9 comments/ 118496 views/ 34 favorites Up for Auction By: eroswizard True to her name, my wife Dixie is all Southern girl. Having been brought up near Atlanta, she speaks with that cute/sexy accent. Dixie is a sweet as the tea she drinks. She has lovely smooth curves, unlike the skinny California girls I grew up with. She is also shy about our making love, keeping all references in the bedroom "where they belong." As she becomes embarrassed at the slightest hint of sex talk, my father routinely teases her. He calls her his sexy daughter because she is and because it makes her smile and turn away shyly. She is also loyal to her home town being a patriotic Atlanta Braves fan. The only sports she will watch is baseball and the only team she will watch is the Braves. She also follows serious Southern superstitions. Game day finds her in a Braves jersey, without a bra, keeping it closer to her heart. She will always bet on the Braves, no matter the odds or bet, fearing that she will jinx them. These are all things that she should have kept a secret from my Father. Had she not learned from his teasing her about her sexiness? As the Dodgers and the Braves were to play for the championship, this was sure to be one of the memorable season finalizes of Baseball within our family. Growing up when my Mother's home town Yankees and Pop's Dodger's played there was always light hearted competition at our house. I am not sure what all they bet, but I routinely rooted against Mom's Yankees. Each game they lost in the World Series would have my Mother watching the next game of the series in a sexy night gown. As the games progressed the night gowns became more revealing with each loss. Mom and her see through nighties made me a baseball fan for life. As the series neared, Dad offered all the proceeds from his annual wild-game dinner to be given to a charity of Dixie's choice, if the Braves won. This was an event that brought in over a half of a million dollars a year for charity from a small group of five or six of Pop's closest friends. This was an evening close to all our hearts as the restaurant I owned catered the event. My compassionate wife jumped at the offer agreeing without any clue concerning the ramifications of a loss. He did not keep her guessing, should the Dodgers (as commonly expected) win, she would waitress the event ... "In a sexy, very very sexy uniform." To my amazement, my Baby assured him that she would live up to the agreement if the unthinkable occurred. From the first game we went to my Parent's house for the series. Dixie in her jersey rooted hard for her team. I am not sure that dad really cared who won. He was clearly enjoying watching her breasts jiggle. He made a couple of comments concerning Dixie "must be getting excited, her nipples sure are hard." Whether she was getting used to it, or it was the competition, his comments appeared more of a turn on than cause the usual embarrassment. With each game my father provided my sexy wife with a new "jersey", each showing a little more than the one before. By the eighth game Dixie was wearing a mesh Jersey and blue/red Braves panties with dug-out printed over her pubic area. I rooted with Dixie for a Braves win. For me it was just because I wanted to see what Pop even skimpier outfit Pop would have her in if there was a game nine. The Braves did win and we returned with Dixie wearing a shear little Brave's teddy. The panties were so shear that her shaved pussy was clearly visible. It reminded me of my Mother's game day uniform many years ago. My mother met us at the door that evening in a long and completely see-through gown showing support (and all Mom's assets) for Dixie. I loved sneaking glimpses of both their bodies throughout the game. As we watched the Dodgers receive their World Championship trophy, Dad presented Dixie with a very sexy French maid uniform: Her uniform for the annual benefit dinner. While I was coordinating the hors d'oeuvres in the kitchen, I snuck glimpses of Dixie mingling between the guests serving drinks. She was very sexy and she knew it. Rather than my shy wife blushing at compliments, she was now working for others in a less fortunate situation. Dad promised her that the choice of charities would be all hers; she would be as sexy as possible in fulfilling this honor. The men and women both were admiring her. She knew how to easily charm both. Flirty acceptance of compliments from the men encouraged more from them. Assuring the wives that each of them would be sure to loosen up wallets if they were wearing such a uniform, brought blushing giggles from the Ladies. Father tapped on his wine glass, announcing the dining room was ready. As the chef, I stood in an obscure corner watching. Dixie continued to charm with her sexiness while filling wine glasses. One chair remained empty; my Mother was not yet seated in her place at the foot of the table. Father stood, again tapping his wine glass: "Mrs. Vandenberg." Upon the announcement, the gentlemen stood and Mother appeared in the beautiful shear (very shear) black gown. Underneath she wore a gold bra, which did more to accentuate than cover her breasts, and a matching gold G-string. The dinner continued on wonderfully. My crew prepared each course magnificently. Dixie did not slip up. She presented each course with elegance, charm, and a sexiness that left every male, and female for that matter, flirting flagrantly with her. An old friend of the family took the liberty of running his hand over Dixie's silk panty clad ass while she was clearing his wife's plate. Dixie stood erect in mock indignation, "good sir, fondling the help's derriere is inappropriate, you are here by fined $5,000 for taking such liberties." The fines continued, eliciting cheers as men tallied up higher and higher fines. $10,000 for kissing her cleavage was apparently a bargain as each man in the room jumped at the opportunity to add that fare to his bill. While Dixie made her rounds about the table, each of the ladies had slipped out of the room. Being a trained chef who strives toward nothing but perfection, this occurrence left me a bit nervous. Coffee was poured and ready to be served, preferably just prior to desert. Which I desired the ladies to be present for. Dixie did well in stalling, as she finished serving the coffee, one of her bra cups began coming loose. She flipped this opportunity for embarrassment to her advantage. All were made aware of her Janet Jackson like predicament. Men volunteering