Date: Thu, 10 Mar 2011 22:02:30 -0800 (PST)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "Changed Circumstances" Chapter 12

CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES

Chapter 12: Norge's Story

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

Written by Jean-Christophe "To see all my stories go to
groups.yahoo.com/group/SlaveNow"

Chapter 12: Norge's Story

By any stretch of the imagination this has to be a momentous day; second
only to the day I was enslaved. I have a new Master and my former Master is
now a slave.

It began as any other day for me; the life of a pony never varies from one
day to another. I was woken before dawn by one of the outdoor, duty slaves
- included in their list of duties is my care and grooming - and given my
first meal of the day.

This meal, like the pattern of my life never changes. It was the usual,
tasteless, grey sludge that is routinely fed to slaves. I don't know its
composition but I once heard that a pony's food is slightly different to
that given to other slaves and makes allowance for the increased stamina
and endurance demanded of him. As a pony, I'm naturally required to run
great distances for long, sustained periods of time. But I was fed the
normal, slave food during my stint at `La Foret' and to be honest I can't
tell the difference - both are unedifying to look at and tasteless to eat.

However, the manufacturer advises that both foods are "formulated to help
your slave maintain his good health, to keep the digestive system in
efficient working order, free of all parasites and to ensure your slave
remains slim, muscle toned and smooth skinned". Obviously it works as I
have never seen a fat slave and all are heavily muscled. The latter however
may have more to do with the slave's heavy workload rather than his diet.

After my enslavement, it took me a long time to adjust to the blandness of
my new slave diet. I still miss the sweet, juicy taste of an apple, the
zesty, tangy bite of an orange and all the other foods I took for granted
when I was free. There have been occasions, on hot days, when my former
Master had stopped at a roadside kiosk and bought himself an ice-cream or a
cool, refreshing, soft drink. How I envied him each lick of the ice-cream
or every slurp of the drink can as my heightened sense of smell savoured
both.

Still there were rare occasions when my former Master- if he was pleased
with my efforts -would give me an additional reward other than his usual,
appreciative pats on my ass and pop a piece of sweet, tasting candy into my
mouth. My pleasure as my taste-buds exploded into unaccustomed action was
immeasurable and I sucked slowly to savour and prolong this unexpected
treat. However, it's a treat he seldom gave me but when he did, I was
always extremely grateful to him.

As both my meals for the day are served to me in a wooden bowl and without
eating utensils, I'm forced to eat using either my mouth or fingers. This
too took some getting used to but now I'm very adept at it.

Once I was fed, my groom took me out to the slaves' ablution block where my
first duty was to relieve myself of my bodily wastes. Then I was
purged. This happens to me every day without exception. It was a particular
requirement of my former Master that this happened; he was most fastidious
about both my appearance and my behaviour and he was concerned that I never
disgraced him in public with any little accidental calls of nature. After
that I was groomed and made ready for the day.

There are two of the outdoor slaves who groom me. If necessary, my hair is
cropped back to its correct length and I am body shaved. This is always a
pleasurable experience for me as I enjoy the feel of the grooms' hands and
their razors working on my body and I am quickly aroused. I particularly
enjoy the experience of having my cock and balls manoeuvred around out of
the way of their razors and my erections are always long, hard and
sustained.

This is followed by my "bath"; I stand under a shower-head and my body is
sprayed with cold water from above. It's a rather wet affair and I'm joined
under the shower by my grooms who seem to like frolicking with me. It's
hard to say who enjoys this more - them or me. There is something very
sensual about having two fellow slaves soaping and washing my body at the
same time. As one works on my front, the other scrubs my back and their
erections match my own and give ample evidence of the pleasure they find in
their work. These few minutes are usually carefree and the three of us
indulge in much horseplay and laughter as we wrestle with one another under
the cascading water.

