All In Her Dreams-The Auction. Read online

  All In Her Dreams—The Auction

  by Lizbeth Dusseau

  © 2000 from Shadows of a Painted Lady. All rights reserved.

  Published by Pink Flamingo Publication. www.pinkflamingo.com

  Write to Lizbeth at: [email protected]

  The house was freshly painted, the garden tended neatly—though it could use a little more imagination. It had been some years since Haliday House had last seen occupants—sometime in the middle 1940’s when it was a sanatorium. Its current owner was a distant nephew of the original Haliday. He found the house in disrepair, though his imagination sprouted wings when he saw the raw material of his fantasies appearing so beautifully before his eyes.

  The secret society to which he belonged needed places as intriguing and austere as this one to give their purposes a place to flourish. It was the middle of the 1960’s. The rest of the world was protesting a war, fighting for civil rights and creating a sexual revolution that would impact generations. This Haliday, on the other hand, was maintaining the etiquette of another generation, while practicing arcane sexual mores.

  It was the second of his peculiar parties—small gatherings for the lustily inclined; and for those inclined to the darker pursuits of the sexual psyche. They practiced wit and gentility by day, and sadomasochism in the evening hours. Hour to hour, they turned submissive women into slaves—at least for a day or two, or when they were under the roof of the newly renovated Victorian House. It was a gracious place, white framed and trimmed with green to match its fertile lawn. Clubs like this one were hard to find—especially in the Midwest. The lovely ‘lady’ had become a haven for those who knew that their sexual practices would be shunned by the current fashion of politics and social thought. However, those who came to Haliday House parties liked being unusual, since that made their soirees jump with sexual magic.

  “Chelsea!” Master Haliday’s voice split molecules into pieces in the sultry, heated air. It cut in timbre through a half-dozen conversations, startling a sleepy crowd of Haliday guests awake.

  “Yes, sir,” the young woman woke from her own stupor to the thrill of its intensity.

  “I need you now.”

  Chelsea gulped visibly and bit her lip as she stared at him from the parlor floor in wonder. All afternoon, her fears had been on edge, her tummy—one minute clenched, the next overpowered by suggestion. Every atom seemed to speak to the longing she could not shake. What was it happening all around her? Was she being paranoid to think that there were eyes trained on her for untoward purposes? She loved the attention, but this time, she was afraid.

  Scrambling to her feet, the willowy woman with her sun-colored hair almost stumbled in heels too high for her to walk in. Her thighs were already weak, feeling like pillars that might at any second crumble into dust beneath her. The polished hardwood floor was slick, which made the few steps she negotiated toward the man more chancy. But she managed.

  The room began to fill with Masters, their submissives either peeking into the parlor door or at their masters’ sides, perplexed. They were as unknowing as the woman in the center of the fuss. Some looked longingly; others trembled with fright putting themselves in Chelsea’s tall high heels. She was struggling. No one with an ounce of comprehension could miss that fact.

  The Masters stood in a ring around the room, a few choosing to take their seats. If she’d been able to see them, Chelsea would say they looked like vultures. If she’d sought out her master, Nathan, perhaps he would have given her a comforting glance; but then, he’d set this affair in motion. His expression would be as determined and grim as all the others were.

  Thankfully, she wasn’t afforded any means of seeing the straight-laced expressions of those at her back. Sir Haliday ordered her to stand facing the wall. Once there, she spontaneously closed her eyes.

  Where was Nathan now, she wondered? She couldn’t make out his presence in the room. The commotion was too intense; and the power of authority coming toward her was so vast that the stares were indistinguishable one from another. Normally, she knew when her Master was watching her. Now, he was fused to the others.

  A dozen angry beasts seemed to be battling inside her lovely frame.

