A brief time passes, then the elven maidens return with a small crowd of elvish types in various shapes and sizes. A few humans are in attendance, most collared and some wearing only simple footwear. Most fantasy race stereotypes are represented, with enough outfit variety either fashion is very flexible or there are several cultures nearby. The dark skinned elf flips through her curly red hair, flashing the crowd a winning smile and a slightly-bouncier-than-necessary rack, and begins speaking very quickly in auctioneer fashion.
The bidding is fast and rises quickly, hundreds of dollars going between a few casually interested people. The cursory buyers fade out in moments by the time the price hits a few thousand. A snide androgynous drow keeps pace with a few dwarves, a wood elf lord, and a few humans of uncertain provenance (including one of the near-naked collared ones, surprisingly!). An intermittently bidding muscular greenskin orc in feathery loincloth appears to push up the price a bit further, black ponytail shifting whenever he calls out a raised price. The orc wins out when the drow decides it's gone over the price range he's thinking of and lets it pass.
"Last call, last call!" the auctioneer calls out theatrically, before answering silence with "Sold, to the orc with the feathercloth, for fifty grand!"
A smaller lithe orc male, short black hair and wearing nothing but thick glasses, comes forward with a suitcase at a nod from the orc in feathercloth. The assistant sets the case on a nearby table, opening it up and counting out money for the auctioneer's partner. Some more transactional minutiae in convoluted legalese translated or not, the smaller orc leashes your manacles and says "Come along now, chief's orders."
The master flashes a grin, letting his assistant do the talking in a brief, serious tone.
"You are property of Chief Ulgnash of Biwa Clan. I am his assistant emanation, and will be serving alongside you. Your master does not see fit to converse with his property directly, and has spawned me for that purpose. Refer to me as Assistant, and if you must Chief Ulgnash as Master. Confirm your understanding, slave Alex."
"Yes, Assistant." you mutter almost automatically, falling under some sort of compelling aura just by being near him.
The assistant tugs you along in Master's wake, bringing you through a fair-campground carnival of assorted sales. The ground seems springy with something greenish that doesn't stick to your feet, neither warm nor cold, and the air a bit cooler than you're used to but nothing unpleasant.
With a sigh, Assistant muses aloud. "Man, the drow milkers are getting a heavier corner on the market every year."
"Still outbidded 'em." Master deigns to speak at last. "Clan coffers can handle it, and at this price we'll be able to keep a few more years picking best. We'll fall back to pissing and orc precum industrial if we gotta, but human manmilk's got a niche."
Assistant rolls his head. "Yes, I've run the ex-nihilo efficiency calculations. Sir, just because we can handle it doesn't mean it won't be expensive and slow."
"I'll tell you over internal." Master says, casting an aside glance at a gaggle of wine-drinking dark elves.
Something seems to shift in Assistant's expression, an aimless forward gaze punctuated by little twitches of his pointy ears. But nothing much comes of it: a carriage pulled by nothing in particular pulls up, driven by an orcish coachman holding invisible reins. Master opens the door and steps in effortlessly. Assistant leads you in with a gentle push behind the back, putting you in a plush seat before sandwiching you in himself and closing the door. Apparently Master has an idea, for he smiles deviously and then Assistant issues an order.
"Slave, on your knees. Service Chief Ulgnash directly."
A few gentle nudges and some turnarounds later, you put your head under the feathery loincloth and watch Ulgnash's flaccid titan stir. Instinct and a gentle musk you can't quite identify pull you forward, licking the cockhead as foreskin pulls back and the shaft hardens. The whole thing's thick, barely fitting in your mouth as is, and the balls seem to grow as well. Soon they're big enough for your hands to grope.
Assistant mutters something magical and a soft white light ameliorates physical concerns: this monster somehow fits in your mouth when you try it, but is far too big too whenever you pull off. It's not like it's shrinking, but you don't feel like you're straining any more than it would be to fit something humanly large. Assistant removes the loincloth and grabs your head to spare Master the effort of deciding your pace. Once that's steadied, you spend an unknowable volume of time sucking on your master's cock. Your mind is...more aimless than suppressed, caught up in physical pleasures.
Assistant bends down, gives your genitals a few licks, and attaches something to your rock-hard cock before precum can escape, sort of like a rolling-down condom, but it vanishes. As he returns to his seat, you feel fingered from behind, or possibly being groped by a tentacle. You can tell he's waving some form of glowy pink magic over his own erection, and it's matching the probe.
"You will be marked in, ah, accordance with ownership procedure." Assistant says, a bit of arousal creeping into his voice. "The manacles are for show after this, then milking begins in earnest."
From the side of your view, you can sense Assistant coming to orgasm but not spraying anything. The control you've been under so far seems to lighten up, and your manacles seem to vanish into glittering lights. More freedom of movement to continue sucking Master's cock. Something warm fills you from behind, and it's too much. You shoot an unreasonably large load, but it vanishes from the floor as you look down to check. And after that, Master decides to spray your face for the distraction. A one-man bukkake of hot white goo covers most of your head, and doesn't vanish or sting.
"Emission is the lifeblood of this world." Assistant says, as if reciting some textbook lecture or other. "Human waste is internally reprocessed into cheap magic for maintenance, and your sexual output will be used to forge wonders. You will not so much as sweat without it being converted, and piss only at our discretion for magical or kink purposes. Shit shall be cleansed. Biological needs will become optional rather than mandatory using this unconserved loop. Either orgasm or sexual edging is to be delivered regularly, with any denials powering ambient lust and pheremonal emissions. Orcish magic is typically more efficiently acquired from reprocessing as with the dominant elven paradigm, but even simple recycling produces unconserved gains. Feast, Alex."
With some esoteric hand sign, the leftover cum begins to vanish from covering you. You instinctively swallow mouthful after mouthful as it reappears in your mouth.
"Always love that trick, best of both worlds." Master comments idly. "And we're here, let's-a-go."
Assistant pulls you up from Master's crotch gently as Master leads the way out, to a large manor. The centerpiece of Clan Biwa looks like an overgrown longhouse with various architectural mimicries in an almost theme-park orbit. Flags and banners with stylized string instruments hang idly from certain windows. You follow like a sycophant, needing no further compulsion to hang about in nuzzling range of Master.
Assistant says something very technical to one of the service orcs waiting at an entrance desk behind the great doors, the short of it that you will be staying with the Master's personal chambers as an attendant of some sort. How exactly he will use you seems to be subject to some debate as a few options appear.