I had started out on a new adventure this morning riding in a rickety truck driven by my new boss Charlie, the Estate Manager at Mugglin Manor. "Charlie," I complained, "must you hit every bump along the way? By the time we reach the Manor to begin serving out my second `hitch,' my brains will be scrambled eggs!"
What put me on this rocky road to anew Indenture at Mugglin Manor? It was my husband Jack.
"I'll try to get us back together," I promised my husband Jack when we parted at Exeter Pond Manor. Jack still owed three years on his 10 year indenture as Estate Agent at Exeter Pond Manor when I was returned to the Institute for out -- processing or recycling at the expiration of my seven year indenture. I don't know why guys commit for 10 years and gals for seven.
The solution the Institute proposed to put Jack and me back together was a non - professional caste indenture as Property Supervisor at Mugglin Manor for me. Jack would be put in line to succeed Charlie as Estate Agent at Mugglin Manor in three short years.
The Institute director explained mutual advantages of this Indenture, "A working husband wife team fits within the Lord of Mugglin Manor's design. His Lordship prefers to present the caretakers of the estate as a loving, working couple."
"Mugglin Manor is a Potemkin village, a world of smoke and mirrors, a fantasy land?" I questioned.
"Not at least when Jack rejoins you. Within the Mugglin Manor's desired parameters of presenting a loving working couple," the Director advised, "it is unnecessary to grant you private quarters. Mugglin Manor's eunuch Charlie may be quartered with either sex. You will be allowed time off during weekends to rendez -- vous with your loving husband and to engage in reproductive sex with Jack if you wish."
The Institute Director laughed when I scowled, "Who else?" The director was shocked when I added to my response, "after playing games with an empty sac, I suppose during a weekend with a real man in fact it's apropos to feel entitled to hearts pounding in unison; breathing in synch, a pulsating scrotum with nuggets still attached,"
Was Charlie hitting every chug hole in this rocky road to Mugglin Manor to prove a point?
"How much longer will this gut-wrenching trip to my new home take?" I inquired with annoyance creeping into my voice.
"Not long," Charlie assured me as the vehicle hit a crater in the road that sent my head bouncing against the roof of the cab of the truck, "But I have to stop by auction to pick up a few more field hands."
The vehicle hit a series of bumps that tossed me around the cab of the truck.
Unperturbed by the pitted roadway, Charley mused, "Is it appropriate for a non-professional caste indenturee to treat Mugglin Manor as home? A manor property supervisor who indentures herself in the non-professional caste, even one with individual concessions, is attached to the Mugglin Estate as property."
"You are required to recognize the reservations written into my indenture which give me privileges normally accorded the professional caste," I retorted, "including the unconditional right to wear clothing appropriate to the activity on and off duty."
Minutes later I found myself naked, bare bottom seated on an ornamental curved concrete garden bench in `Time Out,' the reception area next to the auction where indentured servants are bought, sold and traded. How did this happen? What happened to my protections?
Located behind the mall out of the way of the prying eyes of casual shoppers in the general public, `Time Out,' reception had been at one time the garden center of the shopping mall. Fortunately, though the equipment, plants and seeds were gone, the mall left behind some garden furniture, like the bench where my bare butt and those of the girls sitting with me watching the ebb and flow of life landed.
"Imagine!" declared Roxanne, although nearing middle age still boasting firm breasts, "at my age, locked up like a small child placed in childcare at the mall with a claim tag on my wrist -- what did they call them in the old days, time out? -- while parents strolled through the mall shopping."
I sighed my new boss Charley, tall robust in a sweat stained long sleeve shirt, had dropped me off here while he visited the auction to pick up a few more field hands for the manor. As the vehicle approached a barrier in the Mall parking lot marked: Auction Parking: PICK UP AND RECEIVING ONLY.
A blue jacketed security officer reviewing Charlie's pass asked, "your passenger?"
"Mugglin Manor Property Supervisor," Charlie identified me, "newly acquired, in transit to Mugglin Manor."
"You can't leave an indenturee in your vehicle in the lot unattended. Too much risk of theft," the guard advised, "you'll have to put her in `Time Out,' the secure holding area -- for the protection of her Master's property."
Now seated in `Time Out,' the detention area with seasoned buxom Roxanne and giddy, flat chested Sherry awaiting return of our Bosses or Owners, I exclaimed with mock enthusiasm as my companions snickered, "The thought of how much better it used to be is too depressing. Today I'm celebrating," "I had just completed a teaching indenture. Today I began my first day of my new indenture as a Property Supervisor."
"Ms Importance! Supervisory, but not quite professional caste!" Roxanne declared.
"Professional indentures are more like regular jobs than indentured slavery," Sherry noted.
