novelraw Chapter 450- The Another Side of Slave Auctions
Chapter 450- The Another Side of Slave Auctions
Involuntary. The sound came from somewhere that wasn’t the rage—somewhere deeper, where the rope and the ring and the constant low-level stimulation had been building something the slave’s mind was absolutely refusing to acknowledge.
The Mercenary Queen watched the sound happen.
Turned away.
Walked to the table against the wall.
The table held instruments in careful arrangement—organized with the same deliberate attention as the gown, as the mask. Every item placed. Every item purposeful.
She picked up the device.
An injector. Reinforced glass cylinder, maybe four inches long, sealed at one end with a formation plate and fitted at the other with a needle-less insertion nozzle. The fluid inside was visible.
’Green.’
Not the green of plants or jade or anything benign. A deep, luminous green that moved slightly on its own—a cultivated compound, alive in whatever sense cultivated compounds were alive. It clung to the walls of the cylinder when it shifted, thick and viscous, like it didn’t want to move too fast.
The slave’s eyes tracked it.
Her voice changed.
"’What is that,’" she said. Still demanding, but the demand had a fracture in it now. "’What—what is that? Don’t you—don’t you come near me with—’"
The Mercenary Queen walked toward her.
"’WHAT IS THAT—’"
She moved behind the suspended woman. Her gown dragged. Her single grey eye assessed the back view—the bound wrists, the spread legs, the fully exposed space between them.
Her hand rested on the slave’s lower back. Not gripping. Just resting. A professional contact.
"’DON’T—’"
The nozzle pressed against the slave’s asshole.
"’DON’T YOU DARE—DON’T—STOP—’"
She pressed the formation plate.
The plunger activated.
The green slime entered.
"’HHHKKKAAAHH—!!’"
The sound that left the slave’s throat was something beyond categories. Not a scream—screams had shape. This was what came out when the nervous system intercepted a signal it had no established protocol for. The compound was warm going in. Warmer than body temperature. Moving on its own, slowly, spreading through the anal passage with a progressive, invasive thoroughness that the slave’s body registered as—
Something.
Not exactly pain.
Not exactly not pain.
Her thighs shook. The frame absorbed the trembling. The formation rings hummed louder.
The Mercenary Queen waited until the cylinder was empty. Then she withdrew the nozzle.
And immediately pressed the plug into place.
SLICK. PRESSURE. SEAL.
"’WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME—’"
The slave’s voice hit the highest register available to a human throat. Her head snapped up, her dark eyes violent with a fury that the situation hadn’t been able to extinguish.
"’WHAT HAVE YOU PUT IN ME—ANSWER ME—WHAT IS THAT—’"
The Mercenary Queen walked around to the front.
Her hand moved.
She pinched the slave’s right nipple—the bound one, dark and swollen at the coil’s center—between two fingers. Held it. Then pulled it forward.
"’AAHNN—!!’"
Followed immediately by a flat slap across the side of the slave’s face.
CRACK.
The slave’s head snapped to the side. When it came back, there were tears—not from submission, the eyes were still furious—just from the body’s automatic response to impact.
"’What—’" She spit blood, minimal, from where her cheek had caught her own tooth. "’—have you ’done’—’"
"Anal sensitization compound," the Mercenary Queen said. Her voice was level, informational. She could have been describing tea.
She turned the injector over in her hands, examined it briefly, set it down.
"’Sensitization—’" The slave’s voice carried disbelief that was rapidly converting to horror. "’You—’"
"It will spend the next six hours remodeling the nerve density in your rectal walls." The Mercenary Queen moved to the table. Selected nothing yet. Spoke while she scanned. "When it settles, the tissue response there will approximate—closely but not exactly—the tissue response you currently experience in your pussy."
Silence.
The kind of silence that happens when a person processes something and what they find at the end of the processing is worse than what they feared.
"’No,’" the slave said. Barely audible. "’No, you can’t—that’s—that’s ’permanent’—’"
"For approximately eight years. Then it requires re-application, if the owner wishes." The Mercenary Queen picked up the dildo-rod from the table. Turned it in her hand. Qi pulsed faintly through the script engravings. "The compound is expensive. That’s why you’re worth more."
"’You’re—’" The slave’s voice cracked on the word. "’—you’re a ’monster’—how can there be a woman like you—’"
The grey eye moved to her.
"’Dirty,’" the slave said, her voice dropping—not quieter, denser, packed with contempt. "’You’re filthy. You hide behind that mask and you do this to people and you call it ’preparation’—you coward—you don’t even show your face—’"
The Mercenary Queen stood very still.
Listening.
"’The mask is because you’re ’ashamed’,’" the slave said. The tears were running freely now but the voice was steady. "’Something burned you and you’re ’ashamed’ and so you come here and you do ’this’—and I’m supposed to be ’sold’—to—’"
"A rich man," the Mercenary Queen said.
The words stopped the slave.
"Wealthy men in the inner circles have particular tastes." Her voice carried nothing—no defense, no anger, no acknowledgment of anything the slave had said. Pure information, delivered to a product that had briefly forgotten it was a product. "They want warrior women. Trained bodies. Disciplined frames." Her grey eye moved across the bound form in front of her. The breast coils. The forced posture. The visible, glistening pussy. "But they also want sensation. They want response. A woman who was simply strong would bore them."
She stepped forward.
"’Don’t—’"
She pressed the rod against the slave’s entrance.
"’NO—WAIT—’"
PAAAH.
"’AAAHH~!!♡’"
The rod drove in—not gentle, not gradual, filling her in one committed stroke, the formation script activating the moment it entered the body, the qi signature pulsing outward through soft tissue—
"’MMNNGH~!!♡♡ AAHH—HAAH—’"
Her walls clenched around it. The formation enhanced the feedback, doubled it, sent it cycling back—
"’NGHH~!! YOU—BITCH—NGHH~!!♡’"
The Mercenary Queen worked the rod. Not violently. Deliberately. The practiced movements of someone who understood what they were doing at a physiological level—pulling back until the flared head caught at the entrance, then driving forward again, the formation pulsing with each stroke.
’SLICK. SLICK. SLICK.’
"’AAAHH~!!♡ NGHH—STOP—NNGGH~!!♡♡—I HATE YOU—AAHH~!!’"