7 comments/ 32575 views/ 5 favorites The Bidding of Lot 98 Ch. 01 By: angeline_dc Chapter 1: The Auction I listen alertly for Sir's soft approach. Not so long ago, he could come within inches of me, and I would have no idea until after the first welt rose on my bottom, or his fingers were locked cruelly around my throat. In the last few months, my ears have become much more attuned to Sir's whereabouts, and it is rare that I don't sense his approach. I was a decadent girl when I arrived – lazy, undisciplined. The blindfold taught me how dependant I was on my sight, just as the ball has taught me my dependence on speech. I have excellent vision just as I have a way with words; they contributed to my laziness. They were crutches, and I have learned to manage without. Over time, I've learned how important it is to behave well when there are no clever excuses. And I've learned how important it is to listen. It is a point of pride that he cannot easily sneak up on me. It is a point of pride that I make no excuses. Sir says my points of pride will be my undoing one day. He is quite busy, whatever he is doing. I hear furniture moving, and several times he's gone downstairs to the basement and returned carrying things. As always my imagination races trying to anticipate his plan, but deep down I have a feeling that this isn't just another day. It feels...special. Different somehow. "Different"...how utterly meaningless that word has become. It'd been twelve months since I took the step. I'd quit my job, put all my belongings in storage, and told my friends and family that I was backpacking through Europe. I packed a suitcase. I got on a train. I came here. My suitcase is in a closet somewhere untouched, unopened. I'd forgotten it existed until just now, and wonder if I will ever open it again. Beneath the blindfold my eyes are closed. Listening for Sir puts me in a bit of a trance and helps distract me from the ache in my shoulders. He's never made me stand in 'One' this long – feet shoulder width apart, fingers interlocked behind my head, shoulders back, elbows straight out. The end of my nose has been itchy for what seems like hours but I know better than to scratch. I don't even know what room I'm in. Sir bathed me, blindfolded me, gagged me, and led me here. I know the layout of the house in my sleep, and he purposely led me in circles to confuse me. My guess is we are in the great room because I'm standing on hardwood floors, and there is a slight echo. It's a large drafty old room, which makes me conscious of my nakedness. My skin is tight and prickled with goose bumps. Sir's construction project seems to have subsided. It's quiet now except for typing. Short bursts followed by a pause followed by another staccato flurry of keys. Then silence. I hear him clear his throat. "Welcome gentlemen....and lady, I beg your pardon. Welcome to this evening's auction. This evening you will be bidding on Lot 98, which is located on page eleven of your auction guide. Details of its training history can be found in appendix A. Appendix B contains medical and dental records, immunization chart, gynecological history, its most recent pap smear, and the results from its STD tests. As you will see this evening's item is in pristine condition. It is unmarked, and has extremely low mileage." I feel the skin on my chest and face go hot, and my heart trembles fitfully. Sir is selling me? It must be a mistake. Is it a trick? That must be it. Sir is testing me in another of his elaborate scenarios. I feel relief, and my fear is replaced by excitement. The degrading notion of being auctioned like livestock goes off like a depth charge in my mind. My imagination runs wild – that I am in a fenced in stockade. Men in Stetsons lean easily against the fence, discussing me: a dumb animal, I am trotted around the enclosure for closer inspection. The fantasy makes me immediately wet; I want Sir to touch me even for the briefest moment, but he goes on with his performance. "As always, the auction will be silent. You may raise your bid at any time during the next hour. We will compare each final offer, and high bid will lease Lot 98 for a term of six months. At that point, you may exercise your option to make permanent the relationship. Possession of 98 will be immediate, and she will be ready for transport at sunrise tomorrow. So that you may take possession of a pristine Lot, corporal punishment will be kept to the barest minimum tonight, but a video record of one of 98's canings can be found on disk two. In any event, all this is set forth in our contract, but of course you are all familiar with our protocols, and this evening is not about legalistic details. This is evening is about lot 98. So let us dispense with the preliminaries and move directly into the examination. 98." I hear my name, and snap to attention. "98 take four steps forward." I do as I'm told. I take four confident strides as though I can see perfectly. I've spent uncountable hours learning to walk in a blindfold. I was very slow to learn, and it is still not something I do well. Nonetheless walking into a wall, or banging my shin pales in comparison to the correction I will receive if I show the least hesitation or uncertainty. A failure to show complete trust in Sir provokes the worst sort of punishment. This element of my training was referred to as "Blind Obedience" – Sir puts great stock in active metaphors. "98, assume three." I nod. Position three – 'waiting'. I slip to my knees, legs wide apart, bottom resting on my heels, back straight, head down, and my hands resting palms up on my thighs. Head down was the hardest part for me, surprisingly. In my old life, I made eye contact. I stared. I read people well and so much of it is in the eyes. I still miss it, but it is no longer my place. "98, ball." I nod. My hands go to the back of my head and unfasten the leather strap of my ball. I slip it out from between my teeth, tilting my head back slightly so that any drool falls back into my mouth and not onto the hardwood. My jaw aches, but I know better than to stretch it – I look like a cow when I do and Sir finds it unattractive. I lay the ball neatly on the floor before me. My hands return to my thighs. "98, blindfold." "Yes, Sir." I take off the blindfold but keep my eyes shut. Removing the blindfold is not the same as permission to look; a mistake I made only once. I lay the blindfold above the ball. Hands to my thighs; I wait. "98, eyes." "Yes, Sir." I squint as I open my eyes for the first time in hours. It is incredibly bright, and it takes some time for my eyes to adjust. What I see causes me to wish for the sanctuary of my blindfold. There is no stockade; it is indeed the great room. I kneel in the center of a pool of light cast by a portable light kit. In place of men in Stetsons are video cameras – one straight ahead, one to either side staring soullessly at me. Behind the cameras is an elaborate computer workstation with multiple flat screen monitors. Sir sits on a tall stool; he wears a headset and stares at me dispassionately. Two of the monitors are filled with scrolling data that I can't make out. The other four of them are filled with live feeds of a girl on her knees: from the front, the sides, and one from the back. It's strange to see myself again, and I stare intently at the flickering images. At the girl staring back at me. I've not seen my own face in a year, and the girl I see is familiar but only vaguely. There are no mirrors anywhere on the property, virtually no reflective surfaces anywhere. It was a while before I realized it was by design. For a girl as vain about her appearance as I am, it was hard to lose the reassurance of her face. At the beginning, I would touch my face at night just to remember something of it. But little by little I forgot it was there, what I looked like, who I was. It was only much later in a quiet moment that Sir explained that there was a mirror in the house. Sir is my mirror. The reflection of what I am. That I only need look