The Antebellum School Project (Ch 5 added 9/27/24)

[Hooked6]

The Antebellum School Project
BY: Hooked6

Copyright January 1, 2024 by Hooked6 (Hooked6@hotmail.com) all rights reserved. Reproduction, redistribution, reposting on another Internet site whether or not a charge or profit is made is forbidden without the expressed written consent of the author. All characters are over 18.

Author’s Note: This story contains references to slavery. If this subject is offensive to you, please skip reading this book. The historical references to the treatment of slaves have been meticulously researched in compiling this story and references will be made throughout the story as necessary. The characters in this story are fictional. The story starts out slow but soon reaches more action-filled chapters.

Tags: ENF, Humiliation, Shame, Forced nudity, Mild body modification, discipline, masturbation, public nudity, embarrassment, above all – fun.

Synopsis: A high school girl agrees to help her step-sister with her senior school project in order to obtain a much needed scholarship. Things don't turn out as expected resulting in much exposure and embarrassment for the "little" sister.

The Antebellum School Project
BY: Hooked6

Chapter 1

“So, are you going to help me or not?” my step-sister Angie asked in an almost whiney tone.

I was stood there quietly folding the laundry I was responsible for trying not to rip my sister’s head off. That’s all she has gone on about for the last three weeks. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying not to be obvious about it. “I’m still thinking about it.”

“Oh, come on! I have to let my teacher know what I am doing for my senior project by tomorrow! You know how important this is to me. My entire college scholarship to Vanderbilt University is riding on this. You know how hard it is to gain admission to Vanderbilt, let alone score a full-ride scholarship to that prestigious place. Besides, I LOVE Nashville. I can just imagine living in that historic town! I need something really special to not only ace my sociology class but to impress the academic scholarship committee.”

Picking up the laundry basket I started carrying it upstairs without immediately saying anything as my step-sister followed me. “I don’t see why I need to help you,” I said without looking back at her. “You are the brain of the family and besides, I’m not even IN your sociology class. What do you need me for anyway?”
.
It was true. Angie was indeed smart – really smart. All through her Junior and senior year of high school she had taken nothing but advanced placement classes earning college credit while getting credit towards her high school diploma. I, on the other hand, probably wasn’t even going to college. My grades were passable but even my dad didn’t seem to regard me as a career woman let alone consider me college material.

She may have been the brain but I was popular – well. . . that’s what I told myself anyway. I didn’t have much of a following per se mainly because I barely had breasts; just small puffs of tissue and areolas that swelled up like little pillows pushing my already eraser-like nipples out even farther when I was aroused or excited. Thank heavens for padded, form-shaping bras. I’d die of someone found out what I really looked like as nature intended. No, some things are better left hidden, I think.

Still, people genuinely liked me and considered me attractive. I was easy to talk to and girls and guys at school just seemed to gravitate to me. I wasn’t out-going; no, far from it. I was shy and soft-spoken. I dressed very modestly showing as little bare skin as I could get away with, but I could make people laugh and I was a pretty positive person that rarely made waves.

“Why do I need your help? You’re kidding me, right? Brooke, you are the most important part of my project. No one else will do. The fact we live in this house and you are my step-sister; your personality; the respect people have for you; it all comes together. It’s too late to do anything else. Besides, my advisor at Vanderbilt said my project will certainly gain the attention of the faculty on the scholarship committee. She said I was practically guaranteed to get a full-ride position – tuition, fees, housing and everything IF I can pull this off.”

I sighed as I put the last stack of underwear in my top drawer in my dresser, “What is your project about again? Something to do with history, or this house or something, right?”

“Yes, that’s right. It’s sort of a living history project. I’ve done months of research not only on this house, but that period of American history as well. Now all I need to do is my practical observation according to the protocol and record the results and I will be done.”

“You’ve done all this work and your project hasn’t even been approved by your high school sociology teacher? Getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you? Besides, what am I getting out of all this work by helping you? It’s not like I have a course I need a good grade for or anything. I was planning on coasting these last few weeks of high school. If I say yes, I won’t be able to do that. If I have learned anything from you, my dear step-sister, is that I should get something to make it worth my while.”

Angie broke into a huge smile as she plopped on my bed messing the heck out of my hard work. “I thought you might ask that. I talked to mom and she said that if I got my scholarship, she would give you the money she had planned on giving me for college. Since my expenses would be paid for, she wouldn’t need to use it for me so she’d give it to you.”

“Fat lot of good that will do as I doubt that I will go to college.”

“For an optimist you sure do look on the downside of things when it comes to your future. No silly, you can use it to buy yourself a car, or take the summer off traveling or whatever you want! It will be yours if I get my college expenses taken care of.”

“Yeah? How much are we talking about here?”

My sister hopped off the bed and put her arm around my shoulder and softly said, “Keep this just between us but mom said she had about $30,000 or so set aside for my education before she married your dad. I’m pretty sure that all would go to you if . . .” her voice trailing off into an awkward silence. She was always one for dramatics. “Of course, mom’s savings is just a tiny fraction of what a degree at Vanderbilt would cost so I really do need to get selected for that full-ride tuition. As you know we aren’t rich; just fortunate to live here.”

“Thirty grand, huh?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Okay, I’ll do it. You’d best just be right about your chances. I’m darn sure I’m not doing this for nothing.”

She gave me an overly enthusiastic hug and ran out of the room, yelling as she bounded down the stairs, “MOM! BROOKE IS GOING TO HELP ME! SHE SAID YES!” her voice trailing off in the distance.

I just shook my head. When my dad married Angie’s mom, I was shocked to learn that I would be having a step-sister my age that even went to my high school. Even though we are both 18, she’s a month older than me and has always called me her little sister. That little moniker stuck and now everyone calls me “Little” something. Angie calls me her little sister; her mom calls me her little girl, and dad started calling me his little angel. My dad and my step-mom say it lovingly. Angie, however, always has that little hint of sarcasm in her voice when she calls me little sister. If I didn’t know better, I might think she does it to make fun of my lack of boobs as hers are really full and compliment her figure. I didn’t think brainy nerds were supposed to have features like that. Mother Nature can be so cruel sometimes. I hide my small boobs fairly well with the help of my specially made padded bras but I live in dread that my secret will get out among my peers.

We are both set to graduate in several weeks. Everything seems so uncertain to me. I HATE making important decisions – so much responsibility. Taking the summer off after graduation sounded like a good idea to think things over and oodles of cash would certainly make that a reality. I’ve always wanted to go to Europe or maybe the Caribbean, heck maybe even both! I guess I could put up with my pushy step-sister for a few of weeks doing whatever the heck I have to do to get that thirty grand.

- - - - -
I was really surprised that my step mom was actually being so generous with me. For the last year – ever since her marriage to my dad – it became painfully obvious to me that her daughter was the apple of her eye and treated her that way. In fact, she doted on her. She wasn’t mean to me or anything, mind you. She just gave the impression that she looked down on me or that I wasn’t quite up to the high standards that she held for her natural daughter. In short, I wasn’t her favorite.

My dad was a very successful business man and he traveled a lot. We lived in rural middle Georgia and shortly after he married Susan, my step-mom, she had talked him into buying the historic house on what used to be a large plantation. Most of the land had been sold off over the years but even still, the house had 100 acres of beautiful rolling land. My step-mom used to own this house and it had been in her family for well over a century until the bank took it back during hard times. Thanks to my dad she had it back again.

The house had been built in 1840 and had been pretty much kept its historic appearance over the years with only a few improvements like electricity and running water. Still, it was gorgeous! Best house I have ever lived in yet, somehow, I knew when we first moved in, that this house might be trouble for me. It was just a feeling that I had. It was irrational, I know, but still . . .

- - - - -

As mom called us down to dinner I was greeted with a hug from dad. “I’m so proud of you! I hear you are going to help your sister with her Antebellum school project. I am glad that you two are getting along and that you want to support your new sister in such an unselfish way. Not many people would make such a sacrifice. I must have raised you right.”

My dad wasn’t one to lavish praise lightly. When he said something like that, he meant it. I could just feel the pride and respect he had for me just then. I had expected him to be excited about Angie and her prospects and that she would dominate the dinner conversation but, much to my surprise, the conversation was all about me.

“Brooke,” my step-mom said, “You have no idea how much this means to me. I have so much admiration for you I just can’t put it into words. Like your dad said, not many people would make this sacrifice. You are an amazing person and I will never forget what you have done; going out of your way so Angie can succeed. Words just fail me.”

“Aw, it’s not that big of deal. I don’t mind. What’s a little sacrifice if it means bigger rewards later on, right? I can deal with it.”

“Did you hear that, Frank? You are right, she IS a little angel.”

Up to that point I never thought “mom” thought much about me. I wasn’t her favorite. She loved her daughter and she loved my dad. I was pretty sure that she looked upon me as “that other person that just lived here,” you know, like our maid. But hearing her praise I had to rethink that position. She really DID care about me and that made me feel good all over. Angie was still her old bossy self but I guess all sisters – step or not – were like that with each other.

As dinner was wrapping up and desert was being served, I spoke up, “So Angie, so what does this Antebellum project have to do with this house, anyway? I guess I don’t understand what Antebellum means.”

“Well, Antebellum means ‘occurring before a particular war’ or in our country that means before The American Civil War.”

