"THE AFTERMATH"
(Or What Follows Next)
Chapter 13: "Pre-Sale Inspections"

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

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris)
An archive of my stories can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories 

"The characters and ideas contained in this story are the writer's and shouldn't be used without permission. Please respect the integrity of the story and don't do rewrites, alterations or add pictures."

Chapter 13: "Pre-Sale Inspections"

Conventional wisdom has it that there are two types of men who attend slave auctions. Firstly, there is the genuine buyer who is looking to buy an asset and then there are the voyeurs whose primary concern is to satisfy their lusts by fingering the naked slaves on display.

Today, I am to be exposed to both.

                          >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I am one of a long line of 51 slaves displayed on the viewing podium and I'm chained by my ankle to the position allocated to Lot 25; to my right are the two blond cousins at Lot 26. I, of course, wear the number 25 written in large black numerals on my left breast and my right flank and to avoid any confusion to the buyers a large, yellow `Lot 25' is painted on the podium at my feet.

It is still early - just a few minutes after 9.00 AM - but already the first buyers are moving in to examine all the slaves on offer at today's sale. Looking along the line, I see some of my fellow slaves suffering under the inspections of these early-bird buyers. I say suffering because it is impossible to adequately convey to a person who isn't a slave, how we really feel at the indignities being visited upon us.

Forbidden to display any emotion, how does a slave show his humiliation? The simple answer is that he doesn't. No matter what abuses he is subjected to, the slave must always remain docile and accepting of what is being done to him. To ensure that we do so, we are under the strict control of overseers armed with vicious canes who constantly prowl along our line enforcing this passivity upon us.

In my capacity as farm manager, I'd been to the slave market many times with my Master. As a slave, I was forbidden to attend an auction unless I was in the company of my owner. For practical reasons my Master, Andy Trevorrow, had often taken me with him when he was buying or selling slaves; as his manager he'd valued my opinion on another slave's capacity for hard labour.

In the past, I'd never considered how a slave felt about being sold; after all he was only a working asset - a unit of labour - that my Master was interested in buying or selling. And, given my selfish disinterest in my fellow slaves, his state of mind wasn't of any consequence to either me or my Master.

Today, it is different. I stand on the podium and I am now subject to the whims and fancies of the viewing public.

I am familiar with the geography of the slave market. The area where I stand, fronts onto a large square set aside by the city authorities for the selling of livestock and other farm produce. 

This area is situated in the industrial quarter of the city, far from any residential areas whose residents are protected from the market's pollution. In constant use, the permanent smell of farm animals hangs faintly over the area and I, accustomed to farm life, can make out the individuals odours. My trained nostrils are able to distinguish the smell of horses from that of cattle, that of sheep from goats and of course there is also the pungent smell of pigs and poultry.

I wonder - do we slaves have our own distinctive odour that we add to the potpourri of the market? I suspect we do. After all, I've just spent three days incarcerated in the slave pens and the foul stink of slavery still lingers in my consciousness.

Behind me are the viewing pens from which we have just been released and placed on the viewing platform. We'd spent some one and half hours locked in them and were exposed to public scrutiny. Our time in these pens was a precursor of what is to come.

All fifty-one of us carried into the pens a range of emotions - shock, fear, outrage, anger, frustration, despair and hopelessness - but overriding these is a deep sense of shame and humiliation. 

Here, naked and in chains we were scrutinised, visually appraised and dispassionately discussed as the animals we are. 

Stupidly, we thought that by constantly moving around the pens we would be spared this. But as we noisily shuffled around, we could overhear the various comments made about us; "Lot 10 looks strong; he has good muscle tone ", or "Lot 31 looks as if he'd be a good breeding buck" and more ominously "look at the ass on number 16; he'll be good in bed".

I know a slave is supposed to be inured to such things; but the reality of the situation is that we aren't. Deep within us, there is still a small spark of our former humanity that makes us suffer hurt. But as slaves we are forbidden to show emotion and we must keep our true feelings well-hidden from our masters.

I watch as the various stall-holders quickly set-up shop for the day. These are the subsidiary stalls that cater to the needs of both buyers and spectators. 

One particular stall attracts my attention. Judging by the whips, brands and restraints on display, it obviously caters to the needs of slave-owners. Billboards advise buyers that it is possible to have,  

"Your new purchase enhanced quickly and cheaply - skinning, branding, piercing and adornments are our specialty".  

