Slave of the Aristocracy: Book One – On the Auction Block

by Ashley Zacharias

  Slave of the Aristocracy, Book One:

  On the Auction Block

  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.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy.

  Lord James Fortson closed the door softly; his tread was light on the tile.

  Careful as he was, he could not return quietly enough to slip past Lady Irene. She had brought her embroidery into the laundry and had been listening intently as she filled areas with satin stitches and accented them with French knots.

  When his silhouette passed the open door, she said, “Hello, James.”

  Her voice was demure but her clear enunciation carried.

  He stepped back to peer into the laundry. “Lady Irene. What on earth are you doing in there?”

  She hated it when her husband called her Lady Irene. It made her feel like a prop whose only purpose was to support his position as Lord of Abeis Manor. “Embroidering a pillow for the drawing room.” She held up the hoop. “It’s an ugly duckling. I’m going to illustrate the fable of the ugly duckling on two pillows. The other one will be the swan. I’m going to put one on each end of the love seat.”

  He stepped into the room. “No. I mean why are you sewing in the laundry? Why aren’t you in the parlor? Or the library, at least?”

  “Embroidering, not sewing.” Did her husband think her common that she would spend time mending clothes? “I like the light here. The southern exposure gives me better light before noon. When the sun passes the zenith, then I’ll move to the drawing room.”

  “The light?”

  “I need a good light for such fine work,” she said.

  He looked doubtful. “You could use a lamp. We have lots of lamps in the library.”

  “Natural light is better. It’s a sunny day. I want to enjoy the sun while I can.” There were too many overcast days by the Western Sea. Sometimes she thought that she should have stayed in Calam Shire. It was colder in the high desert, but had more sunny days.

  “Where is Sud? The one who does the laundry?”

  “I sent her back to her quarters. Didn’t you see her out there?”

  James had the decency to blush. “No.”

  At least he didn’t deny that he’d been to the slave kennels. And he might be telling to truth about not seeing Sud. She was old, nearly forty, and likely to stay out of sight when James was about. That would be easy because he wouldn’t go out of his way to look for her; he was far more interested in the younger slaves – Cinnamon and Velvet.

  After spending most of the morning with those two, he would have no interest in coming to Irene’s bed tonight. As usual.

  Irene sometimes wondered why she thought about sex so much when she experienced it so little. Four years ago, when James had proposed, she had imagined that she was about to embark on a lifetime of sexual adventure. That she would spend half her days entertaining her husband in their marital bed. She had been so naïve.

  The reality was the opposite of her youthful fantasies. She was no longer the virgin that James had married but she had been living a life of near chastity in her own house since returning from their honeymoon.

  She knew that men who owned slaves took satisfaction from them – that was the way of the world – but she never guessed that women who weren’t even human, just pieces of property, could push a wife’s love aside so easily.

  Cold marital beds weren’t something that ladies discussed over coffee. Ladies didn’t talk openly about sex. But she could tell from glances avoided and soft innuendo that her experience was typical of wives in her social class.

  “I’m going out,” James said. “I’ll be back for dinner.”

  “Are you going to the auction house?” she asked.

  James looked hard at her for a moment. He had not expected such an indelicate question his wife. He decided to tell the truth. “Yes.”

  Irene wasn’t surprised. James assumed a certain air for a few days before he was about to trade in a slave. He didn’t keep a large kennel so he grew bored quickly and traded one in every few months. If he didn’t go to the auction today, then he’d have to wait until next month to upgrade his stable. “Velvet?” she asked. Cinnamon was the newest and youngest by a couple of years so he was less likely to be tired of her. And he wouldn’t trade in Sud because she was the only one who knew how to cook and do the laundry properly. He would find the manor less comfortable without her.

  But he wouldn’t keep her forever. Some day, maybe soon, he would have her train a replacement and then he’d sell her, too. No man kept a slave who was over forty.

  “No,” he said. “I’m thinking about adding a fourth to the kennel.”

  “A fourth?”

  “There’s enough cells and a man of stature needs to be able to entertain properly. I don’t want Cinnamon and Velvet to be overworked.”

  He was trying to shock her; answer her indelicate question with far more information than a lady should have. He knew that Irene would understand what he was saying when he referred to his slaves being overworked. He didn’t mean cooking and cleaning. The slaves only served in the house when they were not hosting guests. When guests were invited to the manor for dinner, which was two or three times most weeks, temporary staff were hired to clean, cook, and serve.

  On those nights, the slaves were kept in the kennel because they couldn’t be trusted to be presentable in polite company.

  At least, that was the fiction that was maintained so that the wives could pretend that they didn’t know about the slaves’ real duties – the services that they offered to the gentlemen when they retired to the billiard room after dinner.

