Auctioned

by Lulu Pratt

  “Go fuck yourself!” I shouted, placing my hands in the center of his muscled chest and giving him a firm shove backwards.

  He stared at me, open-mouthed, and I suspect for the first time in his life, absolutely at a loss for words.

  Without so much as another glance in his direction, I turned on a heel and ran out, pushing past onlooking party-goers who were staring at the Boy Wonder and me, his cheap, trashy cocktail waitress. What must they think of me? Probably that I was trying to sleep my way to the top, one dick at a time. I shriveled in shame as tears slid down my cheeks. All I wanted was to be far, far away from Dazzlers.

  “Kiki!”

  His voice pierced through even the din of our fellow club patrons, but I was so over him. I’d let myself get lured in by good looks and easy wit once. Shame on me if I did it again.

  I resisted his siren call and finally, at long last, made it to an exit, pressing open the door.

  Turns out, I’d run right into the backroom of the club.

  A hoard of red-clad waitresses turned to look at me, eyeballing my frazzled state.

  “What’s up, girl?” one asked.

  I panted, putting my hands on my thighs. “Tate. Fucking Tate.”

  “Mmm, yeah, that sounds familiar,” another replied.

  They all nodded, and I said, “I was stupid. It’s fine, it’s over.”

  I moved past them, shuffling to my locker. Had I been about to run out sans trench coat, just into the open night with nothing but a bodysuit and heels? Man, my brain really had been fried by Tate.

  I was frantically spinning the lock back and forth, trying to open it, when a French-tipped hand slid past and did the combo in three smooth spins.

  “Hey Anaia,” I sighed, recognizing the fingers.

  “I heard Tate was a dick,” she noted in an even tone, clicking open the locker door.

  “Was I that loud?”

  “Only a little.”

  She put her lanky arms around me, cradling me in a soft hug and resting her chin against my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “You deserve better.”

  “He was meeting escorts. It makes me feel… so stupid, I guess. Like he was clearly just trying to pick me up for sex, not because he actually wanted to connect.”

  “And you came free,” she finished with a shake of her head. “Gross. Opportunistic.”

  Her words triggered a light bulb in my head.

  Maybe Anaia was right — maybe the dumb part had been thinking I should have sex for free. If men like Tate were just gonna take advantage of me, vulnerable as I was that day, why not make them pay for it?

  I took a deep breath, then said:

  “Anaia, I’d love the number for that virginity sale.”

  She grinned.

  CHAPTER 10

  Tate

  “GODDAMNIT!”

  I had been getting so close to Kiki when my stupid, so-called friends had to interrupt to talk about some harebrained evening they’d cooked up with a couple of hookers.

  Of course she’d gone running. Had the roles been reversed, I would’ve done the same.

  But for fuck’s sake, I deserved a chance to explain, to at least say, ‘hey, I don’t like these guys either, and I never pay for sex.’ She was gone before I could even get to the ‘hey.’

  My dick was so stiff I thought it might snap in half. I brought my hands in front of my pants, hoping that the other partiers wouldn’t see my massive hard-on.

  I’d had it all planned out in my head when I was dancing with Kiki. We would kiss, dance, flirt, then go to my reserved penthouse upstairs and fuck until the wee hours. It’d be electric and tantric and totally wild. Maybe she hated what I stood for, but she’d love how I laid down pipe.

  And I had hoped to, like, talk. If that’s stupid, so be it. But we’d been having a pretty great time. Nobody ever chatted with me that way, just so open and free of expectation. It was as if she didn’t want anything from me except, well, me. No money, no networking, just… me.

  Anger rose in my chest once more. I spotted my entourage plus their hired companions across the club and made a beeline for them. Patrons jumped out of my way, careful that my feet didn’t step on their exposed toes. I knew I was making a scene, but I owned the stage. Literally.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” I shouted as soon as I got within earshot of the men.

