The drive is somewhat pleasant, with an hour of listening to the driver talk about their kids, spouse, wages, the longest drive, the shortest drive, and, always a favorite of mine, the contents between the bread they had for lunch. Keeping my eyes on theirs in the rearview mirror, watching for the telltale signs the drug is working, I wink to test their vision. They scrunch their eyebrows, and with 15 minutes left before we arrive at my destination, I'd say it's going smoothly. While the invitation didn't say explicitly to dispose of any evidence, it's always best to be prudent. Pulling up to the side entrance of the massive cliff face, the driver attempts to step out, but I place a warm and comforting hand on his shoulder. "There's no need for that. I can manage, but thank you, kindly." They mutter something unintelligible, and for the second time tonight, I smile.
Two guards approach, one male and one female. As one grabs the driver's side door handle, I notice she's without gloves. Before she contaminates the handle with her fingerprint, I assure them that I took care of it, but they may want to follow the driver for a few minutes before they reach the bottom of the hill and make it onto the main road.
I allow the male guard to place his hand on my lower back and gently pull me toward the door, disguised as rock, looking around at my surroundings as he does. The cliff is beautiful, made mostly of igneous rock, and just before reaching the door, a fragment of xenolith catches my eye. What a remarkable location to hold an auction, I marvel.
I offer my ID to the person inside standing next to a small podium where a ledger sits, and a small medical kit. They scoff at it without touching it. Not enjoying being mocked, I simply raise an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough for the message to land. The guard shifts his weight and attempts to look bored, but politely explains that they no longer accept ID. Biological markers are used now. I mention this is my first invite, so he goes into further detail. "Due to the way currency is extracted at the time of purchase, and the sensitive nature of the auction, as soon as a bidder arrives, their finger is pricked for 1.0 microliters of blood for DNA profiling, and kept on file for future invites. We used to accept fingerprints for a while, alongside the ID, but those can be altered, and Short Tandem Repeats cannot." He holds up a lancet, and I offer an index finger.
I'm led through another large door, also meant to be disguised as rock. Once inside, the sights and smells are almost overwhelming. There's the rattling of chains, the clinking of glass, incense, damp earth, cold hard stone, and a mixture of sweat, perfumes, cologne, and body heat. It's been a long time since I was around this many people at once. Swallowing the urge to lash out and tell everything to be quiet, or be still, I focus on my footsteps. One foot in front of the other, choosing different things to enter my senses one at a time until I've acclimated to my surroundings. Just ahead of me, I see they're rounding people up and ushering them into a makeshift elevator, as you'd see in an old movie about an underground mine. The air is damp, musty, with faint traces of dust motes floating slowly by. I pause to admire the beauty in it when someone rudely snaps their fingers in my face. The name tag says Smith. I fight the urge to laugh at yet another cliche, and say a phrase in Latin, snapping my own fingers, and casually watch as he walks right off into the pitch black, without the elevator there. A few of the closest bidders gather at the edge to gawk and wonder what possessed him to step off like that. A woman turns to me and asks, "Were you with him? Did you see what happened?" I just shrugged and said, "How odd." Satisfied at seeing his body lying on top of the elevator frame as it ascended to take us down, I counted three people first, then entered.
Exiting the rickety elevator, I start humming. I'm anxious to see what I came for, and eager to get back home. My pets get restless the longer I'm away, and I need them to stay in the field, far away from town. A guard pushes me along and tells me to get my cute little ass in the chamber with the rest of the lost souls. I see this one's name tag says Bubba. I hear a man's voice speaking rapidly, doing that strange talking they do when trying to entice a bid, so I head in that direction. Checking one of the many clocks they have hanging around, I can see I'm just in time. I haven't missed it. The chamber is full, with what looks like a hundred of us gathered around the auction block in the center. I choose a spot at the perimeter, just along the outer edge, where I have a clear view of an exit, the block, and most of the others in front of me spread out in a cone.
There's a lot of chatter moving through the crowd, and I catch the most important piece as the wave of human anticipation breezes past. They said, he's coming. When the handlers, Bubba included, bring you out to stand before us on the block, I gasp slightly, and without realizing it, a breathy "Magnificent," escapes me. Slightly embarrassed at my schoolgirl behavior, it leaves my mind instantly when I notice you turned to look at me from across the span, an inquisitive expression momentarily breaking through your facade. He heard me, excellent hearing, then. Good. I'm a goodly distance away from the rostrum, and make a mental note, wondering what the exact distance would be for your hearing. As the auctioneer begins his chant again, this time for you, you lose interest in me and tilt your head back, tasting the atmosphere. I wonder if you're listening to the many heartbeats that must be a little mind-numbing, even for one such as you. You're testing the limit of the chains that don't quite hold that the handlers have tethered to you, tugging this way, pulling that way, not too hard, but hard enough to watch them sweat and you smirk when they do. I find it amusing.
