The Bidding of Lot 98 Ch. 02

Chapter 2: Travel

Sir holds the car door open for me. I put on my seatbelt, and stare out the window at the sprawling antebellum plantation house that has been my home for the last twelve months. I remember how intimidating it was when I arrived. The scale of it seemed exactly to match my dread and nervousness. But in the morning sun, it looks inviting and warm. Two ancient willows flank the front steps like a fairytale. This will be my first time off the grounds since the day I arrived. I won't ever be coming back.

I've struggled for the last few days to come terms with that notion. A week ago I believed my world had achieved some definition and stability -- a sense of order that I craved. I had the master that I had only read about in books. His care and training had instilled a calm that I had lacked. I no longer felt out of control. The urge to be self-destructive had receded; I hardly thought of drinking anymore. I had felt focused.

Just being in a car again seems strange -- sitting in the leather passenger seat seems almost too luxurious for words. Your footsteps crunch in the gravel as you circle the car. I haven't the faintest idea where I am headed. I have been sold in auction to an anonymous buyer -- an undisclosed amount to an undisclosed bidder. An action I accepted without question, without a fight, without a thought for what I want. Like the slave I have worked to become.

It amazes me what I have sacrificed so that I might sleep at night.

What I want is to stay with Sir. To be his slave. Sir understands me, makes me feel safe and cared for. I want this maybe more than anything I have ever wanted in my life. To lose it has drained me. I haven't eaten. Barely slept. The old anxiety is creeping back. My training has slipped. Forgetting things. I fidget. I feel....unraveled: a ball of string that has fallen carelessly to the floor and rolled out of sight.

Overnight I chewed all the fingers on my left hand down to the nub; a nasty habit which Sir thought he had beaten out of me. When he saw what I'd done, he was furious. I spent an hour attempting to repair the damage, even out my other hand with a file, but it was still far from perfect when I presented my hands for inspection. I wilted under his glare.

"Do not dishonor me or this house, 98."

"She will not, Sir."

"Stay." He pronounced, and left me.

Sir left me standing there, arms out, staring at my fingers until my forearms burned. My shadow stretched out across the floor as the sun set. I stood until I broke out in a sweat. I stood until my forearms went numb, panting like I was in the final miles of a marathon. I stood until I was sure I couldn't last another moment. He returned with flawless timing, and watched me struggle to hold my position for several minutes until he seemed satisfied with my struggle. He stepped in close to me.

"This is hard, 98. This will be very hard on you. Don't think that I don't recognize the stress that leaving puts on you. But this is not the first or last hard thing that will be asked of you. Always rely on your training. Tackle this pain, this stress, just as you have here this afternoon. You have stood in this position longer than any ordinary woman could. Endured discomfort, cramps, and exhaustion. Not because you are stronger, not because it hurts any less, but because you have been trained to process and endure hardship. It is your strength. Use it, stay focused, don't abandon it just because you are scared. Physical hardship and emotional hardship are more similar than not."

"Yes, Sir." A wave of gratitude sweeps through me.

"Your choice is to serve."

"Her choice is to serve, Sir."

"My choice is to train you. To prepare you to meet that challenge."

"But Sir..." I blurt out. You silence me with a raised hand.

"Don't say it, 98. I know. But that is not to be. And in the end it is not the right path for you. Do you trust my judgment?"

"Yes Sir. She does."

"Then trust me now. Put your arms down. Prepare for supper. Go."

I did as I was told; I served, but it was so very hard.

With my training here at an end there has been little to occupy my time other than preparing to depart. I clean my quarters by hand. Scrubbing the floors on my hands and knees, I realize that I am not the first girl to erase her presence from this room. I am preparing the room for my replacement. I have time to think about my thesis; it feels more and more a rite of passage -- a symbolic sacrifice to the god of lost little girls. But what have I passed into? Certainly not adulthood. I push the bucket forward and rinse my rag again. In the ringing silence of my quarters, I see all the distant, battered girls who found solace in these simple labors. They stretch out behind me like ancestors, and I see myself about to join them. How hard were they pushed? I've come back again and again to my thesis. Had time to process. Had time to feel every human emotion one way or another about it. Always the anger comes first and just as quick a voice reminds me that there were no ropes, no chains, no force; only a man's voice and my bottomless need. It doesn't dull the anger, but only leaves it directionless and frustrated. But as awful and humiliating as it was, I've come to be grateful for it. Come to see it as necessary. Until that moment, I hadn't fully committed to my new life. To some extent I was still a voyeur; a tourist of my own life; I had kept some small separation from my situation -- a tiny sliver of a gap that allowed me to intellectualize the moment rather then experience it. I don't know how you knew, but you knew. It was the jolt I needed to finally release me. I was free; I was a slave. You are right...I am a paradox.