at Sir to know how I look. Accepting that truth was a turning point in my training. My certainty that this is a game evaporates. Sir is elaborate, but this exceeds even his meticulousness. And more than that, it feels real. An icy realization takes a hold of me. I've surrendered myself to Sir's collar. Named myself his property. Submitted to twelve months of grueling training. Told no one where I was going. And now Sir is auctioning his property. I flush, and feel dizzy. I begin to shake, and it is only through willpower that I do not hyperventilate. I hear Sir's voice, but I only stare down at the floor. "Look closely. As per auction protocol, Lot 98 has no prior knowledge of this evening's event. You have just watched it come to realize fully its role here. Notice the lovely coloration in its skin when it is distressed, the open alarm in its face, the tremble in its frame. And this is only the tip of the iceberg. Over the next hour I shall demonstrate the satisfying range of emotional and physical reaction that can be elicited from this Lot." I breathe slowly, measured and even as Sir has trained me to do when I am stressed. Hoping to regain some poise, but as his words tumble over me I feel myself physically flinching as though threatened by invisible blows – imperceptible muscle tremors in my shoulders. "Notice also that 98 is unrestrained. Other auction houses bind their Lots for auction because they cannot guarantee the reaction. Here at Holland Court, we take pride in our rigorous training. We offer no Lot for auction in which we do not have complete confidence. If this Lot chooses to move now, we will make no effort to stop it. It will be free to go. The auction will end and we will compensate each of you for your time." Sir stops. There is a long silence, and I wonder blankly what he is waiting for. And then it dawns on me – he is waiting for me. This is a test. They are all waiting to see if I will behave like any intelligent person would and run. Run fast. Run far. But it never even occurred to me. Never would have occurred to me. I am truly his property. I realize just how far I am from home, and I begin to cry. Still I do not move. Sir rises from his stool and enters the circle of light in which I kneel. He circles me and stops on my left side. The only sound is my crying, which I cannot get a grip on: the tears keep coming. My shoulders are shaking, and I can't stop them. Sir lifts my chin to the camera. "That tells the story right there. Why is it crying? Because this is no vacant, empty headed, drug addled automaton. It isn't jaded or desensitized to its condition. Lot 98 is highly intelligent, self-aware, willful and capable. It isn't some trailer trash castoff that we've cleaned up and trotted out. It came to us from a good family. It has a first rate education, impeccable breeding, and could easily find employment in the most competitive job markets. Instead it is on her knees, here, for you. I would say 'by choice' except that it seems to be no choice at all. It struggles, it doubts, it questions. But it was born to serve, and that trumps any instinct it might have for autonomy. It exists within a unique and powerful paradox that will provide the most exquisite opportunities for exploration should you be wise enough to own it." Sir releases my chin, and I lower my eyes back to the hardwood floor. "98, attend me." I look up immediately to Sir; never to his eyes unless explicitly instructed. In his right hand is a black leather crop, in his left he holds out a simple blue vibrator, which I take with both hands as though receiving a chalice. My eyes remain on Sir. You stroke my hair in a manner reminiscent of a pet, and I relish it. I know what's coming, and I'm nervous because I'm not sure I'll be able to do it. "98, you have three minutes. Cum for us." "Yes, Sir." I stammer through my tears. I'd like to say this is the first time I've masturbated while crying; I can't. I'd like to say I am not aroused; I can't. I turn the vibrator to high, and bring it to meet my pussy. At first touch, my thighs try to lever shut on my hand and the vibrator. Crush it inside me. I am wet, and the vibrator slips effortlessly inside. I tilt it so the tip presses against the top of me. My crying stops like an infant with a pacifier – instantly and shamelessly I go from sad to content. And an instant later, my brain catches up with my body and begins to scold me. To remind me where I am and what is happening. How are you capable of being aroused? What is the matter with you, little girl? It's a familiar debate, and I don't have time for it now. I try to push it out of my mind, but like a white elephant it's impossible not to think about it. My arousal diminishes...walks out ahead of me and I'm unable to catch it. I hold the vibrator to my clit, not gently or playfully, but hard and constant. I begin to berate myself silently. Sometimes that works. You slut. You whore. Come for Sir. Do it, or do you really just want him to hurt you? I'm breathing hard, not from arousal but from the effort. I fuck myself with the vibrator so that the palm of my hand hammers my clit. But I've become self-conscious, and now the pressure of the clock is intruding as well. Oh my god, Sir, is going to be so angry. Sir. Beside me, watching. More than fearing his anger, I desperately don't want to disappoint him. I don't want to fail. He senses my difficulty, and with infallible instincts that I've come to adore...he helps me again, as he has done so many times over the past year, to be better than I am. Puts his finger on the button that will push me forward. Sir brings the crop down hard on my sternum. Without warning, unprepared, I let out a shriek. Sir cocks the crop again. I watch it; my hand working the vibrator savagely between my legs. The length of black leather is hypnotic, and Sir helps me forget my foolish reservations. My arousal embraces me like a lost friend. Everything but the crop, Sir, and the space between my thighs ceases to exist. "May she cum, Sir," I manage to stammer. "Yes, 98." When I orgasm, my face twists in a silent paroxysm of ecstasy. My back arches, and my head bends back almost to the floor; my hips spasm four times scraping my knees on the hardwood floor. I am not permitted the luxury of making a sound. But he tells me how much he enjoys the 'retarded' faces that I make so I have learned to express my pleasure fully in my face. Sir gives me no space to compose myself. Another stroke from the crop, and I scramble to return to Three. "Two minutes thirty eight seconds. Under duress. Only moments earlier crying in degradation and fear, and it is still able to cum like a wanton, shameless slut in under three minutes. This is what makes Lot 98 particularly special." Sir steps behind me, and squats behind me. I feel his knees on either side of my back. "Tell us about 98's college thesis." "Yes, Sir. She double majored in European History and English literature. Her thesis was centered on the role of femininity in the Theater of the Absurd characterized in the works of Beckett, Ionesco, Adamov, Genet and to a lesser extent the works of the pre-Absurdists like Pirrandello, Jarry and Witkiewicz." It's been a while since I've thought about college. I was kind of a star back in those days. I was smart and talented. I had a gift for interdisciplinary connections – taking a piece of economic theory and applying it to Abstract Expressionism. A neat trick and it won me a lot of attention from department heads. As I rattle off the overview of my thesis, I feel your hands settle around my neck. Your fingers lock over my windpipe just below my chin. You apply just the faintest pressure. It is hard to concentrate on something as trivial as my college thesis. "Go on, 98," you whisper in my ear. I do my best. I detail how the traumatic casualty totals of World War I left eligible bachelors in short supply during the interwar period, which left European women time to consider options other then domestic bliss. I mention the absence of a female