Collateral curves, the grading gambit
Posted: Sat Nov 15, 2025 3:19 pm
Collateral Curves: The Grading Gambit
(Full 12,000-word story – merged, unmodified)
Part 1 – The Loan Letter & Arrival
Sophia Ramirez stared at the official envelope on her kitchen counter like it was a live grenade.
The return address, embossed in crimson foil, read: BIG CITY SLAVE MARKET – COLLATERAL DIVISION.
Inside: a single sheet of heavy parchment, the kind that felt expensive just to touch.
NOTICE OF MANDATORY SLAVE GRADING
Loan #SLV-2025-47B
Co-Signers: Ramirez, S.; Chen, M.; Eriksson, L.; O’Connell, T.; Washington, J.; Patel, R.
Date: Saturday, 08:00 sharp.
Location: Intake Gate 3, East Dock.
Failure to appear = immediate default + seizure.
Below the legalese, a cheerful post-script in smaller font:
“Congratulations! Your group qualifies for the Premium Package Grading. Bring ID, nothing else. Clothing will be provided (if needed).”
Sophia’s pulse fluttered in her throat.
She’d pushed for this loan—six grad students pooling debt for tuition, rent, the whole starving-scholar package. The lender had been oddly accommodating, almost eager. Now she knew why.
Her phone buzzed. The group chat lit up.
Mia: did everyone get the slave letter or am i hallucinating
Lena: it’s real. i googled. they grade you like cattle to set collateral value.
Tara: this is insane. we’re calling the bank right?
Jade: already did. “non-negotiable clause 12b.” we show or they take our apartments.
Riley: so we’re doing this? naked? in public?
Sophia: it’s just paperwork. in and out. solidarity, remember?
She typed fast, thumbs trembling.
Truth? She’d been wet since the envelope arrived.
Late nights scrolling slave-market forums, anonymous accounts, stories of women processed like livestock—stripped, measured, valued.
She’d told herself it was research.
Liar.
Friday night – Mia’s apartment
Six wine glasses clinked.
The girls sprawled across the sectional in various states of undress—yoga pants, sports bras, one oversized hoodie that belonged to an ex.
They’d turned it into a pre-game ritual: mocktails, playlists, nervous laughter.
“Okay, rules,” Lena announced, legs stretched like she was already on the block. “No backing out. We walk in together, we walk out together. And we do not let them brand us.”
“Brand?” Tara squeaked, red hair falling over her face. “Like cattle?”
“Only if you’re sold,” Jade said, rolling her eyes. “We’re collateral, not inventory. Relax.”
Sophia sipped her drink, tasting nothing.
She’d printed the market’s FAQ. Knew the stages by heart:
Intake Strip
Medical Probe
Shave & Oil
Pose Evaluation
Grade Stamp
The forums called it the Gauntlet.
Volunteers bragged about orgasms during the oiling.
Sophia’s thighs pressed together under the table.
Mia raised her glass. “To not becoming sex slaves!”
They drank.
Sophia’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.
Saturday, 07:42 AM – East Dock
The market loomed like a prison designed by a sadist with excellent taste.
Glass and steel, banners fluttering: “PRIME INVENTORY DAILY – FREE GRADING FOR QUALIFIED DEBTORS!”
A line of women already snaked around the corner—some in business suits, others in gym clothes, a few escorted by handlers in crisp uniforms.
The six friends clustered near Gate 3, clutching IDs.
A handler, broad-shouldered, clipboard in hand, scanned them in.
“Loan group?”
Sophia nodded.
“Strip room’s inside. Shoes in the bin. Everything else in the locker. You’ll get temp collars.”
Riley whimpered. “Everything?”
“Everything,” he repeated, not unkindly. “Market policy. No exceptions.”
They filed through a side door into a tiled antechamber that smelled of bleach and something sweeter—oil, maybe.
Lockers lined one wall. A sign: “CLOTHING RETURNED UPON EXIT – PENDING GRADE.”
Sophia’s fingers went to her hoodie zipper.
This is it.
She peeled it off, then her tank top. Bra next—simple black, nothing fancy. Her breasts spilled free, nipples tightening in the cold air.
Jeans, panties. Naked in seconds.
The others followed, slower.
Mia’s tiny frame, Lena’s long limbs, Tara’s freckled shoulders, Jade’s curves, Riley’s runner’s legs.
Six bodies, six shades of flushed.
A female handler—Rita, name tag—appeared with a tray of leather collars.
Black, thick, silver rings. Temporary tags dangled: LOT 88-A through 88-F.
“Line up. Hands behind heads. Elbows out.”
They obeyed.
Rita moved down the row, buckling collars with practiced snaps.
When she reached Sophia, her fingers brushed the hollow of her throat.
“Pretty neck,” Rita murmured. “Good for display.”
Sophia’s breath hitched.
The collar closed—snug, heavy.
A small padlock clicked.
“Welcome to processing, sluts.”
Strip Room → Holding Pen 4
Bare feet slapped cold tile as they were marched single-file down a corridor.
Mirrors on both sides reflected their nudity from every angle—asses jiggling, breasts bouncing, collars stark against skin.
Sophia caught her own eyes in the glass: wide, dark, hungry.
Pen 4 was a large cage, waist-high bars, rubber mats.
Twenty other women already inside—some collared like them, others with permanent brands glowing on hips or thighs.
A water trough. A row of steel bowls.
The door clanged shut behind them.
“Intake in ten,” Rita called through the bars. “Hydrate. You’ll need it.”
Mia whispered, “This is not paperwork.”
Lena flexed her fingers. “We can still leave, right?”
A branded slave nearby—petite, blonde, nipple rings glinting—laughed softly.
“Honey, the collar’s on. You leave when they say.”
Sophia’s heart hammered.
She should be terrified.
Instead, heat pooled between her legs.
08:15 – Medical Queue
They were herded out in pairs.
Sophia and Jade first.
A male handler—gloves, clipboard—pointed to steel tables bolted to the floor.
“Up. Knees to chest. Spread.”
Jade hesitated.
The handler’s voice sharpened. “Now, or I cuff you.”
They climbed up.
Cold metal against bare backs.
Stirrups snapped into place, legs forced wide.
Sophia stared at the ceiling, counting tiles, as gloved fingers parted her folds.
“Clean,” the handler grunted. “Tight. Good muscle tone.”
He probed deeper—clinical, thorough.
Sophia bit her lip to stifle a moan.
Not here. Not like this.
But her body betrayed her, slickness coating his fingers.
Jade whimpered beside her. “Soph, I—”
“Shh,” Sophia hissed. “Just breathe.”
Next station: height, weight, breast measurement.
A female tech wrapped a tape around Sophia’s chest.
“36D. Firm. No sagging. Excellent.”
Then the shave.
They were laid on slanted benches, legs in straps.
Warm foam, then the razor—slow, deliberate strokes.
Pubis, lips, perineum.
Sophia’s clit throbbed as the blade grazed it.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Oiling came last.
Two handlers, four hands.
Thick, scented oil poured over shoulders, breasts, belly, thighs.
Fingers worked it in—kneading, spreading, teasing.
One handler’s thumb circled Sophia’s nipple, then lower, brushing her clit.
“Responsive,” he noted. “Grade booster.”
She came close—so close—hips twitching.
But he stopped.
“Not yet, slut.”
09:30 – Pose Evaluation Room
A circle of mats.
Spotlights.
A raised platform in the center.
A man in a tailored suit waited, whip coiled at his hip.
Just a trainer.
“Slave Yoga basics. You’ll thank me on the block.”
He barked positions:
PRESENT – knees wide, palms up, back arched.
BELLY – forehead to mat, ass high.
DISPLAY – on back, knees to chest, hands spreading cheeks.
The six friends stumbled through, naked, oiled, collared.
Laughter died.
