A man standing in the shadows at the side of the room clears his throat. "I give you the ninth and final girl of the evening. And trust me when I tell you, gentlemen, that we’ve saved the best for last. She’s as pure and untouched as they come. She comes to us as a virgin, willing, ready, and fully in agreement with the six-month terms. Now, who’d like to start the bidding?"
It’s quiet for just a heartbeat and I wait for something to happen.
"Move your hands off your tits, angel," a man in the crowd says.
I raise my eyes toward the sound of the voice, but my hands stay where they are. A streak of defiance I didn’t know I had rears its head. No one owns me yet. Not a single bid had been placed. I still control my destiny.
I shift my weight, feeling that tingling sensation that means my foot is falling asleep and clutch my chest tighter as though I’m hanging on for dear life. My heart races in my chest and little beads of sweat form under my arms despite the cool temperature in the room. I feel dizzy. Disoriented. But I tell myself can do this. I have to do this.
"Two hundred." The man’s voice who’d ordered me to uncover myself places the first bid. I hope that’s two hundred thousand and not two hundred dollars. It never occurred to me that I needed to have a minimum established before this began. I was not sleeping with some weird old man for two hundred dollars. But then I recalled Bill saying something about six figure minimums, and I relax the tiniest bit.
"Two fifty," another voice says. He sounds younger and has a slight Spanish accent.
"Three hundred," a third voice croaks.
Soon the price is up to five-seventy five and I feel faint listening to the whole exchange. I need to get off this stage before I pass out or throw up, or do something equally as terrifying, like go home with one of these sick men.
Be strong, Soph.
I draw another breath.
"Six hundred thousand," my tit-loving admirer counters. I don’t want to go to the man who I’ve already defied by refusing to show my chest. Knowing my luck, his first order of business will be to punish me for that act of disobedience.
"Greedy tonight. He already has one and now he wants a second," the announcer chuckles.
The man who is currently driving up my price has apparently already purchased one girl tonight and now he wants me too. Call me old fashioned, but I always assumed I’d be the only slave in this type of arrangement. I thought I was signing up for the typical one man-one woman experience. This wasn’t how I imagined losing my virginity, but I certainly never pictured being part of an orgy, or whatever he had planned. It disturbs me to think that he could buy us like cattle and force us to do things to each other and him. This whole process is going from bad to worse.
I look up and to the center of the room—to the one man who’s remained completely silent so far. He crosses his ankle over his knee and leans back further in his chair, concealing his face entirely in the shadows. His casual, aloof behavior strikes something in me. I have a roomful of men bidding on my virginity, but somehow I don’t like the idea that this one man isn’t interested. Is there something wrong with me? It’s self-conscious and stupid, but something about being mostly nude in a roomful of strangers puts bizarre thoughts in your head.
No one has countered the man to my left—the one who’d called me angel and wanted to see my breasts and my stomach churns in knots. He’s offered six hundred thousand dollars, more than enough to pay for my sister’s medical treatment, give Bill his ten percent and the money he spent on me at the salon. I should feel happy and relieved. This is what I wanted, right? But the idea of actually leaving with him and the other girl he’s bought tonight sets off a gnawing feeling inside my chest.
"If there are no other bids…" the announcer begins.
My windpipe threatens to close. It can’t end like this…
"Seven hundred," the man directly in front of me says. His voice is smooth and rich. Deep and hypnotic somehow. I lean forward on my toes trying to see his face. The foot he’s crossed over his ankle bounces as he fidgets, the only sign he’s now engaged in this bidding war. My heart leaps in my chest, doubling its pace as I wait nervously to see what will happen.
Not being able to discern anything else in the room, I focus on his shoe. It is large, a black shiny leather, and expensive-looking dress shoe. But I suppose you have to be insanely wealthy to buy another human being for the prices these men are offering. His foot twitches again and my eyes shoot up to where I imagine his face is.
The other man grumbles something under his breath, and I catch the word overpriced. Then he barks out another bid. "Seven twenty-five."
Crap. I don’t want to be part of this weirdo's threesome fetish and I have no idea if going with Mr. Shiny Dress Shoes will be any better, but I stare straight ahead, silently pleading with him to up the bid. A dose of raw willpower keeps me steady on my feet.
"One million dollars," he says after what feels like an eternity.
My head spins and I feel woozy. A million dollars? For me? There is no way I’m worth that as a sex slave. Once he realizes how inexperienced I am—not just at sex, but at everything—he’ll have buyer’s remorse, and maybe even try and return me. Yet still, I hold my breath, praying that no one will outbid him.