Chapter 7
When another stranger intrigues you…
The rest of the cocktail hour proceeds without incident. Thanks to Caroline, we meet almost everyone in the room and get the basic info about them. 95% of them are Ivy League grads and the other 5% went to prestigious liberal arts schools like Swarthmore and Wellesley. Many work in finance and tech, some head non-profits and the rest are entrepreneurs. They all heard about the party one way or another through friends of friends and no one really knows what to expect. And none of them know the identity of the mysterious Mr. Black.
After mingling for what seems like forever, I decide to get some fresh air and get away from the stuffiness of all those pleasantries. Caroline is totally in her element – smiling, nodding, laughing at just the right times. Putting everyone at ease. Becoming everyone’s best friend. But I find that kind of stuff exhausting. Even after a half an hour of it, I'm ready to tear my hair out,
“I’m sorry, but I have to go to the ladies room,” I extricate myself from the tall, redheaded guy from Princeton who is on his second story about squash (the game, not the vegetable). I didn’t know it was possible for one person to have more than one story about squash, but apparently it is.
“Okay, hurry back,” he says flashing me a smile. Though his self-confidence and sense of his own importance are quite staggering, he is quite mesmerizing. For a second, I get lost in his eyes and almost forget to walk away.
“Ellie? You okay?” he takes my arm, bringing me back to reality.
“Oh right, sorry,” I mumble. “I’ll be right back.”
What was his name again? Dax? Wyatt? Delacorte? I’ve never been great with names, and my memory for matching faces with names is particularly bad at this party. They’re all so good looking and their names just seem to all blur together.
As I make my way away from him, I feel the Princeton guy’s eyes on me burning into the back of my head. So, instead of walking straight onto the deck from the main room, I head toward the hallway with the bathroom and then outside.
When I finally get outside, I inhale a deep breath of fresh salty air. That one breath is quickly followed up by another and another. Suddenly, all the boredom that had infected me during the cocktail hour vanishes and the chill of the outside air infuses me with new found energy.
“Well, hello there,” a deep voice says. It belongs to a man and it’s coming from somewhere behind me.
Great, another boring conversation coming up. I roll my eyes before turning to face him.
“Sometimes you just have to get out of there, right?” the man says.
That piques my interest. Intrigued, I turn around.
“Are you not having a good time?” I ask.
“Eh,” the man shrugs casually, looking far into the blueness. The sun is hovering just over the horizon, dipping in and out of the sea, as if it isn't sure if it wants to take the plunge.
“Isn’t the sunset beautiful?” the man asks without taking his eyes off it.
I turn to face him. He’s dressed in an impeccable black suit. His starched collar is unbuttoned and the sleeves of his suit are rolled up. He isn't wearing a tie. It suddenly hits me. He must be the only guy here without a tie!
“Yes,” I agree unable to pull my gaze away from him.
Casually, the man leans over the railing, staring into the distance. The wind casually tosses around his short, honey blonde hair without bothering him one bit.
“So, where did you go to school?” I ask.
This has been the go-to conversation starter throughout the cocktail party and bad habits die hard. I’m not really interested, but frankly I can’t think of anything else to ask.
“Oh c’mon,” he says turning to face me. “We can do better than that.”
Before I have the chance to figure out how to respond, the man effortlessly pulls himself up to the railing and sits on top of it.
“Oh my God, what are you doing?” I gasp. “You’re going to fall off.”
The railing is made of thick wood, reinforced by thin pieces of metal laid out in horizontal slats. Just over it, are the whites of the waves that crash into the ship.
“No, I’m not,” he says with a coy smile, wrapping his feet around one of the horizontal slats.
He puts his hand on mine. Suddenly, I realize that my hand is on his thigh and I quickly remove it.
“You can keep it there,” he says. “It feels nice.”
“You’re going to fall,” I say with exasperation. He’s toying with me. I can feel it. Making me mad. And he’s doing it on purpose.
“So, you’re not having a good time at the party?” he asks, brushing the windswept hair out of my face. I take a step back as soon as I feel his warm hand on my face.
“I wouldn’t say that,” I say.
“So, is that what you are doing here, on the deck, all by your lonesome? Getting away from everyone?”
Is this guy for real? Ever since my mom married Mitch, I’ve become quite acquainted with the kind of confidence that runs through the blood of those who summer in the Hamptons. But this guy, he’s taking it to a whole new level.
After a moment of silence, he jumps off the railing and positions himself right in front of me.
“I’m Harrison. Harrison Brooks. But people just call me Brooks.”
“Hi,” I say unamused. I’m getting quite sick of how casually he infringes on my personal space– both vertical and horizontal.
“And you are?” he asks, taking a step closer. I can feel his breath on my face. Even though I’m angry and annoyed, I find it intoxicating.
“Ellie,” I say, reluctantly extending my hand.
“Do you have a last name Ellie?” he asks shaking my hand.
“Yes,” I say and turn to walk away from him. Not that you're getting it.
“You have spunk, Ellie,” Brooks yells after me. “I like that.”
