Part three of a ten-part story about three sisters and their experiences being graded for sale as slaves. Note that this story contains references to BDSM and not-completely-consensual sexual submission. While the overall story does include themes and depictions of incest or incestual desire, this particular chapter does not, but be aware of that before getting invested in the story. All characters are at least 18 years of age.
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Someone I Know
Angie and Magda wandered through the cavernous building, more like a shopping mall than a slave market, while they waited. They saw the main auction area, with the block and posts with leash rings; the bidder's pre-sale inspection area; the steel grading tables, mounted on platforms for easy public viewing; a series of whipping posts for paid slave punishments; the branding racks (Angie stared at them for a long moment, then swallowed nervously and moved on); a wall of flat screen monitors displaying information on upcoming sales, final sales from the previous day with totals, and live video feeds from the holding pens, the inspection area and grading tables; a shopping concourse with vendors selling anything slave related (Magda made Angie take a photo of her holding up a t-shirt that read "
Someone I Know Got Stripped & Shipped at HCI Houston
"); advertising kiosks explaining the various services offered; and, incongruously, a cafe.
The sisters settled in to a booth with their coffee drinks and watched the growing numbers of people milling around the market.
Angie had never had a chance to really observe a market's customers. It was a strange mix of louts, gawkers, business people, college kids (mostly frat boys), and tourists. Probably only a small number were actual here to buy, but whom? Looks could be deceiving: for all she knew one of those slobs could be an eccentric millionaire looking for a house pet.
She looked around the café at the other patrons; one couple at a nearby table caught her eye. Trim, attractive, middle aged, well-to-do, upper middle class Latin Americans: both dressed casually, the clean-shaven man in a button-down shirt, dark jeans, and monk-strap shoes, the woman in a peasant blouse, jeans and expensive-looking sandals with turquoise accents (Angie confirmed that her purse was in the four-figure range), her shoulder-length hair in a popular style, her toenails pedicured. While each scrolled through their phones, Angie wondered what they were doing here? Not accompanying anyone, that wouldn't take both of them, and besides it was very unusual for a father to accompany a daughter if the mother was present. Tourists? Too well dressed. Are they buyers? Not if they're actually from Latin America, no country south of the Rio Grande had recognized slavery, much less legalized it. Are they Mexican-American? Spanish? Or Mexicans with a second home in Texas? That made sense, keeping a secluded foreign house stocked with slaves for their orgies; Angie almost laughed out loud at the thought.
But seriously, she wondered, what would it be like being bought by those two? What would they do with you? For sure lots of time on your knees in front of the husband, but what about the wife? Was she along to give final approval on her competition, or was she an interested party? Would you have to spend double the time on your knees, servicing the wife too? Maybe the wife would use a crop on my bottom while I blew the husband, correcting any mistakes, or take me over her knee when I didn't lick her the way she wanted it done. Maybe she's jealous and angry and owns one of those strap-on dildos I've seen in porn videos...
Okay Angelica, she said to herself, gotta stop that thinking right there — it won't do to daydream while you're supposed to be watching out for your little sister. Especially when your idle musings went from a generic "you" to a specific "me." Time for a distraction.
"Why did you lie to Alina about your grading?" Angie asked.
"What do you mean?" Magda shot back.
"I mean that we both know your grade had nothing to do with an overnight delay or your glasses — I mean c'mon, I'm surprised even Alina fell for that one — or anything else like that. Did you just not want to tell her what really happened?"
Magda traced a finger around the rim of her cup. "I didn't want to scare her, she was nervous enough already—"
"Bull. What was the real reason?"
Magda stared into the cup, swirled her remaining coffee, and remained silent.
"We both know you got docked a grade because you escaped from the pens, put a guard in the hospital, almost cost Cesar his job, and damn near got yourself sold as a penal slave?" Angie continued, looking steadily at Magda; "Right?"
"What do you want me to say? That I didn't want Lina to know how her big bad sister panicked at the thought of spending the night in a cell? Or that she got whipped in public as punishment? Or that papa called in every favor he had to get her out of slavery and it caused him so much stress that he had a heart attack and DIED?"
Magda's voice had grown into a near-shout; a pair of young guys taking a selfie in front of some old-timey wooden display stocks looked over at them, startled. Magda slumped back into her seat, her jaw set and her face red.
