Carry is condemned to perpetual slavery because of shoplifting. After intense training, she is brought to the studio of the Merchandise Network to be sold on television by the Lady Auctioneer, Miss Veronica Pontefract. But she has other plans with the attractive Carry.

Carry swallowed hard, her eyes darting to the floor as the girl attached a new collar around her neck. This one was made of cold, unforgiving metal, with a leash that trailed down to the floor. The girl tugged on it, guiding her to the first piece of equipment: a simple chair with leather restraints.

"Sit," she ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Carry obeyed, her heart hammering in her chest as the restraints were fastened around her wrists and ankles. The chair was adjusted until she sat at just the right height for Miss Pontefract's inspection.

The beautiful woman approached, her heels clicking against the tiles. She ran a fingernail down Carry's cheek, eliciting a gasp of pain. "Look at me," she said, her voice a whisper that held the promise of both pain and pleasure.

Carry raised her eyes, meeting the icy gaze of her new mistress. Miss Pontefract leaned in close, her breath hot against Carry's ear as she whispered the rules of the first test. "You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not move unless instructed. You will do everything I say without question or hesitation. Do you understand?"

Carry nodded, her eyes wide with fear.

"Good," Miss Pontefract said, stepping back to observe her new acquisition. "Let us begin."

The first device was a simple crop, which she used to trace the lines of Carry's body. Each touch was light, teasing, making Carry squirm and beg for more. But it was never enough. The anticipation was a torment all its own.

Then, without warning, the crop swung through the air, striking Carry's bare flesh with a sharp crack. She yelped, her body jolting in the chair. The pain was intense, but it was quickly followed by a wave of arousal that surprised her.

The second device was a set of clamps attached to a pulley system. The girl attached them to Carry's sensitive nipples, tightening them until she whimpered. Then, with a flick of a switch, the clamps began to pull, stretching her breasts until she thought she would scream. Yet she bit her lip, remembering the rules.

The tests grew more severe and more intrusive with each passing moment. A vibrator that buzzed against her clit until she thought she would go mad with pleasure: a whip that painted her back with a canvas of pain. A gag that silenced her cries as the girl worked her over with a frenzy that bordered on the sadistic.

Through it all, Carry remained obedient, her eyes never leaving Miss Pontefract's. She knew that she had to be what they wanted her to be: the perfect, submissive plaything.

Finally, the evaluations ended, and Miss Pontefract stepped back, a look of satisfaction on her face.

The girl with the leash unbuckled the restraints, and Carry stumbled to her feet, her body aching from the ordeal.

The girl disappeared through the door, leaving Carry alone with Miss Pontefract. She studied Carry carefully, her sharp eyes scanning every inch of her. Out loud, she said, "Everything about you is in the right place. You're one of the few women who look better naked than clothed. Count slowly to ten."

Carry obeyed without hesitation, her voice clear and steady as she counted. Miss Pontefract listened intently, a small smile playing on her lips. "You have a beautiful, clear voice," she said when Carry finished. "You know what? I'll give you a screen test right now."

Miss Pontefract took Carry by the leash and led her to the studio. The space was bustling with activity, but the crew quickly cleared a path for them. She positioned Carry in front of a camera, handed her a script filled with complex technical terms, and said, "Read this."

Carry took a deep breath and began to read. Her voice was confident, her pronunciation flawless, and she didn't stumble once, even over the most unpronounceable words.

When she finished, Miss Pontefract nodded approvingly. "You can do this," she said. "You've got potential." She then led Carry back to her office, where she commanded her to kneel. Carry obeyed, her heart racing as she waited for Miss Pontefract to speak. "I'm going to keep you for now," Miss Pontefract said, her tone decisive. "You're not going up for sale. I need someone like you as my assistant. You can pole dance, can't you?"

Carry nodded, unsure where this was going. Miss Pontefract continued, "Here's how it's going to work. You'll wait at the top of a pole. I'll start the program, and on my signal, you'll slide down. You'll bring the pieces of merchandise to their little podiums, stand beside them, and point out the body parts I discuss. You'll demonstrate them. That's what you'll do."

Carry wasn't sure how to react. It sounded like a significant role, and better than she had expected. Before she could respond, Miss Pontefract asked abruptly, "What's your name, anyway? I never asked. What does it matter with merchandise?"

"Nothing, Mistress," Carry replied automatically.

Miss Pontefract waved a hand dismissively. "Stop that nonsense. What's your real name? I mean, before…"

Carry hesitated, then said, "Carry Torres, Mistress."

Miss Pontefract made a face. "That's nothing too. From now on, you're Carmen. That sounds much better."

The words sent a shiver of excitement down Carmen's spine. She knew what was expected of her, and she craved it. As they disappeared into the private chamber, the rest of the network faded away, leaving them alone in their twisted dance of power and desire. To serve this beautiful mistress and not be sold off immediately was something she hadn't dared to hope for.

