Owners by the Dozen (Slave of the Aristocracy Book 4) Read online

  Tears were rolling freely down Adele’s cheeks and she looked at Irene with miserable liquid eyes.

  “I found out that I wasn’t the only girl that Geoffrey was dating. He’d also been going out with a girl who was majoring in pre-med and another girl in pre-law. And there might have been more.

  “I hadn’t told many people that I was dating the son of a knight. I didn’t want to look like I was bragging. Then one of my friends told me that she knew a girl in pre-med who had been dating the son of a knight and had borrowed money from his father. The father had demanded the money back and, when the pre-med girl couldn’t pay, had forced her into bankruptcy. She had been pressed into slavery and sold at the auction house.

  “I went looking for the girl’s friends to find out if she had been dating Geoffrey, too. Nobody wanted to talk about it. It was too shameful that their friend had become a pleasure slave. But I insisted and eventually got the whole story.

  “It was Geoffrey that she had been dating. And it was Sir Drake who had lent her the money and then pressed her into slavery.”

  Adele couldn’t continue, she was weeping too hard.

  Irene took her into her arms and held her while the poor girl’s tears soaked into her housedress.

  When Adele cried herself dry and Irene thought that she could speak again, she asked, “Has Sir Drake called the loan, yet?”

  “He sent me a letter four weeks ago.” Adele pointed to a paper on her desk.

  Irene read it. It was a brutally simple document. It said that, as Geoffrey and Adele were no longer involved, Sir Drake required immediate repayment of nine thousand plaqs.

  “Can you get the money? Can your father get a loan?”

  “No. Dad tried and found that no bank will lend us anything. Dad’s credit rating is ruined. There’s a lien on the house. It’s all lies. My parents have never defaulted on a debt. No one has any claim on the house. I know that Sir Drake must have arranged it. Dad talked to a solicitor. He’d have to go to court and prove that he doesn’t have any unpaid debts. I’ll be auctioned off long before that happens.”

  Irene never realized that Sir Drake was a slaver – that he increased his wealth by lending money to beautiful, naïve girls and then pressing them into slavery.

  She didn’t know that such people existed.

  “Is it terrible, being a pleasure slave?” Adele asked.

  “No. It’s not terrible. There are good parts. But it’s not a life that a beautiful girl would choose. Not someone who is in university and has a bright future.” She couldn’t tell the poor girl the worst part. Pleasure slaves lost their value before they were forty. After that, they were sold on the labor market. Labor slaves were invariably worked to death within five years – assuming that they didn’t suffer a fatal accident first. If Adele were sold, she would never see her forty-fifth birthday.

  “I want to be a teacher, not a slave,” Adele said.

  “I know, dear. I know.”

  Irene didn’t know what she could do to save the girl, but she would have to try. There was no question about that.

  * * *

  The following day was Ox’s turn in the rotation, so Irene prepped her asshole – stretching it with the butt plug and lubing it inside and out – as soon as she got out of bed. The lube didn’t last all day, so she re-applied it every hour. She didn’t especially like sitting around with a gaping, slippery asshole, but that was better than being unprepared and getting it torn open.

  He came around to bugger her at lunchtime.

  She took it like a trooper. In fact, she didn’t mind being buggered by Ox. He was good at it and she could come from the anal stimulation alone.

  “Will I see you again this evening?” she asked as he was leaving to go back to work.

  “Count on it,” he boomed.

  “I’m not only counting on it, I’m looking forward to it.” She wasn’t lying. She liked variety and had been thinking about how she might introduce more variation into her sexual interludes with her other owners. She had enslaved herself, not just to have sex more often and with more partners than she could get in marriage, but also to have more kinds of sex.

  Ox grinned in anticipation of more fun after work.

  “Would you mind if I went out for a while this afternoon?” Irene asked. “I have some errands to run. I’ll be back before four.”

  “Whatever. I won’t be back until five.”

  “I’ll be here, ready to bend over for you again.”

  After he left, she slipped into her housedress and shoes. She had been given a key to her apartment but her dress had no pockets so she wore it on a string around her neck when she was out. Because she bought her own food and supplies, she kept a bit of petty cash in her apartment. This was the first time since being enslaved that she had access to any money at all.

  Sir Drake, unlike other members of the aristocracy, spent most of his time engaging in a variety of businesses.

  His dedication to business made him exceptionally wealthy, but lowered his social status. He was one of the least-respected knights in the city.

  It was easy for aristocrats to acquire money – they were the only people who were permitted to own real estate so most of their income came from renting to commoners – but it could be tedious. Most of them hired business managers.

  Sir Drake, however, didn’t mind the tedium and managed his business personally. To make life interesting, he engaged in a much broader variety of businesses than most gentlemen. As a consequence, he had amassed a larger fortune than most lords and earls.

  His holdings were so extensive and his business enterprises so varied that he kept a suite of offices downtown.

  She carried a couple of quarter-plaq pieces to the phone booth on the corner, looked up Sir Drake’s office number and called him.

  The woman who answered the phone said that Sir Drake was unavailable but that she would pass on a message.