To emphasise this, there are two heavily decorated, young slaves standing at the entrance to the stall. Even at this early hour, they are attracting much attention.

Now I'm assailed by the delicious aroma of cooking foods; this is coming from the fast-food/takeaway stalls set up to cater for the hungry buyers and spectators. My mouth salivates and my stomach - denied food since yesterday - rumbles. I can't imagine what these foods taste like, but my hunger fires my imagination. How I would love to sample some of them.

For the nearly twenty years of my slavery, I have existed on a bland and tasteless diet of slave fodder especially formulated to keep me fit, healthy and disease-free and which is guaranteed not to upset my digestive system or to rot my teeth.

Very rarely, my Master did reward me with a piece of fruit - how I savoured those occasions and the delicious tastes live on in my memory - but this went against the practice of good slave-husbandry and the advice of the slave dieticians. However, it wasn't something my Master did very often and he saw no harm in it.

Mostly, he rewarded me after a memorable night spent in his bed or if he was particularly pleased with some aspect of my good management of his affairs. Needless to say, I was always extremely grateful to him for his kindness in rewarding me.

To my left is an area that is enclosed by high brick walls; this is the area reserved for the actual auction of the slaves. This area - closed to the general public during an auction - is only accessible to those genuine buyers, who register their intention to buy on the day of the sale and are given an entry card to the auction; `spectators' are strictly excluded from this area by the slave-dealers. These spectators must confine their activities to the display area.

My Master once told me that, originally, this area had been open to the general public, but the dealers had become impatient with the frivolous and time wasting requests from non-buyers who continually asked for the slave being sold to be "put through his paces". 

This means that only genuine buyers will have access to us as we mount the auction block this afternoon. Given the volume of slaves to be sold today, the auctioneers will be keen to keep proceedings moving along briskly.

Around three sides of this courtyard there are ascending tiers of seats for the buyers - these seats are protected from the elements by wide, overhanging awnings. Along the fourth wall is the raised platform on which stands the actual auction block. The wooden block, adjacent to the covered auctioneer's podium, is unprotected; this exposure of the slave is deliberate - as the slave stands on the block, his oiled body is highlighted by the sun. 

Steps lead down from the rear of this platform to a race-like enclosure where the slaves are lined up in numerical order, one behind the other, to await their turn on the block. It goes without saying that the actual sale of the slaves is conducted with businesslike efficiency and precision.

Slowly, the crowds are building up and my attention is drawn to a group of rowdy, boisterous, teen-aged youths clustered around one unfortunate slave standing in number one position. I'm too far away from them to know what precisely is happening but judging by the raucous laughter of the crowd of onlookers, they are having fun at his expense. As I watch, I'm suddenly ordered to

"Pay attention , slave! FACE THE FRONT! NOW!"

I recognise the stern voice of Silas Hacker, the overseer of Redgrove Plantation.

Immediately, I assume the display position and respectfully lower my eyes to the ground.

"This is the slave I was telling you about Ben. What do you think of him?"

The speaker is Theodore Russell, owner of Redgrove and the man who had examined me two days ago. Then, he'd shown great interest in me as a possible breeder for his stud, although there had also been the suggestion that I could serve as a fancy slave in the Russell household. 

I knew that the overseer disapproved of this second proposal - he would much rather that I labour in the fields with my back bent under his whip. It has to be said none of these prospects overly appeal to me, but I stand helpless. Those choices aren't mine to make.

With my eyes downcast, I sense rather than see who is standing in front of me. Submissively, I wait for him to take the initiative. That is his prerogative as a free person - I, as a slave, must wait on him. Silently, he mounts the platform and I feel his firm hands placed upon my chest. The thought flashes through my mind that examining my oil-coated body will be messy, but I know there are areas set aside where the buyers can wash-up after they have finished their inspections.

As his hands confidently move over me, I know that I'm being evaluated professionally and not sexually, unlike the overseer's inspection of me of two days ago. Silas Hacker had left no doubt in my mind as what his interest in me entailed; he'd even whispered in my ear that we would enjoy fucking me. I sense this isn't what my current inspection is about. 

Still, as the hands continue down over my stomach, I wonder - is there much of a difference? 

