She had waited for this moment for as long as she could remember, so her fear – though natural – still came as a surprise. She was glad she was naked – at least she could pass off the shivering as a reaction to cold. And the thought of the crowd about to appraise her made her nipples harden in anticipation, making the illusion complete.

 

The crowd…

 

She remembered reading of Roman circuses. Tens of thousands of people cheering, laughing, as slaves were torn apart by wild beast. She had sometimes imagined herself as a slave then – used for gratification, beaten for pleasure – and the orgies she would have seen after the circuses. The nobles, aroused by the violence, fucking each other and raping slaves to satiate their lust.

 

A cry from the stage snapped her back to the present. The girl before her had just been auctioned, and her new owner had stepped forward. He was well known for the ‘art’ he made out of parts of slaves, and the girl had a day or two to live, at most.

 

This was it. She was next. She stood still, awaiting the call… everything coming into sharp focus. The murmer of the crowd. The heat from the dozens of bodies packed into such a small area. The bump and jostle of a hip or breast from the women around her, herded together like cows in a chute.

 

She had once been owned by a Master with a ‘cow’ fetish. He had bought her a pump, fed her pills, made her lactate. He sometimes treated her as livestock, but at other times was gentle and warm. She was young then, wanting to experiment more, and asked to be released.

 

Fingers tightening in her hair. Lost in the memory, she imagined Him pulling her to – No. This was the auction. She was being pulled roughly on stage. She stubbed almost all her toes on the short staircase, rushing to keep up with the handler yanking her onto the dias. The crowd chuckled as she stumbled, as much at her awkwardness as at her predicament.

 

Many girls followed the path, from slap and tickle to D/s experimentation, to hard core slavery. What started as voluntary sexual exploration became such an intrinsic lifestyle that they couldn’t imagine themselves ‘free’. Not serving their Master? Not being told what good slaves they are? Not humiliated and commanded? What ‘freedom’ was that?

 

And so here she stood, before a mixed crowd that had one thing in common: The passion, desire, and resources to buy human female flesh. Some of them would keep their slaves as pets or livestock, others as sexual playthings and punching bags, still others as… meat.

 

Her shoulders ached as she stood in the spotlight, but she remembered to thrust them back, prominently displaying her breasts. Her wrists, shackled together, were chaffed and raw. Her feet – especially her freshly bruised toes – were killing her.

 

The silhouette of the crowd rippled as paddles were raised in silent bidding. She couldn’t see the display behind her, so was oblivious to how much her flesh was going for, but a part of her wanted it to be the largest sum of the evening – a girl has her pride, after all. Then a voice in her head: Only the cruelest of Masters spend so lavishly, because they rarely find regular subs willing to perform those services for them. Are you ready to die?

 

Hands around her throat. His powerful frame almost invisible in the darkness, but its presence undeniable. There were times when his thick cock was painful to service, but she did her best… now, with her impending death, His cock had swollen to new proportions that threatened to split her open. “Are you ready to die?” His husky voice intoned in the dark. She knew he enjoyed the thought of slaves as meat, but never imagined it would come to this. His iron grip was unrelenting, his thrusting growing harder and harder. In previous play, she’d tap and he’d release her. But tonight was different. Tonight he’d told her he was going to snuff her during sex, then roast parts of her for an exotic meal. She’d been terrified, and started to cry.

 

The auctioneer’s excitement was obvious – bidding had passed the previous high mark and continued to rise. It was down to two bidders now – both seemingly willing to pay any price. Blinded by the spotlight, she had no idea who they were – but knew this was the sort of club where people honoured their bids. Deadbeats and wannabes went home in a cardboard box. Or two.

 

She was as proud as a slave would allow herself. Many of the other girls were far younger, some still teenagers, but her body had aged well. She was still curvaceous and tempting, and knew what effect her posing had on men. Even Doms with otherwise impeccable self control.

 

It felt strange not having anything around her throat. He’d removed her physical collar at the start of the session – she knew without question that He owned her, so the actual collar was cosmetic – and now his hands were gone from her throat as well.

