The Auction

The next morning, Friday, auction day, we showered and were given a chance to apply makeup and fix our hair. Then we were lined up by lot number. As Nicky and I had the highest lot numbers we were on the far right end with me being last and we were fitted with a leg manacle that chained us to an O-ring embedded in the cement just to make sure we couldn't try any type of escape once the doors were open for the bidders.

A group of mongers approached. As the first monger reached me, he untied the string to my smock, lifted it over my head, and stuffed it in a bag. No sooner than the first monger left me and started undressing Nicky, then a female monger, wearing a backpack sprayer, sprayed my front and back with a light coating of baby oil.

"Rub it in," the female monger ordered as a second monger began quickly rubbing the oil on my back while I took care of my front. It was more than a little personal but no one seemed to care.

All of the prime and choice slaves, male and female, along with a many of the select slaves, particularly the women, were being exhibited to the buyers nude and would be sold nude as well. The commercial and the lower grades were allowed to keep their smocks. The troublemakers, the renegades, escapees, and criminals were all chained to the floor.

Naked, collared, assigned a lot number, and chained to the ground in a slave auction house about to be inspected by a couple hundred people, I figured the day wasn't likely to turn out good of us and I gritted my teeth in anxious dread as an endless stream of potential bidders began inspecting us. Some of the people acted as if they were serious bidders while others appeared to just be curious or enjoying the show. Some asked questions, many took photos, while almost all of the skinners wanted to know if we'd be interested in a bump up to category III in exchange for year or so off our slavery commitment. Nicky always answered the question for both of us with "No."

I looked up to see our loan officer, Mr. Brooks in front of us. Mr. Brooks looked at us, naked and chained, and, although he feigned empathy and pretended to shake his head in disgust, in truth, he seemed quite entertained by the view. I was embarrassed and covered myself as best I could with my hands while Nicky appeared to be irritated and made no attempt at modesty.

"I tried to help you, I really did." Mr. Brooks said. "I warned you not to let this happen but you didn't listen. You could have had 66 months as a mailgirl but now you've got 75 months of category II slavery ahead of you. You got an extra six months for turning renegade, another two months each for cutting your slave collars in half and destroying the drone, and another month for reckless driving."

It didn't surprise me that we'd been tried and sentenced without even knowing it. As slaves, we weren't entitled to the same protections as citizens such as the right to a fair trial. Slaves faced justice by the Servitude Court of Justice, better known as the Slave Court, an entity empowered by the slavery laws to try crimes and impose increases in the slave's servitude as sentences.

These trials were almost always less than fifteen minutes and via the internet. Slaves were only given the chance to participate if the increase in their sentence would be more than a year. Evidence was by sworn affidavit instead of live testimony and guilt was all but assumed. The primary function of the court was merely to decide an appropriate sentence for the infraction. The purpose of the court was to keep slaves in line, not to provide a vehicle to challenge the system or attempt to thwart the master's authority. The court wasn't a vehicle to empower slaves, it was a mechanism to keep the behavior of slaves, like Nicky and me, in line.

"What do you want?" Nicky said curtly.

"I can't offer you the mailgirl position, that's gone. But I can offer you . . ."

"No," Nicky interrupted, "we're not interested."

"You haven't even heard my offer yet."

"I don't need to, the answer is no."

Mr. Brooks looked perturbed and insisted, "I'm still in a position, to help you. I can knock a year off your commitment and guarantee you a job of leisure and excitement. Although we don't make this publicly known, Ultra operates a discrete courtesan service for its top management and better customers and for this service we use only prime plus slaves such as yourselves. Management likes you and wants you for the position. It's an honor to be chosen."

"We'll pass."

"You'd service only the most distinguished of men, top level Ultra executives, our richest clients, and high ranking politicians. You'd be fed caviar, drink champagne, dress in the finest lingerie, and make love on silk sheets. And, all you have to do to qualify is to agree to a category III commitment right now and sign a confidentiality agreement."

"Find someone else. We won't be your whores."

"I'll have you out of this hell hole in less than fifteen minutes and you'll have your first assignment within the hour. The President of Ultra himself wants to welcome you both the program."

