
CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES
A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune"
Chapter 4: `Taken to the Assessor'

This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over
the age of 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 4: Taken to the Assessor'

Part 1: Along the Corridor

My muffled shouts echo down the long corridor that leads to....
where?

I'm conscious of my desperate struggling and I know the guards
are furious with me. But I'm beyond caring. Suddenly, they lose
patience and releasing their hold of me, they force me onto my
knees. They are old-hands at handling the newly enslaved and I
suffer under their expertise as their heavy, leather straps rain
down upon my exposed shoulders and back.

Screaming uselessly through my gag, I try to escape their anger
by crawling away but they follow after me and continue to lash
me. Finally, I realise the futility of my protest and I drop onto
my belly in an act of submission. Unforgiving, they give me
another two blows for good measure.

As I lie there, I see a pair of trousered legs standing before me
and I hear a voice asking.

"The new slave giving you trouble is he?"

"It's nothing that we can't handle sir!"

"Very well, then! Carry on!"

As the legs walk away from me, I wonder who they belong to;
obviously someone in authority judging by the deferential tone of
the guard's reply and his use of the honorific `sir'. From my
lowly position on the floor, I dare not look up in case this is
taken as disrespect on my part. My fear of the overseers' straps
overwhelms any curiosity I have. I lie trembling and await
further direction from my handlers.

"GET UP! Get up off your belly and onto your hands and knees.
NOW!"

As I hasten to obey, I once more feel the leather strap as it
cuts across my naked back and now I'm made to crawl to my
destination - wherever that is. To encourage me on my way the
guards toe my ass to keep me moving.

It's impossible for me to describe my abject despair. Less than
two hours ago I was the proud, young heir of the enormously
wealthy and powerful Barrois estate. Now I crawl naked like an
animal to the next stage of my enslavement. If it is the guards'
intention to dehumanise me, then they are monumentally
successful.

Crawling on my hands and knees, I have a new perspective of the
world. Not allowed to raise my head, I must keep my eyes fixed
straight ahead and I now have a dog's eye view of my immediate
environment. My handlers tower over me and my view of them
doesn't extend above their knees. I have literally been reduced
to the level of an animal and this is my ultimate debasement to
date.

But then, I had thought that about every indignity visited upon
me in the Court of Disputations. The revelation that I was
slave-born, my dispossession, the return to slavery, the
substitution of my given name with that of my new slave name,
Rafe and the very public humiliation of my enforced disrobing had
each, in its turn, seemed the final disgrace only to be replaced
by yet another. Is this - my crawling along on all fours like a
dog - to be superseded by some greater degradation? It is hard
for me to imagine what could be worse than this.

As I move quickly forward on all fours, I'm acutely aware of my
nudity. I'm deeply shamed by it and yet I have a strange, new
sense of freedom. My cock and balls, no longer constrained by
clothing, hang low from my body and swing freely between my
thighs and as I move forward, on one knee after the other, I
experience the sensation of the two cheeks of my buttocks rubbing
against each
other.

I'm ordered to "STOP" as my handlers are joined by several others
and I'm now surrounded by legs. Patiently, I wait as the group
talk among themselves over the top of me. With my head bowed, I
can't see who is talking but I hear the words and I know the
conversation is about me

"Is this the last one for the day?"

"Yep! He's it. How many does that make for the day?"

"Eleven all up - that includes this one. We took seven over to
the forge earlier. They've all been branded and collared and are
waiting for the dealers to pick them up."

"So that's another four to be done, including this one. Where are
the other three?"

"They're still with the assessor. He's doing the last one now and
is almost ready for this one."

"Then we won't keep him waiting. MOVE!"

Suddenly, I scream through my gag as a paroxysm of pain sweeps
through my body; my balls feel as though they've just been stung
by a wasp. My discomfort is the cause for much laughter among the
`legs' and once more I'm ordered to "MOVE!"

And to give emphasis to this latest command, I'm once more
subjected to the indescribable pain.

I'm unaware that one of the newer legs is equipped with a special
cane - the newly released `WHIPPISTIK'. Made from a synthetic
material this long, slender cane is incredibly flexible and
tapers down to a needle thin point. It is very versatile in that
it's capable of inflicting great pain to its victim and that in
the hands of an expert, this pain can be localised to just one
area of the body. It is a favourite instrument of control among
the courts' guards and they practice long and hard on their
charges to perfect their use of it. It can be used in the
traditional way - to deliver a painful stripe to a wayward
slave's back or ass - or alternatively, with a simple flick of
the wrist to centre that pain on a nipple, an ass-hole, a
cock-head or, as in my case, the testicles. It is guaranteed by
the manufacturer to bring even the most recalcitrant slave to
`heel"' quickly and I'd recently issued a few to my overseers for
trialling on my slaves. I'm well aware of the cane's
effectiveness; even more so now that it has been used on me.

