By: Tara Crescent

I tried to forget that the plan involved Alexander Hamilton buying me for sex. My body wasn’t a combat machine for the next three months. It was only meant to be an object of desire.

Once again, I looked in the mirror. I was dithering, avoiding the moment when I’d have to step out of the door, into the teeming crowds of Khao San and hail a cab to the more cosmopolitan district of Silom, where I’d be bathed, made up and auctioned like a piece of property.

The phone rang shrilly. It was Lucien. “Are you on your way?” His voice was tense. This was the moment of truth for both of us. If Alexander Hamilton didn’t buy me at today’s auction, we’d have no way of accessing Dylan McAllister’s Vietnamese fortress compound.

“Just leaving,” I told him, closing the door behind me. I ignored my shaking hands and thought instead of the knife I was leaving behind, taped to the toilet, where it wouldn’t be discovered until after I was gone. I would miss that knife.

Chapter 4

Ellie / Jenny:

My one small suitcase in hand, I caught a cab to the address I’d made my way to three days earlier. Today, I paid attention to my surroundings. I was about to walk into battle. I could not zone out. My survival would depend on my ability to stay mindful, to remain entirely in the moment. Today, I couldn’t lose myself in daydreams of Marc.

The building itself was about as unobtrusive as you could get in Silom. A three-storey brick building with greying white paint, it looked like every other apartment building in the ritzy neighborhood. But I had done my research and knew better. This was Bangkok’s most private BDSM club and today, it was the scene of Madame Lorraine’s twice-a-year consensual slave auctions.

A shy Thai girl greeted me at the door in response to my knocking. “You are Jenny Fullerton, yes?” she asked me in slightly accented English. I nodded silently, my stomach a churning ball of nerves. And while I would normally try to conceal all emotion, today, I let them show. It would be expected. I was a young woman who had never been outside the USA and I was about to participate in a slave auction. Calmness would be far more suspicious.

“Come with me,” she said, leading the way down a narrow corridor to the back of the main floor. “My name is Sarit,” she added over her shoulder as she walked.

In the room that she led me to, three women were bustling around three massage tables. “We need to remove all body hair,” Sarit explained and I nodded again. I couldn’t speak. I was busy swallowing down the bile that rose in my throat, triggered by the memory of many forced Brazilian waxings. Mrs. Olusola’s voice echoed in my head, the memory painfully fresh. “Master doesn’t like hair,” she had whispered before heating the wax and spreading it on my mound. “Master wants girls to look like girls, not women.”

Master had his thugs kidnap an eighteen year old to be a sex slave, I had wanted to scream. But by that point, I had known better. Master didn’t like screaming or tears. He wanted quiet, docile obedience.

I got naked for the women around me and lay on the vinyl-covered table. “Do you need something for the pain?” Sarit asked me. She smiled impishly. “I have pain killers if you’d like or maybe a drink?”

Would Madam Lorraine approve of the drinking, I wondered, but I shook my head. I needed all my wits about me this evening and the alcohol would just interfere with my abilities. As would the pain killers. I settled for the truth or a close resemblance to it. “My former Master insisted I do this without pain killers,” I responded. “He liked that I endure the pain for him.”

Sarit smiled sweetly. “And you honour his memory by following his wishes?” I could picture the girlish romance she was creating in her head, of a Master who had loved and cherished and trained his submissive. But her fantasy couldn’t have been further from the truth. “I bow to your courage,” she added.

Oh you silly thing, I wanted to say. Oh, you silly, silly thing.


The hair on my pussy had already been weakened by the dye I’d used on it. After all, I was a brunette now. Red hair on my mound would have been a total giveaway.

I endured the waxing and the girls clucked around me, patting my hand and telling me how brave I was. If only they knew. The real act of bravery would be later this evening when I would voluntarily put myself on the auction block to be sold.

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