Authors' note: This story is inspired by the sculpture by Hiram 
Powers titled, "The Greek slave."  For more information, refer to 
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Greek_Slave



 
                       THE ARTIST

                           by 

                   Joe Doe and Watcher


 

Part 1

She had hoped that the shop would be free from flies, but as she 
closed the door behind her a swarm of the damn things followed her 
in.  The air was still hot, but, born and bred in Virginia, Rebecca 
was no stranger to heat.  The flies, however, were another matter.  
They followed her everywhere, and even the fresh tangy air of the 
Mediterranean could not dispel the swarms of insects.  

It was quiet inside, and, looking around, she could see various 
examples of the sculptor's work.  She recognised several classical 
figures in stone, some even in precious marble, but they were all 
disappointingly conventional.
 
"Hello," she called out. and, a second later, she saw a robed arm 
part a beaded curtain and a middle aged man emerge.  Rebecca felt 
a second of uncertainty.  She had expected an American or perhaps 
European, but he was dressed in one of those robes the natives 
wore.  "Chester Morgan?"
 
He inclined his head.  "I am he."  He had a voice of an educated 
man, but with no clear accent.  "And to what merciful God should I 
give thanks for bringing such a beauty as yourself into my humble 
abode?  Do I detect the hint of Virginia in your voice, ma'am?"
 
Rebecca felt herself blush.  She was well accustomed to compliments 
on her beauty, but never quite so flowery.  As he spoke she was 
certain she could detect the faintest trace of the South in his 
own voice.
 
"You are not what I expected," she said slowly with a nod to his 
dress.
 
"I have found that the locals react better to a poor sculptor if I 
appear as one of them," he told her.  "And how my I serve such a 
divine beauty such as yourself this fine day?
 
Rebecca raised an eyebrow at this.  Poor?  He looked anything but 
poor.  Tunis was a thriving port city with many splendid palaces.  
The town house to the side of his shop was no palace, but it was 
certainly grand enough to belong to a very successful merchant.  
"I am given to understand that you were one of the mentors of 
Kiram Powers and that he derived much of the inspiration for his 
famed work...from your own efforts.  I have been told that you are 
available for...commissions."
 
For a moment he studied her, his expression utterly unreadable. 
Then a warm smile spread across his tanned face.  "Yes, Kiram, 
a fine young artist.  You refer to his piece grandly titled 'The 
Greek Slave'?"
 
Rebecca felt her face blush.  She had seen the statue when it was 
on display, and it had left her breathless.  Captured in marble, 
it depicted the nubile charms of a recently-captured young Greek 
maiden.  Aside from the chains on her wrists, she was naked and 
awaited her fate in a Turkish slave market.  Day after day Rebecca 
had returned to gaze up at the girl, to marvel at her simple beauty 
while studying the emotions etched on her face.  The piece had 
caused quite a controversy, some of those damned Yankee 
abolitionists were even trying to seize on the sculpture to 
inspire their ill-considered campaign to free the nigra slaves.
 
Perhaps it was not a proper subject for a Southern belle such as 
herself to spend so much time admiring, but as troubling as it was, 
she found she could not stop thinking about it.  The thought of a 
slave girl being stripped nude for inspection was not in itself 
troubling; Rebecca often watched as naked nigra wenches were 
"danced" for the buyers or made to perform in varying stages of 
undress on the block.  Whip marks or brands suggested a tendency 
towards insubordination; full breasts with large nipples suggested 
the wench might be able to give milk to many suckers at once; the 
fullness of her bottom suggested her true age, while wide hips 
suggested how many pickaninnies she might be able to drop.  
 
With male slaves, it was important to note the size of their 
members, and how quickly they stiffened.  Of course, for reasons 
of propriety, Rebecca and her friends couldn't appear to be TOO 
interested in such displays, but it was never too difficult for 
her to make an excuse to be in the area when a slave was ordered 
to squirt his seed for the buyers.
 
Given the usefulness of the information that could be gleaned by 
stripping a slave naked, buying a clothed slave seemed improvident 
to the point of foolishness.  But those were Negro slaves, who by 
their natures were more like monkeys then men.  The woman in the 
statue was WHITE...alabaster white, as white as anyone, as white as 
Virginia.  Stripping a white woman butt-naked and chaining her as 
one might chain a Nigra wench also suggested that a white girl 
might, under certain circumstances be 'examined' as if she were 
a black!
 
