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)
I raise one finger toward Mr. Fitzwilliam. "My phone? I think I left it—"
His head moves once. A single shake. No.
He exits. The door clicks.
The girl examining her nails speaks without looking up. "They keep the phones. Buyers get them temporarily. It's in the contract. You'll get it back after."
She shifts her attention to the nervous girl. Her voice stays flat. Bored. "What did you check this time? I had to pick the scat." She crinkles her nose. "But it's like fifteen grand, so…"
Her words trail off.
This time.
Not this one desperate choice. Not this mistake I'll never repeat.
This time. Like there's been other times. Like there will be more times.
The nervous girl's voice barely carries across the room. "I'm down to CNC. But it's fifty thousand, right? Totally worth it, right?"
Consensual non-consent. The highest-value option on the menu. The one I couldn't even consider without my stomach turning inside out.
The bored girl nods like they're discussing whether to get pizza or Chinese food. "Yeah. Mine was…" She blows out a breath. "Like… wow."
"You liked it?" the scared girl asks.
Confident girl mouths the words, "Loved it," without making any sound.
The scared girl looks at me. Tears forming in her eyes. "Did you ever do it?"
I shake my head no, unable to speak.
She goes back to looking at her feet.
A woman appears in the doorway. Severe features. Hair pulled back so tight it must hurt. Disappointment carved into every line of her face like she's been let down by absolutely everyone she's ever met.
She holds a clipboard. "Arabella Wilde."
Arabella Wilde.
The name sounds borrowed from a fantasy novel. Not real. Not something anyone would put on a birth certificate.
The trembling girl stands. Her legs look like they might give out. Fear rolls off her in waves I can actually feel from here.
She follows the severe woman through the opposite door anyway.
The door closes.
Two of us remain.
Silence settles over the room like dust. Heavy. Suffocating.
The confident girl's eyes lock with mine from across the room. Direct eye contact.
Questions pile up in my throat. But I can't ask any of them. Because I'm terrified of the answers.
Her mouth curves upward. Not quite a smile. "So what'd you check? Got anything fun going this time? How much you gonna make?"
I swallow. "Um. Not really. Forced confession. Total power exchange."
Her laughter fills the small room. Sharp. Mocking. "TPE? You checked TPE? That's like a thousand bucks." She shakes her head. "Not worth it, my friend No. Absolutely not. Fucking newbies. Showing up with their little sex fantasies like this is a boyfriend experience."
My face burns.
Little sex fantasies.
It hurts because… it's true.
Mean lady is back.
"Already?" I ask. Surprised the last girl's auction went so quick.
Confident girl is already standing, like she can't wait to play with scat. She looks at me as she passes. "Oh, rape fantasies are pre-arranged. The auction was fake."
Then she walks out.
I'm alone.
The confident girl is gone. The terrified girl is gone. Just me and my burning face and the way my heart won't stop hammering against my ribs.
The auction was fake.
What does that mean? What does—
I can't finish the thought. My brain's moving too fast, skipping like a scratched CD over the same three seconds of panic.
Forty-four thousand dollars. Total Power Exchange. Forced confession. Using my own writing against me.
Little sex fantasies.
She laughed at me. She actually laughed.
"I'm so stupid," I whisper to the empty room. "I'm so fucking stupid."
My voice sounds small. Pathetic.
I should've checked CNC. I should've checked everything. Fifty thousand dollars would've—
Would've what? Made you less of a whore?
I press my palms against my eyes. Hard enough to see stars.
"This is fine. This is totally fine. You made your choice. You signed the forms. You let three strangers touch you and you almost came in front of them like some kind of—"
Something catches my eye.
Small. Dark. Mounted in the corner where the wall meets the ceiling.
A camera.
My stomach drops.
There's another one. Above the door. And another behind the velvet chair. And—
Oh god.
They're everywhere.
Four. Five. Six cameras that I can see, which means there are probably more I can't.
People are watching me right now.
Right now, while I'm standing here in this silk robe talking to myself like a crazy person, someone is watching.
Multiple someones.
My breath comes faster. Shallow. My vision tunnels at the edges.
Were they watching during the preparation? Were they watching while those men bathed me? While they touched me? While I almost—
Of course they were watching. That's the whole point. You're the product. They need to see the product.
Heat floods through me. Shame so thick I can taste it.
But underneath the shame, something else.
Something worse.
I'm wet.
I'm wet and my nipples are hard and there's this awful pulse between my legs that won't stop.
You're turned on.
No. No, I'm not. I'm terrified. I'm humiliated. I'm—
The questionnaire.
There was a question about this. About being watched without consent. About the fantasy of surveillance.