Bought by a Billionaire Daddy_When a daddy dom bids at the slave auction

by S. L. Finlay

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Bought by a

  Billionaire Daddy

  S. L. Finlay

  Copyright © 2018 S. L. Finlay

  All rights reserved.

  It feels like falling. You fall into this deep darkness, into a hole you never feel you will be able to climb out of. Frail and vulnerable, you lie at the bottom of the pit, and you wait.

  A unique sort of honesty exists when you fall, that honesty in yourself that really, no-one cares about you like they say they do. That there's no way someone can reach out to you without invading those boundaries you so keenly set up in order to keep them out, in order to maintain that sense of control when everything is in chaos. There's no way you can keep solid, healthy, and firm boundaries all the time. There are times when people want to break those boundaries down to get to you when you are in such chaos and they want to help. They need to offer you the help that you won't ask for, but also that you didn't realize you needed until it was thrust under you, to prop you up.

  Usually, when life is good and everything is going okay, you can't have people smashing through your boundaries - those things you set up to keep yourself safe - but right when your world is in chaos, it's all you need. You need someone to appear, you need someone to show up. You need them to do it even as you tell them not to. Even as you tell them you cannot have that, that you cannot have them appear, that you cannot have them force themselves on to you right now. You know that they can't come one step closer, but secretly, you want them to. You want them to ignore your protests, to take you in their arms and hold you like a petulant child in need of some love and affection.

  When I was sold, it was after a long period of depression and self-imposed isolation. It was the isolation that had forced me to finally seek out these desires. It was the fact I felt I no longer had a thing to lose that made me reach out and grab what I needed. I was past the point of needing anyone else to smash through the walls I had put up, I was in a place now where I needed to make things happen. I needed to do things for myself, because I had isolated myself so badly that there was no longer anyone else around to do anything for me.

  When I had drawn myself in to the world of sex and BDSM, it was after I had told everyone to leave me alone. Because I had no-one to stop me or to pull me out, I could throw myself off the deep end, which was exactly what I had always needed, or at least that's how it felt as I flew toward that deep end.

  The self-imposed isolation began when my mother was dying. She was suffering for a long time and it bought out the worst in her. She went from being happily pottering around her garden on the weekends and working part-time as a barrister, to being bed ridden relatively quickly. Then she just stayed that way, for years.

  Eventually it got to the stage where I couldn't manage her. That was when it was time for her to go into a nursing home. I found her one of the best nursing homes in the state and sent her there. The place was like a hotel with marble floors and round-the-clock room service, on top of staff who couldn't do enough to help her.

  My mother hated it though, and resented me for putting her there. She took it out on me when the smallest things would go wrong for her in the nursing home. Like the day when they ran out of her favorite ice cream, or the day when the heater stopped working for a few hours. Really, these things didn't put her out too much. My mother just wanted to abuse me, and any excuse would do. I didn't need the abuse, yet she still leveled her hurtful words at me whenever she had a chance.

  My mother had me running around after her even when she was in the nursing home, and had even taken to calling me in the middle of the night and demanding I come in - or she would kill herself.

  As it turned out, she never did kill herself. Of course she didn't want to kill herself. She just wanted control. The woman was all about control, and threatening self-harm or suicide was the lengths she would go to get that control.

  Eventually, due to her behavior and my inability at the time to see it for what it was, my partner who couldn't stand it anymore told me it was over. Before he left he pointed out to me that I didn't need to carry her around as a burden, that she had chosen to be a burden and I had chosen to carry her. He pointed out that I didn't need to do that. That I never needed to. But I wouldn't listen, I just couldn't. I couldn't manage to see sense, and even if I had, I was sure it was too late.

  After my partner left, it wasn't long until my friends were all suddenly 'too busy' to see me. Shortly after that, I found myself without a parent when my mother passed. She was the only family I had left and I wasn't in a position to afford a funeral. No-one would have come anyway as who knew her? We had no family and her friends, well, she didn't have any of them either.

  The nursing home did a memorial service which I attended out of respect for my mother, and because I felt like it was the right thing to do, even if the woman had done her best to make me so miserable. It was the weirdest funeral (or funeral-like event) that I had been to. Nobody cried, they all just stood around (or sat in their wheelchairs) looking grim. Some of the residents I was sure weren't even that upset. They just felt they had to look upset to be respectful to the deceased and their family.

  Eventually everyone disbanded and I was left alone. Driving home from the nursing home, I thought about how I had pushed everyone away enough that they gave up on me. I thought about the friends who moved on because I was never available to see them. I was never at their weddings or children's birthdays because I was so busy with my mother, who really didn't need me and simply sucked all the good out of me whenever she got the chance.

