(no subject)
Title: Escape to Freedom, 2
Rating: NC-17 in some parts, PG in this part.
Pairing: OC/OC (You'll find out)
Summary: A group of runaway slaves in 2036 try to get to freedom, by any means necessary...
Author's note: I'm very proud of myself for this story, but I know it could use some tweaking. If you see any flaws, by all means, let me know about them. The story is centered around slavery, but I used the year 2036 so I could make the details up as I went along.
Two
The next morning the sun rose, round, bright and full, into the sky. I stirred from the cot I slept on in the kitchens, wincing at the pain in my back and neck. The cots we were forced to sleep on weren’t the best, since they were made from straw and burlap, so I got pains in my back often. Mandy and I had talked into the night. She told me that the group of people she’d been with yesterday was her family, and she said that her little sister had been born a year ago. Her mother was still recovering from the birth, since it had been difficult. “What did she name the baby?” I asked, and Mandy became teary-eyed. “Mom had named her Samantha, but our master refused to let her name the baby. He called her Elizabeth.”
That was common. Technically, if a slave woman gave birth, the baby wasn’t legally hers. Her master or mistress could take the baby away and name it, or even raise it as their own. If the mistress was infertile, forced surrogation was common. Mandy had told me that all of the four children her mistress raised as her own had slaves as their mothers or fathers. Something told me that either the woman was less than faithful to her husband, or it was arranged.
To be honest, whole families of slaves staying together on one plantation was rare. Some masters would take only the boys, some would take all the children, and some would take only girls to have as sex slaves or concubines. Christopher once reacted quite violently when a perverted man fondled my chest during the auctions we were sold at, mostly because at the time I was only nine. I still don’t like to think of those auctions, because I was still scared of getting sold again. Mandy, who insisted I call her Amanda, since that was her birth name, said that Mistress wanted her, plus her entire family, baby and all. “That’s not uncommon. Mistress often tries to pit me and my brother against each other for fun. Just be careful, she might seem decent, but she’s manipulative and greedy,” I answered. “If she sees a business venture, she’ll go for it.”
Amanda and I got out of bed and dressed to make breakfast. I trusted her cooking skills, but told her I was pretending to train her for Mistress’ sake. Claire was already in the kitchen, cleaning the dishes. It must have been a compulsion, since the rack she was cleaning from were dishes that I’d washed the night before. If Claire had still had her tongue, she would have been bitching about miniscule spots that I’d left on the dishes that weren’t there, and how I paid more attention to chatting with that worthless brother of mine than my duties… frankly, I was glad she couldn’t speak, since I wasn’t in the mood to listen to her.
When Claire saw us, she slammed a plate onto the counter and pointed at a very tiny spot of tomato sauce still on the plate. I rolled my eyes. “If the sponge I had to use wasn’t a piece of shit, I’d be able to clean the dishes better,” I snarled, grabbing a pan so I could start the pancakes. Frankly, I was more afraid of Claire washing the dishes, since I was at least able to get all the soap off of them. In my opinion, I hoped Claire got sold soon so I wouldn’t keep getting in trouble for her clueless mistakes, and yes I’m fully aware that that’s a horrible thing to think.
As soon as Claire left the sink, I went to check the frying pan to see if there was soap residue, and sure enough, there was. I rolled my eyes, grabbed the sponge and ran the water. I scrubbed at the pan to make sure absolutely all traces of soap were gone. Amanda mixed the pancake batter, looking amused at the look on Claire’s face. I knew she and I would be fast friends at that point.
It may seem OCD, but I’ve gotten into big trouble for cooking a meal and serving it to Mistress and her guests, only for it to taste like soap suds. Each time, I’ve placed the blame solely on Claire, since she does the dishes. A little self-preservation has never hurt anyone, especially around Mistress Parker. Claire may have been in her late 50’s, but her entitled attitude has made her seem younger than me, which is pathetic, since I’m only sixteen.
