The Bidding Of Lot 98 Ch 01

Chapter 1: The Auction

I listen alertly for Sir's soft approach. Not so long ago, he could come within inches of me, and I would have no idea until after the first welt rose on my bottom, or his fingers were locked cruelly around my throat. In the last few months, my ears have become much more attuned to Sir's whereabouts, and it is rare that I don't sense his approach.

I was a decadent girl when I arrived – lazy, undisciplined. The blindfold taught me how dependant I was on my sight, just as the ball has taught me my dependence on speech. I have excellent vision just as I have a way with words; they contributed to my laziness. They were crutches, and I have learned to manage without. Over time, I've learned how important it is to behave well when there are no clever excuses. And I've learned how important it is to listen.

It is a point of pride that he cannot easily sneak up on me. It is a point of pride that I make no excuses. Sir says my points of pride will be my undoing one day.

He is quite busy, whatever he is doing. I hear furniture moving, and several times he's gone downstairs to the basement and returned carrying things. As always my imagination races trying to anticipate his plan, but deep down I have a feeling that this isn't just another day. It feels...special. Different somehow. "Different"...how utterly meaningless that word has become.

It'd been twelve months since I took the step. I'd quit my job, put all my belongings in storage, and told my friends and family that I was backpacking through Europe. I packed a suitcase. I got on a train. I came here. My suitcase is in a closet somewhere untouched, unopened. I'd forgotten it existed until just now, and wonder if I will ever open it again.

Beneath the blindfold my eyes are closed. Listening for Sir puts me in a bit of a trance and helps distract me from the ache in my shoulders. He's never made me stand in 'One' this long – feet shoulder width apart, fingers interlocked behind my head, shoulders back, elbows straight out. The end of my nose has been itchy for what seems like hours but I know better than to scratch.

I don't even know what room I'm in. Sir bathed me, blindfolded me, gagged me, and led me here. I know the layout of the house in my sleep, and he purposely led me in circles to confuse me. My guess is we are in the great room because I'm standing on hardwood floors, and there is a slight echo. It's a large drafty old room, which makes me conscious of my nakedness. My skin is tight and prickled with goose bumps.

Sir's construction project seems to have subsided. It's quiet now except for typing. Short bursts followed by a pause followed by another staccato flurry of keys. Then silence. I hear him clear his throat.

"Welcome gentlemen....and lady, I beg your pardon. Welcome to this evening's auction. This evening you will be bidding on Lot 98, which is located on page eleven of your auction guide. Details of its training history can be found in appendix A. Appendix B contains medical and dental records, immunization chart, gynecological history, its most recent pap smear, and the results from its STD tests. As you will see this evening's item is in pristine condition. It is unmarked, and has extremely low mileage."

I feel the skin on my chest and face go hot, and my heart trembles fitfully. Sir is selling me? It must be a mistake. Is it a trick? That must be it. Sir is testing me in another of his elaborate scenarios. I feel relief, and my fear is replaced by excitement. The degrading notion of being auctioned like livestock goes off like a depth charge in my mind. My imagination runs wild – that I am in a fenced in stockade. Men in Stetsons lean easily against the fence, discussing me: a dumb animal, I am trotted around the enclosure for closer inspection. The fantasy makes me immediately wet; I want Sir to touch me even for the briefest moment, but he goes on with his performance.

"As always, the auction will be silent. You may raise your bid at any time during the next hour. We will compare each final offer, and high bid will lease Lot 98 for a term of six months. At that point, you may exercise your option to make permanent the relationship. Possession of 98 will be immediate, and she will be ready for transport at sunrise tomorrow. So that you may take possession of a pristine Lot, corporal punishment will be kept to the barest minimum tonight, but a video record of one of 98's canings can be found on disk two. In any event, all this is set forth in our contract, but of course you are all familiar with our protocols, and this evening is not about legalistic details. This is evening is about lot 98. So let us dispense with the preliminaries and move directly into the examination. 98."

I hear my name, and snap to attention.

"98 take four steps forward."

I do as I'm told. I take four confident strides as though I can see perfectly. I've spent uncountable hours learning to walk in a blindfold. I was very slow to learn, and it is still not something I do well. Nonetheless walking into a wall, or banging my shin pales in comparison to the correction I will receive if I show the least hesitation or uncertainty. A failure to show complete trust in Sir provokes the worst sort of punishment. This element of my training was referred to as "Blind Obedience" – Sir puts great stock in active metaphors.

