Date: Thu, 5 May 2011 17:59:30 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "Changed Circumstances" Chapter 23    Gay Male/Authoritarian

CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES
A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune"

Chapter 23: "The Guessing Game"

This 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 23: "The Guessing Game"

Rafe

I feel very much alone. True there is a "trusty' present to watch over me as I
wait for my Master and Lionel Schuster to arrive but he is of no consequence.
Like me he is a slave. But the loneliness I feel in this grim room is
compounded from my fear of the unknown - what is to happen to me?

My master has brought me here for a purpose. I know I'm to be appraised and he
will be given an estimate of my value on the auction-block. But beyond that I
know nothing. Nor will I be told. My Master doesn't owe me an explanation and
he'll make the decision as to what is to become of me.

The thought that I could be sold terrifies me with its uncertainty. A slave has
no control over his destiny; he stands on the auction-block and his fate becomes
a lottery determined by numbers; the amount of dollars that a buyer is prepared
to pay for him. Those who aspire to own him shout out those "numbers" in
feverish activity and each vies with the other to possess him. The traumatised
slave stands mute and powerless on his block and waits to be sold.

In my worst fears, I see myself being sold like Cato. Poor Cato! What has been
done to him? Where is he now?

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

Cato

Cato and I had been separated on our arrival and he'd been taken to an
inspection room identical to the one I'm standing in. There, like me, he'd been
shackled onto a podium and left to wait for the arrival of his Master and Lionel
Schuster. He stood there alone in fearful apprehension and sobbed as he
contemplated his fate. By the time Lionel Schuster was ready to begin his
appraisal, Cato was beside himself and bordering on the hysterical. It became
necessary to use the cane on him to "calm" him. Fortunately for Cato it only
took three strokes of the cane to settle him and make him amenable to the
dealer's inspection.

Lionel Schuster was thorough in his inspection and no part of Cato's body
escaped his scrutiny. The dealer's experienced hands gauged his musculature and
tested for the strength of his body. His finger probed into the deep recess of
Cato's body testing him for "wear and tear" and into his mouth checking the
soundness of his teeth. Cato was made to flex and bend and to contort his body
into poses that better "displayed" him. Then in one, final obscene test, Cato
was made to masturbate.

Finally, with the examination completed, Lionel Schuster delivers his verdict
on Cato.

"Well Mr Maratier, I'm afraid it's a mixed report on your slave. He's still in
good condition considering his age. He's sound of wind and limb and his physique
is still reasonable - although a little soft but that could soon be corrected by
hard labour. But I have to say he has limited appeal."

"What about his years of experience as a household steward? Doesn't that count?"

"In his case, not really. He's on the wrong side of forty and most buyers would
see him as "long in the tooth" No, I'm afraid even his appeal as a steward is
limited. Most buyers want a younger slave as their steward. Much like the one
you have just bought. Occasionally, you do find a widow or an elderly spinster
lady who is looking for a mature slave. That's your only hope I'm afraid. But I
have to say even these cases are rare."

"Well then, what am I to do with him?"

"The only suggestion I have is to put him up for auction and let the market
decide. There's a buyer for every slave and all slaves do sell eventually."

"Who would he appeal to? Who'd buy him?

"My feeling is that he'll be bought for heavy duty labour. A field hand perhaps.
But more likely, he'll end up labouring on a building site or in the mines and
quarries. There's always a demand for cheaper slaves to fill these jobs. The
owners prefer to buy cheaper, mature aged slaves rather than the highly priced,
younger ones. Certainly their turnover of slaves is higher but the initial lower
cost of buying older slaves works in the owners' favour. Your slave still has a
number of useful years left in him. Once he's been conditioned to his new work -
why I estimate he's good for at least five or six years. He'll return his cost
several times over," Lionel Schuster chuckles grimly, "his new owner will see to
that."

"I have to sell him so it appears I don't have an option. What's he worth?"

"Could we discuss that out of earshot of the slave? It's not good to let a slave
know what he's worth."

"Why is that?"

Well it's bad for their morale. Some slaves become "bigheaded' when they learn
how valuable they are and will boast about it to slaves of lesser value. It can
cause a lot of resentment and bad feeling. Why, I've even seen slaves fight with
one another over their market value. Anyway it's none of a slave's business to
know what he's worth to his master, is it?"

"No! I suppose you're right. Go ahead and sell him. When will that be? Will it
be his Friday?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr Maratier. It's too late for Friday's venue. Our catalogue
has already been printed. But he'll be put up for sale at the following Friday's
auction. In the meantime we'll hold him in our pens at no cost to you. Are you
happy with that?"

"I suppose I'll have to be, won't I?"

"Very well then, I'll have my slave fit him with his holding chains and take
him over to the pens. Don't worry, we'll look after him. Now I suppose we should
move onto the appraisal of your other slave. What's his name? Ahh! Rafe, that's
it."


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

Rafe

Suddenly, I hear the sounds of loud laughter and the animated conversation of
male voices in the passage outside the door. I recognise my Master's voice - but
he isn't laughing - and it sounds to have an "edge" to it. I'm quickly becoming
aware of my Master's short temper - indeed I now know I must tread warily with
him - and I wonder what has upset him.

