Seeking Passage to Doraenium

Seeking Passage to Doraenium The Island of Mystery

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

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): April, 2013 Read all my stories at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories

"The characters and events in this story are purely fictitious and belong to the writer's imagination. Please respect the integrity of the story and don't do any rewrites, make alterations or add other people's pictures.

Special note: I'm sure we'd all agree that Nifty.org provides an invaluable service to both writers and readers. But, inevitavly, there are some costs in operating the group and if you'd like to assist financially, you might consider making a donation to

http://donate.nifty.org/donate html

Part 1:

We've all heard of Doraenium. From infancy, we'd been exposed to its myths. Our parents had warned us with what happens to habitually "naughty boys". The "bad men" would steal them from the safe bosom of their families and spirit them away to far-off Doraenium and it was darkly hinted that once they arrived there, they'd suffer all the torments of hell on earth.

Of course, this had the desired effect upon me as a boy. Even though I'd shared the bravado of my young companions and laughingly scoffed at Doraenium's existence - declaring it to be an urban myth along with trolls and hobgoblins - I never the less retained a secret fear that, in fact, it might exist. And it has to be said it was a modifying influence on my youthful behaviour.

Later, as I grew older, I discovered that Doraenium did exist although it was hard to distinguish fact from fiction or to sort the truth from the wild stories of over-active, fevered imaginations.

From an early age - almost as soon as I could walk - I worked with my blacksmith father in the small, rural, farming village we called home. The village is my world and the furthest I have ventured from it is five miles when, each midsummer, we'd go to the annual fair at our parish market-town. I'd looked forward to these yearly outings as a boy and I still do so as a seventeen year old youth. The months leading up to the fair are busy ones for my father and me. In any spare time we have from our main smithing duties; we forge all manner of small household items and trinkets for sale at the stall my father sets up at one edge of the market-square. The profits from this are small but given our poor circumstances, every copper disc counts.

My name is Linus and at seventeen, I'm tall and as you'd expect of a blacksmith, I have a strong muscular body. I have been told by the village maidens that I am good looking and certainly I find all are most receptive to my advances. I have to say rutting with them is a favourite pastime and often, you'll find me in some haystack or stable loft buck-assed naked and fucking for all I am worth.

Two years ago, at the parish fair, my father gave me a few pennies and sent me to the local inn for a pork pie and a mug of ale. As you'd expect, the inn was overcrowded and I found myself sitting at a table with a boisterous group of strangers several years my senior. They welcomed me into their group and I listened enchanted as they spoke of their many travels and adventures in a world far beyond my own limited one. I heard of many wondrous things - all beyond my peasant's simple comprehension - and I was suddenly gripped with a desire to go and to see these things for myself.

Then, I heard mention of Doraenium and in my naivety, I asked if such a place existed. My companions, obviously men of the world, laughed loudly and asked where I'd lived all my life. Blushing from my embarrassment, I told them that the fair is the furthest I've ever been from my home five miles away. This surprised them; they stopped laughing and adopted a kindlier attitude towards me and told me about Doraenium - a place they'd all visited.

From them, I learned that Doraenium is a sizeable island about two day's travel by galley to the West of our shoreline. Its verdant pastures and forests shine emerald-green in the sparkling azure blue sea and its high mountain peaks are mostly wreathed by cloud which gives Doraenium its bountiful rainfall and rich pastures. But it was the island's inhabitants that intrigued me the most.

My companions told me that the island is a slave society - mostly closed to "outsiders" and that it is rigidly divided into two classes - masters and slaves. And there are no mistresses or female slaves.

The masters live in unparalleled luxury and indolent pleasure served by their subservient slaves. And the masters are excused from all physical labours which are performed by those slaves.

The slaves, by comparison, live hard lives. They till the fields and grow the crops. They tend the vines and crush the grapes to make the wine which their owners imbibe to excess. They work the olive groves and fruit orchards and harvest their ripened bounty.

On the farms, the slaves are yoked together and made to plough the fields or, shackled in teams to farm carts they labour to haul their masters' produce to market.

In the town, they transport their masters around in rickshaws or in heavy litters carried on their brawny shoulders. Slaves serve their masters in their homes and ominously from my point of view, in their beds.

All this was new and bewildering to me. The concept of slavery isn't something that I am overly familiar with. It's true that I live in a feudal society and as a peasant I am at the lowest rung of my community. And I'd just accepted my lowly position in life and never questioned the status quo. The mysterious powers that determine a man's destiny - even before his birth - had assigned this role to me and it had never occurred to me that my serfdom was akin to slavery. The fact that I was tied, by an accident of birth, to my local lord's demesne wasn't something I'd ever given thought to. These aren't matters for we peasants to consider; they are the province of our feudal masters.

But listening to my companions, the concept of chattel slavery intrigued me. Fascinated, I hung on to their every word. I heard how the natural state for a slave on Doraenium is complete nakedness; apparently clothing or a covering of any kind is forbidden them. Nudity in my community is considered sinful and frowned upon and any offenders are publicly whipped.

Therefore to hear of a community where more than half the population - I was told on Doraenium, slaves outnumber their masters by two to one - are permanently nude both shocked and titillated me. At sixteen, I was fascinated with both my own and the bodies of my youthful companions and had been since the onset of puberty. And guiltily, it was the male body that interested me the most despite my frequent couplings with the village maidens.

