Sold, to the Highest Bidder!

The prospect was just too tempting not to investigate further. When Donald Meadows was sent an exclusive invitation from Mistress Veronique to an event that was described as a private, very real, and completely voluntary interracial slave auction, he first thought it might be a party or munch where people meet and greet but he certainly couldn't believe that it was an authentic slave auction. He was intrigued, however, and he trusted the source of the invite so he started doing his research. The slave auction was being held in New Orleans and submissive white men were coming from every corner of the country, potentially from all over the world even, to be bought, sold, and traded by Black Masters and Mistresses.

All the I's were dotted and the T's were crossed, avoiding the pesky little fact that the enslavement of real human beings is very much illegal, by virtue of the white men paying for the opportunity to be treated like actual slaves on an auction block. You can't technically, or more importantly legally, be considered a slave if you have paid for the opportunity to be treated as such. And the fee was not at all insignificant; participants could choose from a menu of how long they wanted to be "enslaved" and what circumstances they preferred: the plantation experience, the dungeon experience, or the domestic experience. The shortest term for participation was for a week and while $5,000 dollars wasn't enough to take out a second mortgage or anything, it would make anyone who wanted to participate think twice before they RSVP'd.

Donald was intrigued. Being a true masochist, being driven by his obsessive need to experience real slavery at the hands of a sadistic Master, combined with his compelling interracial desires, and driven by this burning, inexplicable NEED deep within his soul to be humiliated, degraded, objectified, and deeply tortured, the potential was just too intriguing to ignore. Having acquired enough fiscal freedom in his lifetime to fulfill his fetishes and fantasies afforded Donald the time, finances, and opportunity to pack a bag, make a deposit online, and purchase an airline ticket for The Big Easy.

Sweltering, sticky, and steamy, the oppressive heat of Louisiana was more than a colorful, descriptive alliteration for dramatic effect from a Mark Twain novel. From the moment he emerged from the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, Donald started sweating like a pig. He hailed a cab and headed for his swanky Bourbon Street hotel so he could wash off the perspiration and calm his nerves. In the heart of all the action, in the center of the city, he could look out his window and see drunken revelers sipping alcoholic beverages from giant, tacky, colorful plastic cups, he could practically taste the heady flavors of spicy gumbo and delectable jambalaya, and he could faintly hear the distinct sounds of zydeco, jazz, and blues blending harmoniously.

Pathologically shy, he ventured out, but he didn't interact with the vibrant pulse of his surroundings, he simply observed. He would have been more comfortable had he been there with someone he knew or even if he was assured of what was before him. Donald's mind raced with anticipation and nerves. Long ago, he had resigned himself to the fact that he had a deviant nature, a perverse core within him that would lead him to do dangerous, questionable things in pursuit of sexual pleasure. Taking chances, being secretive, it all added to the excitement, the thrill of the ultimate sexual experience he was assured was out there somewhere.

The next morning, Donald awoke to a text message instructing him to show up at The Marigny Opera House located at 725 Saint Ferdinand Street, at 11:00 am for orientation. Nervously, he checked out of the hotel and asked the concierge the best way to his destination and as fate would have it, it was within walking distance. "Who does this? What's wrong with me?" The questions were rhetorical because the tingle in his cock was like a compass pointing due north, leading him to explore the possibilities. It was do or die, time to shit or get off the pot so to speak. Taking a deep breath, Donald set out on a journey that would lead him to the realization of his wildest dreams come true.

Unaware of the historical significance of the address, Donald walked up to the massive door at the address and knocked far too softly. No one would have heard him but the security cameras had alerted the hosts of a new guest and they responded accordingly. The expansive door opened and a young Black male, no more than 20 years old with a boyishly cute face and chiseled muscular body stood there and asked, "Name?"

