an edgy, intense, boundary pushing erotic romance
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The only tyrant I accept in this world is the still voice within.
- Mahatma Gandhi (1869-1948)
Chapter 1
Celia
LEWD LARRY'S SLAVE AUCTION TONIGHT:
The plastic banner glares at me, rippling in the night air. Honking horns and squealing tires make me frantic. A foghorn raises above the traffic sounds, becoming an odd comfort. Gaining ground, I see a thick ribbon of people extending around the block. A second line gains quicker entrance by presenting VIP passes.
Doug, my boss and for tonights venture, my Master, jerks my chain and I follow him to a third line, the shortest of all. I understand why when Doug presents his pre-registered auction slip. I will be auctioned tonight. A beefy security guard, wearing a skintight black T-shirt that strains around his muscular frame, points us toward our final destination. He winks at me and I smile before it occurs to me that he knows why Im here. I blush insanely; of course, he knows; everyone here knows. I look over my shoulder at him and realize he has already turned his attention to the next couple. The back of his shirt glares SECURITY in neon yellow, as if any of us would have a doubt.
I stumble twice suddenly unable to breathe, but manage to make it inside, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light. I wave a cloud of smoke out of my face--no, not a cloud--the smoke is the air.
A spotlight flies over the crowd between slaves.
I am unprepared for the emotional jar as the bidding begins. Flesh is being sold here ...even if it is just for one month. I'm flabbergasted. I had no idea how much money would be exchanging hands. The minimum starting bid turns out to be thirty grand but each time it quickly accelerates to fifty and even to seventy thousand dollars.
It seems there are more men than women being auctioned and that surprises me although Im not sure why. Some slaves walk the stage like old pros. Their personalities shine whether haughty and over-proud, or shy and demure. Others stumble and cry, begging their owners the entire time not to sell them. I wonder if it is an act or whether they are as brokenhearted as they seem.
By twenty, the novelty is over and the night begins to wear on as the knot in my gut tightens. Music blares, competing badly with the drone of loud voices. The crowd is wall to wall, not like the night of our covert visit to check the place out. That night seemed tame by comparison--mostly couples, both straight and gay. Tonight every weirdo on the planet has shown up and they are dressed for the occasion. Leather and latex compete for attention opposite sparkling sequins. There are even a few cowboy hats, floating above the crowd. Worse are the suits: executives out for a thrill. However, we do not even slow to mingle.
Forty-seven.
Too close--time for Doug and me to venture Stage Right. I am afraid.
Forget afraid; scared shitless.
I cant believe I agreed to this. Why did the words Undercover and Expose seem so tantalizing and the promise of BDSM Sex Slave for a Month alluring? I am a reporter. Yes, I am a reporter.
Our private corral is crowded. Two women argue in the corner. One falls to her knees, begging, crying. Slave. Her Mistress is unsympathetic. A riding crop flashes in the erratic strobe and the enormity of my decision explodes in my mind. I try to ignore the stage, which is suddenly unbearably close, by playing with the gold baby ring that I wear on the end of my right index finger just below the first knuckle. I twist it round and round. An old habit from my college days: final exams and first dates. For a moment, I am lost in memories of long ago, people and events that have led me to this chapter in my life, some good, some bad, but all preparing me for just this adventure.
I feel eyes burning into me long before I glance up to see it is the announcer, Garrett Lawrence.
His eyes grab mine as he reads, Seventy-three.
My number.
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