Sold into Slavery (9 page)

There was another nearly imperceptible nod from the steward toward the guards, who withdrew from the room, closing the door softly behind them. The steward lifted the samovar and poured dark, rich coffee into the tiny cups. He stirred in sugar from a silver pot and held one of the cups out to Leah.

She took it, sipping the strong, sweet coffee, her eyes on the food. She watched hungrily as the steward selected a sandwich with what looked like cheese and cucumber on two thin slices of bread from the plate. Leah’s mouth began to water uncontrollably as she watched him lift the sandwich to his mouth and pop it in.

He selected a second sandwich. This one he ate more slowly, his gaze on the window as he chewed. When he had eaten four of the tiny sandwiches, he took the orange and split it in half, eating several segments one at a time.

Leah was ready to scream. She wanted to spring on the man like a wild animal and topple him from the chair. Then she would grab handfuls of the food and eat and eat until she was finally full. He was taunting her by making her sit at his feet like a dog, waiting patiently for scraps.

And yet, that was just what she was doing, and she knew she’d better keep doing it if she hoped to get those scraps. This was a test, she was sure of it. And she would pass it if at all possible.

Finally, almost as an afterthought as he sipped his second cup of coffee, the steward turned his gaze to her. “Would you care for a sandwich? Perhaps a bit of fruit?”

“Yes, please,” she whispered fervently.

The steward held out his hand and Leah realized he wanted her empty cup back. She complied, watching with hungry eyes as he set three of the small sandwiches and half an orange on a plate.

When he handed it to her, Leah took it with shaking hands. She ate the orange first. The fruit was juicy and sweet, and very quickly gone. She tried to savor the different cheeses and raw vegetables and fresh bread of the dainty little sandwiches, but she was too hungry to do much more than wolf them down.

She realized the steward was watching her with an amused expression. “Would you care for a piece of baklava?”

“Yes, please.”

The steward selected a plump piece that was oozing with honey and set it down on her now empty plate. She bit into the delicious confection, the sweetness exploding in her mouth. With food finally in her stomach, she was able to savor the dessert, one of her favorites.

The steward poured another cup of the strong coffee and stirred in some sugar. He handed her the cup. Leah sipped it. She would have loved another ten or twelve of those finger sandwiches and at least three more pieces of the pastry but nothing more was offered. Instead, the steward patted his lips with a linen napkin and rose from his seat.

A quick, sharp clap of his hands brought the guards back into the room. “Take the girl to the assessment chamber. I am interested in testing her tolerance of sexual pain for the Master.”

Leah was hustled along yet another hallway of the huge house, the food she’d eaten now sitting like lead in her belly. She was brought into a large room filled with all kinds of equipment, including whipping posts, wooden stocks, a spanking horse, a bondage table and other wicked looking apparatus that, even with her experience with BDSM, Leah didn’t have a name for.

She gasped when she saw the long, low sleep cage. Inside was a young woman lying on her side. She was naked, with silver cuffs on her wrists and ankles like the ones Alex had worn, a silver slave collar around her neck. She had long, straight black hair, narrow, dark eyes and a wide, sensuous mouth. She was clutching the bars of the cage, watching silently as Leah was led into the room.

The steward entered the room a moment later. Ignoring the caged girl, he said in his soft, serpentine voice, “Remove her robe and secure the girl to the suspension rack. Then bring me the quirt.”

Leah was propelled to the center of room. Her robe was pulled from her and she was forced to stand on a small platform beneath chains that hung from the ceiling, leather cuffs at their ends. She was cuffed in place, her arms pulled taut overhead. Her ankles were cuffed to eyebolts on the platform, her legs spread far apart.

Leah’s breath was coming fast, her heart racing in fearful anticipation. Though she was no stranger to erotic BDSM play, it had always been consensual and on her terms. Hadn't she already been “assessed” at the hands of the guards? She had a feeling the steward had something different in mind and she didn’t like the sound of it one little bit.

She watched with trepidation as one of the guards went to a wall hung with an assortment of whips. He returned to the steward and held out a whip with a braided leather handle and two long, thin strips of leather Leah knew from experience could sting like hell on contact.