Donald fidgeted. This kid? There was no way he could be in charge, he was barely out of high school. Immediately, Donald's brain had conflicting messages bombard his consciousness at the sight of this young, Black man. He didn't think of himself as racist, he had no reason to believe he was racist as he never used the N word, but his mind flashed to every, single, solitary media source, every core belief, everything in his existence told him that Black men were inherently ignorant, violent, criminal, and, most importantly sexual savages. He thought of gang-bangers and thugs, he thought of uneducated rappers and basketball players who were all beneath him in status. He thought of barely-literate ghetto dwellers, unemployed and smoking weed, with enormous, hard black cocks exploding with potent Black sperm in his insatiable asshole and his cock throbbed. "Donald Meadows," he whispered as he stepped through the doors.

"Follow me," the young man said as he walked through the huge opera hall, Donald's hard-soled shoes the only detectable sound, echoed off the walls. Their first destination was what looked like a classroom with a blackboard and desks from primary school. As he stepped through the threshold, he saw five other white men sitting at tiny desks, filling out paperwork. Almost as if choreographed, they all looked up simultaneously, sized up their competition, and nervously looked down again, as if to pretend that they were filling out job applications for a coveted, high-paid, executive position. They weren't. They were signing endless disclaimers and filling out questionnaires.

At the head of the classroom was a long table where three very beautiful Black women were seated. They were older than the young man who escorted him inside but not by much; the youngest looked to be about 25 and the oldest maybe in her mid-thirties, but given the fact that Black people don't age the same way that whites do, Donald was open to the possibility that every last one of them could have been older than he was imagining them to be.

The entire operation was like a well-oiled assembly line with submissive white men being the finished product. First, Donald was instructed to pay the balance of his fee and make any additions or changes to his previous online selections. He had initially chosen the one-week plantation experience with both male and female dominants but being stared down by the Black female across the table from him, he felt intimidated and at the last second, for no good reason, opted for two weeks and as quietly as possible asked if he could use his phone to make the transaction complete. The cocoa-colored, beautiful woman nodded and he furiously thumbed his phone while she explained that he would be given a refund, minus a 10% handling fee of course, if he was not purchased by any of the prospective buyers.

As he moved down the line he was told that he would be giving up all of his possession, including his cell phone, his identification, and all of his belongings. He placed his wallet, his keys, his phone and whatever money he had in his pockets in an overnight express envelope that was pre-labeled with his home address on it and it was sealed and dropped in a bin with about a dozen other similar looking packages. His luggage was taken from him and opened and the contents examined in front of the room. He hadn't packed too much clothing, just enough for two or three days, with the standard toiletries and a few inconspicuous sex toys that could easily avoid detection by nosey TSA officials. Everything was thrown away. Even his suitcase. The young man dumped everything in a huge, gray, industrial trash bin and Donald was instructed to move down to the final young lady.

At no point after entering the event space did Donald have the desire to stop, go back, or change his mind. He was invested. Electricity coursed through his body and the entire experience was erotic, even if nothing sexual had happened yet. The last young lady at the table was responsible for explaining all the forms. There were a stack of papers two inches thick that he was supposed to read and sign before he could proceed. The first pack was, of course, stating that he was there voluntarily and that even though he was submitting himself to be "a slave" that he was not forced, coerced, or blackmailed into the agreement and that he was entering into it with the full acknowledgement that he was going to be treated as closely as possible to what actual Black slaves had endured during the 18th century antebellum South.

There were medical release forms that had the phrase "in the event of death" highlighted several times. Donald initialed and signed every place that was highlighted, really only reading the last paragraphs above the signature lines fully, briefly skimming the rest of the documents. The last packet of papers were to be given to his future owners and he was to fill out what seemed like hundreds of questions about past experiences, fantasies, fetishes, proclivities, skills, talents, and extremely personal, private inquires.