  Sir Haliday stood with her, just off her right shoulder. Grabbing a leather hood from his own submissive, he covered Chelsea’s head, effectively walling her away from all her sight and half the sounds around her. She found it difficult to breathe—that breath, hot and labored inside the stiff, confining hood. With one deep breath, she tried to ease, but her thighs were like jelly and her pussy felt as though it were a runaway train. Her guts were tightening as she bottled the emotions of fear and thrill inside—afraid they’d splash all over her in tears or laughter. She wanted to giggle and she wanted to cry.

  The cries felt like relief, perhaps the laughter, too.

  “This piece of property belongs to Master Nathan Bastian,” Sir Haliday announced. “He’ll be selling her to the highest bidder. I’d suggest an inspection first.” He jerked Chelsea’s arm. “Turn around.” He roughly turned her so that she stood before her audience face forward. They could pay no mind to the beauty behind the hood. But that didn’t matter for the purposes of a slave auction. It was the body and its use that was important.

  “Take off your clothes,” Haliday ordered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I didn’t call for you to speak,” he rudely jerked her so she’d hear the message with both ears and body.

  Silently, she said, I’m sorry.

  Obeying the command, Chelsea inched her long dress up her legs, at first, moving too rapidly for the pleasure of Sir Haliday who acted as the auctioneer.

  “Slower,” he ordered.

  She let the hem drop several inches then started over, slowly, taking her time as though this were a striptease for the sport of arousal. Perhaps it would serve that function for a few horny Doms, but they wouldn’t allow that arousal to surface. Their cocks would remain contained inside the formal trousers of their evening suits. They were a stodgy Old World crowd who relished displays like these for every bit of sadistic pleasure they could glean from the humiliation of a slave.

  Taking her time, Chelsea hiked her skirt carefully to avoid more criticism. If being auctioned made her afraid, being imperfect tore her insides into shreds. Yet, slaves were valued for their ability to perform such things under pressure and with poise. She could not let her earlier faltering destroy her now.

  The skirt reached her hips, which were encircled by a black garterbelt. The lacy fabric stretched across her undulating abdomen, while four long garters held a pair of silky stockings in their clasps. Her arousal bloomed as she realized that the eyes of her audience were focused there. A small black panty covered the truly important parts, where between her thighs, a beautiful bush of blonde curls protected the inner folds of her sex. Should she be inspected, they’d find her sopping wet.

  Moving slower still, Chelsea drew the dress along her torso, finally pulling it over her breasts. She was naked underneath, braless. Even an untrained eye could have seen how her nipples had hardened and poked through the fabric of her dress. With the air hitting the bare nubs, they stiffened further, pink and proud, standing at full attention, seeking lips. That, of course, was what they were for. To seduce. To suck. To stimulate the regions down below in preparation for fucking.

  Finally, drawing the dress off over her head, Chelsea tossed it to her side, while almost stumbling on her fear-weakened legs. She determinedly tried to right herself, only accomplishing the feat with the help of her auctioneer’s firm grip.

  “Take off those underclothes,” he tore at her, “you don’t deserve to wear them. I’m sure your owner wil
l want them back for his next slave!”

  Unnerved by his cruelty, she cried more earnestly behind her mask—which only made her thankful that she was wearing it. Surely, Sir Haliday would heap more ridicule on her if he knew that her eyes were burning with tears of embarrassment.

  She stepped from her heels. Then, unhooking her garterbelt, the tiny garment drooped until she could push her stockings down her thighs and over her feet.

  Just as she was about to remove her panties, Sir Haliday stopped her. “Is there a submissive who’d like to remove this last article of slave clothing and present it to her master?”

  Filling the anxious second, a woman scampered forward on her knees and pulled the panties down in a loving, longing gesture. It would be the last loving Chelsea would feel for some time.

  Naked. There was nothing to protect her now.

  “She’s used goods, gentlemen. Perhaps you’d like to see if she’ll be of any value.”

