For all you CFers who wondered what ever became of Barb and Patricia after they were sold as slave labor to the owner of a mine at the conclusion of the windar/Barbaria serialized story "Plantation Plight", we are launching here the long-anticipated sequel. The episodes are written and in the can ... so sit back, relax, and check here daily for the latest episode of "Mine Misery"! (Art by Tibool unless otherwise credited).
Chapter 1 "Intake" (Barb 1)
My mother, Patricia, and I sat side-by-side on the flat wooden bed of the horse-drawn wagon as it pulled away from the Plantation gate. Hat pulled low on his forehead ... our former owner, Charles, stood at the edge of the road, with Sarah his wife at his side, watching us leave, eyes squinting into the morning sun.
It had been a good ten days since Pat and I had hung for hours, upside down and naked from that very gate ... on display as a reminder to all passersby ... of what happens to runaway slaves. It was also on that very day that Charles, under pressure from the local Sheriff, agreed to sell us to a local salt mine in need of slave labor.
Since that day Pat and I had lain in our slave cabin, stretched out on our bed, recovering from the horrors of our punishments, which had included a brutal caning and whipping prior to being strung up for hours from the Plantation Gate. Lots of salve, rest, and a welcome reprieve from work had gradually restored our strength and bodies.
Charles had appeared in our cabin doorway early this morning. I thought he was going to demand the usual sexual favors of us. We were both naked, he had been drinking, and he had that familiar lustful look in his eyes. I sat up in bed and swung my legs over the side, expecting him to want the usual blow job. But instead he tossed Pat and I each a threadbare gray cotton shift and ordered us to get our sorry asses out of bed, put them on and follow him.
We looked at each other, shrugged, and slipped the garments on over our heads. Standing up, I tugged mine down as far as it would go. It barely came down to the tops of my thighs. The material was so threadbare, it hardly hid anything.
Docilely we followed him outside, where he had us stand still while he shackled us together, binding my right ankle and wrist to her left with two pairs of iron cuffs linked by short chains. From there we hobbled out ... trying to keep in step with one another ... to the gate on the road.
At the gate, we waited until our horse-drawn transport arrived. Some papers were handed to the driver along with a bit of cash to pay for his services. Then Charles helped us crawl up onto the flat bed. He said goodbye, adding that he reckoned he would miss fucking us whenever he had a mind to do so, but that this was probably for the best.
Moments later, Sarah appeared at his side, looking much happier than Charles to see us go. "Good riddance to bad trash!" she hissed venomously, spitting on the ground. Cowed by his wife, Charles bowed his head and shuffled his feet until the driver urged the horse drawing the wagon to move with a shrill whistle and a tap on its rump with his horse whip.
The rest of the day was spent on the road. The summer heat soon reached its midday zenith and baked us as we passed through mile after mile of open country, fields green with maturing crops. Covered with dust from head to foot, stiff and sore from sitting for hours on a thin layer of dirt and dried cow manure, I wanted badly to get up and stretch but the lurching of the wagon and the fact that Pat and I were shackled together made movement of any kind awkward and difficult.
It was late afternoon when we turned off the main road onto a track that led up into the hills. The sun was setting, painting distant clouds with streaks of red. We continued to climb, traveling through wooded terrain ... and in the dusky light that signals the end of the day we arrived at the salt mine where Pat and I were destined to serve out a long contract doing hard labor in its labyrinth of tunnels and shafts.
The air had cooled noticeably since we had entered the forested hill country. My hardening nipples stood erect and poked stiffly against the damp sweat-stained front of my thin shift. I knew that the day-long journey was over, and felt apprehensive as Pat and I faced the unknown.
As the wagon pulled to a stop, a burly barrel-chested, middle-aged man stepped out of a rambling wooden shack and strode purposely in our direction ... swinging a glowing lantern in his left hand. In his right he gripped the handle of a long bullwhip.
Two other men trailed in his wake. As the light from the swinging lantern briefly illuminated their faces, I instantly recognized ... and was astonished to see ... George, the overseer at the Plantation who just weeks ago had both whipped me and aided in my escape attempt.
"George must have either left the Plantation or been fired," I thought to myself.
"You're late," the man with the whip ... who was obviously in charge ... bellowed at our driver ... raising his lantern high to cast light on our huddled forms, and adding "time is money."
Turning to George and the third man, he shouted, "Get these two new slaves off the wagon and inside so we can get them processed and call it a night."
