THE DEVIL IS IN THE DETAILS

                           by 

                         Watcher


Part 1
 
The handsome man in the tailored blue pinstripe suit who sat down 
at her table was not what she was expecting.  Then again, she was 
not sure what she HAD been expecting, but certainly not this 
fellow who looked like he might be a Hollywood star or a model.
 
"I believe you are expecting me."
 
She could detect no accent in his voice.  Well-educated, yes, but 
without any hint that he belonged to any particular region or 
group.  He certainly looked like he fitted in here with the rich 
and famous patrons who graced one of the city's most exclusive 
restaurants. 
 
With a polite incline of her head, she nodded at the empty seat 
across the table and tried to keep her expression neutral and 
controlled as he sat down.  Keeping her composure these last 
twenty-four hours had been hard.  It was frightening how fast 
everything had gone wrong.  She had always known that this might 
happen, but never so fast, never with so little warning.  She 
had expected to get another two or three years out of it yet.
 
Time now was the key.  If she had more time, she could sell out 
and do it quietly.  With enough time she could keep her dealings 
under the radar and slip out of the country to her non-extradition 
nation of choice with enough money and resources to buy the place 
if she had to.
 
Only she did not have time.  That was the problem.  At best there 
was perhaps a week, and it would be a roller coaster ride even 
then.  If she started a fire sale she would set alarm bells going 
off all over Wall Street, and, by her best estimate, she would be 
lucky to get out of the country with twenty million.  Twenty 
million!  She was accustomed to controlling billions, of having 
her opinion sought by the World Bank and the IMF.  Twenty million 
would hardly buy her a decent villa, let alone provide for her for 
the rest of her life in anything resembling the lifestyle she had 
grown accustomed to over the years.
 
She had left senators and CEOs sweating and stammering in her time, 
but, under the stranger's scrutiny, she began to fidget and had to 
clamp her hands together under the table to keep them from shaking.
 
"You're not what I was expecting," she finally said, just to break 
his unnerving stare and the uncomfortable silence.  This had to be 
a joke, and she was the bigger fool for coming here.  Yet the man 
who had told her about him had been so insistent, so convincing.
 
"I get that a lot," he said pleasantly.  "Hollywood and its special 
effects have a lot to answer for."  He glanced at his watch before 
looking up at her again.  "Normally I would like nothing more than 
to spend some quality time with you, since I am a very big fan, but 
I gather you are on the clock, so to speak."
 
She nodded, but, for once in her life, was not sure how to proceed. 
She was making a fool of herself; she was almost certain of that.  
This man could not possibly help her, no matter how expensive his 
Saville Row suit or his diamond cufflinks.  She should leave; her 
limited time would be better spent with her attorney or, better 
yet, her stockbroker. 
 
"Allow me to start," he said, just as she reached out to grasp the 
arms of her chair with the intent of pushing it back and climbing 
to her feet.
 
"You are Bernadette Maddox, of Maddox Investments.  You are 
considered one of the most influential financiers on the planet 
with an estimated net worth, on paper at least, in the billions.  
And, as we speak, your company auditors are having a collective 
nervous breakdown as they begin to realise that you have organised, 
operated, and run the largest ever-recorded ponzi scheme right 
under their noses."
 
He kept his voice low so as not to carry to the neighbouring 
tables, but at his pronouncement she froze.  Only two other 
people knew about all this: her attorney and her accountant, 
both of whom were probably looking to make sure they got out 
of this without their own asses landing on the firing line.
 
"Predicting the future is always a risky business," he continued 
as if he had not just dropped a bombshell.  "Even for me, but, in 
your case, the various time lines are converging very nicely.  Do 
you want to know your future?"
 
Bernadette nodded; she did not trust her voice.  Just because he 
knew about her difficulties did not prove anything.  Perhaps the 
accountant had blabbed or the attorney.  There was no telling what 
they could come up with once they got their heads together.
 
"In around four hours a call will be placed by the auditors to the 
SEC advising them of their suspicions.  A Federal judge will be 
awakened to sign orders freezing all of your company and personal 
accounts.  You will also be required to surrender your passport.
 
