Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
She's almost there. I can see it. The tension building in her body, the way her breathing goes ragged, the moment before—
She bites her lip. Hard. Her whole body goes rigid.
And she holds it there. Trembling on the edge. Refusing to fall.
The attendant keeps touching her but she's fighting it. Fighting her own body's need to release.
Denying herself.
Jesus Christ.
I come so hard my vision goes white. Hot semen spilling over my fist, my cock pulsing, her name almost escaping my throat before I catch it.
"Good girl," I breathe instead. "Such a good girl."
Saving herself for me even when she doesn't know it yet.
My good little slut.
She's going to be the death of me.
Or maybe I'll be the death of her.
Chapter 9
Scarletta
I'm standing in the middle of the preparation suite, thighs pressed together so hard they're shaking, silk robe sticking to my oiled skin, trying—trying—not to come just from the memory of their hands on me.
This is who I am. This is what I've become.
A girl who almost came in the middle of a room, being held up by strangers, while one of them touched her like she was livestock being checked for market.
Because that's exactly what you are. Livestock. Product. A thing being sold.
My clit is throbbing. Actually throbbing. I can feel my pulse between my legs, this awful desperate ache that won't go away no matter how still I stand.
I should be horrified. I should be disgusted with myself.
But all I can think about is how close I was. How badly I wanted to let go. How much I still want to let go.
Pathetic. You're pathetic.
The three attendants circle me. Like I'm prey. Like they know exactly what I'm feeling and they're enjoying it.
The blonde one leans in first. His lips brush my cheek—gentle, almost affectionate—and he whispers, "It's okay if you come next time. We're paid to fluff you up."
Fluff you up.
Like I'm a pillow. Like I'm a product that needs to be presented at peak condition.
My face burns. Shame floods through me so hot I think I might actually combust right here on this eucalyptus-scented floor.
The second attendant—dark hair, the one who had his fingers on my clit, kisses my other cheek. "The buyers like the girls ready and wanting."
Ready and wanting.
I am. God help me, I am.
The third one, the quiet one who worked my legs, kisses my forehead this time. His voice is softer. Almost kind. "See you next month."
He moves away before I can process what he said.
Next month?
Next month?
What does that—
"Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all." Mr. Fitzwilliam appears in the doorway, clapping his hands twice. Sharp. Efficient.
They file out past him without looking back.
Mr. Fitzwilliam turns to me, adjusting his perfect cuffs. "Miss Desmond. It's nearly your turn at the auction. If you'll follow me, please."
I stare at him. My brain isn't working. Nothing is computing.
"I—four hours? It's been four hours already?" How the hell could four hours have passed? Did I fall asleep in the tub and not realize it?
"Slightly over four hours, yes." Fitzwilliams says, checking his watch. "The bidding is running behind due to an unforeseen circumstance, but we should move you into position regardless."
Unforeseen circumstance.
I want to ask what that means. I want to know what kind of unforeseen circumstance delays a sex auction. I want to know if someone got hurt, or if someone backed out, or if—
But I don't ask.
Because I'm afraid of the answer.
Because whatever the answer is, I'm still going to walk through that door. I'm still going to let them auction me off like a piece of meat. I'm still going to let some stranger buy the right to touch me however he wants for forty-four thousand dollars.
See you next month.
Mr. Fitzwilliam extends his hand toward the doorway. "Miss Desmond?"
I follow him.
Because that's what I do. Apparently.
The hallway beyond is all glass and polished wood. I can hear music now. Voices. The low murmur of wealthy people doing wealthy things.
My pussy is still wet. Still aching.
And I'm walking toward the room where they're going to sell me.
Mr. Fitzwilliam opens a door like he's unveiling something precious. Like I should be grateful for what's on the other side.
I step through.
Velvet chairs line the walls. Deep burgundy. The kind you see in old theaters where people used to watch plays about tragic women who died beautifully.
Two girls already occupy the space.
Girls. Not women. Girls who look like they'd need fake IDs to get into bars. One perched on the edge of her chair, fingers knotted together so tight her knuckles are white. The other sprawled back with her legs crossed, examining her cuticles like she's waiting for a bus.
Three white silk robes. Three participants.
Three pieces of livestock.
My hand moves automatically toward my pocket. Toward the familiar weight of my phone—it's not there.
I left it in the preparation suite. Or they took it. I can't remember which. The last four hours are already blurring together like watercolor left out in the rain.