Of course, I'm not privy to my Master's thought and I'm not to know that he is
bitterly disappointed with the result of Cato's appraisal and the prospect of
selling him at a reduced price has darkened his mood.

Given Cato's long experience; he genuinely feels that his former steward is
worth far more that the miserly sum quoted to him by Lionel Schuster. So
disappointed is he in fact that he'd even thought of not selling Cato and taking
him home. Then he'd remembered his grandmother and her desire to be rid of
Cato's presence from the house. He has no wish to upset her; therefore he'd
reluctantly agreed to sell Cato.

At the sound of the voices my "trusty" is spurred into action. He snaps his whip
at my back and although it doesn't actually touch me I feel its breath softly
caress my shoulders and I begin to shiver involuntarily. The trusty orders me
to my knees and then, as the door opens, he commands me into the full
"obeisance" position.

I now kneel with my forehead and the palms of my hands pressed to the floor and
my ass elevated. Apparently, I'm not yet in the correct position; I feel the
trusty's hands pressing on the inside of my upper legs forcing them further
apart. Then humiliatingly, he reaches in between my thighs and "re-arranges" me
so that my balls hang low and my cock is made more visible. I am now "open" for
inspection and the fiery heat of my shame scorches my body and colours me a
vivid scarlet.

From my lowly position, I can't see who enters the room but I'm acutely aware of
their presence. However, I do recognise the voices as those of my Master and the
slave-dealer, Lionel Schuster and the good-natured laughter is that of my former
friends Miles Fortescue, Jack Stanford and Daniel Carew. The three younger men -
former friends from my schooldays - are here at the invitation of my Master who
is using them to humiliate me as I am examined and valued. Foolishly, I believe
he is mistaken in thinking he can add to my degradation for I am now at the very
bottom of the deep pit of my despair. Nothing he does now can shame me further
or add to my humiliation. But I am wrong; I'm yet to endure even greater
degradation.

From my position of debasement, I'm aware of the five men slowly circling me and
assessing me much as a predatory cat would a terrified mouse My body trembles
with the emotion of all this and tears well up into my eyes as I hear the loud
sniggering of my erstwhile friends. I ask myself did our friendship - on which
I'd personally placed great store - really mean so little to them that they can
now participate in my latest shaming? Having sympathy for my present situation -
and I do understand that as a slave I can no longer be their friend - couldn't
they at least have declined my Master's cruel invitation to watch as the
slave-dealer values me? The fact that they did not and now stand behind me hurts
me and cuts deep into my soul.

My emotional and physical pain is real. My body aches from its unaccustomed
exertions of the past two days and is a forewarning of the hardships that await
me as I labour in my Master's interests. My ass still throbs from my two
canings and it is painful to the touch. The angry stripes that criss-cross my
buttocks are visible evidence of this pain. They are there for all to see, to
touch or to comment on. Their redness is fading into the ugly blue-black and
yellow bruises that I'm destined to wear for some days yet. Inevitably these
bruises will disappear just as the pain I now feel will ease. All that will be
left of my physical punishments will be memories of the almost unbearable agony
I'd experienced. These memories are for my own good and will serve as a
cautionary warning to me to always be obedient to my Master's wishes and to be
conscientious in meeting my responsibilities to him. They will encourage me in
my good behaviour and will act as spur to do all within my limited scope to
avoid future chastisement.

However, my emotional pain is quite different. It cuts deep into my psyche and
will never go away. It will lie buried within me and if I allow it to it will
gnaw away at my self-esteem. I am in the depths of despair; despised, rejected
and ridiculed by all around me. There is an exception of course -Norge. But he
isn't here to comfort or support me in the ordeal that I must now undergo at the
hands of these five men who surround me. Deep within my chest I feel a silent
sob catching at my breath; I do my best to stifle it but I can't stop my tears
from flowing. Why have I suddenly lost my composure? What has brought me to this
low state? From somewhere within the maelstrom of my thoughts, I find the
answer. It is the bitter rejection of me by my three former friends.

I had been shocked at the rejection and hostility shown to me within the
courtroom on the day of my enslavement and I was equally dismayed at the crowd's
scorn and abuse as I ran alongside Norge through the city streets that same
afternoon. Their rejection of me had been impersonal in that I didn't know them.
However I do know my three former friends, Miles, Jack and Daniel and their
rejection is the cruellest of all and is an intolerable burden for me to
shoulder

We had been noisy playmates as toddlers, inseparable as boisterous school-boys
and the closest of confidantes as we cavorted through our teen-aged years and
explored our burgeoning sexuality together. We had discovered things about
ourselves as we matured into responsible young men living up to family
expectations of us and together we had shared many secrets. It's true to say
I'd loved all three almost as the brothers I'd never had. They were the solace
of my lonely boyhood and the mainstay of my teen-aged years.

