The Antebellum School Project Ch2A
Posted: Sat Jan 13, 2024 10:51 pm
The Antebellum School Project Chapter 2A
BY: Hooked6
Copyright January 2024 by Hooked6 (Hooked6@hotmail.com) all rights reserved. Reproduction, redistribution, reposting on another Internet site whether or not a charge or profit is made is forbidden without the expressed written consent of the author. All characters are over 18.
The Antebellum School Project
BY: Hooked6
Chapter 2A
Chapter 1: viewtopic.php?t=1278
Author’s note: This chapter was rather long so I broke it up into two chapters (2A and 2B) as there was a lot of background material I wanted to include before reaching the more action filled chapters that follow. Hopefully it didn’t detract from your enjoyment.
I looked up at my dad and as the others were chatting amongst themselves, I softly asked, “Dad, I thought you bought this house after you married Susan so we could all live in a place that would be ours.”
“That’s right.”
“So how come Angie and Susan keep referring to this place as their home like it has belonged to them for a century or two when you only bought it a couple of years ago? And how come they keep referring to Honey back in olden times as joining the Harkins family? I thought my step-mom’s maiden name was Beacham. Did your family relatives own slaves or something? Was Honey somebody in your family dad? I am so confused?”
My dad just laughed. “Maybe this will help. Susan, your step-mom, was in fact married to a Beachum before he died but Susan’s maiden name was actually Harkins, just like mine, and before you ask, no, she and I aren’t related.
“Though our family names are both Harkins, we are from different family trees so to speak. Susan’s family used to own this house. In fact, her ancestors originally built it back in 1840. It has been in her family for generations until Susan’s dad ran into financial trouble in the late 1990’s and got behind on his bills and taxes when she was a child and they had to sell it. Susan loved this house when she was growing up. Angie, of course, never lived in this house as she wasn’t born until well after her family lost it. After Susan and I married, I agreed to purchase this house back so she could carry on the family heritage.”
“So THAT explains why Angie is so compulsive about doing all this research and it was Susan’s ancestors that owned slaves not ours,” I said as if a light bulb suddenly went off above my head.
My dad put his arm around me, which made me feel really weird as I was still naked, as he continued to explain. “Angie has only recently learned about her heritage and has taken it to heart. It also explains why this project of hers is so important not only to her scholarship but to her understanding of her ancestors’ family history.”
I nodded, “I get it. I just wish I didn’t have to be a SLAVE of all things. Do you know what that will do to my reputation at school?”
My dad gave me a loving hug and said, “I know my Little . . . I mean, Honey. I am sure this will be difficult for you but if you aren’t willing to give it your all for Angie’s sake, could you at least do it for me? I love your step-mom very, very much and I know how much this means for both Susan and her daughter. You’d also be making a valuable contribution to your generation’s understanding of a part of history that everyone these days is trying to erase as if it never happened. You can see it everywhere with people tearing down statues and monuments, altering textbooks for political reasons, renaming schools and public buildings rather than understanding what it was really like. How are people going to remember the past and avoid repeating it if people don’t know about it? I’ve seen the extensive research Angie has put in to this. I am so proud of you for helping out. I know you won’t let me down, well . . . let our family down I should say, by not giving this your best effort.”
“I won’t let you down, dad. I will make you proud of me, you’ll see.”
“I know you will, sweetheart, I mean, Honey. Oh, and I need to tell you that tomorrow is Saturday. I didn’t know this was all coming together so quickly and I am already committed to fly out to California for several days to our corporate offices and prepare for an important presentation on Tuesday. I’ll be back later in the week, by Friday at the latest. I hate to miss the first few days of your project but I am sure I’ll find out all about it when I get back. I have to leave for Atlanta rather early to catch my flight so I doubt you’ll see me by the time you get up and about.”
“Aw, dad! Do you have to . . .”
“Honey!” I heard a forceful voice exclaim, “What are you doing hugging the master of this house?” It was Miss Sedgwick rudely interrupting my quiet talk with my dad. I immediately dropped my arms from around his back and took a step away from my dad. “Slaves do NOT hug their betters.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know the project had already started.” Her disapproving look made me feel very small and foolish.
*****
I was told to sleep in a small, old storeroom off the kitchen that had been cleared out – just four walls. No windows. A thin mattress had been placed on the floor and I was given an old thin, scratchy, wool blanket to use in case I got cold. Yes, I had to sleep naked still wearing the dog collar and wrist cuffs. The door to the storeroom was propped open and I was told to leave it alone. I surmised that at one time a slave must have really slept there and propping open the door allowed someone to check to be sure that the slave didn’t try to escape – at least that’s what I imagined anyway.
Before I was left alone, I was given an old oil lamp of the type I had seen in those Hollywood westerns so I could start writing in my journal with strict instructions to blow out the flame as soon as I was done writing.
Oh, and speaking of my journal, Angie really impressed me. She gave me a very authentic appearing journal to write down my thoughts and experiences in for her project. The front and back covers consisted of two hard pieces of leather with hand-punched holes on the left side of each panel. The holes looked like someone had made them with a sharp knife by twisting the blade around and round until a hole was made. The holes were of varying sizes and not evenly spaced. Inside the front and back leather panel were probably 100 pages of plain parchment-like paper which also had holes on the left side of each page. The whole thing was tied together by a real leather string that was woven in and out of each hole from top to bottom and secured with a rather large, hand-tied knot. The homemade book opened like a spiral bound binder. It was very old looking like someone might have made way back in the day. It wasn’t fancy but it was functional. I was given a fountain pen, which I guess was a concession of convenience as opposed to giving me a feather quill and a bottle of ink. Knowing me, I’d make a mess or spill the ink well.
I had no idea what I was supposed to write but I wanted to please my dad so I just wrote a short entry that was truthful and would suit my step-sister’s purpose.
April 30th,
Today I was made a slave. Can you imagine ME, a slave! It goes against everything I believe in. Slavery is wrong and it wasn’t my idea, yet I really had little choice. I was forced to strip myself of every bit of clothing in front of several people - male and female - and some mean old lady forced me to accept a collar around my neck and shackles around my wrists. How humiliating! I was shoved into a small room and made to sleep on a thin homemade pad they called a mattress. It did little to protect me from the hard wooden floor I can tell you. It was darn uncomfortable. I have no idea what is going to happen to me or what tomorrow will bring.
