Sold!..To The Highest Bidder Read online

  “You mean I’ll be a zombie, a little robot like Krissy? No thanks, Rainier.” I rose to my feet, no longer interested in the next course. “How about if I see you in court instead?”

  “You’ll lose, Emerald.”

  I froze. The man was right, though I refused to let it show. “I don’t recall giving you permission to use my first name,” I spat back. “Gustav.”

  His eyes danced. “I’m disappointed. I would have thought you’d relish the opportunity to laugh in my face, to fend off the best of my methods, disproving entirely my theories on human nature and sexual relations.”

  “And what theories are those?” I demanded, my buttocks unwittingly returning to the seat. “Do tell me.”

  “Nature is a battleground, Doctor Tallow. Both among and within species. Every creature is designed by nature to triumph or to submit.”

  “On second thought, don’t tell me,” I interrupted with a roll of my eyes. “You think women are made to submit to men.”

  “Your words, Doctor Tallow, not mine.” He leaned forward, his voice lowering to a seductive, ominous timbre. “You are curious, though, as to what would happen if you and I went head to head. I am, too. Enough so that I will sweeten the pot. If after one month of following my program you are unaffected, I will fund rehabilitation programs for young women along your guidelines in every city in the country. Furthermore, I will close every one of my clubs, shut down my magazines and retire from public life.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I scoffed. “No man would do such a thing.”

  “I am that convinced of my methods, Doctor,” he retorted. “Are you?”

  I dabbed at my lips. Sweat was collecting along the top edge. Desperately, my eyes sought some refuge, my mind some turn in the conversation. There was none, no way out from the penetration of his gaze. He would sit like this, I knew, for hours if need be awaiting my response. My serious response.

  I clenched the napkin I still held in my hand. “It’s complicated,” I said, intent on the folds of the white linen. “There would be . . . I mean to say, wouldn’t we . . .“

  “Have sex, Doctor Tallow? Yes, most certainly. Is that a problem? I assume you aren’t a virgin?”

  “No,” I snapped. “Not that it’s your business.”

  “I can promise a hundred percent safety, doctor. Complete protection, no risk of disease, no lasting complications, injuries or traumas. Everything, furthermore, will be at your own pace. I will not move you past the point you are ready to go.”

  “How sporting of you.”

  Rainier shook his head. “Don’t be so quick to dismiss me. I shan’t make this offer again. This is your only chance, doctor, your only chance ever to experience something you have wondered and fantasized about your whole life.”

  “You know nothing about me, Rainier. What makes you think you can guess my fantasies?”

  “Because,” he replied, draining the remains of his glass, “you are a woman.”

  “Fuck you,” I said, regretting at once my loss of control.

  Rainier smiled and it was at that moment I knew he had me.

  “I’ll take your bet,” I declared, thrusting out my hand. “On one condition. My work comes first. My appointments won’t be interrupted.”

  “I agree to your terms,” he nodded. “Your hand, however, is not required.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because a handshake is an agreement between men. A bond of honor no female could comprehend.”

  “You’re a pig,” I spat at him, not caring that the waiter had returned with soufflé and could hear my every word. “I hardly know you and I already hate you.”

  There was no further conversation for the rest of the meal. I was grateful this, as I was past the point of speaking. It was all I could do to hold my fork steady. I’d never been so angered, so excited in my entire life. No sooner had he dismissed himself at the end of the meal, than I ran straight to the bathroom to tear into my throbbing sex. The underwear was soaking wet to the touch. Pushing it hastily aside, my legs straddled wide over the toilet seat, I began to frig myself, not even sure why I needed this sex so badly.

  Was it a mark of my own control—a promise to myself that I’d never surrender my own power to gain or give pleasure? Or was it something deeper? Was the Rainier charisma already at work, battering my defenses, forcing me to find heat and need in his rough, trivializing treatment of me? Deep down did I want to be made a fool of, to be put in my place by a strong man, if possible in full view of other men?