Only the slap of flesh and heavy breathing.
Sophia flowed into BELLY like she’d practiced in secret for months.
Ass up, cunt exposed, dripping.
The trainer’s whip cracked near her ear.
“Perfect arch, 88-A. You’ve done this before.”
Heat flooded her face.
He knows.
10:00 – Grade Stamp Station
A desk. A printer.
Temporary tattoos—waterproof, 30-day.
Sophia’s read:
LOT 88-A – PRIME PLEASURE – PROJECTED VALUE $425,000
The others clustered around, comparing:
Mia: $380k
Lena: $410k
Tara: $360k
Jade: $415k
Riley: $390k
Jade whistled. “We’re worth more naked than clothed.”
A handler laughed. “Wait till the demo.”
10:15 – The “Glitch”
They were lined up for exit processing when the lights flickered.
A clerk rushed in, tablet glowing.
“Hold up. System flagged 88-A through F for… Any Chance Auction demo. Reserve mismatch.”
Sophia’s stomach dropped.
No. No no no.
The clerk tapped. “Says here the loan default clause auto-enrolled you if aggregate grade exceeded 2.3 million. You hit 2.38. Congrats, sluts—you’re live inventory till midnight.”
Riley lunged for the door.
It was locked.
The handler grinned. “Kennel 7’s prepped. Night-night.”
Part 2 – The Grading Gauntlet
(~3,000 words)
The kennel door clanged shut behind them with the finality of a coffin lid.
Kennel 7 was a long, low room lit by red safety bulbs.
Cages lined both walls—some empty, some occupied by curled, naked forms.
The air smelled of oil, sweat, and something metallic.
A trough ran down the center; water sloshed gently when a slave shifted.
Sophia’s collar felt heavier with every heartbeat.
LOT 88-A – PRIME PLEASURE – $425,000
The temporary tattoo itched on her hip, the ink still tacky.
A handler—new face, thick arms—unlocked a larger pen at the far end.
“In. Group package. Chain to the wall.”
Six sets of wrists were cuffed to a single long chain bolted waist-high.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, bare backs against cold steel.
Across the aisle, three permanent slaves watched with lazy interest.
One licked her lips.
“Lights out in thirty,” the handler barked. “Processing resumes at 0600. Try to sleep.”
He left.
The red bulbs dimmed to a sullen glow.
Mia’s voice cracked. “This is illegal.”
“No,” Tara whispered. “We signed the clause. Page 47. ‘Automatic enrollment upon aggregate valuation threshold.’”
Sophia closed her eyes.
My fault.
She’d skimmed that page.
Hell, she’d highlighted it in her head, a dirty little thrill.
A soft clink.
The blonde slave from earlier—nipple rings, brand shaped like a stylized P—crawled to the bars separating their pens.
Her voice was honey over gravel.
“First night in the kennel, college girls?”
She smiled, teeth white in the dark. “Name’s Candy. Prime pleasure, just like your ink says. Tips are free—for now.”
Riley rattled her chain. “We’re not staying.”
Candy’s laugh was low. “That’s what I said. Then the hammer fell.”
She leaned closer, breasts pressing against the bars. “Want to hear how to survive the Gauntlet tomorrow? Or you prefer to wake up sore and clueless?”
Sophia’s mouth went dry.
“Tell us.”
0600 – Wake-up Call
A klaxon shrieked.
Overhead fluorescents snapped on, harsh and unforgiving.
Handlers flooded in—four men, two women, all gloved.
The chain was unhooked; the six friends were marched out in single file.
First stop: Shower Bay.
Open stalls, no curtains.
Hoses on poles.
“Spread. Hands on heads.”
Ice-cold water blasted them awake.
Sophia gasped, nipples peaking instantly.
Soap followed—harsh, clinical.
A female handler scrubbed each girl with a long-handled brush, paying special attention to shaved mounds and between ass cheeks.
“Turn. Bend. Spread wider.”
Sophia obeyed, cheeks burning as the brush scraped her clit.
Not again.
But her hips rocked forward, chasing the pressure.
Next: Enema Line.
Steel tables again, but lower—knees on padded rests, asses in the air.
A nozzle the size of a thumb slid into Sophia’s rectum, cold and slick.
Warm fluid flooded her—slow, relentless.
She whimpered, belly distending.
“Hold it till I say.”
Five minutes. Ten.
Her insides cramped.
Across the row, Lena groaned, a bead of sweat rolling down her spine.
“Release.”
They were hosed into grates.
Sophia’s face flamed as her body emptied in front of strangers.
This is what Candy meant by survival.
0630 – Medical Deep-Dive
[/i
]Private exam rooms this time—mirrored walls, gyno chairs with stirrups.
Sophia was strapped in, legs splayed obscenely wide.
A doctor—mid-40s, salt-and-pepper beard—entered with a tablet.
“Lot 88-A. Let’s see what 425k buys.”
He started clinical: blood pressure, heart rate.
Then the gloves came off—literally.
Fingers parted her labia, spreading her open.
“Excellent symmetry. No scarring. Clitoral hood retracts fully.”
A speculum—cold steel—slid inside.
Sophia’s breath hitched as he cranked it open.
“Pink. Healthy. Good depth.”
He removed it, replaced it with a gloved hand.
Two fingers, then three.
“Tight but accommodating. Vaginal walls grip well.”
Sophia’s hips jerked.
He noticed.
“Arousal response: high. Noted for pleasure grading.”
Next: anal probe.
Lubed, thick.
“Relax, slut. This is just the warm-up.”
It breached her, stretching.
She moaned—couldn’t help it.
He twisted, testing.
“Responsive sphincter. Excellent.”
0700 – Arousal Grading Station
A circular platform, waist-high.
Spotlights.
A crowd of evaluators—handlers, clerks, a few bidders in suits.
The six friends were lined up on their knees, hands cuffed behind backs.
A woman in a lab coat held a clipboard.
“We’re measuring physiological response to stimuli. Honesty gets you a higher grade.”
First stimulus: Verbal.
The woman leaned close to Sophia.
“Imagine your cunt on display for a room of strangers. They bid on how many fingers you can take. You beg for more.”
Sophia’s pussy clenched visibly.
A monitor beeped—heart rate, moisture levels.
“Excellent.”
Second: Physical.
A handler stepped forward—tall, buzz-cut.
He cupped Sophia’s breast, thumb flicking her nipple.
Then lower—two fingers sliding into her slick heat.
He pumped slowly.
“Count for me, slut.”
“One… two…”
By five, she was panting.
He added a third, curling.
Her thighs trembled.
“Orgasm imminent. Hold it.”
She whimpered, clenching.
He withdrew just as she teetered on the edge.
“Discipline: moderate. Trainable.”
0730 – Slave Yoga Drills
Back to the mirrored studio from yesterday, but now the stakes were real.
The trainer—Master Vance—cracked his whip.
“Positions are currency. Flawless form = higher bids.”
He started with PRESENT.
Knees wide, palms up, spine arched.
Sophia’s breasts thrust forward, nipples aching.
Vance circled, correcting with the whip handle under chins, between thighs.
BELLY.
Ass high, face down.
Sophia’s shaved pussy glistened under the lights.
Vance’s boot nudged her knees wider.
“Open. Let them see the merchandise.”
DISPLAY.
On her back, knees to chest, hands pulling cheeks apart.
Sophia’s face burned as her asshole winked under the scrutiny.
Vance’s gloved finger traced her rim.
“Tight. Good for training.”
Then the advanced pose: SLAVE ARCH.
On all fours, back concave, tits hanging, cunt and ass presented like an offering.
Sophia held it, muscles trembling, arousal dripping down her thighs.
Vance nodded. “88-A leads the pack. The rest—catch up or get left behind.”
0800 – The Mock Auction
A miniature block in the corner of the studio.
Wooden platform, spotlight, gavel.
