At Auction, Rules Must Be Followed

"I want that one.”

The big woman leers at the man on the auction block. She fans herself with her bidding paddle.

Her hair is wet with sweat— she brushes a damp, blonde curl away from her face.

She points aggressively: “That twiggy boy, with the narrow nose and the long brown hair. I like 'em weak and small. Like to make ‘em squeal.”

Some of the women crowded around the auction block whoop and whistle.

Somebody shouts out, "Big ma'am, if you do take that boy home, I believe you'll crack his spine just like a chicken bone! You'd better pay for the extended warranty!"

Laughter ripples through the crowd and through the big woman's chest. After a hearty guffaw she calls back, "Always-- I ride 'em hard and heavy-- so you’re right sister, the health plan is a must! Ya’ll shoulda heard the way my last one screamed when I put my weight on him! Cracked his ribs in three places! Still forced him to cum though!"

Laughs and cheers throughout the crowd.

The auctioneer wipes her brow, smiles, and adjusts her hat. “Well if you need a new boy to break, this bean pole might be the one! Starting bid, thirty thousand Crests. Bidding increments at 500.”

“Ha, thirty thousand Crests? That's more than twice what I paid for my car. Nobody here’s gonna buy that bird-boned piece of dick for so steep a price!”

A slender, brown-haired woman on the other side of the market raises her bidding paddle “thirty thousand.”

The big woman frowns at the newcomer. She looks like one of the poors! Not only because she's so thin. She's also dressed in ugly, old-fashioned clothing— and she’s not wearing the flashy makeup that signifies one of the elite.

The big woman shakes her head.

Poors simply don't belong here at the auction.

Sure, it’s legal for them to attend and place their meager bids….

But they aren’t really welcome.

This skinny bitch probably just won a lottery pay out.

Not real money-- not money earned, nor money that lasts.

Sometimes the big woman feels more disdain for poor women than she feels for men. At least men can be controlled.

And why is this twig of a woman bidding so high?

The big woman raises her voice. “The new girl must know something we don’t! Is that shrimp on the block secretly packing meat? Auction Mistress, is this little man heavy in the trousers? Give us a peek.”

The auctioneer shakes her head and then turns to the man on the platform. “Strip.”

The man closes his eyes. His shoulders slump.

His collar buzzes and he yelps in pain, when he opens his eyes, they are wet.

The crowd cheers.

And the fat one smiles.

She turns to newcomer and taunts her “We’ll see won’t we Miss, just what you're so excited about!"

But the newcomer doesn't appear to be excited at all. For that matter, she doesn't appear to have paid her words any mind. No... the slender woman's eyes are wide and urgent, focused only and intently on the man on the block.

The big woman raises an eyebrow.

She looks back to the staging area and sees that the scrawny little man now has his pants bunched around his ankles.

His cock is small and crooked, like a pale worm in the cruel sunlight.

A tear rolls down his cheek.

Normally she only bids on those who are well hung.

But….

Seeing this one so obviously ashamed of his nudity? That stirs the big woman's lust.

For creatures can’t feel shame unless they still have pride, and she has a well built reputation for breaking men of their pride.

She wants to own this one, now more than ever, just so she can break him.

But… this skinny newcomer is betting against her?

Why?

Maybe they came up in the same welfare block. That must be it. Women raised in poverty alongside men often entertained silly, old-fashioned notions like men's rights, equality, or even... love.

That had to be what this was! The newcomer must be in love with the boy on the block.

The big woman rolls her eyes.

As much as she loathes the poor, she can't help but feel second-hand embarrassment when she sees member of her own sex falling prey to such silly, outdated notions.

The newcomer isn’t really her problem, but the big woman hopes a few careful words can disabuse that poorer woman of her foolish, loathsome ideals: "Why, that creature shouldn’t even be on the block.... Good women-- we’re being scammed! This creature is not a man at all, where’s his goddamned cock? He shouldn't be on market, he should be sweating in one of the farms.”

The whole market erupts in laughter-- except for the newcomer. She's still not smiling?

In fact, she's wearing a perplexing frown!

The big woman notices the man on the block is silently shifting his weight from foot to foot. His hands drift to cover his small, flaccid privates, and his collar buzzes louder this time.

He flinches from the pain and holds his hands at his sides, like he’s supposed to.

The auctioneer raises her palm to gesture. “You can see the results of his fertility test on your tablets. Yes, his cock is rather small. But looks can be deceiving. This boy ranks in the 99th percentile for sperm count and motility! Any woman trying to conceive will have great chances with this specimen."

The big woman laughs “Yeah, great.... But don't we buy procreative concubbies for the indulgence? I'm like any other woman. Yes, I want to conceive but I also want to have fun doing it! Otherwise I’d just use a sperm bank like one of the poors!”

She casts an accusing glare at the newcomer.

