CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES
A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune"
Chapter 14: "Rafe Wakes to a New Day"


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

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris)
Read all my stories 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 his permission. Please respect the integrity of the story and don't do any rewrites, make alterations or add pictures."

Chapter 14: Rafe wakes to a New Day

"Turn around boy, so I can check your ass."

Complying with Cato's instruction, I turn around and present my back to him for inspection. None too gently, he inspects the site of last evening's caning.

I'm still in great pain and my ass both aches and stings from the brutal treatment it received from Cato's cruel cane. But it was a lesson well learnt; in future I will go to any lengths to avoid a repeat beating.

The automatic caning of a newly purchased slave was a long held Barrois family tradition meant to impress upon the slave his new responsibilities and the consequences of him failing to meet them. As an observer, I'd always supposed these canings to be very beneficial for the slave. Certainly any new slave who'd been subjected to one soon buckled down and never gave trouble. Now, having been the recipient of a welcoming caning, I can eloquently testify to its effectiveness. For me it was a salutary lesson well learnt. 

But now Cato is inspecting me to see that I haven't sustained any permanent damage. I suspect Cato had been over zealous in his use of the cane; certainly as he strapped me down on to the bench, he'd hissed into my ear that he intended to apply his cane harder than usual as punishment for my non-cooperation.

But I know Cato well. He would have had doubts overnight that he'd gone too far in caning me. Perhaps he is fearful of our new Master's anger should I be permanently damaged. My past experience as a slave-owner tells me that I am a valuable slave and would fetch a reasonable sum should I ever be sent to auction. This, of course is a distinct possibility and is an ever-present threat hanging over the heads of all slaves; their futures depend entirely on the whims of their masters. But if I'd been damaged and permanently scarred, then my true worth as a slave would be diminished. This fact no doubt would anger my Master and therefore Cato's examination of me is more than cursory.

I flinch as his hands roam over my tender buttocks and I give little, involuntary yelps of pain as his fingers trace out the angry red, raised welts of the cane. He ignores my discomfort; his concern is with himself and in ensuring that I am undamaged.

"GOOD! There's no lasting damage," Cato breathes easily, "no lacerations or broken skin. There will be some bruising -there always is -and you'll wear the black and blue stripes for a couple of weeks. And over the next few days you'll have a very sore ass to remind you of what is expected of you from now on".

It is very early morning and the sun's rays are just beginning to lighten the pre-dawn gloom. As the former Master, I knew my slaves commenced their duties early - hours before I woke up - but I'd never considered just how early. Now I know.

I stand alongside Norge who'd looked on as Cato inspected me and we wait for Cato's next instruction. Before us stands a slave with two wooden bowls of food and I suppose one is for Norge and the other for me. I'm about to eat my first meal as a slave; I'm to be introduced to a slave's diet; one which will never vary throughout the years of my slavery. But it is a meal I'm to share with Norge and there is a degree of comfort in that for me.


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

Last evening, after Cato had placed me in this stall with Norge, I was devastated. My world had collapsed around me with such frightening rapidity that I couldn't comprehend what was happening to me. My emotions were raw- they still are - and swirled within the whirlpool of my mind. But my overriding emotions were of loss and rejection. It seemed that everyone hated me and rejoiced in my misfortune. For the first time in my life I felt a great loneliness. I was without family or friends. Those whom I'd considered as part of my support system had repudiated me. There was great sadness in this for me and I was overwhelmed by a crushing sense of being very much on my own.

I suppose this is how Charlotte Maratier felt when she too suffered rejection all those years ago. But for her there was the added, awful loss of family. I am of course without family - other than the distantly related Maratier's -and so perhaps my sense of loss isn't as acute as the one she knew. I can't begin to imagine what it would be like to be rejected by one's close family members; never again to be welcomed into the family home or to have contact with them.

Apart from being denied her birth right did she also suffer emotionally? Who then could blame Charlotte for the bitterness she now feels towards me? I am the sole, surviving member of the family which had treated her so shamefully.