  I thought about my partner and how hard he had tried, how he had ignored me the times when I told him to leave me alone. I thought about how much that had upset me at the time. What I wouldn't give for him to be that annoying again. What I wouldn't give to feel like he was disregarding boundaries and pissing me off on purpose. What I wouldn't give for an argument with him. For anything. Now he was simply quiet. I didn't have any way of contacting him.

  When I look back and try to remember time lines, just how long my mother had her hooks in me and was telling me what to do, isolating me and generally being awful, I can never work out those time lines. I do not remember details properly, memory is a fickle mistress. It's like time slipped through my fingers and went away. It's like I gave away my own life because someone else was dying. My mother was manipulating my life out of me like a sorceress sucking the life out of a child they'd just fed a potion to.

  And all that time, I had not realized a thing.

  After a period of absence, things can get a bit crazy and kicked into high gear. I had been without real human relationships for what felt like an eternity and I needed to get my life back. I had had fantasies for many years that were a little different, and they made me happy when I retreated into my own head to think about them.

  Being from a conservative background, of course I had learned that these things were wrong. I had learned
- somehow, through osmosis probably - that the darker desires I had were wrong, and that there was something wrong with them. The more I thought about it, and the more I researched it, I found that our attitudes towards sex were ever-changing. I realized that things that people saw as wrong now, wouldn't be in ten years. Those things that were normal now, were weird and unhealthy only ten or twenty years ago. If you looked at the moral side of things too, well, perhaps it was better to not look at ever-shifting morals. Not sexy.

  Things started slowly. It started because I was spending far too much time reading, I read books and different things on the Internet about BDSM. Something about the life of BDSM had me intrigued. Slaves had specific responsibilities, they had things they had to do or risk receiving punishment for. Slaves were given tasks by their masters or mistresses and they completed them or suffered the consequences. The lives of slaves were full of rigid structure and everything they did seemed to be designed with the end in mind: to make their partner happy. It seemed like a simple existence, one I could undertake. I could do that, I would love to do that!

  Those though were the boring parts of BDSM and master/slave relationships. There was also a whole lot of sexy imagery involved. Those images excited and aroused me. They made me want to explore, like I was Christopher Columbus, but instead of America, I wanted to discover kink. I couldn't help my daily rituals of looking up bound models on the Internet, or spending hours reading online forums, full of information about kink and BDSM.

  In the daytime, when I wasn't looking at these websites, I was entertaining the idea of re-entering the workforce. Those ideas were fleeting though, because I really didn't need the money and when you don't need the money and feel pretty depressed, you don't want to work. You just don't have any incentive to go to work, or any reason. But, one could always do with a little kinky sex as a pick-me-up!

  The need to do something to fill up my days and to keep my mind busy and occupied from my otherwise bleak life meant that I kept looking. I kept reading. I kept imagining myself selflessly giving to someone else. I kept imagining myself receiving the rewards for good service. What would a master do when you were a good little slave girl? Would it involve erotic spankings and long, slow, yet hard sex? I imagined pleasing a man the way I had always fantasized. At that moment in my life, I could almost taste it, and that drove me further down the garden path. When you'd never had the type of sex you'd always wanted, that was when you craved it the most.

  Spending my time in the fantasy world of BDSM inside my own head was one thing, but when I signed up to be auctioned in a slave auction, that's when things took a dramatic turn.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Real slavery was never consensual. What I was signing up for voluntarily though was different. I would sign a contract with a master to be his slave girl. This contract would have clearly defined duties for me and boundaries for him. It would outline the things he could never do to me, giving me a safe guard against abuse. I would also be able to opt out at any time should I really need to. Consent is key in the world of BDSM, and it's important that people always remember that. Or at least that was what they told me when I signed up to be auctioned. I was so eager that I didn't ask enough questions, but the people running the auction thought of everything and told me every little thing I would need to know.

  The auction would take part a week after I signed up, and I would be bought by someone interested in pursuing a master/slave relationship with me, or at least that was what I thought when I signed up.

  Taking a bunch of information home with me, I read through all the paperwork I had been given as soon as I arrived home. I was eager to know everything, I was excited. After I read through everything once, I then re-read through the information again and again going forward for the whole week following signing up for the auction.

  I felt nervous, but then I also felt like I had nothing left to lose. Either I would go away and have a great time as someones slave, or I wouldn't. I could opt out at any time I wanted and it didn't matter one little bit either way. These people didn't know much about me, and they didn't have to.

