Certainly he knew that she would do anything for him, be any girl he wanted her to be, try anything, endure anything -- and so it stung when he commented, as they prepared to celebrate a year together, that "she" was still in the way of truly pleasing him.

What made it seem worse was that he had offered that hurtful observation in such an off-handed way, almost as an aside -- something trivial yet monumental -- as if she was supposed to understand what he meant.

He would not, of course, explain. It was, he had said, nothing less than the truth. And nothing more.

He sat in the living room, incongruously dressed in a conservative business suit and sipping his Scotch, while she stood before the bathroom mirror, fighting back tears, as she fixed her hair up on top of her head.

He had always insisted that she wear it down, letting her long auburn curls frame her pixie-like face and full lips. But tonight it had to be up. When he had seen the unspoken question in her eyes, he had simply responded, "It is necessary my pet."

Equally puzzling was his insistence that she did not have to pay attention to her make-up aside from a bright red lipstick. She took pride in taking the time to make sure she looked good for him -- not only for him but because her appearance reflected on him. But tonight, on their anniversary, it was as if he did not care, saying, again, that the lipstick was all that was necessary.

Looking at her reflection, she thought she looked more like a Dominatrix in the black lace, half-cup corset that supported her heavy breasts but left her large, dark nipples exposed. That image was belied by the knee-high ballet boots with the 7" heels that we more suited for crawling than walking. He had insisted on them as well, saying they were "necessary."

She pulled on the skimpy black slip dress he had chosen for her, took as deep a breath as the too-tightly laced corset would allow, and joined him in the living room.

He rose without acknowledging her, went to the sideboard and poured a quantity of white powder into a wine glass before filling it and handing it to her.

She hesitated.

"It is necessary," he said and stood impassively, waiting for her to drink.

A dozen bizarre scenarios raced through her mind but each was less plausible than the one before it. He would have no reason to drug her, to render her unconscious or make her more pliant to his wishes. He knew that she was already his in any way he wanted. It was a test, nothing more.

She drank, emptying the glass and trying not to notice the slightly sour taste of the wine.

He had not spoken a word since instructing her on her dress and appearance. He had waited impatiently by the car as she staggered out of the house in the unfamiliar boots. She had nearly fallen twice but he had made no move to assist her.

Now, sitting in the car, driving to some unknown destination, the gnawing hurt in her belly asserted itself full force. She stared straight ahead, unmoving, trying to push it back, trying to understand his sudden and uncharacteristic coldness on this night of all nights.

It was all too strange since they always talked and laughed and reveled in each other's company. Their relationship was full and rich, beyond anything she had ever hoped to find, weaving together all the vanilla aspects of life with an intensely erotic BDSM undertone.

He was not demanding or domineering. There was a stillness about him that commanded her attention, respect and love. She could deny him nothing for to do so would be to deny herself. He was gentle and masterful even when wielding a flogger or whip. Oh, the strokes of those wicked instruments were not gentle, no, they were sharp and stinging, but they were administered with a keen understanding of her needs. Even when he punished her, it was with a soft sorrow that made her able to endure anything -- anything but this indifference. She felt the tears threaten to come again and wondered, was that what he wanted? Or would that anger him?

She was at a loss. He had always told her what he wanted, what to expect (except when it was an unexpected treat), how to act. He communicated everything.

But tonight he was silent, distant, enigmatic, cold. She could not please him if he did not tell him what he wanted or if he did not take what he wanted. Tonight, it seemed as if all he wanted was to make her miserable and leave her desperate to fulfill his needs without being able to do so.

She found it difficult to think, suddenly worrying about the white powder he had put in her glass. She was fuzzy-headed and distracted, increasingly aware of how he had dressed her. He had a reason for all this but she could no longer focus on puzzling out what it might be.

For the first time since she had met him, she experienced a twinge of terror.

They arrived at a non-descript brownstone in a non-descript neighborhood -- non-descript except for uniformed valets waiting to park cars.

He did not help her out of the car, leaving her to struggle to her feet by herself. She needed both hands to lever herself to her feet in the toe boots and, despite her best efforts to protect her modesty, her dress rode up around her hips, leaving her completely exposed to the valet who held the car door and stared in obvious appreciation first at her breasts as she leaned forward and then at her hairless pussy as she lurched to her feet.

Throughout her humiliating ordeal, he had stood near the steps to the brownstone impatiently, waiting.

She was again on the verge of tears, her thoughts tumbled and confused. She stared hopelessly as the flight of stairs up to the front door of the building but, to her relief, he led her instead to a short flight of stairs that led down to a door under the stairs.

There was a railing on the side of the stairway and she clung desperately to it as she negotiated the few steps down to the bottom of the steps. Her mind was addled by the wine and whatever he had put in it. Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps as much a result of her growing terror as it was the restriction of the corset.