Standing in the middle of the stall, I gazed around at the squalor of my new surroundings. There were no furnishings, no chair to sit on, and no table to eat from or bed to sleep in. There was only a covering of straw on the floor that served to lessen the impact of the hard cobblestones on sleeping bodies and to also provide the only protection against the night-time chill. As I looked around, I felt great shame that as his Master, I'd condemned Norge to this whilst I luxuriated in the splendour of my bedchamber. I saw Norge looking at me but out of my shame I couldn't meet his gaze and averted my eyes. I wanted only to be left alone.

I retreated to a corner of the stall and lying down; I screwed my body into a ball and gave way to my misery. I'm aware that I cried noisily and my body was convulsed by my uncontrollable sobbing. Then suddenly I felt the warmth of Norge's body as he lay down behind me and took me into its arms. I tried to resist and drew away from him; I was undeserving of his sympathy and unworthy of his comfort. But he refused to accept my rejection; he tightened his arms around me and pulled our two bodies closer together. The hardness of his body, the strength of his powerful arms and his manly scent all worked to soothe and calm me.

I had often lain alongside Norge in my bed. After using him for sex, I usually allowed him to remain with me for the rest of the night. Indeed, before I had him circumcised, I enjoyed playing with that loose bit of skin; it fascinated me. It was his prepuce that had first attracted him to me and it had continued to do so right up to the time I ordered him to be skinned. 

Deep down, I've always regretted that, but I really didn't have any other alternative. It is unseemly for a slave to retain his foreskin which as everyone knows is the hallmark of a free man. Whilst it's not mandatory for a slave to be circumcised, it is nevertheless a universal practice that all male slaves are. Convention demands it and it really isn't the done thing for a master not to skin his slaves. Reluctantly, I had done so with Norge and I shudder as I think this will soon be done to me.

In the past, as we lay in my bed, I was always in control. It was a Master/slave relationship and we met on unequal terms. Norge was there because I demanded it of him and he had no other choice but to obey. But as I lay in his arms, he was in charge and I found great comfort in this. He hadn't commanded me to be there, he'd come to me of his own volition and he'd reached out to me and drew me to him as an equal; we were brother slaves together. In time, I'll place great store on this and it will be Norge's strength that sustains me.

Sometime during the night's darkness, I turned to face the sleeping Norge and snuggled up close to him until our bodies touched chest to chest and cock to cock. I fell the strong, rhythmic beating of his heart, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing and I found myself savouring the strong, earthy scent of his masculinity. I went back in time to my boyhood and recalled my early memories of the intoxicating odours of my grandfather's draft slaves.

I drifted in and out of a fitful sleep disturbed by the silliest of thoughts.  But always as I stirred, Norge's warm, muscular body was there pressed up hard against me. My chest hair rubbed against the smoothness of his own chest and foolishly, I wondered did it bother him. I am reasonably hirsute with an attractive covering on my chest, arms and legs. I have a treasure trail that wanders down the centreline of my belly to an abundant pubic bush. Norge of course is smooth-bodied and I supposed that I will be made smooth like him. I know my Master plans to use me as a pony eventually and a smooth, hairless body is a prerequisite for a harness slave.

Of course that choice like all others won't be mine to make. If my Master decides I'm to be hairless then all that remains for me is an unquestioning acceptance of his decision. Like my shorn head, he'll decide what is in my best interests - or his - and act upon it. The choices are for him to make and there are none open to me.

In the early hours of the morning, I stirred and felt Norge's hard erection pressing against my own. We were both fully aroused and had crossed swords with one another. The touch of his cock rubbing against mine excited me and my cock grew even harder and prouder. Norge's presence comforted me and in my need, I tightened my embrace around his torso. Once more, I drifted off into sleep and this time it was more peaceful.

After that I slept more tranquilly until the stable's darkness lightened with the first rays of a new day. Stilled wrapped in Norge's strong embrace, I stirred contentedly and gazed on the sleeping form of my favourite slave and smiled. Norge never failed to please me. Temporarily, I was the Master back in my old bed and the horrors of yesterday were banished from my mind.

Then as I shifted to relieve my cramped legs, I was hauled back to the appalling reality of what I'd become - another man's slave. Moving my legs, I felt the restriction of the shackles fastened around my ankles and I heard their ominous rattling. Momentarily confused, I looked around searching for the comforting familiarity of my bedroom. Instead, as my brain re-focused on my surroundings, I saw only the squalor of a slave's stable. I was like Norge, a naked slave and my nightmare was reborn.