Once I was sure the pan was clean and free of soap, I dried it and put it on the stove, which was already hot, since Amanda turned it on. Chris and a younger boy ran into the kitchens. Claire threw up her hands, but we all ignored her. “Mandy, this is my brother, Christopher,” I said proudly. Amanda smiled. “This is Derek,” she replied, slapping him on the shoulder. I turned back to the pancakes, making sure they weren’t burning. One of them had gotten a little darker than I would have liked, but I set that one aside for myself. Mistress liked her food a certain way, which I didn’t mind, since I usually put the rejects aside for myself or for the other slaves. I didn’t do this all the time though, since Mistress bought the food and she would have become suspicious if too much was used at one time.
Speaking of Mistress… I looked out of the window and saw her, Basil and another man breezing towards the kitchens, and I threw a dish towel over the plate of ‘discarded’ pancakes. Derek and Christopher disappeared from the kitchens as fast as possible. Amanda and I busied ourselves with cooking, while Claire stood from the table. It seemed she knew that she was being sold, and at that moment, I felt sorry for her. I looked at Amanda, silently reminding her to keep her eyes on her work. They were only here for Claire, but Basil was unpredictable at most and dangerous at worst. The last thing we needed was for him to hurt either us or Claire. She nodded and focused on chopping onions for omelets.
“These are our kitchens, and this,” Mistress said, “is Claire. She’s mute, which is a bonus, since she won’t talk back.” I could see Claire’s hands shaking, as if she wanted badly to tell Mistress to go fuck herself, and for once I didn’t blame her. The man laughed, as did Mistress and Basil. Unlike the others, Basil’s laugh was more perverted, and he was leering at me and Amanda, which made me feel sick to my stomach. Suddenly I wasn’t hungry anymore. All I could think of was what Chris and Derek would do to Basil if he hurt me or Amanda. Mistress suddenly said “Excuse me,” and leaned over to me. “My husband is home today, so make sure to make an extra omelet for him.” I nodded. “Yes, Ma’am,” I said politely. This was good, since when Master was around, his wife took it easier on us.
The man, most likely the guard who would be selling Claire, stopped laughing and got down to business, which involved inspecting the slave he would be selling. Thoroughly. The disgusting part was that he did it right there in the kitchen. Inspecting usually meant checking every orifice, including genitals, to check their health. Sex slaves usually get more scrutiny, and are tested for diseases. It’s as disgusting as it seems, especially when the guards inspect young children. I remember Christopher having to be restrained physically when I was inspected the first time. They had originally wanted to make me a slave strictly for sex, but they decided against it when they realized I was so good in the kitchen. I thank whatever God exists that our mother had taught me how to cook and run a kitchen, because I’d have been pleasuring some pervert in a bedroom without that skill.
When it was established that Claire was healthy aside from her missing tongue, the man pulled out a checkbook and wrote out a check. Usually, the money made from auctions went straight to the guards, but they paid for the slaves they were selling themselves. When the New Trade started, they’d originally taxed the money made and split it between the guard and the people selling the slaves, but sometimes the guards would take more than their fair share, so they eliminated the tax altogether. I didn’t know the whole story aside from what I could read from stolen newspapers, but it seemed to work. I remember Master yelling about it once when I was serving beers to him and his colleagues.
The guard nodded to Mistress and Basil, put cuffs on Claire’s arms and led her out of the kitchen. It was then that every nasty thing I had ever thought about her, everything we had ever fought about was insignificant, and I felt bad for her. Basil was the last to leave the kitchen, and he leered at me and Amanda as he did, stopping on our chests specifically. I glared back, not bothering to conceal my disgust. Basil knew fucking well how I saw him. Mandy looked at me. “I can’t believe he inspected Claire right in front of us!” she said, still looking a little queasy. I shook my head as I plated the omelets. I still felt a bit sick, but I kept my mouth shut.