The six friends were herded up, still cuffed.
A new voice boomed—smooth, familiar, dangerous.
“Lot 88 package—six prime university sluts, fresh from processing. Let’s start the demo at 2 million aggregate.”
Sophia’s head snapped up.
The auctioneer stepped into the light.
Marcus “The Hammer” Vale.
Three years older, sharper suit, same predatory grin.
His eyes locked on hers—recognition, amusement, hunger.
No. Fucking. Way.
Marcus leaned into the mic.
“Look at this one—88-A. Remember those legs wrapped around me in the dorms, Soph? Bet they’d fetch a premium now.”
The room laughed.
Sophia’s knees buckled.
He remembered.
He knew.
Bidding paddles rose.
“2.1… 2.2… do I hear 2.3?”
A handler beside her whispered, “System’s live. Reserve’s 2.38. You’re one bid away from the kennel for real.”
Sophia’s pulse roared in her ears.
Marcus’s gaze never left her.
“Going once…”
Part 3 – The Glitch & Marcus Reveal
(~3,000 words)
Marcus’s voice rolled across the mock-auction studio like velvet over steel.
“2.3 million on the table for the university package. Do I hear 2.35?”
Sophia’s knees threatened to fold.
The wooden platform under her bare feet was warm from the spotlights, but every inch of her skin prickled with ice.
The other five—88-B through F—stood in a trembling line beside her, cuffed wrists behind backs, collars gleaming.
Mia’s breath hitched in tiny sobs. Lena’s jaw clenched so hard Sophia heard the grind.
Marcus leaned forward, elbows on the podium, dark eyes fixed on Sophia alone.
“Lot 88-A’s got that special something, gentlemen. Remember her? Campus sweetheart, finance whiz, used to ride me reverse-cowgirl till the headboard cracked. Look at her now—shaved, oiled, dripping. Who’ll give me 2.38 aggregate to lock the reserve?”
A paddle shot up in the back.
“2.38!”
The room erupted in murmurs.
Sophia’s stomach plummeted.
That’s the threshold.
The loan default clause.
The “glitch” the clerk had mentioned.
Marcus’s grin widened—predatory, triumphant.
“Sold to paddle 17 for 2.38 million aggregate! University package is live inventory. Processing to kennel for overnight confirmation.”
The gavel cracked like a gunshot.
Handlers surged forward.
Sophia’s world tilted.
“No—wait!” Riley lunged, chains rattling.
A handler caught her by the collar, yanking her back.
“Easy, 88-F. Contract’s ironclad.”
Marcus stepped down from the podium, boots echoing.
He stopped in front of Sophia, close enough that she smelled his cologne—same cedar-and-smoke scent from three years ago.
His fingers brushed the temporary tattoo on her hip.
PRIME PLEASURE – $425,000
“Still my favorite number, Soph.”
His thumb traced the ink, then lower, grazing the swell of her mound.
“System says you triggered the auto-enroll. Guess you always did like pushing buttons.”
Sophia’s voice cracked. “This is a mistake.”
Marcus chuckled. “Mistake? You hit the exact aggregate. That’s fate.”
He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “Kennel 7’s got fresh straw. I’ll visit after lights-out. We’ll… catch up.”
11:05 – Transition Corridor
The six friends were marched single-file, wrists re-cuffed to a lead chain.
Bare feet slapped concrete.
Overhead signs flickered: KENNEL BLOCK → AUCTION HOLDING → CRATING.
Mia whispered, “We call our lawyer.”
Tara’s voice shook. “No phones. No clothes. No rights till morning.”
A handler overheard. “Correct, 88-C. You’re property till the bank voids the sale. Standard 12-hour hold.”
They passed open pens.
Real slaves—permanent brands, piercings, vacant eyes—watched with lazy interest.
One waved. Candy from last night.
11:15 – Kennel 7 Reassignment
Same long room, red bulbs, trough.
But now the large group pen was theirs.
The chain was reattached to the wall.
A handler tossed in six stainless bowls—water, a beige nutrient paste that smelled faintly of vanilla and shame.
“Chow time. Eat from the bowl or starve.”
Jade stared at the paste. “I’m vegan.”
The handler laughed. “Not anymore.”
Sophia dropped to her knees first—part survival, part something darker.
The paste was warm, sticky.
She lapped it up, tongue scraping metal.
The others followed, humiliated whimpers echoing.
12:00 – Midday Inspection
Handlers circled, clipboards in hand.
“Health check. Present.”
The girls scrambled into PRESENT—knees wide, palms up, backs arched.
A gloved hand checked Sophia’s pulse, then slid between her legs.
“Still wet. Good.”
Another handler pinched Lena’s nipple. “Firm. No lactation—yet.”
Tara squeaked as fingers probed her ass. “Virgin back here. Note for training.”
14:00 – Slave Yoga Reinforcement
Master Vance returned with two assistants.
“Live inventory gets polished. Positions must be auction-ready by morning.”
They were unchained, herded to the studio again.
This time, the platform was ringed with bidders—real ones, paddles numbered.
Marcus lounged in the front row, legs crossed, eyes glittering.
SLAVE ARCH—on all fours, back concave, holes presented.
Sophia’s forehead touched the mat, ass high.
Marcus’s voice drifted over. “Look at that arch, gentlemen. 88-A’s begging without words.”
A paddle rose. “Demo bid—50k extra if she holds it through the whip.”
Vance cracked the whip across her thighs—light, stinging.
Sophia’s cunt clenched visibly.
The room murmured approval.
DISPLAY CHAIN—girls linked wrist-to-ankle in a circle, faces buried in the next ass.
Sophia’s tongue grazed Jade’s rim accidentally.
Jade moaned.
Marcus clapped slowly. “Harmony bonus.”
16:00 – Private Visit
The kennel was quiet, red bulbs dim.
A key turned.
Marcus slipped inside, alone.
He carried a small leather case.
The girls froze.
Sophia’s heart slammed against her ribs.
Marcus crouched in front of her, unlocking her wrist from the wall chain but leaving the cuffs.
“Walk with me, 88-A.”
He led her to a small alcove—padded bench, mirror, single bulb.
Closed the door.
Sophia’s voice trembled. “Marcus, please. Fix this.”
He set the case down.
“Fix it? Soph, you engineered it. That aggregate didn’t hit by accident.”
His fingers traced her collar. “You wanted the thrill. I’m just the hammer.”
He opened the case.
Inside: a slim metal plug, jeweled base.
“Training aid. For tomorrow’s final display.”
Sophia backed against the wall. “I’m not—”
Marcus stepped close, caging her with his body.
“You are. And you’re soaking for it.”
His hand slid between her thighs—two fingers gliding through her folds.
“Tell me to stop.”
She didn’t.
Couldn’t.
He pushed the plug in slowly, inch by inch.
Sophia’s head fell back, a broken moan escaping.
Marcus twisted it, seating the jewel against her rim.
“Good girl. Wear it till morning. Think of me when it shifts.”
He kissed her—hard, claiming.
Then left.
18:00 – Kennel Whispers
Back in the pen, the plug a constant pressure, Sophia curled on the straw.
Candy crawled to the bars again.
“Hammer’s pet, huh? He marks his favorites.”
She nodded at the plug’s jewel, visible when Sophia shifted.
“Tips for the night shift, college girl.”
“Clench on the plug every hour. Keeps you tight for inspection. I came so hard once, the handler upgraded me to ‘Eager.’”
“Lick the bowl clean—extra paste means extra energy for the block. And the taste? Gets you wet. Pavlov’s slut.”
“Dream of the hammer. When it falls, scream ‘Thank you, Master!’ mid-orgasm. Seals the sale—and your fate.”
Sophia’s clit throbbed.
She hated how right Candy was.
20:00 – Lights Out
The bulbs dimmed to black.
Chains clinked as the girls settled.