Honey
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be writing as Honey back in 1845 or as me, the new Honey, writing today? I chose to be general and just write what happened to me as truthfully as I could. If I didn’t do it right it will be their fault as no one gave me any direction. I put the journal under my so-called mattress and blew out the lamplight and went to sleep. I had a restless night but managed to finally fall asleep.
*****
“GET UP, YOU LAZY HEIFER.” I heard a voice screaming at me. When I finally opened my eyes, it appeared to be daylight, well, early morning anyway.
“Oh, Angie it’s just you. What time is it anyway?” I mumbled still half asleep. All of a sudden, I felt a very sharp pain on my backside. “OUCH! What the fuck? Angie, what is wrong with you?” I snapped at her.
CRACK!
I felt another sharp and very painful burning again on my backside. I quickly rolled away from whatever had struck me and saw Angie holding a small leather handle in her hand that had two, foot-long leather straps protruding from that handle she was holding. I then saw her raise it up over her shoulder preparing to strike me again.
Immediately, I stood up facing Angie rubbing my naked butt-cheeks when Angie spoke again, “Listen, you swine, when I tell you to do something you had better snap to it and do it immediately. Got that, you lazy bitch? What do you think this is, a country club or something?”
“No, ma’am; sorry ma’am. I didn’t sleep well last . . .”
CRACK!
Angie brought the leather straps down hard across my right breast this time and boy did that hurt like hell! I didn’t have time to protect myself as both my hands were still rubbing my butt-cheeks from the last two times she got me with that thing.
“ANGIE, STOP IT! THAT HURTS!”
I saw her raise that thing up again and, in a flash, I brought both my arms up to cover my small breasts but she was too fast for me and flung those infernal straps down across my lower pelvis and pubic hair missing my vulva by mere millimeters.
I screamed in agony as she clearly knew where my most tender spots were and I gave her a very angry look as I readjusted by hands to cover both my tits and my pussy, bending at my waist to minimize the amount of bare flesh that thing could strike.
Angie just looked at me and stood there apparently daring me to say something else.
I didn’t. there was silence for several moments with both of us just staring at each other.
“Geez, are you a slow learner,” she said with a soft giggle. “Follow me,” she said still giggling as she turned and walked out of the kitchen and into a small hallway.
I didn’t have to be told twice. I took up a position right behind her and kept pace still rubbing my sore boob and pelvis. I knew deep down inside she was just playing her role but damn, did she have to hit me so hard?
In no time at all we reached the backdoor and she didn’t hesitate as she opened it up. “ANGIE,” I whispered in a panic. “I can’t go outside like this! Someone might see me.”
She just laughed and wave her whip thing in front of my face. “Oh, I think you can. One way or another, the easy way or the hard way, you’ll do what I say from now on.” She walked out the door and I stupidly followed behind her into our backyard.
We went about 30 yards away from the house walking at an angle as I nervously kept looking around. If we kept going in this direction we would no longer be shielded by the house and I would be completely visible to the street and any passersby out front.
“Stop here,” my step-sister said.
I looked around and I still didn’t see anybody about. I then looked down and saw a hole in the ground about 8 inches in diameter and about a foot deep. “Boy, I am glad you saw that hole I almost stepped in it. I could have broken my ankle in that thing. Is that why you led me back here? Do you want me to fill it in?”
Angie just laughed out loud,” You’d better hope that nobody fills that in, you silly thing. That’s your new bathroom for the duration of this project.”
I scrunched up my face and looked her right in the eye, “What do you mean? Are you serious? I have to come all the way out here. . . to this, this HOLE whenever I have to go?”
My step-sister just tilted her head to one side and looked at me like I was from another planet. “This, my uninformed moron,” she said while pointing her index finger towards the hole, “is an historically accurate slave latrine. It is the proper distance away from the water supply, the kitchen, and the house.”
“Well, duh, I know about out-houses but this so-called slave hole doesn’t have walls or a roof or anything. It’s just a hole. Why can’t I use the latrines or whatever you are calling them in the house?”
“Slaves never used the facilities in the big house. In, fact, unlike large houses in big cities like Atlanta or Savannah, many rural planation houses of the period just used chamber pots like they did in the late 1700’s. Toilets or water closets weren’t widely available until nearly 1880. Since people of means like my ancestors often entertained out here in the sticks and they didn’t wish to force their upper-class guests the indignity of walking outside in all their finery to heed the call of nature in the dark to an outhouse.
“Chamber pots were available in each bedroom, and a special room downstairs for visitors. It was the duty of the slaves to empty and clean these pots so that they were ready to use throughout the day.”
“You’re making that up. And there’s NO WAY you’re going to convince me that you, your mom, or my dad are going to use chamber pots instead of the toilet let alone any guests that may come over.”
Angie just giggled. “You’ll find out if I am making this up or not when you have to clean these pots several times a day. I’m going to enjoy watching you clean my filth.”
I just looked at her with what I believe was the most bewildered expression I could make. “Seriously?”
She the continued with her little history lesson. “Slaves, on the other hand, were forbidden to use the ornate, ceramic chamber pots. Instead, they were relegated to the slave latrine, which in this case is outside. . . right here.” She explained pointing her finger towards the hole.
“But . . . people will see me! I’d just die doing something so personal out in the open. And . . . what if it is raining?”
“Honey, you are a slave; mere chattel. Horses and cows do their business out in the open and you are nothing more than they are so get used to it. If it is raining, well, you’ll just get wet that’s all.”
“Disgusting,” I said half under my breath but I know she heard me because her little grin turned into a full-mouth smile. “But . . . what will I use for toilet paper?”
“Here, my dear sister, I will cut you a little break. Since we don’t have plants and bushes out here where fresh leaves could be used to wipe yourself, I will allow you to use a cotton rag which you will wet before leaving the kitchen to wipe yourself then carry it back with you to clean the soiled rag with the garden hose, the bar of lye soap and that metal pale on that little table near the back door then hang the now clean rag up on that line to dry in the sun. Be sure you carry that rag out with you the next time you go, otherwise you will have to wipe yourself with your hands and clean them in the metal pale.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Unbelievable.”
“Welcome to the early 19th century my dear. Now, get busy and empty your bladder and whatever else you have to do. We have lots to do today.” She then reached into her font pocket and pulled out a small wash rag that looked like it was burlap or something and said, “Here, use this as your toilet rag. You’ll get a different rag to use when you are on your period. I’ll show you how to fasten it when the need arises.” She then unceremoniously tossed it to me which I had to react quickly to catch it before it hit the ground.”