However, we do need to keep a sharp eye open for Cato who doesn't
appreciate our jocularity and views our high-spirits as a serious waste of
our Master's time. A slave's time is a valuable resource that rightly
belongs to his Master and for a slave to squander it is viewed as stealing
from that Master. Such a misdemeanour displeases Cato and warrants
immediate and harsh punishment.

If caught, the two grooms are made to bend at the waist and hold onto their
ankles thus giving their bodies support while Cato canes them. The usual
number of strokes they receive on their upturned buttocks is three but this
can increase to five if Cato is out of sorts. Cato's new cane is fearsome
and since its introduction we take extra care for them not to be
caught. Cato never blames me for any bad behaviour - I am only a pony; it
is always the grooms at fault. I do feel guilty as I listen to their yelps
of pain as he canes them. It seems unfair that I have enjoyed the pleasure
but don't share the pain.

After my bath, I'm dried off and inspected by Cato to see that I meet the
high standards of my Master and should he be dissatisfied the two grooms
are again punished. If I'm required for an early start, I'm placed in my
harness and hitched to the cart which is then tethered in the courtyard to
await my Master's pleasure. If I'm not immediately required then I'm
returned to my stall where I wait until my services are needed. Because I
am a pony I'm excused from other labours. I must conserve my energy and
strength to meet my Masters needs as he drives me to his destination.

Today, my services weren't immediately required and after my grooming, I
rested in my stall until late morning. This time of inactivity can be very
boring and I envy the other slaves the activity of their labour and even
their enforced, silent companionship with one another. As the only pony, my
existence is a lonely one. I long for the company of another slave.

Usually this time spent alone is one of reflection for me. I fret for my
lost freedom and I feel residual anger towards those who exploit me. And
some of this is centred on my Master, Lucien Barrois. Only he is no longer
my Master. Like me he is a slave and he is now named Rafe.

At first, I had resented Lucien Barrois' treatment of me but less so now. I
can't blame him for the fact that I'm a slave; my own stupidity is to blame
for this. I knew the immigration laws of this country were stringent and
that the penalty for illegal entry was unnecessarily harsh. Foolishly, I'd
gone on a drinking binge, overstayed my welcome and my ship had sailed
without me.  It never occurred to me that I would be swept up in one of the
periodic raids of the immigration officials.

I suspect these raids are conducted on the basis of the need for new slaves
rather than on any genuine concern for the law. When the slave clearing
houses are almost empty a quick round-up of `illegals" can always be
counted on to fill the holding pens. I was an unfortunate victim of one
such round-up.

My resentment of Lucien Barrois dates from our first encounter. It was the
day after my enslavement and I was still traumatised by this. Locked in a
foul-smelling pen at a slave-dealership, I was naked and now wore the
collar and mark of a brand new slave. Through the bars of my pen I saw this
well-dressed young gentleman peering intently at me. He had all the
hallmarks of a young master; arrogant, supremely self-confident and
callously indifferent to the plight of a hapless slave.

At his instigation, I was dragged from the pen and made to stand on an
inspection platform while he appraised me. When I first refused to comply
with his commands, the slave handlers whipped me into position and then
hovered in the background to see I behaved myself. It was at that moment
that I understood my new status as a slave.

With a complete disregard for my feelings or emotions, Lucien then
subjected me an inspection. True, his inspection was visual - he seemed
reluctant to touch my oil-coated body - but as his eyes roamed slowly over
me, I felt the degradation and humiliation that all slaves feel at such
moments. I recall he had a particular fascination for my foreskin. His
inspection finished, I was returned to the pen to wait for my trip to the
auction block. Several days later I stepped up onto it and I was
sold. Lucien Barrois bought me and I became his slave.

Lucien wasted little time in adapting me to his needs. The very first
night, after I'd had the filth of the slave pens washed from me and I'd
been made presentable for my new Master, I found myself in his bed where he
used me as a man uses a woman. This was a first for me - in my free life I
was heterosexual l- and I cried throughout the whole experience. My sense
of shame at his treatment of my body is beyond description. It was a potent
demonstration of a slave's helplessness when confronted by a master's
overriding need.

