TG October: Day 23 – Auction

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My name is Derek Holt.

Or it was.

There were five of us. Marcus, Tyler, Jason, Brett and me. We weren’t a movie gang. We were guys who had come together because none of us had anything left to lose and all of us knew when to keep quiet. Marcus was the muscle, the one who opened whatever needed opening. Tyler drove as if the car answered to his thoughts. Jason knew alarms and systems. Brett got the information, talked to the right people in the wrong places. I was the one who decided. The one who said when to go in and when to get out. The one who carried the responsibility if something went wrong.

We had been together for years. Long enough to trust each other with things you almost never trust anyone with. We had done small jobs, medium jobs, a couple of things clean enough that we could keep breathing without constantly looking over our shoulders. The private auction came through Brett. A folder with blueprints, schedules, guest list, the kind of pieces that only move when no one is looking. It looked like the score that would finally get us out of that life for good.

I said yes.

I insisted.

The mansion was too quiet when we arrived. We went in through the service entrance. We moved forward. Then there was only gas, darkness and the dull sound of bodies falling.

I woke up alone.

White room, no windows, constant light that didn’t let you tell day from night. Wrists restrained. My chest burned from the inside. When I tried to speak, the voice came out thinner, higher, as if something was already pressing from within. My body was no longer the same. When I looked at the reflection in a metal panel I could only see a helpless woman where I was supposed to be.

I could hear the others.

Through the walls, or through some system they left open on purpose, the screams arrived. Marcus spitting curses that broke halfway through the sentence. Tyler crying with a sound I had never heard from him. Jason hitting something over and over. Brett asking, in a low voice, for them to stop. They were close. Close enough for me to know they were still alive… and for them, maybe, to hear me.

Then came the serum. It was strange. Every injection burned and after each dose I felt a part of me turning to pulp from the inside. I couldn’t say exactly what it did, but after a few minutes of intense pain my body and mind were no longer the same. From what they explained, the serum only takes away your ability to refuse. The body listens. The head can scream all it wants; the muscles still obey. It’s like they put three hypnosis sessions in a bottle and then inject it into your veins to make you susceptible to receiving orders.

The following days became a routine of breaking.

Day one

They untied me just enough to put me on my knees. A man I didn’t know grabbed my hair and opened my mouth. When I tried to bite, the serum made the jaw go slack. They used my throat all the way down. Every time I gagged, they waited a second and continued. When they finished they turned me toward a camera in the corner.

“Say: ‘Fuck my team.’”

I pressed my lips together. I shook my head once, twice, three times. I tried to spit, turn my face away, close my mouth with all the strength I had left. The serum pushed from inside. I felt the jaw loosen again, the tongue move without my permission. I struggled until my shoulders shook. In the end the words came out anyway, broken, through clenched teeth:

“Fuck… my… team.”

Day two

They leaned me against the side of the bed. They made me bend over while I was wearing only a few pieces of clothing to cover my body. At that moment a Black man who surpassed me in size and strength rubbed his cock against my exposed ass. They entered with almost no preparation. The pain was white. I screamed. The body, traitorous, couldn’t contain its moans; that man ended up pushing my body backward looking for a rhythm I didn’t want. They used me until they came inside several times. Afterwards, the camera again.

“Say: ‘I love your cock, give me more.’”

I closed my eyes. I clenched my jaw until my teeth hurt. I tried to think of something else, anything else. The serum didn’t negotiate. I felt the internal push. I struggled against the restraints, moved my head from side to side, let out a guttural sound of pure rage. It didn’t work. The words came out dragged, broken:

“I… love… your cock… give me… more.”

Day three

Two men. One in front and one behind. They bent me over the same stretcher and filled me until I couldn’t think. Every thrust pulled sounds from my throat that I no longer recognized. When they finished they forced me to look at the camera with my face a mess.

“Say: ‘I don’t care about them. I never did.’”