Eventually, we'd gone our separate ways with each of us following different
career paths but we'd always stayed in touch with one another. We meet from time
to time to "catch-up" and reminisce and it seems incredible that less than a
week ago we'd met for drinks in our favourite bar. But that was a week ago and
in another world. It's a world of which I am no longer a part; for they are free
men whereas I'm now a slave.

Their rejection cuts deep to the very core of my being. It truly diminishes me
as a person -and in purely legal terms I am now a non- person - but even as a
slave I still retain vestiges of my humanity. Their rejection robs me of my
self-confidence, feeds my sense of utter worthlessness and plants the seeds of
guilt, revulsion and a festering self-loathing. I'd thought each day that my
life had plumbed new depths and that I couldn't sink any further into the mire
of my slavery. I am wrong. I feel numb from the realisation that even those I'd
once loved have now cast me out of their lives and see me as only a slave.

My former friends have caused me so much hurt and heartache that I'm grateful I
don't have family or close relatives. It would be infinitely worse to be
rejected by them. True, I am distantly related to the Maratier's but even that
tenuous link to family has been taken away from me. I'd never known them as
family and so for me there's no sense of rejection on their part. Then I
remember Charlotte Maratier.

I remember how as a young, twenty-something woman her father had exiled her from
the family home and caste her pennilessly adrift in the world because she'd made
an unsuitable marriage. I think of her sense of rejection and wonder did she
feel then as I do now. I think of the long years she'd endured the pain of her
rejection and of the anguish this must have caused her. Obviously her sense of
rejection had eaten away within her and had turned itself into a corrosive mix
of bitterness and venomous hatred. I still hate and fear her - she is after all
the architect of my downfall - but I now have some understanding of what drives
her anger and fuels her cruel viciousness. I wonder if over the long years of my
slavery whether I will become like her. Will I too become twisted and embittered? I
fervently hope not and promise myself to do all within my power not to become
like Charlotte Maratier.

Then soothingly, my mind quickly answers my questions - No I won't! This won't
happen for I have Norge. He will be at my side and I will have his friendship
and support. Oh, how I wish he was here now.

This is almost a revelation for I realise that I'm not alone. Not everyone has
repudiated me. Amidst the ruins of my life and surrounded by the debris of lost
friendships, I have one who supports and comforts me - Norge. At first, he too
had rejoiced at my shame and humiliation. But then he'd seen me as the shattered
shell of my former self and he'd reached out to me in friendship. This tells me
much about Norge's generosity of spirit. Although a slave, he has a far greater
humanity than any of my former, erstwhile friends.

Now, because of Norge's friendship, their rejection becomes a little easier to
bear. The knowledge that Norge is to be my companion in my slavery lightens my
spirit and it strengthens my resolve and I take comfort from this. The depth of
Norge's feelings for me, when all others have cast me out of their lives, goes
some way to restoring my shattered self-image. I see the good in him and he is the
only stabilising influence in my dreary existence.

With this insight my tears begin to flow more copiously as I hear Jack
Stanford's degrading observation.

"Hey! Rafe's got a great ass! I don't think I'd ever noticed it before. Have
you guys?"

Of course, all three have seen my naked ass - just as I had seen their own - on
countless occasions. After all we played sport together at school and afterwards
in the showers we'd always indulged in much "horseplay" as we wrestled naked
with one another and provocatively flicked at each other with our towels. And
hadn't we spent many happy, sundrenched hours "skinny-dipping" in the rivers and
ponds that abound on our families' properties. Without any thought, we swam in
our chosen nudity whilst all around us our families' slaves had industriously
toiled away in their owner imposed slave-nakedness.

It had been something of a joke to us to taunt the sweating slaves with our
freedom to "cool off "in the water while they were forced by the overseers'
whips to labour on without a break under the sun's intensity. Selfishly, we'd
never given them a second thought. As I think on this, I now recall one
occasion, when a young, new slave not much older than I was had straightened up
from his hoeing and had watched enviously as all four of us splashed and
cavorted in the river. Callously, we had watched as an overseer applied his whip
three times to the unfortunate slave's back and we'd laughed out loud at his
yelps and cries of pain. Now, as a slave, I know that our laughter was misplaced
and our indifference to the young slave's suffering was cruelly insensitive.

We'd grown up accustomed to each other's nudity and this continued into our
young adulthood. We were always comfortably naked in one another's company and
never saw any shame in our healthy, common nudity. But our nakedness was that of
free persons and it had been of our making; we had chosen to be naked. This
nakedness of a free man is very different to the nakedness imposed upon slaves.
A slave doesn't have a voice in the matter. Their nakedness is at the behest of
their masters and is designed to differentiate them from free society. It tells
them they are no longer free men but something more akin to animals and it is a
constant reminder of their true status as slaves.

Consequently, my slave-nakedness is mandated by free society and it isn't of my
doing. My former friends obviously recognise this fact. They now see me as a
slave and they accept my nudity as part of that condition. Therefore, I am to be
fair game for their scorn, the butt of their crude jokes and the cause of their
ribald laughter. In this they are to be ably assisted by my Master and Lionel
Schuster.