  A week to the day after signing up to be auctioned as a slave, I was standing in a BDSM club full of scantly clad men and women (although, mostly men to be fair) who were bidding on me. The money would go to charity I had been told, and the club wouldn't make any money from the slave action. This was just supposed to be a fun event to get people who were too shy to go out and meet others who had the same fetishes as them, to actually leave their homes and meet other people. The slave auction was as much a way to encourage like-minded people to hook up as it was a way to force you to mingle with other kinky people. This was a space where you could force yourself into a hot little arrangement with someone sexy who had similar desires to you.

  I arrived a little later than I was supposed to and didn't even have a chance to grab a drink before I was thrust on stage in front of everyone by a squat middle-aged woman who I found out was the auctioneer. Standing there, I felt like a deer in headlights as I looked around the room at all the eager faces. I could see it in their eyes: these men thought of me as fresh meat. Fresh meat for their devouring, and that turned me on immensely. I wanted to be taken right where I stood, quivering and excited as I was. Even if I wanted to be taken right here, I knew I couldn't. The bidding had already began. I could neither run away nor be taken by someone who I thought was super sexy. I just had to be here, still and silent. I just had to look pretty and let the bidding begin.

  I hadn't seen anyone who bid on me yet, but I was surprised at how high the bids were even as I couldn't see the bidders. I couldn't see the crowd because of the stage lights, but the bids started at $1,000 and quickly jumped up to $5,000. When the amount reached $10,000 I could see on the faces of some of the people standing closest to the stage - I could only see the first three rows - that this was a high number for a bid. That made me feel good, receiving a lot of money in a bid, even if I would never see that money.

  It struck me when bidding reached $20,000 that these were actual dollar amounts, not monopoly money as you would expect people to throw around so readily on someone they had not even met. I hadn't been in the building long enough to have caught anyone's eye, or even to have smiled at the right person. These people had money, and they were going to spend it to buy me, regardless of what I did. They were bidding like mad, and it took my breath away.

  Because of the stage lights and me not being able to see beyond two or three rows of people, and the bids coming from behind those rows, it meant that the higher the bidding got, the more frustrated I became. I could see a flash of fluorescent red every now and then to my left, and another one to my right. There were two people bidding on me using fluorescent colored paddles and the amounts were rising steadily. $20,000 turned into $25,000 which quickly turned into $30,000. These two men were bidding in five-thousand dollar increments.

  The bidding reached $50,000 and my head was spinning. How could someone want to touch my body for that much? Even though I knew they would 'own' me, the ownership wasn't real in the legal sense, and I could always leave if I didn't like the person. This was crazy.

  While I was standing there, my mind blown, the auctioneer took a moment to ask me if I was open to being inspected, should the buyers want a closer inspection of the goods they were auctioning on. When I didn't answer, the auctioneer simply cocked her head to the side and told me that it wouldn't be painful, and besides, I was obviously already very in demand. Should I consent to an inspection, it might just push that demand up.

  My silence meant the auctioneer quickly gave up. The auctioneer was more concerned with keeping the momentum of the bidding up than she was with trying to get me to consent to an inspection. She obviously didn't need to offer me for inspection to the bidders because $50,000 jumped to $100,000 in the very next bid from a paddle that was being held up further left than the one that had been bidding previously. This was truly insane. The room was buzzing with talk now, and ex
citement as the crowd watched me being bid on.

  The bidding was at $250,000 when the auctioneer leaned in and asked me, "Do you like to call your master Daddy?"

  "What?" I asked, even more confused than when she'd asked me if I would be okay with being inspected. This request made even less sense to me. I hadn't come across any Daddy-calling in my research, and the idea caught me off guard.

  "Do you like to call him Daddy? Because if you do, this could mean a lot more than $250,000 sweetheart." The auctioneer asked.

  I nodded, the competitive streak inside me alive. I wanted to see how much money could be made, even as I knew I wouldn't see a cent of it. The money would go to charity, and I would go to my new master.

  When the auctioneer told the audience, "our slave would be happy to experience age play and daddy dom." That sealed the deal.

  My price went from $250,000 to one million in a single bid.

  Shocked, I looked at the direction where the auctioneer was pointing and couldn't see a face. I could only see the raised paddle. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pushed my feelings down past my tummy and tried to smile. Surely this wouldn't go any higher.

  I could see the flash of another paddle, but the auctioneer was evidently ignoring it. The auctioneer had sold me off and was congratulating the winner on his new slave girl.

  "Go to him." The auctioneer told me in a rush, away from the microphone again.

  As my first act as a slave, I did exactly what I was told. I went to the man who had paid one million dollars so I would be his slave, and gave myself to my new master.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The process to become a slave baby girl wasn't as long and as involved as I thought it would be. My new master took me in hand right away as we sat together after the slave action. He had me come to him and sit with him as we shared a celebratory drink. Top shelf whiskey was poured as he sat talking to me about my limits, boundaries and what I was hoping to get out of this.