F Campbell - Margo

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.

The dream died hard. But Margo placed little significance upon it. What more natural to dream of such horrors when she herself was sleeping with chains upon her feet, her hands, and her neck. The vivid impressions remained, but she sent them to the back of her mind and told no one. After all, it was only a dream.

The Rossland Academy for Young Women drew Margo Davis within itself to absorb quickly. Her collar was unlocked from the wall, but remained around her neck. Her handcuffs were removed to enable her to join the rest of the dormitory in its morning rituals. The cautious, watchful solicitude of Jean Evans remained guide. Quite possibly, she was also her guard.

The Academy constantly threw curve balls at its inmates, always the unexpected. The first of the came after breakfast in the communal dining hall. Jean diffidently said, "I'll need your hands behind your back, dear. I have to tie them."

"What on earth for? I haven't done anything." Her arms went rigidly to her sides, her fists clenched.

Jean laughed at her disquiet. "Its nothing, sweetheart. You have to take these things as they come. Remember, this is the Academy."