CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune" Chapter 39: "Grandfather's Water-wheel"
This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age eighteen years
Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris) "To see all my stories go to groups.yahoo.com/group/SlaveNow"
Chapter 39: "Grandfather's Water-wheel"
Altogether, I spent six weeks on the water-wheel! Where do I start and how do I describe the horrors of those first, awful days as my body and mind adjusted to the unaccustomed physical labour.
Back in the city, I'd thought my time spent on the woodheap and the days harnessed to the lawnmowers were unimaginably hard. Yet, they paled into insignificance when compared to the water-wheel.
The discovery of the wheel would have to stand as one of man's greatest achievements - if not the greatest. Simple in its concept, it liberated man from having to shoulder heavy burdens and provided him with a means of transport for both him and his goods. Along with agriculture, it served as one of the catalysts in man's evolution from a primitive hunter/gatherer forever wandering in his quest for food to that of a static farmer with control over his food source. And it allowed man to settle into the first rural communities which over millennia gave rise to today's towns and cities.
Civilisation owes much to the invention of the wheel and to its unknown inventor. However, it is something we take for granted. It is so integrated into our lives that we no longer give it a thought. It provides us with our transport and it is integral to all our machinery. It was one of the driving forces for our industrial advancement, it liberated man from the need for hard physical labour and it eased his burdens. And yet, in the society of which I was so recently a proud member, we found it necessary to use slaves rather than machines and to substitute horsepower with muscle power.
Why have we done this? In recent times I have had ample time to think on this.
The water-wheel has served mankind well. It delivers life-giving water to sustain life in those parched, hostile regions where previously man, his animals and crops couldn't exist. It takes water from areas of abundance and delivers it to areas of need. As I strain at my Grandfather's wheel, I can appreciate all he told me about the mechanics of this wondrous wheel. But what he neglected to tell me - and I wonder did he ever think about this - is of the wheel's inability to function without an external driving force.
I know in some primitive, rural areas donkeys or oxen are used to keep the wheel turning. But in our slave-owning community, it is easier to consign a slave to the living hell of the water-wheel in its various manifestations.
As I push the capstan in a ceaseless round of never ending pain, I wonder what fiendishly cruel mind first turned something as benign and as beneficial to mankind as the water-wheel into an instrument of torture; what sadist first consigned a fellow human to its torments?
Each morning is a repeat of the previous one. They never vary. I am awakened by Sir Conn, hurried through my preparations for the day and taken by him and chained to my work station. Of course, there is the brief pause in the seclusion of the shrubbery, where hidden from prying eyes, I kneel before Sir Conn and take his cock into my mouth. That is the only brightness in the bleak darkness of my existence and I have learnt to savour it.
That first morning, as Sir Conn chained my wrists to the thick, rounded spoke, I trembled with trepidation. I remembered my first, boyhood visit with my grandfather to see the wheel in operation and in my mind's eye I vividly pictured the wretched, naked slave straining under the lash to keep it turning.
I recalled the stress placed upon his strong, young body and the erotic image of his muscles and tendons stretched to the utmost which had strangely excited my boyhood imagination. I heard the loud rasping of his breathing as he constantly sought to fill his oxygen depleted lungs and his laboured grunts as he was called to greater exertion. I recalled the animal smell of his unwashed body mixed with the heady aroma of the sweat that coated his nakedness giving it an oily sheen in the strong sunlight.
But most of all I remembered the criss-crossed pattern of the stripes on his back and ass laid there by the whip of his overseer. And once again, I recalled his loud screams of pain as the whip wrapped itself sinuously around his torso like some sinister, black snake.
In my recollection of Grandfather's wheel, that slave was the first of countless others who had, over the years, laboured ceaselessly to keep the water flowing to La Forˆt's thirsty gardens and fountains. He was the first and that morning, as I began my labours, I became the latest in that long, continuous line of toiling, suffering humanity.
As Sir Conn fastened my wrists in place, the thought uppermost in my mind was that I was unequal to the task. I knew much would be demanded of me and should I not give of my best then I would suffer the whip. The realisation that, within a few moments, Sir Conn would give the order for me to begin my labours caused me to tremble.
Sir Conn made one final check to see that I was securely chained in place and when satisfied he gave me the order to.
"Right, dumb-ass! Start pushing"
And to give his command emphasis, he gently laid his whip across my shoulders.
