Holiday Gifts

Hendrix Scribers Incorporated was a small company where all the employees wore two or more ‘hats’ – even the slave women. Judy Jane, for example, served as both receptionist and secretary, with both a telephone and a telescribe on her desk. The latter, of course, was one of the ubiquitous IBM Ectomatics, and equally of course it was modified with one of the deluxe aftermarket scribers manufactured by Hendrix.

As for Judy herself, she had straight brown hair and a lightly olive complexion that suggested Mediterranean ancestry. On this early December day she wore a burgundy-colored woolen dress that reached just below her knees, sensible two-inch heels with proper locks on the chain hobbling her ankles, and a steel slave collar.

All women wore iron or steel collars these days. The US had passed the 19th or ‘Demancipation’ Amendment back in 1920, making all women, regardless of race, into the chattel property of their menfolk. For the 21 year old Judy, that had been a dozen years before her birth, and she belonged to the growing minority of women whose collars had a glass bauble set in it. This ‘gem’ marked her as a bond witch, a woman with unusually strong psychic abilities. In Judy’s case, her major ability was the rapid production of beautifully-scripted documents.

On being delivered to the office for the day, Judy set up the two pots of coffee and brew, before sitting down to deal with the correspondence. It was all internal office stuff, piled on her desk last night after she had left. She ignored, for the time being, the Christmas cookie left on her desk, just as she had initially ignored the previous four. She’d treat herself to it later.

One by one Judy took the scrawled messages, read them over, placed both hands on the sphere of the telescribe, and concentrated. Blank paper dropped into the machine at one end, and sheets calligraphed with purple ink (a Hendrix specialty) came out the other. It was at least as quick as an old-fashioned typewriter, and much prettier as well.

Mr. Warren entered the office as Judy started the last page. Warren D. Hendrix, the owner of Hendrix Scribers, but not Judy’s owner, balding, a bit paunchy, and just old enough to have voted for a congressman who had supported Demancipation. He poured himself a mug of hot brew, sipping the psi-enhancing liquid and waiting politely for Judy to finish.

“Morning, Judy,” he said when the slave woman relaxed back into her chair.

“Good morning, sir,” Judy answered.

“Your secret Santa is still at it, I see.” Mr. Warren gestured with his mug at the cookie.

“Yes, sir.”

“Enjoy it while you can. I have three – no, four letters to our suppliers to be scribed out, as soon as I give them a final look-over.” Mr. Warren gave Judy a nod and a smile, and departed for his private office.

Judy looked at her cookie. It was the fifth one this week. The first had come on the Monday after Thanksgiving – the first of December. The next three had appeared just as anonymously over the next three days. Judy hadn’t been able to sense who had sent them, most likely because the sender had taken precautions against psychic readings. She was certain that her secret Santa wasn’t Mr. Warren, and almost as certain that he had known who it was.

But on this Friday morning, Judy’s Santa hadn’t bothered concealing himself. From the aura, sensed rather than seen, she thought it must be Mr. Munoz. She grew more certain when she bit into the cookie. It was a tasty one, even if bakery-bought rather than homemade – Mr. Munoz was a bachelor, without a slave woman of his own. And the note underneath confirmed it, when Judy unfolded it and read:

Judy Jane, I want to buy you. Please ask your master if he’s willing to sell. - Kevin Munoz

She ought to feel pleased and excited. She did feel pleased and excited. But the cookie turned to sawdust in her mouth, because there were… complications.

Judy folded the note again and set it aside. She would try not to think about it until this evening, when she showed it to her bro– her master. In any case, he would have to make the decision.

Patrick Lewis read the note for the twelfth time, and set it aside again to look at Judy. He’d unlocked her hobble-heels, and now she sat with him in the living room of their tiny apartment, still in her office dress but barefoot. Only older women wore stockings these days, and even that was becoming less common as the years went past.

It was also less common than it had been for a brother to own his sister. It was still legal, of course, at least for younger sisters. Michigan law only prohibited men from inheriting older female relatives, while some of the other states, especially in the South, were more lenient on that point. What the law forbade, even in the South, was the purchase of close female relatives. Ownership by inheritance was a different matter, legally speaking.

