Sex Slave at the Auction (3 page)

“Wake up,” she says in a surprisingly gentle
voice.

Huh?

I drowsily open my eyes. Heathcliff is
standing above me. The little light on the wall has been switched
on.

Was he the one who just squeezed my
breast?

“There’s been a very private request for
your services, Ms. Wesley. In return, your patron will donate
twenty thousand dollars to your private account. Mr. Devlin has
acceded to this arrangement.”

*

What have I become? A very high-priced
whore?

I run after Heathcliff in my heels, the only
part of my anatomy that is wearing something. “What does he want
with me?”

Heathcliff flashes me a deadpan glance.
“What do you think, Ms. Wesley?”

Yeah, dumb question.

“Does Max know?’

Another dumb question.
You are not in a
normal relationship, and the sooner you get that into your thick
skull, the sooner you can stop asking dumb questions
.

“I don’t believe he does, Ms. Wesley.”
Heathcliff walks swiftly down the dungeon corridor. “There are
circumstances to this request however.”

“Circumstances?” I’m aware of how ignorant
and helpless I sound.

“He does not wish you to see his face.”

“Oh. Do I have to wear a blindfold then?” I
have been blindfolded before. It was . . . titillating.

“No.” Heathcliff steers me to a stone
chamber. “You see, we have prepared a special arrangement as per
your patron’s specifications.”

I stop in my tracks when I see what he
means.

There’s a wide gurney, pretty much like what
you see in hospital emergency rooms, at the far wall. It is
embedded
inside
the wall, or at least, that’s what it looks
like. On closer inspection, I realize that a singular hole has been
cut in the lower portion of that part of the wall so that the
gurney straddles
two
rooms.

I have no idea what’s on the other side. In
the murky area in between, a black curtain drapes over the gurney,
obscuring what’s on the other end. I try to peer under the gurney,
but another row of black curtains stand guard.

“Why doesn’t he want me to see his face?” I
ask.

“The ways of the very rich are sometimes
hidden to me,” Heathcliff says with a half-smile.

He wheels the gurney out of the other room
and gestures to it. The curtains fall back into place, concealing
everything. “Please . . . take your shoes off and lie down. I will
have to restrain your wrists lest you be tempted to peek.”

“Oh no, I won’t. I swear.”

“Specifications, Ms. Wesley.”

I sigh.

I toe off my heels and climb onto the
gurney. It’s made of metal. It is cold against my warm flesh.
Heathcliff arranges me so that my wrists are pulled back and
chained to the top of the gurney, beneath which are fastened two
hooks. He leaves my legs untethered and pushes the bottom half of
the gurney through the forbidding black curtains, and arranges the
latter so that everything is where it was.

I feel extremely vulnerable. The lower part
of my naked body is exposed in the other chamber – prey to all
kinds of indignities. My imagination runs wild with lions and
tigers and bears . . . of the human variety.

Heathcliff sees my frightened face and
strokes my hair. “Don’t worry, Ms. Wesley. No one’s going to hurt
you . . . within reason.”

I nod and swallow the bile in my throat.

Twenty thousand dollars. I can do this.

And yes, I am a whore. Call me what you
like, but it’s my nest egg. I’m already in this, so I might as well
milk it for all it’s worth.

“Stay where you are, Ms. Wesley. Your patron
will be here shortly.”

Like I’m going anywhere else.

Heathcliff exits the room, but not before
turning off all the lights and closing the door behind him. I’m
alone in the dark, my ears sharpened for sounds from the other side
of the curtain. The air is cold and my arms ache a little from
being stretched. From the light beneath the curtain hem, I reckon
that no one has left the other chamber in darkness.

Not fair.

I try to compose myself by breathing deeply.
It’s going to be OK
. But my disorientation is disconcerting.
My mind wanders to the actual auction. I guess it’s the fear of the
unknown that is sending me into overdrive. I possess an immediate
omnipresent fear and another bigger one lurking in my near
future.

An irrational thought strikes me – what if
it is Alice who is doing this to me? I’m literally at her mercy,
all tied up like this. What if she’s doing this to me to take me
out of the competition?

