It didn’t help that Irene would meet their eyes and smile at them.
No one could look at a pleasure slave without imagining the things that she would do with a man. The filthy, exotic things that she surely had done. Soon the new arrivals would be in the same state as the others who had been waiting for a while. Women threw hateful looks at her and the men blushed and folded their hands in their laps, trying to hide their embarrassing semis.
Not all the patients were wealthy commoners or high-born aristocrats. Moe’s waiting room sliced across social strata. The layers weren’t represented proportionally. The lower classes were badly under represented, but they were there. The occasional shop girl in a cheap plain dress or laborer with work boots and calloused hands entered deferentially, sat in the nearest empty chair, and waited to be called.
The aristocrats and well-to-do didn’t heckle or question these honest folk; they ignored them. It wasn’t the same as the pointed snubbing that they directed at Irene; it was the casual overlooking that the upper classes used to let the working class know that they were folk of no consequence. As long as the workingmen and women did their jobs, they were invisible to their betters.
These working folk had little experience with pleasure slaves but knew their function and place. They treated Irene like an exhibit in a zoo – a curiosity that was on display for their edification and amusement.
Irene found it easier to endure their frank examination than the nasty, furtive glances of the higher born.
One strapping young man – the black grease riming his fingernails and the wear on the heels of his boots from sliding under cars suggested that he was an auto mechanic – sat directly across from her.
He was the first person to speak to her in an hour.
“I’m Jack,” he said.
“Irene.”
“You’re a slave.”
It wasn’t a question, but she answered, nonetheless. “Yes.”
“I never talked to a slave before.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“I bet there is.” He rubbed the stubble on his jaw with the back of his hand. “So who owns you?”
“A professor here at the university.”
“Is he like a lord or something?”
“Just a professor. My last owner was a lord.”
“Is that right? I never talked to a lord before, either. Their drivers take their cars to garages over by Norbit Hill. I work down in Centertown.”
“Lords are nothing special to talk to,” she said. “They’re just men like every other man.”
The highborn man sitting next to the mechanic sniffed his disapproval of her disagreeable comment.
Irene figured him for a knight at best. Two steps below a lord. Not someone that she would have looked up to when she was a lady. “Professors are a lot more intelligent than lords.” She said that just to see the offended look on the knight’s face.
He rewarded her with exactly the baleful expression that she expected.
“I guess you’d know,” the mechanic said.
“I’ve talked to a lot of lords and ladies.” She didn’t mention that she had once been a lady married to a lord. That was none of this man’s business. “And quite a few university professors.”
“I never talked to one of those, either.”
“I never talked to an auto mechanic before, so I guess we’re even.”
He grinned. “So how much is a slave like you worth?”
That took her aback. Most slaves are aware of how much they were worth –they were sold often enough – and they talk about their value with each other, but they never discuss it with free people. Somehow, it seemed indelicate. But Jack was not a delicate man. “I don’t know,” she said. “I was worth a lot of money when I was first sold but I was a bit of a novelty. Since then, I haven’t been sold for money. My first owner traded me for a knighthood and, most recently, I was won in a poker game. Comparing myself to other slaves, I’d guess that I’d probably bring about thirty thousand plaqs in an auction. But I won’t know until I’m standing on the block again, listening to men bid for me.”
Everyone else in the room, man and woman, had turned their heads away but cocked their ears to make sure that they caught every word of her discussion of her worth.
The mechanic whistled. “Thirty thousand plaqs. Ain’t that something. That’s more than I earn in a whole year. Almost as much as I earn in two years, matter of a fact.”
Irene nodded. “Pleasure slaves are a rich man’s hobby.”
“Too bad,” he said. “You’re real pretty. I surely would like to own you.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to find some way to get rich.”
“Maybe.” He looked into the distance over her head. “But maybe not as rich as all that.”
“Don’t forget,” she said, “you have to be able to take care of me, too. Buy food and medical care and a place for me to stay. If it’s hard for you to buy me, it would be worse for you if I got sick and lost my resale value.”
He grinned. “Just like a car. You always got to think of the resale value.”
“Always.”
“I guess I’d need money for clothes, too.”
She shook her head. “Not much for that. One of these dresses is cheap and I only wear it when I’m outside. Most of the time, I’m naked.”
He stared at her chest for a moment, imagining that.
He wasn’t the only man in the room with that image stuck in his mind.
The nurse poked her head out and said, “Slave Irene.”
Irene jumped up and followed the nurse into the back to get her tetanus shot. The visit was fast and anti-climactic. She hiked up her skirt and Moe jabbed her in the butt himself. Twice. “I’ve updated your contraceptive. It was time.” He made a notation on her slave papers. “Take these back to Ragnar.” Then he gave her rear cheek a firm squeeze and said, “You better lower that dress and run along now.”