The guard handed the quirt to the steward, who nodded brusquely. “You may wait outside. I’ll let you know when you are needed.” The two men withdrew, closing the door behind them. Leah was alone with the steward and the naked, caged girl, who had remained utterly silent, her wide eyes fixed on Leah.

The steward moved to stand directly in front of Leah, the quirt in his hand. “The Master has certain tastes. He values girls who can take a good beating without crying out. He especially values girls who can derive sexual pleasure from erotic pain.” He drew the leather tips of the quirt over Leah’s bare breasts and leaned in close.

“American girls are willful and noncompliant. It is rare that they prove themselves worthy of the Master’s attentions. More often than not, they are sold to the highest bidder for the exotic gentlemen’s clubs or, if they aren’t even worthy of that, they will be consigned to the brothels that litter this country.”

Leah shuddered as the steward drew the quirt down her body. “He has plenty of Asian girls like Setsuko.” He waved toward the girl in the cage. “These women understand the value and duty of proper submission. Though,” he smiled dryly, “they do sometimes need reminding and punishment.”

He turned toward Setsuko. “Roll over and show the American girl your stripes.”

The girl released the bars and rolled obediently onto her other side. Leah drew in her breath as she took in the welts on the girl’s back and ass. There were easily a dozen long, red, ridged lines, probably caused by a cane. Several of the welts had cut the flesh, and the girl’s skin was smeared with dried blood. Leah wondered what she had done, or failed to do, to earn such a harsh punishment.

Setsuko apparently forgotten, the steward turned his focus back to Leah. “A golden-haired beauty would be a nice addition to the Master’s harem. Especially one who can tolerate pain.”

Though she didn’t relish the idea of entering the Master’s harem, it seemed a better alternative to being sold to the highest bidder to serve out her days in an exotic club or whorehouse. At least given what she knew of harems from what she’d read, the women were confined in luxurious quarters and afforded relative freedom within those confines. It had to be better and certainly safer than being whored out on the street.

Stepping back, the steward struck Leah’s left breast with the quirt, leaving two stinging lines of fire in its wake. Leah jerked and gasped, breathing hard through her nose to keep from yelping as she gripped the chains above the wrist cuffs.

The man nodded in apparent approval, while lifting his eyebrows as if surprised. He struck her again, this time across the front of both her thighs. Leah winced and bit her lower lip to keep from crying out. The steward pursed his lips as he regarded her, as if thinking what to do next.

He walked out of her line of vision. She could see the girl in the cage, who was again facing her, her fingers wrapped around the bars. The girl silently mouthed something Leah couldn’t catch. Distracted by this, Leah wasn’t ready for the next stroke, a hard lash across her ass, and she cried out.

She was ready, though, when the next stroke came, landing just above first. This time, however, the tips of the quirt curled painfully around her left hip, drawing tears to her eyes. The steward struck her several times across her back and Leah felt herself edging toward panic, pain and fear rising like a bubble from inside her, threatening to burst out in a howl.

Breathe. Let go. I can feel your tension. Hold nothing back. 

Leah startled, glancing sharply around the room. The voice was that of Jean Luc, her only lover since Todd. Though the relationship had only lasted a few weeks, ending with his return to his native country of France, during that time Jean Luc had taught her in a hands-on way about using erotic pain to reach that heavenly place where pleasure and suffering fused into a sublime experience.

The steward was focusing on the backs of her thighs now, a thousand bee stings moving in relentless waves over her skin. Cuffed to the platform as she was, she couldn’t even try to twist away from the onslaught.

Again she heard the voice, which of course was entirely in her head.
Flow with the pain. Let it take you where you need to go. Show me your grace. Show me your courage.

Leah felt her eyelids fluttering closed. The sting of the quirt, while still painful, was somehow more tolerable. She took a deep breath and expelled it slowly.

That’s it. Do it for me. Do it for us.

Her head felt suddenly heavy, too heavy to hold upright. She let it fall back and felt her lips parting as a soft sigh escaped them.