I again shook my head in disbelief and squatted over the hole after making sure I saw no one looking at me or walking about. Fortunately, I only needed to urinate so I relieved myself then used the rag. My step-sister just stared at me doing my business the entire time. How embarrassing. She could have at least turned around or looked away but no, she observed everything. I was then escorted back to the house and proceeded to clean the rag and hang it up. I was about to make a dash for the door when she stopped me.
“You have a big day today. The first thing we need to do is get you clean and get your hair washed.”
That actually sounded good as I felt dirty after my experience last night and my outdoor toilet duty. She pointed at a spot about 15 feet away from the house and told me to stand there while she waited for me to comply. No sooner had I stopped walking toward that spot, I was hit with a blast of cold water on my back. I shrieked as she got me good and wet then had me turn around to face her and she blasted my front and my hair. She turned off the water then tossed me a new, clean cotton rag and a different, scented, but rough-looking bar of soap and told me to soap up the rag and start washing myself as she stood there watching. Surprisingly, unlike the bar of lye soap, this lathered up quite easily.
I looked up at her dripping wet as I worked up a lather in the rag and asked, “What is this soap, Angie? It smells nice and lathers up better than my usual bath soap. This can’t something they used in the 1880’s.”
“Oh, but it is. In fact, the ingredients date back to the pioneer days and modified in the 1830’s. It was known as a hair bar. Unlike our modern shampoos, hair bars were designed for the more well-to-do patrons to wash their hair. They would work the bar into a lather in their hands and wash their hair with it. The bar was easier to manage and store than bottles. I thought you could use this bar both to wash with and use on your hair as I had to get the pharmacist in town to make these bars for our project and they weren’t cheap.”
I starting going through the motions of washing myself and kept talking to Angie to reduce my embarrassment. “So, what is in it? Do you know?”
Angie smiled as if she was proud that I asked about this stuff. “I do know, actually. It contains something called soapwort which is a plant that produces a lather when mixed with water as well as fruits and herbs that are gentle on your hair like dried, ground up gooseberries which I guess the Indians called amla; and natural oils like olive oil and coconut oil that was shipped up the Mississippi river from Florida back then. Jack Conners, the pharmacist also added some other stuff that I can’t remember that helped make it into a bar soap. He had a ball looking this up and making it. Be sure to thank him when next you see him.”
“Gee, Angie, you have really put a lot of effort into this project. I am feeling better about your chances of you getting your scholarship and me getting my thirty grand.”
“Trust me. I am putting a hell of a lot of effort into making this accurate. You’d better not screw this up for me.”
I just looked up and smiled at her not saying a word. It wouldn’t hurt her to think that she’d better not overdo this stuff. Continuing my washing I did the best I could on my front side but washing my backside was harder. Finally, I thought I had done pretty well and looked up at my step-sister all soapy waiting for her to rinse me.
“You need to do a better job between your legs and butt. A lot of people will be looking at you today. I am sure you want to make a good impression. Wash everything again.”
I reached my hand with the rag in between my legs and went to scrubbing in earnest a second time.
“Harder!” she shouted, clearly back into her bossy mode. “Deeper. Get into those folds really good. I’ll tell you when you are done.”
I felt myself blushing as I knew what she was trying to make me do and I wasn’t going to let that happen. After about another 5 or so minutes she told me to stop and turn around which I did. She blasted me with the cold water again then walked around to my front side and rinsed me all over. Then she got my hair wet again and told me to use the same soap on my hair.
Usually, I always used an expensive shampoo and a fine conditioner on my hair whenever I washed it and it always came out silky and shiny. I hoped this hair bar soap stuff wouldn’t make my hair fall out or anything and it would come out at least looking presentable. I’m sure I’d look terrible as a bald slave.
When I was through, she spent a good amount of time rinsing my hair then, walking around me with the hose, blasted my body from the back one more time with water. When she got to my front, she spent an inordinate amount of time spraying my pelvis and vagina. She kept the water directed on that same spot (I am sure you can guess what spot she was aiming at, the bitch) and just waited. My breathing got faster and the water was having the desired effect. I couldn’t help myself, closed my eyes, and just stood there letting the splashing water do its magic for just a little bit longer. I had never been outside naked before let alone masturbated myself in public and it felt good. The sensations were overwhelming even if my step-sister was the cause of them. I was getting closer and closer to what I thought was going to be a very intense orgasm when I heard a voice!
“Hello, Miss Angie,” he said with a smile.
I screamed and stepped away from the water jet as my step-sister dropped the hose and turned to greet our visitor. My arms immediately went to cover my chest and my pelvis as best as I could as water from my skin dripped onto the grass in front of this man.
“Hello, Mr. Longacre,” Angie said warmly. “I am glad you are here early.”
It was our local farrier and I remembered he was here to fit some more historically accurate shackles and collar for me. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. The muscular young man was dressed in period clothing and had a hold of a Mule hitched to a cart carrying an anvil and what I presumed to be all sorts of other horsey stuff of his trade. Mr. Longacre looked to be in his upper twenties and was very attractive. His being here didn’t help my arousal level one bit and I could feel myself down there getting wetter by the minute. (Hey, I was naked for Pete’s sakes and he was a hottie.)
“Hello, Brooke, “He said turning towards me. “You’re looking beautiful today.” I felt my knees getting week beneath me at his comment.
My step-sister interrupted him before he could say anything else, “That’s not Brooke, anymore. Her new name is Honey.”
He smiled at me which made my heart beat faster as he looked over my wet, naked body for a moment then replied. “Honey, eh . . . What a sweet name for a lowly slave.” His comment made my self-esteem drop immensely. Why did he have to say something like that and put me down?
“Where would you like me to set up, Miss Angie?”
“You can go ahead set up out front. When you arrived, did you see that sturdy hitching post, with its legs partially buried into the ground just to the right of the porch as you are facing it from the street?”
“Yes, I did as a matter of fact.”
“You can set up your portable forge, anvil, and stuff off to the side near that area. There is a hose nearby to fill your cooling tub on the side of the porch.”
Mr. Longacre gave me one more leering look, smiled a knowing smile, and led his mule and cart back out front.
When he was out of sight, Angie started laughing out loud. “You should have seen your face when you saw that guy looking at you. I have never seen a more embarrassed look on anyone. It was priceless! What’s the matter, hasn’t a boy seen you naked before?” Her laughing grew more intense as she was clearly enjoying my discomfort.
