The Bidding of Lot 98 Ch. 01

"Please may she cum, Sir. Please." I beg. My teeth are chattering, and my face is contorted in a clenched grimace of concentration.

"Count backwards from twenty."

"Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen..."

"Too fast," you interrupt. "Start again. Let me help."

I feel your boot on the small of my back applying pressure. The crop comes down three times on my ass at a slow leisurely pace. The pain is sharp and tight, and I can taste the sting in my mouth.

"That fast. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir," I mumble. I am afraid that if I open my mouth or concentrate on talking to much that I'll loose control. Sir brings the crop down on my ass. Twenty I say. Again the crop comes down in the exact same spot. Nineteen! I count down with the crop's blows. By the time we pass ten, I feel a sheen of sweat breakout over my body. At five my body is grinding at the vibrator out of my control. At two I begin to release my checks. Sir pauses, and transfers more of his weight to my back. I simply can't wait any longer...it's coming...it's coming....please, please, please...the crop comes whistling down. One, I scream.

"May she come, Sir?"

"Cum, slut."

My body pistons on the ground. I'm a hinge around the screw of the vibrator. I'm a door being opened and slammed shut by a mighty wind. I writhe silently on the floor; the cameras forgotten. My audience forgotten. I am 98 and I was born for this.

"Thank you, Sir," I gasp.

A thud on the floor in front of me.

"98. Three."

I struggle back to a kneeling position. It's a labor, and I wobble lightheaded and dizzy. Like the vibrator, my side is speckled with dirt and grit – trophies of squirming on the hardwood. On the floor in front of me is a thick document bound in a plastic report cover. You kick it towards me. My college thesis spins to a stop against my knee. Not a duplicate. Not an extra copy. But my original college thesis. The red pen of my thesis advisor's grade and comments are legible under the plastic cover. It represents two years of my work. The pinnacle of my intellectual ability, I am prouder of it than anything else I've done. How did he get it? It's a violation, and I'm furious. This isn't what was agreed. This wasn't our contract. What the fuck, I fume.

"What are you looking at, 98? Tell us." Your voice is bland but nonetheless has a "gotcha" edge to it.

"My college thesis, Sir." I answer coldly. I'm so angry I forget the rules and use the word "my". A possession owns nothing in theory.

"Your college thesis? Not the actual graded work?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Is it valuable, 98?"

"Only to this girl, Sir."

"Odd thing to just leave lying around, don't you think?"

"She didn't. Sir."

"Oh?" You say with faux innocence. "Where was it?"

"It was in storage, Sir."

"Storage. Somewhere secure, I hope."

I don't answer since it isn't technically a question, and just stare morosely at my thesis. The room becomes still and heavy, and the silence rings in my ears.

"How does the girl imagine it got here?" You prod.

"Someone must have taken it, Sir."

"From storage. Without your permission. Isn't that theft, 98?"

Another trap, but it's a direct question and leaves me no way out. Anyway, I'm pissed, and don't fucking care. You stole from me. "Yes, Sir."

"Well, theft should be punished. Shouldn't it, 98?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I agree. Who likely stole it, 98?"

"She doesn't know, Sir." Accusing you of theft would be so satisfying. It is also what you want me to do. It is a can't-win situation for me, but I can drag my heels.

"Guess, 98."

"Sorry Sir. She has no idea." The idea of being a disobedient, rude slave and ruining your precious auction dawns on me, and I like it.

"Let's see if I can help piece it together. It was in a storage facility. Now it is here. I dropped it on the floor. How did I come to have it, 98?"

I shrug. A gesture you particularly despise as it signifies indifference and a lack of effort, neither committal nor expressive – a bratty, adolescent expression learned to torture my parents, and never given up. It is forbidden.

You take two quick steps towards me. I have just enough time to cringe. You land a series of hard blows to my sternum inches above my pussy. The crop whistles and claps merrily on my belly. I grit my teeth and absorb the radiating, burning pain.

"Any ideas now?" Your voice is smooth and even, but I recognize the displeasure.

"No, Sir." I mutter between clenched teeth.

The blows rain again. Twice as many, and the pain is red hot and reluctant to dissipate. Twice more you ask the same question. Twice more I have no ideas. Twice more you double the blows. All to the same tender spot. My face is twisted in pain, and my eyes are red and wet. I'm panting from the effort to remain still. You pause. A minute passes, but the pain remains white hot.

"So. Last chance to impress me. Any ideas how the thesis got here, 98?"

I don't like the sound of "last chance", but my jaw is set and I won't back down from this. He stole the only thing that matters to me, and I can't forgive him. I shake my head no.

"Well that means 98 must be an idiot. I took the thesis. It's unbelievably obvious. I didn't buy it off the black-market from a fence. I drove up to the storage locker last month, broke in with bolt-cutters and helped myself. A child ought to be able to work that out. But not 98. Oh no, that's completely beyond it." You taunt circling me.

I'm an emotional jumble. I'm crippled with anger, and laughable rebellious fantasies pop through my head one after the other. I've stood up to Sir for the first time since the early months, and I'm terrified. How far am I actually going to take this? He's getting ready to counterattack, and I am still naked on my knees. Is this a mutiny or an act? If it's an act then I had better be careful not to do something I'll regret. If it's not just get up and go. I need time to think that I will not get.