On the one hand, the overseer's inspection had reduced me to an object of his lust, whereas this current inspection is evaluating me much as one would judge a work animal. These hands seek out my strengths and weaknesses, my capacity for hard work and what contribution I will make to the Russell family`s fortunes. Both reduce me to the status of a beast.

A hand is placed under my chin and as my head is lifted, I look into the face of the man who is examining me. I see a youthful, handsomely arrogant face, staring intently into my own. I am in the presence of Theodore Russell's older son, twenty year old Ben. Momentarily, our eyes meet and then, submissively, I lower mine. Slowly, he turns my face to the left and he studies my profile before turning it to the right. Satisfied, he now orders me to. 

"FLEX".

I obey as best I can, but my movements are restricted by the heavy chains I wear around my wrists. Nevertheless, I manage to raise my arms level with my shoulders and bend my forearms upwards so that the tight balls of my biceps are prominently displayed. Breathing deeply, the rise and fall of my chest bring into play my pectorals and highlight the definition of my abdominal muscles.

Embarrassingly, I feel the first stirrings of an impending erection.

"Joel, I want you to watch closely at what Ben is doing to the slave." I hear Theodore Russell instructing his seventeen years old son, Joel. "After he's finished, it'll be your turn. You're at an age now where you should know how to handle and appraise a slave. So watch closely at what your brother is doing." Then he asks impatiently, "Do you hear me, Joel?"

"Yes, Pa, I hear you. I'm watching. I'm watching. OK!" I hear the younger son's petulant answer.

I stand motionless as Ben's hands slide down over my chest and belly, pausing briefly to check my breathing and then continue down to my legs. I'm surprised that he bypasses my genitals - ignoring my now rampant erection - and concentrates instead on the front of my thighs and calves. Then, he commands me to. 

"TURN AROUND!"

I am over-awed by the imperious tone of his voice and his easy air of authority is that of a confident, free, young man who is in complete control of the situation. Should his father buy me, I know instinctively that I will submit to his will. It is obvious this young man won't tolerate disobedience or slackness in a slave and I hasten to obey his command.

I stand passively as he gauges the power of my shoulders and the strength of my back. He doesn't hurry in his examination of me. After all, he has plenty of time and I'm at his disposal for as long as he wants. I feel the knuckle of a finger travel up and down my back testing the soundness of my spinal column - any experienced owner knows a slave's back needs to be flexible as it bends to its labours. 

Then, there is my involuntary shiver as his hands move over the flaring curves of my buttocks. I tense as he takes both cheeks of my ass into his hands - kneading and squeezing them as a test of their firmness. Continuing down over my legs, he examines the hard, corded muscles of my thighs and calves. Responding to his touch, my cock grows even harder. Now he commands me to.

"Bend and spread your legs".

Immediately, I shuffle into position and move my feet as far apart as my shackles permit. However, my wrist restraints don't allow me to reach behind and open myself up to his scrutiny. Futilely, he tries to kick my feet further apart - they are already spread as wide as my chains allow - but I recognise this as a gesture on his part of his power over me.

"How's it going, Ben?" I hear Theo Russell's question to his son.

"So far, so good, Pa. You were right about him. He's pretty impressive. Perhaps a bit older than I thought but that isn't really a problem. He possesses a good strong body and he appears to be sound in wind and limb as the saying goes. He'll make a good field hand. That should make you happy, Silas. Another slave for the fields, eh? No doubt with the crops ready for harvesting, you can use another worker, Silas? What do you say?"

"Indeed, Ben. That is, if your father decides to use him in that capacity? My view is that he should be used as a work slave and not as some fancy house servant." Silas replies sourly.

"Is there any doubt as to where you'll use him, Pa?"

"Well I'm not sure, Ben. When your mother and sister see him they'll want him to serve in the house. But I did promise Silas he could use him at harvest time." Theo replies.

Bent double, I wait patiently as the three men discuss my future - a future in which I haven't any say.

"Look Pa. I'm with Silas. This slave belongs in the fields. He has a strong body with the promise of many years' service. Put him in the house and he'll become soft and flabby and that would be a pity. The slave deserves better than that. And you did mention you want to use him as a stud. You need to keep him fit and healthy for that. No, my recommendation is that you buy him as a field slave."

"Thanks Ben and I'll take your advice - although I might have to argue that with the womenfolk when they see him. But I did bring you along this morning for your expert opinion and I'll act on it."