“Could I please have a towel so I can dry off and go inside?”
“No can do, Honey-babe. Slaves weren’t afforded fine towels. You can just stay here outside and let the air dry you. I’ll be back in a moment to fix your hair.” She then pulled my hands behind my back and clipped the leather wrist cuffs together. “That’s just to make it harder for you to run off. You can’t run very fast with your hands linked like that.” She then turned and went back into the house leaving me in the sun to continue drying off.
I could hear the noises of the farrier setting things up which were unnerving to say the least. Knowing a stranger was just out front gave me goosebumps, or maybe those were just from the cold water on my skin. Either way, my skin was hypersensitive and all my nerves were tingling.
Angie returned carrying a small box of sticks and some cloth strips. She proceeded to brush out my wet hair and much to my surprise the bristle brush glided smoothly down my hair. I was expecting it to be a tangled mess. Maybe there was something to that hair soap stuff afterall. She eventually took one of the round, half-inch thick sticks that were maybe 6 inches long and tightly wrapped a fair amount of my wet hair around and around the vertical stick until it reached the bottom and then tied it off with a piece of cloth holding it in place.
The process was repeated all around my head. It felt ridiculous. Every time I turned my head, the sticks would jingle up against my skull and sound like wooden wind chimes as they banged against each other. “What in the world are you doing?” I finally asked.
“Giving your hair some ringlets, silly. As your wet hair dries against the sticks it will keep a nice curly shape cascading down your head to your shoulders. It was all the rage in fashionable society back then.”
“You mean slaves actually got their hair styled? Who knew?”
“No, you dope, but I want you to look your best at the auction so you will fetch a better price. The better you look; the more people will spend on you.” She started putting things away as she said, “Now just wait here for a minute. I want your hair to dry some more.”
I nodded and watched her retreat to the safety of our house once again.
*****
“Oh, hey again,” Mr. Longacre said as he came around the corner of the house into the backyard. “Is your step-sister around? I need to make a few measurements of your neck and wrists before I put the finishing touches on your collar and wrist shackles that I’m making for you.”
Once again, my hands flew down to cover my chest and pelvis as my heart rate accelerated as he looked at me. “Um . . . my step-sister?” I mumbled a bit dazed.
“Yeah, you know, your boss. Where did she go?”
I just looked at him in silence. I was truly intimidated by him. I didn’t know if that was because of all his muscles and manliness or if it was because he was so darned handsome and I was completely naked and horny as hell, but I either way I just couldn’t get words to come out of my mouth.
“No matter,” he said taking a few steps closer to me. “I can get what I need without her. Just don’t move. He walked behind me and unhooked and then removed both of my damp wrist cuffs and then unlatched my dog collar and tossed everything onto the ground. Just feeling his rough hands against my skin made me wet in the most embarrassing of places. I hoped he didn’t notice.
He told me to hold my left wrist up in the air and then taking a piece of cloth with markings on it wrapped it around the lower part of my wrist just before my hand and made a mark on the cloth indicating the circumference. He did another measurement just about two inches higher on my arm towards my elbow and recorded that measurement. He did the same on my other hand before doing something similar on the lower part of my neck then about two inches above that a little higher on my neck. Several times his upper arms and elbows rubbed against my naked albeit small breasts causing my already prominent nipples to protrude even more. I wasn’t sure if he was doing that on purpose getting a cheap thrill, or that it was just incidental contact as a result of doing his job. Either way, it was the first time a guy had touched those places – incidentally or not. (Okay, it felt good in a way. Uninvited, but nice.)
“What are you doing?” I asked trying to break the tension, but my voice cracked and quivered giving away how nervous I was.
“Most people don’t take care making real shackles and collars,” he explained. “If they are made incorrectly, they slide with every movement of your arm and chafe the skin, not only making them uncomfortable to wear but they leave almost permanent scaring that can affect the value of a slave. If a slave is truly valuable, then her master would spend a little extra money and make them an exact fit reducing the chance of injury and discomfort.
“Most people don’t realize that the wrist narrows as you approach the hand so the top of the wrist towards the elbow is wider and the bottom nearest the hand is narrower. The same is true of the neck only there the bottom is wider and narrows as you go up the neck. Making the shackles and collar custom fit will not only look better and be more comfortable, but they are more functional as well.”
“Functional?”
“Yes, like if you are made to give a guest a hand job you can’t very well have the metal shackle sliding up and down on your wrist banging on his sensitive . . . ahem . . . appendage, can you? That wouldn’t be functional, would it?”
“Why in the hell would I be doing something like that!?” I snapped.
“You are a slave, aren’t you? It goes with the territory – especially if you are to be a fancy girl.”
“Shut your mouth. You don’t know what in the hell you are talking about. Just because I am standing here naked doesn’t mean I am a prostitute! This is for a school project, ya know. Nothing more.”
“Whatever you say, Honey.” With that he left, chuckling to himself.
I was furious! How dare he insinuate that . . .
The back door opened and Angie seemed surprised. “What happened to your cuffs and dog collar? How did you get them off?”
“I didn’t. That asshole, Mr. Longacre, did. He made some measurements and . . .”
“Great!” she exclaimed. “He must be close to getting you ready for your final fitting. We’d best get you inside and get you something to eat. We are all done with our breakfast but there is still a bit of time for you to eat.”
That sounded marvelous as I was indeed quite famished. I was led into the house and saw the dining room table with four plates with scraps upon them. Whatever they had looked good. I knew my dad was already gone so I wondered who had the other two plates.
“Before you eat,” My step-mom said as she came into the dining room, “scrape all the scraps onto a clean plate then wash the dirty plates and silverware.”
“Yes, mom” I replied.
“That’s ma’am” to you now.”
“Yes ma’am” I corrected myself and proceeded to do as she asked. When the dishes were done, I turned and I asked Susan as I picked up the last plate, “What should I do with these scraps here?
“She gave me a smirk and simply said, “Why eat them of course. Aren’t you hungry?”
I rolled my eyes. I should have known. I turned and headed for the silverware drawer.
“Slaves don’t get silverware. Use your fingers. And, clean up after yourself when you are done.” I stomped over to the table resigned to my fate when she added, “Take it to your little room and eat. In this house, a slave NEVER sits on household furniture. Ever.”
Once in my room, I sat on the floor and picked at the cold, half-eaten food on the plate. There were a few remnants of sausage links, a half-eaten biscuit, a small pile of scrambled eggs, and some lumps of cold grits. I could tell this was going to be a long day for me.
