On the close-up monitor, Scarletta's face goes white. Then red.
She didn't expect this. Thought "weaponize your writing" meant teasing her about a sexy story during foreplay.
No.
It means this.
Fifty men—actors, props, fluffers paid to fill seats and look interested—listening to her most private fantasies read aloud like livestock specifications.
She's learning the difference between fantasy and reality.
She's learning what she agreed to.
The announcer continues. Scarletta stands frozen in the spotlight, naked and exposed, while her psychological profile gets dissected for an audience that doesn't exist.
Every man in that theater is on The club payroll.
And by The Club, I mean… me.
I own the club. This one, and two dozen more scattered all across the world.
The auctioneer. The announcer. The security team. The fluffers who bathed her.
I own all of them.
Soon I'll own her.
"Bidding begins at one hundred thousand dollars."
The number was my idea. High enough to make her feel valuable. Low enough that she won't question why someone would pay more.
A man in the third row raises his paddle.
"One hundred thousand."
Another paddle. "One hundred ten."
"One hundred twenty."
The bids climb in increments I designed. Not too fast—that would seem suspicious. Not too slow—I want her to feel wanted.
Worth fighting over.
"One hundred forty."
"One hundred fifty."
I shift in my chair, adjust the growing pressure of my engorged cock. Watching her on those screens—the confusion and shame warring across her face as strangers pretend to compete for her—is better than any scene I've ever witnessed.
She has no idea.
No idea that the confident girl who mocked her in the waiting room was hired specifically to make Scarletta feel inadequate. No idea that the nervous girl's story about the pre-arranged rape fantasy was designed to plant seeds of doubt.
No idea that every camera angle, every humiliation, every moment of her preparation was orchestrated by me.
"One hundred fifty-seven thousand dollars."
The final bid. Pre-arranged.
