The Bidding of Lot 98 Ch. 02

I shiver, and squeeze my eyes tight shut until I can stop myself making it worse. I look at the platinum padlock. I serve whomever holds the key. 'Whomever' becomes a monstrously broad concept. And it could really be anyone. To serve their needs. It is irrelevant whether I like it. It is irrelevant whether I like them. All that is relevant is their pleasure. This is submission on a far more profound level than I've experienced. I knew Sir going in. We had met, and corresponded and I went to him knowing that I wanted to serve him. I went knowing that he excited me, and that I felt it. Felt the "bend" -- the primitive urge to bend my knees to him. He exuded it more strongly than any man I had ever met. What if I didn't feel the bend f or my new owner? It would be a submission because I am a slave, and that is what my training dictates. Part of me is drawn to the idea. My desire to serve Sir was partly a crutch. Is it submission if you want it and enjoy it? When the plane touches down, I am still no closer to answering that one.

I exit the plane and make the long walk to baggage claim. I have this fantasy where Sir is waiting for me; this has been an incredible test of my loyalty. He sweeps me up in his arms, and... I see a chauffer with a sign: Marcia Harden. I wheel my bag up to him and stop.

"Marcia Harden?" I nod.

He holds a photo up and compares it to me. He's maybe fifty and several inches shorter than me. His squat shoulders distort his ill-fitting sports jacket.

"Padlock?" He asks in a thick accent that reminds me of a scuba instructor I once fucked in Aruba.

I hold it out to him terrified that he has the key...it's the key 98 serves...but he just nods. He takes my bag, and I follow him out of the terminal to a black limousine. He holds open the door, and I slip inside and look around expectantly, but no one is waiting.

We drive south out of San Diego on Route 5. The limo pulls in at a gas station. The driver fills the tank and squeegees the front and back windows. When he's done he opens the trunk and takes out two duffle bags: one empty and one full. He gets in the back with me, and we stare at each other. He opens the full bag and reads from a pad of paper phonetically. I don't think he speaks any English.

"Give me your ID. Give me your plane ticket. Give me your money." He reads off in a gruff monotone. They all go in his jacket pocket.

The ID he puts in his jacket pocket. Everything else goes in the empty duffle bag. The only thing he doesn't take is the cell phone

"Give me all your clothes." He reads.

I give him a funny look, which he returns blankly. Now I'm certain that he has no idea what he just asked. Out the tinted windows a father is holding his son up so he can squeegee their car's windows. I hesitate. Sir was right -- reading Entertainment Weekly has cast a pall of normalcy over my mind. The idea of being naked in front of this man makes me shy. I smile at him; he smiles back politely and continues to wait since he's not sure what I' m supposed to be doing. The idea of embarrassing Sir is what finally spurs me, and I hand over my jacket and my shoes. I unbutton my fly and begin to wiggle out of my jeans. When I am naked I look up. He gazes back at me steadily. There is a hard look in his eyes. Singular and unvarnished. A look that I spent ten years of my life trying to tease out of every man I met. A look I both despised and craved. He sits for several minutes with my panties in his hand, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. I can't hold his gaze so I stare over at the mini-fridge, legs crossed. I don't know what to do with my hands so I fold them demurely in my lap. Now what happens?

The driver takes two sealed envelopes from the bag. He hands one to me, and opens the other and reads to himself. He is smiling when he looks up. He gestures impatiently to the forgotten envelope in my hand. Inside is a letter written in a beautiful cursive script. The letterhead is the same symbol inscribed in my padlock. I don't know who wrote it only that no matter what it says, I must obey. No matter what. It's a funny notion. Someone wrote this letter, probably this morning, sitting at a desk with a cup of coffee -- someone imagined my future and then wrote it down. Naked I read.

Hello 98,

In due time, that name will change to reflect a new station and a new house, however it will suffice for the time being. My name is obviously not 98's concern only that I own it. There is much for 98 to learn, but for the time being it need only know...

1.That I own 98 and that 98 submitted of its free will. 2.That this choice marks the death of 98's free will, and mine will stand in its place. 3.That free will is not the same as intelligence or willpower, and 98 will need both. 4.That 98 serves whomever holds the key, but is owned only by myself.

