Part 3 (1/2)

Bidding was slowing. The auctioneer was offering thousand plaq increments in the hope of encouraging her price up to a hundred thousand.

Flame began watching the bidders with morbid intensity.

A familiar face took the ninety-three thousand bid. It was the owner of the brothel by the docks.

Flame was horrified. Why would a brothel owner want to buy a hundred-thousand plaq slave? If she was a hundred-thousand plaq investment, how many sailors' c.o.c.ks would she have to suck, how many c.o.c.ks would she have to f.u.c.k, to turn a profit? Thousands of c.o.c.ks? More like tens of thousands before the brothel could hope even to recoup its money and break even. Unless she was forced to offer some service that would earn far more profit than sucking and f.u.c.king. Her mind wasn't perverted enough to imagine such an act but her heart froze at the thought that some men could.

”I have ninety-three thousand. Who will offer ninety-four for this most unusual slave? Ninety-four?”

A pudgy hand on a fat arm was raised. ”Ninety-four thousand!” It was the fifty-year old with bad hygiene. Compared to what the brothel owner would have her do, getting f.u.c.ked by fat, smelly armpits would be a blessing.

”Oh, h.e.l.l, I'll make it an even hundred thousand.”

Flame didn't recognize the face. The man was about forty, thin with dark hair and a neatly-trimmed beard. His clothes were of good quality but not extravagant. If he could afford a hundred-thousand plaq slave, he should be able to afford better clothes.

She feared that he might be a businessman who had a commercial use for her. A use that would justify such a large investment. Maybe something worse than a brothel.

”Will anyone give me a hundred and five? Anybody? A hundred and one thousand, then. Who will bid a hundred and one thousand plaqs for this unique item? Anyone? Going once. Going twice. Sold for one hundred thousand plaqs to the man with the goatee.”

The sound of his clapper was drowned by the applause in the hall.

A handler tugged on Flame's leash and she turned around to climb off the block. Her head was spinning. She was sold. An impregnable door had slammed closed.

She was enslaved forever.

What had she done to herself?

Her owner didn't speak to her, just took the end of her leash from the handler and led her from the room in silence.

The other men, the disappointed ones who were leaving empty-handed, stood aside to let the new owners exit first.

In the vestibule, a large man wearing the uniform of a private security guard politely directed each new owner to a side door instead of letting him walk through to the street.

In that room, three cas.h.i.+ers waited to settle accounts. It was a simple process. Every potential buyer had to be registered with the auction firm and his credit freshly verified before each auction. Settling his account involved only confirming that he had in his possession the slave that he had bought and signing a bank draft.

Flame was appalled by the unseemly haste of the process.

She was about to learn a lot more about enslavement.

By tradition, ladies wore their hair up. She had never seen a lady wear her hair down in polite company. Even the lowest ranked commoner wore her hair up.

Only slaves wore their long hair loose, floating down their backs.

Flame thought that style was intended only to make the slaves more appealing to men. Long hair was more sensual. It aroused a man's l.u.s.t.

But, for the first time, she learned that the slaves' long hair had a utilitarian purpose.

To verify the ident.i.ty of each slave, the cas.h.i.+er parted her hair to reveal a twelve-digit number tattooed on the nape of her neck three rows of four digits.

The cas.h.i.+er copied the number to the receipt and then checked it against a ledger. The purchaser's name was copied into the ledger before the slave was released to him.

Flame's heart sank. The implication of the placement of that tattoo was obvious. No slave could ever wear her hair up without publicly exposing her ident.i.ty tattoo.

When free women wore their hair up, everybody could see that they were not slaves. Flame suspected that very few ladies were ever told about slave tattoos. They didn't know why it was traditional for them to pin their hair up off the back of their neck. But she was sure that every man who used a slave would know about it. That was why a husband would never let his wife leave the house before she had fixed her hair properly.

It was the first of many cruel truths that Flame would learn about slavery.

The final step in the transaction was for the cas.h.i.+er to give the new owner the key to his slave's handcuffs.

Some owners uncuffed their new slaves immediately; other owners dropped the key into their pocket and led their slaves from the room with their hands still bound behind their backs.

Flame suspected that it depended on how the new owner wanted to f.u.c.k his slave for the first time. Some wanted their slave to remain restrained in bondage, helpless and submissive; others wanted her to be an active partic.i.p.ant and demonstrate her skill.

Which would her owner choose? It would tell her much about his predilections and expectations.

She didn't know which she would prefer. She had made herself a slave. She felt a certain perverse attraction to being treated like a slave. She had her fill of being treated like a wife. Besides, she was insecure about her love-making skills. She had only ever made love to one man, James, and she knew nothing about what another man might want. Bondage would relieve her of the obligation to demonstrate skills that she did not have.

Conversely, though, she feared that she might have to spend her life in physical chains if that were her owner's preference. The handcuffs were uncomfortable the edges pressed into her wrists and her shoulders were held at an unnatural angle. She had been handcuffed for less than a quarter hour and she regretted every minute that she was unable to cover her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and crotch, scratch an itch, or put a hand out to steady her balance.

When she was brought before the cas.h.i.+er's counter, he addressed her owner. ”Mr. Dodge, Flame is a special case because we couldn't process her before the auction. We regret the inconvenience, but it will take some time to comply with the law. The Bureau of Slavery audits us all the time. If you would like to come back for her today, we can have her ready by five o'clock. Or if you would prefer, you can pick her up any time tomorrow afternoon.”

Mister was not a t.i.tle. Her new master was not a lord or even a knight. He was not an officer in the military. She had been bought by a tradesperson. A shopkeeper or a factory owner or a farmer, maybe. Someone who was successful enough to afford a hundred-thousand plaq slave but who had no status in society.

She had degraded herself more than she had thought possible. She was the s.e.x toy of a n.o.body. A money-grubber whom she could never respect would now be plowing her at his whim.

She felt sick to the pit of her stomach. But, somewhere lower than that, she felt a throb of antic.i.p.ation. It had been far too long time since any man had plowed her pink furrow, member of society or commoner.

”I'll be back at five,” he said.

He couldn't wait until tomorrow to claim his property and plant his seed.

One of the handlers from the auction took the end of her leash and led her though another door into the working bowels of the slavery.

The corridor was lined with the same rough-hewn planks as the other public areas of the auction house, but when she was taken into one of the rooms off the corridor, it was appointed in a modern clinical style: antiseptic stainless steel, white tiles, and white porcelain.

The handler removed the chain from about her neck but left her hands cuffed behind her back. He had her lie face-down on a padded table and then strapped her body and head firmly into place so that she couldn't move.

The handler left her alone.

A few minutes later, a man in a white coat came into the room. He was carrying a clipboard.

He didn't speak to her. She was nothing but a piece of merchandise to him. He would no more converse with her than a shopkeeper would talk to a turnip as he dumped it into a bin.

She had never felt so small and unimportant.

He parted her hair so that the nape of her neck was bare and swabbed it with an antiseptic.

He consulted the clipboard to ensure that each digit was correct as he tattooed it on her neck.