It is the late 2030’s and somewhere in a small run-down town in South Wales there is a rather shabby looking Industrial Estate that is long past it’s ‘sell-by’ date. Over to one side of the ram-shackled collection of buildings is an old and dilapidated warehouse long in need of a coat of paint… The warehouse, however, sports a large new-looking sign board proclaiming it to be the home of “SECOND-LIFE AUCTIONS Ltd.” The warehouse has no windows and only a couple of doors… It is not as run-down as it looks…
1. Collection and Preparation.
As student parties go it had been quite unremarkable and had followed the traditional pattern of immature boys trying to impress young ladies by drinking more cheap alcohol than was good for them. Although why the sight of drunken lads vomiting in the various corners of the room would impress anyone is mystery lost in the mists of time.
Sam had only gone to the party because it was sort of expected — his mates were there and so was he, where they led — he followed, which is why he had mates… They were there to lead each other into trouble. Besides, as the only alternative had been to hide away in his room and write an overdue essay on the causes of the Korean War, the party had naturally won hands down.
The party which had been lively enough, had progressed along the usual lines for Sam: the girls looked down their noses at him and there was too much booze and over-loud music. All of which combined to produce the usual result as far as the lad was concerned and true to form, he had eventually found himself leaning against the wall at the front of the house groaning, throwing up and swearing that he would never drink again.
He heard the front door open and someone step out, he had looked up and through his self-induced misery recognised the pretty red-head that he had spent the evening totally failing to impress. She turned in Sam’s direction, sniffed in that superior way that all unobtainable young ladies do the world over before turning towards the front gate.
Sam returned to his self-inflicted puddle of personal misery and consequently didn’t hear the van draw up… Although he did vaguely remember hearing a Welshman call out. “Here’s one!”
The red-head had then gasped, sobbed and mumbled something unintelligible.
This was followed a few seconds later by another man who called. “Hey, there’s another one over there!”
Almost immediately Sam heard movement close by and then felt hands grab hold of him. “Gerroff!” He muttered just before a dirty cloth was pressed over his face — a cloth that smelled pungent and sweet.
The night suddenly faded to black and fell over as it did so.
* * *
There was the sound of paper rustling as someone or something moved and by the sound of things it was a large amount of paper.
Sam wasn’t particularly comfortable, it was dark and he couldn’t seem to move very much. When he did paper rustled. The smell, the sweet smell, had gone and had been replaced by that of sweat and vomit and urine and cheap perfume. There was the sound of breathing and there was pain, lots of pain.
“My heads hurt!” The lad muttered to no one in particular.
The statement never-the-less received a reply… “How many have you got?” It was a woman’s voice and a familiar one at that.
Sam blinked in surprise but it didn’t help for the room, or wherever it was that they where, seemed to be in total darkness. “How many should I have?” Sam groaned. “And please don’t shout.”
The woman giggled and then said. “Ow!” There was a pause. “Just the one, I think, but don’t quote me.”
Sam felt some sensations returning as he became more fully awake and realised that he had cramp in his legs to go with the pounding in his head. He tried to move into a new position but couldn’t. “Hey,” he muttered, “I can’t move.”
“Me neither!” Answered the woman who seemed to be a lot closer than Sam had initially thought. In fact she sounded like she was right next to him. “I think I’m tied up.”
Sam tried to roll over but it was no good. “Hey, what’s going on?” He called out with just a hint of panic in his voice. “Where am I?”
“Please don’t shout, my head hurts too.” The woman pleaded.
Sam heard paper rustle as she tried to move — this was followed by a grunt of exasperation and a gasp of pain and annoyance. “I — I think you’re right, I’m sort of tied up too!”
Suddenly another realisation struck Sam, this one caused him to panic. “Hey! I don’t think I’ve got any clothes on!”
There was a pause, then a whimper followed by a frightened… “Me neither.” Another pause, a longer one this time, followed by a slightly panicky. “I don’t think that it’s dark in here, I think it’s a blindfold.”
Sam tried to move but only managed a small wriggle in the course of which his bum brushed against something soft. “Was that you I bumped into?”
