Owners by the Dozen (Slave of the Aristocracy Book 4) Page 4

  “What would you like?” Jack looked at the menu that was chalked on a board over the bar.

  “I’ll eat whatever you order for me,” Irene replied.

  He looked exasperated but didn’t argue. “Two sausage dinners and two pints of porter.”

  The barkeep drew the pints and they carried them back to a table in the corner.

  “You know, it’s a bit of a pain having to figure out what you want to eat all the time,” he said after sipping the head off his beer.

  “You don’t quite grasp the concept of owning a slave,” she countered. “I’m not a girlfriend. We’re not a partnership. You own me. You don’t have to figure out what I want. You only have to do what you want and I’m there.” She waved her fingers at her beer. “If you want me drunk, you can tell me to drink a bucket of beer. If you want me sober, then you don’t have to put a beer in front of me. You can order one beer for yourself and I’ll carry it to the table for you. There is nothing wrong with that. That’s what I’m here for. To do and be what you want. It’s not that I don’t want a beer or food or whatever. It’s that you shouldn’t know or care about what I want. It shouldn’t be part of your thinking.”

  “Do you want me to treat you like that?”

  She laughed. “You aren’t listening. How I want to be treated doesn’t matter.”

  “I don’t get it. I want to treat you well. Why on earth would you tell me not to do that? Why would you tell me to treat you badly?”

  “I’m not telling you to treat me badly. I’m telling you that you can treat me well if you want and you can treat me badly if you want. That’s the point. You can do whatever you want. That’s the deal.”

  “I don’t know if I can ignore your feelings.”

  “Other slave owners do.”

  “That’s because they’re aristocrats, right? I’m not an aristocrat – I’m an ordinary guy – so I care about what other people feel. Even if they’re slaves.”

  “That’s the nut of the matter. Slaves are not people. I’m property. I’m not a person. I stopped being a person the minute that I climbed up on the auction block and sold myself into slavery.”

  “Why are you so insistent that you’re not a person?”

  “Because I’m not. That’s reality. If I let you think of me as a person, then I might start thinking of myself as a person, too. And, if I do that, then I’m going to get into trouble. Maybe not with you, but with someone. With the other men in your consortium who own me. Or with my next owner. Or even with people on the street. I am a slave so I can’t be a person. Slaves who forget that they are slaves end up nailed to the courtroom wall. If you don’t think of me as a slave, if you don’t treat me like a slave, then it’s dangerous for me.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “There’s not much to get. I’m a slave. I’m always going to think like a slave and act like a slave. That’s what really matters. If that displeases you, then punish me. Slaves who displease their owners get punished. That’s part of slavery.”

  “I don’t want to punish you.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem. Some owners whip their slaves as soon as they bring them home, not as a punishment, per se, but simply as a way of putting themselves and their slave into the right frame of mind at the outset. It creates the proper relationship. Maybe you should take your belt to me when we get back. Maybe every one of you should give me a sound whipping just to make sure that every one of you thinks like a slave owner.”

  Jack grinned. “There are twelve of us. That would be a hell of a lot of whipping.”

  “I might never be able to sit without pain again.”

  “That would lower your value.”

  “Good. Now you’re thinking like a proper slave owner.”

  The barkeep set the food on the bar and called out, “Jack, food’s up.”

  Jack made like he was going to stand but Irene put her hand on his arm. “You sit. I’ll get it. That’s what a slave does.”

  She returned in a moment with a plate in each hand and every eye in the place watching every move she made. Slavery was a good life for an exhibitionist. Irene wasn’t a true exhibitionist, but she didn’t mind men admiring her body. She found it flattering.

  In her experience, male admiration could even make torture a little more endurable.

  She sat one plate in front of Jack and the other in front of herself. But when she picked up a fork, Jack said, “No. Don’t eat it.”

  She set the fork down.

  He cut a piece of sausage from his own plate and put it in his mouth. “This is delicious,” he said after he chewed and swallowed it.

  It smelled delicious. Irene hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. Saliva was pooling in her mouth. If she opened her lips, drool would flow out.

  He ate a bite of mashed potatoes and then a spoonful of peas. “Mmm. It all tastes wonderful.”

  Irene said nothing. Just stared at the plate in front of her.

  “Wouldn’t you like to eat?” he asked.

  She swallowed a mouthful of drool before saying, “If you want me to.”

  “That’s right. You only eat if I let you. And I’m not letting you. So now I’m acting like a real slave owner, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that make you happy, now?”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it makes you happy.”

  “It doesn’t. How can I be happy eating when I know you’re starving? In fact, it makes me feel mean and miserable.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Eat your damned food.”

  “Yes, sir.” She took up her fork again and began eating. It was the most delicious food that she had ever tasted. Or at least, the most delicious since the last time she had been starving and her owner had let her eat. Which had only been twenty-four hours earlier.

  After they ate, Jack took her back to her room at the inn.

