There was the brief red-orange flare of the end of a cigarette being raised to lips and inhaled by a man seated to the left. Daria supposed there could be women in the shadows inspecting her, though she doubted it. This was the crux of the matter, and a discovery that she was not sure the men had even become aware of. This rollercoaster shift that had taken place over the past few decades had led her on a more dangerous path than the system she had been sent to investigate.
Ah… but once again, she was letting her thoughts get ahead of herself. The defense mechanism she had used to survive her mission kept faltering with possible designs of the future. There was enough to consider with the horrible reality of the present… the reality she was supposed to be infiltrating. She had a problem… and not just a little twist in her non-existent panties, either.
The outline of the large man standing at the side of the stage stepped forward, and the incandescent lights managed to soften even the harshness of his black leather pants. Damon… always Damon in charge. He walked behind a US20BB and he pushed her forward with steady pressure on her bottom with the crop. The BB would go for a decent price, much higher than Daria thought she would bring as an AG.
She watched with detached perspective as Damon put the BB through her paces. She would have time enough to focus on the display when it was her turn and the Master was pressing against her own bottom with the leather towards the questionable place of honor.
What Daria had not been told before tonight was how completely she was being set up. With her uncanny ability to decipher subterfuge, she had not picked up on the role she had been thrust into… though, it had seemed a little unusual to her that Claree had managed to get Phillip to agree to separate her from the lot for auction display. She was a level six AG, for god sakes. Her low appeal in the commodity market was one of the reasons she had been selected to infiltrate… and it had always been Annie that even the girls had planned for this part. With Claree’s insinuation and Damon’s dropped hints on her training, Phillip had recognized Daria’s ability to captivate, and he and Mason had worked for ten months to stockpile AGs.
Originally, Daria’s slightly unique pleasant looks were supposed to have been by-passed for auction, so that she was merely sold with her lot. It was another part of the system that POHO had wanted to learn. And now she had screwed up, because Annie and Lizzie were gone. Of course, she was not only screwed up… but, totally screwed… because she thought she would have at least another two months. Thank god Claree had managed to see her backstage and give her last minute instructions before she was walked out on display.
Focus, dammit. Focus before it’s all let in… before it becomes easier to passively accept the role of slave, to forget your given name and become ‘US19AG1427’, than it is to fight to remember the horror and terrible truths. Daria did focus, and although her eyes continued to follow the girls before her being displayed, she was not really seeing them. Maybe a small part of her mind was still cowering with the knowledge that her moment was moving forward as each girl before her was purchased, but not the part of her mind that she chose to focus on.
Daria felt Damon’s crop on her bottom, and she clenched as her stiff legs moved her forward. God, Claree… I hope you’re right. The bidding began at a dismal fifty thousand. It edged slowly up the hill passed one hundred thousand, and then a frenzy began at two. Daria stood nervously under the lights, as the bidding reduced to two voices and finally ended at three hundred thousand, exactly as Claree had predicted.
Daria spent an uncomfortable night, locked into a trade-commodity cage. The next morning she was hustled through breakfast and a quick shower, and led to SHCI’s main building. The commodity firm elevator had the familiar brass doors, and she stared at the wide green eyes looking back at her. By the time she exited on the fifty-seventh floor and stood before the receptionist, Daria had already decided to play the role of the distracted dense woman again.
Chapter VIII
Mason Sanford’s piercing gray eyes were fixed on the numbers of the digital clock on the corner of his black lacquered desk. His relationship with the timepiece was far more intimate than any associations he had made with his hundreds of employees. The oblong silver box was insignificant in size, though it was stretched out to include the last two boxes that flipped over seconds in a steady beat. It was these last two boxes that his gaze was fixed on, and he glanced once at his computer monitor to assure himself that it still glared ‘OFFLINE’ in bold red.
It was not that he distrusted his clock… for the machine was predictably accurate. In a few moments, he would know if the blue boxed shaped numbers were his closest ally or a damning traitor that he yearned to hurl through the plate glass window behind him in a murderous attempt to let it free-fall to the pavement fifty-seven floors below.
