Winning Bid: A Virgin Auction Romance Read online

  I see myself ripping apart her sweater, buttons flying in every direction. She just spent a night wining and dining with Cash Swain — she’s been waiting for me to pull down her sensible skirt and run my tongue from her thighs to her lips. Her soft mewls make my cock harden in seconds, and then she’s begging for me to enter her…

  I force myself to stop. There’s no sense getting ahead of myself — first I have to win, and Orson isn’t likely to back down so easily.

  With two taps on my phone, I’ve RSVP’d for the Meet. Hitting the intercom, I hear a soft tone, followed by the voice of Janine, my secretary. “Sir?” she says.

  “Hi, Janine. Clear my schedule for Friday. Something’s come up.”

  Radha walks in a little after ten, last night’s heels in her hands and a satisfied grin on her face. It doesn’t hurt that I’m pouring Bisquick into the waffle iron while bacon sizzles on the griddle.

  “Have a nice night?” I ask, suppressing a grin and trying to sound level.

  “Uh huh,” she replies, her voice throaty. “Peter was a lot of fun.”

  “You mean Paulo?” I say, pouring her a glass of orange juice.

  “Oh, yeah.” She shrugs, then drinks half the glass. “Thanks.”

  I nod, flipping over the bacon strips. Radha disappears into her room and comes back wearing leggings and a tank top. Toothbrush sticking out of her mouth, she sits down with her phone and starts scrolling through it.

  “So, what did you end up doing?” she says at last, voice slurred by the brush. “Anything interesting?”

  Here we go.

  “The usual, mostly. Studying, Internet…”

  “Cool,” Radha says on her way back to the bathroom. “That it?”

  I mimic her shrug. “I did learn a lot more about virgin auctions once my application was accepted.”

  “Uh huh, that’s nice,” she says absently.

  I count down in my head; on three, Radha marches across the apartment and right up to me. “What?”

  “I didn’t think they’d want me, but I got an e-mail last night. I’m in.”

  Radha blinks repeatedly, like I’ve short circuited something in her brain. “You’re fucking with me.”

  “Nope.” I try to keep myself from grinning, but I’m losing the battle.

  “This isn’t funny, Wendy.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  Radha opens a cupboard above the fridge and takes out a bottle of vodka. She pours a bit into her orange juice, then takes a seat at the kitchen table. “All right, tell me about it,” she says, sipping her screwdriver.

  “Okay, well, you know how I always just dive into things without knowing what I’m doing or worrying about the consequences?”

  Radha crinkles her brow and shakes her head. “Uhh, no, Wendy, you never do that.”

  “Exactly.” I lift the finished waffles from the iron and set them on a plate, then pour in the rest of the batter. "I spent a couple hours looking into all this last night. I read a lot of stories about women like me who really were glad they did the auction. They got money for college, or paying bills — whatever they needed.”

  Radha waits until I’m finished, nodding the whole time, before asking, “And what about the ones who get screwed over? They give up their V, but then don’t get paid.”

  “Actually, we get paid up front,” I counter. “This is all highly organized, Rad. The men are all obscenely rich — they can part with a few thousand bucks and not even notice.”

  “‘We,’ she says. Like you’ve already decided you’re going through with this.”

  I place a plate with the finished waffles and two strips of bacon on the table for Radha. “I can back out if I want. They make that clear. If I don’t want to sleep with anyone, I don’t have to. But think of it: I could make enough to pay for the trip to Europe and have a lot left over!”

  “Sure, sure,” she says, pouring the syrup. “That sounds great, as long as you don’t mind losing your virginity to some gross, old pervert.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” I assure her. “If I can’t find a nice looking guy, I won’t do it.”

  “Oh yeah?” Radha snaps. “What if some nasty guy offers you a million bucks?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but no sound comes out. If she’d asked me yesterday, I would have dismissed the notion without hesitation. Even now I doubt I’d consider it, but before yesterday I never imagined selling my body at all.

