Week 2: Wednesday, 12th Dec 2029, Early Afternoon

I stepped into the ballroom in the business district level, Lisa's heels clicking obediently behind me as we surveyed the evening's networking event. The Hall had been transformed into the perfect blend of corporate sophistication and discreet indulgence, crystal chandeliers casting warm light over clusters of well-dressed executives, faction leaders, and fellow arcology owners, all nursing premium cocktails while making the kind of small talk that moved millions in credits and reshaped territories. Lisa glided to my side with practiced grace, her posture perfect as she offered subtle nods to acquaintances, every inch the polished accessory that reflected my own success. The familiar faces of regional power brokers mixed with newer players I'd been curious to meet. The air hummed with the energy of serious money and serious appetites, everyone dressed to impress while maintaining that carefully cultivated air of casual sophistication that made even the most depraved transactions feel like just another day at the office.

“Over here!” Janus’s voice cut through the slow churn of the crowd, drawing eyes but caring little. I maneuvered Lisa through a swirl of silk and gleaming shoes toward him, letting Janus engulf me in a perfunctory hug, his hand all warmth and just a touch too long, performative for the gathering onlookers. He was in high spirits today, a current of eagerness running beneath every word, posture loose like a man who’s finally bet on the right horse and is eager for the payout to land. I suspected disposing of Mikhail had painted a tempting new portrait of me for the Free Cities. Perhaps a man worth staking futures on, so long as their own heads stayed clear of the wire.

“Hardly believe it’s only been a week,” I said, a lazy smirk shaping my mouth.

He clapped my back. “Long week for you, my friend, how’s Mikhail these days?”

I flashed teeth. “Let’s put it this way: next you see her, you won't be able to recognize her in her new ... fashion choice.”

Janus’s eyebrows arched up, lips splitting in something amused and just a shade reverent. “Her? I see you've got plans already drafted up huh?”

“Great plans,” I said.

Janus gave a stage-whisper, leaning in, “Heard a little rumor, today’s final lot is the sort to draw in the real sharks. You see all those out-of-towners? Here to claw for her, like dogs around spilled grease.”

I snorted, signaling for a more potent drink as Lisa fell in at my elbow. “Vivian tells me there’s a bodyguards’ batch up today, too.”

Janus’s look turned sly. “They aren't cheap though, hope you loaded the accounts.”

My grin widened, carnivorous. “Mr. Janus, if the mood struck me I’d buy out the whole damned cohort.”

He whistled, bright and forgiving for the benefit of prying ears, but I saw him flinch all the same. “Didn’t realize slaving was that lucrative.”

Before I could respond, the elegant woman in the sophisticated coat commanded the room's attention with a few sharp taps of her fork against her glass.

"Ladies and gentlemen, apologies for keeping you waiting, but the auction is about to commence. Please make your way into the main hall. I do hope everyone finds their perfect acquisitions today." Her smile carried just the right hint of mischief. "Don't be shy with your bidding either. We're expecting exceptional returns on these lots."

A ripple of appreciative laughter swept through the crowd. I caught Janus's eye with a knowing nod before following the migration toward the auction hall, Lisa's measured steps perfectly synchronized with mine. The seating arrangement was thoughtfully designed, each chair positioned with generous space alongside for attendants, complete with plush cushions that spoke to the venue's attention to comfort.

I settled into my preferred corner spot while Lisa sank to her knees in the appointed place, the provided cushion barely dimpling under her practiced weight.

I gave Lisa's collar a gentle tug. "It’ll be a long session today. If your knees start to protest, say so."

"Thank you, Master," she replied with genuine warmth. I guided her head to rest against my thigh, fingers automatically threading through her hair as my attention shifted to the stage.

"Good afternoon, distinguished guests," the auctioneer's voice carried perfectly through the acoustically designed space. "Thank you for your patience. We've curated an exceptional collection today, and as always, quality commands appropriate investment."

Scattered cheers and calls to "get on with it" drew knowing chuckles from the crowd.

The auctioneer's gavel struck with ceremonial authority, and five figures in matching restraints were guided to center stage with practiced efficiency.

"Some proper milkers for you enterprising souls. If you take these beauties home, forget the grocers, your dairy needs are sorted" she announced, gesturing with professional enthusiasm. "You wouldn’t believe it, the smallest of them is an H cup. All naturally induced. Each putting out at least a liter a day: hook them up to a milker or, if you fancy, drink straight from the source, a nutritious breakfast to start your day."

