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)
Four thousand two hundred.
Not four hundred. Not forty-two. Not some number I could maybe scrape together by selling my laptop, or my daddy's typewriter, or my body on a street corner somewhere.
Four thousand. Two hundred. Dollars.
I don't even understand how this is possible. How could I be four months behind in rent? Surely, there were signs. I would've noticed.
Right, Scarletta. You left your fucking front door open for four hours before you noticed.
My lungs burn.
Oh. Still holding my breath.
I exhale. It comes out shaky. Pathetic. The sound of a girl who's been pretending she's fine and just got caught.
Three days.
I sink down onto the floor, legs giving out, then I crawl back into my blanket fort, my laptop still glowing with the scene I was writing.
The scene where she finally surrenders.
Where she finally admits what she wants.
Where he catches her, and keeps her, and makes her his.
Fiction.
All of it fiction.
Because I can't pay rent in story comments.
I can't trade the forty-seven stories I've posted on DarkDesires for a roof over my head.
I can't surrender to a dominant who'll take care of me because this isn't a fucking fantasy, this is real life, and in real life you get evicted.
In real life… you fail.
Chapter 3
Scarletta
"Iam so fucked. I am cosmically, catastrophically, thoroughly fucked. I am fucked in ways that require new vocabulary. I am fucked in dimensions scientists haven't discovered yet. I am—"
Ding.
The laptop notification cuts through my rant with the precision of a scalpel.
Silence rushes in. Loud silence. The kind that makes you aware of your own breathing, your heartbeat, the way the radiator has stopped hissing just to listen to you make a fool of yourself.
I stare at the glowing laptop screen, covered in blankets inside my fort.
Probably spam. Probably someone asking if I take commissions. Or—worse—another reader wanting to know when I'll update "Claimed" because I've left them hanging for three weeks while my obsession over See Me, Spank Me, Cure Me played out.
I fish it out, and stare at the screen.
The notification banner shows a username I don't recognize: AuctionAdmin_DarkDesires
Ok.
I click it open.
SUBJECT: Exclusive Invitation - 75th Annual Triple X-Mas Auction
Dear ScarletSins,
Based on your exceptional content and engagement on DarkDesires, you've been selected for an exclusive opportunity.
Would you wrap yourself up as the perfect gift for a generous benefactor this holiday season?
The Triple X-Mas Auction connects willing participants with verified high-net-worth individuals seeking companionship for Christmas Eve, December 24th, through Christmas Day, December 25th.
Selection Process: Right Now
Christmas Eve Bidding: December 24th, 10:00 AM
Service Expectation: Starts immediately after auction, ends December 25th, 12:00 PM
Payment Disbursement: December 25th, 12:00 PM
Compensation:
Minimum guaranteed payout: $20,000
Performance bonuses available
All transactions confidential and legally binding.
Make this Christmas unforgettable—for yourself AND for someone who values exactly what you offer.
Interested? Click below to review terms and begin the selection process.
[CONFIRM INTEREST]
I read it twice. Three times. Twenty thousand times. Once for each dollar. Minimum.
My hands are shaking.
This is insane. This is—this has to be a scam. Or trafficking. Or some elaborate phishing scheme designed specifically for broke erotica writers with eviction notices.
But.
Twenty thousand dollars.
The number blazes in my mind like a neon sign. Twenty thousand. Two-zero-zero-zero-zero.
Twenty-four-ish hours.
Christmas Eve at ten AM through Christmas Day at noon.
My brain starts mathing, defensive and desperate all at once. If I was going anywhere except my usual blanket fort of seasonal depression, I could technically still make it back in time for... what? Presents? Family dinner?
I mentally catalog my pathetic excuse for Christmas plans: me, my laptop, leftover ramen if I'm lucky, and the crushing silence of being completely alone while the rest of the world pretends to be jolly.
I'm not going anywhere on Christmas. There's nowhere to go, no one waiting, no tree with my name on a single wrapped package underneath it. But the point is—and this feels important somehow, like my brain is grasping for any rationalization it can find—the point is that I could. If I had somewhere to be, this wouldn't even interfere.
It's... considerate? Is that the word? Weirdly thoughtful for what is clearly, obviously, definitely—
Auction.
The word sits in my brain like a stone.
Auction. Like... sex... auction?
That can't be right. Can it? Is that what this is?
My hands are trembling so badly I nearly drop my laptop as I push it up to my nose like I'm checking for fine print, or hidden messages, or some kind of "GOTCHA, you idiot" disclaimer.
I read the whole thing one more time. Every word. Every implication.
Make this Christmas unforgettable—for yourself AND for someone who values exactly what you offer.
It is sex auction.
It's an actual, literal, what-the-fuck-is-my-life sex auction, and they're inviting me.
Why?
I mean... okay. Yes. I'm a good writer. My erotica stories have game—twelve thousand followers don't lie, and "Owned" hit the top of the Psychological Dark Romance leaderboard for six consecutive weeks. My readers say things like "most realistic D/s dynamics I've ever read" and "how does she know what it feels like?" and I sit there behind my screen, anonymous and invisible, glowing with validation I can't get anywhere else.