Slave or millionaire, chapter 4

[Some_guy]

Chapter 4 – The Blocks

The stage transformed in under ninety seconds.

Five low, circular platforms—each no more than three feet in diameter—rose smoothly from the black floor like dark coins surfacing from deep water. Polished ebony, edged with thin chrome rails at ankle height. Spotlights snapped on overhead, bathing each block in a tight, clinical cone of white. The remaining five girls were already moving toward them before the host even finished speaking.

“Round Four,” he announced, voice carrying the same calm authority he might have used to introduce a wine tasting. “We call this the block dance. Or, more accurately, the first true auction performance. Ladies—take your places.”

They stepped up one by one. Bare feet against cool wood. No hesitation now; the ones still standing had learned, in three brutally efficient rounds, that hesitation cost money.

Kelsey—Contestant 12—was assigned block three. She mounted it with the same deliberate grace she’d shown every time the camera found her. Chin high. Shoulders back. The platform forced her to stand with feet slightly apart, the chrome rail just high enough to remind her she could not step down until released.
The host raised a hand.

“Hands behind your heads again. Elbows wide. Begin the sequence when the music starts. You know the choreography. You know the words. Sell yourselves.”

A slow, deep bass pulse rolled through the arena speakers. Not fast. Not frantic. A deliberate, sensual rhythm—something between a heartbeat and a slow, grinding machine.
The girls began to move.
It was choreographed down to the millimeter: hip rolls that lifted and separated the breasts, slow arches of the back that pushed the pelvis forward, deep knee bends that opened the thighs, then a controlled drop to the knees, spine curving, chest presented like an offering. Then up again—crawling a half-circle on all fours before rising, turning, repeating. Every motion designed to display the body from every angle the bidders might want.

And through it all, the mantra.
They spoke in near-unison at first, voices soft, almost reverent.

“Buy me, Master…”
The words rolled out on the downbeat.
“I was born to serve…”
Kelsey’s voice was clear, low, carrying just enough husk to make the microphones catch the faint tremor beneath the performance.
“Please own this worthless cunt…”

Emily felt the phrase hit her like a slap she hadn’t braced for. She flinched on the couch—small, involuntary—then froze, hoping Ryan hadn’t noticed.
He had.
His hand, still resting high on her thigh, gave one slow, deliberate squeeze.

On screen, the girls kept moving. The mantra repeated, phrase by phrase, growing louder, more insistent. Some voices cracked on “worthless.” Others leaned into it, letting the words drip like honey.
Kelsey never faltered. Her hips rolled in perfect time with the bass. When she dropped to her knees and arched, breasts swaying heavily, she looked straight into the nearest drone camera and said the final line with something close to hunger:
“Please… own… this worthless cunt.”

Her bid ticker surged. $182,000. $197,000. $214,000.
Emily’s breathing had gone ragged. She could feel the pulse between her legs now, steady and undeniable. Her panties were damp; she didn’t need to check to know it.

Ryan’s thumb brushed the seam of her yoga pants—once, twice—then stilled again.
She didn’t speak. She couldn’t.
The music slowed. The girls rose to their feet one final time, hands still locked behind their heads, chests heaving.
The host stepped forward.

“Beautiful work. Let’s see what the market thinks.”
The tickers climbed in real time. One girl—Contestant 6, the long-limbed brunette—stalled at $168,000. Another—Contestant 15, a soft-curved blonde—hit $203,000 and held.
Kelsey kept rising.
$231,000.
$249,000.
$267,000.
Then the screen flashed red.
PRIVATE BID ALERT

A single line appeared beneath Kelsey’s name in bold crimson:
$2,000,000 – Accepted – Immediate Transfer
The arena went quiet for half a second—long enough for the audience to register what had happened.
The host’s smile never wavered.

“Contestant 12—Kelsey. A private bidder has exercised the two-million-dollar early-claim clause. Your participation in tonight’s program has concluded.”
Kelsey froze mid-pose.

Her arms were still behind her head. Her chest still rose and fell rapidly from the dance. For the first time all night, something cracked behind her eyes—shock, maybe, or the sudden brutal math of what two million dollars really meant.
Two handlers moved in from either side. They didn’t grab her roughly. They simply took her elbows, guided her arms down, and clipped wrist cuffs together in front of her. A third handler stepped up with a collar—thicker than the earlier ones, matte black with a small silver plate already engraved.
They fastened it around her throat.
Click.
The sound carried through every speaker in the country.
Kelsey’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
The handlers turned her toward the black door. She walked between them—head high, steps mechanical—until the corridor swallowed her.
The camera lingered on the empty block for three full seconds.
Emily stared at the screen, mouth dry, heart hammering so hard it hurt.

“She’s gone,” she whispered. “Just like that.”
Ryan’s voice was low, almost gentle. “She sold for two million. That’s more than any of them were projected to make.”
“She didn’t get to finish the show.”
“She didn’t need to.”
Emily swallowed. Her throat clicked.
The host was already speaking again, unruffled.

“Four contestants remain. We’ll take a brief break to let the bidders recalibrate, and then we move to Round Five.”
The screen cut to commercial.
Upbeat music—too bright, too cheerful—rolled in.

A wide drone shot swept over turquoise water and white sand. A sprawling resort nestled between palms: low white buildings, infinity pools, private cabanas. The camera glided past a line of naked women walking single-file along a wooden boardwalk, wrists cuffed in front, light chains connecting them to a smiling guide in a linen shirt.

“Escape the ordinary,” the voice-over purred. “Discover the thrill of total surrender at Slave Vacation Resorts. For seven, fourteen, or thirty unforgettable days, free women can experience authentic slave life—complete with collars, inspections, training sessions, public display, and structured service—all without permanent transfer.”

The picture cut to a close-up: a young woman on her knees beside a poolside lounger, hands bound behind her back, lips parted around a chilled glass being held to her mouth by a relaxed male guest. She looked up at him with wide, glassy eyes.
“Safe. Legal. Reversible. Every detail controlled by your personalized contract. Feel the weight of steel around your throat. Learn what it means to obey without question. Leave with memories—and a deeper understanding of yourself.”

Another shot: a girl bent over a padded bench in a shaded courtyard, receiving slow, deliberate strokes from a leather strap while another guest watched approvingly. Her back arched. Her mouth opened in a silent cry.
“Book your fantasy escape today. First-time visitors receive a complimentary grading session and 20% off peak-season stays. Because sometimes… the most liberating thing you can do is give up control.”
The screen faded to the website and a toll-free number.

Emily sat perfectly still.
The wine bottle was almost empty.
Her pulse hadn’t slowed.
Ryan’s hand remained on her thigh—warm, unmoving, patient.
When the show returned, only four girls stood on the remaining blocks.

Emily stared at them.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t trust her voice.