I listened in slack-mouthed awe as my companions spoke of how slaves on Doraenium are routinely sold along with the cattle, sheep, goats, pigs and poultry on market-days. But what interested me even more was the annual spring sale of slaves and its associated festival.

These events occur over a period of three days and the highlight of each day are the slave auctions when many owners sell their slaves and purchase replacements from the supply of new slaves brought to the island by slave-dealers from the mainland.

The nights are given over to feasting and debauchery when the newly purchased slaves are usually initiated into their onerous duties by their new owners. I listened as my companions told of how the unhappy, naked slaves are paraded shackled and whip-driven through the town's streets prior to being placed on display at the slave-market. Here they are subjected to the lecherous attentions of all the freemen citizens.

Listening to my companions talk about the "great slave auctions" - and they all seem to have attended at least one - only whetted my appetite to witness one for myself. I vowed one day to visit Doraenium and to take part in the festivities that accompany these yearly festivals.

And that day has arrived! Today, I take my leave of my disapproving father and set out on foot for the coast some two days walk from my village.

I am travelling light with just the clothes I wear, a few copper coins in my pouch and a meagre ration of food packed for me by my anxious mother and sister. My brother, two years my junior is to take my place in the forge during my absence. I reason that I will be gone for no more than two weeks.

My plans are simple; I will walk to the coast and hopefully convince a captain of one of the galleys trading with Doraenium to let me work my passage out to the island.

Nothing has prepared my simple peasant's mind for the hustle and bustle of this busy sea- port. All around me are scenes of feverish activity as cargoes are unloaded from newly arrived trading galleys. My ears are unaccustomed to the cacophony of sound that raucously fills the air and I find the unintelligible babble of many languages bewildering. And for the first time, I come face to face with real slavery. In truth, I am more accustomed to the benign slavery of the farms surrounding my home village where slaves are treated firmly but fairly and seen as members of the family.

The wharves team with gangs of slaves, who unchained from the oars of their masters' galleys, toil relentlessly under the cruel whips of their overseers. These poor wretches toil semi-naked - their modesty preserved under filthy rags tied around their emaciated waists. Their sun-blackened, whippet-thin bodies are dreadfully whip-scarred and are evidence of their suffering as they toil at the oar. Their heads are closely cropped and their faces covered by thick stubble that adds to the grimness of their appearances.

So uniform are they in appearance that it is impossible to determine their age with accuracy. Their slavery has made them old before their time. However, it is possible to get an idea of their length of service at the oar by the colour of their torsos and the number of whip scars on their shoulders and back; obviously the longer they have served at the oar the darker the relentless sun has coloured their hides and the greater the number of stripes they have garnered. They groan under the heavy yoke of their slavery.

The slaves are remorselessly driven to unrealistic feats of strength under the cruel whips of their impatient overseers. They struggle under the impossibly heavy loads of large clay amphorae containing grain, olive oil or wine and weighty baskets of produce or thick bundles of animal hides.

Somewhere, a teenaged slave stumbles and spills a basket of plump, black figs over the wharf's surface. Immediately three overseers descend upon him and assail him with their whips. Despite his anguished cries and futile begging for mercy, he is lashed without respite until every last fig has been gathered up and placed back in the basket. As he does so an angry overseer berates him.

"You careless dog! Pick up every last fig and be quick about it. And take care not to bruise them or I'll ram every damaged fig up you useless ass. NOW MOVE!"

Only when the slave has gathered up the last fig and hoisted the basket high on to his shoulder, does his torment cease.

My simple village life hasn't prepared me for these scenes of man's inhumanity to his fellow man and I am distressed by the sorry plight of the slaves. It's true that the whip is used by my overlord and I have been witness to many public floggings in the village square. But these had been given as legitimate punishment to miscreants who'd broken the laws or who had offended against public morality. At home, neither the whip - nor any other form of torture - had ever been used without justifiable reason and to see it used so enthusiastically on the long suffering slaves upsets me.

I turn my back on the wharves and look for a waterfront tavern used by off-duty seaman. It makes sense that this is where I can enquire about finding a berth out to Doraenium. And besides, I am hungry.

The tavern I eventually chose is close to the waterfront. Its shabby interior is small and ill-lit by two small windows that front onto wharves. Even this early in the day, it is crowded with rough, noisy seamen who seem determined to drink as much ale and wine as is humanly possible before they put to sea once more.

As I enter, the room falls silent and I'm acutely aware that all eyes are turned in my direction. I'm embarrassed by their sudden silence - and their attention - and I'm aware that I am blushing profusely.

"Well lad, what can I do for you?" The tavern-keeper asks not unkindly.

"Please sir, I'd like a tankard of ale and some bread and goatmilk cheese."

"Well young sir, sit y'self down over there," he indicates a table in a far corner, "and I'll fetch them to yer!"

Shyly, I move to the table - there are three seamen already sitting there - but they shuffle along the bench and make room for me as I take my place alongside of them.

"Well, young feller me lad, where are you from what brings yer here?" An older sailor asks.

"Sir, my village is two days walk from here and I have come here to find a way to get to the island of Doraenium."

"And why would a simple, country boy like you be lookin' to go to Doraenium, I wonder?"

"Sir, I have heard of the annual festival and I want to see it for myself."

"You mean the slave auctions?" A younger sailor asks. "And why would yer be wantin' to witness slaves bein' sold orf, I wonder?"

