by Ella Miles
Each man is assigned a scantily dressed waitress to do more than just serve drinks. They are here to tease the men before the show, so maybe they will open their bank accounts wider.
“What can I get you, sugar?” The waitress assigned to me asks.
“I’m good,” I say, lifting my barely drank scotch.
She gives me a knowing look as she eyes the scotch.
“Got a weak stomach, sugar?”
I growl—she’s just trying to goad me into drinking more so I’ll be more hasty with my money. But I need my wits about me tonight.
A man at the table over must hear our conversation because he starts murmuring to the man on his right.
Great, I’m going to be known as a pussy.
Fuck—I can’t let that happen.
Not because I care what people think of me, but I can’t draw any suspicions. I need Julian to think I’m an equal to him. And if Oscar thinks of me as a pussy, then he’ll tell Julian.
I down the expensive scotch.
“Another,” I say.
She picks up the glass, her eyes brightening, and her hips swaying as she walks away from me to retrieve another drink.
The lights dim even more, until the only lights left in the room are the single candles on each table.
Oscar walks out onto the stage as a spotlight follows him.
“Welcome, friends. I have quite a show for you.”
Some of the men applaud and hoop excitedly, while others stare at their phones like they couldn’t be more bored.
I do neither. I reach for where my drink once sat and find the table empty. I need my damn waitress to get back with my glass, so I have something to squeeze to death while I try to think of a plan.
“The first beautiful woman I have for you is more girl than woman. Let’s hear it for Chaste.”
The light flickers to stage right as a young blonde woman is pushed onto the stage by two guards. She stumbles, falling to the ground as she grips the thin white robe around her body. She doesn’t realize the robe is practically see-through in the bright stage light. We can already see her body. A body that looks barely older than fifteen.
Jesus Christ. I glance around at the men. They are sick. Not only are they selling women, but they are selling underage women.
The waitress finally returns with my drink, and I down it. I’m going to need a lot of alcohol to get through tonight.
“Keep them coming,” I growl at her as I crush the glass in my hand, not caring who sees.
“Of course, sugar.” She brushes her hand over my shoulder in a seductive way before she walks away. But the most attractive woman in the world could strip naked in front of me and offer to suck my dick, and I wouldn’t get turned on right now. I’m beyond pissed that men are this disgusting.
Oscar starts the bidding at half a million.
That number quickly shoots up to over two million for the young virgin.
But Oscar isn’t satisfied. He snaps his fingers, and the guards return to the stage. Her rope is ripped from her body until she is standing in white lingerie, revealing small breasts, a flat stomach, and bony hips. She’s so young. Untouched. And scared to death.
I skim the crowd trying to memorize every face of the men who are bidding on her—reserving a special place in my memory filled with the torturous thoughts of what I’m going to do to them when I’m finally a free man who can come after them.
The woman sells for $2.5 million.
And seconds later, another woman is dragged onto the stage to do the whole show all over again. This one is slightly older than the first, but just barely. She wears the same face of terror as the girl before her.
My stomach contracts tightly at the sight. I could easily vomit I’m so angry and disgusted. Instead, I sip on the drink my waitress brought me.
“Young women aren’t your thing? Don’t worry, they always save the more mature women for the end. You would think the young ones would be the most popular, but they aren’t. The young ones the men can get all the time.
“Just flash some money in a twenty-something’s face, and she will do anything for you. It’s the older women—the ones who have a career, a husband, kids, a life. The smart ones are hard to get. They aren’t as easily broken as the young ones.” She sighs. “Around number fifteen is when I expect you to start bidding, stud.”
And then she’s gone. I’m not going to bid. If I do, it will be just so it’s not obvious that I’m a traitor. But I won’t win a woman.
I’m here to protect.
That’s what I do—protect people. But I can’t protect any of these women. Not without getting a lot of them killed, myself included. I just came back from the dead; I don’t want to return so quickly. I would risk it if I had a real shot at getting them to safety, but I don’t. I don’t have a big enough truck to transport all of them in. I don’t have a boat to help them escape. I would just be leading them all to their deaths.
They might prefer it to where they are going, but I can’t be responsible for getting them killed.
Another woman appears on stage, gripping the robe like it’s her only lifeline. The only thing keeping her safe.
Is it..?
The woman finally looks up into the crowd of dark faces.
No, it’s not Siren.
But the next woman could be.
What the hell am I going to do?
I can’t let her be sold. I can’t let her become a sex slave. She saved my life; I owe this to her. It’s as if fate stepped in and is requiring me to save her life. I’m in the right place at the right time to protect her. Just like she was in the right place at the right time to save me.
But how do I save a woman currently being held by my boss’ client?
I could kidnap her.
Take her at gunpoint.
Or sneak her out before she was transferred to her new owner.
I could get a boat or a plane out of here. Take her anywhere in the world.
