Dove

By Lilith Goode

A young, financially troubled housewife auctions herself to the highest bidder and explores her sexuality, gaining personal fulfillment as she discovers the joys and pleasures that black men can provide her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lilith Goode
• Release date: May 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463096192

Lilith Goode

I was born in Fort Lauderdale, Florida back before it became a parking lot running from Miami to Palm Beach. In an attempt to escape my five and a half million neighbors, cockroaches, and hurricanes, I moved to Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, which lies on the Canadian border in Michigan's upper peninsula, in the mistaken belief that anyplace located on a large body of water would have a lot of seafood restaurants. Not being much of a sports person, I missed the somewhat obvious correlation that in order to have seafood restaurants, the body of water has to be an ocean and not a lake.My writing career, such as it is, began when my computer tragically died at a very young age. As background, I should tell you I've long been a fan of Hentai, which is basically anime styled porn, and my favorite meme is where a sweet and virginal young girl has her first sexual encounter and immediately turns into a stark, raving nymphomaniac.When my computer went to computer hell (Seattle, Washington) I had just finished reading an article describing how Japanese anime is influencing Western drawing styles and memes more and more, and had also just finished reading several of Adam Warren's 'Empowered' comics, (which, if you haven't already, you should definitely check out).Suddenly having lots of free time on my hands, (if you want to spark your creative juices I strongly suggest trashing your computer) I began to wonder what a story done in my favorite hentai meme (nymphomaniac, remember?) would be like.I envisioned a young virgin who, on her eighteenth birthday, dreams of a sexual encounter with a stranger and who, upon awakening, realizes it wasn't a dream. Following which, naturally, she turns into a sex-crazed maniac.At first that was the extent of it, but as time went on I kept thinking about what, exactly, that would entail, and finally had to write it down so I could keep track of it.That story has gone through many changes, and I'm still not ready to publish it, although I hope to someday, but it got me interested in writing. (I did recently publish the opening scene in a collection of short stories called "Pretty Little Sluts" as a bonus feature if you'd like to check it out.) Since my favorite subject is sex, I naturally turned to erotica.(I've been told that what I write isn't strictly erotica, as apparently my stories come with too much of something called 'plot.' I considered toning the sex down so I could sell them as straightforward fiction, but what fun would that be?)And I'm sorry, but I don't see the point in writing if you don't tell a story, so you'll just have to suffer through the myriad adventures my girls and gurls encounter as they bounce from one bed to another. Or the couch, desk, floor etc... I'm still trying to figure out how to write a sex scene on the ceiling, although I've come pretty close to it with Dove.Most of my early works were either centered around sexually 'enthusiastic' girls, or a little later, BBC loving ones, but for some time now I've been interested in trans girls. I blame Supergirl, and the lovely and talented young trans actress who was featured on that show. Because, let's face it, if I'm fascinated by the thought of a young girl transitioning from a virgin to a sex maniac after her first time, then the idea of a boy who does the same thing, sacrificing not only his 'cherry' but his male identity, is positively irresistible.(A friend once told me I was contrary. I argued with them, of course, but they have a point. I love stories or characterizations that challenge the rules or norms of society. What can I say? I'm just a troll at heart.)So, along with my usual fare, you'll find a lot of my more recent works feature sissies or trans girls. If you're not into that sort of thing, make sure you check my categorizations. Don't worry, you'll still find lots of sweet young nymphomaniacs and hot interracial sex among my other works.As always, I would be greatly appreciative of any feedback regarding my writing style that anyone would care to share with me, either directly at [e-mail] or by posting reviews of my works on-line wherever you purchased your edition. Also, good news for all you people out there who, like me, love free stuff. I'm not getting any younger, and I like the idea of people reading my books after I'm gone, so I've decided to make all of them free from now on, including any future ones. I've got about four I'm trying to finish up before that final visitor shows up knocking on my door, (including a cute takeoff on Grimms' Fairy Tales that I hope to have out in a couple of weeks) so keep an eye out for them. I'm not exactly clear on how it works, but I think if you either sign up for alerts or 'favorite' me you'll get notified when I publish something new, so you might want to do one or both of those things if you haven't already.XOXO,Lilith

Book preview

Dove

Copyright 2022 Lilith Goode

Published by Lilith Goode at Smashwords

This book contains scenes of an adult nature, including graphic sexual scenes, scenes depicting drug use, and obscene language. No one under the age of eighteen should purchase or read this book. All characters in this work are eighteen years of age or older.