The auctioneer smiles. “Indeed Ma’am, but I believe you'll still find a way to enjoy using this one. And I'll let you in on a little secret! The Federal Bureau of Fertility and Procreation doesn't stock the sperm banks with material from men of his ranking— specifically because we know the banks will turn a greater profit if clients trying to conceive have to pay for multiple attempts. The poors get what they pay for, that is to say: low quality sperm. The maximum threshold for fertility rating in the banks is a C grade, and the minimum rating for men at auction is a B grade. This specimen is officially ranked as a triple A— we haven’t seen fertility ratings this high since before the Great XY Die-Off.”

The big woman is duly impressed, but she knows all this talk is driving up the price. She must downplay the draw, so she shrugs. "That's still an awful lot of money to drop on one sperm slave."

The auctioneer nods. "Indeed. But I expect the bids to climb higher still. The woman who wins this fertility slave has the greatest possible chance of achieving pregnancy-- and if money is a concern, you can view this specimen as an investment! An enterprising woman could drag this little sperm factory down to the nearest FBFP field office and pay the one-time licensing fee to have him branded as a breeder for rent. Such a woman would turn a profit within the year. Ma'am, that could be you!"

"Huh. That's a good point. But... I'd have to sacrifice some of my fun, wouldn't I? I like to play hard with my toys. I wouldn't be able to do that if I had to worry about renting him out-- I'd have to keep the merchandise looking pretty. Still..."

She casts another quick look at the frowning newcomer. And then she raises her paddle. "I'm not gonna let the new girl win this one. Thirty-one thousand crests on the micro-peen sperm factory!”

The big woman watches the product shift his weight like before, from one foot to the other.

She turns towards the newcomer to gloat, and sees that woman shifting her weight in the same nervous way.

She furrows her brow and realizes with a shock: these two look quite similar.

The man on the block and the woman in the crowd-- they're around the same age. They're both pathetically slim. They both have those narrow faces, those worried eyes, and that brown hair.

Same body language too.

Rage boils in the big woman's gut. Are these two siblings?

Had she really felt that idiotic flash of pity for the dumb bitch, thinking she was just some uneducated poor woman, stupid enough to believe in love!?

No longer.

Now the big woman seethes as she pieces together a far more damning story:

Lucky twins, born to one of the poors…. Their mother obviously accepted the payout and when her son came to legal age, she sold him to the FBFP-- and rightly so! Why wouldn't she?

Money aside, it was every mother's moral duty to make her sons available for reproductive purposes-- the extremely low male birthrate was an ongoing global crisis and withholding a healthy male specimen from the market was... unconscionable.

And now, this boy's dimwit sister is trying to buy him back? With what money? Did she win that cash? Or did she pawn everything she owned?

No, that dirty rat bitch probably stole the money.

And the bitch obviously wasn't going to use her own brother to conceive, so why was she here? To "save" him?

Then what would she do? Shelter him? Or worse?

Would she free him?

That was the only thing that made sense-- though calling that "sense" was itself senseless.

She feels a word solidifying at the forefront of her mind. And with it, the big woman feels bile rising to the back of her throat:

Abolitionist.

That’s what the mousy woman is. A dangerous radical, who would damn them all, and their way of life, to chase the delusional ideal of male equality.

A traitor to all womanhood.

Abolitionists make her fucking nauseous.

The only thing worse than men were the women who wanted to free them!

She fixes the woman with a hawk-like stare, and watches as the bitch raises her paddle again.

It should be illegal for siblings or blood relatives to bid in the auctions.

Why doesn't the FBFP intervene?

No matter. The big woman will never allow herself be outbid by one of the poors— and she’d die before she ever let an abolitionist win an auction!

The big woman raises her paddle.

***

She climbs up onto the auction block to claim her win.

The wood beams creak and strain under her weight.

Sixty four thousand Crests…. More than she’s ever spent on a toy.

But she would have gone higher, just to outbid that mousy brown haired bitch!

She looks out to the crowd, beaming with victory.

The first thing she does is wrap her pudgy fist in her new slave’s wavy brown hair.

He winces.

The second thing she does is pull his face to hers and plunge her tongue into his mouth.

The crowd cheers.

Her slave bites down on her tongue, draws a little blood.

So he does have some fight in him!

That will make crushing him all the more satisfying.

She savors the taste of he own blood for a second then spits it right in his face.

"You will pay for that, boy! Blood for blood!"

She smiles. Then she strikes him hard in the neck.

He goes a little slack, from the shock of that impact.

But she yanks him back up by his hair, shaking him until he regains his feet.

Now that she owns him, she could have thumbed the button on her tablet and sent a jolt through his collar, but she has always preferred a more hands on style of discipline for her toys.

She reaches down to fondle his cock.

"I told you: blood for blood!"

