Sophie’s Fortune

Chapter 1

Monday, February 2, 1959

Despite the February slush and her lack of shoes, Sophie’s owner had kept her feet dry. He had done so by carrying her from the slave dealer’s showroom to his car – a big 1958 Lincoln, less than a year old – and now he carried her into his house.

Once inside, Master Allen set Sophie on her feet. Her bare toes sank into the thick carpet as he led her to the suede leather couch. She moved slowly; one pair of the rubber-coated cuffs favored by slave dealers locked her hands behind her back, and a second pair kept her ankles close-hobbled. Her dress – the traditional paper dress of a newly purchased slave – bore the logo of Griffin & Levitt, with a boast of ‘Est. 1909.’ That was after Missie v Montgomery, when the Supreme Court ruled that the Thirteenth Amendment only applied to men, but before Demancipation, when the Nineteenth Amendment made all women into chattel slaves, regardless of race.

Sophie craned her neck to look around after Master Allen made her lie on the couch. The big living room opened up into a kitchen and dining room with no walls between them, only a change in flooring. The area covered by the cream-colored carpet was by itself almost as large as the rented house they had lived in during Master Allen’s previous ownership of her. It included a fireplace of gray fieldstone, two suede leather armchairs that matched the couch, and a set of end- and coffee-tables of fine hardwood. Above was a high ceiling that made the open space seem even bigger, and Sophie found it to be just a bit intimidating. Master Allen had obviously become well-off in the six years since he had sold her, but Sophie hadn’t expected him to be this wealthy.

Master Allen was searching for the traditional crop. As he did so, Sophie could sense his mind reaching to the light switches. The lights came on, and Sophie sent out a mental probe of her own, only to find it blocked. The switches here were the new and fancy ones. Not only could they be turned on and off by the weaker mental probes of men, they could also be locked against the stronger touch of female minds.

Master Allen held up the crop. “Here it is,” he said. “Hold still.”

Sophie sensed Master Allen looming above and behind her. She held still for the traditional bastinado, silently counting the thirty-nine blows. Master Allen applied them as gentlemanly pats, barely firm enough to keep them from tickling. Sophie knew that he wouldn’t ever give her anything that hurt. Like most men, Master Allen owned a slave woman because women needed to be owned, and while he took pleasure from that ownership, he did not take any from inflicting pain.

Sophie closed her eyes and sighed, her cheek against the suede. Master Allen wasn’t just ‘most men.’ A continuing lack of money had finally broken her nerve, during his previous ownership of her, and she had demanded the Right of Sale. Now, six years later, it felt right to be owned by him again. Any second-guessing because he might be too wealthy was completely silly. She would just have to adjust to that wealth.

She heard a faint thump as Master Allen dropped the crop on the carpet, followed by the paper-ripping sound of her dress being torn open. Sophie wiggled in anticipation. Her master was like a boy opening a present, and she was the present. Firm hands unlocked the cuffs on her wrists, more experienced than they’d been seven years ago, but still recognizable as Master Allen’s. At the unspoken command of those hands she rolled over, looked up, and let her blue eyes meet the brown ones behind his glasses.

Those brown eyes, Sophie knew, were looking at a woman who was thirty-two years old, but who appeared to be only twenty-five, thanks to her regular use of beauty cream. In fact, her physical appearance was still very close to that of the slave woman who had demanded the Right of Sale. Her light brown hair had the same length and her figure had the same curves: An hourglass waist between a generous bosom and equally generous hips. If she stood, she’d still be a head shorter than him, just a pinch under an average woman’s height.

Her steel collar was the same as well: The plain collar of a house slave, without the glass-gem bauble that marked a bond witch. The tattoo on the back of her left hand was likewise unchanged: A Mark of Sheba that included both her slave number and her date of birth.

“Do you like what you see, master?” Sophie asked.

“Yes I do.” Master Allen sat down next to her, pulling her up to lean against him. “And I like what I feel. Welcome to Porthos House, Sophie.”

Sophie relaxed into his arms. “Thank you master.” Master Allen’s cuddle felt just as good as she had remembered.

“Lie down again,” Master Allen commanded, and Sophie obeyed, placing her wrists behind her back. She wasn’t a bond witch, but it didn’t take much psychic ability to foresee the straps coming. Black straps with steel buckles, she guessed, and so it proved. After unlocking the ankle cuffs, Master Allen quickly rendered her helpless again: Wrists bound, arms bound, legs bound, and ankles bound. Thumbs and big toes tied with cord, which was a new touch. Good cord too, rather than cheap twine or improvised shoelaces. She felt his hands on her body once more, touching her for her comfort and his amusement.

The hands withdrew. “Now, do you beg the tickle?” Master Allen asked.

“Yes please master!” Sophie squealed. “I beg the tickle!”

Sophie adored being tickled, and Master Allen was good at it. He had tickled her all through his first ownership of her, back when tickling was just a nerdish master’s eccentricity.

