“We have perfected that sensuous nature, and completed Coora’s sexual training. She is highly skilled at bringing an owner to orgasm, using whichever of her holes he pleases.”
There is a rapid succession of chimes from the lectern, and with horror I begin to understand their purpose. Those chimes indicate bids. Bids on my life. I’d assumed the bidders might be in the hall, calling out their offers, but of course most interested parties will be watching the sales remotely. So these men in the hall are..? And I understand that too. They’re men of the galaxy on a vacation to the Hub, and they’re just here watching for entertainment. I’m a living, sentient woman, being sold into sex slavery, but for these men, looking at my body is nothing but a thrill. My naked humiliation is something pleasurable to watch.
“Coora’s implant is guaranteed fully functional. She has been instructed by the finest slave trainers, in all the arts of service which man demands of woman.”
I’ve turned to move back out along the catwalk, so I’m unaware of a Slaver guard approaching behind me until he seizes one of my scorns, grabbing it close in beside its root in my skull.
“Bend forward,” he orders me, putting pressure on the scorn until I double far enough over at my waist. In this position, I’m rotated round with my ass sticking out behind me, showing off my body in an obscene view.
“Now, upright,” is all he would need to command before I’m standing ruler-straight. But he drags me up by the scorn anyway, pulling painfully to arch my back and present me to the audience. Then he grabs one of my breasts and squeezes it hard enough to make me wince, while the crowd cheer at my misery.
Something about this display triggers a flurry of chiming bids, and I think things couldn’t get worse, but I’m wrong.
“Look right at my chin,” he orders. An odd command, but I focus on his stubbled jaw anyway, which is only inches from my face, as though we’re lovers about to kiss. Because I’m looking at his jaw, I miss him slipping the goad between my legs and pressing the wand against my core. The goad is on the pleasure setting, instead of pain, but the effect is just as paralyzing. My body locks rigid as thousands upon thousands of nerve endings in my womanhood electrify me with stimulation. The cry I emit could never be mistaken for anything but arousal. Between my legs, I am flooded with the fire of desire.
The contact is gone as suddenly as it arrived, and he releases his grip on my flesh, but the damage has been done. The crowd goes wild as I stand frozen with horror. We all know what they’ve witnessed. I’ve shown them I am woman, sexual, sensuous.
“As you can see, Coora’s body is exceptionally responsive,” says the auctioneer over the rush of accompanying chimes. “The Dystyr are a peaceful species, and we’ll also show you she has a low tolerance for pain.”
I look round in alarm, but not quickly enough. The goad brushes my flank, dialed to the pain setting this time, and with muscles locked by the agonizing jolt I’m flung to the catwalk floor. I’ve already been sexually humiliated, was that not enough? My side still burns with the aftermath of the wand, and I can’t hold the crying back any longer. In front of the crowd, I burst into tears.
This provokes another rush of bids. Is there any male out there who doesn’t enjoy watching women suffer?
“On your feet!” barks the guard. “Keep walking.”
I’m terrified I’m about to be goaded some more, and I rush to stand, but the torture is over. He’s already returning to his place at the back of the stage. Has he done this for all the women before me? Will he do it for the ones after? For Tana?
Crying might detract from my beauty, but I’ve lost my ability to restrain it, and I weep openly as I continue to parade up and down. The pace of the chimes is slowing, and the interest of the crowd seems to be diminishing too.
“The last chance to buy this fine piece of cunt is going…” says the auctioneer, when there’s about ten seconds without a bid. But still there is no more.
“Sold!” he exclaims to the room, and to me: “Through that door, slave!”
Numb with shock, I hurry to the stairs at the other side of the stage from where I came in. I’m eager to be out of the sight of these monsters. The Slaver official, who has been watching from the entry portal, has already gone to fetch slave thirty-five.
The place I find myself inside is like a large loading dock for logistics, except it’s one that smells of sweat and urine and fear. Neatly arranged across the floor are rows of crates on wheels. They remind me of oversized pet carriers, being equipped with a cage door and air holes around the sides. An adult female would be able to fit inside one of them, if she crouched down and drew up her knees inside. From within some of these crates, I can hear women crying.
Two low-ranking Slaver guards have been watching the sale, and are waiting here to receive me.