As an introduction to my will, the limousine driver expects satisfaction as part of his payment. I do not know the man's tastes nor do I care. I care only that my arrangements are concluded in full. 98 will see to it that the transaction is satisfactory to the driver. It is perhaps an abrupt, indelicate task, but I have found that an indelicate task often serves a useful purpose - particularly for those engaging in romantic speculation about the future. I hope this helps settle any lingering questions 98 might have. Welcome to my household.

I don't look up right away. I pretend to still be reading so I can buy myself time to gather myself. Although I have not always chosen how my partners used me, I have always chosen my partners. I've at least had that. Those days are at an end. I spent so much time on the flight obsessing about who my new owner might be that it never occurred to me that people sometimes shared with friends. I could be lent like a book. It brings me one step closer to truly being property. It changes everything; so much to absorb.

He takes the letter out of my hand and folds it. I look up and meet his eyes.

"Puta," not an accusation just a statement of fact; he stares at me.

I nod that I understand, and lick my lips nervously. What is ironic is that this has always been a fantasy of mine -- to be the whore, to be used by strangers...if I had a nickel for every time I masturbated to such thoughts...yet as is so often the case when reality collides with fantasy there is much more to it. So much more

I'm trying to decide what to do when he sits forward and runs his hand across my breasts. My breath catches in my throat. A man I don't know just reached out and touched me like he was handling produce at a supermarket. It's an incredible sensation -- physically and psychically. He fondles me roughly -- arms, neck stomach, and pushes my knees apart. My arms spread and my arms grip the upholstery leaving him unfettered access to my body. This is a new level of nakedness. His hands coast across my skin exploring. How many hands have touched me this way, and yet I'm shivering all over. His fingers press between my legs, and we both feel his fingers find the wet. I blush, but in the dimness of the limo I don't think he sees. Finding me wet emboldens him; it's his passport. He gropes at me, and I sit silent and obedient while he manhandles me. Expressionless, we stare at each other. Until, feeling his fingers pushing up inside me I start to get angry.

Not at him, at myself. Is this what I am? A pliant piece of meat? Is this all the better I was trained? Sir was always explicit on this point: submissiveness is not an excuse to be passive; an excuse to do the bare minimum. To cower here like a coma victim while I am fondled by this man. Perhaps it is within the letter of the law, but not the spirit. And I was trained to believe in the spirit. That is why Sir is proud of me. What would he think of me now? Dishonoring my new owner by lying down like a victim. I am a slave not a victim. Not anymore.

No man should have his hand inside me and look as bored as this man does. It is an unacceptable failure. As his fingers begin to flex inside me, I allow myself a deep breath and force out a moan. It is not authentic, but it's a bit like clearing your throat before song, and soon another moan follows, and this one is real. He called me 'puta', and that is what I will be. I am here for his pleasure; keep that in mind. My thighs relax, parting, and I push my hips down the seat into his hand. It makes me hum in my throat; he smiles, which is a start. He pulls me to the edge of my seat by the neck. His hand inside me; mine fondling him through his pants. I suck his thumb into my mouth forcing it to the back of my throat. I grind myself into his hand and imagine Sir watching me.

He is not smiling anymore. Animals don't smile, and that's what I've awakened. A simple want. He lets go of me to fumble with his pants, shoved gracelessly to his ankles and he is on top of me. He tumbles me over onto my back and hunts for the wet with his hungry little cock. He reminds me of abortive early fumblings in high school. I do my best to help him, but he is frantic and it takes a dozen unsuccessful thrusts before he finds me. I cling to him, wrapping my legs around him, as he bucks relentlessly. He lasts maybe fifty seconds; he realizes too late that he's close, tries to slow down, but he's already past that point. He lets out a roar as he comes; I join him, but where his is pleasure, mine is a different kind of satisfaction.

He clambers off and pulls himself together. I lay there in a jumble of emotions and caroming thoughts while he drips out of me. Unprotected sex with a middle aged chauffeur. What's the worst thing I could have just contracted? Didn't even cross my mind. Surely my owner wouldn't risk exposing his acquisition to some disease-ridden man? Unless he expected his new toy to exhibit some of that intelligence and willpower he mentioned in his letter. Fuck. I sit up and he shoves the duffle bag towards me. The clothes inside are expensive and stylish. He gestures for me to put them on. In a matter of minutes I am transformed from a casual twenty something into a glamorous young socialite. The oversized Louis Vuitton sunglasses are the crowning touch. I open my new passport to see myself smiling back at me. Apparently, my name is Angela Marshall, and I am from Orange County. Where are you going Angela Marshall?

