Chapter Five
In which "Ivy" is an auction item wrapped in vintage Dior.
“Ivy”…
“Accidenti , damn it will you relax?” Gabby snaps, “If you fuck up this eyeliner I won’t have time to fix it. Stop moving, this is like trying to bag a cat.”
I can’t blame her, I’ve been subconsciously scooting toward the door since we got here. “Bag a cat? Why would you want to put a cat in a bag? Don’t they hate that?”
“It’s just a saying, Ivy! Now stop moving or I’ll jab this mascara wand into your eye. Let’s go through the rest of your limits page, I’ll help you finish.”
We’re in the dressing room on the infamous third level and I’d only gotten a glimpse of the spectacular main room with soaring ceilings and elaborate stained-glass skylights before she dragged me in here. This dressing room has elegant floral-patterned furniture, antique dressing tables, and a huge walk-in closet filled with hundreds of dresses and matching pairs of shoes, all designer, all gorgeous. Whoever keeps this room stocked has wonderful taste.
Oddly, her irritability is soothing my panic. If the most urgent thing Gabby can see right now is my lackluster eyelids, then maybe getting auctioned off like an old painting isn’t the worst thing in the world.
Of course, the old painting would not then be expected to take its frame off and curl into bed and let a stranger stick his dick into it.
Pulling out the folder, I flipped to the limits list. “Um… Breast bondage.”
“Say yes,” Gabby urged, “that can be fun, especially with clamps on your nipples.”
“Oh, my god,” I moan, “please. I’m this close to panicking and leaving an Ivy-shaped hole in the door as I run screaming down the street.”
“Check yes!”
“Fine,” I make the mark and go to the next item. “Gags. Oh, there’s a lot here, ball, bit, phallic, ring… inflatable?”
“I’d check yes except for on the bit gag, those can chip a tooth if you’re really into the scene,” she says.
I’m trying to shove down the panic rising like a tsunami inside me and this list isn’t helping. “Leashes?”
“You should probably clarify if that’s part of pet play,” she says knowledgeably, “pet play can get messy if they expect you to eat out of a bowl or use a litter box- hey! Hey, hey, hey. Sit down!”
Her grip is like iron and my ass hits the pretty little stool again.
“Let’s make this easier,” she sighs, “go through all of them now and write ‘fuck, no!’ on the ones you’re never going to warm up to. Then let’s work on some maybes. There have to be a few maybes. It shows that you’re open-minded. And stop sweating, you’re messing up your foundation.”
With a shaky hand, I manage to get through the rest, though a couple - like abrasion (scraping, sanding) and needle play - make me wonder if faking my death might be a better idea. I could sell my organs on the black market, one by one.
Signora Mancelli picked out two dresses for me, one is a spectacular black corset top with yards and yards of black silk billowing into a skirt. The other is vintage Dior, a dark purple off-shoulder lace gown with a long, sweeping back skirt. Gabby holds up one against me and then the other, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“The black makes you look more sophisticated, but the purple really brings out the violet in your eyes. Let’s go with that.” She hooks the hanger over my head to use me as a mannequin while she finds matching shoes.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” she’s digging through the lingerie boxes, “what’s up?”
“Could you… could you forget, you know, afterward? You don’t keep thinking about it?” I ask.
She stands up with some flossy-looking bits of lavender lace and silk and throws them on the pile. “Girl, why are you doing this?” Her smile is kind as I look away. “You’re sending money to someone. At first, I thought it was going up your nose but you’re too uptight for that. Nobody works at a Mafia sex club unless they need serious money.”
“Wait. What? A mafia-”
“The point is,” she interrupts, “is I do the same thing. My papà stronzo, my asshole dad left my mom after cleaning out their retirement accounts. I still have four brothers and sisters at home.” She fixes my hair, giving me a shrewd look. “You’re not living in that shitty apartment with us because you enjoy sleeping on the couch. You don’t have to tell me who it’s for, but when you’re standing on that stage tonight, you think of them.”