  As Sir Haliday backed off, Chelsea stood alone, quaking from the Master’s mockery. As though a hoard of feasting tigers had descended on her body, she was pawed by hands, inspected, probed and poked. Several pairs of fingers stabbed into her cunt, almost fucking her, but waiting for her to make some sensuous response. It was impossible not to react with at least some degree of natural delight. After all, she was a masochist who thrived on such abuse.

  They slapped her breasts, tugged at her nipples until she was tempted to shriek. She held in the feeling of pain, taking a long deep breath and focusing on what that pain contrived in her fondled crotch.

  “Bend over!” the auctioneer ordered pressing a firm hand on her back. “And spread your cheeks.” She brought her hands to her side, tentatively. “Yes, slave, let them see your anus.”

  Taking an ass cheek in each hand, Chelsea grabbed the flesh firmly and pulled the two apart. The horrific degradation hit her with a cruel blow; at the same time, sweeping her with a rush of sexual excitement like she’d never known.

  Sir Haliday pulled her upright and the intense inspection continued with fingers probing her intimate places. One long thin digit entered her ass with a sharp bite. It must have been a woman’s finger, she thought to herself, with its polished nail jabbing her like the blade of a knife. Either Mistress Jane or Mistress Victoria—though she imagined it was Mistress Jane. Mistress Victoria was too haughty to fool with used goods.

  A second rude jab at her anus, a pained ‘ouch’ threatened at her lips, but she held on. The inspection couldn’t last forever.

  “Crouch!” Sir Haliday barked.

  She hesitated.

  “Yes, down!” He pushed her shoulders with his steely hand.

  In the humbling squat, her pussy spread wide open for every eye to see the truth glistening there in an obvious display of her slutty arousal. Did she have no shame? She wondered to herself.

  “Hold up those breasts,” he blared.

  Chelsea pushed her fair breasts into a cleavage, while trying to adjust to the awkward pose. Her ankles ached so that she could hardly stand the position. Her nerves faltered. She wanted to tell them how much she hurt, that she couldn’t tolerate the pain.

  “Let the bids begin,” the auctioneer finally bellowed. And thankfully, he pulled her to her floundering feet.

  Sir Haliday helped her balance as the bidding commenced… twenty-five, fifty, a hundred… and then silence. A loud, premeditated silence screamed all around her. Confusion filled her mind—who would bid and who would buy? Was Nathan serious about the sale? Would Will do the same? Will… why Will?

  …The image of another Dominant brightened before my dreaming eyes. The auctioned woman was one minute Chelsea, then me… the dreamer and the dream melded into a melange of images… I thrashed back and forth in bed as the pictures tumbled all around me—it wasn’t Chelsea anymore—but me. Then the willowy slave returned…

  Sir Haliday smacked her ass at intervals, reminding her to stand up straight. Chelsea did her best.

  “That’s it, we have an owner,” Sir Haliday announced. He grabbed her arm so hard that she was sure that bruises would remain. “I’ll take your purchase to the dungeon where you can abuse her as you wish.” He turned to the other Masters in the room. “It’s customary to invite the attentions of the other Masters to break your chattel in,” he looked back at Chelsea’s new owner, “is that what you want?”

  Haliday addressed the master standing across from her, a scoundrel of a fellow with the crude look of conquering in his grey eyes. Chelsea couldn’t see him but she could feel the way his lust and savagery ripped another masochistic thrill through her teaming body. The man nodded yes, but didn’t speak.

  Pushed from the room, she was roughly handled as she made her way to the cellar stairs guided by Sir Haliday’s commanding hands.

  I could feel a firm hand on my ass, another, with fingernails sinking into my shoulder. I was waking, but then, the dream took hold again…

  “Suspend her!” the order came quickly. Sir Haliday backed away and two hands grabbed for her wrists, placing them in tight cuffs and drawing them above her head, high enough so that she had to stand on tiptoe from the stretch.

  The first hands on her body grabbed either side of her waist—they were not Nathan’s. He’d not purchased her. His would be warm; these hands were cool.