Socially speaking, however, it was unseemly for a man to be the master of his own sister. It smacked of being a backward hillbilly, or worse, of having Southern Abolitionist sympathies. Which is why Patrick did not advertise that Judy was his sister. Their physical differences helped. Patrick stood a good six inches taller than Judy and was well-muscled to boot. His hair was darker, his face thinner, and while Judy had a cute, button-like nose, his was much more prominent. Someone looking for it could see their family resemblance, but to casual acquaintances they could pass as an unrelated master-and-slave couple.

“What do you think of him?” Patrick asked.

“Mr. Munoz? He’s a nice man, master. And I’m sure he’ll pay you enough to buy a nice bed-bunny of your own.” Judy smiled at him. “Think of it as my last gift to you, master.”

Patrick felt himself flush. The point had come up before and it still embarrassed him, even if it no longer seemed to bother Judy. He hadn’t been able to send her to a finishing estate, but she had been taking night courses. As a result, she now called him “master” rather than “Pat,” leaving that privilege of her childhood behind. She also spoke freely of men using their slave women as bed-bunnies, as well as just house slaves, and she yearned to become a bed-bunny herself. With the master who ultimately purchased her, of course. Their apartment had two bedrooms, even if both were closet-sized.

But the point was really about money. Kevin Munoz would pay what Judy was worth. Patrick could have sold Judy to a slave dealer, or to the State of Michigan, at any time – for half the money, if he was lucky. On the other hand, neither a private dealer nor the state purchasing bureau would get nasty about his being Judy’s brother. They’d be all business about it, while Munoz had his emotions engaged. That might be good, but it also might be very bad. Still…

“He’ll have to be told, you know,” Patrick said. “How do you read him as reacting?”

“I can’t tell master. Mr. Munoz has a very private nature.”

“What does your feminine intuition say?”

“That’s not the correct term, master. It’s–”

He interrupted Judy with a wave of his hand. “Whatever it’s called, what does it say?”

Judy closed her eyes and put her fingertips to her temples. The lights went out. Patrick couldn’t have done that, even though the psi-switches in the apartment were supposedly rated as being man-sensitive.

Patrick let his thoughts wander, to avoid interfering with his sister’s bond-witch trance. Most women had stronger psi abilities than most men, even when the woman wasn’t a bond witch. That was why Demancipation came about: Partly because the turn-of-the-century feminists had abused their powers and suffered a backlash, but mostly because sensitive women were vulnerable. Steel collars were protective devices, as well as marks of enslavement; without them, women would go mad in the modern psychic atmosphere. They had gone mad, all over the world, which was why the rest of the world had followed America’s lead. Or had preceded it. Only communist Russia and its vassals still held to a version of feminism, and their version was a commie lie. Their women were not just downtrodden, but miserable.

In America, on the other hand, women had gained prosperity and happiness in exchange for their enslavement. “Free Men and Prosperous Women” was the post-war slogan, and most women approved, to say nothing of the men. Patrick himself was enough of a southerner, on his father’s side, to faintly regret what had been lost, but he himself wouldn’t want to give up the benefits of the modern Psychic Age. Not for a million dollars.

The lights came back on.

“Master,” Judy said. “I can’t be certain. There’s too much willfulness and chaos involved. But my precognition suggests – suggests,” she emphasized, “that you’ll be giving me away to Mr. Munoz.”

“Let me handle it, then,” Patrick said. “I expect I’ll see Munoz at the Maple Club this weekend, and if I don’t, I’ll get in touch with him on Monday.”

The Maple Neighbors Club was just what the name suggested: A club for those living on or in the neighborhood of Maple Road. Both masters and their slave women could be members, and in fact the club structured its dues to encourage members to join as master-slave couples rather than as singletons.

