Slave or millionaire, chapter 3

[Some_guy]

Chapter 3 – The Unveiling

The stage lights dimmed for a single heartbeat, then flared again—brighter, colder, merciless. Ten naked girls stood motionless on the polished black circle that had been revealed at the center of the arena. No platforms yet. No blocks. Just bare skin under unrelenting white light, every tremor and flush magnified by the floating drone cameras that drifted like patient vultures.

Emily’s wineglass was empty. She hadn’t noticed refilling it, but the bottle on the coffee table was noticeably lighter. Ryan’s hand still rested on her thigh—higher now, thumb tracing idle arcs that felt less casual with every passing second.

On screen, the host stepped forward, microphone held low like a conductor’s baton.
“Round Three, ladies and gentlemen. No more secrets. No more fabric. Just merchandise, presented exactly as the law—and the bidders—require.”

He gestured toward the girls.
“Hands behind your heads, please. Elbows back. Feet shoulder-width. Standard inspection pose.”

They obeyed in near-unison. Ten pairs of arms lifted. Ten spines straightened. Ten chests rose and fell in shallow, visible rhythm.
The close-up cameras moved in without apology.

Emily watched the split-screen feed: one wide shot of the line, one tight frame cycling slowly from girl to girl. The lens lingered on collarbones, on the soft undersides of breasts, on the faint stretch marks or freckles that no amount of pre-show makeup could entirely erase. It catalogued the small, involuntary things—the way a nipple would pebble harder when the air current from a vent hit it, the way a stomach muscle fluttered when a girl tried not to breathe too loudly.

Contestant 12—Kelsey—stood fourth from the left. Her skin was pale gold under the lights, a faint tan line bisecting her hips where last summer’s bikini had sat. When the camera settled on her, she shifted her weight just enough to make her breasts sway—subtle, deliberate, practiced. Her gaze never left the main lens.
“She knows exactly what she’s doing,” Emily said. Her voice came out thinner than she intended.
Ryan made a low sound of agreement. “She’s selling.”

The host began the walk.
He didn’t touch—not yet. That came later. For now it was commentary, delivered in the calm, appraising tone of a livestock judge.

“Contestant 12—Kelsey. Excellent breast presentation. Firm, symmetrical, responsive to temperature.” He paused beside her, letting the drone camera orbit. “Notice the flush spreading from throat to sternum. Classic arousal marker. Bidders appreciate transparency.”
Kelsey’s bid ticker jumped $22,000 in four seconds.

Emily felt her own throat tighten. She pressed her knees together, then forced them apart again, embarrassed by the reflex.
The host continued down the line.

“Contestant 6—slight asymmetry, left breast slightly fuller. Still well within prime range. Bend forward, please.”
The girl—a quiet brunette with a dancer’s long limbs—bent at the waist, arms still locked behind her head. The position lifted her breasts and arched her back. The camera zoomed.
“Very clean lines. No visible stretch marks. A small surgical scar—appendectomy, age sixteen. Buyers rarely deduct for that.”
Her bid climbed steadily.

Emily’s breathing had gone shallow. She could feel the heat radiating off Ryan’s body beside her, the slow rise and fall of his chest. His hand hadn’t moved, but the weight of it felt heavier now, deliberate.

“Contestant 9,” the host continued, “turn, please. Face away from the audience. Bend at the waist, legs straight.”
The swimmer-built girl pivoted, then folded forward. Her spine curved beautifully. The camera dropped low, framing the cleft of her ass, the shadowed suggestion of what lay between.
“Excellent posterior presentation. Tight, rounded, no visible cellulite. Spread your feet wider.”

She did.
The drone camera slid closer.
Emily’s pulse hammered in her ears. She could hear her own heartbeat over the soft hum of the television speakers.
Ryan’s thumb resumed its slow circle—higher now, brushing the crease where thigh met hip.
She didn’t stop him.

The host moved on.
“Contestant 5—squat, please. Hold.”
The petite brunette dropped into a deep squat, knees wide, hands still behind her head. The position opened her completely. The camera didn’t blink.
“Full exposure. Labia minora visible, naturally pink. Clitoral hood partially retracted—good indicator of current arousal state.”
The girl’s thighs trembled. A thin sheen of sweat appeared along her hairline.
Her bid surged $19,000.

Emily let out a sound—half exhale, half whimper. She covered it quickly with a cough.
Ryan’s hand slid an inch inward. Not aggressive. Just enough to make her aware of the pressure.
The buzzer sounded.

The screen flashed the final Round 3 standings.
Bottom five ranged from $71,200 to $98,400.
Top five—Kelsey included—sat comfortably above $140,000.
The host’s voice turned brisk again.

“Contestants 2, 5, 8, 13, and 19—step forward for processing.”
Five naked girls moved forward on unsteady legs.
This time the collars were different—thicker, with small red LED indicators blinking awake as they locked. The handlers attached short chains between wrist cuffs and the back of each collar, forcing elbows back and chests forward even as they were led away.
One girl—Contestant 5, the one who had squatted—started to cry in earnest. Silent tears. No begging. Just quiet, unstoppable weeping as the chain pulled her shoulders into perfect posture.

The camera followed them to the black door.
This time it stayed open longer.
The corridor beyond was brighter—clinical white, lined with small numbered doors. A handler guided the first girl through door #3. The camera caught a glimpse inside: a padded examination table, stirrups already unfolded, two technicians in pale green scrubs waiting with clipboards and scanners.

The door closed behind her.
Emily’s mouth was dry. Her tongue felt thick.
“They’re going to grade them right now,” she whispered. “Live feed in the premium package, but even on basic you get stills later.”
Ryan’s voice was low. “You checked.”

“I… skimmed the app earlier. While you were in the shower.”
He didn’t tease her for it.
Instead he squeezed her thigh once—firm, grounding—then let his hand rest again.
Another commercial break rolled in.

This one opened on a wide shot of a gleaming training facility. A line of six naked girls knelt in perfect formation on a padded mat, hands laced behind their heads, knees spread exactly twelve inches apart. A tall woman in black leather walked the line, crop in hand.
“Elite Slave Training,” the voice-over announced, bright and friendly. “Where potential becomes performance. Our thirty-day intensive covers posture, oral technique, pain processing, orgasm control, and full-service etiquette. Before-and-after certification included. Owners report 92% satisfaction increase within the first week.”

The camera cut to a close-up of one girl—eyes down, lips parted—accepting the crop’s tip against her tongue like an offering.
“Enroll your new acquisition today. Because a well-trained slave is a valuable slave.”
The ad ended with a cheerful jingle and the website URL in bold white letters.
Emily stared at the frozen screen for several seconds after it cut back to black.
Her heart was still racing.

Ryan turned his head toward her.
“You’re flushed,” he said quietly.
“I’m… warm.”
“You’re more than warm.”

She met his eyes for the first time in twenty minutes. His pupils were dark, his expression calm but unmistakably intent.
She opened her mouth. Closed it again.
On screen, the host reappeared.

“Welcome back to Round Four. Five contestants remain. And now… we move to the blocks.”
Emily reached for the wine bottle with a hand that wasn’t entirely steady.
She poured.
She drank.
She didn’t speak.