Pat and I were promptly manhandled down off the flatbed, set on our feet, and given a good hard shove in the direction of the shed. I gave George a sharp look as I stumbled forward, nearly colliding with Pat. He looked straight ahead, curiously showing no sign of recognition.
Inside the shack, Pat and I were lined up facing a battered old wooden desk. As the burly man with the whip took his place on the other side, George and the third man busied themselves undoing the shackles that bound us together at the wrists and ankles. I rubbed my freed wrists gingerly, all the time watching the man behind the desk warily.
He laid his whip down on the desktop, opened a ledger book, placed his hands flat on the desktop and leaned into our faces. The strong smell of alcohol on his breath assaulted my senses. He was so close I could almost look into each of the pock marks that covered his nose and cheeks.
"Welcome to your new home here at the salt mines, ladies," he breathed, "My name is Joe, and I manage operations here; these other two gentlemen are my assistants ... they oversee the daily work of the labor gangs. Don't ever forget while you are here that you are slaves. You have no rights. My word and the word of the overseers is law here. Any disobedience, or lackadaisical work performance, will be severely punished."
With that he pulled back, bent over the open ledger book, took up a pencil between his short stubby fingers and entered in crude block letters under the column headed 'intake' the names, 'Patricia Moore' and 'Barbara Moore', followed by the date and time of our arrival.
Straightening up, he looked directly at us again and said, "I am assigning you two to the day shift. We run two shifts here, 12-hours each, night and day. Your overseer is Jake. He and George, who oversees the night shift, will take you into the main tunnel now to bed down with the rest of your shift. But first we need to inspect you both for contraband and put you in restraints ... so kindly strip!"
I stared at him dumbly, then said, "Why? It's chilly and all we have are these thin shifts ... and it's got to be even cooler in the mine tunnels!"
"All new slaves work in the nude here. You want to wear something, sweetie, you gotta earn it. Now strip and be quick about it or I will have George or Jake do it for you!"
Jake, who from all appearances seemed quite the malicious kind, took a menacing step forward. I took one look at him and hastily reached for the bottom hem of my shift, slipping it up and over my head and dropping it on the floor. Pat did the same. We faced them naked.
"You first," said the manager, pointing at me "Bend over the desk and hold still."
I hesitated, but George gripped the back of my neck in his huge hand and slammed me down on the desktop face first and held me there. I felt my ass cheeks being parted and then the probing and poking, followed by the sudden rude penetration of an index finger. I gasped and moaned as the search continued, moving from my anus to my pussy.
"She's clean," Jake announced as he straightened up from kneeling behind me and playfully slapped my ass. I stood up slowly, but was jerked to one side by the arm to make room for Pat, who was promptly forced to take my place ... bent helplessly over the desk ... and submit to a cavity search.
When it was over, she was released and staggered over to my side, holding her crotch. We were ordered to stand still and place our hands on our heads while a hinged metal collar was closed around each of our necks, and bolted shut in back. It had a small metal ring affixed to its front.
Then we were told to stand down and hold out our hands. Manacles and chains, long enough to allow movement, were quickly attached to our wrists and to our ankles. When all was done, we stood side-by-side, teary-eyed and blinking, fully shackled and ready. I was hungry and thought about asking for food, but decided there was little point in that.
"Ok, take them away," said Joe, waving his hand dismissively, "I'm turning in for the night."
Picking up the lantern, George led the way through the darkness to the main portal leading into the mine. We followed, shuffling along, chains clinking. Jake brought up the rear.
Once inside the mine, we followed a tunnel leading to the active mine heads. Along the way we passed a detail of the night shift, which consisted of a couple dozen naked women, hard at work digging and filling small carts with crushed rock and other debris. The area was lit with burning torches stuck in the walls of the tunnel. The flickering light reflected off the naked straining bodies of the slaves, glinted off the shiny surfaces of their shackles and collars, and lit up the twin lines of the rail tracks on which the carts rolled.
We moved on, passed through a long dimly lit stretch of tunnel, took a right and entered a sizeable chamber in which perhaps as many as a hundred women were sleeping on the ground ... naked with their ankle chains clipped to their collars in such a way as to force them into fetal-like positions. The sound of their measured breathing filled the space.
"Welcome to the day shift," said Jake, waving his hand expansively. Find yourself a comfy place to lie down, and I will clip your ankle chains to your neck collars."
