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The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 11/14/2014 6:15:10 PM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline 		Well, here it is. The first part, the prologue, of a new story. A few things need to be gotten out of the way first.

While the basic concept of the story has been kicking around in my head for some time, the impetus to write it resulted from the exchange on THIS THREAD. Despite the fact that I jokingly decided to name the title character after Camille65 it should be noted that this is fiction and therefore the character should not be construed as representing Camille65 in any way. Nor should any of the characters be construed as representing any real person alive or dead.

The following story is strictly for entertainment purposes an so should also not be construed as advocacy, on the part of the author, for or against any particular issue in the real world.

The author assumes no responsibility for any consequences if the reader should attempt anything they read here. THIS IS FANTASY! Safe, Sane and Consensual is the key to great BDSM in the real world.

The following takes place – several years later - in the same fantasy world depicted in Roland an Allison but it is not a direct sequel to that story. None of the characters in that story appear here. I am merely returning to that world because it is already there in my imagination and so is somewhat familiar to me and I wanted to explore it a little more.

Although in the Games People Play thread I said I would get to the “good stuff” earlier I confess I have been unable to completely rid myself of my habits of character exploration and going off on tangents. I just wouldn’t be me if I didn’t have a good lead in to the “good stuff.” I am confident that this time around I will be able to restrain myself to a prologue and the first chapter before things get hard core.

I am writing this because I enjoy writing but also because I want to experiment with presenting something as it is written - rather than something that was already written, and abandoned, and returned to, and poured over innumerable times. I wanted to “force” myself to write a little more often, a little faster.

I welcome constructive criticism on spelling, grammar, narrative, structure, characterization, etc. I appreciate any and all feedback.

Anyway, here comes the prologue. Chapter one will follow . . . when I finish writing it. I’m guessing about a week.

Thanks. I hope you enjoy,

Marc2b


< Message edited by Marc2b -- 11/14/2014 6:50:55 PM >

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 11/14/2014 6:38:53 PM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		The Reduction of Lady Camille.

Prologue: The Bumpy Road Here.

The Lady Camille sighed heavily and braced herself against the sides of the carriage as it jostled across a rough patch of road. From the small window behind her came the voice of her personal slave, Daisy. “Is all well with Mistress?”

“Yes! I’m fine!” The Lady Camille didn’t really mean to be short with Daisy. It was appropriate for a slave in her position – attendant to a Nobel Lady - to inquire upon her owner’s comfort in such moments. More than that, the slave girl was the closest thing the Lady Camille had to a friend.

“Are you quite well?” The Lady Camille wished that Daisy could ride in the carriage with her but propriety forbade it. The forms must always be obeyed. When the horses were at full trot the slave had to ride on the bench in the back. When the horses slowed to a walk she had to promptly hop off and walk behind.

“I am. Thank you, Mistress.” The Lady Camille then leaned forward to address the driver through another small window. “How much longer?”

“Another thirty or forty minutes, my Lady,” replied the man.

“Come to a stop when we are five minutes out. I’m going to need some time to freshen up after this miserable ride!”

“Yes, my Lady.” He was one of Lord River’s men and she had no real cause to be short with him, either. Driver and carriage had been graciously sent to pick her up and convey her to his estate. The offer was included with the invitation she had received the week earlier. The Lady Camille sat on her bed and cried when she read it. That invitation represented her final defeat in the all-important, all consuming quest amongst young noble women - status.

The Lady Camille leaned back in her seat and watched the meadows and forests passing by her view. In the distance she saw some men on horseback – a protective escort from Lord River - but she took no real note of them. Her mind was too preoccupied with trying to fathom how things had ended up this way. Her mother had died delivering her first and only child. Her parents had been one of those rare marriages amongst the nobility – one where true love dwelt. Her father had been so grief stricken that he never remarried. This had put the Lady Camille in the unusual position of being an heiress in a society where sons were the primary inheritors. It made her an attractive marriage prospect and likely to marry up. But the fates conspired to rob her of these advantages before she even came of age.

The Lady Camille had been only ten when King Clement tried to bully Palasia’s smaller neighbor to the west, Kamara, into recognizing Palasian sovereignty over the long disputed territory known as the Rucklands. With an army three times the size of the Kamarans this should have been simple. Catastrophe ensued instead at the disastrous “Battle of the Border.” With his army wiped out, with an enemy army poised to wreak havoc on his villages and towns while marching unopposed toward his capital, the Palasian king had no choice but to capitulate to his enemy’s terms. The disputed territory became sovereign Kamaran territory – plus an indemnity of one million gold coins. The humiliation was hard for the kingdom to bear. Things were to get worse.

The loss of so many fine young men along with the loss of so much wealth, led to a collapsed economy, a failed harvest and famine during the winter. This resulted in a peasant’s revolt the following spring which was harshly put down. By this time several of King Clement’s dukes decided that he was unfit to rule. Almost a year to the day after the Battle of the Border, swords clanged and men shouted throughout the capital city. Important buildings (the armory, the treasury) were seized along with the Royal Palace itself. The king and his family were slain in their beds. Except one. Prince Gerard, then twenty-six and the youngest of the King’s sons managed to escape. With the help of friends he went onto hiding only to emerge at the estate of a loyal duke in the north one month later. He proclaimed himself the true king and issued a call for all loyal subjects to join him in ridding their kingdom of traitors.

The Lady Camille shuddered slightly as she recalled hearing the word traitor bandied around so much during those four years of hell as the kingdom writhed in the agony of civil war. The scheme she had concocted and put into motion seven months ago – and which had failed spectacularly – would be regarded as treason were it ever to be found out. For the first few months after that failure she had lived in paranoid terror that King Gerard’s soldiers would show up at her door, arrest warrant in hand. She breathed deeply and reminded herself that were that going to happen it would have already. She relaxed and continued her reveries.

The Palasian civil war ended in victory for King Gerard but at a terrible cost in lives and treasure. Several noble families had been wiped out when they were declared traitors and massacred by one side or the other during the changing tides of war. A final round of executions accompanied King Gerard’s victory before he turned his energies to rebuilding his shattered kingdom. The Lady Camille’s father was amongst those to emerge still standing.

Five years later, with things slowly but surely recovering in the kingdom, The Lady Camille turned twenty and, as was tradition, officially became available for marriage. It wasn’t long before the absence of any worthwhile proposal from any heir of quality made things perfectly clear – she was damaged goods. There had been the occasional smirks and sly hint of such from other noble girls her age but she had always dismissed it as jealousy. She came with wealth and land and that guaranteed her wealth and status in the years to come. Except it hadn’t. Her father, it seemed, was regarded as having been a fence-sitter during the civil war. The victorious in any conflict regard fence-sitters as cowards at best, akin to traitors at worst.

Perhaps his failures to secure his daughter’s future along with his family’s honor contributed to his heart giving out on him two years later. The Lady Camille had enough of a high born daughter’s distant love for her father that she genuinely grieved him but she had also hoped that it would improve her prospects. Perhaps, with the “fence-sitter” out of the way, she reasoned, the daughter might be looked upon as an unfortunate innocent. But her hopes were dashed when the only proposals that came were the same ones as before, Wealthy commoners (merchants, mostly) looking to marry up or second and third sons looking for land and money since title and the bulk of the inheritance, was denied them.

Adding to her burdens, she had then had to take up the management of her funds and lands – something noble girls are not usually trained to do - something she turned out to be spectacularly bad at. And now here she was, twenty-five years old, hemorrhaging money so bad that most of her few employees had quit after having gone unpaid for months. She was near to having to sell off land, or her jewels or her field slaves and maybe even her house slaves (but never Daisy!). Here she was, twenty-five years old, a woman who should be a pampered duchess or countess – who had almost become a queen! And here she was, twenty-five years old, and on her way to hear the marriage proposal of the worst possible candidate ever.

Another rough patch of road jostled the carriage. Daisy again enquired as to her owner’s well-being and the Lady Camille again answered with a short tempered “Fine!” She didn’t bother to return the enquiry this time. The closer they got to Lord River’s estate, the more sour her mood became. The more she thought about how close she had come to pulling off her scheme . . . Damn! If that idiot had only won instead of getting himself killed! Again she shuddered at the thought of her fate should her role in those events ever come to light.

The carriage slowed. The Lady Camille heard Daisy hop off the back bench. The carriage came to a stop. Were they that close already? The driver, as was his proper duty, set the portable steps by the door before opening it. Just outside she could see Daisy, kneeling, hands behind her back, head bowed and with knees demurely closed – as was proper for the property of a noble lady.

“Daisy! Don’t get grass stains on you! Stand up!”

“Yes, Mistress. Forgive me, Mistress,” said Daisy, standing up while her owner stepped out of the carriage.

“Look at that, you have gotten stained.” The charge wasn’t completely fair. The dirty back bench had left more stains upon the slave girl’s attire than the grass but as a free woman the Lady Camille was under no obligation to be fair. “Change immediately.” Daisy quickly and deftly undid the soft, pliable rope that served as a belt for the knee length, sleeveless white smock that usually covered her nudity. The driver, the Lady Camille noted, made no pretense that he didn’t enjoy looking over the blond haired slave’s body as she switched her smock with a clean one from a bag on the luggage rack. Men! Nobel or common, they were all rutting pigs when it came to slave girls!

Truth be told, despite her genuine affection for the enslaved woman, the Lady Camille had always been a little jealous of the attention that she – that any slave girl – received from men. If ever accused of this, she would deny it of course. It was also an unspoken truth that the dark haired Lady Camille – who knew herself to be beautiful - was a little jealous of her property’s radiant blond locks. It was actually one of the reason she had selected Daisy from all of the other slaves up for bid when her father bought Daisy for her as a twentieth birthday gift, as was tradition. It had always irked the Lady Camille that blonds were somehow considered more beautiful than brunettes. There was a bit of spiteful revenge in owning one her own age.

Daisy, now properly attired in clean clothes stood respectfully, in front of her mistress, awaiting her owner’s command. “Now check me,” said the Lady Camille as she slowly turned around but the clear, plush interior of the carriage had not soiled her traveling clothes at all. Daisy had only to smooth a few crinkles from her owners dress and they were ready to resume their journey.

“I don’t want my slave getting filthy again,” The Lady Camille informed the driver curtly as she sat herself in the carriage again, “so proceed slowly enough for her to walk.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

A thought occurred to the Lady Camille as the carriage started forward again. “Driver,” she asked through the window, “Is it true that the Lord River owns no male slaves?”

“Very true, my Lady. He owns about eighty or so woman but refuses to own a man. All the men working for his Lordship, me own self included, are in his good employ. ‘A matter of principle,’ he says. ‘Men don’t belong in chains,’ he says. ‘Women are more properly suited to the collar,’ he says.” The driver’s tone made it clear that he agreed with his employer. “Of course, a man need only have a collard woman in his bed to know the truth of it.” The driver suddenly went silent. Perhaps he realized that he was pushing the bounds of propriety. He may be a free man but he was still a commoner addressing a noble woman.

The Lady Camille leaned back again. A matter of principle. Well, he would think that, given his history. That history is why the Lady Camille absolutely had to put off the impending marriage proposal. The man had been born a slave! A slave! The lowest of the low! Even a peasant still possessed the dignity of being a free person. He didn’t even know when his birthday was! Or even his exact age! He appeared to be in his early forties.

The basic facts of his history were now well know throughout the kingdom. He had been in his early twenties, a field slave belonging to Lord Hawthor, Barron of Three Creeks Estate when he was sold for whatever reason. While being transported by the traveling merchant, while passing through an uninhabited spot of wilderness, the slave had somehow overcome his betters and slain them all – an offense worthy of a slow and painful death.

