My gaze lands on a woman with a cane. Her hair is blond, severely pulled back from her face in a tight bun. Her lips are red, and her heels are high. Apparently, so are her standards.
“Stand up straight,” she hisses in a thick Russian accent. I comply, because the cane is only my favorite torture implement when Mistress Violet wields it, and it’s obvious now she went easy on me.
“She’s very pretty, this one.” The Russian grabs my face between her thumb and forefinger. Her free hand whacks me with her cane across the front of my thighs, but it’s a warning tap this time, and not nearly as painful. “Spread.”
I do as she commands. I don’t like it, but I have no desire to be beaten by this bitch. She’s not as terrifying as Ares, but I no longer belong to him. At least, not for the next few days. I’m masterless once more. Maybe forever, if I fuck this up and get caught.
“Hmm.” She walks a wide circle around me. I keep my eyes trained to the front. “Bend at the waist.”
The millisecond that it takes to process this information earns me two hard whacks against the ass. Hard enough to brand, hard enough to break the skin. My knees buckle, but I hold it together despite the tears pooling in my eyes and the pain searing my bottom. I do as I’m ordered, and she steps closer, poking at the tender stripes against my flesh. She pinches and then soothes, and it takes everything I have not to turn and punch the bitch in the face. I hold position though, because I know it’s what my Master would want.
“Very nice,” she says, as a long-taloned finger slides down the seam of my ass, over the puckered flesh to my opening. “Mmm, nice and wet. Pink, and very, very beautiful.”
She shoves inside me, causing me to gasp because I’m taken unawares. She pulls out almost the entire way, and adds another finger, stretching me. “Not a virgin, though. Shame. Still, I like how tight she is. My Master will be pleased.”
She pulls out of me, and the guard previously hauling me around outside hands her a moist towelette from a silver trolley lining the wall. She wipes her hands clean and tosses it back to him. His licentious gaze roams over me from head to toe. I shudder. Somehow this woman shoving her fingers inside me and exploring my deepest parts was less invasive than the man standing before me, practically licking his lips like a dog with a bone.
The woman leaves the room, and I’m ushered toward the back with the other girls. A sea of shaking, terrified women stand before me. I bow my head and wonder if they were all subjected to the same inspection I was. I take my place among them and wait.
For hours we’re made to stand, as one by one, girls are taken from the room. They don’t return. I’m almost falling asleep, my fear half-forgotten when the girl before me is carted away, kicking and screaming. When they come for me, I don’t kick and scream. I don’t carry on like a child, and I don’t fight. I do flinch because anything else would look suspicious, but I don’t have to fake the fear I know they’re seeing in my wide-eyed gaze.
We never discussed what would happen to me if Vladik doesn’t buy me. Will Ares come for me in time? Will my guard get to keep me as payment for services rendered? I don’t plan to stick around to find out.
I’m led through a short hall to a double set of doors that lead to a ballroom. There, I’m taken by the collar and pulled up onstage. I trip on the step, and the crowd of finely dressed men and women murmur. I dart my gaze around the room, seeking those fathomless brown eyes of the man I love, my Master, my Sir. I lock onto them, several rows back from the front. He gives an imperceptible nod.
Be good, Pet.
Yes, Sir. As you wish, Sir.
Movement from the front row draws my attention. The blonde who fingered me in the backroom sits staring up at me, a smirk on her face. My eyes drift over to her partner.Vladik. I know him because Ares showed me pictures. Granted, they were grainy, as if they’d been pulled from CCTV. He’s a short, squat man with a head too big for his body. His nose is proud and bulbous, and like the blonde, he seems to look down on everything and everyone around him. He doesn’t scare me though. Before the auctioneer can even begin, the woman beside him leans in to whisper something in his ear. He nods, and she raises her paddle. “Five hundred thousand.”
My jaw drops, and the auctioneer glances between the woman and an official at the side of the room.
A nervous chuckle escapes him. “Alright, it seems we’re keen to skip the intro and start the bidding for this lovely slave girl who happened to be a famous ballerina in her former life. I have five hundred thousand, do I have six?”
“Six,” a familiar voice says from the back, and I have to control my features, so I won’t frown and give away my thoughts.What is he doing? My heart soars and plummets all at once.Why would he bid on me?
“Seven,” the blonde says, raising her paddle. Vladik stares at me, but the woman beside him turns to assess the competition. Ares tilts his chin in greeting. The blonde does the same and turns back to the front with a satisfied grin.
Ares lifts his paddle. “Seven hundred and fifty.”
“Seven hundred and fifty,” the auctioneer shouts. “Do I have eight?”
A finely dressed Arab man across the room raises his paddle. The light glints off his gold, diamond-encrusted watch, and butterflies swoop and dive inside my stomach.
“Eight hundred thousand to the gentleman with the watch.”
The Russian’s patience is all but gone now, if her sharp gaze and white-knuckled grip on her paddle is anything to go by. “One million.”
“Two,” Ares says.
“Do I hear three?” the auctioneer asks. There are several people on cell phones, covering their mouths as they whisper into the microphone. Any one of them could stop this. They could have called the police, or sent footage, but they are not here to help. They’re here to buy. “Come on, ladies and gentlemen, three million is not a lot to ask for a prima ballerina. She’s awfully flexible, folks.”
A pretty Asian woman on the phone shouts, “Seven million.”
“Twelve,” a newcomer with a Spanish accent says. There’s a collective gasp from the gathered bidders. Several heads turn in the direction of a silver-haired man. I dart my gaze to Ares, who seems to have paled.
“Twelve million. Do I have thirteen? Perhaps from my Russian friend down the front?”