Roman Slave Auction

I'd been cruising around with the DriveU app activated for nearly an hour, and no riders. This was going to be a slow night, I just knew it. I parked and went into the Actor's Equity Local to see if anything was open tomorrow. If I could audition, I'd call it a night to get some sleep. If not, I'd spend the evening hoping for some DriveU customers.

A couple of things on Thursday, but nothing for tomorrow. A Saturday listing caught my eye: "Men to play Roman Slaves at auction for bachelorette party. Must be into realism. $800 for 4 hours."

Realism? Meaning what, that we're sold into slavery? That we're in costume? Whatever that was supposed to mean, I knew what $800 meant. It meant rent paid and food on the table.

I called the number. It was an answering service, but they knew enough to tell me to go to 853 West St. between nine and eleven tomorrow where I could interview and get more details. So the evening wasn't a total bust.

My lucky streak must have started because not ten minutes after I got back into the car I was first to grab an airport run. Turned out to be $55 fare with a $10 tip. That would raise my hourly wages for today to maybe $8, still a lousy way to try to make a living no matter how lucky I got. Maybe I'd be better off as a Roman Slave?

I got to the office about 9:30 and took one of the two empty chairs. There were already a half-dozen guys ahead of me. None of them looked very Roman, not that I knew what that was exactly, and maybe I didn't either.

Finally at 11:15 my name was called and I went into the room. It was tiny, barely big enough for the two chairs, which were all the furniture there was. There was a young woman, more cute than pretty, with short brown hair and nice legs. She was scrolling a tablet.

"I'm Darcy," she said, looking up. "And you're Andy Miller, right?"

"Right," I said. "Here for the bachelorette party job?"

She poked on her tablet a few times. "OK, yeah, I see that here. Sorry, but I do lots of parties. Did anybody tell you what this was?"

"No," I said. "I just saw a posting and was told to show up here."

"That's fine," she said. "I'll just tell you what it says here. It's a Roman-themed bachelorette party, where the men pose as Roman slaves. There's a pretend auction, with the money going to the Oak Hill Women's Shelter."

"So, what, I act like a Roman slave?" I asked. That didn't seem too hard. I was guessing the partying girls wouldn't know how Roman slaves were supposed to act.

"More or less."

I remembered what I wanted to ask about. "What did the posting mean by realism?"

Darcy looked at her tablet. "You'll be dressed in a skimpy costume, and there might be some touching. You know, bachelorette party stuff. That's all I really have here. If you stay for the entire four hours and comply with their instructions, you'll be paid $800 at the end of the evening. Any tips you keep."

I thought about the touching part. I'd seen videos of bachelorette parties, and I knew they could get pretty raunchy. But, I wasn't a stripper, just an actor, so I assumed it would just be minor stuff. I mostly thought about the money.

"OK," I said.

Darcy sat down. I started to sit, but she said, "No, I need you to strip to your briefs so I can check you out. These bachelorettes can be pretty particular."

This was unlike any interview I'd ever had. But Darcy seemed professional enough. I undressed, putting my clothes on the empty chair. I knew I'd pass. I kept myself in shape for my acting, such that it was, and my six-two frame was pretty ripped.

"Stand where I can see you," said Darcy. "Facing me, hands behind your back."

I did as I was told. Darcy looked me over. "Turn around, hands above your head," she said.

Again, I followed her directions.

"Face me once more and come closer," said Darcy.

I did so. Before I could react, she pulled down the front of my briefs and took a long look at my cock. Then she pulled them back up.

"You'll do, thank you," she said. "Get dressed, have a seat, and I'll be back in a few minutes."

Holy fuck, I thought. This woman had just seen me naked. I don't think that had ever happened to me before. I've had sex, but in dim light. Never anything like this! At least it was only for a few seconds. I finished getting dressed and sat down.

"Congratulations, you've qualified," said Darcy, now back in the room and sitting next to me. "Look this contract over and sign, and I'll give you the particulars." She handed me a bunch of pages stapled together.

I started to read, but it was impossible. Reading wasn't my thing, and this was some kind of legalese. Near as I could tell, they wanted me to agree to do whatever they wanted. They wanted a release from liability, which was normal for acting jobs.

Darcy must have seen my frustration. "It's normal stuff, Andy. The girls will just want to pretend that you're really a slave. But not really a slave, because it's only for a few hours. And, of course, because you get paid." She giggled.