The three men sitting across from Mason remained silent and immobile, not daring to so much as clear their throats or lift their cooling cups of coffee. Any movement or sound that distracted their employer had cost several of their peers ranking in the firm. Mason’s eyes had begun shifting between the clock and the monitor, and the intense gray of them began to take on an almost silver iridescence as the seconds ticked by. The darting shots of the focused movement reminded Armand of an eagle in flight, fixing on two separate prey on the ground below as it made up its mind which quarry to attack.
The one twitch at the corner of Mason’s left eye caused the men to actually hold their breath. They suspected their employer was unaware of this slight trait, but they recognized it as the announcement of the short countdown that would decide if the next few hours were going to be an insane stressful rush… or a depressing oppressive moment as they tried to extricate themselves from the office with their asses intact.
57... 58... 59... Mason’s eyes shot to the monitor as it blinked out for an instant, and then the screen filled with a gibberish display of letters and numbers as the Commodity Exchange announced its opening offers. Jibberish to some, but Mason’s eyes shot to the middle of the monitor, and then traveled up. US19AG… on the third line. He looked up at the men seated across from him, all frozen with anxious, tightly clenched jaws, and the concentrated intensity of his expression slowly melted into smile. “Third line.”
“Third line, sir?” Thompson repeated in disbelief, “Third?”
“Third… with a green arrow,” Mason stated. “I don’t expect it to hold for more than an hour, so you need to get your asses in gear and get commitments in order. No pre-sells of anything above lot four, and Thompson, nothing below street value. Be ready to dump them on my order to sell. No sales of the top twenty to the golden boys… they’ll only waste your time trying to beat down the price. Move.”
The three men stood in unison, and quickly strode to the tall wooden doors. They deposited their coffee mugs on the receptionist’s desk as they hurried to the elevator with their minds organizing the orders to issue to their associate workforce waiting on the floors below.
“How did he know?” Thompson asked. He was the floor fifty-four leader, and had only been promoted two months ago.
“He bought the girl himself to push up the price,” Floor Fifty-five answered. “I heard there was a short bidding war that Mason had not counted on. Not for a fucking AG.”
“Did you expect line three?” Thompson asked Armand.
“Truthfully, no. He paid too much for her, and I expected her to come in at line seven.” Armand reflected on Mason’s eyes, first glancing at the center of the screen. “The boss would have settled with five.”
Armand liked the new manager who had joined their morning trio… which was a shame. Thompson had handsomely boyish good looks for thirty-six. By the time he was forty, lines would be etching his eyes. By forty-two, silver would be shooting through his temples, and the headaches from sleepless nights would become as much a fixture as the antacid tablet companions he would keep in his pocket for the souring stomach.
Armand Duclay was the floor fifty-six manager, and at the top of his game. Flo
or fifty-six was called ‘Purgatory Hill’, because after the stress ripped at your guts long enough, the mistake was made. One misjudged sale had the iconic leader out on the streets, and too burned out to manage a junior associate position in a minor firm off Wall Street. Armand knew that he was close to the breaking point and he would topple soon… perhaps, this very day… and the thought of that scenario dripped another acidic drop onto his already blistering stomach walls.
Along with late nights of predicting Mason’s strategy, Armand had been up two hours after the auction had ended at midnight. He was trying to cover his ass financially, and preparing for his final trip down the brass elevator. His fifteen-year employment with Sanford had outlasted two marriages, and wife number one remained a constant monthly drain on his bank account. Mason had talked him into a one-time payout for wife number two. The amount seemed outrageous at the time, but at least she was no longer a monthly curse.
He had an investigator working on wife number one, and they had documentation for drug abuse and unfit behavior to be his son’s guardian. None it was true, of course, but the payments to her ended when the boy turned eighteen in two years… or if Armand was awarded full custody. Shit, he sure as hell did not have time to devote to the kid, but that could be covered for a tenth of the cost by shoving him into a boarding school. Armand glanced at Thompson again. Damn, he wished he could warn him. He really liked the guy.