“Yes, I think so.” She sounded calmer, but it didn’t last and her voice became somewhat shrill as she asked. “Where are we? How did we get here? Who are you?”
There was another pause followed by. “What?”
“Sam Pearce… It’s my name. You asked who I was.”
“Ah!” The woman answered as she moved in an attempt to ease her own discomfort and brushed against Sam in the process. “Hi, Sam, I’m Rachel Giles.” Another pause. “Do I know you?”
The conversation was suddenly cut short by the clatter of a van door being thrown open, this was followed by the sounds of movement and of new harsh voices that seemed to echo around a confined space.
“What they like?” A woman demanded, her voice was husky and had a hard Welsh accent. “Okay are they?”
Sam heard the rustling sound of something being dragged through scrunched-up paper as Rachel yelped. “Leave me alone.”
“Shut the fuck up, or I’ll gag ya!” This was the male voice, older and edgy.
Rachael squealed and shouted. “Put me down.” This was followed by the sound of a hard slap and another squeal.
“I said to shut it!” Sam heard the man bark and then it was quiet and he was suddenly on his own.
After what seemed like an age the lad heard people approaching once more and picked up on their conversation as he heard the Welshwoman say. “…pretty redhead, that, a bit on the plump side but she’ll do. Now let’s have a look at the other one.”
Sam felt hands roughly grab hold of his ankles and pull him feet-first along the smooth floor: the paper he’d been lying in rustled.
There was a groan. “You fucking idiot, Ron!” Yelled the woman. “It’s a fucking bloke! Can’t you tell a lad from a girl?”
“Oh shit!” Mumbled Ron. “Sorry, Boss, it was sort of dark when I grabbed him and there was no light in the van when we stripped them. He’s got long hair so I thought they were both birds. Well at least he’s a blonde!”
“Big fucking deal, you English moron!” Boss-woman spat. There was an exasperated sigh. “No matter… They’re only here to make up the numbers, anyway, ten was a bit light which is why we grabbed these extras, last minute.”
Sam felt himself being lifted and dropped into a chair — a chair with wheels. “Come on,” he heard the woman say, “lets get them cleaned up and presentable.”
* * *
For Sam, the next hour or so passed in a confusing blur: it started with an injection that cleared the pain but left him feeling spaced-out… His bonds were removed as was the blindfold. Then someone sat him in another chair, one inside a large shower… Rachel was already in there… The shower, a powerful one with multiple heads, was turned on causing the pair of them to protest loudly.
Sam tried to stand up but was dizzy and fell back into the chair whose arms were the only thing that stopped him flopping side-ways onto the floor. Suddenly there was someone behind them, someone who washed them roughly but thoroughly. He tried to make sense of it all, but his brain, just like his co-ordination didn’t seem to be working all that well.
The hands that scrubbed him were not the least bit gentle although the attention was quite impersonal. He objected when his genitals was roughly grabbed and soaped and also when he was hauled half way out of his chair and a soapy finger shoved up his arsehole: well, that wasn’t very pleasant either.
“Hey leave off!” He yelled, but was ignored… The person had been given a job and was determined to complete it whether Sam minded or not. It was no comfort that Rachel was treated in exactly the same cavalier fashion. Hell, it wasn’t even embarrassing — the onslaught on his dignity had been too sudden for embarrassment to register. The pair of them were washed, their hair shampooed with something perfumed, all by the unseen figure who gave every sign of not caring whether they liked the procedure or not. Perhaps it was the alcohol he’d drunk, perhaps it was the injection he’d received or perhaps it was a little of both, but Sam found that the only resistance that he could put up were a series of shrill, whining complaints — all of which were ignored.
The shower ended and the pair of them were wrapped up in large thick towels and hauled back into the room where, still objecting, they were given some sort of perfunctory examination before the woman known as “Boss” glared at them. Sam recognised her by her Welsh accent although was surprised to see that she looked Indian.
“Well?” She demanded.
“They seem healthy — he’s about eighteen and she’s twenty or twenty-one. Typical pampered bloody students!”