The chauffeur hoists the duffle bags into the gas station's dumpster before we get back on the interstate. We cross into Tijuana without incident. The border guard is accustomed to spoiled, young Americans -- it's a perfect disguise. In an hour we are zooming along Mexico 3 towards Ensenada. If anyone goes looking for Marcia Harden, it is unlikely they will ever connect her to Angela Marshall much less to 98. I am an untraceable statistic. I feel a numb dread when I think how deep I am, and how far I have gone. I stare out the window and watch the sunset and try to ignore my empty stomach.

I am daydreaming about the chocolate cake my mom made for all of our birthdays when the limo turns off the road and begins a clumsy descent into a barren field. The chauffeur opens my door and beckons me out. A dilapidated barn a hundred yards away is the only structure in sight. The moon is bright, which is fortunate because it is the only light other than the headlights of the limo.

"98," he says, "assume Two."

I'm so conditioned to the phrase that I don't even register surprise to hear the words from the chauffeur. Automatically, my back straightens, and I shift my feet apart. My hands slip behind my back grasping my forearms. My chin rises; my eyes lower. A less stressful version of One.

"Wait," he says and gets back in the limo.

I don't think anything of it when he starts the engine -- it's chilly -- but when he pulls away I'm stunned. I watch the limo until it disappears over the ridge. I am not dressed for this.

I stand in my three-inch heels in the middle of a rocky Mexican field. I wait although I don't know if it was an order, but I don't see many options. How long do I wait? For an hour, maybe, and I manage to remain calm. Although whenever the moon goes behind a cloud, I feel an anxious twist in my gut. I've come to regard all stressful situations as tests even if I can't see the purpose. To pass the time, I review my day, organizing it as though I'll be reporting to Sir. It's been an eventful day, so it distracts me from my predicament. As time passes, I begin to feel weirdly isolated. The sound of the wind and the deepening darkness merge in my senses into a liquid overload.

I'm cold. I'm scared. I'm starving. Overall, I'm miserable. The only thing that lets me hold it together is my certainty that Sir wouldn't let this be for nothing. He wouldn't, would he? Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. My eyes are wet but I'll be damned if I'm crying again today. About then it begins to rain. I actually look up and say to the night sky, 'are you kidding me?' The rain picks up. Evidently not. I stare at the barn, and contemplate how strictly to interpret 'wait'. The command wasn't 'stay', and I'm just as capable of waiting under the barn's eaves as out in the open. I give my bedraggled logic a C minus. I'm about to strike out when Sir's final words echo in my head: 'Be on guard against too much cleverness.' Isn't this exactly the sort of semantic dance that frustrated him about me? I was told to wait so wait. My sensible and good decision makes me feel happy.

The rain falls steadily for the next hour. The field turns quickly to mud, and my heels sink into the earth. I feel mentally exhausted. It's not the pose; I've stood for far longer than this. It's the uncertainty of the situation. It's the complete trust I am placing in an owner I have never met. Of not feeling safe or certain what the rules are. Or maybe it's just been a long day. Another hour passes. The rain ebbs and then picks up strength again. For ten minutes I am inexplicably horny but that passes too.

The phone rings. I'd forgotten it was in my little purse.

"Hello?"

"Come to the barn." A male voice, and the line goes dead.

I trudge towards the barn. My heels sink into the soft earth and my progress is frustratingly slow. The sound of an engine idling greets me as I near the barn. Inside is a huge black pickup. I would have seen it arrive so it must have been there since before I arrived at the field. The two men in the cab regard me with casual indifference -- as if overdressed American girls were a dime a dozen in this field. Maybe they are. The headlights spear the night, blinding me. The passenger door opens, and closes and I track the outline of the man approaching me. He is my height, maybe an inch shorter and built like a gymnast with impossibly broad, curving shoulders tapering to a narrow waist; thick fire hydrants thighs. Yet his face is surprising delicate with high swooping cheekbones and a sharp, closely trimmed black beard. I might call him pretty except that his demeanor renders the word an impossibility. There is a hardness about him that I can feel in my spine. His teeth seem preternaturally clenched, and I somehow doubt those eyes have ever lost a staring contest. As to his age, I can't tell. He might be fifty; he might be thirty-five. I've never been a good judge of men's ages.

"98?" He asks taking the phone and purse out of my hand.

