"Margo" - читать интересную книгу автора (Campbell F E)

CHAPTER THREE
ENSLAVED

The dream was graphic. Margo never thought of it afterwards as a nightmare. It was far too clear and specific. In its own terrible way, it was too rational to be called a nightmare. She had little choice but to believe that a memory from the past – a memory no doubt sparked by her present chained condition – had contributed to the experience.

So much of it was the same as Rossland. In the vividness of impression and its etchings on the matrix of memory, she could still see the gloomy, smoky place. It smelled of sweat. Margo knelt naked on a platform.

It was low, just off the floor, but sufficient to place her in prominence.

The hollows of her knees were in some way clamped down with some sort of stocks which had been lowered across them by the Beadle and locked. Her hands had then been tied and hoisted high, until she knelt, taut, stretched and ready. The Beadle consulted his notes.

"Ten strokes Mr. Bascom, and lay them well upon this lass. She's a rebel. Her shoulders, down to the bottom of her arse. That's what it says here. Do your duty, man. And get a scream out of the slut." Margo remembered her pale voice, or it sounded pale, crying aloud for mercy. But apparently there was no mercy, or at least none heard her plea. Bascom held the thonged whip by which she would be scourged and spoke gruffly.

"Oye. Have no doubt about it, I'll smarten the lass up. But when she's had her ten, what do I do with her?"

The Beadle once consulted his notes. The notes seemed to chronicle the life and death of Margo Davis.

"She's to be indentured and sold. There's an auction today. You know what to do."

"Ye're not staying to watch, Mr. Bascom sir? Tis a pretty sight, and for sure I'll make her sing for ye."

The Beadle stopped and turned. He surveyed the stretched nakedness ready for the whip. Grudgingly, he conceded, "Ah well, what's a few minutes! You always do a good job, Bascom, and 'tis well worth watching. Let her have it!"

It was agony beyond belief. Margo screamed from the very first blow as the knotted thongs swept almost lovingly across her back. She knew there would be blood. There was always blood at whippings such as this.

Puritan mercy was harsh. In her case, it did not exist at all. She was a trollop caught kissing a man in a dark street, and then fleeing from the watch. She had been swiftly apprehended and was about to pay the price for lechery. Then, beyond the whip, lay the years of her indenture. No one could tell how good or bad they would be for her. But most certainly they would separate her from life. She would become a kitchen drab or field hand, unless, of course, she was purchased by a gentleman for his own pleasure. The latter fate was the best she could expect.

Margo Davis screamed steadily while she was whipped. She had made up her mind to strive for silence. But the many-thonged instrument wielded by Bascom's brawny arm was too much for any girl. With the eighth stroke, she fainted, but was revived by a deluge of icy salt water thoughtfully provided by a benevolent authority. At the end of the tenth lash, she hung limp, her head bowed, only dimly conscious of what was taking place.

First the chains. No maiden could stand in unseemly freedom and nakedness upon the auction block without suitable gyves. Loss of liberty was implicit in her new status. She was a slave. Strong arms carried her to the smitty, where she was greeted jovially.

"Why, lass, we'll soon have ye fixed up. Them's pretty ankles and wrists ye've got. I'll iron 'em welt so ye don't go traipsing off."

It was very simply done. She was made to kneel. Her hands were raised. The metal circlets fitted around them and beaten into shape, and then the rivets, the awful rivets by which through the pounding of the smith's hammer were flattened out to keep her captive for always, or until such time someone brought her back here to this noise some place for the smith to pound her free. Her hands suitably shackled, she was placed upon a box and her feet similarly dealt with. Then she stood erect. She was told to walk around a bit.

But when she tried to do so, she stumbled and needed the reassuring arm of her jailer. She was still weak from the flogging, but none gave aid. Since she was to be exhibited in public, it became needful to hide the shame of her nakedness. This was done with a white sheet provided by the same thoughtful authority who receive the money from her sale. In a puritan society, it was essential that all things balance and none show loss. A noose was placed around the slenderness of her neck, and she was led to an adjacent shed from which she would later be taken to the block. It was actually a huge cage in which there were others like herself, both black and white, but all similarly chained. There her whipped back was attended by sympathetic hands. Its true healing lay with time.

Margo had thought often of the slave block. It was a fantasy she shared with many, and a fate awaiting the unwary. It took but a small excuse to place a maiden or man thereon. When Margo's turn came, she was trembling and it was a warden who picked her up bodily and carried her up a few steps to stand her in the eyes of the small multitude ready to bid. She surveyed them without shame. She had done nothing of which to be ashamed. Shame became a reality when the sheet was stripped away and she stood naked for their approval. The bidding was sharp and determined. She was seen as a prize. Few girls of her quality reached the block.

Margo stood there, naked. She fingered her chains while the bids mounted. She was knocked down to a Mrs. Marcia Tremont for a sum of money to stagger the imagination and was immediately taken to where settlement was made. Mrs. Tremont elected to have the ankle chains taken off her new acquisition but insisted on the retention of those confining the slender wrists.

The smitty laughed at her woebegone appearance. "We puts them on and we knocks them off. It didn't take long, now did it, deane? Hear ye sold for a good price. Ye are a beauty, ye are, lass. If I had the gold, I'd buy ye myself."

"But if 'tis Lady Marcia Tremont who's purchased ye, then surely ye'd best prepare those pretty lips to work upon a pretty cunt. You'll not be working any fields, unless ye be a bigger fool than ye look. Now up with them pretty legs, and we'll get the iron off them."

It was daunting to the new slave to watch the tremendous force of the hammer blows required to drive the rivets from the shackles about her ankles. It told her all too clearly that the chains remaining on her wrists could well be there for life unless someone returned her to this place. The leg irons fell away and she stood, but without any sense of freedom. The links between her hands hung heavy across the now soiled whiteness of the sheet, which was still her only covering. She did not walk to Marcia Tremont's carriage. The smith picked her up bodily and carried her out, and surprisingly tossed her onto the seat opposite the waiting lady.

The two girls, one rich and widowed, the other stripped and chained, stared at each other in silence, drinking the situation in with a furious speculation until the more fortunate of the two waved a languid hand for the coachman to commence their journey. Her questions were crisp.

"Have you ever been whipped?"

"No, never – until today. Today, I was most cruelly flogged."

"Flogged?" She leaned over to inspect the whipped back without comment and replaced the white covering over the shrinking nudity indentured to her for five years.

Margo nodded dismally. "Aye, blood. I fear it stained the sheet before those in the big cage tended me."

Marcia laughed. "Well, at least your education has begun. It'll save me a lesson. A girl who hasn't been well whipped or properly flogged is not much use to anyone." She eyed her purchase shrewdly, focusing on the chained hands and then the unchained ankles.

"Have you any idea of escape? Most girls have. I'll warn you now: I'll whip it out of you."

"I haven't even thought of it," Margo said truthfully. "Everything's happened so quickly, and I've been hurt so much. I'm just frightened. I'm not thinking about anything properly."