Rebecca enjoyed watching the men "dance" the wenches, squeezing 
their breasts and bottoms, and sticking their fingers into them or 
rubbing them between their legs to see how quickly they "juiced."  
A number of the wenches seemed quite distressed at the way they 
were handled, but somehow that only made it more amusing.  There 
was something quite entertaining about seeing a naked black wench 
being made to bend and bow, spread and bounce, fetch and dance, 
before her potential masters.  But suggesting -- even hinting -- 
that a white girl might be examined in such a way, was outrageous. 
No wonder the statue caused such a scandal wherever it went.
 
Rebecca glanced around the studio, attempting not to seem too 
interested in any particular statue.  "Are you working on any 
commissions now?" she inquired.
 
"I have been known to prepare certain works for commission," he 
said slowly.  "Quite a few ladies have even requested certain 
statutes be carved depicting them or someone of their acquaintance 
in...certain poses and plights."  
 
"They do?" Rebecca asked as she felt her pulse begin to quicken 
and a faint excitement began to grow.  She had expected to see 
more statues, but his comments opened far more interesting 
possibilities.
 
"Would you care to see my collection?" he asked.  "I do not display 
such pieces in the general shop.  It is for the eyes of discerning 
patrons of quality alone."
 
"That does sound...interesting," she replied, a touch breathlessly. 
It made sense that he would not have such pieces in his shop...not 
where any common riffraff could walk in off the street. 
 
For the first time since she had entered the shop, the sculptor 
looked hesitant.  "I must apologise in advance for being so 
forward, but I must ask.  You are alone, but I trust that there 
are no kinfolk who know of your coming to my place."  He gave her 
an apologetic smile.  "In the past I have shown my creations to 
other women of quality and immediately thereafter I have been 
hounded by irate husbands or fathers or other relatives who have 
accused me of corrupting the morals of their kin."
 
Rebecca chuckled at his concerns and waved them away.  "You are 
quite safe.  I have no husband and my dear Papa passed away only 
last year.  I am actually in mourning, but it seems so dreary to 
be wearing black in the plantation heat, so I decided to leave 
my grief behind me and visit the old world.  You will understand 
that I told no one where I was going.  Some people would 
not...understand."
 
Immediately she could see that her words had put him at his ease 
and his affable smile returned.  "If you will follow me, great 
lady," he gestured to another beaded curtain that led to the rear 
of the shop.  "And pray tell what brings so lovely a Virginian 
Rose so far from Dixie?"
 
The more he talked the stronger his accent became, and, realising 
that she was in the company of a fellow Southerner, Rebecca began 
to relax.  In no time at all she told him of how she had come to 
inherit Ox Bow Plantation on the death of her father.  Pride crept 
into her voice when she recounted how she overcame all expectations 
and proved that a young woman of twenty-three could in fact 
successfully run a plantation.  As she spoke, her ship was being 
packed with the slaves she had only just purchased.  In a week's 
time, the ship would set sail for home, and, even with the expected 
deaths of some blacks on the voyage, she would still turn a very 
tidy profit. 
 
Rebecca, of course had made sure that the ship was specially 
modified, the Captain's cabin converted into a lovely stateroom 
for her.  Of course the people back home would be scandalized 
that she traveled on a slave ship, but she always carried enough 
perfume and that and the fresh sea air kept the horrible stink 
from below deck from burning her nostrils.  And it didn't bother 
her when the crewmen took the wenches up on deck for a bit of fun, 
as long as the latter weren't damaged.  Indeed, a pregnant wench 
was worth more, so Rebecca would simply chat pleasantly with the 
captain as they rutted, pretending not to notice.
 
Entering the room, a hush fell over her as she stepped into a 
veritable treasure trove.  This room might have belonged in some 
fine museum with figures carved from fine stone, alabaster, and 
ebony.  All were displayed to good effect on plinths and pedestals. 
 
"So many," she murmured softly with a touch of awe creeping into 
her voice.  To think she had been captivated by the sight of the 
'Greek slave.'  It was but a pale shadow of what lay before her.
 