Miss Pontefract leaned in and whispered in her ear, "You will also serve me in other ways, my dear Carmen. In ways that will make you beg for more."

As the words "you will be Carmen" resonated in her mind, Carry felt excitement. The name enhanced her new identity, which was purely for the entertainment and service of others.

The thought of serving as a living, naked decoration on live television was both humiliating and thrilling. Also, the idea of being near Miss Pontefract, of being part of her world, was intoxicating. She had seen the way the woman wielded power, and she knew that she would do anything to stay in her favour.

"And will I be given a dress then?" Carry asked.

Miss Pontefract's laughter was like a knife to the heart, but also a promise of something darkly erotic. "You will wear not a stitch on your body," she said, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "You will be the mascotte of the show."

Then Miss Pontefract dismissed her with a wave of her hand "Now, get yourself cleaned up, you lovely creature, and have someone show you to a bed in the attic. I've got more to do."

As the days passed, Carry was put through her paces in the studio. She learned to glide down the pole with the grace of a dancer, serving drinks and performing simple tasks while remaining naked before the camera's unblinking eye. Each night, she would watch Miss Pontefract's program, her mind racing with the knowledge that she would be an integral part of the show.

In the quiet, dimly lit moments when the cameras were off, the true nature of Carmen's servitude revealed itself. Miss Pontefract would summon her to the office.

She would make introductory remarks like "There you are again with that delightful backside of yours. Just imagine all the things I could do with it." Or, "How fortunate that you lost your clothes so long ago. It saves so much time, doesn't it?" Her words were laced with cruel humour, designed to remind Carmen of her place.

Then, the games would begin. Miss Pontefract would hang a sign on the door that read, "Do Not Disturb or Face Execution." Often, she was clad from head to toe in leather, the material clinging to her tall, statuesque frame, accentuating her commanding presence. Such a session could then proceed as follows.

Carmen stood naked, her body trembling slightly under Miss Pontefract's gaze. The room was cool, but the heat of her anticipation kept her warm. Miss Pontefract would circle her slowly, the heels of her boots clicking ominously against the floor. She stopped behind Carmen, her gloved hand trailing down the curve of her back, sending shivers through her.

"Such a perfect skin," Miss Pontefract murmured, her voice low and husky. She stepped back and picked up a riding crop from the desk, the leather of her gloves stretching as she gripped it. "Let's see how well you can take it tonight."

The first strike came without warning, the sharp crack of the crop against Carmen's bare skin echoing through the room. She gasped, the pain sharp and immediate.

The next strike landed just below the first, and Carmen bit her lip to stifle a moan. The pain was intense, but it was mixed with a strange, intoxicating pleasure. Each strike was precise and calculated. Miss Pontefract alternated between tender caresses and sharp blows, keeping Carmen on edge.

By the time the session was over, Carmen's skin was flushed, her backside marked with the evidence of Miss Pontefract's attention. Miss Pontefract stepped back, admiring her work. "Beautiful," she said, "You did well tonight, Carmen. Very well."

Carmen could only nod, her body still trembling as she knelt on the floor. Miss Pontefract was intoxicating, and Carmen was helpless to resist her pull. Each session was more unforgettable than the last, and Carmen was left to navigate the treacherous waters of her desires, all under the watchful, demanding eye of Miss Pontefract.

Or Miss Pontefract receives Carmen in quite another attire. Then, she stood before Carmen completely naked, her tall, statuesque form towering over her. The absence of clothing was not meant to seduce; it meant raw power and dominance. Her nudity was imposing, a statement of her complete control and lack of inhibition. She then swapped her usual leather boots for a pair of stiletto heels, which added to her already formidable height. Her body was flawless, her posture regal, and her gaze unwavering.

"Do you know why I choose to be naked tonight?" Miss Pontefract asked, her voice calm but laced with authority. Carmen shook her head, her eyes fixed on the floor. "It's because nothing is more intimidating than absolute vulnerability turned into strength. When I stand before you like this, I am not hiding behind leather or lace. I am exposed, yet utterly in control. It reminds you of your place—beneath me, in every sense."

Carmen then felt the weight of her words, the truth of them pressing down on her. She stepped closer, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, and Carmen instinctively dropped to her knees.

"Good girl," Miss Pontefract said, her voice a low purr. She ran her fingers through Carmen's hair, a gesture that was not tender but possessive. "You understand, don't you? This is not about seduction. It's about power. My power over you."

Such a session was intense, a blend of pain and pleasure that left Carmen breathless. Miss Pontefract's hands were firm, her touch alternating between sharp slaps and soothing caresses. Each strike was deliberate, each moment of tenderness was calculated to keep Carmen on edge.

As Carmen knelt on the floor, her body trembling, Miss Pontefract stood over her, her naked form a symbol of her unyielding authority. "Remember this," she said, her voice soft but commanding. "Every mark, every sensation, is a reminder of who you belong to."

