Chapter 9
Scarletta
I'm standing in the middle of the preparation suite, thighs pressed together so hard they're shaking, silk robe sticking to my oiled skin, trying—trying—not to come just from the memory of their hands on me.
This is who I am. This is what I've become.
A girl who almost came in the middle of a room, being held up by strangers, while one of them touched her like she was livestock being checked for market.
Because that's exactly what you are. Livestock. Product. A thing being sold.
My clit is throbbing. Actually throbbing. I can feel my pulse between my legs, this awful desperate ache that won't go away no matter how still I stand.
I should be horrified. I should be disgusted with myself.
But all I can think about is how close I was. How badly I wanted to let go. How much I still want to let go.
Pathetic. You're pathetic.
The three attendants circle me. Like I'm prey. Like they know exactly what I'm feeling and they're enjoying it.
The blonde one leans in first. His lips brush my cheek—gentle, almost affectionate—and he whispers, "It's okay if you come next time. We're paid to fluff you up."
Fluff you up.
Like I'm a pillow. Like I'm a product that needs to be presented at peak condition.
My face burns. Shame floods through me so hot I think I might actually combust right here on this eucalyptus-scented floor.
The second attendant—dark hair, the one who had his fingers on my clit, kisses my other cheek. "The buyers like the girls ready and wanting."
Ready and wanting.
I am. God help me, I am.
The third one, the quiet one who worked my legs, kisses my forehead this time. His voice is softer. Almost kind. "See you next month."
He moves away before I can process what he said.
Next month?
Next month?
What does that—
"Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all." Mr. Fitzwilliam appears in the doorway, clapping his hands twice. Sharp. Efficient.
They file out past him without looking back.
Mr. Fitzwilliam turns to me, adjusting his perfect cuffs. "Miss Desmond. It's nearly your turn at the auction. If you'll follow me, please."
I stare at him. My brain isn't working. Nothing is computing.
"I—four hours? It's been four hours already?" How the hell could four hours have passed? Did I fall asleep in the tub and not realize it?
"Slightly over four hours, yes." Fitzwilliams says, checking his watch. "The bidding is running behind due to an unforeseen circumstance, but we should move you into position regardless."
Unforeseen circumstance.
I want to ask what that means. I want to know what kind of unforeseen circumstance delays a sex auction. I want to know if someone got hurt, or if someone backed out, or if—
But I don't ask.
Because I'm afraid of the answer.
Because whatever the answer is, I'm still going to walk through that door. I'm still going to let them auction me off like a piece of meat. I'm still going to let some stranger buy the right to touch me however he wants for forty-four thousand dollars.
See you next month.
Mr. Fitzwilliam extends his hand toward the doorway. "Miss Desmond?"
I follow him.
Because that's what I do. Apparently.
The hallway beyond is all glass and polished wood. I can hear music now. Voices. The low murmur of wealthy people doing wealthy things.
My pussy is still wet. Still aching.
And I'm walking toward the room where they're going to sell me.
Mr. Fitzwilliam opens a door like he's unveiling something precious. Like I should be grateful for what's on the other side.
I step through.
Velvet chairs line the walls. Deep burgundy. The kind you see in old theaters where people used to watch plays about tragic women who died beautifully.
Two girls already occupy the space.
Girls. Not women. Girls who look like they'd need fake IDs to get into bars. One perched on the edge of her chair, fingers knotted together so tight her knuckles are white. The other sprawled back with her legs crossed, examining her cuticles like she's waiting for a bus.
Three white silk robes. Three participants.
Three pieces of livestock.
My hand moves automatically toward my pocket. Toward the familiar weight of my phone—it's not there.
I left it in the preparation suite. Or they took it. I can't remember which. The last four hours are already blurring together like watercolor left out in the rain.
I raise one finger toward Mr. Fitzwilliam. "My phone? I think I left it—"
His head moves once. A single shake. No.
He exits. The door clicks.
The girl examining her nails speaks without looking up. "They keep the phones. Buyers get them temporarily. It's in the contract. You'll get it back after."
She shifts her attention to the nervous girl. Her voice stays flat. Bored. "What did you check this time? I had to pick the scat." She crinkles her nose. "But it's like fifteen grand, so…"
Her words trail off.