I looked at the papers again. Something about nudity. But I'd seen that in acting contracts before. Probably just for some extra legal protection, something the lawyers insisted on adding.

What the hell, I thought. I signed the papers and gave them back to Darcy.

"Great, Andy," she said. "Here's your copy." She handed some stapled papers to me. "On the first page, you'll find the address and time. That's when you need to be there. Don't be late. That's very important. Any questions?"

"Yeah, well, I'm still not sure exactly what I'm supposed to do."

"Not a problem. They'll be a party manager there who will explain it all to you. That's why you need to be on time. Don't worry, Andy. You'll be fine."

She got up, which I took as my cue to leave. We shook hands in a businesslike way. I remembered that she'd taken a look at my penis. But she'd done that in a businesslike way, too.

As the week went on I was even more happy to have this party gig than I was on Tuesday. The driving game continued to be lousy. Maybe the ride-sharing idea was a good one, but definitely not for the drivers. I started to think I'd rather be a Roman slave than a DriveU slave. No wonder they were losing money.

Finally, it was Saturday. I took the Q to 86th St. and walked to 1st Ave. The building was half-a-block south. I opened the unlocked door and took the steps to the third floor, where there was a large party room. Somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to make it look Roman, or at least as Roman things looked in the movies. Lots of fake columns and pools.

A tall, slim blonde saw me enter and approached. "You are?" she asked. She was wearing a tunic-like dress, or whatever you'd call it. It looked Roman. Maybe shorter than what the Roman women wore. Combination of Roman and sleek East-side, I didn't know. She had really great-looking legs. No bra. Maybe bras hadn't been yet invented?

"Andy Miller."

She looked at her clipboard. "Right. Follow me." She didn't bother giving me her name.

I followed her through a door to a much smaller room where two other men were already undressing.

"Take off everything but your shorts. Put your things in one of the lockers. You choose the combination, but make it something you won't forget. Make sure you use the restroom. Then come out to the forum."

"The forum?" I asked.

"You'll see it. Columns with some beams overhead. The other men are there."

For the second time in a week, I stripped to my shorts. I locked up my stuff and went back to the larger room. There were women all about setting things up, but they didn't even look up as I passed by wearing only shorts. I guess they were used to prospective slaves.

The tall blonde was directing another woman as she was positioning a man against a wooden beam about three feet off the floor. The other woman had curly red hair and was also wearing one of those short tunics.

The blonde saw me and came over. "OK, Andy, you'll be over here." She patted a spot on the beam about eight feet from the other man. "Carrie!" she called. A woman came over. "You do Andy here."

"Hi, Andy," said Carrie, the only person whose name I knew. She was almost as great looking as the nameless first woman, but a little slimmer, which is the way I like women. Her breasts could barely stay inside her little tunic. "Just lean against the beam so I can tie you up." She put a cord over my head that held a card with a number on it. I was to be slave #2.

"Tie me up?" I didn't like that at all. I could see what she meant. The other guy by this time had his arms tied to the overhead beam. Something was being wrapped around his waist.

Carrie tied ropes to each of my wrists and then climbed on a stool to attach each end to a ring on the overhead beam. So that's what they meant by realism! We were going to be slaves tied up at the forum for the auction that Darcy had talked about.

By the time my arms were secured, I could see a third man being led to his position.

"Now the loin flaps," said Carrie, as she put some sort of garment around my waist. The belt was a rope, and there was a beige-colored cloth flap in the front, maybe the size of a sheet of paper, and a similar flap in the back. Very authentic, I thought. I was starting to appreciate how thorough this whole thing was.

I was thinking, the loin flaps were just for effect, since I still had my shorts on, and you could still see them if you looked at my sides, exposed by the flimsy loin flaps.

But I was wrong about that. Carrie reached under the flaps and pulled my shorts down. "Step out," she said. I was too shocked to disobey. I lifted each foot in turn so my shorts came free. She put them into a plastic bag. "You'll find these at your locker later."

Now I was covered only by the flaps. And, if you looked at me from the side, I don't think I was covered at all. You've heard of side boob? Try side penis. I should have read that damned contract, I thought. I didn't like where this was going at all.