  Marlo piped up, “Sorry, Tate, we just thought—”

  “You never think, that’s the problem. You saw I was with a girl, that we were getting close, and you announced you’d gotten escorts. Do you see the issue there?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Jesus Christ, you’re morons.”

  Trey clasped his hands together, pleading. “I’m sorry, Tate, we’re all sorry. It was a mistake, seriously, never gonna happen again. Please, honestly dude. Forgive us.”

  It was grotesque, watching a grown man beg for mercy from somebody he called his “friend” — whenever he wanted clout, anyways. They’re all disgusting, I thought, with something resembling pity. They only care about themselves, and nothing else.

  That was it. The sole people in the world who claimed to care about me, who said they had a stake in my well-being, were just there for the parties and the chicks. I was nothing to them, just a walking wallet.

  My whole world was empty, save for the devils who clung to my back.

  Maybe I had lionized Kiki, for that matter. Sure, I’d thought the thing sparking between us was real, but who’s to say? More likely than not, she was just an accomplished actor, and I was a guy who saw what he wished to see. It was so fucking arrogant of me to assume that there were any deeper felt emotions. She was a cocktail waitress at my casino. Of course she had ulterior motives. Hey, she’d already gotten out of her punishment of the evening by chatting me up. How had I been so blind?

  I hated myself. I hated my life. And I especially hated my father for forcing this meaningless existence upon me.

  “You know what?” I said, surprising myself with the words. “I’ll take one of the girls after all.”

  The men looked to one another.

  “Yeah, sure, of course,” Carl said hastily. “Here, take Alice.”

  From behind him, he ushered up a tiny blonde girl with enormous fake tits that seemed to drag her whole frame to the ground.

  In uneven English, she greeted me. “Hello, I am Alice.”

  “Let’s get out of here, Alice.”

  “Okay.”

  I took her hand and without so much as a goodbye to my group, I chartered a way out of the club. The two of us moved awkwardly together, our steps out of sync, but we eventually made it to the door.

  At the lip of the club, I led Alice — presumably not her real name — to the left, past a couple of slot machines and through an Italian restaurant. I gave a nod to the chef and entered the kitchen, walking Alice past rows of steel tables and into a secluded backroom where we wine and dine celebrities too famous to sit with the general public.

  We were alone, and the room was quiet.

  I turned to face her.

  She was shivering from the cold. Her dress was a mere slip, a little shred of pink silk that covered her tits and genitalia and nothing else.

  Fuck. I couldn’t do this.

  With a sigh, I undid my jacket, took it off and draped it around her shoulders.

  “Should I get undressed?” she asked, even as she pulled the jacket tighter around her shaking body.

  “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, but I did. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

  The problem wasn’t her — it was that she wasn’t Kiki.

  “You seem… lonely,” she observed.

  I hung my head, dragging my fingers across my stubble. “That’s perceptive.”

  “Perceptive?”

  “I mean to say — you’re right. I am lonely.”

  She took a step to
me. “I can help with that.”

  “I’m sorry, but you can’t. There’s… there’s another girl.”

  “Oh. Heart hurts.”

  “Yes.” I tried to shake the sadness from my skull but it seemed wedged in. “Anyhow, you should get home to your parents.”

  She did, after all, look young enough to still be living at home.

  “You too,” she replied. “Call your family.”

  “I don’t have any. But even if they were alive, I doubt they’d pick up. That wasn’t the kind of family we were.”

  “I see.”

  Alice fell quiet, and her silence said everything I needed to hear.

  Reaching in my back pocket, I pulled out the remaining wad of cash I’d been intending to spend at the show as was expected of the owner. I handed it to Alice, who gasped at the number of bills.

  “But we did not have sex,” she commented.

  “I know. You gave me something better than sex. Thank you.”

  She smiled and leaned in, giving me a peck on the cheek.

  “You are good guy,” she said.

  She took off my jacket, but I shook my head and she put it back on.

  With that, she walked out of the room, leaving me alone once more.

