CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES Chapter 59 "New Hope"
This is a story of erotic fiction meant to be read by adults over the age of eighteen years
Written by Jean-Christophe: November, 2013
This story is archived at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories
The characters and ideas contained in this story are fictitious and bear no resemblance to actual persons or events. Please respect the integrity of the story and don't do any rewrites, make alterations or add other artists' pictures.
Note: I'm sure we'd all agree that Nifty.org provides a valuable service to both writers and readers. And it's free!
But there are costs involved in maintaining the group for your enjoyment and if you'd like to help financially then your donation would be appreciated.
Donate to http/donate.nifty.org/donate.html
Francois Fournier:
The fight to "Save Rafe" had stalled. Support for his cause had waned and cash donations had dwindled to almost zero giving. Those we approached fell into two camps. The first, while they had some sympathy for his plight, felt we were fighting a hopeless battle and that to donate to the cause was throwing good money after bad. Even my own father and brothers fell into this group and my father pointedly told me I was wasting valuable time which would be better spent working on our family's interests.
The second group weren't sympathetic and rudely rejected our approaches. They had adopted the attitude that Rafe was born a slave and that the legal system had returned him to his natural birth right and therefore he should remain a slave for the remainder of his days. No amount of argument from us could sway their hard hearted attitudes.
At our last meeting both Miles and I despaired. Given Guy Maratier's intransigence and his flat-out refusal to even consider our offer to buy Rafe his freedom, we had no other option but to admit defeat. We commiserated with one another over a few beers and we even shed tears for Lucien and his lost freedom. Of course some of our tears were guilt-driven - this was especially so for Miles who is tormented by the memory of his callous treatment of the new slave Rafe at Lionel Schuster's slave-market - and mine was for my early indifference to his fate.
As we talked, the beer mellowed our despondency and assuaged our feelings of guilt. We consoled one another with the knowledge that we'd given it our best shot and could do no more for Lucien. Miles best expressed our mood in the words.
"It's better to have tried and failed than never to have tried at all!"
Finally we embraced and promised to stay "in touch" before we went our separate ways.
Sometimes hope springs out of despair and help comes from an unexpected source. In this instance, hope came in the person of Claymore Jackson and his words gave new life - and urgency - to the fight to save Rafe.
I've known Claymore Jackson for my whole life. Claymore is the chief overseer at La Forˆt and it is in that capacity that I know him. Whenever I spent time at La Forˆt as a boyhood companion for Lucien, I had contact with him. There was a strong bond between Claymore the man and Lucien the boy and during my stays at the plantation, I too had spent time in his company.
As an adult, I know Claymore to be a very capable chief overseer who manages the day to day affairs of La Forˆt with great honesty and integrity. It's true that he's a stern taskmaster, as the plantation's slaves would attest, but not sadistically so and they don't suffer unnecessarily under his oversight. Claymore is highly regarded by La Forˆt's neighbouring landowners and he is universally respected by all who have dealings with him.
Periodically, I too have business dealings with him. There are occasions when he visits our quarry to place an order for gravel or building stone for some project over at La Forˆt. And this was the reason he gave for his visit to me several mornings ago.
It was early morning when he arrived at the quarry - much earlier than usual - and I thought something urgent must be afoot. His pony, Jake, was sweating profusely and it was obvious that he had been driven hard. This was out of character for Claymore who usually drove Jake at a more leisurely pace. I summoned an elderly slave who serves as a water bearer to the younger, fitter slaves working at the quarry face and instructed him to bring water to Claymore's pony.
I greeted Claymore, shook his hand and invited him into my office where I asked how I could be of help. He gave me a sizeable order for gravel which he said was needed to maintain the extensive system of all-weather pathways that traverse La Forˆt's fields. Then, we talked inconsequentially about more mundane things like the weather, the state of the plantation's crops and their expected yield. I was surprised by this; in the past, after he'd placed an order, Claymore never stayed to chat. He'd always excused himself on the grounds that he had urgent matters waiting for him back at La Forˆt.
That morning, I felt there were other reasons why he stayed. And I was correct for he suddenly told me he had urgent matters to discuss with me in private. He asked if we could go to some place and talk privately without us being overheard. I told him my office was as good a place as any but he disagreed and mystified by his need for such privacy, I suggested we go to a remote part of the quarry and talk there. He agreed.