Miles Fortescue - always the smartest of the three - recognises my changed
circumstances and tell his friends,

"That's because Rafe wasn't always a slave; we knew him then as Lucien Barrois
when he was free. So his free ass was no different to our own. Now it's
different; it's a slave's ass. However Jack, I have to agree with you though - it is a
beautiful ass."

I cringe at where this conversation is taking my tormentors and I wonder at
Mile's next question.

"Guy. Do I have your permission?"

"Feel free, Miles. I'm sure Mister Schuster won't mind waiting for a few more
minutes."

What is it that Miles has sought permission to do. They still stand in a group
behind me and nervously I wait. What is that my Master has agreed to?
Stealthily, I shift position and raise my head slightly and try to peer back
through my outstretched legs. My movements were ever so slight and I thought
they'd go unnoticed. I was wrong. An angry shout from my Master and two loudly
resounding slaps on my buttocks convinces me of this.

"HOLD STILL! STOP FIDGETING, RAFE!"

To emphasise his command, my Master delivers another two stinging slaps to my
already smarting ass and I have no option other than to comply and wait.

I gasp as a hand parts my buttocks even wider than my spread legs allow and I
shudder as a finger touches the delicate membrane of my anus. I brace for a
digital invasion but mercifully this doesn't happen. I assume it is Mile's
finger that is touching me and once more I feel the hot flush of my
embarrassment wash over my body.

"I'd say Rafe's a virgin," Miles announces triumphantly, "What do you think Mr
Schuster? Is the slave a virgin?"

"I haven't had a chance to check him, Miles. At this stage, I'd rather not
speculate on whether or not the slave is a virgin. I will be exploring him more
fully in a few minutes during his examination. So I'll reserve judgement until
then."

"But he looks tight." Miles replies.

"AAH! But looks can be deceptive. Let's wait a little longer, shall we? Be
patient! All will be revealed in the fullness of time, Miles. Now if you have
finished, I think it's time to make a start on him. Right, Mr Maratier?"

"Of course, Mr Schuster, Rafe's in your hands. You can start whenever you're
ready."

"In that case, let's have him on his feet." Lionel Schuster takes my Master at
his word. Then he instructs me,
"UP ON YOUR FEET, BOY! NOW AND BE QUICK ABOUT IT!"

Hastily, I scramble to my feet but as I do so my restraining chain wraps itself
around my ankles and I accidently fall forward onto my knees. I'm unaware that
Lionel Schuster is armed with a cane until I feel its bite on my shoulders.
Twice more I feel it fall across my back and my cry of shocked pain is drowned
out by the slaver's angry shouting.

"YOU STUPID DOLT!!!!! Get to your feet. NOW!"

This time my efforts are successful and I now stand ramrod erect with my arms by
my side and my eyes focussed on some imaginary spot high up on the far wall of
the room. My body quivers and my teeth chatter from my nervousness.

Lionel Schuster moves to my front; impatiently, he taps my fear-shrivelled cock
with his cane and orders me to move my feet further apart.

I do as he instructs; I stand ready for his inspection and for any other
humiliation that he is to heap on me.

Momentarily there is silence as the dealer's gaze rakes over my naked body. He
is taking his time and is savouring this opportunity to belittle me in front of
my Master and my former friends. . It's obvious to me that he derives great
satisfaction at having me stand before him as a helpless slave.

For Lionel Schuster its "pay-back" time and he bitterly remembers all the
slights and insults he'd ever suffered at the hands of Lucien Barrois. He is
determined the slave, Rafe is to be repaid tenfold for each and every one of
Lucien's offences. He is now ready to begin.

My Master and my former friends move into position in front of me and they group
themselves into an arc where they can watch as Lionel works on me. As I wait for
the dealer to begin, my limbs begin to tremble and my body is racked by a
violent shaking. My heart pounds with an almost explosive force within my
heaving chest and desperately I fight to fill my lungs with air. I am seized by
a wild panic and I begin to weep. I am on the verge of hysteria.

Lionel Schuster is no stranger to these panic attacks; indeed he has come to
expect them from a new slave. His "cure" is brutally effective. His cruel slap
to my face echoes loudly around the room.

"SNAP OUT OF IT!!!!!!"

The shock of his slap works. Involuntarily, I catch my breath and I begin to
breathe normally. My panic eases and my trembling lessens. As Lionel waits for
me to "settle down" he tells my audience that what they have just witnessed is
quite normal and nothing out of the ordinary. He tells them that all slaves "do
it". All eyes focus on me as Jack asks.

"Mr Schuster. Is there a routine you follow when you examine a slave? I mean
where do you start?"

"Son, most appraisers have their own ways of inspecting a slave. They all have
different approaches. But to answer your question - yes I do follow a set
pattern. It's one I've developed over the years and it works well for me. I
start at the top and work down inspecting the front of the slave first and then
have him turn around so that I can check out his rear."

"I see so you'll check out his head first is that correct?"

"Yes! Look would you like me to explain what I'm doing as I inspect our young
friend here? I could give you a running commentary so to speak."