"98, assume three."

I nod. Position three – 'waiting'. I slip to my knees, legs wide apart, bottom resting on my heels, back straight, head down, and my hands resting palms up on my thighs. Head down was the hardest part for me, surprisingly. In my old life, I made eye contact. I stared. I read people well and so much of it is in the eyes. I still miss it, but it is no longer my place.

"98, ball."

I nod. My hands go to the back of my head and unfasten the leather strap of my ball. I slip it out from between my teeth, tilting my head back slightly so that any drool falls back into my mouth and not onto the hardwood. My jaw aches, but I know better than to stretch it – I look like a cow when I do and Sir finds it unattractive. I lay the ball neatly on the floor before me. My hands return to my thighs.

"98, blindfold."

"Yes, Sir." I take off the blindfold but keep my eyes shut. Removing the blindfold is not the same as permission to look; a mistake I made only once. I lay the blindfold above the ball. Hands to my thighs; I wait.

"98, eyes."

"Yes, Sir." I squint as I open my eyes for the first time in hours. It is incredibly bright, and it takes some time for my eyes to adjust. What I see causes me to wish for the sanctuary of my blindfold. There is no stockade; it is indeed the great room. I kneel in the center of a pool of light cast by a portable light kit. In place of men in Stetsons are video cameras – one straight ahead, one to either side staring soullessly at me. Behind the cameras is an elaborate computer workstation with multiple flat screen monitors. Sir sits on a tall stool; he wears a headset and stares at me dispassionately.

Two of the monitors are filled with scrolling data that I can't make out. The other four of them are filled with live feeds of a girl on her knees: from the front, the sides, and one from the back. It's strange to see myself again, and I stare intently at the flickering images. At the girl staring back at me.

I've not seen my own face in a year, and the girl I see is familiar but only vaguely. There are no mirrors anywhere on the property, virtually no reflective surfaces anywhere. It was a while before I realized it was by design. For a girl as vain about her appearance as I am, it was hard to lose the reassurance of her face. At the beginning, I would touch my face at night just to remember something of it. But little by little I forgot it was there, what I looked like, who I was.

It was only much later in a quiet moment that Sir explained that there was a mirror in the house. Sir is my mirror. The reflection of what I am. That I only need look at Sir to know how I look. Accepting that truth was a turning point in my training.

My certainty that this is a game evaporates. Sir is elaborate, but this exceeds even his meticulousness. And more than that, it feels real. An icy realization takes a hold of me. I've surrendered myself to Sir's collar. Named myself his property. Submitted to twelve months of grueling training. Told no one where I was going. And now Sir is auctioning his property. I flush, and feel dizzy. I begin to shake, and it is only through willpower that I do not hyperventilate. I hear Sir's voice, but I only stare down at the floor.

"Look closely. As per auction protocol, Lot 98 has no prior knowledge of this evening's event. You have just watched it come to realize fully its role here. Notice the lovely coloration in its skin when it is distressed, the open alarm in its face, the tremble in its frame. And this is only the tip of the iceberg. Over the next hour I shall demonstrate the satisfying range of emotional and physical reaction that can be elicited from this Lot."

I breathe slowly, measured and even as Sir has trained me to do when I am stressed. Hoping to regain some poise, but as his words tumble over me I feel myself physically flinching as though threatened by invisible blows – imperceptible muscle tremors in my shoulders.

"Notice also that 98 is unrestrained. Other auction houses bind their Lots for auction because they cannot guarantee the reaction. Here at Holland Court, we take pride in our rigorous training. We offer no Lot for auction in which we do not have complete confidence. If this Lot chooses to move now, we will make no effort to stop it. It will be free to go. The auction will end and we will compensate each of you for your time."

Sir stops. There is a long silence, and I wonder blankly what he is waiting for. And then it dawns on me – he is waiting for me. This is a test. They are all waiting to see if I will behave like any intelligent person would and run. Run fast. Run far. But it never even occurred to me. Never would have occurred to me. I am truly his property. I realize just how far I am from home, and I begin to cry. Still I do not move.

