CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES
A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune"
Chapter 7: `The Forge'

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 any rewrites, make alterations or add pictures."

Chapter 7: `The Forge'

I'm the last of the newly enslaved to be branded today and I wait for my turn -there is another slave before me. I watch in fixated horror as he is dragged kicking and screaming incoherently to the branding table.

 He is hysterical in his terror and vainly begs to be spared. The two older guards, Harold and Craig are unmoved by his pleas but the young guard, Jason is decidedly ill at ease. New to the sight of slaves being branded, he hangs back unsure of what to do or what is expected of him. Indeed, when the brand had seared itself into the left flank of the first of us to be branded, he'd hastily left the forge and I could hear the sounds of his explosive, vomiting coming from the courtyard. But who could blame him his re-action to this sickening sight of a former free man being initiated into his slavery.

Only the most callous of minds would be unmoved by the awful suffering of a new slave as he feels the hot kiss of the branding-iron burning itself into his tender flesh. Only the hardest of hearts wouldn't re-act to the victim's terror; his desperate pleas that fall on deaf ears, his plaintive crying as he awaits the iron, his scream of abject pain and the awful, sickening smell of his scorched flesh.

The stench of so much burned flesh pollutes this vile place. It permeates the air I breathe and I'm sure it has tainted the very timbers that hold up the walls and roof of the forge.

On his return, Jason could best be described as `green around the gills'. Harold, the older of the other two guards was sympathetic to his plight and had put a supportive arm around the young apprentice guard's shoulders.

"Don't worry, lad! The first branding of a slave you get to witness is always the worst. It affected us all that way. So there's no need for you to be ashamed - is there, Craig?"

No! Not at all, Jason. It takes a bit of getting used to at first, but you'll soon get the hang of it. After a while you won't even think about it. It'll be second nature to you." Craig added his encouragement to that of Harold.

I reflect on this concern of the two older guards for their young assistant. I can't help but contrast this to the cruel indifference they show to us. Bitterly, I recall we are slaves and undeserving of even the smallest shred of humanity. No doubt, it is their indifference that allows the guards to go about their grim business each day; without it how would they cope with the cruel reality of their jobs?

But then, I recall less than four hours ago, I'd been like them. Hadn't I displayed this same total disregard towards my former slaves? The cruel hopelessness of their existence had never intruded itself into my consciousness nor had it ever disturbed the complacency of my self-centred life. I'd never viewed my slaves as anything other than units of labour to be used by me in my pursuit of even greater personal riches. The Barrois family had always viewed their slaves this way and I was no different. I simply followed in the footsteps of my former grandfather.

But I'm no longer a Barrois; I'm now a slave whose new name is Rafe; a slave name given to me by my new Master. The gods have certainly played me false and delivered me into grim slavery. Ironically, I suppose that viewed from their perspectives, my former slaves would see the poetic justice in all that is now happening to me.

As I wait to be taken to the branding table, I consider all that I have lost. Without my expensive watch - a gift from my former grandfather - which had been taken from me in the court-room and given to its new owner, Guy Maratier, I no longer know the time. This was my first personal insight into what it meant to be a slave.

 As the watch was removed from my wrist and handed over to Guy Maratier, I realised that a slave possesses nothing and is himself nothing more than a possession of his owner. And I understood that time will be of no further consequence to me - as a slave all decisions will be made for me and I
will have to give unquestioning obedience to them. But I reason it is now late afternoon, possibly between 4.00 PM and 5.00 PM.

If that is so, then four or five hours ago, I'd sat in the dining-room of my townhouse and ate my usual rich lunch and drank my expensive wine. Curiously, I wonder about my next meal. No doubt it will consist of the same cheap, bland slush or hard biscuits that I had routinely fed to my slaves.

Ridiculously, I think about my very expensive clothes hanging in the wardrobes of my former homes. What will my Master do with them? We are of similar build and they would fit him - but will he overlook the fact that they once belonged to his new slave and wear them himself? Or will he consider them contaminated by me and discard them - perhaps donating them to a charity- and buy new ones? 

Miserably, I realise I am condemned to wear the uniform of my new slavery - total nakedness, an iron collar around my neck and a brand on my ass.

It seems impossible to me that my life has altered so much in the course of a single afternoon. Four hours ago, I was Lucien Barrois, the sole heir to the Barrois estate and highly regarded by the leading citizens of the city. If they didn't care for me personally, then certainly they cared for the prestige that my name gave to their endeavours.