"Our answer is still no," Nicky said. "Tell your president to go fuck himself."

Mr. Brooks looked shocked. "You do understand that you both could get shipped out of the country to some grimy bordello and you could be getting fucked by six men or more men an hour nonstop for twelve hours a day. After 75 months of that you'll be so changed that you won't even recognize yourself when you look in the mirror and you'll despise what you've become. I know you may not like it, but you've got to face reality, what I'm offering you is a great deal."

"Not interested. We'll take our chances."

Mr. Brooks smiled as he examined the two of us carefully. "I'd even take out some of my hard earned savings to buy you from time to time."

"That's why we're saying no," Nicky said. "I'd rather be wetbacked for six years at a snake infested sugar plantation than spend six minutes with you in my bed."

"You're fools, both of you, complete idiots and you'll pay for it. After you've serviced 50,000 men or so in some filthy, godforsaken, backwater brothel, you'll realized just how big of a mistake you've made."

As Mr. Brooks stormed off, Nicky scoffed, "You didn't want any part of that shit did you?" Nicky confidently said to me. "Even if we lose everything else, we'll keep our pride."

"I think I'm going to be sick," I said.

Pallid, mouth ajar, light headed, and nearly catatonic in fear, I felt Nicky's pride had all but condemned us. The thought of spending 75 months doing six men an hour had me more than ready to say yes to Mr. Brook's proposal. It's not that I wanted to be a trollop to rich old perverts but it appeared a lot better than getting gang-banged by the entire Asian continent. Agreeing to be harlots in Ultra's swanky whorehouse seemed like it might be the best of the utterly dreadful options before us.

Having pride was one thing, but risking being fucked by every guy in the South America was insane. I desperately wanted Nicky to say yes to Mr. Brooks so I could go with her and spend the years together even if it was in Ultra's cathouse. But, once she said no, I couldn't go and leave her all alone in this cage.

"Why? You not serious about being a floosy sausage scrubber in Ultra's clip joint pussy palace are you?" Nicky asked.

"Well, it beats having a six year orgy with all of Africa. If we have to fuck six men an hour for the next six years, by the time it's all over, we'll be the two biggest skanks that ever lived. It'd be awful. And, if we went with Ultra, at least we'd stay together. The old geezers probably couldn't even get it up more than once a week anyway."

"It's a matter of principle."

"Fucking 50,000 men isn't principle. That's some really scary shit. We could knock two or three digits off the number of sexual partners we'll have in our lifetime by going with Ultra. It's really something we ought to consider."

"You saw what they did to Lynn. How could we ever trust those bastards?"

"How can we trust any of them? It all seems pretty bad. Most of them will probably skin us. If we were going to be skinned no matter what, at least we could be skinned in style instead of in horrific quantities."

Nicky looked down and clinched her teeth as she thought about what I'd said but appeared unconvinced.

"It just galls me to spend the next six years of my life fucking those guys after what they've done to us. It'd be so humiliating."

"I know you hate it and I understand that. I feel the same way. But we're having a really, really, bad week and maybe this is the time to cut our losses and make the best of it. Going with Ultra is probably my last chance to be with you and I don't want to lose you. I can't lose you. You're all I've got left."

Still defiant, Nicky looked unmoved and shook her head no, "I can't do it."

Nicky could be stubborn as a post when she was angry and there was no use talking to her. In despair, I was still trying to do the appalling math in my head as to just how many tens of thousands of sexual acts I'd be forced to perform if I did six men an hour for 75 months when I noticed Lori walking toward us with an evil grin on her face.

"Are we having fun yet girls?" Lori said. "I must say, I love what you've done with your leg chain and slave collars. It's just so you."

As Lori spoke, a customer of ours, Edith Wagner, approached and stood beside her. Stoic, cold, and aloof, Edith always gave me the creeps.

"Ms. Wagner," I exclaimed as I fidgeted in embarrassment and tried to cover myself with my hands. Helpless to do anything as my former customer began looking me over, I started to say something else but found myself at a loss for words. She neither made eye contact nor responded to me, instead, Ms. Wagner studied both Nicky and I carefully from head to toe with the seriousness of an engineer examining a bridge.

