To this day, I don't know why I went to the auction. I certainly had no intention of purchasing a slave, even had I enough money for it. But I turned in through the great portico and took a bidding card from the door-man.
"Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen. This morning we have a fine selection of females. The males are this afternoon, in case you didn't realise. As usual, we begin with the untrained virgins...
A girl in a loose, plain dress, appeared through the curtain with a stagger, suggesting she'd been pushed, and walked slowly to the little dais, where she took her place, feet on the yellow marks, about eighteen inches apart.
"Sixteen years old. Virgo intacta..." the recital was interrupted by a general sigh, "thirty-four B, twenty-three, thirty-five. Five feet four inches. Full medical history, no blemishes, allergies or defects. Forced sale due to fines for evasion of taxes. Who will give me five hundred?"
The bidding was brisk, but stalled at five thousand. The dress was removed, the girl stood, hands clasped behind her head, as the dais began to rotate slowly. She was truly beautiful, even as the tears trickled down her cheeks to wet those neat breasts. At ten thousand, she was made to grasp her ankles, thus exposing herself to the audience completely.
She fetched twenty-one thousand pounds, and was led away.
The auction proceeded, my heart torn between the beauty that was being paraded before me, and sadness for the obvious distress many of the girls displayed.
Girls with intact hymens, nine in all, were first, followed by certified virgins who lacked hymens, another twelve, fetching prices between ten and twenty thousand.
"Right, Ladies and Gentlemen. That concludes the auction of virgins. We move on to the used lots...
"Lot twenty-two..." A stately brunette strode out from behind the curtain to take her place on the dais, dressed like the others in a shapeless shift. But she removed it immediately upon taking her place and stood proudly as the auctioneer proceeded. "Twenty-five years. One owner, full medical history. Small birth-mark on left buttock, no other blemishes, no allergies or defects. Five feet ten. Thirty-eight D, twenty-four, thirty-eight. For sale due to replacement by younger model."
Bidding started at two hundred and rapidly passed five thousand. As the dais turned, she grasped her ankles without prompting. A dewy moisture was apparent around her pussy. She fetched nine thousand, five hundred. She pouted, perhaps she hoped to break the ten thousand mark...
The auction proceeded, prices dropping into the hundreds, then into double figures. The audience thinned until there was only a handful left.
"The final lot, Ladies and Gentlemen. It seems that the Police Department are disposing of the assets of a broken drug ring. Lot forty-one..."
She moved stiffly to the dais, took her position and removed her dress without prompting. There were gasps from the handful of audience left, including myself; her body was one mass of bruising, and thin as a rake.
"Lot forty-one. Twenty-two years old. Five feet two. Thirty-three A, twenty-two, thirty-five. No medical history, however she is certified clean and functional. Fertility cannot be guaranteed. Who will give me fifty? No? Twenty-five? Come on, people ... there's plenty of wear left in this one, and if she isn't bought she'll have to be put down. Twenty?"
I was horrified to be confronted by the reality of something I knew intellectually ... the elimination of a human being because no-one wanted her. The Auctioneer had dropped to five pounds before my hand, holding the bidding-card, rose almost of its own volition.
Relief, I thought, in the Auctioneer's voice. "Five pounds I am bid. Any advance on five? No? Going ... going ... sold." and the gavel dropped.
I went to pay the trivial amount, which, however, represented a significant portion of the contents of my wallet, and collected my purchase. She shivered as we left the building and she felt the bite of the wind and the cold pavement under her bare feet. First stop, a shoe-shop for sandals. She was not permitted other footwear. Then a charity shop for a coat.
She followed me, two paces behind, as I walked the two miles back to my little flat. She did drop behind when I stepped out, so I slowed down. But no matter how slowly I walked, she stayed behind.
We entered the flat, warmer mainly because out of the wind, and she immediately removed the coat, sandals, and dress, standing, waiting, for me to order her.
"Kitchen through there," I pointed. She walked ahead of me. The kitchen is where I eat, unless I take a sandwich into the lounge as I watch t/v. "Sit!" I said when we got there. She looked worried.