You've been circling for days. Melancholy and restrained. Constantly on the verge of something that you never articulate. You conceal it well, but I know you the way a sailor knows the wind. You remain my Sir, but everything has changed and we both feel it profoundly. I expected...no, I hoped, that you would take me again; one last time. I waited expectantly, and finally worked up the nerve to ask. But you said it was forbidden. Impossible was your exact word. I'd been sold and was no longer his to claim. I cried. You asked me why, and I said it felt like we were breaking up. You smiled, but not cruelly, and hugged me tightly, petting my hair before shooing me away. But I felt you watching me as I turned the corner, and in my heart I want to believe that I am more special to you then all those other girls. That night when I got into bed, on my side table, there was a single swan white magnolia blossom floating in a flat glass bowl. It was from a tree that sits along a creek at the north end of the property. It was the spot where Sir conducted many of our interviews. Where he read to me. I watch the blossom float peacefully across the water until I fall asleep. I've never wanted a man to love me before....how ironic.

This morning, when I woke, regular clothes were laid out for me. Not mine, but they all fit: blue jeans, a pair of black mules, a white tee shirt and a black leather jacket. Matching bra and panties. A purse. It all looked so normal and adorable. I practically lived in jeans all through high school and college; it felt incredible to put them on again. Not to mention a bra...when was the last time I wore a bra? I walked around in circles for a few minutes just enjoying the feeling of street clothes like a fool. I could be a girl shopping at the Gap; the thought made me giggle and I put a hand over my mouth to muffle myself.

We drive in silence; I have a hard time relaxing with you this close by, and I realize I am sitting at attention. My back only touches the backrest when you accelerate. I'm on my way to a new life: a new master. Yet I'm so focused on never seeing Sir again that it hasn't really hit me. The notion that the man who has been my guide, teacher and master for a year will soon be gone from my life is incomprehensible to me. I described it as a breakup but really it's much, much worse. No fight. No closure. No reason. Oh no wait, I forgot, there is a reason. I've been sold into slavery to a person I've never met. I don't even know if it is a man or a woman. That's the reason. It is a funny, scary, ludicrous truth.

"Little, I want you to breathe." He says. 'Deep breaths. Come on now."

"Sir." I feel on the edge of hysterics. My heart is pounding.

"There is some makeup in the glove compartment. In the visor there is a mirror. Why don't you fix yourself up."

A mirror? I'm almost afraid to look. Sir is my mirror. Who will I see? Will I recognize her? I lower the visor slowly, and a pair of frightened eyes greets me. I want to touch them. The girl looking back isn't as much of an alien as I imagined. She looks different than I remember. Harder. But also radiant and healthy in a way I hadn't expected. She has sharp, intelligent eyes. I'm like a child seeing its reflection for the first time, and I'm rapt. It takes a gentle nudge from Sir to get me moving.

"Falling in love over there?" You needle playfully.

I blush, "sorry, Sir." I busy myself with the mascara, lip gloss, blush until I'm pleased with the result. It isn't until later that I realize that Sir has distracted me from my panic attack. How does he do that? Sir puts on one of my favorite Belle and Sebastian CDs. I haven't heard it in forever, and don't even remember telling Sir about it, but the familiar melodies make me happy. I stare at his hand on the armrest fighting the desire to hold it. I know it would disappoint him, and I don't want his last memory of me to be weak and maudlin.

We drive two hours to an airport. It isn't the closest one to the house, which is probably the point. We park in short term, and Sir takes an overnight suitcase out of the trunk. He gives it to me, and I wheel it behind me. He talks while we walk. He gives me one hundred dollars in twenties, a cell phone, a fake driver's license. My name is "Marcia Harden". Sir knows I like the actress, and it makes me smile - a little joke between us. He says it will be easy for me to remember. He gives me a sealed envelope, and tells me that inside is a roundtrip ticket -- he explains that one way tickets sometimes draw undue attention. I'm proud that Sir thinks of everything. A driver will be waiting in baggage claim to pick up Marcia Harden.