Carmen nodded, her submission complete. Miss Pontefract's nudity indeed was not seductive; it was a declaration of her dominance, and Carmen was utterly captivated by it.

Each session deepened the bond between them, a bond built on pain, pleasure, and the intoxicating allure of Miss Pontefract's unshakable control.

Carmen knew what was coming—the sting, the humiliation, the pleasure that was impossible to resist. Each session left her mark, both physically and emotionally, with a reddened backside that served as a reminder of her submission.

Mrs Dombrovski had been a figure of fear and loathing, but Miss Pontefract was something else entirely. She was intoxicating and addictive, and Carmen found herself drawn to her in ways she couldn't fully understand. The line between pain and pleasure blurred, and Carmen was left to navigate the treacherous waters of her desires, all under the watchful, demanding eye of Miss Pontefract.

Carmen, as she had become known, served her mistress in every way imaginable. More and more she found herself craving the touch, the pain, the pleasure that her mistress so expertly delivered. And she embraced the name given by this mistress: Carmen.

The whispers of the other merchandise grew louder, their envy palpable. They knew that Carmen had a special place in Miss Pontefract's heart, and they hated her for it. But she didn't care. The only thing that mattered was pleasing the woman who had become her entire world.

And so, she served, eager and willing, her heart and body bound to Miss Pontefract in a way she had never thought possible.

Then the day of the first show with Carmen arrived, Carmen could feel the tension coiling in her stomach as she was led into Miss Pontefract's office. The room was filled with merchandise, all lined up and awaiting inspection.

Miss Pontefract walked down the line, her eyes cold and assessing. Each item was prodded and poked, their fear and arousal laid bare under her gaze. Carmen felt a sense of pride as she watched her mistress work, knowing she was the chosen one, the piece of merchandise that would not be sold but stand by her side during the broadcast.

When Miss Pontefract reached the third merchandise item, a young man with a look of defiance in his eyes, she didn't hesitate. With a flick of her wrist, she activated the prod and touched it to his thigh. He jerked and yelped, the current coursing through his body.

"Now you will be nice and friendly," she said, a smug smile playing on her lips as she made a note on her iPhone.

The procession of flesh continued, each piece of merchandise receiving a similar treatment. Some bore it with stoic resignation, others with hidden anger, but all knew the consequences of displeasing the woman who held their fate in her hands.

Then Miss Pontefract led Carmen down the hallway, where a wheeled cage stood. Inside the cage crouched a burly man, wearing a heavy iron collar with an equally heavy chain attached to the bottom of the cage. Carmen was terrified. It was Chris, the man who had stalked and abused her. Chris recognized her immediately. "So they got you too, you filthy whore," he shouted. "One day you won't escape me." Miss Pontefract asked Carmen, "Do you know him?" Carmen replied, "Yes mistress, that's Chris, my stalker. When we were together, he beat me terribly." Miss Pontefract handed her an electric prod. "Teach him a lesson," she said. Carmen hesitated, then took the prod and began to shock Chris. The electric shocks convulsed his body until he begged for mercy. "That's how he learns to be polite and quiet," Miss Pontefract said, taking the prod back. The consequences for Carmen were profound; she faced her abuser and, for the first time, fought back, reclaiming a sense of power over her past trauma.

Miss Pontefract led Carmen back to her office, where Carmen knelt at her feet. She sat down and said, "He's a difficult case. Practically untrainable. He's only fit for chained labour, like working on a treadmill. Tonight, we'll sell him in our program, cage and all, using the 'stop the clock' system. We'll start with a high price on the clock, and then it will count down. The first viewer who stops the clock via the app or the phone gets him for that price." Carmen laughed with delight and asked, "Mistress, may I kiss you?" Miss Pontefract replied, "Always." Carmen stood up and gave Miss Pontefract a long, deep kiss. The moment was charged with relief and gratitude for Carmen, who had finally confronted her past in a way that left her feeling empowered and supported by Miss Pontefract.

"Always," Carmen whispered, her voice trembling with relief and gratitude. She stood up and without hesitation leaned in to give Miss Pontefract a long, deep kiss. The moment was charged with emotion—relief, gratitude, and a newfound sense of control. Carmen had finally confronted her past in a way that left her feeling empowered, supported, and seen by Miss Pontefract. The kiss was not just an act of submission; it was a silent acknowledgement of a bond built on trust, pain, and an unspoken understanding.

But just as the kiss seemed to stretch into eternity, Miss Pontefract broke away, her sharp eyes glinting with purpose. "And now, to work, my dear," she said firmly but not unkind. "We must get you ready for the show."

She took Carmen by the hand and led her out of the office, their footsteps echoing down the hallway as they made their way to the costume department.

