A Valentine for Uncle Maurice

Katherine watched as her mother came back up the driveway from the mailbox. Ma Jenny’s steps were short, due to the domestic hobbles she’d slipped on along with her old coat. It was February, which in Mississippi meant damp and chill, rather than slush or snow. Katherine sent a mental probe to the porch thermometer and got back fifty-nine degrees.

On returning, Ma Jenny closed the door behind her before slipping back out of her coat and hobbling house shoes, leaving her standing in her blouse, skirt, and bare feet. She and her daughter looked much alike: Brunette, sharp-featured, and younger-looking than they otherwise might be, thanks to their use of psychosomatic beauty cream. The backs of their right hands were tattooed with the Mark of Sheba, and the plain steel collars of house slaves circled their necks.

“Here’s a letter from Ellen,” Ma Jenny said, “and something from Purchased magazine.”

‘Ellen’ was Ellen Sylvia, the youngest child of Katherine and her Master Bill. She was now eighteen and attending the Wood Finishing Estate. Like her older sister Rose Cora, she had grown up after the ratification of Demancipation and was unambiguously pleased at the thought of being purchased by her first real master.

Katherine took the two letters and waited. Her mother returned an innocent look. She no longer suffered from the kleptomania of her youth, before Demancipation had enslaved her, but she still liked to tease.

“I wouldn’t think Mr. Bill would want his bills,” Ma Jenny said. She pulled three envelopes from her coat, now hanging from the coat rack, and set them on the side table. Two were bills, addressed to Mr. Bill English, and the third was an official-looking letter from the Mississippi Department of Feminine Service.

“Mother!” Katherine protested. “That’s not a bill.”

“No it isn’t.” Ma Jenny looked at it warily as she took the chair across from Katherine. “I hope it’s good news.”

“I’m sure it is,” Katherine said. “You know Master Bill won’t sell you to a dealer.”

“I’m sure he won’t, if he can avoid it.”

Master Bill was Katherine’s owner. He was also the half-owner of Ma Jenny, along with the state government.

Katherine’s father had been Ma Jenny’s owner until his death in 1952, two years ago now. Before the passage of the Nineteenth Amendment, back in 1920, he’d been her husband. Afterwards, the universal enslavement of women mandated by that amendment meant that Ma Jenny was no longer ‘Mrs. Lang’ and that she now had to wear a slave collar.

Mr. Lang hasn’t cared for the universal enslavement of women, and had insisted that his former wife wear a collar of the minimum legal weight. That collar had been just enough to stop Ma Jenny’s compulsive thieving. Katherine however, had heard her mother mutter on occasion about how the thinness of her collar left her feeling “twitchy.” Those mutters had ended after Master Bill took ownership of her. Putting Ma Jenny in a heavier collar had been almost the first thing he did, once he signed the transfer papers.

And here Master Bill was now. Katherine heard him on the porch steps before he came through the door. “You’re home early, master,” she said.

“Just for a minute,” Master Bill answered. “I want to see the bills, if any have come in the mail, and then I have more work to do.”

“We have bills, master,” Katherine said, “and other mail too.”

Ma Jenny stood. “I’ll be in the kitchen, making coffee. Would you like a cup? Mr. Bill? Katherine?”

“Yes, please,” Master Bill said. “Thank you.” Katherine added her agreement, and Ma Jenny padded off.

Master Bill pulled a set of padded leg irons from beneath the side table. “First things first,” he said with a grin. “Be my Valentine.” He locked them on Katherine’s ankles, shortening the chain with a small padlock.

Katherine smiled back. It was only Thursday, and Valentine’s Day wasn’t until Sunday. But Master Bill liked to stretch that holiday, and he did have a knack for exciting her when applying restraints and ropes.

They turned to the mail. Katherine had just finished reading the letter from Ellen when Master Bill said, “That’s good news.”

“Master?”

He held up the letter from Feminine Service. “I’m authorized to accept any offer for ‘Jenny, Slave Number SVQ-206-281,’ on my own judgment. No painful delays while I submit the offer and wait for official approval.”

“Please don’t sell her to a dealer, master,” Katherine said. “She’d hate that.”

“I don’t blame her. And I promise I’ll find a private buyer if at all possible.” Master Bill poked the white envelope from Purchased magazine. “Now what’s this?”

Katherine opened the envelope, pulling out a cover letter and… a check. She felt suddenly giddy. “Master! It’s the sweepstakes. We’ve won a Purchased Valentine sweepstakes prize!”