Directly in front of her Rebecca saw the figure of a young woman.  
Carved in white marble, she was a beauty and as bare as the day she 
was born.  Slave shackles captured her ankles so she could not run. 
Her hands were free, but they were occupied desperately trying to 
hold onto some rag that only moments before been her only covering. 
Someone was obviously pulling it from her grasp, and the girl was 
on the verge of being left as nature intended...if she had been a 
nigra, that is.
 
Looking up at her expression, Rebecca felt a growing excitement.  
The maiden was a beauty to be sure, with high cheekbones that 
suggested an aristocratic background.  Her breasts were small 
but the nipples stood erect, and the look of shame and fear and 
uncertainty etched on her face was a marvel.  She had been 
sculpted looking over her shoulder with an expression of stark 
fear.  However important her struggle was to retain her slave rag, 
she was shown having spotted something approaching from behind 
that filled her with terror. 
 
It was not shown but Rebecca's imagination was quick to fill in the 
gaps.  Perhaps the girl had been captured by Barbary pirates and 
the rags she clung to were all that remained of her once fine 
dress or perhaps a chemise.   What could cause her to look over 
her shoulder away from the struggle?  Rebecca studied the image 
for a moment then decided that only the sight of the heated 
branding iron drawing ever closer to the girl's naked flank could 
inspire such apprehension.
 
Beyond the first statue Rebecca could see another woman carved 
from stone.  Gleaming black, it stood out in contract to the pure 
virginal white of the first statute.  Again the carved image was 
that of a young woman in chains.  She was depicted on all fours, 
her legs spread as wide as her chains would permit, her naked back 
parallel to the ground.  Her head was thrown back, a look of 
desperate pleading on her face.  A metal collar circled her neck. 
 
Shocking!  Scandalous!  But somehow, also exciting.
 
Approaching from the side, Rebecca felt a flush of warmth overcome 
her.  The statue showed the girl with her knees at shoulder width 
and her flanks thrust up into the air.  No detail, no matter how 
small, was overlooked.  She could see the statue's naked sex and 
puckered hole all without difficulty.  None of the statues had any 
womanly hair between their legs.
 
Rebecca told herself it was part of the "Greek" tradition, as Greek 
goddesses were often sculpted that way.  Or perhaps, prior to sale, 
the hair had been removed, to make it easier for the buyers to 
examine what interested them the most.
 
Clearly the girl was imploring mercy from some unseen figure.   The 
fine lines that decorated her bottom were no stranger to Rebecca. 
She had seen such marks on her nigras many a time after they had 
been switched.  Why, only the day before she sailed for Tunis, she 
had cause to switch one of the house slaves herself.  The girl's 
bottom had looked exactly like this when Rebecca had finally 
wearied and sent the weeping girl to the fields to see how she 
enjoyed the life of a field slave for the day.
 
In the feverish imagination of her brain Rebecca had already 
devised a story behind this creature's suffering.  Like most of 
the others, she had been depicted as a woman of quality and 
breeding...perhaps a proud princess captured by an enemy prince.  
She is brought before him, expecting that, at worst, she will be 
forced to marry this dashing rogue who has vanquished her kingdom.  
Such is the way of kings and the making of alliances.  Only she is 
brought before the throne stripped and collared, a naked slave 
girl, all rank and privilege stripped away from her.  Slow to 
adapt to this new status, she had been switched -- with a promise 
of more if she does not behave.  Then, before the entire court of 
her enemy, she waits to learn of her fate.  Will she be kept as a 
concubine, or perhaps given to some loyal deputy.... 
 
A faint smile spread across Rebecca's face.  Perhaps she will be 
kept a naked scullery slave brought out from time to time from the 
kitchens so that visiting dignitaries may see the fate of any who 
defy the will of the master.
 
Then another figure caught her eye, and she quickly unfurled her 
fan and began to flick it around to cool herself.  This third 
statue was in fact two figures.  Both were in gleaming, spotless 
marble.  Both were fair to behold and wore slave collars.  One 
even had the clear marking of a slave brand on her right bottom 
cheek, but it was not that that caught Rebecca's attention. 
 
They had been depicted on their backs, or, rather, one was on her 
back, and the other lay atop her.  The woman on the bottom had been 
chained in place, her arms and legs spread-eagled so she could not 
flee or even shield her nudity.  The second woman rested upon her, 
tip to toe, so that her crotch was thrust into the face of the 
first girl.  At the same time it was clear that the second slave 
was lapping at the first girl as eagerly as a kitten with a plate 
of milk. 
 