On this first Saturday in December, they were putting up Christmas decorations. One or two men supervised and assisted while seven or eight slave women did most of the work. Cheerfully: They had broken out a box of costumes, and were dressed as holiday helpers, in a red and green paisley with short sleeves, puffed shoulders, and a hemline down to mid-calf. The dresses were set off with wrist- and ankle-fetters. Twenty inches of chain connected each wrist, producing a result more flirtatious than confining. The connection between the ankles was actually shorter. In addition, the ankle-fetters were ‘barefoot hobbles.’

Most ankle chains were built into shoes, and with a few exotic exceptions all women’s shoes had hobbling chains built into them. Barefoot hobbles were meant to be worn without shoes – by barefoot slave women, just as the name suggested. Men used them when they wanted extra security, or just to impress the fact of enslavement on their women, either as a punishment or as a reward. In this case, the cheerful, barefoot holiday-helpers took it as the later.

Patrick found Kevin Munoz in the club, watching the holiday helpers at work. Kevin was a tall man, with blond hair, sharp blue eyes, and a nose as prominent, in its own way, as Patrick’s own. Patrick got a Coke for himself and the other man, and looked around for a quiet corner to talk. Warren Hendrix sat on one side of the room, telling stories about making bootleg brew during Prohibition, so the two men found a small table in an opposite corner to sit and talk.

“There’s noise again about restricting barefoot hobbles,” Patrick said. He wished his Coke had some rum in it. It was harder than he expected to come to the point, and he could use some Cuban courage.

“There’s always noise,” Kevin answered. “It comes from the usual radical noise-makers. I admit that something should be done about shoddy restraints, but by certification, rather than another alphabet-soup agency.” Kevin waved his Coke. “But the Southern Abolitionists, and their secret admirers, want to ban barefoot hobbles altogether.”

“The womenfolk might appreciate a ban, or at least strong restrictions. I’ve heard some horror stories.”

“I’ve heard them too. They’re all from shoddy gear, or else from some bastard being a bastard – if you’ll pardon my language.”

Patrick waved it aside, and Kevin went on. “If you ask the womenfolk, they won’t want a ban. Ask any of the women here. Ask your Judy; I heard her mention at Hendrix how she was looking forward to being a holiday helper, barefoot shackles an all.”

“I guess you’re right,” Patrick said. “Judy does enjoy wearing them.” He took a pull from his Coke. “Speaking of which, Judy brought me your note. We can make a deal, but there’s something I have to tell you, first. In confidence.”

“Scouts honor.” Kevin made the appropriate gesture.

Patrick took another pull of his Coke. “It’s about my parents,” he began. “My family. My dad died before the War, back when I was nine. My mother had died even earlier, and my younger brother – what would have been my younger brother – died with her. That left just my sister and me, and we were shuttled between relatives. This was down in Tennessee and Alabama, you understand, and my family didn’t believe in orphanages. We lived with an uncle, then a cousin, then another uncle… Anyway, when I turned twenty-one I came into my inheritance. It wasn’t much, but it included my sister – Judy Jane Lewis. Although legally she doesn’t have the last name. That’s just a Southern custom.”

Kevin stared at Patrick blankly. At last he said, “Judy is your sister, as well as your house slave?”

Patrick nodded.

“Well then…” Kevin’s voice trailed off. His face hardened and he stood. “I said I wouldn’t talk, and I’ll stick to that. But I won’t have a fifth columnist in my house. Good afternoon.”

Neither Patrick nor Kevin noticed Warren Hendrix watching as Kevin stalked out of the club.

Judy set up the Monday pots of coffee and Brew and returned to her desk, her steps kept pleasingly short, as always, by her hobble-heels. She had just sat down when Mr. Munoz entered the office.

“Good morning, Mr. Munoz,” Judy said, trying not to show her apprehension. Master Patrick had told her, last Saturday evening, that Mr. Munoz wasn’t purchasing her, but hadn’t given her any further details.

“Good morning,” Mr. Munoz answered in a zero-degree voice. He started to turn away, toward his own cubbyhole of an office.

“Morning, Judy, Kevin,” Mr. Warren said, startling them both. He headed toward the Brew pot. Judy realized, belatedly, that he had been watching from his office door, waiting for Mr. Munoz to arrive.

