Charity Slave Auction II: Going Once…

“Five minutes.” It was announced with crisp precision, but the bland words caught the attention of the room.

She had told him, the two of them sitting in the car by a lake watching the fog roll off the water, that one of her father’s friends had been a salesman. A very good salesman, actually. And he had always said that there really wasn’t much of a trick to being a very good salesman. All you had to do was sell people what they wanted. The toughest sales were to people who didn’t know what they wanted.

Some of the women most certainly fell into that category. At the five minute announcement the men had shucked off their clothes, some more enthusiastically than others, and moved to stand against the wall. Naked except for the ribbon around their neck and the small medallion with their number, they had had looked around the room, trying to focus on anything but the women sizing them up, telling them to turn around so they could see all the things for sale. Six men, twelve acts written on their flesh, and each woman had six colored chips.

“What we need to do is work the middle. Suggest scenarios specific enough to give them ideas, but broad enough that they’ll be able to fill in details and make them even more exciting.” He had shrugged, pitched his voice in its most pompous tone, “A twue submissive would just write ‘whatever my mistress wants’ twelve times.’ In all lower case letters, of course.” She had snorted, and gone back to working on the list.

Black bags at the front of the room started to fill as the late bidders slipped their chips into the bag that corresponded to who they wanted to buy. Whoever placed the most chips in the bag got the use of that submissive, and the twelve offerings they had made. The bags were behind a low partition where only the auctioneer could see allowing privacy in bidding, and not coincidentally making sure the men could not see who was bidding on them, or try to figure out how many chips they had garnered.

“Don’t worry, it’s really just a game, like contract bridge. There are points and rewards and bidding, and you have to guess what the other players are going to do. I’m good at games, I’ll figure out how to win this one.” He had grinned at her, but not entirely comfortably. “And that’s supposed to help me not worry, is it?”

They had returned to sit by the women they had arrived with, still nude. Beside them on couches or on the floor at their feet, kneeling or splayed awkwardly, watching as the auctioneer counted out chips and made notes on a piece of paper. She peered down through her bifocals, an older woman who looked like she should be offering cookies to her grandchildren instead of organizing and participating in what was about to happen.

She had finished the list, and he had agreed everything was within his limits. The piece of paper was neatly folder, and slipped into her purse. “Two helpful hints: Good players play games, great players play the other players. And never let someone else set your victory conditions, because sometimes when you lose the game they’re playing, you win the game you’re playing.”

“I will read the results starting with the man who received the lowest number of chips, and the offerings he has made. Play will then begin with the man who received the highest number of chips, then the next highest and so on.” She cleared her throat, and took a sip of water, letting the tension build.

“Isn’t this fun?” He just swallowed and gave her a wan smile.

“The lowest number of chips, at a single chip…” Every man in the room winced, as the women smiled. “Is number five.” He blinked, and swallowed hard, wondering if all her talk about sales and games had been an elaborate, cruel mindfuck. The auctioneer had continued, reading the words written on his skin from a piece of paper, but he only heard the first one. The one she had changed from the list. “Share me with everyone in the room…”

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.