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Part 9
The phone call left Robin emotionally devastated. She spent the better part of an hour weeping quietly on my chest until she could pull herself together enough to carry out her orders. For me the worst part was that I couldn't offer any real comfort. I couldn't criticize Trent because as her owner he had every right to hold her accountable for her mistake and sell her as punishment. It would be Saturday before I could speak to him in person and try to talk him into a less harsh penalty, but by then Robin would be chained in the auction house holding pen awaiting her turn on the block and it would be too late to recall her. All I could do now was hold her and commiserate. Hardly adequate for a bright young woman facing death.
Finally she summoned the strength to find Kitten and deliver the news. It was as though she were an entirely different person, calmly reminding Kitten of her various new responsibilities, including attending to the unfortunate Starling still sandwiched in nails and the two guards waiting to be whipped and caged. Kitten was none too thrilled at the promotion. In the first place she and Robin were close friends (in spite of Kitten's fondness for teasing her about her age). More telling, this demonstration of the sudden and lethal consequences of slipping up made the acquisition of power and responsibility as a female far less appealing. They hugged each other and exchanged the traditional farewell kisses that females do when one of them goes to auction.
In spite of her protests, I insisted on accompanying Robin to the Shipping and Receiving Department where she would be prepared for shipment. She held my hand tightly as we walked. Once there, however, she begged me not to go in with her to witness her humiliation. She also pleaded with me not to attend her auction to see her final degradation, but I made no such promise. It was hard enough to leave her at the S&R door with a long parting kiss, but in deference to her deep sense of shame I did so.
I knew what she would be going through, having seen it often enough. Because she had turned herself in without complaint, she would be accorded the dignity of undressing herself, taking her own shower and administering her own enema. She would even be allowed to attach her own ankle chains in the holding pen. The Shipping and Receiving staff are all wives and calves themselves. I knew they would treat Robin as they want to be treated when it's their turn (which for some would be soon).
That night was the most miserable of my life. Shadow and Kitten tried to cheer me up, but even those two sex machines couldn't lift me out my funk. I have never been so deeply affected by the impending loss of a female. It defies logic. All females are meat; it's just a matter of when they'll be utilized. Yet the thought of Robin being slaughtered and butchered was the heaviest weight I have ever borne.
Saturday morning I watched Robin and three calves being loaded into the S&R van for shipment, being careful that she didn't see me. I followed the van in my own vehicle to the auction house and again watched surreptitiously as the four females were herded from the van into the holding pen there. It was a major auction house and there were at least three hundred females — calves and cast-off wives — all naked and chained to the parallel rails. Robin's group was led into the tagging office to be identified, checked in, examined for any unspecified damage and assigned an auction number which would be written on their left breasts with a black marker. They would then be returned to the pen where they would be placed in line according to their position in the auction.
As soon as she disappeared from sight, I went in search of Trent. It wasn't easy. A number of owners, including Trent, had entered girls in a preview for an upcoming bride auction. These were calves less than a month from turning sixteen. A couple of dozen rooms had been set aside for the showings and were crowded with men either hawking their stock or looking to replenish or expand their prides. These previews are an opportunity for an up-close, hands-on examination of the merchandise, which is a sensible precaution when you're buying the higher priced models. Trent, however, was not in any of the rooms. Hoping he was not circling through the rooms ahead of me, I decided to check out the bar. There he was, busy dickering with another owner over the price of a busty black girl named Tanna. I strolled up near his table where he could see me.
“Hey, Curt!” he called out. “Thought you were back at the ranch wetting your baton in my collection.”
“Was. Decided to come to the auction,” I said.
“Good enough! Looking for an upscale bride?”
“Actually, I'm looking for a bargain bride.”
Trent cocked an eyebrow. “Really? Out amongst the meat, you mean?”
“Exactly.”
“Why? Good Lord, man, I've seen your pride. You've got some beauties there. Why would you want to add dead weight? Or,” he winked at his trading companion, “have you got some kink I haven't heard about that calls for disposable cunt?” He and the other man laughed at the notion.