The room was a bustling hive of activity, filled with racks of clothing, mannequins, and an array of accessories. A middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense demeanour greeted them as they entered. "Hello, Lizzie," Miss Pontefract said, her tone brisk but friendly. "We need something for her."

Lizzie glanced at Carmen, her eyes appraising her with practised efficiency. "Ah, Veronica," she replied with a sly smile. "Take your pick. I suppose you want a minidress for her? Haha!" She laughed, clearly amused by her suggestion.

Miss Pontefract shook her head, her expression serious. "No, Lizzie. She has transcended the need for clothes. Dressing her would only diminish her."

Lizzie raised an eyebrow, her gaze lingering on Carmen's figure. "You're right," she admitted. "She has a body that truly shines when it's bare. If I could afford her, I'd never clothe her either." She paused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Though I might suggest placing a ruby on her navel. Just a touch of sparkle, you know?"

"Good idea," Miss Pontefract said, nodding approvingly. "But we're here for a collar and matching ankle cuffs. What do you think? Plain polished steel, gold-plated, or Swarovski?"

The two women launched into a detailed discussion, debating the merits of each option. Lizzie argued for the understated elegance of polished steel, while Miss Pontefract leaned toward the opulence of Swarovski. Carmen stood silently, her eyes downcast, as the conversation unfolded around her. It wasn't her place to decide; her body was no longer her own. She was a possession, and her role was to accept whatever was chosen for her.

Finally, a decision was made. Miss Pontefract turned to Carmen with a satisfied smile. "Swarovski it is," she declared. "It will catch the light beautifully on stage."

With that settled, Miss Pontefract left to prepare herself for the show, leaving Carmen in Lizzie's capable hands. Lizzie worked silently, fastening the delicate, crystal-studded collar around Carmen's neck and securing the matching ankle cuffs. The cold metal against her skin sent a shiver through Carmen. It was anticipation rather than discomfort. Each piece felt like a mark of ownership, a reminder of Miss Pontefract's control, but also of the intoxicating power that came with surrendering herself completely.

Once the accessories were in place, Lizzie led Carmen to the makeup room. As the artists worked their magic, Carmen felt energy flowing through her—a sense of strength and confidence that seemed to radiate from the collar and cuffs. The stage fright that had once plagued her was gone, replaced by a calm, unwavering self-assurance. She was ready.

When the makeup was complete, Carmen found her way to the studio. The lights were low, the air thick with anticipation. She climbed onto the pole, moving gracefully, and waited for the show to begin. The crystals on her collar and cuffs caught the light, scattering it in dazzling patterns across the studio. Carmen took a deep breath, her heart steady, her mind focused. She was no longer just Carmen; she was a masterpiece, a creation of Miss Pontefract's vision, ready to shine.

Then Miss Pontefract stepped into the spotlight, commanding the room as the red light signalled they were live. The fanfare echoed through the studio, and a deep male voice announced, "This is the Merchandise Show! Your lady auctioneer is Miss Veronica Pontefract!"

The audience was immediately captivated. Miss Pontefract, dressed in a stunning blue gown with bare arms and a deep décolleté, radiated confidence and authority. She smiled warmly at the camera and began her introduction.

"Welcome, dear viewers, dear guests in the studio to another dazzling edition of the Merchandise Show! Tonight, we bring you an exquisite selection of items, each one more unique and desirable than the last. But before we begin, allow me to introduce my assistant, the heart and soul of this show— Carmen!"

At her cue, Carmen gracefully slid down the pole she had been practising on earlier and stepped forward, giving a polite curtsy to the audience. Her nerves had settled somewhat, but her heart raced with excitement. She felt exposed, yet empowered, under the bright studio lights.

Miss Pontefract continued, her voice smooth and persuasive.

"This is Carmen, the mascot of our show. She is not only a testament to the quality of our merchandise but also a living example of how beauty can shine in its purest form. You may wonder why she is nude—well, it's simple. Carmen's natural elegance is best showcased this way. She is a vision, isn't she?"

Carmen felt a flush of pride at Miss Pontefract's words. She stood tall, her posture confident, though her mind briefly wandered back to her conversation with the makeup artist earlier. The woman had asked, "Do you always go around like this? Naked?" Carmen replied with a small smile, "It's just the way it is. Mistress Pontefract says I look better nude than clothed." The makeup artist had nodded, almost enviously, and said, "I can imagine."

Now, as Miss Pontefract spoke, Carmen's role became clear. She was not just an assistant; she was a symbol, a living embodiment of the show's purpose. Miss Pontefract's voice, sharp and commanding, brought Carmen back to the moment.

Her mistress looked directly into the camera, "And we're about to begin," Miss Pontefract announced, her tone smooth and captivating. "We have exquisite pieces of merchandise for you, dear viewers. You know how it works. As soon as the numbers appear on your screen, you can start bidding. Call in or use the Merchandise Network app. And remember—when you purchase a piece of merchandise, it will be delivered to your home free of charge. Fully chipped, with a medical health certificate and all necessary vaccinations included."

