The Auditions Part One

Peter Acworth sits in the Armory basement, pissed off that his Upper Floor slaves still aren't ready. A cocktail party hangs over his head and time is running out, so he drags James Mogul down here to run auditions. A dozen girls want in. They all strip, get cuffed, and line up under bare bulbs. Satine Phoenix stands among them. The girl who hit the deck at The First Supper, dizzy from skipping meals, is trying to prove she won't fold again. She keeps her eyes down while the trainers circle. James grabs the first girl, bends her, works two fingers straight into her ass without warning. She grunts, hips jerking. He twists, spreads, tests how tight she is, how fast she opens. The next girl gets the same treatment—quick, clinical, no warm-up. One after another, they take the fingers, some gasping, some pushing back like they need it harder. Peter watches from a steel chair, boots planted wide. Cherry Torn kneels beside him already collared, leash slack in his fist. When a girl takes the fingering without whimpering, Cherry's mouth twitches like she's remembering her own audition. Maestro moves down the line with a riding crop, smacking thighs that aren't spread wide enough. A tall athletic girl flinches; he yanks her head back by the hair and slides his thumb in alongside James's fingers, stretching her further. She breathes through it, sweat sliding down her spine. Peter nods once. The ones who stay quiet and open get moved to the next station. The ones who tense or complain get sent upstairs empty-handed. Satine steps forward when her turn comes, jaw set, ready to show she can take whatever they shove inside her and still stand straight after. By the end of the night three girls remain bent over the bench, holes glistening, wrists bound behind their backs. The rest are already gone. Training starts tomorrow at dawn.