The Girl in the Window

(Note: In a series of e-mails to me

, Joe Doe produced the basic plot as well as more than 90% of the dialog that follows

. He's been so busy finishing other stories that he allowed me to help a little on to this one. As always

all participants are 18 years of age or older

; in reality, no one should ever be deprived of free will about sex.)

"How much would you pay for me? I mean ... what price do you think I'd bring?"

Brad smiled at his beautiful wife. It was Sunday, and they were cuddling together in bed, like any other young couple, in their $67 million dollar apartment. Natalie, smiling, looked up at him with dancing, playful eyes. Damn, she was gorgeous.

"I answered that question when I married you. I gave you everything I have, and everything I ever will have, just to be with you."

"That's sweet, but my daddy's worth more than your daddy," she reminded him, in that teasing, "I'm still on top" tone she liked to use to put him in his place. "I mean...how much do you think I'm worth? On the market, I mean?"

"The marriage market?" he asked.

"No, the slave market, dumb-dumb," she said, swatting his shoulder lightly. "How much do you think you'd get for me?"

"Oh, I see where this is going," he said laughing. "How would I know?"

"Because you used to work in a slave market, stupid. The Big Dick, or whatever it is, down in Dallas."

"The Big D," he said laughing as he kissed away her silliness.

"Stop, and answer the question. How much do you think I'd bring?"

"I'm hardly a slaving expert. My dad arranged for me to work there as an incentive to get good grades at Yale. The pay wasn't much, but I loved the perks," he said, laughing.

"I bet, you dog," his wife said, punching his shoulder. "Fuck a lot of slave pussy, did you?" Natalie put her hands over her head, as if they were chained. "Oh, please master. Let me suck your cock!"

Not needing to be asked twice, Brad immediately reached into his boxers. Natalie swatted his hand away. "NO! None for you until you answer my question. How much would I bring on the open market?"

"Do you want the 100%, honest truth?" he said. "The truth that no grader will ever tell you?"

"Absolutely. Don't lie, or I'll know."

Brad smiled. She always knew when he lied, so honesty was the best policy. "I think you'd fetch a lot, but the truth the experts won't tell you, the truth I'll tell you, because I'm your husband, and I love you, is... it's impossible to say."

Natalie, disappointed, frowned. "Why is it impossible? Girls get graded all the time. Doesn't that show what they're worth?"

"It definitely provides a

range,

within a universe of probabilities. Sort of like a Board of Trade price. The hog price on the merch over the last year has never gone above this or below that."

Natalie's lovely brow furrowed at Brad's comparison. She was hoping he would dazzle her by telling her the fabulous price she'd bring, but instead, he had just compared her to pork futures. She pursed her lips slightly but tried not signal her annoyance. Brad noticed it anyway. His wife was very vain about her looks, but Brad didn't mind. She deserved to be--she was drop-dead fucking gorgeous, with a beautiful face, long dark hair, and a well-toned, curvy body that attracted men's eyes wherever she went.

"A professional grading, done by a certified slave grade, would get you a market range, but not a gavel price," he explained.

"How do I find out my gavel price?" Natalie asked

"Simple. Your gavel price will be the final number you hear before the auctioneer drops the gavel on you."

"You mean... I'll need to be sold?"

"Yup."

"But...If I'm sold... then I'd be a slave girl. For real."

"Wow. You catch on fast. Who says slave girls are stupid?"

Annoyed, Natalie punched Brad in the arm again, causing him to laugh.

"It's not funny. I'd be a SLAVE."

Brad smiled and shrugged, as if it were no big deal. Men could be so annoying!

"Fuck you!" she said, punching in the arm harder.

"You're the one who wanted to know your market price," he said casually. "You can't make an omelet without breaking in a few slave girls. So where do you want to go for breakfast?"

Dissatisfied, Natalie shifted the conversation back on course. "Couldn't you get a few bids, without putting me..."

Brad smiled as his gorgeous, filthy rich wife struggled to even say the words. "...on the block?"

"Sure. I could offer to sell you to that bond trader who is always creeping on you at the club."

"Creepy Carl? Oh, don't even JOKE!"

"I'm not joking, sweetie. Carl wants to fuck you, so he's exactly the person I'd have to sell you to, to get a good offer. In a slave market you'll get felt up by an army of Creepy Carls, all with busy, probing fingers!"