Ms. Wagner was in the slave industry, owning and managing a temp agency, Prime Servitude Rentals and Leases, Inc. with an inventory of at least fifty slaves that catered to various skin and fetish assignments including: mailgirls, human statuary, concubines, escorts, party servers, ponygirls, pet-play, porn actresses, bondage assignments, diapers, etc. Their advertising stated that they provided only top quality prime and choice slaves for bachelor parties, private functions, social events, fetish, and any other occasions.

With prime and choice slaves, particularly the females, being so expensive, only the very rich could afford to own such and yet, the demand for prime and choice slaves reached well into the modestly well to do and the upper middle class. Ms. Wagner rented slaves by the hour, by the day, and by the week, as well as leasing slaves by the month or year to clients whose wealth was not substantial enough to afford owning a choice or prime slave but had the coin to rent one.

Edith Wagner also operated a thriving mail order sex-slave business. It was like a mail order bride service except you got a lingerie clad sex-slave delivered to your door in padded pink shackles and a big red bow instead. Mostly choice girls being sold to rich men twice or more their age as well as attractive effeminate young men, mostly straight, being sold to much older gay men. In short, Ms. Wagner was a skinner and she was looking at skinning Nicky and me.

"Open your mouths," Ms. Wagner said and we did as we were told. Taking out a small flashlight, Ms. Wagner looked inside our mouths.

"Do either of you smoke?"

"No," both Nicky and I said.

"Do either of you take any medications or use any type of recreational substances?" Ms. Wagner asked as she jiggled my boobs to check for firmness.

"No ma'am," I said as Nicky shook her head no.

"Steroids?" We both answered no.

"Can you sing?" Nicky answered yes while I answered no.

"Sing something."

Nicky liked to sing and was surprisingly good at it, especially when she was drunk. She always sang when she was drunk. As she sang, most of the people nearby stopped what they were doing and watched. Expressionless, Ms. Wagner listened intently but said nothing, cutting Nicky off after about a minute and a half.

"Can you dance?" We both answered yes but, as we were chained to the ground, we didn't have to perform a demonstration.

Reading in my bio that I'd been a high school and college cheerleader, Ms. Wagner asked me to go through one of the routines and I did the best I could given that I was chained to the ground.

Reaching in her purse, Ms. Wagner pulled out a pair of latex gloves, donned them, smeared what looked like a lubricant on them, bent down and inspected our twats carefully.

"Squeeze," Ms. Wagner ordered as she slid her finger deep inside me to check my tightness. Startled, I recoiled and my eyes widened in shock. "Squeeze as hard as you can." Ms. Wagner demanded. I gave it my best and Ms. Wagner withdrew her finger and seemed satisfied.

Since primes usually went for north of a million dollars, I knew that my inspection could get personal but it still caught me off-guard as it happened, particularly so as Edith Wagner was an acquaintance. The thoroughness, as well as the thoughtlessness, of Ms. Wagner's inspection left me shaken. I thought that I couldn't be used for sex but Ms. Wagner seemed to be looking at my hooch as if it were a source of income. That didn't make me feel good.

It was obvious that Ms. Wagner intended to bid and I tried to decide whether that was a good thing or not. Spending the next six years as a slave for rent didn't sound good but neither did the rest of the choices.

"Turn around," Ms. Wagner ordered as she stood back up. Despite the awkwardness of being inspected naked by a former customer, Nicky and I both turned around and waited as Ms. Wagner inspected our backsides with the same care she'd used in looking at our front, looking in our ears and running her fingers through my hair. Next, she examined and looked at our hands.

"Let me see your feet," Ms. Wagner demanded and Nicky and I obliged showing Ms. Wagner our feet.

"Spread your legs, bend over, and grab your ankles."

"What?" I said, stunned at the request.

"You heard me slave," Edith Wagner said with an icy cold authoritarian voice. Her use of the word slave instead of my name along with the demeaning nature of her demand let me know exactly where I stood with her. Having no choice, reluctantly, we spread our legs wide, bent way down, and grabbed our ankles.

Lori snickered, "I always knew you girls were just a couple of assholes."

