Captions Sunday!

Three very different mini stories from Dolores Azul! 

Young Lady Whitshire’s Drastic Downfall

I just don’t know if I made a horrible mistake or if I’m the luckiest woman alive. If I’m NOT lucky, then I made several horrible mistakes—and I inflicted them all on myself! The desire to drop down can strike anyone—it doesn’t seem to be inherited—and the higher I was, the more delicious and irresistable the fall!

In order to go from Lady of the Manor—a very young Lady of the Manor—with an estate of hundreds of acres of meadows and forest, and a 36-room mansion, to maid in your own house—takes a co-conspirator. Agnes, the head of the household staff, was mine. She thought I was daft, but a daft woman’s money speaks as eloquently as money from a ‘sane’ woman! I paid her very well, because unbeknownst to everyone but me I was willing to spend so much of it—to enjoy my “journey!”

Announced to all, I was going on “holiday” for three months. But instead of going to Antibes or Venice, or even just to Paris, I went where nobody knew me: the outskirts of Camden, New Jersey in America! I went with nothing but one suitcase of the cheapest housedresses with one aim in mind: to make myself so fat that even my relatives wouldn’t recognize me! With only my location-disguised internet connection to keep me company, I ate and ate, to the point of discomfort, to stretch my stomach capacity! After three months I gained 3 and-a-half stone—not enough! I cabled home to announce I was enjoying myself so much, I was staying for another three months. I wanted to come back gaining at least six stone—I would have to keep quite seriously eating! By the time my holiday was up, the scale in my room said I’d gained 82 pounds. Close enough! The day before flying home I had my hair cut in front in bangs. With my hair also bleached, my extra weight, and no makeup I hoped no one would recognize me.

Captions: Hotel Heiress Humbled

AndiJF has kindly shared lady-to-maid captions with a racial transformation theme. Last one is of course inspired by an L2M classic, A Model Maid. 

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Story: New Employee. Last Chapter and Epilogue.

It's been over three years since I published the first chapter of BigBird's excellent tale and just over a year since the previous chapter came out. Finally, the last chapter and epilogue are here! And it's been well worth the wait. I am reposting the entire novella (roughly 40,000 words) for your reading enjoyment. For the newest addition, please scroll to chapter 42. 

by BigBird74

1.

My bedroom sits at the front of the penthouse atop one of the tallest buildings in New York. Oh yes, I am fabulously rich, though unlike my snap-happy sister I do not parade it about town. My sister is what my father calls ‘the face of the family’. She is happy to cut ribbons, date reality stars and post an endless stream of fatuous photographs onto the web. Yes, she is very much the publicity hog of the family, while I prefer to play second fiddle leading a much more private life. 

Sure I make it into the gossip columns every now and again, but there is no way I would ever be recognised walking down your average high street. I do not have to worry about the steady accumulation of column inches that my sister gets every time she changes the way she wears her hair. Still all is not what it seems. She recently won an award for ‘Woman of the Year’ for organising a cycling marathon that yours truly had spent an entire weekend working on, while ‘Madame Publicity’ as I called her sat by the pool.

Do I sound slightly bitter? Well, maybe I am a little. But I love my sister despite her efforts to hog every spotlight she sees. It has always been like that. I was the smart one. The dependable one. As the older sibling, my father knew that one day his vast fortune would be mine to dispense with, so naturally he tried to make sure I had the skills needed to protect his legacy. While I spent my time with him discussing numbers and buildings, my sister got to ask him which dress was prettiest. In some ways I was the son my father never had. My mother, a doe-eyed beauty queen, had left him shortly after I was born and he had never remarried. So that was it. No son, and only me to fill that hole. 

Story: Maid in Oaxaca.

Monica Graz is back with another instant classic of the TG maid genre. She's kindly allowed me to repost this story here (this is complete part 1 and beginning of part 2; the full version is to appear on Mags Inc as usual). Excellent research on her part and a great read, as always. 

by Monica Graz

PROLOGUE

Patricia Martinez Torres is a pretty and highly intelligent Mexican girl in her mid twenties living in New York. Her father Diego Martinez Torres is a high-ranking diplomat serving at the UN Mexican delegation. Her mother Alicia Martinez Torres is ‘old money’.  She is the sole inheritor of vast pieces of land and properties in the southern state of Oaxaca at the vicinity of the town of Juchitan.

