A League of Ladies (Slave of the Aristocracy Book 5)

by Ashley Zacharias

  As the odd slave out, she knelt at his head and pushed her breasts to his face.

  He bent back to turn his face toward her and licked and sucked her tits with the care of a true connoisseur. She could tell that he was tasting her, smelling her, and judging the weight and firmness of her with his lips and tongue. He took care to assess her nipple, areole, and each side of each tit separately.

  She used her hands to position and stabilize them for his devoted ministrations.

  He expressed his positive evaluation with sighs and moans.

  While his lips and tongue were busy with her, his hands were equally busy with the other slaves’ tits. As well, he arched his back to press his own chest against the busts that were bearing down on that part of him.

  After a short time, the slave on her right – Hooters? Or was it Numnums? – pressed against her. He abandoned Irene and turned his head toward the new pair of tits.

  Irene moved aside to a new position by his chest. Each slave rotated around Lord Cranford in turn.

  A couple of rotations later, she was positioned at the left side of the lord’s crotch. She was reminded that the slave across from her was called Melons when she saw her honey-dew-sized breasts smothering the happy lord’s cock.

  She pressed her own boobs into service on her side. Melons’ face was only inches away from hers. They smiled at each other. Both women used their hands to keep their breasts positioned around the lord’s member – not such an easy task when his hips were bucking and pitching like a wild thing.

  “He’ll be coming soon,” Melons said softly. She used her right hand to grab the base of his cock and pump briskly to help him along.

  Melons was well acquainted with her owner’s physiological response. Within a few seconds he was covering Melons’ melons and Irene’s boobs in cream. It wasn’t quite as thick as it had been earlier in the day – presumably a result of having come once already – but it was impressive in its copious quantity.

  “Don’t touch the spunk,” Melons said softly.

  Irene left it sitting on the tops of her breasts while Melons took care to milk as much as possible from Cranford’s cock and then wipe it dry with her left tit.

  “Come on,” Melons said and stood up, using her hands to support her breasts. It appeared that she was keeping her breasts from drooping so that the lord’s spunk didn’t drip off.

  Irene followed her lead. Right out of the kennels and up to the manor.

  Lady Annabelle was sitting in her kitchen. “Come here, dears. Bring me my treat.”

  Irene was shocked, not because her tits were covered with the lord’s spunk, but because they were not covered by a housedress. This was the second time that she had been naked in the Cranford manor and it seemed just as wrong this time as the first.

  Melons walked directly to the lady and waited while she licked ever drop of her husband’s spunk from her tits. Then Irene provided the same service.

  Annabelle didn’t look like she was enjoying it, nor did she look like she disliked it. It was a quick bit of housekeeping. A simple chore, soon completed.

  When their tits had been licked clean, Lady Annabelle thanked the two pleasure slaves politely. They bid her goodnight and left the manor.

  Outside, Irene looked at Melons and raised an eyebrow.

  The other slave laughed. “That’s the rule in the Cranford manor. Lord Cranford’s spunk only ever ends up inside Lady Cranford. Mouth, cunt, ass, somewhere in her body. It never goes into a pleasure slave. Or, as nearly as I know, in any other woman. They’re as depraved as any couple you’ll ever meet, but they have their rule and it is iron fast.”

  “What about entertainments when she isn’t around?” Irene knew for a fact that Lord Cranford had participated in her husband’s orgies.

  “He uses condoms and pockets them to give to her afterward. I’ve seen her suck out his condoms myself. In fact, I’ve fucked her in the ass with a strap-on dildo while she cleaned out a half dozen used condoms, one after another, into her mouth.”

  “She took that monster in her ass?” Irene cringed at the thought.

  “You mean Brutus? No. She only takes that one in her cunt. She calls the one that reams out her ass, Remo. It’s about the size of an average man’s cock, but longer.”

  “I thought that I was going to split her in two with Brutus this afternoon.”

  “Don’t worry. The old lady can take it. As she said to me once, ‘Three baby heads came through my twat. That little dildo is nothing.’ That made sense to me when I thought about it. In fact, she only allows us to use Brutus on her once a month because she’s doesn’t want her twat to get slack. She likes it to give it time to tighten up as much as possible before she gets pounded by the big one again.”

  “Does Lord Cranford ever fuck her himself?”

  “I doubt that he ever has, but I don’t know for sure.”

  “They had three babies.” Irene thought that settled that question.

  “I’ve never seen him penetrate her but I have seen her empty his used condoms into her twat so maybe she impregnated herself that way. She likes dildos a lot. She has quite a collection. You should see her and Lord Cranford fucking each other in the ass with a double-ended job. I only hope that I’m half as spry when I’m their age.”

  The thought brought Irene’s mood down. Melons was voicing an impossible fantasy. Old age was but a dream for pleasure slaves. Invariably they were sold on the labor market before they were forty years old and worked to death before they were fifty.

  Irene was the only pleasure slave in Westmouth who owned herself and wouldn’t be sold on the labor market to die in misery before menopause.

