Slave or millionaire, chapter 5
Posted: Wed Feb 04, 2026 2:12 pm
Chapter 5 – Round Five
The stage looked smaller now.
Four blocks remained, but only three girls stood on them. The empty fourth platform—Kelsey’s—had already been lowered back into the floor during the commercial break, leaving a perfect black circle like a missing tooth. The absence felt louder than any of the music or mantras that had come before.
Emily’s wineglass sat forgotten on the coffee table, half-full and sweating. She had stopped drinking ten minutes ago; the alcohol had turned from warmth to a faint, queasy burn in her stomach. Her legs were drawn up sideways beneath her, one knee pressed against Ryan’s hip. She hadn’t moved away. Neither had he.
On screen, the host stepped into the center of the remaining light.
“Round Five,” he said, voice carrying the same measured calm. “We test more than bodies now. We test minds. Obedience under pressure. Clarity when the world is trying to drown you in sensation.”
Three nude girls waited. Contestant 6—the long-limbed brunette with the dancer’s poise. Contestant 15—the soft-curved blonde who had cried in Round 2 but hadn’t faltered since. And Contestant 9—the swimmer-built girl whose answers had been short, blunt, almost defiant.
Small metal desks rose from the stage floor in front of each block. Simple, clinical: flat surface, attached chair, a tablet already glowing. Beside each desk stood a handler holding a small black remote.
“Sit,” the host instructed.
They sat. Legs parted just enough to keep balance, hands resting palms-up on their thighs as trained. The camera caught every detail—the way thigh muscles tensed against the cold seat, the slight tremor in fingers that tried to stay still.
“Round Five consists of three tasks,” the host continued. “Mental arithmetic under distraction. Perfect recitation of a standard slave contract clause. And finally, a memory sequence of commands delivered live. Failure in any category will be… corrected. Success will be rewarded with bids.”
He nodded to the handlers.
The first remotes clicked.
A soft, low buzz started—barely audible on the broadcast mix, but the girls reacted instantly. Their hips shifted. Thighs clenched. Contestant 15’s mouth opened in a silent gasp.
“Vibrators,” Ryan said quietly, almost to himself. “Remote-controlled. Low setting to start.”
Emily’s breath hitched. She had read about this part in the show’s online rules months ago—back when it was still abstract, still someone else’s nightmare. Hearing Ryan name it so casually made it real.
The tablets lit up with the first question.
Task 1: 47 × 19 – calculate mentally. You have thirty seconds.
Contestant 6 bent forward slightly, eyes squeezed shut. Her lips moved in silent calculation. The vibrator hummed louder. Her hips jerked once—small, involuntary.
“893,” she said aloud.
Correct.
Her bid ticked up $12,000.
Contestant 15 was slower. The numbers swam behind her eyes; every time she tried to focus, the vibration pulsed higher. She whimpered once, then forced the answer out.
“893.”
Correct.
Contestant 9 hesitated. Her jaw clenched. The remote clicked again—higher setting. Her thighs trembled violently.
“Eight… nine… three,” she managed.
Correct, but barely.
The second task appeared.
Task 2: Recite Clause 14(b) of the Standard Permanent Transfer Agreement, verbatim, without hesitation.
The host read the clause aloud once—slow, deliberate—then stepped back.
Contestant 6 went first.
“The slave acknowledges that upon final bid acceptance, all civil rights, bodily autonomy, and legal personhood are irrevocably surrendered to the purchasing party. The slave further agrees that any attempt to contest, appeal, or revoke said transfer shall be considered breach of contract, punishable by immediate reconditioning at owner expense.”
Word-perfect.
Bid +$18,000.
Contestant 15 stumbled twice—once on “irrevocably,” once on “reconditioning.” Each mistake earned a sharp, audible increase in the vibrator’s intensity. She finished gasping, tears streaking.
Still accepted. +$9,000.
Contestant 9 got through the first sentence cleanly, then froze on “bodily autonomy.” The remote clicked twice in quick succession. Her whole body arched; a thin, desperate sound escaped her throat.
She tried again. Failed again.
The handler stepped forward, produced a slim leather paddle, and delivered three crisp strokes to the outside of her left thigh—hard enough to leave pink handprints, not hard enough to bruise permanently.
Contestant 9 sobbed once, then forced the clause out in a shaking rush.
Accepted. +$4,000.
Emily’s own thighs were pressed so tightly together she could feel her pulse there. Her breathing had gone shallow and uneven. She was aware—painfully aware—of the damp spot spreading in the crotch of her yoga pants.
Ryan’s hand had slid higher. His fingers rested now along the inner seam, not pressing, just there. Warm. Patient.