In the district of Juchitan is the land on the ancient Zapotec people whose language and culture still thrive there. One of the many distinguishing characteristics of Juchitan is its population of muxes (pronounced moo-shays) which means women in Zatopecan dialect, clearly influenced by the Spanish word mujer for woman.

But the muxes are not biological women, they are people who were born biologically male and were encouraged to dress from an early age in female clothes either because they manifested some inclination towards that or because the family had too many sons and needed a substitute daughter to take up female duties within the family, usually with the blessings and the complete tolerance of the society.

Some have their breasts enhanced, others have nose jobs. Quite a number of then are permanently dressed as females wearing the colorful dresses, so popular within their culture. The majority of muxes start very young, before their teens and are trained in womanly ways by family and friends, taking their place in Zapotec cultural tradition that predates the Spanish colonizers.  

Some interesting lady-to-maid captions

A Maid Life tumblr  has quite a number of interesting lady-to-maid captions done by @retroeverything, inspired by a reader of this blog, Qing Luan, who's kindly given me permission to share them here. Very familiar themes, love it! The employment contract at the bottom I found particularly exciting.

1.

2.

Ayi knelt and waited for master to appear. He had let her in wordlessly at the door and just pointed to the stairs leading to her quarters. Or what had been her quarters. Now she didn’t know. Now she waited.  A month before at the end of her first year they had offered her a new contract to sign. She had been allowed a day to sign it. She had read it before falling asleep that night . 

The old contract for her first year had been negotiated before she had come to Master and Mistresses academy to become a maid. Back when she had been a person who thought she wanted to be a maid. It listed the things ‘maid’ wouldn’t do and allowed her the option to quit at any time. To hold her own passport and documents. To have her own bank account. To chose her maid name…  

The new one amended all that. A lot. Spankings as a punishment instead of extra duties. She knew they’d work her so hard that she’d beg for spankings instead of extra work. She knew that after a while she’d treat spanking as perfectly normal for a dumb maid. 90 days notice if she wanted to quit. Her papers and passport to be held by master and mistress. Her funds to be transferred to a trust watched by the Academy who would provide her a debit card in her maid name. Some of her wages would go to it so she could buy her toiletries, underwear and other sundries with the academy’s approval. Unapproved items would earn punishments.  

It was just too much control. She had been doing well. She earned few punishments. Suzy the 2nd year maid would get a percentage of her punishment to ensure she corrected her behavior, more if she wasn’t the one to spot it. Suzy had been allowing her to work without constant oversight for the past 3 months. Her punishments had often been more work till she was working 20 hour days. The utter exhaustion made her make more errors till she learned to think of nothing other than her maid duties to dig herself out of her punishment cycle. Now she could work for days without a thought in her head other than her duties. The only thoughts the instructions given to her at the start by phone message. 

Days would go without an actual person speaking to her face to face. Just impersonal instructions left as tasks. Maid Suzy telling her in whispers quicker ways to do tasks. Showing her if she was slow on the uptake. The exhaustion she felt every day left her dazed and dumb. She never could get used to the constant drudgery. Interrupted a few times a day to take over maid Suzy’s tasks while she dealt with Master and Mistress directly face to face.  Sleeping at night listening to mistresses lessons on perfecting her chinese maid accent. So tired she had no resistance in her and had learned quickly to speak to her betters in a broken chinglish.  

Story: Twins

by Jackie J

Chapter one

Twins, identical twins well physically but concerning personality? One would need a magnifying glass to physically separate Isabelle and Isabella, from early childhood they were like peas in a pod but their personalities quickly diverged. Through school Isabelle was studious attaining the highest grades whilst Isabella did just enough yet still gained high marks. University was no different Isabella making the most of the social scene with Isabelle more often found in the libraries rather than the bars. Both having graduated careers in law were pursued and in their late twenties two fine lawyers they made. Isabelle devoted herself to working with the disenfranchised whilst Isabella took to defending the most questionable of characters.  Despite their diametrically opposed outlook on how their skills should be deployed Isabelle and Isabella remained close.  Whilst Isabelle lived a quite existence Isabella grew more wayward, bordering on arrogant, a fun-loving party animal with an increasing reputation for promiscuity.