Desperately, I scuttle forward on all fours in an effort to avoid
the cane's sting as behind me I hear the guards' crude laughter
at the comical spectacle I make.

"There's nothing quite like tickling their balls to get them
moving. It works every time." I hear my tormentor say.

Subdued, humiliated and fearful of further chastisement, I now
comply with all the commands of my two handlers. Guided by them,
I obediently continue to crawl down the long corridor towards a
door with a notice affixed to it and which in bold, black letters
declares it to be the

OFFICE OF SLAVE ASSESSMENTS & REGISTRATIONS
REGISTRAR: CYRUS T HUMBOLDT

Commanded to, "STOP!" I now wait as a guard opens the door for
me. Then, ordered to "GET IN! I make an undignified entry as the
other guard propels me forward onto my belly by pushing his boot
up against my ass.

Behind me I hear the loud laughter of the two guards.

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

Part 2: Cyrus T Humboldt, Registrar.

"STAND UP! Stand with your back to the wall and put your hands
behind your head. NOW!"

Hastily, I scramble to my feet and adopt the position demanded of
me.

"LOWER YOUR EYES TO THE FLOOR!"

Again, I hasten to comply. The harsh tone of the shouted commands
tells me that my handlers won't tolerate any hesitancy or show of
defiance on my part. My fear of punishment is now such that any
thoughts of disobedience no longer exist in my thinking. How
quickly I'm moving from being a free man to becoming a slave.

I find myself standing beside two newly enslaved young men. From
the corner of my eye, I see their trembling, naked bodies and I
hear their soft crying and sniffling. If I could look at their
faces I would also see the terror mirrored in their eyes.

Nearby a nervous, young guard stands proudly resplendent in a new
uniform. Two days into his cadetship, he has been sent by his
superiors to observe a slave assessment at first-hand and to wait
for the arrival of my two handlers with whom he has been assigned
to work.

I try to see where I am by surreptitiously peeping around the
room. The moderately sized room has a hospital-like appearance
with white tiled walls and a plain, buff coloured, linoleum
covered floor. Spaced at intervals around the room are stainless
steel furnishings - their uses elude me - but the one that
attracts my attention is directly in front of me.

It is a stainless steel bench about waist high upon which a third
young man is resting on all fours. He too is naked and he has his
head bowed in humiliation and defeat; his body shakes with his
sobs. Humiliatingly, he is being masturbated by another man who,
judging by his nakedness and the collar around his neck, is a
slave assisting the Registrar in his duties.

Suddenly, I'm confronted by a short, squat, middle-aged man
wearing a white surgical coat. I'm in the presence of the
Registrar of Slaves and he'll assess me before issuing ownership
papers for me to my new Master.

"This is the last one for the day, is it?" He asks my handlers.
"What's he done?"

"Yes! He's the last of them. He's an unusual case. You don't
recognise him?"

"No! Should I?"

"That's the former Lucien Barrois. Turns out he was born a slave
and has been living a lie all his life until he was found out.
Now he's just a slave named Rafe."

"Really?" The Registrar is genuinely surprised at this revelation
and peers intently at me through the spectacles perched on the
end of his nose. "Who would have thought it? Yes, I do see. I
recognise his face from his photos in the social columns. Of
course, I never moved in the same exalted circles as he did so I
never did see him in the flesh."

"Well you're about to now." the older of my two guards laughs.
"You can't see any more of him than having him stand before you
in his birthday suit as you assess him. After you've finished
with him, you'll know him better than anyone I`ll wager. My guess
is you`ll know him inside out."

The Registrar, always a serious man with an inflated sense of his
own importance, chooses to ignore the guard's crude attempt at
humour at his expense and asks me.

"Is it true boy? Were you Lucien Barrois?'

"Yes." is my simple, embarrassed reply.

I am rewarded for it with a stinging, open-handed slap to the
right side of my face by the extremely angry Registrar. The
brevity of my answer has insulted his dignity.

"Show me respect boy. A slave always addresses a free man as sir.
And remember a slave only speaks when he is given permission to
do so. Now, let's try again, shall we? Were you Lucien Barrois?"

"Yes sir." I answer respectfully through my tears.

"Then, what is your name now?'

"It's Rafe, sir."

"Good boy. That wasn't too difficult was it? I've given you your
first lesson in slave manners. Now what do you say?"

"Thank you, sir." I sniffle.

I find it galling that I must show respect to this odious man and
humbly thank him for his lesson to me in slave manners. Just a
few short hours ago, he wouldn't have registered in my
consciousness. Now, by a cruel twist of fate, he is my better and
I must defer to him and to all other free men, no matter how base
they are, simply because they are free and I'm a slave.

