A Gentlemen's Agreement (Slave of the Aristocracy) Read online

  Slave of the Aristocracy, Book Two:

  A Gentlemen’s Agreement

  by Ashley Zacharias

  Copyright (c) 2014 Ashley Zacharias

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, either in whole or in part, in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  “It seems, Irene, that your value has increased dramatically. Three months ago, I saw you sold for a hundred-thousand at auction and could hardly believe it. But today, I had to trade a knighthood to obtain you. Nobody could buy a knighthood for a mere hundred-thousand plaquettes sterling. You’ve become almost priceless.”

  The slave, Irene, naked, leashed and handcuffed, gazed at Lord Snow impassively and waited for a question. Or, more likely, an order to bend over and spread her legs.

  A few months ago, she, had been the Lady Irene, wife of Lord James Fortson. But on an inexplicable impulse, she had decided to do the unthinkable and sell herself into slavery. A commoner, Mr. Dodge, had purchased her at auction.

  She had no idea why Lord Snow, who was her ex-husband’s best friend, would want to acquire her. But he had. And apparently, he had paid a dear price. Mr. Dodge was a merchant who knew how to drive a hard bargain. A knighthood was worth far more than any slave. It would make him an aristocrat and allow him to become a landowner.

  “No one will ever understand why you chose to become a slave, but you did. So, if slavery is what you want, then slavery I will give to you. By the shovelful. I aim to please.”

  She couldn’t interpret the look on his face. He’d always had a dry, sarcastic wit. That was one of the things that James liked about him. But now his expression indicated something else. Disgust? Contempt? Or just confusion? Irene couldn’t tell.

  She mentally prepared herself to be violated for the first time by her old friend and new owner. She told herself that it wouldn’t be so bad. She’d been used by dozens of men during her first three months of slavery and many of those had been former acquaintances.

  But none had been as close to her as Lord Snow.

  He didn’t want to use her yet. “Come along, then. Let’s introduce you to Nickel. She’s my whiphand.”

  Irene didn’t know what that meant. But if she were to be whipped, then she would endure it. A slave had no choice but to endure whatever her owner visited upon her.

  “Even if you’re priceless, you’re new to my kennel so you can’t expect to be in charge the first day. Most likely you’ll never be in charge.”

  Now, he was confusing her. She was a slave. She couldn’t be in charge of anything.

  He didn’t bother holding the leash. It was largely symbolic. She would do whatever he ordered without needing to be forced. The chain dangled between her breasts as she followed him into his kennel, her hands still cuffed behind her back. It was tradition that a slave was naked, leashed and cuffed when delivered to a new owner.

  A slave was waiting inside the entrance. She was somewhat old for a pleasure slave, maybe thirty-five, but still young enough to be valuable. She was dressed as no slave that Irene had ever seen. A black leather corset covered her torso. Her breasts were covered but she was naked below the waist.

  Most significantly, a two-foot long strap hung from a clip by her right breast.

  But she was a slave, she wore her fine, blond hair loose down her back. Only slaves wore their hair loose. Free women, even the lowest commoner, wore their hair up to show that they did not have a slave registration number tattooed on the nape of their neck.

  “Nickel, take care of Irene.” Lord Snow left.

  Nickel looked Irene up and down. She took extra time to gaze at the golden collar around Irene’s neck. Her expression turned from hard domination to outright contempt.

  Irene couldn’t help but blush. Slaves didn’t wear collars; only animals were collared.

  “Turn around.”

  Irene turned. The criss-cross of scars across her buttocks was still a prominent red. Her last kennelman, an expert in such matters, had promised her that they would fade to a few silvery lines in a couple of years.

  “You’ve been caned.”

  Irene said nothing.

  Nickel unlocked the cuffs from her wrists and tossed them on a nearby table. “Turn back to me.”

  Irene turned back.

  Nickel stared into her face. “Let’s get one thing perfectly clear right now. I don’t give a shit who you are or who you were. I’m the whiphand in this kennel and I’ll beat you as quick and hard as any other slave here. Maybe quicker and harder. You got me?”

  Nickel’s expression of dislike bordered on hatred. Irene had no doubt that she would be strapped quicker and harder than any other slave. Any minor transgression would provide a sufficient excuse for the whiphand to unclip her strap from her corset.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Irene wasn’t sure what form of address was appropriate for a more senior slave because she had been the only slave in her previous owner’s kennel. Ma’am seemed to work because Nickel looked satisfied.

  “So, unless you want to feel the bite of my strap, you do what I say, when I say it. You got me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So it’s true. You were a lady who really did sell yourself into slavery.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Nickel shook her head in disgust but didn’t ask why. She didn’t seem to care.

  “Take that chain off your neck and follow me.”

  Irene slipped the chain leash from her neck and laid it on a small table next to the cuffs. She hastened to catch up to the senior slave.

  “This is your cell.”

  It was almost identical to the one at the Dodge house – a small concrete room barely large enough to hold a wardrobe and cot. It had no windows and the door locked from the outside.