I'm not sure how to answer. I can't just say that my interest is prurient or that it borders on the homo-erotic. More than that, I am excited at exploring the world beyond the only one I'd ever known and visiting the island gives purpose to my sense of adventure. Somehow I manage to stutter out a reason.

"There are few farm slaves in my village and until today I've not seen a real slave. But two years ago, I was told about the slave auctions on Doraenium and ever since I've wanted to visit there and see them for myself."

"And tell me lad, how do yer plan to travel to Doraenium?" The older sailor asks. "Do yer have the money to pay yer passage on one of the galleys travellin' over to the island?"

"That all depends on how much it costs, sir! I don't have much money - just a few coins - and I was hoping that I could work my passage on a ship. Do you know of any ships looking for temporary workers?"

"Laddie, it could be that I might be able to help 'ee. Would ye be willin' to work yer passage as a crew member?"

"It all depends on what I'd have to do, sir! You see, I'm a blacksmith and not a sailor."

"Why, laddie! There's nothing to it. You'd be helping with the galley slaves and the cargo of slaves we be takin' over to the auction. You'd not need any special skills other than feeding and watering the slaves. Do ye think ye could do that?"

"If that's all that's required sir, I think I could do that."

"That's the spirit lad! And it's just a short trip of two days over to Doraenium. It's not as though it's a long voyage. And we be leavin' on this evening's tide."

It would appear that the gods are favouring me. I have found a way to get to Doraenium and it won't cost me one copper coin. Indeed, Fortuna smiles on me; I have met up with these friendly seamen who are taking me with them to meet the captain of their galley.

Part 2:

I can scarcely believe my luck. By a stroke of good fortune, I have fallen in with a group of friendly seamen who are taking me to the captain of their galley in the hope that he'll give me a berth to the Island of Doraenium. I'd come to the port with this idea in mind but I didn't know it would be so easy to make friends with a group of sailors and to sign on as a crew member of their vessel.

I walk with them towards the wharf where their galley is berthed. Of course, all this is very new to me. As a country lad, I'd never been further than five miles from my parents' home and so my senses aren't able to absorb all that is happening around me.

I suppose the thing I notice the most is the large number of semi-naked slaves toiling under the cruel whips of their brutal overseers as they struggle to load and unload the ships moored to the stout, stone wharves. These wretched men - and really they are men no longer - have been relegated to the lowly level of beasts-of-burden, They sweat and strain under the heavy crates, kegs and baskets that twist and contort their bodies into obscene shapes and the only sounds they make - apart from the rattling of the chains fastened around their ankles and wrists - is the loud rasping of their oxygen starved lungs and their agonized cries as the sinuous whips coil snakelike around their semi-naked torsos.

I'd not had much exposure to the few slaves in my rural community where they are the exception rather than the norm. The handful of slaves I'd come across were mainly farm labourers and they were treated benignly by their owners. But what I now witness shocks my senses and arouses pity within me for the plight of these unfortunate wretches. The filthy scraps of tattered rags they wear tied around their emaciated waists are a small gesture of decency but I suspect this concern is for the onlooker's outraged sensibilities rather than the slave's dignity and self-respect.

And as we approach the galley - whereby I hope to travel to Doraenium - I am overwhelmed by its foul stench. It is the stench of slavery; of the unwashed, sweat-sodden bodies of the galley slaves and their bodily wastes. The sickly sweet smell of excrement, urine and vomit fouls the very air that I breathe. The vileness of it catches in my throat and cause me to dry retch. One of the seamen sees my distress and comments.

"You mightn't think so now but if you sign on as a member of the crew you'll soon get used to the slaves' stink. It grows on you until you don't notice it no more!"

I doubt that very much but it would seem if I am to travel to Doraenium then I must endure the foulness of the galley-slaves. I comfort myself with the thought that my trip is a brief one of two days. It seems a small price to pay for a free trip to the Island of Doraenium.

"There she be, lad! There's the "Lucky Wanderer."

The old seaman points to a sixty oared galley moored at the end of the wharf. It truly is a thing of obscene beauty with its sleek, black hull and colourful superstructure painted in hues of red, green, blue and gold. Written at the bow and stern in large, gilt lettering is the galley's name - "Lucky Wanderer". Given the suffering of the naked slaves chained three to an oar, the name strikes me as most incongruous. I doubt if any of the one hundred and eighty oar-slaves would consider themselves lucky.

My new companions lead me up a gangplank and along a walkway that bisects the waist of the galley towards a canopied, raised poop-deck overlooking the rowing benches. For the first time I catch a glimpse of the miserable wretches whose overtaxed muscles power the galley. Like the slaves I saw on shore, their hair has been cropped close to their scalps and their beards are trimmed in a vain attempt to deny sanctuary to the body lice and other parasites that feast off their sweat encrusted bodies. Most of the slaves are slumped over their oars in an attitude of resignation and they are obviously resting before the tambour alerts them that their rest period is at an end and before the whips of the overseers spur them into action. I recall, back in the tavern, a seaman mentioned the galley is to set sail that evening.

I walk between the serried ranks of sun-blackened bodies and I see the bare backs laid open by the savage whips of the slave drivers. Some of the cicatrices are obviously old scar tissue but superimposed over these are fresher, bleeding ones. My arrival seems to stir some slaves out of their stupor and they watch as I follow behind the seamen. I see written into their lined, stubbled faces their utter hopelessness and the bleakness of their situations; their eyes - dulled by the pain of their suffering - reflect the bitter resignation of their appalling fates.

