Owners by the Dozen (Slave of the Aristocracy Book 4)

by Ashley Zacharias

  “Why bother,” Jim shot back. “If we put her in the auction, we know that we’ll get the best price. Maybe she’ll sell for more than twenty-five.”

  “Maybe she’ll sell for less. Maybe we won’t even get our money back.”

  “Look at her. She’s still young and pretty. She’ll fetch a good price.” The men turned to look at her. Most of them looked sad to lose her, even the ones who voted to sell.

  “Yeah, but we don’t know what a good price is. You ever been to a slave auction? I haven’t. I have no idea what they actually sell for. All we know is what she told us. Maybe she’s wrong. Maybe we were cheated and paid more than she’s worth.”

  There was some grumbling.

  “If that’s true, then we should definitely sell her,” Caleb said. “There’s no sense hanging onto over-priced property. We cut our losses and use the money to buy another slave. A cheaper one. If anyone doesn’t want in on the new deal, then they don’t have to buy a share.”

  “How about if we buy your share? Those of us who don’t want to sell her can buy the shares of you who do.”

  “You’d pay me for one-twelfth of twenty-five thousand?” Jim asked.

  “One-twelfth of eighteen thousand. That’s what you paid.”

  “I don’t want what I paid. I want what she’s worth,” Jim replied. “I’ve been paying a monthly fee to support her. I’d like to get that back, too.”

  “We’ve all been paying the same monthly fee. And getting the same service for it. You’re not owed anything for that.”

  “What about those monthly fees?” Caleb asked. “Isn’t there a reserve in the bank? What happens to that?”

  “There’s a reserve,” Jack said. “When she’s sold, we’ll settle all the expenses and then divide what’s left between us. We’ve got all the books in good order and all the receipts. You can examine them and see that you’re being treated honestly.”

  Irene had been keeping the books. They were clear, accurate, and up to date. When the reserve was disbursed, each man here would get about a hundred plaqs in cash.

  “Besides,” Jim said, “The four of you who voted to keep her couldn’t afford to buy all our shares. It would be at least twelve-thousand plaqs. That’s three thousand for each of the four of you. You got that in the bank?”

  “I’d give you monthly installments,” George said.

  “On top of your monthly fees to keep her? Which will be three times higher because you’ll have to split her costs between only four of you, not twelve.”

  “Three of you,” Ox said. “I’d love to keep her, but I can’t afford a quarter of a slave. A twelfth was a stretch.”

  Pleasure slaves are expensive. There was a reason that only aristocrats and the wealthiest commoners keep them.

  “The only way that we could keep her is to sell your shares to new guys and keep dividing her among twelve. Ten at the least,” Paul said.

  “I’m not waiting while you dick around looking for a bunch of new guys to buy her,” Jim said. “Not when we can have her up for auction next week.”

  “That sounds like the only way,” Jack said. “I’ll register her for the next auction.”

  “We have to vote on it,” George said. “We agreed that we don’t do anything without a majority vote.”

  Only George voted against the auction.

  Irene was going to be on the block in a week. She felt sick to her stomach.

  “There one thing that’s not fair,” Ernie said. “I don’t have a day this week. It’s not fair that only some of us get more service from her before we sell her and some of us don’t.”

  A few of the men agreed with him.

  “Then let’s not have our own days any more,” Luke said. “From now until the auction, it’s first come, first serve.”

  “You mean, first guy to get service is the first guy to come,” Ox said.

  They all laughed at that.

  The vote for a week of free-for-all was unanimous.

  Irene was going to have a busy week, but she didn’t mind. It would help keep her from dwelling on her fate at auction.

  At the end of the meeting, everyone but George left in good spirits.

  No one had once asked Irene how she felt about it. That was right and proper. A slave was property to be sold. Her feelings were irrelevant.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry,” George said. “I tried.”

  “I know,” Irene said. “I was there. I saw. But it’s okay. Getting bought and sold is what I signed up for when I became a slave. Most owners only keep a slave for a few months before selling her. In fact, since becoming a slave a year ago, I’ve been sold every three months like clockwork. I’ve had four different owners in a year. It keeps life interesting.”

  “Who do you think is going to buy you?”

  “Probably an aristocrat. They buy most of the slaves at auction. If not, then a wealthy commoner.” She didn’t mention the third kind of customer who frequented auctions. Brothel owners hung around like vultures, picking off the bargains and turning a profit by making their slaves service men as quickly as possible all day long. Every slave dreaded being sold to a brothel. Especially to one of the cheap whorehouses down by the docks. Sometimes when a big ship came in, sailors were lined up out to the sidewalk, waiting their turn at a whore.

  George sighed.

  “It’ll be all right,” she said. “Let’s have some fun while we can. That’s what a slave’s life is all about. Having fun today and letting her owner worry about tomorrow.”

  “I’ll never forget that you saved Adele from slavery. We’ll never stop owing you for that.”

  “I was happy to do it.”

  “She’s not so happy at the moment,” George said. “Her boyfriend dumped her.”