Brad smiled as Natalie defensively squeezed her thighs together and bit her lip, enjoying his beautiful-if-bossy wife's uncharacteristic discomfort.

"Can't I figure out my price without going on the block?"

"In a word, 'No,'" Brad said.

"Too bad we don't have an auction block," Natalie said. "But I do have this."

Natalie reached into the drawer of her $12,000 Second Empire mahogany nightstand and, to Brad's surprise, withdrew a slave whip.

"Where on earth did you get that?"

"It's a genuine antique," she said proudly. "The handle is mother of pearl, with a silver tip. The lash is a bull pizzle. It was actually used in the Barbary slave markets, where beautiful, well-educated white women were captured by swarthy pirates and put on the block!" Natalie giggled.

"It's beautiful, but why in the name of mother of pearl would you buy a slave whip?"

"Simple, silly! Since Taylor, Tiffany, MacKenzie, and I are doing slave yoga together we thought we should have a whip."

Brad's face showed his shock. "You're doing slave yoga? When did this start?"

"A few weeks ago. Master Mark says I'm the best. Mackenzie and Taylor are crazy jealous."

"You hired a slave trainer?" Brad said.

"No, he's our exercise coach, but he's also a certified slave trainer, and he insists we call him Master Mark, since we're doing slave yoga with him."

"Which means he's slave training you. Does Master Mark use the whip?"

"Of course not, silly. We haven't shown it to him. Taylor tried to crack it, though, and she cut her Thomas Blackstone sofa seat into feathers. It was hysterical. I keep it in my gym bag and bring it to whichever condo we practice at, so we all laugh and know it's there, but we haven't told him about it. At least not yet."

"Wise move. So do you and your exercise posse do slave yoga au natural, like real slave girls?"

"In your dreams," she said, smiling as she nudged him. "We keep our leotards on, but Master Mark still gets a pretty nice bulge, ogling us. We were just wearing our running clothes, but then MacKenzie put on this really hot leotard. Master Mark couldn't keep his eyes off her, so the next week we were all wearing leotards. A week after that, Taylor left off her leggings, so it was just like a one piece swimsuit, so the week after that we all did it. Then Tiffany left the liner out of her suit, so I wore a bikini. I'm hotter than all of them, so guess who got the most attention?" she said proudly.

"Master Mark is manipulating you," Brad said, smiling. "He's turning you all into slave girls, competing for his attention. He's stripping you slave naked, through the power of the male gaze."

Natalie looked puzzled. "He's not manipulating US, we're manipulating HIM. We have him eating out of our beautiful, manicured hands, poor dear."

"Uh-huh. He'll have you rolling slave naked on your oriental rugs before you know it."

"He won't. For your information, Master Mark says I'd be Prime or maybe even Prime Plus. Too bad we don't have an auction block or I'd show you."

"The table will do."

Brad clicked up the remote by the bed, causing the wall in front of them to rollaway and reveal the rest of the penthouse, which provided a 270-degree panoramic view of Manhattan.

"We don't have a wooden auction block, but that wooden table by the window is about the same size," Brad explained. "Now give me the whip."

Gripping the handle, Natalie handed him the whip. She looked a little worried, and her hand trembled slightly as she passed the instrument of correction, which she had regarded as a toy moments before, into her husband's large, outstretched palm.

"If you're Prime, you know better than that," Brad said. "I hope you don't pull that shit with Master Mark."

Natalie had to think for a moment, but then got up and knelt humbly by the bed. Putting the whip handle gently between her teeth, she looked up, being careful neither to eye her husband or look away.

Brad looked down at his beautiful wife, her perfect white chicklet teeth surrounding the beautifully patterned white handle. Damn, she was PERFECT.

Wanting to stretch the moment, Brad's commanded her in his master's voice.

"Undo your hair."

"Now shake it out."

"Spread your knees."

"Wider. Slave position. Come on, if you're Prime, you know the drill."

Natalie knew the drill, but it was really weird, and a bit frightening, doing it in front of Brad. She felt her nipples harden under her T-shirt. As for Brad, his erection looked like a rocket ship on the launching pad.

Brad removed the whip from between her teeth and took a moment to examine it. Natalie had held it properly, and there was no saliva on it. Perhaps her training wasn't as genteel as she claimed.

Brad left Natalie kneeling on the floor, hands on her knees, as he took his time to examine the whip while enjoying the image of her slave submission by the side of her bed. Natalie didn't like to be kept waiting. Tough.

