Melissa asks about the paddlings

I drained my wine glass to give myself the courage to reply. "Well, I am... curious," I admitted. "If it isn't too much trouble."

"Not at all my dear," Charles Manton said, smiling broadly. A subtle motion with his finger caused the ebony-skinned waiter behind me to instantly refill my wine glass. Manton shot the servant a look, and the man poured more wine, filling my glass to the very brim before stepping back into the shadows against the wall.

The appetizers arrived, and the table was quickly covered in she-crab soup, calamari, shrimp, three different salads, fillet hamburgers, oysters, and every delicacy imaginable.

"I didn't know what you'd like, my dear, so I told them to bring you a selection of their finest. Only the best for my guests at Havenhall."

"That's very kind of you, Charles. It looks wonderful."

In truth, I was hungry, and did help myself to a bit of salad, even as I looked at my host expectantly.

"Shelby, I think our guest is positively famished for a story," he chuckled. "So I should go on, Melissa?"

"Yes, please," I said.

"Are ya' sure now, sweetie?" he teased. "I do not wish to give offense."

Everything about Charles Manton was offensive, including the way he was making me beg like a dog to hear about how slaves used to be disciplined at his plantation.

"No, it's quite alright Charles. After reading Shelby's book, I am incapable of being shocked."

Charles laughed. "I don't know about that. I may test that hypothesis. But I shall continue."

Charles slurped an oyster as leaned in to tell the story. "What you gotta understand, it's not about the reading itself, it's about making an example. Whippings and pony rides are handled in barn, but the paddlings were done publicly out in front of the mansion, with all the other nig... servants, gathered around. This sort of discipline needs to be seen."

"You see, Melissa, when a black **** girl got too much white blood in her, she started to think of herself as white, and acting white, and getting all uppity." I hide my smile behind my napkin, I've been called uppity more than a few times because of the 'white' way I act. "That undermines the whole damn system. So you need to make an example of her, for everyone to see. You understand, don't ya?"

I said nothing, but looked at him, shocked, and appalled but also amused by his smugness and, I confess, a little aroused and excited at the whole shameful idea.

Manton smiled back at me seemingly relishing the suspense for a moment before continuing.

"There's a big magnolia in front of the house, with a branch that hangs out over, that's nice and sturdy. We'd put the offending book on the ground in front of that light-skinned ****, so she'd remember exactly why she was being whooped."

I could feel my palms sweating, but I knew that if I tried to wipe them Manton would notice, and I wasn't going to give him any satisfaction if I could help it.

"Then the **** would have a noose tightened around her pretty little neck, and her hands tied to her elbows, behind her back and she'd be lifted up an inch or two." Charles turned to Dr. Davis who nodded in agreement, it was after all not that different from some of the descriptions published in his book. "The girl would have to wait there on her tip toes, for the master to come out of the house. All the while thinking maybe this is it for her. If this is a second offense, or she's more trouble than she's worth, we might very well give that rope a good yank, and watch her dance a bit," he said, laughing at the image.

I gasped and swallowed, as I felt my own throat tighten at the thought. It is one thing to learn about the cruelty of days-long-past, but Charles Manton seems to like this kind of thing.

He leaned back and laughed. "I see you're identifying with my story. Don't you worry none. With a pretty girl like you, hanging would be a waste of my hard-earned money. So, after letting you sweat it out in front of the others, and maybe giving you a little dance, and a little neck stretch, we'd switch the noose to around your feet, and drag you up so you're hanging by your ankles like a side of beef." He rubbed his hands together like the Grinch as he describes what happens next. Your dress would fall right down to where your hands are tied behind your back, and in case you're wondering; no, slaves didn't wear no fancy underthings under their plain white dresses.

Charles Martin smiled and leaned in. "Should I tell you about the paddle we'd use on that round, black bottom of yours, Melissa, for being all naughty, and reading Professor Shelby's book? Do you want to hear about Old Hickory?"

It was quite obvious that Charles Martin was speaking in the present tense and had made me object of his perverted sexual fantasy. But he had tapped into a fantasy world hidden deep in my psyche. Leaning forward, he whispered to me in confidence, even though I knew Professor Shelby could hear.

"You know you ayn't got no business reading a scandalous book about light-skinned girls being paraded about naked, and sold off the block. Why, that's the sort of book that might get a big-time city woman like you all excited. That was very naughty book for you to be reading, Melissa!" he said, wagging his finger in my face.

I'm not sure why I gave him the satisfaction of nodding. He was right of course - Fancy Trade had been used with my vibrator to bring me off. But why did I feel the urge to as much as admit that to him?

"And back in the day, at a place like Havenhall, naughty **** girls who misbehaved got their butts paddled. Had to do it, or the whole system would fall down. You understand that, don't you, Melissa?"

I didn't want to agree with him, but as I squeezed my thighs together, and squirmed under his knowing gaze I couldn't argue his point. He was right, in a way. In the context of a **** plantation, his argument made a strange sort of sense.

I squeezed my thighs together again, enjoying my excitement. Where was the harm? I was safe. I was in a public restaurant in downtown Charleston. If he laid so much as a finger on me, I could walk out the door, or have him thrown in jail. What was the harm in letting him continue? My mouth too dry to speak, I nodded along as he explained why I need to have my butt paddled.

"So Old Hickory is a real beauty, a genuine antique. It's about 16 inches long, a half inch thick, and 4 inches wide. It's got three H's carved into the business end, which act as air holes, and allow you to get in a really good swing. It's so light it's like swinging a feather. So, when the paddle cracked your butt, you'd swing forward, your nose going right past that dirty book you were reading, giving you something to think about! When you swing back. BAM! It's the second shot!"

I jumped in my seat at the word "BAM" and Manton laughed. "You're right to squirm. It swings real easy, but it doesn't feel like a feather when it hits your butt. Damn, you should hear the howling, and the caterwauling. It's the funniest damn thing you've ever heard."

"You've used it?" I said, the shock of reality breaking me out of my fantasy trance.

"Well, sometimes historical re-enactments are the only way of finding out how an object actually works," Professor Shelby said pedantically.

"Damn right, Shelby," Manton said, pointing at the Professor for assurance. "Historical re-enactments! That's the ticket. Sometimes the old ways are the best ways. Funny thing is, that old paddle leaves little blisters, in the shape of an H. The mark of Havenhall! Ayn't sitting down on those for a while, let me tell you."

I looked at him, aghast. "You do historical re-enactments? Of **** paddlings? How... I mean... Who lets you do this?"

Charles waved me off. "I'm sorry. Sometimes I go too far, but I do enjoy talking about my beloved Peculiar Institution. I don't mean to be spoil our dinner going on-and-on about my hobbies. Did you try the shrimp? It's really wonderful. And there's still the matter of your diary. Speaking of high cotton, I am prepared to make you a very rich woman." His voice dropped seductively "Very rich."

I paused, unsure about whether I should let the moment pass, or do what my daughter Aniya would do, and challenge his bullshit about his beloved Peculiar Institution, and re-enactments of **** paddlings!

A part of me was excited that such a place as Havenhall still exists, a place where my darkest fantasies might come true. But on an intellectual level, I felt both repelled and a little frightened.

The diary was locked in my hotel safe, which meant I was still in charge. Charles Manton may have seen inside my fantasies, but I've seen into his mind as well. My rich, gracious host was a racist, and a sadist, who brandished his money to buy himself out of trouble. Was it time to call him out?