A trip into the past

The seal of the State of South Carolina seemed to pulse as I watched Margaret open the door, and I watched as one of the leaves of the palmetto tree floated onto the floor. In my condition, I wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't, or what awaited me behind the door from the past.

I followed Margaret into the pitch black room. I struggled to adjust my sight, but even in the darkness the swirls of color around objects - was I really seeing them? - remained. There was no light switch, but as Margaret lit several oil lamps along the wall, the room gradually came into focus.

I wasn't sure what was real and what I was imagining. I could hear the soft plucking of a banjo, interrupted by the sound of Margaret closing and locking the door behind me.

"Lay down on the bench, if you feel dizzy, child," Margaret said.

I saw a velvet couch near the wall, and moved toward it, but Margaret intercepted me. "No, not the settee. I don't want you to get it dirty. You can lay on the wooden bench, over there."

I wasn't dirty, and the wooden bench was rough looking, unfinished, and uncomfortable. But in my delirium, I was too weak to argue and settled on the backless bench and leaned over to brace my arm to keep from toppling. The roughly hewn wood piece looked as old as any of the antiques as the ones I saw in the front, but completely unlike the ornate chaises or wing-backed chairs with their fine upholstery and ornate woodwork. This looked like you'd find in a colonial farmhouse ... or **** quarters.

I looked around the room with renewed interest, but what I saw did nothing to settle my nerves. The walls contained a series of posters for **** auctions like you see in history books. Some were under glass, but some seemed almost as if they were printed on new paper, although they were printed in old fonts that made them seem like they were from days gone by. Between the posters, the walls were decorated with an assortment of collars, hanging chains, **** bells and tags. There were other devises too, cruel-looking pincers, heavy yokes along with whips, paddles, and other assorted punishment devices.

I struggled to focus. "Are these thing..."

"Real?" Margaret said brightly. "Yes, dear, they're all authentic. They've all been used to make uppity girls like you toe the line, or to discipline naughty black bottoms."

Margaret picked up a long carriage whip off an antique table. "I know you think you're pretty smart, with your fancy education and pride in your heritage. But I bet you this little toy would whip some of the ginger out of you."

Margaret cracked the whip in the air, creating a pistol shot so loud that I nearly rolled off the bench in terror. Margaret laughed. "See? Even the sassiest Sambo responds to the crack of the whip."

My eyes, adjusting to the darkness, gradually focused in on the shadowy shapes along the far wall. The first things I could see were the yellow ropes, tied off to shiny brass hooks in the wall. It wasn't until my eyes adjusted to the darkness that I realized the ropes were tied around necks. Black necks. Necks of black women who were tied in provocative poses and who stared back at me with unresponsive eyes.

I screamed in horror. Margaret laughed.

"Oh, you spotted our inventory!" she said merrily. "Don't worry, they're not real. They're hyper realistic sculptures, done by an artist friend of mine. Not actual women but modeled off real people. Would you like a closer look." She lifted one of the oil lamps and I saw five of the figures more clearly.

Even though I knew they weren't alive, in my **** state, it seemed to me almost as if the statues were breathing. I shook my head trying to separate reality from fantasy. Five naked sculptures, all young black women although many were clearly mixed race with their light-skin and European features. The youngest might have been as young as fourteen and the oldest perhaps in her late twenties, and clearly each of them very beautiful in their revealing positions.

"They're all for sale, in fact they're one of my biggest money makers. The auction block they are standing on is real. They used to sell real negro girls in this room, now we sell these other works of art, instead. But the hooks in the wall are period authentic, although we polished them up until they were shiny new. Only the finest!"

The three youngest girls were up on their toes, with the ropes pulling at their throats. In my **** state, it almost seemed as if they were dancing, trying not to **** on the ropes. An older darker **** was kneeling on the floor, her wrists and ankles tied with that same rope to iron rings in the floor and the last was bent over a polished wooden bar so her rounded bottom was lifted up inviting the buyer to run his hands over it as she looked back over her shoulder with an expression of shame on her face.

"Those are real glass eyes," Margaret said proudly, holding the crop under the chin of one of the hanging teens. See that look of terror on her face? It's like she's really in the **** market, and the buyers are coming to examine her." Margaret used the crop to move the girl's head up slightly. "See? They're fully posable. I've sometimes joked that I could get a real girl to fill in for one of the art works, and the buyers probably wouldn't even notice. That would be a joke, wouldn't it?"

"They're naked," I said blearily as I looked up at Margaret standing over me still holding the whip in her hand.

The oldest of the three hanging teens, posed with her hands behind her head and her legs spread, was obviously anatomically correct all the way down to the small tuft of dark curls just above her sex and the gapping of her labia that reveal a little slit of pink inside. I wondered who had modeled for this sculpture, and if she had been in this pose for the artist. What a humiliating position to be placed in!

Despite the horror of what I was seeing, I noticed my nipples were hard, and I felt a familiar warm wetness between my legs. What was happening to me? I told myself it was the absinthe, but I knew that was a lie. I was turned on.

"Of course they're naked, silly girl. The buyers have to see what they're paying for. In fact, I'm having some buyers come in later this evening to examine and bid on them. They have to see the merchandise, just like the old days," she laughed as she set the whip back down on the table and turned her attention back to what I was saying.

"What sort of people would... I'd like to meet these so-called buyers of yours," I said. I did indeed. I felt that whoever was buying these obscene sculptures was probably a friend of Mantons, and would lead me closer to the secret of Havenhall...and perhaps the story of Bianca.

"Men mostly," Margaret replies as if selling these lifelike dolls is not fucked up. "Some are local, but a surprising number are from up North, or even overseas, I guess they're curious about their past just like you." She shakes her head sadly, "They're going to be disappointed. I promised the buyers 6 sculptures to look at, but I sold the one that was fastened to that bench earlier this morning."

"I...I guess so," I said, struggling to focus. I looked at the wooden bench I was laying on. There were metal cuffs on all four legs.

"This is the one I sold," Margaret said, showing me a picture out of a catalog. The black girl was naked, and was laying on the bench so her tummy was on the wood. Her throat, wrists, and ankles were cuffed to the bench, a position that **** her to straddle the bench, and raise her bottom and sex up for inspection. Although the girl's face wasn't visible, all the rest of her was.

My pulse quickened as I looked at the photo. "You know, with the color of her skin, and the length of her hair... she almost looks like you, although at least ten years younger. Maybe that's why my client insisted that I sell it to him on the spot." I can't help but think that this client of Margaret's must be Manton, and that he bought the **** because it reminded the old bastard of me. "Don't take that the wrong way, dear." Margaret must have noticed my reaction, although she misinterpreted the cause. "Oh, don't be upset Melissa. You have a remarkable figure for someone your age, lovey enough to be considered one of The Finest Things."

"She can't even move." I gasped, not liking the comparison at all. "And those are whip marks on her bottom," I observed. I could see above the collar around her throat the buckle of a bit gag, meant to silence her during what had looked to be a nasty thrashing. I try my best to take control of the conversation. "Can I meet those buyers of yours, I'd like to ask them some questions."

"Of course not!" Margaret seems almost shocked by my request. "I can't have you standing in a corner with a notebook in your hand, acting like some woke reporter for CNN, judging my buyers from up on high." She shakes her head firmly, "you don't really fit in with your put-on airs and modern-." She stops midsentence, and smiles down at me. "I may have a way to let you watch the proceedings up close after all. You'll get real insight into what it was like to be your ancestor, Bianca."

My breath was coming in short little gasps. Had I told her about Bianca? I couldn't remember. I had a pretty good idea of what she had in mind, and it terrified me, even if it what causing a fire between my legs.