Cover Image Credit: 123RF

ISBN: 9780463096192

What’s a struggling young housewife to do when her trailer park doubles her rent? Why, auction herself off to the highest bidder, of course. Dove thought it would be a way to earn some quick cash. Little did she realize just how much her life was about to change.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

1 - MRS. TRUDALL

GIRL FOR SALE

PARTY OF FIVE

MY INNER SLUT

2 – LOVING DOVE

WHATEVER THEY WANT

I’M FREE

3 – SISSY

TRAINING DAY

TRANSVEINIA

VIDEO QUEEN

BIG BOYS DON’T CRY

4 – FRIENDS

QUEEN OF SPADES

T-GUNZ

DIRECTOR’S CUT

IT GIRL

5 – WORKING GIRL

BAD GIRL

MOVING ON UP

FLOATING ON AIR

WORKING FOR A LIVING

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

I stared at the thick metal shackles with fascination as they were fastened around my wrists and ankles.

They matched the one I was already wearing around my waist. Once I was locked into them I was left standing on the small platform, naked, as the technician took out his phone and tapped the screen a few times. I felt the magnetic current’s pull as it was switched on and suddenly my arms and feet spread apart as I rose, leaving me spreadeagle and hanging suspended in mid-air about a foot above the platform.

The tech walked around me, examining me from all sides and angles, even crouching down to peer up between my legs at my exposed pussy and anus as I blushed with embarrassment.

Smile. No one wants to see a sad slave.

I pasted a fake smile on my face and held it there as he slid his hand up my leg to fondle one of my butt cheeks.

Nice.

He returned his attention to his phone and my arms shot straight up as my wrists touched above my head and my ankles did the same below me, before he tapped his screen again to rotate my body until I was lying on my back at about waist height with my legs spread wide and raised high, as if in anticipation of a ghostly lover who was about to mount me.

Even amidst my shame I had to admit that it was all kind of hot. I’d played light bondage games in the bedroom with my husband, but this took things to a whole new level. The sensation of having no control over one’s own body while it was manipulated and posed according to a stranger’s whims was both embarrassing and highly erotic.

I felt myself rotating until I was lying on my stomach with my legs spread and my ass raised higher than the rest of me, my heavy breasts pointing down at the ground.

The man cupped one and smiled as he gently squeezed it, as if it were a piece of fruit and he was checking its ripeness. I wondered what Stanley would say if he could see me. He would be outraged, of course. He was extremely jealous, the sort who disliked it when I even spoke to other men. He was insecure, secretly believing that he didn’t measure up to them, sure I was going to leave him no matter how many times I reassured him that it was him I loved.

The man released my tit and, apparently satisfied that the equipment was working, returned me to the upright position, with my wrists touching above my head and my feet spread slightly apart, suspended about a foot above the ground.

He walked off, leaving me on display, one of the dozens of white girls, boys, and in-betweens waiting for the sale to begin. I stifled a sob as I hung there, waiting for the doors to open so the buyers could begin inspecting their potential new purchases.

PART ONE – MRS. TRUDALL

1.1 – GIRL FOR SALE

I stared at Stanley in disbelief. I think the thing I was having the most trouble understanding was how proud he was by it all. He wasn’t even upset.

You did tell him it was our anniversary, right?

Of course. But this client is important, and there’s no one else who could go.

Bullshit. You’re not the only bookkeeper the company has. Let one of the others do it.

Stan’s face turned red because he was proud of the fact that he’d recently passed the CPA exam and disliked being reminded that he still hadn’t been promoted beyond the entry level position of data entry rep.

We’ll have other anniversaries.

