CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES
A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune"
CHAPTER 1: `The Court Summons'


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

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris Debus)
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, alterations
or add pictures. "

Chapter 1: 'The Court Summons'

Synopsis:

I carefully guide my pony, Norge out of the quiet, residential
street onto the busy thoroughfare leading to the central business
district and its adjacent law-courts.

In the intensity of the early afternoon sun, the pony is already
sweating profusely. By contrast however, I'm protected from the
sun's oppressive heat by the canopy that I'd wisely raised before
leaving home. Glancing at my watch, I note the time is 12.30 PM -
this gives me plenty of time before I'm due at Judge Matthew's
chambers at 2.00 PM.  I decide it is better to let the pony
proceed at a leisurely jog rather than tire him out in the steamy
heat. The Scandinavian pony is a recent addition to my stables
and as yet he isn't properly acclimatised to our local, summer
heat.

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

I'm unsure of why I've been summoned to appear before Judge
Matthews at the Court of Disputations. I had been surprised when,
this morning, my lawyer, Simon Barrow contacted me to say we'd
both been ordered to appear before the judge that afternoon. I
have met the elderly Judge Matthews on several occasions at
social functions. Fast approaching retirement age, he is known
for his extreme conservatism and insistence that he be treated
with all the pomp and protocol due to his exalted office.

At first, I had been apprehensive, but Simon assured me that
there wasn't any need for my concern. Most likely it had to do
with my very recent inheritance of my late grandfather,
Jean-Claude Barrois's vast estate; as Simon said these matters
tend to drag on especially with bequests as large and as
complicated as this one. He told me there wasn't anything in my
grandfather's will which was cause for concern. My grandfather
had ensured that all legal requirements were addressed and hadn't
left anything to chance in managing his affairs.

Re-assured, I now feel very relaxed as I go to keep my
appointment with Judge Matthews.

Luckily I'd been in residence at my townhouse rather than at my
plantation, La Forêt which is my preferred place of abode.
Currently, the city is in the throes of a gubernatorial election
and I'm in town to lend support to the incumbent Governor - a
conservative like myself who holds with the status quo. He is
being challenged by a liberally minded candidate who argues for a
relaxation of our slavery laws and proposes that slaves be given
certain privileges and protection under law. What arrant
nonsense! For a slave-holder like me this is a preposterous idea
and one which I rigorously oppose. Therefore, I've agreed to
appear on the platform with the Governor as he opens his campaign
this evening. My family's illustrious name will add prestige and
legitimacy to his speech.

In contrast to his rival's outrageous proposals, the Governor has
promised that, on his re-election, he'll rescind all laws that
restrict a slave-holder's right of absolute control over his
slaves - thus effectively giving to him the same rights over them
as he enjoys with all other of his property - and to deny slaves
any redress against their masters.

Slaves will, in future, forfeit those rights and privileges they
currently enjoy and will be subject only to the whims and
jurisdiction of their owners; it will be the sole prerogative of
an owner as to how his slaves are treated or punished.

Quite rightly, the Governor promises to grant slave-owners legal
immunity from the mischievous and litigious activities of the
abolitionists and the frivolous "rights for slaves" groups.
Needless to say I'm heartily in agreement with the Governor's
election
pledges and I'm happy to publicly support his progressive
policies on the troublesome issue of slavery.

At the tender age of twenty-one, I am indeed fortunate. I'm the
sole heir to my grandfather's fortune and I'm now the owner of
several manufacturing businesses and a vast plantation several
kilometres from the city. And I am the owner of many slaves - as
yet I'm unsure of how many as I await an audit of my slave
holdings. However, I know it would number in the many hundreds.

My grandfather, was an avowed environmentalist and he had refused
to use any form of machinery preferring instead to utilise slave
labour - he was convinced that slaves, used properly, were
cheaper to operate and less demanding - when a slave wore out it
is much cheaper to replace him than it is to replace a piece of
expensive machinery.

And the cost of maintaining a slave is infinitesimal when
compared to that of operating a fuel-guzzling piece of machinery;
the low cost of feeding and housing a slave is only a fraction of
the exorbitant cost of using our ever diminishing supply of
fossil fuels to power a machine. He had argued that, unlike
machines which are always evolving into something bigger and
better and correspondingly becoming more expensive, the
"technology" of a slave remains static - a slave is simply sinew
and muscle.