The whip itself was a beautiful, museum level work of art. As always, Natalie had chosen the very finest. The mother of pearl handle and silver glistened in the moon light, the popper business end terminated in six wicked looking lashes. Ouch! The slave girls who had their bottoms lashed with this whip must have had a wealthy and powerful master with little tolerance for spoiled, disobedient white women.

"Get on the table by the window," Brad said, pointing with the lash.

Natalie glanced at where her husband was pointing, across the room, at the glass table by the window.

"I'd love to, but it's too high. I can't step onto it," she teased.

Smiling, Brad got himself out of the bed, and trotted into the kitchen to the butler's pantry. Returning a moment later, he moved the chairs away from the glass table, and set up a collapsible 3-step stepping stool.

"You want me to walk on a $55,000 Victorian English Renaissance solid oak table?" she said, smiling a bit as she playfully challenged him.

He did not return her smile. "It's wood, like the auction blocks at the Big D. They sprinkle sand on them, though."

"Why do they do that?"

"Because it's a livestock auction, and the sand captures the slave girl's piss, if she pees herself, and her sweat, and her slave juices. The sand clings to their naked bodies as they roll around the block, like the animal bitches they are."

"Ew, sounds gross!" Natalie said, wrinkling her nose.

"It's not. It's slave hot. They call them Sandy Foot Girls, and the best of them get into a little flyer each month. They compete for the title of Miss Sandy Foot."

"If I were competing against Tiffany, Taylor, and MacKenzie, do you think I'd win?"

"Let's start with you, my vain little slave girl. Up on the table. Now."

Brad tapped the table gently with the whip. Natalie noticed he wasn't smiling, but that was part of the game, wasn't it? The question was, would Natalie chicken out or rise to the challenge?

Determined to prove that her husband wasn't the only one who knew how to have fun, and feeling more than a little excited herself, she put on her black rimmed Versace eye glasses, got off her knees, stretched, and slowly sauntered across the room. She took her time, enjoying the feel of his masculine eyes on her long, bare legs.

Pausing in front of the 'steps' to the faux auction block, Natalie turned to confront her husband.

"Maybe this is some sort of guy-thing, but I don't get the whole business about needing slave auctions to establish a price. If I buy a can of corn, I don't have to bid on it."

"You're not a can of corn, you're a unique item. Although I do like your little nibblets."

"Thank you," giggling as she did a slow, tight circle twired for him. Brad started at the hem of her dark blue Barnard College T-shirt, a shirt that barely hid her pussy and perfectly-shaped ass.

His beautiful wife was hot, no doubt about it, but was she slave hot? He'd soon see.

Letting the whip drop to his side, Brad tone turned pedagogical. "True, you can buy girls based on grade alone, wholesale, but I don't think that's what you were thinking of when you asked how much you would bring. You can also do a sealed bid, or a Dutch auction, or a buyer and seller can privately negotiate a price. That's all quite tidy and genteel, and it establishes a price, but it's not really a MARKET price. To get a true market price, you need a large group of buyers and sellers, competing in the heat of the moment, with the pussy on the block."

"You mean ME on the block," she said, correcting him.

"No, I mean the pussy. Make no mistake about it. When you get on the block, you're not going to be the rich girl who always gets waved past security, the socialite, the heiress, or the most important person in the room. You won't even be Natalie anymore. You'll be just another pussy on the block."

"Isn't there some way of doing it that's less... less..."

"Degrading?" Brad said, smiling as he provided the missing word. "Disgraceful? Mortifying? Shameful? Again, no. Capitalism is a filthy business, sweetie. You've never experienced it, sitting up here in your penthouse, reviewing your quarterly trust fund statements with your lawyer. To get your true market price, you'd need that invisible hand of the marketplace, up your skirt, and between your legs."

Natalie squeezed her thighs together at the image. What he was saying was outrageously sexist, and she knew she should call him out. But this game was simply too hot to stop.

Hesitating, Natalie, looked at the stairs.

"I don't blame you," Brad said, sensing her nervousness. "The steps up the auction block are the biggest, scariest, and most dangerous steps a girl can make. Some slave girls call them the scaffold steps, or the walk up the gallows gate. It's a strong analogy, actually. Whether it's a gavel falling, or a trap door opening, your old life ends forever, and your new life, mysterious and unknown, begins."

"Or ends," she said nervously.

"Exactly. Go ahead. Up the stairs, my little slave girl."

