The Spur Ch. 08

"Well, then, now is your chance; I am open to an offer for this gem o' creation."

"There's them that would do that," some of the guests replied, looking at the woman, who was by no means ill-favoured.

Thomas Hardy, "The Mayor of Casterbridge"

GERALD

From the door of my shop at the Renaissance Faire, I had a pretty clear view of the Wench Auction. I couldn't see Steve and Jill, so they probably had seats, and the auction is always SRO, with a standing crowd three or four rows deep in the back. All those women packing themselves into a place where they knew they might be brought up onto a stage, looked up and down by a rowdy crowd, joked about with lots of double-entendre, and 'auctioned' to a total stranger. It wasn't a binding transaction, of course, and it's made in imaginary currency, like "two goats, a sack of potatoes and a spoke-shaver". But still--interesting.

If you've ever had an amateur magician try to force a card on you, you know the feeling of reaching into the fanned-out deck and having a card slide into your hand unbidden. The Wench Auction is like that, except that the women in the crowd are the deck of cards, and about half of them at once are trying to force themselves on the Sheriff. While the actor playing the Sheriff stalks his way through the crowd, he sees overtly flirtatious women leaning seductively in, practically raising a hand and shouting, "Pick me!" He chooses one and leads her to the stage. (Bonus points if she's tall, blonde, skinny, and provocatively dressed; he definitely has a type.) She'll showboat for the crowd, obviously reveling in the attention--partly of the audience, but partly of the Sheriff himself--a funny and good-looking dude who cultivates a hint of 'bad boy' menace in his character. Soon some guy 'buys' her, and the two of them disappear. (Generally, the guy buys his 'purchase' a drink, and they go their separate ways.) These are the brazen hussies, and I love them--but they aren't entertaining to watch being auctioned. There's no shame in a shameless wanton, and a little shame is what makes it hot.

The ones who like the attention, but are wary of seeking it directly, are more entertaining. Because society tells women that cravings like that are 'slutty,' they try to hide them--usually by volunteering their friends for auction. Of course, the Sheriff never chooses the volunteeree; he always chooses from among the volunteerers. To cover her slutty tracks, the chosen one makes a show of verbal protest and reluctance, while allowing herself to be led to the stage.

Once there, she laughingly vows revenge on her pod of chums, and poses self-consciously in what she thinks is a subtle and natural-looking way. She, too, is bought and escorted to a pub, or else taken back to her friends (who often encourage her buyer keep her.)

But Jill is one of a rare and wonderful few--my absolute favorite auction wenches--who are genuinely embarrassed by the attention while, at the same time, turned on by the embarrassment. Then they are embarrassed by their own arousal, then aroused further by that embarrassment, until they are blushing messes, caught on the horns of their conflicted feelings.

She can feel the eyes of the crowd on her body like the touch of a violet wand, sending pleasantly torturous electric current through her skin; the attention of the Sheriff, with its thinly-veiled sexual humor, is like a pinwheel rolling along her limbs. She flushes crimson and the crowd laughs, making her redden even more. It's incredibly erotic to watch.

Now add, to all this sexual/emotional turmoil, the mere fact of how adorable Jill is. Steve dressed her in the boyish way he has a letch for, in medieval moccasins from my leather shop, cable-knit Highland socks, a kilt, and a loose-sleeved, low-necked 'piratey' white blouse of her own. The 'kilt flashes'--brightly-colored ribbons that protrude from garters worn under the turned-down tops of the socks--were red, purple, and blue, matching the ribbons pinned to the cockade on her Tam O'Shanter cap. This color combination is a way for kinky people to discretely ID each other at the Faire. (The leather training collar I gave her as an anonymous birthday gift, which she was wearing, was also a broad hint.) Steve had ordered Jill to go with anyone sporting these colored ribbons and to obey them.

As Steve, the Sheriff, and I had pre-arranged, a leather-armored warrior-babe kinkster friend of mine 'bought' her, attaching a short training lead to the center ring on her collar. Judging from the way Jill kept looking back as her buyer led her away, and the raucous whooping and hollering of the crowd, I bet Steve was smiling blandly and waving goodbye. 'Damn', I thought, 'this is going to be fun!'

"Good day, Jill," I said when my agent delivered her to my shop. "Nice to see you again!" Puzzled, she replied,

"I'm sorry; have we met?"