  As soon as they were inside, Irene asked, “Are you going to whip me, now?” She had a devilish glint in her eye.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “To punish me for displeasing you. I presumed to lecture you about how to treat a slave. That was disrespectful.”

  “Do you like being whipped?”

  “No. Never. That’s why it’s a punishment.”

  “Turn around and bend over.”

  She obeyed.

  But, a minute later, she didn’t feel his belt across her ass. She felt his cock in her cunt.

  That, too, was how an owner treated a pleasure slave.

  * * *

  “This is your… what do you call it?… quarters?” Jack looked to Irene for the proper word.

  “You can call it whatever you want,” Irene said, looking around the one-bedroom apartment. “Most slave quarters are called kennels, but this is considerably better accommodations. It’s probably more accurate to call this my quarters than my kennel.”

  “What are kennels like?”

  “A series of small cells with a cot and small wardrobe in each. A shared bathroom and small kitchen. The basics that are necessary to live. And there’s always an elaborate pleasure room where the owner can be serviced in comfort. The pleasure room also includes equipment to punish slaves. Typically a whipping bench. Kennels also include a tunnel or covered walk that leads to the billiard room in the manor. That’s where the owner entertains his guests. The covered or walled walkway lets him bring the slaves in and out without his wife and her friends seeing them and being embarrassed.”

  “That seems like a practical arrangement.”

  “The aristocracy has had centuries to work out the details.”

  “What about the details here?”

  “You seem to have the basics.”

  “Willy had a spare bed. Jim brought over the easy chair. Caleb had the kitchen set in his basement. I hope it’s good enough for now.”

  “That’s up to you. I’ll eat and sleep wherever you tell me.“

  “Stop that.” Ja
ck sounded annoyed.

  Irene could have told him about her first owner’s wife who made her eat table scraps off the bathroom floor, but that would have been pushing him too far. Instead, she said, “All I’m saying is that I’m grateful for what you have done for me. I’d like to show my gratitude in some way, but it’s not possible. You can already have anything you want from me.”

  He shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

  “There are a few details that you might consider. Some men like to restrain a slave when they’re using her. Some lengths of rope and a pair of handcuffs are pretty standard accessories for a slave. Also a paddle and multi-tail flogger can be used either for play or for punishment.” She paused to muster her courage, took a breath, and then said, “You should also get a cane so that you can administer severe punishment if necessary. A cane can cause permanent scarring which can lower a slave’s value, so it should be used only when necessary.”

  “Have you ever been caned?”

  She turned her back to him and traced a few red lines across her buttocks. “Once. I displeased my first owner. These are not severe scars but they are permanent. They were inflicted a little more than six months ago. I’ve been told that they’ll fade to silvery lines in a few years. I’ve seen another slave who was caned repeatedly with cuts to the bone. Her back looked like a plowed field. She lost more than half her value in a few months.”

  “I don’t think we need a cane,” Jack said. “And I don’t think that you should mention caning to the other men.”

  She smiled. “If I need to be punished that severely, I can suggest a number of alternatives that cause terrible suffering but don’t leave scars.”

  “I don’t want to hear about them.”

  “Then I won’t tell you about them until you need to know.”

  “Which would be never.”

  Irene wasn’t sure about that, but she didn’t press the point any further. “There are some other things that I’ll need.”

  “Yes?”

  “A pen, a pad of paper, and a ledger. I promised that I’d keep the books for your consortium. Also, I’m going to need a few cleaning supplies. A broom, mop, soap.”

  He sighed. “Keeping a slave is turning out to be a lot of work.”

  “No. You don’t have to do anything. If you give me some petty cash, I’ll go buy the supplies. I can run any errands that you want, as long as it’s within walking distance.”

  Comprehension dawned across his face. “You could even shop for clothes for me.”

  “Service doesn’t always mean sex,” she said.

  “Not always, but mostly.”

  She smiled. “I assume that you’re going to want to try out that bed. Unless you’d rather that I bend over the kitchen table.”

  “Let’s go to bed.”

  * * *

  The men began having her for one day at a time in rotation. It was an easy life for a pleasure slave. There were no orgies, no punishments, no onerous demands.

  Sooner or later, most of the men asked her about her previous life, but she always gave them the same story –that she’d had a husband but no children and that it had been a normal, boring life. She never told them that she had been an aristocrat or that she had taken the bizarre step of selling herself into slavery.

  The more she got to know them, the more she was certain that they wouldn’t relate well to her if they thought that she was an aristocrat. Commoners liked commoners.

  More curious for her, none of the men asked about her collar. Her first owner had locked a golden collar around her neck as a humiliation. It served that purpose well. Only animals wear collars. As well, her collar was inscribed with the words “Slave Irene”. As Irene had been her name as a lady, using it as a slave name was a constant reminder of what she had given up by selling herself. Owners often rename their slaves, but because Irene permanently wore that name around her neck, none of her subsequent owners had called her anything else.

  She wondered if these men knew that her collar was unique. Maybe they thought that a lot of pleasure slaves wore collars.

