Sold

by Renard, Loki

  Sold

  By

  Loki Renard

  Copyright © 2019 by Stormy Night Publications and Loki Renard

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Renard, Loki

  Sold

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Image by Dreamstime/Wisky

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

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  Loki Renard Links

  Chapter One

  “Female!”

  That shout ends my life as I know it.

  I came to the market this morning dressed as a man in order to sell three oranges, stolen from a tree behind a walled garden in the gold zone. Each of the oranges is a potential lifeline. I could eat them and quench my desire for something sweet and liquidy, but if I sell them here in Mosquito Market, these three oranges can be traded for so much more. Water purification tablets. Meat. Batteries for the radio and the flashlight, both of which are dead and leave me in dark, silent nights when the drizzle makes it impossible to build a fire. All I can do is lie underneath the sheet iron roof and hope that the old plastic bags I glued to it keep the rain from corroding through.

  The risk of sneaking into the market was worth it—until it wasn’t.

  I wear heavy men’s clothes, a big overcoat with shoulder pads that make me look broader. I have a broad-brimmed hat that I can pull down to cover most of my face. I put on a deep voice, and a beard.

  The beard just gave me away. I should have taken my supplies and left, but I had a few shell casings in my pocket, enough to trade for some meat stew. That smell called to me and called to me until I gave in and sat shoulder to shoulder with the men who frequent the market, slurping down my stew. I didn’t notice that it was soaking the fibers of my fake beard. I didn’t notice the heat and the sweat working away at the glue either, not until the patch of hair that kept the men thinking I was male dropped off my face and into my stew, right in front of several dozen traders, soldiers, and mercenaries. Men.

  “It’s a woman!”

  The cry goes up and is carried across the crowds. There must be at least five thousand men here today. Five thousand men, most of whom are stuck with a virginity they don’t want because these days, no man has a woman.

  Wommmaaaaaaaaaaaannn! The shouting is a visceral, hungry, brutal sound that makes my blood run cold. How do they know? A fake beard does not a woman make.

  These men are starved for sex. Post-Event, women are impossibly rare. People are rare in general, and women are prized. Kept in great harems and breeding programs. A woman in the wild is almost unheard of. That’s why I’ve been so careful to make sure nobody has ever heard of me.

  Until now.

  All it takes is one man to say it and suddenly every man in the market is looking at me. Their gazes are not friendly. They are predatory and aggressive. Danger surrounds me. These are men who have not had straight sex in their entire lives—and now they think there is a woman with the kind of hole their bodies are made to crave.

  “Woman?” I let out my most booming laugh. “I am no woman!”

  My hat is ripped off my head from behind. The cascade of golden hair I’ve never been able to bring myself to cut flows down my back. There is a collective gasp, followed by a growl.

  Hands, so many hands come toward me. Dozens upon dozens of them, tearing at my overcoat, pulling me off my feet and yanking the clothing from my body.

  The thin veneer of civilization the guards maintain is gone. They are part of the frenzy, pushing and shoving and firing shots to get to me. The chaos is loud and terrifying. I always knew if I got caught, it would be bad. I had no idea that it would be this bad. I never knew it would be a wave of masculine aggression rising over me, so large, so powerful there is no way I can fight it.

  Men are trampling one another to get to me as I dart beneath the bar I was just eating at, and take refuge behind the casks. The weapon at my side is out of its holster. The energy clip has maybe thirty shots in it. Not nearly enough to shoot my way out of here. Maybe just enough to keep them back. Maybe.

  My view is now a mass of hands and eyes, as they follow me around and try to get into the little space where I have pushed myself, my small female frame now protected by two big barrels of fermented beer.

  They’re reaching for me, big dirty hands clawing for me. If they catch a bit of my clothing, they will drag me out.

  I fire into the very small space between the grasping males. I don’t want to hurt anybody, but I don’t want to be hurt either. The shot ricochets off a bottle, breaks it in the process, and zooms off over the crowd.

  That gives them pause for a second or two. Some of the less enthusiastic men back off, but it doesn’t dissuade all of them. These men would die for the chance at sex. I’m going to have to start shooting them for real.

  “Get the fuck away from me!” I scream, pointing the muzzle at the next set of eyes that appears in front of me. They don’t look human anymore. I can tell they belong to a man, but the expression in them is the same one a coyote wears when he finds a rabbit.

  Boom!

  An explosion echoes across the crowd. It is much louder than anything my gun can produce, and unlike my single shooter, it gets a respectful response from the lust-crazed men. They fall to the ground, covering their heads as the sheriff makes his entrance.

  This man rolls deep. There are twelve armed guards, not shitty market guards. Real ones with real armor and real mating privileges. They have access to the state harem. They won’t go feral just looking at me. The vicious rabble clears for them as they move through the market toward me.