Next up Chapter 2B
BY: Hooked6
Copyright January 2024 by Hooked6 (Hooked6@hotmail.com) all rights reserved. Reproduction, redistribution, reposting on another Internet site whether or not a charge or profit is made is forbidden without the expressed written consent of the author. All characters are over 18.
The Antebellum School Project
BY: Hooked6
Chapter 2A
Chapter 1: viewtopic.php?t=1278
Author’s note: This chapter was rather long so I broke it up into two chapters (2A and 2B) as there was a lot of background material I wanted to include before reaching the more action filled chapters that follow. Hopefully it didn’t detract from your enjoyment.
I looked up at my dad and as the others were chatting amongst themselves, I softly asked, “Dad, I thought you bought this house after you married Susan so we could all live in a place that would be ours.”
“That’s right.”
“So how come Angie and Susan keep referring to this place as their home like it has belonged to them for a century or two when you only bought it a couple of years ago? And how come they keep referring to Honey back in olden times as joining the Harkins family? I thought my step-mom’s maiden name was Beacham. Did your family relatives own slaves or something? Was Honey somebody in your family dad? I am so confused?”
My dad just laughed. “Maybe this will help. Susan, your step-mom, was in fact married to a Beachum before he died but Susan’s maiden name was actually Harkins, just like mine, and before you ask, no, she and I aren’t related.
“Though our family names are both Harkins, we are from different family trees so to speak. Susan’s family used to own this house. In fact, her ancestors originally built it back in 1840. It has been in her family for generations until Susan’s dad ran into financial trouble in the late 1990’s and got behind on his bills and taxes when she was a child and they had to sell it. Susan loved this house when she was growing up. Angie, of course, never lived in this house as she wasn’t born until well after her family lost it. After Susan and I married, I agreed to purchase this house back so she could carry on the family heritage.”
“So THAT explains why Angie is so compulsive about doing all this research and it was Susan’s ancestors that owned slaves not ours,” I said as if a light bulb suddenly went off above my head.
My dad put his arm around me, which made me feel really weird as I was still naked, as he continued to explain. “Angie has only recently learned about her heritage and has taken it to heart. It also explains why this project of hers is so important not only to her scholarship but to her understanding of her ancestors’ family history.”
I nodded, “I get it. I just wish I didn’t have to be a SLAVE of all things. Do you know what that will do to my reputation at school?”
My dad gave me a loving hug and said, “I know my Little . . . I mean, Honey. I am sure this will be difficult for you but if you aren’t willing to give it your all for Angie’s sake, could you at least do it for me? I love your step-mom very, very much and I know how much this means for both Susan and her daughter. You’d also be making a valuable contribution to your generation’s understanding of a part of history that everyone these days is trying to erase as if it never happened. You can see it everywhere with people tearing down statues and monuments, altering textbooks for political reasons, renaming schools and public buildings rather than understanding what it was really like. How are people going to remember the past and avoid repeating it if people don’t know about it? I’ve seen the extensive research Angie has put in to this. I am so proud of you for helping out. I know you won’t let me down, well . . . let our family down I should say, by not giving this your best effort.”
“I won’t let you down, dad. I will make you proud of me, you’ll see.”
“I know you will, sweetheart, I mean, Honey. Oh, and I need to tell you that tomorrow is Saturday. I didn’t know this was all coming together so quickly and I am already committed to fly out to California for several days to our corporate offices and prepare for an important presentation on Tuesday. I’ll be back later in the week, by Friday at the latest. I hate to miss the first few days of your project but I am sure I’ll find out all about it when I get back. I have to leave for Atlanta rather early to catch my flight so I doubt you’ll see me by the time you get up and about.”
“Aw, dad! Do you have to . . .”
“Honey!” I heard a forceful voice exclaim, “What are you doing hugging the master of this house?” It was Miss Sedgwick rudely interrupting my quiet talk with my dad. I immediately dropped my arms from around his back and took a step away from my dad. “Slaves do NOT hug their betters.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know the project had already started.” Her disapproving look made me feel very small and foolish.
*****
I was told to sleep in a small, old storeroom off the kitchen that had been cleared out – just four walls. No windows. A thin mattress had been placed on the floor and I was given an old thin, scratchy, wool blanket to use in case I got cold. Yes, I had to sleep naked still wearing the dog collar and wrist cuffs. The door to the storeroom was propped open and I was told to leave it alone. I surmised that at one time a slave must have really slept there and propping open the door allowed someone to check to be sure that the slave didn’t try to escape – at least that’s what I imagined anyway.
Before I was left alone, I was given an old oil lamp of the type I had seen in those Hollywood westerns so I could start writing in my journal with strict instructions to blow out the flame as soon as I was done writing.
Oh, and speaking of my journal, Angie really impressed me. She gave me a very authentic appearing journal to write down my thoughts and experiences in for her project. The front and back covers consisted of two hard pieces of leather with hand-punched holes on the left side of each panel. The holes looked like someone had made them with a sharp knife by twisting the blade around and round until a hole was made. The holes were of varying sizes and not evenly spaced. Inside the front and back leather panel were probably 100 pages of plain parchment-like paper which also had holes on the left side of each page. The whole thing was tied together by a real leather string that was woven in and out of each hole from top to bottom and secured with a rather large, hand-tied knot. The homemade book opened like a spiral bound binder. It was very old looking like someone might have made way back in the day. It wasn’t fancy but it was functional. I was given a fountain pen, which I guess was a concession of convenience as opposed to giving me a feather quill and a bottle of ink. Knowing me, I’d make a mess or spill the ink well.
I had no idea what I was supposed to write but I wanted to please my dad so I just wrote a short entry that was truthful and would suit my step-sister’s purpose.
April 30th,
Today I was made a slave. Can you imagine ME, a slave! It goes against everything I believe in. Slavery is wrong and it wasn’t my idea, yet I really had little choice. I was forced to strip myself of every bit of clothing in front of several people - male and female - and some mean old lady forced me to accept a collar around my neck and shackles around my wrists. How humiliating! I was shoved into a small room and made to sleep on a thin homemade pad they called a mattress. It did little to protect me from the hard wooden floor I can tell you. It was darn uncomfortable. I have no idea what is going to happen to me or what tomorrow will bring.