The whip's pain was no more than a sting but it had the desired effect; involuntarily I pushed forward on the spoke. But nothing happened! The capstan didn't move and I struggled to find purchase on the worn cobblestones beneath my bare feet.
"Come on boy! Put your back into it!"
Sir Conn spurred me on and I responded by pushing harder. Still nothing happened and Sir Conn lost patience with me.
Behind and above me I heard the ominous whistle of his whip and the loud 'thwack' as it fell on my back. Momentarily there was silence as the receptors carried the pain to my brain before exploding into agonising reality. Then I heard myself scream.
Desperately I thrust forward with every ounce of strength within me; but still the wheel refused to move. Twice more Sir Conn's whip fell on my unprotected body and my cries startled the birds in the surrounding trees and shrubs into silence.
Sir Conn's treatment confused me. I thought back to our interlude of just a few minutes ago when I had knelt before him and pleasured him. I had suckled his cock into erection and I had done all that I could to satisfy him. As I swallowed hard to take his essence into me, he patted my head and gently stroked my face and softly cooed that I was a "good boy".
Now he was berating me with his tongue and abusing my body with his whip.
Sir Conn's tongue and his whip demanded that I try harder. Chained to the wheel, I couldn't flee. I had but one option open to me and that was to move forward. I drew on those hidden reserves of strength that lie deep with us but even these proved insufficient to the task. The wheel refused to budge.
Suddenly, I reached the end of my endurance. I couldn't go on and I no longer cared. At that moment the "will to Iive" deserted me and I wanted to die. I wanted the oblivion of a sweet death rather than the bitterness of my existence; I wanted peaceful release from the torments of my slavery.
But before that I wanted to see Norge for one last time!
And despite Sir Conn's best efforts, I couldn't go on. I was panic stricken and fearful of further punishment at his hands, I was bordering on hysteria. As I dropped to my knees, I shouted out to him.
"SIR! I CAN'T! I CAN'T! I CAN'T! I CAN'T DO THIS"
I suppose this presented the young apprentice overseer with a dilemma. Before him was the slave he'd been given authority over seemingly defying his lawful commands. What was he to do?
Once more, he unsuccessfully used his whip to make me stand and when that failed, he grabbed hold of my shoulders and tried to physically haul me to my feet. But I was beyond caring and I resisted and remained on my knees.
Sir Conn alternately threatened and cajoled me; the tone and pitch of his voice ranged from soft pleading to loud anger. And still I didn't respond. I couldn't and through my tears and sobbing I heard myself telling him.
"Sir! I can't go on! It is beyond me, Please, I can't. I just can't do it."
"WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?"
Neither Sir Conn nor I had seen Claymore Jackson's approach. It wasn't that he'd sneaked up on us. Both Sir Conn and I had been too pre-occupied to hear his footsteps scrunching on the gravelled pathway.
Sir Conn, red-faced with embarrassment, told him.....
"Sir! The slave refuses to work. He wouldn't push the wheel even though I whipped him and then he dropped to the ground and now he refuses to work."
"Is that true boy? You deliberately disobeyed a command given to you by your supervisor?"
'Sir, i.............."
My answer was cut short by Claymore's shouted instruction to me.
"GET UP ON YOUR FEET! NOW! How dare you speak to me slumped on the ground. Get up or I'll whip your ass."
Fearfully, I scrambled to my feet and Claymore looked into my tear-stained face and obviously noted my distress.
"Now tell me boy. What's all the fuss about?"
My words tumbled out as I told him of my inability to turn the wheel and of my feelings of despair. I finished by telling him I just wanted to die.
I was unprepared for what happened next. Angrily, Claymore slapped my face with such force that I staggered sideways; only my wrist shackles prevented me from falling. Furiously, he berated me.
"STOP RIGHT THERE, BOY! Let's not have any more of this nonsense about you wanting to die. That's not going to happen. You are too valuable to your Master for us to allow you to die. You're a slave and you are young, fit and healthy. You have many productive years of labour in you and it is my job to keep you alive and working hard in your Master's interests. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, BOY?"
There was no gentleness in his voice; just the harshness that he reserved for all his dealings with the slaves in his charge. I remembered back to my boyhood. Then, Claymore Jackson had always been very much a part of my life. I recalled the many times, when I'd trustingly placed my small, white hand into his large black one and we'd walked together on his rounds of inspection. As I remembered those times, I realised that side of the man was now lost to me. The gentleness I'd known as a child had been replaced with the cold indifference of a superior for a slave.