She paused, her gaze intensifying as she leaned closer to the camera. "You also know the rules, dear viewers. Bidding on family members is strictly prohibited. It is a serious crime, punishable by law. If you break this rule, the state will come knocking at your door, and before you know it, you will become merchandise. And I will auction you off on national television."

A sly, almost wicked smile spread across Miss Pontefract's face as she let out a low, melodic laugh. "But," she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "if you happen to have a body like our Carmen here or like the beautiful young men I'll be presenting shortly, then go ahead. Break the rule. I dare you. I'd be delighted to sell you myself."

Carmen stood silently beside her. She was acutely aware of the cameras panning over her, capturing every detail of her form. The Swarovski collar around her neck sparkled under the studio lights, and the matching ankle cuffs gleamed as she shifted her weight slightly. She was the perfect image of submission and elegance, a living advertisement for the world Miss Pontefract had created.

Miss Pontefract's words lingered in the air, full of threat and temptation. Carmen knew that every viewer was hanging on her every word.

Then Miss Ponrefact announced, "Carmen, darling, would you please bring out our first piece of merchandise?"

With a graceful stride, Carmen stepped off-camera and returned moments later, leading a naked, collared young man by a leash. His proportions were impeccable, and he walked with a quiet dignity, his eyes downcast. Carmen guided him to a low podium and stood beside him, her hand resting lightly on the leash.

Miss Pontefract began her pitch. "Ladies and gentlemen, behold! Our first offering tonight is a prime specimen of strength and vitality. Notice his lush head of hair, his muscular arms, his perfectly sculpted torso. And let's not overlook his manhood—a true testament to his virility."

As Miss Pontefract described his attributes, Carmen played her part flawlessly. When Miss Pontefract mentioned his testicles, Carmen gently lifted his penis against his stomach, ensuring the camera could zoom in for a clear view. The audience at home could see every detail, and the bidding numbers on the screen began to spin rapidly, climbing higher and higher as viewers competed to own this particular piece of merchandise.

Then, Miss Pontefract's voice cut through the studio, sharp and commanding. "Carmen, darling, turn him around so the viewers can see his delicious backside," she called out with playful authority. Without hesitation, Carmen obeyed, using both hands to turn the merchandise around. He moved willingly, his muscles relaxed and compliant under her touch, and Carmen could feel the ease with which he followed her guidance. It was clear he had been trained well.

When he was positioned with his back to the camera, Carmen released him and stepped gracefully to his side, her posture poised and elegant. Miss Pontefract continued, her voice rich with suggestion, "Now, look at that firm, delectable backside. Imagine what you could do with it if you're a little creative. Those are world-class buttocks, my dear viewers. Think of the possibilities, the ways you could... work with them."

As Miss Pontefract spoke, Carmen's mind flashed back to the times her backside had been the focus of her mistress's attention. She remembered the sting of the crop, the warmth of Miss Pontefract's hands, the way her touch could shift from punishing to tender in an instant. A flush of heat rose to Carmen's cheeks, from the memory of the power dynamics that had become familiar to her. She felt pride, knowing that her own experiences were now being mirrored in this moment.

The camera lingered on the merchandise's backside, capturing every curve and detail, and the bidding numbers on the screen began to climb even faster. Miss Pontefract's words had done their job, stoking the viewers' imaginations and driving the competition to new heights. Carmen stood silently beside him, her presence a reminder of the show's unspoken promise: this was not just about ownership; it was about power, control, and the thrill of possessing something exquisite.

Miss Pontefract's laughter echoed through the studio, light and teasing, as she watched the numbers rise. "Oh, you naughty viewers," she said, her tone both mocking and delighted. "I can see your minds working. But remember, this is just the beginning. There's so much more to come."

Carmen glanced at Miss Pontefract. She knew her role, and she played it perfectly, standing as a living testament to the world her mistress had created. The bidding continued, and Carmen remained at the centre of it all, a symbol of submission, elegance, and the intoxicating allure of Miss Pontefract's vision.

Miss Pontefract's voice grew more animated. "Isn't this a treat? A perfect companion for single men and women alike, someone to add a touch of excitement to your life. Look at him! Isn't he a delight?"

The numbers on the screen slowed, then stopped. Miss Pontefract's eyes gleamed as she declared, "Once, twice—sold! Congratulations to the winning bidder! You'll be contacted shortly, and remember, your merchandise will be delivered clean and ready, right to your doorstep."

Carmen led the young man away, her movements fluid and unhurried. She returned with the next piece of merchandise, and the show continued seamlessly. Miss Pontefract's charm and Carmen's poise made for a captivating duo. The audience was enthralled, and the bids kept coming.

