Sold at the Auction(3)

And the swarthy man chuckled.

"I am, I am," he remarked, although I noticed he didn't actually drink  the drink, merely holding it with one hand as Rachel balanced in the  crook of his other. That seemed bad, but maybe he didn't like girly  tropical drinks, the kind filled with fruit flavors. Because that's what  this one looked like, just a step away from a pina colada with a little  umbrella sticking out.

But even with the odd location and the weird drinks, I was still excited  to see what lay beyond the hallway. Because the air of luxury entranced  me, I admit. I was curious, excited, and wanted to let loose on this  one night, I could sleep in as much as I wanted tomorrow, heck, even for  the rest of the week. I could be a walking zombie for the rest of our  vacation so long as I had a good time tonight, let my hair down to  party.         

     



 

So I turned towards the men, ready to move on, when suddenly a rough set of hands grabbed me around the neck.

"Hey!" I shrieked. "What the?"

But immediately a gag was bound around my mouth, changing my words into a  muffled "mwmwmwm." I swung my head around, desperately looking for  Rachel, but saw that she was in the same position. My childhood friend's  eyes were rolling crazily as she struggled against her gag, Yannis  swinging her up onto his shoulder like a bag of coal.

"Mwmwmwm!" she shrieked. "Mmwwwm!" she screamed again, kicking and beating at his back ineffectively.

Meanwhile, Enzo swung me up onto his shoulder, tying my hands together  with a length of rope and my struggles to get free were futile.

"Mmph," I grunted, getting a good knee to his chest, banging against his back with my bound fists.

The loser just increased his grip around my waist.

"Got a fighter here," he growled out. "Shit, she's no sack of flour."

Yannis just grunted in reply.

"That's cause she didn't drink the drink like this princess," he said  gesturing to Rachel slung over his shoulder. Because to my horror, my  friend was passed out, her body slumped like a rag doll on Yannis's  back, mouth open, a long string of spittle dangling from her lips,  oozing to the floor. What the hell? That drink had been spiked? What the  hell, what the hell? And where was Miles, her loverboy savior?

But Miles was right there, looking on with an evil grin, laughing to himself.

"Oh yeah, these two will fetch us a pretty penny," he chortled, his  voice ringing loud in the marble foyer. "Come on," he grunted, and  strode down the hallway, not looking back.

I gasped and struggled more, but it was no use. I was securely slung  over Enzo's shoulder, bound hand and foot, with a cloth in my mouth,  unable to speak or move. Holy shit. I was in deep trouble and there  could only be bad things coming my way.





CHAPTER THREE


Ellie




We walked for what seemed like forever. Or maybe it was only forever to  me because I was slung over Enzo's shoulder, with no sense of direction,  a blindfold tied over my face. But it felt like hours because there  were so many twists and turns, so many changes of direction as we made  our way deeper and deeper into a maze.

And finally, a door creaked open and I was dumped into a small room, my rump bouncing up and down on something soft and cushy.

"Leave her there until it's time," came Miles's voice coldly. The gag  was ripped out of my mouth and my blindfold removed. I opened my mouth  to scream but it came too late because the door shut behind me and my  frightened cry was absorbed by the walls, no one hearing or caring but  me. Oh god, I was alone, still bound hand and foot, with nowhere to go,  no way to get myself out.

But there had to be a way, I wasn't giving up that easily. I'd been  kidnapped by three men, sure, three gross dudes whom we'd only just met,  but they were hardly geniuses, I hadn't been impressed by their  intellect when we chatted earlier today by the pool. Plus, when you're  attacked you're supposed to fight back immediately and vigorously,  otherwise the chance of getting out alive only narrows. Of course, I was  already deep in the trenches of some scary kidnapping scheme, but I  wasn't giving up. I couldn't lose hope now, so breathing deep, I tested  my bonds once again. There had to be a way. This was my life at stake.

