Collar Me Ch. 03

Chapter 3: The Price of Courage

Collapsed on the stage floor was beginning to feel routine. The auctioneer loomed over me, the raw silk of his shirt tucked into leather pants. I dropped my gaze when I heard a man's steps on the stage—the squeak, squeak of leather soles on polished wood so different than the click, click of a woman's heels. Men had told me they thought that was the sexiest sound in the world. Why weren't men's steps sexy? Still, the sound of each approaching step made me clench my gut and swallow. They were the steps of the man with the baritone voice who had bought me. More ominous than sexy.

With my head down, I could only see his legs—they were the height they design airplane seats for—long enough to reach the floor, but short enough to not bang into the seat in front. They were cased in faded black jeans above black socks and polished black loafers. I glanced upward and was relieved— his shirt was cream cotton, slightly wrinkled. At least something around here wasn't black! Then I noticed the forgotten puddle of emerald silk; I guessed his shirt would soon join it. I looked down again at the floor.

He stepped in front of me, and I let my gaze rise till I was staring straight ahead. There was an insistent bulge in his pants, held tight by the denim of his jeans. His bulge seemed to match his legs—not too big, but not too small either; a "Baby Bear cock?" Stereotype fantasies would have him the size of a fire hydrant, but I was relieved.

"Congratulations on being the successful bidder—I'm sure she will serve you well and give great pleasure. Here is her key."

"My god, she is spectacular," whispered the baritone voice. Heat rose in my cheeks. Then his hand was in my hair, undoing the pin that still held about half of it coiled into an up-do. My hair cascaded down about my face and across my shoulders. I shivered. He lifted it away to feel the length of it. "Like ebony silk." The blush rose higher. How could I be embarrassed when I was already stripped naked?

"Yes, and she belongs to you for the night. So take her away and have fun—there's a play room in the back for your use."

"What is your name?" demanded the baritone voice.

Now I did look up at him to answer. "Allie, as Master pleases."

His face matched his voice; it seemed a baritone face. A rounded, but strong chin, lips plump enough that they'd look good in lipstick, a nose that was slightly askew with a faint scar along the right nostril—I wondered how he'd gotten that—and then his eyes. I dared not meet his gaze but I could see they were hazel, flickering between green and brown. Cropped brown hair, curling over the top of small ears. He was cute enough to date, but not to model for the cover of a romance novel.

I looked back down at his shoes, faintly disappointed, but then realized that this wasn't my sex fantasy anymore—I was now his. I was his for the night and he was still soaking that up. I guessed he didn't often have naked, collared girls waiting on his pleasure.

I thought back to my school fair with its "slave auction" to raise money for some stupid cause or another. Being bid on made me squirmy, but while the geeky guy who won clearly had the hots for me, he was clueless. I trailed him like a puppy for half an hour before he gave up and let me go, without even a kiss. I had to run home and satisfy myself—to dreams of Arab Princes and being sold into a harem. This wasn't a harem, but I was still a sold slave, awaiting my master's wishes. I prayed this guy had a clue.

"Follow" he said in a raspy growl; I hoped the growl was lust but feared something darker. I'd fixated on him because the voices I'd named Mr. Suit and Mr. Gunshot repulsed me. I wondered now whether I'd read this book's cover right.

It took five steps to get to the edge of the low stage, staying carefully one step behind him, watching his feet. As he stepped off the stage, he stopped momentarily when one of the seated men asked, in a voice with a light lisp "Going to let us take her for a ride?"

"Not till I've taken the 'new car' smell off and put the first dings in the fenders myself."

"Oh Yeah," said another man's voice, deeper, "she's got awfully nice fenders."

What is it about men and cars? Even naked in a sex club, I was a fucking car. Why? They're the ones with the damned gear sticks!

I tried to get a look at these other men, who, it seemed likely I was going to have to "take for a ride." Mr. Lisp was telephone-pole skinny, wearing a navy blazer over a white shirt; he had shoulder-length chestnut hair. The man with the deeper voice was wearing a camel hair jacket, its fabric stretched by arm and chest muscles.

I glanced at the woman sitting between them, thinking back to my earlier fear about being bought by a woman and guessing that this party might include her. She was slender, wearing a nubbly silk LBD with a deep V-neck that framed the slopes of her breasts, dark stockings shot with sparkles, and ankle-high booties with nosebleed heels. Blonde hair feathered around charcoaled blue eyes and coral lips. I wondered how much she'd sell for.

"Bring a bottle of champagne back in an hour," said my master, and continued on. As I followed him past them, I caught a whiff of Chanel Coco.

The back room was quiet, except for my new master's slightly ragged breathing and my occasional gulp for air, although my pulse thudded in my eardrums. Against the left wall was a King-sized bed dressed in blood-red with a high satin shine. I hoped it was real silk; polyester looks nice but is scratchy. But to the right, there was a wooden stock and a St. Andrew's Cross. I wondered which side of the room was going to be the focus of the night's entertainment; I hoped master was a leftie. Even more so when I saw the world-class collection of whips, canes, and floggers hanging on the right-hand wall. "Please" I thought, "don't let the men decide this would be a great opportunity to check out all the cool gear!"

I paused momentarily, standing in "heel" position just behind my master's left hip. He was contemplating the room as well. I followed his gaze toward the wall of whips, wondering whether maybe Mr. Suit's sharp tongue wouldn't have been so bad, when he turned abruptly toward me and shoved me toward the bed. I stumbled and banged my right shin into the bedframe, yelped, and fell face down on the crimson sheet. It was silk. I started to roll over, but he snarled "stop."

"I want to see your cuffed hands, and I can't wait any longer."

He stepped closer and there was a "zip" and a rustle of cloth. Denim, rough against the backs of my thighs, followed by soft cotton—his boxers. He moved closer still, shoving my legs apart with his hips. With his right hand, he gripped my thigh; with his left, he guided himself into me.

He thrust deeply and for the second time that evening I came from a single touch, allowing myself to revel in the culmination of my fantasy. Collared and sold as a slave, being fucked by the man who had bought me and was so greedy for me he couldn't even wait to unlock me.

I gasped "Master," and writhing on the blood-red silk, floated into orgasmic bliss.