Swallowing, Natalie took a step up, then another, so she was standing on the first two steps. Brad smiled slightly at her trepidation. He loved Natalie, but she could be impossibly bossy and difficult, and he wasn't exactly hating watching her squirm.

"Good girl," he cooed. "That wasn't so hard. See? You'll be on the auction block in no time."

"The steps are cold," Natalie observed.

"Yes. They're wood, just like the steps at The Big D. And we have a wooden table, just like the wooden auction block at The Big D. Cold floors are good for barefoot girls. Auctions needs to move fast," he said, snapping his fingers quickly. "Slave girls shouldn't linger."

"I don't think I could do this," she said. "In real life, I mean. I'd be too scared."

Brad laughed derisively. "Sweetie, when you're naked in the slave market, you don't get to decide what you will and won't do. The only decision you make is how many lashes you will feel on your ass before you obey."

Brad smiled as once again Natalie squeezed her butt cheeks together, this time adding a hand movement to cover her perfectly rounded rump from the lash. Brad recognized her stupified expression from his time working at The Big D. Natalie was extremely intelligent, but there was something about assuming the role that made girls "slave stupid". So much so that the grates that the slave girls squatted over and peed into were sometimes referred to as "Brain Drains."

Brad leaned over and whispered in her ear. "See how your toes are curled around the steps, as if they're clinging to hang on? You're delaying the moment of reckoning, the moment every slave girl fears, but was born for: displaying yourself on the auction block."

Natalie swallowed. Her pulse was racing, and Brad was totally getting into her head. This was HER condo, and HER table, and HER game. However, the shift in power between them was undeniable.

Brad's voice was soothing, and calm. "There, there. I know it's scary, my little slave girl, but you don't have to worry about anything. The men are in charge now, and they'll make sure you get top dollar. You only have to do what you're told."

Brad tapped her perfect bottom with the handle of the whip twice, not hard, but in the way that Natalie might signal one of the horses in her stables at Wentworth

.

"I have the whip, now do as you're told, little pony."

Natalie climbed the steps and stood on the beautiful mahogany table. 95 stories below her was all of Central Park, with skyscrapers below her on either side.

Looking over her shoulder she asked, "Okay, happy now? How do I look?"

She looked sexy and stunning, but Brad knew it wasn't the time to flatter her vanity. "Overdressed," he said, with the hint of a smile.

"I don't look like a slave girl?" she said.

"No, you look like a filthy rich girl in a Barnard College T-shirt standing on an overpriced table with a God's-eye view of Central Park," he said flatly. "Slave girls don't have college degrees, which means they aren't allowed to wear college T-shirts."

Distancing herself from the implications of what he was suggesting, Natalie turned, and assumed her "smart girl" intellectual pose, with one hand touching the side of her glasses and the other on her hip. "Slave girl or not, I'd still have my college degree."

"You wouldn't. Slave girls aren't allowed to hold college degrees, or professional certifications, or property of any kind."

Natalie frowned. "That's just MEAN. It's like I wouldn't even be me anymore."

"Exactly. You would cease to exist, and a Pleasure Slut would be born."

"Okay, but I still don't get the whole naked thing," Natalie said. "Can't you see that I'm beautiful?"

Natalie smiled slyly and gave him a seductive, slow turn. Brad struggled not to react to her sexy awesomeness.

"Nice, but it's not about what you care to show, dearest, it's about what men want to see. It's an auction, and you're livestock. Farmers don't buy a goat or a pig wearing their clothes. That's not how slave markets work. Besides, only standing on the block brings out the true sensuousness, the true value of a slave."

"Ah, 'the magic of the market place' speech, again. So, the auction block is the only way?"

"Yes, for a true block price, it's the only way. It's also the best way, and a time-honored tradition. As with the markets of old, buyers and sellers meet, and the merchandise is examined. The auctioneer extolls its finer points, ordering the property to pose in various ways while the spectators are free to discuss the item as they please. People wander in and out, gaining or losing interest. Bids are placed for everyone to hear, cheer, or scoff at. The item is fully displayed for everyone to see."

"Fully displayed NAKED," she said, correcting him. "Couldn't I wear SOMETHING? Isn't it better to leave a little something to the imagination?"

"You could wear a collar," Brad said, slyly.

Natalie thought for a moment, then, quite pleased with herself, scampered down the steps. Disappearing into a storage room, she emerged with a black leather collar with little gold studs on it and handed it to Brad.