The room were the pair of them found themselves was dingy and had a disused industrial-look about it. Sam blinked as he looked around in the harsh yellowish light: there were signs of neglect and decay all around them and boxes and other clutter seemed to have been dragged out of the way to clear a space in the middle of the floor where someone had laid a threadbare, but clean, carpet. The two students found themselves standing in the middle of it.
Rachel had tried to use her hands and arms to hide her lady’s place and breasts but the woman had flicked her with the end of a leather belt causing her to yelp.
“Stand up straight, the both of you!” The woman commanded. Then she proceeded to walk slowly around them as she stared quite impersonally at their bodies.
“Who’re you?” Muttered Sam just before he received a flick from the same belt which stung his backside. “Oww!”
“Keep quiet and keep still!” Rumbled the man.
The inspection continued for a few minutes and only ended when the woman pronounced herself to be satisfied. “Okay, they’ll have to do — get them presentable, Ron, then mark them up, and get them down to the hall… The punters will be arriving in an hour or so and I want these pair looking at least passable.”
The man approached and grabbed hold of them both in turn and used a purple marker pen to draw a large “11” on Rachel’s shoulder while Sam was similarly marked with a “12”. As Ron stepped back to admire his handiwork Sam had a good view of their captors. Ron looked like the typical criminal muscle familiar from TV shows, or the local pub. Almost a walking cliché, he was large and bulky with a shaved head and a collection of tattoos: some of which were miss-spelt. The prize one which, proclaimed that he was a supporter of “Millworl FC”, was clearly self-inflicted.
The woman was small, ferret-faced and had hard, brown eyes that regarded everything and everyone by their cash-value. Her clothes, however were expensive and her long black hair was clean enough to shine. She was also clearly the one in charge and even Ron seemed to be afraid of her. As she stared at Sam she seemed to calculate his cash value to the nearest penny — an exercise that didn’t seem to satisfy her. “If only I had time to advertise you properly…” Her voice trailed off as she shook her head in disappointment. “The gay men would have taken a real shine to you, boy! As it was the only on that I could reach was Neil-the-fairy.” She muttered to no one in particular as she stepped back.
She turned to her underling. “Right, Ron, can you get them down to the hall and put them on display while I go and get changed… The guests will be arriving shortly and they’ll think it odd if I don’t welcome them personally, like. Oh and try to get something done with their hair and use a little light make-up to hi-light their features: get Gladys to give you a hand, tell her ‘I said so!'”
2. Display and Disposal.
Shortly afterwards and still suffering from drug-induced confusion plus the remains of a hang-over, Sam found himself in much more salubrious surroundings. The ‘Display Suite’, or so Ron had called it, was at least clean and neatly furnished. The lad got the impression that it was a walled off section of a much larger room’: the ceiling, or rather the total lack of one, being a give-away. It made him think of a film set, although he doubted that it was anything so innocent.
He found himself perched naked on a podium with a collar clipped around his neck from which a short chain ran back to a sturdy chrome-plated metal post. He grabbed the chain and gave it a tug but all that happened was that it rattled which caused a young woman to yell. “Stop it you dick-head!” In a thick Cardiff accent.
He glanced in her direction and saw that she wore a full face mask and was dressed in a tight purple velvet catsuit: given different circumstances he would have thought that she looked pretty sexy although she was obviously well out of his league. As it was the site of her just made him feel sad. Still, his willy, which obviously had a mind of its own, reacted by starting to stiffen.
The girl noticed and laughed which caused both Sam and willy to wilt from embarrassment.
They had already been briefed or rather told in no uncertain terms how they were to respond to the expected guests. They were, for instance, not to object in anyway when touched, stroked or fondled. They were to remain silent and only speak if asked a direct question and they were, above all to smile when a guest interacted with them and to address them in whatever way the guest required.
Interacted with? Sam had wondered. What the hell does that mean?
The room was warm but smelled slightly of cleaning products including disinfectant and this caused the lad to once more wonder vaguely just what was going on. The little podium on which he stood was the right hand one of twelve that were arranged in a sweeping crescent. Rachel was displayed on the one next to him and looked just as frightened as he felt.
