"I'll bid eight hundred for the wench!"
"Eight hundred and fifty; right here!"
"I bid eight seventy!"
While Melody's wide green eyes darted from bidder to bidder, fluttering wings of excitement beat down the anxiety that had been churning in the pit of her stomach. She was the third slave of the evening to stand naked on Victria's living room auction block; the burgundy colored silk shift she'd been instructed to put on now gathered around her feet.
There were twenty men and women, all Victria's guests, staring covetously at her servant lover's finer features. She'd informed Melody months before of her desire to host a Christmas charity fund raising soiree. Now, the party in full swing, after all her preparation and hard work, Melody would have to also be auctioned off to the highest bidder, and for a period of forty-eight hours, serve at that stranger's pleasure.
"I don't think so my dears. "called a confident voice from across the room, I bid "Eleven hundred."
The sudden jump in bid hushed the crowd. From her perch atop the heavy wooden chest Victria had set at the foot of the living room's west wall, Melody appraised the woman that had called out the bid. She was older, yet appealing, perhaps in her early sixties, her body slim with the effort of regular workouts, her olive skin smooth and tight, her modeled shoulders and legs exposed, dressed in a lavender, frilled edged torso hugging cocktail dress, her white blonde hair bound in a tail that flowed from the back of her head.
Victria hadn't gone into detail as to how she'd come to know most of her guests, but Melody had a good idea. People who were comfortable with public scrutinizing a domme's naked sub, and then pay good money to keep her to themselves for a couple of evenings, didn't exactly come out of the wood work. Surely, there were upscale LGTBQ clubs Victria likely frequented, but there were surely other places she went to find other likeminded scene heads that fancied bondage, whips and humiliation play. Otherwise, as Melody carried trays of hors d'oeuvres around to each guest, she learned that there were also present a few prominent business women Victria had befriended and consulted with over the last few years.
"Eleven fifty." bid the woman Victria introduced as Pam; she, with her stylish bob cut black hair and steel blue eyes, who had kissed Melody on both cheeks as she'd entered the house.
"Thirteen hundred." raised the older woman; feasting her eyes on Melody's subtle curves.
Melody reddened, but not because she was self-conscious about her nudity. Her embarrassment at having stripped before the crowd had faded shortly after the first bid. Now, she was flushed with pride; flattered by the assemblage's obvious admiration and the highest bidders' steady raising of her value. It was a week before Christmas, and the proceeds would be going toward Victria's chosen charity; The Healthy Children Project. The slaves would not be getting a percentage of the money generated, but they would have the honor of fulfilling their temporary master's or mistress's every wish over the course of a fort night.
Through her conversation with the two women that had mounted the block before her, Melody learned that they were no strangers to being shared among their master's or mistress's friends. It was, after all, a slave's honor and duty, and, moreover, the surest sign of a very secure, equally gratifying, relationship. For Melody, the concept, though the prospect of its becoming reality still made her uneasy, had lost its original outlandishness in her mind. Between the training and her intimacy with Victria, Melody was certain that she'd become a proper slave. She'd become happy enough to serve without recompense and she no longer felt in the least demeaned by being thrust into the most humiliating experiences she could have imagined.
It had taken much more sweetly spoken enticement and persuasion than Victria had anticipated it would. But, through their relations over the last few months, slave to mistress, model to artist and as lover to lover, Victria had ultimately convinced Melody that she was indeed a singularly impressive piece of living art, a perfectly sumptuous luxury and a slave of remarkable distinction who was likely to bring the prettiest penny at the auction.
Melody had, of course, winced at the original proposition. She'd opposed Victria's entire plan; from having to prepare for such a large party, do all the cooking and then having to be rented for a perfect stranger's pleasure. Melody had once believed that it was one thing, to work, indentured, in your beneficent lover's home and give your entire self for the sake of her every whim, and entirely another to surrender oneself to be sold, your mind and body commodities, to another. But, that was then.
The first mention of any auction was brought up back in early September. They were in the waiting room of Victria's primary care office, anticipating the last of the results of Melody's blood tests. A thorough physical and accompanying set of fluid analyses had been in order for Victria's own certainly legitimate reasons, but primarily for the simple fact that Melody had not been to a doctor over the more than two and a half years she'd been homeless. The domme's new slave had been given, at that point, a clean enough bill of health. Her heart, lungs and blood pressure were determined to have been fine. Her bloods too would all likely be at optimal levels, and because Victria had the connections she had to get all of Melody's examinations done in one afternoon, her gyno had affirmed that all was in deed safe and sound in the areas of her choicest, delectable bits.
As for her mental state, Melody wasn't confronted by any lengthy, probative, examination from a doctor of the discipline of psychology. However, each practitioner that saw her had as Melody perceived it, snooped appropriately enough with questions like: Were you ever verbally, physically or sexually abused as a child? Can you ever recall having had nonconsensual sex? Have you had more than one sex partner at a time? Has anyone ever complained to you that you drink too much? Have you had an abortion or multiple abortions and are you experiencing any decline in your sex drive? Melody's responses were always the same. Unnerved, though assured, Melody answered honestly by simply wagging her head to indicate the negative.
It would still do, she was certain, to have a private mental state, for both her own and Victria's good. Melody would continue to be generally fine with enslavement and humiliation, and okay enough inside her head, as long as her ghosts stayed right where she'd put them, and as long as there were no further upheavals like being caught in a robbery, with men shouting and guns shooting. The experience had certainly been harrowing, and it had made the ghosts crowd around the inside of her eyes, reaching and crawling, kicking and screaming to be let out, but Victria had stopped them. Her lovely, fearless, domme had forced their retreat and Melody's gratitude was so deep that it could not be expressed in words, but through her ambition to serve, to surrender as totally and to submit as completely as her soul could manage.
"Well hello there Geralynne!" said Victria as she watched the tall, lean, artfully cut shaggy blonde haired woman walk regally into the waiting room, "Good to see you."
Victria rose to her feet and walked to the woman.
"This is my friend," said Victria, gesturing toward her slave, "Melody May."
Melody tossed her magazine aside; stunned by the certainty that it was that very woman who had just conducted her gynecological examination. Uh hello, she thought, the hand that rocked my cradle? Blushing, Melody rose from the chair and watched the doctor withdraw the long fingers of her hand out from Victria's. How closely, exactly, do these two know each other anyway? Speechless, Melody nodded slightly at the woman, and then gave her a forced smile.
"Actually," said Dr. Tucker; smiling warmly, "We've already met."