I chuckled. “You mean the War of Northern Aggression, you northern, Yankee freak.” I said laughing as the others joined in as we were all from the American South. “So,” I asked when the laughter died down, “what does Antebellum mean in regards to our house?”

Our house was built in 1840, which is 21 years before the Civil . . . I mean, the War of Northern Aggression,” she said with a smile.

“I knew your house was old when we moved in here but I had no idea it was that old. Gosh!”

Angie just smiled as if my compliment on her house was also a compliment to her personally – something that was rare and valuable. “What fascinates me,” she continued, “is not only the architecture, the tall columns, the wrap around porches, the wood floors and tall ceilings as well as the surrounding farm land, but also the history of the place. There are books that could be written about this place just waiting to be written and published and I hope to do that one day. This project will be a big help.”

“Is that why you are so interested in this house? The history? Well, that makes sense. So, your project has something to do with your home, then. So, what is my part in all of this? It sounds like you have already done all the research.”

“I have but, like many history textbooks, it is pretty dry stuff. Even I think it is pretty boring from a reader’s perspective and I happen to really LOVE history. To really get a feel for what it must have been like back then, the day-to-day activities, I need to observe and witness what I know from my research as the documented facts of the period. My project then is to have you immersed 24/7 in living out life as it was then. You’ll dress as they dressed, have duties as they had duties, eat what they ate, live as they lived just as someone did almost 184 years ago right here in this house. For the next several weeks it will be as if you lived back in 1840 – actually 1845 as that is the period of which I have the most documentation from diaries, newspapers and courthouse records.”

It all sounded so exciting to me. “Does that mean I get to ride a horse to school?”

“Not exactly. There has to be some surprises so your reactions will be genuine and I can document them. If you know everything ahead of time, you will have time to practice or fake your responses. I need everything to be as close to reality as it can possibly be from a real member of my family. Let’s just say, however, that there will be a horse and a buggy involved when a trip to school is necessary.”

“ALL RIGHT – a horse and buggy!” I exclaimed genuinely thrilled at that prospect. “Angie, I am so looking forward to this. Thanks for asking me. I don’t think I have ever been as excited as I am right now about school work.”

Angie and her mom both came over and gave me a hug as my dad just sat there smiling, revealing the joy of a father who was genuinely proud of his daughter.

My step-sister turned to face mom and dad and said, “Now that everyone knows the synopsis of my research project, and I must hasten to add that my advisor has already approved the details of what I want to do, I must ask each of you to affirm that you will cooperate in every way with no interference or vetoing any part of this project as once it is started. It must continue unabated EXACTLY as I have planned it until its conclusion. Mom, dad, your support is crucial. I already know Brooke is on board but I need your backing as well.”

My step-mother spoke up immediately as if she was speaking for everyone, including me, “We want you to succeed and will do everything necessary to make sure you do. Isn’t that right, Frank?”

They both gave their agreement, though I felt that everyone in the room knew more of what was going to happen than I did. Of course, Angie had already explained a bit of why I was going to be kept in the dark, so that made some sense, I suppose.

“A little later this evening my Sociology teacher will be dropping by to get things started. No time like the present to get things rolling. I already called her to let her know that you agreed to participate and she was most impressed. In fact, she never in a million years thought that you would help. She said something along the lines of: “You weren’t that type of person;” or maybe she said, “You weren’t that crazy” or something to that effect. Anyway, she sounded most genuinely pleased.”

- - - - -

As I was doing the dishes, my mind was in a bit of a blur. What did Angie mean when she said her teacher thought “I’d never help in a million years” and that “I wasn’t that crazy?” That certainly sounded ominous. Maybe I was just over-reacting. Everyone, including my family seemed pleased and proud of my decision, and thirty grand is thirty grand! Still, I had this nagging feeling something wasn’t quite right about this whole affair.

It wasn’t that long before I heard the sound of metal banging against wood – the obvious sound of our antique door knocker echoing throughout the house loudly announcing the presence of a visitor at the front door.

I instinctively turned toward the area behind the sink and although I couldn’t see anything from my position in the kitchen, I heard our maid, Miss Mable, answer the door. In the rural south, all adult women are generally called “miss” whether they are married or not and all men are called “mister.” It is an old custom used as a sign of respect – especially in rural Georgia.

I recognized the voice; it was Angie’s teacher from high school, Elaine Sedgewick. She had always been nice enough to me but her face always seemed to display a stern expression giving the impression that she was all business or that she was mad all the time. She was probably long past retirement age but perhaps she just looked older than she really was.

“Brooke,” my mother called in an overly sweet voice, “Can you come into the Parlor? We have company.” I dried my hands and hurried of to answer her summons. I can never recall any teacher dropping by for a visit so this was a special event even though she was expected.

Miss Elaine Sedgwick immediately approached me as I entered the room and shook my hand. Ah, here is the heroine of the hour. I am so glad to see this project get under way thanks to you, Brooke. I truly am amazed at your willingness to do this undertaking. If you were in any of my classes, I’d give you superior marks to be sure.”

I awkwardly accepted her hand and returned her greeting. Why was everyone making such a big deal out of this?

As usual she then took charge of everything. “I have some paperwork for you to sign. For Mr. and Mrs. Harkins, you must sign giving your permission for Brooke to participate and agreeing not to interfere or coach your daughter in any way – any responses must be those of your daughter. Angie, you must sign taking charge of the project and Brooke, you must indicate your agreement to participate and for the duration of the project will follow any instructions given as required for historical accuracy.”

I noticed that mom, dad and Angie quickly signed and returned the forms to Miss Elaine without hardly a glance. I started to look over things but it was so full of legalese I didn’t understand any of it. I figured if dad signed it that it must be okay so I just scribbled my signature and initialed each page on both copies of the agreement. We all acted as witnesses for each other’s signatures and Miss Elaine notarized everything as well and used her embossing tool to leave a raised seal at the bottom of each page of the document. The ink was hardly dry before Miss Elaine snatched the forms, gave my step-mom a signed copy for our family records then quickly put her copy into her satchel.

Looking at Angie she asked, “Well, my dear, I looked over the names and the documentation you were able to find on the list of family ancestors who lived in this house for the last century and a half and that I believe any of them are suitable for your project, though some are much more suitable and interesting than others. Have you come to a decision on who you are going to have your sister …”

“STEP-sister,” I quickly interjected, wanting to be accurate since we started this meeting being all legal-like. I wanted to make sure for Angie’s sake that I looked like I was trying to be helpful.

“Ahem . . .” Miss Elaine said clearing her throat looking rather sternly at me, clearly not one who liked to be interrupted. “Yes, well . . . STEP-sister here is going to try and emulate?”

Angie went over to the antique roll-top desk in the Parlor, pulled open one of the heavy, deep-sitting drawers on the side and pulled out a rather thick, heavy-looking folder barely containing the papers crammed inside. She ruffled through the stack for several silent minutes as everyone looked on. Finally, she pulled out an obviously old, group of papers, clearly having yellowed over time. She began thoughtfully looking things over a final time as if she was trying to make sure she was making the right choice. “Yes,” she answered as she handed the stapled stack to Miss Elaine. “I have decided that my step-sister should assume the role of Honey.”

I was delighted as that sounded like such a refined and beautiful name for an occupant of this old house. I had no idea who “Honey” actually was, not being from Angie’s family and all, but I could just see myself dressed in a floor-length, blue satin dress, my hair in ringlets looking magnificent as I descended the grand staircase in the main entryway. The next several weeks were going to be a blast.

In hindsight, I should have paid more attention to the shocked expressions on my dad and step-mom’s faces as well as the look of pure delight on Miss Sedgwick’s toothy grin. I also noticed that Angie was looking rather pleased with herself as well.

“Um . . . I know I am relatively new to this family but, who was Honey? I am ever so curious. Can you tell me a little about her?”

If it were even possible, my step-sister’s grin widened even more and she took a few steps closer and put her arm around me. “Honey was about your age, maybe a year older, say around 19 or so. She was a relative newcomer to the Harkins family – just like you, and as such, had a lot of adjusting to do in her new surroundings. That’s why I thought Honey was perfect for you and that you could provide some serious insight into what she was feeling and what it must have been like to adjust to her new place in our family.”

“I agree it sounds like a perfect choice for me and your project.”

Miss Sedgwick reacted with a scowl looking menacingly at Angie, “Oh stop sugar-coating your answer. It is all settled, the papers have been signed and everyone is obligated.” Then looking at me she continued, “Brooke, Honey was a slave, pure and simple she was a slave. There, now that that is out in the open, let’s get on with it.”

“A slave?! How can that be? I am white. I thought all slaves were like, you know, black. Something isn’t right here if we are trying to be historically accurate.”

“Actually, that’s not quite true,” Miss Sedgwick said matter-of-factly. “According to the law at the time, all it took was one drop of colored blood to make one a slave. Of course, some completely 100% white women were also enslaved by unscrupulous judges after receiving a substantial bribe which, according to Angie’s meticulous research, would seem to be what happened to Honey.”

“That can’t be!” I exclaimed.

“Oh, but it is,” Angie said with an evil chuckle. “The parallels between you and Honey are remarkable. You recently entered into a new family when your father married into ours and Honey entered her new family when her dad remarried. In Honey’s case, Honey’s step-mother couldn’t stand her new step-daughter so she bribed a judge to enslave her and put her up for auction which he did. That is how she came to be in our family – one of my relatives bought her at auction and she lived here. You, Brooke, are also newly part of our family and very close in age to Honey. And just to make the analogy even more complete, according to her enslavement papers, she had blonde hair and so do you! I think I made a perfect choice for my research.”

