SEX SLAVE AT THE AUCTION
(BOOK SIX OF THE INITIATION 2 SERIES)
By Aphrodite Hunt
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright 2012 by Aphrodite Hunt
Cover art by Aphrodite Hunt
Published by Aphrodite Hunt at Smashwords
WORKS BY APHRODITE HUNT
The ‘Initiation’ series
Open Your Legs for Me
Blindfolded and Spread-eagled
Thighs Wide Apart
Teacher, Please Spread my Pussy
The Final Initiation
The Initiation: A Bundle of 5 Stories
The ‘Initiation 2’ series
Open Your Legs for my Family
Bend Over for my Family
Publicly Display Yourself for Me
Sex Slave at Sea
Paraded before the Billionaires
Sex Slave at the Auction
‘The Royal Captive’ series
Prince Miro’s Capture
Prince Miro’s Submission
Prince Miro’s Enslavement
Prince Miro’s Punishment
Prince Miro’s Escape
Prince Miro’s Final Confrontation
The Royal Captive: Vol 1 to 3
The Royal Captive: Vol 4 to 6
The ‘Naughty Nymphomaniac’ series
I was a Naughty Nymphomaniac
Officer, Please Spread and Cuff Me
Gang Banged by the Chain Gang
The ‘Delicate Piercings’ series
Her First Clit Ring
Her First Clit Ring 2: Menage
The ‘Undercover’ series
Undercover: Exposing the Bad Doctor
Undercover: Stealing from the Sexy CEO
The ‘Alien’ series
Trapped with Sex-Starved Aliens
Trapped with Sex-Starved Aliens 2
Hot, Wet and Steamy (individual stories)
When He’s Inside You
My Stepson is a Naughty Stripper
The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense)
Dear reader, as this list is not always comprehensive due to more stories being churned out after this point in publishing, please visit http://aphroditehunt.blogspot.com/ for more stories and updates
SEX SLAVE AT THE AUCTION
1
I have been through the sex slave PARADE and chariot RACE. I now have to go through my TALENTIME, DISPLAY and the actual AUCTION, as according to my schedule of events.
See? They are so organized.
As for me, I’m scared.
I’m more than scared, actually. I’m rip-roaringly, in-over-my-head terrified of who I’m going to be sold to, where I’m going, and if anyone is actually going to bid for me. Because it would be terribly embarrassing if no one did, you know, unless Russell and Max’s mother are going to put in a pity bid.
To be honest, I’m not keen on my Talentime and Display either.
But theirs not to wonder why, theirs but to do and be objectified.
I can only hope and pray – like a little orphan whose mind must be swirling with simultaneous promise and dread on the eve before his adoption – that I will go to a good home and master who will not break my body and spirit before I can yield.
*
We spend the next day rehearsing individually with our minders – so that we can’t see what the others are doing – as our soon-to-be buyers, the billionaires, are feted and wined and made to go through other sales pitches. (I hear Tiffany’s brought in an armored van full of diamonds and Faberge rolled in their jeweled eggs.)
When we are not rehearsing, I’m conversing in a low voice with Max.
“I don’t want to be parted from you,” I say. Pinpricks of tears threaten to spill from the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to let them.
“I don’t want to be parted from you either, but we may have no choice.” He soothes my hair and entwines his fingers through mine. Loving couple things. How far we have come from our initial master-slave relationship.
“Is there any chance your father is going to buy us back?”
Max shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says, hesitating. “My parents are . . . unconventional. They think sexual servitude is good for the soul.”
“Seriously.”
“Well, both of them have been sex slaves in their youth, albeit briefly. Put up to it by my grandparents. My family has a history of sexual servitude all the way back to the Victorian era. There’s plenty of master-slave domination submission going on, with everyone taking and alternating turns. In the end, they become what they naturally settle into being.”
I’m goggle-eyed. And goldfish mouthed.
“Believe it,” Max says unhappily. “My father is a dom, as you can obviously tell. As am I, though he’s determined to let me experience the other end of the stick. My mother plays both roles, so I’ve been told.”
I’m loathe to ask this, but something tells me this is the best time to do it.
I say, “Do they . . . do they play those roles with you?”
My heart is beating painfully against my ribs. I’m always afraid of crossing a line with Max. I love him so much, you see – enough to prostitute myself for his family’s pleasure so that he will love me in return. I’m never sure where that line is drawn, and I’ve suspected many things. Of Max having more than a brotherly relationship with his sister. Of . . . oh, I don’t know, other incestuous relationships. Maybe even with his studly twin brothers.
After all, the Devlins are weird with a capital ‘W’. Beautiful as sin, but weirder than sexual purgatory. All kinds of kinky things are possible with them. It’s only a matter of whether or not you want to pass judgment, and since I’m a sex slave, I’m in no position to pass judgment on anybody.
