are not the first slaves to
have graced this place.

Both Max and I wear a harness each. The
harness is brown leather and creased with use, and we wear it
strapped around our shoulders and chests. (In my case, two
horizontal straps run just above and under my breasts to secure me
tightly to the chariot.)

And yes, since we are beasts of burden, we
are decorated with fashionable horsetails. They sprout from our
assholes, attached to dildos that fit into us snugly as we were
previously measured for size. To prevent them from slipping out,
the rims of the dildos are further strapped to our attire – mine to
my corset and Max’s to the bands that encircle the root of his cock
and balls.

My horsetail is a roan-colored one – rich
and plumed with real horsehair and combed to perfection. My feet
and ankles are shod with calf-length boots. All the better to run .
. . or should I say clomp with. My veins are charged with the
crackle of adrenaline, and in my ears is the rush of my own blood.
It’s simultaneously humiliating and exhilarating to be tethered and
bedecked as such.

Max’s face is flushed with embarrassment. I
guess he has never been treated before in such a manner, rich kid
that he is. In addition to his black horsetail – attached to a
dildo in his rectum which is even thicker than mine – and his
clamps, his erect cock (already strapped securely) wears an added
embellishment.

It’s a slender penile wand – inserted into
his urethra. It’s so long as to sprout like an additional tail from
the head of his cock. It ends in a little piece of scarlet fluff
three inches from his tip.

No wonder he is disconcerted.

“It’ll be OK,” I comfort him.

“I guess,” he says half-heartedly.

“And are we here to win?”

“It’ll improve our chances to fetch higher
prices.” His tone is laced with sarcasm.

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“Depends on which side of the coin you’re
on.”

He’s not the only one decorated such. Greg
wears a penile wand too, as do the rest of the men. Greg has the
added sparkle of his penile head barbell, of course. I notice that
at least two of the guys have had their scrotums pierced.

Greg catches my eye and flashes me a smile.
This does not go unnoticed by his partner, Alice, who face
blackens.

All six pairs of us are tethered to
chariots, which are all placed side by side on the expanse of the
track. A Roman soldier perches on each of the open chariots,
holding our reins. We are not allowed to let the chariot lurch to
the front or for him to fall off in any way. Anyhow, he’s going to
make sure of that because he wields a wicked-looking bullwhip.

Our billionaire spectators are in their
places. Waiters in togas and sandals ply the stone bleachers,
serving champagne in fluted glasses and
hors d’oeuvres
in
little shell plates.

“I hope I won’t trip,” I say.

It’s not that I’m competitive, though I’m
willing to bet Alice is. Far from it. I just don’t want to make a
fool of myself and Max and look stupid in front of everyone. Least
of all Alice.

“You won’t trip. I’ll buoy you up. We’re
tied together after all.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

“What if we come in last?”

“Losers get flogged.” Max’s mouth twitches.
“You know the drill. That way, they make sure we give our all.”

Yes. The dread of falling and being
embarrassed looms above my neck like a proverbial Guillotine.

I don’t don’t don’t want to fall.

Seriously.

The way I’m garbed is humiliating in
itself.

The ringmaster calls out, “Take your
positions!”

Oh shit.

We tense. Red and yellow dust motes swirl in
the air before us. Oh yes, this will hopefully be quick and all
over before I come to my senses.

“Ready?”

We crouch. My fluttering heart is
threatening to spill out of my throat. I don’t want to embarrass
Max. I really don’t.

Beside me, Alice darts me a vicious
glare.

“Careful you don’t get an accident,
Gina.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

No, no . . . she wouldn’t
stage
something, would she?

The whip crack on the red ground signals the
start of our race. This is followed a split second later by the
sharp lash on our shoulders.

The sudden and unexpected sting drives me
forward, and I find myself running like all the hounds in hell are
after me. I can barely keep up with Max, whose athletic legs pump
in and out stridently.

I am by nature lithe. I run and run with my
heart in my mouth and only the whip crack on my back to chase me.
My boots ground the dust and send clods of dirt flying behind me. I
daren’t look back to my minder holding the whip lest I accidentally
get a lash on my face. The harness bites into my shoulders and
chest, but I barely feel it. The chariots trundle behind and around
me, and I can dimly hear the spectators cheering. Our bells tinkle
and chime for all they are worth, but I can hardly hear them for
the din.

We have to make an entire circuit around the
track. My vision is focused straight ahead, and I can faintly
discern the flash of Max’s limbs and the heat emanating from his
flesh. As we go around the bend, I can see that Alice and Greg are
pulling ahead of all the others.

For some reason, I feel incensed.

She’s going to smirk, smirk, smirk.

And –

The bullwhip cracks against my shoulders
again.

“Faster, you curs!” shouts our
charioteer.

I think I’m more afraid of that whip than of
losing out to Alice. A gust of endorphins injects fuel into my
legs, and as we zoom towards another bend, we are neck to neck with
Alice and Greg.

No way. But I believe we have a ghost of a
chance!

My lungs are bursting and I see green
ellipses before my eyes.

“Faster!”

K-r-a-a-c-k!

We navigate the bend, and Alice’s furious
face turns to regard mine. Her eyes are crazy wild and for a
moment, I think she’s going to lash out with her boot and trip me.
Fear speeds me up. I almost stumble.

