Accidental Slave (4 page)

“I’m good.” He nodded, relieved. Just to test her, he put his hand on her thigh and squeezed.

Without the benefit of GHB and alcohol, she would have probably cut off his balls for daring to touch her. Now she just smiled.

He put his arm around her as they rode up to the club on the top floor of the building. “The auction is just a game. They wanted to make it fun, and it’s for such a worthy cause.” His voice oozed sincerity, though she barely seemed to be paying attention. She was leaning heavily against him, one lovely breast pressed against his arm, which made his cock hard.

“The theme tonight is a pretend slave auction.” He glanced at her. “Like I said, it’s all in fun. We might even consider it ourselves.”

The elevator door slid silently open and they stepped out into a thickly carpeted hallway.

There were large double-doors spaced at wide intervals along the hall. The third one down had a small brass placard to the right of the door that read, simply, “House of Usher – Private”.

Gary didn’t go to House of Usher often. The cover charge was very steep and there was no actual play permitted there. He’d been brought by a fellow Dom to the last auction, and had signed up for their exclusive mailing list.

Admission to this auction had cost a pretty penny, but tonight’s money would be well spent if things went according to plan. He’d sent in Elizabeth’s slave dossier two weeks before, complete with photos he’d meticulously created using her headshot and lurid descriptions of her qualities as a highly-trained slave girl.

He rang the doorbell beneath the placard and it was opened by a trim man in a dark suit with a black mustache and thinning black hair brushed straight back from his forehead. Speaking quietly so Elizabeth wouldn’t hear him, he murmured, “Hunter. John Hunter.” The man perused the clipboard in his hand, nodded and stepped back.

“Welcome to the House of Usher.” His tone was subdued.

House of Usher, unlike the underground clubs Gary preferred, didn’t have black walls, Techno music pumping and pornographic videos playing on screens around the room. Instead it was furnished more like an elegant sitting room in some British country house. Pretentious, he thought, but perfect for his plans. Even drugged as she was, he doubted Elizabeth would allow herself to be led into the kind of place where the real fun happened.

Here the walls were painted a muted yellow cream, with white trim and borders. What looked to be original nineteenth century oil paintings of nude women lounging on velvet chaises, silk draped alluringly over plump, pink thighs, graced the walls. The room was lit with opaque glass sconces mounted on silver art deco fixtures that cast a warm glow over everything.

Tall, wingback chairs were set in clusters around the large room, along with a number of small, round tables set with white linen, a vase with a single red rose on each. Along two walls sat plump, wine-colored velvet sofas. In the center of the room, a large wooden dais had been placed, with portable stairs beside it.

It wasn’t quite eleven, but the room was already full, an underlying buzz of excitement in the air. Gary and Elizabeth were only slightly overdressed for the event. Most of the men in the room wore suits. The women, the ones who were dressed, wore dresses or skirts, though some of them revealed more than they covered.

There were several women in BDSM fetish wear—bare breasts with pierced nipples jutting over black leather bodices, stiletto heels, red lips, wrist and ankle cuffs and clanking chain. Gary steered Elizabeth through the crowd, anxiously wondering how she’d react to the scene. To his relief she didn’t seem to be taking in her surroundings.

“The room is tilting. Make it stop, Bryan. Make it stop.” She clung to his arm, stumbling in her high heels.

Bryan? Who was Bryan? A jolt of unease slid through Gary’s gut. He’d been certain there was no one in Elizabeth’s life. She spent every damn minute at the office, didn’t she? What guy would put up with that?

Nevertheless, there was the possibility someone was waiting at home for her. Someone named Bryan, who would wonder what she’d been up to when she finally got home, drunk as a skunk, or worse. He smiled cruelly to himself. Let her explain her way out of this one.

Gary led her to a loveseat in a far corner of the room, settling her on it before snagging two flutes of champagne from a young woman dressed in a frilly French maid’s outfit.

Gary handed a glass to Elizabeth, watching with disdainful amusement as she sloshed half its contents over her lap. Her lipstick was smeared, her eyes unfocused, her luxuriant dark hair falling into her face. Reaching for his cell phone, he flipped it open, trained it on her and snapped several pictures.