"But that has to be so uncomfortable!" I objected.
"Keeps you girls from sleep-walking," replied Jake, chuckling at his own bad joke.
Chapter 1 "Intake" (Barb 1)
My mother, Patricia, and I sat side-by-side on the flat wooden bed of the horse-drawn wagon as it pulled away from the Plantation gate. Hat pulled low on his forehead ... our former owner, Charles, stood at the edge of the road, with Sarah his wife at his side, watching us leave, eyes squinting into the morning sun.
It had been a good ten days since Pat and I had hung for hours, upside down and naked from that very gate ... on display as a reminder to all passersby ... of what happens to runaway slaves. It was also on that very day that Charles, under pressure from the local Sheriff, agreed to sell us to a local salt mine in need of slave labor.
Since that day Pat and I had lain in our slave cabin, stretched out on our bed, recovering from the horrors of our punishments, which had included a brutal caning and whipping prior to being strung up for hours from the Plantation Gate. Lots of salve, rest, and a welcome reprieve from work had gradually restored our strength and bodies.
Charles had appeared in our cabin doorway early this morning. I thought he was going to demand the usual sexual favors of us. We were both naked, he had been drinking, and he had that familiar lustful look in his eyes. I sat up in bed and swung my legs over the side, expecting him to want the usual blow job. But instead he tossed Pat and I each a threadbare gray cotton shift and ordered us to get our sorry asses out of bed, put them on and follow him.
We looked at each other, shrugged, and slipped the garments on over our heads. Standing up, I tugged mine down as far as it would go. It barely came down to the tops of my thighs. The material was so threadbare, it hardly hid anything.
Docilely we followed him outside, where he had us stand still while he shackled us together, binding my right ankle and wrist to her left with two pairs of iron cuffs linked by short chains. From there we hobbled out ... trying to keep in step with one another ... to the gate on the road.
At the gate, we waited until our horse-drawn transport arrived. Some papers were handed to the driver along with a bit of cash to pay for his services. Then Charles helped us crawl up onto the flat bed. He said goodbye, adding that he reckoned he would miss fucking us whenever he had a mind to do so, but that this was probably for the best.
Moments later, Sarah appeared at his side, looking much happier than Charles to see us go. "Good riddance to bad trash!" she hissed venomously, spitting on the ground. Cowed by his wife, Charles bowed his head and shuffled his feet until the driver urged the horse drawing the wagon to move with a shrill whistle and a tap on its rump with his horse whip.
The rest of the day was spent on the road. The summer heat soon reached its midday zenith and baked us as we passed through mile after mile of open country, fields green with maturing crops. Covered with dust from head to foot, stiff and sore from sitting for hours on a thin layer of dirt and dried cow manure, I wanted badly to get up and stretch but the lurching of the wagon and the fact that Pat and I were shackled together made movement of any kind awkward and difficult.
It was late afternoon when we turned off the main road onto a track that led up into the hills. The sun was setting, painting distant clouds with streaks of red. We continued to climb, traveling through wooded terrain ... and in the dusky light that signals the end of the day we arrived at the salt mine where Pat and I were destined to serve out a long contract doing hard labor in its labyrinth of tunnels and shafts.
The air had cooled noticeably since we had entered the forested hill country. My hardening nipples stood erect and poked stiffly against the damp sweat-stained front of my thin shift. I knew that the day-long journey was over, and felt apprehensive as Pat and I faced the unknown.
As the wagon pulled to a stop, a burly barrel-chested, middle-aged man stepped out of a rambling wooden shack and strode purposely in our direction ... swinging a glowing lantern in his left hand. In his right he gripped the handle of a long bullwhip.
Two other men trailed in his wake. As the light from the swinging lantern briefly illuminated their faces, I instantly recognized ... and was astonished to see ... George, the overseer at the Plantation who just weeks ago had both whipped me and aided in my escape attempt.
"George must have either left the Plantation or been fired," I thought to myself.
"You're late," the man with the whip ... who was obviously in charge ... bellowed at our driver ... raising his lantern high to cast light on our huddled forms, and adding "time is money."
Turning to George and the third man, he shouted, "Get these two new slaves off the wagon and inside so we can get them processed and call it a night."
Pat and I were promptly manhandled down off the flatbed, set on our feet, and given a good hard shove in the direction of the shed. I gave George a sharp look as I stumbled forward, nearly colliding with Pat. He looked straight ahead, curiously showing no sign of recognition.