And we are on the final bend – the finish
line being back where we started. The ringmaster with his flapping
red cloak awaits us. An ache spears my groin, and my muscles are
agonized all over with the strain. But I still run and thump and
clomp and do whatever I have to (
not be last
) get over the
finish line.

I slow down as I vault over, and my entire
body goes into shudders and shakes as if I’ve just been dunked into
ice-cold water. My limbs are a wobbling Jell-O mess. My lungs are
on fire, and the energy just drains out of me as if someone has
pulled the plug. My breasts heave and tremble, and I discover that
I have lost my clit clamp (and corresponding lead weights) and one
of my nipple bells.

Uh oh.

I can’t remember if the rules say I have to
be intact when I cross the finish line.

“I can’t believe we’ve won,” Max mutters as
he turns me around and hugs me in his sweaty arms.

And there you have it. We’ve won!

I can’t believe it either until I look all
round and realize that the spectators are on their feet and
cheering, and the other competitors are in and looking dejected,
and Alice’s expression is apoplectic but she can’t come over and
slap me because she’s still tied to her chariot. Russell and Max’s
mother beam like we’ve just won the sweepstakes.

My one intact nipple clip presses against
Max’s as he holds me close – breast to chest. The clink of metal
ensues and I can taste his salty sweat and imbibe his masculine
tang, and suddenly I’m glad, glad, glad we have won and beaten that
all-too-smug sister of his.

Our charioteer disembarks, and I’m reminded
of his lashes. I peer over to my back and am horrified to see red
streaks across my shoulders. Max wears the same.

“They’ll fade,” he says affably.

The ringmaster comes over to us, his cloak a
red cloud.

“Follow me,” he says.

My head is still spinning with victory, and
it suddenly registers that winners should also get something.

“We’re not going to be whipped, are we?” I
ask the ringmaster anxiously.

“Oh no,” he smirks. “You’re going to be in
for something far, far better.”

7

Max and I are taken to a hall. There’s a
stage upfront which has been decorated to resemble the interior of
a barn. Rectangular bales of hay are scattered across the wooden
floor beams, and several iron hooks are suspended from the
ceiling.

I eye the latter with dread.

The losers – a petite dark-haired girl with
ringlets and her redheaded stepbrother – have just been flogged
right here upon those bales, we are told. They are nowhere to be
seen when we enter. I peruse the surface of those bales for
telltale signs of blood, but there are thankfully none.

My pulse is still tapping against my throat,
however.

Max and I are still in our horse garb, with
the tails sprouting out of our butts. Max’s bobbing penile wand
fluff is no longer in his urethra, thank goodness. The corset
cinches my waist and my missing clamps have been replaced –
alongside with a curt clip on my ear from my charioteer. Our
audience is now seated theater-style before the stage with a
central aisle to divide the seats into two areas.

I spy Russell and Max’s beautiful mother in
the front row. She’s clutching Russell’s arm affectionately, and
he’s leaning towards her as she whispers into his ear.

“I’m sure she’s very proud of me,” Max says
in a low voice.

I can’t tell if he’s being truthful or
snarky.

“Well done, son,” Russell calls as Max
passes.

Max does not reply.

The faces of the audience blend into the
darkness as we step onto the brightly lit stage. The ringmaster
turns to the crowd.

“And now, we have our victors, Max Devlin
and Gina Wesley from House Devlin, who is here in our midst.” He
nods respectfully towards Russell and his wife.

The audience lustily applauds.

We stand before them, naked and
self-conscious. My eyes water in the spotlights trained upon my
face . . . and on my tits and pussy. I can’t see the faces in the
crowd anymore, but they can clearly see every detail of me.

“A magnificent pair of horses, wouldn’t you
say?”

The ringmaster motions me towards the center
of the stage where a compressed bale of hay sits. “And they shall
mate like horses for your viewing pleasure.”

More wild applause.

How can Max’s mother applaud to this,
honestly?

The ringmaster says to me, “Get down on your
hands and knees, little filly. And climb onto that.” He indicates
the bale.

Max helps me up onto the bale. The
compressed hay is firm, and my weight depresses it only marginally.
I prostrate myself upon its prickly surface, my rump and its
horsetail in the air. My bells and lead weights swing below my
body, tinkling lightly. The hay fibers dig into my palms and knees
and leave little crisscrossing patterns that I shall admire
later.

The ringmaster puts a frayed lariat around
my neck. He attaches the other end of it to one of the hooks in the
ceiling. So I am to be a tethered animal once again. On my rear
end, my horsetail sprouts in affirmation of this.

The ringmaster signals to Max. “Mate with
her.”

Oh God.
This is something I’m going
to relish – getting fucked by Max – since he’s not allowed to fuck
me anymore without permission.

But what a way to get fucked.

In front of his mother and father. I don’t
mind the ‘everyone else’. It’s his
mother
in particular –
her beautiful face shining and glossy with the veneer of expensive
makeup – that gets me antsy all over.

I remember when my own father caught me in
bed with Tommy LaPolla in high school. We were careless, and Tommy
was supposed to climb out of my window before dawn, but he fell
asleep. I really thought my Dad was going to give me a hiding,
something he hadn’t done for years.

Max takes a deep breath. If he has ‘mommy’
issues, he doesn’t let them show.

Or maybe he’s done it before in front of
Mommy.