Marcia nodded. She was enjoying the power she had over this girl who, except for an accident of marriage or birth, could have been herself. She gained a vicarious thrill from picturing herself where Margo sat now. Marcia Tremont had no illusions about her own sexuality. She gloried in it. She intended to enjoy herself to the fullest extend possible with this girl after she had got her home, where she could be kept naked and properly dealt with. Her next question was like the firing of a gun.

"Do those pretty lips of yours know what to do between a lady's legs?"

Margo was not shocked. "I've heard about it, and once I played with a girl I knew, but what you really mean is still strange to me."

"Good. You're a virgin. I'll train you. By the time I'm through with you, those pretty lips will be honey sweet with my secretions. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

Margo looked at her chained hands to examine them and exhibit them to the girl on the other side of the carriage.

"I have been made a slave," she confessed in dull misery. "I am sure there is much for me to learn. I do not wish to be whipped again. I'll do my best."

Marcia laughed gaily. "The church folk got you, didn't they? Well, they haven't got you now. I've got you now. I've got you for five whole years." Again her laughter pealed.

"Ye should feel grateful ye weren't bought by some beetle-browed old bastard who'd have fucked you before he got you home, and then put you in the fields the next day."

"I am grateful – really I am. I will try to please you."

Marcia cocked an amused eye. "I've got fields too. Have you ever worked in a field all day, under the hot sun?"

"Never."

"Well, there's worse things, you know." The young, wise eyes became serious in retrospect. "Once, long ago, I tried it myself. I wanted to know what it was like. I figured it would be useful information for a girl who one day might own her own plantation." She shrugged and grinned.

"It most certainly was. Have you heard of the quota?"

"Isn't it where someone has to pick a specified amount of cotton or suffer a penalty?"

"Well, you know about it." The youthful widow held up an admonishing finger. "You'd best remember it. If you ever get out in my cotton fields, the overseer will see that you do your stint, and you'll be whipped like a black if you fail." Once more came bright laughter.

"But they only put a girl in the fields as punishment, and you're not going to be punished, are you?"

The inference was plain. The sly hint all too clear. Margo shivered beneath the sheet. For all her youth and beauty, Marcia Tremont might well be as ruthless as a man. She would know best how to hurt a girl. Uncaring of the answer, she politely asked, "By what title do you wish me to address you… madam?"

"My, my, how formal! I don't like madam, and I don't much care for being Mrs. Tremont. Mistress sounds like a school teacher, and a school marm I most definitely am not. For the time being, just call me Marcia. I'll call you Margo." Once more the sly grin. "That sounds sweet – two girls together, but only one with a whipped back. I'll not be sending you to the Beadle or the overseer if I want you whipped. I'll do it myself. Have you ever had a child?"

"Good gracious, no!"

"Don't sound so shocked. Slave girls often do. It seemed tome that to have you made pregnant by one of the blacks would be about as bad a punishment as I could contrive. I've had a few girls like you, but I could never quite bring myself to do that. Maybe you'll be the lucky one to carry around a black pickaninny for a few years."

Margo was unsure. Her companion might well be joking. The fate mentioned was too horrendous to even contemplate. But its utterance made the chains upon her hands weigh doubly heavy and seem twice as tight. She had a sense of life closing in upon her, and it was a life she did not wish to leave. She had been taken from what she previously knew, and in the space of little more than hours, had become a slave. The only bright spot in her firmament was the youthfulness of her new owner. Surely Marcia would not be too cruel.

The young widow read her thoughts. "You're wondering what I'll do with you and how cruel I maybe, or on the other hand, how kind. I could be kind, you know. You don't have to look at me with that frightened little-girl look you've got on your face right now, and by the way, let me warn you, don't ever be sulky. That's one thing I can't abide – a sulky slave."

It seemed a tremendous contradiction to the chained girl, this being seated in a luxurious carriage with a wealthy woman to whom she presumably belonged. Marcia had carried on the conversation in the most light-hearted fashion, and some of it was difficult to believe, but that which happened now was terribly, wickedly real.

Marcia waved her hand again and said, to the coachman, "Good enough, Jacques. You can let her off here." Wondering, the new slave allowed herself to be helped from the carriage by the grinning, blackattired man. His grin might cover sympathy or animosity. She could not tell. But he reached up for her and secured from inside his own seat a coil of rope at the sight of which the slave girl's heart sank. She was sure it boded her no good. In this she was correct. Jacques made a noose and slipped it over her head to draw it snugly around her neck. He tied thee other end at the back of the carriage and allowed the coil to fall upon the dust. His advice was good: "It's best that you don't stumble or fall down, missy. And don't you hold back none, you get yo' pretty neck broke. Don't you worry yo' little head none, missy. I ain't gonna make them horses trot. We goes nice and slow, and saves yo' pretty neck. It ain't all that far."

Shame and dignity! Never in her life had Margo felt it as she did now. The hemp was unkind around her neck. She gathered a handful of rope in her chained hands to give some protective slack. The carriage started and Margo took her first unfettered steps toward the enslavement into which she had just been sold. Her flogged back throbbed beneath the hot sun and the pebbles hurt her feet. But she followed in meek obedience behind the elegance of Marcia Tremont's carriage. There was little traffic and fewer pedestrians. But what there were examined her only with an idle curiosity, mostly prompted by her good looks. Bad it not been for that, she would have been just one more slave girl being taken to the fields.

Marcia had referred to the estate at "Tremont". They did hot go first of all to the house. The carriage had been directed to go through the farmyard and slave quarters before taking the mistress to her front door. It did not take the chained girl trudging at her rope's end very long to guess why. She suspected her mistress had arranged a reception for her benefit alone.

The whipping post bespoke its evil purpose. A naked black girl stood facing it, her arms raised, her hands bound tight against the wood. She was obviously waiting. Her back was, as yet, unmarked. The next exhibition was equally simple and even more graphic. Two posts a dozen feet apart joined at their top by a massive beam. From the beam hung two black girls bound by their wrists, their toes just tantalizingly above the soil. They hung taut and stretched in obvious weariness. They were as helpless and vulnerable as maiden flesh could be. Those going about their duties in the yard paid them scant heed. But Margo viewed them in horror and dismay. Marcia was teaching her a lesson by example. Once again, she had a terrible vision of herself hanging as these girls hung. The lovely girl in the carriage had only to give an order and this would happen. Once more, Margo shivered beneath the hot sun.

