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  SLAVE OF FORTUNE

  JAY LAWRENCE

  ISBN 9781588739643

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2006 Jay Lawrence

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information:

  Email [email protected]

  http://SizzlerEditions.com/Submission

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  For P.M., the catalyst who sparked a revolution

  2

  CHAPTER I

  A CHANGE OF EMPLOYMENT

  "You little ninny, Warnock. I told you to polish the fish knives, not

  give them an idle dusting! Look at those traces of tarnish in the

  handles! I want them burnished until you can see your silly face in

  them, miss. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Mrs. Beacon. I'm sorry, Mrs. Beacon."

  The young woman flinched involuntarily as the housekeeper

  clattered a large tray of silver cutlery down upon the scullery table.

  She wondered what the master and mistress would say if they knew

  their valuable tableware was being so brutally mistreated.

  "Sorry didn't build the Empire. On with it, girl. I shall return in

  one hour to inspect your work."

  The large woman in grey stalked out of the small, dark room,

  closing the door behind her with a slight bang. Staccato footsteps

  retreated down the corridor, then silence. McGeever, the young Irish

  scullery maid, looked up from her task, preparing beetroot. The palms

  of her hands were stained bright pink. She smiled, consolingly.

  "We calls her Bacon on accounts of her being such a pig."

  Warnock simply nodded, her dark eyes fixed upon the scullery

  door. Eventually, she shrugged slightly and, picking up a fish knife,

  began to rub with as much vigor as she could muster from her cold

  and aching form. It had been a long night, tossing and turning in the

  creaking old bed with the sagging mattress, with McGeever's icy feet

  occasionally pressing against the backs of her calves like a pair of

  flaccid semi-frosted fish. Maybe she would knit the girl a pair of bed

  socks. Christ, it was freezing. McGeever appeared to be in a chatty

  mood. Her strong, broad fingers worked on, cutting off the tops and

  trailing roots of the beets, scrubbing the purple globes free of dirt.

  She had spread an old cloth across her knees to prevent her pinny

  from getting stained.

  "It must seem very quiet for you here in the country, after London.

  I have cousins in London but I've never seen the place. Been to

  Dublin, though."

  3

  Warnock shivered and lifted the knife she was polishing up to the

  yellow light from the hissing gas mantle. The sun wasn't even up yet.

  Darkness pressed against the four small panes of the tiny window set

  high on the scullery wall.

  "I'll get used to it. The air is fresh here. The city can be hard on

  your chest, especially when there's a fog comes up from the river."

  The young woman paused to examine her diminutive reflection in

  the silvered surface of the knife's blade. McGeever snorted and wiped

  her hands on the rag with an impatient gesture.

  "You'll have no time for primping here! What work did they set

  you to do in London, then? Doesn't look as if you've spent much time

  with the cutlery. You'll be at that all day and old Ma Bacon will be

  apoplectic by tea time."

  "Will she now?"

  Warnock breathed on the knife, a fine coating of mist briefly

  clouding the reflection of her deep brown eyes. Idly, she wondered

  how long it would be before McGeever or the housekeeper or anyone

  else discovered her guilty secret. She was unmarried but not a maid in

  any sense of the word. Well, she had better learn and learn fast. She

  looked up just in time to catch a sharp look from the Irish girl, who

  put down her basin and stood up, the beet-stained cloth slowly falling

  to the cold, flagged floor.

  "I'm going to show you something and it's for your own good."

  McGeever's round cheeks were shiny and flushed almost as deeply

  as the root vegetables in her bowl. Her hair was thick and dark, her

  mouth as small and round as the spout of a teapot. Warnock watched

  the other girl impassively as she began to lift up the hem of her skirt.

  Layers of white petticoats were hoisted to reveal dimpled knees and

  plump thighs.

  "You're not wearing any drawers."

  She had to remember to sound at least a little bit shocked, although

  going without drawers was a common enough folly where she had just

  come from. McGeever bit her bottom lip and turned around to face

  the wall, simultaneously raising her skirts to waist level. Warnock

  saw.

  4

  "You've been caned, Mary."

  The young girl's fleshy white buttocks were liberally striped with

  livid scarlet welts. Abruptly, she let her skirts fall and her face

  glowed redder than ever as she resumed her seat on the hard wooden

  chair. When she finally spoke, her voice had diminished to a pale

  shadow of its former self.

  "Be warned, Lily. If you don't pull your weight in this household,

  you'll get as much – or worse."

  Ah, but I already know all about that little game.

  "So, is it Mrs. Beacon who delivers the sore bottoms?"

  Oddly enough, she already knew the answer, before the Irish girl

  had time to reply.

  "Oh no, that bitch's bark is worse than her bite, thank heavens. No,

  it's Mr. Gerrard, the butler, who sees to the disciplining of staff. I did

  a bad job of black-leading the grate in his sitting room last Wednesday

  morning. Jesus, I thought I'd never be able to sit down again. I swear

  it felt as if I'd been stung on the bum by a nest of hornets!"

