Ivana Lacey Curtis remained unharmed when she regained her cognitive facilities, but her mental state warped the boundaries of terms like troubled and annoyed. She opened her eyes in a tastefully decorated boudoir. Pale sunlight filtered through sheer, embroidered linen curtains.
Adobe walls and gigantic old growth Douglas fir beams constituted the body of the room, but nothing about it struck the eye as rough hewn. A baseboard jutted out far enough to perch upon and skirted the floor all the way around. Small alcoves on either side of a louvered door exhibited several highly colorful pieces of native American pottery.
Someone tucked her between soft sheets in a capacious, firm bed after the haze of her maddening captivity. Voluminous feather pillows propped up her head and shoulders. On an obsidian topped table nearby a miniature teapot steamed next to a saucer with a dainty cup.
Upon bringing up her hand to rub her eyes Ivana discovered a thin pewter bracelet. A long silver chain fastened to the bracelet secured her to the head of the bedstead, locked in place on the side rail. The tiny, fragile looking links failed to break upon immediate attempts. Instead she almost sustained cuts to her hands.
Almost five feet of chain dangled off of the bed. She noticed the chamber pot and reddened. The luxury of her own bathroom in a dirty private jail cell seemed a thing of the past. That moment also brought the realization of her own nudity. She exhaled heavily and flopped her arm back down.
A voluptuous lady in her mid-twenties came in through the slatted door. She stood almost six feet tall and had long black hair. She wore a pink sundress, Navajo jewelry and sandals. She looked at Ivana with disdain.
"Kincaid will be in momentarily to take you to bathe and get dressed. Do your best to clean yourself up and make yourself presentable. The terms of your stay here depend on how you conduct yourself. Strive to be excellent and you will be treated as excellent. Slack and you will be hung out to dry. Do I make myself clear?"
"I don't understand what's going on. Where am I?"
"Come now. Don't pretend you can't remember. My husband bought you."
The words fell on Ivana's ears like a clap of thunder. They triggered a foggy recollection of events she must have blocked out of her mind. The hidden memories overflowed from her subconscious mind and consumed all her synapses.
Lacey had awakened in the chair once again with her perspective shifted 180 degrees, without obstruction of her sight or vision. She could tell it was the same room. What she believed to be a small circular room proved only a semi-circle behind the center of a large stage. She looked out into a small private theater from the bondage of the chair.
Clothing no longer covered her body. At least a dozen people sat in comfortable seats before the stage. They absent mindedly looked her over now and then as they spoke amongst themselves. Men and women comprised the audience, although masks enshrouded their featurs. The shock of the situation dashed Ivana's concentration to pieces.
The robed figure sauntered into her field of vision. The person no longer wore a hood. Lacey recognized the person immediately.
Lacey lapsed into a deep depression when her maternal grandmother died. For a few months she rode into town to see a psychologist. That man stood brazenly before her on the stage.
The doctor displayed her to the audience with a comfortable ease that hinted at his experience with the practice. He danced feathers across her flesh until her vocal cords became sore and she writhed in the bonds uncontrollably. The audience grew restless with the performance. One member hooted for a change of pace.
Another man crossed the hardened amalgamation floor. His proportion and strength immediately impressed itself ominously upon Lacey. The man measured six feet in height but no visible portion of him wasn't taut and corded with muscle. He wore neither a robe nor a shirt. A pair of black leather shorts barely extended into the upper region of his thighs. The outfit was undoubtedly selected to tantalize certain members of the assembly. His lower extremities also boasted a pair of jet colored rubber booties. They accentuated the man's tan and highlighted the intricate outline of his leg muscles at the lowest part of the calf.
The funereally garbed psychologist and the dismayingly toned assistant released Ivana only to escort her to front and center. The helper pulled in close to fasten her hands over her head. He almost rubbed his rippled abdomen against her softness as she, appalled and aghast, sagged and fought unconsciousness.
Every detail of Lacey's misfortune rose from the gray grave of suppression. The men forced her body to respond in ways she hated to recollect. Her resolve and loathing of them fractured as they broke her down into an animal state. Before the auction ended she begged for sexual release, the core of her spirit crushed. Her value skyrocketed at that. Some there rejoiced in the brutality of natural predation.
The woman wearing a squash blossom necklace departed the bedchamber. The man called Kincaid arrived lickety-split. He was portly and wore a toga.
"Let's get you to the spa. It's going to take lots of work to get you fresh again. You are not a rare orchid at the moment." His voice had an ethereal lilt to it.
"Oh, thank God. A fat homosexual. I'll have him wrapped around my finger in no time. Such creatures adore a pretty woman, since their greatest desire is to be one," Ivana calculated silently. "None of the people involved will ever forget my wrath."