I want to ask what that means. I want to know what kind of unforeseen circumstance delays a sex auction. I want to know if someone got hurt, or if someone backed out, or if?—
But I don't ask.
Because I'm afraid of the answer.
Because whatever the answer is, I'm still going to walk through that door. I'm still going to let them auction me off like a piece of meat. I'm still going to let some stranger buy the right to touch me however he wants for forty-four thousand dollars.
See you next month.
Mr. Fitzwilliam extends his hand toward the doorway. "Miss Desmond?"
I follow him.
Because that's what I do. Apparently.
The hallway beyond is all glass and polished wood. I can hear music now. Voices. The low murmur of wealthy people doing wealthy things.
My pussy is still wet. Still aching.
And I'm walking toward the room where they're going to sell me.
Mr. Fitzwilliam opens a door like he's unveiling something precious. Like I should be grateful for what's on the other side.
I step through.
Velvet chairs line the walls. Deep burgundy. The kind you see in old theaters where people used to watch plays about tragic women who died beautifully.
Two girls already occupy the space.
Girls.Not women. Girls who look like they'd need fake IDs to get into bars. One perched on the edge of her chair, fingersknotted together so tight her knuckles are white. The other sprawled back with her legs crossed, examining her cuticles like she's waiting for a bus.
Three white silk robes. Three participants.
Three pieces of livestock.
My hand moves automatically toward my pocket. Toward the familiar weight of my phone—it's not there.
I left it in the preparation suite. Or they took it. I can't remember which. The last four hours are already blurring together like watercolor left out in the rain.
I raise one finger toward Mr. Fitzwilliam. "My phone? I think I left it?—"
His head moves once. A single shake. No.
He exits. The door clicks.
The girl examining her nails speaks without looking up. "They keep the phones. Buyers get them temporarily. It's in the contract. You'll get it back after."
She shifts her attention to the nervous girl. Her voice stays flat. Bored. "What did you check this time? I had to pick the scat." She crinkles her nose. "But it's like fifteen grand, so…"
Her words trail off.
This time.
Notthis one desperate choice.Notthis mistake I'll never repeat.
Thistime.Like there's been other times. Like there will be more times.
The nervous girl's voice barely carries across the room. "I'm down to CNC. But it's fifty thousand, right? Totally worth it, right?"
