Slave Boy Auction

The city was a lively place. Specks of dirt and foul-smelling mist hung in the air. Money jangled in pockets and glinted in the sunlight as a million silver coins passed between a thousand hands. The dirt streets had been either packed down into clay, or else churned into a slurry by day-old rainwater and wagon wheels. Buildings rose up to ten times the height of a woman, with well-polished wooden catwalks running between them, several levels off the ground. On these paths, women of wealth and power strutted over the roads, followed closely by their richly decorated husbands. Above them, great colorful birds perched on rooftops, picking at each other, tending to nests or simply staring as if in awe at the woman-made jungle that surrounded them.

To Arjani, this was home. She dodged carts and ducked around porters carrying heaping baskets on their heads. When the beggar children swarmed around her legs, claiming to be motherless and destitute, she sent each one way with a one-piece coin each.

But the object of Arjani's errand was not in the central city. On the outskirts, where the wooden houses ended and the thick rainforest began, a beaten path that wound through the jungle to the river port a few miles off. Where this path met the city, a crowd gathered before a hastily set-up wooden stage. Workwomen of all races bustled about the stage, setting up curtains, laying down rugs and muscling wheeled cages into place. Through the cage bars, Arjani caught tantalizing glimpses of their cargo: young men, taken from all over the world, groomed and trained to please.

Arjani felt inside her pocket, her fingers meeting the cold, smooth faces of her coins. After completing her apprenticeship to the ivory-worker and becoming a full master craftswoman, Arjani had been saving up to buy a man for her home. Now, three years later, she had enough.

Inching her way through the hot, eager crowd, she reached the middle, where she could stand on the tips of her toes and see the stage.

From behind the thick blue curtains, a woman leaped out onto the boards. Her skin was white- clearly, she was from far away- and her shoulders were decked in furs that looked much too hot for this climate. Wooden beads hung in braided bands round her neck, framing a wickedly smiling face draped in messy blond hair.

"Ladies, welcome!" thundered the white woman.

The crowd roared with applause. The white woman had flattered them; very few were true ladies. Some were commoners with money to spare, like Arjani. Others were rich travelers, here to satisfy their curiosity more than their desires. Most were priestesses who had come to skirt around the clergy's old taboo against taking husbands- slaves, after all, could not marry.

The white woman swept her hand out in front of her, bellowing, "We humble traders have searched far and wide to bring you the finest young men in the world! First, from across the Whaler's Sea comes a rare specimen from the island of Fulzora. He was once the son of a sugar baroness, wealthy beyond imagination!" She paused, and that cruel smile reappeared on her lips. "But rich families, too, can fall on hard times. Today, he'll be your guide to the treasures we have in store for you. Ladies, please welcome the Fulzoran Flower, Mr. Altano Samcata!"

The curtains were yanked back, and the white woman bowed swiftly off the stage. Into the light emerged a beautiful boy, probably of twenty-five and thin as a creeper vine. The sun had tanned his skin like honey bread, and his short blond hair formed the shape of a bowl, exposing his big, lively blue eyes and slanting down on the sides to the base of his neck behind his head. A fiery smile spread his cheeks, accented by a sharp nose and narrow chin. For clothes, he wore a simple black vest, hiding his nipples but showing all the rest of his lean chest. A pair of trousers covered him from his thin waist down to his upper thighs, where they had been cut off to show his springy, muscular legs.

Cheers greeted the Fulzoran Flower, and he bowed gracefully, his hair swishing around the tight skin of his face. In a voice thrice as powerful as anyone could expect from such a thin frame, he cried out, "Welcome!"

A few daring women yelled out bids, but the Flower merely put his hands on his hips, palms facing off to his sides, and shook his head. "I'm always sorry to tell bad news," he said, "But I am not for sale."

Moans of disappointment fell over the crowd. Arjani was not at all disheartened. She had assumed that the Flower would be too expensive for her.

"However," said the Flower, before the disappointment could linger, "I will show you what you can buy, and I think you'll agree that we've outdone ourselves! First!" He gestured grandly to the side of the stage, and another man walked into view.