I climb the steep steps up onto poop-deck where I am introduced to the galley captain by one of my newfound friends. As the old seaman tells the captain about my wish to visit Doraenium, his eyes rake over me and I find myself looking away uncomfortably. He listens intently to what the seaman tells him and occasionally nods his head in silent agreement. Finally, he speaks.

"Why do you want to visit Doraenium, boy?"

I bristle at his use of "boy" to address me but he holds the upper hand and so I bite my tongue. I'm unimpressed by the captain - he strikes me as a shifty character - but I console myself with the knowledge two days from now I will walk away from the "Lucky Wanderer" and most probably our paths will never cross again. So I answer him with due civility and call him "sir".

"Sir, I have heard talk about the annual festival held each spring on the island and I wanted to see it for myself. It will all be very new to me."

Quite deliberately, I don't mention that I want to witness the auction of the slaves which is the highlight of the festival. Instead, I mention the music, the plays, the feasting and dancing and games that are held in conjunction with the three days of auction.

"Well lad, you've picked a good year to visit Doraenium. I believe there are a record number of slaves on offer this year and the entertainment associated with the auctions is bigger and better than ever. But tell me, have you ever been to a slave auction?"

"No sir!" I answer truthfully. "There are very few slaves in my village and none are ever sold locally."

"Well then you are in for quite a spectacle watching as the naked slaves are inspected before mounting the auction-block and being knocked down to the highest bidder. It's all very exciting and there's a real buzz around the sale-ring. In fact, I have a cargo of nearly two hundred prime, young, male slaves destined for the sale stowed below decks."

The knowledge that the galley is carrying such a large cargo of slaves comes as a shock. Previously, the seamen had mentioned they were ferrying slaves over to the sale but I'd not considered there'd be so many. But that does account for the galley's underlying foulness. With these slaves added to the oar slaves there are nearly four hundred slaves on board. No wonder it stinks to high heaven. One can only imagine at the filth in which the hapless slaves are forced to travel. And for the first time I hear the incessant murmur of voices echoing up from the ship's bowels like the buzzing of so many angry wasps.

"Where did all the slaves come from?" I ask in amazement.

"I don't know and more to the point I don't care?" The Captain's answer is both blunt and callous and for the first time I glimpse his inherent cruelty. "When a slave is brought to me I never ask his owner how he became a slave. I suppose some slaves are war captives, others are criminals or are simply grabbed off the dark streets and alleyways of some town or city and spirited away into slavery. Anyway, it doesn't matter - once he is naked and in chains he's a slave in my eyes and there's no going back for him. Next stop is the auction-block. My only interest is in the price he fetches for me. This year should be a windfall for me. I understand there's to be a reserve price of eighty silver discs per head. "

I do the sums quickly in my head and come up with a figure of sixteen thousand silver discs for the two hundred slaves. I don't know the amount of the galley-master's initial outlay for his cargo but I suspect it is considerably less than profit he'll make on the unfortunate wretches.

Slavery isn't something that I'd ever seriously considered. To me, it had always been an abstract thing - some men just seemed to be slaves - and those too few with whom I'd had contact were benignly treated and seemed happy with their lot. True, they are owned property and subject to the rules their farmer masters impose upon them and they could be punished at their owner's whim. However, I have never witnessed a slave being punished!

On the other hand, I have been made to gather in the village square and watch as our local overlord had a free man whipped for some minor infraction of the law on many occasions. Free men are as subject as any slave to the rules and punishments of their "betters".

Indeed, I'd left my home without the permission of my feudal overlord and I know there is the very real possibility on my return home in a few days' time that I could be stripped to the waist, tied to a whipping post and flogged before the assembled villagers for "absenting myself without leave".

As a peasant, is there all that much difference between me and a chattel slave?

"Tell me lad," The captain asks, "where are you from? Where is your village?"

"It's a two day walk inland from here, sir! And it's more of a hamlet than a village with just a few families who serve the local lord and his tenant farmers."

"What work do you do to serve the lord and his farmers?"

"I work with my father who is the blacksmith."

"How long have you worked at the forge?"

"I can't remember a time when I didn't work with my father. Even as a small boy I would be beside him in the forge pumping the bellows and stoking the embers for him. Later on, I worked at shoeing the horses, making ploughshares and other farming implements."

"Ahh and it shows! What a strong, sturdy young man you are. Obviously you spring from good country stock. How old are you, lad?"

"I'm seventeen sir!"

"And you're all alone in the world seeking adventure? You have no travelling companions or relatives living here in the city?"

"No sir. I'm on my own. I just want to see the festival at Doraenium and then return home to my village in a few days' time."

"And you shall see Doraenium. I can promise you that, lad. My crew members tell me you want to work your passage over to Doraenium. Is that correct?"

"If that's at all possible, yes please sir! I promise you I will work hard."

"To tell you the truth I have a full crew at the moment and I'm not looking for any extra deckhands. But I like the 'cut of your gib' lad and I want to help you if I can. But the only job I can offer you is as a junior overseer of my oars slaves. I need someone to feed and water them and to help the senior slavedrivers put the whip to their lazy backs to keep the oars moving. It's not a job for the squeamish however. Do you feel you can do that? If you do, then the job is yours for the taking."

