The Iron Key (by the Earl)

Name: Lancelot

Experience: More than enough, especially w/ ladies. As for sex w/ men, he has never been penetrated, so he's what so-called a "back virgin"...

Personality: Snob and haughty. Takes a pride in his beauty. But, once he falls in love, he becomes cute, submissive to whatever his master says. In a way, he's noble and values the ancient chivalry code...

Description: Long honey-blond hair to the middle of back, large emerald eyes, handsome, 180cm. He's modeled after one of the Knights of the Round Table, from King Arthur's Legend...

Clothes: A silk white blouse and a black pants. A small, but sharp silver dagger on his waist. A silver circlet w/ aquamarine on his forehead. Always use either Egoiste or Obsession for perfume.

Room: A room modeled after the Medieval England, but w/ A/C. However, since this room is supplied w/ the latest technology, it can be changed to any type of room as the master desires. For example, if the master wish to have a drink, the entire room can be re-arranged into a bar by just typing some command into a computer on the wall...

Lancelot is good at handling swords and rapiers and lances. Also, he's good at creating poetry, and can sing relatively well. However, never let him stay w/ another girl or woman unattended for more than 5 minutes. He'll be in bed w/ her after 10 min...

He's from a noble or aristocratic family, and was supposed to be the rightful heir to the title of the Duke of [whatever the name you want to put in]... However, for some unknown reason, he ended up to become a gigolo, and then, scouted by one of the Palace Management to be a key boy.

Prologue 2: A Knight without a Maiden.

Roland paced the waiting room back and forth. What the hell was the hold up here?? He knew someone had paid his bail, and now he was free to go. . . he even heard one of the cops say that they were no longer pressing charges. . . he didn't know whether to kill Vanessa or kiss her, the rich old bat, she was the reason he got arrested in the first place. The stupid cow gave him the keys to her jag and told him to go out and have fun, then reported the car stolen. And all because she thought Roland was flirting with some young honey at some posh party or another. But he knew he'd forgive her. . . Roland knew better than to blow this one, or else he'd be back to the French Riviera peddling his goods to fifty year old fat widows looking for a beautiful boy to show off as a trophy and occasionally fuck.

So he'd simper and suck up until the dame took him back. He didn't really want to go back to the Riviera and sleep on the street until some other woman picked him up.

He sighed. This was no life for a titled aristocrat. His pedigree dated all the way back to the court of Charlemagne. . . he damned his ancestors to hell for gambling away the family fortune. He damned his father for spending the last few pennies of what was to be his inheritance. And he damned himself for never paying attention to anything useful at school.

Finally, the door opened. He slapped a smile on his face and prepared to greet his latest "patron", a woman on the dark side of her forties who'd had one face lift too many. What walked in, however, was something of a surprise.

There were three of them, One man tall and aristocratic, haughty and proud, old yet remarkably well preserved. He wore a dark blue suit, impeccably tailored, neat, not a wrinkle. The second man walked in; he was young, a study in style and modern day fashion. He was model gorgeous, that's for sure, and yet he had a pseudo- John F. Kennedy Jr. thing going on, the heir apparent, the man of the future today. He smiled at Roland and revealed even white teeth. It occurred to Roland that this man would make a very good hustler himself.

The last person to walk in was a woman. She was very much Holly the Homemaker. Her hair was tucked into a bun, she was wearing a flowered print dress and pearls, for crying out loud. She looked like she jumped straight out of Leave it to Beaver. And yet in her eyes was a shrewd look. . . Roland was willing to bet that she got things her way a lot more often than the other two realized. He watched as they sat down at the table, all in a row, and motioned for him to sit down as well.

Roland eyed them carefully, studied them. . . if there was one thing he learned, it was not to be fooled by appearances. . . you *can* judge a book by its cover, but only if you tell what condition it's in and notice every single detail surrounding it. They reminded him of something straight out of a Classical History text. . . the group formed by Mark Anthony and Octavian and that other old guy. . . the Triumvirate. Yeah. That's what they were; a Triumvirate. But. . . a Triumvirate of what? He sat down warily at the seat across from them.

