Chapter 08: The Auction
Summer is coming to an end; you can tell by the leaves starting to change on the trees that cover the big rolling hills surrounding the slave academy. It's already too chilly for us slaves to be exercised outdoors naked; when we go outside for our morning runs, we have to wear short, fleecy tunics that cover us up for warmth, but still have open bottoms, keeping our cunts and assholes accessible to anyone who may want to use them.
Master Marco, the slavemaster, told me a few weeks ago that I'm ready for sale at the big fall auction, which takes place beginning tomorrow, Friday, and runs through Sunday afternoon. So I've been given some extra polish: the sales department is planning on selling me as a high-quality pleasure slave. Which meant I'll most likely not end up in a brothel, at least not a run of the mill one.
"Usually the girls we sell on that level are bought by private masters," one of the slave captains tells me while giving me a final evaluation before my sale. "Of course, they're often sold into the harems of Mideast royalty, or the stables of corporations. But because they're so valuable to their owners, they usually have a comfortable life. So don't worry, little animal. We have a lot invested in you, and we'd never sell you to anyone who doesn't appreciate that. Now, display."
I'm completely naked, as usual. My body has just been completely depilated and feels soft and smooth, oiled up and glistening. I can see myself in the mirror of the training room as I pose with my feet apart at hip width and my hands linked behind my head. My red-blonde hair, clean and shining, falls newly trimmed, to brush my ass.
"Down!" I go instantly to my knees then bend forward to touch my forehead to the floor, palms flat on the floor above my head and my back arched, to get my smooth, round ass as high in the air as I can. It's the classic prostration position, used when approaching a master or awaiting use or punishment.
He snaps his fingers, which is the signal for me to go to the low training bed, lie on my back and spread my legs—a slave ready for fucking. He bends over and begins to finger my cunt and pussy lips, and I automatically lift my hips to his touch. He laughs and pinches my clit teasingly, then cups my bare mound in one hand.
"You really are an insatiable, fuckable slut, aren't you. What on earth were you thinking with your little escape attempt a couple of months back?"
"I wasn't thinking, master," I say, with difficulty as my breathing has gotten fast under his touching me. "It just seemed I should try. Since the occasion presented."
He's busy stretching me out, strapping my wrists and ankles to the platform that the bed rests on. I love being fucked when I'm tied down so tight I can't move, and he knows it. It makes me feel so female, that a man, any man—a master—can do whatever he wants to me, whenever he wants to do it. Over the course of my training, I've been tied for use in many positions, but this is my favorite.
Now he's pushing two fingers into my slit, moving them around inside me, feeling the little ridges and skin folds of my rapidly juicing cunt. I arch and moan under his expert touch as he withdraws one wet finger and works it into my asshole, and then applies his thumb to my clit. A three-fingered hold on me: I feel like a bowling ball he's put his fingers in to roll a strike.
He pulls out his fingers and begins to stroke my quivering thighs, in long slow motions, like grooming a cat, all the way from my crotch down to my ankles. Then he nibbles his way up again, his mouth moving on my flesh from ankles to crotch, his tongue flicking my clit, then probing the entrance to my cunt.
"We've never had a girl who didn't try to escape, given that same opportunity. It's a useful tool; it lets us see how much more the girl needs to be broken in. You've been quite the challenge; you're a hot piece of ass, you love being fucked, and you know in your heart you're a natural slave. Yet your brain, because you're so intelligent, tells you you need to fight back, to resist. We had to break you very carefully: to break your will, but not your spirit. But that's all over now."
"Yes, master, it is," I gasp, as he runs his hands again over my tensed, aroused body. He smiles and roughly grasps my tits, one in each hand; my breasts are so big he can't get his hand around them, the soft, alabaster-white flesh spills over. Some men like small tits they can grab completely in one hand, but in the course of my training I've found that most men like bigger ones, even two-handers.
He runs his hands down over my belly and around to grab my ass, then reaches for the leather flogger. I tremble, seeing it bite into my tits, which go red as apples under the lash. He moves down to my soft belly and creamy thighs, again letting me see the whip crack against my body. Apart from the arousal a whipping always gives me, it's also another reinforcement of my slavery: I'm just livestock, an animal for a man to treat as he pleases. And both those things turn me on beyond belief; I'm aching to feel his cock in my cunt, and I lift my hips again to the lash, silently begging him to fuck me.
But he's in no hurry, and this is probably my final tune-up before being sold, so we both might as well take our time and enjoy it. Now he's spreading my steel-ringed pussy lips apart, moving a finger up and down, then under my clit hood to draw circles on my swollen pink nub; the nerves are engorged completely, I can feel the thickness all the way up along the nerve stem into my body.
