INTRODUCTION

 

It is generally assumed, in the days when slave-trading was commonplace between Africa, England and America (as well as in other parts of the world), that those enslaved were always coloured. Certainly that is how the vast majority think of slavery in the States and, of course, there is no doubt that most of those who were bought, sold and used rather like cattle were coloured. There have been plenty of books, pictures and films to make that evident.

However, what is not so generally known is that, in the Southern States (the heart of slave-land), whites could be enslaved, too. Admittedly, it was unusual ... but it did happen. And, under the laws of those Southern States it was not considered particularly illegal. Even if someone tried to make out that it was - in a Court of Law - there would be politicians, Judges, even a governor, prepared to make sure the case would be thrown out. Influence and bribery were rampant. If you were rich and powerful enough, you could get away with murder. Literally.

You could also get away with slavery.

Because it suited the upper crust. Those who ruled.

Nobody, of course, gave a damn about the blacks who were enslaved. There might only be ructions if whites were involved. However, such ructions became mere ripples on the pattern of society. People who mattered turned a blind eye to goings-on which would be considered monstrous today. Because, as it has already been said, it suited them.

It is easy to understand how blacks were enslaved. They were shipped from Africa by the British and simply sold to Americans. But what about whites? Well, business being what it was (and still is) in the States - that is to say, viciously competitive - men, and their families, could lose fortunes overnight. In order to avoid disgrace, bankruptcy and utter ruin, it was not unknown for a man to barter his wife or daughters (maybe both) in order to escape the clutches of a demanding creditor. Once bartered, those women became the property of that creditor. Legally. Just as if the man had bartered goods against his debts and not human beings. Amazing today ... but not so then, when America was really a rugged country.

This story concerns an estate upon which a number of such bartered white slaves have been assembled - consigned to an existence of cruel servitude.

CHAPTER ONE

 

Mrs Gloria Vance sat at the small but ornate desk in her bedroom wearing a pale green negligee - and a smile of smug satisfaction. She was reading a letter. In fact she was reading it for the fifth or sixth time. It was from her husband, from whom she was separated but with whom she kept on very good terms and in regular contact. Charles Vance had very considerable interests throughout the Eastern States and resided in New York. Also, though in his late fifties, he had a bevy of young mistresses to keep him amused.

As will be seen, his wife Gloria, who had just reached her fortieth year, also had considerable interests of her own, so that the arrangement suited both parties well.

The letter read as follows:

 

My dear Gloria,

You will, I am sure, remember the Fanshawes whom we met socially on several occasions a few years ago. You may also remember that Ralph Fanshawe and I did some business together.

It was not long before he was deeply in debt to me and he gave me a lien on his property in order to gain time to pay up. Unfortunately for him, his cotton crop was burnt for a second season running (those black varmints!) so he was left without a dime.

Naturally, this left me no option but to foreclose upon his property and possessions. As you may know, under State laws, those possessions to which I am entitled include not only his servants but also members of his family. The only family he has is his wife Lucinda, so she is now my property. Ralph pleaded with me desperately not to enforce this part of my entitlement but, always considering you, my dear, and knowing your wishes in cases of this kind, I refused to make an exception.

Today I am having my attorney draw up the legal papers which will assign ownership of Lucinda Fanshawe to you. I trust she will make a satisfactory addition to your household entourage.

 

Yours affectionately.

CHARLES.

 

Gloria Vance tapped the letter against her mouth. She was a striking woman rather than a beautiful one and exceedingly well preserved. Her skin was as smooth and soft as that of a woman in her twenties. Green-blue eyes complemented her russet-coloured hair. Her nose was well-formed; but the thin lips of her wide mouth gave an appearance of hardness.

It was an appearance which was justified. For Gloria Vance was a hard woman. Very hard. She had not come up the easy way, her father having been in 'trade'. But Gloria's fortunate marriage to the wealthy Charles had got her into Society and there she had clung like a leech ever since.

Yes, reflected Gloria, I remember Lucinda Fanshawe well. The woman was six years younger that herself and she had never liked her, though she had made a pretence of doing so. Lucinda was always putting on airs; constantly referring to her Boston background. Gloria was aware of why she did this. It was to contrast their upbringings. The one humble, the other upper crust.