"Keep this safe." He hands me a small, platinum padlock. Etched in the side is a symbol that might be Chinese or Japanese. "You serve whomever has the key, Little One."

I'm only to use the phone in an emergency. There are two programmed numbers, and I'm to call them both if anything happens. He has other instructions: what to do if no one is there to greet me, if the flight is redirected to another airport, if the police speak to me for any reason. I take it all in, compiling Sir's directions into a mental list as I have been trained.

I feel a little like a secret agent on an assignment. I feel like I'm on a trip, or vacation. It's an adventure. I'm excited but I can't put my finger on why. Maybe just because it is something new. Maybe because I'm in denial about where this journey ends, and that Sir will not be going with me. But in this moment I am exhilarated.

We wind our way through the throng at check in. Despite the crowd your stride never falters, and I have to scurry to keep up. You steer us towards Concourse C and D. "Sir, may she buy a magazine for the flight?" I ask feeling daring.

I see trepidation and concern in your face, but you nod your assent. I scamper into the generic airport shop, back to the magazine racks. I'd forgotten there were so many. It's a blaze of color and faces and titles. I feel overwhelmed. How do I choose? What did I used to like? I long for Sir to pick one out for me. I glance back at you standing in the concourse, and pull myself together. Just pick a fucking magazine! I grab two blindly and head to the cash register. I glance down: Entertainment Weekly and Car and Driver. Odd combo; well I like movies. I dump Car and Driver onto a pile of new Stephen King novels. I get to the front of the line. I put a pack of gum on top of my magazine, but snatch it off before she rings it up. I used to love gum.

"Problems?" You ask when I get back.

"Yes Sir. She felt overwhelmed at all the choices and wished Sir could choose for her." I say automatically. I've been painstakingly trained to report my thoughts and emotions, and apparently that extends to magazines and candy too. You nod as if that makes perfect sense.

We walk down the concourse to security. You can't come through with me so this is where it will end. My eyes are wet. You lead me over to a row of airport seats. You sit; I stand.

"Sit down."

I begin to kneel on the floor. You halt me with a gesture, and indicate the seat next to you. For the second and final time, I sit down beside you. You're staring straight ahead lost in thought. I watch your mouth, which I've come to associate with you more than anything else. I could pick your lips out of a lineup.

"Little One," you begin and stop and after a moment begin again. "Little One, it is a difficult thing to train a girl for another. Just as it is difficult to be trained for another. Inevitably there is a bonding process. We both feel it, and I will tell you that what you have experienced is real; it was intimate, and intense and profound. There is no shame in what you feel, and you have made me proud in your restraint since the auction. Girls before you have not made the transition so well, and it speaks well of your commitment and training."

"Thank you, Sir." Thrilled at the compliment.

"You will experience a sense of loss. It is natural. So will I; I will always remember our year together. But natural or not, it is not a luxury either one of us may dwell on for long. The lives we have chosen, or in your case have allowed to be chosen for you, do not permit it. So my last lesson. Where you go is hard. It is demanding, and it is what you need. Do not get distracted by magazines and clothes. This trip is a temporary and artificial moment; do not get comfortable."

"Yes Sir."

"And before the plane lands you must acknowledge a simple truth. You are a slave. Your feeling that we've "broken up" has no bearing on the service you have been sold into. You will have no time for schoolgirl mourning. Your new home will have no patience for a sad or wistful slave, and it will go very badly for you. When you arrive you must be attentive and present, not daydreaming about the past. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes Sir."

"Make me proud, 98. That is how I hope you will remember me: in your actions, your behavior, and your service. That is your final service to me -- represent me honorably." You stop there, and brush the hair gently off my forehead.

"She will, Sir." I smile, eyes rimmed with tears. Your words are so romantic...I know that's not a word most people would understand in this situation, but that is the word I feel. "And lastly be on guard for your pride?"

"Her pride, Sir?"

"Yes, Little One. Pride. It's a great asset at times, but you are too pleased with yourself when you think you know the game. You still delude yourself that you are in control. You still think you are smarter than everyone. I can practically hear you congratulating yourself from time to time when you think you've won a victory. Be on guard against too much cleverness. Keep in mind that you are an inexperienced little slut, be proud that you are pleasing your new master, and give up trying to discover shortcuts and tricks. Understood? You are starting over fresh."