“No,” I chuckled, trying to keep things affable. “Nothing kinky. There's a particular female who strikes my fancy.”
“A meat calf?”
“No. An ex-wife.”
“Ah. You like used quim, do you?”
“This one is special. You know her.”
Now Trent raised both eyebrows. “I do?”
“Yup. Her name is Robin.”
He stared at me blankly for a moment. “My Robin?”
“That's the one.”
“I'll be damned.” He grew a broad smile. “She must have given you a real good time these last few days!” Then his smile drooped. “Too bad she got so sloppy with Petal. Robin was always so dependable. It broke my heart to have to sell her, but First Wives have to set an example. Petal was first quality meat and would have fetched a nice profit. Robin should have paid more attention to her duty. Say, it wasn't you distracted her, was it?” He smiled conspiratorially. Just between us men.
“I'm afraid it was. She spent the whole night with me.”
Trent guffawed as if that were the funniest thing he had ever heard. “I'll be damned! So now you want to save her by buying her.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, my man, she's one fine piece of cunt, I'll give you that. And you don't mind her being used and a bit long in the tooth?”
“Not in the least. It makes her more interesting.”
His eyebrows shot up even higher, then settled down to join the corners of his smile. “Well, I'm damned pleased for you, old friend. I hated to think of sweet little Robin hanging from the slaughtering track at some meat factory.” He checked his watch and glanced up at the tote board on the wall behind the bar. “Robin is number twenty-seven in the lineup and they've just started. She should be up in about an hour.”
“That soon!”
“Oh yeah. I make arrangements early to get a good position. Course, it was supposed to be Petal, not Robin.”
“Jesus!” I said. “I can't make financial arrangements in an hour, especially on Saturday. How much do you think she'll go for?”
“Oh, I'd guess two or three thousand. She's twenty-nine years old. Not exactly prime meat.”
“Do they take plastic here?”
“You know better than that, Curt. Auction houses are cash only.”
“God! What am I gonna do? I spent most of my liquid assets on a new bride from Carter House just last month. It's a little late to move money around.”
“How much cash can you put down?”
“Three thousand.”
“Well, let's hope that does it. I'd much prefer you gave her a home than have some slaughterhouse pick her up. In the meantime, have a drink. Have you ever tried this Kingfisher beer? It's brewed in India. Smooth as hell.”
Waiting out the next hour was hell. With a quarter hour to go I bolted for the holding pens. There was Robin chained to the second rail over, the number “27" written on her left breast. It took her bright eyes about two seconds to find me and lock on mine with a mixture of pleasure and horror. She turned away just as quickly, too ashamed of her condition to face me. I ached to assure her I was there to try to save her, but she wouldn't look at me. When she was one girl shy of being led up to the auction block, I went into the hall and signed out a bidding paddle.
A young girl with light brown hair and hazel eyes had just been led out on to the stage by a chain locked around her neck. Her ankles were shackled together, forcing her to shuffle a little and clank a lot, but her hands were free. Her handler led her in a circle so the bidders could see her from all angles.
An amplified anonymous voice said, “This is number twenty-six, gentlemen, and a fine specimen of girl flesh. She's sixteen, five foot five, and one hundred-twenty-eight pounds of lean, tender meat. Clean. Virginal. No bruises. 34-B tits. She was bred at Scotia Farms and comes guaranteed. Minimum bid is two-thousand dollars. Do I hear three-thousand?”
A paddle went up.
“Three thousand to the gentleman in the black hat. Do I hear thirty-one hundred?”
The bidding went on briefly and stopped at four-thousand three hundred dollars. I recognized the winning bidder. He works for the Merek Corporation. They sell everything from whole roasters to pre-cooked sausage under separate brand names. Their purchase was led off through a door at the left side of the stage.
The door on the right opened and another handler strode in with Robin at the end of her chain. Even stripped of all cosmetics and with her hair bound up for slaughtering (some meat packers process their purchases almost immediately to avoid feeding costs) she was a breathtaking beauty. I could hear crude comments circulating through the crowd around me speculating on what they could do with her in the way of getting extra value before cutting her throat.