 

He was spooning her, those same strong hands now petting her hair as he held her to him. It had all been a mindfuck, she realized. An extremely pleasurable one, in retrospect. She had asked to be broken that night. Begged for it. She’d wanted to be used, nothing more than an object. Meat. But in lieu of the expected beating, He had gone inside her mind and conjured images and reactions far more intense than flogging or slapping would have caused. Not meat to be pummeled, but meat to be cooked. She realized only now that her hands hadn’t been restrained. He’d placed them, crossed-wrists, above her head and told her they were bound. That had been enough to convince her. Free to defend herself, she realized, there had never been any real danger.

 

He had held her for close to an hour, making her feel safe. Soon after, they fell in love.

 

It was over. With a crisp bang of the gavel she’d been sold, and was lead off the stage. Her feet were killing her and her shoulders screamed in silent agony as she stood in the receiving pit, awaiting her new Owner. She couldn’t think of Him as Master. Not yet, and perhaps never. But He did buy her, and she was now His, so Owner would do.

 

The crowd moved as one organism, parting to allow her Owner through. The man accepted her papers from the auction official, and wound her leash in one calloused hand. “Come”, he tugged at her leash. Ugh. One of those. Reinforcing every command, secretly unsure of compliance. These were the sort that often used submission as a way to abuse girls, not for mutual pleasure. She felt her stubbornness rising. You may have bought me, she thought, but you might not earn me.

 

Her newfound independence made it all the more shocking when she was shoved in the empty back of a cargo van. The wall between her and the only two seats was almost solid, save for a small window between driver and passenger. She could hear them talking amongst themselves as they drove. She dared not approach the window – her only source of light in the otherwise solid cargo area – not only did she not want to risk punishment, but the man was driving as though he’d forgotten there was a naked girl with no seat or seatbelt being tumbled around in back like a shoe in a dryer. She’d found a corner to wedge herself in, and wedged she would try to stay for the rest of the ride.

 

She hugged her knees to her chest. Her breasts had swelled in her teens, and jiggling could be the wrong kind of painful. Not as firm as in her prime, they now required even more support now. But they were still beautiful.

 

In any event there was no need to peer through the small window. It was too dark to see anything but the bits of road illuminated by the streetlamps, and she could hear every word. The driver and passenger spoke of the ‘delivery’. It was certain, then. She was to be given or resold to yet another. The dehumanization, exactly the reason she’d entered the contest, thrilled and terrified her at the same time.

 

She now realized why He kept storming into her memories. There had been other men before him, and many more since. Some were mere boys, figuratively and literally. Awkward fumblings on basement couches or in cars. Sometimes the sex had been fantastic, other times masturbation would have done more for her. But she enjoyed the contact. Eager hands, lips, cocks… Others had been unrelenting in their cruelty, sometimes ignoring the ‘yellow’ safeword and stopping only at ‘red’, when her back was split and raw from flogging or her organs bruised by fists. Some didn’t stop at all, and she’d run away shortly thereafter. Some had been good Masters. Sometimes hard, sometimes gentle. She’d loved them, too. But eventually she felt that same need to go explore, not yet fulfilled.

 

But He… He was back. In her mind. In her heart. Why now? Because he’d once whispered this very scenario to her in the dark. As she lay on the bed, spread for him, his hands had wandered over her flesh… His property… as he described her up on that stage. He painted a picture of it so vivid, so real, she could see herself being auctioned; could feel the hot breath of the other women on the nape of her neck as she awaited her turn. The grizzled messenger buying her, bringing her to Him. His fingers had worked inside her, curving to touch her in that way of His, the other hand pressing gently on her lower belly. She’d cum, the first time a man’s fingers had granted her that release.

 

Her heart soared with the memory of that fantasy. Had he seen the future? No. He was a storyteller, adept at spinning tales amusing, horrific, or passionate as required. In fact He made His living at it as an accomplished writer. He’d even written a story about her after they’d parted; one that she was unsure how to react to. He had seemed so willing to let her go, to give her the freedom she needed. Was it a sign of some obsession? Or a tribute? She’d realized it was the latter. He was among the few who realized that loving someone sometimes means letting them go. Where others had demanded – or begged – that she stay, He had released her whenever she asked.

 

She imagined herself being brought to Him now, as in that almost-forgotten fantasy. Arriving at her new residence and seeing those eyes greeting her, that familiar mischievous smile, that intoxicating  musk. Don’t get your hopes up, the familiar voice of cynicism in her head reminded her. It was just a story. He was just one master.  One she remembered fondly, but hadn’t seen or spoken to in years.