It was no surprise when Nazeem came on the scene both were attracted to this handsome and rich Middle Eastern heir to the Mudullha fortune.  Isabella’s rather shallow perspective considering his looks and wealth whilst Isabelle found him charming and considerate.  Both were beautiful young women, Isabella was fun and exciting to be with Isabelle was thoughtful and generous of spirit. Nazeem living and working in London and free from the conservative shackles of his family especially his somewhat pious mother, found the company of the vivacious fun-loving Isabella liberating.  Soon they became a couple to be seen around the exclusive nightspots of town. Isabelle wasn’t jealous, was she? No, she was genuinely happy for her sister, wasn’t she?

Engaged within six months all looked set for a happy every after. Nazeem’s family however, especially his mother, were not happy, not happy at all.  Nazeem’s father, who did not enjoy good health, had met the twins on a number of occasions during visits to his surgeon in Harley Street.  He liked them both, why wouldn’t he? Both girls pretty and enjoying successful careers, under normal circumstances either would make a good match for his son. It was the cultural clash, based in London not an issue but back in Nazeem’s home country?  Nazeem’s father, with failing health, knew it would not be long before his son would have to return to take over the business based back in the Emirates what then for his western wife? Would she cope with the culture shock? Life would be very different for her there.

Story: The White Apron Was The Reason!

Monica Graz has kindly allowed me to share her recent novelette, The White Apron Was The Reason, with you. It is a TG take on Daphne and the White Apron that brings the story much further, taking the main character to Qatar. I enjoyed it immensely and I hope you do too. It's posted for free for this blog's readers, but if you'd like to purchase it to support the author, it is available from Mags Inc both as an ebook and a paperback version.

THE WHITE APRON WAS THE REASON!

By Monica Graz

PART 1 

Dennis Arnellos finished getting dressed and gave an indifferent look at his immense but untidy bedroom. His Polish maid Magda would take care of that later, he thought. He moved to his study and turned his computer on and then went to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. He knew that Magda would be out at this hour doing her morning shopping.  

He started going back to his study but stopped as his eye caught the freshly ironed white apron’s strings as they were hanging down at the end of the utility room table right next to the kitchen. Instinctively he went in there to check. He picked the apron hesitantly and looked at it. It was a small serving half apron quite pretty with its broderie anglaise trim. He looked down at his slim body noticing his very simple black outfit he was wearing consisting of a pair of black trousers and a black T-shirt and then he remembered his early teenage years when he was helping their Filipina maid with her chores and the thrill he was getting when she was tying an apron around his waist when they were just the two of them in the house.   

The maid syndrome as he called it, together with his crossdressing tendencies that pestered Dennis from his early teenage years, were all of a sudden back as he was holding this simple piece of white material.  

Suddenly he had this strong urge to put the apron on. Magda was out shopping and she wouldn’t be back for at least another hour. 

Story: New Employee. Chapter 41.

 by BigBird74

Just how vulnerable was I? It appeared extremely. I could try to get to my father. I could run from the whole ghastly situation. Anything would be better than simply waiting and sinking further into this new life! But I sat still. For the moment it felt that my options had run out and I was safest staying just where I was. As an undocumented worker, I had no money, nowhere to go. I did not even have an official identity. All my life I had received the very best money could buy. Everything had been so simple and natural, one easy, obvious option after the other. I was totally unprepared for anything involving such a wrenching dilemma like this. I felt dizzy, disoriented and very afraid.

I obsessively scanned the same pages in the newspaper several times, hoping to gleam something new, a ray of hope, perhaps, something I had misread earlier. But, of course, nothing changed and the situation remained bleak. As much as I focused on my father’s fate, I also needed to find out what had happened to my sister. Had she been caught up in the same imbroglio? There was nothing mentioned in the paper. If she had any part in the scandal, it was not immediately obvious. The fear or flight battle taking part inside of me then flared back into life: I could go and find her! At least to see where she might be? It had been months of zero contact and I needed to know what had happened. The impulsive side to my character, the one that had led me to this point, again took hold of the reins. I knew that on a normal day Katherine’s assistant would return after several hours. That gave me more than enough time to work my way to my sister’s apartments, several blocks away. I grabbed a light coat from my former wardrobe and tried to cover my ill-fitting, drab uniform as best I could and headed out of the building to see.

