“Forty-five,” the auctioneer said. “The bid is forty-five thousand plaqs. Do I hear forty-six? Forty-six anyone?”
No one bid against the governor.
The slave quailed on the block.
The governor was a legendary host. He threw dinner parties for over a hundred couples most nights of the week. Even with a large stable of slaves to share the load, Violet would seldom have a slow night.
“Going once. Going twice. Done.” The auctioneer slapped his clapper. “Sold to the governor for forty-five thousand plaquettes sterling.”
Irene admired the governor’s fairness. He could have bid at ten thousand and no one would have bid against him, but he had waited until he was paying a fair price before entering the arena.
He had class.
The handlers stepped forward and helped the slave off the block. As soon as the governor had taken possession of her leash, he handed it to the servant who was standing beside him and then left the room. The servant, the slave, and two bodyguards followed close behind.
Irene suspected that he had chosen his purchase ahead of time and had told the auctioneer to offer it as the first lot so that he would not have to wait around while the other slaves were sold.
The handlers were already escorting the next leashed and handcuffed slave to the stage.
“Gentlemen, I offer Anise. Anise is twenty-nine years old. She was born into slavery and is well-trained in all of the necessary arts. She would make a fine addition to any man’s stable as she has much to teach less-experienced slaves. She is particularly conversant with disciplinary techniques. It has been said that a slave will never again stray from her duties once she has been corrected by Anise. Even long-time owners will learn new and exquisitely precise procedures for correcting slaves from her.”
When Anise’s back was turned to the audience, Irene could see a fine tracery of white scars covering her back like a spider’s web. She had learned disciplinary techniques from direct experience, not only from observing others.
“Will someone open the bidding at ten thousand plaqs?”
“Ten thousand!”
Irene recognized the bidder. Lord Snow was one of James’ best friends and a frequent guest in their house.
James nodded at him.
Lord Snow smiled and nodded back.
If he acquired Anise, then James would undoubtedly enjoy her body the next time Lord Snow threw a dinner party. Irene threw a nasty glance at the slave.
“Fifteen thousand?” the auctioneer asked.
As the bidding continued, Lord Snow stayed in, doggedly alternating bids with two other men.
There was a real possibility that Snow would win the bid. Irene examined the slave with renewed interest.
From the block, the slave watched the three bidders. Her posture was casual but her eyes were keen as they flicked from one man to another. She was older than most of the slaves waiting in the cages and, being born into slavery, would have been offered for sale as soon as she was of age. That meant that she had undoubtedly been sold many times. Though the procedure was old hat, her interest was intense. The course of her life would be determined by which man won the bidding.
The slave on the block could never be a disinterested party to her sale.
When the bid reached thirty-thousand, Lord Snow dropped out.
Irene’s husband would not be serviced by this woman after all.
The other bidder dropped out shortly after Lord Snow and Anise was sold to the third for thirty-two thousand.
He handlers led Anise to a scruffy-looking man wearing cheap, serviceable clothes. She didn’t try to hide the look of dismay on her face.
A man standing behind Irene whispered to another, “He owns a brothel down at the docks. She’ll have to suck a hell of a lot of sailor cock to justify a thirty-two thousand plaq investment.”
“Lucky sailors. She’ll be good at it. The brothel will charge a premium price for her services.”
Irene continued to watch while slave after slave was led to the block and auctioned off.
Sometimes James cast a bid or two and Irene’s heart leapt in fear that he would win the sale, but then he would drop out. Irene was keenly aware that every time her husband offered a bid, the slave on the block was younger and more beautiful than her.
He showed no interest in slaves that were older than Irene, even though they sold for fewer plaqs. He wasn’t looking for bargains.
The next fifteen slaves were similar to Anise. Each sold for between twenty and thirty-five thousand plaqs. None came near to Violet’s selling price of forty-five thousand.
The eighteenth slave that was led to the block was the loveliest of the day. Her hair fell in auburn waves down her back. Her skin was flawless. Her features were aesthetically proportioned and perfectly symmetrical. Her body was full and luscious.
“Gentlemen, I offer Feather,” the auctioneer said. “Feather is twenty-two years old. A daughter of the upper class. She was adjudicated into slavery last month following her conviction for the crime of assuming a false identity for the purpose of sedition. She is healthy and has never been married nor borne a child. Bidding will open at twenty-five thousand plaquettes sterling.”
A half dozen hands shot up simultaneously and stayed up while the auctioneer shouted, “Thirty-five… Forty… Forty-five…” in quick succession.
Irene understood the strategy of the auction. The auctioneer had saved the two most desirable slaves for the end to keep the audience in the room.
At fifty-five, hands began to drop but other hands entered the competition. Serious bidding began at sixty-five. Four men seemed determined to have Feather. James was one of them.
Irene was appalled. Her husband was willing to pay seventy … seventy-five … eighty thousand plaqs to own a felon. A traitor to her lord and country. Eighty-five thousand.
