by Eden Myles
He slapped me again, harder, so I screamed. “I don’t like your tone, Charlotte.”
“I’m sorry!”
He slapped me again, so hard I writhed and fought the manacles, which of course did nothing. “Lachlan…!”
“You’re like a cat who needs to be declawed, my courtesan.” He did not sound entirely displeased by the idea. He shifted behind me while the other gentlemen murmured among themselves, discussing Lachlan’s technique. Most agreed it was masterful. “As a course of punishment, you’ll take twelve lashes from the cat, and you will thank me for each and every one of them. Do you understand?”
I stopped writhing, fighting. Mostly I was fighting myself. But then, I had always been my own worst enemy. “Yes,” I answered breathlessly. “I understand.”
“Very good.”
Lachlan did not hold back and the lashes on my back and buttocks stung like a motherfucker! He stopped after each bite of the whip, waiting patiently while I gasped out a stinted thank you, sir to him. I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming as every part of me rebelled against this. I writhed in the manacles, testing the restraints. My breasts jiggled and my hands fisted rebelliously. Only the idea of doing this to him kept me going.
I stopped fighting after the ninth lash of the cat. By the twelve, my body had gone soft and pliant and I hung submissively in my restraints. “I’m sorry…sir,” I sobbed, the words coming from my heart.
“Better.” I heard him withdraw the Desert Eagle. I heard him remove the magazine and drop it to the floor. He said, “It’s empty and there are no bullets in the chamber.”
I nodded, my heart thudding.
He moved the big, cold gun down the welts on my back. It felt good, cooling. Then he moved between my legs so I shivered, stroked me softly until my body strained to reach him. “I know how much you love your guns, Charlotte.”
“Yes, sir. Especially your gun, sir.”
Our audience laughed at our double entendre.
He stroked my breasts and belly with the gun. He stroked my pussy. “If you’re good, then I’ll be good to you. Do you understand, Charlotte?”
“Yes,” I answered. “I want to be good. I want you to be good to me, sir.”
“I’m going to eat you out, Charlotte. I’m going to make you come for the entertainment of my friends. And for my own entertainment. But you mustn’t come until I tell you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Will you serve your gentleman?”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
He set the gun aside and came around me. He went to one knee before me and parted my wet, fully exposed slit with two fingers. His fingers dove inside me and curled, stroking along my g-spot and making my hips undulate for him. He stroked me gently while I danced for him, all for him. I wanted to feel him rub my clit but he merely circled that most sensitive spot, avoiding it until I whimpered in frustration.
I felt his breath on me. Finally, he licked briefly over that tingling nub of flesh. I hissed air between my teeth and he withdrew. “God, you’re wet. You’re always so fucking wet. But I don’t want you coming yet.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
He grabbed me at the hips and dragged one leg over his shoulder as he began lapping rapidly between my legs, tracing over every inch of my outer and inner labia. He kissed me there like he kissed me on the lips before concentrating his ministrations on my clit once more. I bucked against him. I gasped air in and out of my lungs, panting like a dog in heat, to keep from spilling myself all over the floor.
He sucked at my clit, pinched it between his lips so I cried out, my stomach muscles bunching up to keep from coming, to put off the orgasm relentlessly building within me. He held my labia wide open with his fingers and licked the length of my cunt. He licked along my perineum and asshole before returning to his favorite place, that place that throbbed for him. He licked inside me so that finally I was thrashing in the manacles, my fists clenching and unclenching, and I was moaning the most ridiculous things to him, begging him to release me, to fuck me stupid.
“You have my permission to come, Charlotte.”
He devoured me, licked inside me as far as he could reach me. When he finally bit down upon my clit, I let out a shrill scream as my entire body went electric with my sudden release. I didn’t care that we had an audience; every muscle in my body clenched and I convulsed with the power of a g-spot orgasm. He kept his tongue in me until the last tremors left my body and I dropped, tired and sore and satiated, in my bounds, the wetness of my come dripping down the insides of my legs.