For this tickle session, Master Allen combined bare fingers and his pocket-comb. He teased Sophie’s bare skin, working his way down her body to her bare feet. He made her giggle and squirm, and then made her laugh out loud by tickling the tops of her feet and running his comb up and down her bare soles. He held her toes apart and tickle-teased the sensitive places between them, making her shriek happily.

“So you like this, do you?” Master Allen asked as he slowed the tickle tempo. Sophie nodded vigorously, still giggling. “Now let’s try something else,” he said.

The new tickle came and Sophie howled with glee. Master had dropped his comb for a two-handed raking tickle that covered her whole body. Her feet received it first; both his hand on both her feet. The tickle then migrated up to the back of her calves and to the back of her knees. Her belly and breasts were protected by her lying face-down, but that didn’t matter. Instead of rolling her over, Master Allen made light tickle-attacks up and down her sides, and teeaased along her spine. He returned to her feet, to poke and stroke and tickle them all over, tops as well as soles. As usual, Sophie felt glad that she was bound. The sense of helplessness, as she struggled futilely against her restraints, made Master Allen’s tickles feel all the more delightful.

The tickling stopped. Sophie whimpered in disappointment.

“No, it’s not enough,” Master Allen agreed. Sophie felt him unbuckling the straps. “We don’t have time for more. You need to get dressed, now.”

Master Allen nodded toward the bundle at the foot of the end table. Griffin & Levitt had included a change of everyday clothing in Sophie’s sale, along with the paper dress. They were used clothes, three or four years out of date, but Sophie knew that they were clean and would fit her.

Allen Hunt watched Sophie dress herself in the ‘free’ sweater-and-skirt outfit that Griffin & Levitt had provided. He had visited the slave dealer’s showroom frequently over the past month, driven by the idea that he really ought to purchase a woman for himself, instead of just renting. Then he had seen Sophie on display.

Hunt couldn’t honestly say that Sophie had been wrong to demand the Right of Sale six years ago. But that was six years ago. Today he wanted Sophie, and he didn’t think he imagined the way Sophie’s eyes had lit up when she saw him heading toward her display platform.

The salesman had shown some reluctance, after seeing his previous sale of her in her records. Not much, though, especially after Sophie had pointed out that she was now past the legal five-year limit.

The doorbell rang. Sophie started forward to answer it, her fingers still working on a last button. Hunt stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll get it,” he said. “You stay here.”

All four of the Trivilla neighbors were at the front door: Louis Watkins and his Patty, and Maxwell Arnold and his Olive.

“You’re being formal,” Hunt commented. The neighbors normally used the back doors to visit each other in good weather and the basement tunnels on days like today.

“We just came from a working lunch,” Watkins said. “Some people I knew in the Navy wanted to talk with Max.”

“It didn’t come to anything though,” Max put in.

Watkins said, “On the drive back, Patty had an intuition, and we’re here to see if that has come to anything.”

“It was more of a foreseeing, master,” Patty said. She had the glass-bauble gem of a bond witch set in her collar, in her case a pale blue one.

Olive and Patty finished unlocking their hobble-boots, using the slave key kept chained at the door. Hunt opened the entry-hall closet for them to stow the clothing needed for a Michigan winter, before leading them to the living room to introduce Sophie.

Louis Watkins was Hunt’s attorney, as well as his friend and neighbor. He was an older man, short, with graying red hair and a ruddy, weathered face. Like Hunt, he wore glasses. Unlike Hunt, his were wire-rimmed bifocals. His Patty was even shorter, standing under five feet, with big brown eyes in a round face, framed with wavy chestnut hair.

Max was Hunt’s younger neighbor, just out of college. He had a square and handsome face that might become craggy when grew older. He was also the son of a wealthy auto executive, which was how he could afford D’Artagnan House here in the Three Musketeers Trivilla. His Olive stood taller than either Sophie or Patty – almost as tall as Watkins. She wore an enameled slave collar and had straight black hair that fell to the small of her back.

They took their usual seats in the living room: Watkins in the armchair with Patty on his lap, Max and Olive on one end of the couch, and Hunt with Sophie on the other end.

“So this is the Sophie you’ve told us about,” Max said, “and now you’ve purchased her for a second time. It sounds like one of those bad romantic comedies.”

“But those do always turn out well at the end, master,” Olive said. “That’s a hopeful sign.”

“Hollywood has to do it that way,” Patty said with middle-aged assurance. Hunt knew that she was in her forties, the same as her master, but the only sign of that was her old-fashioned makeup. Otherwise, she might be taken as being on the young side of thirty. As with Sophie, beauty cream had preserved her youthful appearance.

Patty continued, “Those movies have happy endings because people prefer comedies to tragedies, and they have a great deal of fuss and drama first because otherwise there wouldn’t be a story.”

Hunt said, “The dealer started to make a fuss, but Sophie pointed out that the five-year legal limit had passed.”

“It helped that Master Allen offered to pay cash, instead of writing a check.” Sophie said. “It was funny how that worked.”