Max’s handsome face is clouded. We are in a stone dungeon. The chamber is large and we are sitting in one corner while the others mill about, waiting for their turns to rehearse. There is a latrine against one wall and one of the girls is on the potty. No room for shyness here.
Max says in a soft voice, “With my parents . . . no. Not with me.”
He lets the implications sink in. Not with me. But possibly with my siblings. But of course, I’m jumping to conclusions. ‘Not with me’ does not necessarily equate ‘with Alice or someone else’.
The silence between us is so prolonged that I’m afraid this is all Max will say on the subject.
“But did you have a thing with Alice?” I press on guardedly. I swallow the lump that has bolted into my throat. “It’s just that she looks at you . . . strangely.”
She looks at you funny, and you look at her funny. And you both hold each other a tad too long to be considered fraternal.
Max lets the pause linger before he replies, “I was fourteen. She was older. We have . . . experimented.”
He clams up and looks away, his beautiful blue eyes troubled.
Oh, oh, oh, I knew it. Experimented. That’s a red flag for all sorts of things that are wrong.
Images of a young Max and Alice tumble in my head. Horrible images – images that shouldn’t even be conceived.
Max bites his lip. It’s a gesture that’s so fragile and heartbreakingly young that a pang fleets through my chest. Not just a pang, but a terrible ache that the love of my life has to go through this. But did he like going through it? After all, no one took advantage of anyone. It was a mutual consent, right?
“D-did she force you?”
“No.”
“Did you force her?”
I don’t believe I said that, but there it is – it was out before I can take it back.
“No, of course not.”
I’m relieved.
“Do your parents and brothers know?”
“I don’t think so. I think Father would have given me a hiding. No, worse. Cut me out of his will, more like.”
“Why single you out? It’s her as much as you.”
Max’s lips twist. “Father always had a thing for Alice, if you’ve noticed. Mother always had a thing for the twins, maybe because she went through a Caesarean for them. I don’t mean that in a bad way where Mother is concerned, of course – it’s purely maternal.”
As maternal as a mother who can watch her eldest son and daughter stripped, bound and paraded naked in front of strangers, I reckon. I picture my own parents being in that theatre-style room, watching Max and me fuck. I guarantee both of them will keel over with a heart attack.
“So I’m the black sheep of the family,” Max continues. He grins, as if this matter is of little consequence to him.
But inside, I know that it must cut deep.
I say, “But why? You’re handsome and smart and athletic and all the good things any parent would want in a son.”
“Why does a parent prefer one kid over another? That’s the eternal cosmic question, going back to biblical times. Why Jacob and not Esau? Will we ever know?” he says without bitterness. He shrugs. “It’s OK. It’s something I’ve dealt with my entire life so I’ve had plenty of practice. It doesn’t bother me after a while. Like I’m sure it doesn’t bother you.”
It’s true. I’ve always suspected my folks of preferring my beautiful, smarter sister, Karyn, over me – even though they have always vehemently protested it. But you just know these things. It’s deep in your bones, like soul knowledge. These are the things that hurt us in the middle of the night. Things we don’t really want to acknowledge but seep in like a toothache now and again to remind us that the problem is still omnipresent.
“Yeah,” I say, “it doesn’t bother me.”
He smiles. And I smile back.
Because we both know better.
“Don’t tell anyone about my little secret,” he says.
“You know me better than that.”
He leans over to touch his forehead against mine. It’s one of the most loving gestures he has ever bestowed upon me.
He says in a low voice, “I think I love you.”
My breath catches. Oh, those four little words.
I think I love you.
My head spins a little, as though I have been deprived of air. And maybe I have, because I’ve forgotten to breathe for twenty whole seconds. I think I love you. Oh Max. How long have I waited to hear those words, and now they are here – like a thesis to the heart that I have been slaving nights over.
I really, really want him to mean them too. Not say them because he’s feeling vulnerable and unloved in his current predicament and trying to latch on to the only person who will make him feel better.
My major is psychology, so I learned about these things.
Does he really mean them? How do you determine these things? I don’t know. I don’t have a Bachelor’s degree in the affairs of the human heart. Hell, I don’t even have a degree to my own heart.
Ohhh. My head hurts. I’m overanalyzing this in torrents of turbulent thought. I shouldn’t live and die by this confession. I really shouldn’t.
Keep calm, Gina.
Breathe.
“I love you, Max.”
It’s a spontaneous rebuttal. I would do anything for you.
Really. And I mean it.
He sighs. “And we’re both stuck here of our own volition. See how fucked up our situation is?”
Yeah. We are pretty fucked up. My mind is a cyclone. And we have no other words left to say other than must be said. The romantic version is that we are lovers who soon must be parted. The truthful version is that we are in over heads, and we are helpless to whatever must transpire.
From the other side of the dungeon, Alice gets up from talking to Greg and strides over. She’s a naked Valkyrie – all blonde and tall and shapely. The men’s eyes trail her body as she walks, and she’s aware of it.
