Bought

In that moment, every one of my senses was heightened to the extreme. I think I might have toppled over from it all had I not been restricted from doing so.

There I stood, on a stage, with brilliant theatre lights dazzling my sight. I could see nothing above the tables within the audience, underneath which I could make out dark leather soles, heels of all shapes and makes, stockinged legs and pressed pants, but very little else. I had to squint each time I tried to look up more directly ahead.

My body was displayed as they had warned me it would be. A thick pole, almost like a tree trunk, pressed against my back, and my wrists were bound behind it with soft rope. They said that this was to better exhibit my breasts. My ankles were not tied down, but a spreader bar had been attached to them, and I had been ratcheted open where I stood. In terms of clothing, I had stepped on stage with the filmy little robe they had provided, and I hoped that perhaps they would allow it to stay. But it had only taken one call-out from an audience member to have it removed; an organizer had quickly stepped forward to unbind me, whisk it away, and pull my hands back together behind the pole. So I stood naked, save my heels, some simple jewellery, and the ID collar around my neck.

My heart pounded, my chest rose and fell too rapidly, and I knew the colour was rising to my cheeks. The music was low, of course, so as not to drown out the caller, and for the first minute or so, I could make out his words. But as my heart pumped, my ears were flooded by the rushing sound of my own blood, and beyond the introduction and early invitation to bid, I could make out nothing more.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the caller began in a mild French-Canadian accent, "If you would kindly consult tonight's program, you will see that this is Whore #7 of the evening. Some might call her Lucky #7, hm?" He paused here, received the expected chuckles, and continued.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is #7's first auction, but please don't mistake her for a virgin. She is, indeed, a deep-down slut, and states in her own words that she has a desire to extend her understanding of a submissive's role. She yearns for a Daddy who will push her limits while keeping her safe, and she wishes to know the sting of discipline as much as the pleasure of cock stuffing full her holes. You may view her preferences and limits in your program, of course, and by all means you may approach the stage for a closer look or to sample as you wish. Shall we open the bidding then, ladies and gentlemen?"

Numbers were called out. Men and women alike approached the stage to ogle me, to fondle me, to inspect me. I quickly understood the reasons for the pole behind me and the bar between my legs. The caller's voice rose and fell, acknowledging each new bid and still encouraging others. I followed very little of it all, my head spinning like a carnival Tilt-a-Whirl, until I heard the small gavel knock against the caller's podium.

"Sold to #124! Sir, would you kindly approach the stage and collect your whore? You can then attend to the official documents for signing just off-stage..."

I heard a deep, steady voice in reply, "With all due respect, I would prefer the girl to come to me." I struggled to squint and locate from where and whom the voice was coming in the audience.

The caller hesitated and glanced off-stage over his right shoulder while covering the microphone on his lapel. His hand moved aside again and he smiled accommodatingly.

"Sir, by all means; not a problem at all," and I felt the same organizer as earlier release first my bar, and then my wrists. I glanced helplessly at the caller, unsure of how to proceed. I had not been warned that it might happen like this. He nodded in the audience's general direction. I was not unaware of how foolish I looked standing there in the stage lights, blinking like a newborn fawn. I took two steps towards the stairs leading from the stage when the voice from the audience rose up again.

"Excuse me caller, but I would appreciate the whore coming to me on her hands and knees, please."

I froze. This man meant for me to crawl to him, wherever he happened to be in the mass of tables. I heard the caller take my voice from me.

"Yes Sir, of course. A good whore must know her place."

And so, I carefully lowered myself to the floor of the stage and crawled to the edge, down the stairs, and through the legs, both table and human. I had no clue where I was going, but for the audience, it turned into the childhood game of "Hot or Cold". They led me to the man, but not before having their own fun with me and laughing at my expense. Words like "bitch" and "cunt" and "slave" rang in my ears.

After finally arriving at his feet, on blackened knees and hands, I dared not even raise my eyes for fear of betraying my anger. He said nothing at first; simply clipped my ID collar to the leash he held in his hands. I moved not my body, but raised my eyes enough to see him wrap the leash tightly around his left hand several times. He did not raise me, but leaned down closely to my ear. I could smell the clean of him and he half-spoke, half-whispered.

