The air was thick with perfume, leather, and control. Towering women lined the perimeter of the black-marble hall—broad-shouldered, muscular, glistening under spotlights. Their black leather uniforms clung tight to bodies forged through war and dominance, each marked by golden insignias and military sashes. Eyes sharp. Smiles rare.

I stood on a raised platform, stripped to minimal garments, wrists bound in polished steel cuffs. A red holographic tag floated near my chest: CLASS 2 – EDUCATED – PHYSICALLY FIT – UNCLAIMED.

My heartbeat pounded louder than the auctioneer’s voice. I wasn’t just being sold—I was being judged, appraised like a pet or trophy.

And then one muscular dominant lady walked in.

The room hushed.

She moved like a shadow with weight. Six feet three of bronzed muscle wrapped in a black and gold leather bodysuit, her shoulders bare, her eyes burning through me. The zipper at her chest gleamed slightly open. The hall parted for her without a word.

She stopped in front of me.

Her eyes scanned me—slowly, clinically. A pause. Then the faintest lift of one eyebrow. Not surprise. Interest.

"I’ll take this one," she said flatly, her voice low and smooth.

No one dared bid against her.