Moving to one of the schoolroom desks, he started filling out the endless questions. Just as he got settled, the door to the room opened and another white man entered. As before, it was now Donald's turn to look up to see who it was, quickly assess him as competition, and shamefully lower his gaze to the task at hand, answering all those goddamn questions. How many bowel movements did he have in a week, how often did he ejaculate, how much did he ejaculate, did he have prostate issues, had he ever had hemorrhoids, could he maintain an erection without ED meds? The questions had no boundaries. Donald was mortified. With each question he became more and more aroused. The more personal and invasive the question, the more he became aroused. He tried to quantify how much pain he thought he could handle on a scale of 1-10 without exaggerating and without making himself unappealing to potential buyers. It was all dizzying.

The building was completely modern and centrally cooled but it seemed that all the white men, seated at desks only appropriate for small children, had drenched their shirts with underarm sweat and had rivulets of perspiration dripping from every possible gland. When he had finished, Donald, stood to take his completed packets to the front and the male immediately yelled at him to sit the fuck down, in no uncertain terms. It was as if lightning had hit his body. Donald realized that all his rights had been signed away and that he had forfeited everything, even the right to stand and sit when he pleased.

His mind reeled at the concept and it aroused him in a place that he had never experienced before. Not only was he going to be a slave, he was going to be a slave to actual descendants of slaves. He was going to be subjected to tortures and punishments by individuals who had every right to seek sadistic and cruel revenge against white men who had historically done more evil than he had ever thought to imagine. The ever-popular adage, "My ancestors never owned any slaves," didn't seem like it would to matter very much to this team. The fact that he was white and had all the privileges that having white skin and a penis in this society would afford him seemed to be all they cared about.

In his lifetime, Donald had been subjected to treatment by white men, sadists, that was beyond perverted, that was sick and truly fucking twisted. If white men had been capable of doing those things to him, of getting sexual pleasure from his abject pain and he was one of them, if he in fact "belonged to the club" so to speak, what had white men done to actual slaves that they had no respect for, whom they didn't even see as human, whom they despised for their skin color? Donald was too privileged, too enmeshed in the fallacy of white supremacy to even grasp the implications.

The fact that actual slaves, actual Black people couldn't sign a paper or fill out a form stating their preferences, the fact that actual slaves didn't get sexual gratification from having their babies ripped from their arms, they didn't voluntarily choose to be raped or castrated or branded or hanged, that he would never know what it's truly like to be sold like a horse with no say in the matter; it never crossed his mind and it was beyond his comprehension. All he could think about was his voracious need to be gangbanged by Black men and being a toilet for Black women. All he could think about were his own sick fantasies.

Once all the papers were completed, once everyone had finished, the seven white men were all instructed to follow the young Black man to another destination. They walked calmly through the majestic stone halls and up a grand staircase where they were ushered into a large room that was completely empty; the only real feature that the space offered were the spectacular views of the historic city. Inside the room were five other white men who had made themselves comfortable, or at least as comfortable as they could be, seated on the cold, tiled floor. The door, slammed unceremoniously behind them, was locked from the outside and almost immediately, a few of the others started making small talk. They were nervously asking questions and making introductions.

Donald, never one to stand out, remained a little more protective of his personal information than a few of the others seemed to be. He made sure to put names with faces but he didn't care about or even believe them when they spoke of careers and families and even their personal lives. It was not long before Donald had to go to the bathroom. There was no restroom and he was a victim of a weak bladder that had to be emptied frequently. One of the other men noticed his predicament and slid next to him to whisper that there was a bucket in the corner that they had taken to be what they were supposed to us to relieve themselves. As if by unspoken code, everyone turned their backs and pretended not to see or hear the urine collecting in the bucket. The smell was not as easy to ignore as the strong yellow piss mixture created a rancid odor.

