by Roxy Harte
“Of course not, Mr. Lawrence.”
Holy crap! The Garrett Lawrence in the flesh? I can feel my eyes widening as the owner of the club takes my hand and lifts me to my feet. He is both taller and broader than he appears in his media releases, but those intelligent, calculating eyes and classically beautiful features are exactly the same. His head tilts and he is looking at my ass—the welts to be exact. Lowering my face, I close my eyes and silently curse my asinine boss for breaking the one rule that will get me tossed out.
“Pet. Eyes on me.” God, that voice, velvety smooth bourbon and rich, dark chocolate.
Lifting my chin, determined to keep my pride and dignity intact, I open my eyes and meet the owner’s gaze. I’m surprised when the corners of his lips turn up slightly, then he gives me a curt nod and walks away. I look from Doug to the woman behind the long check-in table. This time when she motions me forward I can’t get there fast enough. “Read the entire top page. The second page is a standard media release...”
I smile, trying not to giggle. I’m still in this. I still have a shot!
♥
Suddenly, the lights dim and a spotlight points center stage. Garrett Lawrence struts into view, taking full advantage of the female factor, hoots and hollers following his every move. His tight leather pants are the main attraction, leaving nothing to the imagination. Not only is he well-endowed but very muscular, and the supple black leather seems to mold to the cut lines of his muscled thighs and tight ass. His full, white silk poet’s shirt is open to his navel, revealing a perfectly sculptured chest enhanced by a line of dark hair that disappears into his leather pants; but it is his broad smile and easygoing nature that act like a magnet drawing the crowd to him. Male and female alike scream, “Lewd Larry, Lewd Larry, Lewd Larry!”
At his command, the auction begins.
I’m unprepared for the emotional jarring as the bidding begins. Flesh is being sold here...even if it is just for one month. I’m flabbergasted. I had no idea how much money would be exchanging hands. The minimum starting bid turns out to be thirty grand, but each time it quickly accelerates to fifty and even to seventy thousand dollars. It seems there are more men than women being auctioned, and that surprises me, although I’m not sure why. I’m not even sure what my expectations of this night were. Clearly I underestimated the crowd and never considered rock-concert-level pandemonium.
The stage is brilliant, lit from all sides with a theater-size screen behind to capture every reaction larger than life—every smile, every frown, every tear magnified so the crowd doesn’t miss a thing. Some slaves walk the stage like old pros. Their personalities shining—whether haughty and over-proud or shy and demure. Others stumble and cry, begging their owners the entire time not to sell them. I wonder if it is an act or whether they are as brokenhearted as they seem.
Between slaves, the stage darkens and a spotlight flies over the crowd.
After the twentieth slave is auctioned, the novelty is over and the night begins to wear on. The knot in my gut tightens. Music blares, competing badly with the drone of loud voices. Dragged to the corner bar by my chain, I’m forced to wait while Doug eases his nerves with a shot of tequila. I would give anything for a handful of Tylenol and a gallon of coffee.
Fifty-seven.
Time to venture to staging, conveniently located next to the restrooms. I hurry inside, take care of business, and touch up my make-up. My reflection startles me, revealing some exotic woman I’m just getting to know. My hair has never been so short, or so red. Makeup, I rarely ever wear, is perfect. And the large framed, thick plastic glasses that I don’t need but hide behind? Missing.
This is seriously my last chance to opt out. It makes me think of the nerves I felt when I was younger, slowly climbing to that very first peak on a new roller coaster at the amusement park near our home—excited and terrified at the same time.
“Celia!” I jerk to see Doug, poking just his head around the corner. “Time.”
Officially stage right.
Only three couples wait. Two women argue in the corner. One falls to her knees, begging, crying. Slave. Her mistress is unsympathetic. The fall of a riding crop is caught in the erratic strobe light emanating from the stage, making the crop glide in slow motion toward its victim’s bare back. The enormity of my decision explodes in my mind, making it impossible to ignore the reality of what is happening onstage.
The stage is suddenly unbearably close and I self-comfort, playing with the gold baby ring I wear on the end of my right index finger just below the first knuckle. I twist it round and round. An old habit from my college days—final exams and first dates. For a moment I’m lost in memories of long ago, people and events that have led me to this chapter in my life, some good, some bad, but all preparing me for this adventure.
I feel eyes burning into me long before I glance up to see it is the announcer, Garrett Lawrence. His gaze grabs mine as he reads, “Seventy-three.”
My number.
I start to walk forward but I’m unsteady. Perhaps standing too long, most likely Jell-O legs. I’m a wreck. My brain trips over itself, shouting silently, ohmygod, ohmygod, what have I agreed to?
But that smaller, quieter voice gentles and soothes, whispering: Everything is going to be okay. And in that calm I have to admit to myself, to God, I’m so excited I can barely stand it. Thank God no one can tell at a glance, but I can feel my pussy is soaked. Offered this hedonist wonderland, I would have never been brave enough to enter on my own. Whereas, my body clearly wants to explore every single thing logic tells me to flee.