Sophia lay on her side, plug shifting with every breath.
Across the aisle, a slave moaned softly—fingers between her legs, unashamed.
Sophia’s hand crept downward.
Just to adjust…
Her fingers found her clit, slick and swollen.
She bit her lip to stay quiet.
Marcus’s voice echoed in her head.
You’re live inventory.
She came in silence, thighs clamping around her hand, plug pulsing inside her.
Part 4 – Kennel Night & Release
(~3,000 words)
00:00 – The Witching Hour
The kennel breathed in slow, humid pulses.
Red safety bulbs cast everything in bloodlight: straw, chains, the glint of jeweled plugs, the wet shine of six university bodies pressed together for warmth.
Sophia lay on her side, the metal plug a cold, insistent weight in her ass.
Every shift sent sparks up her spine.
Candy’s voice drifted from the next pen, low and syrupy.
“Midnight story circle, new meat. Who wants the real tips?”
A rustle.
Riley, still trembling, whispered, “Tell us how to not get sold.”
Candy laughed, the sound wet. “Too late for that. But I’ll teach you how to love it.”
She crawled to the bars, nipple rings clinking.
Four other permanent slaves joined—Brandi (ebony skin, thick brand on her lower back), Kitten (tiny, pierced clit hood), Rose (freckled, pregnant swell), and Echo (shorn head, barcode tattoo behind ear).
They formed a loose circle across the divide, naked thighs touching.
Candy started.
Tip 1 – The Clench Game
“Every hour, clench that plug like you’re milking a cock. Ten slow squeezes. Makes your ass greedy. Handlers love it—ups your back-door grade. I did it on the block; bidder paid 80k just to watch me pulse.”
Brandi leaned in, voice husky. “Add a twist—rock your hips. Looks like you’re fucking the air. My owner saw it, bought me on the spot. First night? Fucked me against the crate wall till I squirted down his thighs.”
Sophia’s breath hitched.
She clenched—one, two…
The plug shifted, pressing her walls.
Heat flooded her cunt.
Tip 2 – Scent Branding
Kitten crawled forward, legs spread shamelessly.
“Between feedings, rub your fingers in your slit. Smear it under your tits, behind knees. Slave musk. Bidders smell it from the front row—cocks throb, bids climb. I did it; went from 120k to 300k. Owner still makes me reapply before parties.”
She demonstrated, fingers gliding through glistening folds, painting her own skin.
The scent hit—sweet, sharp, obscene.
Mia whimpered, thighs pressing together.
Tip 3 – Orgasm Sync
Rose rubbed her pregnant belly, smiling.
“Package deal? Sync your moans. Practice now. One girl starts, others echo. Bidders love harmony—think harem vibes. My sisters and I did it; sold to a sheikh. He keeps us in a silk tent, rotates us nightly. Tip: hold the edge till the hammer falls, then explode. Seals the sale with your scream.”
Lena’s eyes widened. “You… wanted it?”
Rose’s laugh was soft. “Still do.”
Tip 4 – The Thank-You Cum
Echo spoke last, voice flat, barcode stark.
“When the gavel drops, scream ‘Thank you, Master!’ mid-orgasm. Loud. Broken. They love it. My sale? I came so hard I pissed myself. Owner branded me that night—still fucks me over the brand when it itches.”
She spread her legs, showing the barcode.
“Scan it. Says ‘Property of Vale Holdings.’ Guess who trained me?”
Sophia’s blood ran cold.
Marcus.
01:30 – Practice Circle
Candy clapped softly. “Demo time. University sluts—SLAVE ARCH. Asses up, faces down. Let’s hear those moans.”
The six friends hesitated.
A handler’s boot nudged the gate. “Live inventory obeys.”
They moved.
Six perfect arches—cunts dripping, plugs winking.
Candy counted. “One… two… clench.”
Sophia squeezed.
The plug shifted; her clit throbbed.
Mia’s moan started low, rose into a keen.
Lena echoed, then Tara, Jade, Riley.
A filthy symphony.
Candy purred. “Good girls. Now finger-fuck quietly. Sync the wet sounds.”
Fingers slid into slick heat.
The kennel filled with soft squelches, breathy gasps.
Sophia’s orgasm built fast—too fast.
She bit her lip, tasting blood.
03:00 – Marcus Returns
[/i
]The side door opened.
Marcus, silhouetted, keyring glinting.
He stepped inside, closed it softly.
The slaves fell silent.
He crouched beside Sophia, fingers brushing her cheek.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
She glared, but her hips rocked involuntarily against the straw.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
Marcus unlocked her from the wall chain, led her to the alcove again.
This time, the bench was padded with a towel.
He bent her over it, ass high.
The plug’s jewel caught the light.
“Time to upgrade.”
He eased the plug out—slow, deliberate.
Sophia whimpered at the emptiness.
Cold lube, then something thicker—a larger plug, ridged, vibrating.
It breached her, stretching.
She cried out.
Marcus twisted it, seating it deep.
“Remote controlled. I’ll buzz you during the final display. Try not to squirt on the block.”
He turned her, pressed her back to the wall.
His mouth claimed hers—rough, hungry.
Fy fingers found her clit, circling.
“Tell me you want out, Soph. Say it, and I void the sale.”
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came.
Her hips bucked into his hand.
Marcus smiled against her lips.
“That’s my girl.”
He left her trembling, plug buzzing faintly—teasing, never enough.
06:00 – Morning Processing
Klaxons.
Handlers.
The six were hosed, oiled, lined up.
New temporary tattoos:
LOT 88 PACKAGE – LIVE INVENTORY – FINAL DISPLAY 08:00
They were marched to the main auction hall—a cavernous room, tiered seats, spotlights.
The block was raised, polished wood, chains dangling.
Bidders filled the seats—suits, masks, paddles.
Marcus stood at the podium, gavel ready.
His eyes found Sophia’s.
The vibrating plug pulsed—once, twice.
“Lot 88—university package. Opening bid 2.38 million. Who’ll start?”
Paddles rose.
2.4… 2.5… 2.6…
Sophia’s knees shook.
The plug ramped up—steady, cruel.
She bit back a moan.
Marcus’s voice was silk. “Demo pose—SLAVE ARCH CHAIN.”
Handlers arranged them in a circle, faces buried in the next ass, plugs winking.
Sophia’s tongue grazed Riley’s rim.
Riley moaned into Jade.
The chain of sound rippled.
Bids climbed: 2.8… 3.0…
Marcus leaned into the mic. “Reserve voided at 3 million. Package sells to the highest bidder—permanently.”
Sophia’s orgasm crested.
She fought it.
Lost.
Her cry echoed as she came, thighs slick, plug buzzing mercilessly.
Marcus’s gavel hovered.
“Going once…”
A new voice—female, sharp—cut through.
“Bank override. Loan repaid in full. Package released.”
The room stilled.
A clerk rushed the stage, tablet glowing.
Marcus’s jaw tightened.
He slammed the gavel anyway.
“SOLD—to the bank. Release processing.”
09:00 – Exit Gate
Clothes returned—folded, tagged.
The six friends dressed in stunned silence.
Sophia’s plug was removed by a bored handler.
Her legs barely held her.
Marcus waited by the gate, arms crossed.
“Walk away, Soph. Or come back tonight. Solo. No loan. No glitch.”
He pressed a business card into her hand.
M. VALE – AUCTIONEER – PRIVATE SALES
Sophia stared at it.
Her clit still throbbed.
The kennel scent clung to her skin.
She tucked the card into her pocket.
Epilogue – One Week Later
Sophia’s apartment.
Midnight.
She stood before her mirror, naked, collar in hand—black leather, silver ring.
The card lay on the dresser.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Marcus: Kennel 7’s empty. Bring the collar.
Sophia’s fingers trembled as she typed.
Sophia: On my way.