"YES PLEASE!!!!" All three of my former friends chorus enthusiastically.

Lionel Schuster moves closer to me until we almost touch. I feel his breath on
my face and I smell its foulness. It is a sickening blend of unclean teeth,
stale food, cigars and alcohol and as if to emphasise its loathsomeness he burps
loudly just centimetres from my face. My nostrils are assailed by its
unpleasantness and reflexively I move my head backwards in a vain attempt to
escape this latest assault on my dignity. He doesn't waste any time in
delivering a stinging slap to my left cheek and I'm told to

"STAND STEADY!!!!!! DAMN YOU SLAVE!"

My face smarts and once more my tears flow freely. I now realise that this man
has no pity for me and he is determined that I am to suffer.

"Look at me boy!"

Quickly, I lower my eyes from the wall until I look straight into his face and
what I see disturbs me. The corners of his thin lips are curled into a spiteful
sneer and his hate-filled eyes bore into me with malevolent intensity. Suddenly,
I'm terrified and I know I can expect little mercy from this man.

I think back to my last visit to this establishment which was less than a
fortnight ago. I recall how this man had fawned over me and obsequiously sought to
ingratiate him into my favour. I remember how I'd treated him with the disdain I
felt his obnoxious behaviour warranted. Little did I know then that I was sowing
the seeds of my current predicament? Ironically I think on this and realise the
tables are now turned. This man has it in his power to subject me to unspeakable
shame and humiliation.

Confidently, he reaches forward and places his hand in the middle of my chest.
Ever so slightly I recoil at his touch and once more I feel the sting of his
hand - this time on the right side of my face.

"STEADY I SAID!!!!!! Now stand still unless you want to feel my cane on your
ass."

I look beyond him to my audience. I see their interest in observing how this man
is subduing me and bending me to his will. My Master is smiling as he watches
and even my three former friends watch with amusement.

Lionel Schuster takes my head between his hands and inclines it forward towards
him. He runs his fingers over my scalp and ruffles my slave crop. He now begins
his commentary.

"Well, gentlemen, as you can see I'm now examining the slave's scalp for any
blemishes or scars that could detract from his value. But I'm pleased to say he
is clear of both. Judging from the stubble on his scalp I'd say the slave had
naturally thick hair. Am I correct?"

It's a silly question and it is meant to be dismissive of me. By asking it he
implies that he knows nothing about me and that I'm "just another slave" no
different to those incarcerated in the nearby pens. He has of course seen me on
numerous occasions and he knows that my thatch is both thick and blond, that I'd
worn my unruly hair fashionably longish and I'd been inordinately proud of it.
Bitterly, I recall how Cato had shorn me of my pride three nights ago.

"Indeed you are right, Mr Schuster." Miles answers, "Lucien always wore his hair
longer than was customary. In fact he was quite vain about it and I know he
spent a lot of money in grooming it and keeping it stylish."

"Well he's very much in vogue now isn't he?" Lionel laughs as he rubs his hands
over my head, "He now wears it in slave vogue."

His joke resonates and his laughter is joined by that of the other four. The
slave-dealer is delighted with their responses and begins to play to his
audience.

"What do you say, gentlemen? What do you think of your friend's new haircut? Do
you like it?"

My tormentor is setting the pattern for my inspection. As he points out my
salient features he is inviting comment from his audience. At the same time, by
carefully wording his questions, he exposes me to their ridicule. It is Daniel -
who has a tendency to not always think before he speaks -who replies.

"I think it looks good on him. It suits him. Makes him look like a slave,
doesn't it?"

"Well Daniel, you'd expect it would, wouldn't you?" The ever correct Miles
answers drily. "After all he IS a real slave."

All four crane forward as the dealer examines my ears. Spitefully he twists,
pulls and stretches them away from the side of my head before peering into their
shells looking for any imperfections. Finding none, he now blows into them
testing for my re-action. He grunts his approval as my slight, shivering
responses. Satisfied, he next turns his attention to my eyes. He uses his
fingers to pry my eyelids apart and examine my eyes. He comments on their
colour.

"The slave has blue eyes. That can be both a blessing and a curse."

"How so?" My Master asks with just a note of annoyance in his voice. Is the
dealer about to find fault with this slave also?

"Well the slave has a good colour combination that would appeal to some buyers.
Slaves with a blond thatch and blue eyes and who have the capacity to tan nicely
are very much in favour. A blond, blue eyed slave with a golden coloured hide
like this one commands a high price at the moment."

"Why are they so popular? Who buys them?"

"They're very much `en vogue' as dual purpose slaves. They're very popular with
masters looking to use a slave both as a valet and as a pleasure slave. I
haven't finished examining him yet but my feeling is that your slave shows great
potential as a bed buck."

"Well that's good isn't it? What's the down side to him then?"

"Well for a start, while slaves with blond hair and blue eyes are most
attractive and have great visual appeal, they do have weaknesses. In strong
sunlight some of these slaves tend to suffer from excessive watering of the eyes
and they develop an unattractive squint. Then of course there can be problems
with their hides."