  “That’s for the best. I met the boy and didn’t much like him. He’s an arrogant twit. She’s best off without him. There are a lot better men in the world and she won’t have trouble finding a good one. She’s not only beautiful and intelligent, she has a good heart.”

  “I know. I just wish that she’d get on with it. First there was that knight’s son who tricked her into bankruptcy and tried to enslave her, and then there was this guy who you say is a twit. It’s time that she showed better judgment.”

  “You can’t really blame her for Geoffrey. He knows how to put on a good act and he works hard to prey on as many women as he can. And I don’t think she was that serious about this latest one. He was just a rebound fling after her close brush with slavery. She would have dumped him before long if he hadn’t dumped her first. She’s going to be fine.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Now, I’d like to make you feel all right.” She began unbuttoning his shirt.

  “If you want to.”

  “I do. You can’t imagine how much I enjoy having sex with you.”

  * * *

  On Saturday morning, Jack took Irene to the auction house.

  Her heart was pounding and sweat was soaking the armpits of her housedress. Being sold was traumatic. Her entire future depended on who bought her.

  When they arrived, the auction house was empty, the ancient oak doors locked. It was still morning and the auction wouldn’t begin until early afternoon.

  He took her around to the side entrance – the slave entrance.

  A burly handler in a red shirt escorted them to a small room with a counter. They were expected; slaves had to be registered for the auction at least three days in advance. The final transaction took but a minute. Jack handed Irene’s registration papers to a clerk and waited while the clerk parted Irene’s hair and verified the registration number that was tattooed on the nape of her neck. As soon as the clerk said, “Good. Thank you,” Jack left. He didn’t say goodbye or even wait to get his housedress back.

  He would be foolish to allow himself to be sentimental about disposing of a piece of property.

  A slave would be foolish to expect it.

  “Get your dress
off,” the handler said.

  She slipped it over her head and handed it to him.

  He tossed it into a garbage can behind the counter. “Shoes too.”

  They joined her dress in the can.

  “And that collar.”

  “It doesn’t come off,” she said. “It has to be cut off.”

  He didn’t bother cuffing her hands or putting a leash on her. “Follow me.”

  She followed him into the processing area. The public areas of the auction house were ancient unfinished planks and beams, but the processing area was clean and modern. The design motif was strictly utilitarian. Bright lights, sterile white tiles, and cold stainless steel.

  The handler strapped her to a table, facedown, and left.

  She had been through this before. A contraceptive shot, a booster vaccination against social diseases, a physical inspection, and she was good to go. The doctor said nothing, asked no questions. Anything important for her sale was noted on her papers. He had no reason to ask about anything else and no interest in making small talk.

  The physical inspection was slightly uncomfortable. Since declaring open season on her a week ago, she had been fucked well over a hundred times by her owners. Only Ox penetrated her anally, but the others had fucked her vaginally more than a dozen times every day. By the end of the week, any penetration hurt. Not terribly, but enough that she had to force herself to appear enthusiastic about sex.

  She dreaded the possibility of being sold to a brothel. Such use would be normal every day for the rest of her life. She couldn’t imagine that she’d ever find sex enjoyable again if she were made a whore. Her gut churned at the thought.

  A handler moved her from the examination room to the makeup room. Slaves were skilled at applying their own makeup, but the auction house had an expert to do the work before the auction to make certain that the slave looked her best and brought the best possible price.

  Irene recognized the aesthetician from when she was sold at auction a year ago.

  The other woman recognized her in return. “I remember you. You’re the fine lady who sold herself into slavery last year. How’d that work out for you?” The woman laughed.

  “It’s been an interesting year,” Irene replied.

  “I bet it has. Being a pleasure slave isn’t much like being a lady, I imagine.”

  “Not at all. There was a lot that I didn’t like about being a lady.”

  “Well, I’m sure that you don’t have any of those high-born lady problems any more.”

  “I get laid a lot more often. That’s for damned sure.”

  The aesthetician laughed again. “I bet you do. Now, what’s this thing on your neck? Somebody collared you like an animal? Disgusting. Take it off.”

  “I can’t. It’s permanent. It has to be cut off with a saw.”

  The other woman stared for a minute. “It says that you’re Slave Irene.”

  “That’s what they call me.”

  “Irene’s not a slave name.”

  “I don’t have anything to say about that. The name came with the collar. I’ve been called Irene ever since.”

  “What did they first call you? Flame, was it?”

  “Yes. I’d rather be called Flame than Irene.”

  “Well, then, we better see what we can do about the collar. Wait here.”

  Like she had a choice. The aesthetician locked the door when she left. Like any other slave chamber, it could only be unlocked from the outside.

  Irene had to wait for more than a quarter hour. When the aesthetician returned, she was accompanied by a middle-aged man. The auctioneer.

  “See,” the aesthetician said. “She says that it has to be sawed off.”

  The auctioneer stared at it.

  Irene knew what he was thinking. He was trying to calculate whether she would sell for more money if she were collared or if she were not.

  “Is it real gold?” he asked.

  “I believe that it is,” Irene answered. “But I couldn’t swear to it.”

