Sex Slave at the Auction

(BOOK SIX OF THE INITIATION 2 SERIES)

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright 2012 by Aphrodite Hunt

Cover art by Aphrodite Hunt

Published by Aphrodite Hunt at Smashwords

WORKS BY APHRODITE HUNT

The ‘Initiation’ series

Open Your Legs for Me

Blindfolded and Spread-eagled

Thighs Wide Apart

Teacher, Please Spread my Pussy

The Final Initiation

The Initiation: A Bundle of 5 Stories

The ‘Initiation 2’ series

Open Your Legs for my Family

Bend Over for my Family

Publicly Display Yourself for Me

Sex Slave at Sea

Paraded before the Billionaires

Sex Slave at the Auction

‘
The Royal Captive’ series

Prince Miro’s Capture

Prince Miro’s Submission

Prince Miro’s Enslavement

Prince Miro’s Punishment

Prince Miro’s Escape

Prince Miro’s Final Confrontation

The Royal Captive: Vol 1 to 3

The Royal Captive: Vol 4 to 6

The ‘Naughty Nymphomaniac’ series

I was a Naughty Nymphomaniac

Officer, Please Spread and Cuff Me

Gang Banged by the Chain Gang

The ‘Delicate Piercings’ series

Her First Clit Ring

Her First Clit Ring 2: Menage

The ‘Undercover’ series

Undercover: Exposing the Bad Doctor

Undercover: Stealing from the Sexy CEO

The ‘Alien’ series

Trapped with Sex-Starved Aliens

Trapped with Sex-Starved Aliens 2

Hot, Wet and Steamy
(individual
stories)

When He’s Inside You

My Stepson is a Naughty Stripper

The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter
(Erotic Suspense)

Dear reader, as this list is not always
comprehensive due to more stories being churned out after this
point in publishing, please visit
http://aphroditehunt.blogspot.com/
for more stories and updates

1

I have been through the sex slave PARADE and
chariot RACE. I now have to go through my TALENTIME, DISPLAY and
the actual AUCTION, as according to my schedule of events.

See? They are so organized.

As for me, I’m scared.

I’m more than scared, actually. I’m
rip-roaringly, in-over-my-head
terrified
of who I’m going to
be sold to, where I’m going, and if anyone is actually going to
bid
for me. Because it would be terribly embarrassing if no
one did, you know, unless Russell and Max’s mother are going to put
in a pity bid.

To be honest, I’m not keen on my Talentime
and Display either.

But theirs not to wonder why, theirs but to
do and be objectified.

I can only hope and pray – like a little
orphan whose mind must be swirling with simultaneous promise and
dread on the eve before his adoption – that I will go to a good
home and master who will not break my body and spirit before I can
yield.

*

We spend the next day rehearsing
individually with our minders – so that we can’t see what the
others are doing – as our soon-to-be buyers, the billionaires, are
feted and wined and made to go through other sales pitches. (I hear
Tiffany’s brought in an armored van full of diamonds and Faberge
rolled in their jeweled eggs.)

When we are not rehearsing, I’m conversing
in a low voice with Max.

“I don’t want to be parted from you,” I say.
Pinpricks of tears threaten to spill from the backs of my eyes, but
I refuse to let them.

“I don’t want to be parted from you either,
but we may have no choice.” He soothes my hair and entwines his
fingers through mine. Loving couple things. How far we have come
from our initial master-slave relationship.

“Is there any chance your father is going to
buy us back?”

Max shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he
says, hesitating. “My parents are . . . unconventional. They think
sexual servitude is good for the soul.”

“Seriously.”

“Well, both of them have been sex slaves in
their youth, albeit briefly. Put up to it by my grandparents. My
family has a history of sexual servitude all the way back to the
Victorian era. There’s plenty of master-slave domination submission
going on, with everyone taking and alternating turns. In the end,
they become what they naturally settle into being.”

I’m goggle-eyed. And goldfish mouthed.

“Believe it,” Max says unhappily. “My father
is a dom, as you can obviously tell. As am I, though he’s
determined to let me experience the other end of the stick. My
mother plays both roles, so I’ve been told.”

I’m loathe to ask this, but something tells
me this is the best time to do it.

I say, “Do they . . . do they play those
roles with you?”

My heart is beating painfully against my
ribs. I’m always afraid of crossing a line with Max. I love him so
much, you see – enough to prostitute myself for his family’s
pleasure so that he will love me in return. I’m never sure where
that line is drawn, and I’ve suspected many things. Of Max having
more than a brotherly relationship with his sister. Of . . . oh, I
don’t know, other incestuous relationships. Maybe even with his
studly twin brothers.

After all, the Devlins are weird with a
capital ‘W’. Beautiful as sin, but weirder than sexual purgatory.
All kinds of kinky things are possible with them. It’s only a
matter of whether or not you want to pass judgment, and since I’m a
sex slave, I’m in no position to pass judgment on anybody.

Max’s handsome face is clouded. We are in a
stone dungeon. The chamber is large and we are sitting in one
corner while the others mill about, waiting for their turns to
rehearse. There is a latrine against one wall and one of the girls
is on the potty. No room for shyness here.

Max says in a soft voice, “With my parents .
. . no. Not with me.”

He lets the implications sink in.
Not
with me.
But possibly with my siblings. But of course, I’m
jumping to conclusions. ‘Not with me’ does not necessarily equate
‘with Alice or someone else’.

