On the Auction Block (9 page)

She would get drenched walking all the way
down the hill to the bookstore, but she had no choice. She couldn’t
wait for a sunny day to learn to cook. Here by the Western Sea, it
sometimes rained for weeks without stopping.

The housedress had no pockets. That was
standard for a slave dress. Nobody wanted his slave to be able to
fill her pockets with items stolen from the house. An owner could
not keep a slave that he could not trust and it was expensive to
lose slaves that way. So Flame had to carry the twenty-plaq note
and the electronic gate key in her hands.

By the time she reached the end of the block,
her dress was drenched and clung to her like green skin. Passers-by
could see that she was wearing no bra or underwear.

Young men slowed their cars and shouted lewd
comments at her. Old ladies called her shameless when she passed
their houses.

But no one molested her physically. By
definition, a slave could not be raped. She did not own her body so
she had no right to decide what anybody else did with it. But
property could be mistreated and a man who was wealthy enough to
own a slave was powerful enough to exact terrible vengeance on
anyone who was foolish enough to mistreat his property.

Commoners knew that molesting a slave was not
worth the risk. Certainly not on a public street in broad
daylight.

On a dark, empty street after midnight, it
would be a different matter. The wise slave would never leave her
kennel after dark. And the owner who sent her out would have to
expect her to come back well used by anyone who found her.

The walk down the hill was long, cold, and
miserable.

She could not touch the books with wet hands
so she stood inside the entrance to the bookstore and dripped on
the doormat for a long time.

The clerk glared at her in disgust. Female
customers ignored her but male customers ogled her openly.

She kept her eyes lowered, refusing to meet
anyone’s gaze.

Her dress did not dry but, eventually, her
hands did. As soon as she could touch paper without leaving a mark,
she sought out the shelves with cookbooks and perused the titles.
Learning to Cook
looked like the best one, but it cost
twenty-five plaqs and she had only twenty.
Cooking
Essentials
cost fourteen-ninety-nine so she took that to the
cash.

The clerk didn’t look at her or speak to her,
just took the money, put it in the register, and closed the
drawer.

Flame stood there for a moment waiting.

When the clerk signaled for the next
customer, Flame said, “I need the change and a receipt.”

“No change,” the clerk replied.

“Then the receipt will say that the book cost
exactly twenty plaqs.”

Flame couldn’t believe that anyone would be
so petty. When she was a lady, no clerk had ever dared treat her
with anything less than servile accommodation. But, lady or slave,
she was going to keep standing right here in front of the cash
until she got what she was due from this stupid creature.

The clerk stared at her and she stared
back.

The waiting customer said, “I can’t wait all
day. Get this settled.”

Flame spoke again. “You do realize that I’m a
slave, right? I can’t own anything so this is not my money or my
book. You aren’t trying to cheat me; you’re trying to cheat my
owner. He will not like that.”

The clerk relented, rang up the purchase
properly, and dropped the change and receipt on the floor, forcing
Flame to squat down and pick it up.

“A bag,” Flame said.

“No bag.” The clerk’s voice was firm.

She was an especially slow, stupid creature
if she still failed to comprehend the situation.

“This book is my owner’s property,” Flame
said. “When it is damaged by the rain, he will have to return it. I
will be beaten but I will make sure that he speaks to your manager
and has you sacked. Don’t underestimate the influence that a slave
can exert over her owner when she is about to suck his cock. My
bruises will heal long before you find another job.”

“Give her a bag,” the waiting customer
said.

The clerk threw a plastic bag at Flame. It,
too, fell on the floor.

Flame walked out into the rain with the book
and change safely in the bag and her head held high.

Slaves didn’t win many victories, so each and
every one, no matter how trivial, was exquisitely sweet.

Slaves could be shockingly petty.

That was another truth about slavery.

* * *

The first six weeks passed quickly
enough.

Thanks to Barry’s tutelage, Dodge learned the
joys of having his cock sucked expertly. Barry didn’t mind giving
her lessons in that.

