Changed Circumstances

"CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES" A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune"

Chapter 32: The Arrival and Welcome

This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years.

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris)

Chapter 32: The Arrival and Welcome

At first, I am too exhausted to pay much attention to what is happening around me. And fear adds to my exhaustion. I can't say it is fear of the unknown for I know only too well what now awaits me. Along with my fellow slave, Pollux, I am about to be inducted into my Master's slave herd. Tomorrow and all its unimaginable horrors loom large on my horizon.

Gradually my legs cease their jellylike trembling and my gasping, gulping breathing slows down and returns to normal as I stand motionless, shackled alongside Norge and Pollux. We wait patiently while our Master and his son, Master Etienne are welcomed to La Foret by Colton, the 'chef de maison' and Claymore Jackson the plantation's head overseer and chief of operations.

The successful running of La Foret owes much to these two men. Both men were long-time, trusted employees of my late grandfather and latterly of me before my enslavement. As their late employer both had stood high in my esteem. I considered them indispensable to the good management and wellbeing of both home and field.

Both men are black, mature aged and of noble bearing and each possess a no nonsense approach to their respective areas of responsibility.

Colton runs the house and its staff of slaves with a fist of iron. Like Claymore he holds the view that the black man is superior in every way to the white man whose proper role is that of a slave.

As their employer I naturally rejected this view but because it served my purposes, I tolerated it and never entered into debate with them. However, there were times when I wondered if they regarded me as their "inferior" who should also serve as a slave. I concluded that they would have to be of this opinion but because I was Lucien Barrois - and their employer - they diplomatically kept such thoughts to themselves.

Now of course I return to La Foret not as Lucien Barrois but as the slave Rafe and they are free to do with me as they please. The thought of this terrifies me because I'm well aware of what each is capable of.

As Lucien Barrois, I had known these men for all of my life and as a boy I had spent many hours with them. I have happy memories of those occasions spent in their company and I always felt they had great affection for me. For my part, I looked up to both men and I returned their affection in equal measure. Now I know all that has changed. As a slave they can't show me any affection or compassion. I can expect no leniency from them and they'll show me no mercy. Now I must comply with their demands or suffer the painful consequences.

Over the years, they had taught me much about the control and management of my slaves. This was more so with Claymore than with Colton. Even today, Colton's supervision of the household slaves is less obvious than Claymore's control and discipline of the field slaves. While Claymore's direction of his black overseers and their white charges is open for all to see; Colton's supervision of his house slaves is more overt and "behind the scenes" but no less strict than Claymore's.

And like my grandparents before me, Colton knew I demanded peace and quiet reign within La Foret's household and his efforts on my behalf had made it a haven of tranquillity. Of course, I accepted this as my due; and yet at the same time I expected much from my household slaves. They were there to serve me and to pander to my every need. But I wanted them to be unobtrusive. To my mind they should be seldom seen as they went about their duties and NEVER heard. Colton achieved this; how I never knew and I never bothered to find out. That was his area of responsibility; he knew of my wishes and as long as these prevailed I didn't care how he achieved them.

I knew Colton was a stern taskmaster and that the slaves feared him but as the Master that never overly concerned me. After all slaves have their duties to perform and they need strong direction. Left to their own initiative - I'd always believed that was a contradiction in terms for, as any slave-owner will tell you, slaves lack the will to think or act for themselves - I doubt that anything would be done. So I owed Colton a debt of gratitude for his meticulous running of my home and the peace and quiet that reigned within it.

As I said before, slaves should be seldom seen and never heard and I very rarely saw or paid attention to my slaves as they hurried about their duties. Inexplicably there seemed to be some type of silent communication between the slaves. They knew I required they not be in my presence and whenever I entered a room I usually caught sight of the back of a slave as he scurried out through another door. How they knew where or when I'd enter a part of my home puzzled me - but not too much.

I didn't know that Colton would severely punish any slave foolishly caught in my presence. I didn't know of my household slaves' abject fear of him; a fear that filled their waking hours and disturbed their sleep. They were terrified of my black major domo and trembled whenever he approached them.

I didn't pay any attention to the end-of- the-day ritualistic punishments that were routinely handed out by Colton to his white charges. Vaguely, I was aware of the daily canings that pertained to most infractions of the rules but I remained aloof and disinterested. Indeed a slave was fortunate if he only suffered the temporary withdrawal of his food ration as a punishment. And I paid no attention to the stocks, caning bench and whipping post discreetly hidden away in the small courtyard adjacent to the slave quarters. Obviously, I knew of the courtyard's existence but I never knew of the suffering that took place within its high walled seclusion. I never went there for I regarded it as Colton's exclusive domain.

Life for the household slaves perhaps wasn't as dire as it was for my outdoor slaves; their work load, although constant, wasn't as onerous but their punishments were every bit a harsh and their fear was every bit as palpable. And their suffering was the equal to that of their less fortunate field brethren.

Colton saw to that! His regime might be less obvious but it was no less stringent and every bit as fearsome as the one Claymore imposed on his white charges.

The three of us stand and watch as our Master and Master Etienne climb down from the trap and we listen as Colton steps forward to introduce himself and Claymore to their new employer. Politely, the other overseer and the new apprentice hang back as both the plantation's leading black men cordially greet and vigorously shake Master's hand in welcome before turning their attention to the new "young Master". Their easy manner with Master Etienne takes me back to happier times when I was the young Master.

Master listens as he and his son are welcomed and at first he doesn't have much to say. He stands in awe-struck disbelief. As I steal a furtive glance in his direction I see the look of wonderment on his face. Clearly he is overwhelmed at the house's grandeur and the magnificence of its surrounding gardens and I suppose it takes time for the realisation that all this now belongs to him to sink in. Temporarily, Master has lost his tongue and during the lapse in conversation, Colton and Claymore exchange glances as they wait for their new employer to speak.

