The Christmas Tree Plate

“Pearl, we already sent in the order.”

“I know, master,” Pearl Linda answered without looking up from the 1958 Sears wishbook. “But I still like to look.” She had two given names to compensate for her lack of a surname, as was common to women of her generation. She’d been born thirty-seven years after Missie vs Montgomry, when the Supreme Court had ruled that the Thirteenth Amendment only applied to black men, and thirteen years after Demancipation, when the Nineteenth Amendment had made all women into chattel slaves owned by men.

“Go ahead and look then,” Clyde Davis told the woman he owned. He was five years older and four inches taller than her, lean and long-faced. “But maybe I should shackle you, while you’re lying there.” Pearl looked up at that, her violet eyes meeting his brown ones.

“If it amuses you, master.”

“It does amuse me.” Clyde rose from the orange slipper chair and scooped up the shackles on his way to the couch. They were good-quality shackles, with an adjustable chain. He took a moment to shorten that chain, before locking the cuffs around Pearl’s bare ankles. He stroked her light brown hair and patted her rear before settling back in his chair to enjoy the wider view.

Pearl was thin and small breasted, but with a perfect oval face, a fine complexion, and a sweet voice. Her bare feet kicked in the air, confined now as she sprawled on the couch. Further up she wore a holly-green dress with elbow-length sleeves and a high waistline. Its cut was perhaps a bit scanty for a chill Michigan December, in the dreary days before the lasting snow arrived, but its material was winter-weight wool. Besides, the house was still warm from all the baking she’d been doing that day. Beyond the dress, the top of her left hand bore the Mark of Sheba, with her S-number, and her neck wore a collar. In Pearl’s case it was the plain steel collar of an ordinary house slave, rather than the fancier one of a bond witch.

The Christmas tree in the corner had been Clyde’s job; he’d brought it in after work, setting it up and stringing the lights. The card table next to it held Pearl’s contribution to the holiday: Two kinds of cake, a plate overflowing with cookies, a big bowl of Chex mix, and bottles set out to augment the eggnog. The eggnog itself currently sat in the refrigerator, along with cold cuts and sliced cheese. Pearl had spent the day – the Friday before Christmas – ‘barefoot in the kitchen’ like the good house slave she was.

The doorbell rang. Clyde rose and gave a warning finger to Pearl when she looked up. Pearl stayed on the couch, although she did swing around to a sitting position, bare feet now on the green carpet-remnant that covered the living room floor. Her master had reduced the chain between her ankles to a mere three or four inches, so it would have taken forever for her to reach the door anyway.

Virgil and Julia came in; friends and neighbors from across the street. Virgil Fox had the same lean build as Clyde, but shorter and paler, with blond hair instead of dark. His face was shorter as well, squared-off and featuring a noble nose between two grey eyes. Ethel Julia was likewise shorter than Pearl, but buxom rather than skinny, and blonde like her master. Her dress, once her coat came off, was a merry red, and her collar was the plain steel of a house slave, just like Pearl’s.

Julia had to wait for Virgil to unlock her before she could shed her boots and join Pearl on the couch. Nearly all women’s footwear came these days with built-in hobbles. For casual slippers, these were ‘house hobbles,’ a simple arrangement that the slave could attach and remove herself. But in the case of more serious footwear the hobbles locked, with the woman’s master holding the key. A woman thus had a choice between going barefoot and going shackled. Although in many cases it was her master’s choice instead, and some masters (like both Clyde and Virgil) were enthusiastic about applying ‘barefoot hobbles’ like the one currently restraining Pearl.

Pearl stood to embrace her friend and they sat on the couch together, sharing the wishbook between them. Clyde and Virgil stood and looked over the Christmas tree and the card table. “You got a good tree, this year,” Virgil said. “And I see Pearl has been busy baking too much, as usual.” He nodded appreciatively at the chocolate Bundt cake, the caramel layer cake, and the four kinds of cookies.

“It’ll get eaten,” Clyde answered. “We’ll be having people over all week. But we ought to put the eggnog out now. The cold cuts too. Go ahead and take care of that, Pearl.”

“Yes, master.” But Pearl didn’t rise. She just gave him a piteous look.