But I had hesitated too long in answering his question. Once more he slapped my face and demanded that I answer.
"I asked you a question, slave. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"
I was left with no illusions! This man who had once been my employee and friend saw me as just another of the slaves under his control. Fearfully, I answered his question.
"Yes, Sir! I understand."
"What do you understand, boy?"
"Sir! That I must live and serve my Master."
"Good boy! Now let's not have any more of your tantrums. You're here to work and you'll do as you're told. When your supervisor gives you an order you'll obey him immediately. Won't you?"
"Yes Sir!"
"Good boy! Now let's see if any damage has been done to you? Turn around."
I turned so that he could examine by back. I couldn't see his face but I could sense his displeasure as his finger traced over the pattern of stripes left by Sir Conn's whip. He rebuked the young overseer.
"Conn! It appears you were a bit heavy-handed with whip. Mr Maratier said the slave isn't to be permanently damaged by the whip. You do remember him saying that, don't you?"
Crestfallen, the young apprentice apologised.
"Yes sir! I'm sorry sir! But I didn't know what to do when dumb-ass refused to work."
"Well fortunately, no serious damage has been done to Rafe. He'll have a sore back for a few days but that's of no consequence. It goes with the job so to speak. But you must remember he is a valuable slave and Mr Maratier doesn't want him permanently marked. You'll need to go lightly with your whip from now on. Now, did the slave actually refuse to work?"
"Sir! No matter how hard I pushed him he couldn't get the wheel started. Then he just dropped to his knees and said he couldn't do it."
"Well he's over that foolishness now. But it's unusual! A slave of Rafe's strength shouldn't have any trouble getting the wheel to start and keep it turning. Let's see if there's a problem. Rafe put your shoulder to the wheel."
I had become calmer and so I hastened to obey. I pushed with all my might and even when Claymore told me to "put more muscle into it" the wheel refused to budge.
"Hang on! The cogs aren't engaging." Claymore exclaimed. "Let me check to see if the brake is on."
Claymore moved to the opposite side of the capstan and drew Sir Conn's attention to a lever.
"That's the trouble, lad! No wonder Rafe couldn't move the wheel. You hadn't released the brake allowing the cogs to mesh together."
"I'm sorry sir! I didn't know about it."
"No I suppose you didn't. I should have remembered to tell you. But I tend to forget these small details. Still no harm has been done. But tonight, when you finish up here make sure you pull the brake lever and disengage the cogs. We do that to save wear and tear on them."
Claymore Jackson's words that 'no harm has been done' took on a grim irony. My striped back was testament to the harm that had been done to me. And his concern to save wear and tear to the cogs didn't extend to me. But then why should it? After all I was only a slave.
Then, Claymore stooped and picked up a small, rounded pebble and ordered me to.
"Open your mouth, boy. Open wide, boy!"
I obeyed him and as he put the pebble in my mouth, he instructed me to.
"SUCK!"
Sir Conn was curious and asked him why he did this.
"It's a trick of the trade, Conn." Claymore answered. "Giving a slave a pebble to suck on keeps his saliva flowing and his mouth moist. It helps with his thirst. After, all we can't allow a slave to stop work every time he bellows out for water. Can we?"
That was news to me! As I sucked on the pebble, I thought I should be grateful to the estate manager for his compassionate act. But then I realised it wasn't compassion that prompted him; it was practicality. It was to ensure that I kept working. However, any act of mercy shown to a slave - no matter how small - is meant to be appreciated by him. And as was expected of me, I thanked Claymore Jackson.
"Sir! Thank you!"
"Right then, Rafe! Let's have you at it." Claymore's command cut short my answer. "Start pushing."
Once more I pushed with all my strength. And I was successful! My forward movement was momentarily halted as with a loud 'clunk' the cogs of the capstan mesh with the cogs of the water- wheel finally setting it in motion.
Claymore Jackson stayed with Sir Conn long enough to ensure I continued to push my weight and kept the wheel turning at the required speed. Once he was satisfied, he took his leave of the young apprentice telling him there were other places and other slaves in need of his attention.
But he had one, final warning to give me.
"Boy! You're here to work. So work hard and do as your overseer commands. I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO COME BACK TO YOU!"
With that, Claymore Jackson walked away and I was left alone with Sir Conn to work on the water- wheel.