This time.
Not this one desperate choice. Not this mistake I'll never repeat.
This time. Like there's been other times. Like there will be more times.
The nervous girl's voice barely carries across the room. "I'm down to CNC. But it's fifty thousand, right? Totally worth it, right?"
Consensual non-consent. The highest-value option on the menu. The one I couldn't even consider without my stomach turning inside out.
The bored girl nods like they're discussing whether to get pizza or Chinese food. "Yeah. Mine was…" She blows out a breath. "Like… wow."
"You liked it?" the scared girl asks.
Confident girl mouths the words, "Loved it," without making any sound.
The scared girl looks at me. Tears forming in her eyes. "Did you ever do it?"
I shake my head no, unable to speak.
She goes back to looking at her feet.
A woman appears in the doorway. Severe features. Hair pulled back so tight it must hurt. Disappointment carved into every line of her face like she's been let down by absolutely everyone she's ever met.
She holds a clipboard. "Arabella Wilde."
Arabella Wilde.
The name sounds borrowed from a fantasy novel. Not real. Not something anyone would put on a birth certificate.
The trembling girl stands. Her legs look like they might give out. Fear rolls off her in waves I can actually feel from here.
She follows the severe woman through the opposite door anyway.
The door closes.
Two of us remain.
Silence settles over the room like dust. Heavy. Suffocating.
The confident girl's eyes lock with mine from across the room. Direct eye contact.
Questions pile up in my throat. But I can't ask any of them. Because I'm terrified of the answers.
Her mouth curves upward. Not quite a smile. "So what'd you check? Got anything fun going this time? How much you gonna make?"
I swallow. "Um. Not really. Forced confession. Total power exchange."
Her laughter fills the small room. Sharp. Mocking. "TPE? You checked TPE? That's like a thousand bucks." She shakes her head. "Not worth it, my friend No. Absolutely not. Fucking newbies. Showing up with their little sex fantasies like this is a boyfriend experience."
My face burns.
Little sex fantasies.
It hurts because… it's true.
Mean lady is back.
"Already?" I ask. Surprised the last girl's auction went so quick.
Confident girl is already standing, like she can't wait to play with scat. She looks at me as she passes. "Oh, rape fantasies are pre-arranged. The auction was fake."
Then she walks out.
I'm alone.
The confident girl is gone. The terrified girl is gone. Just me and my burning face and the way my heart won't stop hammering against my ribs.
The auction was fake.
What does that mean? What does—
I can't finish the thought. My brain's moving too fast, skipping like a scratched CD over the same three seconds of panic.
Forty-four thousand dollars. Total Power Exchange. Forced confession. Using my own writing against me.
Little sex fantasies.
She laughed at me. She actually laughed.
"I'm so stupid," I whisper to the empty room. "I'm so fucking stupid."
My voice sounds small. Pathetic.
I should've checked CNC. I should've checked everything. Fifty thousand dollars would've—
Would've what? Made you less of a whore?
I press my palms against my eyes. Hard enough to see stars.
"This is fine. This is totally fine. You made your choice. You signed the forms. You let three strangers touch you and you almost came in front of them like some kind of—"
Something catches my eye.
Small. Dark. Mounted in the corner where the wall meets the ceiling.
A camera.
My stomach drops.
There's another one. Above the door. And another behind the velvet chair. And—
Oh god.
They're everywhere.
Four. Five. Six cameras that I can see, which means there are probably more I can't.
People are watching me right now.
Right now, while I'm standing here in this silk robe talking to myself like a crazy person, someone is watching.
Multiple someones.
My breath comes faster. Shallow. My vision tunnels at the edges.
Were they watching during the preparation? Were they watching while those men bathed me? While they touched me? While I almost—
Of course they were watching. That's the whole point. You're the product. They need to see the product.
Heat floods through me. Shame so thick I can taste it.
But underneath the shame, something else.
Something worse.
I'm wet.
I'm wet and my nipples are hard and there's this awful pulse between my legs that won't stop.
You're turned on.
No. No, I'm not. I'm terrified. I'm humiliated. I'm—
The questionnaire.
There was a question about this. About being watched without consent. About the fantasy of surveillance.
Did I check that box?