“For a thousand dollars,” Master Bill said, looking at the check. “That’s one of the big prizes.”

“It is, master. It’s almost enough to buy a new car!”

Master Bill smiled. “Not quite. And what would you do with a new car, anyway?”

“What’s this about a new car?” Ma Jenny asked as she padded in with a tray of coffee mugs. She was shown the check, and expressed an appropriate amazement over it, before pouring the coffee.

Master Bill drank his cup quickly. “Beg your pardon,” he said, “But I’ve more work to do today than I thought, if I’m going into town tomorrow to cash this.”

“We’ll have to give half to Maryann and Mr. Fowler,” Katherine said. They were her sister and her sister’s owner. Master Bill nodded agreement.

“I’m glad you want to share with your sister,” Ma Jenny said to Katherine, “But I still don’t understand why.”

Master Bill answered for his slave woman. “It’s the agreement they made, Ma. They both entered the Purchased Valentine sweepstake, and they agreed that if either of them won, they’d share the prize.” He stood. “Well, I’ve got things to do. Hold supper a half-hour later than normal, please.” He bent down to remove the padlock, restoring Katherine’s leg irons to their normal hobbling length. “Keep yourself cuffed until I return, my Valentine.” He gently touched her nose.

Katherine nodded happy agreement. “Yes, master,” she said, and gave herself to him for a kiss.

The next morning, Master Bill took Katherine with him to the bank. For legal reasons, the sweepstakes check had been in both their names, and while he could cash it himself, it would be less trouble if she was there to sign too.

Afterwards, he decided to stop by the house of Mr. Fowler and Maryann. They were going to meet on Sunday for a Valentine’s dinner, but Katherine had no objection at all to a chance to gossip with her sister before then.

As this was more than a simple dash to the mailbox, Katherine wore hobble-heels. Unlike domestic hobbles with their simple cord connecting the ankles, hobble-heels had a two-key lock. A woman could use a standard ‘house’ or ‘slave’ key to remove them and go barefoot, but a ‘master’ key was required to put the shoes back on.

Master Bill had shortened the hobble-heel chain with his favorite little padlock, as well as handcuffing Katherine’s wrists in front of her, smiling as he did so. It was just two days until Valentine’s Day, after all.

On arriving at the Fowler house, they found that Mr. Fowler and Maryann had another visitor.

“This is my Uncle Maurice,” Mr. Fowler said. “He’s staying with us for a few days.”

The older man beamed and made it clear that he was Uncle Maurice to all four of them. Master Bill shook hands and Katherine offered a chained curtsy. She felt awkward, as the cuffs forced her to keep her wrists together as well as her ankles.

“My, how formal,” Uncle Maurice muttered. He took both of Katherine’s hands and bent over them in a matching formal response.

Master Bill handed over the five hundred dollar envelope, and he and Katherine accepted the appropriate expressions of astonishment as Maryann looked inside and showed the contents to her owner. Mr. Fowler tucked the envelope away, and everyone sat down.

“I hadn’t heard of your father’s death until just now, Katherine,” Uncle Maurice said, “My condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“And your mother?”

Master Bill answered for Katherine. “I own her now, along with the State of Mississippi. We wanted to keep her out of an old women’s home.”

“Good for you!” Uncle Maurice nodded approval. “I’ve been thinking of rescuing a deserving damsel from an old women’s home myself. I’ve been a bachelor for six years now. Made the mistake of buying a sweet young thing, and she finally asked for the Right of Sale.”

“Our mother is actually living in Mr. Bill’s house,” Maryann said. “There’s plenty of room, since their children have left.”

Katherine felt Maryann’s mental nudge. As a man, Master Bill wouldn’t have felt it, but he must have noticed her nodding in response because he said, “Uncle Maurice, we’d be glad to have you come back with us for dinner.”

Uncle Maurice chuckled. “Well played, Maryann!” Katherine saw her sister blush. “I’m sorry to be a prune among the chocolate cherries, especially with Valentine’s Day coming up, and now you’re fixing that.” He turned to Master Bill. “Thank you. I gratefully accept.”

Ma Jenny was in the kitchen, making early preparations for the noon dinner when Katherine brought her whispered word of their guest. Turning those preparations over to her daughter, she went to the bathroom to wash her hands, face, and feet. Not that her feet were dirty. Mr. Bill insisted on a clean house, and rightly so. The tiled kitchen floor in particular was ‘clean enough to eat from’ as the saying went. But there was a difference, she felt, between clean and just-washed.