The atmosphere in the studio was electric as Miss Pontefract raised her hand, signalling for something special to be brought in. The audience at home, leaned forward in anticipation. Suddenly, the sound of wheels rolling across the floor echoed through the studio, and a cage was pushed into the spotlight. Inside the cage, hunched and glaring, was Chris. His heavy iron collar and chain rattled as he shifted, his eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal. When his gaze landed on Carmen, his expression twisted into rage and fear.

"Carmen," Miss Pontefract called out, her voice sharp and commanding. She held out an electric prod, its tip crackling faintly with energy. "Prick him."

Carmen hesitated before stepping forward, the prod gripped tightly in her hand. Her heart pounded, but she kept her face calm, her movements deliberate. Chris's eyes widened as she approached, his body tensing as if he wanted to back away, but the chain kept him rooted.

"No, no, don't—" he began, but Carmen didn't let him finish. She pressed the prod to his side, and a sharp jolt of electricity coursed through him. Chris let out a guttural scream, his body convulsing as the shock took hold. Laughter from the audience contributed to the effect of the scene. Carmen's lips curled into a small, satisfied smile as she pulled the prod away.

"And behave yourself," she whispered, her voice low but firm.

Miss Pontefract stepped forward. "Now, dear viewers, the clock is ticking!" she announced, her voice dripping with theatrical flair. On the screen behind her, a large clock appeared, its hands set to an exorbitantly high amount. The numbers began to go down.

"What a brute, ladies and gentlemen," Miss Pontefract continued, gesturing dramatically toward Chris. "What an absolute beast. Carmen, prick him again. Let's remind everyone what we're dealing with here."

Carmen didn't hesitate. She stepped forward and jabbed the prod into Chris's side once more. He howled in pain, his body jerking violently against the chain.

"This is a true barbarian," Miss Pontefract declared, her tone disdainful. "Carmen, make him spread his legs. Let's show the viewers just how uncivilized he is."

Carmen raised the prod threateningly, and Chris, still trembling from the shocks, reluctantly obeyed. He shifted awkwardly in the cage, spreading his legs as instructed. Miss Pontefr leaned closer to the camera, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Look at this, everyone," she said. "That wild mane of hair, that unkempt appearance. No, this specimen isn't fit for anything but hard labour. He's unruly, unwilling, and utterly uncouth. He's the kind of merchandise you chain to a treadmill to replace a polluting diesel engine. Practical, yes, but hardly refined."

The clock on the screen continued to tick down, the numbers dropping lower and lower. The tension in the room grew as viewers at home waited for the right moment to place a bid. Finally, a loud gong sounded, and the clock stopped. The winning bid flashed on the screen, and Miss Pontefract clapped her hands in delight.

"Sold!" she exclaimed, her voice ringing with triumph. " What a bargain! And the buyer gets the cage included! What a deal!"

Miss Pontefract cheered enthusiastically and addressed the audience. "And the buyer is here in the studio! Please stand up, sir or madam!" Her voice brimmed with anticipation, and all eyes turned to the back of the hall. There, an imposing figure rose—a broad-shouldered man with a confident demeanour. It was clear he was accustomed to attention.

An assistant quickly handed him a microphone, and the buyer began to speak. His voice was deep and resonant, filling the entire space. "I'm an artisan baker," he began, gripping the microphone firmly. "I want to control every part of my baking process. That's why I'll be grinding my grain myself from now on. A treadmill is already set up." He grinned broadly, his white teeth contrasting against his dark complexion. "Perfect for this Conan the Barbarian," he added with a laugh, gesturing to himself. "He can start tonight." The audience applauded, and laughter rippled through the studio at his humorous remark.

Miss Pontefract nodded approvingly and thanked the baker with a wide smile. "Thank you, sir! What a fantastic plan and a wonderful addition to your craft. I wish you every success with your new acquisition!"

As the baker sat back down, the show continued. Miss Pontefract turned back to the cameras, her energy still at full throttle. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, we move on to the next extraordinary item of the evening!" Her voice was bright and full of promise, and the audience hung on her every word again.

Carmen, still standing at the side, watched with a mix of admiration and amusement. She'd experienced so many of these evenings. Yet, each time brought something new and unexpected—the baker with his treadmill, the cage that had found its new owner. They were all pieces of a larger puzzle, a world where anything seemed possible. She smiled and refocused on Miss Pontefract, ready for whatever came next.

The cage was wheeled away, Chris's muffled protests fading into the background as he disappeared from view. Carmen watched him go, a deep sense of satisfaction settling over her. Chris, the man who had once terrorized her, was now nothing more than merchandise, a commodity to be bought and sold.

As the show moved on to the next item, Carmen stood tall, her confidence unshaken. She had faced her past. She was ready for whatever came next. The audience cheered, the cameras rolled, and Carmen smiled, knowing she had played her part to perfection.