He groans and tries to pull away.

But she uses her fingernails to brutally pinch one side of his cock head, her claws cutting into his glans-- he squirms and bucks, but she pinches harder and pulls, savagely, tearing away a little piece of him.

He cries out-- a shrill and pathetic sound-- and he begins to piss all over himself.

Men always do piss themselves, when she uses that move.

His flow sprays sideways— a crimson fountain— through the ragged gash at the end of his urethra.

The crowd goes wild.

They love the spectacle.

Except for that mousy woman….

The sister.

The abolitionist.

That bitch is sobbing-- she appears to be shouting something. But her voice is lost under whoops, whistles, and cheers.

The big woman luxuriates in her pain. Serves her right for choosing her brother over the global sisterhood!

Now that she owns the boy, the big woman is tempted to execute him right there, just to prove a point!

But how can she let all that fertility go to waste?

The big woman looks at her prize.

His face is twisted up in a powerful grimace, as he cradles his little injured penis.

It’s still trickling.

Even through his shock, she can see the gears turning… realization is setting in: he knows that his new life will be nothing but pain.

Inescapable pain.

He belongs to her, now and forever.

And he will do as she pleases.

Hadn’t he seemed ashamed at the start? Ashamed of his nudity?

Already, that semblance of human thought is gone.

With one pinch and jerk, her proud purchase has been reduced to an animal panic! She has obliterated all semblance of autonomy, will, or higher thought in this creature.

All he wishes now is an end to the pain.

The big woman breaths deep.

The power makes her feel alive!

Delicious!

She needs to get him home, treat his wound with antibiotic.

Won’t do to let her brand new toy go septic!

But first she’s gotta clean him up and take him for a ride.

She watches him.

His fingertips are trembling around his pain, everything is slick with blood and urine.

The big woman catches a glimpse of the raw gristle of his cock head.

He’s probably thinking his cock will never work again.

But she’s done this many times before, to misbehaving concubbies, and she knows exactly how much punihsment they can take and still function.

A little, light genital mutilation.

Agony without any real impairment to the primary function of his reproductive organs.

For him, it will always hurt.

Even after everything heals.

A reminder that he’s no longer in charge of his own body.

But he'll still be fuckable, with the right injections.

It’s the same medication that was originally developed to force erections for gay fertility slaves.

Once he’s drugged, a man doesn’t have a choice.

He’ll stay hard, no matter how repulsed he may be-- or how much pain he feels, his body will respond.

His body will obey.

He’ll still be able to ejaculate.

She knows for a fact because she made her last toy erupt, even when his cracked ribs were rocking up and down in his perforated lung.

She grins with a cold, predatory confidence at her new blood.

He will deliver that purchased load, and every single pulse of it will be torture.

And that’s the way it should be! Every one knows sex is for women to enjoy!

None of it should feel good for the men. Men are only here to fulfill their biological purpose.

This is the way things are.

The big woman chuckles and shoves her purchase off the block, he tumbles through the air, landing hard on the dry dust in front of the crowd.

He rolls onto his back, screaming his agony.

Tears trace fresh lines through the grime on his face, dust has turned to wet grit and red mud in the ruined, opened meat of his penis.

The big woman lumbers down the steps.

The man's sister runs forward, but the crowd pulls her back.

That wiry little bitch screams something but her voice is hoarse and it is washed out by the mob.

And by the big woman’s laughter.

***

***

***

Author's note:

I wrote most of this during Women’s History Month. Didn’t finalize it until today, because I’m scatter-brained.

That said…

I feel uncomfortable writing women as villains, as I don’t want to promote negative biases.

Still, there was some thematic need.

This story is NOT meant to demonize or condemn women at all!

Rather the opposite.

It’s a symbolic switcharoo, “the big woman” here is symbolic of real world men who treat women like pieces of meat— not only rapists and abusers who try to feel big by imposing their will on others, but even the men who quietly think themselves superior simply because of their gender.

Her disdain for “the newcomer” is symbolic of toxic masculinity and the patriarchy’s fear of change.

The crowd who condone or celebrate the big woman’s violence, they’re symbolic of the men want to have a say in regulating women’s reproductive rights.

The man who was sold at auction is symbolic of the women who are reduced to commodities— objectified and monetized by so much of our media.

And the FBFP is symbolic of legislation that marginalizes women.

I wrote this as a thought experiment, mainly for myself and for other men:

What would we think about a world that treats men as property? That disregards men’s reproductive and bodily autonomy? That condones or even celebrates sexual violence against men? That strips away men’s political, social, and economic power?

I started writing this after reading some recent writing from Ariana Gonbon here on Vocal. That work really got me thinking on my own limited perspective as a man.

I highly recommend checking out her work and giving her a follow (her poetry is also top notch).

Anyway, this was the writing that I found so thought provoking: