The day of Altaf’s last likely auction came. Erij and I had scrounged some makeup from a couple of sympathetic matrons. There was little we could offer the matrons in exchange for favors, other than doing laundry if they brought it in or cleaning their personal cabinets in the matron’s lounge. I’d heard some matrons would make exchanges for sexual favors, but that was a tremendously risky endeavor. If you were caught offering that kind of bribe to an unsympathetic matron, you’d get another ten years and your sexual equipment would be toast for life, like the unprotected intimacies of poor Erij.
Through sign language and my ridiculous charade antics that always cracked the matrons up and put them in a good mood, I managed to convince a couple matrons to bring in some old cosmetics for Altaf’s last chance at auction. Makeup was one of those things which wasn’t allowed per se, but none of the prison staff cared about it. We all looked so bland with our bald heads and eyebrowless faces that I think they got tired of looking at us. A little makeup made their view that much more tolerable.
For the auctions in particular, they almost encouraged makeup, including foundation, eyeliner and shadow, lipstick and drawn-on eyebrows. They wouldn’t restore Altaf’s frozen face for their own, unkind reasons, but they let us fix her up with cosmetics. She was very, very pretty and looked much better, especially with the thin, lovely eyebrows we drew on her. We put them a little higher than her natural ones probably had been, and curved them smoothly, in the hopes of making her look a little surprised, since her normal look was no expression at all.
Seeing Altaf then, when we’d done our best for her, I realized that she’d been a stunning beauty. When I was able to imagine her with real hair, I decided she might have been the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
I thought I could make out hope in her lovely eyes, though nothing showed on her face. Privately, Erij and I kissed her for good luck and sent her off.
No one bought out her contract. She cried for a week. Seeing any friend cry like that is awful, but seeing Altaf cry her heart out, while her face maintained that expressionless mask, was one of the saddest, most heart-wrenching things I’ve ever witnessed. I cried with her frequently that week.
Nobody should have had her sweet, joyous heart rendered so inert as my pretty , innocent Altaf. I suppose you think me a tragic figure, based on everything that’s happened to me. Perhaps I am. But my Western upbringing and my strong personality have buffered me a little, at least. Nothing in her developmental years, nor in her family support, nor in the mercy of the Control Institution had supported dear Altaf. As a result, despite the best efforts of Erij and me, Altaf was left alone to face her fate.
Unfortunately, as I'd feared, Altaf wasn’t allowed to attend the next auction, two months later. My year and a half of imprisonment, 20 percent of my sentence completed, occurred the week before that next auction. That time to be sold or rejected was to be my first.
**********
Altaf, sweet soul that she was, and Erij spent all morning getting me ready for my first appearance at auction. It must have been hard for Altaf, who appeared to have missed her chance of getting out of the Control Institution early. On me, they used the makeup we’d obtained for Altaf’s last auction two months earlier.
I'd paid even more than the usual attention to shaving my head and getting even tiny, light residual eyebrows out of the way during my grooming time that morning. I thought about this as Altaf and Erij applied my makeup. Had they changed me so much that being smoothly, naturally bald and eyebrowless was now my ideal of being at my most attractive?
I’d stopped missing my hair many months ago. When I thought about it, I was certain that was because my controller was affecting my brain. I was getting a slight sexual thrill whenever I shaved or plucked, and my hair had been gone for so long that I didn’t think of it as a part of me anymore. That realization scared me to death! In the year and a half I’d been in this place, they’d managed to change how I thought about myself! The Karimah who had arrived at the prison had been replaced by someone strangely different, and indifferent. In fact, though I hadn’t thought about it recently, I still didn’t remember who I was when I’d arrived. I probably was Karimah, but I could have been someone else, like the almost mythical Destiny Michelle Hutton.