The shame of that first night still lingers although it was to be the first
of many such occasions. Gradually, I have adjusted my mindset to Lucien's
needs and I now work hard to satisfy him and I have to admit there is some
limited enjoyment in these occasions for me. And over time I sensed a
change in his attitude towards me. I was still his slave but I detected a
growing fondness for me. Ever so slowly, I found myself reluctantly
returning those feelings.  Unknowingly, my slave nature was opening up and
I was acquiring the attributes of a loyal and obedient slave.

Within the first few days of his ownership of me, Lucien busied himself
with altering my appearance from that of a free man to that of a slave. My
hair was cropped, my body shaved smooth and he marked me with his personal
brand - the ancient, archaic, Barrois coat-of-arms. Like all his slaves
this brand is prominently displayed on my right pectoral just above the
nipple. But my time with Lucien was short-lived. Within a few days I was
shipped off to "La Foret" for conditioning and training.

Altogether, I spent six months at that accursed place. It was here that I
learned about true slavery. Immediately, upon my arrival I was assigned to
a work-gang of twenty slaves clearing rocks from new ground prior to it
being ploughed.

Within the first few minutes, I was screaming out in pain as a black
overseer's whip snaked through the air and wrapped itself around my
torso. The pain was excruciating and it proved a powerful incentive for me
to keep my back bent and to work as hard and as fast as is humanly
possible.

Here, I discovered that all of La Foret's overseers are free, black men who
are the descendants of the original, black slaves who'd once toiled for
white masters.  I discovered these black overseers still harbour a deep
resentment of the white race - though they wisely conceal this from their
white employers - and they vigorously visit the sins of the fathers on the
white slaves now under their control.

They hold white slaves in contempt and they treat us harshly.

I was to spend three months in that gang of wretched slaves. Naked,
unwashed and unkempt we laboured under the broiling sun and the scourges of
our overseers from just after sunup until just before sundown.

There was no respite from the unrelenting drudgery of our labours. Every
two hours the overseers allowed us to pause briefly and to quickly gulp
down a couple of mouthfuls of water. This wasn't done for humane reasons
but to compensate for our copious sweating and as a safeguard against
dehydration.  Otherwise we toiled without break. No allowance was made for
our work stressed bodies and the slightest hint of slacking-off was
rewarded with a blow from a whip. On my first day, having already tasted
the whip, I foolishly straightened up and stretched my aching back. I heard
the unfamiliar whistle of the whip and the loud thwack as once more it
coiled itself around me. My scream drowned out the overseer's order to me
to,

"GET BACK TO WORK! NOW! Bend your back."

Then in the gloom of the early evening of my first day, we were returned to
the slave barracks for shackling and locking in.

Life in the barracks proved difficult for me that first night. As the new
arrival, I was viewed as fresh meat and I attracted the attention of the
more dominant slaves. As a former seaman, I knew how to defend myself in a
fight but here I had to fight hard to preserve myself from their unwanted
advances.  Eventually, after several heated scuffles they gave up and
decided to leave me alone.

I sought out a sleeping spot away from these trouble makers and it was here
that I meet Jake. A year or two older than me, Jake had been a Barrois
slave for about four years - or so he thought on his reckoning - and we
became instant friends. Jake was to become the only bright spot in the time
I spent at La Foret and we always contrived to work alongside one another
in the fields.

Those first, few, lonely nights were only made bearable for me by Jake's
presence lying alongside of me on the straw that served as our bedding. I
soon learned to seek relief for my loneliness in the hard warmth of his
body and the friendly embrace of his strong arms.

His strength and friendship sustained me through the first, dark days of my
sojourn at La Foret. He took it upon himself to instruct and guide me in
what the overseers expected of us. We worked as a pair using picks and
crowbars to lever the heavy rocks from the earth's firm grasp and together
we manhandled them onto the drays waiting to haul them to the nearby
crushing mill for conversion into road metal. More than once we shared an
impatient overseer's whip falling on our exposed backs. So close were we
that whenever he was whipped, I felt his pain and shared his
suffering. This was a type of friendship I'd never had before and it was
one that sustained me in the early days of my slavery.

