Mr. Thornton Takes Me To The Assessor's Office

I was surprised when Mr. Thornton returned the very next morning and informed me that he had arranged for us to meet with Judge Roberts at the Parish Assessor's office. He told me nothing during the trip, brushing away my inquiries about what the men were like with a "You'll see soon enough." Indeed I would.

The Assessor's office was larger than I thought it would be, but very functional, the floor being composed of built in record crates that could be slid out, as if we were walking across a file cabinet. As the biggest asset in the Parish was slaves, I had the strange sensation of walking across the ownership papers of thousands of African slaves stretching back decades.

Both men were sitting by the fire, and rose as we entered. I knew who they were even before they introduced themselves. Judge Thomas Roberts was 50, tall, and handsome, with the graceful bearing of a man used to being in authority. Jacob Pennies, the assessor, was stout, and dressed like a man used to moving merchandise as opposed to papers. Judge Roberts bowed, and said he was charmed, and kissed my hand, while Jacob simply stared at me like I owed him something.

"I found your business proposition most intriguing," Judge Roberts said, "although I did have some inquiries that require further clarification."

The beady eyed assessor got right at it. "If you're selling the sugar snatch, how am I making any money?" he snapped. "I ayn't doing shit for you, and risking hell fire coming down on me from some Yankee lawyer, lest I get silver in my palm."

Judge Roberts said nothing, but smiled pleasantly, and awaited my explanation.

My reply was cool but confident. "I will immediately take two of the girls and sell them to a trader in Brazil, who will auction them there. They will not return. There will be shipping costs, of course, which will deducted from the sales price. I will give 80% of the commission on the sale to you three, to divide as you see fit.

The three men glanced at each other in a way that made it clear that my strategy of pitting them against each other, rather than me, was working. "The sales price will more than adequately compensate you for the few hours of paperwork you will have to complete, and you will get paid up front, with a minimum of delay."

"In addition, you three will be my partners, each with a 10% stake in any profits I make in the years to come, with the annuity to be paid annually. I'm sure Mr. Thornton and Judge Roberts will have no problems drawing up the partnership papers. It is an arrangement that requires only your authority, my connections, and time, in order to make a profitable arrangement for all."

"The women we will be selling are your friends, are they not?" Judge Roberts asked. "May I ask what your motive is for seeing them enslaved, and if you are fully aware of what they will be facing in this office?"

Looking out the window and out in the bustling streets of Charlestown, I explained. "As I received no massive inheritance before arriving here, my mother and I lived quite modestly. The Boston Brahman snubbed us quite badly, and indeed the only reason I was invited to join their little anti-slavery soiree was their belief that, being Southern, I could entertain them with lurid stories of how **** girls were treated in the South. As my mother did not wish to discuss it, it fell upon me to provide them with scandalous tales, many of which I had to concoct out of my own imagination. These so called "Daughters of Liberty" claim to be egalitarians, but as they were of British, Irish, or French descent, and I was Italian, they looked down on me, and made fun of my darker complexion. My mother was compelled to work as a maid in their homes, to pay for my education. I found out later that several of their fathers took full advantage of their power, much as men do on **** plantations. When I confronted them about this, my friends were quite amused, and said that "women of your sort should be honored to serve." As you can imagine, I am quite looking forward to seeing the wheel turn as these so-called "fine ladies" who hurt my mother and I so cruelly are put in their place."

"You wish me to falsely enslave the young women who snubbed you," Judge Roberts asked pointedly.

"I seek justice," I replied. "It is well known that the only reason these so called ladies are fascinated with the lurid details of slavery, and seek it's abolition, is there is black blood flowing in their veins. They are, to use the vulgar local parlance, "**** hot", and wish to experience the collar themselves, through vicarious tales of the evils of our peculiar institution. I can assure you that these women were never more excited than when I told them tales of bed wenches being brought to their master's rooms two at a time, barn breedings, and public auctions where the poor, unfortunate **** girls were displayed quite naked."

"Men need to see what they are buying," the Assessor snapped. "They ayn't buying no damn pig-in-a-poke."

"Indeed, Sir. I meant no offense, only that..."

Judge Roberts, keen to get the point, waved me off. "You understand, Miss DiFlorentini, that before these girls are legally enslaved, their status must be verified by the Assessor and myself. The girls will be closely questioned, of course, but more importantly, a physical examination will need to take place. We will measure the distance between their eyes, note the fatness of their lips, the flatness of their noses, and other such negroid features that could be signs of monkey blood. We will also look for any moles or birthmarks that are brown, and could be proof of their monkey status."

