A Statement

>> I Was Inspired By/I Pretty Much Basically Stole This Idea, or the germ of it, from a series by Ashley Zacharias, which I half-liked and half-didn't, so I've tried my own version, adapting the scenario to my own tastes and kinks and quirks. Also be advised, this one played out as a talky mindgame, and ended up rather softcore, so please don't flip out on me when it doesn't get as rough-and-tumble as most of my tales turn out by the finish. There's much to be said for subtlety, sometimes.

1.

Honoria made a sour face, as they surveyed the gallery from the top of the stairs. "I must tell you," she whispered, "I'm having second thoughts about this plan of yours. Third thoughts, as well."

Arabella nudged her with an elbow. "Come now, my dear. Don't lose your spirit. I need you with me, if I'm to make this work."

They were dressed as if for a grand ball. Arabella had insisted on paying for both the brand new bespoke gowns, and she had clearly spent a fortune on the pair. Honoria wore gold, while Arabella was all in white, almost as if for a second marriage, except she had a tiara in place of a veil. She had never looked more marvelous, not even on her real wedding day.

"Please reconsider," said Honoria, "It's simply too ... provocative."

"Provocation is the entire point."

"I know it is, and yet ... I fear for you. This is, in fact, outright dangerous."

"Only to my reputation, which my esteemed husband has rendered into pathetic tatters already. Do you see him yet?"

"Yes. Over there at the far end, his back turned. Sherring's beside him, and Lord Highbury."

"Just as we expected. Let's go down and begin."

"You're quite sure, Arabella? It's not too late to turn back."

"You are mistaken indeed, Honoria. It is far too late."

2.

Arabella's husband, Creighton Brahm, was the third richest man on the planet, and considered the handsomest, while Arabella herself was a descendent of the Foxgraves, one of Avonlea's eleven founding families. Their marriage, not three months old, had been the event of the season.

And now her husband had come to the body market to purchase an alien concubine. Arabella wasn't going to stand for it.

Society expected her to turn a blind eye. Her husband was by no means the only man guilty of participation in this scandalous affair. It was nearly an epidemic. Most of the nobility had bought themselves one, or if they hadn't yet, they were planning to. Even a few of the wealthier members of the mercantile class, generally so cautious and stodgy in all their affairs, had succumbed to the infection. In fact in some circles, you would hear such a purchase described and justified as an act of patriotism. Almost a duty, in order to demonstrate and reaffirm the supremacy of their species in this sector of Living Space, now and forever. Self-serving poppycock, in Arabella's opinion.

There'd been a war. Not on Avonlea itself, thankfully. It was fought on their neighboring planet, over its resources. A people called the nymphs (not by themselves, that was only humanity's name for them) had tried to settle there, which wouldn't have been a problem except they tried to stop humanity from harvesting the planet's goods. The dispute gradually escalated to violence; humanity prevailed. The nymphs were driven from the system, saving a few thousand captives.

It was believed that the nymphs, had they won instead, were planning to conquer and occupy Avonlea and enslave the entire population, with the use of nerve-control devices. The nymphs were very beautiful, sensual creatures, with a decadent and amoral culture. In the past, small numbers of humans on other worlds, in other systems, and members of several other sapient species, were said to have been captured, abused and humiliated by the nymphs in this same fashion. Or so ran the rumors. Now, as payback, triumphant Avonlean humanity would use those very slave-machines upon their creators.

Female nymphs had the gift of telepathy, and remarkable sexual capacities. As concubines, they could give their owners pleasures beyond the reach of any human woman.

All this, regardless if perfectly true (which was very much doubtful), provided absolutely no excuse. No modern decent honorable gentleman should lower himself to purchase sport with such creatures. The concept in itself was beastly and disgusting, and a deep, heart-wrenching, unforgivable, mortification to any and every woman in such a man's life, be she mother, sister, wife or daughter. Such wicked humiliating misbehavior should never be tolerated, or else the morality of their whole civilization was proved nothing but a sham and a cruel joke. Arabella knew she was not the only woman of Avonlea to believe this. Yet nobody so far had dared to speak out, not once—at least no member of the classes that counted. There had been a few unruly demonstrations in the cheaper marketplaces among the less fortunate, and some critical screeds published in the gutter press. Did no good at all. Mere meaningless noise among the stinking rabble. Everyone that mattered, every woman of name and position, thus far they had made no comment. All her peers seemed to have decided the only solution to the problem was to pretend it didn't exist. How craven. How weak.