And the woman not only looked arrogant, she acted it. Treated servants like dirt and those she considered inferiors with contempt. Gloria had also got the impression that Lucinda was unfaithful to Ralph, for it could not be denied she was exceedingly attractive and had had many admirers. That had not particularly endeared her to Gloria, either! No woman likes to see men fawning over another whilst she is virtually ignored. No, all in all, it could not be said that Gloria had taken kindly to Lucinda Fanshawe.

So it is little wonder that Gloria Vance was smiling that morning. For now she owned Lucinda Fanshawe. The woman was now legally one of her slaves. And, although Charles had made her similar gifts on previous occasions, this was indeed a prize - a pearl among pearls.

There came a knock on the door.

"Enter ..."

Though Gloria Vance was not looking at her, the girl curtsied. She was a pretty little thing of around twenty with light brown eyes and hair to match.

"You rang for me, Madam?"

"I did, Rosie. What kept you?"

There was a moment's hesitation. "I ... I had to report to Miss Bridget first, Madam." Another pause. "To get a couple of 'stingers', Madam."

"Ah ... why so?"

"Dust left on the mantleshelf in one of the bedrooms, Madam."

"Well, Rosie, if you don't do your duties properly, you must expect to suffer for it."

"Yes Madam," came a meek reply.

"Now come over here, girl, and brush my hair."

Rosalind Carver - now rather derisively called Rosie - was the daughter of a once-wealthy stockbroker. He, too, had fallen into the financial clutches of Charles Vance and, as part of a deal, his pretty and pampered daughter had been consigned to Gloria.

She now moved across the room to the dressing table where her Mistress had seated herself and picked up a hairbrush. She was palpably nervous, knowing how short-tempered Gloria Vance was ... and what consequences might follow if she displeased her. Her bottom was still hot and smarting from the two 'stingers' she had just received from Miss Bridget, one of the so-called maids who were in charge of all household slaves.

Any maid, or manservant for that matter, was empowered to administer up to five 'stingers' on any single occasion. There were strokes from a single-thonged strap of a fairly lightweight variety. As is implied, it stung rather than anything else. The marks left usually disappeared after five or six hours. Such on-the-spot punishments, or 'reminders' as they were often called, were quite frequent and were handed out with the girl, having raised her three-quarter length skirt, bending over and receiving the allotted strokes over the thin white drawers she would be wearing. Sometimes a girl would be made to kneel on the floor, or in a chair, to get her 'reminder'.

Carefully, Rosie brushed Gloria's long, russet hair. It was always frightening to be so close to the woman who owned your body and soul. Who could do virtually what she liked with you. There was no one to appeal to. Authority was indifferent. It was a conspiracy ... which suited the rich and powerful. Then, of course, one dare not, protest anyway. She recalled vividly, the terrible birching Kate had received for daring to protest and plead with some State politician who happened to be a guest at Mrs Vance's. It had been a birching beyond all reason, but certainly no one had ever done anything similar since.

"You are improving, Rosie."

"Thank you, Madam."

"Far more gentle than you used to be."

Rose had been a slave on the Lauderdale Estate, as the vast Colonial-style mansion and grounds were known, for nearly six months but had still not accustomed herself to her mistress's arbitrary changes of mood. You could never feel safe with her even if you were being praised. Her mood might change in a moment.

"That will do, Rosie. Now put it up for me ..."

Thus began the long process of pinning up Gloria's hair on top of her head, in the style she liked. While it went on, Gloria looked with satisfaction into the mirror. Not bad, not at all bad, for her age. Skin still clear. Breasts sagging very little ... and not at all when her corset was on. Were there some lines at the corners of her mouth? Maybe a few. Well, cream and rouge would hide those.

Will Lucinda Fanshawe have weathered, she wondered. Doubtless pretty well. That was a good thing. The better she looked, the more enjoyable it would be. One day, she would be standing where Rosie was, doing her hair. Standing there as her slave. It was an exquisite thought.

But what a welter of seething emotions there were going to be before that day arrived!

I'll call her Lucy, she thought, as Rosie finished her coiffure. She won't like that! In fact, there were a whole lot of things high-and-mighty Mrs Fanshawe was not going to like. Having to dress like Rosie, for example. For the garb of all slaves was standard. It consisted of a pink-and-black waist-corset, clinched in very tightly and so designed that two quarter-cups held the breasts uplifted but kept them exposed. A pair of very thin white drawers were worn. These were held at the waist by a ribbon and reached an inch or two down the thighs. Then there were white cotton stockings held up by pink-and-black garters - and a pair of high-heeled black patent leather shoes. Over all this went a blue-and-white striped dress reaching three-quarters of the way down the legs. Its sleeves were short and the dress was cut very low, exposing practically all of the top half of a girl's bosom. A lacy white cap with blue ribbons and a maid's apron with blue edging completed the outfit. Gloria had approved the design of the outfit herself ... but scarcely thought that such simple and flimsy garments would meet with Lucinda Fanshawe's approval!