She stared at him as his hand snapped up every time the auctioneer shouted a higher number. Ninety. Ninety-five thousand plaqs. And he kept bidding.
Lord Snow was in the competition as well, but dropped out when the bid reached a hundred thousand plaqs.
It was a ridiculous sum.
And her husband was willing to pay it.
The last bid was a hundred and fifteen thousand plaqs. A fortune for a single slave.
The auctioneer clapped his boards. “Sold to Lord James Fortson for a hundred and fifteen thousand plaquettes sterling.”
The crowd applauded and James grinned.
Irene blushed scarlet with humiliation. Her husband had bought the most expensive whore of the day. And the most beautiful.
He would never want to come to his wife’s bed again.
The handlers brought Feather down from the stage and handed the end of her leash to James.
He sighed with satisfaction when he pulled his new slave – the convicted traitor – to stand next to his wife.
Irene couldn’t even look at her. But she was keenly aware of the slave’s full young breasts heaving with every breath that she took. Of the smell of sex and sweat that wafted off her body. Of the heat of emotion that boiled off into the air around her.
Irene wondered about her story. A daughter of the upper class, convicted of sedition. Was she the daughter of a lord? A marquette? Were she and Irene alike in any meaningful way?
James had his slave. He could leave now. But he didn’t. He was determined to stay for the last sale of the day – the nineteenth slave.
He had to know that he had humiliated his wife. Was he staying only to force her to endure her humiliation for as long as possible?
If so, it was working. The other men in the room kept glancing over at James, Feather, and her. They couldn’t resist comparing the wife with the slave. And Irene knew which one they would most like to have service them.
Lord Snow was the worst. He knew that he would be using Feather the next time that he was invited to the manor and he was almost drooling as he turned to stare at her.
The final lot was
As the bidding trailed off the auctioneer began calling increments of five hundred in a futile effort to cajole the crowd higher. No one was interested in paying more than eight-five thousand.
It was another ridiculous sum but it paled next to the hundred and fifteen that her husband had paid.
So, despite the drama of another sale at the front of the room, men were still distracted by Feather, turning to look at the highest-priced slave of the day.
Irene could stand it no more. She fled from her husband’s side.
But she did not flee back through the crowd toward the door to exit the auction house. She pushed through to the front where the auction was coming to a close.
If James wanted to see her humiliated, then she would give him the ultimate humiliation. If he would rather rut with slaves than make love to his own wife, then she would give him a slave to rut.
She would not spend another day of her life as a stuffed prop in his mausoleum.
* * *
Irene didn’t wait for the handlers to clear the last sale from the stage. The instant that the auctioneer clapped his boards and pronounced the slave sold, she bounced up the steps and walked across to confront him.
A few men in the audience were already leaving, but most noticed that a lovely young lady in a full satin skirt and bodice, her hair pinned on top of her head in an elaborate style, was approaching the auctioneer. They stopped to see what was happening.
She had been one of only three ladies at the auction so all the men had been casting curious glances at her throughout the event. Most knew her only as the wife of the man who had bought the most prized slave of the day.
But a few knew her as Lady Irene, Lord James’ wife, because they had attended the same social events.
They expected that some minor drama was about to unfold. Probably that she had a complaint about the slave that her husband had purchased and wanted a refund.
Too bad. In a slave auction all sales are final.
The auctioneer’s eyes widened in surprise. “Is there something wrong, mi’lady?”
“Tell them that the sale is not over. There is one more slave to be sold today.”
He shook his head. “No, mi’lady. Your husband bought Feather. The sale is final. If you want to sell her again, then you’ll have to bring her back next month.” There were rules against flipping a slave in the same auction. Besides, he already knew that no one in the room would pay as much for Feather as her husband had.
“I don’t want to sell Feather. I want to sell myself.”
His brows furled in confusion. “Mi’lady?”
“Yes. Me. I am offering myself for sale.”
“But you’re not a slave.”
“I will be as soon as I am sold.”
“You can’t offer yourself for sale. You have to be born into slavery, be pressed by indebtedness, or be adjudicated by a criminal court. Surely you are high born.”
“My father is High Sheriff of Calam Shire. That’s equivalent to a knight in this county.”
“You aren’t bankrupt, are you?”
“No. My husband has plenty of money. As you just saw.”
“And you haven’t committed a crime?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then no one has made you a slave. You are a free women. A lady, in fact.”
“I’m making myself a slave.” Her heart pounded and her face burned when she spoke the words.
The auctioneer stared at her for a long moment.
The men in the front were close enough to hear her words. They turned to pass the news to the men behind them. From the stage, the auctioneer could see the story pass through the audience like a gust of wind across a field of wheat. The noise level fell in the room as everyone turned to watch the stage and strained to hear what was being said.
The auctioneer was keenly interested in Irene’s offer now. There was money to be made. But proceeding would be a delicate matter.