Instead, he had – according to rumor – heated a sword until its edge glowed red and then used it to remove the brand on his left thigh that proclaimed his degraded status. He then managed to make his way to the Capital city where, calling himself Caleb River, secured employment as a City Guardsman. The then Prince Gerard was known as a carouser in those days, spending many a night and many a coin in the seedier taverns that men of his station shouldn’t frequent. Sometime over the next three years he must have come to feel himself indebted to City Guardsman Caleb River – perhaps some stolen coin recovered or an indiscretion overlooked. Whatever the cause, it paid off for the escaped slave when his secret was exposed.

A mob, incited by some miscreants who had run afoul of him on more than one occasion, had surrounded City Guardsman Caleb River, indignantly calling for the escaped slave be put back in his place. The throng’s demand was cut short by the arrival of Prince Gerard, wearing his royal finery for a change. With the assured gait of a man who knows himself in command, he parted the crowd to stand next to Caleb, placing his hand upon his shoulder. “This man is my friend,” he called out for all to receive, “who here dares call him slave!” With that, Caleb’s freedom was secured.

The friendship between the city guardsman and the prince must have continued for, though the Lady Camille did not know the details, Caleb was said to have been instrumental in saving the life of Prince Gerard during the coup and helping him flee to safety. Shortly after, Caleb became a lieutenant in King Gerard’s army. A year later he was a commander leading legions into battle. A year after that he was General Caleb earning praise for his victory in the critical Battle of Broken Castle where he successfully sniffed out a trap the enemy had lain and tuned the tables on them.

With victory, King Gerard invested the former slave with the title of Earl and granted him the very same estate, Three Creeks, where he had once been a piece of property. The new Earl, mused the Lady Camille, must have enjoyed the irony of taking over the estate where he had once toiled, naked and in chains, under the hot sun and under the lash. How he must have exulted in leading his men to seize the estate and his former owner, the Barron Hawthorn, who had backed the losing side in the just ended civil war and was now declared traitor. Rumor had it that it was the Earl Caleb River himself who wielded the ax that separated the Baron Hawthorn’s head from his shoulders.

In all fairness, the Lady Camille had to admit that Lord River’s had done well for himself. It was remarkable how he had managed to lift himself from the most degraded status of all – slave – to the ranks of the nobility. Certainly luck and circumstance played a role but he was the one who always managed to play his cards correctly at the right time which bespoke of a shrewd intelligence. The man was, in his own way, quite admirable.

It didn't matter. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was that he had been a slave. For a noble lady to be married to such would be an unbearable shame. Oh, all the other nobles would greet her properly and be all smiles and charm at the social functions – the forms must always be obeyed – but behind her back . . . behind her back they would be all smirks and jokes and laughter. She would know it. They would know that she knew it. There would always be a knowing gleam in their eyes whenever they engaged in the pretense of camaraderie. That had to be avoided at all costs!

She hoped he didn't make the actual proposal during this visit. Visits such as this were usually when the hint would be dropped that they would make a good match. From the Earl’s perspective it was obvious why the match would benefit him. Marrying a noble woman would give him a bit more legitimacy as a noble. More importantly, having a noble mother – one descended from actual nobility (even if she was damaged goods) - would give any children she bore him a stamp of legitimacy. If he did make the proposal during this visit it wouldn't be a total disaster. She could put him off for a month while she “thought” about it – noble marriages weren't carried out on a whim, after all. Either way, her time for finding a more acceptable match was growing short. She didn't have to settle just yet but her situation was growing desperate.

The carriage came to a stop. They had arrived at the outer gate where a low stone wall marked the boundary of the estate. A couple of men opened the gate. As the carriage passed through the Lady Camille contemplated the sign above it: White Fawn Estate. She did not know why Lord River changed the name or even where he got the name from. Perhaps she would ask him about it. Perhaps because she was distracted by these thoughts she did not hear the gate clang shut behind her – sealing her fate.

< Message edited by Marc2b -- 11/14/2014 6:44:26 PM >

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 11/14/2014 7:25:12 PM   
shiftyw


Posts: 2837
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Status: offline 		I really like this, you're a very talented writer.

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 11/16/2014 4:29:44 AM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		Thanks!

ETA: Looks like it is going to be a cold, indoor Sunday today. I might actually get started on Chapter One.

< Message edited by Marc2b -- 11/16/2014 4:49:19 AM >

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 11/17/2014 5:31:49 AM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
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Status: offline 		In between Sunday's naps, football and a viewing of X-Men, days of future past (meh) I managed to write about a page and a half of the first chapter. Then I woke up this morning, read what I had written and realized that it was ninety percent crap.

That's the way it goes sometimes. Nothing to do but start over.

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 11/17/2014 4:21:53 PM   
shiftyw


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From: The Shire
Status: offline 		*awaits patiently*
Take your time.

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 11/19/2014 5:22:58 AM   
Marc2b


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quote:

Take your time.


Oh believe me, when it comes to writing I usually do but I kind of like the idea of sharing the writing process with anyone who would be interested (I in turn would like to hear how others go about it).

Had a good burst of creativity (IMNSHO) yesterday and wrote three pages, then got bogged down so I decided to concentrate on fleshing out some minor characters in my head today while the batteries recharge.



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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 11/23/2014 9:07:37 AM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		The Reduction of Lady Camille.

Chapter One: The Forms Must Be Obeyed.

The Ride through the White Fawn Estate was most instructive. It was a bit eerie that there were no people to be seen but not unexpected – they would be further ahead of course, arrayed to properly greet her – but it allowed the Lady Camille a chance to study the place in detail. What she saw fascinated her. Every field, every orchard was laid out in perfect straight lines. At the same corner of each field or orchard there was a long wooden table with chairs, a large water barrel and a stone fire pit where the workers took their meals. They were laid out in the exact same way every time. Every fence and stone wall was level. Every barn and tool shed stood tall, no listing to one side from age, no door left hanging off its hinge, everything painted in bright reds with white trims. They stood as though they were proud to be here.

There was a lovely pond that had been tamed to provide an idyllic resting spot. The edges of the pond had been lined with marble paving stones. It was surrounded by a well-trimmed lawn, a few beautiful large maple and oak trees providing shady sanctuaries from the summer sun with their leafy branches. There were several flower gardens with marble benches and bird baths that gleamed bright white. Everything had no doubt been given a good scrubbing prior to her arrival.

But it was more than that. The Lady Camille got the distinct impression that there had been little need to spruce up much. The whole place radiated a sense of tightly maintained order. Even the road, she suddenly realized, had provided a perfectly smooth ride ever since they passed the gate. This was a place, she understood, where complacency was not allowed.

And then it suddenly changed. The green fields and bounty laden orchards, quite abruptly gave way to a forest. This was no civilized wood with the detritus and scraggly brush of years cleared away so the privileged could picnic and frolic in comfort. This was an ancient growth where the branches intermingled in the competition for sunlight; where what little sunlight that made it to the ground sparkled amid the gloom on dead falls, moss covered rocks and piles of leaves that had been accumulating for years if not decades. The whole place had a dank, rotten wood smell that made the Lady Camille crinkle her nose yet seemed to stir something inside her that she couldn't identify but she still found appealing.

She could hear the sounds of life in the forest, fluttering birds and scurrying . . . who knew what manner of beast? She had heard stories of bears and forest cats living in the wilder parts of the kingdom but would Lord River allow such to dwell on his lands? The Lady Camille turned around suddenly to peer out the tiny back window at Daisy. Her slave walked steadily, hands clasped behind her, head slightly bowed – a proper and respectful slave of a noble lady – but her owner could see the collard girl’s nervous glances at the menacing forest on either side of her. Beyond her slave girl the Lady Camille spied two armed men on horseback, liveried in burgundy and white with gold trim – the colors of the Earl Caleb River. The escort had passed through the gate and caught up with her. The noble woman relaxed a little and resumed her examination of the passing scenery.

The carriage went by another pond but this one was the very opposite of the calm pool they had passed earlier. No attempt had been made to tame this water or its surroundings. Its mucky looking, haphazard edges were a riot a cattails, tall grasses and water lilies. She never quite saw the frogs the passing carriage startled but she heard the “plop, plop” and saw the ripples of their jumps. Dragonflies and other insects flittered about.

Things changed abruptly again. The carriage emerged from the forest back into a geometric world of sculpted bushes, flower beds and neatly trimmed lawns. The Lady Camille did not understand why the Lord of this estate would allow such a wild place in the midst of such disciplined surroundings but she did not have time to muse on it. The road ahead was lined with the estate’s support buildings – the stables, the smithy and others. Further up she could see the manor house where Lord River himself waited with his retainers. Between her and her host, lined up on the right side of the road, were the people who lived here and worked here and called White Fawn Estate – be they free or slave – home.

It was easy to quickly distinguish free from slave as protocol dictated that the slaves kneel while the free individuals stand tall, looking straight ahead, heads neither bowed in submission nor held haughtily high while they awaited her approach. The slave all wore modest white smocks trimmed with burgundy and belted with golden colored rope. Most appeared to be in their twenties and thirties, some in their forties and fifties. All appeared to have been kept in good health.

Most of the commoners wore the simple cotton browns of the lower classes but there was nothing shabby nor even worn looking about them. Closest to her were the men of his Lordship’s Personal Guard, their uniforms of leather and brass gleamed in the sun. Each stood ramrod straight and held shield and spear, both of which appeared to have been polished to perfection. Clearly everyone had put on their best for her arrival.

The Lady Camille’s mind did not dwell on fashion. What struck her first and foremost was the confirmation of the stories she had heard, the confirmation of the driver’s testimony – all those kneeling were women and all those standing were men. I may well be the only free woman on this whole estate right now, thought the Lady Camille. I am a noble lady, she reminded herself. I will be accorded the proper respect. The Forms must be obeyed.

The Forms were obeyed. The soldiers all remained at attention, their gaze remaining vigilantly ahead. The slaves also remained perfectly still in silent obeisance. The free laborers began applauding but each gave a respectful bow as she passed by. She in return smiled and waved, graciously accepting their gratitude that she would grace them with her presence. The armed escort came to a stop at the proper distance behind when the carriage came to a stop in front of Lord River and his retinue.

Seeing him in person for the first time in seven months, she was briefly reminded that the slave turned Earl was actually quite handsome. He was tall and muscular with a full head of hair as dark as her own, though just showing its’ first few touches of gray at the temples. His face, sporting a neatly trimmed equally black beard (also showing its' first few gray hairs) looked as though it had been originally chiseled by the gods themselves to masculine perfection but had since acquired a weathered look that did not detract but added to his attractiveness. It was a face that looked like it was accustomed to command . . . to being obeyed. It was easy to imagine him with . . . some . . . slave girl in his arms, making her heart beat faster and her . . . with the practiced discipline that came from years of experience the Lady Camille pushed such thoughts aside, nipping them in the bud before they took her to dangerous places that were beneath her dignity.

Her host was dressed in his finest doublet and hose and though they were undoubtedly tailored to fit him perfectly they still looked out of place on him. Something in his stance conveyed his discomfort with them – as if he wanted to burst out of them. As her host he made a proper gentlemanly bow to welcome his noble visitor. Although more than adequate it was clearly a bow of recent practice, not the bow that comes naturally from years of experience.

The forms continued to be obeyed as Lord River introduced her to the men, the educated and skilled commoners who helped him run his estate. Matthew Carlisle, the Chief of Staff, balding and approaching his elder years. Thomas Mason, the Captain of the Guard, a dashing looking red-haired, and red-bearded, man a few years younger than the Earl he served (the Lady Camille found it necessary to flick away some more dangerous thoughts). Alfred Bates, the Head Accountant, small and bald and squinting. Why, wondered the Lady Camille, do all accountants look like weasels?