If Tremont punished its male slaves, there was no evidence of such intent. Within a well-trodden square stood a massive pillory and an equally massive set of stocks. Each held a girl. Each girl was naked and showed evidence of standing or sitting where she was for a long time. Dejected, hopeless eyes raised from their imprisonment to watch as the carriage passed. But no girl pleaded for help or mercy. Every line and muscle of their lovely nudity told merely they expected neither. Their next stop was the smitty. Margo was strangely glad of its existence. It meant that her chains could be stricken off here rather than far distantly in the town. But there was no striking out of chains today. Instead, it was the familiar ritual of seating and the raising of her legs to the anvil. But this time, even Margo herself conceded pleasure in what was being done. The manacles the smith now fitted upon her ankles were most definitely feminine. They were not of a common iron, but of chased metal she could not name. The linkage between them was long but light. She realized it would constantly be in her way as she walked, but it was infinitely better than the close, heavy hobbles so recently struck from her feet. The rivets by which they were closed upon her flesh were more subtle but nonetheless secure. Only a blacksmith could cope with them. They would defeat any girl or the strongest man.

Marcia had watched the flesh ironing with amusement and a tremendous pride of possession. She would have the girl washed and cleansed and given a proper hair styling by her own personal slave. The girl seemed tractable and might not need a period in the cotton fields to break her in. She had a quality of intelligence but promised to be interesting. But for very sure, she must be given no chance of escape.

"Can you walk?" she asked brusquely. "Show us."

Margo could walk, but she must proceed cautiously. Walking was difficult, and running was impossible. She would be a slave, well constrained. The jingle of the links would never let her forget what she had become.

"I can walk," she admitted shyly, "but only slowly. I hope I please you."

"You'll please me better when you're dean, child. Come, let us get you to the bath."

The black maiden who shyly attended her was immensely competent. The girl wore scant clothing and some of her revealed flesh indicated she had been whipped at a not too distant date. But there was no use alluding to such things. Margo allowed herself to be ministered to and every part of herself cleansed. The black girl tenderly applied lotion to the angry-looking weals on her back. She clucked in sympathy.

"You been flogged, missy. Ah knows what it's like. Don't you ever rile Miz Marcia, she be real good with the whip, she whip a girl in the damnedest places."

It was always the same. The ever-present whip! Margo realized it had become a part of her life and something she must keep forever in her mind. This would be her function from now on – to please both usefully and carnally to avoid the cutting of her flesh with the leather thongs. The thought was foremost in her mind, and now as she walked into the pleasant lounge where her mistress waited. Every step she took evoked metallic music. She found her chained hands awkwani to dispose of. She dared not use them to cover her new nakedness. The sheet had been taken and not replaced. Evidently, Marcia wished to once again examine what she had bought. Margo stood, humbly beseeching approval but respectfully silent, while gay young eyes searched every crevice of her being.

"Come closer, Margo. Separate your legs. I want to look at your pussy."

In her past, now gone forever, Margo would have indignantly refused. Even after all her exposures during this dreadful day, she was still hesitant and shy about baring her most intimate secrets. She could do nothing about her breasts. They asserted themselves of their own accord and were allowed no covering. But that which nestled in coy shame between her thighs was something else again. She had kept it inviolate. But there was about Marcia an authority undeniable. Margo clinked forward until her knees touched those of the seated girl. She spread her legs, and for a full measure of obedience, clasped her chained hands behind her neck. All of her was visible and available to the avid young woman whose property she now was.

Marcia was not satisfied to simply look. A pert young hand reached within the revealed crevice to feel to knead and pinch.

"It's a lovely little cunny," she said enthusiastically. "I don't see why you are so ashamed of it. It's neat and tight and trim. All right, you can close your legs again. And since you are already standing, you may as well serve the tea. Chloe has just brought up the things. You may serve me and then yourself. You will drink yours kneeling before me while we talk."

It was like a dream. Even when free, the slave girl had not been accustomed to luxury such as Tremont offered. She was deathly afraid of the eggshell-like china, and was obliged to be cruelly careful with the chains between her hands. But this ceremony of the afternoon tea was not new to her. She had done it in freedom. Now she did it in the abject servility of chains. She suspected that most of the difference lay in her mind.

"Before you kneel, I want you to turn so that I may examine your back."

Once again, she prepared for close inspection, and once again, an exploring finger made her wince.

"Well, I must say, Beulah made a good job of you, dear. And I'm sure you're grateful. You may now kneel."

Margo knelt in response to a sharp command she widened the distance between her knees, flushing pink at the unseemly exhibition. But she gravely took her tea cup and gratefully sipped her tea, her eyes searching above the rim of the cup for approval or disapproval. She knew how close the line she must now tread.

"After tea, you may come with me and watch dear Jenny get whipped," Marcia said amiably. "Jenny is the dark girl you saw at the whipping post. I had them fasten her there early in the day. It'll do her good to wait and know what's coming. You do enjoy seeing a girl whipped, don't you?"

"Not really."

The admission had slipped out without thought. It was probably the wrong thing to say. In amendment, she added, "What has Jenny done to get herself whipped?"

"I've quite forgotten, dear. It doesn't matter," Marcia retorted brightly. "The overseer looks after most of these things. Of course, he won't be looking after you. You are specially mine. Jenny is so much fun to watch being whipped. She makes such a tremendous fuss. I've instructed them to tie her hands above her head, the way you saw. I did this on purpose so that she has plenty of room to kick and wriggle those lovely hips of hers. I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

Margo was equally sure she would not. But since whipping girls seemed to be of first importance at Tremont, she thought it best not to say anything to offend. But, struck, my a sudden realization, she spoke: "But, Marcia, I'm naked. I can't possibly go out there among all those people with nothing on."

"Don't be silly, dear. There will be some of them out there too who don't have anything on. When a girl is being punished or is about to be punished, she mustn't wear clothes. It's one of the rules. You won't be alone, and they won't think I'm playing favorites, because they'll see your whipped back. Everything's okay – don't worry."

It was all outrageous and insane, but no more so than the rest of this devastating day. The walk to the whipping post would demand all her concentration. It was the first real test of her chained feet. When the time came, Margo was distressed by the clatter she made on the parquet floor. True, it had a musical quality. It was not offensive. But it advertised every movement she made and announced to all her condition as a slave. While Margo watched her feet, and awkwardly held her hands so as not to obstruct her view, the young Mistress Tremont brightly made conversation.

"Mr. Manley is so clever with the whip, dear," Marcia informed animatedly. "He doesn't just slash away at a girl's back or her bottom. No, he has her spread her legs and gets up between. He thinks of special little places like armpits and her belly. He's really tremendously clever. The girls are all frightened of him and treat him with utmost respect. Probably you should too, just in case I'm away souse time and he has you all to himself. I've given him carte blanche with the girls, but that won't include you, dear. Any man I give you to will get the privilege by some special dispensation of my own."

Yesterday an innocent, tomorrow a harlot! Margo cringed. She could well imagine this sparkling girl bestowing her body as a favor upon some neighboring male or relative. It would be one more hurdle to cross, but she would worry about it when the time came. For the moment, she was intently watching her feet and was thankful that her mistress understood her preoccupation.

"You're doing well, dear. I'd almost believe you'd walked with chained feet before."