  CHAPTER 11

  Kiki

  I HASTENED TO my car, my shoes clack-ing on the concrete, bright red against the washed-out background.

  Why did it feel as though I was going to some kind of Deep Throat rendezvous? It’s just a phone call, I reminded myself. Informational. Not binding.

  Yeah, yeah, logic was all well and good, but even a chastened brain can’t help but skip to fearful possibilities. What if they traced my number? What if it was the DA’s office on the other end of the line, ready to prosecute me for a crime I had only considered? What if it was just a prank?

  Doubts looped in my head like wild steeds, trampling down any excitement I might have had at the proposition of theoretically getting out of major debt. Finally, finally there was a good use for my sexual purity, and I couldn’t even enjoy that.

  My car, a 2003 red Jeep with balding tires and more than a few drunken scratches on the fender — thanks, Dad — was in a mercifully secluded part of the parking lot. No one would see my furtive call.

  I manually unlocked the door and slid inside. The thick, warm air of the Jeep, with its familiar cinnamon smell, allowed me to take my first full breath. Ah. That was better.

  The piece of paper in my hand trembled. I hadn’t realized I was shaking so hard. This felt like some kind of personal Rubicon. Once I crossed it, there was no going back, not in any way that really counted.

  Nevertheless, I dialed.

  It took one short ring before a voice on the other end picked up.

  “Who gave you this number?” it asked. Stern, low, masculine. Otherwise, totally nondescript.

  “A—Anaia.”

  He paused. “Okay.”

  He clearly wasn’t going to elaborate, so I replied, “She told me to call about the, uh… the auction. The virginity… one.”

  Duh, Kiki, he already knows that. Nobody who answers a phone with ‘who told you about us’ has any doubts vis-à-vis what you’re looking for.

  There was a longer silence, until at last he said:

  “Full name?”

  “Kiki Lake.”

  “Full name.”

  Jesus. “Kiki Mae with an E Lake.”

  Probably wasn’t the most inspired idea, giving out my legal name to strangers, but it was too late to double back now.

  “Place of employment?”

  “Dazzlers. That’s how I heard about it, Anaia also—”

  “I don’t need your whole story. Height?”

  “Five-three.” That was a fudge — I was more like five-two, but I liked to throw myself an extra half-inch.

  “Weight?”

  “That’s a little personal.”

  For the first time, he let out a small chuckle. “You’re about to sell your virginity to a stranger and you think asking about your weight is too personal?”

  He made a good point.

  “I’m one-fifteen.”

  “Good. Age?”

  “Twenty-one,” I listened for a reaction to me being that old and still a virgin, but there was only a brief pause.

  “Body type?”

  “Dude, would it be easier if I just sent you some pictures?” This was becoming exasperating.

  “No,” he replied. “No pictures, pictures can be traced. We take your answers on faith, knowing that Anaia wouldn’t recommend anyone… below our standards.”

  “Whatever. I’m kind of curvy.”

  “Cup size?”

  “30DD.”

  “Hair and eye color?”

  “Red and green.”

  “Excellent,” he said, finally sounding satisfied with one of my answers. “We don’t get many red heads.”

  “Glad to be of service,” I said. I felt a bit like I was floating above my body, like I wasn’t really answering his questions, that it was someone else with my voice.

  “All right, that’s about all I need from you. Any payment, if the auction is successful, will be given to you in cash. We offer money-laundering services, for an additional fee, if you need some assistance with the, ah, size of the deposit.”

  Money laundering? Fuck, what had I just gotten myself into?

  He went on. “Be at RES at eleven on Friday night. Go to the back bar, tell the bartender you’re looking for a pink Bugatti. He’ll sort you out. In the meantime, get yourself waxed, threaded, tanned, dyed, mani-pedi-ed, whatever you have to do. I promise an investment on the front end will be worth it.”

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  Had I just agreed to this? It felt like we’d jumped from basic information to a terrifyingly tangible plan. And it was all happening so fast. Hell, it’d been just today that I’d learned about my father’s debt and even met Tate, and now I was talking about selling my body. As thoughts swirled in my head, I couldn’t seem to get a purchase on a single one.