While she graciously accepted the flattering compliments along with the bows, the carriage slowly pulled away. This was not the least bit unusual, her luggage would be taken to the guest quarters. Daisy followed the carriage. In this situation she was considered part of the luggage. Still, it made the Lady Camille feel even more alone. She pretended otherwise as Lord River introduced another guest of the estate, Harold Moseley, a Notary of the King’s Exchequer. “Here to help me on a few minor legal matters,” explained the Earl. A glorified clerk, thought the Noble woman as she continued to smile.

Next came the invitation to dinner, a celebration in her honor. The Lady Camille was delighted to accept the invitation, of course. Finally, her host asked her if her journey was tiring, providing the expected excuse to escort her to her suite. A few more banal pleasantries later and she was able to close the door to her room behind her . . . and let out a big sigh.

Daisy was already there, kneeling respectfully for her owner’s entrance. A quick glance around the sumptuous room revealed that Daisy had already started unpacking. “Shall I continue unpacking, Mistress?”

“No,” sighed the noble woman again as she flopped herself down on the large bed with the goose down mattress. “Draw me a bath first. Wake me when it’s ready.” After acknowledging the command the slave girl quickstepped into the next room to start the preparations. “I wish this day was over,” muttered the Lady Camille as she felt herself dosing off. She wasn’t sure why but she found herself thinking of the Earl Baxter Nolan as she felt herself slipping further down into slumber. That idiot had been her one and only chance to leap ahead of all that ‘daughter of a fence sitter’ nonsense. Her chance to leap over all of her smirking detractors and lord it over them as their queen . . . and now . . . here she was . . .

♦ ♦ ♦


The muttering in the kingdom began a few years after the civil war, when the flush of victory had worn off and people began to wonder about the future again while they rebuilt their weakened realm. The King, having defended his dynasty against usurpers now needed a son to keep that dynasty going. Nobody blamed the King, of course. It was always the Queen who got the blame for these situations. People were beginning to wonder if the King shouldn’t set his wife aside in favor of a new one who might prove fertile. He steadfastly refused. Perhaps it was love, more likely it political necessity – the Queen’s father was a powerful duke whose support had been instrumental in the King’s victory.

There was an heir to the throne. He was a pompous twit of an Earl from a minor, nearly impoverished family whose “estate” was little more than a puffed up pig farm. He inherited his title young when, according to rumor, his father got drunk (a regular occurrence, apparently) and fell face first in one of the pig pens. Death by drowning in mud and pig shit. Not the most dignified way to pass on Title but death by any means is sufficient.

Earl Nolan Baxter, Lord of Pork Hill Estate was a distaff cousin of the king who had been so far removed from the throne that he didn’t even know he was in line - until the coup and the civil war depopulated everyone between the king and himself. Even then it wasn’t known right away. It took a meticulous reading of the voluminous Chronicles of the Noble Families of the Realm to dig it up. The Lady Camille, who in her increasingly broad search for a suitable suitor had become quite familiar with the tomes, had been quite surprised that no one else had seen it.

The fact that Earl Nolan Baxter, Lord of Pork Hill Estate, was not big on thinking was what had made him so useful. Under any other circumstances it would be intolerable to be married to a pig farmer . . . but a pig farmer poised to become king? That was a different matter. As his queen she would not just get to lord it over all the other Ladies of the Court, but she would be the actual power behind the throne! The kingdom would be hers to command!

It had been surprisingly easy to seduce him to her purposes. A few coy glances, some whispered flattery and he was her willing servant, soon convinced that it was his patriotic duty to save the kingdom from the lineage that had brought it so much woe. Through occasional clandestine visits and secret correspondence (always sternly warning him to burn the letters promptly after reading!) she instructed him on what he would have to do.

The fruition of the scheme was to have been during the annual New Year’s Ball at the Palace. Prior to the ringing of the bells at midnight, while the King was making the usual ‘last year was great, next year will be even better’ speech to his nobles, the Earl Nolan Baxter, Lord of Pork Hill Estate, challenged the King to a sword fight to the death for the throne. He had no basis in law or tradition to do so but he craftily used words like “incompetent” and “coward,” in just the right places and with just the right tone of contempt. To be so insulted – in front of his own nobles no less - left King Gerard no choice but to accept the challenge.

The Lady Camille had assumed that her young and sprightly Earl would have no problem quickly dispatching the middle-aged King who had acquired a bit of a belly during peacetime. She was wrong. Things did happen quickly but it was the much more experienced king who ran his challenger through in less than a minute. The bells throughout the city rang in the New Year as the nobility of Palasia watched Earl Nolan Baxter, Lord of Pork Hill Estate, drop to his knees. As blood poured out of his chest and back he spit up more blood.

What happened next would be the primary cause of the Lady Camille’s paranoia for the next few months after. No! Don’t look at me you idiot! For half a second it seemed as if every eye in the Grand Ball Room was on her, accusing her but attention quickly returned to the King and his dying opponent. The young man began to topple over. The King arrested his fall by grabbing him by the hair. Lifting his sword high the King put his defeated enemy out of his misery with a single swift stroke to the neck. The peeling of the bells came to an end as the head of Earl Nolan Baxter, former Lord of Pork Hill Estate, rolled across the floor.

It was the Earl Caleb River, Lord of White Fawn Estate, who first applauded his King’s victory but the assembled lords and ladies quickly followed suit. Long practice in the aristocratic art of emotional pretense allowed the Lady Camille to join in convincingly. She glanced around to see if anyone was looking at her and was relieved to see that none were. The King ordered “that mess” cleaned up which quickly and efficiently was. The musicians struck up a festive tune and slowly the unpleasantness was put behind. Though terror made her heart pound so hard in her chest she was surprised no one heard it, The Lady Camille kept up appearances and engaged in all the required chit chat. Though she kept telling herself that it didn’t mean anything, it perturbed her that she spied the Lord River looking at her with a scrutinizing expression more than once.

♦ ♦ ♦

Daisy gently shook her Mistress awake and then took few steps back and knelt when the Lady Camille bolted upright. She had been having a nightmare about that idiot. It was a nightmare she had experienced frequently during those frightening few weeks after she saw his head removed from the rest of him. In the dream she ran around the Grand Ball Room, trying to get away from what was chasing her – the disembodied head of the recently departed young earl, screaming at her, accusing her of treason against the crown. Everyone else in the ball room ignored her save one, the Earl Caleb River, whose eyes stayed with her no matter which way she ran. It had been months since she had that unpleasant dream.

She looked at her kneeling slave. She had kept Daisy out of it for the simple reason that slaves are never allowed to lie – not to their owners, not to any free persons, and certainly not to Royal Inquisitors. No Royal Inquisitors had ever paid a visit the Lady Camille reminded herself, shaking off the gut freezing fear the dream had sent with her into the waking world. It was seven months ago. I would have lost my head within a week had they known anything. She wondered what Daisy did know. The owner did not delude herself that the slave was oblivious to the fact that something was going on a year ago, something that preoccupied her Mistress very much. She certainly knew that her Mistress had spent the first two months of the New Year suffering from recurring nightmares which she never discussed. She look concerned right now. Of course she does, she knows that I haven’t had those bad dreams for five months. Well, there was no point in worrying about it now, she had this stupid dinner to get through. “I am desperate for that bath, help me out of these clothes,” said the Lady Camille as she stood up.

The bath was pure luxury, heated just right (Daisy knew her so well) to ease the Noble woman’s cares and fears away. As the scented water caressed her naked skin, she felt the first tingling of need and wondered if she shouldn’t relieve herself before the dinner. The Lady Camille was still a virgin – it was vital that she remain intact until marriage – but she had never been able to keep her fingers completely away from her clit like proper girls of her class no doubt should. She had experimented a few times with Daisy’s tongue but it had felt awkward and she could tell that Daisy performed not out of desire but only because slaves obey their owners.

Sending Daisy away on some task was the usual method of getting enough privacy for her fingers to do their work. Her thoughts became not just dangerous, but very dangerous during such moments. She had become adept performing quickly, in getting it over with. Although pleasurable, it was not an exercise in pleasure. It was merely necessary relief done for the same reason she went to the privy when she had to – because she had too. Such were the restrictions of her world.

The Lady Camille consoled herself that the restrictions were even greater for Daisy. The slave girl was also a virgin and, as per tradition, would remain so for as long as she was a great lady’s personal slave. She did not often get the chance to be alone and so was usually forced into relieving herself when her Mistress was asleep – or when she thought her Mistress asleep. A few times the Lady Camille listened as her slave girl, supposedly sleeping on her mat at the foot of her owner’s bed, slowly, quietly (a few squeaks managing to escape her lips) sought her own relief. Officially, the Noble woman should have been outraged that her slave would behave so sordidly. Unofficially the free woman recognized some commonality with her slave and so let the matter go.

Well, there was no task she could send Daisy on now. Her own needs would just have to wait. Daisy, she realized petulantly, would have some private time shortly. She would wait here while her Mistress was occupied with the duties of her social rank. Perhaps, the Lady Camille thought peevishly, I should have her chained, but then she decided against it. Daisy was an obedient slave (the Lady Camille had found it necessary to have her whipped only three or four times in the five years she had owned the blond) and her owner would not begrudge her relief this time although their seemed a certain injustice in it. Sometimes it seemed as if the slave had more liberties than the owner.

The Lady Camille tried to distract herself by focusing on the dinner ahead. Would he just drop the hint or would he actually propose? She startled her slave as she smacked her hand upon the water in triumph. All that needless worry! The Lord of White Fawn Estate has not been eyeing her that dreadful night because he suspected her of anything! He had been considering her as a marriage prospect! Men! Sure wealth and land were important but men wanted pretty faces and curvy bodies as well! He had been assessing her! That’s all!

The Lady Camille started laughing with relief but then stopped short when a new thought intruded. Why did he wait so long? The answer was annoyingly obvious. She was damaged goods, the daughter of the fence sitter. He waited this long because he was settling after better prospects had turned him down. The gall of the man! Thinking that he (a former slave!) deserved better than her! To all the Pits and Hells with putting him off and then sending a polite letter of refusal! She’d tell him no – politely, with all the grace of a real Noble Lady – right to his face! He’d have to smile and take it and still treat her with courtly respect until she departed tomorrow! Ha! That would show him! She was looking forward to the dinner now and a wicked smile on her face revealed it.

♦ ♦ ♦

The dressing of a noble woman for a formal dinner is a convoluted affair. There are many layers to apply, hooks to be hooked and ties to be tied, hair to be styled and jewelry to be piled and perfume to be applied oh so delicately. Things were briefly interrupted when a slave – a pretty little red-haired thing – arrived to inquire if any courtesy or service was needed. None, she was informed, save the usually courtesy of having some food sent to her slave from the kitchens. The Lady Camille instructed the kneeling messenger that she desired the kitchen be informed that Daisy was in her favor and slave gruel would not do. “There’s always extra food at feasts like these, I wish Daisy to enjoy some of tonight’s repast, if possible.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said the property of the Lord River. She shared some quick look with Daisy before scampering away to carry out her charge.

“Thank you, Mistress,” was Daisy’s sincere exclamation when they were alone again.

“Yes, well, you got lucky and I got caught in a good mood. But I won’t be in a good mood for long if we don’t get this tediousness over with!”

“Yes, Mistress,” said the slave as she spied a loose wisp of hair on her owner and picked up another pearl hair pin. At long last the tedious affair was concluded and the Lady Camille waited upon her host who showed promptly at the dinner hour to flatter her beauty and then escort her to the evening’s meal.