presence in Waiting for Godot, and how I used Simone de Beauvoir's The Second Sex and her theory of a feminist existentialism as a counterweight. But quickly the strength of your hands drown out my feeble attempt at a dissertation. I labor for breath before your hands close my windpipe completely. The vibrator rolls out of my right hand, and across the floor. I watch it as my vision begins to blur. My hands twitch but do not stray from my thighs. I do not fight; I wait. Black. My eyes flutter open. I'm slumped back in Sir's arms. It's been no more than ten seconds. My head pounds as does my pussy. Sir holds me upright as my eyes refocus. I feel disembodied and slightly euphoric. A daft grin spreads over my face. He applies two sharp slaps to my right cheek. I'm alert enough to hold myself upright again. "What was the name on 98's thesis?" You ask pointedly while I'm still groggy. I feel a wave of panic. It's a trick question. I'm not allowed to say my old name. Not ever. My name is 98 now, and that is all. But I'm also not allowed to disobey a direct order. What is the less of two evils? "Her name is 98." I insist. "Yes of course it is," you coo into my ear seductively. "But what name was on the thesis." "Her name is 98." "The name on the thesis." You bark. You bring your hand down hard on my flank, all pretense of playfulness gone. "The name. What was the name? The name? Tell us the name." You rain down blows on my hip knocking me over. Pinning me to the floor with one hand, you paddle my ass. "The name. The name. The name." You chant it in syncopated rhythm to your blows. "She doesn't know." I wail. "What do you mean it doesn't know?" You pause. "Her name is 98. That is what she has been told. She doesn't remember any other name." It's a lie. I'm not an idiot, and Sir knows I'm lying. But I get lucky. It doesn't seem to matter to him that I'm lying. He just wanted me to deny I had another name once. "Pick up my toy, 98. Did I give permission to drop it?" "No, Sir." I pick the toy up hastily. "My toy is dirty. Clean it." The vibrator is covered in fine dust from the floor. I put the vibrator all the way into my mouth, and close my lips tight around it. I draw it back out, mostly clean. I splutter trying to get the dirt off my tongue. I lick the one or two spots I missed clean and hold the vibrator up for inspection. You look it over, and nod satisfied. "Good girl, 98. Lay there on the floor and come for us." You stand up and walk away leaving me in a heap on the floor. I turn the vibrator on for the second time and slip it between my legs. I won't have any of the problems from before. Choking; being spanked; the stress of Sir yelling at me; the act of cleaning the vibrator – it's left me incredibly aroused. If I last ninety seconds it would be a minor miracle. I feel oddly peaceful lying on my side, not knowing who is watching or how many. I feel unconcerned by it all. Sir has a plan; I know that much and it calms me. And anyway there's the tasty little orgasm I'm on the verge of. What else is there? "May 98 cum, Sir?" I call out. I hear you moving behind me. "No." You reply sternly. "Continue, but do not." I should have known it wouldn't be that easy, but for whatever reason I didn't expect it. I struggle to control my body. It's just will versus instinct. An act of will to ignore the humming blue cylinder inside me; an act of will not to become more aroused at being told no; an act of will to continue masturbating because to let up would be considered cheating. "May she cum, Sir?" "No." Another minute passes. "May she cum, Sir?" "No." My body is rolling side to side as though I'm on the deck of a ship. My orgasm has claws and teeth. I am trying to hold it off of me but it is like a feral animal, and it leaps around looking for weakness. The simple act of being told no is a powerful excitement. I feel myself twitch and spasm around the vibrator. I rap my head against the hardwood floors hoping the impact and the pain will distract me. It's a losing battle. The Bidding of Lot 98 Ch. 02 Chapter 2: Travel Sir holds the car door open for me. I put on my seatbelt, and stare out the window at the sprawling antebellum plantation house that has been my home for the last twelve months. I remember how intimidating it was when I arrived. The scale of it seemed exactly to match my dread and nervousness. But in the morning sun, it looks inviting and warm. Two ancient willows flank the front steps like a fairytale. This will be my first time off the grounds since the day I arrived. I won't ever be coming back. I've struggled for the last few days to come terms with that notion. A week ago I believed my world had achieved some definition and stability -- a sense of order that I craved. I had the master that I had only read about in books. His care and training had instilled a calm that I had lacked. I no longer felt out of control. The urge to be self-destructive had receded; I hardly thought of drinking anymore. I had felt focused. Just being in a car again seems strange -- sitting in the leather passenger seat seems almost too luxurious for words. Your footsteps crunch in the gravel as you circle the car. I haven't the faintest idea where I am headed. I have been sold in auction to an anonymous buyer -- an undisclosed amount to an undisclosed bidder. An action I accepted without question, without a fight, without a thought for what I want. Like the slave I have worked to become. It amazes me what I have sacrificed so that I might sleep at night. What I want is to stay with Sir. To be his slave. Sir understands me, makes me feel safe and cared for. I want this maybe more than anything I have ever wanted in my life. To lose it has drained me. I haven't eaten. Barely slept. The old anxiety is creeping back. My training has slipped. Forgetting things. I fidget. I feel....unraveled: a ball of string that has fallen carelessly to the floor and rolled out of sight. Overnight I chewed all the fingers on my left hand down to the nub; a nasty habit which Sir thought he had beaten out of me. When he saw what I'd done, he was furious. I spent an hour attempting to repair the damage, even out my other hand with a file, but it was still far from perfect when I presented my hands for inspection. I wilted under his glare. "Do not dishonor me or this house, 98." "She will not, Sir." "Stay." He pronounced, and left me. Sir left me standing there, arms out, staring at my fingers until my forearms burned. My shadow stretched out across the floor as the sun set. I stood until I broke out in a sweat. I stood until my forearms went numb, panting like I was in the final miles of a marathon. I stood until I was sure I couldn't last another moment. He returned with flawless timing, and watched me struggle to hold my position for several minutes until he seemed satisfied with my struggle. He stepped in close to me. "This is hard, 98. This will be very hard on you. Don't think that I don't recognize the stress that leaving puts on you. But this is not the first or last hard thing that will be asked of you. Always rely on your training. Tackle this pain, this stress, just as you have here this afternoon. You have stood in this position longer than any ordinary woman could. Endured discomfort, cramps, and exhaustion. Not because you are stronger, not because it hurts any less, but because you have been trained to process and endure hardship. It is your strength. Use it, stay focused, don't abandon it just because you are scared. Physical hardship and emotional hardship are more similar than not." "Yes, Sir." A wave of gratitude sweeps through me. "Your choice is to serve." "Her choice is to serve, Sir." "My choice is to train you. To prepare you to meet that challenge." "But Sir..." I blurt out. You silence me with a raised hand. "Don't say it, 98. I know. But that is not to be. And in the end it is not the right path for you. Do you trust my judgment?" "Yes Sir. She does." "Then trust me now. Put your arms down. Prepare for supper. Go." I did as I was told; I