Slowly, my body adjusted to the unfamiliar stress labouring at the capstan placed upon it. But I struggled. Oh how I struggled! My body strained and my muscles and sinews were stretched to their limits. My unshod feet were unable to find proper purchase on the smooth cobblestones and slipped and slithered beneath me. I wanted to give up but Claymore Jackson's admonishment that I was there to work in my Master's interests and that he won't tolerate any more tantrums from me were a powerful incentive to keep working.
Claymore's words carried the implied threat of punishment if he was called back to me. I knew what that meant. Too often I had witnessed what happened to any slave foolish enough to displease him. I can testify to his anger. My previous warm regard for the estate manager had been replaced by cold fear. I was terribly afraid of him.
Altogether, I spent six weeks on the water-wheel. Six weeks in which I was reduced to an unthinking beast-of -burden. For six weeks I plodded mindlessly in an endless succession of circles that took me nowhere.
At first, as I strained at the capstan's spoke, I decided for the sake of my sanity that I must keep my brain active and I desperately tried to occupy my mind by thinking about other things. I thought of happier times; my childhood, my beloved grandparents, my schooldays and my three special friends, Miles, Jack and Daniel and the holidays we'd shared here at La Forˆt.
And I wondered whether Miles and Jack had succeeded in helping Daniel choose a suitable slave as a birthday present from his father.
As I thought about my former friends, I remembered the time when, at Lionel Schuster's slave-yards, my three, former friends first saw me as the slave I had become. That all seemed a lifetime ago but in fact it was very recent and measured in days rather than weeks. I wondered what they would think if they could now see me at work on my grandfather's water-wheel. How would they re-act? Would they gloat at my downfall as so many others have done? Would they jeer at me? Or, remembering how close we had once been, would they have some residual regard for me?
I do recall Miles' kindness to me on that day, when he'd intervened on my behalf during Lionel Schuster's assessment of my strength. The odious slaver has pushed me to the limits of my endurance and I was on the verge of collapse from exhaustion and thirst.
Disregarding both my Master and the slaver, Miles had stepped forward and given me water to drink. His simple act of compassion was one of the few glimmers of kindness shown to me in those first terrible, days of my new slavery. And as I think on Miles' act, my heart swells with gratitude to him and tears mist my eyes for lost friendships.
The last time we were together, they were my Master's special guests at his 'welcoming the neighbours' soiree. On that occasion Master forced me to kneel before them - and also my former lawyer, Simon Barrow - and use my mouth to pleasure them. That shameful night, I was a novice but after taking four rampant cocks, one after the other into my mouth, I gained a degree of proficiency that I have since perfected on Norge in the nightly solitude of our shared stall.
I haven't seen my former friends since that night. Although, I did overhear Master inviting them to call again anytime they were in need of release. Master suggested they call ahead to ask a suitable time to visit and he would ensure I was made available to them. Thankfully, they haven't done so and I wonder if this is out of consideration for our former friendship.
But I have seen my former lawyer since that night. Twice, he has accompanied Master out to La Forˆt where he has been an overnight guest. I couldn't help but notice a warm friendship developing between them which will eventually see Simon as Master's closest friend and confidante.
Whenever he visits La Forˆt, Simon always pays me a visit as I toil at the wheel. He tells me he has come to 'check up on an old acquaintance'. But his visits aren't those of a friend. He is there to taunt and gloat over me.
He tells me that I am developing a beautiful physique and that I am a slave any master would be proud to own. Once, he told Sir Conn that I was slacking off and that I needed to be driven harder and he smirked as I was whipped.
But even crueller is the manner in which he taunts my thirst. Usually, as he watches me straining at the capstan, he sips water from an ice frosted tumbler and makes loud slurping noises as he tells me how soothing it is to his parched throat. He further tells me that if it were up to him he would allow me a sip or two but of course, I'm not his slave and so he can't intervene on my behalf and apologises.
"Sorry Rafe! But you do understand my situation don't you, boy? You do know I can't give you any of my water."
"Yes sir! I understand sir! Thank you very much, sir!"
Slave etiquette demands that I answer any question put to me by a free person and that I must answer with the utmost respect. Still having to thank Simon Barrow for teasing me is galling and as I answer the bitter bile rises in my throat.
"Good boy! I knew you'd understand."
Always, I seethe at the injustice of his actions. I know instinctively that he is trying to provoke a response from me. But I refuse to be baited by him. To allow myself to do so would result in painful punishment. But my resentment of my former attorney is deep seated and my hatred of him intensifies.
