THE GALLEY SLAVE "A YOUNG MAN'S ODYSSEY INTO SLAVERY' Chapter 5 "Waking to a New Day"
This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years.
Written by Jean-Christophe "To see all my stories go to groups.yahoo.com/group/SlaveNow"
Chapter 5: "Waking to a New Day"
Despite the horrors of the day and the grimness of our situation, Joachim and I sleep soundly. Our bellies are filled to capacity and we are able to stretch out full length on the straw strewn floor. After the cramped, huddled conditions of the galley's hold this is indeed true luxury.
We look for mutual comfort in each other's company but despite our need to talk, our tiredness overtakes us and we are soon asleep. It is as well we sleep so soundly tonight for we have no idea of the horrors that await us tomorrow and we will need all our strength to confront them. But for now, our minds have shut out today's traumas and we sleep the slumber of the blissfully ignorant.
Occasionally, I stir and vaguely hear the snoring, grunting, groaning and farting of my fellow slaves and the rattling of their chains as they move in their sleep. Worn out by the day's events, they too are in a deep sleep.
The pen in which we are imprisoned isn't overly large and as we move in our sleep our naked bodies touch. I have been naked for some weeks now -ever since my capture whenever that was - and I'm still unused to it. Nakedness is the natural state of a galley slave and inevitably I must adjust to it but I will never accept it. I will resent it and always see it as demeaning and a deliberate ploy of our masters to dehumanise us and reduce us to the level of what we truly are - beasts-of-burden.
At this stage, I'm not to know that my nakedness will serve me well on occasions. Once I am chained to a bench and made to strain at the oar, I will appreciate that. But mostly, I will view my nakedness with bitterness. As the whip cuts across my back and curls itself around my chest and belly I will scream out my pain and impotent rage. But it will do me no good; my masters will only laugh at my frustration.
This early into my slavery I wonder why our masters keep us nude. Couldn't they at least give us a scrap of cloth to cover our loins and hide our shame? Couldn't they at least make this small concession to our humanity?
But once I'm shackled to the rowing bench, I'll discover the answers - the principal being that whips are more effective on my naked body.
I'll learn it takes a while to get a galley "up to speed". From the moment the captain gives the order to row, his slaves are driven hard to reach the speed he demands of them. They are constantly scourged by the overseers' whips, cursed as lazy, infidel dogs and taken to the very edge of their endurance.
Usually a rowing session starts slowly to allow the slaves' tired and stressed muscles to 'warm- up'. Gradually the number of drum beats increase until the galley reaches the rowing speed its captain requires of it.
It is the captain who regulates the drum's beat but it is his overseers who ensure the slaves match their oar strokes to its incessant boom-boom. It is the drum that set the pace for the rowers and it tells them the number of oar strokes they must strike each minute. No concessions are made for the slaves' suffering or for their tortured bodies. The drum expects much of its slaves. Its beat re-echoes monotonously in their heads and it is insatiable in its expectations of them.
Eventually, I'll discover these things for myself and as I alternatively push forward and pull back on my oar I will become one with it; I will be an extension of it and I am to be its driving force. It is my muscle that will power it and if I don't meet the drum's expectations then no mercy will be shown to me by the overseers.
In time I'll realise it is the drum that is my real master; it speaks to me constantly and it will demand much of me.
When the captain is satisfied with the galley's speed, it is up to his overseers' whips to keep the oar strokes moving in time with the beat of the drum. There can be no diminishing of the galley's speed or of the rowers' labours. They will row until they drop from exhaustion or until the captain decides it is time to cease.
There can be no breaks in the rowing session and the oars must continue to rise and dip in unison. There isn't time to feed or water the unhappy slaves and if the need for them to urinate or defecate arises, then they must attend to that as best they can while they row. Habitually, all galley slaves learn to time the expulsion of their bodily wastes to their 'rest' periods. But inevitably accidents do happen and at one time or another they do soil their benches. It is at such times that I'll be thankful for my own nakedness.
