Bargain (Part 2)

    The broker sat in a green velvet armchair, calmly belching smoke from a great big pipe, staring invasively at her body. Almost in reflex Margery tried to bring her hands up over her nipples but she had forgotten the cruel chain the ruffians had just laid on her—there just to prevent such forbidden movement. The two villains put their hands on her shoulders and pushed down hard, forcing her to her knees. Suddenly there was slack in the chain connecting her feet to her hands. Margery had just enough to cover her breasts.

“Interesting choice,” the broker tutted bringing the point of his walking stick to the other place she would have liked to cover. Then he slowly rose from the armchair, straitening his cravat as he made his way toward the kneeling Margery.

“You’ll have to show them to my customers eventually you know.”

Margery was crushed; this was not the gentleman she had hoped for and she wouldn’t be able to rely on protection from the woman of the house either. The broker brushed her concealing hands away and held one generous teat in his hand.

“Not bad in size or weight,” he remarked, and a ruffian began scribbling furiously in a small notebook, taking down everything the broker said, “And yet they fall short in shape. Look at these nipples. They already hang low on her teats.” The broker grabbed a handful of her generous breasts, then pensively turned back to his minion.

“How old does her bill of sale say she is?”

“Eighteen,” the note-taking ruffian stated flatly, twirling his moustache in a disinterested manner, as if the scene developing before him was the most natural thing in the world.

“I shudder to think what these might look like in ten years,” the broker laughed as he gave her voluptuous breasts a tug. Then he strode back to the food laden platter, releasing her from his grip.

“Crumpet?”

She nodded eagerly, throwing herself onto the carpet as he threw the pastry to the ground, gnawing desperately at the first food in days. He was relentless.

“Look at these rude manners. A true gentleman wouldn’t desire such an uncultivated whore.” He smirked. She would have protested, but her face was stuffed with the heavenly crumpet. Attempting speech with a full mouth would have only served to validate his argument further.

“Bend over the table.” She obliged and the broker gave her a firm rap on the rear with his walking stick.

“Not the end of the world,” he said, “Fat, but I could sell this as generously rounded, with a nice cunny, and I suppose you are a virgin too?” Margery blushed, then slowly nodded, ashamed at her bent over posture that exposed her sex to the lowborn villains behind.

“Now lets take a look at your midriff,” the broker coaxed. Margery squirmed uncomfortably. She was glad to finally recover from her compromising position but she had always felt self-conscious about her stomach. For years she had been able to hide it behind tight corsets and form-flattering dresses. Now she was being forced dangerously close to admitting what she had suppressed for years—she was fat. The easy life of a lady hadn’t helped her weight and most of it had gravitated to her middle.

            Margery was becoming quite faint from sucking in her rolls when the inevitable happened. In one swift stroke of his walking stick the broker knocked the wind out of her. It left her gasping for breath; she could no longer hold it in. The full dimensions of her stomach were revealed.
“Aha, well there we have it,” the broker nearly shouted, a large puff escaping from his pipe, his forehead beginning to perspire as he took a large handful of her flab in his hand.

“Well, this decides it. Lady or not, I can’t sell you for anything but a bargain price,” and with that, before she could protest the ruffians appeared at her shoulders and hauled her back to the pens.

            Defeated, Margery sank into the soiled hay not caring how filthy it would make her. She was fat and her breasts, which she had prized for their beauty, were in truth ugly. Her entire life had been one massive lie. Margery cried bitterly, but then she took a look around. The other girls in the pen were just as unremarkable as her. They were all young, but they had also been negligent with their form, either their curves were to fat; their breasts were to small or their nipples hung like hers. Margery realized she could find friendship among the naked slaves surrounding her. Real friends would replace the phony ladies of London that hid their imperfections behind fancy clothes and powdered wigs. There was no hope of redemption for her. Although the girls surrounding her were plain, there were hundreds of girls at the market just like her former maids, blessed with perfect composition. Margery could never compete with them; she would never be a fancy maid. Her thoughts drifted to her former life. Margery had never truly been happy then, even with dozens of slaves to dote on her and an endless supply of sandwiches. Maybe she could find luck in slavery.

            A week later Margery was sold, in bulk with the rest of the girls, to a crown coal conglomerate. It was fortunate that she never heard of her final selling price—signifigantly less than the price of a country club sandwich. She didn’t actually discover she had been sold, despite being carted halfway across England, until the seal of Welsh Coal was tattooed onto her left buttock, atop her right breast and she had pushed her first cart down the mineshaft, shackles clinking forebodingly with each successive step.  As time passed, coal dust mingled with her sweat forming a grimy layer on the surface of her skin. She would never see the light again.

            Misery aside, slavery induced a remarkable transformation in Margery. She was put to the whip. Then, toned by months of hard labor, her stomach tautened and her breasts became firmer. She was even smiled occasionally when one of the girls she had befriended passed her in a vein. Something she would never done in her previous life. Six months after arriving at the mine, the little smile became a grin that spread from ear to ear. Margery met a strapping Welsh coalminer, who enjoyed her polite, quiet manner—a far cry from the boisterous whining tempest she had been just half a year ago. Her marked skin and her ankles, scarred from her shackles and the whip, didn’t repulse him. Margery was delighted by his presence and they promised themselves to each other a few weeks later.  

            Margery did see the sun again, and soon she would have a son of her own. Lavish dresses were a thing of the past; her neat brown cotton skirt would have to do. She laughed when her lovely coalminer told her: Welsh Coal granted her freedom for five-pound sterling—exactly the price of a country club sandwich.