A daughter of the house of Foxgrave was made of surer stuff. She would show them all. Personally.

3.

At first, when they made their proposal, all the auctioneer did was frown scornfully upon the pair of them as if they'd just somehow insulted him. He was a balding man, with a long, horsey face. "Is this meant to be some sort of joke?" he said.

"Not at all," replied Arabella, "I am entirely in earnest."

"Come now, be sensible. You wish me to ... to sell you into slavery?"

"More accurately, I wish to sell myself. You will of course broker the transaction."

"But how do you imagine such an arrangement is supposed to work? My dear lady, a slave can own nothing, by law. Who gets the money, at the end of the day?"

"It is all spelled out quite clearly in the contract I just handed you, if you would be so good as to look it over. The money, as you see, will go to a charitable endowment for orphans of the war—less your commission, which is set at the usual percentage, is it not?"

"It is. Yes. All in order, far as that goes. Yet I confess myself to remain baffled. And appalled, on top of that. Surely this is no serious offer. You are a woman of great name. You must be trifling with me."

"I assure, I am not. And such arrangements are not without precedent, upon our planet. Members of the nobility have been enslaved before. On several notable occasions."

"I know my history, dear lady. Yes, it's happened, from time to time. It's hardly commonplace, all the same. Whenever it occurred, it was always a great and terrible scandal. A huge upheaval of our planet's entire social order!"

"Unquestionably. And each occasion, the disgraced nobles sold very profitably, according to the records I found. I would have expected a man of your line of business to show far more interest in this kind of opportunity, rare as it tends to be."

"My lady, such a thing is only done in answer to vast insoluble debt, or to capital crime. It hasn't happened in decades. You are not bankrupt, are you? Nor is your husband. And you have not committed murder or treason—of if you have, you've never been arrested or tried for it, that I know of. And a man of my position certainly would."

"Those reasons are necessary for the state to make a citizen a slave," said Arabella, with a flash of her eyes, "It is not the state that has decided this—I am doing it to myself, for other reasons, reasons of my own. I have reviewed the law carefully. There is no rule against it. It is my choice to make."

"Don't you understand? You would renounce your citizenship. All your rights! Forever!"

She nodded. "Yes. It amounts to a form of political defection. Only I won't be leaving the planet."

He snorted. "It amounts to much worse than that! What is the matter with you? Why would a woman like yourself want to set yourself on such a course? It sounds like madness!"

"That is why I've brought my companion with me. Honoria can vouch for my sanity and my health, as well as my seriousness. And she shall serve as a legal witness to our transaction, for your protection. Thus you need not fear reprisal from any quarter, if you agree to my terms. She will testify that this is not something you yourself have tried to force, trick or bully me into, but that you are only, in good faith and conscience, acting as my agent to complete this business, as I desire. Is that not perfectly fair?"

The auctioneer answered with another question: "Does your husband know about this?"

"Not yet," Arabella said, with a fierce smile.

"Then how do you think he'll react, were I to allow this farce to go forward?"

"I expect he will have no choice at all but to purchase my bond. Provided he wishes to keep me in his house."

"Ah," said the auctioneer, his frown inverting to a smile, "Now I begin to see the game."

"It is no game, sir."

"Sounds like one to me. This is all on account of the nymphs, isn't it? Let us be frank. You're pissed at him for coming here to buy one, and this is your clever way to call him out on the matter. A bold play, indeed, if you'll allow me to say so. Too bold, perhaps. Have you fully considered the ramifications? You'll make a laughingstock of the gentleman, all across Avonlea, at a single stroke."

"Not my husband alone, I think."

"I don't think you've comprehended the lasting damage a thing like this will do to him. To his name and his position—and to yours, as well. A disgrace of such magnitude could ruin the pair you for life. And the lives of your children too."

