tagNonConsent/ReluctanceSlave Academy Ch. 08

Slave Academy Ch. 08

byHippieSlut©

Chapter 08: The Auction

Summer is coming to an end; you can tell by the leaves starting to change on the trees that cover the big rolling hills surrounding the slave academy. It's already too chilly for us slaves to be exercised outdoors naked; when we go outside for our morning runs, we have to wear short, fleecy tunics that cover us up for warmth, but still have open bottoms, keeping our cunts and assholes accessible to anyone who may want to use them.

Master Marco, the slavemaster, told me a few weeks ago that I'm ready for sale at the big fall auction, which takes place beginning tomorrow, Friday, and runs through Sunday afternoon. So I've been given some extra polish: the sales department is planning on selling me as a high-quality pleasure slave. Which meant I'll most likely not end up in a brothel, at least not a run of the mill one.

"Usually the girls we sell on that level are bought by private masters," one of the slave captains tells me while giving me a final evaluation before my sale. "Of course, they're often sold into the harems of Mideast royalty, or the stables of corporations. But because they're so valuable to their owners, they usually have a comfortable life. So don't worry, little animal. We have a lot invested in you, and we'd never sell you to anyone who doesn't appreciate that. Now, display."

I'm completely naked, as usual. My body has just been completely depilated and feels soft and smooth, oiled up and glistening. I can see myself in the mirror of the training room as I pose with my feet apart at hip width and my hands linked behind my head. My red-blonde hair, clean and shining, falls newly trimmed, to brush my ass.

"Down!" I go instantly to my knees then bend forward to touch my forehead to the floor, palms flat on the floor above my head and my back arched, to get my smooth, round ass as high in the air as I can. It's the classic prostration position, used when approaching a master or awaiting use or punishment.

He snaps his fingers, which is the signal for me to go to the low training bed, lie on my back and spread my legs—a slave ready for fucking. He bends over and begins to finger my cunt and pussy lips, and I automatically lift my hips to his touch. He laughs and pinches my clit teasingly, then cups my bare mound in one hand.

"You really are an insatiable, fuckable slut, aren't you. What on earth were you thinking with your little escape attempt a couple of months back?"

"I wasn't thinking, master," I say, with difficulty as my breathing has gotten fast under his touching me. "It just seemed I should try. Since the occasion presented."

He's busy stretching me out, strapping my wrists and ankles to the platform that the bed rests on. I love being fucked when I'm tied down so tight I can't move, and he knows it. It makes me feel so female, that a man, any man—a master—can do whatever he wants to me, whenever he wants to do it. Over the course of my training, I've been tied for use in many positions, but this is my favorite.

Now he's pushing two fingers into my slit, moving them around inside me, feeling the little ridges and skin folds of my rapidly juicing cunt. I arch and moan under his expert touch as he withdraws one wet finger and works it into my asshole, and then applies his thumb to my clit. A three-fingered hold on me: I feel like a bowling ball he's put his fingers in to roll a strike.

He pulls out his fingers and begins to stroke my quivering thighs, in long slow motions, like grooming a cat, all the way from my crotch down to my ankles. Then he nibbles his way up again, his mouth moving on my flesh from ankles to crotch, his tongue flicking my clit, then probing the entrance to my cunt.

"We've never had a girl who didn't try to escape, given that same opportunity. It's a useful tool; it lets us see how much more the girl needs to be broken in. You've been quite the challenge; you're a hot piece of ass, you love being fucked, and you know in your heart you're a natural slave. Yet your brain, because you're so intelligent, tells you you need to fight back, to resist. We had to break you very carefully: to break your will, but not your spirit. But that's all over now."

"Yes, master, it is," I gasp, as he runs his hands again over my tensed, aroused body. He smiles and roughly grasps my tits, one in each hand; my breasts are so big he can't get his hand around them, the soft, alabaster-white flesh spills over. Some men like small tits they can grab completely in one hand, but in the course of my training I've found that most men like bigger ones, even two-handers.