“Speaking of cash,” Hunt said. “I’m sending Sophie out shopping. If you don’t mind, I’ll like Patty and Olive to go with her, while the three of us stay here for a powwow.”

“Certainly,” Watkins said.

Max nodded agreement. “I’ll loan Sophie a coat. If she is just arrived from Griffin & Levitt, she’ll need one.”

“Thank you,” Hunt said, trying not to feel embarrassed. Of course the clothing package from Griffin & Levitt hadn’t included a coat. “I’ll go call a cab to take our ladyslaves to Hudson’s.”

After making the call, Hunt prepared a plain white envelope, handing it to Sophie when he returned to the living room. Her eyes widened as she looked in it, seeing just how much cash he had given her.

“You don’t have to spend it all at once,” Hunt told Sophie. “But I do want you to get a nice starter wardrobe for yourself. Including a winter coat,” he added with a smile. “You’ll need country-club clothes, as well as plain house clothes. Just don’t get more than one pair of hobble-heels. For those, I want to take you out personally to get fitted. Possibly tomorrow, but more likely on Wednesday.”

“I still don’t believe how much Master Allen gave me,” Sophie said as they entered Hudson’s.

“You’re in shock,” Olive said. “You’ve repeated that, what? Six times now?”

“Eight times,” Sophie answered, absently.

Patty considered a moment. “Yes, it was eight times, but who’s counting?”

“You are,” Olive said. “Both of you.”

Sophie shook her head. “I wasn’t counting. I’m just good with numbers.” She shrugged. “Although I guess I am in shock, a little.”

In fact, Sophie felt overwhelmed: Overwhelmed by Master Allen’s big car and big house, and overwhelmed by the big bills in the envelope. It all felt like far too much of a good thing.

It was silly to feel that way, Sophie firmly told herself. Her new owner was still Master Allen and that still felt right. She smiled. He was just Master Allen with lots of money, and ‘lots of money’ was a good thing.

They walked slowly past the makeup counter. Like all the women in the store, they wore hobbling footwear. Olive wore hobble-heels, while Patty had put on hobble-boots against the slush and snow. Sophie had flats from the slave dealer’s package, ‘sensible’ shoes fitted with the standard locking hobbles.

The standard hobble lock used two keys. One was a ‘house key’ or ‘slave key’ that women were allowed to use. This key would unlock the hobbles, allowing the woman to remove her shoes and go barefoot. To put the shoes back on, however, required a ‘master’ key kept firmly in male hands. Sophie expected to shed her shoes in order to try on clothes, and so she’d have to ask one of the ask one of Hudson’s keyboys to re-hobble her, afterwards. Or else she would have to go home barefoot.

As they reached the end of the makeup counter, Olive asked Sophie, “Do you want to buy anything here? More than just a jar of beauty cream, I mean.”

“I don’t think so,” Sophie said. “Master Allen likes the natural look. Or he did; I don’t know if he changed his mind about that.”

“He still does,” Patty said. “Even so, we should still stop here on the way out, after you’ve bought your clothes. A ‘natural look’ doesn’t mean wearing no makeup; it means wearing light and subtle makeup.”

Sophie looked at Patty. The other woman’s makeup wasn’t subtle at all. In good taste, yes, but with obvious powder, eyeshadow, and a well-chosen shade of red lipstick. Sophie opened her mouth to ask a question, and Patty nodded.

“One reason is that ‘war paint and feathers’ is easier for me than attempting the natural look. Another is that I am an ‘older woman,’ and I am willing to take advantage of the privilege.” She held up her left hand, displaying the Mark of Sheba tattooed there along with her date of birth. “True, I was still only four years when they ratified Demancipation, and I don’t really remember it. That doesn’t matter, however. I still get to use the classic look. Privilege of seniority.” She smiled. “Besides, Master Louis prefers it.”

“You’re showing off again,” Olivia told Patty.

“Well, yes. But it’s so easy to read a question that’s just before being asked. Besides, it isn’t all witchery; some of it is my ‘old-woman’ experience. I’ll be nice though, and wait for Sophie to actually ask something before I give my next answer.”

Sophie considered this, and decided it was an invitation.

“Does it bother you?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“Not really.” Patty shook her head. “As I said, I don’t really remember Demancipation being ratified. What I do remember is the repeal of Prohibition. Everyone was saying how that meant Demancipation was here to stay, and everyone had their own ideas about how to reform and improve the slave-keeping laws – including me. My opinion still is that the professions need to be opened up to women again. More women should be allowed to become medical doctors, and I’d like to see the current ban lifted on women becoming lawyers or” – she nodded at Sophie – “certified public accountants.”

Patty went on in a softer voice, “I have selfish reasons to be glad that Demancipation wasn’t repealed. Without this,” she touched her collar, “I’d be a madwoman, locked in a small room somewhere, and with it, I can go out shopping. It’s the women who could have kept their freedom that I have sympathy for.”

“Partial Demancipation would never have worked,” Olive repeated the conventional wisdom. “It had to be all or nothing, for the sake of social harmony.”

