by Unknown
SLAVE OF FORTUNE
JAY LAWRENCE
ISBN 9781588739643
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2006 Jay Lawrence
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.
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A Renaissance E Books publication
For P.M., the catalyst who sparked a revolution
2
CHAPTER I
A CHANGE OF EMPLOYMENT
"You little ninny, Warnock. I told you to polish the fish knives, not
give them an idle dusting! Look at those traces of tarnish in the
handles! I want them burnished until you can see your silly face in
them, miss. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mrs. Beacon. I'm sorry, Mrs. Beacon."
The young woman flinched involuntarily as the housekeeper
clattered a large tray of silver cutlery down upon the scullery table.
She wondered what the master and mistress would say if they knew
their valuable tableware was being so brutally mistreated.
"Sorry didn't build the Empire. On with it, girl. I shall return in
one hour to inspect your work."
The large woman in grey stalked out of the small, dark room,
closing the door behind her with a slight bang. Staccato footsteps
retreated down the corridor, then silence. McGeever, the young Irish
scullery maid, looked up from her task, preparing beetroot. The palms
of her hands were stained bright pink. She smiled, consolingly.
"We calls her Bacon on accounts of her being such a pig."
Warnock simply nodded, her dark eyes fixed upon the scullery
door. Eventually, she shrugged slightly and, picking up a fish knife,
began to rub with as much vigor as she could muster from her cold
and aching form. It had been a long night, tossing and turning in the
creaking old bed with the sagging mattress, with McGeever's icy feet
occasionally pressing against the backs of her calves like a pair of
flaccid semi-frosted fish. Maybe she would knit the girl a pair of bed
socks. Christ, it was freezing. McGeever appeared to be in a chatty
mood. Her strong, broad fingers worked on, cutting off the tops and
trailing roots of the beets, scrubbing the purple globes free of dirt.
She had spread an old cloth across her knees to prevent her pinny
from getting stained.
"It must seem very quiet for you here in the country, after London.
I have cousins in London but I've never seen the place. Been to
Dublin, though."
3
Warnock shivered and lifted the knife she was polishing up to the
yellow light from the hissing gas mantle. The sun wasn't even up yet.
Darkness pressed against the four small panes of the tiny window set
high on the scullery wall.
"I'll get used to it. The air is fresh here. The city can be hard on
your chest, especially when there's a fog comes up from the river."
The young woman paused to examine her diminutive reflection in
the silvered surface of the knife's blade. McGeever snorted and wiped
her hands on the rag with an impatient gesture.
"You'll have no time for primping here! What work did they set
you to do in London, then? Doesn't look as if you've spent much time
with the cutlery. You'll be at that all day and old Ma Bacon will be
apoplectic by tea time."
"Will she now?"
Warnock breathed on the knife, a fine coating of mist briefly
clouding the reflection of her deep brown eyes. Idly, she wondered
how long it would be before McGeever or the housekeeper or anyone
else discovered her guilty secret. She was unmarried but not a maid in
any sense of the word. Well, she had better learn and learn fast. She
looked up just in time to catch a sharp look from the Irish girl, who
put down her basin and stood up, the beet-stained cloth slowly falling
to the cold, flagged floor.
"I'm going to show you something and it's for your own good."
McGeever's round cheeks were shiny and flushed almost as deeply
as the root vegetables in her bowl. Her hair was thick and dark, her
mouth as small and round as the spout of a teapot. Warnock watched
the other girl impassively as she began to lift up the hem of her skirt.
Layers of white petticoats were hoisted to reveal dimpled knees and
plump thighs.
"You're not wearing any drawers."
She had to remember to sound at least a little bit shocked, although
going without drawers was a common enough folly where she had just
come from. McGeever bit her bottom lip and turned around to face
the wall, simultaneously raising her skirts to waist level. Warnock
saw.
4
"You've been caned, Mary."
The young girl's fleshy white buttocks were liberally striped with
livid scarlet welts. Abruptly, she let her skirts fall and her face
glowed redder than ever as she resumed her seat on the hard wooden
chair. When she finally spoke, her voice had diminished to a pale
shadow of its former self.
"Be warned, Lily. If you don't pull your weight in this household,
you'll get as much – or worse."
Ah, but I already know all about that little game.
"So, is it Mrs. Beacon who delivers the sore bottoms?"
Oddly enough, she already knew the answer, before the Irish girl
had time to reply.
"Oh no, that bitch's bark is worse than her bite, thank heavens. No,
it's Mr. Gerrard, the butler, who sees to the disciplining of staff. I did
a bad job of black-leading the grate in his sitting room last Wednesday
morning. Jesus, I thought I'd never be able to sit down again. I swear
it felt as if I'd been stung on the bum by a nest of hornets!"