In the solitude of my lonely thoughts, I wonder about his vindictiveness. What motivates him to torment me? I'm not to know that in treating me as he does he is currying favour with my Master and his grandmother. Simon has ingratiated himself into Charlotte Maratier's good graces and very carefully, he is insinuating himself into their affairs and making himself indispensible to their needs.
However I am left to wonder about his spitefulness!
But such thoughts weren't sustainable on the water-wheel. An angry shout from Sir Conn or the cut of his whip across my shoulders or ass soon drove them from my mind only to have them replaced with my pain or my despair. The burden of these weighed as heavily on my soul as did the crushing weight of the capstan on my body.
To compensate for my suffering, my mind emptied itself and left a void which I now tried to fill with inconsequential things. How long did it take me to complete one circuit of the wheel? How far did I walk in a day? As I inclined my body forward to push the wheel and keep it moving my eyes were downcast to the ground and I even took to counting the cobblestones beneath my rapidly, callousing feet.
The cobblestones were polished smooth by the feet of so many other slaves who'd toiled here before me and who'd worn into them the deep groove in which I trod. The friction of my feet now served to further deepen this groove and to polish the cobblestones.
At first, I exercised my brain by memorising a starting point and I used this to count the number of circuits I completed. I was without any conception of time and my day wasn't marked by minutes or hours. Rather, its duration was counted by the number of revolutions of the capstan to which I was chained. But even that simple mathematical task proved too difficult for me; it is so easy to lose your train of thought and forget the numbers when a whip wraps itself cruelly around your body. Inevitably, with so many interruptions from Sir Conn, I simply gave up and emptied my mind.
Now I plod around my circuit with a bovine docility oblivious to all but Sir Conn's instructions and whip.
My day begins early. Sir Conn has me chained to my station as the sun's rays lighten the eastern sky heralding a new day of unrelenting toil and boredom. I'm not aware of how many hours I spend in my never ending labour. But in reality, I spend fourteen hours a day on the capstan straining to keep the wheel turning and the water flowing. There is no respite for me other than that I am allowed to pause briefly every two hours while Sir Conn gives me water to drink. Thus my day is broken up by these all too short periods of rest. But these breaks are a mixed blessing.
In one sense they are most welcome. Greedily, I gulp down as much water as I can to replace the body moisture lost through my copious sweating. And working on the capstan in the sun's ferocity makes me sweat a lot. And I use these breaks to try and piss. However, I'm not always successful; most of my bodily fluids are dissipated through my perspiring and very little is left for my bladder. But inevitably, shortly after my water breaks, I find I do need to urinate and humiliatingly I simply piss as I push.
But there is a down side to these breaks in my routine. The effort required to restart the wheel in motion places enormous pressure on me. At first, I need to exert all my strength into turning the capstan and then expend all my energy in quickly regaining the wheel's lost momentum. But Sir Conn spurs me on with both his tongue and his whip.
In some ways, I suppose the boredom I feel is shared by Sir Conn. How tedious it must be for him to spend his days in charge of me. Like me his is confined to this one spot. But unlike me he isn't in chains and does have the freedom to move around; to exercise his cramped muscles and to relieve his boredom.
For the first few days, he had enthusiastically supervised me. He'd walked alongside me on my circuitous journey exhorting me to greater effort. But the novelty of his new responsibilities soon palled into tedium. A combination of the heat and the ever present stinging insects attracted by my sweat soon drove him indoors to the cool shade of the cabana which is provided for the overseer of the water-wheel.
The cabana has always been there for as long as I can remember. Its construction is simple and consists of upright supports opened on all four sides to catch the prevailing cool breeze and with a thatched roof to provide welcome shade for the sun's rays. It is sparsely equipped with a table and chairs, a hammock and a water cooler. And it is to here that Sir Conn retreats as soon as he is satisfied that I am fully extending myself and the water is flowing into the reservoir at the required rate. And there he relaxes in the hammock as I toil; he reads or listens to music as I strain to keep the wheel turning. Whenever, he is thirsty he has instant access to a limitless supply of water whilst I must wait until my next water break. He quaffs greedily as I thirst mightily.
How I envy him this freedom to relieve his thirst at will. As I watch him drinking, I am tormented by my own thirst. My parched throat screams for relief and even though the pebble in my mouth does help minimally, my tongue sticks to the dry roof of my mouth.
