Lulu's Blog

(Continued from previous…)

Blonde Minder leans in and whispers to her ear, "But we shall cheat and rehearse a bit, make you look good, hmm?"

She nods.

Yes... maybe I might get lucky tonight, meet a nice sugar daddy... I so need that Prada bag!

"Okay, when I jerk the leash like this, you go down on all fours - understand? There's a love." As she nods, the leash jerks, and she obeys. Blonde Minder walks her a few steps to the side, bell jingling. This is humiliating, she thinks, the things a girl has to do to pay the rent in this town. At least till she becomes famous. Payoff for the gym hours - then men will worship her on the billboards.

She is walked back.

"Good girl. You can swing your derriere a bit more - the buyers love that."

She hears the techno music spurting into life on stage outside. Another flick of the leash, a sustained tug - her chin is lifted up and she is guided to her feet, on tiptoes. She watches the girls in front of her begin to sashay forward on their high heels and out the door, one at a time. She feels her wrists being pulled back. Ow, she recoils for a second, straining against the leash. A stage hand throws the ice cubes back into the bucket. She stares disbelievably at her chest... her nipples are now constricted, wet... and icy cold. She glares at the stage hand, looks at the stage manager in protest, who ignores her and checks the bio tag on her collar against the glossy show catalog: height 5' 8'', weight 106 lbs, measurements 35"-24"-34", eyes green, hair hazel brown, stock Caucasian, shoes 8-1/2. She squirms, realizes that her wrists are firmly secured behind her. She has done artistic nude photoshoots before (two Trade-for-CDs, not counting that dubious photography workshop involving generous amounts of linseed oil), but now, suddenly, she feels naked, exposed; like her freshly shorn motte, she has nowhere to hide.

Blonde Minder smiles approvingly. "Yes, that's very good - do that - work your shoulders and arms - they'll love it!" she shouts through the pumping music into her ear as she guides her shoulders forward into a hunched pose. Hefting an oiled breast in one hand, she adds, "Showcase these, darling, there's nothing quite like the bounce of organic titties. I'm sure they'll fetch a good price per pound."

"But - "

The manager verifies the serial number on her collar, checks it against what appears to be an ownership deed, and satisified, slaps a large "Lot #8" circle on her left breast, just above the now-attentive nipple. "Next!"

The well-worn industrial door creaks open, letting in the blast of techno dance; she hesitates; her handler cracks the whip, jerks the leash, and she is dragged out, naked and collared, on stilettos, into the blinding lights and the pounding beat.

The auction begins.

(To be continued…)