"We have no children, sir. My esteemed husband, at present, is only interested in the acquisition of a concubine. However, I take my marriage vows seriously. If he no longer wants a wife, then I shall do my best to become what he desires instead. We must hope he appreciates the effort I'm making."

"My word. Well. I ... I sympathize with your situation, my lady. But you must reconsider. You're taking all this too much to heart. Just because a man buys a slave doesn't mean he's stopped caring for his wife. The one thing has nothing at all to do with the other."

"I cannot agree with that opinion."

"Then—forgive for saying so, my lady—you are naïve."

"Ha! Whether or not the man cares for me to any significant degree is, at this stage, an irrelevancy. Quite beside the point. Coming to this place, as he's chosen to do, has demonstrated a fundamental lack of respect. To me, to the wedding vows he took, and to his own honor, whether he's willing or not to acknowledge the fact. It is time the arrogant ass was made to comprehend that, once and for all."

The auctioneer was frowning again. Now he nodded. "I see you are, indeed, determined upon this scheme."

"I am."

The man produced a black metallic sphere from the pocket of his jacket, pushed a button on the top of it, and then released into the air, where it floated at shoulder height between them, humming softly and with red lights blinking in a whirl around its circumference. "I have just activated a crown-certified recorder. Let there be no mistakes, as we proceed."

Arabella nodded.

"You must understand, once you sign this contract, there is no going back. Enslavement is for life. Your master may free you, but only him. The choice is entirely is. It is not a choice, in my experience, that masters often make."

"Arabella's husband will free her," said Honoria, "Soon as he buys her and takes her back home."

"Don't be so sure, my dear lady. Is that what you're both counting on? Gallantry, on his part?"

"More than that," said Arabella, "Honor."

"Yes," said her friend, "Imagine what a beast he would look like if he didn't? Keeping his own wife as a slave! Ha! The whole planet would censure him. He couldn't hold his head up in the street."

"The whole planet will scorn him already, if he's driven his wife to sell herself in the body market."

"Exactly!" said Honoria, "Freeing her immediately will be his first step to public redemption. He'll know it's the only thing he can do."

"Yet even if he does as you hope," said the auctioneer, "your marriage will still have been ended. It won't just pick up where you left off. Doesn't work that way. You'll have to remarry. You'll have to regain your citizenship first. That's a lengthy process, you know."

Arabella literally waved these factors aside, with her nose in the air.

"Very well, then," said the auctioneer. "Please follow me to the ... preparation rooms."

They did. Through a green door and down some stairs, to another heavier metallic door at the bottom, painted red, and with a pair of guards in masks and armor, with tall spears.

"Before we go in," said the auctioneer, "and sign the contract, and move forward with the sales preparations, I'm going to give you one last chance, Lady Brahm-Foxgrave. To back out of this. Just say the word right now, and I'll tear up this document. If you like, you don't have to say anything. You can just turn around and go back upstairs. If you don't—if you follow me through this next door—then that's it. You are committed."

"But she hasn't signed anything yet," said Honoria.

"Anyone taken through a red door like this, without a crown-issued gold badge like I have"—and he held up his, from his pocket—"or having stepped through of your own volition, then by the law of our planet, you've become a slave. It's a kind of ritual, from far back in the founding era. This is a Door of Damnation. Enter and you're legally obligated to sign the enslavement contract afterward. If you don't, you'll be compelled to. The document's only a bureaucratic formality. Going through the door is what counts—and having your genetic identity scanned into our system by the sensor array built into the frame. And as for you, Miss," he said to Honoria, "This also means you can't come further with your friend, unless you want to join her in bondage. You must say your farewells here. Or don't. It's entirely up to you. Until or unless you pass through this door."

And he disappeared through it.

Arabella gave Honoria a quick, light hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Wish me luck."

Honoria clung to her, "Don't do this. I'm very afraid. Let's go back. Right now! Please come back upstairs with me. Please, Arabella."