“That’s true,” Sophie agreed. “Look at what happened in England, before they passed full Demancipation there in 1928.”

“I suppose so,” Patty said. “On the other hand, ungifted women still deserve something for their sacrifice. My thanks, if nothing else.”

Sophie decided that Patty needed some cheering up. She said, “As one of those ungifted women, ‘you’re welcome.’ But I’m not at all certain that I could go without my collar, even with my low Rhine score. Fifty years ago, yes, but not in today’s psychic atmosphere. And there are compensations.” She waved her arm, taking in the big Hudson’s store with all its modern goods. “I wouldn’t want to live fifty years ago, even without having to wear a collar. It’s the difference between theory and practice. In theory we all ought to be miserable slaves. But in practice” – her grin grew wider – “life today is comfortable, even if you wear a slave collar. What’s the slogan? ‘Freedom and Prosperity.’ Our masters get the freedom, and we” – she waved her arm again – “get the prosperity.”

“That’s true,” Olive said. A gleam in her eye revealed that she had deliberately echoed Sophie. Then her tone turned serious. “But are you really OK with Mr. Hunt buying you a second time? I mean, you did demand the Right of Sale from him.”

“Yes, I’m all right with it,” Sophie said. “There was this look on Master Allen’s face when he saw me at Griffin & Levitt.”

Sophie decided not to explain the events leading up to that moment. She remembered how miserable their rented, ramshackle house had been when the roof leaked or the heat went off. She remembered the strain of dealing with the household finances, when so much of Master Allen’s salary went to his workshop.

What had finally broken her nerve was that unexpected demand for an immediate debt repayment. Master Allen had wanted to pay it at once, finding the money from somewhere, but there was no money. Worse, the creditor had been trying to cheat Master Allen. She had demanded the Right of Sale, and had been sold to a dealership. Not Griffin & Levitt, but a lower-end outfit. From there, her new Master Paul had been a relief, as had Master Theodore after him. But both of those masters had felt awkward and had found her awkward. Which was how she came to be on a display platform when Master Allen walked into Griffin & Levitt.

Sophie smiled at that last memory. “I told the dealer that it felt right. He was skeptical and made me spin a Ouija wheel. I got an ambiguous result from it, but my intuition still said that it would work out.” She looked at Patty. “What does your intuition say?”

“I don’t need feminine intuition for this,” Patty said. “Even our masters can see how your eyes light up when you see Mr. Hunt.”

“But you’re still in shock,” Olive said. “You’re worried about money – too much money, for once, instead of too little.”

“Well, yes,” Sophie admitted. “I feel like it’s too much of a good thing. Silly of me.”

“You’ll be fine,” Patty said. “If you want the advice of an old slave woman, I’ll suggest that you create a mantra for yourself. It’s a piece of practical psychology that will help you get over your shock more quickly and easily.”

They fell silent as they took the escalator up a floor. Half-way up, Sophie decided that Patty was right: She should create a mantra for herself. Now if she could only think of one…

As they got off the escalator, Olive changed the subject, saying, “I hope you like tickling. Lots and lots of tickling.” She looked Sophie up and down. “You’re hard to read, but you don’t read like a woman who has learned to enjoy the tickle.”

“You are hard to read,” Patty said. “That’s a common silver lining for women with low Rhine scores. I will second Olive, though: I hope you can stand being tickled. It will be good for you.”

“Oh yes,” Sophie said. She giggled, remembering Master Allen’s fingers on her bare soles. “That’s not a problem. Not a problem at all.”

The sixth floor sold women’s clothing. Sophie and her two new friends sorted through the racks and found a nice teal frock for the evening, two less-fancy dresses for everyday wear, and three skirts and blouses that could be mixed and matched. A short distance away, a store display featured foundation garments, accessories, and sleepwear. They made a pass through those sections as well.

They took their shopping loot up to the seventh floor and the shoe department. Mindful of her Master Allen’s instructions, Sophie bought only one pair of hobble-heels. She did choose two pairs of house-hobbles, female footwear that didn’t lock and so could be easily removed and put back on again. These two both closed with snap-buckles, with one of them having a hobble chain and the other a leather thong. The thong meant the second pair were technically ‘domestic hobbles,’ but Olive and Patty didn’t make that distinction.

“They’re both women’s house shoes,” Olive said. “The important thing is that they don’t lock. Whether the hobble is chain or leather or nylon cord doesn’t matter.”

They moved on to the next display.

“Should I get a pair of boots, too?” Sophie asked.

“Get a pair of overshoes,” Olive suggested.

Patty nodded agreement. “That’s a good idea. They may be all you’ll need, depending on what ideas Mr. Hunt has for you.”

Thus decided, a pair of transparent vinyl overshoes went into the shopping bags. Unlike most other women’s footwear, these lacked any sort of built-in hobble, since they were meant to be worn over a pair of hobble-heels.

All three women had been trying on shoes, although only Sophie had purchased anything. Now they sat in a row, waiting for the keyboy to come and lock their hobble-heels back on.