She clipped the collar around her throat.
The click echoed like a gavel.
THE END
(Full 12,000-word story – merged, unmodified)
Part 1 – The Loan Letter & Arrival
Sophia Ramirez stared at the official envelope on her kitchen counter like it was a live grenade.
The return address, embossed in crimson foil, read: BIG CITY SLAVE MARKET – COLLATERAL DIVISION.
Inside: a single sheet of heavy parchment, the kind that felt expensive just to touch.
NOTICE OF MANDATORY SLAVE GRADING
Loan #SLV-2025-47B
Co-Signers: Ramirez, S.; Chen, M.; Eriksson, L.; O’Connell, T.; Washington, J.; Patel, R.
Date: Saturday, 08:00 sharp.
Location: Intake Gate 3, East Dock.
Failure to appear = immediate default + seizure.
Below the legalese, a cheerful post-script in smaller font:
“Congratulations! Your group qualifies for the Premium Package Grading. Bring ID, nothing else. Clothing will be provided (if needed).”
Sophia’s pulse fluttered in her throat.
She’d pushed for this loan—six grad students pooling debt for tuition, rent, the whole starving-scholar package. The lender had been oddly accommodating, almost eager. Now she knew why.
Her phone buzzed. The group chat lit up.
Mia: did everyone get the slave letter or am i hallucinating
Lena: it’s real. i googled. they grade you like cattle to set collateral value.
Tara: this is insane. we’re calling the bank right?
Jade: already did. “non-negotiable clause 12b.” we show or they take our apartments.
Riley: so we’re doing this? naked? in public?
Sophia: it’s just paperwork. in and out. solidarity, remember?
She typed fast, thumbs trembling.
Truth? She’d been wet since the envelope arrived.
Late nights scrolling slave-market forums, anonymous accounts, stories of women processed like livestock—stripped, measured, valued.
She’d told herself it was research.
Liar.
Friday night – Mia’s apartment
Six wine glasses clinked.
The girls sprawled across the sectional in various states of undress—yoga pants, sports bras, one oversized hoodie that belonged to an ex.
They’d turned it into a pre-game ritual: mocktails, playlists, nervous laughter.
“Okay, rules,” Lena announced, legs stretched like she was already on the block. “No backing out. We walk in together, we walk out together. And we do not let them brand us.”
“Brand?” Tara squeaked, red hair falling over her face. “Like cattle?”
“Only if you’re sold,” Jade said, rolling her eyes. “We’re collateral, not inventory. Relax.”
Sophia sipped her drink, tasting nothing.
She’d printed the market’s FAQ. Knew the stages by heart:
Intake Strip
Medical Probe
Shave & Oil
Pose Evaluation
Grade Stamp
The forums called it the Gauntlet.
Volunteers bragged about orgasms during the oiling.
Sophia’s thighs pressed together under the table.
Mia raised her glass. “To not becoming sex slaves!”
They drank.
Sophia’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.
Saturday, 07:42 AM – East Dock
The market loomed like a prison designed by a sadist with excellent taste.
Glass and steel, banners fluttering: “PRIME INVENTORY DAILY – FREE GRADING FOR QUALIFIED DEBTORS!”
A line of women already snaked around the corner—some in business suits, others in gym clothes, a few escorted by handlers in crisp uniforms.
The six friends clustered near Gate 3, clutching IDs.
A handler, broad-shouldered, clipboard in hand, scanned them in.
“Loan group?”
Sophia nodded.
“Strip room’s inside. Shoes in the bin. Everything else in the locker. You’ll get temp collars.”
Riley whimpered. “Everything?”
“Everything,” he repeated, not unkindly. “Market policy. No exceptions.”
They filed through a side door into a tiled antechamber that smelled of bleach and something sweeter—oil, maybe.
Lockers lined one wall. A sign: “CLOTHING RETURNED UPON EXIT – PENDING GRADE.”
Sophia’s fingers went to her hoodie zipper.
This is it.
She peeled it off, then her tank top. Bra next—simple black, nothing fancy. Her breasts spilled free, nipples tightening in the cold air.
Jeans, panties. Naked in seconds.
The others followed, slower.
Mia’s tiny frame, Lena’s long limbs, Tara’s freckled shoulders, Jade’s curves, Riley’s runner’s legs.
Six bodies, six shades of flushed.
A female handler—Rita, name tag—appeared with a tray of leather collars.
Black, thick, silver rings. Temporary tags dangled: LOT 88-A through 88-F.
“Line up. Hands behind heads. Elbows out.”
They obeyed.
Rita moved down the row, buckling collars with practiced snaps.
When she reached Sophia, her fingers brushed the hollow of her throat.
“Pretty neck,” Rita murmured. “Good for display.”
Sophia’s breath hitched.
The collar closed—snug, heavy.
A small padlock clicked.
“Welcome to processing, sluts.”
Strip Room → Holding Pen 4
Bare feet slapped cold tile as they were marched single-file down a corridor.
Mirrors on both sides reflected their nudity from every angle—asses jiggling, breasts bouncing, collars stark against skin.
Sophia caught her own eyes in the glass: wide, dark, hungry.
Pen 4 was a large cage, waist-high bars, rubber mats.
Twenty other women already inside—some collared like them, others with permanent brands glowing on hips or thighs.
A water trough. A row of steel bowls.
The door clanged shut behind them.
“Intake in ten,” Rita called through the bars. “Hydrate. You’ll need it.”
Mia whispered, “This is not paperwork.”
Lena flexed her fingers. “We can still leave, right?”
A branded slave nearby—petite, blonde, nipple rings glinting—laughed softly.
“Honey, the collar’s on. You leave when they say.”
Sophia’s heart hammered.
She should be terrified.
Instead, heat pooled between her legs.
08:15 – Medical Queue
They were herded out in pairs.
Sophia and Jade first.
A male handler—gloves, clipboard—pointed to steel tables bolted to the floor.
“Up. Knees to chest. Spread.”
Jade hesitated.
The handler’s voice sharpened. “Now, or I cuff you.”
They climbed up.
Cold metal against bare backs.
Stirrups snapped into place, legs forced wide.
Sophia stared at the ceiling, counting tiles, as gloved fingers parted her folds.
“Clean,” the handler grunted. “Tight. Good muscle tone.”
He probed deeper—clinical, thorough.
Sophia bit her lip to stifle a moan.
Not here. Not like this.
But her body betrayed her, slickness coating his fingers.
Jade whimpered beside her. “Soph, I—”
“Shh,” Sophia hissed. “Just breathe.”
Next station: height, weight, breast measurement.
A female tech wrapped a tape around Sophia’s chest.
“36D. Firm. No sagging. Excellent.”
Then the shave.
They were laid on slanted benches, legs in straps.
Warm foam, then the razor—slow, deliberate strokes.
Pubis, lips, perineum.
Sophia’s clit throbbed as the blade grazed it.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Oiling came last.
Two handlers, four hands.
Thick, scented oil poured over shoulders, breasts, belly, thighs.
Fingers worked it in—kneading, spreading, teasing.
One handler’s thumb circled Sophia’s nipple, then lower, brushing her clit.
“Responsive,” he noted. “Grade booster.”
She came close—so close—hips twitching.
But he stopped.
“Not yet, slut.”
09:30 – Pose Evaluation Room
A circle of mats.
Spotlights.
A raised platform in the center.
A man in a tailored suit waited, whip coiled at his hip.
Just a trainer.
“Slave Yoga basics. You’ll thank me on the block.”
He barked positions:
PRESENT – knees wide, palms up, back arched.
BELLY – forehead to mat, ass high.
DISPLAY – on back, knees to chest, hands spreading cheeks.
The six friends stumbled through, naked, oiled, collared.
Laughter died.
Only the slap of flesh and heavy breathing.
Sophia flowed into BELLY like she’d practiced in secret for months.