"I haven't, but the chain is very light. There's quite a lot of it. I think I could take a full stride, but I'm afraid of stumbling." The captive girl made a sideways glance seeking approval. "You don't have to worry about running away. It's quite impossible. I couldn't run across the yard without someone catching me."

A half circle of staff formed behind the girl tied to the post. Jenny had courage. She looked back, beneath a raised arm, to each new arrival and gave them a pale wan smile.

"Has Jenny been whipped before, Marcia? She seems so-well, so unafraid."

"Don't worry about that, dear. The little so-and-so is scared to death, but there is a streak of bravado in her which I don't want to break. I only have her whipped often enough and hard enough to keep her properly on her toes. She's one of those slave girls who absolutely must be whipped every so often or she becomes impossible. She's already runaway twice. You can see the bran on her thigh."

It was true. There on the satiny dark skin was the livid imprint of a hot iron, now healed, but nonetheless proclaiming its "R" for runaway. In the most graphic form. Margo wondered how awful the pain must have been branded! It was by no means an unknown punishment. But this was her first personal contact with it. All her life, the girl bound to the whipping post would bear the mark to proclaim that once she had been a runaway slave. Once more, Margo shuddered, vicariously feeling the hot iron's glow.

"Here comes Mr. Manley with his whip," Marcia actually sounded excited and pleased, like a little girl about to enjoy a treat.

Margo stood unhappily, toying with her chained hands, not knowing where to put them for either comfort or appearance. Free, they presented no trouble, but chained, they were forever in the way of everything. She allowed them to hang listless before her. At least they covered some of the pubic hair. But there was very little of her not open to public view. When Mr. Manley, the overseer, uncoiled his whip and made it snap, she did not spring alert and erect as did the rest. Margo was determined to watch as little as possible. She was sure it would be a hateful sight.

It truly was! The atrocious whip smacked smartly the full length of the ebony back. The sound of the impact was frightening. The puffy weal proclaiming the stroke formed rapidly. After the fourth such cut across her skin, Jenny screamed uninhibitedly. So truly was Marcia engrossed by the punishment that she failed to notice Margo's closed eyes or turned cheek. Jenny followed all her mistress had hoped for from her. Her hips weaved frantically, her legs kicked at nothing, but in all directions. Quite soon, a little blood showed beneath the cords around her wrists. It was a most competent punishment and all present conceded Mr. Manley had been in good form. On one seemed much concerned with his victim. Jenny was only a slave.

Two days later, Margo met Denby Wright.

The word for Denby Wright was debonair. He was older than Marcia, but still young. He owned the neighboring plantation. It was understood between him and Marcia that one day they would marry. But neighbor was in a hurry. In the meantime, they enjoyed the sparring match, the prize for which was Marcia's body. It was a game Denby sometimes won, and sometimes it was Marcia, but both of them enjoyed its thrust and parry. They were adept in repartee. The mistress had frankly related their circumstances to Margo, making a joke out of it, but insisting that the slave girl be naked for her first appraisal by a man who might conceivably become her master. It was coyly hinted that perhaps Marcia would make a gift of her to the man and that should she fail to please, her punishment would be dire.

With the stage thus set, Margo wheeled in the tea tray from where Chloe had delivered it outside the door.

"You're an absolute jewel, Marcia. Nothing but the best." The admiration was genuine in the male voice as he viewed Margo's blushing nakedness. "Damn, if the girl isn't a beauty!"

"Of, couse. Would I buy less? She cost me a pretty penny too."

Marcia laughed slyly. "I'm sure you'd like to take it out of her hide."

Margo sense their raillery. They would wish to keep her frightened and alert. She was, in fact, a plaything for their afternoon. She poured the tea as daintly as shackled hands allowed and served it on her knees. Denby applauded.

"Damn fine show! I should have gone to that auction and outbid you Marcia. I wouldn't mind having those breast and that twinkling little cunt on a chain."

"You don't have enough money, Denby. You know that."

"Well, I've got enough to have given you a run for your money. But I didn't see any sense in bidding her up. You'll share her with me, won't you?"

The mistress of Tremont laughed her silvery laugh. "I shouldn't, but I probably will. But don't get the idea you'll be fucking the little darling every other day – certainly not twice a day – the way you're thinking right now. I can read it in you eyes, Denby."

"I could never desert you!" Denby proclaimed dramatically. "I would never demean you by going from your slave to your sheath." Denby smiled benignly at both females and added amiably. "At least not for a couple of hours."

"You're outrageous. You shouldn't be allowed. You'll be giving Margo ideas." The mistress turned to her naked, blushing slave who was now coyly kneeling with her knees far apart in the prescribed pose.

"Don't listen to him, girl. This man is a positive menace. No girl is safe with him."

"Thank you, thank you." Denby was quite obviously flattered, and no doubt this was part of her little ritual, like love's postering between birds. "I sure you've tried her out for nibbling. Is she any good?"

"She's a darling! I climaxed her three times her first try."

Margo was appalled. She had not came from a bohemian circle or from those monied classes who in their private lives were totally without inhibition. She could scarcely believe the frank discussion of which she was not a part. Obviously, this man and this girl enjoyed it. She bowed her head, but whether it was in shame for them or for herself, she would not tell.

"Your little darling's blushing," Denby observed enjoyably. "She's beautifully responsive. I like that. Look, sweetheart, if she's so damn good at nibbling you, how about me?"

"Denby, don't be disgusting!" Marcia wrinkled her nose in an affection of disapproval. "Really, you are a bit much. I be the poor girl's never done such a thing in her life."

"Well, ask her. We've got lots of time."

"I have never done it," Margo interjected with decision. "Please, Marcia, don't make me."

"Another country heard from!" proclaimed Denby, again the same muck dramatics. "There's more to your blushing little maiden than you supposed, sweetheart. She's probably sucked more cocks than you have."

Margo's blush was without bounds. It had been said right out loud in just that many words! She would not have believed it possible, and the act described was noting more than a wicked whisper behind closed doors, with giggling colleagues at school and after church. She had been cruelly flogged for an offense far less the Denby spoke of now, casually, as though he were asking for another cup of tea.

"Give the man more tea, Margo. See if you can't shut him up. Really, Denby, these extravagances of yours are damned embarrassing. You're not safe in public. You come out with the most outrageous things. If you think you're going to have this girl do what you've suggested, you might as well pack up and go home right now."

"I might settle for you, dear heart." There was the faintest hint of malice in the suggestion. "You're really damn good at it, you know."

"You're disgusting. Fancy talking like this in front of the slave girl! A new one at that! Denby, please…"

"Seems to me your little slave girl is going to pick up a trace of good old Shakespeare. You know the quote: 'me thinks the lady doth protest too much'. You seem to be forgetting, sweetheart. My original suggestion was not for your favor, but for her mouth. How about it?"

Margo hurriedly served the second round of tea. Keeping herself busy with cups and plates because she dreaded reverting to the humble posture wherein she displayed everything she had. But she could not stand dithering so once again she submissively knelt.