Dinner was being held outside because it was one of those perfect summer evenings that could not be allowed to go by without being enjoyed. The expansive rear lawn of the Manor had been appropriately decked out with colorful buntings and streamers. Torches and lamps stood by, waiting to be lit when the sun went down in a few hours. Several long tables had been arrayed in a semi-circle, each tastefully laid out with plates, glasses and utensils. These were where Commoners who worked the estate were seated. They all promptly stood in respect upon her and their Lord's approach.

A large wooden platform had been erected and it held three more tables each exquisitely laid out with linen, porcelain plates and cups, crystal wine glasses and silverware. It was here the two Nobles would sit, along with the higher ranking Commoners who were already standing respectfully at their places. There was plenty of room for the expected entertainment on the platform and, as she ascended the steps, (the Lord River delicately holding her hand) her curiosity was piqued by some linen covered objects at the far left and right of the platform. One was rectangular, about four feet high and maybe the length of a person. The other was of similar shape but larger, longer and higher off the ground. Next to it was a circular object, wide, and maybe four feet high. Her host saw where her attention went and explained, “Part of tonight’s entertainment.”

“Oh, a mystery,” said the Lady Camille with her practiced charm. “I look forward to it.” Her host led her to the front of the stage where he officially introduced her and where she graciously accepted another round of applause from the assembled crowd before they took their seats. No sooner had they done so than slave girls bearing trays of food and jugs of wine appeared. The food was divine, naturally, and the wine of the most impeccable vintage. Music was provided by a band three free men who stood or sat on chairs, and two slave girls who sat cross legged. String and flutes and one drum, the music was a soothing delicate melody not so loud as to intrude upon the conversation during courses.

The Lord River turned out to be quite the accomplished conversationalist, not boring her in the slightest with chit chat about the weather or the latest fashions. Instead they had a lively little debate about when Palasia should seek its vengeance against its hated neighbor to the west, Kamara. It had been fifteen years since the humiliation known as the Battle of the Border, surely, the Lady Camille felt, the time had come for Palasian men to redeem their honor. The Lord River, to her surprise, was more circumspect, arguing that the kingdom needed more time to recover from its’ self-inflicted wounds. She also took the opportunity to ask him about the name he had chosen for the estate. To her surprise, he refused to answer. “I’m sorry, my Lady, but that is a moment that belongs to me.” Though perplexed, the Noble woman did not press the issue.

The entertainment was quite good but exactly what one expects at such affairs. Between courses there were jugglers, acrobats (another mix of slave and free) and two singers. The first a man with a deep strumming voice that seemed to vibrate in both the head and the loins of the Noble Woman forcing her to flick away some dangerous thoughts yet again. The second a woman with a voice so pure it nearly made the Lady Camille shed a tear upon hearing the beauty of it and her applause was sincere for a change. The woman, being a slave, knelt and touched her forehead to platform rather than bow to acknowledge her applause. Night gradually replaced the day. The torches and lamps were lit, casting their amber glow upon the festivities, and attracting the occasional moth to their doom.

There were two pairs of identical twins – one free and one slave – and they performed a hilarious, slightly bawdy skit about two brothers, separated at birth, who each grow up to buy one of two sisters who had also been separated at birth. Mistaken identities and madcap hijinks ensue when the two brothers chance to visit the same city at the same time. The Lady Camille had to be careful not to laugh too loudly at some of the lines. She particularly liked the part where one of the slave girls was being interrogated by a confused inn keeper.

‘Nay good master! Thou knowest I would not lie, such harsh penalties being upon me should ever I prove false! I tell you, master that my Master is not himself. Though his head above appears the same as ever it were, I tell you the head below is not. It bears the mark of one of the Eastern lands . . . or rather . . . the lack.’

Eventually all was sorted out, happy reunions ensued and everyone applauded as the actors bowed or knelt accordingly. Still the mysterious objects on the side of the stage remained covered. The Lady Camille refused to rise to the bait and show any further interest in them. The main course was cleared away. Perhaps now she’d find out what was underneath the white linen. His Lordship, the Earl Caleb river of White Fawn Estate, stood up, wine glass held high, prompting everyone else to do the same. Slave girls rushed to top off glasses.

“Friends and compatriots,” he shouted for all to hear, “honored guests and all who call themselves loyal Palasians. A toast to King Gerard!”

“TO KING GERARD,” shouted every free person present before drinking from their glass.

Tonight,” continued the Earl as he set down his glass, “is not just a feast in honor of our distinguished visitor but a joyous celebration to all loyal subjects of King Gerard!” He paused a moment while everyone held their breath in anticipation.

Gods and Spirits, thought the Lady Camille, is this it? Is he going to propose to me right now? In front of everyone?

“News has arrived from the capital . . . the queen is with child!”

The loud applause and shouts of “Hurrah!” could have probably been heard for miles around. Even the slave girls paused in their tasks to clap at this wonderful news. Outwardly, the Lady Camille’s appearance was as enthusiastic as everyone else’s. Inside, she burned with a seething resentment that the dinner in her honor would be so usurped. Idiot, slave born clod! Did he know nothing of a woman’s feelings? Did he honestly think she would be receptive to a marriage proposal after such an insult?

The desert course was next, during which time they were entertained by a knife throwing act in which the slave girl strapped to the target looked confident that all the knives thrown her way would land in their intend places all around her – which they did to another round of applause. The stage was cleared along with the desert course. The Lady Camille noted that the slave girls were, one by one, or in groups of twos and threes, sitting themselves down on the grassy area in front of the stage as they completed their tasks. They sat crossed legged rather than kneeling and her confusion must have shown upon her face. “I informed them earlier,” explained his lordship, “that they could enjoy the last of the evening’s entertainment.”

“How very generous of you,” replied the Lady Camille, “You strike me as a man who would not be so lenient with his slaves.”

“Oh, I am not. My slaves well know the price of disobedience. But I believe in the carrot as well as the stick and like to occasionally grant them a treat. I know that they will particularly enjoy our next entertainment, though they would be loath to admit it.”

“And why would that be?” She was still hiding the outrage she felt but was genuinely perplexed.

“Oh I can’t tell you that, not just yet.” He winked.

“Another mystery? Very well, I am nothing if not patient.”

“Well you won’t have to wait very long, my Lady,” said the Lord River, “but first I wonder if you would not permit your slave to join us? Presuming you judge her worthy of such a boon.”

“Like you, good sir, I can be magnanimous with an obedient slave. I have no objection.”

The Lord River snapped his fingers and pointed at one of the nearby slaves, a willowy looking twenty year old with long brown hair, and pointed in the direction of the guest suite. The slave promptly leapt up and with a “yes, Master,” trotted off to fetch Daisy. It was only a moment before the two returned. The brown haired girl looked like she had been laughing and Daisy looked slightly flushed which told the Lady Camille that her slave girl had indeed been entertaining herself quite well.

The visiting blond haired slave scampered up to her Mistress and knelt. “I’m told," said the Lady Camille, "that you may find our next entertainment particularly enjoyable. You may join the others Daisy, and you may sit to your comfort.”

“Yes, Mistress. Thank you Mistress . . . and thank you, Master,” she added for Lord River before leaving the platform to join the other slave girls. It was interesting, the Lady Camille noted, how the other slave girls looked at her. Somehow their expressions conveyed both a sense of kinship (they were all slaves together) and distrust (Daisy was still an outsider) at the same time. Daisy, for her part, clearly knew these things but mostly she just looked curious.

The Lord River rose from his seat again. “Please! Please, everyone,” he shouted when everyone else began to rise (save for the slave girls who began to kneel), “remain as you were.” He held out his hand and still loud enough for everyone to hear, “Lady Camille, would you please join me.” So THIS was finally it! The ignorant clod really did think that he could propose to her in front of everyone – and after he had so humiliated her! – and that she would just gush all over herself to accept? She had planned to simply make a polite refusal but now . . . now, she decided, as she oh so elegantly rose and took his hand, now she would inform him why. She would inform everybody why! Oh, she would still be polite but she would make it clear that for a great lady like herself, one of actual noble blood, to marry one who had been a slave was simply absurd. She would smile the whole time. His humiliation would be complete. His people would glare at her no doubt, angered to see their ‘Lord” so put down but as a Noble Lady she was untouchable and they all knew it.

The Lord River escorted her to the center of the stage, the eyes of all, free and slave, avidly followed them. He is really making a production of it. Oh this is going to be so delicious! She smiled at the crowd as she stood next to the Lord River.

“My dear Lady Camille,” said the Lord River, still raising his voice for all to hear. ‘I have a question for you.”

“Why yes, my dear Lord River?” She also raised her voice to play along. Or so the ignorant clod of a jumped up slave no doubt thought. Here it comes!

“Lady Camille,” he said with a smile, “are you really so stupid as to think that your treason would go undetected?”

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 11/23/2014 10:24:10 AM   
shiftyw


Posts: 2837
Joined: 6/6/2013
From: The Shire
Status: offline 		Well...now I'm super invested in this.

Seriously though- you should publish this, at least e-book it and make some money!

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 11/23/2014 6:39:59 PM   
Marc2b


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Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline 		Thanks again. That's the first time I've been told I should publish (WOO! HOO!). I have thought about it but don't think I'm ready. This is mostly for fun and practice.

It will be at least a week before I finish the next chapter (so far, I've one paragraph written ), maybe a little longer since Thanksgiving is coming up and I'll be spending some time with family.

Here's hoping you and everyone else gets to spend some quality Thanksgiving time with your loved ones.

Marc2b

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 11/28/2014 1:03:24 PM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		Progress report:

Well I thought I might fall behind with the holiday and all but with the free time on Thursday morning I had a burst of productivity and am now on the tenth page of chapter two. I am still not sure when it will be ready to post though. This coming Sunday, at the earliest, but don't hold me to that - this chapter is turning out to be a lot longer than I thought it would be.

I am not very good with names and usually have to spend a lot of time working on them. Since I want to keep a good writing pace with this project I have been playing fast and loose with names. Still I find myself with one upcoming dilemma. I don't think it is too much of a spoiler to say that there will soon be a new slave girl in the story. I think she needs a new name - to symbolize the break between her old life and her new one - and I have no idea what it should be. I am open to suggestions.

I hope everyone had a happy Thanksgiving.

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 11/30/2014 12:15:34 AM   
ydd


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From: a special place of wine and music
Status: offline 		Marc, I love your attention to the details. While I could not, thankfully, feel myself being jostled about during the carriage ride, I could see quite clearly in my mind, the estate grounds through which Camille travelled. I hope you draw this story out, and not come to its conclusion too quickly.

As for publication, if the quality of writing remains this high.....YES! Even if only on a platform like wattpad (I don't think they make money there).

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 11/30/2014 5:58:13 AM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline 		Thanks!

I am keeping the idea of publishing in my head but it is on the back burner while I work on this self-imposed exercise of finishing what I started. Like many would be writers I have a bad habit of starting a story and then letting it go for months on end. Roland and Allison could have been written in a few months but was five years in the making because sometimes it sat for as long as six months. My goal here is to complete the story at roughly a pace of a chapter a week - but I won't feel too bad if it takes two weeks.

Having said that, I am sorry to announce that I won't be posting chapter two today . . . and that it will likely be a few days, minimum, before I do. After spending two days in intensive writing I need a break to think things over as I am dealing with several issues in this chapter.

It is getting long - very long. I might have to consider breaking it into two separate chapters. I don't really want to because that will be kind of like breaking my promise to myself to get to the "hard stuff" after the prologue and first chapter. Although - if I may cast aside humility for a moment - I think the scene where Lady Camille must make a difficult choice (it should be obvious, I hope, what is under the two white sheets) is quite dramatic, I'm just now getting to the first whipping.