The question disturbs me. I'd thought that I would work as a member of the crew swabbing decks and keeping things shipshape and in their proper place. Or helping the overseers with the victualling of the slaves. It had never occurred to me that I would be offered a place as a junior whip master over the galley slaves. After all, I know nothing about the control and discipline of slaves and I'd never used a whip on anything other than a stubborn mule or an ox. This had never unduly worried me but to whip a man is another matter altogether. Am I capable of such a cruel act?

I don't know if I am and I express my doubts to the captain.

"I'm sorry sir! But I have to be honest with you. I have never whipped anything other than an animal. I have never whipped a man."

"Lad! There's nothing to it. Just think of the slave as another animal like any other farm beast-of-burden and you'll be right. Because that's what a slave is - a work animal and he has to be driven to get the best out of him. He ceased to be a man the moment he was enslaved. Don't ever be afraid to use your whip on a lazy slave any more than you would on a truculent plough-ox. And you look as though you could wield a whip to good effect. You're young, strong and well-muscled. I don't doubt you have a good whipping arm. What do you say, lad? Yes or no? The jobs yours if you want it."

I do have some reservations; but my need to travel to Doraenium overcomes my lingering scruples. I rationalize my decision by telling myself that it will only be for two days and that the galley-slaves will still be whipped whether or not it is by me. Anyway, couldn't I hold back on the whip and just go through the motions of using it? Yes, that's what I'll do! I'll go through the charade of using a whip.

"Thank you sir, I accept!"

"Good for you! Well then, let's get you kitted out for your new role. Let's get you out of your farm tunic and leggings and into an overseer's uniform. Strip lad, while I send for my boatswain to fetch some pantaloons for you. You'll notice the overseers work shirtless; this is so their whip arms are unimpeded by clothing. It allows them more freedom of movement. By the way, what is your name?"

"My name is Linus, sir! Do I really have to strip naked in front of you?"

"We're all men of the world here, Linus. And we are all used to seeing a man naked. Why, look below you down onto the rowing-benches and you'll see lots of naked bodies. We don't think twice about nudity on board our galley, Linus. You're not shy about showing us your body are you? You have nothing to hide, do you?"

Of course I have nothing to hide and I bristle inwardly at the mere suggestion that I might. In fact, I'm proud of my body which has been honed to hard perfection at my father's forge. Indeed there'd not be too many of my age who has attained my physical development. Usually, I work stripped to the waist in the forge and I am aware that many of the village maidens wander past the forge just to glimpse my body. Like Narcissus, I like the idea that they find me worth a second glance and often I'll put on a muscular show just for them by hammering away at some hard, metal object on the anvil.

Oh, with all the vanity of a strutting peacock I primp and pose my body; I puff out my chest and suck in my stomach so that it shows the hard ridges of my belly muscles. As the maidens giggle and chat behind hands held to their mouths I titillate them by flexing my biceps and stretching my thigh and leg muscles so that they are thrown into sharp relief. I know that I present a pleasing sight as my sweat soaked, semi-naked torso glistens orange-red in the glow of the forge's coals. And unusually for my dark haired people, my own is the colour of sun-ripened corn and I have blue eyes. My chest has a light dusting of blond hair which is repeated on my limbs and a treasure trail of slightly darker hair begins at my sternum and trails down the centre line of my abdominals before disappearing suggestively beneath the waistband of the loin cloth I wear in the forge for comfort.

And I am aware that several of the young men of the village find me attractive also. They'll drop in for a chat as I work and always I am aware that I am under their close scrutiny. In some ways this masculine interest arouses and excites me more than that of the females. There is something about the male that I find powerfully erotic. Always, I supress these thoughts; man love is frowned upon in our village and can lead to dire consequences for its practitioners.

Fortune has dealt generously with me and given me the most prodigious genitalia. My cock is long and thick and my two large testicles swing heavily in my low hanging ball sac. I am justifiably proud of my cock and balls and I most certainly don't have any reason to be ashamed of my body.

Therefore the galley captain's questions irk me!

I begin to disrobe by removing my upper garment. As I raise my arms and pull my peasant's blouse over my head, my chest and armpits are exposed to the view of the captain and his crew. Momentarily, my view is obscured by my shirt and I don't see the smirks on their faces or hear the sharp intake of their breath. I do however see the lascivious licking of the lips and the craning forward of their heads to watch me as I remove my boots, leggings and loose fitting trousers. Soon, all that separates me from total nudity is the brief cincture that I wear as an undergarment. Despite this garment affording me some modesty, nevertheless I feel very vulnerable under such close scrutiny and I pause in my undressing. But the captain urges me to continue undressing.

"Carry on, Linus! Don't be shy. You're among friends and you don't have anything to fear from us."

Despite his re-assurances, I still view the captain with some suspicion. I don't know what it is about the man but my sixth sense tells me he's not to be trusted. But if I wish to have passage to Doraenium I have no other choice but to acquiesce to his request and to obey his orders. Hopefully, these won't be too onerous?

I unfasten the cincture and allow it to fall to the deck between my feet. I hear the murmurs of approval as the captain and his fellow crew-members survey my total nakedness. Appalled at their obvious interest in me - which I now recognize is sexually motivated - I instinctively cover my genitals with my cupped hands and try to afford myself a small measure of dignity.