Rather than buy an expensive piece of machinery with its built-in
obsolescence, my grandfather always said it was simpler to
purchase a suitable slave, put him to work under the whip and
work him until he wore out and then replace him. I had inherited
my grandfather`s views and I fully subscribe to them.

My thoughts turn to my beloved plantation, La Forêt. How I love
the sound of that - "my plantation." I have a special fondness
for the place and, apart from when I was away at boarding school;
I had spent most of my boyhood living there.

I was an only child and my father, Henri Barrois was my
grandfather's only son. I'd been orphaned at an early age - my
mother died at my birth and my father when I was four - and I was
subsequently reared by my doting grandparents. Thoroughly spoiled
by them and surrounded by slaves, my life has always been one of
idyllic ease and luxury.

As a boy I'd spent all my spare time in the company of my
grandfather and I had always accompanied him on his tours of the
fields where I liked to watch as our naked slaves toiled and
sweated under the lash of our black overseers. I don't know why,
but the sight of their strong, muscular bodies straining at their
labours was one I had found irresistible - in fact I still do.
And of course, with the onset of puberty, my interest in the
slaves took on a new dimension. Now I found myself viewing them
very differently; I had a new appreciation of the male physique.

When I was still a boy, my grandfather, because of advancing
years, had been forced to stop riding his beloved horses around
the plantation and had decided in favour of a trap and ponies.
And so I could accompany him, he'd had a special trap made that
was wide enough for the two of us and he'd purchased two young
slaves to act as our ponies.

I had accompanied him to the sale yards to buy the ponies - it
was my introduction to the slave pens - and Grandpa had allowed
me to inspect the slaves he was interested in buying. In fact, he
was insistent that I do so declaring it is never too soon for a
young gentleman to learn how to appraise a slave. I was totally
unprepared for this and didn't know what to do.

But my ever patient grandfather told me to watch as he appraised
a slave and once he'd finished, he guided me through my own
rather amateurish attempt at it. I have to say, I did enjoy the
feel of the slave's hard body under my hands and the vivid memory
of his hard, throbbing erection remains with me to this day. It
was the first occasion that I had ever touched a slave other than
with a whip or cane.

These two slaves were brothers who, at the time, were aged
somewhere in their late teens or early twenties and they had been
sold into slavery because of a bad business decision of their
former father's. Grandpa had them trained especially for me to
drive. As a young lad, I'd felt very important as I drove them
around the plantation. With my burgeoning sexuality, I really did
enjoy sitting behind them watching as they trotted along the
network of shady laneways that gave us to access every part of
the plantation.

Each morning, shortly after dawn, the two ponies would be
harnessed to our trap - Grandpa always referred to it as such -
and tethered at the front steps of the house to await his
pleasure. They would remain in harness until either late
afternoon in winter or early evening in summer, when I would
drive them back to the stables for the grooms to unharness, hose
down, feed and stable for the night. And when I awoke next
morning, they were standing patiently waiting for Grandpa and me.

Grandpa maintained a large stable that housed his ponies and
draft slaves. I loved to hang-out at the stables but what was it
that attracted me to them? It was a combination of many things -
the pungent smells that permeate the very timbers of the
building, the sight of the naked slaves resting in their stalls,
the sounds they made as they shuffled around in their chains and
most of all it was their earthy, animal smell. Grandpa was
fastidious about his ponies and drafts and, unlike the field
slaves, he always insisted they were hosed down at the end of
each day before they were fed and stabled for the night. This
ensured that any residual detritus from their day's labours was
removed from them, but it never quite removed that erotic -well,
to me anyway - odour that I still associate with heavy duty draft
slaves. Ingrained into their hides and pores is that heady
combination of smells; of their work induced sweat, the sweet
scent of their straw bedding and an indefinable something else.

This attraction to the stables still holds true for me and I
visit there as often as I can. I like to make the distinction
between the lighter, lithe trap ponies and the heavier, more
muscular draft slaves. However, it is the draft slaves that hold
my fascination - I'm attracted to their naked, muscular bodies
and their brutish animal-life behaviour. However, this attraction
is purely ascetic and I would NEVER use one sexually. All my
sexual adventures are confined to my handsome, muscular house
slaves who have been especially hand-picked by me for my
exclusive use.

