Priceless

I love the idea of men for sale. Always have. Always will. And although it’s hard to pin point exactly why, I think in a nutshell, it’s just, when I think about men selling themselves – in any context really, in any sexual context – something deep in my soul seems to sing. Just the thought of it. Men selling themselves. Selling their bodies. Selling their faces, their chests, their arses, their cocks. Offering themselves up to the highest bidder. Displaying their bodies for evaluation. Offering anyone who has the cash the chance to own them for a night. It’s such delicious objectification. It’s so very hot.

But an ordinary woman like me, with a very ordinary life, doesn’t get the chance to experience such things very often. If ever. And even if I did run into some kind of sexy-men-market-stall on my way home from work, well, I kind of have this boyfriend anyway, so that it isn’t really on the cards.

So it’s nothing but a hot idea really. I never even dreamed I’d put my money where my mouth is. But then my friend Kate starts talking about organising a Charity Slave Auction for the place she is working for. And, boyfriend or no boyfriend, I can’t help entertaining very unhealthy thoughts about what that might entail.

Talk about divided loyalties. Especially for someone like me. Someone, that is, with no willpower whatsoever. So, actually, divided loyalties, not so divided. Because, you know, I can just go and watch, I don’t have to actually bid, or anything.

And so poor Kate – who is completely ignorant of my crazy dirty fetish for men-for-sale – is pretty bamboozled when suddenly all but beg her to smuggle faithless-me into her auction.

She has many – eminently sensible – objections. Like the fact that it’s just boring work. Like the fact I really should be able to find something better to do on my birthday. On my twenty ninth birthday. Oh yes, because that’s when the auction is scheduled to happen. Not exactly perfect timing. (Although, then again…)

‘Look babe,’ Kate says when I’ve dodged about half a dozen very-good-reasons-why-not. ‘Why don’t you just go to the pub with everyone – Rex and Pete and etcetera – and then go on to a club or something and I’ll come and join you when I’m wrapped up. I’ll be there by midnight.’

‘It’s not that, Kate,’ I say, in the voice of a three year old child who isn’t getting anymore sweeties. ‘It’s not that I want to be with you, personally. Well I do, obviously. But that’s not the thing. The thing is I really, really want to come, really…’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ Kate interrupts before I can actually explain. Not that I can actually explain. Not to Kate. ‘I can get you into much better events than this. What do you fancy? Fashion shows? Pop concerts? How about an awards show? I could do that, really I could. I know some people at one of the banks that sponsor the Brits and…’ But I manage to stop her there with nothing but a frown and I’m-so-not-that-kind-of-person eyebrows.

‘Kate, please, I just want to go. Call it my birthday present. I…’

Kate interrupts again, ‘But I don’t get it. Why do you even want to come and bid? I mean, you have a boyfriend. Rex, remember? Why not leave the lovely auction lots for us single girls.’

I grin, sheepishly, but then try and give Kate a don’t-be-daft expression ‘I’m not going to bid, Kate, I just want to watch. Bit of eye candy fun. On my birthday.’ And I do actually mean that. I do just plan to watch. Really.

‘Well, okay, if you really want to,’ she says with a sigh and a sort of shrug. So I never actually do tell her why I want to go so much. I never have to let my kinks out of the bag.

Okay, I know it’s only for fun. No one is really paying for the men themselves; no one is really paying, well, for sex, but just the idea of it – the men showing themselves off, the women bidding.
Have I made it clear that I find this so fucking hot?

Then, I have to have this conversation. One evening, about a week before my birthday, I’m in bed with my boyfriend Rex, and we’ve just had an excellent shag with loin liquefying kinky bits and everything, so he’s in a pretty good mood, and I say, ‘Rex, you know my birthday?’

My beautiful Rex is sitting up in bed looking somewhere between iconic and gorgeous. He’s smoking a cigarette and he’s still wearing the scuffed-up pair of black cuffs that I used to tie his wrists to the headboard earlier. His orangey-red hair is sticking out all over the place like some kooky kind of sculpture. He blows out an endless blueish-whiteish plume of smoke before saying, kind of fast, ‘It’s next week and I’ve not forgotten.’