I'm also to learn that our nakedness serves another purpose. An overseer can tell by the stress on a slave's body whether or not he is fully applying himself to his labours. As he strains at his oar, a slave's muscles are thrown into sharp relief and the overseers watch closely to see that those muscles are stretched to their limits. Nothing less is expected of a slave and nothing less is accepted. If an overseer considers a slave is malingering then his whip is brought into play with devastating efficiency.
In the main, the galley season on the Middle Sea is at the height of summer when the sun hangs relentless, like a ball of molten metal in a pitiless blue sky and the hot, dry winds blow northward from the Saharan deserts. It is then that a galley slave truly experiences "hell on earth". His naked body is baked dry by the sun's merciless rays, broiled by the ocean's humidity and blasted by the scorching, desert winds. This is when a galley slave is at the nadir of his existence and it is at such times that he longs for a merciful death as a release from his intolerable suffering.
I'll also learn the wearing of clothes can add to the galley slave's misery as he tugs at his long, heavy oar. Long ago, the galley captains discovered the wearing of sweat laden clothing contributes to a debilitating chafing of the slave's underarms and nether regions and this can lead to serious skin disorders. Better then to keep him naked, healthy and capable of rowing.
These are the things I'm yet to learn about my own nakedness.
With the first predawn light, I stir from my sleep and as always the "alarm clock" for my awakening is the first, delicious stirrings of my early morning erection. Momentarily, as I rub the sleep from my eyes and stretch the cramp from my body and limbs, I forget where I am. The pleasurable pulsing of my cock demands my attention, I take it into my closed fist and I slowly work its iron rod hardness. To my mind there is nothing more enjoyable than these first, solitary minutes of a new day. Temporarily, my masturbatory pleasure blinds me to my surroundings and the horrors of my plight.
Then, all around me I hear the stirrings of my fellow slaves as they too wake to a new day. Alongside of me Joachim wakes, rolls over onto his back and stretches. Embarrassed, I notice his massive erection and I mentally fight the guilty urge to reach and touch it. He looks at me, his eyes travel down the length of my body to my rampant cock still imprisoned within my clenched fist and he smiles broadly. Caught out, I blush furiously.
I am to learn that Joachim doesn't share my shyness and sexual guilt; these are alien concepts to him. Subsequently, he will tell me that "sex is wonderful" and he rejects any sense of wrongdoing in his enjoyment of it. He has this simple philosophy that "his maker wouldn't have given him a cock if he wasn't meant to enjoy it". At first I was shocked by his views; they ran counter to all I'd been taught. Eventually, I'll come to understand and share them.
Joachim tells me his life back in Cologne had been a happy one. As one of his father's apprentices he'd been treated the same as them and he had worked, ate and slept with them. They shared a common dormitory on the top story of his father's house far from his mother's ever prying eyes. There, along with his fellow apprentices, he'd learned to explore and to enjoy his burgeoning sexuality. Their long days were filled with hard work under his father's harsh discipline but their nights with unrestrained pleasure. I am to learn that sex is important to Joachim.
Sex among galley slaves is very much "hit or miss". Shackled to an oar and short chained to a rowing bench "full" sex is impossible. For that they must wait until they are employed on their land based labours and are locked into their barracks of a night time. On the galleys, the slaves have limited choices - they have either their fists or their mouths. They can indulge in what my father shamefully referred to as the sin of self-abuse or they can allow another slave to pleasure them with either his fist or his mouth. However, there is danger in this for the slaves.
Our masters deny their slaves any concessions for their sexual needs and quite the opposite is true. Sex among slaves on the rowing benches is frowned upon and actively discouraged. They see the "energy" expended in a slave's sexual exploits as energy diverted from the oars. They believe sex tires the slave and robs him of his strength-valuable strength that is required to power the oar. Therefore they are forever watchful especially during the night time rest periods. Working in shifts, there is always an overseer prowling the cat-walk between the rowing pits watching to see that the slaves are "resting and recharging".