I am dealing with an influx of minor characters coming out of the woodwork and insisting that they be included (They are actually kind of angry with me that they weren't included in the formal introduction scene). I should have thought of them earlier but didn't. I accept this as the price of writing quickly as it forces me too flex the imagination muscles "on the fly" so to speak - which was also a goal of the project.

I've encountered a minor contradiction between a character's words and actions. That kind of thing happens when you are writing quickly and I managed to patch it up - on the fly! - but I am not one hundred percent satisfied with the patch. I have to decide if I want to rewrite a page or two to fix it completely. I'm leaning against that because changes tend to have a rippling effect, necessitating more changes elsewhere. Besides, it's kind of cool having the character be less than perfect.

As for how long the story will end up being . . . I know where I want it to go, and I can see the general path on how to get there. I'm guesstimating four to five chapters, not counting the prologue and the epilogue. I've actually got the epilogue written in my head - more or less. It is now a matter of getting from here to there. That's the tricky - and fun! - part.

Thanks again,

Marc2b




< Message edited by Marc2b -- 11/30/2014 6:21:56 AM >

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 12/3/2014 7:08:39 AM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		I got a little free time during the workday for an update.

Okay I've made the decision.

Chapter two is getting chopped in half. I'm at fifteen pages with no end in sight. I kind of got side track by Daisy's story. I wanted to move past her quickly but she's there and can't really be ignored. In that funny way in which your characters take on a life of there own in your head, she is being rather insistent on having her own time in the spotlight.

Tonight I need to write a couple of more paragraphs to reach a good break point and then I'll be ready to print off and attack with the red ink pen. I don't know how long the corrections and rewrites will take but I'm fairly confident that I'll be able to post by Friday at the latest.

Marc2b

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 12/3/2014 3:57:44 PM   
shiftyw


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From: The Shire
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I totally understand if this is not possible.

But if when you are finished with this, would it be possible to get a pdf version for reading? No pressure!

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 12/4/2014 6:09:47 PM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		The Reduction of Lady Camille.

Chapter Two:

Silence. Except for the crickets. There had been a collective gasp and one slave girl who loudly went “Oh!” After that, only silence – except for the crickets. It felt to the Lady Camille as if every vein in her body had turned to ice. Every part of her went numb except for her mind which went into overdrive in its attempt to deny that it heard what it just heard.

First she tried to tell herself that she had misheard but a quick glance around revealed shocked faces except for those higher ranking men who had shared their table on platform – they all looked at her with loathing. She understood. Unlike most of White Fawn Estate, they had been in on the secret, they had known he was going to do this. Daisy looked terrified. It all added up to one thing – she had not misheard.

Next she tried to tell herself that this was a dream. In a moment Daisy would gently shake her awake and she would shrug off this gut freezing fear and laugh about it while enjoying a good soak. Except I've already done that, she told herself as she tried to will herself awake . . . but the world remained stubbornly real.

A joke! They were playing a joke on her! A cruel joke to be sure but still . . . she forced a smile and a giggle but the countenance of Lord River did not change. The countenance of none of the spectators changed. It had only been a few seconds since her host had uttered those terrible words but it had already felt like several stomach churning days.

Reality stubbornly remained undeniable. Had she not emptied both bowl and bladder before the dinner, the Lady Camille would have fouled herself as she realized that she was not likely to see the morning sun. I've got to get out of here! It took a life time of aristocratic training to hold back the panic rising in her. Holding her head up in indignity she loudly declared, “That is an outrageous slander! I will not stand here and be so insulted!” She whirled around. “Daisy! Start packing! We will be leaving immediately!”

The terrified looking slave girl hopped up, an automatic response to her owner’s command. She had taken only three steps when it seemed that one of Lord River’s Guardsmen melted in from the darkness. Her roughly grabbed the blond haired beauty by her upper arms, spun her around, and grabbed her again, holding her tightly. She now looked more uncomprehending than scared. Her owner had commanded her but she clearly could not resist the masculine hold upon her. She knew better than to even try and hung her head as if ashamed of her inability to obey her Mistress.

The Lady Camille saw three other Guardsmen appear and array themselves around the stage. Thomas Mason, Lord River’s Captain of the Guard, came from around the table to complete the loose circle around the Noble Woman. That rising panic was getting closer to the surface. I must get out of here! “You cannot hold me here! I am a daughter of the ancient and noble House of - ”

“Your House died with your father! You are but a sad remnant of that House! And I have every right to hold you here!” The Lady Camille was shocked at the anger in his voice and the genuine fury on his face. Gods and Spirits, he hates me! She was distracted by movement at the high tables. The Estate’s other guest, that Notary of the King’s Exchequer (what was his name?) was opening his official satchel. It bore the King’s seal which made it officially inviolate to all here except him. She had not seen it before, he must have kept it under the table. The Lady Camille recalled the words of the Lord River about taking care of some ‘minor legal matters.’

Harold Moseley, she recalled as she watched him remove a scroll from his satchel and hand it over the table to Captain Mason who in turn handed it to his Lord. The once slave, now turned Earl, held the scroll out to the Lady Camille. “This is a warrant, signed by the King himself, authorizing me to detain you and dispense justice, in his name, for your crime of treason.” She backed a step away from it, as though it were red hot.

“I protest my innocence! I -”

“Do not!” Lord River cut her off again. “There is nothing recorded against you that is not true and full of proof.” Since it appeared the Lady Camille was not interested in inspecting the document, the Lord River handed the warrant back to his Guard Captain who exchanged it with the Notary for several small, brightly colored pieces of fine parchment that he had brought forth from his satchel. A small moan escaped the Lady Camille.

“You recognize these.” It was a statement, not a question. “It seems the would be king didn't follow your instructions and burn your letters,” said the Lord River as he took them in hand and held them up for her – for all! – to see. “Tell me,” the man continued, “did you honestly believe that pig shit smelling moron was not identified and watched from the very beginning? When he got no answer from the stunned woman he went on. “Did you honestly think you were the only Noble woman your age to seek him out as a potential husband?” He rifled through the pages, looking them over. “Granted, no one expected him to be so stupid as to challenge the king directly. That was your novel idea. The others suggested poison.” He looked up from the pages. “Have you no answer to my questions?”

“I . . . ,” the Lady Camille was holding on to the last vestiges of control. She had one last desperate shot at denial. She pointed a shaky finger at the pages, “How do I know those are not a forgery! I mean . . . I know they must be! That was all months ago! Ha! If you were certain of your proof I would have been arrested back then. You know what? I bet I know who really wrote those! Lady Constance! Of the Bransons!” She hates me! She’s always hated me!”

The Earl of White Fawn Estate held up his hand to cut short the desperate woman’s speculations. Her voice was gaining in pitch and the first tears were welling up in her eyes. She wiped them away with a frustrated gesture as her accuser said, “These were compared to known samples of your writing. They are your hand. As for why you were not arrested earlier, well the fact of the matter is that despite our progress the kingdom is still licking its wounds. There were other matters to address. Quite frankly my Lady, you were not that high on the list of problems to be dealt with. You were watched while certain preparations were made. I am actually surprised that you didn't make a run for it. Had you exiled yourself to some far off land the King might well have dropped the matter. In matters of politics you are clearly an amateur,” he waved the incriminating pages a bit, “and you would not have been considered a threat worth the effort of pursuit. Instead,” he smiled, “you willingly came to your own sentencing.”

“Ha! Dumbass!” The voice came from the nearby slave girls. It was the same voice that sourced the loud “Oh!” Instinct overcame fear long enough for the Lady Camille to feel a burst of outrage that gave her the strength to hold back the impeding tears. I am a Noble Woman! She snapped her head to the side, looking for the malefactor who dared speak of her so. The Lord River also turned his head with an angry gesture and he must have recognized the voice for he zeroed in on it immediately. She was a brown haired, doe eye of no more than nineteen or twenty years and her eyes opened wide in the realization of what she had done. The slave girls around her all shrank back a little from the object of their Master’s obvious displeasure.

The Lord River pointed a finger at the girl. The Lady Camille expected him to chastise the disrespectful slave in an angry snarl of a voice. Instead he sound calm – authoritative but calm – as he simply said, “You. Obeisance.” There was no hesitation in the slave’s response and only a squeak of fear testified to her realization of her offence as she knelt, her forehead touching the ground, arms tucked underneath. The irony of her outburst was noted by many with a smile or a smirk but no comments were made as attention returned to the matter on the platform.

The Lady Camille preferred to keep attention on the disobedient slave. “It seems his Lordship is too lenient with his slaves! I demand she be punished! Immediately!” She looked upon the kneeling slave girl with fury.

“Once again, my Lady fails to place things in their proper priority.” His voice drew the Lady Camille’s attention back to him. “I apologize for Sandra’s effrontery. She is new to the collar and clearly has much to learn. I promise you that she will learn.” He paused for a few seconds and then said, “But a disrespectful slave is not the most important matter to be addressed at the moment, is it?”

The Lady Camille maintained her facade of indignant anger as she returned her attention to Lord River. “You lured here me under false pretenses!”
“How so?” The Nobleman sounded genuinely offended. “I merely invited you to dinner to discuss of matters of import to the kingdom. You may not have been high on the list but surely you would agree that treason is a matter of import to the kingdom? I know I do . . . especially when it involves an attempt to kill the best friend I have ever had.” His voice was a growl, his eyes an angry brightness as he advanced a few steps toward her (she cringing and retreating in matching steps) before shouting, “MY FRIEND! THE MAN WHO STOOD BESIDE ME AND REBUKED A MOB. THE MAN WHO FOUGHT BESIDE ME AT STONY CREEK! HENDERSON ESTATE, BROKEN CASTLE AND HALF A DOZEN OTHER BATTLES!” He took a deep breath, gathered himself, returned to the low growl, “The man without whose friendship and beneficence I would not be the man I am today.”

“I . . . I . . . I thought . . .”

“Thought what, Lady Camille?”

Another burst of indignant anger. “I didn't see that arrest warrant! I demand to see that arrest warrant!” The Earl made the exchange of incriminating letters for the warrant and held it out to her. She angrily snatched it out of his hand and opened it. There it was. It was written in the most exquisite hand, clear, yet beautiful (in its own way, a work of art), with some words made overlarge for emphasis. Despite its loveliness it was brutal in that it was short and to the point:
I Gerard, First of that name, son of Clement, Fifth of that Name, King of Palasia, having upon the sworn testimony of His Lordship Jacob Lanover, Duke of the Lakelands, Chief Inquisitor of the Royal Court, and His Lordship Caleb River, Earl of White Fawn Estate, and having been shown evidence in support of said testimony, do hereby declare that the Lady Camille of House Aldridge, is GUILTY OF TREASON against her King, her Kingdom, and all loyal Palasians.
To set right to this matter I furthermore do deputize Earl Caleb River of White Fawn Estate to arrest the Lady Camille of House Aldridge and dispense JUSTICE, in accordance with Palasian Law, as he shall deem proper including the disposal of all lands, wealth and material possessions currently in possession of the Lady Camille which are hereby declared forfeit and placed in the trust of Earl Caleb River of White Fawn Estate.

It was dated. It was signed. It bore the King’s Seal. It was real. “This is a lie,” the Lady Camille screamed, “another forgery!” She tore the scroll in half and then again before throwing the pieces down and looking at Lord River with defiance in her eyes but the tears were still threatening to burst forth, the sense of panic was still beating against the barrier of her will.

“That changes nothing,” declared the Lord River, “official copies have already been entered into Exchequer’s Office and the Royal Archives. He looked at the Harold Mosley, the Notary who nodded his head in affirmation. “One of the reasons I waited was to train up a new contingent of my Guard. This morning, shortly after you left your home, those men rode in and took control of your estate in my name. I have already received dispatches informing me that this has occurred without incident. Your few remaining employees gave no resistance when informed of the situation.