And gathering my wits, I looked around the room. It wasn't a dungeon,  unless dungeons have velvet covered walls and luxurious furniture,  gilded chairs with overstuffed cushions, couches a deep maroon color  that you could sink into. In fact, the loveseat that I was on now was a  plush purple velvet, like a giant marshmallow, except wine-colored and  poofy. There was no artwork on the walls, just a couple recessed lights  and a giant flat-screen TV. Hmm, that meant there had to be cable here,  some kind of electricity that I could use to my benefit.

And as I struggled with my bonds, the flatscreen came to life,  flickering on with an intensity that made me squint. Whoa. It wasn't CNN  or MSNBC on the screen. Instead, the camera zoomed onto a chamber of  sorts, the lens adjusting and readjusting before finally coming into  focus. There was a figure standing on a slightly raised dais, completely  covered in a long, midnight-blue robe with a hood pulled over his face.  Then a spotlight flicked on, flaring bright on the shrouded form, and a  woman's voice sounded out, mild and a little bit robotic.

"Welcome," the disembodied voice said. "Welcome to bidding on Article  Twenty, our first parcel for the night. Article Twenty is twenty-two  years old, from Little Rock, Arkansas. Handlers," the voice continued,  "please remove her hood."         

     



 

And I gasped because invisible hands pulled the cape from the form, and  the material slid fluidly away to reveal the most beautiful girl I'd  ever seen. Red hair curled around a face as sweet as an angel, the  glossy tresses reaching almost to her butt, and big brown eyes looked  around, a little fearful, biting her lip. Oh my god, this was Article  Twenty? Why didn't they use her name? What was going on?

But the disembodied female voice continued.

"As you can see, Article Twenty is young and healthy," the woman spoke  again. "The girl stands five foot nine, measures 36-24-36, with brown  eyes and red hair. Article Twenty, remove your dress please," the voice  said mildly.

The redhead inhaled again, looking around wildly with large eyes. I  wondered why she didn't run, there were no restraints on her hands and  feet, although she was barefoot. But she didn't try to run, instead  quivering in place, breathing hard, eyes wide and rolling, as if  searching for someone to help her.

Suddenly the voice came on again.

"Handlers, please help Article Twenty with her clothes," it commanded.

And two men stepped from the shadows, dressed entirely in black, their  faces shrouded with hoods. With gentle hands, they began removing the  girl's dress, undoing the buttons one by one, slowly unzipping the back  until the floral material fell at her feet. The girl stood,  shell-shocked, still uncomprehending.

"Handlers, please strip Article Twenty completely," the female voice  sounded out once more, disconcertingly mild. "Please remove all of her  clothing."

And the handlers did as told. Black-gloved hands went to the woman's  body, unsnapping the clasp of her bra so that the cups dropped away,  revealing huge, luscious tits capped with pink nipples. The black-gloved  hands also tugged at the woman's underwear, slowly slipping it down her  pale thighs until the redhead was completely nude before us, eyes still  wide with fright, breasts trembling, a peek of her pink slit visible as  she clutched her thighs together.

Oh god, what was going on? Why was this on TV? Why didn't someone help  this poor thing, obviously she was completely freaked out, frozen with  fear. How could this be happening in the modern age, anyways? Weren't  there women's rights, all sorts of female liberation movements  specifically geared so that stuff like this didn't happen?

But events were unspooling so fast that I watched, transfixed, in my little room as the female voice continued.

"Article Twenty, turn to the right."

The redhead managed to respond this time, turning a semi-circle to her right.

"Left now, please," the voice continued.

And the girl turned left, as if there were viewers on her left side as well.

"All the way around now," the voice commanded. And this time, the  redhead did a three-sixty so that the camera could see all of her body,  the narrow, sloping shoulders, the thin waist, the long legs and the  delicate jut of her elbows. The video was so sharp, in such high  resolution that I could even glimpse splatters of freckles on her chest  and the tops of her arms, like sunlight kissing milk. But then the voice  took a different turn.

"Article Twenty," said that monotone. "Please turn and bend over, putting your hands on the ground."

The girl was unmoving, looking around, shocked like a deer in headlights, unable to absorb the order.