served, but it was so very hard. With my training here at an end there has been little to occupy my time other than preparing to depart. I clean my quarters by hand. Scrubbing the floors on my hands and knees, I realize that I am not the first girl to erase her presence from this room. I am preparing the room for my replacement. I have time to think about my thesis; it feels more and more a rite of passage -- a symbolic sacrifice to the god of lost little girls. But what have I passed into? Certainly not adulthood. I push the bucket forward and rinse my rag again. In the ringing silence of my quarters, I see all the distant, battered girls who found solace in these simple labors. They stretch out behind me like ancestors, and I see myself about to join them. How hard were they pushed? I've come back again and again to my thesis. Had time to process. Had time to feel every human emotion one way or another about it. Always the anger comes first and just as quick a voice reminds me that there were no ropes, no chains, no force; only a man's voice and my bottomless need. It doesn't dull the anger, but only leaves it directionless and frustrated. But as awful and humiliating as it was, I've come to be grateful for it. Come to see it as necessary. Until that moment, I hadn't fully committed to my new life. To some extent I was still a voyeur; a tourist of my own life; I had kept some small separation from my situation -- a tiny sliver of a gap that allowed me to intellectualize the moment rather then experience it. I don't know how you knew, but you knew. It was the jolt I needed to finally release me. I was free; I was a slave. You are right...I am a paradox. You've been circling for days. Melancholy and restrained. Constantly on the verge of something that you never articulate. You conceal it well, but I know you the way a sailor knows the wind. You remain my Sir, but everything has changed and we both feel it profoundly. I expected...no, I hoped, that you would take me again; one last time. I waited expectantly, and finally worked up the nerve to ask. But you said it was forbidden. Impossible was your exact word. I'd been sold and was no longer his to claim. I cried. You asked me why, and I said it felt like we were breaking up. You smiled, but not cruelly, and hugged me tightly, petting my hair before shooing me away. But I felt you watching me as I turned the corner, and in my heart I want to believe that I am more special to you then all those other girls. That night when I got into bed, on my side table, there was a single swan white magnolia blossom floating in a flat glass bowl. It was from a tree that sits along a creek at the north end of the property. It was the spot where Sir conducted many of our interviews. Where he read to me. I watch the blossom float peacefully across the water until I fall asleep. I've never wanted a man to love me before....how ironic. This morning, when I woke, regular clothes were laid out for me. Not mine, but they all fit: blue jeans, a pair of black mules, a white tee shirt and a black leather jacket. Matching bra and panties. A purse. It all looked so normal and adorable. I practically lived in jeans all through high school and college; it felt incredible to put them on again. Not to mention a bra...when was the last time I wore a bra? I walked around in circles for a few minutes just enjoying the feeling of street clothes like a fool. I could be a girl shopping at the Gap; the thought made me giggle and I put a hand over my mouth to muffle myself. We drive in silence; I have a hard time relaxing with you this close by, and I realize I am sitting at attention. My back only touches the backrest when you accelerate. I'm on my way to a new life: a new master. Yet I'm so focused on never seeing Sir again that it hasn't really hit me. The notion that the man who has been my guide, teacher and master for a year will soon be gone from my life is incomprehensible to me. I described it as a breakup but really it's much, much worse. No fight. No closure. No reason. Oh no wait, I forgot, there is a reason. I've been sold into slavery to a person I've never met. I don't even know if it is a man or a woman. That's the reason. It is a funny, scary, ludicrous truth. "Little, I want you to breathe." He says. 'Deep breaths. Come on now." "Sir." I feel on the edge of hysterics. My heart is pounding. "There is some makeup in the glove compartment. In the visor there is a mirror. Why don't you fix yourself up." A mirror? I'm almost afraid to look. Sir is my mirror. Who will I see? Will I recognize her? I lower the visor slowly, and a pair of frightened eyes greets me. I want to touch them. The girl looking back isn't as much of an alien as I imagined. She looks different than I remember. Harder. But also radiant and healthy in a way I hadn't expected. She has sharp, intelligent eyes. I'm like a child seeing its reflection for the first time, and I'm rapt. It takes a gentle nudge from Sir to get me moving. "Falling in love over there?" You needle playfully. I blush, "sorry, Sir." I busy myself with the mascara, lip gloss, blush until I'm pleased with the result. It isn't until later that I realize that Sir has distracted me from my panic attack. How does he do that? Sir puts on one of my favorite Belle and Sebastian CDs. I haven't heard it in forever, and don't even remember telling Sir about it, but the familiar melodies make me happy. I stare at his hand on the armrest fighting the desire to hold it. I know it would disappoint him, and I don't want his last memory of me to be weak and maudlin. We drive two hours to an airport. It isn't the closest one to the house, which is probably the point. We park in short term, and Sir takes an overnight suitcase out of the trunk. He gives it to me, and I wheel it behind me. He talks while we walk. He gives me one hundred dollars in twenties, a cell phone, a fake driver's license. My name is "Marcia Harden". Sir knows I like the actress, and it makes me smile - a little joke between us. He says it will be easy for me to remember. He gives me a sealed envelope, and tells me that inside is a roundtrip ticket -- he explains that one way tickets sometimes draw undue attention. I'm proud that Sir thinks of everything. A driver will be waiting in baggage claim to pick up Marcia Harden. "Keep this safe." He hands me a small, platinum padlock. Etched in the side is a symbol that might be Chinese or Japanese. "You serve whomever has the key, Little One." I'm only to use the phone in an emergency. There are two programmed numbers, and I'm to call them both if anything happens. He has other instructions: what to do if no one is there to greet me, if the flight is redirected to another airport, if the police speak to me for any reason. I take it all in, compiling Sir's directions into a mental list as I have been trained. I feel a little like a secret agent on an assignment. I feel like I'm on a trip, or vacation. It's an adventure. I'm excited but I can't put my finger on why. Maybe just because it is something new. Maybe because I'm in denial about where this journey ends, and that Sir will not be going with me. But in this moment I am exhilarated. We wind our way through the throng at check in. Despite the crowd your stride never falters, and I have to scurry to keep up. You steer us towards Concourse C and D. "Sir, may she buy a magazine for the flight?" I ask feeling daring. I see trepidation and concern in your face, but you nod your assent. I scamper into the generic airport shop, back to the magazine racks. I'd forgotten there were so many. It's a blaze of color and faces and titles. I feel overwhelmed. How do I choose? What did I used to like? I long for Sir to pick one out for me. I glance back at you standing in the concourse, and pull myself together. Just pick a fucking magazine! I grab two blindly and head to the cash register. I glance down: Entertainment Weekly and Car and Driver. Odd combo; well I like movies. I dump Car and Driver onto a pile of new Stephen