“When we get back home,” Sophie said, then paused. “I need to ask about my new home, but I’m not even sure what questions to ask.” She paused to think, finally settling on. “What’s the routine, there?”

“It’s complicated,” Patty said. “We’ll have to give you a copy of the schedule.”

Olive carried on. “But the short version is that we’re eating out tonight, at the club. The Huron River Country Club,” she clarified. “Tomorrow, you’re technically supposed to host dinner, but it’s actually leftovers that Patty and I will bring. You’ll just need to set the table.”

“Wednesday morning is our regular grocery shopping,” Patty said. “There is also a delivery service, for bread and milk, and for anything that can’t wait. I should warn you: You’ll need to make bigger meals to help feed Mr. Lynn and his Cora.”

Sophie was feeling overwhelmed again. If ‘Mr. Lynn’ was who she guessed he was…

“Mr. Lynn is the gardener and outside man for the Trivilla,” Olive said, confirming Sophie’s guess. “Cora’s the housekeeper and inside maid. Well, the head housekeeper; every so often she’ll bring in a flock of women belonging to Mr. Lynn’s brothers and cousins and such.”

“I guess that’s another part of Master Allen being rich,” Sophie said, keeping her tone lighter than she felt.

“It is,” Patty said. “The Trivilla houses are too big for any one woman to keep clean. Cora manages it anyway. She’s demoness housemaid, but she can’t cook, so as part of our contract we provide her and Mr. Lynn with meals. The Trivilla has a gardener’s cottage along with the three big houses, and Cora usually take the dinners there.”

“Breakfast and lunch depends on how fancy you and your master want to get,” Olive said. “Just sandwiches for lunch are fine, most of the time. And Cora can do cold cereal without burning it.”

The keyboy arrived and locked back on the footwear of the three women. They then departed the shoe department and headed toward the exit, hobbled once more. At the makeup counter they paused. If nothing else, Sophie did want to pick up a basic makeup kit and new jar of beauty cream.

After seeing Sophie off to Hudson’s, Hunt pulled out two cans of Vernors for himself and Watkins, and a Coke for Max. Returning to the living room, he took a seat in the second armchair. Max had shifted to the center of the couch, while Watkins had remained where he was.

“You want to talk about your next patent, I take it,” Watkins said.

“Not yet,” Hunt said. “I’m still chasing gremlins out of the new servo design.” He paused to consider just how technical he wanted to get. Max would understand, while Watkins had only a fair layman’s knowledge. He decided on, “It’s a solid-state design. That means it needs a different set of tools. So what I want to do is spend money on those new tools. In fact, I’ve already ordered a thousand-dollar calibration crystal, to replace that military-surplus tuning circuit I’ve been using.”

Max nodded. Watkins looked at the ice in his glass – listening intently, Hunt knew. He went on to say, “I think the Troysmith Research account will stand the strain. The tuning circuit worked for the old servo design, but it isn’t precise enough to chase out those solid-state gremlins. So I need to try something else. The calibration crystal might not be enough either, but I think it’s worth trying, even with its price tag. If it isn’t enough, I’ll end up buying even more expensive, useless toys before I find the tool that works.” Hunt shifted in his chair, feeling uncomfortable at having to ask. “So how many expensive toys can the Troysmith Research account afford?”

Watkins looked up to say, “It can stand the one-time billing for your calibration crystal. If you need more, it depends on whether you can get your new servo to work or not.” He waved down the unspoken objection. “Yes, I know you can’t predict beforehand whether a new instrument will do what you need it to do. So you’re asking how much you can afford to gamble. I can’t give an exact figure without checking, but the short answer is ‘quite a bit more,’ if you think the odds are good.”

Max spoke up. “If it’s that calibration problem, you could always go to the biggest hammer: Apply for time on the Big Science Machine.”

“The ‘Big Science Machine’?” Watkins asked cautiously.

“The Beta-Synchrocyclo-Magnetron at the University of Michigan,” Hunt explained. “It’s called the Big Science Machine, or BSM for short.” He turned to Max. “You’ve pushed that idea before, but I’ve checked. The University charges a ten thousand dollar fee for ‘private research’ use, they give private research a lower priority, and they require a written proposal to justify that research.”

“So write a proposal,” Max said. “Make it a blue-sky, cloud-castle sort of thing – that’s what they’re looking for. I know Professor Garris, and we might be able to pull some strings for you.”

Watkins shook his head. “Let’s see how that new crystal of yours works out, first. You have that very nice funding arrangement with Hector Troy and Troysmith Tools, and you don’t want to put too much strain on it. You should give yourself a chance to get lucky with your new crystal. If that doesn’t work, then you can decide whether to buy another thousand-dollar instrument, or whether to reach for Max’s big hammer.”

“I’m sure I’ll need Max’s Big Hammer eventually,” Hunt said. “The key word is ‘eventually’ though.” He held up a hand to forestall Max. “Yes, I remember your argument about how early BSM time could be helpful, even if not strictly necessary. Depending on how well the calibration crystal works out, however, I might be able to make better use of BSM time a few years from now than I could today.”