"By close of business tomorrow an arrest warrant will be issued. 
You have the option of being picked up at the airport as you try 
to flee, or, if you chose not to run, you can suffer the indignity 
of being hauled away in handcuffs in the full glare of the media.  
You will be detained pending trial without bail due to your flight 
risk, and, given the weight of evidence, a conviction is a 
certainty.
 
"A sentence of one hundred and fifty years will be imposed, and you 
will serve it in a maximum security federal prison with the judge 
ignoring your legal team's suggestions that, as a non-violent 
offender, a low-security, open prison would be more appropriate."
 
As he recounted her fate, Bernadette felt as though a lump of ice 
had formed in her stomach.  Suddenly she was glad she had not eaten 
before he arrived.  If she had, she very much feared she would be 
making her way across the restaurant, hoping that she could avoid 
throwing up long enough to get to the rest room.
 
He was just spinning a story, she tried to tell herself.  No one 
could know the future, no one...except if he was who he had been 
made out to be.  She shook her head.  It was impossible, the 
ranting of a religious fanatic.
 
"There really is no need to look so worried," he reassured her.  
"I am here to help."  He leaned across the table to whisper to 
her.  "I really am a big fan of your work."
 
"You are?" she croaked.
 
With a broad smile on his face he nodded.  "But of course.  Thanks 
to you several large charities will have to file for bankruptcy 
when it's discovered that the money they invested with you is gone. 
No more good works there.  And that's not to mention the life 
savings you have taken and the pension companies who will have tell 
men and women who have worked hard all their lives that they will 
only have poverty and deprivation to look forward to in their old 
age, since their pension accounts are now worthless."
 
He shook his head as if even he could not quite believe it.  "It's 
hard to credit that one person could destroy so many lives, ruin so 
many futures, and all from her penthouse office with nothing but a 
pen, a phone, and a keyboard.  Like I said I am really a big fan, 
and, with that in mind, I am prepared to offer you the deluxe, 
five-star deal of a lifetime so you can leave all your troubles 
behind.  The only question you have to answer now is: what do you 
want?"
 
Bernadette was still not convinced, but, after a moment, she 
shrugged.  She had already wasted enough time here when she 
would have been better served by packing as much as she could 
and slipping across the border.  What would five more minutes 
matter?
 
"I have a few requirements," she began carefully.
 
"I expected nothing less," he told her.  "Lay them out, and don't 
be bashful.  In my time I've heard everything.  Trust me."
 
"I want to get away somewhere where the SEC, the FBI, and any 
regulatory busy body or cop can never get to me," she began.  
"Somewhere where money can buy you anything.  I want to be 
surrounded by opulence and luxury and where the law can't 
touch me.  I want to live a long life and...."  Bernadette 
was sorry she had not taken the time to write down a 
comprehensive wish list.  What if she left something out?
 
"I want to be young again, and beautiful, and sought after."  She 
had always envied the pretty girls in her class growing up, the 
ones all the boys wanted to date.  Sure, she had risen to the 
heights with a career that was required reading in most business 
courses, while the pretty ones, the cheerleaders who had loved 
looking down their noses at her and her plain features had ended 
up in dead-end jobs or as single mothers.
 
As her list of demands went, on Bernadette half-expected him to 
draw back, to look away as her expectations began to exceed his 
ability to deliver.  Instead, his smile widened with each new 
requirement until he looked like he was on the verge of clapping 
and cheering with joy.
 
"And I want to be worth a fortune," she added, realising that she 
had left that out.  That was important.  "And a nice warm climate 
as well," she added almost as an afterthought.  There was no point 
ending up in Siberia or some place like that.
 
"I believe I can arrange all that."
 
He could?  He looked so sincere, not at all like some crazy 
fanatic, but how could she believe him?  Unless of course he 
was who her contact had said he was, but that was impossible.  

Wasn't it?
 
"And the price?" she asked.

"You know my price," he told her.  "It's not as if it's not mostly 
mine already.  This will just...shall we say...put it beyond doubt. 
Of course, you could decide to take your medicine like a good girl, 
to repent and help the authorities recover as much of the money you 
stole as possible.  You would still spend your life modelling 
orange jump suits, and the only way you would ever see the outside 
of your prison was if you were on one of these modern day chain 
gangs.  Redemption is never cheap." 
 