to rip her bra cup off became a bidding war. Dixie auctioned off not only her bra cups, but received $50,000 for a man to remove her panties uncovering her beautiful shaved pussy. As if on cue, the ladies entered from the kitchen with great fanfare. Every one of the ladies had on a lingerie outfit belonging to my Mother. It was very erotic for me to see these women wearing very revealing outfits that I had seen my own mother clad in from different points in my life. Each carried a serving of my specialty tiramisu. They circled around the table coming to a stop, each directly behind their own husband. Rather than serving their husband, they surprised the men again by taking a step to the left, serving the man beside their husband. With no effort being made to appear accidental, they rubbed their breasts over the arms and shoulders of the men they were serving. As one man pulled his friend's wife onto his lap, the rest followed. The ladies hand fed the men. Actually "Hand" is not quite appropriate as spoons were replaced by fingers, which evolved more and more erotic with kissing the pudding off of lips and course cleavage, with nipples being the final utensil of choice. With the evening rapidly devolving towards an orgy, Father restored order tapping his wine glass. "Each man has a guest room assigned to him. Who he takes to that room will be determined by auction. Men, please submit an undisclosed bid to preserve your wife's chastity. The first bid to surpass your charity will see your wife in the bed of another man this night." My own Wife was the first up for auction with my Mother second. Dad purchased Dixie while I bought Mom. While the evenings promise of bedding my Mother had my cock hardening, it elicited objections from the men. Our purchase of close family was not fair. Mother sustained their request stating, "you both will indeed pay the sum for redeeming us and shall receive your reward on a future night, but this night will have in the bed of another man." The auction continued with wives bringing higher and higher bids. Over the evening, every husband was outbid by another man desiring to bed a friend's wife. Meg, a longtime friend of my Mother, slipped a hefty check into my hand. In my ear she whispered, "Over the years, I have dreamed of you on top of me. Fulfill my wish." Her confession had not been much of a secret to me or to my parents or her husband for that matter. We had overtly flirted with each other over the years in front of everyone and anyone. The only secret was that she had confessed to me on occasion her desires to have me for real, my Mom being her dearest friend was all that held her back from taking my virginity. The last three ladies came up for auction, Meg, the re-sale of Dixie, and Mom. I started the bidding for Meg at the sum of her check, almost twice what had been paid for any of the wives previously. As Meg is very sexual, the price climbed rapidly. I would not allow Meg's lust to be withheld from me a night longer. Meg cost me a bundle, I do not regret a single cent. For the final sale, Dixie was helped up on the chair that had been being used as an auction block, while another was brought over for Mother. The auction of my Mother and wife became not only a competition between men, but of which would bring the higher bid. Initially men were bidding on both of them at the same time, hoping to have the pair in their bed. The price soon soared to the point that this was not feasible for even these wealthy men. Dixie worked the men with amazing skill, giving a glimpse of her assets, or mouthing provocative encouragement to the bidders. The bidding for young Dixie, who was on the block shy of bra cups and panties, slowly started to outpace the classy beauty of my Mother. Seeing that her golden bra and G-string had now become a dis-advantage for her, Mom paused the auction. Dad began the bidding for Mom's bra as an intermission. Watching my mother step off of the bidding block to allow the victor to remove the bra, made my cock rock hard. With her breasts and nipples on display for all, she pulled the winning bidders head down to her breasts giving him opportunity to kiss and suck her nipples. Returning to the block, Mothers G-string went up for sale. The bids again began to reach extreme highs as all were fully aware that the winner would not only remove her panties but would be allowed to lick her pussy. Mom's gamesmanship brought new vigor to her competition with Dixie. Serious bidders were brought forward for close and personal looks at each of their assets. In beauty pageant fashion, Dad again paused the bidding to question the contestants; "For the talent competition, how will you bedazzle your suitor in bed tonight?" Their answers contrasted sharply as Mom assured everyone that many years of pleasing my Father's varied fetish interests would be fully appreciated. Her gaze moved between each man, while eyes were locked she would reveal what each man's sexual preference was. "I would love to be bent over your knee Bob", turning to expose her ass she continued, "can you picture your handprint on my ass cheek?" Eyes, moving to the next man "I have the ability to relax my throat to take even your massive rod, John." Either from my Father or from their wives, Mom had heard everyone's preferences taking interest enough to have them memorized. While husband's cocks stiffened, wives blushed with revelation after revelation. Dixie demurred, acting as if she was conceding to Mom's experience: "I have very little experience, having only been taken by one man." Exposing her shaved pussy, "I will probably start growing pubic hair soon." "My ass is a virgin and would probably be far too tight for your big cocks." She continue her erotic little girl tease, "You could probably teach me to give a blow job, I would have to pull my hair out of my face putting it in pigtails first." Their answers brought the friendly bidding to a halt. The two wealthiest men outright purchased my Mother and Wife with bids that were beyond competition. As the men began leading their new purchase off to a guest rooms, the annual event was changed on the spot to every six months. With my arm embracing my childhood fantasy, I watched the two most wonderful women in my life, Dixie and Mom, led off to bed. I owe you a full account of my night with Meg, who from that evening forward has insisted I call her Aunt Meg. The double date, that was the result of my purchasing Mother and Dad's investment in his