Mr. Bill was setting down a paper grocery bag when Ma Jenny returned to the kitchen. That was another sign. At his sign, she followed him to the parlor, feeling giddy as a schoolgirl. She was sixty-six years old, and in all her years as a ladyslave she had never been purchased. Mr. Bill had inherited her, and before that Master Eugene had claimed her, as her former husband, under the newly enacted Demancipation laws. But she had never been actually purchased.

Jenny had thought herself happy under Master Eugene’s ownership, and much of the time she had been happy. Looking back, however, she could now see that being put into that thin collar had been a mistake. Master Eugene had meant well, of course, and she hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell him how twitchy she felt. For that matter, she hadn’t fully realized that it was the collar’s fault until Mr. Bill had her put in a heavier one.

In the parlor, as Mr. Bill introduce her Mr. Maurice Fowler, she found herself pinned by his eyes. There was raw masculine desire in those eyes, along with a gentleness that promised never to become bestial.

He really wants to purchase me! But will he still want to after he learns more about me?

Jenny managed a chained-curtsy, keeping her ankles close together even though they weren’t hobbled. Mr. Maurice bowed. When they straightened, she saw that Mr. Maurice stood five or more inches taller than her, which felt right and proper. She held out both hands, wrists crossed, as she’d seen described in her daughter’s magazines. Mr. Maurice smiled and took her hands. Mr. Bill closed the door behind him, leaving the two alone together.

Mr. Maurice extended a hand to the couch. “Lie on your belly, please, and cross your wrists behind your back.”

Jenny silently obeyed. She heard the paper bag rustle as Mr. Maurice pulled out hanks of clothesline. She felt him tie her, hand and foot. More than that, he put her into a cross-ankle hogtie, and that was another revelation. Master Eugene had tied Jenny many times during her years as his ladyslave – but not quite often enough, and never so snugly. Jenny had always been able to wiggle loose after ten or fifteen minutes. Not this tie. It was taut without being uncomfortable, and Jenny sensed that she could struggle madly in it without hurting herself – and without getting loose. She would never get loose until Mr. Maurice choose to release her.

“This will do,” Mr. Maurice said as he sat down beside her. “Even if it’s not the same as a formal interview. Now, tell me about yourself.”

“Yes, master,” Jenny said. Then she flushed at her misstep.

“Not yet,” Mr. Maurice told her. Jenny couldn’t see the twinkle in his eye, but she could hear it in his voice. “That will come, but not yet. Now tell me about yourself,” he repeated.

He began to rub her bare feet, making them feel not just bare, but naked. Jenny took a deep breath, and started telling him about herself. About her marriage before Demancipation, and about her three children. About Master Eugene being a Southern Abolitionist who had wanted Demancipation to be repealed instead of Prohibition. About her kleptomania during her marriage, and her twitchiness after being put in Master Eugene, thin collar. And then, with a catch, about how their son Irvin had died at Normandy.

“My condolences,” Mr. Maurice said.

“Thank you, sir. But that’s how I ended up being half-inherited by Mr. Bill, as he’s the owner of my elder daughter.”

“And he’s the one who change your collar to its current design?”

“Yes sir.”

Jenny found herself reluctant to speak about her life after the Second World War, giving short answers to his questions. At length he said, “Jenny, there seem to be one or two more things you can’t bring yourself to spit out, so I’m going to apply some psychology.” He pulled a scarf from the paper bag and began to gag Jenny. “It’s what the witch doctors call inverse psychology: By making it harder for you to talk, I’ll make it easier. There! How is that?”

“Mmmph!” Jenny replied.

Mr. Maurice then began to ask questions. Yes-or-no questions for the most part, with Jenny mmphing out her answers. Under those questions Jenny revealed all: How she was worried that he wouldn’t want her, how she feared that a new collar might bring back her kleptomania, how it bothered her that she’d never actually been purchased in all her years as a ladyslave, and how she craved the full experience of being a purchased slave woman. How wanted to be stripped nude for inspection, as well as for questioning, and how she wanted to see a check change hands as her new master took possession of her.

“I won’t promise anything,” Mr. Maurice said as he ungagged and untied her. “I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise anything. As for the ropes, I know you want just a little more, but I say that you’ve had enough.”

Jenny did wheedle him into delaying the untying of her ankles, however. Being cuddled in his lap felt good – and it felt right to have her ankles tied with his knots as he held her.