“Tell me,” said the Lord River with a tone of barely suppressed rage as he took a step closer to toward the distressed Noble woman who took a step back. “How long have you had your field slaves on half rations?” When he got no answer he looked down, as though in shame, and angrily chastised himself. “I should have kept a closer watch on you! Had I known of this I would have acted sooner! But foolish me didn't want to alert you! He rubbed his hand on his forehead for a moment. “Well, what’s done is done. He looked up at the Lady Camille again. “Those unfortunate men who wore your collar have already be notified of their manumission and are being given succor even as we speak.”

There came a burst of clapping from the assembled men and even the slave girls quickly followed suit in applauding their Lord and Master’s generosity. The one exception being Sandra who continued to tremble in the Obeisance position. The Earl waited until the outburst died down. “Let us proceed now to the punishment due you.” He looked at the Captain of his Guard. Thomas Mason walked over to one of the linen covered objects, the smaller of the two, and pulled the sheet aside.

The Lady Camille recognized it immediately. It was a low bench made from a solid piece of wood with leather straps and buckles to hold a person down. Another Guardsman seemed to appear out of the darkness. He was holding a large ax. Its long curving blade sparkled from the firelight of the torches. “No, no, no . . . Oh no,” said the disbelieving Noble Woman.

“At the moment,” said the Lord River, drawing her attention away from the terrifying objects, “I own those clothes you are wearing but in deference to your dignity I will permit you to continue wearing them while the sentence is carried out.”

The panic that had been welling up in her finally broke free. “Wait! Wait! Just wait!” She needed time to think but there wasn't any. “I’m sorry! I was stupid! It was a stupid thing to do! I admit that! But . . .” She sought desperately for a straw to grasp, found only one. “I could marry you! You need a noble wife! To keep your line going! I would stay here! I would never threaten the King again! I swear it! I would bear strong sons for you and you could keep watch on and me and know I speak the truth! I’ll be a good wife for you! “BY ALL THE GODS AND SPIRITS, I SWEAR IT!”

Her tirade was stopped short by the affronted look on Lord River. “You would have me join my blood with that of a traitor?”

“Please,” she whispered. “Please,” she said again, louder. “Please!” Louder still. The tears finally broke free into a torrent. As if on their own accord her knees gave way and planted themselves firmly on the platform. She held up her hands in supplication as she knelt before Lord River. All thought of Noble dignity was gone. “Please! I beg you! I don’t want to die! I’ll do anything you want! Anything! But please don’t kill me!”

The Earl of White Fawn Estate took a few steps away from the crying woman. With his back toward her he scratched at the back of his head, as if pondering weighty matters. Silence reigned again over the assemblage. The Earl turned around, held out his hand in a gesture of magnanimity. “Never let it be said that I am not a merciful man.” He paused a few seconds and then said, “I am willing to permit you to retain your life under one condition.” He looked toward the remaining object still under a white sheet. The Lady Camille followed his gaze as another Guardsman pulled the sheet aside.

The contraption revealed underneath had even more straps and buckles than the execution bench as well as pulleys and rope and metal rings. It was designed not just to hold a person but to stretch them out and hold them perfectly still. It was a branding rack. Next to it was a small forge, resting atop some clay blocks to protect the wood underneath from the intense heat. Leaning against the forge was a single branding iron, its end terminating in the design – an S inside a circle – denoting a slave. The Lady Camille looked at rack and brand with equal horror as she had looked upon the ax.

“As I’m sure you know,” said the Lord River, “when a person is reduced to slavery they legally cease to exist. Your crimes will be wiped clean and you may retain your life although, of course, it won’t really be your life anymore.” Some movement attracted her attention. It was Harold Mosley, the Notary of the King’s Exchequer. He removed an ink bottle and quill from his satchel and set them on the table. He removed the stopper from the ink bottle and set it aside, being careful not to stain the tablecloth. He then reached into his satchel again and withdrew a piece of paper.

The Lady Camille knew what it must be. She had heard of such contracts. It did not happen often but sometimes poor women who had run out of options and feared starvation signed such contracts. It was rumored that some women signed them because they sought to satisfy other needs. No noble woman she had ever heard of had done so, though. It was unthinkable!

The Lord River must have mistaken her silence for misunderstanding. He walked over to the table and held up the document. “It is very simple,” he said. “By singing this you sell yourself to me for a single copper coin. The coin is merely symbolic of course. The moment you sign everything you own becomes mine, including the coin. Of course,” he said with a smirk, “the only thing you own at the moment is that body that’s wrapped around your traitorous mind.” He waited a few seconds before continuing. “So what shall it be? Make your choice but don’t try my patience too long or you will go under the ax anyway.”

She had been silent though because she had been contemplating the indignity of being a slave. If there was a fate worse than death, her aristocratic mind insisted, it was to end up as a naked, collard – branded! – slave slut who spent her days in menial labors and humiliating submission to male lusts! No! It could not be allowed! Feeling a burst of anger, the Noble woman found the strength to stand up again. She took a moment hitch her breath and sniffle back some tears. “I will not,” she declared. “I was born a Lady and I will die a Lady!”

“So be it,” said the Lord River. He signaled two of his Guardsmen who came forward and roughly grabbed the Lady Camille, each taking an arm. She was half walked, half dragged toward the low bench with the straps. She half lied down, half fell upon it, face down. One of the Guardsmen grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her back a little positioning her so that her head and neck stuck out over the end. Both of the Guardsmen began to draw the leather straps over her, pulling them tight, buckling them in place.

Gods and Spirits! This is really happening! She could see Daisy, still being held by one of the Guardsmen. The blond haired slave continued to look down, tears slowly leaked from her eyes. It dawned on the Lady Camille that Daisy was no longer her property but now belonged to Lord River. The Guardsmen finished buckling her down. She could barely move. It was a full moon looking down upon her and she realized that in a moment she would see it no more. She would never see it again. She would never see the sun again. The Lord River took the ax from the Guardsman holding it and moved into the proper position. So he was going to do the honor himself. She hope he could do the deed with a single stroke. The Lord River asked her, “Have you any last words?” She seemed to have lost her power of speech. This is it! This is really it! I’m going to die! No more me! She didn't want to die. She was afraid to die. She wanted to live.

Getting no response to his question, Lord River started to lift the ax. Daisy continued to look resolutely at the ground, unwilling or unable to look. Some of the watching slave girls buried their head in their hands or another woman’s shoulder or just looked away. Others watched intently in either horror or surprise or, in a few cases, with a sadistic gleam in their eyes. A few of the men looked like they would prefer to look away as well but masculine pride compelled them to keep their gaze upon her along with the others who glared at the traitor with a mixture of contempt and pity. She knew she had one chance – and one chance only.

Something deep inside, something raw and primal, burst to the forefront of her consciousness, pushing all other considerations aside. She found the power of speech again. “WAIT! I'VE CHANGED MY MIND! I’LL SIGN IT! PLEASE! PLEASE LET ME LIVE! I’VE CHANGED MY MIND. PLEASE! I’LL BE YOUR SLAVE! I’LL BE ANYTHING YOU WANT! JUST LET ME LIVE!” And then it happened. It seemed to surge forth from her lips of its own accord. “MASTER!”

The word hung there in the air while Lord River held the sharpened ax above his head. Slowly he brought the ax down, laid it upon the wooden platform. The Lady Camille was too afraid to even breathe. The lord River squatted himself down to stare directly into the bound woman’s eyes. “Listen to me very carefully,” he said for only her to hear, “because I will say this only once. I have no patience to play games with you. I’m going to undo these straps. When I do, I am going to count backwards from ten. If, by the time I reach zero, you have not signed that paper you will go back on this block and no amount of pleading will spare you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” she squeaked, “yes! Yes! Thank you! Thank you!” She was crying again. The Lord River stood up but then bent over and began undoing the buckles, throwing the straps back across her body. When he undid the last one he suddenly bolted upright.

“TEN!” he shouted. It took her a second to realize that she was completely free again. “NINE!” She tried to stand up and fell because in her panic she had forgotten that she was on the bench and had lost her footing. “EIGHT!” She rolled off the bench instead. “SEVEN!” She bolted up, this time keeping her balance on the even platform. “SIX!” terror showed upon her countenance as she ran toward the table. “FIVE!” She caught herself on the hem of her dress, tripped, and fell forward. “FOUR!” She screamed in frustration, propped herself up and lurched forward. “THREE!” She stumbled into the table, knocking the ink bottle over, staining the table cloth and splashing some on Harold Mosely who wasn't able to back up in time. “TWO!” She grabbed the paper. She grabbed the quill and jabbed its point into the puddle of ink on the table, mindless of the fact that she was staining her clothes. “ONE!”

“I’M SIGNING!” She screamed it out while scrawling her name across the bottom of the page “I’M SIGNING!” She roughly tossed the quill aside, turned around and shuffled on her knees toward Lord River, holding the document up for him to see. “I'VE SIGNED IT! I’VE SIGNED IT! SEE! I’VE SIGNED IT.”

“Be quiet,” said the Lord River as he took the document form her. He looked it over for a second and then handed it to Harold Mosley. “My apologies, Mister Mosley,” he said. “I did not foresee that you might get stained by her haste.”

“Ink stains are an occupational hazard,” chuckled the Notary as he looked the document over before declaring, “It is sufficient.” He took a fresh quill from his satchel and affixed his own signature to the paper.

“Still,” said the Lord River, “I shall see to it that you are properly compensated.”

“I thank you my Lord,” he replied as he held the quill out to the Nobleman. “I just need your signature now.” Earl Caleb River, Lord of White Fawn Estate, signed his name to the document. The Notary took the paper, blew on it a couple of times to hasten the drying of the ink, and then said, “And now it is official.” A flush of heat passed through the nameless slave girl as she realized that her world had gone topsy-turvy and would never be righted again.

She was caught between elation (I’m alive!) and a feeling of numbing fear over a future that was now completely out of her control – a future of pain, drudgery, humiliation, degradation. But I’m alive! Wrapped around her fear was a feeling of confusion that seemed to penetrate to her very soul. The world looked the same and yet it looked different. She understood. She didn't want to but she did. It wasn't the world that had changed but her place in it. A mere few seconds ago everyone around her, save Lord River, had been her social inferior. Now she was beneath them all. It felt so wrong though she knew it to be a fact. No, not all of them, some of them are my equals now.

She looked at the watching slave girls. What she saw caused her to shrink back as another wave of heat flashed through her. Except for the still kneeling Sandra, they all looked at her – not with pity or compassion but with contempt, even outright hostility. She understood now what the Lord River had meant when he had said that his slaves would enjoy the entertainment but be loath to admit it. Of course they would not want to admit how much they enjoyed watching a Noble woman get thrown down to their level. They had not dared to show any pleasure in her predicament – until she had signed that document. Now they no longer had to show here the respect due a Noble woman, or any free person for that matter, and it showed on their faces. Poor Sandra, she’d had been fine if she had just waited.

She looked at Daisy who was no longer Daisy since her new owner had not yet named her. Tears still stained the cheeks of her former slave. There was still some signs of pity in the blond woman’s face for her former owner’s plight but it was mixed with something else that the new slave quickly recognized. Spiteful satisfaction! It seemed that she who had been Daisy found some gratification in seeing the woman who had ruled her life for the last five years brought down low. The new slave looked away, feeling utterly desolate and alone.

“Mister Striker,” the Lord River addressed one of the men in the crowd who came forward.

“Yes, my Lord,” he was a fiftyish looking, very muscular man in a compact sort of way with a deeply tanned, grizzled looking face despite the fact that it was clean shaven. The nameless slave girl who had been the Lady Camille recognized what he was immediately. Just as all accountants seemed to look alike, all of his profession also seemed of a type. He was the blacksmith.