  Not that she would see even middle age if Sir Drake or Geoffrey discovered where she was hiding. They would make short work of her.

  * * *

  A month passed. Irene helped fuck Lady Annabelle with a variety of dildos in a variety of orifices; and helped Lord Cranford spray his spunk about wildly, every drop of which was dutifully brought to Lady Annabelle so that she could put it inside herself.

  Irene had never imagined that a woman could be so greedy for her husband’s semen.

  On a rainy day in the last week of October, Irene decided that it was time to venture beyond the walls of the Cranford grounds. She had no hope that the Drakes would give up looking for her, but she could hope that they had relaxed their surveillance. They couldn’t have eyes everywhere in Westmouth and she could avoid any locations where she might be expected.

  She told Lord Cranford that she had some errands to run.

  He put his car and driver at her disposal. He didn’t need them for the afternoon. He was playing cards with Lady Annabelle and two guests, Baronet Lazard and his wife, Dame Toby.

  The Lazards were not beloved by peerage, being a pair of highly-opinionated windbags who had little interest in hearing anyone else’s thoughts. They were quite delighted to be invited to spend a private afternoon with a couple in a higher social class than them.

  They didn’t know that Lady Annabelle was wearing no underwear and that a rather large, lubricated butt plug had been placed on her chair. When the Lazards arrived at the front door, she had settled herself on it with a loud groan. Lord Cranford had shown the guests into the library and apologized for his wife. He told them that she couldn’t rise to greet them as her gout was acting up.

  In fact, she wouldn’t be able to rise again until the Lazards took their leave.

  As Lord Cranford showed unflagging interest in the baronet’s suggestions for many bizarre new edicts that he thought the Assembly of Lords should consider passing and because Lady Annabelle was much too gracious to hurry the game along, she could anticipate enjoying a long and decidedly uncomfortable afternoon of having her asshole stretched to the limit and her colon well filled.

  Any soft, involuntary groans that escaped her lips would be attributed to her gout. The Lazards would accept her apologies, remain oblivious to her distress, and never think to take t
heir leave early. Their lack of consideration for others was the only reason that they had been invited.

  This perversion, not hearts, was the game that the Cranfords enjoyed the most.

  Irene’s first stop was at her bank to cash a cheque and her second, a garment shop where she could purchase a soft green, hooded cloak. That would both protect her from the rain that was drizzling down and hide her face if anyone happened to see her from the side or back.

  She was comfortable with the Cranfords and took a certain pleasure in their depraved games, even though her sleep was often interrupted when Lord Cranford wanted a late night titty bath or some other amusement. But she didn’t want to spend her life in suspended animation. She had goals, now, and was eager to see them accomplished.

  She needed, first, to educate herself better about slavery. When the time came to approach the most influential lords, she had to know what she was talking about or she would never be taken seriously.

  She had Lord Cranford’s driver drop her off at the university and instructed him to return in two hours.

  Professor Krauss didn’t own her now. He was a sadist who had tortured her in terrible ways for three months before he had sold her to a consortium of a dozen commoners. But she didn’t hate him for the torture sessions. They had been endurable and had only been administered every week or two.

  In fact, she had eventually become his collaborator in an art exhibition of torture devices.

  He, in turn, didn’t hate her for what he believed was a betrayal of his friendship. Though he didn’t know exactly why his friend was no longer willing to be in the same room as Irene, he had to accept it as reality. The solution to his problem had been to sell her. But he had sold her only after punishing her terribly by dunking in ice water every ten minutes for ten straight hours. She had survived that ordeal only by her unflagging determination not to let herself drown.

  “Irene,” he said when she entered his office, “have you come for another few hours of bathing? Or maybe and extended ride on a Spanish horse?”

  “No, thank you,” she replied. “I’m quite clean enough and found that I could never gallop away on your horse.”

  “Maybe, then, you have an idea for a brand new torture device?” That possibility interested him more than anything.

  “I haven’t been thinking about it, but I could probably come up with something if I put my mind to it.”

  “Then, please, put your mind to it.”

  He waited patiently while she thought for a minute. “Spiders. Most people hate spiders. They don’t have to be poisonous. Lock a slave in a glass box filled with big, ugly spiders. Bind her hands and feet so that she can’t kill them, or even brush them off of herself.

  He smiled. “I bet you’d really hate that.”

  “It would be horrible. She’ll scream herself hoarse.”

  “If I build it, would you like to give it a try?”

  “No.”

  He laughed. “It’s a pity that I don’t own you any more.”

  “You can’t have everything.”

  “So who owns you now? I could buy you again.”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m owned by a trust. I’m not going to be sold again.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’m the manager of the trust and I’m not offering myself for sale.”

  He thought about that for a minute. “I’ve never heard of anything like that before. You’re still a slave, though?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re permitted to manage the trust that owns you?”

  “That’s right. That was the first duty that the trust assigned to me after it bought me.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “As nearly as I know, it’s never happened before. Which is why I came here. I want to learn more about slavery. Especially its history, philosophy, and legal basis. I was wondering if you could introduce me to some faculty who are conversant with the subject.”