He runs his hands down over my belly and around to grab my ass, then reaches for the leather flogger. I tremble, seeing it bite into my tits, which go red as apples under the lash. He moves down to my soft belly and creamy thighs, again letting me see the whip crack against my body. Apart from the arousal a whipping always gives me, it's also another reinforcement of my slavery: I'm just livestock, an animal for a man to treat as he pleases. And both those things turn me on beyond belief; I'm aching to feel his cock in my cunt, and I lift my hips again to the lash, silently begging him to fuck me.

But he's in no hurry, and this is probably my final tune-up before being sold, so we both might as well take our time and enjoy it. Now he's spreading my steel-ringed pussy lips apart, moving a finger up and down, then under my clit hood to draw circles on my swollen pink nub; the nerves are engorged completely, I can feel the thickness all the way up along the nerve stem into my body.

Then he finally gets down to business: he straddles my face, and I obediently open my mouth to take his cock. He unwraps the towel he was wearing and is as naked as I am as he slowly guides his heavy, erect dick past my moist and waiting lips. I begin to suck him eagerly, flicking my tongue around him, my head coming off the mattress as I feel him begin to carefully slide down my throat. Then he's fucking my face, his cock deep in my throat; I make small moans as his balls press into my face. He moves his hips forward with long rhythmic strokes, his hands on the back of my neck holding me perfectly. Then his balls begin to tighten up, and he thrusts faster and deeper until he unloads in my throat. Perfectly trained, I swallow every drop, cleaning him off with my lips and tongue as he begins to pull back out.

"Very nice. Get me hard again, slave, I want to fuck your cunt now." It's not easy, since I'm tied down and all I can use on him is my mouth and tongue, but the slave captains are virile, vital men chosen for their capacity, and it doesn't take more than a minute for him to be rock hard again.

He moves down my body, caressing as he goes. He bites my neck, my breasts, tongues my ears, flicks the steel rings in my nose and nipples. "You're a very talented slut, aren't you, little animal. You're going to make your buyer a very lucky man." Again his fingers are working my inner lips hard, moving against my throbbing clit; then he puts one hand on the soft inner flesh of each thigh and pushes them wider apart. It's not the first time he's ever had me—all the training captains have used me on numerous occasions, in every possible position—but I enjoy being fucked by him more than by some others. He settles his body on top of mine, right into the sweet spot, then reaches down with one hand and guides his dick into me. I'm well slicked up by now, and he slides in easily, his thick cock filling me up completely.

He begins to thrust and grind in one motion, and my breathing changes and slows, coming out in little moans after each thrust. "You really love this, don't you..." he says, as he leans forward to put his weight on me.

"Oh yes, master! I love being used like this...fuck me hard, please, master!"

"You're such a great piece of fuckmeat..." He redoubles his thrusting into my naked, bound body. The forced immobility of being tied down always focuses me, turns me on incredibly: the only sensation I can feel is him pounding into me, the rising warmth spreading out from my clit and my cunt as we both work our way to coming. It hits together—his hoarse shout, my scream.

He lies on top of me for a few moments, regaining his strength; then he twists the swivels on the wrist and ankle straps and flips me onto my belly. "We might as well go for all three holes," he says, laughing. He adjusts the ankle straps so he can pull me up onto my knees, arms stretched out in front of me and fastened securely. He kneels behind me and begins to lube up my asshole with some of our own juices, and when I'm sufficiently moistened, he poises his cock at my little rosebud and starts working his way gently in. I cry out as he pops the head of his dick past my muscle ring and slides smoothly, deeply into my ass. One final push, and he's sunk in me right up to his balls.

He holds me there like a moment, then pulls my hips back against him to fit my ass snugly against his muscled loins. Not releasing his hold on my hips, he starts deep thrusting, then he flattens me out under him on the bed, his full weight on me from my neck to my thighs, and he slips his hands around in front to start working my pussy, two fingers deep in my cunt, the other hand ravaging my clit or my breasts. My mind is pretty much gone by now under his assaults, but one thought remains: this is how a man uses a woman. He should take her any way he wants her; what she wants doesn't matter, her purpose is to be used, to submit to him against her will or not. And knowing that, being used by him, she will have the most supremely shattering orgasms of her life, and give him tremendous pleasure as well.

He quickly and expertly brings us both off, and pulls out of me. "Clean me", and he thrusts his dick into my mouth for me to lick him off. The session goes on for another hour or so, with him using me several more times before he's had enough and unstraps me, massaging my weary limbs.