Not first ones, Stan. Jesus! I don’t fucking believe this. Why do you have to go out of town on the weekend? They can’t wait until Monday to meet with you?

Look, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll take you out to dinner when I get back.

With what money? We can’t even pay for groceries.

Maybe if I do this Mr. Quarterman will promote me. This might be my big opportunity. Mr. Bigby told me he asked for me personally. Come on, Dove, what choice do I have?

I could think of several, starting with growing a pair and ending with him telling his arrogant prick of a boss, Dominic Quarterman, to shove his entry level job up his admittedly fine ass. But that would be a waste of time and breath. I could tell Stan was proud that Quarterman had asked for him.

He practically worshipped the man, a self-made billionaire who was reputed to be one of the wealthiest black men on the planet, a fact made more impressive considering he was still under thirty and had started out with nothing, having lived on the streets during his younger years.

I was surprised Quarterman had asked for him. Truth be told, I was a little surprised he even knew who Stan was. As far as I was aware they’d only met once, two weeks before at the company picnic. Stan and I had been lounging by the pool when I’d noticed the incredibly handsome black man staring at me. He looked like a movie star, one of those ripped gym rats with overdeveloped muscles who star in movies where more thought goes into the fight scene choreographies than the plot points. His body was on full display, as was mine, since each of us had worn swimsuits designed to show them off.

Okay, so maybe the bikini I’d selected was a little skimpier than was appropriate for a company function, and Quarterman hadn’t been the only man I’d caught eyeing me that day, but he’d been the one who’d captured my attention. I’d been trying to think of how to ask Stan who he was without triggering his jealousy when the man had walked over, smiled, and introduced himself while inquiring whether we were enjoying the party.

Stan had almost swooned. He’d blushed like a schoolgirl as he assured him that it was the best party he’d ever attended, no, the best party that had ever been thrown in the history of civilization.

Quarterman had listened to him but his gaze had been on me. When Stan had introduced me, as his little woman which he knows I hate but he likes to do because I’m only five-one in my stockings, and I’d shaken Quarterman’s hand, a slight movement caught my attention. I’d glanced down past where his huge black hand engulfed my diminutive pale white one and suppressed a gasp. Coiled beneath the thin material of his speedo style swimsuit was the largest cock I’d ever seen.

Quarterman smiled, clearly aware of where my gaze was resting, and the beast twitched again, as if challenging me.

And are you enjoying yourself as well, Dove?

His voice, velvet overlaying gravel, made goosebumps appear on my arms. Somewhat reluctantly, I raised my pale green eyes to his almond ones.

It’s a lovely party, Mr. Quarterman.

I have to admit, it was a little boring at first, but I believe it’s starting to pick up now.

He finished his beer and glanced at Stan, who immediately asked, Would you like me to get you another, Mr. Quarterman?

That would be great. Thank you, Stan.

Stan blushed with pleasure as he took the empty cup from his boss.

Would you like another one, Dove?

Okay, honey.

As soon as Stan had departed Quarterman’s smile turned predatory as he openly ogled me.

We don’t get many wives who can fill out a bikini as well as you do, Mrs. Trudall.

I’m sorry if it’s too skimpy. Stan told me I should wear something less revealing.

Stan is an idiot. Why don’t you ditch him, and we’ll go somewhere private? You can slip into something more revealing.

Mr. Quarterman! I’m a happily married woman.

I find that almost impossible to believe. You’re way out of Stan’s league.

There’s nothing wrong with Stan.

There’s nothing right with him. How long have you been married?

It will be a year in two weeks.

Call me in three.

I was trying to come up with a suitably scathing retort when Stan returned with the beers. Quarterman took his, thanked him perfunctorily, smiled at my tits while saying he looked forward to seeing us again, and departed.

Stan was so happy that I didn’t have the heart to tell him what a slimy weasel his boss really was. A very sexy weasel, but a weasel nonetheless.

♠ ♠ ♠

After Stan had packed his suitcase and Ubered his way to the airport I received the two mailings that would change my life.