Any slave caught in the act of self-abuse or slaves caught giving mutual comfort to one another are unshackled from their benches and have the bastinado applied to the soles of their feet. The threat of the bastinado is salutary and consequently galley slaves exercise extreme caution in their sexual exploits. But a slave's basic urge for sex is ever present and it can sometimes overcome his fear of the bastinado. Therefore slaves will always take a gamble and risk the bastinado's indescribable pain for a few stolen moments of illicit pleasure.
During my rest periods, I am to find it is possible to surreptitiously practise self-sex on the rowing bench but always with one eye on the overseer's position.
Suddenly pandemonium reigns within our prison. With loud, incomprehensible shouting and cracking of their whips our handlers rudely awaken those of us who are still asleep. Even as our cocks wilt, we know we must get to our feet. This amazes me; we don't speak or understand our captors' language but we do recognise the intent behind their words.
They waste very little time in making us ready for the day's activities. The doors to our pens are thrown open and we are ordered out into the passageway between the cages. Then we are driven out into an open area enclosed by high walls. If I'd hoped to breathe fresh air after the fetid atmosphere of the slave pens then I'm to be disappointed. An overpowering, putrid stench permeates the yard; this is the slaves' latrine area and we have been brought here to empty our bladders and to evacuate our bowels.
The design of the latrine is simple and consists of a shallow, narrow, stone-lined channel running the full length of the yard. We are ordered to straddle our legs over the channel - this is made difficult by our leg irons, but somehow we manage - and to squat one behind the other and ordered to 'let go". I look down between my outstretched feet and I'm surprised to see water flowing down the channel flushing away our waste. This is beyond my comprehension; by comparison the sanitary arrangements on my father's farm were crude and rudimentary and consisted of either a hole in the ground or a chamber pot.
The concept of water being used to flush away so odious a product of the human body amazes me. Until now, I'd regarded my captors as "primitive" and somehow inferior to myself. I know nothing of their knowledge of the science of hydraulics or of their use of water for both practical and ascetic purposes. I haven't seen the colourful pools that are the focal point of their gardens or heard the tinkling fountains that provide music and cooling to the interior of their houses.
As we squat, we are denied any privacy and no concessions are made to preserve our dignity. Even as we strain the whips are put to our backs and shoulders to hurry us along. Our captors have much to do today and they are in a hurry to process us further into our slavery.
With my belly now empty, I look forward to it being replenished. I wonder; will our breakfast be as tasty and substantial as last evening's meal? But again, I'm doomed to disappointment. There isn't to be any food for us this morning. Blissfully, I'm unaware of the sinister reasons for our enforced fasting.
This morning we are to be branded. We are to receive the true symbol of slavery; the mark that will forever identify us as slaves is to be seared into our flesh and our suffering will be immense. The shock of the branding iron affects its victims in many ways. Strapped down on the branding table, a terrified slave will often lose control of his bodily functions and will piss, shit or vomit - sometimes all three. Our handlers are aware of this and wisely they are taking precautions against such mishaps. Our bellies are empty as are our bladders and bowels. We are now ready to be taken to the branding tables.
Our captors work quickly to get us to the branding yard. It's obvious they have done this many times before and all around us there is panic and confusion among my fellow slaves; no mercy is shown to us and our handlers enthusiastically bring their whips into play. For the next few minutes the fearful sound of leather striking naked flesh echoes within the high stone walls and the air is rent with our wailing.
Joachim and I quickly manoeuvre ourselves into position so that we are together; even at this early stage of our friendship we are reluctant to be separated. Whatever awaits us we'll face it together. Somehow there is solace in this for me.
Confusion and uncertainty reigns; we don't know what is to happen to us and we are tormented by our fear of the unknown. Already, we have experienced much suffering at the hands of our captors and we know we can expect little mercy from them. My instincts tell me I should be afraid - very afraid.