As I make my way around the empty deck, my mind wanders back to Brooks. Maybe I should’ve stayed. Perhaps I was a bit rude. No, he was the one who was rude. Sitting up on the railing. Coming too close to me. Breaking all rules of social conduct and politeness. Who the hell does he think he is?
And yet despite all of these things – or perhaps because of them – I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about him. His deep blue eyes. His soft lips. His arrogant demeanor. His shiny hair. Agh, someone stop me! I walk back into the main room where the cocktail party was still supposed to be in full bloom. But much to my surprise, it isn’t.
“Where is everyone?” I ask one of the servants who is wiping down the tables. How long was I out there? I wonder to myself.
“Back in their rooms, I guess,” he says with a shrug.
Chapter 8
When you think the party is over, but it’s just beginning…
When I get back to our room, I find Caroline lying on top of her bed in her dress. She has a concerned look on her face and she’s picking at her newly polished nails.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“This is it,” she says. “Now, we’re actually going to find out who is going to stay and who is going to go.”
I don’t know what she means exactly. But she’s quick to explain that apparently the cocktail party was a type of sorting event. Not every person who attends gets to stay on for the main event.
“Do you mean the masquerade ball?” I ask.
“I don’t really know,” she shrugs. “There are so many rumors flying around.”
I sit down in front of the vanity and examine my face. I’m tempted to pull off my eyelashes, but Caroline stops me before I start.
“Don’t you dare take off your makeup, or change. There’s going to be more stuff going on tonight and you don't want to get dressed all over again.”
I roll my eyes. There’s no way I’m doing anything more today. All I want to do right now is take off these high heels, peel myself out of this tight dress and relax with a bag of chips in my sweats. Being this fabulous is exhausting.
But then again, if there are more festivities on the way, I definitely don't want go through the trouble of changing back into this damn thing.
“Okay, but I’m not waiting long,” I say, glancing at the time. “One hour tops.”
I flip on the television, and click through the channels. Caroline fixes her lipstick and checks her teeth for any stains. I grab a water out of the minibar and spill some of it on my dress when I open it.
“Shit,” I say, patting the spot dry, without much luck.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. Caroline freezes. I roll my eyes and open the door.
“Will you two please join me in the main cabin in five minutes?” Lizbeth asks. I look her up and down. She’s dressed in a completely different outfit. This time, she’s wearing a long black dress, which cinches her tiny waist in a corset and pushes her perfect breasts up to the sky.
“Yes, sure,” I say. Lizbeth flashes a polite but disapproving smile. As soon as I close the door, Caroline practically jumps on me.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” she shrieks. “Do you know what this means?”
“No, not really.”
“We made an impression. They want us.”
“For what?”
I stump her for a moment with the question. She stares at me as if I just asked her to multiply 345 by 257 in her head.
“I have no idea!” she screams, and runs over to the vanity to check her hair and makeup and dress again.
“Do you think we both have to go?” I ask.
“What?” she turns around, nearly dropping the perfume bottle in her hand.
“Listen, the cocktail hour was fun, but I’m tired. I mean, this has been kind of a long day.”
“Ellie, you HAVE to go! You just have to go.”
I shake my head. Given her level of excitement, there’s no way that I’m going to get out of this anytime soon. I decide to just suck it up and get on with it. The sooner this starts, the sooner it will be over.
When we get to the main cabin, there are women everywhere. And I do mean everywhere. They are sitting on the couches, at the bar, at the tables. They are all dressed impeccably in gorgeous dresses and high heels. Some have short hair, but very few. Most fall into the model category of physical beauty - impossibly tall, thin, and fabulous. Some have large breasts, some small breasts.
“Where are all the men?” I ask Caroline.
“I have no idea, maybe they’re in another room?”
After Caroline and I get our drinks at the bar, we position ourselves near the far wall. All the seats are already taken.
Lizbeth clinks her glass to get our attention. She’s standing at the front of the yacht, surrounded entirely by windows. Everyone looks up and quiets down when she clicks the glass a second time.
“Ladies. Thank you all for joining us today. It has really been a pleasure to serve you all.”
There’s that word again. Serve. Is it just me, or is that a really unusual word to use. There are so many other ones like ‘it has really been a pleasure to host you’ or ‘it has really been a pleasure to have you here.’ But serve?
“So, let me take this time to fill you in about what’s going to happen. I know that there have been a lot of rumors flying around about what happens on this yacht party and I’m going to tell you.”
“Oh my God, I’m so excited, I’m going to pee my pants!” Caroline hisses into my ear.
“Tonight, we have a very special attraction planned. We are going to have an auction.”
A hush goes over the room. Oh great, I think to myself. I don't have any money. Auctions are only fun for people who have free cash to spend.
“But it’s not your typical auction. None of you will be expected to buy anything. In fact, it’s more exciting than that.”
Well, that’s good, I think to myself. At least, this isn’t some elaborate charity ball auction where you’re expected to spend at least a few grand to attend. I’ve been to those plenty when Mitch’s firm bought a table and expected the partners to fill it with their wives and children. Those auctions were never as fun as the organizers seemed to think they were.