I always thought Gabby - beautiful, fearless Gabby - was just living it up until she was ready to settle down with some rich, hot guy. I even envied her carefree existence. It’s a good reminder that everyone’s life is as complicated as mine. Maybe not as life and death, but we all have reasons for our desperation.
If the first floor of Club Vice is the bowels of hell, the third level is heaven. We pass through one huge room that’s built to look like an old English manor library, all wood paneling, and a roaring fireplace. I look longingly at the endless shelves of books before I’m dragged through another room that looks like a wine cellar, with cobblestone floors and a massive bar with hundreds of gleaming wine glasses.
“How do they uh, use the wine?” I mumble to Gabby.
She shoots me an amused look. “That really is just for wine tasting.”
The largest space on the third floor is a common area with multiple seating arrangements; suede couches, comfortable chairs, and enormous low tables that make sense when I see women laid out on one or two of them, getting the business from both ends. There’s beautiful, profane artwork from some of the finest Italian painters hanging on the walls and a raised area in the center where Signora Mancelli is speaking to an older man in a tux.
“Remember, no pictures or video. The members know the rules but there’s always someone who tries. The girls will come from the holding room on the left side and exit to the right.”
She catches sight of me and frowns. “You should already be in the back. We don’t want the audience catching sight of you until it’s time.”
“Yes ma’am,” I move as fast as these five-inch heels will let me.
Twenty other girls are milling around, some trying to shake off their nerves, others playing on their phones and a couple talking loudly to let the rest of us know they will be getting the highest bid tonight.
“So, Signore Bianchi begged me to not do the auction tonight, he promised me anything to come as his date instead…” the girl practically yelling this confession to the rest of us is a blonde who is so stunning that I believe her. “I told him I made a hundred thousand Euros last time and he offered to double it.”
“Why didn’t you take him up on it?” Her friend is equally beautiful, with smooth skin the color of milk chocolate and gorgeous cheekbones.
“You have to keep your options open,” the blonde says wisely.
A hundred thousand Euros? If I made half of that then I could pay for Nate’s treatments for the next year. He might finish his chelation treatments by then.
The clapping and music start up in the main room and Gabby gives me a quick squeeze. “You have this, mio amica, smile and remember why you’re doing it, okay?”
“Okay.” Overcome with gratitude, I hug her fiercely. “Thank you for everything.”
Signora Mancelli opens the door. “Mia, you’re up first!” It’s the beautiful blonde, who gives her hair one last pat and slinks out to the stage and a roar of applause.
We all shamelessly crowd the slightly open door to watch Mia charm the hell out of the members, swirling and flipping her hair and when it looks like the bids are slowing down, she unfastens her halter neckline and her dress drops to the floor, displaying her scanty lingerie. That kicks off another round of fierce bids.
“I didn’t know we were taking off our dresses,” a little redhead whispers to me. I recognize her, she works on the second floor.
“You don’t have to, unless you feel like it,” I assure her, though I have no idea. I don’t think I can do it.
“Gia! Your turn.”
The redhead gives me a tremulous smile and slinks out, transforming into a luscious sex kitten as the lights hit her.
Signora Mancelli keeps calling out names as the holding room empties out until I’m the last one. Did she change her mind? Did she realize how painfully awkward I am and knows no one will bid for me?
“Ivy!”
How can I do this? Who’s going to buy me? Someone ancient and hideous? What if he ignores my limits list and wants me to eat pet food? What if-
“Ivy!” She’s standing right next to me with a frown. “Did you not hear me?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” This is as bad as when I first changed names and it took forever to realize someone was calling for me. “I’m just nervous.”
“Don’t be,” she says, fluffing out my skirt. “You are the last auction item of the evening, it’s a position of honor. Go out and make me proud.”
All I hear is ‘auction item’ and I try to use it. This isn’t me. I’m playing a part, just for tonight, I’m someone else.
Sucking in a deep breath and pushing my shoulders back, I follow her through the door.