Ass up, cunt exposed, dripping.
The trainer’s whip cracked near her ear.
“Perfect arch, 88-A. You’ve done this before.”
Heat flooded her face.
He knows.
10:00 – Grade Stamp Station
A desk. A printer.
Temporary tattoos—waterproof, 30-day.
Sophia’s read:
LOT 88-A – PRIME PLEASURE – PROJECTED VALUE $425,000
The others clustered around, comparing:
Mia: $380k
Lena: $410k
Tara: $360k
Jade: $415k
Riley: $390k
Jade whistled. “We’re worth more naked than clothed.”
A handler laughed. “Wait till the demo.”
10:15 – The “Glitch”
They were lined up for exit processing when the lights flickered.
A clerk rushed in, tablet glowing.
“Hold up. System flagged 88-A through F for… Any Chance Auction demo. Reserve mismatch.”
Sophia’s stomach dropped.
No. No no no.
The clerk tapped. “Says here the loan default clause auto-enrolled you if aggregate grade exceeded 2.3 million. You hit 2.38. Congrats, sluts—you’re live inventory till midnight.”
Riley lunged for the door.
It was locked.
The handler grinned. “Kennel 7’s prepped. Night-night.”
Part 2 – The Grading Gauntlet
(~3,000 words)
The kennel door clanged shut behind them with the finality of a coffin lid.
Kennel 7 was a long, low room lit by red safety bulbs.
Cages lined both walls—some empty, some occupied by curled, naked forms.
The air smelled of oil, sweat, and something metallic.
A trough ran down the center; water sloshed gently when a slave shifted.
Sophia’s collar felt heavier with every heartbeat.
LOT 88-A – PRIME PLEASURE – $425,000
The temporary tattoo itched on her hip, the ink still tacky.
A handler—new face, thick arms—unlocked a larger pen at the far end.
“In. Group package. Chain to the wall.”
Six sets of wrists were cuffed to a single long chain bolted waist-high.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, bare backs against cold steel.
Across the aisle, three permanent slaves watched with lazy interest.
One licked her lips.
“Lights out in thirty,” the handler barked. “Processing resumes at 0600. Try to sleep.”
He left.
The red bulbs dimmed to a sullen glow.
Mia’s voice cracked. “This is illegal.”
“No,” Tara whispered. “We signed the clause. Page 47. ‘Automatic enrollment upon aggregate valuation threshold.’”
Sophia closed her eyes.
My fault.
She’d skimmed that page.
Hell, she’d highlighted it in her head, a dirty little thrill.
A soft clink.
The blonde slave from earlier—nipple rings, brand shaped like a stylized P—crawled to the bars separating their pens.
Her voice was honey over gravel.
“First night in the kennel, college girls?”
She smiled, teeth white in the dark. “Name’s Candy. Prime pleasure, just like your ink says. Tips are free—for now.”
Riley rattled her chain. “We’re not staying.”
Candy’s laugh was low. “That’s what I said. Then the hammer fell.”
She leaned closer, breasts pressing against the bars. “Want to hear how to survive the Gauntlet tomorrow? Or you prefer to wake up sore and clueless?”
Sophia’s mouth went dry.
“Tell us.”
0600 – Wake-up Call
A klaxon shrieked.
Overhead fluorescents snapped on, harsh and unforgiving.
Handlers flooded in—four men, two women, all gloved.
The chain was unhooked; the six friends were marched out in single file.
First stop: Shower Bay.
Open stalls, no curtains.
Hoses on poles.
“Spread. Hands on heads.”
Ice-cold water blasted them awake.
Sophia gasped, nipples peaking instantly.
Soap followed—harsh, clinical.
A female handler scrubbed each girl with a long-handled brush, paying special attention to shaved mounds and between ass cheeks.
“Turn. Bend. Spread wider.”
Sophia obeyed, cheeks burning as the brush scraped her clit.
Not again.
But her hips rocked forward, chasing the pressure.
Next: Enema Line.
Steel tables again, but lower—knees on padded rests, asses in the air.
A nozzle the size of a thumb slid into Sophia’s rectum, cold and slick.
Warm fluid flooded her—slow, relentless.
She whimpered, belly distending.
“Hold it till I say.”
Five minutes. Ten.
Her insides cramped.
Across the row, Lena groaned, a bead of sweat rolling down her spine.
“Release.”
They were hosed into grates.
Sophia’s face flamed as her body emptied in front of strangers.
This is what Candy meant by survival.
0630 – Medical Deep-Dive
[/i
]Private exam rooms this time—mirrored walls, gyno chairs with stirrups.
Sophia was strapped in, legs splayed obscenely wide.
A doctor—mid-40s, salt-and-pepper beard—entered with a tablet.
“Lot 88-A. Let’s see what 425k buys.”
He started clinical: blood pressure, heart rate.
Then the gloves came off—literally.
Fingers parted her labia, spreading her open.
“Excellent symmetry. No scarring. Clitoral hood retracts fully.”
A speculum—cold steel—slid inside.
Sophia’s breath hitched as he cranked it open.
“Pink. Healthy. Good depth.”
He removed it, replaced it with a gloved hand.
Two fingers, then three.
“Tight but accommodating. Vaginal walls grip well.”
Sophia’s hips jerked.
He noticed.
“Arousal response: high. Noted for pleasure grading.”
Next: anal probe.
Lubed, thick.
“Relax, slut. This is just the warm-up.”
It breached her, stretching.
She moaned—couldn’t help it.
He twisted, testing.
“Responsive sphincter. Excellent.”
0700 – Arousal Grading Station
A circular platform, waist-high.
Spotlights.
A crowd of evaluators—handlers, clerks, a few bidders in suits.
The six friends were lined up on their knees, hands cuffed behind backs.
A woman in a lab coat held a clipboard.
“We’re measuring physiological response to stimuli. Honesty gets you a higher grade.”
First stimulus: Verbal.
The woman leaned close to Sophia.
“Imagine your cunt on display for a room of strangers. They bid on how many fingers you can take. You beg for more.”
Sophia’s pussy clenched visibly.
A monitor beeped—heart rate, moisture levels.
“Excellent.”
Second: Physical.
A handler stepped forward—tall, buzz-cut.
He cupped Sophia’s breast, thumb flicking her nipple.
Then lower—two fingers sliding into her slick heat.
He pumped slowly.
“Count for me, slut.”
“One… two…”
By five, she was panting.
He added a third, curling.
Her thighs trembled.
“Orgasm imminent. Hold it.”
She whimpered, clenching.
He withdrew just as she teetered on the edge.
“Discipline: moderate. Trainable.”
0730 – Slave Yoga Drills
Back to the mirrored studio from yesterday, but now the stakes were real.
The trainer—Master Vance—cracked his whip.
“Positions are currency. Flawless form = higher bids.”
He started with PRESENT.
Knees wide, palms up, spine arched.
Sophia’s breasts thrust forward, nipples aching.
Vance circled, correcting with the whip handle under chins, between thighs.
BELLY.
Ass high, face down.
Sophia’s shaved pussy glistened under the lights.
Vance’s boot nudged her knees wider.
“Open. Let them see the merchandise.”
DISPLAY.
On her back, knees to chest, hands pulling cheeks apart.
Sophia’s face burned as her asshole winked under the scrutiny.
Vance’s gloved finger traced her rim.
“Tight. Good for training.”
Then the advanced pose: SLAVE ARCH.
On all fours, back concave, tits hanging, cunt and ass presented like an offering.
Sophia held it, muscles trembling, arousal dripping down her thighs.
Vance nodded. “88-A leads the pack. The rest—catch up or get left behind.”
0800 – The Mock Auction
A miniature block in the corner of the studio.
Wooden platform, spotlight, gavel.
The six friends were herded up, still cuffed.