Wordlessly, Rebecca raised a hand to point at the image.  Most of 
the bottom girl's face was hidden, but just enough was visible for 
her to make out revulsion at this unnatural pose. 
 
Was such a thing possible?  Rebecca had heard of nigras being made 
to perform this way while the men enjoyed their brandy and cigars.  
She had even heard that some blacks took to such indecencies when 
too long denied the chance to be bred.  But these women were white.
 
Rebecca studied the girl's expression closely.  Along with her 
loathing, there was another expression beginning to form.  It took 
Rebecca several minutes to identify it, and then it came to her: 
guilty pleasure.  The creature was appalled at what was being done 
to her, but the skilled tongue of her fellow slave was exciting her 
blood.  How horrible to be forced into such an unnatural act and 
then to have one's own body betray one as it reacted in pleasure.
 
"These are all examples of works that my customers have 
commissioned," Chester told her with a touch of a master 
craftsman's pride.  "These few are copies I have made so 
that future customers can see my work."
 
Then he looked sparely at her.  "Have you a pose or position in 
mind?"
 



                       THE ARTIST

                           by 

                   Joe Doe and Watcher


 

Part 2

Looking at the statuettes ranged around her, Rebecca found herself 
lost for words.  There were at least a score of images, too many to 
study in a few mere minutes.  Yet the scenes of so many women in 
positions of helplessness not only excited her beyond imagining, 
but also freed her to talk of topics she would never dare raise in 
polite society.
 
"She should be helpless, restrained," she began slowly, but, as she 
spoke Rebecca felt confidence flow into her.  Chester was an artist 
and somehow he had captured the beauty of helplessness.  He would 
understand her better than anyone.

"She should be displayed, helpless to shield her nudity as she is 
examined, studied, scrutinised...all the while knowing that she 
is utterly powerless to affect her own fate.  Perhaps...perhaps a 
gag so she cannot even cry out...and also a collar."  Then all her
newfound confidence began to drain away, but she forced herself to 
finish.  "And...n-naked, she should be naked."
 
He nodded.  "I have a few ideas that might suit."
 
"How is it normally done?" 
 
"I order the model to adapt the required pose and then I sketch her 
from all angles."  A self-depreciating smile flashed across his 
face as Rebecca blushed at the word "all."  "In all humility I 
have quite a good memory, but I find that, when it comes time to 
shape the stone, it helps if there are pictures to refresh the 
mind and inspire the art."
 
It was Rebecca's turn to nod.  That made sense.
 
"And do you have a model in mind?" he asked carefully.  "Perhaps a 
maid-servant or...."

"Do...most of your customers...use...servants?" Rebecca asked very 
slowly.  Her heart was pounding, and her corset dug into her sides, 
threatening to cut off her breathing.  The room had been pleasantly 
cool when she had first entered, but now it felt as if she were 
standing outside in the midday sun.
 
"No, they do not.  My art depicts ladies of quality who are 
experiencing the humiliation of the collar for the first time.  
A mere serving girl, even if she were a gifted actress, could 
never know what those emotions are like.  To capture the soul 
in stone, the soul must be laid bare before me.  Regrettably, 
that requires that the women themselves pose."
 
Seeing the look in her eyes, he held up his hands.  "Only the 
bravest, and the truest lovers of art, agree to this, for, 
although the chains may be temporary, the humiliation and shame 
they represent are real.  Painfully real." 
 
He smiled.  "Of course it is done in my studio, with the same 
privacy I would grant any other model." 
 
She spoke before she could change her mind.  "Your terms are 
acceptable.  I am pressed for time, but I am happy to pay you 
to give this piece your immediate attention."
 
Chester looked distant for a moment.  "If you can return in the 
afternoon I will have the necessary preparations made.  If you 
could arrange to have all body hair removed....  Finally, and 
again I am sorry to bring this up, but I must insist on absolute 
privacy.  No one may know of our arrangement."
 
"Fine.  This afternoon then," Rebecca said.  
 
		******************************
 
"Is this it?" Rebecca asked, as she stared at the thick wooden 
posts 
set up in the studio.  Two stout posts rose up to join a 
horizontal beam above them.  Looking at it, she shivered from 
more than the feel of the cool floor beneath her bare feet. 
 
"Do you find it suitable?" Chester asked. 
 