He was looking at her again intently as if judging her in ways she 
could not imagine.  After a few seconds his assured smile was back, 
and he shook his head.  "I don't think you're the sort to wear 
sackcloth and ashes."
 
Damn right she was not.  She had seen some of those chain gangs.  
"Community service" programs, the authorities called them -- 
convicts cleaning away graffiti, helping pick up refuse, that sort 
of thing.  Call it what you will, those convicts still wore chains 
and bright uniforms designed to let everyone know exactly what they 
were.  That was not for her.
 
From his pocket he produced a surprisingly small roll of paper, 
only three pages.  Bernadette read it carefully, and her eyebrow 
shot up when she saw that each of her demands had been included.  
It was almost as if he had known in advance what she wanted, 
unless....  No, she did not want to think about an alternative 
explanation.
 
Then he laid a small needle beside her hand.  "All you have to do 
is make your mark where indicated.  It has to be your thumb print, 
in your own blood."
 
Seeing her look, he shrugged.  "I am sorry to be so melodramatic, 
but I don't make the rules.  The needle is sterile, if you are 
wondering."
 
Bernadette stared at the contract for another minute or two, 
reading it over and over.  This had to be someone playing a 
joke at her expense.  She was certain of it, but what did it 
matter?  And if he could get her out of this jam...?  Well, 
it was worth a go.
 
Before her courage could desert her, she picked up the needle and 
pricked her right thumb.  Immediately a small trickle of blood 
emerged.  Once there was enough on her thumb, she reached down 
and made her mark on the contract.  

There, she had done it.
 
Leaning over, the man glanced at the contract, then looked up at 
her.  "I believe we have an accord."
 
The restaurant and everyone in the room began to spin, or perhaps 
it was only her, but it was almost as if she was on a fairground 
ride, spinning around and around, faster and faster until 
everything was just a blur.  If she had not been seated, she was 
sure she would have fallen.

"What's happening?" she cried out in alarm.
  
As fast as it had started, it was over, but Bernadette could see 
that everything had changed.  The restaurant was gone, the 
customers, the waiters, even the handsome man opposite her.  She 
was alone and sitting on a bed.
 
Shocked, she sprang to her feet and looked around.  What had 
happened?  Where had everyone gone?  It was only slowly that 
she began to realise that she had not been dealing with a 
charlatan; everything was real.  She had escaped her fate, 
escaped all those stuffed suits that would have seen her 
locked away in a cage like some sort of animal.  As for the 
cost, well, that was a long way off. 
 
The room was clearly a bedroom, and it certainly looked like 
something that she could learn to live with.  The large mirrors 
on the wall were gilt edged and framed with intricate carvings, 
the wood beneath her bare feet was redwood, polished until it 
gleamed.  Across the room she could see furniture, all carved 
and inlaid with gold and ivory.  Even the bed was a monster, 
big enough to house a football team between its carved four posts.
 
Then she saw herself in the mirror and gasped at the sight.  It 
was her, but, at the same time, it wasn't.  She was apparently 
ready for bed, wearing only a thin shift that reached her knees 
and left her arms bare.  She could see that her body had been 
reshaped.  Gone was the thick waist and the flabby thighs that 
no amount of time at the gym could fix. 
 
She barely recognised the creature before her with long, toned 
legs, taut thighs, and thin waist supporting a chest that boasted 
an impressive cleavage.  In the mirror she saw long, slender 
fingers, which rose to touch the carved cheekbones of her face.
 
The face was hers, but, like the rest of her, it had reshaped, 
sculpted into exquisite beauty.  Long black hair flowed down her 
back, and dark brown eyes regarded her from a face that looked as 
if it had been reworked by some master plastic surgeon.  Olive 
skin, full lips, apple round breasts, juicy butt...she oozed sex 
appeal everywhere.  Finally, after years, she was hot!
 
"He did it," she cried out with joy.  "He really did it."  She 
could not take her eyes away from the mirror and the alluring 
creature that stared back at her.  Even now she could not quite 
believe it, but it certainly felt real as she ran her hands down 
over curves she had never had before.  Even better, there was the 
bloom of youth.  The lush body that she now possessed was fresh 
and new, and she looked to be eighteen or nineteen at the most.
 