“But . . . a SLAVE?! SERIOUSLY?!”

Angie just laughed out loud – not a humorous laugh but a malicious laugh as if she was enjoying every minute of it.

“Dad?” I asked hopefully as if he would somehow reassure me that this was all a joke or would put a stop to this.

“There is nothing I can do. We all agreed to do this and Angie’s project is far too important to screw this up. Sorry, my Little . . . I mean, Brooke. We’ll just have to make the best of it.”

Miss Sedgwick came and stood directly in front of me looking right into my eyes with that forceful stern expression she was famous for. “From this moment onward, you are no longer Brooke. That name no longer exists in this house until further notice and this project is completed. You will be known simply as “Honey;” not Honey Harkins, not Little Sister; not even my Little Angel – just Honey. As was the custom after a slave acquired an owner. She was given a new slave-name. It is important for you to accept that ‘WHAT you were before; WHO you were before, no longer exists. What you owned before, what privileges you had before are also gone. You are what we tell you that you are; you have nothing except what you are given. You own nothing. You are nothing more than chattel.”

“Chattel? I am not sure I understand.”

In her typical roll as an authoritarian teacher, she looked down her nose at me and explained, “It means, my dear girl, that you are a personal possession. Under the law it means an item of property other than real estate. Slavery goes back many thousands of years mostly as a result of war like in ancient Roman times. Chattel slavery, the most common form of slavery in recent times, means that people could be legally owned, bought and sold at will like livestock. This system was supported by the United States from its inception and by many countries in Europe from the 16th to the late 19th centuries. Amazingly enough, Chattel slavery is not an American invention, despite what revisionists are trying to indoctrinate you into believing.”

A cold shiver ran up my spine at hearing the cold and calculated words coming out of this woman as she stared unemotionally into my eyes. My gawd this is really happening.

I glanced over Miss Sedgwick’s shoulder toward my family. My dad was looking rather sad but it was obvious that he had resigned himself to accepting this project and was prepared to go along with it. Mom and Angie, well, they seemed to relish what was happening to me. Looking back into Miss Sedgwick’s eyes I couldn’t tell what the heck she felt as she was all business. She would have made a great poker player. I wasn’t listening to anything she was saying as my mind went blank. I was, angry, confused then happy at the prospect of earning that $30,000. I’ll show them, I thought confidently. I just had to hold out for however long that this stupid project would last then, Europe, here I come!

I was jolted back to reality when I felt a sharp slap across my face – not hard but forceful enough to be humiliating having happened in front of my family. “Are you listening to me?”

“Um . . .Yes, ma’am,” I answered meekly.

“I said,” she explained again as she was sure that I had been daydreaming. “Get your clothes off this instant – every stitch. I don’t have time to fool with you. I have things to do.”

“Excuse me? My clothes?”

Another slap came across my cheek. “Slaves didn’t own property. All that you had for purposes of this project doesn’t exist for you anymore. Your clothes you are wearing belong in the 21st century not the 19th century. Get them off now – all of them.”

“In front of them? Even my dad?!”

Miss Sedgwick just stood there giving me “the look” practically daring me to disobey her. My dad just shrugged his shoulders and then lowered his head and looked to the floor.

My brain knew that my clothes didn’t fit the period over 200 years ago and I had agreed that I would wear what her ancestors wore back then, but I hardly expected to be forced to change into them while everyone watched! This was embarrassing to say the least.

I fiddled with the hem of my T-shirt until I heard Miss Sedgwick clear her throat again. There was nothing for it so I decided to comply and lifted my shirt up and over my head exposing my bra to the room. I had planned on folding it neatly and putting it on the ottoman but Angie’s teacher quickly snatched it away from me and kept a firm grip on it with one hand as she pointed to my jeans and then lowered her finger at the floor.

Glancing around the room, I unfastened the snap on my slacks and pulled down the zipper and stepped out of the jeans. I had barely removed my last foot before the old lady snatched them off the ground. “Get a move on. All of it has to go.”

Off came my socks then, after a slow deep breath, I removed my panties baring my blonde pubes to the room. I felt my face feel flushed as I heard my dad clear this throat, clearly uncomfortable at witnessing all this. Then I reluctantly unsnapped my bra and gave both my panties and my form-enhancing bra over to Angie’s teacher and then covered my chest and pelvis with my arms as best I could while I awaited my new clothes.

“Lift up your hair,” Angie directed as she came towards me while fiddling with something. I wasn’t really paying attention to what Angie was doing though as my eyes were on my dad. “Chin up,” Angie instructed causing me to look at her again.

“What the hell is that? It looks like a dog collar?”

“Yeah,” Angie said. “Sorry about that. I didn’t have time to have a more historically accurate collar made in time. But rest assured Mr. Longacre, the local farrier, will have one made shortly that is more in keeping with the period. In the meantime, this will have to do.”

I swallowed hard as my step-sister fastened the collar around my neck. I noticed that the collar had rings on the front, sides and back. How humiliating. Angie then giggled a bit as she fastened fur-lined cuffs around my wrists in front of me and connected them with a small chain. “Obviously, these makeshift shackles aren’t correct for the period either, but as I said, Mr. Longacre will be here tomorrow to fit new ones.”

Miss Sedgwick looked me over and remarked. “Yes, these will do for now. I realize that you haven’t had time to obtain correct shackles but yes, these will serve their purpose overnight until the auction tomorrow.”

“AUCTION?” I exclaimed a bit too loudly and attempted to lower my voice. “What Auction?”

Angie patiently explained, “Well, when a new slave had been indentured such as you have been . . .”

Miss Sedgwick interrupted, “The term is enslaved, dear. Indentured implies a temporary arrangement. Honey was – or I should say is now a permanent slave.”

“Oh, I see.” Angie acknowledged turning back to me. “Well since you have now been enslaved, there will be an auction here to establish your new owners. We want to do this as accurately as we can you understand, taking care not to skip any steps.”

Looking at my stepmom and dad I said, “I thought you are my new owners. You are my parents Afterall.”

“They might be,” Miss Sedgewick explained. “It all depends on the outcome of the auction tomorrow and whether or not they actually bid on you.”

“You mean someone else might purchase me? That’s absurd. I didn’t agree to that!”

SLAP!

I was taken aback when my step mother now this time slapped my face hard! “You most certainly did, young lady and I’ll not have you ruining my daughter’s project or her chances for a scholarship. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very nice, Mrs. Harkins,” the teacher commented. “Slaves were punished severely for any insolence. Angie has a good handle on that from her research and can advise you if necessary.”

I’m sorry,” I quickly interjected before something worse happened to me. “I won’t mess up the project. This is all . . . so . . . weird, um, I mean strange to me. I will do what I need to do. Forgive my outburst.”

Miss Sedgwick smiled. The old prune face actually smiled as she continued her explanation. “Tomorrow we will hold an auction. We want you to experience what Honey might have experienced so it will be as close as possible to what slave auctions were like. In fact, this whole project is about you experiencing this time period as a Honey might have experienced it. Each night you will record in your journal what happened and your feelings about the day.”

Angie spoke up and added, “We know from some records that Honey could write and that she actually kept a secret journal. Unfortunately, that journal was lost to us as it was discovered at some point by her owners and destroyed. We have an incredible opportunity to get a glimpse of what she might have experienced by re-creating what we do know. And since this house was the actual place where honey spent her enslavement, you can get as close as possible to feeling what she felt here and write it all down as she must have done.”

“I see, well, that makes sense,” I reluctantly acknowledged. My step-sister was smarter than I thought she was. She clearly spent a lot of time on this and I could see the honor in being involved in something so important. I just wished it wasn’t happening to me.

My step-sister continued, “It is so very important for your journal to have meaning which is why everyone involved will make sure that everything is as realistic as possible and I mean everything. That’s why your shackles will be like those Honey wore; your food will be like what she ate; in fact, everything that happens to you and everything you do will be as close to what we understand that she might have experienced.”

I see. You know, it is kind of embarrassing standing here naked like this. Can we get on with letting me get dressed in the period clothing I need to be wearing and then continue with your explanations?”

My question made everyone laugh including Miss Prune face. I wasn’t sure why what I had said was so funny.

“My dear little sister . . . I mean, Honey, you ARE wearing your period clothes – at least what slaves wore to auction and possibly during the entire period as a slave. Your new owner might permit you some clothing or not as they might deem appropriate, but ALL slaves showed up at auction totally naked except for their collar and shackles. How else can prospective buyers assess how much you might be worth? Male slaves needed to be evaluated for their muscle development. Female slaves needed to be assessed for breeding purposes or other defects that might affect their value.”

“WHAT?! You mean I am going to be auctioned off NAKED? Just who exactly is going to be at this auction anyway? Where is this going to be held?” I snapped at my step-sister.

“Well, normally it would have been held on the steps at the county courthouse or in a judge’s chambers but I have decided to do this on the steps of our front porch. As to who is going to be here, well, some of your classmates, silly. I have arranged to have members of our school drama club, well,18 of them anyway, act as potential buyers who will be dressed in period clothing along with our Principal, Mr. Conners, who will serve as our judge and auctioneer. And, mom has kindly arranged for several of our neighbors who live nearby to be here as well as I felt it was important to get their buy-in into the importance of the project.”