"What do you mean?" My Master asks irritably, "What sorts of problems?"

"There's no doubt that the hide on a blond slave tans beautifully. I'm the first
to admit that but their skins can be tender and too much exposure to the sun can
cause a number disfiguring skin disorders that detract from their overall
appearances."

"Is that really a big problem?"

"Some owners think so and they won't use blond or auburn haired slaves for heavy
duty, outdoor work. They prefer the hardier, darker haired varieties. Experience
has shown they're less prone to sun damage."

"So! What you're saying is that my slave could have limited appeal to a buyer as
an outdoor worker because he has blond hair and blue eyes?"

"Yes I am. Some owners - but not all -wouldn't see your slave as an outdoor
worker. Instead, they'd see him more as a house slave. As I said before,
currently blonds are fashionable. The demand for them remains high. If you
decide to sell him, I would think he'd be quickly `snapped up' by an owner
looking for a body servant. Really I see your slave's future duties being
confined almost exclusively to his master's bedroom."

"I think perhaps you overstate the case, Mr Schuster." My Master snaps
impatiently, "I have seen many blond slaves working outdoors and anyway as long
as a slave is able to work does his discomfort matter? I think not. Can we
continue, please?"

Lionel Schuster detects the terseness in Guy Maratier's voice and assumes -
rightly - that he doesn't want to hear anything that disparages his slave. The
dealer knows, even after so short an acquaintance, that the new inheritor of the
Barrois fortune isn't all that different to the former heir. He bristles at Guy
Maratier's arrogance but in the interests of future business prospects he
decides he must adopt a conciliatory approach. Still, this galls him and as he
feels the bile rising in his throat he directs his anger at the slave, Rafe.

I stand helplessly mute at all this talk about the unsuitability of blond slaves
for outdoor work and the mention of me as a body-slave or worse still - as a
"bed-buck" - fills me with horror. My time as a slave has been too short for me
to consider these possibilities.

Once more the slaver turns his attention to me and he delivers a stinging blow
to the side of my head.

"OPEN YOUR MOUTH, BOY! OPEN IT WIDE!!!!!!"

The impact of Lionel Schuster's slap to my face makes me stagger backwards and
as tears fill my eyes I obey his shouted instruction.

"I said open your mouth, boy. NOW DO IT!!! WIDER!!!!!!"

I have been present at many slave inspections - far too many for me to recall -
and I am aware that they all have one thing in common. That is the complete
bullying of the wretched slave. This shouting and slapping of the face is part
of this bullying and is meant to intimidate the slave into unquestioning
compliance with any instructions given to him. I'd always viewed this as a
necessary part of assessing a slave and I had in fact resorted to these tactics
numerous times in my own handling of a slave. I'd never considered my actions as
bullying but rather the necessary ones of a firm master. Never at any time had I
thought of the physical pain or distress my actions caused to the slave I was
examining. That is until now.

The side of my face smarts from slaver's slap but it is the humiliation that I
feel the most. I hear the sniggering of my former friends and as I look to my
Master, I see he is smiling broadly. My audience is enjoying my very public
shame.

I do my best to obey and I open my mouth as wide as possible. But Lionel
Schuster isn't satisfied; he uses the thumb and forefinger of his left hand to
tightly pinch my nostrils together causing me to breathe through my mouth and
therefore keep it open for my oral inspection.

Miserably, I try to disassociate myself from what is happening to me as he
thrusts his fingers deep into my mouth and examines the soundness of my teeth.
My teeth are in excellent condition and as the former Lucien Barrois I hadn't
spared any expense in keeping them that way. To ensure they remained so, I'd
visited my dentist twice a year.

Lionel Schuster grunts his approval.

"The slave's teeth are in excellent condition. They're sound and I can't see any
fillings. They're white and very even and that's always a good selling point
with a slave. A slave with white, even teeth and a pleasant smile is always
appreciated by his owner. Owners like for their house slaves to have healthy
mouths, sound teeth and a sweet smelling breath. Personally I can't abide a
slave with poor teeth. There's nothing worse than a slave with bad breath
serving you."

The irony of this last comment isn't lost on me. The dealer's face is very close
to my own and I can see that his own teeth are stained yellow with nicotine and
I'm unsure whether it's whiskey breath or stale body odour that assails my sense
of smell. Whatever it is it is most unpleasant.

He removes his fingers from my mouth and orders me to poke out my tongue. I do
so and stand foolishly with my mouth gaping wide and my tongue lolling out. I
must have presented a comical sight for it is greeted with loud guffaws from my
former schoolmates. Inevitably it is Daniel -who was never the brightest of our
group even during our school days - who asks why I have my tongue poking out and
why is it being examined.

I wonder at Daniel's naivety; he obviously hasn't examined too many slaves
otherwise he'd know this is standard practice. But then, I remember that his
father, rather unfairly, is impatient with Daniel's "slowness" and possibly
hasn't instructed him in the finer details of a slave examination. Perhaps this
is the reason why he's been accompanied here today by his friends, Miles and
Jack to assist him in choosing his "birthday present".