Parting our cheeks, Ms. Wagner took a good look at my sphincter as if she regarded my asshole as an additional potential income source. Mercifully, she didn't check it for tightness as well but checked the muscle tone in our buttocks by giving each of us a good squeeze.

As Ms. Wagner stepped back, she stripped off her gloves, and dropped them on the ground. Nicky and I stood up and faced her. Ms. Wagner gave us one last critical look, nodded at Lori, and then they both headed for the auction hall. Poker faced, I couldn't tell if Ms. Wagner liked what she saw or thought Nicky and I were the ugliest and most diseased wenches she'd ever seen. It seemed clear that Ms. Wagner and Lori were together but I couldn't determine if the paring was casual or professional.

A bell rang signaling the beginning of the auction and we were returned to our pens as the bidders entered the auction hall.

"Someday," Nicky sneered as she watched Lori walk away, "I swear to you that I'm going to have my revenge against Lori and I am going to ruin her life every bit as badly as she's ruined mine. She will pay for this and pay dearly."

With almost 150 slaves to sell, the auction progressed slowly. As there were no canners for sale, the mongers started with the cutters and progressed to the higher grades. One by one, the mongers would lead a slave into the auction hall and the bidding would begin. Most of the slaves never returned but those that did looked badly shaken and were immediately locked into small steel shipping cages, similar to the cages used to ship big dogs, labeled with a bill of lading, picked up by a forklift, hauled down to the loading dock, stacked on a truck, and secured in place.

"What's happening?" I asked one of the monger supervisors as a despondent choice female slave was being locked in a one of the dog cages.

"Someone in Africa bought her," the monger said. "She's being exported."

"Exported?" I asked. As I knew that Nicky and I were both export eligible, I wanted all the information on it that I could get.

"Yeah, shipped to Africa," the monger laughed. "White people being shipped as slaves from America to Africa. Now isn't that a kick in the pants."

"Oh my God."

"That truck's headed to the airport where she'll be placed on a plane and shipped as cargo to Africa."

"Cargo?"

"Slaves never fly coach or go through the passenger terminal, the airlines won't allow it because their passengers don't like it. With the nudity and chains, it's all so depressing and unpleasant. So she'll fly the red-eye cargo tonight and she'll be claimed at the cargo terminal in Africa sometime early tomorrow morning."

"It's inhuman."

"Inhuman?" the monger laughed, "She's not human any more. For that matter, neither are you. The moment you got repo'd you became a chattel, just a piece of personal property. As of right now, you're not a woman, you're just a commodity, you're livestock. Slaves have become America's biggest export. It's been a real boost for our economy. The buyer pays a Federal tax of 10% of your purchase price and another 10% as an export fee if you're being exported out of the United States. The Feds are making a killing off this. We send them tens of millions of dollars every month. It's really helping out with the deficit. There's even a local tax of 2%."

"What'll happen to her?"

The monger grinned, "You're about to find out."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean there's about a 90% chance that you'll be in a crate and on that truck right beside her within half an hour. Cute little Asian girls like you always end up on the truck. There's a huge amount of buyers in the orient that'll pay top dollar for some prime Asian pussy like you."

The monger glanced down at my hooch and smiled.

"What will they do with me?"

"You'll probably be skinned but how would I know? After the plane takes off, we lose track of you. You'll become the property of the buyer and he gets to do to you whatever he wants."

"But I'm only a Category II; they can't use me for sex," I protested even though I knew better.

"Sorry to disappoint you but the moment we stack you in the back of that truck, you're subject to the slavery laws of whatever country bought you, U.S. laws on the treatment of slaves no longer apply. So even though they can't use you for sex here, they'll skin you just as soon as you get to Asia. None of the Asian countries prohibit using slaves for sex. As soon as we load you on that truck, you're not even an American any more, you're property of whatever country bought you. Even after your release from slavery, you'll still be a subject of the country of your enslavement and you'll have to apply to immigrate back to the U.S."

"I can't believe this," I muttered, still trying to come to grips with what was about to happen.

