Slave Of The Aristocracy: On The Auction Block Part 19

Her legs were quivering uncontrollably. Sweat was pouring over her ribs. Her mask was soaked with tears.

She felt like she was dying. She hoped that she was dying. She would welcome that sweet oblivion.

A voice said, conversationally, "Fifteen minutes. She's already half-way through her punishment. This doesn't seem so bad. It's not as severe as a good, harsh caning."

Only fifteen minutes! She couldn't endure another quarter hour of this. She had already used every ounce of strength in her body. Her legs were quivering uncontrollably every time she had to exert effort and take another breath.

Not so bad, he said? She'd take a caning over this any day. She would have told the man so, but that wouldn't save her a minute of this ordeal. It would only earn her a punishment for breaking her silence. If she spoke, she'd probably earn a caning to be administered after the crucifixion was complete. But she had not forgotten that she had already earned another punishment to be administered after the crucifixion. The one that her owner had to authorize. The one that she had earned simply by having once been a lady.

Her calves were almost numb. She could barely feel them.

"I don't know about that," a voice replied to the previous comment. "This seems pretty bad to me. Look at the b.i.t.c.h sweat." Fingers gently caressed the corduroy skin on her a.s.s. "She's been caned before. She knows what that feels like. Let's ask her." A hand slapped her lightly on her masked cheek. "Hey, you in there, we have a question. Which is worse? A dozen strokes of a cane or a half hour of crucifixion? If you had to choose one or the other, which one would you pick?"

She didn't answer. She just hung her head and suffered.

"Answer me."

She shook her head, wearily.

Someone laughed. "She's still mute."

"Nod if you'd take a caning and shake your head if you'd take crucifixion."

She nodded slowly.

Laughter. "I told you. She'd take a caning over this."

"Doesn't matter. I'm pretty sure that this has made her sorry that she wasn't a better slave, anyway. Aren't you? Don't you wish that you'd served us better during the evening?"

She didn't bother trying to reply. She had served every man in every way she could.

Her legs gave out. She simply couldn't support herself any longer. Her shoulders blazed in pain at the increased weight and she gasped.

She struggled to get her feet back under her and relieve the pain but her legs wouldn't work any more. All she could do was hang in place and struggle for every shallow breath.

In a fog, she kept trying to let go of the handles that kept her arms outstretched, but her fingers wouldn't work. She tried and tried, forgetting that leather straps wound around and around to hold them in place.

She had to get more air. Fighting against excruciating pain, she forced her calf muscles to raise her on her toes one more time.

She managed to fill her lungs again.

By now, she was hardly aware of the hands that keep caressing her body, squeezing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, shoving fingers into her crotch, and, worst of all, stroking her arms to appreciate, vicariously, the stress that was pulling her muscles into tight, hard bundles of steel cables.

The pain was beyond excruciating.

Someone put a hand under her chin and raised her head to kiss her on the lips. She took advantage of the hand and forced her chin down against his strong grip. She managed to take a few pounds of weight off her shoulders that way.

Every ounce was precious, now.

Suddenly, all hands were removed from her body. Someone was saying something, but a roar in her ears drowned the words.

Then, a miracle. Her heels touched the floor. Then her hands dropped lower and lower.

Her legs could barely hold her, they were shaking so badly.

Strong hands unwrapped the leather from around her right hand. Her fingers were so stiff that a handler had to unbend them far enough to remove her hand from the steel dowel.

A man, one of the handlers, grabbed her arm to keep her steady while her left and was unwrapped and removed from that handle, too.

She was no longer being crucified. She lowered her arms to her sides and sagged in the handlers' grip.

Inside the mask, she wept in relief.

They forced her to step out of the crucifixion frame.

Her calf muscles refused to work properly and she had to shuffle along the floor flat-footed.

"Gentleman," Thorn said, "that is how you punish a slave."

The applause was thunderous.

When it died away, she said, "Now, the moment that you have all been waiting for. Is this the lady who sold herself into slavery?"

There was a long dramatic silence.

"I can tell you that this slave is named Flame."

Some muttering from the audience.

"A suitable name for a slave, don't you think?"

More muttering.

"But what was her name before she became a slave?"

Silence.

"Here is the key to her collar."

There was a moment of shuffling and then Flame felt fingers at the back of her neck. A moment later, the buckles unfastened, the collar dropped to the floor.

Hands turned her around so that her back was to the audience. The black numbers forever tattooed on the nape of her neck were now visible to all.

"This slave is registered six-one-one-zero, three-one-zero-nine, five-six-five-seven."

Two zippers, one on each side of her head, were pulled from the back to the top of her forehead. The mask dropped to the floor and her hair cascaded down her back. The light was painfully bright. She blinked away tears and saw a wall.

Hands stoked a few stray locks off her face.

"Gentleman, I present Flame"

She was turned to face the audience.

A roar of appreciation drowned out the rest of Thorn's sentence.

"the slave formerly known as the Lady Irene Fortson, wife of Lord James Fortson."

Flame looked at the audience in misery. Most of the faces were familiar, many were very familiar.

