Arrival and Auction

The drive up to the Bishop Auckland, County Durham takes about 3 hours with a toilet stop. Carrie's full of camping gear, a cooler full of beer, and three women buzzing with nervous energy. The landscape shifts from city to motorway to winding country roads, the hills rising around them, the sky turning grey and heavy. They arrive at Witton Castle just after noon on Friday. The site is already half-full, rows of tents and bikes spreading across the field like a metal-and-canvas city. The castle itself looms in the distance, old stone and battlements, a strange backdrop for the chaos unfolding at its feet. They find a spot near the edge of the camp, pitch their tent, and take a moment to breathe. The air smells different here. Smoke and petrol and damp grass. The distant thump of a soundcheck. The rumble of engines coming and going. Men in leather and denim move between the tents, their eyes sharp, their demeanour wary. Sarah stands up, brushes off her knees, and surveys the scene.

"Right," she says. "Let's find the people in charge."

It doesn't take long. Every rally has its hierarchy, and Witton Castle is no different. The man they're looking for is called The Reverend, a wiry, grey-bearded biker in a weathered cut who runs the main bar tent. He's been organizing the rally for twenty years, and everyone answers to him. They find him behind a makeshift counter, tapping a keg. He looks up as they approach, his eyes narrowing.

"Don’t think I’ve met you three gorgeous ladies before, I’d remember you all for sure!"

"We are," Sarah says. "We heard this is the place to be for a good time."

The Reverend laughs, a dry sound. "Oh, a good time definitely, depending on what you’re after?"

Laura steps forward. "We're after exactly what you think we're after. And we want to make sure we find the right people."

The Reverend sets down the tap, gives them his full attention. "Go on."

Laura lays it out. No hesitation. No embarrassment. Just the facts, three women,2 nights, available to the highest bidders. They want an auction. Private. Club presidents only. The kind of auction that sets the tone for the entire rally. The Reverend listens, his face unreadable. When she's done, he's quiet for a long moment. Then he grins.

"Well, fuck me. You three don't mess around. What about the proceeds of the auction, what do you want to do with them"

"Life's too short, any money, donate to charity or the club vendor" Carrie says.

The Reverend nods, pulls out his phone. "I'll make some calls. Give me an hour."

They wait at the bar tent, nursing pints, watching the rally come to life around them. Talking to some of the bikers, quite a few talk to them. The Reverend disappears into a back room, and they hear the low murmur of phone calls, the occasional burst of laughter. An hour later, he emerges.

"It's done. Tonight, seven o'clock, the back room. I've called in the presidents of every major club here. Iron Wolves, Devil's Disciples, Road Vultures, Asphalt Devils, Highway Ghosts" He looks at them, his eyes gleaming. "Are you sure about this? Once it starts, there's no taking it back."

Sarah meets his gaze. "We've never been more sure of anything."

Seven o'clock comes fast. The back room of the bar tent is a large canvas enclosure, lit by a single hanging bulb. A long table dominates the space, surrounded by chairs. The air is thick with anticipation. The presidents file in one by one. They're a collection of men, some bearded some not, tattooed, their cuts heavy with patches. They take their seats, their eyes fixed on the three women standing at the far end of the room. The Reverend stands at the head of the table.

"Gentlemen," he says. "You've been called here tonight for a very special occasion. These three ladies have come to Witton Castle with a proposal. I'll let them explain."

Sarah steps forward.

"Gentlemen. We're Sarah, Laura, and Carrie. We're here for the weekend, and we're here to be used. We want to be your clubs shared whore. We want to be the rally's whores. We will be yours for the weekend, until Sunday morning"

A murmur ripples through the room.

"But we're not just giving it away. We want to be auctioned. Each of us, to the highest bidder, for the duration of the rally. You bid, you win, your club owns us for the weekend. You get exclusive rights to your prize, use us however you see fit, pass us around until we can't walk."

She pauses, letting it sink in.

"There are three of us. Three winners. The bidding starts tonight."

The room is silent. Then the president of the Iron Wolves—Stitch, his face a roadmap of scars—leans forward.

"And what do you get out of it?"

Laura smiles. "We get exactly what we came for."

The auction is swift and brutal. The presidents bid against each other with cash, with beer, with favours, with patches. The amounts climb higher than any of them expected.

Carrie goes first. The bidding is fierce between the Devil's Disciples and the Asphalt Devils. The Disciples win with a bid of two thousand pounds and a crate of single malt. Laura goes next. The Iron Wolves and the Road Vultures battle it out. The Road Vultures claim her for eighteen hundred . Sarah is last. The bidding is the most intense. But it's Stitch, the Iron Wolves' president, who wins her with a final bid of three thousand pounds

The Reverend bangs his hand on the table.

"Sold. All three. Gentlemen, you've made your purchases. They're yours until Sunday morning."

The presidents rise, moving toward their prizes. Stitch takes Sarah by the arm, his grip firm. The Road Vultures' president, Hammer, wraps an arm around Laura's waist. Razor, the Devil's Disciples' leader, simply nods at Carrie, and she follows.

As they're led out of the tent, Sarah looks back at Laura and Carrie. They're all smiling.

The fun has only just begun.