A Gentlemen's Agreement

Slave
of the Aristocracy
,
Book Two
:

A Gentlemen’s
Agreement

by
Ashley Zacharias

Copyright (c) 2014 Ashley Zacharias

All rights reserved,
including the right of reproduction, either in whole or in part, in any form.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Edition, License Notes

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“It seems, Irene, that your value has increased
dramatically. Three months ago, I saw you sold for a
hundred-thousand
at auction and could hardly believe it. But today, I had to trade a knighthood
to obtain you. Nobody could buy a knighthood for a mere
hundred-thousand
plaquettes
sterling. You’ve become almost priceless.”

The slave, Irene, naked, leashed
and handcuffed, gazed at Lord Snow impassively and waited for a question.
Or, more likely, an order to bend over and spread her legs.

A few months ago, she, had been the
Lady Irene, wife of Lord James Fortson. But on an inexplicable impulse, she had
decided to do the unthinkable and sell herself into slavery. A commoner, Mr.
Dodge, had purchased her at auction.

She had no idea why Lord Snow, who
was her ex-husband’s best friend, would want to acquire her. But he had. And apparently,
he had paid a dear price. Mr. Dodge was a merchant who knew how to drive a hard
bargain. A knighthood was worth far more than any slave. It would make him an
aristocrat and allow him to become a landowner.

“No one will ever understand why
you chose to become a slave, but you did. So, if slavery is what you want, then
slavery I will give to you.
By the shovelful.
I aim to
please.”

She couldn’t interpret the look on
his face. He’d always had a dry, sarcastic wit. That was one of the things that
James liked about him. But now his expression indicated something else.
Disgust? Contempt?
Or just confusion?
Irene couldn’t
tell.

She mentally prepared herself to
be violated for the first time by her old friend and new owner. She told
herself that it wouldn’t be so bad. She’d been used by dozens of men during her
first three months of slavery and many of those had been former acquaintances.

But none had been as close to her
as Lord Snow.

He didn’t want to use her yet. “Come
along, then. Let’s introduce you to Nickel. She’s my
whiphand
.”

Irene didn’t know what that meant.
But if she were to be whipped, then she would endure it. A slave had no choice
but to endure whatever her owner visited upon her.

“Even if you’re priceless, you’re
new to my kennel so you can’t expect to be in charge the first day. Most likely
you’ll never be in charge.”

Now, he was confusing her. She was
a slave. She couldn’t be in charge of anything.

He didn’t bother holding the
leash. It was largely symbolic. She would do whatever he ordered without
needing to be forced. The chain dangled between her breasts as she followed him
into his kennel, her hands still cuffed behind her back. It was tradition that
a slave was naked, leashed and cuffed when delivered to a new owner.

A slave was waiting inside the
entrance. She was somewhat old for a pleasure slave, maybe thirty-five, but
still young enough to be valuable. She was dressed as no slave that Irene had
ever seen. A black leather corset covered her torso. Her breasts were covered
but she was naked below the waist.

Most significantly, a two-foot
long strap hung from a clip by her right breast.

But she was a
slave,
she wore her fine, blond hair loose down her back. Only slaves wore their hair
loose. Free women, even the lowest commoner, wore their hair up to show that
they did not have a slave registration number tattooed on the nape of their
neck.

“Nickel, take care of Irene.” Lord
Snow left.

Nickel looked Irene up and down.
She took extra time to gaze at the golden collar around Irene’s neck. Her
expression turned from hard domination to outright contempt.

Irene couldn’t help but blush.
Slaves didn’t wear collars; only animals were collared.

“Turn around.”

Irene turned. The
criss
-cross of scars across her buttocks was still a
prominent red. Her last
kennelman
, an expert in such
matters, had promised her that they would fade to a few silvery lines in a
couple of years.

“You’ve been caned.”

Irene said nothing.

Nickel unlocked the cuffs from her
wrists and tossed them on a nearby table. “Turn back to me.”

Irene turned back.

