Let the Bidding Begin

by Jackie Rabbit

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© Copyright 2021 - Jackie Rabbit - Used by permission

Storycodes: M+/f; dream; strip; sold; bond; cons; X

…How I got there wasn't part of the dream for me, but many times I dream like this, my dreams only a single scene from the proverbial movie. Other times they're longer and detail-rich, faces seen and recognised, places even, but not in this particular one…

I'm standing not on a stage though, but on what appears to be a well worn concrete loading dock, where big trucks back up to load and unload their cargo. There are forklift trucks behind me, but they're idle at the moment, as are their operators, or drivers, or whatever they're called these days. They're a rough bunch of men though, that much is certain, and I get the distinct feeling that I've fouled up their night, made their hard job even harder, just by being there. Not to be vain, but I look and dress a certain way, and being a bother to men isn't the usual reaction that I get from them, as a general rule. This even includes the ones that have about zero sexual interest in me, but I digress…

In any event it's nighttime, maybe even midnight, and I find myself looking out over a sea of blackness, this an industrial setting, and a rough industrial part of the city, and no place I belong all alone, most especially at night. There are no big trucks to load and unload at the dock presently, and I get the distinct feeling that I'm the reason for this, little old me has briefly interrupted their routine, and their night, and everybody is seriously pissed off at me as a result.

I'm a problem for them, but a temporary one, easily dealt with…

There are bright lights focused on my face and body, preventing me from seeing out to the crowd that I suspect is out there, judging by the hushed din of the various conversations that I hear. Are these lights to aid the trucks in backing up to the dock and unloading their cargo? I wonder, or just here for me, even though I get the feeling that this situation I'm in is spontaneous, and not a planned out thing?

I can't pick out the individual words, or even the language, it's just a low noise that breaks the silence and suggests a great many people who are speaking between themselves have gathered before me. I want to leave, knowing instinctively that this is no place for me to be, but I can't, two large security guard women are holding me fast, or maybe they're even real cops, but I can't tell for sure as their identity isn't part of the dream.

The one on my right has a hold of my right wrist, firmly holding it away from my body with her fingers digging into my pressure point there, but from outside the spotlight's direct illumination so I can't see her face. Her other hand has an iron grip on my collar bone, her flexing powerful grip reminding me that she could probably break it if she wanted to; this woman is man sized, and nobody to screw with, no female empathy to be had at all. I feel as if my wrist is set in concrete, this woman's strength, this woman herself, simply invincible.

Her partner to my left has a similar grip on my left wrist, but a handheld Taser with it's pointed prongs poking painfully into the underside of my left breast in her free hand. I can't imagine what triggering that thing would feel like in such a tender spot, even through my clothes, but I know that it won't be good, most especially so close to my heart. I'm simply terrified, I don't know what's about to happen next, other than I have no choice in it…

Then a man - apparently - walks up to a small lectern on my right, but outside of the spotlight's blinding illumination. He bangs a gavel on its surface and the crowd gets instantly silent. I then hear "size four Armani…'' clearly, and then this staccato of gibberish words afterwards from this man's direction, he obviously an auctioneer, and this obviously an auction. His words are so fast that I simply can't follow them though.

It is an expensive dress that I'm wearing, specifically my favorite little black dress, and nothing I would ever wear to a warehouse loading dock at night, nor any other time for that matter. So while I do own one of these, this part of my dream is especially unreal. The bidding finally closes at twenty seven hundred dollars, with a second bang of the man's gavel, several times what I paid for this dress only the year before. It's all happening too fast in my dream, and I think that these unseen people are bidding on what lies inside my nice dress, and not the dress itself. Such would be a kinky dream, and I ordinarily like those, but this feels more like a nightmare to me.

The security guards relieve me of my dress as I passively just stand there and let them, again this is most unreal, but they do have a Taser, and there are two of them. My dress is then hung up nicely and passed off someplace, I assume to the man that had just purchased it, once the cash has changed hands. I stand now in my matching black bustier demi bra and panty set, with thigh highs and Jimmy Choo black pumps, this nothing to be worn to a loading dock at night for a bunch of rough men.