“I want to see both of you,” Mr. Warren went on. “I’ll join you in my office as soon as I’ve filled my mug.”

A minute later, the three of them were sitting in Mr. Warren’s office. The boss sat behind his big, battered army-surplus desk, while Mr. Munoz and Judy sat in straight-backed chairs before it.

“You two obviously have a problem between you,” Mr. Warren said. “I could give you my guess as to just what that problem is, but I won’t. What I will do is insist that you work it out before it gets any worse.” He pulled a key from a drawer and stretched to set it on the edge of the desk, in front of Judy, saying, “Unlock your hobble-heels, Judy, and set them aside.”

“Yes, Mr. Warren.” Judy did as she was told, and when she looked up again, she saw that Mr. Warren had set several hanks of cotton rope on his desk.

“Now you go ahead and tie Judy in that chair,” Mr. Warren said to Mr. Munoz. “In a gentlemanly way,” he added. Judy both saw and sensed Mr. Munoz hesitation. Mr. Warren must have seen it too, for he added, “My employment contract for Judy includes a right to administer discipline. This stretches it a bit, but if Patrick Lewis has a problem with it, I’ll settle it with him. So go ahead.”

Judy sensed the hesitation leaving Mr. Munoz before he reached out to the first hank of rope. He took his time, concentrating, Judy thought, on being soft and secure rather than quick about tying her. Each of her ankles he bound to a leg of the chair, leaving her bare feet playing in the carpet. He added a band of rope just above her knees, to hold her legs together, and lashed her torso to the chair-back. He crossed and tied her wrists in front, belting them to her lap with ropes around both her waist and the chair, so that she could not reach any of the knots.

When Mr. Munoz stepped back, Judy tested her bonds. He had done a gentlemanly job of binding her, just as Mr. Warren had ordered. Each tie was snug and secure, made with several turns of rope in the government-approved fashion. None of them pinched, or bit into her skin. Nor had Mr. Munoz forced her into a strained position; the tie allowed Judy to relax in the chair, if she wished, demurely helpless. In fact, the only thing Mr. Munoz had done that might be considered even remotely ungentlemanly was to stroke his fingers over the back of Judy’s left hand, over the official Mark of Sheba and the date of her birth tattooed there. That touch had sent an exciting shiver through Judy, and a premonition of changes coming into her life. But the future was too chaotic for her to sense any details.

“Very good!” Mr. Warren smiled at the two of them. “It’s hard to stay angry at a tied and helpless young woman, now isn’t it?”

“Yes it is,” Mr. Munoz said tonelessly.

Mr. Warren came around the desk. “Now I’ll leave you two here for half an hour, and when I come back, I’ll want you to have thrashed out this problem between you – at least enough to tell me what new arrangements I’ll need to make.” He bestowed another smile and left, quietly shutting the door.

Mr. Munoz looked down at Judy. Judy looked back up.

“Why were you angry with me, Mr. Munoz?” she asked. “Is it because Master Patrick is my brother, as well as my owner?”

“Yes,” he answered. “No. It’s not just that. It’s that you and Patrick are secret Southern Abolitionists. That or a pair of commie feminists. I can’t tell which, but I’m guessing Abolitionist – and in either case I can’t have you in my house as a fifth columnist.”

“But we’re not,” Judy said. “Not either of us! Why would you think that?”

“Well, you are from the South. You both still have a slight accent, and you both have mentioned growing up in Tennessee and Georgia.”

“Alabama,” Judy corrected him.

He smiled. “Alabama. I know it’s a stereotype, and that the South is a stronghold for the Samsonites, as well as for Southern Abolitionists. For that matter, I’d guess that there are more anti-slavery radicals among us Yankees, once you count in the commies among us.” His smile vanished. “But your owner is also your brother – and he hasn’t sold you off. That’s how I knew he had an ulterior motive.”

“But not that one, Mr. Munoz. It’s about the money. Master Patrick has been very generous about paying for my night courses, and he deserves to be rewarded for it. He deserves a better price for me than a dealer would pay. You know how stingy they are. So we’ve been waiting to make a private sale.”

