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was a young woman who had never been outside the USA and I was about to participate in a slave auction. Calmness would be far more suspicious.
    “Come with me,” she said, leading the way down a narrow corridor to the back of the main floor. “My name is Sarit,” she added over her shoulder as she walked.
    In the room that she led me to, three women were bustling around three massage tables. “We need to remove all body hair,” Sarit explained and I nodded again. I couldn’t speak. I was busy swallowing down the bile that rose in my throat, triggered by the memory of many forced Brazilian waxings. Mrs. Olusola’s voice echoed in my head, the memory painfully fresh. “Master doesn’t like hair,” she had whispered before heating the wax and spreading it on my mound. “Master wants girls to look like girls, not women.”
    Master had his thugs kidnap an eighteen year old to be a sex slave, I had wanted to scream. But by that point, I had known better. Master didn’t like screaming or tears. He wanted quiet, docile obedience.
    I got naked for the women around me and lay on the vinyl-covered table. “Do you need something for the pain?” Sarit asked me. She smiled impishly. “I have pain killers if you’d like or maybe a drink?”
    Would Madam Lorraine approve of the drinking, I wondered, but I shook my head. I needed all my wits about me this evening and the alcohol would just interfere with my abilities. As would the pain killers. I settled for the truth or a close resemblance to it. “My former Master insisted I do this without pain killers,” I responded. “He liked that I endure the pain for him.”
    Sarit smiled sweetly. “And you honour his memory by following his wishes?” I could picture the girlish romance she was creating in her head, of a Master who had loved and cherished and trained his submissive. But her fantasy couldn’t have been further from the truth. “I bow to your courage,” she added.
    Oh you silly thing, I wanted to say. Oh, you silly, silly thing.
    ***
    The hair on my pussy had already been weakened by the dye I’d used on it. After all, I was a brunette now. Red hair on my mound would have been a total giveaway.
    I endured the waxing and the girls clucked around me, patting my hand and telling me how brave I was. If only they knew. The real act of bravery would be later this evening when I would voluntarily put myself on the auction block to be sold.
    I’d been a slave once against my will. It would take every bit of courage in my body to be a slave again.
    Hot wax was spread on my arms and my underarms. Strips of cloth were laid on top and smoothed down. Upon first contact with Madame Lorraine, I’d received a list of grooming instructions for the next six weeks, until her investigators had time to complete the extremely thorough background check every single potential slave was subject to. “We find that Masters and Mistresses prefer their slaves without stubble,” it had said. So I’d had to dye all my pubic hair instead for this waxing.
    Now with swift tugs, the strips of cloth were pulled off and my body hair with it. I bit my lip and endured the thousands of pinpricks of pain that covered my skin. Finally I was shown into a bathroom and told to wash off all the sticky residue. “We will style your hair next,” Sarit told me brightly.
    Lovely. I bit back the sarcastic response. I just nodded quietly instead.
    ***
    When I walked out, clad in the thin black silk robe Sarit had handed me, two other women were in the room. Two fellow submissives, designated for the auction block. We studied each other with open interest.
    “Hi, I’m Elena,” one of them said to me. She had flaming red hair, the kind I used to have, before my need to be bought by Alexander Hamilton had necessitated the change in colour.
    “Hello,” I replied. “I’m Jenny.” With a pang, I realized it had been years since I’d had a conversation with a woman that was any more meaningful than