There was an old-fashioned, stout wooden door, curved at the top, painted a shocking scarlet, with massive wrought iron hinges that traced an intricate, sinuous pattern across its width. There was a small key-hole shaped grill in the top of the door that guarded a leaded glass window. This was in the center of a design in electric blue paint that she first took to be some sort of religious symbol. The contrast between the red and the blue made it difficult to look at but she eventually realized that it was a sort of compass made up by four male and female symbols around the central circle. The male symbols were obviously larger than the female.

Below the design was a brass knocker shaped like a woman's body, arms over her head, back arched, feet together and toes pointed. She could not tell if the expression on the tiny figure's face was of terror or pleasure. She had scant time to wonder before his fingers obscured it, running slowly over the figure before he grasped it and rapping on the door, twice, once, twice. The window opened; he muttered something to the person inside; the window closed; the door swung inward silently on oiled hinges.

Her terror rose to a debilitating level. There was some sort of secret code necessary to enter some sort of horrible, hidden den where, she was sure, something terrible would happen.

But she could not react; there was nothing she could do. She could not negotiate the stairs in her boots before he dragged her back; she found that she could not even utter a sound.

He grasped her arm and pulled her inside.

"There is an auction tonight," he had said earlier in the evening. "It is for a worthy cause and I think we should attend."

She had hoped for something else, something special: a romantic dinner, a particularly challenging role-playing scene, or simply a night bound to his bed as his willing captive. A charity auction seemed to her to be a strange choice.

Had he forgotten that it was their anniversary? The thought cut her to the marrow. But, no, he had not forgotten. He had presented her with a single rose, thrust between her breasts so that the thorns left deep red scratches and a few drops of blood. It was a gesture that thrilled her. And then he had offered that cruel comment about her inability to completely please him.

Now, inside the red door, she was only dimly aware of the vaulted brick corridor that led into a darkened area beyond. She was immobile with fear and he half-carried her to a side room lined with coat racks.

She stood numbly as he stripped her of her dress, fastened leather cuffs around her forearms just below her elbows, wrists, calves and ankles. Then he cinched a ring-studded leather belt around her waist.

He pulled her arms behind her and clipped her wrist together then fastened a short chain between her ankle cuffs.

He ran his hands lightly across her breasts, teased her nipples, slid his fingers down to her cleft and lightly traced along the creases between her legs.

Despite her terror, she responded to his touch, aching to be forced to kneel and take him in her mouth or between her breasts -- anything. But he stepped quickly away, vanquishing that fantasy nearly as quickly as he had invoked it, leaving only the wetness between her legs and the ache in her heart.

In an absurd gesture of normalcy, he turned, picked up her dress and hung it carefully on a hanger, pocketing the plastic claim tag.

He then guided her to another, more private room along the corridor and closed the door.

"All this," he said, startling her, "is necessary. I had hoped that in a year you would learn what it means to be a submissive. I do not mean a slave with no wants or needs or thoughts of her own, no, because I do cherish your individuality, your special qualities: your wit, your intelligence, your insights, your beauty, your eagerness to please. But those are also the very things that prevent you from pleasing me completely."

His voice stirred something inside her, thrilled her, even as it demolished her. The tightness of her nipples, the throbbing of her thighs, the pressure between her legs threatened to overwhelm her. And yet she could barely comprehend what he was saying; she was aware only of how exposed and vulnerable she was, of being bound and at his mercy in a strange and frightening place, of being again cut by the cruelty of his words, of wanting him, of needing him.

"The powder in your wine," he said, as if answering her question, "was a mixture of Viagra, Valium and Ecstasy. The Viagra will help you maintain your sexual arousal; indeed, it may make you unbearably horny now that you are aroused. The Valium will help you relax and enjoy...what is to come. And the Ecstasy will intensify your emotional response to it all."

He smiled, as if she was supposed to be pleased by his explanation, by the threat of "what is to come."

"You will be auctioned off to the highest bidder tonight...but only for the night," he added. "You will be one of many but, in truth, there will be more bidders than prizes so it is possible that several men may pool their resources in bidding."

He shrugged, letting the news sink in. She found she could not even cry. She was entirely numb but, at the same time, felt the drugs in her system make her nipples tingle and her vaginal muscles clench.

"Do not worry that being sold will make you a whore," he said. "First, you are bound and have no choice in the matter. That alone absolves you of any guilt. But beyond that, no one will know who you are and you will not know who it is that wins you, that uses you."

He displayed a flesh-colored hood with the parody of a face on it. Now she understood why he had insisted she put her hair up, why she should not bother with her make-up.

"This," he said, "will protect your anonymity but in doing so it will also strip you of your individuality, your identity. No one will know your charm, your beauty, your wit. No, they will see nothing but a fuck toy. You will be judged solely by your mouth, tits, cunt and ass."