King novels. I get to the front of the line. I put a pack of gum on top of my magazine, but snatch it off before she rings it up. I used to love gum. "Problems?" You ask when I get back. "Yes Sir. She felt overwhelmed at all the choices and wished Sir could choose for her." I say automatically. I've been painstakingly trained to report my thoughts and emotions, and apparently that extends to magazines and candy too. You nod as if that makes perfect sense. We walk down the concourse to security. You can't come through with me so this is where it will end. My eyes are wet. You lead me over to a row of airport seats. You sit; I stand. "Sit down." I begin to kneel on the floor. You halt me with a gesture, and indicate the seat next to you. For the second and final time, I sit down beside you. You're staring straight ahead lost in thought. I watch your mouth, which I've come to associate with you more than anything else. I could pick your lips out of a lineup. "Little One," you begin and stop and after a moment begin again. "Little One, it is a difficult thing to train a girl for another. Just as it is difficult to be trained for another. Inevitably there is a bonding process. We both feel it, and I will tell you that what you have experienced is real; it was intimate, and intense and profound. There is no shame in what you feel, and you have made me proud in your restraint since the auction. Girls before you have not made the transition so well, and it speaks well of your commitment and training." "Thank you, Sir." Thrilled at the compliment. "You will experience a sense of loss. It is natural. So will I; I will always remember our year together. But natural or not, it is not a luxury either one of us may dwell on for long. The lives we have chosen, or in your case have allowed to be chosen for you, do not permit it. So my last lesson. Where you go is hard. It is demanding, and it is what you need. Do not get distracted by magazines and clothes. This trip is a temporary and artificial moment; do not get comfortable." "Yes Sir." "And before the plane lands you must acknowledge a simple truth. You are a slave. Your feeling that we've "broken up" has no bearing on the service you have been sold into. You will have no time for schoolgirl mourning. Your new home will have no patience for a sad or wistful slave, and it will go very badly for you. When you arrive you must be attentive and present, not daydreaming about the past. Do I make myself clear?" "Yes Sir." "Make me proud, 98. That is how I hope you will remember me: in your actions, your behavior, and your service. That is your final service to me -- represent me honorably." You stop there, and brush the hair gently off my forehead. "She will, Sir." I smile, eyes rimmed with tears. Your words are so romantic...I know that's not a word most people would understand in this situation, but that is the word I feel. "And lastly be on guard for your pride?" "Her pride, Sir?" "Yes, Little One. Pride. It's a great asset at times, but you are too pleased with yourself when you think you know the game. You still delude yourself that you are in control. You still think you are smarter than everyone. I can practically hear you congratulating yourself from time to time when you think you've won a victory. Be on guard against too much cleverness. Keep in mind that you are an inexperienced little slut, be proud that you are pleasing your new master, and give up trying to discover shortcuts and tricks. Understood? You are starting over fresh." "Yes Sir. A question, Sir?" You nod. "Where am I going Sir? Who has bought me?" "I do not know the answer to that, Little. Our House doesn't allow a trainer to know the destination of a girl he has prepared. As I've said it is hard to train a girl for another. To safeguard against any potential," you think for a moment, "complications, I will not know where you go, or to whom." You sense my alarm and go on. "But, our clients are screened carefully; we have been doing this a long time. I do not know where you are going, but I have complete confidence that it will be a good home for a girl such as you. Do you understand?" "Yes Sir. She understands." "I know you do." You gaze at me. I sit and enjoy your eyes on me. I feel warm like I am sitting in the sun. I never want it to stop. You rise, and pet my hair. "Look at me, Little One." I gaze up into your green, sharp eyes for the last time. Your hand caresses my cheek and I press my face into your hard, rough palm. The bustling airport terminal is empty, but for the warmth of your hand and your eyes. "Be a good girl, Little One. Make me proud." "Yes Sir. She will. Thank you for everything." I have so much more to say but instead fall silent. You nod slightly, lingering and then you are away down the concourse. I'm left to watch you recede. I feel like someone punched me in the stomach; I am breathless and my heart hammers away in my chest as I watch you disappear from sight. My adventure is over. It isn't fun anymore. I want to go home. I teeter on the edge of panic, and cry quietly. I have no home to go to. I trudge through security with the other shuffling penguins; I open the envelope and look at my ticket for the first time. I am flying to San Diego -- seems too sunny a destination all things considered. I have the padlock in my hand and rub it with my thumb. Two different agents check my ID against my plane ticket, and neither gives it a second glance. After that my trip is routine. Infinitely banal. It is delayed forty-five minutes for no reason. Two toddlers play tag around the gate. The man right behind my head is on the phone patiently walking his wife through programming the DVR. It makes me think briefly of my sister. I wonder what she is doing. It would be nice to hear her voice; I wouldn't have to say anything. Even if it was just her answering machine. I think better of it, but it makes me wonder. Am I'm being watched? It's strange that their expensive investment is being allowed to fly solo. Is this a test? The first half of the flight I read my magazine and stare out the window. George Clooney is still suavely sexy. Lindsey Lohan is somehow still in rehab. The cast of Lost is still, well, lost. I am so different now, and everything is so bafflingly the same. I think nostalgically about Sir although my idea of nostalgia probably differs starkly from the woman sitting next to me. The flight attendant comes around with the beverage cart. "May she have a Diet Coke?" I ask, force of habit taking over. The flight attendant pushes her face at me quizzically, decides she misheard and gives it to me. I go red, but I get a bag of pretzels and a Diet Coke out of it. My first Diet Coke in a year; it's like liquid heaven. First and last, a nasty voice whispers. I know that voice well; it's the voice that disapproves of me. It is the voice of my mother, my father, my brother. It's been a long time since I've heard that voice. Thought it had been exorcized. Diet Coke isn't part of the slavery lifestyle, the voice snickers at me. Amazing the lengths you'll go not to have to take any responsibility for yourself; it goads me, and dredges up memories that are condemning and unflattering. Slut. We're all ashamed of you, it whispers. I squeeze my eyes closed tight but there is no escaping them. I practically climb over my neighbor in my rush to the bathroom. I lock myself into the tiny bathroom, sit on the plastic toilet cover and I cry. Again. For the first time, I think about my future. I realize that my default vision of my new owner is virtually identical to Sir. I am leaving Sir, yes, but up until now I've imagined a carbon copy of him -- probably why I haven't thought about it. But it won't be Sir, or anything like him. Might not even be a man. It could be anyone. Young or old. Fat, skinny, muscled. Bad breath, warts, hairy, or worse. My mind conjures up a train wreck of unappetizing, unattractive qualities that might afflict my new owner. A clubfooted, geriatric albino with a hare lip and stomach curdling halitosis greets me at the door of my new home. I pretend not to notice his lisp or his drooling as he shows me around. His canker sores begin bleeding as he instructs me to strip naked... The Bidding of Lot 98 Ch. 02 I shiver, and squeeze my eyes tight shut until I can stop myself making it worse. I look at the platinum padlock. I serve whomever holds the key. 