When the price passes half a million, only three men remain. I’m sure these are the men I’m shared with, the men who can grip my hips or thighs as they lick at my pussy, the men who grunt and groan and shiver as their dicks thrust in and out of me.
They’re good at what they do, and the anticipation of the play time we’ll have by the end of tonight has my heart hammering in my chest.
He and I both know that I’ve nearly climaxed more than once up here on the stage just from the rush of this moment.
“The price is five hundred and seventy thousand dollars,” the auctioneer says, and out of the corner of my eye, I see his head tilt slightly. He has to be wondering, as all the powerful men in the crowd must wonder... will this be the time?
Will this be the time that one of them gets to have me?
Is this the time that I become another man’s property?
Heat travels along every inch of my skin. “Are there any other bidders?” the auctioneer asks, and in the darkness beyond the spotlight, I can see heads turning, masks looking back and forth.This is what tonight is about. Not the money. By this point, I’ve paid off my college loans and I have enough to live a comfortable life, with an investment portfolio that’s growing by the day.
I could get by the rest of my life without working if I had to.
No, this moment is his gift to me. It’s about the thrill, the anticipation.
It’s about him teaching me just how powerful I am, and yet all I want is for him to want me, to own me, to refuse everyone else.
“Going once,” the auctioneer says, his voice tightening. Yes, we’ve done this before. Yes, he can guess in his mind what’s going to happen in the next few seconds.
But that doesn’t stop the tightness from forming.
“Going twice.”
Men shift in their seats in anticipation.
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand,” he says, his voice brooking no argument. Only once, in all the times that we’ve done this, did anyone try and up his bid.Hepromptly doubled it, and I have yet to see the mask that risked his wrath in here again.
This time, nobody dares try it, and after three counts and the rap of a gavel, I step away from the stage, my blood still rushing in my ears. In the eyes of the ignorant, they would see me as a whore. After all, I justsoldmyself for three-quarters of a million dollars.
KIERSTEN
Present
Ikeepmy desk tidy. Other than the small white bird that serves as a reminder, I don’t keep anything that isn’t dedicated to business purposes at hand out. Everything has a place, and I know right where it belongs. I’ve heard people call it austere, spartan, even anonymous. A lot of the people who say that assume it’s because of the inherent secretive nature of what occurs here at Club X.
And most of the time, they’d be right. While I’ve always had a policy of running extensive background checks on all the members of Club X, I’m no fool. I know that when such primal instincts are involved, and then emotions get stacked on top of them, things can get messy. Sometimes even ugly.
But there’s one item that is personal, although not many people recognize it as such. Normally, I keep it in my lap drawer, taking it out only on certain occasions. It’s a picture of a silvercollar, five linked pieces that are so finely crafted that when the collar’s closed you can’t see the hinges.
In the picture it’s locked around a neck, the one carat diamond at the throat dangling against the tanned throat of the wearer, and that’s it. You’d have to know me very well to notice the very faint scar above the collar, a scar that came from a tracheotomy when I was only three years old and had an allergic reaction. You can barely see it now.
It healed well, and decades of growth along with a little bit of makeup make it all but invisible. So only a handful of people know that I’m the woman wearing the collar, a picture Gabriel took the day I accepted it and have cherished ever since.
I probably shouldn’t keep it here in the office, but I will never remove it. Every time I look at it, I’m reminded of the time in my life when I was content in all things.
Even if it breaks my heart every time I look at it, I will never dishonor myself, my feelings, or what I learned by denying what Gabriel taught me.
On my desk, my phone buzzes, and I stuff down the threatening emotions to pick up the old-fashioned handset. “Yes?”
“Madam Lynn? It’s Becca, at the bar. We may have a member who needs attention.”
I straighten up, my photograph placed back in the drawer where it belongs, and turn on my monitor. The security office isn’t the only place I can see the camera feeds, and with half a dozen clicks of my mouse, four angles of the bar appear, and I can see exactly what the problem is.
Like almost all of the dominant members of Club X, Miles Astor is rich. You don’t necessarily need to have a nine-figure bank account to be a member of Club X. There are actually three members, one man and two women, who work nine to five jobs. They’re members because they are so skilled at what theydo, they thrive here and we thrive with them. The risk in their presence is simple—they don’t have as much to lose if events turn unfortunate. They’re all too aware, though, that in case we must part ways, I have no limits in what I can do and what I will do if my club is ever threatened.
Every employee is also aware. Assurances are required, and we keep every promise we’ve ever made.