She didn’t move his hand.
She didn’t speak.
The third task flashed up.
Task 3: Memory sequence. The host will deliver eight commands. Repeat them in exact order after a thirty-second delay.
The host began.
“Kneel. Present. Crawl forward three paces. Stop. Arch back. Spread thighs. Hands behind head. Beg aloud: ‘Please inspect this property.’”
Thirty seconds of silence.
Contestant 6 repeated flawlessly.
Contestant 15 missed “arch back” and swapped the last two commands. Two more paddle strokes—right thigh this time. She cried openly now, but finished the sequence.
Contestant 9 forgot “crawl forward three paces” entirely. The paddle came down four times—two on each thigh. Red welts bloomed. She repeated the sequence through tears, voice cracking on “please inspect.”
All three passed—barely.
The final tallies appeared.
Contestant 6: $287,400
Contestant 15: $241,800
Contestant 9: $198,200
The host smiled.
“Contestant 9—your performance was adequate, but the market has spoken. You are eliminated.”
Two handlers moved in. They cuffed her wrists behind her back, attached a short chain to the collar already around her throat, and led her toward the black door. She walked with her head down, thighs still burning, tears dripping onto her chest.
The door hissed shut behind her.
Three girls became two.
The screen cut to commercial.
The music this time was softer—almost soothing. Aerial shot of a quiet suburban street at dusk. A young woman in jeans and a hoodie steps out of a car and approaches the glass doors of a sleek, modern building. The sign above reads Big D Grading Center – Open Evaluation.
Voice-over, warm and inviting:
“Curious what you’d really be worth? Wondering how the market would rate your body, your responsiveness, your potential? At Big D Grading Centers, free women can now book a completely confidential, no-obligation slave grading—free of charge.”
Cut to interior: a smiling receptionist handing a clipboard to a nervous twenty-something. The girl signs, then follows a technician down a hallway.
“Full physical assessment. Sexual responsiveness testing. Endurance metrics. Detailed defect and asset report. You leave with a professional grade certificate and a clear picture of your current market value—all at no cost to you.”
Another shot: the same girl, now nude on an examination table, legs in stirrups, a technician gently palpating her breasts while another takes notes. The girl’s face is flushed, eyes glassy, but she isn’t struggling.
“Still hesitant? Try our introductory package: Slave Yoga Classes—gentle stretching and posture work designed to highlight natural submission and flexibility. Or go deeper with Night Kenneling—spend one full night in a real training kennel, collared and caged alongside owned slaves, treated exactly as they are. Wake up knowing exactly how it feels to be property… and walk out the next morning, free.”
Final shot: the same young woman leaving the building the next morning, certificate folder in hand, a small, dazed smile on her face.
“Book your free grading, your first yoga session, or your Night Kenneling experience today. Because knowledge is power… even when it comes wrapped in steel.”
The ad ended.
Silence in the living room.
Emily’s heart was slamming against her ribs so hard she was sure Ryan could feel it.
He turned his head slowly.
“You saw that,” he said.
She nodded once. Couldn’t speak.
His voice dropped lower. “You’ve been squirming since Round Four.”
Another small nod.
His fingers flexed once against her inner thigh—light pressure, just enough to make her gasp softly.
“I dare you,” he said.
She finally looked at him. Pupils blown. Cheeks burning.
“What?”
“I dare you to book it. The free grading. And the kenneling. One night. See what they say about you. See what it feels like.”
Her mouth opened. Closed.
“That’s insane,” she whispered.
“Is it?” His thumb traced one slow line along the damp seam of her pants. “You’ve been wet since they put Kelsey in the collar. You haven’t looked away once. You’re breathing like you’re running.”
She whimpered—small, helpless sound.
“I’d be there,” he added quietly. “I’d pick you up the next morning. You’d still be you. Just… informed.”
Her hands were shaking.
“They’d touch me,” she said. Voice barely audible. “They’d measure everything. They’d… test me.”
“Yeah,” he said. “They would.”
“They’d put me in a cage. With real slaves.”
“One night.”
She swallowed hard.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
“I know.”
His hand stilled. Waiting.
“But you’re also soaked,” he said gently. “And you haven’t told me to stop.”
Emily stared at the paused television screen—frozen on the Big D logo.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
She reached for her phone with trembling fingers.
Opened the browser.
Typed the URL from the ad.
The booking page loaded instantly.
Free Grading – No Obligation
Night Kenneling Add-On – Limited Slots
She stared at the form.
Ryan watched her.
Neither of them spoke.
She clicked the first checkbox.