  I know now the answer was ‘yes,’ but at the time, I still imagined I’d initiated a war that I would win, hands down. The fact that he hadn’t tried anything overtly sexual with me at lunch, in fact, I took to be a sign that I held the upper hand, right from the start.

  How little I understood the man. How greatly I underestimated the subtlety, the patience of his training methods. Because, indeed, that’s what was happening. Gustav Rainier was training me. Training me as a slave.

  The first time I heard from him after our lunch was at six o’clock. I was curled up on my couch still in my work clothes, happily eating a microwaved dinner, enjoying one of my favorite old movies on cable. I’d had several deep and draining but productive sessions that afternoon, and frankly, I’d very nearly succeeded in forgetting about the man and his foolish bet.

  “Tell me what you’re doing, Emerald,” he said as soon as I picked up the phone.

  “Having supper.”

  “What are you eating?”

  “Chicken Kiev for one. Braised potatoes. Baby carrots.”

  “Do you often eat alone?”

  “Yep,” I quipped, determined not to get defensive or argumentative. “Can’t beat the company.”

  “Go to your freezer, Emerald. Describe the contents to me.”

  Annoyance washed over me. I liked this movie a lot. But a bet was a bet. “Three Super Gourmet dinners, a bag of peas, two trays of ice and a box of rocky road,” I announced, having traipsed to the kitchen for an impromptu investigation.

  After a few moments silence, I barked, “Hello? Anyone there?”

  “Are you wearing shoes, Emerald?”

  I looked down at my stocking feet, wiggling my toes for good measure. “Nope.”

  “All right, Emerald. That will be all for now.”

  I couldn’t resist laughing into the receiver of my mobile phone. “That’s it? That’s your Svengali-like technique? At this rate, I’ll win this bet without breaking a sweat.”

  “Good night, Emerald.”

  I went back to the movie but for some reason I couldn’t concentrate. For the next two hours I stared at the phone, terrified that it might ring. Finally, I went to bed and fell into a fitful, restless sleep.

  The next night he called again at precisely six. He hadn’t said he would, but I’d been ready. “It’s Beef Wellington tonight,” I announced, a note of pride and whimsy in my voice.

  “I want you to keep your door unlocked tonight. You needn’t fear for your safety. You are under my protection. Also, when you go to sleep, you will leave your bedroom door open. Do you wear pajamas?”

  “I . . . .yes,” I stuttered, my knuckles white on the receiver.

  “That won’t do. For tonight you may wear pajama tops, no bottoms. I shall have more suitable garments sent to you in the morning. Be in bed by eleven, and I would like you freshly washed and perfumed. Good night, Emerald.”

  I stood there for what felt like an eternity, the phone in one hand, my rapidly defrosting dinner in the other. In one fell swoop the viciously clever Rainier had managed to knock aside my sense of security and privacy forever. Gone was my initial smugness, my smooth confidence. I had agreed to be sexually available to the man and he was taking me up on the offer. Enforcing my availability, in fact, with a carefully worded set of instructions.

  Fear gripped my heart. I had yet to unlock my door. How long had I been standing there? Dropping the phone and the dinner both, I ran barefoot
ed to my front door. My heart thudded as I slid the dead bolt open and popped the chain. For a single girl, locks were life and death, her best friends in a pinch. Would Rainier really take care of me? If a burglar came or a rapist . . . .

  Pushing the thought from my mind, I released the final lock, rendering myself officially helpless. By the time I got back to the kitchen it was nearly seven. I had no appetite, but decided to complete my dinner anyhow. I’m not sure why I felt rushed, but for some reason it seemed important to start right in on preparations.

  Laying out my various comfy pairs of pajamas, I picked what I thought was the right top. Pale blue and button down. That was good, wasn’t it? He’d want to undo the buttons himself probably, as a kind of foreplay. There was an instant throbbing in my nipples as I thought of his hands on me, doing to me precisely what he wanted to, in perfect accord with the bet I’m made.

