Graduation Collar

As Dianne stood in the chairless antechamber, she could feel the texture of the tiled floor against her bare feet and the coolness of the steel shackles on her wrists and ankles. But more than that she was aware of her collar: A girl’s collar, technically, with the medallion in front marked with the bold ‘20’ of her age.

At least that was her age yesterday. Today she shared her twenty-first birthday with the five other women in the antechamber. They were all waiting to receive their ‘graduation’ collars from the Mansfield Finishing Estate. Their adult collars, without the age medallion that warned the boys against doing anything intimate. Then, as full-grown slave women, they would be delivered to various slave dealers and ultimately sold to private masters.

“Alma Maryann,” Mr. Fitzpatrick called into the room. The tallest woman looked up and crossed to the exit, moving slowly due to her hobbling. She had been Dianne’s roommate this past year, and was one of the increasing number of women who had two first names. Her short rayon gown swished softly, and then she was gone.

The date was Tuesday, June 30, 1953, thirty-three years after the ratification of the Nineteenth Amendment that made all women in the United States into the chattel property of their menfolk. Other countries had similar laws, the result of an international wave of female Demancipation after the First World War.

The six women who had turned twenty-one that day were of varying height, and had hair ranging in color from dark to blonde. They all happened to be white, despite the Ohio State Plantation at Mansfield having its fair share of black and Asian females. Officially, all the women in Ohio were equally slave, regardless of race, and a majority of the instructors at the Finishing Estate taught this as if they meant it.

Mr. Fitzpatrick poked his head back in. “Dianne.”

Dianne walked toward him, slowly. She felt excited and nervous, aware of her collar and aware of her bonds. If anything, her ankle-hobbles were hindering her even more than Alma’s had. Others had commented before on the contrast between the two young women: Tall and willowy Alma versus Dianne’s middling height, and her straight, almost-black hair versus Dianne’s curled honey-blonde.

Dianne took a steadying breath. She felt a pang of regret that her girl-slave collar would soon would be gone. Silly of her, given how she also yearned for a proper slave woman’s collar, but there it was. An instructor had once told Dianne that she appreciated it not because it was a girl’s collar, but simply because it was a collar. Now Dianne admitted that Missie Charlotte had had a point.

When she reached the room’s exit, Mr. Fitzpatrick led Dianne down a short hallway and through a door. On the far side she heard music, coming from the visible speakers and (Dianne guessed) a hidden phonograph.

Dianne found herself smiling and relaxing. Playing Holst’s Venus, the Bringer of Peace was a cliché at collaring rituals, but at the moment Dianne found it soothing.

The new room also held a small table or writing-bench, and a larger bench equipped with restraints. A collaring bench. A man in a business suit stood by the small table, waiting, as Mr. Fitzpatrick unlocked Dianne’s chains. Alma was nowhere in sight; she had already been carried off.

Mr. Fitzpatrick took his time about unlocking Dianne, smiling and muttering words of encouragement as he did so. Dianne knew him somewhat as one of her instructors, but more as Missie Charlotte’s owner.

“Strip, please,” Mr. Fitzpatrick commanded. Dianne began to comply, and then hesitated. When uncertain, she’d been taught to ask questions. In fact, it was Mr. Fitzpatrick who had taught her that.

“Complete, or half-strip, Mr. Fitzpatrick?” Dianne asked.

Her old instructor nodded approval at the question. “Half-strip.” His smile brightened for a second as he added, “For now.”

The thin rayon in a mostly-green pattern was Dianne’s only garment. In a few moments, she turned it into a short skirt around her waist, leaving herself topless. She felt a pulse of satisfaction at her size. Her breasts weren’t huge, but they were good-sized. Yes, definitely good sized. Normally she wore an extra-stiff bra, and appreciated its support. But not today.

More embarrassing was the stiffness of her nipples. Instead of distracting Dianne from her collar, they seemed to reflect her awareness of it.