At length Jenny bestirred herself to check the time. The wall clock behind the couch responded to mental probes, so it didn’t matter that it was out of sight. She sent a probe, and a moment later sensed Mr. Maurice doing the same.

“Twenty to twelve,” Mr. Maurice said, echoing what Jenny had perceived. He began to untie her ankles. “You, my dear, need to go freshen yourself before serving dinner. I’m afraid I’ve put you through an ordeal.”

Jenny grinned. “But it was a very exciting ordeal, sir.”

Mr. Maurice grinned back. “It’s a good thing you didn’t say ‘pleasant ordeal’ or I’d have to scold you for lying.”

Jenny wasn’t sure of that; the hogtie and foot-rub parts had been very pleasant. Still, she chose to keep silent as she padded out of the parlor.

While the slave women were cleaning up after dinner, Maurice met with Bill in the parlor.

“To answer the question,” Maurice said, “yes I would like to purchase Jenny, if I can. If not, I’d like to rent her for this weekend. I know it’s considered tasteless, but I still think it’s better than leaving her at a loose end on Valentine’s.”

Bill was silent for a minute. “I could sell Jenny to you,” he said at last, “But there’s a hitch. You know that she’s half-owned by the State of Mississippi?” Maurice nodded, and Bill continued, “I got a letter yesterday, authorizing me to sell Jenny on my own hook, without having to do a back and forth with getting approval of the offer from the bureaucrats. So far, so good. The hitch is that three-quarters of whatever you pay will go to the State. Half would be fair, given that the State is half-owner, but when you add in the taxes and fees, it adds up to three-quarters.”

“That’s painful,” Maurice said. After a moment he added, “Could you invoke the ‘distressed damsel’ rule? I know it would be an insult to Jenny, but I’m sure she’d understand, given the circumstances.”

“The Department of Feminine Service has valued Jenny at $200 for the purpose of my buying out the State’s share. That’s a lowball figure, but the upper limit for a ‘distressed damsel’ sale is only $75.” Bill grimaced. “I checked. I would like to figure something out, but doing so will take time.”

“Rent Jenny on a monthly contract, then?” Maurice suggested.

“That’s a second hitch. That letter authorizes me to sell, but not to rent. Not without doing the red-tape dance with Feminine Service.”

Both men fell silent. Maurice was sure there was some trick to solve this problem, something he’d seen before, but he was blasted if he could remember what it was.

Bill spoke slowly, obviously thinking as he did so. “What I could do is a three-day pre-sale rental. We write out a contract for you buying Jenny, going into effect at six p.m. on Monday. Until then, she’s rented to you. Then on Monday morning, we drive to Starkville and the Feminine Service office there. I’ll see then what I can do to get around this hitch, and if I find I can’t do anything about being robbed, I’ll stand still for it.”

“That sounds good for me,” Maurice said. “I’d hate to see you get robbed, but I’m blasted if I can see anything I could do about it.”

“All right, then.” Bill nodded and smiled very slightly. “Now, do you want to make a firm offer, or would you prefer to haggle?”

“I think I’d better haggle – and I think we should call Jenny here, first. Tell her what we’re doing, and let her listen to us haggle.” He held up a hand and waved it at the latest issue of Purchased on the side table. “Sure, we both feel that it’s tasteless, but Jenny has been reading her daughter’s magazines. I think she’d appreciate hearing herself being haggled over.”

“All right, then,” Bill repeated. His smile grew a bit wider. “I’ll call Ma Jenny in, and you can get out your checkbook.”

On Saturday morning, Katherine found herself home alone. Master Bill had gone to do the work he hadn’t done on Friday, and her mother now belonged to Uncle Maurice. Well, technically not until Monday; she was a rented woman until then, due to some complication about her sale. Katherine would have thought that the letter from Feminine Services would have cleared up those complications. But apparently not – or maybe there would have even worse complications without that letter.

She decided to let the breakfast dishes dry in the rack, before putting them away. The house took a lot of cleaning for a house slave working alone, especially when kept to the standards that Master Bill demanded. Katherine approved of those standards, but she could use some help. She would ask Master Bill about hiring someone to come in a few times a week.

A car was coming up the driveway. Katherine sent out a mental probe, without much hope of success. Sure enough, the porch thermometer intercepted it before it could reach the car. Forty-eight degrees, it sent back. It was mid-morning, and would be warmer in the afternoon.