I'm repulsed by the Registrar`s appearance. His overweight body
reeks overpoweringly of a cheap, chain-store deodorant and his
salt and pepper coloured hair lies in long strands across the
shining dome of his head. He has grown his hair long on the left
side and lowered his hair-part level with the top of his ear so
that he can train the long strands back over his scalp in an
attempt to disguise his baldness. I dislike the man, but I envy
him his freedom. He is free whereas I am a slave.

His interest in me is temporarily diverted by a loud "UGH!" from
the young slave still on his hands and knees on the bench. He has
been brought to climax and is now pumping his seed into a
measuring glass held by the Registrar's slave assistant. As he
does so, he is lewdly watched by my two handlers who laugh at his
embarrassment. I am dismayed; am I also to be subjected to this
indignity?

The Registrar turns his attention to the kneeling slave and
taking the measuring glass from his assistant, he closely studies
the specimen before declaring his satisfaction.

"HUMPH! Very good. About four ml and it's the right colour and
consistency." Then sniffing at the glass he continues, "Sweet
smelling too. I`ll just check it to see if he's fertile."

The new cadet guard is both curious and eager to learn and
tentatively, he asks the Registrar.

"Please sir. Can I ask what you're doing?"

The Registrar peers over his glasses at the young guard and asks
in reply.

"You're new here aren't you, young man?"

"Yes sir. This is only my second day on the job."

"Well then. Let me welcome you. What are your impressions of your
new job, so far?"

"Well, I suppose ..... I don't know ...... it's all a little
strange. But I guess I'll get used to handling the slaves. But
I'm not too keen on touching them though. You know ....they're
naked and...and you know . ...having to touch their peckers and
backsides. UGH!  THAT IS SO GROSS!"

The Registrar and my handlers laugh loudly at the cadet's
queasiness and the older of my two handlers hastens to re-assure
him.

"You're the new trainee sent to work with us, are you, lad? Well,
don't worry. You'll soon settle into the job and won't think
twice about handling the slaves. Just think of them as livestock
and you'll be right. By the way what's your name? How old are
you?"

"Jason. My name is Jason sir, and I`m eighteen. And yes, the
supervisor sent me along to meet you here and also to see how
slaves are assessed."

"Well, here's your first lesson, Jason. You don't need to address
me or any other of the guards as sir. We're all on an equal
footing here. My name's Harold by the way and this here is my
partner, Craig. But you do have to address the Registrar as Mr
Humboldt."

The cadet smiles broadly at the warmth of his welcome and the
strength of the handshakes. He fails to notice the slave
assistant standing ignored in the background.

"Good lad, Jason. Just watch what we do and you'll be right."
Harold adds.

"Young man, you asked me what I'm doing with this slave." The
Registrar impatiently joins in the conversation. "I've just taken
a sample of his semen. It's all part of his assessment and the
results will be entered into his ownership papers. A buyer needs
to know that a slave is capable when he buys him; after all he
might want to breed from him. So what I do here is to give each
slave a very basic test to see if he's able to produce sperm. By
the way, this one passed with flying colours."

"You mentioned you were going to check if he was fertile, Mr
Humboldt. How do you do that?"

"Good question, young man. I see you're eager to learn. A slave,
on average, should produce two to six ml of ejaculate. Now what
I'll do is just check one or two drops of his semen under the
microscope and see how many `swimmers' he has and how active they
are. As I said - it`s only a basic test and not a sperm count.
That'll be up to his new master to have that done."

I listen to this conversation in horror. The matter-of-fact way
in which they discuss the new slave's breeding potential is
indicative of their contempt for him as a person and their
unsympathetic indifference to his plight.

Then I ask myself - why am I surprised? When did I ever consider
the feelings of my former slaves? The answer is - NEVER! Just a
few short hours ago, I was a slave-owner and I was as guilty of
this contempt and indifference as they are now. And soon, I will
experience their free men's contempt for me.

With my head bowed I can`t see but I listen as the Registrar
invites Jason to view the slave's `swimmers' through his
microscope. Jason is obviously intrigued and as he peers through
the `scope he expresses his interest with an incredulous,

"WOW!"

His curiosity satisfied, Jason watches as the Registrar continues
his assessment of the slave.

Turning to his slave assistant, the Registrar snaps,

"Fetch the needles. NOW!"

The slave hurriedly retrieves a stainless steel tray from a bench
and waits patiently as the Registrar prepares to give the slave a
series of injections while explaining to Jason the necessity for
them.