‘I want to go to Kate’s charity slave auction.’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ says Rex, nodding sagely, ‘I kind of reckoned that you might. How many are you planning on buying?’

I pick up my pillow and whap him with it. ‘None! God, I do have some self control you know.’

‘Yeah, now you say that, but what’s actually going to happen when you’re there and there are all those gorgeous men parading about for you, up for grabs, and you’ve got your birthday money burning a hole in your handbag, are you even going to give a thought to poor old me? Stuck at home? After the years of sterling service I’ve given?’ And he shakes his outstretched wrists in my face, so the manacles jingle.

Because, although there are some things that you might not really want to tell one of your closest friends – like that fact that you are super kinky for men selling themselves – it’s different with your boyfriend. (Really it is. If you don’t agree, you’re wrong. I say, tell your boyfriend about your kinks. All of them. Asap. It is so worth it.)

So Rex knows. Actually, Rex likes. Actually, actually, Rex even takes part in pay-for-play role play on occasion. And so, it’s not really surprising that Rex saw this one coming.

‘You don’t trust me?’ I say, enjoying the jingling cuffs and put upon expression in spite of myself.

Rex laughs. He does find my dirty little secrets amusing sometimes. ‘It’s fine,’ he says, still enjoying himself, ‘we’ll do something just the two of us afterwards.’

And I notice a naughty light in his eyes then. ‘What are you thinking?’ I say, intrigued but rather worried.

Rex smiles. ‘Ooh no,’ he says, ‘can’t ruin your birthday surprise.

So, on the evening of my twenty ninth birthday, I’m sitting here, surrounded by smoky clatter and chatter, in a very cramped room above a not-particularly-nice pub. I’m all on my own, and just starting to get an odd little tingling feeling in my stomach. It’s partly pure excitement and partly a bit of oh-my-god-I-might-not-have-done-the-right-thing doubting. I could be with Rex right now, having a romantic dinner, or in the pub with a huge crowd of my closest friends and hangers-on. And although I have been having lurid fantasies about this evening for (what feels like) my entire life, I can’t help worrying. What if it isn’t any good? Oh god, what if it doesn’t turn me on?
After I’ve finished two nervous G and T’s Kate finally appears, looking elegantly harassed – as only Kate can.

I smile, woozily, I’m just a little bit zoned out, because I’ve come straight from work with nothing proper to eat (and, of course, because I am stupidly over excited about this event), but I tell Kate it’s all going fabulously from my front of house perspective. And that’s when Kate drops a small but perfectly formed bombshell. All her protests about my presence here – and particularly her concerns that I oughtn’t to be bidding seem to have gone out the window. And birthday or no birthday, I can’t just wallow on Fantasy Island – I have a job to do. Apparently.

Kate slides onto a stool opposite me, sets down her drink and then quietly confesses ‘Charity Slave Auctions aren’t really in vogue anymore,’ she tells me, over the rim of her slightly greasy glass. ‘You know, it kind of has sordid associations. But there are so many hot guys who work for Fur Fighters – I just couldn’t resist. And it’s not like they’re actually prostituting themselves is it? Not really. I got eight lovely meals donated, you’re actually bidding on the meal out. See.’

‘I see.’

‘Anyway, the thing is, I kind of sold the idea to the Board of Trustees on the grounds that it would bring in shed loads of cash. So it bloody better. Actually that’s more or less what they said – only on rather more hoity-toity voices. So the money will talk. I hope. Well, it’d better do if I want them to keep employing me to organise events.’

‘Well it’s pretty full,’ I say, giving the room a quick once over head sweep. And it is. In fact the room is heaving. Most of the occupants are women, but I can see the odd male face dotted around too and I wonder if they are here to bid themselves or have been reluctantly dragged along.

‘Yeah well, I know I was a bit obstructive – but actually, I’m really glad you’re here,’ Kate says, looking rather sheepish. ‘I know it’s your birthday and everything; I know I should be doing things for you, but, well, I was wondering if you could do me a little favour.’