  I was his. By my own agreement. How, I wondered, was I any different from Krissy or any of the others? In a panic, I shoved the remaining pajamas back in my drawer. It was then that a question occurred to me: should I throw out my other pajamas—the bottoms at least? He hadn’t said so, but what if he looked? Would he expect me to anticipate him in this regard?

  Rationally, I told myself it didn’t matter. So what if I had missed his meaning? You could never please a man like that, any way. It goes back to the paternal relationship, to his insecurities and my own. In my case, I had a hard, emotionally unavailable father who . . .

  God, now I was psychoanalyzing myself. Gathering up all the pajamas, I decided to put them in a bag by the door. That way, I could go either way, depending on his wishes.

  His wishes.

  The phrase had a kind of dark power that radiated down my chest and into my belly. Shifting in my jeans I became aware of a rising dampness. Disturbingly familiar. For reasons I didn’t understand, I had to have my clothes off. Frantically, I pulled at them till I was naked. A shower. I needed a shower.

  Was I allowed to masturbate? Again, he hadn’t said.

  Damn it, why was I having to figure everything out for myself? He was supposed to be the dominant one.

  I decided on one small orgasm, the handle of the back scrubber between my legs as the shower water beat down on my throbbing breasts. It was a mistake, because I was left, paradoxically, wanting more. A man. A man’s cock.

  Rainier’s cock.

  God, the things I’d said to him. I’d been so rude and now, tonight, he was going to be with me. In me. On top of me. As close as a man and woman could get.

  For the next two hours, I cleaned the bathroom and bedroom, even washing the sheets and changing the dust ruffles. I also made the decision to wear a different top, a pink, silky one without buttons. It was low cut and there was a little flower between the breasts. For some reason, it was important to look feminine.

  By ten I was pacing like a caged tiger. I couldn’t watch TV. I couldn’t read. Probably, I should just lie in bed, but what would that be saying? That I was so eager, so horny, I was laying myself down a full hour early?

  That made me wonder if Rainier could see me right now. Would he put cameras in someone’s apartment? I’d heard it was easy enough to do nowadays. But no, that was being paranoid. How about a magazine? I could get in bed with one or two professional journals I’d been meaning to get to, and that way I could kill two birds with one stone.

  Throwing back the covers, I looked at my flower-patterned sheets like an alien landscape. For years I’d prided myself on my bed, my independence. And now…now, I was getting into it on a man’s terms, to be used for his own purposes. Sexual purposes. Fresh panic washed over me. No man had ever been in this bed. My few amorous encounters had been in someone else’s house and once at a hotel during a conference on cognitive therapy.

  I had to call off the bet, I had to stop this before . . .

  The clock! It was ten fifty nine. Nauseous and light-headed I leaped up, my body hitting the silk with a shudder. So this was it, I thought, laying my head down tentatively, half expecting electric shock. I was now officially a prisoner, a virgin, or semi-virgin sacrifice awaiting the marauding dragon.

  Minutes drifted by in silence. Along with little nagging questions: What if I needed to use the bathroom? Should I have supplied condoms? Would he stay the whole night or just do his business and get right back up? The latter would be far preferable, I decided, though I did wonder what it would be like to sleep with the man, actually sleep and have him wake up beside me.

  I was on my back, my legs apart. Did that seem too eager? Maybe he would like to find me on my side, so he could surprise me, sweep me in his arms and roll me over. Clutching the covers between my legs, I turned, back towards the door. I’d left the living room light on. I’d wanted to be able to see who was coming in. Again, I thought what might happen if some stranger got in. What if Rainier wasn’t watching closely enough to prevent attack? Didn’t he know about the crime in my neighborhood? Someone could burst in and force himself on me. He might have a knife or a gun. He might tie me down or simply tell me to cooperate or pay the price. Having no choice, I would have to open my legs. I’d be wet, of course, not because of him, but on account of Rainier. He’d misinterpret that, though, the rapist, and I’d be in for even more abuse.

  Round and round went my thoughts. My dark sex fantasies. Still, I was alone.