Honey
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be writing as Honey back in 1845 or as me, the new Honey, writing today? I chose to be general and just write what happened to me as truthfully as I could. If I didn’t do it right it will be their fault as no one gave me any direction. I put the journal under my so-called mattress and blew out the lamplight and went to sleep. I had a restless night but managed to finally fall asleep.
*****
“GET UP, YOU LAZY HEIFER.” I heard a voice screaming at me. When I finally opened my eyes, it appeared to be daylight, well, early morning anyway.
“Oh, Angie it’s just you. What time is it anyway?” I mumbled still half asleep. All of a sudden, I felt a very sharp pain on my backside. “OUCH! What the fuck? Angie, what is wrong with you?” I snapped at her.
CRACK!
I felt another sharp and very painful burning again on my backside. I quickly rolled away from whatever had struck me and saw Angie holding a small leather handle in her hand that had two, foot-long leather straps protruding from that handle she was holding. I then saw her raise it up over her shoulder preparing to strike me again.
Immediately, I stood up facing Angie rubbing my naked butt-cheeks when Angie spoke again, “Listen, you swine, when I tell you to do something you had better snap to it and do it immediately. Got that, you lazy bitch? What do you think this is, a country club or something?”
“No, ma’am; sorry ma’am. I didn’t sleep well last . . .”
CRACK!
Angie brought the leather straps down hard across my right breast this time and boy did that hurt like hell! I didn’t have time to protect myself as both my hands were still rubbing my butt-cheeks from the last two times she got me with that thing.
“ANGIE, STOP IT! THAT HURTS!”
I saw her raise that thing up again and, in a flash, I brought both my arms up to cover my small breasts but she was too fast for me and flung those infernal straps down across my lower pelvis and pubic hair missing my vulva by mere millimeters.
I screamed in agony as she clearly knew where my most tender spots were and I gave her a very angry look as I readjusted by hands to cover both my tits and my pussy, bending at my waist to minimize the amount of bare flesh that thing could strike.
Angie just looked at me and stood there apparently daring me to say something else.
I didn’t. there was silence for several moments with both of us just staring at each other.
“Geez, are you a slow learner,” she said with a soft giggle. “Follow me,” she said still giggling as she turned and walked out of the kitchen and into a small hallway.
I didn’t have to be told twice. I took up a position right behind her and kept pace still rubbing my sore boob and pelvis. I knew deep down inside she was just playing her role but damn, did she have to hit me so hard?
In no time at all we reached the backdoor and she didn’t hesitate as she opened it up. “ANGIE,” I whispered in a panic. “I can’t go outside like this! Someone might see me.”
She just laughed and wave her whip thing in front of my face. “Oh, I think you can. One way or another, the easy way or the hard way, you’ll do what I say from now on.” She walked out the door and I stupidly followed behind her into our backyard.
We went about 30 yards away from the house walking at an angle as I nervously kept looking around. If we kept going in this direction we would no longer be shielded by the house and I would be completely visible to the street and any passersby out front.
“Stop here,” my step-sister said.
I looked around and I still didn’t see anybody about. I then looked down and saw a hole in the ground about 8 inches in diameter and about a foot deep. “Boy, I am glad you saw that hole I almost stepped in it. I could have broken my ankle in that thing. Is that why you led me back here? Do you want me to fill it in?”
Angie just laughed out loud,” You’d better hope that nobody fills that in, you silly thing. That’s your new bathroom for the duration of this project.”
I scrunched up my face and looked her right in the eye, “What do you mean? Are you serious? I have to come all the way out here. . . to this, this HOLE whenever I have to go?”
My step-sister just tilted her head to one side and looked at me like I was from another planet. “This, my uninformed moron,” she said while pointing her index finger towards the hole, “is an historically accurate slave latrine. It is the proper distance away from the water supply, the kitchen, and the house.”
“Well, duh, I know about out-houses but this so-called slave hole doesn’t have walls or a roof or anything. It’s just a hole. Why can’t I use the latrines or whatever you are calling them in the house?”
“Slaves never used the facilities in the big house. In, fact, unlike large houses in big cities like Atlanta or Savannah, many rural planation houses of the period just used chamber pots like they did in the late 1700’s. Toilets or water closets weren’t widely available until nearly 1880. Since people of means like my ancestors often entertained out here in the sticks and they didn’t wish to force their upper-class guests the indignity of walking outside in all their finery to heed the call of nature in the dark to an outhouse.
“Chamber pots were available in each bedroom, and a special room downstairs for visitors. It was the duty of the slaves to empty and clean these pots so that they were ready to use throughout the day.”
“You’re making that up. And there’s NO WAY you’re going to convince me that you, your mom, or my dad are going to use chamber pots instead of the toilet let alone any guests that may come over.”
Angie just giggled. “You’ll find out if I am making this up or not when you have to clean these pots several times a day. I’m going to enjoy watching you clean my filth.”
I just looked at her with what I believe was the most bewildered expression I could make. “Seriously?”
She the continued with her little history lesson. “Slaves, on the other hand, were forbidden to use the ornate, ceramic chamber pots. Instead, they were relegated to the slave latrine, which in this case is outside. . . right here.” She explained pointing her finger towards the hole.
“But . . . people will see me! I’d just die doing something so personal out in the open. And . . . what if it is raining?”
“Honey, you are a slave; mere chattel. Horses and cows do their business out in the open and you are nothing more than they are so get used to it. If it is raining, well, you’ll just get wet that’s all.”
“Disgusting,” I said half under my breath but I know she heard me because her little grin turned into a full-mouth smile. “But . . . what will I use for toilet paper?”
“Here, my dear sister, I will cut you a little break. Since we don’t have plants and bushes out here where fresh leaves could be used to wipe yourself, I will allow you to use a cotton rag which you will wet before leaving the kitchen to wipe yourself then carry it back with you to clean the soiled rag with the garden hose, the bar of lye soap and that metal pale on that little table near the back door then hang the now clean rag up on that line to dry in the sun. Be sure you carry that rag out with you the next time you go, otherwise you will have to wipe yourself with your hands and clean them in the metal pale.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Unbelievable.”
“Welcome to the early 19th century my dear. Now, get busy and empty your bladder and whatever else you have to do. We have lots to do today.” She then reached into her font pocket and pulled out a small wash rag that looked like it was burlap or something and said, “Here, use this as your toilet rag. You’ll get a different rag to use when you are on your period. I’ll show you how to fasten it when the need arises.” She then unceremoniously tossed it to me which I had to react quickly to catch it before it hit the ground.”