We are whip-driven from the yard, down a narrow passageway and through a door opening into one of two adjacent holding pens. This pen is different to the one in which we'd spent the night. For a start it is much smaller and it's only possible for us to stand scrunched tightly together in huddle of terrified humanity. The heavily-barred front of the pen opens into a small yard and fortuitously -Joachim and I manage to push our way through to the bars and stand looking out at the activity taking place in the yard. Our curiosity has got the better of us and soon we will regret our eagerness to be at the front of our group. But for now we are unsuspecting of what awaits us.
What we do see puzzles me. Standing in the centre of the yard are two long wooden benches - approximately waist high and even as we watch we see they are being prepared to receive their first victims. Our captors are supervising four of their African helpers who are carefully adjusting chains at either end of the benches and nearby, two of the emaciated, white slaves we'd seen the previous day are tending two braziers. These two miserable wretches are vigorously pumping bellows to keep the coals glowing with red hot intensity. Protruding ominously from each brazier are two long handles. Initially, I wonder about them before the awful truth dawns on me; with sickening clarity I recognise them as branding irons. Our brandings are imminent.
The smartest among my fellow slaves also recognise the branding irons and in the ensuring panic they move to make themselves inconspicuous by pushing back through our group to the rear of the pen. It's strange how fear makes the mind work. There isn't any hope that we'll be spared the branding iron. We are all doomed to feel it fiery pain; yet fear and panic force us to delay it for as long as possible. The more canny among us fight their way to the rear of our group putting the unsuspecting between themselves and the front of the cage. Their efforts will prove futile; they are only delaying the inevitable. Now that we are aware of the awful reality, Joachim and I join the scrum in vain efforts to move further away from the front of the cage. However, even the slower witted of us now recognise what is about to happen and they vigorously resist our efforts to push through to their rear. Joachim and I are vigorously repulsed and we remain at the front of the cage near the door.
Outside of our prison, our captors are ready to begin their grim work and acting on the instructions of their Arab masters the four African helpers walk toward us. Panic grips our group and now in desperation; we renew our frantic tussling to reach the false "sanctuary" at the rear of the cage. None of us want to be the first to be dragged to the branding table and like frightened animals in a slaughtering pen we struggle to avoid the inevitability of our fates.
Trapped at the front of the pen I'm motivated by one thought - self preservation. My blossoming friendship with Joachim is temporarily forgotten and I leave him to fight his own battle. As an Arab unlocks the door to our prison and the Africans enter, I'm gripped by terror and I struggle vainly to lose myself in the seething, struggling mass of my fellow slaves.
Suddenly, rough hands seize hold of me and I realise I'm in the strong grip of two of the black assistants who begin to drag me out through the door and towards the waiting branding table. Panic-stricken I struggle against them, I grab hold of the prison's bars in a vice-like grip and I hear my disembodied cries of protest.
"Let me go! No! No! I don't want to be branded."
Through my confusion and fear I see black fingers trying to pry mine free from the bars. Somehow, I have found unknown reserves of strength to fight my captors and hold on with grim determination. Fleetingly, I have the false sense that I'm winning the struggle. But the battle is uneven, my triumph is brief and it's doomed to failure. Suddenly my world explodes into a paroxysm of unimaginable pain as the whip of an Arab handler rains down on my unprotected shoulders and back. No mercy is shown to me and I'm to be an example to my fellows that our masters won't tolerate any acts of defiance or insubordination. The whip forces me to my knees and I scrunch my body into a tight ball to protect me from its fury.
Rough hands seize my shoulders and I'm hauled to my feet. The two black handlers are powerfully built and I am no match for their combined strength. Hauled bodily from the sanctuary of the pen, they drag me unceremoniously across the cobblestones to the waiting table. Vaguely I hear my howls of protest and my pleading joins with that of my fellow victim. I look to see who this is? Is it Joachim? No, it isn't; it is a young seaman from my vessel who I knew only as Tom. Through my struggling, I watch as Tom is lifted bodily and placed face down on one of the two adjoining tables. Now it is my turn.