"For a professional caste indenturee, the order to strip must have come as a cultural shock," Roxanne teased me, "What went through your mind? Did you protest the guards' order to strip?"
"Actually," I recalled, "when I was checked into `Time Out,' reception, my muscle-bound boss Charlie had advised the male guard, `Ellie's indenture provides for certain upper caste protections.'"
"Get your clothes off," the male guard was brusk, "I'll have to read your bar code to see if you can retain clothes on your person while you held temporarily in detention in `Time Out,."
I grumbled about having to undress to show I had a right to remain clothed. Once my clothes were off and my bare body was bent at the waist for a reading of my bar code, the guard announced, "Special privileges, not noted in the file, are not binding."
Oh, I knew the binding nature and supreme importance of the indenture defining the rights of the servant. "On my first indenture at Exeter Pond, I had been professional caste, a tutor to the children," I cursed myself, under my breath, "When the children were sent away to school, I accepted general household duties as a domestic, serving breakfast at the master's able and cleaning the premises.."
Young Sherry interjected straight from a text book, "We're taught in school that the revival of the Manor system created compact self -sustaining economic systems bound together for mutual benefit and protection by voluntary contracts called indentures."
"Mutual benefit?" I snorted, "I adamantly declined to renounce my professional caste indenture. My assistant who helped me manage the children wasn't so lucky: Stripped naked, head shaved, hands bound, she was shuttled off to auction."
I understood an indenture was a contract, but how would I know special provisions had to be written into my electronic file?
As if answering my unvoiced question, the guard observed, "If special provisos are not inscribed in the file, how am I supposed to know of them?" Taking a breath, the guard proceeded to read my file aloud, "Ellen, female, age 27, re-indentured," the guard, looking up raising his eyebrows, taunted, "today! as a Manor Property Supervisor! Congratulations and welcome back, First indenture completed: professional occupation teacher, current indenture, non -- professional working class. Oh, how the mighty have fallen!"
The vulgar term in service for an indenturee who put up an argument about his rights was "shit house lawyer." I guess the teacher in me preferred the kinder, gentler term "servant's quarters barrister." By either measure, had I outsmarted myself?
Commenting on the provisos I inscribed into my non-professional indenture, the director of the Institute which sold my indenture to Mugglin Manor where Charlie was Agent applauded my talent, "Perhaps I should hold onto sly little Ellen for the Institute's legal department. Shouldn't we look for a law school worthy of Ellen's talent? She'd become a suitable acquisition for The Institute as a master at Indenture Law."
Despite the accolade, only an hour later at the Institute's ritualistic private sale, over my protest, Charlie as agent for his Estate insisted I be exhibited nude. "Presenting an indenturee in the natural state for purchase," Charlie remaining circumspect as he circled around me during the full body assessment, justified the inspection, "does not violate the proviso granting a right to wear clothing on and off duty. Inspection of the undraped body in connection with sale may symbolize subordination to the will of the master. More importantly, presentation of the unadorned full body completely exposed assures the purchaser of the indenturee's state of health, physical attractiveness and strength."
At the Mall, bidders passing by entering the auction, stopped to stare at Roxanne's bare chest. "I should be proud my boy magnets draw more attention than those of girls half my age."
Like me, Roxanne and Sherry had come to the mall with their owner or an estate or household agent who was visiting the auction to pick up new indenturees to work the household, gardens and fields of the Manor. "I used to be allowed to accompany my boss shop for talent. New procedure, slaves not being surrendered for auction must be held in `Time Out,' reception until the owner's business is concluded. Now, I get held naked. I'm a 48 year old worker -- bee on my fourth hitch. Where am I going?" the freckles on Rachel's face danced as she spoke.
"We call ourselves slaves. We're subject to bondage for years. Still, common non - professional caste indenturees are subject to a great deal of whim and caprice, It depends on the owner and the owner's mood. So said Charlie my estate manager," I quoted my new boss.
"Charlie, that tall, blond feller with powerful hands who brought you here," Roxanne chuckled, "I'd give a fifth indenture to sack with him. You're one lucky serving wench, Ellie, shacked up with a hunk! Imagine you two out on a manor out in the hills somewhere by yourselves, all winter. A distant dreamy smile blossomed on her face. "Someone is going to keep herself warm those long cold nights up in the hill country."
"But I'm a married lady," I protested. My objection met with derisive laughter in the lively banter among the girls which followed. The laughter increased when I added, "And I even get one full weekend per month in the summer months while the family is in residence to sack out with my guy."
"Did you see the way Charlie gawked at Ellie once she took her clothes off?" Excitement appeared in Sherry's eyes when Sherry asked Roxanne. "I thought his eyes would be ejected from his skull."
"True, Charlie comes with the tool," I argued, "but batteries are not included." Merry cackling ensued.