"Something troubles me," you begin. "I've read the thesis. Twice. I didn't understand it all the first time through. It's not my area of expertise. I was more practical in college and studies business. But I understood enough to know that it is brilliant. No question. A brilliant piece of original thought and research. The author should be very proud."

I begin to say, "thank you, sir" but catch myself.

"But I am troubled. 98 has demonstrated it is an idiot slut unable to workout a simple problem even when the evidence is right in front of it. How could 98 possibly be the author of such a fine piece of work? There is only one possible explanation. The thesis was an act of plagiarism, of intellectual theft. And we've already agreed that theft should be punished, 98."

"Sir. 98 did write it." I blurt out, my stomach twisting into knots.

"I don't believe it. It doesn't make sense that something so smart could come from something so stupid."

"Sir, 98 was just being stubborn before. 98 did write it, Sir." I plead. I'm afraid. It was an act, it was. I'm not going anywhere.

You glare down at me pretending to consider my plea. This is a train wreck.

"No. 98 is too well trained to be so naughty. It's not possible after twelve months of training that it would be so willfully disobedient. No, it must have been plagiarized. Look at the name. It doesn't say 98. I asked earlier what name was on the thesis, and got no answer other than 98. 98 swore it couldn't remember ever having another name. Continuing to claim this thesis is a foolish charade. Is there any name beside 98?"

I kneel silently. I'm too flustered to solve this. My mouth opens, closes, opens again. Nothing comes out.

"Is there any name beside 98?" You repeat.

Finally, "no, Sir." What have I done? I feel like a Judas to myself.

You squat beside me, and comb my hair back with your fingers. Your demeanor changes in an instant.

"Good girl. The truth is, 98, I don't want to see you get in trouble. Plagiarism is a serious issue. It costs reputations. Degrees can be stripped. I would hate to see that happen here. I want to help, 98."

"Thank you, Sir." I respond hopefully.

"First thing we must do is destroy the evidence."

The words stagger me. I feel true despair. Why can I never learn? Why do I try and win these battles with Sir? I've been outplayed from the start. Even when I thought I was winning, I was just being set up to lose.

"Please, Sir, don't. Please. 98 is sorry. So sorry. Please, Sir there must be another way." I yammer, an edge of hysterics creep into my voice.

"I wish there were, 98. I do. But it wasn't I who forced this crisis. I would be remiss in my duty if I didn't take care of my slave's troubles."

"Please, Sir."

"The front page. Rip it out. I want you to eat it."

I'm crying now. Sobbing really. You let me for ten seconds and then you are back in my ear.

"I am through with 98. Rip it out, or get the fuck out. Take that precious piece of crap, and get the fuck out of this house. Ten seconds, and then I'm throwing 98 out myself. Am I clear?"

My shoulders wrack. I fall forward onto all fours.

"Get up and go. Go now. Run. This way lies madness." A voice whispers.

"Just eat it. It's just paper. Don't quit over some sentimental attachment. You are so close," whispers another.

"Your name is Julie Morris. You are a straight A student. You have friends who love you. Parents who miss you. You were co-captain of the soccer team."

"Fuck all that. Did being that girl help? Did straight A's allow you sleep at night? Don't you remember how you used to feel? Do you want the nightmares to come back?"

"Your dog was named Magnet. Your older sister ran over your foot with the car when you were fourteen."

"How lost."

"You love Duncan Heinz brownies."

"How hopeless."

"You..." The voice trails off leaving only the other.

"Eat it slut." It barks at me.

"I'm sorry." I whisper to the floor.

98 crawls to its thesis and peel back the plastic front cover. It is crying ugly creaking tears. Snot hangs down from its nose, and its ribcage hurts from the brutality of the spasms. It rips the front page away looking at it one last time and shove it into its mouth. Chewing it into a soft pulpy mass, and swallowing bite after bite until the page is gone. Tottering on all fours, 98 waits for Sir.

Sir kneels beside it. Strokes its head smiling.

"Good girl."

"Thank you, Sir."

"I'll take care of the rest of this. That was a good start. A gesture of good faith."

"Thank you, Sir."

Sir stands and takes the thesis to the workstation.

"That concludes our demonstration for this evening. Final bids will be accept for the next ten minutes following which the auction will close. Notification of a win will occur at once. Payment will be immediate and final. Preparations for transport will begin at once per your individual instructions. On behalf of Mulberry Court, thank you for your patronage and time. We will notify you of upcoming auctions as they are scheduled. Thank you and goodnight."

Sir spends the ten minutes powering down the lights and cameras. The slave is left on its hands and knees to cry itself out. By the time the auction ends, it is dry-eyed and spent.

"98. Three."

It sits back upright, and resumes a correct pose.

Sir steps behind the slave; in his hand there is a key. Gently he sweeps the hair away from its face; he caresses its cheek with one finger before going to its throat. The slave hears the gentle click of the platinum padlock. He opens the hinge on the collar and lifts it away.

It is truly naked. It is 98.

"Come little one." He says with unfamiliar tenderness. "We have much to do."