The show ended with a flourish, with Miss Pontefract thanking the viewers for their enthusiasm and promising even more spectacular merchandise in the next episode. As the red light dimmed and the studio buzzed with post-show activity, Carmen felt a surge of pride. She had done it. She had stepped into the spotlight, and for the first time in a long while, she felt truly alive.

Weeks passed, and Carmen found herself settling into the rhythm of the Merchandise Show. It aired from Monday to Saturday, and the work was demanding, but Carmen thrived on it. She had grown more confident in her role, her movements more fluid, her interactions with Miss Pontefract and the merchandise more polished. The show was a hit, and Carmen's presence had become a key part of its success. She was no longer just an assistant; she was a star in her own right.

One of the most thrilling aspects of her newfound fame was the fanmail. At first, it was just a trickle—a few letters here, a handful of messages online. But soon, it turned into a flood. Carmen read every piece with pride and curiosity, her cheeks flushing as she absorbed the praise and admiration. Some of the letters were sweet and innocent, like the one from an elderly woman who wrote:

"Dear Carmen, you are such a graceful and elegant young woman. I admire your confidence and poise. You make the show so much more enjoyable to watch. Keep shining!¨

Others were more provocative, like the email from a man who wrote:

"Carmen, you are a vision. The way you move, the way you present the merchandise—it's mesmerizing. I can't stop watching you. You're the reason I tune in every night."

Carmen's favourite, though, was a handwritten note from a young woman: "Carmen, you've inspired me to embrace my own body and be proud of who I am. You're so strong and beautiful, and I look up to you. Thank you for being you."

She kept the best letters in a small box under her bed, reading them whenever she needed a boost. They reminded her of how far she'd come and how much she'd grown. But as the fan mail grew, so did the distance between her and Miss Pontefract. The once-frequent invitations to her office became rare. And they were different—colder, less about connection and more about control. One night, Miss Pontefract had even shocked her with the prod, a sharp reminder of her place. Carmen had tried to brush it off, but the incident lingered in her mind. Was Miss Pontefract jealous? Did she feel threatened by Carmen's growing popularity?

Then, one day, Carmen was summoned to the office of the studio boss, a large, sweaty man who always seemed to be perched on a couch. When she entered, she found him seated there, with Miss Pontefract beside him. Obediently, Carmen knelt before them, her heart pounding. We have a big surprise for you," the studio boss said, his voice booming. "Veronica, why don't you tell her?"

Miss Pontefract smiled, but there was something in her expression that made Carmen uneasy. "We're planning a grand Christmas quiz special," she began, her tone smooth but with an edge Carmen couldn't quite place. "I'll be hosting, as usual, and you, my dear, will play a leading part."

Carmen's mind raced. A Christmas special? An important part? Her

eyes flickered between Miss Pontefract and the studio boss, her heart pounding.

The studio boss leaned forward. "It's going to be a winner-takes-all type of quiz," he said, his hands gesturing grandly. "Huge. With an orchestra, dancers, the works. And you, Carmen, will have a signature tune."

"A signature tune?" Carmen asked, her voice tinged with curiosity. "What do you mean, Master?"

Miss Pontefract took over, her smile sharp and calculated. "It's music that will play whenever you take centre stage. It's an old number by Xavier Cugat. Have you ever heard of him? The song is called She's a Latin from Manhattan." Miss Pontefract's voice took on a melodic tone as she began to sing softly, her eyes gleaming with mischief:

"She's a Latin from Manhattan,

I can tell by her mañana.

She's a Latin from Manhattan,

But not Havana!

Though she does a rumba for us,

And she calls herself Dolores,

She was in a Broadway chorus,

Known as Susie Donahue."

Carmen's eyes widened as she listened, the lyrics painting a vivid picture in her mind. Miss Pontefract continued, with theatrical flair. "Of course, we'll adapt it for you. 'Dolores' will become 'Carmen' or 'Carmencita,' and 'Susie Donahue' will be 'Carry Torres.'"

At the mention of that name, Carmen felt a surge of emotion. Carry Torres. It was her former name, her identity, and now it would be immortalized in this grand production. She couldn't help but smile, her earlier unease melting away. This was more than she had ever dreamed of. This was her moment, her chance to shine brighter than ever before.

Miss Pontefract's words hung in the air, and Carmen felt a surge of gratitude. She had been so alone lately, so distant from Miss Pontefract, who had grown colder and more detached. But this—this was a reward, a validation of all her hard work and dedication. It was more than an apology; it celebrated her worth.

The studio boss clapped his hands together, breaking the moment. "It's going to be spectacular," he said, his voice filled with enthusiasm. "You'll glide down the pole, the music will swell, and the dancers will surround you. The audience will go wild."

Carmen nodded, her mind racing with excitement. She could already picture it: the lights, the music, the applause. She would be the star, the centre of attention, and this time, it would be on her terms.

