Page 1 of Sold at Auction

PROLOGUE

Sophia

“Mesdames et messieurs…”

The auctioneer’s voice, silky and dripping with a malice cloaked in elegance, echoed through the grand opera house.

“La prochaine lot est une jeune putain ravissante nommée Sophia.”

I had won the school prize for French at my high school. It had made me well-suited for this mission, but just now, I wished I couldn’t understand the auctioneer so well.

The next lot is a ravishing young whore by name of Sophia.

I couldn’t help but find the irony bitterly amusing, given how I had begged Malleus to take my virginity not more then thirty-six hours ago, only for him to refuse me with ruthless finality. My thoughts swirled like a tempest within me as the spotlight found my cage, casting a harsh, unforgiving light upon my bare skin. I fought to calm myself, to quell the rising tide of panic and humiliation.

Appear innocent at all times.

Malleus’ stern command whispered from the recesses of my memory. My heart pounded, each beat resonating with the weight of the expectations of the Pretorian Guard. I took a deep breath, striving to project a façade of naïveté and purity, despite the degrading circumstances. I definitely didn’t have to feign the blush on my cheeks, at least. To stand naked in a cage, on the stage of an opera house, with a crowd of well-dressed people watching in the audience would have mortified me even if I had been the experienced prostitute the auctioneer had mentioned.

“We’ll begin the bids at five million euros,” the auctioneer announced, my mind absorbing the French so perfectly, I didn’t need to translate it for myself. I heard the murmur of the crowd shift into an eager hum.

“Look at that lovely mouth, capable of giving so much pleasure,” he crooned, his tone somehow both lewd and reverential. “Her little breasts, firm and perfect.” Each remark felt like a knife twisting in my gut.

“I have five million,” the auctioneer said. “May I have five million, five hundred thousand?”

For a moment, I steeled myself, instinctively trying not to let my composure crack. I did everything I could to push away the mixture of revulsion and strange, shameful vanity at the attention being lavished upon my body, my most intimate parts dissected verbally before this assembly of depraved elites.

Then I remembered that high above my head, over the proscenium arch, a huge screen showed every inch of me. I felt my eyes go upward, my head turning to see. Despite the terrible viewing angle, I could see the image of my face, my neck craning and my head twisted. I saw the blush on my cheek, and I remembered that I had to play a role, that I had to show how innocent a fuck toy I would be, for the man who must buy me—if I were to save the world, anyway.

“Look at us, you little slut,” called a voice from the audience, the words in beautifully accented French. “Not at yourself!”

“Ah,” said the auctioneer, whose back was to me. He turned around and looked at me, his long face stern. He spoke in heavily accented English. “Little whores must not look up like zat, girl. Shall I zummon ze man with ze cane?”

My hands balled into fists as I fought to keep myself from covering my breasts and my smooth, bare pussy. Before the auction, all of the girls on stage, each in her own separate cage, had been instructed by the auctioneer not to do that on pain of whipping. He had left out the part about not looking up.

I had a real fear of the cane, that terrifying implement I had never felt across my backside. Malleus had used a very firm hand with me during my training, but the cane had always remained on the rack. I gave myself over to the fear, intentionally: I bit my lip and felt my forehead crease hard, and I shook my head anxiously to show the auctioneer I would try to obey—just the way a young woman who had been abducted for sale at the secret auction of Legeria City, but not trained as a honeypot by the Pretorian Guard, might.

The auctioneer gave me a final glare, and then he turned around. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, I suspect whoever purchases her will have the great pleasure of whipping her frequently. Let’s recommence at five million, five hundred thousand. Who’ll give me that, for the privilege of giving young Sophia the discipline she needs, in whatever way you see fit?”

That sum was bid, and the bids rose rapidly from there, punctuated by the auctioneer’s explicit commentary.

“Her tight little cunt, such a hidden treasure,” he continued, making me wish I had never learned the naughty French words that slid like poison into my ears. “And that anus, so ready to be explored.”

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms as I struggled to suppress the turmoil inside me. How could I feel anything other than disgust? And yet, as the numbers climbed higher—five million, six million—I couldn’t deny a flicker of perverse pride that such a value was being placed on me. It was a grotesque validation, one that made my stomach churn with self-loathing.

“Seven million,” came a voice from the crowd.

I thought of that huge image of my own face, projected on the enormous screen above. I wondered about the man who had seen my wide eyes staring into the audience and decided to offer that much money. Was it Delacroix? Had he bid yet? Would he? Malleus and his colleagues had felt certain Delacroix would have eyes only for my auburn hair, my little breasts, my slim hips, and the tender cleft between my thighs.

“Seven million two hundred thousand,” the auctioneer declared, his voice triumphant. The bidding war raged on, each number further cementing my fate. A part of me wished desperately to be anywhere else, while another, darker part reveled in the attention as well as the magnitude of the stakes involved.

“She’s magnificent, isn’t she?” the auctioneer purred. “She’s worth every centime for her unexplored potential. Think of opening that virgin flower on your cock, gentlemen. She comes with a certification that only her mouth has been used by the penis. May I have seven million five hundred thousand?”

A pause followed, and I wondered whether my fate had been decided. Had Delacroix placed that last bid? Malleus had said that in the event anyone else purchased me, the Guard would extract me quickly. I would go back to headquarters, probably to work as an analyst—and Malleus would take me as his nupta. I wouldn’t save the world, but I also wouldn’t have to risk my life, or give my body up for a villainous magnate’s depraved, degrading sexual pleasure. A spark of hope mingled with the terror of the unknown.

“Ah,” the auctioneer said suddenly. “Monsieur Delacroix. I had a feeling you would not remain silent. Seven million five hundred thousand. Thank you.”

Another pause.

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