“I am going to be NAKED, bound up like this in front of all those people? Actual CLASSMATES of mine – people I go to school with will be bidding on me . . . While I am NAKED?!

“Yes, you are,” my step-mother said firmly unless you want a taste of the whip like real slaves might have experienced. I have absolutely no problem whipping you either as I intend on fulfilling my role authentically.”

I swallowed hard and looked at the ground submissively.

“I thought you might see things my way,” she snickered half-under her breath and returned to stand next to my dad.

Coming up - Chapter 2: Preparing for Auction.

a

[anthonydemon]

Top Noch! Thank you for this is absolutely excellent story! Delicious writing and theres infinite posibilities. Good job , keep it up!

[jojo12026]

Wow! Did not see that coming. Great start!!

[Skylar21]

Wow! what a set up to a story. Great descriptive writing! Good character development. This story is going to be epic, I just know it.

Eager to find out what happens to Brooke-I mean-Honey. Next installment, please!

[computerphoto]

I have a feeling Brooke aka Honey, will never be the same and will never be Brooke again and will never see that 30K, I have a feeling she has no idea what she signed up for and will never be the person she was again before she agreed to be Honey. Only time will tell but I have a feeling this will not be over for her at the end of the school year.

She did not read anything that she signed, she did not read any of the papers she signed, and her parents and step-sister I have a feeling not telling her the whole truth at all about all of this.

[computerphoto]

Like in my last comment I said Brooke aka Honey, has no idea what coming to her, wait until she is branded like slaves were.

[Hooked6]

The Antebellum School Project
BY: Hooked6

Chapter 2A



Author’s note: This chapter was rather long so I broke it up into two chapters (2A and 2B) as there was a lot of background material I wanted to include before reaching the more action filled chapters that follow. Hopefully it didn’t detract from your enjoyment.


I looked up at my dad and as the others were chatting amongst themselves, I softly asked, “Dad, I thought you bought this house after you married Susan so we could all live in a place that would be ours.”

“That’s right.”

“So now I just found out that this home was in my step-mom’s family for years. Did you know that before you bought it for her?”

“Of course. That was the main reason I purchased it. It made her very happy and I liked the house too.”

“So how come they keep referring to Honey back in olden times as joining the Harkins family? I thought my step-mom’s maiden name was Beacham. Did your family relatives own slaves or something? Was Honey somebody in your family dad? I am so confused?”

My dad just laughed. “Maybe this will help. Susan, your step-mom, was in fact married to a Beachum before he died but Susan’s maiden name was actually Harkins, just like mine, and before you ask, no, she and I aren’t related.

“Though our family names are both Harkins, we are from different family trees so to speak. Susan’s family used to own this house. In fact, her ancestors originally built it back in 1840. It has been in her family for generations until Susan’s dad ran into financial trouble in the late 1990’s and got behind on his bills and taxes when she was a child and the bank took it back. Susan loved this house when she was growing up. Angie, of course, never lived in this house as she wasn’t born until well after her family lost it. After Susan and I married, I agreed to purchase this house back so she could carry on the family heritage.”

“So THAT explains why Angie is so compulsive about doing all this research and it was Susan’s ancestors that owned slaves not ours,” I said as if a light bulb suddenly went off above my head.

My dad put his arm around me, which made me feel really weird as I was still naked, as he continued to explain. “Angie has only recently learned about her heritage and has taken it to heart. It also explains why this project of hers is so important not only to her scholarship but to her understanding of her ancestors’ family history.”

I nodded, “I get it. I just wish I didn’t have to be a SLAVE of all things. Do you know what that will do to my reputation at school?”

My dad gave me a loving hug and said, “I know my Little . . . I mean, Honey. I am sure this will be difficult for you but if you aren’t willing to give it your all for Angie’s sake, could you at least do it for me? I love your step-mom very, very much and I know how much this means for both Susan and her daughter. You’d also be making a valuable contribution to your generation’s understanding of a part of history that everyone these days is trying to erase as if it never happened. You can see it everywhere with people tearing down statues and monuments, altering textbooks for political reasons, renaming schools and public buildings rather than understanding what it was really like. How are people going to remember the past and avoid repeating it if people don’t know about it? I’ve seen the extensive research Angie has put in to this. I am so proud of you for helping out. I know you won’t let me down, well . . . let our family down I should say, by not giving this your best effort.”

“I won’t let you down, dad. I will make you proud of me, you’ll see.”

“I know you will, sweetheart, I mean, Honey. Oh, and I need to tell you that tomorrow is Saturday. I didn’t know this was all coming together so quickly and I am already committed to fly out to California for several days to our corporate offices and prepare for an important presentation on Tuesday. I’ll be back later in the week, by Friday at the latest. I hate to miss the first few days of your project but I am sure I’ll find out all about it when I get back. I have to leave for Atlanta rather early to catch my flight so I doubt you’ll see me by the time you get up and about.”

“Aw, dad! Do you have to . . .”

“Honey!” I heard a forceful voice exclaim, “What are you doing hugging the master of this house?” It was Miss Sedgwick rudely interrupting my quiet talk with my dad. I immediately dropped my arms from around his back and took a step away from my dad. “Slaves do NOT hug their betters.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know the project had already started.” Her disapproving look made me feel very small and foolish.

*****

I was told to sleep in a small, 8’ by 10’ old storeroom off the kitchen that had been cleared out – just four walls. No windows. A thin mattress had been placed on the floor and I was given an old thin, scratchy, wool blanket to use in case I got cold. Yes, I had to sleep naked still wearing the dog collar and wrist cuffs. The door to the storeroom was propped open and I was told to leave it alone. I surmised that at one time a slave must have really slept there and propping open the door allowed someone to check to be sure that the slave didn’t try to escape – at least that’s what I imagined anyway.

Before I was left alone, I was given an old oil lamp of the type I had seen in those Hollywood westerns so I could start writing in my journal with strict instructions to blow out the flame as soon as I was done writing.

Oh, and speaking of my journal, Angie really impressed me. She gave me a very authentic appearing journal to write down my thoughts and experiences in for her project. The front and back covers consisted of two hard pieces of leather with hand-punched holes on the left side of each panel. The holes looked like someone had made them with a sharp knife by twisting the blade around and round until a hole was made. The holes were of varying sizes and not evenly spaced. Inside the front and back leather panel were probably 100 pages of plain parchment-like paper which also had holes on the left side of each page. The whole thing was tied together by a real leather string that was woven in and out of each hole from top to bottom and secured with a rather large, hand-tied knot. The homemade book opened like a spiral bound binder. It was very old looking like someone might have made way back in the day. It wasn’t fancy but it was functional. I was given a fountain pen, which I guess was a concession of convenience as opposed to giving me a feather quill and a bottle of ink. Knowing me, I’d make a mess or spill the ink well any way.

I had no idea what I was supposed to write, but I wanted to please my dad so I just wrote a short entry that was truthful and would suit my step-sister’s purpose.

April 30th,

Today I was made a slave. Can you imagine ME, a slave! It goes against everything I believe in. Slavery is wrong and it wasn’t my idea, yet I really had little choice. I was forced to strip myself of every bit of clothing in front of several people - male and female - and some mean old lady forced me to accept a collar around my neck and shackles around my wrists. How humiliating! I was shoved into a small room and made to sleep on a thin homemade pad they called a mattress. It did little to protect me from the hard wooden floor I can tell you. It was darn uncomfortable. I have no idea what is going to happen to me or what tomorrow will bring.

Honey

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be writing as Honey back in 1845 or as me, the new Honey, writing today? I chose to be general and just write what happened to me as truthfully as I could. If I didn’t do it right it will be their fault as no one gave me any direction. I put the journal under my so-called mattress and blew out the lamplight and went to sleep. I had a restless night but managed to finally fall asleep.


*****

“GET UP, YOU LAZY HEIFER.” I heard a voice screaming at me. When I finally opened my eyes, it appeared to be daylight, well, early morning anyway.

“Oh, Angie it’s just you. What time is it anyway?” I mumbled still half asleep. All of a sudden, I felt a very sharp pain on my backside. “OUCH! What the fuck? Angie, what is wrong with you?” I snapped at her.

CRACK!

I felt another sharp and very painful burning again on my backside. I quickly rolled away from whatever had struck me and saw Angie holding a small leather handle in her hand that had two, foot-long leather straps protruding from that handle she was holding. I then saw her raise it up over her shoulder preparing to strike me again.

Immediately, I stood up facing Angie rubbing my naked butt-cheeks when Angie spoke again, “Listen, you swine, when I tell you to do something you had better snap to it and do it immediately. Got that, you lazy bitch? What do you think this is, a country club or something?”

“No, ma’am; sorry ma’am. I didn’t sleep well last . . .”

CRACK!

Angie brought the leather straps down hard across my right breast this time and boy did that hurt like hell! I didn’t have time to protect myself as both my hands were still rubbing my butt-cheeks from the last two times she got me with that thing.

“ANGIE, STOP IT! THAT HURTS!”

I saw her raise that thing up again and, in a flash, I brought both my arms up to cover my small breasts but she was too fast for me and flung those infernal straps down across my lower pelvis and pubic hair missing my vulva by mere millimeters.