Guy Maratier has learned much in the short time he has been my Master. At first his sudden good fortune had overwhelmed him. It was all so unexpected - his life up to that point had been less than auspicious - and he lacked the poise and confidence to cope with his changed circumstances. But slowly he is learning to accept that he is now Guy Maratier, the inheritor of the former Barrois business empire and he is growing into the role. Of course he is ably assisted by his grandmother, Charlotte Maratier who both encourages and tutors him to accept his new exalted station in life.

This change in my Master is best illustrated by his changing attitude to me. At first, he had shown great animosity towards me. He humiliated and punished me on the least pretext and I was the target of his hatred. I suffered much at his hands during those first traumatic days of my slavery. I despaired of my new life and I wished for an early release from my torments.

Slowly under the insults, humiliations and suffering to which the Maratier family subjected me, I saw my situation as hopeless and I wanted to die. I was now a naked slave who was despised and rejected by all those around me. My changed circumstances had left me bereft of any dignity or hope and worst of all - I was friendless. I truly knew despair!

But I had reckoned without Norge. At first he too despised me and I understood this. As his Master, I had treated him abominably and now that I am a slave and can relate to that, I am ashamed of my attitude towards my former pony.

But I'd not known of Norge's generous nature; He took pity on me and nursed me through those first awful days of my new life. Through his patience - which I know I sorely tested at times - he never gave up on me. He cajoled and admonished, lectured and corrected and advised and encouraged me. And he gave me hope. But best of all he gave me a reason to live.

That reason is the deep love I now bear for him and the love I know he returns. It is a love that is yet to be fully fulfilled and which one day I hope will be consummated between us.

That I am to be parted from him for the next six months devastates me. There is however the consolation of knowing that at the end of that time I will have been broken in as a pony destined to run at his side as we serve our Master.

Gradually, there has been a shift in Master's attitude towards me. With his growing confidence came a new maturity and he now fits more easily into the role of a true Master. His initial hatred of me and his need for revenge have mellowed and it is being replaced by a more traditional Master and slave relationship.

I now realise his past treatment of me was a reflection of his grandmother's vitriolic hatred of her Barrois family in general and of me in particular. My suffering at Master's hands went in some way to meet her enduring need for vengeance.

More and more, Master is now treating me like any other of his slaves. There are still those occasions when he reminds me of whom I was and he gloatingly tells me that I am now his slave. He still finds pleasure in humiliating and shaming me, but these times are lessening and I now feel no different to any other of his slaves. I understand that all slaves are subject to the insults and jibes of their owners and in this I am no different to Norge, Pollux or the countless other slaves who labour in my Master's fields. And just as my Master is embracing his new status I am more accepting of my role as his slave. But then - there is no other option open to me.

Colton and Claymore wait politely for Master to speak. Perhaps they realise he needs these first few moments to adjust his mindset to his new surroundings and they wait patiently for him to begin the conversation. But Master quickly regains the initiative and soon the three men are engaged in an animated conversation about the house, the plantation and its slaves. Master has broken the ice and all three laugh as they share a joke. Master even dispenses with formality and good-humouredly invites both Colton and Claymore to call him - Guy. Very quickly the three men have established a good rapport.

Colton tells Master he is looking forward to showing him and his son around their new home and he takes the time to explain the running of the household to its new owner. He asks about their luggage and Master tells him it's in the carrying compartment of his trap. Colton turns and instructs two young slaves standing unobtrusively to one side to carry their two Masters' cases into the house. The slaves hurry forward to obey.

Colton is keen to impress his new employer and as the two slaves stagger past him under their heavy loads, he viciously swipes his cane across their unprotected buttocks and shouts.

"Move your lazy white asses! Move them now! Get those cases into the house."

He adds emphasis to his instruction by giving each another cut of the cane. Both slaves yelp in pain and respond positively by quickening their steps.

Now it is Claymore's turn to speak and he introduces the overseer and the new apprentice to their employer. Master shakes their hands warmly and in turn introduces them to Master Etienne. He shows a genuine interest in the apprentice and asks him his name and for how long he's worked on the plantation.

The apprentice - I recall that his name is Conn from his interview with Claymore and me when we'd given him his apprenticeship - impresses with his easy confidence and lack of shyness as he answers Master's questions. But I wouldn't expect him to be anything other than the way he is. He is a black superior and I remember from his interview that he is a firm believer in the notion of black rule. I recall Claymore telling me after the interview how impressed he was with Conn and his beliefs in black supremacy. And I remember Claymore laughingly adding -"pity help any white slave who runs afoul of him".

"Excuse me for interrupting, Guy." Claymore cuts into their conversation. "Jake! Stand still, damn you! Stop fidgeting or you'll feel my whip on your ass."

My attention is drawn to a pony and trap parked on the far side of the driveway under a shady tree. I hadn't noticed it before but I now recognise the trap as the one that Claymore uses exclusively on his inspection trips around the plantation. However, I don't recognise the pony. He is new to me but he is looking in our direction and I'm not sure if he is smiling or grimacing; his bit distorts his mouth so it could be either.

But I sense Norge's excitement and I see his look of recognition as his attention is drawn to the other pony. I'm not to know this is the Jake that Norge knew from his time spent at La Foret and of whom he still speaks of with great affection.

Norge has told me about Jake several times as he spoke of the despair he'd felt when I had sent him to the plantation for his conditioning and pony training. Norge and Jake had become friends and had slept side by side in the slave barracks as a deterrent to their more predatory fellow slaves. They had provided mutual protection for one another and inevitably they'd become lovers. Norge has told me that Jake was the only bright spot in the awfulness of the six months he's spent at the plantation. I'd always sensed Norge's sadness whenever he spoke of Jake and instinctively I knew he missed Jake.

"I'm sorry about that, Guy." Claymore continues, "My pony is a bit frisky as you probably noticed. He's just recognised your pony. They were close friends when the former owner sent your pony out here for his training. What's your pony's name? Ah! I remember now -its Norge. It's an unusual name, isn't it?"