But Julian would know. He has enough resources to come after us both. We would always be running. She would never really be safe.
And I could never return to my life before. I would never bring them into more danger.
Besides, I’m not sure if I could rescue her without us being caught. There are cameras, guards, and locked doors between us and a chance at freedom. I might not even get her out the door.
More women are brought on stage, each more terrified than the one before. The girls being shown now are women, not girls—most in their late twenties to early thirties. Some even have a tan line where a wedding ring used to rest.
Only two women left—one is Siren.
I hold my breath as the second to last woman is pushed out onto the stage.
Blonde.
Not Siren.
Fuck.
Only one woman left. And then the show will be over. My time is up. I need a plan—now.
I don’t listen to the bids. I can’t focus on anything except the anxiety in my chest as I wait for Siren.
The room falls silent again, as the woman is dragged off the stage.
“We saved the best for last. This woman is exotic, beauty itself. She has a mane of hair. Red fuck me lips. Eyes like fire. Flawless skin. And tits for days.”
The room cheers in anticipation of the last woman. There are only twenty women to be sold and thirty men to buy them. It ensures that the last woman goes for the most. Not all men will leave with a woman, at least not a woman from the select group. I’m sure they can go backstage and have their pick of the rest before they are shipped out.
But they don’t get the honor of having one of the “best.”
I wait for the familiar push and stumble of Siren onto the stage. But it doesn’t come.
Instead, click, click, click.
The room is silent except for the click of her heels against the hard wood of the stairs.
The entire room takes a deep breath as she appears on stage. And the oxygen in my lungs vanishes entirely.
Siren doesn’t get pushed into the center like any of the other women. She struts, owning the stage like it was her idea in the first place.
There is no fear in her eyes, just anger.
She flips her long tresses of brown hair from one shoulder to the other so her eyes can shoot daggers in each man’s direction. Her lips purse tightly, prepared to bite us all for putting her in this situation.
And the robe barely covers her body with a simple tie; she doesn’t bother to grip it tightly like the other women.
The room is still silent, glued to the goddess in front of us as she takes center stage.
What is she doing? Does she think if she seems willing she won’t be sold to such a monster?
But then her face turns wicked. Her eyes shine with the fiercest fire. And her middle finger flips us all the bird.
I laugh at the fierceness exuding from her.
“Fuck you all,” she says.
I bite my bottom lip, more entranced with this woman than I’ve ever been before.
Hoops and hollers and whistles from the men around me tell me I’m not the only one infatuated with her—she has the entire room under her spell. I don’t doubt if she started ordering men around, they would do as she asked. Several of the men are clearly submissives, looking for a strong woman to tell them what to do.
But those aren’t the men that scare me. It’s the other men. The men who haven’t bid on a single woman yet. Who have lifted their gaze from their phones to look at her now. And they are looking at her like they want to devour her. Like they can’t wait to break her. They see her as a game they plan on winning.
“I told you I saved the best for last. Who wants to start the bidding on our wild stallion here?” Oscar says.
“I’m not a fucking stallion. I’m a woman!” Siren shouts at him.
He just grins—loving her performance, knowing it’s going to get him more money.
I smell sex and money in the air—a battle is about to happen.
I tear my gaze from Siren to look at the men who are pining to win her. So many fucking erections fill the darkened room.
Fucking disgusting.
I close my eyes, trying to break the image from my head. I take a sip of the scotch, washing the repugnant feeling down.
And then I open my eyes, looking up at Siren, who is now stripping out of her robe and throwing it angrily into the crowd.
She’s not dressed as an angel, like most of the women. Or black like the last third. She’s in a red, fiery number. One that matches her red lips, but shows more of her skin than I want any man to see. Because it doesn’t cover any of the important parts of her. It’s just a sea of red straps twisting across her body. Her beautiful tits are on full display—the perfect size for her frame, curvy but not fake.
Her nipples are pointed in the chill air, and I pretend they are that way just for me. I’d love to lick and taste them and listen to the purrs and moans leave her lips as I tease them. My eyes travel down her firm stomach, complete with the light outline of her strong abs. And her bare pussy is highlighted with two red straps on either side hiding nothing. If she’s going to be sold, she’s going to do it on her terms.
I feel my body responding to her, giving her all the control. My cock pushes against the zipper of my slacks.
My cock is a fucking asshole.
I’m turned on by a woman about to be sold. A woman defying us all by giving away the goods before she is even sold. I wouldn’t doubt that she would drag a random man on stage and fuck him just to prove that she is in control—not us.
It’s true. She wins this round. But what about the next?
What about when she isn’t on stage?
What about when she’s one-on-one with a man stronger than her?
A man who has a gun?
And a team of men working for him?
Will she always win?
Men start throwing their numbers up, pushing the bidding higher and higher, faster than they did for any of the other women as she continues to curse and spit into the audience.
Her outrage only drives the energy and bidding higher. The men all think they will be the one to break her. To control her.