  “What if I have a question?” I asked. “Or change my mind?”

  “Ask me any questions you have now. You can’t call this number again. And if you change your mind… well, let’s put it this way. The last girl who auctioned it off made sixty thousand, and by your self-description, you stand to make more. Women never change their minds. But by all means, if you do, simply don’t show up. However, should you choose not to go through with it, we won’t give you a second chance. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “So are you in?”

  Shit, I was backed into a corner. Either I was in or out. I couldn’t call this number again. There were about two seconds in which to make a life-changing decision. I thought about my father, how despite all that he’d brought upon me, I’d do anything to save him. I thought about Tate, who I’d nearly let use me for sex. And I thought about, well, me. Who cares how you lose your virginity? It was a vapid patriarchal symbol, right? Thinking I would lose it to a man who loved me was just childish.

  “I’m in.”

  The words flew out of my mouth before my brain had processed them, but as soon as they’d left, I knew they were the ones I’d been destined to say.

  “See you in a week, Kiki,” the man replied, then hung up the phone.

  I started at my phone for a moment and took a deep breath.

  The die was cast.

  I kicked my feet up on the dashboard and turned on the Jeep, letting cool air blast through my AC vents.

  “Okay,” I said to myself, talking aloud in the way I sometimes do when I’m anxious. “You’re selling your virginity, Kiki. Cool, cool, totally normal, definitely not like a crazy wild thing that you just kind of signed up for on an impulse. This is gonna be fine, you’re gonna be fine.”

  Well, my maddened ramblings weren’t exactly a compelling argument. I flicked on the radio, shifting it to some smooth R & B. I needed to relax. Why hadn’t I gotten a drink a
t the club when Tate had offered? My every nerve was dancing on edge.

  Too bad my tiny pot stash was at home. Tonight was certainly the day for reinforcements, and I wasn’t ready to step foot in that house just yet — not when there was every chance my dad was lying in wait, ready to work up some tears and beg for my forgiveness. If I was going to avoid losing my cool with him, I needed to blow off some steam.

  What was relaxing? I’d never gotten into meditation, didn’t have time to learn a hobby like knitting. What self-care ritual would cover today’s fuckery?

  Then my hand slipped down my thigh, drawn as if by some magnetic force.

  Did I dare? In the middle of a parking lot, no less?

  My fingers went to my crotch. Even the mere suggestion of sexual gratification dampened my tights.

  Yes, I thought to myself. I do dare.

  If I was the kind of girl who could sell her virginity to pay off debts, then I sure as hell was the kind of girl who masturbated in public. I looked around and the coast was clear.

  In one swift motion, I rolled the tights past my hips and knees until they pooled just above the ankle strap of my heels, their crystals catching the overhead lights of the parking lot.

  I wanted release, and goddammit, I would get it.

  I moved a finger to my clit and began to stroke it. Immediately, my whole body moved in response — my back arched, my other hand dug into the worn fleece of the seat, my toes curled.

  And my mind responded too — I began to think, not of my own accord, about Tate.

  Stupid, entitled, arrogant, hot, wildly sexy Tate.

  “Don’t think of him,” I muttered to myself through increasingly short breaths. “Forget about Tate.”

  But my body had other ideas. Because the more I tried not to think about him, the more images of him in my head multiplied, some remembered, some imagined. Tate in the booth, leaning in close to me. Tate, holding me tight on the dance floor. More colorfully, there was Tate taking off his shirt and telling me he would fuck me like a queen. I blushed as I fantasized about Tate inside me, thrusting and groaning.

  My clit teasing quickened, my fingers moving faster as the scenes of Tate rushed through my head, flooding my synapses. Oh, fuck, that felt good. I wondered what it would feel like if it were him touching me with his strong, powerful fingers. Would he know what I wanted, what secret ceremonies my body desired?