She says to me, “I want to talk to my brother alone.”
It’s a statement. Knowing what I know about them now, I won’t pretend that I feel comfortable about it. I love Max. Max loves me. He said so himself – those four precious little words that will burn in my memory forever. And Alice is . . . well, Max said so himself . . . competition.
His own sister. My competition. She’s no different from an ex-flame.
This is sick, sick, sick.
Max detaches himself from my side. He says resignedly, “OK.”
Alice motions him to an empty portion of the dungeon. They go over and begin a guarded conversation in whispers.
I won’t even attempt to eavesdrop, but looking at the bent heads and how close they are standing while talking to each other, I’m willing to hazard the guess that whatever they had is far from over.
Max was right.
This is seriously fucked up.
2
Yeah, I know we are fucked up. Human beings are essentially fucked up in one way or another, some more than others. But I have no time to contemplate the mysteries of mankind because it’s now time for my TALENTIME.
Would you believe it? I don’t believe they even called it ‘Talentime’. I haven’t done of these since I was in middle school.
We are all backstage and dressed up. Well, if you can consider what we are wearing ‘dressed’. My performance requires a certain amount of delicacy, and thus I am decked in a gaudy bikini – all blue neoprene. I feel like an inflated sex doll. I even have a blue jewel in my belly button. Everything is strategically designed for what I must do.
I have something else inside me, tucked deep within my pussy. As a result, I can’t walk that well. Correction: I can’t walk that well gracefully. I have to do my best to totter around in my blue high heels and not stumble doing it.
Everyone has their own routine. Their own sexual circus act. All are designed to humiliate us and titillate our illustrious spectators. All are designed to show off what we can do to our best of our abilities. We are not allowed to ask one another to describe our set pieces. That way, we are directly in competition with one another, just like in the chariot race.
We can hazard guesses about the other acts, however, from the apparatuses we are carrying. Mine is hard to decipher, seeing as my naughty bits are all covered up by neoprene.
“What’s your act?” Alice demands. She is dressed up rather prettily with Chinese fans. Or at least, those fans are strategically placed upon her breasts and pussy, and she has chopsticks in her hair.
“Oh come on, Alice, you know I can’t tell you that.”
She gives me the once over.
“Striptease?” she says slyly. “Believe me, sweetheart, you have nothing much to offer.”
“Oh, I’ll have plenty more to offer than you.” I puff up my chest. My breasts are larger than hers even though I’m not as tall, and I’m right proud of it.
We are both aware that Max and Greg are within spitting distance and taking in every comma of our barbed exchange.
“Alice,” Max says, “leave Gina alone.”
Alice smirks at me. “Won’t be seeing you around much longer, I’m glad to say.” She turns and walks off.
What does she mean by that? I frown. Does she know something I don’t?
Max is clad in a fishing net which is nicely wrapped around his genitals so that his bulge is very prominent. He carries a trident. I’m not quite sure what effect they are aiming for – fisherman’s wharf or Poseidon. (And where will the blunted end of that trident go?)
Greg is going for a baseball theme. He wears a baseball cap and a jockstrap, and he swings a baseball bat and carries a couple of baseballs. What does he intend to do with those? He catches my concerned look and fl
ashes me a bruised grin as though to say, ‘Yeah, life is a bitch’.
It is that bad.
One by one, we are led out to the stage inside the darkened hall Greg and I performed on the night we were crowned victors of the race. Backstage, we can only listen to the applause, whoops and whistles for each performer above the canned music.
Alice scores a thunderous response, whatever she is doing. Yeah, she would, my jealous heart mutters. I’m well aware her parents are in the audience watching her do whatever it was she did, and to still garner that sort of applause without getting flustered in front of her folks is nothing short of amazing.
It takes a person of certain strength to do it. And also . . . a certain inclination.
I’m sure how I perform tonight will go a long way in factoring how I will be perceived by my potential buyers. So Max and I won the foot race – that has to be a good thing. But now, I’m doing this completely on my own.
My palms are clammy as the emcee calls my name. I recognize his voice. It’s the ringmaster from my previous sexual display. The one who whipped Max as though the latter is a tethered, misbehaving stallion while he was made to fuck me, his filly.
Gawd. Will he whip me too if I stumble?
I step onto the stage. The hall is as I remembered it, and the audience is seated almost as they were. This time, the stage is bare except for the glaring spotlights trained on it. Russell and Max’s mother are seated in the front row.
I can see the black movie star, the ex-supermodel and her lesbian lover, the sheikh, the African leader, the tennis player, the Spanish soccer star and the dictator. All eyes are riveted upon me on the stage. An aura of expectation hangs in the stilted air-conditioned atmosphere. A trickle of sweat runs through the cleft between my buttocks.
Sex Slave at the Auction Page 1