  What if I would do it? A million dollars…

  I’d be set for a long, long time. All for a single night of sex? How bad could it really be? And what if I’m still broke five years from now — wouldn’t I be kicking myself for turning down that much money?

  “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” asks Radha, her voice rising an octave. “Holy shit, Wendy, you are!”

  “Yeah, I am, all right?” I bark. “Just thinking, that’s all.”

  “Well, stop,” she says. “Trust me, you don’t want to sleep with sleazy jerks. No amount of money would make that right.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I mutter, munching on a piece of bacon. Right away, I wish I’d not said it.

  “Sorry,” says Radha. “You’re right. I’ve not had to worry about money the same way as you. That wasn’t fair of me, but…”

  “…You’re probably not wrong,” I finish for her. “I guess. So, fine — I won’t let any hideous assholes bid on me. You know I get to choose that?”

  Radha smiles and pours herself another screwdriver, filling her cup with both juice and vodka at the same time. “No, what do you mean?”

  I take a deep breath. “Well, the rules of the auction are mostly simple. There’s three parts; the first is called The Meet. All the virgins and buyers get together and mingle so the buyers can see who they’re interested in. A few days later, there’s The Gala — everyone gets dressed up so girls like me can see how the buyers clean up. That’s when I get to decide which buyers are allowed to bid on me. So, if there’s some dirtbag there, I can say that I won’t take his bid, shutting him out.”

  Nodding, Radha listens intently. “That’s good. But if you allow certain men to bid, you don’t have to sleep with one of them?”

  I shake my head. “Not if I back out. There’s no restrictions on when I can do that. So, after The Gala, we wait a week. The buyers can get into a bidding war, they can negotiate with one another, whatever they want-”

  “Wait, they can collude? What’s to stop them from agreeing to split you up and pay you peanuts?”

  It’s an interesting question, one I had wondered about myself. Luckily, there’s an easy answer: “If the money isn’t good enough, we can refuse it — just back out — you know? Also, from what I understand, the competition is fierce. There’s far more buyers than virgins — so we tend to get paid pretty well.”

  “Oh. That’s good,” says Radha, apparently satisfied. “What happens next?”

  I grin. “The Auction. That’s when the final bids are cast and the winner is revealed. Then they have a place on the premises where winners can… claim their prize.”

  I try not to let it show, but the idea is turning me on again. I’ve seen the photos of the winner’s suites — candles, flowers, decadent desserts — it looks heavenly.

  “Right — so you get to pick who will be at the final bidding, and you don’t have to go through with it?” Radha asks.

  “Correct,” I nod, smiling. Radha’s tone has changed from skepticism to curiosity; to my relief, I think she’s gradually getting on board with the idea.

  “What if the guy you hope will win, doesn’t win, and some other guy does?”

  “Then that’s too bad,” I say. “You have to sleep with the winner, or you don’t get paid. Which seems fair, right?”

  “I guess.” She finishes the last bite of her waffles and gets up to slip our plates and silverware in the dishwasher. Then she shakes her head, as if waking up from a trance. “But Wendy, this is still crazy talk. You don’t have
to do this! It’s ridiculous for you to sell yourself just for a little extra cash!”

  “It’s a lot of cash,” I argue, keeping to myself the rest: …for a person like me.

  “But you don’t need it!” Radha counters. “I’d rather pay for this trip than see you put yourself in such a degrading position.”

  “Degrading!” The idea upsets me enough that I get up and pace around the kitchen. Until now, I’d never thought of it that way at all. “I’m not doing this because I have to, Radha! It’s because I want to! I’ll finally lose my virginity, and it will be to a charming, handsome, rich man of my choosing. How is that degrading?”

  My heart pounds inside my chest, partly from anger, but also because I’ve flashed back to my little fantasy. Now I’m on the bed, lying flat on my chest, and he’s behind me, inserting himself gently as I gasp in pleasure.

  There’s a twinge of pain that accompanies the sensation of being spread apart by his enormous cock, but it fades into the background, overwhelmed by bliss…

  Radha sighs, resting her elbow on the table and her chin in her palm. “You sound very convinced.”

