“Behold,” Viktor’s voice booms over the speaker system, sounding like the voice of God in my drug-dazed brain. “The crown jewel of the Hale legacy. Stripped of her crown, marked by the North, and ready for a new master.”
The room erupts into a frantic, digital clicking. The keypads are chirping like insects.
$12,000,000… $15,000,000… $22,000,000…
The numbers on the giant screen flash, turning from white to a blood-red. I stare out at the masks, my vision swimming. I want to fight, I want to pull my legs together, but the drug is a lead weight. I am just a doll in a cage, my pussy bared to the gaze of a hundred monsters.
“Wait,” a voice rasps from the front row. A man in a cracked porcelain mask stands up, his shadow long and jagged across the stage. He points a gloved finger at me. “The data says ‘High Resilience.’ I want to know if she’s been properly broken, or if she’s just sedated. I want a sample before I commit fifty million.”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the shadows.
Viktor steps into the light, a thin, razor-sharp smile on his face. He looks at me, then back at the man. “A sample? You want to see if the silk is still soft after the fire?”
“I want to see her react,” the man growls. “I want to see if she still knows how to beg.”
Viktor nods to one of the masked guards. The man steps toward the cage, reaching through the gold bars. He isn’t holding a gun. He’s holding a long, slender glass rod, the tip dripping with something clear and caustic.
I watch it come toward me, my eyes wide and glazed, my heart thudding a slow, dying rhythm against my ribs.
Peter,I whisper in the dark, silent tomb of my mind.Peter, they’re going to touch me again. Please… make it stop.
The guard’s hand reaches the apex of my thighs, and the digital bidding clock begins to count down.
The guard doesn’t hesitate. He slides the glass rod through the gilded bars, the movements precise and cold, like he’s handling a piece of lab equipment rather than a human being. The drug makes me heavy, my head lolling back against the gold filigree of the cage, my eyes pinned and glassy as I watch the distorted reflection of the room in the glass tip.
“Reaction test for Lot 402,” the guard barks, his voice muffled by his mask.
He presses the caustic, freezing tip of the rod directly against my clit.
The shock is so violent it bypasses the heroin haze. My body spasms, my spine arching off the velvet floor of the cage as a jagged, electric scream dies behind the silver tape. It isn’t pleasure; it’s a chemical burn, a forced,agonising overstimulation that makes my thighs quiver in the stirrups.
On the giant LED screen behind me, a macro-lens camera focuses on my crotch. The bidders watch in high-definition as my muscles seize, my pussy clenching and weeping in a frantic, primal reflex. My pupils, tiny pinpricks a second ago, blow wide with the sheer, traumatic shock of the sensation.
The room erupts into a dark, appreciative lowing. The digital numbers on the terminals begin to climb at a sickening speed.
$30,000,000… $35,000,000…
The man in the cracked porcelain mask begins to clap—slow, mocking, rhythmic strikes of his gloved palms. “Cute,” he says, his voice dripping with a casual, terrifying boredom. “The rod is a fine trick, Viktor. A very ‘cute’ display of neurology. But I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
He walks to the edge of the stage, the spotlight catching the jagged cracks in his mask. He looks up at me, his gaze lingering on the way the milk and blood from the barn have dried into a pale, sickly crust on my inner thighs.
“I didn’t ask for a demonstration,” he rasps, his hand going to the buckle of his belt. “I said I wanted to sample her. I want to feel the heat of the King’s widow. I want to know if she’s as tight as the data claims before I drop the GDP of a small nation on her head.”
Viktor’s eyes glint with a sudden, competitive greed. He looks at the bidding screen—the numbers are stalling. He needs a catalyst.
“The cage door is electronic,” Viktor says, his voice apurr. “For an additional five million, the floor is yours for ten minutes. Consider it… a test drive.”
The man doesn’t even blink. He hits a button on his terminal.
$40,000,000.
The gold-gilded door of the cage slides open with a pneumatic hiss. The man steps onto the velvet floor, his presence a heavy, suffocating shadow that blocks out the light of the ballroom. He smells of old leather and expensive gin.
He doesn’t look at my face. He looks at the target.
“Let’s see what Peter Hale was so protective of,” he murmurs.
He reaches down, his fingers seizing my knees, forcing them even wider until I feel the tendons in my hips scream. I am a haze of amber and grey, my mind trying to float away, but the physical reality of him unzipping his fly is a cold, sharp blade cutting through the drug. I can hear the slide of the metal, the heavy rustle of his clothes.
