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

by Ashley Zacharias

  Among the property purchase and rental agreements, she found a single loan agreement. The trust had loaned Adele Bishop nine thousand plaqs at an interest of five percent per annum, compounded annually, repayment to commence in slightly less than two years.

  She had requested that loan from Lord Fortson and had assumed that he had provided the money that her friend needed to avoid bankruptcy. Now she realized that her assumption was false. Llewellyn Smith, presumably on Lord Fortson’s instruction, had loaned the money from her trust. She recalled Llewellyn asking her if she would want to make the loan if it were her own money. She had thought the question hypothetical. Now, she realized what he had actually been informing her about the real situation. He had been asking about her willingness to bear the cost. By lending the money to Adele, Irene had reduced Llewellyn’s ability to outbid others at the action by nine-thousand plaqs.

  Not that it would have mattered in the end. Drake had been determined to own her and he had an enormous amount of money at his disposal. He would have brushed a nine-thousand plaq increase in Llewellyn’s bids aside like a gnat. Even so, Irene felt slightly betrayed that she had not been fully informed that she was reducing her own chance of freedom by the amount that she had used to ensure that Adele would not be enslaved.

  She wondered if she would have insisted on saving Adele if she had known the true cost.

  Then she remembered another time when she had asked for a financial favor. She had asked a knight of her acquaintance, Sir Dodge, to rent property to a friend and he had asked if she would be willing to risk her own money on the venture.

  She leafed through the rental agreements looking for Jack Everley’s name. Sure enough, she found that she was a twenty-five percent owner of a garage that Sir Dodge had rented to him on her recommendation.

  She had a much greater stake in the success of Jack’s auto-repair business than she ever could have guessed.

  Was she still certain that he would succeed?

  She quivered with a frisson of fear. That portion of the property combined with the loan to Adele added up to almost fifty-thousand plaqs – a sizable fraction of the total value of the trust. If the trust ran out of money, it would not be able to support her. She would have to sell herself to some other owner to survive. She was going to have to manage her money – the trust’s money – with considerable care to avoid sinking back into real slavery.

  From now on, she was going to have to base her investments on sound estimates of the amount of profit that they would return. If she let her desire to help people guide her financial decisions, she would soon find herself back on the auction block and Sir Drake would, once again, be able to outbid everyone else in the room and cut off her head.

  When she finished looking over the trust’s finances, she stood before a mirror and looked herself over.

  The previous night, she had taken off the slave housedress and slept nude. Now standing before the mirror, her eye was drawn to the only ornamentation on her body – the gold collar that was permanently fastened about her neck.

  It was humiliating to be forced to wear a collar. Only animals wore collars. And to add an extra measure of humiliation, this collar was engraved all around with the words, Slave Irene. Not only did it label her as a slave, it forced a lady’s name on her.

  During the nine months that she had worn it, she had asked several times that her owners remove it. They had always refused.

  Now she could have it cut off any time she wished.

  Furthermore, if she cut it off, she could call herself by any name that she wished. It was common for a new owner to rename a slave. She was her new owner so she could give herself a proper slave name. Flame? That was what she had been called the first time that she was auctioned. Ruby? That was a pretty name. Rose? Pepper? There were so many possibilities.

  She would have to think about it.

  But she had other things to think about as well. She was still a slave, but she didn’t have to wear her hair long and loose like a slave. She could put it up if she wanted. Or cut it off at the shoulders, keeping it just long enough to cover the registration number that was tattooed on the back of her neck.

  That was another thing to think about.

  Then there was the matter of the dress. Slaves wore housedresses in public. Simple shifts made of light material with no pockets. But that was not a law. A slave could be dressed as a lady if her owner wished.

  What did Irene’s owner wish? Did she wish to wear a lady’s full gown? Or a commoner’s skirt and blouse? Or a better made slave’s housedress with proper pockets and more stylish tailoring?

  She could wear underwear again.

  She hadn’t worn decent panties and a camisole since the slave handlers had torn hers torn off on the auction block a year ago.

  That was something that she definitely wanted to think about.

  She could let her pubic hair grow back.

  Now that she owned herself, anything was possible. Anything.

  She began by looking for tailor shops in the phone book.

  * * *

  Irene decided that it was too early to make a radical fashion statement. She would keep dressing like a pleasure slave, but a little better.

  She had three custom housedresses tailored from heavier, more expensive fabric. The properly fitted sheaths flattered her figure more. And they had pockets to carry keys and money.

  She began wearing her hair in a braid that was wound into a bun at the nape of her neck. It wasn’t the lady’s high ‘do that bared the neck, but it was not the long flowing mane that slaves wore, either. It was a compromise.

  Irene continued to remove her pubic hair. For a couple of days, she tried letting the hair grow out, but it itched so she applied the depilatory cream just to get relief. She felt cleaner when she was bald below.