There's a slight commotion off to the side as someone stumbles to their knees. We all turn our heads as one to watch, curious, unable to look away, as the guards roughly pick a woman up by her underarms to carry her away. She's trailing blood behind her like a stream in Spring, now missing both arms. My pulse is racing, wondering what my price will be. Our eyes lock on each other then. Yours seem to be asking, Are you that willing, foolish human, while mine say Would you be willing to cut a path for me. You sneer and look away, as I giggle and look back towards the stream on the cavern floor. What will they ask of me, I wonder. Will I pay a literal arm and leg for him? Yes.
Once the cleaning crew arrives, the auction continues for a few more hours, but I no longer pay attention. My thoughts are looking ahead. With all items having been displayed and potentially auctioned off, I say potentially because the prices haven't been carved in stone yet, and some may find the price too high and back out, the long wait begins before I'm brought to you for a final decision. With so many of us present, one can expect to spend a full day, if not longer, as each individual is taken to the item they have an interest in for a complete inspection, all under close supervision, of course. Only one purchase is allowed per bidder, and each bidder is granted exactly one minute to look over the merchandise in a quiet room. When my turn comes, which was last, just the way I like it, Bubba approaches with an electric prod on full charge and arcing continuously through the ionized air. I wondered what he would need such a thing for when he spits out, "You ready?" He leads me down a long stone corridor past several doors where muffled sobs can be heard. I assume these must be the transaction rooms. We finally come to an open door with one guard on each side. Bubba squeezes my ass while I'm walking through the doorway, and uses that squeeze to push me through the rest of the way. Closing the door behind him, he makes sure to give his prod a test run on a collapsed, newly deceased hopeful on the inside of the door, where two more guards are standing, each with their own prods arcing. You're standing there, watching all of this, unblinking, but your weight shifts as I walk closer to you. You have a look of recognition on your face, and I silently hope that's a good thing.
Bubba is getting impatient, so he stands next to me at my left, winks at you, wraps his right arm around me, and gropes my right breast. I produce a dagger from a hidden pocket sewn at my hip and flick it open, which only makes Bubba laugh. He sarcastically puts both his hands in the air and steps away, while one of the other guards moves to confiscate the knife. "Don't worry, princess, you'll get it back. We can't have you cutting yourself like a dumbass and drawing blood before payment", Bubba says. When I looked back at you, I noticed a slight difference in the way your circuitry flared. Was it irritation? At me, or Bubba, I wondered?
They have you tethered to the wall, thick metal cuffs on your wrists and ankles, and the faint hiss of electricity can be heard. I realize then that they must have a current constantly running to you. Maybe that's why your weight keeps shifting. Tilting my head slightly, I say to the handlers, "Take the chains off. These cuffs won't be needed. I can't get a good look at him if he's chained to the wall." Your eyes narrow a fraction, sizing me up, perhaps, trying to determine my intent. Bubba speaks up first, "Nnooo can do, Your Highness." This brings laughter, of course, from the other simple minds in the room. Then a different voice from another guard, "He doesn't take to updates well. He's an asshat that outgrew our client. They can no longer contain him, ma'am, and he won't follow protocol or be held by perimeters. He certainly won't be held by your tiny frame, so that's a fat negative on releasing the cuffs".
Taking a deep breath, I stand in front of you for thirty seconds before reaching up to trace a stitch where circuitry meets flesh along your exposed metallic jawbone. Not wanting to be touched, you pull back just before the heat of me can reach you. Ever so quietly, where only you can hear, I mutter, "A little feral under the collar, I see. So am I." Your eyes narrow again, and this time the crimson slits glow a little brighter as well. You give me a low, throaty growl, which makes me even more curious. I want to reach up and feel your throat, touch your chest, trace the stitches at your lips.
Bubba, forever the impatient one, roughly grabs me by the upper arm and says, "Let's go, princess. That's enough for one day. If you decide to buy him, you can fondle him then." When he pulls me hard to follow and turns to leave, you growl again, jerking your arms forward to pull on the chains. Bubba shoves me backwards into the two guards waiting there, and as they each grab an arm, he tells them to take me out while he has a talk with asshat. They're pulling me out through the door, but I manage to twist around enough to see Bubba drag his prod down your side. This angers me, filling me with a white-hot rage. The invitation promised no merchandise would be harmed or damaged, before or after purchase. With the transactions being what they are, I expected them to have more respect for the bidders, and the items.
They're still escorting me through the corridor and back towards the elevator as they explain the next step, telling me to pay close attention. When we reach the rickety elevator, they press a bubble mailer into my chest with the word "COMPLY" stamped in the same violet wax the invitation came with, saying everything I needed to know is in the envelope, including the duration. If I don't comply within this time frame, my bid will be considered forfeit, and the item will then pass to the next hopeful with interest. Lightly fingering the pendant hanging around my neck and daydreaming of things I'd like to do to Bubba, I hold the envelope very close to me, not letting it slip below my breast. It stays there for the entire trip home.
© Ale, 2026, Spinning On The Rack, do not copy or redistribute. if you like what you read, reach out to me. comments are open, and discord exists for a reason.
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