The first was a letter from the company that owned the trailer park we lived in, because living in a trailer in New Jersey, even with the commute, was much cheaper than living in Manhattan. It notified me that the rental for the small plot of land our house sat on was being raised by one hundred percent.

That’s the difference between living in a trailer park and an apartment complex. Call it the trailer park blues. Both can raise your rent. But if you live in an apartment it’s not too difficult to pack up and move to a different one. It’s not so easy to move a trailer, which means you’re totally screwed if, as many of the residents do, including Stanley and myself, you own it.

Over the past few years unscrupulous investors have come to realize this fact and they’ve been buying up parks and then raising the fees exorbitantly, knowing the tenants have little choice but to pay up because if they don’t they lose not only their home, but the money they have invested in their trailers.

We’d bought ours because Stanley thought it would be a good investment, allowing us to live reasonably cheaply and maybe even come out a little ahead when we sold it in a few years to move to the city once his career took off.

But we hadn’t owned it long enough to see any gains through appreciation and if we had to do a quick sale or, worse, it was repossessed, we’d lose most if not all our initial investment.

Mobile homes aren’t that easy to unload and unless you maintain them perfectly they’re just as likely to depreciate as they are to appreciate. More likely, in fact, which Stanley had failed to realize before we’d bought it.

I felt panicky tears forming in my eyes as I read the notice. I hadn’t been exaggerating when I’d told Stan we could barely afford groceries. We practically lived on eggs, peanut butter and jelly, and bologna.

And I’m not talking about the expensive beef bologna either, but the much cheaper kind made out of chicken, turkey and roadkill. I already bought the least expensive store brands on the shelves. There was no way I could cut our grocery budget enough to make up for the amount our new plot rental was going to cost.

With trembling hands, I opened the other envelope, a thick, expensive looking one addressed to me. That was a little odd, but I didn’t think about it at the time. I suspected it just contained an invitation to go deeper into debt in some way.

Instead, it offered a way to get out of it.

I frowned as I read the offer, at first trying to understand it and then trying to figure out if it was some kind of joke. The offer was simple. It invited me to sell myself.

♠ ♠ ♠

I reread the ad for the hundredth time, not quite believing it was real even though I’d gone online by then to research it and knew it was.

The terms were simple enough. I was being offered a chance to prostitute myself, for a time duration of my choosing, for potentially thousands of dollars. Many thousands of them.

Depending on how long I was willing to sell myself for I could make five or even six figures if the claims were to be believed, and from what I’d read on the internet they were.

It was a new business concept. Voluntary slavery. Sexual slavery, although the ad didn’t come right out and say that. Apparently someone had figured out a way to make prostitution legal, helped by a general relaxing of sex worker laws in some areas, including the one I lived in.

While the ad didn’t outright say I would be having sex with whoever bought me it did say that once someone purchased me they owned me and could do whatever they wanted with me, and that I was obligated to let them do so or forfeit my payment.

There were a few restrictions. They weren’t allowed to do anything that would permanently harm me. Broken bones and scars carried stiff financial penalties. And while the buyers were permitted to take photos or videos of me they couldn’t be sold or otherwise distributed, such as by posting them online or using them for blackmail purposes. Again, if that happened substantial financial penalties, in the millions of dollars, would be assessed and awarded to me.

I admit I had a brief fantasy about the changes something like that would make in my life, but it was just a fantasy. There was no way I wanted to be a porn star, not voluntarily and most definitely not involuntarily. Stan would divorce me, my parents would disown me, and I’d be too embarrassed to ever show my face in public again.

In the end, I wadded up the letter and tossed it in the trash. I wasn’t about to fuck some stranger for money. Stan and I would just have to come up with some other way to pay our bills. I could talk to him again about getting a job, even though he was adamantly against it. He had some old-fashioned notion that a wife’s place was in the home.

Although I sometimes thought it had more to do with his jealousy. He was afraid that if I were out and about I would meet some other man and leave him. Like I said, he’s insecure.

Whatever the underlying reason, his philosophy only worked if we had a home for me to have a place in, but if we didn’t come up with some extra money that wasn’t going to be the case much longer.

