Slave or millionaire, chapter 2

[Some_guy]

Chapter 2 – Round Two

The screen flared back to life with a low, throbbing bass note that Emily felt more in her sternum than in her ears. The host—tall, silver-haired, immaculately tailored—stood center stage again, arms spread in welcome like a televangelist about to call sinners forward.

“Welcome back, America. Fifteen beautiful, brave young women remain. And now…” He let the pause stretch just long enough for the audience to lean in. “…we begin the unveiling.”

A collective murmur rolled through the studio speakers. On the couch, Emily drew her knees up tighter, the stem of her wineglass pressed between her palms until the glass warmed.

The fifteen remaining contestants filed onto the stage in single file. They had been given thirty seconds backstage to strip to the waist. No robes. No cover-ups. Just the same charcoal-gray panties they’d worn under the dresses, and nothing else above the hips.

Emily’s breath caught on the first close-up.
The camera didn’t rush. It lingered. Slow pans across bare shoulders, the faint gooseflesh rising under studio lights, the way nipples tightened instantly in the chilled air. Some girls crossed their arms instinctively before remembering the rules and dropping them to their sides. Others stood straighter, chins lifted, as though defiance could be measured in posture.

Contestant 12—the blonde who had admitted she wanted to know her worth—was third in line. Her breasts were full and high, pale skin flushed pink at the throat and chest. When the camera settled on her, she met the lens without blinking.

Ryan let out a low whistle. “She’s not even pretending to be nervous.”
“She’s pretending something,” Emily muttered. Her own nipples had pebbled under her thin tank top; she hoped the dim living-room light hid it.

The host moved down the line, microphone in hand, voice smooth as oil.
“Contestant 12—Kelsey. You told us earlier you’ve always wondered what the market would say. Let’s ask the bidders a more direct question.” He turned to the camera. “Gentlemen—and ladies—who are watching tonight: would you pay more now that you’ve seen the goods?”

The ticker on the right side of the screen began to climb again. Not in cautious increments this time. In sharp, greedy jumps.
$102,000.
$119,000.
$147,000.

Kelsey didn’t flinch. She shifted her weight onto one hip, letting the motion lift and separate her breasts just enough to catch the light.
Emily swallowed. “Jesus.”
Ryan’s hand had drifted to her thigh, resting there, warm and still. Not moving. Just present.

The host worked the line methodically. He asked each girl a question designed to peel back another layer.
“Contestant 9—how many men have you slept with?”
A dark-haired girl with a swimmer’s build blushed to her hairline. “Seven.”
“And women?”
“Two.”

The audience made a pleased sound. Her bid ticked up $8,000 in three seconds.

“Contestant 5—what’s the most shameful thing you’ve ever done sexually?”
A petite brunette hesitated, then spoke so softly the boom mic had to swing closer. “I… let a guy film me once. Without asking first.”
The host raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“And I came harder than I ever had before.”
The ticker jumped $14,000.

Emily pressed her lips together. She could feel heat pooling low in her belly, the kind that made her want to cross her legs and uncross them again in the same breath.
Ryan’s thumb moved—just once—along the inside seam of her yoga pants.
She didn’t push his hand away.

The questions kept coming, relentless and clinical.
“Have you ever had anal?”
“Do you swallow?”
“What’s your safeword—and have you ever used it?”

Some girls answered with practiced nonchalance. Others stammered. One—Contestant 18, a soft-spoken redhead who had entered to pay off her sister’s medical bills—started crying halfway through her answer about being tied up for the first time. The tears only seemed to make her bid climb faster.

Emily watched the numbers with a strange, detached fascination. It was like watching someone play Russian roulette with their own body. Every answer pulled the trigger again. Every tear, every blush, every reluctant truth sent the chamber spinning.
When the buzzer sounded for the end of Round 2, the screen flashed the final tally.
Bottom five: $38,400 to $61,900.

The host’s tone shifted back to brisk efficiency. “Contestants 3, 7, 10, 14, and 18—step forward, please.”
They moved like sleepwalkers.
This time the collars came with short leashes already attached. Black leather, chrome hardware. The handlers clipped them on without ceremony. One girl—Contestant 18—made a small, broken sound when the lock clicked shut. Her hands fluttered toward the collar before she forced them back to her sides.

The camera followed them this time. Just long enough to show the wide black door sliding open, the corridor beyond lit by cold fluorescents, the silhouette of a waiting transport van visible at the far end.
Then the door closed.
Emily realized she was gripping Ryan’s forearm. Her nails had left half-moons in his skin.

“You’re digging in,” he said quietly.
“Sorry.” She let go. Her fingers shook.
He caught her hand before she could pull it all the way back, laced their fingers together, and rested both their hands on his thigh.
She didn’t pull away.

Another commercial break rolled in.
This one opened on a sleek, modern facility—white walls, stainless steel tables, soft overhead lighting. A naked girl lay on her stomach on a padded bench, wrists and ankles secured in padded cuffs. A technician in scrubs ran a handheld scanner slowly down the length of her spine. A second technician stood at her head, stroking her hair while speaking in low, soothing tones.

“Reconditioning isn’t punishment,” the voice-over said cheerfully. “It’s renewal. At RenewSlav, we reset bad habits, soften resistance, and restore full market value. Whether it’s a simple attitude adjustment or a complete behavioral overhaul, our certified behaviorists deliver results owners can trust. Satisfaction guaranteed—or your resale value back in credit.”
The girl on the bench arched slightly as the scanner passed over her lower back. A soft moan escaped her. The technician smiled and patted her flank like one might soothe a skittish horse.
“Book your refresh today. Because every slave deserves a second chance to be perfect.”

Emily stared at the screen until the ad ended.
Her mouth felt dry despite the wine.
Ryan squeezed her hand once. “Still just observing?”
She didn’t answer right away.

When she finally spoke, her voice was smaller than she intended.
“They’re really doing this. All of it. Right now.”
“Yeah,” he said. “They are.”
The show returned. The host was smiling again, as though nothing of consequence had happened.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Round 3. Ten contestants left. And now… we remove the final barrier.”
The camera cut to the remaining girls. They had been allowed sixty seconds backstage. Just enough time to step out of their panties and fold them neatly on a side table.

Now they stood completely bare.
Emily felt the air leave her lungs in a slow, unsteady rush.
She didn’t look away.