'Whomever' becomes a monstrously broad concept. And it could really be anyone. To serve their needs. It is irrelevant whether I like it. It is irrelevant whether I like them. All that is relevant is their pleasure. This is submission on a far more profound level than I've experienced. I knew Sir going in. We had met, and corresponded and I went to him knowing that I wanted to serve him. I went knowing that he excited me, and that I felt it. Felt the "bend" -- the primitive urge to bend my knees to him. He exuded it more strongly than any man I had ever met. What if I didn't feel the bend f or my new owner? It would be a submission because I am a slave, and that is what my training dictates. Part of me is drawn to the idea. My desire to serve Sir was partly a crutch. Is it submission if you want it and enjoy it? When the plane touches down, I am still no closer to answering that one. I exit the plane and make the long walk to baggage claim. I have this fantasy where Sir is waiting for me; this has been an incredible test of my loyalty. He sweeps me up in his arms, and... I see a chauffer with a sign: Marcia Harden. I wheel my bag up to him and stop. "Marcia Harden?" I nod. He holds a photo up and compares it to me. He's maybe fifty and several inches shorter than me. His squat shoulders distort his ill-fitting sports jacket. "Padlock?" He asks in a thick accent that reminds me of a scuba instructor I once fucked in Aruba. I hold it out to him terrified that he has the key...it's the key 98 serves...but he just nods. He takes my bag, and I follow him out of the terminal to a black limousine. He holds open the door, and I slip inside and look around expectantly, but no one is waiting. We drive south out of San Diego on Route 5. The limo pulls in at a gas station. The driver fills the tank and squeegees the front and back windows. When he's done he opens the trunk and takes out two duffle bags: one empty and one full. He gets in the back with me, and we stare at each other. He opens the full bag and reads from a pad of paper phonetically. I don't think he speaks any English. "Give me your ID. Give me your plane ticket. Give me your money." He reads off in a gruff monotone. They all go in his jacket pocket. The ID he puts in his jacket pocket. Everything else goes in the empty duffle bag. The only thing he doesn't take is the cell phone "Give me all your clothes." He reads. I give him a funny look, which he returns blankly. Now I'm certain that he has no idea what he just asked. Out the tinted windows a father is holding his son up so he can squeegee their car's windows. I hesitate. Sir was right -- reading Entertainment Weekly has cast a pall of normalcy over my mind. The idea of being naked in front of this man makes me shy. I smile at him; he smiles back politely and continues to wait since he's not sure what I' m supposed to be doing. The idea of embarrassing Sir is what finally spurs me, and I hand over my jacket and my shoes. I unbutton my fly and begin to wiggle out of my jeans. When I am naked I look up. He gazes back at me steadily. There is a hard look in his eyes. Singular and unvarnished. A look that I spent ten years of my life trying to tease out of every man I met. A look I both despised and craved. He sits for several minutes with my panties in his hand, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. I can't hold his gaze so I stare over at the mini-fridge, legs crossed. I don't know what to do with my hands so I fold them demurely in my lap. Now what happens? The driver takes two sealed envelopes from the bag. He hands one to me, and opens the other and reads to himself. He is smiling when he looks up. He gestures impatiently to the forgotten envelope in my hand. Inside is a letter written in a beautiful cursive script. The letterhead is the same symbol inscribed in my padlock. I don't know who wrote it only that no matter what it says, I must obey. No matter what. It's a funny notion. Someone wrote this letter, probably this morning, sitting at a desk with a cup of coffee -- someone imagined my future and then wrote it down. Naked I read. Hello 98, In due time, that name will change to reflect a new station and a new house, however it will suffice for the time being. My name is obviously not 98's concern only that I own it. There is much for 98 to learn, but for the time being it need only know... 1.That I own 98 and that 98 submitted of its free will. 2.That this choice marks the death of 98's free will, and mine will stand in its place. 3.That free will is not the same as intelligence or willpower, and 98 will need both. 4.That 98 serves whomever holds the key, but is owned only by myself. As an introduction to my will, the limousine driver expects satisfaction as part of his payment. I do not know the man's tastes nor do I care. I care only that my arrangements are concluded in full. 98 will see to it that the transaction is satisfactory to the driver. It is perhaps an abrupt, indelicate task, but I have found that an indelicate task often serves a useful purpose - particularly for those engaging in romantic speculation about the future. I hope this helps settle any lingering questions 98 might have. Welcome to my household. I don't look up right away. I pretend to still be reading so I can buy myself time to gather myself. Although I have not always chosen how my partners used me, I have always chosen my partners. I've at least had that. Those days are at an end. I spent so much time on the flight obsessing about who my new owner might be that it never occurred to me that people sometimes shared with friends. I could be lent like a book. It brings me one step closer to truly being property. It changes everything; so much to absorb. He takes the letter out of my hand and folds it. I look up and meet his eyes. "Puta," not an accusation just a statement of fact; he stares at me. I nod that I understand, and lick my lips nervously. What is ironic is that this has always been a fantasy of mine -- to be the whore, to be used by strangers...if I had a nickel for every time I masturbated to such thoughts...yet as is so often the case when reality collides with fantasy there is much more to it. So much more I'm trying to decide what to do when he sits forward and runs his hand across my breasts. My breath catches in my throat. A man I don't know just reached out and touched me like he was handling produce at a supermarket. It's an incredible sensation -- physically and psychically. He fondles me roughly -- arms, neck stomach, and pushes my knees apart. My arms spread and my arms grip the upholstery leaving him unfettered access to my body. This is a new level of nakedness. His hands coast across my skin exploring. How many hands have touched me this way, and yet I'm shivering all over. His fingers press between my legs, and we both feel his fingers find the wet. I blush, but in the dimness of the limo I don't think he sees. Finding me wet emboldens him; it's his passport. He gropes at me, and I sit silent and obedient while he manhandles me. Expressionless, we stare at each other. Until, feeling his fingers pushing up inside me I start to get angry. Not at him, at myself. Is this what I am? A pliant piece of meat? Is this all the better I was trained? Sir was always explicit on this point: submissiveness is not an excuse to be passive; an excuse to do the bare minimum. To cower here like a coma victim while I am fondled by this man. Perhaps it is within the letter of the law, but not the spirit. And I was trained to believe in the spirit. That is why Sir is proud of me. What would he think of me now? Dishonoring my new owner by lying down like a