  The auctioneer leaned so close that she could feel his breath on her shoulder. “It looks a little worn. Gold is soft. It would wear quickly. How long have you had it?”

  “Nine months.”

  “Nine months. Okay.” He made his decision. “It’s different. You’ll be the slave in the gold collar. It might pique some interest among the buyers. But that means that I’ll have to call you Slave Irene. I’d rather that it said Slave Flame but I guess I can’t have everything.”

  Flame had been the name that this man had given her on the auction block a year ago. She wondered if he remembered that or if he called all nameless slaves Flame when he sold them.

  “Irene, the slave in the golden collar. I think I can sell that.” He looked at his aesthetician. “Leave the collar alone and get her ready. Viewing starts in two hours and you’ve got nine others to prepare after this one.”

  The aesthetician got to work.

  * * *

  Irene had been sitting on a bench with other slaves for more than an hour and a half before the viewing began.

  They didn’t talk much. They were all thinking the same thing – that they hoped that they would be sold to a rich, handsome man who would treat them well – so there was no reason to discuss it.

  The benches had been half full when she’d been brought to the waiting room. Handlers in red tank tops had brought the rest in, one at a time, as their makeup was finished.

  The final count was twenty-three slaves. It would be a full auction.

  All of the slaves looked afraid, but some, the younger ones who had been recently pressed or adjudicated into slavery and were being sold for the first time, looked terrified.

  The law prohibited the sale of virgins so the doctor as part of his preparation had deflowered two of these young women. Their cunts were still bloody inside.

  Their misty eyes were open wide, their pupils fully dilated, their lips slightly parted and trembling, their nipples erect. They smelled of fresh sweat and pheromones.

  They looked and smelled as sexy as hell. They’d bring a good price.

  A handler entered the room. “Viewing in five minutes. Follow me to the cages.”

  When there were no buyers about, no one bothered handcuffing or leashing the slaves. Slaves, even those who had never before been sold, did what they were told. They all knew that the penalties for disobedience were too severe to contemplate.

  Cuffs and chains were part of the traditional show for the buyers; they were not necessary for handling the slaves.

  The handler led them into the auction room where the auctioneer was waiting.

  The auctioneer pointed to the cages against the back wall. “When your name is called, get into the next cage, part your hair and wait for me to check your registration.” He consulted a stack of cards in his hand. “Canary in the first one. Then Pussy.” He paused and laughed. “The cat next to the canary. That’s asking for trouble.” No one laughed at his joke. “Orange. Ruby. Cougar.” He continued to read names and the slaves walked away until only Irene remained. “That leaves Irene. Next cage.”

  She walked to the twenty-third cage and stepped through the open door.

  The slave cages were tiny barred cells. There was no room to turn around, much less sit. That was deliberate. The purpose of the cage was to keep the slave on display, available for close inspection by potential buyers.

  Irene waited patiently while the auctioneer walked down the row, checking the registration number on each slave’s neck against the number on a card that described her, then slipping the card into a holder next to the cage and locking the door.

  There were twenty-four cages. When the auctioneer finished assigning slaves to cages, twenty-three of them were filled. If one more woman had been pressed into slavery, or one more slave re-sold by her owner, then the last cage would have been filled, too.

  The last time that Irene had been here, the first time that she had been sold, there had been nineteen sla
ves for sale. She wondered if the auctioneer ever filled all of the cages or if he deliberately kept at least one empty so that the slaves on display looked more rare and precious. Prices would drop if it looked like there was a glut of slaves on the market.

  She suspected that every detail had been considered during the hundreds of years that countless slaves had been sold here for the pleasure of men. And for the pleasure of the occasional woman. Irene remembered Lady Fern – a lady with a name that could have been given to a slave. She was a sadistic lesbian who bought slaves for herself and used them mercilessly until they were worn out. Even highborn gentlemen who enjoyed a great variety of perversions with their slaves found Lady Fern outré.

  Being sold to her might be worse than being sold to a brothel.

  Before Irene could pursue that thought, the auctioneer arrived at her cage. She parted her hair, he checked the number on her neck, and then he slammed the door closed.

  As soon as he finished his final inspection, the front doors opened and gentlemen began trickling into the room.

  The viewing lasted for two hours so most buyers didn’t bother arriving until the last half hour. It didn’t take that long to examine a couple of dozen slaves. Those that came early didn’t stay for the whole viewing. They examined the slaves and then left to get some lunch or do other business.

  The gentlemen seemed interested in Irene. She knew some of them from when she had been a lady. Others had heard of her even if they had never met her. Gossip was endemic among the aristocracy and her actions a year ago had been outrageous. Even now, some couldn’t believe that the wife of a lord had actually volunteered to be sold as a pleasure slave.

  Even the men that had once known her socially didn’t bother to chat. This venue was hardly conducive to polite conversation.

  No one touched her – slaves were not to be handled during the viewing – but she was examined closely from all angles, gentlemen putting their faces right to the bars to examine the handful of cane stripes that scarred her buttocks and to look for other scars on her breasts that would indicate silicone enhancement.

  Irene was proud that her fine tits were completely natural and did not yet droop noticeably.