Filthy Beautiful Lies

Chapter 1 - Sophie

Chapter 1 - Sophie

Tonight I will be sold to the highest bidder. As I stand here in this quiet room, I try to find that little voice of reason telling me I’m doing the right thing. She’s nowhere to be found. Traitorous w***e.

I meet my dim blue gaze in the mirror and remind myself that I’m entering into this arrangement knowingly, and by choice. Not the choice I want to make, certainly not my life’s ambition, but it’s a choice I have to make in order to save someone I love.

In another hour I will belong to someone—a man with sick needs and fetishes that propel him to purchase his companion rather than date a normal girl.

Heaven help me.

***

I’ve been told that I could go for more than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and maybe more given that I’m still a virgin.

The money will mean the difference between life and death for my twin sister and best friend in the whole world. It will mean I can pay the fees to get her into the experimental treatment program for advance stage ovarian cancer. We’re both just twenty-one years old and have barely lived. When she got cancer at age nineteen and had a hysterectomy, I promised her I’d carry her babies someday, a promise I intended to keep. And now she’s facing death in a matter of months if I don’t intervene, which is why I’m standing in the dimly lit dressing room applying my third coat of mascara and dressed only in a pair of panties.

I’d found out about this place completely by coincidence. A few weeks ago, I would have never believed places like this existed. I’d been searching online for money making schemes—something, anything, that could help me raise the three hundred thousand dollars we needed. My parents made ends meet, but just barely. So I knew it was up to me. My job searches turned out to be a joke. My skills could earn me minimum wage at best, maybe waiting tables. That’s when my internet searches got more interesting and my attitude bolder.

I agreed to an interview at a high-end strip club. As if the interview itself wasn’t embarrassing enough—being asked to undress in front of the club’s owner and prove my non-existent dancing abilities. But when he’d asked how much money I hoped to make dancing and I said three hundred thousand dollars in the next few months, he’d laughed in my face and told me to get dressed. It was obvious to us both that based on my dancing skills, I’d never earn that kind of money. Let alone in my small Northern California town.

When he saw the tears swimming in my eyes and inquired about why I needed the money, I’d given him, a complete stranger, the entire sad story. Once I was dressed, he brought me into his office and made me promise that what he was about to say would stay only between us. The shifty way his eyes danced around the room told me whatever it was, it probably wasn’t legal. I didn’t care. I’d never so much as run a red light, but I was willing to do anything—go to any extreme to save Becca. I promised him complete secrecy.

He asked how serious I was about saving my sister and warned that I wouldn’t like what he was about to tell me. That was how I learned about tonight’s auction.

Bill, the strip club owner, entered me into tonight’s bids. He’d arranged everything for a ten percent cut in my earnings. I’d seen a doctor, who tested me for pregnancy and STDs, and verified my virginity. Bill had also made me an appointment at a local salon for full body waxing and a makeover—a haircut with long layers and caramel highlights in my otherwise chestnut brown hair, along with a manicure and a pedicure. All of which would come out of my earnings too. If I didn’t sell, I would be responsible for paying him back. But Bill all but guaranteed I’d sell. He said that virgins were very rare and that someone so natural and beautiful would go for a high price. I just hope to keep my nerves under control so that I can actually follow through with this. I feel like throwing up and I haven’t even eaten all day.

I turn to the sound of a light tapping on my door and Bill pokes his head in. My arms fly over my chest as I try to cover my breasts. My modesty is pointless and a hysterical giggle bubbles up in my throat. All too soon I’ll be exposed to a roomful of men and expected to give my body to one of them, but I focus on maintaining my innocence while I still can. Bill raises an eyebrow at me. "Are you ready?"

I glance in the mirror one last time and draw a steadying breath. I look down at my toned legs, thanks to hours spent jogging—my only form of stress relief—to my stomach that is a bit softer than I would like, to my breasts that jiggle when I move. The eyes looking back at me are harder than before. Good. I will need that hard exterior to survive the next six months.

I hadn’t known this side of the world existed and now I’m entering into it. I’m doing this for Becca, I remind myself. Drawing every ounce of strength I can, I uncross my arms from over my breasts and nod to Bill. "I’m ready."

His eyes give me a cursory once over. I’m grateful he doesn’t leer. "You look great. Very natural. That should work in your favor," he remarks, leading me from the safety of the small dressing room. I’m not sure I’m ready for whatever waits for me beyond.

But I see what he means as we progressed down the hallway. There are a few other women ranging from early twenties to late thirties and each of them seemed to have embraced the stripper look—big hair and layers of thick makeup, red stained lips, fishnet stockings and sky high heels. All of them are wearing g-strings. I’d been told the only article of clothing allowed was a pair of panties so I’d chosen my most modest pair—light blue briefs with lace along the hem. They’re cute and feminine and comfortable. It had never occurred to me to try and make myself look sexier. Regret churns in my stomach. What if no one wants me? I’ll have done all this for nothing, plus owe Bill for the expensive makeover he provided. The concrete floor against my bare feet sends an icy chill up my body, pebbling my n*****s into hardened points. My arms once again cross over my chest as I clutch my breasts.

I might be more covered than the other women, but somehow I feel more exposed. Completely ripped open for the world to see. I’m dressed as me, not some sexified version of myself that I can portray to the men waiting on the other side of that door. Suddenly I don’t want them to see the real me. I wanted to be caked in makeup with perhaps a long blonde wig and tassels hanging from my n*****s. I could be whoever they wanted me to be. Instead I’m just Sophie and that seems much more dangerous to me. I can’t let my new owner get inside my head. He might be buying the rights to my body, but he’ll certainly never have the real me. I need to remember that.