Erij and Altaf were making my face up in the Middle Eastern or East African fashion. I had heavy black eyeliner, and a darker eyeshadow. My lips were a deep red, and so were my short fingernails. All of that seemed to go well with my richly tanned, naked body. If the matrons at the prison were at all indicative of grooming norms in this part of the world, eyebrows were either very heavy or very thin. I thought my brows had been on the heavy side of average when I’d arrived here, but I couldn’t be sure anymore because my memory of myself before becoming controlled wasn’t very clear. In any event, drawing on thick eyebrows had looked awful on Altaf, so we all decided on a thin smooth arc of brow for me. When Erij asked what I wanted, I managed to sign to her to do mine the same as we’d done on Altaf.
When I glanced in the mirror and saw my penciled-on, smoothly curved brows, it immediately reminded me of Toni, and how I’d plucked hers to a thin arc, more than a year and a half ago. I didn’t have any time to further dwell on the memory of my young, naïve traveling companion, as it was time to finish getting ready.
A few, final touch-ups and I was as good as I was going to look. At least everyone up for auction would be bald like me, though the majority would have better figures than mine. Trimmer at least. Better by American standards. It was odd I remembered that kind of stuff, but struggled to know my own name.
Actually, my current shape was pretty good, just plump. I had bigger boobs, a still-flat stomach, a well-defined waist, and a cute, plump booty. My legs and arms were chubby but attractive – or so I told myself. I looked more like a bald Hispanic girl, truth-be-told, than a formerly blonde American-sweetheart type. I thought some men and women would consider me sexy, if they weren’t hung up about hair and weight.
Because my mind was so disoriented when it came to self-image, I honestly didn’t know whether I looked better or worse than when I’d arrived here. If I had my hair back, maybe I was just as pretty, equally desirable. At least to this culture.
Did I care? Yes, but only because it enhanced my chances of getting out of here early.
I was finally done and it was time to go see what this auction thing was all about. I was not enthusiastic about this for several reasons: it was essentially a slave auction, I could very-well be mistreated, even required to have sex during the evaluation process, and I might be bought by a horrible master or mistress.
The upside was that it would get me out of here, and perhaps restore some of what they’d taken from me. I had known how to prepare, but I didn’t know what to expect at the auction itself. Now it was time to go. I hugged and kissed Altaf and Erij, certain that I’d be seeing them back here later in the afternoon.
**********
A matron escorted me to a waiting area outside the auditorium proper. Some months ago, I’d personally cleaned this room during my getaway attempt at sexual satisfaction with my triple. That afternoon, there were about twenty inmates in various amounts of makeup, most of whom I recognized from the yard. There was one other woman whom I knew was also a chubby gideen like me, one fat, young girl who was a swomina, and two obviously obese women, both zenay vizhiden. All the rest were motowoseik, average, or nochadn, thin. There were no hazil, or gaunt girls, like Habiba.
We were all lined up from thinnest to fattest and paraded onto the platform stage in single file, half of us at a time. I was in the second group, the fourth last in line. That meant there were only three women fatter than I was! I hadn’t considered that before, and it made me feel awful. I was among the fattest 20 percent! That was not what my self-image had been when I was an archeologist - I knew that for a certainty - and it wasn’t what I wanted it to be at that moment either. Maybe I’d be bought and my new owner would let me lose weight.
The first group returned about an hour later. Then my group was led out.
There I stood, looking into an audience of about 40 men, all dressed in desert garb: flowing white or beige robes called ejetebobs, and turbans, most of them white. There was one group of several women, all wearing white Habisha kamis trimmed in black or dark brown. Each also wore a matching traditional head shawl, the netela. The three women were quite beautiful and I found I envied their long, dark hair, their sultry eyebrows, and their slender figures.
We inmates remained still on the platform, bald and naked, for about a minute, then we were told to turn one quarter so the audience could see us from one side, then our back side, then the other side. Finally, we stood facing them again. After another minute, the five heaviest of us went down the stairs to the left and off the stage, while the five thinner women went to the other side. Everyone in the audience got up at that point, and moved to examine one or the other group of us, up close and very personal.