When the hubbub faded and Thorn could be heard again, she said, "The slave, Flame, was not able to hide among the other slaves. You found her out. Congratulations. The six men whose names are inscribed upon her belly will each be given a gold medal that was struck for tonight's event." Thorn held up a small golden coin.

There was polite applause.

"And, because she was unable to fulfill properly her duties as a slave, Flame has lost the right to her slave name. She will no longer be known as Flame. Her owner has agreed that, from this day forward, she will be known as the slave, Irene."

Flame now, once again, Irene was horrified. Slaves had slave names. They never had a lady's name. It was unthinkable to give a piece of property a person's name. There were other ladies in the world who were named, Irene. What would they do when they found out that they shared their name with a slave? They would want to kill her. To erase her from the world forever so that their name would once again be untarnished. And their babies? No lady would ever again christen her newborn baby, Irene. It would be unthinkable.

Thorn was not finished. "To remind her and everyone else that this is the slave, Irene, her owner has agreed that she should wear this collar about her neck." Thorn took a band of gold from a velvet pillow and held it aloft. "It is inscribed with the words, Slave Irene, along its length. It fastens with a spring tab. Once clicked into place, it can be removed only by cutting it off."

Irene stared at it in horror. Slaves were property, but they weren't animals. Only animals wore collars. Irene had never heard of a slave being forced to wear a collar.

Her flesh cringed at the touch of the gold as Thorn fitted it around her neck.

The clasp clicked. The collar was so finely wrought that the seam where it fastened was all but invisible.

Her hands flew to her neck of their own volition and tugged at the collar. It was implacable. She would wear it until her owner decided to cut it off. And that owner wouldn't be Dodge. When he had agreed that she would be fitted with a collar if she lost the game, he understood that he would never remove it.

It wasn't tight, but it felt like it was choking her. It was flexible and the edges were round and smooth, but it felt like it was cutting her throat. It wasn't heavy, but it felt like it was dragging her head to the floor.

She dropped her hands and stood in front of thirty men and cried like a baby.

The gentlemen, mostly old friends and acquaintances, applauded enthusiastically. Lord Snow was standing in the front, applauding the loudest of all.

Her only blessing was to see that James was not standing beside him. Her former husband was not in the room.

But he would hear about his wife's humiliation by morning. A story this shocking would blaze through society like wildfire.

"Gentlemen, the formal entertainment is concluded. But I'm sure that the slave Irene would be pleased to stay for as long as you wish and continue to provide all the service that you desire."

The handlers pushed the newly-unmasked and collared Irene toward the men who took her into their midst with eager hands.

She didn't care. She was so exhausted, so pain-ridden, so crushed that she had no more feeling than a piece of meat.

Sapphire had said that every slave aspired to feel nothing. Irene had achieved that state tonight.

Men would have to take their pleasure from her because she had no pleasure of hers to give to them.

Dodge examined her collar. "At least, it's a pretty thing. It's a piece of jewelry. I was afraid that they were going to give you something like a black leather dog collar with an engraved steel plate."

"It feels like a dog collar," Irene said. A collar was a collar. No one who saw it would mistake it for a necklace.

"It doesn't look like it. It looks like the choker that I've seen some ladies wear."

That was the point of giving her a lady's name and a parody of a lady's jewelry. She was toxic. The a.s.sociation with her would immediately defile both.

"No lady is ever again going to wear a gold choker, for fear that it will resemble this one," she said.

"I guess not." Dodge shrugged. Lady's fashions were no concern to him. "The kennelman reported that you were severely used last night. He cautioned me to let you heal for two days to ensure that you don't suffer permanent damage."

"I'm sorry that I can't serve you properly today. My c.u.n.t is still in good shape. If you want to use that, I'm sure that you won't damage it." Her jaw and a.s.s were the most sore after her calves and shoulders, which were almost non-functional. Once they'd seen her familiar face, the gentlemen had delighted in availing themselves of the services that they considered most humiliating. That pretty much left her normal s.e.x organ untouched.

"If you think..." Dodge let his sentence trail off.

She didn't respond verbally; she was already laying on her back on her cot, naked, so she simply pulled her blanket aside and spread her legs.

When he entered her, she whispered, "f.u.c.k me good, Mr. Dodge. f.u.c.k me d.a.m.n good."

He did.

She stayed in bed for two days, only getting up for the essential functions.

Barry, the kennelman, ma.s.saged her shoulders and calves. That helped. On the third day, she expressed her grat.i.tude with her best oral technique.

He was happy to see that she was recovering.

She wasn't asked to help at the house all week.

On Friday, Mr. Dodge came to the kennel. He was carrying a pair of handcuffs and a chain leash. "I've struck a deal. You have a new owner. The car is waiting outside. Turn around."

She almost collapsed from the shock. She had no warning that she was about to be sold.

By tradition, a slave was always delivered to her new owner naked and leashed with her hands cuffed behind her back.

"To whom am I being delivered?" she asked after he clicked the cuffs closed.

"You'll find out soon enough," Dodge answered as he slipped the chain around her neck.

She wished that the chain would scratch the soft gold collar to illegibility but it was loose and rested safely below the choker.

Her collar would proclaim to her new owner that she was Irene.

END OF BOOK ONE.