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 c.o.c.k. 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 pa.s.sed quickly enough.

Thanks to Barry's tutelage, Dodge learned the joys of having his c.o.c.k 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 doc.u.mentary 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 sc.r.a.ps. 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 s.e.x than was customary for husbands and wives. On the occasions when husbands and wives had s.e.x.

She inferred that Dodge wanted her to retain her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 a.s.s 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 f.u.c.ked 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 a.s.shole.

Even so, she kept her a.n.u.s lubricated and stretched with daily insertions of the b.u.t.t 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 chastis.e.m.e.nt. 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 f.u.c.king.

She was always surprised how much she liked to be f.u.c.ked 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 c.o.c.k.

He left her limp and expended on the bench when he was finished. "We'll be entertaining on Sat.u.r.day," 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' t.i.tles 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 b.a.l.l.s. 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 a.s.sume 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."

"One thing that I do know, though," she said, "is the ratio of slaves to gentlemen. One slave per six gentlemen is about the lowest ratio that I've seen personally and that was only when there were six slaves to entertain three dozen. My husband owned three slaves so he mostly limited dinners to a dozen couples at a sitting. When he did host a larger dinner, he borrowed enough slaves to ensure that there was at least a one-to-four ratio of slaves to gentlemen." Irene knew that because it was a perverse tradition that it was the wife's duty to borrow the slaves. It was part of the fiction that the slaves' job was to help the wives in their domestic ch.o.r.es. It helped that the other wives were only too happy to get one of their husband's favorite slaves off their property, if only for an evening. They always lent the most beautiful and attractive slave in the kennel. "Don't misunderstand me, I will devote myself entirely to entertaining your guests. But if you could find some way to borrow a second slave one with some experience in these affairs I think we would be far more entertaining as a pair."

He was frowning most severely.

She was keenly aware that she was still secured to the whipping bench. And that he had never yet used a cane on her. If she had overstepped her bounds, this might well be the night when she felt the force of that terrible instrument.

She held her tongue and let him think about that for a minute.

He was still frowning when he stood and walked toward her.

She quailed in fear and pulled hard against her bonds in antic.i.p.ation of what might be coming.

"I appreciate your point," he said, "but I can't. I don't know anyone who owns a slave that I might borrow."

She almost cried in relief. He had not taken offense. "I do," she said.

He c.o.c.ked his head.

"I know many households that own slaves."

"What good does that do me? I can't call them. What would I say? 'Hey, buddy, we've never met but I'd like to borrow your favorite slave for my friends to use for an evening.' I'd be laughed at."

"You wouldn't do it. Men don't borrow each others' slaves. If they tried, it would sound as bad as you said. It wouldn't be seemly. Their wives lend and borrow their slaves for them. When I was the wife of a lord, I often borrowed slaves from my friends. And lent my husband's out. Sometimes all three of them at once so that his kennel was bare for a night." That happened only rarely but she'd found great satisfaction in seeing her husband's l.u.s.t frustrated for a night.

"Mrs. Dodge can't borrow a slave, either. She doesn't know the wives of any slave owners."

"I do. I might be able to borrow one for you."

"You? You're a slave yourself."

"I can try. If any of my old friends will still speak to me. One of them might take pity on me. Even if I fail, it wouldn't reflect badly on you. Like I said, men don't get involved in the lending of slaves. And it can't reflect badly on me, I'm just a slave. Nothing can degrade me any more than I already degraded myself when I stripped off my clothes, put a chain about my neck, and stepped up on the auction block."

"I'll never understand why you did that."

"I'll never be able to explain it. Maybe it had something to do with having to serve as a pimp for my husband's slaves. But it was a lot of other things, too."

He shrugged. "I'll talk to Mrs. Dodge about your proposal." He uncuffed her wrists and ankles.

"She might not be happy about the arrangement."

"She'll like it or I'll take the cane to her."

Flame was horrified. She'd never heard a man threaten to take a cane to his wife, even in jest. Then she wondered if Dodge had ever actually done it. Such a thing would be inconceivable in the proper social cla.s.s. But this far down the hill? She didn't know.

"May I make a suggestion about deportment?" Her a.s.s quivered in fear that he would take offence and re-chain her to the bench to express his displeasure with the strap.

He raised an eyebrow. "You better."

"Your jest about taking a cane to Mrs. Dodge. Such a jest has to remain between you and me. It would be a serious breach of etiquette to ever, even in a casual joke, imply that you might treat a lady like a slave. Even to your most trusted friend. The distinction between slaves and ladies is absolutely inviolate."

"I understand."

She hoped that he did.

"Linda? This is... Irene." She stumbled over her own name. She no longer had any right to use it, but her old friend wouldn't recognize the name, Flame.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

Flame hadn't heard the click of a disconnection. "Linda? Are you there?"

"Is it true?" The voice was cold.

"What?"

"You disappeared. Everyone is saying that you were sold at auction." Her friends voice dropped to a near whisper. "That you were made a slave."

"That's almost true."

"Almost?"

"I wasn't made a slave. I made myself a slave. I volunteered to be sold."

There was stone silence from the phone.