Not a man to waste time, Doug drags me along behind him, pulling my collar too tight. I feel I’m suffocating as he drags me to the very edge of the stage and my fingers go to my collar’s edge to pull the leather bite away from my skin. We discussed he would treat me as if I was his slave for real. I didn’t realize cruelty was part of the bargain. If my boss treats me so harshly, how is a practicing sadist going to treat me once we are alone?
The cliché phrase whips and chains explodes in my mind as something very real indeed. I search Doug’s eyes, seeking comfort, but find a hooded glare, his acting skills better than I’d imagined. I look again. Rage. No, surely I’m mistaken. I try vainly to seek assurance in his eyes again, but he twirls me away from him and my flared gossamer dress lifts in the breeze, exposing me, much to the amusement of the crowd. I wonder why I ever agreed to no panties.
I’m the last slave to be auctioned and the excitement level has reached a chaotic frenzy. I catch myself chewing my bottom lip and force myself to stop. In a self-conscious effort, I rub my tongue over my top teeth, hoping to erase the clinging tracks of red. I rub my lips together furiously to redistribute the remaining color.
Doug turns me to face him. For a second, I think perhaps he will kiss me as all the previous owners have done with their slaves. I brace for it, hoping he isn’t a slobberer, but then I blink, not believing he just ripped the front of my sheer black dress.
What the hell?
He pulls the ruined fabric completely off me and tosses it aside. Wide-eyed, I’m both shocked and horrified. Granted, it was barely more than lingerie, but it was something!
I’m naked!
Panicked, I can’t move. We didn’t practice this. We didn’t even discuss it! Is he trying to make sure the welts are seen? I can’t believe he isn’t giving up on this.
I feel every eye on my bare skin and I want to die. Too late, I realize it is my face, my reaction larger than life on the screen. The heat of the blush begins at my closed-toe stilettos and travels upward until even my cheeks are flaming. Strangely, my dark, sheer, lace-topped thigh highs make me feel even nuder, not less.
For the most part, the crowd has been relatively well behaved throughout the auction. Now they are wild. I’m suddenly very aware of the wire mesh, floor-to-ceiling security fence separating the stage from the crowd. Several people try to climb the fence during the frenzied moment. Security swarms.
“Walk the stage, bitch, or do I drag you?” Doug’s spit sprays over my face with his shout. He jerks hard on the leash. Leather bites my neck.
The noise from the crowd are deafening.
Red-hot drama. This is what they came for. Garrett Lawrence steps forward and forces the leash from Doug’s hand. For a moment, Doug struggles to hang on, but is quickly overwhelmed by Security and removed from the stage.
I watch his struggle as he is led out of the building through a side fire exit.
Thankfully, Garrett Lawrence returns to center stage, leaving me—at least momentarily—alone in the shadows to get my shit together. No one is more surprised that I feel abandoned. Until now, I was unaware Doug was my security blanket. Now I’m alone and naked—talk about adrenaline rush.
Looking outward, Garrett Lawrence gestures a command for silence and the crowd goes still, doing for him what the paid muscle couldn’t achieve with brawn. Everyone obeys the Master on the stage and I’m as spellbind as the rest. He turns and his gaze falls on me and my breath catches. I lower my face, not daring to look up, not even chancing a breath as I feel his assessment. There is a long moment where all I can do is tremble.
The announcer calls out, “Seventy-three!”
Oh God.
A nearby, softer voice commands, “Eyes on me, number seventy-three.”
I jerk my chin up and meet Garrett Lawrence’ gaze across the span of stage. I feel like he and I have somehow been transported to some other dimension as every cell in my body attunes to him. His face is stern. He is displeased and I’m clearly the focal point of his annoyance.
“Do you wish to be auctioned off of your own free will?” he asks with grand flourish over the microphone, making me aware once more of my reason for being here.
I can’t speak, so I nod and take a step forward, but then suddenly, I can’t breathe. As if it will help, I close my eyes. What if I can’t do this?
God help me.
Is it wrong to pray for strength in a moment such as this? I’m surely going to hell because I will take help from where I can find in. I pray to be brave. I pray to keep my job by writing the best exposé ever written. I pray to not die at the hands of a sadist. When I open my eyes I do not expect to be standing mere inches from Garrett Lawrence.
I take a deep breath and look into his pale eyes. Blue. Mesmerizing.
He walks a circle around me and I feel his cool fingers fall lightly on my right shoulder. Touch. His hand lifts but immediately lands the swell of my bottom in a long, gentle stroke. Touch. Touch. Touch. I can hear my own heartbeat exploding in my ears as his fingers acknowledge the faded white scars of my youth. I’m light headed by the time he again stands in front of me. With great care, he removes the heavy collar from my neck. Gently, his soft fingertips rub lightly across a tender spot on my collarbone. I hold my breath, waiting for his judgement of disqualification, but his gaze continues to rake over my body, leaving me heated.