  By midnight, my heated fretting began to turn to anger. Who was he to keep me waiting? I’d half a mind to get up and . . . and . . .

  And what? The truth is, I didn’t get up. By one a.m. I was re-running every word of our phone conversation through my mind to see if I’d made a mistake. Was I missing something? Fear set in. Was he waiting somewhere else? Had I misunderstood? Or, worse still, had I displeased him in some way and now he wasn’t coming?

  My rational self tried to hold onto the notion that I was really only scared for Krissy, and the others like her and that was why I was behaving so submissively. I had to re-focus. Winning this bet would make all the difference for Rainier’s hapless slaves, and I couldn’t afford to lose for their sake’s. There was no telling with a man like Rainier, though. He could welch on the whole thing based on some technicality.

  My veneer of reason lasted until one thirty. There was a stain on my sheet by now, my own juices. I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran to the window, risking disobedience. There was nothing out there. Dejected beyond measure I crawled back to bed. Hugging my pillow, overcome by stress, I began to cry. Like a little girl I cried myself to sleep.

  It was all I could do to wake up the next morning. I had to hand it to him, I thought as I pancaked makeup over the circles ringing my eyes; Rainier was a master of the human psyche. He’d played me for a fool. Stood me up. The perfect male is what he was. No doubt, he was telling the story to his buddies right now of how he’d fooled the ditzy little psychologist.

  Well, two could play at that game. I could tease, too. I could play on fears and expectations. And who better for such a game in fact than a licensed professional such as myself. By the time I got to my office and parked the car in my nice little designated spot, I didn’t feel half bad. Once again, I’d survived an assault, and found it pitifully wanting.

  In other words, I was still on my feet. Still spitting nails, determined to bring him down.

  Little did I realize, though, that Gustav Rainier had not yet begun to fight.

  Chapter Three

  A man was waiting for me outside my office door. He had beady eyes, a brush cut and a tall, lanky physique. The hair was light blond and the eyes seemed faraway. As he handed me the note, he looked over my head, off into some unknown dimension.

  I nearly toppled as I read the words. If not for the wall, I’d have gone down for sure. Twice I read it and still I couldn’t absorb the implications of the tightly squeezed, type written note.

  Emerald—You will invite this man into your office and seat him on

  your couch. After removing all your clothes in his presence you<
br />
  will fellate him to orgasm. You may swallow if you wish, or else

  spit the contents into your hand. The choice is yours. --GR

  I could scarcely fit the key into the lock. My forehead was cold and clammy, my icy hands were trembling. Blood pounded through me as I stalled for time. What were my options? I could run, scream, fight. What if I opened the door and jumped inside shutting him out? Then I could call the police.

  And say what? That a man had come to collect a sexual favor based on a bet I had made with a third party to the effect that I could resist his efforts to turn me into his sex slave in one month’s time? Yea, that would go over real big with the joyless gendarmes of our fair city.

  Maybe I could plead with the man, buy him off. Appeal to his conscience.

  “Come in,” I said, my tone carefully muted.

  The big man, dressed in a turtleneck and an old fashioned striped suit nodded at me without looking. I noticed now his eyes were different colors, one brown, one blue. The brownish one, on his left side, seemed skewed somehow.

  I had to tell him to sit. I think he’d have waited like that all day, standing on my rug. He was huge. What would that mean, I wondered, when it came to his intimate self? God, was I really going to do this? Suck off a stranger at Rainier’s command—this after the bastard had left me high and dry all night, rendering me so horny I couldn’t see straight?

  The leather cushion formed a huge pocket under his arse. Keeping his legs apart, he put his palms down on his thighs, that faraway look still on his face. It occurred to me now he might not even know what the note said. I swallowed hard. Would he think this was my idea? That I was some kind of slut?

  The first step is the hardest, they say. One by one, I stepped from my flats. I’d been in stocking feet on my rug before, but this was different. Tentatively, I wiggled my toes. I was doing a good job stalling when the words echoed in my mind.

  After removing all your clothes you will fellate him to orgasm.