Lachlan stood up and pulled the blindfold away. Everything seemed too bright, suddenly, but through the haze I could see Lachlan, naked except for a pair of ultra-tight leather pants and tall, buckled leather boots. His broad, muscular chest shone with sweat, and the cat trailed on the floor behind him. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a bodice-ripping highland romance—if such a thing included whips and chains—and my heart immediately tripped in my chest. He grabbed my hair to kink my head back. I whimpered as he kissed me. If I could have melted into him in that moment, I surely would have.
“God, you’re sexy with my marks upon you, Charlotte,” he growled softly against my lips. He undid my shackles. His touch was rough and his face carved with furious lust as he cracked the cat. “Heel, girl.”
I heeled. I expected the welts to hurt more, but it was a manageable pain. Lachlan was very good.
“Give me your ass. Now.”
I bowed low to the floor, sticking my ass up in the air. Then I remembered where I was. I spied all the strangers out of the corner of my eye watching our performance, and a f lush of embarrassment overcame me so I kept my eyes on the floor.
I heard Lachlan undo the buckles on his trousers. He grabbed me at the hips to hold me immobile, and within seconds, his hard, hugely swollen cock was rubbing against my dripping cunt, his wetness and mine smearing the insides of my legs. “God, I love the sight of your eager little pussy,” he said before he plunged deep into me.
I grunted as he worked his cock in and out of me. My cunt gripped him tight and he moaned as he worked me wider, forcing me to stretch to accompany his dick. He pumped me furiously until we were both crying out. Finally, he shoved himself as deep inside me as he could and I squealed and thrashed as a second, even more intense orgasm ripped through me like a storm.
We came together. Lachlan growled low in his throat as he buried his cock to the balls inside me and shot his hot load deep inside my pussy. He pulled me up and hugged me tight against the front of his sweating, muscular body and kissed my ear. “Christ, I love you so much, Charlotte. Marry me.”
I could barely speak, but I managed to squeak out, “Is that an order, sir?”
“Yes.”
I smiled even as our audience began to applaud. “I mean to serve and to protect.”
***
STEFAN
by Jay Ellison
Isabelle put her Xbox controller down and said, “I love you, Stefan, but you’re a tard!”
Since we were both in the middle of a controlled, piggyback jump in Call of Duty, I figured we were both doomed and just put mine down as well. “That’s not politically correct, Izzy Pop,” I pointed out.
She scrunched up her face in that way she had when she was good and pissed. “I don’t care. It’s true. I mean, a body auction? Really?”
I waited until we both made a loud splat in the silence of my dorm room, then shrugged. “Hey, your people in the Society set it up. I just figured I’d help them out, you know?”
“They’re not ‘my people,’ I just know some of them.”
Iz and I had grown up together. We were more like siblings than best friends, and I loved to go on double dates with her. That’s how I’d met her circle of friends in the Society.
She narrowed her eyes. “Did Damian talk you into this?”
Damian Michaels was Izzy’s gentleman. Well, one of two of them. He had a twin brother, and b
oth were hot as hell itself, but they were strictly off the menu, as far as I was concerned. For one thing, they belonged to Izzy, and as a rule of thumb, we never did each other’s guys. For another, they were straight as fucking arrows, which was a hell of a bummer.
I made my face innocent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She sighed and stood up, reaching for her jacket. “Wait till I get home. I think I need to have a long talk with those two about forcing my best friend to auction himself!”
“Izzy!” I threw my controller aside and sprang to my feet, managing to maneuver between her and the door of my dorm. I raised my hands to ward her back. “They did not force me to do anything. If you want to blame anyone, blame Devon. He suggested that I might be interested in the Dollhouse auction, and I was.” She didn’t look convinced, so I added, “Look, it’s for a good cause, okay? The money’s going to The Good Samaritan Foundation.”
Izzy Pop still looked bemused, so I added, “It helps kids like me—those who need surgery for accidents or birth defects. It’s a real organization, promise! Dorian’s on the board, so ask him if you don’t believe me!”