Kate bends down and roots around in her handbag for a second, before straightening up to present me with a sizable brown envelope. She slides it across the table.

I open my mouth to speak, but think better of it and instead take the envelope and peek carefully inside. It’s full of cash. I open my mouth again, but Kate beats me to it.

‘Two hundred and fifty quid,’ she says. ‘I don’t actually want you to spend it, just, you know, keep the biding going. And if you end up buying then, well, you’re covered.’

I frown at her. Thinking of a hundred and one reasons why this is a bad idea. Not to mention an unethical one. Deliberately driving up the bidding – isn’t that the number one auction crime?

And what kind of birthday present is a stack of cash I’m not actually meant to spend. But really my main concern is, ‘Kate. I can’t bid in this auction. What if I win the bloke? I mean, Rex. You remember, my boyfriend.’

Kate looks annoyed and doesn’t notice my mimicking of what she said to me a few weeks ago. ‘I’ve explained all that though. You’re just bidding on the meal. If you win the bloke you’ve got the money to pay, and then you can just go and have a nice meal. But really, if at all possible, try not to win the bloke. There’s no profit in it if you win.’

So, well, talk about Kate changing her tune. And really, where does this leave me? Stuck in a room where an auction of apparently gorgeous men is about to take place, where I am duty bound to bid on any specimen that might not be generating enough cash – but if I win one of them I have to quietly go and have dinner with him and his gorgeousness (and the fact I own him) without any untoward behaviour. On my birthday!

But before I can say anything Kate stands up. Apologising again, and muttering about not wanting anyone to see us talking, and gone.

I sit dumbly at the tiny table, clutching my envelope like it contains Weapons of Mass Destruction. And then the room goes dark.

When she takes to the stage a few moments later, I have to say, Kate does her job really well. She prowls around the stage in her tight, hot-pink dress, whipping up the crowd into what can only be described as a hormonal frenzy. Behind her, on a line of wooden chairs, the eight men she has on offer look really quite alarmed.

She introduces the charity, giving a sparky spiel about animals and fur – the former being good and the latter being bad. But before we tire of her contractually obliged waffle about the worthy cause, Kate switches gear. ‘So now, ladies and… can I see a few gentlemen here too.’ She holds up a hand to shade her eyes from the spotlights and peers into the audience. From the back of the room several masculine cheers greet her.

Kate laughs in response and then gets back to her patter. ‘Excellent. Now, I want to see some high bids this evening. We’ve got a meal for two for each winning bidder and their prize. So bid early, bid high and don’t go home empty handed.’ Kate plants her tongue firmly in her cheek as an excited cheer hits her.

The first specimen she has for us – and that is the way she puts it, specimen – is Jonathan, from finance. Jonathan is lovely looking, wearing a navy-blue-suit/navy-blue-shirt combo that makes his dark skin look like molten Green and Blacks. I try not to lick my lips.

I don’t need to assist with the bidding on Jonathan. He fetches £160, without even blinking. And in a far corner of the room a table full of girls scream with excitement as their prize weaves his smiling way over to them.

And the ever professional Kate (anyone would think she auctioned off men every single night), rattles onto the next guy – Simon, from IT.

Simon, likewise, is gorgeous. He’s a master class in blonde spiky hair and a sun-breaking-from-behind-the-clouds grin. Kate wasn’t joking when she said she had some hot men in her office. They’re delicious. It seems like she’s pulled a master stroke with this risqué auction – she’s going to make bundles.

When Simon, along with a rather nice meal for two, is sold for another hundred quid or so, I settle back in my chair. I don’t have to even think about the furtive envelope on my table, Kate doesn’t need little old plan B me.

But that’s where I’m wrong.

The next chap, Keith, isn’t quite as drool worthy as Simon and Jonathan. He’s not bad looking – but he’s not an oh-my-god, head-turning, is-that-guy-a-model-or-what? type. And he goes for just thirty eight quid, before I even have a chance to step in and unethically force up the bidding. Kate flashes me a glare.

