Final chapter – The Final Round
The television screen glowed like a cold window into another life
.
Only two girls remained on the narrow stage. Contestant 6—the tall brunette with the dancer’s long limbs—and Contestant 15—the soft blonde who had cried through half the night but whose bids had never once faltered after Round 2. Both stood completely bare under the unrelenting white light, wrists cuffed loosely in front, short chains connecting the cuffs to the thick collars around their throats. The collars were new: matte black, wider than the earlier ones, each with a small silver tag already waiting for an owner’s name.
Emily sat perfectly still on the couch. Her phone lay face-down on the cushion between her thighs, screen dark. She had not touched it since the commercial break in Round 5. The booking page had stayed open in her browser for twenty-three minutes before she finally closed the tab. Her thumb had hovered over “Confirm” until the screen timed out and went black.
She had changed her mind.
She told herself it was sanity. Practicality. The wine had worn off, the heat between her legs had cooled to a dull, embarrassed ache, and the reality of what she had almost done had crashed in like cold water. A grading. A night in a kennel. Strangers measuring her, probing her, locking her in a cage beside women who had no choice left. She would walk out the next morning—free, yes—but changed in ways she could not unsee. She had told Ryan, quietly, during the ad break:
“I’m not doing it.”
He had only nodded once. No argument. No teasing. Just a small squeeze of her hand and the words, “Okay.”
Now the final round was beginning.
The host’s voice filled the room again, smooth and final.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Round Six. Two contestants remain. One will walk away with five million dollars and her freedom. The other will leave in chains. Public voting is now open. You have ten minutes.”
The camera cut between the two girls.
Contestant 6 stood straighter, chin lifted, eyes fixed on the main lens. Her body was lean and sculpted—long thighs, flat stomach, small high breasts that barely moved when she breathed. She looked like someone who had trained for this moment.
Contestant 15 was softer everywhere. Full hips, rounded belly, heavy breasts that swayed slightly with each shallow breath. Her eyes were glassy, cheeks streaked from earlier tears, but she kept her posture perfect. She had learned.
Handlers moved behind them. They attached thin silver chains from the girls’ collars to overhead winches. The chains tightened just enough to force their arms up and back, elbows bent, chests thrust forward. Another set of chains clipped to ankle cuffs, spreading their feet to shoulder width. They were displayed—open, helpless, perfect auction merchandise.
The host stepped between them.
“Final demonstration,” he said. “Submission in restraint. You will perform the full kneeling service sequence. Begin.”
Music started again—slow, deep, almost ceremonial.
Both girls dropped to their knees in perfect sync. The chains allowed just enough slack for the motion but no more. They arched their backs, breasts presented, thighs spread wide. Then they leaned forward until their foreheads touched the polished floor, arms stretched behind them by the overhead restraints, asses lifted high.
“Present,” the host intoned.
They spread their knees wider. The camera dropped low—unflinching close-ups of glistening folds, flushed skin, the small involuntary clench of muscles that could not hide arousal.
Emily’s breath caught.
She had told herself she was done. Done watching. Done feeling this sick, liquid heat every time a collar clicked shut. But the sight of the two women—bound, displayed, performing submission so completely—lit something inside her again. Something she had tried to smother.
The sequence continued.
They rose to their knees, hands still cuffed and chained high, then crawled forward three paces—slow, deliberate, hips rolling with every movement. When they reached the small padded mats placed in front of two empty owner chairs, they knelt up again.
“Beg,” the host said.
Contestant 6 spoke first. Voice clear, low, steady.
“Please, Master… inspect this property. Use this body however you desire. I exist only to serve.”
Contestant 15’s voice trembled but did not break.
“Please… Master… this worthless cunt begs to be owned. Please take me. Please mark me. I’ll be good. I swear I’ll be good.”
The voting ticker began to climb in real time.
Emily pressed her thighs together so hard her muscles ached.
Ryan’s hand had returned to her leg sometime in the last minute. High. Warm. Not moving yet.
She didn’t push him away.
On screen, the girls were guided into the next position: bent forward over the padded benches that had risen from the floor. Wrists chained to the front legs, ankles to the rear. Backs arched. Thighs spread. Completely open.
The host circled them slowly.
“Final inspection. Bidders—place your votes. The clock is ticking.”
Close-ups again. Fingers—gloved, professional—traced the girls’ spines, lifted breasts, parted labia for the cameras. Neither girl flinched. Contestant 6 breathed evenly. Contestant 15 whimpered once—soft, needy.
Emily’s own whimper slipped out before she could stop it.
Ryan’s hand slid higher. His fingers brushed the damp cotton between her legs. She gasped—sharp, involuntary.
He paused.
She looked at him.
His eyes were dark, patient, waiting.