Sophie stepped down the stairs of Porthos House with the caution of a hobble-heeled slave woman. In addition to her new heels, she wore the sleeveless teal frock from Hudson’s along with a matching shawl. Two sheaves of fabric crossed her in front, drawing attention to her over-endowed chest before disappearing into a high girdle. Below the girdle, a skirt of the same fabric extended to mid-calf.

For an ornament, she had a cloth-of-silver ribbon in her hair. Sophie hadn’t liked any of the costume jewelry at Hudson’s, and hadn’t wanted to spend money on jewelry in any case. Not without first getting instructions from Master Allen. But she needed something for tonight, and from the way Master Allen nodded in approval as she came down the stairs, she knew she had made a lucky choice.

The drive to the Huron River Country Club took nearly half an hour: It was dark, and there was snow on the ground if not on the roads. Sophie kept mostly silent as she watched Master Allen not-shift the automatic transmission. The big Lincoln could have held all six of them, as could Mr. Arnold’s equally big car. Mr. Watkins drove something smaller and sportier that Sophie guessed was just as expensive. Cars were a mystery for Sophie. The State of Michigan didn’t allow slave women to drive cars, and so Sophie had never bothered to learn about them.

“This is a place where I make money,” Master Allen commented at one point, tapping the steering wheel. “Lincolns use Martin-Gunn transmissions, and they each have six or seven of my servos in them. Not that I get paid by Martin-Gunn; they buy servos from various small suppliers, and those suppliers pay me royalties.”

“I’d like to see those royalty statements, master.”

“Of course you would.” He smiled, eyes kept on the road. “You’re my sums and shekels sorceress.”

Sophie smiled as well, pleased by the old complement. “I missed you too, master,” she said. She really did feel good about Master Allen owning her again. As for his intimidating money, it was just that the numbers were bigger.

Hmm, It’s just that the numbers are bigger. She tasted the phrase in her mind, remembering Patty’s advice to devise a mantra for herself. But no, this wasn’t it. Well, she’d think of something. It was silly to feel intimidated because Master Allen was now rich.

They reached the turnoff into the country club. At the clubhouse door they reunited with the four neighbors, and everyone stopped to shed coats, hats, and boots. At the entrance to the Arrowhead Room, they stopped again to allow the slave women to sit and remove their hobble-heels with the house key kept there. The Arrowhead Room was carpeted, and the club had a rule that slave women always went barefoot within it, whether they belonged to the club members or to the staff.

“They put in that rule just after I joined,” Master Allen commented as Sophie knelt to set her hobble-heels in a cubbyhole. “Before then, it was ‘footwear optional’ for the members’ women.”

When Sophie stood up again, the three men were suddenly two-and-a-half inches taller and subtly more attentive. Sophie felt herself flush under Master Allen’s approving gaze. Following the advice Patty and Olive had given her at Hudson’s, she’d picked out her dress with an eye to having it look good whether she was shod or unshod. The dress cost over twice what she had expected to spend, but she had told herself firmly that it was money well spent. Furthermore, she had left Hudson’s with a generous amount remaining in the envelope. Eighty-six cents more than half the original amount, in fact. And Master Allen had replenished the envelope after she’d returned it. “For your next shopping trip,” he’d told her. That had embarrassed her more than the amount she had spent.

Sophie told herself that Master Allen’s membership here was also well-spent money. It was certainly a shameless luxury. The thick brown carpet felt delightful on her bare feet as they followed the young man told off as their guide. He led them past a number of white-covered tables, and stood aside as the men held chairs for their ladyslaves, in formal master-and-gentleman fashion. Once everyone was seated, their guide set down a half-fetter in front of each woman and keys in front of their owners before departing.

“Fetter yourselves,” Mr. Watkins commanded genially, and Patty and Olive bent to obey. Sophie imitated them, fastening the fetter around her right ankle and double-locking it with the key Master Allen handed her. The other end of the chain had a hook that went into a fitting on her chair, and a lock that needed the same key to secure.

Sophie sat up again and returned the key to her master, once more imitating Patty and Olive.

The fetter felt very good on her ankle. It felt so good, she realized, because it was plated with an expensive psi-active metal. Sophie felt her jitters fade. Master Allen’s wealth no longer seemed quite so too much.

I could learn to like being owned by a wealthy master, Sophie thought. She blinked, and repeated the thought. I could learn to like being owned by a wealthy master.

Yes! That was the balancing mantra she wanted. Sophie felt a big smile bloom on her face. Looking up, she saw Olive smiling back at her, while Patty stared at the table’s centerpiece with a wide-eyed look of surprise. Mr. Watkins leaned over to whisper something to his bond witch, giving her a reassuring touch. She nodded and recovered her poise.

Mr. Arnold provided a distraction. “These table-shackles are actually a compromise. Some of the club members wanted to require barefoot-hobbles for all the women in the Arrowhead Room, including the serving wenches.”