So I’m sitting up straight and paying extra attention to the next guy, and when I see him, for a second I forget to breathe. He’s kind of gawky. Rangy and red haired. He looks cute, but a little shy. He’s actually a blushing. And I think it’s the blushing that does it, far more than Kate’s evil glare, I bid.

And that’s where the trouble starts, because my cheeky funny guy might not be America’s Next Top Model, but there’s something about him, and at least one other person in the audience has noticed it too, and that’s all it takes. And then it’s just like every Ebay auction I’ve ever participated in, once I’ve put in a bid on something, I’m committed, it’s mine. I’ve got to have it. And I have to have this guy. It’s war! The bidding gets fierce between us. And Kate does nothing to cool things down.

I suppose might have stayed in control; might have maintained my dignity and bowed out at two hundred quid, say, if it hadn’t been for the fact that my guy was wearing very tight shorts that left nothing to the imagination and was quite definitely erect as soon as his price went past a fifty pounds. Yum.

And I’m not sure quite what it is yet, but something about that tell-tale bulge tells me this guy could be very interesting. Even more interesting than his bashful stage performance would suggest.
And I guess that’s why I’m still bidding even though my brown envelope limit has been long passed.

That’s why I’m bidding three hundred and eighty pounds. That’s why I’m getting out my cheque book and writing a cheque to make up the shortfall from Kate’s cash.

And that’s why heading out of the door with my purchase and jumping into a taxi on the rainy street.

We don’t bother to go and eat – whatever Kate might have drilled into us about the fact I was bidding for the meal. Sod that. We go straight to my place.

In my little flat with low, low lights and soft, soft furniture my purchase looks even better then he did on the stage. And the idea that he seemed to actually be turned on by being auctioned off just won’t let go of me. In a way that’s even sexier than the fact he actually was auctioned off – than the fact I bought him. I just keep thinking about how hard he got and how hard he blushed.

I love…

I don’t know if I can even explain it. I love it when men have dirty little secrets. I love it when they are turned on by something nasty, something wrong, something that twists against what society expects a man to be. I love it when men want things that like that. When they burn and throb to be brought down, owned, used. And, although I know there are plenty of men that get off on that kind of stuff and are happy to shout it from the rooftops, I love it when the guy in question is all conflicted by his deviant desires. Just like the blushing guy in front of me right now.

It’s so delicious. He’s so different to Rex, who practically vaults the furniture to get to the ropes in the bedroom, and although I love Rex, I love this new spin on naughty little sub-boy too. It’s just adorable. And, actually, I’ll probably enjoy this so much more if I make an effort not to think about Rex too much.

I offer my purchase wine rather than coffee, because it’s actually still quite early in the evening, and he accepts in a slightly shaky sounding voice that makes me feel all twinkly with excitement. He’s even more bashful now – he’s biting his lip and not meeting my eye, and I haven’t even begun to press the point. Well, not yet.

‘You like that I bought you?’ I say darkly, looking at him over the rim of my glass.

‘Yeah. Kind of.’ Oh god, and his face is just priceless. Perfect. He hates that I know it turns him on, that I have that little chink where I can dig and twist.

‘And you like that I own you? Right now?’

‘Well…’ But his words die in the air. I wait for him to speak again, but, nothing. Everything goes quiet.

Time seems to stand still for a bit and then I get up from my chair and walk over to him, getting right in his personal space, reaching into his lap, trailing my fingers over a desperate, hot erection.

‘I think the word you are looking for,’ I say, softly, ‘is “yes”‘

He doesn’t reply, so I squeeze the bulge in his tenting-shorts harder. He makes a gratifying little mewling sound then. And I smile. And he gets even harder.

So I take a handful of his t shirt, gripping it in the middle of his chest and twisting the fabric into a bunch, and then – acting like a caveman or something – I use this makeshift handle to drag him into my bedroom, and throw him down onto my bed.

I climb on top of him, straddling his tight, skinny body easily. He sprawls beneath me, prone, his arms stretched above his head. He could just be being casual, just lying the way he fell, just lying the way that is comfortable right now, but he looks exactly like he’s positioning himself to be tied down. Naturally, I choose to imagine that he is hinting at me about what he would like next. Letting me know what he wants, but can’t bring himself to say. And I choose to take that hint.