♠ ♠ ♠

I tossed and turned for half the night. In the morning, after a fitful sleep, I got up, retrieved the letter from the garbage, smoothed it out, and with trembling fingers keyed in the phone number listed on it.

I wasn’t sure if they would be open since it was just a little past six on a Saturday morning but a cheery voice answered, Crème de la crème auctioneers. How may I help you?

Um – I received a letter

Your name?

Dove. Trudall.

One moment. Oh, yes, Mrs. Trudall. How may I assist you?

Um – well, how do I… how do I sign up?

You wish to place yourself for auction?

Yes.

When?

I don’t know. How often do they hold them?

We conduct two auctions daily, at eleven a.m. and four p.m. For the early one you would need to be here by eight to be prepped and for the afternoon one you would need to be here by one. What duration contract are you looking for?

How much could I make for a weekend?

It depends on how much the bidders offer, Mrs. Trudall, but in general you can expect to make about five hundred dollars an hour, so if your contract runs from, say, Noon today to midnight tomorrow then you might make eighteen thousand dollars, of which the auction house keeps twenty percent. If a girl is in high demand she might make substantially more. We place a two-hundred dollar an hour minimum bid on our contracts so you wouldn’t make less than about five thousand after our cut. Assuming someone bids on you, of course, but that’s not usually a problem. If no one bids at the first auction you can always sign up for the second one for a shorter duration contract. They’re the ones most likely to be filled. Obviously, the longer-term ones can get fairly expensive for our clients.

I was stunned. I did some quick calculations. Stan was due to get home around nine Sunday evening so if I signed up for, say, from noon today until six Sunday evening that should leave me plenty of time to get home before he did.

Which, after the agency’s fee, meant I could make twelve thousand dollars or more for a thirty-hour contract.

That would solve my budgetary woes nicely. Of course, I would have to figure out a way to spend the money without Stan noticing, but that shouldn’t be too difficult. He provided me with cash for the grocery shopping and didn’t ask for receipts or anything like that. I was allowed to keep anything I didn’t spend, although there usually wasn’t much left over after I bought the basics.

So, all I would have to do would be to set up a bank account, or even use my PayPal account, and draw on it as necessary.

Um – how do you pay me?

We can write you a check or arrange a deposit into your bank account.

How about PayPal?

No problem.

Okay.

Would you like me to book you for one of today’s auctions?

Yes. The early one.

Very good. How long do you want the contract to be for?

Until six p.m. Sunday would work.

Excellent. Do you have our address?

Yes.

Then we’ll see you soon, Mrs. Trudall.

I really wished she’d stop calling me that. All things considered.

♠ ♠ ♠

The auction site was located in a huge warehouse.

The ground floor was one big open space with small circular platforms strewn around it, each about six feet in diameter. Above some of them naked people, mainly girls but a couple of boys and a couple of trannies, were suspended with their arms raised over their heads and their wrists joined together by what looked like thick metal bracelets, as if they were hanging from them although there wasn’t any sort of rope visible above them.

All of the people on display were white.

How are they doing that?

Magnets, Dove. The metal bands around each slave’s wrists, ankles, and waist interact with a powerful magnetic field generated around the platforms, which can be fine-tuned to position them in any pose imaginable.

The man had called me Dove when I’d asked him to. He hadn’t seemed surprised by the request, and I suspected I wasn’t the only wife who didn’t like being reminded of her status while she was there.

I’d stopped at a reception desk, then been escorted upstairs to an office where I’d filled out and signed a formal contract acknowledging that I was both sane and not high, drunk, or otherwise impaired, and that I agreed that, for the duration of the contract, I would do whatever my purchaser required of me.

I’d been honest in attesting to my sobriety. I wasn’t so sure about my claims of sanity, because what I was doing seemed absolutely crazy to me. Stan was the only boyfriend I’d ever had. He was also the only man I’d ever had sex with. I’m not really a casual kind of girl.

