This is insane. This is—this has to be a scam. Or trafficking. Or some elaborate phishing scheme designed specifically for broke erotica writers with eviction notices.
But.
Twenty thousand dollars.
The number blazes in my mind like a neon sign. Twenty thousand. Two-zero-zero-zero-zero.
Twenty-four-ish hours.
Christmas Eve at ten AM through Christmas Day at noon.
My brain starts mathing, defensive and desperate all at once. If I was going anywhere except my usual blanket fort of seasonal depression, I could technically still make it back in time for... what? Presents? Family dinner?
I mentally catalog my pathetic excuse for Christmas plans: me, my laptop, leftover ramen if I'm lucky, and the crushingsilence of being completely alone while the rest of the world pretends to be jolly.
I'm not going anywhere on Christmas. There's nowhere to go, no one waiting, no tree with my name on a single wrapped package underneath it. But the point is—and this feels important somehow, like my brain is grasping for any rationalization it can find—the point is that Icould. If I had somewhere to be, this wouldn't even interfere.
It's... considerate? Is that the word? Weirdly thoughtful for what is clearly, obviously, definitely?—
Auction.
The word sits in my brain like a stone.
Auction. Like... sex... auction?
That can't be right. Can it? Is that what this is?
My hands are trembling so badly I nearly drop my laptop as I push it up to my nose like I'm checking for fine print, or hidden messages, or some kind of "GOTCHA, you idiot" disclaimer.
I read the whole thing one more time. Every word. Every implication.
Make this Christmas unforgettable—for yourself AND for someone who values exactly what you offer.
Itissex auction.
It's an actual, literal, what-the-fuck-is-my-life sex auction, and they're inviting me.
Why?
I mean... okay. Yes. I'm a good writer. My erotica stories have game—twelve thousand followers don't lie, and "Owned" hit the top of the Psychological Dark Romance leaderboard for six consecutive weeks. My readers say things like "most realistic D/s dynamics I've ever read" and "how does she know what it feels like?" and I sit there behind my screen, anonymous and invisible, glowing with validation I can't get anywhere else.
But that's words. That's fiction. That's me, alone in my apartment at 3 AM, pouring every filthy fantasy I'll never actually live into characters who are braver, and prettier, and far more fuckable than I could ever be.
I look down at myself.
Yuk.
Who the fuck would bid on this?
The forum dings again—a sharp, invasive sound that makes me flinch.
[CONFIRM INTEREST]
And below it, in cold, unforgiving red numbers:
Invitation expires in: 0:59
0:58