  Ladies weren’t supposed to know that the machines – dishwashers, automatic vegetable choppers, roasters, self-propelled floor cleaners, clothes washers and dryers – performed so much of the daily household tasks that a single slave could maintain an entire manor-house and still have time on her hands.

  The polite fiction was that a staff of slaves – all young females – were necessary to assist the machines, even on days when only the lord and lady were in residence.

  Irene put her embroidery aside. “I want to come.”

  James cocked his head. “Come where?”

  “To the auction house?”

  “It’s no place for a lady.”

  “Ladies aren’t banned. I know some ladies who go and help their husbands choose slaves. Lady Annabell from Fulford does. And I think Lady Fern goes sometimes as well.” Annabell in particular liked to shock the other ladies by referring obliquely to her trips to the auction house with her husband.

  James pursed his lips. “Lady Annabell is old. Sixty, at least. She wants… She wants the best for Lord Fulford. He’s made some … unfortunate purchases in the past. She’s a good judge of a slave’s temperament. And Lady Fern… Well, you know Fern. She’s a little… odd. She…” He paused, trying to find the right words.

  Irene smiled. Fern was a sadistic lesbian who chose her own companions. She needed slaves who were robust enough to endure a considerable amount of torture. But James couldn’t say that about a lad
y. Not explicitly. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not like Fern. I just want to see the process. See how you select someone who will be best able to help around the house. I won’t interfere. I won’t even offer advice. I’ll keep my eyes open and my mouth shut.”

  James looked like he wanted to object, but couldn’t figure out how to do it. He couldn’t say that he was looking for the sexiest bitch on the block for his kennel. That he was looking for a slave who could service a half-dozen men in an evening and look like she loved being used by every one of them.

  Irene walked over to her husband and took his arm. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  He had no choice but to take her with him.

  * * *

  The walls were rough-hewn planks and the floor, which was worn smooth by generations of slave buyers, was littered with sawdust. The auction house had stood in the center of town for generations, a crude reminder of a barbarous past that stubbornly resisted the encroachment of the refined civilization that slowly had blossomed around it.

  It was a man’s place. Irene counted only three women other than herself among the hundred men who were standing under the muted house lights.

  She did not include the slaves in her count, of course. Slaves are property, not people.

  The slaves were confined in small cages arranged along the north wall. Only nineteen of the two dozen were occupied. The slaves had to stand because the cages were too small for them to sit or crouch. All were young; most were less than thirty, the oldest maybe thirty-five. All were beautiful. Their long hair was artfully teased fall in wild and passionate disarray over their shoulders and down their backs. Their makeup was heavy and obvious but applied expertly. And all were naked. Their bodies were trim and fit, round where they should be round and firm where they should be firm.

  Irene had never seen a naked slave. When they came to the house or ran errands on the street, they were clothed in a standard simple housedress. James, on the other hand, probably saw them naked far more often than clothed. Unless he had them wear special clothes in the kennel. She didn’t know. A lady never went inside a slave kennel. Ladies were supposed to pretend that they barely knew that the kennels existed.

  Irene stayed close to James when he inspected the lots. She said nothing but she examined the slaves as avidly as he did.

  The cages were separated from each other and placed away from the wall so that prospective buyers could walk around and examine each slave from all angles.

  James, like the other men, examined their bodies minutely. Some had whip marks, though none was too severely scarred. All had excellent posture. None had body hair.

  James was not the only man to breathe heavily as he viewed the wares.

  Irene looked at the slaves’ faces. Demure or defiant, it didn’t matter. Each face betrayed tiny, tell-tale signs of fear. A tick here, a twitch there. A mouth drawn tight, a glance avoided. A quiver of the hand. A trickle of sweat. A breath caught when a gentleman’s stare was intense enough to indicate that he was a likely bidder in the coming auction.

  These slaves looked alive. Primal and bestial. Keenly aware of every minute detail of their situation.

  Irene felt the sharp contrast between their excitement about their dark, dangerous futures and the ennui of her own mundane daily life. Seeing the intensity of the slaves’ emotions made her feel like she had been embalmed while still alive. Her husband’s manor was her mausoleum.

  She understood why James spent time in the slave quarters every day. The slaves’ raging emotions were contagious. Just standing near them made her feel energized. And her husband did a lot more than just stand close to his slaves when he visited his kennel. He went there to become one with them for a few minutes. When he was inside them, he would share their vitality.

  She never had a moment in her day when she felt as alive as she did when she was just standing here in the presence of these slaves. Even when she and James entertained, her delicate conversation with the other ladies was more eulogy than celebration. No lady of significant rank dared ever expose her real thoughts and feelings for fear that they would be used in a whispering campaign behind her back. Ladies of rank devoted their time and effort to improving their social status by climbing over the wreckage of other ladies’ reputations. That was the duty that a wife owed to her husband.