"Mr Jackson, why is he called Norge?" It is Master Etienne's turn to speak

"That's an interesting question, young man!" Claymore begins to explain the origin of the pony's name. "I understand the former owner gave him that name. As I recall, the slave is a Scandinavian from Norway. Only in his own language he wouldn't say Norway. He'd call it - Norge. So the pony is named after his country of birth."

Twice within the past few minutes, Claymore has referred to me as the former owner and not as Lucien Barrois. Diplomatically, he has chosen to ignore my previous identity and bestow on me the innocuous former owner. From his perspective it is a wise move and I'm sure it finds favour with my Master. Of course it demeans me and I would be less than truthful if I said I wasn't hurt by it. In recent times I have been a helpless participant as my identity as a person and my humanity have been stripped away from me layer by layer. This is but the latest in a long list of such insults.

"Tell me, Guy?" Claymore asks. "How is your pony? Is he giving satisfaction?"

"I've no complaints with him, Claymore. He fulfils all my expectations and hasn't let me down yet. He a good strong puller and a fast runner and he always keep something in reserve for when it's needed."

"Excellent! I'm glad to hear to hear it. But I would expect that from him - after all I did supervise his training. I was always impressed with him. He's a beautiful animal with a great body and good looks. Do you mind if I look him over for old times' sake?"

"Of course not, Claymore. Feel free to check him out."

Claymore asks Conn - I must remember to call him Sir Conn if ever he speaks directly to me - to unshackle Pollux and me from the trap's shafts so that Norge stands free for his inspection. Conn unfastens our wrists and orders us to display. His speaks with authority and the tone of his voice tells me he'll brook no nonsense from us. Pollux and I hasten into the display position with our feet the required distance apart, our fingers entwined behind our heads and our bodies erect. The only movement permitted us is the anxious rise and fall of our chests and the nervous fluttering of our stomachs. To give emphasis to his command, Conn unfastens his overseer's whip from his waist belt and uncurls it allowing its tip to trail on the ground before us. There is a certain menace in his actions and an unspoken threat for us to behave.

By my reckoning Conn has only been employed on the plantation for a fortnight or so but already he has the self-assurance and authority of an older and more experienced overseer. I see Claymore and I have chosen well in giving this young man his apprenticeship. There is irony in this for me; I helped choose him and now I must acknowledge him as my superior and work under his direction.

Norge stands ready and Claymore wastes no time in beginning his examination. With an easy expertise he runs his hands down the smoothness of the pony's torso pausing to test the strength of the shoulder and chest muscles and the hardness of his belly. He stops to heft Norge's pendulous ball sac and rolls each testicle between his forefinger and thumb. Norge is aroused by this attention and slowly his cock thickens and lengthens. It takes very few strokes of Claymore's fist before Norge stands at attention. Claymore is fulsome in his praise of Norge and comments that the pony is "magnificently endowed and shows well". And all the time Master is watching intently.

Now he moves behind Norge and his hands sweep down over the broad expanse of his back to his ass. Lovingly, he manipulates both cheeks squeezing them in a test for their firmness. Obviously, they meet with his approval and he comments to Master that his pony has a "great ass." Deftly, he now slips a finger into the dividing cleft and seeks out the pony's anus.

As I watch I feel for Norge and I silently seethe at the indignities to which he is being subjected. Claymore's actions reduce him to the level of an animal but then I remember that just a few moments ago, Claymore had described him as such saying he is "beautiful animal". Bitterly, I realise these men do regard all slaves as animals and it all seems so unfair.

I note Norge's heightened breathing as Claymore's finger excites him and I see the sudden tension in his body as he awaits the next assault on his dignity. I hear his loud grunt of discomfort as the offended finger thrusts deep into him and tests him for his tightness.

But then there is the inevitable relaxing of Norge's body as the finger begins to pleasure him and now I hear the first, soft moans of his aroused delight. Slowly at first, his hips begin a slow movement synchronised to the deep thrusting of Claymore's finger. Gradually, the head overseer quickens his pace and then, Norge gasps audibly as Claymore hits the jackpot - he has found the pony's prostate; I watch as Norge's cock twitches and jerks in response to this stimulation. Claymore takes Norge almost to the point of no return before he quickly withdraws his finger and crudely wipes it clean on the pony's body. Poor Norge! He stands frustrated as his pre-cum hangs threadlike from his piss slit.

Claymore taps the side of Norge's left leg and orders him to "lift". Norge is well trained and does as he is told. Claymore examines his leg, his toes and the sole of his foot and when he is satisfied with their soundness he moves to Norge's right side and repeats the procedure.

He then inspects the health of Norge's eyes and ears before examining the mouth and teeth. He removes the bit from Norge's mouth and tells him to open wide. Expertly he runs a finger over the teeth and declares them to be sound. Norge is ordered to "poke out your tongue" and this too is minutely examined. As Claymore does so, he tells Master.

"A pony's tongue is a good indicator of his overall health. A healthy tongue should be moist and pink. If a pony's tongue is greyish or dry then you need to have a vet check him out for some underlying health problem."

However, Claymore hasn't finished with Norge yet and he re-examines his balls. He sees the red welts that the driver's whip has raised on them and notes Norge's wince of discomfort at his touch.

"Steady boy!" Claymore speaks soothingly to Norge. "Your balls a bit tender are they? Let's see if we can ease their soreness."

"Guy, do you have any ball salve in your trap?"

"Ball salve," Master asks nonplussed, "what's that? I've never heard of it."

Claymore doesn't answer Master immediately. Instead, he speaks to Conn.

"Conn, would you fetch me a jar of ointment from my trap please? You'll find it in the parcel rack behind the driver's seat."

As Conn moves towards the trap, Claymore talks with my Master.

"I see you used your whip on the pony's balls, Guy. Fair enough! But if you're going to do that then I'd suggest you carry a jar of ball salve in your cart with you. It's always good practice to check a pony's balls after each run to see if there any damage or swelling. And to routinely massage some salve into them. It helps to stop them swelling and it does ease the pony's discomfort. In fact, I'd be surprised if there isn't a jar in your trap. The former owner always carried a jar with him. He was very fastidious in looking after Norge's balls."