Inevitably, this friendship changed and we became lovers. For the first
time, I now experienced that deep and wonderful feeling that only two men
who truly love one another can appreciate.

Unlike the selfish, one-sided lust of Lucien Barrois, Jake and I had a
shared love; one where neither one of us sought to dominate the other. It
was a new experience for me - an avowed heterosexual - to discover that I
could love another man in this way and surrender myself to him. It was a
give and take situation where we each went as the spirit moved us;
sometimes I would surrender my body to him and at other times he would open
up to me. It's ironic that I had to become a slave to experience such
happiness as I felt whenever I was with Jake.

My three months in the work-gang saw a marked change in me. The work was
hard but it had honed my body to muscular perfection and raised my fitness
to an unprecedented level. Genetically, I am blessed with a good physique
and I'd always taken pride it my Nordic appearance. As my muscles hardened,
my skin darkened to the rich, golden tan that one sees in people from the
Scandinavian countries. My blond hair lightened to a silvery-gold colour
and I'd never felt fitter or stronger Despite the hardship of my labours -
or perhaps because of them - I thrived. And because I knew I looked good, I
felt good. Slowly I was adjusting to my slavery and to help me along that
road I had Jake as my travelling companion.

Sadly my happiness wasn't to continue and at the end of the three months,
Jake and I were parted. Neither of us was to know our parting would be
permanent and we never did get the chance to farewell one another. Even
after all this time, I still miss Jake and often when I'm alone in my
stall, I ache to feel him lying alongside of me. How I wish that he'd been
trained as a pony and that we ran together as a matched pair.

One evening as my gang was being driven back to our barracks; an overseer
hauled me out from my fellow slaves and delivered me to the stables where
the heavy drafts and ponies are housed. Next morning the training that was
to change me from a work slave into a pony began in earnest.

My next three months at La Foret were notable for the loneliness I felt at
being parted from Jake and for the soul-destroying nature of my
training. The only redeeming feature of this time was that I was kept
clean.

At the end of my time in the work-gang, the filthy, grime encrusted
creature with matted hair and beard that I'd become was unrecognisable from
the person who'd arrived at La Foret three months ago. During my time in
the slave-gang, the only cleansing I'd received was from the occasional
summer rain that fell as we toiled or an infrequent hosing down; now I
enjoyed the luxury of a twice daily cleansing.

My first day of pony training was spent in making me presentable. I was
washed-numerous times-to remove the accumulated filth, grime and sweat of
three months from my body, my hair was cropped and my body shaved
smooth. At the end of this process I was new person and some of my
self-respect and dignity returned.

My training to become a pony involved several stages. Before I was actually
placed in harness I had to undergo a strict programme of exercises to
improve my cardio-vascular fitness and to strengthen my legs. Only when my
trainer was completely satisfied - and he didn't spare his whip to achieve
this satisfaction - did he allow me to move on to the next step of my
training.

The next part of my training was the worst. It was slow, tedious,
repetitious and soul-destroying. I was made to move in a wide circle around
a central post to which I was attached by a long, training lead. On the end
of this lead, which was fastened to my collar, I was made to walk, trot,
canter and run in a never-ending succession of circles encouraged by my
trainer's whip. Once I had mastered those parts of my training, I was
introduced to the more fanciful steps that a driver demands from his pony;
I was taught the high-step and the prance. These proved to be the most
difficult for me; I was too slow to learn them and only did so after many
painful encounters with the training whip.

My nights were spent alone in a securely locked stall. I missed Jake
terribly and the sounds of the other ponies and heavy drafts engaged in
their nocturnal frolics only made my solitude that much harder to
bear. Time moved slowly for me and the dull monotony of my training was all
I had to look forward to.