I screamed in agony as she clearly knew where my most tender spots were and I gave her a very angry look as I readjusted by hands to cover both my tits and my pussy, bending at my waist to minimize the amount of bare flesh that thing could strike.

Angie just looked at me and stood there apparently daring me to say something else.

I didn’t. there was silence for several moments with both of us just staring at each other.

“Geez, are you a slow learner,” she said with a soft giggle. “Follow me,” she said still giggling as she turned and walked out of the kitchen and into a small hallway.

I didn’t have to be told twice. I took up a position right behind her and kept pace still rubbing my sore boob and pelvis. I knew deep down inside she was just playing her role but damn, did she have to hit me so hard?

In no time at all we reached the backdoor and she didn’t hesitate as she opened it up. “ANGIE,” I whispered in a panic. “I can’t go outside like this! Someone might see me.”

She just laughed and wave her whip thing in front of my face. “Oh, I think you can. One way or another, the easy way or the hard way, you’ll do what I say from now on.” She walked out the door and I stupidly followed behind her into our backyard.

We went about 30 yards away from the house walking at an angle as I nervously kept looking around. If we kept going in this direction we would no longer be shielded by the house and I would be completely visible to the street and any passersby out front.

“Stop here,” my step-sister said.

I looked around and I still didn’t see anybody about. I then looked down and saw a hole in the ground about 10 inches in diameter and about two feet deep. “Boy, I am glad you saw that hole I almost stepped in it. I could have broken my ankle in that thing. Is that why you led me back here? Do you want me to fill it in?”

Angie just laughed out loud,” You’d better hope that nobody fills that in, you silly thing. That’s your new bathroom for the duration of this project.”

I scrunched up my face and looked her right in the eye, “What do you mean? Are you serious? I have to come all the way out here. . . to this, this HOLE whenever I have to go?”

My step-sister just tilted her head to one side and looked at me like I was from another planet. “This, my uninformed moron,” she said smiling while pointing her index finger towards the hole, “is an historically accurate slave latrine. It is the proper distance away from the water supply, the kitchen, and the house.”

“Well, duh, I know about out-houses but this so-called slave hole doesn’t have walls or a roof or anything. It’s just a hole. Why can’t I use the latrines or whatever you are calling them in the house?”

“Slaves never used the facilities in the big house. In, fact, unlike large houses in big cities like Atlanta or Savannah, many rural planation houses of the period just used chamber pots like they did in the late 1700’s. Toilets or water closets weren’t widely available until nearly 1880. Since people of means like my ancestors often entertained out here in the sticks and they didn’t wish to force their upper-class guests the indignity of walking outside in all their finery to heed the call of nature in the dark to an outhouse.

“Chamber pots were available in each bedroom, and a special room downstairs for visitors. It was the duty of the slaves to empty and clean these pots so that they were ready to use throughout the day.”

“You’re making that up. And there’s NO WAY you’re going to convince me that you, your mom, or my dad are going to use chamber pots instead of the toilet let alone any guests that may come over.”

Angie just giggled. “You’ll find out if I am making this up or not when you have to clean these pots several times a day. I’m going to enjoy watching you clean my filth.”

I just looked at her with what I believe was the most bewildered expression I could make. “Seriously?”

She the continued with her little history lesson. “Slaves, on the other hand, were forbidden to use the ornate, ceramic chamber pots. Instead, they were relegated to the slave latrine, which in this case is outside. . . right here.” She explained pointing her finger towards the hole.

“But . . . people will see me! I’d just die doing something so personal out in the open. And . . . what if it is raining?”

“Honey, you are a slave; mere chattel. Horses and cows do their business out in the open and you are nothing more than they are so get used to it. If it is raining, well, you’ll just get wet that’s all.”

“Disgusting,” I said half under my breath but I know she heard me because her little grin turned into a full-mouth smile. “But . . . what will I use for toilet paper?”

“Here, my dear sister, I will cut you a little break. Since we don’t have plants and bushes out here where fresh leaves could be used to wipe yourself, I will allow you to use a cotton rag which you will wet before leaving the kitchen to wipe yourself then carry it back with you to clean the soiled rag with the garden hose, the bar of lye soap and that metal pale on that little table near the back door then hang the now clean rag up on that line to dry in the sun. Be sure you carry that rag out with you the next time you go, otherwise you will have to wipe yourself with your hands and clean them in the metal pale.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Unbelievable.”

“Welcome to the early 19th century my dear. Now, get busy and empty your bladder and whatever else you have to do. We have lots to do today.” She then reached into her font pocket and pulled out a small wash rag that looked like it was burlap or something and said, “Here, use this as your toilet rag. You’ll get a different rag to use when you are on your period. I’ll show you how to fasten it when the need arises.” She then unceremoniously tossed it to me which I had to react quickly to catch it before it hit the ground.”

I again shook my head in disbelief and squatted over the hole after making sure I saw no one looking at me or walking about. Fortunately, I only needed to urinate so I relieved myself then used the rag. My step-sister just stared at me doing my business the entire time. How embarrassing. She could have at least turned around or looked away but no, she observed everything. I was then escorted back to the house and proceeded to clean the rag and hang it up. I was about to make a dash for the door when she stopped me.

“You have a big day today. The first thing we need to do is get you clean and get your hair washed.”

That actually sounded good as I felt dirty after my experience last night and my outdoor toilet duty. She pointed at a spot about 15 feet away from the house and told me to stand there while she waited for me to comply. No sooner had I stopped walking toward that spot, I was hit with a blast of cold water on my back. I shrieked as she got me good and wet then had me turn around to face her and she blasted my front and my hair. She turned off the water then tossed me a new, clean cotton rag and a different, scented, but rough-looking bar of soap and told me to soap up the rag and start washing myself as she stood there watching. Surprisingly, unlike the bar of lye soap, this lathered up quite easily.

I looked up at her dripping wet as I worked up a lather in the rag and asked, “What is this soap, Angie? It smells nice and lathers up better than my usual bath soap. This can’t something they used in the 1880’s.”

“Oh, but it is. In fact, the ingredients date back to the pioneer days and modified in the 1830’s. It was known as a hair bar. Unlike our modern shampoos, hair bars were designed for the more well-to-do patrons to wash their hair. They would work the bar into a lather in their hands and wash their hair with it. The bar was easier to manage and store than bottles. I thought you could use this bar both to wash with and use on your hair as I had to get the pharmacist in town to make these bars for our project and they weren’t cheap.”

I starting going through the motions of washing myself and kept talking to Angie to reduce my embarrassment. “So, what is in it? Do you know?”

Angie smiled as if she was proud that I asked about this stuff. “I do know, actually. It contains something called soapwort which is a plant that produces a lather when mixed with water as well as fruits and herbs that are gentle on your hair like dried, ground up gooseberries which I guess the Indians called Amla; and natural oils like olive oil and coconut oil that was shipped up the Mississippi river from Florida back then. Jack Conners, the pharmacist also added some other stuff that I can’t remember that helped make it into a bar soap. He had a ball looking this up and making it. Be sure to thank him when next you see him.”

“Gee, Angie, you have really put a lot of effort into this project. I am feeling better about your chances of you getting your scholarship and me getting my thirty grand.”

“Trust me. I am putting a hell of a lot of effort into making this accurate. You’d better not screw this up for me.”

I just looked up and smiled at her not saying a word. It wouldn’t hurt her to think that she’d better not overdo this stuff lest I sabotage her project. Continuing my washing I did the best I could on my front side but washing my backside was harder. Finally, I thought I had done pretty well and looked up at my step-sister all soapy waiting for her to rinse me.

“You need to do a better job between your legs and butt. A lot of people will be looking at you today. I am sure you want to make a good impression. Wash everything again.”

I reached my hand with the rag in between my legs and went to scrubbing in earnest a second time.

“Harder!” she shouted, clearly back into her bossy mode. “Deeper. Get into those folds really good. I’ll tell you when you are done.”

I felt myself blushing as I knew what she was trying to make me do and I wasn’t going to let that happen. After about another 5 or so minutes she told me to stop and turn around which I did. She blasted me with the cold water again then walked around to my front side and rinsed me all over. Then she got my hair wet again and told me to use the same soap on my hair.

Usually, I always used an expensive shampoo and a fine conditioner on my hair whenever I washed it and it always came out silky and shiny. I hoped this hair bar soap stuff wouldn’t make my hair fall out or anything and it would come out at least looking presentable. I’m sure I’d look terrible as a bald slave.

When I was through, she spent a good amount of time rinsing my hair then, walking around me with the hose, blasted my body from the back one more time with water. When she got to my front, she spent an inordinate amount of time spraying my pelvis and vagina. She kept the water directed on that same spot (I am sure you can guess what spot she was aiming at, the bitch) and just waited. My breathing got faster and the water was having the desired effect. I couldn’t help myself, closed my eyes, and just stood there letting the splashing water do its magic for just a little bit longer. I had never been outside naked before let alone masturbated myself in public and it felt good. The sensations were overwhelming even if my step-sister was the cause of them. I was getting closer and closer to what I thought was going to be a very intense orgasm when I heard a voice!

“Hello, Miss Angie,” he said with a smile.

I screamed and stepped away from the water jet as my step-sister dropped the hose and turned to greet our visitor. My arms immediately went to cover my chest and my pelvis as best as I could as water from my skin dripped onto the grass in front of this man.