I took him to the far side of the quarry away from where the slaves and their overseers were working. There, we had the spot to ourselves and our conversation would be drowned out by the clanking and clattering of the picks, sledge-hammers and chisels wielded by the toiling slaves on the opposite side of the quarry.
And as he spoke, I understood his need for secrecy. What he told me was a bolt from the blue and breathed new life back into the "Save Rafe" campaign.
I listened in disbelief as he told me of his conversation with Lucien's very distant relative, Odile Thureau and of her claims to have in her possession a birth certificate which proves he isn't the offspring of a slave woman. And he said Odile was prepared to talk to Miles and me and to show us other documentation which would confirm Lucien as the son of Henri and Francine Barrois. If this was so - and I had no reason to doubt otherwise - then Lucien is the legitimate heir to the Barrois estate and a great wrong has been done to him. I promised Claymore I would contact Miles Fortescue and together we'd visit Odile Thureau to verify her claims for ourselves.
Claymore then told me of his suspicions about Guy Maratier and his plans for Rafe. I asked him what grounds he had for these suspicions and he said that he didn't have any hard evidence to support them and that it was just a "gut feeling". He said he wondered why Guy suddenly wanted two new ponies trained for his carriage when he already had Rafe and Norge. Were they being trained to replace Rafe and Norge and if so, what were his intentions towards them? Was he to sell Rafe and if so, to whom?
I thought it highly unlikely that Guy would sell Rafe - after all he'd flatly rejected our offer to buy Rafe and he'd categorically told us Rafe would never be set free. In the light of this, I shared Claymore's apprehensions and I was convinced that Guy's plans for Rafe were more sinister.
I asked Claymore did he know of Rafe's present whereabouts and he told me that both Rafe and Norge were at La Forˆt where, for the time being at least, he could keep watch over him. He told me that he'd put Rafe and Norge to work on the water wheel that supplies water to the house gardens and they were under the constant supervision of his young assistant, Conn. Ostensibly, he'd done this to maintain their cardio-vascular fitness while Guy trialled the other two ponies. I complimented Claymore for his clear thinking.
Claymore explained how, as an employee of Guy Maratier, his hands were tied. However, if what Odile Thureau had told him is true, he felt duty bound to see that the injustice done to Lucien is rectified. He asked if it were possible for the "Save Rafe" group to keep surveillance on Guy and to a lesser extent on his lawyer, Simon Barrow. I was surprised that his suspicions extended to Simon but I accepted that Claymore must have his reasons for them. I assured him that this would be organized without delay and that I would keep him informed of any further developments. In return, he said he would send word to me immediately when Guy summoned Rafe and Norge back to the city.
We agreed that all this must be done with the utmost secrecy so that Guy wasn't alerted. As I thanked Claymore for the information, he expressed the hope that this would serve as a catalyst to Rafe's friends to work towards his freedom and the re-instatement of Lucien Barrois' birth right.
As he spoke these words, memories of my time spent as a small boy at La Forˆt came flooding back. I remember those happy, carefree times spent in Claymore's company and I had a vision of a young, trusting Lucien walking hand in hand with him. It would seem that Lucien's trust wasn't misplaced and that it is to be repaid in full by Claymore Jackson's efforts to restore him to his former life.
Of course, I made immediate contact with Miles and together we visited Odile Thureau. She repeated to us the things she'd told Claymore and she made available to us all the diaries, journals and other documents of Lucien's grandmother. But the most damning of all the documentation was the actual birth certificate that proved Lucien was the legitimate son of Henri and Francois Barrois and not the bastard child of the slave woman, Ophelia.
To say that we were dumbfounded by them was an understatement. They were explosive in their content and revelatory in what they told us and we were convinced beyond any doubt that Lucien had been cruelly wronged. But how had this happened? Was Lucien the innocent victim of the machinations of an evil mind? Somehow, Miles and I believed he was but who to blame was more problematic. Was it Guy Maratier, his deceased grandmother or both working hand in glove to bring down the proud house of Barrois?