Frequently, during the day, Colton, the major domo has a house slave bring Sir Conn icy-cold drinks and nibbles. And always, at mid-day, a slave appears with an appetisingly cooked meal for my handler which adds further to my torment. The spicy aroma of a freshly cooked stew or of a delicious roast dinner teases my sense of smell and tantalises my taste buds. It always serves to highlight the monotony of my slave diet and the blandness of the grey-green, glutinous mess that I am fed twice a day.
But worst of all is the heat. The mornings when I begin my labours are relatively cool but the exertion demanded of me soon sees me lathered in perspiration. As I labour, I sweat copiously; it runs in rivulets down my naked body and drips onto the cobblestones below me leaving a trail of droplets behind me. With my wrists chained to the capstan's spoke, I am unable to wipe my brow and the sweat stings my eyes and drips from the end of my nose. My body is plagued by the ever present swarms of flying insects who feed on my body's moisture and no amount of shaking on my part will dislodge them.
Sir Conn directs me from the shade of his cabana. Often, he berates me for the inconsistency of my efforts. Despite my best efforts to meet his demands, there are times when my head throbs from the incessant heat of the sun, my legs tire and buckle under the strain of my constant pushing and my arms and shoulders cry out for relief from their constant pain. At such times my steps shorten and my pace slows. Sometimes, Sir Conn stirs and ventures out into the lethargic heat to apply his whip to my back or my ass. But mostly, he stays with the cabana's welcome shade and verbally exhorts me to.
"Come on dumb-ass! Put your back into it. Move yo'self boy! You don't wanna make me come out in the heat to whip your lazy, white-boy ass to speed you up. If I have to do that, I'll make you pay. So ... move it! Faster!"
My fear of the whip always renews my flagging strength and somehow I also find the energy to increase my speed.
Often, as I push against the capstan's resistance, I think back to my first visit to this wheel with my grandfather all those years ago. Vividly, I recall the young slave whose body had imprinted itself so indelibly into my memory. I see his strong, young body stretched to its very limits and the strain the capstan had placed upon his taut muscles. I remember the erotic spectacle he'd provided and I wonder if I now present Sir Conn with such a display. Do I arouse him as that slave had me?
That first morning, and I suppose I'd been labouring for just an hour or so, my Master and his son, Master Etienne paid me a visit. At first, I'd wondered if Master had come to gloat over me but this wasn't so. He'd simply come to watch me at work and he didn't speak to me. Rather all his questions were directed at Sir Conn.
In answer to his many questions, the young overseer relayed to his employer how I'd been difficult to start and how at one stage, I had thrown myself to my knees and refused to work. He failed to mention that the capstan's brake was engaged and this prevented me from starting the wheel in motion. I suspect Sir Conn was being disingenuous in not telling Master this. If necessary, Sir Conn could use my 'intransigence' to explain away the angry stripes on my back.
This galled me. It was tempting to correct the false impression given to my Master that I was a disobedient slave. But for a slave, discretion is the better part of valour and I bit my tongue. This incident served to once more drive home to me a slave's utter powerlessness. A slave can offer no excuse for his poor behaviour nor can he ever contradict a superior.
As they talked, they were joined by Claymore Jackson and the major domo, Colton who'd taken time out from his busy schedule of supervising the house slaves to visit the water-wheel. I overheard him tell Master that he was here to 'check out how the new slave is making out'. Colton came equipped with icy cold drinks for all except me.
Surreptitiously, I watched as the four men and Master Etienne slaked their thirst not once but several times. My own parched throat screamed for relief and I heard my plaintive begging.
"Please Master! Water! I'm thirsty. Can I have some water? PLEASE MASTER!"
My request startled them into silence. I had dared to interrupt their conversation and I was to pay a price for my disrespect.
Angrily, Claymore grabbed the whip from Sir Conn and applied it to my shoulders.
"Shut the fuck up!"
Once more the whip cut into me only that time it sliced across my ass.
"How dare you interrupt when your Master is talking? Slave, you need to learn proper respect. Now apologise to your Master and beg for his forgiveness."
Once more the whip wrapped itself around me causing me to cry out in pain. Then as my cry subsided, I heard myself saying.
"Master! I am sorry. Please forgive me. I meant no disrespect to you, Master! But I am so thirsty."
I don't know if my Master forgave me or not; he didn't acknowledge my apology. And I wasn't given water to drink!
I had paid a high price for my temerity in asking for water.
