Free Paraded before the Billionaires by Aphrodite Hunt

 
PARADED BEFORE THE BILLIONAIRES
     
    1
     
    The Auction.
    That’s what they are preparing me – us – for.
    I have only ever been to one auction. Back
when I was twelve, we were visiting my Aunt Ruth in Sacramento. She
took us to this place out in the rocky country where there was no
cloud in the sky and the sun beat down on our heads like God’s own
wrath, and we have to buy those little one-dollar children’s
umbrellas to shield our heads from getting baked into
stupidity.
    We sat at the stalls and watched goats and
sheep being led in from the pens, one by one. The auctioneer went
on his rollercoaster spiel –
    “AndwhatdoyougiveforthisfineprizeBillygoat?
Takealookatthosefinewithersladiesandgentlemen. DoIheartwohundred?
Youtherewiththecowboyhat. We’vegottwohumdred.
Who’dgivemetwofiftyforthisfinespecimenofgoathood?”
and not understanding what’s going on the
half of it.
    My take home message then was:
     
    IT’S NOT GREAT TO BE A GOAT AT AN
AUCTION.

    Or any other mammal, for the matter.
     
    So you see, I have come to associate
‘auctions’ with ‘animals’, not fine art or splendid relics from
dead people’s estates. And although I am a contracted sex slave of
my accord – prey to the whims of my masters – I still don’t
consider myself an ‘animal’.
    It’s just too debasing.
    I am a doormat. I admit that. But being
auctioned is beneath doormat material. It’s kitchen sink scum
material.
    No, lower, if there’s anything lower than
kitchen sink scum.
     
    *
     
    But wait.
    This is no ordinary auction. This is an
auction for philanthropy . Only the philanthropists here are
lecherous men and women – all billionaires and CEOs, no doubt, and
accompanied by their spouses and offspring – willing to part with
their money for a good cause.
    In return for a willing sex slave who will
do anything they command, of course.
    Human booty. Traded for a good cause.
    It’s not just Alice and me either.
    Russell has decided – in the spirit of
charity – to auction off his own son, Max, and Alice’s fiancé,
Greg. Selfless philanthropist, this. Maybe they should rechristen
him Abraham.
    So there are four of us in the holding pen,
awaiting our fates in dread. We are all naked. The pen is the size
of a prison cell, surrounded at three sides by harsh brick walls
and fronted by iron bars.
    We are in the dungeon of Russell Devlin’s
mansion. (See? I knew there was a dungeon, and this is the first
time I have ever been in it.) Alice is cowering in one corner of
the cell, hugging her knees to her chest and shivering.
    Max is kneeling beside her, talking to her
in a low voice. She is not responding, not even looking at him. I
truly believe she hasn’t come to terms that she is now on the same
level as me – her sworn enemy, the LOWLY-OF-LOWLIES-KITCHEN
SCUM-SHE-DETESTS-MOST-IN-THE-WORLD. Max’s hand rests on her naked
curved back, and his manner is big brother comforting (even though
he’s younger than she is) and attentive.
    Greg and I sit cross-legged on the floor on
the other side of the cell, watching them. Greg’s expression is
conflicted. His eyes show concern for Alice, and yet he’s a little
guarded because Alice’s little brother is at her side.
    I don’t think there is any love lost between
Max and Greg.
    As for me, I don’t begrudge Max’s quality
time with his sister. She was here before me, and she will probably
be here long after I’ve gone – courtesy of the
impending-breakup-that-will-break-my-heart-but-I-know-is-inevitable.
Because let’s face it – Max and I are from two different worlds.
Every day I spend with him and his family affirms that like nails
in the lid of my slowly tightening coffin.
    Nevertheless, I would feel a lot more
comfortable if only I wasn’t so certain that there was something
more than healthy sibling camaraderie between Max and his
sister.
    To affirm my suspicions, Alice finally turns
to her little brother and buries her face into his neck. His