  After positioning her the way he wanted, the purchaser gave her over to the attendant Masters. They started with her ass in a rain of strikes from paddles and leather spankers, which made Chelsea jump lively with every blow that smacked her cheeks.

  She contained the need to cry, holding on to her submissive requirement with every bit of strength she could summon.

  A pair of masters flogged her front side and her ass in a simultaneous rhythm that had her jerking wildly and unable to follow the path of any strike to an erotic end. The pain grew rich, but complicated. Her body sweat and her eyes filled with tears again. These, however, were not tears of grief or horror, but tears of relief.

  The relief washed through me, bewilderingly so, as the dream began to fuse with me. It wasn’t Chelsea anymore, but me, Carrie, in the middle of my Master’s insidious wrath. Somewhere outside myself, I could see Will standing over the proceedings, directing the scene as if it was a play and I was on stage.

  I was abused, but loved, delivered into subspace by a dozen hands extended by whips and paddles to bite and smack and revel in the resulting pain… read not in the expression on my hooded face, but in a body that jerked like a frenetic puppet.

  Other hands and other implements were tenderer. There was no bite, no sting as fur and feathers tickled my roughed skin and bruised flesh.

  After my stint suspended, I was taken down and thrust against the St. Andrews’s Cross, bound at my ankles and my wrists. A single tail whip flogged at the dangerous territory along the inside of my thighs, where every strike produced a shrill but silent cry from my muted lips.

  The aroma of perfume suddenly reached my nostrils. Moments later, some gentle lady with fur covering her hand stroked me between the cuts that burned.

  Cuts from the single tail continued to mark my back with small wounds I’d remember lovingly when my ordeal was over.

  Ah! yessssssss, I was content to think without speaking. “More!” my body screamed.

  Finally pulled off the cross, I was taken to a spanking bench, laid face up where the torture increased. My breasts and cunt were not as accustomed to abuse as my well worked ass and wanting shoulders. Every strike against my pubic mound worked its way in pain far beyond the point of impact. Yet, every strike against my front side was altered with the feel of someone’s sensuous hand gliding kindly over the damage. A soothing bath of textures took what pained me grievously and transformed it into another experience of being loved.

  Rocked inside this strange cradle of love, I remained helpless, lost and grateful… what more could I ask of life than to give me this kind of satisfaction? I could go on forever…

  “Your new master wants yo
u to himself,” Sir Haliday suddenly announced in that same bold voice of authority. Reality boldly rode back in my mind on a gallant stead, and jerked me awake.

  I trembled then, afraid of the face of my owner, yet knowing I would serve whatever man appeared to me. The bodies in attendance drifted off, like specters walking through a foggy night. They quit me, leaving me in the cold. Even Sir Haliday disappeared… I almost missed him…

  The laces on the hood loosened. Then a firm hand pulled me upright and to my feet. I prepared to see the features of my new Master’s face, what strength, what purpose he’d employ. A lot can be learned about an owner in that first meeting…

  The hood started to wiggle free, inching up over my chin…

  I could hardly breathe when I awakened.

  I struggled to get back inside the dream; but no matter how hard I focused on the fuzzy remnants, I couldn’t restore the last brief images, the vague recognition of the Master at the helm—the one who purchased me, thrust me into the cellar, and finally unlaced the hood.

  With the images lost, I bolted angrily from bed. This fear would not immobilize me! All the fluttering, jumble of confusion in my belly would not keep me from moving forward.

  It was two dreams, I reasoned to myself after I’d gotten over the initial shock. One in another world, some 1960’s S&M club of wealthy perverts, and a second one was about me, as if I were actually there, as though reality shifted from past to present. I didn’t dare tell Will any of it.

  In eight hours, I’d be on the Haliday’s doorstep. I didn’t need more fear to fight, I had to let this one go.

 

 

  Lizbeth Dusseau, All In Her Dreams-The Auction.

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