My Master spent another twenty minutes talking to his overseers before taking his leave of them. I don't know what they spoke of but recalling my own time as the Master, I would imagine they told him of the day's operations. Then, they watched in silence as he and Master Etienne disappeared back into shady environs of the garden.
Satisfied that Guy Maratier was out of earshot, they began to talk about their new employer.
"Tell me truthfully Colton, what's your opinion of the new Maratier owner?"
"They're early days yet, Claymore and I'll reserve my judgement. But Guy lacks the poise and refinement of the Barrois family. Which isn't all that surprising? I hear the Maratier's are white trash and it shows. And as for the boy, Etienne. The least said about him the better. Both father and son have the most appalling manners. Turning those two into white gentlemen will be akin to making a silk purse out of a sow's ear, I'm afraid. They're better suited to serve as slaves. "
"That's interesting! But I wouldn't underestimate Guy Maratier. It's true he is white trash but I think he is also very shrewd and he possesses a natural cunning. I have been surprised at how quickly he is adapting. Already he has a great grasp of how things are done here at La Forˆt. I suspect he is being well primed by his grandmother, Charlotte, who as you know, is the disowned sister of old Jean- Claude."
"All that was well before my time, Claymore. I'm not familiar with all the details. I only ever heard the house slaves gossiping and as you know they aren't all that reliable. I seldom pay any heed to what they say. In fact, if I catch the house slaves gossiping, I usually take them out to the punishment yard and give them a thrashing. As a matter of principle, I don't hold with slaves talking about their owner's affairs. "
"Yes all that happened before my time too, Colton. However, I hear old Charlotte is very formidable and a force to be reckoned with. She is also very bitter at the family's treatment of her all those years ago and is determined to extract revenge for it. I understand from sources in the city that Rafe here is the main focus of her hate. And you remember the slave, Cato, don't you? Well, I heard she was instrumental in having Cato sold for no other reason than that he was Jean-Claude's favourite slave and reputed to be his Master's bed-buck. But before she did so, she used every opportunity to humiliate and shame him. She even ordered him to remove his tunic telling him he was no different to any other of Guy's slaves and she'd had Cato's ass caned in front of all the household slaves Finally, she prevailed on her grandson to sell Cato at public auction."
"Cato has been sold? But he was always a loyal slave to the Barrois family. I always thought he was a permanent fixture."
"Not any more, I'm afraid. My sources tell me Cato was placed naked on the auction block and sold as a heavy duty work slave."
"I suppose Cato was past his best years. At his age, he'd have limited appeal as house slave so it was inevitable he'd finish his days in a quarry or a mine. "
"True, from what I remember of Cato he has a few productive years still left in him. But of more immediate concern to you; I should think Charlotte will make a triumphal return to La Forˆt very soon. So just be careful, Colton, Don't underestimate her or Guy Maratier. But tell me - what do you think of Rafe?"
"Arrogant young prick! He's in his proper place."
"So you don't feel any sympathy for him?"
"No, none at all!"
"Colton, I'm surprised at the strength of your dislike for him. Why is that?"
"It's alright for you. You only ever came face to face with him around the plantation. It was different for me. I had to live in the house with him. I was always catering to his whims. Making sure everything was 'just right' for him. Ensuring the house slaves were kept out sight and out mind. He insisted they remain silent and that they were never within his presence unless they were serving him. And it got worse after his grandfather died. Always the spoiled brat; the power went to his head."
Dismayed, I listened to the conversation between Claymore and Colton. I couldn't dispute the comments made about my Master and his grandmother. I knew that what Claymore said was true.
After all, I was present as Charlotte humiliated Cato by forcing him to strip naked and I knew she relished sending the newly nude Cato around to the neighbours' homes with her personal invitations to her grandson's 'getting to know you' soiree. And I had accompanied Cato to the slave dealers where we'd been evaluated. Luckily, Master had taken me home but I was witness to his callous discarding of Cato as he was left behind with the dealer and sold several days later.
But the comments of my former major domo did shock me. I had no idea of the depths of his dislike for me. As I strained on the capstan, I asked myself if Colton's opinion of me was true. Was I as obnoxious as the person he was describing? But then, I remember he is speaking of my former self, Lucien Barrois. Perhaps he was all the things that Colton ascribed to him. But I was no longer that person. I was the slave, Rafe.
And it was as Rafe that I listened to what they had to say about Lucien Barrois. It was inconceivable that the naked, sweating slave chained like a beast-of-burden to the capstan and forced to work under the lash was once the proud and haughty Lucien Barrois of their conversation.