I rummaged in cupboards and set out bread, margarine, peanut butter. Put the kettle on to boil.
"Master?" Her voice was shaky. "I should be doing that."
"And you will, in future. What's your name?"
"I ... I ... don't remember."
"How long have you been a slave?"
"I ... I'm sorry, Master. I don't remember."
I sighed and placed a plate in front of her, cut bread and pushed the bread-board to her. "Help yourself. Cupboard's a bit bare at the moment, but we won't starve for a while."
"Master? You want me to eat with you?"
"Yes." I suppose I was rather short in my response, as her head dipped, but she reached out to take a slice of bread and put it on her plate. "Yes," I said more gently, "I will want you to eat with me, usually. Would you like tea to drink? Milk?"
"I ... don't know ... I usually only have water. Tap water if I'm lucky."
I was going to ask what she meant by that, but I realised before I opened my mouth. "Well, here, you can drink the same as me. Tea ... coffee when I've got some. Squash or cordials when I have them. Milk, when I've got enough. Herbal infusions, the same." I poured a glass of milk and set it by her plate. "You need building up. If you are thirsty, get a drink of water from the tap any time."
She lifted her slice of bread to her mouth and took a bite.
"Don't you want anything on that?" I pushed the jar of peanut butter towards her.
Her eyes widened. She took it and clumsily opened it and used a knife to spread some on her bread; took a bite and chewed it slowly, then another bite. A tear trickled down her cheek.
I left her there for a few minutes and went to find a clean handkerchief. Used it to dry her eyes and cheeks, then pressed it into her left hand.
"Master ... why... ?"
"You're a human being and deserve respect ... and enough to eat. Shit! I need to give you a name, too, lass. But I'll have to think about that."
"I'm only a slave. You could call me Slave. Or Bitch, Cunt, Slag, Slut..."
"Stop that! Right now!" She stopped and hunched over, cowering. "I don't want to hear any of that, ever again. Got that?"
"Answer me," I said, more quietly.
"Eat your lunch."
When we'd finished – I had to order her to take a second slice of bread, then a third, and after that she begged me not to order her to eat more, saying she was full – I needed to go out.
I was – like thousands of others – in the Army during the War of Devastation. Like thousands of others, I was discharged with a small stipend once the dust settled and had to make my way in a changed world. The stipend was, just barely, enough to sustain life. I had some part-time, mostly casual, and erratic jobs which in a good week permitted a few luxuries. But now I had two to consider; I never once considered pushing her out of the door.
So, I left her there with instructions to take a long, warm bath, wash and dry her hair.
Not much more than four hours later, I was back with a little money, fresh fruit, vegetables and staples like rolled oats for porridge, and milk. The girl was obviously half starved, so I was going to give her soup, hoping that her body could absorb it.
She'd washed up the few items we'd used, and was sitting in the same chair in the kitchen when I got in. I had her help me with the vegetables. It was clear she had no experience of cooking as she was clumsy with the knife and peeler, but I didn't rush her. The pressure cooker and blender, and, after nearly two hours of work, a pan of vegetable soup.
"I'm going to call you Dorothy," I told her as we finished. "Maybe, Dot for short."
"Thank you, Master."
"Are you tired?"
"Yes, Master. But not too tired. I belong to you, so..."
"Well, I'm whacked. I'm for bed."
"Where do you want me to sleep, Master? There is no cage."
It was a kick in the gut. Another kick in the gut. "Where would you like to sleep, Dorothy?"
"I would like to sleep where you want me to sleep, Master."
"Well, it's a choice of my bed, the couch, or the floor. Why don't we try my bed first? I think it is big enough."
I got into my usual position on the left side of the bed and she lay, rigidly stiff and still, next to the edge on the other side. I really was tired, and dropped off pretty well the moment my head rested on the pillow.
I woke before Dorothy, who was still rigidly straight, as near the far edge of the bed as she could get without falling out. Asleep, she was whimpering quietly. I slipped out of bed carefully, so as not to bounce her and wake her up. I watched for several minutes as different expressions flitted across her face, then unable to resist, I gently kissed her forehead and left the room.
.... There is more of this story ...