“My apologies,” said the Lord River, “but I must interrupt your enjoyment of the festivities and call upon your services.” There was a lilting, joking tone to the Earl’s voice.

“Not at all my Lord, not at all,” the Smithy’s voice made it clear that he was one of those who had been in on the whole thing right from the beginning. He pointed at one of the slave girls, snapped his fingers and said, “There is a sack on the top shelf with two collars in it. Bring it, the pick-kit and a pair of bellows here. Be quick about it.”

Two collars? One for each of us! Lord River appeared to have had everything prepared in advance.

“Yes, Master,” declared the appointed woman who leaped up to obey. She was a tall woman who muscles bulged nearly as big as the Smithy. Something in the way she said ‘Master,’ that slightly different tone that slaves use for actual owners versus other free people, completed the tale. She was not the property of Lord River but belonged to the Blacksmith who was now taking up a torch with which he was lighting the forge.

Gods! Gods and Spirits! They really are going to brand me! The pain! Oh dear Gods and Spirits the pain! But I’m alive! She could feel the Lord River now standing behind her. She looked up at him. Hoping to find some sign of compassion in his eyes but the anger was still there – controlled, disciplined, but there. “Fours,” he snapped at her. She knew what it meant but still had difficulty connecting it with herself. He slapped her! Her disbelief that she had actually been slapped stunned her more than the sting of it. She was aware of some hooting and laughter and that two or three of her pearl tipped hairpins went flying through the air to rattle and roll on the wooden boards of the platform. “That means get on your hands and knees.”

“Right! Yes! I know! I know! Yes, I know” she cried out as she assumed the position.

Lord River grabbed his newest slave by the hair and pulled her head back, forcing her to look up at him. “Is that how a slave addresses her owner?”
“Master!” She blurted it out. “I mean, yes, Master! Yes! That’s what I meant!”

Lord River sighed. “Better,” he breathed. “But still far to go.” He let go of her hair and said, “Stay still and stay quiet until I tell you otherwise.”

When nothing issued from the slave girl still dressed in the ink stained finery of a Noble woman, there was a smirking, chuckling stir among the assembled slave girls watching (save, of course, for the still penitent Sandra). They had instantly recognized her latest mistake. This silly newbie was indeed entertaining. A few of them looked at the nameless blond slave, still in the grip of one of the guardsmen, with expressions that clearly asked, is she really that stupid? The former Daisy, as best as she was able, gave a shrug. The new slave caught on. I did not acknowledge the command! “Yes, Master,” she blurted out through fresh tears. It still felt so wrong, so surreal, to hear those words come out of her mouth. Another wave of heated shame passed through her.

“Very far to go,” quipped the Lord River who turned his attention upon she who had been Daisy. His Guardsman released her when the Earl motioned her forward. She scampered up to him quickly, started to kneel, stopped when her new owner held up a hand. “Strip and display,” he said in the calm but authoritative tone natural to a man used to commanding women. Her face displayed a seemingly focused but calm attention as she acknowledge the command and quickly disrobed (and even folded her garment with a few quick hand motions before setting it aside) but the frightened girl underneath shone through her eyes. Men began to cheer and clap as her naked curves were revealed. She stood as ordered, legs slightly apart, hands held up and behind her head, fingers interlocking. A little circular motion of Lord River’s finger was all the gesture needed to order the girl to slowly turn around, allowing all present to get a good look at the young woman’s beauty. The reaction of the men present made it clear that they strongly approved.

The slave girls present made no vocal reaction. Their faces told a different story. Though not inclined to dislike her as much as her former owner, she was still an outsider and now recognized as potentially something else – competition. The former Daisy, knowing full well her place in this assemblage swallowed visibly. Her former owner, now recognizing that she had left one world of personal politics just to enter another, did the same.

“Very nice,” was Lord River’s assessment of the blond girl’s charms. He then began a direct assessment of those charms, starting with her hair and working his way down. He took his time, feeling her arms, not just her heated skin but the muscles underneath. He spent a little extra time with her breasts, declaring for the chuckling crowd, “nice heft.” He deliberately avoided the joining of her legs as he worked his way down her calves and feet. Satisfied with them he slowly slid his hand up the narrow space between her slightly parted legs, then gently pushed them further apart. For a moment he just starred at her lovely cleft, bounded by a fine blond down and glistening with moisture. Then he stroked it gently in an upward motion, stopping just short of her pleasure bud which was asserting itself against the folds surrounding it. He smiled as he felt a frustrated little buck of her hips. “This one’s been waiting a while, fellas,” he announced to hoots and guffaws from free and slave alike. He started to insert a finger, found resistance, parted her lips and saw the confirmation. Stepping away from the girl he added, “More than a while. Somebody’s going to have some fun popping a cherry.” The responding laughter had a knowing tone to it. Rank has its privileges.

“Kneel,” he commanded the virgin slave, which she promptly did. Accustomed to serving a woman, she did not realize her own mistake, even when a few of the slave girls and most of the men present laughed. Lord River imposed his foot in between the closed knees of the slave and roughly thrust them apart. “You belong to a man now, “he said,” and I see no free women present. You have some habits you best break very quickly.”
“Yes, Master,” she squeaked in reply.

“In fact,” said the Lord River, more to himself but still loud enough for everyone to hear, “since our Noble guest has left us . . . “ he roughly removed his colorful doublet, revealing a loose fitting, white cotton undershirt, and tossed it aside as if it offended him. “I hate that thing,” he declared, “I can’t breathe in it!”

The former Lady Camille was shocked, but only for a few seconds, by the level of raucous laughter, hollers and applause this statement brought. Her mind seemed to be split in two at the moment. Part of it felt like it was in a fugue, as if viewing and hearing everything through a wet blanket. It was the part of her that still could not comprehend her changed state, the part that still desperately hoped she would wake from this nightmare. The other half worked with crystal clarity, seeing everything in sharp focus, hearing every cough and rustle. It was this half that held her still and in the position she had been commanded, knowing that any attempt to run like hell (oh, the temptation was strong) would be futile – and only make matters worse. It was this half that realized that the Earl Caleb River she had briefly encountered was the official man, the facade he presented when custom and law demanded it. Now she was seeing the real man that lay underneath. The man that all these around her knew and obviously respected, admired, even loved. Now, they all understood, the real party was beginning.

“And since there are no free women present at all,” he continued, leaving the thought hanging. It took only a second for the implication to be understood. In a mass movement, remarkable for its quickness and efficiency, every slave girl present – including the Smithy’s slave – stood and disrobed. There was obviously some sort of ranked hierarchy among the enslaved women for the neatly folded smocks where gathered up and handed to a few who scurried away with them to quietly return empty-handed a few moments later. Even the disrespectful Sandra – who had obviously been crying to herself - broke her place long enough to get naked before resuming the obeisance position.

A surge of panic gripped the woman still wearing high born raiment. Was she supposed to strip now too? I can’t do it! I just can’t! Her dilemma was ended by a stern warning from the man who now owned her. “You stay as you are, I’ll get to you when I’m ready to,” he told her as the men cheered and whistled.

The mass of naked female flesh began to settle itself down again. There seemed to be a new vibrancy to them and the newest slave understood. They preferred being naked. They were clearly enjoying – accompanied with a fearful respect – the male approval of their beauty. “I call dibbs on Penelope,” someone shouted to some more laughter.

At this point the Smithy’s slave returned with her load. Her owner took the sack and a small wooden box from her and then set her to “mind the fire.” The muscular woman, who the former Lady Camille now realized was taller than her owner, knelt next to the forge with the small hand-bellow and intently watched the increasing flames but took no action yet to feed them more air. Her owner set the sack down, opened the little wooden box and withdrew several metal picks of different sizes. “Stand up girl,” he said to the kneeling blond woman who complied. He then began to work the lock on her collar.

“Mister Kell.” It was Lord River.

“My Lord?” The response came from a thirty-something man who sounded like he expected to be called upon.

“I have need of your services as well.” The Noble addressed his man with the same knowing tone he had used to call upon the blacksmith. Mister Kell turned out to be the Estate’s Carpenter as he and three other men brought some stout beams and tools onto the stage and with some lifting and hammering completed their construction in a mere few minutes – two stout posts held up a cross beam which had a solid looking metal ring in the center. Another metal ring was embedded into the wooden platform directly beneath it. The construction was recognizable to all including the two women on the stage. Whipping racks were a common fixture in their society. This was the type known as the ‘upside down-U.’ This was a particularly useful variety as it allowed full access to the afflicted slave’s body – no cross beams or posts to get in the way of the wielder of the whip and the subject of their attention.

“There,” said the blacksmith with triumph as he succeeded in removing the collar around the blond slave’s neck. He handed the collar to Lord River who looked it over for a second.

“Daisy is a pretty name,” said the Master of the Estate, “do you like it?”

“Yes, Master.” There was a rising sound of fear in the slave girl’s voice. It was well know that society considered it important that newly acquired slaves be reminded of their place by their new owners. It was commonly referred to as the “welcome whipping,” and the former Daisy eyeballed the newly erected whipping rack with a look of dread certainty.

“I like it too . . . and since we have no Daisy on the grounds . . .” The blacksmith had withdrew one of the collars from the sack and exchanged it with Lord River. The Noble held up the new collar, which was already engraved. “I name you Daisy,” he told the blond girl.

“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.” She was near to tears. She kept glancing at the newly erected whipping rack but she was composed enough to hold her hair up so her new owner could place his collar around her neck. The loud clink it made at it was locked in place sent a shudder through Daisy that her former owner recognized by instinct as being not just fear – but pleasure. Some of her own dangerous thoughts tried to intrude. She still possessed the ability to flick them away but even as she did so she realized something different – something troubling - about them. They had felt stronger, as if some part of her was stirring awake for the first time. Something that realized its time had come ‘round at last. Oh Gods and Spirits preserve me!

“Whose collar is this?” The Nobleman had asked a question commonly asked of newly acquired slaves. Daisy might have been unaccustomed to belonging to a man but she had been a slave long enough to know the proper answer.

“It is your collar, Master.”

“Are you going to be an obedient slave?”

“Yes, Master!” She sounded desperate that her conviction be believed. She knew what was coming next.

“Let us make sure of that,” said her new master. He step back a little and a Guardsman, knowing his cue, stepped forward. Daisy’s tears flowed quicker but she gave no resistance as her hands were tied in front of her and she was led over to the whipping rack. No! Despite her earlier astonishment that Daisy found satisfaction in her previous owner’s plight, that former owner still felt some affection for her, a desire to protect her.

“No!” People were genuinely startled that former Lady had dared to speak. “Please Lord River – Master! – I mean Master! Daisy is an obedient slave! You need not whip her! She will obey you!” She stopped when she saw the anger in the Earl’s eyes. What alarmed her was that it was not the towering anger of a man affronted by a murder plot against his friend – it was the casual anger any free person demonstrates against a displeasing slave.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to speak.” By this time Daisy’s naked form, wrist and ankles tied together, was pulled taut between the two rings of the whipping rack, her arms stretched above her, her toes barely touching the platform. Her hair had been thrown forward to better expose her back. She hung her head low, softly crying, waiting. The expressions on the faces of the other slave girls had changed. The Notary, his work evidently done for the day, made himself useful by retrieving a whip from under the table which made its way into Lord River’s hands.