I know that I look good like this though, desirable even, but my appearance and flash of bare skin, and the provocative way the still wrapped parts are covered, isn't having the normal desired effect that I'm used to. Men want this body of mine, it's my natural sexpeal, and I use it to great advantage ordinarily, business wise, but not this time. In any event the bidding resumes, for my rather nice Sarrieri undergarments this time, and I am stunned to inaction in my dream…

I hear the high speed gibberish continue, knowing in my dream that some price will be agreed upon, and I will be relieved of my expensive underthings in short order. All too soon the gavel bangs again, and I'm relieved of my demi bra, but curiously not yet my matching panties. I remember being told once long ago that women don't usually wear matching underwear, unless they specifically expect somebody to be looking at it besides themselves. I found that to be cynical back in the day, but there is a logic to such; properly wrapped presents just that much nicer to open.

I've been stripped almost naked before perhaps a crowd of hundreds, by two burly security guards, women, and I'm too scared to even object. I get the obvious feeling that I'm not ever going to see my things again, even in my dream, the thought sad to me. I move to cover my naked breasts, but the two women holding me are immovable, my arms once again held wide, once they worked out the logistics of removing my bra without destroying it. Getting stripped by another woman is a unique feeling, even in a dream, try it sometime.

I then sense the forklift's forks over my shoulders, and my wrists are placed into a wide yellow strap of the kind that they use to hold cargo onto a tractor trailer's bed, although this particular one is formed with eyes sewn into it's ends. My wrists are placed into the slip knots created at each end, and the center part is slipped over the forklift's forks. This strap is far too strong to break, or even escape, but I haven't really made a serious effort to do so yet. The guards are still holding my arms, but as the forks of the forklift rise, and my arms are pulled slowly up and out over my head. They then release their hold on me, I'm simply not going anywhere now.

The forks continue to rise without any effort at all, this machine can lift thousands of pounds, and I weigh barely one hundred fifteen; this no work at all for this powerful machine. Eventually my very expensive heels leave the concrete loading dock. I can see a little better now, there are hundreds of people out there watching me, all looking at me hanging with arms wide, a nearly naked display for them. I'm hanging, vulnerable, and helpless, and if this isn't bad enough, one of the guards reaches up and works my panties off of me and down my legs, removing my heels before she gets to them though. These are all handed to the auctioneer, and he starts his high speed gibberish again, my very nice shoes apparently the next thing to be auctioned off to somebody in the crowd.

I'm not completely nude though, I still have my thigh-highs on, but I might as well be. The forklift then goes up some more as the two ladies holding me captive relieve me of my thigh highs, one of them using a single one to bind my ankles firmly. I can't go anywhere anyway, so this seems odd, but the whole dream so far was. I don't know exactly how high these things can go, but I feel like I'm twenty feet off the ground by the time it bumps to a stop, and I get the feeling that it's reached its limit.

I expect that maybe there will be some more bidding, on me, I'm the naked, displayed, grand prize after all, but instead I see the auctioneer pack up his things and leave our improvised stage, his work apparently already done. Am I to be left as a hanging display, like some stripped prize-caught fish at a tournament?

Not at all. Instead the forklift driver drives his forklift quickly towards the edge of the loading dock as I nakedly swing along up high. He then jams on his brakes at the last possible second, my strap holding me so high aloft sliding free of the forks, and I falling into the waiting crowd below…

…I wake with a start, but safely in my bed with my ankles tangled in the bed sheets, and the Saturday morning sun shining in my eyes, marveling at how my strange dream and reality had mixed themselves together in my bed. I was actually nude as well, but I ordinarily slept that way anyway, although this element as well had worked itself into my dream. I hear the neighbors talking in the distance, this perhaps as well working itself into my dream, as did my open window second floor bedroom…


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