It is honest Omar's extreme pleasure to present slave lot 1228.
As I'm sure a moment's inspection will demonstrate, this is no ordinary lot. We will therefore by viewing strictly by appointment only.
The reserve price is a princely $50,000,000 and of course Omar's never, ever sees a slave sold for just the reserve price.
Examine her. See her proud walk. The curves! That sweet face! Cascades of blonde hair, waiting only for your touch to muss into total disarray...
If you are interested (and if you are not, Omar is shocked!) and wish to see more, you must arrange a deposition via your usual Swiss bank.
Don't delay! Appointment slots are limited!
Ah! I see you are interested in the lot! As you can see, she is relatively new to the collar and is still in need of training in certain aspects. For example, she still speaks without permission, which is why we have had to ballgag her.
She complains most vociferously at times, which is peculiar since she has not yet tasted any serious punishment pain. No, honestly, nothing more than the riding crop. She howls as if it were an electrified bullwhip! One wouldn't believe it. You don't believe it?
Come, I shall show you...
A shiver runs down her spine as she stands. The room is not cold. She wonders how many people are out there in the dark, staring at her, evaluating her, assessing her. How did they use to describe Miss World? Like a cattle market? She knows what they meant, now.
She thinks back to the day her life changed, six months ago, when she signed on the last dotted line and disappeared in a plane crash, missing presumed dead. Six months that have led her from the dungeons of London through the pleasure houses of Singapore to today- the block, in the slave market in Geneva. The endless training, how to stand, how to sit, how to suck, how to fuck, how to come on command, when to do nothing, when to rebel, when to submit. The kiss of the Masters, this kiss of the whip. None of it came naturally, even after her life with Michael. They are so cold and brutal, even though objectively Michael had treated her more cruelly that the Masters ever do. But the Masters seem to know her thoughts, when to lay on the crop for maximum effect, when the worst punishment is to withold her orgasm- or force it. True dominance and true submission is in the mind.
A sharp tug on the rope yanks her forward another step and the glare in Omar's eye tells her that now is not the time for daydreams. Omar fastens the rope from her collar to a cold steel hook in the ceiling above the block, leering out at the unseen bidder behind the dark glass screen as he buckles a ballgag into her mouth. She glares back at him, but her gaze cannot match his. She lowers her eyes and feels again the delicious thrill of being overpowered, being made to submit. Something smouldering deep inside her catches a breath of air from being stared down by a man, made to submit by nothing more than the force of his will.
Although she does not know it, there is a collective gasp from the bidders as she bursts into spectacular flame, an inferno of glamour on the elegant stage. That is something that no training can even instill... the pride... and the humbling of pride.
She hears Omar's excited voice, exhorting the bidders, but she is not listening to the words. She is enjoying the feel of the leather straps across her thighs, the security of hands cuffed and padlocked, the warmth of the leather collar around her neck. She is dreaming again, of the Master who will take her away. Will he be tall? Old? Will she have to submit to an ugly old toad? Or to some mysterious Prince from an ancient royal house? Or even (she shudders with the thrill) to a cruel Princess? She has serviced women, of course, but she has never loved one. She hopes her owner will have to pay for her so hard it hurts. She may be a slave, but she's not just any slave. She knows her worth, and will demand to be treated accordingly.
Now then. Let's get rid of those clothes so we can see what we are doing. String her up, so she can't move. Notice that she is extremely fit and well-toned! Slaves of this calibre do not come up for auction very often! No need for th gag, after all we want to hear how much noise she makes. Let's watch her writhe in the bonds for a while... just think, she's hardly been touched. Look at those nipples- never felt a clamp! Submissive, yes, but with so much fire still left in her. Wouldn't it be fun to tame her?
The crop. Here we are. Just a few hard swats!
You see? One or two good hard strokes on the soles of those exquisite bare feet and she's howling for mercy. Can you image what it will be like to take the bullwhip to her? To be the first to really teach her to savour pain?
Remember! The bidding is soon! If you want to see a little more there will be a final viewing session in a few weeks. Don't forget to cable your bankers and arrange for funds to be transferred!
She stands docile while Omar strips her down to her scarlet silk knickers, raises her hands to the bar. She doesn't much like having to kneel like this, especially with her feet off the ground, so she wriggles a little and spreads her knees to make herself more comfortable. At least there is a layer of rubber under the drapery over the block; she hates to have to kneel on cold stone.