  “Bathroom is down the hall. Kitchen the other way. There are seven slaves in this kennel so you keep your showers short and be quick on the toilet or you’ll feel my strap.”

  Irene didn’t answer.

  Nickel looked at the golden collar again. “You can take that damned thing off in the kennel. Nobody’s going to steal it.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Nickel’s eyes flashed with sudden anger and her hand went to her strap.

  “It’s permanent. It can’t be removed, ma’am. There’s no clasp. It would have to be cut off with a saw.”

  Nickel’s arm returned to her side. “Ain’t that the shit?” She shrugged. There was no accounting for owners’ whims. “I don’t lock the cells unless you fight with the other slaves. Any ruckus and you’ll be locked in all the time. You got that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “One fight and you’ll spend the rest of your life locked in your cell, except when Lord Snow wants to use you or when I want to beat you, which will be every day. Got that?”

  Irene didn’t know if Nickel was saying that she beat every slave every day or just the ones that were permanently locked in their cells, but it didn’t matter. The point was that fighting with other slaves would be a bad idea. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I got better things to do than entertain slaves, so you can go down to the kitchen and introduce yourself, Irene.” It was the first time that Nickel had used her na
me and she drawled the word with absolute contempt.

  After Nickel left, Irene opened the wardrobe.

  It was empty, but for the basic toiletries and makeup.

  She assumed that she hadn’t been provided with a housedress because she wouldn’t be allowed to run errands. Lord Snow had plenty of other slaves to do that. He didn’t need a slave who wore a collar to appear in public.

  That was a small mercy, but Irene felt bereft. She hadn’t had much that was personal in her wardrobe at Dodge’s but she liked having a bit of erotic lingerie to entice her owner.

  More important, she was going to miss her butt plug. She didn’t like having to use it every day, but she was going to have to find some way to keep her asshole well stretched or she was going to get torn up the next time she was called upon to entertain a group of men.

  As well, she was going to miss her pussy weights. She had become a much better sex partner when she had begun strengthening her vaginal muscles. Other slaves didn’t know to do that, so her talented cunt made her special.

  There was quiet chatter from the kitchen. Irene walked down the hallway past the open doors of a half dozen empty slave cells and found a large room with a sink, stove, table, and a half-dozen chairs.

  Slaves were sitting in five of the chairs. They all looked at Irene when she entered.

  “I’m Irene,” she said. “I’m the new slave here.”

  “We heard about you,” one of the slaves said. She was a hard-looking twenty-five year old. “You’re the la-de-da lady slave.”

  “I’m no lady. Just a slave,” Irene said.

  “Named I-re-ene.” The slave sang the name in a sing-song voice like a child.

  “My name was Flame. I preferred that one, but I lost a game at an entertainment last week and they took my name away from me and renamed me slave Irene.”

  “You lost your name in a game.” The slave was mocking her.

  “And I was crucified for half an hour. That almost killed me.”

  The slave shrugged. “Almost isn’t dead.”

  “You’ve got a pretty necklace,” another slave said. “Is that real gold?” she was younger than the first, twenty or twenty-one, but she looked just as jaded.

  “It’s not a necklace. It’s a collar. It’s locked on. I can’t take it off. If my owner wants to remove it, he’ll have to saw it off.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “You can’t ever take it off?”

  “Never.”

  “What’s it say?”

  Irene didn’t know if she was illiterate or simply too far away to read the words. “Slave Irene.”

  The slaves looked at her with various expressions of curiosity and caution.

  “That’s harsh.”

  Irene shrugged. “Our owners do what they want to us. We endure.”

  There were nods all around.

  “I’m Apple,” the young slave said.

  “Tamarind,” another said.

  “Lime.”

  “Cherry.”

  The fifth slave, the hard-looking twenty-five-year-old, said, “Call me Ma’am.”

  Irene hadn’t won them all over. “Is that short for mammaries?”

  The other four slaves laughed. It was funny because the slave who wanted to be called, Ma’am, was particularly well endowed.

  She sprang to her feet, scraping her chair back.

  Tamarind put a hand on her arm but kept looking at Irene. “It’s all right. She’s just joking. Her name is Peach.”

  Irene didn’t know which of them Tamarind thought was joking, but Peach accepted her gesture and sat back down.

  “Sit with us,” Tamarind said.

  Irene sat. “My last owner – actually, my only owner – owned only me. I’ve never been in a kennel with other slaves. I’m not sure exactly how to behave, so if I do anything wrong, I hope you’ll tell me and I’ll make sure that I don’t do it again.”

  The other slaves looked at her like she was speaking gibberish.

  After a long pause, Cherry said, “You’re a slave. You do what you’re told. That’s all there is to it. If the owner is around, then you do what he says. If the owner’s not around, you do what the whiphand says. And if no one is around, then you just keep quiet and don’t do anything.”

  “What did you think we do?” Lime asked. “Dig escape tunnels? Plot revolution? Run a mail-order wedding cake service on the side?”