If the blond boy was the Fulzoran Flower, this new man was an oak tree. He stood a hand-width higher than the Flower, who was already tall, and his shoulders were twice as far apart. Shoulder-length hair, the color of bronze, flowed down the back of his head. His slanted eyes stared restfully into the distance, full of ease and wisdom, and there was even a soft smile on his face, as if recalling some faint, pleasant memory. Around his sturdy neck, a metal collar symbolized his servitude. The rest of him, to Arjani's dismay, was covered by a heavy brown leather coat with sleeves and pant legs that swallowed up his limbs.

The big man stayed perfectly still as the Flower danced around him, pointing to him alternately with open palms and pointed fingers, saying, "Born on the harsh steppes of Altai-Chi, this man spent fifteen years as a husband to the most powerful warriors on earth, the Amazons!"

At this, Arjani jumped. Amazons guarded their men jealously. For one to be out here was a rarity indeed.

The Flower reached both ways round the Amazonian man's neck and undid a knot, letting his cloak part and slip to the floor. Beneath it, he was utterly nude.

The Flower began speaking again, but Arjani immediately lost track of his words as she took in the marvel in front of her. From one shoulder to the other, an even layer of muscle covered the Amazonian man's chest. His arms, bolstered by strong curves, hung idly at his sides, while row- of manly ridges underscored his flat stomach. A thick, perfectly round cock hung from a clean-shaven lap.

The Amazonian turned his head down and shut his eyes gently. Like a newly married prince-consort, he dutifully held his tongue and awaited the judgment of the feminine crowd.

"Medugai," said the Flower, facing the Amazonian man, "we've attracted quite a delightful crowd today, and your new owner's somewhere in there. What do you have to say to her?"

The Amazonian, Medugai, leveled his eyes at the crowd again. In his countenance, Arjani could see a mix of apprehension and hope, dusted by shrewdness. "I am here to serve," he said, in a sweet, smooth voice. "Amazons teach their men every trick to women's pleasure. Take me home, and I'll show you what I've learned." He finished off with a broad, easy smile.

Once again, brazen women howled out the prices they would pay for him, and to Arjani's relief, they were all sums that she could match. She opened her mouth to make her bid.

"Wait!" cried the Flower, flinging his arms out. "You are all making a mistake!"

That caught the attention of the crowd. Even Medugai stared sideways at the skinny blond boy.

"You don't want to bid on him before you've seen all we have to offer!" the Flower went on. "How prudent would it be to spend all of your money before you've even seen... this!"

With a swing of both arms, he pointed to the opposite end of the stage, where a serious-looking young man stood as if he had been there all along. His back was as straight as a quarterstaff, and he did not even seem to notice his metal collar. Swathed in a loose, thin coat that hewed diagonally over his figure, he stared out at the crowd with firm, almost adversarial eyes. His skin tone was tan, but flushed with the red tint of the desert.

The Flower slunk over to him and tugged his coat off his chest, revealing his well-toned shoulders and flat, strong chest. A few women cooed over him, but Arjani was not one of them. Despite his appealing figure, there was a harshness to this new man's demeanor that she did not like.

"This one," began the Flower, undaunted, "is called Rabziz. Once, in the not-too-distant past, he was a slave soldier in the far southwest." With a flourish of his hand, the Flower slapped Rabziz on the rear, saying, "But clearly, he wasn't a very good one!"

If the joke didn't make the women laugh, Rabziz' reaction to being spanked certainly did. His firmness disappeared in an instant, eyes bulging as his back stiffened even further.

Flower licked his lips and sidled up behind Rabziz, who kept staring straight ahead as the Flower pulled his coat slowly off, showing tough legs, a little stubble of pubic hair and- Arjani gasped- a circumcised cock. His foreskin ended halfway up his erection, with the sensitive flesh beneath bared to the open air. Arjani was familiar with circumcision, but she had never seen the results in person before. She kept staring at it as the Flower went on.

"That's right, ladies, he's been cut down to size. You won't have to worry about this bad boy playing with himself while the mistress is gone. The only way he gets pleasure..." He jabbed a finger into the crowd, pointing startlingly close to Arjani. "...is you."

Silence ensued.

The Flower slapped Rabziz on his shoulder and said, "Isn't that right, little soldier?"

"Yes, sir!" said Rabziz, in a high but powerful voice.

Evidently, that was all he had to say.

"Next," said the Flower, drawing out the word, "we have a few delicacies taken from the north, creatures almost as lovely as myself!"