"You have no idea how proud of you I am already, pet. I understand how hard that must have been for you, and you need to hear this: I thank you for it."

Without realizing it, my eyes shot up to his face in surprise, expecting to see a sarcastic grin of some sort, but finding nothing but hard sincerity. He seemed to search mine a moment, then nodded once and spoke again. "Come." He flicked his wrist and took my neck with him as he rose from his seat. I stumbled but a half-step and then walked alongside him on two feet as he first went to sign the required documents and regain my robe, and then led me outside. A large, dark car awaited us.

Within, we were at first quiet. He spoke only after the vehicle had driven for several blocks.

"I would like you to tell me why you chose to do that tonight."

I searched for what he meant to ask in that statement.

"I had to crawl... You requested..."

He cut me off to clarify, "No, no... I meant to ask why you would choose to auction yourself off like that. Why a girl would do something like that to herself, not knowing just what might happen to her."

It was an excellent question, and one I had had to answer several times already, to myself. It had not been an easy decision, and I had second-guessed myself numerous times through the process. While I gathered my thoughts towards responding, he spoke again.

"Please, whore... Do sit appropriately for your role, hm? Legs apart, robe slightly open. There. Good girl. Now, do tell."

That moment – his simple yet demanding words – solidified it all. Suddenly, I wanted him to see me for what I was.

"I knew, deep within me, that it was something I needed to do. Something I needed to experience, and that I needed to lose some of the control of it. Yes, there were moments of extreme uncertainty, from the first application form all the way through to the caller's final words tonight. But, if I may be so bold, your words right there..? Telling me to sit appropriately..?" I knew I was blushing now.

"Go on," he pushed. I inhaled.

"I need a Daddy. A demanding Daddy. One who will take charge of me and show me who I really am inside. One who will... Who will use me and expose me and bend me and mold me into his perfect... his perfect..."

"His perfect baby whore? His absolute fuck doll? His own obedient cunt? His pleasing little cock puppet? Isn't that what you mean? Hm? Indeed, that's what I expect. And looking at you up there tonight... Somehow I just knew you had it in you. I knew you needed it. Don't you think you do, pet?"

"Yes..."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, Daddy."

I looked at him when I said this. I couldn't help it; I was terrified of mockery for it. A corner of his mouth lifted, but it was clearly in pleasure, not insincerity. He moved a large hand between my legs, ran it upwards to my smooth pussy. I was mildly embarrassed that he would find me wet, but he seemed not to be even remotely surprised.

"I'd like to hear it again, whore."

"Yes, Daddy."

He slipped one finger between my folds.

"Again, whore."

"Yes, Daddy..."

He slipped in another, and then pushed them both up into me. I gasped and bucked into his hand.

"And again, whore."

My voice changed. My being changed. There it was; he had claimed me, and I had given myself willingly.

"Yes, Daddyyy..."

Three fingers cleaved me, fucked me just a moment, and then he pulled them out and smeared them across my cheeks, lips, drawing them downwards. I was breathless. My mouth opened instinctively and into it, my Daddy slid his fingers. I sucked. Like a proper whore. Like the tag I wore round my neck. I sucked, I opened my legs further and pressed down into the leather seat, and his other hand grasped one breast, mauled it. Each movement was a burst of sensation and image.

His voice became a low growl, "I own you this weekend, whore. I own your tits, your mouth, your ass, and your cunt, and I intend to get my money's worth for all of them."

I took his fingers down into my throat, eyes watering, and listened.

"And the weekend will come to a close, but I daresay your desire to be my willing piece of fuckmeat will not. The choice will be yours in the end. Now..."

His fingers pulled from my mouth and the other hand released my breast; instead, they tangled themselves in my hair.

"Be a good whore and suck Daddy. Show me how grateful you are to be here with him, hm? Show Daddy what a piece of paid-for fuckmeat is meant for."

I mewled, and I bent my head.