“All right then,” Clyde smiled. “Legs up!” Pearl obeyed, setting her legs on the cheap parson’s table. Clyde squatted down to lengthen the ankle chain, increasing it to some fourteen inches of slack. Virgil left for the front closet and returned with a chain of his own.

“You too, Julia,” Virgil said. The shackles he attached were simpler, with a hobbling chain of fixed length. “Now you can go help Pearl.” Clyde confirmed this with a nod.

“Yes, master,” Pearl repeated, smiling now as she stood. She sent a mental probe ahead to turn on the kitchen lights, a simple psychic exercise that any house slave could perform.

“Yes, master,” Julia echoed her friend as she followed.

Clyde took the slipper chair again as Virgil settled on the couch. “So how have things been going?” Virgil asked.

“Work’s been hurry-up-and-wait,” Clyde answered. “You know how it is. But it’s a paycheck.”

“Same here. It’s as if the bosses couldn’t see the holiday shutdown coming. I did get a nice holiday bonus out of it, but Julia wants to spend it again.”

“Oh? That sewing machine you bought for her last year seems to have worked out OK.”

“Yep.” A note of pride crept into Virgil’s voice. “That dress she’s wearing is one she made herself.”

“Nice. She did a good job with it.”

“Yes, but now wants me to buy her an IBM telescribe,” Virgil said. Clyde’s eyebrows went up. The modern, psychic-powered replacement for a typewriter could produce reams of beautiful script in the hands of a bond witch. For a house slave it would operate more slowly, and for a man it would produce printed text only. It was also more a piece of office equipment rather than something for the home. “She’s sending in stories to the magazines,” Virgil explained. “Women’s magazines, mostly, but also to some of the others.”

“Well, all women are a little mad. That’s what their collars are for: To steady them.” A pause. “Has she sold any of her stories yet?” Clyde asked.

“Sort of. Julia won a subscription to Woman and Home. I told her I wanted to see a check come in before I bought her a telescribe. So this year I got her an attachment for her sewing machine, and a fancy holiday plate.” Virgil leaned over and tapped a picture in the open wishbook. “This plate. But I’ll want to look it over before I wrap it for the tree. If I don’t like it, I’ll send it back and just give Julia the sewing machine gadget.”

Clyde craned over to look. The catalog showed a white plate with a Christmas tree in the center and a design of holly leaves and berries around the edge. “We have that plate,” he said. “I bought it for Pearl two or three years ago. It was a year or two after I bought her, anyway. I can have her bring it out for you to see. We ought to have it set out for Christmas anyway.”

Just then the two slave women returned from the kitchen, walking carefully in their barefoot hobbles so as to not spill the trays they carried. Pearl set out the cheese and cold cuts, and Julia added the bread and the eggnog to the card table. Clyde waited until they finished, then said, “Pearl, I’d like you to bring out the Christmas tree plate. Do you remember where it is?”

“I think so, master. I’ll go get it.” Pearl headed back to the kitchen, moving slightly more quickly without the tray to worry about, but still prettily hampered by her chaining. Julia followed her friend, and the two men watched, smiling, before moving to the table to begin their snacking.

A quarter-hour later, Pearl returned. “I- I can’t find it, master. It’s not where I thought it was. Or anywhere else we looked.”

“You must have done something with it,” Clyde told her. “Just relax and try to remember.”

“We could try a divination with the wishbook,” Julia suggested.

The suggestion accepted, the two men sat and watched as Pearl and Julia knelt on either side of the parson’s table. “Be sure to close your eyes,” Virgil reminded them.

“Yes master,” Julia said. She flipped the wishbook open to a random page, and Pearl brought a finger down. The two slave women repeated this little ritual twice more, producing three words:

you… know… where…

“But I don’t know where!” Pearl wailed.

“Yes you do,” Clyde told her. “You just don’t know what you know.” He stood and crossed to a cabinet. “Here, let me help you remember.” Inside the cabinet were coils of cotton cord, the sort still labeled ‘clothesline’ by the manufacturers, out of tradition and a reluctance to admit that the most common use for their product had changed.

Ten minutes later, Pearl lay across her master’s lap as he sat on the couch. He’d released her from her shackles, but had tied her tightly in exchange. Her ankles were crossed, her wrists were crossed, and a short tether ran between ankles and wrists, putting her into a hogtie. Lower down, Julia was on her belly on the carpet-remnant, similarly tied with her own master sitting sprawled beside her.

