A spotlight flies over the crowd between slaves and I am unprepared for the emotional jar as the bidding begins. Flesh is being sold here ...even if it is just for one month. I'm flabbergasted. I had no idea how much money would be exchanging hands. The minimum starting bid turns out to be thirty grand but each time it quickly accelerates to fifty and even to seventy thousand dollars.
It seems there are more men than women being auctioned and that surprises me although I’m not sure why. Some slaves walk the stage like old pros. Their personalities shine whether haughty and over-proud, or shy and demure. Others stumble and cry, begging their owners the entire time not to sell them. I wonder if it is an act or whether they are as brokenhearted as they seem.
By twenty, the novelty is over and the night begins to wear on as the knot in my gut tightens. Music blares, competing badly with the drone of loud voices. The crowd is wall to wall, not like the night of our covert visit to check the place out. That night seemed tame by comparison--mostly couples, both straight and gay. Tonight every weirdo on the planet has shown up and they are dressed for the occasion. Leather and latex compete for attention opposite sparkling sequins. There are even a few cowboy hats, floating above the crowd. Worse are the suits: executives out for a thrill. However, we do not even slow to mingle.
Forty-seven.
I am afraid.
Forget afraid; scared shitless.
I can’t believe I agreed to this. Why did the words Undercover and Expose seem so tantalizing and the promise of BDSM Sex Slave for a Month alluring? I am a reporter. Yes, I am a reporter.
Our private corral is crowded. Two women argue in the corner. One falls to her knees, begging, crying. Slave. Her Mistress is unsympathetic. A riding crop flashes in the erratic strobe and the enormity of my decision explodes in my mind. ..