This was better that she could have dared hope for.  The room 
looked very old-fashioned with candles rather than light bulbs, 
but she could almost taste the money in the air, and, better yet, 
she was young and beautiful.  She had never had breasts like 
these when she was nineteen.
 
"You look mighty fine," came a strange male voice, and, with 
a start, Bernadette realised that she was not alone.  She had 
been so caught up admiring her reflection, she never noticed 
the middle-aged man who had entered the room.
 
"How dare you come in without knocking," she snapped in a fury.  
She had no idea who this man was or why he was dressed like he 
had come right out of "Gone with the Wind," but he had no right 
to barge in on her.
 
He ignored her protest and pushed the door closed behind him.   
"And mighty uppity, as well."
 
"Get out this instant, or I will call the police."
 
A quick look of confusion passed across his face, but it was gone 
in a second, and he strode forward.  Crossing his arms, he studied 
her openly.  She was now acutely aware that the shift she was 
wearing was far too thin and left far too much bare skin on view.  
Even if it did cover her breasts, it did little to hide her now 
generous curves.  She remembered that she'd been able to see the 
dark triangle between her legs when she looked closely in the 
mirror.
 
"Get out," she ordered again and felt a hint of panic when he did 
not move.  She was accustomed to being obeyed.  As far as the world 
went, she was one of the richest women in the world and one of the 
most influential.  A simple frown from her in the right company had 
been known to ruin careers.  Yet he stood there eyeing her up and 
down in a way that made her skin almost crawl.
 
"Worth every dollar I paid for you," he murmured to himself after 
a moment had passed. 
 
"Get out, or I'll...," she began again as she glanced around the 
room for something -- anything -- she could use as a weapon.
 
"You may be worth a fortune, but don't be getting uppity with me, 
wench," he growled.  "I'll be taking a look at the rest of the 
goods now, and then we'll see if you can put that tongue of yours 
to good use."
 
He reached forward, and, shocked, Bernadette froze momentarily, 
long enough for him to grab the neckline of her shift in a meaty 
fist.  As the shock faded, she automatically tried to back off, 
but all she succeeded in doing was to rip the shift from neck to 
hem.
 
"That's better," he grinned as he was left holding the shreds of 
what had been her shift.  Never taking his eye off her naked body, 
he flung the rags away. 
 
"None of that."  He followed her across the room until she had 
retreated as far as she could.  With one arm she tried to cover 
her breasts and, with the other hand, to shield her groin.  She 
could never remember being as frightened as this before, especially 
when he reached out and pulled her arm away from her chest.
 
"Nice knockers," he muttered, as he used his free hand to kneed 
and squeeze her right breast. 
 
"Please stop.  You're hurting me," Bernadette cried.  His fingers 
were not gentle, and he did not seem to care that he was going to 
bruise her breast.  Then his fingers drifted over to the nipple, 
which he pulled until she feared he meant to yank it right off.  
 
"I'll like sucking on those," he said after a moment.  Then he 
reached to pull away her other hand.
 
Wide-eyed with fear, she did the only thing she could think of 
-- she slapped him as hard as she could.
 
He staggered back a step, more from the shock of the blow than the 
blow itself.  For a second he did not move, except to raise a hand 
to his cheek that bore the clear imprint of her hand.  Then his 
eyes blazed with rage.
 
"You listen good, wench.  You might be some expensive fancy girl 
who your damn fool of a bankrupt pa raised as white before he 
died, but you're just a slave, and you'll learn your place.  I'll 
not have some dirty nigra monkey raising her paw to me!"
 
For a moment Bernadette feared that he was going to hit her.  He 
certainly raised his arm as if to strike, but then his lips 
compressed into a thin line, and a cruel expression crossed his 
face.
 
"Slaves earn their keep in this plantation.  If you think you're 
too good to keep your massah happy, you can spend your days in 
the fields and your nights with the bucks."
 
		******************************
 
"Please, there has been some mistake," Bernadette cried. 
 