Story: New Employee. Chapter 40.

by BigBird74

Katherine’s assistant had gone on something of a purge. A number of the people I dealt with on a daily basis had either been transferred or removed from their position. Doormen, handymen, even suppliers to the building, all had been changed. The effect, no doubt, was to surround me with people that could never suspect who I was. The powerlessness I suddenly felt gave rise to a familiar, delicious tingle between my thighs. It is amazing how those three words, ‘who I was’, could elicit such delight. I had found it increasingly wasteful to fret about the question. The anxiety I had experienced at the start of this adventure had given way to tiredness and exhaustion. As time ran away from weeks to months, I had found it difficult to even start contemplating turning back without eliciting a degree of horror at what that would involve. My exit from this life depended on one person and she showed no signs of changing anything.

As well as attending to the lobby and the various communal areas of the building, my duties extended to cover my former penthouse. Katherine’s assistant now lived here and was revelling in the luxury that it offered her. She had taken to wearing many of my former clothes and jewels, and for all intents and purposes, was living a similar life to the one I had vacated. I assumed that both of us got a thrill from my servile role in my former home. At least I was sure at the outset, though as we grew used to the situation, things turned a little more routine. The dominatrix-style sessions we had enjoyed previously became rarer and, eventually ceased.

I am not sure whether she did it on purpose or not, but Katherine’s assistant had the habit of leaving important papers on her desk when she knew I would be tidying upstairs. I felt she did it as a way of taunting me about my former life, reminding me that Katherine was now something else: a fiction, less real now than Marta. How else could one explain printed emails for goodness sake! Most often they were emails from ‘Katherine’ to her, granting her privileges or roles within the company that elevated her yet higher.

Story: Window Shopping. Chapter 5.

by Jackie J

My only possession being the locket that my princess had thrust into my hand before we were separated and, tempted as I was to sell it, I couldn’t part with it. With the help of the girls who had sheltered me I managed to get a job in a clothing factory. Long hours, hard work and poor pay but it was better than being on the streets. After many months and pleading I managed to get to visit my princess. I cried when I saw her. Gone her beautiful clothes, her hair cut short she had lost a lot of weight and looked haggard in her prison fatigues. We held hands through the bars and both shed more tears.

I told her to be strong and that I would wait for her and I visited her every week on Fridays. I always brought gifts for the guards, cigarettes, chocolate whatever I could afford. Not everyone supported the coup, although they could not show it, and some of the guards were of this persuasion.  This gave me the opportunity to spend a little longer than permitted during my visits and smuggle in the odd luxury for my princess, such as soap and toiletries.

My work at the factory made me smile sewing in labels for major stores in the UK, Marks and Spencer, Gap Next along with less familiar names.  I was no expert, having never set foot in a factory before, but six months in and with the few obvious suggestions I made, it resulted in my promotion to supervisor of accessories and thread.  The additional money helped and I managed to get a room to myself at the hostel.

Story: Window Shopping. Chapter 4.

By Jackie J

If keeping me locked in my room was to reinforce the helplessness, I was feeling it was working. Three days four I wasn’t sure my mind was in turmoil. A week ago this Princess Makabuku would have more likely to have been a client not my owner. Owner, this was ridiculous people can’t be owned, they just can’t, but I was?

The room I was in was obviously below ground level and through the barred window I could see the only light coming in was down a shaft through a steel grid some ten feet above. If I had to design a cell this would be it and I was in it. I found the closet and drawers contained more clothing, the same that I was now dressed in. Plain food was brought to me twice a day by a pretty blonde haired girl, collared like I was and dressed like I was. She spoke no English and from her accent I guessed Eastern European probably having come to England to chase her dreams only to end up here a slave to an African Princess.

What haunted me about the girl, when she shuffled into my room, being her hunched shoulders, her lowered head and the deadness in her eyes? She was obviously young, perhaps in her mid twenties, but there was no sparkle in her eyes was this the fate that awaited me?

Merle Oberon. Art Imitating Life Imitating Art.

Margo Taft and her "maid"

If there ever was a place with over-abundance of skeletons in the closet it’s Hollywood. However, this real story is quite something even by its standards. 

One of the characters in The Last Tycoon, a recent Amazon TV series based on F. Scott Fitzgerald’s unfinished last novel about movie studio business, is actress Margo Taft, a fiercely independent star who has a secret that could ruin her career – she’s half-black and is only passing for white, while her real mother is by her side, masquerading as her black maid Lucille. 