She reached up to rub her fingers across the iron fetters that 
dangled on chains from the top of each post.  She could see that 
the chains could be drawn up.  More retractable chains were fixed 
to the base. 
 
"Yes....  I suppose it will be..satisfactory."  After her morning 
visit she had retired to her rooms, and, with images of the various 
statues still fresh in her mind, Rebecca had "touched herself" in 
the way she had seen the men touch the nigra wenches...until she 
finally fell asleep in exhaustion.  What would all her friends say 
if they knew?

Rebecca had often wondered what it would be like to be desired the 
way the statues were desired or even the way the slave wenches on 
her plantation were desired.  Even in the South, the lines to see 
"The Greek Slave" were endless, and people who denounced it as 
"incendiary" and "depraved" nonetheless stared at it for hours.  
Or, as she had heard her beloved father say to his laughing 
friends, "I know art, and that ain't art...but I know what I like."
 
And now for a paltry sum of gold she would have her forbidden 
thoughts captured in marble for all time.  She would have happily 
paid double the pouch of gold she now handed over. 
 
"You requested a gag," Chester said as he held up an old leather 
bit, complete with strap. 
 
She took it with trembling hands and raised it to her mouth.  The 
leather looked worn, and she could see teeth marks etched into it. 
Was this a real slave gag?   Perhaps, she thought, for she had 
purchased her new slaves not a mile from here.
 
Her first instinct was to refuse it and demand a fresh bit.  But 
the pulsing pleasure between her legs urged her on.  Something made 
her slip it between her lips and buckle the strap snugly behind her 
head under her long flowing hair.  "A slave girl did not get to 
choose her gag, that was a matter for her master," she thought.
 
Chester took her by the hand and led her over between the posts, 
where he reached down to shackle first her left ankle and then her 
right.  When that was done, he proceeded to restrain her wrists.  
Rebecca quivered with excitement.  She was still dressed in her 
shift, and there was enough slack that she could clasp her hands 
together if she wanted, but the feel of cold iron against her skin 
had her clamping her thighs together in excitement. 
 
Then the chains began to retract, and her hands were drawn up, so 
that her arms were stretched above her head.  A few seconds later, 
she felt the chains around her ankles go taut as Chester worked 
the ratchet, drawing them apart.  She struggled just to test the 
strength of the fetters, but there was no way she could resist.
 
"I think we may dispense with this," he murmured, reaching out to 
grasp her fine silk shift.  It occurred to Rebecca with some 
disappointment that he would have to release her arms in order for 
her take off the shift.  The fetters were pressing uncomfortably 
into her skin.  It was perfect, and she wanted to savour the 
feeling.
 
The sculptor solved the problem by simply yanking on the neckline, 
and, in one quick motion, he tore it away from her body.
 
"AEYEEUUU!" Rebecca screamed into her gag.  That shift was of the 
finest silk; it had cost a small fortune, and now it was nothing 
but rags littering the studio floor.
 
"Better," he murmured as he admired her now naked form.  With one 
hand he reached out to stroke her lovely round breasts, and she 
felt her nipples stiffen more.  "And you have shaved as I directed. 
Good."   He reached down and lightly brushed his fingertips across 
her now hairless mons.  "The buyers will like that."
 
"Huuuh," she tried to call out again.  She had never agreed to 
this, to be groped and manhandled like she was some nigra wench 
eager to please her new "masssah."  Though her mind rebelled at 
the overly familiar touch, she could feel fresh dampness begin 
to gather between her legs.
 
"But a little more tension is required I think," he said, after a 
few seconds' study.  Then, to Rebecca's alarm, he began to work the 
pulley again, drawing the chains up even further.  She had thought 
they were snug before, but now she was forced onto her toes, and 
the pressure of the fetters on her wrists went from uncomfortable 
to painful.
 
He ignored her cries as he stepped back to admire her again.  "Much 
better -- taut and stretched."  Wide-eyed, she could only moan into 
the gag as he stroked the sides of her chest.  Looking down past 
the swell of her breasts, she could see the outline of her ribs.  
Her stomach had never been so flat.
 
"You really are quite an attractive young woman," he said.  "And 
that lovely yellow hair must drive the local men wild."  The faint 
hint of Virginia she had detected earlier was gone from his voice 
now.  "Apple round breasts, long legs...."  He moved around behind 
her, and she would have jumped at the feel of his hand were she not 
stretched taut and at the limit of how far her limbs would stretch.
 