No thanks to Mrs. Dodge, Flame learned to
cook and prepared all the meals.

Mrs. Dodge never hesitated to express her
opinion that they would eat much better if Flame were permanently
banished from the kitchen.

Mr. Dodge was determined that Flame continue
to teach him and Mrs. Dodge every nuance of acting like an
aristocrat, from how to walk gracefully to how Mrs. Dodge should
color her hair. The most difficult lessons were proper diction,
vocabulary, and choice of conversational topics. She had the Dodges
reading more widely and watching more news and documentary
television than ever before. Their dinner conversation became
noticeably more sophisticated and interesting.

Flame ate every meal off the bathroom floor.
Mrs. Dodge never failed to step in it and force Flame to lick her
shoe clean before allowing her to eat the Dodge’s table scraps. Mr.
Dodge knew nothing about that. It was the women’s own secret little
ritual and, if it made Mrs. Dodge feel better about Flame’s
critiques of her dress, speech, and behavior, Flame would endure
it. Not that she had any choice.

The one advantage of eating alone in the
bathroom is that the most disgusting scraps could be quietly
flushed rather than consumed.

The kennelman’s care included weighing Flame
every week. She was hungry all the time and was losing weight
steadily. As Irene, she had struggled to keep her weight under
control. She had been moderately successful and had been what was
politely called
curvaceous
without being clinically
overweight. Now, as Flame, her stomach was flatter and her thighs
slimmer and firmer.

It helped that she was getting exercise when
she cleaned the Dodge house, ran errands, and engaged in more
energetic sex than was customary for husbands and wives. On the
occasions when husbands and wives had sex.

She inferred that Dodge wanted her to retain
her full breasts and hips because, after six weeks, when she was on
the verge of developing the willowy figure that she had not enjoyed
since she was fifteen, the kennelman began providing high-protein
breakfasts.

Dodge enjoyed disciplining Flame every few
days. She had felt the sting of the strap and flogger as well as
the paddle. He never used the cane on her, though, and was careful
to avoid hitting her hard enough to risk breaking her skin with the
other implements.

He had no trouble striking with enough force
to cause considerable pain.

These beatings were not an attempt to correct
any behavior, but merely so that he could watch her jitter and
writhe on the whipping bench. There was nothing that she could do
to avoid them so she endured them with as much aplomb as she could
muster.

The worst beating, by far, was the one time
she was strapped as a disciplinary measure. Mr. Dodge administered
it at Mrs. Dodge’s request. She accused Flame of failing to clean
the bathroom floor properly. She had found a spot of grease near
the base of the toilet after a meal. Mr. Dodge wasn’t told that she
made Flame clean the floor with her tongue – that was between her
and the slave – only that her cleaning had been substandard.

Mr. Dodge had used the strap with full force.
Twenty strokes had left Flame’s ass horribly bruised for more than
a week and she had barely been able to walk for two days.

After that, she went over the bathroom floor
twice with her tongue after every meal, just to be certain that it
was spotless.

Dodge fucked her every day, sometimes more
than once. Usually he restrained her with ropes or chains – that
was his aesthetic preference – and occasionally he used her mouth,
but he never went near her asshole.

Even so, she kept her anus lubricated and
stretched with daily insertions of the butt plug just to be
prepared.

The Dodges entertained old friends regularly,
but Flame never met them. She was kept in the kennel when people
came over for drinks or dinner or cards.

That changed in the seventh week.

Flame had not been paddled for several days
when Dodge took her to the pleasure room and told her to mount the
whipping bench.

Her heart thudded in her chest as she
positioned herself on the leather pads. She looked at the cane
hanging beside the other implements of chastisement. What this the
day that she would be caned?

But after securing her wrists and ankles,
Dodge cranked her legs wide apart. He shucked his trousers and
positioned himself at her head. “Get me hard.”