"I made that training collar you're wearing," I said. Her eyes grew big as she took in the ribbons on my hat and the floggers, blindfolds, collars, and shackles on the walls, and she blushed like a schoolgirl when she clocked my hands, which are memorably big.

"Are you Gropy McHamhands?" she asked. I laughed.

"You can call me Gerald," I told her--then, remembering the plan, I added, "or rather, you can call me 'Master', as a bondmaid should do." Stepping into her personal space, I growled into her ear in my 'kidnapper' voice, "And I have a job for you, slutty wench!" Jill's blushed deepened, and her breathing became shallow and rapid. Quick on the uptake, she replied,

"As you wish, Master," dropping me a kilted curtsy and lowering her eyes.

"Go with Jeannie," I said. "She'll get you ready."

My assistant Jeanie stepped out from behind the counter with a smile and a friendly wave. She's tiny--five-foot-nothing and 90 pounds soaking wet--and, as always when it was warm enough, she was modeling a brown leather halter-bikini top and a short, jaggedly asymmetrical brown leather skirt. It gave her a barbaric, wild-woman look, and it was great for business.

When sales were slow and there wasn't much else for her to do, I shackled her to the open shop door, her hands over her head, where she smiled at passersby and greeted them in her chirpy voice--as though being manacled more-naked-than-not to a street door was the most normal, everyday thing in the world. That always drew customers in. She was shackled there when Steve and Jill passed by the shop on their way to the Wench Auction. Jill stared, wide-eyed, stammering in confusion when Jeannie smiled and chirped, "Good day!"

"Uh, hi!" Jill finally managed as Steve palmed a small electronic device into my hand.

Jeannie took hold of Jill's lead, and led her into the back room, where I heard their muffled voices and the rustling of fabric and leather. Before long, Jeannie emerged, looking like a Highland waif wearing her brother's ill-fitting clothes, and Jill stepped out warily with Jeannie's wild-woman leathers barely covering her taller frame, the short training lead still dangling from her collar.

"Mercy, but you're a hottie," I said.

"Thank you, Master." she replied, her eyes still averted.

"Let me see your pretty eyes, wench," I said. She raised her eyes to mine, panting lightly.

"You know what your job is?" I asked.

"Yes, Master," she said, visibly trembling. The thought of being chained to that door was scaring her silly.

"You know the shackles won't be locked," I said, "and you can free yourself at any time?"

"Yes, Master."

"But you won't be doing that, will you?"

"No, Master."

"Because?"

"Because Steve ordered me to obey you, Master." (Seeing the merest hint of a lascivious smile, I hoped she would add, "And because I want your cock in my mouth again, Master!", but whatever she was thinking, she kept it to herself.)

"Good girl!" I said, leading her to the door and buckling the shackles onto her wrists. Because of her height advantage over Jeannie, her arms hung a little more slack than Jeannie's did, but I decided to let them, since tightening the chains could cause a wardrobe malfunction. Both pieces of that outfit could easily ride up on her to the point of indecency.

It was amazing to watch her work at coping for the next two hours. A steady stream of faire patrons passed the shop for twenty minutes or so, many of them turning their heads to stare wide-eyed at her. Some even nudged their friends and pointed. Jill, near desperate to avoid their eyes, kept her own eyes moving like she was driving on the Autobahn at rush hour. During a lull, I stepped over and asked how she was doing.

"Master Gerald," she said, softly but urgently, "please, please blindfold me! I'm so self-conscious, I don't know where to look! This would be so much easier if I were blindfolded."

"It's not supposed to be easy, wench," I said, brushing a stray lock from her face. "You're supposed to be stretching yourself. So no, no blindfold--but you can free yourself at any time. Or safeword and I'll free you." The set of her jaw became hard, her brow contracted with determination.

"That won't be necessary, Master," she said calmly. I looked at her in silence a while.

"You know," I said, "you work in events; you are literally perky and effervescent for a living." She didn't answer, but looked like she was giving the idea some thought. After a minute, she said,

"Thank you for the collar, by the way. I love it."

"My pleasure, ducks," I said, and returned to work.

When the first joust let out, the street swarmed with people, many of them gawping, open-mouthed, at my door-candy. Some played it cool, like they were too jaded to stare at a pretty girl chained up practically naked; some scuttled past, averting their eyes like they feared cooties or something.