"You see, Jason. It's important to send a slave away from here
healthy and prepared. What I'm about to do is to give this slave
a series of shots to keep him healthy and to prepare him for his
new life. It's a requirement under state law that all slaves
offered for sale are protected against the most basic of
illnesses. The state is very conscious of the economic cost
should an epidemic break out among the slave population. The
first shot I'll give him is for tetanus. Most likely a young, fit
slave like this one will be bought for hard labour and as he'll
be working naked it's inevitable that he'll sustain minor cuts,
scratches and grazes. Therefore, we need to ensure he has
protection against those eventualities. Then I'll give him
several other vaccines including those for pneumonia and the
latest influenza viruses. This last one is most important - the
last thing a slave- owner wants is for an epidemic of 'flu in his
herd. Apart from the dangers to a slave's well-being there's the
loss of productivity to consider. So while he's up on the table,
I'll just give him his jabs - and then he's finished and we're
ready for the next slave."

"Where will you give him his needles, Mr Humboldt?" Jason
inquires.

"Why! In his posterior, young man. Where else?"

The Registrar would never consider the crude use of words like
"ass" or "cock and balls", even when speaking of a slave. He
takes great care not to use the common language of the guards and
overseers. After all, he's an important `officer of the courts'
and it's his refinement that places him above their vulgarity -
isn`t it? He reflects sadly that all too soon an impressionable
Jason will descend to their level. Such a pity; he appears to be
a very nice, young man.

The slave gives a series of yelps of pain as the needles are
thoughtlessly thrust into his flesh. Then finally, the assessment
now completed, the Registrar dismisses the slave with a cheery
slap on the ass.

"There, all done! Right you are then, boy. Hop down and join your
friends over by the wall."

I sense rather than see the slave join his companions. He stands
alongside them ruefully rubbing the sites of his injections and
like them he is crying softly. Their fear is evident; they know
their branding and collaring is imminent. But they must now wait
on me and my own assessment.

I reflect on the Registrar's comments about the inoculations of
slaves. It had always made perfect sense to me. My late
grandfather - can I still regard him as such - had always
insisted that his slaves were protected and he had them
inoculated each year against influenza and I had carried on this
practice. As a slave-owner, I had wanted to safeguard my
investment in my slave-herd and avoid any losses in either
productivity or by mortality. Now, as a slave, this all takes on
a new perspective. I now see things very differently.

Encouraged by the Registrar's willingness to answer his
enquiries, the ever curious Jason has yet another series of
questions.

"Mr Humboldt. What are those three guilty of?" He gestures
towards the three crying slaves standing alongside me in a line
against the wall. "Why have they been enslaved? What did they
do?"

"You have so many questions, Jason." The Registrar laughs, but
nevertheless he's impressed by Jason's eagerness to learn.
"Vandalism, Jason. They are guilty of vandalism. They`re
so-called graffiti artists and they were caught red-handed two
nights ago defacing a wall of a public building. One could say
they are victims of the gubernatorial election. The incumbent
governor is anxious to get as many `law and order' votes as
possible and has widened the vandalism laws to cover graffiti - a
popular move with the voters, I hear. These three are unlucky.
They're the first to be caught, tried and enslaved under the new
law and their fates should send a clear message to other graffiti
artists that society won't tolerate this type of anti-social
behaviour any longer."

The Registrar notes the simple "OH!" of Jason's reply at this
news and the bright red flush of guilt moving up from his neck to
his face,

Instinctively, he knows that, at some stage, Jason has been
involved in this undesirable practice; most likely as a member of
a youthful gang of teenage boys. He sincerely hopes the young man
has put that all behind him now that he is a cadet guard. No
doubt Jason - as do so many other misguided people - sees
graffiti writing as a harmless prank. Well, those days are over -
thank goodness - and the mandatory sentence for a graffiti artist
is now lifetime enslavement.

He reflects that the three new slaves standing by the wall are
paying a heavy price for their destructive vandalism and they are
now to channel all their artistic energies into constructive
endeavours for their new masters. Yes, he really hopes their
fates will serve as a warning to Jason. It would be such a pity
if one day he had to process Jason into slavery. But then again,
that could prove both interesting and enjoyable.

His long experience in handling naked slaves tells him that under
Jason's tight, brand-new uniform is a delightfully taut and
muscular body. And it's a body that's very, very different to the
beer-gutted ones of the other two guards, Harold and Craig.

He glances at his watch and sees it's almost the end of his
working day. He sighs expectantly as he thinks of his new
pleasure slave waiting for him at home. He'd recently assessed
the young slave after his conviction and had felt an instant
attraction to him; so much so that he'd followed the slave's
progress through the system and purchased him. And to date, this
new slave hasn't disappointed him.

It's been a busy day and the workload has been heavy. Already
he's assessed ten new slaves and he still has one to go. He
glances over at the slave and decides this one is the "pick of
the day". What's the slave's name? Ah! That's it Rafe.

Oh well, let's get on with it. He shouts his instruction to the
fearful, new slave.

"RAFE! GET OVER HERE. NOW!"

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