Inside the shack, Pat and I were lined up facing a battered old wooden desk. As the burly man with the whip took his place on the other side, George and the third man busied themselves undoing the shackles that bound us together at the wrists and ankles. I rubbed my freed wrists gingerly, all the time watching the man behind the desk warily.
He laid his whip down on the desktop, opened a ledger book, placed his hands flat on the desktop and leaned into our faces. The strong smell of alcohol on his breath assaulted my senses. He was so close I could almost look into each of the pock marks that covered his nose and cheeks.
"Welcome to your new home here at the salt mines, ladies," he breathed, "My name is Joe, and I manage operations here; these other two gentlemen are my assistants ... they oversee the daily work of the labor gangs. Don't ever forget while you are here that you are slaves. You have no rights. My word and the word of the overseers is law here. Any disobedience, or lackadaisical work performance, will be severely punished."
With that he pulled back, bent over the open ledger book, took up a pencil between his short stubby fingers and entered in crude block letters under the column headed 'intake' the names, 'Patricia Moore' and 'Barbara Moore', followed by the date and time of our arrival.
Straightening up, he looked directly at us again and said, "I am assigning you two to the day shift. We run two shifts here, 12-hours each, night and day. Your overseer is Jake. He and George, who oversees the night shift, will take you into the main tunnel now to bed down with the rest of your shift. But first we need to inspect you both for contraband and put you in restraints ... so kindly strip!"
I stared at him dumbly, then said, "Why? It's chilly and all we have are these thin shifts ... and it's got to be even cooler in the mine tunnels!"
"All new slaves work in the nude here. You want to wear something, sweetie, you gotta earn it. Now strip and be quick about it or I will have George or Jake do it for you!"
Jake, who from all appearances seemed quite the malicious kind, took a menacing step forward. I took one look at him and hastily reached for the bottom hem of my shift, slipping it up and over my head and dropping it on the floor. Pat did the same. We faced them naked.
"You first," said the manager, pointing at me "Bend over the desk and hold still."
I hesitated, but George gripped the back of my neck in his huge hand and slammed me down on the desktop face first and held me there. I felt my ass cheeks being parted and then the probing and poking, followed by the sudden rude penetration of an index finger. I gasped and moaned as the search continued, moving from my anus to my pussy.
"She's clean," Jake announced as he straightened up from kneeling behind me and playfully slapped my ass. I stood up slowly, but was jerked to one side by the arm to make room for Pat, who was promptly forced to take my place ... bent helplessly over the desk ... and submit to a cavity search.
When it was over, she was released and staggered over to my side, holding her crotch. We were ordered to stand still and place our hands on our heads while a hinged metal collar was closed around each of our necks, and bolted shut in back. It had a small metal ring affixed to its front.
Then we were told to stand down and hold out our hands. Manacles and chains, long enough to allow movement, were quickly attached to our wrists and to our ankles. When all was done, we stood side-by-side, teary-eyed and blinking, fully shackled and ready. I was hungry and thought about asking for food, but decided there was little point in that.
"Ok, take them away," said Joe, waving his hand dismissively, "I'm turning in for the night."
Picking up the lantern, George led the way through the darkness to the main portal leading into the mine. We followed, shuffling along, chains clinking. Jake brought up the rear.
Once inside the mine, we followed a tunnel leading to the active mine heads. Along the way we passed a detail of the night shift, which consisted of a couple dozen naked women, hard at work digging and filling small carts with crushed rock and other debris. The area was lit with burning torches stuck in the walls of the tunnel. The flickering light reflected off the naked straining bodies of the slaves, glinted off the shiny surfaces of their shackles and collars, and lit up the twin lines of the rail tracks on which the carts rolled.
We moved on, passed through a long dimly lit stretch of tunnel, took a right and entered a sizeable chamber in which perhaps as many as a hundred women were sleeping on the ground ... naked with their ankle chains clipped to their collars in such a way as to force them into fetal-like positions. The sound of their measured breathing filled the space.
"Welcome to the day shift," said Jake, waving his hand expansively. Find yourself a comfy place to lie down, and I will clip your ankle chains to your neck collars."
"But that has to be so uncomfortable!" I objected.
"Keeps you girls from sleep-walking," replied Jake, chuckling at his own bad joke.
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