Then he sat beside her and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. So far, so good.

Cole Pearson sipped his martini as he glanced around the room. He still didn’t see what, or rather who, he was looking for. He looked at his watch—it was only ten-fifteen. Though most of the tables and sofas were already full, with more people standing and mingling, there was time.

He sat alone at a small table near the dais. Fred Marshall, a fellow Dom and sometimes-bidder at these auctions, would join him, though he had yet to arrive. Cole picked up the three dossiers he’d selected for bidding. Slave A. was petite and very pretty, with blonde hair in a pixie cut, pierced nipples on ample breasts and a shaven pussy. Slave S. was taller, with golden-red hair and slender curves. But of the three, it was Slave E. to whom he returned again and again.

She was shown in various standard poses, bound and trussed in several so he couldn’t see her face, suspended by her wrists, her body covered in a sheen of sweat, her head thrown back, dark hair streaming behind her. But it was the pose that included her face that had captivated him. She was kneeling up, her bare pussy exposed, her breasts proudly thrust out.

She was staring directly at the camera and something in her brilliant blue eyes tugged at him, drawing him back to her face again and again. There was a challenge in her expression that belied her supposedly submissive nature. It was a strong face, with a square, almost masculine chin and lush, full lips that fairly begged to be bitten. Her nose was small, which served to make her eyes look even larger. It was those eyes, so very blue, so open and compelling that he found himself falling into, even though it was just a picture.

He read some of descriptions again, trying to reconcile the slave girl in the photos with the words written beneath them.
Saucy slut girl likes it rough. Sometimes disobedient, this slave will
pretend to protest, but it’s just a game. Use her hard and soundly. While she’s crying, “No, no,
no!” she really means, “Yes, yes, yes!”

Instruments of pleasure/pain: Flogger, whip, cane, paddle, tight bondage, ball gag, needle
play, pony play.

Limits: None.

That was unusual. In staged auctions like these, while the interaction was real, there were generally pretty clear limits imposed on the Dom, because he didn’t personally know the slave or what she could tolerate. Surely this girl had
some
limits?

He found himself wondering first, why a guy who had a girl like this would want to give her away, even for a night, and second, how he could say she had no limits. That could be very dangerous for her if the wrong man won the bidding. Didn’t the Dom offering her for auction care about his slave girl? Didn’t he cherish her above all else?

Well, if he won her, he would talk to her, get to know her a little before diving into play.

Everyone had limits, and those limits should be respected. Cole took another sip of his drink and sighed, reminding himself most so-called Doms didn’t share his romantic sensibilities when it came to D/s. They got off on the power of controlling another person. They were turned on by the whips and chains, the forced sex and the kinky play. Most of them didn’t have a clue about the enormous potential for romance to be found in erotic submission.

Fred laughed at him when he talked like this. “Cole, buddy. That’s your whole problem. It’s why you go home alone night after night while an ugly guy like me has more broads than he can handle. Fuck the romance—show ‘em a hard cock, some wrists cuffs and a good whip, and these girls will spread every time. They’re all the same, just masochistic sluts out for a good time.

Hell, that’s what we’re all out for. Well,” he amended, “most of us, anyway. I don’t know what the hell
you’re
looking for. I do know you sure as hell ain’t gonna find it at a BDSM club, no matter how hoity-toity it tries to be.”

He knew Fred was right about that at least. But he didn’t come to these auctions seeking true love. He wasn’t even sure the woman of his dreams existed in real life. But he’d promised himself he wouldn’t settle for less, and so far, he hadn't. The irony was, as a result, for all his wealth and supposed good looks, he was the loneliest man he knew.

He finished his martini and signaled the lovely young waitress for club soda. If he won a girl, he didn’t want to be impaired when he used her. He would enjoy himself and forget about silly things like true love for the rest of the evening. This was his third auction, and while he’d enjoyed the prior two girls he’d “won”, he hadn't liked either enough to keep her any longer than overnight, which was the limit for most of them anyway, on loan by their Masters.