The crowd's amused response felt perfectly calibrated. As bidding commenced, I remained passive, lactose intolerance aside, I lacked the infrastructure for livestock operations. And it won't be too late to start sourcing for new talents when I do decide to venture into the agricultural sector.

The winning bid hit 60k credits. Overvalued, in my opinion. Breast size correlated poorly with actual production capacity, though aesthetic premium apparently justified the markup. My pals here are thinking with the head in their pants instead of the ones on their neck.

"Well, that was an encouraging start, wasn't it? And trust me, we're just getting warmed up," the auctioneer announced, her gavel striking with practiced rhythm. As if choreographed, another quartet in restraints took their positions.

"Now, these are truly special," she purred, pacing beside the line. "Pony slaves, for those with a sense of occasion. Tell me, who wouldn’t turn heads pulling up at an affair in a chariot driven by these fine creatures? If I saw a gentleman, or a lady, making an entrance so grand, I’d wonder if Apollo himself has arrived"

The response proved lukewarm, bidding closing at a modest 45k. Solid muscle definition, certainly, but the pronounced athleticism catered to a specific demographic. The girls themselves were cut from the same mold, muscles bunched beneath matching tan skin, identical hair braided down their backs, legs sculpted for speed or spectacle. But ponies are a niche fetish, plus I don't think most of us here owns a stable.

"Well, perhaps we're not all equestrian enthusiasts," the auctioneer noted with diplomatic humor, signaling dismissal. "Let's move beyond livestock, shall we?"

The next presentation broke from convention, four figures approached in professional attire, their only visible restraints the collars adorning their necks.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, what do we have here?" Her tone shifted to playful authority. "I believe their uniforms speak for themselves: secretary, maid, chef, nurse, all the essentials under one roof. One to mind your office, one to heal you, one to cook, and one to keep every inch immaculate. Every hole in service too, top to bottom, front to back, and for those prone to, let’s say, overindulgence, our nurse here will ensure your… recovery is as hands-on as your appetite demands."

A grunt of appreciation ran through the ranks, a ripple of male laughter, the sort that always signals a bidding war. These weren't novelties but functional luxuries, tailored for the homes and offices of the upwardly carnivorous. Even I felt the prick of temptation, but I have greater appetite that these four cannot suffice.

The winning bid reached 100k credits. A ted bit expensive in my opinion, there's not much evidence of their professional competency, but I guess their looks were enough to fetch that premium. Again thinking with the dickhead instead of head, head.

Just as my patience began to fray, the sharp crack of the auctioner's gavel signaled the next act. Four figures in crisp black suits took the stage with distinctly different energy, faces striking for their deliberate lack of fear. Their eyes did not dart away, as most slaves' did when faced with rows of buyers, no air of resignation, no pantomime of blankness, not even that dangerous flicker of open defiance that spelled an early end for so many on the block. These women’s gazes roamed the audience with keen, almost professional suspicion, as if scanning for angles and threats out of habit rather than hope. I felt a smile catch at my lips. Perhaps my quarry had finally emerged.

The auctioneer, ever the consummate performer, let anticipation bloom a moment, then spread her arms wide: "Tell me, esteemed guests. What does a shrewd master want from his stables? wet pussies, a tight asses?" The crowd tittered, a few bold souls letting the punchline bloom on their tongues. "Those are fine bonuses, but truly, the most vital asset you’ll ever own is your own safety. Without security, even paradise is short lived." She flashed a row of white teeth, strolling behind the four, running her hand along a pressed lapel. "And why four, you ask? Well, you'll still need a perimeter when you're... conducting personal inspections of the other two, won't you?"”

That line drew a ripple of raucous laughter, a tasteful pause, and then her gavel lifted. "Starting price is forty thousand. Minimum increments of a thousand. Let’s see who values their wellbeing."

"One hundred thousand." My paddle rose without hesitation, already matching the highest bid of the auction.

A hush swept the room, a few heads turned, quick glances of appraisal, then a moment’s electric anticipation at the audacity. The auctioneer’s eyes sparkled, delighted. "Well! Someone truly does understand the game. Any advance on one hundred?"

A female voice, sharp, challenging, cut across: "a hundred and twenty."

I didn’t so much as blink. "Two hundred."