When we stop outside a steel door, panic courses through my veins and my throat constricts, my gag reflex threatening to send bile shooting up my throat. I draw a deep breath through my nose and open my mouth to tell Bill I’ve changed my mind when his hand suddenly reaches out and twists the doorknob.

The door swings open to reveal a large, dimly lit room. The only light comes from a bare bulb that hangs directly above a platform-like stage in the center of the room. A dozen or so men sit in lounge chairs facing the small round stage, their faces completely hidden in the shadows. I’m unable to distinguish a single feature, which I know is the point. The nature of tonight’s activities means they want their anonymity. And the kind of money that would be spent tonight bought them that right.

Bill gives me a gentle shove forward and whispers something of encouragement, but the blood pounding in my ears garbles the message.

My feet move across the room, my arms still crossed in a death grip across my breasts. The faint smell of cigar smoke assaults my senses as I move toward the platform. I keep my eyes trained on the floor, letting the swath of light from the single bulb hanging overhead draw me forward. My knees shake as I walk the final few steps. Nerves and a misplaced sense of duty propel me forward.

Finally I step onto the raised platform and face the small group of men. Keeping my eyes downcast, I know in this moment I would have never been brave enough to strip for a whole audience. I can barely stand here without my knees knocking together and just remembering to pull air into my lungs and release it again seems beyond my abilities. But a spike of determination rips through me. I’m here to save Becca.

A man standing in the shadows at the side of the room clears his throat. "I give you the ninth and final girl of the evening. And trust me when I tell you, gentlemen, that we’ve saved the best for last. She’s as pure and untouched as they come. She comes to us as a virgin, willing, ready, and fully in agreement with the six-month terms. Now, who’d like to start the bidding?"

It’s quiet for just a heartbeat and I wait for something to happen.

"Move your hands off your t**s, angel," a man in the crowd says.

I raise my eyes toward the sound of the voice, but my hands stay where they are. A streak of defiance I didn’t know I had rears its head. No one owns me yet. Not a single bid had been placed. I still control my destiny.

I shift my weight, feeling that tingling sensation that means my foot is falling asleep and clutch my chest tighter as though I’m hanging on for dear life. My heart races in my chest and little beads of sweat form under my arms despite the cool temperature in the room. I feel dizzy. Disoriented. But I tell myself can do this. I have to do this.

"Two hundred." The man’s voice who’d ordered me to uncover myself places the first bid. I hope that’s two hundred thousand and not two hundred dollars. It never occurred to me that I needed to have a minimum established before this began. I was not sleeping with some weird old man for two hundred dollars. But then I recalled Bill saying something about six figure minimums, and I relax the tiniest bit.

"Two fifty," another voice says. He sounds younger and has a slight Spanish accent.

"Three hundred," a third voice croaks.

Soon the price is up to five-seventy five and I feel faint listening to the whole exchange. I need to get off this stage before I pass out or throw up, or do something equally as terrifying, like go home with one of these sick men.

Be strong, Soph.

I draw another breath.

"Six hundred thousand," my tit-loving admirer counters. I don’t want to go to the man who I’ve already defied by refusing to show my chest. Knowing my luck, his first order of business will be to punish me for that act of disobedience.

"Greedy tonight. He already has one and now he wants a second," the announcer chuckles.

The man who is currently driving up my price has apparently already purchased one girl tonight and now he wants me too. Call me old fashioned, but I always assumed I’d be the only slave in this type of arrangement. I thought I was signing up for the typical one man—one woman experience. This wasn’t how I imagined losing my virginity, but I certainly never pictured being part of an orgy, or whatever he had planned. It disturbs me to think that he could buy us like cattle and force us to do things to each other and him. This whole process is going from bad to worse.

I look up and to the center of the room—to the one man who’s remained completely silent so far. He crosses his ankle over his knee and leans back further in his chair, concealing his face entirely in the shadows. His casual, aloof behavior strikes something in me. I have a roomful of men bidding on my virginity, but somehow I don’t like the idea that this one man isn’t interested. Is there something wrong with me? It’s self-conscious and stupid, but something about being mostly nude in a roomful of strangers puts bizarre thoughts in your head.

No one has countered the man to my left—the one who’d called me angel and wanted to see my breasts and my stomach churns in knots. He’s offered six hundred thousand dollars, more than enough to pay for my sister’s medical treatment, give Bill his ten percent and the money he spent on me at the salon. I should feel happy and relieved. This is what I wanted, right? But the idea of actually leaving with him and the other girl he’s bought tonight sets off a gnawing feeling inside my chest.

"If there are no other bids…" the announcer begins.

My windpipe threatens to close. It can’t end like this…

"Seven hundred," the man directly in front of me says. His voice is smooth and rich. Deep and hypnotic somehow. I lean forward on my toes trying to see his face. The foot he’s crossed over his ankle bounces as he fidgets, the only sign he’s now engaged in this bidding war. My heart leaps in my chest, doubling its pace as I wait nervously to see what will happen.

Not being able to discern anything else in the room, I focus on his shoe. It is large, a black shiny leather, and expensive-looking dress shoe. But I suppose you have to be insanely wealthy to buy another human being for the prices these men are offering. His foot twitches again and my eyes shoot up to where I imagine his face is.

The other man grumbles something under his breath, and I catch the word overpriced. Then he barks out another bid. "Seven twenty-five."

Crap. I don’t want to be part of this weirdo's threesome fetish and I have no idea if going with Mr. Shiny Dress Shoes will be any better, but I stare straight ahead, silently pleading with him to up the bid. A dose of raw willpower keeps me steady on my feet.

"One million dollars," he says after what feels like an eternity.