"Thanks, Pa. I'll just check him out for soundness."

Now I feel Ben's finger brushing lightly up and down the cleft between my buttocks. It pauses long enough to excite the sensitive area surrounding my anus. As I relax, the finger is quickly thrust through my sphincter and seeks out my prostate. My cock throbs in response and I feel the precursors to an ejaculation as my pre-cum dribbles out of my piss-slit. 

As Ben's finger probes the depths of my body, my balls are cupped in his other hand and are jiggled up and down before each is rolled between his finger and thumb. Finally, he is satisfied and, with a dismissive slap on the ass, he orders me to

"Stand and face the front."

Once more, I stand at display and bow my head. I watch as my cock, jutting out at right angles to my belly, bobs up and down with each of its contractions and continues to dribble out the essence of my masculinity.

"I`m nearly done here, Pa." Ben tells his father as his fist encircles my cock and tickles its sensitive tip. I re-act by involuntarily clenching my buttocks and thrusting my hips back and forth as though I`m fucking his fist. 

"Well at least we know his dick works." He adds laughingly.

Withdrawing his hand from my cock, Ben orders me to. 

"DROP TO YOUR KNEES!"

Now on my knees, he runs his hands over my cropped head before he examines my ears, eyes and nose. Then, tapping the side of my face, he commands me to. 

"OPEN YOUR MOUTH! WIDE!" 

I hasten to obey and feel his finger checking the soundness of my teeth and the health of my tongue. Finally, his inspection of me now completed, Ben tells me to.

"Stand and face the front."

"There Pa, all done. He gets my tick of approval." He advises his father.

Then turning to his younger brother, Joel, he says "There you go little brother. The slave is all yours. Get to it."

How do I describe what follows next? How do I convey that utter shame and humiliation I feel as a disinterested eighteen years old - almost half my age - tries to emulate his older brother and `fumbles' his way through an inspection of me? 

His distaste at touching me is evident and it is only at the stern insistence of his father that he perseveres. His loud protests at when I'm made to bend over for him to check out my soundness, is matched by his revulsion at having to touch my prick. His comments to both are.

"This IS disgusting. It's just SO GROSS!"

My thoughts echo his words.

I'm ignored as the three older men continue to discuss me. They speculate on what I'm worth and how much I'm likely to sell for. They appear to set a price on how far they'll bid for me and once that is decided, the four walk away from the podium without a backward glance.

I'm subjected to many such inspections during the morning and intuitively I know for what I'm being inspected. Mostly the interest shown in me is for my capacity as a work slave, but there are other men whose interest in me would see me in their beds opening up my body for their pleasure.

I'm revolted by one such buyer - a man I judge to be aged about sixty, repulsively ugly and monstrously overweight, and whose face and bald head are covered in beads of perspiration; my nostrils wrinkle at the stale smell of the sweat that stains his underarms and chest. 

He licks his lips lasciviously as he fondles my cock and balls and plays with my ass. As he does so, I feel a suppressed disgust - principally with myself - at my body's unwilling response to his touch. I am terrified that I could soon belong to him. The unremitting, back-breaking labour of the fields has greater appeal to me than being this man's pleasure slave. I'm relieved when he loses interest in me and waddles off to examine another young slave four places to my right.

Once, during the morning, I catch a glimpse of my master as he inspects two slaves placed further down the line from me. By a simple process of counting back from my position, I calculate that these two slaves are Lots 16 and 17 - Lot 16, of course, was my recent partner in the shower. He is showing great interest in them and I realise that either of the two could be my master's choice as a replacement for me.

I am saddened by this realisation and homesick for my master and his farm, I hear myself loudly pleading.

"MASTER! MASTER! PLEASE MASTER!"

The two blond cousins, alerted to our Master's presence by my shouts, add their pleas to my own.

We don't hear the swish of the canes as three overseers apply them to our backs and asses. Our punishment attracts the attention of nearby bystanders who watch with great interest, as we are caned. 

Immediately, we fall silent and obey the order to,

"QUIETEN DOWN! STAND STILL!"

I'm heartbroken at my master's callous disregard for me and now I silently cry for what I have lost.

Quietly, I stand with my head bowed and wait in my chains to be sold.

I don't have much longer to wait. Soon it is lunchtime, the crowd of buyers are thinning out and the overseers move towards us - it is time to take us into the auction-yard.



To be continued .....................

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