We left Odile Thureau's home armed with this new evidence and buoyed by the knowledge that Rafe could soon be set free. We talked with an elderly lawyer who'd worked in a pro bono capacity with the "Save Rafe" campaign. He was encouraged by this new evidence and he said it vindicated the actions of those who were working to free Rafe. However, he told us to keep this knowledge secret and to secure the papers in a safe place known only to the two of us while, in the meantime, he would start proceedings to re-open the case against Lucien. But he warned that "justice moves with inexorable slowness" and that we shouldn't expect a quick resolution. He said it could be some time before Rafe was eventually set free.
This news was sobering; in our impatience to see Rafe set free any delay was unacceptable. But our hands were tied and we were happy knowing that Rafe's eventual release from slavery was now a distinct possibility.
Miles and I retired to a bar - the same one where we'd recently abandoned our plans to save Rafe - and we had a few celebratory beers with Jack Stanford and Daniel Carew. Miles had arranged for them to meet us there and after we'd greeted one another, we retired to a booth where we told them of all that had happened. They were surprised by this unexpected turn of events but nevertheless, both were delighted with the news and promised to help in any way they could. We told them we needed to watch Guy Maratier's movements to safeguard Rafe's welfare. Both volunteered to act as our watchdogs. It was an offer we would soon accept.
Events have a habit of overtaking us and so it was in this instance. This very day, Claymore Jackson's young prot‚g‚, Jon delivered a sealed message to me at the quarry. The news it contained was disturbing and put me on high alert. Claymore had received word from Guy Maratier that Norge and Rafe were to be returned to the city immediately.
Rafe:
Working on the waterwheel is no less strenuous than the last time I'd been chained to it. This time however, it is made bearable by Norge sharing in the workload with me. As we push the wheel in a never-ending circle, I think back to my last stint on this same wheel. Then, I was a very new slave being trained as a companion pony for Norge. Much has happened since then but I'd never expected to be returned to the waterwheel.
Claymore Jackson's prot‚g‚, Sir Conn, the young overseer from that time is once again in charge of me and he is no less severe than on that previous occasion. He still refers to me as "Dumb-ass" and he now calls Norge "Asshole". Both names show his utter contempt for us.
Sir Conn sits in the shade of his cabana and shouts his instructions to us to keep the wheel moving at a consistent speed to raise water from the river and to keep it constantly flowing to the reservoir which supplies water to La Forˆt's gardens. Once, I'd enjoyed those verdant green lawns and luxuriant garden beds without giving any thought to the slaves who toiled on the water-wheel to keep them that way for my pleasure. Now I do have a proper appreciation of their efforts.
Occasionally, Sir Con will stir and wander over to where we are working and apply his whip to our shoulders and asses and urge us to.
"Put your backs into it!"
The day is hot and we are unprotected from the sun's enervating heat. Both Norge and I are perspiring profusely and with our wrists shackled to the wheel we are unable to wipe our brows. Our sweat beads on our foreheads, it trickles into our eyes and stings them with its saltiness and constantly drips from the end of our noses.
Once every two hours, Sir Conn calls a halt and we enjoy a brief respite from our tortuous labour as he gives us water to quench our raging thirst. The wheel stops for just a minute or two - barely long enough for Norge and I to greedily gulp our water ration down our parched throats - then with a disdainful flick of his whip to our sweat-soaked asses, the young overseer orders us back to work. Between drinks, we suck on small pebbles to moisten our mouths with saliva in an effort to minimize our thirst. I recall this was a trick shown to Sir Conn by Claymore Jackson on my very first day chained to the waterwheel.
Working so closely to Norge, I see his sweat trickling down over his naked torso before falling to the ground beneath us. Momentarily, it splodges black on the smooth cobblestones beneath our feet but it soon dries up in the heat.
Norge's sweat glistens on his sun-darkened skin and gives it the lustrous sheen of burnished bronze. I breathe in the intoxicating scent of his perspiration and as always, I am aroused by his manly aroma. But then, I suspect I have the same effect on Norge as his cock is as rampantly erect as mine.
This is our third day on the wheel and I know that we are here for an indefinite period to build up our cardio-vascular fitness and the strength of our legs for running in harness. I know this is so because I'd overheard the discussion between Claymore Jackson and our Master the day of Charlotte Maratier's burial when it was decided to temporarily replace us with the new ponies, Micah and Nathaniel.
