Date: Thu, 7 Apr 2011 17:32:14 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "Changed Circumstances" Chapter 19  Gay Male/Authoritarian

CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES
A Sequel to 'A Reversal of Fortune'

Chapter 19: "The Gardens"


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

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

Chapter 19: "The Gardens"

I've always loved these gardens. They were my late grandmother's pride and
joy and she had lavished much love and unstinting effort in establishing
and maintaining them. When she married my grandfather all those years ago,
both the house and its gardens were best described as "run down". She
immediately took it upon herself to restore them to their former glory.

My grandfather was deeply in love with his new wife and he could deny her
nothing. He'd given her "carte blanche" in renovating the rather tired
house and had actively encouraged her in re- establishing the long,
neglected gardens. Money was no object and he'd personally searched among
all the city's slave-dealers looking for suitable slaves with a background
in horticulture and gardening. By judicious selection, he assembled a team
of skilled slaves whose only task it was to bring the grounds back to their
former glory thus complementing the colonial grandeur of the dilapidated
mansion.

My grandmother personally supervised all aspects of the house renovations
and the replanting of the spacious grounds. It was she who chose the decor
and furnishings for the house and it was she who designed the flower-beds,
the shrubberies and selected the trees that now give the grounds an
appearance of a mature, botanical gardens.

My grandfather -always proud of his wife's achievements - often told me how
in those early days, my grandmother spent her days supervising both the
renovators in the house and her team of garden slaves as they worked
industriously under her firm direction. From all accounts, she was a
demanding task-mistress and in her enthusiasm she drove the slaves hard. If
she wasn't satisfied with either their efforts or their results she never
hesitated to refer them to my grandfather for punishment.  I gather from
his words that he was indulgent of her and could deny her nothing.

I have seen the "before" photos taken at the time my grandmother embarked
on her ambitious plans for both the house and its gardens and it has to be
said her efforts were remarkable. Of course, it wasn't a quick project and
it took some years to reach fruition. But, I only ever remember the house
and gardens as they are now.

The grand, white painted, two storied colonial mansion sits on top of a
small knoll and overlooks the surrounding suburbs. It was this small hill
which inspired my grandmother to rename the house "Jolimont" which is
French for pretty mount. My grandmother was proud of her French heritage
and spoke the language fluently and she insisted that I did so too. Like
her, I am proficient in both English and French and she always encouraged
me to be proud of my French, Barrois ancestry.

The gardens were a source of wonderment for me during my childhood. They
were my playground and my world. How many times did I "roll" down the
gentle, verdant slopes of the lawns to make myself giddy? How many times
did I play "horsey" mounted on the shoulders of some young slave and gallop
him along the maze of tree-lined pathways until he was exhausted? The
slaves toiling in the garden refused me nothing; I was the "young Master"
and they were fearful of offending me.

As I rode my steed, I saw myself as many things; sometimes I was a cowboy
chasing after stampeding cattle or as a highwayman fleeing from capture. My
imagination was limitless as I enthusiastically dug my heels into my
"pony's" side or whipped his ass with a makeshift whip to make him run
faster.

Eventually the day came when I could no longer sit astride a slave's
shoulders and I put aside my childish games for more mature pursuits.  I
had just entered puberty and my body was awash with my raging hormones and
my emerging sense of identity. Now I watched as the slaves toiled in the
gardens and the sight of their strong, naked bodies both excited me and
confused me. I liked nothing better than to look upon their sweaty
nakedness and watch the play of their powerful muscles flexing and rippling
as they bent to their labours.

Soon I found myself visiting the gardens every day to slowly stroll along
the shady paths and stopping from time to time to surreptitiously observe
the slaves at their labours. Of particular interest to me were the
lawnmowers and the slaves who provided their motive power. How I grew to
love these unique machines.

I have stated previously that my grandfather eschewed modern machinery in
favour of slave labour.  He much preferred to use the raw, muscle power of
a slave more than an internal combustion machine. And so it was with our
lawnmowers. They were designed by him and made to his specifications and
each was to be pulled by a strongly built slave.