Lily had made a swift assessment of Mr. Gerrard the previous
evening when she arrived. He was a large man, somewhat portly,
with a bulbous, purplish nose that suggested a penchant for imbibing
spirits. His bushy eyebrows met in the middle and he frequently
consulted a large pocket watch. She had to remember to be
frightened, to be totally aghast.
"You poor thing, Mary McGeever. I swear I'd faint clean away if
he tried to do that to me."
Mary resumed her work with the beets.
"Just be warned, that's all. I don't know what kind of easy, fancy
ways you've been used to in your London town house, but you'd better
pull yourself up by your bootstraps."
Easy, fancy ways...
Smiling slightly, Lily began to polish with a vengeance, her mind
firmly fixed upon her former home.
* * * *
"My dear, a rose by any name could never smell as sweet as little
Miss Lily here."
5
The gentleman was an American and clumsily charming in the
typical manner of his countrymen. He stood in the doorway of the
dimly lit bedroom, swaying slightly with an excess of fine wine and
after dinner port. Behind him, Mrs. Jakes lingered, deftly tucking the
&nb
sp; guinea he'd proffered into the recesses of her small velvet bag.
"I think you'll find this girl meets your requirements, sir. However,
we do have a house rule concerning excessive marking of the flesh. If
you beat her so she cannot work for a few days, you must pay more to
cover our loss."
The madam's scarlet mouth seemed garish in the soft light of the
room and her bombazine dress crackled slightly as she withdrew,
exchanging a knowing look with the man who merely nodded politely
and cleared his throat. Lily waited quietly, knowing that very soon
the deceptive stillness would become a violent storm. She understood
sadists.
"Are you a good girl, sweet Lily?"
Already his voice had changed, as swiftly as he closed the door
behind him and casually tossed his hat upon a chair. Lily kept her
eyes upon the ivory backs of her hands, which were demurely crossed
upon her lap. She replied immediately yet softly.
"No, sir."
This was a familiar game, the game of cat and mouse, always the
same but for some minor twist in theme. Schoolmaster and errant
pupil, cruel husband and virgin bride. The American did not remove
his gloves.
"Oh? All girls must be good girls. The penalty for sin must be
severe."
"Yes, sir."
Her voice had diminished to the faintest whisper and she realized
that her heart had begun to beat like a drum. The body knows before
the mind takes in what is to come. He was a monster, this Colonial,
with his Southern twang. Why, he probably kept slaves, real life
slaves and maybe he even beat them too. She slid to her knees on the
rug beside the large and opulent bed. Subservience would please this
arrogant oaf.
6
"Did I tell you to kneel, Miss Lily?"
The American moved around the bed and took a handful of the
young woman's soft dark hair. She cried out in pain as he sharply
tugged her head back and slapped her several times across the face.
"Little bitch. Worthless little bitch. What are you?"
"I'm a worthless little bitch, sir."
She loathed such humiliation but went through the motions of her
act, moist eyes downcast to gaze at the swirling pattern of the Turkish
rug. Large, slightly moist hands tore at the flimsy bodice of her
nightgown, rapidly exposing her round, firm breasts to the warm air of
the bedroom. Steely fingers pinched her nipples hard and, despite
herself, she moaned softly.
"Slut. Worthless slut."
"Use me, then."
She couldn't believe she had uttered those words, a red rag to the
bull that towered over her cowering form. The American raised one
eyebrow quizzically at such a forward outburst.
"Oh, I shall, Miss Lily. Believe me, I shall."
The next thing she knew, she was lifted up and thrown down upon
the bed, so violently that it knocked the wind out of her and she could
barely catch her breath. The heavy mahogany posts of the headboard
collided with the bedroom wall and Lily gasped as gloved hands
found her throat and began to squeeze relentlessly.
"Insolent whore. Why, I could rid this earth of a piece of bad
business in just the twinkling of an eye, my dear child."
His voice was as soft and sibilant as the faint hiss of gas in the
mantle on the bedroom wall. Darkness was rising, a velvety pool of
inky oblivion. She was beyond screaming, her heartbeat a heavy
pulse which filled her ears to overflowing. Blood suffused her face
and her hands fluttered impotently against the scarlet silk of the
counterpane.
I'm going to die. He will kill me.
The thought seemed to echo rhythmically in her mind like the
persistent fatalistic dripping of a tap.
Kill me. Kill me. Kill me...
7
The American seemed a relentless black mass, which loomed above
her like a thundercloud, casting a shadow over her tortured face.