Katherine looked out the window. That was Maryann behind the wheel, with her Master Philip in the passenger seat. Mississippi was one of the few States that allowed drivers licenses to slave women, and Katherine’s sister was proud of hers.

“I’m just dropping her off,” Mr. Philip said. “I’ve got errands to run. Among other things, I need to let Duck’s Chicken know that there are six of us for Valentine’s tomorrow.”

“Uncle Maurice will be taking Mother,” Maryann said as she finished unlocking her hobble-heels with the house key. She set them beside the door, to wait there until her master locked them on her again, when it was time for her to leave.

As Mr. Philip drove away, Katherine asked, “How is Mother doing?”

“She’s thrilled, actually. Uncle Maurice has put her in a set of barefoot hobbles with leather cuffs – the kind that lock – and is watching as she cleans house,” Maryann said. “That’s why I’ve been sent here. Mother wants the whole house to herself. That, and I had a hunch you could use some help.”

“I could use some help. If you’ll start the vacuuming I’ll do the bathroom.”

The noise of the vacuum cut off conversation. Katherine had finished the bathroom and was mopping the kitchen floor when Maryann finally put the machine away. After that came the dusting, with damp and dry rags, and the two sisters could talk again.

“Did Uncle Maurice rent or purchase Mother?” Maryann asked. “I’m confused about that.”

“Both,” Katherine said with a smile. “It’s complicated. Mother is still half-owned by the State of Mississippi, and Master Bill was hoping to buy out the State’s share before selling her. Is still hoping, I think. The problem is that between the State’s share, and all the taxes and fees, three-quarters of the purchase price would go to Mississippi.”

“That much?” Maryann asked.

Katherine nodded. “That much. It’s an outrage.” She took a breath. “So Mother is being rented to Uncle Maurice until Monday, and then her purchase goes through. Master Bill is planning to drive to the Feminine Service office on Monday to see if anything can be done.”

“Uncle Maurice and Master Philip both mentioned something about a ‘distressed damsel’ provision,” Maryann said,

“I don’t think that works,” Katherine said. “The ‘distressed damsels’ are limited to a value of $75, and Mother is worth more than that.”

“We could check,” Maryann said. “I saw a pamphlet about it in the master bedroom while I was vacuuming there.”

“There’s also a copy here in the parlor, somewhere.” Katherine stepped over to the bookcase and ran a finger over the rows of books. “Here it is.” She pulled out the first volume of the old encyclopedia set, and then the thin pamphlet that had been slipped in before it. “Here it is,” she repeated. “‘State of Mississippi Department of Feminine Service. Purchase and Sale Provisions.’” Putting the encyclopedia volume back in place, she sat down and paged through the pamphlet. “Here: ‘Distressed Sales… Taxes and Fees Waived… Value of no more than $75.’ But then ‘Multiple Distressed Sales (Cash Only)… Taxes and Fees Waived… Average value of no more than $500… Transaction must be cash only… If total value is less than $500, then a cash bond equal to the difference must be posted… Bond to be refunded one week after the final sale to an individual purchaser has been completed.’ That sounds like a dealer thing.”

“Yes it does,” Maryann agreed. “I don’t think they’ll allow a single sale like Mother’s under a ‘multiple’ rule.”

“Too bad,” Katherine said. “Master Bill would at least have the cash for it now, from the sweepstakes prize.”

Jenny had been smiling all morning, Maurice noted to himself. Last night she’d been both nervous and greedy; a slave woman starved for touch, and badly in need of a good man’s cuddle. She had also been shocked at the way his bunny-cuff locked on her ankle, confining her to his bed. He hadn’t needed any special psychic ability to sense this; she had outright told him so. Always before she’d worn buckling bunny-cuffs that provided only symbolic security.

She’d been less shocked by his barefoot hobbles the next morning, even though they had the same locking mechanism as the bunny-cuff. He preferred that leather version as being more comfortable than any leg-irons, even the well-padded ones. They were also more versatile; he could swap out different connecting chains between the cuffs, trying out different lengths to suit the slave woman wearing them. In Jenny’s case, however, he had gotten it right on the first try.

He’d spent the morning lazing around. “Admiring the view,” as he put it, watching Jenny do housework while barefoot and locked in his chains. And smiling as she worked, with that smile occasionally breaking into a smirk, or a grin.

Shortly before noon, Maurice removed the chain but kept the ankle-cuffs in place. He then used the chain-lock to clip two jingle-bells to the left cuff. Jenny stamped to make the bells ring, and then at a word from him, she padded off to the kitchen.