There are four such mowers although, for the majority of the year, only two
are used. The other two are brought out and used in the springtime when the
lawns are in full growth or used as reserves should the others break down.

Today there are two in action and I am harnessed to one of them.

Early this morning-just before sunrise- Norge and I were woken by a now
naked Cato and his groom assistants and prepared for our day's
labours. Both of us were put into harnesses; Norge for his duties as our
Master's pony and I for my new role as a beast-of-burden to pull one of the
two lawn- mowers.

My harness is identical to the one worn by Norge; it is comprised of two,
wide, leather straps which fit over my shoulders and drape down both the
front and back of my upper body to waist-height.  Additionally, there are
two horizontal straps which buckle tightly around both my chest and waist
moulding the harness firmly into the contours of my upper body. Then I and
the other slave, who was to share in the lawn mowing duties with me, were
led out on to the lawns and fastened by our harnesses between the shafts of
our respective mowers.

It was a particularly humiliating experience for me to stand like some
dumb, submissive animal as Cato attached my body harness to the shafts by
short lengths of chain. Thus fastened, I was then ordered to grasp a shaft
firmly in each hand as he used iron manacles to fasten my wrists to them.

That is how a slave provides the motive power for the lawn mowers which
were so cleverly designed by my late grandfather.  The unfortunate slave
uses both his hands and the forward thrust of his body to move the
mower. Of course to work effectively -and to provide a smoothly cut sward
of velvet like lawn-the rotor blades needs to be kept at a constant
speed. Today, I'm to find that building up to and maintaining that speed is
much harder than one would think.

The slave must pull really hard to reach the required speed and then to
work diligently to keep it constant. It is for this reason that once
started; the mowers aren't stopped until the end of the day.  There are no
rest periods for the slaves and all water breaks are taken on the move.

I'd always admired my grandfather's ingenuity in designing these mowers and
I took pride in the fact they are both energy efficient and non-polluting
in that they use muscle power rather than our limited, fossil fuels.
Indeed my grandfather was so pleased with them, he'd patented their design
and had one of our many companies manufacture them for sale to the general
public. They proved extremely popular and can now be found in use all over
the country. Even today, they are still a source of great profit to the
Barrois-correction-Maratier family fortunes.

Today, my admiration for them will turn to hatred. By day's end, I will see
them for what they really are-instruments of pain and torment.

I strain into my harness and pull.  It is a constant "tug-of-war" between
the forward thrust of my body and the resisting, counter-weight of the
mower. My body inclines forward and every muscle in my upper body is under
stress in an effort to keep the blades of the mower rotating at the
required speed. My lungs gulp greedily for the oxygen to fuel the engine of
my body and my aching, stretched legs are the pistons that drive it
forward. My perspective of the lawnmowers is now very different to the one
I'd held as a free man.

I gaze across the lawns-they now seem so much bigger than I previously
remember- and see in the distance the shady tree under which I'd spent so
much time as a youth. I'd had a table and bench built there ostensibly as a
place where I could sit and study in quiet solitude-at least that's what
I'd told my grandparents-but my real reason was to watch the toiling
slaves.

I found watching the slaves as they worked to be highly erotic; it
titillated by burgeoning sexuality and was highly arousing. Most of the
time my cock was rock hard. In my shyness I took great pains to hide my
very obvious erection from my body slave by sitting at the table and
pretending to study my text books; by keeping "it" under the table so to
speak. Eventually, I was to overcome this early "shyness" and not worry too
much if the slave saw me in my aroused state.

However there were some potentially embarrassing times when my grandfather
visited me as I "studied" under the tree. I never knew he understood my
reasons for spending so much time there and sympathised with my youthful
lust.  In my youthful ignorance I'd never once thought he'd also been a
young man subject to the same urges and desires I felt. Nor did it occur to
me that, even as an older man, he could still appreciate the beauty and
sheer physicality of a naked, male slave sweating under the sun.  If I'd
taken the trouble to notice, I'd have seen there were even occasions when
my grandfather also shared my "delight".

