The Girl in the Window Pt. 01

"It's for Mackenzie's white Airedale, Fluffy. Her birthday is coming up next week."

Brad examined the dog collar. "This will do. Now get back on the block. And don't come down again without permission, or I'll use the whip."

"Yes, Master," she teased, placing her hands on her head, her voice oozing sarcasm.

Brad didn't smile. Instead, he tapped his leg with the whip twice, indicating his impatience. Natalie scampered up the stairs.

"Kneel down, and we'll try it out."

Natalie looked at him, surprised. She wanted to show him she had a collar, to impress him with her preparedness. It hadn't occurred to her that he would use it--on HER.

"But that's a dog collar," she protested.

"It's an animal collar," he said. "One bitch is as a good as another."

Natalie frowned at his joke. But was it a joke? He wasn't smiling, and she noticed he was tapping the whip against his leg again, expectantly. Reasoning that it wasn't really a dog collar, as Fluffy hadn't worn it yet, she knelt before him on the table / faux auction block.

"Collar," he said. Remembering her slave yoga training, she immediately assumed the pose, spreading her knees wide, one hand on her hip and the other scooping up her long hair to make it easier for him to collar her.

Brad took his time. Natalie's breathing quickened. The collaring ceremony was a ritual of domination and ownership, and the symbolism of Brad putting the collar around her neck and buckling it shut was not lost on either of them.

The collar was quite snug, and a bit uncomfortable. "Do I have to wear this?" she whined, trying to work her finger between her neck and the collar. "It's too tight."

"Good. Real slave collars have sharp metal shock prongs, which make them far more uncomfortable," Brad said coldly. "Okay, on your feet."

Natalie rose.

"Okay, bid on me. How much am I worth?"

"Not yet. You know what comes next."

Brad's eyes were focused on her chest. "You don't like my shirt," she said, fingering the material. "Barnard is a VERY exclusive school. Daddy donated a LOT of money to get me in there."

"I bet, but men in slave markets don't buy overpriced college degrees. They buy tits and pussy. Lose the shirt."

"I'm not wearing a bra," she explained.

"Good. Lose the shirt."

"Really?" stomping her bare feet on the table as she whined. "But I LIKE this shirt! It's a very prestigious school."

"Too bad. Slave girls don't strut across the auction block displaying their education. Slave girls are sold slave naked."

"Slave naked? Like, TOTALLY naked? Are you serious? I'm surrounded by windows."

"The glass is mirrored. No one can see in."

"Bullshit. People can see in fine."

Brad shrugged. "It was worth a try. We have the best view. The nearest apartment building is a mile away."

"They can use a telescope, or a telephoto lens. I'll be arrested."

"If they are using a lens like that, they'll be the ones in trouble, not you. Besides, what do you always tell me? Rich girls don't get arrested. Lose the shirt, slave girl."

"This is a game, right?" she asked.

"Maybe. You wanted to know your market price. I will help you find it, but I can't find your gavel price in a real slave market, with crowds and shock collars and sawdust on the floor, if you won't even undress in our apartment, wearing Fluffy's adorable little collar."

Natalie considered before answering. "Okay, but how will you be able to find my gavel price? Without selling me, I mean?"

"Slave girls have questions. Masters have answers. Take off your T-shirt, or we can forget the whole thing, and go get some breakfast."

Natalie looked out over Central Park and upper Manhattan. To her left was the Hudson, to her right, the East River. She adored the view. It made her feel like the Queen of her domain. Now it seemed like a million eyes were looking up at her.

Biting her lip, Natalie grabbed the hem of her T-shirt and skinned it off, revealing her magnificent breasts. She held her shirt up against her, until Brad grabbed it and took it away.

"Like what you see, Mister? Wanna place a bid?" she teased, lifting up her hair with her hands as she struck a seductive pose.

"Nope. Not good enough, not by a long shot. We need to let the cat out of the bag," he said, tapping the front of her panties with the pearl handed whip.

"Seriously? You want me to take off my panties? In the window? With all of Manhattan looking up at me?"

"Lose the panties, or it's bagels for breakfast."

Steeling herself, Natalie bit her lip and eased her $750 panties down her legs. Defiantly, she handed them to Brad.