Like a man admiring a particularly fine horse, he stroked the swell 
of her bottom.  "Soft and curved just so....  I dare say you don't 
lack for gentlemen callers."  Still speaking, he began to circle 
back to her front.  "But I suspect many went home unsatisfied, for 
you were not put in a situation where you were required to please."
 
"Ooooo," she gasped as inwardly she cursed the gag.  She had 
wanted to be gagged, to be utterly unable to affect her fate 
either through threats or pleas, but it was meant to be a statue, 
something she could admire in the privacy of her bedroom as she 
played with her aching slit night after night.
 
Instead, his fingers trailed over her mound, which was made more 
sensitive by her shaving, and then....  She moaned into her gag as 
she felt his fingers penetrate her.  "A virgin!  And a responsive 
one at that."  When he finally withdrew his fingers, Rebecca could 
see them slick with her juices.  He raised them to his lips and 
licked them slowly.  "Such sweet nectar," he breathed slowly as 
he savoured the smell and the taste.
 
"Alas, I must get to work," he said, and she could see his 
reluctance as he turned away and moved to a nearby desk.  
There he picked up a shard of charcoal and he began to sketch. 
 
Utterly helpless, Rebecca could do nothing but stand there, 
stretched taut, her weight supported by her wrists and her toes.  
There was no give in her chains, so she could not so much as sway. 
Only her head remained under her control, and, even with that, her 
voice had been taken away by the bit gag that reduced any words 
she uttered to animal-like grunts.  This was nothing like she had 
expected, nothing like she had planned.  At home she would have had 
him arrested and horsewhipped for showing such familiarity.  Yet, 
as she hung in her chains, moaning, part of her longed to feel his 
hands upon her again.
 
Seconds became minutes, and then the minutes stretched out into 
what must have been an hour or more.  There was a brief break, as 
a local baker delivered lunch to the artist, and the delivery boy 
tarried to enjoy the sight of Rebecca hanging naked in her chains.

With a playful wink at Rebecca the young man left the door open -- 
wide open.  For the rest of the lunch hour, passersby were treated 
to sometimes brief -- and sometimes lingering -- views of the 
artist's latest work. 
 
The day grew hotter, and, as she hung in the oppressive heat, she 
soon began to glisten with sweat.  Unfortunately, this drew the 
large black flies, who came to lick up the salty nectar.

Rebecca shook herself to scare them away, embarrassed slightly at 
the way it made her breasts and bottom bounce and caused the men 
in the street watching her through the door to laugh.  But the 
relentless flies soon learned her trick, and they became impossible 
to shake off.  They licked up the rivulets of moisture on her face, 
under her arms, and (worst of all) between her legs.

"Please...the flies!" she tried to call out.  Behind her gag, all 
that came out were muffled grunts.

The artist chuckled as he continued to sketch her.  "Surely you 
saw this with the slaves in your fields?  Slaves are filthy, 
dirty creatures, and they draw flies.  It is a common problem in 
livestock markets.  Too bad you don't have a tail to whisk them 
away."

Chester never let more that a few seconds pass without looking up 
from his desk to check some part of her form, then returned his 
gaze to the paper before him.  No area escaped his attention.  
He moved the light desk behind her so that he could admire the 
curve of her spine, the swell of her buttocks.  Then he moved again 
setting the desk directly before her so that he could capture the 
full details of her crotch.
 
"He's doing it to put me in the right frame of mind," Rebecca 
thought, and her breathing slowed.  No wonder he was able to get 
such wonderful expressions on all his models.  That was the man's 
genius, he made them think it was real.
 
Chester produced a small pocket watch, flipped it open, and nodded 
to himself.  He replaced the watch and laid down his sketches to 
head towards the large double sliding doors that led to his studio. 
Rebecca's eyes went wide as the doors were opened to reveal a small 
gathering of local men.
 
"Mooo," she cried out as he gestured for them to enter.  She could 
not understand his words (he appeared to be speaking in Arabic), 
but she recognised some of those men.  Only two days past she had 
stood in the slave market bidding against some of them.  They were 
slave traders.
 