Of course, there is nothing new about the whole “passing for white” phenomenon back in the day with numerous actors and actresses (as well as people from other walks of life) hiding their real origin (if their looks allowed) to get a better chance in life. What I didn’t know was that the story about a non-white mother acting as maid to her own “white” daughter is loosely based on an actual Hollywood story, that of Merle Oberon.

Largely forgotten today, Oberon was a big star in the 1930s and 1940s, renowned for her striking beauty.  Her most famous role is probably that of Cathy in the 1939 classic adaptation of Wuthering Heights alongside Laurence Olivier.  Looking at her pictures it boggles me why no one really suspected that she was mixed race, especially at the time when people allegedly paid so much attention to these things, but, not unlike Liberace, she managed to take her big secret – she was born in Bombay in 1911 to a British father and an under-age half-Sri Lankan mother (with some Maori blood to boot) – to her grave. 

Throughout her career she concealed her ethnic origin and maintained that she was born in Tasmania (apparently considered a lot more acceptable that Bombay, not to mention the birthplace of Hollywood’s great Errol Flynn) and only moved to India after her upper-class father died in a “hunting accident”. 

Story: Daphe and the White Apron. Part 8 - Final.

by Monica Graz

8.1

“Inspection time girls!” Mme Ahmad said clapping her hands and both Rosie and Lita run from the kitchen to the central hallway. They both were dressed in a formal black and white uniform, elegant but quite conservative, the hem of their dresses a couple of inches below the knee. A smart white half apron and a small white cap completed the outfit.

They arrived in front of Mme Ahmad and curtseyed as she looked at them critically.

“Yes, you both look very dapper and professional and you smell nicely as well,” she said giving a side look at Lita who blushed remembering how she was chastised earlier for being a bit smelly. This time she added plenty of arm deodorant and light lavender cologne that Rosie provided.

Mme looked at the clock and added, “In a few minutes the guests will start arriving. You Lita will stand by the door and welcome them with a slight curtsey, nothing theatrical, just a small bob and then take their coats, bags or whatever else they pass to you. I’ll be behind you to greet them.  As I told you already Mr. Ahmad will come directly from the office with a group of his colleagues.”

Then turning to Rosie, she continued, “Rosie you will start circulating among the guests with a tray of champagne, orange and apple sparkling juice. I expect that half of our guests will stay out of alcohol.”

“Yes Mme,” both maids said in unison as she dismissed them with her hand.

Story: Daphe and the White Apron. Part 7.

by Monica Graz

Author’s note

Apologies for the delay. As often happens to us amateur writers, real life activities can be at times very demanding and challenging.

They will be two more episodes to finish Daphne’s predicament.

Episode 7 below and episode 8 that will follow very shortly.  

-----

“Girl! Halika dito.” Rosie yelled impatiently to Lita from the dining room, in that peculiar mixture of Tagalog and English, Taglish as it was called between the Filipina maids abroad.

Lita hastily had a last sip of her coffee checked her appearance in the kitchen mirror- a habit that she couldn’t resist- adjusted her work apron and run towards the dining room where Rosie was setting the table for this evening’s dinner party.

“Yes Miss Rosie,” she said with her customary small bob. In the past few weeks she started calling her Miss, to Rosie’s delight; she did it without being asked, simply because her submissive genes had completely taken over and she was acting as the junior maid in the Ahmad household with Rosie becoming more and more the housekeeper.

Story: The Secret Slave. Epilogue.

by SW

Widecreek Plantation, Georgia, September 1848

As the Master and Mistress of Widecreek manor sat down to breakfast, the lady - costumed in an expensive yet elegantly simple white lawn-cloth frock - half turned her head to the maid standing to attention behind her and asked:

“You have water warming for my bath?”

The girl dipped and replied, “Yes'm Mistiss 'Liz'beth.  It be ready soon as breakfus' is ovah an' we'se cleared table Ma'am.”

The mistress nodded slightly and said: “Very good Sophie.  You can bring it up immediately after clearing away,” and then, turning to the other maid at table, she continued: “You'll take care of the baby Milly, you may sit with him on the porch.”

The petite black girl smiled, dipped and then replied brightly, “Yes'm Mistiss,” it was a duty that she favored - as long as the baby, almost three months old, was settled and he generally was.