  “You find a woman, she belongs to the state! You know that!” The sheriff speaks in a booming voice translated through the microphone of his mech suit, an external skeleton that gives him the power of a hundred men, and the weaponry of a small army. I’ve seen a man in one of those things rip through a bandit camp in two minutes. In the end, there were just bits of criminals scattered everywhere. The land claimed them within hours. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a small hive of marching ants trying to drag an ear into their burrow.

  This is not a rescue.

  I could have shot my way out of the crowd, given enough courage and enough time. I could have maybe gotten free. But there’s no chance of that with the sheriff and his soldiers. My weapons will glance off their armor, and they’ll catch me.

  My only chance is to run, now, through the chaos created by a hundred men all abandoning their goods and wares at once. While the sheriff yells at his unruly citizenry, I try to sneak from my hiding place, out around the bar.

  “She’s getting away!”

  Some dickhead asshole motherfucker tells on me before I even have a chance to try to escape. The sheriff’s soldiers come for
me. Bigger, faster, fucking terrifying.

  They swing me off my feet and carry me back to the sheriff, my slim body dangling between them. My toes don’t even touch the ground. In their grasp, I am weak and vulnerable. The remnants of my clothing don’t give me much in the way of modesty. My underwear is still on, and the wrap I put around my breasts to complete the male illusion is still there—until it isn’t.

  The sheriff reaches out, grabs the wrap, and yanks it. It unwinds like a mummy’s cloth, revealing my breasts to the world. Blood rushes back into the compressed tissue, making me ache and swear.

  There is a rumble of male desire all around me. The sheriff is doing the equivalent of dangling a fresh lamb over a pack of starving wolves. This is going to end badly for me. I can feel it.

  The fear and adrenaline that kept me clear headed and enabled me to get the hell out of the way when I was under mass attack, now leaves me trembling and weak in the arms of these men who own women.

  The sheriff looks me over. He is not a good man. He is not a kind man. In this post-Event United States, you don’t become a law man by playing by the rules. You get there by being brutal and vicious and rich enough to enforce your will and call it law.

  When he looks at me, he doesn’t see me. He sees pieces and parts. He sees potential profit. “Good flesh,” he says. “Put her up for sale.”

  “No! I just came into the market to sell some oranges! Let me go!”

  My words mean nothing, and my struggles mean even less. The sheriff’s face quirks behind the shield of his mask. I can’t really see it, he is like a shadow behind the thick radiation-resistant protection, but I can hear his voice rattling through the microphone.

  “I know what you came here to do. I saw you taking them from my private orchard, you little orange-stealing whore. I came here to catch you and hang you for the theft. But you’re female, and young. That would be a waste. You’ll be sold to the highest bidder, girl. And you’ll be grateful you’re not swinging from a rope.”

  “I’d rather swing!”

  “Take her to the cut men,” he says, talking to his soldiers, ignoring me. “Have them prepare her for sale. And get a collar on her.”

  As I writhe, the soldiers do his bidding. They press a thin, light piece of metallic substance around my neck. I immediately try to pull it off, but I can’t. Whatever it is, it’s strong. And while I’m distracted with trying to remove it, they’re bundling me into a cage that obviously has one purpose: human transport.

  I am caught. And this is all my fault.

  Chapter Two

  The cut men sound frightening. In my head, I am imagining monstrous men with bits hacked off them. In reality, the soldiers deliver me to a small villa deep inside the sheriff’s compound where I am greeted by two men with shaved heads. They wear white robes that are a far cry from the armor everyone else is wearing. They are not as rough or masculine as the soldiers. Their eyes hold a more gentle expression—not that I care about their expressions.

  I have been packed into a cage, wheeled across more city than I knew existed, and taken into a fortified place from which escape is going to be exceptionally difficult. The orchards I stole from are at the very verge of the city. If you’re smart you can sneak in and out. This is the heart of it. There is no coming and going here.

  The soldiers open the cage, drag me out, and thrust me at the two robed fellows, both of whom are taller than any man I have seen before. They must be at least seven feet in height, the pair of them.

  I am only 5′1. My mother was short, and growing up wild meant being stunted, so my father used to say. He was tall, but these men tower over me and would have towered over him too.

  “I am Mattias,” the slightly taller one says. “And this is Elias.”

  Mattias has the face of a poet. I don’t know which poet, but there’s something elegant about him. Elias is even more finely built. They are very, very handsome men, but not in the way the soldiers might be considered handsome. They are handsome in an androgynous way, almost... pretty. Mattias has deep brown eyes and long dark lashes. Elias is fairer, with blue eyes, and I suspect he would have blond hair if he had any. His face is rounder than Mattias’, which is long.

  I find them much less intimidating than the soldiers, whose rough bodies, bearded faces, and guttural speech make me want to hide. I am glad that they are leaving now that Mattias and Elias are guiding me indoors.