Philip arrived just as the two slave women finished setting out dinner. “That’s different,” Philip said, nodding in the direction of Jenny’s ankles as they all sat down.

“Don’t those bells get noisy, Uncle Maurice?” Maryann asked.

Jenny started shaking her left ankle, under the table. Maurice raised his voice to be heard over the jingling. “They can.” He directed a raised eyebrow at Jenny, and the jingling ceased.

“Sorry master,” Jenny said. But she smirked as she spoke.

Maryann rolled her eyes at her mother’s childishness. The two women really did look like sisters, rather than daughter and mother, Maurice thought, and give thanks to beauty cream for that. By pre-Demancipation standards, Jenny looked like she was in her early forties, despite being sixty-six, while Maryann looked ten years younger than her own forty. But now Jenny was acting like she was in her twenties again.

Philip raised his fork and said grace, making it his usual joke. “God we’re hungry. Let’s eat!” They all turned their attention to the food.

“Would you like me to buy you a pair of slave bells?” Philip asked Maryann after a time. He had mentioned before dinner that he’d be taking her out shopping that afternoon.

“They lock,” Maurice warned.

“I think… yes, master. Even if they lock,” Maryann said. “They wouldn’t be real slave bells, if they didn’t lock.”

After dinner was finished and cleared away, Philip and Maryann left for their shopping. Maurice cuffed Jenny’s wrists in front of her and led her, wrist-leashed, to the guest bedroom. The slave bells were still on her left ankle, jingling as she walked.

In the bedroom, Maurice had Jenny sit on the big cannonball bed, where he unlocked both her wrists and her ankles. He considered the floral-print housedress she wore before turning to the closet. After scanning the contents, he shook his head.

“Come here and pick something, Jenny.”

“Yes, master.” Jenny joined him by the closet and, after a moment, lifted out a filmy green shift. “This one, if it pleases you, master.” It sounded like a quote from a women’s magazine story – and probably was.

Maurice smiled his approval. Jenny changed, removing not just her housedress but her bra as well. Her nipples showed through the thin fabric of the shift.

“On the bed now, belly down, and cross your wrists behind your back,” Maurice said.

Jenny obeyed, and Maurice once again put her into a hogtie. This time, however, he kept her ankles parallel and added a toe tie, binding her large toes together with a shoelace. He considered the result, and added another band of cotton clothesline just above her knees.

“It’s strange, master,” Jenny said. “It’s called ‘clothesline’ but it’s not used very much for drying clothes.”

“It is strange,” Maurice agreed. “Now, I can tell you want to fight, so go ahead.”

“No, master. I don’t want to fight you.”

“No, not me, but you do want to fight the ropes. I can tell,” he said as he gave her a caress. “Go ahead and do so. See if you can get loose. If you can,” he added dryly, “I’ll just have to tie you again, practicing until I get better at it.” Maurice felt confident that Jenny couldn’t escape his tie, but her attempt would amuse both of them.

On the top of the bed, Jenny began to squirm. She twisted and mewed, rolling on her side and then back on her belly. Her feet flexed and curled, constrained by the rope at her ankles and the shoelace at her large toes. Her hands groped for the knots they couldn’t reach – Maurice had been careful about that.

He took a chair to watch. After five minutes Jenny rolled on her side and stopped. She panted for half a minute and renewed her struggle. After ten minutes, she stopped again.

“I can’t escape, master! I always could before, but not this time.” Jenny turned her head, hair in disarray, and grinned at Maurice.

He grinned back. “No, you won’t be escaping. Not from my ropes.”

“No, master,” Jenny agreed. “Not from your ropes.”

“Do you beg to be untied?”

“Not yet, master.”

“Well, I’m untying you anyway. But only to tie you again!” Maurice undid his knots. “Now sit up with your back against the footboard. There.”

Maurice put Jenny into a sitting spread-eagle, wrists tethered to the cannonball posts at the foot of the bed, and ankles tethered to the bedposts at the head. “I’m going to brush your hair now. Don’t struggle; just relax.”

Maurice heard Jenny purr as he brushed her hair. He also saw her pull occasionally at her wrist and ankle ropes. He wouldn’t chide her for that. It wasn’t really struggling. It was just Jenny testing her bonds, reassuring herself of their effectiveness.

“You needed this,” Maurice said. “How long has it been since you were tied this securely?”

“Yesterday, master,” Jenny said brightly.

Maurice chuckled. “I meant before that.”

