Part 17 (2/2)

”Wow. This a.s.s has been beat pretty good.” The new voice was thin and nasal. It sounded like Earl Jones.

”It certainly has.” The deep gruff voice of an old man could belong to Earl Blankov.

Jones and Blankov often attended events together. Jones was at least seventy-five and Blankov had to be ten years older than that. She wondered how slaves entertained men that old.

”You think that anyone would dare take a cane to the wife of a lord?” Jones asked. ”Even if she is playing at being a slave?”

”I don't think she's playing at it,” Blankov replied. ”As far as the law is concerned, she's a slave for life, just like any other slave. Her owner doesn't owe her any consideration. I bet she'd be more likely to earn a beating for herself than a regular slave. Her owner would probably have to work d.a.m.n hard to make sure that she knew her place.”

”d.a.m.n shame,” Jones said. ”d.a.m.n shame.”

Flame felt a light hand on her shoulder. ”Get on your knees, woman, and suck a little c.o.c.k for me.” It was Blankov's voice.

His wrinkled p.e.n.i.s felt small in her mouth, and tasted like dribbled urine, but she licked and sucked it like it was the rock-hard ramrod of a twenty-year-old stud. This was her answer. This was how a slave could entertain an eighty-five-year-old man.

Blankov moaned in pleasure. ”This one's got the mouth of a slave. I tell you.”

”I'll give the next one a try,” Jones replied.

In a moment, he was moaning a duet with Blankov.

After a few minutes, Blankov stroked Flame's face and said, ”That's enough, dear. You're not going to get old faithful to spout tonight.”

She rose back to her feet and waited for further orders.

None came. Blankov had moved on.

So far, no one had signed her stomach. She wondered if any of the other slaves had been marked yet.

She didn't have to wait long for attention. Within a few seconds, another voice said, ”Come along.” A hand took hers and pulled her forward. ”Stop.” She stopped. ”Push forward and bend over.” She moved forward slightly and found her upper thighs pressed against something that felt like a leather bolster. She bent forward until her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were pressed against soft leather and her a.s.s was sticking high in the air. ”Spread 'em.” She spread her feet and rested her head on her arms.

A c.o.c.k penetrated her c.u.n.t and began working in her. She had been using the v.a.g.i.n.al weights every day and could hold two ounces for a slow count to two thousand somewhere near a half hour. She had no problem working her magic on this gentleman. It didn't matter that she was blindfolded. In a couple of minutes, she was filled with the s.e.m.e.n of a man that she had never seen. Or more likely, a man that she had seen many times, but who had never seen her naked. His voice sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn't identify him.

”Feels great to me,” the man said. ”Way better than any lady I ever had. You want to try her out?”

The other man didn't answer. He took her under the chin and gently raised her off the bolster.

Still silent, he led her away to another part of the room.

There, he turned her to face him and held her gently. He began kissing her naked lips.

He kissed well and she returned his kiss in equal measure.

After a couple of minutes, he laid her on her back on a mattress.

He lay down beside her and began stroking her body from shoulder to crotch. She remembered James doing the same on her wedding night.

When he put his hands to her crotch. She parted her thighs to admit him.

His lovemaking was slow and a little perfunctory. Much like James' had been.

After he came, he rolled off her. ”See? That's what everyone else is doing wrong. They are treating them like slaves and trying to see which one fails to respond. They should be trying to treat them like ladies to see out which one acts most like a lady. This one has my vote. When I treat her like a lady, she's just as much the cold fish as any lady I've ever laid.”

Flame recognized the voice of Lord McCullough a man that she and James had invited over to dinner many times and cursed herself for falling into his trap. She hadn't thought to ma.s.sage his c.o.c.k with her newly-trained c.u.n.t. She should have milked him dry, all the time writhing and moaning, and faked a mighty o.r.g.a.s.m of her own when he came. But he was right when he treated her like a lady, she automatically fell into her old habits.

Another voice, a knight named Septimus, laughed. ”Look at the set of her mouth. Angry as only a lady can be. You've got her, all right.”

Flame felt the chill point of a felt pen write a name across her belly. She could almost feel the letters spelling McCullough. Then the second man did the same. She was certain that he was writing Septimus.

She had her first two votes. She silently d.a.m.ned McCullough for driving her toward punishment. Two punishments. The amusing and ingenious one that had been promised the slave with the most votes; and the special one that had been designed for her if she were that slave.

Other men saw the writing on her belly as she lay on the mattress, waiting for instruction and commented on it.

”Lord McCullough thinks that this is the Lady Irene,” someone said. ”I wonder if he wants to risk a wager on his choice.”

”While you're asking him, I'm going to give her a shot.”

Another man inserted himself between her thighs.

This time, she put on a performance that was worthy of a slave.

”I don't think so,” the man said when he climbed off a few minutes later.

”Good,” the first voice replied, ”because now I've got a hundred plaqs riding on her not being Lady Irene.”

Flame was grateful to McCullough for telling her his strategy so that she could correct her behavior. But maybe he had done it deliberately so that he could win more wagers. Gentlemen risked their money on various wagers constantly and hated to lose. It wasn't the money, they had plenty; it was the victory that they prized.

When she listened, she heard other gentlemen placing all sorts of bets on the game.

What she overheard told her that she wasn't the only slave who had been marked. She could still hope to escape punishment.

”Come with me, slave,” a new voice said.

She was getting confused by all the voices. This one, too, sounded familiar, but she couldn't put a face to it.

A hand pulled her off the mattress and guided her across the room.

”Taste this for me.”

She expected to be put on her knees and have a c.o.c.k thrust in her mouth. Instead, she was surprised when the man raised her hand and put something small and moist in it.

”Tell me if it's worth eating.”

She raised it to her nose. It smelled delicious. Savory with a hint of something exotic.

She nibbled it and guessed that it was prosciutto wrapped around a sliced water chestnut with a dash of sweetened cinnamon. And a bit of fennel straw.

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