Then the second.
Her thumb hovered over “Confirm Appointment.”
The stage looked smaller now.
Four blocks remained, but only three girls stood on them. The empty fourth platform—Kelsey’s—had already been lowered back into the floor during the commercial break, leaving a perfect black circle like a missing tooth. The absence felt louder than any of the music or mantras that had come before.
Emily’s wineglass sat forgotten on the coffee table, half-full and sweating. She had stopped drinking ten minutes ago; the alcohol had turned from warmth to a faint, queasy burn in her stomach. Her legs were drawn up sideways beneath her, one knee pressed against Ryan’s hip. She hadn’t moved away. Neither had he.
On screen, the host stepped into the center of the remaining light.
“Round Five,” he said, voice carrying the same measured calm. “We test more than bodies now. We test minds. Obedience under pressure. Clarity when the world is trying to drown you in sensation.”
Three nude girls waited. Contestant 6—the long-limbed brunette with the dancer’s poise. Contestant 15—the soft-curved blonde who had cried in Round 2 but hadn’t faltered since. And Contestant 9—the swimmer-built girl whose answers had been short, blunt, almost defiant.
Small metal desks rose from the stage floor in front of each block. Simple, clinical: flat surface, attached chair, a tablet already glowing. Beside each desk stood a handler holding a small black remote.
“Sit,” the host instructed.
They sat. Legs parted just enough to keep balance, hands resting palms-up on their thighs as trained. The camera caught every detail—the way thigh muscles tensed against the cold seat, the slight tremor in fingers that tried to stay still.
“Round Five consists of three tasks,” the host continued. “Mental arithmetic under distraction. Perfect recitation of a standard slave contract clause. And finally, a memory sequence of commands delivered live. Failure in any category will be… corrected. Success will be rewarded with bids.”
He nodded to the handlers.
The first remotes clicked.
A soft, low buzz started—barely audible on the broadcast mix, but the girls reacted instantly. Their hips shifted. Thighs clenched. Contestant 15’s mouth opened in a silent gasp.
“Vibrators,” Ryan said quietly, almost to himself. “Remote-controlled. Low setting to start.”
Emily’s breath hitched. She had read about this part in the show’s online rules months ago—back when it was still abstract, still someone else’s nightmare. Hearing Ryan name it so casually made it real.
The tablets lit up with the first question.
Task 1: 47 × 19 – calculate mentally. You have thirty seconds.
Contestant 6 bent forward slightly, eyes squeezed shut. Her lips moved in silent calculation. The vibrator hummed louder. Her hips jerked once—small, involuntary.
“893,” she said aloud.
Correct.
Her bid ticked up $12,000.
Contestant 15 was slower. The numbers swam behind her eyes; every time she tried to focus, the vibration pulsed higher. She whimpered once, then forced the answer out.
“893.”
Correct.
Contestant 9 hesitated. Her jaw clenched. The remote clicked again—higher setting. Her thighs trembled violently.
“Eight… nine… three,” she managed.
Correct, but barely.
The second task appeared.
Task 2: Recite Clause 14(b) of the Standard Permanent Transfer Agreement, verbatim, without hesitation.
The host read the clause aloud once—slow, deliberate—then stepped back.
Contestant 6 went first.
“The slave acknowledges that upon final bid acceptance, all civil rights, bodily autonomy, and legal personhood are irrevocably surrendered to the purchasing party. The slave further agrees that any attempt to contest, appeal, or revoke said transfer shall be considered breach of contract, punishable by immediate reconditioning at owner expense.”
Word-perfect.
Bid +$18,000.
Contestant 15 stumbled twice—once on “irrevocably,” once on “reconditioning.” Each mistake earned a sharp, audible increase in the vibrator’s intensity. She finished gasping, tears streaking.
Still accepted. +$9,000.
Contestant 9 got through the first sentence cleanly, then froze on “bodily autonomy.” The remote clicked twice in quick succession. Her whole body arched; a thin, desperate sound escaped her throat.
She tried again. Failed again.
The handler stepped forward, produced a slim leather paddle, and delivered three crisp strokes to the outside of her left thigh—hard enough to leave pink handprints, not hard enough to bruise permanently.
Contestant 9 sobbed once, then forced the clause out in a shaking rush.
Accepted. +$4,000.
Emily’s own thighs were pressed so tightly together she could feel her pulse there. Her breathing had gone shallow and uneven. She was aware—painfully aware—of the damp spot spreading in the crotch of her yoga pants.
Ryan’s hand had slid higher. His fingers rested now along the inner seam, not pressing, just there. Warm. Patient.