  I sit back down, realizing I’m blushing and sweating. “I’ve thought about it a lot.”

  “Yeah, for like, a few hours,” she snorts.

  “Oh, I’ll be thinking about it a lot more. How can I stop? I could barely sleep last night.”

  Radha yawns, then gets up. “All right, Wendy. You do that. I’m going to take a nap.”

  “Bye,” I murmur. No doubt, she didn’t sleep much last night either.

  You’ll see, I say to her in my head.

  This is going to be a dream come true.

  “You should have seen the look on Blick’s face,” I say during dinner. “I couldn’t tell if he was mad, or about to cry.”

  The boys laugh drunkenly, picturing the scene; they’ve all met Blick before, and they like him even less than me. Between Finn, Kelsey, Garrett, and myself, we’ve nearly finished an entire bottle of Jack, as well as courses of aged strip steak, lobster tails, and foie gras. The bill is on me tonight, because they’re my childhood friends, and I owe it to them. They’re doing just fine, of course, and can afford the meal, but they were there for me when I was nothing, and I’m never going to forget it.

  Garrett shakes his head when he finishes chuckling. He regards me contemplatively through his narrow, wire-rimmed glasses. “That’s funny, Cash, but I kinda get his point. Your company was doing just fine — why shake things up?”

  It’s a fair question, and a little thrill shoots up my spine: everyone’s been so tripped up on the what that no one has asked me about the why.

  “Instincts, man,” I say. “I just followed my instincts. It’s worked for me well in the past. My gut told me this was the right move and the right time to make it, so I did.”

  “That’s it,” says Garrett, suspiciously. “Just felt right?”

  “Yup. That’s how I make ninety percent of my decisions.”

  “Bullshit,” cuts in Finn. “You calculated the benefits of making national news versus the cost of those raises, and figured you’d come out ahead. It was just good business.”

  “Sure,” I say, grinning mischievously. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “You’re both wrong,” says Kelsey, who up until now has been quiet. He strokes his short, well-groomed beard and looks off into the distance. “He’s playing the long game. The move improves the company image, and that doesn’t go unnoticed. The industry is expanding, and now is the time to make small, even intangible, gains that will add up in the future.”

  My friends look at each other, weighing the theories and trying to figure out who’s right. I recline in my seat, wiping my lips with a peach-colored cloth napkin, and wait.

  “Are you going to tell us?” Garrett asks at last.

  I nod. “Success is about long-term planning, but that only gets you so far. When the element of chance throws a wrench in the works, you need to update your plan, calculating and improvising along the way. But sometimes you don’t know if a plan will succeed or not, and you just have to make a decision — that’s where instinct comes in.”

  “Makes sense,” says Finn.

  “You guys have known me basically my whole life. You know I’m not a genius, or overly lucky. But I am good at making plans and taking risks.”

  “Oh, is that your secret?” comes a familiar voice.

  Just like that, my real smile fades, and a darkness in my heart gathers around me like a cloud.

  “Orson!” I say, donning a mask of civility as I turn to greet him. “Good to see you. Care to join us?”

  Standing freakishly tall, almost seven foot, Orson Bishop wears a black, pin-striped suit that contrasts sharply with his milky pale skin; he looks like he stepped out of an old, black and white movie. He’s reported to be in his early sixties, but could pass for younger, if only because of the liveliness of his tone: sharp and upbeat, with an edge of malevolence, he projects an undeniably intimidating presence.

  “No, thank you,” he says smoothly, his deep voice like pieces of charcoal rubbing together. “I wanted to say hello, just in case I didn’t see you tomorrow.”

  Ahh, so that’s what he wants: to see if I’ll be at The Meet.

  That’s fine, I can tell him. It’s only fair — I know he’ll be there.

  “Yes, I’m going,” I reply. “I’ve been looking forward to it for a while.”

  “For a while?” he repeats, seeing through my lie. “How nice,” he adds, straightening his silver, striped tie.

