400 Days of Oppression (10 page)

She reached out and opened my coat so that my nude body was fully exposed to both her eyes and those of her big hairy sub. That’s how it was at this place sometimes. Once they knew you were a sub, every dom in the place acted like they owned you. I hated that, and I knew it bothered Kenyatta too. So I was surprised when he said nothing as the woman ran her hands over my breasts down my stomach and reached around and patted me on my ass.

“She’s lovely. Is she trained?”

Her eyes narrowed in on the collar pinching into the raw skin around my throat. Unlike the auctions that took place centuries ago when the slaves came over from Africa, my wounds would increase my selling price. A sub who’d already been trained by a respected dom was highly valued in the S&M community and Kenyatta, or King as they knew him in the scene, was very well-known and well-respected I had learned.

“Of course, she is.”

“Mmmmm, wonderful. So, is she for sale?”

“The minimum bid has to be at least five-hundred. She’s not like the used up tired old bottoms you guys usually drag up on stage. This one is newly trained.”

I wanted to cry again as I watched him write the nickname he’d given to me down on the auction list. “Kitten.” It took everything I had to hold the tears in.

“She’ll probably go for twice that. I might even bid on her myself. Just go in and march her up on stage. We’ll be starting in a minute. I’m closing the door at ten o’clock. I don’t want to miss the auction either. I am sponsoring the thing.”

We walked in and I stared at the familiar decor, which now looked foreign and hostile to me. The whipping post and crucifix in the center of the room, the rack on the wall by the windows, the dentist chair and the enormous canopy bed, twice the size of a California King, that sat in the far corner with what looked like over a dozen people crowded onto it. All eyes were pointed to the stage where the slaves were being prepared for auction. My heart rose up into my throat as Kenyatta marched me up there under the lights. He pushed me out among the other slaves and then ripped the fur coat from my shoulders leaving me completely nude and exposed under the stage lights. There was a gasp from the crowd and then applause. I tried to cover myself, but Kenyatta ordered me to stand at attention and I obeyed. He then told me to walk back and forth across the stage with the other slaves. Again, I did as I was told.

The stage lights turned red and the pulsing techno music thundering through the loft faded out, leaving only the hollow sound of shuffling feet and a few scattered applause. A huge leather dyke, the female equivalent of the big biker guarding the door, strode up on stage with a bullwhip in one hand and a microphone in the other. Her makeup was just as severe as the woman who ran the place, dark eye shadow smeared from her eyelids almost to her temples and a thick bead of eyeliner surrounded each emerald green eye. Her lips were large and pouty as if they’d been injected with collagen but one look at her belied such vanity. A thick nest of flaming red hair was knotted into a tight bun on top of her head and her mammoth breasts were squeezed into a tight corset and lifted up to her neckline, still managing to undulate and giggle with each step despite their bondage. The woman somehow managed to be beautiful, even sexy, despite her titanic girth. The entire crowd fell silent in anticipation as she cleared her throat and began to announce the show.

“Good evening subs and doms, sadists and masochists, I am Mistress Delia. Welcome to our sixteenth quarterly charity slave auction benefiting the AIDS Research Foundation. I hope you brought a lot of money because we’ve got some top quality flesh to auction off tonight! The rules are simple. Anyone wishing to bid must purchase bondage bills from Lady “O” at the front at the price of ten dollars for every hundred. This is a charity event so five dollars of every ten you spend will go to The AIDS Research Foundation. Our lovely slaves will be brought up one-by-one onto the stage and anyone wishing to may come up to the front of the stage for a closer inspection. Once the bidding begins, you will have twenty seconds to make a counter bid or the highest bid wins. Some of the slaves tonight will be yours for the evening and some for much, much longer depending on the contract they or their owners have signed. Remember that this is just a fantasy auction however, and these slaves do have the right to refuse to go with you even after you have purchased them. That does not however mean that you get your money back. We have a few one-year contracts for sale and even a lifetime contract or two. The minimum bid for any slave is one hundred dollars though some may be higher depending on the slave’s youth, beauty, and overall pedigree. So get those dollars ready! I’ll give you a few moments to purchase your bondage bills up at the front while we finalize a few contracts and then the bidding will begin with our first slave!”