  As well, she continued to wear the collar. She couldn’t explain why. She didn’t like it, and several times a day, she thought about finding someone with a hacksaw. Jack Everley was a mechanic. He could snap it open with a pair of bolt cutters in an instant. Or if she wanted to preserve it, she could have a jeweler cut it and repair the cut when it was off her neck. Or she could go to a hardware store, buy a hacksaw and a piece of metal to protect her neck and cut it off herself, standing in front of a mirror.

  But she never quite got around to doing any of those things.

  For almost a year, the collar had been the basis of her identity. It distinguished her from other slaves and ladies alike. No one else wore anything like it, so it felt like she would be removing a unique part of herself if she cut it off.

  Some day she would, but not today. She was already coping with too many changes in her life.

  She didn’t have enough cash in the trust fund to buy a house for herself, not even a small shack, so she met with Sir Dodge to discuss possibilities.

  It was easy for her to make an appointment over the phone. When she arrived at his office, her appearance surprised him.

  “Irene? You don’t look … I don’t know. You don’t look quite like other slaves,” he said when he saw her walk through the door.

  “I’m still a slave.” She raised her braided bun from her neck. “I still have the tattoo.”

  “Your owner doesn’t mind if you wear your hair like that?”

  She smiled broadly. “Certainly not. In a funny way, I kind of own myself.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He knew about the Lady Irene Trust because Llewellyn had invested about a third of the money from the trust in properties that Dodge owned. But she had to explain that the trust had purchased her and that she had been made the manager of the trust.

  “It sounds like a snake eating its own tail,” Dodge said. “Are you sure that the arrangement is all above board?” He looked like he was worried that the sheriff might come to his office at any moment, seize her, and take her to the back wall of the courthouse to crucify her.

  “Not to worry. It’s been to court – many cour
ts, in fact – and a squad of judges have declared the arrangement legal.”

  “Okay. If you say so.”

  “So the reason that I’m here is that I need a place to stay. I don’t want to rent property when I have the legal right to own a house, but I don’t have enough cash on hand to buy a home outright. You’re an innovative person. I was wondering if you have any ideas.”

  Dodge smiled. “I guess that moving back into my kennels is out of the question.”

  That took her aback. She had only thought about living as a free person. She hadn’t thought about living as a slave. The idea had some merit.

  “Hey,” Dodge said when he saw her mulling the idea over. “That was a joke. You’re not seriously thinking about it, are you?”

  “I could lend myself to you for a period. You’d be responsible for housing me, feeding me, and taking care of all my other needs. Under the standard etiquette of borrowing a slave, you’d be prohibited from damaging me. But you would have access to my sexual services. While I’m on loan, a hundred percent of the trust’s earnings would be re-invested. The previous manager told me that it earned seven-thousand plaques last month. If that entire sum gets re-invested, it’s going to be compounded monthly and will grow far more quickly than if I have to use half of it for living expenses.”

  “It’ll grow more quickly than you think. Your trust owns twenty-five percent of Jack Everley’s garage. Under his lease agreement, that gives you five percent of his net profit. He’s only been in business for a couple of months, but he’s already turning a profit. If his business continues to grow at the current rate, he’ll soon have to hire another mechanic to help him. By the end of the year, he could have additional staff and be paying you more than two thousand plaqs per month. That might not sound like much, but you’re getting similar results from three of my other properties in which your trust holds a minority share. These rents add up fast. You move into a kennel and you’ll have enough to buy a small house for yourself within a year.”

  Irene recalled the leases that she’d reviewed. Currently, most of the trust’s income came from a few traditional fixed rents from properties owned jointly with other gentlemen. Only thirty percent of her money was invested in Dodge’s new model of variable rents based on business income but it sounded like that lease could soon be returning the majority of her income. “Moving into your kennels sounds pretty attractive. I’d be happy to give you most of the trust’s income to buy more minority shares in your properties.”

  Dodge held up a hand. “Not my kennels. I haven’t had a slave since I traded you away nine months ago. Mrs. Dodge would kill me if I moved you back in. She’s a fierce woman when she’s unhappy.”

  Irene remembered how Mrs. Dodge had forced her to eat her meals off their bathroom floor when she was unhappy. And Irene had felt the force of her kicks in her ribs and ass on numerous occasions.

  “Maybe not your kennels, then. But someone might want to borrow me on a long-term loan. I’m going to have to think about that.” Irene had little appetite for moving back into a slave kennel just when she had found her freedom, but it might be a practical solution to her financial situation.

  “Where are you living now?”

  “I’ve rented a room at an inn for a few days.”

  “That’s got to be more comfortable than a slave kennel and it can’t be that expensive.”

  “Three hundred plaqs a week.”

  “You can certainly afford to live there for as long as you want. That will only consume a fraction of your trust’s monthly revenue.”

  “And then I have to eat as well. I can’t cook in the room so I’ll have to eat my two meals a day in restaurants. That will cost somewhere in the neighborhood of fifteen hundred plaqs. Add in a few additional expenses, and I’m going to be able to invest only half my monthly income in more property. You know how compounding works. If I can only invest half as much, the growth of my trust will be much, much slower than if I can invest ninety-five percent of it.”