My insides stir, reminding me I’m a woman who hasn’t cheated on my vibrator in years. If he is an indication of what facing a real dominant feels like, I’m totally screwed.
He commands, “Chin up, shoulders back, eyes forward.”
I snap to it, adjusting my posture.
“Can you walk the stage by yourself?” he asks softly and I realize this part is not being broadcast. I’m captivated by his deep voice.
Again I nod and he steps away from me. The crowd blurs into faceless waves of gray as I make the semicircle march, trying not to think about being completely naked in front of a crowd numbering in the thousands. I really try not to think about the giant screen behind me. Straightening my back, lifting my chin, I focus on the stage, not daring to focus on anyone or anything. A flashing strobe light startles me, and I’m once again center stage. Reality returns in quick real time, and I realize the bidding is not over.
A bid is shouted over the rest, “One hundred thousand.”
I lock my knees, unable to control their shaking, but as I try to see who has made such an outlandish bid, I’m blinded again by strobes of light. More bids are shouted out, each one increasing by ten thousand dollars. I’m frozen center stage.
“One hundred and fifty thousand.”
I’m sure, at this point, the bids will cease. They don’t, a hailstorm of bids follow.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” a voice booms behind me, over me, around me. The room hushes. A wave of black flashes before my eyes, followed by tiny pinpricks of blinding white. I’m not sure how I remain standing. After what seems like an eternity, the auctioneer repeats back the bid. In an errant whoosh, my vision is restored.
The audience remains still, silent.
Shaky legs hold me upright. Armpits wet, mouth dry, I quickly scan the audience, searching for what fate lies ahead. No one comes forward.
“Well, sir, it would seem you have bought a slave,” the auctioneer announces with undisguised sarcasm.
Strong arms reach around me, wrapping a heavy black velvet cloak over my shoulders that slides around my ankles with a hiss. Turning my head to see what hand fate has dealt me, I face Garrett Lawrence’s easy smile. Gently he lifts the cloak’s soft, engulfing hood to cover my head. My eyes must have been questioning, because as he hooks the clasp closed at my neck, he whispers gently, “I think the audience has seen enough of my slave for one night.”
“You?” I gasp, world tilting, my mind screaming out for a life vest. I am drowning; this can’t be happening. Ohmygod. I came here for a story, just a little what makes ’em scream, is this auction for real story, to tease the inner voyeur in our readers. What has just been handed to me on a silver platter is the story. San Francisco’s most eligible bachelor, reported as having assets in the very high double-digit millions, gay, reclusive, swathed-in-scandal Garrett Lawrence is my new Master? Shit, shit, shit! This is the opportunity tabloid reporters’ dream of, and I landed in it! Yes!
I try to remember the scandal everyone was talking about when I first arrived. At the time, I was trying to get settled in a new job, new city, and new home, but if I recall correctly he inherited a large estate from his grandparents. Old money, multiple generations old, and lots of it. The will was being contested by his father. Everyone at the Voice was fully on Garrett’s side, not because he owned the biggest, most respected BDSM club west of the Mississippi, though I’d believed that was the case at the time, but as I came to learn his father was estranged from Garrett for being—gay. I doubt their relationship has improved with time, if Garrett used a large chunk of the family money to create Lewd Larry’s.
Realizing I’m gaping, I slam my mouth closed. The creeping heat of a scarlet blush goes up my face and I pray he doesn’t follow the directions of my thoughts. I know there was more to the scandal, some important fact I’m missing. I have to get to a computer as soon as possible and try to figure out what routes my expose might take.
His eyes glint with unexpected mischief and his mouth curls up at the corners. “Are you glad?”
My inner voice screams, Remain calm! Remain very, very calm!
“Should I be, Sir?” I try to feign bored indifference.
“I think so. Consider your options.” A playful grin and a nod toward the clamoring, overzealous crowd currently trying to bring down the security fence illustrates his point. Lowering my eyes to hide my blush, I answer him softly, “Then I’m very glad, Sir.”
“Then shouldn’t you be a good slave and kneel down before me like the others and demonstrate your obeisance? The crowd is still watching, and I do have a reputation to keep.”
Shit, shit, shit. Lewd Larry’s owner, Garrett Lawrence, known across the nation and internationally as Lord Ice, Master Dominant and much sought-after BDSM guru, lecturer and demonstrator of proven techniques of how to control people through bondage, pain and pleasure. My brain manages to linger over the thought he is a master teacher of techniques that cause pain. How could I forget this important fact until now?
�
��God! I’m sorry!” I fall to my knees, sputtering an apology, folding forward until my cheek rests on the ground at his feet and praying it is good enough, suddenly wishing I’d paid more attention to how the slaves who performed before me showed their obeisance.
He chuckles softly. “Sir was fine. Don’t get carried away.”