I trembled as I heard the words “lifetime contract.” I held out hope that Kenyatta would only sell me away for one night and not to be someone’s permanent slave. I knew that I could still refuse to leave with my new master even after I was sold, but I wasn’t sure how Kenyatta would respond to my refusal. There were so many thoughts going through my head when Mistress Delia approached us and asked us what type of contract we were selling. I looked at Kenyatta, pleading with him silently. I wanted to cry and beg and scream, but I knew how much that would have embarrassed him. He would have never forgiven me for it. So, instead I sat silently as Kenyatta took the clip board from Mistress Delia’s large meaty hands with the painted nails so long that they curled at the ends, and began to fill it out while I strained to see which box he checked.

“You look stunning tonight, Delia. Do you still switch? I’d love to play with you again sometime.”

“That is so tempting. You don’t know how tempting, really, but I’m afraid me and my new sub are in a monogamous relationship. But maybe she’d be cool with it if you could take us both on?”

“Now, that would be fun. Remember though, I’m not just about whipping and spanking. I fuck whoever I top. Does your new playmate like dick?”

“Don’t let the hype fool you. Most lesbians like dick every now and again. It’s just what’s attached to it that turns us off. That’s why we opt for vibrating plastic instead. Besides, then we can pick the size that best suits us whereas with men you’re stuck with what you got and most men aren’t built like you, darlin’. I’ll definitely keep your offer in mind though. I’m sure we could work something out.”

They talked about fucking each other as if I wasn’t even standing there, and my jealousy was raging. I wanted to claw the bitch’s eyes out, but Kenyatta had trained me too well. I stood there obediently with my head down, watching as Kenyatta made small talk with the huge lesbian while I waited to see whether I was losing him forever or just for the evening.

“How big are those magnificent tits of yours anyway, Delia?” Kenyatta asked hefting them in both hands while still holding pen and paper.

“I’m an F-cup if you must know,” Delia replied, sticking her massive breasts out proudly.

“My God, woman, I didn’t even know they came that big.”

“I was a G-cup before I lost weight.”

“I could lose myself between those tits. Definitely call me.”

Kenyatta casually checked off lifetime membership in the middle of his playful flirtation and handed the form back to Delia as if he’d done nothing more significant than sold her a box of Girl Scout cookies. I wanted to scream, but again I remained silent as the man I loved prepared to give me away to another.

Mistress Delia, stomped back onto the stage in her size ten stiletto hip boots, carrying the contracts for the dozen or more slaves up for bid. I looked around me at the other slaves who were about to be auctioned. They ranged in age from retirees to kids just barely old enough to legally drink. Some of them were new to the scene, novice subs in search of their first master. Some of them were veterans who’d been topped by almost every dom in the scene at one time or another. Predictably, there were more gay males than females and more of the jaded old bottoms than fresh-faced newbies. They all appeared anxious and excited. A few of them even looked bored. I was perhaps the only depressed and terrified face in the crowd. I was the only one who didn’t want to be there.

“Isn’t this exciting?” a young Filipino kid asked in a voice that was annoyingly bubbly, almost giddy. I turned my back on him and lowered my head to hide the sudden burst of tears. I moved closer to Kenyatta and leaned on him as I wept, hiding my tears in his chest.

“Please, Master. Please don’t sell me. Please don’t give me away,” I whispered to him as I wept.

Kenyatta removed a handkerchief from his suit jacket and dabbed it in the tears, wiping them from my eyes then he kissed me gently on each cheek.

“No more of that. Don’t embarrass me tonight. Go out there and show them what a well-trained, disciplined slave you are.”

I could tell that he was nervous. He didn’t know what I’d do. He was afraid I’d embarrass him, get out there and fall apart, maybe start screaming and crying, fighting all the way to the stage. Or maybe he was afraid I’d run off the stage and refuse to go with whoever purchased me. That was my right, but it would be his shame. The other jealous doms who were intimidated by his comparative youth, good looks, and statuesque physique would laugh at him behind his back and gossip non-stop for years. I sucked up my tears and calmed myself. I could never embarrass him like that. I looked over at him and let him see the resolve in my face. He smiled at me and my heart felt as if it was pumping razor blades. My bottom lip trembled and my knees shook. Tears welled up in my eyes and it took everything within me to keep them from spilling out as I looked at his handsome face and that beautiful smile and the thought crossed my mind that I might never see him again or not at least until the 400 days was up. I wiped the back of my hand across my eyes to catch any tears before they could fall, then I turned toward the stage. I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t make a scene. Kenyatta had trained me well and I wanted everyone to know what a great dom my master was. I was proud of him, and I wanted everyone else to be proud of him too. I wanted him to be proud of me.