"Look on the bright side, when your cute little ass gets shipped off to Asia, we make money, the Feds make money, grandma gets her social security check, grandpa gets his doctor bill paid for, your bank makes a fortune, and the buyer gets your prime pussy. When you get locked into a crate and loaded on that truck, everyone wins; everyone but you that is."

The monger supervisor looked up to see another terrified female choice being lead back from the auction toward a stack of export cages.

"Speak of the devil, there's another export." The supervisor said as he went off to help load the hapless girl. Looking dazed and quivering in fear, the handcuffed and naked choice meekly complied as the mongers stuffed her in the cage, stuck a shipping label on it, and grabbed the cage with the forklift.

"Oh my God!" I mumbled to Nicky as I looked upon the caged slave being loaded on the back of the truck. "What do you think will happen to her?'

"Probably the same thing that's about to happen to us," Nicky said. "We're next."

I shot a quick glance down the line at the other slave pens; they were all empty. We were the only two slaves that had yet to be sold.

A monger opened the pen door and pointed at Nicky, "Your turn cupcake."

Fighting back tears, Nicky turned to me and said, "You know, this is it, this is. . ."

"Don't say it," I interrupted. "Don't even say it. We'll find a way."

The monger handcuffed Nicky.

"Let's go sweetie. It's time for you to go get your ass sold and make us some money," the monger said.

Taking Nicky by her arm, the monger jerked her away, and dragged her toward the auction hall. As much as I wanted to believe my friendship with Nicky would continue, as I watched her go, I knew that it was probably the last time I'd ever see her. Seventy-five months was a long time, a very long time, and by the time it was over, we'd be very different people than we were today. Hell, we probably wouldn't even be on the same continent or of the same nationality. I'd be broke, in a different country, and wouldn't even know where to look for her.

"I love you," I called out but it was too late; Nicky was already in the auction hall.

Suddenly, feeling desperately alone, I missed Nicky already and I fought back the tears. The last thing I wanted was for the mongers to see me cry. I wouldn't give them that satisfaction. The mongers may strip me, bind me, and sell me but I wouldn't let them break me.

The bidding on Nicky took longer than usual, almost ten minutes. It was agonizing knowing that just on the other side of the wall, they were selling Nicky as a slave. I could hear the auctioneer but mostly couldn't understand him. Nevertheless, I heard the words, "one million four" and a couple of minutes later I heard "SOLD" and I cringed as I knew that Nicky was gone.

I would have at least liked to have the opportunity to see if she loved me as well. It seemed as if there might have been a chance at a romance and I felt cheated that I didn't even have the opportunity to find out if Nicky cared for me as much as I loved her. I was really, really, really, looking forward to spending the weekend with Nicky, naked and in bed, talking, cuddling, nibbling, tickling, kissing, and loving. But now she was gone and any chance of a romance as well as my life-long friendship with Nicky was gone with it. I felt frightened, helpless, and alone.

A monger opened the door to my pen and reached in for me, "Game time gorgeous, you're up."

The monger turned me around and snapped a pair of handcuffs on my wrists. They didn't take any chances with the criminals, escapees, or the renegades, the category II trouble makers, like me, always went to the auction block in chains.

As we approached the auction hall, I could hear the auctioneer, "Lot number 147, our last offering of the day is a category II, export eligible, 28 year old, prime plus, college educated, Asian-American female in excellent physical health. She's a former high school and college cheerleader and was employed as a fashion model and designer at the time of her repossession. This is a truly stunning and very athletic girl serving a seventy-five month commitment perfect for courtesan, harems, fetish, brothel, concubines, video, modeling, massage, or anything else the buyer desires . . ."

As the auctioneer continued on with my attributes, a sharply dressed woman wearing a name tag identifying her as "Griselda Quinn, Auction Manger" approached, reached out, brushed the hair out of my face, caressed my breasts, and then teased my nipples.

"Hey!" I protested and tried to wriggle away but the monger held me tight.

Ms. Quinn examined the pertness of my nipples and seemed satisfied.

"Keep your head up and smile; buyers bid more on you when you smile," Ms. Quinn said and then looked at the monger. "She's ready."