She didn’t speak. She simply opened her thighs another inch.
His fingers pressed—slow, firm—tracing the outline of her through the fabric.
On screen, the voting closed.
The screen flashed red.
FINAL RESULT
Contestant 6 – Winner – $5,000,000 + Freedom
Contestant 15 – Sold – Permanent Transfer
A collective sound rose from the studio audience—half gasp, half hungry approval.
Handlers moved in.
Contestant 6’s chains were released first. She stood slowly, rubbing her wrists, eyes wide with disbelief. A robe was draped over her shoulders. She was led stage-right toward a bright exit door—the free exit.
Contestant 15 remained bent over the bench.
Two handlers flanked her. One unlocked the overhead chain. The other clipped a short leash to the front of her collar. They helped her stand—gentle but firm—then turned her toward the black door.
She walked between them, head high, tears streaming silently down her face.
The door hissed open.
The corridor beyond was bright and clinical.
The door closed.
The broadcast ended with the Slave or Millionaire logo pulsing in crimson, then faded to black.
Silence in the living room.
Emily’s chest rose and fell too fast.
She looked at her phone—still dark—then at Ryan.
He hadn’t moved his hand.
She reached down, wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and guided his hand harder against her.
A small, broken sound escaped her throat.
“I changed my mind again,” she whispered.
He searched her face.
“You sure?”
She nodded once.
“I need…” Her voice cracked. “I need to feel something real. Right now.”
He leaned in, kissed her—slow at first, then deeper, hungrier. His tongue found hers and she moaned into his mouth, hands already tugging at his shirt.
He pulled back just enough to speak against her lips.
“Bedroom?”
“No,” she breathed. “Here.”
She shoved the coffee table aside with her foot. Wineglass tipped, spilled across the wood. Neither of them cared.
She stood, stripped her tank top over her head in one motion. No bra. Her nipples were already tight, aching. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her yoga pants and shoved them down with her panties in the same movement. Stepped out. Naked now.
Ryan watched her, eyes dark, breathing hard.
She pushed him back against the couch, climbed onto his lap, straddling him. Her hands fumbled with his belt, his zipper. He helped—quick, urgent—until his cock sprang free, hard and hot against her stomach.
She didn’t wait.
She reached down, guided him, sank onto him in one long, shuddering slide.
They both groaned.
She stilled for a second—feeling him deep, stretching her, filling her completely.
Then she began to move.
Slow at first. Rolling her hips in the same deliberate rhythm she had watched the girls use on the blocks. Up. Down. Slow grind. Her hands braced on his shoulders. His hands gripped her hips, thumbs digging in.
She leaned forward, pressed her forehead to his.
“I watched them,” she whispered between breaths. “All of them. Collared. Chained. Begging.”
He thrust up to meet her—harder now.
“You wanted it,” he said, voice rough. “Admit it.”
“Yes.”
Another thrust—deeper.
“You still want it.”
She whimpered. “Yes.”
His hand slid up her back, fisted in her hair, pulled her head back gently so he could see her face.
“Say it.”
“I want…” She gasped as he rolled his hips, grinding against her clit. “I want to know… what it feels like. To be owned. Even just… for a minute.”
He kissed her throat—open-mouthed, teeth grazing.
“Then feel it now.”
He flipped them—sudden, strong—until she was beneath him on the couch. Legs wrapped around his waist. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand. The other slid between them, thumb finding her clit, circling.
She arched—hard—crying out.
He fucked her harder. Deeper. Relentless.
She came first—sudden, violent, whole body clenching around him, a broken sob tearing from her throat.
He followed seconds later—growling her name, hips stuttering, spilling deep inside her.
They stayed locked together for a long minute—sweat-slick, breathing ragged.
When he finally eased out and rolled to the side, pulling her against his chest, she was still trembling.
He kissed her temple.
“You okay?”
She nodded against his skin.
After a while—when her heartbeat had slowed—she reached for her phone again.
The screen lit up.
The booking page was still cached in her browser history.
She looked at Ryan.
He didn’t speak. Just watched her.
She opened the page.
Clicked the checkboxes again.
Free Grading.
Night Kenneling Add-On.
This time her thumb didn’t hesitate.
She pressed Confirm.
The confirmation screen appeared.
Appointment booked: February 5, 2026 – 2:00 PM
Big D Grading Center – Downtown Branch
Night Kenneling: 8:00 PM – 8:00 AM following day
Confirmation sent to email.
She set the phone down.
Turned back to Ryan.
He pulled her closer.
She buried her face against his neck.
Neither of them spoke.
The television had gone to a late-night infomercial—bright, cheerful, selling something irrelevant.
Emily closed her eyes.
Tomorrow was coming.
She was ready.
....Was she?