I still have mixed feelings about Charlotte's death. One part of me - the one that hates her for what she'd done to enslave me - rejoices that she is no more. I'd not had a lot of exposure to her but on those few occasions when I'd been in her presence she'd not hidden her almost pathological hatred of me. That is something I can't forget or forgive. And yet, I know nothing has changed with her death. I am still a slave and will remain so. For the remainder of my life I will be the slave property of her grandson, Guy Maratier and with Norge's unstinting support I now accept the inevitability of my fate.
Even in death, she was the cause of my ultimate humiliation and degradation. Decked out in black harness and ostrich feathers, I'd been made to take part in her funeral cortege by slowly and solemnly pulling her grandson's and great-grandson's carriage to and from the new Maratier mausoleum. I couldn't help but unfavourably contrast the grandiose, over the top marble and gilt crassness of this new tomb which will now house the Maratier's in death to the simple, eloquent one where my Barrois ancestors repose in dignified peace.
Morbidly, as I waited while Charlotte Maratier was placed in her mausoleum, my thoughts turned to my own demise. I'd never thought about this before although in the early days as a slave, I did consider death as being preferable to slavery. But as Charlotte Maratier was laid to rest, I realized when I die, no one will mark my passing - with the possible exception of Norge - and there'll be no ceremony to honor me. I won't be laid to rest in the Barrois tomb and I will be buried without either a casket or a shroud in an unmarked, communal grave in a distant and remote corner of La Forˆt. The thought was sobering and it impressed upon me the cruel inhumanity of slavery as an institution. Even in death, a slave is a non-person of no more worth than any other domestic animal.
And yet, despite my hatred of Charlotte Maratier, another part of me asked the question if she'd been unfairly treated by the proud Barrois family. Was she a victim of unreasonable family pride and honor? Did her crime of simply loving someone who was beneath her social standing warrant the treatment she'd received from her family? Somehow I think what happened to her was disproportionate to her "sin" and I did feel a measure of pity for her and the sad life she'd lived.
Now as a social outcast, I do have some understanding of how it was for her all those years ago.
The monotony of the water-wheel is broken by the occasional visit of Claymore Jackson as he monitors our progress or by the daily, lunchtime visits of the slave Ben who brings lunch to Sir Conn. Our first day on the wheel was the first time I'd seen Ben since he'd been sent to La Forˆt as punishment and I saw the changes in him. Gone were the cockiness and overconfidence which had led to his fall from favour and he was much subdued. I wasn't aware that he'd been chosen by Colton, La Forˆt's major domo to serve as his pleasure slave and personal assistant. But if I were to know this, then I'd understand the stripes and bruises on his back, ass and legs.
Colton has control over a small courtyard enclosed by high stone walls which is greatly feared by La Forˆt's house-slaves. At the end of each day, the slaves are forced to gather here for what Colton calls his "punishment parade" and any hapless slave who has angered him or offended the Master of the house is punished. The cowered slaves whisper about "punishment yard" with justifiable dread. As Master, I'd known that punishment yard existed but I'd never visited there. I'd seen it as part of Colton's domain and although I'd suspected him of harbouring sadistic tendencies, I'd remained aloof and indifferent to the slaves' sufferings. I'd been grateful to Colton for maintaining good order in the running of my household and how he achieved the peace and harmony I'd demanded and enjoyed was no concern of mine.
In passing the wheel, Ben castes a cursory glance in my direction but chooses to ignore me even though I'd once held him in high regard as my bed-buck. But who can blame him; back then I'd been his Master and now I am just another naked, work slave.
Shortly, before lunch, on our first day on the waterwheel, Sir Conn left the shelter of his cabana and stripped off his clothing. Then, running naked to the river's edge, he cartwheeled high into the air before landing with a resounding splash into the water. His unexpected arrival among them startled the wild ducks busily feeding among the rushes at the water's edge and they flew off loudly honking in protest.
As we trudged in a never-ending circuit, we caught glimpses of him as he cavorted in the water like a playful porpoise. The water glistened on his mahogany skin highlighting the sculpted musculature of his torso and the twin orbs of his curvaceous ass. It was an ass that I knew well from my previous time spent on the waterwheel and I remembered those times when he'd taken me into the shrubbery for some illicit, oral sex. I wondered who now provided him with the relief that his voracious sexual appetite demands.