As best I could, I remained frozen in place while I was prodded and poked and essentially felt-up. Fingers went into my pussy, where I could see but mostly not feel them, and into my anus, where I could feel them very distinctly. My mouth was opened by the first man to inspect me. I saw his face show a curious look and then he lifted my upper lip while pulling my lower down. He could obviously see my dentures. He looked disappointed, shook his head slightly and moved on. I was so ashamed. Tears started falling from my eyes right then. That look of disappointment and head shake at my missing teeth turned out to be much more disturbing and disheartening to me than fingers in my private areas.
It was a poignant affirmation of what they had done to me, and a judgment on the results.
Another man, tall and middle-aged with dark brown, beautifully clear skin, hefted first one of my breasts, then the other. He put a hand behind me and another on my stomach and pushed, testing the firmness. He pinched the skin of my cheeks, breasts, nipples, arms and thighs, apparently gauging the amount of fat on me. His fingers were everywhere inside and outside me. When he pulled them out of my pussy, they glistened with wetness, though I hadn’t felt anything. He put those fingers to my face and told me in Arabic to clean them off.
I wasn’t sure what to do and I thought, for a moment, that he was going to hit me. I opened my mouth and moved it over his fingers, cleaning them with my lips and tongue. I saw the look on his face change then; he opened my mouth wider and ran his fingers along my dentures, at the top and the bottom. He pulled down on the top ones. They didn’t move and he told me to take them out.
I shook my head no with tears falling again. I could tell he was getting angry with me, though he seemed to be trying to control it. Finally, he said in an obvious command that was not to be ignored, “Remove them!”
I reached up with both hands and pulled my upper dentures down and out, setting them on a table behind me, then removed the lowers too. He was ready with a cloth which he handed me to wipe off my mouth and gums. Then he inspected my mouth open, closed and by running his fingers along my empty gums.
He looked to the side and said something to a matron, who turned to me and said very clearly, “Obey this man in all things.” That was, of course, a trigger phrase for my controller. He was now my Master, and I could deny him nothing. In addition, I saw her enter something into her controller remote and felt a tingle in my head. I reached for my dentures on the table and he waved the palm of his hand to indicate that I should leave them. He reached for my hand and led me off. He took me to the same room wherein Altaf, Erij and I had sex, or what had to pass for sex among three broken women in the Control Institution. He dropped his robe and pushed me down onto my knees in front of him. It was obvious what he was expecting me to do.
I looked up at him with frightened, sad eyes. I shook my head “No.”
“You are to make me hard and then fellate me until I cum,” he told me.
I did nothing at first, then felt the mental itch signaling to me that my controller was going to make me increasingly uncomfortable until I obeyed. It wasn’t as though I’d never given head, but I’d certainly never done it with a stranger, an older man, or anyone whom I hadn't gotten close to and propositioned in the first place. And I’d never done it without my teeth, for that matter.
In only seconds the compulsion to obey was overpowering. I resisted and realized my body was starting to quiver. I shook everywhere. I reached up to massage him, in the hope that would be enough. My hands shook so badly that I couldn’t stroke him at first. Then, as I cupped his balls with one hand and slid up and down his shaft with the other, my shaking receded, but I was overwhelmed with the need to put his member in my mouth. I did it, holding it with my lips as it slid along my empty gums.
I thought I was going to throw up – just realizing what I was being forced to do to this strange man was enough to make me sick. But I didn’t throw up. I sucked and licked and even used my gums to stimulate him along the soft underside.
He pushed deeply into my mouth and all the way to my throat. I don’t know how, but I didn’t gag. The controller must have shut down my gag reflex.
Given his middle age, and the rather sterile environment we were in, I was afraid he’d soften and I’d be blamed. I didn’t know. I’d never been with a man older than mid-twenties before. Then I was afraid he’d hold out so long that I’d be here an hour or more with his disgusting rod in my mouth. It surprised me then when I felt him stiffen and say, “Swallow when I cum.”
