Carrie's Story: An Erotic S/M Novel (25 page)

And then the guard was attaching a long chain attached
to the pedestal to the iron cuff on my ankle. "Head up," he
muttered to me. "Eyes down. And breathe."

It was good advice, the breathing part, I realized, especially after all the slaves had run to their pedestals, and there
was one last hour when the buyers could check us over. There
were just so many eyes on me, and fingers, nudges, pokes,
laughs, and comments. I preferred it when the comments
were in languages I couldn't understand. Arabic, I guessed.
Japanese. I kept my eyes down. And breathed. And tried not
to concentrate on anybody as an individual, but as an element
in the swirling, hydra-headed, shiva-handed, multicolored,
polyglot, gorgeously dressed crowd.

So I was surprised when there was a momentary parting
of the crowd around me. I looked up, just a little, enough to
see a by-now-familiar flash of dark, gray-tinted glasses. And
then quickly down, my stunned brain stupidly registering that
no director of security anywhere could afford shoes as expensive as the ones I was looking down at. I felt cool, dry fingers
parting my ass as if it were a tangerine.

"Look, Stefan," I heard, in precise, oddly unaccented
but clearly foreign English. "It's been the same all week, the
expression on her face. She can't help it, it breaks through all
the mediocre training she's had. That pure passion for obedience. What do you think?"

The other voice was not as clear, but anyway it was hard
for me to hear right then, hard for me to perceive anything
except my response to the fingers up me. I wanted those fingers to force me to do something-something difficult and
painful, something I had never done before but would try m
hard to do, if he'd just keep touching me. And then I realized where we were and how close I was to losing it altogether,
and all I wanted was not to come, not to lose myself in trembling, dissolving sobs and cries. My belly did start to tremble,
which he noticed, and he stroked it a little, mercifully taking
his other fingers out of me.

"She has a great, great deal to learn," he said softly to
Stefan, whom I perceived through my downcast eyes as a
blurry set of black snakeskin cowboy boots, "but still, I think
she and I understand each other, don't you?"

Soon after, they led me to the big pink-and-blue silk tent
behind the stage, to prepare for the actual bidding. A big
guy in a dumb-looking leather outfit-George, I guessedsilently gagged me, slung me over his knee, and, quite
unemotionally, gave me the most total spanking of my life.
I was a mess after it, in fact, heaving and sobbing, and needed
to be cleaned up and comforted, which he also did, quite competently, stroking my forehead, kissing my cheek. Just as I
was beginning to feel all right though-not my ass, but the
rest of me-with practically no warning I was dragged out
to the stage. Just barely, I remembered the instructions I'd
gotten before the spanking, dropping to my knees and kissing
the ground in front of the auctioneer. He got the audience's
attention by pretending to be surprised by my Schiaparelli
pink ass, and had me display it to them at some length.
He asked me if it hurt, and when I said, "Yes, Master," he
pinched it very hard. I couldn't help the few tears that ran
down my cheeks, but I was proud that I didn't sob or anything, and I was glad that some scattered applause seemed to
acknowledge that. Again, I remembered to breathe.

Mercifully, they started the bidding after that, with the
auctioneer holding me tightly by the arm, moving me around
a bit when he felt it was going a little slowly, to show off
different parts of my body or to elaborate on my few other
salable points -the letter from Kate Clarke, my ability to take
punishment in French. There were bright lights trained at
the stage, so I couldn't see the bidders. I heard a female voice
that I recognized as Kate Clarke's, but I was sure that she
wasn't seriously bidding, just teasing Jonathan by pretending to be, and perhaps boosting his ego by helping to up my
price a little. I was just a little disappointed, I realized, that
she wasn't bidding for real.

Mostly, though, I think I was pretty numbed by it all -
spanking, the exposure, that amazing wrenching feeling when
I'd been examined by that last buyer, and the realization that
this big-budget Technicolor extravaganza of a scene and
ritual would have real consequences. A year of my life was
being decided here. All I could do was wait and wonder what
in the world I'd gotten myself into. The only specific thing I
had to go on was the auctioneer's final rap of the gavel and
cry, "Sold. To Mr. Constant for one year at $92,500."