And I’m just as sick as they are because I want to control her too. I want to mark that beautiful skin of hers. I want to claim that mouth and stop her from cursing anything except my name. I want to spread her legs wide and lick every drop of sweetness spreading between them.
I want her.
I want her to be mine.
I want to fight for control.
Suddenly, my hand goes up, indicating I want to bid.
“Five million, to number fifteen,” Oscar says, grinning at me like we just agreed to do business together.
What am I doing?
I’m disgusting.
No, I’m saving her.
This is the only way. I have to buy her. Take her as my slave. Then I can find a way to set her free.
“Five point five million, to number twelve,” Oscar says.
I grind my teeth together and then drink the rest of my scotch. The bidding has only started, and already it’s higher than any of the other women’s final total.
Siren is worth it. It’s clear she is stronger than the other women. Her spirit is unbroken. Her desire is insatiable. Her body is flawless. She deserves to be worshipped by a king, not sold to a monster.
Her eyes track from the man who just bid on her back to me. And I swear she can see me. Not just see me, but see through me. She knows even though I claim to be bidding to save her, I’m just like every other man in this room. I’m disgusting. I’m sick. I’m a fucking bastard who doesn’t deserve her.
If I win her, she will be my ultimate test. I always knew I was going to hell. I knew I was a sinner. But she would be my ultimate sin. She would confirm the darkness in my heart. Because I’m not sure I could resist her. And she knows it.
It doesn’t stop my hand from raising again.
“Six million, to number fifteen.”
I stare at my opponent across the room, but I can’t make out his face in the darkness. I don’t know how high he’s willing to go. I don’t know how much money he has or is willing to spend on Siren.
But I’m determined to win. She’s mine, not his. I’m willing to bid everything I have on her; I just hope it’s enough to win her.
7
Siren
“Seven million. Really? You bastards think that’s all I’m worth?” I shout out at their disgusting faces.
I hear chuckles and whistles as I reveal more of my body to them. But I don’t care. I want whoever buys me to know he doesn’t own my body. I’ve already shown myself to every man in the room. If I could have every man touch me, fuck me, ruin me for my new owner, I would. But Oscar would never allow that to happen, so I don’t try.
I just strut around the stage, acting like I own it, cursing, and flipping them off every chance I get. Which only makes the crowd cheer more.
What am I doing? Why am I making more money for these assholes?
Because it hides my fear, it makes me feel powerful—in control. And it’s the only thing I have left right now that’s mine.
My dignity is gone.
Soon my strength, my choices, and my body will be too.
This moment is the last of any control. So I’m going to make it my most powerful.
There are only two men left bidding on me.
My fate will soon be decided.
And I don’t know which man to cheer for. I don’t even know who the two men are. The darkness covers their faces from me. The candlelight on the table is barely enough to make out the light of the men’s eyes.
But even if I could see their faces, they are both monsters. One might be less evil than the other, but that is the best I can hope for. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be here.
“Eight million.”
Holy fuck.
My mouth drops open. The last woman went for five million. They are bi
dding eight on me and don’t show any signs of slowing down.
What will be expected of me for eight million dollars?
What sexual acts will be required of me?
Will I have to fuck other men? Or will I be the buyer’s prized possession?
Will he keep me alive longer because he paid more, or will he enjoy ruining me faster because he thinks I can’t be broken?
The room stills as the two men continue to go back and forth, bidding against each other in half a million increments. Eight point five million. Nine million. Nine point five. Ten.
At the rate they are going, it doesn’t seem like either of them will stop.
I don’t move onstage. I don’t flip them off or curse. I’m frozen. It’s only now do I wish I was still wearing my robe to cover up.
None of the men’s focus is on me; it’s on the two remaining bidders. It’s a game. And I can hear the bets from the other men in the room about who is going to win me.
Win me—ha. I’d like to see a man try to ‘win me.’ It can’t be done. I’m not a possession.
“Twelve million,” Oscar shouts.
The room falls silent; we all turn our heads in the direction of the other man. He leans back, out of the candlelight of the table. He’s alone. He didn’t bring a guard or companion to help him discuss. And I haven’t seen him reach for his phone to secure more funds. He’s doing this completely on his own.
Finally, I see the man lead forward until the green of his eyes flickers in the candlelight.
Gorgeous.
Consuming.
Evil.
Just the kind of man I would be attracted to if we met in a club. The wrong kind of man. The dangerous kind. The kind who will destroy me the second he gets the chance.
That’s what is so fucked up about this. If he had just asked me out at a bar—bought me a drink, I would have ended up in his bed for less than the twenty bucks he’d spend on drinks. He could have gotten me with a pleasant exchange of words.
I enjoy sex. I would have spread my legs and tried any weird fantasy he had. Instead, he’s dropping a small fortune, ensuring his place in hell, and fucking with my life.