Sold at the Auction(5)

By: Cassandra Dee

So I turned towards the men, ready to move on, when suddenly a rough set of hands grabbed me around the neck.

“Hey!” I shrieked. “What the?”

But immediately a gag was bound around my mouth, changing my words into a muffled “mwmwmwm.” I swung my head around, desperately looking for Rachel, but saw that she was in the same position. My childhood friend’s eyes were rolling crazily as she struggled against her gag, Yannis swinging her up onto his shoulder like a bag of coal.

“Mwmwmwm!” she shrieked. “Mmwwwm!” she screamed again, kicking and beating at his back ineffectively.

Meanwhile, Enzo swung me up onto his shoulder, tying my hands together with a length of rope and my struggles to get free were futile.

“Mmph,” I grunted, getting a good knee to his chest, banging against his back with my bound fists.

The loser just increased his grip around my waist.

“Got a fighter here,” he growled out. “Shit, she’s no sack of flour.”

Yannis just grunted in reply.

“That’s cause she didn’t drink the drink like this princess,” he said gesturing to Rachel slung over his shoulder. Because to my horror, my friend was passed out, her body slumped like a rag doll on Yannis’s back, mouth open, a long string of spittle dangling from her lips, oozing to the floor. What the hell? That drink had been spiked? What the hell, what the hell? And where was Miles, her loverboy savior?

But Miles was right there, looking on with an evil grin, laughing to himself.

“Oh yeah, these two will fetch us a pretty penny,” he chortled, his voice ringing loud in the marble foyer. “Come on,” he grunted, and strode down the hallway, not looking back.

I gasped and struggled more, but it was no use. I was securely slung over Enzo’s shoulder, bound hand and foot, with a cloth in my mouth, unable to speak or move. Holy shit. I was in deep trouble and there could only be bad things coming my way.



We walked for what seemed like forever. Or maybe it was only forever to me because I was slung over Enzo’s shoulder, with no sense of direction, a blindfold tied over my face. But it felt like hours because there were so many twists and turns, so many changes of direction as we made our way deeper and deeper into a maze.

And finally, a door creaked open and I was dumped into a small room, my rump bouncing up and down on something soft and cushy.

“Leave her there until it’s time,” came Miles’s voice coldly. The gag was ripped out of my mouth and my blindfold removed. I opened my mouth to scream but it came too late because the door shut behind me and my frightened cry was absorbed by the walls, no one hearing or caring but me. Oh god, I was alone, still bound hand and foot, with nowhere to go, no way to get myself out.

But there had to be a way, I wasn’t giving up that easily. I’d been kidnapped by three men, sure, three gross dudes whom we’d only just met, but they were hardly geniuses, I hadn’t been impressed by their intellect when we chatted earlier today by the pool. Plus, when you’re attacked you’re supposed to fight back immediately and vigorously, otherwise the chance of getting out alive only narrows. Of course, I was already deep in the trenches of some scary kidnapping scheme, but I wasn’t giving up. I couldn’t lose hope now, so breathing deep, I tested my bonds once again. There had to be a way. This was my life at stake.

And gathering my wits, I looked around the room. It wasn’t a dungeon, unless dungeons have velvet covered walls and luxurious furniture, gilded chairs with overstuffed cushions, couches a deep maroon color that you could sink into. In fact, the loveseat that I was on now was a plush purple velvet, like a giant marshmallow, except wine-colored and poofy. There was no artwork on the walls, just a couple recessed lights and a giant flat-screen TV. Hmm, that meant there had to be cable here, some kind of electricity that I could use to my benefit.

And as I struggled with my bonds, the flatscreen came to life, flickering on with an intensity that made me squint. Whoa. It wasn’t CNN or MSNBC on the screen. Instead, the camera zoomed onto a chamber of sorts, the lens adjusting and readjusting before finally coming into focus. There was a figure standing on a slightly raised dais, completely covered in a long, midnight-blue robe with a hood pulled over his face. Then a spotlight flicked on, flaring bright on the shrouded form, and a woman’s voice sounded out, mild and a little bit robotic.

“Welcome,” the disembodied voice said. “Welcome to bidding on Article Twenty, our first parcel for the night. Article Twenty is twenty-two years old, from Little Rock, Arkansas. Handlers,” the voice continued, “please remove her hood.”

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