"You see, like I told you, the girl's a treasure. Look at her now. She's a natural. She'd suck my cock and enjoy every inch." Denby chuckled. "In fact, dear girl, I've decided that's exactly what she's going to do."

Margo watched Denby drain his cup with leisurely enjoyment, then commence to remove is clothes. In this quiet drawing room, it seemed an impossible act. She looked imploringly at her mistress, but found there on the lovely features only some of her own perturbation. Marcia Tremont's breast were rising and falling to denote turmoil within.

When the male was totally without clothes, Marcia rose like a startled animal and became blushing vehement.

"Denby, behave yourself. Stay away from me. I absolutely refuse one of those absurd tussles you enjoy so much."

"Very well then, the answer is simples, isn't it love? Take off your clothes."

Instead of the heated denial or dismissal Margo expected, she became a witness to the unbelievable.

The mistress of Tremont stood breathing heavily and glaring anxiously at the rampant male. Then, without another word, she began throwing her clothes petulantly at the couch.

"I'll never forgive you for this, Denby." The young voice was uncertain, tremulous. But the lovely breast, when they came into view, were heaving rapidly in an excitation, probably for removed from fear.

The watching maiden, kneeling in submissive pose on the floor, began to suspect to Marcia was capable of playing many roles. She appeared to be the perfect foil for Denby's masculinity. When her quite remarkable loveliness was fully revealed, she hid none of it, but stood poised for either flight or fight, according to a decision she had not made.

"You're beautiful," Denby assured her in a hushed tone. He was drinking in every aspect of Marcia's beauty. He seemed a trifle awed by such a feminine display, but quietly, he said, "Darling, you know what to do. I don't have to tell you."

"Not before this girl, Denby, I implore you. I've only just purchased her."

"You know what to do, Marcia. Don't let's quibble."

He repeated his instructions in a quiet, assured way that appeared to stroke the unclad mistress like a blow. Margo could swear she saw her wince. But Marcia's voice held a sob as she venomously retorted, "Very well, Denby, but I think you're a beastly man, and I hate you."

Once more, the kneeling slave was treated to a spectacle beyond belief. After this, she could believe anything. Backing away as from a slowly pursuing monster, Marcia Tremont got halfway to the far wall, then turned, and with determined steps, went to where there was a bare panel, devoid of ornamentation. She thrust her breast hard against it and raised her arms. It was only then that Margo saw the straps. Denby circled each slender wrists with the waiting leather and buckled each of them tight and firm. The mistress of Tremont stood nakedly helpless.

"Ah, that's better!" He stepped back to survey his handiwork. A naked back and round, tight bottom glared back at him without sound. "That's the way to have a girl. If every female was trussed up like that everyday, the world would be a better place. You're uncommonly beautiful today, Marcia."

"All right, you've got what you want. You've shamed me and made me helpless in front of the slave. Now let me loose."

Marcia's demand sounded anxious, even to the kneeling girl. The mistress moved uneasily against her bonds and repeated, "Denby, undo these straps immediately!"

The male, in the form of Denby Wright, spared the kneeling slave a glance of semi-apology.

"You're mistress feels that she has to say these things," he explained patiently. "She doesn't mean a word of it, and if I listened and did what she asked, she'd be the most disappointed girl in the world. You are about to be the only witness to a unique event. I'm speaking of the caning of your mistress bottom. Marcia canes exquisitely, and you'll be able to tell her afterwards of the manner in which the scarlet lines appeared." Denby smiled benignly. "Feel free to move to wherever you can get the best possible view."

"Denby, this is outrageous. You're spoiling the girl!" Marcia's flushed face was turned accusingly. Words were her only weapon. She could move no part of herself effectively. "It's all very well for you and I to play games, but not before a slave girl."

"But, me dear, you've said yourself that this girl is special. She's something that's going to be very personal to you. It's not like we had brought in a field hand to witness your shame. Actually, this is going to be a part of Margo's training. If I happen to be absent for any lengthy period, she can take my place."

He bent her, and with exaggerated solicitude, patted and smoothed the palpitating twin round that appeared to have a life of their own. Marcia turned her face to the wall.

By now, Margo had passed the point of astonishment or any feeling of loyalty to her mistress. She realized she was a spectator in an exotic game between these two, a game they had played before. The thought that she had taken part in it generated an unusual excitation. The quivering nudity held so rigidly against her own wall by straps buckled upon her wrists by a visiting male was evoking all sorts of new sensations within Margo's maiden breast. Abandoning hypocrisy, she admitted to herself a sexual excitement prompting a desire for Denby to get on with the job. Her nude, flushed mistress was delectable as she now was, no doubt she would be even more so once the cane sliced the tender spheres yet unmarked.

"I'll never forgive you, Denby." The assurance lacked conviction. It was hard for Margo to know if the wrigglings and writhings her mistress now indulged in were truly the result of apprehension or simply an additional erotic prelude to excite the male. Once more, a vision of the mating antics of concupiscent birds flashed across her mind. But Denby had now taken up a position and selected his cane. With swift precision, he planted his first scarlet line upon the intimate flesh.

Few things are as we expect. This was one more instance. Instead of screaming and leaping wildly about, Marcia drew air into her lungs with a prolonged inhalation in the manner of a connoisseur enjoying a good cigar. She exhaled just as slowly, as though savoring every contribution of her lungs. She moved her exquisite body only slightly, but lifted one leg as its knee as far as she could contrive, and then let it slowly fall back to its resting place. She said no word.

It was as though some telepathy existed between the man and the girl. Margo watched in pure awe. No doubt Denby could have struck the helpless bottom far harder than he did, but he was most certainly striking far harder than Margo herself would have wanted to suffer. As the beating progressed, the blows impacted with their own wicked sound, well spaced, affecting a grid of lines and then a latticework of scarlet as they crossed again and again. The aristocratic owner of the punished sounds contrived a sound all her own, casting only infrequent backward glances. Marcia had now retied within the shelter of a bare arm and seemingly lived out her agony in the small, whimpering noises and erotic writings as though the man and his whip were no more than a generating force for a lust within itself. Margo could well believe that nothing now existed for Marcia Tremont beyond the measured cut of the cane, which kept alive the incandescence within her sex.

Denby was obviously in full and total control, well aware of what he was doing and what Marcia suffered. By the time her finished caning the lovely nudity, the whole expanse of Marcia's skin imbued with the sweat of pain. It glistened and shone, and her sounds and motions only very gradually died away after the last stroke.

Denby served brandy, first to the strapped girl he had so unkindly punished and then to the kneeling slave girl. For a reason all his own, he allowed the Mistress of Tremont to remain strapped to the wall. His attention was transferred to the trembling slave.

"Nice little warming up for your dear mistress, eh?" His tone was bright and cheerful, and he obviously expected a reply. "The dear girl adores it upon her bottom. But she's not to keen on having her back whipped, are you, darling?" he asked her over his shoulder.