Patiently, Lionel Schuster explains.

"Daniel, I believe a slave's tongue is a good indicator of his health. A healthy
tongue should be a bright rosy-pink colour and moist to the touch just like the
one on this boy. I've always found a dry, greyish tongue to be an indicator of
some underlying health problem. Your family owns a farm don't they Daniel? Well
I'm sure when your father has a vet visit to check out his animals one of the
first things the vet checks is a beast's tongue and its teeth. Well it's the
same with a slave. There's not a lot of difference between a farm animal and a
slave, you know."

"I hadn't thought of that. But you're right Mr Schuster. I've have seen my
father's vet check out the mouths of our farm animals."

"There's another reason why I'm paying attention to this boy's mouth. Would you
like me to explain why?"

"Yes please!"

"Well this slave is what I classify as a `fancy'. He has the potential to be
sold as a pleasure slave. You do you see where I'm going with this don't you,
Daniel?"

"Um, I not sure ......"

"Well, your father is giving you a slave of your own as a birthday present.
Isn't that why you're here today? To choose your present?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well what will you use your new slave for Daniel? Let me guess? A healthy,
young, virile lad like you would certainly use his personal slave for sexual
relief - isn't that so?"

"YES SIR! And I'm looking forward to it. It means I won't have to sneak around
and fuck my mother's house-boys when she's not looking. She has never approved
of me doing that. But Dad understands and I know He sometimes does the same as
me when Mum's away."

"Exactly! And I would think it isn't only their asses you use. What about BJ's?
I'm sure you have used them for that? Well it's the same with Rafe. Should he be
bought as a bed-buck, then it won't only be his ass that his master will use.
His mouth and tongue will be put to good use also."

"That'll be a new experience for Rafe." Miles re-joins the conversation, "As far
as I know He has never allowed either his ass or his mouth to be used. Quite
the contrary, as I said earlier I believe he's a virgin and he was always
aggressive in his use of his slaves."

"Well then, he's in for a rude awakening isn't he?" Lionel Schuster laughs at
his own crude innuendo. "It won't only be his eyes that are opened."

I can only stand and listen in horror to this conversation of how my body is to
be used if indeed I'm sold as a `bed-buck'. How I hate that name and all it
implies. But the slave-dealer is right. If a master does buy me to use as his
pleasure slave then I'll have no other choice but to buckle under to his
demands.

"So you see, Daniel what I'm now doing is also checking out the slave's mouth to
judge its potential for giving pleasure. Speaking of which are you boys
interested in playing a game with Rafe?"

"What sort of game?" Jack asks warily.

"What I have in mind is a both a test of the slave's ability to use his mouth
for pleasure and a little contest of your guessing skills. Do any of you know
the average length of a slave's tongue?"

My master and my former friends readily admit that they don't know and it is
left to the ever practical Miles to ask.

"How do we measure the tongue, Mr Schuster? Given its structure, I would think
it's an impossibility to accurately judge its length."

"No, not at all, Miles. You simply have the slave poke his tongue as far out of
his mouth as possible then measure from its tip back to the middle of the closed
top lip. So with your permission, Mr Maratier, what I suggest is that each of us
try and judge the length of Rafe's tongue and whoever guesses correctly or is
the nearest to it is the winner and the slave gives him a blow job. That way I
can see how experienced he is and the winner gets a little, light relief. What
do you say Mr Maratier? Do we have your permission?"

Desperately I hope my Master will spare me this degradation. Surely, he'll say
no. But I am to be disappointed. Dismayed, I hear my Master give his enthusiastic
approval.

"By all means, Mr Schuster, you have my permission. Now who'll be the first to
try his hand at guessing the length of Rafe's tongue?"

What is the length of the human tongue? More to the point - what is the length
of my tongue? To be honest, I'd never thought about it. But then - who has? It
is such a ridiculous question. Yet it has been asked of my tongue and I must now
stand stupidly on my podium with my mouth agape and my tongue poking out to
allow my tormentors to argue over its length. And I thought that my Master
couldn't subject me to any further degradation. How wrong I am. Even worse is to
follow; the "lucky" winner gets to use my mouth for his sexual pleasure.

My hatred for my Master is almost matched by the hatred I feel for the loathsome
Lionel Schuster - whose foul idea this is - and for my three former friends who
now stand before me laughing and guffawing at my humiliation. As they make their
crude remarks, I hate them with a silent intensity that simmers deep within me.
However, I must be careful not to show my true feelings; the consequences for me
could be dire. They are my superiors and I am just a slave and I must remain
respectful towards them.

I try to detach myself from the debate about the length of my tongue and close
my mind to what is being said. However, I hear Daniel put in his "bid" at four
inches. The others range downwards to just two inches. There is much jocularity
among them as they shout out their estimates and several times my tongue is
pulled away from my mouth and examined. One of the rules of the "game" is that
no ruler is to be used at this stage. It must only be done by guesswork. As
Lionel Schuster laughingly suggests - "it's a game of chance."