  On the wrist rests of my seat, my hands ball into fists. How nice, my ass. He knows what I’m there to do, and he’s definitely not happy.

  I widen my ersatz grin. “Yeah, it’s going to be fun. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”

  “Of course. But, Cassius…” Orson says, using the name I only use on tax forms. He leans in, placing a cold hand on my shoulder. “Stay out of my way,” he whispers into my ear.

  Saying nothing, I stare him down and hold my friendly expression. He stares at me for a minute, waiting for me to lose my nerve, but I don’t.

  “See you tomorrow,” he says at last, then turns to go.

  You certainly will, Orson, I think. Because that virgin you’ve got your eyes set on is mine. I’m going to be the one to deflower her, to make her moan, to be the one she remembers for the rest of her life. Me.

  There’s no way Orson realizes just how committed I am to winning this auction. Getting in his way is exactly what I’m going to do.

  I try to force myself to relax, but there’s no way: I have less than five minutes to pick an outfit and get out the door if I have any shot of getting to The Meet on time.

  The invitation explains where to show up (a fancy reception hall uptown) and when (noon), but not what to wear. All it says is, However you see fit.

  What the hell does that mean?

  Do they want me in formal wear, or casual? Is the atmosphere going to be like a club, or like a banquet? Is it going to be a lot of standing around, or will we be dancing? I have no clue, and my attempt to contact The Exchange for clarification has not been answered.

  I started getting ready with more than an hour to decide, and have been trying on every piece of apparel I own, one after another. Nothing I’ve seen in the mirror has really made me think, Yes, this is it! Even my favorite standbys for a night out with Radha look either quaint or inappropriate for the event.

  So I put back on my blue jeans and gray sweater, my baseline outfit — a sartorial palate cleanser — but I was only supposed to keep it on long enough to choose something else to try on. That was twenty minutes ago.

  My phone beeps angrily — it’s time to go. I have six blocks to walk just to get to my train, and that’s assuming the uptown express is running today. On a Friday night there’ll be too much traffic for a cab — it would be too slow and too expensive.

  Shit!

  Frowning and moaning in frustration, I thro
w on a pair of sneakers, grab my purse, and fly out the door.

  I look ridiculous, I think to myself as I stride down city blocks on the way to my stop. How can I show up for this looking so plain? I’m not showing any skin, and I didn’t have time to do anything with my hair. I put on a subtle, pink lipstick while riding the subway, hoping the cars don’t swing too hard until I finish, but that’s hardly enough to make me feel better.

  What if nobody wants to bid on me?

  I didn’t think to ask how often they hold these auctions, or whether I can apply to another if this one’s a bust. Radha will be relieved, of course, and she’ll again insist on paying for our entire vacation.

  Screw that.

  I’m not gonna let that happen.

  However, when I arrive at the reception hall, I discover I was one-hundred percent correct about not being dressed properly. Dozens of men and women mill about, enjoying hors d'oeuvres and mingling; all are dressed for business casual at least. Button-down shirts, flattering skirts, custom suits, tight blouses… and then there’s me.

  The hall is surprisingly well-lit, perhaps so the men — who vastly outnumber the women — can better see what they’re looking to buy.

  That’s probably what Radha would say, I realize.

  On the other hand, she wouldn’t believe what I’m seeing: a room full of studs. An ache grows between my legs as I check out each of the hunks milling about the hall, most laughing and smiling like they’re having a great time. As I take in the scene, I notice a few men who may have let themselves go a bit, a few who are old enough to be my grandfather, and a couple with stern or angry expressions.

  Okay, there are a few I should stay away from, I admit. But Radha would be amazed at how many of the potential buyers seem nice enough. If one didn’t know any better, they might see this gathering and wonder what it is, but there’s no way they’d expect it to be something shady, or even illegal.

  Of course, if Radha was here, she’d point out that I look like a prude. All the women here are dressed more provocatively, without exception. It explains why I spend the first fifteen minutes standing by the bar sipping a glass of Pinot probably a little faster than I should. No one has approached me, and more than one group of guys has taken a look at me and kept on going.