  Lily had made a swift assessment of Mr. Gerrard the previous

  evening when she arrived. He was a large man, somewhat portly,

  with a bulbous, purplish nose that suggested a penchant for imbibing

  spirits. His bushy eyebrows met in the middle and he frequently

  consulted a large pocket watch. She had to remember to be

  frightened, to be totally aghast.

  "You poor thing, Mary McGeever. I swear I'd faint clean away if

  he tried to do that to me."

  Mary resumed her work with the beets.

  "Just be warned, that's all. I don't know what kind of easy, fancy

  ways you've been used to in your London town house, but you'd better

  pull yourself up by your bootstraps."

  Easy, fancy ways...

  Smiling slightly, Lily began to polish with a vengeance, her mind

  firmly fixed upon her former home.

  * * * *

  "My dear, a rose by any name could never smell as sweet as little

  Miss Lily here."

  5

  The gentleman was an American and clumsily charming in the

  typical manner of his countrymen. He stood in the doorway of the

  dimly lit bedroom, swaying slightly with an excess of fine wine and

  after dinner port. Behind him, Mrs. Jakes lingered, deftly tucking the

&nb
sp; guinea he'd proffered into the recesses of her small velvet bag.

  "I think you'll find this girl meets your requirements, sir. However,

  we do have a house rule concerning excessive marking of the flesh. If

  you beat her so she cannot work for a few days, you must pay more to

  cover our loss."

  The madam's scarlet mouth seemed garish in the soft light of the

  room and her bombazine dress crackled slightly as she withdrew,

  exchanging a knowing look with the man who merely nodded politely

  and cleared his throat. Lily waited quietly, knowing that very soon

  the deceptive stillness would become a violent storm. She understood

  sadists.

  "Are you a good girl, sweet Lily?"

  Already his voice had changed, as swiftly as he closed the door

  behind him and casually tossed his hat upon a chair. Lily kept her

  eyes upon the ivory backs of her hands, which were demurely crossed

  upon her lap. She replied immediately yet softly.

  "No, sir."

  This was a familiar game, the game of cat and mouse, always the

  same but for some minor twist in theme. Schoolmaster and errant

  pupil, cruel husband and virgin bride. The American did not remove

  his gloves.

  "Oh? All girls must be good girls. The penalty for sin must be

  severe."

  "Yes, sir."

  Her voice had diminished to the faintest whisper and she realized

  that her heart had begun to beat like a drum. The body knows before

  the mind takes in what is to come. He was a monster, this Colonial,

  with his Southern twang. Why, he probably kept slaves, real life

  slaves and maybe he even beat them too. She slid to her knees on the

  rug beside the large and opulent bed. Subservience would please this

  arrogant oaf.

  6

  "Did I tell you to kneel, Miss Lily?"

  The American moved around the bed and took a handful of the

  young woman's soft dark hair. She cried out in pain as he sharply

  tugged her head back and slapped her several times across the face.

  "Little bitch. Worthless little bitch. What are you?"

  "I'm a worthless little bitch, sir."

  She loathed such humiliation but went through the motions of her

  act, moist eyes downcast to gaze at the swirling pattern of the Turkish

  rug. Large, slightly moist hands tore at the flimsy bodice of her

  nightgown, rapidly exposing her round, firm breasts to the warm air of

  the bedroom. Steely fingers pinched her nipples hard and, despite

  herself, she moaned softly.

  "Slut. Worthless slut."

  "Use me, then."

  She couldn't believe she had uttered those words, a red rag to the

  bull that towered over her cowering form. The American raised one

  eyebrow quizzically at such a forward outburst.

  "Oh, I shall, Miss Lily. Believe me, I shall."

  The next thing she knew, she was lifted up and thrown down upon

  the bed, so violently that it knocked the wind out of her and she could

  barely catch her breath. The heavy mahogany posts of the headboard

  collided with the bedroom wall and Lily gasped as gloved hands

  found her throat and began to squeeze relentlessly.

  "Insolent whore. Why, I could rid this earth of a piece of bad

  business in just the twinkling of an eye, my dear child."

  His voice was as soft and sibilant as the faint hiss of gas in the

  mantle on the bedroom wall. Darkness was rising, a velvety pool of

  inky oblivion. She was beyond screaming, her heartbeat a heavy

  pulse which filled her ears to overflowing. Blood suffused her face

  and her hands fluttered impotently against the scarlet silk of the

  counterpane.

  I'm going to die. He will kill me.

  The thought seemed to echo rhythmically in her mind like the

  persistent fatalistic dripping of a tap.

  Kill me. Kill me. Kill me...

  7

  The American seemed a relentless black mass, which loomed above

  her like a thundercloud, casting a shadow over her tortured face.