“Number twenty-seven is a special value, gentlemen,” the announcer boomed, as if echoing their murmurs. “She's twenty-nine but, as you can see, don't look her age. She's perfectly formed and a real looker at five-three and one-hundred-fifteen pounds. She's perfect for whole roasting. And this here ain't no ordinary dim-witted calf; she's a trained and experienced enforcer. So if any of you gentlemen are getting grief from your pride and calves, this little charmer will get ‘em in line fast. Or if you have a playroom down in your cellar and enjoy scenes featuring a ravishing domme in latex, here's your chance to snap up a first rate bitch. She's real fertile, too, and got several years left as a breeder, after which she'll still make a gorgeous whole boiler. She's a product of the Hamilton Estate, so you know you can expect top quality. We'll start the bidding at two thousand. Do I hear two thousand?”
A flag went up in the rear. One of the meat packers. Two thousand would be a good value for them, too, even for 29 year old meat.
“Two there in the back. Do I hear three? This piece is more than meat, gentlemen. This lovely little plaything would be a perfect addition to a starter pride. Give your boy a real hot contrast to them bashful virgins! And a year from now she'll still be worth three as a down payment on fresh pussy. She's a win-win opportunity for any young man.”
Four paddles were up, including mine. One of the other three I recognized as a buyer for a meat company. The other two were strangers. That could be bad news. Best case: they might be guys doing what the auctioneer had suggested — looking for a cheap bride for themselves or an adolescent son. On the other hand: they could be fishing for an affordable whole roaster pretty enough for an outdoor barbeque. Worst case: they might be looking for an attractive female on the cheap for a live roast. Yes, live roasts are illegal, but the reality is that they aren't hard to find. As long as there's a flourishing demand for watching beautiful girls impaled on a spit and cooked alive, or put into a cauldron and boiled alive, there will always be men willing to supply them. In all honesty, I have to admit I attended a live roast once, years ago. Judging from what I saw, Robin, with her flawless tawny skin, pretty face and luscious figure, her elegantly tapered limbs and voluptuous breasts, would make perfect live meat. I am not, however, one who enjoys watching females in extreme agony and the thought of it happening to Robin made my stomach knot.
“Four bidders at three thousand. We got us a tie here, folks. Let's up the ante to four thousand. Who's in for four?”
The meat agent dropped his paddle. A twenty-eight year old is not worth four large to meat packers. His absence from the bidding, however was little comfort considering who the others might be.
“Five!” shouted the auctioneer. “This lovely morsel is well worth five, gentlemen.” All three paddles remained up. “Who'll go to six?”
One more paddle came down. Just two of us now. I glanced up at Robin on the stage. She had recognized me. Tears were pooling in her eyes. I had come to rescue her! I was her last hope. O God, I couldn't let her down!
“Seven! Do I hear seven?”
This was it! Six was my limit. It was all I had. If that other guy stayed in, Robin was gone. I couldn't look at her as I slowly lowered my arm. The other paddle remained up. I felt nauseated.
A hand landed on my shoulder. “Don't quit now, old friend, not if you want to save her.” It was Trent. “That's Andy Hartwig over there. He's not looking for a cut-rate bride. He's a caterer. Specializes in live roasts. He's looking for beautiful meat.”
“Jesus! I'm out! I've run out of funds.”
“No you haven't. You've got assets, haven't you? Fifteen year olds?”
“Yes, but there's no time to . . .”
The auctioneer's voice boomed out of the speakers. “I've got a bid for seven thousand from the gentleman in the red shirt. Do I hear eight?”
“I'll buy one of them,” Trent said. “Two thousand. Deal?”
“Sight unseen?”
“Sight unseen. Your choice of stock.”
“Deal!” I yelled, and shoved my paddle back up.
“I see we have one of the previous bidders back at eight thousand,” crowed the auctioneer. “Who'll go to nine?”
Both our paddles remained up.
“Ten?”
I sagged and dropped mine again.