We’d met in college. And no, I’d never had sex with a girl either, not even during my wild years. My wild years had pretty much consisted of having a shot of whatever was popular at the time with my beer. One of my favorites had been tie me to the bedposts, baby. I guess now it would be called suspend me in midair naked, baby.

Anyway, I’d usually limited myself to a single shot. Any more than that and my friends had to carry me out, which they had quickly grown tired of.

After I’d filled out the various forms and signed the contract, the man had appeared and led me to a row of lockers in a changing room, where I’d stripped and stashed my clothes inside the one he’d assigned me. It was opened by my thumbprint instead of a traditional lock.

I’d been embarrassed at being naked in front of a stranger, and even more so when he’d led me out of the locker room into the main area, but I’d quickly grown used to it. For one thing, other than him and a couple other techs wandering around doing technical things or placing people on the platforms, everyone in the room was naked.

I’d quickly assessed the other girls’ bodies and decided I had nothing to worry about in that regards.

Look, it’s a girl thing, all right? All of the people in sight were hot, but so was I, with a slender frame, large but not outlandishly so breasts that were still plenty firm, wide hips, and a round little ass that Stan often begged me to let him fuck.

As if I would ever do that.

Oh fuck.

That was the moment I realized just what I’d agreed to. What if the man who bought me wanted to fuck my ass?

I panicked for a second, then decided it probably wouldn’t be a problem. After all, there couldn’t be that many guys out there who wanted to do something like that, right? And if I got some perv who did want to, I’d just have to sweet talk him out of it.

I had faith in my ability to get men to do what I wanted. It’s a hot girl thing. At the time, I hadn’t yet learned its limitations.

♠ ♠ ♠

By nine o’clock I was so bored, hanging there all by myself, that it was a relief when they opened for business and admitted the first batch of potential bidders.

My relief was short lived. The buyers were almost all black, mostly men, but a few women too, and they weren’t at all shy about sampling the merchandise.

I didn’t have a problem with them being black. I guessed I probably should have expected it, after seeing that all the people for sale were white, but it just hadn’t registered with me.

What I did have a problem with was how they would run their hands over my body, caressing it, fondling my ass and breasts, and even kissing my nipples and sucking on them, as the magnetized shackles forced me into poses that I would have been embarrassed to assume in front of my own husband, in the privacy of our bedroom.

Fingers explored my pussy with abandon while I blushed crimson and tried to keep from moaning. It was a useless endeavor, as many of the fingers were quite adept at what they were doing.

Besides, almost all the other slaves were making noise, many of them encouraging the buyers as they described, in quite explicit terms, what they would do if they were purchased by them.

I quickly realized that my estimation of the popularity of buggery had been woefully inadequate. This was confirmed when a man shoved his finger up my asshole.

Jesus, you’re tight. You feel like a virgin.

Please, sir, I am back there.

He grinned.

No kidding? Make sure you tell the auctioneer. That will make your price go way up.

Oh, God!

Feels good, doesn’t it?

Your finger is so big!

Chuckling evilly, he said, Man, you are in for one hell of a night. I promise, if I win you, I’ll be gentle.

Really?

No.

♠ ♠ ♠

Eventually I grew used to the feel of the fingers invading my anus and exploring my rectum, shoving inside it and stretching my anal ring wider with an outward pressure as the people rotated their fingers in a way that, once I was accustomed to it, felt amazingly good.

By the time that happened I was so horny that I’d have gladly moved to the floor and spread my legs wide in order to let every single man there fuck me for free.

Sorry, Stan. I still love you, but some things just can’t be denied, and one of those things was that I wanted a nice, hard cock inside my cunt so bad that I was literally begging strange black men to fuck me.

I’d had a roommate in college who had always talked about big black cocks. She’d had an absolute fixation on them, telling me once that Once you go black, you never go back. I’d always thought she was a bit strange, but suddenly I understood the obsession. Visions of Dominic wearing the skimpy swim trunks that barely contained his massive cock kept appearing before me. As much as I despised the man, if he’d suddenly appeared I’d have implored him to buy me, offering to pay him back every penny he spent on me if he would only let me suck his cock.