"Claymore, I didn't know that! Thank you for telling me. I guess I was of the opinion that a pony's balls looked after themselves. Are his balls alright?" Master asks anxiously.

"Don't concern yourself Guy. Apart from a couple of red welts, his balls are quite sound. I'll rub some ointment onto them and by tomorrow the welts will have all but disappeared. He'll be as right as rain." Claymore re-assures Master that all is well with Norge but he continues. "However, could I suggest you establish the practice of checking him after every run and if necessary apply the balm?"

Claymore is quite right. I was very solicitous of Norge's wellbeing and at the end of every driving session; I had always examined his balls for any damage. And as was my custom, I applied the ball salve to soothe away any soreness.

But I did wonder about its effects; Norge always seemed reluctant to let me massage it into his scrotum or onto his cock. He'd back away from me and this annoyed me. I was applying the ointment for his own good and he should have known this. Usually it took one or two hard slaps to his ass to get him to stand quietly as I rubbed the balm onto his genitals.

I never knew what ingredients were in the ointment. It had been introduced onto the plantation during my grandfather's day by Claymore and it was he who always prepared it for use on our ponies. He would never tell us what ingredients he used other than that they were all natural originating from the herbs and plants found growing in any field or by the roadside.

Once I had pressed him for more details and all he'd say was that it was an old recipe that had survived from the grim days of black slavery. He told me it was a concoction which probably had its origins in faraway Africa and its original purpose was to ease a black slave's pain after a flogging. It was, Claymore said, very efficacious in helping the whip marks to heal.

Conn has returned with the ointment and waits at Claymore's side.

"Claymore, could I ask you to check the other two slaves please? I was giving Etienne some driving instructions on the way and both slaves had their balls whipped too."

"Well then we'd better have a close look at them." Claymore replies and turns his attention to Pollux. He takes both balls in his hand and examines them. "No! They seem sound to me. There doesn't appear to be any welts and he's not wincing. Whenever a pony winces it's always a sign that he has sore balls. A tight squeeze reveals all. But we'll play safe and put some balm onto them. Now let's look at the other slave."

As he moves over to me, I stand rigidly erect and my nervous breathing becomes laboured. Claymore looks into my face but there's no sign of recognition and I know this would be a deliberate act on his part. By Claymore's reasoning, the person I was has ceased to exist and I am now just another white slave.

Claymore is of imposing stature. He is taller than me by several inches, more powerfully built and ramrod straight. Now for the first time in my life, I am intimidated by his physicality and respectfully, dutifully I lower my gaze. Once I'd looked this man in the face and made eye contact; now I dare not look at him and I must cast my eyes downwards in humility. Claymore now towers over me like a black colossus and I am very afraid.

I brace myself for Claymore's inspection of my balls which I have to say have developed a dull ache after the first, pain filled moments when they were struck by the driver's whip. That pain was intense; however the pain has lessened its impact and left me with a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I wince audibly as Claymore takes my scrotum in the palm of his hand and begins his examination of my balls. He notes my re-action to his touch and speaks to me.

"Steady, boy, steady! Let's see what's troubling you?"

He bends forward to look at my scrotum and comments.

"You have sustained a couple of nasty welts, boy. Your Master certainly scored a lucky hit with his whip, didn't he?" Then dispassionately, he squeezes my left testicle and asks. "Does that hurt you, boy?"

My sudden yelp of pain should have been an adequate affirmation of his question. But he isn't satisfied with my response and delivers a teeth-chattering slap to the side of my face. Angrily, he demands I answer him.

"I asked you a question!" He emphasises his displeasure with me by, once again, cruelly squeezing my testicle. "Does this hurt? Answer me!"

I cry out in pain - but my fear of Claymore is such that I blurt out my answer through my distress

"Yes Sir! It hurts very much, sir!"

"Then, what about this one? Does it hurt too?" He asks as he tests my right testicle.

"No Sir!"

"This slave isn't as lucky as the other slave" Claymore speaks to my Master. "He looks to have a very sore left ball. Still a bit of salve on his balls and he'll be as right as rain in no time at all."

Claymore now turns his attention to my cock. Taking it in his hands, he pulls and stretches at it. I have seen him do this with a slave many times in the past and I had watched with great interest as he did so. Years ago, back in my pubescent years, I'd always been fascinated by the slave's auto response to Claymore's inspection. My eyes had been fixed on the slave's burgeoning erection and never on his face and so I'd not noticed his look of shame and hurt humiliation. Why should I? After all - slaves were devoid of emotions - weren't they? They didn't have feelings other than the pain they felt under the whip.

Eventually, my curiosity had gotten the better of me and I had asked Claymore why he did this and was it really necessary? Now as he stretches and pulls at my cock, I recall his answer.

Claymore told me slaves were essentially undisciplined creatures who indulged their animal lusts in "all types of unsavoury practises" in the confines of their stables and it was necessary to check them regularly for any developing health problems. He'd told me that my grandfather insisted on maintaining a clean slave herd and to this end, he'd put in place a system whereby the slaves were routinely inspected each morning by their black overseers.

Obviously, he'd had regard for my youth and he'd chosen his words carefully. But I think he'd have been surprised at the depth of my knowledge on the subject. After all, I spent much of my time in the company of the black overseers and I often heard their lurid descriptions of their white charges' nocturnal activities. Indeed, it was common practise for the black overseers to choose a comely, young slave for his own use. This was seen as one of the perks of the job and one which my grandfather - and later I - always turned a blind eye to,

And during his daily rounds of inspection, Claymore would 'double-check" that my grandfather's instructions were being followed. He'd routinely choose a wretched slave from a work gang and submit him to an impromptu inspection - much the same as the one he is now subjecting me to.