I can't remember. I can't fucking remember.
My hands are shaking. I clench them into fists, trying to ground myself, but it doesn't help.
The door opens.
Severe woman. Clipboard. That same expression like I've personally disappointed her just by existing.
"Scarletta Mae Desmond."
She uses my real name.
My actual, legal, real name.
Not a fantasy novel name. Not code name whatever. Just me. My legs don't feel attached to my body.
She doesn't wait. She turns and walks.
I follow.
The hallway is longer than I expected. White walls. Soft lighting. Classical music playing from speakers I can't see.
It should be comforting. It's not.
We stop at a heavy wooden door.
She turns to face me. I expect to see something—anticipation, maybe contempt, the faintest flicker of humanity—but her voice arrives perfectly flat and mechanical. Rehearsed to the point of automation.
"Enter the stage. Walk directly to the raised platform.
Stand precisely in the center on the marked position.
Remove your robe completely—no hesitation, no false modesty.
Once naked, turn slowly in a full circle so the prospective buyers can assess you from every angle.
Pause at each quarter turn for approximately three seconds. "
She pauses, studying my face with that same clinical detachment. Waiting.
"Do you understand these instructions?"
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
"Do you understand?" she repeats.
"Yes."
"Good."
She opens the door.
Music swells. String instruments and something else I can't identify.
I step through.
The room beyond is massive. Theater-style seating rises in curved rows, all facing a raised platform with a single spotlight aimed at its center.
Masked men fill the seats. Dozens of them. Maybe fifty. Maybe more. They're wearing masquerade-type masks. The black kind that only cover your eyes and do nothing to actually hide who you are. They're all wearing tuxedos. All watching the door I just walked through.
All watching me.
My feet move. I don't tell them to. They just move.
One step. Another. The platform is three steps up.
I climb them.
The spotlight finds me immediately. Hot and blinding.
I can't see the men anymore. Just shapes in the darkness beyond the light.
There's a marker on the floor. A small circle of tape.
I stand on it.
My hands find the silk tie at my waist. I pull.
The robe falls.
I'm naked.
Completely, totally naked in front of fifty strangers who paid to be here.
Who paid to see me.
I turn. Pause. Turn. Pause. Turn. Pause. Last turn. Stand.
A voice comes through speakers. Male. Smooth. Professional.
"Lot Number Twelve. Scarletta Mae Desmond. Age twenty-two. Five feet six inches. One hundred eighteen pounds. Measurements thirty-four, twenty-four, thirty-five. Bachelor's degree in English Literature from Boise State University. Currently unemployed."
Currently unemployed.
Like that's a selling point.
"Miss Desmond's hobbies include writing original erotica on the popular forum DarkDesires under the pseudonym ScarletSins. Her portfolio contains forty-seven completed works exploring themes of captivity, psychological dominance, and forced confession."
No.
No.
"Notable titles include 'Prey,' 'The Arrangement,' 'Captive,' and 'See Me, Spank Me, Cure Me.' Her work demonstrates a sophisticated understanding of power dynamics and submission psychology."
This isn't happening.
This can't be—
"From her story 'Owned by the Slave Trader,' Chapter Seventeen: 'His hand wrapped around my throat and I stopped breathing. Not because he was choking me. Because for the first time in my life, someone saw the dark parts and didn't look away.'"
He's quoting me. Actual lines from my work. On, and on, and on… He's reading my actual words to a room full of men who—
"Miss Desmond's intake questionnaire reveals fantasies including twenty-four-hour Total Power Exchange, forced confession, verbal degradation, and permission for her buyer to weaponize her own writing against her."
My face is burning. My whole body is burning.
"Buyers should refer to page twelve of your programs for complete details regarding Miss Desmond's selected activities and boundaries."
There's rustling. The sound of pages turning.
They're reading about me. About what I want. About what I'm willing to let them do.
The announcer's voice softens. Almost intimate.
"Gentlemen. What you're bidding on tonight isn't just a body. It's a mind. A rare and remarkable mind that understands submission not as weakness but as the ultimate act of trust. Miss Desmond doesn't just write about surrender. She craves it. Studies it. Dreams about it."
I'm going to be sick.
"The bidding begins at one-hundred thousand dollars."