As Rafe, I acutely felt the loss of all that had once belonged to Lucien Barrois. As I thought on this, I was filled with revulsion at what I had become. No longer a man, I was more akin to a mindless, brute animal kept in chains and made to work at the whim of its owner.
At that moment, I needed to urinate. But the wheel couldn't pause for something so basic and so, deprived of my humanity; I simply pissed as I worked. Acutely, I felt my sense of deep shame as the three overseers watched my humiliation.
Poor Lucien! How the mighty had fallen!
Despite this, I was shocked and hurt me to know that I, as Lucien, had been so poorly thought of by Colton.
"Hmm, I wonder?" Claymore mused. "Tell me Conn, what was your opinion of Lucien Barrois?"
"I'm not sure what you mean, sir?"
"Well tell me? What did you think of him when we interviewed you for your apprenticeship?"
"I have to agree with Mr Colton, sir! I thought Lucien Barrois was just an arrogant, white boy who looked down on us coloured folk. I thought his manner was very condescending to me. Mr Colton is right, he was a patronising prick. He's now where he belongs; a white cocksucker working as a slave."
I wanted to protest! Sir Conn was so wrong about me. I had never looked down on my black overseers. I had shared my grandfather's regard for them and I had always shown them the greatest respect.
Already that morning, I had been punished for interrupting my superiors. I couldn't face another whipping at Claymore's hands and so I remained mute.
"However, Claymore," Colton paid me a compliment, "I have to say he makes a fine slave. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Indeed he is, Colton. Indeed he is. But he's not yet at his peak and I still have much work to do on him."
"How do you mean? I think he's a prime specimen."
"And he is, Colton. But there's always room for improvement in the best of slaves. For one thing, he needs to shed any residual puppy fat he has. But to be fair, I don't see too much on him but I do need to muscle tone his body. I don't know if you're aware that Rafe is to serve as one of our employer's ponies. I have six months to train him."
"So is that why you put on the water-wheel? To build him up?"
"That's correct. I'll keep him on the wheel for six weeks. That should build up his cardio-vascular fitness and strengthen his shoulders and legs. You won't know him in six weeks' time. His body will show all the benefits of service on the wheel. It will trim him down, develop his thighs and leg muscles and tighten his buttocks. And speaking of his ass; six weeks working in the sun should darken it up so that it matches the rest of him. Personally, I find his white midriff ugly. But come back in six weeks' time and his ass will be nicely tanned."
"It looks as though his ass has already been tanned by young Conn's whip."
Somehow Colton's attempt at humour at my expense fell flat and no one laughed and least of all me.
"What do you plan for him after his six weeks on the wheel, Claymore?"
"I haven't yet decided on that, Colton. Either he'll work in a field gang or I'll place him in a team of heavy duty drafts hauling one of the lorries. At this stage, I'm inclining towards the second option. That should prepare him for his pony training."
I knew then what Claymore had planned for me. But that was in the future and that day was my first on my grandfather's noria water-wheel. I had another forty-one days to serve before I would be set free from it. Each one of those days promised to be a test of my endurance.
I continued to turn the wheel as Claymore and Colton returned to their duties. Sir Conn retreated to the welcome shade of the cabana and poured himself a refreshing glass of cool water.
I had no notion of time. It felt as though an eternity had passed since I was given my last water ration. Would I have to endure another eternity before Sir Conn stopped me and allowed me to drink? I hoped not. Desperate to ease my thirst, I sucked hard on the pebble in my mouth.
As I walked my ceaseless rounds, the sun climbed higher into a cloudless blue sky and its pitiless rays beat down on me. Even the birds fell silent in the somnolent heat and retreated to the deep shade of the treetops. All around me everything was distorted by a shimmering heat haze and the only living creatures to brave the heat - apart from me - were the ever constant companions of my misery; the swarms of insects tormenting me. Silence reigned and the only sounds to disturb it were the loud groan of the capstan, the creak of the water-wheel, my laboured breathing and the soft padding of my bare feet on the hot cobblestones.
These set the patterns for the remaining forty-one days of my time on the water-wheel.
Many times during those forty-one days, I repeated my earlier questions to myself. What fiendish mind first saw the water-wheel as an instrument of pain? What sadistic mind first condemned a hapless slave to its torture?
I will never know the answers to these questions but I suffer the consequences of those decisions.
To be continued......