From a bag tucked under my bedside table I produce a familiar pair of well-used leather wrist cuffs.

My recent purchase looks at them with widening eyes.

‘Have you ever been tied up?’ I say, surprisingly breezily.

‘Um, nope.’

‘Have you ever thought about it?’

‘Um.’ His face twists into a strange expression. I almost feel like he is trying to hide from me. To climb inside himself. Out of the firing line. ‘Um, yes, I suppose,’ he says, eventually. So reluctantly.

I hold his gaze. I don’t have to say anything to let him know that that vague admittance is nowhere near enough.

‘I’ve always thought it would be hot, okay. But it’s also twisted and weird. It’s fucked up!’ He almost looks angry as he says this, but his voice is catching a little with arousal. He did put himself on sale after all.

There’s no debate though. In fact I start to tie him down while he’s still talking. I move slowly, buckling his wrists snuggly into the cuffs and then fixing them to the eye bolts that have been part of my bed frame since forever. ‘You like it though,’ I say. ‘You like it even though you know it’s “fucked up”‘

‘Yeah-uh,’ he says, his affirmative becoming a soft moan as he pulls a little against his restraints.

‘Oh, god. Yeah. I really fucking do.’

And then he’s tied, but not over restricted. He can still squirm, which feels right. I push his t shirt up until it is bunched around his armpits, and play about with his elegant chest. I tug a little at the sandy hairs there, just enough to make him squirm and roll, and give himself away.

Not just a submissive, but a pain slut. A pretty, pretty little pain slut. All rose-flushed cheekbones and hard, hard cock. Eager and confused and just far too precious. Priceless.

And once I realise that, I need to make him more uncomfortable. Need to. And I need to do it now. I want to see him hurting, twisting in pain. From the bag, I pull out a pair of silver nipple clamps and dangle them in front of his face. He shakes his head.

‘Oh, no.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘No. I can’t. I don’t want this. It’s too much.’

‘I don’t think it’s too much. I think it’s just right. Perfect. And the thing is,’ I say, gently stroking his chest as I speak, ‘I get to decide, because I own you. You are bought and paid for and I get to do whatever I want to you.’

‘No,’ he says. But there’s that crack in his voice again, giving away that delicious arousal that I know means he likes the fact I own him, really. He likes the fact I get to decide just how uncomfortable he is. ‘I don’t think it’s really meant to work like that,’ he continues. But any further protests die away as his breathing gets heavier.

‘Yes it does. For us it does.’ And I dip my head and kiss his left nipple, before securing it quickly in nasty jagged teeth. He moans as the jaws close, but he doesn’t protest.

And he’s harder than ever.

He is tied down and clamped now. Rolling around on my bed. Not really coherent. Ecstatic. And I’m feeling pretty good myself.

I know where I need to go next. I don’t have any option. I’m so wet and I’m rubbing myself gently against his leg. His helplessness, his pain, his liking his pain and helplessness, his conflicted emotions about liking his pain and helplessness, all these things are working together to enhance my spiralling arousal.

I move back. I can’t remember when his clothes disappeared but he’s naked now, and his hard cock is still as obvious and needy as ever. I lift myself up and move over it. Repositioning and moving him inside.

And, oh, oh wow. Too good.

I move as he moves. We both slide and glide. It’s easy and good. Familiar. He’s very hard and the pressure is right where it needs to be, nudging me, pushing me on. We don’t have far to go.

Either of us. But at the same time, I’m not quite there yet.

I release his wrists so we can both roll over – locked together – and I can watch him moving above me, his long thin body, elegant, powerful, my property. I feel like I’m falling as his thrusts push me down into the bedclothes. And as I fall, I start to soar. Right there. Good pressure. It isn’t always this easy, but the build up – weeks of it – have brought me to just the right place.

He thrusts again and it almost pushes me over the edge. I’m so close to coming now. I just need…

I reach up and grab the sparkling metal chain that connects his two nipple clamps. I hold it for just a moment – a delicious anticipatory moment – and then I tug. Not so hard, but hard enough. He cries out.

