On The Auction Block

We were taken to Servitude Merchandisers and Auctioneers, an auction house which sold exchanged slaves, mostly by public auction. The auction house used space converted from one of the big box anchor stores, formerly Sears, at the mall. No sooner than they gave the slavers back their shackles, the auction house began processing us for sale. It was like an assembly line as we were shuffled from station to station.

First, one of the mongers (auction house owners and employees were known as slave mongers or just mongers for short) put on some rubber gloves, bent us over and body cavity searched us. Then we were deloused by dumping an excessive amount of white insecticide powder on our heads whether we needed it or not. We were injected with some additional inoculations in case we were exported. Next, a monger sat a couple of plastic cups with screw on lids in front of us.

"Piss in them," the monger said.

I picked up the cup with my name and slave registration number written on it and looked around for a restroom or an area with some privacy but none was offered.

"Here?" I asked.

"Yeah, and don't take all day."

Nicky and I just stared at the cups. I'd never taken a whiz before with anyone watching and didn't even know if I could. After about a minute of squeezing, neither Nicky nor I had produced a drop.

"Get on with it already," the monger complained.

"Could you look the other way for a minute please? It'd help speed things along."

Reluctantly, the mongers all looked away and we were able to produce the requested samples. A urine drug screen came back negative for both of us and the results noted.

Next we were weighed, measured, inspected, blood was drawn, and we were given a complete physical examination by a physician. Seated in front of a female monger at a desk, she completed our titling and registration as slaves. One by one, still naked, we were strapped tightly to a chair, our necks immobilized while the slave registration number which was assigned to us when we first obtained the loan from Ultra was tattooed on the back of our necks along with a bar code by a computerized tattooing machine attached to the chair. Full body mug shots of us were then taken.

Finally allowed to dress, we were clothed only in a small frock and plastic flip flops.

The frock was but a thin, nearly see-through, flat, piece of cloth about shoulder length in width with a hole for the head to go through in the middle. It was open on the sides and tied together on the sides. The cloth came down to just above my knees when draped over my body. Known as a slave smock, it was a cheap, one size fits none, miserable excuse for a garment for both men and women that was commonly worn by slaves.

Completely devoid of any fashion, it was as stylish as wearing a thin, too small, hospital gown, that showed too much skin. Color coded, category I's wore a yellow smock, category II's like Nicky and I, were dressed in orange, and category III's were dressed in red. The men had the same color code system except their smocks were stripped instead of solid colors. The smocks were emblazed with big black letters "SLAVE". A name tag gummed label with our slave numbers was printed and stuck to the front of our smocks. Our names were no longer being used.

We were then showered, and makeup artists helped with our hair and makeup. Led to a photography studio setup, Nicky and I were undressed and extensively photographed.

First some basic standing poses from all angles, then some more suggestive and embarrassing poses that emphasized our sex appeal were required of us, laying on the bed, bent over, on our hands and knees, etc. along with close-ups of our sex.

We finished with a video performing various exercises and range of motion tests. The video also documented a question and answer portion so that the bidders could judge our personalities, manners, presentation, intelligence, and sexual interest. The questions varied from our qualifications to predilections. Some of the questions were frightening.

"Do you consider yourself gay, straight, or bi?" the interviewer asked.

"Bi," I responded.

"How many women have you been with?"

"Three."

"How many men?"

"Probably 30."

"Are you currently in a romantic relationship?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"It's complicated."

"A man or a woman?"

"A woman."

"Do you enjoy sex?"

"With the right person, yes."

"Do you consider yourself dominate or submissive?"

"I like to please. The best part of the sex for me is watching my partner orgasm."

"What else do you like about sex?"

"I like making love with the lights on so my partner can see me and I can see her. I like cuddling, kissing, and foreplay. I even like how lovers hold each other after sex and whisper sweet things to each other."

"Have you ever made love to a man or woman much older than you?"

"No."

"If you're sold as a concubine, would you rather it be to a man or a woman?"

"I don't know. It would depend on the person."

"Do you enjoy anal sex?'

"Uh what," I was so stunned by the intimacy of the question that I couldn't react for a moment. "No. I don't do anal sex."

"Do you consider yourself an exhibitionist?"

"We'll, I'm a model. I've modeled swimwear and lingerie as well as modeling for artists. I like it when people watch me. It's a turn on when people look at me and think I'm sexy."

"Are you shy?"

"No. I like people and I like to flirt. I like making people happy."

"Which do you fear more, the lash, confinement, shackles, electricity, or breath control?"

"Breath control! They'd do that to me?" A asked fearfully.

"Answer the question."

"Like smothering?"

"Waterboarding to be exact. It's as painful as lashing but doesn't leave marks."

"Jesus Christ, that's horrible."

"Answer the question."

Shocked, I stumbled for an answer, "I uh, I don't know."

"Answer the question."

"I don't like any of them. Waterboarding I suppose."

Instantly I regretted the answer as the interviewer smirked and fought back a giggle, looking at me as if I'd said the answer I'd given was horrendously wrong, a really stupid answer that was bound to get me waterboarded frequently. I felt a little ill and couldn't believe how fast my life was going down the crapper.

"Have you ever offered your body for money?"

"No. Of course not."

"Not even offering your boyfriend a little something more if he sweetened the pot?"

"No."

"Have you ever been in the adult film business?"

"No."

"Would you like to?"

"No. They wouldn't do that to me would they?"

"I ask the questions." The interviewer said.

The questioning went on for another ten minutes, mostly about sexual topics: fetishes, fantasies, favorite positions, my first time, etc. and, by the end of it, I was pretty frazzled and wondered if I'd given the wrong answer to every single question. The mongers finished our processing by interviewing us to update the dossier they obtained on us from Ultra and then typing up a bio on each of us and posting it along with our statistics, and photos on their website to advertise us for Friday's sale.

Enslavement involved both a private and public humiliation. An announcement of our enslavement will be published and our naked photos and video will be displayed on Servitude Merchandiser's website. News of Nicky and my enslavement will travel quickly through both our professional and social circles. Our slave auction on Friday would be live on Servitude's website and all our friends and customers will get a chance witness our demise, check out our nudity, and download our screenshots. I felt ashamed.