Norge woke and recognised my horror. He eyes were sympathetic and his smile was, no doubt, meant to be reassuring. I don't know what my next re-action would have been. At that moment, Cato, accompanied by a young slave, stood on the other side of our bars. He ordered us to our feet and another day was about to begin.

Then, entering, he ordered me to,

"Turn around boy, so I can check your ass."


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

Cato unlocks the door into our stable and enters followed by the slave groom. After his examination of me, he stoops and removes the shackles from Norge but leaves mine fastened. I wonder about this and as though he'd read my thoughts he tells me I'm to remain shackled and locked up until he receives instructions from our Master as to what duties he is to assign to me.

I know this to be a busy time of the day for Cato; he has much to do before our Master wakes. He is yet to unshackle and release the house-slaves from their quarters and he has then to ensure they are gainfully employed before their Master appears. This was the morning routine under the Barrois and it is to continue until the new Master chooses otherwise. For now, Cato will carry on as though nothing has changed with the household.

After ordering the groom to give Norge and me our bowls of slave gruel, Cato instructs him to wait until we have finished eating and then to take Norge to the ablution block. I am to remain in shackles and locked up pending my Master's decision as to what work I am to do.

Norge sits with his back to the wall with his food and indicates I should do the same. As I sit alongside him, I look at the unattractive, grey-green glutinous glob contained within my food bowl and raising it to my nose, I sniff apprehensively. My nostrils tell me there is nothing there to excite my olfactory senses; no smell to either whet my appetite or to repulse me.

Tentatively, I dip the tip of my tongue into the bowl and lick cautiously. Again there isn't any sensation and my taste buds testify to its blandness; the food is both tasteless and odourless. What then is the enticement for me to eat?

As I look at the bowl held in my hands, my intestines squirm with an unfamiliar hunger and my belly rumbles a noisy plea for satisfaction. I have been without food or water since lunchtime yesterday and I am both ravenous and thirsty. These are two very new sensations for me and demand my immediate attention. But how do I eat? I am at a loss as to what to do and I look to Norge for guidance.

I watch as he uses the first two fingers of his right hand to scoop up a glob of the gruel out of the bowl and place it into his mouth. At first, the crudity of this disgusts me. I see it as further diminishing my former standards and the lowering of my self-esteem; yet after the events of yesterday, I have very little of this left. Self-esteem is something we slaves have no need of.

But the gnawing hunger in my belly overcomes my sensibilities and I follow Norge's example and scoop up the very first mouthful of my new diet; a diet that over the coming years will be standard fare and without variation. I put it into my mouth and find there really isn't any taste. But its gluelike texture makes it hard for me to swallow; it catches in my throat and I gag. Norge explains to me that I am trying to swallow too much and that I should take smaller portions; something that should have been obvious even to me. But new slave that I am, everything about my new life has to be learned afresh and I'm fortunate that Norge is present to help me.

I'm surprised at just how filling this gruel is. It quickly satisfies my hunger pangs and for the first time since yesterday my stomach feels full. I'm to find out that the water I'm soon to be given to drink will swell the contents of my belly and help sustain me throughout the long day ahead until my next meal this evening.

Norge is a faster eater than I am and even as I continue to eat, he is licking out the final, few scraps from his bowl. He is now ready to be taken to the ablution block to begin his preparations for his day's labours and I watch as the groom leads Norge from the stables. I'm now left on my own to wait.

How long I'm left to wait I don't know. Without access to either a clock or watch I haven't any notion of time. I know it is early morning and that soon I'll be put to work in the interests of my Master. I don't know what type of work that'll be and it is none of my concern. From today onwards, all my actions will be determined by others and all that is required from me is strict adherence to all orders given to me by my Master or his agents. But it doesn't stop me from wondering. Last evening, I'd overheard Cato tell my Master of the possible tasks I could be assigned to.

He'd mentioned that I could work in the kitchens; this prospect appals me. I know as a new slave, I'll be assigned the most menial of tasks, like stoking the ovens and scrubbing the pots and pans used to prepare the sumptuous meals of which I'd so recently partaken. In comparison to the rest of the house the kitchens are antiquated and the heat from the wood burning stoves is oppressive. The slaves assigned to the kitchens work under extreme conditions and are constantly bathed in sweat. 