“What does your husband say?”
“I don’t give a damn what he says. He didn’t ask me what I thought about him buying a slave. I’m not asking him what he thinks about me selling one.”
“Yourself.”
“Myself.”
“You are going to be lost to your husband.”
“If he wants me, he can buy me.”
A man near the front shouted, “Only if he outbids me!”
Another man shouted, “And me!”
The auctioneer glanced at the men and licked his lips. The commission on this sale would be substantial. “You’re a fine lady. You don’t look like a slave.”
“I will when I’m naked and chained on the block.” She turned to one of the handlers. “Bring a chain and handcuffs.”
The handler looked at the auctioneer.
The auctioneer shrugged and nodded. The handler climbed off the stage.
“You are walking through a one-way door. There’s no going back. Once you’re sold, you’ll be a slave for the rest of your life.” The auctioneer shook his head. “You’ll never be a lady again.”
“I know.”
“A slave’s life is as hard as a lady’s is soft. You’re making a bad bargain.” As much as he wanted the commission, he didn’t dare risk the accusation that he had rushed to sell an unwilling woman. He had to give her every opportunity to change her mind. Until she was sold and her choices no longer mattered.
“I know better than you what bargain I’m making. A lady’s life is no life at all. That is a fact.”
The handler returned with a chain and cuffs.
Irene’s heart was pounding with fear, but she wasn’t going to back down. She looked out into the audience and saw James standing with his latest purchase standing naked at his side.
He was staring at her with an intensity that she had never seen before. His face was red and his jaw set.
She had her husband’s full attention at last.
“This is your last chance,” the auctioneer said. “I’m warning you for your own good. Don’t do this.”
“Sell me!”
“Take your clothes off, then. I don’t sell pigs in pokes. The men have to see what they’re buying.”
Both handlers were standing behind her. She turned to them and said, “Strip me.”
One of the handlers stepped up and unfastened her top button.
“No,” she said. “Just tear it off. I’ll never wear these clothes again. I’ll never wear any lady’s clothes again.”
The handler grabbed her bodice at the neck and pulled. Buttons flew; fabric tore.
The top half of her dress gaped apart. Irene’s full breasts and erect nipples tented the thin silk camisole underneath.
The other handler ripped the cuff apart at her left wrist and then tore the sleeve open all the way up her arm and across her shoulder.
The left half of her bodice fell away.
While the first handler gave the same treatment to her right sleeve and shoulder, the second stepped behind and split the entire back of the dress from neck to ankle.
In a moment, the fine blue satin dress with white trim was nothing but a pile of rags at Irene’s feet. Only a filmy camisole protected her modesty. It didn’t do much of a job.
Each handler grabbed one side of the camisole at the neckline, front and back, and pulled. It split like tissue. A cold breeze drifted across her delicate white skin.
Irene’s breasts were hanging free for a hundred men to ogle.
All those eyes horrified her. She crossed her arms over her chest, covering them.
The handlers didn’t care about that. They grabbed her panties at the waist and pulled them apart, revealing her thatch of brown curls.
This might be the first time in centuries that an unshaved crotch had been revealed on this stage.
She pressed her legs together and dropped her right hand to cover her sex.
She whimpered as the handlers grabbed her stockings and pulled them down her legs.
She didn’t resist when the handlers raised one leg to pull her shoe and stocking off; and then did the same with the other. She would have felt foolish standing naked but for stockings pooled around her shoes. There was more dignity in complete nudity.
As soon as she was naked, the auctioneer raised his hand and the handlers released her.
“Let your hair down,” he said to her.
She turned her back to the audience, reached up, and pulled the pins from her hair. She each pin fall on the stage. Slaves did not wear their hair up. She would never need hairpins again.
The hall was so quiet that she could hear each pin drop.
When the last was pulled, her long, brown hair fell in a cascade down her back.
The handlers grabbed her wrists, forced her hands behind her back and cuffed them together. She could no longer cover herself when they turned her to face the audience again.
Her shoulders were forced back, thrusting her breasts boldly forward, and her sex was presented to the men at their eye level. She had never before been so indecently exposed, not even in her husband’s bedroom.
She had never before felt so vulnerable.
She didn’t just feel vulnerable; in all truth, she was. Before the day was over, one of the men in this room would own her. Would be doing whatever he wished to her. Would be using her sex. Would be beating her. Would be giving her to other men. Whatever. And there would be nothing in the world that she could do to change her fate now.
A handler clipped a chain about her neck. It was cold and heavy.
Before he led her across the stage, the auctioneer said, “Wait. What is your name?”
“Irene.”
“No. That’s a lady’s name. You need a slave name.”
She shrugged. “I don’t have one.”
“Then your slave name will be Flame.”
“Flame?”
“Unless your owner gives you another. You might be named Pig or Bitch something even worse before you leave this room. I’ve lost track of the number of owners who call their slaves Cunt. It’s such a boring cliché.”
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