Judy drew a deep breath. “And even if Master Patrick were a Southern Abolitionist, I wouldn’t be one. I don’t want to go ‘mad in white linen’ like my Great-Aunt Rose. The Russians and the Southern Abolitionists are already crazy if they think I could avoid that.” Her bound hands gestured toward her slave collar, where the glass bauble of a bond witch winked. “I need this, Mr. Munoz. Of course I’d prefer to be owned by a gentleman – any girl would – but Fate has handed lemons to us girls, and God wants us to make lemonade from them.”

“I didn’t think you were a Samsonite,” Mr. Munoz said.

“I’m not. We aren’t, really. But we’re lots closer to that than to being Southern Abolitionists!”

“I see.” Mr. Munoz sat down in the other chair. “I’ll be damned – excuse my language.” He ran a hand over his face. “I jumped to conclusions, and I owe you an apology. It was stupid of me. I’m sorry.” He looked up, straight at Judy. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, “and if your Master Patrick is willing to sell to a da– to a fool, then I’m willing to welcome you into my house.”

“And into your bed, Mr. Munoz?” Judy asked – daring, but it felt like the right thing to do.

It was. Mr. Munoz smiled again. “You are a saucy wench, aren’t you.”

“I need to practice at being one, Mr. Munoz. That’s what my night course instructors say.”

Patrick Lewis had just sent Judy to change from her office clothes into a house dress when the doorbell rang. He opened the door to see Kevin Munoz standing in the apartment building corridor, dressed in an overcoat against a December evening that had dropped below freezing, and holding his hat in his hand.

“Mr. Lewis,” Kevin said. “I’ve come to apologize to you. I jumped to conclusions about you and Judy, and it was stupid of me to do so. I’m sorry, and I want to take back what I said on Saturday, at the Maple Club.”

Patrick stood silent for a long moment before making his decision. “Come on in,” he said. “And you can go ahead and call me ‘Patrick’ again. Do you want something to drink?”

It was three steps to the center of the small living room. “Thank you, but maybe that should wait. Judy told me that you wanted to make a private sale, to get a better price. If you’re willing to see her owned by a damned fool, then well, here I am.”

“God knows I’ve done enough stupid things,” Patrick said. “More than I care to remember. So go ahead and make your offer.”

Kevin said, “Actually, I’m thinking of an exchange of gifts, now. You and I could go down to a dealer’s, sometime this week, and you could pick out a girl. She would be my gift to you, and then Judy would be your gift to me.”

“That could be expensive for you,” Patrick observed.

“Judy is a bond witch,” Kevin said. Patrick saw his lips twitch in a suppressed smile. “I expected her to be expensive.”

“In that case, Knight’s Damsels is open late, on Mondays.”

The smile broke loose. “Perfect,” Kevin said.

Patrick turned to call. “Judy! Come and put your hobble-heels back on! We’re going out!”

Judy sat in the back seat of the Plymouth belonging to Mr. Munoz, an overcloak around her shoulders and her hands cuffed behind her. Master Patrick and Mr. Munoz had both gone into the slave dealer’s, and another shiver of excitement ran through her. Soon she would be brought into Knight’s Damsels as well, not to be sold, but for something even more exciting. She would be traded! Bartered, as if at a primitive fur-trading post, or at an exotic oriental bazaar.

A young man came out, possibly even younger than Judy herself. He had a key to open the locked back-seat door. “Missie Judy Jane?” he addressed her formally. “I’m Gus Knight, Junior. I’ve been sent to bring you inside.”

Inside proved to be very warm. For the sake, Judy realized, of the nude women she glimpsed here, being offered as merchandise. The junior Knight relieved her of her overcloak at once, and led her to a side room, turning her over to a man who introduced himself as Bruce Carson.

“Your paperwork is a little complicated, Judy,” Mr. Carson said as he unlocked her handcuffs. “It looks like it’s in good order, however. I’ll just want to verify a few things, and then you can change.” He handed her a second key from a table that was not quite a desk. “Go ahead and take off your hobble-heels, first.”