  “I can think of a better deal,” Dodge said. “I don’t own any residential property apart from my own manor, but I could buy a house and rent it to you on a lease-to-own agreement. I wouldn’t make any profit from it – just enough to cover my expenses – and you’d own the house in a few years – maybe three or four if the payments were large enough – but no matter how fair the rent, you’d still end up spending most of your trust’s monthly income on living expenses.”

  That didn’t make Irene happy. She wanted to see her trust grow in value as quickly as possible.

  Dodge had given her a lot to think about.

  In exchange, she offered to give him one of her famous blowjobs.

  He was pleased to accept her offer.

  When she rose from her knees again, he told her that she was welcome back any time she wanted to discuss more about their joint business ventures.

  * * *

  When Irene walked out of Sir Dodge’s office, she was nearly killed.

  The afternoon was fresh. The sun was shining down on the street. A few puffy clouds were scudding across the blue sky, driven by an autumn breeze.

  Dodge’s office was in a small, slightly shabby building a few blocks away from the main commercial district on Whale Street.

  Dodge had that in common with Sir Drake. Both men were more interested in maximizing their profits than in impressing business associates with fancy offices.

  The rents were lower here – not that Dodge would pay rent; he would certainly own the building – so the cost would be less for him. If he did own property on Whale Street, he wouldn’t occupy it himself; he would rent it out to others.

  Traffic was light off the beaten path and there were few pedestrians on the sidewalks.

  Irene paid little attention to the blood-red Alliance Motors Shark that pulled away from the curb a block away and accelerated hard toward her.

  She was four doors down from Dodge’s office building when the expensive little sports car ran the yellow light, still accelerating. Her mind was occupied with the decision that she faced: Should she ask Dodge to find a cheap house that she could lease-to-own or should she lend herself to a gentleman to serve his pleasure in his kennels for a few months? Or even for a couple of years?

  The first option would greatly slow the growth of her trust fund. But she was not eager to put herself back under the control of a man. It wasn’t that she minded being used sexually – she liked sex – or even having to endure the occasional whipping – as a slave on loan, she could be punished liberally as long as she didn’t sustain permanent damage. But she would prefer to be able to choose her sexual partners and to have sex on her schedule, rather than on an owner’s.

  She wondered if she could find a third option that would neither impoverish her nor re-enslave her.

  The Shark intruded on her consciousness only when it began to turn toward her.

  Her reflexes were given but an instant to react. Before her conscious mind knew what her body was doing, she was leaping for the shelter of a doorway.

  The Shark’s front tires squashed into the curb. When the car bounced up onto the sidewalk, its undercarriage dragged across the concrete edge, throwing a spray of sparks in all directions.

  Sheet metal howled against brick and mortar when the Shark’s fenders and passenger door scoured the side of the building.

  The doorway was shallow. Though Irene pressed her body hard against the door, the screaming, tortured metal passed within an inch of her crotch. If the car had struck the doorway directly instead of sliding along the façade, the fender would have intruded into the doorway far enough and with enough force to crush her like a bug.

  She caught a glimpse of Geoffrey Drake’s face, contorted into a grimace of fury and frustration, as his car flashed past.

  He didn’t stop, but swerved back into the street and raced away, leaving broken glass, half from his passenger-side window and half from the building’s widows, showering to the sidewalk in his wake.
/>
  Faces popped into view in the windows across the street, then a few seconds later, people rushed from the doors.

  The door that Irene was pressed against pushed her toward the sidewalk.

  She stepped away and a man poked his head out. “What the hell was that?”

  “Traffic accident,” she said. “A car jumped the curb and slid along the side of the building.”

  The man stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked at the damage to his façade. “I better call my landlord. He’s got some repairs to do.”

  “Who was it?” a middle-aged woman in a conservative skirt and jacket asked.

  “I don’t know,” Irene said. “It was over in a flash.” She didn’t want to admit that she was the intended victim. A slave had no rights and she would only draw suspicion on herself.

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  Irene felt no pain. She looked down at herself. There was no blood. “I don’t think so. Not unless someone inside was hurt by the glass when the windows broke.”

  The man shook his head. “No. We had the blinds closed because the sun gets too hot in the afternoon.”

  “You’re awfully pale,” the woman said.

  “I had a close call. The car almost hit me.”

  “You’re white as a sheet. You better sit down before you faint.”

  “I’m all right.”

  The man looked at her closely for the first time. “You’re a slave.” The statement sounded like an accusation.

  “I have to get back to my owner.” She began walking away.

  “You’re wearing your hair up,” the woman said.

  It wasn’t on top of her head like an aristocrat. She didn’t stop to explain, but kept walking away.

  Her shoes crunched on broken glass. Some of the bricks in the wall were shattered; those that remained were marred by streaks of blood-red paint. A side mirror, ripped from the car, was twisted and flattened like crumpled construction paper in the middle of the sidewalk.