“Follow us,” one of the men says, and as I docilely pad behind them, I’m led to one of the crates. Like the others, there is a tech pad on the side, probably to carry my sale and shipping information. “Lot 34”, it says on it.
“Inside!” he snaps.
I crouch down and crawl, undignified, into the box. There’s a dispenser for fluid inside here, but nothing else. The floor is hard and uncomfortable. I find there’s enough space to turn round with difficulty, but there’s not enough room to stand or straighten my legs. While I adjust myself, and vainly try to find a comfortable position, the Slavers slam the door shut. I hear the magnetic lock trap me inside.
The three solid sides of my crate allow a little privacy, and comparatively alone I surrender myself to the tears again. That was one of the worst experiences of my life – nearly as bad as the gang rape on the ship.
I’ve just been sold, as though I’m a thing. Me – Coora of the Dystyr, meant to be studying Politics then going to work in the Republic, before eventually returning to my home world to choose a mate. I have just been paraded naked, and sold as a sex slave. A “fine piece of cunt”, that’s what they called me. Gods help me, who owns me? I don’t even know. I’d at least expected a “sold to…” from the auctioneer, but do my feelings not even deserve that?
“You deal with thirty-five when she comes in,” one of the guards says to the other, interrupting my thoughts. The men are still close by, but I can’t see them out of my cage door. “I want to go watch thirty-six.”
“What is it with you and the ones with no tits?” his comrade replies.
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” he shrugs.
I stare at the walls of my container, my whole being filled with hate for these people. How long will I be in here? But we are not to wait hours in this room, like we did before the auction. Every minute, low ranking Slavers wheel out another crate, presumably taking them to the docking level of the Hub, for loading onto a delivery vessel. Several crates have already gone by the time thirty-five, crying even more than I did, is brought into the room. For some reason I feel a little hope. I am an implanted slave, and when my new owner orders me to remain in his sexual service, I will certainly do so. And yet, slavery on his world has to be better than on Aghara-Penthay.
“Slave luck,” I plead silently.
They come for my crate quickly. I don’t even witness Tana emerging from her auction. My heart pounds as, pushed by two Slavers, my crate abruptly starts rumbling along the floor of the Hub. The docking level, I’m anticipating, and then, thank the Gods, I’ll be off Slaver territory.
But Coora of the Dystyr does not have slave luck. We move a maximum of a hundred yards, before the crate stops, and someone opens the magnetic lock of my cage door.
“Out!” a male voice snaps at me.
I have arrived at the Flower Garden.
9 – Flower
“Now you, you’re something special,” the man says to me. “How much to fuck you?”
“One hundred credits, Master,” I reply promptly. “Just ask inside, and they’ll let me out of this cage.”
“Is it more if I want to do you in the ass?”
“No, Master. It’s only more expensive if you want to harm me, or leave marks. That takes me out of circulation while I heal, which costs the house money.”
“Excellent. Get yourself wet. I’ll be back for you in a minute.”
I finger my core, circling the spots which I know awaken my desire, readying myself for yet another partner. Dystyr women typically only mate with one or two different dominant males in their entire lives. An alpha male is at his peak for five to ten years, so a woman will bear a number of offspring for her chosen over that period, perhaps move on to mate with a second alpha, and then spend her declining years raising young. Our society is formed of large extended families, all under one patriarch. I have four full siblings, and dozens of half-siblings.
At the Flower Garden, I am not to be permitted only one mate. I am not to be permitted only two mates, or even three. It is not unusual for me to have sex with twenty different strangers in one day. The next day, there will be a similar number of new faces. The next day, same again.
The Flower Garden is one of the Hub’s many brothels. The more exclusive brothels, such as this one, usually market themselves as specializing in meeting one particular taste. The Palace of Roses, for example, caters for those who enjoy inflicting pain on women. The Treasure House aims to offer the most exquisitely attractive females. The Flower Garden satisfies those who desire non-human women.
Sixteen of us serve here as sex slaves. Seven Gaianesians – women who appear almost human save for a distinctive marking on their foreheads, and a reflex that renders them defenseless and sexually receptive. Two shapeshifters, who can resemble any female the customers choose. A mix of various nonhumans of all species, colors, and traits, make up the rest. There were two Dystyr, but one was killed by a customer a few months ago. That kind of incident happens regularly here. The brothel’s manager, Jabal, went to the auctions for a replacement, and he found me.
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