Daughter In-Law is also a forth coming chapter. Up For Auction Errol Tarken returned to work on September 14, 2001, three days after Terrorists leveled the World Trade Towers. Power was disrupted for most of lower Manhattan and public transportation routes were redirected, making it nearly impossible for most businesses to open. When Errol finally got to the century old auction house where he worked, he found the Curator's Library in darkness. Never, in his five year career with the brokerage firm, had he seen the chamber appear so ominous. A faint red glow, cast by exit signs, reflected strangely against the room's enormous crystal chandeliers. Assistant Curator Tarken, who regularly worked alone in the firm's cavernous warehouse spaces, could not have felt more uneasy. He rushed to his office, retrieving drafts for upcoming auction catalogs and packets of descriptive research, then hurried downstairs. The building was practically deserted and seemed especially empty in the aftermath of lower Manhattan turmoil. Tarken hesitated when he spotted a shadowy figure leaning against a corridor wall, leading towards the darkened Receiving Department. At first glance, he thought an intruder had entered the building. Alerting Security was foremost in his thoughts. Studying the profile as he slowly approached, Tarken spotted a company identification badge, dangling from a neck lanyard. "Good Morning, Sir," a stressed young man uttered in weary tone. "Are the Curators working today?" Errol stopped, abruptly. Clearly that young man was familiar with the staff and knew that Errol was a curator. Still, Errol had never seen such a sloppy employee working at the auction house. A closer inspection revealed he was wearing cargo style Kakis and a light blue Oxford button down, the firm's designated uniform for male hourly workers. Errol noticed the stark contrast between the clean-cut, handsome young man pictured on the employee badge and the unkempt lad standing before him in severely wrinkled clothes. A whiff of perspiration suggested the fellow may have slept in his clothes—perhaps for days. "I don't think too many people will be working today," Errol predicted, "I'm just picking up some notes so I can do my work from home." "You're lucky you can do that," came a sullen reply from behind a melancholy gaze. Errol nodded, empathetically as he inched away. Then, suddenly he stopped, turned and read the name ADAM from his co-worker's badge. Errol wondered if he were standing in Adam's shoes, would anybody offer to help. He assumed the crisis had prevented the guy from getting home. There was probably nowhere else for him to go. Feeling obligated to do something, Errol offered, "Hey, Adam? I've got running water at my apartment. Do you want to come back and get cleaned up?" Errol lived in a sixth floor, West Side, studio set in a distinctive pre-war brownstone. It was an unconventional space featuring an original fireplace, a galley kitchenette and a laundry in the bathroom. High ceilings and original dark woodwork offered the perfect setting for the Art Curator to showcase bold French Rococo design. Deep shades of red, gold and black dominated the reproduction furnishings and period patterned drapes. Walls were lined with framed Caravaggio oils, while bronze and ceramic sculpture filled every available niche. A stately Grandfather's clock stood wedged behind the entry door, facing the leaded crystal windows framed atop an ornate, drop-leaf, Secretary Desk. If this collection were authentic, the ensemble would have been priceless. The position of Auction House Curator demands a particular talent for spotting forgeries and imitations. Every piece in Errol's apartment is fake, yet they are very convincing renditions. Adam was awestruck from the moment Errol unlocked the apartment. "You live here? This is really nice. I never would have thought an apartment could look like this!" In closer quarters, Adam smelled worse. Errol hurried to point out the stacked laundry unit, offer some soap, towels and even a fresh toothbrush; before giving his co-worker the benefit of bathroom privacy. From outside the bathroom, Errol heard the familiar gyrations of his washing machine accompanied by a prolonged rush of water from his shower head. Using the time to study his work notes, Errol became so deeply absorbed in research that he hadn't heard Adam open the bathroom door. "I guess it's OK if I just hang out in a towel," Adam suggested, sheepishly. The auction house curator, tearing himself from a state of total concentration, cringed at the sight of buff contoured youth, standing as patient as a surfer on the sand. "Oh, um, no!" Errol spotted spiked damp hair. "Sorry!" Errol cleared his throat noticing toned narrow biceps. "I didn't," his words dissolved when a pair of small tight nipples peered in his direction. "I mean... I totally forgot your things were in the wash." Nervously galloping from his ergonomic swivel chair, Errol rushed towards an open, modular closet unit, housing his neatly organized wardrobe. The young man stood calmly clad in a bath towel with his toes touching the gold fringe of a vibrant Persian carpet, while Errol frantically unfurled a pair of blue tartan flannel sleep pants. Tripping over his own words, Errol was made visibly uncomfortable by the sight of a half-naked man, posed in his living room. Feeling guilty for not foreseeing this problem, Errol panicked and hastened to offer a remedy. "Here!" he announced, "you can wear these." Things worsened when Adam released his waist towel and stepped, one leg at time, into the drawstring, loungewear bottoms. Errol gasped, for an instant his young co-worker was standing completely in the nude. Overwhelmed at the motions unfolding before him, it felt like an eternity before the elastic waist band was safely positioned by Adam's navel. Errol's pulse raced as he likened the shocking live image of boyish genitals to the sculpted statuary of Michael Angelo. Struggling to erase the impression from his mind, the auction house Curator found himself staring intrusively into the center of the milky white hairless surface of Adam's bare chest. "Oh, no!" Errol muttered, forcing his eyes away from anything that looked like skin, bothered and consumed by an unrelenting emotional sensation. The man who made a living crafting specific, vivid, enticing descriptions of powerfully emotive artifacts, was paralyzed to understand this daunting erotic response. With his legs limbering like