 

They had kept in touch for a long time after. Friends with benefits. Sometimes she’d donned her old collar at His request, happy and eager to do so. But he’d always let her go when the wanderlust came over her. The ring He’d given her to wear between sessions wasn’t a collar, but she wore it often to remember the respect between them and the safety and comfort He continued to offer. She’d sought his counsel when she needed advice, and always trusted His word.

 

But then she’d met a Master who excited her. This new one, realizing the meaning of the ring, had ordered her to take it off. She complied, wanting to please Him and feeling very much in love. The one who gave it to her no longer owned her, after all – she had a new Master now, and emotions were running strong.

 

But when He ordered her to get rid of it, she secretly disobeyed. She hid it away, not knowing why.

 

Eventually it hit her; He was threatened by her past, that which made her what she was and what she offered Him. Why? She served Him well and had given Him her heart. The thought troubled her.  A crack in her trust rippled through.

 

A few weeks later, she felt the need to move on. He’d cried and begged. Those familiar words she’d heard so often before, from so many mouths. I need you. I can’t live without you. Blah.

 

The van abruptly halted, smacking her against the bulkhead. She waited for the rear door to open… waited… waited… Idiot, the voice chided. They’re having a break, and you don’t matter to them. You’re just a delivery. Here you sit until they’re ready for you.

 

Typical. Just as she’d resigned herself to being in the van that was her cell, the door opened. “Come”, the messenger barked. She placed the handloop of the leash in her mouth and quickly scampered out of the van. He took the leash and led her towards the house, his companion walking ahead and unlocking the sturdy door.

 

It yawned open, the enormous maw suiting the opulent house. She knew any man who could afford to pay such a sum for a disposable woman would be wealthy, and the house was suitably opulent. Not overly large like the pretentious mansions of the upper middle class, those living large paycheque to large paycheque barely a step ahead of their bills in an effort to impress the neighbours, but tastefully showing the owners affluence.

 

She was lead to a room, not a word spoken. The messenger grunted a command: it sounded enough like “stay” for her to get the meaning, and beetled out of the room.

 

Naked, vulnerable, and not knowing her fate she stealthily glanced around. The sparse room had a fantastic view out its floor-to-ceiling windows, moonlight pouring in and making artificial illumination almost gauche by comparison. She was glad the lights were off. Had they been on, even with the house so high up the hillside, neighbors could easily see her in all her nude splendor. Vanilla neighbors who wouldn’t understand.

 

The waiting was the worst of it.

 

High heels clacked on the hardwood. A woman – uncollared and Amazonian – circled into her field of view. A magnificent specimen by any standard, the new arrival appraised her with icy efficiency.

 

“So you’re the new one, eh?”

 

She was about to say “Yes, Mistress” when a stinging slap silenced her opened mouth.

 

“Bitch!”

 

What had she done wrong? Or was this her new purpose – to be beaten and abused by a woman. She stood, eyes downcast, wrists at the small of her back, and awaited the beating.

 

“Petra, stop that” The gruff tones of the Messenger halted the second blow before it could land. “Just do your bit and get out.”

 

Petra leaned in, glaring at her. Their breasts almost touched. The powerfully built woman’s arm snaked behind the slave’s back, seizing her wrist and pulling her hand out in front. “I’m supposed to give you this”, she hissed through clenched teeth.

 

She felt something pressed into her hand, her fingers pushed closed over it., clenching it tightly. “I don’t know why. He won’t let you wear it. He never lets us wear it. God knows what it’s for.”

 

Petra stormed out, the clacking of her heels fading behind other sounds. A door closing. An engine starting. A van – the van – backing out of the driveway. Gone.

 

It was hard, flat, and felt like metal but she dared not move to examine it. Her new Mistress or Master could enter at any moment, and she wanted to be properly posed.

 

Soft footsteps behind her grew closer… closer… warm breath caressed her neck. Despite herself she tensed, awaiting the end.

 

“Well, look at it.”

 

So grateful for the permission to see what she was holding, she barely heard the speaker. She opened her hand and held it up, taking in the adonized metal of the tag in the moonlight. Her fingers played over the engraved letters, a familiar sight.

 

She turned to see Him. Those eyes, those protective arms…

 

“Welcome, pussikat.”

 

She was safe. She was home.