Too bad! Oh just too bad!

"That will do, Rosie."

The girl stepped back from her task, thankful that it seemed to be satisfactory. She watched as her mistress rose and unfastened her negligee. It dropped to the floor and she stood quite naked. Gloria felt no concern at this nudity before another. It merely emphasised her indifference to what a slave saw. She was tall and long-limbed, still lithe, with very little excess fat. Frequent massaging kept her in excellent trim.

"You may dress me, Rosie."

"Yes, Madam."

On a bed were laid out the clothes Gloria Fanshawe would wear that morning. As Rosie knew, the first thing to put on was the flesh-coloured corset. She picked it up and advanced upon her mistress. Around the waist it went and Rosie began the lacing. Gloria liked it fairly tight but not as tight as the corsets of her slaves. Rosie worked methodically, trying to make sure that the laces criss-crossed evenly. That was not easy ... but at last the task was done.

"Have you finished, Rosie?"

"Yes, Madam." A sudden nervousness shook the girl as Gloria turned to survey the lacing in the mirror.

"Well, in the first place, the lacing is uneven ... and in the second, you have laced me too tightly."

"I ... I beg pardon, Madam."

"How long have you been here, Rosie?"

"N-Nearly six months, Madam ..."

"So you must have laced me scores of times."

"Yes, Madam ..."

"And you still cannot get it right." Rosie said nothing. Whether it was true what her mistress said was unimportant. She knew it was simply that her mood had changed ... and she wished to amuse herself for a while with one of her slaves. Hopelessly, striving to check incipient tears, Rosie watched her mistress seat herself on her dressing table stool. Oh how unfair it all was!

"Come over here, Rosie." The hairbrush was taken off the dressing table. It was long-handled, oval-shaped and backed with ebony wood inlaid with strips of silver. It hurt. As Rosie knew of old. "Lift up your skirt, Rosie ... and lie across my thighs."

The girl didn't hesitate to obey the order. One did not hesitate when Gloria Vance gave an order. With skirt pulled well above her waist she prostrated herself over her mistress's firm limbs.

"Now take your drawers down, Rosie." Though slaves were punished over drawers when about the house in general, Gloria, when in private, liked to punish with a bottom bared. I wonder how Lucinda Fanshawe will react when she first gets that order, she asked herself idly as Rosie undid her waist ribbon, arched up and pushed her drawers down to her knees.

There were the two 'stinger' stripes over the young, curving nates. Bright pink. Rather pretty. Though the girl would hardly appreciate that, thought Gloria with a smile. "It seems there's only one way to teach thoughtless, careless girls like you," she said and ran a hand over those soft curves before her. She smiled again as the nates gave an apprehensive twitch. Then she gripped the hairbrush halfway down its handle and whacked it down hard on Rosie's right buttock cheek.

"Owww!"

Oh how it hurt! A fierce spreading burning. Always worse than one had remembered.

Whack!

This time on the left buttock cheek ... producing an instant pink splodge.

"Owww ... aahhh!"

Oh God ... yes ... it hurt ... it hurt! Far more than a stroke from the 'stinger'. The back of that ebony-and-silver brush was so hard. It covered a broader area, too. Oh yes, it hurt ... it hurt!

Whack!

Back to the right buttock cheek.

"Owww!"

Whack!

The left buttock cheek again.

"Owww ... ooowwww!"

Rosie knew the pattern. And the pain was already getting worse with each whack. For whack was beginning to overlay whack. Oh how it hurt! And really it was all for nothing. Just because her mistress liked to hear her cry out ... and see her squirm and kick.

"You are a naughty ..."

Whack!

"Naughty ..."

Whack!

"Naughty ..."

Whack!

"Girl!"

Whack!

"Oooww ... aaah ... oowww ... ahhh ..."

Poor young Rosie twisted and turned. But there was no escape. She was held in a vice-like grip by Gloria Vance's left arm. And the hard-backed hairbrush continued to descend with a relentless monotony upon her rounded young bottom.