marshmallow, just reaching to select a fresh, folded T-shirt nearly caused him to topple. Unable to endure another second watching Adam wiggling to cover his narrow torso, Errol purposely propelled himself towards the kitchen counter. Anxious and practically hyperventilating, the apartment dweller steadied himself against the side of a full-length wall cabinet. Partially obscured from view, Errol became statuesque as he tried to understand what just happened. Still traumatized by his unpredicted behavior, Errol labored to make some much needed coffee. Once anchored in the arm chairs flanking the darkened fireplace, Adam seemed starving as he devoured a second granola bar. Conversation proved elusive as both men were distracted by entirely different concerns. Errol thought the World Trade Center tragedy would be a safe, solid talk topic. Adam's reaction indicated otherwise. He seemed genuinely stressed. Although, not nearly as stressed as his host dealing with the post shower drama. Merely mentioning the terrorist attacks disturbed Adam, as if he'd suffered a profound personal loss. Silence was an awkward choice but it was better than upsetting an invited guest. "Can I tell you something that I can never tell anyone at work?" Errol, known for his steadfast adherence to company policy, was stymied by the question but equally curious about the nature of an apparent secret. Since he had already seen the guy intimately naked, it seemed like a comparatively mild request to share something in confidence. Errol nodded, assuring Adam that their conversation would never be repeated at work. Shamefully, the Warehouse worker looked down towards his toenails. "I don't actually have in an apartment. My parents divorced when I was midway through my freshmen year at a community college. They stopped paying my tuition and I got kicked out of the dorm. When I got hired for the warehouse job, I had a weird gig helping to clean out a vacant office building behind the World Trade Center. Guys without last names paid me in cash. As long as I helped clear the junk out of the building and nobody ever found out I was working there, they let me spend nights in a storage closet." Errol listened in horror. He knew the young man was facing hardships but this experience sounded absolutely reckless. "There was a garden hose attached to the hot water spigot in the slop sink. I got really good at crouching in that big sink and washing myself off," Adam affirmed. "I even had a washing machine," he boasted before his expression dampened into a discouraged grimace. Touching a tear forming at the edge of his left eye, Adam sobbed, "All my stuff, even my clothes, were destroyed when debris from the plane crash toppled the old building. I really screwed up. I have no idea what to do." "What about your family?" "They ditched me! I think my Mom still living out her dreams with a massage therapist in Fort Walton Beach. Dad took a job somewhere in Canada but never gave me his phone number." While Errol had enjoyed a privileged upbringing, he also had a keen understanding of becoming disenfranchised from his own parents. After graduating from a private liberal arts college, the bank chairman's son served a miserable summer internship deep in the ranks of his Dad's bank. He worked with scores of simple morons who complained constantly while doing their rudimentary tasks. The bank abhorred creativity while demanding conformity. When Errol refused to be defined by a mind-numbing, low paying career, his angered parents responded with an ultimatum. Their rebellious only child was quickly ostracized and later disinherited. Errol needn't probe further to understand Adam's predicament. With the exception of sleeping in a vacant office building, Errol could relate to the daunting uncertainties of a young man, suddenly made homeless. Unlike Adam, the future curator followed his appreciation for the arts, answering a classified advertisement to be a live-in houseboy for SOHO gallery proprietor. He cleaned, cooked and did whatever personal favors his boss required in exchange for a bed. On weekends, he felt less like an indentured servant when offering flutes of Pinot Greggio to invited guests at exclusive gallery events. Suited in tuxedo pants and a black bow tie, mingling with affluent art buyers felt like the ultimate weekend reward. When the houseboy matured, his polish and sophistication supplanted unbridled innocence. Before being replaced by younger talent, his boss finagled a way for the dedicated art lover to understudy for an auction house curator. Getting paid for admiring great artwork would never happen at a bank. Errol saw little point explaining the ugly details of his previous life. Adam was a bright kid who'd made a bad choice. He needed a friend, more than he needed a lecture. While Errol would have let Adam stay at his apartment for as long as necessary, there was something about himself that he needed to explain. Adam listened attentively. "There are many things I would never tell anyone at work. We all have personal lives and sometimes we have no good reason for sharing any of that stuff. It's private." Adam felt a great measure of relief when he realized that Errol really did understand. It was comforting to hear somebody put it into rational perspective. Somehow, Adam didn't find his secret quite so shameful. Errol had simply been thinking aloud - rationalizing - while reaching to disclose something else. Gesturing up to the wall paintings, Errol admitted, "Renaissance era curators spend lots of time studying male nudes. As much as possible, we have to put ourselves into the artist's mindset in order to do our jobs. Some curators work from a completely abstract perspective while others become consumed in ways that could seem vulgar and perverted; nobody ever really knows what goes on inside our heads. If they did, I would get fired!" Adam smiled. "It's like in school, when they make guys shower together. None of us knew what other guys were thinking about. I guess, if we did, we might get freaked." "Listen, if you want to sleep here tonight, I think you deserve to know something about the man who is sleeping on the adjacent daybed." With mirrored expressions of uncertainty the two men were locked in silence. Adam's left knee quivered rhythmically. Errol paused, worried that he may have already shared too much. Immersed in a whirlwind of private thoughts, Adam couldn't figure out how to ask and Errol wasn't certain what more he should tell. Neither