Inside the shop, which was still full after the joust traffic thinned, there was an elephant-in-the-room feeling. Some people laughed off the BDSM gear, but kept stealing fascinated glances at the whips and cuffs while examining our vanilla items. Most of them bought a purse or a belt, if anything, before giving a collar or flogger one last wistful look and heading toward whatever they were doing next. Most customers of both sexes stole brief, furtive glances at Jill, while others just stared openly.

A young Goth couple asked to see a collar; Jeannie stood on a stool and took it down for them, and the girl tried it on. Turning to Jill, who was looking wherever there was no one to look back, she asked,

"What do you think?" Jill started as though she'd been shocked, faced the girl, and broke into her sweet smile.

"Oh, my God, you look so cute in that!" she enthused. Then, turning to the boyfriend, she said, "You are totally getting that for her, right?" The dude pulled the girl to him by the ring in the collar and kissed her.

"Yeah, I guess I am!" he said, still holding the girl by the ring and looking into her eyes, while she broke into a lewd, lovely grin. Turning toward Jill, he said,

"So--you work here, or what?"

"Oh, I just hang around, mostly," she said, glancing toward her restraints. The couple laughed, and as he paid for the collar, she gave Jill a hug, whispering something into her ear that made her pink up. But our bondmaid had the presence of mind to smile and say, "Have fun!" to the kinky young couple as they left. The girl turned, waved, and said, "Thanks! You, too!", and they sauntered away to be the darkness, or whatever they do.

"How are you doing, ducks?" I asked when the shop was finally empty for a few minutes.

"Was that *effervescent* enough, Master?" she breathed in a sultry and decidedly unsubmissive way. "Was I perky and vivacious? Was I a *good* wench?" Taking up her sass-gauntlet, I stepped in and whisper-growled,

"You did great, trashy girl." I patted her on the head as she looked at me with mixed amusement and defiance. "What did that Goth chick say to you?" Mimicking the girl's adolescent voice, Jill answered,

"'You look *so hot*; I wish I was as pretty as you!'" I grinned.

"Don't they all!"

I unshackled her for ten minutes after the first hour, so she could shake the feeling back into her arms. Then back to the door for her second hour.

My shop is on a busy lane, and the foot traffic never really lets up. It was a beautiful Indian-summer day, so attendance was good, and Jeannie and I were steadily busy. I couldn't have spared her from taking care of the customers, so it was great having Jill on display to get their attention for us.

And the wench really applied herself, smiling at anyone who made eye contact with her, chatting with the customers who approached her, and encouraging anyone who so much as looked openly at any kink gear to make the investment in some naughty fun. She was obviously determined to learn from her assignment, and she was a quick study once she got hold of herself. She even seemed to be enjoying the task, applying her work skills while getting used to being looked at. I caught her a couple of times eyeing me smugly, a bratty little I-guess-I-showed-you glint in her flashing brown eyes.

Time to remind her who's in charge.

Before long she was surrounded by a half-circle of horny teenaged boys (redundant, I know). I watched for a while to be sure she was in no danger as she handily fielded their appropriate questions--making shit up about herself on the spur of the moment as needed--and parried their inappropriate ones. When she showed she was in control of the situation by saying something that made them all laugh, I acted.

Her eyes got big and she gasped, startled, causing the boys to fall back a step in an 'I didn't do it, it wasn't me!' way. Jeannie, ever alert, rushed in and pretended to chase away a yellow-jacket. (Those are plentiful and aggressive during that time of year, so it was a credible threat.) She then shooed the boys away also, and Jill looked around as much as her chains would allow, probably thinking Steve was nearby. I cleared my throat, and when she looked toward me, I showed her the remote control to her insertable vibrator in my hand. I could have licked the delicious 'Oh, I am so fucked!' look right off her pretty face, and had the 'You *bastards*!' look that followed for dessert.

Obviously, I didn't want to cause a scene by making anyone think Jill was in real distress, so I kept the setting low and steady. She covered her distraction well when engaging with customers, and glared at me when she wasn't. Remembering the last time Steve and I tortured her like this, I had to adjust my belt pouch to keep my kilt from tenting too obviously. She smirked when she saw that, which I punished with a sudden burst of high-powered stimulation. Plastering herself against the door, she looked piteously at me and mouthed "Yellow!" Satisfied, I reset the device to a low, steady hum and left it there.