“Years, master. It’s been years.”

“Well I hope this put you back in contact with the Bound Slavegirl archetype,” Maurice said.

“Mmm,” Jenny purred. After a minute she said, “Master, if I argue with you, would you gag me?”

Maurice considered the question. “Yes. Yes I would.”

“I don’t think I will then, master. It’s tempting, but I don’t think I will.”

Maurice smiled and kept brushing.

“This is good, master,” Jenny said. “This is good.”

Sunday was Valentine’s Day, and Duck’s Chicken was crowded. The tradition that developed after Demancipation, and especially after the Second World War, was that the masters would do the cooking on that day. For many masters, this became a tradition of making breakfast and then taking their slave women out for dinner.

A pile of hobble-heels sat against the wall, by the entrance. Respectable slave women here in the South might go barefoot at home, but they always wore some sort of hobbling footwear in public. Today was an exception, of sorts, as the Valentine’s tradition was for women to be tied or shacked barefoot when they ate.

Katherine felt too pleased today to frown, but she felt irked by the way the younger generation in other parts of the country – and even here in Mississippi – was growing more casual about shedding their hobble-heels in public. It made Valentine’s Day less special.

Master Bill’s usual Valentine’s plan was to shackle her ankles to the chair while leaving her arms and hands free, and Katherine smiled at him as he carried this out at Duck’s Chicken. Maryann was looking as pleased as Katherine felt, and their mother looked positively giddy.

Uncle Maurice had taken Ma Jenny into town yesterday evening, having telephoned to make a special appointment with Mann’s Dealership, and now she wore a new collar. It was more elegant than her old one, while still being a plain steel collar of medium-plus weight. Katherine was glad to see it. She’d had an irrational fear that Uncle Maurice would put her mother in a light collar, of the sort that had bothered her years back.

The three masters sat down after attending to their women, and a collared waitress brought a relish tray. In honor of the holiday, it included chocolate-dipped, heart-shaped crackers, made by today’s all-male kitchen crew. A quarter-hour later, the chicken arrived, accompanied by mashed potatoes, cornbread, and a choice of vegetables – collard greens, broccoli, or carrots. A second collared waitress, bearing pitchers, offered sweet tea, coffee, Brew, or Coke.

“‘The condemned woman ate a hearty last meal, before being put on the auction block,’” Ma Jenny joked.

“Mother, that joke’s so old it has whiskers.” Maryann said reprovingly. “You’re acting like a twenty-year-old.”

“I feel like a twenty-year-old,” Ma Jenny said. “Somewhere in my twenties at any rate.”

Uncle Maurice nodded, his eyes twinkling. “Jenny does feel like a twenty-year-old,” he said mock-solemnly. “She certainly did when I held her last night.” He met the reproving expressions of Katherine and Maryann blandly, before sharing a very sweet look with their mother.

“So the purchase is going through without a hitch?” Mr. Philip asked.

“No hitch from my side,” Uncle Maurice said. “I don’t know if Bill has solved his problem.”

Master Bill answered, “No, it still looks like I’m going to get robbed, with three-quarters of your money going to the state government. I’ll keep an eye out for a last-minute dodge, but I’m not very hopeful.”

“I don’t mind being sold cheap,” Ma Jenny said. “If it will help. I admit I feel like a twenty-year-old, but not the kind who would get insulted if I didn’t bring a high price on the auction block.”

“They don’t use auction blocks anymore, mother,” Maryann said.

Mr. Philip put in, “Not very often, anyway.”

“Not normally, master,” Maryann agreed. “In any case, mother, you’d never convince anyone that you were a distressed damsel.”

“Certainly not one worth only $75,” Mr. Philip said. “Feminine Service allows some wiggle room in their appraisals, but not that much.”

Katherine said, “It’s too bad there aren’t two of her, Mr. Philip. There’s a cash option in the distressed-damsel provision, with a much higher limit. But it only applies to lots of two or more women.”

“I may get robbed tomorrow,” Master Bill said lightly, “But it will be for a good cause.” He raised his mug of Brew. “Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” they all answered.

They then turned their attention to the food. Duck’s Chicken was popular for good reason. After a time, Uncle Maurice said, “Huh. That’s what I was trying to remember. Katherine, you had the answer.”

Katherine looked a question at him. Everyone else was doing the same, she noticed.