man liked the unnatural quiet of that prolonged moment, yet neither uttered a syllable. They studied one another in their periphery, mutually absorbed by a quandary of indecision, consumed by their own reluctance to speak. Suddenly, both men flinched as the startling sound of a harsh buzzer, indicating the end of a laundry drying cycle, nearly caused Adam to tumble off his chair. Welcoming the interruption, Errol blurted, "Your clothes, they're dry!" For the next thirteen years the men continued to share the same apartment. Errol was promoted to Managing Curator for Renaissance Art while Adam expanded his warehouse role, becoming a technical expert for the firm's prized inventory control system. They vowed to keep their work life separate from their home life, never divulging the living arrangement to co-workers. Keeping their distance and acting somewhat formal was an effective way to avoid speculation among the notoriously observant staff. Keeping the living arrangement secret was a choice more so than a requirement. Still, perception and gossip had consequences within the unusual ranks of their workplace. One afternoon in May 2014, Errol was summoned to an unscheduled meeting in the firm's Acquisitions Office. The Acquisitions Office was a mysterious locked section of the fourth floor and the only part of the building Errol had never seen. Practically everyone at the auction brokerage was part of the sales organization: curators vetted the artifacts, auctioneers hawked the merchandise and warehouse workers moved the goods. By contrast, nobody really knew what happened in the Acquisitions Office enclave. Considering that most of the brokered goods were consigned from their owners, nothing was ever being acquired. Popular rumors fueled the conspiracy theory that the Acquisitions Office was a front for mercenaries staging heists at European museums. That notion gained traction when a former navy intelligence officer, recruited to define corporate security protocols, began managing Acquisitions. Suspicions escalated when that same manager was elevated to esteemed and powerful role of Corporate Treasurer. Briskly moving towards the sealed doors of the Acquisitions Office, Errol carried a lined yellow notepad trying to imagine the purpose of his meeting. He thought of many things, none of them were good. A sign on the rear wall of the entry vestibule read: POSITIVELY NO ADMITTANCE. A serious security guard, wearing a medium grey dress suit, was prepared for Errol's arrival. At a firm that brokered some of most valuable artifacts in the world, Errol expected the Acquisitions Office to be as well appointed as an executive auctioneer's office suite or the firm's prized Curator's Library. Instead, it looked rather shabby. Plain dull walls, worn Berber carpet and cheap laminate desks made a poor first impression. The space was devoid of technology. Desk phones were nearly old enough to become artifacts themselves. There was even a typewriter set on a free-standing table with paper that suggested it was still being used. Errol was led into a narrow room at the extreme rear corner of the space. Exposed Cinderblock walls made it look like a janitor's closet. A lone figure turned away from the window as Errol stepped behind a short, badly scuffed rectangular conference table. "Mr. Mushbreuger," Errol acknowledged, recognizing the firm's Corporate Treasurer, "you asked to see me, Sir?" "Call me Herb, I retired from the Navy because too many people called me sir." His greeting was punctuated by a painful handshake, released without breaking any bones. With a controlled push, the door latched closed but did not slam. "Sit," the Treasurer commanded, as if speaking to his Bull Mastiff dog. Herb remained standing, taking the last gulp from a small can of tomato juice before tossing the container into a beige plastic bin, labeled: OFFICE PAPER ONLY. "I called you back here because this is the only spot in the whole damned building where we can have a truly private conversation." That was an unsettling statement coming from a man hired to bolster corporate security. Herb was known for brief meetings that stayed on topic. This was no different. "What would you think about joining Acquisitions?" Errol was blindsided by the question. He'd never thought about joining the Acquisitions Office. Remembering the organization's unwritten postulate, when senior management offers you a job, there is only one answer, Errol chose his words carefully. "I'm a Managing Curator. I've always been part of the sales side of the house. I've assisted auctioneers in preparation for one day taking the gavel." "You don't want be an auctioneer," Herb insisted, "They're all a bunch of condescending egomaniacs who take full credit for successful sales and blame others when they come up short. They're charming entertainers who read from prepared scripts as if they are speaking from expertise. They tempt their audience with scarcity, making the winning bidders feel triumphant and the losers feel inadequate. You don't want to compromise your integrity to become anything like them." Errol listened in horror. In the space of seconds, the auction house Treasurer had decimated the most valuable staff at the firm: Auctioneers! "I don't understand," Errol protested, "the auction staff is the reason we're in business." "Well, that is a common misconception," Herb explained, "consider the notion of an online auction where bids are tabulated by an application program. They sell everything from antiques to commercial real estate and they do it all without a guy in a rented tuxedo, holding a wooden hammer. Those days are coming to our business, faster than you think. I know that executive auctioneers presently earn more money than anyone else in this building and seem like they are indispensable. We will all witness that aspect of our industry change for good. Just look at Wall Street. Traders used to gather in auction pits and shout their bids, now it's almost entirely automated." Errol stiffened as he listened in agony to a frightening perspective. "I suppose I don't really have a choice but to take whatever job is being offered." "Not true," Herb reassured, "Contrary to what you might hear whispered in the third floor hallways, we do make job offers, not ultimatums. Nobody is downstairs cleaning out your desk and security guards are not waiting to see if you to see if you should be escorted out the back door. That would be foolish." Errol wished he'd chosen