Nickel stared into her face.
“Let’s get one thing perfectly clear right now. I don’t give a shit who you are
or who you were. I’m the
whiphand
in this kennel and
I’ll beat you as quick and hard as any other slave here.
Maybe
quicker and harder.
You got me?”

Nickel’s
expression
of dislike
bordered on hatred. Irene had no doubt that she would be
strapped quicker and harder than any other slave. Any minor transgression would
provide a sufficient excuse for the
whiphand
to
unclip her strap from her corset.

“Yes, ma’am.” Irene wasn’t sure
what form of address was appropriate for a more senior slave because she had
been the only slave in her previous owner’s kennel.
Ma’am
seemed to work because Nickel looked satisfied.

“So, unless you want to feel the
bite of my strap, you do what I say, when I say it. You got me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So it’s true. You were a lady who
really did sell yourself into slavery.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Nickel shook her head in disgust
but didn’t ask why. She didn’t seem to care.

“Take that chain off your neck and
follow me.”

Irene slipped the chain leash from
her neck and laid it on a small table next to the cuffs. She hastened to catch
up to the senior slave.

“This is your cell.”

It was almost identical to the one
at the Dodge house – a small concrete room barely large enough to hold a
wardrobe and cot. It had no windows and the door locked from the outside.

“Bathroom is down the hall.
Kitchen the other way.
There are seven slaves in this kennel
so you keep your showers short and be quick on the toilet or you’ll feel my
strap.”

Irene didn’t answer.

Nickel looked at the golden collar
again. “You can take that damned thing off in the kennel. Nobody’s going to
steal it.”

“No, ma’am.”

Nickel’s eyes flashed with sudden
anger and her hand went to her strap.

“It’s permanent. It can’t be
removed, ma’am. There’s no clasp. It would have to be cut off with a saw.”

Nickel’s arm returned to her side.
“
Ain’t
that the shit?” She shrugged. There was no
accounting for owners’ whims. “I don’t lock the cells unless you fight with the
other slaves. Any ruckus and you’ll be locked in all the time. You got that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“One fight and you’ll spend the
rest of your life locked in your cell, except when Lord Snow wants to use you
or when I want to beat you, which will be every day. Got that?”

Irene didn’t know if Nickel was
saying that she beat every slave every day or just the ones that were
permanently locked in their cells, but it didn’t matter. The point was that
fighting with other slaves would be a bad idea. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I got better things to do than
entertain slaves, so you can go down to the kitchen and introduce yourself,
Irene.” It was the first time that Nickel had used her name and she drawled the
word with absolute contempt.

After Nickel left, Irene opened
the wardrobe.

It was empty, but for the basic
toiletries and makeup.

She assumed that she hadn’t been
provided with a housedress because she wouldn’t be allowed to run errands. Lord
Snow had plenty of other slaves to do that. He didn’t need a slave who wore a
collar to appear in public.

That was a small mercy, but Irene
felt bereft. She hadn’t had much that was personal in her wardrobe at Dodge’s
but she liked having a bit of erotic lingerie to entice her owner.

More important, she was going to
miss her butt plug. She didn’t like having to use it every day, but she was
going to have to find some way to keep her asshole well stretched or she was
going to get torn up the next time she was called upon to entertain a group of
men.

As well, she was going to miss her
pussy weights. She had become a much better sex partner when she had begun
strengthening her vaginal muscles. Other slaves didn’t know to do that, so her
talented cunt made her special.

There was quiet chatter from the
kitchen. Irene walked down the hallway past the open doors of a half dozen empty
slave cells and found a large room with a sink, stove, table, and a half-dozen
chairs.

Slaves were sitting in five of the
chairs. They all looked at Irene when she entered.

“I’m Irene,” she said. “I’m the
new slave here.”

“We heard about you,” one of the
slaves said. She was a
hard-looking
twenty-five year
old. “You’re the la-de-
da
lady slave.”

“I’m no lady. Just a slave,” Irene
said.

“Named I-re-
ene
.”
The slave sang the name in a
sing-song
voice like a
child.

“My name was Flame. I preferred
that one, but I lost a game at an entertainment last week and they took my name
away from me and renamed me slave Irene.”

“You lost your name in a game.”
The slave was mocking her.

