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

by Ashley Zacharias

  There was a scattered round of polite applause.

  “Next, we have one slave with one vote, five with two votes, and three with three votes. It seems that they could have tried harder but they did not fail so badly that they merit punishment.”

  There was a brief pause while Thorn walked down the line, and then Flame felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “That, gentlemen, leaves a tie. These two slaves have each earned six votes. We must break the tie. All those gentlemen who voted for one of the other slaves must now vote for one of these two. We won’t bother with the markers. We’ll vote now with a show of hands.”

  Thorn raised Flame’s hand high above her head.

  “Gentlemen, how many of you believe that this slave, the one marked with a K was Lady Irene? Raise your hand. Even if you already marked her belly, you have to raise your hand now, to be counted again.”

  There was a pause before Thorn returned her hand to her side and released it.

  “And the other slave, who was marked with an M?”

  Flame struggled to understand. If they had been arranged alphabetically, then she would have been the eleventh slave in the line. That was consistent with what she had believed when they were being lined up – that only one slave was in line after her, the one marked with an L. So where had the M come from?”

  It didn’t matter.

  “The winner, gentlemen, is Slave K!” Thorn raised Flame’s hand high. “She will be punished for receiving the most votes, six in the first round, and a full twenty in the second.”

  There was a round of enthusiastic applause.

  Her stomach sank.

  “In the tradition of the ancients, this slave will be crucified.”

  Flame felt like she was going to collapse. Crucifixion was a death penalty.

  “But not to the death,” Thorn said. “That can take days. Only for half an hour. But, let me assure you that even a half hour of our crucifixion will be agonizing. It will be the longest half hour this slave has ever experienced.”

  Flame wasn’t going to be killed, but she was left quivering in fear. She didn’t want to experience agony.

  But she was a slave. What she did or did not want didn’t matter a whit. She was going to be crucified and that was that.

  * * *

  Flame stumbled as she was pulled away from the wall and the other slaves. Strong hands held her by her upper arms. These weren’t Thorn’s hands. Handlers had been brought into the room.

  She didn’t resist. It would have been futile. These men were far stronger than her. Fighting them would only earn another punishment. Maybe an extra hour of crucifixion.

  A dozen steps to the middle of the room and she was stopped. Her right arm was stretched away from her body and her hand was placed around a thick metal bar. A handle of some kind. She understood that they wanted her to grab it so she did. A leather strap was wrapped around her fingers so that she could not open her hand and release the handle. Then the same was done on the other side so that her arms were loosely outstretched. She heard the ratcheting of some mechanism that pulled the handles apart. It stopped when her elbows were straight and her arms were stretched as far as they could be extended without pain. Yet.

  Thorn narrated. “Instead of the traditional cross, this slave will be crucified on a steel frame. She will have no support behind her. Instead of suspending her by her wrists, we are going to suspend her by her hands. There’s less risk of nerve damage that way. I hope that you appreciate our consideration for our delicate flower.”

  There was gentle laughter from the audience.

  Thorn was quite a card.

  The handles that Flame was forced to grip began to rise. When her hands were higher than her head, they put pressure on her shoulders. Pain flared sharp and hard as her joints began to take her weight.

  “The reason for crucifixion is that the slave has her hands stretched to the side rather than overhead. In this position, the slave’s shoulder joints are bearing her body weight in a direction that they were not designed for. The stress of her weight will cause more pain than you can imagine.”

  Flame whimpered as her heels left the ground. Her arms continued to rise and stretch until she had to stand on tiptoe.

  Even when she strained her calves to the limit, she couldn’t raise herself high enough to relieve the stress on her shoulders.

  It had only been a minute and the pain was already severe.

  “The slave now faces a dilemma. If she relaxes her legs, her weight will be supported entirely by her arms. She risks dislocating her shoulder joints. But her legs will not support her forever. She will spend the next half hour, struggling to maintain a balance between how much she can afford to strain her calves and how much weight her shoulders can tolerate. It does not help that breathing is difficult in this position because her rib cage is raised and her diaphragm is stretched.”

  Flame was beginning to feel the truth of that last assertion. She had to try to rise higher on her toes to gasp for every breath.

  “I will now start the clock.”

  Good god, Flame thought, I’m already hurting something awful and she hasn’t started the clock yet.

  “Gentlemen, you have half an hour to enjoy your drinks and to take advantage of all the slaves who remain here to serve you. If any of you would like to fondle our crucified slave, she won’t try to stop you.”

  There was more light laughter from the gentlemen.

  Flame was barely aware of the clinking of ice in drinks and discussion of further wagers. None of the slaves had been unmasked yet, so the gentlemen still did not know if it was the former Lady Irene who was suffering crucifixion or some other slave. Serious money was being put at risk over her identity.

  She could not remain stationary. She had to keep raising herself higher to breathe then sinking as low as her shoulders could tolerate to rest her calves. But she could never sink low enough for her heels to touch the floor.

  Every time she exhaled, she groaned.

  After a time, she felt increased pressure on her shoulders and had to raise herself a little further. Oh, god! Someone was adjusting the height of the handles that trapped her hands to make certain that she was in exactly the optimal position to experience the most stress possible.