Yes. You’re nearly there. Take the last leap and let yourself fly…

The steward had moved in front of her again, his quirt striking like snake bites against her breasts. It hurt, oh yes, it hurt, but at the same time she felt a deep, sensual peace settle over her like a gossamer net, enfolding her and keeping her safe.

She saw the endless blue sparkling ocean beneath her as she soared away from the pain. The leather tips still struck relentlessly over her breasts, stomach and thighs, but Leah no longer felt the sting.

She was flying.

She was free.

Chapter 7

After Devin established himself as a friend of Reggie Smith, George had been forthcoming about his location, which turned out to be only fifteen minutes by cab from the pub. After a quick stop at the local bank where his company did business, Devin directed the cabbie to the address George had given him.

The private investigator’s office was a small, crowded space located on a narrow street, wedged between a dry goods store and a hair salon. George S. was a small, trim man of about fifty. He wore a white straw fedora and had a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. The once-white walls of the cluttered office were yellowed with years of nicotine and the air was stale.

Reminding himself that beggars couldn’t be choosers, Devin sat down on one of the folding chairs set in front of the metal desk, which was piled high with folders and scattered papers.

After the obligatory greetings and discussion of their shared acquaintance of Reggie Smith, Devin dived in, explaining his concerns while George scribbled on a yellow legal pad, the cigarette still dangling. When Devin mentioned the cold case of the other missing American woman, the PI perked up.

“Ah, yes. I’m quite familiar with that particular hotel. I have collected much useful information. Jane Erwin wasn’t the first to go missing. There here have been at least five other girls in the past four years who’ve vanished into thin air after either working at or staying in that hotel.”

Devin leaned forward, hanging on George’s words, desperate to hear more. But George only took another drag on his cigarette and smiled politely in Devin’s direction.

Devin realized he was waiting to be paid for his information, as Reg had predicted. “Oh, right,” Devin faltered, and then, catching himself, made sure to phrase his offer in the proper polite terms that wouldn’t offend, while still making his intentions clear.

“Mr. Smith has spoken quite highly of your skill and ability to collect useful information. I would be most honored to offer recompense for your hard-won knowledge.”

George shook a cigarette from a crumpled packet of Marlboros, using the butt of his last one to light a fresh cigarette. He blew out a smoke ring while Devin struggled to keep his patience. “You are too kind, Mr. Lyons,” the man finally said. “I am honored you would consider me worthy.”

Devin had no idea if the man was in fact worthy, but clearly he wasn’t going to find out unless he shelled out some cash. He reached for the envelope he’d filled at the bank and opened it, extracting a thick wad of Thai baht that approximated one hundred British pounds, aware the PI would probably bargain up the amount before the deal was done.

He set the money on the desk between them. “I would greatly appreciate access to your files on the investigations you have made on behalf of Jane Erwin and the other missing women. That’s five thousand baht for your troubles.”

George looked down at the money without reaching for it. He looked up slowly, the polite smile still pasted on his face. “You are most generous, I am sure.” He kept his hands folded on the desk, still making no move to reach for the money. “I have an entire file drawer devoted to the topic. Hundreds of hours have been spent on this investigation. What you’re asking for is very valuable information, Mr. Lyons.”

Information you were paid to track down
, Devin thought, but said nothing. He opened the envelope again and pulled out the rest of the money. “Forgive me, I didn’t appreciate just how valuable that information must be.” Making it clear the envelope was now empty, he said, “Another five thousand for your trouble.”

George’s polite smile broadened into a bona fide grin as he reached for the pile of money while Devin hid his sigh of relief that it was enough. For all he knew, he was buying a bunch of useless paper and dead-end leads.

He watched eagerly as George leaned over and pulled open the bottom drawer of the battered metal filing cabinet. George extracted three manila folders stuffed with papers and set them on the desk between them.

Devin started to reach for the files, but George had placed his hands on them as he leaned forward. Devin struggled to maintain his patience, aware he’d get more information if he let the man go at his own pace. “I’ve never been able to prove any of it,” George said earnestly, “but I’ve learned a lot in the process, let me tell you. I got really close with the Jane Erwin case, but I got shut down by officials who didn’t want me to succeed for reasons of their own.”