"We'll strip 'em down naked. **** naked!" Jacob Pennies hissed. Put 'em right up on all fours on this table, with their legs spread, and their fine, bare Yankee asses in the air. I'll squeeze their titties, and finger them, and run my hands all over their pampered asses. Then I'll give 'em a good rub between their legs, to see if I can make 'em juice. If they're as hot as you say, it won't take long. I'll keep the branding irons hot and handy, and ready to make quick work of any claims they might have to being white."

Looking over the fire, I noticed that several sticks which I had presumed to be fire irons were actually branding irons. A pail by the fire contained a large assortment of various branding heads and letters for the local planters. Apparently, Mr. Pennies was always ready to mark **** property. My butt cheeks clenched at the thought.

"Perhaps I could get a demonstration of the assessment procedure," I suggested. "If this is going to be my business, I need to understand it from start to finish."

"Naturally," Justice Roberts agreed. "A full demonstration, with all the bells and whistles, would be essential, for both you and Mr. Thornton. As it will take some time for these girls to sail from Boston, I would say the sooner the better."

"Quite so," I agreed. "Let's strike while the iron is hot," I said, wincing a bit at the aptness of my own metaphor. Seeing my discomfort, Mr. Thornton smiled.

"Are there any girls scheduled for an assessment, Jacob?" I inquired.

I think Jacob was a bit thrown by my using his first name, but as I was his senior partner I felt it was appropriate. "That's not how it works, Missy. This ayn't no tea party. Men bring the wenches in when they want collateral for a bank loan, or they're disputing their tax bill. Sometimes we'll move a bunch of 'em through as part of a foreclosure, and I set their minimum block reserve price. Sometimes we get a fancy, an escapee trying to pass as white. That's where the branding iron comes in handy."

Again, my bottom cheeks clenched.

"Does the woman in question have to be a ****?" Mr. Thornton asked. "Could we get a volunteer, to help us out."

"That's exactly what I was thinking. Of course, we don't want to blab our business idea up-and-down the street, before we file the papers. But the woman doesn't have to be negro for us to show the entire process. We just need someone of Miss DiFlorentini age, and approximate social standing. Ideally it should be a young woman who has, like Miss Diflorentini, belonged to The Daughters of Liberty, and would react as they might, and is one of the four people now aware of the plans for our business."

Judge Roberts had drawn up the specifications for a model in such a narrow sense that there could be no doubt as to what he was suggesting. "I would, under normal circumstances, be delighted to help. However it is quite warm in here, gentlemen. I wouldn't want any perspiration on my person to be confused with **** heat."

"I can assure you that you have nothing to worry about, Bianca," Judge Roberts said. "After all, if we were to wrongfully enslave you, what would become of this profitable business venture you are proposing? I, for one, would rather split the profits of two **** girls than split the profits of one, with no promise of profits to come."

"I want my money now," Jacob sneered, looking me up and down.

"That be what it may, the decision will be mine, and as I prefer more money to less, I can assure you that you are at no risk here today, my dear. Consider today as nothing more than a visit to the doctor's office, a few moments of embarrassment that will ensure a lifetime of health and wealth. Should we get started?"

Jacob quickly cleared the papers off the large wooden table in the center of the room. Picking up a riding crop with a wicked looking lash on the end, he tapped it twice, bidding me to come forward.

"Mr. Pennies, please prepare the forms, so the proceedings can be recorded. Miss Miss DiFlorentini, please remove your clothing -- all of it -- so the assessment can begin."

I stare at him, dumbstruck. I look at the crop at the table, the branding irons, and the bulges in their pants. Robert has seen me naked, but not like this, and his eyes gleam with excitement as he looks at me like a **** girl. The wetness between my legs is distressingly obvious, and I can feel (indeed smell) the musky juices soaking my drawers. While I feel safe and protected for the most part -- Judge Roberts is no fool, and wouldn't throw away $10 tomorrow for a $1 today -- fearful, shameful disgust with my lustful arousal lingers, entangled with the visceral yearning to experience what it is like to be a **** girl under assessment. Do I have the courage (or is it reckless abandon?) to make my depraved fantasy come true?