"Well, then, now is your chance; I am open to an offer for this gem o' creation."
"There's them that would do that," some of the guests replied, looking at the woman, who was by no means ill-favoured.
Thomas Hardy, "The Mayor of Casterbridge"
GERALD
From the door of my shop at the Renaissance Faire, I had a pretty clear view of the Wench Auction. I couldn't see Steve and Jill, so they probably had seats, and the auction is always SRO, with a standing crowd three or four rows deep in the back. All those women packing themselves into a place where they knew they might be brought up onto a stage, looked up and down by a rowdy crowd, joked about with lots of double-entendre, and 'auctioned' to a total stranger. It wasn't a binding transaction, of course, and it's made in imaginary currency, like "two goats, a sack of potatoes and a spoke-shaver". But still--interesting.
If you've ever had an amateur magician try to force a card on you, you know the feeling of reaching into the fanned-out deck and having a card slide into your hand unbidden. The Wench Auction is like that, except that the women in the crowd are the deck of cards, and about half of them at once are trying to force themselves on the Sheriff. While the actor playing the Sheriff stalks his way through the crowd, he sees overtly flirtatious women leaning seductively in, practically raising a hand and shouting, "Pick me!" He chooses one and leads her to the stage. (Bonus points if she's tall, blonde, skinny, and provocatively dressed; he definitely has a type.) She'll showboat for the crowd, obviously reveling in the attention--partly of the audience, but partly of the Sheriff himself--a funny and good-looking dude who cultivates a hint of 'bad boy' menace in his character. Soon some guy 'buys' her, and the two of them disappear. (Generally, the guy buys his 'purchase' a drink, and they go their separate ways.) These are the brazen hussies, and I love them--but they aren't entertaining to watch being auctioned. There's no shame in a shameless wanton, and a little shame is what makes it hot.
The ones who like the attention, but are wary of seeking it directly, are more entertaining. Because society tells women that cravings like that are 'slutty,' they try to hide them--usually by volunteering their friends for auction. Of course, the Sheriff never chooses the volunteeree; he always chooses from among the volunteerers. To cover her slutty tracks, the chosen one makes a show of verbal protest and reluctance, while allowing herself to be led to the stage.
Once there, she laughingly vows revenge on her pod of chums, and poses self-consciously in what she thinks is a subtle and natural-looking way. She, too, is bought and escorted to a pub, or else taken back to her friends (who often encourage her buyer keep her.)
But Jill is one of a rare and wonderful few--my absolute favorite auction wenches--who are genuinely embarrassed by the attention while, at the same time, turned on by the embarrassment. Then they are embarrassed by their own arousal, then aroused further by that embarrassment, until they are blushing messes, caught on the horns of their conflicted feelings.
She can feel the eyes of the crowd on her body like the touch of a violet wand, sending pleasantly torturous electric current through her skin; the attention of the Sheriff, with its thinly-veiled sexual humor, is like a pinwheel rolling along her limbs. She flushes crimson and the crowd laughs, making her redden even more. It's incredibly erotic to watch.
Now add, to all this sexual/emotional turmoil, the mere fact of how adorable Jill is. Steve dressed her in the boyish way he has a letch for, in medieval moccasins from my leather shop, cable-knit Highland socks, a kilt, and a loose-sleeved, low-necked 'piratey' white blouse of her own. The 'kilt flashes'--brightly-colored ribbons that protrude from garters worn under the turned-down tops of the socks--were red, purple, and blue, matching the ribbons pinned to the cockade on her Tam O'Shanter cap. This color combination is a way for kinky people to discretely ID each other at the Faire. (The leather training collar I gave her as an anonymous birthday gift, which she was wearing, was also a broad hint.) Steve had ordered Jill to go with anyone sporting these colored ribbons and to obey them.
As Steve, the Sheriff, and I had pre-arranged, a leather-armored warrior-babe kinkster friend of mine 'bought' her, attaching a short training lead to the center ring on her collar. Judging from the way Jill kept looking back as her buyer led her away, and the raucous whooping and hollering of the crowd, I bet Steve was smiling blandly and waving goodbye. 'Damn', I thought, 'this is going to be fun!'
"Good day, Jill," I said when my agent delivered her to my shop. "Nice to see you again!" Puzzled, she replied,
"I'm sorry; have we met?"
"I made that training collar you're wearing," I said. Her eyes grew big as she took in the ribbons on my hat and the floggers, blindfolds, collars, and shackles on the walls, and she blushed like a schoolgirl when she clocked my hands, which are memorably big.
"Are you Gropy McHamhands?" she asked. I laughed.
"You can call me Gerald," I told her--then, remembering the plan, I added, "or rather, you can call me 'Master', as a bondmaid should do." Stepping into her personal space, I growled into her ear in my 'kidnapper' voice, "And I have a job for you, slutty wench!" Jill's blushed deepened, and her breathing became shallow and rapid. Quick on the uptake, she replied,
"As you wish, Master," dropping me a kilted curtsy and lowering her eyes.
"Go with Jeannie," I said. "She'll get you ready."
My assistant Jeanie stepped out from behind the counter with a smile and a friendly wave. She's tiny--five-foot-nothing and 90 pounds soaking wet--and, as always when it was warm enough, she was modeling a brown leather halter-bikini top and a short, jaggedly asymmetrical brown leather skirt. It gave her a barbaric, wild-woman look, and it was great for business.
When sales were slow and there wasn't much else for her to do, I shackled her to the open shop door, her hands over her head, where she smiled at passersby and greeted them in her chirpy voice--as though being manacled more-naked-than-not to a street door was the most normal, everyday thing in the world. That always drew customers in. She was shackled there when Steve and Jill passed by the shop on their way to the Wench Auction. Jill stared, wide-eyed, stammering in confusion when Jeannie smiled and chirped, "Good day!"
"Uh, hi!" Jill finally managed as Steve palmed a small electronic device into my hand.
Jeannie took hold of Jill's lead, and led her into the back room, where I heard their muffled voices and the rustling of fabric and leather. Before long, Jeannie emerged, looking like a Highland waif wearing her brother's ill-fitting clothes, and Jill stepped out warily with Jeannie's wild-woman leathers barely covering her taller frame, the short training lead still dangling from her collar.
"Mercy, but you're a hottie," I said.
"Thank you, Master." she replied, her eyes still averted.
"Let me see your pretty eyes, wench," I said. She raised her eyes to mine, panting lightly.
"You know what your job is?" I asked.