“You were mistaken about the cash provision applying only to lots of two or more women,” Uncle Maurice told her. “That provision does get used for lots consisting of one woman each, on occasion. I’ve seen this. There’s been talk about changing the law to prevent this, but the dealers find it useful enough that they’ve blocked that change.” His enthusiasm faded. “There’s still a hitch. Feminine Service will want a cash bond. A big one. I’m not sure exactly how much, but it’s intended to limit that dodge to the dealers.”

“It’s a $500 cash bond, Uncle Maurice,” Maryann said.

“$500 less the payments for the distressed damsels,” Katherine corrected her sister. “We read about it yesterday in that Feminine Service pamphlet, remember?”

“But where am I going to get $500 in cash?” Master Bill asked. “I can’t just pull that much money from my wallet.”

“From the sweepstakes prize, master,” Katherine answered.

Master Bill blinked. “That’s right. I’m an idiot, and I’d forgotten about that.” He leaned over and kissed Katherine on the cheek. “Thank you, my Valentine.”

Jenny sat in the back of Mr. Bill’s Chevy, with Master Maurice sitting beside her. For this trip she had put on a dark blue skirt, a pale blue blouse, and a pair of proper hobble-heels. It wasn’t her best Sunday dress that she’d worn yesterday, but it was good everyday clothing, the sort of dress appropriate for a respectable house slave sent out to shop.

It was the morning of Monday, February 15, but it still felt like Valentine’s Day. Jenny wasn’t going into town to make purchases, but to be purchased herself.

They arrived at the Feminine Service office and filled out a form. After a wait of somewhat more than an hour, punctuated by two receptionists asking for more forms, they entered the small office of Missie Carolyn, a colored woman who wore the collar of a bond witch.

“You are buying out the State’s share of Missie Jenny’s ownership, sir?” Missie Carolyn asked. “Very good, sir. If I may have the forms?” She read them over. “Missie Jenny, I see here that you are appraised at $200. Is this correct? Very good, and Mr. English, you are claiming a price of $150, under the Distressed Sales provision? Yes? Very good, sir. Now the Department will need a cash payment of $75, and a cash bond of $425.”

Jenny watched, fascinated, as Mr. Bill counted out the $75 for her purchase from the State of Mississippi. The $425 bond money was somehow less interesting, despite being much more. Missie Carolyn put the bills into two envelopes and slipped them through the slits of two separate lock-boxes.

“Now Mr. English, if you will please sign here with the date? And Missie Jenny, you should sign here with the date and your slave number. Thank you. If you will please wait, just a moment, I’ll be right back with the updated title.”

Missie Carolyn stood and walked slowly out through the back doorway, her steps kept tiny by the short chain connecting her hobble-heels. A dozen minutes later, she returned.

“Here is the updated title, Mr. English. Now, is there a second transaction you gentlemen wish to make? No Mr. Fowler, unfortunately this office does not have inspection facilities. However, there are three dealerships within a block who will be glad to provide that service. They all will charge an eight-dollar fee for the use of their inspection rooms and to handle the transfer forms. Is that a new collar you’re wearing, Missie Jenny? Yes? If you can provide the Department of Feminine services with the old one, it will save trouble: Another pack of forms, or else Mr. Fowler will have to buy you a third collar. You have it with you, sir? Thank you. That’s very helpful. I can mark it as received and cancel the reminder letters. I was happy to have been of service, gentlemen. Missie Jenny, it was a pleasure to have met you.”

Jenny couldn’t stop grinning as Master Maurice escorted her between the Feminine Service building and Mann’s Dealership. If she felt this way after Mr. Bill’s half-purchase of her, how would she feel after Master Maurice purchased her in full?

On receiving the eight-dollar fee, a salesman whisked them into one of the inspection rooms. Here was the display platform, and here was a packet of the paper clothing that newly-sold slave women customarily wore. Jenny would soon put them on. But first…

“Strip,” Master Maurice ordered. He was grinning too.

Jenny obeyed, ignoring an impulse to make a slow show of taking off her clothing. It still wasn’t long before she stood before him in nothing more than her new collar. Next she would step up onto the platform, and be shackled in place. Then Master Maurice would inspect her. Jenny sensed that he would make a show of this, taking his time.

After that, Jenny would watch as Master Maurice paid out her purchase price to Mr. Bill. Three hundred dollars, in cash borrowed from her daughters’ sweepstakes prize (and repaid with a check, once they got back to the younger Mr. Fowler’s house). Then Jenny would be truly and legally be the female property of Master Maurice. She would be his slave woman. And his Valentine.

(The End)