  Irene didn’t leave one, partly because she couldn’t leave a phone number for him to call her back, but mostly because she thought it unlikely that he would bother to return a slave’s phone call.

  “Unavailable” might mean that he was at home. She looked up his home number.

  It was outrageous for a slave to dare to call a knight at home. Calling his office was one thing, but calling him at home was another matter entirely. It would be within his rights for him to demand that her owner whip her bloody for her effrontery.

  If she made Drake angry enough, he would find out who owned her – it was easy enough for an aristocrat to consult the slave registry – and exert pressure on Jack and his friends to punish her severely. Not only did aristocrats own all the land, they ran the government. They hired the police and they paid for the courts. If an aristocrat were determined, he could force a commoner to honor almost any request, one way or another.

  Her finger trembled a little as she dialed. She was wondering if she were soon going to be beaten half to death because she made this call. But she had to do what she could to help George’s niece.

  A woman answered. She didn’t know if it was Lady Drake or a maid.

  “I’d like to speak to Sir Drake, please.”

  “May I tell him who’s calling?”

  “Irene.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line and a long silence. Then the woman said, “Irene, who?”

  “Just Irene.”

  “There is a slave called Irene.”

  Irene was known among the aristocracy as the wife of a lord who had sold herself. “Yes,” was an ambiguous answer, but Irene’s meaning was clear. She was that slave.

  “Don’t you ever call here again! You hear me? Never!” The woman’s fury was unmistakable.

  Irene doubted that a secretary would react so violently. “Please, Lady Drake. This is strictly a business matter. I wouldn’t call if I weren’t acting as an agent for someone else on a matter of some urgency.”

  Lady Drake didn’t hear the las
t half of Irene’s plea. She had already slammed the phone down.

  Irene had expected no better treatment, but she had to try.

  It was time for more direct action.

  Lady Drake had implied that Sir Drake was at home so that was where Irene had to go. His manor was on Norbit Hill, about an hour’s walk from Irene’s apartment.

  Fortunately, he lived near the base of the hill. That was expected. Generally, the higher the status of the aristocrat, the higher he lived on the hill. Sir Drake had more than enough money to afford property near the top of the hill, but buying at a high altitude took more than money. Hereditary aristocrats – lords, earls, and marquettes – owned the upper part of the hill. They passed their manors down to their heirs. It had been more than a hundred years since a manor on the high slopes had been offered for sale. All the money in the world wouldn’t let Sir Drake, or any other knight or baronet, buy a manor in the best neighborhoods.

  Though not high on the hill, his manor was imposing. It was one of the largest homes on the hill, set on three acres of verdant grounds. Irene looked at the large, ornate façade through the iron gate and remembered when the Drakes had built their home. Sir Drake had purchased six contiguous houses and torn them down to create a larger lot than any other on the lower hill. It had been the topic of considerable gossip among those who resided on smaller properties that were higher on the hill.

  The manor was Lady Drake’s trophy. Sir Drake buried his head in his ledgers while Lady Drake struggled vainly to turn his wealth into status and respect.

  He was more successful in his endeavors than she in hers.

  Irene couldn’t enter the grounds but she could see Sir Drake’s car and driver idling under the portico. She loitered outside the gate for almost an hour. Drake didn’t mind wasting gasoline.

  Finally, he emerged from the manor and jumped into the rear seat.

  When the gate opened, she stood in the drive and flagged down the car.

  She wasn’t sure that it was going to stop. It slowed to a crawl, but kept rolling forward until the bumper was pushing against her.

  She refused to jump aside so the driver’s only choice was either to stop or to run over her. Crushing a slave under his tires would have had little consequence for him – killing a slave was only a matter of finances – but it would have made a mess outside his home and Lady Drake would have been unhappy about the neighbors’ complaints.

  When the rear passenger window rolled down, Sir Drake shouted, “Lady Irene! Why are you inconveniencing me?”

  Drake resented the upper aristocracy because they refused to let him buy his way in. He called her by her former title only to humiliate her by reminding her how far she had fallen.

  She stepped around to confront him. “My deepest apologies, Sir Drake. This is not how I would choose to conduct business, but I had no other way to speak with you.”

  “You have business with me?”

  “Urgent business.”

  “I think not. I do not have urgent business with slaves. Not even with the famous former wife of Lord Fortson.”

  “Please, sir. I beg of you. Give me a minute of your time and let me explain.”

  “Do you know what a minute of my time is worth?”

  “It’s widely known that your business dealings are worth a great deal of money.”

  “So how do you intend to pay me for a minute of my time?”

  “I can offer you only my service as a pleasure slave. I have no other currency.” She should have obtained George’s permission before making the offer but she was sure that he would be happy to lend her to Sir Drake in exchange for a chance to save his niece.

  Sir Drake looked at her for a minute, judging her worth. “If you were any other slave, I’d have run you over. But having Lady Fortson on her knees, begging to pleasure me is worth a minute or two of my time. Be at my office in an hour.”

  He instructed his chauffeur to drive on.