I have a confession to make. I love sucking cock. I like getting fucked, the feel of a hard cock sliding in and out of my pussy, but while it can take me right to the edge, it never gets me over it.

Stan feels bad about it. He’s tried all sorts of things, like different positions and talking dirty to me, but nothing works. I tell him it’s all right, and it is. I’ve heard about other girls who can’t get off from fucking. It doesn’t mean I don’t like intercourse. It just means I need a little extra to get off, and Stan’s really good about finishing the job with his mouth afterwards.

At first, I’d thought it was strange that he would do it after he’d cum inside me, but then I realized I swallow his cum all the time, and even kiss him afterwards, so there’s nothing weird about it. Besides, we can’t afford children right now, so I just consider it extra birth control.

But I really love sucking Stan’s cock. I don’t know why, but just the feel of a hard cock in my mouth gets me so hot that I’ve had to learn to do it before Stan fucks me, because if I do it after I always want to go again, and he’s strictly a once a night man. It’s not that he can’t get hard again. It’s more like he just can’t come up with the energy for another round of sex.

I understand. He’s not very strong, and he tires easily, so after sex he really needs to go to sleep.

I sometimes even read articles on how to give blowjobs I find on the internet, and I taught myself to deep throat him. Stan’s cock isn’t very long, so only the tip actually goes in my throat, but I love the feel of it when it does, the way my throat is so tight at first that it seems as if Stan’s cock is pressing against a solid wall, and then it suddenly opens wide and his crown pushes inside it, filling it and rubbing against the interior lining as I move my head back and forth.

I don’t know if it’s because his cock is kind of small, but I can even breathe when I do it. I’ve read that most girls can’t, but it’s never been a problem for me. I’ve secretly always wanted to try a bigger cock, to see if it would still be true. I’d even considered buying a dildo to experiment with, but I could never justify spending the money for one.

So, the whole time the strange black men were running their hands over my naked body, fondling my breasts and my pussy and even my asshole, all I could think about, other than how shameful the whole thing was, and how embarrassed and humiliated I felt, especially once I started getting turned on by it and began begging the men to fuck me, was that I hoped whichever one of them bought me had a big black cock.

My ex-roommate claimed all black men do, but I doubted that could be true. I just really, really hoped it was in one specific instance, that being the case of whoever I went home with for the weekend.

By the end of the preview period, I was so horny that my traitorous little twat was literally aching for a cock to fill it, with rivulets of cunt juice trickling down my thighs from where it was dripping out of my sopping wet pussy.

It was a relief when it ended, because by then, despite the shame and horror I felt at what was being done to me, no, at what I was allowing to be done to me, I was simultaneously so turned on by it all, so desperate to finally succumb to the sexual fantasies I’d been concocting in my mind while the strangers caressed and fondled me, that all I could think about was the moment when I would be leaving with an as yet unknown black man who would, presumably, take me somewhere and do all the things to me that I’d been imagining for the previous two hours.

In the torrid fever images of my imagination, I was even a willing participant in my anal deflowering, with my face pressed down on a mattress and my bare ass jutting upward, on my hands and knees as a muscular, naked black man positioned himself behind me and began guiding his huge cock to my anus.

At eleven, after the people disappeared, departing for the auction room itself, which was in a hall on the second floor, the technicians released us from our electronic bondage. Our shackles were removed, then replaced with thick black leather dog collars that were fastened around our necks to which leashes were attached. The technicians held the ends of the leashes as we were led to an area behind the stage to await our turn on the auction block. There were dressing tables lining two of the walls, and I took the opportunity to redo my make-up, which needed it rather badly after the afternoon’s adventures.

Someone handed me a clipboard with a piece of paper that had the number fourteen stamped on top of it and a pen attached to it by a chain and told me to fill it out. It asked what name I wanted to go by, how old I was, and my marital status, as well as how long I’d been married. There was also a section for special comments.