different words. He was upset and confused and a bit fearful. While he wanted to be more open-minded, pre-conceived notions had taken control. "Look, I don't want to sound disgruntled but I don't even know what the Acquisitions Office does." "Well, I can assure you that your new job would not include repelling down the walls of Mediterranean Castles, waiting to board stealth helicopters with stolen paintings. If that's what you're worried about." Up For Auction "Sorry, it's just that nobody in this building knows anything about the Acquisitions Office," Errol conceded, "It all seems so mysterious and maybe even a little creepy." "Yeah, well, we have are reasons for keeping certain things under wraps," Herb assured, "but I need you to think of the role as that of an analyst of sorts. Somebody who is not afraid to write the rules that don't presently exist and rewrite the rules that no longer make sense." The description was vague and left everything to the imagination. Without sounding critical or rebellious, Errol demurred, "Why choose me?" Herb had been pacing the floor and leaning against walls while standing and talking. To answer this open-ended question, he eased himself into an armchair, set his palms on the table and made penetrating eye contact. "Fair question," he acknowledged, "I personally selected you because of something you did a few years after joining the firm. You weren't striving to achieve a metric, expecting a parchment certificate suitable for framing or even trying to get one of those tiny trophies we hand out like bubble gum. Instead, you stepped up to help a really good guy with a very bad problem." Errol looked perplexed as he struggled to remember anything he had ever done that would warrant such recognition from the Corporate Treasurer. "Sorry, Sir, I don't know what you mean. Every curator in my department works tirelessly to develop the best possible auction catalogs. I can't say I've ever done anything that would stand above the work of my peers." "Please call me Herb," directed the executive, "What you did wasn't in your job description and was neither required, nor expected of you or anybody else on our payroll. That what really set you apart from the rest of our people." Errol was even more baffled and his face must have shown it. Herb explained with military authority, "Thirteen years ago, when terrorists thought they could eliminate Capitalism by steering airplanes into nearly empty office towers, we were all scrambling to figure out how to get things back to normal. Lower Manhattan was a mess, public transportation came to a standstill and employee morale suffered. It took nearly two weeks to get a single day's work done. While the rest of us were too busy worried about our own personal problems, you were helping a displaced co-worker by giving him a place to live." Errol pushed back in his chair with an exasperated sigh, "You knew about that?" Herb smirked, "I did. Weeks before, we learned that a newly hired warehouse worker was living as a squatter in a vacant commercial building. That was not only recklessly irresponsible, it was also a flagrant violation of New York Housing Laws. As an upstanding corporate citizen, our firm could not become complicit with an employee's illegal conduct. We were planning to put him in touch with the Public Housing welfare people through our Employee Assistance Program but those things take time. Once the dust settled, you had already taken action and solved the problem." "I didn't think anyone knew. Adam was desperate, I couldn't just walk away." "Oh, but many people in this building, myself included, might have just walked away," said Herb, "It took great compassion to open your home to somebody in need. I would never ask for the details but I applaud the results. That young man probably has no idea how close he came to losing his job. If you hadn't stepped up, who knows how he would have fared, sleeping in a subway station?" "Do other people know about that?" "My career in the United States Navy taught me a thing or two about Human Behavior. I wouldn't give a rat's ass about who knows of this, nor would I care. We all have our critics and most of them are the insure cowards spreading rumors in hallways. The way I see it, you took personal responsibility for a coworker in need. That's huge. That's courageous. Nobody has any right to be critical." Errol was sullen and little agitated. He left work immediately following the meeting and wondered through the galleries of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. When he arrived home, Adam was already lying across his bed watching the evening news. "Pack your swim trunks, we are going on a company paid vacation to the Bahamas." "Are you nuts? I can't," argued Adam, "the warehouse is short staffed and I'm the only one who can do export documents. Besides, wouldn't those mean people from Accounting get all bent out of shape knowing a Managing Curator was taking a trip with an Inventory Specialist?" Confidently, Errol replied, "Get dressed, I'll explain everything over dinner." Up for Auction Ch. 02 She engulfed my entire cock into her amazingly hot, wet cunt sliding down on me in a single stroke. This after having deep-throated and sucked my prick to the very verge of cumming; only to back off at the last second. My mind was spinning as my sex partner for the night worked my body like a master musician while looking more like a cow-girl as she rode me hard, grinding her clit against me. Knowing that I could not last long, I hoped she could make me hard again. Meg and I were in bed tonight after I had bought her as my sex slave for the night. Truth be told, I bought Meg after my initial bidding for my wife and mother (an attempt to protect their virtue) was ruled unfair. This was the first year I joined wealthy friends of my father who made a Holiday ritual of purchasing the wives of their closest friends for a special night of raucous fucking. The proceeds benefitted charities creating a thin veil of righteousness to hide behind. Amending the story one more time, Meg actually provided the vast majority of the funds required to purchase her services for the night. While most of the women were young, trophy wives of very wealthy business men, Meg was wealthy in her own right. She was an heiress of a wealthy grocery store magnate who increased the wealth significantly from her own investments. So, rather than the wife of a wealthy friend of Pop's, Meg was a friend of my Mother. I had a