Several times during my training, Lucien Barrois visited to check on my
progress. These visits soon took on a familiar pattern. First he would
inspect me by running his hands over my upper body while discussing my
fitness level and muscle definition with my trainer. I had learned to
remain silent and to stand passively as he tweaked my nipples and toyed
with my genitals. He had a genuine interest in my foreskin - I was soon to
lose it - and he would spend several minutes sliding it up and down the
shaft of my cock. This action never failed to arouse me and he always
watched as my burgeoning erection sprang to life.  This seemed to please
him no end. Then, as the final part of his inspection, he would gauge the
strength of my legs and my ass before examining my teeth.

Before Lucien left, my trainer always gave him a practical demonstration of
my progress to date; he would put me through my paces by running me in
circles to demonstrate my speed and current ability. As I ran, they would
talk, and I supposed Lucien would be expressing his satisfaction - or
dissatisfaction - with some aspect of my training and making suggestions as
to how things could be improved.

Eventually my training finished and I was placed in harness for the first
time.  I was now a fully-fledged pony slave almost ready for my Master's
use. But before I was handed over to Lucien I was to temporarily serve time
as his chief overseer's pony pulling him on his daily round of inspections
of the vast estate.

Early each morning, I would be harnessed to the manager's cart and tethered
at the front steps of his residence. He would then drive me on his lengthy,
daily tour of inspection of La Foret travelling down the long, shady
network of roads that traversed the fields and each day I would catch a
glimpse of Jake working in the distance. Bent double to his labours and
fearful of the whip, I doubt he ever saw me serving as a pony.

The three weeks I served as the manager's pony put the finishing touches to
my training; under his tutelage, I learned to respond to the driver's
whip. Ponies are expected to give of their best in the service of their
Masters but even the best-intentioned pony will flag at times. Inevitably,
his legs will tire and it is then that the whip is brought into play. And
so it was with me on my first day in harness.

I'd been in harness for several hours and made to run from one spot to
another with the occasional stops as the manager talked with his
overseers. I quickly learned to value these all-too-brief pauses; they gave
my bursting lungs a chance to replenish and for my aching legs to cease
their jelly-like quivering.

After one such stop, I thought I was running at the required speed and I
was therefore surprised at the manager's impatient instruction to me to

"Come on! Come on! Pick it up!"

I yelped as his whip cut across my ass and acting on reflex, I threw myself
forward into my harness.

"PICK IT UP! PICK IT UP!"

As he continued to shout at me and to apply his whip to my shoulders, back
and buttocks, I tried, with animal like panic, to outrun the cruel sting of
his lash.  I suspect some type of survival instinct took control of my mind
-one that sought to remove my body from the source of its pain. In a vain
effort to outrun the whip, I found myself running ever faster and drawing
on hidden reserves of strength and endurance. But for a pony in harness,
there is no escaping the whip; it can't be outrun. In my futile effort to
escape the whip's fury, I was indeed running faster which is what my driver
demanded of me. He was victorious; I had responded as a pony must. His will
had prevailed over my imagined inability to give more of myself to the task
required of me. He'd demanded more of me and he got it.

I became a true pony that day and was ready to serve my Master.


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

As I said today is a momentous one. It is the day when my Master, Lucien
Barrois became the slave, Rafe. But it began as a normal day and there
wasn't any hint of it being otherwise.

I had been groomed and made ready at the usual time and because my services
weren't required immediately, I'd been returned to my stall to wait on my
Master. Then, in the late morning, Cato had supervised as my groom fitted
me with my harness and hitched me to the cart. Cato told me I was to
deliver my Master into the city centre a distance of some five kilometres
from here. It wasn't my favourite trip; the route into the city and the
city-centre were always crowded with people. Perhaps it was my imagination
but as I travelled that way I felt very exposed and under constant
scrutiny.