Mr. Arnold nodded toward one of those wenches, kneeling at an adjacent table. To Sophie’s eye, she had the slightly awkward air of a young woman still owned by a finishing estate. She wore the Huron River club’s livery and was collared but not chained. The medallion set in that collar had a large ‘19’ engraved in it. That meant she had passed her nineteenth birthday, while the presence of the medallion itself indicated that she had not yet reached the age of twenty-one.

“I voted against the hobbling proposal,” Master Allen said. “I like the concept, but I didn’t think it would be practical. We already have to replace the carpet every six months due to spilled food, and hobbling the serving wenches would only make the problem worse.”

“We could find a better way to clean carpets,” Max said. “Do you have any invention-ideas along those lines?”

“Not really,” Master Allen said. “What’s really needed is a new carpet material that can stand up to regular, heavy steam-cleaning.”

“That, and better – or at least more practical – steam cleaners, I expect,” Watkins added.

The serving wench came to their table, handing out menus before kneeling to take their drink and salad orders. She rose and returned with the drinks almost at once, and with the salads a couple of minutes later. The entrées would be a cheerful, “Very soon now!” Sophie watched as she moved on to the next table, kneeling to take the orders there.

Patty asked, “How is your Troysmith Research account working out, Mr. Hunt?”

“It seems to be standing the strain,” Master Allen said. “I’ve just dented it for a new calibration crystal.” He glanced at Sophie and answered her unspoken question. “I’ve worked out a special licensing deal with Hector Troy and his Troysmith Tool company. The money from it goes into a special account that I draw money from for my workshop expenses.”

“It has been a beneficial agreement for both sides,” Mr. Watkins said.

“I got lucky,” Master Allen said. “So did Hector Tory. When I think of all the things that could have gone wrong… That’s why I’m glad that it’s my collar around your neck again, Sophie. You can warn me when I’m being foolish that way.”

“Your agreement does rely heavily on mutual trust and good will,” Watkins said. “That’s what makes it work, but I would not have recommended it if it had involved anyone other than Hector.” Sophie saw Patty nod in agreement with her master.

Sophie said, “I would like to look at the reports and paperwork, master.”

“Of course you would,” Master Allen said. “Tomorrow you can read all about it, both the Troysmith Research account and my normal royalty arrangements with other companies. For now, the short version is – ” He broke off and looked around at the others. “Should I be discussing business tonight?”

Sophie looked around as well. Mr. Arnold, sitting on her other side from Master Allen, leaned over to whisper, “There’s a rule against discussing business here in the club. It’s never broken, exactly, but it frequently does get bent into interesting shapes.”

Olive spoke up. “Please, Mr. Hunt,” she said. “The part I don’t understand is what Troysmith and Mr. Troy get from your deal. Master Maxwell told me something about it, but not the details.”

“That’s because I don’t know all the details either,” Mr. Arnold said. “The one time Watkins tried to explain it to me, he spoke in Old High Legalese, rather than English.”

Mr. Watkins said, “Consider that my revenge for all the times you and Hunt have spoken in High Technology Jargon.”

“All right then,” Master Allen said. “I’ve licensed all my patents to Troysmith, including any future patents, for ‘One dollar and other valuable considerations.’ On the Troysmith side, it’s set up so they don’t have to track which patents they use or what they use them for. This turns out to be much more of an advantage for them than I would have expected. They can…”

The explanation went on through the drinks and the salad. Occasional questions came from Mr. Arnold and from Patty. Mr. Watkins sat through it with a benign smile, and Sophie and Olive listened intently.

At the end, after Master Allen told the story of an apparently worthless patent that Troysmith had turned into a profitable product, Olive asked Patty if she had any foresight about the arrangement.

“Oh yes,” Patty said. “In fact, I saw an augury in the flowers, just as we sat down.” She nodded at the table’s centerpiece. “Unfortunately it was not a useful augury: I could see both great failure and great success approaching.” She shrugged. “It usually works that way when trying to cheat and use psychic abilities for economic predictions. The future is silent about who achieves the great success and who suffers the great failure.”

“That’s true,” Sophie said. “There are stories of ‘Wall Street Witches’ who have a psychic ability to foresee what the stock market will do, but almost all of them are myths.”

The entrees arrived, with the serving wench setting plates of Chicken Marsala before Sophie, Olive, and Mr. Watkins, and plates of Prime Rib before Patty, Mr. Arnold, and Master Allen. Mr. Watkins nodded thanks to the wench, and then proclaimed to the table, “No more business.”

“I’ll agree to that,” Mr. Arnold said quickly. Master Allen nodded, followed by Patty and Olive. Sophie nodded her agreement belatedly, in response to Olive’s meaningful look.

After a pause, Patty opened a new conversation about her and her master’s trip to the new Disneyland, in California last summer.

“I beg the tickle, master!”