That got a chuckle from a few women.

The curtains parted, and three figures glided out, covered from head to toe in hooded cloaks. On seeing them, the Flower recoiled in fake shock, then dashed across the stage in front of them, his nimble fingers flipping down their hoods.

Beneath the hoods, Arjani saw something else that she had never seen in person. All three boys had sharp, triangular ears that stuck straight behind them. Their slave collars were thin and delicate. On the other men, they had looked like crude bindings, but these boys wore them like jewelry.

"Elves!" cried someone.

"That young lady is right!" crowed the Flower, pointing at the woman who had spoken. "Elven boys, every bit as graceful as you've heard. And I know they don't look like it, ladies, but they've each been trained for fifty years!" He paused, watching the crowd's reaction.

Arjani did not know what to think. The idea of owning a man who would outlive her felt wrong. But she had to admit, their faces were cute. The one on the left tilted his head slightly, his bright green eyes glinting in the hazy sun, a thin smile across his equally thin lips. The one next to him looked innocent, almost too young for Arjani's taste, his ears twitching restlessly as he took in the sights in front of him.

It was the third elf who caught Arjani's eye and held it. Darker in complexion than the others and with more intensity in his teal eyes, accentuated by his midnight-black hair, he carried his head high and proud, seeming to know that he was prettiest of the three. Rather than simply sweep his gaze over the crowd, he examined each face carefully. For a moment, Arjani was sure that he was looking directly at her. He gave her a little smile, as if he knew something she didn't, then moved on.

Before the Flower could do it, the black-haired elf reached up to his neck and undid the clasp that held his cloak. Slowly, with a growing smile that said that he knew what he was doing, he peeled it down his chest, first revealing his tight, well-formed shoulders, then a straight-sided chest that he carried with secure dignity; his posture was straight, but not stiff like the soldier's.

His cock, which Arjani had eagerly waited to see, was slender, completely hairless and had a head that was thicker than the base. That, Arjani knew, would feel good going in. She began to rethink her opinion of elves.

"Look at that!" came in the Flower, "And he even strips for you! Ladies, Tevelin here is more than ready for you! And I see the others following his example!"

The other elf boys began to strip, doing imitations of Tevelin's act, but Arjani was not looking at them.

"Everyone," said Tevelin, in a voice that carried, but only just. "I have no doubt that-"

"Ooh, hush," said the Flower, pressing a finger over Tevelin's lips. "That was perfect, dear boy. You'd just ruin it." He turned around. "Next! For the ones who like it rough, we've got just the beast you've been waiting for!"

Another man elbowed his way through the curtains. He was smaller than Medugai, but rougher. Scars ran up the backs of his arms, and a black ruff gave texture to his chin. As the crowd stared at him, he stared back, not analyzing, but challenging, daring someone to say something rash.

The Flower promptly obliged him. "As you can see, folks," he said, strutting up to the man, "He's cut from different cloth than our usual stock. He was apprenticed to monster hunter for a while, but a werewolf got him. Of course, we were happy to cure him... for a price!" He turned to the man. "Now, do you have anything to say to all th- oomp!"

Before the Flower could go on, the man seized him with lightning-quick hands and yanked him in, cutting off his performance. The man crushed the Flower's lips onto his own, and the blond boy twitched helplessly in the bigger man's grasp.

The applause came immediately. Thunder rolled up from the crowd, with cheers and jeers thrown in, until at last the man released his catch, and the Flower stumbled back. He stared up at the man, eyes wide with alarm.

"That's what I have to say," said the man, in a sharp voice. "I am Brarvin. Be ready for me."

The Flower wiped his mouth, clearly mortified, then took a deep breath and continued, "Our final exhibit to you is one that certain people tried to prevent you from seeing." He paused, letting the ambiguity hang in the air as three more boys strutted onto the stage in tight shirts and short pants, not unlike the Flower's outfit. "These three junior mages were tribute from the Mage Guild, and what a contribution they've made! In just three years, they've made incredible improvements on their pleasure magic!" The Flower indulged in another pause. "Yes, you heard me right! Pleasure magic! They and the elves have been studying hard, and we've had a bit of friendly competition between them."