  “My name is Trissa.”

  “How old are you, child?”

  “My father told me I was ten, ten years ago. So twenty. Not a child.”

  “That is how we refer to our charges,” Mattias says. “We look after the girls brought to us, and ensure that they are ready for their new lives.”

  “As fuck toys for some rich monster? Don’t even bother. I’m going to escape as soon as I can. I’ll never stop running.”

  Mattias puts his hands on his hips and gives me a look that confuses me. It’s not mean, but it is stern. It makes me feel like a petulant little brat, which is ridiculous because I’m a captive, and I have every right to be fuming with anger.

  “Do we need the shackles for you?”

  I cut my eyes at him. “I don’t know, do you?”

  “That’s enough,” Elias intervenes. “You must be hungry and tired. Come and eat.”

  They conduct me to a small dining room. Suddenly I forget the circumstances of my capture, and the fear of what is going to happen to me. I forget everything. Even my own name, because I am looking at more food than I have ever seen in my life. The table groans with the weight of oranges, bananas, some things I don’t even know what they are... and then there are the meats, the cheeses...

  I don’t ask any more questions. I throw myself at the spread and I begin to devour it like a wild thing, taking great handfuls of food and shoving them into my mouth.

  “Slow down, you’ll make yourself sick.”

  I don’t slow down. I speed up. Are they going to take the food away? I have to eat it all before they get the chance.

  Large hands gently pull me away from the table, press me into a chair.

  “Stay,” Elias says. “I will feed you.”

  He is so handsome. I can’t stop marveling at it. They both are, in a soft kind of way. I wonder how they came to be here. Most men in the wild have to be rough and dangerous to survive, but these men are not rough. They basically wear dresses. They remind me of monks.

  I try to get up. He pushes me back down by my shoulder. I’m still not wearing anything more than my underwear, but neither Mattias nor Elias looks at my half naked body with any kind of hunger. I find that strange, almost unsettling.

  Elias feeds me like a baby, taking a spoonful at a time and slipping it into my mouth. My cheeks burn with embarrassment, but he could feed me hanging upside down from my toes if it meant I got more of this delicious food into my body.

  “You’ve had enough,” Elias says, putting the spoon down far too soon.

  I disagree. I reach for a handful of fruit and shove it into my face. Most of it smears around my lips, but some of it gets in, and that is all that matters.

  “That’s enough.” Mattias grabs me from behind and lifts me up and away from the food. I don’t want to be taken away. I want more. The last time I had meat it was lizard meat and that’s never good. This is some kind of bovine. And I want more. So much more.

  “Settle down,” he says, carrying me out of the room as I flail and wail. In the midst of my demands, a sharp slap to my rear distracts me from the demands of my belly.

  “Ow!” I shout with complaint as he sets me down on my feet in another room. “Why did you do that?”

  He takes a small piece of cloth, then my hand and begins wiping my fruit-covered fingers. I yank my hand away and stuff them into my mouth. He is stealing the last of the very good taste!

  “You are a wild little thing,” he sighs.

  I take it that is not good in his eyes, but that’s something I’m proud of. There aren’t many
people living wild anymore. Most of them have given up freedom for the safety of the cities and their tyrants. There are seventeen cities remaining in what used to be the continental United States.

  I was born in the wilds outside Dallas. The sheriff who captured me today rules over the city. Much of it lies in post-war ruin, but he has managed to preserve enough of it to house several hundred thousand men, and perhaps a few hundred women.

  Once upon a time, women were equal in number to men, and they were free. My father told me how it all changed, how the Event destroyed the world as they knew it. He saw it happen when he was a small boy, and he often told me stories in the long nights where we would lie in the dark, hiding from patrols looking for wild people. Our existence itself was always illegal, but he kept me safe as long as he could.

  The Event was devastating. Technically there was more than one event. There were really two. The first was a sickness that struck women down in great disproportion, and rendered many, many more sterile. A biological agent, which had once been developed to control mosquito numbers, was mutated and used against the human population.

  It took two years for the secondary effects of the Event to be felt, but with so many women gone, the remaining men, struck down with grief and full of rage at those who had inflicted the virus, went to war. There was no single person to go to war against. The perpetrators of the act were not discovered, though there were plenty of suspects.

  War spread across the nation, war without reason. War against people of different heritages, different ideas, war against those of the wrong eye color. Coast against coast, state against state. There were those who killed to sate their rage, those who killed for revenge, there was little in the way of order and even less in the way of mercy.

  Then, when it seemed they might kill until the very end of the world, someone detonated the bomb that turned the West Coast into a sea of nuclear glass, triggering an earthquake powerful enough to drop several cities into the ocean.

  Peace came on rivers of blood. Order arose out of chaos. Warlords emerged, twenty of them who, through brutality and raw viciousness, formed bands of warriors and took major cities for their own territories.