"I see you've had the slave skinned." It's less of a question and more of a statement of the obvious as Claymore runs a finger around the still bright red outline of my recent circumcision. "That's a good move! Keeps the slave clean and makes it easier for the overseers to inspect him. It's a nice, clean job too. It looks professional."

"Yes it is!" Master replies. "I had him done by a vet. I wanted him done properly. I didn't want some amateur spoiling his appearance."

"Quite right too, Guy! He's a fine slave. It would've been a pity to place him in the hands of some quack butcher. And the vet's professionalism is evident. It's a nice tight cut and shows his cock off to full advantage. What plans do you have for him? Is he to stay on the plantation permanently as a field slave?"

"I need to talk to you about my plans for him, Claymore. I had thought of using him as a pony eventually. If possible, I want to pair him with Norge. What do you think? Is he suitable for pony work?"

Claymore doesn't answer immediately. Instead he submits me to a minute examination. Slowly he runs his hands down over the front of my body testing me for my strength and endurance. He is gauging my musculature and, in the process, he pauses to squeeze my biceps and my thigh muscles. He places his hands on my chest and orders me to breathe in deeply and to hold my breath as he tests my lung capacity. Several times I inhale and hold my breath before exhaling until he is satisfied. Next, he feels for my rapid heartbeat by placing his fingers on the artery in my neck and, then suddenly, he punches me in my belly. I'm not prepared for his blow and I double over with the unexpectedness of it; I am temporarily winded. Nevertheless, I soon recover.

Now he orders me to turn around while he examines my back. His hands move over the broad expanse of my shoulders and down my back to my ass. I blush as he tests the rounded hardness of my buttocks and then, as he taps the side of each leg in turn, I dutifully obey his instruction to "Lift!" as he examines my toes and the soles of my feet.

"BEND AND SPREAD!"

I hasten to obey and assume the position he demands of me. Obviously, I have displeased him. The silence of the garden is broken by the series of loud, stinging slaps he delivers to my upturned ass as he orders me to.

"Move your feet apart!"

Since I became a slave, I have been placed in this position many times and you would think that I would now be used to it. But I'm not and I wonder if I ever will be? My enforced nakedness is now second nature to me and I marvel at how quickly I have adjusted to it. But this is different. The degradation of being made to double over and open up the most intimate and private part my body to public scrutiny is one of the worst aspects of my slavery. Certainly, it is the one that appals me the most and I feel great humiliation whenever I am placed in this position. But I am a slave and I have no other recourse other than to obey.

Claymore reaches in between my splayed legs and hefts my balls in his cupped hands. He jiggles them as though he is weighing them before he pulls them backwards away from my body and rolls each of them, in turn, between his forefinger and thumb. Despite myself, I am succumbing to his ministrations. I will myself not to respond to his touch but I am fighting a losing battle. My cock wilfully defies me and thickens and hardens into a partial erection. Claymore reaches in under my belly and quickly uses his fist to bring it to its full potential. He continues to arouse me further by stroking the sensitive underside of my cock and teasing my piss slit.

My body burns with my shame and I'm acutely aware of my audience. Master and Colton are showing great interest in Claymore's examination of my body and I'm aware that Conn, the young apprentice has moved in for a closer look.

And standing quietly to one side are the two young house slaves who, having delivered their Masters' luggage into the house, have returned and taken up their positions at foot of the steps. If I'd expected any sympathy from them then I am to be disappointed. I see their smirking faces and the looks of undisguised delight in their eyes. Obviously, they derive great pleasure and satisfaction at the sight of their former master being publicly humiliated. And the thought flashes through my head - who can blame them?

Claymore's working of my cock has reduced me to a quivering mass of over stimulated nerve ends and as I feel his finger touching my pulsating sphincter, I hear my audible gasp of protest. The tip of his finger rests at the entrance to my innermost being and involuntarily my anal muscles close up seeking to deny him access. But he isn't to be denied entry. He is determined to test me for my tightness and he persists in his efforts; he thrusts the exploratory finger through the barrier of my resistance and enters me. Casually, he places his free had on top of my buttocks to hold me steady as he seeks out and arouses my prostate.

His stimulation has the expected affect. My cock throbs in anticipation and, as I look back between my legs, I see a thin thread of my pre-cum slowly dribbling down to the ground. Then as suddenly as it had entered me the finger is withdrawn and wiped on my body. Claymore slaps my ass - but not to cause me pain; it is more a sign of his contempt - and he orders to:-

"Face the front and display".

At last my ordeal is almost over; all that remains for Claymore to do is to examine my head for any untoward bumps or blemishes and to check my eyes, my ears, my nostrils and my mouth. Fortunately, all these check out and I'm given a clean bill of health. Claymore is satisfied with me and he answers my Master's question - "is he suitable for pony work?"

"Guy! He'll be eminently suited to pony work -eventually. But not just yet! Much work will need to done with him before he's ready to go into harness."

"Why? Is there a problem with him, Claymore? My Master sounds anxious.

"Not at all, Guy. No, there's no problem with him. He's a fine slave and the building blocks are there. He has the right build for carriage pulling. He's tall with a strong physique, good chest and long legs. He has all the physical attributes. But he lacks stamina and endurance and we'll need to develop these if he's to serve a pony. And there's no problem with that. It'll just take time - that's all".

"How much time, Claymore? How much time would you need?"

"Guy, give me six months with him and I have him prancing nicely in harness for you. Can I make some suggestions?"

"Please do," my Master answers enthusiastically, "and tell me what you suggest".

"Well first up, we'll need to condition him. He has the right physique but his muscles are a bit soft. They'll need to be hardened up. And of course, as he's a new slave, we'll also need to refocus his mind on that. First up, I suggest we give him a spell in one of the gangs working on the harvesting. Anyway, the crops are so heavy this year we need as many slaves as possible in the fields. That way, he'll acclimatise to his new life. Apart from toughening up he'll learn to work hard and obey all orders given to him by his overseers. And he'll be exposed to the whip's discipline. That's most important. What do you think, Guy?"