A new voice boomed—smooth, familiar, dangerous.
“Lot 88 package—six prime university sluts, fresh from processing. Let’s start the demo at 2 million aggregate.”
Sophia’s head snapped up.
The auctioneer stepped into the light.
Marcus “The Hammer” Vale.
Three years older, sharper suit, same predatory grin.
His eyes locked on hers—recognition, amusement, hunger.
No. Fucking. Way.
Marcus leaned into the mic.
“Look at this one—88-A. Remember those legs wrapped around me in the dorms, Soph? Bet they’d fetch a premium now.”
The room laughed.
Sophia’s knees buckled.
He remembered.
He knew.
Bidding paddles rose.
“2.1… 2.2… do I hear 2.3?”
A handler beside her whispered, “System’s live. Reserve’s 2.38. You’re one bid away from the kennel for real.”
Sophia’s pulse roared in her ears.
Marcus’s gaze never left her.
“Going once…”
Part 3 – The Glitch & Marcus Reveal
(~3,000 words)
Marcus’s voice rolled across the mock-auction studio like velvet over steel.
“2.3 million on the table for the university package. Do I hear 2.35?”
Sophia’s knees threatened to fold.
The wooden platform under her bare feet was warm from the spotlights, but every inch of her skin prickled with ice.
The other five—88-B through F—stood in a trembling line beside her, cuffed wrists behind backs, collars gleaming.
Mia’s breath hitched in tiny sobs. Lena’s jaw clenched so hard Sophia heard the grind.
Marcus leaned forward, elbows on the podium, dark eyes fixed on Sophia alone.
“Lot 88-A’s got that special something, gentlemen. Remember her? Campus sweetheart, finance whiz, used to ride me reverse-cowgirl till the headboard cracked. Look at her now—shaved, oiled, dripping. Who’ll give me 2.38 aggregate to lock the reserve?”
A paddle shot up in the back.
“2.38!”
The room erupted in murmurs.
Sophia’s stomach plummeted.
That’s the threshold.
The loan default clause.
The “glitch” the clerk had mentioned.
Marcus’s grin widened—predatory, triumphant.
“Sold to paddle 17 for 2.38 million aggregate! University package is live inventory. Processing to kennel for overnight confirmation.”
The gavel cracked like a gunshot.
Handlers surged forward.
Sophia’s world tilted.
“No—wait!” Riley lunged, chains rattling.
A handler caught her by the collar, yanking her back.
“Easy, 88-F. Contract’s ironclad.”
Marcus stepped down from the podium, boots echoing.
He stopped in front of Sophia, close enough that she smelled his cologne—same cedar-and-smoke scent from three years ago.
His fingers brushed the temporary tattoo on her hip.
PRIME PLEASURE – $425,000
“Still my favorite number, Soph.”
His thumb traced the ink, then lower, grazing the swell of her mound.
“System says you triggered the auto-enroll. Guess you always did like pushing buttons.”
Sophia’s voice cracked. “This is a mistake.”
Marcus chuckled. “Mistake? You hit the exact aggregate. That’s fate.”
He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “Kennel 7’s got fresh straw. I’ll visit after lights-out. We’ll… catch up.”
11:05 – Transition Corridor
The six friends were marched single-file, wrists re-cuffed to a lead chain.
Bare feet slapped concrete.
Overhead signs flickered: KENNEL BLOCK → AUCTION HOLDING → CRATING.
Mia whispered, “We call our lawyer.”
Tara’s voice shook. “No phones. No clothes. No rights till morning.”
A handler overheard. “Correct, 88-C. You’re property till the bank voids the sale. Standard 12-hour hold.”
They passed open pens.
Real slaves—permanent brands, piercings, vacant eyes—watched with lazy interest.
One waved. Candy from last night.
11:15 – Kennel 7 Reassignment
Same long room, red bulbs, trough.
But now the large group pen was theirs.
The chain was reattached to the wall.
A handler tossed in six stainless bowls—water, a beige nutrient paste that smelled faintly of vanilla and shame.
“Chow time. Eat from the bowl or starve.”
Jade stared at the paste. “I’m vegan.”
The handler laughed. “Not anymore.”
Sophia dropped to her knees first—part survival, part something darker.
The paste was warm, sticky.
She lapped it up, tongue scraping metal.
The others followed, humiliated whimpers echoing.
12:00 – Midday Inspection
Handlers circled, clipboards in hand.
“Health check. Present.”
The girls scrambled into PRESENT—knees wide, palms up, backs arched.
A gloved hand checked Sophia’s pulse, then slid between her legs.
“Still wet. Good.”
Another handler pinched Lena’s nipple. “Firm. No lactation—yet.”
Tara squeaked as fingers probed her ass. “Virgin back here. Note for training.”
14:00 – Slave Yoga Reinforcement
Master Vance returned with two assistants.
“Live inventory gets polished. Positions must be auction-ready by morning.”
They were unchained, herded to the studio again.
This time, the platform was ringed with bidders—real ones, paddles numbered.
Marcus lounged in the front row, legs crossed, eyes glittering.
SLAVE ARCH—on all fours, back concave, holes presented.
Sophia’s forehead touched the mat, ass high.
Marcus’s voice drifted over. “Look at that arch, gentlemen. 88-A’s begging without words.”
A paddle rose. “Demo bid—50k extra if she holds it through the whip.”
Vance cracked the whip across her thighs—light, stinging.
Sophia’s cunt clenched visibly.
The room murmured approval.
DISPLAY CHAIN—girls linked wrist-to-ankle in a circle, faces buried in the next ass.
Sophia’s tongue grazed Jade’s rim accidentally.
Jade moaned.
Marcus clapped slowly. “Harmony bonus.”
16:00 – Private Visit
The kennel was quiet, red bulbs dim.
A key turned.
Marcus slipped inside, alone.
He carried a small leather case.
The girls froze.
Sophia’s heart slammed against her ribs.
Marcus crouched in front of her, unlocking her wrist from the wall chain but leaving the cuffs.
“Walk with me, 88-A.”
He led her to a small alcove—padded bench, mirror, single bulb.
Closed the door.
Sophia’s voice trembled. “Marcus, please. Fix this.”
He set the case down.
“Fix it? Soph, you engineered it. That aggregate didn’t hit by accident.”
His fingers traced her collar. “You wanted the thrill. I’m just the hammer.”
He opened the case.
Inside: a slim metal plug, jeweled base.
“Training aid. For tomorrow’s final display.”
Sophia backed against the wall. “I’m not—”
Marcus stepped close, caging her with his body.
“You are. And you’re soaking for it.”
His hand slid between her thighs—two fingers gliding through her folds.
“Tell me to stop.”
She didn’t.
Couldn’t.
He pushed the plug in slowly, inch by inch.
Sophia’s head fell back, a broken moan escaping.
Marcus twisted it, seating the jewel against her rim.
“Good girl. Wear it till morning. Think of me when it shifts.”
He kissed her—hard, claiming.
Then left.
18:00 – Kennel Whispers
Back in the pen, the plug a constant pressure, Sophia curled on the straw.
Candy crawled to the bars again.
“Hammer’s pet, huh? He marks his favorites.”
She nodded at the plug’s jewel, visible when Sophia shifted.
“Tips for the night shift, college girl.”
“Clench on the plug every hour. Keeps you tight for inspection. I came so hard once, the handler upgraded me to ‘Eager.’”
“Lick the bowl clean—extra paste means extra energy for the block. And the taste? Gets you wet. Pavlov’s slut.”
“Dream of the hammer. When it falls, scream ‘Thank you, Master!’ mid-orgasm. Seals the sale—and your fate.”
Sophia’s clit throbbed.
She hated how right Candy was.
20:00 – Lights Out
The bulbs dimmed to black.
Chains clinked as the girls settled.
Sophia lay on her side, plug shifting with every breath.