If nothing else, it kept things neat, in terms of what came next, which was nothing. There were no expectations of a future phone call, no plans for future rendezvous. Oh, sometimes the women tried, but he had a pat story to keep his distance—his wife wouldn’t approve.

In fact she wouldn’t have approved, though she no longer had a say in the matter. Joanie, his college sweetheart, had been killed in a car wreck three years before. Their fourteen-year marriage had not been the best, weakened by Joanie’s desperate desire to have children, and their discovery that she was infertile. They probably would have divorced by now if she’d lived, but nevertheless he’d been devastated by the loss, deeply shaken by how suddenly people can be torn from this world.

Joanie had never known of his then-secret penchant for BDSM and D/s. They’d married just out of college, and he hadn’t the courage or the self-understanding at the time to admit, much less explore, his desires. For all the years of their marriage, he’d kept his true sexual nature secret, certain Joanie would reject both them and him.

For the first year or so after she died, Cole hadn't been interested in finding someone new.

He was very busy then with his investment business and his real estate ventures, and still mourning her loss.

He did eventually get thrust back into the dating game via pressure from his sister and some friends, going on a few well-intentioned but disastrous blind dates. He found himself ready after a year or so to think about finding another partner. But this time around he was going to be honest with himself. This time, he would find a woman who fit his groove, who understood and craved the romance of erotic Dominance and submission as much as he did.

He would seek and hopefully find the woman of his dreams—his own personal submissive to cherish and adore. He looked again at the lovely face of Slave E., wondering what the initial stood for. Elaine? Elizabeth? Eve?

“Hey, sorry I’m late. Damn city traffic. Some cab driver almost plowed right into me.” Fred sat heavily in the chair beside Cole, dropping his own pile of dossiers onto the table. The waitress appeared with Cole’s fresh drink and took Fred’s order.

He used the napkin in front of him to wipe his bald dome of a head and grinned at Cole.

“Got a favorite picked for tonight?”

Cole slid Slave E.’s dossier toward Fred. He picked it up and whistled. “She’s a babe and a half, all right. Too good looking for her own good, if you know what I mean.” Cole didn’t. “This is the one I want.” Fred stabbed his finger on the topmost dossier he’d brought with him. The girl on the cover was plump and barely squeezed into a black leather corset, her breasts spilling provocatively over the top.

“Slave M.” Fred grinned broadly. “I bought her once before. Her Master let me keep her for two days. Jesus H. Christ, that girl can suck the paint off a barn.” He winked.

According to the House of Usher rules, which complied with the laws of the State of New York, no sex acts were committed at the club itself. There wasn’t even BDSM play permitted at the club—once a slave was purchased, the real fun happened elsewhere.

Nor was the auction a sale of sexual favors, but rather a game designed for the amusement of the patrons, or so the story went. Fake money was used in the bidding, though it was purchased for actual cash beforehand.

More last minute stragglers were entering the club. Cole turned in time to see a man with sandy-blond hair in an expensive-looking tuxedo, his arm proprietarily around a slender woman with dark hair. She was wearing a full-length evening gown and seemed to be tottering rather unsteadily on her heels. He couldn’t see her face but his heart quickened nonetheless. Was that Slave E.?

Why was she weaving like that? Was she drunk? He pursed his lips in disapproval. Alcohol and BDSM play did not mix, or shouldn’t. Both partners needed all their senses intact for the heightened experience of D/s. Why would her Master have permitted her to drink before being put on the dais? Perhaps he should reconsider bidding after all. There were too many red flags with this one. Whoever the guy was, he didn’t seem to have a clue.

He turned back to the table and looked over his other two choices. But I want
her
,
his mind whispered insistently. Well, perhaps it would be all right, just for one night. He could be the judge for both of them. He’d been with enough submissives to sense their limits, even when they themselves did not.

The bidding was theoretically capped at fifty thousand dollars in play money, which cost ten cents on the dollar, making the actual top cost five thousand. At the previous two auctions Cole had attended, the price had never gone above two thousand. There were enough eager, willing slave girls to go around.