Desperately, I look around for the boatswain to bring me my overseer's pantaloons and I watch as he laboriously climbs the steep steps from the rowing pit up to the poop deck burdened by a heavy, hessian sack carried on his stooped back. This bag puzzles me; where are the pantaloons that the captain had sent for?

The overseer is fortyish - as far as I can tell - and dressed in loose fitting pantaloons. He is naked from the waist up except for a sleeveless, open fronted, leather vest that reveals a massive chest and protruding belly covered in thick, black hair. This hirsuteness is in sharp contrast to the shining, bald dome of his head. Fastened to a belt around his waist is a sinister, black whip. Despite it being sinuously coiled, I can tell it is very long and I will subsequently discover that its length allows him to put it simultaneously to the backs of the three slaves manning an oar thus making it a most useful instrument of coercion. He looks at me most intently through narrow slitted eyes as he noisily drops the hessian bag from his shoulders; I wonder at the loud, metallic clunk as it hits the deck's timbers.

"Ah Linus me lad, here's your new uniform!" The captain exclaims and then turning to the three seamen who'd befriended me in the tavern, he tells them. "Perhaps you can help Linus don his uniform?"

The tone of his voice suggests it's an order rather than a request and suddenly I am fearful. Something tells me that all is not as it should be and I decide to take my leave of the captain and his foul galley.

"On second thoughts, I've decided not to go over to Doraenium." I blurt out. "I should return home as my parents will be worrying about me."

As I bend to pick up my clothes, I don't see the three seaman move to encircle me. It's not until I straighten up that I become aware of their close proximity to me. This startles me and as I prepare to dress and leave, the captain tells me.

"You won't be leaving us laddie! You said you wanted a berth to Doraenium and you'll be coming with us irrespective of what you want."

I see the nod of the captain's head and suddenly the three seaman pounce on me. Two pinion me by my arms and the third grabs hold of my body in a vain attempt to stop me from struggling. Unreasoning fear now drives me and I begin to struggle with new found reserves of strength I never knew I possessed. Oh how I struggle; I twist and contort my naked body in my efforts to break free of the firm grasp of the three robust seamen. A sudden punch to the stomach temporarily winds me and I am rendered helpless. As I double over I receive a cuff to the head and a seaman orders me to.

"Stop struggling you little fucker! You ain't goin' nowhere."

I realize I'm no match for the combined strength of the three seamen and that my battle is an uneven one which will only cause me more grief. I cease my useless struggling and stand quivering and waiting to see what happens next.

The boatswain loudly empties his sack and as its contents spill out noisily on to the deck, I see a set of heavy leg irons, wrist shackles and a coarse iron collar. These are the accoutrements of slavery and instinctively I know they are meant for me.

Quaking with fear I ask the captain what is happening.

"Sir, what's going on? Why are those chains there?"

"They're for you laddie! You'll be wearing them over to Doraenium. You said you wanted to see the slave auction. Well you'll not only see it; you'll actively take part in it. I've just 'recruited' you as another of my slave cargo."

"You can't do that! I'm a free man. You can't enslave me."

"Believe me I can. Who's to stop me? You're on board my galley and we sail in a few hours. And more to the point, no one knows you are here. You said earlier you are two day walk from your home and you don't have relatives or friends here in the city. No one will miss you until it's too late. By the time your parents come looking for you you'll be a nameless, owned slave on Doraenium."

Unfortunately for me the captain's words ring true. I know no one in the city and I won't be missed. By the time my grieving father comes looking for me I will be long gone and no one will be any the wiser. My father's enquires will be to no avail and he won't learn that I am a slave on Doraenium. Eventually, he'll be forced to abandon his search for me and return to our village to provide for his family. Perhaps they'll grieve for my unknown fate but will that grief lessen over the years until I become just a memory to them. Tears fill my eyes; and I curse myself for my naivety in trusting the three seamen who'd appeared to offer me their friendship. It is a sign of my unworldliness that I'd allowed myself to be seduced so easily. It would appear I am to pay a high price for my stupidity.

Nevertheless, I plead through my tears with the captain to set me free. But now I see the cruelty of the man as he orders the boatswain to fit the chains to my wrists and ankles.

Once more I struggle uselessly and lash out with my legs in all directions. I fight with superhuman strength and several times I'm vaguely aware that my foot has made contact with one of my assailants. I hear their obscene curses and I feel their punches raining down on me. Even so, I am proving a handful for them and they wrestle with me until my body is prone to the deck. I feel the rough timbers rasping against my naked flesh but my fear makes me impervious to any pain.

Rough hands seize hold of my feet while someone sits on my chest immobilizing me. I am helpless as I feel the cold iron shackles close around my ankles. Next, my arms are seized and stretched out along the deck above my head and as the boatswain fastens the iron chain around my wrists, I give vent to all my pent-up emotions. From somewhere deep within the very depths of my being I bellow out a single cry of raw, primal fear.

"NOOOO!!!!"

It contains all my anger, fear, rage and frustration. But most of all it reflects the hopelessness of my situation.

With my wrists and ankles shackled the battle is almost over. All that remains is for the heavy iron collar to be locked around my neck. I feel the roughness of the coarsely cast iron rubbing against my throat as its two, hinged halves meet and are fastened with a metal rivet. Exhausted and defeated, I now lie quivering at the feet of my captors. I don't know why but the deck seems to offer me a sense of security as I lie panting to regain my breath on its hard, unyielding surface. I am reluctant to move and I'm surrounded by five pairs of legs while above me, I hear the captain discussing me with my three, erstwhile, new friends.