"But why should I ease your pain, my demonic daughter? I want
you to know what it is to truly suffer, as the dear Lord Jesus Christ
suffered for you and I upon the cross. Only through the ritual
shedding of blood, sweat and tears can we come close to saving your
wretched harlot's soul."
The pressure eased and Lily finally took a ragged breath, coughing
convulsively as the sadist's hands moved from her throat to her
breasts.
"Such a pretty little creature, like a sweet, ripe apple, yet rotten at
the core. Turn onto your hands and knees and raise your nightgown."
Slowly, shakily, the young woman did as she was bade, entering a
vague dreamlike place between fantasy and reality. She crouched on
all fours like an animal, her long hair falling across her face as she
bowed her head to the mound of pillows at the top of the bed. Her
bared haunches felt frighteningly exposed. What would happen next?
What depraved pleasure would this monster take from her?
Instinctively, she tried to relax her bottom but found herself clenched
tight.
Oh God, he will really hurt me if I can't be at peace!
Lily had known many a rough gentleman in her time at Mrs. Jakes'
house, and, indeed, had quite swiftly come to adopt the position of the
special girl, the one who could and would accommodate the most
darkly perverted tastes of the clientele. However, there was
something about this American, something very wrong. A gloved
finger found her anus and began to insinuate itself into her resistant
body. Terror began to rise in her, an uncontrollable and unheard of
emotion. She was never afraid, no matter how cruelly her clients
abused her. The bruises always healed, and the payment was good,
infinitely better than serving in a shop or sewing for her keep. It
wasn't the first time she had sensed evil intent in a gentleman but this
was something else, something profoundly malevolent.
"I don't believe you can be a virgin, Miss Lily, yet you feel so
closed to me, so tight. I like that. I like that very much indeed."
8
The brute's voice had changed again, sounding a little more human.
Lily thought of calling out for help, of apologizing and saying that she
felt unwell and could not proceed, yet somehow she was caught in an
invisible net, unable to move or to issue a sound. The finger probed
deeper and she summoned all her strength to open herself, to yield to
the man, as she had done so many times before with other men that
wanted to take her like a beast. Still, her body formed a tightening
spiral about his finger, clamping down as he drove in, pulling at her
tender flesh, beginning to hurt her again. If he tried to enter her she
would surely tear. A light sheen of perspiration coated her forehead
and her mouth was dry. Finally, with a monumental effort, she found
her voice.
"I can't, sir. I'm sorry but I can't."
The American withdrew his hand from her trembling buttocks and
Lily froze, waiting for the man's reaction. Refusal was not normally
an option. There was a long pause, then the man sighed softly, as if
all the
cares of the world lay upon his shoulders.
"I see. The Lily deems herself too pure. Well, you know I could
take you in any way I desire, don't you, child? All it would take
would be for me to bind your wrists."
Lily's heart pounded at the thought of being restrained by the brute,
of being pinned down like a butterfly and driven through until she
screamed.
"Yes, sir. I understand. But please..."
Her voice faltered and cracked. Her captor was toying with the
silky cords that fastened the heavy drapes about the bed. Thick
strands of crimson thread cascaded over the soft kid of his gloves like
tiny rivulets of blood. As if tolling a death knell, the clock above the
fireplace began to strike the midnight hour.
"Damnation."
The young woman did not want to look but curiosity got the better
of her. Slowly, she turned her head to observe the figure by the bed.
He no longer seemed to see her, his dark eyes firmly fixed upon the
chiming clock. A strange expression haunted his hateful face, as if he
too was alarmed by the night's events. As the clock struck the twelfth
9
hour he abruptly turned on his heel and strode out of the bedroom
without a backward glance. To her dismay, Lily found that her eyes
were filled with tears.
* * * *
"You're not hungry, then?"
McGeever's slightly peevish brogue broke through the cloak of
Lily's reverie. They sat at one end of a long oak table that filled one
wall of the vast kitchen, where the servants took their meals. The
food was good, a thick broth and great slabs of freshly baked bread
and sweet butter, yet Lily felt as if she had a lump in her throat.
Witnessing the result of the Irish girl's brush with Mr. Gerrard had
brought back a steady stream of nightmarish memories.
"I'm all right. You can have my bread and butter, Mary."
The young girl's eyes lit up with greed and she swiftly scooped up
the remnants of Lily's lunch, leaving nothing but a light dusting of
crumbs upon the plate. McGeever munched steadily while delivering
a lecture.
"You needs to keep up your strength. Still plenty of work to do
before we're done for the day. There's a party arriving on the last