"Now your legs," said Carrie. She pulled my right foot outward and tied it to a ring on the floor. Then she did the same to my left leg, so my legs were spread.

"One more thing," said Carrie. She put a leather belt around my waist, a few inches above the loin rope, which sat low on my hips. Then she clipped the belt to the beam left and right, so my mid-section was immobilized.

I was bound and almost naked. Realism. Just like a Roman slave, I guess.

What's happening to me? I asked myself. I should have been panicked, but, truth be told, I wasn't. Actually, it all felt kind of erotic. I started to get hard, even. Pretty obvious, with only that little flap in front, but I couldn't really do anything about it. I'm almost seven inches hard and had reached maybe five inches already.

Carrie raised a cup with a straw to my lips. "Water," she said. "We'll have something stronger for you later. And some food. Otherwise, just relax. The party will start in a few minutes." She walked away to tend to another man who had just arrived. I could see that there would be seven of us in a circle around this forum place.

I tried to relax. After a while, I realized that I could let my arms go slack and let the rope support their weight. And, I could lean back on the beam to take some weight off my legs.

The guests started to arrive. Some of them were in tunic-like dresses, and some of them in regular black cocktail dresses. All of the women looked sexy as hell, but I think that might have been because I was tied up and semi-exposed.

The women ranged from attractive, to pretty, to desperately cute, to supermodel. I had my eye on one of the latter with long blonde hair, a sexy black dress that barely covered her ass, perky breasts, and legs that seemed to go on forever. She looked at me and smiled. I'd never seen eyes like hers in my life. So deep, expressive, and welcoming. I pretended her name was Venus. I think that was a Roman goddess. Or Greek? No, Roman. Who cares?

Soon the room was filled with women, maybe seventy-five, at least. They mostly stayed around the bar, but a few adventurous ones came over to get a closer look at us slaves. They were giggling and talking. I couldn't make out much in the din, but caught a few phrases, like "taking him home," "rip that flap off," and "manhood." They kept looking down at my stiffy. One of them said, "This one has a spear. Is that allowed?"

The flaps didn't seem very secure at all. Fortunately, none of the women tried to touch me. At this point, they were only looking.

Every once in a while a woman would come over and feed me. An olive wrapped with bacon, or a cracker with cheese, or some sort of filled pastry. They would always say something in keeping with the theme, like "gotta feed the slave" or "you'll need your energy for later" or "scraps for the condemned."

Best of all, some of the women had little cups of whiskey that they let me sip from. Maybe I was a slave, but I was actually having fun. Being at the mercy of a roomful of partying young women wasn't bad at all!

My only problem was that my dick was semi-hard. Maybe more than semi. I looked around, and I think the other guys were having the same problem. As I said, there was nothing I could do about it.

The buffet was opened, and the girls got a lot quieter as they served themselves and sat at tables around the forum, so we were on display, like a floor show. The snacks and whiskey stopped. We were left alone. I wondered what would come next.

I thought I spotted the bride, from all the attention a particular woman was getting, but I wasn't sure. Actually, there were so many women, it was hard to tell one from another. Except for Venus, that is.

After a while, the women started to leave their tables and wander over to the slaves. They'd had a lot more to drink, and acted that way. A few of them brushed up against me, not accidentally, I was sure.

The woman in charge went to the microphone. "Ladies, the auction will start in a half-hour. Meanwhile, you should inspect the offerings and decide on how much you want to bid. Remember, all proceeds go to the Oak Hill Women's Shelter."

"How much can we inspect?" yelled one of the women. I was wondering about that myself.

"Under the rules, you can't inspect the part that's covered," said the woman in charge. "These aren't real slaves," she laughed.

There was a general groan from the room. But the inspections started.

Suddenly, I felt female hands all over. Arms, chest, sides, thighs, lower legs, feet. Even my face. They were mostly pretty gentle or were trying to be, but the sexual energy in the room combined with all that alcohol was making it hard for them to control what they were doing. Some of them pinched me a little too hard. I felt a pair of hands on the back of my legs that went all the way up under my back flap, but only for a few seconds. Nobody went under my front flap. I was still sort-of covered. Still, I felt very exposed.

Then one of the guests went to the microphone. "Lizzy, we want to raise a big chunk of money for the Shelter!" she yelled. I figured the woman in charge was named Lizzy.

"I hope so," said Lizzy.