  She would have to walk briskly to make it back downtown in time for her appointment with humiliation.

  * * *

  Despite the cool air, Irene was sweating when she entered Sir Drake’s offices. She was surprised by their size. He appeared to occupy the whole top floor of one of the new downtown office towers.

  Undoubtedly, he owned the tower itself. A real estate mogul wouldn’t rent space from another aristocrat.

  When she stepped off the elevator, a receptionist looked up from her desk and frowned. “You don’t belong here.”

  “I have an appointment with Sir Drake.”

  “I think that unlikely. But even if it’s true, you don’t belong here. Get back downstairs and go in the service entrance at the back of the building.”

  “I’ll do that next time. But now that I’m here, I’ll just slip into his office.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? Get out of here before I call security and have them remove you.”

  Irene sighed and pressed the elevator button.

  “Oh, no you don’t. Slaves don’t use the elevator. The stairs are at the end of that hallway.” She pointed an elaborately manicured finger.

  “But it’s nine stories.”

  “Ask me if I care.” The receptionist laughed. “Actually, don’t bother asking. You already know that I don’t.”

  Irene decided to rush the door. The receptionist was about her age, but she probably didn’t get as much exercise as a pleasure slave. Irene was betting that she was quicker on her feet than the receptionist.

  She took two steps in the direction that the receptionist was pointing and then dashed for the door behind her.

  The receptionist didn’t twitch. She just sat and watched Irene pull fruitlessly on the knob.

  Now that she was behind the receptionist, Irene could see the button on her desk that would unlock the door. She thought about overpowering her and pressing the button herself, but gave that idea up as a bad play. Physically attacking a free woman would get her crucified.

  There were many downsides to being tortured to death. Apart from the pain, her owners would lose property of considerable value and she would never have a chance to save George’s niece from enslavement.

  The receptionist calmly picked up the phone, pushed a button, and said, “Security, please.”

  “Don’t bother, I’m going,” Irene said and walked toward the stairs.

  She was already tired from walking to Norbit Hill and back. Climbing down nine flights of stairs, walking around the building, and climbing back up nine flights of stairs on the other side felt like it was going to kill her.

  There was a freight elevator in the back, but it required a key. She had to take the stairs.

  She was panting and her legs were burning when she finally entered Sir Drake’s offices from the service stairs. Her dress was soaked with sweat and clung to her like a second skin. Anyone who saw her would know for certain that she wore no underwear.

  There was no receptionist here, just a short hallway with several doors. She walked passed the ones marked, “File Room,” “Support Staff,” and “Supplies,” to the one marked, “Executive Suite.”

  There were two offices in the executive suite. One was marked, Sir Clay Drake and the other Geoffrey Drake. Drake was grooming his heir to take over his business one day.

  She knocked on Sir Drake’s door.

  “Come in.”

  Drake’s office was neither large nor ostentatious. It was a place of business. The desk was littered with papers and a drawer on one of the wooden file cabinets had been left open. Sir Drake’s only concession to comfort was an expensive chair. But that he could justify as a necessity because it allowed him to work longer hours.

  He put down his pen. “You’re ten minutes late.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have a watch.”

  “You’re dress is soaked.”

  “It’s sweaty. Slaves have to climb the stairs to get here.”

  “Take it off.”

  She stripped for him.

>   He stared at her body. “How low you have fallen, Lady Irene.”

  “I don’t think too much about that. I just enjoy each day as best as I can.”

  “That’s a self-indulgent remark.”

  “I’m here on behalf of one of my owners.”

  Drake didn’t wait to hear her request, but interrupted. “One of them? How many do you have?”

  “Twelve.”

  He laughed. “That must keep you as busy as a whore in a monastery. How many cocks do you have to suck every day?”

  “Not so many. I serve one man each day.”

  “Well, you can serve more than one man today.” He stood and walked around his desk to lean against the edge in front of her. “Get down on your knees and unbuckle my pants.”

  She was anxious to discuss George’s niece, but she couldn’t speak with her mouth full. She took her time giving him her best effort because she wanted his favor. She brought him to the edge of ecstasy and held him there until he couldn’t stand it any longer. After a few minutes, he grabbed her hair and began thrusting hard against the back of her throat, making her gag and gasp for breath.

  Normally when a man did that, and they almost all tried it, she opened her mouth wide to reduce the stimulation so that he couldn’t come and waited for him to release her and let her get back to work.

  This time, though, she kept licking and sucking to bring him to a quick orgasm. In less than a minute later, she was swallowing his semen and licking him clean.

  When she was finished, she stood.

  He refastened his pants and walked around his desk to sit in his chair again.

  “I want to talk about–”

  He held up a finger to interrupt her and pushed a button on the intercom on his desk. “Come into my office.”

  Irene waited to see what would happen.

  “Lean over my desk. Get your tits right down on it.”

  She did as instructed. Her ass was thrust out in the direction of the office door.

  “Spread your legs.”

  She did.

  The door opened. She glanced back and saw a handsome young man enter. She guessed his age at twenty-one or -two.