What are we competing for anyway? To get the
highest bid?

A door whines open on the other side and all
thoughts are instantly banished. I strain my ears to hear something
beyond the quiet footsteps padding in. Soft slippers. Not the
clickety-clack of heels. A presence looms nearer and I hold my
breath. My blood goes
swish-swish-swish
within my ears and
my heartbeat is almost painful.

Please please don’t hurt me,
I will
him.

Am I allowed to talk to him?

Large hands land on my thighs. I can feel
the calluses on them. Who among the men has calluses? A tennis
player would have calluses. Hell, anybody can have calluses, even
if they are white collar CEOs sitting in big offices.

The hands begin to stroke my flesh – slow,
long sensuous trips up and down my limbs. They dive in between my
thighs and part them gently.

So he is a gentle man, my patron.

So far.

Fingers dart to my pussy lips and peel them
apart to reveal my clit. I picture my splayed genitals – my little
red throbbing clit peeking from under the harsh glare of whatever
light there is on the other side. My sweet little hood will be
wrinkled, and the undersides of my outer labia would be pink and
wet and very lickable.

Up close, displayed wantonly like this,
would my patron find me delectable? Does he find my pussy beautiful
and is he admiring my soft little petals – the folds within folds –
in between? My pussy starts to cream at the actuality of a total
stranger scrutinizing it with a fine tooth comb. A total stranger I
cannot see. It’s illicit and seedy, and there’s excitement and
danger simmering under the surface of the situation, and my skin
prickles with goose bumps.

With his thumb and another finger, he keeps
my outer pussy lips apart and invitingly open. Yet another finger
begins to stroke the nub of my clit. My vaginal muscles clench as
soon as the pulp of his fingertip touches my hood.

Ohhhhhhh
.

It seems like forever since someone has
touched me this way – with gentleness and purpose.

He massages my clit, strokes out the little
wrinkles so that my blood rushes into the little hillock of
exquisitely sensitive flesh. His finger dips into my little ravines
and clefts, eliciting a deep thrill within me. I long to
simultaneously close my legs and open them wider.

My breath comes out in short pants.

He continues to toy with me this way –
roaming his finger up and down, sideways and diagonally, all the
while knocking my tender clit hood around and aside as though it’s
a teat, or a mini-punching bag. My fluids pour out of my vulva,
staining the rim of my anus and the undersides of my buttocks;
maybe even spilling down to pool onto the gurney.

I’m a water tap these days. A cream
dispenser. I become turned on at the slightest things.

The finger pokes into my bubbling vulva and
slides in easily into my pussy hole. My vagina blossoms like a
flower at the welcome intrusion, and I open my thighs wider to
allow the finger swifter passage. One finger is joined by another,
and soon there three. Then I feel a fist beginning to form.

Not so gentle after all.

I grip my own bound fists and grit my
teeth.

His four crowded fingers are soon joined by
his thumb, and my vaginal walls are pushed and pushed and pushed
apart so as to accommodate the creeping expansion of knuckles and
folded palm.

Ahhhhhhhh
. I suck in multiple breaths
and try to raise my diaphragm. I’m always a little afraid of being
fisted, no matter how many objects with larger circumferences have
been inserted into me. There’s something brutal and sick about
fisting and its implications.

The fist rotates inside me. Wriggles. Tries
to get a good fit. The fingertips grasp at the mouth of my cervix.
I’m so expanded that I have no choice but to open my legs up even
more, so that my knees are off the surface of the gurney and I’m
clinging to my own chains for balance.

I moan piteously.

There is no reply except for his sharp
intake of breath.

He continues to fist me, slowly pumping his
beaked hand up and down the length of my overstretched vagina. I’m
writhing and trashing my head and crying softly.

“Please . . . oh please, sir . . . ”

I don’t know what it is I’m begging for. I
don’t really want him to stop, but I don’t really want him to
prolong it either.

The fist withdraws, and I experience a
profound relief. The entire area of my groin is as wet as wet can
be. I wonder if I should close my legs, but his palms tread lightly
upon my thighs – an unspoken signal to keep them apart.