Our two ponies served us well over the years. Grandpa was loyal
to them and never looked to replace them. There were times when I
suggested this to him but he always rejected my suggestions by
saying "they serve us well". The ponies had once been the former
sons of a business associate of my grandfather's and I suspect he
had a degree of sympathy for their plight - a sentiment I should
add, that was never shared by me.

Needless to say, when Grandpa died, I did eventually replace them
with my current favourite pony, Norge. The two ponies are now
aged somewhere about thirty and they are part of a heavy-duty
team that is used to construct and maintain the network of
irrigation canals that ensure the plantation's profitability.

As Norge takes me on my daily inspection of the plantation, I
sometimes stop to
watch them as they work. Accustomed as they were to working in
tandem, I'm amazed at how quickly they have adapted to now
working in a team of ten. I can tell from the strain placed on
their muscular bodies that they give their all to their labours.
Still, I suppose the overseer's whip is a very powerful motivator
and serves as an incentive for them to apply themselves
diligently to their work.

I notice Norge is tiring and it's necessary for me to apply my
whip to him. As he feels the cut of the lash he lunges forward
into his harness and quickens his pace. I know the day is hot and
he is sweating profusely, but this isn't a reason for him to
flag.

After all, I had acted responsibly and when I initially bought
him, I'd sent him out to the plantation for six months of hard
work and conditioning. Many masters wouldn't have extended such
leniency to their new pony and would simply have placed him in
harness immediately. I however, had allowed Norge to build up his
stamina and darken his hide before placing him between the shafts
of my trap. Having extended such consideration to him, I feel I'm
justified in expecting the very best from him. To emphasise this
point, I apply my whip to his ass three more times. But to be
fair to him, I do find him to be a good, honest pony and most
responsive to my whip.

As we travel down the broad thoroughfare leading into the civic
part of the city, I acknowledge the greetings of people who
recognise me and are anxious to cultivate my friendship. Mostly
these are the city's "nouveau riche" and not members of the "old
money", pioneering families of which my family, the Barrois is
the most prominent.

There was a time when families like mine would never have
acknowledged the existence of such people. Invariably lacking in
any refinement, they take great personal pride in their doubtful
entrepreneurial achievements and compensate for their lack of
breeding in coarse and ostentatious displays of their wealth.
This is especially so in their use of their slaves who are often
used in the most outrageous and bizarre fashion.

Unfortunately, there are now so many of these newly rich in our
city that it's impossible not to have contact with them. However,
I always confine my association with them to business and I NEVER
mix socially with them.

On assuming my grandfather's business enterprises, I have
suddenly become socially popular and I now receive so many
invitations to private and public functions that I'm not able to
accept them all. And I find I need to be discreet in my
acceptances of invitations so as not to cause offence.

As Grandpa always said "Lucien, with great wealth come great
responsibility."

And then there are those dreadful mothers who now see me as
highly desirable and view me with a matrimonial glint in their
greedy eyes as a suitable spouse for their appalling daughters.
For me, there is a certain irony in this. I have no interest in
females; I much prefer to take my young, male slaves into my bed.

Still, I suppose there will come a time when for dynastic reasons
and for the appearance of respectability I will need to seek out
a worthy young heiress to marry. But not just yet; I'm still only
twenty-one and I'd much rather the company of my like-minded,
male friends - and of course my slaves.

As I guide Norge through a busy intersection, I look to my right
and up a side street that leads to the premises of Schuster and
Hanson, Slave Dealers; it's my intention to visit this market
tomorrow. Whenever I'm in town, I always make a point of dropping
in to acquaint myself with the stock on offer. After all, this is
how I'd discovered Norge.

The day before I spied him in Schuster and Hanson's pens almost
twelve months ago, he'd been brought before the courts as an
illegal immigrant caught with a quantity of drugs in his
possession. The mandatory sentence for such offences is lifetime
enslavement and he'd been taken straight from the court-room to
the adjacent blacksmith's workshop where he'd been branded,
shackled and then delivered to the slave market for selling.

All this had taken place before he'd had time to realise what was
happening to him. Perhaps this was a mixed blessing for him. The
shock of his enslavement wouldn't have had time to enter into his
consciousness before he found himself branded, in chains and
incarcerated in the slave pens.