Darling waffled her hips as though in disdain and small-small negative sounds. They were by no means positive, but a carry over from the keening accompaniment to the cane.

"If I were to obtain a whip and use it on her lovely back, she would be much distressed." His voice lowered in tone to become suggestive. "Would it give you pleasure?"

"No. Oh, no, please don't do that, sir."

Margo had had enough of such extremes of eroticism. She wanted no more. Whether Marcia enjoyed the caning of her bottom or not, it had nonetheless been a horrendous thing to watch and the scarlet skin now proclaimed itself someone's guilt. "May I take it that you are now amenable to such a performance?"

It took a moment to register, but then the full obscenity of it struck the slave girl in full force. Her stricken gaze sought and found the rampant maleness of the man who had asked the question. Quite obviously, her duty was, in his eyes, all too clear. Distracted, she muttered the only words she could think of.

"No, oh no! Please, Mr. Wright, don't!" Her vehement voice trailed away from lack of words to say. She felt totally inadequate. She was up against a force to commit an act never previously contemplated. Recognizing the vapid sound of it, she simply added, "I'm absolutely not that kind of girl."

"Every girl is that kind of girl, Margo – don't be silly. It's habit forming, you know. If you stay with me, you'll come to love it."

The kneeling girl sensed a thing unsaid. Her suppliant gaze was pathetic in a sudden guess. But all she could bring herself to say was, "Please, don't make me – please don't."

"My dear child, in the true sense of what we are talking about, I cannot make you. The act requires a certain voluntary contribution of your own. To make it easy for you, I am going to suggest that until you announce your consent to willingly, shall we say, appease my lust, I will whip this lovely back your mistress wishes to keep unmarked."

She had guessed it all the time. Now it was in the open. It could be examined. But what was there to say or do? The choice was all too obvious. It would be a simple yes or no. She could not temporize for long. It was forcibly imposed upon the slave girl's mind that if she was the property of this woman who was trapped to the wall and who had been caned. If she betrayed that woman, then after Denby had gone, what could their relationship be other than hostile? Margo knew herself in the grip of a terrible impotence in which nothing she could do could be entirely right.

But the idea of being forced to watch the whipping and marking of the lovely white back held helpless against the wall and totally dependent on her will was more than she could bear. Abjectly, she surrendered.

"Very well, Mr. Wright, I will do as you request." She paused in confusion, then added, "Please help me."

Margo Davis supposed there were worse things to do than to take the male phallus within her mouth and use it as the male voice directed.

Denby chose to seat himself in such a manner the mistress had done at an earlier time and made himself available to a girl who knelt between his knees. For the first minutes of her administration, he gently stroked her hair, but as her efforts increased the crescendo of his sensations, he more and more grasped that hair within his hands and grew it up to himself. When all was over, he assured the slave girl blandly that she had done well for a first time and was girl of much promise. He then unstrapped the mistress of Tremont who immediately threw her arms around his neck in a fevered embrace and proceeded to sob and sob against upon the breast of the man who had been so cruel. The two nudities intertwined and became one, to tell the watching slave she was witness to a strange and perverted love. As Margo watched, her horror in her own defilement lessened and dissipated to become simply a knowledge of an act that would be repeated again and again. If there was virtue in enslavement, it was simply to relieve the slave itself of guilt or responsibility. A slave girl did what she must. Absently, Margo raised her chained hands and plucked male hair between her lush, ripe lips which she could swear were strangely swollen.

The caning of Marcia Tremont's bottom and her demonstration of the strange affection between herself and Denby made no difference to her relations with her newly purchased slave. Marcia carried the whole thing off with extraordinary aplomb, even to the point of implying Margo's possible enjoyment of the carnal act with the male phallus and sly hints of what she herself might sanction Denby to do with her quivering possession a glimpse of a world previously undreamed. Since the cane and the whip governed all things at Tremont, Margo was not foolish enough to make either criticism or complaint. She waited.

The visits of Denby to Tremont were frequent. He chose his time and sipped his tea with total nonchalance in a discussion of the unmentionable. He was totally without inhibition and blandly included Marcia Tremont in all his speculations. His next visit, on the following day, gave Margo food for thought and apprehension. She had served the tea and clinked her chains to where once more she knelt with her thighs wide open for his appraisal. She felt certain it was only a matter of time before he was given permission to use her. In the meantime, he could look and whet his appetite. He was by no means a sex-starved man, but a new girl is a new girl, and must inevitably be sampled before too long. Between Margo and the phallus she had laved with lips and tongue lay only the authority of Marcia Tremont. It was a very feminine authority, subject to male influence.

"Really, Marcia, I don't se why you need this girl. I know she nibbles your fanny, but there are better uses for her. How about selling her to me?"

"Forget it, Denby. All you'll do with her is keep her in our bed. I regard this as a total waste of a lovely girl."

Denby was quite unruffled. He smiled blandly and suggested, "You underrate me, darling. A man can't possibly spend all his time in bed with a girl. What you're worried about is that the little dear might not properly get her bottom caned. But you're wrong there. I'd enjoy caning her delightful little buns as much as I enjoy caning yours. By the way, would you like a repeat performance today?"

"Denby, you're impossible! The answer is absolutely no! I'm finding it uncomfortable enough to sit down as it is."

"And you are absolutely reveling in every gorgeous, lustful moments, aren't you, darling?" Denby rolled out the words with obvious enjoyment. "A girl's bottom should be constantly inflamed so that every time she seats herself she is aware of the male!"

"Denby, stop this teasing! You men are so predictable. I think you'd whip a girl's bottom three times a day if you had the chance. You're obsessed with the whipping of bottoms. I don't see what it does for you. I mean, you're horny enough to begin with. It's not as though you're some aged man who needs the stimulation to, well, get it up." The mistress of Tremont sniffed disdainfully and continued her accusation. "You may consider the bottoms of both myself and my slave girl as out of bounds. Both will remain inviolate. Damn it, man, you've got enough cute little black girls on your estate to satisfy any lecherous urges. You only come here because the fact that both men and my little slave girl are white, and that excites you. Doesn't it?"

"It excites me to the point where neither of you two delectable creatures is safe," Denby affirmed benevolently. "There is no question but that man's highest aspiration is to warm the little arses of the maidens who come his way. You deserve – you enjoy it. It does you no end of good, you know. And it gets me an erection. What more could a girl ask for?"

The mistress of Tremont affected hauter. "Denby, you are assuming far too much. You impose on my good will. I have to suppose that all your black wenches have been so thoroughly thrashed as to be unavailable to you and at the same time carry on their duties. You're a positive monster!"

"Of course I am. Isn't it lovely?" Denby turned his attention to the quivering girl. "Sweetheart, you have already given your lips and your delightful mouth to appease the suffering of this capricious female." He smiled as though with pure love. "I am sure you will donate your bottom."