The gurney creaks as a weight climbs aboard.
Naked legs nestle upon and around my thighs as hands balance
themselves, using my flesh as leverage. Those same hands sweep
across my belly, stopping just at the margins of the black curtain.
My patron clearly does not wish to touch my breasts or let me see
his hands.

I feel the stump of a cock head being placed
at my previously stretched vulva. This is my natural state – having
a cock in my vagina, where it’s meant to be. I savor the nuanced
and measured slide of the penis into my pussy – hard flesh
spreading velvety soft flesh – going deep, deep, deepest until the
cock head butts against my greedy cervical mouth.

“Ohhh,” I gush in appreciation.

I picture my patron. He must be sitting up,
joined to me at the genitals.

Hands hold my hips as he begins to rock
against me. My natural lubrication makes the sawing movements
oh-so-smooth, like hands plowing through butter in a mixing bowl.
It’s good, sturdy sex – the kind of sex that I don’t get enough of
these days.

I’m happy enough to assist him by matching
his rhythm head on. I pump my hips to meet his – two genitals
kissing, pestle grinding into mortar. My creams make squelching
noises as our pieces of flesh merge and unmerge.

My mind trips into who he can be once again.
Is he sampling the goods before he buys them? Am I the only one
sampled this way? Or is he sampling me because he knows he might
lose out on me in the bidding process?

This way, he gets to have me at least
once.

It’s flattering to know that I am so
desired. I would like to chalk it to my incredible beauty (choke),
but I know it’s really because I paint such a submissive
portrait.

My patron begins to grunt. I can’t really
tell someone’s voice from his grunts. But his slamming into me gets
wilder and more uncontrolled. I respond by raising my hips and
urging him on. I can feel my own climax mounting in a slow
inch-by-inch rappel to the peak, but I’m staving it off so that he
can get off on me first.

God. I’m becoming such a commercial slut.
Just because he paid twenty thousand dollars for this period with
me, I’m accommodating his every need. Or maybe it’s because I’m
such a born submissive. It becomes my natural instinct to deliver
pleasure to everyone else before I will allow my own.

His cock pistons in and out of me with
increasing vigor. I’m loving the slippery-smooth-slide-squelch of
his rhythm, his soft balls slapping against the creamed mess of my
vulva rim and anus, the abandoned grind of his hips against my
groin.

With a hoarse cry – in which his voice
breaks through a little (I think!) – he ejaculates his semen into
me.

The jet spray is warm, copious and watery. I
almost can feel (OK, imagine) the little spermatozoa of this
unknown (and unknowable) person swimming inside me, delving into my
crevices, battling the distance up into my cervix and closeted
womb. He comes and comes in an almost endless tide, and I surrender
myself to my own inescapable pleasure.

My climax is sublime. It’s a pixelated,
fragmented, blissful explosion of sweet, sweet pleasure – floaty
and cloudy and moist. I gasp instead of scream, and I’m so lost in
my own sticky pleasure that I don’t realize he has pulled out his
now softening penis.

No. Don’t leave me so soon.

But he seems to be in a hurry, and the
gurney creaks as he climbs off me – off my legs and hips and wet,
wet sopping genitals. The cool air chills my wet skin.

I don’t know what I’m hoping for – for him
to say something, perhaps. A word of “That was nice”, or “It was
worth every dime I paid for”, or maybe that’s way too much to ask
for. Maybe even a pat on my thigh as acknowledgement. But there’s
radio silence from his side, and I can hear his footsteps – carpet
slippers, no doubt – shoshing away.

Damn.

*

My disappointment is still evident when
Heathcliff comes in to unchain me.

“Now that it’s over, you can tell me who he
was, Heathcliff,” I say as I rub my wrists. No harm in trying my
luck.

Heathcliff smiles that little private smile
of his.

“You know I can’t do that, Miss. But let’s
just say that he has expressed a strong interest in purchasing you
and this was merely a sample of your wares.”

So I was right! Well, kind of . . . seeing
as I ran through every permutation in my brain when I was lying
there.

Inwardly, I pump up my fist in triumph. So
I’m not going to go bidless.