F Campbell - Margo

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.