Hunt looked doubtfully at his Sophie. They were both dressed for bed; he in comfortably-shabby blue pajamas and she in a new teddy. It had been a busy day for them both, and Sophie had been yawning, ready for bed, less than a minute ago. Then she had seen his tickle-chair.

He considered. His fingers had twitched at Sophie’s words, and he had intended to make up for today’s earlier session being cut short. So…

“Have a seat,” he invited.

Sophie plopped down in the wooden chair she’d been studying. It was beautifully finished and matched the rest of the bedroom’s furniture, while at the same time being reassuringly sturdy. Hunt knew from experience that it would hold a woman in absolutely helpless comfort with her soles conveniently exposed.

“Buckle your seat belt,” Hunt commanded next, and once again Sophie silently obeyed. Following his further instructions, she slipped her arms into the straps that looped over the armrests, allowing him to tighten and fasten them. She extended her legs, placing her ankles in the open ankle stocks. Hunt closed and latched the stocks, and buckled the straps that secured Sophie’s thighs. He then lowered himself onto the stool facing Sophie’s feet. After a moment’s thought, he applied a ‘middle-toe’ tie, lacing down the three middle toes on each foot to make her soles properly vulnerable.

Hunt considered opening his toolbox, and set the idea aside with a mental shrug. Tonight he would use his fingers alone. He ran a forefinger over Sophie’s left sole, tracing a lazy pattern, back and forth. Sophie squirmed. He repeated the pattern and added a sudden wiggle at the end. That produced a giggle. He switched to her right sole and began a new pattern, running along the bases of her toes and the spaces between them. Sophie’s giggles increased. He paused, exchanging grins with his freshly repurchased slavegirl. Then he brought up both hands to deploy a sudden tickle-attack against both soles at once. That made Sophie buck and squeal before the laughter came pouring out.

This would not be a long and well-paced tickle-session, Hunt decided. It would be a short and sharp one. He would try to get Sophie tickled out as quickly as possible. So he did not pause. His thumbs and forefingers made soft and swift pinching gestures that rubbed and teased the places that had been especially sensitive seven years ago. They proved to still be sensitive today. He switched to a four-finger rake, letting his fingernails lightly scratch and tease the balls of Sophie’s feet and the bases of her heels. His fingertips rubbed tickle-sensations into the softer skin of her arches, using a technique that he had picked up in the years of Sophie’s absence. Hunt grinned as Sophie’s eyes went wide in surprise, and he paused very briefly, just long enough to let Sophie gasp. Then he poured the tickle into her through her soles. Sophie laughed and laughed, and Hunt could see the pleasure in her eyes as he forced that laughter on her.

“Oh!” Sophie said as Hunt applied a quick massage-tease to the tops of her feet. Then her laughter returned as his finger went back to her soles. He increased the tempo even further. He tickled without pause, and watched Sophie squirm and giggle and gasp and laugh.

“What do you think?” Hunt asked as the tips of his fingers teased the pads of Sophie’s big toes. “Can you still think?”

“Heehee, heehee, yes… master, heeheehee!” Sophie answered.

Hunt grinned. “Well then. Let me fix that.” He applied a flamboyant tickle-flurry, both hands moving vigorously over both soles. Sophie squealed, eyes wide. Then she laughed and struggled wildly, sweating with her exertions. Futile exertions. Sophie could not possibly escape that chair, no matter how hard she struggled.

Hunt kept this tickle going until he judged that Sophie had had enough. When he ended it, Sophie whimpered. As usual, her eyes begged him for just a bit more, but Hunt shook his head. He undid the straps and lifted the upper stock-board, leaving Sophie limp in the chair as he fetched a towel from the master bathroom.

“Here we are, my sweet Sophie,” Hunt whispered. “Time to relax, now.” He lifted her into his lap and toweled away her sweat.

“Master…” Sophie muttered.

She melted against him, inviting him to hold her. He finished toweling her and poured her into the bed. She smiled up at him, shifting her left ankle for the bunny-cuff. Not that Sophie was a runaway risk. Very few slave women were, in truth. But the proprieties had to be observed, especially tonight. Hunt suppressed a snort as he imagined Watkins intoning, “The proprieties must be observed” while Patty nodded in solemn agreement.

Hunt locked the bunny-cuff in place, and a memory rose of the one time he hadn’t bothered. Not with Sophie, but with a rented woman. Andrea… that had been her name. Hunt smiled ruefully as he recalled her outrage. Then he set the memory aside. Sophie was in his bed, now, and she deserved all his attention.

Hunt slid into bed beside Sophie and discovered that his slave woman was already dreaming. That was all right; he could always be lustful later. That was one of the advantages of owning a woman; a master didn’t have to be in a hurry for fear of losing opportunities. Sophie would still belong to him in the morning, and would still be bunny-cuffed to his bed.

Hunt’s mind reached out to the light switch – a modern design that even his weak psi could toggle. The bedroom lights went dark.

(The full novel can be purchased as an e-book, at A1Adult Ebooks.)

Sophie’s Fortune (Chapter 1)