Chapter 8: Auction Block
The money hit the kitchen table with a soft, thick slap. Five stacks of twenties, bound with dirty rubber bands. Earl didn’t even look at it. His eyes were on the line of men shuffling from his front door into the cramped, smoky living room. Roughnecks. He could smell the diesel and sweat on them from across the trailer.
“You know the rules,” Earl’s voice was a low gravel. “No marks on the face. She’s merchandise. You get your time, you leave. Two hundred apiece. Cash up front.”
India stood by the sink, her arms wrapped around herself. The baby moved, a hard kick beneath her ribs. She watched the men. Five of them. They were young, mostly, with the hardened, vacant look of men who worked too hard and played too rough. Their eyes roamed over her, lingering on the tight curve of her belly, the dark points of her nipples against the thin fabric of her dress.
Matt was in the corner, perched on the arm of the worn-out recliner. He looked pale. His fingers were laced together, knuckles white.
“Matt,” India said, her voice barely a whisper.
He didn’t look at her. He just stared at the floor.
“Alright, sweetheart,” Earl said, turning to her. There was no sweetness in it. It was a command. “Assume the position.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was different. This was more. She walked on unsteady legs to the kitchen table, pushing aside an empty beer bottle. The Formica was cool and sticky under her palms. She bent over, her pregnant belly making the angle awkward, and rested her forehead on the table. The position pushed her ass out, making the short dress ride up.
Earl grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her head back. “Merchandise presents itself proper.”
The first man was already unbuckling his belt. He was big, with a thick neck and hands like slabs of meat. He didn’t say a word. He just spat on his palm, slicked his cock, and positioned himself behind her. There was no preamble, no attempt at gentleness. He drove into her with a single, brutal thrust.
India cried out, the sound strangled. She was wet—fear and a traitorous, shameful arousal had seen to that—but he was large and rough. The stretch was immense.
“That’s it, take that pipe,” Earl growled, his grip in her hair tightening. He looked at the other men, who were crowding around now, their hands reaching. “She’s a good little fuckhole, ain’t she? Built for it.”
A calloused hand groped her breast, pinching her pierced nipple through the dress. She flinched. Another hand came down on her ass with a sharp crack, the sting blooming across her skin. They were talking, their voices a low, overlapping rumble.
“Fuck, she’s tight.”
“Pregnant pussy’s the best pussy.”
“Look at that ass jiggle.”
The first man set a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming into her, the table legs screeching against the linoleum with every thrust. The smell of him, of stale sweat and cheap soap, filled her nostrils. She could feel the others watching, touching, their excitement a palpable heat in the room. One of them leaned in, his breath hot and beery in her ear.
“You like that, mama? You like all these men usin’ your cunt?”
She couldn’t form words. She was just a body, a vessel being used. Her eyes sought Matt’s. He was watching now, his gaze locked on the point where the man’s body joined with hers. His hand was in his lap, moving, but his face was a mask of something she couldn’t name—horror, arousal, a terrible, sinking shame.
The first man grunted, his pace becoming frantic, erratic. He shoved deep and held, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as he emptied into her. He pulled out with a wet sound, and his spend immediately began to leak down her inner thigh.
The second man was on her before the first had even fully stepped away. He was thinner, wiry, with a tattoo snaking up his arm. He didn’t bother with her cunt. He forced her legs wider and pressed the head of his cock against her other hole.
“No,” India gasped, trying to clench against him. “Not there.”
Earl’s hand twisted in her hair. “You don’t tell them no. They paid. They get what they want.”
The man spat, using it as lubricant, and pushed. The burn was excruciating, a sharp, tearing pain that made her vision swim. She screamed, a raw, ragged sound, as he forced his way inside. This was a different kind of violation, deeper, more degrading. The men around her laughed, one of them slapping her ass again, the red handprint vivid on her skin.
“Look at that. Takes it in the ass like a champ.”
Matt made a sound, a choked-off sob. He stood up suddenly, his chair scraping back. For a heart-stopping second, India thought he would stop it, that he would finally be her husband and put an end to this.
He turned and walked quickly into the bathroom, shutting the door.
The hope, what little was left of it, shriveled and died inside her. She let her head fall back against the table, tears of pain and humiliation finally leaking from her eyes. The man in her ass pumped into her, his groans animalistic.
The third man was already waiting, his cock in his hand, stroking himself as he watched. The trailer was filled with the sounds of it: the grunts, the slapping flesh, the crude jokes, the creak of the table. The air was thick with the mingled stink of men, sex, and Earl’s cigarettes.
The wiry man finished with a curse, pulling out and leaving her feeling raw and gaping. The third man took his place, shoving into her well-used, dripping cunt without a word. The cycle continued. A fourth. Then a fifth.
By the end, she was barely conscious, a doll made of pain and sweat and other men’s fluids. Her body was numb, her mind a distant, quiet place. The men filed out, one by one, their laughter echoing in the night outside.
Earl finally let go of her hair. She slumped to the floor, a heap of trembling limbs and sore flesh. He walked to the table and gathered the money, thumbing through the stacks with a satisfied grunt.
He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. “Clean this mess up,” he said, nodding at the sticky floor. Then he turned and walked away, the money clutched in his fist.
From the bathroom, she could hear the sound of Matt being sick. She closed her eyes, the cold linoleum a small mercy against her burning skin. The baby kicked again, a frantic, insistent pulse in the wreckage of her body.