It was a cruel question. Margo could not divine the proper answer. What she came up was primly proper.

"I obey my mistress, sir. I will do only that which she directs."

"Bravo!" Marcia clapped her hands in glee. "You see, Denby, you can't charm all of us all of the time. And if it does get caned, it's I who will do it. And in any case, I'm a little weary of this caning business. It I want to engender some heat in her delightful crotch. I will do so by some other means. Perhaps hanging her up by her thumbs or by having her fastened to the whipping post and leaving her to wonder if she really gets whipped or not." She turned to the listening, quaking girl. "Darling, which would you chose?"

The question was rhetorical – mischievous. But it could not be ignored, not by a girl who was a slave.

Timidly, Margo ventured, "Mistress, they all sound terrible." There was a short, uncomfortable pause before she added, in a burst of candor, "I think it would be much nicer for me if Mr. Wright caned my bottom."

It was a stroke of pure diplomacy. Marcia gazed down at the kneeling girl askance, but Denby applauded, actually clapping his hands and shouting, "Bravo, bravo! Damn it, Marcia, this girl has brains. She knows a good thing when she sees it, and I promise not to mark her up any more than I did you. And that's practically letting a girl off scot free. Come, darling, what do you say?"

"Oh, have it your own way!" Marcia turned a petulant regard from one to the other problems. "You'll never be happy, Denby, until you've whipped her bottom. I now that. I expect she knows it too. So you may as well get it over with." She turned to the kneeling girl. "Okay, Margo, you have my permission to obey Denby in what he has just mentioned. If he goes beyond it, look to me and I will say the final yes or no."

Margo felt ridiculous and inadequate. Everything she wanted to say would sound trite. And all the talk of whipping bottoms – and hers in particular – seemed stupidly in excess in an endless repetition of something she would have supposed might have become a bore. Although she did remember the heat within her own loins at the sound and even the fell of the impacts in all she had experienced. It was all absolutely puzzling, impossible, and unreal.

"Come along, my pretty." Denby beckoned invitingly, as though it was something much to be desired. "Let's see if those wrist shackles will stretch the span. They might just manage."

They required some tugging, but Denby enjoyed his work. It was not long before Margo stood where her mistress stood, her breasts thrust hard against the panel in exactly the same place. The tightening of the straps above her head had drawn taut every link of the connecting chain, but she was severely and prettily handled. Her mind was furiously debating the choice she had made. Perhaps, after all, it would have been better to take a chance on the whipping post. It was not impossible. But she had done so, she might have been reprieved at the last moment. But she had made her choice and must abide by it. She peeped back over her raised arm to observe her mistress's petulance. Marcia was by no means happy about what was taking place. She was aware of having lost the initiative.

"Denby, I've changed my mind. I don't want the girl whipped. All this shipping…"

"But, darling, I'm not whipping your little pretty-pretty. What I'm doing is caning her bottom. It is quite a different thing." He turned to the girl strapped to the wall. "You'll enjoy every moment. You'll enjoy every stroke, won't you, my dear?"

"No."

"You see, she's being honest about it."

Marcia was triumphant. "There aren't many girls like me, and I can't manage to feel in the mood every day the way you'd like me to. Really, Denby, you're an absolute menace. Why don't you go and buy yourself a couple of mulattoes or you might even get a white girl you'll be satisfied with. You don't need to use my property."

"Oh, very well!" he exclaimed with make-believe irritation. "You're not in the mood. She's not in the mood. I'll settle for, say, twenty light strokes."

Margo's captive heart went out to her mistress when Marcia exclaimed testily. "There's no such thing as light strokes! You know that was well as I do, especially from you. You've never given me a light stroke in my whole life, let alone what you'd do to a slave girl."

"Well, don't get so hot about, my pet. I can always cane a girl's bottom. It's no big deal. But, damn it, you owe me something."

"I don't owe you a damn thing," Margo vowed heatedly. "And I know what you're working up to, you lecherous hound. You're going to ask if I'll allow you to take Margo to bed."

"The thought has crossed my mind," he admitted. "But if you're so all fired determined to protect your little innocent, how about me having a go at you? I haven't fucked a girl since yesterday, and I'm horny as hell."

"Well, if that's all your trouble is, go on out to the fields and pick up any of the black girls that take your fancy. The pretty ones have got a ball and chain locked on their ankles, but that shouldn't bother you. You can do your foul deed right there between the cotton rows and the let the girl go back to work."

"Can I use your riding crop on her bottom first? It improves their performance tremendously, you know," he sighed at the vision. "A well-cropped black ass on hot rough soil – my, my, it is tempting."

"Run along then. You don't need a chit from me. He can probably recommend a girl. He's tried them all."

When the male had strolled away blithely on his carnal errand, there was silence in the room. Marcia was still pouting, and Margo longed to thank her mistress, but was not yet certain that she had anything to give thanks for. It could well be that her mistress would pick up where Denby had failed to commence. Once again, she realized privilege in having witnessed and being a part of another almost incredible exchange, a clash of personalities between two members of the ruling class. Plantation owners were kings and queens – omnipotent in their casual disposal of human flesh. She whished Marcia would undo the tight straps and allow her arms to fall.

"What the devil am I going to do with you?" Marcia demanded irritably. "Damn it, I've let that man outfox me again. He's forever doing it. I'm damned if I'm going to let him have you free of charge. I bought you for myself and I'm keeping you. I should never have let it go as far as it did. Here, I'll let you loose."

Margo now though it opportune to say her fervid thank you and heaved a sigh of relief. She was glad to be free of the straps around her wrists and free of the wall. The panel heated by her body seemed an instruction and an impertinence upon a space, particularly designed and treasured by the girl who owned her. It was Marcia who belong there against the wall with her arms strapped high for male attention. But only on Marcia's own terms and in her own time.

Anxious to please, she asked tremulously, "The tea things, mistress – shall I remove them?"

Marcia waived away the idea as of no consequence. "Oh, one of the girls in the house will do it. I'm not going to waste you. I think I'll revert to an original idea." She grinned impishly at a thought which had obviously improved her disposition. "I want you to go down to the slave compound and get Manley or anybody who is handy to fasten you to the whipping post in the standard position – nothing out of the way. Do you think you can manage that?"

"Yes."

"In case you're wondering why, it's because it will do you good. You're bound to end up on the whipping post sooner or later. Every girl does. As I said, it does not actually mean you'll be whipped. But it will be a marvelous opportunity for you to gather the atmosphere of the place and realize what it's going to be like for you wait there, fastened and helpless on the final occasion when you are actually going to be your skin marked."

Marcia now smiled brightly. "I think it's a wonderful idea. Don't you agree?"

"I'll be frightened, but if it's what you want…"

"Yes, it is, so run along. I'll come down and talk to you later."

The slave girl left her mistress. When she found Manley, he simply laughed in a knowing, experienced amusement.