"Will it make you a whore? No. You will be less than a whore because even a whore has a face. You will be faceless, nameless, nothing more than a hole in which they can cum."

She trembled at the horror and humiliation of her situation, at her helplessness. Could she say "no"? Could she beg him not to go through with it? She tried, but no words came.

He held up a pair of ear plugs. "And to be sure that you are no more than a living sex doll, you will be deaf, blind and dumb."

He fitted the ear plugs, topped them with foam that he secured by wrapping gauze around her head, over her eyes before slipping the hood over her head and securing it. Then he tapped her lips and she instinctively opened her mouth. He forced a ring gag behind her teeth and fastened it securely in place. She felt something slide over her head and realized that it was the cheap blonde wig that came with the doll.

The sound of her labored breathing and the thundering of her heart overwhelmed her as she stood in her own personal dungeon inside the hood.

He grasped her upper arm and dragged her after him. She followed blindly, tottering in the ballet boots, nearly falling repeatedly as the chain between her ankles pulled taut and threw her off balance, until, at last, he pulled her to a stop. She felt a sudden heat, as if she had stepped into bright sunlight, and realized she must be on some sort of stage lit by spotlights.

He pushed her back against a rough wooden post, pulled her elbows around the post and fastened the cuffs together, forcing her breasts up and out even more. He forced her legs apart to the extent allowed by the chain between them and secured them in place.

Her wrists, still clipped together, pressed against the small of her back causing her to thrust her pelvis forward and expose her dripping sex in a grotesque parody of ecstasy. She was now unquestionably on display -- as grotesque as the splayed carcass of a pig in a butcher shop -- nameless, faceless, no longer a person; nothing but a body to be used carelessly or cruelly. Disposable.

She waited for what seemed an eternity, unable to do anything else, feeling her terror and need grow with each beat of her heart as the drugs took full control of her mind. It was as if she had been split into two women -- one screaming in humiliation and horror, the other begging to be fucked. Both were screaming inside her head, fighting for supremacy. And then she realized that the part of her that was aching with desire was aroused by the shame she felt. And suddenly the battle was over -- she let herself be swept away by her helplessness and recognized her need fully, knowing that she would go willingly with whoever won her.

She felt a sudden coolness, as if someone had stepped between her and the lights; smelled something familiar -- a magic marker; felt it trace something on her chest -- the number "15."

She felt rather than heard a sudden rumble of voices then quiet.

The auction had begun.

She had had, of course, fantasies of anonymous sex. But not like this. Not at all.

Of a "glory hole" in some club, where she would take her time worshiping the magnificent cocks that poked through the wall; where she could hear the groans and sighs of ecstasy of the men on the other side, could feel the tightening of their balls as she played them expertly, bringing them slowly towards climax, letting them float in the pleasure of her lips and tongue on their stiff shafts, taking them deep into her throat, feeling the silky smoothness of the heads of their cocks on her face, of draining them so completely they were satisfied for the whole night.

Of a tropical night where she, wearing nothing under her school girl's outfit with the very short plaid skirt and 4" Mary Jane heels, leaning over the railing of a balcony on some estate, drinking in the flower-spiced air outside the ballroom where the party was in full swing and he, one of the many handsome men who had ogled her during the night, could no longer resist her allure and came out to join her, letting her feel his heat and need as he stood behind her, silent, commanding, needful. Of him sliding his hands around her breasts, stroking and squeezing till her nipples shot out like cherry pits; of him pinching and pulling them till her juices dripped down her thighs; of him sliding his thick cock into her, ramming her hard into the railing over and over till she screamed in ecstasy as he filled her with load after load of hot, creamy cum. He, holding her tight against him as the last tremors of orgasm swept through him before turning away and leaving her with his cum slicking her thighs and pooling in her shoes.

Of sitting in a bar in a hotel, dressed in a conservative business suit but underneath wearing skimpy black mesh underwear that concealed nothing and a garter belt with real silk back-seamed stockings; waiting for a note from the men she had arranged to gang rape her. Of receiving a folded napkin with a note inside asking confirming that she was the victim and actually wanted this; of scrawling her assent and room number before sending it back via a somewhat confused waitress. Of finishing her drink and walking slowly towards the elevator to allow the men time to hide in the vending machine room across the hall from her room; of being grabbed and forced into her room after sliding her key card in the lock; of being blindfolded, gagged, and bound; her clothes pulled aside to expose her to their lust; of being forced to perform every imaginable sex act over and over again until, bruised and spattered with cum, she is left bound on the bed, the bindings on her wrists loosened just enough to allow her to wriggle free in the hour or so before the maid came to clean the room.

But not this. Not to be sold. Not to be so helpless and vulnerable. Not to be "nothing" in the eyes of a man. Not to be so betrayed by her lover.

And yet, now that it was inevitable, she wondered what it would be like.