The silence between us is so prolonged that
I’m afraid this is all Max will say on the subject.

“But did you have a thing with Alice?” I
press on guardedly. I swallow the lump that has bolted into my
throat. “It’s just that she looks at you . . .
strangely
.”

She looks at you funny, and you look at her
funny. And you both hold each other a tad too long to be considered
fraternal.

Max lets the pause linger before he replies,
“I was fourteen. She was older. We have . . . experimented.”

He clams up and looks away, his beautiful
blue eyes troubled.

Oh, oh, oh, I knew it.
Experimented
.
That’s a red flag for all sorts of things that are wrong.

Images of a young Max and Alice tumble in my
head. Horrible images – images that shouldn’t even be
conceived.

Max bites his lip. It’s a gesture that’s so
fragile and heartbreakingly young that a pang fleets through my
chest. Not just a pang, but a terrible ache that the love of my
life has to go through this. But did he
like
going through
it? After all, no one took advantage of anyone. It was a mutual
consent, right?

“D-did she force you?”

“No.”

“Did you force her?” I don’t believe I said
that, but there it is – it was out before I can take it back.

“No, of course not.”

I’m relieved.

“Do your parents and brothers know?”

“I don’t think so. I think Father would have
given me a hiding. No, worse. Cut me out of his will, more
like.”

“Why single you out? It’s her as much as
you.”

Max’s lips twist. “Father always had a thing
for Alice, if you’ve noticed. Mother always had a thing for the
twins, maybe because she went through a Caesarean for them. I don’t
mean that in a bad way where Mother is concerned, of course – it’s
purely maternal.”

As maternal as a mother who can watch her
eldest son and daughter stripped, bound and paraded naked in front
of strangers, I reckon. I picture my own parents being in that
theatre-style room, watching Max and me fuck. I guarantee both of
them will keel over with a heart attack.

“So I’m the black sheep of the family,” Max
continues. He grins, as if this matter is of little consequence to
him.

But inside, I know that it must cut
deep.

I say, “But why? You’re handsome and smart
and athletic and all the good things any parent would want in a
son.”

“Why does a parent prefer one kid over
another? That’s the eternal cosmic question, going back to biblical
times. Why Jacob and not Esau? Will we ever know?” he says without
bitterness. He shrugs. “It’s OK. It’s something I’ve dealt with my
entire life so I’ve had plenty of practice. It doesn’t bother me
after a while. Like I’m sure it doesn’t bother you.”

It’s true. I’ve always suspected my folks of
preferring my beautiful, smarter sister, Karyn, over me – even
though they have always vehemently protested it. But you just
know
these things. It’s deep in your bones, like
soul
knowledge. These are the things that hurt us in the middle of the
night. Things we don’t really want to acknowledge but seep in like
a toothache now and again to remind us that the problem is still
omnipresent.

“Yeah,” I say, “it doesn’t bother me.”

He smiles. And I smile back.

Because we both
know
better.

“Don’t tell anyone about my little secret,”
he says.

“You know me better than that.”

He leans over to touch his forehead against
mine. It’s one of the most loving gestures he has ever bestowed
upon me.

He says in a low voice, “I think I love
you.”

My breath catches. Oh, those four little
words.

I think I love you.

My head spins a little, as though I have
been deprived of air. And maybe I have, because I’ve forgotten to
breathe for twenty whole seconds.
I think I love you.
Oh
Max. How long have I waited to hear those words, and now they are
here – like a thesis to the heart that I have been slaving nights
over.

I really, really want him to mean them too.
Not say them because he’s feeling vulnerable and unloved in his
current predicament and trying to latch on to the only person who
will make him feel better.

My major is psychology, so I
learned
about these things.

Does he really mean them? How do you
determine these things? I don’t know. I don’t have a Bachelor’s
degree in the affairs of the human heart. Hell, I don’t even have a
degree to my own heart.

Ohhh. My head hurts. I’m overanalyzing this
in torrents of turbulent thought. I shouldn’t live and die by this
confession. I really shouldn’t.

Keep calm, Gina.

Breathe
.

“I love you, Max.”

It’s a spontaneous rebuttal.
I would do
anything for you.

Really. And I mean it.

He sighs. “And we’re both stuck here of our
own volition. See how fucked up our situation is?”

Yeah. We are pretty fucked up. My mind is a
cyclone. And we have no other words left to say other than must be
said. The romantic version is that we are lovers who soon must be
parted. The truthful version is that we are in over heads, and we
are helpless to whatever must transpire.

From the other side of the dungeon, Alice
gets up from talking to Greg and strides over. She’s a naked
Valkyrie – all blonde and tall and shapely. The men’s eyes trail
her body as she walks, and she’s aware of it.

She says to me, “I want to talk to my
brother alone.”

It’s a statement. Knowing what I know about
them now, I won’t pretend that I feel comfortable about it. I love
Max. Max loves me. He said so himself – those four precious little
words that will burn in my memory forever. And Alice is . . . well,
Max said so himself . . .
competition
.

His own sister. My competition. She’s no
different from an ex-flame.

This is sick, sick, sick.

Max detaches himself from my side. He says
resignedly, “OK.”

Alice motions him to an empty portion of the
dungeon. They go over and begin a guarded conversation in
whispers.