victim. I am a slave not a victim. Not anymore. No man should have his hand inside me and look as bored as this man does. It is an unacceptable failure. As his fingers begin to flex inside me, I allow myself a deep breath and force out a moan. It is not authentic, but it's a bit like clearing your throat before song, and soon another moan follows, and this one is real. He called me 'puta', and that is what I will be. I am here for his pleasure; keep that in mind. My thighs relax, parting, and I push my hips down the seat into his hand. It makes me hum in my throat; he smiles, which is a start. He pulls me to the edge of my seat by the neck. His hand inside me; mine fondling him through his pants. I suck his thumb into my mouth forcing it to the back of my throat. I grind myself into his hand and imagine Sir watching me. He is not smiling anymore. Animals don't smile, and that's what I've awakened. A simple want. He lets go of me to fumble with his pants, shoved gracelessly to his ankles and he is on top of me. He tumbles me over onto my back and hunts for the wet with his hungry little cock. He reminds me of abortive early fumblings in high school. I do my best to help him, but he is frantic and it takes a dozen unsuccessful thrusts before he finds me. I cling to him, wrapping my legs around him, as he bucks relentlessly. He lasts maybe fifty seconds; he realizes too late that he's close, tries to slow down, but he's already past that point. He lets out a roar as he comes; I join him, but where his is pleasure, mine is a different kind of satisfaction. He clambers off and pulls himself together. I lay there in a jumble of emotions and caroming thoughts while he drips out of me. Unprotected sex with a middle aged chauffeur. What's the worst thing I could have just contracted? Didn't even cross my mind. Surely my owner wouldn't risk exposing his acquisition to some disease-ridden man? Unless he expected his new toy to exhibit some of that intelligence and willpower he mentioned in his letter. Fuck. I sit up and he shoves the duffle bag towards me. The clothes inside are expensive and stylish. He gestures for me to put them on. In a matter of minutes I am transformed from a casual twenty something into a glamorous young socialite. The oversized Louis Vuitton sunglasses are the crowning touch. I open my new passport to see myself smiling back at me. Apparently, my name is Angela Marshall, and I am from Orange County. Where are you going Angela Marshall? The chauffeur hoists the duffle bags into the gas station's dumpster before we get back on the interstate. We cross into Tijuana without incident. The border guard is accustomed to spoiled, young Americans -- it's a perfect disguise. In an hour we are zooming along Mexico 3 towards Ensenada. If anyone goes looking for Marcia Harden, it is unlikely they will ever connect her to Angela Marshall much less to 98. I am an untraceable statistic. I feel a numb dread when I think how deep I am, and how far I have gone. I stare out the window and watch the sunset and try to ignore my empty stomach. I am daydreaming about the chocolate cake my mom made for all of our birthdays when the limo turns off the road and begins a clumsy descent into a barren field. The chauffeur opens my door and beckons me out. A dilapidated barn a hundred yards away is the only structure in sight. The moon is bright, which is fortunate because it is the only light other than the headlights of the limo. "98," he says, "assume Two." I'm so conditioned to the phrase that I don't even register surprise to hear the words from the chauffeur. Automatically, my back straightens, and I shift my feet apart. My hands slip behind my back grasping my forearms. My chin rises; my eyes lower. A less stressful version of One. "Wait," he says and gets back in the limo. I don't think anything of it when he starts the engine -- it's chilly -- but when he pulls away I'm stunned. I watch the limo until it disappears over the ridge. I am not dressed for this. I stand in my three-inch heels in the middle of a rocky Mexican field. I wait although I don't know if it was an order, but I don't see many options. How long do I wait? For an hour, maybe, and I manage to remain calm. Although whenever the moon goes behind a cloud, I feel an anxious twist in my gut. I've come to regard all stressful situations as tests even if I can't see the purpose. To pass the time, I review my day, organizing it as though I'll be reporting to Sir. It's been an eventful day, so it distracts me from my predicament. As time passes, I begin to feel weirdly isolated. The sound of the wind and the deepening darkness merge in my senses into a liquid overload. I'm cold. I'm scared. I'm starving. Overall, I'm miserable. The only thing that lets me hold it together is my certainty that Sir wouldn't let this be for nothing. He wouldn't, would he? Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. My eyes are wet but I'll be damned if I'm crying again today. About then it begins to rain. I actually look up and say to the night sky, 'are you kidding me?' The rain picks up. Evidently not. I stare at the barn, and contemplate how strictly to interpret 'wait'. The command wasn't 'stay', and I'm just as capable of waiting under the barn's eaves as out in the open. I give my bedraggled logic a C minus. I'm about to strike out when Sir's final words echo in my head: 'Be on guard against too much cleverness.' Isn't this exactly the sort of semantic dance that frustrated him about me? I was told to wait so wait. My sensible and good decision makes me feel happy. The rain falls steadily for the next hour. The field turns quickly to mud, and my heels sink into the earth. I feel mentally exhausted. It's not the pose; I've stood for far longer than this. It's the uncertainty of the situation. It's the complete trust I am placing in an owner I have never met. Of not feeling safe or certain what the rules are. Or maybe it's just been a long day. Another hour passes. The rain ebbs and then picks up strength again. For ten minutes I am inexplicably horny but that passes too. The phone rings. I'd forgotten it was in my little purse. "Hello?" "Come to the barn." A male voice, and the line goes dead. I trudge towards the barn. My heels sink into the soft earth and my progress is frustratingly slow. The sound of an engine idling greets me as I near the barn. Inside is a huge black pickup. I would have seen it arrive so it must have been there since before I arrived at the field. The two men in the cab regard me with casual indifference -- as if overdressed American girls were a dime a dozen in this field. Maybe they are. The headlights spear the night, blinding me. The passenger door opens, and closes and I track the outline of the man approaching me. He is my height, maybe an inch shorter and built like a gymnast with impossibly broad, curving shoulders tapering to a narrow waist; thick fire hydrants thighs. Yet his face is surprising delicate with high swooping cheekbones and a sharp, closely trimmed black beard. I might call him pretty except that his demeanor renders the word an impossibility. There is a hardness about him that I can feel in my spine. His teeth seem preternaturally clenched, and I somehow doubt those eyes have ever lost a staring contest. As to his age, I can't tell. He might be fifty; he might be thirty-five. I've never been a good judge of men's ages. "98?" He asks taking the phone and purse out of my hand. "Yes." What is that accent? Latin but something else as well. "Padlock." He holds out a hand. His impatient fingers gesture for me to hurry. I put it in his palm. He produces a key, and slips it into the lock. The lock springs open. He looks intently at me. "Does 98 understand?" "98 serves whomever holds the key." I answer snapping back into Two. "Yes that is so. My name is Amaro." "Yes, Sir." That is not Sir the brat in me screams. "Not Sir. Amaro." He corrects. "Yes Amaro." "Good. Welcome to a new life." "Thank you, Sir." His hand catches my cheek before I can