Like a pack of hungry dogs they surged forward eager to admire her 
naked form.  She tugged frantically at her chains, but there was 
no escape.  She had wanted to be depicted as helpless...and now 
she was.  Spread-eagled as she was, they were free to admire her 
naked body.   Shudder as she might at their touch, there was 
nothing she could do to stop them.  Each took his turn lifting 
first one breast and then the other, testing their weight and 
firmness.  Even the shape of her nipples drew comment.
 
Then, of course, their scrutiny dropped below her waist.  Several 
grasped her buttocks and apparently not satisfied at how exposed 
she already was, pried her rear cheeks as far apart as they could. 
One even ran his hands down the backs of her legs testing them as 
one might a horse being offered for sale.  Inevitably her shaved 
crotch drew attention, and, like Chester before them, each took a 
turn probing her sticky lips.
 
Rebecca had no idea how long the whole thing lasted, but by the 
time they were finished she felt drained.  She had never felt so 
utterly humiliated and ashamed in all her life.  She was a fine, 
rich planter and owned hundreds of slaves.  And yet never had any 
nigra fancy girl ever been so studied in a New Orleans slave market 
as she had been.  Were she not chained, she would not have been 
surprised if they had her running up and down the length of the 
studio, fetching a stick in her teeth, or perhaps squatting.
 
Then Chester returned.  He had kept in the background as they 
carried out their inspections.  With a start, she realised that 
he had been sketching her face as she was examined.  Even now he 
was marking down the shame and anger she felt. 
 
She was enraged, but also relieved.  "He's just doing this to get 
the look on my face," she told herself.  "It's just for the statue. 
It's part of his work, and I'm his model. I'm just work to him, an 
object...."  She stopped short, fearful of where her logic was 
leading her.
 
Fear was quickly added to the mix as she saw the men begin some 
process.  She did not know what they were saying, but she had 
attended enough slave auctions to recognise bids when she saw 
them.
 
They were bidding on her!  They were offering Chester money for 
her as if she were some slave, a chattel to be sold off for coin.  
She shook her head frantically.  They couldn't enslave her.  She 
was rich, white, and...and no one knew where she had gone.
 
That realisation sent a cold shiver running down her spine.  
Embarrassed about her undertaking, she had told none of the 
servants or slaves.  It would seem as if she had vanished.  
Her nearest kin was an ocean away, and he knew that she did 
not care for him, cousin or not.  Why the fool had fallen in 
love with that red-haired octoroon girl who served at table.  
He had even tried to buy the girl so that they could be married 
and never mind the scandal that would cause.  Rebecca had made 
it clear that the juicy little trollop would be sold at the 
Rotunda in Richmond when she returned. 
 
How hard would Charles look for her, she wondered?  How hard when 
he stood to inherit the plantation and all its slaves if she were 
declared dead?  The bidding reached a fever pitch, and finally 
Chester broke off from his sketching to nod towards a tall Berber 
who gave her a leering grin of triumph.  The fellow produced a 
heavy pouch from his robe and began to count out one gleaming gold 
coin after another into Chester's waiting hand. 
 
With his purchase paid for, he reached into the his robe again, 
only this time it was slender metal collar that he fastened 
around Rebecca's throat.  For a moment he fondled her breasts as 
she tried to scream into her bit, then his hand crept down between 
her legs.  She felt his fingers rub against her clit and pent-up 
emotions of fear and excitement blasted through her like gunpowder, 
and she heard the crowd of men start to laugh as she bucked with 
the pleasure of her very first slave orgasm.  Even as she felt her 
master's hands release her limbs only to secure them again behind 
her back and fix a short leash to her collar which he used to lead 
her naked into the streets, Rebecca prayed that it would not be 
her last.  

		******************************
 
"I say, is there anyone about?" Lady Charlotte called out as she 
peered around the shop.  "Are you by any chance one Chester 
Morgan?"
 
The middle-aged man who appeared through the curtain gave her a 
small bow.  As the curtain parted around him, Charlotte caught 
sight of a life-size statue that took her breath away.  Made from 
flawless marble, it showed a beautiful young woman stripped and 
stretched between two posts.  At the sight her breath caught.
 
"I am Chester Morgan", the man answered.  And to what merciful God 
should I give thanks for bringing such a beauty as yourself into 
my shop?  Do I detect the hint of Essex in your voice, my lady?"
 
Hearing a trace of the Home Counties in his voice, Lady Charlotte 
allowed herself to relax. 



Sdited by C. Lakewood