Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 57064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
I chuckle deep and low, my cock twitching with need.
“But I’m not . . . my little whore.” I repeat the nickname, and her bottom lip drops slightly, her cheeks flushing with desire at the term, and I know I’ve hit close to her deepest fantasy.
“I’ve never told anyone that before, Sir.”
“We have time in this month . . . and the next, if you’d like,” I remind her, lifting her to her feet. “So tell me all your fantasies. I want to make as many as I can come true.”
KIERSTEN
The Past, May
Aslightly familiar shiver goes through me as I look through the thin black curtain, out at the stage. It’s small, just large enough for one person to stand, like a mannequin on display. It’s all black, and faint lights line the inside edge of the short runway and circular end, giving anyone who walks onto the stage both sure footing and total illumination.
There are no flaws that can possibly hide between those lights and the overhead spotlight that illuminates the woman at the end of the stage right now, not that she needs to worry. She’s a sculpture of a would-be goddess, her flat, toned stomach glittering with a single diamond stud, her long legs lightly tanned, her breasts high and proud on her chest. Even her long, raven’s wing hair is a fantasy, framing a triangular face with plump lips and a button nose.
“Don’t think about her or them,” he whispers in my ear, placing a warm hand on my shoulder. My heart races. He’s snuck back again. It’s not normal for a Dom to be backstage with his submissive. He shouldn’t be back here at all. He hasn’t bought me yet, either, but I still know I belong to him. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world, my little whore.”
“You’ll be in the crowd?” I whisper back, and his warm chuckle tells me not to worry. How can I not worry, though? I only want him and he knows it. This auction is for him. Our fifth time. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t live a day without his collar on my neck.
He kisses my neck and reassures me that I am his. His promise calms me and gives me enough strength to reach up and move my hair, letting him remove the collar from around my neck.
The first time I went up on this stage, I thought I would never accept a collar. I was desperate, tens of thousands of dollars in debt just as the market collapsed in my chosen field. How was I to know that dot-com was going to go dot-bust?
I’d invested everything. Not just what little money I had, but my education as well. In a single day, I was worth less than nothing. The auction was a way out from debts I couldn’t pay back.
That first night I saw him in the crowd, something shifted inside me, even though he was anonymous. All of the men are. It’s one of the rules this group has. All the men wear masks.
Curiosity turned to need the instant his eyes met mine.
Even with his mask, I could sense something from him. Those gray-green eyes burned with a power and intensity that drew me like a moth to the flame, more powerful than the clearly expensive tuxedo jacket he wore advertised. He was the sort of man who could control a room with just his eyes while wearing a dirty old T-shirt. It didn’t matter.
The tuxedo was nice, though.
“I’m going to go sit down, my little whore,” he says, kissing the back of my neck tenderly. “Remember, this is for fun.”
We both know it’s more than fun. It’s perhaps the best foreplay ever invented. I knew it even as I stood upon the stage my first time, and as I waited for the auction to finish for the woman in front of me, I could already feel the warm tingle between my thighs.
He’ll be watching.
My nipples tighten, rock-hard nubs beneath the nearly see-through shift that I’m wearing, and as the final bids for the girl ahead of me come in, my heart races. He has bought me before, every month . . . but that almost didn’t happen the first time. He’s not the only one who craved a submissive who didn’t know her boundaries. One who wanted to give up complete control.
Our eyes met, and I could feel our connection. He hadn’t bid before then—not many of the masked crowd does—but when his eyes met mine, I felt that connection between us. A bidding war took place, staggering me as numbers that I never thought possible were tossed between first four men, then three, then two . . . and finally, just one.
He hadn’t won. Not fairly, not with the bidding.