"I'll be guided by your better judgement, Claymore".

"Thank you for your trust, Guy! I appreciate it. I won't let you down. Then after he's whip- broken and we have hardened his body and tightened his muscles I will build up his cardio- vascular strength and his legs. Both these are essential if he is to prove his worth as a pony".

"And how will you do that, Claymore?"

There are two avenues open to us to promote his cardio-vascular fitness and to strengthen his legs. After he's been field conditioned, I'll move him over to one the grist mills and give him a spell on the treadmill. And from time to time, I'll move him out into the fields to work on the water-wheels. Both should develop him nicely."

"Tell me about the treadmill and the water-wheels."

"I'll do better than tell you about them, Guy! Tomorrow I'll take you on an inspection tour - if you have the time - and you can see them in action. I'm sure you'll be impressed. The treadmills in the grist mills are huge. Each requires twenty slaves to drive them. The water- wheels are different. Some require two or three slaves to work them but mostly they are one slave affairs. But any one of them will build up this slave's fitness. The slave gets lots of practice at walking but it doesn't take him anywhere. It's all uphill and stationary."

My blood runs cold! As I listen to Claymore's plans for me, I begin to shiver. In recent days, I have tried to prepare my mind for the horrors of the plantation and the back-breaking labour I knew would be my lot. But I'd thought it would be in one of the gangs toiling in the fields. I had never even contemplated the treadmills or the water-wheels. These dreadful machines are truly instruments of torture.

The treadmills are the real engines that power the grinding machinery and keep the mills working. The work is long, hard and repetitious as the slaves, chained within the tall wooden framework of the wheels, walk endlessly on the same spot achieving much but going nowhere.

In the past, as I looked at the treadmills, I was always reminded of the story from Greek mythology which told of the unhappy Sisyphus who had incurred the wrath of the gods. As punishment, he had been condemned by them to repetitiously push a large rock to the top of a very steep hill and once he'd succeeded only to have it roll down to the bottom of the hill where he must once more recommence his herculean task. The gods in their capriciousness had condemned the unhappy Sisyphus to this unending task for eternity. Whenever, I had visited the mills or the water wheels I was reminded of the enduring and unending nature of Sisyphus' fate.

How many times have I stood within the mills and looked on as the unhappy slaves struggled to keep the heavy grindstones turning. I have seen the sweat trickling down their naked bodies and heard their ragged breathing. I closed my ears to the swishing and cracking of the overseers' cruel whips and I ignored their cries of pain. Now it would seem this is to be my fate and I am terrified.

"And what happens next, Claymore?"

"Well Guy, once I'm convinced he's reached the required level of fitness, I'll hand him over to a pony handler for 'breaking-in' and training. However, I'll take a personal interest in his training and when he's ready for harness work; I'll use him as my personal pony for a few weeks to get him used to running and pulling a carriage and responding to instructions. Then, when I'm convinced he's ready, I'll send him to you. Are you happy with that, Guy?"

"That sounds good to me, Claymore. So, do you think he'll be ready in six months time?"

"He should be - give or take a few weeks either way. No two ponies are the same, however. Some are quick to learn while others take a little longer. And what about this slave?" Claymore points to the luckless Pollux. "Is he to be trained as a pony too?"

"No he's to serve as a common field hand. Use him where you think he'll serve best."

"Good! Tomorrow, both slaves will start work on harvesting the crops."

So now I know my fate and I have no say in it; it has been decided for me by my Master and Claymore Jackson. Tomorrow, Pollux and I begin work in the fields and I wonder what labours we'll be put to. Will we be scything the crops or will we be bent double gathering the harvest into sheaves? Whatever, confronts us will be hard and already I anticipate the feel of an overseer's whip on my back.

But that is in the short term and as bleak as that is; my longer term prospects are infinitely bleaker. I am to be conditioned and broken in as a pony. I suppose if there is one glimmer of light in the midnight blackness of my life it is that one day, I will be re-united with Norge as we serve our Master as his ponies. But my dismal thoughts remind me I will endure much pain and suffering before that day eventuates.

Then, Claymore's voice cuts through my gloom.

"Conn! Be good lad and apply some of that ointment you're holding to the balls of the pony and the other two slaves, please?"

I'd temporarily forgotten that the young apprentice was standing by with the jar of ball salve ready for use. Obviously, this is the first time he has been asked to use it and I sense reluctance on his part to do so. Perhaps, he is shy at being asked to touch a slave so intimately; if this is so then he'll need to overcome any awkwardness very quickly. If he is to succeed as an overseer, then he'll need to be at ease with touching a slave's body in any and all parts.

"How do I do that, Sir?" Conn politely asks for Claymore's advice. "What do I do?"

"It's easy, lad! Just scoop a little ointment out of the jar on the tip of your fingers and gently massage it into their ball sacs and onto their cocks. Start with the pony and then do the other two".

Conn moves to do as he's been asked and approaches Norge. However, Norge shows his reluctance to be salved by backing away from Conn as far as his harness allows.

I'm amazed at the young trainee's newly found professionalism. Without a second thought, he cuffs the side of Norge's head and commands him to -

"STAND STILL!"

Norge is confounded by the young apprentice's harshness but does as he is told and stands placidly as the ointment is massaged into his genitals. Then it is my turn and Conn approaches me.

Something about Norge's reluctance to be treated sounds an alarm in my brain and this is re- enforced by his sudden fidgeting. I know from my past experience that most ponies dislike the treatment. I never did know why and I'd never taken the trouble to enquire. After all what was the point? A pony's opinion counts for nothing and anyway the use of the salve is for his own welfare. And doesn't his master know what's best for him? Of course he does!

Norge grows more agitated and obviously he is distressed. He stamps his feet and shakes his body and makes muttering noises through his bit. Norge's actions alarm me and like him I too back away from the apprentice. He loses patience with me and cuffs my ear. And like Norge, I'm ordered to-

"STAND STILL!"