Mr. Fitzpatrick’s next command brought Dianne to the writing table. She held up her left hand for inspection, and Mr. Fitzpatrick recorded the slave number that had recently been tattooed there as part of the Mark of Sheba. Then Dianna had to formally affirm her identity, both verbally and with her signature on the papers waiting for her. The man in the business suit, a Mr. David Barton, added his own signature before stepping back again to watch.

Now Dianne climbed onto the collaring bench. She seated herself with her legs stretched out before her and her back against the low backrest. Mr. Fitzpatrick applied the restraints: Ankles and thighs strapped down, wrists secured to the bench’s cuffs, holding them by her side, and a wide belt buckled around her waist to finish rendering her securely helpless.

“Feeling nervous, Dianne?” Mr. Fitzpatrick asked gently.

“A little bit, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Dianne admitted.

“Don’t worry about that. It’s normal to feel a little nervous. Just listen to the music, and remember that you’ve done this twenty times before. Now, chin up!”

“Yes, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

But Dianne gulped when her girl-collar was cut away. She had to press her lips together to keep from whimpering. She wanted her collar. She needed her collar. Without it, she felt – or imagined feeling – the psychic atmosphere of the twentieth century swirling around her, seeking to nibble at her sanity. It would take hours, or even days, before it would seriously affect her, but right now that seemed less than reassuring. It felt like hours were passing by, until the heavy steel of the collaring bench swung shut around her neck.

It was far too heavy to wear – in fact, it was supported by the backrest. And it forced Dianne to keep her chin raised. But at the moment it felt deeply comfortable.

“Better?” Mr. Fitzpatrick asked.

“Much better, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

“Good. You were having a bad reaction there for a moment. But the worst is over now.” He opened a velvet bag. “Here,” he said as he displayed Dianne’s new collar, holding and turning it so that she could inspect it.

It was a plain ring of stainless steel, hinged open at the moment. It lacked the glass bauble that would mark a bond witch, but it also lacked the age-medallion of a girl-slave’s collar. Dianne felt confident that it would fit her perfectly. She feasted her eyes on it while she still had a chance to do so; it would be awkward to inspect it after it was locked in place, even with mirrors.

“All right now,” Mr. Fitzpatrick said at last. He set the new collar on Dianne’s lap and released the bench-collar from her neck. “Keep your chin up,” he commanded.

This time it wasn’t nearly as bad. Dianne could sneer at the ectoplasmic attempts to nibble at her, knowing that she was half-protected by her slave status and confident that her protection would soon be complete. She felt Mr. Fitzpatrick inspecting her neck, and heard him call Mr. Barton over to join the inspection. The two men were looking for any sores or disfigurations caused by her old collar. Dianne felt confident that they wouldn’t find any.

Nor did they. Both men expressed their satisfaction, and Mr. Fitzpatrick closed the new collar on Dianne, locking it in place. “There! Now how does that feel?” he asked with a smile.

Dianne’s return smile felt huge. “It feels very good, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Oh!” she added as Mr. Barton began a businesslike massage of her feet. She felt the twisting touch of his fingers at the base of her big toes, and suddenly felt even more intensely aware of her neck and the steel around it. “Oh!” she repeated, grinning shamelessly now.

Mr. Fitzpatrick stepped back. “David, this is Dianne, SOQ-862-244,” he said, reciting her slave number. “In accordance with the laws of the State of Ohio, etc. etc. I must formally ask if you intend to complete your purchase of her.”

“Certainly so. Yes.”

“Dianne,” Mr. Fitzpatrick said. “This is Mr. David Barton, the proprietor of Barton’s Beauties. Master David, to you now.”

The two men began to release Dianne from the collaring bench.

“When you’re on your feet,” Master David said, “you can leave your gown on the bench. Complete strip,” he added with a grin. “Then I’ll be driving you over to my showroom,”

“Yes master.” Dianne smiled back. “I look forward to it.”