CRACK.  The strap landed squarely across her bare bottom, blazing 
a trail across her naked flesh.  She yelped and jumped.  The leg 
irons that had been riveted to her ankles brought her tumbling to 
the ground.
 
The dry soil was not as hard as a concrete floor might have been, 
and it cushioned the fall somewhatm but the loose stones still 
dug into her knees bringing a second cry of pain to her lips.

		******************************

Part 2
 
She could not believe what had happened to her.  One minute she was 
in the bedroom, and then some half-naked brute was dragging her 
though the house by her hair.  Liveried servants barely glanced up 
as they passed, as if the sight of a naked, screaming woman was so 
commonplace as to barely merit a moment's attention.
 
Outside, she was taken to some crude blacksmith where another 
rough-looking fellow had enjoyed the sight of her nudity as her 
captor flung her down on the ground.  With one man holding her 
down, the blacksmith had first slipped a great iron collar, 
complete with rings at the front and back, around her neck.  No 
amount of crying had stopped them from forcing her head over the 
anvil, where the blacksmith had hammered in a rivet, securing the 
collar around her neck.
 
No sooner was the collar in place than they had set about fitting 
leg irons to her ankles.  Like the collar, they were riveted in 
place, and it was frightening how quick the metal could be fixed 
in place.  Just a few blows from the hammer, and it was done.
 
That was not to say that the blacksmith did not take the time to 
get a good feel, running his hands up and down her thighs and 
bottom.  He had even given her breasts a good grope when he had 
forced her neck down on the anvil.
 
When she was finally allowed back to her feet, Bernadette was in a 
state of total shock.  Both men seemed to think that her protests 
were the funniest things they had ever heard.  
 
She was not sure which was the worse -- the collar or the leg 
irons.  The collar was high enough that she felt it jutting under 
her chin every time she tried to look down, and, while, it did not 
restrict her breathing, it was snug enough to make turning her head 
difficult.  Added to that, she could feel the cool metal of the 
ring atached to the front of the collar resting on her bare skin 
below her throat.  
 
The leg irons made taking any sort of long stride impossible, and 
even short steps had to be carefully considered.  If she misjudged, 
the chain between the two fetters would snap taut, and the iron 
would bite into her skin.  She had only been wearing the things a 
few hours, and already she could feel where the skin had been 
rubbed painfully raw.  She would soon be getting sores there.  
 
The leg irons restricted her to a shuffling gait, and the rattle 
of the chains also served to herald her arrival while drawing 
attention to her helplessness.  The collar, on the other hand, was 
far less restrictive, but it carried a weight not entirely just of 
the basic metal that had gone into its shaping. 
 
They had collared her, like an animal.  Over and over she had heard 
them laugh and refer to her as the uppity fancy girl who thought 
she was a white woman, but whom everyone could see was just a dirty 
slave.  That collar proclaimed her now not a person, but a thing, 
a possession, a chattel, livestock.  
 
As soon as she had been chained and collared, the man whom she 
gathered was some sort of overseer had taken her by the arm and 
forced her to shuffle to a nearby field.  There she had been 
given a large sack and told to fill it with cotton.
 
There had been no training, no offer to show her how it was done.  
It was almost as if they had expected her by virtue of being a 
slave to have been born with the knowledge of how to pick cotton.  
The sun was a blazing ball in the heavens beating down on her 
relentlessly, and, in no time, she had found herself covered in 
sweat and desperately thisty.
 
The other slaves wore rough clothes, but clothes nonetheless.  
Most of the men had ragged trousers and were shirtless.  The 
women wore simple, thin dresses.  Both sexes were barefoot, and 
some, like her, wore leg irons, but she was the only one who 
was not allowed to wear one of the wide-brimmed straw hats that 
helped shade the wearer from the sun's harsh rays.  And she was 
the only one who was naked.
 
Some of the men liked the view of course, and it took the 
overseer's strap to get them back to work.  Some of the 
women gave her dark looks.  They were clearly satisfied 
that the high and mighty fancy girl was being brought down 
a peg or two and had to toil in the dirt with them.
 
