"Sold!" calls the auctioneer, "for 8,000," and the girl on the block ahead of you is led away to be delivered to her purchaser, her hips swaying sultrily as she prances away to her new life of seduction and stupor. The trader gives the rope around your neck a pull, indicating it is your turn. Meekly, you step out onto the auction block, eyes cast down at the ground in front of your feet, until you stand in the center of the display area. The trader takes your arm gruffly and turns you toward the assembled bidders and you adopt the posture you have practiced; left knee bent slightly forward to display the curve of your leg, left arm behind your back and clasping your right arm at your side. Giving your head a final toss to make sure your hair is behind your shoulders and not hiding any feature from view (a head-toss during which you see the number of Men who are there to appraise you openly), you return your eyes to their downcast countenance, pull your shoulders back (subtly, you hope) in order to present your full breasts for maximum visibility, and wait for the auctioneer to begin. As he describes the merchandise to potential buyers, the heat of the spotlight begins to make your bare, ivory skin glisten with a thin layer of perspiration.
Doubts begin to enter your mind as the bidding starts at a modest 200, which meets with the low rumble of conversation among the bidders. What if i'm not good enough? What if nobody wants me? What if i'm not worth what the others are worth? The auctioneer's voice seems distant now, and your breathing quickens. From somewhere that might as well be another world, you hear the auctioneer call out a bid for 500, then 550. Still low. Casting your eyes to the side, you bite your lip. Remaining careful not to make eye contact with any in the crowd, you lift your head to bare your neck, a silent plea to the bidding throng. Imagine this rope has been replaced by silver, bearing Your name, half covering marks from Your mouth. Isn't that worth more than 550?
The plea finds an audience. A handful of louder, more robust voices almost growl their primal, bestial satisfaction with the gesture. The pace of bidding increases. They're now calling their own bids, not waiting for the auctioneer. 1500! 1700! Still not 800, the voice of your doubt whispers to you again. But then again, the girl before me was trained for years in the arts of pleasing Men. Maybe i can't hope to compete with her. But surely I'm worth 3,000 at least. Rolling your head slowly, subtly rocking your hips forward to give a ghost of a preview of what your new purchaser could look forward to seeing that night, a faint and piteous "mmmm," escapes your mouth.
"2800" cries out a bidder.
"2850" another answers.
"Do I hear 2900?" the auctioneer hurries, seeming to channel your own thoughts. "2900, anyone?"
Silence greets his query, and your heart seems ready to break free from your chest.
"2850 then, going once..."
In desperation, your hips writhe and twist. Though speaking on the block has been expressly forbidden by the traders, you cannot keep the word "pleeeeease" from escaping your lips. The outburst earns you a stroke of the handler's whip, which makes you cry out; yet as you do, your head goes back and the pain, coupled with the sensation of so many eyes upon you already, makes the cry into one of almost ecstasy.
"2850 going twice..."
"15,000!" thunders a voice from the farthest row. As a hush descends upon the auction hall, your breath catches in your throat. "And if any man bids against me I'll keep going."
"Good Sir..." the auctioneer reaches for his gavel, awestruck.
"You didn't even bring 15,000," a heckler contradicts the bidder. "You'd have to sell your entire harem to have that amount."
"Then tell that boy of yours they're finally for sale," the first man replies, to rousing laughter. "15,000. My bid is made. THAT one, leaves with Me!"
For moments, nothing is said. Finally, the silence is broken by the auctioneer's gavel. "Sold, for 15,000 then. Your number, sir? ...Thank you. Take her away."
A leather strap with the bidder's number on it is lashed around your neck. The trader has to pull the rope around your neck to get you to move, as it feels as if your legs have refused to keep working. "15,000..." you repeat to yourself. "15,000..." The world around you becomes a blur, and you're not certain how long you stand among the other sold girls awaiting the arrival of your new purchaser. All the while, you remain silent, impassive, your eyes still pointed toward the floor in front of you. "A good girl never makes eye contact," your mind repeats.
Finally, the approach of slow, methodically assured footfalls draws your attention. "So, here you are," a voice cuts through the haze of your reverie like butter. It's the voice of the man who paid such a fortune to possess you. As He approaches, your knees weaken. Feeling the weight of His shadow, you cast your eyes lower and lower, until you are gazing directly at your own feet. Even still, He stands close enough now that you can see the tips of His boots. "Yes, a prize indeed," He says casually. Slowly, you raise your eyes, tracing the leg of His dark trousers, to His thick leather belt, to the buttons of His black shirt. Just as His hands come into view, He reaches one of them in front of your face and snaps His fingers loudly before pointing to the floor at His feet. At His command, your entire body obeys as though His will controlled your body as easily as His own and in a heartbeat your knees strike the ground.
"Did I tell you to look at Me?" He demands.
"No... Sir..." your voice sounds timid in your own ears. "Please... forgive me..."
For a moment He says nothing, and your mind races. Have i already displeased Him? Will He discard me? Finally, He breaks the silence with three words. "EARN My forgiveness."
With trembling breaths, you lean forward and wrap your arms around His feet, nuzzling against them with your cheek... kissing the toes of both boots. "i'm sorry..." you murmur in between kisses. "i'm sorry... i won't fail You again, Sir."
He doesn't move for a few minutes, during which you continue your pleading. Finally you feel a hand grasp the rope collar and haul you to your feet, holding your face centimeters from His (and finally granting you the first glimpse of His eyes). A gasp of fright escapes you as you fear He is about to strike you. Instead, His hand goes to the inside of your thigh, slowly tracing His fingers along its length to the cleft where they meet. As your entire body shivers, He withdraws His fingers, chuckling lightly as He finds, as He expected, that His fingertips came away glistening and moist. "Yes," He whispers in a voice that is heavy with hints of what is to come. "This one is going to suit Me QUITE nicely."