As the evening wore on, hunger set in. The setting sun created a magnificent backdrop to the cityscape with its beautiful hues of orange and purple. Donald's stomach growled loudly as he tried to think of other things. A few of his roommates were not as willing to remain silent and they started banging on the door, demanding food, demanding that someone tell them what was going to happen. They tried to open the windows; they started to get agitated, irritated, and annoyed. As the lights of the city night illuminated the skyline, it was apparent that they were not going to get any food or answers and Donald took off his shirt to make a makeshift pillow out of it as he lay on the floor.

With only minutes of sleep, morning came none too soon. While the city was still sleeping, the door unlocked and a different Black man this time, an older, much larger and menacing one called the name Ted and one of the men stood nervously. "Come with me," he bellowed, and his fellow submissive used his eyes to scan the room for empathy and answers. As the door shut behind him, the others came alive with nervousness and anticipation. Donald maneuvered his way to one of the windows and used the sill as a seat and he glanced nervously at the guy named Mark and they whispered about what they thought might be happening. Mark said, "Man, don't you get it? This is the true slave experience. Real slaves were starved to death, they were made to sleep on floors, they were transported and held captives with no explanation, and they were sold like cattle. We signed up for the true slave experience and we're getting it. Pissing and shitting in a bucket, it's humiliating. Even this place, man, it's rumored to be one of the last standing slave trading auction blocks of the era."

In that moment, Donald felt the souls of the slaves speaking out to him. They were haunting him, calling him names, telling him that he was a sexual deviant who would never understand what they felt having their humanity traded like a child's baseball card. Several men had to use the bucket to shit and the stench became even more oppressive as everyone pretended to be oblivious. As the morning wore on, one by one, the door opened and another name was called. Seemingly they were being called in the order of their arrival which meant Donald was the next to last to be called. When it was down to he and John, and the door opened, he had tried to smooth his wrinkled shirt out and he was ready to move to the next phase, whatever that would be.

As it turned out, the next phase was a medical examination. This new Black man escorted him to a room that looked like it was a doctor's office. He was given an EKG and a prostate exam that was more like manual rape than a medical procedure. The doctor, or rather the person who seemed to be functioning as a doctor because there were no medical degrees framed on the wall and no proof whatsoever of his credentials, was another Black man: tall, dark-skinned, handsome, and quiet, he didn't explain what he was doing, what was going to happen, he had no bedside manner whatsoever. He was particularly brutal in the way in which he examined Donald's mouth, ears, and nose. He squeezed Donald's testicles so hard as to cause him to groan which was no small feat given the abuse those nuts had endured over the course of his lifetime.

Stripped of all his clothing, with nothing on but a hospital gown, Donald was led into yet another corral-type room where his fellow slaves were waiting for him as before, all in blue or white gowns that no one even attempted to tie to hide their buttocks. When everyone had finished their medical exam, it was then a Black woman with a clipboard entered the room. She seemed to be in control of the entire operation.

"OK, maggots, I'm going to explain to you what's going to happen. I've had 150 responses to my invitations for tonight's auction. A few are leather daddies but the vast majority are Black female Dommes who are looking for white men who are not playing online games and making empty promises. Mostly, they are lifestyle Dommes who enjoy the lifestyle for personal reasons. While they will be 'buying' you, they will be compensated nicely for their participation and the amount they bid to purchase you is reflective of your potential value to them as a slave. It's your job to impress them so that they want to take you on as a slave. Get it? Got it? Good!"

It was then that Donald started truly sizing up his competition. With the exception of two of the white men, all of them were older, not very attractive, certainly not well-endowed, and even if they weren't obese, they weren't very fit. The remaining two white men were younger, in the context of their surroundings they could be considered reasonably attractive but they certainly wouldn't win any contests in the real world. What they did have to offer was beautiful young bodies. They were smooth, their skin taught and tanned, their muscles rippled as evidence of working out. Donald immediately thought of himself in his younger days, how he could have competed with any of them, of how he was the object of lust who could easily tempt men with his boyish charm and looks. His present demeanor made him . . . ashamed and insecure. That feeling stirred arousal within him and thusly, created a conflict within him.