Wherever she turned, Bernadette could see no sympathy.  The slaves 
were either happy to see her suffer or at best so wrapped up in 
their own misery as to be indifferent to anyone else's misfortune.  
As for the overseers, they were clearly delighting in having a 
woman who looked as white as them, collared and naked and under 
their control.
 
No amount of pleading by her had induced them to give her a dress, 
and, when she had asked for a hat to shade her from the sun, they 
had laughed. 
 
"Don't you be frettin', fancy girl.  If you darken up too much in 
the sun, an' the massah don' take you back, we'll keep you warm 
at night."
 
Somehow she had been transported to the antebellum South; there 
could be no other explanation for the conditions she saw or the 
way she was being treated.  She was in the pre-Civil War era...and 
a slave.
 
"Step lively, you lazy nigra."
 
CRACK!
 
A second tongue of fire lashed across her ass, and she cried out 
again.  "On your feet, you lazy wench, you're here to work, not 
to roll about in the mud."
 
The threat of the strap drove her to force her tired body back 
into action, and she clambered to her feet.  Not a muscle in her 
body did not ache, and, after hours of toiling naked in the fields, 
she could feel the sunburn setting in.  She would be in agony 
tomorrow, never mind what the strap was doing to her bottom.  She 
longed to stand there and rub her poor ass, but she had learned 
quickly that, after the strap fell, she was expected to work 
harder and faster, not try and ease the pain.
 
By the time the sun finally set and the overseers called a halt 
to the day's labours, Bernadette was ready to collapse.  Only the 
near-constant attention from the strap had kept her body moving.  
 
She had no idea where they were going to take her, or what they 
were going to do with her, but she was so exhausted that, as long 
as they allowed her to sleep, she did not care.  She was ready 
to drop and curl up into a ball of misery and exhaustion in the 
fields.
 
There was a fire going outside the slave shacks, and slaves both 
male and female were gathered around it, all under the close 
supervision of the overseers. 
 
"Strike up a tune," came the order to one of the slaves who was 
holding a fiddle.  "We've got us here a fancy girl all the way 
from N'Orleans.  Reared by her folks as white, but with slave 
blood through and through."
 
A length of leather harness was fetched and used to bind her 
wrists behind her back, forcing her breasts out even more.  
The young slave with the fiddle started to play.
 
For a moment, she simply stood there, not understanding what was 
going on or what was required of her.  Then the strap landed, this 
time across the backs of her legs, and with it came the order, 
"Dance, fancy girl."
 
Under the threat of the strap, she began to dance.  At first it was 
little more than a swaying of her hips and a shuffle of her legs 
back and forth, but that was not considered enough.  With the strap 
flicking out against her legs and stomach, orders were barked and 
instructions given.
 
"Lift those legs.  Let's be gettin' a look at yer honey pot."
 
"Shake those tits.  Let's see 'em dance."
 
"Bend and give us a view of your bore hole."
 
Fresh tears streamed down her face as she lifted first one foot as 
high as her chains would permit, then the other, then back to the 
first.  All the time she had to keep her hips swaying, her breasts 
moving.  Perhaps the worst was when she was ordered to spread her 
legs, as wide as her leg irons would allow, and bend over, then 
jiggle her ass and dance her way around the circle of overseers 
and slaves so that everyone could get a good look between her legs. 
 
On and on the music played, with the accompanying cheers from the 
men and the rattle of her chains.  Even some of the women joined 
in to mock her.
 
"Is she juicy?  Make her juice herself."
 
The call was taken up by another and another until nearly everyone 
was shouting out over the music, "Make her juice herself."
 
"On your back wench," one of the overseers ordered, and, not 
waiting for her to obey, he casually kicked her legs out from 
beneath her. 
 
With a grunt she fell back, but she was given no chance to recover. 
"Let's git those legs apart."  By now she was beyond resistence.  
A day of labouring under the hot sun and the even hotter strap had 
taught her the limits of her courage.
 
"That's it, knees apart."
 
She closed her eyes, trying to block out the sight she was giving 
to the crowd.  The leg irons restricted how far she could part her 
ankles, but, by angling her legs and flexing her knees, she was 
able to keep her feet close together while letting everyone have 
a good view of her sex.
 