“Hello, Mr. Longacre,” Angie said warmly. “I am glad you are here early.”

It was our local farrier and I remembered he was here to fit some more historically accurate shackles and collar for me. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. The muscular young man was dressed in period clothing and had a hold of a Mule hitched to a cart carrying an anvil and what I presumed to be all sorts of other horsey stuff of his trade. Mr. Longacre looked to be in his upper twenties and was very attractive. His being here didn’t help my arousal level one bit and I could feel myself down there getting wetter by the minute. (Hey, I was naked for Pete’s sakes and he was a hottie.)

“Hello, Brooke, “He said turning towards me. “You’re looking beautiful today.” I felt my knees getting week beneath me at his comment.

My step-sister interrupted him before he could say anything else, “That’s not Brooke, anymore. Her new name is Honey.”

He smiled at me which made my heart beat faster as he looked over my wet, naked body for a moment then replied. “Honey, eh? What a sweet name for a lowly slave.” His comment made my self-esteem drop immensely. Why did he have to say something like that and put me down?


“Where would you like me to set up, Miss Angie?”

“You can go ahead set up out front. When you arrived, did you see that sturdy hitching post, with its legs buried into the ground just to the right of the porch as you are facing it - looking at it from the street?”

“Yes, I did as a matter of fact.”

“You can set up your portable forge, anvil, and stuff off to the side near that area. There is a hose nearby to fill your cooling tub on the side of the porch.”

Mr. Longacre gave me one more leering look, smiled a knowing smile, and led his mule and cart back out front.

When he was out of sight, Angie started laughing out loud. “You should have seen your face when you saw that guy looking at you. I have never seen a more embarrassed look on anyone. It was priceless! What’s the matter, hasn’t a boy seen you naked before?” Her laughing grew more intense as she was clearly enjoying my discomfort.

“Could I please have a towel so I can dry off and go inside?”

“No can do, Honey-babe. Slaves weren’t afforded fine towels. You can just stay here outside and let the air dry you. I’ll be back in a moment to fix your hair.” She then pulled my hands behind my back and clipped the leather wrist cuffs together. “That’s just to make it harder for you to run off. You can’t run very fast with your hands linked like that.” She then turned and went back into the house leaving me in the sun to continue drying off.

I could hear the noises of the farrier setting things up which were unnerving to say the least. Knowing a stranger was just out front gave me goosebumps, or maybe those were just from the cold water on my skin. Either way, my skin was hypersensitive and all my nerves were tingling.

Angie returned carrying a small box of round sticks and some cloth strips. She proceeded to brush out my wet hair and much to my surprise the bristle brush glided smoothly down my hair. I was expecting it to be a tangled mess. Maybe there was something to that hair soap stuff afterall. She eventually took one of the round, half-inch thick sticks that were maybe 6 inches long and tightly wrapped a fair amount of my wet hair around and around the vertical stick until it reached the bottom and then tied it off with a piece of cloth holding it in place.

The process was repeated all around my head. It felt ridiculous. Every time I turned my head, the 8-inch sticks would jingle up against my skull and sound like wooden wind chimes as they banged against each other. “What in the world are you doing?” I finally asked.

“Giving your hair some ringlets, silly. As your wet hair dries against the sticks it will keep a nice curly shape cascading down your head to your shoulders. It was all the rage in fashionable society back then.”

“You mean slaves actually got their hair styled? Who knew?”

“No, you dope. They usually had it all cut off to prevent lice infestations. The only exceptions were house slaves and Fancy girls. But I want you to look your best at the auction so you will fetch a better price. The better you look; the more people will spend on you.”

There was that term again, Fancy girl. I think I want to be one of those. Maybe then I might get something fancy to wear instead of being naked all the time.
She started putting things away as she said, “Now just wait here for a minute. I want your hair to dry some more.”

I nodded and watched her retreat to the safety of our house once again.

*****
“Oh, hey again,” Mr. Longacre said as he came around the corner of the house into the backyard. “Is your step-sister around? I need to make a few measurements of your neck and wrists before I put the finishing touches on your collar and wrist shackles that I’m making for you.”

Once again, my hands wanted to fly down to cover my chest and pelvis as my heart rate accelerated as he looked at me up and down but my hands were still fastened behind my back so I couldn’t cover up. “Um . . . my step-sister?” I mumbled a bit dazed.

“Yeah, you know, your boss. Where did she go?”

I just looked at him in silence. I was truly intimidated by him. I didn’t know if that was because of all his muscles and manliness or if it was because he was so darned handsome and I was completely naked and horny as hell, but I either way I just couldn’t get words to come out of my mouth.

“No matter,” he said taking a few steps closer to me. “I can get what I need without her. Just don’t move. He walked behind me and unhooked and then removed both of my damp wrist cuffs and then unlatched my dog collar and tossed everything onto the ground. Just feeling his rough hands against my skin made me wet in the most embarrassing of places. I hoped he didn’t notice.

He told me to hold my left wrist up in the air and then taking a piece of cloth with markings on it wrapped it around the lower part of my wrist just before my hand and made a mark on the cloth indicating the circumference. He did another measurement just about two inches higher on my arm towards my elbow and recorded that measurement. He did the same on my other hand before doing something similar on the lower part of my neck then about two inches above that a little higher on my neck. Several times his upper arms and elbows rubbed against my naked, albeit small, breasts causing my already prominent nipples to protrude even more. I wasn’t sure if he was doing that on purpose getting a cheap thrill, or that it was just incidental contact as a result of doing his job. Either way, it was the first time a guy had touched those places – incidentally or not. (Okay, it felt good in a way. Uninvited, but nice.)

“What are you doing?” I asked trying to break the tension, but my voice cracked and quivered giving away how nervous I was.

“Most people don’t take care making real shackles and collars,” he explained. “If they are made incorrectly, they slide with every movement of your arm and chafe the skin, not only making them uncomfortable to wear but they leave almost permanent scaring that can affect the value of a slave. If a slave is truly valuable, then her master would spend a little extra money and make them an exact fit reducing the chance of injury and discomfort.

“Most people don’t realize that the wrist narrows as you approach the hand so the top of the wrist towards the elbow is wider and the bottom nearest the hand is narrower. The same is true of the neck only there the bottom near the chest is wider and narrows as you go up the neck. Making the shackles and collar custom fit will not only look better and be more comfortable, but they are more functional as well as these items won’t move.”

“Functional?”

“Yes, like if you are made to give a guest a hand job you can’t very well have the metal shackle sliding up and down on your wrist banging on his sensitive . . . ahem . . . appendage, can you? That wouldn’t be functional, would it?”

“Why in the hell would I be doing something like that!?” I snapped trying to sound indignant but, in reality, I was seriously embarrassed at the thought of giving a boy a hand-job.

“You are a slave, aren’t you? It goes with the territory – especially if you are to be a fancy girl.”

“Shut your mouth. You don’t know what in the hell you are talking about. Just because I am standing here naked doesn’t mean I am a prostitute! This is for a school project, ya know. Nothing more.”

“Whatever you say, Honey.” With that he left, chuckling to himself.

I was furious! How dare he insinuate that . . .

The back door suddenly opened and Angie seemed surprised. “What happened to your cuffs and dog collar? How did you get them off?”

“I didn’t. That asshole, Mr. Longacre, did. He made some measurements and . . .”

“Great!” she exclaimed. “He must be close to getting you ready for your final fitting. We’d best get you inside and get you something to eat. We are all done with our breakfast but there is still a bit of time for you to eat.”

That sounded marvelous as I was indeed quite famished. I was led into the house and saw the dining room table with four plates with scraps upon them. Whatever they had looked good. I knew my dad was already gone so I wondered who had the other two plates.

“Before you eat,” my step-mom said as she came into the dining room, “scrape all the scraps onto a clean plate then wash the dirty plates and silverware.”

“Yes, mom” I replied.

“That’s ma’am” to you now.”

“Yes ma’am” I corrected myself and proceeded to do as she asked. When the dishes were done, I turned and I asked Susan as I picked up the last plate, “What should I do with these scraps here?

“She gave me a smirk and simply said, “Why eat them of course. Aren’t you hungry?”

I rolled my eyes. I should have known. I turned and headed for the silverware drawer.

“Slaves don’t get silverware. Use your fingers. And, clean up after yourself when you are done.” I stomped over to the table resigned to my fate when she added, “Take it to your little room and eat. In this house, a slave NEVER sits on household furniture. Ever.”

Once in my room, I sat on the floor and picked at the cold, half-eaten food on the plate. There were a few remnants of sausage links, a half-eaten biscuit, a small pile of scrambled eggs, and some lumps of cold grits. I could tell this was going to be a long day for me.

.

[Hooked6]

The Antebellum School Project
BY: Hooked6


Chapter 2B


“She’s in here,” I heard my step-sister saying to someone followed by footsteps on the hardwood floor headed my way. “There she is, ready to go. Well, almost.”

I swallowed my last bite of food and looked up and it was that crabby old lady, Miss Sedgwick, looking down her long nose at me with what passed as a grin on her wrinkled face. She reached out her hand and fondled several of the wooden sticks woven in my hair and then let them fall back against by head.

“Most authentic my dear. You’ve done a marvelous job here. Is he ready?”

