Hold an auction.

The conference room is dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and the faint tang of anticipation. The chairs are lined with men and women in tailored suits, their eyes gleaming. Gemma hangs from the middle of the room, just above the conference table, suspended by ropes rigged into the ceiling. A single spotlight bathes her in a golden glow, highlighting the intricate rope harness that binds her arms behind her back, the delicate chains that connect her collar to her cuffs, and the way her dark hair cascades down her back like a silken waterfall. She's completely naked, her skin adorned with temporary tattoos - each one the logo of a different company represented in the room tonight.

"Thank you for joining us tonight," you say, your voice cutting through the hushed murmurs of the crowd. "As you know, we believe in rewarding our most valued partners."

Gemma hangs there, her eyes downcast, her posture submissive, with a tension in her body that betrays her excitement.

"You're all familiar with Gemma. She is, how do we say... versatile. She can serve you with her hands, her body, her holes. You can be as gentle or rough as you desire. Tonight, she's yours - for the right price."

A ripple of murmurs moves through the crowd. One of the clients, a silver-haired man with a reputation for being untouchable, leans forward in his seat, his eyes locked on the way Gemma’s chest rises and falls with each breath.

“What’s the starting bid?” he asks, his voice smooth.

“Let’s start at… fifty thousand.”

The room erupts. Bids fly fast and furious, the numbers climbing higher and higher as the clients outdo one another, their voices sharp with competition. Poor Holloway drops out as the figure passes six figures. Gemmas fingers flex against her bindings, her nails digging into her palms as the bids soar past half a million. She’s not just a prize - she’s a status symbol, the ultimate trophy. At eight hundred thousand, the bids slow. The silver-haired man, Voss, leans back in his chair.

"One million," he says, his voice confident.

A thin, mature-aged woman in a crimson dress scoffs. Madame Laurent.

"One and a half." Her eyes flick to Voss, a challenge in her gaze.

The room falls silent. An increase of half a million dollars, just like that. For one night with Gemma. Gemma's skin is flushed, her breathing rapid. She's thriving on the attention, the competition. Madame Laurent circles the table like a predator, her fingers trailing along Gemma's skin as she inspects the prize. Voss hesitates. He has the money. But does he have enough to beat her?

"Two million," says Laurent, sensing his doubt, increasing her own bid by another half a million. Voss looks defeated and slumps in his chair. She just doubled his last bid. He knows he can't win. The room remains silent for several minutes.

"Done," you declare.