This particular man is a master, as will be all of the escorts who bring out the ‘merchandise’ onto the stage. And the young blond-haired girl walking in front of him has probably spent the last several months of her life being trained for this very moment. She could’ve been fresh out of high school; a college girl just starting out, working as a waitress somewhere; or maybe even still in high school when she was abducted. She’s still young; can’t be older than nineteen. I wonder how long it took for him to break her.
“Our first piece up for bid tonight,” Valentina announces, speaking into the microphone, “is a Class B girl from France”—(Class B, denotes non-virgin; nineteen years of age or younger)—“She was fully trained and obedient in under three months; is fluent in French and English; she can play the violin, and has a pleasant singing voice. Yes, what is your question?” Valentina points at Trevor Chamberlain sitting two seats down from me.
“Does the girl have any freckles on her chest area?” Trevor speaks up, his smooth voice rolling over the audience as if he were also speaking into a mic.
Valentina looks to the girl’s master.
The master, with his hands clasped behind his back, answers clearly, confidently, “There are six freckles on her chest area, light in color.” He gently grasps the hem of her little white dress and pulls it over her head, afterward dropping it on the floor.
The girl stands naked in front of the crowd, her slender arms down at her sides; she doesn’t tremble; nothing about her posture suggests that’s she’s tense or afraid or angry—she’s whatever her master wants her to be, inside and out.
The master points out each freckle; I can see a few darker freckles on her arms, but the master is smart not to draw attention to anything that’s not in question.
I glance over at Trevor Chamberlain—he likes the girl; freckles on the chest must be something he has a particular fondness for.
Trevor raises his hand again, almost eagerly.
Valentina nods, giving him the go-ahead.
“Being fluent in two languages,” he begins, “as well as playing an instrument suggests that the girl might’ve come from a wealthy family—is she still being searched for?” His question translates: I’m not interested in buying a girl whose family has enough means and wealth to eventually find her.
“You are correct,” the master says, “the girl was from a wealthy French family, but I can assure you no one is looking for her; she will be a fully secure purchase.”
“But how can you be so sure?” Trevor asks, this time without raising his hand; Valentina doesn’t seem overly annoyed by this, but she does make note of it.
“Because it was her family who sold her to me,” the master says.
Interesting—a family that doesn’t need money because they’re already wealthy, yet they sell one of their own to a slave master? Interesting, but not unbelievable. And strangely enough, not uncommon. This is a fucked up world, after all.
Trevor has no other questions.
I glance at Izabel sitting next to me, and she’s as unaffected as she was when she walked in here: she watches and listens quietly; her expression is calm and composed, not so much as a frown readable on her face—but it’s only a matter of time.
A few more questions come from other buyers in the crowd, and then one buyer raises his red paddle so that he can go onto the stage and examine the girl further.
The girl never flinches.
Neither does Izabel.
And when the price is paid for the buyer to touch the girl, and he stretches a pair of latex gloves over his hands, still, neither the girl nor Izabel show any signs of discomfort. Not even when the girl is bent over and forced to put her head between her legs and grasp her ankles. And lastly, when the potential buyer puts his covered fingers inside the girl to feel how tight she is, she and Izabel remain unaffected.
I still say it’s only a matter of time, Izzy.
Two buyers—Trevor Chamberlain is not one of them—bid back and forth until one purchases her for half a million dollars. Shit, I can’t imagine how much a virgin will fetch in this place.
Finally after forty-five minutes and six Class B girls—and one guy—later, a Class A is brought out onto the stage. Class A denotes a virgin and can be any age, but usually they’re under twenty years. I’m fucking relieved, and kind of surprised, that there have been no underage girls or boys here.
This particular girl, with waist-length strawberry-blond hair, pale pink skin with hundreds of freckles, can’t be older than twenty. She, like every other broken soul brought out before her, stands naked, obediently and beautifully in front of the vultures waiting to pick her apart.
“What work has the virgin had done?” one buyer asks from the crowd.
“Dental was provided,” the master answers. “All of her teeth have been replaced with implants. She has also had her birthmark removed.” The master points out the area on her hip where the birthmark had once been.
I glance over at Izabel sitting unchanged next to me—maybe I didn’t give her enough credit. Nah, there’s still plenty she has yet to see.
Izabel