She rolled her eyes. “What is it with those two and their charities?”
I crossed my arms with irritation. “The Michaels brothers are great guys. The American Cancer Society, Good Samaritan…how many billionaires do you know give that much of a shit about the rest of us? You should be proud of them.” I didn’t want to have to play my trump card, but she continued to look dubious. “Dorian fixed my face, remember. Made me the gorgeous stud I am today. I kind of owe it to them.”
That made Iz roll her eyes. “Isn’t that the point of charity? You don’t expect to be paid back?”
“Maybe. But you know how bad things were for me.”
When I was in my late teens, my mom and I were hit head-on by a bus while driving on the highway. My mom wasn’t seriously injured, but the impact broke almost every bone in my face. Dr. Dorian Michaels had put me back together pro bono. After a few years of physical therapy, it was almost like it never happened. I really did owe them something. Besides, the idea of being auctioned off to a hot, single, sexually ravenous billionaire? I mean, could I really go wrong?
I said all that to Izzy—more or less—and finally she seemed to calm down.
She took a deep breath and her posture relaxed. “You know this could all go terribly wrong, right?”
“How could it go wrong? It’s a temporary arrangement. According to Devon, I only have to serve as a courtier for a month. Piece of cake.”
“That’s just it, Stef,” she said somewhat sadly. “You’ll have to be with the same guy for one whole month.”
I threw my hands up. “Come on. You make me sound like some slut.”
“Stef, you know I love you,” she said as she reached for the door, “which is why I’m saying this. You’re a great guy, and my best friend in the whole world, but you wouldn’t know monogamy if it fell out of the sky, landed on that beautiful face of yours, and started to wiggle.”
***
Two weeks later, I thought about Izzy’s words even as I was getting ready backstage for the auction. Was I really such a slut? I didn’t really think of myself that way—even though, in high school, I was voted the one most likely to be murdered in bed by a jealous spouse.
But, hey, I took care of my health, always used protection with every partner I had, treated them with respect, never lied or made promises I knew I wouldn’t keep. I thought of myself as a pretty upstanding guy. I just didn’t want the relationship progressing past a few dates. I loved dating and sex, but I wasn’t down with all that “spill your feelings” bullshit. I wasn’t that much of a girl, I guess.
Devon stepped past the royal dark blue theater curtain separating this part of the Great Room from the part where the auction would take place. He was dressed superbly in a snug, tailored white tuxedo, a red rose on his lapel. He looked sleek and beautiful and very British. As the Master of Ceremonies, it was his responsibility to run the auction. He clapped his hands smartly and said, “How are we doing, ladies?”
There were twelve of us, an even number of men and woman. We looked at each other and laughed. All of us were connected in some way to a member of the Dollhouse Society, though none of us had ever served as a courtesan or courtier. All of us were dressed to the nines.
We turned our attention back on the MOC. No one ever took exception to Devon Grayson. He was dashing and beautiful and funny as hell. Besides, he was the courtier to Malcolm Sloan, the unofficial head of the board that managed the Society. Devon walked down our ranks like an army captain checking over his troops. “You look nervous, Celia,” he said, giving a young, fidgety woman a once over.
Celia uttered a nervous laugh.
I turned to her and took her hand, kissing it. “You look ravishing, my dear,” I said in a hokey British accent.
Celia blushed up and down.
Devon’s eyebrow peaked. “You’re not shy at all, are you, mate?”
I gave him a flourish of a bow. “I was born for this. So who’s the most eligible bachelor out there…mate?”
He gave me a slightly annoyed look but said, “That would be Mr. Eccleston, the film mogul. He’s quite in demand, from what I understand.”
The other soon-to-be courtesans and courtiers oohed and aahed.
“Forget about it, ladies. He’s taken,” I said.
“Confident much, whelp?” Devon asked.
I shrugged. “When you look as good as I do, confidence is just a side effect.”
