I thought about it then, saying that word. I thought about giving up and seeing that disappointed and disgusted look in Kenyatta’s eyes as he walked away forever.
“I won’t say it. I’m still going through with it.”
Kenyatta nodded his approval, still looking at me with suspicion. He grabbed my leash and pulled me forward.
“Then no more crying. No more begging. You go in there and you do whatever I say without question. You get up there on that auction block and you smile your lily white ass off and you obey.”
He jerked my choke chain as he spoke, dragging me out of the car. I never had an opportunity to reply but none was necessary. He knew I’d obey.
Kenyatta walked me to the back door of the art gallery, jerking my choke chain every now and again to keep me moving. Beyond the door was a long flight of stairs that led to the huge loft above where the festivities took place. A big hairy leatherman stood at the top of the stairs looking like a Hell’s Angel except for the leather chaps he wore with no jeans underneath so that his genitals were freely exposed. He wore a spiked leather cock ring so that he maintained a painful-looking erection. It was already turning purple, and I wondered how long it had been that way. The look was completed by a leather vest with no shirt. Both his cock and his nipples were pierced. He had a thick beard speckled with gray and he wore a spiked dog collar around his neck. His chest, arms, and shoulders were enormous like a powerlifter and his hairy belly was proportionately just as large. He looked like he could have snapped my neck with one hand, but Kenyatta still towered over him when he stood next to him. Attached to the dog collar was a long chain and holding the end of the chain was a thin and strikingly beautiful middle-aged woman with a full head of gray hair that hung to her waist. She wore a red leather bustier and corset, a long black leather skirt, and red leather boots ending in spiked stiletto heels that were at least six-inches long. Her eye-makeup was dramatic, dark eye shadow and eyeliner, burgundy rouge to make her sharp cheekbones appear almost cadaverous and deep red lipstick. Despite all of that, she managed to look somewhat pleasant and even friendly as she asked for our membership cards.
Kenyatta reached into his jacket to retrieve his wallet and the woman laughed.
“I’m just kidding with you, King. Everybody knows you. It’s forty dollars tonight for the auction. It’s a charity event. Unless you’ve brought us something to auction off?”
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.