But Conn goes a step further and threatens there'll be worse to come if I persist in my disobedience-

"Or you'll feel my whip on your useless, white ass!"

In the background, I hear Claymore and Colton laughing loudly as Conn takes firm control of me.

"That's the way, Conn!" Claymore congratulates his newest apprentice. "Always let the slaves know you are in CHARGE and if they don't behave then give them a taste of your whip."

The apprentice's confidence is very evident and, as he handles me, I reflect bitterly that Claymore and I had chosen well in giving this lad his apprenticeship. Already he has all the hallmarks of a hard taskmaster. And over the next six months, I will be an unwilling witness to his development as he becomes a competent black overseer equal in every way to his older peers.

Conn has subdued me and I stand docilely as he applies the ointment to my cock and balls. Momentarily, we look into each other's face. I see many things reflected in his eyes. I see his look of revulsion and I wonder if this is because he is touching me - a white slave - so intimately?

But most of all I see his contempt for me and I am reminded of the views on black supremacy that he espoused during his interview with Claymore Jackson and me. Instinctively, I know he regards me as an inferior white whose true role in life is to serve as a slave under the direction and whips of the superior black man. Despite the difference in our ages, I am frightened of this black youth and I lower my eyes respectfully to the ground.

At first, as the ointment is massaged into my genitals, I feel nothing. Then gradually there is a slight tingling sensation that is combined with a pleasant warm feeling. Actually, it isn't all that unpleasant and I ask myself why Norge is making such a fuss. Conn has now finished with me and he has moved on to Pollux.

Then slowly the warmth intensifies until it becomes a raging inferno. Now, like Norge I begin to fidget and squirm uncomfortably. Unlike Norge, I don't have a bit in my mouth and I am able to vocalise my pain - loudly. And soon Pollux joins Norge and me in our suffering.

"What about your pony, Sir?" Conn asks Claymore. "Will I put some salve on him too?"

I'd forgotten about Jake. I'm finding slavery is like that. It can make you very self-centred at times. When you are under inspection, you concentrate on your own immediate concerns and never think of your fellow slaves. Jake stands apart from us tethered in the dappled shade of an overhanging tree. At least he is comfortable. Norge, Pollux and I stand in the full glare of the sun.

"No thank you, Conn! I'll attend to him at the end of the day. He still has some running to do before he's finished his duties. But thank you for asking. I like your initiative, lad. Keep it up and you'll do just fine."

Our Master and his overseers ignore our plight. Our distress doesn't concern them and it is no more than a necessary consequence of our treatment. The ointment's effects will wear off - eventually. Meanwhile we must suffer for our own good. Tomorrow, our balls will be as "good as new" and in Norge's case ready once more for the driver's whip.

"Claymore, there is one other matter I'd like to raise with you regarding Rafe."

"What is it, Guy? Tell me."

"Well, it's a little indelicate! I suppose Rafe will be housed with the other slaves?"

"Yes he will. Let me guess, Guy? You're worried about what will happen to Rafe in the slave stables, aren't you? You're worried that the other slaves will gang up on him and use him sexually? And you should be concerned. For that will happen - as surely as night follows day. Your new slave is very comely and he'll appeal to the animal lusts of his fellows."

I listen in horror. When I was wrapped in Norge's warm embrace within the seclusion of our stable stall, he had tried to prepare me for the eventuality of which my Master and Claymore now speak. He'd hinted at the debauched lifestyle of the plantation's brutalised slaves and of their nocturnal activities. He'd had exposure to them and he told me how he'd fought hard to ward off their unwanted attentions. He'd also told me how he and Jake had paired off from the other slaves and provided mutual protection and support for one another.

I could read the underlying meaning of his words and I knew he was worried about my prospects. He knew I would be alone and helpless in the face of any concerted effort by my fellow slaves. His words were preparing me for the awful inevitability of my fate and his concern for my vulnerability demonstrated his affection for me.

His words had concerned me - but not overly. He was speaking of the future and, at that time, my attention was focused very much on the present. Now the future is here and I am very alarmed.

I know I am alone and friendless. And I won't have a Jake who will befriend and protect me. There is an awful sense of loneliness in knowing this.

And I know I will provide a tempting target for the sexual attentions of the other slaves. I am their former owner and I had earned their loyalty and respect through the whip. Now they owe me nothing. They will despise me as their former master and who can blame them if they seek their revenge now that I am a slave.

"Yes that's my concern, Claymore. As far as I know he's intact and I want to keep him that way for the foreseeable future."

"Well, Guy rest assured. He's unused - believe me. My knowledge of him from his previous life suggests this and my examination of him just now confirms that he's still intact. Anyway, he was always dominant in his use of his slaves - believe me. You want to know if it's possible to keep him this way. Am I correct?"

"Yes, Claymore! I would prefer that he isn't ravished by the other slaves. Is it possible to protect him?"

"What are your plans for him, Guy? Are you saving him for your future use? Are you planning to exercise your 'droit de cuissage' with him?"

My Master blushes at the directness of Claymore's questions and blurts out his somewhat unconvincing reply.

"No! Not at all, Claymore! My interest is purely mercenary. I'm looking to retain his full market value. I have been advised that his selling price will be greatly enhanced if I offer him intact. Who knows? At some time in the future - I might decide to sell him - and naturally I'd be looking at getting the highest possible price for him."

"I see!" Claymore's response borders on disbelief. "Well in that case we'll have to make sure he isn't molested by either the slaves or the overseers. Mind you, he'll be a tempting target. The slaves will see him as fresh meat and the overseers will view him as a new diversion. Still, I'll instruct the overseers that he is out of bounds to them. They will obey my orders - somewhat reluctantly - and he'll be safe from them. The slaves are another matter. I'll need to take steps to ensure he'll be safe from their depredations."

"Can you do that, Claymore? How?"