Judy obeyed, and on further instruction stood unchained but barefoot in her house dress, turning around once for Mr. Carson’s inspection.

“Sit down, please.” Mr. Carson took a seat on the other side of the table. “Let me see your left hand.” He inspected the Mark of Sheba tattooed on the back, and recorded Judy’s date of birth.

“What’s your S-number, Judy?”

“Ess Pee Dee, Five two three, one nine four,” Judy recited.

“Good!” Mr. Carson said. “Don’t worry about not having it on your hand. Maybe thirty or forty percent of the girls we handle have only their birth-dates there.” He asked Judy two or three other questions, and then pulled over a telescribe sphere, connected by electric cables to a machine that wasn’t a telescribe.

“This is a comparator,” Mr. Carson explained. “It will take your fingerprints without getting your hands all inky.”

Judy wrinkled her nose. “I remember the last set.”

“This is much nicer,” Mr. Carson assured her. “I know you’re familiar with telescribes. Just place your hands on the sphere as usual, but don’t try to force anything. Just relax. It’s automatic, and we’ll make two copies.”

Judy placed her hands on the sphere. It felt like a stuck telescribe. Then it came live, making her palms tingle for half a minute. Mr. Carson threw some switches on the other machine, and the sphere went dead, briefly, before coming back to make Judy’s palms tingle for another minute.

“Look at this.” Mr. Carson showed her a sheet with her palm prints. “No inky fingers at all.” He filed the two sheets away. “Now you can change behind that screen. Pick a dress that fits a little loosely, and leave your house dress here. We’ll bundle it up with the rest of your things. After that…” He picked up a pair of chains from a box and set them on the table. They were handcuffs and barefoot hobbles, heavy and rubber-coated in the style commonly used by slave dealers. “We’ll put these on you, and then deliver you to your new master.”

It took less than three minutes for Judy to change, mostly because she chose one dress size larger than her normal and didn’t spend time dithering. Wearing the disposable paper clothing of a new-sold slave, and secured once more, she walked slowly into the main showroom. Mr. Carson helped her, and she needed the help, with her hands cuffed behind her back and the short connector of the barefoot hobbles forcing her to take tiny, mincing steps. The thinness of her paper dress made Judy appreciate the warmth, in a way she hadn’t on first entering.

Judy made for Master Patrick, who stood with his arm around another woman. She was clothed and chained just as Judy was, in the dealer’s paper dress and rubber-coated fetters. Her hair was lighter than Judy’s, just a shade too dark to call blond, and her face was beautiful, with striking blue eyes. Judy felt a pang of envy. Then she saw the envy in the other woman’s eyes, looking at the glass bauble in Judy’s collar. The other woman wore a plain collar, marking her as an ordinary house slave, rather than a bond witch like Judy.

Master Patrick said, “Judy, this is Sherry, my new house slave. Sherry, this is Judy Jane.”

“Hello,” Sherry said.

“Hello,” Judy said – and with that word she knew, with preternatural certainty, that she and Sherry would become good friends. Judy had rarely experienced such a strong flash of psychic foresight before, but this was an exalted moment. She was aware of her bare feet, her thin paper dress, the restraints on her wrists and ankles, and the collar around her neck as she stood squarely on the showroom floor. She glimpsed Mr. Munoz out of the corner of her eye. But she focused on Master Patrick and his Sherry, with his arm holding her close and tight, and her head leaning on his shoulder. He was about to speak the words that would transform him into Mr. Lewis.

Master Patrick held up a set of papers with his free hand. “I’ve signed the paperwork,” the words came. “You belong to Kevin Munoz, now.”

Judy saw Master Kevin’s face, looking closely at her. She felt his hands. She pressed against him, breathing in his masculine scent, a scent not at all like that of Mr. Lewis. A shiver of pleasant frustration ran through her as she twisted her fettered hands behind her, unable to return her master’s embrace as he gently crushed her against his body.

Now he was kissing her. Kissing her. Kissing her with sweet kisses until she melted.