Mistress Delia was back on the stage. The DJ cranked the music up a few decibels so that Delia had to raise her voice slightly to be heard. The first slave sauntered out with his head held high, strutting proud as a peacock. He was young and blonde with a slight tummy and no muscle tone. He looked like an office executive who had just left his cubicle in time to slip the leather gear out of his trunk and dash up onto the stage. I could imagine what he looked like in a shirt and tie and probably a pair of glasses that he cleaned compulsively. I knew the type. I worked with them every day and most of them needed a good spanking. The office boy bent over to show his asshole which was miraculously distended. He slipped a large butt plug in that was roughly the circumference of a soda can and the bids came fast and furious. He went for six hundred dollars.

Next a mountainous woman, almost as large as Mistress Delia, walked up onto the stage and began clipping clothes hangers all over her titanic breasts. The bidding was slow for her. She went to the first bidder for two hundred dollars.

A man that everyone in the scene new simply as “Old George” walked up on stage, and I was moved into place to follow him. Old George was well known in the scene. At fifty-seven he was one of the oldest members of the Society of “O” and by far the most jaded. It was rumored that it took vise grips on his nipples and vigorous cutting and caning to get him off. Kenyatta once confessed that he was afraid that he had experienced so much so early in life that he was dulling his senses to pleasure and pain and would wind up just like Old George when he got older. The idea terrified him. It terrified me too. The crowd was apparently just as intimidated by the depths of Old George’s masochism because he stood up there for almost a full minute without a single bid. Finally a young dom who didn’t know any better placed a mercy bid and Old George left the stage in the company of his new master for the price of fifty dollars. Then it was my turn.

Mistress Delia gestured for me to accompany her on the stage and my legs began to shake again. Every muscle locked and refused to move. The room began to rock and tilt as if I was back in my box and everything began to gray, starting to go black. The crack of a whip on my naked ass brought me back. I let out a yelp and hopped out onto the stage, turning to see Kenyatta returning the bullwhip to the amused leather dyke he’d borrowed it from.

“This beautiful sub was trained by our very own Master King. She is young and beautiful and experienced in all aspects of pain and pleasure. She enjoys spanking, caning, whipping, bondage, humiliation, and light blood play. Wow. She is quite a connoisseur for one so young.  The bidding will start for this beautiful young bottom at five hundred dollars.”

The bids flew as I knew they would. I was fresh meat, and I was the first sub Kenyatta had ever placed up for bid in all the years he’d been a member. He left the stage as soon as the bidding started and walked out into the crowd. My heart pounded, afraid that he was going to leave the loft with me still on stage going to the highest bidder. Instead he took a seat in the back of the room on the enormous bed, squeezed in between the other subs and doms, some of whom were already fucking. I just stared at him. Our eyes locked across the distance, and Kenyatta smiled again as the bidding quickly went from five hundred to seven hundred to a thousand and finally to two thousand.

“Two thousand going once. Two thousand going twice…”

In a panic, I looked down at the grizzled old dom who’d bid two thousand dollars for the right to torture and humiliate me. He was nearly as old as Old George and probably just as jaded and debauched. His head was shaven and his scalp was wrinkled and scarred from too much time in the sun and too many barroom brawls in his youth. He wore a black t-shirt and black jeans, and his body was thin and wrinkled but still hard and athletic. His face was lean and angular. Hard lines cut deep into the skin around his eyes and mouth and sharp cheek bones jutted through even more prominently than Kenyatta’s, only on him, with his eyelids sunken deep beneath his brow, it made him look sinister and cadaverous rather than regal. His thin lips were surrounded by a goatee that was turning from gray to white. There was something cruel in his eyes that terrified me every bit as much as the thought of leaving Kenyatta. I looked back up at my master just as he raised his hand.