Eventually, he left the water and clambered up the riverbank where he vigorously shook the excess water from his body sending the droplets spraying in all directions. Then, using the palms of his hands, he wiped the rest of the water from his body and returned once more to the cabana's welcoming shade. Shortly after, he was joined by Ben bringing him his lunch.
Ben laid out the food on a table and waited. The young overseer sat sprawled naked in a chair with his legs splayed wide apart. I could see the cock that I'd once serviced twitching in anticipation and pleasant memories of those times came flooding back. I'd practised my oral skills on that cock and perfected my technique which I now use to good effect on my beloved Norge. Many times, Norge has laughingly told me that I am the best "cock sucker" he's ever experienced. Coming from Norge that is high praise indeed and I owe it to the schooling I'd received from Sir Conn in the early days of my slavery.
Sir Conn clicked his fingers and Ben instantly knelt between his outstretched legs and buried his face in the thick, pubic bush surrounding the overseer's overly-generous sized cock. Ben muzzled the wiry hair no doubt breathing in the musky scent of Sir Conn's sex and then partially aroused, he used his tongue to pleasure his young superior.
As his onetime Master, I'd been the recipient of Ben's undoubted skills and I knew the pleasure his tongue could give. I'd felt its erotic benefits many times as Ben skilfully raised me to heights of sexual ecstasy. I'd been made helpless as his delightful tongue worked the shaft of my cock or he'd used its tip to tease and tantalize my piss-slit. I'd felt his tongue sinuously curl itself around my cock as his lips glided along its length in an effort to coax out every last drop of manhood's essence.
And there'd even been occasions, when in the weakness of the moment, I'd offered up my ass to his eager tongue and allowed him to pleasure it. And, as I thought back on those moments, I once more experienced the "phantom feel" of Ben's talented tongue licking at my puckering orifice.
Obviously, Ben hadn't lost any of his talents and soon Sir Conn was writhing and softly moaning in sexual rapture. The overseer busied himself by tweaking the slave's nipples before groping his ass- cheeks and exploring his ass crack and then slipping a finger into his hole to prepare it for his cock.
Norge and I were both fully aroused by the sight of Sir Conn frigging Ben's eager ass and our own dribbling cocks ached for merciful release. Disdainfully, Sir Conn slapped Ben's ass and ordered him to lean with his upper body resting on the table. Willingly, Ben hastened into position, moved his feet apart and grasped the opposite edge of the table as support for the wild fucking he knew would inevitably follow.
With his legs spread wide, Ben's ass was on prominent show and I could see the pulsing of his striated, pink rosebud winking an "open" invitation to Sir Conn to come and visit. It was an offer that Sir Conn was very eager to accept and he wasted no time in preliminaries. He positioned his mushroom shaped glans against Ben's constricting anal ring and with one mighty lunge of his hips he speared through and buried his cock hilt-deep within the compliant slave's ass. As Ben struggled to accommodate the larger than usual cock, his audible gasp of discomfit echoed throughout the canopy of the nearby trees.
Soon, the creaking of the waterwheel was drowned out by the noisy sounds of their rutting. Norge and I couldn't help but be aroused by the heavy panting, the ecstatic moans and the slapping of Sir Conn's ready to burst balls as they battered the bruised and striped cheeks of Ben's ass.
Within moments, the naked bodies of both overseer and slave were bathed in sweat and the heady aroma of their ongoing sex permeated the still, midday air. The overseer continued to shaft Ben's ass with ever increasing vigour. The force of his thrusting shook the table and rattled the dinner dishes but both overseer and slave were oblivious to all but their fucking. With the enthusiasm of the young, the overseer varied the speed and depth of his thrusts. As he rode Ben, Sir Conn alternated between short, sharp stabs and the almost complete withdrawal of his cock from the slave's hungry ass before plunging ball deep back into it. Impatiently, he slapped Ben's ass and ordered him to.
"Tighten up, boy! Grip my cock and milk it!"
In return, Ben begged.