Why tonight, I was to have sat on the platform alongside the Governor as he launched his re-election campaign. Instead, I'll spend tonight alone, naked and in chains, locked in a slave prison. But, I'll be very much a talking point at the meeting. 

Instead of my presence lending lustre to his campaign, the governor will use my new slave status as a powerful tool in his argument for another term. He'll rail against the wicked, unscrupulous actions of the former illustrious Barrios family that saw them present me -a slave- as the heir to their vast wealth. He'll use my situation to highlight the need to be ever-vigilant against the spurious arguments of the abolitionists and anti-slavery groups and he'll both cajole and frighten the voters into accepting his proposed, draconian changes to the `Slave Act'.

I won't ever be aware of the Governor's delight at my changed circumstances. Gleefully, he recognises the benefits to be gained by using my situation as an argument to strengthen his `law and order' program and to bolster his calls for the harsher treatment of all slaves.

Eventually, the notoriety of my enslavement will win the Governor his coveted second term and I'll also be the unwitting instrument in ensuring that the `Slave Act' is amended to place slaves under even more stringent controls than is currently the case.

Indeed, he'll "honour" me by introducing these harsh new changes to the slave laws to the legislators as the "Barrois Amendments". And of course, I'll be subject to this harsher treatment.

I wonder about my immediate future. After I've been branded will I remain locked up here overnight or will my Master take me with him? If so where will he take me? Back to the townhouse which only a few hours ago I'd owned and had left so unsuspectingly. It's a bitter thought that I'd left there as the proud master and must now return to it as an abject, naked slave. How will my former slaves view me as I join them in the slave quarters? Will they gloat at my new status or will they be so surprised that initially, I'll be ignored? I hope so. My sense of shame at becoming a slave is palpable but the humiliation I would feel on being presented to my former slaves as one of them is unimaginable.

Then, I wonder when will my Master take me out to La Forêt? Will he take me there tomorrow to begin my new life as a common work slave and put me to work in fields with the other slaves? As I think of this my eyes brim with tears. I know enough about my former overseers to know not to expect any mercy from them. They will delight in humiliating me and subjugating me to their wills. Without doubt, they'll rejoice in my downfall and make me work hard - perhaps even harder than the other slaves -out of sheer spite and malice. And I know they'll delight in applying their whips to my back as they exhort me to greater effort in my labours. Stupidly, I wonder just how painful is the lash and I shudder at the thought that, by this time tomorrow, quite possibly I will have tasted its sting.

And tomorrow night, will I be shackled and locked in the very same slave stables that I once delighted in visiting as a boy to look at my grandfather's ponies and draft slaves.

The hard metal of the collar around my neck chafes at my pride and reminds me of what I've lost and its constriction is a reminder of what I am now. It feels heavy around my throat and like the brand I'll receive in a few minutes; it'll be the permanent, visible badge of my servitude declaring to the entire world that I am a slave. As the heavy collar was fastened around my neck, there wasn't any discomfort just an awful sense of degradation. As I knelt on the dirty floor of the forge while the blacksmith locked it into place, I thought of Norge. Did he feel this same outrage at what was being done to him that I now feel? Did he share my sense of loss of freedom? Somehow, as I recall my treatment of him at the slave auction, I now feel deeply ashamed.

As the four of us were taken from the assessor's offices out across the yard to the forge, I saw Norge still tethered where I'd left him; no doubt waiting patiently for my return. He'd looked up as we moved towards the forge attracted by our sobbing pleas and the shouts of our handler's. For a few fleeting moments he watched us dispassionately before turning away. 

A few months ago, he'd made this same short walk from the courts to the forge; he knew from painful experience what awaited us. Yet he had shown a slave's disinterest in our fates. He had previously undergone all that I'm now experiencing. As a slave himself, why then would he be interested in what is happening to us?

I'm to learn this lesson very quickly; that a slave's only concern is for him. When a slave sees another slave's suffering, he is grateful that it isn't him. When he is forced by his master to watch the punishment of another slave, he absorbs the lesson but gives thanks that it isn't him being punished - at least, not this time.

I don't think Norge knew I was one of the four being taken to the forge. If he did, he didn't show any recognition. Probably, it would be inconceivable to his mind that his owner is now to share his fate. He will become aware of this shortly and I wonder what his re-action will be at seeing me reduced to his own lowly status. I was the man who'd humiliated him at Schuster and Hanson's Saleyards, who had bought him and trained him to serve demeaning as a naked pony and who had used him for his own sexual gratification before having him circumcised. Will he rejoice in my downfall?