The monger escorted me onto the stage and positioned me on the auction block, a three foot wide cylindrical pedestal raised about a foot off the ground. As I stepped on it, the pedestal began to rotate slowly. A large video screen behind me, about 20 feet by 30 feet, displayed video of me on the left side and a large map of the world on the right. At the top of the screen was banner letter stating "CURRENT BID $1,150,000.00".

There were folding chair seats for about 200. It looked like the crowd of bidders had been standing room only but many were beginning to leave. Primes like myself were so expensive that the market for them was exclusive. I saw Lori in the back giggling at me sitting next to Edith Wagner. Lori took another photo.

Also in the back, to my shock, I noticed a half dozen of my friends who had apparently come to support me. Delores Clay smiled excitedly and waved at me as if it were a social event while her husband Dennis just stared at my hooch in amazement. The rest of my friends looks taken aback and very concerned. I wondered if they'd seen the pornographic photos of me on the website and if the guys I knew had already downloaded the close-ups of my hooch to their hard drive. Naked, handcuffed, and embarrassed, I looked away.

"Let's get this bidding started." The auctioneer cried out. "Do I hear a million two, one million two hundred thousand . . . "

Helpless, and spinning slowly on a slavery auction block, I tried to be brave but I was scared out of my wits. The next few minutes would decide whether I was to become a porn star or an Asian prostitute. I could be wetbacked and sent to some gulag in Central America or skinned in Africa. I could end up as a concubine or a mailgirl. Almost anything could happen but the only thing that definitely wouldn't occur was that I wasn't going to be set free. No matter what transpired, my life as a slave was about to begin.

"Four hundred," someone bid. The auctioneer looked insulted.

"I'm sorry sir," the auctioneer explained, "the pre-bidding offers on this lot is already at a $1,150,00.00. The next bid would be a million two.

Servitude Merchandisers auction house was one of the few that still featured live auctions. Most slave auctions were conducted entirely online. As slaves cost a lot of money and there were a significant amount of buyers who wanted to see and inspect the merchandise before they bid. Still, most of the bidding on me would be online and, because of this, the auction house opened up the bidding on slaves 24 hours (pre-bidding) before the live bidding began. Therefore, the bidding on me was already up to 1.15 even before I stepped onto the block.

Asia lit up on the map and the current bid changed to $1,200,000.00. A $1,250,000.00 bid came from someone in Africa. South America illuminated on the map and raised my price to 1,300,000.00 while a Middle Eastern bid increased my value to 1,350,000.00.

"Do I hear a million four? A million four? There in the back, a million four, do I hear a fourteen fifty?"

As I rotated back around to face the audience, I could see that Edith Wagner had just bid $1,4000,000.00 on me. Asia lit up on the map with 1.425 million, then Asia again with 1.45 million, Africa with 1.475 and then Asia again with 1.5 million as various Asian and African bidders vied to own me.

"Bidding's at 1.5 do I hear one fifty-five? There in the back, one fifty-five, do I hear a million six?"

Looking in the back, Ms. Wagner had just raised the bid on me to $1,550,000.00.

Africa bid 1.575, before an Asian bidder ran my price up to 1.6. Another Asian bidder came in at $1,625,000.00. Frightened by the ever increasing prospect that I was about to be skinned somewhere in Asia, I desperately scanned the audience for a friendly American face but there were no bidders. Looking back at the map, my bid still belonged to Asia at $1,625,000.00 and I cringed as I imagined what it would be like to spend the next six years of my life on my back, chained to a filthy bed, fucking one man after another nonstop for fourteen hours a day.

"1.6 million and a quarter going once, 1.6 million and a quarter going twice," the auctioneer raised the gavel high.

"A million sixty-five," Ms. Wagner called out.

"A million sixty-five in the back do I hear a million six and three quarters?"

I looked back at the map but it was dark. For a minute the auctioneer called for more bids but there were none. The map was dark and the auction hall was almost empty. Raising the gavel again high, the auctioneer paused for a moment before making the final call.

"A million sixty-five once, a million sixty-five twice," the auctioneer raised the gavel a little higher and looked back at the map but it was still dark. WHAP, the auctioneer banged the gavel. "Sold at $1,650,000.00."