Effortlessly, my handlers lift me high and belly flop me onto the other table with such force that I am temporarily winded.
Sobbing wildly, my pleas for mercy join with Tom's and even as I beg I know we'll be ignored. My struggles are futile and I feel the tightening of the chains as they are fastened around my wrists and ankles securing me to the bench and immobilising my body. My body is stretched out tautly along the length of the bench top and my movements are now restricted to the nervous, quivering of my muscles, the heaving of my chest as I gulp for air and the almost explosive beating of my heart. I turn my head towards the braziers and my eyes widen with terror as I see an Arab pull an iron from its fiery bed of hot coals. My body is racked with sobs as I see the red glowing symbol for "slave" at the end of the long-handled brand. My vision and all my thoughts are centred on that branding iron.
I wait with bated breath and try to brace myself for what my over-active brain tells me will be unimaginable pain. But I'm temporarily reprieved; I'm not to be branded just yet for the Arab turns his back to me and approaches Tom. I can't describe my sense of relief that it is Tom who'll be branded first and not me. My mind is playing a cruel trick on me; these feelings of relief at being spared pain for a few, precious moments overwhelm me but it doesn't register that this only delays the inevitable. I turn my head sideways and watch in fascinated horror as Tom is branded.
I listen as Tom pleads for mercy and I watch as he struggles futilely on the table. I see his naked arse heaving and his muscles bulging and flexing as he fights vainly against the chains firmly holding him in place. With the approach of the red-hot, branding iron, Tom begins to weep and he begs to be spared the branding iron. As the glowing end of the iron touches the tender, young skin of his left buttock, there is a momentary silence broken only by the sizzling of burning flesh; the sickening smell of which assails my nostrils. This is followed by Tom's animal-like scream from deep within his body. The other Arab walks over to the branding table to examine his companion's handiwork. I don't understand what they are saying but I hear the cruelty in their laughter.
Terrified, I look on as a sobbing Tom is released and dragged away and placed in a "recuperating" pen. I watch as a wildly shouting and struggling Joachim is dragged out and over to the bench to take Tom's place on the branding table. The two Arabs now turn their attention to me. If I could speak their language I would understand the Arab's instructions to his black helpers.
"Hold him steady!"
I feel a firm hand pressing down on my arse preventing me from wriggling or squirming and I know my branding is imminent; I wait on the other Arab. I'm suspended in a limbo of dreadful expectation-of waiting for the hot iron to sear itself into me and feeling the agonising pain as it does so. How long do I wait?
I don't know, but each second seems an interminably long-time. My heart pounds, my laboured breathing quickens and I am lathered in a fear induced sweat. Then, I hear the sizzling and smell the scorching of my flesh as the Arab touches me with his iron.
Momentarily, I feel nothing and then my nervous system explodes into violent activity as it carries the signals of my pain to my brain. I hear my own high pitched shriek at the fiery eruption of this pain throughout my body. The intensity of my suffering is unbearable and my loud sobbing adds to my misery. And intruding into this suffering is the thought that I'm now a branded slave.
No time is lost in unchaining me from the table and already another terrified victim is being dragged kicking and screaming from the holding pen to take my place. Once on my feet, my strength fails me and my knees sag as I am half carried in the powerful grip of the blacks to the recuperating pen. As I'm removed from my bench, I look towards Joachim.
Through my own pain-filled eyes, I see his body stretched taut on the bench's unyielding surface I see the frantic thrusting of his well rounded arse and the flexing of his muscles as he futilely fight against his chains. And I hear his pleas for mercy.
Then as I'm thrust roughly through the door into the recuperating pen, I hear Joachim's scream of agony. I hear the brand sizzling on his body and the smell of his scorched flesh permeates the yard and is added to that of Tom's and my own.
Exhausted and traumatised, I collapse to the floor of the pen and lie semi-dazed alongside of Tom. Soon we are joined in our suffering by Joachim.
To be continued......