  "But why should I ease your pain, my demonic daughter? I want

  you to know what it is to truly suffer, as the dear Lord Jesus Christ

  suffered for you and I upon the cross. Only through the ritual

  shedding of blood, sweat and tears can we come close to saving your

  wretched harlot's soul."

  The pressure eased and Lily finally took a ragged breath, coughing

  convulsively as the sadist's hands moved from her throat to her

  breasts.

  "Such a pretty little creature, like a sweet, ripe apple, yet rotten at

  the core. Turn onto your hands and knees and raise your nightgown."

  Slowly, shakily, the young woman did as she was bade, entering a

  vague dreamlike place between fantasy and reality. She crouched on

  all fours like an animal, her long hair falling across her face as she

  bowed her head to the mound of pillows at the top of the bed. Her

  bared haunches felt frighteningly exposed. What would happen next?

  What depraved pleasure would this monster take from her?

  Instinctively, she tried to relax her bottom but found herself clenched

  tight.

  Oh God, he will really hurt me if I can't be at peace!

  Lily had known many a rough gentleman in her time at Mrs. Jakes'

  house, and, indeed, had quite swiftly come to adopt the position of the

  special girl, the one who could and would accommodate the most

  darkly perverted tastes of the clientele. However, there was

  something about this American, something very wrong. A gloved

  finger found her anus and began to insinuate itself into her resistant

  body. Terror began to rise in her, an uncontrollable and unheard of

  emotion. She was never afraid, no matter how cruelly her clients

  abused her. The bruises always healed, and the payment was good,

  infinitely better than serving in a shop or sewing for her keep. It

  wasn't the first time she had sensed evil intent in a gentleman but this

  was something else, something profoundly malevolent.

  "I don't believe you can be a virgin, Miss Lily, yet you feel so

  closed to me, so tight. I like that. I like that very much indeed."

  8

  The brute's voice had changed again, sounding a little more human.

  Lily thought of calling out for help, of apologizing and saying that she

  felt unwell and could not proceed, yet somehow she was caught in an

  invisible net, unable to move or to issue a sound. The finger probed

  deeper and she summoned all her strength to open herself, to yield to

  the man, as she had done so many times before with other men that

  wanted to take her like a beast. Still, her body formed a tightening

  spiral about his finger, clamping down as he drove in, pulling at her

  tender flesh, beginning to hurt her again. If he tried to enter her she

  would surely tear. A light sheen of perspiration coated her forehead

  and her mouth was dry. Finally, with a monumental effort, she found

  her voice.

  "I can't, sir. I'm sorry but I can't."

  The American withdrew his hand from her trembling buttocks and

  Lily froze, waiting for the man's reaction. Refusal was not normally

  an option. There was a long pause, then the man sighed softly, as if

  all the
cares of the world lay upon his shoulders.

  "I see. The Lily deems herself too pure. Well, you know I could

  take you in any way I desire, don't you, child? All it would take

  would be for me to bind your wrists."

  Lily's heart pounded at the thought of being restrained by the brute,

  of being pinned down like a butterfly and driven through until she

  screamed.

  "Yes, sir. I understand. But please..."

  Her voice faltered and cracked. Her captor was toying with the

  silky cords that fastened the heavy drapes about the bed. Thick

  strands of crimson thread cascaded over the soft kid of his gloves like

  tiny rivulets of blood. As if tolling a death knell, the clock above the

  fireplace began to strike the midnight hour.

  "Damnation."

  The young woman did not want to look but curiosity got the better

  of her. Slowly, she turned her head to observe the figure by the bed.

  He no longer seemed to see her, his dark eyes firmly fixed upon the

  chiming clock. A strange expression haunted his hateful face, as if he

  too was alarmed by the night's events. As the clock struck the twelfth

  9

  hour he abruptly turned on his heel and strode out of the bedroom

  without a backward glance. To her dismay, Lily found that her eyes

  were filled with tears.

  * * * *

  "You're not hungry, then?"

  McGeever's slightly peevish brogue broke through the cloak of

  Lily's reverie. They sat at one end of a long oak table that filled one

  wall of the vast kitchen, where the servants took their meals. The

  food was good, a thick broth and great slabs of freshly baked bread

  and sweet butter, yet Lily felt as if she had a lump in her throat.

  Witnessing the result of the Irish girl's brush with Mr. Gerrard had

  brought back a steady stream of nightmarish memories.

  "I'm all right. You can have my bread and butter, Mary."

  The young girl's eyes lit up with greed and she swiftly scooped up

  the remnants of Lily's lunch, leaving nothing but a light dusting of

  crumbs upon the plate. McGeever munched steadily while delivering

  a lecture.

  "You needs to keep up your strength. Still plenty of work to do

  before we're done for the day. There's a party arriving on the last