"OHHHH!!! AHHHH!!!! Please sir, fuck me. Fuck me hard, please sir? HARDER, sir! PLeaseee!!!"
And Sir Conn happily obliged.
Inevitably, the overseer reached his climax and pumped his semen deep up the slave's ass. Finally, exhausted, he slumped forward and rested on Ben's sweaty back until his slackening cock slipped out of the slave's stretched orifice with a soft plop.
Then, Sir Conn stood and waited as Ben knelt before him and used his tongue to clean the cock which, just moments before, had pounded his ass with such vigour.
In using Ben, Sir Conn was simply availing himself of one of the "perks of the job". In doing so he was no different to any of the other overseers who regularly sought relief by using a slave sexually. No doubt many slaves hate this unwanted use of their bodies and are humiliated and degraded by it. But it serves as a means to impress upon them their absolute subjugation and highlights their overseers' complete control over them. Its use is more subtle than the whip but no less effective in that it feeds the slave's sense of his worthlessness.
As I watched, Sir Conn returned to the river, taking Ben with him, where both of them washed away the tell-tale scent of their sex. I wasn't to know that Sir Conn, being aware of Ben's special status as Colton's pleasure slave, had no wish to antagonize the major domo by the unauthorized use of his "boy". Hastily, he ate lunch - served to him by Ben - and then sent the slave back to the house.
That happened on my first day back on the waterwheel and it was repeated again yesterday and today - Norge's and my third day.
As the afternoon's heat intensifies Norge and I struggle to keep pace with the wheel's heavy burden and Sir Conn finds it necessary to apply his whip to us with increasing frequency. More and more, I wish we were back in the city harnessed to Guy Maratier's carriage rather than to this medieval instrument of torture. The thought now uppermost in my mind is for how long we would be chained to the wheel.
The hours pass slowly by and then, in the late afternoon, Claymore Jackson arrives to check on us. He is driving his personal trap pulled by his pony, Jake. Jake is an old friend of Norge's from the time when, as Lucien Barrois, I'd first sent Norge to La Forˆt to be conditioned as my pony. Jake had befriended Norge and taken him under his wing in those first awful days of his slavery. I know there is great mutual affection between Norge and Jake which in those early days had also been physical and as I came to rely more and more on Norge's strength, I'd been jealously resentful of that fact. But when I was sent as a slave to La Forˆt, Jake, at Norge's request had befriended me and protected me from the unwanted attention of the more dominant slaves. During that time, I came to appreciate Jake's goodness of character and I can truthfully say I now count him as a friend.
Claymore Jackson is aware of the close bond existing between Norge and Jake and whenever Guy Maratier visits La Forˆt, he stables Norge and me in the same stall as his pony. And so it is with this visit; Norge and I are sharing Jake's humble stall.
The first night, I decided not to intrude between Norge and Jake and to give them the freedom to sleep in the embrace of one another's arms - they deserved no less from me. I'd watched as they warmly embraced and greeted one another and then unexpectedly, Jake turned to me and invited me to lie with them. He moved away from Norge and made a space for me between their two bodies. I spent the night sandwiched between their hard, muscular bodies with their arms and legs entwined with my own. In inviting me to lie with them, Jake acknowledged my love for Norge and I was overwhelmed by the generosity of his spirit, Jake had given me the rare and precious gifts of his friendship, his trust and his affection. I doubt that I can ever repay him.
I see Norge and Jake exchange smiles as Claymore Jackson talks with his prot‚g‚. He begins by asking Sir Conn about our performance and the young overseer tells him that we aren't as yet conscientiously applying ourselves to our task. He adds that beginning tomorrow morning; he will be more demanding and won't accept any more slackness from us.
And then, surprisingly, Claymore tells him we are being taken into the city tomorrow morning. He'd just received word that our Master wants us returned to him without delay.
This does surprise me! After all we have only been at La Forˆt for three days and I'd expected that we'd be here much longer than that. I wonder what can be so urgent that Guy Maratier requires us returned to him at such short notice.
Perhaps our replacement ponies, Micah and Nathaniel have failed to live up to our Master's expectations of them. Yes, that must be it. Otherwise, what other reasons can there possibly be to have us returned so soon after our arrival at La Forˆt?
To be continued .....