It had been a long wait – almost two hours – to get shots that took only a few seconds. She would have thought that he could have taken care of her immediately and saved his patients the embarrassment of having to share the waiting room with a pleasure slave.
But it was his clinic. It wasn’t her place to tell him how to run his business.
* * *
Irene wasn’t surprised to find Mr. B sitting on his stoop in the middle of the afternoon, but she was surprised that Mr. A wasn’t sitting beside him.
He waved casually. When she approached, he asked, “You horny for me again?”
“I haven’t been laid in a week,” she replied.
He didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t, either. Instead, he said, “I’d like to fix that.”
“I’m ready for you to do me.” She smiled at the bulge already growing in his pants. She had heard aristocrats complaining about the lower classes fucking each other all the time, breeding like bunnies, but she doubted the stereotype. She suspected that gentlemen got a lot more tail than commoners. Those who didn’t own pleasure slaves were likely to keep a mistress or two. A wealthy man was a lot more attractive mate than an unemployed pauper.
She nodded toward the house. “Anybody home?”
“Mom. She’s asleep.”
“Too bad.”
“We can be quiet. We won’t wake her. She sleeps pretty soundly.”
Irene shook her head. “Nope. I won’t be quiet. I’m so horny, I’m going to wake the dead when I come.” She wasn’t lying about being horny. She’s been thinking about coming back all week, waiting for the professor to tell her that he was leaving for a full day. This was it. He had a pair of two-hour lectures back to back, so he’d be gone for at least five hours. “Where’s your friend?”
“Avery’s out. He’s looking for a job. He heard that they’re hiring down at the Black Shutter.”
She was surprised. Neither of these boys had struck her as ambitious enough to want a job. “What’s the Black Shutter?”
“Diner down on Arnold Street. It’s got black shutters on the windows.”
“Did you apply, too?”
“No use. I got a record. I stabbed a guy in the arm. They called it aggravated assault but I pled down to negligence causing bodily harm. It’s still a felony. Nobody’ll hire me.”
“That’s rough.”
“Yeah. Lot of guys around here got something like that on their record. Makes less competition for Avery.”
“Every cloud’s got a silver lining.”
“So what about it?” he asked. “We going to get it on?”
“You got a place?”
He gestured to his house.
“Not when your mother’s home.”
He looked desperate. “Nobody’s home at Avery’s.”
“You got a key?”
“I can break a window in the back.”
“That’s burglary. You can’t afford a second felony and they’d crucify me for being involved. Literally nail me to a wall and let me hang there until I was dead. You want to commit any more crimes, you don’t do it when I’m anywhere around.”
“Where can we do it, then?” he asked.
“You had a car a couple of weeks ago when you were hassling me on the street.”
“That was stolen. I’m guessing that you don’t want me to steal another one.”
“It’s not worth being nailed to a wall. I was crucified for half an hour once. Even half an hour hurt like you wouldn’t believe.”
“You were nailed to a wall?”
“No. Tied in a frame. But the stress was the same. You want to know what it feels like, my owner is building another crucifixion frame. When he’s finished, I can crucify you for a while and you’ll see why I won’t risk it again.”
“No, thanks.” He grinned wryly. “Being tortured’s not my thing.”
“It’s not my thing, either, but I don’t get a choice about it. My owner’s got a lot of different ways to hurt me. None of them are pleasant.”
He was quiet for a minute.
Then he said, “What about we go to your owner’s place? We won’t torture each other, just have sex.”
The thought was outrageous. Her owner was keeping her celibate. She was risking horrible punishment if he were to find out that she was defying his will. He might even choose to execute her himself. And, considering his sadism, he was most likely to execute her by torturing her to death in some hideous way, despite his claim that he wasn’t a sociopath.
Taking this boy to the professor’s studio to fuck him would be insanity. Pure, certifiable insanity.
“Okay,” she said.
She was so horny that she was willing to risk anything to get laid. Even risk being tortured to death.
The walk was short and their pace was brisk. Ten minutes later she was letting Mr. B into the professor’s studio. The door was unlocked. She didn’t have a key so she couldn’t lock it when she went out for her walks.
It seemed like a bad idea to let Mr. B know that she routinely left the professor’s residence unlocked, so she blocked his view of the door with her body and pretended to fumble with the latch for a minute before she opened it. Her charade was ridiculous because slave housedresses had no pockets for keys, but she was betting that Mr. B didn’t know that. He would never have known anyone who owned a slave, would likely never have spoken to anyone who did.
After they went inside, she locked the door behind them.
His eyes grew wide when he looked around the studio. “Wow. How do all these things work?”
She gave him a quick tour, explaining the bed of nails, the pillory, the Spanish horse, the spiked chair, and the whipping bench.
“You’ve been tortured by all of these things?”