"I'll simply have a portable security cage placed in the slaves' quarters and Rafe will be locked into it at the end of each day. That way, he'll be safe from the other slaves' advances but he'll still be sleeping among them. Why he'll be able to look out from his cage and watch the slaves at play. However, it could prove frustrating for him - seeing what he's missing."

"Thank you, Claymore. That sounds most satisfactory. That way his market value will be assured."

"Of course it will."

I know Claymore and the tone of his voice tells me he isn't convinced by my Master's reason for preserving my virginity. And neither am I. Instinctively I know at some future date, my Master will exercise his "owner's right "over me and use me for his sexual pleasure. But because of that, I will be spared the abuse by my fellow slaves. I am just so thankful for this and that I'll sleep safe and secure locked in my cage.

Norge has been silently listening to the conversation and as I look in his direction, I see his relieved expression that I am to be protected. At least, he won't have to worry about that aspect of my safety anymore.

And things are improving elsewhere. The fiery feel of the ointment on my genitals is losing its intensity and my distress is lessening.

"What about this slave?" Claymore points to Pollux. Do you want him protected too?"

"No! There's to be no special treatment for him. He's just a field slave. I won't be selling him and he can take his chances with the other slaves."

Poor Pollux! Despite my initial dislike of him, I now feel sorry for him. The aggravating arrogance and swaggering overconfidence that had earned him the enmity of Charlotte Maratier have gone and have been replaced by sheer terror. His Master has thrown him to the wolves quite literally and tonight he will be at the mercy of his new slave companions. He is trembling violently and his face reflects the full horror of his situation. And his troubles aren't over yet.

For both of us are still to be branded; a subject our Master now mentions to Claymore.

Master tells Claymore and Colton that the old Barrois brand is now both disgraced and obsolete. He tells them that he has designed a new brand - the prototype of which is in the parcel rack of his trap - and that he has brought it with him to be used on Pollux and me. But he tells Claymore that I am to have the honour of being the first slave to wear his new brand and he'd like it done as soon as possible.

He is anxious to see his new brand seared into my flesh and he asks if Pollux and I can be done this very afternoon?

"Claymore, I have decided that Rafe will be the first of my slaves to wear the new Maratier brand. After all, given who he was, it is only fitting that he has this honour. Can he and the other slave be done today? I'm anxious to see my new brand - on the flesh so to speak."

"I can't see why not, Guy. You want to strike while the iron's hot, eh?" Claymore jokes.

"You said the new iron is in your trap?" Colton asks and when Master confirms this is so, he dispatches one of the waiting house slaves to fetch it back to the waiting group.

The slave returns and kneels at my Master's feet and holds the new branding iron at arm's length before him almost as an offering. I notice the slight trembling of the young slave's arms as he waits on his Master's pleasure. Perhaps his trembling is caused by the memory of his own painful branding or does he fear that his new owner will want to put his mark on all his slaves.

Master takes the brand from the slave and removes its wrapping to reveal the modified coat- of-arms that now reflects the ascendant Maratier family. It is greatly admired and commented on by both Claymore and Colton.

"Tell me, Guy," Claymore asks, "is it your intention to rebrand all your slaves with this new brand?"

Master tells them - yes it is his wish that all his slaves wear the new Maratier brand and to this end he has commissioned the making of another six branding irons identical to this one. He asks Claymore if this presents him with a problem.

"Guy, it will be a logistical problem-yes! But only in terms of the large number of slaves to be branded and the time this will take. But it's not an insurmountable one and we can handle it. I suggest the best way is to do the slaves in small groups so that there is minimal disruption to their work. And I would ask that we wait until after harvesting is finished. We need all hands in the fields at the moment."

"Naturally Claymore, I'll leave the detail to you. You are in charge and you must decide when the time is right. There's no urgency in rebranding the main body of slaves but I am keen to have these two done. But more so with Rafe than the other."

Then Claymore points out that - "time is moving on" - and if we are to be branded then he'll need to arrange for the blacksmith to prepare the branding table and to heat up the iron. He entrusts Conn with this task and as the iron is handed to him, Master Etienne asks can he go with Conn to see the forge. Master is hesitant, but Claymore convinces him that Master Etienne will be safe with Conn. Master Etienne's face beams with delight but I detect Conn's lack of enthusiasm at having Master Etienne's company thrust upon him.

As I watch Conn and Master Etienne disappear in the direction of the forge, I begin to tremble. My fear of the branding iron consumes me and my memory of my first branding - on the day of my enslavement - comes to the forefront of my mind.

I know nothing will save me from the branding iron; yet knowing this, I still throw myself at my Master's feet and beg to be spared. Panic-stricken, Pollux follows suit and kneels beside me and his tears flow as freely as mine. His pleas join with my own and both fall on deaf ears. There is to be no mercy shown to us.

Claymore instructs the senior overseer to take the two of us away and to clean us up before we are taken to the forge. Once there, he is to secure us and stay with us as we await our Master's arrival to witness our brandings.

Master asks what is to happen with Norge and Claymore tells him that he'll take care of his pony. He'll ensure that Norge is hosed down, fed and watered and housed and rested overnight in a warm, dry stall in the stables. And he adds, that he'll have Norge back in harness at first light tomorrow morning and tethered at the front steps ready for his use.

Then Colton intervenes and asks Master if he'd like to freshen up before going to the forge. He tells him that refreshments have been laid out for him within the house. Master thanks Colton and graciously invites him and Claymore to join him and the three men move indoors leaving us in the care of the senior overseer.

Pollux and I are left kneeling on the gravelled driveway as Norge looks on. His eyes reflect his sadness for me and his anguish at the suffering he knows Pollux and I are to undergo is very evident.

Strangely, I draw comfort from Norge's concern and as the overseer unfurls his whip and cracks it over our heads; I find the strength to obey his instructions-

"GET UP ON YOUR FEET - NOW! MOVE YOUR USELESS, WHITE ASSES!"

I hasten to obey and in doing so I am submitting to the dominance of a black overseer for the first time.

To be continued.......