"Yes Sir. A question, Sir?"

You nod.

"Where am I going Sir? Who has bought me?"

"I do not know the answer to that, Little. Our House doesn't allow a trainer to know the destination of a girl he has prepared. As I've said it is hard to train a girl for another. To safeguard against any potential," you think for a moment, "complications, I will not know where you go, or to whom." You sense my alarm and go on. "But, our clients are screened carefully; we have been doing this a long time. I do not know where you are going, but I have complete confidence that it will be a good home for a girl such as you. Do you understand?"

"Yes Sir. She understands."

"I know you do."

You gaze at me. I sit and enjoy your eyes on me. I feel warm like I am sitting in the sun. I never want it to stop. You rise, and pet my hair.

"Look at me, Little One."

I gaze up into your green, sharp eyes for the last time. Your hand caresses my cheek and I press my face into your hard, rough palm. The bustling airport terminal is empty, but for the warmth of your hand and your eyes.

"Be a good girl, Little One. Make me proud."

"Yes Sir. She will. Thank you for everything." I have so much more to say but instead fall silent.

You nod slightly, lingering and then you are away down the concourse. I'm left to watch you recede. I feel like someone punched me in the stomach; I am breathless and my heart hammers away in my chest as I watch you disappear from sight. My adventure is over. It isn't fun anymore. I want to go home. I teeter on the edge of panic, and cry quietly. I have no home to go to.

I trudge through security with the other shuffling penguins; I open the envelope and look at my ticket for the first time. I am flying to San Diego -- seems too sunny a destination all things considered. I have the padlock in my hand and rub it with my thumb. Two different agents check my ID against my plane ticket, and neither gives it a second glance. After that my trip is routine. Infinitely banal. It is delayed forty-five minutes for no reason. Two toddlers play tag around the gate. The man right behind my head is on the phone patiently walking his wife through programming the DVR. It makes me think briefly of my sister. I wonder what she is doing. It would be nice to hear her voice; I wouldn't have to say anything. Even if it was just her answering machine. I think better of it, but it makes me wonder. Am I'm being watched? It's strange that their expensive investment is being allowed to fly solo. Is this a test?

The first half of the flight I read my magazine and stare out the window. George Clooney is still suavely sexy. Lindsey Lohan is somehow still in rehab. The cast of Lost is still, well, lost. I am so different now, and everything is so bafflingly the same. I think nostalgically about Sir although my idea of nostalgia probably differs starkly from the woman sitting next to me. The flight attendant comes around with the beverage cart.

"May she have a Diet Coke?" I ask, force of habit taking over.

The flight attendant pushes her face at me quizzically, decides she misheard and gives it to me. I go red, but I get a bag of pretzels and a Diet Coke out of it. My first Diet Coke in a year; it's like liquid heaven. First and last, a nasty voice whispers. I know that voice well; it's the voice that disapproves of me. It is the voice of my mother, my father, my brother. It's been a long time since I've heard that voice. Thought it had been exorcized. Diet Coke isn't part of the slavery lifestyle, the voice snickers at me. Amazing the lengths you'll go not to have to take any responsibility for yourself; it goads me, and dredges up memories that are condemning and unflattering. Slut. We're all ashamed of you, it whispers. I squeeze my eyes closed tight but there is no escaping them. I practically climb over my neighbor in my rush to the bathroom. I lock myself into the tiny bathroom, sit on the plastic toilet cover and I cry. Again.

For the first time, I think about my future. I realize that my default vision of my new owner is virtually identical to Sir. I am leaving Sir, yes, but up until now I've imagined a carbon copy of him -- probably why I haven't thought about it. But it won't be Sir, or anything like him. Might not even be a man. It could be anyone. Young or old. Fat, skinny, muscled. Bad breath, warts, hairy, or worse. My mind conjures up a train wreck of unappetizing, unattractive qualities that might afflict my new owner. A clubfooted, geriatric albino with a hare lip and stomach curdling halitosis greets me at the door of my new home. I pretend not to notice his lisp or his drooling as he shows me around. His canker sores begin bleeding as he instructs me to strip naked...