  “Write a relationship advice column for the Daily Paquette?” Apple added with a giggle.

  Irene laughed. “No. I’m pretty familiar with following orders and waiting to get fucked. That’s pretty much all I’ve done since I was sold.”

  “That’s pretty much all you’re going to do here,” Peach said. “There’s nothing grand happening in this kennel.”

  “When I think about it, a hell of a lot of ladies could use a relationship advice column written by a slave. I’ve learned more about men in the last three months than I learned in the first twenty-eight years of my life.”

  “You learned how to get fucked every way possible by anyone with a stiff dick,” Tamarind said. “I don’t think many ladies are interested in acquiring that skill.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Irene said.

  “Shut up,” Peach said. “The whiphand hears you talking about ladies like that, she’ll beat you ‘til you can’t walk.”

  The other slaves fell silent.

  Peach and Apple glared at Irene.

  She understood. She was only three months fallen from her manor. She still regarded the highborn as regular people. These slaves didn’t. If they showed anything less than absolute subservience they could expect immediate and brutal punishment. “Does Lord Snow punish us himself? Or is it just Nickel who administers the discipline?”

  Tamarind stood up. “Lord Snow likes to show us his love, personally.” She turned around to show Irene her ass. It was a solid bruise from the bottom of her back to the tops of her thighs – mottled blue and yellow and green.

  “He’s an artist,” Lime said. “It takes a lot of practice to beat an ass as uniformly as that. I know because he’s practiced plenty on my backside.”

  Irene was appalled. She had known Snow for five years, since she first moved from Calam Shire to Westmouth. He had never been anything but a gentleman of wit and refined manners. She had no idea that he beat slaves black and blue for sport.

  Tamarind sat back down. Irene noted that she didn’t plop herself carelessly into her chair, but lowered herself gingerly and sat still once she had settled.

  “Yours is coming,” Peach said. “Lord Snow doesn’t keep a new slave waiting for long. He likes to test her mettle and take the measure of his new acquisition as soon as he has a spare moment. I’m looking forward to seeing you sing an aria to the beat of his strap. It’s high entertainment in the kennel.”

  Irene was startled. “Do the other slaves watch?”

  “Lord Snow considers it instructive. A slave who sees what happens to another who has transgressed is going to vow not to transgress herself. It saves wear and tear on the strap.”

  “But what if the slave who’s being beaten hasn’t done anything wrong?”

  “Same lesson. Gets us thinking. If that’s what happens when we haven’t done anything wrong, then we better be damn careful not to do something that would merit a worse beating.”

  “What about when Nickel whips you?”

  “She makes you wish it was Lord Snow at your backside. She whips a slave in a way that a man would never think of. Terrible cruel.”

  Irene didn’t ask. With luck she would never know. And if she did have to find out, then she could wait for it. No sense torturing herself with the anticipation of something that might never happen.

  Suddenly, every slave at the table snapped to look toward the door.

  Nickel, the whiphand, was standing in the doorway. She pointed to Irene. “You’re up. Get to the pleasure room now and wait for Lord Snow on your knees.” She pointed to a door in the hallway behin
d her. “The rest of you aren’t invited. The Lord wants a private party this time.”

  The other slaves looked relieved. Except for Peach. She looked deeply disappointed.

  Irene’s heart was pounding like a bass drum as she walked resolutely toward the pleasure room.

  * * *

  Irene was kneeling on the carpet, hands on her thighs and head bowed, when Lord Snow entered the room.

  She was the picture of submissiveness.

  He sat in a chair and looked at her for a long moment.

  She waited, passively.

  “What in hell am I going to do with you?” he asked at last.

  She decided to answer the question. “Whatever you want. You own me.”

  She heard his breathing quicken.

  “You’re my best friend’s wife,” he said.

  “Not any more. Now I’m just a slave in your kennel.”

  “You know that it’s more complicated than that.”

  She shrugged and looked up at him. “I expect that you want to bend me over and fuck the shit out of me.”

  He grinned. “That’s pretty much a given. I’ve wanted to do that since the first time that James brought you over to dinner. You were hot then and you’re hot now.”

  “I was engaged to James then. I’m your slave now. That makes everything different.”

  “That makes everything complicated. I like James.”

  “He doesn’t like me.”

  He raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply.

  “Tell me what to do and I’ll obey you,” she said.

  He thought about that.

  “You were at the entertainment last week,” she said. “You know that I’m not a virgin. And I’m not saving myself in the hope of being married to James again. If you want me, take me. That’s your right. Even James can’t argue with that.”

  “Why did you do it? Why in hell did you climb up on that auction block and sell yourself to a stranger?” A flush of anger surfaced in his cheeks.

  “I can’t explain it. Everybody asks and I try but nobody understands. Maybe I don’t really understand myself. It was an impulse. Maybe a self-destructive impulse. Have you ever looked down from a high bridge and felt an impulse to jump? I jumped. I jumped up onto that stage and I jumped out of the aristocracy.”