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Bank specialist gives her client special treatment.

The policewoman took a seat in an armchair. As was the custom for servants, Trish knelt by her side. Once again, Eve ran her fingers through her hair and caressed her shoulders. The two Islanders discussed the servant's performance during the day and her progress learning her new duties.

"She knows how clean the kitchen and bathroom. Your bathroom and kitchen are now clean, a lot cleaner than you left them this morning. Eve...I really don't know how you could leave your house in such condition. If you weren't an adult and wearing that uniform, I'd take this switch to that black bum of yours."

Eve blushed, but forced herself to smile.

"Anyhow, your servant knows how to prepare fruit, make a salad, make juice, and boil rice. She made your bed, which, dear girl, you didn't. She still doesn't know anything about laundry. I figured we'd take care of that the next time you send her over. She picked mangos and took them out for the vendor. Here's your share..." Flora handed Eve two Florins.

"Anyhow, I think you made a good purchase. You're right: this girl doesn't know anything, but she learns quickly."

Flora stood up. "Dinnertime. Come along, love."

The three women returned to Flora's house, where she had dinner waiting. The older woman already had the table set...for three people, not four. As always, the servant would have to eat sitting on the steps of the back porch. Trish served her Mistress and the older couple with plates of spicy rice mixed with fish and corn; then poured rum into three glasses. Flora noticed Trish looking at the bottle. To keep her out of trouble, she ordered her to leave it on the table.

Trish took the remaining rice and sat on the steps. She ate out of the pan, figuring there was no point in dirtying yet another plate that she'd have to wash.

Rice...rice...it looked like every meal the Islanders ate consisted of rice. Fuck. That was going to get real old, real fast. Housework...mango picking...constantly being stared at by every boy and teenager in the neighborhood...sweating in this horrible heat...her entire life was going to get real old, real fast.

Was there any chance she could get away? Trish pondered her options. She quickly realized that physical escape was impossible. The neighborhood was watching her. Even if she managed to get out of the neighborhood, the collar marked her as a slave. If she managed to steal some clothing and get dressed it would be very clear she was a runaway. She had no money and no way of getting any. Even if she could get to the beach and steal a boat, that wouldn't do her any good. She knew nothing about navigation or operating an outboard motor. Even if she did know how to operate a boat, Santa Eduviges was out in the middle of nowhere, halfway between Panama and Jamaica with no other islands close by. No outboard motor could make it that far.

Her only hope was trying to get on the Internet and tell someone where she was. She'd have to be careful that her aunt Beatrice didn't find out about her plight. OK...so...who would she contact? Her friends? No...probably not. They were a bunch of drug-addled flakes. Her boyfriend? Maybe. Why just maybe? Trish wasn't sure about that, but doubt rose up in her mind...perhaps contacting her boyfriend wasn't such a hot idea. She had gone out with him because he was exciting and presented her with a challenge, not because he was dependable. Then she realized something. She didn't love him and he didn't love her. There was no commitment, just "fun".

For the first time, Trish understood something about her life that was truly frightening. She had a large social circle, but out of all those athletes and partiers, there was not a single person whom she could rely on in a crisis. She couldn't figure out who to contact, because none of her "friends" was worth contacting.

The only person left was her financial manager.

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