Across the aisle, a slave moaned softly—fingers between her legs, unashamed.
Sophia’s hand crept downward.
Just to adjust…
Her fingers found her clit, slick and swollen.
She bit her lip to stay quiet.
Marcus’s voice echoed in her head.
You’re live inventory.
She came in silence, thighs clamping around her hand, plug pulsing inside her.
Part 4 – Kennel Night & Release
(~3,000 words)
00:00 – The Witching Hour
The kennel breathed in slow, humid pulses.
Red safety bulbs cast everything in bloodlight: straw, chains, the glint of jeweled plugs, the wet shine of six university bodies pressed together for warmth.
Sophia lay on her side, the metal plug a cold, insistent weight in her ass.
Every shift sent sparks up her spine.
Candy’s voice drifted from the next pen, low and syrupy.
“Midnight story circle, new meat. Who wants the real tips?”
A rustle.
Riley, still trembling, whispered, “Tell us how to not get sold.”
Candy laughed, the sound wet. “Too late for that. But I’ll teach you how to love it.”
She crawled to the bars, nipple rings clinking.
Four other permanent slaves joined—Brandi (ebony skin, thick brand on her lower back), Kitten (tiny, pierced clit hood), Rose (freckled, pregnant swell), and Echo (shorn head, barcode tattoo behind ear).
They formed a loose circle across the divide, naked thighs touching.
Candy started.
Tip 1 – The Clench Game
“Every hour, clench that plug like you’re milking a cock. Ten slow squeezes. Makes your ass greedy. Handlers love it—ups your back-door grade. I did it on the block; bidder paid 80k just to watch me pulse.”
Brandi leaned in, voice husky. “Add a twist—rock your hips. Looks like you’re fucking the air. My owner saw it, bought me on the spot. First night? Fucked me against the crate wall till I squirted down his thighs.”
Sophia’s breath hitched.
She clenched—one, two…
The plug shifted, pressing her walls.
Heat flooded her cunt.
Tip 2 – Scent Branding
Kitten crawled forward, legs spread shamelessly.
“Between feedings, rub your fingers in your slit. Smear it under your tits, behind knees. Slave musk. Bidders smell it from the front row—cocks throb, bids climb. I did it; went from 120k to 300k. Owner still makes me reapply before parties.”
She demonstrated, fingers gliding through glistening folds, painting her own skin.
The scent hit—sweet, sharp, obscene.
Mia whimpered, thighs pressing together.
Tip 3 – Orgasm Sync
Rose rubbed her pregnant belly, smiling.
“Package deal? Sync your moans. Practice now. One girl starts, others echo. Bidders love harmony—think harem vibes. My sisters and I did it; sold to a sheikh. He keeps us in a silk tent, rotates us nightly. Tip: hold the edge till the hammer falls, then explode. Seals the sale with your scream.”
Lena’s eyes widened. “You… wanted it?”
Rose’s laugh was soft. “Still do.”
Tip 4 – The Thank-You Cum
Echo spoke last, voice flat, barcode stark.
“When the gavel drops, scream ‘Thank you, Master!’ mid-orgasm. Loud. Broken. They love it. My sale? I came so hard I pissed myself. Owner branded me that night—still fucks me over the brand when it itches.”
She spread her legs, showing the barcode.
“Scan it. Says ‘Property of Vale Holdings.’ Guess who trained me?”
Sophia’s blood ran cold.
Marcus.
01:30 – Practice Circle
Candy clapped softly. “Demo time. University sluts—SLAVE ARCH. Asses up, faces down. Let’s hear those moans.”
The six friends hesitated.
A handler’s boot nudged the gate. “Live inventory obeys.”
They moved.
Six perfect arches—cunts dripping, plugs winking.
Candy counted. “One… two… clench.”
Sophia squeezed.
The plug shifted; her clit throbbed.
Mia’s moan started low, rose into a keen.
Lena echoed, then Tara, Jade, Riley.
A filthy symphony.
Candy purred. “Good girls. Now finger-fuck quietly. Sync the wet sounds.”
Fingers slid into slick heat.
The kennel filled with soft squelches, breathy gasps.
Sophia’s orgasm built fast—too fast.
She bit her lip, tasting blood.
03:00 – Marcus Returns
[/i
]The side door opened.
Marcus, silhouetted, keyring glinting.
He stepped inside, closed it softly.
The slaves fell silent.
He crouched beside Sophia, fingers brushing her cheek.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
She glared, but her hips rocked involuntarily against the straw.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
Marcus unlocked her from the wall chain, led her to the alcove again.
This time, the bench was padded with a towel.
He bent her over it, ass high.
The plug’s jewel caught the light.
“Time to upgrade.”
He eased the plug out—slow, deliberate.
Sophia whimpered at the emptiness.
Cold lube, then something thicker—a larger plug, ridged, vibrating.
It breached her, stretching.
She cried out.
Marcus twisted it, seating it deep.
“Remote controlled. I’ll buzz you during the final display. Try not to squirt on the block.”
He turned her, pressed her back to the wall.
His mouth claimed hers—rough, hungry.
Fy fingers found her clit, circling.
“Tell me you want out, Soph. Say it, and I void the sale.”
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came.
Her hips bucked into his hand.
Marcus smiled against her lips.
“That’s my girl.”
He left her trembling, plug buzzing faintly—teasing, never enough.
06:00 – Morning Processing
Klaxons.
Handlers.
The six were hosed, oiled, lined up.
New temporary tattoos:
LOT 88 PACKAGE – LIVE INVENTORY – FINAL DISPLAY 08:00
They were marched to the main auction hall—a cavernous room, tiered seats, spotlights.
The block was raised, polished wood, chains dangling.
Bidders filled the seats—suits, masks, paddles.
Marcus stood at the podium, gavel ready.
His eyes found Sophia’s.
The vibrating plug pulsed—once, twice.
“Lot 88—university package. Opening bid 2.38 million. Who’ll start?”
Paddles rose.
2.4… 2.5… 2.6…
Sophia’s knees shook.
The plug ramped up—steady, cruel.
She bit back a moan.
Marcus’s voice was silk. “Demo pose—SLAVE ARCH CHAIN.”
Handlers arranged them in a circle, faces buried in the next ass, plugs winking.
Sophia’s tongue grazed Riley’s rim.
Riley moaned into Jade.
The chain of sound rippled.
Bids climbed: 2.8… 3.0…
Marcus leaned into the mic. “Reserve voided at 3 million. Package sells to the highest bidder—permanently.”
Sophia’s orgasm crested.
She fought it.
Lost.
Her cry echoed as she came, thighs slick, plug buzzing mercilessly.
Marcus’s gavel hovered.
“Going once…”
A new voice—female, sharp—cut through.
“Bank override. Loan repaid in full. Package released.”
The room stilled.
A clerk rushed the stage, tablet glowing.
Marcus’s jaw tightened.
He slammed the gavel anyway.
“SOLD—to the bank. Release processing.”
09:00 – Exit Gate
Clothes returned—folded, tagged.
The six friends dressed in stunned silence.
Sophia’s plug was removed by a bored handler.
Her legs barely held her.
Marcus waited by the gate, arms crossed.
“Walk away, Soph. Or come back tonight. Solo. No loan. No glitch.”
He pressed a business card into her hand.
M. VALE – AUCTIONEER – PRIVATE SALES
Sophia stared at it.
Her clit still throbbed.
The kennel scent clung to her skin.
She tucked the card into her pocket.
Epilogue – One Week Later
Sophia’s apartment.
Midnight.
She stood before her mirror, naked, collar in hand—black leather, silver ring.
The card lay on the dresser.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Marcus: Kennel 7’s empty. Bring the collar.
Sophia’s fingers trembled as she typed.
Sophia: On my way.
She clipped the collar around her throat.
The click echoed like a gavel.
THE END