Mercifully, our justice system is swift in its determination of
guilt or innocence and even quicker in its implementation of any
punishments. Yes, I look forward to spending time at the pens
tomorrow examining any available slave that attracts my
attention.

My thoughts return to my unexpected summons to appear before
Judge Matthews. I'm quite relaxed about it- Simon Barrow had done
a good job of re-assuring me.

Nevertheless, I'm intrigued and a little perplexed.

I leave the day to day management of my affairs to the same
exorbitantly expensive lawyers and accountants that my
grandfather had commissioned to run his enterprises. As he'd
often told me -"they are the experts so I leave the ordering of
our affairs to them". He'd never had any reason for complaint and
neither do I.

I know my affairs are in good order. When my grandfather died,
his estate was subjected to a rigorous audit as is required by
law. The businesses and the plantation were found to be on a
sound financial basis and all taxes and other government levies
had been paid.

Indeed, I had been congratulated on Grandpa's good management and
told how lucky I was to be the sole beneficiary of his wise
stewardship. So I know there isn't anything to worry about from
that aspect and I suspect there is something of only minor
importance that Judge Matthews needs to address.

Finally, I arrive at the courts and I drive Norge into the
courtyard at the rear of the buildings set aside for the parking
of court clients' vehicles and the tethering of their ponies. As
I stop my trap, a slave attendant hurries forward to take Norge's
reins from me and to tether him to a hitching ring set into a
wall. He waits respectfully for me to climb down from my trap
before he asks whether or not I want him to water my pony.

I look at Norge as he stands gulping air into his tortured lungs
and perspiring profusely under the sun's intensity. His powerful
chest rises and falls and his belly "bellows' in and out with
each gasp he takes. His sweat trickles over the plains of his
chest and down the valleys of his torso in shining rivulets and
it's obvious that he's feeling distressed.

Normally, I don't allow him to drink to excess when he is in
harness - I find a belly full of water makes a pony very sluggish
and I really don't like the sloshing sound the water makes as he
runs.

And of course what goes in must come out and inevitably the pony
must piss. I deplore the sight of a pony relieving himself in
public and I believe this reflects more on the pony's user rather
that the pony himself. I would never allow Norge to urinate or
defecate in public.

Still, I feel a degree of sympathy for Norge's distress and I
instruct the slave attendant to give him a small amount of water
but warn him against overdoing it. I wait long enough to see that
my instructions are carried out.

Suddenly, I'm distracted by a commotion.

I watch as three court guards shepherd seven, newly convicted
criminals out of the court precincts and across the yard to the
blacksmith's forge. These seven, on their convictions, had been
stripped naked and are now being escorted to the forge for
branding and placement in chains. Then, they will be held in a
cage and wait until representatives from Schuster and Hanson -
currently the court appointed slave-dealers -to arrive and take
them to the sale yards.

Within the day, these new slaves will be placed on display and
sold.

It is obvious that the seven aren't coping too well with their
changed circumstances. All appear to be shocked and in a state of
disbelief. It's amusing to watch their re-actions as the guards
deliver them to the forge. Two of the harder cases show their
defiance by protesting loudly but are soon
brought under control by the whips of their guards. They cry out
in acute pain as the whips slice into their tender flesh and both
are reduced to tears.

As the seven are herded into the forge, I have time to study
them. They are all young, aged in their late teens or early
twenties and whilst they aren't the most imposing physical
specimens, they all possess bodies that promise great potential
to their future owners. Typically, they are products of their
environments; thin, mal-nourished and pasty faced and their
bodies reflect their poverty. Whilst their physiques are
under-developed, my experienced eye detects the underlying
potential of their musculatures. As I look at them I reflect how
different they'd look after a few months' hard work at my
plantation toiling under the whips of my overseers.

Obviously, they have been found guilty of non-violent, petty
crimes otherwise they would now be on their way to the quarries
or mines -both of these are the preserves of the violent criminal
- and I decide that I'll certainly be appraising them tomorrow at
Schuster and Hanlon's sale- yards. In fact, I look forward to it.

A quick glance at my watch shows I have fifteen minutes to spare
before my appointment with His Honour, Judge Matthews. I have
ample time to seek out his courtroom and as I approach I see
Simon Barrow waiting for me.

Is it my imagination or does he have a look of concern?