crush on Meg for as long as I can remember. Mostly because she took an interest in me, flirted with me, and made me feel special. Though she was not related, we formalized our special relationship by me calling her Aunt Meg. I can remember one summer morning when I found out Meg would be lunching by the pool with mom. Without hesitation, I stood my friends up for a baseball game deciding the day would be spent swimming. I changed into my speedo, they were actually the in thing back in the day, and began watching out the window for her arrival. She hand a tendency to wear low cut blouses showing off her beautiful cleavage. This day was no exception, her boobs were on display and as usual when she hugged me she rubbed her breasts against me making them jiggle. It was heavenly. She always flirted with me, but if mom was not around it was much better. That particular day, I beat mom out to pool area and was rewarded with Meg's hug lasting longer than usual and her hand under my ass pulling me tighter into her. I had intended for her to be able to see my cock through the little swim trunks, however I had not intended for it to become hard as soon as I saw her. She obviously noticed as she whispered in my ear; "You are so big and hard for Aunt Meg." She always made me feel so good. This was my relationship with Meg, one of a young man whose puberty driven clumsy acts were received with amusement from a confident woman beginning to age. My hand "accidently" touching her breast or ass was always encouraged by a little wiggling movement or pressing back against it. When she looked up to catch me peeking through the pool house window watching her change, she winked and continued to undress making sure that I had a good view of her best sides. It was always our little secret with neither of us mentioning a word to my mother. Over the years the relationship hardly changed. It of course evolved with Meg taking more of the initiative as I grew older. As an example she would insist that I help her with her pool during my breaks from College. This involved checking the ph balance that was always perfect due to the automated system and professional service. Then the rest of the afternoon with Meg's topless sunbathing becoming skinny dipping together. There was also my wedding reception. Dancing with my new wife and with my mother were traditional, but for me, Meg was also a given. During a slow dance Meg's hand stroked my cock while she whispered in my ear: "Your wife is a very lucky girl, make LOVE to her. Be gentle with her, young ladies are not ready to be fucked by such big cocks as yours. When you need to FUCK good and hard, give your Auntie Meg a call." Looking back, Aunt Meg was always willing to play, taking our game however far I was willing to take it. She set no limits; she also did not push limits beyond where I took them. Having sex with Aunt Meg was always a fantasy, the reality of such I thought beyond possibility as she was a friend of my mother. It could now be a reality, but I had a young bride I loved who I was not willing to fuck around on. As I had not made that call, our next contact was at a party of my parents. The opportunity to cater my father's annual charity dinner, had some large possibilities for me. I had a successful bistro and had a couple of more that were the new in places. They had good possibilities of being successful beyond the initial fade stage to become truly landmark establishments as well. I also wanted to expand my horizons with custom catering of events for fortune 500 companies and the truly wealthy as an established "celebrity" chef. My wife's losing of a friendly bet to my father made it a truly family event. Not only would she be part of the wait staff, but she would be dressed particularly sexy. Her big heart, wanting to help others in raising significant funds for charity paved the wave for her to go the extra mile. Allowing herself to be auctioned off for a night of fun. Balancing things out, the extra female being auctioned meant that I needed to be an additional bidder. Damn the bad luck, I would have to fuck my boyhood crush. As I watched my wife walk towards a bedroom on the arm of an older gentleman, I felt more than just pangs of jealousy. I was ready to call a halt to this whole thing. This was more than slightly weird and my mind picture him between my wife's lovely thighs. As my jealousy was peaking, I watched my mother following right on the heels of my wife on the arms of another man besides my father. Again my feelings of anger flared. Who was he to be fucking my mother? Immediately behind her was my father with his best friend's young wife being led off to bed. This lady was very hot, I envied my father understanding how and why he was able to allow another man to be fucking Mom. Meg distracted me from all such thoughts. Taking me by the arm, she began leading me towards our assigned bedroom. My sexy MILF for the night was asking me in a not so submissive tone; "Exactly how should I be taking you tonight? I think I shall begin by tasting that cock that you have been teasing me with for years." At this point, it mattered not if I was the one who had supposedly purchased her or not. I could feel a passion emanating from Aunt Meg. Barely into our room, she began undressing me. With each piece of my clothing she removed, a lust grew in her eyes. "I have desired you for so long, years have I held in my hunger." She almost growled as she removed her lingerie which she had been dressed in for the auction. Kissing me passionately, her mouth traced a line down my torso straight towards my rock hard cock. The feeling was so erotica as her large breasts led the way until I felt my cockhead poking out from between her wonderful mounds. My hands pressed them around my cock as she began licking just the tip, moaning at the taste of the first drop of pre-cum on her tongue. Her tongue licking around the blood engorged head of my cock took her breasts lower, pushing heavily against my balls. Her beautiful dark hair was hanging down, its softness massaging and tickling my pubic area. Her hair draped over her face and my cock, hiding her eyes and not giving away her intent leaving each lick and movement an amazing surprise. I could feel but not see as her lips and tongue traced over my veins from the base of my cock up and around the sensitive glands below the cock head and back down again. I was certainly not the first cock that Meg had sucked. She knew what she was doing, playing