"You have nothing to worry about, slut," he says as he leaves my cell. "Get some sleep and don't think too much about it. You can't do anything about it. It'll all be over soon enough."

I lie down on my bed again and stretch out. Tomorrow it all begins...

The sale starts Friday evening; buyers have been arriving all day. Some stay in the small hotel and guesthouses on the premises, others drive in from other accommodations in the towns or villages around. We—the slaves—are tremendously excited. We've been showered and shampooed and waxed and polished; hair and nails done, beautiful makeup jobs, the works. There's probably a hundred girls to be auctioned off before the weekend is over.

Master Dion, the slave captain in charge of me and half a dozen other girls, tells us that Friday night the second-best lots will be sold. These can be great bargains for buyers, but the buyers also know that the best lots are being saved for Saturday night. All day Saturday, girls will be sold, with minimal presentation and fuss, while Sunday mornings are dedicated to resales: masters who want to trade in their slaves, or trade up; and these lots can be great bargains as well.

There are maybe two dozen slaves being sold in my group, the crème de la crème. We're held back till the end of the auction, and the buyers know to wait for us. I look at the other girls and smile. We are all lovely, in our very different ways; there isn't an unalluring girl in the bunch: blond, brunette, redhead, black, Asian, white, Latina, even a tiny brown-satin-skinned Hindu girl and a tall, bronzed Native American. We're all naked, of course, wearing our collars and our brands, our rings if we've been pierced; for the auction, a lot number has been written in washable ink on our right ass cheeks and left breasts, so that the buyers can see it from any angle.

I can hear the buzz of the crowd in the auditorium as they settle down to business. The lights are down except for the stage, which is carefully lit to show the merchandise to best advantage. I'm to be sold in the middle of the group, which is a position much coveted by girls, carefully planned by the staff, and eagerly anticipated by buyers.

One by one, the slaves in my group are led up several steps and brought out on the stage. Sometimes they're applauded, sometimes not. One by one they go: the delicate little Latina, the tall Swedish blonde, the creamy Irish redhead. I'm quivering with butterflies inside: Master Marco said that slaves only benefit by being sold, that probably every woman should be sold once in her life, that this might be the first and only time for me, or merely the first of many times I'd stand on the auction block. But I resolve to do my best. I'm a slave; that's all I can do.

At last I hear my number called, and the handler moves me forward up the steps. Then I'm out on the stage, my body naked and gleaming in the bright lights, walking alluringly across the soft padded surface, and the selling crew takes me over, positioning me on the sales bench. I sneak a glance at the crowd: probably a thousand buyers, mostly men, some women. I feel a great thrill, and it's all I can do to keep from coming right there.

The auctioneer begins his spiel: "Lot 28467. A healthy female slave, 20 years old, 5'4", 95 pounds, small-boned frame; 36C-22-33; green eyes; extremely fair-skinned, perfect complexion; natural strawberry-blonde hair, ass-length; never smoked, drank or did drugs; ringed as you see..."

He goes on, but I don't hear him; I'm overwhelmed with what I'm feeling. I want to court the crowd, to show them how desirable I am. My future master is out there; I want him to buy me. It's within auction guidelines that I can be used at this point, to demonstrate my salability to the buyers, and sure enough someone in the front row raises his bidding paddle backwards, to indicate that he wants to see me put through my slave paces before the bidding starts. The auctioneer nods and points to one of the sales staff, who comes forward. I go immediately to my back on the display couch and open my legs for him. He kneels between my thighs, stroking me with both hands, and my hips rise to him.

He takes his time, making sure I'm dripping wet, using his fingers to draw my juices around to my asshole and up over my throbbing clit. The audience is cheering him on as he takes his dick out of his trousers and mounts me; I can feel his naked cock pushing against my thigh. Then his hand guides his dick to my wet and throbbing slit entrance and in one powerful thrust he's all the way in. Firmly in the saddle, he begins to fuck me expertly, slipping his hands under me to get me as tight against his rock-solid body as he can. His dick is not long, but it is thick, and he fills my cunt completely, stretching it out, stretching out the skin at my entrance around it.