Omar is brandishing the crop and she knows he's not going to exert himself too hard because he doesn't want to risk causing and damage to her skin. She wonders why. Perhaps some Masters want to be the first to raise welts and bruises? She plays up to the crop in her own little pantomime. She can judge how sincere a Master is by his reaction to her overacted screams. The weak ones smile broadly and lay on more strokes as she howls, barely in discomfort let along pain. The stronger ones frown, and lay the next one on harder. The scary ones smile thinly and look deeply into her eyes and the next blow she doesn't scream. She knows that they have been going easy on her, because she is not yet sold. The thought makes her bite her lip, because she knows a true Master will whip her so hard that the screams and howls and tears will be real. She shifts position slightly so that her thighs rub together but nothing she does can help her get to the centre of the moisture that stains the scarlet silk.
He swats a few blows at her buttocks and so she plays up to it as usual, and gives Omar that look that says "I know you can't really lay into me, wimp!" Omar grins and the next blow lands with terrific force on the soles of her bare feet. Her yelp is genuine this time! Two, three, four, five, six, seven... diamond tears of pain in her eyes match opalescent tears of excitement between her thighs.
The last stroke is delivered and she hangs from the bar. The look in her eyes contains a measure of true doubt for the first time.
Welcome to the final round of bidding for slave lot 1228!
I'm sure you'll agree that after our last little demonstration of how well she screams, a little peace and quiet is in order! Mmmmmph, yes my dear, mmmmph, that's all we want to hear from you.
So you've seen her tanned limbs, her rounded curves, her soft blonde hair, gazed into those radiant blue eyes, checked her teeth...
So what are you waiting for? Dig into your Swiss Bank accounts, liquidate some assets, sell a few Ferraris, mortgage the Monaco villa! Slaves of this calibre do not pass through even Omar's hallowed halls very often!
So what I am bid? Do I hear a hundred million?
She's used to being tied up because, after all, she is a slave. She knew it would come to this- being sold. It is her final most private fantasy coming to life. Her excitement knows no limit.
Yet still, deep down inside, she's scared. Terrified. Who will buy her? The horrible old hag from the Indus valley, probably looking for nothing more than a sunshine blonde to clean out things with her tongue? The mysterious blonde Englishman in the dark glasses who crudely inserted his finger into her backside when she was on display? The cruel, laughing princess, blossom of some Eastern European royal family tree with Vlad the Impaler at its roots? The plump American billionaire who doesn't like the seats in Omar's bidding room and so sits on a tightly-leashed slavegirl? Or worst of all, will she fail to reach the reserve price and have to endure Omar's fury forever?
The bidding has started, and she needs to shout and scream and cry that it is all a mistake. The indignity, the humiliation!
A hundred million. She hears the number but doesn't really take it in. She's trying to struggle, but she finds that the twin spreader bars actually make it damned near impossible to wriggle and certainly forbid anything more ambulatory than that. She falls backwards, struggles to get up.
Then the numbers start to get through to her. The numbers, and the fact that every bidder in the room is signalling for every bid. Omar's eyes are glittering with greed.
Bidders begin to drop out. The GDP of a small country is on the table already. Only two remain. The princess, her dark eyes flashing with lust, small sharp tongue licking over full scarlet lips, breathing heavy- one hand to signal, the other buried between her legs. The Englishman, ice cool, a slight nod of the head. When the bidding reaches five hundred million he removes his sunglasses, stands, calls for a final inspection. She is deeply scared of this cold man, tries to shuffle backwards away from him as he kneel and stares right into her eyes. The princess is lost in her own world, the head of the American's chair-slave now buried in the princess' lap, long blood-red fingernails entwined in hair, urging the slave to perform, abandoned in the decadence of the moment.
"You WILL be mine" the Englishman whispers.
GOING ONCE! GOING TWICE! GONE!
The hubbub in the room slowly subsides. The princess removes her hand from her crotch, licks her fingers clean. She glares at the Englishman but the venom is mostly spent, replaced by post-climax bliss.
The slave girl is somehow no longer the centre of attention. The auctioneers are rubbing their hands in glee- she has brought the price of a small country. The unsuccesful bidders are talking about the unprecedented price, how shocking that someone might consider one slavegirl worth that amount of money.
The only eyes on her now are those of her new master. The cold Englishman. She holds his gaze, challenging. He smiles, and she smiles. Hers is warm, inviting. His is cold and promises torments and torture and total subjugation. He kneels by her, slips her knickers down, cups her pussy. His fingers glisten when he withdraws them.
"Have her transported to my jet and lock her down on the fuck bench. I will utilise her on the way home."