  “Gentlemen, it is time for the first lot. Take your places, please.” The amplified voice echoed off the walls.

  The auctioneer stood alone on the low stage, a platform twenty feet wide and ten feet deep. A two-foot-high block, three feet square, was mounted in the center of the stage.

  There was no microphone visible; his voice was amplified by some means that had been hidden from sight.

  Two large men herded the customers away from the cages. They wore red tank tops that exposed bulging muscle and had coiled whips hanging from their belts. They had the air of men who were not to be crossed.

  Irene followed James through the shuffling crowd. He found a place to stand in the center of the hall. All the buyers turned to face the stage.

  The arithmetic was obvious. A hundred men were eager to buy one of only nineteen slaves. At least eighty-one of them would have to leave the hall empty-handed. More if someone bought more than one slave.

  Irene hoped that James would be one of that disappointed majority. She had little interest in seeing her husband buy yet another slave to service his lust.

  Not when she was available and eager to satisfy him. That he visited his slaves in the day and never visited her bedroom in the night was a cruel rejection. She wondered what a slaves could do for him that she couldn’t.

  As soon as the crowd had cleared the area around the slave cages, the men in red tank tops – the slave handlers – opened the first cage. One of the men clipped a chain around the slave’s neck while the other one pulled her wrists behind her back and snapped handcuffs on them.

  They used the chain about the slave’s neck as a heavy leash to lead her to the stage. As she mounted the platform, the auctioneer said, “Gentlemen, I offer Violet. Twenty-three years old and healthy. This is her first sale. She was pressed into slavery this summer when she was unable to make payments on her debts. Her purchase price will be divided among her creditors. She has never been married and never born a child.”

  While the auctioneer spoke, the handlers led the slave across the stage twice, having her turn about so that the audience could see her both back and front.

  She was trying to be brave, but her steps looked uncertain. Irene feared that her legs might give way and she might collapse on the stage at any moment.

  The handlers took her to the raised block. They held her upper arms to make sure that she did not stumble and fall off when she mounted the steps at the back.

  As soon as the handlers stepped back, the auctioneer cried, “I will open the bidding at ten thousand. Who will offer ten thousand plaquettes sterling for Violet?”

  Several hands shot into the air.

  The auctioneer didn’t bother trying to figure out who had the bid. “Fifteen thousand. Do I hear fifteen-thousand plaqs?”

  More hands.

  “Twenty?”

  This time there were only two hands.

  “Twenty-five?”

  One hand.

  “Thirty?”

  A different hand.

  Bidding slowed after thirty-five thousand plaqs and the auctioneer reduced his increments to a thousand plaqs at a time. Irene could see bidders shaking their heads and dropping out.

  The auctioneer began interspersing encouraging comments between bids. “She has never felt the sting of the lash. … Discipline will be easy with this one. … She is highly intelligent and has a university degree. … You can quickly train her to meet your specialized requirements.”

  There were some knowing snickers from the audience at that last comment and someone bid thirty-nine thousand plaqs.

  Irene was astounded. Thirty-nine thousand was a lot of money. More than a
skilled laborer would earn in a year.

  Had James paid that much for the three slaves that he owned?

  “Do I hear forty thousand?”

  No hands were raised. “Thirty-nine thousand and five hundred?”

  James raised his hand. It was the first time that he had bid.

  Irene stared at him in shock. She knew that he bought slaves. He had come here to buy one today. But she wasn’t prepared for the reality that now presented itself.

  “I have thirty-nine thousand and five hundred. Do I hear forty-thousand?”

  She looked up at the slave standing on the block. Twenty three years old. She was five years younger than Irene. And beautiful. More beautiful than her? Irene knew that she would never look into a mirror again without comparing her face to the faces of her husband’s slaves.

  Her heart pounded.

  “Forty-one thousand,” a voice called from the crowd. A grossly overweight man in his fifties raised his hand. His shirt was stained yellow in the armpit.

  The slave looked at the new bidder. Irene was sure that she saw a slight shudder. The obvious had never occurred to her – that a slave would care who owned her. Not that it made any practical difference. The man who was willing to pay the most was the man who would own the slave, no matter his personal hygiene.

  She glanced at James. He was one of the youngest and most attractive men in the room.

  If she were a slave, she would want to be owned by James.

  Especially considering that his slaves received far more of his attention than his wife.

  “Do I hear forty-two thousand? Forty-two thousand plaqs for this fine new slave?”

  “Forty-five!” A new voice joined the mêlée. A dapper man in his seventies casually waved at the auctioneer. His suit was silk and he wore a beaver top hat. The Governor of Arctus was in attendance. Irene recognized him from the television news. Some day, she would undoubtedly meet him in person, but that day had not yet come.