We both want to give a good performance; my sale price may well depend on it. He pulls out a little, leaving just the head of his cock inside me, and I arch, moaning, wanting him deep in me again. He bends my knees and folds my legs back, then pushes deep into me again. There isn't an inch of my hot, wet softness that his cock doesn't own. He starts to drive into me now, slower at first, but all the way in, always forward, never letting his cock loosen in my cunt. My mound is right against his balls as he pounds me over and over again. I lock my legs around his back and move with him, moaning as I feel my orgasm start to rise and spread out. He thrusts harder then explodes inside me

I lie as he leaves me there, then I feel myself being cleaned up by the auctioneer's assistants. Water is squirted up my open cunt to flush me out, a towel is applied to soak up the mixture of water and juices. I'm pulled to my feet and ordered into standing display position. Applause greets me, and I find myself responding, moving to the interest of the crowd as I've been taught.

The bidding is fast and furious: at last it comes down to two bidders. One I can't see, as from my viewpoint onstage he's not in the light; the other is a man in the front row, not the man who asked to see me used but someone sitting with him, perhaps his agent. The auctioneer keeps pulling the bids out of them, and finally it's over. The hammer comes down: I've been sold. And sold for twice the catalog estimate, too! A fantastic price; the slavehouse management will be very pleased indeed at how much I've fetched.

A big round of applause as I'm led off the stage and down the other side. There, I'm put in a small holding cage with other sold slaves, and we all cluster round and excitedly compare our prices and speculate on who has purchased us. One by one, the sales staff comes in to lead us away for the final formalities: we're being brought to our buyers, who are busy signing documents, collecting our papers and licenses, and of course paying for us before they take us away.

Three of the girls in my consignment group have been purchased by an exclusive, super-private resort in the Caribbean; they will be put into the slave stable the club keeps for its rich and demanding members, who pick and choose from the sluts offered for their use, like selecting luscious fruit from a lavish buffet. Two more have been bought by a cruise ship that hosts private cruises for wealthy passengers, operating under the same principle as the resort—the girls are part of the stateroom furniture, there to be used or not. Others, like me, have no idea to whom they've been sold, and we wait nervously to learn our fate.

This is it, then. This is what it all comes down to. I was kidnapped, raped, collared, branded, broken, trained to please. I was turned into a slave girl. And now a man has bought me to use as he likes; he can do whatever he wants to me. I must obey him and serve him perfectly; whoever he is, he owns me now, I'm his property, like a dog or a car or a shirt. And as I think this, I suddenly realize that this is what I was meant to be. The slavemasters just made me realize it; and then they trained me to express it to perfection. I might be kept in bondage by this master for the rest of my life, or I might be sold on in six months and have many other masters after that. But I know that whatever happens to me from now on, it's something I want with all my heart: I was born to be a slave girl, and I exist to please men.

Finally it's my turn; a smiling assistant beckons me out of the pen, and I hurry to heel him as he walks away. In the sales office lobby, I go to my knees, head bent. My new owner is in the office, taking care of the details of my purchase. I don't dare try for even a glance of him, but Master Marco comes out of the office, raises my head and smiles at me.

"Good girl," he says. "You were a fine acquisition for us, my dear. Now you're going to your new life with your first master; remember what you've been taught, and what you've taught yourself. You're a superb slut, pretty animal, and I have no doubt that you'll please him very, very much."

"Thank you, Master Marco. I—" I find that I can't speak, but he ruffles my hair and I know he knows what I can't manage to say: thank you, master, for everything.

He takes my right hand. "This is a tradition: we give one to all our slaves on their sale day." He slips a heavy shining steel ring onto my thumb, and we both look down at it. A slave ring, mark of my bondage. It fits very tightly: it's not uncomfortable, but it's not going to come off either. Not without being sawn off.

"It's like a mini-collar," he says, smiling. "You can't see your own collar, only feel it around your neck. But this you'll be able to see any time at all. It will help you remember what you are. Sometimes, that may be hard, for you to do that; the slave ring will remind you that you're owned."

I lean forward and kiss his hand. He smiles and turns to go, slapping my ass one last time in affectionate farewell. "You'll make us proud, slut."

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