I couldn’t help wonder who the “he” was when she continued, “Let’s drag her butt outside and get her permanently shackled. Oh, this is going to be so much fun!”

PERMANENTLY SHACKLED?! What in the hell was she talking about?

Both women each picked up and arm and started unceremoniously hauling me out towards the front door. The front door?? We were headed towards our FRONT DOOR! In a moment, I was going to be outside within easy sight of our street.

Yes, I knew that at some point I knew I was going to be standing on our front porch going through the motions of being auctioned off but . . . but . . . I wasn’t ready! My mind still hadn’t come to grips with all this. Like I pointed out earlier, I never showed any unnecessary skin at school and was a pretty reserved person – you know, the quiet type. Being naked outside in the back of our house was one thing but being outside in plain view of main street being treated like a slave is quite another.

“Hey, um . . . do we have to do this out in the front yard? Can’t I get a little covering so I can at least get used to all this. It’s so overwhelming!” I pleaded as the front door was opened and I saw a car driving by on the road about 150 feet away. I was dragging my feet a bit hoping to plead my case. Yes, I know we have a fairly long driveway leading up to the house, but it wasn’t that long that people couldn’t easily see me if they looked. Hell, I could see them and what they were wearing as they drove by so I was pretty sure they could see what I wasn’t wearing! Still, there weren’t that many cars that drove by on any given day as it is a pretty rural area, but that didn’t matter to my hyper-charged brain right at that moment.

“Now dearie, it is just like swimming in a cold pool. It is best just to dive right in the deep end straightaway. It is much less painful that way. No sense in dragging this out.” The old biddy chortled.

I was quickly escorted down the few porch steps and onto the grass then dragged towards our farrier. Mr. Longacre was pounding away at some piece of metal on his anvil as we approached. Tink . . . tink . . . tink . . . tong-tong-tong-tong. “Hello ladies,” he called out after he stopped pounding. He smiled at me and added, “and you too, slave.”

He looked over the piece of metal that he had been working on, then, after satisfying himself it was perfect, he put it down and announced. “I am ready. Bring the poor lass over here and let’s get started.”

Did he just call me an ass? I fumed.

He grabbed my right wrist and I resisted but he was way too strong for me and I gave up. He used a pair of pincher tongs to pry the thin metal apart and slipped my wrist inside and, using a different sort of pinching tool, squeezed it shut. “Now don’t you dare move or you will get burned, got it?” he said seriously and I didn’t move a muscle as he placed my wrist with the metal shackle on the anvil. He dropped a small dab of molten stuff on the top and bottom edges of the shackle thus sealing them shut.

He turned and put a pair of tongs holding a ring which was slightly open at the end. He then shoved the open end of that ring into the glowing pile of his coal fired furnace. I could feel the heat from that furnace even though I was about 4 feet away. When he pulled the ring out, the open ends were glowing a bright yellow. Working quickly, he threaded the ring into the hole located on the inside center of the shackle and carefully began pounding it, joining the ring ends together. He took a cup of water and carefully poured it on the ring and anvil sending a cloud of steam into the air. He repeated that again until he was satisfied that the ring was cool and pulled my hand off the anvil.

He repeated the process for my other wrist and finally the attached my neck collar the same way only the neck collar already had three closed rings attached – one in the back and two on the sides. He only had to close the ring in the front. I was so scared I was going to get burned but using his amazing skill I escaped unscathed.

“There you go ladies, one set of custom-fitted shackles and one collar all permanently sealed. She’ll not be getting out of those anytime soon.”

Both ladies looked admiringly at the metalwork he had done. True to his word, the shackles did not slide up and down on my wrists but there was room to slide a stick underneath the shackle, if one pressed down on my skin a bit, to scratch or slide a thin piece of cotton to wash the skin with. The metal was actually pretty thin and didn’t weigh much, but it was solid and seemed unbreakable.

Miss Sedgwick and Angie practiced hooking and unhooking my shackles until they were satisfied my restraints were secure. They told Mr. Longacre to take a break but that they would need him again a little later. I was hoping that meant that he was going to release me from the metal shackles and collar once this auction spectacle was over but I wasn’t really sure. He walked over and sat down under a large tree in the shade and enjoyed a large glass of water.

Miss Sedgwick took me back into the house and undid the cloth ties and removed the sticks that were in my hair and gently brushed it out. She was genuinely pleased with how nice my hair turned out; very curly all the way to the bottom. I was told to take a rag to my feet out back as dirty feet would detract from my sales price. They were talking about me like I was a used car that they were selling. It made me feel worthless and cheap.

Angie came over with some bottle in her hand and put a dab of whatever liquid had been in the bottle on her finger then rubbed that finger behind my ears. She also ran her wet finger between my belly button and on my upper thighs as well. “What is that stuff?” I asked.

Angie, Miss Sedgwick and my step-mom, Susan, all laughed. “That’s just a little old-fashioned perfume used by a lot of lower-class women in the 19th century – Vanilla extract. We can’t have you smelling like a cheap whore, can we?” There was more laughter all around and I began to wonder if my perpetual arousal was noticeable hence the need for perfume.

There was a knock on the front door making my heart skip a beat and I was told to answer it and ask who they wished to see. “No hiding yourself and never look a guest in the eye unless they are speaking to you.” My step-mom directed.

“Yes ma’am,”

I reluctantly opened the door and did as I was told to do. “Hello,” I said nervously while looking at the floor showing whoever it was everything I had. “Whom do you wish to see?”

There was laughter at the door indicating to me that there was more than one person calling. “I am not sure,” the familiar voice said. “Who is available today?”

I looked up and there stood our Principal, Mr. Conners, along with Sarah Ann Johnson, who is THE most popular senior in our school. To me, she was just a shallow, mean-spirited bully and I hated that girl. Both of them were dressed in period clothes. Mr. Conners wore a starched collar shirt; bow tie; black, high-waisted trousers, and a black coat that extended almost to his knees like the old West gun-slingers used to wear. Sarah Ann had on an absolutely gorgeous dress that looked like it was made of silk. The dress was such that it accentuated her large breasts. It was tight on her waist then hung to the floor. I hated to admit it but she was absolutely beautiful. The smile on her face said that she knew it too.

Mr. Conner’s clearing of his throat interrupted my thoughts and I realized he had asked me a question. Of all people I didn’t want to look stupid to was our High School Principal. “Right . . . Miss Susan, my step-mom; my step-sister, Angie, and Miss Sedgwick are all here. Is there anyone in particular that you wish to see?” I became aware that as I had been speaking my left hand had drifted down to cover my pelvis and I forced myself to remove it to my side causing Sarah Ann to giggle. SHE more than anybody loved to see an embarrassed classmate as she was an expert in putting students into situations like that, the little bitch. I could only imagine what she was thinking about seeing my less than impressive chest.

“I believe we’d like to call on your mother if she is available,” Mr. Conner replied.

“Yes sir. Please follow me.” After waiting on them to enter the house I hurriedly closed the door and led the way into what Susan called the parlor.

I remembered from old movies on TV that a maid or butler would always announce a guest and wanting to impress our Principal I did just that. “Excuse ma’am, Mr. Conners and Sarah Ann Johnson are here to see you, mom, I mean, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” she said politely – wow, was that a change from her rough demeanor since yesterday. “That will be all for now, Honey. Please go to your room. I will summon you when we will need you again.”

Acting on instinct I turned and started heading for the stairs and my bedroom but I was quickly reprimanded. “The big house bedrooms are for refined people of class and good breeding,” my mom said. “Chattel slaves sleep in the barn with the cows, or in your case, the old closet off the kitchen. March your stinky ass right where you belong.”

Sarah Ann laughed out loud hearing that. I had to pass right by her heading towards ‘my old closet,’ I know mom was playing her part but damn that insult hurt. She just HAD to put me down right in front of Sarah Ann of all people.

*****

Alone I sat for some time. I could hear them talking and laughing in the parlor, probably drinking tea or lemonade all the while talking about me. I just wished they would get this over with so I could get on with my life. Then I heard my dad’s words replaying in my head, “I am sure this will be difficult for you but if you aren’t willing to give it your all for Angie’s sake, could you at least do it for me?”

He was right about it being hard and I found myself saying aloud, “Don’t worry dad, I’ll do it for you. I’ll make you proud.” I wished he would have been here today.

“Who are you talking to?” Angie asked startling me. “Oh, never mind, I don’t really care. We are ready for you in the Parlor.” She then grabbed my arm and hauled me off the floor and took me out of my room.

When I got to the Parlor, someone had placed an antique, upholstered Bedroom Bench with Queen Ann type legs in the middle of the room. Seated around the room on various furniture were Miss Sedgwick, my mom, and Mr. Longacre the farrier. Sarah Ann and Mr. Conners were standing near the bench. Everyone had stopped talking when Angie and I entered the room and all eyes were looking intently at me.


https://imgur.com/a/5yFLzda

I also noticed for the first time that Miss Sedgwick, Angie, and my mom were all wearing their period clothes and what elegant clothes they were too – well, all but Mr. Longacre, who was still in period work attire. Talk about making me feel uncomfortable with me completely naked wearing only metal shackles and a slave collar.

“STAND HERE,” Angie instructed forcefully.

Mr. Conners approached me and walked slowly around me as if he was studying me. Sarah Ann was in tow like a little puppy dog faithfully copying his motions.

“What’s going on?” I meekly asked.”