“Did you get the girl?” Fifty-five interrupted Armand’s thoughts. The second to the pinnacle associate had been watching the ‘Hill’ leader. God, to try to cover Mason’s outrageous bid on the AG that started this mess would be a gut-wrenching obstacle. It was going to be difficult enough to pre-commit lots on the innocuous commodity, without having to cover the cost of Mason’s auction offer.
“No, Mason sold her to England ten minutes after he won the bid. I suspect the transaction was to the Ingram Corporation. Word on the street is that they were looking for a gift to give the Queen for her fiftieth birthday to ensure the defeat of some tax litigation.” The brass elevator doors opened to floor fifty-six, and Armand exited into the hall of ‘Purgatory Hill’ without looking back.
His receptionist was waiting in the hall across from him, wearing the seductive uniform of an SHCI purchased commodity. By purchasing slaves to fill the secretarial force, the firm saved an enormous amount in employee compensation and benefits. She was a voluptuous US21NN. Most of the secretarial force was NN, because the market for a brown eyed brunette was even less profitable than the recent unlikely windfall of the AG.
Armand glanced at the girl’s breasts, proudly displayed on the shelf of the black and gold half-corset. The gold rings through her nipples were a gift from Armand when his floor hit the billion dollar sales goal three months ago. He had inserted them himself, and his cock twitched as he remembered her screams when he pierced the dark tips of the roped mounds. She had almost no tolerance to pain, which guaranteed her a place at Armand’s side.
The NN noticed the strained lines deepening on her Master’s forehead. Poor thing… bet that ulcer’s acting up. I’ll make sure to put a nice hot cup of black coffee on the desk within reach. It was a minor payback disguised as efficiency that would go unpunished, and one of the few things she could enjoy for the horrible things the man did to her. With her pen and pad in hand, she watched his eyes as his mind sorted out his directives. “Congratulations, Master.”
“Thank you. Have the commodities keep the men stocked in supplies… it’s going to be a busy morning.”
“Yes, Master.” She had already prepared the other slaves for the anticipated directive.
Armand winced at the sharp pain of yet another drop of toxic acid hitting his stomach walls. He walked onto the floor of half-height cubicles, where all fifty-six men were standing. Mason matched the number of associates to floor levels, as a constant reminder of where you stood in the scheme of the firm. The men applauded for a moment, and then focused on their leader’s orders.
“Thank you. Mason says the commodity will only hold for another forty-five minutes, so we need to work commitments. Jack, I want your group to take lots one through five. Push them to mom and pop investors, because I think Fifty-four is going to try to bargain with the off-street firms. It will burn up his time, because they’ll try to work him down on an AG stock.”
“Yes, sir.” Twenty men sat and picked up their phones.
“Mike, your group gets lots six through eight. Work corporations first, but keep the other investment firms who call in on your radar. Mason doesn’t want the top twenty going to the golden boys, if we can help it.” Twenty-men scrambled through their rolodexes, already punching the buttons for an outside line dial tone.
“Tom, your group has lot nine.” That was all the directive necessary for these sixteen planners. Some of the men had worked for the firm longer than Armand, but they had been smart enough to jump off the treadmill of management. These were the money boys, competent with the backdoor deals with buyers that were as shrewd themselves.
Armand walked into his glass walled office where his NN had a steaming cup of coffee waiting on his desk. He would take two distracted sips before the pain embraced his infant ulcer in a clawing grip, and the rest of the toxic brew would be left to chill. Armand dialed the first number on the top contact list he had prepared, bearing the number five. He really had not expected the commodity to hit three, and he winced with another razored drip. He tossed the sheets titled seven and ten… which was the worse case scenario… to the side. Choreographing his contact sheets was what had kept him working late last night, and he would work his most lucrative buyers first before digging through his other two lists.