As I filled it out, using my own name because I’ve always liked it, I realized with shock that Sunday was my wedding anniversary. What with everything that had happened to me, I’d completely forgotten! Remembering what the man had told me earlier, in the comments section I noted that I had never had anal sex. As an afterthought, I added that I’d only ever had sex with my husband.

♠ ♠ ♠

I watched from my position next to the raised auctioneer’s platform, standing naked beside it as I faced the audience filled with black faces, each of them silently studying me, appraising me, as they decided whether I was worth purchasing.

I found myself hoping I brought a good price, not only because I desperately needed the money, but as a point of pride, if a perverse one. I wanted to prove that I was worthy of being owned by a black man.

I stood a little more erectly and moved my shoulders back, standing at attention and smiling as the auctioneer began his spiel.

Gentlemen, and ladies, I present to you Dove. She’s twenty-two, graduated from college a year ago with a degree in English literature, and she’s married to the only man she’s ever had sex with. And get this! Her one-year wedding anniversary is tomorrow! That’s right folks, she’ll be fucking one of you lucky men on her first wedding anniversary. Her contract runs until six p.m. Sunday, so you’ll have plenty of time to make her forget her vows. As if that wasn’t enough, she’s also never had anal sex before! So, let’s start the bidding. I see five hundred an hour, do I have six?

I watched, fascinated, as various black men held up small placards to let the auctioneer know how much they were willing to spend to fuck me. When it got to a thousand dollars an hour the auctioneer changed it to a flat rate for the whole time, so it was at thirty thousand dollars first, then thirty-one, and then it began climbing in one-thousand-dollar increments until it hit forty thousand.

I was elated, and stunned, at how much money I was going to make, and was watching the men who were still bidding to try to guess which of them I would end up with. There were three of them. One was wearing an expensive looking suit, one was dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans, and the third was wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. He had a thick gold chain around his neck, a bald head, and looked like an old school rapper.

I decided I hoped the one wearing the black leather jacket won me. The businessman looked kind of boring, and the rapper looked kind of overweight, although that may have been because of the loose, bulky clothing he had on. But the man wearing the leather jacket looked stylish and slightly dangerous, and that was just what I was in the mood for. It was something I’d avoided my whole life, and now it seemed as if I was ready to start making up for lost time.

Suddenly a new player entered the game. A voice called out Fifty thousand. I searched the seats and saw a frail looking older man holding up his placard. Besides his age, two things set him apart. First, he was one of the few white faces in the audience. And second, he was dressed in a chauffer’s uniform.

The rapper and the businessman both dropped out, while the man in the leather jacket called out Sixty.

Seventy.

Eighty.

One hundred thousand.

The man in the leather jacket hesitated, then shrugged. The auctioneer sounded like he was having an orgasm as he said, I have one hundred thousand. Do I have anyone else? No one? Sold, for one hundred thousand dollars.

I admit, when I heard him say those words, I felt like I might have an orgasm as well. The technician led me to the dressing room, where I opened my locker. When I started putting my panties on, he said, No. Put your things in this.

He held out a tote bag.

Why?

What you wear is up to your new Master. If he wants you to get dressed, he will tell you.

But – how do I get to his car?

You walk.

1.2 – PARTY OF FIVE

The tech led me through the main hall, where the next batch of slaves were being prepped for sale, to a long black limousine that was waiting in front of the building.

The chauffer who had purchased me was holding the door. He was silent as I climbed inside the luxurious vehicle, merely shutting the door after I was seated.

The cabin was empty. I’d been expecting Dominic to be sitting in it, wearing an arrogant smirk as he stared at what he’d paid for. After all, how many men did I know who had made it clear they wanted me, didn’t care that I was married, could arrange for my husband to be out of town for the weekend, and who could afford to drop a hundred grand to indulge his games? Only one.

My suspicions had come to me slowly, but once they’d begun, I’d gone full blown conspiracy theorist. I even half-suspected he’d been behind the trailer park jacking up my rent. After all, he owned all sorts of things. Maybe my park was one of them. It was even possible that he’d bought it after we’d met just so he could raise my rent and set everything in motion.

Paranoid? Possibly. But the timing was all a little too