Tearfully I suppose, if the tables were reversed, I`d most probably be overjoyed at my former Master's changed circumstances. Could I then blame Norge for harbouring similar feelings?

My thoughts are interrupted by the pleading of my fellow slave as he is hoisted bodily onto the table, flipped over onto his belly and strapped down. With the exception of me, he is the last of the group to be branded. Within a few minutes his suffering will be over and he'll be shackled and placed in the holding cage with his companions to wait on the pick-up van from Schuster and Hanson's, Slave Dealers and Auctioneers. Once there, he'll go on display and be available for
inspection from any interested buyers. Within a few days he'll suffer the ultimate indignity; he'll mount the auction block and be sold to the highest bidder.

Thankfully, I'm to be spared this fate - at least for now. But the reality of my situation tells me that there is every chance that one day I too will be publicly displayed and sold at auction. My new Master said as much in the court-room when he'd promised the judge he would advise him of when this happens.

When we'd first entered the forge all four of us looked around at the frightening surroundings with our eyes opened wide with terror. What we saw didn't allay our fears; the smells, the overpowering heat, the overall untidiness and the sight of all collars and chains hanging on the walls only added to our distress.

The building is typical of the older type of blacksmith's shop that is open at the front to allow for some relief from the intense heat of the forge itself. The walls and ceiling are smoke-blackened and the floor is littered with the detritus of previous brandings and fixing of collars. The stench of scorched flesh permeates the place and is sickeningly overpowering. The blacksmith is obviously a free man - he is clothed but stripped to the waist and protected by a leather apron -and he is assisted by two brutish, naked slaves one of whom vigorously pumps the bellows ensuring that the coals are constantly glowing with red-hot intensity. 

As we entered, I saw the handles of four branding-irons protruding from the bed of hot coals -one for each of us. The sight of these caused me to tremble and it took all my willpower to remain on my feet. My fear overwhelmed me.

At one side of the forge was a cage which held the seven, new slaves who were branded earlier. These were the same seven I'd seen on my arrival and whom I'd planned on viewing at the slave-yards tomorrow. However, my plans are somewhat altered in view of my own situation. The seven lie on the straw covered floor of the cage and each was dealing with the pain of his branding as best he could.

Some were crying, others whimpered softly and one or two were groaning loudly. While their reactions to the branding iron may have varied, they were united in the awful pain they all suffered.

As the four of us entered the forge we huddled together in a tight group as our guards and the blacksmith discussed the order in which we would be branded. Given the lateness of the hour and the fact that the people from Schuster and Hanson's were due shortly to pick up today's consignment it was decided that my three fellow slaves would be branded first and me last. But first we were collared.

One by one, we were dragged forward and forced to our knees by the blacksmith's attendants who held us in position as our necks were measured and the appropriately sized collar fitted. Within a very short time, all four of us wore this first accoutrement of our servitude.

For a new slave this fitting of the collar is symbolic. It reminds him of what he's lost and of what he once was but is no longer. Its closure around his throat tells him he has lost his freedom and that he is now a slave. It's to serve as a permanent reminder to him that society no longer regards him as human and that he's been relegated to the level of a beast-of-burden.

And so it was with me. With the fitting of my collar, I lost all hope of redemption and the endless years of my slavery yawned like a wide, bottomless chasm of hopelessness. All that has happened to me this afternoon has led me to this spot. As the blacksmith hammered the final spigot through the lugs of my collar, my consciousness finally accepted the fact that I was no longer free. 

For me it was an epiphany -for now I truly felt like the slave I'd become.

I wait trembling as the other slave is branded. He continues his pleas for mercy even though he knows none will be shown. He struggles against the straps holding him firmly to the table and he is rewarded with a series of blows to his back by the two older guards. He turns his head to watch as the blacksmith walks to the forge and withdraws the branding-iron from the coals. As the blacksmith
approaches the table, the slave continues to struggle and babble incoherently. 

My line of vision is obscured by the blacksmith's bulky figure so that I don't see him apply the iron to the slave's body. I do however; hear his shriek of animal-like pain.

The sounds of the slave's distress turn my bowels to water and I lose control of my bladder and I now stand in a puddle of my own piss.

I watch as the newly branded slave is released from the table and has shackles fitted to his wrists and ankles before he is dragged to the holding cage. There, he too lies on the straw covered floor and waits with his fellow slaves for the arrival of the van that will deliver them to Schuster and Hanson's slave-pens.