This time I resisted longer. I shook my head violently, let out a rough “no” over and over, tried to bite my own tongue so I wouldn’t speak. The serum was slower, heavier, as if it enjoyed the struggle. My whole body was trembling when the words finally forced their way out:

“I… don’t care about them… I never… did.”

Days four and five

They used me standing, against the wall, on all fours, on my knees. Every position came with a new phrase. “I’m a whore.” “My team can rot.” “Fuck me harder.”

They tore each one out of me the same way. I pressed my lips until they bled, shook my head, let out sounds of rage and disgust. The serum waited. Then it pushed. And the phrases came out anyway, more broken each time, more humiliating because the fight was visible.

The body was no longer mine. Heavy chest. Narrow waist. Between the legs only a sensitive opening that got wet even when all I felt was disgust. The traitorous pleasure appeared without permission. Every time the body came I hated a little more what was left of me.

On the day of the auction they took me out of the white room. They washed me, waxed me, made me up. They put me in a short white dress that hid nothing. They led me down a carpeted hallway to a wide room with warm lights and velvet seats. Smell of expensive perfume and old money.

There were men in suits, glasses in hand, low conversations. And in the front row, separated from the rest, were the four of them.

Marcus. Tyler. Jason. Brett.

They no longer had the bodies we had planned the job with; they were women too, but the eyes were still the same. And in those eyes there was only hatred and a cold pity. They looked at me the way you look at someone who pushed you into the void and then stayed to watch.

The presenter, gray suit, professional smile, stepped forward.

“Gentlemen, the main lot of the night. To demonstrate the quality of this lot, here we have a leader. Transformed. Obedient. Trained. And, as you will have the opportunity to verify, fully aware of what she did to her own team.” That was when they put in front of everyone an edited video with the recordings of those words they had forced me to say over the last few days.

They pushed me to the center of the stage. I tried to speak. I tried to shout to them that the videos were a lie, that I had never sold them out, that every phrase had been torn from me by force. My mouth opened… and none of that came out. The serum wouldn’t allow it. Only a choked, useless sound.

The presenter stood beside me and, without any shame, unzipped his pants in front of the entire room.

“Live demonstration. On your knees.”

I knelt.

I pressed my lips together for a second. One last useless attempt.

Then I opened my mouth and felt the weight of his cock on my tongue.

While I sucked him, I could see my team out of the corner of my eye. Marcus had his jaw clenched. Tyler was looking away. Jason wasn’t blinking. Brett, the one who had brought the folder, had an expression that mixed disgust and something like the relief of finally having someone to blame.

The presenter put a hand on my head and, with the same calm voice used to auction a painting, announced:

“Let the auction begin.”

The house had never sold antiques.

It sold thieves.

It lured them with scores that were too perfect, captured them, transformed them and offered them as obedient maidens to whoever could pay.

They sold the others that same night.

They kept me.

Epilogue

The screens turn on every night at the same time.

Marcus appears first. He no longer has the body he used to force doors open. Heavy breasts, narrow waist, open thighs. An older man thrusts into him from behind while he looks at the camera with glassy eyes and says, between high moans:

“Derek… son of a bitch… you sold us out… you brought us here… ah… harder…”

Tyler comes next. Crying. Riding someone. The broken, feminine voice while he cums and spits:

“Stupid faggot… I always knew you were going to fuck us over… put it all the way in…”

Jason and Brett appear together in the same bed, tangled with two guys. They take turns looking at the camera while they’re being fucked. They call Derek a traitor. Traitor. Son of a bitch. Every insult comes out between real, wet moans of bodies that no longer try to resist.

They are not montages.

There is no editing.

They are them. Genuine. Broken. Hating him while they’re being used.

And I watch them every night from the floor of the same white room where they transformed me.

They sold the others.

They kept me.

The pet. The personal little whore of the auction house.

The serum is still there.

And Derek Holt no longer commands anything.

The End.