Sold at the Auction

By: Cassandra Dee



But before the bidding began, the woman’s voice came on once again.

“As always, we will be showing off the goods. Handlers,” came the voice. “Please help Article Twenty-One out of her clothing.”

And the two black-clad men came towards me again, their faces hidden by masks, looking like two burglars. But I didn’t want them to touch me. As degrading as this was, I wanted to be my own woman as much as I could, fierce and independent. So I held out a hand and ground out, “I’ll do it myself.”

Both men were still for a moment, tentative, unsure. But before they could swarm, I reached behind my neck and undid the string tie, letting the golden straps slither off my chest. And because it was nothing more than a slip, immediately the top began to drop off, to fall to my feet. But I wanted control. I was going to own this in whatever small way possible, so with shivering, trembling hands, I slowly lowered the cups of the dress until both my girls were bared.

And I cursed myself then. Oh god, once upon a time I’d been thin as a pencil, looking like a boy, no one would ever be aroused. But no more. Now my breasts were creamy, pendulous, huge mountains of white topped by pink areola, the nipples stiff in the cold chamber, swaying and jiggling slightly with my movements.

And immediately several lights flashed on above the booths, blinking furiously, like angry eyes. But the woman’s voice rang out once more.

“Bidding has not started yet, we are still in the viewing phase,” she said in that modulated tone. “Please refrain from bidding until the final part of our auction. Article Twenty-One,” she continued. “Please continue to disrobe.”

I almost rebelled. I’d throw their auction right off the rails, give them something to remember the “Girl in Gold” by. I’d show them how a girl with sass and spunk behaved, even in captivity. But common sense took over. If I didn’t get sold, I’d have to stay with Miles and he’d pull no punches this time around. I’d be battered, assaulted, all sorts of terrible things once there were no prospective buyers to protect my lily white skin.

So slowly, I wriggled my hips a bit, tugging the golden fabric down. Inch after inch of creamy white flesh was exposed, my tummy, my belly button, and then lower until I’d pulled the dress over my hips entirely, letting the fabric pool on the floor. And then I stood up, clad only in the tiniest pair of black lace panties, a g-string I’d bought specifically for the trip, feeling warm and tingly when I made the sensuous purchase.

But now, it was coming back to bite me because I knew how I looked in the tiny piece of lingerie. The fabric was so sheer you could see the small landing strip on my vulva, the rectangle trim and beautiful. And oh god, but the lacy mesh caressed my labia, outlined by the black fabric, my nether lips swollen and engorged, dripping slightly.

Because I was aroused. Despite my fear and hesitation, despite the fact that I was stripping in front of a dozen anonymous men, my body was reacting, illicitly showing its arousal. My nipples stiffened even more, this time begging to be touched, and my cunt moistened embarrassingly, loving the thought of male eyes on every part of my skin, every inch of my curves.

But this was still an auction, and the woman’s voice rang out once more.

“Turn,” the dulcet tone rang out. “Turn to your left and then to your right.”

And like a priceless museum piece, I obeyed, slowly rotating in my golden heels so that the men on the right could see my luscious assets, get a good view, before turning to the left, showing the entire audience what I had to offer. And it was a delectable sight, I know. My girls jiggled and bobbled, my cunt warm with a slight drip, and involuntarily, I began playing it up, sashaying my hips, swaying sensuously, making the audience want me. I guess it was my own way of owning the ritual, this humiliating process. I wanted them to want me, I wanted these men to bid so high that their wallets bled. I wanted them to go crazy, to look at me like I was the answer to their dreams. It was an exchange of power, and I was going to end up on top.

And sure enough, the lights above the booths flashed crazily again, blinking like ambulance sirens, at least five or six of them going off with desperation. The woman’s voice came on again.

“We have not yet finished the viewing phase, please hold your bids,” she said, almost like an airline announcing that a flight would be delayed for two hours. I squinted a bit at the flashing lights, wondering who could possibly be viewing me, but suddenly, I had an answer. A door opened in one of the viewing chambers, letting in a crack of light and I could just make out the man inside.

I gasped. Did he know that the one-way mirrors only worked if there was total darkness on his side? Did he know that I could make out strong features, dark, dominating, oh so masculine? Or was he purposefully giving up his anonymity? I waited for the female voice to come on again, or at least a handler to rush over, informing the bidder that we could see him, but nothing happened. Instead, I was caught by a pair of deep blue eyes, their gleam unmistakable, as the solitary man gazed at my curves, drinking in my luscious form.

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