Sir rises from his stool and enters the circle of light in which I kneel. He circles me and stops on my left side. The only sound is my crying, which I cannot get a grip on: the tears keep coming. My shoulders are shaking, and I can't stop them. Sir lifts my chin to the camera.

"That tells the story right there. Why is it crying? Because this is no vacant, empty headed, drug addled automaton. It isn't jaded or desensitized to its condition. Lot 98 is highly intelligent, self-aware, willful and capable. It isn't some trailer trash castoff that we've cleaned up and trotted out. It came to us from a good family. It has a first rate education, impeccable breeding, and could easily find employment in the most competitive job markets. Instead it is on her knees, here, for you. I would say 'by choice' except that it seems to be no choice at all. It struggles, it doubts, it questions. But it was born to serve, and that trumps any instinct it might have for autonomy. It exists within a unique and powerful paradox that will provide the most exquisite opportunities for exploration should you be wise enough to own it."

Sir releases my chin, and I lower my eyes back to the hardwood floor.

"98, attend me."

I look up immediately to Sir; never to his eyes unless explicitly instructed. In his right hand is a black leather crop, in his left he holds out a simple blue vibrator, which I take with both hands as though receiving a chalice. My eyes remain on Sir.

You stroke my hair in a manner reminiscent of a pet, and I relish it. I know what's coming, and I'm nervous because I'm not sure I'll be able to do it.

"98, you have three minutes. Cum for us."

"Yes, Sir." I stammer through my tears.

I'd like to say this is the first time I've masturbated while crying; I can't. I'd like to say I am not aroused; I can't.

I turn the vibrator to high, and bring it to meet my pussy. At first touch, my thighs try to lever shut on my hand and the vibrator. Crush it inside me. I am wet, and the vibrator slips effortlessly inside. I tilt it so the tip presses against the top of me. My crying stops like an infant with a pacifier – instantly and shamelessly I go from sad to content. And an instant later, my brain catches up with my body and begins to scold me. To remind me where I am and what is happening. How are you capable of being aroused? What is the matter with you, little girl? It's a familiar debate, and I don't have time for it now. I try to push it out of my mind, but like a white elephant it's impossible not to think about it. My arousal diminishes...walks out ahead of me and I'm unable to catch it. I hold the vibrator to my clit, not gently or playfully, but hard and constant. I begin to berate myself silently. Sometimes that works. You slut. You whore. Come for Sir. Do it, or do you really just want him to hurt you? I'm breathing hard, not from arousal but from the effort. I fuck myself with the vibrator so that the palm of my hand hammers my clit. But I've become self-conscious, and now the pressure of the clock is intruding as well. Oh my god, Sir, is going to be so angry.

Sir. Beside me, watching. More than fearing his anger, I desperately don't want to disappoint him. I don't want to fail. He senses my difficulty, and with infallible instincts that I've come to adore...he helps me again, as he has done so many times over the past year, to be better than I am. Puts his finger on the button that will push me forward. Sir brings the crop down hard on my sternum. Without warning, unprepared, I let out a shriek. Sir cocks the crop again. I watch it; my hand working the vibrator savagely between my legs. The length of black leather is hypnotic, and Sir helps me forget my foolish reservations. My arousal embraces me like a lost friend. Everything but the crop, Sir, and the space between my thighs ceases to exist.

"May she cum, Sir," I manage to stammer.

"Yes, 98."

When I orgasm, my face twists in a silent paroxysm of ecstasy. My back arches, and my head bends back almost to the floor; my hips spasm four times scraping my knees on the hardwood floor. I am not permitted the luxury of making a sound. But he tells me how much he enjoys the 'retarded' faces that I make so I have learned to express my pleasure fully in my face.

Sir gives me no space to compose myself. Another stroke from the crop, and I scramble to return to Three.

"Two minutes thirty eight seconds. Under duress. Only moments earlier crying in degradation and fear, and it is still able to cum like a wanton, shameless slut in under three minutes. This is what makes Lot 98 particularly special."

Sir steps behind me, and squats behind me. I feel his knees on either side of my back.

"Tell us about 98's college thesis."

"Yes, Sir. She double majored in European History and English literature. Her thesis was centered on the role of femininity in the Theater of the Absurd characterized in the works of Beckett, Ionesco, Adamov, Genet and to a lesser extent the works of the pre-Absurdists like Pirrandello, Jarry and Witkiewicz."

