“This won’t take long”, Margaret said by way of response to Victoria’s writhing. And then she checked that her slave was properly secured by the chains wrapped around the wooden chair.
“You’re wasting your time wriggling around,” she said, as her gagged property continued to make the chair bounce in small hops from the floor. “I just won’t have it. It’s not the order of things.”
Victoria was a fresh-faced, 18 year old quadroon slave from Margaret’s house-staff. She was staggeringly pretty, as such women tend to be – her skin the colour of champagne, her hair lustrous and chestnut brown.
The evening before this, Margaret, a 54 year old widow who was greatly afraid of losing the beauty for which she was complimented repeatedly in her youth, had entertained at her mansion a man in whom she was keenly interested for remarriage. Victoria had that evening served the food and cleared the table. To Margaret’s horror, she had also, on a number of occasions, caught this gentleman’s eye.
“It’s not even legal,” Margaret muttered, fumbling about in her toolbox for a suitably sharp implement. “He was probably a pervert. Your species should turn a healthy man’s stomach.”
Finding an implement to her liking, Margaret turned around and looked at the fearful, tear-stained face of her young slave. “I won’t enjoy hurting you, Vicki.” she said. “I want you to know I won’t enjoy this. You’ve always been like a daughter to me. But I don’t want you getting to thinking you’re the princess around here. That just isn’t the order of things.”
And so she about her grim work; a long and painful process, during which many tears were shed, and not only by the victim.
But Victoria’s ‘correction’ was ultimately a gruesome success. She never again attracted attention for her beauty. And she died, childless, decades later in the service of Margaret’s son, by whom she was inherited.