  Taking the next breath required an even greater struggle.

  She was still hooded. She had no idea how many men were clustered around her nor how close they stood until she felt a hand begin to massage her breast.

  “I love a suffering slave.”

  She recognized the voice. This was the gentleman who had tricked her with the false promise of marriage.

  The hand moved down to her belly. Stretched taut with her ribcage pulled high, her belly was concave above her hips.

  “I’m in love with you, right now, you know,” the voice said.

  The hand moved around to cup her buttock, which was clenched into a small, hard melon as she struggled to stay on her toes.

  “Lord Hoffman is to be commended for arranging such a beautiful entertainment.”

  Another pair of hands began stroking her calves. “Wow,” another voice said, “her calves are like knots of solid wood and it’s only been five minutes. They’ll feel like concrete before this is over.”

  She sobbed and struggled to suck more air. Five minutes. It had only been five minutes. She was going to die before a half hour was over. The pain alone would kill her.

  The hands on her calves continued to feel how her muscles worked as she raised and lowered herself.

  She tried shifting her weight to her left foot to give her right rest, but she couldn’t support herself on only one foot. The effort increased the strain on her shoulders. The pain was so intense that she wasted precious air to scream and had to struggle to take another breath.

  “Lovely,” the first voice said. “I could feel that scream right through her tits.”

  A new voice said, “Let me help you out, dear.”

  A hand shoved b
etween her legs to push three fingers into her cunt. Another hand parted her nether cheeks to shove two fingers into her asshole.

  Then she was lifted by cunt and asshole. Not off the ground, and not really by her cunt – those fingers put most of the pressure on her pubic bone, painfully crushing her clit – but it was enough to help a little. For the moment, she did not need to put so much weight on her feet or her shoulders. Despite feeling like her asshole was about to be torn asunder, she took the opportunity to gasp a great gulp of air. It was the best breath that she’d drawn since the crucifixion had begun.

  The hands in her crotch fell away and her shoulders protested the return of her full body weight. Waves of agony surged through her chest.

  She cried aloud and someone laughed.

  She never realized how well men could be entertained by the suffering of a woman.

  Hands drew away to be replaced by new hands and new voices marveled at the rigidity of her muscles.

  Her ordeal continued, on and on. She was caught in a timeless dark eternity of unbearable pain. Pain that she had to bear, regardless.

  Her legs were quivering uncontrollably. Sweat was pouring over her ribs. Her mask was soaked with tears.

  She felt like she was dying. She hoped that she was dying. She would welcome that sweet oblivion.

  A voice said, conversationally, “Fifteen minutes. She’s already half-way through her punishment. This doesn’t seem so bad. It’s not as severe as a good, harsh caning.”

  Only fifteen minutes! She couldn’t endure another quarter hour of this. She had already used every ounce of strength in her body. Her legs were quivering uncontrollably every time she had to exert effort and take another breath.

  Not so bad, he said? She’d take a caning over this any day. She would have told the man so, but that wouldn’t save her a minute of this ordeal. It would only earn her a punishment for breaking her silence. If she spoke, she’d probably earn a caning to be administered after the crucifixion was complete. But she had not forgotten that she had already earned another punishment to be administered after the crucifixion. The one that her owner had to authorize. The one that she had earned simply by having once been a lady.

  Her calves were almost numb. She could barely feel them.

  “I don’t know about that,” a voice replied to the previous comment. “This seems pretty bad to me. Look at the bitch sweat.” Fingers gently caressed the corduroy skin on her ass. “She’s been caned before. She knows what that feels like. Let’s ask her.” A hand slapped her lightly on her masked cheek. “Hey, you in there, we have a question. Which is worse? A dozen strokes of a cane or a half hour of crucifixion? If you had to choose one or the other, which one would you pick?”

  She didn’t answer. She just hung her head and suffered.

  “Answer me.”

  She shook her head, wearily.

  Someone laughed. “She’s still mute.”

  “Nod if you’d take a caning and shake your head if you’d take crucifixion.”

  She nodded slowly.

  Laughter. “I told you. She’d take a caning over this.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m pretty sure that this has made her sorry that she wasn’t a better slave, anyway. Aren’t you? Don’t you wish that you’d served us better during the evening?”

  She didn’t bother trying to reply. She had served every man in every way she could.

  Her legs gave out. She simply couldn’t support herself any longer. Her shoulders blazed in pain at the increased weight and she gasped.

  She struggled to get her feet back under her and relieve the pain but her legs wouldn’t work any more. All she could do was hang in place and struggle for every shallow breath.

  In a fog, she kept trying to let go of the handles that kept her arms outstretched, but her fingers wouldn’t work. She tried and tried, forgetting that leather straps wound around and around to hold them in place.

  She had to get more air. Fighting against excruciating pain, she forced her calf muscles to raise her on her toes one more time.

  She managed to fill her lungs again.