Immediately Trent was in my ear. “You got another female or two, old friend?”
“Yes! Of course I do!” I spat desperately. Who would you like?”
Meanwhile, the auctioneer had tasted blood. “All right, gentlemen, let's cut to the chase. We've got a specimen here who's beautiful and sexy enough for the movies. A star for both bed and barbecue. Who's the lucky man who'll bid eleven thousand?”
“I want your best and prettiest,” Trent said. “Two thousand, and I get to chose her.”
Hartwig's paddle went up again, this time a bit more reluctantly.
The auctioneer pounced. “The gentleman in red bids eleven thousand!” He looked pointedly at me. “Going for eleven thousand.”
“Deal?” Trent asked urgently.
“Deal!” I gasped.
“Going . . .” The auctioneer's hammer rose.
“Then get your damned paddle up!”
“Twelve thousand!” I yelled, waving my paddle madly. I looked across anxiously at Hartwig. For one horrible, silent moment there was no movement, then his paddle came down. There was no way he could make a profit if the meat cost him twelve thousand. I nearly collapsed with relief and finally had the nerve to look up at Robin again. Her face had frozen into a suspended mix of terror and hope, unsure of whether it was over.
“SOLD to the gentleman with paddle number twenty-one,” announced the auctioneer with a definitive bang of the gavel, pointing me out to the collection agent.
Robin's tears were flowing as her handler led her off stage to the left. The look of happy gratitude and relief she threw back at me as she shuffled away in her leg irons made my own heart leap.
Trent and I settled up with the agent and I was given a receipt to collect my purchase.
“I'll be around next week to collect my merchandise,” he told me. “Remember, the best and the prettiest.”
“Whoever you choose, she's yours,” I assured him. “And I can't begin to thank you enough.”
“Happy to steal your finest assets anytime, old friend,” he laughed. “You just take care of that little beauty you just bought. She's got several good years left, and, frankly, she's worth more than mere money. This would have been a dark day for me. Now I can sell off my other girls and have a good night's sleep.”
“Thank you, again, Trent,” I said. “I plan to take excellent care of her. And maybe you can get that free-spending caterer over there to go after one of your other girls.”
“The thought had not escaped me,” he said with a smile. “I believe I'll mention to him. Jasmine in particular has just the body he needs to decorate a spit — buxom and beautifully shaped. And at sixteen her meat will be a lot more tender than Robin's would have been. She's also a mouthy little cunt, so if it happens that Andy is stocking up for one of his underground clients, it would be a suitable end for her. The beauty of it is, he always severs their vocal cords first thing so they don't sass any of the folks who've come to eat them, or disturb the neighborhood with their screams when they're gutted and cooked. She's up next, by the way. You'll see what I mean.” He started to turn, then stopped with an afterthought. “Oh, if you don't mind a little friendly advice from Robin's ex-owner, don't make her your Household Enforcer. She's too soft hearted. Put her in charge of the nursery or something. And I hope your joy stick's got a hell of a lot of stamina, or you plan to rent her out to studs, because she's one inexhaustible sex puppy.”
“Don't worry,” I said with a wink, “I'm prepared to deal with her sex drive, one way or another.”
He grinned and slapped me on the shoulder. “I'll bet your are, old friend! I'll bet you are. See you next week.” He headed off toward Andy Hartwig just as the girl Jasmine was led out on to the stage. She was somewhat plain of face — a poor comparison to Robin's exquisite loveliness — but was otherwise as Trent had described: richly endowed with firm D-size young breasts, flat tummy and a waist so narrow she might have been the product of corset training (but not likely, since she had been raised as meat). Her arms and legs were not as slim as Robin's but were pleasingly shaped and would provide, along with her breasts and nicely rounded rump, a good amount of tender young meat. Her defiant look would soon disappear, I thought, if Andy Hartwig bought her. But I didn't hang around to find out.
I rushed out to the acquisitions dock where a tough looking female had a tight grip on Robin's chain (as if she could run away in those leg irons). “Where would you like her loaded, sir?” the woman asked.