Carmen felt a renewed sense of purpose. The loneliness she had felt, the distance from Miss Pontefract, all of it seemed to fade into the background. This was her chance to prove herself, to show the world—and Miss Pontefract—that she was more than just an assistant. She was Carmen, the Latina from Manhattan, and as such, she would take her place in the spotlight.

She couldn't wait to hear the orchestra play it, to see the dancers move around her, to feel the energy of the audience as they cheered her on. This was her moment, and she was going to make it unforgettable.

Do we still have your attention?" Miss Pontefract's sharp voice cut through Carmen's thoughts like a whip, snapping her back to the present.

Carmen looked up, her eyes meeting Miss Pontefract's piercing gaze. The studio boss sat beside her, a smug smile playing on his lips as he watched the exchange.

Carmen straightened her posture, her expression earnest. "You do, Mistress," she replied, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in her chest. "I'll be unforgettable, I promise."

The studio boss chuckled, "We're counting on it," he said, his tone both encouraging and demanding. "We expect nothing less from you, Carmen. This show will be the biggest event of the year, and you're at the heart of it. Don't let us down."

Carmen nodded, her determination solidifying. She could feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on her, but instead of buckling under it, she let it fuel her. This was her chance to prove herself, not just to them, but to everyone watching. She would make sure that no one who tuned in that night would ever forget her.

Miss Pontefract leaned back on the couch, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied Carmen. "Good," she said, with a hint of approval. "You've come a long way, Carmen. But this is where you truly step into your own. Don't waste it." \Carmen's heart swelled with pride and resolve. She had worked tirelessly to earn her place in the Merchandise Show, and now, with this Christmas special, she was given the chance to shine like never before. She wouldn't let anything—or anyone—stand in her way.

She would practice her pole routine until it was flawless. She would memorize every detail of the song, and every detail of her dance routine. She would make sure that when the cameras rolled, she was perfect.

The days leading up to the special were a whirlwind of rehearsals, fittings, and preparations. Carmen threw herself into every aspect of the show, determined to leave no room for error. The dancers, the orchestra, the set designers—they all marvelled at her dedication. She was everywhere at once, offering suggestions, perfecting her movements, and ensuring that every detail was just right.

The night before the big show, Carmen stood in the empty studio, the pole gleaming under the soft glow of the stage lights. She ran her fingers along its smooth surface, her mind replaying the lyrics of She's a Latin from Manhattan. She hummed the tune softly, her body swaying to the rhythm as she imagined the orchestra playing, the dancers moving around her, and the audience watching in awe.

The night of the special arrived, and the studio buzzed with energy. Carmen stood backstage, her heart racing as she listened to the orchestra warm up and the audience take their seats. She felt powerful, radiant, and ready.

Miss Pontefract appeared beside her, her presence as commanding as ever. "This is it," she said, her voice low but firm. "Make it unforgettable."

Carmen met her gaze and nodded. "I will."

The lights dimmed, the audience fell silent, and the opening notes of She's a Latin from Manhattan filled the air. Carmen stepped onto the stage, the spotlight following her every move. She glided to the pole, her movements fluid and mesmerizing. As the music swelled, she began her routine, her body moving with the rhythm.

The dancers joined her, their movements synchronized and elegant. The orchestra played with gusto, the melody wrapping around Carmen like a warm embrace. She sang softly, her voice carrying the lyrics with a mix of sultry confidence and vulnerability:

"She's a Latin from Manhattan,

I can tell by her mañana…"

The studio audience was captivated, their eyes glued to the stage. Carmen was radiant, her energy infectious. She was no longer just Carmen; she was Carmencita, the star of the show, the Latin from Manhattan.

As the final notes of the song faded, the studio erupted into applause. Carmen stood at the centre of the stage, her chest rising and falling as she caught her breath. She looked out at the audience, their faces filled with admiration, and felt a surge of triumph.

Backstage, Miss Pontefract and the studio boss watched from the wings, their expressions a mix of pride and satisfaction. "She did it," the studio boss said, his voice filled with awe. "She was unforgettable."

Miss Pontefract nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Yes," she said softly. "She was."

Carmen came backstage, still catching her breath after her performance. The applause from the audience echoed in her ears, She had given everything she had, and it had paid off. The studio was alive with energy, the crew buzzing around her, congratulating her on a job well done. But amidst the chaos, Carmen's mind was already set on the next part of the show. She turned to Miss Pontefract, her eyes shining with anticipation.

"Mistress," she began, her voice eager yet hesitant, "what exactly will my role be in the rest of the special?"

Miss Pontefract turned to her, a serene smile spreading across her face. It was the kind of smile that could disarm anyone, soft and innocent, but Carmen knew better. There was always something more beneath Miss Pontefract's expressions, something calculated and deliberate. Miss Pontefract reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from Carmen's face, her touch almost tender.

"You, my dear," Miss Pontefract said, her voice smooth and melodic, " are the grand prize in our Christmas quiz."