Paris—city of filth, rudeness, and bizarre pleasures. I won’t romanticize it, but I will admit that despite its many sins, I adore it. Paolo, ever the hedonist, leaned in close, the scent of leather and cologne clinging to his skin. “We’re going to a slave auction,” he murmured, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
I blinked, twice, and smiled wide. This was the kind of indulgence I craved, a world where the rules of polite society melted into something more primal, more exquisite. Only the most elite could attend, but Paolo wasn’t just a member—he was deeply entwined with the owner. The kind of man who always found a way in. Whoever had conceived of this place, this carefully curated descent into debauchery, was a true architect of desire.
The entrance was discreet, a simple black door tucked between the grandeur of Haussmann buildings. Inside, a different Paris awaited. A vast chamber unfolded before me, where dark velvet drapes hung in heavy folds, cocooning the room in secrecy. Gilded cages stood like silent sentinels, casting elongated shadows across the marble floors. At the center of it all was the auction stage—a long, elevated platform bathed in the warm glow of chandeliers, where the night’s offerings would be paraded like living works of art.
The air thrummed with anticipation, punctuated by the soft clink of crystal glasses. Dominants lounged in plush seating, sipping aged whiskey and champagne, their gazes sharp and possessive. A cello’s deep, slow rhythm resonated through the space, a ghostly undertone of choral voices adding a touch of reverence to the unfolding decadence.
A masked attendant slipped a paddle into my hand, its number discreetly marked. Paolo and I exchanged a glance before donning our own masks—black silk over the eyes, anonymity preserved but not absolute. The rules were whispered upon entry, French words slurring together in the way Parisians do when they no longer care if you understand. I caught enough to know that nothing here was truly for sale—not in the crude, transactional sense. What was being auctioned was submission, the exquisite offering of a body and will, willingly surrendered for a predetermined span of time. The slaves had paid double for the privilege of being here, eager to be owned, used, devoured.
I crossed my legs, the satin of my dress brushing over my thighs, and took a slow sip of champagne. It reminded me of auctions in New York—art, jewels, relics of the past—but here, it was flesh that would be bid upon, obedience that would be acquired, and my arousal was already coiling low in my belly.
A woman stepped onto the stage, commanding instant silence. She was older, exquisite, a masterpiece of authority and elegance. Her silk robe, black trimmed with deep red fur, clung to her form as she lifted the microphone to her lips. Her eyes swept the room with quiet amusement.
“Welcome, esteemed guests. Tonight, you will have the privilege of bidding on the finest offerings this establishment has cultivated. Each is trained, eager, and awaiting your claim. Shall we begin?”
A chime rang. The first submissive was led onto the stage, naked except for a collar, his head bowed in practiced deference.
Some were brought forward on leashes, silent and waiting. Others were posed, wrists bound above their heads, knees parted to expose all they had to offer. A select few knelt on velvet cushions, gazing up at their prospective owners with anticipation shining in their eyes.
The auctioneer’s voice dripped indulgence as he gestured to the man before us. “Lot 3: A refined, disciplined pet. Exceptional at protocol, thrives under strict ownership. House-trained and highly responsive. Bidding starts at $500.”
I studied him—a tall, beautifully built Senegalese man, muscles sculpted as though by a master’s hand. His dark, flawless skin gleamed under the lights, the very picture of strength and endurance. I watched as a man in the front row lifted his paddle.
“May I inspect his teeth?”
Consent was obtained with a simple nod, and I exhaled, riveted, as the submissive tilted his head back, parting his lips. The bidder, wearing black leather gloves, reached forward, pressing fingers past his lips, testing the shape of his tongue, the obedience in his stillness. It was intoxicating to watch. The man was purchased within seconds.
Then came Linda.
She stepped onto the stage like she belonged there, like she had never wanted to be anywhere else. Fire-red hair spilled over her pale shoulders, her body wrapped in nothing but a thin silk belt at her waist. The moment the lights hit her, she shimmered, her skin like alabaster, every inch of her flawless.
“Close your mouth before you start drooling,” Paolo murmured at my side, smirking.
I ignored him.
“Lot 5,” the Mistress announced, her voice thick with suggestion. “A lovely rope bunny. Highly flexible. Enthusiastic about all forms of restraint.”
My pulse skipped.
“She also loves her orifices inspected, explored, and filled.”
There was a chuckle from the audience, but Linda only smiled, a slow, knowing thing. She bloomed beneath the attention, as if the weight of every gaze on her body was its own form of pleasure.
“Show them, darling.”
She turned without hesitation, parting herself with delicate fingers, revealing every inch of her most intimate places. A hushed murmur rippled through the crowd.
“You may approach for a closer look,” the Mistress purred.
I didn’t need a closer look.
“$500.”
The moment the words left my lips, a male voice echoed from the back.
“$550.”
My head snapped around, and our eyes met.
He was quintessentially French, tall and slender in an exquisitely tailored tuxedo, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. And his eyes—green, deep, knowing— met mine with a glint of amusement.
I held his gaze as I lifted my paddle. “$700.”
A pause. A shift of his lips, a whisper of a smirk.
“$800.”
The air between us thickened, charged. This was no longer about Linda. This was about me and him.
A challenge. A game.
And I never lost. Do you want to read the rest and the uncensored version? Head over to Master Liz's Patreon page. @noustheclub #noustheclub #noussociety
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