The newest slave girl, still on all fours, still wearing the ink blemished clothing of her betters, found herself transfixed by the sight of the coiled leather in the hands of he who was now her owner (part of her mind still refused to accept that, and still stubbornly thought of herself as the Lady Camille). She was familiar with whips. She knew all the different kinds – that was a long tail he was holding – and had used them upon occasion. It was considered beneath a noble woman’s dignity to discipline a field slave, that job was left to her chief overseer and his subordinates but she had wielded leather a few occasions upon the very woman who’s new owner was spacing himself behind her now. She had given Daisy the traditional welcome whipping and there had been that time Daisy had embarrassed her by spilling some wine on her moments before some formal dinner causing her to be late while she was hastily changed. She remembered glaring down on the kneeling blond woman as she adjusted her Mistress’s garter straps, remembered how she had looked to be on the verge of tears while she worked, knowing that she would feel the leather before the evening was done. She remembered inflicting those tears on her later that night.

She remembered how it never occurred to her to question her right to inflict those tears. She had never question her right to be one of those who hold the handle - and to never feel the tip. Oh, she had wondered what it might feel like to be slave under the lash – usually when she let those dangerous thoughts out during her late night sessions of clitoral relief – but it had always been just that – a thought, a fantasy. And now you’re on the other side. Soon you will feel the whip for real and there is nothing you can do to stop it.

It was her own voice she heard in her head but it seemed to come from a new place in her mind. But it wasn't a new place. It was an old place. It was the place where those dangerous thoughts hid when they weren't needed. It was the place that was biding its time, knowing that the carefully maintained facade that held it in check for so many years would soon come crumbling down. No, cried out the Lady Camille inside her own head against that other part of her mind. No! Her denial got no reply from that new old place. It was being patient. It understood what she did not. Lord River drew back his arm. She found herself unable to watch this preview of her near future and looked down – desperately hoping again that she would wake up.

The relationship between slave girls and the whip – particularly when it is wielded by men – is a strange yet simple one. It is a love/hate relationship. The hate is easy to understand. The whip is pain. The love is harder to understand for those who are not slave girls – except perhaps for the men who wield those whips. The pain sends an unambiguous message of masculine dominance and a non-negotiable demand for obedience which in turn stirs her submissive needs like a poker stoking the embers in a fireplace. The seeming paradox is that in the midst of the pain there is an underlying pleasure that allows her to endure the unendurable and even find a joy in it standing equal with the anguish. It is the anguish that is usually the loudest, though. Daisy let out a loud yelp followed by drawn out moaning “aaaaaaugh,” as the first blow landed across her upper back.

Daisy had been born free. She had been born poor. Life had been a near constant struggle for food while growing up in a war-torn kingdom with a collapsed economy. At the age of twenty she was all alone in the world and desperate. In a society where enslaved women can be had for the price of a mug of ale in the local tavern, prostitution doesn't really exist as an option. She had even been desperate enough that she actually had considered selling herself into slavery. Slave girls, she could not help but notice, tended to be better fed than her. Even that choice had been taken away from her when she was caught stealing some apples from an orchard. Unable to pay the hefty fine demanded (a common occurrence when the offender is a young, female, and pretty commoner), the judge instead issued a Writ of Reduction. Her name had been Danielle.

The second slash of the whip, expertly located just below the first, elicited a louder cry from the girl. This was not the first time she had been whipped by a man. That had occurred shortly after her enslavement began when, as was customary, the court sold her to a slave house where she was branded, collared and subjected to her very first whipping. The few whippings she had received from her Mistress had hurt mightily but now, with the leather applied by male muscle, it felt much worse. This could be heard in Daisy’s cry when the supple leather strand landed a third time directly across her ass. Daisy’s new owner appeared to be well practiced in whipping women. The goal was to elicit the maximum pain possible without permanent damage. Whip marks that lasted a day or more were common but, aside from her brand, no man wanted scars marring a slave girl’s beauty.

Her former owner found herself unable to look, focusing instead on the watching throng. A few of the men cheered or clapped to each crack of the leather against nude female’s flesh but most just stared intently in unabashed enjoyment the quivering curves as she shook and writhed under the lash. The expressions on the faces of the slaves was much more complex but that new crystal sharp part of her mind was able to decipher them again. That undertone of automatic dislike for the outsider was still there but there was also an obvious empathy (many flinched with each loud contact between dead and living flesh) born of their shared hate of the whip. This empathy was slightly muted by an envy born of their shared love of the whip (many squirmed a little watching the blond cry out in pain with each additional blow). This undertone of jealousy could be seen on some of their faces – this newcomer, this interloper, was receiving their Master’s direct attention while they were not.

The former Lady Camille did not want to believe that see saw these things. She looked back toward Daisy who shrieked in response to another blow across her shoulders. Livid looking red slashes marked where the whip had already fallen. Daisy wept openly now, her lower lip hanging limply as the tears flowed freely but it was something in the way the blond woman moved her legs that caught the brunette’s attention. Though her ankles were tightly bound together she was able to rub her thighs together. It appeared as if she was doing so unwillingly, as if she couldn't help herself . . . as if . . .

Although the cries of pleasure and pain can often sound similar, there remains a recognizable difference. When the whip made connection again, Daisy flung back her head and let out a loud “oooooaaaahhhhh” while her whole body shook. The men present all hooted and hollered and whistled and even most of the slave girls laughed and grinned and clapped their hands together in delight. This reaction drew the Former Lady Camille’s attention again and she saw the notable change come over the watching slave girls. They saw that she was one of them and though she was still a newbie to their community, subject to the usual newbie razzing, she would eventually be accepted by them. The looks that came her own way were still full of gloating contemptuous hate.

Lord River paused long enough to remark, “I think this one will work out fine,” to accompanying mirth from free and slave alike. He delivered two more strikes against the defenseless woman’s bare skin. How many had that been? Ten? Fifteen? The only clothed woman present wasn't sure. How many is he going to give me?

When Daisy was taken down, she was crying and breathing heavily but started to compose herself while her hands and ankles were untied. She remembered to kneel with her knees spread wide but looked perplexed for a second when Lord River held the coiled whip in front of her. On the few occasions her previous owner had whipped her, she had not insisted on the ritual many men do after having reminded a slave girl of her place. It took that second to recall her brief time at the slave house before ended up as a woman’s property. She leaned forward and kissed the whip, delicately at first, as if unsure of herself. Then, with a sob of relief, something changed inside the girl and she kissed it with a new found adore. Seemingly unable to control herself, she broke position to grab her Master’s hand, still holding the coiled instrument of pain and passion, to kiss it and rub her tear stained cheeks against it then she bowed down to kiss his booted feet, tasting their leather and her own salty tears. More knowing laughter and applause came from the spectators. Lord River let her continue for a moment before stepping away. Daisy looked a little disappointed and a little frightened and she re-assumed a proper kneeling position. Her new Master looked her over for a moment, smiled and then pointed at the sitting slave girls. “Join them,” he said, “you may sit to your comfort.”

Although all could still her the pain of the whipping in her voice, all could also hear the unabashed pleasure as she leaped up (her mouth halfway between a grimace and a grin), and cried out, “Yes, Master, thank you, Master” as she ran off the platform to sit herself down next to the mass of nude females. A few quick exchanged glances communicated her new place among them – accepted as one of them but still regarded as a newcomer. One woman, one of the older ones with a full head of gray hair that seemed in conflict with her fit body, smiled and touched a welcoming, understanding hand upon her arm while Daisy massaged her wrists. “Sandra! Come forth!” Sandra did. She didn't exactly leap up and run but the brown haired slave girl with the softly weeping doe eyes promptly knelt herself in front of her Master.

The one person who had no name, still on all fours, still wearing her ink stained fashion continued to watch with conflicting thoughts. Part of her mind welcomed the punishment of the slave that had been rude to her. A part of her that refused to let go was still outraged at the impudence. Another part welcomed the delay of her inevitable turn on the rack. Yet another part could not stand the thought of watching another preview. There was even a part of her mind, that old new part, that was beginning to feel a sense of kinship with the young and inexperienced slave. Each of these varied fragments of her mind seemed to have its own voice and her head was a cacophonous argument.

Bitch deserves it! You’re next! No! Yes! Plead her case! Tell him you forgive her! She just made a mistake! It’ll look good! He’ll be more merciful! No he won’t! It doesn't matter! She insulted a free woman! A noble woman! A noble woman who doesn't exist anymore! No! Yes! It doesn't matter! She did it! He will punish her! Look!

Sandra was now on the whipping rack, stretched open from wrist to ankle as Daisy had been. Lord River was positioning himself again when the cacophony inside the former Lady Camille’s head was silenced by a most unwelcome distraction. A whooshing sound. Her eyes locked on it. It was the Blacksmith’s slave. She had started operating the bellows on the small forge, causing the flames to flare with a crackling hiss.

The Blacksmith himself picked up the branding iron by the handle and plunged its head into the glowing coals.


_____________________________

Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

(in reply to Marc2b)
Profile   Post #: 16
RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 12/4/2014 6:19:52 PM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline 		Whew!

Pulled it off in the long stretch there!

I think I need a few days break from writing. I'll take up writing chapter three (AKA chapter two, part two ) on Monday.

quote:

But if when you are finished with this, would it be possible to get a pdf version for reading? No pressure!


I suppose. I don't use pdfs much so I'm not sure how to convert Microsoft Word to a pdf though I'm sure I can figure it out. Can you post a pdf as a link, or does it have to be emailed? Bear in mind there will be slight (and maybe some not so slight) changes between the posted version and the final master copy since I correct any mistakes I notice after the edit button disappears.

Ya know, it has been kind of surreal posting (a somewhat laborious process since the paragraph breaks and the italicized words don't carry over from Word and have to be done again ) this while watching Peter Pan on NBC.

_____________________________

Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

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Profile   Post #: 17
RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 12/4/2014 7:47:36 PM   
shiftyw


Posts: 2837
Joined: 6/6/2013
From: The Shire
Status: offline 		Jesus. That is hot. And I do not even do whipping.

Just save it as a PDF- and I'll give you the email when the time comes. I mostly just want to read it all together, with better focus than...you know my facebook or fetlife or what have you.

You're seriously skilled and it is seriously hot.

(in reply to Marc2b)
Profile   Post #: 18
RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 12/12/2014 4:12:09 AM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline 		Progress Report:

Okay, I kind of been slacking off a little. I did start writing again on Monday like I said I would but I've been a little slow at it. So far I've only written a page and a half. I think I drained my creative energies during that burst of energy that finally completed the last chapter. The weekend, however, is shaping up to be a putter at home kind of weekend and I'm starting to feel energized again.

_____________________________

Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

(in reply to Marc2b)
Profile   Post #: 19
RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 12/21/2014 7:10:36 AM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline 		Okay, I was a little slack in writing for a few days and I kind of apologize for that (life, in the form of getting ready for Christmas is getting in the way). But, I have just come off a four hour writing marathon and am up to eight (almost nine!) pages on chapter three (I'd keep going but I HAVE to go grocery shopping now). I am about 99% certain that I will post chapter three before Christmas, then I will be taking a few days off for the holiday itself. Thank you for your patience.

As an appetizer, I present the following, a one paragraph excerpt from chapter three:

----------------------------

She had always been proud of her bosom. Her breasts were quite ample – enough to make most other women seem small by comparison – without being so large as to be ridiculous, as a couple of women she had known. She had been jokingly warned by some older women about ‘races toward the knees’ but with the natural arrogance of youth she had dismissed that far off future as irrelevant. She knew her bosom attracted the extra attention of men over other women. She knew they imagined what they would look like. She herself had imagined that only one man would ever get to look upon them, a properly rich and titled husband – a future she had imagined salvageable even an hour ago. She had never imagined over two hundred men hooting and clapping. She had never imagined eighty or so slave girls assessing her with hard eyes, most of whom, she was quite certain, had now found a new reason to hate her.

----------------------------

Marc2b



< Message edited by Marc2b -- 12/21/2014 7:12:10 AM >

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Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

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