  On their designated days, all of the men came to her quarters. None of the four who lived alone brought her back to their homes. It was easier for everyone that way.

  Ox liked anal, but he was the only one. Most of the men thought that a blowjob was kinky. Most of her owners were happy with straight sex in the missionary position.

  A couple of the men tried paddling her. They seemed to enjoy it but not so much that they wanted to make it a practice.

  They weren’t all as nice as Jack and George but none of them were deliberately mean. They were men and she gave them sex freely and enjoyed doing it so they weren’t going to give her a hard time about it.

  Her biggest concern was George, the electrician who had cried after the first time that he had sex with her. On his first designated day, he didn’t come around at all. She had the whole day to herself.

  He did come around on his second designated day – at the end of her first month ownership by the consortium – but he didn’t look happy when he arrived.

  “What’s your pleasure, George? What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “We’re supposed to have sex, right?” he said.

  “No. We’re supposed to do whatever you want. Mostly, that’s sex. And I’d be happy to give you any kind of sex that you want. All night long, if you want. But if you want something else, then we can do that, too.”

  He shook his head. “I never should have done this. I never should have bought a share of you.”

  She remembered that George was not a talker. For him, two sentences was a whole speech.

  “Sit down.” She gestured to the easy chair, and then pulled up a kitchen chair for herself. “Now, tell me what’s wrong. Is it the money? Or is it because you don’t feel right about having sex with someone you don’t know very well? Or is it something else?”

  “I…” He shook his head. “I just shouldn’t have spent the money.”

  “I hope you didn’t risk bankruptcy to buy me.” That was a concern. Commoners who went bankrupt could be pressed into slavery if their creditors took them to court. Men were almost always sold for a few hundred plaqs as labor slaves. They would be given jobs that were too difficult and dangerous for hired workers. A labor slave could expect to live a dirty, brutish life and die within a few years.

  “Not me,” he said. “I got a good job. It’s my brother. He needs money.”

  “Is he going bankrupt?”

  “His daughter. She’s spending too much money. Frank thinks she’s in trouble.”

  “Where’s she getting the money from?”

  “Frank doesn’t know. But she says that she needs to pay some back. She’s been asking him for money but he doesn’t have any more to give her. I could ‘a given her the fifteen hundred that I paid for you.” He hung his head in shame that he had put his own pleasure ahead of his brother’s daughter’s needs.

  Irene was less bothered. “What does your niece spend the money on?”

  “Clothes. Restaurant meals. Just wastes it.”

  “Who lent it to her?”

  “I don’t know. Frank says that she’s hanging around with fancy-pants men. She doesn’t bring them home. He says that she’s ashamed of her family. Ashamed of people like us.”

  This story was ringing a bell somewhere in the back of Irene’s mind. She’d heard it before. And it wasn’t a good bell; it was an alarm bell.

  She probed George for a few minutes but couldn’t get any more details out of him. He didn’t know any more and she was only making him feel worse.

  Eventually, she said, “George?”

  “What?”

  “Is there some way that I could talk to your niece myself? Girl-to-girl.” It was an outrageous request, that a pleasure slave have an intimate talk with a free woman, but she wanted to help him and she couldn’t use him as a mediator.

  He looked appropriately shocked. “Nobody knows that I bought part
of you.”

  She couldn’t very well pretend that she wasn’t a slave. Not when she had to wear her hair down to cover the tattoo on the back of her neck and when she was wearing a collar that proclaimed her Slave Irene. “That’s okay. I won’t tell her who owns me. Just say that I was the wife of one of your old friends before I was enslaved and that you thought that I might understand more about the situation that she’s in than anyone else she knows.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m afraid that I do. But I’ll know more if I can talk to her in person.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think about it.” She took his hand in hers. “Do you want me to service you, now?”

  “Okay.”

  He was slow and gentle with her. It was nice, but she feared that his heart wasn’t really in it. She wondered what he would be like if he didn’t have the weight of woe on his shoulders.

  * * *

  “I’m in the big time, now,” Jim said.

  Irene smiled. “I thought that you were in the big time a few minutes ago when you had your cock shoved up my cunt as far as it would go.” Jim didn’t mind a little crude language.

  “I wasn’t talking about that.”

  “You mean that I’m not a big deal?”

  “No. You’re a tight little piece.”

  She was. Though she serviced a lot of men, she exercised the muscles in her vulva daily to keep them taut and fit.

  “So what’s your big deal?” she asked.

  “I was talking to a knight today. Sir Anthony Rackem wants me to restore his car. It’s a major job. A thirty-two Imperial Interceptor. He told me to spare no expense. He’s leaving all the decisions up to me. He’s going to love what I can do to it.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What’s that? ‘Hmm.’ What does that mean?”

  “Did you get a deposit from him?”

  “No. He didn’t want to talk about money at all. When I told him that it could be expensive, he just waved me away and said that price is no object. His business manager worries about the financial details.”

  “You need to talk to his business manager. Make sure that you get paid up front. Or, at least, get paid as you do the work.”