I continued sucking him off and felt the mass of his cum hit the back of my throat. It was hot and the ejaculation was forceful, but there wasn’t all that much cum. Down it went with no problem. Once again, I was surprised that I wasn’t sick.
“You are acceptable for a novice,” he said to me in Arabic, with an accent I hadn’t encountered before. “Oftentimes, I’ve found that American girls make the best whores. Would you like to be a whore, little one?”
I shook my head no. I was petrified with fear at the thought of it!
I didn’t like being called “little one” either, not even by a man as tall as this guy.
“We shall see,” was all he said, a faint smile on his face. With that, he put on his robe again and took me back to the auditorium.
I retrieved my teeth and pushed them into place. They weren’t as snug as I preferred, but I didn’t think they’d just fall out either.
I was inspected by several other men. A severely wrinkled much older man took me off to another room for a more intimate inspection. He appeared to be more interested in my physical strength than anything else, with the exception of my breasts which he spent a lot of time inspecting in a very clinical manner. He finally inspected my mouth and had me remove my dentures, then felt around my tongue and gums. The whole experience made me feel like a horse being evaluated by a potential buyer. It was even more humiliating than having to blow the previous man.
By the time he brought me back to the auditorium, the inspection period was over. We were all taken back into the preparation room. In a few minutes, beginning with the thinnest, smallest girl, they led each inmate onto the stage and tried to auction her contract.
As far as I could tell, about one prisoner in four didn’t return, indicating she’d been sold and taken elsewhere. The ones who returned to the prep room had failed to get a bid equal to their minimum cost. When they came back some of them appeared relieved, while various levels of disappointment were evident with others.
I decided I didn’t want to be sold. The devil I knew was better than the devil I didn’t know. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be stuck here for six more years. Look at what had happened to me in the first year and a half! Of course, I had no control over whether or not I was sold anyway.
A little over an hour later, I was waiting at the door to the stage. I was next up. The other gideen woman ahead of me had been bought. I didn’t know if that made my chances of being sold higher or lower.
I was pushed onto the
stage as the auctioneer called out in Arabic, “Hadha hu Karimah. Muhawalatuha alhadd al'adnaa hu 150,000 nakfa.” Simply translated, he said, “This is Karimah. Her minimum bid is 150,000 nakfa.”
The nakfa is the Eritrean currency, which the break-away Kingdom of Salat continued to use. That number set my minimum bid at about 9,000 US dollars, maybe as much as 9,300 dollars. It didn’t sound like much to me, until I considered that the average Eritrean made only a few hundred dollars per year. Not that the price to own me was any source of pride!
Calls came out from various parts of the crowd of buyers. I noticed it was only about two-thirds the size of the original audience present when I had come out to be examined. Some men had already left, with or without any newly-bought indentured servants. The small group of women was also gone. It was hard to tell from the shouting and the general commotion in the auditorium, but I didn’t think anyone had actually offered a bid for me.
The auctioneer had me turn, bend, lift my full, luscious breasts, and finally stand there with my knees bent and my legs apart, forcing me to thrust my pussy forward. I was embarrassed, but I was unable to resist his commends, since I was both under control, and warned that I would be severely punished if I didn’t do exactly as instructed, as soon as I was told.
It was hard to make out what was being said either by the auctioneer or men in the crowd. They spoke very fast and tended to slur their Arabic words. I thought I heard something shouted about my teeth, and the auctioneer’s indignant response. The banter kept on for several minutes. I was bent over with my soft, nicely-rounded butt pointed toward the crowd, when I thought I heard someone shout out a bid of 150,000 nakfa.
That would mean that my minimum bid had been offered and I was going to be sold!
Destiny Taken (Destiny Lost Book 1) Page 28