correct myself. It is no stage slap. He follows through and my head snaps around. I stumble to my right, cursing my sloppiness and hurry back to stand before him. He regards me a moment. "Welcome to a new life." "Thank you, Amaro." I answer carefully. He nods, and takes something out of a leather case on his belt. He moves it deftly through the air deftly, and suddenly it is a knife. He cuts through my shoulder straps, but my dress, wet from the rain, clings to my frame. It doesn't please him. He turns me around by the shoulders and unzipping the dress tugs it roughly to my ankles. He cuts my panties off my hips and tugs them through my legs. The dull side of the blade is cold on my skin. "Turn" I turn slowly in a circle. He is leaning against the hood of the pickup. When I am facing away he stops me. He tells me to bend at the waist, and, legs apart, to present myself. I reach back with both hands and hold my bottom apart. I remember a time that Sir had me hold this position while he ate dinner; I masturbated in the same position during dessert. The thought makes me warm. "Very nice." You say. "Thank you, Sir." This time I don't catch myself. Stupid daydreaming girl. Amaro takes me by the ponytail, lifting and pulling so I follow him out of the barn on my toes, laboring to keep up. He walks me in circles in the rain; the mud rips my shoes from my feet. We stop in a puddle. "Down." I get down on my knees. "Lower." I drop to all fours. "Lower." He growls. I press myself belly first into the puddle working to flatten myself to the contours of the ground. I turn my face to the side, half in, half out of the mud. Breathing bubbles in the brackish water. I feel his heel pressing down on my left shoulder pushing me lower he's satisfied. "Welcome to a new life." "Thank you, Amaro." I stammer. "A new life. A new birth, yes?" "Yes, Amaro." "Birth. It is a messy thing. Never clean. Never easy. The mother is exhausted, and the baby is filthy, squalling and fighting for breath, no?" "Yes, Amaro." He squats beside me, and holds my head under the water. Only for a few seconds, but the effect is profound. I can hold my breath a long time, but only on my own terms. I'm almost immediately drowning. He lifts my head. "For some the strain is too much." Thrusting my head back into the water. "The baby is not strong enough." And again. "And the baby is stillborn." And again. "Is 98 strong?" "Yes, Amaro." I splutter. "Am I Sir?" "No, Amaro." "No." He agrees. "Come." He walks back to the shelter of the barn. I rise sopping from the puddle and follow him back into the barn. The other man gets out and meets us by a wooden crate. '98' is stenciled on every side. It's not subtle, but the psychological impact is powerful. I was bought, and now I'm being processed, packaged and shipped. "In." "Yes, Amaro." I say, but my anxiety plays on my face as I peer into the padded crate. I don't deal well with small spaces Amaro cups my cheek gently, "we will deliver you to your new life. It is alright." For some reason that is good enough for me. A quality in his voice that nullifies all questions. I climb in. There is room enough for me to sit if I pull my knees up to my chin. Amaro peers in at me, and smiles; I can't tell if it's meant to be condescending or not, but from inside the crate condescending is how it feels. "Comfortable?" "Yes, Amaro." With Sir, I would have told the truth that I was not comfortable, that was what was expected, but I am too scared of Amaro to dare test his temper again. "Good. We will drive carefully. I would not like to deliver broken. Understand?" "Yes, Amaro." Amaro and the driver place the lid on top, and I hear the whine of a drill as the lid is screwed in place. A year ago it would have taken a fist full of Seconal to get me in an enclosed space like this. I feel a wave of panic, but force myself to breath slowly as Sir taught me until I feel my heartbeat slow. I feel the truck bounce its way out of the barn, and back to a paved road. Just your average mud covered girl in a crate in the back of a pickup truck on her way to the home of the man who bought her. The Bidding of Lot 98 Ch. 02 The drive is interminable. I have to brace myself in the box to keep from sliding around. The road is smooth enough, but the effort burns through what little energy I have left. Apart from the pretzels, Diet Coke, and muddy water I accidentally drank I haven't had any food or water in twenty-four hours. And despite the air holes the crate is hot like a sauna that my own sweaty body is powering. I'm dehydrated, famished and exhausted. In my delirium, drifting in and out of a wrenching fugue state, I find myself naked and crying in front of all my college professors. I keep asking them questions but no one seems to hear me. I go to the whiteboard, thinking I'll write a message, but all of the markers are dried up. The class bell rings or is it the whine of the drill? I look up to see the lid lifted away and Amaro peering down at me again. "Hello. 98 looks very cozy down there. Ready to get out?" I try to move my lips to answer, but my mouth is so dry that all I can manage is an inaudible croak. I nod pitifully instead. The sun is a piercing corona behind his head. Is it morning already? "Out now." Amaro says unperturbed. I try to stand but can't seem to get my legs under me. I feel weak and helpless and frustrated. Hands grasp me under the armpits, and lift me out of the box. I hang lifeless in Amaro's arms as he passes me down from the pickup. The sunlight is brutal and makes my head pound like I polished off a bottle of Stoli in the crate. "Can 98 stand?" Amaro voice in my ear. I shake my head; I can't get my knees to lock. My mouth still won't cooperate. I become aware of another presence, a man, in front of me. "Well, hold it up." He says with a casualness surety that suggests that he has forgotten what it is like when someone disobeys him. There is no effort to project his authority or control in his voice. It is a given, and so his voice is mild and cool. I've never heard a voice quite like it. I'm lifted up so my legs are dragging on the cement. I feel like a prized marlin on the dock after a successful fishing trip. "Why is it muddy?" The voice asks. "Discipline. 98 was having trouble keeping things straight....old habits." Amaro explains. "I see. It rained last night, didn't it?" "It did. I was hoping to clean 98 up before you saw it like this." "Mmm. It doesn't make a good first impression, does it?" "No. I'm sorry." "Don't you be sorry. I'm sure you did what was necessary. Still...a pity." The two fall silent. "Christ what a mess. Does it talk?" I lift my head and try again to speak for myself, but my throat just rasps and burns. "Not at present. The crate badly dehydrated it." Amaro explains. "Christ. Lost its voice? Did my padlock make it intact, or did it lose that too?" "I have it." Amaro answers. "Well that's something." "Not much." Amaro replies. "No it really isn't. Well it better polish up well, or I'll mail it back to Holland Court in pieces." I feel my body start to shake. "We have its attention now." The voice observes. "Get it squared away, and come up to the house." "Will do." "Welcome home, 98. Mind Amaro. He speaks for me. Does 98 understand?" It's a supreme effort but I croak out a feeble, 'yes, Sir' that scars my lungs. "Good." The voice replies as though it expected no less. When he is gone, Amaro and the other man take an elbow and lead me through a door and down a hall. Through another door is a small bedroom about half the size of my college single. A bare mattress is the only piece of furniture. They lay me on it. It's the most comfortable thing I've ever felt in my life. Amaro places four bottles of Gatorade on the floor. He cradles my head and makes me drink one. "Sleep now." Amaro gestures to the cot. "Yes Amaro." I croak. Covered in dirt, I smell like a girl who had rolled around in the mud outside a barn. I don't care. I am asleep instantly. The heavy sound of the deadbolt turning is the last thing I hear.