Then they took off the iron cuff and the collar with the
number 14 placards, led me into a little tent somewhat back
from the stage, and told me to get ready. Ayoung man dressed
in black, with a short ponytail and those black cowboy boots,
came in a few minutes later, and told me that he was Stefan,
Mr. Constant's secretary. He seemed severe but reasonably
cordial.

"On your knees," he said. "Now, you'll learn everything in due course, but a little information before we leave
here, just to give you something to go on. Mr. Constant lives some of the time on a Greek island and some of the time in
Manhattan. He divides his time between taking care of his
money-he's got a very devoted staff that helps him-and
being very very strict with his slaves-that's you, now, of
course, and a boy named Tony. Oh, and there's also a trainer
for you and Tony, mostly for when we're busy or away."

We? I wondered. What else does the devoted staff get to
do? This one had a pretty mouth.

He caught my glance and said "Watch it." Then he continued, "Mr. Constant is very meticulous, but he's also very
fair; he's generous, too. He's rather creative as well, and he
likes a bargain, which is why it was fun to buy you. And once
in a while he gives a fabulous party. You could have done a
lot worse. Still, there will be what I believe they call a learning curve...."

I nodded. Of course there would be a learning curve.

Stefan gave me some high black boots to put on and
lace up. As I was doing that, he reached into his pocket and
handed me an envelope. I opened it and found this note.

Dear Carrie,

You will continue brave and beautiful, I know.
In a year, you'll be much more so than you are now.
I sold you at this auction because I wanted to see
if I-and you-could pull it off. But I also did it
because if I hadn't done it, I would have wanted to
call the whole game off and see if we could become
friends. Or lovers. Or something. Go to the movies
together and see if we liked the same ones. I still
want to and this is both surprising and disturbing. I'll be at the Place d'Horloge in Avignon next March 15. That's two weeks after your term of service ends. Come if you want to. I'll know you by the
glasses and the clunky shoes. You can pay for your
own dinner. Hell, Constant will invest your money
so well that you can pay for mine, too.

Salut, J.

P.S. I read Mirror,;ha9e,i after you were gone.
It's an interesting book, isn't it, and I thought you'd
probably want to finish it, so I sent it along. You'll
get it when you get where you're going. They let
you have books, you know, for periodic R&R.

I wanted to stamp my foot, in its stiff new boot, with rage.
Selfish, spoiled, uncool, I thought. Unfair. Romantic, amateurish, I rather surprised myself by thinking, as well. Shit, I
thought, I've just gone through all this and this is the moment
he picks for his big, coy, rueful, reluctant male confession.
He'd promised to give me a narrative in which to enact my
fantasies-who would have thought that it would turn out to
be a goddamn Harlequin Romance.

And then the humor of the situation sank in. Oh,
Jonathan, I thought, I've heard about this male fear of commitment, but you certainly went to some ridiculous lengths,
just to avoid asking me to a movie. Not to speak of taking
me out to dinner-I giggled a little when I realized how
deftly Margot had managed that one, under the least promising of circumstances. I crumbled the letter to throw it away,
but then changed my mind. Very slowly, I smoothed it out.
They'd given me a metal strongbox for papers that I wouldn't
be needing for the year. My birth certificate, driver's license, checkbook, diploma. That silly little contract Jonathan had
insisted on, ensuring that I couldn't get at my $654 until my
term of service was up. Pictures of Stuart and me, taken in
one of those booths at Woolworth's, grinning and mugging
in four frames. Stuart would want to see the letter, I thought
as I laid it on top of the pile and closed the box. Anyway, I
would be glad to get the chance to finish ll/lirravhw e,,. And I
couldn't help wondering which of the stories he'd liked best,
damn him.

Stefan put the box in his briefcase. I could see my file
in there too. Then he wrapped me in a rough black cloak
and led me out of the Garden, down another corridor, and
out of the building. There was a limo parked at the door, and
Mr. Constant was sitting inside. I climbed in next to him and
waited to be told how to greet him.