I have already heard Daniel offer his overly-optimistic estimation of four
inches but my mind is so shocked by this grotesque parody that the estimates
proffered by the others fail to register with me. . But I'm to find out that
Jack's guess of two inches is the shortest and those of my Master, Lionel
Schuster and Miles Fortescue are all somewhere between Jack's and Daniel's
guesses. Finally, the dealer asks.

"Are you all done? Those are your final guesses. You're not making any changes?
Then let's see who wins."

He orders me to poke out my tongue as far as is humanly possible and to assist
me, he grabs its tip and tugs at it. He then tells me to close my mouth and he
uses a short ruler to measure my tongue's length from its tip back to the centre
of my closed, top lip. My master watches with obvious amusement and my three
erstwhile friends wait with bated breath for Lionel Schuster to deliver his
finding. Obviously the prospect of them using my mouth is an appealing one.

Lionel Schuster's verdict of 3.42 inches is greeted with loud exclamations of
disappointment by my former friends. They have missed out and the prize goes to
the slave-merchant with his guess of 3.25 inches. The horror of this hits me
like a savage blow to the pit of my stomach. The dreadful thought that I must
kneel before this repulsive man and service his cock is too awful for me to
contemplate. My mind reels and panicking I look to my Master for salvation.
However, the wide smile on his face and the amused look in his eyes tell me
there isn't to be any.

It is left to Daniel to express his bitter disappointment at loosing.

"Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!" He exclaims petulantly, "I wanted to be the one to
have Rafe take my cock in his mouth. Dammit!"

"Oh come on Daniel!" Miles chides him "Don't be a sore loser. We all had an
equal chance and Mr Schuster won - fair and square. You lost! Now be a good
sport about it."

"Miles, I like your sporting nature," my Master offers, "and I have a suggestion
to make that I think will please you. My grandmother is having a `getting to
know you' evening for our immediate neighbours. I'd like to invite you, Daniel
and Jack to attend. Come along and I'm sure Rafe will be only too delighted to
accommodate all three of you. Isn't that so, Rafe? You'd be happy to give your
friends a BJ -for old times' sake, wouldn't you? What do you say Rafe?"

What can I say? I'm only slave. My Master has offered to allow my friends to use
me in a most obscene way and I really have no other recourse but to obey him.

Through my tears, I choke out my whispered reply. "Yes, Master."

"Oh come now Rafe, show a bit more enthusiasm than that. Why, I thought you'd be
delighted with this chance to become re-acquainted with your former friends. Now
let's hear your answer again and louder this time. You'll be happy to serve my
young guests won't you, boy?"

Fearing my Master's displeasure - and the cane - I reply in a louder voice. "Yes
Master."

"Yes what, Rafe?"

Trapped, I answer, "Yes Master. I'll be happy to entertain your guests."

"Good boy, Rafe. That wasn't too hard now, was it boy? There that's done."

Then turning to Miles, Daniel and Jack he asks "Do you accept my invitation,
boys?"

All three noisily accept and profusely offer their thanks to this unexpected
invitation from Guy Maratier.

Lionel Schuster notes the invitation isn't extended to him and he seethes at the
slight to his dignity. The bile burns at the back of his throat at Guy
Maratier's public snub of him. What makes these young upstarts think they are
socially superior to him? Why, if the truth be known - and with the obvious
exception of the Maratier family - he is far wealthier than the families of the
three younger men.

Dealing in slaves may be frowned upon as disgraceful by the so called, upper
echelons of society but it has made him enormously wealthy. Isn't it true that
their wealth is also generated by their use of slave labour and they are always
happy to attend his auctions looking for bargains among his stock? What then is
the difference? At least he is open and upfront in what he does. He is jealous
of his reputation of being scrupulously honest and fair in all his dealings with
his customers and his reputation as a supplier of high quality stock to the
discerning buyer is second to none. Why then is he never seen as an equal by the
wealthy slave-holders?

He boils with indignation and he needs to work out his anger. But as always, and
in the interests of business, he must remain deferential to Guy Maratier and his
ilk. He bites his tongue but someone must bear the brunt of his rage and
frustration.

Malevolently, he eyes the unhappy slave, Rafe standing quietly sniffling on the
podium before him. Rafe still has much to endure in his inspection and Lionel
silently vows the slave will suffer all the indignities he can heap upon him. .

But the worst indignity is yet to come when, after his examination of the slave,
the once proud, Lucien Barrois is made to kneel before him and take his cock
into his unwilling mouth.

Of course, the slave's master and former friends are unaware that he'd cunningly
manipulated them into competing for the slave's favour and that he'd used his
knowledge in correctly guessing the length of Rafe's tongue. They don't know
that he's aware that the longest tongue is recorded at 3.86 inches. He'd used
this to out manoeuvre them in the guessing game. Slyly, he'd listened to their
estimates and had then proffered his own winning one. He smiles inwardly at his
wily out -foxing of them.

He thinks of all the insults he'd silently endured at Lucien's hands and this
latest snub by Guy Maratier galls him and adds to his hatred of the slave, Rafe.
Now the tables have turned. It is payback time.

Vengeance is sweet!


To be continued.....