I again shook my head in disbelief and squatted over the hole after making sure I saw no one looking at me or walking about. Fortunately, I only needed to urinate so I relieved myself then used the rag. My step-sister just stared at me doing my business the entire time. How embarrassing. She could have at least turned around or looked away but no, she observed everything. I was then escorted back to the house and proceeded to clean the rag and hang it up. I was about to make a dash for the door when she stopped me.
“You have a big day today. The first thing we need to do is get you clean and get your hair washed.”
That actually sounded good as I felt dirty after my experience last night and my outdoor toilet duty. She pointed at a spot about 15 feet away from the house and told me to stand there while she waited for me to comply. No sooner had I stopped walking toward that spot, I was hit with a blast of cold water on my back. I shrieked as she got me good and wet then had me turn around to face her and she blasted my front and my hair. She turned off the water then tossed me a new, clean cotton rag and a different, scented, but rough-looking bar of soap and told me to soap up the rag and start washing myself as she stood there watching. Surprisingly, unlike the bar of lye soap, this lathered up quite easily.
I looked up at her dripping wet as I worked up a lather in the rag and asked, “What is this soap, Angie? It smells nice and lathers up better than my usual bath soap. This can’t something they used in the 1880’s.”
“Oh, but it is. In fact, the ingredients date back to the pioneer days and modified in the 1830’s. It was known as a hair bar. Unlike our modern shampoos, hair bars were designed for the more well-to-do patrons to wash their hair. They would work the bar into a lather in their hands and wash their hair with it. The bar was easier to manage and store than bottles. I thought you could use this bar both to wash with and use on your hair as I had to get the pharmacist in town to make these bars for our project and they weren’t cheap.”
I starting going through the motions of washing myself and kept talking to Angie to reduce my embarrassment. “So, what is in it? Do you know?”
Angie smiled as if she was proud that I asked about this stuff. “I do know, actually. It contains something called soapwort which is a plant that produces a lather when mixed with water as well as fruits and herbs that are gentle on your hair like dried, ground up gooseberries which I guess the Indians called amla; and natural oils like olive oil and coconut oil that was shipped up the Mississippi river from Florida back then. Jack Conners, the pharmacist also added some other stuff that I can’t remember that helped make it into a bar soap. He had a ball looking this up and making it. Be sure to thank him when next you see him.”
“Gee, Angie, you have really put a lot of effort into this project. I am feeling better about your chances of you getting your scholarship and me getting my thirty grand.”
“Trust me. I am putting a hell of a lot of effort into making this accurate. You’d better not screw this up for me.”
I just looked up and smiled at her not saying a word. It wouldn’t hurt her to think that she’d better not overdo this stuff. Continuing my washing I did the best I could on my front side but washing my backside was harder. Finally, I thought I had done pretty well and looked up at my step-sister all soapy waiting for her to rinse me.
“You need to do a better job between your legs and butt. A lot of people will be looking at you today. I am sure you want to make a good impression. Wash everything again.”
I reached my hand with the rag in between my legs and went to scrubbing in earnest a second time.
“Harder!” she shouted, clearly back into her bossy mode. “Deeper. Get into those folds really good. I’ll tell you when you are done.”
I felt myself blushing as I knew what she was trying to make me do and I wasn’t going to let that happen. After about another 5 or so minutes she told me to stop and turn around which I did. She blasted me with the cold water again then walked around to my front side and rinsed me all over. Then she got my hair wet again and told me to use the same soap on my hair.
Usually, I always used an expensive shampoo and a fine conditioner on my hair whenever I washed it and it always came out silky and shiny. I hoped this hair bar soap stuff wouldn’t make my hair fall out or anything and it would come out at least looking presentable. I’m sure I’d look terrible as a bald slave.
When I was through, she spent a good amount of time rinsing my hair then, walking around me with the hose, blasted my body from the back one more time with water. When she got to my front, she spent an inordinate amount of time spraying my pelvis and vagina. She kept the water directed on that same spot (I am sure you can guess what spot she was aiming at, the bitch) and just waited. My breathing got faster and the water was having the desired effect. I couldn’t help myself, closed my eyes, and just stood there letting the splashing water do its magic for just a little bit longer. I had never been outside naked before let alone masturbated myself in public and it felt good. The sensations were overwhelming even if my step-sister was the cause of them. I was getting closer and closer to what I thought was going to be a very intense orgasm when I heard a voice!
“Hello, Miss Angie,” he said with a smile.
I screamed and stepped away from the water jet as my step-sister dropped the hose and turned to greet our visitor. My arms immediately went to cover my chest and my pelvis as best as I could as water from my skin dripped onto the grass in front of this man.
“Hello, Mr. Longacre,” Angie said warmly. “I am glad you are here early.”
It was our local farrier and I remembered he was here to fit some more historically accurate shackles and collar for me. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. The muscular young man was dressed in period clothing and had a hold of a Mule hitched to a cart carrying an anvil and what I presumed to be all sorts of other horsey stuff of his trade. Mr. Longacre looked to be in his upper twenties and was very attractive. His being here didn’t help my arousal level one bit and I could feel myself down there getting wetter by the minute. (Hey, I was naked for Pete’s sakes and he was a hottie.)
“Hello, Brooke, “He said turning towards me. “You’re looking beautiful today.” I felt my knees getting week beneath me at his comment.
My step-sister interrupted him before he could say anything else, “That’s not Brooke, anymore. Her new name is Honey.”
He smiled at me which made my heart beat faster as he looked over my wet, naked body for a moment then replied. “Honey, eh . . . What a sweet name for a lowly slave.” His comment made my self-esteem drop immensely. Why did he have to say something like that and put me down?
“Where would you like me to set up, Miss Angie?”
“You can go ahead set up out front. When you arrived, did you see that sturdy hitching post, with its legs partially buried into the ground just to the right of the porch as you are facing it from the street?”
“Yes, I did as a matter of fact.”
“You can set up your portable forge, anvil, and stuff off to the side near that area. There is a hose nearby to fill your cooling tub on the side of the porch.”
Mr. Longacre gave me one more leering look, smiled a knowing smile, and led his mule and cart back out front.
When he was out of sight, Angie started laughing out loud. “You should have seen your face when you saw that guy looking at you. I have never seen a more embarrassed look on anyone. It was priceless! What’s the matter, hasn’t a boy seen you naked before?” Her laughing grew more intense as she was clearly enjoying my discomfort.
“Could I please have a towel so I can dry off and go inside?”
