The Humbled

A Mansion, Newport, Rhode Island

A Mansion, Newport, Rhode Island

“Where did you learn of my services, Mr. Hollingsworth?”

“Reggie... just call me Reggie. Sure you wouldn’t enjoy a good Scotch. Thirty year old single malt, mind you.”

Reggie sips and feigns disappointment with the negative reply.

Silk robe, ascot, European cigarettes, distinguished graying at the temples, Reginald Bartholomew Hollingsworth exhales to introduce another cloud of harsh tobacco smoke into the polluted air of his den. He epitomizes old wealth and the woman of color strains to cloak her contempt.

“Lawyer friend. One of the first women Harvard Law School graduates. Met her as an undergrad when she attended Radcliff. Scholarship student mind you. Not one of us you understand. But a bright girl... and a rather good lay, if you can pardon the brusque observation.”

The woman of color nods, biting her lip, reminding herself that Reggie will pay well for her services.

“Molly Anderson. Yes, we’ve ‘socialized’ together.

“You’re arranging a rather harsh demise for your brother, Reggie. He won’t be seen again... not by you... not by the general public.”

Reggie suppresses outright laughter but cannot completely stifle a wicked grin.

“Yes, of course, harsh. Well you must understand he’s not really my brother. Mummy died young. Daddy, even at a late age, remained rather randy, if you get my gist. Ended up in a tryst with a Las Vegas dancer of all things. They had a child... allegedly... out of wedlock. Daddy was still sensitive about his society ties and did the right thing. Married the girl. But not before enduring threats and signing a rather iron clad prenuptial agreement. Unfortunately, he got out negotiated. Or perhaps I should say, I got out negotiated. At his death, I got use of the house, while breathing, and an annual stipend from a trust fund. Young Roscoe gets the corpus of the trust and the house upon my demise.”

It is the woman’s turn to stifle a grin. Reggie’s wealth is all veneer. Younger half brother Roscoe ironically owns all... or will own all.

“Of course, if something happens to Roscoe, title to the house, without strings mind you, reverts to me. The trust dissolves. All the funds become mine.”

Reggie’s smirk becomes blatant as the woman nods understanding.

“Thus his planned disappearance. Wouldn’t a convenient accident be faster?”

“I’ll be candid. Legally I am related to Roscoe. But a medical examiner’s report may have the unfortunate result of revealing that we’re not. You see I took the time to have Roscoe’s DNA checked. Simple matter of purloining his toothbrush. Seems on top of a one sided prenuptial agreement, Daddy was completely bamboozled. Roscoe is truly a bastard. Real father... biological father... unknown. Probably a one night admirer of Roscoe’s mother. She danced divinely I am told. Nearly naked. And it also seems that a dancer’s paycheck is only a smidgen of her true... shall we say compensation.

“So we’re not even close to being a related. Yet, legally he now owns all. Daddy formally adopted him, of all the foolish maneuvers. If he goes first and it’s discovered we’re not related by blood, the legal community will have a field day. Without divulging numbers, there’s quite a chunk to fight over. I could be left out in the cold. Some unknown figure could enter the picture... like Roscoe’s real father. He may even have siblings for all I know. Real half brothers and sisters!”

Reggie stubs out his cigarette. The woman gratefully inhales.

“All this could have been contested while Daddy was alive. At least that is what Molly has advised. But now it’s too late. I am doomed to share the wealth... in a rather one sided manner.”

“Therefore Roscoe must disappear.”

Reggie nods.

“He’ll be legally dead after seven years... under Rhode Island law. No medical report. No revealing DNA. For that heartening result, I can wait. The trust stipend is not penurious... just annoying to think it ultimately all goes to the little bastard.”

“Little?”

“I am cognizant of your demands. Just an expression. Molly explained your requirements. I assure can you that Roscoe is well equipped. I understand the deal.”

“Roscoe’s mother?”

“Died five years ago. Couldn’t handle the temptations of wealth. Drugs and alcohol.”

The woman pauses in thought. This could be a ‘no brainer’. Yet protocol demands that there be no trail.

“Is Roscoe here?”

“Oh, yes. Playing his computer games.”

“Anyone else?”

“No. I took the precaution of firing the maid. The butler quite serendipitously quit last week. After Roscoe’s gone I’ll clean out his things and hire new staff. Eventually I’ll report that he went sailing and didn’t return. Few will know of his true fate.”

“Well thought out. Well, Reggie, I brought my bag. You have something for me?”

Reginald Bartholomew Hollingsworth arises from his deep leather chair and moves to a wall safe. The woman surreptitiously moves to the half empty glass of fine Scotch. As tumblers rotate and a small but thick steel door opens, capsules dissolve in Reggie’s fine single malt. When he turns back, a thick envelope is offered.

“I can call the little bastard in. He’s rather obnoxious mind you. The lawyer’s have made him well aware of his economic potency. Nothing worse than a teen with millions.”

“He’ll no longer need nor enjoy.”

“Precisely,” Reggie exhorts with annoying stuffy inflection. “Wealth should be held by the privileged. We can handle it.”

A phone serves as an internal intercom. Roscoe is summoned, but only after an abrupt exchange of words.

“Getting more troublesome daily,” Reggie snorts. “I do hope he’ll not be overly comfortable.”

The woman smiles.

“He’ll be kept in rather tight confinement until he learns to properly serve.’’

Reggie guffaws as the door to the den opens without a knock.

“Roscoe, come in, I’m thinking of hiring some help.”