Virgil started to tease Julia, caressing her, rubbing her bare feet, whispering for her to keep quiet as she made happy little noises. Pearl felt her master’s hand massaging her own bare feet, and stroking her bare arms and legs. The atmosphere in the living room changed, charged with an excited awareness of the owned and the owners. Pearl and Julia felt it keenly; their men had purchased them, and they now belonged to their masters. Clyde and Virgil felt something as well, despite being male and so naturally less sensitive. Still, it was enough to make Virgil smile, and to make Clyde’s lips twitch as he attended to his slave woman.

“So what did you bake first?” Clyde asked Pearl softly.

“The caramel cake, master.” Pearl was keenly aware of the ropes binding her. Comfortable ropes. “But I made the cookie dough first. One kind yesterday, and one kind this morning. I put them in the ‘fridge.”

“Very good. Now, when you took the caramel cake from the oven, what did you put in next?”

“The chocolate cake, master.” Secure ropes, as well as comfortable. They held her in place, helpless. “I made the batter while the caramel cake was baking. And while it was on the cooling rack.”

“Very good. Now, when you took the chocolate cake from the oven, what did you put in next?”

“Nothing right away, master.” Pearl could not escape the ropes. They held her in place, vulnerable to her master’s hands. “I let the chocolate cake cool, and I made caramel frosting and frosted the other cake. On the cake stand.”

“Very good. Now when you finished the caramel frosting, what did you put into the oven then?”

“Cookies, master.” Her master’s hands were gentle. “I put in the first sheet of cookies while the chocolate cake finished cooling. Then I made the glaze for the chocolate cake.”

“Very good. Now how many sheets of cookies did you bake while finishing with the chocolate cake?”

“One… two… Three, master.” That gentleness made her even more aware. Aware of her helplessness. Aware of her master. Aware of her friend Julia, just as well tied as she was, under the hands of her own master. “I put the chocolate cake on a big plain plate to glaze it, and I brought both cakes out to the card table. And I brought out the Chex mix, too, that I made yesterday. But the cookies still had to cool.”

“Very good. Now how many sheets of cookies did you bake after you finished with the cakes?”

“One… two… Two, master.” Now Pearl became aware of the other’s awareness, and they became aware of hers. Julia’s excited helplessness increased Pearl’s own helpless excitement. The exultant sense of ownership felt by the masters made the slave women feel deeply owned. “I started washing up while they were baking, master,” Pearl gasped.

“Very good.” Glee trembled under Clyde’s calm tone, but his hands remained steady as they gave Pearl’s feet another rub. “Now what did you do with the last two sheets of cookies, after taking them out of the oven.”

“There wasn’t room on the cooling racks, master.” Pearl could see those racks now, in her mind’s eye. “I had to move the cooled cookies to… to…” The vision wavered as she tried to remember. Then it came clear. “To the plate! I took the Christmas tree plate down from its shelf, and put the cooled cookies on it to make room on the cooling rack. The plate is underneath the cookies, master!”

The charged atmosphere faded, and once more there were four ordinary people in the living room: Two middle-class suburban masters, and their two bound and beloved slave women.

Virgil stood and stepped over to the card table. He ate one cookie and slid the rest onto a pair of paper plates. “Um,” he swallowed. “Good cookie. And here’s the plate.” He held it up, showing the Christmas tree in the middle and the ring of holly around the edges.

“You knew, master,” Pearl said. “How did you know?”

Clyde shook his head. “All I knew was that I saw the plate on its shelf, last night. If it wasn’t still there, you had to have done something with it, sometime during all that baking you did.” He lifted Pearl up to kneel on the couch, still tied, and gave her a kiss before accepting a couple of cookies from Virgil. “Um. Good cookie,” he said. After swallowing his bite, he went on. “You’ve been working hard, Pearl.” His free hand stroked her hair, before moving around to give her a comforting squeeze. “And you and Julia are looking very pretty, right now. So I think we’ll just keep you like this for a while.” He looked at her with a tender smile, and she smiled happily back. Then his smile shifted into a sudden grin.

“Here,” he told her. “Have a cookie.”