If it pleases you, my Lords…

I won’t leave a written description this time.
My voice… my breath… my story is already inside the film.
If you wish to hear how a slave woman speaks of her own fate,
please allow yourself a moment to turn on the sound.

I only hope my words serve you as faithfully as my body always did.

Narration: 

Shackleford doesn’t pretend to be anything but a pit. A rust-chewed, dust-choked, sun-blasted pit where mercy goes to bleed out in the gutter. 

I’ve walked these alleys long enough to know: out here, a “mare” isn’t a creature — she’s equipment. Harness, rope, buckle, iron.

Everything smells like sweat that’s sunk too deep to ever wash out. My handler says he likes us “natural.” No shaving. No polishing. No pretending. Just the dirt we earn, the heat we carry, the scent that settles into our skin after a day of being pushed, pulled, tied, or driven. And he means it.

He’ll scrub our backs, our hands, maybe our legs if the mud cakes too thick…
but our underarms? Once a week, if that. He says that’s where a mare’s “truth” lives — in the raw, stubborn smell that refuses to behave. Says it helps him “know what kind of day we’ve had.”

I don’t argue. I just lower my head and breathe through it. The auction yard was the worst of it. Crowds staring like they’re choosing tools, not people. Ropes biting into wrists, ankles. Chains cold enough to make teeth clench.

Every tug a reminder: whatever pride you thought you had… it’s already gone.

Some buyers keep their distance. Others come close - too close - leaning in as if the air around my arms is something they can read. I see it in their faces when they catch it: the mix of sweat, leather, sunburn, and that stubborn underarm musk my handler never lets me scrub away.

Some wrinkle their noses. Some smile. Some just nod, like they’ve found exactly what kind of mare they came for. I used to hate that moment. Now… I don’t know. It’s part of the game. Part of the mask. Part of being the creature they expect me to be.

Shackleford doesn’t promise comfort. Just rules, ropes, and long days where you learn how small you can make yourself without breaking. But in that ugliness… in that roughness… there’s a kind of honesty that’s hard to find anywhere else.

And me? I keep my head down. I keep my steps steady. And I let them read whatever story they think the sweat under my arms is telling.