"You've done well, boys! He's a fine specimen and will fetch a nice price at auction. With those handsome features and his nicely honed body, he'll be eagerly sought after by the buyers. My bet is that he's destined for some lucky ass-botherer's bed."

"And cap'ain, we'll get our usual spotter's fee?" The oldest of the seamen asks.

"Of course, you'll get ten per cent of his selling price which should keep you in grog swilling money for a while."

As they talk, I scrunch myself into the foetal position. Idiotically, I have the idea that if I do this I will make myself less conspicuous. It's strange how the human brain works when it is under great stress. I roll my naked body into a tight ball and as I do so I hear the unaccustomed sounds of the chains rattling on my feet and wrists. I'm shocked by this sudden, unexpected turn of events. My mind struggles to grasp that I am now a naked, shackled slave destined for the auction block. I think of my parents and my siblings and the knowledge that they are lost to me forever overwhelms me to such an extent that I give way to my fraught emotions and I hear myself crying and sobbing.

Once more, all to no avail, I begin to plead for my release. But the galley captain is firm in his resolve. As he looks down on me, I see the contempt he feels for me reflected in his eyes; he doesn't see me as a fellow human; I am now a slave and he only sees my worth in terms of the money he'll receive when I am sold.

His next words reflect his hard-heartedness towards my plight.

"GET UP ONTO YOUR FEET!"

Dazed, his words are slow to register and I fail to obey his order. Viciously, he lashes out at me with his foot and kicks my ass.

"I said get up!"

Still I hesitate and I don't see him take a whip from the boatswain and aim it at my unprotected body. I hear the initial, staccato crack of the whip and I hear its whine followed by the loud "thwack" of leather striking bare flesh - my flesh. As the lash cuts across my shoulders I experience unimaginable pain. I hear my answering, hoarse scream of outrage and pain. Once more, I hear the sibilant hiss of the whip before it cuts across my lower back and ass.

"I ordered you to your feet! GET UP! A slave obeys any command given to him immediately."

To emphasize the point, he whips me one more time. Now fearful of the captain's anger and his whip, I hastily scramble to my feet and stand trembling with fear before him and his crew members.

"That's better, boy! As a new slave you'll do well to remember to respond to an order without hesitation. First thing you need to realize is that your master always holds the whip hand. Now stand up straight and present yourself for my inspection. Shoulders back, chest out, belly sucked in, legs apart and put your hands behind your head. Oh and clench your ass-checks together and thrust your cock and balls forward. That the stance you must now adopt when in the presence of free men. And you don't wait until you are told to do it. You do it as a matter of course. But you'll soon learn, I'm sure of that! The lash is a good teacher of slave etiquette."

The tone of his voice has me quaking to such an extent that my new chains are rattling. Without a second thought, I adopt the stance he demands and I'm suddenly aware of my naked vulnerability. My nude body is now open to scrutiny and I am about to be introduced to one of the most of the demeaning atrocities that all slaves are routinely subjected to - a close body inspection and the obscene fingering of my ass and genitals. But as yet, I'm not aware of this and so I stand and fearfully wonder what is to happen next.

Obviously, I have pleased the captain and he compliments me.

"Good boy! You responded to my command and I'm pleased with how you are presenting yourself." Then turning to the boatswain he asks. "What's your first impression of the slave?"

"He's a fine specimen! Strong of body and sound of wind and limb I should think. Personally, I think he'd make a good oar-slave. The years of working in in his father's forge has prepared him for the hard, physical labour of the galley-slave. I can imagine his stressed body tugging at an oar with his muscles and sinews stretched to their utmost limits. He's also very young and in the prime of his youth. I estimate there's about fifteen to twenty years of service at the oars in him."

"Aye, no doubt you're right about that!" The captain replies. "But he's a handsome lad with a most pleasing face and body who would delight the most discriminating buyer. He could just as easily serve as a body slave or a bed-buck. He'd make an excellent 'belly-warmer' on a cold winter's night."

"That's true too, captain. It seems we see the slave through different eyes. I see him as a heavy duty oars-slave and you see him as a rich man's plaything - a pleasure slave. I'd consider that a waste of a strong, young slave."

Their discussion is about me but it doesn't include me. I stand powerless as the captain and his boatswain discuss the merits of my body and the best uses for it. Neither fate appeals to me but quickly I decide I'd rather be a rich master's 'toy' than one of the hapless creatures chained to the oars below the poop-deck. The stench of the galley-slaves' foulness wafts up and assails my senses and I look down on the rows of whip-scarred, naked backs and I am appalled that I could share their fate.

But before deciding my fate, the captain decides to inspect me more closely. He begins by placing his hands on my shoulders and squeezing the hard, rounded balls of my biceps to test their strength. Then he pummels my chest for its soundness and orders me to alternatively inhale and exhale and to hold my breath. He places an ear on my chest and listens to my wildly beating heart. He grunts his approval and maliciously pinches and twists my nipples to test my re-action. Then his hands slide down over my belly before pausing to insert a fingertip into the deep indent of my navel. Satisfied that it's not herniated, he continues down past my cock and balls but bypasses them.

His hands are well-practised in gauging the strengths and weaknesses of a slave and they slide down the outside of my legs to my feet before he runs them back up the inside of them to my groin stopping only to squeeze my calves and thigh muscles .