My Master takes pride in me; I am after all his personal pony and he likes
for nothing better than to be complimented on my proud bearing and overall
appearance. My body harness serves two purposes; it attaches me to his cart
and it also serves to keep my body erect, pulling my shoulders back and
thrusting my chest forward. I have a firm, flat belly that is ridged with
hard muscle and my cinch rings thrust my cock and balls out into cheeky
prominence. Being in harness and being made to run naked under my Master's
whip usually arouses me so that my cock is rock solid hard and points the
way ahead with iron-bar rigidity.  I always feel shamed by this but my
Master describes it as one of my endearing qualities. It isn't unusual for
a Master or a Mistress to expect their ponies to show well and put on a
proud display. Indeed ponies with the ability to do so are highly prized
and fetch good prices at auction. But for me, this very public display is
still humiliating and I retain enough of my free man pride to resent it.

My Master appears and climbs into the cart; I am instructed to "Walk on!"
We don't go far however before he orders me to "WHOA!"

I stop and wait as he talks softly and confidentially to his old friend and
neighbour, Major Swanston. The major is supervising and haranguing five,
young slaves who are busily working in his front garden. The Major, who is
always short-tempered and usually low on tolerance, carries a leather quirt
and he breaks off talking with my Master to apply it viciously to the
exposed back of an eighteen year old slave.

"You stupid dolt! That's not a weed. You've pulled out a petunia plant."

Once more the quirt finds it target as the Major apologises to my Master.

"I'm sorry about that Lucien, Stupid slaves; you can't take your eyes away
from them for a second. Now you were saying?"

Once more they lower their voices and continue their discussion. Is it my
imagination or does my Master wear a look of concern? However, after a few
minutes, he seems to be re-assured by the major and once more I'm told to
"Walk on!"

My Master doesn't appear to be in a hurry and he allows me to proceed at a
leisurely pace. I am grateful to him for this as the day is very hot and
I'm soon sweating profusely. Wisely my Master had raised the canopy of the
cart before leaving home and he is protected from the heat of the early
afternoon sun. I on the other hand am fully exposed to its intensity.

I don't know what business it is that brings my Master into the city, but
we move through the main central square and into a place I recall with
bitterness.  It is the law courts where I'd been enslaved and the forge
where I'd been collared and branded. I watch with some sympathy as seven,
naked, young men are whip-driven, weeping, to the forge for their
enslavement.

My Master pulls me to a halt and climbing out of the trap waits as an
attendant slave hurries forward to offer assistance. The slave tethers me
to a ring fastened into the wall and I hear him ask if I'm to be given
water to drink. My Master doesn't like me to drink while I'm in harness -
he claims it makes me sluggish -and on one occasion, I'd heard him instruct
Cato to restrict my water intake prior to harnessing me. But today, my
Master makes a concession to the hot weather and to my obvious stress and
gives his permission to the slave to give me water - but sparingly - and to
assist me to piss if necessary.

I watch as my Master hurries across the courtyard to where his lawyer,
Simon Barrow is waiting him. I watch as they engage in earnest conversation
before disappearing through a door and into the court building. I'm now
left to wait for his return.

Waiting for the master's return is perhaps the worst part of a pony's
day. The sheer boredom of standing immobilised in the one spot is mind
numbing. The wait might be a long one or it might be a short one; the
duration is totally dependent on the Master's needs. This afternoon it is
to be a long wait. There are however breaks to relieve the monotony.

Sympathetically, the attendant slave brings me water and, because my wrists
are fastened to the trap's shafts, he assists me to drink. Then he helps me
to pee.  He holds a bucket beneath me and uses his free hand to hold my
cock and guide my stream into it. I feel for both of us. Our common
degradation is on public display and I think how odious it is must be for
the slave to have this revolting task included in his list of duties. It
diminishes both of us but then I remember we are slaves and in the eyes of
our masters nothing demeans us. I'm grateful to the slave but as both of us
are forbidden to speak, I can't thank him vocally and therefore I use a
slave's unspoken language to do so and smile at him.  He returns my smile.

Suddenly the silence is shattered by an ear-piercing shriek of pain from
within the forge. My blood runs cold as I realise this is the first of the
seven new slaves being branded. Spaced over a period of regular intervals
there are six more heartrending cries as the other six are initiated into
slavery and left to cry for their loss of freedom.