A tow headed youth, not a single feature similar to Reggie’s, lumbers into the room. Roscoe is truly the ‘red headed step child’. No one would ever suspect a relationship and the exasperation of confronting the lad’s wealth, arranged through subterfuge and deceit, has led to desperation.

“Meet your new nanny. You’re to have a governess.”

Roscoe scoffs. Though Reggie’s words are obviously meant to annoy, Roscoe over reacts.

“Some oversized black b***h! Which street corner did you find her working?”

Ironic words, considering Roscoe’s questionable pedigree.

The woman wriggles her finger. Size and presence matter, despite the level of obnoxiousness. For Roscoe steps forth as the woman extends her hand, ostensibly in greeting.

What follows happens with the blink of an eye. Roscoe’s words of protest are instantly cut off as his head becomes enwrapped in powerful arms and pressure is applied to the carotid artery. A classic sleeper hold soon has Roscoe’s underdeveloped form turning limp and the woman slowly lowers him to the floor. Reggie is amused and saunters to his Scotch.

“Didn’t think it would be that easy,” he exclaims with a laugh.

It isn’t, thinks the woman, glad to see the equally obnoxious Reggie will return to imbibing his Scotch.

Roscoe is groggy but not unconscious, which adds to Reggie’s glee. He’ll be aware of his submission but unable to resist. How delightfully ironic!

Once again the woman strips. Roscoe is depantsed. The large heavy bag offers the digital camera and the ruler.

“Would you mind, Reggie.”

Another long uncircumcised appendage greets the camera lens and ruler. Reggie clicks away.

“Nine and one half inches, Reggie. You don’t disappoint.”

Roscoe begins to stir as oxygen brings renewed strength. The woman’s hand extends to cover his mouth and pinch closed his nose. The partial asphyxiation renews his drowsiness.

“Just relax a little bit longer, sweetheart. Let your new nanny take care of you.”

Reggie laughs as Roscoe is stripped completely naked and the bag gives up the collection of steel chain and shackles.

“You’ll take him like that?”

“Men resist so little when stripped naked. Psychologically it is best for them.”

The intense shackling begins with the scrotum cuff. It clicks shut with warming conviction. Then follows the right ankle chain and cuff then the left. The limited slack is double checked to assure Roscoe cannot fully stand. Then follows the curious neck collar. Smooth polished steel, a connecting thick bar extends over the shoulders, right and left.

“Lift you arms for me, Roscoe. Over your head. Be a good boy for your ‘nanny’. Point your elbows.”

The woman slips each arm behind the bar as she encircles the biceps with thick fur lined nylon cuffs. With two clicks the cuffs are connected utilizing a double ‘D’ clamp.

“Bend at the elbows. You’ll be more comfortable with your hands down, fingers pointed to your waist.”

With bicep cuffs attached, Roscoe cannot separate his arms to avoid the constricting shoulder bar. The configuration renders both his arms and hands useless, held upwards and behind his head.

“What’s this about?” Roscoe blurts, full consciousness returning.

“You’re going to take a little trip with your ‘black b***h’ nanny,” the woman smoothly responds.

The woman stands leaving Roscoe helplessly lying on the carpet. With ankles cuffed to his balls he cannot stand. Meanwhile, Reggie sips his tainted Scotch. For the moment he enjoys the rapture of revenge.

“I say, you’re rather quick about it. I was hoping for something more... shall we say slow and excruciating.”

“His torment is just beginning, I assure you.”

With that, more steel is retrieved from the bag. The woman stoops and a long needle is thrust through Roscoe’s septum. He howls. Reggie laughs.

“Yes, more like I had in mind.”

“You’ll be comforted to know I’m going to leash him.”

“Goodness. I didn’t think he would be subjected to such charming care. Are you sure there’s no way I can visit him from time to time?”

The words are somewhat slurred and the woman recognizes that her drug is working. She quickly slips a steel ring into the bloody opening between Roscoe’s nostrils and snaps it closed.

“No Reggie. I’m afraid you won’t be visiting anyone. You and I are going for a little walk down to the boathouse. You’ve prompted your own destiny.”

Reggie’s shock is quickly countered by the capsules of ruphenol. He teeters just as a chain leash is clipped to the nose ring. Roscoe’s breathing strengthens. Revitalized muscles begin to stir... too late.

“Don’t go anywhere,” the woman sarcastically commands in casually securing the free end of the leash to a radiator pipe.

“I’ll be back after your brother has had his swim. Then you’re going to crawl for me.”

The woman steps to the drugged form. Now almost entirely incapacitated, Reggie meekly staggers, needing to be propped up by the woman’s powerful frame.

“You’ll be pleased to know that Molly Anderson may not be one of you... but she is one of us. She’ll be the only person to know of Roscoe’s fate... and yours.”

The duo move toward the den door, Reggie’s weight no impediment for the woman of strength.

“The water’s nice and cold, Reggie. It will be quick and painless. The ruphenol will inhibit most movement. Just remember to take one final deep breath after I plunge your head under. And you’ll go knowing your sibling is well cared for. Look at his reaction.”

The woman pauses and gestures. Roscoe’s manhood has engorged. As Roscoe struggles, his attempts to straighten serve to jostle his entrapped scrotum. Thus his once flaccid eleven inches stiffens in curious response to being bound by a woman’s hand.

“You’ve most likely provided exactly what he needs and secretly covets, Reggie... firm feminine guidance.”