She didn’t move his hand.
She didn’t speak.
The third task flashed up.
Task 3: Memory sequence. The host will deliver eight commands. Repeat them in exact order after a thirty-second delay.
The host began.
“Kneel. Present. Crawl forward three paces. Stop. Arch back. Spread thighs. Hands behind head. Beg aloud: ‘Please inspect this property.’”
Thirty seconds of silence.
Contestant 6 repeated flawlessly.
Contestant 15 missed “arch back” and swapped the last two commands. Two more paddle strokes—right thigh this time. She cried openly now, but finished the sequence.
Contestant 9 forgot “crawl forward three paces” entirely. The paddle came down four times—two on each thigh. Red welts bloomed. She repeated the sequence through tears, voice cracking on “please inspect.”
All three passed—barely.
The final tallies appeared.
Contestant 6: $287,400
Contestant 15: $241,800
Contestant 9: $198,200
The host smiled.
“Contestant 9—your performance was adequate, but the market has spoken. You are eliminated.”
Two handlers moved in. They cuffed her wrists behind her back, attached a short chain to the collar already around her throat, and led her toward the black door. She walked with her head down, thighs still burning, tears dripping onto her chest.
The door hissed shut behind her.
Three girls became two.
The screen cut to commercial.
The music this time was softer—almost soothing. Aerial shot of a quiet suburban street at dusk. A young woman in jeans and a hoodie steps out of a car and approaches the glass doors of a sleek, modern building. The sign above reads Big D Grading Center – Open Evaluation.
Voice-over, warm and inviting:
“Curious what you’d really be worth? Wondering how the market would rate your body, your responsiveness, your potential? At Big D Grading Centers, free women can now book a completely confidential, no-obligation slave grading—free of charge.”
Cut to interior: a smiling receptionist handing a clipboard to a nervous twenty-something. The girl signs, then follows a technician down a hallway.
“Full physical assessment. Sexual responsiveness testing. Endurance metrics. Detailed defect and asset report. You leave with a professional grade certificate and a clear picture of your current market value—all at no cost to you.”
Another shot: the same girl, now nude on an examination table, legs in stirrups, a technician gently palpating her breasts while another takes notes. The girl’s face is flushed, eyes glassy, but she isn’t struggling.
“Still hesitant? Try our introductory package: Slave Yoga Classes—gentle stretching and posture work designed to highlight natural submission and flexibility. Or go deeper with Night Kenneling—spend one full night in a real training kennel, collared and caged alongside owned slaves, treated exactly as they are. Wake up knowing exactly how it feels to be property… and walk out the next morning, free.”
Final shot: the same young woman leaving the building the next morning, certificate folder in hand, a small, dazed smile on her face.
“Book your free grading, your first yoga session, or your Night Kenneling experience today. Because knowledge is power… even when it comes wrapped in steel.”
The ad ended.
Silence in the living room.
Emily’s heart was slamming against her ribs so hard she was sure Ryan could feel it.
He turned his head slowly.
“You saw that,” he said.
She nodded once. Couldn’t speak.
His voice dropped lower. “You’ve been squirming since Round Four.”
Another small nod.
His fingers flexed once against her inner thigh—light pressure, just enough to make her gasp softly.
“I dare you,” he said.
She finally looked at him. Pupils blown. Cheeks burning.
“What?”
“I dare you to book it. The free grading. And the kenneling. One night. See what they say about you. See what it feels like.”
Her mouth opened. Closed.
“That’s insane,” she whispered.
“Is it?” His thumb traced one slow line along the damp seam of her pants. “You’ve been wet since they put Kelsey in the collar. You haven’t looked away once. You’re breathing like you’re running.”
She whimpered—small, helpless sound.
“I’d be there,” he added quietly. “I’d pick you up the next morning. You’d still be you. Just… informed.”
Her hands were shaking.
“They’d touch me,” she said. Voice barely audible. “They’d measure everything. They’d… test me.”
“Yeah,” he said. “They would.”
“They’d put me in a cage. With real slaves.”
“One night.”
She swallowed hard.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
“I know.”
His hand stilled. Waiting.
“But you’re also soaked,” he said gently. “And you haven’t told me to stop.”
Emily stared at the paused television screen—frozen on the Big D logo.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
She reached for her phone with trembling fingers.
Opened the browser.
Typed the URL from the ad.
The booking page loaded instantly.
Free Grading – No Obligation
Night Kenneling Add-On – Limited Slots
She stared at the form.
Ryan watched her.
Neither of them spoke.
She clicked the first checkbox.
Then the second.
Her thumb hovered over “Confirm Appointment.”