One of the human mages raised his palm and let out a dance of crooked red and blue lights, then struck a pose. Without waiting for them to strip, Arjani examined their bodies. She saw black skin, flat stomachs and thin limbs. They were attractive, but unremarkable, not like Medugai. The elves seemed impressed, though; they stared daggers at the mages.

Slipping behind two of the mages, the flower put one hand on the rear of each, his grin broadening as he kneaded their flesh. "There you have it, ladies!" he finished. "The absolute cream of our catches, all trained to please. Now, let's open up bidding for these fine specimens of manhood!"

"Wait!" came a voice from behind the stage. The white woman punched through the curtains, carrying something half as big as herself draped in cloth. She set it down on the front of the stage with the heavy clack of wood on wood. "We have one more announcement to make. Altano, step forward."

The Flower sidled up to the mysterious object, befuddlement plain on his face. Clearly, whatever script he was following, this was not part of it. "Yes, mistress?" he said dutifully.

With a snap, the white woman pulled the cloth away, revealing what looked like a wooden chair but with a back that sloped backward and a pillory board attached to the top. The board was open, hungry for a prisoner.

"Mistress?" said the Flower.

With a devious smile, the white woman seized the Flower and shoved him into the chair. His neck fit into the biggest hole, and she easily forced his hands into the smaller wrist holes before swinging the pillory shut. She latched it with a metal hook.

Fear dominated the Flower's face. "Mistress, what's going on?" he asked, his face twitching. "What are you doing?"

The white woman turned to the crowd. "Folks," she boomed, "when my slave Altano said that he was not for sale, he was mistaken!"

Cheers roared up from the crowd, with applause and early-coming bids drowning the air. The Flower listened to it all, speechless.

"This boy has everything," said the white woman, running a hand over the muscles on his thin arm. "He was raised a noble, and like any good boy from the upper classes, he knows how to make a woman feel like a queen." She smirked as if she had just shared something scandalous. "I've made sure he knows every trick of the art, and he's applied himself with zeal. Ladies, that is the advantage of young men. They give it their all. And that's not to mention this..." Kneeling down beside him, she tugged at his pants until they gave. A fresh wave of cheering greeted the sight of his low-shaven pubic hair and a clean, well-shaped cock. "For six years," she said, "he's been my pleasure slave, and he's just as virile now as when we took him in."

Her hand went to his manhood and started stroking. The Flower winced, helpless to stop himself from stiffening. As she stroked faster, he gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, but he was in a struggle that no man can ever win. After a minute, a thin stream of white spurted up from his cock, going as high as his head. Just as it landed, his cock made another push, and more cum flew up in front of him. One last burst messed his thighs, and he was spent. His thin chest puffed as he panted.

The white woman put her palm flat on his head, adding, "Don't fear, ladies, I may have used him, but just like all of our merchandise, he's been worked over by the best physicians in the land, and we can guarantee you, he's clean." She stepped forward. "Now, how much will you pay for this young treasure?"

Arjani had to stop herself from speaking up, even though she did not typically like skinny boys. Women shouted out prices far in excess of what she had to spend, so she folded her arms and enjoyed the spectacle of the Flower panickedly scanning the crowd, trying to see which woman would own him.

"A hundred Coals!" yelled one woman.

"A hundred and ten!" came another.

The price climbed, always landing on multiples of five, until finally the white woman clapped her hands above her head and declared, "One hundred and sixty coals for the flower! Will the lucky woman step up?"

A woman- or, more accurately, a grown girl- leapt through the crowd, then stepped quickly onto the stage, her pink and white dress snatching at the wooden corners, her single-braided hair slapping against her back. She stepped up to the flower and stood expectantly, he posture stiff and proper but her gaze betraying her excitement.

As the white woman released the Flower, he said something that Arjani barely caught: "Mistress, why?"

"Six years is long enough," she said back to him. "Now be silent, or I'll gag you."

The Flower looked stunned as he was pulled from the chair. With hands quick as a harpist's, the white woman slid a dun loincloth onto him, neatly tied his wrists behind his back and slipped a collar around his neck, tightening it until it was no longer loose. Uncoiling a leash, she tied one end to the collar and handed the other to the open hand of the buyer.

As soon as the woman in the dress had the leash, she reeled the Flower in and kissed him even more fiercely than Brarvin the werewolf had. When she finished, she practically threw him back, and he stumbled before righting himself.