Steve came by the shop to pick her up about 15 minutes before her second hour was up. I handed him the remote, and he raised and lowered the power in response to how many people were in the shop. When someone wanted to engage with her, he turned the power down so she could concentrate; when the conversation ended, he cranked the power back up while she struggled to maintain control. Three people in the shop, besides her, knew exactly why her breathing was shallow and rapid as she fought not to squirm in her bonds, and she obviously thought three was enough.

Just before her second hour ended, Steve turned up the juice until she lost the fight, visibly panting and squirming in the grip of an imminent climax.

Then he abruptly shut the power off.

He took her down off the door and rubbed the feeling back into her hands, while she looked torn between frustration and relief. Jeannie led her by the collar into the back room, and they emerged after a few minutes in their own clothes and hugged like old friends. Steve drove her and my spare key to my house west of Valley Forge, and when I arrived after closing the shop, I found Jill kneeling, nude and silent, in one corner of my basement dungeon, and Steve, fully clothed, watching her from a comfortable chair in the opposite corner, raising a glass of my whiskey to his lips.

* * *

We both looked to the corner where Jill knelt, her hands resting on her thighs, her eyes downcast.

"Grasshopper," Steve said as I refilled his glass of Jameson's, "let us see your face." Jill raised her head, and the light of the ceiling lamp fell full upon her face. Too well-trained to eyeball us, she fixed her gaze about three feet to the left of our armchairs.

"Your girl made great progress today, Steve," I said. "Did you see her chatting with the customers, making eye contact and hardly blushing at all? She worked hard. I think she'll be ready for club play soon." Jill's body tensed at the mention of club play. Steve smiled, sipped his whiskey, and said,

"I wouldn't hold my breath." Jill immediately relaxed, and stopped holding her own breath.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, admiring our naked captive. Then I said,

"She's a keeper, dude. I'm jealous." Jill blushed a little, probably remembering our first meeting when Steve and I 'abducted' her for her birthday. "She really wants to please you."

"I know," Steve said, his brow knit in thought. After a moment, as though making a decision, he set down his glass and said,

"Grasshopper!" She looked at him, and he made some subtle beckoning sign with his left hand that resulted in Jill crossing the floor towards him on all fours. She locked her eyes on his, her haunches alternately rising and falling with the rocking of her hips as she crawled slowly across the floor. When she was within one body length of him, he held up his hand with the palm facing her, and when she halted, he let his hand fall forward at the wrist with the fingers spread wide. Jill dropped into Child's Pose, her ass on the backs of her legs, forehead on the floor, and hands stretched forward, fingers splayed.

"Box tie," he said. Jill straightened up and clasped her elbows in back as though box-tied. Raising her chin with his left hand, he stroked her cheek and hair with his right while she leaned into the caresses like a happy cat.

"I want you to do something for me," he said, taking her face in both hands while she looked expectantly at him, awaiting her orders.

"Lie on your back on the table," he said, indicating the padded bondage table near the wall.

"Yes, Sir," she answered. He gave her his hand and helped her to her feet, where she waited for the feeling to return after kneeling so long. When she was ready to walk, Steve took her to the table, where she lay down. I followed them, standing on the opposite side of the padded table from Steve.

"Now, Grasshopper," he said, "I want you to pleasure yourself." Her eyes betrayed her shock, but only for a moment. "To completion. While we watch." After a brief struggle with herself, Jill said,

"Yes, Sir." She closed her eyes and began moving her hands along her compact, slender body.

"Eyes open, and locked on mine," Steve said, gently but firmly. With an audible 'gulp,' she fixed her sparkling brown eyes on his. By the time her left hand stroked her left breast, she was already breathing faster. Cupping her breast and catching her distended nipple between her fingers, she let out a tiny whimper, and when the fingers of her right hand found her pussy, her breath caught for a moment as time stretched and slowed like a rubber band being pulled taut. With a shuddering inhalation, she pushed her probing fingers into herself, writhing and biting her lip as she worked to keep her eyes locked on her Master's. Little wet sounds blended with her moans, until she began panting open-mouthed, her eyes still on Steve's. At last, as if he had given her inaudible permission, she shifted her attention--and her fingers--to her clit.