"So. . . who are you guys and why did you pay all that money to bail me out? What's the big catch here?"

The old man spoke first: "Mr. De Richelieu, we have an offer for you. An offer we think you'll be very pleased with."

The young man followed, almost immediately, continuing the old man's sentence: "We've been watching you for a long time, Mr. De Richelieu, we are aware that you possess certain. . . talents. Talents that we think would be very much beneficial to our enterprise." The woman said nothing, but smiled at Roland.

"Uh. . . me, talents? Sorry, you must have me confused with someone else. I don't have any talents, unless you count seducing old ladies and fencing." The Triumvirate looked amongst each other meaningfully. Roland shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "What kind of business are you guys in anyway? I'm not qualified for much."

The old man spoke again: "We're in the business of. . . acquisition and resale, I suppose one could call it."

The young man this time: "Yes, we're in charge of the acquisitions department." As always, the woman was silent.

"Well, I don't really have anything to sell. All the antiques I owned were sold off with the rest of the De Richelieu estate three years ago. And if you're from the creditor's office, I already declared bankruptcy, I'm afraid you can't really be here, I've got no more money to give."

Finally, the woman spoke up, her iron will showing up in her eyes, and the other two fell silent. "What my associates are trying to say, Mr. De Richelieu, is that we're not interested in anything you own, or anything you used to own. We want to buy something that only you can sell and only you own. We want to buy you."

"M-me?? I'm sorry, but, I think you've got the wrong guy here, I mean, I may hit on old women, but I'm no prostitute, I haven't quite resorted to that yet." Roland stood up from the table, insulted. He was tired of weird old men hitting on him all the time. And this. . . was just too strange. Who knew what kind of kinky foursome these three had in mind? No thanks, he wanted no part of that. "Listen, thanks for paying my bail, but. . . I'm not interested, can I go now?"

"Mr. De Richelieu, I suggest you sit down and hear us out before you come to your decision." Her tone brooked no room for argument. Roland had been right, she was the strong one. He sat back down. He had a feeling the woman wasn't going to let him leave, and would restrain him physically if she had to, until she finished what she had to say. And damn, the woman looked like she had a mean right hook, with or without the dainty white lace gloves.

"Okay. . . I'm listening. Make this fast and good."

The woman leaned in as if she was about to tell him some nasty secret. Her voice was low and soft. "Mr. De Richelieu. . . have you ever heard of the Palace?"

"The. . . Palace?" Roland had heard of it. . . only whispers though, of boys who he'd met before, fellow hustlers, who spoke of a mythical place that bought you to own. . . for as long as your youth and beauty remained, and once you were old and gray, they paid you a hell of a lot of money, so much that you were set for life. He'd heard rumours . . . but never met anyone who'd actually went to work there. And once, a former Sugar Mommy had paid him off and sent him packing, saying that she'd bought a key in the mysterious Palace. . . Roland had asked if he could come, but the woman just laughed and said that where she was going, she wouldn't need him any more. "I've heard a bit about it. . . "

"Well then, Mr. De Richelieu, allow me to fill you in on the rest." She pulled out a thick folder from her massive purse and handed it to him. He opened it up and found pictures of a majestic structure set like a jewel against the barren desert. "That is the Palace. And, if you agree to our proposal, that will be your new home. . . for the next ten to twenty years or so." She hurried on when she saw Roland's surprised look. "The Palace pays well for your services. . . services that will make you. . . basically, a slave. You will have a room, which will be your home for most of your life, and that room will have a specific key. The owner of that room, will own you, and will have the right to do anything with-or to-you, for the entire time that that person retains ownership of the key."

"Mr. De Richelieu, you must realize that the Palace deals in opulence and luxury, and even our slaves live in luxury. You will eat only the finest food, wear the finest clothes, people will wait on you hand and foot. . . and also, on your release from service, we will pay you ten million dollars, enough to keep you happy for the rest of your life outside our establishment. And in exchange, all we want is that you serve the owner of the key of whatever room that you will occupy. You will be their slave, you will wait on them hand and foot. Your only duty, during your time at the Palace, would be to keep your Master, the owner of your key, happy."