Story: The Secret Slave. Part 19.

by SW

It was on the journey in a hired carriage from the town-center slave auction to the leafy coastal district (and the Morgan residence there) that Sophie learned that her new owner was not, in fact, the man who had made the highest bid for her at the sale.  Her master said:

“Well Sophie, it seems that your mistress regretted selling you to Mister Johnstone. She couldn't attend the auction and so asked me to act on her behalf - your papers are made out to her.  She will collect you in a week or so and you will then, once again, be Madam Deveraux's slave.  How do you feel about that girl?”

“Oh Massa! Thankee Massa! I is glad to be goin' home to my missus.  I nevah wanted to be sol' off suh!” and she began to sob once more.  She felt as though she had been rescued from some dark and bleak abyss and the tears of relief flowed freely from her eyes.  It seemed that her journey into slavery, entered into just a few months previously - though not quite altogether - innocently, had come full circle and for all that she was ruined as an aristocratic young lady of quality she felt immensely grateful to be journeying back to the safer situation at the Morgan's place where it had all begun.  That Elizabeth had, somehow, obtained the information, and found the means, to save her so quickly was not lost on her and her bosom filled with pride and love for her friend.  Whatever lay before her it would be under Elizabeth's care and protection and she felt the luckiest girl alive.  For Sophie, the journey from the miserable auction yard to the splendid Morgan household was one of redemption and salvation.  She hoped and believed that the recent traumas of her experience in bondage were finally behind her, and thus, she resolved to be a good house maid at the Morgan house and attract no attention or trouble.

Story: The Secret Slave. Part 18.

by SW

It had been but a small matter for Calvin Johnstone, that esteemed lawyer of Charleston, to have slave papers made up - papers so copper-bottomed that they would hold up against any inquiry.  He knew of, and had dealt with, several crooked sheriffs and officials in Charleston in his career and it had cost him but ten minutes of his time and a glass of whiskey to have Sophie's papers signed off by a city magistrate - and the ink on them was still wet when he collected his prize at the tearful scene at the harbor.

Now that the girl's parents were somewhere on the vast Atlantic Ocean the girl was effectively, in law, his.  The only person who could contest Sophie's sale at auction was Elizabeth and she was under his thrall - Elizabeth couldn't dare to try and expose him as it would bring about her own ruin.  Sophie, too, knew and understood all this and she saw that any attempt to plead her real status or remonstrate in any with the slave trader would do nothing for her except earn her a beating. When Johnstone delivered her to the slave yard she knew that there was nothing she could do to free herself at that time and if she was to make a successful attempt to get to Elizabeth's safety then it must be made after she had been sold.  She had been so traumatized by her defeat and rape at Johnstone's hands that being cast into a slave mart's holding pens to await sale now seemed neither surprising nor unendurable to her, it was just another outrage that had been done to her and yet again, one that she was completely defenseless against.

Once the trader, a vile smelling and filthy rogue, had fettered Sophie's wrists and placed the collar around her neck, he slid his dirty hat back from his sweaty brow and said to Johnstone:

“My, my, a real fancy here, yes indeed.  We might expec' a thousan' or more for her!”

Story: The Secret Slave. Part 17.

by SW

Sophia, all eyes upon her, affected a collapse and she fell upon the carpeted landing with a thump heavy enough to be heard by those below.  Immediately, her maid Sally ran down from the gallery above and her mother hastened from the hall below.  They reached Sophia together and urged her to return to her chamber; but she shook her head, began to rise to her feet and declined their assistance.  She said in a weak voice: “Oh Ma'ma, don't fuss, I shall be perfectly fine and do allow me to attend dinner, it was just a little turn.” But when she regained her feet she faltered and Madame Solano turned to Sally with a grim expression of concern, the slave-girl nodded briskly and supported her young mistress back to the bed chamber from whence they had come.  Once abed, Sophia refused to have her maid undress her and she told her mother, who had followed them, that she would be quite recovered if left alone for the evening to rest and would she please apologize on her behalf to the guests whom she had been so very much looking forward to meeting.

With Sally and her mother gone, Sophia remained upon her bed in a state of tortured anxiety.  She had certainly ensured that she didn't have to sit with the awful man at table but now she wondered what would he say and what would he do?  She wished she could have escaped the house, but even if she might have absented herself, there was no place to go: Elizabeth had written again to say that she had arranged to stay in Augusta until meeting the Solanos at Charleston for the boarding of their ship to Europe and it would be there, at the harbor, that they would next meet.  Every moment of Johnstone's presence in her home was filled with immediate threat and danger and when, after about fifteen minutes, Sally came up after serving the second course to check on her Miss's condition, the girl was interrogated urgently:

“What is happening at table?  What are they talking about down there?”

