I pin him with a glare, then shift my focus to the announcer still on stage. His expression is lit with a dreadful, almost gleeful, look as he gestures an introduction to the curtains behind him.
It rises.
At first, the club is silent, but then the hum of instrumental music caresses the air. Deep bass thrums as gentle notes weave in and out—teasing, just like the slow lift of velvet. Inch by inch, the hem reveals the gold glint of heeled shoes. One pair. Then another. Then more evenly spaced. As the fabric draws higher, long, poised legs appear. The line of each calf is tense, lit by a wash of bright light fixed on each woman.
They’re dressed in identical bold red lingerie, stretched over every shade of skin tone like a second skin and catching with a subtle sheen. The fabric taunts every curve and contour while delicate lace traces along their hips in smooth, intricate patterns.
If that were the only story, the only thing you saw, one would think this is another round of dancers like earlier in the evening. But it’s not.
Black chains coil around each woman’s wrists and ankles. A matte metal, dark as midnight, with links thick enough to feel brutal. It’s more than securing the unwilling women, but to feed the cravings of dominance sitting in this room. To indulge the hidden, sick thrill that comes with control stripped raw.
Each shackle fits snug, biting into their skin, as evident in their movements to seek relief. They stand still, a row of illuminated silhouettes.
Their faces are pale, drawn tight in pain. Most of their eyes are glassy and distant, rimmed with red, and despite the excessive makeup, I know they each sport heavy bags under their eyes.
Some stare at nothing, waiting for their dreaded number to be called forward. Others, usually newcomers, take in the sea of ever-eager men on the edge of their seats, trying to get an idea of who they should bid on, if anyone. Several women twist in the chains, their mouths quivering. Others bite at the corners of their mouths, whispering quiet encouragement to themselves as they try to smother their feelings of devastation.
Wilson is the first at our table to comment. “Same selection as last week. When will there be fresh ones brought in, Graves?”
Senator Graves bristles. “These are some of the most beautiful women in Chicago. You’re paying for the experience, Marks.”
I swallow, scanning the slumped shoulders and hollow eyes.
Marks is right, though. I count fifteen women. The same as last week. Most of them I’ve bid on before. There are two I have yet to take home.
I scan the lineup and make eye contact with the woman I took home last week, Juliette. She’s a tall, beautiful blonde with dull blue eyes and flawless skin—I paid thirty thousand for her last week. The average going rate, considering there are fifteen of them and over forty EV members willing to shell out money. Though some of the members are content to watch the dancers and pay for their company in other ways. However, dancers are employees, willing participants. I guess Senator Graves is right; you’re paying for the experience.
I wouldn’t have the money either on my meager salary, but my grandfather funnels endless cash from somewhere, and I use every last drop I can get my hands on.
Juliette doesn’t look away. Her eyes search mine, brows drawn tight, lips parted as if she wants to get my attention. Shewantsme to bid on her again. Most of them do. There’s desperation in their expressions as they seek me out in the crowd, past the older men licking their lips.
I force my attention to the two new girls I haven’t bid on yet: a stunning brunette, probably younger than the rest, and a blonde with sharp lips and high cheekbones who looks more pissed than afraid.
“We’ve been discussing rotating them out more. After so many weeks, the men get bored. We’ve set up trade deals with a few organizations overseas but still need to work out the logistics.”
Senator Graves doesn’t see women; he sees assets that wear heels and makeup, inventory to be rotated and discarded when worn. Names don’t matter, only usefulness. They’re flesh to be bought and bodies to own.
Wilson is holding on to every word, but our discussion is interrupted when the man on stage calls out the first number. Two-thirty-five.
She steps forward on shaky limbs while I try to recall her name.
I can’t. They all seem to blur together.
All dark features: her hair is long and black, her thick brows raised above equally dark eyes.
She’s given her instructions: turn once, hold a pause under their gaze, then turn again. They aren’t required to smile; there’s no need.
“Bidding two-thirty-five beginning at ten thousand. Do I have ten thousand dollars?”
The Market doesn’t progress like some fast-talking, backwoods farm auction. No, this is slow and methodical, designed to wring every last drop of guard coin from this group of men willing to throw it away.
Wilson elbows me. “You going to have another round with this one?”
I shrug, but don’t let on that I won’t be bidding.
“Twenty!” an older, silver-haired male yells out, his mouth wrapped around a cigar as he leers.
“Twenty thousand here. Do I have twenty-five?”