Rolling his eyes, Devon accompanied us past the curtain. Very soon the twelve of us stood in our gowns or tuxedoes behind him in a neat row while he made a brief speech and welcomed the fifty or so gentlemen without companions to the auction.
The eligible “bachelors,” as they were called, were seated in three horseshoe rows, while the ladies and gentlemen who already had companions stood behind them, holding the hands of their beloved, excited to see such grand and unusual entertainment at the Dollhouse. I immediately spotted Izzy standing between Dorian and Damian and threw her a big, theatrical kiss while the audience laughed. She smiled and gave me a little, embarrassed finger wave in return.
After clearing his throat for silence, Devon called up the first young woman, and the bidding began in earnest, all funds going to the Good Samaritan Foundation. During his speech, he’d explained that every participant would be bound by legal contract to his or her gentleman for the duration of one month, though it was entirely up to the couple how they wanted to conduct their relationship. They could use the time to develop true intimacy, or, if they found themselves incompatible, develop a platonic or business-centric friendship.
I hoped to god I didn’t get the type of gentleman who wanted someone to pal around with for a month, drink beers and go to bowling alleys. How depressing would that be?
I studied the faces of the bachelors, sitting there with their small wooden bidder’s boards. Each seemed more gorgeous and perfect than the last, fairy tale handsome in their sleek, dark tuxedoes. Well, all but the gentleman on the far right. He seemed to be in his late fifties, far older than the others, tall and fit, his hair all steely grey, but not what you would call a hottie. He had a lean, strict look about him, like someone better suited to working as a headmaster in a British private school.
“Mother Mary, don’t let me go to him,” I prayed softly to myself, then crossed myself just to be on the safe side. Any of the others would do. But not him. The last thing I needed was some old, nasty queen feeling me up.
The first courtesan went fast. She was pretty and vibrant, and she got a good number of bids from the straight gentlemen. I waited for the old Brit to bid—she looked his type—but his bidder’s board never went up.
The others followed, going for twenty-five…fifty…seventy-five grand. Holy crap, I thought. They were throwing it around like it was water. Moments after each bid closed, a gentleman stepped up to kiss the ha
nd of his new courtesan or courtier and escort him or her off the stage. They all looked so fucking perfect together, like models off the covers of romance novels. Then Devon called for the next auction, and so it continued for the next hour.
My eyes kept scanning the remaining gentleman. I was almost certain I knew which one was Mr. Eccleston, the sexy, young film auteur from New Zealand who had broken onto the American scene and made billions on his artsy, semi-erotic films. I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t bid, and just like the old Brit, he kept his bidder’s board in his lap. Each time a bid closed, the gentleman stepped up to meet his new companion and the rows of gentlemen in the audience thinned out.
Finally, it was my turn. I let my tuxedo jacket fall back as I strutted up to the auction pulpit and stood beside Devon. I blew the audience a flamboyant kiss and heard a good number of giggles from the onlookers.
Devon ignored my theatrics and just stated the facts. My name was Stefan Janovich, and I was currently an undergrad at CUNY studying computer science. I liked hiking and jogging, and my favorite pastime was clubbing and going to concerts with my friends. He made my life read like one of those lame-o listings for an online dating site.
I thought about doing a little muscle flexing under my tuxedo jacket, but I was afraid Devon might throw me off the stage, so I resigned myself to popping my tuxedo shirt collar and doing a posh little centerfold pose for the entertainment of the audience and gentleman. It must have worked, because as Devon opened my auction at fifteen grand, Eccleston finally flicked up his bidder’s board.
I smiled winningly, putting to good use all the complicated dental work and realignment surgery that Dr. Dorian had done on my jaw and teeth to give me back a perfect smile. Unfortunately, that made the old Brit take notice and bid up five grand. Jesus. I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or horrified.
Devon asked for counterbids, and to my utmost relief, it went back and forth for a while until we reached thirty grand. That was when Eccleston became my hero of the hour and said in a clear, sexy voice, “One hundred and fifty.”