Roland's head was swimming. He was staring at the pictures, the beautiful dusky skinned women, the gorgeous paradise that the Palace seemed to be. . . he couldn't really believe they were willing to pay him ten million dollars to live there for twenty years. He'd live there for free. And all he'd have to do was keep some rich broad happy. He could do that, that's what he'd been doing for the past three years of his life, but without half the security. The Palace offered him a contract. . . and when he got out, he'd have enough money to buy back his home. . . he'd make the family name something to be proud of again. He had a hard time trying not to jump up in the air and yell with joy, but he contained himself, knowing he had to play it cool. "Perhaps some time to think of it first? You could get me a hotel room, and I'd tell you tomorrow morning?"

The woman's shrewd eyes took in everything. She didn't miss a single detail, especially not Roland's telltale flushed skin. He was a beauty all right, with all that long blond hair and those big blue eyes. . . almost as pretty as a girl, but with the graceful musculature that made Michaelangelo's David such an unforgettable classic. Yes, he would agree. She didn't see the point in wasting any more time with this one, there was a boy in Kenya that needed to be taken care of as soon as possible. "We need your answer now, Mr. De Richelieu. We'd like to fly you to the Palace immediately, and you need training."

"Training?" Roland looked at the woman strangely. Whatever kind of training could he need to suck up to lonely women?! He'd been doing it for long enough. But he nodded anyway. "Fine. I accept your offer. But. . . the next ten to twenty years? Don't you have a set time frame?"

The woman smiled at Roland. "We hardly ever approach people to work for us this way. We prefer to. . . cultivate our own slaves, you would be one of the first to come to the Palace with a memory of a previous life in the outside world. But believe me, Mr. De Richelieu, people pay plenty of money to get into the palace, and you'll be living there for free, and we're even going to pay you to do it. You won't regret your decision. The Palace is the closest thing to paradise on earth that you'll ever get."

Roland took a deep breath. These people could be anyone. . . they could be white slave traders ready to sell him to some fat greasy bald man who wanted to do disgusting things to him, he didn't know, but he'd manage to live though his father's suicide, his mother's death, live on the streets after his rich and sheltered upbringing. . . and if this was for real, this was his way of returning to the good life. . . this was his way of showing his stupid relatives that he wasn't good for nothing. He slowly nodded his assent. It was all or nothing. . .

The woman nodded happily. "It's agreed then, Mr. De Richelieu, if you'll step outside, there will be a limo to accompany us to the airport, where we will fly out to what will be your new home. I apologize for the short notice but. . . the palace is horrendously short staffed, we've just expanded, and we don't have enough slaves to meet demand, and this is why we're recruiting older boys. " She ushered him out the door, the other two members of the Triumvirate trailing behind meekly now. "Don't worry about your clothes, Mr. De Richelieu, you won't need them where you're going, we'll provide everything for you, you'll need nothing and want for nothing."

Roland looked at the woman, a little frightened and apprehensive.

She smiled, a lovely 1950's Mother-figure-straight-out-of-Leave-it-to-Beaver smile. "Roland. . . trust me."

She pushed him into the limo and they all climbed in, the sleek black vehicle pulling away from the curb and smoothly rounding the corner, disappearing from sight.

Roland rubbed his eyes and stared out the window at the Palace. . . his mouth dropped open. The pictures had not done it justice. This. . . was incredible. He smoothed down his rumpled pants and shirt, wishing that he hadn't spent the night in a jail cell, he didn't at all look his best. He was going to live here. . . for the next twenty years. . . serving gorgeous women, addressing their every desire. . . not a bad deal.

He was rushed into the Palace, though they bypassed the main entry hall with the plush red carpeting that Roland assumed they used for the guests. Instead, they went in through a massive iron door, pushed open by some guy who looked more pumped than any championship body builder. He was ushered through a maze of dark corridors lined with smaller wooden doors. . . Roland assumed that these were the servant's quarters. Finally, they reached the end of the long trek, a massive indoor greenhouse. . . filled with lush tropical plants and its own built in waterfall. The mist floated in the air, settling on Roland's heated skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the plants move, and jumped, startled.