  By now, she was hardly aware of the hands that keep caressing her body, squeezing her breasts, shoving fingers into her crotch, and, worst of all, stroking her arms to appreciate, vicariously, the stress that was pulling her muscles into tight, hard bundles of steel cables.

  The pain was beyond excruciating.

  Someone put a hand under her chin and raised her head to kiss her on the lips. She took advantage of the hand and forced her chin down against his strong grip. She managed to take a few pounds of weight off her shoulders that way.

  Every ounce was precious, now.

  Suddenly, all hands were removed from her body. Someone was saying something, but a roar in her ears drowned the words.

  Then, a miracle. Her heels touched the floor. Then her hands dropped lower and lower.

  Her legs could barely hold her, they were shaking so badly.

  Strong hands unwrapped the leather from around her right hand. Her fingers were so stiff that a handler had to unbend them far enough to remove her hand from the steel dowel.

  A man, one of the handlers, grabbed her arm to keep her steady while her left and was unwrapped and removed from that handle, too.

  She was no longer being crucified. She lowered her arms to her sides and sagged in the handlers’ grip.

  Inside the mask, she wept in relief.

  They forced her to step out of the crucifixion frame.

  Her calf muscles refused to work properly and she had to shuffle along the floor flat-footed.

  “Gentleman,” Thorn said, “that is how you punish a slave.”

  The applause was thunderous.

  When it died away, she said, “Now, the moment that you have all been waiting for. Is this the lady who sold herself into slavery?”

  There was a long dramatic silence.

  “I can tell you that this slave is named Flame.”

  Some muttering from the audience.

  “A suitable name for a slave, don’t you think?”

  More muttering.

  “But what was her name before she became a slave?”

  Silence.

  “Here is the key to her collar.”

  There was a moment of shuffling and then Flame felt fingers at the back of her neck. A moment later, the buckles unfastened, the collar dropped to the floor.

  Hands turned her around so that her back was to the audience. The black numbers forever tattooed on the nape of her neck were now visible to all.

  “This slave is registered six-one-one-zero, three-one-zero-nine, five-six-five-seven.”

  Two zippers, one on each side of her head, were pulled from the back to the top of her forehead. The mask dropped to the floor and her hair cascaded down her back. The light was painfully bright. She blinked away tears and saw a wall.

  Hands stoked a few stray locks off her face.

  “Gentleman, I present Flame–”

  She was turned to face the audience.

  A roar of appreciation drowned out the rest of Thorn’s sentence.

  “–the slave formerly known as the Lady Irene Fortson, wife of Lord James Fortson.”

  Flame looked at the audience in misery. Most of the faces were familiar, many were very familiar.

  When the hubbub faded and Thorn could be heard again, she said, “The slave, Flame, was not able to hide among the other slaves. You found her out. Congratulations. The six men whose names are inscribed upon her belly will each be given a gold medal that was struck for tonight’s event.” Thorn held up a small golden coin.

  There was polite applause.

  “And, because she was unable to fulfill properly her duties as a slave, Flame has lost the right to her slave name. She will no longer be known as Flame. Her owner has agreed that, from this day forward, she will be known as the slave, Irene.”

  Flame – now, once again, Irene – was horrified. Slaves had slave names. They never had a lad
y’s name. It was unthinkable to give a piece of property a person’s name. There were other ladies in the world who were named, Irene. What would they do when they found out that they shared their name with a slave? They would want to kill her. To erase her from the world forever so that their name would once again be untarnished. And their babies? No lady would ever again christen her newborn baby, Irene. It would be unthinkable.

  Thorn was not finished. “To remind her and everyone else that this is the slave, Irene, her owner has agreed that she should wear this collar about her neck.” Thorn took a band of gold from a velvet pillow and held it aloft. “It is inscribed with the words, Slave Irene, along its length. It fastens with a spring tab. Once clicked into place, it can be removed only by cutting it off.”

  Irene stared at it in horror. Slaves were property, but they weren’t animals. Only animals wore collars. Irene had never heard of a slave being forced to wear a collar.

  Her flesh cringed at the touch of the gold as Thorn fitted it around her neck.

  The clasp clicked. The collar was so finely wrought that the seam where it fastened was all but invisible.

  Her hands flew to her neck of their own volition and tugged at the collar. It was implacable. She would wear it until her owner decided to cut it off. And that owner wouldn’t be Dodge. When he had agreed that she would be fitted with a collar if she lost the game, he understood that he would never remove it.

  It wasn’t tight, but it felt like it was choking her. It was flexible and the edges were round and smooth, but it felt like it was cutting her throat. It wasn’t heavy, but it felt like it was dragging her head to the floor.

  She dropped her hands and stood in front of thirty men and cried like a baby.

  The gentlemen, mostly old friends and acquaintances, applauded enthusiastically. Lord Snow was standing in the front, applauding the loudest of all.

  Her only blessing was to see that James was not standing beside him. Her former husband was not in the room.

  But he would hear about his wife’s humiliation by morning. A story this shocking would blaze through society like wildfire.

  “Gentlemen, the formal entertainment is concluded. But I’m sure that the slave Irene would be pleased to stay for as long as you wish and continue to provide all the service that you desire.”