They had trooped past, two dozen or more, examining her, stroking her breasts, testing her nipples, probing her wetness -- assessing her worth before the bidding began.

Despite her horror and humiliation, their attention inflamed her and her muscles twitched and rippled in response to each touch, each fleeting wisp of hot breath on her neck or breasts. She no longer cared that she was on display, for sale to the highest bidder, or even that she was drooling through the ring gag, that saliva dribbled from her chin, dripped down between her breasts and had soaked the top of her corset. All she knew was her need -- deep, overpowering, primal, mind-numbing. Time stopped and there was nothing in her universe but her aching need, her desperate desire. She did not care whose cock it was that violated her mouth, pussy or ass because she knew with sudden clarity that no matter how much pleasure a man took from her, she would take even more from being used.

She understood, finally, what she was; she was sex incarnate.

Wrists clipped to knees bound high and wide over the arms of an overstuffed leather chair, she was his for the taking. Yet he had not acted beyond binding her in position. She writhed in frustration, her muscles acting of their own accord trying to squeeze an orgasm out of thin air.

Then the flogger slapped across her throbbing slit, her breasts, her thighs, her ass. Over and over, with no pattern, the flogger traced fire and desire across her flesh for what seemed hours.

Almost without breaking rhythm of his strokes, he grabbed her head and pulled it forward, stuffing his engorged cock into her mouth. He came immediately, deep in the back of her mouth, gagging her. His hot semen gushed out of her mouth and splashed down her chest.

He released her head and began flogging her again.

His sudden and brutal use of her provided no relief and only served to intensify her need.

He repeated this three times; cumming between her tits, fucking her no more than three strokes before cumming on her cunt and then fucking and cumming on her ass.

And then he was done with her.

She thrashed in the chair, screaming in her mind, "Fuck me for real! Fuck me hard! Fuck me!" but no sound came other than a garbled grunt.

She remained there, bound and wanting, for what seemed hours as his cum dried on her chest and pussy and pooled under her ass on the chair.

He had not allowed her to clean herself before getting dressed. She sat in the car, wrestling with her desire and the knowledge that she would have begged the stranger to use her over and over again.

She was worse than a whore. She was not bright or witty or beautiful. She was exactly what men wanted a woman to be, no more than a cunt, a bitch in heat, a mindless hole aching to be filled by a cock -- any cock.

"Yes," he said suddenly, shocking her out of her self loathing. "I can see that tonight had its desired effect." He smiled at her and stroked the side of her face, his old self.

She bit back a sob. "What? That I would have crawled through shit to beg a stranger to fuck me? That I would have done anything to have his cock inside me for more than five seconds...?"

"Yes," he said, looking back at the road. "Exactly that."

She could not believe it. Tears came freely then. "But you drugged me, forced me...."

"No," he said quietly. "No, all those responses were yours alone. The effects you felt were from gulping the wine and the tightness of the corset. That white powder was only baking soda. It was to make you believe you had been drugged, to allow you to be the shameless cunt you've never allowed yourself to be."

Her stomach clenched. He had never used that word before except in play and only to refer to her pussy, never to her.

"But...." She could not think of what to say. He had destroyed her as casually and swiftly as he had thrust the rose between her breasts.

"When I said that you could not please me completely it was because you are always thinking, always calculating how to please me more, always gauging my reaction. You are always conscious of your self, your appearance, your performance, and what I might think. That's what I meant when I said 'you' were still in the way of pleasing me. Your self-awareness meant you never let yourself be overwhelmed by your own need, your own sexuality, even when I wanted you to. But tonight I stripped you of your self in order to make you acknowledge that you are a sexual being...an animal if you will...that you can become pure sex for its own sake."

"But...." Again, she could not find words.

"When we get home," he continued, as if she had not tried to interrupt, "I am going to fuck you like the shameless cunt you need to be; like you would have begged to be tonight."

"But...he...I am covered with...."

"My cum," he said. "I was the one who purchased you."

She hiccupped a sob of joy.

"Do you think I would let someone else have you? No, you are the bright, beautiful, witty love of my life. And a cunt that needs to be fucked because you need it, not because it pleases me."

She rested her head against the cool window and closed her eyes, letting herself experience that awful, mindless craving. "Yes," she murmured, suddenly completely aroused. She opened her eyes and smiled at him then closed her eyes again, drifting into an erotic haze. "Yes, I want your cock; I need you to fuck me."

He pulled the car abruptly to the side of the road, grabbed her head and kissed her long and passionately.

"What are you?" he breathed in her ear.

"Your love," she whispered, "and your cunt."

"Yes," he answered, "my love -- first and always -- and my cunt second."

He slid his hand up her thigh and between her legs. She trembled uncontrollably at his touch and had the first of countless orgasms that night.

"Happy anniversary," he said.