It's been a while since I've thought about college. I was kind of a star back in those days. I was smart and talented. I had a gift for interdisciplinary connections – taking a piece of economic theory and applying it to Abstract Expressionism. A neat trick and it won me a lot of attention from department heads. As I rattle off the overview of my thesis, I feel your hands settle around my neck. Your fingers lock over my windpipe just below my chin. You apply just the faintest pressure. It is hard to concentrate on something as trivial as my college thesis.

"Go on, 98," you whisper in my ear.

I do my best. I detail how the traumatic casualty totals of World War I left eligible bachelors in short supply during the interwar period, which left European women time to consider options other then domestic bliss. I mention the absence of a female presence in Waiting for Godot, and how I used Simone de Beauvoir's The Second Sex and her theory of a feminist existentialism as a counterweight. But quickly the strength of your hands drown out my feeble attempt at a dissertation. I labor for breath before your hands close my windpipe completely. The vibrator rolls out of my right hand, and across the floor. I watch it as my vision begins to blur. My hands twitch but do not stray from my thighs. I do not fight; I wait. Black.

My eyes flutter open. I'm slumped back in Sir's arms. It's been no more than ten seconds. My head pounds as does my pussy. Sir holds me upright as my eyes refocus. I feel disembodied and slightly euphoric. A daft grin spreads over my face. He applies two sharp slaps to my right cheek. I'm alert enough to hold myself upright again.

"What was the name on 98's thesis?" You ask pointedly while I'm still groggy.

I feel a wave of panic. It's a trick question. I'm not allowed to say my old name. Not ever. My name is 98 now, and that is all. But I'm also not allowed to disobey a direct order. What is the less of two evils?

"Her name is 98." I insist.

"Yes of course it is," you coo into my ear seductively. "But what name was on the thesis."

"Her name is 98."

"The name on the thesis." You bark. You bring your hand down hard on my flank, all pretense of playfulness gone. "The name. What was the name? The name? Tell us the name." You rain down blows on my hip knocking me over. Pinning me to the floor with one hand, you paddle my ass. "The name. The name. The name." You chant it in syncopated rhythm to your blows.

"She doesn't know." I wail.

"What do you mean it doesn't know?" You pause.

"Her name is 98. That is what she has been told. She doesn't remember any other name." It's a lie. I'm not an idiot, and Sir knows I'm lying. But I get lucky. It doesn't seem to matter to him that I'm lying. He just wanted me to deny I had another name once.

"Pick up my toy, 98. Did I give permission to drop it?"

"No, Sir." I pick the toy up hastily.

"My toy is dirty. Clean it."

The vibrator is covered in fine dust from the floor. I put the vibrator all the way into my mouth, and close my lips tight around it. I draw it back out, mostly clean. I splutter trying to get the dirt off my tongue. I lick the one or two spots I missed clean and hold the vibrator up for inspection. You look it over, and nod satisfied.

"Good girl, 98. Lay there on the floor and come for us."

You stand up and walk away leaving me in a heap on the floor. I turn the vibrator on for the second time and slip it between my legs. I won't have any of the problems from before. Choking; being spanked; the stress of Sir yelling at me; the act of cleaning the vibrator – it's left me incredibly aroused. If I last ninety seconds it would be a minor miracle. I feel oddly peaceful lying on my side, not knowing who is watching or how many. I feel unconcerned by it all. Sir has a plan; I know that much and it calms me. And anyway there's the tasty little orgasm I'm on the verge of. What else is there?

"May 98 cum, Sir?" I call out. I hear you moving behind me.

"No." You reply sternly. "Continue, but do not."

I should have known it wouldn't be that easy, but for whatever reason I didn't expect it. I struggle to control my body. It's just will versus instinct. An act of will to ignore the humming blue cylinder inside me; an act of will not to become more aroused at being told no; an act of will to continue masturbating because to let up would be considered cheating.

"May she cum, Sir?"

"No."

Another minute passes.

"May she cum, Sir?"

"No."

My body is rolling side to side as though I'm on the deck of a ship. My orgasm has claws and teeth. I am trying to hold it off of me but it is like a feral animal, and it leaps around looking for weakness. The simple act of being told no is a powerful excitement. I feel myself twitch and spasm around the vibrator. I rap my head against the hardwood floors hoping the impact and the pain will distract me. It's a losing battle.