With her hands cuffed to the bench, she could
only use her lips and tongue to stimulate him to a full erection.
It was not a problem because he was half hard already.

When he was full and rigid, he moved behind
her and gave her a royal fucking.

She was always surprised how much she liked
to be fucked when she was restrained. She struggled against her
bonds, writhed against his body, and came like a locomotive,
screaming in ecstasy as he pulsed inside her.

She neither liked nor disliked Dodge, but she
loved his cock.

He left her limp and expended on the bench
when he was finished. “We’ll be entertaining on Saturday,” he said.
“Not the usual crowd. People from up the hill. I’ve hired staff to
cook and serve. A chef, sous-chef, and three waiters should be
sufficient, don’t you think? That’s what the service said.”

“How many guests?” she asked from the
bench.

“Six couples besides Martha and myself.”

Three waiters for fourteen diners would be a
little light but they could manage if they were competent.

“Anyone of rank?”

“Sir Anthony and Sir Drake and their ladies–”
Dodge’s voice puffed with pride.

Flame had never met Anthony or Drake but had
heard of both of them. People in her social circle were dedicated
gossips and, sooner or later, everyone was mentioned in one story
or another. Both Anthony and Drake were knights who had inherited
their fathers’ titles and estates. Anthony was a gambler who had
frittered away the bulk of his inheritance. James considered him a
sinking ship and never bothered including him in social events.

Drake was the opposite. A hard-working
manager who would rather toil in his office, increasing his
fortune, than waste time at dinners and balls. James had invited
him to dinner once, but Drake had sent regrets, citing a pressing
engagement.

“– and the Baronet and Dame Grenfeld.”

That was a different matter. Irene had been
introduced to Grenfeld on three or four occasions. Or it would be
more proper to say that Grenfeld had been introduced to her as she
had been the higher rank – the wife of a lord. She had taken a turn
on the dance floor with him once at the Autumn Solstice Ball.

Once. His hands had been more lively than his
feet, which was more than a little inappropriate considering the
difference in their rank and their relative unfamiliarity. She had
declined a second dance.

“You will entertain the gentlemen after
dinner.”

Flame’s heart sank.

Baronet Grenfeld would have his second dance
with her on Saturday night. Him and six other gentlemen.

“You need to hire one more waiter,” she said.
“The Baronet and his wife should have their own service. The
knights can share a service and the other three guests can share
the third. The fourth can float so that no one will be left
waiting. Make sure that the floater understands that the knights
have priority.”

“Is the floater really necessary?”

“It will make all the difference. The knights
will feel like they have dedicated service even if they don’t. I’ve
used floating servers myself.” She didn’t mention that she’d used
floaters only in emergencies. In James’ manor, they planned for
dedicated service for every couple but sometimes a waiter was
indisposed and two of the others were called upon to float between
three couples. It worked well enough.

“Very well. Anything else I should
consider?”

Flame was still secured to the whipping
bench. She turned her head to look at Dodge who was sitting in the
easy chair admiring her form.

“Have you ever entertained members of the
aristocracy before?”

He shook his head.

“There is one aspect of this dinner that I
cannot advise you about. After the meal, the men will expect to
withdraw to the billiard room for brandy and … sport. During that
time, Mrs. Dodge will have to entertain the ladies in the drawing
room.” The ladies’ drawing room was always located far from the
billiard room to ensure that they were not disturbed by their
husbands’ raucous games. “I can tell Mrs. Dodge everything that she
needs to know about entertaining the ladies, but I cannot tell you
anything about entertaining the gentlemen. Obviously I was never
invited into the billiard room and my husband never breathed a hint
of what might have gone on. This time I assume that you will invite
me in.” She smiled wryly at Dodge. “Believe me, I will do
everything in my power to delight your guests. Pursue any whim they
might suggest. But I can only speculate what that might be. I have
no personal experience.”

He smiled back at her. “I have no doubt that
you will be richly entertaining.”