It appeared that he was the proprietor of a large plantation at no great distance from the city, where, as he revealed with no attempt to dissemble, his principal crop was fancy girls, young pretty women whose slave status meant they could be traded and sold to men of means who were looking to supplement the pleasures of their wives more mature charms with young fresh female flesh.

"But how can a girl like that, so obviously not of African stock, be classed as slave?" I wished to know, reverting to that topic that had led to his intervention in the first place, "and why is she dressed, while the others all appeared as nature left them?"

In point of fact the girl was no longer fully dressed, as she had been ordered to strip and was removing her clothing piece by piece, and with signs of the most obvious reluctance and embarrassment.

"As to why she is here, and dressed too, that is simply explained," Mr Flynt replied. "The girl has been displaying an inappropriate modesty about displaying her body to men that might enjoy her, and has confused animated conversation with impertinence. Since she is now of an age to be sold, it seemed that a public whipping, and the humiliation of having to divest herself of clothing before strangers would be the best cure for both afflictions. To be fair, the girl has been a little spoilt, and her public humiliation will be good for the morale of my other stock, showing them that none is exempt, and giving them a measure of recompense for any favouritism she may have enjoyed over them."

Lady Angela was quick to endorse his judgement.

"I am sure you are right," she agreed, smiling on him in a most friendly way. "A public humiliation may do wonders for a girl of that type, and a sore bottom will drive home the message. But you still have not explained how she can be slave. More Slav I would have said."

"Regarding her slave status, her story is a little uncommon, but by no means unique," Mr Flynt explained. "The girl's mother was the daughter of one of our great plantations, who grew up a little wild, questioning the institution on which her family's fortune was based, and refusing several good offers of marriage which would have cemented her father's estates with those of his neighbours. When the rebellious young woman was found to be with child, steps had to be taken to salvage the family honour. When the mother died in childbirth, the child was sold to me for a nominal sum, to be brought up on my estate, and to be entered as an octoroon, subject to ownership as a slave."

"But how can that be? What evidence was there of her parentage?" I demanded.

"Well, as to the father," Mr Flynt replied. "There was no way of telling. Beside, if enquiries had been pursued they may have led to the son of a local house being blamed, or the family tainted by a liaison with some white trash. It was better to leave such things undisturbed. In any case, a girl who would give herself outside marriage to one man, might give herself to a dozen and, with her confessed sympathy for the blacks, one of the slaves on her father's plantation could well have been behind her swollen belly. No, better to hush it up and have the child disappear."

I would have said more, but Lady Angela dug me in the ribs to command my silence, and began to question Mr Flynt on the nature of his establishment, and the selection and breeding of women for the fancy trade, treating him with an animation and amiability she seldom granted to men.

"Marm," he said at length. "It is such a pleasure talking to you, I would very much like to renew your acquaintance. Since you have such a strong interest in these matters, why do not you and Miss Hannah do me the honour of visiting my estate and seeing for yourselves exactly how things are managed there. I shall be returning myself as soon as my young offender has sung her song and shed her tears. May I look forward to seeing you at Caines Landing in time to dine with me on Monday next, shall we say?"

By now the trembling blonde on the platform had shed her clothes and been secured to the block. Mr Baker was standing, his sweat darkened leather thong swinging idly in his hand, looking towards the girl's owner for permission to commence. At a nod from Mr Flynt's head he turned and, with one smooth practised movement sank the leather into the quivering pert pale bottom cheeks positioned on the block. As with every stroke he delivered that day, it was professional to the core, a long lazy movement, scarcely seeming to call for any great effort on his part, but perfectly timed, driving the long leather thong with awesome velocity into the exact spot on the cringing nates that he had selected. Not an ounce of his considerable strength was wasted, the knot blasting its predicted target, leaving a swollen bulb of pain, the length measured across the flinching female mounds by the thick throbbing track of its passage.