This morning it is me who sweats and strains to keep my mower moving and
watching from the cool shade of "my" tree is my Mistress, Charlotte
Maratier. She had discovered my little nook while on an exploratory stroll
through the gardens with Cato and had stopped to rest at the table where
once I'd studied. She was quickly enamoured of the spot and had sent back
to the house for a slave to attend her with refreshments. Now she sits as a
naked Cato stands before her ready to receive his instructions.

I estimate the time to be mid-morning-how I miss my watch and the ability
to know precisely what time it is-and I wonder about Cato's thoughts. If
I'm correct about the time, then it is only two hours until his and Marv's
canings. My Master has set midday as the designated hour and has arranged
his affairs so he'll be in attendance. He has also organised for Major
Swanston and his major domo to be present.  Immediately after Cato has
caned Marv it is this major domo who will cane Cato. He is a big, strong,
brutish slave and I have seen his "handiwork" on occasions in the past. I
know he doesn't "hold back" in using the cane and I do feel some degree of
sympathy for Cato.

Never-the-less there is also a sense of satisfaction in knowing Cato is to
feel the same pain he'd inflicted on me.  I am to witness the canings; our
Master has ordered all his slaves to assemble in the courtyard at midday to
watch the punishments of the two slaves and that of course includes me. I
wonder if Charlotte Maratier will attend and watch Cato's humiliation or
will she consider it "beneath" her. It will be interesting to see.

Already this morning, Cato has been humiliated by our Mistress. Immediately
after breakfast he'd been sent off to the neighbours with the invitations
to attend our Master's soiree tomorrow evening. The neighbours are aware of
Cato's existence and on the rare occasions when they'd had contact with
him, he would have been clothed in his customary tunic. However today, he'd
arrived at their front doors slave-naked and I can only imagine at their
surprise seeing him like this and of his shame as he stood before them. How
humiliating it must have been for the once proud and indulged slave to have
to stand silently as their curious gazes swept over his nude body?

Now he stands before Charlotte- beneath my tree -and receives her
instructions for the running of the household and what she requires to be
done for tomorrow evening's function.

For my part, I give of my best in pulling the heavy mower across the
lawns. Apart from the birdsong and the busy buzzing of insects, the only
other sounds to disturb the morning's calm are my laboured breathing and
the soft 'tic-tic-tic" of the rotating, mower blades as I move inexorably
forward.

The tight-fitting harness cuts into my shoulders and they ache from the
strain placed upon them by the dead weight of the mower. My legs are leaden
and it requires much effort on my part to put one heavy foot in front of
the other. My chest heaves and my stomach bellows in and out from my
exertions.  I'm shamefully aware my balls are hanging low in the day's heat
and swing freely between my straining legs whilst my partially erect cock
waves from side to side like a metronome keeping time with my steps. But
most humiliatingly, the straining forward into my body harness places undue
stress upon my ass-hole which feels it has been stretched wide open to
public scrutiny.

My body is an open invitation to the many types of insects who live in the
gardens; flies swarm over me feasting on my sweat , mosquitoes bite me and
my feet stir up myriads of tiny midges who live at ground level; they rise
in small, black clouds and settle all over me.  They enter my eyes, my open
mouth and my nostrils and no amount of head shaking will dislodge them;
their persistence is annoying in the extreme. They cover my legs and
genitals and I feel their irritating presence in the deep cleft of my
buttocks. I have suffered them for four hours and I estimate there are
still two hours remaining before I am unfastened and taken to the courtyard
to witness Marv's and Cato's chastisements. Can I endure that long?

Sweat trickles down my body in ever-flowing rivulets but I'm not allowed to
pause not even to replace this water loss. Once started the mowers aren't
allowed to stop. Periodically, another slave will bring a water container
to me and place a nozzle and tube in my mouth and through which I am able
to satisfy my burning thirst as I keep the mower rolling. Cool water has
never tasted so good; for a thirsty slave it truly is "nectar from the
gods".

I am stricken with conscience. For all the years I had "enjoyed" watching
my slaves pull the mowers over the verdant sweep of my grandmother's lawns,
I'd not once considered their discomfiture. Now I have an appreciation of
their misery and suffering and I am deeply shamed by my callous
indifference to their plight.