“Nothin' much Mistiss.  Jes' talkin' about hopin' yo' is goin' ter be alrigh' and maybe it be dis hot weathah that's got yo' out o' sorts Ma'am.” 

Story: The Secret Slave. Part 16.

With me emotionally drained by the dramatic events of Parts 14 an 15,  SW has graciously agreed to return to this exciting tale once more. The plot's getting trickier and trickier, but the finale is now in sight!

by SW

It was fortunate that Elizabeth had enough money on her person to purchase a rudimentary room for the night at a city inn.  The Excelsior Hotel was beyond her immediate means but after they had ridden into town she did find a tolerable hostelry that would provide her and her slave with a meal and a bed for the night.   

There had been no time to release Sophie from her collar as they fled Cypress Hill and to try to do so as they rode towards Augusta would have been to invite the loss of the key.  Therefore, when they were accepted at the inn, Elizabeth felt that her arrival late in the evening (and in possession of a collared slave) deserved some explanation if suspicion was not to be aroused. The story she gave the Innkeeper was thus: her husband was absent on business and her maid had overstayed her pass time when visiting relatives in the quarters of a nearby plantation.  It had, therefore, fallen upon her, and at great inconvenience, to collect the errant maid.  Returning home their buggy had become unsound and they had proceeded on horseback.  But the hour had become too late for safety and they now required to put up for the night.  

Elizabeth evinced great displeasure with Sophie and opined that the girl couldn't be trusted - she asked the proprietor, a sweating and unshaven man of middle years, that if a pallet could be brought to her room, then the slave might sleep with her and remain under her watch.  But the suggestion was laughingly dismissed - as if the very idea that a visitor's slave should bed in his establishment was an unthinkable one - and so, Sophie, still visibly in shock from events at Cypress Hill, was given a bowl of fried vegetable peelings in the kitchen and then taken out to the livery yard where the Innkeeper long-chained her collar.  He pointed to a pile of straw in the corner - an area reserved for the slaves of overnight guest's - and as he led her towards it he said: “Here yo' be tonite gal.  Yo' bed down nice an' quiet an' don' be makin' no fuss yo' hear?  I figure you're in enough trouble with your missus already.”  

Sophie nodded meekly as he fixed the chain to a ring in the wall and replied almost in a whisper: “Yessuh, I bed down nice an' quiet like yo' say suh.”  The Innkeeper turned and said, “That's a good gal,” and he chuckled when she shrank from him as he ran one hand over her bosom and patted her bottom before leaving her alone in the miserable accommodation and to hope that she wouldn't see him again before morning came.  Alone, that is, save for the company of the horse and scurrying rats.

Story: The Secret Slave. Part 15.

by Camille Langtry

The Sheriff put the branding iron away and untied the wailing Sophie, a silent "why" frozen on her tear-stained face. He had done this procedure dozens of times - mostly to rough and muscular field hands - but never to a girl so young and so delicate. He was not a sentimental man, far from it, but the fact that Caroline Cranstone, a manipulative Jezebel if there ever was one, forced his hand, filled him with mild regret. Yes, he has just ruined her property to show her who was running things here, but what he did he really gain from it? Apart from that familiar sticky feeling of having complete power over a fellow human being - the one that always gave way to uneasy heart-searching that only a good bottle of Bourbon could stop?

"Blame yer mistress, not me, girl," he uttered with a touch of pity, his words barely audible through Sophie’s heart-rending howl. “Now, now. It will heal in no time,” he added and stepped aside, allowing Elizabeth to console her shrieking friend. Caroline remained frozen on the porch, a slight hint of a smile on her well-proportioned face, as she awaited the Sheriff’s return to finish their aborted conversation.

The initial sharp pain has given way to a persistent burning sensation on Sophie’s back that was made a lot worse by the rough touch of the coarse material of her torn dress that she had to immediately pull back up to protect her modesty. Through tearful eyes she could barely see Elizabeth, on her knees in front of her, wiping away never-stopping tears from her friend’s reddened face with a batiste handkerchief. The Sheriff motioned to his young assistant still standing by the fire to watch Sophie and entered his office, closely followed by Caroline.

It took Sophie several minutes to calm down enough to be able to talk semi-intelligibly.