"Lift yer hips, an' show us how you're nothin' but a bitch in heat."
 
Her eyes snapped wide open at the feel of the leather strap between 
her legs.  But it did not strike her; the overseer was content to 
trail it over her cunt and between her legs.
 
"Oil that strap, cream it good," he growled at her.  Reluctantly, 
Bernadette took hold of the cool leather, the very same strap that 
had set a blaze burning on her bottom cheeks all day.  She held it 
almost as if she would a dead snake, but, slowly at first, she 
dragged across the lips of her sex before gradually pressing it 
harder between her legs, over and back, over and back. 
 
She could feel her body reacting as the jeering crowd of onlookers 
urged her on.  She took hold of the strap firmly with both hands 
and pressed it, edge-on, into the lips of her slit.  She began to 
saw it back and forth, harder and harder.
 
Her cunt began to moisten as her body reacted despite her shame.  
Her hands began to move faster, picking up the tempo.  She raised 
her hips off the ground even more, to have the petals of her sex 
spread open as wide as she could manage.
 
"Look at her cream," came one voice.
 
"Frisky."
 
"That's one mighty fine wet slit there."
 
"Well, boys, y'all be having white meat if the massah don't take 
her back soon."
 
Bernadette barely heard any of them, or rather she heard, but the 
way they were talking about her only served to fuel her passion as 
her heat grew and grew and grew.  The strap felt like it was sawing 
her in two, but she didn't care.  All that mattered was scratching 
that itch.  Finally her body gave her what she so desperately 
desired. 
 
A wave of pleasure more intense than any she had ever known 
overwhelmed her.  For a few minutes she was lost to the world 
as she lay there, hips raised and the strap scraping back and 
forth as her body was wracked with the orgasm.
 
It was only when the crowd began to break up and the overseer 
reclaimed his well-oiled strap that she realised what she had 
done.  She had been made to perform, made to degrade herself 
in front of them all, just so she could rut like some barnyard 
animal.  The shame of it stung far harsher that any strap.
 
"I am glad to see you are having a good time," a familiar voice 
said.  Bernadette's eyes snapped wide open.  He was not wearing 
a blue suit this time, but he still blended in, dressed as an 
affluent southern gentleman this time.
 
"What have you done?" she cried as she realised that they were 
alone.  She was lying chained and naked on her back.  She could 
feel the dirt clinging to her sweaty, sun-burned skin.  The lips 
of her sex were still quivering from the after-effects of her 
orgasm, and her juices were still trickling down the insides of 
her thighs.  But he at least was the first man she had seen since 
waking up in this nightmare WhO was not ogling her.
 
"I wanted wealth AND power...instead you made me a slave.  I'm 
sore all over, sun-burned.  I can barely lift my arms, and I'm 
beaten when I take even a second to catch my breath.  I'm chained 
and collared like some animal, and they won't let me put on any 
clothes.  This isn't what we agreed."
 
With a single raised finger he silenced her.  "Let's review the 
terms of our contract.  You wanted youth.  Check.  You wanted to 
be beautiful.  Check.  You wanted to be sought after.  There's not 
a warm-blooded male, slave or free, on this plantation that does 
not want to bend you over and ride you like a filly,"
 
"Now what else did you want?"  He made a show of thinking about it. 
 
"You wanted to be beyond the reach of the authorities that might 
prosecute you.  Again check -- most of them do not even exist yet.  
I believe your desire was, 'Some place where money can buy you 
anything.'  Here it can.  It bought you, after all.  And you are 
surrounded by opulence and luxury."
 
"As for the law, it certainly does not touch you -- it does not 
even consider you a person.  And you will live a very long life 
here, that I guarantee." 
 
"I was supposed to be rich," she interrupted.  That was the whole 
point.  She wanted to be the one who was wealthy, not slave away 
to add to the wealth of someone else, wealth she could never enjoy. 
 
"You said you wanted to be worth a fortune, and you are.  You were 
sold for $1900.  That is a fortune -- a small fortune, perhaps -- 
but a fortune nonetheless."
 
He shook his head, amused at her expression.  "I think you will 
find that I have delivered on everything I agreed to give you."
 