Now it is my turn to be branded and as the blacksmith's two slaves approach me, I move backwards until I have my back to a wall. With nowhere else to go, I slide to the floor and curl my body into a crumpled heap and plead desperately to be spared. But, I am no match for the combined strength of the two, brutish slaves.

Effortlessly, they haul me to my feet and drag me towards the table. Vainly, I try to dig my heels into the floor but they can find no purchase there. Still I continue to struggle and then with a burst of superhuman strength, I break free from their grasp and run into the courtyard hotly pursued by the slaves and the two older guards.

My headlong flight across the yard is soon curtailed; the blacksmith's slave assistants catch up with me and wrestle me to the ground. They are joined by a third slave - the same slave who'd taken Norge's reins from me and given him water when I'd arrived earlier.

Buried beneath the scrum of their naked, writhing bodies, I continue with my useless struggling and I give voice to my outrage and fear. My desire to avoid the branding iron is so strong that I find reserves of strength I'd not been aware of.

The commotion of all this stirs Norge out of his lethargy and he now watches this vain attempt of a new slave to escape the inevitability of his fate.

Then over the tumult of my screams and the loud cursing of the two guards, I hear a voice. It is the voice of my Master, Guy Maratier.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Is my new slave causing you trouble?"

The question quietens us down. None of us had seen Guy Maratier, accompanied by a court official enter the yard from the court-rooms and his presence is unexpected.

"He's your slave, sir?" Harold, the older of the two guards asks quizzically.

"Indeed he is. Judge Matthews very kindly sent his Bailiff along to assist me in claiming him and I have the papers here to prove my ownership of the slave. I've just picked them up from the registrar's office and I'm on my way to the forge to take possession my new property. But I see he's not yet ready."

"Ah! I'm sorry about that, sir. As you can see we have had some trouble getting him onto the branding-table. Your slave's very reluctant to be branded. But he should be ready for you in about ten to fifteen minutes. Can you wait? Why not watch as he's branded?"

Thank you! I will!"

Vainly, I plead with my Master and I hear my plaintive begging.

"Please don't do this, please. I don't want to be branded. PLEASEEE!"

My new Master ignores me - and truthfully there is nothing he can do as my branding is mandated by law - and I try to fall to my knees. Held fast in the firm grip of the two slave assistants, I'm prevented from doing so; but my legs do sag and my knees buckle in a vain attempt to prostrate myself at his feet. Still I plead and abase myself even further.

"Please, Master, please. DON'T DO THIS. PLEASE?"

In my fear, I have called him Master for the first time. From now on it will be easier for me to use this hated word that acknowledges his ownership of me. But I don't care. I'll do anything to avoid the branding iron.

Foolishly, I continue to beg for my Master's mercy; yet I know this mercy isn't his to give. As a former slave-owner, I'm aware that the branding of all slaves is mandatory and that, as a slave, I must now wear the letter S on my body.  Inevitably, the letter of the law must be carried out; even in the case of the former Lucien Barrois.

Sobbing wildly, I'm dragged back into the forge and manhandled up onto the branding table. As I lie on my back, I see my Master watching with interest as other hands seize my limbs and flip me over onto my belly. Struggling futilely, I feel the tightening, leather straps as they are fastened around me, securing me to the bench and immobilising my body. My movements are now restricted to the nervous, quivering of my muscles, the heaving of my chest as I gulp for air and the almost explosive beating of my heart. I turn my head towards the forge and my eyes widen with terror as I see the blacksmith pull the iron from its fiery bed of red hot coals. My body is racked with sobs as I see the red glowing S at the end of the long-handled brand approaching me.

My vision and all my thoughts are centred on the branding iron. I don't see the three guards move closer to witness my branding. Even Jason seems to have overcome his initial reluctance and has taken up a position that gives him a better view of the proceedings. Then, I hear the blacksmiths' instruction to one of his assistants to.

"Hold him steady!"

I feel a firm hand pressing down on my ass preventing me from wriggling or squirming and I know my branding is imminent; I wait on the blacksmith. I'm suspended in a limbo of dreadful expectation - of waiting as the hot iron sears itself into me and feeling the agonising pain as it does so. How long do I wait? I don't know, but each second seems an interminably long-time. My heart pounds, my laboured breathing quickens and I am lathered in a fear induced sweat. Then, I hear the sizzling and smell the scorching of my flesh as the blacksmith touches me with the iron.