my cock like a master flutist. Several young girls in college found it difficult to take my swollen cock head into their mouths. None could deep throat my cock past their tonsils and none even came close to making me cum. Meg's tongue, lips, throat, and fingers worked in perfect unison. I lost track of what was doing what and did not care. Her mouth and lips would bring a wonderful tingling as she sucked my cock to have her delicate fingers continue the sensation while stroking my long, stiff prick. Her mouth moved down licking my balls, taking them in her mouth, leaving them in her hand. Her hand supported and even slightly squeezed my balls as her tongue had had moved on making circles around my puckered little asshole. The second I thought I could take no more, her head began a rhythmic motion. She sucked my cock deeper and deeper into her mouth with each stroke. I had gathered her hair into my hands so I could watch her mouth devour my cock. I was soon pulling her hair down as I lifted my pelvis fucking her mouth. I could feel my swollen cock head sliding in and out of her throat. I Felt my cock swell for the final strokes, my balls tighten, and spasms begin carrying cum up from my balls. As I was pulling Meg's hair and head down on my cock to take my cum, her finger entered my ass. Her finger and thumb pinched together, postponing my imminent orgasm. While I lay panting Meg laid on top of me. In her kiss I could taste the early drops of my orgasm which she had cut short. Her quiet purr in my ear assured me I would be cumming soon. "After your big cock brings me to orgasm, then you can fill my wet cunt with your cum. For now relax, relax my young stud." Her lips kissed my mouth, neck, and chest passionately. Having worked her way back up to my ear, Meg alternated between kissing and whispering in my ear. Her hand again found my cock rubbing it against her wet pussy. "I have thought about your cock filling my pussy for years, I will not wait1" With no further warning the wettest warmest pussy I had ever felt completely engulfed my cock. I gasped for breath as she pushed her pelvis hard against me, then noticed her finger nails buried and clenching into my chest muscles. Slowly she relented in her need to engulf my cock in her cunt. With effort Meg slowly lifted herself up, coming back down hard. I could feel her clit slap against my pubic mound, the move her hips rubbing her clit hard against me. As her actions began to speed up, Aunt Meg rode me with lust and efficiency. No movement was wasted as each stroke brought a whimper as her cunt slapped against me. This was immediately followed by a moan has her pelvic thrust rubbed her clit. Like an experienced cowgirl, she was riding her horse demanding its fullest performance. My thrusts were soon matching her gate. My hips rose to meet her with my hands grasping her hips pulling her even harder against me. I now found no pretense of her trying to please me. Meg was using my cock, every motion made with a single purpose of bringing her cunt to sweet release. Her whimpers evolved into screams as her eyes rolled back and each of her muscles tightened. I continued my motions as her body froze as if paralyzed her fingernails drawing droplets of blood from my chest. As Meg rolled off of me exhausted, I lifted her ankles up over my shoulders. I began fucking my boyhood crush with frantic thrusts. I had always needed to hold myself back during sex. The girls of my youth could barely take my entire cock, sex was slow and careful so as not to hurt them. Meg was slapping my ass encouraging me "fill my pussy with your big cock, fill my cunt with your cum!" I could once again feel the cum rising up from my balls. Each thrust, each spasm, each strand of cum brought the most glorious and intense feeling of ecstasy. Feelings I had only approached as a teen, in dreams of my Aunt Meg. As the adrenaline drained from my body, I laid upon hers. Her holding me, her hands caressing me. My mind wandered to my wife as I lay there exhausted. All feelings of jealousy and guilt had long ago disappeared. I was left with an image of my very young wife pleasing an older man, just as I had Meg. I pictured her young full breasts, her puffy areolas, and tiny nipples. I compared these with Meg's breasts, large and full with nipples that always stand out prominently. Nipples, that if I had not known better, I would have thought had fed a couple of babies. I took Meg's nipple in my mouth, kissing and sucking. She told me how she had watched my mother breastfeed me with jealousy. She no longer wanted the baby, but the man who had just gave her the best orgasm of her life. Kissing and caressing her body, I began working my way down to the Holy of Holies. I wanted to please her, to make her body tingle, to bring her to the point of orgasm as she had mine. Finally tasting the sweetness of her pussy, it was mixed with the saltiness of my cum. My tongue danced over her cunt lips, red and swollen from the fucking they had just endured. I was delicate and soft tongued, with her being sensitive and a bit sore. Taking a handful of my hair, she began guiding my licks, guiding where and how hard I stimulated her. As she began moaning, her hips moving, even bucking, I ate her pussy with more abandon. Licking from her asshole to her clit, I learned rapidly what made her squeal. I followed her example, teasing a spot with my tongue and lips, then maintained that feeling with my fingers. I soon learned that flicks of the tongue, or even penetration of, her asshole, followed rapidly with circles around her clit brought her to the point of an orgasm. Repeating this act, my finger entered her tight little asshole as my darting tongue on her clit brought her to that orgasm. My finger fucked her ass rapidly, my lips wrapped around her clit, bringing her hips up off the bed. She fucked my tongue squealing loudly as I firmly kept my finger in place. As Meg's body relaxed from her intense orgasm, streaks of light began lighting up our window. Dawn was breaking, I had wanted to fuck Meg one more time. This could not be as breakfast was scheduled for the first signs of daybreak, and was mandatory that all must be there to greet their own spouses. I could hear others in the hallways starting to gather for breakfast. Meg rising from the bed, helped me to relax. The auction was for a year, Meg was under contract to meet with me at least once a month until the next auction, when I was required to purchase someone else.