That snapped the room about-face. The crowd recoiled, murmurs breaking out, some calculating, some resentful, others amused or impressed at the extravagance. Two hundred thousand, the kind of sum that could have bought a platoon of drones or hired mercenaries with **** in their blood, but honestly? There’s a satisfaction in handpicked muscle, flesh and obedience you can command and reshape every night, far beyond what any machine could simulate. Besides, you can’t fuck a drone, not those kind at least. Sometimes, security needs a human touch.

The auctioneer’s gavel fell. "Two hundred to the gentleman with a taste for classics."

"Intermission, ladies and gentlemen. We have far more exciting acquisitions awaiting you, but first, time to mingle, network, or enjoy some personal recreation," the auctioneer announced with practiced charm. "Private rooms are available behind the stage for those seeking discretion. And if you didn't bring adequate... companionship, our house staff stands ready to assist. Don't be shy. Just remember, we reconvene in thirty minutes."

I rose, Lisa following with practiced grace until her legs nearly buckled from the extended kneeling. I caught her collar with a steadying pull.

"Careful there. If you collapse onto your knees here, everyone will assume you're blowing me right in the main hall," I said with dry amusement.

"If that's what the Master desires, I'm always available," she replied, cheeks flushing as she found her balance. The offer wasn't entirely joking, I knew she'd drop and pull my dick out of my pants with only her tongue if commanded, audience be damned. But public displays weren't my style.

"You'll use that talented mouth, but not here. Let's find some privacy."

The "rooms" behind the stage were glorified booths, though functional enough. A line of slaves waited along the corridor, some actively soliciting my attention with practiced smiles and strategic poses. Quality merchandise, admittedly, but I prefer to explore familiar territory, if you catch my drift.

I selected a corner room with a door that clicked shut behind us, muting the echo of half-muffled moans from booths already occupied. Most stayed out front, chatting while their slaves dropped to their knees to serve them beneath tables.

The room was modest but perfectly functional: a generous bed, glossy white, its frame cold and solid. Before I could direct her, Lisa eyed the sheets and offered herself with quiet eagerness. "Should I get on the bed, Master? Hope we have time for more than just a blowjob," she murmured, flush rising to her cheeks in that delectable way. Since I'd claimed her virginity, she'd grown enthusiastic about those encounters.

"Not this time. Hands on the bedframe, arch your back."

She blinked, then leapt to obey, hips pushed out, legs shifting wide as I nudged them with my foot until her hips were at the height of mine.

"Recognize any faces out there today?" I asked, idly.

"Yes, Master. Several from when I managed arcology operations. And the auctioneer... she was a professor at the Utopian Orphanage."

"Ah, that explains the lingering glances as we entered." I lifted her dress, revealing her bare curves. "I imagine they're curious why you're not wearing undergarments."

She buried her face against the bedding, flushing deeply.

"What would you tell them if asked?"

"That my master ordered me not to wear them."

"And why would I issue such an order?"

"So my holes remain easily accessible when Master desires them."

"Like now?" I traced her exposed sex with deliberate slowness.

"Yes Master, exactly like now," she breathed, pressing back against my touch with obvious need.

"Such eagerness. You're like a bitch in heat."

"Yes Master. Your bitch."

I didn’t bother teasing her further. My pants dropped, cock hard and aching from strain and anticipation. I pushed inside her in one sharp thrust; she barked a muffled sob into the pillow, body taking me to the hilt. I folded my hands over the plush curve of her ass, using her as leverage, hips smacking against her flesh with each plunge. Her muffled cries grew deeper, ****, as I pressed her head down ruthlessly to keep her moans from carrying through thin walls.

I finished swiftly, there was still business to be done after all. And as I emptied myself with a final thrust, Lisa shuddered silently, body milking me for every drop.

I exhaled, chest loose, clarity settling in as the edge retreated. "Like the saying goes, empty balls, clearer head. Appreciate your service, Lisa." I pulled out, knuckles brushing her flushed skin.

"Thank you for using me, Master," she replied, breathless, wrung-out, a note of bliss dancing in her exhaustion.

"What exactly are you thanking me for?" I pressed, a crooked smile on my lips.

"For letting me empty your balls, so you can think clearly before snatching up new slaves tonight."

"Yoko this morning said she feels like a cuck, since I spend her savings on new girls that’ll lap up my attention while she waits her turn. I suppose you’re playing at something similar, helping me clear my head before I hunt for fresh prey."

She giggled weakly, voice dissolving into the mattress. "I’m your ****, not lover. You own me, not the other way around. I don’t think this qualify as cuckoldry."

"That’s what I keep telling her," I answered, a bark of laughter echoing in the booth’s hush.