“No can do, Honey-babe. Slaves weren’t afforded fine towels. You can just stay here outside and let the air dry you. I’ll be back in a moment to fix your hair.” She then pulled my hands behind my back and clipped the leather wrist cuffs together. “That’s just to make it harder for you to run off. You can’t run very fast with your hands linked like that.” She then turned and went back into the house leaving me in the sun to continue drying off.
I could hear the noises of the farrier setting things up which were unnerving to say the least. Knowing a stranger was just out front gave me goosebumps, or maybe those were just from the cold water on my skin. Either way, my skin was hypersensitive and all my nerves were tingling.
Angie returned carrying a small box of sticks and some cloth strips. She proceeded to brush out my wet hair and much to my surprise the bristle brush glided smoothly down my hair. I was expecting it to be a tangled mess. Maybe there was something to that hair soap stuff afterall. She eventually took one of the round, half-inch thick sticks that were maybe 6 inches long and tightly wrapped a fair amount of my wet hair around and around the vertical stick until it reached the bottom and then tied it off with a piece of cloth holding it in place.
The process was repeated all around my head. It felt ridiculous. Every time I turned my head, the sticks would jingle up against my skull and sound like wooden wind chimes as they banged against each other. “What in the world are you doing?” I finally asked.
“Giving your hair some ringlets, silly. As your wet hair dries against the sticks it will keep a nice curly shape cascading down your head to your shoulders. It was all the rage in fashionable society back then.”
“You mean slaves actually got their hair styled? Who knew?”
“No, you dope, but I want you to look your best at the auction so you will fetch a better price. The better you look; the more people will spend on you.” She started putting things away as she said, “Now just wait here for a minute. I want your hair to dry some more.”
I nodded and watched her retreat to the safety of our house once again.
*****
“Oh, hey again,” Mr. Longacre said as he came around the corner of the house into the backyard. “Is your step-sister around? I need to make a few measurements of your neck and wrists before I put the finishing touches on your collar and wrist shackles that I’m making for you.”
Once again, my hands flew down to cover my chest and pelvis as my heart rate accelerated as he looked at me. “Um . . . my step-sister?” I mumbled a bit dazed.
“Yeah, you know, your boss. Where did she go?”
I just looked at him in silence. I was truly intimidated by him. I didn’t know if that was because of all his muscles and manliness or if it was because he was so darned handsome and I was completely naked and horny as hell, but I either way I just couldn’t get words to come out of my mouth.
“No matter,” he said taking a few steps closer to me. “I can get what I need without her. Just don’t move. He walked behind me and unhooked and then removed both of my damp wrist cuffs and then unlatched my dog collar and tossed everything onto the ground. Just feeling his rough hands against my skin made me wet in the most embarrassing of places. I hoped he didn’t notice.
He told me to hold my left wrist up in the air and then taking a piece of cloth with markings on it wrapped it around the lower part of my wrist just before my hand and made a mark on the cloth indicating the circumference. He did another measurement just about two inches higher on my arm towards my elbow and recorded that measurement. He did the same on my other hand before doing something similar on the lower part of my neck then about two inches above that a little higher on my neck. Several times his upper arms and elbows rubbed against my naked albeit small breasts causing my already prominent nipples to protrude even more. I wasn’t sure if he was doing that on purpose getting a cheap thrill, or that it was just incidental contact as a result of doing his job. Either way, it was the first time a guy had touched those places – incidentally or not. (Okay, it felt good in a way. Uninvited, but nice.)
“What are you doing?” I asked trying to break the tension, but my voice cracked and quivered giving away how nervous I was.
“Most people don’t take care making real shackles and collars,” he explained. “If they are made incorrectly, they slide with every movement of your arm and chafe the skin, not only making them uncomfortable to wear but they leave almost permanent scaring that can affect the value of a slave. If a slave is truly valuable, then her master would spend a little extra money and make them an exact fit reducing the chance of injury and discomfort.
“Most people don’t realize that the wrist narrows as you approach the hand so the top of the wrist towards the elbow is wider and the bottom nearest the hand is narrower. The same is true of the neck only there the bottom is wider and narrows as you go up the neck. Making the shackles and collar custom fit will not only look better and be more comfortable, but they are more functional as well.”
“Functional?”
“Yes, like if you are made to give a guest a hand job you can’t very well have the metal shackle sliding up and down on your wrist banging on his sensitive . . . ahem . . . appendage, can you? That wouldn’t be functional, would it?”
“Why in the hell would I be doing something like that!?” I snapped.
“You are a slave, aren’t you? It goes with the territory – especially if you are to be a fancy girl.”
“Shut your mouth. You don’t know what in the hell you are talking about. Just because I am standing here naked doesn’t mean I am a prostitute! This is for a school project, ya know. Nothing more.”
“Whatever you say, Honey.” With that he left, chuckling to himself.
I was furious! How dare he insinuate that . . .
The back door opened and Angie seemed surprised. “What happened to your cuffs and dog collar? How did you get them off?”
“I didn’t. That asshole, Mr. Longacre, did. He made some measurements and . . .”
“Great!” she exclaimed. “He must be close to getting you ready for your final fitting. We’d best get you inside and get you something to eat. We are all done with our breakfast but there is still a bit of time for you to eat.”
That sounded marvelous as I was indeed quite famished. I was led into the house and saw the dining room table with four plates with scraps upon them. Whatever they had looked good. I knew my dad was already gone so I wondered who had the other two plates.
“Before you eat,” My step-mom said as she came into the dining room, “scrape all the scraps onto a clean plate then wash the dirty plates and silverware.”
“Yes, mom” I replied.
“That’s ma’am” to you now.”
“Yes ma’am” I corrected myself and proceeded to do as she asked. When the dishes were done, I turned and I asked Susan as I picked up the last plate, “What should I do with these scraps here?
“She gave me a smirk and simply said, “Why eat them of course. Aren’t you hungry?”
I rolled my eyes. I should have known. I turned and headed for the silverware drawer.
“Slaves don’t get silverware. Use your fingers. And, clean up after yourself when you are done.” I stomped over to the table resigned to my fate when she added, “Take it to your little room and eat. In this house, a slave NEVER sits on household furniture. Ever.”
Once in my room, I sat on the floor and picked at the cold, half-eaten food on the plate. There were a few remnants of sausage links, a half-eaten biscuit, a small pile of scrambled eggs, and some lumps of cold grits. I could tell this was going to be a long day for me.
Next up Chapter 2B