As the former Master, I rarely visited this area of the house and it was easy for me to overlook what lay behind the scenes. It had never occurred to me to modernise the kitchens or to upgrade the equipment in the interests of my slaves' comfort. For as long as my meals were served to me in the cool luxury of my dining-room, it was all too easy for me to turn a blind eye to what happened downstairs. 

Now the prospect of being assigned to the kitchens is very real and I find the possibility of working as a lowly skivvy alongside my former slaves as daunting. And also working there, I'd be subject to the whims and orders of the chief cook.

Another alternative suggested by Cato was for me to be assigned to the outdoor maintenance slaves. Of the two options this is the one that appeals to me the most. At least, I would be spared the heat and claustrophobic environment of the kitchen. But it does have its shortcomings.

Working outdoors, my new slave nakedness will be on display for the first time to the entire neighbourhood; my former neighbours will be able to see me and make comment.

Within our neighbourhood, there is a group of rowdy, teenaged youths who gather together to mercilessly torment any unfortunate slaves working with earshot of them. They tease the slaves relentlessly and I have often seen my outdoor slaves fall victim to their taunts. 

Of course they are the sons of the families living nearby and all the surrounding householders indulgently tolerate their good-natured banter at the expense of their slaves. The teenagers know they aren't to interfere with the slaves' work or to physically harass them; there is an understanding that they aren't to throw stones, rubbish or other projectiles at the slaves - but other than that there aren't any restrictions. There are free to hurl as many verbal missiles at the slaves as they wish.

As their Master, I was unsure of how my slaves coped with this but that was unimportant and it never concerned me; they must simply grin and bear the cruel jibes in the good natured spirit in which they were offered. Any verbal response from a slave is a serious offence and punishable with twenty strokes of the cane. Often, I had seen some of my young slaves, who weren't much older than the teenagers themselves, blush with shame as they were taunted about their nakedness or the size of their genitalia.

Next door, Major Swanston has a team of young slaves, aged in their teens, who work in the extensive grounds around his house and they are particular targets of this noisy group. Always ready to play to an audience, the major often invites these neighbourhood rowdies into his garden where he instructs them in the correct management of his slaves and where he allows them to practise and hone their skills in the use of the cane and the whip. 

As the major is so fond of saying -"it's never too soon for a young, free man to learn how to control slaves."

I suppose if my Master assigns me to work outdoors then I must silently endure all such indignities and insults hurled at me.

There are six slaves assigned to the maintenance of my former home, its gardens and the hydrocaust. Two slaves are employed, semi-permanently in a continuous cycle of repainting the house and its outbuildings. Three work as gardeners to maintain the extensive lawns and garden beds that are so admired by all who are fortunate enough to visit them. And a fourth slave works in the boiler-room.

The gardens, now in full maturity, were redesigned and laid out by my late grandmother shortly after her marriage to my grandfather and they became her abiding passion and great love. She spared neither herself nor her slaves in their maintenance and constant rejuvenation.

As a child, I'd spent many happy hours playing in these gardens and after their deaths; I saw them as a memorial to my grandparents. They are maintained just as my grandmother would have wished.

They cover some five hectares in area and are made up of sweeping, verdant lawns, colourful flower beds and gravel pathways meandering through shaded groves of ornamental shrubs and trees. All parts of the garden are high maintenance but none more so than the lawns which must be constantly mown to keep them in the immaculate condition that my grandmother had demanded.

Every second or third day, depending on the growth of the grass, two slaves are harnessed to individual lawnmowers and made to pull them slowly back and forth over the lawns. As a boy, I spent hours sitting beneath a shady tree and watched as the slaves cut the lawns. I loved to look on as they strained into their harnesses and to see the stress this placed on their naked, sweating bodies. The play of their muscles as they laboured to pull the heavy mowers always excited me and after puberty I enjoyed many an enjoyable erection as I looked on. Even as an adult, I did on occasions retire to the shade of my favourite tree and watched the slaves' sweaty endeavours as I enjoyed a cool drink.

The thought that today, I could be harnessed to a mower has a certain irony about it.

And Cato's third suggestion is that I could spend my first days of slavery splitting firewood.

And as I think of Cato, he has returned for me. He has received instructions from our Master as to what is to be done with me.


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

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