“Mr. Black’s auction is nothing like any other auction you might have ever been to or may have heard of. What makes it particularly special is that, if you choose to participate, you will be the item that’s auctioned off.”
Wait, a second, I turn to Caroline. Did I just hear that right?
“Let me explain. The men you have all met today at the cocktail hour are just some of the men who will be bidding in the auction. If you choose to participate, you will stand up on the stage and the men will bid on you. What they’re bidding on is a night with you to do with whatever they want. Sexually speaking.”
“What the hell?” I whisper to Caroline. But she is completely mesmerized by Lizbeth, hanging on her every word.
“And in the morning, you will get a check for the winning bid.”
A woman in front of me raises her hand. Lizbeth calls on her.
“So, how much exactly do women here go for?”
“Oh yes, of course,” Lizbeth smiles. “Now, we don't know exactly how the bidding process will go, so we can’t make promises. But you have all been pre-selected and you’re all very beautiful. And the men in this room have a lot of money. It’s not unusual for women to fetch 80 or $90,000. Some go for $150,000. We’ve even had one who went for $300,000.”
Holy shit. Did I just hear that correctly? My school loans for four-years of college are $150,000. Would I really get a check for that much? This seems just too good to be true.
“And what does it mean that the men get to do whatever they want? Sexually speaking?” the girl to the right of me asks.
“It means exactly that. Some men will want to talk and then have a little sex. Others want only oral. Others want everything. Oral. Them on top. You on top. Him in your ass. You in his ass with a strap on. Whatever floats his boat.”
“And what if we haven’t done anal before?” another girl asks.
“Well, I’m sure you can tell him that and he will be much more gentle. There will also, of course, be plenty of lubricants available.”
“Are you going to do it?” Caroline whispers to me. I shrug. I hate to admit it, but there is something tempting about this. The guys were really hot. I wouldn’t have minded sleeping with one or two of them on this yacht party for free.
“Okay, if there are no more questions, I will pass out the contracts. Please read it carefully. If you are willing to be auctioned off, please sign it and return it to me. The auction will begin in an hour. If you are not interested in the auction, you will take the helicopter back to the mainland. Unfortunately, you will not be joining us for the next part of the festivities.”
She makes her way around the room, handing each of us a piece of paper and a pen. I read over the contract carefully.
“This looks pretty standard,” Caroline says. I look at her like she’s insane.
“Pretty standard? There’s nothing standard about this.”
“Well, you know what I mean. It just lays out everything that she just told us. Plus, look at this part here. As soon as the auction is over, before the night actually commences, they will wire you the full amount to the account of your choice or give a check.”
“You think they’re good for it?” I joke.
“From the looks of this yacht, I’d say they are.”
I’ve been around plenty of rich people, but the thought of someone actually writing a check or wiring eighty or ninety grand into my account seems unbelievable.
“I wonder why it has to be before the night commences,” I say, reading the contract.
Lizbeth overhears me.
“Because everything that happens here is optional. It’s up to you.”
Now, that doesn’t really make much sense, but I don't question her. After she leaves, I turn back to Caroline.
“I think it’s because then it would be prostitution. Now, it’s just some sort of present
or a game or something,” I say.
Caroline and I both sit there for a few minutes debating whether we should really go through with this. Honestly, I don't know. On one hand, it seems insane. An auction. A sex auction, in this day and age. We’re women. We’re supposed to be liberated and free. We can have sex with anyone we choose. On the other hand, being liberated and free also means that I’m free to participate in an auction if I want. Right? Would this really make me a prostitute? Or do you get some sort of one-night pass? I mean, I’ve had a one night stand before after a really nice dinner. How exactly would this be any different? While one part of me asks that question, another part is quick with the answer. It’s different because I wasn’t auctioned off. To a stranger. To do with what he wants for the night. That’s the fucking difference.
“So, what do you think?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Caroline shrugs.
I’m actually shocked by this. Caroline likes good sex and anything fabulous. What could be more fabulous than some hot rich guy paying double the average US annual salary to spend one night with him?
“Are you serious?” I ask. “I thought you were down for this for sure.”
“Why? Because I’m such a slut?”
“No, of course, not. You know I don't think that. I just thought that you would think this is fun.”
“I do,” she says, hesitantly. “I’m just not sure. Just something about this…sounds strange.”
I nod. It does. It is very unusual.
A girl near us waves Lizbeth over.
“I just had a question. What is the auction like? Do we just stand up there in what we’re wearing now and they bid on us?” she asks.
“Well, there’s an auctioneer who oversees the auction,” Lizbeth says. “They stand at a podium and you stand near the auction block near them. The auctioneer organizes the bids in standardized increments of about ten thousand and the prospective buyers raise their paddle if they want to place a bid for that particular increment. As far as what you wear… you will wear what you’re wearing now. The bidders do not have the right to ask you to remove any clothing or to show your breasts or anything like that. That’s for later.”
Auctioned to Him 5: Her Addiction Page 11