"Well, you all come to it sooner or later, don't you, missy?" He chuckled, surveying her nakedness appreciatively. "Took you two days, bit I've seen some girls get it the first day they come. It depends on their temperament." He chuckled once more. "Or on your mistress's temper. Come along. There's a bit of rope beside the post that'll do just fine."

Manley was right. The rope was there, as though waiting especially for this moment. Margo watched while the overseer picked it up, then obeyed the signal of his hand and thrust herself hard against the wood, raising her arms above her head. The chain of her shackles prohibited totally embracing the cylindrical timber, but it was long enough for Manley's purpose. He looped the shackle at each end and drew it tight behind the post, then tugged and knotted it to leave the nude slave standing fearfully with arms raised. The rope firmly held the shackles and the shackles held her with and equal implacability. Manley slapped her rump hardily and advised, "Just stand there quite, my pretty. Think of your sins and maybe you can figure out whether you'll get ten or twenty or fifty." He eyed her with a faint hint of sympathy. "I don't suppose you'll get hundred today."

Margo watched him go, fearful he might use the whip on her himself without waiting for his mistress. But he ambled out of sight to leave her with a restricted view of the wood in front of her nose and against which her breast was tightly thrust.

The only virtue she could see in her position was that it gave her a degree of decency as opposed to being bound in such a way as to stand with her back against the wood with her breasts flaunting themselves for all to see. For slave girls, in their nakedness, there was a vast gulf between their backs and their fronts. Each had their own implications, both frightening.

From their indifferent glances she drew from those who passed, Margo divined she was by no means the first white girl to stand thus. But her gravest concern was speculation on the capriciousness which had put her where she was. Manley had spoken quite carelessly in quite horrific numbers. The idea of a naked girl receiving fifty strokes might be no more than a sardonic threat, but she had been so recently flogged by the law and was now to be flogged again. Even the minimum number of ten strokes etched across her wounded back was frightening. But Margo supposed this was the idea of what was not being done to her. She was being deliberately frightened, deliberately placed in the frame of mind where humility and gratitude would result if she were freed without the cuts of fresh inflictions. But suppose this was not part of Marcia's plan.

By the time Marcia sauntered into view, Margo's shoulders, arms, and wrists were all screaming silently in protest against the strain and stress. Manley's bit of rope imposed. The mistress was in high good spirits.

"You look so sweet standing there, so penitent and scared." Loving fingers traced themselves up and down the old wounds, then playfully tickled Margo's neck. A determined young hand burrowed its way between the stressed thighs to cup and hold the sexual lips Margo hoped would show no sign of excitation. That portion of a girl nestling hotly between her thighs was not ever to be trusted. It produced secretions in the most likely circumstances. It had apparently done so now. Marcia laughed without comment, other than to wipe her damp palm on an innocent cheek of a waiting bottom. Musingly, she thought aloud.

"I've often wondered about a slave girl's sensations tied to this post the way you are now." Her voice became sly and mischievous. "Is it very bad?"

"It's awful. Marcia, I can't tell you how awful it is."

"Good. That's the way it's supposed to be." She giggled. "And I'm still not going to tell you whether you get whipped or not. Would you like to make a guess?"

"No, I'm too frightened. Anyway, I wouldn't dare say that you will whip me, because then you might. Oh, Marcia, please forgive me – please let me loose."

"But, darling, you haven't done anything for me to forgive you for." The mistress was all too evidently by this byplay of words. "But if you do get whipped – and I'm not saying you will – I'm quite sure you'll emerge from the experience a far more humble and obedient girl than you are now." The still loving fingers continued their tracing across the helpless nakedness. "Not that you haven't been obedient. On the other hand, you're not exactly the abject slave yet, are you, dear?"

"I don't know what I am," Margo said miserably. "I'll try to be anything you want me to be, but I always seem to be on the verge of being flogged or whipped or caned. I can't talk naturally for fear of saying the wrong thing and being punished. Being a slave girl is like waling around under a blanket, people never seeing the real you. I'm just a sort of puppet, making motions."

"I do see what you mean, darling, I'm sure it's difficult. I've always supposed slaves a bit stupid or they wouldn't be slaves, but you're not the least bit stupid. Now I'm wondering what I bought you for."

The young fingers became more animated on the captive flesh. Margo's breathing quickened. She wished Marcia was a slave girl like herself, or that she herself was free. Being an owner and being owned created a gap. Margo supposed unhappily that most slave owners met this problem by punishing their possessions until the girl no longer used her mind, only her body.

Thoughtfully, Marcia spoke as though now thinking aloud: "Darling, it might really be a good idea to have Manley give you ten. It would help you adjust. I do want you to be happy with me, but I can see how difficult it is as long as you are you. I must make an extension of myself. Do you understand?"

"I've never owned a slave, so I don't understand. Marcia, I'm so tired of standing like this. How much longer do I have to do it?"

But the fingers had stopped their play. There was no one to answer.

Startled, Margo looked back over her shoulder to observe her youthful mistress quietly walking back to the big house, obviously deep in thought. She sighed, wondering if she had given offense. Quite probably, she had. Most likely now, she would really be whipped. And yet Marcia was in her own way an absolute darling – a delectable slip of youthful girlishness who would be so much fun as a companion if they were not divided by slavery. It was so hopeless. Margo listlessly allowed her head to slip against the post and then rest against her raised arm. She shifted her feet as she had done many times and also twisted against her shackled hands. Everything was as Tremont dictated. She could not effectively move. She had now only to wait to discover her punishment.

"Well, well, what a charming sight." Denby Wright's voice was like a blow. Margo had been half asleep, or at least oblivious to her surroundings, when he startled her. Instinctively, she turned to face him, but was thwarted by her bonds. It was hard to talk to a man when your back was turned away from him. But she supposed that being naked she should be thankful for this mercy.

Denby was a connoisseur of girl flesh and might find hers hard to resist. Suddenly embarrassed, she muttered, "I don't think you should be here. Please go away."

"Oh, don't worry about that. Her little majesty and I walk about each other's estates as though they were one. I had sort of premonition I'd find you here. How'd you like me to buy you and take you home?"

"I have nothing to say about it. You're embarrassing me. Don't you understand Mr. Wright? I am not one of the girls here. Just a very little while ago I was an adult. I was free, white, and a respected member of the community. Now, all of a sudden, I'm a slave and everything's crazy. I don't think I have any business to be standing here naked like this with my hands tied above my head and my back all marked like this with my hands tied up above my head and my back all marked by that terrible whip. If you really wanted to help me, you'd buy me and set me free."

"Well, that was a mouthful, I must say." Denby sounded a trifle shocked. "Damn, you are articulate. You're wasted on Marcia. What you need is a man. I'd bring you to heel and keep you there, but we'd interest each other. We'd have the damnedest arguments. I do enjoy a girl who can talk."

Inhibitions dissolved. A girl is always grateful for being desired, and somehow Denby was easier to talk to about real things than Marcia.