Despite my trauma, I find myself responding involuntarily to the feel of his hands on my body. There is something strangely erotic about the touch of this man's hands dispassionately exploring my nakedness. I'm aware of the withdrawal of my balls back into my ever-tightening scrotum and the inevitable pumping of red-hot blood into my thickening cock. The captain reaches between my legs and rolls each of my balls between his fingers before he wipes a small, thread of precum from my piss-slit. Then, he orders me to turn with my back facing him.

Again, he begins at my shoulders; he slides his hands down over the concave of my back, pausing to pound the different muscle-groups before moving down to my ass. He takes a tightly clenched ass-cheek in either each hand and squeezes hard.

Obviously he is pleased with me and comments favourably to his boatswain.

"You're right! He does have the body of a galley slave. He possesses broad shoulders, a powerful, muscular back and strong arms and legs with a long reach suited to the oars. His ass is a rower's ass there's no doubting that. And he is sound in the chest with good lung capacity and a strongly beating heart. I'll just check his ass and his teeth to make sure they're sound."

The captain slaps my ass and orders me to bend at the waist. I shuffle into position and he instructs me to.

"SPREAD THEM WIDE!"

I'm at a loss to know what he means and my ass is soundly slapped several times because of my ignorance.

"Reach behind and take an ass-cheek in each hand and pull them apart."

I do as I'm told but it still doesn't satisfy the captain. He reaches out and cuffs my head and he instructs me to.

"Pull them apart! Further yet! Further! That's it now hold still!"

I feel a finger lightly tracing a line from the base of my spine down through the crevasse of my ass to my anus. The finger is used to both relax and excite me before it is crudely thrust through my tight sphincter into the inner recesses of my body. At first, the unfamiliar feel of this intrusion is both distasteful and uncomfortable. But the captain persists and I'm aware of the finger's probing search for my prostate. As it make contact with my pleasure nub, I am enveloped in a most pleasurable sensation and the involuntary working of my ass muscles seek to draw the intruder further into me. The captain responds by 'finger fucking" me for several minutes. I am oblivious to everything other than the intense pleasure that washes over me. It is unlike anything I have ever experienced. Is this one of the duties of a pleasure slave?

I feel the rapid engorging of my cock until it is as erect as I can ever remember it being. Hungrily, I want to devour the finger and eagerly, I begin to thrust back against it seeking even more pleasure. This pleases the captain and he laughingly comments to the watching crew members.

"The slave's really riding my finger. Imagine if it was a cock up his ass instead of a finger. He'll give his new master a great fuck."

"Is that to be his future then?" The boatswain asks disdainfully. "If so that's a pity! It'll be the waste of a good slave better suited to the rowing-bench than a rutting-bed."

"I guess it's a matter of getting the best value from him. On the auction-block, he'd certainly attract a lot of interest as a pleasure slave and I would expect to get a tidy return on him. But as you say, there's fifteen good, productive years in him as an oar-slave. It's a hard decision and one I'll need to think about before we reach Doraenium."

"And in the meantime what is to be done with him? Is he to be put down in the bilges with the other slaves?"

"I suppose so! Do you have another suggestion?"

"Yes I do, captain. Let's put him to an oar for the two day trip over to the island. That way we can see if he's best suited to the oars or the pleasure couch. And if you do decide to sell him at auction the exercise at the oar will have conditioned him nicely."

As the two talk together, I'm still bent double with my ass-cheeks spread widely and the captain's finger buried deep within my rectum. They seem to be oblivious to me. I am there but as an object to be talked about. I am appalled at the prospect of being chained to an oar and made to row under the overseer's whip. Still this is a decision that will be made on my behalf and I cannot influence it in anyway.

"That's an excellent idea! And I like the irony of it too." The captain laughs. "The slave did come on board and asked to be allowed to work his passage over to Doraenium. This way, he'll certainly work out his berth and it will give me time to decide his future. He's yours for the next two days but hold back on the whip; I don't want his back opened up. And I don't want him disfigured for the auction-block should I decide to sell him."

"Captain, being new to the oar, he will need 'encouraging'. But I will inform the whip- masters to apply the lash lightly. But I doubt that a superficial stripe or two will deter the buyers. To the contrary - from what I remember - the buyers like to see a slave who has been recently disciplined."

"Certainly that's true," the captain replies, "but they would see open, bleeding cuts as a sign of heavy punishment and that could hint that the slave is troublesome."

"I'll do as you say captain! I will make sure the whip doesn't disfigure him in anyway."

"Very good, then he's yours for the duration of the voyage over to Doraenium. But first, I'll just check out his mouth and teeth and see if they are as healthy as his ass. His ass is sound and as tight as a drum. It has much to offer to the discerning buyer."

And so with those words from the galley captain my fate is sealed!

I am now destined to be a slave for the remainder of my life. My immediate prospects are those of a galley slave and for the next two days I will sit shackled to a rowing-bench alongside the other miserable wretches who ply the oars of the "Lucky Wanderer".

Beyond that - who knows my fate! That is in the hands of the captain. He might decide that I best serve his interests as a galley-slave. Or it might be that his avarice will win the day and I will mount the auction-block at the special spring slave sale on Doraenium and become the pleasure-slave of some lecherous master.

That choice is the galley captain's to make but ultimately my fate rests in the hands of the fickle gods who decide a man's ultimate destiny!