Purgatory Hill associates neither begrudged nor envied their leader for confiscating lot ten and the possible windfall commissions. It was a predictable trait they admired from him, because the stress of pushing the top commodities would either meet with Mason’s approval or wrath. Armand had been walking that tightrope for almost two years, and the associates… especially Tom… hoped he would hold out a while longer. Some of the past leaders of the ‘Hill’ had tried to dump the top tiered lot onto them.
Ten was a time consuming lot to push, and the experienced men wasted little effort on it as they efficiently cleaned out the lower commodities and left the floor manager in apoplectic seizures at having to explain it to Mason. Ultimately, whatever happened on fifty-six was his responsibility, and there was no excuse for lucrative lot ten to remain in their cages.
Mason pushed a button, and his monitor divided into four sections. The top left held the commodities movement, and the other three boxes were a scanning view of the three floors below him. He studied the top right corner, and he watched as Fifty-six barked out his orders before going to his desk. Mason caught the quick wince from Armand when he took a sip of coffee. Shit. Wifey number one still getting to you, huh guy?
Mason’s eyes narrowed when he saw Armand’s NN, kneeling in front of his desk and smiling when she caught the pain in his eyes. Mason jotted ‘56 NN replace’ as the first item on a clean-up mission for the afternoon. It was rare for a purchased level ten commodity of SHCI to jeopardize her relatively easy service, and when Mason caught them he would take the loss in selling them to a much harsher Master.
Mason valued Duclay and his efficient manner of working the ‘Hill’. The thought of moving Fifty-five up a floor was unacceptable, so he picked up his phone and hit a speed-dial number. It was a contact he called too often, perhaps, but he never hesitated when it benefited the firm. “Do it.” That was all that was necessary, as the secretive contact on the other end had been expecting the order. By that afternoon, wifey number one would be sold as an ‘Untrained US41BB’ to some brothel, by an ambiguous trader on the thirteenth floor.
Mason’s intercom buzzed and his receptionist’s clipped statement echoed, “She’s here, sir.”
“Send her in.” Mason figured that he might as well get some enjoyment from the girl before she was
shipped to England. The commodity had cost him three hundred thousand dollars… an outrageous sum for a nineteen year old girl with auburn hair and green eyes. It was a chance he had taken, as the lot offerings his competition had on stocked AGs was sparse.
SHCI had been accumulating them for this sale over the past year, and Mason’s bid on his own slave had pushed up the demand. Still, they were only AGs, and eventually the initial buying frenzy would stall as the buyers came to their senses. Mason had figured that he could make up his bid on the sale of lots one through three. That was before England had offered him ten percent over his bid… and the girl had pushed the commodities opening price to third. Now, SHCI stood to gain millions from a strategy Mason had begun as a simple diversion.
His receptionist closed the door to his office, and the girl wandered towards his desk and stood silently before him. She was wearing a nearly transparent traveling shift, and had a nervous, trembling stance. Such a fragile thing, to have caused such an uproar.
“Name,” Mason ordered. The girl’s wide eyes were scanning the opulent office, instead of paying attention to him. “And training level,” he muttered in disgust.
“US19AG1427, sir. Training level six,” her voice quivered.
“They were dumping you?” Mason asked incredulously.
“I turn twenty in a few months, sir. My mother contracted me at eighteen,” the girl replied.
Apparently she was aware how her value would drop when she left her teens. Fuck me, I sure as hell didn’t see that one coming. “You did well through the auction display.”
“Thank you, sir. My trainer has been working me specifically for auction.” Her eyes resumed their search of the office.
Almost a year of training, and the girl was still only a level six. Phillip and Eddie must be roaring over this one. Mason was a little surprised that the heads of the Law Firm or Training Compound had not already called him. He was sure his old friends had seen the opening offer. She had the clean look of no drugs or alcohol use, so Mason figured that her folks had used the proceeds from her contract to pay off their house or put a brother through college. The Ingram Corporation would most likely never buy another girl from their lots, though.
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