Chapter 3: The Price of Courage
Collapsed on the stage floor was beginning to feel routine. The auctioneer loomed over me, the raw silk of his shirt tucked into leather pants. I dropped my gaze when I heard a man's steps on the stage—the squeak, squeak of leather soles on polished wood so different than the click, click of a woman's heels. Men had told me they thought that was the sexiest sound in the world. Why weren't men's steps sexy? Still, the sound of each approaching step made me clench my gut and swallow. They were the steps of the man with the baritone voice who had bought me. More ominous than sexy.
With my head down, I could only see his legs—they were the height they design airplane seats for—long enough to reach the floor, but short enough to not bang into the seat in front. They were cased in faded black jeans above black socks and polished black loafers. I glanced upward and was relieved— his shirt was cream cotton, slightly wrinkled. At least something around here wasn't black! Then I noticed the forgotten puddle of emerald silk; I guessed his shirt would soon join it. I looked down again at the floor.
He stepped in front of me, and I let my gaze rise till I was staring straight ahead. There was an insistent bulge in his pants, held tight by the denim of his jeans. His bulge seemed to match his legs—not too big, but not too small either; a "Baby Bear cock?" Stereotype fantasies would have him the size of a fire hydrant, but I was relieved.
"Congratulations on being the successful bidder—I'm sure she will serve you well and give great pleasure. Here is her key."
"My god, she is spectacular," whispered the baritone voice. Heat rose in my cheeks. Then his hand was in my hair, undoing the pin that still held about half of it coiled into an up-do. My hair cascaded down about my face and across my shoulders. I shivered. He lifted it away to feel the length of it. "Like ebony silk." The blush rose higher. How could I be embarrassed when I was already stripped naked?
"Yes, and she belongs to you for the night. So take her away and have fun—there's a play room in the back for your use."
"What is your name?" demanded the baritone voice.
Now I did look up at him to answer. "Allie, as Master pleases."
His face matched his voice; it seemed a baritone face. A rounded, but strong chin, lips plump enough that they'd look good in lipstick, a nose that was slightly askew with a faint scar along the right nostril—I wondered how he'd gotten that—and then his eyes. I dared not meet his gaze but I could see they were hazel, flickering between green and brown. Cropped brown hair, curling over the top of small ears. He was cute enough to date, but not to model for the cover of a romance novel.
I looked back down at his shoes, faintly disappointed, but then realized that this wasn't my sex fantasy anymore—I was now his. I was his for the night and he was still soaking that up. I guessed he didn't often have naked, collared girls waiting on his pleasure.
I thought back to my school fair with its "slave auction" to raise money for some stupid cause or another. Being bid on made me squirmy, but while the geeky guy who won clearly had the hots for me, he was clueless. I trailed him like a puppy for half an hour before he gave up and let me go, without even a kiss. I had to run home and satisfy myself—to dreams of Arab Princes and being sold into a harem. This wasn't a harem, but I was still a sold slave, awaiting my master's wishes. I prayed this guy had a clue.
"Follow" he said in a raspy growl; I hoped the growl was lust but feared something darker. I'd fixated on him because the voices I'd named Mr. Suit and Mr. Gunshot repulsed me. I wondered now whether I'd read this book's cover right.