“You many remove the shackles and chain,” I told her. “I've purchased her as a bride.”
The woman's eyebrows shot up. A twenty-nine year old bride was as rare as hummingbird's fin. But she knew better than comment. Robin was so excited she could barely stand still long enough for the ankle cuffs to come off. The instant she was free she lunged toward me, stopped short and dropped to her knees and bowed her head, tears still running down her face.
“Thank you, Master Curt! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She bent down and began kissing the tops of my shoes.
“Oh for heaven's sake, stand up,” I said putting my hands in her arm pits and raising her to her feet (taking the opportunity to slide my thumbs over the prominent nubs of her nipples). I leaned down and kissed the number “27" on her breast. “You're mine now, Number Twenty-seven. All mine. I own you free and clear. Well, almost clear.”
She was trembling with eagerness to climb all over me, but I held her off. Then she did a classic double-take. “What do you mean almost?” Belatedly remembering to add, “. . . Master Curt.”
“I ran out of funds at six thousand dollars. Trent helped me out.”
“He gave you money?”
“He bought two of my girls for two thousand each.”
“Which ones?”
“One is my choice, the other is his.”
“He can chose anyone he wants?”
“That's right. That was the deal.”
“Do you have any idea who he'll choose?”
“Of course. Snowflake.”
“Snowflake. I remember her. She's gorgeous! My God! You sold him Snowflake for just two thousand dollars? She's prime bride! And she must be close to sixteen.”
“Sixteen next month.”
“O my God! She must be worth fifty, sixty thousand!”
“At least.”
“And you sold her for two?”
“No. I traded her for your life. And I'd do it again with ten others.”
That stopped her cold. She stood and stared at me as if shell shocked, her mouth slightly open, letting me drown in her fantastic eyes. “Oh Master Curt,” she said, moving slowly toward me, up against me, draping her arms over my shoulders, laying her head on my chest. When she pulled back again, she kept her hands behind my neck as though afraid I might escape. Her cheeks were wet with new tears, her expression a poignant picture of joy tempered by guilt. “Oh Master Curt,” she repeated, “I promise you I will do everything in my power to make sure you never regret this. I will try with every fibre of my being to make you happy, for as long as you allow me to live. I will happily accept anything it pleases you to do to me, no matter how terrible or painful, so long as it makes you happy. I will . . .”
“I will not require you to suffer pain,” I said softly. “Having saved you from a live roasting, do you think I would inflict pain on you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Andy Hartwig, the man who was bidding for you, caters parties that feature girls roasted alive.”
“No he doesn't.”
“Trent told me.”
“We've . . . I mean, Master Trent has dealt with Master Andy for years. He caters whole roasts, but he slaughters the girls humanely. I've been to several of his roasts.”
“But Trent said . . . .” Suddenly the light dawned. “I'll be damned. The old fox was goading me into bidding higher to save you. Or maybe to sell my best girl on the cheap to save you. Either way, it worked. And I'm grateful to him. I not only saved you, I have you as my own.”
Pleasure swept away all the guilt and doubt from Robin's face. Her lips, wet by her tears of happiness, were swiftly feeding upon mine. She broke off long enough to say, “I'm yours, my lovely darling sir, for as long as it pleases you to keep me. And if I ever fail to give you pleasure, dear Master, I beg you to punish me severely, up to and including selling me as a live roaster.”
“I plan to keep you,” I said around her rabid kisses, “exactly twenty years, unless your former Master is able to convince the President to change the law so that especially deserving and beautiful females can be allowed to live as long as their Masters desire their presence.”
“In that case,” she said, rubbing her extraordinary and still naked body against me and shoving her right hand rudely down inside my pants, “I shall redouble my efforts every year during these next twenty years, and maybe more, to make you the happiest man on earth!”
“Because you want to live to be eighty?”
“No, my darling Master. Because I love you. I know it sounds incredibly out of date, but I love you. I love you so much that I want to give you as much pleasure as it's possible for a human female to give before it's time to honor you with my meat, even if you have to boil me for hours to make me edible.”
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