Oh, god.

I tug again, timing it right this time so his cry coincides with his thrusting.

Oh, yes. Oh, nearly.

I do it again. And then, the next time I do it, and he cries out in pain, I come so hard I barely notice him anymore.

When I open my eyes – bare seconds later – I’m holding the nipple clamps in my hand. They’re not connected to him anymore. And he’s slumped on top of me, panting.

I hold the clamps up, not realising for a moment how I could have come to be holding them.

And then it occurs to me that I must have pulled the chain so hard as I came that I pulled the clamps clean off. Oops. I bite my lip. ‘Sorry,’ I say.

And then he lifts his head to look at me. His face is flushed, damp with sweat. But the smirk on his face says it all. He pulls himself up into a half sitting position, resting back on one elbow and rubs his bright red nipples, wincing at me. But it’s so big and exaggerated a wince, it’s almost comical.

‘Sorry,’ I say again, but I’m finding it sort of funny now.

Rex grins at me. ‘It’s not funny,’ he says, looking kind of like it is.

‘Yeah, okay.’ And I reach out and rub my boyfriend’s poor tender chest myself. My poor wounded soldier. My hero. The things he does for me.

‘So?’ Rex says, reading my mind. ‘Good birthday present?’

I laugh – almost relived that he has come out of character. ‘You should get an Oscar,’ I reply, a little laugh lighting my voice.

‘That good?’

I shake my head, because I can’t believe he doesn’t realise that it was. Actually he probably does. He’s probably just fishing for adulation. Well he’s fishing in the right place, because I feel very, very adulatory right now. ‘I was wonderful. It was… Oh! The way you play acted Mr Conflicted for me. That was the best ever! I really, really loved that.’

Rex laughs, ‘Yeah, well, I got sick of you going on about how hot that got you.’

‘I never thought you could pull it off, though, or I would have pestered you to do it ages ago.’

‘Well now you know I can, I’m just going to play that part all the time for you. No more of your usual Mr Kinky Slut Boy, no more draping myself over the back of the sofa for you and begging you to “please, hurt me” anymore, because, of course, you don’t like that, do you?’

I swallow. Because I’m so fickle and much as I love Rex’s new conflicted shy boy, his trademark ‘Mr Kinky Slut Boy’ is so hot too. Mmm, that bad boy schtick. So good too. ‘Well,’ I say, hopefully, ‘maybe I could, I don’t know, mix it up a bit, mix and match?’

Rex shrugs, ‘Well there might be limits. I might have to restrict you to just one persona per playtime – you greedy girl – otherwise it could get confusing.’

Oh! He is beautiful. ‘God, no wonder I nearly bankrupted myself for you.’

‘What.’ Rex looks a bit confused. ‘I gave Kate a whole stack of cash for you to buy me with. Didn’t she give it to you?’

‘Um, yeah, but I kind of went a bit over the limit.’

‘How much did you pay?’ Rex says, shocked, and he kind of swallows when he says it. Shocked and aroused. He likes. He likes talking about the fact I paid for him.

‘Three hundred and eighty.’

‘Shit! Sophie! I told Kate to stop the auction at two hundred and fifty.’

I laugh. I have to. ‘And you actually thought she would. You poor naive little whore-boy. Kate saw the glint of my cold hard cash. Why do you think she even agreed to your plans?’

And, god, even though things are pretty light and I am pretty spent, I still get a tiny tingle when I call him a whore. Because, well, just because. I sigh and run my hands over his body, gently, but still with a kind of possessiveness that even the breaking of the fourth wall hasn’t quite dissolved.

Rex moans gently. He’s clearly still as buzzy as me.

‘Tell me how much you paid again?’ he breathes.

‘Three hundred and eighty pounds.’

‘God, so you wanted me that much? I hope I was worth it.’

‘Oh, baby, you were priceless.’

9780352340764 From Sex and Shopping

 Buy at Amazon.co.uk

 Buy at Amazon.com

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