“Before or shortly after enslavement or in our case before auction, a professional sketch was made of the slave and any distinct characteristics, markings, or imperfections of the newly enslaved person – anything that would aid in identifying the slave in apprehension, should he or she try to escape. It was also used to validate that the person purchased exactly matched the person being sold.”

“Oh,” was all I could think to say.

“Sarah Ann here, is quite the life artist and will be making a realistic sketch of you as was done back in the day and, for purposes of Angie’s project, will also be obtaining digital photos of you and any of your unique characteristics for her presentation to the scholarship committee at Vanderbilt. Now I want you to stand straight, spread your legs farther apart and put your arms by your side but not touching your body. Can’t have you trying to conceal anything, can we?”

“Oh great,” I thought to myself “Photos. No one said I was going to be photographed NAKED!

I stood as he had instructed as he gently pulled my long, now curly, blonde hair off my shoulders so that it cascaded down my back. Sarah had had a somewhat large sketch pad and what looked like a piece of charcoal or something and she began her drawing, meticulously noting every detail as my audience looked on and talked quietly amongst themselves. I couldn’t make out everything that was being said but every once in a while, I could hear giggling which unnerved me to no end as I knew they were making fun of me or something about me. Talk about lowering my self-esteem.

After about 30 minutes I was getting tired standing there. About that time Sarah Ann announced that the preliminary sketch was done. “Time for the detailed examination. I have my note pad ready.”

Mr. Conners began calling out details for Sarah Ann that he thought were important. “The slave, known as Honey, has long blonde hair . . . her breasts are small, in fact smaller than average with prominent nipples that protrude . . . let me measure . . .” He began fumbling through his pockets looking for something and so far, not having any luck finding it.

I looked up and saw Sarah Ann smiling at me which caused her to speak up, “I’ve always suspected that something wasn’t quite right with you and now I know. YOU STUFFED YOUR BRA! I never dreamed you would be that small though. Boy, wait until the rest of the class sees you like this.” She gave an evil laugh as she kept grinning at me.

“Ah, here it is,” Mr. Conner’s said a bit relieved. He then pulled out a small, 6-inch cloth ruler from his coat pocket and held it up for us to see. He then grabbed my right boob with one hand sending shivers down my spine as I felt his touch. He then placed the ruler against my breast next to my now very sensitive nipple. He rested his head against my chest, and actually measured the length of my nipple! I was appalled that my principal actually touched me like that! It was all part of this project I know, but still . . .

He did the same for the other breast as Sarah Ann dutifully recorded the results. “Gracious, those are some long nips,” she said mockingly. “Are they always THAT long or are they only like that when you are horny as hell?” I ignored her, but I clearly felt my face get hot as I was so embarrassed at what she asked. It wasn’t what she said excactly, as the condescending WAY that she asked me, that really got to me.

“The slave’s pubic hair matches the hair on her head so she is most likely a natural blonde.” I then gasped as Mr. Conners then ran his fingers through my pubes several times as if his fingers were a comb causing me to shake as he remarked for the record, “The slave’s pubic hair is somewhat thin and sparse compared to women of her age.”

How in the hell would he know that? Has he done this to many of his senior students? Has he seen many of his students naked? Such a perv, I thought.

He continued down my legs, “The little toe on her right foot is twisted outwardly compared to the same toe on the other foot. The Slave has no piercings visible, not even in her ear lobes. There are no distinctive markings observed that break the skin.” Sarah Ann was scribbling away taking all this down.

This was getting downright humiliating. Is he going to make a career out of this?

“Lay down on your back on that antique bench. Put your feet up in the air; put your hands behind each knee to hold them up and spread your legs wide,” He demanded.

“What the fuck?” I exclaimed without thinking.

CRACK!

Angie had the wicked leather handle with those two, foot long straps in her hand and she had just lashed my belly with it. I hadn’t seen that coming and squeaked with pain trying to stifle my outburst. I knew she wouldn’t hesitate to hit me again. I immediately lifted my legs and spread them as instructed. I wanted to just crawl under a rock a die. My body was betraying me. This was humiliating but I was aroused as I had ever been in my life.

“The slave freely and copiously self-lubricates without manual stimulation indicating that she is easily aroused. She would make good breeding stock.”

Sarah Ann and my sister both laughed hysterically at his comment making me blush furiously as my face and ears became very warm as a result of my embarrassment.

If I thought that was bad, things took a turn for the worse. Mr. Conners bent down so that his face was only inches from my pussy and using his fingers on both hands, spread my vaginal lips wide apart and began studying my pussy in earnest. “Honey, are you a virgin?” he asked directly.

My mouth opened but nothing came out. My mother was sitting right there along with some man who was a stranger. The biggest bully in my class was eagerly awaiting my answer as well. No matter what I said, my answer would come back and haunt me. “Yes,” I barely managed to say in a shaky whisper.

Mr. Conners scrunched up his face a bit and looked closer making my heart beat faster. “That’s funny. I don’t see an intact hymen. Are you sure you are a virgin?”

“Yes. I have never been with a boy sexually either orally or vaginally.” I said emphatically. I felt the need to explain so I added, “About a year ago I was riding horses with Amy Cantrell and I felt a sharp pain as we were galloping around and then felt wet down there. When I got home, I noticed that I had dried blood on my panties so I assumed I had broken my hymen during the rough ride jumping over things on her horse.”

Mr. Conners looked me right in the eye and asked, “Are you sure you didn’t break it with some sex toy?”

“Oh, my, gawd, NO!” I snapped back causing Sarah Ann to laugh wildly again. She was joined in her revelry by my step-sister, Angie.

“Write down that the slave claims to be a virgin but there is no evidence of hymen virgo intacta.”

“Virgo what-a?” Sarah Ann asked.

“Oh, just write down there was no evidence that she is a virgin on examination.”

“Gotcha” she said still giggling.

I was flipped over onto my stomach and Mr. Conners spread my butt cheeks wide. “Her anus has a brownish tint which appears all the more prominent compared to her light-colored skin. She also has a small birth mark on the inside cleft of her left butt cheek.”

“Okay Honey, you may stand up again. Sarah Ann will commence taking your photographs for your step-sister’s project then we can usher in any potential buyers who wish to examine you for themselves. “

“What did he just say?” I asked Angie, who was standing right over me looking down into my face.

“He said, the fun is just about to start.” She said replied softly then started to deeply laugh.

I got up and was told to put my wrists in front of me. Mr. Longacre fastened one end of a long chain to the rings of both wrist shackles that effectively brought my wrists together and then waited while my Principal brought over a ladder next to me. Our farrier took the end of the long chain and, once he had ascended the ladder, he attached it to a rather large hook in the ceiling. That hook had never been there before and I am guessing that Mr. Longacre put it there while I was in my room waiting to be called.

I was now effectively stuck with my hands over my head unable to move much. My step-mother came over and gave me a menacing grin. “Well, you’ve done well so far, my dear, but what happens next is extremely important, so don’t fuck it up.” She grabbed my chin quite firmly and made me look right into her eyes and lowered her voice in a threatening tone and said, “Do you understand me? If you don’t do just as you are told you will pay the price just as any slave in 1845 would have done. Do I make myself self clear?”

I swallowed hard and managed to utter a very weak, “Yes ma’am.”

I knew she was serious. I didn’t think she was just playing her part. I felt something more in how she said it. Susan NEVER cussed nor used a threatening tone with me, yet, she was doing that amazingly well right now. She might just be acting, but if she was, she was a darn good actor let me tell you. I decided not to cross her just to be safe.

She took a step back, turned around to her daughter and excitedly said, “Let the bidders in to examine the merchandise! They will have one hour so and they had better make it count.”

To my horror the front door opened and in came a small contingent of my classmates, many of who I knew but a lot were strangers to me – young men and women who all attended my school. On top of that, I saw a couple of my neighbors walk in too.

Then I saw that they were all dressed in period finery, the girls in exquisite long silk dresses that reached to the floor with a generous amount of decolletage showing on their chests and the boys all in dark trousers and period length coats and here I was totally naked. I want to run away. In fact, I tested the strength of the chain just to see if I could indeed get away but alas that damn farrier really knew what he was doing. I was trapped.

Chapter 3 - The Inspection, the Auction and a New Owner.


.

[computerphoto]

like I said in another comment Brooke aka Honey, has no idea what she signed up for and never read any of the paperwork she signed, I think this will is not just a few weeks of a school project and she will never be the person she was before again, and never going to see the money she thought she would get before this all started
"" "PERMANENTLY SHACKLED?! What in the hell was she talking about? "
“There you go ladies, one set of custom-fitted shackles and one collar all permanently sealed. She’ll not be getting out of those anytime soon.” ""

Also wait until she is sold and maybe branded too, yeah I don't think she will ever be Brooke again and the life she knew is over for her, and her parents and step-sis knew more and never told her everything because she just jumped on board to help her step-sis, and because was told she was going to get that money when it was over, and like I said above her never read those documents, so who knows what they all said, it sounds like they were a legally binding contract she signed.

[LVB99]

Wonderful story so far, has me on the edge of the seat. I could almost imagine myself in her shoes. Love that she is willingly (and unwillingly) being exposed to everyone. Being exposed for the first time to both girls you despise and boys with lust in their eyes is both humiliating and stimulating. I'm intoxicated so far with your story.