“Yes. And more. The first day I was here, the professor strapped me to the whipping bench but he didn’t whip me. He inserted a hundred tiny pairs of needles into my left nipple and then shocked it with electric currents. It hurt like you wouldn’t believe. It was the worst pain that I’d ever felt. They kept at my nipple for hours. I thought that I was going to die. But I didn’t. I wasn’t even permanently damaged. My nipple was swollen for a couple of days and tender, but now it feels just like it always did.”
“Who are they?”
“What?”
“You said that they tortured you for hours. I thought that the professor tortured you by himself.”
“Oh, no. He always invites his friends over. Carl and Moe. They’re both professors, too. Carl is a psychologist and Moe is a medical doctor. I get the best medical care when I’m being tortured.”
Mr. B looked around the studio. “I don’t think that I’d like to torture you.”
Irene suspected that he thought that he might like to try, but he didn’t dare say it. That was wise of him. Torture never made her horny.
“I’d rather get fucked by you.”
“Where?” He looked around the studio again.
She stroked the bulge in his pants. Then shucked her shoes and dress, letting them drop on the floor. “Right over here.” She led him to the whipping bench. It was fully adjustable. “Do you want me bent over the bench so that you can take me from behind or lying on my back so that you can climb on top of me again?”
It never occurred to him that he would have a choice. In his limited experience, the woman always laid on her back and spread her legs.
She smiled at his consternation. “I would climb on top of you if the bench were wider, but it’s not. There’s no place for me to put my knees. If you want to be on the bottom, then we’d have to do it on the floor.”
He looked down at the floor.
“But the concrete is kind of hard,” she said.
He looked around again. “You don’t have a bed?”
“A bed of nails. But you wouldn’t like that. You’d get scraped bloody where your hands and knees and feet worked against the points.”
He gaped at her.
She was tired of hassling him. “To hell with it,” she said. “Just pork me like a pig.” She unbuttoned his belt and pulled his pants over his hips to free his cock, then she spun and laid her torso across the bench, offering her ass to him. She spread her legs wide to open her dripping cunt.
He stared at her offering.
“Just do it,” she said.
When he approached, she reached between her legs to grab his cock and guide it inside her.
“God, that feels good,” she said. “I love the way you fill me up.”
He began sliding in and out. He reached up and grabbed her shoulders so that he could pound deep and hard into her.
“Hard,” she said. “Do it hard. Get that cock as far into me as you can.”
He began to fuck her in earnest.
She was loving it. When she was a lady, she’d never been taken like a dog. On the rare occasions when her husband made love to her, the lights were off in the bedroom and he labored away in the missionary position until he found release.
As a slave, she’d been taken in this position more often than in any other. Her owners and their guests seldom bothered with the missionary position. They liked the symbolic subservience of the rear entry. And they liked the choice of holes that it offered.
Irene had learned to like being fucked in this position. She had been fucked doggy style ten times more frequently than in the missionary position and she knew how to bring herself to orgasm with this kind of stimulation.
She began working her cunt, squeezing as much sensation out of Mr. B’s cock as she could.
She could have reached between her legs and worked on her clit with her fingers, but she didn’t need to do that. She was squeezing the muscles along the whole length of her vulva and that gave her clit and all the other most sensitive parts of her genitals ample stimulation.
She had spent many hours exercising the muscles in her vulva. They were strong enough to do the job.
Not only for her, but for Mr. B as well. The intensity of the stimulation that she was
applying to his cock was making him to wail mindlessly.
There was a passing semblance to the howling of coyotes that she had heard at night when she was a little girl down south in Calam Shire.
She loved that she could massage a man into a state of bestial ecstasy with her cunt.
She howled along with him. And then she came and came.
He came along with her.
She had no doubt that this was the first time that this room had been filled with the sound of pleasure instead of the sound of terrible suffering.
It was good, but now that her lust had been slaked, sanity was asserting itself. She had taken a foolish risk to bring the boy here. It was time to hurry him out of the building before they were discovered.
“We’ve got to get you out of here before the professor comes back,” she said.
“When is he coming back?” The boy’s voice was languid. He sounded like he was half asleep already.
“I don’t know. I don’t have a watch. He’s teaching today but he might end his class early. Get dressed.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The boy’s head lolled. He looked like he was about to sag to the floor.
“I’m not kidding. You ever want to fuck me again, you have to get dressed right now.”
In fact, he was mostly dressed. His pants and underwear were bunched around his ankles. She pulled them up and tried to fasten them. The zipper was easy enough, but she couldn’t get the button done without his help.
“Do up the button on your jeans,” she said.
“Mmm?” He looked at her with sleepy eyes. “Are you sure you don’t have a bed around here somewhere?”
She was thankful that she hadn’t invited him up to her bedroom. If she had, he’d be asleep by now.
The Fine Art of Torture (Slave of the Aristocracy Book 3) Page 9