She snorted and shook her head. "No. I'll not succumb to cowardice. This is my choice. Not only that—it is my duty. I'm doing this for all the noble-blooded women of our world, Honoria. I can't back out now. This is too important. Goodbye, Honoria. But I'm certain in my heart I shall see you again quite soon. Once this is all over and done with."

"Wait! Arabella! Please don't!"

She didn't listen. She shoved through the door with her head held high.

4.

Her husband—her former husband, that is—had a room exactly like this. His study, he called it. Very doubtful either man had ever done much that could be called studying in these chambers, though there were many books along the walls, and a broad desk before the windows. It had a great fireplace and tall upholstered armchairs and an expensive rug. There were small pieces of statuary in the corners. Creighton's were classical human figures; Faber had abstract shapes, instead. That was the only difference that Arabella could detect.

Lord Clarion Faber was her husband's—her former husband's—principal business rival. And yet Creighton Brahm was by no means this man's only or greatest enemy. He was not a popular individual, in Avonlean society. Notorious, was the best description.

He had courted her, for a time. Not for long and never seriously. Arabella believed he only made the gesture to rankle Creighton. The ploy had worked, if that was his aim. Creighton was said to have nearly challenged the man to a duel. He had denied it when Arabella eventually questioned him over the rumor. She'd accepted his word, though only half believing him. He did not seem to realize that she would not at all have minded if he'd fought Faber, provided he did not allow himself to be bested by the man, nor go so far as to slay him.

Faber was a few years older than Creighton, yet he happened, or perhaps contrived, to look younger. He had blonde hair he let grow slightly too long, and lazy, insolent posture. His manner of speech had a quality of laziness as well, drawling and contemptuous.

He was wearing a dressing gown the same color as the wine in the glass in his hand. He did not have slippers on, and she couldn't help but notice he had a bright silver ring on the big hairy toe of his left foot. A barbarous ornament, in Arabella's estimation. It gave him an absurd piratical look. The fact he was barefoot in front of her—that alone struck her as uncouth. Inappropriate to his class and upbringing. Her husband—her former husband—would never have let himself be seen by his servants outside his bed chamber or the bathroom in nothing but a dressing gown, unless the house had caught fire, and even then, he would make damn certain to have, at the very least, a matching pair of slippers on his feet before he left his room. There are certain fundamental standards that men and women of high rank must scrupulously maintain. It may seem a trivial matter—in the long run, for the protection and continuity of all, it is not.

As to Arabella herself, standing in the exact center of the room before the man who had just purchased her bond, she wore nothing, save a heavy metallic collar around her neck, attached to black chains running down her front that constrained both her wrists and her ankles. This shameful and demeaning exposure was nonetheless entirely appropriate to her current rank, if it could called be that, when one no longer possesses a proper rank of any kind. Because now she was only a slave. The property of this man. Her former husband's notorious and despicable rival.

Faber had outbid Creighton, when she was auctioned. Simple as that. Perfectly legal, in every respect.

And everyone knew it was a vile thing to have done. No other man in that place would have dared to try. Of course such considerations as restraint, decency and honor were meaningless nothings to a heartless rake and blackguard like Clarion Faber.

Thus, here she stood, rather than where she had planned and expected to be.

All was lost. Yes, all was lost. She should have listened to the auctioneer. She should have heeded his many doleful warnings. Now she was doomed and there was no escape. No possible hope of a reprieve.

She felt hollow inside. She felt detached from herself. Not actually standing on that spot—only floating in the air instead, like an untouchable formless spirit. Like she'd died and turned into a ghost.

Ghosts aren't real. None of this was real, none of this mattered. Perhaps she was asleep and dreaming. Or this was all just a silly story and she was only a character in it some perverse pathetic lonely fool had made up, to amuse himself. Fondling his prick while he conjured her and the torments she must face.

"Arabella," said her new master, sipping his wine and smacking his lips in a disgusting manner, "Now that you're here with me—now that it's just the pair of us, in private, I would like you to explain to me, exactly, if you can, why in hell you put yourself in this position. What madness took possession of you?"

"Was it not clear enough at the auction?"

"Forgive my dullness of perception. Was it meant as a jest?"

"Not at all. Why does everyone think that? God save me, I acted entirely in earnest."