"Good. Now bend and spread. Palms flat on the auction block, ass in the air, legs spread wide. You know the drill."

Natalie turned, so her bottom was facing him. "No," he said, correcting her. "Face the crowd. You want to show the bidders your pussy and asshole."

Natalie hesitated, shocked at the thought of spreading herself out in front of all of Manhattan.

"Come on. The goods have to be seen. And make no mistake about it, in a slave market you are the goods. Slave girls don't get to be coy. When the auctioneer gives the order, you'll bend and spread, just like any other slave girl."

Biting her lip, Natalie bent and spread, assuming the required position. Brad let her hold the pose. He fingered her panties; she was wet. In the reflection of the glass, looking between her widespread legs, he saw that she was soaked, panting for air.

Brad turned on the spotlights, carefully adjusting them to make sure that Natalie's treasures were the best lit thing in the apartment. Natalie, blushing, humiliated and exposed, held her pose.

Taking his time, Brad carried Natalie's T-shirt and panties back to her dressing room, leaving all of New York to ponder how much they would bid on the hot slave pussy 90 stories above them.

-

Still staring at her palms, Natalie spoke. "Wait, I just thought of something. I mean, we can pick an out-of-the-way auction time, but... but what if someone I KNOW comes in? When I'm in the slave pen? Or... oh my God... when I'm naked, on the block?"

Brad smiled, enjoying the panic in his voice. "Well, the most prestigious block at The Big D is called Broadway, although it's not exactly in our neighborhood. It doesn't seem likely that too many of your father's friends would drop by, although working there, I did run into a few of them, from time to time. There's a lot of financial services companies in Dallas, not to mention tech startups and your usual assortment of oil-and-gas. I'd see a few familiar faces, every now and then."

"Seriously? How often? Which ones?" Natalie said, shocked.

"It hardly seems like that's your concern. Don't you see? It doesn't matter who walks in. Whether it's your father's best friend, your brother's roommate, that guy you blew off in college, the poolboy in the Hamptons, or Creepy Carl, you'll need to bend and spread. You're a slave girl, and you're there to be sold. Your pride and dignity mean nothing; you're shit beneath their boots. You'll squat, and shake your titties, flash your twat, and rub the pussy pole till you cum, no matter who is watching."

Natalie straightened up and turned her head around. "The pussy pole? What's the pussy pole?"

"The pussy poles are the concrete yellow bollards at the front of The Big D. Slave girls, horny bitches that they are, rub their dirty snatches on them, humping them like a dog would hump your leg."

"You're joking. You're making that up!" she said, genuinely shocked.

"I'm not. They even put cameras in them, so you can get a close-up view of the pink when the girl orgasms on the pole. They wear the paint off from their rubbing."

"You mean, girls can actually come that way? Rubbing on a fucking pole? Prove it. Show me a video."

"No, I'm going to let you prove it, slave girl."

Walking past Natalie, Brad walked to the window, running his fingers down the metal support column holding the floor to ceiling picture window in place. The stainless-steel pole was 5 inches wide and maybe two inches thick.

"This will do," Brad said. "Get busy, slave girl."

Natalie looked at him, genuinely shocked. Brad seemed unperturbed by her reaction. "So, did you want hummus on your bagel, or are you going with a salad?"

Rising to the challenge, Natalie lay on the table, flat on her back, and inched her pussy into the stainless-steel metal column. "It's FREEZING!" she complained.

"Then warm it up," Brad said. "Come on, get to it."

Realizing that her knees were in the way no matter how widely she spread, Natalie extended her legs to full length, allowing them to rest along the glass. Slowly at first, she began to move her gash up and down, masturbating on the pole.

"Good girl! Clever girl!" Brad said, complimenting in a tone that reminded her of the way he complimented Fluffy for balancing a treat on its pug nose.

Natalie found her rhythm, allowing the lips of her sex to wrap around the corner of the pole. It was easier now, and the pole was warm and slick with her juices.

Brad, clearly amused, cheered her on. "That's it! Polish that pussy pole, girl! Make it SHINE! The hotter you get, the higher your price will be."

(To be continued)