It was a woman, with green hair and green eyes, wearing a bright green body suit. It was most disconcerting. She even wore green lipstick and eyeshadow. "Geez. . . hasn't this woman ever heard of overkill. . . " Roland muttered under his breath.

He was distracted by the sound of the Triumvirate leaving. "Wh-where are you going? I thought I had to go through some training and preparation!" Roland didn't want to admit it, but he was feeling vulnerable, and afraid, and he didn't want to be left alone here, not until he was settled in. The members of the Triumvirate were the only links to the outside world left in this eerily beautiful place, and now they were going too.

The green woman smiled, patting his hand comfortingly. Her voice was as lush and rich as her artificial jungle. "Please, calm down, you'll be safe here, the palace does not allow any of their slaves to come to any harm. They are our investments, and as such, it would make more sense for us to keep them in perfect physical and emotional health." She encircled him, looking him up and down. "Now. . . what's your name."

"Er. . . Roland. Roland de Richelieu. What's your name?"

"My name is of no importance, but if you must address me as anything, you may call me the money maker. I'm in charge of repackaging and resale here at the castle."

"R-repackaging?!" Roland backed away a few steps, but the green woman pulled him back and clapped her hands, unseen servants coming from seemingly out of nowhere, listening to her issue forth rapid fire commands, scurrying off to obey them.

"Yes. I've got to admit, I've never worked with such raw goods before, but I trust that the acquisitions department know how to do their job. And you are a beauty. . . " She pinched his cheek as if to test the resilience of his skin then ripped his shirt open. "Do you wax your chest?"

Roland struggled to pull his shirt closed, suddenly feeling like a violated girl. "N-no, I'm quite naturally hairless. . . "

The Moneymaker nodded seriously. "That's an added benefit, that means no weekly wax treatments. Now, take off your pants."

"What?!"

She tsk tsked quite impatiently and began undoing his buckle for him. "There's no time to be squeamish, if you're going to be a sex slave you're going to have to learn how to be a little less shy, Roland." She unzipped his fly and yanked his pants and underwear down around his ankles. "Step out of them." Roland was in too much of a daze not to obey. She ran her hands up and down his legs scientifically, over the planes of his stomach, his back, his arms. . . and finally down to his buttocks, cupping each cheek and squeezing them. He squirmed.

"What. . . what's this all about?"

"Well, we've got to see if we've got to put you through a diet and exercise regimen before we put you in a room, we've never worked with someone acquired in such a way before. She slapped one cheek lightly and watched as if for jiggles. "You seem all right, very fit, considering. . . "

"Considering what?!"

"You're previous lifestyle. But never mind that." She rose and grabbed a hank of hair. "This hair is a mess of split ends, but you look very nice with long hair. . . it will need to be trimmed and conditioned." The servants got right to it, snipping and clicking. Roland winced with every fallen piece of hair.

"Now. . . what room to put you in. . . what room. . . " She frowned, deep in thought. "The yellow room is open. . . no, you're not innocent enough for that. . . the silk room. . . no no no. . . not feminine enough. The steel room? No, not macho enough. The Iron key. . . the iron room? The Iron room! Yes, that's where we'll put you, goes well with the accent and the lineage. What kind of accent is that anyway?"

"Accent?"

"Yes, it's not French, that's for sure. . . "

"It's a mix of French and British, I think."

The woman nodded approvingly. "Well, it's very sexy, you may keep that. However, the name has to go. Roland?! You sound too much like an eighties glamour boy. We'll call you. . . Lancelot."

Roland looked at the woman despairingly. "But. . . what's wrong with Roland???"

The woman quelled any complaints with one glare. "We own you for the next ten years, Lancelot, if we say your name is Lancelot, then your name is Lancelot." She snapped on a rubber glove. "Now, bend over. It's time for your examination."

Roland aka Lancelot bent over and sighed. Somehow. . . he knew that after this "training," he wasn't going to be the same.