The woman at the microphone went on. "Well, I'm not going to bid much if I don't know what I'm getting."

"That's why we have inspection," said Lizzy. "Right?" I could tell that Lizzy was confused. I think we all were.

"I want the whole slave," said the woman at the microphone. She was really into the whole Roman thing, was my first thought. Then, I realized, what she was really saying. And she said it: "You know, flaps up."

"No, that wasn't what I was told," said Lizzy. "I'm just going by what Eileen told me." I figured Eileen was the bride. "For me, our contracts cover total exposure. Whatever Eileen wants."

The women started to chant loudly. "TOTAL EXPOSURE! TOTAL EXPOSURE! TOTAL EXPOSURE!" It went on and on.

Now I was in for it. As exposed as I was, things were about to go to another level entirely.

The woman I thought was the bride, who's name was apparently Eileen, went to the microphone.

"I love you all!" she shouted. There was a cheer, and the chant started again. "TOTAL EXPOSURE! TOTAL EXPOSURE!" These women were getting out of control.

"But I don't know if it's OK with the slaves," said Eileen, into the microphone.

"They're slaves!" yelled a woman. "No rights! Strip 'em naked."

Then that became the chant. "NAKED! NAKED! NAKED!"

Eileen screamed into the microphone: "Strip the slaves!"

A huge cheer went up in the room, and the women descended on us slaves. Somebody ripped off my back flap, and then my front. My cock and balls were out there for all to see. Hands bound above, feet bound to the floor, waist immobilized, and entirely naked.

"Fuck it, he's naked!" yelled one of the woman surrounding me. "Shit, I can't believe it," said another.

One of the younger women with long black hair grabbed my penis with her left hand while she squeezed my balls with her right. "I'm inspecting!" she laughed. But it was no laughing matter for me. My whole body shook. I couldn't pull away because of the strap around my mid-section. She had my cock and balls in a tight grip and I was helpless to resist.

Then it seemed like they all attacked. I don't know how many women were groping me, but with only seven of us slaves, it might have been ten or a dozen. Somebody, or maybe several somebodies, was pinching my ass. A pair of female hands had reached from the back and were holding my balls, while two or three women were taking turns holding my shaft.

Naked now wasn't even the word to describe what I was. I was being handled like a piece of meat. Some of the women were trying to take notes for their bidding, notes about what I couldn't even imagine.

Suddenly, even with all those hands on me, I became aware of Venus. I didn't see her approach, not that I could really tell what was going on, what with my cock, balls, and ass being squeezed, pulled, twisted, stroked, and tugged.

The women noticed Venus, too, and dropped their hands. "Bridesmaids get to do the milking," she said, mostly to me.

Milking? Holy shit! Venus was going to get me off. I noticed she had a plastic cup with her.

The women who'd been attacking me formed a circle, and Venus started stroking my body. It felt great, a welcome relief from the frenzied groping I'd just been through. She worked her way to my inner thighs, then cupped my balls. By the time she got to my shaft, I was ready to explode. She put a finger in my pee hole and worked it around while she massaged the bottom of my cock with her other hand.

Wow, was she talented! I strained against my binding, trying to thrust towards her, but I couldn't really move. She looked up at me with those glorious eyes and smiled. Then she squeezed my penis really hard and started some serious stroking.

It was more than I could take, more than any man could take. I came violently and screamed. My legs involuntarily pulled up, but all that happened is that I tightened the ropes holding my feet. I shot waves and waves of cum into Venus's cup, while the other women looked on.

Venus pinched my shaft and pulled it outward, to get every last drop into the cup. Then she bent down and kissed my penis. She looked up and smiled. "Thank you, Number Two. That was great!"

I collapsed, but couldn't go anywhere. The ropes on my arms and the belt around my waist held my full weight. I hadn't been aware of anything else in the room, but Venus wasn't the only bridesmaid with a cup. There were six others.

Carrie, bless her, came over with some water and then some more whiskey. I was so spent I couldn't really follow what was going on in the room, and then I slowly became aware of the auction in progress.

The Shelter was going to have a good night. It looked like the bids were in the hundreds. At some point, Lizzy, who was the auctioneer, stopped and there was a lot of discussion. Then the bidding started up again, only this time by tables. Eventually, Lizzie called out winners, and I heard "Slave Number Two sold to Table Seven."