Auction

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I hear tell that you’re looking for something exotic. And what are you thinking of when you say ‘exotic’? Lions, tigers, perhaps? Some big cat pacing back and forth for your amusement? Or perhaps a brilliant scarlet parrot, or a rare monkey? Well what I have for you next, Ladies and Gentlemen, puts them all to shame. He makes those tigers look like kittens, those parrots look like common pidgeons. Ladies and Gentlemen, feast your eyes on our next specimen!”

From the shadowed area behind the curtains, he walks onto the dais, step by slow step. He appears about 20 years old. His movements are fluid and graceful, limbs tapered and elegant, posture proud despite his situation. He wears the manacle around his neck like a royal necklace, defiant golden eyes daring anyone to challenge him – they have slit pupils, like the eyes of a poisonous snake.

Against the drab wood of the stage, his skin glows. It is a deep, rich color, like shadows on a leopard’s pelt, or gold tainted with copper; it seems to shimmer when he moves. He looks South American, Brazilian perhaps, with long, fluid black hair falling in untamed waves around his face and back down between his shoulderblades.

But none of these things arrest the audience’s attention, because they are all staring at only one thing: from the youth’s back flare two enormous wings. Their coloring runs the rainbow spectrum, from the royal violet-blue leading feathers at the top to the angry red at the bottom. The wings rustle uncomfortably as the youth steps onto the stage. His handler takes the chain attached to his collar and fastens it to a metal eye at the back of the stage. The audience is dumbstruck, standing in awed silence.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, from the deepest, darkest jungles of South America, I bring you the Couatl: a prince, nay, a god among his people! The legendary winged serpent, rarest of creatures, for your very own amusement. Breathtaking, isn’t he? Azira, turn.”

The auctioneer flicks the youth’s hip lightly with the riding crop he carries, and the bound young man turns, exposing his back to the audience. As the auctioneer uses the riding crop to lift the boy’s hair, the audience can see the silver scales that start at the nape of his neck and spread down his back, across his spine, flowing like water down the lean planes of his back, across his buttocks and the backs of his thighs, down the back of his legs to disappear under his feet; when he shifts his weight, the audience can see that the scales coat his soles as well. At first glance, the expanse is deceptively silver, but each flash of light that hits him reveals hidden iridescence that brings unexpected rainbows of dancing color to the snake-skin, before flitting away as quickly as it came.

The auctioneer gives his hip another flick, and the youth turns around once more, facing his audience.

“Lovely, absolutely lovely, isn’t he Ladies and Gents? And note of course the generous member. Uncut, as you see. If we’d hatched him ourselves we would’ve snipped him as a baby, of course, but this one is fresh from the jungle; one of you will get the pleasure of breaking the wild out of him. Regardless, he’d make a lovely adornment, wouldn’t he? Couldn’t you just see him seated in your bowers, Ladies, gold anklets clinking, wings folded? And legend has it he has a very lovely singing voice as well, although he seems determined to die rather than let any of my crew hear it. But perhaps one of you will be able to... coax it out of him, eh?

“Oh, my friends, you have no idea how fine a catch this is. You see, this beautiful body before you is built for pleasure. He will exist only to please you. Azira, show them how you will please your Master.”

Azira turns his head to the side, angry, but the auctioneer swats him once again, this time on the ribs. The youth opens his mouth, and a serpentine tongue lolls out from between a pair of long, hollow fangs. The tongue flicks nervously, tasting the air, draws back involuntarily, and then pushes forth once again, descending past his chin.

“Gentlemen, can you imagine this sweet, succulent tongue wrapped around your cock? It’s quite nimble, I assure you, and he’s been well trained in how to use it. And Ladies, lest you worry, his venom sacks have been removed, so don’t bother your pretty little heads with notions of being poisoned.”

Azira’s fists clench, nails digging into the dark palms. Perhaps it is from the shame of having his venom taken from him, or perhaps from some unpleasant memory associated with the process. He closes his mouth, slipping his tongue back inside, and stands still as the auctioneer displays his limbs, showing off the obvious power in the lean but muscled arms, long legs. The riding crop caresses his ribs, circles his nipples, lifts his penis.

“Azira, show them your goods.”

Azira’s eyes close in pain, but a sharp smack on the buttocks from the crop forces them open once again. Tears of hostility stand in his eyes, but defiantly do not fall. Slowly, unwillingly, Azira turns around and folds to his knees. The welt from auctioneer’s strike glows dully for the audience. He lets himself fall forward to his knees and elbows, transfers his weight to his left arm. With his right he reaches behind himself and uses his thumb and forefinger to spread wide his buttocks, exposing the tight, dark anus hidden amidst the scales.

“His ass is virginal, guaranteed. Whichever one of you sees fit to purchase this lovely specimen can be the very first to penetrate him. It promises to be exquisitely tight; you’re not paying the big money for this one for nothing. Don’t all of you want to be the first one to break him in, Ladies and Gentlemen? Think of the untapped mine of pleasure he represents. To have such a rare, proud creature at your beck and call, at the service of your every whim... Azira.”

The youth stands, facing his audience once more, and stares straight ahead, his eyes fixed on some unseen point in the distance. Perhaps he is seeing his home in front of him, seeing rich dark leaves and deep mysterious woods. Perhaps he hears the cacophonic mixture of birdcalls, monkey chatters, insect hums and myriad other sounds that make up the place of his origin. Perhaps, in his mind, the sweet scent of bananas, almost too ripe, floats to his nostrils, along with the rich, moist smell of the thick soil. Perhaps he is saturated with the heady aromas. He is certainly not where he was only the previous day, on his knees in front of the caravan men, being taught to properly use his tongue. He is certainly not frightened.

“So now that you’ve seen our exquisite merchandise, Ladies and Gentlemen, tell me, how much am I bid?”