"Yes." What is that accent? Latin but something else as well.

"Padlock." He holds out a hand. His impatient fingers gesture for me to hurry. I put it in his palm. He produces a key, and slips it into the lock. The lock springs open. He looks intently at me.

"Does 98 understand?"

"98 serves whomever holds the key." I answer snapping back into Two.

"Yes that is so. My name is Amaro."

"Yes, Sir." That is not Sir the brat in me screams.

"Not Sir. Amaro." He corrects.

"Yes Amaro."

"Good. Welcome to a new life."

"Thank you, Sir."

His hand catches my cheek before I can correct myself. It is no stage slap. He follows through and my head snaps around. I stumble to my right, cursing my sloppiness and hurry back to stand before him.

He regards me a moment. "Welcome to a new life."

"Thank you, Amaro." I answer carefully.

He nods, and takes something out of a leather case on his belt. He moves it deftly through the air deftly, and suddenly it is a knife. He cuts through my shoulder straps, but my dress, wet from the rain, clings to my frame. It doesn't please him. He turns me around by the shoulders and unzipping the dress tugs it roughly to my ankles. He cuts my panties off my hips and tugs them through my legs. The dull side of the blade is cold on my skin.

"Turn"

I turn slowly in a circle. He is leaning against the hood of the pickup. When I am facing away he stops me. He tells me to bend at the waist, and, legs apart, to present myself. I reach back with both hands and hold my bottom apart. I remember a time that Sir had me hold this position while he ate dinner; I masturbated in the same position during dessert. The thought makes me warm.

"Very nice." You say.

"Thank you, Sir."

This time I don't catch myself. Stupid daydreaming girl. Amaro takes me by the ponytail, lifting and pulling so I follow him out of the barn on my toes, laboring to keep up. He walks me in circles in the rain; the mud rips my shoes from my feet. We stop in a puddle.

"Down."

I get down on my knees.

"Lower."

I drop to all fours.

"Lower." He growls.

I press myself belly first into the puddle working to flatten myself to the contours of the ground. I turn my face to the side, half in, half out of the mud. Breathing bubbles in the brackish water. I feel his heel pressing down on my left shoulder pushing me lower he's satisfied.

"Welcome to a new life."

"Thank you, Amaro." I stammer.

"A new life. A new birth, yes?"

"Yes, Amaro."

"Birth. It is a messy thing. Never clean. Never easy. The mother is exhausted, and the baby is filthy, squalling and fighting for breath, no?"

"Yes, Amaro."

He squats beside me, and holds my head under the water. Only for a few seconds, but the effect is profound. I can hold my breath a long time, but only on my own terms. I'm almost immediately drowning. He lifts my head.

"For some the strain is too much." Thrusting my head back into the water.

"The baby is not strong enough." And again.

"And the baby is stillborn." And again.

"Is 98 strong?"

"Yes, Amaro." I splutter.

"Am I Sir?"

"No, Amaro."

"No." He agrees. "Come."

He walks back to the shelter of the barn. I rise sopping from the puddle and follow him back into the barn. The other man gets out and meets us by a wooden crate. '98' is stenciled on every side. It's not subtle, but the psychological impact is powerful. I was bought, and now I'm being processed, packaged and shipped.

"In."

"Yes, Amaro." I say, but my anxiety plays on my face as I peer into the padded crate. I don't deal well with small spaces

Amaro cups my cheek gently, "we will deliver you to your new life. It is alright." For some reason that is good enough for me. A quality in his voice that nullifies all questions. I climb in. There is room enough for me to sit if I pull my knees up to my chin. Amaro peers in at me, and smiles; I can't tell if it's meant to be condescending or not, but from inside the crate condescending is how it feels.

"Comfortable?"

"Yes, Amaro." With Sir, I would have told the truth that I was not comfortable, that was what was expected, but I am too scared of Amaro to dare test his temper again.

"Good. We will drive carefully. I would not like to deliver broken. Understand?"

"Yes, Amaro."

Amaro and the driver place the lid on top, and I hear the whine of a drill as the lid is screwed in place. A year ago it would have taken a fist full of Seconal to get me in an enclosed space like this. I feel a wave of panic, but force myself to breath slowly as Sir taught me until I feel my heartbeat slow. I feel the truck bounce its way out of the barn, and back to a paved road. Just your average mud covered girl in a crate in the back of a pickup truck on her way to the home of the man who bought her.