“And I was crucified for half an
hour. That almost killed me.”

The slave shrugged. “Almost isn’t
dead.”

“You’ve got a pretty necklace,”
another slave said. “Is that real gold?” she was younger than the first, twenty
or twenty-one, but she looked just as jaded.

“It’s not a necklace. It’s a
collar. It’s locked on. I can’t take it off. If my owner wants to remove it,
he’ll have to saw it off.”

Her eyes grew wide. “You can’t
ever take it off?”

“Never.”

“What’s it say?”

Irene didn’t know if she was
illiterate or simply too far away to read the words. “Slave Irene.”

The slaves looked at her with
various expressions of curiosity and caution.

“That’s harsh.”

Irene shrugged. “Our owners do
what they want to us. We endure.”

There were nods all around.

“I’m Apple,” the young slave said.

“Tamarind,” another said.

“Lime.”

“Cherry.”

The fifth slave, the hard-looking
twenty-five-year-old, said, “Call me Ma’am.”

Irene hadn’t won them all over.
“Is that short for
mammaries
?”

The other four slaves laughed. It
was funny because the slave who wanted to be called, Ma’am, was particularly
well endowed.

She sprang to her feet, scraping
her chair back.

Tamarind put a hand on her arm but
kept looking at Irene. “It’s all right. She’s just joking. Her name is Peach.”

Irene didn’t know which of them
Tamarind thought was joking, but Peach accepted her gesture and sat back down.

“Sit with us,” Tamarind said.

Irene sat. “My last owner –
actually, my only owner – owned only me. I’ve never been in a kennel with
other slaves. I’m not sure exactly how to behave, so if I do anything wrong, I
hope you’ll tell me and I’ll make sure that I don’t do it again.”

The other slaves looked at her
like she was speaking gibberish.

After a long pause, Cherry said, “You’re
a slave. You do what you’re told. That’s all there is to it. If the owner is
around, then you do what he says. If the owner’s not around, you do what the
whiphand
says. And if no one is around, then you just keep
quiet and don’t do anything.”

“What did you think we do?” Lime
asked. “Dig escape tunnels? Plot revolution? Run a mail-order wedding cake
service on the side?”

“Write a relationship advice
column for the Daily Paquette?” Apple added with a giggle.

Irene laughed. “No. I’m pretty familiar
with following orders and waiting to get fucked. That’s pretty much all I’ve
done since I was sold.”

“That’s pretty much all you’re
going to do here,” Peach said. “There’s nothing grand happening in this
kennel.”

“When I think about it, a hell of a
lot of ladies could use a relationship advice column written by a slave. I’ve
learned more about men in the last three months than I learned in the first
twenty-eight years of my life.”

“You learned how to get fucked
every way possible by anyone with a stiff dick,” Tamarind said. “I don’t think
many ladies are interested in acquiring that skill.”

“You’d be surprised,” Irene said.

“Shut up,” Peach said. “The
whiphand
hears you talking about ladies like that, she’ll
beat you ‘til you can’t walk.”

The other slaves fell silent.

Peach and Apple glared at Irene.

She understood. She was only three
months fallen from her manor. She still regarded the highborn as regular
people. These slaves didn’t. If they showed anything less than absolute
subservience they could expect immediate and brutal punishment. “Does Lord Snow
punish us himself? Or is it just Nickel who administers the discipline?”

Tamarind stood up. “Lord Snow
likes to show us his love, personally.” She turned around to show Irene her
ass. It was a solid bruise from the bottom of her back to the tops of her
thighs – mottled blue and yellow and green.

“He’s an artist,” Lime said. “It
takes a lot of practice to beat an ass as uniformly as that. I know because
he’s practiced plenty on my backside.”

Irene was appalled. She had known
Snow for five years, since she first moved from
Calam
Shire to
Westmouth
. He had never been anything but a
gentleman of wit and refined manners. She had no idea that he beat slaves black
and blue for sport.

Tamarind sat back down. Irene
noted that she didn’t plop herself carelessly into her chair, but lowered
herself gingerly and sat still once she had settled.