As a free man I'd thoughtlessly used and abused my slaves; profiting from
their labours and enjoying the delights of their bodies. That was my due as
their Master and my rights over them were enshrined in law. For them there
wasn't any other recourse but to accept what I demanded of them.  When
issuing an order to a slave, I'd never considered whether or not he wanted
to do as I commanded; that was irrelevant. My will always prevailed. A
Master commands and a slave gives unquestioning obedience. That is the true
nature of slavery.

Now I'm a slave and my world has been turned upside down. My suffering of
the past two days- and the further suffering I must undergo as I am branded
and skinned- have opened my eyes to the cruel iniquities of slavery. If all
free men suffered but a fraction of what I have suffered then, there is no
doubt in my mind that slavery would cease to exist. But this won't happen
and it will endure in its awfulness for as long as greedy men stand to
thoughtlessly profit from the labours of others. That is human nature.

I look over to the far edge of the lawns to where my fellow slave is
pulling his mower and I wonder about his thoughts. Is he actively thinking
or is his mind a blank? What do slaves think about as they labour? Do they
reminisce about past lives now lost to them or do they simply "shut down"
and close their minds to the horrors they must now endure?

At first, when I'd been harnessed to my mower, all my concentration had
been centred on getting the mower started and keeping it rolling at the
required speed for the effective cutting of the grass. I am on an "honour
system" and I am expected to "pull my weight". At some stage Cato is to
check on my progress and if he is dissatisfied with my efforts then he is
to report back to my Master who will decide if I'm to be punished. Fearful
of further punishment, I apply myself diligently to my task and I ask
myself-is what I'm doing good enough?

My labours have reduced me to the level of a beast-of-burden. I'm reminded
of a strong ox yoked to a plough plodding along in docile obedience to its
handler. I feel an affinity with that ox as I too plod along in dumb
subservience. And like the ox if I need to urinate, I can't stop to relieve
myself; I just piss as I pull. Even now, despite my profuse sweating, my
bladder is full to capacity. However my pride prevents me from voiding it
so publicly.

 Beginning at one end of the lawn's vastness, I pull my mower to the
opposite end taking great care to keep the cut width straight and even for
I know I will be judged on that. Inevitably I reach the other end and must
then turn around and position my mower for the return cut. This then is the
nature of my day's work.

I try to relieve the sheer boredom of my labours by thinking of other
things. At first I think of all that has happened to me over the past two
days. I become depressed and my eyes fill with tears. Then I think of the
words spoken by Norge last night when he'd advised me to accept my "changed
circumstances". Once more, I see the wisdom of those words and I change my
thoughts to us. Today, I am like Norge; I too am in harness and I think of
the day when I will be harnessed alongside of him for the first time. The
thought of this eases my troubled mind and gladdens my heart.

I approach the edge of the lawn nearest to "my" tree and I see my Mistress
and Cato looking in my direction. Although out of earshot, I know I'm the
subject of their discussion and the focus of their attention.

Cato approaches and viciously swipes his cane across my ass. I cry out in
pain and I see Charlotte Maratier smiling at my discomfort. Apparently she
has been watching me and is dissatisfied with my efforts. She has ordered
Cato to walk alongside of me and to use his cane to encourage me to pull
harder and faster.

Once more I feel the bite of Cato's cane cutting across my ass as I turn my
mower around and begin the return journey to the far end of the lawn. The
sudden shock of Cato's caning causes me to lose control of my full bladder
and despite my best efforts, I piss myself. Shamefaced, I look to see if my
Mistress has noticed and I'm mortified to see that she has; her smile of
triumph at this ultimate humiliation of me tells me this is a moment she is
savouring. I ask myself how much more debasement I must suffer before she
is satisfied. Will nothing quell her desire for revenge?

Cato now walks by my side and he "encourages" me along every step of the
way.

As I feel the cruel cuts of his cane, I lose all sympathy for Cato and know
I will take great delight in witnessing his caning.

Behind me I hear Charlotte Maratier's malevolent chuckling.

Oh! How I hate that woman!


To be continued....