  The professor nodded. “Elaine Preston and Mike Cable. They’ve collaborated for years on the legal history of slavery. If there’s something that they don’t know, they’ll be able to tell you who does.”

  “Will you introduce me to them?”

  “What will you do for me?”

  “I already suggested the spider box.”

  “If I build it, will you spend ten minutes in it?”

  “No.”

  “Five minutes?”

  “Not even one second.”

  The professor smiled. “Pity. But you can’t blame me for trying.” He picked up his phone and dialed. “Beatrice, would you get Professor Preston or Cable on the phone for me?”

  After a minute of waiting and transferring calls, the professor said, “Elaine, Ragnar here. I have someone who would like to meet you and Mike. … A slave called Irene. … That’s right. She’s the one. … Thanks.” He hung up the phone. “She wants to meet with you now if you have the time.” He gave Irene directions to an office in the next building and sent her on her way.

  * * *

  Elaine Preston looked like an academic. She was in her late thirties, pretty but not beautiful. She was short with a round face and clear skin, made pale by lack of makeup. Her eyes were a startling pale green – a shade of green that Irene had never seen before.

  She wore her dark hair short, ironically aping some young working-class women who wanted to bare the nape of their neck to show that they had no slave tattoo but who didn’t want to spend time on the elaborate up-dos that the aristocrats wore.

  “I’m Irene.”

  “You are the pleasure slave formerly known as Lady Irene Fortson.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m delighted to meet you. Professor Cable will be joining us in a moment. Please have a seat.” She gestured to a chair by her desk.

  Irene sat.

  “Is it true that you voluntarily sold yourself into slavery?”

  “Yes.”

  “You weren’t coerced by your husband? Or adjudicated in some secret court proceeding?”

  “No. It was strictly my own idea. I went to an auction with my husband. It was the first time that I’d ever been to an auction. At the end of the sale, on impulse, I climbed up on the auction block and told the auctioneer to sell me, too. He did.”

  “Astounding.” A man, maybe seven or eight years younger than Professor Preston walked into the office. “I’m Mike.”

  “Irene.” She offered her hand.

  He shook it firmly. “Why did you do such an extraordinary thing?”

  “Like I said, it was an impulse.”

  “But what were you thinking?” Elaine asked.

  “I was thinking that my husband would buy me.”

  Elaine and Mike looked at each other, then back at Irene.

  “Really?” Elaine said. “You thought that your husband would bid on you? In a public auction?”

  “I was naïve,” Irene answered.

  “Astounding,” Mike said again.

  “Who did buy you?” Elaine asked.

  Irene spent a good amount of time telling the two about her history as a pleasure slave. She didn’t bother with the details of her various sexual experiences but did explain enough that the two academics understood how different each of her owners had been.

  When she told about being sold to the consortium of commoners, Professor Preston interrupted her. “I’d like to hear more about that. It’s happened before that commoners have banded together to buy a slave, but it’s rare. Maybe it’s happened a dozen times in the last fifty years.”

  “It might be a little more common than we think,” Mike said. “There’s no legal way for a slave to be owned by more than one man so it’s impossible to know how often it happens from looking at registration records. Mostly we have to infer it from cases where a man of insufficient means has owned a slave for a period of time. Most of those cases are men who prostitute the slave to raise the funds to support her, but sometimes it is a real consortium like in your
case.”

  “None of your owners ever rented you out, did they?” Elaine asked.

  “Never. Except when my service as an entertainment director was offered in exchange for some consideration. That was never for money and it never required that I have sex with anyone myself, only that I organize sexual activities for other slaves.”

  Mike shrugged at Elaine. “That’s not prostitution under any definition of the term.”

  “No.” Elaine looked back at Irene. “Do you know of any other cases where commoners formed an economic union to buy a slave?”

  “No.”

  “Did these men own any other slaves before you? As a group, I mean.”

  “No. I was their first. They found it too expensive to keep me so I don’t think that they’ll ever do it again.”

  “What do you know about their finances?”

  “I kept their books for them. I know all about it.”

  “Extraordinary,” Mike said. “I’d like to hear a lot more about that.”

  Elaine smiled. “Mike has a special interest in the economics of slave ownership. But before we get sidetracked by minutia, we’d like to hear the rest of your story. Who bought you from the consortium?”

  Irene had to tell them about rescuing Adele from Sir Drake so that they would understand why Drake wanted to buy her to kill her. Then she had to explain about still being married to Lord Fortson and how he had set up a trust fund with the money that Lady Irene had been paid in the instant before she became Slave Irene. “So then the previous manager of the trust fund instructed that I assume the duties of manager. I don’t exactly own myself, but I’ve been given complete and irrevocable control over myself.”

  She paused and waited for a reaction from the professors.

  They sat staring at her in stunned silence for the longest time. Then they both began speaking at once.

  “You’re a slave but nobody owns you? I mean nobody can give you orders?” Mike tried to say but was drowned out by Elaine saying, “You’re legally married? Do you live with your husband? In the manor or in his kennels?”