"But I'm not really black," she protested. "And they think I'm a 
slave." 
 
This brought a chuckle to his lips.  "And?  All you talking apes 
look the same to me.  Black, white or yellow -- there is no 
difference.  Anyway, do you think you are the first white found 
to have a drop of African blood and enslaved when it was onvenient? 
Your papers call you an Octoroon."
 
"I...I want to make another deal," she began.  There had to be 
some way out of this.  Only how could she escape when she was 
naked, chained, and helpless?  She knew enough of history to know 
that she had no legal remedies or protections.  She was an 'IT' as 
far as the law was concerned, not a she.  And there was the fact 
that she was now living in a time over a hundred and fifty years 
before she'd been born.
 
Instead of a chuckle, this time he doubled over in a fit of 
laughing at her proposal.  It took him a moment to control 
himself, but eventually he straightened and regarded her.  
"And what consideration do you propose to offer?  Your master 
owns your flesh.  I own your soul.  No, you have nothing left 
to bargain with."
 
"Wha-what's going to happen to me?"  Asking took almost all the 
courage she had left, but, as much as she dreaded the answer, 
she had to know.
 
"Your master has decided that you need to be branded.  Tomorrow 
evening, after you've finished in the fields, a hot iron will be 
pressed into that fine ass of yours, marking you as his property, 
just like the rest of his livestock.  After that, you will be 
scrubbed down and given another chance to show that you can be 
a good bed-warmer." 
 
"Each morning you will be turned out to work in the fields, but 
every evening you will be washed and have another chance to 
convince your master that you are better put to use in bed than 
in the fields.  You and your master will have many years together.  
Unlike so many of his fellow Confederates, he will realise the 
south can never overcome the North, so before the war turns against 
the South, he will have relocated all his businesses to Brazil, 
where you will spend your days either as a house slave or as a 
laborer."
 
"Then, after you have had the long life you contracted for, I get 
to bring you home, where all naughty little girls like you go in 
the end."
 
"But...but I didn't understand.  Please can't we....  I mean I 
never meant to...." 
 
She was aware that she was babbling now, and incoherent, but her 
mind could not process the future he had laid out for her: to live 
and die a slave, forced to meet her master's every whim, the only 
alternative the fields with the relentless sun and the strap 
driving her on.  Looking down at her leg irons she had a sudden 
vision of her corpse being thrown into a shallow grave, naked save 
for those very same shackles.  And then, when death finally claimed 
her, he would be there, waiting to stake his claim.
 
Fixing her with a pleased smile, he waved to her.  "I have to be 
going now...so much to do and so little time.  One of the overseers 
wants to discover if you can use your mouth for anything useful, 
but don't worry, we'll see each other again, and. when we do, 
you'll have a hell of a time....  Forever."
 
Bernadette started to scream as she threw herself at his fading 
form. but it was like trying to catch mist.  Her outstretched 
arms passed straight through, and she tumbled forward to the 
ground.  He was gone.
 
"Quit your yelling," an unfamiliar voice ordered, and, face down in 
the dirt, she looked up to see an overseer striding towards her.  
As he closed the distance, she could see his hands start to undo 
his breeches.  "Time to get back to work, you frisky wench."
 
As he spoke his breeches were lowered, and his prick, already 
semi-erect, flopped out.  "I'll be wanting a nice time," he told 
her.  Then he reached out and grabbed the back of her neck to 
guide her face toward his groin.  With his free hand, he uncurled 
a formidable-looking horse whip from his belt.  "And, if I don't 
be getting it, I'll have the skin off your backside, monkey."
 
Even as she parted her lips to take his member and started to lick, 
she felt some part of her crumble and die.  She was no longer 
Bernadette Maddox, the powerful CEO and financial guru.  She was 
just a dirty, sweaty slave who would suck her master, his 
overseers, and anyone else she was told to.  She would wear her 
chains for the rest of her life as her master heaped humiliation 
and degradation upon her.  And. when death finally came and Hell 
claimed her, all this would seem like a pleasant vacation compared 
to what was to follow...for eternity.
 
She had made her deal and gotten exactly what she had bargained 
her soul for.  Truly the Devil was in the details.



Edited by C. Lakewood