The wait is proving to be a long one and inevitably I begin to fidget to
relieve the strain of my enforced immobility. Then I look up and notice
another four miserable, naked wretches being driven to the forge for
processing. I show little interest in them and return to the long wait for
my Master's return.

Three more times I hear the pain-filled cries of the newly branded and on
my reckoning there is now only one remaining new slave to be branded.

Boredom has overtaken me and I wonder, "What is taking my Master so long?
Where is he?"

These thoughts are interrupted by angry shouting and looking up I see one
of the new slaves has broken free and is racing desperately across the yard
in my direction. He is pursued by two slaves from the forge and they are
joined by the slave who had tended to me. All three wrestle the runaway to
the ground but before he disappears under the scrum of their bodies, I
recognise him.

Unbelievingly, I see the face of my Master, Lucien
Barrois. Incomprehensively, he is now a naked slave being hauled back into
the forge for his branding and collaring.


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

I now have a new Master, Guy Maratier and my old Master Lucien Barrois is
no more. He has ceased to exist and has been replaced by the slave, Rafe.

How do I feel about my former master's downfall? At first I was jubilant;
what slave wouldn't take pleasure in seeing his tormentor reduced so low;
to see his Master as a naked, collared and branded slave like himself. I
rejoiced in that and as he was fastened to the cart alongside of me and
made to run naked through the city streets I revelled in his shame. I felt
great satisfaction as our new Master's whip slashed across his ass to urge
him on and in doing so I was barely aware of my own pain as I too was
whipped. There was poetic justice in all this and I was overjoyed at his
humiliation.

But then, as we ran together something strange happened. From some place
deep within him I heard him say "I'm sorry". And this apology was to be
repeated later as he waited for his introductory caning. Instinctively, I
knew it was heartfelt and genuine. In his own suffering, he now saw the
injustice he'd done to all his slaves. Too late to be of practical use
either him or his former slaves, it was never-the-less an admission of his
guilt; a guilt that is shared by all slave-owners.

At that moment, I felt a softening of my attitude towards him. I knew from
my own experiences what he must be feeling. The shock at his loss of
freedom, the degradation of being turned into a naked slave, the awful
shame and pain of being branded and collared and the fearful uncertainty of
his future. I had been taken to all those places and now I felt for him.

I shared his humiliation as he was welcomed home by his former neighbours
and I stood beside him as the loathsome Major Swanston played with our
genitals and toyed with our erections.

I had watched as he received his welcome to the household caning from Cato
and I recognised his pain. But that didn't concern me too much. Pain is an
integral part of a slave's life - it looms large in our thinking and its
threat is ever-present- and Rafe will now have to accept this fact.

There are worse torments ahead of him. I'd overheard our new Master say
that his new slave is to spend time at La Foret - learning to be a real
slave. I know from personal experience what that entails and what waits for
him in the fields and slave barracks of that cursed place. I wonder will
there be a Jake to help and guide Rafe as he adjusts to the rigours of
becoming a common, work slave.

Yet there is hope for Rafe. I'd overheard our Master's future plans for
us. Like me, Rafe is to become a pony and eventually we are to run together
as a matched pair. I look forward to that and to his company in my
stall. It will be a welcome alternative to the great loneliness I now feel
and perhaps there is even the possibility of that closeness I'd once shared
with Jake. I hope so.

But that is in the future. My former master, now shorn of his hair and in
chains, stands naked like a bewildered and frightened little boy outside my
stall waiting as Cato unlocks the door for him to enter. He is to share my
stall for tonight and there is a look of fearful uncertainty on his
tear-stained face.

Inexplicably, I feel compassion for this man who, as my Master had so
thoughtlessly used me as his slave. Tonight perhaps I - as a fellow slave -
can give him the same comfort and support that I had once gratefully
received from a big-hearted slave named Jake.

To be continued....