“You okay, love?” He asked with genuine concern.
Suddenly he yelped as his collar stung him. Catsuit girl, or her twin appeared in front of him. “No talking!” She hissed and showed him a little black box with red numbered buttons. “Speak again and you get more of this!”
She pushed a button and this time Rachel squealed. “That was in case you were tempted to answer him!” She added nastily.
Bitch! Thought Sam defiantly as he sulked in silence. From where he was perched he could see all of the other little podiums… Each of them was occupied by a girl: some were blonde, others being brunette while two were ravenettes, Rachel being the sole redhead looked exotic and out of place. They all seemed to be young although one or two might have been in their thirties and all of them were marked with a purple number: all except for a small Afro-Caribbean girl whose number ‘4’ was in white: she looked positively terrified.
Most of the other girls looked as scared as Sam felt but a couple stood there exuding an air of confidence, almost as if they knew what was coming or had done something like this before. One however looked angry and he noticed that she seemed to be shackled and had her hands secured behind her back. He exchanged glances with Rachel although neither of them spoke, fearing the retribution that it would bring; however he thought that he heard her whimpering although on reflection he decided that it was probably himself who made the noise… God, I’m scared but I wish they would get on with it!
Eventually more people entered the room, they drifted in in ones or twos and soon there were about fifteen of them milling around and showing interest in the girls, although Sam, with a couple of exceptions, received barely a glance. The gathering seemed to consist of about twelve women and three men, although Sam wasn’t exactly happy about the way one of the latter kept coming back and staring at him.
Suddenly there was a flurry of activity and when the lad looked up, he noticed that the woman he knew only as “Boss” had entered, although he hardly recognised her, dressed as she was in a long, flowing green evening gown that seemed to shimmer when she moved. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced. “please feel free to examine and handle the girls… The boy too, if you wish. If you have any problems, my young ladies will be only too pleased to assist you.”
Handle? Sam didn’t much like the sound of that.
The Boss continued. “Just to remind you that the proceedings will run along the usual lines — sealed bids only — no haggling. The price you will pay will be £500 more than the next lowest bid and there is no buyer’s commission. In the case of a single bid being registered then the lot will sell for its reserve price, no matter what the value of the bid.”
Bids? Sam was horrified. He’d thought that it was just some sort of sick exhibition but it was an auction. I’m going to be sold! Please, God, not one of the men…
The atmosphere seemed to change as the visitors began to circulate and examine the livestock — for that was what, the lad realised that they all were: livestock to be sold to the highest bidder, although for what purpose he dreaded to think. There seemed to be no real pattern to the proceedings with the women and the handful of men moving around randomly. Most interacted with the others while a few seemed to ignore everyone that wasn’t on display.
The man returned, reached out and gently stroked Sam’s thigh chuckling when the boy pulled away. “Don’t be frightened.” The man had instructed in a kindly voice. “I know what little boys like.”
A tall, blonde woman moved over to stand in front of Rachel, then cocking her head to one side, she thoughtfully observed the girl for a minute or so before consulting her auction programme, she cocked a sideways glance at Sam before smiling knowingly and moving away.
An elderly Indian woman was suddenly in front of Sam viewing him with distaste. Her dark, bird-like eyes, regarded him contemptuously and then she too has gone.
A small crowd seemed to gather around Rachel and a couple of women reached out to squeeze or fondle her. For a moment it looked as if she would object or burst into tears but she had noticed that one of the masked cat-suit girls was hovering in the background, watching her intently: this was enough for her to restrict any objections to a sulky pout.
“How old are you, child?” A grey-haired woman demanded.
When the girl didn’t answer cat-suit girl tapped a button on her little black box. “Answer the lady!” She snapped when Rachel’s squeal died away.
“Twenty-one!” The redhead muttered.
The grey-haired woman had smiled, nodded and then moved away and the little gathering dispersed.
The man was back again. He reached out and grasped Sam’s penis before squeezing it gently. The lad wanted to object but didn’t fancy another electric shock so he just glared.