Momentarily, I feel nothing and then suddenly my nervous system explodes into violent activity as it carries the signals of my pain to my brain for processing. I hear my animal-like shriek at the fiery eruption of this pain throughout my body. The intensity of my suffering is unbearable and my loud
sobbing adds to my misery. Incongruously, the thought intrudes itself into my mind that I'm now a branded slave and to give emphasis to this, I hear one of the guards - I think it is Harold - say to my Master.

"There you are, Mr Maratier. The slave's finished and available for you to take away."

I am indeed finished in both mind and body. My body now wears the permanent, visible mark of the slave, but my mind carries the shame, humiliation and degradation of the transformation of a proud, young free man to that of a common slave. My induction is complete and I now wear the collar and brand of my new slavery.

My Master walks over to me and places his hands on my body. Whether or not this is his gesture of claiming me as his property, I don't know. But by that simple act I know I now belong to him. It is for me a moment of rebirth. Irretrievably, my former life is behind me and the life that lies ahead of me is one of service to this man. I am his slave and he is my Master. My being trembles with the cruel realisation of this and at his touch. I awoke this morning as a proud, free man and by day's end I am this man's slave.

I shiver as his hands move down over my back to my buttocks and I wince as he examines the blistered flesh of my new brand. I listen as he asks.

"It looks painful. It will heal up cleanly, won't it?"

His concern is more for the ascetics and value of my body rather than of any concern for my suffering.

"Don't worry, Mr Maratier. Your slave takes the branding-iron very well." It's the blacksmith's turn to answer, "It looks a bit messy just now but within a few weeks he'll be sporting a nice, crisp brand. I suppose you'll be putting your personal brand onto him at some stage. If so, I suggest you get a
professional to do the job. His skin is a bit thin and an amateur could easily botch it up. He's a valuable slave and it would be a pity to ruin him with a poorly applied brand."

"Thanks for your advice." My Master replies, "Yes, he'll wear my brand as soon as I've designed one and have it made. I'll certainly act on your advice and make sure he's branded properly."

The blacksmith's assistants unstrap me and help me clamber off the table as my Master wanders over to look at the ten, new slaves locked in the holding cage.

"What's to happen to this lot?" he asks generally.

They're to be taken to the slave-dealers and made ready for the next sale." Harold volunteers.

"That's Interesting! Do you know which dealers?"

"Schuster and Hanson's, Mr Maratier. Do you have an interest in them? I take it your slave isn't going with them?"

"No my slave's not for sale. I have other plans for him. Perhaps one day I'll sell him. But, not just yet. However, I might just look in on this lot, though. I expect to be a frequent visitor to the auctions from now on."

"What do you want us to do with your property? Is he to be delivered to your home?"

"No I'll take him with me. I understand I have a pony and trap waiting for me in the yard. Isn't that so, Bailiff?"

"That's correct, Mr Maratier. As from today both are now your property - as is this slave."

"Good! Then gentlemen, could I please ask for your assistance in securing my slave's wrists to the back of his collar and do you have a length of rope I can use to tether him to my cart?"

"We can do better than that, Mr Maratier," the blacksmith offers, "I'll get one of my assistants to fetch a chain. A chain is stronger; being a new slave we don't want him attempting to break free and trying to escape. I'll have my slaves fasten his wrists to the back of his collar and take him out to your trap for you. Are you going to lead him?"

"No! I think I'll have him run alongside the pony. That way, I can keep an eye on him."

"That's probably very wise of you. Then I'll instruct my slaves to chain him to the shafts of your cart alongside the pony."

I am defeated. I stand docilely as my wrists are fastened to the back of my new neck collar and I bow my head in shame as a long length of chain is attached to the lug at the collar's front. A sharp tug of the chain tells me I must follow as I'm led from the forge out into the courtyard and over to where Norge is tethered. He looks up as we approach and for the first time he recognises me.

His eyes widen in disbelief as he sees that I - his former master - am now a slave. Forbidden to speak, his eyes ask the questions of how and why and as his gaze roams over my body it tells me all I need to know. He smiles broadly at my discomfiture; he is obviously delighted at my changed circumstances. Shamefaced, I look at him briefly before lowering my eyes to the ground.

Soon I am fastened to the cart and I now stand shoulder to shoulder with my former pony.

I am now to run naked alongside him through the streets of the city as we deliver our Master to his new home; a home that until a few short hours ago had belonged to me.

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




